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Chapel

The Story of a Welsh Family

Miles Lewis

New York
George H. Doran Company

MCMXVI

vi CONTENTS

BOOK II
THE SON

PAOX

I GRIP? 98

II BBTST 103

III A OBBAT HAN OFF TO SCHOOL . .107

IV ODD OLD STICK 116

V THE LAWTER 122

VI THE ARCHITECT 128

Vn THE GOURMET 132

Vni ETERNAL YOUTH 140

IX A VISION 146

X MATHEMATICS 149

XI THE QUARREL 152

XII SYMPATHY . . . . . .159

XIII A WINDFALL 164

XIV A GIRL 170

XV THE OLD FAMILY COMING BACK . .175

XVI OPPORTUNITY 182

XVII BESS 189

XVIII THE ELIGIBLE PARTY . . • .194

XIX A PUGNACIOUS DOCTRINE . • . 199

XX ON THE COUNOHi 203

XXI IN PRIVATE LIFE • • • • • 209

XXII IMPOSSIBILITY . . . • . 213

XXIII ELECTION OF CHAIRMAN . • .221

CONTENTS

via

BOOK III

FAMILY

PAQX

ANCESTORS ....

. 227

ASTONISHMENT

. 233

"a thorough blackguard".

. 239

THE AGENT • • • •

. 248

BUSINESS ....

. 251

CHANCE AND THE MAN .

. 256

VII

AT PORTHCAWL . . . ,

. 264

VIII

WOMAN ....

. 270

"SOMETHING ELSE"

. 277

ACTUAL MIRACLES

. 282

JEALOUSY AND RESENTMENT .

. 287

XII

SENILITY

. 296

PACING THE TRUTH

. 301

XIV

THE BRUISER

. 306

TWO HOUSEKEEPERS

. 313

XVI

A MEETING IN THE NIGHT

. 318

xvn

A CHAPEL WOMAN

. 325

tVIII

DREAD

. 330

XIX

AT WERN

. 335

FATHER AND SON

• 340

BOOK I
THE FATHER

A WELSH HOlO

A GIRL sat on a low stool before the fire in the roomy
kitchen of the old Welsh farmhouse. It was twilight on
a Sunday in the middle of December, and the silence and
the dying light seemed to have affected Jane, for as she
toasted the bread for tea she gazed dreamily over her
shoulder and watched the furniture disappear so amazingly
into the gloom of dusk.

Those black lines around the flagstones of the floor
went first, then the old oak chest, black with age ; and
then the dresser got indistinct. Naturally, the white
cloth on the table behind her was quite visible, as were
the stand and the fender in front of her. The large black
kettle sat on the top of the red coals like a king on his
throne ; and Jane considered it all so wonderful.

" W-f-f-f ! ** She sucked in the air between her teeth,
and said aloud : " But this old fire is warm ! "

Jane had a habit of speaking aloud to herself, and her
mistress often described her by employing such a pro-
digiously long word as anghyfrifol, which is the Welsh for
irresponsibk.

The toasting-fork changed hands, and her disengaged
fingers stole up cunningly to play with the deliciously
unusual bunch on the nape of her neck. Of all days in
the lengthy experience of fifteen years, this was the most
remarkable, for she was a woman with her hair up for
the first time. And this astonishing, sudden spring into

2 :: .;:.(?EAPEL

womanhood yc^. 4v^.to.her mistress, who had decreed that
JanotA iair:mii8t gojiip pntacccmnt of its incurable tendency
towards untidiness.

Again the fork changed hands, and Jane once more
searched for the chest and the dresser. They had gone.
But the dinner service and the table-cloth persisted in
being faithful, because they were pure white.

" Oh, law ! "

Jane's young voice rang out clearly in annoyance. She
leapt to her feet and stood, her slim figure erect; the
stool tumbled on the coco-nut matting; her round face
took on an expression of petulance. Her lips were in a
pout, and her bright eyes scowled at the bread so dread-
fully black and smoking.

" How could / help the old thing ? " she asked of that
woman within her. She blamed the perversity of the
whole of Nature's arrangements, and at the same
time condoned the irresponsibility of her kind most
shamelessly.

But worse than all, her mistress's footsteps could be
heard in the passage leading from the small parlour into
this very room.

Mrs. Chapel came in, rather slowly, smelling the
air.

" There's something burning, Jane," she said at once.

** It's this old bread," Jane answered, still frowning at

the toast. ** You know how it is ? " She appealed

vaguely to her mistress's varied, grown-up experience of
the vexatiousness of things. And now with bowed head
she awaited the delivery of the short homily on Carefulness
she felt sure was bound to follow.

"Never mind," was what Mrs. Chapel said, however,
as she handed a knife from the table. " Scrape it with
this."

They spoke to each other in Welsh.

Then Mrs. Chapel crossed to the window. The roUer
rattled somewhat as she pulled down the blind ; and when
the brass lamp had been carried to the table, she took
off the white globe and the chinmey in preparation for
lighting.

Jane had completed the scraping, and was reseated on

A WELSH HOME 3

the stool toasting as dreamily busy as ever. . . . Probably,
as her mistress often remarked, girls of fifteen were a
trial, whatever that might signify. Undoubtedly, Mrs.
CJhapel was a very commendable woman, or she would
certainly have made quite a fuss over a piece of bread
burning. And she had taught Jane quite a host of wrinkles
during the past year : How to finish the dirty part of
the housework in the morning so as to be clean in the
afternoon : How to lace her boots so as not to go slip-
slapping about the house in that ugly fashion : How to
be pleasant and polite and good-mannered.

Mrs. Chapel's hair never got untidy; she was always
neat ; nothing about her person ever came loose. Quite
young she was also, and exceedingly smart ; except, now
that Jane puckered her brows and considered the matter,
she had not been as brisk as usual for these past few
weeks ; she had not got up quite as early in the mornings,
and she did not remain up as late, nor had she done
as much work, either. Perhaps Mrs. Giapel was not
well; a large number of people got ill in the winter.
But those were ancient people, and Mrs. Chapel was not
ancient.

There teas something the matter with her ! Jane saw
the globe almost drop from her hand, and now her face
was screwed up as though she were in pain, and her hands
were clutching at the edge of the table.

Jane turned on the stool in great sympathy. " Got
the toothache, Mrs. Chapel ? " she softly inquired.

Mrs. Chapel's face brightened immediately. " Of course
I haven't," she mildly rebuked, as if toothache were
a sin.

Jane went on toasting and wondering. It was when
Mrs. Chapel smiled in that way Jane fell in love with her.
There was something so cheerful and friendly about her
smile ; her teeth were so white ; and her eyes looked as
if the pair of them were winking.

" He ought to be here before long, now," Jane wisely
remarked a moment later. She looked up at the mantel-
shelf. " But this old clock's fast. . . . Wha's the right
time, mistress ? "

" I don't know," Mrs. Chapel answered on an equality

4 CHAPEL

as she poured milk into the cups. '* Go an' look at the
big clock."

Jane put the round of bread on the plate on the stand,
and took the fork with her as she skipped along the passage
into the small parlour. There was a fire al^ht, and by
standing on tiptoe and peering close she could just see
the hands against the brass face of the old gran<Uather's
clock. Also, she saw the little sailing-ship on the top
rocking away the seconds, and she heard the slow, heavy,
stolid Hck'tock, tick-tock of the pendulum.

"Jane!"

She had taken such a time that Mrs. Chapel was calling
from the kitchen. Jane had forgotten everything — every-
thing except those tiny microscopic bits of Ihien and
flannel placed to air around the fire of the small parlour.
She had stopped to examine them while on her Imees on
the hearthrug.

" Jane ! " Louder and more authoritative.

She ran back into the kitchen and stood in front of
Mrs. Chapel. Her feet danced in excitement, her slender
body was most pleasurably agitated, and her hands rubbed
together in exquisite delight.

" Oo, Mrs. Chapel," she cried, her eyes wide open.
Then very seriously, very wisely, with that disconcerting
innocence of her years, she asked, " You're not expecting
a baby, are you ? "

Mrs. Chapel was young enough to blush. "Don't-be-
silly, Jane," she hurriedly reproached. " Don't-benaiUy."

But Jane was irrepressible. "' Those clothes round the
fire are exacly the same as my mother's baby's got."
She would have loved to skip and dance round the room
and fling her arms about. *' What you going to call him,
Mrs. Chapel ? How « "

** Don't-be-diBy, Jane," Mrs. Chapel helplessly repeated.
She was quite unequal to the cross-questioning; but to
balance matters as she went out she tried to scold : '' You
haven't finished the toast yet, remember."

There was a softness in her voice, however, which Jane's
sensitive ears did not miss.

" You must start to church earlier to-night," said Mrs.
Chapel when she returned. ** I want you to go down to

A WELSH HOME 6

the Windgap. But mind/' she added; ''don't say any-
thing to Mr. Chapel."

Jane vigorously nodded her dark head, signifying an
avidity to share in the conspiracy. The mystery enchanted
her. She was quite certain now, for even at this age she
had sensed the coming of another human.

THE MASTEB

The bread was toasted and buttered, and everything
was ready except that the tea had not been made, and
that was impossible while Mrs. Chapel and Jane awaited
the arrival of the master.

He came at last.

The kitchen door opened; the cold air blew in, and
with it entered Josiah Chapel, bending his head to escape
the top of the low. doorway. He was a man of thirty, large
and powerful, and as he came forward one saw that his
hands were deep in the capacious pockets of his brown tweed
tail-coat, and that the light of the lamp played upon the
shine of his black leather gaiters. He nodded pleasantly,
smiled till he revealed long regular white teeth, and called
a cheerful greeting to his wife. He walked to the hearth
with long deliberate steps, and when his bulky frame was
seated on the settle to the right of the fire he placed his
foot on the fender and began unbuttoning his gaiters.

He was the youngest of a family known as the Chapels

OF PORTH.

For centuries the Chapels as a family had been a deep-
rooted institution in the neighbourhood. They were an
essential, ineradicable part of the surrounding countryside,
like the brook, or the church with its Norman tower, or
the Ely River, or the Garth mountain. No-one could
have pictured Forth without them; Forth, this village
and parish on the eastern edge of the very fertile Vale
of Glamorgan. So far back did the history of the family
go, that some of it had passed into legend, and still may
you hear tales of the doings of the old Chapels, as squires,
as masters of hounds, as churchwardens, as chairmen of
the vestry, as magistrates, or as leaders in the life of the

THE MASTER 7

community which their hearty personalities dominated.
Their names cropped up everywhere, generation after
generation, in the history of the district.

But all that lies in the past.

No longer did the Chapels live in Wem, the old home
of the family. Down the drive of Wem, under the over-
hanging branches of that avenue of chestnut trees, a
Chapel had often come : a gun under his arm and a couple
of spaniels at his heels : or redcoated, a huntsman on
horseback : or more soberly attired as he drove his gig
on his way to liantrisant to sit on the Bench. But
Josiah, the youngest of them, lived in Penlan, this small
farmhouse in the bed of the valley half-a-mile away from
Wem ; and he was not even a tenant farmer, but a bailiff
in the employment of the very man who now owned and
occupied Wem ; and the remnant of his family's fortunes
consisted of the furniture, some of which Jane had watched
disappearing into the gloom of falling night.

" Tea ready ? " Chapel called banteringly to Jane when
his gaiters were unbuttoned. " Now hurry up or we'll be
late for church."

Jane looked up from arranging the small plates on the
table. " You'll want your other boots first, Mr. Chapel,"
she corrected him lightly, hurrying to get them for him.

" We'll have tea now," came the &ial order from the
housewife seated at the table.

Chapel crossed the floor with his long steps.

" Must obey the mistress," he said teasingly to Jane.

The lamplight striking full upon his face as he fingered
his cup revealed the benevolent countenance of an easy-
going nature. His body would have seemed more com-
pact had his great shoulders not stooped so much, and
one read into the slow, leisurely movements of his large
hands a meaning of purposelessness and stagnation. Still,
he was a big, strongly built man, and when he spoke it
was in a ringing bass voice. He was a part of the cheerful
environment of this simple Welsh home.

" Going to church to-night, Jane ? " he asked across
the table.

** Of course I am, Mr. Chapel. Where d'you think I'm
going to ? "

8 CHAPEL

" Ho, ho ! " he cried suddenly. " Where's your hair
gone to, Jane ? "

" Put it up, to be sure," Jane's young voice answered,
pertly enough. " Mistress told me to put it up. Di'n't
you, mistress ? " she appealed, blinking her dancing eyes
in the lamplight as she turned her head and looked at
Mrs. Chapel.

Mrs. Cftiapel smiled. " It looks a lot nicer like that."
Her more sedate manner of speaking gave her a semblance
of greater experience.

Sut for the most part Mrs. Chapel was silent, anxiously
waiting to see the meal over. The sympathy existing
between her and Josiah was perfect, but in her heart she
felt there were circumstances — well, which men could
never understand. Her chief desire was to get him safely
off to church and have Betsy here ere long. When tea
was over, and while Josiah sat on the settle clumsily lacing
his boots, Mrs. Chapel accompanied Jane to the bailey
outside the door.

"Tell Mrs. Michael I want to see her, Jane," she said,
in her even voice.

** Want to see her particular, Mrs. Chapel ? " Jane
persisted in her tantalising youthiEul curiosity.

Mrs. Chapel felt gently amused at the girl's ingenuous-
ness. " Go now, Jane," she said ; " or you'll be late for
church."

Returned to the kitchen, Mrs. Chapel drew up the
armchair and sat watching Josiah quite as clumsily re-
buttoning his gaiters. They were never demonstrative in
their affection, but when he had finished, he raised his
compact head to look at her, while his eyes rather than
his lips asked the question which had been filling their
minds for so many months.

" No," she hurriedly answered, vehemently shaking her
head. She was terrified that he should guess. "Not
yet." She again shook her head and smiled.

" Well, anyhow, Gwen," he said, with a stamp of his
foot as soon as his gaiters were fastened ; " I'm not going
to church to-night."

At this Gwen grew alarmed, and slowly crossed to the
settle and sat beside him. " D'you think I can't stay at

THE MASTER 9

home without you ? " she teased, resting her hand on his
broad shoulder. ** I won't be afraid; indeed I won't.
One of the dogs shall come in. Go now, Josiah," she
began to coax.

Chapel got up with a shrug ; he had a feeling of being
taken at a disadvantage; he always had that kind of
feeling when she began to speak in this way. . . . When
he was gone, Gwen returned to the armchair and sat gazing
pensively into the j6re. She was smiling softly, and yet
half fearfully.

To-morrow — or perhaps even before Josiah came home !

The catch of the door clicked and Betsy Michael came
in. Betsy was fifty, short, and very much inclined to be
stout. Early in life she had met with an accident, the
effect of which was still noticeable in her gait, for when-
ever she walked, she showed a flight lameness ; her right
thigh was implicated, and gave under her weight. For
twenty-five years she had, before marrying, been a maid
with Josiah's parents; she had grown up in the Chapel
household, and still regarded herself as a part of the
family. Her obsession was that the Chapels made up
the most wonderful family God had ever created. Any-
one not acquainted with Betsy Michael, and hearing her
speak for the first time without seeing her, would readily
have been pardoned for mistaking it for a man's voice.
Indeed, there was a great deal of the man in her nature ;
her manners were of the masculine order, but her heart
was entirely a woman's, and a very human woman at
that.

Quietly closing the door, Betsy took off her shawl and
her bonnet and hung them on the nail behind the door ;
and as she crossed the bare flagstones her strong face
beamed and she waddled ; her body rocked from side to
side, and her steps were irregular both in sound and in
action.

"You have packed Chapel off to church, then," she
hinted as her broad figure filled the comer of the settle
and her brown hands smoothed the dark flannel apron
Her coarse face beamed with a smfle of approval. Betsy
had a very high opinion of Mrs. Chapel; in fact, of
anyone connected with the Chapel family. " A sweet

10 CHAPEL

lickle woman," was the usual description for her present
companion.

But soon Betsy perceived this not to be the time for
idleness and talkbig. '' Now then, my dear/' she said, in
her masculine voice full of sjnnpathy; "much fitter for
us to go off to bed." And as she limped from the settle
across the coco-nut matting, her coarse, wrinkled face
showed so plainly what a wholesome, capable, tolerant
mass of human nature she was. . . .

When Josiah returned from church he was met by
Betsy's pursed lips and upraised finger.

At ten o'clock, he was ordered ofE to bed, Betsy seeking
to cheat him by saying nothing could possibly happen
before the morning.

At midnight, Betsy stole down the cold stone staircase
and found him still seated over the dying fire in the kitchen.

** Josiah," she called to him in an awful whisper. ** Go
an' fetch the doctor. Quick ! "

Within a week, Gwen was dead.

BBVOI/P

JosiAH Chapel came in through the low doorway of the
kitchen followed by his cousin, one of the most prosperous
members of the whole family — a successful barrister on
the South Wales CSrouit. Both were dressed in black.
David Chapel was thirty-five, of medium build, keen —
the embodiment of vitality, already owner of a reputation
for ruthless ability to upset the calculations of the prosecu-
tion in cases of a criminal nature.

" I mustn't stay very long," he said briskly in Welsh.

He quickly placed his silk hat on the table and moved
energetically to the open fireplace, where he stood a moment
with his back to the fire. He looked around at the con-
tents of the kitchen so very familiar to him ; everything
stood exactly as it had during his boyhood when he had
spent so many of his school holidays here at Penlan.
Thskt old, fiat-topped, black oak chest against the wall
there on his right ! He peered through the waning light
and rediscovered the " M " carved on the middle panel :
the initial of its first owner, some great-grandmother
known by the name of Mary in all probability !

" It won't do," he kept thinking as he vigorously pulled
off his overcoat, and wondering all the time at Josiah,
who was still standing at the table, gazing refiectively at
the silk hat.

This afternoon Gwen had been buried.

" Come and sit down, Jos," David cried from the arm-
chair in which he had seated himself.

Josiah made no reply to his spruce, smartly dressed
cousin, but took up the silk hat and carried it with his
own bowler hat to the old chest. As he came back he
slowly raised his glance, and the look in his eyes was that

12 CHAPEL

of a dazed and beaten man. His stepe as he walked were
long and slow; his shoulders crouched; barely did his
feet rise from the floor.

David turned in his chair to watch him. ** God ! " he
muttered. " What a state for a man to be thrown into ! ''

In the same listless manner Josiah crossed the hearth,
and in a moment he was a huddled, huge heap reclin«
ing in the comer of the settle. He was a nobody. His
standing in the world had been eloquently demonstrated
this afternoon by the fewness of his relatives who had
come to the funeral; and what few of them had come
had already gone, well quit of a disturbing duty. It was
success these other Chapels worshipped. He was a leper
in the family; someone to be shunned. He stood for
the declining branch of the Chapels, for the socially decaying
side, and therein lay his unforgivable sin. • . . Life had
always been beating him, ever since the begnming.

David watched him, desiring to cheer him, but every
moment that passed grew more difficult. He had no
conception it could be so difficult to speak. He inclined
his head and listened a while to the December wind moan-
ing around the house, like a creature in pain, and then as
if to occupy his thoughts he looked over his shoulder for
the contents of the room. To him, everything was old,
sanctified by family association. Every single article had
its tale

But the pity of it !

With one of those sudden movements of his head he
turned his attention back to the huddled figure on the
settle. Here at the very heart of these associations of
family was the chief of the Chapels — ^by descent — ^rapidly
sinking into obscurity. It was no use shirking the truth,
for Josiah was a failure just as his father and his grand-
father before him had been failures.

"We'd better have something to eat," Josiah said
dully at last. He moved his legs so that he might sit
erect, and he would have got up had not David stretched
out a hand to check him.

" Wait a minute, Jos," David said to him.

It pained him to see this submission, this terrible in-
eptitude in the face of one of life's blows. It was so

REVOLT 13

opposed to his own manner of attacking life. Josiab
seemed as though he had never grasped the reality of
existence, for he appeared to live in an enervating dream,
trustfully and securely in the delusion that with sufficient
patience all things would evolve towards their predeter-
mined end. His posture on the settle exemplified his
theories that if trouble must come it must, and further
argument was futile.

" I can't tell you, Jos," David went on. " But you
know how I feel— how I sympathise with you. But I
do think you're taking it all in the wrong spirit. . . .
Jos," he suddenly cried, for Josiah had remained com-
pletely unresponsive. His voice grew hard, for he hsMl
discovered the cause of the devitalising submission.

" Life is a fight, Jos," he began again. " Did you ever
know that ? "

Josiah slowly raised his head and looked heavily across
the hearth.

** For God's sake, wake up, Jos ! " The utter submission
was demoralising. '' Don't you see there's no hope unless
you wake up? There's something working against you,
that will keep on pushing you down unless you wake up."

Josiah answered despairingly : " There's always been
something pushing me down." He made no movement
on the settle.

"Yes, and it's yourself. Turn round and fight, Jos.
Don't let things beat you."

David sprang to his feet, pulsatingly agitated, overcome
by the vehemence of his feelings for Josiah.

" Think of the old family, Jos ! There's no reason
why we shouldn't all of us be on the old standing
again."

He would have continued had not Betsy Michael come
in and interrupted him.

" Come an' 'ave tea," she told them with an acerbity
in her masculine voice. " I got it ready."

This shunning of Josiah was an affront in which Betsy
shared; she had been in the family twenty-five years,
and had nursed Josiah when he was a boy.

David and Josiah followed her, and a renewal of their
intimate conversation became impossible, for Betsy was

14 CHAPEL

tremendously eager for their comfort, and kept passing in
and out attending to their wants. When the darkness
came, she brought the lighted oil-lamp and placed it on
the table after clearing a space among the dishes.

The time arrived at last for David to depart, and as
he entered the passage to get his coat and hat he was at
once intercepted by Betsy.

** Come up an' see 'im before you do go," she enticed
in a loud whisper.

The white flame of the candle she carried fluttered in
the draught and lighted up her strong wrinkled face;
and weird magnifled shadows of both lay against the walls
and on the ceiling. Without waiting for an answer Betsy
led the way up the cold, curved, stone staircase; she
limped across the landing at the top and entered a large,
low bedroom which had a black beam running across the
ceiling. Betsy trod guardedly on tiptoe towards the
capacious four-poster bed and, shielding the candle so
that the rest of the room lay in dark shadow, she made
the light fall full upon the pink little face of the child
peacefully asleep, tucked in between the white sheets.

Betsy carefully arranged the flannel around the baby's
head. " I'd jus' like for you to see him with his eyes
open," she said with ridiculous pride. "He's so sharrp
lookin', you wouldn' believe ! " she explained over her
shoulder to this prosperous man whom she had more than
once chastised and to whom her heart was warm because
he would never forsake a friend of boyhood.

Betsy had her desire. It might have been the dis-
turbance of his slumbers, or that provoking thing called
light ; whatever the reason, the boy's brown eyes peeped
out through slightly opened lids ; they blinked resentfully
at the candle ; and then they closed themselves in admirable
indifference.

** There I " Betsy was full of delight, and her eyes
were softened in enjoyment. " Did you notice how sharrp
he is ? " Betsy's face was suffused with prodigious pride.
" The little sugar ! " she exclaimed.

David Chapel was amused. He had observed and had
told himself that behind those small eyes that blinked
was the beginning of another Chapel personality.

REVOLT 15

Back on the landing, Betsy Michaers humour again
changed, and on the top of the stairs she stopped.

" An' not one of um did even ask how he's to be brought
up," she said, in her bitterness against those standoffish
Qiapels. " All the lot of um — all the family — ^they're not
a bit o' good. . . . But,"-she asserted with a pugnacious
jerk of her head, " we'U see that he won't sniffer."

Josiah spent the remainder of the evening in the same
dispirited state, and only in a semi-conscious way was he
aware of the movements of Betsy and Jane about the
house.

Betsy came in before retiring, and finding him sitting
on the settle she approached and put her firm hand on
his shoulder.

" You ought to go to bed, Josiah," she advised con-
siderately.

Josiah turned and looked up at her. " You haven't
gone home yet, then ? "

" Oh, no ! I am stayin' for to-night." Some of the
old nurse feeling had reawakened and she was treating
bim now as her charge.

In a while Josiah ponderously mounted the stairs, groping
his way up, and mechanically, in the bedroom next to
the one where Betsy and the baby slept, he began to
undress.

There was something pathetic in his helplessness as his
tall figure stooped to place the china candlestick on the
chair at the head of the wide, wooden-framed bed. His
face, although lean and healthy and strongly cast, sug-
gested a rawness, a youthfulness, a pitiful inexperience of
life, so oddly contradictory to his latent physical strength
and powerfulness. Slowly he took off his black coat and
listlessly threw it till it sprawled over the dark quilt of
the bed. And then, as if forgetting this habit of undress-
ing, he commenced to walk fitfully, backwards and for-
wards, over the rush mat beside the bed and over the
linoleum of the floor. He was absorbed : wrapped in this
terrible gloom. In a moment he raised his head as though
it were weighted, and he glanced around him : at the old
wardrobe, heavy and brosMl and substantial : at the

16 CHAPEL

swinging mirror on the chest of drawers beside the small
window with its lowered blind; and then he halted in
perplexity.

Bie same fearful emptiness and hoUowness were every-
where. The place had lost its soul.

This was the bedroom Gwen and he had occupied during
that brief year of married life. Even the arrangement of
the furniture was due to her, for she had had the wardrobe
moved and the bed placed on this side of the window.
She had had everything put exactly as it was now. There
were memories of her personality throbbing through every
inch of the room. It was here she hsMl died.

He moved at last towards the old wardrobe, and he
stood for a time looking at the knobs of the drawers and
at the panels of the two square closed doors. It was
dumb. He went back and got the candle, and after
returning he opened one of the drawers and began aim-
lessly, as though driven, to examine the contents.

The white delicate things had been Gwen's.

He remembered those times when she had proudly, yet
half shyly, shown them to him. And now his fingers
dipped into the open drawer. Only a touch ! These
things were so soft and feminine; so sweet and clean.
As he touched them he felt that his mannishness was
brutal in comparison to such delicateness. He opened
another drawer, hypnotised by this fascination of hand-
ling what had once belonged to his dead wife. A scarf
lay on the top of the first drawer ; some underlinen in the
other.

And then, suddenly he stood still. The whole of his
large body stiffened. His eyes were wide in awful wonder.
An uncanny, creepy feeling seemed to be climbing over his
senses like an intoxication. Gradually, or so it seemed
to him, these bits of clothing revived the occasions when
she had stood at his side exhibiting them. And so vivid
was his imagination under this spell, that he seemed to
feel her at his side again, just as she had stood when she
had lived. He seemed actually to experience the warmth
of her proximity. It was as though Gwen were here !
Every nerve was vibrant, every sense painfully alive under
the thrill of this hallucination of her presence.

REVOLT 17

So strong was the efEect that in agony he breathed —

" Why did you go ? "

He felt as though he were speaMng to her.

He closed the drawers and carried the candle back to
the chair.

Some of his neighbours had tried to comfort him by
saying : " Perhaps it was her destiny. Perhaps Fate has
ordained things should be so. Perhaps it has all happened
for the best." Some even considered they offered sym-
pathy by saying : " God moves in a mysterious way.'*

But Gwen was gone; and she would never return.
That afternoon he had watched her coffin lowered into
the grave. Gwen was gone.

He sat on the bed with these things in his mind.

And then came another thought : ** Fate ; Destiny ;
Circumstance ! " He had been brought up religiously to
accept events as they happened ; his life had taught him
this fatalistic submission. As some of his neighbours had
recalled : " God moves in a mysterious way." Again his
huge body stiffened. A daring, rebellious thought had
entered Josiah's mind — the most daring his benevolent
nature had ever conceived. If all he had been taught
was right, then it was Ood had robbed him of his wife.

He leapt to his feet ; his bands were clenched and his
eyes were flashing. Savagely and defiantly, his powerful
voice asked the question — *"

" Why did You take her ? "

FAMILY

On an afternoon a week or so later, Jane was in the little
outhouse at the back of Penlan busily washing some of the
ornaments she had brought from the small parlour. She
was singing gaily snatches of some improvised song when
sounds of familiar steps rang on the pavement. She
came out at once with surprise written very plainly on her
healthy face.

" Oo, Mr. Chapel," she cried, her bright eyes open.
** And I haven't got the tea ready." Then her expression
changed to one of resigned reproach at the vagaries of his
ways. " I didn't expect you back for another half-an-
hour. You never do come back from Wem as quick as
this."

To show her displeasure more markedly, she snatched at
the towel across the top of the door, and with it she viciously
dried her hands as she followed him into the kitchen.

** You men are always doing something silly," she said
to herself, her mind still on the ornaments, '* and upsetting
things."

" Now don't be long with the tea, there's a good girl,"
Chapel said from the settle. "' I want to be off again."

Jane began to bustle, moving her pleasingly plump little
figure about briskly, and Josiah watched her pick up the
poker to shake out the bottom of the fire. The sleeves of
her blue cotton bodice were rolled up above the elbows,
showing her roimd arms, and when she went to the table
drawer for the white cloth she looked extremely business-
like. But somehow there was something so imreal in the
way she did things ; she seemed only to be pretending at
being a housewife, so like a child playing at being mother.
This domestic seriousness sat very oddly upon her, making

FAMILY 19

her so ridiculously matronly, and annoying, rather, in
certain moods.

She laid the table, and afterwards took down a jug from
the dresser to get milk from the dairy. He had been in a
very bad temper before going out, but he was much better
now.

" W-f-f-f ! *' She made a noise when she returned from
the dairy. " Isn't it cold to-day ? "

Chapel offered no reply, and Jane returned to the table
to cut bread-and-butter. " It's starting to sing," she
remarked about the kettle. *' It won't be long, now."
She went on cutting in silence, spreading the butter with
a small table-knife, and using the big carver for cutting the
slices. " Your tea will soon be ready." She again tried
to start a conversation, wondering at that dull old man in
the comer. Why didii't he say something? And this
old butter was hard ! It would be just the same trying to
spread bees'-wax on sand. " It's boiling," she remarked
pleasantly, glad that something was happening at last.

But Jane made the mistake of forgetting all about the
kettle, for the stubborn butter and that dumb creature
were taking up all her attention.

" Oo, Mr. Chapel," she screamed out a second afterwards.
She had dropped both the knife and the loaf and was press-
ing her hands on her bosom. ** How you did frighten
me!"

Chapel had leapt to his feet, knocking over a chair in his
rush to take off the tilted kettle from whose spout water
was spluttering and hissing as it fell on the hot bars. He
turned his head and looked blackly at her over his shoulder.
** Why didn' you look after the dam' thing ? " he asked.
Her tittle-tattle had got on his nerves. Queer how some
people's minds for ever ran on little things !

Jane bobbed her head in complete disgust. " As if I
could help the old thing ! "

Chapel had silenced her for a time, and now and again
she regarded him with a half -shocked expression as she
moved energetically brewing the tea. " You're improv-
ing," she informed his back. " And you're getting very
touchy, my lord ! " But it was impossible for her tongue
to remain silent long. And what was a tongue for.

20 CHAPEL

anyhow, if not to speak ? And light spirits, if not to show
themselves ?

" C!ome on, Mr. Chapel," she soon invited lightly, " or
you'll be complaining in a minute that the tea's cold.
Tea's ready," she bawled, seeing him not moving. '' And
I'm sure you'll enjoy it. I've cut the slices nice and thin.
And look at that cake ! Mrs. Michael sent it up this morn-
ing. Baked beautiful it is, and tastes beautiful, too. I
had a little bit, just a tiny little bit, myself. It's so rich.
Melt in your mouth, indeed it do."

" You'd better go'n finish those ornaments," Chapel told
her grimly, as he got up. Confoimd the girl. Why
couldn't she stop her infernal noise sometimes ? She was
such a chatterbox.

" After I've poured out some tea for you," she corrected
grandly; and when that was done she asked : " Are you
quite sure you can manage now ? " In her heart of hearts
she felt he could not, for already, even at this age, she hsMl
adopted that preposterous notion of the domestic helpless-
ness of these male creatures.

" Yes, yes," Chapel answered her impatiently, motioning
her away with his hand, " Go now." He sat down at the
table. '' No, come back," he called after her when she was
near the door.

Jane turned her head in absolute disgust. '' Now, did
you ever ? " But she came back and stood obediently at
the comer of the table. He was in a better humour again,
die observed. '' like them old swinging boats," she com-
pared, remembering the pleasure fair of the previous sum-
mer at Llantrisant ; " up this way one minute, up that way
the next." But from the look on his face there was some-
thing out of the usual the matter, and with unaccustomed
seriousness she waited for him to speak.

Chapel would have liked to adopt a gentler tone, but
somehow he could not unbend. After aU, she was only a
child, and it was wrong to damp her youthful spirits. He
surprised himself in that thought ; it was rather odd, for
he was no more than thirty himself. He felt in view
of what he was going to say that he would like to be more
gentle with her. But his thoughts were not sufficiently
pliable.

FAMILY 21

" You'll have to finish here at the end of this month/*
was what he said, and rather gruffly into the bargain.

Jane was regarding him stupidly. ''Eh? What did
you say, Mr. Chapel ? "

" WeU, you see," Chapel said quickly; " I'm going to
move jErom here in a month."

** D'you mean ? " Jane was beginning to under-
stand.

"That's it. It's a pity" — ^it came at last — "because
you've always been a good girl."

" Aren't you going to work for Mr. Hughes, the agent,
any more, Mr. (Siapel ? "

" No."

" And I'll have to look for another place ? "

" Exactly."

"Then you'll have to write a character for me, Mr.
Chapel." It was nothing very terrible, after all. The
idea of change entered her young mind ; the future became
alluring ; there would be new things to see.

" That's how it is," Chapel was muttering to himself.
" Exactly how it is." His teeth were showing — ^hardly a
smile.

" What did you say, Mr. Chapel ? "

" That's right," he answered absently* " You go an'
wash the ornaments now."

Jane went out. " Beginning to get queer," she said to
herself.

Very soon afterwards. Chapel got up to go, but he could
not find his hat when he began to search for it, and he had
no idea where he had put his overcoat. " Jane," he called.
Then a little louder : " Jane ! " He walked to the back
door. " Jane," he called again.

" Here I am, Mr. Chapel," from the door of the outhouse.
" What do you want ? "

" Have you seen my coat an' hat ? "

" No, indeed, I haven't. Where did you put them ? "

Her lack of responsibility annoyed him. " Come and look
for them," he brusquely ordered, turning into the kitchen.

Jane tossed her head and made a face behind his back.
" These old men. They never know where to find any-
thing."

22 CHAPEL

" Here they are," she said, bringing the hat and coat.
" They were hanging behind the door where you put them
yourself." — " You old silly," she would have dearly loved
to add. ** You might have said Thank you,'' was another
of her criticisms. *' Yes." She spoke to herself again as
she brushed her master's hat. *' You could have said
Thank you I "

" Draw the brush over my coat, Jane," Chapel ordered.

" M'm ! " She was half sorry for hhn. " Not even a
Pleased

Jane followed him a little way outside the door, half
hiding herself lest she should be seen, and watched him
cross the yard, through the gate, and into the narrow lane.

'' Yes ! " She was bobbing her head in sudden little

jerks. ** He does look Now wha's the word ? Neat.

That's it. I'm glad I brushed his hat." She walked back
into the house. " It's cold though," she said, sucking in
the air between her teeth, and shivering and rubbing her
hands together. ^' He's an old bear, too ! " But Jane
laughed. She really believed she thought more of him
because he was developing those rough qualities. She
turned again at the door; she could just see his bowler
hat moving over the top of the low hedge of the lane.
But Jane's moods, also, were like those swinging boats
sometimes, because now as she watched her master go,
she took up the comer of her apron and dabbed her eyes
with it.

She didn't want to leave Penlan. She didn't want to go
and live with old strangers.

Chapel was hurrying into the village. The air was cold ;
it was still freezing, and he quickened his pace to keep
warm.

Earlier in the afternoon he had visited Wem, the old
home of his family — ^the present home of his employer.

Previously the place had only affected him in a re-
mote way ; but to-day, as he had approached it, everything
• was so different. He felt as though the old place were in
his blood, pumping through his body. The spirit of the
house was within him. All the fallen greatness of his
family had risen before him, marching before his mind,
like an unending human phantasmagoria; only it had all

FAMILY 23

been so real. He had found this afternoon that he loved
the old house. He loved every angle of it, every wall of it,
every stone of it. As he had looked at it he had felt a
tremor in his blood, swelling the muscles of his throat, and
almost choking him.

Family ! Family !

It had stirred him, and had strengthened those newly
bom ambitions. Fate was ruthless, he had learnt, and
only ruthlessness stood a chance against it. life was a
nasty, dirty fight, and he had been a soft, huge baby.

He had thought of all this, and had lain awake for nights,
but the sight of the old house had strengthened it all. For
three generations Fate had been playing its crushing game ;
his grandfather had been a failure, and his father after that.
And on the top of it all had come this last insult ; the steal-
ing away of Gwen. Fate was laughing at him, trying to
rob him of all deUght in life, crushing and horribly mutSat-
ing him. And he had revolted. Fate could not crush
him. Destiny could not mutilate him. Gk)d could not
conquer him.

There had been one brief moment this afternoon which
he would never forget — ^that moment when Wem no longer
appeared to be a pile of stone and wood and mortar. It
had taken to itself a spirit and had breathed. The spirit
in it was family traditions ; its breath the memories of an
old stock ; and the words it had uttered were half a call,
and half reminiscent.

** I belong to you," it seemed to say ; " and you to me."

But more important than all, it had seemed to whisper,
softly, insinuatingly —

" Aren't you ever going to come back ? "

THE AXTOnONBBB

Chapbl was knocking at the door of one of the houses in
the village, and as a tired-looking, slight woman came to
open it he would have liked to tell her to put more life into
her thin body and more animation into her dull eyes.

** Is your husband in ? " he asked her aggressively. ** I
want to see him."

He followed her into the parlour of the house, where a
table untidily littered with papers stood in the centre of
the room, and scarcely had he time to sit down before the
tired-looking woman's husband came in, rubbing his hands
together in that insufferably smooth way he had.

" Ah, Mr. Chapel," he commenced. " Let me tell you
how sorry "

" I've come on business," Chapel interrupted him.

" Very good — very good."

His ears had pricked up at the sound of the word business ,
but he looked up quite superciliously at Chapel. A fat lot
of business could come from him ! But he was the mighty
Hughes's bailiff, and perhaps, after all, there might be some-
thing doing. Chapel himself was negligible for all his six
feet.

" I'm very busy indeed. Jus' now," Graig was saying,
waving an expressive hand at the untidy table. '' Returns
got to go in to-morrow. Orders comin' in like a bloomin'
river. Got anything in the shape of an order ? "

" No," Chapel answered savagely. For some reason a
strange resentment was rising within him. '' It's business
of my own."

" I was on my way to my new house," Graig was saying,
** before the men finish for the day. Got to keep yer eye
on a British workman, ye know ! " He tittered a little

THE AUCTIONEER 26

at what he considered his Joke. " Mind comin' up ? " he
suggested. " We can talk business on the way."

Chapel consented, and as they were going together
through the village his mind kept running over Graig's
history as he knew it.

Ten years ago the man had come to Forth a complete
stranger. Previous to that, he had been a builder's clerk,
which position he had forsaken in favour of a dubious
career as an agent to an Insurance Company. By push
he had become a representative of several firms supply-
ing foods for cattle, artificial manures and agricultural
implements. The acquaintances and the connections
among farmers gained in this way had encouraged him
to open up another side line, and now once a month,
at various farms, sales were held, to which the farmers
brought their cattle to be sold. These sales Graig himself,
after taking out an auctioneer's licence, had introduced.
They filled a gap in the commercial side of the farmers'
lives, and Graig was regarded as»a pushing, enterprising
fellow, getting on in the world. He dressed quite as well
as anyone in the neighbourhood, and a great deal better
than most. But just now, in Chapel's opinion, his get-up
was much too gaudy ; that gold band around his tie ; that
red fancy waistcoat.

Graig was thirty-six, or thereabouts; a medium-sized
man; quick and fussy in his movements and speech;
plausible to an extreme, with manners closely confidential
and hail-fellow-well-met to those with whom there was any
chance of doing business, but loftily tolerant to the remain-
der of humanity. Chapel, as it happened, had come to see
him on business, and for the time being Graig was taking
him into his confidence. For the present. Chapel was
Graig's best friend.

" Seen my new house lately ? " he was asking as they
went along.

They had now reached the centre of the village where
three roads met. On their left was the open space in front
of the " Farmer's Arms." Immediately in front of them
stood the lych-gate, and behind that, stalwartly against
the sky, reared the Norman tower of the church. A short
distance along the road running to the right the village

26 CHAPEL

school was to be seen, and np from one of its comers peeped
the bell, now idle, but still fearfully menacing to all youthful
eyes that chanced to look up. Farther along the same
road the roof of the Nonconformist place of worship showed
itself.

Chapel and Graig turned to the left, walking on the road
between the pine-end of the " Farmer's ** and the wall of
the churchyard. As they went, Chapel could not help con-
trasting his companion to the silent, inscrutable majesty
of the Norman tower.

" Quieter up this way," Graig said. "Away from the
mob." That bit would appeal to Chapel, whose family, by
all account, had been rather big. Poor devil !

It was a house much larger than any of those of the
village; a double-fronted house, and quite substantial,
according to the standards of Porth ; a house which would
trumpet forth Graig's position and success as a business
man.

" Plant some shrubs on this here slope," said Graig as
they mounted the steps to the front door. " Hide us a
bit from the crowd," he explained with his low titter.
"Nothin' like havin' a good-size passage," he enlarged
when they were inside. " Plenty o* room, d'you see !
Nothin' like plenty o' room. That little show I'm living
in now ! Pooh ! Couldn' swing a bloomin' cat there.
Let's get," he continued, leading the way up the staircase.

Chapel followed him around the new house, observing
Graig's spirits expanding under this feeling of ownership.

" These bay windows, now," cried Graig in one of the
rooms upstairs, "make a house look a different thing.
Put a couple of hundred on to the value any day." He
nudged Chapel with his elbow in a confidential way, and
tittered at the suggestion of his own smartness. "An'
look at the view from here. All the village ; all the valley ;
the wood — an' there's the slope of the Garth mountain !
Big things. Chapel ! Big things ! Nothin' in the whole
bloomin' world like Big ^ings ! "

He gave a sweep of his right hand towards the mountain,
as though he would have shifted it further back so as to
increase the extent of his view. He moved his hand as
though everything were so tiny ; everything but himself,

THE AUCTIONEER 27

that is. He wished one to believe that his way of living
and understanding was of the most comprehensive possible ;
that he thought in continents, colossally, and that these
narrow confines of Forth and its surroundings gave scope
quite inadequate to his stupendous powers.

" And I've done it all myself," said he. ** Every scrap
of it.'*

*' D'you mean ? "

" Everything. Every bloomin' thing. I done it myself.
What d'you think of that ? "

" But you've been in the building line ? "

'' And it's a paying game. Now I've got this Job off all
right, I'm going in for it serious. Fact is — " he was again
confidential — *' I've got a little contract on already. The
peoi^e at the chapel here are putting up a schoolroom, so
they're giving one of themselves first chance."

Graig was one of the '* big men " with the Nonconformists
of the village.

** But here's this range I was telling you about," he said
when they got to the kitchen ; " I want you to see this
range. Let's light the lamp. A bit more light on the
subject," he hinted, and then tittered.

Oiapel began shuffling his feet ; that feeling of resent-
ment was again rising. • " Never mind that dam' lamp,"
he cried suddenly. " I've come to talk business, and I'm
wasting my time." The idea that Graig imagined he could
bounce this poor devil Chapel got more than he could endure.

" Here we are ! " Graig had the lamp ready, and to all
appearances he had not heard Chapel's outburst. Inwardly
he was thinking of those rumours floating about the village
Just now.

" Now look at this oven," he began, tactlessly.

" Blast your oven," retorted Chapel, scowling. " Where's
your next sale to be ?" he asked.

" Next sale t " Graig looked at him and winked one
eye to help his memory.

" I want you to have your next sale at Penlan."

Graig was curious. " What's on 1 "

" Let me know. Can you hold your next sale there ? "

"WeU "

" Yes or no, man ! Let's have it. Yes or no."

28 CHAPEL

Graig now felt certain. The old complaint of the family
was breaking out, for nothing else could have made the
mild Chapel so sure of himself. '' It all depends whether
it's worth having it there," Graig explained indulgently
with his silly titter.

" I want to sell that furniture I've got."

Graig's eyes opened. *' Want to sell your furniture ? "

At the back of his mind was another question ; Chapel
was selling his home. But why t The poor devil's manner
to-night suggested drink. Well, if he were on the track of
his father and grandfather, he would not last very long.
But such a speculation was beside the point ; it was not
business.

Now Graig had heard about this furniture ; old women
were apt to grow enthusiastic over those lovely black oak
things and the blue china on the dressers and in the cup-
boards ; he had heard a great deal too much about them.
His opinion was that the whole job-lot consisted of a few
sticks of value to no-one outside the family ; things with a
sentimental and not any intrinsic value. Graig had no
sympathy with folk whose minds wallowed in dead by-
gones; modernity was the cry that set his blood astir ; but
this little property meant business, however insignificant,
and since it was by business he lived, he must enter into
the scheme with all his heart.

" We'll make a Big Thing of this. Chapel," he was saying,
his confidence fuUy awake ; that overwhelming confidence
which carried him through all his multifarious enterprises.
** This sale '11 be in Penlan, right enough. We'll have the
peofde of the county there. You listen to me," he said
again, coming nearer, and tappiag Chapel impressively on
the chest. ** We'll make a Big Thing of this."

And he was smart. Chapel had always known he was
smart. His career bore witness to his unfailing smartness.

As he walked homeward. Chapel seemed to have in his
ears the ring of a boasting voice : *' We'll malj:e a Big Thing
of this, Chapel."

Chapel thought- his best estimate of Graig had been made
when comparing him to the silent majesty of the Norman
tower; he had not been able to get nearer than that.
There was something too volatile about the man altogether :

THE AUCTIONEER 29

his rather slight figure, his clothes, his quickly moving eyes,
his titter — aJi, yes ! and his moustache. Chapel had
specially noticed his moustache, and his fingers went up to
his own when he thought of it. EQs was thick enough,
however short he wished to keep it; but Qraig's was a
thing of black scanty hairs.

''Jane," he called before he had been long at home.
" Where's my razor ? "

" Going to shave this time o' day, Mr. Chapel ? " Then,
in her characteristic way, she asked, " What '11 you be doing
next?"

** And bring the looking-glass and the shaving-pot and
brush."

Jane brought them, and when she returned in a quarter-
of-an-hour, ^r master was sitting at the table studying his
features in the small mirror propped against the lamp.

** Oo, Mr. Chapel," she cried out. " Whatever have you
been doing ? You've shaved off your moustache."

She came nearer and screwed her head, now to this side,
now to that, contemplatingly. ** I like you with it off,"
was her verdict.

Chapel was still studying his features. People usually
said that hair upon a man's face made him look older.
What a mistake ! He was thinking : '' No fear of looking
like the auctioneer, low." He had suddenly begotten a
horror of looking like Graig.

** Well keep an eye on Mr. Graig," he muttered to him-
self.

" Just as I was saying," thought Jane. ** Getting a bit
queer, he is, right enough."

THB OUBSB

Betsy Meohael attended the service at Hermon, the
Nonconformist place of worship, on the following Sunday
night as was her habit.

The meeting was over at last, and with that limping,
waddling gait, Betsy's broad figure moved leisurely down the
aisle. She had reached the lobby when a voice sounded
in her ears.

" What's this about young Chapel, Betsy Michael ? "

Instantly, Betsy w€bs on the defensive, with pugnacious
resentment on the alert. She had recognised the thin,
penetrating voice, and when she turned there was Enoch
Matthews's face, deeply furrowed and clean shaven except
for the fringe of white hair imder his chin, close to her own.
Betsy knew Enoch Matthews ; knew him of old. He was
the keeper of the miscellaneous shop of the village, and was
reputed to have gathered together quite a lot of money.
In his religious life he was one of those conscious of being
'' saved," and held a position in the vanguard of the army
of the Lord; while in his private life he was the biggest
purveyor of scandal in the district. Oh, yes ! Betsy knew
him, and she seldom thought of him without her Ups making
ugly shapes unknown to her.

" Well, what about Chapel ? " Betsy asked, still moving.

" Why I This sale," cried Enoch, coming up behind.

" What ? " Betsy stopped abruptly. She was com-
pletely puzzled. A sale ! Something shot through her
heart, piercing it. " What did you say ? "

" Why ! This sale ! A sale ! He's selling all his fur-
niture. Didn't you know ? "

" Oh, s-s-sale," Betsy repeated after him, having had
time to gather together her wits. ** I couldn't make out

THE CURSE 31

what you was talkin' about. Why don' you open your
mouth like a Christian so that a body can understand
what you do say ? Yes, the sale," she resumed. " As
you do say, he's sellin' everything." She looked Enoch
straight in the eyes. " That's all I'm free to tell you about
it, Enoch Matthews."

But Enoch was following her. " He's not following
after his fathei^n' gran'father, is he ? liwas jus' the same
with them, if you do remember. A sale !''

Betsy was now sure she had covered her ignorance. Her
mind was full of this horrible fear for Josiah, but she would
not show her fear. She pulled her lips tighter. She would
stand up and fight for Josiah, though a hundred such
hypocrites tried to say evil things about him.

She went down the two steps at the gate, with that fear
tugging at her heart. On the middle of the road she
stopped, and Enoch Matthews was at her side.

" It would be much fitter, Enoch Matthews," Betsy
suggested, " if you was to look after your own business,
an' not keep poking your old long nose into the things of
people like Josiah Chapel. He's always bin a good man —
always. And you wait — you wait," she cried, raising her
fist to his face, " he'll show you what he's made of."

"Following after his father an' gran'father, indeed,"
Enoch heard her mutter as he left her standing alone in the
middle of the roadway.

But Betsy's head slowly began to shake, imtil gradually
it sank, and her chin dropped on her bosom. She was
thinking of Josiah : her Uttle lad, Josiah. This sale busi-
ness. She was airaid. A sale in the family was a black,
ugly omen. Betsy was afraid.

" There 'ave bin a sale after every fun'ral," she told
herself as she passed through the village.

So strong was the suggestive power of her fear that soon
she was picturing Josiah in the raving madnesses of delirium
tremens. She had heard old men describe how his grand-
father had been, and she had seen his father for herself.
She shuddered at the reality of the horror.

And she would see Josiah like that !

Chapel was seated on the settle when the catch of the
door clicked and someone came in. He did not trouble

32 C3HAPEL

to look, for he thought that perhaps it might be Jane. If
BO, the girl was certainly developing a stronger sense of
responsibility. But he was not left long in doubt; the
door was closed, and he heard the ambhc^ irregular steps
of Betsy.

She had not knocked ; she never did. You only knocked
at the doors of people who were snobbish and fond of talking
English; people in whose houses, after you entered, you
were sure to be most uncomfortable. You sat on the edge
of the chair in a place where you'd knocked ; you felt like
a stranger to yourself ; not a bit natural.

" Oh, you arejjy there," Betsy said, espying first Josiah's
feet and then his knees around the comer of the settle.

After taking off her shawl and bonnet and hanging them
behind the door she came forward towards the fire. She
pulled up her frock around her so as not to crumple it in
sitting, and the bright red flannel petticoat was exposed to
the view. When these preliminaries were over she drew
up the armchair, making its legs scrape along the floor,
and sat down, her ample body completely filling the chair.
She rested her great hands on her lap, and by turning ever
so slightly she could see Josiah.

** It's cold," ventured Chapel from the settle. Betsy's
tone puzzled him rather, l^at she meant to stay some
little time was plain, or she would not have hung up her
shawl.

Betsy pulled off her elastic-sided boots and dropped them
beside the fender, and after drawing her chair some inches
farther forward she put her grey-stockinged feet on the
stand, so that their soles stared into the fire. Then it was
that she turned to scrutinise Josiah; turned her head
stiffly as though it revolved on a pivot, without the slightest
stir of her body. Her eyes were narrowed and her glance
pierced him like needles. Her mouth was screwed up
till it was very small. Her mind was digging into the
mind of this man — ^this stranger who had taken to the
drink.

** You haven' bin to church to-night, Josiah."

" No." Chapel felt himself curling under the sting of her
rebuke. For some reason he experienced a sinking back
into the period of his boyhood, when he had been somewhat

THE CURSE S3

afraid of Betsy. " IVe finished with that sort of thing,"
he added, getting sullen and defiantly more assertive.

Betsy shuffled uneasily in her chair. " I am right," she
was thinking. It was as she had feared — CU9 the people
were whispering in those clusters she had seen on the way
from the meeting. Betsy sighed deeply. She knew he
had " took to the drink." Something had been telling her
all the week that he would follow after his father.

** Have you bin considering what you are doing, Josiah ? "
she asked tremulously. Of course, he would not want to
go near God's house when he was living in the midst of sin.
** Some day you will have to face your Maker. Remember
that, Josiah."

A gleam of anger fiashed in Chapel's eyes. " You leave
Him and me alone," he said resentfully.

Betsy withdrew her feet from the stand. It was worse
than she had imagined.

** An' this sale— this sale I'm hearin' about," she re-
started, raising her voice and watching him. She waved
her hand around. " D'you mean to say you're going to sell
these things ? "

" AU the lot."

** And aren't you ashamed of yourself ? "

** Every stick," Chapel confirmed quietly. Then he
raised his glance. '' Look here, Betsy. These things
belong to me, and to nobody else."

Now Betsy was roused. - " An' haven' I got anything to
do witfi um 1 "

Her feet were moving restlessly on the brown matting,
and her fibtigers rubbed against one another itchingly. She
would stand up and fight for Josiah outside the family, but
here alone with him she was going to speak her mind. Her
fist struck violently the arm of her chair.

" Don' you think you're going to frighten me, Josiah
Chapel," she cried rebelliously. " You ought to be filled
with shame to talk to me like that. I was in your family
for twenty-five years ; I was in this houi^ before you was
bom; these things are in my bones. And a slip of a boy
like you goin' to say they belong to you, an' that a woman
like me have got nothing to do with am ! "

" I'm selling the lot," returned Chapel, still trying to be

34 CHAPEL

calm. '' Every dam' stick/' he empharised, beguming to
be amioyed.

Then Betsy's mamier changed. You could never hope
to alter a man by driving him into a temper. Besides, for
the first time in her life she was afraid of him. She could
tell by the way he shut his teeth and screwed his jaw.
There had always been a touch of some nasty devil in the
Chapels if you pushed them too far. It was like the
spitting of a cat that had taken to the woods, when you
got her into a comer. But aU the time Betsy's heart
was aching because once she had nursed him, and because
she felt convinced he was damning his eternal soul. And a
lost soul Betsy pictured as tossing in everlasting torment ;
so, if she coidd help it, Josiah should not bum in those
brimstone flames of Hell.

The tears were already in Betsy's eyes.

She got up from the chair and walked in her stockinged
feet towards him. '' You won't sell um, Josiah ? " she
pleaded, attempting to put her hand on his shoulder.

*' I'm going to sell the lot," Chapel answered, brushing
away her hand.

Betsy returned to the chair. *' What the people are
saying is quite right," she said.

** People ! People ! What are the people saying ? "

" What are they saying ? That you are following after
your father an' your gran'father, to be sure ! "

She saw the nasty smile on his Ups.

*' So that's what they're saying, is it ? " He shrugged his
great shoulders and chuckled as though the thing grimly
amused him. Then a new thought struck him, suggesting
to him at last the possible cause of Betsy's queer behaviomr.

'* And you are thinking the same ? " he asked.

** Yes," Betsy admitted quite frankly.

And yet, when Betsy reseated herseU, there was a germ
of a doubt in her mind. A moment ago she had seen that
Chapel demon in his eyes, and she had considered him half
a madman already, beginning to battle with the horrors;
but now, when she could see things more plainly, there
seemed to have been remarkable sanity in the cleamess of
his eyes all the time.

*' But what are you going to do after the sale, Josiah ? '*

THE CUBSE 85

Controversial matters were best shunned. ** Where are
you going to live ? "

" I don't know."

"Lodgings?"

Chapel nodded.

" Josiah," Betsy breathed very ooaxingly. " There's a
spare room in our house. I know all your ways. Wouldn'
you like to come "

" And live at the Windgap ? "

" Yes, Josiah."

Betsy's face was covered with the broadest smile; she
saw the notion pleased him. New dreams leapt suddenly
into being, rushing as a torrent through her brain. Think
of it ! If only Josiah would come and live with them, she
would always have Josiah's boy to bring him up !

Her mind was in a whirl as she walked home towards the
Windgap ; Josiah had taken to the drink, and yet sometimes
she thought he had not. Well, whether he had, or whether
he had not, he was coming to live with them, and she would
be able to keep an eye on him.

And — ^her heart leapt and thumped in a frenzy against
her breast — she would always have the boy. Her steps
quickened; her body swayed and lurched more than ever
as she hurried.

Had meek old Francis, her husband, carried out all her
orders ? Had he remembered about the time for the boy's
milk?

When yet a quarter of a mile from home, she fancied
hearing the shrieks of an unfed, starving child — ^the cries
of her baby being misused by a helpless male. It was
nothing but the slight wind whistling through the trees
above her head, but nevertheless, Betsy gathered up her
skirts and immediately began to run.

THB SALB

Snow fell on the day previous to the sale. The gentle
wind blew the fine flakes, causing them to drift into thin
white lines around the leaded panes of the windows of
Penlan ; they hung gossamer-like on the twigs of the goose-
berry and currant bushes in the large garden, and lay as
silky garments on the leaves of the evergreens in front of
the house.

The place was all astir to-day ; Graig the auctioneer was
present, and wherever Graig went, there also went bustle.
All the floors of the bedrooms had been stripped bare early
in the morning ; the carpet from the large parlour had been
beaten and rolled; sheets and blankets and quilts had
been put away. Betsy and Jane had been busy ever since
five o'clock, and now two of the farm hands, under Mr.
Graig's supervision, were completing the upset. Their feet
on the naked boards sounded as if horses had got into the
house, and when they moved the heavy furniture the noise
was like miniature thunder.

The physical side of Betsy was uppermost tO'day ; there
was work to be done; hard work, and she slaved. Betsy
had accepted the inevitable. Since the furniture had to
be sold, she was determined to do her full share.

At last the noise and the stir had ceased; quiet was
supreme again; the two laboiuiers had gone; Mr. Graig
was going around the house with a pencil and a notebook ;
and Betsy and Jane were together in the kitchen.

'' Oh, dear ! But I am tii^, Mrs. Michael." Jane had
sunk on to the settle. " I've never worked so hard in my
life."

" Do you good, my gel," consoled Betsy unfeelingly.

THE SALE 37

" I'm goin' to have a cup of tea, whatever. Go 'n' fetch the
kettle full of water."

While the kettle was boiling, they went in search of
Graig. They did not immediately find him, but they very
soon struck his traSl.

" What's this Uttle piece of paper, Jane ? " Betsy was
standing in front of the clock in the small parlour, gazing
at an oblong label on its face. *' It do look as if it's going
off by train. What do it say, Jane ? What do it say,
gel?"

Jane read for her, for one of Betsy's charms was her
illiteracy.

" That says, * Lot 1,' " — ^pointing to the clock ; and then
reading the label on the comer cupboard: "This is
' Lot 2.' He'll sell one of these lots at a time, see, Mrs.
Michael ! "

They found Graig in the largest bedroom, and they
watched him from the doorway. First of all, he took one
of those small oblong pieces of paper from a bundle he held
in his hand ; after wetting the back of it on his tongue he
dabbed it expertly on the bed-frame propped against the
wall, and then he wrote something about it in the big
black notebook. He went through the same process with
the wardrobe, the chest and the cluster of chairs. This
section of the business seemed particular and important,
judging from the way the auctioneer carried on, because
he winked his left eye a great deal and chewed the end of
his pencil a lot, as though in deep thought and perturbation,
before he wrote anything in his big black notebook.

Chapel came in, grim and silent, while Betsy and Jane
stood watching Graig.

" Very near finished, Mr. Chapel," Graig cried on seeing
him. It paid to be polite when doing business with a man.
" System, ye know," he went on, nodding at the big black
notebook. " Nothing like system."

Here was another of his favourite words, for his tongue
lingered lovingly over it ; he whistled the sibilants between
his teeth, and squeezed on each of the syllables.

" Nothing in the world like s-sys-stem, Mr. Chapel. See
it ? " He was pointing to the notebook in Us hand.
** Four columns — ^ruled. Lot Number. Description of

88 CHAPEL

Artiole. Highest Bid. Name of Buyer. . . . What d'yoa
think of that? Must have system, you know. . . . But
the third column's the most important. — ^Eh ? What do
you say, Mr. Chapel ? " He nud^d Chapel with his elbow,
and tittered, l^t was a remarkably &ie joke.

" You have got everything in the best way, I suppose ? "

Graig jerked his head. Chapel was a bit thick in the
" top-notch." '* Can't recognise a joke from a bloomin'
tin whistle when he hears one."

''Trust me," Graig answered with a knowing wink.
" What they call a catalogue," he said about the notebook.
" You can't go wrong on a system." Then he went on
with his inventory.

" I should like to have a look at it," said Chapel.

"The catalogue? I leave it with you, Mr. Chapel.
Leave it with you when I've finished."

In a while Graig departed; the others had tea; and
afterwards, Jane elected to go to the Windgap to see the
baby.

It was approaching nine o'clock when Jane returned that
night, and when she entered the kitchen there was her
master seated at the table. The brass inkstand stood in
front of him under the lamp; Mr. Graig's notebook was
near him to his left; and he was writing in another note-
book very dmilar in size and shape to the first.

Chapel was being systematic, like the auctioneer, and
was making a copy of the catalogue in four columns:
Lot Number; Description of Article ; Highest Bid; Name
of Buyer.

By two o'clock on the following day the kitchen had
begun to fill rapidly, and the room became alive, chattering
alive, with the dancing voices of women and the more
subdued murmur of the men. Enoch Matthews came in
after a while, bending over his walking-stick, and tugging
fretfully at the fringe of white beard under his chin.
NaturaJly, the top hat and the dilapidated frock coat were
not being aired to-day; instead, the occasion saw him
wearing a short overcoat, green with age, frayed at the
wrists, and on the back of his head rested a flat-topped
felt hat. Unfortunately, Enoch was not given time for

THE SALE 39

his much-oherished gossip, for almost on his heels oame the
auctioneer.

The groups of women now broke up, most of them joining
their husbands ; and thus, husband and wife together, the
woman and her man, every pair stood pitted against the
rest of the world ; every pair to make the best bargain they
could.

Graig was more subdued than usual, and less bluff and
boisterous, for there were women present, and he must
show that he could act the polished gentleman, too, when
occasion required.

He looked aroimd the kitchen, a pleased smile under his
scanty moustache. Visions of a goodly commission sprang
before his little eyes, for nearly all the money of the neigh-
bourhood was here. He rubbed his hands together, and
then took out his watch. Half-past two — ^time to begin.
" Punctuality in business," he thought, reminding hiniself
of one of his many empiric maxims.

The tap of his hammer on the table put a stop to the
chatter, and in the ensuing silence, with the maximum of
effect, he took the black notebook from the pocket of his
overcoat, and with studied deliberation he turned the
pages.

''Lot Number One," Graig read aloud in his high-
pitched tenor voice. '* Grandfather's clock," he deciphered
impressively from the Second Column. " Bring it in here,
boys," he said to his two assistants of yesterday. '' An'
be careful. Carry it in as if it was a little gold-mine."

The men laughed, and Graig tittered. Graig was a
wag.

'' Now, ladies ! Look at it." He patted the old clock
affectionately as it stood near the passage door. He opened
the front and set the pendulum in motion until the little
sailing ship on the top rocked to and fro in joyfvl spright-
liness. '* Look at it. Must have been with Noah in
the Ark." Again he tittered. " Age adds to value," he
epigrammatised. *' Oak case — ^brass face. And the little
ship ! Gaze at it. The little ship's worth a sovereign by
itself, any day of the week."

The biddii^ commenced, and it was while Graig was
hesitating, and crying, " Any advance on fifteen pounds ? —

40 CHAPEL

Come now» ladies ! Any advance on fifteen pounds ? "— 4t
was then the surprise of the sale happened.

" Any advance on fifteen pounds ? " Graig was repeating
with his hammer in the air. ** For the last time, any **

" Guineas/' came a dear voice from the door.

" Gone/' cried Graig like a shot, tapping his hammer on
the side of the clock, and hurrying to fill Columns Three
and Four in his big black notebook.

Everyone had quickly turned — so quickly that many
had a crick in their necks — and there were Hughes, the
agent, and his wife, prosperous and superior. A wave of
excitement passed through the kitchen; the tone of the
whole business was immediately heightened, and a way
was made for the superior new-comers to come forward.

'' Tou've got a bargain, sir," Graig said obsequiously to
Mr. Hughes.

Lot Number Two was the comer cupboard, and this
again was bought by the agent.

In the best bedroom it soon became plain that Hughes
and his wife had come to the sale determined to purchase
the pick of the furniture of the old Chapel family, because
for every desired article Mr. Hughes resolutely bid imtil
he became its owner.

Chapel, always behind the auctioneer, watched every-
thing with a mixture of strange emotions. Graig's mounte-
bank methods left him unmoved ; hardly was he cognisant
of the faces in front of him. What filled his thoughts for
a while was that the pieces of furniture were being bartered
and transferred to the one who offered the most gold. As
some article, crammed full of intimate memories, was
knocked down, the tap of the hammer seemed to be break-
ing a link that joined him to the past of his family. Tap
after tap cut him adrift from beloved associations, until he
seemed to stand alone. He could have cried out; there
were people aroimd, but he was alone.

And then came another thought, begotten of the bitter
irony of Fate, tormenting him, and causing him to suffer
agony. He, too, soon understood that his treasures were
passing into Hughes's possession. Fate was laughing
mockingly at him to-day. Already was Wem, the old
home, in the hands of this man; and now at last the

THE SALE 41

furniture was returning to the old surroundings. He
cursed Fate. Ihiring these moments he saw Hughes as
the Nemesis of the Chapels, and he hated him.

Yet, for all these conflicting emotions, for all the bitter-
ness and the agony, he did not once forget to fill up the
Third and Fourth Columns of his copy of the catalogue.
The old inefficiency had been left behhid, and although he
wrapped himself in black silence, and although his face waa
grim and set, the new man in Chapel was wideawake,
enabling him to keep accoimt of what was passing, and
stirring him to banish sentiment in order to look forward
to the risks and fights and conquests of the future.

Fate must be beaten.

vni

THE FIBST LESSON

Thbouoh the cutting wind of the winter night a week
later Chapel walked from the Windgap into the village,
on his way to get the money which was to enable him to
start living a man's life.

Chapel's knock was answered by Graig himself.

" I'm here on my lonesome," Graig explained, standing
aside for Chapel to enter. '' The missis md the kids have
gone to the ^eek-night meeting."

The table in the parlour was as untidy as on Chapel's
previous visit, and when he took the proffered chair beside
the fire in the tiny grate he studied his surroundings.

Graig's description, ''Couldn't swing a blooming oat
there," hit oS the room to perfection. There was no space
for much furniture ; the table, two small chairs and the
narrow armchair in which he sat included everything. No —
there was a kind of chiffonier in the gloom behind him.

But the table ! It was like a mining village seething
with its population, for every square-inch was utilised, and
only from seeing it hanging down at the sides did one
become aware of the existence of the faded maroon table-
cloth.

The sole ornaments of the strikingly papered walls were
pictorial almanacs of the Insurance Company and of the
firms of agricultural implements, foods and manures.

" Chock-full of work as usual, as you see, Mr. Chapel."
Graig waved around his hand as he brought forward one
of the small chairs. ''And how are things going with
you ? " he asked when he was seated opposite with his knees
crossed.

"We'd better have the business finished," Chapel
suggested briefly from the armchair.

THE FIRST LESSON 43

" Ton my soul," laughed Qraig in praise ; " I never came
across a man for getting so quick to the heart of things.
You get there every time, Mr. Chapel." Graig moved
quickly to the chiffonier. ** Bight you are," he cried as
he went. " We'll get into things straight away. Have a
look at this," he said, handing over a sheet of paper,
"while I fetch the coin."

Chapel drew up his armchair to the table, cleared a space,
and after smoothing out the paper began to read. The
document was executed in Graig's best quasi-legal manner ;
its phraseology and the flourishes of the calligraphy were
typical of the whole man. Chapel began to read, slowly,
and with an ironic smile on his lips —

SALE

Conducted on (he Tenth day of February in (he Year of Our
Lord One Thousand Eight Hundred and Eighty Two

OF THE GOODS AND EFFECTS OF
JOSIAH CHAPEL, ESQUIRE,

of Penian in the Parish of Porth in the County
of Gflamorgan

Cross Proceeds of Sale
AuctioTieer^s Comm. at 2^ per centum

631

Net Proceeds of Sale .... £618 16

As he read, Chapel's eyes slowly began to open wider.
He re-read, to be sure he was making no mistake. No !
There it was, written plainly enough for any one to see :
Five Hundred and Thirty-one Pounds. The actual dis-
covery came as a shock, though all along he had been half
prepared. -

Graig was robbing him : cheating him of twenty pounds,
for the amount should have been Five Hundred and Fifty-
one, and not Rve Hundred and Thirty-one.

It roused demons of iniquity in CSiapel to be thus esti-
mated. Excited anger began to boil within him, and his

44 CHAPEL

fingers itched to do bodily harm to this scoundrel who con-
sidered he could be so easily cheated. Then a completely
strange side of his nature awoke. His hands clawed at the
edge of the table in the effort to control his temper ; and
then his teeth showed in a snarl because he was able so well
to hold himself in check. But that demon Betsy had seen
some nights ago had leapt into his eyes, and he kept them
glued to the paper lest Graig should catch si^t of the
expression in them.

Graig was placing six 3^11ow bags of money on the table.
*' And here's the coin/' he was saying. *' dhianged all the
cheques for you yesterday. Count it up, Mr. Cbapel !
Count it up to see if it's all right."

Chapel now bad himself under control, and, when he
looked at Graig across the table, there was an ingenuous
smile on his lips. " Bead it over, Graig," he beg^d in a
very simple way. Carelessly, he handed the statement
to the auctioneer.

** Didn' expect to find it so much — eh ? " questioned
Graig, tittering.

" Well, no," Chapel agreed, his smile broadening. ** The
total did startle me a bit. But you've got so many flourishes
in your handwriting, Graig," he Jestingly objected.

'* Simpleton," murmured Graig. Aloud he said : '' As
I told you before, the mighty Hughes came as a bloomin'
godsend. If you'd 'a' told me that we were going to make
over Kve Hundred golden sovereigns — ^well, I'd 'a' thought
it, even if I hadn' called you — a bloomin' liar." He tittered
again and turned his body and the paper towards the lamp.
" Well, here we are." He read aloud in his tenor voice :
** Gross Proceeds of Sale— Kve Thirty-one, Rfteen, ! "

" ? " Oiapel interrupted. " What does the mean ? "

" Figure OA," enl%htened Graig, for he pronounced it in
that way. '' Ah, that's it ; no headpiece."

"All right. Goon."

" We'll start from the beginning again, Mr. Giapel ; so
as you can understand it iJl. Gross Proceeds of Sale-
Five Thirty-one, Fifteen, ! "

Chapel propped his chJn on his hands and exclaimed in
a kind ot unbelieving ecstasy : " Five Hundred and
Thirty!"

THE FIRST LESSON 46

" Plus One Fifteen," corrected Graig delightfully.

" Of course. One Fifteen Oh ! Better still," appre-
ciated CJhapel, chuckling ever so softly.

*' Auctioneer's Comm. at two an' a half per centum comes
to TSiirteen Pounds — — 0. To be exact, Mr. Chapel, it
comes to three ha'pence more. But that's nothing, Mr.
Chapel. Nothing. So we'll cross it off."

** Not much one way or the other," agreed Giapel good-
humouredly.

" So we're now left with the net proceeds : Five Hundred
and Eighteen Pounds — ^Fifteen — 0. A very tidy little lot
of money, Mr. Chapel," he said {deasantly, handing back
the paper. ** Everything quite plain now ? "

" Everything," answered Chapel. ** Quite," he added,
with emphasis. Then he counted the money : Five Hun-
dred and Eighteen Pounds, Fifteen Shillings.

" Wouldn' mind if a little lot like that was to come my
way," said Graig pleasantly across the table.

'* Not a bad sum," Chapel readily admitted, arranging
the six bags in a row on the table, l^en he shifted his chair
back to the hearth and took out his pipe. He must be wary
with Graig. The man had six years' more experience of
life than he, and thirty-six more of duplicity. He must go
slowly, temporising awhile, because he must assimilate this
first lesson of a man's life and, as well, get those twenty
pounds before he left the house.

*' Might as well give us a receipt," Graig was saying,
coming around with another sheet of paper. " Then that
will finish the business."

'' Got a stamp ready, too, I can see," Chapel remarked
lightly as he examii^ the sheet. ''Leave it alone a
minute," he suggested playfully.

" Bight-o ! Any time so long as I do get it."

'* As simple as an infant. Doing young Chapel's as easy
as winking. No headpiece; no business abiUty; none."
Graig walked around and brought a bottle from the bottom
of the chiffonier. ** Could have made it fifty right enough.
Pity it wasn't fifty."

" Have a drink, Mr. Qiapel."

The two glasses, and the bottle were on the table and
Graig was once more settled, and he was again sitting

46 CHAPEL

opposite, comfortably smoking. He took the pipe from
between his lips and blew a cloud of smoke into the air of
the little room.

** Seen my new house lately, Mr. Chapel ? "

" No," was the answer, given rather absently. " I haven'
been up that way since.**

'' Painters in this week. Startin* on the schoolroom next
week. Told you about it, didn't I ? Got the jdan herty'
he said, Jerking his thumb at the other end of the table.

" You seem to be doing all right,*' Chapel suggested as he
knocked the ashes out of his pipe against the bars.

** Goin* in for buildin* serious, now,'* came the rejdy, as
Graig began to swell under the laudation. " I've made up
my mind to. Speculative building, d'ye see ? Houses '11 go
up like mushrooms where this coal's Jus' been found — ^like
bloomin' mushrooms they will. An' there's money in it ;
oceans of money— oceans ; for the man who can do it," he
added after a pause and a pitying glance at the gullible —
poor devil ! — Chapel. ** And I'm the man ; the very man,"
he boasted.

But the unnatural duplicity of his own behaviour was
beginning to tell upon Chapel ; {daying a double-faced role
was utterly strange and repugnant to him. Suddenly, he
sprang up and, alter puUing his chair to the table, took
up the paper which required but his signature to change it
into a legal receipt.

" That's it. Put yer name across that stamp there,"
Graig hinted.

Giapel returned to the table. " Bring your chair round
here, Graig.*' His voice was under excellent control. He
would show this whipper-snapper how much business ability
he possessed. ** Where's your black notebook, Graig ? " he
demanded when the auctioneer was seated at his side.

" Well " Graig was on his dignity. ** It's hard for

anyone not a professional man to understand," he explained
indulgently; ''but a professional man keeps his private
system — well — yn* vate . ' '

Chapel slowly turned his head. '' I'd like to see that
black notebook, Graig," he said, more firmly.

" It's very unusual, Mr. Chapel. Very "

''Don't make so much of your dam' noise, Graig."

THE FIRST LESSON 47

Chapel had at last found a way. '' Let's have a look at that
black notebook ; an' don' be long about it. I'm thinking of
going into business myself, and I like your idea of system."

Graig brought the black notebook, and Chapel opened it.

" Looks as if you've been rubbing something out, Graig,"
he said, pointing with a finger after turning some of the

' Rubbed out ? " Graig was superb. He had made up
his mind that Chapel was drunk. ** Have another drop of
whisky," he invited.

Chapel seemed not to have heard. The last page was
reached; several erasures had been observed; and now
Chapel was running a finger along the total at the bottom.

" Rve Thirty-one, Fifteen," he read aloud.

" Everything tallying," buoyantly proclaimed Graig at
his side, handing over the receipt form.

It was all very well for Chapel to maintain a control over
his temper, and to draw Graig into deeper entanglement,
but watching the scoundrel bouncing him and crediting him
with the simplicity of an infant got more than he could bear.
He thrust his hand into his overcoat pocket and clapped his
own black notebook on the table.

" Have a look at that," he savagely cried. '' Have a dam'
good look at it," he repeated. '' Look at those figures
there ! " He struck a rigid finger on the total, and turned
with a Jerk of his head to Graig. ' ' Twenty pounds missing,
'Mi. Auctioneer," he chuckled viciously.

Graig's face lost some of its colour ; but, instantly, his
confidence returned. '* What d'you mean ? " he asked,
visibly working himself into a passion.

'* You're not the only one can follow a system," remarked
Chapel coolly.

** What is it you mean ? " Graig repeated. " What the
devil d'you mean to— to— "

" Twenty pounds missing." Chapel calmly placed the
proposition for his consideration.

"D'you mean to say " As though his finest

feelings were outraged.

" Twenty pounds missing," came the parrot-like repeti-
tion.

Graig leapt challengingly to his feet. " Let's have it

48 CHAPEL

straight. It's not a trifling thing to accuse a man of
business with fraud."

" There ! *' provoked Chapel meaningly. " Fraud:'

Graig saw his error, but putting up his finger to point at
Chapel, he made the whole meaning of his veiled threat
plain. ** Slander is something inside the law," he said very
grandly. ** Now let's have it. Do you say I've cheated
you ? Because if you do, come an' say it agen before wit-
nesses. A game of that sort don't go down here, young
Chapel."

Chapel pulled himself erect and calmly took up his hat.
** We won't hum an' haw about it," he said. His self-
possession pleased him, and he glanced through Graig's
notebook again. " Put your coat on," he remarked, ** and
come as far as Wem. I daresay Hughes the agent '11 be
able to say how much he's paid you."

Graig had the sense to understand that the game was up ;
but he still clung to his honesty, remaining brazenly bold,
and prepared to bluster his way through even at this stage.

" We're old friends, Mr. Chapel," he commenced sooth-
ingly. *' If there's any mistake, it's not wilful, as you know.
We're all liable to make mistakes, as we all know."

Chapel began to bristle again at this renewed attack upon
his gullibility, but he was quite sure of himself, and his
treatment of Graig was already defined.

" This," he said slowly, tapping his own notebook, " has
got Five Hundred and Fifty-one Pounds, Fifteen Shillings,
and that's how much I want to see on this table."

"But," Graig was innocently expostulating, ** there's
the commission."

The man's lack of susceptibility of any kind enraged
Chapel and he moved threateningly towards him, thumping
the table rapidly as though his patience were on the point
of exhaustion.

Graig recognised the sign. There was danger in the
young fool's eyes ; perhaps murder if he were trifled with
any further. Graig went docilely, completely cowed, to
the chifionier, and brought Thirty-three Pounds from the
cashbox and put them on the table.

Chapel counted them, transferred them to his waistcoat
pocket ; he picked up the six bags of money and dropped

THE FIRST LESSON 49

them into his overcoat pockets ; he took up the unsigned
receipt form, tore it in two and threw the pieces on the fire ;
and then he left the house without another word.

Graig stood listening to the bang of the front door ; he
was cursing his own helplessness. He had not received
any commission — ^not even the receipt. And he had not
dared to ask for either.

A man's UFB

With the sale over and the money in his pocket, Chapel
commenced upon his new life. His hopes flew high; his
determination to succeed was fixed; the future was a
battle-groimd ; he was eager to be fighting and the week
spent waiting for the money had seen him impatient, like
a bloodhound on a leash tugging at the delay.

He was now completely cut adrift from the old life;
nothing linked him to the past except memory, which he
was learning to stifle. Lack of purpose had completely
vanished and he was alone, face to face with Fate, and he
was going to win. Always before him as a magnet,
drawing him, would be a vision of the old stability of his
family. Between him and the attainment, obstacles lay,
and these obstacles had to be demolished; that was the
battle.

The last link with the past had been snapped on the day
following the sale, when Jane, the chatterbox of a maid,
had come to the Windgap to wish them all good-bye. She
seemed, however, suddenly to have lost all her talkative-
ness, for she spoke very little as she sat in Betsy's kitchen ;
and when the actual parting with Chapel took plcuse she
burst into tears, quite unable to express herself intelligibly.
But she pleaded with Chapel, and made him promise, that
whenever he set up a household he would send for her and
let her come back and work for him again.

**I don't want to leave you," Jane had sobbed. "I
don't want to go to any old strangers." And then,
brightening at Chapel's promise, she had said : *' I'll
come the very minute you send for me." The incident
touched Chapel. Her loyalty impressed him.

Cattle-dealing was to be his new work, for there was

A MAN'S LIFE 51

some risk about such a life, some uncertainty; and it
appealed to him. With care he might develop such a
business to an extent that would make possible the realisa-
tion of his dreams. He knew men who had gained con-
siderable wealth in this way.

To-day, now that he had the money, he meant starting
his new life by attending the fair at Llantrisant.

After three miles he had begun climbing the hill, and
that high wall running along the roadway on his left re-
minded him of the occasions he had come this way in his
boyhood. Yes, there they were — ^the trees overhanging
the wall. But there were no apples on them to-day, for
the branches were bare, and from them fell drops of water,
thawed by the slowly increasing heat of the sim. How
tempting, and how provoking those apples had been when
he was a boy ! What luxurious pictures his imagination
had drawn of the rich garden behhid these walls !

Still climbing, he came to the site of the old turnpike
gate, and he never could pass this spot without half -expect-
ing someone to rush out and demand his toll.

Bounding the bend, climbing all the time, he reached
the hilly H^h Street. But that was the character of every
street in Llantrisant ; the little town on the hill it was.

And here was the Bull Ring — a sloping, irregular-shaped,
elongated ** square," surrounded by houses, mostly shops.
When he entered the Bull Ring that feeling of wonder still
possessed him, and he was the imaginative boy again, with
all the intervening years slipped away.

There they were — ^the few stalls and standings at the
lower end of the Bull Ring. The same old, white-haired,
stooping man — Humphreys the Flannel ; and there, below
him, squat on her stool, with a box for standing, sat old
Marrie the Mill selling ginger-bread. Chapel wondered
whether the bonnet and the black-and-red shawl were the
same as she had worn twenty years ago.

Here on his left was the branch of a great English banking
firm, the groimd floor of one of the houses changed into a
repository of gold. It was not open yet, but very soon
men would keep walking in, handing bags of money over
the counter, or getting golden coins in return for bits of
paper called cheques. A marvellous place.

52 CHAPEL

And here was the cobbled road, narrow as it went up
the gradient leading out from the Bull Ring and rising
away from the noise and the stamping of the fair ; leading
away into seclusion. It was music to hear one's own
footfalls on these old-fashioned cobbles, especially after
the din of the fair. A Roman road he used to call this when
a boy. How old could it be ?

At the top was the Angel. Queer name for a tavern,
that. Profane, rather. Aad round the comer on the left
stood the Town Hall where the Police Courts were held.
He had been inside once, listening to a poaching case.

Then on to the Castle. Not much of a ca49tle now ! A
few upright walls and the ruins of others crumbling
at their feet. He was in touch with the past here.
Welsh princes with their hordes of wild warriors whose
yells had pierced the air around the very spot on which he
stood ! With swords and spears and small round shields
they had fought, fanatically, bloodily, pitilessly. Even
now he could see their hair flying in the wind. What tales
these old walls could have told ! Remarkable ! Every-
thing was remarkable. And these hollows in the ground
down below, which once must have been dungeons,
for this had been the jail of the manor ! The cries, the
agonies and the groans of imprisoned and tortured men !
Wonderful ! Everything was wonderful.

And there, away across the comer of the fertile vale
beneath his feet, lay his home

God!

He awoke.

With the thought of his home rushed back the realities
of a man's Ufe. His head fell, and his mouth began to
quiver. His eyes grew moist because of his own help-
lessness.

All he could do was to dream and see visions and let his
imagination carry him away. He was totally incapable of
anything else. This is what he had been fearing all the
time since he had determined to conquer Fate. Of what
use was a dreamer when face to face with the stem realities
of a nasty, dirty fight ? It was all so hopeless. He had
come to the fair to transact business and bargain with
hard-headed men, and in the very midst of the scene of

A MAN'S LIFE 53

fighting the old weakness had mastered him. There was
nothing practical in his constitution; he was a simple,
weak dreamer.

But gradually, his lips steadied and tightened ; his teeth
clenched; his head went up; once, his long white teeth
showed as though they snarled; and, turning, he walked
back to the fair, past the Fives Court, the Town Hall, and
down the cobbled roadway.

"We'll see," he kept muttering. "We'll dam' well

OAA "

OOvt

Chapel, as he moved about the fair, soon discerned that
he was the object of some interest and curiosity. As indeed
he was.

The rumours of the recurrence of the curse they all had
heard ; the sale at Penlan had made them more inquisitive ;
and to-day, when they saw him buying, added to their
curiosity. But he had always been of interest on his own
accoimt, for there was about him the halo of an old family ;
and there is something in the romance and superiority of
an old stock that appeals very warmly to the heart of a
Welsh farmer. His reserve and slight aloofness aggravated
them imtil they remembered who he was; but Chapel's
family had always lived on a level very much above their
neighbours, and also there was some characteristic in the
present Chapel himself that demanded and received their
respect. One thing was certain, in spite of the decline of
the family : the farmers still submitted to this imdefined
superiority, and Josiah still exercised the vague advantage.
There was just a shade of condescension in his manner as
he greeted them, and just a shade of submission in their
attitudes as they repUed to him.

Chapel busied himself throughout the morning, and by
early afternoon he was congratulating himself. The drover
he had hired had in his charge two milking cows, seven
heifers and a young pony. Besides those, Chapel had
bought and sold five other heifers, making an average
profit of a poimd apiece.

Not bad for a novice !

But business had slackened by one o'clock, and the Bull
Ring was empt3ing. Old Humphreys the Flannel was
puiJing down his stall, but Marrie the Mill still sat at the

54 CHAPEL

edde of her ginger-bread. The fanners were gathering
together their cattle and beginning to depart, and Chapel
determined to go home. He entered the High Street, which
was filled chiefly with horses during a fair, and here again
were the same signs of departure. There was nothing here
that suited him.

But what was this ?

Approaching him from the lower end of the street was
what looked l^e a very fine sample of a cart-horse. The
man leading the horse was exceptionally quick in noticing
Chapel's interest, and he stopped.

" 'Ere ye arre, guv'ner ! " he cried. " Th' virry thing
ye're after."

Very successfully, the short-necked little fellow was
hiding a brogue which had travelled from Erin — success-
fully enough, at all events, to avoid Chapel's detection.

Qiapel stood stroking his chin as he contemplated the
horse. His coat was pleasingly glossy; he appeared to
be soimd in wind and limb; his eyes were bright; his
breathing was gentle ; and his pose eloquent of strength.

" Trot 4m up," said Chapel. " Let's have a look at
him."

The little Lishman who had lost half his brogue was
particularly quiet ; he had an Inkling that horse-dealers of
his nationality were in rather bad odour at Llantrisant
just now.

" From where do 'e come ? '* Chapel was speaking English,
for him a very difficult task at this period.

** Gloucester. Ree-arred in Gloucester."

** I see." Chapel was admiring the horse. " What's
the figure ? "

*' Fifty."

" Wh-e-w ! . . . Give you thirrty ! "

The higgling and the haggling went on imtil the price
fell to thirty-five, and Chapel bought the horse. He was
thinking : " Not bad for a beginner ! "

He was all right : quite all right. It was only foolish
fancy to imagine he was not fit to meet any man, however
hard-headed. See how he had settled Graig, the auctioneer.
And look at the way he had been bargaining with these
paen at the fair ! He was ready to meet the beat of them ;

A MAN'S LIFE 56

he was not a dreamer, but a sane, practical business
man.

Five pounds on those heifers he had abeady sold !
Those animals the drover was driving home for liim \
And this splendid horse he had bought ! Not at all bad
for a novice !

He started homeward, and he had not gone a mile before
he met a farmer interested in milking-cows. They caught
up the drover, and Chapel made four pounds on the two
cows.

On reaching the Windgap, Chapel got Francis to tie up
the horse in the stable, and before going to bed that night,
he went himself and gave it a feed. He was proud of this
horse.

It was at breakfast next morning he received the sugges-
tion that something was amiss. Francis, who had been
out for several hours feeding and milking the cows, awoke
the terror.

In his slow, ponderous fashion Francis, while eating,
said : " Seen that 'orrse this mormin', Mr. Chapal ? "

Chapel started ; something had pierced him. " What's
the matter with him ? " he asked resentfully.

" Don' like the look of *im," Francis answered and went
on eating his porridge.

Without a word Chapel sprang up, viciously kicking
away his chair. Outside the door he began to run, a devilish
foreboding tugging at him; and with every second the
fear leapt into a terrible reality. He untied the halter,
and dragged the horse into the daylight.

" He's tired after yesterday," he muttered, seeking to
cheat himelf . But in his heart he knew.

Francis came out with Betsy following. Francis gave
his verdict at once. " Doctored," he said in his heavy
voice; and Chapel knew that he was right. He might
as well have said : " Thirty-five poimds lost."

Betsy had her eyes on Chapel. His head had dropped
in despair. Slowly, he led the horse back into the stable
and tied it to the manger.

Trying to succeed was only knocking his head against
the same blind, unreasoning rock. Courage oozed out of
bim 4nd be felt himself m a helpless, incapable scrap of

56 CHAPEL

humanity tossed and thrown and buffeted and battered
by relentless Fate.

Of what use to try ?

He leant his arm against the stable wall and on to it sank
his head. In black despair he sobbed racking dry sobs
that violently shook his body.

Why struggle ? Why pit himself against those merciless
forces when he knew he must be beaten ?

Suddenly he raised his head and listened. His mind
was so disturbed that he seemed to have heard the sound
of a low, biting, sarcastic chuckle.

Like a prodded animal, he gnashed his long teeth.

AT THB WINDGAP

The oblong clock on the wall opposite the window in
the kitchen of the Windgap showed six-thirty. To any-
one in the secret it made known another fact : that it
was bathing time.

Had the season been summer, the ticking of the clock
might have said, ** Wait another hour or two," but out-
side, the air had a sharp nip, the wind was rising, trees
were bare and the cows in their shed munched stoli<fiy with
their monotonous crunch — crunch ; all of which proclaimed
the season to be winter and that half -past six was the
time for bathing to-night. The window had been fastened
and the blind drawn long ago ; soon the two doors leading
out of the kitchen would be closed and latched, for no
draughts must enter during the performance of this sacred
rite.

On the hearth a large sheet of clean brown canvas had
been spread, and on its centre a zinc bath stood, with
the saucer holding the soap looking like a tiny dwarf
by the side of a great grey giant. The black kettle sat
majestically athrone on the red fire, and inside it was
beginning to whistle that eternal old enemy of childhood.

Crawling towards the bath on all-fours, with a light of
mischief in his wicked eyes, hastened a young rascal in
whom you would scarcely recognise the innocent morsel
of pink and rosiness of a year ago. His pinafore was
shockingly dirty. Two clean pinafores a day ! — ^you never
saw such a boy. If you took your eyes off him only for a
second, there he was, before you had time to turn round,
on the floor, crawling about and getting himself into *' no
end of a pickle/'

58 CHAPEL

Sach was tbe character given to Master Griffith Giapel
by his ridiculously proud old foster-mother.

He was by this time quite able to walk properly between
the armchair by the fire and the sofa by the window ; he
did it often, boastfully, and after it was done would be
sure to look around for your applause.

Such a knamng child.

Then the task of bathing began, amid much screaming
for the most part, especially when the soap got into Griff's
eyes.

Betsy's attitude towards Qiapel's child showed what a
mass of human nature she was. At certain times she
regarded the boy with a queer, romantic feeling; there
was something iJmost unreal about him. Because he was
one of the Chapels he was of superior flesh, and her affec-
tion for him would change into a mad adoration, to a
kind of perfervid worship. She was bringing up one of
the Chapels. When attacked by thoughts of this nature
she would even go so far as to seek analogies between
herself and the Virgin with the God-Son ; but the simple
woman regarded that as blasphemy, as though blasphemy
could in any way mix itself with the miraculous purity
of the mother-feeling, whatever the conditions.

With the child washed and dressed, Betsy pressed and
hugged him, kissing him and making strange, incoherent
noises.

And then Francis came in.

The Windgap was a small farm — ^too small for the
complete support of the childless family, and during the
appropriate seasons Francis Michael worked for the neigh-
bouring farmers ; his specialities being sheep-shearing and
hedging.

Francis hung his coat behind the door, and as he walked
awkwardly across the room his nailed boots clattered on
the bare stones. Without a word he drew up the Windsor
armchair and sat beside the fire. His wheezy breathing
was plainly to be heard, and now and again his shoulders
shook as he coughed ; but he might have been dumb for
all he spoke, for he looked into the fire and sat quite still,
except when a fit of coughing disturbed him.

Francis continued gazing into the fire, unawarCi it

AT THE WINDGAP 59

would appear, of what went on around him. He was
inclined to be serious in matters of religion ; not ostenta-
tiously so, but pondering much within himself, heavily
and gloomily, wondering whether his soul was saved. It
was a constant puzzle with the man. For weeks he
would regard himself as being secure for eternal glory,
and then all at once one of his sudden bursts of uncon-
trollable temper would demolish the whole structure of
hope, reminding him of his damnation, throwing him back
into moody uncertainty and causing him to start over
again this inward searching and this recurrent puzzling
out of his salvation.

On the other side of the hea.rth now sat Betsy his wife,
rocking the child to sleep and tr3ing to sing in her mascu-
line voice snatches of old Cymric war-songs. She never
had been able to sing much of anything, and in particular
had lullabies been odious to her. But she sang to-night
without any thought of the words oi of their meaning;
her mind was bridging the space between herself and
Francis, and the garb her mind assumed was the old
resentment.

'' Yes ! " Her eyes got hard as she looked at her
husband's not unpleasant face, and as she kept trans-
mitting the rebuke to him. ''Look at this 'ere boy I
got on my lap. An' we 'aven' got one single child of our
own ! " And that reproof contained the wormwood of
dead hopes.

But Francis, completely innocent of any belief in tele-
pathy, sat blissfully ignorant of the turmoil in the poor
woman's embittered fancy.

At length footsteps sounded on the bailey outside the
door, and Betsy stirred herself and raised the boy to
his feet on her lap. " Here's your father comin'," she
told him with a smile, as though he were quite able to
understand.

The door swung back sharply, closed with a slight bang,
and Chapel came in, a massive figure in his thick overcoat.
With brisk steps he crossed the floor and placed his bowler
hat on the table. At its side went his overcoat.

Considerable change had taken place in him during this
l»st year, Betsy hs^ got accustomed to his clean-shaven

60 CHAPEL

face and now saw nothing strange about it. His features
were leaner if anything, and certainly there was a great
deal more smartness about his appearance. Gone were
the breeches and the leather gaiters and the brown coat.
His clothes were better fitting, with a tone about them,
and the suit he wore to-night was of thick grey tweed.

Drawii^ his hand back over his closely cropped fair
hair, he moved agilely towards the hearth with just that
tendency to push forward his taU body.

" Got the supper ready, Betsy ? " he inquired sharply as
he stooped and rubbed his hands before the fire. . . .
'* How's the cough, Francis ? "

" Better to-night, Mr. CShapal,'' Francis slowly answered.
" Better to-night," he repeated, in order to make things
plain. The odd feature about Francis's cough was that it
always seemed to be better without making any appreciable
progress towards improvement.

Gbapel's arrival had broken up the previous tranquillity.
His query whether Betsy had the supper ready was an
oblique command that she should bestir herself, and as
such she understood it, for she inamediately began to
hurry.

'' Catch hold of him," she said to Francis. '' I'll have
it ready in ten minutes," she told Chapel.

Then she saw Chapel take a copy of The Western Mail
from his pocket, turn his back to the Ught, and begin to
read. But the signs were not to be mistaken. He was
hungry; she knew it from his questioning look at the
table ; and Josiah Chapel was not to be counted among
the pleasantest of mortals when he was hungry. That
fact, also, Betsy knew ; so without further waste of time
she took down the bellows and \>lew up the fire to make
the kettle boil.

And the boy grew, and the years passed on ; but these
years of cattle-dealing were chaos for Chapel.

Gradually, the iron entered into his soul, and in painful
disillusion he slowly discovered that life was not the easy
thing he had imagined.

It had not taken him long to discard the breeches and
the leather gaiters and the brown coat, for they were too

AT THE WINDGAP 61

reminiscent of servitude. He visited a tailor at Cardiff
and ordered suits of grey tweed ; and to this material he
adhered throughout his life. The change made him look
more prosperous, and afterwards he took greater pride in
his dress. The alteration in his appearance gave that
impression which the people of Forth and others soon
imbibed —

*' Chapel is prospering. Chapel is getting on."

The clothes seemed to affect the whole man, for he was
now a well-dressed, substantial, neat figure, and as he
went about he was recognised as a man of energy, a man
of virility and of pushfulness. But it was virility of body
and not of mind. The impression he gave to others was
deceptive ; sometimes it deceived even himself.

The balance-sheet of his first year's trading showed a
loss. But he still kept repeating, ** I am going to succeed."
He was new to the life, he told himself, and must expect
to have to pay for experience. By the end of the fourth
year, however, his outlook had assumed a hue much less
rosy. He was now in the thick of it ; his business had
been greatly extended, and often he attended the horse
fairs at Carmarthen, made Journeys into Breconshire and
Monmouth and Hereford; and sometimes he sold fat
cattle to the butchers at Cardiff.

But very little profit seemed to come from it all.

Several times had come the suggestion that he was
much too scrupulous in his dealings, that other dealers
were not so nice in their standards of honesty ; but with
disdain was everything of that kind brushed aside.

The vision of his family's stability became a mockery.

But through all his doubts and losses he made a point
of conveying to others that impression of his prosperity.
His pride of kin forbade him to allow anyone, including
the folk at the Windgap, to see that he was anything but
a splendid success.

He grew more reserved and more reticent.

Bia THINGS

DxTiUNG these fieven years of cattle-dealing and of
terribly chaotic dissatisfaction, Chapel saw himself as the
only one that failed. To his distorted vision everybody
else seemed to be prospering, while it was he alone was
being battered and tossed by Circumstance. And what
filled him with the bitterest discontent of all was the
meteoric, headlong, whirring advance of Graig — Graig
the Builder now. The contrast in their positions rankled
in his mind. Graig the favourite of fortune; Chapel
grovelling in failure. There was never any envy in his
thoughts as he considered Graig, only rampant dissatis-
faction. Graig could do nothing wrong; Chapel could
do nothing right. Everything favoured Graig; Chapel
all things mocked.

Their first meeting after that settling of the sale accounts
had been a strange one, for Graig had wiped the incident
of the twenty pounds out of existence ; it was forgotten ;
it might well have never taken place. Chapel, almost in
the nature of an inspiration, had seen the grim himiour of
it all. Graig in a predicament ? The idea was fantastic ;
the man was unique. As the years passed, an odd sort
of acquaintanceship sprang up between them; a very
close friendship in Graig's opinion.

And Graig had hurled himself into the throbbing heart
of Big Things. The Nonconformist schoolroom proved a
mere dot, just as he once irritably complained. Row upon
row of monotonous looking houses soon began to stand to
his credit as a speculative builder. Year succeeding year,
their number grew, some of them drab, red-brick tMngs,
some evenly ugly in their coats of grey cement.

BIG THINGS 63

" Oceans of coin to lift — ^by the man who knows how to
do it." And he had considered himself the man.

No matter how he shoved them up, up the houses had
to go. No use stopping to think what quaUty of material
to put into them ; round the comer lay another piece of
land waiting hungrily to have another street shoved up.
And always there had been people to buy : thrifty miners
and others, meek folk who invested their savings thus
because house property was safe.

** Plenty of go ! Shovin' up houses like wild-fire."

His life was seething action. He defaced acres of green
fields, covering them in fearful haste with streets of what
he termed, " Workmen's Cottages."

" Big Things, su: ! Big Things."

Chapel went in search of him one day.

Nearly seten years had passed since the sale, and at
this time Chapel had considerable dealings with the pro-
prietors of those coUieries on the southern edge of the
Bhondda Valley ; and it was after one of these interviews
that he sought out Graig.

'' Houses Mr. Graig is building, sir ? First turning on
the right, and straight up."

Everyone seemed to know Graig.

In a new street along the breast of the moimtain Chapel
found him — ^in one of the row of forty houses nearing
completion. He was in the front room on the ground floor
instructing a carpenter how he wanted the skirting fixed.

" Mr. Chapel ! Mr. Chapel ! Glad to see you. How
are you ? " Graig rubbed bis hands together; he was all
gush immediately.

" Thought I'd like to see how you're getting on," ex-
plained cSiapel as he backed into the roadway. '' Goin'
on with these, I can see," he complimented as he looked
along the row.

** Finish um in another month," said Graig, smiling
with pleasure. ** But come roimd. Come roimd an' have
a squint at us."

llien Graig, admirable showman that he was, led Chapel
aroimd. Some of the houses of this row were already
completed. On others tilers were at work, for pieces of
slate occasionally dropped over the eaves and split as

64 CHAPEL

they reached the ground, so that Gralg led Chapel into
the greater safety of the middle of the uneven road. On
others of the houses the roofs looked like skeletons on
which the carpenters were sawing and nailing and patching
together the parts.

" Busy " was the note of the whole scene.

" You're making things buzz, here," Chapel remarked.

Graig smiled at him, and winked imderstandingly.
" The only way of doin' it, Mr. Chapel," he said, in Ids
thin voice full of confidence. "The only way. . . .
British workmen! (Jot to keep yer eye on um, as I
daresay you know. . . . Keepumgoin'; that's the secret."
He tittered, considering that a very fine joke.

They had now got to the top of the row, and had stopped
on the border of the adjacent, open field. They stood,
looking down along the frontage of this masterpiece of
jerry-building. In unbroken perspective ran the lines of
the eaves, of the windows and of the doorways — dead,
monotonous sameness.

Graig was standing astride, cocking his little eye in
admiration at his handiwork. He had done the lot ; had
shoved the bloomin' lot up in no time. His thumbs had
hooked themselves in the armholes of his green fancy waist-
coat, and across the bulging front of the waistcoat, like a
swing, lay his gold watch-chain shining in the sunlight.

" How long have you bin at this lot ? "

" Six mon's, Mr. Chapel," he answered with pride. He
pushed his bowler hat to the back of his head, and then
winked at Chapel. " What d'you think of that ? " With
his elbow he nudged Chapel in his confidential way.
" That's shovin' um up—what ? "

There was a touch of the buck about him, as Chapel
eyed him. He had actually begun putting on flesh; his
cheeks were getting roimder and the small eyes were alight,
as if success had put a spark of the devil into him, CSiapel
thought.

" Marvellous," Chapel commended, glancing again at
the houses.

" Not thinkin' of si)eculatin' a bit in this line ? " Graig
raised his eyebrows, and winked again as he waggishly
put the question.

BIG THINGS 66

" No/' snapped Chapel, looking at Graig and then the
houses. " Wouldn* 'ave um at any price," he said.

Graig laughed outright. " Perhaps you are right, Mr.
Chapel. . . . But come roun' the corner," he invited.
" I'm shovin' up another little lot down here."

They walked together across the field and, turning
abruptly to the left, they came upon the other little lot,
which was not by any means as far advanced as the other.
Fifteen houses on either side of the road they were. The
ones on the left were up to the joists and the open rect-
angular window spaces could be seen ; those on the right
stood about four feet from the ground. If possible, there
was a busier hum of work than before.

" Come in," Graig invited when they reached the office.
** Don' want to excite myself over this job. I got a tip-top
general foreman. Save me a lot of trouble, I can tell you."

The office was one of those movable constructions on
tiny wheels, resembling a hen-house, with floor and sides
of timber and roof of corrugated iron. The inside was in
disorder. A box of tools rested askew against the wall
in front of the door and a number of pickaxes leant in
the far comer. Under the window was a sloping hinged
board, acting as desk, and just now it was covered by a
block plan of the new street. Right in front of the desk
stood a high-legged stool, and on this Chapel was prompted
to sit, while Graig, closing the lid, took the chest of tools.

Then Chapel began to wonder how best to approach
the business which had brought him in quest of Graig.

** Who's doing the hauling for you ? " he asked at last.

"Pugh. Know him?"

" Save a tremendous lot if you did your own hauling,"
Chapel suggested.

Graig \dnked his left eye and curled up one end of his
waxed moustache as he contemplated the idea. He waxed
his moustache now.

'' Ah ! " He winked again and looked calculatingly at
Chapel. "Now I see the point, Mr. Chapel. Want to
sell me some horses — eh? . . . Good idea — good idea.
Well," he sprang up from the box of tools; " I'm full up,
now. . . . Tell you what ! Come roim' in a couple o'
mon's. Say three mon's. And we'll 'ave a chat about it."

66 CHAPEL

" All right/' agreed Chapel. " I'll come an' see you
then."

" Expect the old stockin's gettin' pretty full/' Graig
said with a nudge outside the office. '' Eh ? . . . Always
thought you was a smart young devil."

" Oh, can't complain."

Graig, standing in the doorway of the office, watched
the tall figure in the grey suit step alertly down the street.

'' Doin' all right, I bet," he said to himself as he curled
his moustache.

And Chapel, striding smartly down the street, was
thinking : '' How is it that a man like Graig can be making
money — and here am I — ^well — ^here I am ! "

He had examined his accounts last night, and counting
all moneys due to him as well as the stock on hand he
possessed a matter of six hundred and fifty pounds.
Roughly, a hundred pounds to the good after nearly seven
years.

Why was it ? . . . Why ? . . . Why ?

This was one of those moments when he felt very small.

Graig a glorious success ; Chapel an inglorious failure.

Why was it ? . . . Why ? . . . Why ?

Dismounting from the train at Cross Inn, Chapel, while
giving up his ticket at the gate, was hailed : " Going home,
Mr. (3iapel ? " Turning, he saw a yoimg farmer who lived
a mile along the way to Forth, and for company they
started oflf together.

" Leavin' us, aren't you ? " Chapel asked.

'* Off to Canada ! . . . like to buy a couple o' ricks,
Mr. Chapel?"

** N-o-o. Not in my line o' business."

" Come an' 'ave a look at um. Sell um you. cheap."

They were three haystacks close together in a hollow
in the comer of a field. It was outside Chapel's province
to have anything to do with hay, but the spectacle of
Graig's success was still rankling, and he felt he was bound
to do something, to strike out and risk more than had
been his custom.

Chapel bought the three haystacks for two hundred
pounds.

FAILUBB

About four o'clock, just as the sun was rising over the
Gfurth Mountain two months later, a loud, persistent,
vigorous knocking sounded at the kitchen door and through
every room of the Windgap.

The noise reached Chapel and awoke him. Quickly, he
sat up, puzzling over and trying to make out the clatter.
The knocking continued and he located it. He was on the
point of getting up when the hum of voices sounded through
the wall from the next room. A thump on the floor as of
someone getting out of bed in a hurry I A window shot
up, and then Francis's surly voice was demanding —

** Who's there ? "

" Mr. Chapel at 'ome ? "

Then up came more sounds, from among which Chapel
made out something about " ricks on fire."

That was enough. His spirits sank. He rushed to the
landing and shouted through the door to Francis : '' Tell
him to catch that horse in the little meadow."

Then he ran back into his bedroom to dress. His head
had dropped. His courage had left him. He knew it;
knew it as well as if someone were yelling it in his ears.

Failure ! Failure ! Failure !

But very suddenly his teeth clenched, controlling that
flood of depression overwhelming him. He began to
hasten, taking up his socks, and hustling into his clothes.

"Do something," he kept urging himself. "For the
love of God — do something."

His coat was over his arm as he rushed downstairs ; his
braces were being fastened and his unlaced boots slip-
slapped as he ran in his double to the gate across the yard.

" Blast the man t "

68 CHAPEL

The farm servant who had brought the news was trying
to catch the horse, and the horse was racing around the
field. The fool would never catch him. . . . Still running,
Chapel got back to the stable ; inside was a hunter, a big,
valuable, spirited creature bought for a Cardiff doctor.
Snatching up a bridle from a peg on the wall, he thrust it
over the head of the restless animal, and impatiently he
forced the bit between the reluctant teeth.

He must not think ; he must keep doing something.

" Stand quiet," he shouted at the chestnut thoroughbred.

After some trouble he got the horse out into the yard,
where, exceedingly fresh, it pawed and jumped, tugging
at the rein in Chapel's hand. Shutting his fist, he struck
the horse a violent blow between the nostrils.

** Stand quiet, you devil," he yelled.

Then Francis appeared, half dbressed, shufiOdng his way
from the kitchen door; and behind him, with a shawl
thrown over her capacious figure to hide all deficiencies,
waddled Betsy.

Chapel turned to them. " Beach that knife," he said
curtly to Betsy. ** Give me a leg," he ordered Francis.
• ** Better for you to put a curbin* bit on him," Francis
advised.

** I'll currb the devil without that. . . . Now give me
that knife," he called to Betsy.

" 'Tisn' safe to carry a ^life on a horrse like that,"
argued Betsy.

**Dam' you," Chapel replied to her. **How much
longer have I got to stay here 1 "

"Here, iVancis," Betsy said to her husband; and
iVancis very carefully approached and handed up the
hayknife.

" Now go 'n' open that gate," ordered Chapel, setting the
knife across the crook of his arm. But before Francis
could go five yards. Chapel had dug his heels into the horse's
side ; and the chestnut, given his head at last, shot forward
like an arrow.

Betsy threw up her arms and cried out. In horrified
fascination she watched the creature rush straight at the
five-bar gate, spring, clear it, land safely on the other side,
and settle down into a tearing gallop across the field to

FAILURE 69

the main road. That was a second which Betsy would
never forget : when the sunlight had played on the four
tips tucked under the horse's belly as it cleared the gate,
and on the broad steel blade of the hayknife under Chapers
arm.

" There's somethin' goin' to happen to him," she said
to Francis in terror. ** 'E's mad."

She had seen that hard, sparkling glint in Chapel's eyes.
Anything might happen.

The horse tore along as though a legion of devils possessed
him. He cut the wind with that lusty onrush of a strong
thoroughbred in excellent condition. Both he and his
rider might have been coursing determinedly to destruction.
Both were maddened, both were without reason, both
were frantic. Both seemed alike in their desires : to rush
madly forward ; such were their humours ; their tempers
were in complete agreement.

Frightened, conquered and frenzied, but now allowed to
go, the horse went as a tornado, and Chapel, sure-seated
on the bare back, had the vision of three ricks burning
in his mind, had a cold feeling of depression as a
weight on his diaphragm ; and he cared not at all in what
manner they went. He wanted to reach those burning
ricks.

The bright, smiling brilliance of the morning sun athwart
a cloudless sky was a ghoulish mockery.

" Get on, you brute," he yelled at the horse.

Failure ! failure! Failure !

That was the tune played by the horse's hoofs on the
hard road.

" Get on, you devil ! "

Failure ! Failure ! Failure !

The horse's hoofs were mocking him.

But what did it matter ? What did anything matter ?
What if he did get his neck broken? All the struggle
would be at an end then. Failure would have finished
tossing him about.

It did not matter a damn if he did get his neck broken.
He began to laugh mirthlessly. Failure would have finished
tossing him about. Fate would be cheated. Ha ! ha !
Fate would be cheated.

70 CHAPEL

The value of life had gone from his reckoning. The
worst thing that could happen to him was to be killed. He
laughed in mockery. To lose his life, and die ! To die I

And what was this mighty, awe-inspiring death ? This
wonderful death — what was it ? This soul religious people
made such a fuss about — what was it ? What was it worth ?
What was life itself worth ?

" Get on," he shouted, cursing.

Nature didn't care, so why should he ? Was anything
important enough for him to care ?

Up another hill they rushed, roaring along at topmost
speed.

He was being crushed and bruised; failure was con-
suming him ; Fate was mutilating him. What if he did
get his neck broken ? Did anything really matter ?

The scene broke upon him suddenly. Prom the brow
of a hill he saw it. Two hundred yards below, in the
hollow in the angle of two hedges, the ricks were afire.
But no hay was visible. Volumes of dense smoke, caught
by the wind and rolled and driven along the ground, were
all that he could see. As they galloped nearer, at intervals
of a few seconds tongues of white flames leapt up and then
disappeared to hide themselves in the thick black smoke.

A pitiless, discouragingly vivid summary of his life !
He could not help but think of it : Failure consuming
ever3iihing.

But he was getting nearer now, and he shifted the hay-
knife so that it balanced better across the crpok of his arm,
and then he shook himself into readiness for the leap over
the next gate. Slowly slackening the rein, he urged the
horse forward ; his knees were closing and tightening over
its shoulders. .

Horse and rider had sprung; they were in the air,
when

The horse's hoof struck the unyielding timber. An
instant's sensation of shooting violently through space !
A sickening crunching in his head ! And that was all
Chapel remembered.

Weird sounds in the distance — approaching out of the
darkness as Chapel returned to consciousness.

FAILURE 71

** Feelin* all right now ? " Someone was supporting
him in a sitting posture.

" Where V* He was glancing around in a stupid

manner. '' The ricks ! " he said, in a dazed way, trying
to stand. " Help me up a minute.** He was churlish, for
physical pain was new to him, and there was an excruciating
pain on the left side of his head.

" Seen it all, *zactly *ow it 'appened.** The same voice
was speaking, and when he looked he saw a man dressed
as a farm labourer with an arm about him. ** Standin*
by the ricks, I was. Lucky you didn' 'ave your brains
knocked out. See that stone ? Yer head was only a yard
oflf it. . . . Nothin* broke ? '* he asked encouragingly.

" Shoulder a bit stiff,** Chapel answered morosely.
"And my head*s bad.'* He began to move. "Let*s
have a look at that horse. I'm all right now,*' he added,
shaking himself free from the arm that helped him.

They went back the few yards between them and the
gate, where the horse lay. Its head rested flat on the
ground; its sides rose and fell, inflated and contracted
with hurried timid breathing; its chestnut coat was
dank and the foam was drying around its mouth. At
their approach it raised its head a little and looked at
them with a touchingly mute appeal in those large eyes
which had such a short time ago flashed and flamed so
spiritedly.

'' The right un,** Chapel's companion cried^ pointing to
the stream of blood flowing from a gash above the hoof.
Chapel stooped, and when he raised the leg, the hoof
dangled helplessly. He turned his head and asked in a
shakbig voice : " Got a gun at your place ? "

" Not goin* to shoot him, are yer ? A valuable animal
like that I **

** Go *n* fetch it, you dam* fool. Ever seen a horse with
a bone broken by there, any good after ? "

Then Chapel picked up the hayknife and walked wearily
towards the ricks. He flung off his coat, rolled up his
shirt-sleeves and plunged forward with the knife. Surely,
some of the hay could be saved ! Surely, he was not to
lose it all ! The fartJiest rick, the one right in the comer,
was not burning quite so fiercely as the others. But there

72 CHAPEL

was this pain in his head, blinding him, devitalising him.
Only in a muddled way was he able even to walk.

He tore down some of the fence, improvising a kind of
ladder to take him to the sloping roof. And there, on his
knees, the handle of the knife in his hands, he commenced
to cut. But he could not use the knife. It was too heavy
for him. That fall had sapped out all his strength.

He must get down and stand by and watch the cruel
burning of the hay.

" Might as well give in ! . . . What's the use to fight ?
What's the good to hope ? "

He got down from the rick, clinging to the poles lest he
should fall ; and then, dragging himself beyond the pale
of the heat, he sat down on the grass, his elbows on his
thighs, his head between his hands. He was crying like
a child ; the tears were streaming down his face. He felt
old, and weak, and timid, like an aged man at the end of
his journey, beaten by life.

" This is the end of it all ; the very end."

life was so awfully hard, so remorseless, so unpitying,
so bitter. It did not seem to matter how much he tried,
or how hard he worked, because everjrwhere and always a
Fate seemed to follow him, destroying what little success
he gained.

Seven long, dull years — and hardly a joy !

Seven pitiless years, devoid of all gladness !

And on the top of them this last blow : three ricks and
a horse lost in one day !

It was not fair ; it was not right.

Suddenly, he raised his head to look at the fierce flames
and the belching smoke. . . . Long ago he had rebelled
because Gwen had been taken away from him

And he toould rebel again.

Was there any Fate strong enough to subdue him ? It
might bruise him ; might even crush him — but subdue ?
Never.

He urged himself to be calm. ** Not yet. Not now ! "
His head was aching too much ; he was too dazed to think
properly. " But wait a bit. Wait till the old strength
comes back I " He must take things quietly until this pain
went : until he had things clear in his head.

xni

THE TOP DOG

At six o'clock Chapel was back at the Windgap, and,
after washing his hands and face, he went into the kitchen
and ate the breakfast Betsy had ready. Betsy sat eyeing
him as he sat at the table, for she had noticed he had re-
turned without the horse. She wanted to question him
about the ricks, but from experience she knew she daren't.
The scowl on his face told her she had better not speak to
him. When breakfast was over, she watched him rise
imsteadily from the chair and press his hand to his head.

Immediately, she was at his side. " Anything the
matter. Chapel ? " she asked coaxingly, a hand on his
arm.

" No." He rebuffed her. " I'm going to bed. Where's
that bottle of brandy ? "

Betsy still watched. He was taking the bottle and the
glass upstairs and she did not like the look of things.
Still, she was helpless unless he chose to speak to her.

" Don't call me," he said from the door.

Upstairs, he quickly undressed and got into bed. ** Sleep,
sleep," he told himself. " Ought to do me good," he thought
when a lot of the brandy had been drunk.

It was nearing twelve o'clock when he awoke and took
his watch from under the pillow. Almost the first things
to catch his eye were the bottle and the glass on the little
table at the head of the bed. He felt better ; much better.
There was but a very slight ache in his head, perhaps
partly due to the brandy. His shoulder was still painfiil,
but that did not matter, for a shoulder could not stop his
thinking.

" It's done me good," he thought about the brandy.

He gazed at the wooden bedpost between him and the

74 CHAPEL

open window. Outside, the sun was shining, and the notes
of a blackbird reached him. A slight breeze was blowing,
flattering the small blind. The room was spotless accord-
ing to Betsy's custom, and the white sheets of the bed had
a pleasing smell of wholesomeness.

Now for those ideas at the back of his head !

Fate never fought on the square, so why should a man ?
Nature did not care. Why should a man ?

All this was so inordinately simple, and yet he had taken
seven years to learn. Only this morning had he really
got hold of the idea of the unscrupulousness of life. While
riding to the ricks he had also discovered how worthless
life was. Everything wa49 now so simple To succeed,
he must risk, and the bigger the risk he was prepared to
take the greater would be his success. Death was nothing ;
he was no longer afraid of it. For the success he desired
he was prepared, if needs be, to throw his very life into the
gamble.

He sprang out of bed and dressed. It was surprising
how the world had changed now that he had nothing in it
to fear.

Down in the kitchen Betsy greeted him. " Mr. Graig
was here lookin' forr you this momin'."

"Who?"

" Graig the builder.'*

** Graig ? " Chapel asked in astonishment. ** What did
he want ? ''

" I don* know. I told him you wasn' at home. You
said not to call you."

What could Graig want with him? Perhaps about
those horses. It would be queer if the luck was begin-
ning to turn already! But in three months Graig had
said, and only two had passed. Perha'pa the luck tvds
turning I

Before Chapel left the house, Betsy got the clothes-brush
and brushed his bowler hat and then the grey tweed
suit he was wearing. He winced when she touched
his left shoulder, but he tightened his mouth and said
nothing.

** There's somethin' the matter with your shoulder,
Josiah," Betsy cried, quick to observe.

THE TOP DOG 75

He turned, snapping at her. *' Who told you there's
anything the matter with it ? "

** But there is," Betsy insisted.

He ahnost shouted at her. '* There's not, you inter-
fering woman."

He caught the one o'clock train at Cross Inn.

His mood was an ugly one, and his view of life also was
ugly. The determination to win, whatever the cost, had
gripped every one of his senses ; it obsessed him and made
him impervious to all other influences. He narrowed down
life imtii it meant nothing more than the hidden, continual
struggle of Man and Nature. Certainly there were beauti-
ful things in the world ; none knew them better than he.
But if a man was to succeed, beauty must be uprooted and
cast away as a thing that sapped and weakened. Beauty
could not live side by side with a determination to succeed,
whatever the cost.

To succeed in this hard world a man needed nerves of
unfeeling iron ; an organism too sensitive and responding
to the slightest rebufiF made him useless.

He must change himself into the Bruiser.

No more dreams ; no more weakening, romantic beauties
that made a fool of him.

Glorious man the Bruiser !

** I'm one of the top dogs," he growled to himself in
consuming plecusure, mastering and assimilating this new
philosophy as he stood at the bottom of the new street of
thirty houses. " I've got the secret."

He abruptly stopped, taken by weird surprise.

What struck him was the stillness, the weighty silence
everjrwhere; the deathlike silence.

Two months ago this street had been filled with a noisy,
vigorous hum of work. Lines of masons had stood along
the walls; labourers unending had hurried with bricks
and mortar in the monkeys on their backs; carts had
passed up and down; and here to his left the mortar-
p€ui had thimdered. The blows of hammers, the tinkle
of trowels, the noise of the springless carts, the jingle of
harness, the shouts of human voices — all these had created
a ceaseless buzzing.

?• CHAPEL

And to-day all was silent; there was no single sound,
no sign of a living thing anywhere.

" Kiere's something infernally wrong about the place/*
he told himself, as he observed that very little had been
done to the thirty houses since he had been here two
months ago.

But he had made a mistake in thinking the street for-
saken, for half-way up the smell of strong tobacco-smoke
filled his nostrils, and, looking round, he saw through the
window-opening of one of the houses two men with their
elbows resting on the sill.

" Mr. Graig about ? " he called to them.

There was no reply for a moment; then one of them
took his pipe from his mouth and pointed it to the direction
of the office.

Chapel went on ; but the door of the office was locked ;
Graig was not there. The window was shuttered.

" It can't be ! " Chapel cast oflf the suggestion. Such
a thing was impossible.

Turrdng, he walked swiftly down the road to the house
in which he had seen the two men, and, without seeming to
notice them, he strode through the passage into the kitchen.

" *Ere, guv'ner ! What you up to ? " One of the men
was in the doorway behind him, but Chapel stooped and
picked up an iron window-weight.

'* I want one of these," he said.

" Then yer cam't 'ave it."

Chapel looked across in surprise and saw that the second
fellow had come along. A fine pair they were, one with
cauliflower ears and the other with a broken nose.

" Mr. Graig is a friend of mine," Chapel suggested.

" Don' make no diff'runce."

" Put it down an* go away quiet," advised the second
man, being of a gentler disposition.

Chapel saw the wisdom of such counsel and dropped the
weight.

It was incredible. Graig in financial difficulties. Graig
was a bankrupt or very soon would be. It was incredible.
And yet, anyone could see these two men were bum-
bailiff's men.

Still, it was impossible to believe. In the face of the

THE TOP DOG 77

success of two months ago, Graig could never have
smashed ?

At any rate, it was better not to nurture too many hopes
of selling horses to Graig.

Chapel tossed his head in disgust. And he had thought
that perhaps the luck had turned ! What a simpleton he
was ! What a childish fool he had always been !

He had thought thai perhaps the luck had turned !

XIV

PABTNEBSHIP

That same evening Chapel set out from the Windgap
to search for Graig at his home.

The knocker in his hand struck the door a great deal
louder than it need have done.

" He's here somewhere,'* said the maid, who opened
the door.

Chapel went inside and noticed the tiled pattern of the
floor of the hall, the broad staircase and the passage running
away to the back ; and after being shown through a door
on the left he foimd himself in one of the high-ceilinged
front rooms, looking out through the lace curtains of the
bay window on to the roadway.

Then he glanced around, most unsympathetically.

The room had too evangelical an appearance to suit
his temper; the atmosphere of the place rubbed him
the wrong way. There was a Bible on the centre of the
elliptical mahogany table; against the wall opposite the
fireplace stood an American organ with a h3ann-book
open upon it; here and there on the red paper of the
walls hung prints of photographs of divines; and there
was another print

Graig the jerry-builder's house ! Graig who scamped
houses ! And all for the glory of God, it would appear.

Chapel sat in the armchair on the hearth and looked
around.

But what could Graig want with him ? That was more
important than the gospelly atmosphere of this room.
What could Graig want with him ?

Then Graig came in, quickly and fussily opening and
closing the door. Chapel smartly turned in the chair
and closely studied him before he had time to speak.

PARTNERSHIP 79

Thejresult gave him a slight shook, for it was so difiFerent
from what he had expected. Chape] could see no change
in him. His small eyes moved about as quickly as ever,
and the shifty movements of his slight body had always
been his peculiarity. Graig seemed to be as composed as
ever he had been.

'' How's tricks, Mr. Chapel ? " He was boisterous as
he came energetically around the table.

Chapel made straight for business. " Betsy said you
were down there this morning, looking for me."

** So I was; so I was."

** Hope youVe made up your mind to go in for those
horses ! "

" Well — ^no. Have something to drink," he hurriedly
invited.

When Graig returned there followed him the maid
carrying a tray, and after her master had shifted the
family Bible a little out of the way, she placed the tray
on the table.

" Move roimd a bit. Chapel," said Graig.

Then, with the bottle, glasses and jug between them,
they sat facing each other across the elliptical mahogany
table.

** How's bizz 1 " Graig asked, pouring some water.

A vision of flames and smoke and a crippled horse
danced before Chapel's eyes for a moment. " Fine," he
answered. ** How things with you ? "

" That's in^hat I wanted to talk to you about."

" Oh ! " Chapel exclaimed.

** No," Graig went on. " I can't say things *ave bin
goin' so bright as I should like to see um. ... As you
know. Chapel," he explained, making a flattering appeal
to the other's worldliness, '' these bad times will come
along, do what you will."

" Of course," agreed Chapel. " Things going wrong
with you, then ? "

" Wrong ? " echoed Graig. " I should jus* think they
are. I can't do anything right. I'd like to go an' sleep
an* not wake up for a whole bloomin' year. . . . That's
what I want to talk about," he added, more seriously.
He leant further forward over the table, and by now his

80 CHAPEL

tone had become very confidential indeed. ** You are a
man of the world, Chapel. You 'ave got the head for a
difficulty. An' since we've bin such friends — ^bosom
friends, I was goin' to say — ^well, I want to ask your
advice about thkigs. ... As I said : You've got jus' the
sort of head to puzzle out things."

" Never mind my head," Chapel retorted crossly. All
he knew about his hecul was that it had started aching
most abominably again. But he spoke more gently:
" What advice d'you want ? Nothin' the matter with
your business, is there ? "

** You've hit the nail on the very head, Chapel."

Then commenced Graig's recital.

For the last two years he had been losing money hand
over fist; in what manner or for what reason waa not
explained very clearly, or so it seemed to Chapel. The
row of forty houses had been a bold attempt, almost a
gamble, to ease matters ; and they had proved insufficient.

" A white elephant, Chapel. A bloomin' fiasco ! "

He lost money on them; he lost oceans of money on
them. In fact, he had not the money to pay for the
material used on them. That was the reason creditors
were pressing; they were pressing so hard that they
would not supply him with any more stuff.

" An* you know what them builders' merchants are.
Chapel ! If you owe one of the rotten tribe anything, all
the bloomin' lot of um seem to know about it."

" Well, what d'you want me to do ? " asked Chapel
across the mahogany table. " What d'you want to see
me for ? "

" Look here. Chapel ! It's like this — " Graig raised
his hand for his companion's attention — ** I'm approaching
you as a friend — a friend, remember, Mr. Chapel. I'm
giving you the first chance," he said magnanimously.

" First chance ? " Chapel was staring at him. " First
chance for what ? "

Graig regarded him with a pitying look. ** To come in,
Mr. Chapel," he explained, pleasantly. " To put some of
your money in these houses, and take a share of the profits,
don't you see ? "

As he glanced at him. Chapel thought : '' We're a

PARTNERSHIP 81

smart pair." Two months ago he had regarded Graig
as a terrific success, while all the time he had been in
difficulties. And now Graig was regarding him as a
terrific success ! And Graig, after aU that had passed
between them, expected him to extricate him out of his
difficulties.

Nevertheless, Chapel asked : ** How much would you
want ? "

" We'd want three thousand pounds," said Graig, trying
his best to make the amoimt sound very small.

" Three thousand pounds ! " cried Chapel in conster-
nation.

And the next instant his mind seemed to change into a
seething, bubbling mass, wherein four things were a fer-
ment. He glanced over Graig's shoulder and saw the
four lines of music on the open hymn-book on the American
organ, and those four lines seemed to stand for the four
sensations racing across his brain

There was the pain, which was agonising : Three thou-
sand pounds were wanted : Graig was an unscrupulous
rogue : And that bottom line of the music stood for a
mad, presumptuous idea.

The pain had got worse, and was blinding him and
making him vicious. Savagely, he screwed his chair
around. With all his strength he pressed his clenched
fists into the sides of his head; and there, doubled up,
he rocked his huge body, smothering the tormenting
pain.

Graig sprang to his feet and stood helplessly watching
Chapel.

At the end of five minutes the pain had subsided, and
slowly Chapel raised his head and addressed Graig apolo-
getically : "I had a throw off a horse this morning. I
hit my head and it's pretty bad. Let's have another glass
of whisky. It'U be aU right then."

Graig took up the bottle, looking very much relieved.
** I couldn't make you out," he said. " Tell you the
truth — ^thought you was goin' off yer head. ... I'd go'n'
see a doctor if I was you," he advised.

Chapel drank the whisky and got up. *' No good talking
to me to-night, Graig," he said. " My head's too bad.
o

82 CHAPEL

I couldn' follow you." But within himself he knew that
it was time, and nothing more, he wanted to think over
this mad, presumptuous idea. " I've got to go to CardiflE
to-morrow," he explained, bending for his hat on the
table. '* Gome down to the Windgap the night after, and
then we'll talk about things."

DISIIXnSION

Gbaio ran Jauntily down the steps in front of his house.
It was a week later and the sun had just gone out of sight
over the Milog. He was on his way to the Windgap to
keep his second appointment with Giapel. The first had
taken place five days ago, when all the clouds had been
dispersed and when young Chapel had promised to find
the three thousand pounds and come into partnership.
It would be an exceflent arrangement, for Chapel would
supply the money, and Graig his vast experience and
knowledge as a builder. ... So what was the use of
worrying ? Chapel was finding the coin, and the building
of that new street would go on like anything.

Gbaio a3SJ> Chapel — Btjildbes. . . . That would make
an uncommonly fine sign if nicely designed. *' Graig and
Chapel. That's it ! "

Lord ! What a partnership it would be ! Chapel had
a thundering good head for business, or he would never
have been able to save that three thousand. . . . Chapel's
organising power and Graig's initiative !

Nothing in the world to touch such a combination ! It
would have in it the very elements to demand success.
In a few years they would have made their fortunes.

Graig rubbed his hands together, chuckled and hurried
through the village towards the Windgap.

" Sit down, Graig."

Chapel was already in the parlour awaiting him, and
as they had done before, they sat facing each other across
the table. Betsy's parlour was a very ordinary little
room with china ornaments, antimacassars on the chairs
and oilcloth on the floor.

''I was jus' thinkin', comin' along," remarked Graig

84 CHAPEL

as he sat down and placed his hat on the table, ** what a
rattling good pair we'll make together in business."

** Oh, you were, were you ? " asked Chapel strangely.

Graig had not troubled to study Chapel very closely,
for he always had been rather deficient in his ability to
estimate human nature ; but had he looked to-night, he
would have seen a face set unusually firm as though in
some odd way resenting the whole idea of existence. The
whole man appeared more than usually clean, if that were
possible. What Betsy had once termed the **grey-
houndish leanness " of his face was more than ever apparent.
Giapel had about him that compact neatness of strength ;
the dark p^rey suit, the white collar and the black tie, the
white front and wrist-bands of his shirt, the fair hair
closely cropped.

** I was jus' thinkin*," Graig ran on from the other
side of the table, ** there's a fortune in houses up the
valley. A bloomin' fortune." His little eyes were alight
as he contemplated it. ** An' now we're goin' in double
harness — did you hear that. Chapel ? Double harness ! "
He tittered and curled his scanty moustache. *' There's
no knowing where we'll stop."

Chapel eyed him. " No," he agreed sardonically.

Graig sprang to his feet in his enthusiasm. '' It makes
my blood jump to think of it, Chapel." He paced to
and fro across the hearth for a while, muttering to him-
self, and then he came to rest and leant against the mantel-
shelf, his thumbs stuck in the armholes of his brown fancy
waistcoat.

" You'd better come an' sit down agen," Chapel sug-
gested, " for us to have this business over." As he spoke,
he picked up one of the account books from the pile on
the table, and from the inside took out a sheet of paper
on which he had previously written.

Graig came and sat down. " Had a look over um ? "
he asked, referring to the account books.

Chapel nodded. ** An' what I can make of it all, I've
got it on this paper."

" Three thousand's the right figure, ain't it ? "

" Yes." •

** And you've got the coin ? "

DISILLUSION 86

" Yes."

" Then everything's all right." Graig rubbed his hands
together, leant over the table and smiled in complete
satisfaction.

** Now listen," Chapel continued in his bass voice, and
consulting the paper in his hand. **That row of forty
houses, first ! . . . You want two thousand pounds to
clear 'em off your hands. . . . That right ? "

" Quite right, Mr. Chapel," smiled Graig.

"Now for the new houses. . . . You had a loan of
four hundred pounds, and paid it for labour. . . . That
right ? "

** Quite. Quite right, Mr. Chapel."

" So that if I give you two thousand four hundred "

"There'll only be the money owing to them dam'
sharks, them Cardiff merchants, for the stuff I've had
for the new street. Never knew you had such a head for
figures, Chai)el ! "

" Now then ! " Chapel placed the sheet on the table
and contemplated Graig. " How is all this potch goin'
to be straightened out ? "

** Why ! " Graig tucked down his chin to show his
amusement, and then his thin voice revealed the sim-
plicity of the problem. ** You've got the gilt, and we're
goin' to be partners, of course ! "

Chapel was very deliberate when he proceeded. ** We'd
better have a look at that forty houses agen. You
want two thousand pounds to be clear. Well, then, I'll
lend you the money on this house you've got down here."

" Len' me ? ... On my 'ouse ? " Graig was staring
at Chapel stupidly.

** And I'll take the new street off yer hands altogether
and pay the four hundred you had a loan of. But that's

only You listening? That's only if you come and

work on the job as a foreman for three pounds a week."

Graig was glaring, dumbfounded. " W-what are you ? "
he stammered. ** W-what the hell are you talkin' about ? "

Chapel repeated his offer, holding Graig's glance across
the table. "Mortgage on your house foi^two thousand
pounds, and I'll take everything off your hands and give
you a job worth three pounds a week."

86 CHAPEL

Oraig snatched at his hat. *' I'll be damned if I will/'
he cried,' in a screaming rage.

CSiapel slowly rose to his feet and poshed the account
books to their owner. " Then you can go and be damned,"
he answered grimly.

XVI

THB BUILDER

The day was one in early spring ; just the kind of day
to arouse confidence in one's own abilities, and hope for
the future.

At the bottom of the new street stood Chapel, surveying
it all in one long, comprehensive glance, as though he
wished to fix in his mind an indelible photograph. The
place was a hive again, throbbing and pulsating with
life — ^with a noisy, vigorous, glorious buzz of work. After
that previous quiet of the grave the street seemed like
a thing electrified, like a dead body reanimated, like a
railway station — ^asleep overnight, and now snorting with
the birth of the morning.

Here, quite near to Chapel, the mortar-pan revolved,
its rollers clattering and clanging, in a hurry to crush
lime and ashes into that liquidy solid which labourers
wheeled in their barrows to the busy masons at the top.
Here, also, a few of the houses were tenanted, for white
curtains and blinds covered the windows, and, providing
play for a sportive breeze, smoke curled up from the
chimneys.

Things were moving, absolutely moving, as Graig would
once have said.

A crooked smile crossed Chapel's lips at this thought,
and, as he commenced walking up the street, he ^ew
that here, at last, he had found his element : in the manage-
ment of men. Those years of cattle-dealing were already
in the background as parts of a nasty nightmare. Here
in this street of thirty houses, alive with men, there was
something tangible to do, something his mind could
grapple with, something that gave scope to his instinctive
masterfulness.

88 CHAPEL

On that night of Oraig's admission of his insolvency,
he had pleaded an aching head as an excuse. '* No good
talking to me to-night," he had said ; " I couldn't follow
you; my head's too bad." And all the while he had
known that what he had wanted just then was time to
look around and study that mad idea. ** I've got to go
to Cardiff to-morrow," was another thing he had said.
Of his visit to Cardiff he had taken full advantage.
Primarily, his intention had been to transact certain
business in connection with selling fat cattle to one of
his butcher customers, but the mad idea had changed all
that, and most of his time had been spent with his cousin,
David Chapel the barrister.

''I'll lend you the money, right enough," David had
said, turning his head in that swift, jerky way peculiar
to him. '' Don't you think, though, it's a bit risky having
anything to do with a fellow like this Graig t "

For answer, Josiah had expounded his new religion :
'' The man who risks most, succeeds most." And David
had smiled, thinking that at last the decaying side of the
family had been reanimated.

" But come round," he had suggested, ** and I'll
introduce you to a firm of good solicitors. You'll want
them," he explained meaningly as they went together into
St. Mary Street. Beside the broad doorway he pointed
to the brass plate. *' Llewellyn and Macdonald. Not
a bad mixture for a firm of lawyers," he hinted by way
of a joke.

Really, there had been nothing else for Graig to do but
accept Chapel's offer. Certainly, he had gone off in a
terrible rage. The crash to his (beams had been so sudden.
He was hurled from sublimity into hell unprepared.
''I'm damned if I will," he had screamed. And the
only consolation he had got was an impartial **Then you
can go and be damned."

But with the grey light of the next dawn, that sober
period that reduces everything to the common denominator
of disillusioned reality, Graig knew quite well that unless
he did accept he uxyuld be damned. The Bankruptcy
Court, the sale of everything, the destitution of his family ;

THE BUILDER 89

these were the stages the grey light of dawn vividly pictured.
And here was the obverse, the other picture, the alterna-
tive : the mortgaging of his house — ^not the selling, and
the safe berth of three pounds a week. Better temporise,
better compromise ; better anything than extinction.

The firm of Llewellyn and Macdonald had attended to
the rest.

And just as Graig had prophesied, Chapel had been
the organising power and Graig the initiative. During
these months Qiapel had been to school; but all the
while it had been Qiapel the Master and Graig the General
Foreman.

And that reminded him

Chapel went smartly up to the office where Graig was
sitting on the high stool in front of the sloping desk.
Lnmediately he entered, Graig got up and stood aside,
waiting without a word. Considerable change had taken
place in Graig of late, for a great deal of his lustre had
fallen away from him, and his little eyes were not as
impudent as they had been; the sprightliness of his
appearance had vanished; his moustache, although he
stiU waxed the ends, somehow did not have the same dash.

Chapel picked up a bundle of papers from the desk.
** Finished them ? " he asked.

Graig nodded his head, and murmured, ** M'm."

Between them, they had been engaged for th^ last week
in evolving a tender for a street of houses a local Building
Club was erecting, and all this morning Graig had been
occupied with plans, price lists and specifications.

" Well — what d'you make of it ? " Chapel returned
the papers to the desk and turned to look at Graig.

** Two hundred and twenty-five a house ought to be a
good price," Graig opined.

** Bit high, isn' it? What d'you say to two hundred
and twenty ? "

" Ought to be a pretty good price."

"All right. Now go *n' have a look at those tilers.
They're not going on fast enough. I'll look after this
lot. When d'you say it's got to be in ? "

" Day after to-morrow," Graig replied, as he obediently
hurried out.

XVII

LOYALTY

It must have been a week later, early morning while the
men were hanging about waiting for the six o'clock whistle
to blow. At the side of the mortar-pan two labourers
stood discussing, among other things, the events of the
previous evening.

" Tawk abaht "

" Look out. Here's the boss a-comin' ! "

And sure enough, rounding the comer in the trap which
daily carried him &om the Windgap to his work, Chapel
appeared.

" Aye, an' by Gawd," returned the other " Look

flamin' slick," he warned in a whisper; ***e's lookin' as
black as 'ell."

And they did look slick ; their coats flew off, and in
a second their shovels were in their hands, busy at
nothing.

" As black as the very devil 'is face is," — when Chapel
had passed. " We're in for a day of it, mate. 'E's got
one of 'is days on, 'e 'ave. . . . 'Oly Moses ! An' after
a night like larst. . . . O Gawd ! "

One of the boss's days was by this time quite familiar
to his workmen. They often discussed it, and, sometimes
among strangers, were apt to boast about it. They read
of its arrival on his face in the morning. It meant a day,
not of work, but of slavery. It meant that every one at
his command, be he skilled or unskilled, would for that
particular day have to increase his labour output or walk
to the office and close his account. All day long the masons
would have to build in a feverish hurry, the tilers would
have to hammer like those legendary elves, and the labourers
would have to keep moving continually on a trot ; until,

LOYALTY »1

at evening, when the five o'clock whistle blew, every one
would be weary and limp and dog-tired. They had learnt
to recognise the morning signs by now : the dark over-
clouded face, a danger-signal warning of that temper and
universal enmity which lay but half concealed. Such
were the outward signs, while in reality it was all due to
the recurrence of those pains shooting through ChapeFs
head. He had days of that kind occasionally ; repetitions
they were of that day of the burning ricks when he had
been thrown off the chestnut. During these days his energy
seemed extra-human, prodigious ; he tore around abusing
everybody ; he spared no-one, not even himself.

This particular day commenced in the office where
Graig sat on the stool checking the time-book.

" Groing to sit there all yer life, like a monkey on a
stick?"

A score of times did he walk around the " job " that
morning : around the masons inquiring of them the reason
he paid them wages; on to the scaffolds demanding of
the plasterers whether they would like him to engage a few
more of their rotten kin to help them waste his time ; on
to the roof with the tantalising question as to whether the
tilers were waiting for the next winter's rains to come and
soak through the building. But he was most talented
with the navvies excavating and la3dng drains in the back
gardens, for he spoke to them in their own tongue, so ex-
pertly and proficiently that even the ganger listened in
envy. Most of them that morning got threatened with
what they mildly termed " the bloody sack " ; only every
one of them knew that the fiicker of an eyeUd in the wrong
direction would bring into play that devil lurking behind
those overhanging brows. And these rough fellows had
got to respect this big muscular chap who treated them
just as he liked. His days became something to boast
about, something to wonder at and discuss; and. very
philosophically they agreed that considering all things in
true proportion the boss's temper enlivened matters and
saved life from getting too monotonous.

But at twelve o'clock the whole street seemed to heave
a sigh of relief. Furtively, they watched one of the labour-
ers harnessing the pony and putting him into the trap.

92 CHAPEL

They watched Chapel drive away, and, as though in pre-
concerted action, every man of them straightened his
back and breathed more freely.

At dinner, over their bread-and-cheese and tea, or beer,
they luridly discussed the most suitable destination for
scarlet slave-drivers.

At two o'clock, however, the high tension suddenly
returned. They did not watch him now ; they only heard
his trap drive tearingly up the uneven road. In front of
the office he viciously puUed up the pony and sprang to
the ground.

" Here," he bawled to a labourer. ** Look after this
horse. . . . And you," he shouted to another; "go 'n'
fetch Graig. I want him.'*

Then he stamped into the office. A pickaxe, reclining
against the wall, he picked up and hurled into the road-
way ; the lid of the tool box in front of the door he banged
with his heel to keep it closed.

" m kill him," he was muttering; " I'll kill the little
swine."

His eyes were flashing in temper and his teeth were
tight in well-nigh uncontrollable passion. As he paced
the confined floor of the office, the whole of his huge body
seemed to be shaking. Coming back, he kicked the stool
out of his way and banged his fist on the desk until the
little shed rattled. Then he stamped to and fro again
across the floor, like a caged animal, growling. His hands
were clenched and his shoulders hunched.

** I'll smash the little swine. I'll smash him."

Then Graig came in, and Chapel tried hard to control
himself. Graig stood a moment on the threshold with
the light behind him.

" Shut that door," Chapel bellowed.

But before Graig could stir, Chapel had rushed at him,
striking him in the mouth with his clenched fist, and the
next instant he was after him, picking him up, and throw-
ing him into the office. But the one blow had brought
back Chapel's scattered senses and his self-control.

He put Graig to stand on the off side of the desk and
then picked up the stool.

LOYALTY 93

** I want to talk to you," he said, not trusting himself
to look at him. " And if you say one single word — ^by
God, I think I'U kiU you ! »

Graig was shaking with Mght; his nerves had been
unhinged all the morning and now he looked a sorry plight ;
for his clothes were covered with dust, and down over
his chin from a cut on his Up a thin stream of blood
trickled.

Chapel's face as he bent over the table for a moment
was distorted ; his hands gripped the sides of the sloping
boards. He had been mad with anger before, and now
he resented the self-control which forbade his dealing with
the scamp as his trickery deserved. He spoke after a
while, turning with scorn to the shrinking Graig.

" I've just been talking to the Secretary of that Building
Club. They opened all the tenders last night."

" I — ^I — ^I " Graig began to stammer in defence

at once.

" What d'you call yerself ? " Chapel's Ups curled in
scorn. " You knew I was sending in two hundred and
twenty a house, and you, like the rotten Uttle swine you
are, go 'n' put in a price at two hundred and ten !
Thought you'd have a last kick, I suppose ? " Chapel was
now the bruiser, the top dog, the holder of the great secret.
** Well, you've had it," he said. " You've had your last
kick. Now you'd better go," he suggested with a sUght
movement of his thumb towards the door. " I'll want you
agen in about half-an-hour. I haven't made up my mind
what to do with you yet."

Chapel remained seated on the stool, his elbows on the
desk and his head pressed between his hands. He was
calmer now, and his mood dropped into serener control.
Bis mind was clear enough, in spite of the pain, for him
to revive the past and draw a hurried sketch of it all so
that he might see whither he was going.

The downfall of the last two generations of his family,
the awakening and the challenge, the selling of his posses-
sions, those disheartening cattle-dealing years of whose
terrible hardships the doctored horse and the burning
ricks formed only two examples. And all his fall had been

94 CHAPEL

the fault of his own ignorance of the real facts of life. But
ever since then — ever since the burning of the ricks, every-
thing had changed. And all because he had taken life
by the throat, because he had become the bruiser. Till
the maiming of the chestnut, for a run of sixty years, it
had been a monotonous, unvarying descent downhill ; but
now, since the discovery of life's unscrupulousness, he had
been mounting, gloriously mounting. And now he had
begun to mount, now that he had the secret, now that
he had the compelling grip on success, there came this
shuffling, spying little swine tr3ang to stop the progress,
trying to

'* Then crush him," something seemed to infuse into
his being. " Finish him once for ever."

The determination came at last. *' I'll smash him.
m tread on him."

He had started to climb ; he had defied God Almighty ;
and was anyone in the world going to

" Mr. Chapel ! "

The sound of a low, weak, pathetic voice fell on his
ears — ^from the doorway of the office. It startled him
and he jerked up his head and looked.

What he saw surprised him. A slight young woman,
scarcely more than a girl, was leaning against the frame
of the door. In her arms she carried a child wrapped
Welsh fashion in a large shawl. Her face was exceedkigly
pale, her eyes red from much weeping. Her slim, diminu-
tive body seemed to have reached the last point of endur-
ance, for even as Chapel watched he saw her lean more
heavily against the door-post.

** What d'you want ? " he asked her resentfully.

She took a step over the threshold, wearily raising
her foot, and she would have fallen had she not clutched
at the door-frame.

** Don't you know me, Mr. Chapel ? " Her voice was
loaded with doubt and meekness, and her eyes, fast filling
with tears, pleaded so pitifully. " Don't you remember
me — ^in Penlan ? "

Chapel regarded her again, more closely, more inter-
estedly, and the next instant he had leapt from the

LOYALTY 96

stool, and his tall figure was crossing the floor towards
her.

" You — ^you're not Jane ? " he cried unbelievingly.

And at that second there flew across his mind a flash
of memory, a streak, and yet so vivid. He was back in
Penlan on a certain Sunday night ; and that little scene
brought back the surrounding atmosphere, just as a line
will bring back the whole context of a poem. That brief
scene revived the year of happiness ; he remembered the
light-heartedness ^ he saw Jane as the little chatterbox
with her hair up for the first time.

She was still looking up at him, doubtful of the charac-
ter of her reception. " I thought you would help me,
Mr. Chapel," she said tremblingly. " That's ijdiy I've
come."

There was no need for explanation here ; the baby was
sufficient. No need to repeat the old story of feminine
trust and disillusion. She was looking up at him, as though
she knew that here at last she had found someone to lean
upon. The gruffness fell away from Chapel. He remem-
bered her previous loyalty — ^that day at the Windgap
when she had come to say good-bye. " I don't want to
leave you," she had sobbed. The loyalty of the little
thing ! The loyalty ! In her trouble, in her shame — she
had come to JUm !

He had put his big hands on her thin arms and was
leading her to a seat on the box in front of the door. Then
her child began to cry, and Chapel went bstck to the stool
and watched the pair of them. He saw the shawl being
unwound, the mother opening her blouse ; then a glimpse
of a full breast, the nipple with its circle of beautiful deep
red ; the rosy greedy little mouth. And then he listened
to the sucking of the healthy child. And the young
mother's eyes — that light shining, in spite of everything,
shining through her tears !

And this recalled another picture : a bedroom in Penlan ;
Gwen suckling her baby; and the baby's nose dug into
the white yielding breast.

The story came at last ; all except that part which God
has written since the beginning of humanity. Shunned,

96 CHAPEL

oast out— «vcn at home. All the world against her. . . .
And she had come to JUm / . . . The loyalty of the little
thing !

All the world against her — ^the brutal world. Did not
he understand that feeling? Crushed by Circumstance,
tossed by Fate, mutilated by Destiny. Hadn't he expe-
rienced the bitterness ? . . . That was how he had been.
And she had come to him !

" I knew you would help me, Mr. Chapel."

Who else in the whole world would have thought that
of him ? The trust-of the little thing !

** There, don't you cry ! " He was bending over her
and her child, comforting her. ** Don't you cry. I'll
look aiter you. VU find a home for you." She was so
young, so small, so helpless against the cruel world.

And with that his mood swiftly changed again. A
solution to the last hour's questioning had been thrust
upon him. But he was still gentle towards Jane, for he
helped her put the large shawl about her baby ; he even
took out his handkerchief and wiped her eyes, into which
a wan smile had already found its way. And then he led
her outside and lifted her into the trap.

" Walk the pony down a bit," he said, as though he
were tired. ** And you ! " His voice snapped as he turned
to the second labourer. " Go 'n' look for Graig."

Graig came, casting timid eyes from the ground! to
Chapel, and from Chapel to the office door, and keeping
at a distance in fear of another blow.

" I want that two thousand pounds I lent you on your
house." Chapel's voice and face were hard; he was the
bruiser now.

Graig stared up with dull eyes Ughtened with awe. " I —
I — 'aven' got it, Mr. Chapel. ... I 'aven' got the money,"
he wildly expostulated.

"Then you'd better sell the place." Cold, merciless
advice.

" It wouldn't fetch two thousand — an' I haven' got
another farthing. . . . Give me another chance, Mr.
Chapel! I "

Chapel looked him up and down, as though remembering

LOYALTY 97

the blustering mountebank in contrast to this shaking,

drivelling wreck.

** Then you'd better clear out." He turned to go down

the street after the trap. ** I want the house."
He had made that crushed little thing a promise :
** ril look aiter you. Fll find a home for you."

BOOK II

THE SON

GRIFF

Fob the first eight years of his life Chapel's son, GrifE,
lived at the Windgap under the easy and unexacting care
of Betsy Michael.

The change from the Windgap to the new houde was a
large event in Griff's life, and, like all other events, it
brought in its train certain disadvantages. Some of
the rude boisterousness of his manners had to disappear,
for Jane's domestic rule was sterner and more stringent
than Betsy's. Jane had notions about wiping your boots
and taking off your cap before going into the house ; she
was very particular about the proper way of holding a
knife and fork, and she had quite a lot to say about the
behaviour of gentlemen and about tidiness. But for
all this more exacting private life, there still remained
the fact that Griff now lived in the biggest house in
the village — the biggest in the neighbourhood except
Wem.

And so, as the following four years passed. Griff grew
up somewhat of a heathen at heart, yet possessing the
ability to behave very nicely were he that way disposed.
Like the majority of healthy boys, he had two distinct
sides to his nature. Times were when he could appear very
demure and very innocent, as though ** butter wouldn't
melt in his mouth " ; and this side was chiefly uppermost
at home where he was always obedient, never giving much
trouble, and where he was usually very well behaved.

GRIPP 99

The people of the village, however, possessed a better and
a more intimate knowledge of what might be termed
Griff's out-of-door manners ; and the current opinion of
him was : '* If there is any mischief anywhere, you may
depend that boy of Chapel's is in it — somewhere ! "

When twelve years old Griff was sent away from home
— ^to Llandovery College ; and on the afternoon previous
to his departure he was on the road to the Windgap to
say good-bye to Betsy.

He was a strong boy without the least suggestion of
heavinesss, and as he went through the village he walked
lightly with a spring in his heels which had probably
been cop^d from his father. The blue jersey and the
knickers he wore set off his sturdiness, while the crooked
smile and the sparkle in his eyes suggested the mischief
of which he W€kS so often accused. Judging from present
appearances, he would never grow as tall nor es broad
€ks his father, but somehow, in the compactness of his
build, in the alertness of his movements, in the shape of
his jaw, you found traces of a grim, determined old stock.
Of one fact you felt immediately sure : that this lad had
in his possession something his father had never owned,
and that was a very keen, active sense of humour. Just
now, as he went through the village with a spring in his
heels. Griff had a towel slung around his neck, like a great
muffler, and the presence of the towel gave an example
of his out-of-door manners, for to obtain it he had been
obliged to sink to subterfuge in order to elude Jane and
the maid. Hence the crooked smile and the sparkle as he
rounded the comer by the Farmer's.

*' Done um," he kept muttering to himself in glee.

Griff had been reduced to trickery to get the towel
because of Jane's objection to swimming. Ho tossed his
head as he went along, tossed his head at women's ideas
of roughness. Griff was not supposed to play football
because it was so rough ; and he must not swim lest he
should catch cold.

" Muck," he told himself as he thought of these ob-
jections. '* Muck."

That was Griff's way of describing sentiment, or slop-
piness, or — anything of that description.

100 CHAPEL

*' Done um," he whispered to himself again in pleasure,
thinking how lie had got the towel without Jane's or the
maid's seeing him.

Just to express his delight, Griff threw his cap into the
air, jigged a step or two, and caught the cap as it fell. He
ran his fingers through his hair ; rather long, brown, curly
hair. " like a bally girl's," he w€ks used to say. And that
was another thing : Jane never wished him to have his
hair cut short, because it looked so pretty as it was,
she said. Pretty/ But — ^here the crooked smile came
back — it was better not to upset Jane too much or he
might lose his good character at home. It paid to let
her consider him incapable of anything very bad, for
matters ran a great deal more smoothly as they were.

But to-morrow he was going away, and he would very
soon have these " silly bally curls " off. Griff smiled softly
and began to run. He ran at a tearing pace down the lane
towards Penlan, and then along the bank of the brook
towards the Windgap ; but half-way down, at that sharp
turn in the stream where the trees overshadowed the deep
pool, he stopped.

It was a hot day, and the sun w€ks shining and throwing
a network of shadows on the still water. As Griff un-
dressed under a tree, he watched the play of the quivering
reflections of the leaves on the mirror-like surface of the
brook ; and a few minutes later as he stood naked on the
bank waiting to cool and as his eyes followed the move-
ments of a hungry trout down below, he wiped the per-
spiration from his forehead with his forearm.

And even as he stood on the bank, gazing down at the
clear water, noting the brooding darkness of its depth,
watching the reflections of the leaves shivering, one of
his odds moods suddenly possessed him.

*' I'm afraid to go in," he told himself. *' I'm afraid of
the water. I might get drowned. And it's cold. . . .
I'm afraid." His body began to shiver, and in imagination
he felt the water creeping through his flesh and freezing
his bones ; and as a result of this iciness his teeth began to
chatter, and he told himself again : *' I'm afraid to jump
in." He pressed his elbows into his sides and made his
whole body shake.

GRIFF ::.; ':\J ';;: 101

*' 'Fraid are you, young Grifl? 'i he a«k«4-bMnsel£Mi the
deepest sympathy. •.- /-\ :, J :' •. ' :"•*. : *•: : .*• ,

For the instant he might have been two separate boys :
the young innocent Griff who had first toddled to school
some seven years ago, and the big, burly bully of twelve.
He loved this pretence, loved it so dearly that almost
could you see the terror on the younger Griff's face. He
loved to imagine himself afraid; but it was always the
smaller Griff who was timid. And then he loved to
awaken, to find himself in reality bold and fearless.

" Aye, I'm afraid," the younger Griff was answering.
*' Don't jump in," he whispered to the big bully. *' Oo-
o-o! It'll be cold ! "

The bigger Griff's lip, however, had begun to curl in
dry, merciless amusement.

*' Shut yer teeth, see, young Griff." There was a great
delight in thus torturing the younger boy. *' Lift yer
hands over yer head and put them together. Now
then "

Then a plunge from the bank and Griff was gambolling
in ten feet of water like a young animal lost in physical
ple€ksure. The other boys of the village said of him, " He
can swim like a fish, aye ! " And to watch him now was
to imagine that he belonged to some amphibious species,
and that the water, as much as the land, was his home.
For he dived, pretending he was a young salmon; he
dipped down till he was out of sight, playing at being
drowned; he trod water, thinking himself a graceful
swan ; he lay on his back and floated, imagining himself
a plank ; he drew up his knees and revolved, like a giddy
tub in a whirlpool ; he kicked his legs and splashed, until
he made a noise like a paddle-steamer; and then he
struck out, breast-stroke and side-stroke, just €ks though
he were swimming from Calais to Dover.

And soon he was on the bank again, rubbing himself
with the towel until his flesh was pink, and when he sat
under the tree and laced his boots he turned to the younger
Griff within himself and asked with a wink : *' What do
you think of that, young Griff ? "

But the little toddling boy of flve answered not a
word ; he only smiled, and had he been of real flesh and

102 :;. . ; ;. chapel

blood .hie.eya^ would ha v^. lit up with pride as though
they.^re9Q•((axklg:inaadilt^]»tlon at a wonderful miraculous
elder brother.

Griff arrived at the Windgap with the towel round his
neck and a smile on his lips ; his face was ruddy, and his
hair was gloriously dishevelled.

BETSY

Betsy was waiting for Griff, had been eagerly waiting
all the afternoon, wondering at his tardiness ; and now
and again she ambled out of the kitchen, over the oil-
cloth of the little parlour with the china ornaments and
the antimacassars, through the front door and across the
rough paving stones, until she stood on the edge of the
brook shading her eyes and peering to see whether he was
coming.

Betsy was excited to-day, excited in the sense that her
nerves were all queerly a-flutter. Wherever was the boy ?
Nothing could have happened — ^no, no. Her aged eyes,
with sight still perfect except for very close work such as
darning and stitching, contracted €ks she moved her head
from side to side, the straight lines of her vision dodging,
as it were, in and out the tree trunks along the bank. But
why was he so late in coming ? She put her hand to her
ear, but there was only the occasional tweet of a bird, or
the burr of the stream, or the soft whisper of the breeze
through the trees overhead. Why didn't he come ?

Betsy was as impatient and as full of fancies as a girl
waiting for her sweetheart.

Better go into the house to take up some of her work to
occupy her thoughts and energies ; but she had changed
her clothes and anything dirty was impossible.

Betsy had changed her clothes, and all because Griff
was coming. Had she followed her usual routine, she
would have been carrying pails of water from the brook
ready for the cattle in the morning : but Griff was coming.
Whatever could be keeping the boy so long ? She smoothed
the front of her dark flannel bodice, the one she had
washed last week ; then she felt whether the silver brooch

103

104 CHAPEL

wa43 in position on her broad chest — ^the brooch fastening
the white silk kerchief around her neck; and when the
starched white apron had been given a flip she limped to
the back door to see if he were coming from that direction.
You never could tell where he would spring from — ^the
little precious ! Yes, her little boy, whatever anyone
else chose to say. It was she had brought him up. The
first years of a person's life were the most important —
the first eight years in particular.

It was she had brought up Griff.

But — here was the bitterness, the unjust bitterness —
after eight years he had been taken away from her.

Betsy was now sixty-two, but the last twelve years
seemed not to have altered her very perceptibly. She
was more coarse, perhaps, and in the village she was
increasing her reputation as a woman with a '* tongue,"
but she still looked quite as strong, reminding one of a
horse, so tireless and so vigorous. Her eyes were still
keen and bright, although the lines on her face had
deepened, particularly around the mouth, hardening her
expression. Her hair was getting white. She never
wore stays, because the steels got broken and pinched her,
and so her body was still broad and shapeless, while her
huge chest, with her voice and her manners and her thick
full neck, seemed to unsex her. Looking at her, you
got the impression that she would live for ever, that death
would be afraid of her, and that she would never die.

Back in the kitchen, Betsy pulled up the Windsor
armchair and sat down. When she cleaned the cow-house,
carried pails of water from the brook, or dominated
meek old Francis her husband, she was a coarse, untu-
tored, disappointed old woman; but immediately she
began to think of Griff she became a foolish old creature,
all heart and sighs and tears.

And now, filling the armchair, gazing with unseeing
eyes into the red fire, she thought and pondered.

When she was forty she had left the service of the
Chapels to marry Francis; but she would not have
married him had it not been for the great child-hunger in
her nature. She would have preferred remaining at
Penlan were it not for that reproach haunting her like

BETSY 106

an evil spirit, for ever assailing her self-esteem as a
woman.

Then the awful disappointment.

And then Griff had come.

Before Griff came she used to tell God that He was
hard and cruel, treating her unfairly; but afterwards
she told Him He was good and kind and bountiful. And
all because He had sent her Griff.

The hardness, the disappointment, the sourness —
they all disappeared like a scowl does before a fit of
laughter. Almost better than having a child of her own,
she was bringing up the youngest of the Chapels, that
family she had always adored. It was like Mary with
Jesus Christ. And Betsy had been happy : the volu-
minous mother-soul of her was satisfied beyond all
dreams. How she had listened to the tiny darling's
chatter and talked to him in his baby language, teaching
him and plainly pronouncing words so that he might
repeat ! How she had watched him grow up — begin to
go to school — and how she had delighted in watching his
attempts to imitate his father and be a Man !

And then Griff had been taken away.

But his old foster-mother had not let him go without
a fight. Her faculties bristled even now at the recol-
lection, and she stirred in her chair and clenched her thick
brown hands.

Betsy remembered so well that day Chapel had come
home earlier than usual, bringing that young woman
with him in the trap — ^that girl Jane. She remembered it
all so well, as if it had happened yesterday, and she could
picture it all this very instant if she but closed her eyes.
She could see Chapel, big and fine-looking, coming in
through the door leading a very young woman by the
arm — a young woman who seemed to have been crying
a lot, and who was carrying a baby in a big plaid shawl ;
she could see him at this very moment bringing her in
and taking her to this armchair, arranging the red
cushion and telling her in tones Betsy had not heard
from him for many, many years —

** There now, my dear, don't you cry any more. I'm
going to look after you."

106 CHAPEL

And then he had turned to Betsy and said : '' She's
going to stay here a week or two."

And Betsy had understood at once and had sympathised.
The poor little thing was in her trouble, in her shame,
and Josiah W€kS one of the old Chapels, a gentleman that
would not let the world tread on a ruined girl who had
once been in the family. But immediately Betsy heard
of the arrangements for the future, that Chapel had in
some mysterious way got hold of Graig the Builder's
house, that Jane W€kS to be housekeeper there, and that
GrifE was going as well, her attitude had completely
changed.

" What ? " She had turned on Chapel. " You're not
goin' to let a girl like that — a girl without a character —
bring up your boy, are you ? "

In reply Chapel's eyes had danced with that nasty devil
in them. ** You bad woman," he had told her, causing
her to be afraid of him. '' I'm looking after that little
thing, and if anybody has got a word to say against
her, I'm sorry for him."

But the most merciless cut of all had been when he
had turned on her and said : " You're jealous of the
little thing. She's young and got a child — and you
haven't."

And Betsy had writhed, even as she writhed this
afternoon in the armchair, knowing that what Chapel had
said was true.

But there were sounds reaching her ; somebody whist-
ling; somebody

Betsy snatched up the comer of her apron, hurriedly
wiped her eyes, and began to chuckle until the whole
of her shapeless body shook.

Ill

A GREAT MAN OFF TO SCHOOL

" Hullo, old sport ! "

GriflE was coining in boisterously through the doorway,
the towel around ida neck, a smile lighting up his face, hia
step alert and the brown hair around his cap gloriously
untidy. And Betsy, hurrying forward with her limping
gait and beaming face, was making as if to take an affection-
ate hold of him ; but Griff, by means of a side-step, adroitly
eluded her. Then he threw the cap and the towel on the
table and with an air of possession seated himself in the
Windsor armchair.

Betsy ambled after him, helping him to sit, as one might
say, unable to control herself. But she must scold him
for being late ; indeed she must.

" Where 'ave you bin, boy ? " Her voice was as mascu-
line as ever as she spoke quickly. " Where 'ave you bin ? "
Then her tones began to trail as she looked proudly at
him. " I bin waitin' for you for hours." But her manner
now said how glad she was he had come, and her
broad hand was busy stroking his rebellious hair into
order.

" I was late in starting, Betsy," Griff told her in his
full boyish voice — ^in the manner of a grown-up man,
Betsy thought. And then he glanced out through the
small window deep in the wall — the little precious.

" You bin in the water agen," Betsy rebuked, so ridicu-
lously proud.

" You must do something to keep yerself cool this
weather." Griff's eyes swept the table and then gazed
towards the fire — exactly as his father's eyes might have
done.

Betsy understood immediately. " To be sure ! " She

107

108 CHAPEL

bestirred herself. ** You arre wantin' somethin' to eat,
my little pet. You wait you now. We'll 'ave tea ready
pretty quick, I can tell you." She was at once his slave ;
the kettle was filled and put on the fire, and with mysterious
movements a plate of something was placed in the oven to
warm. Betsy forgot all about the other certain person
who laid claims to having brought up this boy, forgot
everything except that he was here alone with her — ^no-one
but themselves, just as they used to be previous to four
years ago. The cap and the towel, in a twink, were hanging
on the nail behind the door.

" You mus'n' eat too much now, must you ? You'll be
'avin' dinner at 'ome before long."

" Oh, I don' know ! " — ^with a dry smile. " All depends
what you got to eat."

Betsy put up her finger and looked secretive. " You
wait you now. I got somethin' nice in the oven ; somethin'
special for you."

The table was laid, laid for one of the Chapels ; the best
tea-service was brought and the table became a study in
white. Never was table laid with such pride ; no, not even
for a king.

" Now then, my little sweet ! Come on. Look ! I got
the tea ready." And then she helped him to sit down, as
though he were still the infant. " Here's somethin' you
will like." She had brought the plate from the oven.
" You like um, don't you ? " Her face was covered with
smiles.

From the pile of pancakes, so neatly rolled, she picked
up one with a fork and deposited it on GriflE's plate. The
little precious was very fond of pancakes; they were his
favourite sweet, and Betsy was of the opinion that she had
no equal in pancake-making. At least, she felt certain
she could make them better than could Chapel's house-
keeper.

Both were at the table, GriflE at the head and Betsy
round the comer on his left. And the boy, hungry
after the swimming, was eating with relish the buttered
pancakes.

Old Betsy was a jolly good sort, although she was such

A GREAT MAN OFF TO SCHOOL 109

a funny beggar. She was different from Jane, because she
never made a fuss about things and always let a chap do as
he liked. Even when she had her hair off, you only had
to wink at her and ask her what she was getting ratty
about, and you got round her in no time. The worst of
her was that she always wanted to be kissing you, or
squeezing you, or calling you " little sugar — ^little precious,"
or some muck like that. She knew how to make pancakes,
though. Lumme ! These were a bit of all right. . . .
Griff dug his fork into the diminishing pile and brought
another pancake to his plate.

** So you're goin' off to-morrow," Betsy said at last,
looking at him across the comer of the table very much
as though she were predicting a death in the family. She
took a long sip at her tea, and as she replaced the cup in
the saucer she sighed audibly.

" Aye." Griff's mouth was full. Too full, Jane would
have said.

"Llandovery?"

" Aye." Griff pronounced it Ah-yee.

** Long way, i'n*t it ? " — with another sigh.

" Change at Cardiff, an' then Llanelly. V^ry long way
from here/' Old Betsy's pancakes were ripping.

"Big school, i'n't it?"

" Oh, aye ! One of the best." His indifference showed
that pancakes were more important just now.

Then Betsy grew ruminative, and her brows drew
together as though she were collecting her thoughts. Her
manner showed she had given this subject a great deal of
attention.

** People that go far from home to school — ^they are good
scholars, i'n't they ? "

" Of course." Griff had not really looked at the question
from this point of view.

But Betsy was approaching her mission, and her glance
became coi^dential. It was strange to listen to this old
woman talking to the boy of twelve on an equality, but so
it was, as though they were both the same age. Betsy
had grown deadly serious. She had one hand on the table
beside Griff's plate, while the other was touching the silver

110 CHAPEL

brooch on her chest, and her great body leant forward
towards GrifiF.

'' Let me see now ! I bin askin' a lot about this Llan-
dovery College. Some very big men have come from
there, Griff/' she said as if prophesying his fate.

" Well, you see " Griff began very grandly.

'' The Vicar was in that school, Griff; and your Uncle
David was there too. And look what big men they are !
The Vicar savin' people's souls, and your uncle savin'
people from gettin' hanged and things like that ! Youll
be growin' up a big man, Griff," she told him with a tinge
of awe in her voice ; " a big scholar."

Griff moved uneasily. " Oh, aye ! " he agreed.

But Betsy was deep in old dreams.

" Your family 'ave always bin big men. Look at your
father now, worth his thousands. C^e of the biggest men
in the place. There's only one bigger than him, an' that
oughtn't to be. Your family was the very biggest in this
place for 'undreds and dundreds of years."

Betsy was now the unreasonable, fanatical worshipper
of a family whose traditions were in her bones; the soft
light of sentiment had gone from her eyes ; for the moment
her thoughts had dug among the ruins of an old stock,
until her feelings had hardened. She was now tiiie same
Betsy who talked straight, her heart aflame for tiiie Chapels.

"Mind you, your father have done a lot to bring it
back; but now. Griff, you are goin' farr away to school,
and you got to come back an' be a great man. Your
old family must be the biggest of all." She shook her
head energetically and tightened her lips. " Mind you
that now ! "

There was a fire in Betsy's eyes as she spoke ; there was
spirit in her harsh masculine voice ; and her coarse features
were almost fine as this love of her patron family got hold
of her. Griff had stopped eating; he was staring at her,
wonderingly, his brown eyes open. Here was a side of
Betsy he had never quite grasped before, for the " funny
old beggar " in her had vanished.

" I 'ave told you scores of times that Wem used to
belong to your family. You know why you haven't got

A GREAT MAN OFF TO SCHOOL 111

it now, 'cause I told you. Every time I do see that man,
Hughes the agent, I do think to myself 'tisn' right. But
ever since I did hear you was goin' to Llandovery College,
I bin saying to myself : * Only wait till Griff 'ave growed
up ! ' . . . There — ^there, now. I didn' mean to tell you
about all this to-day; but indeed to goodness there you,
I couldn' help it. I was in your family twenty-five years.
But mind you. Griff ! Mind you, now — " her finger was
shaking at him — " when you have growed up, you got
to be a bigger man than Hughes the agent."

Betsy took up the comer of her apron and wiped her
eyes, while the boy opposite sat watching her in amaze-
ment. She had stirred his imagination. At first he had
been inclined to think she was talking her usual muck, but
Betsy's enthusiasm had taken hold of him, and something
within him had been moved. It was a sign that his usual
cocksureness had not revealed itself.
* Their parting was a subdued one, and for the first time
for many years Griff felt no reluctance, no hurt to his
boyishness, in allowing Betsy to kiss him.

He was unusually thoughtful as he walked homeward
along the bank of the brook. The towel was across his
arm, his hair had been brushed before leaving the Windgap,
and there was not so much swagger in his carriage. Betsy
had stirred his mind, and he was seriously wondering
whether anyone could be a great man while having but
a scanty knowledge of such subjects as Geography and
History and Grammar. He would like to be a great
man ; in fact, he had always intended being one. He had
made up his mind he was going to be one; but exactly
what kind of a great man he had never been able to
decide.

There are such broad varieties of greatness.

And now, here was Betsy of all people saying he must
become a Great Man. Well, he was going to be ; he had
made up his mind he was going to be, and it was useless
saying anything more about it. But bigger than Hughes
the agent? An enormous task. That was what Betsy
had said. Lumme ! Bigger than Hughes the agent !

" What d'you think of that, young Griff 1 "

112 CHAPEL

But the little chap somewhere within him seemed to
understand; indeed, he seemed to have solved the whole
problem.

" Shut yer teeth, see ! That's all you got to do. And
pretend you're a little bit afraid — only you're not afraid
real, see ? It's only like fighting, or jumping in the pond.
But you got to shut yer teeth — ^tight."

But greater and more important than Hughes the
agent? More important than the man to whom all the
boys of the village touched their caps? All the boys
except GriflE, that is, for he never touched his cap to any-
one but the schoolmaster, and to him because the act was
dictated by exigencies of policy. Griff was independent.

He passed Penlan with these thoughts in his mind, and,
emerging from the lane into the road and turning to the
village, he espied coming leisurely in his direction two
figures of people he immediately recognised.

As far as Griff could tell from a distance of a hundred
yards they were chatting together amicably and freely as
they came along, the taller figure bending her head to
look down into the face of her companion clinging to her
arm. They were Hughes the agent's daughter and her
governess. They came nearer, the young woman of over
twenty and the child of ten, talking and sometimes laughing
merrily as they approached.

And in a second the enormity of the task Betsy had set
him bore down upon Griff.

All black stocldngs and fair hair this girl appeared to
be ; but even the black stockings enhanced the impression
of her superiority. And the yellow hair — Griff considered
it yellow — ^lifted her abnormally above other girls. She
came near enough for Griff to see her clothes, and here
again was the same sense of superiority. It was not
exactly in the material from which the clothes were made ;
it was something altogether beyond Griff's artistic develop-
ment to understand.

But she was only a baUy girl.

Griff had very little experience of girls; they were no
use at all in fighting or poaching or football; they were
soft-fleshed things ready to blubber; it was wrong even

A GREAT MAN OFF TO SCHOOL 113

to hit a girl ; and only boys fond of jack-stones or touch
or games of that sort ever played with girls.

This kid was only a bally girl. This Uttle kid with the
yellow hair and the black stockings. So as she passed,
Griff looked down upon her condescendingly, just as a boy
fond of football and fighting would upon a kid with long
black stockings — ^a boy, that is, who possessed Griff's
self-assurance. And as he looked at her, cheekily holding
her glance as she went by, he might well have been saying
with a perky toss of his head : " Oh, Fm Griff Chapel.
That's who / am."

Now this girl with the yellow hair was quite ilnaccus-
tomed to meeting any of the village children with glances
stronger than her own ; usually, she was passed with shy
looks, just as a girl from a large house should be passed,
and so, naturally, this boy in a blue jersey was a horrid
boy ; and horrid boys have an instinctive knack of robbing
ladylike girls of all their good manners, causing them
to be like other children — ^inclined to vindictiveness when
annoyed.

And Griff, hurrying on, felt a temptation to look back
and watch the daughter of the man whose greatness Betsy
had said he must surpass.

" You're a rotten Uttle kid," he said quite resentfully,
aiming his remark at the yellow hair cut in a straight line
across her shoulder-blades. " That house you are living
in ought to be ours."

It was at this instant the deplorable thing happened.

The young lady lost control of her conduct, for she
turned her head to look after that nasty, horrid boy. And
when she discovered that he, too, had tinned to look bcK^k,
her manners were totally wrecked. She put out her tongue
and made faces at him.

Griff seemed to leap in his skin. For a second he was
paralysed with the shock of the unexpected. Then, as
with a burst, his senses returned to him, and he whispered
hoarsely to himself —

" WeU-I-go-to-heU ! "

Griff was not altogether above a remark of this nature ;
but these were extenuating circumstances, and there was
I

114 CHAPEL

excuse far him. The oocasioa was unprecedented, and the
words were forced out of him«

" What dyoa think of that, yoong Griff! " he asked
as he neared the Fannys, laying special emi^iasis cm
that.

But ibe younger Griff seemed not in the least disturbed.

ODD OLD STICK

DiNNBR-TiMB at Garth was approaching.

Once, the house had been known as Oarth View, because
it faced the mountain of that name; but View had
savoured too strongly of villadom; it resembled far too
closely the type of name given to those terrible jerry-built
houses up the valley, and so Chapel had changed the place
to simple Oarth.

Griff was in the scullery dutifully washing his hands and
face, his father was upstairs in the bathroom, and Jane
was in what she called the Back Room. Griff rubbed his
face vigorously with the towel, and after drawing the
sleeves of his jersey over his wrists and brushing his hair
in front of the glass beside the back door, he went into
the hall, through the first door on the left, and entered
the Back Boom where Jane was preparing the table for
dinner.

The air of this room seemed to be filled with an odour of
bees-wax, and anyone not initiated would surely have
slipped on the brown linoleum with the brick pattern, so
glossy it was. There was plenty of room for moving about,
for the room looked somewhat bare, although amply
furnished. The dining-table, half-a-dozen small chairs of
a Queen Anne style, and a low oak sideboard were the chief
articles of furniture. The grate was empty, but the bars
shone black and fresh ; and touching the heavy curb was
the black rug. It would have been useless looking for
specks on the high ceiling, even above the hanging lamp,
for it was spotless.

And here was the instigator of all this orderliness and
tidiness bending this instant over the table as she arranged
the cruet and the glasses.

115

lie CHAPEL

*' The tnmk's gone, then, Griff/' she said when Griff
came in.

She was dressed in black, a young, neat, slender figure.
Her dark hair was parted down the centre, brushed as flat
and as uncompromising as it would go, and fastened in a
bunch low on the nape of her neck. Around the top of
the collar of her black bodice a fringe of white showed
against her throat, and covering the front of her skirt was
a small white apron whose strings made a starched bow at
the Imck of her waist.

*' Oh, yes." Griff was more polite here than at the
Windgap.

" I expect they'll give you a chest of drawers, or some-
thing, to put your clothes in." Her voice was low, as if
its inclination was to be habitually sad. '* I like that navy-
blue suit, don't you ? "

And here was a new impression of her as she smiled.
Her face, usually, was not so easily read ; it was as a rule
a mask hiding what lay below. There was the uniform
paleness ; not an tmhealthy paleness, for her skin was clear.
Here, it appeared, was a woman who knew. There was a
deep-rooted understanding beneath her eyes, and just at
that point the mystery of her came in : the mixed sugges-
tion of sympathy and hardness intermingling. And when
you learnt her age — she was but twenty-seven — and saw
the thready lines under her eyes, you began to wonder
whether her experience of the world could possibly have
been sufficient to warrant that dominant note of seriousness
in her manner. She seemed an odd compound of two
ingredients : an uncertainty and a distrust of life on the
one hand; and the housewife, expert and efficient, on the
other.

'' That one's all right," Griff was ready to agree about
the navy-blue suit as he crossed over to the window. He
had tried on the new suits, and, mysteriously, they had
given him a sense of a good appearance, of a superiority
such as he had seen in that girl with the yellow hair and the
black stockings this afternoon. " But I like them all," he
said very politely to Jane.

Jane softly smiled and went towards the door. Griff
drew aside the lace curtains and looked across the pavement

ODD OLD STICK 117

at the garden and the stable, wondering what old France
might be doing. Francis never now went round the
district hedging and shearing for the various farmers ; his
time was fully occupied at Garth. He attended to the
garden, acted as groom and handy man, and the pay he
received was extravagantly in advance of the actual value
of his services, enabling Betsy to maintain the comfort
to which Chapel's stay for eight years at the Windgap had
accustomed her.

Then Griff heard his father coming down the stairs,
and here was old France walking stiffly down the
garden on his way to the kitchen to have dinner with
the maid.

Gri£E heard his father enter in a hurry as though he were
going to catch a train, his heels digging into the linoleum ;
and Griff turned to watch him. Immediately, the whole
room seemed to alter; it had appeared bare before, but
now the room was full, as if, suddenly, the air had been
electrified. But Griff had always felt like that where his
father was concerned; he had vague memories of those
nights when he had slept now and again with his father at
the Windgap. Touching him, you felt very tiny Uttle
quivers passing through your body, and something inside
you at once grew warm ; and if ever you chanced to rub
your hand on his clothes, you felt those very same
quivers again. Griff had a great respect for his father.
Never in his life had he been chastised by him; but he
always had the feeling : " Lumme ! If he'd only just
SUM!''

Griff saw his father take hold of the top of the chair,
move it back a little, bang the legs into the linoleum, and
then seat himself at the head of the table. From his coat
pocket he took the Echo which he began to open. Before
he commenced to read he fixed Griff with his sharp eyes,
and in his strong voice demanded —

" Did you fill that tank to-day ? " He spoke in Welsh.

" M'm." Griff nodded his head and went to sit close to
his father.

Chapel settled himself to read.

His father was Griff's pattern, and imknown to himself
he began to study and copy him again. Already was there

118 CHAPEL

some similarity between them ; for instance, both parted
their hair on the left and brushed it straight across, though
his father's hair was short, and Griff's was long and brown
and curly — ^like a bally girl's. Now and again the man
shrugged his shoulders or bared his teeth, and the boy
copied every movement, although his shoulders were not
so broad nor his teeth so long. At this moment there lay
not a scrap of humour in either ; they looked at everything
exactly as it was ; they were both disillusioned men of the
world. And both were clean, and both were lean and
powerful, each in his way : the father with his clear tough
skin already heavily lined, and the boy with his smooth,
healthy, transparent complexion.

But Griff had come back to the question of dress which
had been bothering him ever since the afternoon. Natur-
ally, he had always liked a new suit, and always took pride
in considering himself a bit of a toff, but that kid with the
yellow hair had made him think. Here was the same
thing in his father again; something good about his
clothes. Griff gave up puzzling, for the subtlety of
the problem seemed altogether beyond his grasp. But
he could see his father's white collar and black tie, the
white shirt-front and the wrist-bands, as well as the grey
tweed suit.

Griff gave up puzzling, for his father was talking to
him.

" Here," he said, handing Griff the Echo ; ** take this
out and ask them when that food's coming."

His tone was snappy, for, as Betsy had discovered years
ago, Josiah Chapel was not to be counted among the most
pleasant of mortals when hungry.

But here was Jane coming in, a young vital woman,
followed by the maid, and Griff returned to his chair after
folding the newspaper and putting it under his jersey for
future reference.

Jane carried three plates, with beef ready cut from the
joint, and placed them — one for Mr. Chapel, one for Griff
and one for herself. The maid bore two tureens containing
vegetables, and after depositing them in the centre of the
table she hurried out and brought the gravy boat. Jane
did the helping of potatoes and French beans and plenty

ODD OLD STICK 119

of gravy, and after handing around the tiny basket that
held the chunks of bread, she sat down facing Griff. No
attempt was made at conversation and the only sounds
to be heard were the discreet rings of the knives and forks
on the plates. None felt the silence since it was the rule,
and everyone was busy with his own thoughts and this
task of assuaging the demands of the brute within. All
three were healthily hungry, nevertheless there was an
atmos|diere of extreme moderation about the meal, as
though these people ate for nourishment and not for
enjoyment.

The first course over, Jane filled the three glasses with
water from the glass jug, and while the other two drank
she collected the dirty plates and took them into the
kitchen. Following her when she returned came the maid
carrying plates of rice pudding on a tray.

It was during this second course the conversation,
scanty at best, commenced, as though serious business
were over and freedom existed for the luxury of talk. But
it was a queer conversation, kept going chiefly by Jane and
Griff facing each other across the table. Both their minds
were fuU of Griff's departiure, but the peculiar atmosphere
of the household had -formed a habit of restraint and for-
bade even a semblance of exuberance. And occasionally,
but very rarely, the conversation got three-cornered, when
Chapel offered some remark.

" You'll be able to find your way all right, to-morrow,
Griff ? " There was a soft smile on Jane's pale face.

" Yes, of course I will. Change at Cardiff, then Uanelly.^'

" You can always ask," Jane suggested wisely, and
Griff agreed, while his father showed not the slightest
interest.

" You'll find it strange for a time, I expect."

" Oh — soon get used to it."

Then Chapel asked : " What time is the train going from
Cardiff ? " But he did not address Griff ; he was looking
at his housekeeper, and she had to pass the question on to
Griff. It was in this manner Chapel generally addressed
his son — ^through Jane.

So Jane repeated to Griff : '' What time does the train
start from Cardiff, Griff ? "

120 CHAPEL

" Quarter past ten." He alwa3rs waited for the question
to be repeated before condescending to answer ; that was
Griff's peculiarity. " I'll have to go by the twenty past
nine from here."

Jane glanced at Chapel to see whether he were listening.

When Griff got up next morning, he found his father
already gone. Jane and he had breakfast early, and at
five past nine Francis had the trap, with the portmanteau
inside, ready on the roadway.

" Here's the money for your train-fare, Griff."

Jane was handing him some money as they stood in the
porch. The door was open, and down below the slope
Francis was patiently waiting.

** And your father told me to give you this sovereign.
This, with what you've saved — ^you'll have quite a lot.
Good-bye now. Griff ! You'll be back Christmas."

Griff ran down the steps and jumped into the trap;
Francis clicked his tongue at the pony, and they began to
move. Griff looked up at the house; Jane had disap-
peared, and the door was closed. Jane was perhaps
hurrying to get Willie — ^her boy — ^his breakfast ; but Griff
considered that probably she might be crying — ^women
were like that. But this morning it was not in Griff's
heart to call such behaviour muck.

Griff was thinking of his father, who had not even said
good-bye to him, but had left the money with Jane. Never
in his life had he associated the word muck with his father ;
the idea would have been altogether too preposterous.

" Here, France," he said to Francis, on his right. ** I
am going to drive."

** She's too fresh," objected Francis in his monotonous
voice.

" Don't want any of yer lip now," Griff told him, poking
him with his elbow. " You watch now, France," he said
a moment later when they had changed places.

Francis jerked his head in submission, for he had as
much control over this boy as Betsy had. Francis did
watch as commanded, and very soon he saw the pony
trotting briskly through the village, heard the trap rattling
and the portmanteau dancing on the tailboard. '* A wild

ODD OLD STICK 121

young devil," Francis used sometimes to describe Griff to
Betsy, who would smile and say, " Exac'ly like the Chapels,
i'n'the?"

But Griff was still thinking of his father when they
reached the station. He might have said good-bye !

Griff jerked his head and grinned crookedly.

" Odd old stick,'' he said to himself.

THE LAWYBB

Thb firm of Llewellyn and Macdonald occupied imposing
and commodious offices in St. Mary Street, Cardiff.

Mounting the two steps from the pavement, you passed
through the broad entrance and stood on the large oblong
mat. Ahead was the staircase leading to the other floors
of the building, and to your right were the swing doors
inside which, on a stool behind a short coimter, sat an
office-boy ready to reply to all inquiries outside the scope
of the law. Ignoring this official, were it by any means
possible, you walked through the door in the low glass
partition and came to the clerks' room; and at the far
end you caught sight of another door, the door of the
room of the managing clerk, the most imiK>rtant man on
the ground floor.

It was early on a Saturday morning, a few minutes
before the commencement of business, and a heated dis-
cussion was in progress between the four clerks in their
own department.

" Cardiff ! Don't talk such blooming rot. They haven't
got an earthly."

** Wait till you see the forwards on the move. Then
p'raps you'll change your opinion. They'll make rings
round your little gang — see if they don't."

** What about the Swansea haU-backs ? "

And so the discussion continued. The Cardiff and the
Swansea teams were to meet that afternoon at Swansea,
and the rivalry between these two most important of
Welsh towns was bitter. Abruptly, the voices of the
clerks ceased, for someone was outside. They heard a
thud, the well-known thud of a heavy bag being thumped
on the counter, and then a voice speaking to the office-boy.

122

THE LAWYER 123

** Here, Lightning ! Look after this bag, and bring
it round to meet the one-ten."

Then the door of the low partition opened, and the
idol of the ofl&ce, an athletic, well-groomed young fellow,
came in.

" Grood-moming, Mr. Chapel," the clerks greeted together.

" Good-moming ! " A brisk, pleasant tone.

It was Griflf.

" Who d'you think's going to win to-day, Mr. Chapel ? "

"Well! Cardiff's got a chance." Griflf pushed his
bowler hat up on his forehead. " We've got a very fine
lot of forwards — ^if they'll come off. P'raps I'd better
say nothing about the three-quarters ! " He smiled
knowingly and walked across into the room of the manag-
ing clerk.

Griflf was approaching his twentieth birthday, had left
Llandovery two years ago to enter the firm of Llewellyn
and Macdonald as an articled clerk, and, very recently,
he had failed his Intermediate Law Examination. GrMf
was a keen footballer and had played regularly last season
for the Cardiflf Seconds. Since the conmiencement of the
present season, however, he had been recognised as the
most promising of centre three-quarters, and the chief
writers to the football editions of both the Echo and the
Express had been loud in his support. And to-day, this
very afternoon, Griflf was receiving his chance. He had
been chosen first reserve as left centre for the Cardiflf
Firsts; the continued misbehaviour of a sprained ankle
had left the place vacant, and Griflf was going to Swansea.

The clerks went on with their discussion after Griflf
had passed through. "There's the man who's goin' to
give your Swansea three-quarters some trouble to-day."

** K he gets the chance."

" He'll make his own chances, don't you worry about
that. Lord ! Ever seen him tackling ? Deadly tackier
—deadly."

" That tiger spring he's got ! " supplemented the other
Cardiflf partisan. " Never seen anything like it — strike
me pink ! "

" Aye, and that swerve ! My God ! Never seen any-
thing like it. Certain to get hk cap ; certain."

124 CHAPEL

Then suddenly there happened a hurried scuttle, and in
a second one of them was tearing off yesterday's number
from the block calendar, another was busy with a ledger,
the third was absorbed with the morning's post, while
the fourth scowled at a recalcitrant steel pen. Never
before have four clerks been so completely overcome by
a greed for work. A bald-headed, frock-coated man
walked in, silk hat in his hand, and passed through to
the room where Griff was seated, feet on the low mantel-
shelf, absorbed in reading that morning's copy of the
Western Mail : the Managing Qerk.

** Good-morning, Mr. Chapel ! "

** Morning, Mr. Bowden. Morning ! "

" What's the news ? Anything particular ? "

" Nothing much."

** Except the match to-day, I suppose ? See you're
playing."

"What?"

** Notice you're playing, I say."

" You're a funny old stick, you are, Bowden. Didn'
think a respectable pillar of — ^what d'you call that little
show of yours? Didn* think you coiild take an interest
in such a ainfvl thing as football."

" Well— when it comes to one's own office ! There you
are ! Not much going on without us old folks knowing
about it, I can assiure you. . , . Now then — " Mr. Bowden
was ready for work — " you might have a look through this
bill of costs; and that sale — ^have a look if the thing's
drawn up properly Those clerks outside there ! Haven't
got the brains of a rabbit, not one of them."

" It's like this," Griff explained, taking his feet from
the mantelshelf and folding up the newspaper to put it
aside ; " all the brains of the firm's in this room, so you
can't expect much anywhere else — can you ? "

Griff's self-assurance was as evident as ever it had
been; he was on easy terms with all on the ground
floor, while the reserve and the aloofness of the two
principals were the only factors that saved them firom
a similar relationship. As yet. Griff had never met a
man whom, in all respects, he considered his unquestionable
superior.

THE LAWYER 126

He was dressed in a navy-blue suit, good and superior
looking, as he himself would have said, and as the name
of the tailor inside the collar of his lounge coat would
have testified. His collar was now a low double one,
and his tie was black covered with tiny white dots. There
was a wholesomeness and a cleanness about him, extending
to his linen : the soft cuflEs with the gold links, the soft
front of the shirt upon which the waistcoat lay so evenly —
another witness to the good tailoring; the shirt-front,
white with thin blstck lines close together. His brown
hair was cut short, and the wave in it was well-nigh
imperceptible.

As he walked from the fire to the table filling the centre
of the room, you observed that he had grown considerably
since that day he left home for Llandovery. He was
somewhat above medium height : five-foot-eight, ten-
stone-ten : those were the latest results published in
this morning's football columns of the Western Mail and
of the SotUh Wales Daily News. And when you came
to consider his build, you thought him sturdy; but he
would get sturdier as he grew older. At all events, you
were immediately sure he was compact and sound, con-
structed on a reliable foundation, for there was such
exuberant vitality in all his movements, such an impetus
in his body whenever he stirred. And he was the athlete
all over. That almost indiscernible tendency of his legs
to be stiff, like a '' cat walking on hot bricks " ! The
loose flexibility of his muscles and the minute suggestion
of strong clumsiness ! As an animal he appeared an
almost perfect creation; strong bone, firm muscle, ex-
quisite condition, beaming health. A finely poised animal,
physically sensitive and erect and proportionate.

Griff sat at the table, took up the bill of costs, crossed
his glac6 kid boots, and began studying the items. As
he read, his eyes fixed themselves on the paper with a
concentrated intentness, as though he could be very cold
and calculating on occasions. His nose hooked sUghtly,
resembling his father's. But had you sat opposite him,
watching him across the table, you would have seen a
countenance, broad, with eyes rather far apart, a somewhat
large mouth; a countenance such as is so often found

126 CHAPEL

at the head of solid, prosperous, old-fashioned business
houses ; a country face, almost a farmer's face, inherited
from a solid old country stock : a*f ace chipped from granite
with a smile on it.

But over him all, like a thin coating, lay a subtle in-
explicable rawness, for his features had not ripened and
set, his lips were so round and his skin so smooth, and
his voice seemed hardly as yet to have decided to settle
down and be calm, for there was a rasp and a hoUowness
on the edges of its notes. He was a sight upon which a
decadently artistic woman beginning to be attacked by
senile decay would have absolutely doted. He was so
masculine. And the youthfulness of him ! The pulsat-
ing, vigorous, vital youthfulness of a delicious young
male !

And, there was no muck. Not the least suggestion of
the dandy, but a strong, superior boy with a quiet superior
taste in dress.

Griff worked steadily and solidly for an hour, checking
the items of the bill of costs and examining the terms of
the sale-treaty, and then, pushing back his chair, got
up and said : *' Had enough of this lot. They are all
right."

Mr. Bowden looked up from his papers and rubbed the
tip of his nose with his pen. " Show them to Mr. Mac-
donald, will you? That bill's got to be sent off this
afternoon."

Griff passed out, whistling as he went through the
clerks' room. " Now, Lightning," he said to the office
boy behind the short counter; " don't forget the bag and
the one-ten."

" No, sir. I'll be there, right enough, sir."

Bounding up the stairs, Griff reached the door having
Mr, Macdonald painted across the middle. He knocked,
entered, and approached the old Scotsman sitting at his
pedestal desk with a pair of folding glasses fixed half-way
down his nose.

" Good-morning, Mr. Chapel," he said, pleasantly
enough, pursing his Ups and blinking over his glasses at
Griff.

'' Morning, Mr. Macdonald. . . . Bill of costs for that

THE LAWYER 127

Williams aflfair; got to be sent oflf this afternoon." Grifif
placed the papers on the edge of the desk. " And the
terms of that sale at Penarth."

Mr. Macdonald blinked again over his folding glasses.

** Verra well. Leave them there. I'll look at them
in a moment."

THB ABCHITBOT

Gbiff departed quietly from Mr. Macdonald's room,
closed the door softly behind him and bomided upanother
flight of stairs. Here there was no ceremony of knocking,
for he pushed open the door and burst in.

** Hullo, old cockalorum ! . . . Busy 1 "

Seated at the other end of the large mahogany table
was a man of about twenty-eight; absorbed in one of a
pile of many sheets of drawings that lay in front of him.
He had long black hair, large black eyes, a very pale
face, a butterfly tie flying over the front of his waist-
coat ; and his outspread fingers that held down the sheet
he was studying were exceedingly white, and long, and
bony. He looked up, and his black eyes brightened still
more when he understood who was there.

'' Thought 'twas you when I heard that infernal noise.
Come in. Chapel." He took his long fingers from the
drawing and moved around in his chair.

The invitation was scarcely necessary, for Griff came
and sat on the table, so that his glac6 tid boots dangled
in the air.

" Lord ! But I got news for you. Chapel. Remember
that design I sent to London some time ago 1 "

Griff nodded. " Gallery of some sort for the L.C.C.,
wasn't it ? " He was familiar with all the enterprises of
this yoimg architect. " Three hundred quid at the end
of it ! "

" Well, I've got the second."

" No ? " Griff sprang around to him.

" Fifty quid premium."

"Congrats., Saunders; Congrats., old man!" Griff
was shaking him wildly by the hand. *'Told you it

128

THE ARCHITECT 129

would fetch something. Those pillars and columns were
business-like — damned useful-looking. It's what I been
telling you all along; you put too much of your muck
into things. ' You're up in the air, playing with your
foggy ideas of beauty. No good, Saimders; no good.
You've got to come down and do something useful."

** All right ; no more of your jaw." Saunders reached
for his hat ; he was naturally elated. " Come an' have a
wet on the strength of it."

" Can't. Playing this afternoon." Grifif went back to
sit on the table and dangle his legs.

Saimders sat in his chair, took out a cigarette and began
to smoke.

The fact of the matter was that Grifif expended more
of his mental energy on architecture than he did on law.
And architecture, together with football, had absorbed so
much of his time during the last two years that sitting
the Intermediate Examination of the Incorporated Law
Society had been a farcical proceeding. From a law-
student's point of view he spent far too much time in
this young architect's ofi&ce. And the two were so directly
opposed in type, Saunders the theorising Bohemian and
Griff the materialistic unromantic realist, that the marvel
was they agreed so well. At the beginning of their acquaint-
ance their opinions had wofuUy clashed, for Saunders had
been the dreaming idealist, with ambitions leaning towards
Ecclesiastical Architecture and a future spent in designing
and building beautiful churches; he had been a miracle
of archaeological knowledge; he talked of the Hellenistic
and Roman Arts, of Egyptian methods and ideas ; of the
Byzantine Schools ; of the French Gothic and the English
Gothic; of Architecture of Rhetoric and Architecture of
First Principles.

And Griff had laughed at him, calling all his theories
ttvaddle and imcck.

** That sounds topping," he would say in his most un-
romantic manner. " But what principles are you working
on — now ? Never mind a tinker's ha'penny dam what those
old fossils did centuries ago. What is the position to-day ? "

And Saunders had called him '' a Philistine ; a mate-
rialistic, sordid Philistine."

190 CHAPEL

'' But what's the good of all your knowledge and all
that string of letters you've got after your name," Griff
had insisted, failing to understand, '' if you're not going
to earn any coin ? You don't come to this office for the
sake of yer health, do you ? "

And Saunders had begun to think that, after all, the
son of a canon attached to Uandaff Cathedral could not
afford to Uve in the air, nor on such rarefied sustenance.

Then Griff would change his tone. ** I don't pretend
to know any real architecture, but I do know a man's
got to come down before he can go on."

And Saimders, really, had been affected. With a
realistic, unromantic creature like Griff one was bound
to be influenced to some extent. Then Saimders began
teaching Griff about such things as Quantities, Sanitary
Fittings, Plans cmd Working Drawings, Stresses and
Strains, Surveying and so on ; until Griff might well have
been an articled pupil to an architect and not an articled
clerk to a staid firm of soUcitors.

And even when he studied law — as he sometimes did —
instead of mastering the contents of the textbooks set
and specified for the Intermediate Examination, he
wfiutidered into broader fields, to such subjects as : the
Bastardy Laws, Bills of Sale and Bonds, Coalmines and
their Regulations; Fairs, Markets and Frauds; the Game
Laws and Laws ot Husband and Wife, Landlord and
Tenant, Principal and Agent, Lands and Tenements,
Mortgages and Leases. In the branches of law that
imm^iiately appealed and interested. Griff would have
passed any test all the law societies in the world wished
to set; but those specified textbooks had been dry as
dust, far-away and iminteresting, and Griff had failed the
Intermediate Law Examination.

And so, on this Saturday morning again. Griff was
attending to architecture on the second floor while neglect-
ing the law which was downstairs.

** What the devil you got there ? "

Immediately, his eyes were alight with interest, for a
drawing always had an immense power over Griff. His
legs ceased dangling, and he went around to stand beside
Saunders. He had just caught sight of a plan on a water-

THE ARCHITECT 131

proof blue sheet, with myriads of lines marked in white.
The drawing Saimders had been studying when GriflE
came in.

" Plan of a ferro-concrete bridge," Saimders explained.
" See the bridge ? See the arch ? "

" Ferro-concrete? " The word was new to Grifif; and
sight of the plan delighted him; it looked so intricate
and difficult, something worth imravelling.

" Takes a lot of explanation. Don't quite understand
it all myself, yet. Come up on Monday, and we'll spend
a couple of hours over it. But look here, Chapel ! "
Saunders's black eyes lit up with enthusiasm. " You
know I been looking for something to specialise on?
Well, I've found it. This ferro-concrete is the building
material of the future. I'm going into it thoroughly.
There's money in it."

Griff prepared to go. " What about that fifty quid ? "

** We'll have a feed together to-night. Can you get
back by — ^half-past seven ? "

" Usual spot ? " And Griff was gone.

" Can I take those papers, Mr. Macdonald ? "

Mr. Macdonald pursed his lips and blinked over his
folding glasses at Griff.

" Really ! ReaUy ! I haven't found time to look over
them yet. Send one of the clerks here in half-an-hour."

** Seems to me," said Griff to Mr. Bowden on the ground
floor a moment later; *^ seems to me it's time to consider
about giving young Macdonald the poke. He's beginning
to slack."

It was one of Griff's ideas of humour to pretend some-
times that the managing clerk and he were the heads of
this substantial firm.

THX GOURMET

At a qnarter-to-seven that evening Griff was outside
the Great Western Station at Cardiff. He felt tired and
somewhat sore, for during the game he had been rather
roughly hcutidled; whenever he had gone into the rushes
he had not been treated any too gently. He smiled softly
as he thought of it, remembering some of the scowls the
Swansea players had cast upon him, as though, were it
not for their sportsmanship, they would have liked to kill
him. And he rubbed the aching part under his right eye.

Griff stood a moment on the pavement imder the glass
covering and looked up and down the street, at the hoard-
ings across the way, wondering why the surroimdings of
railway stations were always so bleak-looking, so ugly
and so unprepossessing.

He put up a hand, and a cabby on his perch waved his
whip as a sign that he was coming. Into the hansom
Griff bundled his bag, then buttoned his overcoat, for
it was cold.

At the tisual spot he flung his bag to the floor, walked
across to the bar and ordered a drii:^. '' And put a drop
of hot water into it, miss, will you ? '*

He carried his glass to a small roimd table and sank
into the roomy, cosy armchair, crossed his legs and rested.
He took a sip at the steaming glass, looked at his watch,
settled down again until Saimders should appear at the
end of the half -hour.

'' Oh, Mr. Chapel ! '' A second young miss had come in
and was beckoning him over the counter. "I've got a
message for you."

It appeared as though Griff were fairly well known in
the establishment. He muttered something under his

132

THE GOURMET 133

breath; he was tired, and here was this — ^this idiotio
girl disturbing him. He emptied his glass and went to
lean his elbow near the foot of the sandwich dish.

" What's the row about ? " he asked her.

" Mr. Saunders was here this afternoon,'* she simpered;
*' and he asked me ta tell you that he can't meet you
to-night."

** That's aU right."

" He said perhaps he'd be about later on. And oh,
Mr. Chapel ! You must be proud of yourself to-night."

Grifif shuffled his feet. ** Don' want any of your muck,
now."

** But all the pai)ers are full of you. And everybody's
talking about you." She smiled again, showing her little
white teeth. It was nice being on such intimate terms
with him.

" Let's have another drink, please."

She brought him the drink. " Whatever's the matter
with your eye ? Look ! " From somewhere beneath the
counter she whipped out a small mirror. " Look ! It
toill be a sight to-morrow," she told him, fixing her
small teeth on her lower lip, and lowering her glance at
him. " Oh, the brutes ! " she said. With the tip of her
finger she touched the bruised spot. ** It's too bad," she
sympathised.

Very soon, GrifE was out in the street again, carrying
his bag with him. Of course, old Saunders's failure to
turn up was unavoidable, whatever the cause. But GriflE
was at a loose-end; and he abominated loose-ends. He
had looked forward to that dinner; he had had nothing
to eat since the match and was ravenously hungry. Now
where should he go? . . . But he would be alone; and
he did not want to be alone.

Immediately, a thought struck him and he hailed
another hansom, gave an address in Boath and settled
down once more in the comer. The streets were darker
and less frequented, but Griff was pleeused with this sudden
idea of dining with his imcle. He rubbed his bruised
che^k-bone and dug his fingers into that stiff portion of
his thigh. No doubt about it; he had had a proper
gruellii^.

134 CHAPEL

'' And that sloppy girl in the pub ! — ^with her aillj
grin and her lan^ and her soft flesh." Griff chuckled.
What would she have looked like had she played in tiie
match this afternoon and been knocked about! Then
her fluffy hair, the bit of black ribbon round her neck,
and ihe locket on her blouse. But girls were like that.
And she had touched the bruise under his eye with her
rotten little finger. In disgust he flicked the bruise with
his hand. What if she witii her lockets and her smiles
and her tiiin arms had had to stand in front of one of
those devils of forwards ? Ridiculous — ^ludicrous !

But here was his imcle's house.

He ran up the steps, put his thumb on the bell-push,
and waited. In a moment the door opened and a boy of
fifteen stood aside for Griff to enter: a boy with a row
of bright buttons foolishly close together running in a
line from his throat, over his pigeon chest, down to the
bottom of his ridiculously short little monkey jacket.

*' Here, Buttons," Griff said to him, hancUng him the
bag; " give this to one of the girls and tell her to shake
them out a bit. I'll call for them on Monday. . . . Any-
body about 1 "

*' Mr. Chapel's at dinner, sir," replied the staid little
fellow.

But at this point an elderly lady with white hair, and
dressed in black, appeared in the hall: Mrs. Trehame,
the housekeeper. She addressed Griff in Welsh.

" I tiiought it was your voice, Mr. Griff. Why didn't
you come a little earlier ? "

Griff tipped her under the chin and winked at her:
" If you're going to start rowing — look out ! "

*' Give me your overcoat and hat," Mrs. Trehame told
him severely; " and don't be foolish."

" Guv'ner started dinner yet ? "

" Yes. But you know he doesn't like being disturbed."

'* Since when ? "

" Of course — since it's you"

"Now you're talking sense. Got enough grub in the
house? That's the chief point."

It was an old plan of his to upset Mrs. Trehame, for
such a remark challenged her housekeeping, and since she

THE GOURMET 135

was not always nimble enough to follow OriS's ideas of
humour, she got huffed.

** There's always sufficient of everything in this house,
Mr. GriJS." She tossed her head and tightened her lips.

" Now you know what I keep telling you about losing
your temper ! It's a most deplorable thing in a woman
your age," he told her very seriously.

The gentle old lady was forced to smile ; she had been
8(M again by this young imp. " Go away with you,"
she said.

Griff's laugh pierced into the dining-room and reached
his uncle, who turned to the maid clearing away his soup
plate.

'' That's " began David Chapel.

" Mr. Griff, sir ! " supplied the maid.

** Go and ask him to come in."

" How are you. Uncle ? " Griff walked across the
carpeted floor and seated himself at the table. " Don't
you wait," he said, helping himself to a sardine. ** I'll
soon catch you up. I'm jolly hungry."

'* That's right," said David Chapel with one of those
sudden jerks of his head in Griff's direction. '' Help
yourself."

Very little talk passed between them during dinner, for
Griff was ravenous, and his uncle watched him satisfy his
youthful appetite. But now and again Griff would offer
some remark.

** My word ! But this soup's tiptop. You can't appre-
ciate a square meal till you've been in training for a week."

** Eat then; and don't talk so much."

And now and again Griff would find time to look aroimd
and study the familiar surroundings. There was every-
thing here to please that liking he had for good and superior
things. He was enjoying his dinner ; more than ever was
he glad of his decision to come here instead of dining at a
restaurant, however first-rate. The beef — done to a turn —
was ripping. And the wine? It did one's soul good to
drink it. Then the apple-pie and cream? Delicious.
And these nuts ?

But the wine I

It seemed to find its way into every little cranny of

136 CHAPEL

yonrbodj; it ciept into your legs, soothing the stiffnen ;
it babUed tiuong^ the muscles df your anns, allaying all
aches; it stole into tiiat bndsed patdi beneath your ri^t
eye and stopped the swdBng; it even seemed to flow
aioond your brain drowning the tiredness in a most gentle-
manly way. The wine !

"Honestly/' said GiiS, as they both got up, "Fve
nerer enjoyed a meal like that in my life b^ore."

** All Toy wdl your coming h»e aninvited, and then
spinning a tale of that sort ! "

" Too can go on greening as mnch as yoo Uke," answered
6riff as they walked across the hall ; " but it's a fact.
Makes yoo feel yoo'd like to develop into a gourmet —
that the wwd ? "

''No — gourmand/' ccnrected his oncle, toming away
Ids head to grin at the wall.

"That's ri^t," advised GrifiE; "rob it in. I know
I've dog a hole in yoor soppHes."

They w»e now in the stody, and when his uncle had
switched on the light in tiie reading lamp on the desk,
and had taken a cigar-case from one of the drawers, they
sat in deep-seated armchairs, facing each other across the
hearth. A fire homed brightly in the low grate, and its
li^t played on the sorfaces of his oncle's patent leaUi^
shoes and of Griff's glac^ kid boots. The far end of the
room, with its shelves of books, lay in indistinct shadow.
The barrister's face was rather vague in its outline, but
Ids white shirt-front, plainly defined in contrast to the
lapels of his dinner jacket, had on it the dancing rays of
the firelight.

Griff took a case from his pocket and placed a cigarette
of an £g3rptian blend between his lips; his uncle lit his
cigar, and they both crossed their knees and smoked.
His uncle and he were very good friends, without a sus-
picion of that reserve which existed between Griff and his
father.

" They've knocked you about rather badly, haven't
they ? " questioned his uncle from the armchair, with his
eye on the bruised patch on Griff's cheek-bone.

" Spoils my beauty a bit, doesn't it ? " laughed Griff,
with that heavy hoUowness on the edge of his voice.

THE GOURMET 137

David Chapel bent over the arm of his chair towards
the desk and took up a newspaper lying there. It was
the football edition of the Echo, and before dinner he had
been reading about the Cardiff and Swansea match. The
account depicted GriflE as the hero of the match : how he
had caused Swansea to change their tactics because of
his unshakable defence ; and at last, how, if this eulogistic
journalist were to be believed, beating the whole of the
Swansea team, Griff had scored, saving his side &om
defeat and covering himself at the same time with glory.
While reading, David Chapel, with the worldliness of a
lawyer, had smiled at the extravagance of the journalist,
wondering whether he chanced to be one of Griff's par-
ticular friends. But the truth was that the journalist's
fancy had been captured by Griff's play, and if, in the
natural course of things, he turned out to be an old Llan-
dovery boy into the bargain, well — ^that was an accidental
coincidence in the world of journalism, and but another
proof of human frailty.

But however much David Chapel had cynically smiled
in his legal worldliness, in reading the account he had
been inordinately proud of Griff. And it was not to-day
his liking for Griff had started. Even as a boy there
had been something in him to attract his uncle's attention
in no small degree — ^when he had come, sometimes with
Betsy Michael, sometimes with Jane, sometimes with his
father, and occasionally for a week or a fortnight of his
summer holidays. It was a simple matter to prophesy
that a personality such as Griff's would always be some-
where on the top in the world's affairs — unless ! And it
was here the lawyer's one doubt came in. He had not
liked the failure to pass the Intermediate Examination
of the Incorporated Law Society, although he had said
nothing. It was not a good sign. His one misgiving had
been that Griff would waste his youth and, worse still,
get into a habit of wasting.

But — ^he had reasoned afterwards — ^the boy was only
passing through that period which every boy of any
spirit, given the opportunity, will pass. Griff was wild;
no doubt about it, not the slightest. About certain phases
of life he knew more than a boy of his age should know,

138 CHAPEL

while there were other phases of which he seemed strangely
ignorant and innocent. But there was not the least sign
(rf yicionsnees in his nature. . . . His uncle had tossed
his head. A year or two more, and Griff would settle
down to the seriousness of things; shut his teeth and
win through. A boy with the grit and determination
shown by Griff on a football field could not possibly fail
to win through.

So to-night, in the faint light of the reading lamp and
the fire, holding the newspaper in his hand, David Ohapel
looked, a soft pride in his keen eyes, across the hearth at
the sinuous, athletic figure of his nephew sunk in the
depths of the opposite armchair.

'' You seem to have been doing big things to-day. Griff.
Making a name for yourself."

Griff looked at the silk shade of the electric lamp and
at the bright circle of light on the desk. '' Usual muck
in the papers, I suppose ! . . . But where did you get
hold of those cigars ? I tried one of them last week."

'* Tried one of them, did you ? " He smiled at this
awkward attempt at turning the conversation. " Who
told you to touch my cigars ? "

** I was here," Griff explained, coolly jerking his head
at the book-shelves ; " looking up something on Contracts,
and your box was on the desk. Rotten tack, I call them.
But you needn't fear; never no more." He threw the
end of his Egyptian cigarette into the fire and glanced
at his watch. ** I think I'll be off and catch the nine-
thirty. Bit tired," he explained, as he got up, wriggled
his legs to get the creases of his navy-blue trousers into
line, and pulled down his waistcoat.

" By the way — " his uncle got up, and they stood
side by side on the rug — ** your father called here about
four o'clock."

Griff turned and looked down into his uncle's face:
** Where was he going ? "

** Mathews, the timber merchant, was with him. They
were off to Monmouth for a run in Mathews's new motor-
car.

The barrister had his hands deep in his pockets, legs
apart, as he gazed at his strong, modest nephew.

THE OOUBMET 139

''Just my idea of things/' said Griff in confidence;
" a motor-car I , . . Now I'm off."

" Here ! " His uncle was opening a drawer in the desk
and was bringing out a pocket-book. " Your birthday's
coming on soon, isn't it ? " he remarked, as his fingers
made beautiful little noises in his pocket-book. '' Little
present for you," he suggested, handing Griff two lovely
bits of crisp paper. " Buy yourself a new suit, perhaps,"
he waggishly hinted.

Griff winked knowingly. ** Catch me," he said, with a
grin. "All tailors' bills go to Garth — that's my orders;
and I never break um," he added. " Thanks very much,
though '. " Griff folded the two five-pound notes carefully
and placed them in his breast pocket with a gentle
solicitude for their welfare. ** Bound to come in handy
now that Christmas is coming."

In a moment Griff was stepping briskly down the street
in the direction of the tramcars. It was typcal of him,
that with plenty of money in his pocket he should be
economical, without a thought of looking roimd for a
hansom.

BTSBNAL YOUTH

SsATBD back in the comer of the tramcar, Griff stretched
himself and blew out a long, steady breath. He had had
a glorious dinner, better far than any restaurant could
have supplied. In his pocket were those two bits of
paper. Not that he was ever very short of cash, for that
was one of his father's good points : he was never mean
nor a stinge. But still, an unexpected ten pounds
greatly add^ to the zest of life. The dinner had proved
to be beyond criticism, and the wine delightful.

Dismounting from the car in Queen Street, he entered
the usual spot and inquired whether Saunders had been
there, and then out again into the lighted street — ^the
brilliantly lighted street. He had most decidedly — ^most
decidedly — ^been looking at things from the wrong angle
before dinner. That little barmaid was not the sloppy
kid he had imagined. How glossy her hair was ! lliat
black bit of ribbon round her throat was intriguing —
that's it ! Damned good word that — ^intriguing ! Griff
smiled wickedly as he whispered the word. How that
locket had twinkled in the light ! . . . Devilish odd !
There seemed to be something about these soft-fleshed
girls he had not noticed before. That girl had touched
the bruised spot under his eye, and how soft

He arrived at the top of Queen Street and stopped
until the traffic cleared so that he might cross into Duke
Street. And here, as he waited, someone brushed the
sleeve of his overcoat and glanced up at him with mis-
chievous eyes aslant, temptingly and invitingly. One
of those—— Griff looked after her. By Jove !

Yes, these girls ! Queer, after all, that he should know

ETERNAL YOUTH 141

so little about them ! They were creatures quite strange
to him — of another trOTia[. Even as a boy he had thought
they were silly things that giggled or cried; it did not
seem to matter which. But to-night, for some mysterious
reason, things were different. There was that girl full of
sympathy for his bruised eye. She had touched him with
her finger, and her touch had been really cool and soothing
now he came to think of it. He had been an idiot to
picture that tiny girl in front of a rush of tearing forwards.
The idea was brutal.

He knew everything about men ; had turned amongst
them; knew how they talked; what they did— every-
thing. And sometimes these men had talked about life
and seeing life. He had known what they had meant,
but he had never been curious. There was Saunders, for
instance, who had been a student in London earlier in his
career. Saunders had seen all there was to see ; Saunders
knew things; Saunders had seen life ; Saunders had lived.
And here was he himself raw and inexperienced. And
all because he had ignored life, because he had never been
intrigued. Well, the solution was to go and see life ; to
go and live.

Griff took out his watch as he turned the comer into
St. Mary Street. It was a quarter past nine. Then it
must be the eleven-fifteen to-night. Jolly handy that
last train — only been running a couple of months. He
wondered whether the railway company had put on this
late train in order to give young chaps like himself a
chance of seeing life I Devilish accommodating of them
if they had. He would have to hunt up the General
Manager and stand him a drink.

She was a dark, diminutive thing, that you could
" pick up and put in your pocket," as Griff thought.
Her long brown fur coat and the tiny cap of the same
colour and material had first attracted him as she was
about to enter a tramcar at the comer of Wood Street.
And now, they stood on the pavement together, chatting
away like old friends. Her hands and wrists supported
a ridiculously large brown fur muff ; she must have been
about twenty-three, and she had a tantalising way of

142 CHAPEL

calling him ehiri, and of looking up at him with adorable
black eyes.

** You're French ? " Gri£E was seeing life.

" But yes, chM I ** Her voice was light, like a child's.

Gri£E had started to live. ** Where are you going ? "

** I go to meet my friend to-night. A lady friend.
She comes to stay with me to-night."

Griflf looked down at her, pursing his lips. " You can't
go home yet."

** But yes, monsieur I I meet my friend at half-past
ten."

" Loads of time before that. Come on."

She immediately linked her arm through his, and her muff
was aslant as she tripped along at Griff's side chirruping
away in her deliciously queer English.

They mounted the steps of an hotel, a select place
where quiet was obtainable. They passed through the
hall with its tall palms, down a step and along a well-
lighted corridor, into the buffet where the light was more
subdued and which was deserted. In the far comer
stood a table with a palm on it, and to one of the arm-
chairs behind this Griff led her.

" It is very inUresaant,'' she said, tilting up her chin,
looking around in approval, and then bringing her bright
eyes back to Griff.

** Rattling show," he answered, living most intensely.
" What do you like best ? "

She was seated, pulling the fur coat into shape around
her frock. Her small gloved hands were patting the
muff. ** I am very fond of absinthe," she admitted.

Griff crossed to the bar and brought back with him
the two saucers each holding the spoon, the lump of sugar
and the long tapering glass. As she mixed the liqueur, he
took off his muf9er and opened his overcoat.

'' And who is this mysterious friend you are going to
meet ? "

She had the spoon poised over the top of the glass and
was carefully pouring water in drops from the jug to the
sugar in the spoon. She waited untH some of the sugar had
dissolved before tilting the spoon to let the water splash
into the absinthe. Ajad all the time Griff observed the

ETERNAL YOUTH 143

shapeliness of the small hands within the close-fitting
brown kid gloves.

" She comes from France, surely," she rejdied, still
intent on her task. " She will marry herself next week
at Newport."

She went on repeating the process of dropping water
on to the sugar in the spoon, pouring the water from the
spoon into the glass, until the colour of the liqueur began to
change. It was like one of the experiments he used to
perform in a test-tube at Llandovery. The absinthe had
at first been like brandy with a greenish tint, but when she
finally filled the long tapering glass with water and stirred
the whole, it became mHky.

'* Marry herself, will she ? " How naive she was !

*' But, yes ! " She was now mixing her own absinthe.
" She will marry herself to her friend, and they will be
happy .... What name of the hotel ? " she asked
abruptly. " It is very proper, is it not ? "

**Glyn; Glyn Hotel." Griff studied her face, her
black eyebrows, the soft skin, the dark complexion, the
slight suggestion of powder, and he knew that he was
alive.

" I do not smoke in public," she said when Griff
offered his case. ** But I shall take one." With an im-
pulsive movement she took hold of his hand and laughed
Joyously into his eyes. ** I shall love you, surely ! You
are so chic I "

" And I*m devilish fond of you," he told her, pressing
her little hand — bounding into the very midst of life. He
lit his cigarette and then took up the glass ; and somehow
as he held the glass the surface of the liquid quivered,
just as though his hand had been unsteady. '* Absinthe
and Women," he whispered under his breath and wagged
his head. " Here's topping good luck ! "

" A thousand a year ! That is what you say, is it
not ? " And she sipped.

Griff sipped. He had not tasted absinthe before.
He took another sip and thought it resembled the taste
of one of those patent cough mixtures. He took a third
sip — just the thing to creep around one's brain and drown
the tiredness in a most gentlemanly manner. He leaned

144 CHAPEL

far back in his chair, stretched his legs and loosened the
bowler hat on his forehead. No aches; no stiffness;
only a glorious feeling of content — ^a soothing lassitude in
possession of his senses.

** And whereabouts d'you live ? "

'' Ah ! " From her muff she took out a handkerchief
to wipe her lips; such a stupidly small handkerchief;
and a faint perfume stole into Griff's nostrils. ** I have a
very nice leetle flat." She took out her purse and handed
Griff a card. She bent over and stroked the sleeve of his
overcoat. ** I shall love you, surely ! " There seemed to
be genuine fondness in her eyes as she petted him.

" A leetle flat ? " He mimicked her tones. " That's
a bit of aU right."

He also leant over, and in a moment they were plunged
in deepest confidence, unconscious of what went on around.

Two men came bustling into the buffet and stood at the
counter.

** Wha's it to be ? " The man in the heavy motoring
coat, with a pair of goggles slipped up on his cap, put his
hand into his pocket and brought out some silver. " Two
whiskies, miss, and a soda — split ! "

The taller of the two looked casually around the room.
He stared, turned to his glass, gulped up the whisky,
and hurried to the door.

" Come on," he cried briskly. " Let's get off."

" It is a very nice leetle flat." Her fingers tightened
on the sleeve of Griff's overcoat and she rubbed her head
against his shoulder. ** And I have need of a friend."

Her eyes danced most enticingly. Already was she
immensely fond of chSri ; she was sure they would become
very excellent friends. She took off her gloves and rubbed
her hands together in the ecstasy of this new affection.
And then she held one of Griff's hands and he felt her
fingers and palm, soft and warm and — delightful to the
touch.

** I am a very nice girl," she said confidingly. " And
I shall love you, surely ! You are so young, so chic, so
much a gentleman I "

ETERNAL YOUTH 146

" And I'm getting devilish fond of you, too, I must
say/'

Ripping little thing she was. The dark complexion;
the long eyelashes. He was living; he was learning
things. He was at the very heart of life, hearing the
very throb, solving the mysteries, getting to the very
core of things. And last, he was getting to know girls.
Griff rolled his head and smiled.

** But now, I must go to meet my friend." She had
commenced pulling on her gloves. " You go to your
home, do you not ? "

GrifE buttoned his overcoat and together they left the
buffet. Before putting her into a hansom he bent to her
ear and whispered : '* TU come and see you in your leetle
flat, right enough."

" And you will be a good boy, always, will you not ? "

He stood on the pavement alone, chuckling at this
fresh natveti, and watched the hansom drive away.
** Well, I be damned," he ejaculated as soon as it was out
of sight. He pulled himself together, stuck up his head,
looked around.

Saunders was at his elbow; Saunders with his pale
face, his butterfly tie and his beaver hat ; Saunders eyeing
him from head to foot.

" You're in a nice state," Saunders said. " Where
you been ? "

Griff looked at him with intent steadfastness. He knew
as much about life as Saunders did. '' Having a stroll
round."

** Who's that I saw you putting in a cab ? "

*' Friend of mine," Griff answered with a newly acquired
off-handedness. " But look here ! " He wagged a finger
at Saunders. ** You Ve done me out of a dinner to-night."

On the top of the steps of the Glyn Hotel Griff halted,
and turning very gravely to Saunders, inquired :

**Wha's yer s-ser-ious sopinion of a-ab-absinthe as a
liqueur, ole man ? "

A VISION

The two men left the buffet of the Glyn Hotel, passed
through the well-lighted corridor and the hall with the
palms, descended the steps and crossed the pavement to
the powerful car standing there in the street.

** It's pretty cold, isn't it ? " remarked the man in the
motoring coat, stamping his feet and drawing the collar
up around his ears.

" It is," replied the other, as though he were morose
and reluctant to speak.

" Jump in ; we'll soon get warm after whizzing through
the air a bit." He pulled the goggles over his eyes and
put his hands on the steering wheel. ** Beady ? "

** Let her go ! "

Chapel sank back into his comer, and his face was
black and sour as he hunched his shoulders against the
cold and thrust his hands deep into his overcoat pockets.
He stared stolidly in front of him, but he saw nothing of
the tramcars, nothing of the horse vehicles which the car
was constantly evading, neither did he hear the repeated,
raucous, warning hoot of the horn. He did not even feel
the rocking movement of the car upon its springs. He
pushed himself into the cushions and stared stolidly ahead,
stared in black anger at a vision vivid, bumingly vivid,
before his eyes.

Two persons sitting in two armchairs behind a table
holding a palm ! But for Chapel it contained dreadful
meanings : decay, poison, failure, waste, decadence —
everything that sapped vitality and made man a slave
to be tossed and battered by relentless Fate.

A prostitute, for all her finery ! A wanton with her
vile trade and her decadent cajolery and her Iscariot

A VISION 147

smile ! And sharing her vileness that drunken youth
with swollen, heavy eyes : a rake, a renegade, a vicious
personified degradation of a family !

He was sufficiently a man of the world to anticipate
and tolerate the ways of youth, but here was something
infinitely worse, following in the wake of other things.
He knew the boy drank, that he had reached home
unsteadily more than once, and that he mixed with men
who were fast and wild. And he had said nothing : not
a single remonstrance had he breathed, believing that
increased years would bring wisdom.

But that examination !

That had been failure ; and failure of any kind meant
an inability to cope with Fate. It meant the beginning
of the Juggernaut's mutilation.

The sight to-night had given him a shock, causing his
T^hole nature to totter. He saw in it another attack of
Fate upon himself ; one of those treacherous, unscrupu-
lous attacks. Fate was cheating again, and every faculty
in him bristled.

Fate had started a new move. Fate was attacking
him through his son. He clenched his fists and wriggled
in his seat. He wanted to get out and move about. This
damnable car was stifling him. He wanted room to
move his arms, to hit out at something. The thought of
this fresh unscrupulousness maddened him. He wanted
to fight.

Fate could not beat him any other way. Fate was
striking at him through his son.

That drunken youth would get into its clutches. That
drunken youngster would puU down the family again.
The ignominy would be greater than ever. All those
years he had worked to rebuild the fortunes of the family
would be in vain.

Family ! Family ! How he had worked ! How he
had slaved for that love of family i How he had toiled to
regain the old stability !

All these years he had been trying to get back, not
to Wem as a construction perhaps, but back to the
old eminence, back to the old position of the Chapels.
And he was getting back; in a few years he would be

148 CHAPEL

back. And here was Fate seeking his downfall through
his son.

The sides of the car seemed to be walls closing in around
him.

Was Fate, after in all other ways failing, to master him
through his son ? Was this the beginning of the inevit-
able end ? Was mutilation really to come ? Were the
dreams of a resurrected, rebuilt family to be lost and vain ?
Would his bones begin to crack ?

There was one thing in the whole creation — only one
— ^that could defeat him. Only one thing, and of that
he had not the slightest fear. The only thing that could
conquer him was what some men feared so much — Death.
He chuckled wildly.

** I'm one of the top dogs. I'm one of the bruisers.
I'm going on."

** Going to get out to-night ? " The car had stopped.
** What the devil you been laughing about ? "

" Watching you moving your head like a pointer on a
scent."

** Seem to be enjoying yourself anyhow. Well, here's
oflf. Home in three minutes. Good-night, Chapel."

Chapel stood a moment glancing after the red tail-
light of tjie car until it was out of sight. He shivered in
the cold. He turned and mounted the steps to the door
of his h«me.

MATHEMATICS

Gripf sprang out of bed at eight o'clock on the following,
Sunday, morning, and after pouring out a glass of water
he drank it greedily, stretched himself, yawned and looked
around. With a crooked smile of memory he hurried into
the bathroom.

With his pyjamas over his arm he soon came back into
the bedroom again. Then, suddenly remembering, he
stepped in long easy steps to the oval glass of the dressing-
table and carefully studied the patch under his eye which
had been so sore last night. It was practically gone ; only
a small cut with a ring of light brown around it — ^hardly
visible.

** Must have bled," he told himself. He lool^d once
more into the mirror. " Not a sign ! " He had thofcughly
bathed his eyes in cold water in the bathroom. " Nobody
could say I was a bit off last night."

He hurried to complete his toilet and began to whistle.
He combed and brushed his hair, selected a collar and a
tie, brushed his light grey suit and made ready to descend.

The memory of a voice suddenly rang through his
mind : ** I shall love you, surely ! " He glanced at his
reflection in the mirror and winked at it understandingly.
Then he went down to the kitchen, still whistling.

** Hullo, Moses in the bulrushes ! At it again ? "

At the table, with a sheet of paper in front of him and
a pencil in his hand a boy of twelve was seated. He had
his hands in his hair, apparently deep in intricate thought.
This was Jane's son, and his name to everyone but
Griff was William, shortened for the sake of homely use
to Willie.

Qriff picked up a pair of boots on his way and sat near

160 CHAPEL

the window putting them on. From the scullery came
sounds of the maid at work under the tap.

'' How long does light take to travel from the sun to
the earth, GriflE ? "

Willie was a terrible boy for facts. His knowledge
in that direction was prodigious, almost uncanny. Dates
in History he had at his fbogers ends. He knew all the
capes in the world, Griff was sure ; the names of rivers,
their lengths, the countries they watered, the principal
towns upon them — all these he could repeat as though his
brain were a tape on a Stock Exchange unwinding and
giving latest market prices. He could tell the birthplace
of every commodity in the world : com from Canada,
jute from India, mutton from New Zealand, and so on in a
way that made Griff shudder for his own History and
Gteography. On Polar Expeditions was Willie especially
strong. The boy was constantly with a sheet of paper
and a lead pencU, committing some fact to memory or
working at some fantastic calculation such as the one he
was engaged upon this Sunday morning.

" What's the idea ? " asked Griff, lacing his right boot
and not looking up.

** If you know that, you can say how long the world
will last after the sun's gone out ; supposing it does go
out ! "

** Beyond me, Billiam. Couldn't touch a thing like
that." Griff commenced lacing his left boot.

** I haven't finished yet. "Hie earth's getting nearer
the sun, or further away — which is it. Griff ? "

'* Not guilty," pleaded Griff.

** Well, if you knew the distance between them in a
thousand years from now, then you could work out "

** Here, drop it." Griff got up and stamped his feet
on the red-and-white tiles. Then he took the pencil
from Willie and pretended to be on the point of writing.
** Now I'll give you a problem. You know I was a bit
hot myself on Mathematics when I was in Llandovery.
But there was one sum we never could do. None of the
chaps could do it; none of the tutors even. So you can
guess it was pretty stiff. And now I come to think of it,
there was a lot of writing to the papers about it that time.

MATHEMATICS 161

Scientifio journals and all that lot, see ? . . . Now where
were we ? Oh, aye ! Everybody said the answer must be
easy — ^simple solution ; sort of thing any idiot might wake
up with any morning. Now you're a bit of a lightning
calculator, let's see what you can make of it."

Willie had his brows heavy, ready for the problem.
** What is it?"

" I'm coming to it. Listening ? ... If a herring and
a half cost three ha'pence "

" Here ! " Willie screwed up his eyes. " You don'
'ave me-ee ! "

Griflf was astonished. " What's the answer, then ?"

" What will a dozen cost ? They call a thing like that
a chestmUy Griff. Ever bin 'ad ? "

And Willie went on with his calculation about the sun
and the earth : an involved proportion sum, as he had
already seen, as soon as sufficient data had been gathered
together.

Griff tapped him on the shoulder.

*' Look here, whiskers ! About this sun and earth
business ! Let's suppose Hght takes a minute to come from
the sun to the earth ^"

" A minute ? You don' know anything about it."

" Suppose, I said ; — easier to reckon. How long would
it take to go back from the earth to the sun ? Now then,
ready reckoner ! "

Willie was once again screwing up his eyes.

" Had again, Mr. Griff ! It's all absconded in the earth,"
he informed, plunging at last beyond his depth. Then
Willie abruptly changed the subject, and asked —

** Who scored for Cardiff Firsts yesterday ? "

But at that moment Willie's mother announced that
breakfast was ready, and Griff followed her through the
hall into the Back Room.

** Clever young kid, that," he said to himself, thinking
of Willie.

At the door of the Back Room Jane had stopped with
her finger to her lips. " He's got one of his daySy' she
whispered, inclining her head towards the door. ** So
don't do anything to upset him."

144 CHAPEL

far back in his chair, stretched his legs and loosened the
bowler hat on his forehead. No aches; no stifiPness;
only a glorious feeling of content — a soothing lassitude in
possession of his senses.

** And whereabouts d'you live ? "

** Ah ! " From her muff she took out a handkerchief
to wipe her lips ; such a stupidly small handkerchief ;
and a faint perfume stole into Griff's nostrils. '' I have a
very nice leetle flat.'* She took out her purse and handed
Griff a card. She bent over and stroked the sleeve of his
overcoat. ** I shall love you, surely ! " There seemed to
be genuine fondness in her eyes as she petted him.

" A leetle flat ? " He mimicked her tones. " That's
a bit of aU right.''

He also leant over, and in a moment they were plunged
in deepest confidence, unconscious of what went on around.

Two men came bustling into the buffet and stood at the
counter.

The taller of the two looked casually around the room.
He stared, turned to his glass, gulped up the whisky,
and hurried to the door.

" Come on," he cried briskly. ** Let's get off."

" It is a very nice leetle flat." Her fingers tightened
on the sleeve of Griff's overcoat and she rubbed her head
against his shoulder. ** And I have need of a friend."

** I am a very nice girl," she said confidingly. " And
I shall love you, surely ! You are so young, so chic, so
much a gentleman I "

ETERNAL YOUTH 146

" And I'm getting devilish fond of you, too, I must
say.

** But now, I must go to meet my friend." She had
commenced pulling on her gloves. ** You go to your
home, do you not ? '*

Griff buttoned his overcoat and together they left the
buffet. Before putting her into a hansom he bent to her
ear and whispered : ** I'll come and see you in your leetle
flat, right enough."

" And you wUl be a good boy, always, will you not ? "

He stood on the pavement alone, chuckling at this
fresh naiveti, and watched the hansom drive away.
" Well, I be damned," he ejaculated as soon as it was out
of sight. He pulled himself together, stuck up his head,
looked around.

Saunders was at his elbow ; Saunders with his pale
face, his butterfly tie and his beaver hat ; Saunders eyeing
him from head to foot.

** You're in a nice state," Saunders said. " Where
you been ? "

Griff looked at him with intent steadfastness. He knew
as much about life as Saunders did. ^* Having a stroll
round."

" Who's that I saw you putting in a cab ? "

" Friend of mine," Griff answered with a newly acquired
off-handedness. '' But look here ! " He wagged a finger
at Saunders. ** You've done me out of a dinner to-night."

On the top of the steps of the Glyn Hotel Griff halted,
and turning very gravely to Saunders, inquired :

"Wha's yer s-ser-ious sopinion of a-ab-absinthe as a
liqueur, ole man ? "

164 CHAPEL

the fire for the kettle when she heard his voice, Uke the
growl of a heavy dog, speaking to Griff.

" Stop there a minute."

She heard the growl in his voice. She turned and saw
Griff's eyebrows raised in mild surprise. She saw the
scowling face of his father. Jane hastily gathered together
the dishes and hurried out.

The door had closed, and Chapel and Griff were alone,
facing each other across the comer of the table. Both
seemed to have been waiting for the click of the door
catch.

From his calculating glance across the comer of the
table, Griff might have caught sight of an opposing team
opening out a dangerous attack on the football field. His
body seemed softly to vibrate in its physical sensitiveness
as he sat coolly awaiting the approach of the attack. The
anger in his father's voice had told him there was battle
in the air ; the tone had held a rasp which something deep
within him resented. Unconsciously, he drew his chair
nearer the table and seated himself more firmly. That pug-
nacity within him had been moved. He was ready.

** Well ! " he said as soon as the door was closed. ** What
d'you want ? "

His father had his eyes upon him, cold and stem. The
coolness irritated him, and the veins of his neck got swollen.
** Where were you last night ? "

" Last night ? " Griff stiffened himself. " I had dinner
in Roath."

" After that." The Bruiser was beginning to show.
** Where were you after that ? "

" After that ? " More than ever did Griff resent the
tone. Here was someone trjdng to frighten him ; and that
remained to be seen. There was no need to stand talk
of this kind from anyone, father or no father . ** You'd
better go 'n' find out," Griff told him impudently. " And
if you think you're going to bully me, you're up the wrong
street."

Chapel was on his feet. " What did you say ? " Only
with an effort could he keep his hands pressed on the
table.

" I suppose you're talking about 1 "

THE QUARREL 166

" Yes, I am. I'm talking about the Glyn Hotel."

Griff's calculating glance changed to one of amaze-
ment. Concerning the state of his home-<;oming last night
he would not have been surprised to hear ; — but this ?

" There are some things you don't talk about," he said
with an impatient sneer.

Chapel was still controlling himself ; but it was difficult.
The arrogant youngster was now, in his lofty manner,
trjdng to teach him. He sat down ; he was the bully now.
No need to make an extensive show of temper ; no need to
play with words. Fate was attacking him through his
son, and he had found a way to deal with Fate.

" Last night was the end of it." He was the Bruiser
with power to tread. " I've finished with you. If you
think I'm going to stand by and see you throwing away
the money I've earned, you're wrong. I've said nothing
about the company you've been keeping nor about the
habits you've got into. But last night was the end of it.
I've finished with you." He saw in his mind the crumbling
of the stability he had slaved to rebuild.

Griff was stupefied. " What d'you mean by that ? "

" For one thing, you're not going to that office in Cardiff
again."

As he heard the hard, pitiless voice, the whole ground
seemed to shift from beneath Griff. The whole of his
youth rose up against the injustice. It was unfair. What
he had done — the worst thing he had ever done — did not
warrant this. It was unfair. But he knew it was useless
arguing, for he might just as well go and strike his head
against a wall as try and get his father to alter one of his
decisions. But it was unfair. Tears came very near to
his eyes. He was used to playing straight and square, and
his young nature rebelled.

** Anything else ? " He was now roused. ** What am
I to do if I leave the office ? "

" To-morrow morning you can go down to that house I'm
building in St. Fagans. Graig will find something for
you to do. And if you want to go to the devil, go your
own way." He moved his chair and got up. " Fate,
be damned ! " he was thinking. He shrugged his great
shoulders and in his dominating way jerked his head in

166 CHAPEL

the direction of the door. " Now you'd better be off/' he
said.

But mention of Qraig had been the one thing needed to
set Griff aflame. He felt that he was being trodden on.
He felt the attempt to break his spirit. Then that fire
leapt into his eyes. Someone was trying to master him.
Someone was trjdng to tread on him. He bounded to his
feet. He was out to fight.

** So you think you're going to tread on me like Graig,
do you ? You think I'm going to be a rotten little dog
like Graig ? You'd like to smash me up as well ? "

His father sprang around. ** Sit down, you fool," he
roared.

** I won't sit down." Griff's voice also was raised.

" Sit down, I tell you," his father warned in more dan-
gerous calm. Then he suddenly leaned forward, all his
self-control shattered. Anjrthing and everything standing
in his way he was prepared to smash.

Griff leaned forward also, and their faces almost touched.
** You told me to go to the devil. You can go to the devil,
too!"

Threateningly, his father raised his fist. " If you don't
sit down, I'll hit you down."

That set all the raging devils loose in Griff. That
cold, penetrating look jumped into his eyes. He seemed
like a young tiger ready to spring. He was afraid of no
man.

** If you strike," he cried, ** I'll fight, mind you ! By
God, I'U fight ! "

And then, like a flash, their whole natures stood bare
and naked in their eyes. Both had been challenged. They
glared at each other with a savageness that was unhuman.
For a moment they stood helpless, their bodies trembling in
their passion. Civilisation might never have been. The
Chapel devil was there in all his nastiness. And as they
glared into each other's eyes, one was as grimly determined
as the other. Each realised, instinctively, that if the other
did strike, neither would give in. Both were prepared to
flght to the bitter end. There was the same unbending
strain in each of them ; each would sooner feel his body
torn to pieces than have his spirit broken. Better death

THE QUARREL 167

than dishonour through defeat. If they fought, one of
them, at least, would be maimed.

Slowly, the habits and restraints of generations of civil-
isation brought back to them their scattered senses.
Reason began to prevail.

Griff drew a deep breath; he shrugged his shoulders;
he turned from the table and walked into the hall. His
face was pale and his hands were violently shaking.

A moment later his father crossed the hall into the room
where he spent most of his time while at home. It was a
large room containing his desk and book-case, and the bay
window looked down upon the roadway.

He did not resent Griff's attitude. In common fairness
he could not, however unnatural it might have been. He
had not gone into the interview expecting the traditional
dutifulness of son towards father. His treatment had not
been conventional, and he was tolerant enough not to ex-
pect convention in return. True, he had struck against the
unexpected. He had never dreamt that his son possessed
that same unflinching spirit of the top dog. He had met
a bruiser as strong as himself ; but by good fortune he had
held the advantage and had been able to beat his way
forward.

Fate had tried to crush him, and Fate had been beaten.

"Fate be damned!"

He sneered at the helplessness of Fate once a man took
it by the throat.

He went and sat in the black leather armchair before
the fire and took up a newspaper which he began to read.
But even as he read his mind kept reverting to that passage
with his son. Not for a second did he resent Griff's rebel-
lion ; but what he did resent was something in Griff's manner.
Throughout, there had been some mastery of the situation
in the youngster's manner — a smooth, easy, self-confident
ability to deal with every emergency as it arose. His
father resented the smooth self-assurance. But the finest
show of all had been when the youngster had turned away
and had left the room. The action had been one to madden
his father, because in the act of self-control his son had
proved himself to be the wiser. In an instant he seemed
to have recognised how outrageous a fight between a parent

158 CHAPEL

and his son would have been. It was this sublime supe-
riority all along his father resented.

His father grew envious of Griflf ; he grew jealous of the
lad's qualifications. He saw how the youngster would go
through life ; his progress would be easy because he took
for granted that things must come his way. He had com-
menced his life without doubts and misgivings. He would
go straight on.

Chapel seemed to forget that Griff had lived all his life
among surroundings that breathed nothing but success;
that the very air he had sucked in was chcurged with this
stem, unbending superiority ; and that the example ever
before him was the bruiser, the man who knew the secret.
And further, the boy was descended from a stock which
had always ruled ; this spirit of unquestioning masterful-
ness was in his blood, poured down through generation
after generation.

XII

SYMPATHY

Grtfp, meanwhile, was pursuing his prearranged Sunday
morning walk. The air was bitterly cold, and it was
necessary to maintain a swinging pace to keep oneself
warm. What occupied Griff's thoughts for some time was
the astounding callousness of his father in thus summarily
checking his career. But that was a pill best swallowed
with despatch, for his father's decisions were adamantly
unalterable. The next question concerned the attitude
he had assumed towards his father, and for this he was at
first genuinely sorry. His respect for his father had always
been so great. But — and here the regret left him. All
very well to speak of a son's dutiful subjection to the will
of a parent ! But what was the respect due from a parent
to his son ? If anyone — be he father or no father ! — ^vio-
lated his position in such a way as to try and crush another,
was not that other justified in fighting for himself ?

GriflE knew there were some people in the world who
meekly bowed their heads and submitted ingloriously in
such circumstances. He had met boys of that kind at
school, boys who, on the receipt of the first hard blow,
meekly gave one best. That had not been his way of
fighting, nor his way of playing football, either. He was
not going to submit. He would not live as a creepy
sneak, toadying to anyone ! Where did one's own self-
respect come in if one lived crushed under the heel of
another man ?

** I'd rather be killed," he said vehemently to himself,
clenching his hands within his gloves.

It was too terrible. Fancy living all one's life without
any distinct individuaUty ! Fancy being another man's
victim, the slave of another man's^whim !

169

160 CHAPEL

"I'd rather be killed," he thought, ^*than be like
Graig.''

Diimer at Garth on Sunday was a mid-day meal, and
to-day it was a failure judged from a standard of cheerful-
ness. There was Jane facing GriflE across the tabid; sitting
very uneasily in her chair, her hands nervously unsteady
as she picked up the dishes and shared their contents, just
as though she expected another storm to break loose. His
father was there, a little blacker looking than usual, but
there was nothing else to remind one of what had happened
earlier in the morning. It seemed that his decree had been
published — his law administered, his proclamation made
— and the matter had ended. GrifiE looked at him occasion-
ally, at the strong cast of his face, at the compact head, at
the broad shoulders. After all, one could not help respect-
ing him. There was something so rock-like about his will,
something so grandly final about his decrees. If one
admired strength at all, one could not help but admire his
father.

A touch of his saving grace of humour returned to Griff as
he gazed at his father in this light. He turned his attention
to his plate. ** Odd Old Stick," he breathed to himself.

GriflE knew quite well that they would never quarrel in
this way again. They were too much alike; the peril
of the issue was much too great. And now that at last
they had learnt how similar they were, they would avoid
each other, tolerating each other's existence without a
sign, but always avoiding any direct conflict. GriflE was
familiar enough with his father to be aware that he was too
large a personality to stoop to bickerings. It was either a
straight sledge-hammer blow or nothing at all. His father
never indulged in half measures.

They would never quarrel like that again.

After dinner GriflE got his overcoat and bowler hat. He
was going to the Windgap because he wished to see Betsy.
Of all the people in the world Betsy was the one who under-
stood him, and she in her turn was the one he best under-
stood. Every square-inch of her huge body breathed out
sympathy. Sympathy ! That puzzled GriflE. He had
never wanted sympathy. It was what he would have

SYMPATHY 161

called much not so long ago. But to be honest, he knew
it was for sympathy he was visiting Betsy. Not the
spoken words of sympathy, but that — ^what was it ? Betsy
and he seemed to be able to get together and touch, to
get close together. Not their bodies — ^not their minds.
What was it ? It was a queer thing to say, but Betsy was
the only person in the world whose aovl he could touch.
It was odd, but many of the things he had classed as rrmck
were beginning to assume incredible value.

** I've never known anything about these things," he said
to himself as he passed through the village ; " I've always
been on my own."

It was very odd, but this seemed a period of change in
his life. Naturally, his father's decision that he was to
leave the office altered everything. But there was some-
thing else, something behind that. To commence with, he
had not been used to thinking so much. And now this
morning he had been meddling with such things as Indi-
viduality, and getting hopelessly beyond his depth. Last
night, too, he had been thinUng in a manner he had
never thought before — ^about girls. Not that rotten little
barmaid, nor even that French girl. There was some-
thing deeper than all that — something better — a purer
lot of thoughts. He saw now how it had all begun :
Saunders unable to meet him ; the desire not to be alone ;
the dinner at his uncle's house. And when he had got back
into the streets, he had been alone again. Company !
That was what he had wanted.

It must have been ideas such as these had been in
his mind last night when he had begun thinking of girls
in that strange way. Perhaps this was the mystery of
girls — ^not those rotten notions he had last n^ht, but some-
thing in their natures that allowed you to get cloae^ to Umch
them.

Supposing you knew a girl like that ! A girl to whom
you could tell everything — one who would feel by instinct
what you felt yourself ! A girl you could get close to — a
girl whose whole being would blend

What the devil was he thinking about ?

Griff was on the path running along the brook to the

102 CHAFEL

Windgap. He iock a yidoufl kick at a rottoi piece of
baric on the grotuid in front of him, and lao^^ied.
** Damn gbrls, I'm going to see Betey."

" WeU, I never ! ''

Griff was approaching the Windgap, and Betoy had seen
him,

'* There's tiiat bqjr Griff coming/'

Betsy was mnning to the front door, her body rocking
from side to side, her hard okl face qnivering with smiles.

'' Why didn' yon send to say yon was comin', boy, for me
to make some pancakes forr yon ? "

She was leading Griff by the arm, jnst as though he were
unable to walk himself.

** There yon ! There yon ! Take yonr coat off and
give me your hat, and go 'n' sit by the fire. Shift round
a bit, Francis. Want to keep aU the fire to yourself?
That's right now. You give me your coat. And go 'n' sit
down. Where-'ave-you-bin, boy? I'm ashamed of you,
indeed-there-you-I-am ! Where 'ave you bin not comin'
to see me for a week ? If it wasn't for Francis bringin'
news about you, I wouldn' know if you was alive or
dead."

Griff stood over her, winking at her. '' Busy, Betsy;
been very busy."

'' To be sure ! " He was studying in Cardiff to be a
solicitor now, and growing up to be a big man. '' But
go *n' sit down."

" Hullo, France ! How's the cough ? "

** Better to-day," grunted Francis, relapsing into silence.

Francis was passing through one of his periods of gloom
and depression, searching his heart and pulling out Ms sal-
vation. Yesterday he had succumbed to an uncontrollable
fit of temper, and he had thrashed a dog most unmercifully.
He had been hurled back into this moody uncertainty
and reminded of his utter damnation. He glanced into
the fire and spoke not another word. The next week
would be spent in repentance until the gloom would be
dispelled, until his soul could again be saved and the
certainty of glory reconstructed.

SYMPATHY 163

Grifif had tea with them, and since Betsy was going to
the Evening Service at Hermon, Griff and she walked
together through the village.

" You ought to go to church sometimes, Griff/' Betsy
was advising. " Indeed, there you, you ought to go.'*

And, strangely enough, Griff followed her advice, for
he turned in at the lych gate, walked along the gravel path
between the old tombstones, and entered the church for
the first time for several years.

A WINDFALL

Griff's twenty-first birthday wa43 apprcmching, and he
had obtained a year's experience of Building.

Long ago had he ceased to regret the sudden check in
his career, for during the past year he had been in touch
with the inner worUng of his father's business, and had
seen the extent and the quality of its operations. Prom a
purely financial point of view, Building, on his father's
scale, was much superior to the Law. And there was
another consideration which quickly softened the regret :
the life was healthier; it suited him better in every way,
for, instead of being cooped up in an office, he worked
chiefiy in the open air.

Griff was essentially an out-of-door man ; his athleticism
was so opposed to confinement.

The relationship between him and his father had been
a strange one. At home they spoke not a word to each
other; at work his father treated him as a superior
workman.

Only once had anything resembling a clash occurred,
and that had been at the end of Griff's first week in his
altered surroundings. Graig had taken in the week's
wages-sheet for Chapel's inspection, and after a hurried
glance Chapel had asked in his abrupt way —

" Who wrote this down ? "

The first three items read thus —

J. Chapd . . .£600
O. Chapd . . .£330
E. Graig . . .£300

and Chapel had a finger pointing to the second item.
" Who wrote this down ? " he asked Graig.

164

A WINDFALL 165

" Mr. Grifif. I put him on that lot."

" Send him here to me."

And GrifiE had come into the office. " Well, what's the
matter ? "

" Think yourself worth three guineas a week, do you ? "

Griff looked at him. " Yes, I do."

" Then you can go and change it to thirty shillings."

** Then you can cross it off altogether. If you think
I've come here to be under Graig — ^you're wrong."

The result of the interview was : ** If you're not worth
it at the end of six months you can clear out."

On this particular morning a year later Griff was super-
vising the workmen engaged on a house they were buildmg
for the head of a Cardiff shipping firm. His father had
been from home for the last fortnight, going without any
explanation of his absence, and Griff had been understudy
with a roving commission, superintending the three houses
then in course of construction: one on the outskirts of
Ely, another near St. Fagans, and this one a mile from
Llantrisant.

And this house was tjrpical : a construction of stone,
large and high, nearing completion. There were the stone
pillars supporting the porch before the doorway, the
veranda running along the front, the broad square windows,
the intricately gabled roof — ^a type of house beloved of the
moneyed business man. But into it all there seemed
to have been breathed some monstrous spirit of strength.
When completed, there would be a wall around the acres
of garden, a terrace in front of the house, a lawn in front
of that, surrounded by newly planted fir-trees. But these
things were not yet.

The general foreman on this house was Graig, and inside
the office Griff found him.

This office was a different affair from the white hen-house
arrangement on wheels of a dozen years ago. It resembled
a small bungalow, for it had a porch and black roof
and window frames painted white. Inside the door there
was a miniature hall with a window at the far end, and
from this lobby there opened two doors, one on the left
into Chapel's private room and the other on the right into

166 CHAPEL

a more general chamber. Griff walked into the room on
the right, and after hanging his hat took out a piece of soap
and a towel from the table drawer. Qraig was seated at the
table studying a plan.

But what an altered Graig ! One remembered him as
the dashing, successful speculative builder, shoving up
houses like mushrooms. One had recollections of boasting
talk of Big Things. Hardly could one credit that here
was the same man at this table bending over a plan !

The bowler hat on his head was green with age and its
rim drooped and was shapeless — a dilapidated hat splashed
with lime and dirt to give it a variegated appearance.
And that was the keynote of the whole of him— dilapidated.
For the green of antiquity had worked its way into the
material of his coat, although the patches on the elbows
showed a more youthful disposition. His collar was dirty,
and his narrow tie had long ago forsaken the attempt at
maintaining even a semblance of an inconvenient shape.
And what was evident in his clothes was true of his person.

His shoulders stooped ; his small eyes were shifty, and
blinked incessantly ; the whites of his eyes were shot with
narrow lines of red and the skin beneath them was heavy
and puffed and swollen. His black, scraggy moustache
drooped aimlessly, and the ends were waxed only on certain
inspired occasions. When he tittered one saw that several
of his teeth were missing. Graig was fifty-six, and on his
face one read the history of the man's habits. He had
taken his last kick years ago and had meekly succumbed
afterwards. He had three pounds a week and seemed
satisfied. He had gone with the tide ; had drifted with the
tide. The Juggernaut had rolled over him.

Griff bent over at his side a moment, glancing at the
plan.

'* You were a deuce of a toff last night, Graig," he
teased at length. ** My word ! A regular howler.**

Graig heaved his shoulders, and into his shifty eyes
came the look of an old buck being chided for his favourite
sin. His eyes sparkled until they became mildly wicked;
he blinked the red rims over his eyeballs; he tittered;
he pulled at the shapeless collar of his coat and smiled. Ho
simulated a regular devil of an old buck.

A WINDFALL 167

" Teach you young chaps something, I tell you ! " He
tittered again, and blinked his little bloodshot eyes. He
wished to imply : " I'm a gay old dog — what ? '*

As Griflf washed his hands in the pail, under the window
of the lobby, he pictured Qraig as he had seen him on the
previous evening on his way to the station to catch
the next train to St. Fagans. As he wiped his hands on
the towel. Griff thought of the gossip running through
Forth of the senile proclivities of Graig.

" Good God ! Haven't you heard about him ? Haven't
you heard about Graig and his fancy woman? Who is
she ? Some married woman down St. Fagans way. And
the tale's going round that that last child of hers is the
same spit as him."

Such was the general run of the male gossip of the vil-
lage ; but the women were not so tolerant.

**The old lecher! Somebody ought to shoot him.
Gallivanting about with that — that hussy, when he's got
daughters as old as her. And what about his poor wife ?
But there — she haven't got no spirit left. If I was her I'd
shoot him some night — ^the old "

But Graig, invidnerable to all criticism, inspired by his
amorousness, his hat at a rakish angle, a flower in his
button-hole, his moustache waxed, the light of the gay old
dog in his blinking little eyes, would pass through the
village on his way to the station to catch the next train to
St. Fagans.

Griff returned and placed the towel and soap in the
drawer. ** What you doing ? " he asked as he sat down,

'' Want to get some measurements for those drains in
the back."

" Right you are ! Go 'n' have a look after those plas-
terers. I'll bring the drawings round for you as soon as
they're done."

But Graig had already scuttled out through the door
like a rabbit, and Griff, with a smile, walked to the
window to look along the front of the house. As he had
expected ! Graig was running at a brisk trot, and there at
the far end of the building was the contractor coming
smartly towards the office. Griff was struck by the contrast :
the prosperous man and the wreck trotting at his heels.

168 CHAPEL

Inside the room on the left of the lobby Graig pulled
back the chair, so that his master might sit down ; then
he hung his master's hat on the peg on the wall. '' Any
orders, Mr. Chapel ? " he asked, returning to the table.

A sharp glance from those grey eyes : ** Haven't you
got anything to do ?

" Yes, sir. Just had orders to go 'n' look after them
plasterers."

" Orders ? '* Chapel was thinking. ** More of that young-
ster's large management."

" Here ! " He took a paper from his breast-pocket.
*' Start those carpenters on that staircase. I'll be round
in a bit to see how you're getting on."

" Stair, Mr.'Chapel ? We got it up — ^got it up. Finished
it yesterday."

* * Got it up ? Who told you to put the dam' thing up 1 "

" Mr. Griflf, Mr. Chapel. We started on it as soon as you
went away."

" We'll go an' have a look at it," said Chapel without
further comment. He had sudden visions of pounds
wasted.

They went out together, Chapel silently angry and
Graig trotting dutifully at his heels. They passed between
the stone pillars and entered the spacious hall. In front
of them was the broad staircase with timber still white
and fresh. Chapel took out a bone two-foot rule and
measured. He placed his hands on the thick rails and
tried to shake them; he stamped on the steps seeking
some instability; on the first landing he stamped and
measured again. The x>oint where the stairs turned at
right angles received his special attention. All the way
from the bottom to the top, from the top to the bottom of
the huge house he stamped on every step. It had been his
opinion that no-one on the place could have fixed that
staircase without a working drawing from him, and then
not without his personal supervision.

Without a word he turned and walked back to the office.

'* Marvellous it was, the way he done it." Graig was
still at his heels. '' He's took to building like a baby to
his milk."

They did not know that GriflE had studied two years

A WINDFALL 169

under a highly qualified architect, neither did they know
that all his evenings during the past twelvemonth had been
spent with plans, with books on Building Construction and
the like. GriflE had been playing the engrossing game of
Dark Horse. During this last year Griff had been taking
his work very seriously.

When his father returned Griff crossed the lobby and
entered the opposite room. For a fortnight he had been
planning this interview, and since there were never any
preliminaries between them, he commenced his business
at once.

" I want you to give me something better to do. I
don't fancy hanging around here with nothing at the end
of it. Going on like this is only wasting my talents."

His father looked up at him with the sarcasm he knew so
well how to place as a curl on his clean-shaven lips. * * What
are you wastiug ? "

Griff curled his own lip in contempt and said nothing.

But his father continued.

" I was with your uncle last night. He's had three
thousand pounds in my business for the last twelve or
thirteen years. He's giving it to you when you are twenty-
one. P'raps that will make a difference."

" It will," Griff said.

His heart was bounding. " Three Thousand Pounds ! "
He repeated it, unbelievingly : ** Three Thousand Pounds ! "

XIV

A OIBL

It was not only in this work Griflf had grown serious
during the past year.

On that Sunday night when Betsy and he had walked
together through the village Betsy had said : '' You ought
to go to church sometimes, Griflf.'* And he had followed
her advice, had turned in under the lych gate, had walked
along the gravel path between the graves and had entered
the old church. His imaccustomed attendance was easy
to explain. He was not in a mood to be alone. He wanted
company.

The interior of the church was familiar, for Jane had
made him attend regularly during his boyhood. He
listened to the Vicar begin reading the prayers, to the
responses of the congregation and to the singing of the
h3anns; and he began to feel that somehow, after all,
there was something soothing and restful here, if only to
be among the sounds of human voices and to be aiyare,
however remotely, of the presence of these people.

But very soon GriflE's thoughts had left the congregation
and his mind had forsaken the beautiful service.

There was a crooked grin around his mouth, for memory
had brought an impish picture to dangle before his eyes,
and very soon he was once again on the roadway glancing
over his shoulder at a girl putting out her tongue and mak-
ing faces, at a girl with long black stockings and yellow
hair cut in a straight line across her shoulder-blades. At
this moment she sat a few pews ahead of him, very correct
and prim, judging from her back. Her hair no longer
hung down, for it was gathered up — a thick plait doubled
up and secured by a big bow of black ribbon which

170

A GIRL 171

seemed to want to say: ** Wait a little while, and we're
going up altogether."

That big black bow of ribbon soon became more inter-
esting than the Vicar's cheery red face; the black hat
became more engrossing than the congregation; and the
colour of that peeping plait got more difficult than the
points of the optimistic sermon. Years ago the sweeping
yellow had been description enough to satisfy all boyish
demands ; but the search for a better word occupied as
long to-night as it took the Vicar to preach his sermon ; and
even then the description was not at all satisfactory, for
GriflE was weak in colours. Fair was one of his discoveries,
and very fair was the best effort to describe the colour of
that hair.

There were but two in the pew : the girl with the very
fair hair and the maid £rom the house accompanying
her.

At the end of the service GriflE watched her pull on her
dark long coat ; he saw her smile at the maid ; and then
his eyes were upon her as she came down the aisle towards
him. She was well built, rather tall ; her hair under the
big hat was — ^yes ! — ^very fair ; her eyes seemed to be grey ;
her features were inclined to be large ; a fine-looking girl.
Those grey eyes met his for a moment, trying to beat down
his glance. And then GriflE grinned, for she jerked around
her head, as though her neck had been a hinge, and as
though some memory had flashed through her mind.

GriflE walked homeward. On the way he passed her
and the maid. They would go as far as the stile fifty yards
or so beyond Garth, to the footpath forming a short-cut
over the brow of the hill to Wem.

GriflE was thinking. Girls were no longer girls as they
had been. Since last night and this afternoon they had
become beings holding vast possibilities for friendship.
He had seen this ^sA smile ; he had seen her eyes alight
with a warm intimacy as she had spoken to the maid ; and
he had seen the sudden jerk of her head when she failed to
lower his glance. He smiled as he remembered this. She
was antipathetic towards him ; she resented him ; she had
something against him. But that proved her mind and
feelings were of the active variety.

172 CHAPEL

Griff thought: "It's those blooming passive, inactive
people I can't stand/*

On the morrow commenced his new life, and very quickly
the period spent in the lawyers' ofl&ce sank into a dream.
He bought a complete set of drawing materials and some
books on building, and took for his own use the front room
at home, the one opposite his father's across the hall. For
the remainder of that season he played every Saturday for
the Cardiff Firsts, and generally met Saunders after the
match. He seemed to have left fooling behind, and only
rarely did Saunders and he have what they termed "a
night off," for the architect, too, had begun being busy.
Slowly, he was descending from the sky of his theories,
and already had his toes touched earth. Sometimes
Saunders would come to Garth on a Saturday evening and
remain till the last train on Sunday.

And so the months passed, and Easter came around
again.

It was during these Easter holidays Griff developed an
exceedingly warm friendship for young Owen, a boy of
sixteen, the Vicar's son, home from Llandovery on vacation.
Griff plied him with cigarettes, invited him to come and
watch the training for the next Saturday's match, found
him a seat on the Grand Stand to witness this match,
revived old memories of Llandovery, and discussed with
considerable humour those common foes — ^the schoolmas-
ters. And the cause of this abnormally warm friendship
was disclosed on the Sunday previous to young Owen's
return to school.

Owen and Griff were strolling together after Evening
Service in the direction of Garth.

"Wait a minute, will you?" Owen suddenly cried.
*' Here's Miss Hughes coming. P'raps I shan't see her again
before I go."

" Oh, aye ! Miss Hughes. Might give us an introduc-
tion, Owen, while you're about it."

" Don' you know her ? "

** Well, no, not exactly. Not to speak to her."

"Bight. She'll catch us up in a minute. . . . Hello,
Miss Hughes ! " Owen was now the boy who never smoked
cigarettes, the boy who won Greek prizes. " I waited

A GIRL 173

because I mightn't see you again." And then he hurried
through the introduction : " This-is-Mr.-Chapel-Miss-
Hughes ! "

The same process was repeated : the hold of glances and
the abrupt turning away of her head which said as plainly
as plainly : ** I don't want to get to know you."

Nevertheless, before Griff got into bed, he was thinking :
" What's her name ? What do they call her down the
village ? . . . Miss Bessie. That's it. But I prefer Bess.
Nothing jingly about it. Sort o' name for a good pal.
What do you make of it, young Griff ? Plenty of opposi-
tion in the air — what ? "

But the little chap's counsel was ever the same, unvary-
ing, like the laws of the Medes and Persians : " Shut yer
teeth, see ! That's all you got to do. And pretend you're
a little bit afraid— only you're not afraid, real, see ! But
you got to shut yer teeth — tight."

And in another bedroom in another house another
soliloquy was in progress : ** He's rough. He drinks. He's
wild. He's that horrid boy that made me put out my
tongue. I hate him — ^no, I don't. I don't think of him,
much less hate him."

And yet, oddly enough, next morning she took up the
West&rn Mail, and for the first time in her eighteen years
puzzled over the hieroglyphics of Rugby Football. The
terms were as Dutch to her, but she soon got to see that the
name Chapel appeared very often.

*' Chapel's tackling was as usual keen and vigorous," she
read. **The line was in danger when along tore Chapel
with one of his tiger springs. Chapel was invincible."

** Yes," she said sarcastically as she threw the paper one
side ; '' he might have written that last sentence himself.
He thinks he's so sure of everjrthing. The way he looks
at you ! I'll never speak to him again ; and if he
speaks to me, I'll take no notice of him. He was too wild
to be left in a lawyer's ofl&ce. BKs father took him from
there:*

The summer had come and gone since that night ; the
hayfields had been mown and their crops gathered ; the
autumn also had passed, the fruit-trees had given up their
fruit and the cornfields their golden harvests; the cold

174 CHAPEL

weather had arrived, and Griff's twenty-first birthday and
Christmas were approaching.

And during these intervening months Griff had been
busy. Much to the consternation of the Selection Com-
mittee and the Cardiff Football world he had retired from
the team. He had no time for training was the reason he
offered, and for all their pressure for a reconsideration of
his decision he had remained firm. Griff had finished with
active football. Saunders came sometimes, a converted
Saunders, and Griff had observed an intimacy springing up
between the young architect and his father. For some
reason he connected this fortnight's absence of his father
with Saunders.

Twice only during those months had he come into direct
contact with Bess, as he had labelled her in his mind.

The first time had been near Garth, when Griff, coming
from the opposite direction after a walk to the top of the
mountain, had encountered her and the maid on their way
from church. He had raised his hat and said, '' Gkxxl-
evening ! " and she had stifiBy inclined her head and
echoed, '* Gkxxl-evening ! " Sut it was the inclination of
her head had attracted Griff, for it expressed so compre-
hensively : '' I suppose I have to be polite ; but I wish that
boy Owen had not made the politeness necessary."

Inside the house Griff had held a consultation with his
younger self. '' Very pleasant young lady, isn't she ? "

Sut the younger GriiS simply drooped an eyelid, as one
might say, and thought the occasion not of sufficient im-
portance to warrant a repetition of his customary advice.

Their next meeting, however, showed a distinct advance.

" Gkxxl-evening, Miss Hughes ! "

** Good-evening."

" Been a nice day, hasn't it ? "

"Yes. it has."

THB OLD FAMILY COMING BACK

The younger people of Forth were a more enlightened
generation than their elders. Daring the last twenty
years the village had altered beyond all recognition ; and
now, instead of holding a few scattered little thatched cot-
tages, it consisted of rows of slated houses, several clusters
of semi-detached villas, and many respectably large houses
standing solitary on the outskirts.

This younger generation had discovered the world of
books, and soon they were deriding the intellectual paucity
of the place.

** Why can't we have a Public Library at Forth ? *'
these awakened children clamoured.

So loudly did they cry, and so persistently, that the
fathers of the village had been forced to scratch their
heads and promise : " We'll have a public meetin* on it."
Just like a coroner's inquest, these older people thought,
to proclaim beyond all cavil that the preposterous thing was
dead.

And so the public meeting was called.

The main room of the school was lighted for the occasion ;
men and women filled the desks drawn closely together for
the unusual number. The maps on the walls held no
terrible memories for the old men, but with the younger
ones it was different. They began to search for initials
carved years ago on the sloping desks ; they vainly strove
to shake off that bo3dsh awe with which the room was
associated. Unconsciously they began repeating, as they
glanced at the map of England and Wales above the
master's table : Flamborough Head in Yorkshire, The
Naze in Essex, and so on around the coast till their eyes
passed Sraich-y-FwU in Carnarvon and arrived at that

175

176 CHAPEL

Cape, whose name they had forgotten, in Cumberland.
And when the old Schoolmaster entered the room, peering
with those sharp eyes from under his bushy brows, the
illusion was complete, and they quaked in their cramped
position because they had forgotten the name of that C^pe
in Cumberland.

Sut abruptly the chatter of the audience ceased. Hughes
the agent, as a Magistrate and a District Councillor, took
the armchair behind the master's table, and supporting
him in similar armchairs were, on his right the Vicar and
the Minister, on his left the Schoolmast-er and Josiah
Chapel.

Hughes the agent was a short, stiffly-built man, with a
red face, grey hair beginning to get thin above his fore-
head, and grey tooth-brush moustache ; a stem, authorita-
tive, autocratic man; a man accustomed to having his
word regarded as law, a man used to rule. As Agent of the
South Wales portion of the great Blathwaite Estate he had
in his hands the fortunes of hundreds of farmers ; and count-
ing these and their retinues, Hughes might well be said to
be the master of a thousand destinies. When he spoke
Mr. Hughes stood stiffly erect, glancing around as though in
search of opposition on which he might immediately tread.
His voice was sharp and snappy, and his sentences were
clipped and brisk. In the intervals of speaking he coughed
a short barking cough, and he addressed the meeting in
Welsh.

** Ladies and Gentlemen I " He stood erect, aggres-
sively, behind the master's table, and Griflf, seated at the
back, wondered with a grin whether Hughes's daughter had
inherited her activity of feeling from her father.

'' Huh-a ! " Mr. Hughes coughed his barking cough as
he proceeded. ** I don't propose saying very much at the
beginning. Huh-a! You know why we are here. We
are here to consider the advisabiUty or the non-advisability
of building a Public Library in the parish. Huh-a ! Oi
course, I have my own private opinion on the matter, but
I should like to hear the feeling of the meeting — Huh-a I
— as I don't want to influence you in any way. Huh-a ! "
Mr. Hughes sat down, a very influential, if not an expert,

THE OLD FAMILY COMING BACK 177

orator. " Now then ! Somebody say something. We
haven't come here to look at one another. Huh-a ! "

Mr. Hughes settled down in his chair, surveyed his
audience and expressed very plainly, in GriflE's opinion :
** I'm complete master of this little lot."

GriflE, cramped up in the back row, listened to the opinions
of the older men ; original expressions they were, untouched
by culture, for these men spoke as they lived — close and
true to the wiles of nature. He listened to every speaker,
but almost could he have foretold the bias of their minds,
so familiar were they all to him. The younger householders,
speaking in English for the most part, stood in favour of
progress, a few of the older men siding with them, and the
others voicing the opinion : " We've been without these
trimmings all our lives ; we've never felt the need of them ;
so we don't see why you should want them."

Griff listened to the Schoolmaster, naturally on the side
of enlightenment ; to Hermon's young Minister, fiery in a
cause; to the Vicar, more non-committal with his leanings
to a physical rather than an intellectual ideal.

Then Hughes the agent got up to summarise the dis-
cussion, and while his sharp eyes pierced the audience, and
his thick tooth-brvsh moustache bristled, and as he bailed
his sharp aggressive cough. Griff studied the many-coloured
map and listened.

" Huh-a ! As usual in these meetings, there's nobody
come to the real point. Huh-a! Now the very first
thing I thought of was : Where's the money going to come
from ? Huh-a I " Then his eyes suddenly fell on Chapel
to his left. **What do yaa, think of this business, Mr.
Chapel ? You are an influential man, and a heavy rate-
payer. We'll hear what Mr. Chapel has got to say. A
responsible man," he added by way of a corrective to the
irresponsible ones. Coughing once again, he sat down.

Immediately, all eyes were upon Chapel, and none
more eagerly than Griff's. He watched his father rise,
a tall, dignified man, a mai]^ with a kind of weighty
importance in all his movements. Never before had his
father appeared to Griff as distinguished, but to-night there
seemed to be some majesty about him, some greatness of

178 CHAPEL

bearing as he stood towering above the others. His eyes
were so clear as they slowly ran in a comprehensive glance
across the audience, his face appeared graven, and the
wholesomeness and the virility of him set him as a man apart.
Griff listened to the calm, unemotional voice, and yet he
felt he had not seen his father just like this before. He
leaned forward and listened as though expecting some new
revelation of this man whose personality and force had
already gripped his audience.

" I have been trjdng to find out how badly these young
people want the library," said the deep voice quite evenly.
''And I think they're serious. I can understand why
there's so much opposition. The old people are against
it because it will increase the rates. And as far as I can
gather, the chairman is against it,- too."

'' I haven't said anything about it yet," Mr. Hughes
protested snappily.

But Chapel raised his hand deprecatingly, while Qriff
was inclin^ to wish these two old warriors would make a
straight fight of it. It would certainly be a struggle worth
witnessing. Griff thought.

But his father was speaking. Griff leaned forward.
He had caught some vibration in his father's voice, some
almost imperceptibly altered timbre in its notes.

** I am very proud of Forth. I am very jealous for
Forth." He stopped a moment, and Griff caught the
movement of his throat that showed he was swallowing
with an effort. " I was brought up in Forth. I have
always lived here. My — ^my family have always lived
here. They — ^they have always taken a big interest in the
place."

Griff was regarding him with open eyes. EQs quickened
ears throbbed in sympathy with the emotion that seemed
to fioat through the air to him from his father.

** Now ! " The strong voice rose in pitch. ** For the
sake of the old associations of my family, I am going to
make you an offer. The Farish Council can find the
money to support the Library if we can build it. Well, I
make this offer : I will build a Library and give it to you —
if the Council will do their share after."

THE OLD FAMILY COMING BACK 179

For a second the people seemed not to understand, and
then their applause commenced.

Chapel, on his way home, was thinking : " The old family's
coming back ! ''

The Library was nothing. The love of family was racing
through his blood. A part of the dream had come true.
For eighty years there had been the ruins, the old stock in
the dust of its decay. He had put life into the ruins, had
pumped life into dead bones, had once more begun to make
them a beautiful stability.

" Family ! Family ! " He murmured it with the blood
dancing through his brain. "The old family's coming
back ! "

And GriflF, also on his way home, had not recovered from
his astonishment. His father's munificence was insigni-
ficant beside the other discovery he had made. His father
had revealed his soul, and had plainly shown the ideal
which made him tread his way through the world. For
the first time in his life Griff saw his father as a human
being with great ambitions.

Griff was remembering the lessons old Betsy had for ever
been teaching him throughout his boyhood : " Your family
have always bin big men. And mind you now. Griff,
when you have growed up, you got to be a big man, too ! "

As he walked home beside the churchyard wall he was
saying to himself : ** Funny how we're working for the same
thing — and he won't have anything to do with me ! " And
now Griff saw the meaning of the relationship existing
between them. " The family's got to be built up at any
cost. I was incapable, and he threw me overboard."
Then the irony of their relation struck him and he grimly
smiled. ** Odd Old Stick," he breathed to himself. " But
he's a Big Man ! "

Very soon afterwards a committee was selected by the
Parish Council. A site was chosen on the c<wiier across
the road from the Farmer's, designs were submitted to the
committee and approved, and the building of the Library
began. On Chapel's recommendation Saunders was
appointed architect and, greatly to his surprise. Griff was

180 CHAPEL

placed in charge at an increased salary of three pounds ten
a week. Griff had no delusions, however ; he was a glori-
fied general foreman who had proved his efficiency.

The Library was progressing and Saunders was there on
one of his rare visits. He and Griff were in the small
office whose window — broader than it was high — ^looked
down upon the white-washed front of the Farmer's and
upon the lych gate farther to the right.

*' Come up the road a bit, Saunders. IVe got something
I want to show you/*

But what a metamorphosed Saunders stepped so
jauntily down the plank from the office ! Gone was the
beaver hat. No longer the butterfly tie flapping in the
breeze. No longer the pale face, either. He wore a bowler
hat, a Christian tie, ate beef, and walked like an energetic
Philistine. Saunders was earning money, quite a lot of it,
and liked it.

They went together, past the school and Hermon, some
distance farther along — two alert young men, prosperous
and well-groomed : Griff sturdy and getting broader across
the shoulders ; Saunders slight and sprightly.

They stopped after a few mintues, and looked over the
hedge of a garden where fruit-trees were already beginning
to shed their leaves. In among the trees the white walls
of a cottage glistened in the autumn sunlight, and over the
walls, like a cap, fitted the brown thatch of the roof.

" I bought this lot the other day,'* said Griff, nodding
at the house and the garden and ihe fruit-trees. '' The
old woman died a couple of months ago, and the children
started squabbling; — so they sold it."

'^Freehold?'*

" Aye. I'm going to pull this down and put two up
instead. I want you to give me a rough design — bit of
Dutch about it, you know — red tiles on the roof and white
rough-cast walls — something pretty. Chance for you with
your ideas of beauty, Saunders."

Saunders grinned. " Got a tape ? " he asked very un-
romantically as he felt the outsides of his coat pockets.

" Shouldn't be surprised if your father gave up his
present business before long," he remarked as they walked
back.

THE OLD FAMILY COMING BACK 181

"Gave it up? I don't think so. Here's this library.
Take somethii^ to fill that hole in his banking account."

" I wouldn't mind betting he'll be in Ferro-Concrete
before another year's passed."

" Well — let me know if it comes about. I might do
myself a bit of good," Griff suggested.

XVI

OPPOETUHTTY

At this time Saunders was hard at work specialising
in Ferro-Concrete, and his enthusiasm filled all Ms conver-
sations. Chapel and he naturally had much in common,
and sometimes, during those week-end visits, they would
cross the hall into Chapel's room and continue the talk
commenced at dinner. During these conversations Griff
would leave them together, retire to his own den or stroll
alone on his favourite walk to the top of the mountain, for
at home there existed no bond whatsoever between him
and his father.

Chapel and Saunders would sit together in the lamp-
light, with the pedestal desk behind and the fire in front of
them, both with their knees crossed. Chapel smoking his
after-dinner pipe and Saimders his cigarette. Chapel was
interested in these conversations; his keenness kept him
alert to all fresh possibilities of his business, and although
he distrusted the long hair and the butterfly tie — ^tl^y
were effeminate in his opinion and clashed with his own
extreme masculinity — ^he very soon discovered that this
young man with the pale face knew what he was talking
about. Not only was he an expert on paper, but he had
the practical principles of his profession on his finger-tips.
And if there was anything in the world Chapel appreciated
in his hard way, it was efficiency, a man master of his
craft.

" And what's this Ferro-Concrete you're talking about ? "
he asked one night £rom the depths of his black leather
armchair as he smoked his pipe after dinner. '' I've
heard a good bit about it lately."

And Saunders had explained. Really, he said, the
thing was simple enough. Cement and sand mixed — ^like

182

OPPORTUNITY 183

mortar — ^in certain proportions ; that was the idea. And
then he went on to explain how, in order to get the concrete
to bind, iron bars were embedded in it. *' These iron bars
bind the whole thing together, d'ye see, Mr. Chapel ? They
put the necessary spring into it as well, to meet all vibra-
tions, as in a bridge, for instance."

CSiapel got more interested still when Saunders had
instructed him further ; and when he had studied books on
the subject he was completely enamoured.

Later, when Saunders was in touch with a firm of paten-
tees, he became more explicit. '* But there's nothing like
seeing the actual thing. Look here, Mr. Chapel, I'm
putting the finishing touches to my own education. Take
a holiday and come with me for a fortnight."

Among other places, they visited the North of England
and found themselves in the midst of the construction of a
sea-wall and a pier. They watched the making of those
long wooden boxes and the filling of them with concrete
which when set would be long pillars known as piles ; and
then they watched the heavy steam-hammer driving these
piles down and down to support the foundations of the
sea-wall in the shifty ground. In the Midlands they saw a
huge bridge spanning a river and across which the heavy
traffic was already rolling. They journeyed to London
and visited a Cold Stores, a massive grey-brown building,
complete and manufacturing ice that very day. But the
place of greatest interest was the Ferro-Concrete Exhibi-
tion at Bristol, where all the varieties and the possibilities
of the new material were shown. And what especially
appealed to Chapel was the houses put up and standing
there as exhibits.

Immediately after the tour Saunders had commenced
work for a London firm owning valuable patents. The
firm consisted of two partners : Gregory, an elderly man
of the old school, and Launce, a pushing, bustling man of
forty.

" Mr. Saunders ! " Mr. Gregory had said in his genial way
one morning. " We've got the chance of some work out-
side Cardiff. Do you know of a solid man who would take
up the contracts ? No riff-raff, mind ! We want to open
out in South Wales, and we've got no-one there,"

184 CHAPEL

Saunders mentioned Chapel, and the matter reached a
head on one glorious afternoon in early spring. Saunders
had made an appointment and Mr. Gregory was coming to
see Chapel. Iliey walked together through the village :
the metamorphosed Saunders and the gentlemanly little
man in his morning coat and silk hat.

'' Presented it to the parish you say ? ** asked Mr. Gregory
as they passed the Library with its imposing entrance :
the doorway with its two small arches suppwted by three
pillars under a main arch.

Chapel welcomed them, and immediately placed Mr.
Gregory. He held a high opinion of these business men
of the old school. There was no bluster about them ; but
appearances, as Chapel knew, were deceptive, and under
the geniality of this old gentleman's manner there must
most certainly lie as acute a brain as one might wish to
find.

After tea, Saunders and Griff left the other two to them-
selves. Mr. Gregory offered his cigar case, but CSiapel
declined, preferring his pipe.

'* So do I, too, Mr. Chapel," concurred Gregory as he
sank into the armchair in the study. '' There's nothing
to my fancy like an old-fashioned briar pipe." So he dug
his hand into the capacious pocket hidden somewhere in
his coat-tails and in a moment they were both very com-
fortably smoking.

For some time they talked — of anything and ever3rthing
but business, as is the busiuess man's idiosyncratic way.
But Mr. Gregory's merry little eyes had been busy ever
since they had flighted on the trim maid who had opened
the door an hour ago. They had observed the orderliness
and the air of solid prosperity about the place. And now,
as he sat back in the armchidr, his small hands sometimes
stroking his white hair, and his clean-shaven lips constantly
making puffing little noises as he puffed at his pipe, he looked
across the hearth and studied Obapel.

" Now then, Mr. Chapel ! "

The little eyes had suddenly lost their merriness, the
lips had ceased making the puffing little noises, and tiie
little body had put an end to lolling back, for it now leant
forward very eagerly with its elbows on its thighs. The

OPPORTUNITY 186

smoking had been finished, and the pipe had disappeared
into that capacious pocket hidden in the coat-tails. But the
manner was always genial and the voice was always quiet
and low.

" I'm going to make a long speech," Mr. Gregory said in
his nice way.

He made his long speech and ended by saying —

" Take those two bridges, and you'll never regret it.
You're a made man already, but you must have seen what
prizes there are in Ferro-Concrete. Take these two
bridges as a start, and we'll do everjrthing we can to help
you."

Mr. Gregory took out his green silk handkerchief and
methodically wiped his forehead.

** Well ! " Ciapel got up and stood on the rug.
** I'm going to be quite open with you. I'd like to take
' these bridges. But — I've got two big contracts on hand
now, and I must finish them. And by then I suppose you
will have found somebody else. If it wasn't for these
houses I wouldn't hesitate a minute; but as it is, it's
no good talking." He placed his pipe on the mantel-
piece. " What do you say to a walk for a bit of fresh
air?"

Gregory stared at him, amazed at the finality.

But when Gregory and Saunders were gone, Chapel
found himself possessed by a disquieting mood, for his
philosophy of life had just undergone a rude, abrupt
modification.

He had already thoroughly studied the several aspects
of Ferro-Concrete and had estimated the financial possi-
bilities it held. As a builder he had generally counted
his profits in hundreds, whereas a Ferro-Concrete con-
tractor might confidently anticipate thousands. His
imagination had leapt at the prospect ; he would be work-
ing and living on a much larger scale. As Gregory had
said, there would be tremendous interests involved. In-
stead of employing a few hundred there would in a very
few years be thousands of men. The organiser, the mana-
ger, in him delighted in the prospect. Building a house,
however large, was nothing to him now ; he had exhausted

186 CHAPEL

it; he was bigger than it. He wanted new enterpriseg
to risk, to explore, and to master.

But the only possible means of going ahead in this case
was riding rough-shod through agreements, and that he
could not do. However mercilessly he trampled on those
who got in his way, he was scrupulously straight in his
business transactions. He had an imbending respect
for obligations which partly explained his success; his
word was as safe as a bai^. And besides, he was not
a fool to destroy his personal credit; his instinct as a
business man forbade that.

" Damn ! " He growled and swore imder his breath.
** To be stopped by such an infernal thing as this ! " He
was angry and disappointed, inwardly fuming at the
helplessness of his own creation.

Griff, on the other hand, returning after seeing Gregory
and Saunders off in the train, was in a mood of elation,
every nerve of him alive. For two years he had been
playing a waiting game, leading a negative existence, but
waiting — ^always coolly waiting for that one instant of
opportunity which was boimd to come. Sooner or later,
life would give him an opening. It might have been a
long game of football lasting two years. And now like
a flash that moment of opportunity had come, as it was
bound to come. The baU of chance was flying in the
air in his direction; the responsibility of the next move
depended upon him. life had given him the opening.

He walked into his father's room and spoke to him for
the first time at home for two years. He walked into the
study and closed the door behind him. '' I want to talk
to you for five minutes."

His father took the pipe from his mouth and with one
of those cold glances pierced Griff standing by the side
of the desk, strong, vital, alert, ready to attack. But his
father did not speak.

" Mr. Gregory said you would take up those contracts
if it wasn't for those two houses you're building now. Is
that right ? "

For a moment there was no answer. His father. was
running his eyes over him as if resentfully taking his
measure. " Yes," he grunted at last ; ** it is."

OPPORTUNITY 187

Griff discerned the weakness of the opposing side's
defence. " If you got somebody to take those houses off
your hands you could ''

" What are you talking about ? "

" I'm going to make an offer if you listen."

" Oh ! " Chapel's Up was curling. " Make me an offer,
are you ? "

Griff disregarded the sneer. He was too deadly earnest
to pick at trifles. *' Yes. If I took those houses, you
could go on."

*' That's my business." He opened his pouch and began
filling his pipe.

But GriflE was roused. " I know your position exactly.
You think if I went smash, you'd be drawn in."

His father looked up, knowing from experience, now,
that Griff was not lightly to be pushed aside. " Well,
since you understand, that's it exactly."

" I know. But I'm not going to smash. You are not
the only man in the world that can succeed."

" That won't be much consolation if you do smash ! "

" No ; I know. But since you want to go into Ferro-
concrete, it doesn't say much for you if two houses can
beat you ! "

That blow struck home.

But Chapel knew Griff would not have approached
him without some sensible suggestion. That was one
thing about the youngster : he seemed to have his head
screwed on the right way. " What's this offer you're
talking about ? "

" Ph"st of all — d'you think I could carry on those two
houses myself ? "

" Yes," in fairness he had to admit ; " I think you
could." He gave the answer grudgingly, but he knew it
was true.

" The only thing in the way is, that you might be
drawn into a smash ? "

" That's it ; and I'm not going to be."

"Would three thousand pounds be enough to cover,
supposing I did go smash ? "

For the first time Chapel showed real interest. " What's
that 1 Say it again."

188 CHAPEL

" Now I'm coming to my ofifer. Let me have those
two houses to finish them, and I'll deposit the deeds of
that land and the houses I've got, as well as the rest of

uncle's three thousand I'll deposit those in the bank

in your name. Is that good enough ? "
" And what do you want to get out of it ? "
His father spoke to him on an equality now, and Griff
knew he was prepared to deal. '* I want a fair share of
the profits — a quarter on this house that will be up in
three months, and three-quarters on the other one. And
I want to use your name for a year till I get on my feet."
" And how long is this security to be on my name ? "
** Till those two houses are finished. You'll know by
then whether I'm going to smash or not."

Chapel sprang to his feet. '* I take you," he said.
** But mind, as I told you before, if you go to the devil,
you go your own way. If you sma^sh I take that money
to cover myself. We'll go to Cardiff on Monday and have
it put down in black and white."

XVII

BESS

" That's my favourite walk. When I played footer
I used to go to the top of the mountain neariy every night."

" You don't play now, then ? "

She knew quite well he did not, for she had read about
it in the Western Mail,

Griff had waylaid Miss Hughes on her journey home
from church, on one of those fortunate nights when she
chanced to be alone. It had become a habit with him
on a Sunday night to watch just before six o'clock whether
the maid accompanied her, to time the end of the service,
leave Garth, cross the stile, and walk slowly along the foot-
path towards Wem. It was a simple trick, and for some
reason or other the maid did not accompany her as often
now ; perhaps it was because she was older. At first she
had been very short in her manner, but persistence is a
wonderful thing. Rebuff had no effect whatsoever upon
Griff; he knew the value of waiting. " No good rushing
life," as he often told himself; " let her alone and she'll
always turn up trumps."

" No, I don't play now," he answered as they went
together up the sloping field. ** Too much work. I'm
half sorry, though. Always used to feel so fit. You know
the kind of feelLig — ^like to knock somebody down. Ever
felt it?"

" Indeed, I haven't. A most horrid kind of feeling, I
should think."

" Oh no ! Doesn't make you feel a bit savage." Griff
was looking at her from the comers of his eyes and was
quietly laughing. " I forgot, though ! Girls and women
don't Uke rough things, do they ? "

" I've never thought of it." She was not quite as tall

189

190 CHAPEL

as GrifE, but she had such a way of tUting back her head
that her grey eyes gave the effect of looking down upon
him. " If any one wants to be rough, it's nothing to do
with me."

" Very pleasant young lady," Griff was thinking. " But
we're getting on." Aloud he said : " But we were talk-
ing about walks ! Don't you ever go for walks ? Walking,
you know, is a rattling exercise."

" Sometimes I walk from the house along here. It's
very nice, especially if it's a starry night."

** Must be fine."

" And now you're not to come any further. And don't
talk to me again. I'm always late if I meet you."

They had reached a gateway the length of two fields
from Wem.

" Good-night," she said.

Griff looked into the grey eyes; they were actually
smiling, and they seemed to be saying very distinctly:
** You think you're very clever, don't you ? "

" Good-night," he answered, and he watched her go.

" Got her. By God ! Got her. Did you see that,
young Griff? The miracle's happened; the oracle's
smiled. ' Sometimes I walk along here,' " he mused on his
way home; " 'it's very nice, especially if it's a starry
night.' "

Bess's little world was all astir.

Ever since returning from school she had been some-
what dissatisfied with her surroundings. For fourteen
years of her life Wem had been the universe; its little
roimd had been the world; its habits the world's habits
and its thoughts the world's thoughts. Everything was
rigid and regular, moving in set grooves with no unex-
pected deviations. Everyone got up at a certain hoiur;
her father returned every day at the same hoiur; her
mother supervised the household in exactly the same
way every day ; every maid had her allotted tasks. The
Utile world worked like a clock ; the organisation was so
perfect. Sometimes it was dif&cult to tell the days, so
alike they were ; and to make sure you looked at the top
of the newspaper or at the calendar. And there were
certain things you had to do, and certain things you had

BESS 191

not to do — everything so defined ; almost could you have
lived without any brains at all.

But school altered all those ideas.

The girls Bess met there lived in quite a different world.
Their minds were broad and free, and the only restriction
was their own good sense. And they had been fine girls,
high-minded girls, not the least bit loud and boisterous.
They seemed not to have inherited any clogging con-
ventions ; they never had any knowledge of that " setting
an example " to the lower grades of humanity such as
was constantly being taught at Wem. Here at Wem
one was taught that all eyes were upon one, and to live
in fear of setting a wrong example and of crossing the
bounds of proi)er behavioiur.

So, at home after her school life, Bess was at terrible
war with her surroundings. But she often told herself :
" I am a coward ; I'm an awful coward."

She could not shake off those early impressions. She
knew those early impressions were wrong and narrow, but
she could not shake them off. She told herself that she
obeyed her mother too slavishly and that her father's
dominion over her was too autocratic ; but she knew she
had not the courage to revolt openly.

** I'm a coward," she would think. " But I'll break out
some day, see if I don't ! "

And then Griff commenced pushing himself into her
life. Strangely enough, she had immediately sided with
the old-fashioned upbringing. All the distrust of a wild
free spirit awoke ; all the narrow prejudices of the Puri-
tanical rearing crowded through her mind. Griff was wild ;
he drank, and would probably develop into a drunkard.

Besides, the history of the Chapels was a part of the
neighboiirhood's gossip, and especially since Josiah Chapel
had established himself so firmly. The family and all
its past were frequently and openly discussed. There
were dark pages in the family's history, and everyone
knew of that old talk of the curse. And curses very often
skipped one generation to reassert themselves in the next.
In this light had some of the good people discussed Griff's
youthful escapades. There had been a devil in him when
he was a boy, the older folk remembered ; if there chanced

192 CHAPEL

to be any mischief he was sure to be in it — somewhere.
When he had left Llandovery to go to the office in CardiflE,
he had broken loose properly. The curse was coming
back. They watched him, sometimes riding along the
lanes on one of his father's ponies, or driving the light gig ;
and most graphically were tales revived of that old Daniel
Chapel, years and years ago, who had driven on his solitary
madcap drives, a terror to the mothers of small children.
Oh yes ! This yoimgest of the Chapels would carry on
the traditions well enough. True, he was sober in his
wild rides, but he was young yet; the old spirit was in
him without a doubt. And did not these fresh tales
travel all the way from CardifiE ? And had not the good
people seen him, if not actually drunk, very shaky on his
legs as he walked from the station to his home ?

Forth was a small place, and this gossip could not fail
to filter through to all ears. Certainly, it had reached
Bess.

But he had not interested her at all imtil yoimg Owen
introduced him. He was but a part of that vague mist
somewhere on the edge of her subconsciousness. Imme-
diately she had spoken to him, however, she began to think
of him. He was too forceful a being to pass unnoticed,
but her thoughts were not the least bit complimentary.

" He's too wild to be left in a lawyer's office. His
father took him from there ! "

But the forces against Bess were too strong.

His very wickedness intrigued her, as Griff would have
said. This spark of the devil assigned to him just that
courage which she lacked herself. Most likely he delighted
in shocking these punily virtuous people and quietly
grinned while he did it. He could grin in a very self-
satisfied way, she had already observed. He seemed the
sort to scoff at and set no value upon the opinions of others ;
he seemed so self-contained, so sure of his own strength.
After all, however bad he was, he stood for this larger
fraternity of tolerance and broadmindedness.

Another of the forces against her was that love of ad-
venture within herself — ^that curiosity of her sex. Boys
were strange to her. All those months when she had
bimply passed the time of day to him, she was filled with

BESS 193

the old distrust ; but the love of adventure, the curiosity,
the instinctive female inquisitiveness, condoned in a most
distressing manner and slowly built a pedestal for him.

So far had matters developed that on this particular
Sunday night she had unbent so far as to smile, to
throw out a challenge, which GriflE had not failed to under-
stand : " You think you're very clever, don't you ? "
And by this impish challenge both knew that a very great
barrier had been broken down. A touch of humour, like
a warming breath, had stolen into the acquaintanceship.
Indeed, something of the kind was inevitable after the
previous confidence : ** Sometimes I walk from the house
along here."

And Griff, eating his supper, had pondered : " I wonder
will there be any stars out to-morrow night ? "

xvni

THE ELIGIBLE PARTY

Gbiff stood on the patch of black ashes in front of
his bungalow of an office, having just arrived from the
other house he had commenced building a month ago.
He stood, a sturdy figure in his navy-blue suit, scanning
with sharp calculating eyes the massive house twenty
yards ahead of him. The scafEold poles were being taken
down.

** It's going on," he thought with pleasure, and, turning,
walked smartly through the lobby and entered the room
on the left, once his father's.

The athlete was still evident as the ashes cnmched
under his feet, but he had grown broader and stronger
and deeper-chested.

He crossed the small room and, after hanging his bowler
hat, came back and sat at the table, crossed his feet, and
took up the bundle of green invoices put there for his
inspection.

There were the same wholesomeness and cleanness about
him : the navy-blue suit, the double collar, the dark tie,
the gold cuflf-links, his brown hair cut short with the
wave only just discernible. But there was a change in
the face bending over the invoices; and especially here,
amid his work, was the change so noticeable. All the
rawness and unripeness had gone ; his lips were no longer
roimd like a boy's nor were his cheeks so smooth. His
countenance, broad, with the eyes rather far apart, had
set at last ; and there were a few lines beginning to show,
in particular those two upright lines on the base of his
forehead above the hooked nose. Once one had the im-
pression of a coimtry face, of a farmer's face; but the

194

THE ELIGIBLE PARTY 195

small moustache, severely clipped at the ends, now rather
modified that impression; it gave a smarter, somewhat
more aristocratic, if supercilious, air to his general appear-
ance. Griff had gone into the serious business of life, and
^ life according to its habit had begun stamping its die upon
him.

Not that life nor its seriousness had overwhelmed
him ! It meant that life demanded hard fighting, that
was all. Two years had gone since he had deposited his
possessions in the bank, and since his agreement with
his father had been put into '' black and white " ; and
during that time Griff had obtained real glimpses of life's
eccentricities.

" It's a game ; it's a game ! "

That was his idea of life, but, nevertheless, a serious
and a hard game ; not a bitter game, but a hard grueUing
affair, in which a man was bound to win did he possess
the necessary pluck and endurance. And in that spirit
Griff wa43 fighting.

He put the invoices back on the table, got up, wriggled
his legs to get his trousers into shape, and walked to the
window, where he stood awhile quietly breathing and
looking across at the labourers taking down the scaffold
poles. Under his sm£Jl moustache there was the suspicion
of a smile, and into his eyes had come that look of
dctre-devilry which seemed to have become a part of
him.

There was fun in fighting; there was enjoyment to
be had out of it.

He dug his hands deep into his trousers pockets
and looked across at the house. Sound of the men's
voices coming in through the open door was as music to
him.

The two houses taken off his father's hands had been
completed long ago and Griff had not passed through —
not even had a glimpse of the Bankruptcy Court. And
here, by glancing through the window, he could see another
fight in progress — ^the roof on already, and very soon he
would be counting up the profits.

*' Come in ! " And GriS went back to the table to

196 CHAPEL

meet Graig waiting there obsequiously, blinking his eyes.
Griff dug a finger into the invoices and cast one of his
cold calculating glances into Graig's bloodshot eyes.
" Got this stuff up from the station ? " His voice was
clear and firm with all the hollowness gone!.

" Yes, Mr. Chapel. Got the last load up after dinner."

Graig had never been able to form a reliable estimate
of his new master. He was young and very efficient.
There was something about him very cheery and breezy,
but that impression could not be trusted, for in his eyes
there was always that suggestion of '' spoiling for a
row."

And that dare-devilry, that constant readiness to
fight, made Graig very uncertain as to the best way of
treating the guvner. Graig solved the difficulty by being
obsequious.

Giiff went to sit at the table. '' Everything going all
right?"

Now the tone was breezy, for the hauling of all that
material from the station meant that Graig had been
really busy. Graig brightened. " Everything up to the
mark."

"Those men are a bit slow with those poles." Griff
sprang to his feet. '' We'll go an' wake 'em up a
bit."

" Yes, Mr. Chapel." Graig trotted to get the guvner^s
hat.

Instinctively, Griff stepped out smartly, and at his
heels ran the dilapidated Graig. Graig was now Griff's
little dog, and his chief concern was to keep secure his
position as general foreman with its wages of three pounds
a week.

After a time Griff came back to the office, and stood
again by the window, idly rolling a pencil between his
fingers and gazing a^slant through the window, past the
comer of the new house, at the distant landscape.

He had every cause to be pleased with himself, and,
considering everything, he had no reason to complain
He was twenty-four.

He wondered !

THE ELIGIBLE PARTY 197

He was not exactly a nobody. And his interests in
other directions also were broadening. Next week he
was contesting an election for a seat on the District Council,
and he had not much fear of the result because his father's
munificence over the library would help him immensely,
and there was the old stability of the family which every
one seemed to be recalling just now.

As far as he could gather from his canvass of the
voters, they all appeared of the opinion that the Chapels
had a sort of hereditary right to govern the affairs of the
neighbourhood.

WeU, then?

It should not be so impossible. What was the accepted
term? That's it — an digibh party. Was he an eligible
party?

" Damn the eligible."

But it was no use approaching the subject in that way ;
this was a serious matter. Griff kicked the leg of the
table and grinned.

That was how the world would look at it, however
much he grinned; and that was how old Hughes would
look at it, too— if he condescended to look at it at all,
which Griff had grave reason to doubt.

Bess would certainly be an eligible party, and a very
desirable one into the bargain. Some day or other she
would be the owner of Wem and Penlan, without mention-
ing her father's solid cash. It was all very well being
emotional, but there were occa^sions when Griff could be
extremely calculating. Bess held in her person the possi-
bility of enabling Griff to bring the Chapels back to
Wem, of permanently re-establisMng the family in its old
surroundings. And during these last two years Bess
and he had become great friends. He was meeting her
to-night.

"Wouldn't I be a mug," he told himself as his eyes
gazed through the window at the distant landscape, " if
I let this chance go ? Here's life chucking it in my face.
. . . We'll make Mr. Josiah open his eyes one of these
days. Bringing back the family, is he! . . . 'Nuff said,
young Griff."

198 CHAPEL

Gdff smiled understandin^y under his small brown
moustache and went out.

Outside, he beekoned to Graig who came immediately,
trotting at his master's command.

" I'm off. And if I'm not here in the morning, shove
those men on. . . . Good-night, Graig."

" Good-night, Mr. Chapel ! "

Graig smiled and blinked his eyes in a frightful hurry
of delight. The guvner was in a good humour.

XIX

A PUGNACIOUS DOCTRINB

It was very dark when GrifE left home that night at
half-past eight, and as he descended the steps he felt a
fine drizzling rain being blown into his face by the keen
March wind.

One of Bess's virtues was her punctuality, and within
a minute of Griflf's arrival at the second gate from Wem,
which had always been their meeting-place, she came.
She had on a long grey waterproof cape reaching almost
to the groimd ; she wore no hat, but the hood of the cape
was drawn over her head. Her hair and the edge of the
hood formed an oval frame to her face. And she carried
an umbrella. She was not quite so much of a coward
now, and she was rather proud of the fact. She defied
parental authority to the extent of prolonging her meetings
with Griflf to the length of an hour ; and when her mother
asked her where she had been she was able to answer
without a blush : ** For a walk."

" But I'm an awful liar," as she told Griff; " and it's
all your fault."

And Griff, with his comforting philosophy, would sub-
mit : ** But you've been for a walk; so it's not a lie."

He opened the gate for her when she came. " You
won't get wet ? " he asked, glancing up and down the
length of her grey cloak.

** No, and I have very strong boots on." There was
something boyish about her voice and smile as she looked
at Griff. ** But this grass isn't very nice, is it ? " By
this time she had imbibed a great deal of Griff's masculine
freedom; and generally when with him she was very
brave.

^Griff took the umbrella. " Let's go out to the road."

199

200 CBAFEL

They walked along under the umbrella, Bess a little
shorter than C^iS, their shoulders sometiiiies bumping as
they went.

" I must get back in time, you know, GnS. None of
your silly tricks and keeping me late, now ! "

"That's right. You blame me. Funny isn't it — "
he grinned at her — " but it's always my fault. Ever
noticed ? "

" Well, it is. If it weren't for you I shouldn't be here
now — and I shouldn't get those black looks at home.
And 111 have to tell another lie to-night again."

" Tell the truth, then."

** Tes, I can just imagine Mrs. Hu^es's face. ' Please,
mother ! I've been with that Griff Chapel ! ' She'd have
a fit. . . . Seriously thou^, Griff, I'll have to stop seeing
you."

" Oh, aye ! "

" It's all very well to talk like that." Her tone had
grown more earnest. " They're bound to find out some
day, and then there'll be an awful row."

" You're old enough to do as you like, surely ? "

** I daresay that's how it seems to you. But you don't
know. You've got an idea what father is like — ^and
mother's about the same where I am concerned. . . .
I'm a coward — ^that's the fact; I'm a beastly coward.
I ou^t to do as I like ; but I don't, and there you are ! "

This was an old spectre — ^the only one that ever came
between them now. They walked on in silence.

" You ought to be canvassing, Griff," Bess said suddenly
as they began mounting the MQ.

" Prefer being here."

They at last reached the small bridge crossing the
brook. This was the spot where they often halted when
they walked id this direction ; a lonely, dark, unfrequented
spot, for very few used this road to the mountain in the
night. Overhead were the trees whose spreading branches
spanned the roadway. Here on their *right was the stone
wall of the bridge, and by bending over the low parapet
they could watch the water tumbling from the culvert
to the pool down below; and this miniature waterfall
kept up a constant roar, shutting out all other sounds.

A PUGNACIOUS DOCTRINE 201

Both leaned over for a moment, glancing down at the
splashing water, of which only specks of white foam were
visible in the darkness. Their elbows touched as they
rested on the curved top of the wall.

" Has it stopped raining ? " Bess stepped outside the
cover of the umbrella and looked up into the dark branches
of the tree overhead.

** You can't make up your mind. That's what's the
matter, isn't it ? " asked Griff when she was satisfied that
the fine drops were still falling.

Bess turned to him. " Can't make up my mind ? What
for?"

*' WeU— to go for them."

Bess smiled. " That's just like you," she said. " Go
for them ! " she repeated to herself, still smiling.

" I haven't told you before," said Griff; " but I'U teU
you now. I had a proper row with my father about four
years ago, and I thought it all out then."

" Do you mean you quarrelled with your father ? "

** Oh, proper set-to ! We never talk to each other
now. OiJy spoken to him once at home for four years,
and that was when I offered to take two houses off his
hands."

Bess came near, curious. *' Hasn't he been helping you
then, since you've been a contractor yourself ? "

** No. He told me to go to the devil my own way."
Griff laughed. ** But this is what I was going to tell
you, because I thought it all out then. Everybody's got
what you might call an individuality, and everybody's
duty is to keep it. If anybody tries to crush you, you've
got to fight, and fight like blazes. You have always got
to fight, that's the truth of it."

** Fight?"

" Yes. Fight against things. That's what life is."

" But don't you believe in Fate ? If things are to
happen, they're bound to."

*' Rotten idea. No fun in that. May as well go and
sleep straight away. Won't do for me."

'* You mean, of course, that because I feel opposed to
my parents, I ought to fight against them ? "

'' That's the hammer. That's the idea."

202 C3HAPEL

" But I'm not sure it's right to be opposed to them."

"You start fighting," urged Griff, "and then you'll
see the fun. When I was a nipper I used to have no end
of fights. If you only knew what it was to feel the 8kin
scraping off your knuckles against the other chap's teeth —
Lord ! — ^you'd know what fun is ! And that's why I
used to like football. Bowling a giant of a fellah over
like a ninepin, and going for the line, boring yer way
through with yer head! You start," he enticed her;
" then you'll see the fun."

Bess had drawn back a step. " You're a regular brute,
Griff," sfye told him.

" But-— er — er Girls and women are not like that,

are they?"

Bess continued softly to smile ; this was a new side of
Griff ; something so different from herself.

" Come along," she said in a moment, " or I shall be
late and have a worse row than ever. . . . You're a funny
beggar. Griff ! " she told him as they went down the hill.
She adopted a phrase from his stock sometimes.

" He's only a great big boy," she told herself later when
alone. " You start fighting," she remembered from his
teachings, " and then you'll see the fun."

She smiled a softly superior, indulgent smile, such as
only women can.

ON THE COUNCIL

" I WANT you to support me on this motion."

It was a District Council meeting, and Griff was whisper-
ing to the man sitting on his left.

" What lines are you going to take ? " asked his neigh-
bour.

Griff grinned crookedly. "Wait till I start; you'll
soon find out."

And with that Griff sprang to his feet.

For a second he glanced around the large oval table
almost filling the floor of the room, and saw about him
the fifteen members who could so easily be divided into
three groups : the landed gentry well fed and superior ;
the prosperous tradesmen obese and self-satisfied; and
the four or five labour members. After his eyes had
swiftly run around the portraits hanging on the walls
they settled on the Chairman there some distance on his
right at the head of the oval table — ^Mr. Hughes the agent.

" We have been told very clearly by you, Mr. Chair-
man," Griff began in his dehberate, cool way, " that this
proposed new road from here to those collieries is a matter
of the utmost importance. I quite agree. I quite agree
as you do that this particular road would bring business
to this side instead of allowing it to go into a town which
holds no interest for us as a Council. It is a road that
should be constructed." With a glance around the table,
he added : " I can quite understand the readiness of the
Council to spend money on it. But "

The other men sat up, knowing that now was coming
the sting of Chapel's criticism.

" But " Griff proceeded, quite as calmly, emphasising

every word — ** what occurred to me as you and other

203

204 CHAPEL

gentlemen discussed this proposal — ^what occurred to me
was this : It is not only the public who are going to benefit.
I have been looking into this matter, and I find that
right away from here, right away through the three miles
of country to the collieries, that road will pass through
property belonging to Mr. Blathwaite."

Most of his fellow-coimcillors leant forward eagerly.
They were never quite sure what to expect from tlds
lithe, healthy-looking, spruce young man, who had not
been on the Council for more than two years. He seemed
to fear nothing and nobody.

Griff watched Hughes, and he saw that the effect of
his remark was immediate. He saw the usually red face
get redder with anger, and in a flash Hughes had leapt
to his feet, storming with rage.

" What's that got to do with it ? " he shouted,

** If you will allow me to go on, Mr. Chairman," Griff
pleaded in an aggravating coolness. ..." That's ad-
mitted ? ** he appealed to the others.

** Well, then ! This is my position : Mr. Blathwaite
is a very estimable man, a man highly respected in the
district, and a man who takes a great interest in us, and
who has done a great deal for us as a locality. I have
a great respect for Mr. Blathwaite, but I venture to beUeve
that he would be the last, if he knew of the scheme, to
expect us to vote public money for the development of
his private estate. Because that is what this road is
going to do. And I have a shrewd idea — " he boldly
threw out the challenge to Hughes — " that is the reason
why our Chairman, who is, as we all know, Mr. Blathwaite's
very efficient agent — ^that is the reason why he is so eager
to push forward the construction of this new road."

But Hughes could not restrain himself longer. It
seemed as though Griff with his shafts had pierced very
raw spots indeed. " D'you know — d'you know you're
insulting me ? " he shouted, forgetting the dignity of his
eminence as Chairman. " D'you know what you're
suggesting ? "

" I am not suggesting anything," Griff replied with
provoking coolness, watching the bristling of the white
tooth-brush moustache.

ON THE COUNCIL 205

It was then Hughes forgot himself. " I forbid you to
speak — ^I forbid you," he cried. His features worked with
uncontrollable emotion.

Griff remained standing, watching the man's helpless-
ness with amusement. With that cool, sarcastic flicker
on his lips he irritated Hughes into still greater passion.

But by this time others had sprung to their feet, sup-
porting Griff. " Stick to it, Chapel," urged his left-hand
neighbour.

With a sudden movement, Hughes had kicked back his
chair. ** You — ^you young whelp ! " he roared, all power
over himself gone. For the first time in his life he was
experiencing defeat, and at the hands of a Chapel. '* You

and your father " He made as though to rush at

Griff, but some of his friends took hold of him and pushed
bim back into his chair.

Griff was still waiting. '' I'll manage this little lot,"
he said to the group around him. Not for a moment
did he show his hatred of Hughes. His strength lay in
his sublime self-control. Some of the old scores were
being repaid. Griff had learnt many lessons since that
quarrel with his father, and no longer was he impetuous
in a fight; he waited for Hughes's Mends to soothe him
and to persuade him that young Chapel, however insulting,
was well within his rights. Evidently, they succeeded.

" I said just now," Griff went on, when the room was
again normal, '' that Mr. Blathwaite would be the last to
countenance the spending of public money for the develop-
ment of his private estate."

** Do you mean to say — " asked one of Hughes's friends
coming to the rescue — " that our Chairman is abusing his
position on the Council to further his ends as Mr. Blath-
waite's agent ? "

" That's a straight question," panted Hughes, now
more formidable in his desperation. ** Answer it."

" I say this," replied Griff : " If the Chairman supports
the motion as it stands he will be countenancing the use
of public funds to his own ends."

Mr. Hughes again showed signs of restiveness, but his
friends restrained him.

'' Is that plain enough ? " challenged Griff.

a06 CHAPEL

** What is your suggestion, then ? " came the lofty query
from another of Hughes's supporters.

'' If the road's to be constructed at all, the Blathwaite
Estate should bear half the cost. As the motion stands,
I vote dead against it."

Grifi sat down, knowing quite well that at last he had
impaired Hughes's despotism, that the motion would be
lost, and that a large number of old scores had been paid.

It was Hughes had started this trouble between them,
for Griff had been careful for private reasons. But at a
meeting about a year ago Hughes had gone out of his way
to administer a snub to Griff, and ever since there had
been war. Griff forgot all caution. Someone was trymg
to impose his will upon him. Hughes was trying to get
him under his dominion as he had the majority of the
Council. And Griff had fought. It was in his nature
to fight on the least sign of attack. And both had openly
assailed on the slightest provocation.

In the meantime the quarrel had widened. It was no
longer a dash of personalities : the older seeking to domi-
nate, and the younger man resenting. The quarrel had
developed into a fight between a Chapel and a Hughes.

The clash between the two families had come at last
after smouldering for several generations. Hughes and
his father had owned and occupied Wem ever since the
downfall of the Chapels, and the Chapels had bitterly
resented the presence of the alien in the old home. One
after another. Griff's grandfather, his father, and Griff
himself-— every one of them, throughout his Ufe, had
grown into the habit of casting longing eyes over the
brow of the hiU at Wem with this hatred smouldering in
their hearts. It was in their blood, this hatred, brooding,
developing, waiting for an outlet; and now the chance
had come to pay back old scores.

It was a debt, whose repayment was demanded by family
memories, and the settlement was inevitable as long as
a Chapel lived. Sooner or later, in (me generation or
another, the clash was boimd to come.

And Hughes, there at the head of the table, was well
aware of the Chapel resentment. He felt it instinctively.
He had seen it several times in Josiah Chapel's eyes, and

ON THE COUNCIL 207

to-day he had seen it for the hundredth time in Griff's
calculating glance across the table. He had seen the
bitter hatred in that cool flicker of amusement, and he
had fumed because that young whefp of a Chapel had
beaten him. This was no fight over a road. Hughes
knew it was not, and he was aware of Griff's knowledge
that he knew.

Griff glanced at the light brown wainscoting running
around the room and at the portraits of former chairmen
hanging on the walls.

He had been reared with this hatred in his heart; a
part of his natural inheritance it was — a hatred fostered
by old Betsy Michael's teachings.

** Wem 'ave bin in your family for 'undreds and dundreds
of years. It oughtn' to have bin lost." And whenever
she had wished to stir up his ambitions the formula had
always been : ** When you have growed up, you 've got to
be a bigger man than Hughes the agent. Mind you that
now. Griff ! "

Hughes was ever utilised as a comparison; Wem was
always brought into the reckoning.

Giiff and his left-hand neighbour went out together
when the meeting was over.

** You let him have it properly to-day. Chapel."

'' About time, too. I coiUdn't stick him any longer."

His companion was Bangor, a man of about forty who
owned a smaU estate between Forth and liantrisant. He
was also a cousin to Blathwaite, the great landowner, whose
property development Griff had been criticising. Their
intimacy had sprung up partly because of their common
resentment of Hughes's lofty domination over the Council,
For years Bangor had been trying to break Hughes's
despotism, and, when Griff had been elected, he had
recognised a kindred spirit, impatient under any man's
rule and irritable under restraint.

" D'you beUeve that was really his idea — developing
the estate on the cheap ? "

'' I do. Dam' rotten tactics, I caU it. D'you think
Blathwaite knows about it ? "

** Good Lord, no ! He'U have the laugh of his life
when I tell him I've been voting against his precious

208 CHAPEL

agent. . . . Groing home? Then you might 843 well ride
so far."

A mile from Forth the car stopped^and while the chaufEeur
got down to swing open the iron gates, Bangor said —

" You must come to dinner some night, Chapel. Ah !
Blathw^te will be here on Monday. Come then. . . .
Useful chap to meet, you know."

Griff set off, and as he went he listened to the wheels
of the car crunching the gravel as it glided down the drive
behind the trees. He smiled to think how he had been
accepted so unquestionably by these landed gentry of
the district. Possibly there had been two reasons at
first: the old position of the Chapels and the present
eminence of his father. In the vague rumours and gossip
of the neighbourhood Griff knew there were very tall
tales going the round regarding his father's wealth. As a
Building Contractor he was reputed to have made no
inconsiderable fortune — the gift of the Library proved
that; and now, since he had gone into Ferro-Concrete,
the tales had grown into fables.

'' That dock he's making in Cardiff. Employs thousands
of men on that job alone. Must be a fortune in it. Must
be rowing in money."

Griff had felt it very plecisant to move forward under
the shadow of his father's wing in this way; but such a
method did not appeal to his temperament. He must be
accepted for his own worth, and to-day's events proved
that he had not been altogether a failure.

But What would Bess think of it all ?

XXI

IN PRIVATB LIFB

At dinner on the following Saturday evening Griff was
the subject of his father's very close scrutiny. Through-
out the last six years their relation had been very much
the same — one of silence, and since they now met nowhere
save at Garth they exchanged not a word. Chapel inter-
ested himself not at all in his son's enterprises ; all he cared
about was the satisfactory completion of those two houses,
that Griff had withdrawn the three thousand pounds
security, and that his son had not been through the Bank-
ruptcy Court.

But on this night at dinner he frequently scrutinised
Griff in perplexity. His son was proving a mystery to
him. EarUer in the day he had read the account of the
last Council meeting ; the pressmen had made greedy use
of their deUciously unusual copy and had described in full
the acrimonious passage between Griff and Hughes.

The blind was drawn, the hanging lamp was alight and
the fire burned brightly. Jane had finished the helping
and now all three were seated in their accustomed places :
Jane facing Griff across the table and Chapel presiding.
It was a scene very similar to those of Griff's boyhood,
except that he and Jane spoke more frequently. Chapel's
presence did not dominate them so much now, for Griff's
personality was not to be suppressed, and Jane had
blossomed under his example.

Their meals had retained the old simpUcity in spite of
Chapel's wealth. His family had always been plain,
straightforward folk, hating affectation, and it was in
accordance with his tastes to keep the old-time simplicity
in his way of living. Plenty of nourishing food, that had
always been the Chapel rule, without any nonsense of
P 209

210 CHAPEL

French cooking and the like. The only addition one
might have observed in the setting of the table was a
bottle of port standing alongside the gravy boat; but
that was in perfect agreement with the most ancient of
family traditions.

Usually, Chapel kept passive, seeming not to hear, but
to-night Jane noticed that he often glanced at GriS as
though unable to understand him.

Chapel was thinking of the account he had read of the
Council meeting, and he would have given much to discover
Griff's motives for this bitter attack upon Hughes the
agent, the natural enemy of the Chapels. Had he obtained
this glimpse, possibly he and his son would have been
drawn together in a manner undreamt of by either. But
Chapel saw only the surface workings; he regarded the
quarrel as a clash of opinions, at most a clash of person-
{dities. He resented the fact that it was Griff, and not
he himself, was at last having the chance to pay back old
scores.

Here was the envy again. His son seemed to have all
the chances. His son's progress had been easy and un-
checked. And more, his son had not made the mistake
he himself had made. His son turned among men, the
best men of the neighbourhood, freely and on an equality ;
and a few moments ago he had heard him tell Jane to
look up his dress suit because he was dining with Bangor,
and meeting Blathwaite the landowner, on Monday night.

Jane lingered over the task of folding the table-cloth
after the maid had cleared the dishes and Chapel had gone
to his study across the hall. Griff had gone to the arm-
chair by the fire and was lighting a cigarette. Jane walked
to the grate and made a pretence of poking the coals.
Her figure was very slim and neat ; her face was still pale,
and she did not look as if she had recently passed to the
wrong side of forty. The slimness of her body made her
appear still girlish.

As she stooped before the fire, she suddenly turned her
head to look up at Griff. " Why did you do it. Griff ? "
she asked in her sad, sweet voice.

" Do it ? " Griff in his chair glanced down at her
perplexedly.

m PRIVATE LIFE 211

'' Quarrel with Mr. Hughes, I mean. I saw it in the
newspaper."

" What's up, Jane ? " he asked, beginning to smile, for
the way she looked at him was puzzling. '* If he quarrels

with me — ^well " GrifiE shrugged his shoulders. *' What

you driving at ? "

** It's no use pretending with me," she told him in her
womanly way and beginning to smile in mischief. " You
are^ not so clever and mysterious as you think." Griff
and she were friendly, and she knew that for all his hardness
and his masculinity he was a very boyish, domesticated
animal at heart. " D'you think I don't know ? " she
asked him, bringing her face nearer, and glancing at him
very steadily.

" You got a bee in yer bonnet, old dame," Griff informed
her as he blew smoke into the air ; but he was still puzzled.

" All I can say is," Jane said as she made ready to move
to the door; " this is the first time I've heard of anyone
trying to get a woman by making an enemy of her father.
. . . Now, Mr. Griff ! What do you think of that ? "
Jane pecked at him and vanished.

Griff gazed after the starched bow. " Well, I be damned,"
he muttered. " Who'd have thought she knew ? "

On the following Monday, Bangor gave Blathwaite an
account of the Council meeting and of the discussion over
the road ; and Blathwaite had been very much amused.

** This Chapel ! Who is he ? " he had asked amid his
laughter. '' Must be a game sort to go for Hughes. I
know from experience. I'd like to meet this youngster.
Strong type, Charlie — ^what ? "

Blathwaite was about thirty-five, tall, slight, and he
spoke with a touch of the Kensingtonian accent. As a
rule he lived on the other portion of his estate in Bedford-
shire, but his interest in his property often brought him
to South Wales. He owned a house in the neighbourhood
of Neath, but generally he preferred making Bangor's
home his Welsh headquarters.

That evening they sat after dinner, the three of them,
smoking, talking, and drinking Bangor's excellent wine.

** Do you know, Mr. Chapel " Blathwaite asked in

212 CHAPEL

his drawl. " Do you know you owe me several thousand
pounds ? "

** Daresay ! '* Griff answered in his cool way. " All
depends what system of Mathematics you adopt." Then
with a chuckle he added, *' Bangor owes half of it, any-
how ! "

After this, the relation between Griff and Bangor grew
more intimate, not only in their public capacities, but in
their private lives as well, until it became a habit to dine
frequently at Bangor's place. Several times did Griff
meet Blathwaite, and possibly it was the mutual dare-
devilry and love of a fight that attracted them to each
other.

xxn

IMPOSSIBILrrY

NiNB o'clock on a fine summer morning !

And Griff was in his father's gig, waiting outside the
open white gate, through which he was eagerly peering to
see the drive stretching up away like an avenue underneath
the overhanging chestnut trees — ^to Wem.

"Steady! Steady!"

The mare was &esh and restless, now and again viciously
tugging at the rein in Griff's hand, or working her mouth
till the bit and the curbing chain jingled, or digging the
road with her hoofs and pricking up her ears in an impa-
tience to be gone. Glorious sunshine. It brightened up
the harness and the mare's brown coat, and the black
varnish of the gig, and the black-and-amber spokes of the
wheels.

What did it matter if the mare were restless ? She was
full of life, as everyone and ever3^hing ought to be.

But here was Bess coming in the distance where the
drive curved imder the trees. Then she drew nearer, rather
tall, broad-shouldered; nearer still, and Griff made out
the navy-blue skirt, the white linen blouse with its tre-
mendously expansive collar, the navy-blue jacket over
her arm. And now she was waving her blue parasol and
beginning to run. Yet nearer, and he could distinguish
the white tegal hat with the black ribbon — the fair hair,
the smiling face and laughing eyes. She was walking
through the gate, nearly out of breath. She was looking
up at him ; full of life, as everything and everybody ought
to be.

" Been here long ? "

" Only just come."

213

214 CHAPEL

"Here! Hold my coat and this thing. You watch
her ; I'll get up right enough."

She ran around the back, got a grip with both hands
and a foot on the step, and here she was in the gig beside
him. The mare was rearing and plunging once more, but
in a moment they were trotting along quite briskly. Every-
thing was grand — ^absolutely grand.

" Are they gone ? '*

" Went by the eight train, both of them. ... I don't
think I should have come though. Griff ! Supposing they
found out ? "

Griff chuckled, and from his more elevated perch
looked down at her. ** Anyhow, we're here. Sufficient
for the day How does it go ? "

Bess had recovered her coat and parasol, and now she
was glancing over the fields they were quickly passing,
enjoying the far-stretching landscape. Her parents were
from home that day, and Griff and she were going to spend
it together.

** It's fine though, isn't it ? " Her grey eyes were alight
as she looked up at Griff.

"Grand; absolutely grand." Her very fair hair was
glorious.

" It couldn't have been nicer had we chosen the weather."

" Fate," suggested Griff very seriously.

" Yes," nodded Bess, laughing again. " It's rather
nice feeling really wicked, isn't it ? "

" Champion."

" I suppose this is how boys feel when they — ^what
d'you call it ? "

" French leave from school, you mean ? "

Bess nodded her head again in short jerks and laughed.

" There's this about it," answered Griff from his wider
experience ; " you're always certain of a dam' good licking
in the other case."

" Griff ! " she called his name in rebuke. " I'm always
telling you about it — ^that sort of language."

" Sorry," Griff growled as he quickly turned his head
to look at the hedge on the other side.

They reached the tavern where they were to lunch, and
when the mare had been stabled they set out to explore

IMPOSSIBILITY 215

the surrounding lanes and footpaths. There was a strong
suggestion of breed about the pair of them as they went
together : Bess well-knit and well-dressed, erect, with
some hidden dignity of carriage; and GrifE in his grey
suit, strong, Uthe, and athletic.

" There won't be anything very dainty about the lunch,
you know," GrifE warned as they strolled along.

" If you're thinking of me, don't worry. I can take
pot-luck as well as you. And really, GrifE, I shall be as
hungry as the deuce by one o'clock. But I'm beginning
to talk slang, like you."

" Well, if you don't worry, I won't." GrifE was happy
again and kicked a stone out of his way. " You are
a good sport though, Bess. Let's carry yer coat for
you."

Bess twirled her parasol. " That a reward for being
a good sport ? " she questioned mischievously, handing
over her coat.

GrifE looked at her calculatingly for a moment. " Now
you're getting funny," he told her, placing the coat over
his arm. Then he took out his case, lit an Egyptian
cigarette, and in a moment the breeze was playing with
the smoke and carrying it over the hedge. With his hands
deep in his pockets and the white silk lining of Bess's
jacket showing on his arm, he strolled along lazily. " This
is a bit of all right — ^what ? "

Bess was laughing at him. ** You do look a ruffian,
GrifE!"

*' What's it matter how you look if your heart's all
right ? But come and have a look at this." He led the
way to a gate. ** People talk about Switzerland and
CJomwall and all that sort of rot ; but look at this ! Ever
seen anything to beat it ? " He indicated the dip in the
ground and the rising hill across the small valley. *' See
the river — and the fields — ^and that Uttle wood? And
look at that brown field ! Take some beating, you know,
Bess ! "

" BluflSng again, GrifE ? " Bess had turned upon him
with a teasing look.

" Eh ? What's the joke ? " He saw her white teeth
as she smiled mockingly at him. " Straight," he again

216 CHAPEL

drew her attention to the scene ; " wouldn't you call that
a pretty bit of country ? "

** I thought perhaps you were having another game ;
pretending to be poetical, or something of that kind."

'' That's it ; rub it in. I'm not supposed to have much
brains, I know. Brute force — ^that's it, isn't it ? "

" Not exactly. But I do think you're a big bully."

Then they both laughed together again.

They spent the time till lunch in this manner, indolently,
enjoyably, and as they commenced their way back to the
tavern Bess remarked —

" What did that woman say ? * If the butcher happens
to pass we shall have roast beef; if he doesn't we'll have
to put up with cold lamb.' What's the time, GriflE? I
hope that butcher will have come, don't you, Giiflf ? "

They covered another five miles after lunch. The mare
was stabled at the back of an insignificant, single-licensed
inn, which acted as farmhouse as well, and which they
found deserted except for the mistress of the place. Griff
acted as his own ostler, unfastening the harness from the
shafts while Bess stood at the mare's head. This was
greater fun, Bess thought, than before, and with much
amusement she watched Griff take off his coat, fasten the
mare to the manger, hang the harness on the nails on the
wall, and carry some water for the mare to drink and some
hay for a feed. Later, when he had swilled his hands and
face, she held his grey coat so that he might brush the dust
and hay from his trousers and his waistcoat. There was
something unusually familiar about this sight of Griff in
his shirt-sleeves; she had an intimate sense of helping
him, somehow, as she held his coat, feeling its texture
between her fingers.

And now, they walked together, hesitating a moment
at the mouth of a lane over which the grass had grown.

" Try it ? " Griff was asking.

" If you like. It looks interesting."

''Must lead to somewhere that's been abandoned. A
gold mine, p'raps," he hinted.

" Yes," Bess agreed, jerking her fair head in the delight
of this day of beautiful adventure.

Down the lane they sauntered, leisurely and lazily.

IMPOSSIBILITY 217

sometimes dragging their feet through the soft green grass,
and now and again Bess would flick an obtruding twig
with her blue parasol.

When the stile at the end of the lane was reached, Bess
climbed to the top, while GriflE leant over the gate at her
side. There was ^ence between them for a time, and Bess
dug the point of her parasol into a hole in the gate-post
and brought out a shower of powdered dry-rot ; and GrifE
stared at the little gutter almost dry, at a ewe with the
lamb by her side climbing the slope ahead, and at the
blue sky.

" You know, Bess," GriflE said as though emerging from
his thoughts ; '' you always talk a lot about Fate. I'm
beginning to think there's something in it," he added,
tximing to look at her.

Bess ceased digging out the dry-rot. " Are you ? "
She shook her head. " Try some other way, GriflE. I'm
not such a simpleton."

GriflE grinned and shuflled his feet. "All right, then.
I never did like going for things sideways."

'' That bit of bluflOng was too transparent," Bess objected,
smiling at him.

GriflE took her parasol and jacket and hung them on the
gate. ** Serious now, Bess ! " He was studying the
white linen blouse with its prodigiously expansive collar,
the face very slightly tanned, the clear grey eyes and
the tegal hat with its band of black ribbon. "About
our understanding each other so well ! That's what I
meant."

Bess moved her foot. " Well, why didn't you say so ? "
She was immediately sympathetic.

" I wasn't bluflSng altogether about Fate just now.
Look at it in this way." Ajnd GriflE began to demonstrate.
" Everything in the world develops, you see. Everything
evolves. Everything's bound to go on from stage to
stage."

" Of course ! " Bess was finding it hard to hide her
amusement. Plainly, GriflE was in diflSculties, and she
had never before seen him in a diflSculty.

" So it stands to reason our being such good pals is bound
to develop. And that's where I'm beginning to believe

218 CHAPEL

Fate comes In. I'm not bluffing now," he firmly main-
tained, looking to see whether she were still suspicious.

" Yes. But what are you driving at ? "

** Now let me finish, and then you shall have a chance.'*

"All right. Goon."

" I mean we're suited to each other. . . . We never
quarrel, do we ? "

" No."

" Well, then ! " He might well have been the footballer
going for the line. " That's what I'm coming to." He
had forced the opening and he was ramming his way.
" Hang it all, Bess ! We ought to get married. . . . Wait
a minute; I know what I'm talking about now. That's
why I say Fate, or something uncommonly like it, comes
in."

But Bess had sprung to the ground and had come quite
near to him. " No, Griff." She spoke very decidedly.
" That's where I come in. . . . We're too good pals,
aren't we — ^too good to be silly and afraid of talking
plainly ? " She held his glance very steadily. " Honestly,
GrifE ! D'you seriously think I can marry you ? "

*' Why not 1 " he blurted out.

Bess answered : " Because you've quarrelled with father."

'' That's the old tale."

** No, GrifE; it isn't."

'* If you thought enough of me, you wouldn't trouble
a toss about him."

"That's not right, Griff." She took a tight hold of
the lapels of his coat. ** Now, Griff ! I want a straight
answer. Why did you quarrel with him? Pal to pal
truthfully, why did you quarrel with father? I'm not
a fool. I knew that some day you would want to marry
me, and yet you seemed to be deliberately spoiling every-
thing. Why did you quarrel with him. Griff ? "

Griff took her hands away from his coat, and for a mo-
ment he looked at the sky.

" I'll tell you," he said. " I don't know what you'll
think, but you see, our people used to be the owners of
Wem — and ever since we've been out of it, we've resented
it. Perhaps your father sees red as I do when we start
to fight. I know he feels the same hatred. I tried to

IMPOSSIBILITY 219

keep out of it because of you ; but he went for me, and
well — I had to fight ; just had to."

'* But it's silly to talk like that. I'm as much a Hughes
as my father, but I don't feel any hatred towards you
Chapels."

" No. Perhaps you don't. Women are not the same.
You haven't got the bump of family men have."

" I don't see why we shouldn't."

" It's not in your natures. Women are meant to blend
families, to link them together."

Bess stepped back. She was regarding him with some
coldness. Here was Miss Hughes, the future owner of
Wem. She spoke a shade more coldly, as though more
guardedly —

" You mean that the Chapels would come back to
Wem ? "

" That's it."

** But don't you understand that by quarrelling with
father you've made it impossible ? "

" No, I don't. If you "

" Don't shift the blame over to me, GrifE. Of course,
I hadn't all these things in my mind, but I asked you not
to quarrel with him : I did my share then. I couldn't
tell you more plainly — ^I couldn't tell you : * Don't
quarrel with him, or I shan't be able to marry you ! ' . . .
It's your fault, GrifE."

" Hang Wem ! " GrifE took hold of her arm. " It's
you, I want."

Bess shook her head and freed herself. " There's
another side to it, GrifE. You must remember I've been
brought up with father and mother. I daresay I'm a
coward, but I can't go against them."

GrifE leant over the gate and watched the trickle of the
narrow stream. He had expected something of this kind,
but he had not the slightest notion how to deal with it.
Bess was in question, and there was no chance to fight.
And emotions were strange territory to him.

He turned to her very abruptly : " But if you're with
me, there'll be no need to be afraid of them? "

Bess shook her head. " There's something else. If
I married you as things are now — do you tMnk they'd

220 CHAPEL

ever forgive me? I'd never have Wem. And I don't
feel inclined to lose Wem. You must remember, I love
the place as much as you Chapels do — ^more than you
possibly can love it, because I've been brought up there.
It's no use, GriflE, is it ? "

*^ But see, Bess ! " Griff began to plead, trying to g^t
hold of her again.

She shook her head very definitely and stepped back :
"It's not a bit of good."

Griff shrugged his shoulders almost impatiently. He
turned, put bis elbows on the top of the gate and gazed
into vacancy. After a while he took out a cigarette and
began to smoke.

Bess watched him. She saw that his face had grown
hard and that there was an ugly look in his eyes. She
went up to him and put her hand on his shoulder. *' What's
the matter. Griff ? You'd be disappointed if you didn't
get Wem, wouldn't you ? " She tugged at his sleeve.
" Come on. Griff; let's go."

She took up her jacket and parasol and stood waiting
for him. As they went along the grass-covered lane she
touched his arm again.

** You would be disappointed, wouldn't you. Griff ? "

Griff did not answer.

" Griff ! " She tugged at his sleeve and made him stop.
" We can be good friends ? "

Griff looked down at her. " Oh yes."

" It needn't always be like this ! "

" Eh ? " Griff suddenly sprang into life. " What did
you say ? "

" Well — some time. . . . Come along ! "

Griff snatched at her coat and hurried her along. " Oh,"
he cried. The clouds had passed. '' I'm a regular devil
to wait."

The world was all right again.

" You're a regular brick, Bess."

Bess had brightened because Griff had, and now she
smiled softly to herself, thinking : " And you're only a
great big boy."

xxm

BLBCJTION OF CHAIRMAN

Gbot had come along by train to Uantrisant from
the house he was building near Ely. He had been a
District Councillor for three years, another election had
recently taken place, and the new Council was meeting
this afternoon for the first time.

As Griff stepped out from the station he caught sight
of WiUiams, the magistrate, leaving the hotel where he
usually stabled his horse. Griff waited for him, and they
went together towards the Council offices.

" How are yer ? *' cried Mr. Williams cheerfully, as he
pushed the grey felt hat up on his forehead and smacked
his breeches with his riding crop.

" How are you, Mr. Williams — all right ? "

" Oh, very well. How's yer father ? " — commencing to
pull off his brown kid gloves.

" Tip-top. What's on the go ? "

**What d'ye mean, my boy? What d'ye mean?"
Mr. WiUiams stroked his grey moustache and frowned
at Griff.

" Meeting, Mr. Williams ! Got anything special on ? "

'* Oh, nothing out o' the usual. Put Hughes in the
Chair, I suppose.'*

GriiflE stroked his chin. " I see."

** Look here. Chapel ! " Mr. Williams took his arm
coaxingly. '* When you goin' to stop them dam' monkey
tricks of yours ? "

Griff looked at him in feigned surprise, but said nothing.

** Drop um now. Chapel. Drop um, indeed, there's a
good fellah ! You're only upsetting thiogs and causing
a lot of ill-feeling. Say you'll drop them dam' tricks of
yours, there's a good fellah."

221

222 CHAPEL

"Serioudy, Mr. WOlianis Don't you think it's

time some of yon were npeet ? "

"Tut-tut! No good talking like that. What is it
you want ? Now, Chapel — look here ! I've always had
a Wg respect for your family; you're a good soUd old
stock. Now, look here ! Promise not to give any more
trouble, and I'll propose you for the Vice-Chair to-day.
Then Hughes and you can let the old bad-feeling die
down, and be good friends. You could be very useful.
Chapel — ^I say that much for you — ^if you'd leave your
silly dam' tricks alone. Now what do you say to it ? "

'* That's just the thing I'm up against, Mr. Williams,"
said Griff, stopping in his walk. '* I know all about it.
You want me in that clique of yours, and I'm not having
any. Now that's telling you straight."

They stood outside the door of the Council Boom,
and Mr. Williams, foiled in his design, began to lose his
temper.

" Damme ! " He turned on Griff. " It's no good
talking to you." And he stamped into the room.

Griff followed Mr. Williams with a smile under his
small moustache. It was by no means the first attempt
to win him over. And now they had offered him this
sop of the Vice-Chairmanship !

Inside there was the usual hubbub of a first meeting :
the old members congratulating one another upon their
survival and discussing with sympathy or joy the non-
appearance of those the election had swamped; and the
new members, as yet somewhat modest in this unaccus-
tomed atmosphere of greatness. To Griff it all resembled
the opening of school after the long vacation : some boys
gone down and others come to take their places.

There they were, the three groups — ^the landed gentry,
the prosperous tradesmen, and the alert labour members.
Griff looked around a moment, and he slowly began to
smile, for it was rather odd to see the aristocratic Bangor
in friendly converse with the most prominent of the
labour men. And now Bangor was strolling across to
the group of obese shopkeepers.

Griff button-holed the man Bangor had just left.

** How things going, Watkins 1 "

ELECTION OF CHAIRMAN 223

" These new chaps are all right, I think; they're sure
to vote with me. If Mr. Bangor can manage that lot
he's with now "

" I think it'll come oflE." And GrifE walked around to
use his influence with the shopkeepers.

The room was fast filling, and the hubbub of voices
increased. Some of the members had already seated
themselves roimd the oval table. The two reporters were
in their places in the far comer, and the clerk had come
in with Us bundle of documents under his arm.

Then Mr. Hughes arrived.

His short, stiffly-built figure bustled into the room.
He came in, not by any means as stem as usual ; indeed,
his red face had a suspicion of good-fellowship hovering
among its bold features; his eyes imder the heavy grey
brows were most oddly softened. He was a changed
man. He greeted everyone, freely, and his voice was
not at all sharp and snappy, nor did he appear to bark
when he spoke. With several of the members he shook
hands. He even nodded to GriflE — ^a short, jerky nod, it
is true ; but still — a nod.

Marvellous, Griff thought, how human nature accommo-
dates itself when popular support is in question.

Hughes came in with a cheerful confidence. For fifteen
years he had been Chairman of the Council, and to-day he
would be re-elected. An excellent arrangement.

Griff carefully watched him, understanding full well
the cause of Hughes's altered demeanour. He knew the
feeling and had experienced it himself when canvassing
for votes prior to an election. Friends with everyone
— ^to get his suffrage; and then everyone could .go and
hang himself — ^until the next election.

All were seated around the table now, fifteen of them,
Bangor on Griff's left ; and there, straight across, facing
him sat Hughes, buoyant, smiling at his neighbour —
confident.

All eyes were upon Hughes, implying that he as Chair-
man of the previous body should take charge of affairs.
In a moment he was addressing them.

" Huh-a ! You know," he began in his confident,
superior way, "that it's my little habit to ait by here

224 CHAPEL

at the beginning of the first meeting of every new Council.
Huh-a ! When I look round, I find there are several of
the old faces missing. Huh-a ! But I am sure you will
join with me in welcoming to our midst the new members.
Huh-a !^* For the edification of the newly elected he
explained, '' We are a very happy body of men as a rule.
Huh-a!''

There were some who turned questioning eyes upon
Griff at this point ; but Mr. Hughes was proceeding.

" But to business. I have very great pleasure, indeed,
in proposing our old friend Mr. Williams to the Chair.
We all know Mr. Williams — an esteemed magistrate and a
man highly respected by us all. I propose Mr. Williatns
to the Chair."

Mr. Hughes sat down, nodding as he did so to one of
his cronies.

But Griff, springing to his feet, had forestalled the
clique's cut-and-dried methods. With his hands deep in
his pockets and in his calm deliberate way he spoke.

" I beg to second. As a little compliment to the —
the esteem in which we hold Mr. WiUiams, I beg to second
Mr. Hughes's proposition."

Hughes and Chapel in agreement ! There were strange
looks cast upon Griff as he sat down; some of wonder,
some cynical.

Soon Mr. Williams had installed himself in the chair
and was addressing them in his high-pitched little voice.

** Thank you, gentlemen. Thank you. It's a little
job I always do at the beginning of every new Council,
as most of you know. But you understand — ^I am very
much obliged to you all the same. Now then ! You all
know it's not my habit to waste any time." He picked
up an agenda paper from the table in front of him. '' I
shan't be here long, so let's get my little bit of business
over." He took out his eyeglasses and perched them on
his nose, and while the others had time to look at their
agendas, Mr. WiUiams scribbled a little note. '' Pass
that along to Chapel," he whispered to his neighbour.

'' Now then, gentlemen ! The first bit of business is
the election of a Chairman for the Coimcil. O' course I
don't want to point out to you, gentlemen, that it's very

ELECTION OP CHAIRMAN 225

important what kind of a Chairman we elect. There's
Mr. Hughes — been our Chairman fifteen years — ^fifteen,
isn't it, Mr. Hughes ? "

'' Quite right, Mr. Chairman. Fifteen," came the
beaming reply from Mr. Hughes.

" And in my opinion," the temporary Chairman went
on, '' I don't see any reason to make a change. Now then
to business. The election of Chairman, gentlemen ! "

As Mr. Williams sat down his eyes ran around the
table in search of Griff's, and the very decided shake of
the head he got in reply filled him with annoyance. He
had thought that perhaps young Chapel had come to his
senses. The note he had sent was : ** 8haU I propose you
for the Vice-Chair ? "

" The Section of Chairman, gentlemen ! " repeated Mr.
WiUiams.

Immediately, there was a member on his feet, and
without preamble he said : " I propose Mr. Hughes."

This gentleman was known more for his wealth than his
oratorical powers. Still, a safe supporter of the leading
spirits.

** I second Mr. Hughes," came another voice, like an
echo of the first.

Mr. Hughes was jubilant, softly drumming his fingers
on the table.

*' Mr. Hughes proposed and seconded," the magistrate
at the head of the table chanted in his hurry to get through
with his bit of business. ** All in favour " ^

Hughes was pleasurably excited ; in fancy he could see
Williams vacating the chair and himself ridng to occupy
it again as he had done for fifteen years. Almost did
his legs move so that he might stand erect.

" Half a minute, Mr. Chairman ! "

That young whelp of a Chapel was up, and with raised
hand was checking Williams's galloping methods of con-
ducting public business. This young whelp was attempting
trouble; but Mr. Hughes smiled very tolerantly. For
fifteen years his majority had been so safe.

** Half a minute," this young whelp was sajdng, hand
uplifted. *' I have another proposition to make. I
propose Mr. Bangor to the Chair."
Q

226 CHAPEL

** I second Mr. Bangor," came the voice of Watkins,
the leader of the labour members.

Mr. Hughes still indulgently smiled.

" Tut-tut-tut ! " Mr. Williams was coaxingly objecting
from the head of the table. ** I hope you're not serious,
Mr. Chapel ? What's to gain by going on like this ? Tou
are only causing dissension — only splitting us into two.
Come now, withdraw your motion, there's a good fellah ! "

'' Put it to the meeting, Mr. Chairman," was Griff's
reply.

lUb*. Hughes listened with the benign assurance that
this yoimg whelp would very soon be taught a lesson.

" Well, then, I'll put it," said the Chairman. But he
was angry. This was carrying them dam' monkey tricks
too far.

'' All in favour of Mr. Bangor," he snapped. He was
surprised at a man like Bangor mixing himself up in such
damned tomfoolery.

" All in favour of Mr. Bangor I '' Mr. WiUiams repeated.

Hughes looked up with his superior forbearance. The
hands of those voting against him were up. Idly, he
commenced to count them. And then his heart began to
beat, wildly. Six ! Seven ! Eight !

All the men were on their feet, bending over the table,
awed, their faces ashen.

Griff watched in horror. He watched the blood mount
to Hughes's face. He saw his body shake convulsively.
He heard the awful attempt to curse him. And then he
saw Hughes collapse into the chair.

The doctor was th^re within a few minutes. '' Heart,"
he said. '' I warned him not to ezdte himself."

Griff turned away.

'' That's put an end to it," he told himself.

Griff was thinking of Bess.

BOOK III

FAMILY
I

ANOESTOBS

It was an hour previous to the rising of Hughes's funeral,
and Griff was in his bedroom changing into his black
clothes when he heard the sounds of his father's footsteps
crossing the landing to the top of the stairs.

^' Jane," he heard the strong bass voice calling. Griff
smiled softly, for, judging from the tone, his father was
in diflSculties, and he was apt to become very impatient
when things welft wrong. " Jane ! " The bass voice
got sharper.

"Yes, Mr. Chapel," came the answer from below.
" What is it ? "

** Bring me another collar. . . . This dam' thing," Griff
heard him mutter as he returned into his bedroom.

Jane came running up the stairs, into Chapel's room,
and opening a drawer in the dressing chest she took out
a collar £rom the roimd leather collar-box and handed it
to him.

" Now brush a bit on that coat and waistcoat," — ^while
he bent forward to the mirror, fixing his collar to the
stud at the back.

Moving her trim figure noiselessly about the room,
Jane took up the clothes-brush, picked up the waistcoat
from the bed, and began to brush. She would have been
amused had she not been so accustomed to these duties
of a valet. Useless telling him she had brushed them
all before placing them on the bed a quarter of an hour

227

228 CHAPEL

ago ! With the waistcoat in her hand she stood waiting,
watching him struggle with the tie and seeing his reflection
in the looking-glass : the sharply defined features set in
scowling annoyance, the white shirt and the braces.

" Blast the thing/' he muttered, screwing his tie around
angrily.

Jane put down the waistcoat. " Here ! Let me
see."

Chapel turned. *' Put this dam' tie under the stud at
the back there."

Jane stretched up her arms. " Bend down, then, or I
can't reach it."

With an ill grace, like a boy forced to obey, he stooped,
and Jane secured the tie under the stud, walked round
to the front of him, arranged the black knot, stuck in
the small pearl-headed pin which he ungraciously handed
her, patted the tie, drew the large square comers into
position and stepped back a yard to survey her handiwork.

"There you are," she told him, sipiifying that all
was satisfactory. Then she handed him the remainder
of his garments, one at a time; first the waistcoat, and
while he buttoned this she held up the morning coat;
and so on with the overcoat and the silk hat and the
gloves, until he was completely dressed, a superior, master-
ful, t£Jl, strong, distinguished-looking man.

** Got a handkerchief there ? "

** In the pocket of your inside coat."

** Now Where's that umbrella ? "

Jane could not keep back the smile. ** I'll get it when
you come down."

When she turned to go downstairs, Chapel's eyes followed
her, and the Ught in them suddenly changed. Her figure
was so trim and shght, so neat; and she held her small
body and her head so erect.

** Thank you, Jane," he grunted unwiUingly when she
gave him the umbrella as she stood holding open for him
the front door.

Griff was running the velvet pad around his silk hat
when he heard the front door close, and stepping forward
into the bay of the window he saw his father set ofE ener-
getically down the road, looking the solid prosperous

ANCaSSTORS 229

man of consequence that he was. *' No flies, Josiah,"
Griff sent after him with a smile.

It was an equally prosperous-looking, and perhaps a
more immaculately dressed Griff that ran down the steps
of Garth some five minutes later. There was every sign
of the good tailor about his appearance. The black
overcoat fitted so well about his shoulders and hung so
perfectly balanced. The bent-back comers of his Unen
collar, the black tie, and the white slip gave him that
superior tone which he loved so well. The trousers lay
so evenly over the uppers of his glac6 kid boots. And
there was his smooth silk hat — ^and the umbrella tightly
rolled which he carried In his hand like a walking-stick !

'' No flies," as he had described his father. Something
good about his whole appearance. Perhaps to match that
suggestive twinkle of dare-devilry in his eyes, that free
athletic swing of his shoulders — ^perhaps to match these
the silk hat should have been a little aslant on his head.
But it was not. As he stepped smartly down the road he
looked the alert cosmopolitan young man-of-the-world.

In a few minutes he had overtaken a villager and his
wife on the way to the rising of the funeral at Wem. The
man replied quite readily to Griff's cheery greeting, but
the woman seemed taken aback, as if the sight of him
perplexed her.

" He's never goin' to the funeral, is 'e ? " she asked
in outraged righteousness as she watched the athletic
figure in black pass on.

" Shud-up, mun," was the whispered warning from her
husband. ** 'E'U 'ear you. Why shouldn' 'e go — same
as us two ? "

"John — ^I'm surprised at you. Why shouldn' 'e go,
indeed? But there — some people 'ave got the face of
brass."

" Don'-talk-so-silly, mun. Don'-talk-so-siUy."

"Silly, am I? Killin' a man, an' then goin' to 'is
fun'ral! Silly, ami?" |

John turned upon hen "Stoppit," he commanded
unceremoniously. " You go blabbin' about the place like
that, an' you'll land yerself in a pretty pickle, I can tell
you."

230 CHAPEL '

John's attitude expressed the male opinion of Griff just
now, while his wife's stood for the aspersions cast upon
Griff by the women of the neighbourhood.

Griff knew that for the remainder of the afternoon he
would be the subject of very critical glances and of very
caustic comments; but the fact troubled him not at all.
This was not the first time to be under the fire of village
criticism. He was not the least bit sensitive. He was
quite aware of the opinions going around concerning him
since the Council Meeting. Morally, if not directly, he
was being held, by" many people, responsible for Hughes's
death. Had it not been for the opposition to the election
of Hughes as Chairman, so ran the contention, the heart
att€tck would not have come on, and the agent would have
been alive at this very moment.

Griff walked on through the village, and he had not
quite arrived at the white gate of the Wem drive when
he saw, coming from the opposite direction, a pair of bay
horses smartly trotting. In the open carriage, behind the
liveried coachman, someone with an upraised umbrella
was hailing him. The same umbrella poked the coachman
in the back, and at the entrance to the drive the carriage
stopped. Instantly, Griff recognised Blathwaite and
Bangor waiting for him. By the time he had reached
them the tall, thin Blathwaite had alighted and was
stamping his feet on the roadway.

** Come along. Chapel ; I'll walk with you," Blathwaite
was saying in his polished tones when greetings were
over. ** dtiarlie's going to wait here."

Blathwaite and Griff walked up the drive together.

" Sort of thing I don't care much about, you know,"
Blathwaite was explaining under the shadow of the over-
hanging trees.

** Not much in my line, either," agreed Griff.

And so they wcJked on, chatting pleasantly as they
always did. But very soon Griff found something in
Blathwaite's manner to puzzle him. There was the old
freedom and absence of side, but Griff had a queer feel-
ing of being measured, that for some mysterious reason
Blathwaite was taking stock of him.

" Very sudden — Hughes's going off, wasn't it ? "

ANCESTORS 231

'' Most unfortunate it should have happened there."

** Bangor's just been telling me about it." Blathwaite
was quietly smiling. '' You seem to have made a dead
set at him — ^the pair of you ? "

'^It wa43 about time to break that clique. Bangor's
Chairman, anyhow ! "

Blathwaite softly chuckled, but Griff again had that
feeling of being measured. Generally, Blathwaite's manner
gave one a misleading impression of languidness, but
to-day he was openly keen and penetrating whenever he
tume3*his eyes in Griff's direction.

But Griff was approaching Wem, the old home — ^the
old home of the Qiapels, and within him he felt some
odd, strange sensations.

For a second he seemed to forget everything — even
the presence of his aristocratic companion — everything
except that he was treading the drive underneath these
trees — approaching Wem, the old home.

He was treading on the drive this very instant, hearing
the sound of his feet on its hardness, just as the old Chapels
had trodden on it generation after generation after genera-
tion. Only to imagine it ! From this very spot, perhaps,
they had looked through these trees at the sky, exactly
as he was doing this very second. Only to picture
one of them — a healthy, hearty old fellow, with a gun
under his arm as likely as not, and a couple of spaniels
at his heels ! Another of them— on horseback, red-
coated, off to the hunt ! Certain it was that Chapel
children had played among these trees !

" Yes," he wajs replying to his aristocratic companion
after they had passed a group of farmers. ** They're all
your tenants."

But Wem ! Here was Wem ! And those odd emotional
sensations got more insistent and more clamant.

The drive had sharply turned to the right and there,
twenty yards ahead on their left, was the old house ; bare,
romantic, old. It made the blood dance in Griff's body.

The front of it was low, austere, grey, long and gaunt.
There in the middle was the door, a big broad door, so
broad that it looked peculiarly low; an old, black, oak
door, studded, with a great heavy knocker large enough

232 CHAPEL

for some aged castle. The windows were flat casement
windows. It must have stood like this for centuries.

But there were no ancestors about to-day, unless there
was some truth in that whimsical talk of ghosts. To-day,
this was a place of gloom. The blinds were down — ^white
blinds almost touching the leaded panes of the flat case-
ment windows. And these people filling the semi-circular
space before the house were strangers dressed in black.

There toas one of the old family here ; his father, near
those font-like things on the edge of the lawn, talking to
Williams the magistrate.

Josiah Chapel, too, had felt those throbbing sensations
as he had come up the drive, and, because he was naturally
more impressicmable than Griff, he had felt them with
greater force. They took hold of him and seemed to
make his whole being throb. He stood now in front of
the house, talking to Williams, but his thoughts were not
in the conversation. He seemed to be grappling with an
impossibility. Could he not in some way get hold of
Wem? To get the Chapels back within tfaiis house he
would sell his very soul.

Was there not some way I

ASTONISHMENT

Blathwatte, Bangor and Griff were leaving the churdi-
yard together; they had passed under the lych gate and
were stepping out into the roadway when Blathwaite
said very casually to Griff : '' You might offer me a cup
of tea, Chapel ! "

" Certainly," answered Griff in his astonishment. ** You
come along as well, Bangor ? *'

** No." It was Blathwaite replied for his cousin. " He's
sending round his car for me in an hour."

The matter seemed prearranged and Griffs wa43 more
puzzled. But this was an unexpected honour, having the
great Blathwaite as a guest, if only for a cup of tea. So,
inclined to be pleased. Griff led the way towards Garth.

"That's over," said Blathwaite, shaking himself as if
to get rid of the depressing influence of the funeral.

Kie white-aproned maid opened the door for them and
took their umbrellas, hats and coats, and the next moment
Blathwaite was entering Griff's sanctum.

" Sit down, Mr. Blathwaite," Griff invited. " I'U go 'n'
see about that cup of tea."

Blathwaite stretched his long legs and moved slowly
towards the bookcase against the wall opposite the bay
window. He ran his eyes along the rows of books inside
and began to smile in an amused way. Just as he had
expected ! Most of them were books on building ; there
were a few law-books amongst them; several on various
aspects of sport; but no beUes-lettrea, not more than
half a dozen novels. T3rpical of Chapel; and Blathwaite
was making a special study of Chapel just now.

The room, also, appeared to please him, for there was
nothing j»:etentious about it. llie table, with its polished

233

234 CHAPEL

surface, looked business-like with its drawing-board,
oigarette-box and book. His own gloves were the only
things out of place there. The two armchairs were solid,
and the broad Chesterfield couch near the window seemed
capable of affording rest. The thick green carpet was
soft and noiseless under his feet; and there were the
heavy curtains hanging from the rings on the strong
pole, the pictures on the walls, the black rug and the
bronze fire-irons

What had Charlie said ? '' Breed about young Chapel.
Family's been round here since the Flood."

Blathwaite came back to the table, glancing cursorily
at the drawing-board. Pinned on it was a sheet of paper
with some drawing half-finished, and beside the board
lay a rule, a couple of lead-pencils and an eraser. The
neatness of it all did not escape his attention. Here on
the other side of the board lay a silver cigarette box,
which he took up and studied. Some more Chapel! —
red coats of the huntsmen, hounds, the swinging sign of
an inn ! He put it down with a smile and picked up the
book lying a little farther along. He read the title:
Practical Building Construction,

Blathwaite repeated the first word of the title—
" Practical ! " It explained Chapel so thorbughly.

When they had dnmk their *' cup of tea," they sat in
the armchairs, opposite each other across the black rug.

^' Have a cigarette, Mr. Blathwaite % "

The maid had taken out the tray, and in a moment
they were smoking. Blathwaite had moved his chair
nearer the wall, his head was leaning against the mantel-
piece, and his eyes were gazing languidly into the clouds
of smoke he blew into the air. Griff stooped for the
tongs, picked up a small cinder from within the curb,
and threw it on the fire. A lull had come, and they
continued quietly to smoke.

*' It means a great loss to me, you know, Chapel."

Griff waved a hand to clear away the cloud of smoke
before his face. He wondered whether he had missed
some previous remark. " What's that ? " he asked.
Blathwaite had altered his position; he seemed to have
roused himself, for he was sitting upright in the armchair.

ASTONISHMENT 235

" Hughes's death, you know."

Here was the other side of Blathwaite, now ; the indo-
lence of bearing had gone. Here was the keen Blath-
waite, with dark eyes exceptionally bright as he fixed
them on Griff.

"Yes, I suppose it does. Hadn't thought of it in
that light."

"A very difficult job to replace him. Hughes was
very efficient; remarkably so." This was Blathwaite
the landowner, the sharp owner of property. " It's not
an easy position to fill. It wants a specially good, all-
round man."

" I suppose it does." Griff was mildly amazed at
the confidences. "You'll find plenty ready to fill it,
though ! "

" Plenty of a sort," Blathwaite corrected. He threw
his cigarette into the fire and uncrossed his knees.
" Hughes, as I said, was just the man." He got up
quicUy, bent his long body until his elbow rested on the
mantel-shelf.

He put his foot on the fender.

" Supposing I offered you the position, Chapel ! Would
you take it ? "

Griff stared at him. " What ? " He leapt to his feet.
** Me ? " he exclaimed. " D'you mean you're offering me
Hughes's position ? "

" Yes." Blathwaite was watching him very closely.

" Half a minute ! "

Griff was pulling down his waistcoat in nervous little
jerks. He commenced perambulating the room, his mind
in a jumble. Hughes the agent's position ? The mighty
Hughes! Griff cSiapel in the place of the man whom
everyone had regarded as a little god ?

" Naturally," Blathwaite was saying from the hearth,
totally mistaking Griff's perturbation, "I know you're
doing very well as you are. And your father's pretty
wealthy, I know."

" 'Tisn't that," Griff told him hurriedly. " I want to
get hold of the idea." He came back to the hearth.
Griff was now the business man, sure of himself a^nd of
his own worth. " The idea came as a thunderbolt," he

236 CHAPEL

said in explanation of his excitement. '' But my experi-
ence fits me for the work, now I come to think of it."

" Yes." Blathwaite was amused, yet pleased, at the
self-assurance. ** You've got a working notion of the
law ; you're an out-of-door man ; you're used to managing
men and turning among men. You were in a lawyer's
office for two years — ^I've been over your career pretty
thOTOughly," he said in reply to Griff's astonishment.
'' But the point is : Are you prepared to discuss the
matter further ? "

'' I am, most decidedly." But he must try to hide his
eagerness.

" WeU, then "

They sat down agam and discussed the question of
money and other incidentals. " It isn't so much the
actual income," Blathwaite explained, " because you get
hold of valuable information which you can always turn
to very good account."

** I have an idea of that."

Lord ! How difficult it was to contain this exuberance !
What would Bess say to this? What would his father
think ? What would everybody say to it ?

" Well Do you accept it, or do you want "

" I accept."

" That's settled, then. I wanted to get It done."

A quarter of an hour later Griflf stood on the roadway
watching the back of Bangor's car till it wa43 out of sight.
Turning, he bounded up the steps and entered the house.
He had not yet recovered his breath, as you might say.
It was all so stupendously wonderful.

''Struck me all of a heap," he said to himself as he
sat down.

Wonderful ! Miraculous ! Blathwaite's agent ! He —
Griff Chapel — ^was to take the place of the mighty Hughes ;
Hughes, the giant of all the greatness and influence of
the district ! Incredible ! Past all belief. He must have
time to let the idea soak into his mind. As yet, it seemed
too impossible to be true. He could not believe it. And
it had all happened to him !

life was grand. life was a fine thing if one but let

ASTONISHMENT 237

her have her way. Certainly, one had to be prepared
when she gave the order to fight; one had to keep a
watchful eye upon her while allowing her to play her
own game ; but let her alone, get to know her little tricks
and oddities, and life was exquisite.

Just to have something to do, he poked the fire and,
leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, he uncon-
sciously began slowly to tap the poker on the top bar
of the low grate.

And it was true. What used old Betsy to say?
** Mind you, QrifE. Mind you now ! When you do grow
up you got to be a bigger man than Hughes the agent."
Old Betsy wa43 a ripper. Knew what she was about, did
Betsy, though a stranger might consider her a queer old
stick. Good old Betsy! Perhaps he would go down
to-night and tell her* Old Betsy would understand.

Gi5bE put down the poker. Abruptly, his thoughts had
taken a serious turn. He was on top of that cociounded
dilemma again*

life was not all right ; decidedly not.

He sprang to his feet impatiently. He was complaining
already.

But what was Bess's opinion of all that had taken
place? So far, there had been no chance of discovering
Bess's point of view. So much depended upon that.

He stretched out his hand for the silver box on the
edge of the table. Nothing like a cigarette to help one
out of a quandary !

He had watched Bess this afternoon — getting into the
coach at Wem, and afterwards at the graveside. Dressed
in black she was, with a black veil half hiding her faoe.
And that black veil had made her look damnably dis-
tant, damnably superior and — ^a Hughes. . . . Not very
encouraging.

" What do you make of it, young Griff ? "

It was the first time he had ever asked the yoimger
Griff for sensible advice. But the young lunatic only
muttered something about — " Shut yer teeth — ^tight."

Griff was forced to smile. The boy in him was by no
means yet dead. And after all, there was solid sense in
he advice. Griff jerked his head.

238 CHAPEL

The same old game, he supposed ! Waiting, coolly
waiting for that second of opportunity.

" Come along, GrifiE. Dinner's ready."

The door behind him had opened and Jane was calling.

"Dinner?"

He looked about him. The room had begun to grow
dark without his noticing it.

*' A THOBOUOH BLAOKQUABD "

Bess's mother was a woman who compensated for her
rather small body by an aggressive manner. Possibly so
long a contact with her more aggressive husband had
taught her a great deal; but she possessed strength of
personality of her own, and nature abetted by example
had made her what she was. The ke3mote of her was an
extreme respectability, and there was always that need,
that duty of setting a pattern for her servants and
more especially for those less fortunate women of the
village. She was full of that rigid love of a high-toned
respectability.

She sat very erect in her chair at breakfast one morning,
and when she raised her hand to pat the hairpins into
her grey hair there was rather a dainty twist in her white
wrist. When she addressed Bess across the table her
voice was sharp and loathingly hostile towards the matter
under discussion; but one felt her tones could not have
been altogether unpleasant had she chosen.

"It's to-day that fellow Chapel is coming here, isn't
it ? " she wanted to know in her well-spoken way.

Bess also was sitting very erect in her chair — a lesson
learnt in early childhood. " Yes, mother," she answered
in her contralto voice. Bess was busy at that moment
with her bacon, so there was no reason whatever for
raising her very fair head.

"And who's to see him I don't know. I hate the
sight of the fellow ; not that I've ever seen much of him."
Having eased her mind to a certain extent, Mrs. Hughes
went on with her breakfast, until Bess's next remark
disturbed her again.

Bess looked around the vase of flowers at the black

240 CHAPEL

figure across the table. '' Is there any need for anyone
to see him ? Let one of the girls show him into the office,
and he can take away all the things belonging to the
estate/'

Her mother put down her knife and fork with a very
decided movement. "Don't talk nonsense, girl; don't
talk such nonsense. Do you think I'd trust a fellow
of that sort amongst your father's papers ? "

*' I don't see why not I " Bess objected, fingering the
handle of her cup of coffee.

" See why not I " her mother echoed in amazement.
*' There are some of your father's private papers among
those things. D'you imagine I'd let the feUow come here
if it were not for that ? I'd have got the whole lot packed
up and sent to him. He shouldn't set foot in this house,
I can assure you, if I could help it."

Mrs. Hughes picked up her knife and fork.

'' Ask him to put our private things on one side, then,"
offered Bees as a suggestion.

Mrs. Hughes again placed down her knife and fork, as
if resignedly. *' Whatever's the matter with 3rou this
morning, girl? I never heard such rubbish in my life.
There are hundreds of pounds in the safe, and some of it
belongs to us; how much, I don't know. That's one
reason why someone's got to be with him."

*' But he's not a thief, mother, whatever he is."

'* I wouldn't trust him with a farthing — " she tapped
the white tablecloth with her dainty hand — '' a far-
thing of my money. The blackguard ! He's a thorough
blackguard."

Bess gave up and continued eating.

"What's more — " Mrs. Hughes was determined to
make things plain — "your father's got bonds and cer-
tificates worth thousands of pounds there somewhere.
Now do you understand someone must go through all
these things with him? And I'm not, I'm sure." She
picked up the knife and fork and dug the fork into the
bacon. "I'd want to pull him to pieces — ^the young
blackguard."

Bess stretched out for the coffee-pot. " Who's going
to see him, if you don't ? "

'A THOROUGH BLACKGUARD' 241

" There's only you left."

" Me ? " The coflEee-pot dipped and nearly fell from
Bess's hand, and she looked at her mother with an expres-
sion closely resembling horror.

" You'll have to." That tightness around her mother's
mouth settled the matter, and Bess knew she would have
to obey.

" If you wanted someone to go through them," Bess
continued to object ; " why didn't you get one of those
solicitors up 1 "

Mrs. Hughes tossed her grey head as though relinquishing
hope of making her daughter understand. " I can't under-
stand you to-day. You know how I abominate the very
thought of a lawyer. What time did that blackguard say
he wa43 coming 1 "

•* Half-past two."

** Then be ready when he comes. And get through with
it as soon as you can, to get him out of the place. As
long as he's in the house I'll have a feeling that we
are being poisoned. I can't understand Mr. Blathwaite
choosing a fellow of that sort ! "

Bess deemed it wise to remain silent. Supposing her
mother knew that this blackguard had asked her to marry
him !

'' I thought Mr. Blathwaite was a different kind of man.
I'm disappointed in him."

And there the discussion ended.

Five minutes before the appointed time Griff was walking
up the drive. He had not taken the short-cut across the
fields because he knew the path led to the yard at the
back of Wem; and as yet he could not bring himself to
decide that he wa43 on terms sufficiently intimate with
Mrs. Hughes to warrant an entry into the house by way
of the back door. He had smiled at the thought. But
such wa43 his attitude this afternoon. He was quite aware
that he was cheating himself into a light-hearted mood,
while feeling exactly the reverse. He had not the slightest
conception what the character of his reception would be ;
there was no clue. Whom he should see, what he should
encounter — ^not the remotest clue here, either. All he

242 CHAPEL

knew was that as agent to Blathwaite he was going to
select and have carried away those papers, books and
deeds which were now his. Mr. Blathwaite had called
upon Mrs. Hughes telling her of the appointment, and
between them they had decided that the best arrangement
would be for the new agent to go and see what did belong
to the estate and what to Hughes.

As he walked up the drive Griff was fully aware that
he was cheating himself into a feeling of '' don't care."
Characteristically, he hoped for the best and prepared
for the worst. He felt that this visit, if he should meet
Bess, would be momentous, that Destiny would be looming
over him, that during this afternoon his future would be
decided. There was uncertainty in his heart, and this
was the first time he had felt it there.

He was passing through the gate at the top of the drive
now, and the next instant the old house burst into view,
long, low and gaunt. There they were — ^the small-paned
flat casement windows with the sun shining upon them.
Three sharp taps he gave with the tremendously heavy
knocker, and the sounds seemed to rattle right through
the house; and Griff wondered whether that uncertainty
in his heart had an3rthing to do with the sensation of hearing
echoes bounding through the place.

A maid stood aside for him to enter, and now Griff's
eyes were busy with his surroundings. He tried to stifle
these feelings within him. This was the interior of the
old Chapel home; he seemed to be at the very throb of
that heart of family Ufe.

This hall was a room in itself. Here on his left was
the flreplace ; against the wall was an old oak settle black
with the years which had crept into its timber. Straight
ahead was a gun cabinet holding half a dozen guns with
their black barrels gleaming. And there in the far comer
stood a grandfather's clock above whose brass face a little
sailing ship was rocking to and fro most sprightfully like
a saucy, dancing, smiling little mischievous boy. And
there, in the ha^ gloom, were the upright rods of the
ancient staircase.

" Will you come this way, sir ? " And the maid led
him into a room opening from the left of the hall. Her

•A THOROUGH BLACKGUARD' 243

stolidity steaded GriS. Her expressionless face seemed to
him an index of the spirit of the household in agreement
with those glances of condemnation which he had received
from the women of the village. A maid in a blue cotton
dress and a white apron to intimidate him ? GrifiE's feet
dug into the rugs and clapped on the bare boards of the
polished floor as he followed her. " If you will sit down,
Miss Hughes will be here in a minute."

He was now within what had always been known as the
office. " What did that girl say ? " he asked himself.
" Was it Miss, or Mrs. ? "

He walked to the table in the middle of the room and
took a chair. Behind him was the fire; in front of him
the table, and, completely filling the far wall, from floor
to ceiling, were rows of shelves. The top four shelves
were filled with black japanned boxes, and from the
white letters painted on them to tell their contents he
judged that there lay the legal paraphernalia of his future
business. These black boxes were familiar, reminding
him of Llewellyn and Macdonald's office in Cardiff. On
his left stood a bookcase, and the books within the glass
appeared uncommonly like ledgers. To his right, between
him and the window, was a roll-top desk locked and
mysterious. Behind the desk, in that recess in the comer,
stood the safe, green and black in its sUent secrecy.

Griff liked the look of the room ; it was unlike an office,
for there were the thick carpet and the small panes of
the window deep in the wall. The room bad a touch of
cosy homeliness in spite of the shelves and the bareness.

But the handle of the door turned and Bess came in.

** Good afternoon," she greeted him, and immediately
turned to the still open door before Griff had time to
decide upon her expression. ** You'd better come in,,
Polly. You can help to move some of these things."
Bess entered with the maid behind her.

Griff was standing at the table, inwardly swearing at
the presence of Polly. Even now he had not the slightest
understanding of Bess's attitude. She looked unfamiliar,
but uncommonly fine, in her black dress. There was the
same low broad cut of the collar, but to-day the comers
were down, secured to the front of the blouse, and discreet

24i CHAPEL

in their discipline. Black seemed to set off her fair hair
and light up that bit of pink under the slight tan of her
complexion. But she looked infernally distant, with
firm, unmistakable touches of that dignity and haughtiness
for which he had no liking. The Miss Hughes, without a
doubt.

" Mother thought one of us should come and get any
private papers that might be here/' she said, coming to
the other side of the table and not looking at him.

** Of course." Griff was eyeing that confounded maid
near the door. '' Want to go through everything, do
you?"

Distant— damnably distant.

** Mother thought we should. Here are the keys."

Queer that Bess should be handing him the symbols of
his new authority !

" Very well. . . . She here to help ? " he asked about
the maid.

They examined the contents of the black japanned tin
boxes — Pleases, plans, maps, surveys, minerals, repairs.
He brought down the large books from the bookcase,
and disclosed particulars of drainage accounts, rents,
workmen's wages and gamekeepers' accounts.

And all the while Bess was imbibing these new impres-
sions of him. Her previous knowledge had been of a
private nature; she had never seen him at work before.
Now, he appeared as though some super-energy possessed
him, and she got an idea that she, as a friend, was far
away from his mjnd. He was occupied, fully occupied,
by the work he was doing.

When the shelves and the bookcase had been turned
out Griff went over to the desk, selected the right key
from the bunch, and when he had the top rolled up he
nodded in PoUy's direction and remarked, '* Don't think
we'll want her any more ! "

'* She'll be useful," Bess decided.

'' All right." He tossed his head in resignation. '" If
you sit at the table, I'll hand some of these over, and you
can have a look at them."

He had hypnotised Polly, and her opinion of him was

*A THOROUGH BLACKGUARD' 245

that he rushed one off one's feet with his forcefulness.
One ran about the room, scurrying here and there, and
all with such a good grace because he ordered one about
so cheerfully. One could not possibly disobey, not even
hesitate, not even think of disobeying. Polly again watched
him. He had been right through every drawer of the desk,
and now he was taking the bundle of papers from Miss
Hughes, and now again he was swiftly sorting them — so
swiftly that Polly wajs certain Miss Hughes was not follow-
ing him. Three piles he wa43 making of the papers, and
as he divided them he kept saying —

** Private— estate— doubtful." And that was how he

went on : " Doubtful — estate — ^private — doubtful "

So quickly ! The bundle in his hand wa43 sorted.

** We'll soon finish now," he told Miss Hughes when
he had been through the safe. '' That cheque-book and
pass-book — ^private. These belong to the estate. Now
about this money ! I'll see how much belongs to the
estate, and you keep the rest. That satisfy you ? "

" That's quite right."

And now, all the business was finished.

Miss Hughes was standing, and her hands were hurriedly
arranging the papers in front of her into greater neatness.
Mr. Chapel was also standing, placing two brown leather
bags of money into his coat pockets.

** You can go now, Polly," he said, just as though he
had been her master. " lliank you very much. You've
helped us quite a lot. . . . You can go," he ordered again,
more sharply as he looked towards the door, for Polly
was hesitating, considering that Miss Hughes was the one
to obey now that the other work was done. But his
eyes seemed to say that he would come over and help her
if she did not move of her own accord.

Polly turned, and as she walked to the door she fancied
hearing Miss Hughes stir to follow ; but of that she could
not be certain. Still, she should have waited for Miss
Hughes to tell her what to do; but — ^with a man like
that!

Bess did move to follow Polly, but a firm grip on her
arm had restrained her. Immediately the door closed

246 CHAPEL

fhe fhook off his hand and faced him. And no longer
was there any doubt in Griff's mind. She looked uncom-
monly fine in that black with the tall bookcase in the
background. The fair hair over her forehead and the
grey eyes that had laughed so often at him ! But good
Lord ! She was miles away from him. Her body, usually
so supple, was rigid. The straight nose was straighter
than ever he had seen it before. Her lips, so full and
red and round usually, were severely, damnably closed
into a stem narrowness.

Opposition ! — and he must fight. Change her into Bess
the pal. Melt her — ^that was the word, the only word,
for she seemed frozen, as cold as the frigid zone.

" How do toe stand, Bess ? "

He saw that lus question moved her. He watched her
place a hand on the table beside her pile of papers; a
hand seemingly whiter than usual in contrast to the black
sleeve.

'' Please don't call me that again." Her voice was
horribly cold. It make him feel as though an icicle were
running down his spine. ** If you had the slightest sense
of decency, you'd faiow how we stand." She had not the
least desire to go away now. ** I'm sorry I ever knew
you." Her words were cutting into him; she was so
scornful. " You know what's happened, and you have
the presumption to ask how we stand? I think you're
despicable." There was the old trick of raising her head
to look down upon him. " Now, perhaps you know how
we stand."

" M'm ! " Griff watched her turn and go out. Yes, he
did know. He shook himself. Best put the thought away
for a time. He shook himself vigorously.

Polly was at the door, waiting for him.

" I'll send for those things," he told her with his old
cheerfulness in the hall.

Going down the drive he wondered whether he would
always be able to throw it off so well.

Then that side of his nature which helped him out of
difficult comers came to his aid. Very abruptly, he
stopped under the trees. Remarkable] He had just

*A THOROUGH BLACKGUARD' 247

received the most scornful dressing of his life, and he
had not made the slightest attempt to retaliate !

** like a schoolboy/* he admitted to himself. " Had
to take a licking whether I liked it or not. . . . But it
was Bess."

It was Bess, and he could not fight Bess. It was Bess —
just Bess. Everything was explained.

THS AGENT

The first lesson Griff set himself to learn in his new
life was that a landed estate is really a large industrial
undertaking. The estate began to appear to him as a
large factory, or an ironworks, or a colliery worked for
profit, but perhaps under more humane conditions, for
these farmers he had to handle were independent in spirit
and called for tactful treatment.

Griff naturally possessed a genius for concentrated
effort, and a month had not passed before he found him-
self grappling with problems in forestry, architecture,
law, surveying and the like.

His room at home very quickly changed its appearance.
The bookcase was now filled with those ledger-like volumes,
while the wall facing the bay window was hidden by
shelves similar to those he had seen at Wem ; the black
japanned boxes at the top and the large portfolios behind
the sliding doors at the bottom. In the far comer stood
a new safe, the door of which required some muscle to
swing open. And very soon, on the wall in the recess
near the window, a telephone appeared.

His first tour of the estate convinced Griff that if he
were to be happy he must devise some swifter mode of
travel. He wasted hours waiting for trains, and more
hours in outlandish places where there were no trains at
all. He hated the trouble of writing to farmers to meet
him, and the thought of continuing thus year after year
filled his energetic soul with horror. Then he decided to
buy a motor-car, a low, two-seated, grey, swift, silent-
running creature; and ever afterwards racing about the
coimtry filled him with delight. He soon became known
to the indulgent police of many counties.

248

THE AGEKI 249

In his room at night he waa busier than ever. Work,
work, work — from morning till night, with hardly a moment
for anything else. But work was enjoyable if congenial ;
he had been brought up in a school that taught love of
work, and where an example of prodigious energy had
always been set.

When September came along, he was able to blend a
little pleasure with the work. Early one morning, he
motored to Swansea with a double-barrelled gun at his
side, and for the remainder of the day he inspected the
farms of the three farmers he had invited to join him,
looked into the preservation of game, examined the work
of the gamekeepers and, incidentally, shot partridges. On
another day he met Blathwaite at Bangor's place, and
the three of them set out to examine property and shoot
more partridges. When the winter came he would no
doubt be able to take stock of the farmer's proficiency in
hedging, and introduce a little fox-hunting into the study
at the same time. But during those first months it was
a hard grind to obtain a general mastery of the estate as
a whole.

On the night Blathwaite had offered him the position,
Griff had been elated, remembering his boyish estimate
of Hughes's importance. But since, his fervour had
cooled. It was all very satisfying to one's self-esteem to
notice how the people of the village recognised one's
eminence; it was agreeable to observe how one's signifi-
cance on the Coimcil was established ; very pleasing it was
to receive the salutes of the farmers and to have this
sense of influence over the destinies of hundreds of families ;
and especially pleasing was it to know oneself as a force
among all sorts and conditions of men. . . . But there
was something empty about it all.

There was Bess.

Here lay the explanation of the emptiness, for what
were all these things worth — ^this success, this newly
acquired influence, this relative importance — ^what were
they all worth without Bess? Life had been easy with
him ; but perhaps it was seemingly easy, for he had fought
and worked hard, and his labour deserved success. And
now the thing he wished for most was denied him ! Maybe,

250 CHAPEL

here was another of life's ironies which he was constantly
meeting. Giving a man everything save the one great
prize! Was he asking too much of life ? Was he expecting
too much ? life was complex.

But what was he to do .^ It never occurred to him to
remain passive ; it was not in his blood.

Somehow, he could not believe that Bess had lused those
words to him. He could still hear her voice, biting and
scornful : " I'm sorry I ever knew you. I think you're
despicable." Somehow, he could not believe that she had
meant them. ... He could do nothing; at least, not
until Bess and her mother returned to Wem. They were
away — ^where, he did not know. ... He had a special
talent for waiting, and the chance would surely come to

speak to her, and— well Persistence is a remarkable

quality !

BUSINESS

TowABDS the end of October Griff was in his office
at home one evening, reading the letters which had come
by the six o'clock post. One, especiaDy, interested him,
and to read it again he took it with him when he sat in
the armchair. It came from the agent of the South
Western Colliery Company asking for an interview. Griff
had not met Mr. Bowen yet, but had been looking forward
to seeing him for some time. A large proportion of the
Blathwaite income came from this particular company in
rents, royalties and wayleaves.

Mr. Bowen was a particularly important man; he
arranged the sale of the company's smokeless coal to the
navies of many nations, and, among other things, he stood,
so the rumour ran, in peril of being knighted when the
New Year's Honours came to be scattered.

Griff got up from his chair to the telephone, got the
number from the letter heading, and had himsefi "put
through."

" Hullo ! . . . Yes, I am Chapel." Something in the
voice at the other end caused Griif to bristle. " Meet you
at Cardiff? I can't. . . . Impossible, I tell you. As
much as I can manage to get back here by five. . . .
You'll be here to-morrow, then ? "

Griff himg up the receiver with a smile. Mr. Bowen,
evidently, considered himself one of those beings who
should be chased about the country.

At five o'clock on the following day Mr. Bowen was
facing Griff across the black rug of the office.

Mr. Bowen was a slight little man with a very large
head and enormous comers to his white collar. Liclined
to be bombastic in his manner he was, and feverishly

251

252 CHAPEL

restless in his movements. Well known for his philan-
thropy and support of charitable institutions in private
life, he showed none of these admirable qualities in his
business transactions. A man of varied and immense
experience.

The South Western Colliery Company had for some time
been considering the question of extending their operations
by sinking new pits on the Blathwaite property, and
Mr. Bowen had arrived to discuss preliminaries by means
of a Mendly chat, as he very carefully explained to the
Blathwaite agent.

Mr. Bowen now sat, jerking his glance about the room,
as though searching for inspiration or a replenishment of
that nerve force he so prodigally expended in his restless
movements.

" Good stroke of business to-day, Mr. Chapel," he was
saying in his heavy voice so disproportionate to his slight
body. And then he rubbed hiis hands energetically to-
gether and looked searchingly at the younger man facing
him.

Griff was sitting back in his chair, studying him. '* Glad
to hear it," he said. '* What was it ? "

" Big navy contract." Mr. Bowen was xubbing the
knees of his striped trousers. "Switzerland — growing
nation. . . . Ha ! ha ! " Mr. Bowen smacked his knees
and laughed heartily. '* Didn't come off, I see, Mr. Chapel.
Always try that on people. You got no idea what enjoy-
ment I get out of it. You ought to hear the questions I
get on the Swiss Navy ! "

" Very funny, must be," Griff agreed. Humour firom
a man of Bowen's disposition was dangerous. '' But what
about those new pits 1 "

" Of course — of course ! " Mr. Bowen was nodding his
large head, but it was not so much a nodding as a vibration,
"little weakness of mine, you know — ^to wander away
from the subject. We'd better have a look at the map
first, so that you can follow exactly what I mean."

Griff thought there was a great deal too much alertness
in his way of getting to the table to allow many weak-
nesses to creep into his mental equipment.

" Here you are, Mr. Chapel." The little man had

BUSINESS 253

unrolled an ordnance map he had brought with him, and
now he was holding it on the table with outstretched
fingers. " Hold that corner down, will you ? I've got it
all marked in red ink." He began to point. ** Those two
little crosses — ^there they are, look ! — ^are the two shafts,
upcast — downcast. That straight line shows the main line
of workings. But this is what I want to show you. See
those dotted lines? They're the siding. . . . Got a
scale V He measured. ** The shafts are a mile to the
railway. Keep that in yer mind, Mr. Chapel. A mile."

*' Half a minute ! " GriflE crossed over to the shelves,
and from one of the portfolios he got a map similar to
the one Bowen was holding on the table. ** Let me mark
it on this. We can't advance very much till I know
where we are. . . . That's the exact place of the shafts
and workings, of course ? That's your final decision."

"Oh no ! " Bowen objected with horizontal vibrations
of his huge head. *' Oh dear, no ! " He completely
repudiated the idea. " Depends what terms we can fix
with your estate."

" I see. I quite understand. But that's where the
coal is ? "

** To the best of our knowledge. ... By the way,
Mr. Chapel ! Let's have a look at your estate map for
this part."

GiifiE was placing aside his own map. "Now that's
very queer," he lied; "but that very section was torn,
and I'm having another copy made."

Mr. Bowen hurried back to his chair. " The Blathwaite
people had a survey — ^a geological survey made about
fifty years ago by a man called Reynolds. Don't suppose
you know anything about it, Mr. Chapel ! Surprisingly
clever man ; had a sort of instinct with the South Wales
strata. Do you know if you've got his map ? "

" I'm not sure what I've got there and what I haven't,
to tell you the truth," GriflE again prevaricated as he
jerked his head at the shelves. " But I'll have a look
and let you know."

"Now that siding, Mr. Chapel." Bowen was tugging
at the lapels of his morning coat, somewhat puzzled by
this young fellow's manner. "Mil* long it will have to

254 CHAPEL

be, as you remember. Dead money— dead money put
into the ground." Here was the more real Mr. Bowen
at last. " What are your terms for that land ? "

Qriff coolly orossed his knees. "Bents and royalties
and wayleaves — all the same as before. Tou know the
terms as well as I do."

Mr. Bowen began to get disturbed; his tremendous
head again commenced its horizontal vibrations, and with
clenched fist he struck the palm of his left hand to em-
phasise his objections.

'* Never do, Mr. Chapel. As a man of business, I tell
you it will never do. Useless sinking ; no hope of success ;
nci the slightest. We're putting a fortune into your
estate, as you know quite well. We want more considera-
tion from you. The Blathwaite estate is a regular mill-
stone round our necks already. And just think, Mr.
Chapel, what you'll lose if this coal is not worked on your
property. Just imagine it for a second I Why "

Griff interrupted him with a laugh. '' We'll always be
big enough to look after our interests; you can be sure
of that, Mr. Bowen. . . . But I must say you're very
pessimistic after that good stroke of business you carried
through to-day ! " Qriff reached the cigarette box from
the mantelshelf. "Have a cigarette," he urged in a
friendly way.

Bowen puffed at his cigarette. " I've heard something

about your father " he said. His tone had changed,

and there was between them now that hard understanding
of the fraternity of business men.

" When d'you think you'll want that land to start the
siding ? " Qr& asked at length.

" Well, not just yet."

Qriff crossed to the shelves, and when he returned there
was a map in his hand. " Here's the Reynolds survey
that you wanted."

Mr. Bowen was instantly excited, for he leapt from his
chair and gesticulated with his arms. " Have you got
it ? . . . Now why didn't you show it before ? "

Griff spread the map on the table. " Didn't like your
methods, Mr. Bowen," he said.

" Apologies, Mr. Chapel," soothed Bowen. " But you

BUSINESS 256

did look rather young; and you know what business is.
. . . Now let's have a look at it. . . . There's the brook.
Here's the spot." His finger dug into a large patch of
black. "That's quite enough, Mr. Chapel. There's no
one ever understood the No. 3 Rhondda Seam like this
Rejniolds. . . . We might want that land sooner than I
expected, Mr. Chapel."

Bowen seemed to have no desire to wait any longer,
for he was pulling on his overcoat. " That little glimpse
has saved us another survey, Mr. Chapel." He pressed
his silk hat on his huge head. ** Good-bye, Mr. Chapel."
He shook hands and whispered confidentially : '' Get a
bit of money into this concern. Just to show there's no
ill-feeling, I'll manage it for you."

So much for Mr. Bowen.

Griff moved across once more to the shelves as soon
as Mr. Bowen was gone, and brought out the map which
was supposed to be torn and away being copied. These
estate maps were apt to reveal too much.

While examining this map. Griff made a discovery that
made him stop and stare in amazement. To be absolutely
sure he measured and examined again.

The main woildngs of this proposed colliery would cross
a piece of land wUch did not belong to the Blathwaite
estate. Not a very large piece; the estate map showed
it as four fields — ^about thirty acres in all

Very queer !

Griff lit a cigarette and began to think.

This looked imcommonly like a chance.

He walked to the top of the mountain that night to
look around the subject.

CHANOB AND THE HAN

At half-past nine the next morning, Griff's car was
climbiDg what he considered the most vile road it had
ever been his lot to encounter. Running down the
slope of the mountain three miles from Forth, beiog
shaken uncomfortably every yard he went, Griff was not
long in reaching the farm owned by a man named Richard
Richards. Earlier in the morning, by judicious inquiry,
Griff had found that Richards was also the owner of those
thirty acres stuck so obtrusively in the midst of Blathwaite
property.

" Oh yes, sir ! I do know you right enough.**

Mrs. Richards was dusting with her apron the settle
near the fire of the kitchen into which Griff had boldly
walked. She was a neat old woman, just the kind you
would expect to find after learning she was the mother
of four big sons. In a moment Griff had her at her ease.
'* Quite homely,** as Mrs. Richards described him later ;
** the same exactly as if I was talkin* to one of my own
boys. Tou wouldn* think, there you, he was Mr. Chapel
the agent. Talkin* Welsh an* all, indeed to goodness 1 '*

" Very good boys they are.** Griff had got her to tell
him of her sons, a very sure way of reacl]^ig her heart.
" Only Tommy, my youngest I I don' know what to
say about *im. He's a nawful boy; but a good farmer,
mind you I "

Then the story unfolded. Tommy — ** A couple o' years
yoimger than you, Mr. Chapel ! ** — ^was the black sheep,
who had caused Mrs. Richards many sleepless nights won-
dering what was to become of him.

" Oh, he's a nawful boy ; but a good farmer, mind you ! **

260

CHANCE AND THE MAN 257

And Tommy had at last got himself into difficulties.

'' I was against her terrible at first, Mr. Chapel/' said
Mrs. Richards from the Windsor armchair opposite. '' But
Tommy did bring her here, and there was nothin' for it
but she would help me with the tea. And I did take a likin'
to the little thing, there you. I must say, she's very
useful in the house. And these things will 'appen, as you
do know. And I do think, indeed, she will make a very
good wife for him. Indeed, I'm gettin' very fond of her.
Yes, yes — goin' to get married next week. Only the wust
of it is, his father won* do nothin' for um. Very funny,
our Kichard is like that. Once he have got his money
locked up in securities an' things, he won' sell anything
to have a halfpenny out of him. Very funny 'e is in that
way."

** What's Tommy going to do when he's married ? "
asked Mr. Chapel the agent softly from the settle.

"Oh! 'Look around.' That's all I can get out of
him, whatever that do mean . . . You must excuse me,
Mr. Chapel, because I'm his mother, you see. . . . But
I don' suppose you 'ave got a farm you could let him
have? I never thought of it till this minute; but you
askin' about him so Und-like — ^I did think of it at once."
And then she began to plead. '' He's a good farmer, mind
you. And those wild boys, Mr. Chapel — ^they do often
make the best men, if you 'ave noticed. And our Tommy
is like that."

" But — even if I find him a farm he must have the
money to stock it."

Mrs. Richards shook her head sadly. '' 'Tisn' possible.
Our Richard is very funny. May its well ask him to give
his 'ead as ask him to sell something. I 'ave coaxed and
coaxed — ^but he won't."

GrifiE was very S3rmpathetic. " I've got a little plan,
Mrs. Richards. I'd like to buy those four fields you've
got on the other side of the mountain. They're in the
middle of our property, and they're not much good to
your husband. Now if he would sell them, perhaps I
could get a farm for Tommy, and you could coax the
money for the stock."
s

258 CHAPEL

" That's very good, Mr. Chapel. Only I'm afraid he'll
want too much money for um."

" You think he'll seU them, then ? "

" Them fields are the only things I've seen him willin'

to sell. Mr. Hughes tried to buy them But here

he's comin', and you can talk to him yourself." And
Mrs. Richards hurried out to meet her husband and explain
the meaning of the motor-car and to acquaint him of the
august presence in the kitchen.

Then Richards came in, an old man with hair and beard
turned grey. To Griff he doffed his cap, and his manner
was diffident without losing any of its independence.

" What are these roads you've got around here,
Richards ? Can't you get anything done to them ? "

Richard had now taken the chair recently vacated by
his wife. "Now that road," he said, drawing his hand
over his shaven upper-lip — " if I've said about it once,
I've said a hundred times — ^haven't I, Mary ? " He made
the appeal to his wife standing near the table.

" I'm sure you have, Richard," she seriously confirmed.

^* Haven't tried in the right way, p'raps," suggested
Griff from the table. ** What Coimcil are you under ? "

" Your Council, Mr. Chapel."

** Written to the engineer ? "

" Written to everybody, nearly, imtil I'm sick and
tired of it. I wish you would do something, sir. It's a
disgrace, it is. ... If you've got no objection, sir ? "
Richards was exhibiting his pipe by way of askhig per-
mission to smoke.

" Smoke away," answered Griff, drawing out his case.
" Have one of these ? "

" No, indeed, sir, thank you ! I can't make anything
of um — can I, Mary ? "

" No, I know you can't. It's only our Tommy do smoke
them things."

'' I do like a little smoke," Richard was explaining,
** after my walk roimd the farm in the momin'. . . . Reach
me the tobacco tin down, Mary ! "

Mary obeyed, walking across the hearth and bringing
down the cylindrical tin from the mantel-shelf.

CHANCE AND THE MAN 259

Subtle intrigue was out of place with a man like Richards,
so, as soon as they were softly pufl&ng, GriflE comm^K>ed
upon his business.

" I've called to see you about those four fields. I didn't
know they belonged to you till the other day ! "

" Oh dear me, yes ! Bin in our family — ^how long,
Mary?"

" Indeed, I couldn' tell you, Richard," came the answer
from near the table ; " 'undreds of years, p'raps ! "

"They're not much use to you," GriflE contended.
" You never do anything with them. They're quite
wild."

" I always got a feelin' they are there, Mr. Chapel. And
that's a lot."

** Perhaps you'd sell them ? " hinted GriflE.

" Not very particular," informed Richard with an
aggravating indifiEerence.

GriflE ascertained the amoimt Hughes had oflEered ten
years ago, repeated the oflEer, and made ready to go.
** Think about it," he said again. " I'll be coming this
way — ^Thursday to-day ! — I'll be roimd next Tuesday.
Think it over by then."

He shook hands with the pair of them, giving Mrs.
Richards' hand an extra pressure, as is the habit of fellow-
conspirators.

GriflE went out of his direct route on his homeward journey
to call upon the Council engineer.

" Dropped in to see you about it," GriflE said aflfably,
when the position of the road had been indicated. ** Rotten
state ; and I'm thinking of sending in a bill for tyres. Can't
you do something ? At once, you understand ! Where
are the road gangs ? "

" AU tied up, Mr. Chapel."

" Now just to oblige me." GriflE was extremely pleasant,
with the other side of him just showing as his fingers
drummed the table. '' Couldn't you start doing sometUng
up there at the beginning of the week ? You won't suflEer
for it, you know," he suggested further.

** I'll see what I can do, Mr. Chapel." The engineer,
like the other Council oflGicials, had decided that Chapel

260 CHAPEL

was too great a force to have his wishes disregarded.
Besides, Qiapel's influence on such a question as an in-
crease of salary GriflE, as his car ran past the gate of

Bangor's drive, smiled sarcastically to himself. Remark-
able what men will do ! Not so many years ago he had
been attacking Hughes for abusing his position as a coim-
cillor for the furtherance of personal ends. Remarkable
how imscrupulous is human nature !

On the afternoon of the next Tuesday GriflE was once
more sitting on the settle in Richards' kitchen, this time
smacking his breeches and gaiters with his riding-crop.
This district, he had decided, was too rough for motoring,
and he had ridden one of his father's ponies instead. Coming
up the side of the mountain, he had passed a road-gang
and a steam-roller busy at work, and on his entrance
Mrs. Richards had snatched a moment to whisper : " Let
'im ask about the farm, Mr. Chapel. He do like to think
he is doin' everything hisself."

Richards regarded GriflE with a kind of awe. " What
I bin trying to do for a lifetime, sir," he said ; " and you
bin and done it in a couple of days ! They started on the
road yesterday morning — didn' they, Mary ? "

With a man in this temper, business on a very reasonable
and advantageous footing was possible.

" And what d'you think of the oflEer I made you last
week?"

For a quarter of an hour they haggled. The deeds were
brought and eagerly examined for mention of Mineral
Rights. They were there, intact.

"There's another little business, sir," Richard was
saying, refusing to commit himself. " There's one of these
boys here gettin' married."

"Oh! That so?"

" I don' suppose you got a farm comin' empty 'fore
long ? You know us. 'l^n' the same as if strangers was
asUn' you. But if you've got one comin' empty, I should
be very glad if you'd give this boy here a chance, Mr.
Chapel."

" Well, I've got a farm, Richards, and if you'll sell me
this land, I'm prepared to talk about it."

CHANCE AND THE MAN 261

** Very good, sir."

Then the bargaining restarted ; the land was sold — ^legal
expenses to be borne by the purchaser.

" K he only knew ! " Griff was thinking in his jubilance.
" I'd give him another thousand — ^two — ^three thousand."
Aloud he said —

" Now about this farm. It's a rule with me, Richards,
never to let a man have any of our land unless he's going
to stock it well and make the most of it. How's your
son off for capital ? " Griff caught Mrs. Richards' glance
of gratitude.

" I was coming to that, Mr. Chapel. And if you wouldn't
mind, I would like to have this business finished off as
soon as you can. I'll have to help this boy, or I'll never
have any peace with his mother."

" I'll have the deeds drawn up by two o'clock to-morrow,
if you like ; and I'll have the money ready as well."

And so it was arranged. Griff making the necessary notes
from the title-deeds before departing.

" Tell Tommy to come and see me to-morrow night,"
he told Mrs. Richards out in the yard.

After passing the road-gang on the way home. Griff
stopped the pony at the mouth of the lane leading to the
four fields. Standing upright in the stirrups, he tried to
catch a glimpse of his new possession, for these fields
were not to be absorbed in the Blathwaite estate. They
were to be his — Griff Chapel's — as the transfer deeds drawn
up by Llewellyn and Macdonald to-morrow would show.

'' It isn't so much the actual income," Blathwaite had
explained over six months ago ; " because you get hold
of valuable information which you can always turn to very
good account."

Griff mused as he stood upright in his stirrups : " Well — I
have information that coal will soon be worked under these
fields, and I am turning it to good account."

Then the immensity of the deal struck him. For the
first time he realised its hugeness. And his eyes opened
in disbelief that he should have carried it through — that
the thing should have happened to him. If coal were
worked under those fields, it would mean a safe annual

262 CHAPEL

inoome in Royalties amounting to four or five thousand
pounds for several years, and a further annual income of
a thousand or more in Wayleaves for the remainder of
his life, and probably for the next generation.

The enormousness of it all caused him to quiver with
pleasurable excitement.

Was he lucky ? Was life throwing things into his way 1
But was it luck, after all ? Or had he trained himself to
seize chances the instant they arose? It seemed that
opportunity could not show its nose without his imme-
diately snapping at it. His dealing with Bess was the only
thing he had bungled.

It did not matter if it were luck. The land was his. He
urged the pony into a trot down the hill. . . . Another of
life's ironies — anything but the one great prize !

But thought of the manner in which Mrs. Richards had
helped caused him to smile again. *' And people imagine
there's no sentiment in business," he thought, with a
chuckle.

Griff did not know at the time — for he had no conscious
ambition that way — but the possession of these four fields
was the chief factor which enabled him a few years later
to force his way into the Directorate of the South Western
CoUiery. And this deal with Richards was also the first
of a series of moves which revealed his acumen, and made
him in middle age one of the most powerful forces in South
Wales finance.

Somewhere near the end of October Griff was in his
office when the telephone bell rang. Looking at his watch
he found the time to be nine o'clock, and he wondered who
could possibly want him at this hour of the night.
" HuUo ! ... Oh, that you, Mr. Blathwaite ? "
'' Charlie and I," he heard, '' have arranged a day's
shooting at Neath to-morrow. Are you free ? "

" Er — er — ^NO. Very important appointment in the
afternoon."
" Thought you'd like to join. Good-night ! "
Griff hung up the receiver, went back to the table and
picked up the folded sheet of notepaper lying there. He

CHANCE AND THE MAN 263

turned it over in his hand. Grey paper, small — so femi-
nine ! He read the note —

/ have found something else. Can you manage to call
here abovi four to-morrow afternoon^ please ?

B. H.

The note had been bothering Griff all the evening.

''Something else? What's it all about? Has she
found something else belonging to the estate, or does
she want to give me a dressing? Anyhow, here's a
chance.''

VII

AT PORTHOAWL

BBSS lived at Porthcawl during those months following
the death of her father.

An enjoyable existence it proved at first, if somewhat
uneventful; a change from the too evenly ordered life at
Wem. There was the shopping in the morning ; the drive
after lunch with her mother and her aunt — iSis. Hughes's
sister, the widow of an extremely prosperous Swansea
solicitor, who accounted for Mrs. Hughes's abomination
of all lawyers. There was dinner in the evening, and then
came a few hours' quiet reading afterwards; and bed at
half-past ten. Nothing very exciting, although decidedly
a change.

At breakfast Bess's aunt never appeared, for she was a
self-appointed invahd, with a tendency towards dysx)ep6ia
and a touching carefulness regarding diet. Mrs. Hughes
had not been a month in the place before her managing
hands had gripped the steering gear of the household. And
since her sister had always belonged to that shiftless variety
of humans, there had been no awkward difficulties. Mrs.
Hughes now arranged the meals, ordered the supplies,
controlled the servants, and the house became a well-
organised, perfect-working mechanism, such as Wem had
always been.

They were at breakfast one morning, Bess and her mother,
just as they might have been twenty-five miles away on
the outskirts of Forth ; and Bess was reading the only letter
the morning post had brought her. It came from the
family solicitors in Queen Street, Cardiff, and after reading
Bess passed the typewritten sheet across the table to her
mother.

Mrs. Hughes's comment was caustic enough. " I never

AT PORTHCAWL 265

heard of such a thing. I suppose the father is as much a
blackguard as his son."

The letters contained an oflfer, a very substantial oflfer,
from Josiah Chapel for the purchase of Wem.

" Even if we thought of selling it — " Mrs. Hughes was
dreadfully angry; you saw it from the way she viciously
cut her bacon — " I*m sure those Chax)els would be the
very last. Write and tell these solicitors — and pretty
sharp, too — ^that we don't want any offer from such people.
Impudence ! '*

And Bess obediently wrote, for she quite agreed with
her mother's opinion of the Chapels.

Later in the morning she walked into the town and ordered
things for lunch ; when the afternoon arrived she sat with
her back to the coachman and accompanied her mother
and her aunt on their drive for fresh air; when dinner was
over and night came, the three of them went upstairs to
the sitting-room, and while Bess read her book under the
red silk shade of the electric standard lamp, her mother
worked on the white shawl she was knitting and her aunt
shamelessly dozed. At a quarter past ten the maid
brought up the three glasses of hot malted milk on a tray,
and the room awakened to consciousness again.

" It's very hot,'* Bess's mother remarked, taking out
her handkerchief the better to hold the glass.

" It's very good for one," Bess'^ aunt repeated at inter-
vals between her sips.

And Bess agreed that the malted milk was both very
hot and very good for one.

All alone, up in her bedroom, Bess would heave a sigh
unconsciously, without knowing how prophetic or how
potential was that nightly sigh. Entering the room she
turned on the light by means of the switch at the head of
the bed. Usually she liked to lie reading for the first
half -hour in bed ; it was so cosy and comfortable. No need
to stir and blow out a candle. One had but to stretch up
one's hand to the wall — ^a click ! — and out went the light.
But to-night she did not read. She lay in the dark, listen-
ing for a moment to the faint hum of the sea in the distance.
She was thinking of the letter which had come by that
morning's post. It had troubled her all day. It had kept

266 CHAPEL

diallenging her to face and honestly understand the mean-
ing of all that had happened during these past months.
This letter brought back with it thoughts of Griff, and
immediately Bess knew she had not been sincere with her-
self, not open, not frank, as she should have been.

For the first time in her life she differentiated between
these two opposed modes of thinking : the traditional and
the original. In the first, one thought exactly as one had
been taught to think; one's mind worked in grooves worn
deep by precedent — as others had always thought before.
There was nothing individual in such a mode. For in-
stance : a man who was the cause of the death of one's
own father was a creature to abhor. Everyone agreed
it was so. Her mother said it was so. It was right
according to all general standards.

But there was a personal method of thinking — ^in one's
own distinctive way — ^the way in which no-one else could
think. The man who had indirectly caused her father's
death was Griff, that great big boy who could laugh so
merrily, who was so fond of bluffing, and who said he had
never had a pal but her : that Griff who could be so sym-
pathetic, who could understand so thoroughly.

But the world's way of thinking must be the correct
way. It was unnatural to regard with any fondness a man
who had done what Griff had !

She must not trust herself because her ideas were un-
reasonable. She must keep repeating that Griff was a
monster, that he had killed her father — ^while in her heart
she knew quite well that the opposite was true. Why ?
He thought more of her than he did of anything else in the
world. He had told her. And he was the kindest, most
sympathetic, most understandable boy that had ever lived.
But her mother was right ; certainly she was right.

Naturally her mother could not understand the feelings
which had prompted Griff's father to make that offer. But
she could ; Griff had told her. Griff wanted to get back to
Wem; Griff had told her. And what Griff told her she
always understood; everything he said gripped hold of
her ; it sank into her very being and became part of her.
The Chax)els back in Wem ! She understood, and as she
lay in bed, listening to the low persistent hum of the tide,

AT PORTHCAWL 267

she had a feeling that she was not doing her share to help
them to get back. She understood, and there were to
have been Chapel children back in Wem again. Griff had
told her. Not in actual words, for there was never any
need for Griff to say things in puny words.

But her mother was right. She ought to hate him ; but
it was her duty to forget him. Griff was a monster. She
was a Hughes, and the sense of family was too strong to
let her forgive. Griff was a monster.

Then suddenly Bess began to find fault with her sur-
roundings and her present mode of living. She thought
of it as she sat facing her mother and her aunt on one of
those afternoon drives. How Griff would have laughed at
the idea of it ! A girl tied eternally to the company of
these two old women : one a pamx)ered invalid and the
other a dominating creature. A young life obsessed by the
weighty responsibiUty of two beings arrived at old age !
She thought of it again as the maid brought in the three
glasses of hot malted milk at a quarter past ten that night,
and as the three of them sat, like domesticated old frumps,
sipping the hot malted milk.

** It's very hot," she heard her mother say.

** It's very good for one," came the support from her
aunt.

But to-night Bess did not agree that the milk was very
hot, or that it was very good for one, either.

** Aren't you going to finish your milk ? " her mother
asked as they rose to go to bed.

** I don't want it."

** But you ought to take it. It's waste leaving it."

" It's very good for you," came the support from her
silly aunt.

Bess bade them good-night, and her comment on
the occurrence as she stood within her bedroom door
was —

" And I'm nearly twenty-six ! "

Quickly, she turned on the light, and as she sat before
the mirror of the dressing-table, taking the hairpins from
her fair hair, her thoughts grew prodigal again.

" If anyone tries to crush your individuality," Griff
had once said, " you've got to fight." She remembered

268 CHAPEL

something else he had said, too ! '' Tou can't make up
your mind. That's what's the matter, isn't it ? "

Griff had always been the one to understand. Bess
gathered together her hairpins, put them in a heap, and
took up the brush.

And Griff had been right; quite right. It was Griff
should be with them. Griff would teach them about the
importance of their paltry afternoon drive for fresh air.
He would be the one to tell her aunt exactly what he
thought of that stupid, special diet for her dysx)ep6ia.
Griff would have let them know what he thought of that
hot malted milk for supper !

She had laughed at him once for saying one must fight.
But that only showed how stupid she was, and how marvel-
lous was Griff. He had spoken from experience ; he had
been at Llandovery among other boys, and knew boys took
advantage if one did not assert oneself.

She supposed she hated him now — ^but she was quite
within her rights when thinking of him as he used to be,
and when profiting from what he had told her.

It was when she commenced wondering how he liked his
new work, what he might be doing — ^it was then she over-
stepped reason. Her fingers lingered over the second long
plait; they loitered so much that at last they stopped.
Her little gold watch on the dressing-table in front of
her said it was five-to-eleven. What could he be doing
now ? Perhaps he had had a busy day and was tired. He
seemed to be ever so far away. She listened for a moment
to the tide humming its way up the sands. Did he think
of her sometimes ? She looked up, and the eyelashes in
the mirror were wet.

On the next night, open revolt began. They were as
usual in the well-funiished sitting-room, Bess near the lamp
with the red silk shade, her mother knitting her white
shawl and her aunt audibly dozing. At a quarter past ten
the maid came in with her punctuality of doom. But to-
night there were two glasses only, one for Mrs. Hughes and
the other for her sister.

Mrs. Hughes put down her shawl immediately. " Where's
your milk, Bessie ? " She had very sharp eyes.

*' I don't want any, mother." Bess looked up from her

AT PORTHCAWL 269

book rather cautiously, anxious that the matter should end
with her reply.

" Pooh ! Bring another glass of milk," ordered Mrs.
Hughes.

Bess closed her book and got up. " D'you think I don't
know what I want, mother ? "

" Sit down and drink the milk when it comes.*'

Bess moved towards the door. " I don't want it," she
said very calmly. " And I'm sure no-one's going to make
me drink it."

She hurried to her bedroom, telling herself on the way
that she was a coward. " Why couldn't I face her to the
end? I wonder would GrifE laugh at me, or would he
understand ? You can't fight everything at once."

WOlfAN

Thbrs was more revolt on the following afternoon.

The carriage was outside the door on the small semi-
circular drive, the coachman was on his elevated perch,
the two sisters were already in their places, and a maid
was tucking a rug around their aged knees.

'* Dear me ! Where's Miss Hughes ? Oo and tell her
we're waiting."

In a moment the girl returned with the astonishing
information : '* She's gone out."

'* Gone out ? " Mrs. Hughes was horrified.

'* She said she was going for a walk by herself."

At that instant B^ was at the station, watching the
passengers alight bom a newly arrived train. She had
come to the station because the bookstall here was the
most up-to-date in the town, and as she returned down
the main street she was disposed to be pleased with herself.
There would be fearful trouble when she reached home,
but she had been braver than she had considered possible,
although brave only in a half-timid manner. Still, she
was a step nearer freedom, and as she set off down the
pavement her fair head was higher than ever it had been,
her shoulders were very square, her carriage much freer
and her bosom rose and fell as though alreiady she were
breathing a new air. There also came into her conscious-
ness a touch of truancy, such as she had felt on that day
of the picnic with Griff.

Her destination was decided upon, and soon she had
left the street to cross the dunes, where her steps got
slower because the sand was heavy.

Far away on her left were the villas, one of which was
her aunt's beastly conventional prison; on her right were

270

WOMAN 271

the rocks and the sea, from which crept into her nostrils
the energising ozone. She stood awhile, watching some
rowing boats with the men in them small as dots. Farther
out was a fishing smack, seemingly at anchor, being lazily
rocked by the swell. Still farther out, against the horizon,
steamed a ma.ssive ship, probably a coUier just out
bom Cardiff or Penarth or Barry — ^whence? Maybe to
the other end of the world. Why! the very scene
screamed freedom. And she had meekly acquiesced to
the tjoranny of two old frumps in a stupid villa ! She
would come to these sands a great deal oftener to read
and watch the sea and breathe in the freedom it so boldly
taught.

Bess sat on one of the patches of coarse grass, took off
her shoes to pour out the sand, and as she re-buttoned the
straps she softly laughed, for this truancy was exactly
what Griff would have enjoyed. For some time she sat
and read ; sometimes she raised her grey eyes to look sea-
ward ; and if occasionally her thoughts ran off in the direc-
tion of Forth it was because there was so much time for
thinking, and because her thoughts were none too scrupulous
in their methods and caught her unawares.

At five o'clock she reached home, but the trouble did
not assume such f earfulness as she had anticipated, although
it commenced hotly enough.

" What d'you mean, Bessie ? " Her mother was dread-
fully angry. " Where were you this afternoon ? "

" I went for a walk."

Probably the sparkle in those grey eyes boded danger,
for Mrs. Hughes's tone modified. '' Is anything the
matter with you ? You'd better see a doctor."

'' There will be something if I don't get more exercise."
It was an evasive kind of bravery, but it sufficed; and
Bess never more accompanied them on their drives.

Then came another letter from the Cardiff solicitor, with
an increased offer for Wem, and Bess began to grow un-
easy. What business had anyone to imagine he could
possess Wem?

The third letter completely upset her. It asked them
to name their own terms for the sale of Wem.

Their own terms ! It just showed the character of the

272 CHAPEL

man. Griff had once said that his father never stopped
till he won. She began to feel as though Mr. Chapel had
set a net, and that the cords were gradually tightening
around her. He must have tremendous influence with
these Cardiff solicitors, or they would have made him
definitely understand that Wem was not for sale. It
showed how dogged and persistent he was. He would
not acknowledge defeat. A woman against such tactics
was helpless. She had vague memories of how people,
women especially, were often robbed of their property,
and she knew the force of the family feeling in the Chapels.
They could be hard. They would do anything before allow-
ing themselves to be beaten. And there was Griff ! Wem
was his, if anyone's. And something seemed to tell her
that the only person in the world to stop Mr. Chapel from
getting Wem was Griff.

She felt as though something were driving her to that
conclusion, and at last she became honest.

She had not shown these last two letters to her mother
because she had not wished to hear the C3iapels derided.
And now at last she knew she had been afraid all along
that someone else but Griff would get Wem. That
was the truth. It was her destiny to bring Griff back
to the old home, and she had been avoiding it. To her.
Griff was the world; Griff was everything. And that
meant

Bess lay awake thinking of it ; lay awake in the dark,
listening to the hum of the tide stealing in through the
open window.

She had been wrong all the time. Griff had said one
ought always to look at things in the true proportion.
And she had not. She had thought as others had taught
her. . . • And suppose he had killed her father ! Suppose
he had even deliberately shot him with a revolver ! Weren't
those feelings within her greater guides than all tra-
ditions? Was not Griff more to her than any father?
All these months she had been deluding herself into the
miserable belief that she hated him, and every moment
she had been thinking of him, wondering what he might
be doing, trying to remember the sounds of his voice and
listening to his step. Her father had tried to dominate

WOMAN 273

Griff, and Griff had fought. Griff had been right to fight ;
he was always right.

She was the only pal he had ever had, and she had for-
saken him. The treachery ! Just when she should have
stood by him, she had turned disloyal. Turned traitor
after he had said she was the only being close to him !

" I didn't mean it, Griff. I didn't mean it— I didn't ! '*

She had called him despicable. Called Griff despicable !
She had said she was sorry she had ever known him.
What did it matter if she were crying ? It was time for
her to cry. It was the only consolation she was ever
likely to have.

** Tve been a beast — a nasty beast."

And then everything in her mind was hushed by an
overwhelming fear. " And now he won't want me. He
won't want me. Of course he won't want me."

The thought was terrible. He had turned against her.
He resented her insults. Griff was not the sort to take
an affront lightly. And she could not blame him. Oh,
what a fool she had been !

If only she could tell him how sorry she was ! And
she vxyidd tell him. She did not care a scrap what any-
one thought. She would tell Griff she was sorry, and,
perhaps, when he knew how really regretful she was, he
might forgive her. If only she could be sure he would
forgive !

She sat with her mother at breakfast next morning.

Mrs. Hughes's small body was very rigid ; she bent her
head over her plate in a most correct manner and masti-
cated her food as though her sister's dyspepsia had taught
her the advisabiUty of carefulness. You read the strained
relation of mother and daughter from their silence and
their attitudes.

Bess, sitting there not half as erect as usual, looked
across the table and wondered why she had ever been
afraid of her mother. She kept on wondering until break-
fast was ended, and then with a suddenness she spoke.

" I'm going home this afternoon," she said boldly.

Mrs. Hughes sat up as though galvanised. More of
this defiance ! " Going where ? " Her lips were perilously
tight, and her eyes were like steel.

274 CHAPEL

" Home." Bess knew they would quarrel irreparably
this morning; she had planned it should be so. She put
her elbow on the table and her hands under her chin.
" To Wem," she added, to make things plain.

Her mother regarded her hostilely and in silence for
a few seconds. " But you can't go home." She was
groping for her vanishing dominion. " I haven't made
any arrangements to go home yet. I hadn't thought of
going."

Bess answered calmly : "I don't think there's any need
for you to come." She must be adamant, or perhaps she
woidd break down and cause her mother to imagine she
still held the mastery. ** But perhaps I'd better tell you
something first."

" I should think you had, because anyone more stubborn
and more ungrateful than you've been lately, I've never
seen."

The acerbity in her voice was just the fillip needed by
Bess's uncertain bravery.

" I want to tell you something you didn't know before,"
she said. " It's about — ^about Griff Chai)el." How queer
it sounded to call him that ! " I've known him for a long
time."

" Known him ?" Her mother was honestly puzzled.
" Whatever do you mean ? "

" We've been friends for a long time."

*' Friends ? " Her expression showed her immense
surprise. " With that young blackguard ? "

This maddened Bess. She had been a traitor once —
but never again. " You mustn't call him that," she cried,
clenching her hands on the white table-cloth. The tears
of protection were not so very far away.

" Oh ! " Her mother's lips tightened, and her tone
was witheringly sarcastic. " When did you get to know
him? When have you had the chance of being friends
for a long time ? " The recurrent downward sweep of
her well-dressed head intensified the bite in her voice.

" I've been meeting him regularly." Never had Bess's
tone been more sure.

** Very nice goings on ; very proper, indeed. So you're
deceitful, as well ? "

WOMAN 276

** I suppose I am — ^from your point of view," came the
answer to match the irony.

" And x)erhaps you're going home to see him ? " was the
goading suggestion.

"Yes, lam. Tm "

" What ? " Her mother was bending over the table ;
her eyes were wide open in complete disbelief. " Are you
out of your senses ? " But something within her said her
daughter had passed beyond her control ; there was a man
in her life. " Have you forgotten he was the cause of
your father's death? D'you know "

"Rubbish," cried Bess impatiently. "And I'll tell
you more. He asked me to marry him ; and I'm going
to — ^" Bess was quite firm, though she did not express that
fear in her heart — " if he'll have me."

" Marry him ? " It was too much for Mrs. Hughes.
Her voice fell to a whisper, and she sank back into her
chair. " You must be mad," she breathed.

" Perhaps I am — mad enough to know I shan't be
happy "

" Happy ? " Mrs. Hughes sprang again into energy.
" What happiness do you expect with a man like that ?
You're tempting Providence to blight your whole life.
In a year he'll be ill-treating you ; he'll waste all you've
got; in the end he'll desert you. Don't you know his
sort?"

Bess got up. " He'll have a lot more than I'm ever
likely to have. And since he hasn't wasted his own, he
won't waste mine."

" But think ! "

" I have thought." Her individuality was at last
recognised.

Her mother was now calmer. " Do you know what it
means," she asked with deUberation, " if you marry that
fellow ? To begin with, I'll have nothing more to do with
you."

"That's for you to decide." Bess turned to the
door.

She was proud of herself, for she had not played the
traitor. She had stood up for Griff. She had fought as
he had always said she must. But at the back of her

276 CHAPEL

mind was the faint conscioiisness of the cruel war between
two generations. It seemed to her as though she had
been forced to trample on parental control before she could
reach her own happiness.

And even now she was not sure. There was always
that terror in' her heart that Griff would not want her.

" SOMETHING ELSE "

The sentences of that short note had kept running
through GrifiE's brain all the night, especially the first : " /
have found something else.^'

Once again the heavy knocker at Wem awakened echoes
that rattled through the house, and very soon GrifiE was
passing through the hall, where he obtained hasty glimpses
of the settle, the rugs on the pohshed floor, the gun cabinet,
and of the old grandfather's clock with the saucy little
sailing ship.

" This way, sir ! "

A smiling Polly was taking his hat, was opening a door
on the right, and Griff was within what appeared at first
glance to be a very homely room indeed.

The floor was similar to that of the hall, bare and polished,
with rugs here and there. The room seemed not to contain
a single cushion. All oak furniture, ancient stuff as black
as the rafters of the low ceiling. Griff walked across the
room, hearing the hollow soimds of his steps on the boards,
and thinking as he looked aroimd that there was some strong,
almost primitive, simpUcity about it all. This must be the
Chapel furniture old Betsy had spoken about so often !

Griff sat in the stiff armchair on the hearth and felt his
feet sink into the white sheepskin rug.

The fire burning on the floor far back in the chimney
recess must have burnt on this spot for centuries. Odd
to feel that in this same armchair with the carved back
Chapels had sat generation after generation ! And it
required no imagination at all to see those small chairs
drawn up and a whole Chapel family sitting at a meal
aroimd the table. At that old sideboard against the back
wall a Chapel wife must often have stood, handling these

277

278 CHAPEL

very pieces of blue china, as likely as not. On that carved
bench across the comer on the other side of the window
probably a Chapel had rested after a hard day's shooting.
The leather screen facing him would somehow not give
up any memories.

Remarkable ! Remarkable to be here with these warm
memories around him ! The dreams awakened by this
bare, polished room with the black rafters were unending.

But Griff turned to watch the door opening and to see
Bess coming in. He followed eagerly every movement of
her, for the first impression he got was of Bess the friend.

** I thought you'd come," she said.

There was something of the old intimacy in her voice,
something of the old friendship in her eyes. Her body
was so supple as she half stooped with her hand on the
knob, and there was the same curve of her neck as her fair
hair almost touched the panel when she closed the door.
But the next impression was of the formidable Miss Hughes,
and all because of the rustle of her black dress as she moved
from rug to rug across the bare floor. Griff had never before
seen her so well dressed ; and if she had put on this gown
to terrify him she had succeeded already. The fact that
she was rather tall and broad-shouldered made her more
formidable, and being fashionably dressed in black

Distant ! Abominably distant !

Bess took up the poker, and, stooping on the white sheep-
skin rug, stirred up the fire burning in the recess. She said :
** It's beginning to get rather cold, don't you think ? "

But all the time her mind was busy thinking of these
strange ideas of Griff. He had changed. She dared not look
at him again ; but he had changed. Even his clothes were
altogether different. He wore a light suit of brown tweed ;
his boots were brown andstrongerthan those he used to wear ;
his collar was lower and his black knitted silk tie was very
thick, the knot was so lumpy. He was so prosperous looking,
so well-to-do in his appearance, so important looking.

" I suppose we must expect some cold now," she added.

But the change was not only in his clothes. He was
different in every way. He had left her behind. He
was an important man-of-the-world, and she was the horrid
beast who had insulted him. ** No, I don't think it will

'SOMETHING ELSE' 279

be very cold yet/' he was answering. And he wajs so
horribly polite. She had often rebuked him for his slang,
but she preferred the most atrocious slang in the world
to this calmly even polish. She got up and went to the
table, her hands behind her gripping the edge. She had
lost him. A man like him would not want a girl like her.
What a fool she had been, throwing away all chance of
happiness ! He met more people than formerly, and that
explained his cosmopolitan manner. Probably he had
met some girl who had set her cap at him. She could
picture that girl : a mean cat of a girl without a single
idea regarding decency. These girls of good families
were beasts, and would hunt a man like GriS in a most
unmaidenly way.

PoHteness is an admirable quality, but it fell wofully
in GrifE's estimation during these first minutes. She was
polite, meticulously poHte, as she stood leaning against
the edge of the table, talking nonsense about the weather.
And he, not to be outdone, it seemed, must behave quite
as correctly.

" You wanted to see me," he said at last, unable to
stand the strain any longer. " I got your note last night."

" Yes, I wanted to see you." Bess looked up a moment
and then dropped her glance to the white sheepskin rug.
Behind her back her hands were nervously clutching at
the table. She did not know how to commence. But
she was determined to tell him, and the new effort of
determination only caused her to appear more distant.

" I wanted to apologise for the way I spoke to you."

" Apologise ? " Griff opened his eyes. But there she
stood, and his suddenly bom hope died. Polite apology,
he presumed.

" Please don't say anything till I've done. . . . We've
been at Porthcawl for the last six months."

She knew now he thought nothing of her, or he would
not be so casual. He had always repelled an affront.
She had insulted him, and he was keeping her in her place,
at arm's length. But she had made up her mind to tell
him how sorry she was. She crossed her feet and looked
down into the fire.

** You know those sands ? " She tried to speak more

280 CHAPEL

buoyantly, but the dread at her heart was so depressing.
'' I*ve spent ever so much time alone on them. I've had
time to think of everything."

Griff sat more erect and watched her more closely.
She baffled him. Had her voice and manner changed,
or was he deluding himself?

** Oh yes," he said ; " I know those sands."

And then, in a flash, the character of everything was
altered. She must win him. She must make Um forgive.
Explanations and apologies, as such, were useless. Years
and years of dismal misery showed themselves to her
as a future without Griff. Happiness was the most im-
portant thing, and then her nature got the mastery ; she
became the woman. Something greater than herself got
possession and drove her, warned her of the terrible pimish-
ment were her destiny not fulfilled.

" I used to walk along those sands every day, thinking
of what I had called you." She was the woman now.
The feminine in her was fighting for its existence. Her
eyes half closed, her fair eyelashes looked long and sweep-
ing ; her voice softened. Nature was now in command, and
Bess in the struggle became alluring. " You used to say
we should look at things in the true proportion." He
must be made to understand that his opinion was the
mightiest in the world. She valued it above all else. His
judgment was the most marvellous. " And IVe been
trying to see things as you said I should — ^in the true
proportion." She was honest, nakedly honest with the
dishonest tactics of her sex, desperate for all the quietness
of her manner. Her voice was sweet, throwing out those
magnetic shafts to capture him. Her face and manner
were sad and pathetic, as though all hope in the world
were gone. Her small handkerchief was in her left hand,
rolled nervously into a ball. " And I found out that I
was wrong." No use appealing to his reason with an
explanation. ** It's you were r-right." Her voice caught
and gulped in her throat ; her eyelashes grew wet. " It's
you were r-right. And I called you despicable." She
sniffed and dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief. " I
said I was sorry I ever knew you."

As in a dream, Griff watched her. He heard her voice

'SOMETHING ELSE* 281

and his shoulders shrugged in perplexity. Her voice
seemed slowly to hypnotise him and the tremor in her
throat seemed to grip his diaphragm like a vice. She
thrilled him, pierced that vulnerable part of his manhood,
played with his emotion — ^won him. He hung on every
word that fell from her red lips. The wet eyelashes shat-
tered him. The shapeless ball of a little handkerchief
unnerved him. like a man hypnotised by surprise he
stared at her. Slowly, as in a trance, he got up and dragged
his way to her, something within him being drawn by that
magnet within her. His hand crept along the edge of
the table imtil it touched her hand, warm and soft. But
his physical touch seemed only to make her sob all the
more. She wept openly and her shoulders shook most
pitifully. Once, she seemed to shrink under his touch.

" Don'— don't cry," GrifiE begged.

" I'm a be-beast," she sobbed. " I'm a nasty beast."

" Don' — don't cry," he pleaded in a whisper.

** But I am. I called you des-despicable. I said I was
sor-sorry I ever knew you. And now you hate me, and
you won't forgive me. I know you won't, and I don't care
what happens to me. I don't care what happens." She
freed her hand and buried her face in her handkerchief.

" But don't — don' cry. Don't cry, Bess. . . . Bess,
don't cry." He put his arm around her shoulder and felt
her body shaking.

" You won't want to marry a beast like me, and I don't
care what happens." She was inconsolable.

"Eh?" Griff cried wildly. "What did you say?
Bess ! What did you say ? " Rebuff or no rebuff, he
put his hand under her chin and drew her to him.

And Bess, impulsively clutching at his coat, looked up
at him unbelievingly.

" Griff ! Are you friendly ? Say," she insisted ; " are
you friendly ? "

" Course I am. But don' cry any more."

" And you want to marry me ? "

" Of course I do."

Impulsively, she put her arms about his neck, pulled
down his head, and kissed him : " Griff ! I don't care
what happens now you're friendly."

ACTUAL MIRACLES

Gbiff was never able to understand exactly how events
happened on that astonishing afternoon. He had vivid
recollections of coming to Wem, uncertain of the purpose
of his visit. He remembered being in the bare and polished
room with the old Chapel furniture. And then, suddenly,
he seemed to have awakened and found himself in another
room : the drawing-room with its carpet of a delicate shade
of maroon. A woman's room. And it was here he had
roused himself to find Bess sitting beside him, handing him
tea in the flimsiest of cups and inviting him to buttered
toast and Welsh cakes.

A miracle !

** Quarrelled with your mother ? Never mind. I'll get
Saunders to design us a house, a pretty affair ; not too big
at first. I didn't tell you, did I ? But I made a fine deal
the other day. Bought four fields where coal's going to
be worked. We'll have any amount of money in a few
years, Bess. Then we'll get Saimders to design a bigger
place. Where shall we build the first house ? "

Then Bess got mysterious. " You art a stupid, Griff.'*
Marvellous how quickly a woman's tears clear away !
** You needn't build a house at all."

** Got to be practical, you know," Griff suggested.
Events had remained long enough in the incomprehensible.

" I think we'll live here — ^in Wem."

" I give in. You'd better explain. Can't make out
anything this afternoon."

" Well " More mystery. " Father left mother his

money, and left Wem and Penlan to me."

** Whew-ew-ew ! "

2S2

ACTUAL MIRACLES 283

" You're wonderful, GriflE. Going to take me without
anything, weren't you ? "

Griff never troubled to examine his good fortune too
closely, for there was too much of the superlatively miracu-
lous about it all. He accepted life's verdict, and did not
question.

But the months had passed since then; the villagers
had had time to cease gaping in wonder; and Bess and
Griff had lived together at Wem over a twelvemonth.
For a year the Chapels had been back in the old home.

What puzzled Griff for some time was the eminence on
which he was suddenly placed. By intuition he gathered
that he was being presented to the maids and all the others
about the house as a mighty being whose wrath, once
aroused, was a dreadful thing. Every word he uttered
was absolute law, and the house was made to revolve about
him. It made him suspicious at first.

" Seems as if she's pulling my leg," he said to himself in
his slang. But gradually he got to imderstand that Bess
really did consider him the most important being in the
whole world; the most wonderful thing God had ever
created. And the marvel of it all was that he, on his part,
was inclined to be afraid of Bess in certain ways.

Wonderful, this intimacy with women ! Inexplicable
she was; paradoxical.

When they had been married six months Bess received
a whole-hearted abettor of this canonising of Griff in the
person of old Betsy Michael, who left the Windgap to
come and live at Wem. The explanation of the change lay
in the fact that his cough and his asthma had at last carried
off Francis. A severe cold caught in the depth of winter
developed into pneumonia, and he died with the assurance
that his soul was saved. And so it came about that Betsy
returned into the Chapel family, to the shrine where she had
always worshipped. An older Betsy, certainly, for she was
approaching eighty; but age had not begun even to daimt
her.

" Jump over your 'eads, 'fore you have time to turn
roimd," as she often told those girk in the kitchen.

Her position was one of dignity, second in command to
the mistress, who was a "sweet lickle thing," as all the

284 CHAPEL

Chapel wives had a habit of being. From the master Betsy
had received strict orders not to do any hard work; but
as the months passed and the mistress got more indisposed,
Betsy gradually assumed the position of housekeeper.
Her waddling, irregular steps could be heard moving eibier-
getically around the kitchen, through the hall, up the
stairs, through the bedrooms.

And so this very happy year passed.

For Bess it was a completely new existence ; none of the
old restricting narrowness; none of the questionings of
her doings. GrifiE had not the least notion of convention-
aUty. Socially, also, her interests widened, for Griff and
she often dined with the Bangors, who quite as often came
to Wem. Once they had been to Mr. Blathwaite's place
in Bedfordshire. Sometimes Griff brought home a member
of the Council or a business acquaintance. And occasion-
ally — delightful evenings ! — ^he would drive her to Cardiff
iQ his car, take her to dinner at a restaurant or to his uncle's,
and then to a play at the New Theatre. They were always
such close friends.

On this particular night they were alone. It was a week
before the birth of their child.

When dinner was over Griff stood up and puQed down his
waistcoat. Under the light of the hanging lamp he looked
a sturdy figure there m his brown tweed suit. " Now for
that walk," he said. " How long before you are ready ? "

" Ten minutes," answered Bess. ** Go 'n' have a smoke.
Griff. I know how impatient you get waiting for me."

Inside the room with the old Chapel furniture he stood
a moment on the sheepskin rug, looking down at the fire
burning in the simken grate, ffis out-of-door life was now
completely stamped upon him, and with his brown boots
deep in the white rug he looked a solid figure which would
require a large amoimt of physical force to move. He was
so compact ; still so athletic. When he stretched his hand
up to the high mantel-shelf to get his cigarette-box from
among the brass candlesticks, there was such latent power
in the movement of his arm. Although at ease after dinner,
he still gave that impression of bodily vigour, for as he
kicked the chair into x>osition he suggested so strong a
sense of subdued energy. He looked the country gentle-

ACTUAL MIRACLES 286

man to perfection now : clean, sinuous, healthy. And his
broad countenance intensified the impression. After light-
ing his cigarette, he threw the match into the fire and sat
down. As he quietly smoked he sometimes drew a finger
along his closely clipped moustache and sometimes glanced
at the brown boot dangling with the shine of the firelight
upon it. Suddenly he tightened the black silk knot of his
tie and pushed the ends farther down imder his waistcoat.

" Life is a fine thing," he half whispered to himself, with a
smile that revealed his teeth. He felt so contented. What
a glorious time this last year had been. He had evolved,
had discovered himself. Someone who understood him
through and through always near ; warm friendship always
at hand ; the most marvellous girl ever created as his wife.

Bess opened the door and stood on the threshold.
" Ready, Griff — as soon as I put my coat on."

As he helped her on with her long, thick, loose, navy-blue
coat he thought she looked paler than usual to-night, and he
wondered whether her high mood was but something to
deceive him. One never could tell with these women. He
pulled on his brown motoring coat and watched her dig a
hatpin through that small cap arrangement which looked
nothing and yet had cost such an amazing amount of money.
From his pocket he took out a white silk muffler and tied it
aroimd her neck, placing the ends within her coat. She
liked his muffler, she had often said, because it felt so man-
nish against her skin. Griff put his hands on her shoulders
and held her at arms' length. There was something so frail
about her appearance to-night — so girl-like: the small
velvet hat, her fair hair, her pale face, the white muffler
under her chin. " For once in yer life I think you're good-
looking," he said.

" You've said that before, Griff ; so it can't be only once.''

They passed down the drive, through the bottom gate,
and walked in the direction away from the village. They
went very slowly, Bess chattering all the time. She chat-
tered so much that Griff got suspicious. Had it been lighter
he could have seen and read the expression on her face.
He had never been able to grasp the subtler side of Bess.
He was able to go so far — ^up to a certain point — ^in under-
standing her, but beyond that point his ideas got nebulous.

286 CHAPEL

He knew she could cheat him into imagining her cheerful
when she really felt the contrary. On their return he grew
more sure of her mood, for she had become sQent. And
because of the sQence between them, the soimds of their
steps on the drive seemed harsher, the darkness appeared
to be deeper and the wind seemed to moan among the trees
more sadly. His certainty of her depression increased as
they got near the house, for her fingers had closed around
his arm unconsciously, imtil her grip was very tight.

He said nothing, however, until they were back in the
old room and he had helped her to doff her coat, and she
stood with her expansive blouse collar up aroimd her neck.
Then he took her by the arm and led her nearer the fire.

" What's the matter, Bess ? "

" Matter ? " She pretended to be puzzled. " Nothing.
Whatever makes you think that ? "

" You're hiding something."

" I'm not. Griff."

Griff drew her closer. ** Now, Bess ! "

" I was thinking " His sympathy had unnerved her,

and with her natural impulsiveness she gripped the lapels
of his coat and buried her face between her hands. " I was
thinking of what's going to happen. Sometimes I'm so
afraid, Griff."

Griff said nothing for a moment He seemed to catch
a glimpse of that fear of the imknown which terrifies a
woman at such times as this. For a second he saw the
ordeal through which she must pass.

" Don't look at it in that way, Bess. Show me those
Uttle things you were talking about last night."
\ She had brightened now. Marvellous thing a woman !

" You always cheer me up. Griff. You're wonderful.
There, I'll give you a kiss. I've always been afraid of
something, haven't I? Don't be ashamed of me. Griff."
Then she laughed and pulled down his head so that she
might impulsively push her warm lips against his. ** I'm
a lot braver than I used to be, aren't I ? "

" You're a regular hero," Griff affirmed, smoothing her
hair over her forehead.

** I'm not such a coward as I used to be, am I ? — ^am I,
Griff?"

JEALOUSY AND RESENTMENT

Chapel and Jane sat together at dinner.

The back room at Garth was bright and cosily warm,
for the strong Ught of the lamp hanging over the table
threw brilliant rays into every comer.

Jane bent forward her head, and began transferring the
apricots from the glass dish to the two plates in front of
her. And all the time Chapel watched her. He watched
her in an oddly fmi;ive kind of way, with his eyes rather
bright, reminding one of the manner his eyes had followed
her — on that day of Hughes's funeral — ^as she left the
bedroom after acting the valet; reminding one of that
instant when the light in his eyes had s\iiftly changed
and he had observed how trim was her figure, how elastic
her step, how pleasing her manners, and how erect she
held her head and her slight body.

There were slight cUcks of spoon and fork against the
glass as she raised the apricots to the plates, and once
more a click as the spoon touched the spout of the white
cream jug so that no drops might fall and soil the damask
table-cloth.

But how small, he observed, were her hands, and how
well she kept them. Her arms within the close-fitting
black sleeves were so slender; so slender that he could
easily snap them between his fingers. But that was a
peculiarity of her : small and yet so efl&cient. Her black
dress, uniform of the staid housekeeper, set oflE so boldly
the paleness of her face, and that thin fringe of white
around the top of her black collar made her look so matronly
— ^ridiculously matronly. She was so tiny. It was incon-
gruous that she should be so efficient.

" Here you are, Mr. Chapel." She quickly handed him
287

288 CHAPEL

the plate with the yellow fruit swimming in the cream,
and as she spoke her voice was low with that mixture of
sadness and womanliness.

She was on the wrong side of forty by now, but to Chapel
she was young, because she was so active, so diminutive,
so slender. 'Diose few streaks of grey in her hair were
accidents ; the thin network of thready lines beneath her
eyes was a deceiver. It was on the roundness of her
bosom as it rose and fell so regularly his mind liked to
dwell ; upon that wistfulness, that innate refinement, that
absurdity of her matronliness — ^for they were the real
Jane. She was such a tiny little thing in comparison to
him. And this something — almost insignificance of build
— appealed to and drew his mascidine massiveness.

" These apricots are very nice, aren't they ? " she asked,
looking across at him.

** Where did you get them ? "

Once, she would not have dreamt of addressing him
with so ** thin " a question. She had noticed the slight
difference in his manner directly Griff had left home.
Perhaps with two such strong personalities in the house
absolute calm was not to be expected. The house was
not large enough to hold the pair of them. There wos,
however, no longer that strain to be felt, and, although
the personality now dominating was forceful enough in all
conscience, the fact remained that no opposing element
existed, and the result was this greater feeling of ease
and restfulness. At least, this was Jane's explanation for
the increased humanity of Chapel's treatment of her.

** I've got news for you," she said when he had finished
dessert.

He did not speak, but slowly wiped his mouth with a
vigour that made one think he wished to rub away his
lips. He put down his table-napkin and turned his
hard glance upon Jane.

** There's a son up at Wem," Jane went on, searching
for the effect.

His brows puckered, and he exclaimed, " Oh ! " He
was inscrutable, and Jane was vexed.

** Yes ; since this afternoon." For her it was a great
event. Griff had a son, and Jane was excited. Chapel's

JEALOUSY AND RESENTMENT 289

coldness disappointed her. She had not expected him to
grow ecstatic, but he could have shown some feeling. She
could not understand him though she had studied him for
over twenty years. It was useless saying he had no
feelings; she knew better. Her own presence at Garth
gave the lie to such a contention.

She got up and placed the copper kettle on the fire
to make herself some coffee. And again Chapel's eyes
followed her. He turned his head and saw her cross the
floor ; saw her stoop, and noted the curves of her slender
figure. Now the trim black shoe was in sight, and the
flames Ht up her pale face and gave her cheeks an un-
natural glow. He jerked back his head when she made
a movement to rise. Hurriedly, he took hold of his glass,
gulped down the port, kicked back his chair and the
next instant his heels were digging into the linoleum as
he hastened to the door. It seemed as though he were
calling upon his will to control some mad impulse. He
appeared to be battling with something.

Inside his study, he walked backwards and forwards for
some moments, his hands tightly clenched at his sides and
his great shoulders himched. Then growing calmer he
stooped to turn up the wick of the reading-lamp on the
pedestal desk. The light, cast downward by the white
glass shade, shone upon his tough lined face, and for a
moment his long teeth bared as in slyness. His short
hair was quite grey, but there still remained the grey-
hoimdish leanness of features. And now as he smiled, one
caught sight, on the comer of one of his eye-teeth, a speck
of gold stopping, hardly bigger than the top of a pin.
Turning, he stepped across the hearth and selected a briar
pipe from the rack on the right of the mantel-shelf — a
slhn briar, plain, without any silver band, with the wood
of the bowl as black and poUshed as the vulcanite mouth-
piece.

Jane's news had recalled Griff to his mind, and once
again the old jealousy had sprung into life. He was
remembering a conversation he had had over a year ago
with his cousin David.

** Don't you know, either ? " And David had bubbled
over. " Going to marry Hughes's daughter. Oh, it's all
u

390 CHAPEL .

right. . . . Hughes the agent's daughter. . . . Take it
from me, Josiah, that boy*s bigger than either of us.
Tou*re worth a tidy little bit, I know; and I*ve made

some sort of a reputation on this circuit ; but Don't

you see what it means ? . . . Hughes left the old place to
the girl. Yes, yes; I've been making inquiries. The
Chapels are going back to Wem. . . . Always thought
he'd do something big. Leagues in front of either of us,
Josiah ! " And the barrister had chuckled as a sage might
over the consummation of his prophecies.

And to-night again as he gripped his pipe and smoked,
Josiah writhed under the lash of his jealousy as he had
writhed under the enthusiasm of the lawyer, llie youngster
was always having the advantage over him. It was ho
should be doing all these things, and not his son. Always
in essentials his son stepped in front of him. It was his
son had quarrelled with Hughes; almost could Chapel
have been jubilant over the agent's death had it not been
Griff who had paid the last score. And then the steps and
stages which must have led up to this marriage ! A
reasonable person would have imagined that indirectly
causing the death of a man would have been sufficient to
arouse everlasting enmity between two families. Instead,
his son had married into the family and, more, he had in
a way taken their very home from the Hugheses. And
his father was envious, because he would never have had
the cool audacity, the easy certainty to contemplate, much
less bring about, such a result.

His pipe went out and he banged it on the desk.

The same kind of thing had happened when his son had
taken over the management of the Blathwaite estate.
Two houses on his hands were no determent; what the
youngster did was to leave the houses to Graig and, con-
summate impudence, when he had no further use for his
general foreman, he sent Graig to his former master to
seek employment.

There was another point on which he was envious. He
had not that freedom among men which Griff possessed.
Certainly, he himself met and turned among the most
powerful men of South Wales, but as a matter of business.
Just now he was constantly meeting Cardiff's public men,

JEALOUSY AND RESENTMENT 291

for he was constracting a reservoir for the Corporation.
But it was this hard-headedness of business brought him
into constant contact with them. To them he was the
most important Ferro-Concrete contractor in Wales, and
nothing more. That social part of a man's life was miss-
ing ; and there was a vast difference between being received
and acknowledged as a force on account of one's financial
position and being received and acknowledged as a man.
A world of difference. His son had these things.

He knew what it meant to make men tremble, for he had
seen it a month ago at a meeting of the shareholders of
that new railway under construction from Cardiff to the
Bhondda. The number of shares he held made him a
power to be feared and consulted. But that was financial
power. Never had he possessed the power to make or
unmake the chairman of a council ; never had he had the
option of accepting or rejecting a vice-chairmanship.

That was the kind of power he desired ; it was the kind
of power the old Chapels had possessed. And it was this
personal power that built up a family and gave it eminence.

He suddenly determined to think no more of the subject ;
it only enraged him, and there was work to be done.
Getting up from the chair, he moved to the desk as vigor-
ously and as energetically as ever in spite of the fact that
he was approaching sixty. Sitting in his revolving chair,
he tugged at one of the drawers and, after bringing out a
plan, he spread it upon the flat top of the desk. It was a
plan of the reservoir he was constructing, an intricacy
of white lines upon waterproof blue paper. He brought
from his waistcoat pocket his eyegla43ses and fixed them
on his nose. Pulling the chair nearer the desk, he drew
his brows into a frown in an attempt to concentrate upon
the drawing. But he seemed not to have the usual control
over his faculties. Shaking his shoulders in angry im-
patience, he moved the lamp a few inches farther away,
and then, still unable to concentrate, he took up the slim
old pipe, filled and Ughted it, and tried again.
IS^But this envy had got hold of him. Only a week ago
he had had another conversation with David, whom he
had met at the official opening of the dock which had
taken him four years to construct.

292 CHAPEL

'' Heard the latest about him ? " David Chapel seemed
to take a delight in hunting up these accounts of his
nephew. " He's got hold of about thirty acres in the
middle of that land the South Western Colliery are just
going to work. Bowen, their agent, told me about it,
and his language was rather rough ; but he had to admit
that GrifF was a smart young devil. He let them think
it was aU Blathwaite property, and now he's having a
proper little game with them. . . . How did he get the
land ? . . . Bought it for a song, and he'll make a fortune
for himself. Bowen thinks if he's got many tricks like
that up his sleeve, Griflf's going to be somebody."

Chapel crossed his legs under the desk. The same thing
again ! An easy progress through Ufe. Not only a force
socially, but here he was showing signs of becoming a
power among buslQess men — a financial power.

But the bitterest fact of aU was this possession of the
old home. The Chapels were re-established beyond a
doubt.

" Damn the pipe ! " Nothing seemed to be right.
Even this infernal pipe would not draw. He took it from
between his teeth and dropped it so that there lay a small
heap of ash on the surface of the desk.

lliere was a knock at the door and he raised his head.
His bass voice snapped out : " Come in."

The door opened and Jane entered. Immediately, the
scowl disappeared from Chapel's face, and a close observer
might have suspected the lurking of a smile. Jane stood
a second with her hand on the knob of the door, for she
was uncertain of the manner in which he would receive
her. It was a rule that he was not to be disturbed.

'* Can I talk to you a minute, Mr. Chapel ? " she asked
with a great deal of hesitation. " If you're not busy,"
she added hurriedly.

" Come inside," Chapel invited, folding the blue plan
and replacing it in the drawer. She never bothered him
with her housekeeping, and when he saw her standing in
the gap of the half-open door he thought he discerned
nervousness in her manner. " Sit down," he said, bending
to shut the drawer.

As she came across from the door he turned in his

JEALOUSY AND RESENTMENT 293

revolving chair, rested his elbow on the desk, his head on his
hand, and then watched her seat herself. How gracefully
she moved ! It was a pleasure to watch her tiny daintiness.
He was now more certain of her nervousness, for as she
began to speak she took hold of the cloth of her skirt
beside her knee and rubbed it between her fingers.

** It's — ^it's about Willie," she commenced in her low
voice, suddenly growing bolder. " I don't want to bother
you, Mr. Chapel, but you know more about the world
than I do; and I thought perhaps you would give me
your advice."

What a child she seemed. He smiled to help her.
" What's it aU about ? "

" I don't want you to think for a minute I'm not grateful
for everything you've done in letting him be articled to
your engineers."

" Now what is it you want to ask me ? " questioned
Chapel in good humour. These little women's methods
of coming to the point were amusing — ^if aggravating.

Jane appeared to compose herself. " I — ^I've had a
letter about him from his father."

Chapel started.

** His father ? " It had scarcely occurred to him that
such a person existed.

" Yes." Jane was more herself now that the first
barrier was passed. " I have always heard from him,
regularly — ^about once a year."

" I see." Chapel began to marvel at this hidden part
of her life. " And now he wants to do something for
WiUie?"

" Yes. He knows that Willie will soon be passing his
final examinations, and he thinks he might help him to
get a good appointment."

** And you want my advice whether to let him help or
not— that it ? "

** If you please, Mr. Chapel. I'm sorry to trouble you."

" I see," he said, when he picked up the pipe from the
desk. " What's he done for the boy already ? " he asked
bluntly. He seemed to be annoyed. " Don't answer if
you'd rather not," he added gruffly.

Jane was accustomed to his hardness. " He hasn't

294 CHAPEL

done anything, Mr. Chapel. But I may as well teU you,"
she continued quickly, '' so that you won't mistake him.
He's always offered to do something, but now I don't
want to be unfair to Willie."

" Then why the devil didn't he marry you ? "

His tone startled Jane, but after regaining her com-
posure she smiled, as though she were about to attempt
the impossible in seeking to make a male mind under-
stand. '' It would have pulled him down," she explained
very simply.

Once again Chapel read that ridiculous, abnormsd
common sense in her nature. '' Did Ae say that ? "

" / said it, Mr. Chapel."

And there, it seemed, must end the revelation of that
hidden part of her history.

But Chapel had forgotten his habit of impersonalism.
For a moment he stared at her in astounding amazement.
Here was something terrible in its simple greatness —
that monstrous sacrifice of a woman. But another thought,
a misgiving, came into his mind. His fingers on the desk
closed around the bowl and stem of the pipe.

" Do you think anything of him now ? " He shot out
the question, savagely, as he bent forward.

Jane again smiled the sensible woman's smile. '* One
gets over things like that, Mr. Chapel."

The pipe stem cracked between Chapel's fingers. '' Of
course," he said. He breathed freely again.

" And I've been too comfortable here to wish for any-
thing else." He could be gracious whenever one appealed
to him.

Chapel placed the broken pieces of the pipe on the desk.
" Now then," he proceeded in his business-like way ; " I
don't want to know anything more except this : Is the
boy's father an engineer ? "

" No, he's not," Jane answered readily.

"Then leave Willie where he is. There's a bigger
opening than he's likely to get anywhere else."

Jane got up. " Ths^ you, Mr. Chapel." An exuber-
ance of thanks would irritate him, and it was only on
occasions such as this, when their relation got more personal,
she properly realised what a wealthy, influential man he

JEALOUSY AND RESENTMENT 295

was. He had suggested that Willie's future would be safe
with him; and Ids promise was always suflScient. The
very fact of his unbending and of his simpUcity seemed to
reveal his greatness.

Chapel sat, with his hand supporting his chin, watching
her go out. He smiled cunningly. How buoyantly she
stepped across the carpet, and how straight was her little
body — ^like a young sapling chock-fuU of delicious life !
How quietly she closed the door !

" She doesn't think anything of him," he said to him-
self in delight. He picked up the broken parts of the
pipe and hurled them into the fire; then he blew the
tobacco ash from the desk and chuckled artfully. For a
moment he had been madly jealous when she had mentioned
WilHe's father.

" She doesn't think anything of him," he repeated
craftily.

SBKHITY

At half-past nine the maid knocked at the door and
brought in his cloth cap and overcoat. A year ago Chapel
had suffered from insomnia and the doctor had advised a
walk before bedtime. The habit had been continued, and
to-night the maid came in exactly as she did every night,
to remind him of the time.

" It's half-past nine, sir," she said, standing within the
door.

Chapel got up, and very carefully she helped him on
with his overcoat, waiting to make sure that his hands
were weU within the armholes before commencing to lift.
There was danger of an explosion were she an instant too
soon.

" Have you got the key, sir ? " It was the second part
of her nightly formula.

The clearness of the fine night appealed to Chapel as
he descended the steps, for there was a bright moonlight.
Fifty yards along the road he crossed *the stile into the
Wem fields. He went this way sometimes. He mounted
the path, walking slowly and quietly smoking his pipe,
and ere long he stood on the spot where Griff had so often
waited for Bess. The second gate from Wem.

Encloaking, pervading everything was this brooding
silence of the moon and the night.

When he heard the whistle of an engine from the station
in the valley on his left he took out his watch. Two
minutes to ten ! Then the train was three minutes late.
He tapped his pipe against the gate, and as he turned his
head he noticed that the lights of the Library had been
put out. ** Time to start back," he thought, buttoning
his overcoat. The ten train always acted as a reminder.

296

SENILITY 297

Betuming down the path he became more conscious of
himself.

This, on which he was actually treading, was his son's
land. Queer he had not considered it in that Ught before !
" There's a son up at Wem," Jane had said. Odd that
those closely related to him should appear so remote !
This new event confirmed in a very significant manner the
family's return to the old home. A Chapel and his son
at Wem ! And he, the grandfather, had had no hand in
the return. life could be really bitter when it chose. He
had worked so hard.

As Chapel entered his study, he caught the faint odour
of the burning oil, and after he had turned up the wick
he threw his overcoat over the back of a chair and placed
his cap on the comer of the desk. Here, everything was
very still — even the fire, which was low with but one red
coal among the grey ashes.

Chapel sat at the desk, drew out a pencil, some sheets
of white paper and the blue plan in preparation for drawing
sketches and outlines of the work to be done on the reser-
voir during the ensuing week. Ten minutes passed, but
he was not successful. line after line he drew, attempting
those characteristically bold sketches his engineers knew
so weU. But concentration was impossible.

At half-past eleven he put down the pencil. " Don't
seem to grip the infernal thing," he said aloud as he re-
placed the blue plan in the drawer. He did not seem
displeased at his iftabihty to work.

His mind was playing with the enticing, tempting vision
of a slight, supple form — ^a slender woman. During the
light of day he was completely his own master, but at
night the senile devils in him broke loose. They made a
slave of him. At night, especially late at night, his un-
bending power of dominion, his energetic forcefulness and
his will of steel — ^they aU deserted him. He became the
slave of this delusion of a diseased fancy. The silence of
the fields had commenced the desertion of his self-control,
and now the silence of the house fully awoke this infatuation
which had come into his existence.

A clock somewhere in the house began to strike twelve
when he got up to place his pipe on the mantel-shelf. It

298 CHAPEL

had finidied striking when the lamp cm the desk had
been blown out. When he reached the hall there was not
a sound anywhere save the staccato ticking of a dock in
the kitchen. The whole house seemed asleep.

He was up on the landing now. The blood in his head
was throbbing. His hands clenched at his sides trembled
with the riot in his veins. Across the landing stood Jane's
door, and towards it he stepped. His ear almost touched
the panel, striving for a sound of her. He could picture
her lying there asleep. He could imagine the rise-and-
fall, rise-and-fall, of her deUcious, round bosom. His body
ached in desire. . . . Only a few boards between him and

aU he craved ! Only the turn of a knob He stood

there for some minutes, indulging his passion, his mind
fondling these images. These moments formed a nightly
intoxication of his longings.

Inside his own bedroom he began at first to move about
in an agitated hurry, but the routine of preparing for
bed was so mechanical and deep-rooted that soon he was
settling down into greater calm again. Habit now pre-
vailed, and he was at the small table near the head of
the bed. As he lit the candle, the gold match-box dangled
at tilie end of his watch-chain. He applied a match to
the wick and a black image of him leapt to the ceiling.
He stood erect, and the massive image sprang to the
window. He put his watch under the piUow and went
with the chain and the match-box to the dressing-chest.

But to relinquish aU thought of Jane was impossible,
because everything in the room proclaimed her. Here on
the chest lay a folded clean shirt, a tie and a coUar ready
for the morning. The trousers in their press on the chair
and the boots in their trees near the foot of the bed were
all put ready for him. Jane did everything, so that he
should not be caused any trouble.

He stood near the table, a huge figure, his fingers held
in the action of unbuttoning his waistcoat.

The madness had returned and he stood with expression
rapt. He might have been listemng to something. . . .
How easy it was to picture her as she had come earlier
in the evening into his room downstairs. He had imagined
her putting her slender arms about his neck — sitting on

SENILITY 299

his knee. He had fancied feeling the softness of the flesh
of her face ; touching her face with his ! Her flesh would
be smooth as velvet. He would have liked to take hold
of her, crush her in his arms, feel the warmth of her slim
body against him.

Supposing she should come into this room, now, just
as she was ! So vividly did he imagine the possibility
that he turned his head to look at the door in the delirium
of such a fancy. He could hear a gentle knock, see the
door timidly opening, see her entering — ^a straight, slim
little woman in her white night-dress with her thick hair
hanging down her back. He could picture himself going
to meet her, reaching her, kissing her — ^kissing her
mouth, her neck, her delicious breasts. And she would
cling tightly to him, and he would feel youth leaping
in his blood. Above all things he wished to feel that
youthfulness !

But if, in reality, she could be got to come into his
room at night ! He had missed the good things of Uf e ;
his life had been full of loneliness. No-one need ever
know. They could keep the secret to themselves.

If, in reality, he could get her ! If ? If, indeed ! The
word seemed like a direct challenge, as though he were
incapable of getting what he desired.

His mind was made up. He was going to get her. He
had been wanting her for years. To-night he was going
.to get her. The old Israelitish idea of woman was correct.
The old patriarchs with their masterful masculinity were
right. Jane was his handmaiden, the chattel of her master.
He desired her, and before he failed he would break her
spirit.

His slippers were left behind and he was on the landing.

But he must not frighten her. She was beautifully
timid as a dove, and he must coax her, fondle her, win
her. She must join in this orgy of passion; together
they would get drunk with passion. Youth would dance
in his every vein. Above aU things he wished to feel that
youthful gush in his veins.

The icy knob of her door turned in his grip ; the door
opened noiselessly, and he stood listening. For a second
his nerves were unsteady. The inside was alight as though

300 CHAPEL

her duidle were buming, but it was the moonlight rushing
like a flood through the window to fill the room. He
crossed the threshold, his hand still on the knob, his right
shoulder touching the edge of the door. He was within
the room. And there she lay, every feature visible in the
moonlight.

One arm was stretched towards him loosely over the
coverlet ; the other was bent under her dark head on the
pillow. She slept like a child, curled up to keep herself
warm. He made out the abandoned, innocent childlike-
ness of her face, as though sleep were a thing into whose
care she trusted herself without a fear. He stood, con-
templating her.

But even as he looked, the scene seemed to change.
His prayer was answered, for youth was leaping through
every vein. But it was memory of youth. Instead of
this modem bedstead, he saw an old one of oak. Instead
of the up-to-date furniture there were old oak things.
Instead of being at Garth he was back in Penlan. And
instead of Jane, there lay Gwen.

His wife was the only woman he had ever seen in bed
asleep. Memories shattered his emotions. His head
dropped; the heat in his blood disappeared and he felt
cold.

" What am I doing ? " he asked himself. " What am
I doing?"

PACING THE TBUTH

Next morning, as soon as she heard the sounds of his
heels ringing on the tiles of the hall, Jane knew that Chapel
was not in the best of humours. When she placed in front
of him the plate of porridge and the milk-jug her surmise
was confirmed.

" Don't want it," he told her, pushing the plate aside.
*' Take it out of the way."

" But you ought to eat it, Mr. Chapel."

" Shift the dam' thing out of the way," he repeated,
more deliberately and more threateningly, without looking
at her.

Jane tossed her head, half smiled, then hastened to the
kettle on the fire to make his pot of China tea. " Better
not tell him till he's finished," she thought considerately.
" It might upset him still more."

Chapel's eyes followed her as she hurried into the kitchen
for the bacon. Generally, the cold light of morning brought
him to his senses, but never until last night had his longings
been so definite. But just when his determination to get
her had been screwed to its highest pitch. Memory had
beaten him. He thought he had conquered this Memory.
After years it shoiQd surely have been dead. But last
night that gap in his life had been as empty as ever. That
wound had been quite as raw and that sorrow quite as
acute as ever they had been.

But Memory, he decided, had gained only a temporary
advantage, because it had caught him unawares. There
was nothing in the world that could assert a mastery over
him. What he desired, he obtained.

He wished now, as the bread broke into crumbs between
his fingers, that he had not been so sharp with Jane over

301

302 CHAPEL

the porridge. She was the gentle^ captivating little woman
upon whom he doted. He was not annoyed with her at
aU. He was annoyed with himself for allowing himself to
be frustrated, for half confessing in a sentimental moment
that anything could possibly deter him from a fixed deter-
mination. Submitting to a Memory thirty years old was
a weakness. What he desired, he obtained. That had
always been his religion.

Because his mood forbade him to be affable he remained
silent throughout the meal, and when breakfast was over
he placed his napkin on the table, consulted his watch,
got up, his massive figure towering for an instant over
Jane, who was still seated, hurrying to finish her coffee.

" Wait a minute, Mr. Chapel," she said, putting her cup
in the saucer and getting up to face him. '' I didn't tell you
before— not till you'd had your breakfast."

Chapel bent down his head to glance at her more
pleasantly. She was so near to him, and her diminutive
body and her womanly manner of saying things always
attracted him so. '' Well, what's the matter now ? "
There was almost a suggestion of teasing in his bass voice.

'' It was the postman. He said something about Oraig.
That he was killed this morning."

"Graig? KiUed?"

Jane saw him pucker his brows. " Yes," she explained,
watching his lips compress ; '' he was run over on the railway
early this morning — so the postman said."

'' Oraig killed ? " He seemed to be asking himself the
question, slowly and unbelievingly.

Jane had never seen him so concerned.

** Why didn't you tell me before ? " he asked, so gently
that Jane stared at him. '* Go and see if the constable
is at home." She was surprised at the rapidity of his
decision. ** And tell him I want to see him at once. . . .
On the telephone," he called after her ; " you'll get to
him quicker."

Jane had never seen him so moved. But in a flash she
got a glimpse of the bedrock nature of the Chapel character.
An employee, a dependant, had been killed, and his master
was stirred to the depths. Jane knew now why she had
clung so tenaciously to this family. Inherently, the Chapels

FACING THE TRUTH 303

were true as steel, so great-spirited, and above all, so
human in the face of calamity to their dependants. It
was this grand humanity, shown but once in aU her previous
experience of him, that had bound Jane so firmly to him
and GrifF. Once again she saw the gentleman in him, the
sublime sympathy for a subordinate ih trouble.

In his study. Chapel was pacing the hearth. For the
instant he was thinking of Graig as the man who had served
him so long and so faitiifully. ** Poor devil ! " he kept
muttering. " Poor devil ! *' Their connection had been
close and intimate for so many years.

Once again Chapel saw Fate, as he had always seen it,
driving men like impotent, unresisting sheep over a precipice
to ruin and to heU. It was horrible, but Fate always kept
on, never satisfied, never filled. It devoured men — ^like
Graig.

" Poor devil ! " Chapel repeated, in pity and not in
judgment. " One of those men Fate crushes, absolutely."

Chapel did not go near the reservoir that day, for he
busied himself with this business of Graig's death. He
saw Graig's widow and the undertaker, called upon the
Nonconformist Minister and arranged the funeral, went
down to the ofBioes of the railway company and interviewed
the general manager to ascertain his attitude with regard
to the fatal accident; and on his return home he again
saw the constable and learnt of to-morrow's coroner's
inquest, on the jury of which he had previously secured for
himself a place.

He was thoroughly fatigued when he reached Garth at
six o'clock ; his tasks had been repugnant to him. When
he drew up his chair to the study fire he was physically
tired, but what troubled him most of all were the thoughts
in his mind. He was a different being from the man who
had set out that morning in search of Mrs. Graig.

At half-past seven a knock sounded at the study door,
and the white-aproned maid appeared, half closing the
door to peer for him in the dar^ess. '' Dumer's ready,
sir," she said on espying him in the firelight.

He turned upon her. " Light that lamp," be ordered
brusquely. ** And bring my dinner in here."

304 CHAPEL

The girl departed to get the matches. '' He wants us
to take his dhiner into the study," she told Jane in the
kitchen.

Jane was at once puzzled. ** In the study ? " Never
had he had his dinner there.

'' Be careful, mistress," warned the girl as Jane went
into the hall. '' He's sitting in the dark, and he's in an
awful temper."

Jane knocked at his door, entered, and walked around
the desk to approach him. ** Is anything the matter,
Mr. Chapel ? " she asked in concern. " Aren't you well ? "

She might have struck him, so violent was the effect.
He sprang to his feet, and with his hand in the act of rising
he seemed to be about to push her away. '' I have told
that girl," he said, " to bring my dinner in here. Now
get out— quick. And do what I tell you. And don't
interfere."

Jane went out, seriously resenting his tone. '* Take it
in to him," she sharply commanded the maid when she
reached the kitchen.

With dinner over, and the tray and the bottle of port
cleared away. Chapel returned with his long, determined
steps to the armchair.

. '' The only explanation, sir," the policeman had said in
the morning, '' is that he lost the last train from St. Fagans
last night. 'Tisn't for me to judge him, but most likely
he wasn't sober. He often lost the last train, and it was
a habit with him to walk home up the line."

And it was over Graig's senile infatuation Chapel had
been pondering all day. Graig's death- was the direct
outcome of his senile infatuation. He had been with his
paramour at St. Fagans, had missed the last train ; and he
had been killed.

This side of male humanity was nothing new in Chapel's
experience. He had known of numerous similar cases.
Some were men who had remained single until their diseased
fancy had made them slobber over some insipid girl whom
they married in their dotage. Others were widowers who
had become nauseously affectionate in their weak, sickly
old age. Others were married men who had neglected
their wives after lengthy years of faithfulness to fawn over

FACING THE TRUTH 306

and tamper with and coddle virgins young enough to be
their granddaughters. Such cases were familiar to him;
they were to be found everjrwhere.

And now he must come down to fact and face the truth.
Josiah Chapel had joined the ranks of the dotards. No
use shirking the truth. No use prevaricating. He, Josiah
Chapel, had become a senile idiot.

Oh yes ! He recognised the old enemy. Fate had
always been tr3mig to crush him. And Fate must be taken
by the throat. He knew exactly how to deal with Fate.

That was the meaning of this infatuation for Jane. Fate
had started another move. All through his life it had
been trying to crush him. He knew exactly how to deal
with Fate.

When he got up to go to bed he was still very calm. He
was fighting against something that had become a part of
his very nature, and this would be the hardest battle he
had ever fought. All his coolness was necessary. He must
find a way of settUng these last tactics of an unscrupulous
Fate.

" We'll see," he muttered quietly as he blew out the
lamp. " We'll dam' well see."

XIV

THB BRUISER

Early on the following morning the maid was on her
knees on the study hearth, setting the firewood and the
coal in the grate. With a puzzled, thoughtful expression
on her face she suddenly stopped to listen to the noises
in the bedroom over her head, and after deciding upon
an explanation for the sounds she sprang erect and hurried
across the haU into the kitchen.

" Mr. Chapel's getting up," she cried with some excite-
ment.

Jane looked up from the bacon she was slicing to
the dock on the waU. ** It's not six o'clock, yet," she
said.

" WeU, he is. And if you'd only hear him ! "

Jane had been disturbed ever since the imprecedented
happening last night when he had dined alone, so she
put down the knife and together they entered the study,
where Jane was soon convinced of the truth of the girl's
statement. They stood, the pair of them, with heads
inclined, listening eagerly. Their master was always virile
and energetic, but the stamp of those footsteps over their
heads contained far more than energy. The ceiling shook ;
the whole house seemed to shake. The two women looked
mutely at each other, but their eyes expressed so plainly :
'* He's got one of his days I " Both knew what that
meant. The house was immediately alive with nervous
imcertainty. Anything might happen.

"Finish this room as quickly as you can," Jane
warned the girl. ** And keep out of his way till he's
gone."

The girl was unfortunate, however. He was inside the

306

THE BRUISER 307

door of the study before she wa49 done, and she waited,
her senses all aflutter, knowing that in a second she would
be reprimanded.

Chapel tore in and stood with his back against the door
he had just closed. There was something in his appear-
ance resembling a huge animal caged. He stood, breathing
heavily. His lean face was dark and scowling and over-
clouded, as though he hated the whole world. For the
greater part of the night he had lain awake, getting to
grips with Fate, and searching for a way to defeat this
last attempt to crush him. And this morning, after fit-
fully dozing, he had awakened with this agony of pain
shooting through his head. While he dressed he had been
forced, time after time, to sit upon the bed, doubled up,
his knuckles pressed into his temples to ease the torment.
To shave had been horror indescribable. It was a devilish
pain, for it maddened and exhausted him; it felt as if
the bones in his head were being sawn, or as if knives were
being driven into his brain. It had subsided somewhat
now, but it might return at any instant. He stood leaning
against the door, his great shoulders himched as though
he were prepared brutally to repulse the next attack of
suffering.

His eyes fixed themselves on the girl kneeling on the
hearth, and it seemed to him that she was there simply
to annoy him. " What the devil are you doing here ? ''
he called to her. " Why don't you get out of bed
earUer? Now get out — quick." He moved across and
sat down.

So nervous had the girl become, that the tongs slipped
from between her imsteady fingers.

" Oh, for God's sake stop your noise ! " he roared.
'' Leave the dam' thing there," he shouted on seeing her
stop to pick it up. '' Get out. And get that breakfast
ready."

Jane was in the kitchen when she heard him enter the
dining-room. There, he poked and dug at the fire. She
was carrying in the coffee-pot as he put down the poker.
He straightened himself, turned, and saw her. There was
something awful the matter; she had never seen him look

308 CHAPEL

so terrible. She began to grow afraid, for he was staring
at her with black hatred and unveiled animosity. He
seemed to be holding himself in check lest he should inflict
upon her some bodily injury.

** Go out," he cried to her. " And don't come in again.
Send that girl in with the breakfast. When I've finished
I want to see you in my room."

Jane looked at him, intending to object, but she saw
that he was suffering. The next moment, however, she
was again resenting his bullying, domineering manner.

Chapel was seated at his desk when Jane went into his
study after breakfast. There was a blue plan spread in
front of him, but he seemed to be studying it more from
a desire to divert his thoughts than to grasp its meaning.
In his sternness, he appeared more gaunt, more massive
than usual. Jane also was austere in her manner, for she
resented his treatment of her, and at the first opportunity
she meant to tell him so. Her pale face was set in this
purpose, and her slight, black-clothed figure was rigid as
she thought of the way he had set at nought her position
as housekeeper. But when he looked up from the plan,
she saw from the morose expression that this was no time
for plain speaking; he was calmer and therefore more
dangerous.

" You wanted to see me," she said, facing him over the
desk. She was on her dignity.

He looked up and his eyes pierced her in hostility.

** You've got to go," he told her brutally.

Jane met his glance. ** Go ? "

" You've got to leave this house to-day. . . . Here's a
cheque for you. Pack up, and don't be here when I come
home to-night. That's enough," he said, nodding at the
door.

But Jane did not move. " D'you mean to say I've got
to leave this house altogether ? "

"That's it. Now get off."

Jane still regarded him. For a second she thought him
not responsible for his words.

" I've told you to go," he warned.

** Why have I got to go? I deserve to know that.

THE BRUISER 309

I'm not complaining, but I deserve to know the
reason."

He thumped the desk. " You'd better go."

" But it's not fair. I've given the best part of my
life to you, and it's only fair to teU me why I've got
to go."

Qiapel put his large hands on the desk and drew himself
up. That devil had leapt into his eyes and he became the
Bruiser. " Are you going ? " he asked meaningly.

Jane turned to the door. His decisions were irrevocable.

" Fate be damned ! " He would see whether Fate could
crush him.

Chapel caught the twelve o'clock train to Cardiff, and,
settling himself on the blue cushions of the compartment
in a comer, facing the engine, he made himself comfort-
able. His feet were on the carpet; the window was
lowered to let in sufficient, bul not too much, of a breeze.
He took from his overcoat pocket the hitherto imopened
copy of the Western Mail, and began to read. Wriggling
himself closer into the comer, he opened the paper to the
middle pages and commenced reading an account of
yesterday's meeting of the Cardiff City Council, when the
new reservoir had been discussed.

The train had passed St. Fagans and Ely before he
placed the newspaper on the seat beside him; and he
returned his eyeglasses to the case in his waistcoat
pocket.

He was now interested in the interior of the compart-
ment. Wonderful how comfortable the railway companies
made their trains these days ! The dark blue cushions,
the two bevelled mirrors, the pictures — he could recognise
those opposite without moving from the comer or putting
on his glasses. This one facing him, on the right of the
looking-glass, showed very temptingly the sweeping curve
of yellow sands of Whitmore Bay ; the other one, on the
far side of the mirror, was a village scene of a Uttle place
near Rhoose, rural and secluded. But that notice on the
middle of the rack was ridiculous and imnecessary:
Not to be Used for Heavy Luggage, Nonsense ! Did the

310 CHAPEL

company imagine passengers carried steam-engines and
deposited them there on their journeys ? Bemarkable how
fu^e were the thoughts of some men !

But the train would soon be running into Cardiff
Station.

Chapel straightened his bowler hat. Wonderful the
relief now that the pain had ahnost disappeared ! ... He
had managed to get the inquest over without any trouble-
some allusions to Graig being made. As well, he had just
crushed Fate once more. If this last attsu^k had succeeded,
he would have been a pretty specimen of a head of a
family. The name of Chapel would have been an object
of derision with a doting imbecile at its head. It was
rather a pity that Jane had to suffer, because it was not
exactly her fault. But Fate had chosen her as an instru-
ment to attsu^k him, and she had to go. She must not
remain near him as a danger. But he had compensated
her. That cheque would be sufficient to maintain her in
comfortable circumstances for the remainder of her life.
And now that he thought of it, perhaps he had better
call at the bank. It was rather a large cheque, and
the manager might cause delay, which would be an
annoyance.

The train stopped and he alighted. It would not take
him long to call at the bank, and if he took a taximeter
he could reach the Bhymney Station in time for the next
train to the reservoir. Out on the platform he stopped,
and stood stock still. The porter, hurrying to bang the
doors, looked at him in surprise. He seemed like a man
who had lost his bearings. The empty train glided past
him.

** It's not fair ! " He seemed to be hearing the words
for the first time. " Why have I got to go ? I deserve
to know that. I've given the best part of my life to you,
and it's only fair "

Chapel glanced up at the glass covering of the platform.

Not fair ? That was not a Chapel motto. Faimess

and justice, however hard. Straight fighting, however
merciless. Those were the things he imderstood.

It appeared as if be had been misapplying tMs theory

THE BRUISER 311

of the Bruiser, and doing Jane a wrong. Harming her
after years of loyalty and faithful service. Loyalty ?

He understood now. By dismissing Jane he was running
away from this danger; he was putting the temptation
out of sight.

He hastened in search of a porter. " What time is the
next train up ? "

It was within himself the fault lay. Something within
himself was to blame. Jane, after being loyal, was being
made to suffer when it was a weakness within himself
should be bruised. Her years of loyalty !

Rounding the comer by the Farmer's, he passed the
maid, to whom he curtly nodded. She was dressed for an
afternoon's freedom, and he thought it strange that Jane
should have chosen this particular occasion to give the
girl a holiday. Inside his study he doffed his overcoat
and placed it across the seat of one of the chairs. Imme-
diately, his eyes fell upon two pieces of paper which had
no business to be upon his desk, and picking them up he
found them to be the cheque for several thousand pounds
torn in two. He tore them into smaller pieces, wondering
whether she could afford to be so independent. He
returned to the door, opened it and listened. There came
to him soimds of movements in the kitchen.

Jane had heard him enter and had marvelled at his
early return. As she closed the portmanteau on the
kitchen table her manner was very uncompromising. Her
slight figure in its precise actions showed very plainly that
her sense of justice had been outraged.

Chapel came to the door of the kitchen, and as Jane
turned and saw his tall body filling the doorway she knew
that his day was over, for his features were drawn and
tired, and not tense as they had been early in the morning.

His voice did not soften. " What are you doing ? " he
asked her aggressively.

Jane felt a desire to be ironic. Instead, she tightened
her Ups and buckled one of the straps of the portmanteau.

** What are you doing ? " he asked her again, more
firmly, and somewhat impatiently.

Jane tried her best not to put any rebuke into her

312 CHAPEL

low tones. '* I'm packing up, Mr. CJhapel." The small
key clicked as it turned in the lock.

''Take that bag upstairs/' Chapel commanded her.
** And get me some Imich," he added, turning away.

Jane stared after him. He had annulled one of^ his
decrees.

Chapel went back into the study. ** A man's greatest
enemy is himself."

He would see whether he ran away from danger !

TWO HOUSEKBEPBBS

" I HAVE come to see you," Betsy Michael said doggedly,
and somewhat imnecessarily. She followed Jane into the
kitchen of Garth, her right thigh giving under her weight
as she walked.

** And youVe brought the baby, too ! " Almost did
Jane dance around the precious bundle as they reached
the hearth. This was Griff's son ! In her hurry to
uncover his face she tried to open the shawl.

Betsy had never in her life been within Garth before,
and never had she spoken to Jane since the day Griff
had been taken from the Windgap. This visit had caused
her much misgiving.

Betsy firmly removed Jane's eager fingers from the
shawl. " You better wait a minute," she said distantly
in Welsh. " I brought 'im for 'is gran'father to see 'im,"
she exfdained as she sat in the Windsor armchair after
placing an empty feeding-bottle and another bottle full
of milk on the table. " He ought to see 'im," she went
on, arranging the soft white flannel around the pink little
forehead. *' He ought to see him," she added, further to
explain. " I bin thinkin' 'e ought to see 'im," she repeated.
It was a plain duty that brought her here. ** An' that's
why I've come."

But Jane was blissfully ignorant of the subtleties in
the brain of this old woman of eighty with white hair,
and was now on her knees in ecstatic raptures as she con-
templated the healthy face of Griff's boy and toyed with
one of his velvety hands. " He's exactly like Mr. Chapel,
isn't he?"

Betsy glanced at Jane very curiously. This was the
woman who cherished the delusion that she had reared

313

314 CHAPEL

Griff. " I do think he's like his father," she corrected
defiantly. '' But he's the same spit as um all," she
conceded as the more reliable authority upon the tradi-
tional physiognomy. " An' I'm bringin' 'im up— as you
do know. Jus' like I did bring up the other two," she
challenged.

" Of course ! I'd forgotten. You nursed Mr. Chapel,
didn't you ? "

** And Griff," Betsy made known to her very emphati-
cally.

" I know." Half of Jane's attention was on the baby.
" Griff thinks the world of you."

Betsy was amazed and stared at the kneeling figure in
black. Perhaps she had been misunderstood. '* Tes. It
was I did bring up Griff, as I do say." And Betsy watched
Jane still more closely.

" He was with you from the time he was bom, nearly,"
supplied Jane.

Betsy shook herself in the chair, because she thought
she must be dreaming. This other certain person was
laying no claim whatever to the rearing of Griff. " Here ! "
She impulsively picked up the boy from her lap. " You
can hold him for a bit, if you do like. Only don'
wake 'im," she warned whisperingly ; "'cause he's a
terrible boy if you do upset 'im." Her point of view had
changed completely. " He got the Chapel temper, right
enough," she added with pride, and then set to watchkig
Jane. To herself she was saying : '' It's a sinful thing to
judge people too 'ard."

But Jane was soberly inquiring : " How is his mother ?
How is she to-day ? "

Betsy instantly pursed her lips. "Not a bit better,
poor lickle thing ! "

"It's awful, isn't it?"

Betsy warmed towards Jane. " Got up she did last
week, for the first time. But if you could only see her
walkhig about the house and staring as if she do see
nothing ! . . . Yes, yes — somethin' wrong with the milk.
It do happen like that sometimes. . . . Melancholy she is,
you know ! "

Betsy had now dropped all her suspicions of Jane. She

TWO HOUSEKEEPERS 316

was a sensible little woman who kept her house beautifully
tidy. Betsy liked the way she held Griff's boy, and
especially the anxiety with which she asked about that
" sweet Hckle thing," the boy's mother.

** I was thinkin'," she said to Jane after a while, " it
would be better to put him in bed to let him sleep quiet."

Jane got up at once. " We'll put him in my bed."

** There ! " said Jane, when they had him tucked in
between the sheets. " He'U be quite peaceful."

" Till he do wake up," remarked Betsy from her wider
experience.

Then Jane showed Betsy around the house, and when
that was done they had tea in the back room.

** About Griff and 'is father," Betsy was sa3ring over
her second cup. ** 'Tisn' right, that's what / do say.
Two of um big men, the biggest in the place and for miles
round. Father an' son — an' not talkin' to each other ! "

Jane was immediately sympathetic. *^ They quarrelled
a long time ago."

" Of course, you do know about it. But it's a disgrace.
What do you think about it ? "

" They're too much alike to agree," suggested Jane.

** But it's not right. There's Griff, brought the family

back to the old house But p'raps you don't imder-

stand," she added with some doubt.

"Oh yes! I do."

'' Then there's Josiah — a great man. But I do think
of 'im as a boy, and then I do forget about him being rich
and givin' the place a liblaUy and always goin' by train
in a first-class carriage. But this is what I do say — ^it's
a disgrace for um not to be talkin' to each other. . . .
Sh-sh-sh ! "

Betsy had put up a warning finger and was listening.
** There ! He 'ave woke up ! " And now Betsy was
running waddlingly into the hall, for the house was full
of and alive with lusty, angry baby cries. And very soon
she returned with him in the shawl, and the kitchen became
a Babel.

" Come an' 'ave a look at 'im," called Betsy through
the cries. " Got a temper, 'aven't 'e ? " She gloated over
the fact. " Told you, didn' I ? Exac'ly like um."

316 CHAPEL

And Jane came to look at the fiercely kicking legs
within the white robe, at the clenched round fists striking
out in all directions, and at the eyelids closed in the deter-
mination to force aU the blood of his body into his face
now so frighteningly red and inflated.

" Dreadful boy 'e is, if you do upset 'im. . . . The
water is warm enough now. ... Do you think you do
know 'ow to do it ? "

Jane hurried with fierce energy, mixing the water and
the milk in exact proportion, and Betsy rocked her huge
body and crooned in her unmusical masculine voice.
And then hungry Ups closed about the teat, hoUows
appeared and disappeared in the two round Uttle cheeks,
and tongue and lips made healthy sucking noises. And
the two women bent over him, proud of their miraculous
ability to api)ease the mighty wrath of the youngest of
the Chapels.

At that moment he opened his eyes. '* I'U make you
women jump," he might weU have been saying as his
toothless gums showed in a chuckle.

" Yes, you little rascal," Betsy scolded with ridiculous
pride. ** 'E do know, right enough," she told Jane with
a nod of her head.

An hour later Betsy sat facing Chapel across the hearth
of his study. The boy lay asleep on her lap and Betsy's
eyes were alight as she greedily watched every movement
CSiapel made. He had shut the drawer of the desk with
such masterfulness, and now he was regarding her from
his chair with such graciousness. A big gentleman. A
great man.

** But I did nurse 'im," Betsy kept repeating to herself
to calm that awe of him. " I did nurse him."

He was the same Josiah, however, as had lived with
them at the Windgap, dominating, and a hard man. She
understood him tlurough and through.

" You're a big man, Josiah," she was telling him in Welsh.
**I do call you by your name, or p'raps I would be frightened
at you. But I don't look at you like that, or p'raps I'd
start shiverin'. I do look at you when I was nursra' you,
same as I was nursin' Griff, and this lickle angel agen."

TWO HOUSEKEEPERS 317

Chapel had unbent and was regarding her with amuse-
ment.

" An' that's why I've come," Betsy continued, pursing
her lips in the determination to proceed now that she had
got so far. " I brought the baby for you to see 'im. It's
only right for you to see 'im. An' it's wrong — " Betsy
lost all her tact — ** for you an' GrifE not to be talldn' to
each other."

Chapel stirred restlessly in his chair. " Perhaps you'd
better mind your own business, Betsy."

Betsy jerked her head, doggedly. ** Don' you think
I'm a&aid of you, Josiah, now. 'Cause I'm not. I do
understand you, I can tell you. Griff 'ave brought back
the family, an' you ought to be proud of 'im. And I
could tell you some things about that, only I don' want
to hurrt you. Mind you, I don' judge you, 'cause I do
imderstand you exac'ly. But it's wrong for you not to
be friends with Griff an' with 'is wife — ^poor lickle thing,
and with this boy who you'll be leavin' all your money
to some day."

Betsy got up and walked towards the desk.

" You musn' notice what I do say, Josiah," she hurried
to apologise on observing his gnmness. *' I'm getting
old now, but it do break my heart to see you an' Griff
not friends."

** He's a very hard man," she told Jane out in the
kitchen. " But somethin' is boun' to happen. The
Almighty do bring things round very funny."

Jane helped her with the shawl and gradually Betsy's
mood brightened. ** You come over an' 'ave a cup o'
tea one o' these days," she invited.

XVI

A MEETINO IN THB NIGHT

Just the night to cure insomnia ! It was so fresh.

And so that he might contentedly smoke until the com-
ing of the ten train, Chapel raised a foot to the bottom
bar and rested his elbows on the top bar of the gate two
fields away from Wem. The gate where Griff had so
often waited for Bess.

He had been puffing for some time when, from the
looseness with which his pipe had begun to draw, he knew
that the tobacco was getting low. That train seemed a
long time coming ! He took out his watch and struck a
match.

" Confound that girl ! ''

It was no more than twenty minutes to ten ! That
fool of a girl must have mistaken the time and had brought
in his cap and coat too soon. His foot scraped impatiently
on the bottom bar of the gate. Quite unknown to him,
his ears had been on the alert for that low hum, and now
that the train would not come for twenty minutes, he
immediately became painfully aware of the darkness and
the silence of the night about him, a silence almost
eerie. He would go home.

He was on the point of turning, when he abruptly
stopped and stood still, his whole attention gripi)ed.
Something had cut into the silence of the night. EQs
quick ears had caught a sound somewhere ahead of him.
A soft, insinuating swish of the grass came out of the
darkness. '' A rabbit," he whispered to himself, the
softness of the sound influencing his judgment. At that
instant, the thing approaching showed itself as an indis-
tinguishable mass that puzzled him. In its weird un-
certainty there was something which stirred the elemental

318

A MEETING IN THE NIGHT 319

self-preservation within him. His whole being was on
the defensive, prepared to fight. " Some animal," he
thought, to stifle that ludicrous sense of fright. Very
slowly, creeping almost, loitering, the thing approached
out of the darkness. Then by degrees he began to make
out a white patch, and he breath^ freer. It looked like
the white head of a cow ; but it seemed so tall. Nearer it
came ; slowly — ^loitering.

Why ! it was a woman ! Queer that a woman should
be roaming about alone on such a lonely spot at this time
of night !

He watched her, and she seemed to be lost, or to be
wandering. By degrees, as she came nearer, her form
grew more distinguishable. The slow, regular movements
of her feet; the dark skirt and the white blouse; the
arms limp at her side; the head. She came, aimlessly,
lost in absorption, or so it seemed, like an imaginative
child lost in a daydream. And he gripped the top of the
gate because he had begun to tremble, as though some
terror from the unknown were creeping up to him.

She had stopped within a yard of the gate. She was
hatless. She had seen him and was staring at him with
fixed burning eyes.

Grood Grod ! It was his soli's wife.

She came a step nearer, pushed forward her chin and
peered into his face. " I know yew," she said, as though
she had made a great discovery.

Her voice was so toneless that he felt his blood run cold.
She was near him, near enough for him to touch her did
he but put out a hand. He was able to hear her uneven
breathing. Her dumb scrutiny coming through the vague
light paralysed him.

" D-d-d-do you ? " he aaked.

She came still nearer, and he saw her as she was : a
young thing, refined; an inexperienced woman being
shamefully treated by life. He had heard of her condition,
but the knowledge had not moved him. She was remote,
although married to his son. He had no feeling regarding
her.

He saw her raise her arm. Her hand was on his sleeve.
Her touch agitated him. It was the touch of a helpless

320 CHAPEL

womim. And now she was looking up at him with an
appeal in her large bulging eyes.

" Tm coming with you/' she said, only she seemed to
be begging him to let her come.

Then she stooped, and he saw her white fingers fumbling
with the fastening of the gate. She could not open it,
so she turned her head and looked up at him. So com-
pletely had he lost his self-possession that before he knew
what he was doing he had opened the gate for her. She
had squeezed around by the post, and now she was at
his side. She was so delicate a thing, so frail, so fragile.

'' Tou can't come with me to-night," he answered her.
But his voice was shaking beyond M possibility of control.
Her face was so white. Her rather broad shoulders
drooped so. Her uncovered head looked so fair. Her
shrunken figure was so deUcate. " Why don't you go
home ? " he asked. But her eyes took all the nerve out
of him.

She was looking up at him again with those staring
eyes. '' I'm cold," she complained to him.

" But if you go home, you'U be by the fire." He bent
his head and coaxed her.

*' I'm cold," she said again to make him understand.
She seemed to know he was unwilling to take her with
him. '' Feel," she pleaded, listlessly holding out one of
her hands to him.

He obeyed and took hold of her hand. The softness
of the cold skin had a feeling so dainty, so opposed to and
condemnatory of the hardness of his nature. '* Won't
you go home ? " he asked, certain at the same time that
she was stronger than he.

But she moved, drawing him with her. And as though
some power were aiding her, an imusually fresh breeze
blew as a gust through the gateway. Her very weakness
drew him down the path towards Garth, and he went
reluctantly, but unresistingly. He wished to have nothing
to do with her ; but she was so helpless ! And without
a hat, and without a coat in the cold night.

He put a hand under her elbow to help her up when
they moimted the steep steps in front^ of the house, and,
entering the hall, he led her into the study. He turned up

A MEETING IN THE NIGHT 321

the wick of the brass reading-lamp on the desk ; when he
wheeled forward one of the armchairs its casters screeched
as they rolled along the carpet. Soon he had her seated.
He stooped, picked up the poker to stir the fire and
immediately two small flames began to leap and flicker.
And then he put on a little coal from the scuttle.

** There ! " he said, lowering his bass voice. " You'll
soon be warm now."

He stiU had on his cloth cap as he turned to look at her
leaning forward in the chair. He tried to smile in friend-
liness even. But the gloom on her pale face and the
hopelessness in her bulging eyes were so depressing.

She moved slightly, so as to get her hands nearer the fire.

" I won't be long." He looked down upon her from
his great height, and then he moved with long, light steps
to the door.

As he knelt before the sideboard in the dining-room
he was glad that Jane and the maid had gone to bed, for
it would have angered him to be discovered in such an
act as this.

She was seated on the rug when he returned to the
study, one foot imder her and the other extended so that
the shining black shoe and her ankle showed; and as she
held the palms of her open hands near the fire she continued
to stare into the flames. He poured some wine into a
wine-glass and went to her, bending so that she might
take hold of the glass.

" Drink it," he coaxed, for she made no movement,
except to gaze at him so expressionlessly. ** It will help
you to get warm," he pleaded.

Instead of taking the glass she raised her chin and made
a moo with her mouth, as a child might. " Why don't
you hold it for me ? " her helpless pose seemed to say.
She was sitting on the rug, one hand with outstretched
fingers supporting her. And Chapel stooped and held
the frail glass by its stem ; and she sipped.

He had a better, closer view of her now. The hair was
very much fairer than he had thought, fairer than his
own had ever been before it had begun to turn grey. The
texture of her skin had such a fine grain. Her straight
nose and the whole cast of her face showed breed — ^and

322 CHAPEL

he liked that. When in perfect health she must be a well-
built woman. But so feminine ! Such an appearance
of genuineness and such a high tone. A woman of the
kind the Chapels liked. Everything about her was so
marvellously strange to him, and yet so true to his ideas
of what a woman should be. The extreme daintiness of
her baffled and yet attracted him.

He marvelled.

So this was his daughter-in-law ! Daughter ?

But she was speaking to him. " My feet are so cold,"
she complained. And to refuse an3rthing to her simple,
trusting appeal had got impossible. She expected bim
to understand.

He put the wine-glass on the table and, getting down
on his knee, he unbuttoned the straps of the shoes stretched
out to him. Then he warmed one of his hands and quickly
brought it to one of her stockinged feet, so that the heat
in his palm and fingers might swiftly be transferred to
her — ^in exactly the same manner as he had watched Betsy
do for his son years and years ago.

He asked her after some minutes : '' Are you quite
warm now ? "

It was time she went; it had been a mistake to allow
her to come here at all. She did not speak, only nodded
her head, for her attention seemed to be far away, and
she again had her eyes fastened on the fire.

Chapel had seated himself in the armchair she had left.
" Then let me put your shoes on. It's time for you to
go home." And yet he had no desire for her to discover
that he had no wish for her to be here. '' They will think
you are lost, if you don't go now."

" I'm not going home," she told him abruptly.

"They'll be worrying about you," he pointed out,
watching her more closely.

" No, they won't," she sharply corrected. She was
still gazing into the fire, and she was speaking in the same
monotonous tones. " They don't trouble about me. . . .
There's Griff ! He doesn't care what happens to me.
You don't know him. He'd like to see me out of the
way altogether, and then he'd do as he liked. Go 'n' see
that woman as often as he likes."

A MEETINQ IN THE NIGHT 323

Chapel regarded her for an instant in strange wonder.
" Oh, that's not right," he objected, seeking to comfort
her. And then he recognised the futility of contradict-
ing her.

" Don't you tell me,'' she said, turning upon him, and
then looking into the flames as though all her grievances
were pictured there. " I saw him with her. He goes to
see her every day, and he takes her out in his motor-car.
But it's my fault," she went on in severe self-condemna-
tion ; " I called him a damned fool — ^I did," she cried,
ttuning swiftly on his mild exclamation of disbelief,
" straight to his face." Her eyes returned to the pictures
in the flames. " Perhaps he's got her in the house now.
He doesn't care about me."

Chapel listened to the droning voice, so suggestive of
sweetness in some old way, and yet so hollow. Had it
not been for her condition, he might have sadly smiled
at her ingenuousness. " You're foolish to talk like that,"
he remonstrated, and then remembered again that words
would never dispel her delusions.

" He doesn't, I tell you ! . . . Then there's that baby ! "
Here was another picture in the flames. " GrifE told him
to take no notice of me. . . . They took him away last
week, and they haven't brought him back yet. I saw
them. I saw them myself. They thought I didn't ; but
they're not so clever as they think."

Her eyes turned to him once more, and opened even
wider, as though she were trying her hardest to make him
believe.

" Better go home and see if the baby's come back,"
Chapel suggested, attempting to affect her in that way.

'* I don't care if he hasn't. He tried to hit me the other
day. His father told him to." She was openly seek-
ing his sympathy. " See how they're all treating me,"
she wished him to understand.

Chapel stood up at last, recognising that firmness was
the only solution. " You must go now," he told her.
" And if any one of them does anjrthing to you, you must
come and tell me. I — ^I'U settle them." Before he was
conscious of it, he had offered protection.

That seemed to please her. " Griff's afraid of you/'

324 CHAPEL

she said iminessiyely, taking hold of Chapel's hand so
that he might help her up.

'* But you must always do as I tdil you," he said.

She nodded her head meekly. He must know that she
was obedient.

He put her to sit in the chair again, bent down and
rebuttoned the straps of her shoes, brought his overcoat
to put across her shoulders and his cap to place on her
fair head. He had some influence over her, he immediately
perceived, for she was quite amenable under his firmness.

He took her home across the fields, right up the yard at
the back of Wem.

xvn

A CHAPEL WOlfAN

When Chapel came to himself, as one might say, he
inwardly resented his action towards Bess.

But she was not in control of her faculties ; the night's
happening would be forgotten ; she would not bother him
again. For an hour he had been a fool, a gullible fool,
suddenly plunged back into the sentimentality of his early
years. Her helplessness, her white face, her cavernous eyes,
and her youthfulness had caught him unawares. For an
hour her womanliness had disarmed him. He had seen
her as his daughter-in-law, a Chapel bound to him by ties
of blood : the mother of a Chapel. For a moment, as he
had sat watching her before the study fire, he had dreamt
of satisfying at last that craving for company, of quieting
that persistent hunger for more society. She was his
daughter-in-law. And such a fool had he been that the
word daughter had made his heart beat in sentimental
palpitation. His deluded fancy had suggested a means
for filling that gap in his life. Probably it was a part of
human nature to be properly mad at times !

He was thinking over it all as he sat at his desk on an
evening of the following week.

Certainly she was related to him — ^by Law. But he had
never known anjrthing of her. Occasionally during her
childhood he must have seen her about the village or on
the station, but he had disregarded her existence. And
now to leap out of obscurity to thrust herself into such
high relief on his attention ! What mattered it to him
that she was married to his son ? He resented her intru-
sion into the privacy of his life.

He turned impatiently to the blue plan of the reservoir

326

326 CHAPEL

lying on the desk, fixed his gold-rimmed eye^asses on his
nose, and commenced to work.

The reservoir was advancing very satisfoctorily. For
some months 'his cranes had been busy, l^ons of navvies
had toiled until the excavations were nearing completion
and a huge rectangular hole gaped on the mountain side.
To-night he was occupied with more detailed drawings of
two duices.

Now and again the Venetian blind flapped lazily against
the window-fntme. The fire behind him was small, burning
low in the grate, but exceedingly cheerful, red at its heart
with two tiny lumps of coal black on its head. And Chapel
kept on, steadily drawing. His forcefulness was evident
even in his manner of working, for he never moved, never
stirred his head, but kept on drawing swift, sweeping, sure
lines, filling several sheets of white paper with his bold
sketches. As he bent his giant shoulders over the desk,
his firm lips were tightly closed. His grey hair bristled
with energetic life. Even the pencil, which he held some
inches above the point, seemed imbued with the same force-
ful aliveness.

He was pleased with the progress of the reservoir; in-
deed with the whole contract. It was likely to prove very
profitable.

He had been busy for some time when suddenly he raised
his head. He glanced over his glasses, across the desk, at
the closed door in annoyance. If Jane wished to have people
to see her, why the devil couldn't she have them without
causing all that infernal commotion? He Ustened, his
pencil in the air, his lean face expressing his scowling annoy-
ance. Someone had banged upon the front door most
unceremoniously, raising the knocker and lettiog it drop
to strike with its own weight. And now Jane was quickly
crossing the hall. An exclamation seemed to escape her
when the door was open, and now she and the intruder
were together, mute it appeared, for they made no sound.
Why the devil didn't they say something, or move away
into the kitchen 1 Not another line would he be able to
draw till he had heard them go. He listened.

** You mustn't go in there ! " That was Jane's voice.

And the next instant the knob of his own door turned.

A CHAPEL WOMAN 327

No knock? The door moved around on its hinges,
slowly. He took off his glasses and looked. Someone
was entering.

His daughter-in-law was standing in the doorway, staring
at him with her frozen eyes. The pencil fell from between
his fingers. She was staring at him with that same awful
fixity and that paralysing persistence of doom. Again he
had that feeling of being face to face with a terror from the
unknown. ** Something is crushing me," the fateful eyes
and drooping mouth seemed to say to him. Such a pale
fairness he could not remember having seen before. The
black velvet cap only made her still more frail-looking.
The thickness of the brown motoring-coat, many sizes
too large, only increased the impression of her thinness
and fragiUty. She had raised the deep collar of the coat
about her neck till the lobes of her ears were hidden ; and
her face, framed in so masculine a garment, seemed to peep
out in wanness. It must be his son's coat. Her hands
were pushed deep into its pockets.

He watched her come away from the door. " I have
been here before," her sureness of movement seemed to tell
him. And when she had crossed the room with her slow,
dragging steps and had seated herself in the armchair, her
manner implied, " I know this room quite well."

But she had no business to be here. He resented her
presence. He wished to have no dealings whatsoever
with Wem. But what was he to do ? And she had come
in so confidently, trusting him in her hopelessness. She
had entered as though sure that here sat a friend. He
turned in his revolving chair so that he might face her.

** Are you cold to-night ? " he asked.

She did not reply, but turned and looked at him with
her large bulging eyes for a time.

** Griff tried to run over me," she said at length. She
had come to him with her complaint. " He tried to nm
over me with his motor-car." Now again she was gazing
into the fire where all the pictures of her delusions seemed
to hang. " He did," she emphasised. " Last night, down
the drive." A faint smile of cunning twitched her mouth
for a second. " And I stole his coat. But he tried to
run over me. You told me to come and tell you ! "

328 CHAPEL

Someone bringing her plaint to him ! '* I — ^I'U talk to
him," he said.

" Yes, Griff's afraid of you."

He got up and closed the window. He helped her off with
the brown, leather-lined coat. He shook up the fire and put
on more coal. When he saw her move to come and sit on
the rug he searched for a cushion and found none. At
twenty past nine, before the maid was due to call him, he
put on her coat for her and took her home over the fields.

As the weeks passed Chapel got quite aware of this change
taking place in him. But he was incapable of action.
When he considered her headaches, her loss of interest in
things, her depression of mind, her delusions and her in-
ability to decide and choose, his whole nature was pained.
He knew that she avoided all other company but his, and
that fact alone would have been sufficient to win for her
this attachment he felt was growing.

How closely she had insinuated herself into his life was
proved to him during those days when her symptoms be-
came more intense and she had been kept closely guarded
at home. Every night he had gone up the fields to look
for her, wondering whether she would come this time and
sit in his study. When that attack passed, and she had
come to see him again, that demoralising terror of her
ultimate fate was lessened.

She came to Garth every evening now, and as they sat
together his being would throb under this touch of person-
aUties in private life. He sensed the warmth of her
presence. To touch a human body ! To feel the mag-
netism of human flesh ! The vibrating, tingling hj^notism
of this common possession of human life !

This new intimacy resurrected the previous intimacy,
for only once in his life before had he been in close contact
with a human being. The intimacy with Bess recalled the
intimacy with Gwen. And Gwen had always been a
force, the greatest force in his life. Not a day had gone
without his thought of her !

This habit of hardness had got too strong a hold of him
by now. He was the bruiser, the top dog, the man who
kaew the secret. But with his daughter-in-law he need

A CHAPEL WOMAN 329

not be so reserved, because she could not understand.
The iron had entered his soul; life had been too terrible
a struggle to allow of any softness in his nature. Never-
theless, this new intimacy intensified his desire to take his
place among men as the old Chapels had done. Had he
known he would have kept aUve that softening power
Gwen had exercised over him. But that was the great
disappointment of life : this money-earning had sucked
him in, and he was not taking his place among men as a
Chapel should. This contact with his daughter-in-law
seemed to show how far removed he was from the gentle
things of life !

XVIII

DBEAD

So Bess came night after night, and tighter did this
affection for her fasten about Chapel. He lived for these
evenings; all day he longed for them, for they satisfied
that starved side of his nature. And all the while he con-
doned what he termed his weakness by thinking —

" She won't always be like this. She'll get better and
stop coming."

But in his heart he knew that with the return of her
mental control would reappear his old solitariness.

So the weeks passed.

Immediately after dinner one evening he was climbing
the path up the Wem fields, expecting to meet her at any
moment. The spring was advancing, the air about him
was mild after a day's sunshine, and dusk had but just
begun to fall. As he mounted the path the thought con-
stantly recurring to him was —

" She'll soon come now."

He kept looking ahead, anticipating her slow, dragging
figure to appear over the brow at any instant. And soon
he was at the gate, two fields away from Wem, and here
he stopped and waited as he always did. Once more he
peered along the path in front of him. " She's sure to
come," he continued saying to himself. He had a horror
lest she should not come. He had a picture of her in his
mind : the white face, the soft fair hair, the expression
of immutable doom on her thin face, the shrunken body
crawling along towards him. But there was no sign of
her, and idly his eyes roamed over the fields that dipped
down to the road between the station and the gate of
Wem drive.

DREAD 331

It waa then he caught sight of her.

She was two hundred yards or so away, at the very bot-
tom of the field on his left. And she was hurrying in a
wild fashion.

His body stiffened instinctively. His eyes opened in
frightened amazement as he saw her pass through the
open gateway at the lower end of the field. Down the slope
she was going, making for the station, or so it seemed to
him. He was able to distinguish the white blouse and the
violent swinging of her arms. But it was the wildness of
the whole of her that frightened him. Some peculiarity,
some indefinable unearthUness in her gestures, made him
hold his breath. Down the hill she was tearing, possessed
by an energy he had thought impossible. Her steps were
long, hurrying steps. All her body seemed driven by an
activity unhuman, superhuman. Her neck was stretched
forward, as though some grim purpose urged her on.

He leapt the gate, and with his mind filled with appre-
hension he began to race down the slope.

A new terror gripped him. His mind spanned and
coimted the past few weeks. He understood, and the
knowledge filled him with dread. Another attack, such
as had kept her away a month ago, had started. She was
dangerous, probably insane. She must have eluded them
at Wem. She might do anything.

Several times he stumbled as he ran down the uneven
ground. On the roadway he stopped a moment, searching
for her to the left in the direction of the village, to the right
towards the turnpike. Then over the gate across the road,
and through another field, more even.

Gradually the distance between them was lessening.
But now she, too, had begun to run. An instinct seemed
to tell her that she was being pursued. She was running
straight on, leaving Penlan on her left, and lower down
on her right stood the Windgap.

As he saw her approach the brook he ceased running,
waiting to see which way she turned so that he might
cut across diagonally and check her. He watched for a
moment, wondering which direction she would take.

Good God!

She had thrown herself into the pond, ten feet deep,

332 CHAPEL

in that curve of the brook, under the shadow of the over-
hanging trees.

The hsmging brass lamp in the hall of Wem had be^i
lighted ten minutes ago, but it was not behaving itself at
all well to-night. Betsy, standing beneath it and tilting
up her white head, contemplated its misconduct with grave
dissatisfaction. The flame was low and spluttered ; the top
of the wick was a thin circle of red. The hall was so badly
lighted that Betsy was forced to half -close her eyes to make
out the chain hanging behind the strong front door.

Betsy walked towards the kitchen and called : " Polly ! "

Polly came in a hurry. " What's the matter, Mrs.
Michael?"

** What's gone wrong with this old lamp ? Go 'n' put a
drop of oil hi it, there's a good gel. An' bring the step-
ladder with you. An' mind you don' dirty your clean
apron, now ! "

Within a few minutes Polly was perched on the third step
of the ladder; the wick was relighted, the chimney re-
placed, and now the floor of the hall looked as glossy as a
frozen pond ; the barrels of the guns in the cabinet winked
quite cheekily ; the face of the grandfather's clock seemed
as pleased as a freshly washed old man; and the chain,
the bolt, the strong lock, even the little brass knob of the
latch-lock — ^they all showed up, proud and confident of
their abihty to keep the safety of this old home inviolable.

" It's too high," Betsy criticised from below. ** Turn
it down — ^jus' a lickle bit," she advised, unnecessarily hold-
ing aloft the Ughted candle.

And Polly, up on the third step, tinned down the wick.

" There ! " praised Betsy. " That will do very nice.
You come down, now," she said to Polly. " An' don' you
fall now, an' hurrt yourself."

Polly had commenced descending, with irreproachable
carefulness, according to coimsel; her neat ankle had
stretched out of the impeccable security of the hem of her
blue cotton frock; and the toe of her shoe had reached
the second step, when she stopped, her eyes fixed on the
elosed door. Betsy, too, had been startled, for the candle-
stick was unsteady in her hand, so unsteady that the

DREAD 333

pale flame shivered. Both of them stared at the door, and
now their heads turned till they were gazing into each
other's wide-open eyes.

'* What was that ? " their startled glances demanded to
know.

And again their nerves jerked, for there came another
crash at the door, so close to them that they saw, almost
felt, the vibration of the heavy timber. Polly clmig to
the top of the ladder, and whispering in her hight she said,
** Go 'n' open it, Mrs. Michael." They were both still
listening to tl^e echoes chasing through the stillness of
the house.

Another crash, louder and more violent, and Betsy, with
features stiffened, stepped forward with the candle and
pulled back the small brass knob of the latch-lock. The
massive door flew open, hurled back on its hinges by a
powerful foot, and the next instant Polly screamed, and
the candlestick was shaking as though Betsy's hand were
in the clutch of an ague.

Through the open door, into the hall, rushed the bulky
form of Josiah Chapel. As a weight in his arms lay their
yoimg mistress, white and motionless; and they thought
she was dead.

Her head lay in the crook of his left arm, and his right
arm was under the bend of her knees. Her long yellowish
hair hung straight down. Her white blouse climg to her
breasts and showed the sharp outline of her corset. All
her clothes looked as though they were glued to her, shame-
lessly revealing her emaciated condition. But the dreadful
stillness of her !

And then Betsy looked up at Chapel.

His clothes, too, were clinging to his great body; the
water was dripping from him. And so quick was her mind
under this horror that she saw the only dry thing about
him was his bowler hat. But at sight of him Betsy re-
gained her composiure. The coolness of him brought back
her common sense. Not a sign of any emotion was there
in him, unless it were the grim tightness of his lips. He was
helping to battle against death.

" Where's her bed ? You come with me, Betsy," he
said. " And send the girl for some towels and blankets."

334 CHAPEL

Betsy led the way, lighting their progress up the stair-
case. The sweet little thing was not dead, or he would
not have wanted towels. The poor little thing had got one
of her bad times, had craftily hidden the fact, and had
tried to drown herself. But it was Josiah had saved her !
Betsy sighed and wiped away her tears with her hand.

" The Almighty is makin' things straight agen," she
thought in the simplicity of her old heart. Josiah forced
against his will to come to the old home ! It was a sign«

XIX

AT WBBN

It was beyond Chapel's power to remain at home after
changing into dry clothes; to have done so would have
been purgatory.

Soon after nine o'clock he was hurrying up the Wem
drive, and as he crossed the semi-circiQar sweep in front
of the house the gravel crunched imder his feet. When
he looked up he saw a light shining dimly through the
blind of the casement window of Bess's bedroom. He
raised the huge knocker and gently knocked at the studded
door, and when Polly opened it he passed into the well-
lighted hall.

" Has the doctor come ? " he asked, lowering his powerful
voice.

" He's been here for a good time," Polly answered,
looking up at this tall man in the thick overcoat. ** For
half an hour," she added, coimting by the clock. Polly
was nervous, for the terror of death over the household
was sufficient without the disturbance of speaking to the
wealthy, dominating Mr. Chapel. " Mrs. Michael is with
him," she went on, amazed at this strange intimacy with
the greatest power of the village.

" Then I'll wait. Where can I wait ? " He snapped
at her at once becatise she had not moved.

" In here, Mr. Chapel." Polly hastened to the doc«:
on the right, into the room lighted by a fire only. " Shall
I Ught the lamp, sir ? " she asked guardedly when they
were inside.

** No. Go out and shut the door."

Out in the hall his eyes had been busy, and he was
bitterly resentful. When he had brought in the motion-
less body of his daughter-in-law he had been absorbed

335

336 CHAPEL

with the dresid of what might happen to her ; but now he
had seen those old articles of furniture — ^had seen them
for the first time for thirty years. That old clock was a
part of him ; those old guns had been handled by him so
often in his boyhood !

He doffed his overcoat and hat and laid them on the
bare top of the oak table. When the door closed behind
Polly his tall figure stood rigid, his attention held by the
muffled movements above his head. His face got hard,
harder than any of his bouts with Fate had ever made it,
and his lips piu*ted so that his long white teeth snarled.
Why could not death attack someone who was not afraid —
someone who would hurl sneering defiance into his face,
and not disport with so young a thing as this Chapel
woman?

To ease this agony in his mind he stirred up the fire,
and, pulling up one of the carved armchairs, he sat on the
left of the hearth with his feet on the edge of the white
sheepskin rug. The whole room was now alive with the
spasmodic jumpings of lights and shadows, as though some
bird were flapping its huge wings before the fire.

But the atmosphere of the room had gripped him, and
he knew exactly where he was. Something within him
warmed and swelled until it filled his throat and moistened
his eyes. For thirty years he might have been dead and
abruptly come to life again. He was seeing ^osts. That
dresser ! The blue china ! The old chairs ! The bleak-
ness of the Chapel character was here, pumping through
the room. He had sat in this chair before, but never in
this room whei:e his ancestors had lived. He should
never have entered this old house, for sight of these familiar
things punished him more damnably than anything else
could have punished. His eyes were on the high mantel-
piece, and the Ughts and the shadows changed those brass
candlesticks into twinkling devils that laughed at him in
scorn.

They seemed to acknowledge that he possessed more
money than any of the old Chapels had possessed; but
they mocked at him because he lacked the social influence.

Then he heard the step of someone descending the stair ;
and the next moment he was out in the hall.

AT WERN 337

" Have you seen one of them ? "

It was Polly with a feeding bottle in her hand. ** No,
Mr. Chapel."

He returned to the room and paced the bare floor,
his massive frame moving among the fluttering shadows.
He was forgetful even of the old Chapel furniture. Every
minute that passed added to the suspense; every second
the tension grew. For two hours she had been unconscious,
and he had a feeling that something in his brain must
snap unless he knew soon that she was either conscious
or dead.

The old clock in the hall began to strike; he counted
the deliberate, penetrating rings ; they soimded as familiar
as though his mother were speaking to him. It was ten
o'clock. And again, there were more soimds. The motor-
car was running up the drive ; it had stopped before the
door; his son was crossing the hall; he was mounting
the stairs.

Griff sprang out of the car, and as his sturdy, athletic
figure crossed the hall he took off his white scarf and his
hat and his coat and threw them on the old settle. His
movements were quick and eager, but his clean fresh face
looked careworn.

This morning Bowen, the agent of the South Western
Colliery Company, had been acrimonious because Griff
was forcing their hands over those fields lying in the midst
of the patch of coal the Company was working ; this even-
ing had foimd him at Swansea settling the lease conditions
of a portion of the Blathwaite estate which was being let
for speculative building purposes. The day had been long
and Griff was tired ; but it was not the weariness of the
long day that troubled him ; it was the length of time he
had been away from home. Nowadays he always hurried
home as quickly as possible ; he had that fear that some-
thing imtoward might happen in his absence. Griff had
discovered that life could be bitter.

Betsy, up in the bedroom, had heard the car stop, so
that when Griff reached the landing she was there waiting
for him. She was the old woman brimful of experience
now, in the midst of peril, facing death — by no means a
strange nor a wonderful event. She was human and
z

338 CHAPEL

practical, every one of her faculties cool and under perfect
control.

"She's bad; very bad," she told Griff. "And the
doctor's with her. . . . No ! " She placed herself between
Griff and the door. " Don' go in." She drew him some
yards away and whispered : " She throwed herself in
the water, and she haven' come to herself yet. . . . No,
no. Griff ! You mustn' go in."

Then Betsy swiftly stepped aside. That Chapel devil
was in his eyes, and she knew that woe betide anyone
who stood between him now and his woman. It was
madness to play with a Chapel in this mood. Betsy sighed
and followed him into the bedroom.

Griff stood, leaning ckgainst the post at the foot of the
bed. He was looking at Bess, curiously, as though he
were trying to clutch at the meaning of what he saw.
Some of his senses must have been dulled, a portion of
his ability to feel arrested. He was taking part in some-
thing unreal. And yet he knew that this was Bess, that
the young doctor was his friend Griffiths, that here close
at bis side was the faithful old Betsy ! But everything
was so unreal. He was a spectator of something in which
he could take no action. !hi this room was something he
could feel only in some vague way. Bess appeared to
be a stranger for a moment, and so diaboUcal was this
paralysis of his normal senses that he seemed to perceive
some invisible weirdness about her. Something was
hurting her and he could not keep it off. He coidd not
fight for her ! And because he could not help her he was
sullen against everything in life that so imf airly attacked
a girl like Bess.

He felt a hand under his elbow and heard Griffiths's
voice : ** Come along, old chap ! "

Griff descended into the hall. The wind brushed his
damp forehead when he reached the drive. Mechanically,
he drove the car around the comer of the house, put out
the lamps and closed the shed door. And then he paced
the length of that semi-circular sweep of drive.

life was showing its blackest face. But he must not
whimper. He was contending with something far stronger
than himself, and if he were beaten he must take his beat-

AT WERN 339

ing like a man. But it was hard — ^hard to know that Bess
was being grossly victimised. But he must not cry out.
life must never be allowed to crush his spirit. life had
always been good to him ; he must not whine when she
showed her evil bitterness. No man could expect to be
free from her hardness. Whatever happened, he must
keep alive his faith in life.

But to have Bess crushed in this unjust way !

FATHER AND SON

Geiff turned at last into the house.

He wandered about aimlessly for some time with this
excruciation in his mind, waiting for something his con-
fused brain refused to define. The office was in darkness,
and he returned into the hall. The drawing-room, so full
of suggestions of Bess's personaUty, was also in darkness.
The whole house was imcannily still, breathing in awe, and
the ponderous ticking of the old clock penetrated every-
where pertinaciously. Aimlessly, Griff perambulated with
insignificant details of the house magnified beyond all pro-
portion in his consciousness. And the thoughts which
circulated in his mind as he constantly stopped to gaze up
the staircase were futile and inept : ** When will they come
and call me? Isn't there something I can do? Won't
one of them ever come ? "

But it was Bess, and his mind as usual was clogged with
perplexity. Not once had he been able to save her from
suflfering. On every occasion events had so happened as
to render him helpless. ... He knocked at the kitchen
door as soon as the idea occurred to him, and Polly came,
closing the door behind her.

" What's happened, Polly ? " He had been too devital-
ised to ask Betsy.

" I don't know exactly, Mr. Chapel," Polly whispered.
The tension was too much for her. " Mr. Chapel brought
her home."

Griff looked at her uncomprehendingly. " Do you mean
my father ? "

" Yes. He brought her — carried her, and they were
both dripping wet. Mr. -Chapel is in the breakfaat-room
now."

340

FATHER AND SON 341

Griff turned hastUy. "Thank you, PoUy/' he said
quietly.

His father here ! His father had saved Bess ! . . . His
father was the only one Bess had voluntarily sought for
weeks ! Ever since Bess had commenced going to Garth
he had intended seeking reconciliation — but now? . . .
He walked across the hall. His father had saved Bess,
and no estrangement should stand between them any more.
To his father, who had helped Bess, he would most abjectly
humble himself. He opened the door and went in. As
he advanced towards the fire he saw his father sitting
among the fluttering shadows ; and the strange thing was
that it seemed natural that his father should be in the old
Chapel environment.

His father heard him come in. He had been listening
too long to those muffled sounds overhead to be capable
of resentment. The suspense was exhausting him. He
saw his son come within the Hght of the fire, and an instinct
cried to him : " Here's one of us. He'd rather be killed
than show he's suffering."

Griff began to speak, but his father interrupted him :
" How is she ? Has she come to herself ? "

" No — ^no, she hasn't." Griff found difficulty in speak-
ing. Never in his life had he been drawn so closely to his
father. The same dread united them. They were nothing
more than two Chapels striving to maintain the last ves-
tige of control over their emotions. This fear tied them
inseparably together.

" What does he say about her ? "

" He doesn't say anything." Griff sat down facing
him. His old respect for this powerful, distinguished man
was awakened again.

" She makes me think of your mother," his father said;
and Griff moved his glance to the fire so that he might not
see the twitching of Ms father's face.

No further words passed between them, but each knew
that the other supplied what his nature craved. With
an instinct they warmed towards each other. They were
men of one family waiting to hear the fate of one of their
women.

The room sank into silence. The flames leapt. The

342 CHAPEL

shadows fluttered. The old clock in the hall struck eleven,
deliberately, penetratingly. The fire began to bum low,
then hollow. The furniture got sombre and austerely
sinister. The sounds overhead continued : just a slight
movement : a hushed step on the carpet ; and sometimes
a board would creak. And these two Chapels, father and
son, each comforted by the warmth of companionship,
waited for life's decision.

It was approaching midnight when the turn of the door-
handle galvanised both of them into apprehensive action.
Both leapt to their feet ; they moved to the door, eager,
and yet fearing to learn too quickly.

Betsy, standing in the flood of light from the hall, saw
them. She had expected to find Griff only, and the sight
of Josiah made her halt ckgape. She had news to give, but
for that second after seeing Josiah she was the old fanatic
again. In her heart she had known that the Almighty
would find a way and put things straight again. She had
nursed the pair of them, and now that she saw them side
by side her heart got too full. But she must not cry, or
they would mistake the meaning of it.

" She is better," Betsy said, smiling and weeping.
" We 'ave give her somethin' to eat. An' now she's
sleepin' like a innocent baby."

Betsy went out immediately. The Chapels were best
left to themselves when their emotions were loose, or they
might frustrate even one of God's plans to make things
straight again. Out in the hall she wiped her motherly
old eyes ; and as her stout body rocked on her way to the
kitchen, she was thinking —

"The Almighty do know what 'E is doin*, right
enough ! "

Griff accompanied his father across the fields towards
Garth. Everywhere around them was the deep somnolence
of the clear night. At this hour and on this elevation the
air was raw and cold, causing them to tighten their over-
coats about them. Each vividly felt that penetrant
solemnity which envelops the earth from midnight imtil
dawn. They trod on the grass, and the path between their

FATHER AND SON 348

feet was visible as a line, irregular and broad. Down below
on their right the village lay in slumber, with no sign of
life except the bright light of the signal-box on the station
platform ; and there, a mile away, shone two lamps more
subdued — one red, one blue — on the home signal-post.

In the stillness, they crossed the first field, and when
the gate was reached Griff held it open for his father to
pass through. As they crossed the second field Chapel
grew curiously interested in his son. Practically, they
were strangers. The sturdy figure in the brown over-
coat was much more alert than he had been an hour €^o.
Chapel watched him move, so latently energetic. He
was thinking —

" This is the man who has got hold of the old home.
These fields belong to him." Remarkable that so young
a man had brought about so great a miracle !

In the imcertain light he peered at his son as though
his glance might in some strange way discover the secret
of such a wonder. . . . But this was the man who had
forestalled him. The awful tension of the evening was
over and Chapel was himself again, resentful and jealous.
He cursed his own weakness for approaching Wem at all.
But that Chapel woman was at the root ! He cursed even
the position in which he foimd himself.

And Griff was quite as intimately and quite as curiously
interested in his father.

But Bess was better ! The wind seemed to have taken
it up : '' Bess is better ! " The red and blue signal lamps
proclaimed it : " Bess is better ! " But were it not for his
father, she would have been dead !

Never, even in all his boyhood, had he been so closely
drawn to his father as he had to-night. He had but to
recall those years at the Windgap, and those years at Garth
before going to Llandovery, to remember how his father
had always been his pattern; how as an impressionable
boy he had swallowed that gospel of f orcefulness ; and how
his father, unconsciously, had taught him the imforgettable
lesson that at any cost the Chapels must be re-established.
He owed everything to this distinguished man — every-
thing. Queer, in some mysterious way, that he had not
realised that his father was the wealthiest man for miles

S44 CHAPEL

around, that he himaelf was the son of one of the biggest
of Welsh engineering contractors !

They were nearing the end of the second field, however,
and he had not yet made any attempt at gratitude, nor to
bridge that estrangement. And his father was so peculiar
that, were this opportunity not grasped, possibly the old
strained relation would persist. He turned and, with his
Toice breaking, said —

** I can't even try to thank you for saving Bess."

His voice shook. He felt he would never be able to
proceed. Words were inadequate. They reached the
second gate, and GriS put his hand on his father's arm to
stop him.

** I want you to know, father," he began ckgain, " how
much I owe to you. You've helped Bess before. But it's
not only Bess — it's everything. Without what you taught
me I couldn't have been anything. I've got us back to
Wem, but it was you showed me we had to get there ! "

Chapel stretched out his hand and gripped the top of
the gate. Had he been always mistaking his son? His
son's ambition had been the same as his own !

** I've always wanted to thank you," Griff went on.
** I've wanted to find a way to thank you for all you've
done for me. . . . There's been a vacancy on the Bench
since old Williams died " '

Here was the calculating, self-assertive Griff, the man
of the world, the man of indSuence !

'* And I got you nominated for it."

And his next statement altered in a second the whole of
his father's future. Chapel stood gripping the top of the
gate, amazed. He had attained the social influence of
the old Chapels.

Griff said —

" And to-night I heard for certain that you are being
made a Magistrate ! "

THX END

PbIMTBD XH OaKAT BbITAIN BT RiCHABU ClaT & SONR, lilMITID.
BBUmWlOK IT., nAMFORD ST , B.B., AlID BUNOAT, BVrWOUL

I^m:

JVEESITY

OF OALIFOENIA

BERKELEY

LIBRARY

THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATS
BTAMFMD BEIiOW
B«oki not rstumed as time art lubjoet to ■ fine of

lo f 1.00 per "TaUime inH^f tb$ niittti dnj. Baoki not in
d^kDiiind uiiy hc! rencwi^d i^ uppliealion it m»de befara
Kjirfirnljnn of loan }$rtr'wd.

f^e 26 1918
~ NOV 15 1918

^^j^"**

\93\*

50m'7.'Hl^

( 1 . 36 net

B 33219

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Full text of "Chapel : the story of a Welsh family"

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