john barleycorn by jack london ( - ) chapter i it all came to me one election day. it was on a warm california afternoon, and i had ridden down into the valley of the moon from the ranch to the little village to vote yes and no to a host of proposed amendments to the constitution of the state of california. because of the warmth of the day i had had several drinks before casting my ballot, and divers drinks after casting it. then i had ridden up through the vine-clad hills and rolling pastures of the ranch, and arrived at the farm-house in time for another drink and supper. "how did you vote on the suffrage amendment?" charmian asked. "i voted for it." she uttered an exclamation of surprise. for, be it known, in my younger days, despite my ardent democracy, i had been opposed to woman suffrage. in my later and more tolerant years i had been unenthusiastic in my acceptance of it as an inevitable social phenomenon. "now just why did you vote for it?" charmian asked. i answered. i answered at length. i answered indignantly. the more i answered, the more indignant i became. (no; i was not drunk. the horse i had ridden was well named "the outlaw." i'd like to see any drunken man ride her.) and yet--how shall i say?--i was lighted up, i was feeling "good," i was pleasantly jingled. "when the women get the ballot, they will vote for prohibition," i said. "it is the wives, and sisters, and mothers, and they only, who will drive the nails into the coffin of john barleycorn----" "but i thought you were a friend to john barleycorn," charmian interpolated. "i am. i was. i am not. i never am. i am never less his friend than when he is with me and when i seem most his friend. he is the king of liars. he is the frankest truthsayer. he is the august companion with whom one walks with the gods. he is also in league with the noseless one. his way leads to truth naked, and to death. he gives clear vision, and muddy dreams. he is the enemy of life, and the teacher of wisdom beyond life's wisdom. he is a red-handed killer, and he slays youth." and charmian looked at me, and i knew she wondered where i had got it. i continued to talk. as i say, i was lighted up. in my brain every thought was at home. every thought, in its little cell, crouched ready-dressed at the door, like prisoners at midnight waiting a jail-break. and every thought was a vision, bright-imaged, sharp-cut, unmistakable. my brain was illuminated by the clear, white light of alcohol. john barleycorn was on a truth-telling rampage, giving away the choicest secrets on himself. and i was his spokesman. there moved the multitudes of memories of my past life, all orderly arranged like soldiers in some vast review. it was mine to pick and choose. i was a lord of thought, the master of my vocabulary and of the totality of my experience, unerringly capable of selecting my data and building my exposition. for so john barleycorn tricks and lures, setting the maggots of intelligence gnawing, whispering his fatal intuitions of truth, flinging purple passages into the monotony of one's days. i outlined my life to charmian, and expounded the make-up of my constitution. i was no hereditary alcoholic. i had been born with no organic, chemical predisposition toward alcohol. in this matter i was normal in my generation. alcohol was an acquired taste. it had been painfully acquired. alcohol had been a dreadfully repugnant thing--more nauseous than any physic. even now i did not like the taste of it. i drank it only for its "kick." and from the age of five to that of twenty-five i had not learned to care for its kick. twenty years of unwilling apprenticeship had been required to make my system rebelliously tolerant of alcohol, to make me, in the heart and the deeps of me, desirous of alcohol. i sketched my first contacts with alcohol, told of my first intoxications and revulsions, and pointed out always the one thing that in the end had won me over--namely, the accessibility of alcohol. not only had it always been accessible, but every interest of my developing life had drawn me to it. a newsboy on the streets, a sailor, a miner, a wanderer in far lands, always where men came together to exchange ideas, to laugh and boast and dare, to relax, to forget the dull toil of tiresome nights and days, always they came together over alcohol. the saloon was the place of congregation. men gathered to it as primitive men gathered about the fire of the squatting place or the fire at the mouth of the cave. i reminded charmian of the canoe houses from which she had been barred in the south pacific, where the kinky-haired cannibals escaped from their womenkind and feasted and drank by themselves, the sacred precincts taboo to women under pain of death. as a youth, by way of the saloon i had escaped from the narrowness of woman's influence into the wide free world of men. all ways led to the saloon. the thousand roads of romance and adventure drew together in the saloon, and thence led out and on over the world. "the point is," i concluded my sermon, "that it is the accessibility of alcohol that has given me my taste for alcohol. i did not care for it. i used to laugh at it. yet here i am, at the last, possessed with the drinker's desire. it took twenty years to implant that desire; and for ten years more that desire has grown. and the effect of satisfying that desire is anything but good. temperamentally i am wholesome-hearted and merry. yet when i walk with john barleycorn i suffer all the damnation of intellectual pessimism. "but," i hastened to add (i always hasten to add), "john barleycorn must have his due. he does tell the truth. that is the curse of it. the so-called truths of life are not true. they are the vital lies by which life lives, and john barleycorn gives them the lie." "which does not make toward life," charmian said. "very true," i answered. "and that is the perfectest hell of it. john barleycorn makes toward death. that is why i voted for the amendment to-day. i read back in my life and saw how the accessibility of alcohol had given me the taste for it. you see, comparatively few alcoholics are born in a generation. and by alcoholic i mean a man whose chemistry craves alcohol and drives him resistlessly to it. the great majority of habitual drinkers are born not only without desire for alcohol, but with actual repugnance toward it. not the first, nor the twentieth, nor the hundredth drink, succeeded in giving them the liking. but they learned, just as men learn to smoke; though it is far easier to learn to smoke than to learn to drink. they learned because alcohol was so accessible. the women know the game. they pay for it--the wives and sisters and mothers. and when they come to vote, they will vote for prohibition. and the best of it is that there will be no hardship worked on the coming generation. not having access to alcohol, not being predisposed toward alcohol, it will never miss alcohol. it will mean life more abundant for the manhood of the young boys born and growing up--ay, and life more abundant for the young girls born and growing up to share the lives of the young men." "why not write all this up for the sake of the men and women coming?" charmian asked. "why not write it so as to help the wives and sisters and mothers to the way they should vote?" "the 'memoirs of an alcoholic,'" i sneered--or, rather, john barleycorn sneered; for he sat with me there at table in my pleasant, philanthropic jingle, and it is a trick of john barleycorn to turn the smile to a sneer without an instant's warning. "no," said charmian, ignoring john barleycorn's roughness, as so many women have learned to do. "you have shown yourself no alcoholic, no dipsomaniac, but merely an habitual drinker, one who has made john barleycorn's acquaintance through long years of rubbing shoulders with him. write it up and call it 'alcoholic memoirs.'" chapter ii and, ere i begin, i must ask the reader to walk with me in all sympathy; and, since sympathy is merely understanding, begin by understanding me and whom and what i write about. in the first place, i am a seasoned drinker. i have no constitutional predisposition for alcohol. i am not stupid. i am not a swine. i know the drinking game from a to z, and i have used my judgment in drinking. i never have to be put to bed. nor do i stagger. in short, i am a normal, average man; and i drink in the normal, average way, as drinking goes. and this is the very point: i am writing of the effects of alcohol on the normal, average man. i have no word to say for or about the microscopically unimportant excessivist, the dipsomaniac. there are, broadly speaking, two types of drinkers. there is the man whom we all know, stupid, unimaginative, whose brain is bitten numbly by numb maggots; who walks generously with wide-spread, tentative legs, falls frequently in the gutter, and who sees, in the extremity of his ecstasy, blue mice and pink elephants. he is the type that gives rise to the jokes in the funny papers. the other type of drinker has imagination, vision. even when most pleasantly jingled, he walks straight and naturally, never staggers nor falls, and knows just where he is and what he is doing. it is not his body but his brain that is drunken. he may bubble with wit, or expand with good fellowship. or he may see intellectual spectres and phantoms that are cosmic and logical and that take the forms of syllogisms. it is when in this condition that he strips away the husks of life's healthiest illusions and gravely considers the iron collar of necessity welded about the neck of his soul. this is the hour of john barleycorn's subtlest power. it is easy for any man to roll in the gutter. but it is a terrible ordeal for a man to stand upright on his two legs unswaying, and decide that in all the universe he finds for himself but one freedom--namely, the anticipating of the day of his death. with this man this is the hour of the white logic (of which more anon), when he knows that he may know only the laws of things--the meaning of things never. this is his danger hour. his feet are taking hold of the pathway that leads down into the grave. all is clear to him. all these baffling head-reaches after immortality are but the panics of souls frightened by the fear of death, and cursed with the thrice-cursed gift of imagination. they have not the instinct for death; they lack the will to die when the time to die is at hand. they trick themselves into believing they will outwit the game and win to a future, leaving the other animals to the darkness of the grave or the annihilating heats of the crematory. but he, this man in the hour of his white logic, knows that they trick and outwit themselves. the one event happeneth to all alike. there is no new thing under the sun, not even that yearned-for bauble of feeble souls--immortality. but he knows, he knows, standing upright on his two legs unswaying. he is compounded of meat and wine and sparkle, of sun-mote and world-dust, a frail mechanism made to run for a span, to be tinkered at by doctors of divinity and doctors of physic, and to be flung into the scrap-heap at the end. of course, all this is soul-sickness, life-sickness. it is the penalty the imaginative man must pay for his friendship with john barleycorn. the penalty paid by the stupid man is simpler, easier. he drinks himself into sottish unconsciousness. he sleeps a drugged sleep, and, if he dream, his dreams are dim and inarticulate. but to the imaginative man, john barleycorn sends the pitiless, spectral syllogisms of the white logic. he looks upon life and all its affairs with the jaundiced eye of a pessimistic german philosopher. he sees through all illusions. he transvalues all values. good is bad, truth is a cheat, and life is a joke. from his calm-mad heights, with the certitude of a god, he beholds all life as evil. wife, children, friends--in the clear, white light of his logic they are exposed as frauds and shams. he sees through them, and all that he sees is their frailty, their meagreness, their sordidness, their pitifulness. no longer do they fool him. they are miserable little egotisms, like all the other little humans, fluttering their may-fly life-dance of an hour. they are without freedom. they are puppets of chance. so is he. he realises that. but there is one difference. he sees; he knows. and he knows his one freedom: he may anticipate the day of his death. all of which is not good for a man who is made to live and love and be loved. yet suicide, quick or slow, a sudden spill or a gradual oozing away through the years, is the price john barleycorn exacts. no friend of his ever escapes making the just, due payment. chapter iii i was five years old the first time i got drunk. it was on a hot day, and my father was ploughing in the field. i was sent from the house, half a mile away, to carry to him a pail of beer. "and be sure you don't spill it," was the parting injunction. it was, as i remember it, a lard pail, very wide across the top, and without a cover. as i toddled along, the beer slopped over the rim upon my legs. and as i toddled, i pondered. beer was a very precious thing. come to think of it, it must be wonderfully good. else why was i never permitted to drink of it in the house? other things kept from me by the grown-ups i had found good. then this, too, was good. trust the grown-ups. they knew. and, anyway, the pail was too full. i was slopping it against my legs and spilling it on the ground. why waste it? and no one would know whether i had drunk or spilled it. i was so small that, in order to negotiate the pail, i sat down and gathered it into my lap. first i sipped the foam. i was disappointed. the preciousness evaded me. evidently it did not reside in the foam. besides, the taste was not good. then i remembered seeing the grown-ups blow the foam away before they drank. i buried my face in the foam and lapped the solid liquid beneath. it wasn't good at all. but still i drank. the grown-ups knew what they were about. considering my diminutiveness, the size of the pail in my lap, and my drinking out of it my breath held and my face buried to the ears in foam, it was rather difficult to estimate how much i drank. also, i was gulping it down like medicine, in nauseous haste to get the ordeal over. i shuddered when i started on, and decided that the good taste would come afterward. i tried several times more in the course of that long half-mile. then, astounded by the quantity of beer that was lacking, and remembering having seen stale beer made to foam afresh, i took a stick and stirred what was left till it foamed to the brim. and my father never noticed. he emptied the pail with the wide thirst of the sweating ploughman, returned it to me, and started up the plough. i endeavoured to walk beside the horses. i remember tottering and falling against their heels in front of the shining share, and that my father hauled back on the lines so violently that the horses nearly sat down on me. he told me afterward that it was by only a matter of inches that i escaped disembowelling. vaguely, too, i remember, my father carried me in his arms to the trees on the edge of the field, while all the world reeled and swung about me, and i was aware of deadly nausea mingled with an appalling conviction of sin. i slept the afternoon away under the trees, and when my father roused me at sundown it was a very sick little boy that got up and dragged wearily homeward. i was exhausted, oppressed by the weight of my limbs, and in my stomach was a harp-like vibrating that extended to my throat and brain. my condition was like that of one who had gone through a battle with poison. in truth, i had been poisoned. in the weeks and months that followed i had no more interest in beer than in the kitchen stove after it had burned me. the grown-ups were right. beer was not for children. the grown-ups didn't mind it; but neither did they mind taking pills and castor oil. as for me, i could manage to get along quite well without beer. yes, and to the day of my death i could have managed to get along quite well without it. but circumstance decreed otherwise. at every turn in the world in which i lived, john barleycorn beckoned. there was no escaping him. all paths led to him. and it took twenty years of contact, of exchanging greetings and passing on with my tongue in my cheek, to develop in me a sneaking liking for the rascal. chapter iv my next bout with john barleycorn occurred when i was seven. this time my imagination was at fault, and i was frightened into the encounter. still farming, my family had moved to a ranch on the bleak sad coast of san mateo county, south of san francisco. it was a wild, primitive countryside in those days; and often i heard my mother pride herself that we were old american stock and not immigrant irish and italians like our neighbours. in all our section there was only one other old american family. one sunday morning found me, how or why i cannot now remember, at the morrisey ranch. a number of young people had gathered there from the nearer ranches. besides, the oldsters had been there, drinking since early dawn, and, some of them, since the night before. the morriseys were a huge breed, and there were many strapping great sons and uncles, heavy-booted, big-fisted, rough-voiced. suddenly there were screams from the girls and cries of "fight!" there was a rush. men hurled themselves out of the kitchen. two giants, flush-faced, with greying hair, were locked in each other's arms. one was black matt, who, everybody said, had killed two men in his time. the women screamed softly, crossed themselves, or prayed brokenly, hiding their eyes and peeping through their fingers. but not i. it is a fair presumption that i was the most interested spectator. maybe i would see that wonderful thing, a man killed. anyway, i would see a man-fight. great was my disappointment. black matt and tom morrisey merely held on to each other and lifted their clumsy-booted feet in what seemed a grotesque, elephantine dance. they were too drunk to fight. then the peacemakers got hold of them and led them back to cement the new friendship in the kitchen. soon they were all talking at once, rumbling and roaring as big-chested open-air men will, when whisky has whipped their taciturnity. and i, a little shaver of seven, my heart in my mouth, my trembling body strung tense as a deer's on the verge of flight, peered wonderingly in at the open door and learned more of the strangeness of men. and i marvelled at black matt and tom morrisey, sprawled over the table, arms about each other's necks, weeping lovingly. the kitchen-drinking continued, and the girls outside grew timorous. they knew the drink game, and all were certain that something terrible was going to happen. they protested that they did not wish to be there when it happened, and some one suggested going to a big italian rancho four miles away, where they could get up a dance. immediately they paired off, lad and lassie, and started down the sandy road. and each lad walked with his sweetheart--trust a child of seven to listen and to know the love-affairs of his countryside. and behold, i, too, was a lad with a lassie. a little irish girl of my own age had been paired off with me. we were the only children in this spontaneous affair. perhaps the oldest couple might have been twenty. there were chits of girls, quite grown up, of fourteen and sixteen, walking with their fellows. but we were uniquely young, this little irish girl and i, and we walked hand in hand, and, sometimes, under the tutelage of our elders, with my arm around her waist. only that wasn't comfortable. and i was very proud, on that bright sunday morning, going down the long bleak road among the sandhills. i, too, had my girl, and was a little man. the italian rancho was a bachelor establishment. our visit was hailed with delight. the red wine was poured in tumblers for all, and the long dining-room was partly cleared for dancing. and the young fellows drank and danced with the girls to the strains of an accordion. to me that music was divine. i had never heard anything so glorious. the young italian who furnished it would even get up and dance, his arms around his girl, playing the accordion behind her back. all of which was very wonderful for me, who did not dance, but who sat at a table and gazed wide-eyed at the amazingness of life. i was only a little lad, and there was so much of life for me to learn. as the time passed, the irish lads began helping themselves to the wine, and jollity and high spirits reigned. i noted that some of them staggered and fell down in the dances, and that one had gone to sleep in a corner. also, some of the girls were complaining, and wanting to leave, and others of the girls were titteringly complacent, willing for anything to happen. when our italian hosts had offered me wine in a general sort of way, i had declined. my beer experience had been enough for me, and i had no inclination to traffic further in the stuff, or in anything related to it. unfortunately, one young italian, peter, an impish soul, seeing me sitting solitary, stirred by a whim of the moment, half-filled a tumbler with wine and passed it to me. he was sitting across the table from me. i declined. his face grew stern, and he insistently proffered the wine. and then terror descended upon me--a terror which i must explain. my mother had theories. first, she steadfastly maintained that brunettes and all the tribe of dark-eyed humans were deceitful. needless to say, my mother was a blonde. next, she was convinced that the dark-eyed latin races were profoundly sensitive, profoundly treacherous, and profoundly murderous. again and again, drinking in the strangeness and the fearsomeness of the world from her lips, i had heard her state that if one offended an italian, no matter how slightly and unintentionally, he was certain to retaliate by stabbing one in the back. that was her particular phrase--"stab you in the back." now, although i had been eager to see black matt kill tom morrisey that morning, i did not care to furnish to the dancers the spectacle of a knife sticking in my back. i had not yet learned to distinguish between facts and theories. my faith was implicit in my mother's exposition of the italian character. besides, i had some glimmering inkling of the sacredness of hospitality. here was a treacherous, sensitive, murderous italian, offering me hospitality. i had been taught to believe that if i offended him he would strike at me with a knife precisely as a horse kicked out when one got too close to its heels and worried it. then, too, this italian, peter, had those terrible black eyes i had heard my mother talk about. they were eyes different from the eyes i knew, from the blues and greys and hazels of my own family, from the pale and genial blues of the irish. perhaps peter had had a few drinks. at any rate, his eyes were brilliantly black and sparkling with devilry. they were the mysterious, the unknown, and who was i, a seven-year-old, to analyse them and know their prankishness? in them i visioned sudden death, and i declined the wine half-heartedly. the expression in his eyes changed. they grew stern and imperious as he shoved the tumbler of wine closer. what could i do? i have faced real death since in my life, but never have i known the fear of death as i knew it then. i put the glass to my lips, and peter's eyes relented. i knew he would not kill me just then. that was a relief. but the wine was not. it was cheap, new wine, bitter and sour, made of the leavings and scrapings of the vineyards and the vats, and it tasted far worse than beer. there is only one way to take medicine, and that is to take it. and that is the way i took that wine. i threw my head back and gulped it down. i had to gulp again and hold the poison down, for poison it was to my child's tissues and membranes. looking back now, i can realise that peter was astounded. he half-filled a second tumbler and shoved it across the table. frozen with fear, in despair at the fate which had befallen me, i gulped the second glass down like the first. this was too much for peter. he must share the infant prodigy he had discovered. he called dominick, a young moustached italian, to see the sight. this time it was a full tumbler that was given me. one will do anything to live. i gripped myself, mastered the qualms that rose in my throat, and downed the stuff. dominick had never seen an infant of such heroic calibre. twice again he refilled the tumbler, each time to the brim, and watched it disappear down my throat. by this time my exploits were attracting attention. middle-aged italian labourers, old-country peasants who did not talk english, and who could not dance with the irish girls, surrounded me. they were swarthy and wild-looking; they wore belts and red shirts; and i knew they carried knives; and they ringed me around like a pirate chorus. and peter and dominick made me show off for them. had i lacked imagination, had i been stupid, had i been stubbornly mulish in having my own way, i should never have got in this pickle. and the lads and lassies were dancing, and there was no one to save me from my fate. how much i drank i do not know. my memory of it is of an age-long suffering of fear in the midst of a murderous crew, and of an infinite number of glasses of red wine passing across the bare boards of a wine-drenched table and going down my burning throat. bad as the wine was, a knife in the back was worse, and i must survive at any cost. looking back with the drinker's knowledge, i know now why i did not collapse stupefied upon the table. as i have said, i was frozen, i was paralysed, with fear. the only movement i made was to convey that never-ending procession of glasses to my lips. i was a poised and motionless receptacle for all that quantity of wine. it lay inert in my fear-inert stomach. i was too frightened, even, for my stomach to turn. so all that italian crew looked on and marvelled at the infant phenomenon that downed wine with the sang-froid of an automaton. it is not in the spirit of braggadocio that i dare to assert they had never seen anything like it. the time came to go. the tipsy antics of the lads had led a majority of the soberer-minded lassies to compel a departure. i found myself, at the door, beside my little maiden. she had not had my experience, so she was sober. she was fascinated by the titubations of the lads who strove to walk beside their girls, and began to mimic them. i thought this a great game, and i, too, began to stagger tipsily. but she had no wine to stir up, while my movements quickly set the fumes rising to my head. even at the start, i was more realistic than she. in several minutes i was astonishing myself. i saw one lad, after reeling half a dozen steps, pause at the side of the road, gravely peer into the ditch, and gravely, and after apparent deep thought, fall into it. to me this was excruciatingly funny. i staggered to the edge of the ditch, fully intending to stop on the edge. i came to myself, in the ditch, in process of being hauled out by several anxious-faced girls. i didn't care to play at being drunk any more. there was no more fun in me. my eyes were beginning to swim, and with wide-open mouth i panted for air. a girl led me by the hand on either side, but my legs were leaden. the alcohol i had drunk was striking my heart and brain like a club. had i been a weakling of a child, i am confident that it would have killed me. as it was, i know i was nearer death than any of the scared girls dreamed. i could hear them bickering among themselves as to whose fault it was; some were weeping--for themselves, for me, and for the disgraceful way their lads had behaved. but i was not interested. i was suffocating, and i wanted air. to move was agony. it made me pant harder. yet those girls persisted in making me walk, and it was four miles home. four miles! i remember my swimming eyes saw a small bridge across the road an infinite distance away. in fact, it was not a hundred feet distant. when i reached it, i sank down and lay on my back panting. the girls tried to lift me, but i was helpless and suffocating. their cries of alarm brought larry, a drunken youth of seventeen, who proceeded to resuscitate me by jumping on my chest. dimly i remember this, and the squalling of the girls as they struggled with him and dragged him away. and then i knew nothing, though i learned afterward that larry wound up under the bridge and spent the night there. when i came to, it was dark. i had been carried unconscious for four miles and been put to bed. i was a sick child, and, despite the terrible strain on my heart and tissues, i continually relapsed into the madness of delirium. all the contents of the terrible and horrible in my child's mind spilled out. the most frightful visions were realities to me. i saw murders committed, and i was pursued by murderers. i screamed and raved and fought. my sufferings were prodigious. emerging from such delirium, i would hear my mother's voice: "but the child's brain. he will lose his reason." and sinking back into delirium, i would take the idea with me and be immured in madhouses, and be beaten by keepers, and surrounded by screeching lunatics. one thing that had strongly impressed my young mind was the talk of my elders about the dens of iniquity in san francisco's chinatown. in my delirium i wandered deep beneath the ground through a thousand of these dens, and behind locked doors of iron i suffered and died a thousand deaths. and when i would come upon my father, seated at table in these subterranean crypts, gambling with chinese for great stakes of gold, all my outrage gave vent in the vilest cursing. i would rise in bed, struggling against the detaining hands, and curse my father till the rafters rang. all the inconceivable filth a child running at large in a primitive countryside may hear men utter was mine; and though i had never dared utter such oaths, they now poured from me, at the top of my lungs, as i cursed my father sitting there underground and gambling with long-haired, long-nailed chinamen. it is a wonder that i did not burst my heart or brain that night. a seven-year-old child's arteries and nerve-centres are scarcely fitted to endure the terrific paroxysms that convulsed me. no one slept in the thin, frame farm-house that night when john barleycorn had his will of me. and larry, under the bridge, had no delirium like mine. i am confident that his sleep was stupefied and dreamless, and that he awoke next day merely to heaviness and moroseness, and that if he lives to-day he does not remember that night, so passing was it as an incident. but my brain was seared for ever by that experience. writing now, thirty years afterward, every vision is as distinct, as sharp-cut, every pain as vital and terrible, as on that night. i was sick for days afterward, and i needed none of my mother's injunctions to avoid john barleycorn in the future. my mother had been dreadfully shocked. she held that i had done wrong, very wrong, and that i had gone contrary to all her teaching. and how was i, who was never allowed to talk back, who lacked the very words with which to express my psychology--how was i to tell my mother that it was her teaching that was directly responsible for my drunkenness? had it not been for her theories about dark eyes and italian character, i should never have wet my lips with the sour, bitter wine. and not until man-grown did i tell her the true inwardness of that disgraceful affair. in those after days of sickness, i was confused on some points, and very clear on others. i felt guilty of sin, yet smarted with a sense of injustice. it had not been my fault, yet i had done wrong. but very clear was my resolution never to touch liquor again. no mad dog was ever more afraid of water than was i of alcohol. yet the point i am making is that this experience, terrible as it was, could not in the end deter me from forming john barleycorn's cheek-by-jowl acquaintance. all about me, even then, were the forces moving me toward him. in the first place, barring my mother, ever extreme in her views, it seemed to me all the grown-ups looked upon the affair with tolerant eyes. it was a joke, something funny that had happened. there was no shame attached. even the lads and lassies giggled and snickered over their part in the affair, narrating with gusto how larry had jumped on my chest and slept under the bridge, how so-and-so had slept out in the sandhills that night, and what had happened to the other lad who fell in the ditch. as i say, so far as i could see, there was no shame anywhere. it had been something ticklishly, devilishly fine--a bright and gorgeous episode in the monotony of life and labour on that bleak, fog-girt coast. the irish ranchers twitted me good-naturedly on my exploit, and patted me on the back until i felt that i had done something heroic. peter and dominick and the other italians were proud of my drinking prowess. the face of morality was not set against drinking. besides, everybody drank. there was not a teetotaler in the community. even the teacher of our little country school, a greying man of fifty, gave us vacations on the occasions when he wrestled with john barleycorn and was thrown. thus there was no spiritual deterrence. my loathing for alcohol was purely physiological. i didn't like the damned stuff. chapter v this physical loathing for alcohol i have never got over. but i have conquered it. to this day i conquer it every time i take a drink. the palate never ceases to rebel, and the palate can be trusted to know what is good for the body. but men do not drink for the effect alcohol produces on the body. what they drink for is the brain-effect; and if it must come through the body, so much the worse for the body. and yet, despite my physical loathing for alcohol, the brightest spots in my child life were the saloons. sitting on the heavy potato wagons, wrapped in fog, feet stinging from inactivity, the horses plodding slowly along the deep road through the sandhills, one bright vision made the way never too long. the bright vision was the saloon at colma, where my father, or whoever drove, always got out to get a drink. and i got out to warm by the great stove and get a soda cracker. just one soda cracker, but a fabulous luxury. saloons were good for something. back behind the plodding horses, i would take an hour in consuming that one cracker. i took the smallest nibbles, never losing a crumb, and chewed the nibble till it became the thinnest and most delectable of pastes. i never voluntarily swallowed this paste. i just tasted it, and went on tasting it, turning it over with my tongue, spreading it on the inside of this cheek, then on the inside of the other cheek, until, at the end, it eluded me and in tiny drops and oozelets, slipped and dribbled down my throat. horace fletcher had nothing on me when it came to soda crackers. i liked saloons. especially i liked the san francisco saloons. they had the most delicious dainties for the taking--strange breads and crackers, cheeses, sausages, sardines--wonderful foods that i never saw on our meagre home-table. and once, i remember, a barkeeper mixed me a sweet temperance drink of syrup and soda-water. my father did not pay for it. it was the barkeeper's treat, and he became my ideal of a good, kind man. i dreamed day-dreams of him for years. although i was seven years old at the time, i can see him now with undiminished clearness, though i never laid eyes on him but that one time. the saloon was south of market street in san francisco. it stood on the west side of the street. as you entered, the bar was on the left. on the right, against the wall, was the free lunch counter. it was a long, narrow room, and at the rear, beyond the beer kegs on tap, were small, round tables and chairs. the barkeeper was blue-eyed, and had fair, silky hair peeping out from under a black silk skull-cap. i remember he wore a brown cardigan jacket, and i know precisely the spot, in the midst of the array of bottles, from which he took the bottle of red-coloured syrup. he and my father talked long, and i sipped my sweet drink and worshipped him. and for years afterward i worshipped the memory of him. despite my two disastrous experiences, here was john barleycorn, prevalent and accessible everywhere in the community, luring and drawing me. here were connotations of the saloon making deep indentations in a child's mind. here was a child, forming its first judgments of the world, finding the saloon a delightful and desirable place. stores, nor public buildings, nor all the dwellings of men ever opened their doors to me and let me warm by their fires or permitted me to eat the food of the gods from narrow shelves against the wall. their doors were ever closed to me; the saloon's doors were ever open. and always and everywhere i found saloons, on highway and byway, up narrow alleys and on busy thoroughfares, bright-lighted and cheerful, warm in winter, and in summer dark and cool. yes, the saloon was a mighty fine place, and it was more than that. by the time i was ten years old, my family had abandoned ranching and gone to live in the city. and here, at ten, i began on the streets as a newsboy. one of the reasons for this was that we needed the money. another reason was that i needed the exercise. i had found my way to the free public library, and was reading myself into nervous prostration. on the poor ranches on which i had lived there had been no books. in ways truly miraculous, i had been lent four books, marvellous books, and them i had devoured. one was the life of garfield; the second, paul du chaillu's african travels; the third, a novel by ouida with the last forty pages missing; and the fourth, irving's "alhambra." this last had been lent me by a school-teacher. i was not a forward child. unlike oliver twist, i was incapable of asking for more. when i returned the "alhambra" to the teacher i hoped she would lend me another book. and because she did not--most likely she deemed me unappreciative--i cried all the way home on the three-mile tramp from the school to the ranch. i waited and yearned for her to lend me another book. scores of times i nerved myself almost to the point of asking her, but never quite reached the necessary pitch of effrontery. and then came the city of oakland, and on the shelves of that free library i discovered all the great world beyond the skyline. here were thousands of books as good as my four wonder-books, and some were even better. libraries were not concerned with children in those days, and i had strange adventures. i remember, in the catalogue, being impressed by the title, "the adventures of peregrine pickle." i filled an application blank and the librarian handed me the collected and entirely unexpurgated works of smollett in one huge volume. i read everything, but principally history and adventure, and all the old travels and voyages. i read mornings, afternoons, and nights. i read in bed, i read at table, i read as i walked to and from school, and i read at recess while the other boys were playing. i began to get the "jerks." to everybody i replied: "go away. you make me nervous." and so, at ten, i was out on the streets, a newsboy. i had no time to read. i was busy getting exercise and learning how to fight, busy learning forwardness, and brass and bluff. i had an imagination and a curiosity about all things that made me plastic. not least among the things i was curious about was the saloon. and i was in and out of many a one. i remember, in those days, on the east side of broadway, between sixth and seventh, from corner to corner, there was a solid block of saloons. in the saloons life was different. men talked with great voices, laughed great laughs, and there was an atmosphere of greatness. here was something more than common every-day where nothing happened. here life was always very live, and, sometimes, even lurid, when blows were struck, and blood was shed, and big policemen came shouldering in. great moments, these, for me, my head filled with all the wild and valiant fighting of the gallant adventurers on sea and land. there were no big moments when i trudged along the street throwing my papers in at doors. but in the saloons, even the sots, stupefied, sprawling across the tables or in the sawdust, were objects of mystery and wonder. and more, the saloons were right. the city fathers sanctioned them and licensed them. they were not the terrible places i heard boys deem them who lacked my opportunities to know. terrible they might be, but then that only meant they were terribly wonderful, and it is the terribly wonderful that a boy desires to know. in the same way pirates, and shipwrecks, and battles were terrible; and what healthy boy wouldn't give his immortal soul to participate in such affairs? besides, in saloons i saw reporters, editors, lawyers, judges, whose names and faces i knew. they put the seal of social approval on the saloon. they verified my own feeling of fascination in the saloon. they, too, must have found there that something different, that something beyond, which i sensed and groped after. what it was, i did not know; yet there it must be, for there men focused like buzzing flies about a honey pot. i had no sorrows, and the world was very bright, so i could not guess that what these men sought was forgetfulness of jaded toil and stale grief. not that i drank at that time. from ten to fifteen i rarely tasted liquor, but i was intimately in contact with drinkers and drinking places. the only reason i did not drink was because i didn't like the stuff. as the time passed, i worked as boy-helper on an ice-wagon, set up pins in a bowling alley with a saloon attached, and swept out saloons at sunday picnic grounds. big jovial josie harper ran a road house at telegraph avenue and thirty-ninth street. here for a year i delivered an evening paper, until my route was changed to the water-front and tenderloin of oakland. the first month, when i collected josie harper's bill, she poured me a glass of wine. i was ashamed to refuse, so i drank it. but after that i watched the chance when she wasn't around so as to collect from her barkeeper. the first day i worked in the bowling alley, the barkeeper, according to custom, called us boys up to have a drink after we had been setting up pins for several hours. the others asked for beer. i said i'd take ginger ale. the boys snickered, and i noticed the barkeeper favoured me with a strange, searching scrutiny. nevertheless, he opened a bottle of ginger ale. afterward, back in the alleys, in the pauses between games, the boys enlightened me. i had offended the barkeeper. a bottle of ginger ale cost the saloon ever so much more than a glass of steam beer; and it was up to me, if i wanted to hold my job, to drink beer. besides, beer was food. i could work better on it. there was no food in ginger ale. after that, when i couldn't sneak out of it, i drank beer and wondered what men found in it that was so good. i was always aware that i was missing something. what i really liked in those days was candy. for five cents i could buy five "cannon-balls"--big lumps of the most delicious lastingness. i could chew and worry a single one for an hour. then there was a mexican who sold big slabs of brown chewing taffy for five cents each. it required a quarter of a day properly to absorb one of them. and many a day i made my entire lunch off one of those slabs. in truth, i found food there, but not in beer. chapter vi but the time was rapidly drawing near when i was to begin my second series of bouts with john barleycorn. when i was fourteen, my head filled with the tales of the old voyagers, my vision with tropic isles and far sea-rims, i was sailing a small centreboard skiff around san francisco bay and on the oakland estuary. i wanted to go to sea. i wanted to get away from monotony and the commonplace. i was in the flower of my adolescence, a-thrill with romance and adventure, dreaming of wild life in the wild man-world. little i guessed how all the warp and woof of that man-world was entangled with alcohol. so, one day, as i hoisted sail on my skiff, i met scotty. he was a husky youngster of seventeen, a runaway apprentice, he told me, from an english ship in australia. he had just worked his way on another ship to san francisco; and now he wanted to see about getting a berth on a whaler. across the estuary, near where the whalers lay, was lying the sloop-yacht idler. the caretaker was a harpooner who intended sailing next voyage on the whale ship bonanza. would i take him, scotty, over in my skiff to call upon the harpooner? would i! hadn't i heard the stories and rumours about the idler?--the big sloop that had come up from the sandwich islands where it had been engaged in smuggling opium. and the harpooner who was caretaker! how often had i seen him and envied him his freedom. he never had to leave the water. he slept aboard the idler each night, while i had to go home upon the land to go to bed. the harpooner was only nineteen years old (and i have never had anything but his own word that he was a harpooner); but he had been too shining and glorious a personality for me ever to address as i paddled around the yacht at a wistful distance. would i take scotty, the runaway sailor, to visit the harpooner, on the opium-smuggler idler? would i! the harpooner came on deck to answer our hail, and invited us aboard. i played the sailor and the man, fending off the skiff so that it would not mar the yacht's white paint, dropping the skiff astern on a long painter, and making the painter fast with two nonchalant half-hitches. we went below. it was the first sea-interior i had ever seen. the clothing on the wall smelled musty. but what of that? was it not the sea-gear of men?--leather jackets lined with corduroy, blue coats of pilot cloth, sou'westers, sea-boots, oilskins. and everywhere was in evidence the economy of space--the narrow bunks, the swinging tables, the incredible lockers. there were the tell-tale compass, the sea-lamps in their gimbals, the blue-backed charts carelessly rolled and tucked away, the signal-flags in alphabetical order, and a mariner's dividers jammed into the woodwork to hold a calendar. at last i was living. here i sat, inside my first ship, a smuggler, accepted as a comrade by a harpooner and a runaway english sailor who said his name was scotty. the first thing that the harpooner, aged nineteen, and the sailor, aged seventeen, did to show that they were men was to behave like men. the harpooner suggested the eminent desirableness of a drink, and scotty searched his pockets for dimes and nickels. then the harpooner carried away a pink flask to be filled in some blind pig, for there were no licensed saloons in that locality. we drank the cheap rotgut out of tumblers. was i any the less strong, any the less valiant, than the harpooner and the sailor? they were men. they proved it by the way they drank. drink was the badge of manhood. so i drank with them, drink by drink, raw and straight, though the damned stuff couldn't compare with a stick of chewing taffy or a delectable "cannon-ball." i shuddered and swallowed my gorge with every drink, though i manfully hid all such symptoms. divers times we filled the flask that afternoon. all i had was twenty cents, but i put it up like a man, though with secret regret at the enormous store of candy it could have bought. the liquor mounted in the heads of all of us, and the talk of scotty and the harpooner was upon running the easting down, gales off the horn and pamperos off the plate, lower topsail breezes, southerly busters, north pacific gales, and of smashed whaleboats in the arctic ice. "you can't swim in that ice water," said the harpooner confidentially to me. "you double up in a minute and go down. when a whale smashes your boat, the thing to do is to get your belly across an oar, so that when the cold doubles you you'll float." "sure," i said, with a grateful nod and an air of certitude that i, too, would hunt whales and be in smashed boats in the arctic ocean. and, truly, i registered his advice as singularly valuable information, and filed it away in my brain, where it persists to this day. but i couldn't talk--at first. heavens! i was only fourteen, and had never been on the ocean in my life. i could only listen to the two sea-dogs, and show my manhood by drinking with them, fairly and squarely, drink and drink. the liquor worked its will with me; the talk of scotty and the harpooner poured through the pent space of the idler's cabin and through my brain like great gusts of wide, free wind; and in imagination i lived my years to come and rocked over the wild, mad, glorious world on multitudinous adventures. we unbent. our inhibitions and taciturnities vanished. we were as if we had known each other for years and years, and we pledged ourselves to years of future voyagings together. the harpooner told of misadventures and secret shames. scotty wept over his poor old mother in edinburgh--a lady, he insisted, gently born--who was in reduced circumstances, who had pinched herself to pay the lump sum to the ship-owners for his apprenticeship, whose sacrificing dream had been to see him a merchantman officer and a gentleman, and who was heartbroken because he had deserted his ship in australia and joined another as a common sailor before the mast. and scotty proved it. he drew her last sad letter from his pocket and wept over it as he read it aloud. the harpooner and i wept with him, and swore that all three of us would ship on the whaleship bonanza, win a big pay-day, and, still together, make a pilgrimage to edinburgh and lay our store of money in the dear lady's lap. and, as john barleycorn heated his way into my brain, thawing my reticence, melting my modesty, talking through me and with me and as me, my adopted twin brother and alter ego, i, too, raised my voice to show myself a man and an adventurer, and bragged in detail and at length of how i had crossed san francisco bay in my open skiff in a roaring southwester when even the schooner sailors doubted my exploit. further, i--or john barleycorn, for it was the same thing--told scotty that he might be a deep-sea sailor and know the last rope on the great deep-sea ships, but that when it came to small-boat sailing i could beat him hands down and sail circles around him. the best of it was that my assertion and brag were true. with reticence and modesty present, i could never have dared tell scotty my small-boat estimate of him. but it is ever the way of john barleycorn to loosen the tongue and babble the secret thought. scotty, or john barleycorn, or the pair, was very naturally offended by my remarks. nor was i loath. i could whip any runaway sailor seventeen years old. scotty and i flared and raged like young cockerels, until the harpooner poured another round of drinks to enable us to forgive and make up. which we did, arms around each other's necks, protesting vows of eternal friendship--just like black matt and tom morrisey, i remembered, in the ranch kitchen in san mateo. and, remembering, i knew that i was at last a man--despite my meagre fourteen years--a man as big and manly as those two strapping giants who had quarrelled and made up on that memorable sunday morning of long ago. by this time the singing stage was reached, and i joined scotty and the harpooner in snatches of sea songs and chanties. it was here, in the cabin of the idler, that i first heard "blow the man down," "flying cloud," and "whisky, johnny, whisky." oh, it was brave. i was beginning to grasp the meaning of life. here was no commonplace, no oakland estuary, no weary round of throwing newspapers at front doors, delivering ice, and setting up ninepins. all the world was mine, all its paths were under my feet, and john barleycorn, tricking my fancy, enabled me to anticipate the life of adventure for which i yearned. we were not ordinary. we were three tipsy young gods, incredibly wise, gloriously genial, and without limit to our powers. ah!--and i say it now, after the years--could john barleycorn keep one at such a height, i should never draw a sober breath again. but this is not a world of free freights. one pays according to an iron schedule--for every strength the balanced weakness; for every high a corresponding low; for every fictitious god-like moment an equivalent time in reptilian slime. for every feat of telescoping long days and weeks of life into mad magnificent instants, one must pay with shortened life, and, oft-times, with savage usury added. intenseness and duration are as ancient enemies as fire and water. they are mutually destructive. they cannot co-exist. and john barleycorn, mighty necromancer though he be, is as much a slave to organic chemistry as we mortals are. we pay for every nerve marathon we run, nor can john barleycorn intercede and fend off the just payment. he can lead us to the heights, but he cannot keep us there, else would we all be devotees. and there is no devotee but pays for the mad dances john barleycorn pipes. yet the foregoing is all in after wisdom spoken. it was no part of the knowledge of the lad, fourteen years old, who sat in the idler's cabin between the harpooner and the sailor, the air rich in his nostrils with the musty smell of men's sea-gear, roaring in chorus: "yankee ship come down de ribber--pull, my bully boys, pull!" we grew maudlin, and all talked and shouted at once. i had a splendid constitution, a stomach that would digest scrap-iron, and i was still running my marathon in full vigour when scotty began to fail and fade. his talk grew incoherent. he groped for words and could not find them, while the ones he found his lips were unable to form. his poisoned consciousness was leaving him. the brightness went out of his eyes, and he looked as stupid as were his efforts to talk. his face and body sagged as his consciousness sagged. (a man cannot sit upright save by an act of will.) scotty's reeling brain could not control his muscles. all his correlations were breaking down. he strove to take another drink, and feebly dropped the tumbler on the floor. then, to my amazement, weeping bitterly, he rolled into a bunk on his back and immediately snored off to sleep. the harpooner and i drank on, grinning in a superior way to each other over scotty's plight. the last flask was opened, and we drank it between us, to the accompaniment of scotty's stertorous breathing. then the harpooner faded away into his bunk, and i was left alone, unthrown, on the field of battle. i was very proud, and john barleycorn was proud with me. i could carry my drink. i was a man. i had drunk two men, drink for drink, into unconsciousness. and i was still on my two feet, upright, making my way on deck to get air into my scorching lungs. it was in this bout on the idler that i discovered what a good stomach and a strong head i had for drink--a bit of knowledge that was to be a source of pride in succeeding years, and that ultimately i was to come to consider a great affliction. the fortunate man is the one who cannot take more than a couple of drinks without becoming intoxicated. the unfortunate wight is the one who can take many glasses without betraying a sign, who must take numerous glasses in order to get the "kick." the sun was setting when i came on the idler's deck. there were plenty of bunks below. i did not need to go home. but i wanted to demonstrate to myself how much i was a man. there lay my skiff astern. the last of a strong ebb was running out in channel in the teeth of an ocean breeze of forty miles an hour. i could see the stiff whitecaps, and the suck and run of the current was plainly visible in the face and trough of each one. i set sail, cast off, took my place at the tiller, the sheet in my hand, and headed across channel. the skiff heeled over and plunged into it madly. the spray began to fly. i was at the pinnacle of exaltation. i sang "blow the man down" as i sailed. i was no boy of fourteen, living the mediocre ways of the sleepy town called oakland. i was a man, a god, and the very elements rendered me allegiance as i bitted them to my will. the tide was out. a full hundred yards of soft mud intervened between the boat-wharf and the water. i pulled up my centreboard, ran full tilt into the mud, took in sail, and, standing in the stern, as i had often done at low tide, i began to shove the skiff with an oar. it was then that my correlations began to break down. i lost my balance and pitched head-foremost into the ooze. then, and for the first time, as i floundered to my feet covered with slime, the blood running down my arms from a scrape against a barnacled stake, i knew that i was drunk. but what of it? across the channel two strong sailormen lay unconscious in their bunks where i had drunk them. i was a man. i was still on my legs, if they were knee-deep in mud. i disdained to get back into the skiff. i waded through the mud, shoving the skiff before me and yammering the chant of my manhood to the world. i paid for it. i was sick for a couple of days, meanly sick, and my arms were painfully poisoned from the barnacle scratches. for a week i could not use them, and it was a torture to put on and take off my clothes. i swore, "never again!" the game wasn't worth it. the price was too stiff. i had no moral qualms. my revulsion was purely physical. no exalted moments were worth such hours of misery and wretchedness. when i got back to my skiff, i shunned the idler. i would cross the opposite side of the channel to go around her. scotty had disappeared. the harpooner was still about, but him i avoided. once, when he landed on the boat-wharf, i hid in a shed so as to escape seeing him. i was afraid he would propose some more drinking, maybe have a flask full of whisky in his pocket. and yet--and here enters the necromancy of john barleycorn--that afternoon's drunk on the idler had been a purple passage flung into the monotony of my days. it was memorable. my mind dwelt on it continually. i went over the details, over and over again. among other things, i had got into the cogs and springs of men's actions. i had seen scotty weep about his own worthlessness and the sad case of his edinburgh mother who was a lady. the harpooner had told me terribly wonderful things of himself. i had caught a myriad enticing and inflammatory hints of a world beyond my world, and for which i was certainly as fitted as the two lads who had drunk with me. i had got behind men's souls. i had got behind my own soul and found unguessed potencies and greatnesses. yes, that day stood out above all my other days. to this day it so stands out. the memory of it is branded in my brain. but the price exacted was too high. i refused to play and pay, and returned to my cannon-balls and taffy-slabs. the point is that all the chemistry of my healthy, normal body drove me away from alcohol. the stuff didn't agree with me. it was abominable. but, despite this, circumstance was to continue to drive me toward john barleycorn, to drive me again and again, until, after long years, the time should come when i would look up john barleycorn in every haunt of men--look him up and hail him gladly as benefactor and friend. and detest and hate him all the time. yes, he is a strange friend, john barleycorn. chapter vii i was barely turned fifteen, and working long hours in a cannery. month in and month out, the shortest day i ever worked was ten hours. when to ten hours of actual work at a machine is added the noon hour; the walking to work and walking home from work; the getting up in the morning, dressing, and eating; the eating at night, undressing, and going to bed, there remains no more than the nine hours out of the twenty-four required by a healthy youngster for sleep. out of those nine hours, after i was in bed and ere my eyes drowsed shut, i managed to steal a little time for reading. but many a night i did not knock off work until midnight. on occasion i worked eighteen and twenty hours on a stretch. once i worked at my machine for thirty-six consecutive hours. and there were weeks on end when i never knocked off work earlier than eleven o'clock, got home and in bed at half after midnight, and was called at half-past five to dress, eat, walk to work, and be at my machine at seven o'clock whistle blow. no moments here to be stolen for my beloved books. and what had john barleycorn to do with such strenuous, stoic toil of a lad just turned fifteen? he had everything to do with it. let me show you. i asked myself if this were the meaning of life--to be a work-beast? i knew of no horse in the city of oakland that worked the hours i worked. if this were living, i was entirely unenamoured of it. i remembered my skiff, lying idle and accumulating barnacles at the boat-wharf; i remembered the wind that blew every day on the bay, the sunrises and sunsets i never saw; the bite of the salt air in my nostrils, the bite of the salt water on my flesh when i plunged overside; i remembered all the beauty and the wonder and the sense-delights of the world denied me. there was only one way to escape my deadening toil. i must get out and away on the water. i must earn my bread on the water. and the way of the water led inevitably to john barleycorn. i did not know this. and when i did learn it, i was courageous enough not to retreat back to my bestial life at the machine. i wanted to be where the winds of adventure blew. and the winds of adventure blew the oyster pirate sloops up and down san francisco bay, from raided oyster-beds and fights at night on shoal and flat, to markets in the morning against city wharves, where peddlers and saloon-keepers came down to buy. every raid on an oyster-bed was a felony. the penalty was state imprisonment, the stripes and the lockstep. and what of that? the men in stripes worked a shorter day than i at my machine. and there was vastly more romance in being an oyster pirate or a convict than in being a machine slave. and behind it all, behind all of me with youth abubble, whispered romance, adventure. so i interviewed my mammy jennie, my old nurse at whose black breast i had suckled. she was more prosperous than my folks. she was nursing sick people at a good weekly wage. would she lend her "white child" the money? would she? what she had was mine. then i sought out french frank, the oyster pirate, who wanted to sell, i had heard, his sloop, the razzle dazzle. i found him lying at anchor on the alameda side of the estuary near the webster street bridge, with visitors aboard, whom he was entertaining with afternoon wine. he came on deck to talk business. he was willing to sell. but it was sunday. besides, he had guests. on the morrow he would make out the bill of sale and i could enter into possession. and in the meantime i must come below and meet his friends. they were two sisters, mamie and tess; a mrs. hadley, who chaperoned them; "whisky" bob, a youthful oyster pirate of sixteen; and "spider" healey, a black-whiskered wharf-rat of twenty. mamie, who was spider's niece, was called the queen of the oyster pirates, and, on occasion, presided at their revels. french frank was in love with her, though i did not know it at the time; and she steadfastly refused to marry him. french frank poured a tumbler of red wine from a big demijohn to drink to our transaction. i remembered the red wine of the italian rancho, and shuddered inwardly. whisky and beer were not quite so repulsive. but the queen of the oyster pirates was looking at me, a part-emptied glass in her own hand. i had my pride. if i was only fifteen, at least i could not show myself any less a man than she. besides, there were her sister, and mrs. hadley, and the young oyster pirate, and the whiskered wharf-rat, all with glasses in their hands. was i a milk-and-water sop? no; a thousand times no, and a thousand glasses no. i downed the tumblerful like a man. french frank was elated by the sale, which i had bound with a twenty-dollar goldpiece. he poured more wine. i had learned my strong head and stomach, and i was certain i could drink with them in a temperate way and not poison myself for a week to come. i could stand as much as they; and besides, they had already been drinking for some time. we got to singing. spider sang "the boston burglar" and "black lulu." the queen sang "then i wisht i were a little bird." and her sister tess sang "oh, treat my daughter kindily." the fun grew fast and furious. i found myself able to miss drinks without being noticed or called to account. also, standing in the companionway, head and shoulders out and glass in hand, i could fling the wine overboard. i reasoned something like this: it is a queerness of these people that they like this vile-tasting wine. well, let them. i cannot quarrel with their tastes. my manhood, according to their queer notions, must compel me to appear to like this wine. very well. i shall so appear. but i shall drink no more than is unavoidable. and the queen began to make love to me, the latest recruit to the oyster pirate fleet, and no mere hand, but a master and owner. she went upon deck to take the air, and took me with her. she knew, of course, but i never dreamed, how french frank was raging down below. then tess joined us, sitting on the cabin; and spider, and bob; and at the last, mrs. hadley and french frank. and we sat there, glasses in hand, and sang, while the big demijohn went around; and i was the only strictly sober one. and i enjoyed it as no one of them was able to enjoy it. here, in this atmosphere of bohemianism, i could not but contrast the scene with my scene of the day before, sitting at my machine, in the stifling, shut-in air, repeating, endlessly repeating, at top speed, my series of mechanical motions. and here i sat now, glass in hand, in warm-glowing camaraderie, with the oyster pirates, adventurers who refused to be slaves to petty routine, who flouted restrictions and the law, who carried their lives and their liberty in their hands. and it was through john barleycorn that i came to join this glorious company of free souls, unashamed and unafraid. and the afternoon seabreeze blew its tang into my lungs, and curled the waves in mid-channel. before it came the scow schooners, wing-and-wing, blowing their horns for the drawbridges to open. red-stacked tugs tore by, rocking the razzle dazzle in the waves of their wake. a sugar barque towed from the "boneyard" to sea. the sun-wash was on the crisping water, and life was big. and spider sang: "oh, it's lulu, black lulu, my darling, oh, it's where have you been so long? been layin' in jail, a-waitin' for bail, till my bully comes rollin' along." there it was, the smack and slap of the spirit of revolt, of adventure, of romance, of the things forbidden and done defiantly and grandly. and i knew that on the morrow i would not go back to my machine at the cannery. to-morrow i would be an oyster pirate, as free a freebooter as the century and the waters of san francisco bay would permit. spider had already agreed to sail with me as my crew of one, and, also, as cook while i did the deck work. we would outfit our grub and water in the morning, hoist the big mainsail (which was a bigger piece of canvas than any i had ever sailed under), and beat our way out the estuary on the first of the seabreeze and the last of the ebb. then we would slack sheets, and on the first of the flood run down the bay to the asparagus islands, where we would anchor miles off shore. and at last my dream would be realised: i would sleep upon the water. and next morning i would wake upon the water; and thereafter all my days and nights would be on the water. and the queen asked me to row her ashore in my skiff, when at sunset french frank prepared to take his guests ashore. nor did i catch the significance of his abrupt change of plan when he turned the task of rowing his skiff over to whisky bob, himself remaining on board the sloop. nor did i understand spider's grinning side-remark to me: "gee! there's nothin' slow about you." how could it possibly enter my boy's head that a grizzled man of fifty should be jealous of me? chapter viii we met by appointment, early monday morning, to complete the deal, in johnny heinhold's "last chance "--a saloon, of course, for the transactions of men. i paid the money over, received the bill of sale, and french frank treated. this struck me as an evident custom, and a logical one--the seller, who receives the money, to wet a piece of it in the establishment where the trade was consummated. but, to my surprise, french frank treated the house. he and i drank, which seemed just; but why should johnny heinhold, who owned the saloon and waited behind the bar, be invited to drink? i figured it immediately that he made a profit on the very drink he drank. i could, in a way, considering that they were friends and shipmates, understand spider and whisky bob being asked to drink; but why should the longshoremen, bill kelley and soup kennedy, be asked? then there was pat, the queen's brother, making a total of eight of us. it was early morning, and all ordered whisky. what could i do, here in this company of big men, all drinking whisky? "whisky," i said, with the careless air of one who had said it a thousand times. and such whisky! i tossed it down. a-r-r-r-gh! i can taste it yet. and i was appalled at the price french frank had paid--eighty cents. eighty cents! it was an outrage to my thrifty soul. eighty cents--the equivalent of eight long hours of my toil at the machine, gone down our throats, and gone like that, in a twinkling, leaving only a bad taste in the mouth. there was no discussion that french frank was a waster. i was anxious to be gone, out into the sunshine, out over the water to my glorious boat. but all hands lingered. even spider, my crew, lingered. no hint broke through my obtuseness of why they lingered. i have often thought since of how they must have regarded me, the newcomer being welcomed into their company standing at bar with them, and not standing for a single round of drinks. french frank, who, unknown to me, had swallowed his chagrin since the day before, now that the money for the razzle dazzle was in his pocket, began to behave curiously toward me. i sensed the change in his attitude, saw the forbidding glitter in his eyes, and wondered. the more i saw of men, the queerer they became. johnny heinhold leaned across the bar and whispered in my ear, "he's got it in for you. watch out." i nodded comprehension of his statement, and acquiescence in it, as a man should nod who knows all about men. but secretly i was perplexed. heavens! how was i, who had worked hard and read books of adventure, and who was only fifteen years old, who had not dreamed of giving the queen of the oyster pirates a second thought, and who did not know that french frank was madly and latinly in love with her--how was i to guess that i had done him shame? and how was i to guess that the story of how the queen had thrown him down on his own boat, the moment i hove in sight, was already the gleeful gossip of the water-front? and by the same token, how was i to guess that her brother pat's offishness with me was anything else than temperamental gloominess of spirit? whisky bob got me aside a moment. "keep your eyes open," he muttered. "take my tip. french frank's ugly. i'm going up river with him to get a schooner for oystering. when he gets down on the beds, watch out. he says he'll run you down. after dark, any time he's around, change your anchorage and douse your riding light. savve?" oh, certainly, i savve'd. i nodded my head, and, as one man to another, thanked him for his tip; and drifted back to the group at the bar. no; i did not treat. i never dreamed that i was expected to treat. i left with spider, and my ears burn now as i try to surmise the things they must have said about me. i asked spider, in an off-hand way, what was eating french frank. "he's crazy jealous of you," was the answer. "do you think so?" i said, and dismissed the matter as not worth thinking about. but i leave it to any one--the swell of my fifteen-years-old manhood at learning that french frank, the adventurer of fifty, the sailor of all the seas of all the world, was jealous of me--and jealous over a girl most romantically named the queen of the oyster pirates. i had read of such things in books, and regarded them as personal probabilities of a distant maturity. oh, i felt a rare young devil, as we hoisted the big mainsail that morning, broke out anchor, and filled away close-hauled on the three-mile beat to windward out into the bay. such was my escape from the killing machine-toil, and my introduction to the oyster pirates. true, the introduction had begun with drink, and the life promised to continue with drink. but was i to stay away from it for such reason? wherever life ran free and great, there men drank. romance and adventure seemed always to go down the street locked arm in arm with john barleycorn. to know the two, i must know the third. or else i must go back to my free library books and read of the deeds of other men and do no deeds of my own save slave for ten cents an hour at a machine in a cannery. no; i was not to be deterred from this brave life on the water by the fact that the water-dwellers had queer and expensive desires for beer and wine and whisky. what if their notions of happiness included the strange one of seeing me drink? when they persisted in buying the stuff and thrusting it upon me, why, i would drink it. it was the price i would pay for their comradeship. and i didn't have to get drunk. i had not got drunk the sunday afternoon i arranged to buy the razzle dazzle, despite the fact that not one of the rest was sober. well, i could go on into the future that way, drinking the stuff when it gave them pleasure that i should drink it, but carefully avoiding over-drinking. chapter ix gradual as was my development as a heavy drinker among the oyster pirates, the real heavy drinking came suddenly, and was the result, not of desire for alcohol, but of an intellectual conviction. the more i saw of the life, the more i was enamoured of it. i can never forget my thrills the first night i took part in a concerted raid, when we assembled on board the annie--rough men, big and unafraid, and weazened wharf-rats, some of them ex-convicts, all of them enemies of the law and meriting jail, in sea-boots and sea-gear, talking in gruff low voices, and "big" george with revolvers strapped about his waist to show that he meant business. oh, i know, looking back, that the whole thing was sordid and silly. but i was not looking back in those days when i was rubbing shoulders with john barleycorn and beginning to accept him. the life was brave and wild, and i was living the adventure i had read so much about. nelson, "young scratch" they called him, to distinguish him from "old scratch," his father, sailed in the sloop reindeer, partners with one "clam." clam was a dare-devil, but nelson was a reckless maniac. he was twenty years old, with the body of a hercules. when he was shot in benicia, a couple of years later, the coroner said he was the greatest-shouldered man he had ever seen laid on a slab. nelson could not read or write. he had been "dragged" up by his father on san francisco bay, and boats were second nature with him. his strength was prodigious, and his reputation along the water-front for violence was anything but savoury. he had berserker rages and did mad, terrible things. i made his acquaintance the first cruise of the razzle dazzle, and saw him sail the reindeer in a blow and dredge oysters all around the rest of us as we lay at two anchors, troubled with fear of going ashore. he was some man, this nelson; and when, passing by the last chance saloon, he spoke to me, i felt very proud. but try to imagine my pride when he promptly asked me in to have a drink. i stood at the bar and drank a glass of beer with him, and talked manfully of oysters, and boats, and of the mystery of who had put the load of buckshot through the annie's mainsail. we talked and lingered at the bar. it seemed to me strange that we lingered. we had had our beer. but who was i to lead the way outside when great nelson chose to lean against the bar? after a few minutes, to my surprise, he asked me to have another drink, which i did. and still we talked, and nelson evinced no intention of leaving the bar. bear with me while i explain the way of my reasoning and of my innocence. first of all, i was very proud to be in the company of nelson, who was the most heroic figure among the oyster pirates and bay adventurers. unfortunately for my stomach and mucous membranes, nelson had a strange quirk of nature that made him find happiness in treating me to beer. i had no moral disinclination for beer, and just because i didn't like the taste of it and the weight of it was no reason i should forgo the honour of his company. it was his whim to drink beer, and to have me drink beer with him. very well, i would put up with the passing discomfort. so we continued to talk at the bar, and to drink beer ordered and paid for by nelson. i think, now, when i look back upon it, that nelson was curious. he wanted to find out just what kind of a gink i was. he wanted to see how many times i'd let him treat without offering to treat in return. after i had drunk half a dozen glasses, my policy of temperateness in mind, i decided that i had had enough for that time. so i mentioned that i was going aboard the razzle dazzle, then lying at the city wharf, a hundred yards away. i said good-bye to nelson, and went on down the wharf. but, john barleycorn, to the extent of six glasses, went with me. my brain tingled and was very much alive. i was uplifted by my sense of manhood. i, a truly-true oyster pirate, was going aboard my own boat after hob-nobbing in the last chance with nelson, the greatest oyster pirate of us all. strong in my brain was the vision of us leaning against the bar and drinking beer. and curious it was, i decided, this whim of nature that made men happy in spending good money for beer for a fellow like me who didn't want it. as i pondered this, i recollected that several times other men, in couples, had entered the last chance, and first one, then the other, had treated to drinks. i remembered, on the drunk on the idler, how scotty and the harpooner and myself had raked and scraped dimes and nickels with which to buy the whisky. then came my boy code: when on a day a fellow gave another a "cannon-ball" or a chunk of taffy, on some other day he would expect to receive back a cannon-ball or a chunk of taffy. that was why nelson had lingered at the bar. having bought a drink, he had waited for me to buy one. i had let him buy six drinks and never once offered to treat. and he was the great nelson! i could feel myself blushing with shame. i sat down on the stringer-piece of the wharf and buried my face in my hands. and the heat of my shame burned up my neck and into my cheeks and forehead. i have blushed many times in my life, but never have i experienced so terrible a blush as that one. and sitting there on the stringer-piece in my shame, i did a great deal of thinking and transvaluing of values. i had been born poor. poor i had lived. i had gone hungry on occasion. i had never had toys nor playthings like other children. my first memories of life were pinched by poverty. the pinch of poverty had been chronic. i was eight years old when i wore my first little undershirt actually sold in a store across the counter. and then it had been only one little undershirt. when it was soiled i had to return to the awful home-made things until it was washed. i had been so proud of it that i insisted on wearing it without any outer garment. for the first time i mutinied against my mother--mutinied myself into hysteria, until she let me wear the store undershirt so all the world could see. only a man who has undergone famine can properly value food; only sailors and desert-dwellers know the meaning of fresh water. and only a child, with a child's imagination, can come to know the meaning of things it has been long denied. i early discovered that the only things i could have were those i got for myself. my meagre childhood developed meagreness. the first things i had been able to get for myself had been cigarette pictures, cigarette posters, and cigarette albums. i had not had the spending of the money i earned, so i traded "extra" newspapers for these treasures. i traded duplicates with the other boys, and circulating, as i did, all about town, i had greater opportunities for trading and acquiring. it was not long before i had complete every series issued by every cigarette manufacturer--such as the great race horses, parisian beauties, women of all nations, flags of all nations, noted actors, champion prize fighters, etc. and each series i had three different ways: in the card from the cigarette package, in the poster, and in the album. then i began to accumulate duplicate sets, duplicate albums. i traded for other things that boys valued and which they usually bought with money given them by their parents. naturally, they did not have the keen sense of values that i had, who was never given money to buy anything. i traded for postage-stamps, for minerals, for curios, for birds' eggs, for marbles (i had a more magnificent collection of agates than i have ever seen any boy possess--and the nucleus of the collection was a handful worth at least three dollars, which i had kept as security for twenty cents i loaned to a messenger-boy who was sent to reform school before he could redeem them). i'd trade anything and everything for anything else, and turn it over in a dozen more trades until it was transmuted into something that was worth something. i was famous as a trader. i was notorious as a miser. i could even make a junkman weep when i had dealings with him. other boys called me in to sell for them their collections of bottles, rags, old iron, grain, and gunny-sacks, and five-gallon oil-cans--aye, and gave me a commission for doing it. and this was the thrifty, close-fisted boy, accustomed to slave at a machine for ten cents an hour, who sat on the stringer-piece and considered the matter of beer at five cents a glass and gone in a moment with nothing to show for it. i was now with men i admired. i was proud to be with them. had all my pinching and saving brought me the equivalent of one of the many thrills which had been mine since i came among the oyster pirates? then what was worth while--money or thrills? these men had no horror of squandering a nickel, or many nickels. they were magnificently careless of money, calling up eight men to drink whisky at ten cents a glass, as french frank had done. why, nelson had just spent sixty cents on beer for the two of us. which was it to be? i was aware that i was making a grave decision. i was deciding between money and men, between niggardliness and romance. either i must throw overboard all my old values of money and look upon it as something to be flung about wastefully, or i must throw overboard my comradeship with these men whose peculiar quirks made them like strong drink. i retraced my steps up the wharf to the last chance, where nelson still stood outside. "come on and have a beer," i invited. again we stood at the bar and drank and talked, but this time it was i who paid ten cents! a whole hour of my labour at a machine for a drink of something i didn't want and which tasted rotten. but it wasn't difficult. i had achieved a concept. money no longer counted. it was comradeship that counted. "have another?" i said. and we had another, and i paid for it. nelson, with the wisdom of the skilled drinker, said to the barkeeper, "make mine a small one, johnny." johnny nodded and gave him a glass that contained only a third as much as the glasses we had been drinking. yet the charge was the same--five cents. by this time i was getting nicely jingled, so such extravagance didn't hurt me much. besides, i was learning. there was more in this buying of drinks than mere quantity. i got my finger on it. there was a stage when the beer didn't count at all, but just the spirit of comradeship of drinking together. and, ha!--another thing! i, too, could call for small beers and minimise by two-thirds the detestable freightage with which comradeship burdened one. "i had to go aboard to get some money," i remarked casually, as we drank, in the hope nelson would take it as an explanation of why i had let him treat six consecutive times. "oh, well, you didn't have to do that," he answered. "johnny'll trust a fellow like you--won't you, johnny!" "sure," johnny agreed, with a smile. "how much you got down against me?" nelson queried. johnny pulled out the book he kept behind the bar, found nelson's page, and added up the account of several dollars. at once i became possessed with a desire to have a page in that book. almost it seemed the final badge of manhood. after a couple more drinks, for which i insisted on paying, nelson decided to go. we parted true comradely, and i wandered down the wharf to the razzle dazzle. spider was just building the fire for supper. "where'd you get it?" he grinned up at me through the open companion. "oh, i've been with nelson," i said carelessly, trying to hide my pride. then an idea came to me. here was another one of them. now that i had achieved my concept, i might as well practise it thoroughly. "come on," i said, "up to johnny's and have a drink." going up the wharf, we met clam coming down. clam was nelson's partner, and he was a fine, brave, handsome, moustached man of thirty--everything, in short, that his nickname did not connote. "come on," i said, "and have a drink." he came. as we turned into the last chance, there was pat, the queen's brother, coming out. "what's your hurry?" i greeted him. "we're having a drink. come on along." "i've just had one," he demurred. "what of it?--we're having one now," i retorted. and pat consented to join us, and i melted my way into his good graces with a couple of glasses of beer. oh! i was learning things that afternoon about john barleycorn. there was more in him than the bad taste when you swallowed him. here, at the absurd cost of ten cents, a gloomy, grouchy individual, who threatened to become an enemy, was made into a good friend. he became even genial, his looks were kindly, and our voices mellowed together as we talked water-front and oyster-bed gossip. "small beer for me, johnny," i said, when the others had ordered schooners. yes, and i said it like the accustomed drinker, carelessly, casually, as a sort of spontaneous thought that had just occurred to me. looking back, i am confident that the only one there who guessed i was a tyro at bar-drinking was johnny heinhold. "where'd he get it?" i overheard spider confidentially ask johnny. "oh, he's been sousin' here with nelson all afternoon," was johnny's answer. i never let on that i'd heard, but proud? aye, even the barkeeper was giving me a recommendation as a man. "he's been sousin' here with nelson all afternoon." magic words! the accolade delivered by a barkeeper with a beer glass! i remembered that french frank had treated johnny the day i bought the razzle dazzle. the glasses were filled and we were ready to drink. "have something yourself, johnny," i said, with an air of having intended to say it all the time, but of having been a trifle remiss because of the interesting conversation i had been holding with clam and pat. johnny looked at me with quick sharpness, divining, i am positive, the strides i was making in my education, and poured himself whisky from his private bottle. this hit me for a moment on my thrifty side. he had taken a ten-cent drink when the rest of us were drinking five-cent drinks! but the hurt was only for a moment. i dismissed it as ignoble, remembered my concept, and did not give myself away. "you'd better put me down in the book for this," i said, when we had finished the drink. and i had the satisfaction of seeing a fresh page devoted to my name and a charge pencilled for a round of drinks amounting to thirty cents. and i glimpsed, as through a golden haze, a future wherein that page would be much charged, and crossed off, and charged again. i treated a second time around, and then, to my amazement, johnny redeemed himself in that matter of the ten-cent drink. he treated us around from behind the bar, and i decided that he had arithmetically evened things up handsomely. "let's go around to the st. louis house," spider suggested when we got outside. pat, who had been shovelling coal all day, had gone home, and clam had gone upon the reindeer to cook supper. so around spider and i went to the st. louis house--my first visit--a huge bar-room, where perhaps fifty men, mostly longshoremen, were congregated. and there i met soup kennedy for the second time, and bill kelley. and smith, of the annie, drifted in--he of the belt-buckled revolvers. and nelson showed up. and i met others, including the vigy brothers, who ran the place, and, chiefest of all, joe goose, with the wicked eyes, the twisted nose, and the flowered vest, who played the harmonica like a roystering angel and went on the most atrocious tears that even the oakland water-front could conceive of and admire. as i bought drinks--others treated as well--the thought flickered across my mind that mammy jennie wasn't going to be repaid much on her loan out of that week's earnings of the razzle dazzle. "but what of it?" i thought, or rather, john barleycorn thought it for me. "you're a man and you're getting acquainted with men. mammy jennie doesn't need the money as promptly as all that. she isn't starving. you know that. she's got other money in the bank. let her wait, and pay her back gradually." and thus it was i learned another trait of john barleycorn. he inhibits morality. wrong conduct that it is impossible for one to do sober, is done quite easily when one is not sober. in fact, it is the only thing one can do, for john barleycorn's inhibition rises like a wall between one's immediate desires and long-learned morality. i dismissed my thought of debt to mammy jennie and proceeded to get acquainted at the trifling expense of some trifling money and a jingle that was growing unpleasant. who took me on board and put me to bed that night i do not know, but i imagine it must have been spider. chapter x and so i won my manhood's spurs. my status on the water-front and with the oyster pirates became immediately excellent. i was looked upon as a good fellow, as well as no coward. and somehow, from the day i achieved that concept sitting on the stringer-piece of the oakland city wharf, i have never cared much for money. no one has ever considered me a miser since, while my carelessness of money is a source of anxiety and worry to some that know me. so completely did i break with my parsimonious past that i sent word home to my mother to call in the boys of the neighbourhood and give to them all my collections. i never even cared to learn what boys got what collections. i was a man now, and i made a clean sweep of everything that bound me to my boyhood. my reputation grew. when the story went around the water-front of how french frank had tried to run me down with his schooner, and of how i had stood on the deck of the razzle dazzle, a cocked double-barrelled shotgun in my hands, steering with my feet and holding her to her course, and compelled him to put up his wheel and keep away, the water-front decided that there was something in me despite my youth. and i continued to show what was in me. there were the times i brought the razzle dazzle in with a bigger load of oysters than any other two-man craft; there was the time when we raided far down in lower bay, and mine was the only craft back at daylight to the anchorage off asparagus island; there was the thursday night we raced for market and i brought the razzle dazzle in without a rudder, first of the fleet, and skimmed the cream of the friday morning trade; and there was the time i brought her in from upper bay under a jib, when scotty burned my mainsail. (yes; it was scotty of the idler adventure. irish had followed spider on board the razzle dazzle, and scotty, turning up, had taken irish's place.) but the things i did on the water only partly counted. what completed everything, and won for me the title of "prince of the oyster beds," was that i was a good fellow ashore with my money, buying drinks like a man. i little dreamed that the time would come when the oakland water-front, which had shocked me at first would be shocked and annoyed by the devilry of the things i did. but always the life was tied up with drinking. the saloons are poor men's clubs. saloons are congregating places. we engaged to meet one another in saloons. we celebrated our good fortune or wept our grief in saloons. we got acquainted in saloons. can i ever forget the afternoon i met "old scratch," nelson's father? it was in the last chance. johnny heinhold introduced us. that old scratch was nelson's father was noteworthy enough. but there was more in it than that. he was owner and master of the scow-schooner annie mine, and some day i might ship as a sailor with him. still more, he was romance. he was a blue-eyed, yellow-haired, raw-boned viking, big-bodied and strong-muscled despite his age. and he had sailed the seas in ships of all nations in the old savage sailing days. i had heard many weird tales about him, and worshipped him from a distance. it took the saloon to bring us together. even so, our acquaintance might have been no more than a hand-grip and a word--he was a laconic old fellow--had it not been for the drinking. "have a drink," i said, with promptitude, after the pause which i had learned good form in drinking dictates. of course, while we drank our beer, which i had paid for, it was incumbent on him to listen to me and to talk to me. and johnny, like a true host, made the tactful remarks that enabled us to find mutual topics of conversation. and of course, having drunk my beer, captain nelson must now buy beer in turn. this led to more talking, and johnny drifted out of the conversation to wait on other customers. the more beer captain nelson and i drank, the better we got acquainted. in me he found an appreciative listener, who, by virtue of book-reading, knew much about the sea-life he had lived. so he drifted back to his wild young days, and spun many a rare yarn for me, while we downed beer, treat by treat, all through a blessed summer afternoon. and it was only john barleycorn that made possible that long afternoon with the old sea-dog. it was johnny heinhold who secretly warned me across the bar that i was getting pickled and advised me to take small beers. but as long as captain nelson drank large beers, my pride forbade anything else than large beers. and not until the skipper ordered his first small beer did i order one for myself. oh, when we came to a lingering fond farewell, i was drunk. but i had the satisfaction of seeing old scratch as drunk as i. my youthful modesty scarcely let me dare believe that the hardened old buccaneer was even more drunk. and afterwards, from spider, and pat, and clam, and johnny heinhold, and others, came the tips that old scratch liked me and had nothing but good words for the fine lad i was. which was the more remarkable, because he was known as a savage, cantankerous old cuss who never liked anybody. (his very nickname, "scratch," arose from a berserker trick of his, in fighting, of tearing off his opponent's face.) and that i had won his friendship, all thanks were due to john barleycorn. i have given the incident merely as an example of the multitudinous lures and draws and services by which john barleycorn wins his followers. chapter xi and still there arose in me no desire for alcohol, no chemical demand. in years and years of heavy drinking, drinking did not beget the desire. drinking was the way of the life i led, the way of the men with whom i lived. while away on my cruises on the bay, i took no drink along; and while out on the bay the thought of the desirableness of a drink never crossed my mind. it was not until i tied the razzle dazzle up to the wharf and got ashore in the congregating places of men, where drink flowed, that the buying of drinks for other men, and the accepting of drinks from other men, devolved upon me as a social duty and a manhood rite. then, too, there were the times, lying at the city wharf or across the estuary on the sand-spit, when the queen, and her sister, and her brother pat, and mrs. hadley came aboard. it was my boat, i was host, and i could only dispense hospitality in the terms of their understanding of it. so i would rush spider, or irish, or scotty, or whoever was my crew, with the can for beer and the demijohn for red wine. and again, lying at the wharf disposing of my oysters, there were dusky twilights when big policemen and plain-clothes men stole on board. and because we lived in the shadow of the police, we opened oysters and fed them to them with squirts of pepper sauce, and rushed the growler or got stronger stuff in bottles. drink as i would, i couldn't come to like john barleycorn. i valued him extremely well for his associations, but not for the taste of him. all the time i was striving to be a man amongst men, and all the time i nursed secret and shameful desires for candy. but i would have died before i'd let anybody guess it. i used to indulge in lonely debauches, on nights when i knew my crew was going to sleep ashore. i would go up to the free library, exchange my books, buy a quarter's worth of all sorts of candy that chewed and lasted, sneak aboard the razzle dazzle, lock myself in the cabin, go to bed, and lie there long hours of bliss, reading and chewing candy. and those were the only times i felt that i got my real money's worth. dollars and dollars, across the bar, couldn't buy the satisfaction that twenty-five cents did in a candy store. as my drinking grew heavier, i began to note more and more that it was in the drinking bouts the purple passages occurred. drunks were always memorable. at such times things happened. men like joe goose dated existence from drunk to drunk. the longshoremen all looked forward to their saturday night drunk. we of the oyster boats waited until we had disposed of our cargoes before we got really started, though a scattering of drinks and a meeting of a chance friend sometimes precipitated an accidental drunk. in ways, the accidental drunks were the best. stranger and more exciting things happened at such times. as, for instance, the sunday when nelson and french frank and captain spink stole the stolen salmon boat from whisky bob and nicky the greek. changes had taken place in the personnel of the oyster boats. nelson had got into a fight with bill kelley on the annie and was carrying a bullet-hole through his left hand. also, having quarrelled with clam and broken partnership, nelson had sailed the reindeer, his arm in a sling, with a crew of two deep-water sailors, and he had sailed so madly as to frighten them ashore. such was the tale of his recklessness they spread, that no one on the water-front would go out with nelson. so the reindeer, crewless, lay across the estuary at the sandspit. beside her lay the razzle dazzle with a burned mainsail and scotty and me on board. whisky bob had fallen out with french frank and gone on a raid "up river" with nicky the greek. the result of this raid was a brand-new columbia river salmon boat, stolen from an italian fisherman. we oyster pirates were all visited by the searching italian, and we were convinced, from what we knew of their movements, that whisky bob and nicky the greek were the guilty parties. but where was the salmon boat? hundreds of greek and italian fishermen, up river and down bay, had searched every slough and tule patch for it. when the owner despairingly offered a reward of fifty dollars, our interest increased and the mystery deepened. one sunday morning old captain spink paid me a visit. the conversation was confidential. he had just been fishing in his skiff in the old alameda ferry slip. as the tide went down, he had noticed a rope tied to a pile under water and leading downward. in vain he had tried to heave up what was fast on the other end. farther along, to another pile, was a similar rope, leading downward and unheavable. without doubt, it was the missing salmon boat. if we restored it to its rightful owner there was fifty dollars in it for us. but i had queer ethical notions about honour amongst thieves, and declined to have anything to do with the affair. but french frank had quarrelled with whisky bob, and nelson was also an enemy. (poor whisky bob!--without viciousness, good-natured, generous, born weak, raised poorly, with an irresistible chemical demand for alcohol, still prosecuting his vocation of bay pirate, his body was picked up, not long afterward, beside a dock where it had sunk full of gunshot wounds.) within an hour after i had rejected captain spink's proposal, i saw him sail down the estuary on board the reindeer with nelson. also, french frank went by on his schooner. it was not long ere they sailed back up the estuary, curiously side by side. as they headed in for the sandspit, the submerged salmon boat could be seen, gunwales awash and held up from sinking by ropes fast to the schooner and the sloop. the tide was half out, and they sailed squarely in on the sand, grounding in a row, with the salmon boat in the middle. immediately hans, one of french frank's sailors, was into a skiff and pulling rapidly for the north shore. the big demijohn in the stern-sheets told his errand. they couldn't wait a moment to celebrate the fifty dollars they had so easily earned. it is the way of the devotees of john barleycorn. when good fortune comes, they drink. when they have no fortune, they drink to the hope of good fortune. if fortune be ill, they drink to forget it. if they meet a friend, they drink. if they quarrel with a friend and lose him, they drink. if their love-making be crowned with success, they are so happy they needs must drink. if they be jilted, they drink for the contrary reason. and if they haven't anything to do at all, why, they take a drink, secure in the knowledge that when they have taken a sufficient number of drinks the maggots will start crawling in their brains and they will have their hands full with things to do. when they are sober they want to drink; and when they have drunk they want to drink more. of course, as fellow comrades, scotty and i were called in for the drinking. we helped to make a hole in that fifty dollars not yet received. the afternoon, from just an ordinary common summer sunday afternoon, became a gorgeous, purple afternoon. we all talked and sang and ranted and bragged, and ever french frank and nelson sent more drinks around. we lay in full sight of the oakland water-front, and the noise of our revels attracted friends. skiff after skiff crossed the estuary and hauled up on the sandspit, while hans' work was cut out for him--ever to row back and forth for more supplies of booze. then whisky bob and nicky the greek arrived, sober, indignant, outraged in that their fellow pirates had raised their plant. french frank, aided by john barleycorn, orated hypocritically about virtue and honesty, and, despite his fifty years, got whisky bob out on the sand and proceeded to lick him. when nicky the greek jumped in with a short-handled shovel to whisky bob's assistance, short work was made of him by hans. and of course, when the bleeding remnants of bob and nicky were sent packing in their skiff, the event must needs be celebrated in further carousal. by this time, our visitors being numerous, we were a large crowd compounded of many nationalities and diverse temperaments, all aroused by john barleycorn, all restraints cast off. old quarrels revived, ancient hates flared up. fight was in the air. and whenever a longshoreman remembered something against a scow-schooner sailor, or vice versa, or an oyster pirate remembered or was remembered, a fist shot out and another fight was on. and every fight was made up in more rounds of drinks, wherein the combatants, aided and abetted by the rest of us, embraced each other and pledged undying friendship. and, of all times, soup kennedy selected this time to come and retrieve an old shirt of his, left aboard the reindeer from the trip he sailed with clam. he had espoused clam's side of the quarrel with nelson. also, he had been drinking in the st. louis house, so that it was john barleycorn who led him to the sandspit in quest of his old shirt. few words started the fray. he locked with nelson in the cockpit of the reindeer, and in the mix-up barely escaped being brained by an iron bar wielded by irate french frank--irate because a two-handed man had attacked a one-handed man. (if the reindeer still floats, the dent of the iron bar remains in the hard-wood rail of her cockpit.) but nelson pulled his bandaged hand, bullet-perforated, out of its sling, and, held by us, wept and roared his berserker belief that he could lick soup kennedy one-handed. and we let them loose on the sand. once, when it looked as if nelson were getting the worst of it, french frank and john barleycorn sprang unfairly into the fight. scotty protested and reached for french frank, who whirled upon him and fell on top of him in a pummelling clinch after a sprawl of twenty feet across the sand. in the course of separating these two, half a dozen fights started amongst the rest of us. these fights were finished, one way or the other, or we separated them with drinks, while all the time nelson and soup kennedy fought on. occasionally we returned to them and gave advice, such as, when they lay exhausted in the sand, unable to strike a blow, "throw sand in his eyes." and they threw sand in each other's eyes, recuperated, and fought on to successive exhaustions. and now, of all this that is squalid, and ridiculous, and bestial, try to think what it meant to me, a youth not yet sixteen, burning with the spirit of adventure, fancy-filled with tales of buccaneers and sea-rovers, sacks of cities and conflicts of armed men, and imagination-maddened by the stuff i had drunk. it was life raw and naked, wild and free--the only life of that sort which my birth in time and space permitted me to attain. and more than that. it carried a promise. it was the beginning. from the sandspit the way led out through the golden gate to the vastness of adventure of all the world, where battles would be fought, not for old shirts and over stolen salmon boats, but for high purposes and romantic ends. and because i told scotty what i thought of his letting an old man like french frank get away with him, we, too, brawled and added to the festivity of the sandspit. and scotty threw up his job as crew, and departed in the night with a pair of blankets belonging to me. during the night, while the oyster pirates lay stupefied in their bunks, the schooner and the reindeer floated on the high water and swung about to their anchors. the salmon boat, still filled with rocks and water, rested on the bottom. in the morning, early, i heard wild cries from the reindeer, and tumbled out in the chill grey to see a spectacle that made the water-front laugh for days. the beautiful salmon boat lay on the hard sand, squashed flat as a pancake, while on it were perched french frank's schooner and the reindeer. unfortunately two of the reindeer's planks had been crushed in by the stout oak stem of the salmon boat. the rising tide had flowed through the hole, and just awakened nelson by getting into his bunk with him. i lent a hand, and we pumped the reindeer out and repaired the damage. then nelson cooked breakfast, and while we ate we considered the situation. he was broke. so was i. the fifty dollars reward would never be paid for that pitiful mess of splinters on the sand beneath us. he had a wounded hand and no crew. i had a burned main sail and no crew. "what d'ye say, you and me?" nelson queried. "i'll go you," was my answer. and thus i became partners with "young scratch" nelson, the wildest, maddest of them all. we borrowed the money for an outfit of grub from johnny heinhold, filled our water-barrels, and sailed away that day for the oyster-beds. chapter xii nor have i ever regretted those months of mad devilry i put in with nelson. he could sail, even if he did frighten every man that sailed with him. to steer to miss destruction by an inch or an instant was his joy. to do what everybody else did not dare attempt to do, was his pride. never to reef down was his mania, and in all the time i spent with him, blow high or low, the reindeer was never reefed. nor was she ever dry. we strained her open and sailed her open and sailed her open continually. and we abandoned the oakland water-front and went wider afield for our adventures. and all this glorious passage in my life was made possible for me by john barleycorn. and this is my complaint against john barleycorn. here i was, thirsting for the wild life of adventure, and the only way for me to win to it was through john barleycorn's mediation. it was the way of the men who lived the life. did i wish to live the life, i must live it the way they did. it was by virtue of drinking that i gained that partnership and comradeship with nelson. had i drunk only the beer he paid for, or had i declined to drink at all, i should never have been selected by him as a partner. he wanted a partner who would meet him on the social side, as well as the work side of life. i abandoned myself to the life, and developed the misconception that the secret of john barleycorn lay in going on mad drunks, rising through the successive stages that only an iron constitution could endure to final stupefaction and swinish unconsciousness. i did not like the taste, so i drank for the sole purpose of getting drunk, of getting hopelessly, helplessly drunk. and i, who had saved and scraped, traded like a shylock and made junkmen weep; i, who had stood aghast when french frank, at a single stroke, spent eighty cents for whisky for eight men, i turned myself loose with a more lavish disregard for money than any of them. i remember going ashore one night with nelson. in my pocket were one hundred and eighty dollars. it was my intention, first, to buy me some clothes, after that, some drinks. i needed the clothes. all i possessed were on me, and they were as follows: a pair of sea-boots that providentially leaked the water out as fast as it ran in, a pair of fifty-cent overalls, a forty-cent cotton shirt, and a sou'wester. i had no hat, so i had to wear the sou'wester, and it will be noted that i have listed neither underclothes nor socks. i didn't own any. to reach the stores where clothes could be bought, we had to pass a dozen saloons. so i bought me the drinks first. i never got to the clothing stores. in the morning, broke, poisoned, but contented, i came back on board, and we set sail. i possessed only the clothes i had gone ashore in, and not a cent remained of the one hundred and eighty dollars. it might well be deemed impossible, by those who have never tried it, that in twelve hours a lad can spend all of one hundred and eighty dollars for drinks. i know otherwise. and i had no regrets. i was proud. i had shown them i could spend with the best of them. amongst strong men i had proved myself strong. i had clinched again, as i had often clinched, my right to the title of "prince." also, my attitude may be considered, in part, as a reaction from my childhood's meagreness and my childhood's excessive toil. possibly my inchoate thought was: better to reign among booze-fighters a prince than to toil twelve hours a day at a machine for ten cents an hour. there are no purple passages in machine toil. but if the spending of one hundred and eighty dollars in twelve hours isn't a purple passage, then i'd like to know what is. oh, i skip much of the details of my trafficking with john barleycorn during this period, and shall only mention events that will throw light on john barleycorn's ways. there were three things that enabled me to pursue this heavy drinking: first, a magnificent constitution far better than the average; second, the healthy open-air life on the water; and third, the fact that i drank irregularly. while out on the water, we never carried any drink along. the world was opening up to me. already i knew several hundred miles of the water-ways of it, and of the towns and cities and fishing hamlets on the shores. came the whisper to range farther. i had not found it yet. there was more behind. but even this much of the world was too wide for nelson. he wearied for his beloved oakland water-front, and when he elected to return to it we separated in all friendliness. i now made the old town of benicia, on the carquinez straits, my headquarters. in a cluster of fishermen's arks, moored in the tules on the water-front, dwelt a congenial crowd of drinkers and vagabonds, and i joined them. i had longer spells ashore, between fooling with salmon fishing and making raids up and down bay and rivers as a deputy fish patrolman, and i drank more and learned more about drinking. i held my own with any one, drink for drink; and often drank more than my share to show the strength of my manhood. when, on a morning, my unconscious carcass was disentangled from the nets on the drying-frames, whither i had stupidly, blindly crawled the night before; and when the water-front talked it over with many a giggle and laugh and another drink, i was proud indeed. it was an exploit. and when i never drew a sober breath, on one stretch, for three solid weeks, i was certain i had reached the top. surely, in that direction, one could go no farther. it was time for me to move on. for always, drunk or sober, at the back of my consciousness something whispered that this carousing and bay-adventuring was not all of life. this whisper was my good fortune. i happened to be so made that i could hear it calling, always calling, out and away over the world. it was not canniness on my part. it was curiosity, desire to know, an unrest and a seeking for things wonderful that i seemed somehow to have glimpsed or guessed. what was this life for, i demanded, if this were all? no; there was something more, away and beyond. (and, in relation to my much later development as a drinker, this whisper, this promise of the things at the back of life, must be noted, for it was destined to play a dire part in my more recent wrestlings with john barleycorn.) but what gave immediacy to my decision to move on was a trick john barleycorn played me--a monstrous, incredible trick that showed abysses of intoxication hitherto undreamed. at one o'clock in the morning, after a prodigious drunk, i was tottering aboard a sloop at the end of the wharf, intending to go to sleep. the tides sweep through carquinez straits as in a mill-race, and the full ebb was on when i stumbled overboard. there was nobody on the wharf, nobody on the sloop. i was borne away by the current. i was not startled. i thought the misadventure delightful. i was a good swimmer, and in my inflamed condition the contact of the water with my skin soothed me like cool linen. and then john barleycorn played me his maniacal trick. some maundering fancy of going out with the tide suddenly obsessed me. i had never been morbid. thoughts of suicide had never entered my head. and now that they entered, i thought it fine, a splendid culminating, a perfect rounding off of my short but exciting career. i, who had never known girl's love, nor woman's love, nor the love of children; who had never played in the wide joy-fields of art, nor climbed the star-cool heights of philosophy, nor seen with my eyes more than a pin-point's surface of the gorgeous world; i decided that this was all, that i had seen all, lived all, been all, that was worth while, and that now was the time to cease. this was the trick of john barleycorn, laying me by the heels of my imagination and in a drug-dream dragging me to death. oh, he was convincing. i had really experienced all of life, and it didn't amount to much. the swinish drunkenness in which i had lived for months (this was accompanied by the sense of degradation and the old feeling of conviction of sin) was the last and best, and i could see for myself what it was worth. there were all the broken-down old bums and loafers i had bought drinks for. that was what remained of life. did i want to become like them? a thousand times no; and i wept tears of sweet sadness over my glorious youth going out with the tide. (and who has not seen the weeping drunk, the melancholic drunk? they are to be found in all the bar-rooms, if they can find no other listener telling their sorrows to the barkeeper, who is paid to listen.) the water was delicious. it was a man's way to die. john barleycorn changed the tune he played in my drink-maddened brain. away with tears and regret. it was a hero's death, and by the hero's own hand and will. so i struck up my death-chant and was singing it lustily, when the gurgle and splash of the current-riffles in my ears reminded me of my more immediate situation. below the town of benicia, where the solano wharf projects, the straits widen out into what bay-farers call the "bight of turner's shipyard." i was in the shore-tide that swept under the solano wharf and on into the bight. i knew of old the power of the suck which developed when the tide swung around the end of dead man's island and drove straight for the wharf. i didn't want to go through those piles. it wouldn't be nice, and i might lose an hour in the bight on my way out with the tide. i undressed in the water and struck out with a strong, single-overhand stroke, crossing the current at right-angles. nor did i cease until, by the wharf lights, i knew i was safe to sweep by the end. then i turned over and rested. the stroke had been a telling one, and i was a little time in recovering my breath. i was elated, for i had succeeded in avoiding the suck. i started to raise my death-chant again--a purely extemporised farrago of a drug-crazed youth. "don't sing--yet," whispered john barleycorn. "the solano runs all night. there are railroad men on the wharf. they will hear you, and come out in a boat and rescue you, and you don't want to be rescued." i certainly didn't. what? be robbed of my hero's death? never. and i lay on my back in the starlight, watching the familiar wharf-lights go by, red and green and white, and bidding sad sentimental farewell to them, each and all. when i was well clear, in mid-channel, i sang again. sometimes i swam a few strokes, but in the main i contented myself with floating and dreaming long drunken dreams. before daylight, the chill of the water and the passage of the hours had sobered me sufficiently to make me wonder what portion of the straits i was in, and also to wonder if the turn of the tide wouldn't catch me and take me back ere i had drifted out into san pablo bay. next i discovered that i was very weary and very cold, and quite sober, and that i didn't in the least want to be drowned. i could make out the selby smelter on the contra costa shore and the mare island lighthouse. i started to swim for the solano shore, but was too weak and chilled, and made so little headway, and at the cost of such painful effort, that i gave it up and contented myself with floating, now and then giving a stroke to keep my balance in the tide-rips which were increasing their commotion on the surface of the water. and i knew fear. i was sober now, and i didn't want to die. i discovered scores of reasons for living. and the more reasons i discovered, the more liable it seemed that i was going to drown anyway. daylight, after i had been four hours in the water, found me in a parlous condition in the tide-rips off mare island light, where the swift ebbs from vallejo straits and carquinez straits were fighting with each other, and where, at that particular moment, they were fighting the flood tide setting up against them from san pablo bay. a stiff breeze had sprung up, and the crisp little waves were persistently lapping into my mouth, and i was beginning to swallow salt water. with my swimmer's knowledge, i knew the end was near. and then the boat came--a greek fisherman running in for vallejo; and again i had been saved from john barleycorn by my constitution and physical vigour. and, in passing, let me note that this maniacal trick john barleycorn played me is nothing uncommon. an absolute statistic of the percentage of suicides due to john barleycorn would be appalling. in my case, healthy, normal, young, full of the joy of life, the suggestion to kill myself was unusual; but it must be taken into account that it came on the heels of a long carouse, when my nerves and brain were fearfully poisoned, and that the dramatic, romantic side of my imagination, drink-maddened to lunacy, was delighted with the suggestion. and yet, the older, more morbid drinkers, more jaded with life and more disillusioned, who kill themselves, do so usually after a long debauch, when their nerves and brains are thoroughly poison-soaked. chapter xiii so i left benicia, where john barleycorn had nearly got me, and ranged wider afield in pursuit of the whisper from the back of life to come and find. and wherever i ranged, the way lay along alcohol-drenched roads. men still congregated in saloons. they were the poor-man's clubs, and they were the only clubs to which i had access. i could get acquainted in saloons. i could go into a saloon and talk with any man. in the strange towns and cities i wandered through, the only place for me to go was the saloon. i was no longer a stranger in any town the moment i had entered a saloon. and right here let me break in with experiences no later than last year. i harnessed four horses to a light trap, took charmian along, and drove for three months and a half over the wildest mountain parts of california and oregon. each morning i did my regular day's work of writing fiction. that completed, i drove on through the middle of the day and the afternoon to the next stop. but the irregularity of occurrence of stopping-places, coupled with widely varying road conditions, made it necessary to plan, the day before, each day's drive and my work. i must know when i was to start driving in order to start writing in time to finish my day's output. thus, on occasion, when the drive was to be long, i would be up and at my writing by five in the morning. on easier driving days i might not start writing till nine o'clock. but how to plan? as soon as i arrived in a town, and put the horses up, on the way from the stable to the hotel i dropped into the saloons. first thing, a drink--oh, i wanted the drink, but also it must not be forgotten that, because of wanting to know things, it was in this very way i had learned to want a drink. well, the first thing, a drink. "have something yourself," to the barkeeper. and then, as we drink, my opening query about roads and stopping-places on ahead. "let me see," the barkeeper will say, "there's the road across tarwater divide. that used to be good. i was over it three years ago. but it was blocked this spring. say, i'll tell you what. i'll ask jerry----" and the barkeeper turns and addresses some man sitting at a table or leaning against the bar farther along, and who may be jerry, or tom, or bill. "say, jerry, how about the tarwater road? you was down to wilkins last week." and while bill or jerry or tom is beginning to unlimber his thinking and speaking apparatus, i suggest that he join us in the drink. then discussions arise about the advisability of this road or that, what the best stopping-places may be, what running time i may expect to make, where the best trout streams are, and so forth, in which other men join, and which are punctuated with more drinks. two or three more saloons, and i accumulate a warm jingle and come pretty close to knowing everybody in town, all about the town, and a fair deal about the surrounding country. i know the lawyers, editors, business men, local politicians, and the visiting ranchers, hunters, and miners, so that by evening, when charmian and i stroll down the main street and back, she is astounded by the number of my acquaintances in that totally strange town. and thus is demonstrated a service john barleycorn renders, a service by which he increases his power over men. and over the world, wherever i have gone, during all the years, it has been the same. it may be a cabaret in the latin quarter, a cafe in some obscure italian village, a boozing ken in sailor-town, and it may be up at the club over scotch and soda; but always it will be where john barleycorn makes fellowship that i get immediately in touch, and meet, and know. and in the good days coming, when john barleycorn will have been banished out of existence along with the other barbarisms, some other institution than the saloon will have to obtain, some other congregating place of men where strange men and stranger men may get in touch, and meet, and know. but to return to my narrative. when i turned my back on benicia, my way led through saloons. i had developed no moral theories against drinking, and i disliked as much as ever the taste of the stuff. but i had grown respectfully suspicious of john barleycorn. i could not forget that trick he had played on me--on me who did not want to die. so i continued to drink, and to keep a sharp eye on john barleycorn, resolved to resist all future suggestions of self-destruction. in strange towns i made immediate acquaintances in the saloons. when i hoboed, and hadn't the price of a bed, a saloon was the only place that would receive me and give me a chair by the fire. i could go into a saloon and wash up, brush my clothes, and comb my hair. and saloons were always so damnably convenient. they were everywhere in my western country. i couldn't go into the dwellings of strangers that way. their doors were not open to me; no seats were there for me by their fires. also, churches and preachers i had never known. and from what i didn't know i was not attracted toward them. besides, there was no glamour about them, no haze of romance, no promise of adventure. they were the sort with whom things never happened. they lived and remained always in the one place, creatures of order and system, narrow, limited, restrained. they were without greatness, without imagination, without camaraderie. it was the good fellows, easy and genial, daring, and, on occasion, mad, that i wanted to know--the fellows, generous-hearted and -handed, and not rabbit-hearted. and here is another complaint i bring against john barleycorn. it is these good fellows that he gets--the fellows with the fire and the go in them, who have bigness, and warmness, and the best of the human weaknesses. and john barleycorn puts out the fire, and soddens the agility, and, when he does not more immediately kill them or make maniacs of them, he coarsens and grossens them, twists and malforms them out of the original goodness and fineness of their natures. oh!--and i speak out of later knowledge--heaven forefend me from the most of the average run of male humans who are not good fellows, the ones cold of heart and cold of head who don't smoke, drink, or swear, or do much of anything else that is brase, and resentful, and stinging, because in their feeble fibres there has never been the stir and prod of life to well over its boundaries and be devilish and daring. one doesn't meet these in saloons, nor rallying to lost causes, nor flaming on the adventure-paths, nor loving as god's own mad lovers. they are too busy keeping their feet dry, conserving their heart-beats, and making unlovely life-successes of their spirit-mediocrity. and so i draw the indictment home to john barleycorn. it is just those, the good fellows, the worth while, the fellows with the weakness of too much strength, too much spirit, too much fire and flame of fine devilishness, that he solicits and ruins. of course, he ruins weaklings; but with them, the worst we breed, i am not here concerned. my concern is that it is so much of the best we breed whom john barleycorn destroys. and the reason why these best are destroyed is because john barleycorn stands on every highway and byway, accessible, law-protected, saluted by the policeman on the beat, speaking to them, leading them by the hand to the places where the good fellows and daring ones forgather and drink deep. with john barleycorn out of the way, these daring ones would still be born, and they would do things instead of perishing. always i encountered the camaraderie of drink. i might be walking down the track to the water-tank to lie in wait for a passing freight-train, when i would chance upon a bunch of "alki-stiffs." an alki-stiff is a tramp who drinks druggist's alcohol. immediately, with greeting and salutation, i am taken into the fellowship. the alcohol, shrewdly blended with water, is handed to me, and soon i am caught up in the revelry, with maggots crawling in my brain and john barleycorn whispering to me that life is big, and that we are all brave and fine--free spirits sprawling like careless gods upon the turf and telling the two-by-four, cut-and-dried, conventional world to go hang. chapter xiv back in oakland from my wanderings, i returned to the water-front and renewed my comradeship with nelson, who was now on shore all the time and living more madly than before. i, too, spent my time on shore with him, only occasionally going for cruises of several days on the bay to help out on short-handed scow-schooners. the result was that i was no longer reinvigorated by periods of open-air abstinence and healthy toil. i drank every day, and whenever opportunity offered i drank to excess; for i still laboured under the misconception that the secret of john barleycorn lay in drinking to bestiality and unconsciousness. i became pretty thoroughly alcohol-soaked during this period. i practically lived in saloons; became a bar-room loafer, and worse. and right here was john barleycorn getting me in a more insidious though no less deadly way than when he nearly sent me out with the tide. i had a few months still to run before i was seventeen; i scorned the thought of a steady job at anything; i felt myself a pretty tough individual in a group of pretty tough men; and i drank because these men drank and because i had to make good with them. i had never had a real boyhood, and in this, my precocious manhood, i was very hard and woefully wise. though i had never known girl's love even, i had crawled through such depths that i was convinced absolutely that i knew the last word about love and life. and it wasn't a pretty knowledge. without being pessimistic, i was quite satisfied that life was a rather cheap and ordinary affair. you see, john barleycorn was blunting me. the old stings and prods of the spirit were no longer sharp. curiosity was leaving me. what did it matter what lay on the other side of the world? men and women, without doubt, very much like the men and women i knew; marrying and giving in marriage and all the petty run of petty human concerns; and drinks, too. but the other side of the world was a long way to go for a drink. i had but to step to the corner and get all i wanted at joe vigy's. johnny heinhold still ran the last chance. and there were saloons on all the corners and between the corners. the whispers from the back of life were growing dim as my mind and body soddened. the old unrest was drowsy. i might as well rot and die here in oakland as anywhere else. and i should have so rotted and died, and not in very long order either, at the pace john barleycorn was leading me, had the matter depended wholly on him. i was learning what it was to have no appetite. i was learning what it was to get up shaky in the morning, with a stomach that quivered, with fingers touched with palsy, and to know the drinker's need for a stiff glass of whisky neat in order to brace up. (oh! john barleycorn is a wizard dopester. brain and body, scorched and jangled and poisoned, return to be tuned up by the very poison that caused the damage.) there is no end to john barleycorn's tricks. he had tried to inveigle me into killing myself. at this period he was doing his best to kill me at a fairly rapid pace. but, not satisfied with that, he tried another dodge. he very nearly got me, too, and right there i learned a lesson about him--became a wiser, a more skilful drinker. i learned there were limits to my gorgeous constitution, and that there were no limits to john barleycorn. i learned that in a short hour or two he could master my strong head, my broad shoulders and deep chest, put me on my back, and with a devil's grip on my throat proceed to choke the life out of me. nelson and i were sitting in the overland house. it was early in the evening, and the only reason we were there was because we were broke and it was election time. you see, in election time local politicians, aspirants for office, have a way of making the rounds of the saloons to get votes. one is sitting at a table, in a dry condition, wondering who is going to turn up and buy him a drink, or if his credit is good at some other saloon and if it's worth while to walk that far to find out, when suddenly the saloon doors swing wide, and enters a bevy of well-dressed men, themselves usually wide and exhaling an atmosphere of prosperity and fellowship. they have smiles and greetings for everybody--for you, without the price of a glass of beer in your pocket, for the timid hobo who lurks in the corner and who certainly hasn't a vote, but who may establish a lodging-house registration. and do you know, when these politicians swing wide the doors and come in, with their broad shoulders, their deep chests, and their generous stomachs which cannot help making them optimists and masters of life, why, you perk right up. it's going to be a warm evening after all, and you know you'll get a souse started at the very least. and--who knows?--the gods may be kind, other drinks may come, and the night culminate in glorious greatness. and the next thing you know, you are lined up at the bar, pouring drinks down your throat and learning the gentlemen's names and the offices which they hope to fill. it was during this period, when the politicians went their saloon rounds, that i was getting bitter bits of education and having illusions punctured--i, who had pored and thrilled over "the rail-splitter," and "from canal boy to president." yes, i was learning how noble politics and politicians are. well, on this night, broke, thirsty, but with the drinker's faith in the unexpected drink, nelson and i sat in the overland house waiting for something to turn up, especially politicians. and there entered joe goose--he of the unquenchable thirst, the wicked eyes, the crooked nose, the flowered vest. "come on, fellows--free booze--all you want of it. i didn't want you to miss it." "where?" we wanted to know. "come on. i'll tell you as we go along. we haven't a minute to lose." and as we hurried up town, joe goose explained: "it's the hancock fire brigade. all you have to do is wear a red shirt and a helmet, and carry a torch. "they're going down on a special train to haywards to parade." (i think the place was haywards. it may have been san leandro or niles. and, to save me, i can't remember whether the hancock fire brigade was a republican or a democratic organisation. but anyway, the politicians who ran it were short of torch-bearers, and anybody who would parade could get drunk if he wanted to.) "the town'll be wide open," joe goose went on. "booze? it'll run like water. the politicians have bought the stocks of the saloons. there'll be no charge. all you got to do is walk right up and call for it. we'll raise hell." at the hall, on eighth street near broadway, we got into the firemen's shirts and helmets, were equipped with torches, and, growling because we weren't given at least one drink before we started, were herded aboard the train. oh, those politicians had handled our kind before. at haywards there were no drinks either. parade first, and earn your booze, was the order of the night. we paraded. then the saloons were opened. extra barkeepers had been engaged, and the drinkers jammed six deep before every drink-drenched and unwiped bar. there was no time to wipe the bar, nor wash glasses, nor do anything save fill glasses. the oakland water-front can be real thirsty on occasion. this method of jamming and struggling in front of the bar was too slow for us. the drink was ours. the politicians had bought it for us. we'd paraded and earned it, hadn't we? so we made a flank attack around the end of the bar, shoved the protesting barkeepers aside, and helped ourselves to bottles. outside, we knocked the necks of the bottles off against the concrete curbs, and drank. now joe goose and nelson had learned discretion with straight whisky, drunk in quantity. i hadn't. i still laboured under the misconception that one was to drink all he could get--especially when it didn't cost anything. we shared our bottles with others, and drank a good portion ourselves, while i drank most of all. and i didn't like the stuff. i drank it as i had drunk beer at five, and wine at seven. i mastered my qualms and downed it like so much medicine. and when we wanted more bottles, we went into other saloons where the free drink was flowing, and helped ourselves. i haven't the slightest idea of how much i drank--whether it was two quarts or five. i do know that i began the orgy with half-pint draughts and with no water afterward to wash the taste away or to dilute the whisky. now the politicians were too wise to leave the town filled with drunks from the water-front of oakland. when train time came, there was a round-up of the saloons. already i was feeling the impact of the whisky. nelson and i were hustled out of a saloon, and found ourselves in the very last rank of a disorderly parade. i struggled along heroically, my correlations breaking down, my legs tottering under me, my head swimming, my heart pounding, my lungs panting for air. my helplessness was coming on so rapidly that my reeling brain told me i would go down and out and never reach the train if i remained at the rear of the procession. i left the ranks and ran down a pathway beside the road under broad-spreading trees. nelson pursued me, laughing. certain things stand out, as in memories of nightmare. i remember those trees especially, and my desperate running along under them, and how, every time i fell, roars of laughter went up from the other drunks. they thought i was merely antic drunk. they did not dream that john barleycorn had me by the throat in a death-clutch. but i knew it. and i remember the fleeting bitterness that was mine as i realised that i was in a struggle with death, and that these others did not know. it was as if i were drowning before a crowd of spectators who thought i was cutting up tricks for their entertainment. and running there under the trees, i fell and lost consciousness. what happened afterward, with one glimmering exception, i had to be told. nelson, with his enormous strength, picked me up and dragged me on and aboard the train. when he had got me into a seat, i fought and panted so terribly for air that even with his obtuseness he knew i was in a bad way. and right there, at any moment, i know now, i might have died. i often think it is the nearest to death i have ever been. i have only nelson's description of my behaviour to go by. i was scorching up, burning alive internally, in an agony of fire and suffocation, and i wanted air. i madly wanted air. my efforts to raise a window were vain, for all the windows in the car were screwed down. nelson had seen drink-crazed men, and thought i wanted to throw myself out. he tried to restrain me, but i fought on. i seized some man's torch and smashed the glass. now there were pro-nelson and anti-nelson factions on the oakland water-front, and men of both factions, with more drink in them than was good, filled the car. my smashing of the window was the signal for the antis. one of them reached for me, and dropped me, and started the fight, of all of which i have no knowledge save what was told me afterward, and a sore jaw next day from the blow that put me out. the man who struck me went down across my body, nelson followed him, and they say there were few unbroken windows in the wreckage of the car that followed as the free-for-all fight had its course. this being knocked cold and motionless was perhaps the best thing that could have happened to me. my violent struggles had only accelerated my already dangerously accelerated heart, and increased the need for oxygen in my suffocating lungs. after the fight was over and i came to, i did not come to myself. i was no more myself than a drowning man is who continues to struggle after he has lost consciousness. i have no memory of my actions, but i cried "air! air!" so insistently, that it dawned on nelson that i did not contemplate self-destruction. so he cleared the jagged glass from the window-ledge and let me stick my head and shoulders out. he realised, partially, the seriousness of my condition, and held me by the waist to prevent me from crawling farther out. and for the rest of the run in to oakland i kept my head and shoulders out, fighting like a maniac whenever he tried to draw me inside. and here my one glimmering streak of true consciousness came. my sole recollection, from the time i fell under the trees until i awoke the following evening, is of my head out of the window, facing the wind caused by the train, cinders striking and burning and blinding me, while i breathed with will. all my will was concentrated on breathing--on breathing the air in the hugest lung-full gulps i could, pumping the greatest amount of air into my lungs in the shortest possible time. it was that or death, and i was a swimmer and diver, and i knew it; and in the most intolerable agony of prolonged suffocation, during those moments i was conscious, i faced the wind and the cinders and breathed for life. all the rest is a blank. i came to the following evening, in a water-front lodging-house. i was alone. no doctor had been called in. and i might well have died there, for nelson and the others, deeming me merely "sleeping off my drunk," had let me lie there in a comatose condition for seventeen hours. many a man, as every doctor knows, has died of the sudden impact of a quart or more of whisky. usually one reads of them so dying, strong drinkers, on account of a wager. but i didn't know--then. and so i learned; and by no virtue nor prowess, but simply through good fortune and constitution. again my constitution had triumphed over john barleycorn. i had escaped from another death-pit, dragged myself through another morass, and perilously acquired the discretion that would enable me to drink wisely for many another year to come. heavens! that was twenty years ago, and i am still very much and wisely alive; and i have seen much, done much, lived much, in that intervening score of years; and i shudder when i think how close a shave i ran, how near i was to missing that splendid fifth of a century that has been mine. and, oh, it wasn't john barleycorn's fault that he didn't get me that night of the hancock fire brigade. chapter xv it was during the early winter of that i resolved to go to sea. my hancock fire brigade experience was very little responsible for this. i still drank and frequented saloons--practically lived in saloons. whisky was dangerous, in my opinion, but not wrong. whisky was dangerous like other dangerous things in the natural world. men died of whisky; but then, too, fishermen were capsized and drowned, hoboes fell under trains and were cut to pieces. to cope with winds and waves, railroad trains, and bar-rooms, one must use judgment. to get drunk after the manner of men was all right, but one must do it with discretion. no more quarts of whisky for me. what really decided me to go to sea was that i had caught my first vision of the death-road which john barleycorn maintains for his devotees. it was not a clear vision, however, and there were two phases of it, somewhat jumbled at the time. it struck me, from watching those with whom i associated, that the life we were living was more destructive than that lived by the average man. john barleycorn, by inhibiting morality, incited to crime. everywhere i saw men doing, drunk, what they would never dream of doing sober. and this wasn't the worst of it. it was the penalty that must be paid. crime was destructive. saloon-mates i drank with, who were good fellows and harmless, sober, did most violent and lunatic things when they were drunk. and then the police gathered them in and they vanished from our ken. sometimes i visited them behind the bars and said good-bye ere they journeyed across the bay to put on the felon's stripes. and time and again i heard the one explanation "if i hadn't been drunk i wouldn't a-done it." and sometimes, under the spell of john barleycorn, the most frightful things were done--things that shocked even my case-hardened soul. the other phase of the death-road was that of the habitual drunkards, who had a way of turning up their toes without apparent provocation. when they took sick, even with trifling afflictions that any ordinary man could pull through, they just pegged out. sometimes they were found unattended and dead in their beds; on occasion their bodies were dragged out of the water; and sometimes it was just plain accident, as when bill kelley, unloading cargo while drunk, had a finger jerked off, which, under the circumstances, might just as easily have been his head. so i considered my situation and knew that i was getting into a bad way of living. it made toward death too quickly to suit my youth and vitality. and there was only one way out of this hazardous manner of living, and that was to get out. the sealing fleet was wintering in san francisco bay, and in the saloons i met skippers, mates, hunters, boat-steerers, and boat-pullers. i met the seal-hunter, pete holt, and agreed to be his boat-puller and to sign on any schooner he signed on. and i had to have half a dozen drinks with pete holt there and then to seal our agreement. and at once awoke all my old unrest that john barleycorn had put to sleep. i found myself actually bored with the saloon life of the oakland water-front, and wondered what i had ever found fascinating in it. also, with this death-road concept in my brain, i began to grow afraid that something would happen to me before sailing day, which was set for some time in january. i lived more circumspectly, drank less deeply, and went home more frequently. when drinking grew too wild, i got out. when nelson was in his maniacal cups, i managed to get separated from him. on the th of january, , i was seventeen, and the th of january i signed before the shipping commissioner the articles of the sophie sutherland, a three topmast sealing schooner bound on a voyage to the coast of japan. and of course we had to drink on it. joe vigy cashed my advance note, and pete holt treated, and i treated, and joe vigy treated, and other hunters treated. well, it was the way of men, and who was i, just turned seventeen, that i should decline the way of life of these fine, chesty, man-grown men? chapter xvi there was nothing to drink on the sophie sutherland, and we had fifty-one days of glorious sailing, taking the southern passage in the north-east trades to bonin islands. this isolated group, belonging to japan, had been selected as the rendezvous of the canadian and american sealing fleets. here they filled their water-barrels and made repairs before starting on the hundred days' harrying of the seal-herd along the northern coasts of japan to behring sea. those fifty-one days of fine sailing and intense sobriety had put me in splendid fettle. the alcohol had been worked out of my system, and from the moment the voyage began i had not known the desire for a drink. i doubt if i even thought once about a drink. often, of course, the talk in the forecastle turned on drink, and the men told of their more exciting or humorous drunks, remembering such passages more keenly, with greater delight, than all the other passages of their adventurous lives. in the forecastle, the oldest man, fat and fifty, was louis. he was a broken skipper. john barleycorn had thrown him, and he was winding up his career where he had begun it, in the forecastle. his case made quite an impression on me. john barleycorn did other things beside kill a man. he hadn't killed louis. he had done much worse. he had robbed him of power and place and comfort, crucified his pride, and condemned him to the hardship of the common sailor that would last as long as his healthy breath lasted, which promised to be for a long time. we completed our run across the pacific, lifted the volcanic peaks, jungle-clad, of the bonin islands, sailed in among the reefs to the land-locked harbour, and let our anchor rumble down where lay a score or more of sea-gypsies like ourselves. the scents of strange vegetation blew off the tropic land. aborigines, in queer outrigger canoes, and japanese, in queerer sampans, paddled about the bay and came aboard. it was my first foreign land; i had won to the other side of the world, and i would see all i had read in the books come true. i was wild to get ashore. victor and axel, a swede and a norwegian, and i planned to keep together. (and so well did we, that for the rest of the cruise we were known as the "three sports.") victor pointed out a pathway that disappeared up a wild canyon, emerged on a steep bare lava slope, and thereafter appeared and disappeared, ever climbing, among the palms and flowers. we would go over that path, he said, and we agreed, and we would see beautiful scenery, and strange native villages, and find, heaven alone knew, what adventure at the end. and axel was keen to go fishing. the three of us agreed to that, too. we would get a sampan, and a couple of japanese fishermen who knew the fishing grounds, and we would have great sport. as for me, i was keen for anything. and then, our plans made, we rowed ashore over the banks of living coral and pulled our boat up the white beach of coral sand. we walked across the fringe of beach under the cocoanut-palms and into the little town, and found several hundred riotous seamen from all the world, drinking prodigiously, singing prodigiously, dancing prodigiously--and all on the main street to the scandal of a helpless handful of japanese police. victor and axel said that we'd have a drink before we started on our long walk. could i decline to drink with these two chesty shipmates? drinking together, glass in hand, put the seal on comradeship. it was the way of life. our teetotaler owner-captain was laughed at, and sneered at, by all of us because of his teetotalism. i didn't in the least want a drink, but i did want to be a good fellow and a good comrade. nor did louis' case deter me, as i poured the biting, scorching stuff down my throat. john barleycorn had thrown louis to a nasty fall, but i was young. my blood ran full and red; i had a constitution of iron; and--well, youth ever grins scornfully at the wreckage of age. queer, fierce, alcoholic stuff it was that we drank. there was no telling where or how it had been manufactured--some native concoction most likely. but it was hot as fire, pale as water, and quick as death with its kick. it had been filled into empty "square-face" bottles which had once contained holland gin, and which still bore the fitting legend "anchor brand." it certainly anchored us. we never got out of the town. we never went fishing in the sampan. and though we were there ten days, we never trod that wild path along the lava cliffs and among the flowers. we met old acquaintances from other schooners, fellows we had met in the saloons of san francisco before we sailed. and each meeting meant a drink; and there was much to talk about; and more drinks; and songs to be sung; and pranks and antics to be performed, until the maggots of imagination began to crawl, and it all seemed great and wonderful to me, these lusty hard-bitten sea-rovers, of whom i made one, gathered in wassail on a coral strand. old lines about knights at table in the great banquet halls, and of those above the salt and below the salt, and of vikings feasting fresh from sea and ripe for battle, came to me; and i knew that the old times were not dead and that we belonged to that selfsame ancient breed. by mid-afternoon victor went mad with drink, and wanted to fight everybody and everything. i have since seen lunatics in the violent wards of asylums that seemed to behave in no wise different from victor's way, save that perhaps he was more violent. axel and i interfered as peacemakers, were roughed and jostled in the mix-ups, and finally, with infinite precaution and intoxicated cunning, succeeded in inveigling our chum down to the boat and in rowing him aboard our schooner. but no sooner did victor's feet touch the deck than he began to clean up the ship. he had the strength of several men, and he ran amuck with it. i remember especially one man whom he got into the chain-boxes but failed to damage through inability to hit him. the man dodged and ducked, and victor broke all the knuckles of both his fists against the huge links of the anchor chain. by the time we dragged him out of that, his madness had shifted to the belief that he was a great swimmer, and the next moment he was overboard and demonstrating his ability by floundering like a sick porpoise and swallowing much salt water. we rescued him, and by the time we got him below, undressed, and into his bunk, we were wrecks ourselves. but axel and i wanted to see more of shore, and away we went, leaving victor snoring. it was curious, the judgment passed on victor by his shipmates, drinkers themselves. they shook their heads disapprovingly and muttered: "a man like that oughtn't to drink." now victor was the smartest sailor and best-tempered shipmate in the forecastle. he was an all-round splendid type of seaman; his mates recognised his worth, and respected him and liked him. yet john barleycorn metamorphosed him into a violent lunatic. and that was the very point these drinkers made. they knew that drink--and drink with a sailor is always excessive--made them mad, but only mildly mad. violent madness was objectionable because it spoiled the fun of others and often culminated in tragedy. from their standpoint, mild madness was all right. but from the standpoint of the whole human race, is not all madness objectionable? and is there a greater maker of madness of all sorts than john barleycorn? but to return. ashore, snugly ensconced in a japanese house of entertainment, axel and i compared bruises, and over a comfortable drink talked of the afternoon's happenings. we liked the quietness of that drink and took another. a shipmate dropped in, several shipmates dropped in, and we had more quiet drinks. finally, just as we had engaged a japanese orchestra, and as the first strains of the samisens and taikos were rising, through the paper-walls came a wild howl from the street. we recognised it. still howling, disdaining doorways, with blood-shot eyes and wildly waving muscular arms, victor burst upon us through the fragile walls. the old amuck rage was on him, and he wanted blood, anybody's blood. the orchestra fled; so did we. we went through doorways, and we went through paper-walls--anything to get away. and after the place was half wrecked, and we had agreed to pay the damage, leaving victor partly subdued and showing symptoms of lapsing into a comatose state, axel and i wandered away in quest of a quieter drinking-place. the main street was a madness. hundreds of sailors rollicked up and down. because the chief of police with his small force was helpless, the governor of the colony had issued orders to the captains to have all their men on board by sunset. what! to be treated in such fashion! as the news spread among the schooners, they were emptied. everybody came ashore. men who had had no intention of coming ashore climbed into the boats. the unfortunate governor's ukase had precipitated a general debauch for all hands. it was hours after sunset, and the men wanted to see anybody try to put them on board. they went around inviting the authorities to try to put them on board. in front of the governor's house they were gathered thickest, bawling sea-songs, circulating square faces, and dancing uproarious virginia reels and old-country dances. the police, including the reserves, stood in little forlorn groups, waiting for the command the governor was too wise to issue. and i thought this saturnalia was great. it was like the old days of the spanish main come back. it was license; it was adventure. and i was part of it, a chesty sea-rover along with all these other chesty sea-rovers among the paper houses of japan. the governor never issued the order to clear the streets, and axel and i wandered on from drink to drink. after a time, in some of the antics, getting hazy myself, i lost him. i drifted along, making new acquaintances, downing more drinks, getting hazier and hazier. i remember, somewhere, sitting in a circle with japanese fishermen, kanaka boat-steerers from our own vessels, and a young danish sailor fresh from cowboying in the argentine and with a penchant for native customs and ceremonials. and with due and proper and most intricate japanese ceremonial we of the circle drank saki, pale, mild, and lukewarm, from tiny porcelain bowls. and, later, i remember the runaway apprentices--boys of eighteen and twenty, of middle class english families, who had jumped their ships and apprenticeships in various ports of the world and drifted into the forecastles of the sealing schooners. they were healthy, smooth-skinned, clear-eyed, and they were young--youths like me, learning the way of their feet in the world of men. and they were men. no mild saki for them, but square faces illicitly refilled with corrosive fire that flamed through their veins and burst into conflagrations in their heads. i remember a melting song they sang, the refrain of which was: "'tis but a little golden ring, i give it to thee with pride, wear it for your mother's sake when you are on the tide." they wept over it as they sang it, the graceless young scamps who had all broken their mothers' prides, and i sang with them, and wept with them, and luxuriated in the pathos and the tragedy of it, and struggled to make glimmering inebriated generalisations on life and romance. and one last picture i have, standing out very clear and bright in the midst of vagueness before and blackness afterward. we--the apprentices and i--are swaying and clinging to one another under the stars. we are singing a rollicking sea song, all save one who sits on the ground and weeps; and we are marking the rhythm with waving square faces. from up and down the street come far choruses of sea-voices similarly singing, and life is great, and beautiful and romantic, and magnificently mad. and next, after the blackness, i open my eyes in the early dawn to see a japanese woman, solicitously anxious, bending over me. she is the port pilot's wife and i am lying in her doorway. i am chilled and shivering, sick with the after-sickness of debauch. and i feel lightly clad. those rascals of runaway apprentices! they have acquired the habit of running away. they have run away with my possessions. my watch is gone. my few dollars are gone. my coat is gone. so is my belt. and yes, my shoes. and the foregoing is a sample of the ten days i spent in the bonin islands. victor got over his lunacy, rejoined axel and me, and after that we caroused somewhat more discreetly. and we never climbed that lava path among the flowers. the town and the square faces were all we saw. one who has been burned by fire must preach about the fire. i might have seen and healthily enjoyed a whole lot more of the bonin islands, if i had done what i ought to have done. but, as i see it, it is not a matter of what one ought to do, or ought not to do. it is what one does do. that is the everlasting, irrefragable fact. i did just what i did. i did what all those men did in the bonin islands. i did what millions of men over the world were doing at that particular point in time. i did it because the way led to it, because i was only a human boy, a creature of my environment, and neither an anaemic nor a god. i was just human, and i was taking the path in the world that men took--men whom i admired, if you please; full-blooded men, lusty, breedy, chesty men, free spirits and anything but niggards in the way they foamed life away. and the way was open. it was like an uncovered well in a yard where children play. it is small use to tell the brave little boys toddling their way along into knowledge of life that they mustn't play near the uncovered well. they'll play near it. any parent knows that. and we know that a certain percentage of them, the livest and most daring, will fall into the well. the thing to do--we all know it--is to cover up the well. the case is the same with john barleycorn. all the no-saying and no-preaching in the world will fail to keep men, and youths growing into manhood, away from john barleycorn when john barleycorn is everywhere accessible, and where john barleycorn is everywhere the connotation of manliness, and daring, and great-spiritedness. the only rational thing for the twentieth-century folk to do is to cover up the well; to make the twentieth century in truth the twentieth century, and to relegate to the nineteenth century and all the preceding centuries the things of those centuries, the witch-burnings, the intolerances, the fetiches, and, not least among such barbarisms, john barleycorn. chapter xvii north we raced from the bonin islands to pick up the seal-herd, and north we hunted it for a hundred days into frosty, mitten weather and into and through vast fogs which hid the sun from us for a week at a time. it was wild and heavy work, without a drink or thought of drink. then we sailed south to yokohama, with a big catch of skins in our salt and a heavy pay-day coming. i was eager to be ashore and see japan, but the first day was devoted to ship's work, and not until evening did we sailors land. and here, by the very system of things, by the way life was organised and men transacted affairs, john barleycorn reached out and tucked my arm in his. the captain had given money for us to the hunters, and the hunters were waiting in a certain japanese public house for us to come and get it. we rode to the place in rickshaws. our own crowd had taken possession of it. drink was flowing. everybody had money, and everybody was treating. after the hundred days of hard toil and absolute abstinence, in the pink of physical condition, bulging with health, over-spilling with spirits that had long been pent by discipline and circumstance, of course we would have a drink or two. and after that we would see the town. it was the old story. there were so many drinks to be drunk, and as the warm magic poured through our veins and mellowed our voices and affections we knew it was no time to make invidious distinctions--to drink with this shipmate and to decline to drink with that shipmate. we were all shipmates who had been through stress and storm together, who had pulled and hauled on the same sheets and tackles, relieved one another's wheels, laid out side by side on the same jib-boom when she was plunging into it and looked to see who was missing when she cleared and lifted. so we drank with all, and all treated, and our voices rose, and we remembered a myriad kindly acts of comradeship, and forgot our fights and wordy squabbles, and knew one another for the best fellows in the world. well, the night was young when we arrived in that public house, and for all of that first night that public house was what i saw of japan--a drinking-place which was very like a drinking-place at home or anywhere else over the world. we lay in yokohama harbour for two weeks, and about all we saw of japan was its drinking-places where sailors congregated. occasionally, some one of us varied the monotony with a more exciting drunk. in such fashion i managed a real exploit by swimming off to the schooner one dark midnight and going soundly to sleep while the water-police searched the harbour for my body and brought my clothes out for identification. perhaps it was for things like that, i imagined, that men got drunk. in our little round of living what i had done was a noteworthy event. all the harbour talked about it. i enjoyed several days of fame among the japanese boatmen and ashore in the pubs. it was a red-letter event. it was an event to be remembered and narrated with pride. i remember it to-day, twenty years afterward, with a secret glow of pride. it was a purple passage, just as victor's wrecking of the tea-house in the bonin islands and my being looted by the runaway apprentices were purple passages. the point is that the charm of john barleycorn was still a mystery to me. i was so organically a non-alcoholic that alcohol itself made no appeal; the chemical reactions it produced in me were not satisfying because i possessed no need for such chemical satisfaction. i drank because the men i was with drank, and because my nature was such that i could not permit myself to be less of a man than other men at their favourite pastime. and i still had a sweet tooth, and on privy occasions when there was no man to see, bought candy and blissfully devoured it. we hove up anchor to a jolly chanty, and sailed out of yokohama harbour for san francisco. we took the northern passage, and with the stout west wind at our back made the run across the pacific in thirty-seven days of brave sailing. we still had a big pay-day coming to us, and for thirty-seven days, without a drink to addle our mental processes, we incessantly planned the spending of our money. the first statement of each man--ever an ancient one in homeward-bound forecastles--was: "no boarding-house sharks in mine." next, in parentheses, was regret at having spent so much money in yokohama. and after that, each man proceeded to paint his favourite phantom. victor, for instance, said that immediately he landed in san francisco he would pass right through the water-front and the barbary coast, and put an advertisement in the papers. his advertisement would be for board and room in some simple working-class family. "then," said victor, "i shall go to some dancing-school for a week or two, just to meet and get acquainted with the girls and fellows. then i'll get the run of the different dancing crowds, and be invited to their homes, and to parties, and all that, and with the money i've got i can last out till next january, when i'll go sealing again." no; he wasn't going to drink. he knew the way of it, particularly his way of it, wine in, wit out, and his money would be gone in no time. he had his choice, based on bitter experience, between three days' debauch among the sharks and harpies of the barbary coast and a whole winter of wholesome enjoyment and sociability, and there wasn't any doubt of the way he was going to choose. said axel gunderson, who didn't care for dancing and social functions: "i've got a good pay-day. now i can go home. it is fifteen years since i've seen my mother and all the family. when i pay off, i shall send my money home to wait for me. then i'll pick a good ship bound for europe, and arrive there with another pay-day. put them together, and i'll have more money than ever in my life before. i'll be a prince at home. you haven't any idea how cheap everything is in norway. i can make presents to everybody, and spend my money like what would seem to them a millionaire, and live a whole year there before i'd have to go back to sea." "the very thing i'm going to do," declared red john. "it's three years since i've received a line from home and ten years since i was there. things are just as cheap in sweden, axel, as in norway, and my folks are real country folk and farmers. i'll send my pay-day home and ship on the same ship with you for around the horn. we'll pick a good one." and as axel gunderson and red john painted the pastoral delights and festive customs of their respective countries, each fell in love with the other's home place, and they solemnly pledged to make the journey together, and to spend, together, six months in the one's swedish home and six months in the other's norwegian home. and for the rest of the voyage they could hardly be pried apart, so infatuated did they become with discussing their plans. long john was not a home-body. but he was tired of the forecastle. no boarding-house sharks in his. he, too, would get a room in a quiet family, and he would go to a navigation school and study to be a captain. and so it went. each man swore that for once he would be sensible and not squander his money. no boarding-house sharks, no sailor-town, no drink, was the slogan of our forecastle. the men became stingy. never was there such economy. they refused to buy anything more from the slopchest. old rags had to last, and they sewed patch upon patch, turning out what are called "homeward-bound patches" of the most amazing proportions. they saved on matches, even, waiting till two or three were ready to light their pipes from the same match. as we sailed up the san francisco water-front, the moment the port doctors passed us, the boarding-house runners were alongside in whitehall boats. they swarmed on board, each drumming for his own boarding-house, and each with a bottle of free whisky inside his shirt. but we waved them grandly and blasphemously away. we wanted none of their boarding-houses and none of their whisky. we were sober, thrifty sailormen, with better use for our money. came the paying off before the shipping commissioner. we emerged upon the sidewalk, each with a pocketful of money. about us, like buzzards, clustered the sharks and harpies. and we looked at each other. we had been seven months together, and our paths were separating. one last farewell rite of comradeship remained. (oh, it was the way, the custom.) "come on, boys," said our sailing master. there stood the inevitable adjacent saloon. there were a dozen saloons all around. and when we had followed the sailing master into the one of his choice, the sharks were thick on the sidewalk outside. some of them even ventured inside, but we would have nothing to do with them. there we stood at the long bar--the sailing master, the mate, the six hunters, the six boat-steerers, and the five boat-pullers. there were only five of the last, for one of our number had been dropped overboard, with a sack of coal at his feet, between two snow squalls in a driving gale off cape jerimo. there were nineteen of us and it was to be our last drink together. with seven months of men's work in the world, blow high, blow low, behind us, we were looking on each other for the last time. we knew it, for sailors' ways go wide. and the nineteen of us drank the sailing master's treat. then the mate looked at us with eloquent eyes and called another round. we liked the mate just as well as the sailing master, and we liked them both. could we drink with one, and not the other? and pete holt, my own hunter (lost next year in the mary thomas, with all hands), called a round. the time passed, the drinks continued to come on the bar, our voices rose, and the maggots began to crawl. there were six hunters, and each insisted, in the sacred name of comradeship, that all hands drink with him just once. there were six boat-steerers and five boat-pullers and the same logic held with them. there was money in all our pockets, and our money was as good as any man's, and our hearts were as free and generous. nineteen rounds of drinks. what more would john barleycorn ask in order to have his will with men? they were ripe to forget their dearly cherished plans. they rolled out of the saloon and into the arms of the sharks and harpies. they didn't last long. from two days to a week saw the end of their money and saw them being carted by the boarding-house masters on board outward-bound ships. victor was a fine body of a man, and through a lucky friendship managed to get into the life-saving service. he never saw the dancing-school nor placed his advertisement for a room in a working-class family. nor did long john win to navigation school. by the end of the week he was a transient lumper on a river steamboat. red john and axel did not send their pay-days home to the old country. instead, and along with the rest, they were scattered on board sailing ships bound for the four quarters of the globe, where they had been placed by the boarding-house masters, and where they were working out advance money which they had neither seen nor spent. what saved me was that i had a home and people to go to. i crossed the bay to oakland, and, among other things, took a look at the death-road. nelson was gone--shot to death while drunk and resisting the officers. his partner in that affair was lying in prison. whisky bob was gone. old cole, old smoudge, and bob smith were gone. another smith, he of the belted guns and the annie, was drowned. french frank, they said, was lurking up river, afraid to come down because of something he had done. others were wearing the stripes in san quentin or folsom. big alec, the king of the greeks, whom i had known well in the old benicia days, and with whom i had drunk whole nights through, had killed two men and fled to foreign parts. fitzsimmons, with whom i had sailed on the fish patrol, had been stabbed in the lung through the back and had died a lingering death complicated with tuberculosis. and so it went, a very lively and well-patronised road, and, from what i knew of all of them, john barleycorn was responsible, with the sole exception of smith of the annie. chapter xviii my infatuation for the oakland water-front was quite dead. i didn't like the looks of it, nor the life. i didn't care for the drinking, nor the vagrancy of it, and i wandered back to the oakland free library and read the books with greater understanding. then, too, my mother said i had sown my wild oats and it was time i settled down to a regular job. also, the family needed the money. so i got a job at the jute mills--a ten-hour day at ten cents an hour. despite my increase in strength and general efficiency, i was receiving no more than when i worked in the cannery several years before. but, then, there was a promise of a rise to a dollar and a quarter a day after a few months. and here, so far as john barleycorn is concerned, began a period of innocence. i did not know what it was to take a drink from month end to month end. not yet eighteen years old, healthy and with labour-hardened but unhurt muscles, like any young animal i needed diversion, excitement, something beyond the books and the mechanical toil. i strayed into young men's christian associations. the life there was healthful and athletic, but too juvenile. for me it was too late. i was not boy, nor youth, despite my paucity of years. i had bucked big with men. i knew mysterious and violent things. i was from the other side of life so far as concerned the young men i encountered in the y.m.c.a. i spoke another language, possessed a sadder and more terrible wisdom. (when i come to think it over, i realise now that i have never had a boyhood.) at any rate, the y.m.c.a. young men were too juvenile for me, too unsophisticated. this i would not have minded, could they have met me and helped me mentally. but i had got more out of the books than they. their meagre physical experiences, plus their meagre intellectual experiences, made a negative sum so vast that it overbalanced their wholesome morality and healthful sports. in short, i couldn't play with the pupils of a lower grade. all the clean splendid young life that was theirs was denied me--thanks to my earlier tutelage under john barleycorn. i knew too much too young. and yet, in the good time coming when alcohol is eliminated from the needs and the institutions of men, it will be the y.m.c.a., and similar unthinkably better and wiser and more virile congregating-places, that will receive the men who now go to saloons to find themselves and one another. in the meantime, we live to-day, here and now, and we discuss to-day, here and now. i was working ten hours a day in the jute mills. it was hum-drum machine toil. i wanted life. i wanted to realise myself in other ways than at a machine for ten cents an hour. and yet i had had my fill of saloons. i wanted something new. i was growing up. i was developing unguessed and troubling potencies and proclivities. and at this very stage, fortunately, i met louis shattuck and we became chums. louis shattuck, without one vicious trait, was a real innocently devilish young fellow, who was quite convinced that he was a sophisticated town boy. and i wasn't a town boy at all. louis was handsome, and graceful, and filled with love for the girls. with him it was an exciting and all-absorbing pursuit. i didn't know anything about girls. i had been too busy being a man. this was an entirely new phase of existence which had escaped me. and when i saw louis say good-bye to me, raise his hat to a girl of his acquaintance, and walk on with her side by side down the sidewalk, i was made excited and envious. i, too, wanted to play this game. "well, there's only one thing to do," said louis, "and that is, you must get a girl." which is more difficult than it sounds. let me show you, at the expense of a slight going aside. louis did not know girls in their home life. he had the entree to no girl's home. and of course, i, a stranger in this new world, was similarly circumstanced. but, further, louis and i were unable to go to dancing-schools, or to public dances, which were very good places for getting acquainted. we didn't have the money. he was a blacksmith's apprentice, and was earning but slightly more than i. we both lived at home and paid our way. when we had done this, and bought our cigarettes, and the inevitable clothes and shoes, there remained to each of us, for personal spending, a sum that varied between seventy cents and a dollar for the week. we whacked this up, shared it, and sometimes loaned all of what was left of it when one of us needed it for some more gorgeous girl-adventure, such as car-fare out to blair's park and back--twenty cents, bang, just like that; and ice-cream for two--thirty cents; or tamales in a tamale-parlour, which came cheaper and which for two cost only twenty cents. i did not mind this money meagreness. the disdain i had learned for money from the oyster pirates had never left me. i didn't care over-weeningly for it for personal gratification; and in my philosophy i completed the circle, finding myself as equable with the lack of a ten-cent piece as i was with the squandering of scores of dollars in calling all men and hangers-on up to the bar to drink with me. but how to get a girl? there was no girl's home to which louis could take me and where i might be introduced to girls. i knew none. and louis' several girls he wanted for himself; and anyway, in the very human nature of boys' and girls' ways, he couldn't turn any of them over to me. he did persuade them to bring girl-friends for me; but i found them weak sisters, pale and ineffectual alongside the choice specimens he had. "you'll have to do like i did," he said finally. "i got these by getting them. you'll have to get one the same way." and he initiated me. it must be remembered that louis and i were hard situated. we really had to struggle to pay our board and maintain a decent appearance. we met each other in the evening, after the day's work, on the street corner, or in a little candy store on a side street, our sole frequenting-place. here we bought our cigarettes, and, occasionally, a nickel's worth of "red-hots." (oh, yes; louis and i unblushingly ate candy--all we could get. neither of us drank. neither of us ever went into a saloon.) but the girl. in quite primitive fashion, as louis advised me, i was to select her and make myself acquainted with her. we strolled the streets in the early evenings. the girls, like us, strolled in pairs. and strolling girls will look at strolling boys who look. (and to this day, in any town, city, or village, in which i, in my middle age, find myself, i look on with the eye trained of old experience, and watch the sweet innocent game played by the strolling boys and girls who just must stroll when the spring and summer evenings call.) the trouble was that in this arcadian phase of my history, i, who had come through, case-hardened, from the other side of life, was timid and bashful. again and again louis nerved me up. but i didn't know girls. they were strange and wonderful to me after my precocious man's life. i failed of the bold front and the necessary forwardness when the crucial moment came. then louis would show me how--a certain, eloquent glance of eye, a smile, a daring, a lifted hat, a spoken word, hesitancies, giggles, coy nervousnesses--and, behold, louis acquainted and nodding me up to be introduced. but when we paired off to stroll along boy and girl together, i noted that louis had invariably picked the good-looker and left to me the little lame sister. i improved, of course, after experiences too numerous to enter upon, so that there were divers girls to whom i could lift my hat and who would walk beside me in the early evenings. but girl's love did not immediately come to me. i was excited, interested, and i pursued the quest. and the thought of drink never entered my mind. some of louis' and my adventures have since given me serious pause when casting sociological generalisations. but it was all good and innocently youthful, and i learned one generalisation, biological rather than sociological, namely, that the "colonel's lady and judy o'grady are sisters under their skins." and before long i learned girl's love, all the dear fond deliciousness of it, all the glory and the wonder. i shall call her haydee. she was between fifteen and sixteen. her little skirt reached her shoe-tops. we sat side by side in a salvation army meeting. she was not a convert, nor was her aunt who sat on the other side of her, and who, visiting from the country where at that time the salvation army was not, had dropped in to the meeting for half an hour out of curiosity. and louis sat beside me and observed--i do believe he did no more than observe, because haydee was not his style of girl. we did not speak, but in that great half-hour we glanced shyly at each other, and shyly avoided or as shyly returned and met each other's glances more than several times. she had a slender oval face. her brown eyes were beautiful. her nose was a dream, as was her sweet-lipped, petulant-hinting mouth. she wore a tam-o'-shanter, and i thought her brown hair the prettiest shade of brown i had ever seen. and from that single experience of half an hour i have ever since been convinced of the reality of love at first sight. all too soon the aunt and haydee departed. (this is permissible at any stage of a salvation army meeting.) i was no longer interested in the meeting, and, after an appropriate interval of a couple of minutes or less, started to leave with louis. as we passed out, at the back of the hall a woman recognised me with her eyes, arose, and followed me. i shall not describe her. she was of my own kind and friendship of the old time on the water-front. when nelson was shot, he had died in her arms, and she knew me as his one comrade. and she must tell me how nelson had died, and i did want to know; so i went with her across the width of life from dawning boy's love for a brown-haired girl in a tam-o'-shanter back to the old sad savagery i had known. and when i had heard the tale, i hurried away to find louis, fearing that i had lost my first love with the first glimpse of her. but louis was dependable. her name was--haydee. he knew where she lived. each day she passed the blacksmith's shop where he worked, going to or from the lafayette school. further, he had seen her on occasion with ruth, another schoolgirl, and, still further, nita, who sold us red-hots at the candy store, was a friend of ruth. the thing to do was to go around to the candy store and see if we could get nita to give a note to ruth to give to haydee. if this could be arranged, all i had to do was write the note. and it so happened. and in stolen half-hours of meeting i came to know all the sweet madness of boy's love and girl's love. so far as it goes it is not the biggest love in the world, but i do dare to assert that it is the sweetest. oh, as i look back on it! never did girl have more innocent boy-lover than i who had been so wicked-wise and violent beyond my years. i didn't know the first thing about girls. i, who had been hailed prince of the oyster pirates, who could go anywhere in the world as a man amongst men; who could sail boats, lay aloft in black and storm, or go into the toughest hang-outs in sailor town and play my part in any rough-house that started or call all hands to the bar--i didn't know the first thing i might say or do with this slender little chit of a girl-woman whose scant skirt just reached her shoe-tops and who was as abysmally ignorant of life as i was, or thought i was, profoundly wise. i remember we sat on a bench in the starlight. there was fully a foot of space between us. we slightly faced each other, our near elbows on the back of the bench; and once or twice our elbows just touched. and all the time, deliriously happy, talking in the gentlest and most delicate terms that might not offend her sensitive ears, i was cudgelling my brains in an effort to divine what i was expected to do. what did girls expect of boys, sitting on a bench and tentatively striving to find out what love was? what did she expect me to do? was i expected to kiss her? did she expect me to try? and if she did expect me, and i didn't what would she think of me? ah, she was wiser than i--i know it now--the little innocent girl-woman in her shoe-top skirt. she had known boys all her life. she encouraged me in the ways a girl may. her gloves were off and in one hand, and i remember, lightly and daringly, in mock reproof for something i had said, how she tapped my lips with a tiny flirt of those gloves. i was like to swoon with delight. it was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to me. and i remember yet the faint scent that clung to those gloves and that i breathed in the moment they touched my lips. then came the agony of apprehension and doubt. should i imprison in my hand that little hand with the dangling, scented gloves which had just tapped my lips? should i dare to kiss her there and then, or slip my arm around her waist? or dared i even sit closer? well, i didn't dare. i did nothing. i merely continued to sit there and love with all my soul. and when we parted that evening i had not kissed her. i do remember the first time i kissed her, on another evening, at parting--a mighty moment, when i took all my heart of courage and dared. we never succeeded in managing more than a dozen stolen meetings, and we kissed perhaps a dozen times--as boys and girls kiss, briefly and innocently, and wonderingly. we never went anywhere--not even to a matinee. we once shared together five cents worth of red-hots. but i have always fondly believed that she loved me. i know i loved her; and i dreamed day-dreams of her for a year and more, and the memory of her is very dear. chapter xix when i was with people who did not drink, i never thought of drinking. louis did not drink. neither he nor i could afford it; but, more significant than that, we had no desire to drink. we were healthy, normal, non-alcoholic. had we been alcoholic, we would have drunk whether or not we could have afforded it. each night, after the day's work, washed up, clothes changed, and supper eaten, we met on the street corner or in the little candy store. but the warm fall weather passed, and on bitter nights of frost or damp nights of drizzle, the street corner was not a comfortable meeting-place. and the candy store was unheated. nita, or whoever waited on the counter, between waitings lurked in a back living-room that was heated. we were not admitted to this room, and in the store it was as cold as out-of-doors. louis and i debated the situation. there was only one solution: the saloon, the congregating-place of men, the place where men hobnobbed with john barleycorn. well do i remember the damp and draughty evening, shivering without overcoats because we could not afford them, that louis and i started out to select our saloon. saloons are always warm and comfortable. now louis and i did not go into this saloon because we wanted a drink. yet we knew that saloons were not charitable institutions. a man could not make a lounging-place of a saloon without occasionally buying something over the bar. our dimes and nickels were few. we could ill spare any of them when they were so potent in paying car-fare for oneself and a girl. (we never paid car-fare when by ourselves, being content to walk.) so, in this saloon, we desired to make the most of our expenditure. we called for a deck of cards and sat down at a table and played euchre for an hour, in which time louis treated once, and i treated once, to beer--the cheapest drink, ten cents for two. prodigal! how we grudged it! we studied the men who came into the place. they seemed all middle-aged and elderly work-men, most of them germans, who flocked by themselves in old-acquaintance groups, and with whom we could have only the slightest contacts. we voted against that saloon, and went out cast down with the knowledge that we had lost an evening and wasted twenty cents for beer that we didn't want. we made several more tries on succeeding nights, and at last found our way into the national, a saloon on tenth and franklin. here was a more congenial crowd. here louis met a fellow or two he knew, and here i met fellows i had gone to school with when a little lad in knee pants. we talked of old days, and of what had become of this fellow, and what that fellow was doing now, and of course we talked it over drinks. they treated, and we drank. then, according to the code of drinking, we had to treat. it hurt, for it meant forty to fifty cents a clatter. we felt quite enlivened when the short evening was over; but at the same time we were bankrupt. our week's spending money was gone. we decided that that was the saloon for us, and we agreed to be more circumspect thereafter in our drink-buying. also, we had to economise for the rest of the week. we didn't even have car-fare. we were compelled to break an engagement with two girls from west oakland with whom we were attempting to be in love. they were to meet us up town the next evening, and we hadn't the car-fare necessary to take them home. like many others financially embarrassed, we had to disappear for a time from the gay whirl--at least until saturday night pay-day. so louis and i rendezvoused in a livery stable, and with coats buttoned and chattering teeth played euchre and casino until the time of our exile was over. then we returned to the national saloon and spent no more than we could decently avoid spending for the comfort and warmth. sometimes we had mishaps, as when one got stuck twice in succession in a five-handed game of sancho pedro for the drinks. such a disaster meant anywhere between twenty-five to eighty cents, just according to how many of the players ordered ten-cent drinks. but we could temporarily escape the evil effects of such disaster, by virtue of an account we ran behind the bar. of course, this only set back the day of reckoning and seduced us into spending more than we would have spent on a cash basis. (when i left oakland suddenly for the adventure-path the following spring, i well remember i owed that saloon-keeper one dollar and seventy cents. long after, when i returned, he was gone. i still owe him that dollar and seventy cents, and if he should chance to read these lines i want him to know that i'll pay on demand.) the foregoing incident of the national saloon i have given in order again to show the lure, or draw, or compulsion, toward john barleycorn in society as at present organised with saloons on all the corners. louis and i were two healthy youths. we didn't want to drink. we couldn't afford to drink. and yet we were driven by the circumstance of cold and rainy weather to seek refuge in a saloon, where we had to spend part of our pitiful dole for drink. it will be urged by some critics that we might have gone to the y.m.c.a., to night school, and to the social circles and homes of young people. the only reply is that we didn't. that is the irrefragable fact. we didn't. and to-day, at this moment, there are hundreds of thousands of boys like louis and me doing just what louis and i did with john barleycorn, warm and comfortable, beckoning and welcoming, tucking their arms in his and beginning to teach them his mellow ways. chapter xx the jute mills failed of its agreement to increase my pay to a dollar and a quarter a day, and i, a free-born american boy whose direct ancestors had fought in all the wars from the old pre-revolutionary indian wars down, exercised my sovereign right of free contract by quitting the job. i was still resolved to settle down, and i looked about me. one thing was clear. unskilled labour didn't pay. i must learn a trade, and i decided on electricity. the need for electricians was constantly growing. but how to become an electrician? i hadn't the money to go to a technical school or university; besides, i didn't think much of schools. i was a practical man in a practical world. also, i still believed in the old myths which were the heritage of the american boy when i was a boy. a canal boy could become a president. any boy who took employment with any firm could, by thrift, energy, and sobriety, learn the business and rise from position to position until he was taken in as a junior partner. after that the senior partnership was only a matter of time. very often--so ran the myth--the boy, by reason of his steadiness and application, married his employer's daughter. by this time i had been encouraged to such faith in myself in the matter of girls that i was quite certain i would marry my employer's daughter. there wasn't a doubt of it. all the little boys in the myths did it as soon as they were old enough. so i bade farewell for ever to the adventure-path, and went out to the power plant of one of our oakland street railways. i saw the superintendent himself, in a private office so fine that it almost stunned me. but i talked straight up. i told him i wanted to become a practical electrician, that i was unafraid of work, that i was used to hard work, and that all he had to do was look at me to see i was fit and strong. i told him that i wanted to begin right at the bottom and work up, that i wanted to devote my life to this one occupation and this one employment. the superintendent beamed as he listened. he told me that i was the right stuff for success, and that he believed in encouraging american youth that wanted to rise. why, employers were always on the lookout for young fellows like me, and alas, they found them all too rarely. my ambition was fine and worthy, and he would see to it that i got my chance. (and as i listened with swelling heart, i wondered if it was his daughter i was to marry.) "before you can go out on the road and learn the more complicated and higher details of the profession," he said, "you will, of course, have to work in the car-house with the men who install and repair the motors. (by this time i was sure that it was his daughter, and i was wondering how much stock he might own in the company.) "but," he said, "as you yourself so plainly see, you couldn't expect to begin as a helper to the car-house electricians. that will come when you have worked up to it. you will really begin at the bottom. in the car-house your first employment will be sweeping up, washing the windows, keeping things clean. and after you have shown yourself satisfactory at that, then you may become a helper to the car-house electricians." i didn't see how sweeping and scrubbing a building was any preparation for the trade of electrician; but i did know that in the books all the boys started with the most menial tasks and by making good ultimately won to the ownership of the whole concern. "when shall i come to work?" i asked, eager to launch on this dazzling career. "but," said the superintendent, "as you and i have already agreed, you must begin at the bottom. not immediately can you in any capacity enter the car-house. before that you must pass through the engine-room as an oiler." my heart went down slightly and for the moment as i saw the road lengthen between his daughter and me; then it rose again. i would be a better electrician with knowledge of steam engines. as an oiler in the great engine-room i was confident that few things concerning steam would escape me. heavens! my career shone more dazzling than ever. "when shall i come to work?" i asked gratefully. "but," said the superintendent, "you could not expect to enter immediately into the engine-room. there must be preparation for that. and through the fire-room, of course. come, you see the matter clearly, i know. and you will see that even the mere handling of coal is a scientific matter and not to be sneered at. do you know that we weigh every pound of coal we burn? thus, we learn the value of the coal we buy; we know to a tee the last penny of cost of every item of production, and we learn which firemen are the most wasteful, which firemen, out of stupidity or carelessness, get the least out of the coal they fire." the superintendent beamed again. "you see how very important the little matter of coal is, and by as much as you learn of this little matter you will become that much better a workman--more valuable to us, more valuable to yourself. now, are you prepared to begin?" "any time," i said valiantly. "the sooner the better." "very well," he answered. "you will come to-morrow morning at seven o'clock." i was taken out and shown my duties. also, i was told the terms of my employment--a ten-hour day, every day in the month including sundays and holidays, with one day off each month, with a salary of thirty dollars a month. it wasn't exciting. years before, at the cannery, i had earned a dollar a day for a ten-hour day. i consoled myself with the thought that the reason my earning capacity had not increased with my years and strength was because i had remained an unskilled labourer. but it was different now. i was beginning to work for skill, for a trade, for career and fortune, and the superintendent's daughter. and i was beginning in the right way--right at the beginning. that was the thing. i was passing coal to the firemen, who shovelled it into the furnaces, where its energy was transformed into steam, which, in the engine-room, was transformed into the electricity with which the electricians worked. this passing coal was surely the very beginning-unless the superintendent should take it into his head to send me to work in the mines from which the coal came in order to get a completer understanding of the genesis of electricity for street railways. work! i, who had worked with men, found that i didn't know the first thing about real work. a ten-hour day! i had to pass coal for the day and night shifts, and, despite working through the noon-hour, i never finished my task before eight at night. i was working a twelve-to thirteen-hour day, and i wasn't being paid overtime as in the cannery. i might as well give the secret away right here. i was doing the work of two men. before me, one mature able-bodied labourer had done the day shift and another equally mature able-bodied labourer had done the night-shift. they had received forty dollars a month each. the superintendent, bent on an economical administration, had persuaded me to do the work of both men for thirty dollars a month. i thought he was making an electrician of me. in truth and fact, he was saving fifty dollars a month operating expenses to the company. but i didn't know i was displacing two men. nobody told me. on the contrary, the superintendent warned everybody not to tell me. how valiantly i went at it that first day. i worked at top speed, filling the iron wheelbarrow with coal, running it on the scales and weighing the load, then trundling it into the fire-room and dumping it on the plates before the fires. work! i did more than the two men whom i had displaced. they had merely wheeled in the coal and dumped it on the plates. but while i did this for the day coal, the night coal i had to pile against the wall of the fire-room. now the fire-room was small. it had been planned for a night coal-passer. so i had to pile the night coal higher and higher, buttressing up the heap with stout planks. toward the top of the heap i had to handle the coal a second time, tossing it up with a shovel. i dripped with sweat, but i never ceased from my stride, though i could feel exhaustion coming on. by ten o'clock in the morning, so much of my body's energy had i consumed, i felt hungry and snatched a thick double-slice of bread and butter from my dinner pail. this i devoured, standing, grimed with coal-dust, my knees trembling under me. by eleven o'clock, in this fashion i had consumed my whole lunch. but what of it? i realised that it would enable me to continue working through the noon hour. and i worked all the afternoon. darkness came on, and i worked under the electric lights. the day fireman went off and the night fireman came on. i plugged away. at half-past eight, famished, tottering, i washed up, changed my clothes, and dragged my weary body to the car. it was three miles to where i lived, and i had received a pass with the stipulation that i could sit down as long as there were no paying passengers in need of a seat. as i sank into a corner outside seat i prayed that no passenger might require my seat. but the car filled up, and, half-way in, a woman came on board, and there was no seat for her. i started to get up, and to my astonishment found that i could not. with the chill wind blowing on me, my spent body had stiffened into the seat. it took me the rest of the run in to unkink my complaining joints and muscles and get into a standing position on the lower step. and when the car stopped at my corner i nearly fell to the ground when i stepped off. i hobbled two blocks to the house and limped into the kitchen. while my mother started to cook, i plunged into bread and butter; but before my appetite was appeased, or the steak fried, i was sound asleep. in vain my mother strove to shake me awake enough to eat the meat. failing in this, with the assistance of my father she managed to get me to my room, where i collapsed dead asleep on the bed. they undressed me and covered me up. in the morning came the agony of being awakened. i was terribly sore, and, worst of all, my wrists were swelling. but i made up for my lost supper, eating an enormous breakfast, and when i hobbled to catch my car i carried a lunch twice as big as the one the day before. work! let any youth just turned eighteen try to out-shovel two man-grown coal-shovellers. work! long before midday i had eaten the last scrap of my huge lunch. but i was resolved to show them what a husky young fellow determined to rise could do. the worst of it was that my wrists were swelling and going back on me. there are few who do not know the pain of walking on a sprained ankle. then imagine the pain of shovelling coal and trundling a loaded wheelbarrow with two sprained wrists. work! more than once i sank down on the coal where no one could see me, and cried with rage, and mortification, and exhaustion, and despair. that second day was my hardest, and all that enabled me to survive it and get in the last of the night coal at the end of thirteen hours was the day fireman, who bound both my wrists with broad leather straps. so tightly were they buckled that they were like slightly flexible plaster casts. they took the stresses and pressures which hitherto had been borne by my wrists, and they were so tight that there was no room for the inflammation to rise in the sprains. and in this fashion i continued to learn to be an electrician. night after night i limped home, fell asleep before i could eat my supper, and was helped into bed and undressed. morning after morning, always with huger lunches in my dinner pail, i limped out of the house on my way to work. i no longer read my library books. i made no dates with the girls. i was a proper work beast. i worked, and ate, and slept, while my mind slept all the time. the whole thing was a nightmare. i worked every day, including sunday, and i looked far ahead to my one day off at the end of a month, resolved to lie abed all that day and just sleep and rest up. the strangest part of this experience was that i never took a drink nor thought of taking a drink. yet i knew that men under hard pressure almost invariably drank. i had seen them do it, and in the past had often done it myself. but so sheerly non-alcoholic was i that it never entered my mind that a drink might be good for me. i instance this to show how entirely lacking from my make-up was any predisposition toward alcohol. and the point of this instance is that later on, after more years had passed, contact with john barleycorn at last did induce in me the alcoholic desire. i had often noticed the day fireman staring at me in a curious way. at last, one day, he spoke. he began by swearing me to secrecy. he had been warned by the superintendent not to tell me, and in telling me he was risking his job. he told me of the day coal-passer and the night coal-passer, and of the wages they had received. i was doing for thirty dollars a month what they had received eighty dollars for doing. he would have told me sooner, the fireman said, had he not been so certain that i would break down under the work and quit. as it was, i was killing myself, and all to no good purpose. i was merely cheapening the price of labour, he argued, and keeping two men out of a job. being an american boy, and a proud american boy, i did not immediately quit. this was foolish of me, i know; but i resolved to continue the work long enough to prove to the superintendent that i could do it without breaking down. then i would quit, and he would realise what a fine young fellow he had lost. all of which i faithfully and foolishly did. i worked on until the time came when i got in the last of the night coal by six o'clock. then i quit the job of learning electricity by doing more than two men's work for a boy's wages, went home, and proceeded to sleep the clock around. fortunately, i had not stayed by the job long enough to injure myself--though i was compelled to wear straps on my wrists for a year afterward. but the effect of this work orgy in which i had indulged was to sicken me with work. i just wouldn't work. the thought of work was repulsive. i didn't care if i never settled down. learning a trade could go hang. it was a whole lot better to royster and frolic over the world in the way i had previously done. so i headed out on the adventure-path again, starting to tramp east by beating my way on the railroads. chapter xxi but behold! as soon as i went out on the adventure-path i met john barleycorn again. i moved through a world of strangers, and the act of drinking together made one acquainted with men and opened the way to adventures. it might be in a saloon with jingled townsmen, or with a genial railroad man well lighted up and armed with pocket flasks, or with a bunch of alki stiffs in a hang-out. yes; and it might be in a prohibition state, such as iowa was in , when i wandered up the main street of des moines and was variously invited by strangers into various blind pigs--i remember drinking in barber-shops, plumbing establishments, and furniture stores. always it was john barleycorn. even a tramp, in those halcyon days, could get most frequently drunk. i remember, inside the prison at buffalo, how some of us got magnificently jingled, and how, on the streets of buffalo after our release, another jingle was financed with pennies begged on the main-drag. i had no call for alcohol, but when i was with those who drank, i drank with them. i insisted on travelling or loafing with the livest, keenest men, and it was just these live, keen ones that did most of the drinking. they were the more comradely men, the more venturous, the more individual. perhaps it was too much temperament that made them turn from the commonplace and humdrum to find relief in the lying and fantastic sureties of john barleycorn. be that as it may, the men i liked best, desired most to be with, were invariably to be found in john barleycorn's company. in the course of my tramping over the united states i achieved a new concept. as a tramp, i was behind the scenes of society--aye, and down in the cellar. i could watch the machinery work. i saw the wheels of the social machine go around, and i learned that the dignity of manual labour wasn't what i had been told it was by the teachers, preachers, and politicians. the men without trades were helpless cattle. if one learned a trade, he was compelled to belong to a union in order to work at his trade. and his union was compelled to bully and slug the employers' unions in order to hold up wages or hold down hours. the employers' unions like-wise bullied and slugged. i couldn't see any dignity at all. and when a workman got old, or had an accident, he was thrown into the scrap-heap like any worn-out machine. i saw too many of this sort who were making anything but dignified ends of life. so my new concept was that manual labour was undignified, and that it didn't pay. no trade for me, was my decision, and no superintendent's daughters. and no criminality, i also decided. that would be almost as disastrous as to be a labourer. brains paid, not brawn, and i resolved never again to offer my muscles for sale in the brawn market. brain, and brain only, would i sell. i returned to california with the firm intention of developing my brain. this meant school education. i had gone through the grammar school long ago, so i entered the oakland high school. to pay my way i worked as a janitor. my sister helped me, too; and i was not above mowing anybody's lawn or taking up and beating carpets when i had half a day to spare. i was working to get away from work, and i buckled down to it with a grim realisation of the paradox. boy and girl love was left behind, and, along with it, haydee and louis shattuck, and the early evening strolls. i hadn't the time. i joined the henry clay debating society. i was received into the homes of some of the members, where i met nice girls whose skirts reached the ground. i dallied with little home clubs wherein we discussed poetry and art and the nuances of grammar. i joined the socialist local where we studied and orated political economy, philosophy, and politics. i kept half a dozen membership cards working in the free library and did an immense amount of collateral reading. and for a year and a half on end i never took a drink, nor thought of taking a drink. i hadn't the time, and i certainly did not have the inclination. between my janitor-work, my studies, and innocent amusements such as chess, i hadn't a moment to spare. i was discovering a new world, and such was the passion of my exploration that the old world of john barleycorn held no inducements for me. come to think of it, i did enter a saloon. i went to see johnny heinhold in the last chance, and i went to borrow money. and right here is another phase of john barleycorn. saloon-keepers are notoriously good fellows. on an average they perform vastly greater generosities than do business men. when i simply had to have ten dollars, desperate, with no place to turn, i went to johnny heinhold. several years had passed since i had been in his place or spent a cent across his bar. and when i went to borrow the ten dollars i didn't buy a drink, either. and johnny heinhold let me have the ten dollars without security or interest. more than once, in the brief days of my struggle for an education, i went to johnny heinhold to borrow money. when i entered the university, i borrowed forty dollars from him, without interest, without security, without buying a drink. and yet--and here is the point, the custom, and the code--in the days of my prosperity, after the lapse of years, i have gone out of my way by many a long block to spend across johnny heinhold's bar deferred interest on the various loans. not that johnny heinhold asked me to do it, or expected me to do it. i did it, as i have said, in obedience to the code i had learned along with all the other things connected with john barleycorn. in distress, when a man has no other place to turn, when he hasn't the slightest bit of security which a savage-hearted pawn-broker would consider, he can go to some saloon-keeper he knows. gratitude is inherently human. when the man so helped has money again, depend upon it that a portion will be spent across the bar of the saloon-keeper who befriended him. why, i recollect the early days of my writing career, when the small sums of money i earned from the magazines came with tragic irregularity, while at the same time i was staggering along with a growing family--a wife, children, a mother, a nephew, and my mammy jennie and her old husband fallen on evil days. there were two places at which i could borrow money; a barber shop and a saloon. the barber charged me five per cent. per month in advance. that is to say, when i borrowed one hundred dollars, he handed me ninety-five. the other five dollars he retained as advance interest for the first month. and on the second month i paid him five dollars more, and continued so to do each month until i made a ten strike with the editors and lifted the loan. the other place to which i came in trouble was the saloon. this saloon-keeper i had known by sight for a couple of years. i had never spent my money in his saloon, and even when i borrowed from him i didn't spend any money. yet never did he refuse me any sum i asked of him. unfortunately, before i became prosperous, he moved away to another city. and to this day i regret that he is gone. it is the code i have learned. the right thing to do, and the thing i'd do right now did i know where he is, would be to drop in on occasion and spend a few dollars across his bar for old sake's sake and gratitude. this is not to exalt saloon-keepers. i have written it to exalt the power of john barleycorn and to illustrate one more of the myriad ways by which a man is brought in contact with john barleycorn until in the end he finds he cannot get along without him. but to return to the run of my narrative. away from the adventure-path, up to my ears in study, every moment occupied, i lived oblivious to john barleycorn's existence. nobody about me drank. if any had drunk, and had they offered it to me, i surely would have drunk. as it was, when i had spare moments i spent them playing chess, or going with nice girls who were themselves students, or in riding a bicycle whenever i was fortunate enough to have it out of the pawnbroker's possession. what i am insisting upon all the time is this: in me was not the slightest trace of alcoholic desire, and this despite the long and severe apprenticeship i had served under john barleycorn. i had come back from the other side of life to be delighted with this arcadian simplicity of student youths and student maidens. also, i had found my way into the realm of the mind, and i was intellectually intoxicated. (alas! as i was to learn at a later period, intellectual intoxication too, has its katzenjammer.) chapter xxii three years was the time required to go through the high school. i grew impatient. also, my schooling was becoming financially impossible. at such rate i could not last out, and i did greatly want to go to the state university. when i had done a year of high school, i decided to attempt a short cut. i borrowed the money and paid to enter the senior class of a "cramming joint" or academy. i was scheduled to graduate right into the university at the end of four months, thus saving two years. and how i did cram! i had two years' new work to do in a third of a year. for five weeks i crammed, until simultaneous quadratic equations and chemical formulas fairly oozed from my ears. and then the master of the academy took me aside. he was very sorry, but he was compelled to give me back my tuition fee and to ask me to leave the school. it wasn't a matter of scholarship. i stood well in my classes, and did he graduate me into the university he was confident that in that institution i would continue to stand well. the trouble was that tongues were gossiping about my case. what! in four months accomplished two years' work! it would be a scandal, and the universities were becoming severer in their treatment of accredited prep schools. he couldn't afford such a scandal, therefore i must gracefully depart. i did. and i paid back the borrowed money, and gritted my teeth, and started to cram by myself. there were three months yet before the university entrance examinations. without laboratories, without coaching, sitting in my bedroom, i proceeded to compress that two years' work into three months and to keep reviewed on the previous year's work. nineteen hours a day i studied. for three months i kept this pace, only breaking it on several occasions. my body grew weary, my mind grew weary, but i stayed with it. my eyes grew weary and began to twitch, but they did not break down. perhaps, toward the last, i got a bit dotty. i know that at the time i was confident, i had discovered the formula for squaring the circle; but i resolutely deferred the working of it out until after the examinations. then i would show them. came the several days of the examinations, during which time i scarcely closed my eyes in sleep, devoting every moment to cramming and reviewing. and when i turned in my last examination paper i was in full possession of a splendid case of brain-fag. i didn't want to see a book. i didn't want to think or to lay eyes on anybody who was liable to think. there was but one prescription for such a condition, and i gave it to myself--the adventure-path. i didn't wait to learn the result of my examinations. i stowed a roll of blankets and some cold food into a borrowed whitehall boat and set sail. out of the oakland estuary i drifted on the last of an early morning ebb, caught the first of the flood up bay, and raced along with a spanking breeze. san pablo bay was smoking, and the carquinez straits off the selby smelter were smoking, as i picked up ahead and left astern the old landmarks i had first learned with nelson in the unreefer reindeer. benicia showed before me. i opened the bight of turner's shipyard, rounded the solano wharf, and surged along abreast of the patch of tules and the clustering fishermen's arks where in the old days i had lived and drunk deep. and right here something happened to me, the gravity of which i never dreamed for many a long year to come. i had had no intention of stopping at benicia. the tide favoured, the wind was fair and howling--glorious sailing for a sailor. bull head and army points showed ahead, marking the entrance to suisun bay which i knew was smoking. and yet, when i laid eyes on those fishing arks lying in the water-front tules, without debate, on the instant, i put down my tiller, came in on the sheet, and headed for the shore. on the instant, out of the profound of my brain-fag, i knew what i wanted. i wanted to drink. i wanted to get drunk. the call was imperative. there was no uncertainty about it. more than anything else in the world, my frayed and frazzled mind wanted surcease from weariness in the way it knew surcease would come. and right here is the point. for the first time in my life i consciously, deliberately, desired to get drunk. it was a new, a totally different manifestation of john barleycorn's power. it was not a body need for alcohol. it was a mental desire. my over-worked and jaded mind wanted to forget. and here the point is drawn to its sharpest. granted my prodigious brain-fag, nevertheless, had i never drunk in the past, the thought would never have entered my mind to get drunk now. beginning with physical intolerance for alcohol, for years drinking only for the sake of comradeship and because alcohol was everywhere on the adventure-path, i had now reached the stage where my brain cried out, not merely for a drink, but for a drunk. and had i not been so long used to alcohol, my brain would not have so cried out. i should have sailed on past bull head, and in the smoking white of suisun bay, and in the wine of wind that filled my sail and poured through me, i should have forgotten my weary brain and rested and refreshed it. so i sailed in to shore, made all fast, and hurried up among the arks. charley le grant fell on my neck. his wife, lizzie, folded me to her capacious breast. billy murphy, and joe lloyd, and all the survivors of the old guard, got around me and their arms around me. charley seized the can and started for jorgensen's saloon across the railroad tracks. that meant beer. i wanted whisky, so i called after him to bring a flask. many times that flask journeyed across the railroad tracks and back. more old friends of the old free and easy times dropped in, fishermen, greeks, and russians, and french. they took turns in treating, and treated all around in turn again. they came and went, but i stayed on and drank with all. i guzzled. i swilled. i ran the liquor down and joyed as the maggots mounted in my brain. and clam came in, nelson's partner before me, handsome as ever, but more reckless, half insane, burning himself out with whisky. he had just had a quarrel with his partner on the sloop gazelle, and knives had been drawn, and blows struck, and he was bent on maddening the fever of the memory with more whisky. and while we downed it, we remembered nelson and that he had stretched out his great shoulders for the last long sleep in this very town of benicia; and we wept over the memory of him, and remembered only the good things of him, and sent out the flask to be filled and drank again. they wanted me to stay over, but through the open door i could see the brave wind on the water, and my ears were filled with the roar of it. and while i forgot that i had plunged into the books nineteen hours a day for three solid months, charley le grant shifted my outfit into a big columbia river salmon boat. he added charcoal and a fisherman's brazier, a coffee pot and frying pan, and the coffee and the meat, and a black bass fresh from the water that day. they had to help me down the rickety wharf and into the salmon boat. likewise they stretched my boom and sprit until the sail set like a board. some feared to set the sprit; but i insisted, and charley had no doubts. he knew me of old, and knew that i could sail as long as i could see. they cast off my painter. i put the tiller up, filled away before it, and with dizzy eyes checked and steadied the boat on her course and waved farewell. the tide had turned, and the fierce ebb, running in the teeth of a fiercer wind, kicked up a stiff, upstanding sea. suisun bay was white with wrath and sea-lump. but a salmon boat can sail, and i knew how to sail a salmon boat. so i drove her into it, and through it, and across, and maundered aloud and chanted my disdain for all the books and schools. cresting seas filled me a foot or so with water, but i laughed at it sloshing about my feet, and chanted my disdain for the wind and the water. i hailed myself a master of life, riding on the back of the unleashed elements, and john barleycorn rode with me. amid dissertations on mathematics and philosophy and spoutings and quotations, i sang all the old songs learned in the days when i went from the cannery to the oyster boats to be a pirate--such songs as: "black lulu," "flying cloud," "treat my daughter kind-i-ly," "the boston burglar," "come all you rambling, gambling men," "i wisht i was a little bird," "shenandoah," and "ranzo, boys, ranzo." hours afterward, in the fires of sunset, where the sacramento and the san joaquin tumble their muddy floods together, i took the new york cut-off, skimmed across the smooth land-locked water past black diamond, on into the san joaquin, and on to antioch, where, somewhat sobered and magnificently hungry, i laid alongside a big potato sloop that had a familiar rig. here were old friends aboard, who fried my black bass in olive oil. then, too, there was a meaty fisherman's stew, delicious with garlic, and crusty italian bread without butter, and all washed down with pint mugs of thick and heady claret. my salmon boat was a-soak, but in the snug cabin of the sloop dry blankets and a dry bunk were mine; and we lay and smoked and yarned of old days, while overhead the wind screamed through the rigging and taut halyards drummed against the mast. chapter xxiii my cruise in the salmon boat lasted a week, and i returned ready to enter the university. during the week's cruise i did not drink again. to accomplish this i was compelled to avoid looking up old friends, for as ever the adventure-path was beset with john barleycorn. i had wanted the drink that first day, and in the days that followed i did not want it. my tired brain had recuperated. i had no moral scruples in the matter. i was not ashamed nor sorry because of that first day's orgy at benicia, and i thought no more about it, returning gladly to my books and studies. long years were to pass ere i looked back upon that day and realised its significance. at the time, and for a long time afterward, i was to think of it only as a frolic. but still later, in the slough of brain-fag and intellectual weariness, i was to remember and know the craving for the anodyne that resides in alcohol. in the meantime, after this one relapse at benicia, i went on with my abstemiousness, primarily because i didn't want to drink. and next, i was abstemious because my way led among books and students where no drinking was. had i been out on the adventure-path, i should as a matter of course have been drinking. for that is the pity of the adventure-path, which is one of john barleycorn's favourite stamping grounds. i completed the first half of my freshman year, and in january of took up my courses for the second half. but the pressure from lack of money, plus a conviction that the university was not giving me all that i wanted in the time i could spare for it, forced me to leave. i was not very disappointed. for two years i had studied, and in those two years, what was far more valuable, i had done a prodigious amount of reading. then, too, my grammar had improved. it is true, i had not yet learned that i must say "it is i"; but i no longer was guilty of a double negative in writing, though still prone to that error in excited speech. i decided immediately to embark on my career. i had four preferences: first, music; second, poetry; third, the writing of philosophic, economic, and political essays; and, fourth, and last, and least, fiction writing. i resolutely cut out music as impossible, settled down in my bedroom, and tackled my second, third, and fourth choices simultaneously. heavens, how i wrote! never was there a creative fever such as mine from which the patient escaped fatal results. the way i worked was enough to soften my brain and send me to a mad-house. i wrote, i wrote everything--ponderous essays, scientific and sociological short stories, humorous verse, verse of all sorts from triolets and sonnets to blank verse tragedy and elephantine epics in spenserian stanzas. on occasion i composed steadily, day after day, for fifteen hours a day. at times i forgot to eat, or refused to tear myself away from my passionate outpouring in order to eat. and then there was the matter of typewriting. my brother-in-law owned a machine which he used in the day-time. in the night i was free to use it. that machine was a wonder. i could weep now as i recollect my wrestlings with it. it must have been a first model in the year one of the typewriter era. its alphabet was all capitals. it was informed with an evil spirit. it obeyed no known laws of physics, and overthrew the hoary axiom that like things performed to like things produce like results. i'll swear that machine never did the same thing in the same way twice. again and again it demonstrated that unlike actions produce like results. how my back used to ache with it! prior to that experience, my back had been good for every violent strain put upon it in a none too gentle career. but that typewriter proved to me that i had a pipe-stem for a back. also, it made me doubt my shoulders. they ached as with rheumatism after every bout. the keys of that machine had to be hit so hard that to one outside the house it sounded like distant thunder or some one breaking up the furniture. i had to hit the keys so hard that i strained my first fingers to the elbows, while the ends of my fingers were blisters burst and blistered again. had it been my machine i'd have operated it with a carpenter's hammer. the worst of it was that i was actually typing my manuscripts at the same time i was trying to master that machine. it was a feat of physical endurance and a brain storm combined to type a thousand words, and i was composing thousands of words every day which just had to be typed for the waiting editors. oh, between the writing and the typewriting i was well a-weary. i had brain and nerve fag, and body fag as well, and yet the thought of drink never suggested itself. i was living too high to stand in need of an anodyne. all my waking hours, except those with that infernal typewriter, were spent in a creative heaven. and along with this i had no desire for drink because i still believed in many things--in the love of all men and women in the matter of man and woman love; in fatherhood; in human justice; in art--in the whole host of fond illusions that keep the world turning around. but the waiting editors elected to keep on waiting. my manuscripts made amazing round-trip records between the pacific and the atlantic. it might have been the weirdness of the typewriting that prevented the editors from accepting at least one little offering of mine. i don't know, and goodness knows the stuff i wrote was as weird as its typing. i sold my hard-bought school books for ridiculous sums to second-hand bookmen. i borrowed small sums of money wherever i could, and suffered my old father to feed me with the meagre returns of his failing strength. it didn't last long, only a few weeks, when i had to surrender and go to work. yet i was unaware of any need for the drink anodyne. i was not disappointed. my career was retarded, that was all. perhaps i did need further preparation. i had learned enough from the books to realise that i had only touched the hem of knowledge's garment. i still lived on the heights. my waking hours, and most of the hours i should have used for sleep, were spent with the books. chapter xxiv out in the country, at the belmont academy, i went to work in a small, perfectly appointed steam laundry. another fellow and myself did all the work from sorting and washing to ironing the white shirts, collars and cuffs, and the "fancy starch" of the wives of the professors. we worked like tigers, especially as summer came on and the academy boys took to the wearing of duck trousers. it consumes a dreadful lot of time to iron one pair of duck trousers. and there were so many pairs of them. we sweated our way through long sizzling weeks at a task that was never done; and many a night, while the students snored in bed, my partner and i toiled on under the electric light at steam mangle or ironing board. the hours were long, the work was arduous, despite the fact that we became past masters in the art of eliminating waste motion. and i was receiving thirty dollars a month and board--a slight increase over my coal-shovelling and cannery days, at least to the extent of board, which cost my employer little (we ate in the kitchen), but which was to me the equivalent of twenty dollars a month. my robuster strength of added years, my increased skill, and all i had learned from the books, were responsible for this increase of twenty dollars. judging by my rate of development, i might hope before i died to be a night watchman for sixty dollars a month, or a policeman actually receiving a hundred dollars with pickings. so relentlessly did my partner and i spring into our work throughout the week that by saturday night we were frazzled wrecks. i found myself in the old familiar work-beast condition, toiling longer hours than the horses toiled, thinking scarcely more frequent thoughts than horses think. the books were closed to me. i had brought a trunkful to the laundry, but found myself unable to read them. i fell asleep the moment i tried to read; and if i did manage to keep my eyes open for several pages, i could not remember the contents of those pages. i gave over attempts on heavy study, such as jurisprudence, political economy, and biology, and tried lighter stuff, such as history. i fell asleep. i tried literature, and fell asleep. and finally, when i fell asleep over lively novels, i gave up. i never succeeded in reading one book in all the time i spent in the laundry. and when saturday night came, and the week's work was over until monday morning, i knew only one desire besides the desire to sleep, and that was to get drunk. this was the second time in my life that i had heard the unmistakable call of john barleycorn. the first time it had been because of brain-fag. but i had no over-worked brain now. on the contrary, all i knew was the dull numbness of a brain that was not worked at all. that was the trouble. my brain had become so alert and eager, so quickened by the wonder of the new world the books had discovered to it, that it now suffered all the misery of stagnancy and inaction. and i, the long time intimate of john barleycorn, knew just what he promised me--maggots of fancy, dreams of power, forgetfulness, anything and everything save whirling washers, revolving mangles, humming centrifugal wringers, and fancy starch and interminable processions of duck trousers moving in steam under my flying iron. and that's it. john barleycorn makes his appeal to weakness and failure, to weariness and exhaustion. he is the easy way out. and he is lying all the time. he offers false strength to the body, false elevation to the spirit, making things seem what they are not and vastly fairer than what they are. but it must not be forgotten that john barleycorn is protean. as well as to weakness and exhaustion, does he appeal to too much strength, to superabundant vitality, to the ennui of idleness. he can tuck in his arm the arm of any man in any mood. he can throw the net of his lure over all men. he exchanges new lamps for old, the spangles of illusion for the drabs of reality, and in the end cheats all who traffic with him. i didn't get drunk, however, for the simple reason that it was a mile and a half to the nearest saloon. and this, in turn, was because the call to get drunk was not very loud in my ears. had it been loud, i would have travelled ten times the distance to win to the saloon. on the other hand, had the saloon been just around the corner, i should have got drunk. as it was, i would sprawl out in the shade on my one day of rest and dally with the sunday papers. but i was too weary even for their froth. the comic supplement might bring a pallid smile to my face, and then i would fall asleep. although i did not yield to john barleycorn while working in the laundry, a certain definite result was produced. i had heard the call, felt the gnaw of desire, yearned for the anodyne. i was being prepared for the stronger desire of later years. and the point is that this development of desire was entirely in my brain. my body did not cry out for alcohol. as always, alcohol was repulsive to my body. when i was bodily weary from shovelling coal the thought of taking a drink had never flickered into my consciousness. when i was brain-wearied after taking the entrance examinations to the university, i promptly got drunk. at the laundry i was suffering physical exhaustion again, and physical exhaustion that was not nearly so profound as that of the coal-shovelling. but there was a difference. when i went coal-shovelling my mind had not yet awakened. between that time and the laundry my mind had found the kingdom of the mind. while shovelling coal my mind was somnolent. while toiling in the laundry my mind, informed and eager to do and be, was crucified. and whether i yielded to drink, as at benicia, or whether i refrained, as at the laundry, in my brain the seeds of desire for alcohol were germinating. chapter xxv after the laundry my sister and her husband grubstaked me into the klondike. it was the first gold rush into that region, the early fall rush of . i was twenty-one years old, and in splendid physical condition. i remember, at the end of the twenty-eight-mile portage across chilcoot from dyea beach to lake linderman, i was packing up with the indians and out-packing many an indian. the last pack into linderman was three miles. i back-tripped it four times a day, and on each forward trip carried one hundred and fifty pounds. this means that over the worst trails i daily travelled twenty-four miles, twelve of which were under a burden of one hundred and fifty pounds. yes, i had let career go hang, and was on the adventure-path again in quest of fortune. and of course, on the adventure-path, i met john barleycorn. here were the chesty men again, rovers and adventurers, and while they didn't mind a grub famine, whisky they could not do without. whisky went over the trail, while the flour lay cached and untouched by the trail-side. as good fortune would have it, the three men in my party were not drinkers. therefore i didn't drink save on rare occasions and disgracefully when with other men. in my personal medicine chest was a quart of whisky. i never drew the cork till six months afterward, in a lonely camp, where, without anaesthetics, a doctor was compelled to operate on a man. the doctor and the patient emptied my bottle between them and then proceeded to the operation. back in california a year later, recovering from scurvy, i found that my father was dead and that i was the head and the sole bread-winner of a household. when i state that i had passed coal on a steamship from behring sea to british columbia, and travelled in the steerage from there to san francisco, it will be understood that i brought nothing back from the klondike but my scurvy. times were hard. work of any sort was difficult to get. and work of any sort was what i had to take, for i was still an unskilled labourer. i had no thought of career. that was over and done with. i had to find food for two mouths beside my own and keep a roof over our heads--yes, and buy a winter suit, my one suit being decidedly summery. i had to get some sort of work immediately. after that, when i had caught my breath, i might think about my future. unskilled labour is the first to feel the slackness of hard times, and i had no trades save those of sailor and laundryman. with my new responsibilities i didn't dare go to sea, and i failed to find a job at laundrying. i failed to find a job at anything. i had my name down in five employment bureaux. i advertised in three newspapers. i sought out the few friends i knew who might be able to get me work; but they were either uninterested or unable to find anything for me. the situation was desperate. i pawned my watch, my bicycle, and a mackintosh of which my father had been very proud and which he had left to me. it was and is my sole legacy in this world. it had cost fifteen dollars, and the pawnbroker let me have two dollars on it. and--oh, yes--a water-front comrade of earlier years drifted along one day with a dress suit wrapped in newspapers. he could give no adequate explanation of how he had come to possess it, nor did i press for an explanation. i wanted the suit myself. no; not to wear. i traded him a lot of rubbish which, being unpawnable, was useless to me. he peddled the rubbish for several dollars, while i pledged the dress-suit with my pawnbroker for five dollars. and for all i know the pawnbroker still has the suit. i had never intended to redeem it. but i couldn't get any work. yet i was a bargain in the labour market. i was twenty-two years old, weighed one hundred and sixty-five pounds stripped, every pound of which was excellent for toil; and the last traces of my scurvy were vanishing before a treatment of potatoes chewed raw. i tackled every opening for employment. i tried to become a studio model, but there were too many fine-bodied young fellows out of jobs. i answered advertisements of elderly invalids in need of companions. and i almost became a sewing machine agent, on commission, without salary. but poor people don't buy sewing machines in hard times, so i was forced to forgo that employment. of course, it must be remembered that along with such frivolous occupations i was trying to get work as wop, lumper, and roustabout. but winter was coming on, and the surplus labour army was pouring into the cities. also i, who had romped along carelessly through the countries of the world and the kingdom of the mind, was not a member of any union. i sought odd jobs. i worked days, and half-days, at anything i could get. i mowed lawns, trimmed hedges, took up carpets, beat them, and laid them again. further, i took the civil service examinations for mail carrier and passed first. but alas! there was no vacancy, and i must wait. and while i waited, and in between the odd jobs i managed to procure, i started to earn ten dollars by writing a newspaper account of a voyage i had made, in an open boat down the yukon, of nineteen hundred miles in nineteen days. i didn't know the first thing about the newspaper game, but i was confident i'd get ten dollars for my article. but i didn't. the first san francisco newspaper to which i mailed it never acknowledged receipt of the manuscript, but held on to it. the longer it held on to it the more certain i was that the thing was accepted. and here is the funny thing. some are born to fortune, and some have fortune thrust upon them. but in my case i was clubbed into fortune, and bitter necessity wielded the club. i had long since abandoned all thought of writing as a career. my honest intention in writing that article was to earn ten dollars. and that was the limit of my intention. it would help to tide me along until i got steady employment. had a vacancy occurred in the post office at that time, i should have jumped at it. but the vacancy did not occur, nor did a steady job; and i employed the time between odd jobs with writing a twenty-one-thousand-word serial for the "youth's companion." i turned it out and typed it in seven days. i fancy that was what was the matter with it, for it came back. it took some time for it to go and come, and in the meantime i tried my hand at short stories. i sold one to the "overland monthly" for five dollars. the "black cat" gave me forty dollars for another. the "overland monthly" offered me seven dollars and a half, pay on publication, for all the stories i should deliver. i got my bicycle, my watch, and my father's mackintosh out of pawn and rented a typewriter. also, i paid up the bills i owed to the several groceries that allowed me a small credit. i recall the portuguese groceryman who never permitted my bill to go beyond four dollars. hopkins, another grocer, could not be budged beyond five dollars. and just then came the call from the post office to go to work. it placed me in a most trying predicament. the sixty-five dollars i could earn regularly every month was a terrible temptation. i couldn't decide what to do. and i'll never be able to forgive the postmaster of oakland. i answered the call, and i talked to him like a man. i frankly told him the situation. it looked as if i might win out at writing. the chance was good, but not certain. now, if he would pass me by and select the next man on the eligible list and give me a call at the next vacancy-- but he shut me off with: "then you don't want the position?" "but i do," i protested. "don't you see, if you will pass me over this time--" "if you want it you will take it," he said coldly. happily for me, the cursed brutality of the man made me angry. "very well," i said. "i won't take it." chapter xxvi having burned my ship, i plunged into writing. i am afraid i always was an extremist. early and late i was at it--writing, typing, studying grammar, studying writing and all the forms of writing, and studying the writers who succeeded in order to find out how they succeeded. i managed on five hours' sleep in the twenty-four, and came pretty close to working the nineteen waking hours left to me. my light burned till two and three in the morning, which led a good neighbour woman into a bit of sentimental sherlock-holmes deduction. never seeing me in the day-time, she concluded that i was a gambler, and that the light in my window was placed there by my mother to guide her erring son home. the trouble with the beginner at the writing game is the long, dry spells, when there is never an editor's cheque and everything pawnable is pawned. i wore my summer suit pretty well through that winter, and the following summer experienced the longest, dryest spell of all, in the period when salaried men are gone on vacation and manuscripts lie in editorial offices until vacation is over. my difficulty was that i had no one to advise me. i didn't know a soul who had written or who had ever tried to write. i didn't even know one reporter. also, to succeed at the writing game, i found i had to unlearn about everything the teachers and professors of literature of the high school and university had taught me. i was very indignant about this at the time; though now i can understand it. they did not know the trick of successful writing in the years and . they knew all about "snow bound" and "sartor resartus"; but the american editors of did not want such truck. they wanted the truck, and offered to pay so well for it that the teachers and professors of literature would have quit their jobs could they have supplied it. i struggled along, stood off the butcher and the grocer, pawned my watch and bicycle and my father's mackintosh, and i worked. i really did work, and went on short commons of sleep. critics have complained about the swift education one of my characters, martin eden, achieved. in three years, from a sailor with a common school education, i made a successful writer of him. the critics say this is impossible. yet i was martin eden. at the end of three working years, two of which were spent in high school and the university and one spent at writing, and all three in studying immensely and intensely, i was publishing stories in magazines such as the "atlantic monthly," was correcting proofs of my first book (issued by houghton, mifflin co.), was selling sociological articles to "cosmopolitan" and "mcclure's," had declined an associate editorship proffered me by telegraph from new york city, and was getting ready to marry. now the foregoing means work, especially the last year of it, when i was learning my trade as a writer. and in that year, running short on sleep and tasking my brain to its limit, i neither drank nor cared to drink. so far as i was concerned, alcohol did not exist. i did suffer from brain-fag on occasion, but alcohol never suggested itself as an ameliorative. heavens! editorial acceptances and cheques were all the amelioratives i needed. a thin envelope from an editor in the morning's mail was more stimulating than half a dozen cocktails. and if a cheque of decent amount came out of the envelope, such incident in itself was a whole drunk. furthermore, at that time in my life i did not know what a cocktail was. i remember, when my first book was published, several alaskans, who were members of the bohemian club, entertained me one evening at the club in san francisco. we sat in most wonderful leather chairs, and drinks were ordered. never had i heard such an ordering of liqueurs and of highballs of particular brands of scotch. i didn't know what a liqueur or a highball was, and i didn't know that "scotch" meant whisky. i knew only poor men's drinks, the drinks of the frontier and of sailor-town--cheap beer and cheaper whisky that was just called whisky and nothing else. i was embarrassed to make a choice, and the steward nearly collapsed when i ordered claret as an after-dinner drink. chapter xxvii as i succeeded with my writing, my standard of living rose and my horizon broadened. i confined myself to writing and typing a thousand words a day, including sundays and holidays; and i still studied hard, but not so hard as formerly. i allowed myself five and one-half hours of actual sleep. i added this half-hour because i was compelled. financial success permitted me more time for exercise. i rode my wheel more, chiefly because it was permanently out of pawn; and i boxed and fenced, walked on my hands, jumped high and broad, put the shot and tossed the caber, and went swimming. and i learned that more sleep is required for physical exercise than for mental exercise. there were tired nights, bodily, when i slept six hours; and on occasion of very severe exercise i actually slept seven hours. but such sleep orgies were not frequent. there was so much to learn, so much to be done, that i felt wicked when i slept seven hours. and i blessed the man who invented alarm clocks. and still no desire to drink. i possessed too many fine faiths, was living at too keen a pitch. i was a socialist, intent on saving the world, and alcohol could not give me the fervours that were mine from my ideas and ideals. my voice, on account of my successful writing, had added weight, or so i thought. at any rate, my reputation as a writer drew me audiences that my reputation as a speaker never could have drawn. i was invited before clubs and organisations of all sorts to deliver my message. i fought the good fight, and went on studying and writing, and was very busy. up to this time i had had a very restricted circle of friends. but now i began to go about. i was invited out, especially to dinner, and i made many friends and acquaintances whose economic lives were easier than mine had been. and many of them drank. in their own houses they drank and offered me drink. they were not drunkards any of them. they just drank temperately, and i drank temperately with them as an act of comradeship and accepted hospitality. i did not care for it, neither wanted it nor did not want it, and so small was the impression made by it that i do not remember my first cocktail nor my first scotch highball. well, i had a house. when one is asked into other houses, he naturally asks others into his house. behold the rising standard of living. having been given drink in other houses, i could expect nothing else of myself than to give drink in my own house. so i laid in a supply of beer and whisky and table claret. never since that has my house not been well supplied. and still, through all this period, i did not care in the slightest for john barleycorn. i drank when others drank, and with them, as a social act. and i had so little choice in the matter that i drank whatever they drank. if they elected whisky, then whisky it was for me. if they drank root beer or sarsaparilla, i drank root beer or sarsaparilla with them. and when there were no friends in the house, why, i didn't drink anything. whisky decanters were always in the room where i wrote, and for months and years i never knew what it was, when by myself, to take a drink. when out at dinner i noticed the kindly, genial glow of the preliminary cocktail. it seemed a very fitting and gracious thing. yet so little did i stand in need of it, with my own high intensity and vitality, that i never thought it worth while to have a cocktail before my own meal when i ate alone. on the other hand, i well remember a very brilliant man, somewhat older than i, who occasionally visited me. he liked whisky, and i recall sitting whole afternoons in my den, drinking steadily with him, drink for drink, until he was mildly lighted up and i was slightly aware that i had drunk some whisky. now why did i do this? i don't know, save that the old schooling held, the training of the old days and nights glass in hand with men, the drinking ways of drink and drinkers. besides, i no longer feared john barleycorn. mine was that most dangerous stage when a man believes himself john barleycorn's master. i had proved it to my satisfaction in the long years of work and study. i could drink when i wanted, refrain when i wanted, drink without getting drunk, and to cap everything i was thoroughly conscious that i had no liking for the stuff. during this period i drank precisely for the same reason i had drunk with scotty and the harpooner and with the oyster pirates--because it was an act that men performed with whom i wanted to behave as a man. these brilliant ones, these adventurers of the mind, drank. very well. there was no reason i should not drink with them--i who knew so confidently that i had nothing to fear from john barleycorn. and the foregoing was my attitude of mind for years. occasionally i got well jingled, but such occasions were rare. it interfered with my work, and i permitted nothing to interfere with my work. i remember, when spending several months in the east end of london, during which time i wrote a book and adventured much amongst the worst of the slum classes, that i got drunk several times and was mightily wroth with myself because it interfered with my writing. yet these very times were because i was out on the adventure-path where john barleycorn is always to be found. then, too, with the certitude of long training and unholy intimacy, there were occasions when i engaged in drinking bouts with men. of course, this was on the adventure-path in various parts of the world, and it was a matter of pride. it is a queer man-pride that leads one to drink with men in order to show as strong a head as they. but this queer man-pride is no theory. it is a fact. for instance, a wild band of young revolutionists invited me as the guest of honour to a beer bust. it is the only technical beer bust i ever attended. i did not know the true inwardness of the affair when i accepted. i imagined that the talk would be wild and high, that some of them might drink more than they ought, and that i would drink discreetly. but it seemed these beer busts were a diversion of these high-spirited young fellows whereby they whiled away the tedium of existence by making fools of their betters. as i learned afterward, they had got their previous guest of honour, a brilliant young radical, unskilled in drinking, quite pipped. when i found myself with them, and the situation dawned on me, up rose my queer man-pride. i'd show them, the young rascals. i'd show them who was husky and chesty, who had the vitality and the constitution, the stomach and the head, who could make most of a swine of himself and show it least. these unlicked cubs who thought they could out-drink me! you see, it was an endurance test, and no man likes to give another best. faugh! it was steam beer. i had learned more expensive brews. not for years had i drunk steam beer; but when i had, i had drunk with men, and i guessed i could show these youngsters some ability in beer-guzzling. and the drinking began, and i had to drink with the best of them. some of them might lag, but the guest of honour was not permitted to lag. and all my austere nights of midnight oil, all the books i had read, all the wisdom i had gathered, went glimmering before the ape and tiger in me that crawled up from the abysm of my heredity, atavistic, competitive and brutal, lustful with strength and desire to outswine the swine. and when the session broke up i was still on my feet, and i walked, erect, unswaying--which was more than can be said of some of my hosts. i recall one of them in indignant tears on the street corner, weeping as he pointed out my sober condition. little he dreamed the iron clutch, born of old training, with which i held to my consciousness in my swimming brain, kept control of my muscles and my qualms, kept my voice unbroken and easy and my thoughts consecutive and logical. yes, and mixed up with it all i was privily a-grin. they hadn't made a fool of me in that drinking bout. and i was proud of myself for the achievement. darn it, i am still proud, so strangely is man compounded. but i didn't write my thousand words next morning. i was sick, poisoned. it was a day of wretchedness. in the afternoon i had to give a public speech. i gave it, and i am confident it was as bad as i felt. some of my hosts were there in the front rows to mark any signs on me of the night before. i don't know what signs they marked, but i marked signs on them and took consolation in the knowledge that they were just as sick as i. never again, i swore. and i have never been inveigled into another beer bust. for that matter, that was my last drinking bout of any sort. oh, i have drunk ever since, but with more wisdom, more discretion, and never in a competitive spirit. it is thus that the seasoned drinker grows seasoned. to show that at this period in my life drinking was wholly a matter of companionship, i remember crossing the atlantic in the old teutonic. it chanced, at the start, that i chummed with an english cable operator and a younger member of a spanish shipping firm. now the only thing they drank was "horse's neck"--a long, soft, cool drink with an apple peel or an orange peel floating in it. and for that whole voyage i drank horse's necks with my two companions. on the other hand, had they drunk whisky, i should have drunk whisky with them. from this it must not be concluded that i was merely weak. i didn't care. i had no morality in the matter. i was strong with youth, and unafraid, and alcohol was an utterly negligible question so far as i was concerned. chapter xxviii not yet was i ready to tuck my arm in john barleycorn's. the older i got, the greater my success, the more money i earned, the wider was the command of the world that became mine and the more prominently did john barleycorn bulk in my life. and still i maintained no more than a nodding acquaintance with him. i drank for the sake of sociability, and when alone i did not drink. sometimes i got jingled, but i considered such jingles the mild price i paid for sociability. to show how unripe i was for john barleycorn, when, at this time, i descended into my slough of despond, i never dreamed of turning to john barleycorn for a helping hand. i had life troubles and heart troubles which are neither here nor there in this narrative. but, combined with them, were intellectual troubles which are indeed germane. mine was no uncommon experience. i had read too much positive science and lived too much positive life. in the eagerness of youth i had made the ancient mistake of pursuing truth too relentlessly. i had torn her veils from her, and the sight was too terrible for me to stand. in brief, i lost my fine faiths in pretty well everything except humanity, and the humanity i retained faith in was a very stark humanity indeed. this long sickness of pessimism is too well known to most of us to be detailed here. let it suffice to state that i had it very bad. i meditated suicide coolly, as a greek philosopher might. my regret was that there were too many dependent directly upon me for food and shelter for me to quit living. but that was sheer morality. what really saved me was the one remaining illusion--the people. the things i had fought for and burned my midnight oil for had failed me. success--i despised it. recognition--it was dead ashes. society, men and women above the ruck and the muck of the water-front and the forecastle--i was appalled by their unlovely mental mediocrity. love of woman--it was like all the rest. money--i could sleep in only one bed at a time, and of what worth was an income of a hundred porterhouses a day when i could eat only one? art, culture--in the face of the iron facts of biology such things were ridiculous, the exponents of such things only the more ridiculous. from the foregoing it can be seen how very sick i was. i was born a fighter. the things i had fought for had proved not worth the fight. remained the people. my fight was finished, yet something was left still to fight for--the people. but while i was discovering this one last tie to bind me to life, in my extremity, in the depths of despond, walking in the valley of the shadow, my ears were deaf to john barleycorn. never the remotest whisper arose in my consciousness that john barleycorn was the anodyne, that he could lie me along to live. one way only was uppermost in my thought--my revolver, the crashing eternal darkness of a bullet. there was plenty of whisky in the house--for my guests. i never touched it. i grew afraid of my revolver--afraid during the period in which the radiant, flashing vision of the people was forming in my mind and will. so obsessed was i with the desire to die that i feared i might commit the act in my sleep, and i was compelled to give my revolver away to others who were to lose it for me where my subconscious hand might not find it. but the people saved me. by the people was i handcuffed to life. there was still one fight left in me, and here was the thing for which to fight. i threw all precaution to the winds, threw myself with fiercer zeal into the fight for socialism, laughed at the editors and publishers who warned me and who were the sources of my hundred porterhouses a day, and was brutally careless of whose feelings i hurt and of how savagely i hurt them. as the "well-balanced radicals" charged at the time, my efforts were so strenuous, so unsafe and unsane, so ultra-revolutionary, that i retarded the socialist development in the united states by five years. in passing, i wish to remark, at this late date, that it is my fond belief that i accelerated the socialist development in the united states by at least five minutes. it was the people, and no thanks to john barleycorn, who pulled me through my long sickness. and when i was convalescent came the love of woman to complete the cure and lull my pessimism asleep for many a long day, until john barleycorn again awoke it. but in the meantime, i pursued truth less relentlessly, refraining from tearing her last veils aside even when i clutched them in my hand. i no longer cared to look upon truth naked. i refused to permit myself to see a second time what i had once seen. and the memory of what i had that time seen i resolutely blotted from my mind. and i was very happy. life went well with me, i took delight in little things. the big things i declined to take too seriously. i still read the books, but not with the old eagerness. i still read the books to-day, but never again shall i read them with that old glory of youthful passion when i harked to the call from over and beyond that whispered me on to win to the mystery at the back of life and behind the stars. the point of this chapter is that, in the long sickness that at some time comes to most of us, i came through without any appeal for aid to john barleycorn. love, socialism, the people--healthful figments of man's mind--were the things that cured and saved me. if ever a man was not a born alcoholic, i believe that i am that man. and yet--well, let the succeeding chapters tell their tale, for in them will be shown how i paid for my previous quarter of a century of contact with ever-accessible john barleycorn. chapter xxix after my long sickness my drinking continued to be convivial. i drank when others drank and i was with them. but, imperceptibly, my need for alcohol took form and began to grow. it was not a body need. i boxed, swam, sailed, rode horses, lived in the open an arrantly healthful life, and passed life insurance examinations with flying colours. in its inception, now that i look back upon it, this need for alcohol was a mental need, a nerve need, a good-spirits need. how can i explain? it was something like this. physiologically, from the standpoint of palate and stomach, alcohol was, as it had always been, repulsive. it tasted no better than beer did when i was five, than bitter claret did when i was seven. when i was alone, writing or studying, i had no need for it. but--i was growing old, or wise, or both, or senile as an alternative. when i was in company i was less pleased, less excited, with the things said and done. erstwhile worth-while fun and stunts seemed no longer worth while; and it was a torment to listen to the insipidities and stupidities of women, to the pompous, arrogant sayings of the little half-baked men. it is the penalty one pays for reading the books too much, or for being oneself a fool. in my case it does not matter which was my trouble. the trouble itself was the fact. the condition of the fact was mine. for me the life, and light, and sparkle of human intercourse were dwindling. i had climbed too high among the stars, or, maybe, i had slept too hard. yet i was not hysterical nor in any way overwrought. my pulse was normal. my heart was an amazement of excellence to the insurance doctors. my lungs threw the said doctors into ecstasies. i wrote a thousand words every day. i was punctiliously exact in dealing with all the affairs of life that fell to my lot. i exercised in joy and gladness. i slept at night like a babe. but-- well, as soon as i got out in the company of others i was driven to melancholy and spiritual tears. i could neither laugh with nor at the solemn utterances of men i esteemed ponderous asses; nor could i laugh, nor engage in my old-time lightsome persiflage, with the silly superficial chatterings of women, who, underneath all their silliness and softness, were as primitive, direct, and deadly in their pursuit of biological destiny as the monkeys women were before they shed their furry coats and replaced them with the furs of other animals. and i was not pessimistic. i swear i was not pessimistic. i was merely bored. i had seen the same show too often, listened too often to the same songs and the same jokes. i knew too much about the box office receipts. i knew the cogs of the machinery behind the scenes so well that the posing on the stage, and the laughter and the song, could not drown the creaking of the wheels behind. it doesn't pay to go behind the scenes and see the angel-voiced tenor beat his wife. well, i'd been behind, and i was paying for it. or else i was a fool. it is immaterial which was my situation. the situation is what counts, and the situation was that social intercourse for me was getting painful and difficult. on the other hand, it must be stated that on rare occasions, on very rare occasions, i did meet rare souls, or fools like me, with whom i could spend magnificent hours among the stars, or in the paradise of fools. i was married to a rare soul, or a fool, who never bored me and who was always a source of new and unending surprise and delight. but i could not spend all my hours solely in her company. nor would it have been fair, nor wise, to compel her to spend all her hours in my company. besides, i had written a string of successful books, and society demands some portion of the recreative hours of a fellow that writes books. and any normal man, of himself and his needs, demands some hours of his fellow men. and now we begin to come to it. how to face the social intercourse game with the glamour gone? john barleycorn. the ever patient one had waited a quarter of a century and more for me to reach my hand out in need of him. his thousand tricks had failed, thanks to my constitution and good luck, but he had more tricks in his bag. a cocktail or two, or several, i found, cheered me up for the foolishness of foolish people. a cocktail, or several, before dinner, enabled me to laugh whole-heartedly at things which had long since ceased being laughable. the cocktail was a prod, a spur, a kick, to my jaded mind and bored spirits. it recrudesced the laughter and the song, and put a lilt into my own imagination so that i could laugh and sing and say foolish things with the liveliest of them, or platitudes with verve and intensity to the satisfaction of the pompous mediocre ones who knew no other way to talk. a poor companion without a cocktail, i became a very good companion with one. i achieved a false exhilaration, drugged myself to merriment. and the thing began so imperceptibly that i, old intimate of john barleycorn, never dreamed whither it was leading me. i was beginning to call for music and wine; soon i should be calling for madder music and more wine. it was at this time i became aware of waiting with expectancy for the pre-dinner cocktail. i wanted it, and i was conscious that i wanted it. i remember, while war-corresponding in the far east, of being irresistibly attracted to a certain home. besides accepting all invitations to dinner, i made a point of dropping in almost every afternoon. now, the hostess was a charming woman, but it was not for her sake that i was under her roof so frequently. it happened that she made by far the finest cocktail procurable in that large city where drink-mixing on the part of the foreign population was indeed an art. up at the club, down at the hotels, and in other private houses, no such cocktails were created. her cocktails were subtle. they were masterpieces. they were the least repulsive to the palate and carried the most "kick." and yet, i desired her cocktails only for sociability's sake, to key myself to sociable moods. when i rode away from that city, across hundreds of miles of rice-fields and mountains, and through months of campaigning, and on with the victorious japanese into manchuria, i did not drink. several bottles of whisky were always to be found on the backs of my pack-horses. yet i never broached a bottle for myself, never took a drink by myself, and never knew a desire to take such a drink. oh, if a white man came into my camp, i opened a bottle and we drank together according to the way of men, just as he would open a bottle and drink with me if i came into his camp. i carried that whisky for social purposes, and i so charged it up in my expense account to the newspaper for which i worked. only in retrospect can i mark the almost imperceptible growth of my desire. there were little hints then that i did not take, little straws in the wind that i did not see, little incidents the gravity of which i did not realise. for instance, for some years it had been my practice each winter to cruise for six or eight weeks on san francisco bay. my stout sloop yacht, the spray, had a comfortable cabin and a coal stove. a korean boy did the cooking, and i usually took a friend or so along to share the joys of the cruise. also, i took my machine along and did my thousand words a day. on the particular trip i have in mind, cloudesley and toddy came along. this was toddy's first trip. on previous trips cloudesley had elected to drink beer; so i had kept the yacht supplied with beer and had drunk beer with him. but on this cruise the situation was different. toddy was so nicknamed because of his diabolical cleverness in concocting toddies. so i brought whisky along--a couple of gallons. alas! many another gallon i bought, for cloudesley and i got into the habit of drinking a certain hot toddy that actually tasted delicious going down and that carried the most exhilarating kick imaginable. i liked those toddies. i grew to look forward to the making of them. we drank them regularly, one before breakfast, one before dinner, one before supper, and a final one when we went to bed. we never got drunk. but i will say that four times a day we were very genial. and when, in the middle of the cruise, toddy was called back to san francisco on business, cloudesley and i saw to it that the korean boy mixed toddies regularly for us according to formula. but that was only on the boat. back on the land, in my house, i took no before breakfast eye-opener, no bed-going nightcap. and i haven't drunk hot toddies since, and that was many a year ago. but the point is, i liked those toddies. the geniality of which they were provocative was marvellous. they were eloquent proselyters for john barleycorn in their own small insidious way. they were tickles of the something destined to grow into daily and deadly desire. and i didn't know, never dreamed--i, who had lived with john barleycorn for so many years and laughed at all his unavailing attempts to win me. chapter xxx part of the process of recovering from my long sickness was to find delight in little things, in things unconnected with books and problems, in play, in games of tag in the swimming pool, in flying kites, in fooling with horses, in working out mechanical puzzles. as a result, i grew tired of the city. on the ranch, in the valley of the moon, i found my paradise. i gave up living in cities. all the cities held for me were music, the theatre, and turkish baths. and all went well with me. i worked hard, played hard, and was very happy. i read more fiction and less fact. i did not study a tithe as much as i had studied in the past. i still took an interest in the fundamental problems of existence, but it was a very cautious interest; for i had burned my fingers that time i clutched at the veils of truth and wrested them from her. there was a bit of lie in this attitude of mine, a bit of hypocrisy; but the lie and the hypocrisy were those of a man desiring to live. i deliberately blinded myself to what i took to be the savage interpretation of biological fact. after all, i was merely forswearing a bad habit, forgoing a bad frame of mind. and i repeat, i was very happy. and i add, that in all my days, measuring them with cold, considerative judgment, this was, far and away beyond all other periods, the happiest period of my life. but the time was at hand, rhymeless and reasonless so far as i can see, when i was to begin to pay for my score of years of dallying with john barleycorn. occasionally guests journeyed to the ranch and remained a few days. some did not drink. but to those who did drink, the absence of all alcohol on the ranch was a hardship. i could not violate my sense of hospitality by compelling them to endure this hardship. i ordered in a stock--for my guests. i was never interested enough in cocktails to know how they were made. so i got a bar-keeper in oakland to make them in bulk and ship them to me. when i had no guests i didn't drink. but i began to notice, when i finished my morning's work, that i was glad if there were a guest, for then i could drink a cocktail with him. now i was so clean of alcohol that even a single cocktail was provocative of pitch. a single cocktail would glow the mind and tickle a laugh for the few minutes prior to sitting down to table and starting the delightful process of eating. on the other hand, such was the strength of my stomach, of my alcoholic resistance, that the single cocktail was only the glimmer of a glow, the faintest tickle of a laugh. one day, a friend frankly and shamelessly suggested a second cocktail. i drank the second one with him. the glow was appreciably longer and warmer, the laughter deeper and more resonant. one does not forget such experiences. sometimes i almost think that it was because i was so very happy that i started on my real drinking. i remember one day charmian and i took a long ride over the mountains on our horses. the servants had been dismissed for the day, and we returned late at night to a jolly chafing-dish supper. oh, it was good to be alive that night while the supper was preparing, the two of us alone in the kitchen. i, personally, was at the top of life. such things as the books and ultimate truth did not exist. my body was gloriously healthy, and healthily tired from the long ride. it had been a splendid day. the night was splendid. i was with the woman who was my mate, picnicking in gleeful abandon. i had no troubles. the bills were all paid, and a surplus of money was rolling in on me. the future ever-widened before me. and right there, in the kitchen, delicious things bubbled in the chafing-dish, our laughter bubbled, and my stomach was keen with a most delicious edge of appetite. i felt so good, that somehow, somewhere, in me arose an insatiable greed to feel better. i was so happy that i wanted to pitch my happiness even higher. and i knew the way. ten thousand contacts with john barleycorn had taught me. several times i wandered out of the kitchen to the cocktail bottle, and each time i left it diminished by one man's size cocktail. the result was splendid. i wasn't jingled, i wasn't lighted up; but i was warmed, i glowed, my happiness was pyramided. munificent as life was to me, i added to that munificence. it was a great hour--one of my greatest. but i paid for it, long afterwards, as you will see. one does not forget such experiences, and, in human stupidity, cannot be brought to realise that there is no immutable law which decrees that same things shall produce same results. for they don't, else would the thousandth pipe of opium be provocative of similar delights to the first, else would one cocktail, instead of several, produce an equivalent glow after a year of cocktails. one day, just before i ate midday dinner, after my morning's writing was done, when i had no guest, i took a cocktail by myself. thereafter, when there were no guests, i took this daily pre-dinner cocktail. and right there john barleycorn had me. i was beginning to drink regularly. i was beginning to drink alone. and i was beginning to drink, not for hospitality's sake, not for the sake of the taste, but for the effect of the drink. i wanted that daily pre-dinner cocktail. and it never crossed my mind that there was any reason i should not have it. i paid for it. i could pay for a thousand cocktails each day if i wanted. and what was a cocktail--one cocktail--to me who on so many occasions for so many years had drunk inordinate quantities of stiffer stuff and been unharmed? the programme of my ranch life was as follows: each morning, at eight-thirty, having been reading or correcting proofs in bed since four or five, i went to my desk. odds and ends of correspondence and notes occupied me till nine, and at nine sharp, invariably, i began my writing. by eleven, sometimes a few minutes earlier or later, my thousand words were finished. another half-hour at cleaning up my desk, and my day's work was done, so that at eleven-thirty i got into a hammock under the trees with my mail-bag and the morning newspaper. at twelve-thirty i ate dinner and in the afternoon i swam and rode. one morning, at eleven-thirty, before i got into the hammock, i took a cocktail. i repeated this on subsequent mornings, of course, taking another cocktail just before i ate at twelve-thirty. soon i found myself, seated at my desk in the midst of my thousand words, looking forward to that eleven-thirty cocktail. at last, now, i was thoroughly conscious that i desired alcohol. but what of it? i wasn't afraid of john barleycorn. i had associated with him too long. i was wise in the matter of drink. i was discreet. never again would i drink to excess. i knew the dangers and the pitfalls of john barleycorn, the various ways by which he had tried to kill me in the past. but all that was past, long past. never again would i drink myself to stupefaction. never again would i get drunk. all i wanted, and all i would take, was just enough to glow and warm me, to kick geniality alive in me and put laughter in my throat and stir the maggots of imagination slightly in my brain. oh, i was thoroughly master of myself, and of john barleycorn. chapter xxxi but the same stimulus to the human organism will not continue to produce the same response. by and by i discovered there was no kick at all in one cocktail. one cocktail left me dead. there was no glow, no laughter tickle. two or three cocktails were required to produce the original effect of one. and i wanted that effect. i drank my first cocktail at eleven-thirty when i took the morning's mail into the hammock, and i drank my second cocktail an hour later just before i ate. i got into the habit of crawling out of the hammock ten minutes earlier so as to find time and decency for two more cocktails ere i ate. this became schedule--three cocktails in the hour that intervened between my desk and dinner. and these are two of the deadliest drinking habits: regular drinking and solitary drinking. i was always willing to drink when any one was around. i drank by myself when no one was around. then i made another step. when i had for guest a man of limited drinking calibre, i took two drinks to his one--one drink with him, the other drink without him and of which he did not know. i stole that other drink, and, worse than that, i began the habit of drinking alone when there was a guest, a man, a comrade, with whom i could have drunk. but john barleycorn furnished the extenuation. it was a wrong thing to trip a guest up with excess of hospitality and get him drunk. if i persuaded him, with his limited calibre, into drinking up with me, i'd surely get him drunk. what could i do but steal that every second drink, or else deny myself the kick equivalent to what he got out of half the number? please remember, as i recite this development of my drinking, that i am no fool, no weakling. as the world measures such things, i am a success--i dare to say a success more conspicuous than the success of the average successful man, and a success that required a pretty fair amount of brains and will power. my body is a strong body. it has survived where weaklings died like flies. and yet these things which i am relating happened to my body and to me. i am a fact. my drinking is a fact. my drinking is a thing that has happened, and is no theory nor speculation; and, as i see it, it but lays the emphasis on the power of john barleycorn--a savagery that we still permit to exist, a deadly institution that lingers from the mad old brutal days and that takes its heavy toll of youth and strength, and high spirit, and of very much of all of the best we breed. to return. after a boisterous afternoon in the swimming pool, followed by a glorious ride on horseback over the mountains or up or down the valley of the moon, i found myself so keyed and splendid that i desired to be more highly keyed, to feel more splendid. i knew the way. a cocktail before supper was not the way. two or three, at the very least, was what was needed. i took them. why not? it was living. i had always dearly loved to live. this also became part of the daily schedule. then, too, i was perpetually finding excuses for extra cocktails. it might be the assembling of a particularly jolly crowd; a touch of anger against my architect or against a thieving stone-mason working on my barn; the death of my favourite horse in a barbed wire fence; or news of good fortune in the morning mail from my dealings with editors and publishers. it was immaterial what the excuse might be, once the desire had germinated in me. the thing was: i wanted alcohol. at last, after a score and more of years of dallying and of not wanting, now i wanted it. and my strength was my weakness. i required two, three, or four drinks to get an effect commensurate with the effect the average man got out of one drink. one rule i observed. i never took a drink until my day's work of writing a thousand words was done. and, when done, the cocktails reared a wall of inhibition in my brain between the day's work done and the rest of the day of fun to come. my work ceased from my consciousness. no thought of it flickered in my brain till next morning at nine o'clock when i sat at my desk and began my next thousand words. this was a desirable condition of mind to achieve. i conserved my energy by means of this alcoholic inhibition. john barleycorn was not so black as he was painted. he did a fellow many a good turn, and this was one of them. and i turned out work that was healthful, and wholesome, and sincere. it was never pessimistic. the way to life i had learned in my long sickness. i knew the illusions were right, and i exalted the illusions. oh, i still turn out the same sort of work, stuff that is clean, alive, optimistic, and that makes toward life. and i am always assured by the critics of my super-abundant and abounding vitality, and of how thoroughly i am deluded by these very illusions i exploit. and while on this digression, let me repeat the question i have repeated to myself ten thousand times. why did i drink? what need was there for it? i was happy. was it because i was too happy? i was strong. was it because i was too strong? did i possess too much vitality? i don't know why i drank. i cannot answer, though i can voice the suspicion that ever grows in me. i had been in too-familiar contact with john barleycorn through too many years. a left-handed man, by long practice, can become a right-handed man. had i, a non-alcoholic, by long practice become an alcoholic? i was so happy. i had won through my long sickness to the satisfying love of woman. i earned more money with less endeavour. i glowed with health. i slept like a babe. i continued to write successful books, and in sociological controversy i saw my opponents confuted with the facts of the times that daily reared new buttresses to my intellectual position. from day's end to day's end i never knew sorrow, disappointment, nor regret. i was happy all the time. life was one unending song. i begrudged the very hours of blessed sleep because by that much was i robbed of the joy that would have been mine had i remained awake. and yet i drank. and john barleycorn, all unguessed by me, was setting the stage for a sickness all his own. the more i drank the more i was required to drink to get an equivalent effect. when i left the valley of the moon, and went to the city, and dined out, a cocktail served at table was a wan and worthless thing. there was no pre-dinner kick in it. on my way to dinner i was compelled to accumulate the kick--two cocktails, three, and, if i met some fellows, four or five, or six, it didn't matter within several. once, i was in a rush. i had no time decently to accumulate the several drinks. a brilliant idea came to me. i told the barkeeper to mix me a double cocktail. thereafter, whenever i was in a hurry, i ordered double cocktails. it saved time. one result of this regular heavy drinking was to jade me. my mind grew so accustomed to spring and liven by artificial means that without artificial means it refused to spring and liven. alcohol became more and more imperative in order to meet people, in order to become sociably fit. i had to get the kick and the hit of the stuff, the crawl of the maggots, the genial brain glow, the laughter tickle, the touch of devilishness and sting, the smile over the face of things, ere i could join my fellows and make one with them. another result was that john barleycorn was beginning to trip me up. he was thrusting my long sickness back upon me, inveigling me into again pursuing truth and snatching her veils away from her, tricking me into looking reality stark in the face. but this came on gradually. my thoughts were growing harsh again, though they grew harsh slowly. sometimes warning thoughts crossed my mind. where was this steady drinking leading? but trust john barleycorn to silence such questions. "come on and have a drink and i'll tell you all about it," is his way. and it works. for instance, the following is a case in point, and one which john barleycorn never wearied of reminding me: i had suffered an accident which required a ticklish operation. one morning, a week after i had come off the table, i lay on my hospital bed, weak and weary. the sunburn of my face, what little of it could be seen through a scraggly growth of beard, had faded to a sickly yellow. my doctor stood at my bedside on the verge of departure. he glared disapprovingly at the cigarette i was smoking. "that's what you ought to quit," he lectured. "it will get you in the end. look at me." i looked. he was about my own age, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, eyes sparkling, and ruddy-cheeked with health. a finer specimen of manhood one would not ask. "i used to smoke," he went on. "cigars. but i gave even them up. and look at me." the man was arrogant, and rightly arrogant, with conscious well-being. and within a month he was dead. it was no accident. half a dozen different bugs of long scientific names had attacked and destroyed him. the complications were astonishing and painful, and for days before he died the screams of agony of that splendid manhood could be heard for a block around. he died screaming. "you see," said john barleycorn. "he took care of himself. he even stopped smoking cigars. and that's what he got for it. pretty rotten, eh? but the bugs will jump. there's no forefending them. your magnificent doctor took every precaution, yet they got him. when the bug jumps you can't tell where it will land. it may be you. look what he missed. will you miss all i can give you, only to have a bug jump on you and drag you down? there is no equity in life. it's all a lottery. but i put the lying smile on the face of life and laugh at the facts. smile with me and laugh. you'll get yours in the end, but in the meantime laugh. it's a pretty dark world. i illuminate it for you. it's a rotten world, when things can happen such as happened to your doctor. there's only one thing to do: take another drink and forget it." and, of course, i took another drink for the inhibition that accompanied it. i took another drink every time john barleycorn reminded me of what had happened. yet i drank rationally, intelligently. i saw to it that the quality of the stuff was of the best. i sought the kick and the inhibition, and avoided the penalties of poor quality and of drunkenness. it is to be remarked, in passing, that when a man begins to drink rationally and intelligently that he betrays a grave symptom of how far along the road he has travelled. but i continued to observe my rule of never taking my first drink of the day until the last word of my thousand words was written. on occasion, however, i took a day's vacation from my writing. at such times, since it was no violation of my rule, i didn't mind how early in the day i took that first drink. and persons who have never been through the drinking game wonder how the drinking habit grows! chapter xxxii when the snark sailed on her long cruise from san francisco there was nothing to drink on board. or, rather, we were all of us unaware that there was anything to drink, nor did we discover it for many a month. this sailing with a "dry" boat was malice aforethought on my part. i had played john barleycorn a trick. and it showed that i was listening ever so slightly to the faint warnings that were beginning to arise in my consciousness. of course, i veiled the situation to myself and excused myself to john barleycorn. and i was very scientific about it. i said that i would drink only while in ports. during the dry sea-stretches my system would be cleansed of the alcohol that soaked it, so that when i reached a port i should be in shape to enjoy john barleycorn more thoroughly. his bite would be sharper, his kick keener and more delicious. we were twenty-seven days on the traverse between san francisco and honolulu. after the first day out, the thought of a drink never troubled me. this i take to show how intrinsically i am not an alcoholic. sometimes, during the traverse, looking ahead and anticipating the delightful lanai luncheons and dinners of hawaii (i had been there a couple of times before), i thought, naturally, of the drinks that would precede those meals. i did not think of those drinks with any yearning, with any irk at the length of the voyage. i merely thought they would be nice and jolly, part of the atmosphere of a proper meal. thus, once again i proved to my complete satisfaction that i was john barleycorn's master. i could drink when i wanted, refrain when i wanted. therefore i would continue to drink when i wanted. some five months were spent in the various islands of the hawaiian group. being ashore, i drank. i even drank a bit more than i had been accustomed to drink in california prior to the voyage. the people in hawaii seemed to drink a bit more, on the average, than the people in more temperate latitudes. i do not intend the pun, and can awkwardly revise the statement to "latitudes more remote from the equator." yet hawaii is only sub-tropical. the deeper i got into the tropics, the deeper i found men drank, the deeper i drank myself. from hawaii we sailed for the marquesas. the traverse occupied sixty days. for sixty days we never raised land, a sail, nor a steamer smoke. but early in those sixty days the cook, giving an overhauling to the galley, made a find. down in the bottom of a deep locker he found a dozen bottles of angelica and muscatel. these had come down from the kitchen cellar of the ranch along with the home-preserved fruits and jellies. six months in the galley heat had effected some sort of a change in the thick sweet wine--branded it, i imagine. i took a taste. delicious! and thereafter, once each day, at twelve o'clock, after our observations were worked up and the snark's position charted, i drank half a tumbler of the stuff. it had a rare kick to it. it warmed the cockles of my geniality and put a fairer face on the truly fair face of the sea. each morning, below, sweating out my thousand words, i found myself looking forward to that twelve o'clock event of the day. the trouble was i had to share the stuff, and the length of the traverse was doubtful. i regretted that there were not more than a dozen bottles. and when they were gone i even regretted that i had shared any of it. i was thirsty for the alcohol, and eager to arrive in the marquesas. so it was that i reached the marquesas the possessor of a real man's size thirst. and in the marquesas were several white men, a lot of sickly natives, much magnificent scenery, plenty of trade rum, an immense quantity of absinthe, but neither whisky nor gin. the trade rum scorched the skin off one's mouth. i know, because i tried it. but i had ever been plastic, and i accepted the absinthe. the trouble with the stuff was that i had to take such inordinate quantities in order to feel the slightest effect. from the marquesas i sailed with sufficient absinthe in ballast to last me to tahiti, where i outfitted with scotch and american whisky, and thereafter there were no dry stretches between ports. but please do not misunderstand. there was no drunkenness, as drunkenness is ordinarily understood--no staggering and rolling around, no befuddlement of the senses. the skilled and seasoned drinker, with a strong constitution, never descends to anything like that. he drinks to feel good, to get a pleasant jingle, and no more than that. the things he carefully avoids are the nausea of over-drinking, the after-effect of over-drinking, the helplessness and loss of pride of over-drinking. what the skilled and seasoned drinker achieves is a discreet and canny semi-intoxication. and he does it by the twelve-month around without any apparent penalty. there are hundreds of thousands of men of this sort in the united states to-day, in clubs, hotels, and in their own homes--men who are never drunk, and who, though most of them will indignantly deny it, are rarely sober. and all of them fondly believe, as i fondly believed, that they are beating the game. on the sea-stretches i was fairly abstemious; but ashore i drank more. i seemed to need more, anyway, in the tropics. this is a common experience, for the excessive consumption of alcohol in the tropics by white men is a notorious fact. the tropics is no place for white-skinned men. their skin-pigment does not protect them against the excessive white light of the sun. the ultra-violet rays, and other high-velocity and invisible rays from the upper end of the spectrum, rip and tear through their tissues, just as the x-ray ripped and tore through the tissues of so many experimenters before they learned the danger. white men in the tropics undergo radical changes of nature. they become savage, merciless. they commit monstrous acts of cruelty that they would never dream of committing in their original temperate climate. they become nervous, irritable, and less moral. and they drink as they never drank before. drinking is one form of the many forms of degeneration that set in when white men are exposed too long to too much white light. the increase of alcoholic consumption is automatic. the tropics is no place for a long sojourn. they seem doomed to die anyway, and the heavy drinking expedites the process. they don't reason about it. they just do it. the sun sickness got me, despite the fact that i had been in the tropics only a couple of years. i drank heavily during this time, but right here i wish to forestall misunderstanding. the drinking was not the cause of the sickness, nor of the abandonment of the voyage. i was strong as a bull, and for many months i fought the sun sickness that was ripping and tearing my surface and nervous tissues to pieces. all through the new hebrides and the solomons and up among the atolls on the line, during this period under a tropic sun, rotten with malaria, and suffering from a few minor afflictions such as biblical leprosy with the silvery skin, i did the work of five men. to navigate a vessel through the reefs and shoals and passages and unlighted coasts of the coral seas is a man's work in itself. i was the only navigator on board. there was no one to check me up on the working out of my observations, nor with whom i could advise in the ticklish darkness among uncharted reefs and shoals. and i stood all watches. there was no sea-man on board whom i could trust to stand a mate's watch. i was mate as well as captain. twenty-four hours a day were the watches i stood at sea, catching cat-naps when i might. third, i was doctor. and let me say right here that the doctor's job on the snark at that time was a man's job. all on board suffered from malaria--the real, tropical malaria that can kill in three months. all on board suffered from perforating ulcers and from the maddening itch of ngari-ngari. a japanese cook went insane from his too numerous afflictions. one of my polynesian sailors lay at death's door with blackwater fever. oh, yes, it was a full man's job, and i dosed and doctored, and pulled teeth, and dragged my patients through mild little things like ptomaine poisoning. fourth, i was a writer. i sweated out my thousand words a day, every day, except when the shock of fever smote me, or a couple of nasty squalls smote the snark, in the morning. fifth, i was a traveller and a writer, eager to see things and to gather material into my note-books. and, sixth, i was master and owner of the craft that was visiting strange places where visitors are rare and where visitors are made much of. so here i had to hold up the social end, entertain on board, be entertained ashore by planters, traders, governors, captains of war vessels, kinky-headed cannibal kings, and prime ministers sometimes fortunate enough to be clad in cotton shifts. of course i drank. i drank with my guests and hosts. also, i drank by myself. doing the work of five men, i thought, entitled me to drink. alcohol was good for a man who over-worked. i noted its effect on my small crew, when, breaking their backs and hearts at heaving up anchor in forty fathoms, they knocked off gasping and trembling at the end of half an hour and had new life put into them by stiff jolts of rum. they caught their breaths, wiped their mouths, and went to it again with a will. and when we careened the snark and had to work in the water to our necks between shocks of fever, i noted how raw trade rum helped the work along. and here again we come to another side of many-sided john barleycorn. on the face of it, he gives something for nothing. where no strength remains he finds new strength. the wearied one rises to greater effort. for the time being there is an actual accession of strength. i remember passing coal on an ocean steamer through eight days of hell, during which time we coal-passers were kept to the job by being fed with whisky. we toiled half drunk all the time. and without the whisky we could not have passed the coal. this strength john barleycorn gives is not fictitious strength. it is real strength. but it is manufactured out of the sources of strength, and it must ultimately be paid for, and with interest. but what weary human will look so far ahead? he takes this apparently miraculous accession of strength at its face value. and many an overworked business and professional man, as well as a harried common labourer, has travelled john barleycorn's death road because of this mistake. chapter xxxiii i went to australia to go into hospital and get tinkered up, after which i planned to go on with the voyage. and during the long weeks i lay in hospital, from the first day i never missed alcohol. i never thought about it. i knew i should have it again when i was on my feet. but when i regained my feet i was not cured of my major afflictions. naaman's silvery skin was still mine. the mysterious sun-sickness, which the experts of australia could not fathom, still ripped and tore my tissues. malaria still festered in me and put me on my back in shivering delirium at the most unexpected moments, compelling me to cancel a double lecture tour which had been arranged. so i abandoned the snark voyage and sought a cooler climate. the day i came out of hospital i took up drinking again as a matter of course. i drank wine at meals. i drank cocktails before meals. i drank scotch highballs when anybody i chanced to be with was drinking them. i was so thoroughly the master of john barleycorn i could take up with him or let go of him whenever i pleased, just as i had done all my life. after a time, for cooler climate, i went down to southermost tasmania in forty-three south. and i found myself in a place where there was nothing to drink. it didn't mean anything. i didn't drink. it was no hardship. i soaked in the cool air, rode horseback, and did my thousand words a day save when the fever shock came in the morning. and for fear that the idea may still lurk in some minds that my preceding years of drinking were the cause of my disabilities, i here point out that my japanese cabin boy, nakata, still with me, was rotten with fever, as was charmian, who in addition was in the slough of a tropical neurasthenia that required several years of temperate climates to cure, and that neither she nor nakata drank or ever had drunk. when i returned to hobart town, where drink was obtainable, i drank as of old. the same when i arrived back in australia. on the contrary, when i sailed from australia on a tramp steamer commanded by an abstemious captain, i took no drink along, and had no drink for the forty-three days' passage. arrived in ecuador, squarely under the equatorial sun, where the humans were dying of yellow fever, smallpox, and the plague, i promptly drank again--every drink of every sort that had a kick in it. i caught none of these diseases. neither did charmian nor nakata who did not drink. enamoured of the tropics, despite the damage done me, i stopped in various places, and was a long while getting back to the splendid, temperate climate of california. i did my thousand words a day, travelling or stopping over, suffered my last faint fever shock, saw my silvery skin vanish and my sun-torn tissues healthily knit again, and drank as a broad-shouldered chesty man may drink. chapter xxxiv back on the ranch, in the valley of the moon, i resumed my steady drinking. my programme was no drink in the morning; first drink-time came with the completion of my thousand words. then, between that and the midday meal, were drinks numerous enough to develop a pleasant jingle. again, in the hour preceding the evening meal, i developed another pleasant jingle. nobody ever saw me drunk, for the simple reason that i never was drunk. but i did get a jingle twice each day; and the amount of alcohol i consumed every day, if loosed in the system of one unaccustomed to drink, would have put such a one on his back and out. it was the old proposition. the more i drank, the more i was compelled to drink in order to get an effect. the time came when cocktails were inadequate. i had neither the time in which to drink them nor the space to accommodate them. whisky had a more powerful jolt. it gave quicker action with less quantity. bourbon or rye, or cunningly aged blends, constituted the pre-midday drinking. in the late afternoon it was scotch and soda. my sleep, always excellent, now became not quite so excellent. i had been accustomed to read myself back asleep when i chanced to awake. but now this began to fail me. when i had read two or three of the small hours away and was as wide awake as ever, i found that a drink furnished the soporific effect. sometimes two or three drinks were required. so short a period of sleep then intervened before early morning rising that my system did not have time to work off the alcohol. as a result i awoke with mouth parched and dry, with a slight heaviness of head, and with a mild nervous palpitation in the stomach. in fact i did not feel good. i was suffering from the morning sickness of the steady, heavy drinker. what i needed was a pick-me-up, a bracer. trust john barleycorn, once he has broken down a man's defences! so it was a drink before breakfast to put me right for breakfast--the old poison of the snake that has bitten one! another custom begun at this time was that of the pitcher of water by the bedside to furnish relief to my scorched and sizzling membranes. i achieved a condition in which my body was never free from alcohol. nor did i permit myself to be away from alcohol. if i travelled to out-of-the-way places, i declined to run the risk of finding them dry. i took a quart, or several quarts, along in my grip. in the past i had been amazed by other men guilty of this practice. now i did it myself unblushingly. and when i got out with the fellows, i cast all rules by the board. i drank when they drank, what they drank, and in the same way they drank. i was carrying a beautiful alcoholic conflagration around with me. the thing fed on its own heat and flamed the fiercer. there was no time, in all my waking time, that i didn't want a drink. i began to anticipate the completion of my daily thousand words by taking a drink when only five hundred words were written. it was not long until i prefaced the beginning of the thousand words with a drink. the gravity of this i realised too well. i made new rules. resolutely i would refrain from drinking until my work was done. but a new and most diabolical complication arose. the work refused to be done without drinking. it just couldn't be done. i had to drink in order to do it. i was beginning to fight now. i had the craving at last, and it was mastering me. i would sit at my desk and dally with pad and pen, but words refused to flow. my brain could not think the proper thoughts because continually it was obsessed with the one thought that across the room in the liquor cabinet stood john barleycorn. when, in despair, i took my drink, at once my brain loosened up and began to roll off the thousand words. in my town house, in oakland, i finished the stock of liquor and wilfully refused to purchase more. it was no use, because, unfortunately, there remained in the bottom of the liquor cabinet a case of beer. in vain i tried to write. now beer is a poor substitute for strong waters: besides, i didn't like beer, yet all i could think of was that beer so singularly accessible in the bottom of the cabinet. not until i had drunk a pint of it did the words begin to reel off, and the thousand were reeled off to the tune of numerous pints. the worst of it was that the beer caused me severe heart-burn; but despite the discomfort i soon finished off the case. the liquor cabinet was now bare. i did not replenish it. by truly heroic perseverance i finally forced myself to write the daily thousand words without the spur of john barleycorn. but all the time i wrote i was keenly aware of the craving for a drink. and as soon as the morning's work was done, i was out of the house and away down-town to get my first drink. merciful goodness!--if john barleycorn could get such sway over me, a non-alcoholic, what must be the sufferings of the true alcoholic, battling against the organic demands of his chemistry while those closest to him sympathise little, understand less, and despise and deride him! chapter xxxv but the freight has to be paid. john barleycorn began to collect, and he collected not so much from the body as from the mind. the old long sickness, which had been purely an intellectual sickness, recrudesced. the old ghosts, long laid, lifted their heads again. but they were different and more deadly ghosts. the old ghosts, intellectual in their inception, had been laid by a sane and normal logic. but now they were raised by the white logic of john barleycorn, and john barleycorn never lays the ghosts of his raising. for this sickness of pessimism, caused by drink, one must drink further in quest of the anodyne that john barleycorn promises but never delivers. how to describe this white logic to those who have never experienced it! it is perhaps better first to state how impossible such a description is. take hasheesh land, for instance, the land of enormous extensions of time and space. in past years i have made two memorable journeys into that far land. my adventures there are seared in sharpest detail on my brain. yet i have tried vainly, with endless words, to describe any tiny particular phase to persons who have not travelled there. i use all the hyperbole of metaphor, and tell what centuries of time and profounds of unthinkable agony and horror can obtain in each interval of all the intervals between the notes of a quick jig played quickly on the piano. i talk for an hour, elaborating that one phase of hasheesh land, and at the end i have told them nothing. and when i cannot tell them this one thing of all the vastness of terrible and wonderful things, i know i have failed to give them the slightest concept of hasheesh land. but let me talk with some other traveller in that weird region, and at once am i understood. a phrase, a word, conveys instantly to his mind what hours of words and phrases could not convey to the mind of the non-traveller. so it is with john barleycorn's realm where the white logic reigns. to those untravelled there, the traveller's account must always seem unintelligible and fantastic. at the best, i may only beg of the untravelled ones to strive to take on faith the narrative i shall relate. for there are fatal intuitions of truth that reside in alcohol. philip sober vouches for philip drunk in this matter. there seem to be various orders of truth in this world. some sorts of truth are truer than others. some sorts of truth are lies, and these sorts are the very ones that have the greatest use-value to life that desires to realise and live. at once, o untravelled reader, you see how lunatic and blasphemous is the realm i am trying to describe to you in the language of john barleycorn's tribe. it is not the language of your tribe, all of whose members resolutely shun the roads that lead to death and tread only the roads that lead to life. for there are roads and roads, and of truth there are orders and orders. but have patience. at least, through what seems no more than verbal yammerings, you may, perchance, glimpse faint far vistas of other lands and tribes. alcohol tells truth, but its truth is not normal. what is normal is healthful. what is healthful tends toward life. normal truth is a different order, and a lesser order, of truth. take a dray horse. through all the vicissitudes of its life, from first to last, somehow, in unguessably dim ways, it must believe that life is good; that the drudgery in harness is good; that death, no matter how blind-instinctively apprehended, is a dread giant; that life is beneficent and worth while; that, in the end, with fading life, it will not be knocked about and beaten and urged beyond its sprained and spavined best; that old age, even, is decent, dignified, and valuable, though old age means a ribby scare-crow in a hawker's cart, stumbling a step to every blow, stumbling dizzily on through merciless servitude and slow disintegration to the end--the end, the apportionment of its parts (of its subtle flesh, its pink and springy bone, its juices and ferments, and all the sensateness that informed it) to the chicken farm, the hide-house, the glue-rendering works, and the bone-meal fertiliser factory. to the last stumble of its stumbling end this dray horse must abide by the mandates of the lesser truth that is the truth of life and that makes life possible to persist. this dray horse, like all other horses, like all other animals, including man, is life-blinded and sense-struck. it will live, no matter what the price. the game of life is good, though all of life may be hurt, and though all lives lose the game in the end. this is the order of truth that obtains, not for the universe, but for the live things in it if they for a little space will endure ere they pass. this order of truth, no matter how erroneous it may be, is the sane and normal order of truth, the rational order of truth that life must believe in order to live. to man, alone among the animals, has been given the awful privilege of reason. man, with his brain, can penetrate the intoxicating show of things and look upon the universe brazen with indifference toward him and his dreams. he can do this, but it is not well for him to do it. to live, and live abundantly, to sting with life, to be alive (which is to be what he is), it is good that man be life-blinded and sense-struck. what is good is true. and this is the order of truth, lesser though it be, that man must know and guide his actions by with unswerving certitude that it is absolute truth and that in the universe no other order of truth can obtain. it is good that man should accept at face value the cheats of sense and snares of flesh and through the fogs of sentiency pursue the lures and lies of passion. it is good that he shall see neither shadows nor futilities, nor be appalled by his lusts and rapacities. and man does this. countless men have glimpsed that other and truer order of truth and recoiled from it. countless men have passed through the long sickness and lived to tell of it and deliberately to forget it to the end of their days. they lived. they realised life, for life is what they were. they did right. and now comes john barleycorn with the curse he lays upon the imaginative man who is lusty with life and desire to live. john barleycorn sends his white logic, the argent messenger of truth beyond truth, the antithesis of life, cruel and bleak as interstellar space, pulseless and frozen as absolute zero, dazzling with the frost of irrefragable logic and unforgettable fact. john barleycorn will not let the dreamer dream, the liver live. he destroys birth and death, and dissipates to mist the paradox of being, until his victim cries out, as in "the city of dreadful night": "our life's a cheat, our death a black abyss." and the feet of the victim of such dreadful intimacy take hold of the way of death. chapter xxxvi back to personal experiences and the effects in the past of john barleycorn's white logic on me. on my lovely ranch in the valley of the moon, brain-soaked with many months of alcohol, i am oppressed by the cosmic sadness that has always been the heritage of man. in vain do i ask myself why i should be sad. my nights are warm. my roof does not leak. i have food galore for all the caprices of appetite. every creature comfort is mine. in my body are no aches nor pains. the good old flesh-machine is running smoothly on. neither brain nor muscle is overworked. i have land, money, power, recognition from the world, a consciousness that i do my meed of good in serving others, a mate whom i love, children that are of my own fond flesh. i have done, and am doing, what a good citizen of the world should do. i have built houses, many houses, and tilled many a hundred acres. and as for trees, have i not planted a hundred thousand? everywhere, from any window of my house, i can gaze forth upon these trees of my planting, standing valiantly erect and aspiring toward the sun. my life has indeed fallen in pleasant places. not a hundred men in a million have been so lucky as i. yet, with all this vast good fortune, am i sad. and i am sad because john barleycorn is with me. and john barleycorn is with me because i was born in what future ages will call the dark ages before the ages of rational civilisation. john barleycorn is with me because in all the unwitting days of my youth john barleycorn was accessible, calling to me and inviting me on every corner and on every street between the corners. the pseudo-civilisation into which i was born permitted everywhere licensed shops for the sale of soul-poison. the system of life was so organised that i (and millions like me) was lured and drawn and driven to the poison shops. wander with me through one mood of the myriad moods of sadness into which one is plunged by john barleycorn. i ride out over my beautiful ranch. between my legs is a beautiful horse. the air is wine. the grapes on a score of rolling hills are red with autumn flame. across sonoma mountain wisps of sea fog are stealing. the afternoon sun smoulders in the drowsy sky. i have everything to make me glad i am alive. i am filled with dreams and mysteries. i am all sun and air and sparkle. i am vitalised, organic. i move, i have the power of movement, i command movement of the live thing i bestride. i am possessed with the pomps of being, and know proud passions and inspirations. i have ten thousand august connotations. i am a king in the kingdom of sense, and trample the face of the uncomplaining dust.... and yet, with jaundiced eye i gaze upon all the beauty and wonder about me, and with jaundiced brain consider the pitiful figure i cut in this world that endured so long without me and that will again endure without me. i remember the men who broke their hearts and their backs over this stubborn soil that now belongs to me. as if anything imperishable could belong to the perishable! these men passed. i, too, shall pass. these men toiled, and cleared, and planted, gazed with aching eyes, while they rested their labour-stiffened bodies on these same sunrises and sunsets, at the autumn glory of the grape, and at the fog-wisps stealing across the mountain. and they are gone. and i know that i, too, shall some day, and soon, be gone. gone? i am going now. in my jaw are cunning artifices of the dentists which replace the parts of me already gone. never again will i have the thumbs of my youth. old fights and wrestlings have injured them irreparably. that punch on the head of a man whose very name is forgotten settled this thumb finally and for ever. a slip-grip at catch-as-catch-can did for the other. my lean runner's stomach has passed into the limbo of memory. the joints of the legs that bear me up are not so adequate as they once were, when, in wild nights and days of toil and frolic, i strained and snapped and ruptured them. never again can i swing dizzily aloft and trust all the proud quick that is i to a single rope-clutch in the driving blackness of storm. never again can i run with the sled-dogs along the endless miles of arctic trail. i am aware that within this disintegrating body which has been dying since i was born i carry a skeleton, that under the rind of flesh which is called my face is a bony, noseless death's head. all of which does not shudder me. to be afraid is to be healthy. fear of death makes for life. but the curse of the white logic is that it does not make one afraid. the world-sickness of the white logic makes one grin jocosely into the face of the noseless one and to sneer at all the phantasmagoria of living. i look about me as i ride and on every hand i see the merciless and infinite waste of natural selection. the white logic insists upon opening the long-closed books, and by paragraph and chapter states the beauty and wonder i behold in terms of futility and dust. about me is murmur and hum, and i know it for the gnat-swarm of the living, piping for a little space its thin plaint of troubled air. i return across the ranch. twilight is on, and the hunting animals are out. i watch the piteous tragic play of life feeding on life. here is no morality. only in man is morality, and man created it--a code of action that makes toward living and that is of the lesser order of truth. yet all this i knew before, in the weary days of my long sickness. these were the greater truths that i so successfully schooled myself to forget; the truths that were so serious that i refused to take them seriously, and played with gently, oh! so gently, as sleeping dogs at the back of consciousness which i did not care to waken. i did but stir them, and let them lie. i was too wise, too wicked wise, to wake them. but now white logic willy-nilly wakes them for me, for white logic, most valiant, is unafraid of all the monsters of the earthly dream. "let the doctors of all the schools condemn me," white logic whispers as i ride along. "what of it? i am truth. you know it. you cannot combat me. they say i make for death. what of it? it is truth. life lies in order to live. life is a perpetual lie-telling process. life is a mad dance in the domain of flux, wherein appearances in mighty tides ebb and flow, chained to the wheels of moons beyond our ken. appearances are ghosts. life is ghost land, where appearances change, transfuse, permeate each the other and all the others, that are, that are not, that always flicker, fade, and pass, only to come again as new appearances, as other appearances. you are such an appearance, composed of countless appearances out of the past. all an appearance can know is mirage. you know mirages of desire. these very mirages are the unthinkable and incalculable congeries of appearances that crowd in upon you and form you out of the past, and that sweep you on into dissemination into other unthinkable and incalculable congeries of appearances to people the ghost land of the future. life is apparitional, and passes. you are an apparition. through all the apparitions that preceded you and that compose the parts of you, you rose gibbering from the evolutionary mire, and gibbering you will pass on, interfusing, permeating the procession of apparitions that will succeed you." and of course it is all unanswerable, and as i ride along through the evening shadows i sneer at that great fetish which comte called the world. and i remember what another pessimist of sentiency has uttered: "transient are all. they, being born, must die, and, being dead, are glad to be at rest." but here through the dusk comes one who is not glad to be at rest. he is a workman on the ranch, an old man, an immigrant italian. he takes his hat off to me in all servility, because, forsooth, i am to him a lord of life. i am food to him, and shelter, and existence. he has toiled like a beast all his days, and lived less comfortably than my horses in their deep-strawed stalls. he is labour-crippled. he shambles as he walks. one shoulder is twisted higher than the other. his hands are gnarled claws, repulsive, horrible. as an apparition he is a pretty miserable specimen. his brain is as stupid as his body is ugly. "his brain is so stupid that he does not know he is an apparition," the white logic chuckles to me. "he is sense-drunk. he is the slave of the dream of life. his brain is filled with superrational sanctions and obsessions. he believes in a transcendent over-world. he has listened to the vagaries of the prophets, who have given to him the sumptuous bubble of paradise. he feels inarticulate self-affinities, with self-conjured non-realities. he sees penumbral visions of himself titubating fantastically through days and nights of space and stars. beyond the shadow of any doubt he is convinced that the universe was made for him, and that it is his destiny to live for ever in the immaterial and supersensuous realms he and his kind have builded of the stuff of semblance and deception. "but you, who have opened the books and who share my awful confidence--you know him for what he is, brother to you and the dust, a cosmic joke, a sport of chemistry, a garmented beast that arose out of the ruck of screaming beastliness by virtue and accident of two opposable great toes. he is brother as well to the gorilla and the chimpanzee. he thumps his chest in anger, and roars and quivers with cataleptic ferocity. he knows monstrous, atavistic promptings, and he is composed of all manner of shreds of abysmal and forgotten instincts." "yet he dreams he is immortal," i argue feebly. "it is vastly wonderful for so stupid a clod to bestride the shoulders of time and ride the eternities." "pah!" is the retort. "would you then shut the books and exchange places with this thing that is only an appetite and a desire, a marionette of the belly and the loins?" "to be stupid is to be happy," i contend. "then your ideal of happiness is a jelly-like organism floating in a tideless, tepid twilight sea, eh?" oh, the victim cannot combat john barleycorn! "one step removed from the annihilating bliss of buddha's nirvana," the white logic adds. "oh well, here's the house. cheer up and take a drink. we know, we illuminated, you and i, all the folly and the farce." and in my book-walled den, the mausoleum of the thoughts of men, i take my drink, and other drinks, and roust out the sleeping dogs from the recesses of my brain and hallo them on over the walls of prejudice and law and through all the cunning labyrinths of superstition and belief. "drink," says the white logic. "the greeks believed that the gods gave them wine so that they might forget the miserableness of existence. and remember what heine said." well do i remember that flaming jew's "with the last breath all is done: joy, love, sorrow, macaroni, the theatre, lime-trees, raspberry drops, the power of human relations, gossip, the barking of dogs, champagne." "your clear white light is sickness," i tell the white logic. "you lie." "by telling too strong a truth," he quips back. "alas, yes, so topsy-turvy is existence," i acknowledge sadly. "ah, well, liu ling was wiser than you," the white logic girds. "you remember him?" i nod my head--liu ling, a hard drinker, one of the group of bibulous poets who called themselves the seven sages of the bamboo grove and who lived in china many an ancient century ago. "it was liu ling," prompts the white logic, "who declared that to a drunken man the affairs of this world appear but as so much duckweed on a river. very well. have another scotch, and let semblance and deception become duck-weed on a river." and while i pour and sip my scotch, i remember another chinese philosopher, chuang tzu, who, four centuries before christ, challenged this dreamland of the world, saying: "how then do i know but that the dead repent of having previously clung to life? those who dream of the banquet, wake to lamentation and sorrow. those who dream of lamentation and sorrow, wake to join the hunt. while they dream, they do not know that they dream. some will even interpret the very dream they are dreaming; and only when they awake do they know it was a dream.... fools think they are awake now, and flatter themselves they know if they are really princes or peasants. confucius and you are both dreams; and i who say you are dreams--i am but a dream myself. "once upon a time, i, chuang tzu, dreamt i was a butterfly, fluttering hither and thither, to all intents and purposes a butterfly. i was conscious only of following my fancies as a butterfly, and was unconscious of my individuality as a man. suddenly, i awaked, and there i lay, myself again. now i do not know whether i was then a man dreaming i was a butterfly, or whether i am now a butterfly dreaming i am a man." chapter xxxvii "come," says the white logic, "and forget these asian dreamers of old time. fill your glass and let us look at the parchments of the dreamers of yesterday who dreamed their dreams on your own warm hills." i pore over the abstract of title of the vineyard called tokay on the rancho called petaluma. it is a sad long list of the names of men, beginning with manuel micheltoreno, one time mexican "governor, commander-in-chief, and inspector of the department of the californias," who deeded ten square leagues of stolen indian land to colonel don mariano guadalupe vallejo for services rendered his country and for moneys paid by him for ten years to his soldiers. immediately this musty record of man's land lust assumes the formidableness of a battle--the quick struggling with the dust. there are deeds of trust, mortgages, certificates of release, transfers, judgments, foreclosures, writs of attachment, orders of sale, tax liens, petitions for letters of administration, and decrees of distribution. it is like a monster ever unsubdued, this stubborn land that drowses in this indian summer weather and that survives them all, the men who scratched its surface and passed. who was this james king of william, so curiously named? the oldest surviving settler in the valley of the moon knows him not. yet only sixty years ago he loaned mariano g. vallejo eighteen thousand dollars on security of certain lands including the vineyard yet to be and to be called tokay. whence came peter o'connor, and whither vanished, after writing his little name of a day on the woodland that was to become a vineyard? appears louis csomortanyi, a name to conjure with. he lasts through several pages of this record of the enduring soil. comes old american stock, thirsting across the great american desert, mule-backing across the isthmus, wind-jamming around the horn, to write brief and forgotten names where ten thousand generations of wild indians are equally forgotten--names like halleck, hastings, swett, tait, denman, tracy, grimwood, carlton, temple. there are no names like those to-day in the valley of the moon. the names begin to appear fast and furiously, flashing from legal page to legal page and in a flash vanishing. but ever the persistent soil remains for others to scrawl themselves across. come the names of men of whom i have vaguely heard but whom i have never known. kohler and frohling--who built the great stone winery on the vineyard called tokay, but who built upon a hill up which other vineyardists refused to haul their grapes. so kohler and frohling lost the land; the earthquake of threw down the winery; and i now live in its ruins. la motte--he broke the soil, planted vines and orchards, instituted commercial fish culture, built a mansion renowned in its day, was defeated by the soil, and passed. and my name of a day appears. on the site of his orchards and vine-yards, of his proud mansion, of his very fish ponds, i have scrawled myself with half a hundred thousand eucalyptus trees. cooper and greenlaw--on what is called the hill ranch they left two of their dead, "little lillie" and "little david," who rest to-day inside a tiny square of hand-hewn palings. also, cooper and greenlaw in their time cleared the virgin forest from three fields of forty acres. to-day i have those three fields sown with canada peas, and in the spring they shall be ploughed under for green manure. haska--a dim legendary figure of a generation ago, who went back up the mountain and cleared six acres of brush in the tiny valley that took his name. he broke the soil, reared stone walls and a house, and planted apple trees. and already the site of the house is undiscoverable, the location of the stone walls may be deduced from the configuration of the landscape, and i am renewing the battle, putting in angora goats to browse away the brush that has overrun haska's clearing and choked haska's apple trees to death. so i, too, scratch the land with my brief endeavour and flash my name across a page of legal script ere i pass and the page grows musty. "dreamers and ghosts," the white logic chuckles. "but surely the striving was not altogether vain," i contend. "it was based on illusion and is a lie." "a vital lie," i retort. "and pray what is a vital lie but a lie?" the white logic challenges. "come. fill your glass and let us examine these vital liars who crowd your bookshelves. let us dabble in william james a bit." "a man of health," i say. "from him we may expect no philosopher's stone, but at least we will find a few robust tonic things to which to tie." "rationality gelded to sentiment," the white logic grins. "at the end of all his thinking he still clung to the sentiment of immortality. facts transmuted in the alembic of hope into terms of faith. the ripest fruit of reason the stultification of reason. from the topmost peak of reason james teaches to cease reasoning and to have faith that all is well and will be well--the old, oh, ancient old, acrobatic flip of the metaphysicians whereby they reasoned reason quite away in order to escape the pessimism consequent upon the grim and honest exercise of reason. "is this flesh of yours you? or is it an extraneous something possessed by you? your body--what is it? a machine for converting stimuli into reactions. stimuli and reactions are remembered. they constitute experience. then you are in your consciousness these experiences. you are at any moment what you are thinking at that moment. your i is both subject and object; it predicates things of itself and is the things predicated. the thinker is the thought, the knower is what is known, the possessor is the things possessed. "after all, as you know well, man is a flux of states of consciousness, a flow of passing thoughts, each thought of self another self, a myriad thoughts, a myriad selves, a continual becoming but never being, a will-of-the-wisp flitting of ghosts in ghostland. but this, man will not accept of himself. he refuses to accept his own passing. he will not pass. he will live again if he has to die to do it. "he shuffles atoms and jets of light, remotest nebulae, drips of water, prick-points of sensation, slime-oozings and cosmic bulks, all mixed with pearls of faith, love of woman, imagined dignities, frightened surmises, and pompous arrogances, and of the stuff builds himself an immortality to startle the heavens and baffle the immensities. he squirms on his dunghill, and like a child lost in the dark among goblins, calls to the gods that he is their younger brother, a prisoner of the quick that is destined to be as free as they--monuments of egotism reared by the epiphenomena; dreams and the dust of dreams, that vanish when the dreamer vanishes and are no more when he is not. "it is nothing new, these vital lies men tell themselves, muttering and mumbling them like charms and incantations against the powers of night. the voodoos and medicine men and the devil-devil doctors were the fathers of metaphysics. night and the noseless one were ogres that beset the way of light and life. and the metaphysicians would win by if they had to tell lies to do it. they were vexed by the brazen law of the ecclesiast that men die like the beasts of the field and their end is the same. their creeds were their schemes, their religions their nostrums, their philosophies their devices, by which they half-believed they would outwit the noseless one and the night. "bog-lights, vapours of mysticism, psychic overtones, soul orgies, wailings among the shadows, weird gnosticisms, veils and tissues of words, gibbering subjectivisms, gropings and maunderings, ontological fantasies, pan-psychic hallucinations--this is the stuff, the phantasms of hope, that fills your bookshelves. look at them, all the sad wraiths of sad mad men and passionate rebels--your schopenhauers, your strindbergs, your tolstois and nietzsches. "come. your glass is empty. fill and forget." i obey, for my brain is now well a-crawl with the maggots of alcohol, and as i drink to the sad thinkers on my shelves i quote richard hovey: "abstain not! life and love like night and day offer themselves to us on their own terms, not ours. accept their bounty while ye may, before we be accepted by the worms," "i will cap you," cries the white logic. "no," i answer, while the maggots madden me. "i know you for what you are, and i am unafraid. under your mask of hedonism you are yourself the noseless one and your way leads to the night. hedonism has no meaning. it, too, is a lie, at best the coward's smug compromise." "now will i cap you!" the white logic breaks in. "but if you would not this poor life fulfil, lo, you are free to end it when you will, without the fear of waking after death." and i laugh my defiance; for now, and for the moment, i know the white logic to be the arch-impostor of them all, whispering his whispers of death. and he is guilty of his own unmasking, with his own genial chemistry turning the tables on himself, with his own maggots biting alive the old illusions, resurrecting and making to sound again the old voice from beyond of my youth, telling me again that still are mine the possibilities and powers which life and the books had taught me did not exist. and the dinner gong sounds to the reversed bottom of my glass. jeering at the white logic, i go out to join my guests at table, and with assumed seriousness to discuss the current magazines and the silly doings of the world's day, whipping every trick and ruse of controversy through all the paces of paradox and persiflage. and, when the whim changes, it is most easy and delightfully disconcerting to play with the respectable and cowardly bourgeois fetishes and to laugh and epigram at the flitting god-ghosts and the debaucheries and follies of wisdom. the clown's the thing! the clown! if one must be a philosopher, let him be aristophanes. and no one at the table thinks i am jingled. i am in fine fettle, that is all. i tire of the labour of thinking, and, when the table is finished, start practical jokes and set all playing at games, which we carry on with bucolic boisterousness. and when the evening is over and good-night said, i go back through my book-walled den to my sleeping porch and to myself and to the white logic which, undefeated, has never left me. and as i fall to fuddled sleep i hear youth crying, as harry kemp heard it: "i heard youth calling in the night: 'gone is my former world-delight; for there is naught my feet may stay; the morn suffuses into day, it dare not stand a moment still but must the world with light fulfil. more evanescent than the rose my sudden rainbow comes and goes, plunging bright ends across the sky-- yea, i am youth because i die!'" chapter xxxviii the foregoing is a sample roaming with the white logic through the dusk of my soul. to the best of my power i have striven to give the reader a glimpse of a man's secret dwelling when it is shared with john barleycorn. and the reader must remember that this mood, which he has read in a quarter of an hour, is but one mood of the myriad moods of john barleycorn, and that the procession of such moods may well last the clock around through many a day and week and month. my alcoholic reminiscences draw to a close. i can say, as any strong, chesty drinker can say, that all that leaves me alive to-day on the planet is my unmerited luck--the luck of chest, and shoulders, and constitution. i dare to say that a not large percentage of youths, in the formative stage of fifteen to seventeen, could have survived the stress of heavy drinking that i survived between my fifteenth and seventeenth years; that a not large percentage of men could have punished the alcohol i have punished in my manhood years and lived to tell the tale. i survived, through no personal virtue, but because i did not have the chemistry of a dipsomaniac and because i possessed an organism unusually resistant to the ravages of john barleycorn. and, surviving, i have watched the others die, not so lucky, down all the long sad road. it was my unmitigated and absolute good fortune, good luck, chance, call it what you will, that brought me through the fires of john barleycorn. my life, my career, my joy in living, have not been destroyed. they have been scorched, it is true; like the survivors of forlorn hopes, they have by unthinkably miraculous ways come through the fight to marvel at the tally of the slain. and like such a survivor of old red war who cries out, "let there be no more war!" so i cry out, "let there be no more poison-fighting by our youths!" the way to stop war is to stop it. the way to stop drinking is to stop it. the way china stopped the general use of opium was by stopping the cultivation and importation of opium. the philosophers, priests, and doctors of china could have preached themselves breathless against opium for a thousand years, and the use of opium, so long as opium was ever accessible and obtainable, would have continued unabated. we are so made, that is all. we have with great success made a practice of not leaving arsenic and strychnine, and typhoid and tuberculosis germs lying around for our children to be destroyed by. treat john barleycorn the same way. stop him. don't let him lie around, licensed and legal, to pounce upon our youth. not of alcoholics nor for alcoholics do i write, but for our youths, for those who possess no more than the adventure-stings and the genial predispositions, the social man-impulses, which are twisted all awry by our barbarian civilisation which feeds them poison on all the corners. it is the healthy, normal boys, now born or being born, for whom i write. it was for this reason, more than any other, and more ardently than any other, that i rode down into the valley of the moon, all a-jingle, and voted for equal suffrage. i voted that women might vote, because i knew that they, the wives and mothers of the race, would vote john barleycorn out of existence and back into the historical limbo of our vanished customs of savagery. if i thus seem to cry out as one hurt, please remember that i have been sorely bruised and that i do dislike the thought that any son or daughter of mine or yours should be similarly bruised. the women are the true conservators of the race. the men are the wastrels, the adventure-lovers and gamblers, and in the end it is by their women that they are saved. about man's first experiment in chemistry was the making of alcohol, and down all the generations to this day man has continued to manufacture and drink it. and there has never been a day when the women have not resented man's use of alcohol, though they have never had the power to give weight to their resentment. the moment women get the vote in any community, the first thing they proceed to do is to close the saloons. in a thousand generations to come men of themselves will not close the saloons. as well expect the morphine victims to legislate the sale of morphine out of existence. the women know. they have paid an incalculable price of sweat and tears for man's use of alcohol. ever jealous for the race, they will legislate for the babes of boys yet to be born; and for the babes of girls, too, for they must be the mothers, wives, and sisters of these boys. and it will be easy. the only ones that will be hurt will be the topers and seasoned drinkers of a single generation. i am one of these, and i make solemn assurance, based upon long traffic with john barleycorn, that it won't hurt me very much to stop drinking when no one else drinks and when no drink is obtainable. on the other hand, the overwhelming proportion of young men are so normally non-alcoholic, that, never having had access to alcohol, they will never miss it. they will know of the saloon only in the pages of history, and they will think of the saloon as a quaint old custom similar to bull-baiting and the burning of witches. chapter xxxix of course, no personal tale is complete without bringing the narrative of the person down to the last moment. but mine is no tale of a reformed drunkard. i was never a drunkard, and i have not reformed. it chanced, some time ago, that i made a voyage of one hundred and forty-eight days in a windjammer around the horn. i took no private supply of alcohol along, and, though there was no day of those one hundred and forty-eight days that i could not have got a drink from the captain, i did not take a drink. i did not take a drink because i did not desire a drink. no one else drank on board. the atmosphere for drinking was not present, and in my system there was no organic need for alcohol. my chemistry did not demand alcohol. so there arose before me a problem, a clear and simple problem: this is so easy, why not keep it up when you get back on land? i weighed this problem carefully. i weighed it for five months, in a state of absolute non-contact with alcohol. and out of the data of past experience, i reached certain conclusions. in the first place, i am convinced that not one man in ten thousand or in a hundred thousand is a genuine, chemical dipsomaniac. drinking, as i deem it, is practically entirely a habit of mind. it is unlike tobacco, or cocaine, or morphine, or all the rest of the long list of drugs. the desire for alcohol is quite peculiarly mental in its origin. it is a matter of mental training and growth, and it is cultivated in social soil. not one drinker in a million began drinking alone. all drinkers begin socially, and this drinking is accompanied by a thousand social connotations such as i have described out of my own experience in the first part of this narrative. these social connotations are the stuff of which the drink habit is largely composed. the part that alcohol itself plays is inconsiderable when compared with the part played by the social atmosphere in which it is drunk. the human is rarely born these days, who, without long training in the social associations of drinking, feels the irresistible chemical propulsion of his system toward alcohol. i do assume that such rare individuals are born, but i have never encountered one. on this long, five-months' voyage, i found that among all my bodily needs not the slightest shred of a bodily need for alcohol existed. but this i did find: my need was mental and social. when i thought of alcohol, the connotation was fellowship. when i thought of fellowship, the connotation was alcohol. fellowship and alcohol were siamese twins. they always occurred linked together. thus, when reading in my deck chair or when talking with others, practically any mention of any part of the world i knew instantly aroused the connotation of drinking and good fellows. big nights and days and moments, all purple passages and freedoms, thronged my memory. "venice" stares at me from the printed page, and i remember the cafe tables on the sidewalks. "the battle of santiago," some one says, and i answer, "yes, i've been over the ground." but i do not see the ground, nor kettle hill, nor the peace tree. what i see is the cafe venus, on the plaza of santiago, where one hot night i drank and talked with a dying consumptive. the east end of london, i read, or some one says; and first of all, under my eyelids, leap the visions of the shining pubs, and in my ears echo the calls for "two of bitter" and "three of scotch." the latin quarter--at once i am in the student cabarets, bright faces and keen spirits around me, sipping cool, well-dripped absinthe while our voices mount and soar in latin fashion as we settle god and art and democracy and the rest of the simple problems of existence. in a pampero off the river plate we speculate, if we are disabled, of running in to buenos ayres, the "paris of america," and i have visions of bright congregating places of men, of the jollity of raised glasses, and of song and cheer and the hum of genial voices. when we have picked up the north-east trades in the pacific we try to persuade our dying captain to run for honolulu, and while i persuade i see myself again drinking cocktails on the cool lanais and fizzes out at waikiki where the surf rolls in. some one mentions the way wild ducks are cooked in the restaurants of san francisco, and at once i am transported to the light and clatter of many tables, where i gaze at old friends across the golden brims of long-stemmed rhine-wine glasses. and so i pondered my problem. i should not care to revisit all these fair places of the world except in the fashion i visited them before. glass in hand! there is a magic in the phrase. it means more than all the words in the dictionary can be made to mean. it is a habit of mind to which i have been trained all my life. it is now part of the stuff that composes me. i like the bubbling play of wit, the chesty laughs, the resonant voices of men, when, glass in hand, they shut the grey world outside and prod their brains with the fun and folly of an accelerated pulse. no, i decided; i shall take my drink on occasion. with all the books on my shelves, with all the thoughts of the thinkers shaded by my particular temperament, i decided coolly and deliberately that i should continue to do what i had been trained to want to do. i would drink--but oh, more skilfully, more discreetly, than ever before. never again would i be a peripatetic conflagration. never again would i invoke the white logic. i had learned how not to invoke him. the white logic now lies decently buried alongside the long sickness. neither will afflict me again. it is many a year since i laid the long sickness away; his sleep is sound. and just as sound is the sleep of the white logic. and yet, in conclusion, i can well say that i wish my forefathers had banished john barleycorn before my time. i regret that john barleycorn flourished everywhere in the system of society in which i was born, else i should not have made his acquaintance, and i was long trained in his acquaintance. [illustration: cover art] [frontispiece: ...stood with arms interlocked and heads touching as their voices soared in the grand finale.] _the baritone's parish_ _or_ "_all things to all men_" _by_ _james m. ludlow_ _fleming h. revell company_ _new york chicago toronto_ _mdcccxcvi_ copyright, , by fleming h. revell company. books by james m. ludlow, d.d., litt.d. the captain of the janizaries. a story of the times of scanderbey, and the fall of constantinople. a king of tyre. contrasted scenes of jewish and phoenician life, b.c., woven into romance. that angelic woman. a story from high life to-day. a man for 'a that; or, "my saint john." a story of city life among the lowly. the age of the crusades. life in the xi. and xii. centuries. _in preparation_. the baritone's parish; or, "all things to all men" the pulpit and the choir gallery are closely related in our city churches. it is, however, a sad fact that the "sons of the prophets" and the "sons of korah" usually know but little of one another; and this is to the loss of both. to the musicians the minister often seems a recluse, and the clergyman comes to look upon his choir as a band of itinerant minstrels. it is therefore very refreshing to note that between the pastor of st. philemon's, the rev. dr. wesley knox, and mr. philip vox, there sprang up an intimacy almost from the day when the new baritone sang his first solo. it was shelley's "resurrection," which had been rendered as an offertory after one of the doctor's finest efforts at an easter sermon. deacon brisk, the chairman of the music committee, met the preacher at the chancel-rail within fifteen seconds after the benediction had been pronounced; before the sexton could deliver a message that a parishioner was in momentary expectation of death, and required the pastor's immediate attendance; before lawyer codey had adjusted his silk hat like a falcon on his wrist preparatory to his stately march down the middle aisle; and even before the soprano had adjusted her handsome face and bonnet over the front of the choir gallery to inspect the passers-out. deacon brisk was like most music committee-men in that he knew little about the musical art; but he was a hustler in getting the worth of his money in whatever job he undertook. rubbing his hands in self-congratulation upon the new baritone's engagement, he delivered himself of a panegyric which he had spent the time of the closing prayer in composing: "i tell you, doctor, vox was a catch. why, he sang "'in slumber lay the brooding world upon that glorious night,' so sweetly that you could almost hear the stars twinkle through the music; and when he struck "'let heaven's vaulted arches ring,' it seemed as if the sky were tumbling down through the church roof. that's great singing; eh, doctor? cost only three hundred extra; worth a thousand on the church market!" "yes," said the doctor, "i was pleased with the man's voice. i am impressed with the idea that there is more than larynx and training in him. there must be bigness and sweetness of soul behind those tones. men can't sing that way to order. come, brisk, introduce us when those young women get through talking to him. i know i shall like him. but i didn't know that you were so well up in musical judgment." "why, doctor," rejoined brisk, "it doesn't require that a man shall be an electrical engineer in order to invest successfully in a trolley." the dominie was a bachelor. that was a pity; for a wife and family of ten could have homed themselves in his heart without detracting from the love he had for everybody else. but having no wife to console him after the efforts of a hard sunday, he was accustomed to ask one or another of the young men to come to the study and "curry him down," as he said, after evening service. soon vox came to occupy permanently this place of clerical groom. the saintly folk who thought that the light burning until sunday midnight in the sanctum was a sign of the protracted devotions of their pastor would, on one occasion at least, have been astounded to see the reality. on the lounge was stretched the tired preacher, his feet on a pile of "skimmed" newspapers, reserved for the more thorough perusal they would never get. in his lap lay the head of a big collie, whose eyes were fixed on the handsome face of his master. do dogs have religious instinct? if so, this was a canine hour of worship, and the dog was a genuine mystic. in some famous pictures of the adoration of the magi less reverence and love are depicted on the faces than gleamed from beneath the shaggy eyebrows of the brute. by the study-table sat vox, his big bushy head and square schiller-cut face (except for the very unpoetic mustache) bending over a chafing-dish that sent up the incense of welsh rarebit, the ingredients of which were the offering of the landlady's piety. "doctor," said vox, suddenly poising the spoon as if it were a baton, and dripping the melted cheese on to the manuscript of the night's sermon before the preacher had decided whether to put it into his "barrel" or his waste-basket--"doctor, do you know that i feel like a hypocrite, singing in a christian church?" "you a hypocrite, vox? you couldn't act a false part any more than you could sing a false note without having the shivers go all through you." "well," replied the singer, "that is just what is the matter with me. the shivers do go through me. i am shocked at the moral discord i am making. i am striking false notes all the time. my life doesn't follow the score of my conscience. i don't mean that i have committed murder or picked pockets, but it seems to me that i am breaking the commandment by bearing false witness about myself, making people think i am a saint, or want to be one, when the fact is that i put no more heart into my singing than the organ-pipe does." so saying vox strode across the floor, holding a plate of rarebit as if it were a sheet of music, and jerked the toasted cheese off it as he seemed to jerk the notes off the paper when he sang. the doctor slipped from the lounge just in time to escape a savory splash which was aiming itself straight for the space between his vest and shirt-bosom. the dog growled at the apparent attack upon his master, but was diverted from further warlike demonstrations by the bit of toast that fell under his nose. "your dog is as good as a special policeman for you, doctor." "yes, he defends me in more ways than one. do you know why i call him caleb? caleb is hebrew for 'god's dog.' one day, when he was a pup, i forgot myself and dropped into a regular pessimist over some materialistic trash i was reading. the pup seemed to notice my sour face, and put his paws upon my knees, lolled out his tongue, and searched me through and through with those bright eyes of his. it was as much as to say, 'master, you're a fool. look at me. didn't it take a god to make such a marvelous creature as i am?' so i have called him caleb ever since. he tackles many a doubt for me, as he would any other robber." "i wish i had your faith, doctor," said vox, putting his arm around caleb's neck, and dropping another piece of toast into the waiting jaws. "faith? you have got it, phil; only you don't know it." "nonsense, doctor! i suppose i believe the creed; at least i don't disbelieve it. but i don't feel these things. that's what makes me say that i am a hypocrite to sing in a christian church. to-night i saw a woman crying during my solo. i felt like stopping. i never feel like crying, except when the notes cry themselves; then i confess to a moistening that goes all through me. now what right have i to make another feel what i don't feel myself? i tell you, doctor, i am nothing but a bellowing hypocrite. i'm going into opera, where it is all make-believe. you know that i've had offers that would tempt a singing devil; and i believe i would be one if it were not for you." the doctor eyed his guest quizzically for a moment, then deliberately stretched himself again on the lounge. "phil, that cheese has gone to your head. i didn't think it was so strong. yet i can understand your mistake, for i used to talk that way to myself when i was as green and unsophisticated as you are. i would scratch out the best sentences from my sermons, because i didn't feel all they meant, and would accuse myself of duplicity and cant because my experience was not up to my doctrine. but what if it wasn't? my brain isn't as big as the bible. my conscience isn't as true and vivid as moses' was when he wrote down the ten commandments. my heart isn't as tender as christ's. if a preacher says only what he is able to feel at the moment, there will be poor fodder for the parish. so it is all through life. people talk in society on a higher level than they habitually think. they ought to. that is what society is for--to tune up to key the sagging strings of common, humdrum life. all politeness will cease when everybody acts on your theory. we must not say 'good-morning' to a neighbor because at the moment we do not really care whether his day is going to be pleasant or not. you must not take off your hat to a lady on the street, unless at the instant you are possessed of a profound respect for the sex. who was that composer that said that he never knew what a piece he had written until he heard joseffy play it? they asked parepa to sing 'coming through the rye.' she said, 'pshaw! i've sung it threadbare. i grind it out now as the hand-organ does.' but she sang it, and brought down the house. why shouldn't she? feel! do you suppose that old violin feels anything of the joy that thrills through its fibers? shall i smash it for a hypocritical contrivance of wood and catgut? did i kick dr. cutt out of the study the other day because he didn't realize the good he had done me in reducing the swelling of my sprained ankle? yet you want me to let you kick yourself out of the church because you are not one of the 'angels of jesus,' or haven't had all the joy of life crushed out of you by affliction, so that you are 'weary of earth,' as you sing!" the doctor warmed with his theme, until, standing up, he put his big hands on vox's shoulders, and fairly shouted at him: "sing, phil! sing the brightest, happiest things that god ever inspired men to write. but don't go croaking like an owl because you don't feel like a nightingale." "well," said vox, drawing a long breath, and letting it out in a whistle, "that cheese or something else has inspired you, doctor. i never heard you so eloquent in the pulpit. why don't you preach at us that way? take us, as it were, one by one, and go through us, instead of preaching at humanity in the lump. i confess that you have persuaded me about my sunday work. i am not going to leave it off. but now for the other six days in the week. i can convince you that they are full of husks that do nobody any good. here's my diary. isn't it contemptible for a man with even a singer's conscience? monday, sung at checkley's musicale for fifty dollars and a score of feminine compliments; tuesday, in oratorio for one hundred dollars and some newspaper puffs, which were all wrong from a critical standpoint; wednesday, moped all day because i couldn't sing--raw throat; thursday, made believe teach a lot of tone-deaf fellows who can never sing any more than crows, and took their money for the imposition; friday, ditto; saturday, rehearsal. now who am i helping by peddling my chin-wares?" vox stopped for lack of breath, as well as from the fact that his week had run out. "go on," said the doctor, nonchalantly. "you can certainly slander yourself worse than that. what! no more? why, vox, i know there are worse things about you than what you have told me." vox colored. "you needn't blush so over it, phil," and the doctor burst out laughing at him. "i am not going to twit you on any disagreeable facts. i didn't say i knew what those worse things were; but i do know that you are not such a sweet saint as to have only the faults mentioned. if they were all, i would have a glass case made for you at once, put your bones up in leather, and place a basin of holy water at your door for passers-by to dip their fingers in. but soberly, phil, i think i can size you up, or down." "all right; try it. you may find me so big a fool that it will take some time to get my full measurement." with that he stretched himself to his full height, and posed with his fingers in his vest-holes. the attitude interested caleb, who stretched himself out to almost corresponding dimensions horizontally along the floor, recovering his legs slowly to the accompaniment of a long and dismal whine. "he does that," said the doctor, "only when there is going to be a death in the neighborhood, or when i begin to read my sermons aloud in the study. he knows i am going to lecture you. charge, caleb! "dearly beloved vox! you have two first-class deficiencies. first, a purposeless life. you happen to be doing good with that wonderful voice of yours; but that is nothing to your credit. you can't help cheering people when you wag your jaws any more than caleb can help being a comfort to me when he wags his tail. you didn't study music for the sake of helping anybody, but only because music gave you a pleasurable means of getting a livelihood. so you have no soul-satisfaction in your profession, for all you are succeeding so grandly in it. you are like that piece of music which you said was a failure, because, though there were some fine harmonies in it, it had no theme, no prevailing idea, no musical purpose." "that's me," said vox, _sotto voce_, holding his head in his hands. "i know that i am a mere medley, part sacred, part profane, and both parts played by the devil! go on." "stop your pessimism," rejoined the doctor. "that poetic head of yours reminds me that schiller in the 'bell' gives utterance to the same idea i am trying to beat into you." "the bell? that's me, too; all brass and clapper!" grumbled vox, twisting caleb's ears until the brute whined. the doctor, not heeding either the singer's soliloquy or the brute's, quoted in oratorical style: "'so let us duly ponder all the works our feeble strength achieves; for mean, in truth, the man we call who ne'er what he completes conceives. and well it stamps our human race, and hence the gift to understand, that man within the heart should trace whate'er he fashions with the hand.'" vox groaned. "that's rather heavy poetry for creatures of our caliber, isn't it, caleb? but i guess that i catch on.--it means the same as the line of the hymn you gave out to-night, doctor;" and vox sang: "'take my voice, and let me sing always, only, for my king.' "that is, if i'm a bell, i should be one on purpose, whether a church-bell, or a door-bell, or only 'god's dog,' to growl"--patting caleb. "but what is that second thing i lack? since you've taken the contract to make me over, i want you to be thorough with the job." "the second thing you need," said the doctor, "is in some way to be made to see that you are doing good. from your perch in the gallery you don't get a glimpse into the people's hearts. i couldn't preach if i didn't go among the people during the week, and get the encouragement of knowing that i had helped somebody." "yes," said vox, "i've heard joe jefferson say that he couldn't act worth a cent if the people didn't applaud. i beg your pardon, doctor, for comparing the pulpit with the stage. but go on with your lecture." "oh, you've knocked the lecture out of my head with your nonsense, phil." "but you knocked it pretty well into mine. i'd like to see somebody i've helped. show him up." "humph!" grunted the doctor, and, after a moment's silence, said abruptly, "phil, will you go with me to-morrow night?" "where?" "leave that to me." "that's a blind sort of an invitation, doctor. but, of course, i will go anywhere you want me to. but what is it? some holy sorosis? that reformed theater you talk about? any charge for admittance, or collection? of course, going with a distinguished clergyman i shall have to appear in swallow-tails and arctic shirt-front." "not a bit of it, phil; your oldest clothes, so that you will look just as mean as you say you feel; then, for once, you can't accuse yourself of being a hypocrite." there was a motley crowd in the front room of a bowery twenty-cent lodging-house. the room was the parlor, but the occupants called it the "deck," in distinction from the rest of the house, which was filled with bunks. there were hard old soakers in a periodical state of repentance; or, to speak more scientifically, in that state of gland-moistening that comes after a certain amount of poor beer has permeated the system. there were young prodigals, in there for the night because they had no money for a night's carousal elsewhere. there was a sprinkling of honest men, thankful for even this refuge from the sleety streets. there were some two hundred pieces of the great human wreck made by the hard times, which were beached in brady's harbor, as the place was called. the usual hubbub had calmed while a story-teller, who sat on the edge of a table, and whose slouch-hat and high ulster collar did not altogether conceal the genial face of dr. knox, entertained the crowd with old army yarns, which, as usual with such literature, were taken largely from the apocryphal portion of our national annals. "bully for you! give us another!" was the encore, emphasized with the rattle of backgammon-boards and boot-heels. "haven't any more; but i have a friend here who will bring up the reserves in the way of a song." "song, song! rosin your larynx, old boy!" greeted the suggestion, while the crowd gathered closer about vox, and several who had "turned in" for the night turned out of their bunks again, minus coats and boots. a friendly slap on the back by something less than a ten-pound hand helped the singer to clear his throat. vox gave them "o'grady's goat" and one or two other classics of the tenderloin district, with the rapt appreciation of his audience. tom moore's "minstrel boy," to the genuine old irish melody, struck the heroic chord in the breasts of men most of whom were deserters from the real battle-fields of life. then vox dropped into a lullaby. the tender mother words given in his masculine tones seemed a burlesque as he began; but the deep bass took on the softness and sweetness of a contralto, and made one think, if not of a mother cooing to her baby, at least of some rough, great-hearted man who had found a lost child and was rocking it to sleep in his strong arms. more than one greasy sleeve got into its owner's eyes before vox ended. "an' 'aven't ye a scotch sang, me laddie?" asked an old fellow, knocking the ashes from his pipe against the window-sill. "my ain countrie" followed. as the music floated, the thick smoke of the room seemed to drift away. the land of birds and beauty lay before eyes that for months and years had looked only upon the crowded misery of slumdom. when the voice ceased the illusion continued for a while in spite of the picking sleet at the window-panes. at length the silence was broken by a voice that came from a distant corner of the room. it repeated the last verse in tones as pure as those of vox himself, though a high tenor in quality. some of the notes were broken by hiccups. vox looked in amazement at the singer--a half-drunken youngish man curled nearly double in a chair which was tipped back against the wall. his battered derby and unscraped chin did not effectually disguise the handsome fellow beneath them. he was like the apollo belvedere when first exhumed from the mud of antium. "who are you, my friend?" asked vox, in as kindly a tone as his surprise allowed. "friend? (hic) haven't got any friend," replied the man; and he struck up the verse that had just been rendered. his voice was husky at first, but after a few notes it clarified itself, as brooks do in running. his tones became marvelously sweet, touching the highest note without the slightest suggestion of falsetto. it was a transcendent voice, one that might have once belonged to some spirit, and gone astray among men. the singer went through the verse this time without hiccup or slur; but the instant he stopped the drunk resumed its sway. down came the chair with a bump on to its front legs, which sent the man headlong into the arms of vox, with whom he wanted to fight. "i won't fight you," said vox, helping him back to his seat; "but i'll dare you to sing with me." "sin' wi' you! 'cept your challenge. i can whip you with my--my tongue (hic) as bad as my wife she (hic) whipped me with her (hic) tongue." "what shall we sing, old boy?" inquired vox, with that easy familiarity which showed that he had seen such customers before. "sin' a song o' sispence, pocket full o' rye," sang the man. "say, what's the use o' havin' your pocket full o' rye (hic)? 'd rather have a belly full o' rye; wouldn't you (hic)?" "you've enough rye in you for to-night," said vox. "come, pull the cork out of your throat, and let's have a song." vox got a chair, and tipped it back by the side of the maudlin fellow, then struck up mazzini's two-part song, "the muleteers." the stranger joined in. such singing was never heard before nor since in brady's harbor, nor, for that matter, in carnegie hall. after a bar or two the men rose to their feet and stood with arms interlocked and heads touching as their voices soared in the grand finale. the noise brought in brady, who said it was "galoreous," but for all that they'd have to "bolt up their chins," as it was past twelve o'clock, and the "perlice wasn't so easy on lodgin'-houses as they was on the swill-shops." "see here, vox," said the doctor, "i am going home alone to-night. find out your pal. chum him a bit. a man with that voice has had culture. scrape the rust off him, and you will find something polished beneath, or i am no judge of human nature. take him for your parish, phil." "a heathenish sort of a mission that," replied vox, looking at the fellow, who was trying, as he said, to find his night-key to get his boots off with. after a moment's hesitation, vox added: "all right, doctor; you've had as hard a field with me, if it wasn't so dirty a one. i'll take him for a sobering walk in the drizzle, and then get him into better quarters than he has here." vox had his hands full with his job, and at times his arms full too. his companion insisted that the bowery sidewalk, covered with sleet, was a toboggan-slide, and that he was tumbling off the sled. what could vox do with his protégé? he couldn't walk him or slide him all night. a policeman proposed to relieve him of his anxiety by taking them both to the station-house, but was persuaded not to perform this heroic exploit by the man's assurance that his pal's legs hadn't any snakes in them, and by vox's demonstration that he could stand alone. then vox thought of the story of the good samaritan, with rising respect for the priest that passed by on the other side. next, having got into the charity business, he envied the samaritan at least his ass, "instead," as vox soliloquized, "of making an ass of myself." he thought of taking the fellow to some hotel, paying for his lodging, and hiring the clerk to see that he was properly sobered off in the morning; but concluded that, whatever might have been the case on the road to jericho, there was no innkeeper on the bowery whom he could trust with such a commission, or who would trust him to call in the morning and pay the bill. he could take him back to brady's harbor, he thought; but when they turned about the man declared that he wouldn't walk up a toboggan-slide, and sat down on the sidewalk for another ride. the flash of a passing cab let a little light in upon his problem. hailing the driver, with whose help he got his load into the vehicle, he told him to drive to no. -- madison avenue, where he had his own day quarters--elegant rooms, fitted up for his instruction of the fashionable "daughters of music" at six dollars an hour. sweezy, the janitor, was roused up, and with his assistance vox was able to congratulate himself that he had gone "one better" on the good samaritan, in that he had lodged his man in finer chambers. he could not help laughing at the incongruousness of the snoring mass and the elegant divan on which it lay. he thought of bottom the weaver, with the ass's head, in the lap of titania, and, as he piled the cushions so that the fellow would not tumble off, addressed him in the words of the fairy: "come, sit thee down upon this flowery bed, while i thy amiable cheeks do coy, and stick musk roses in thy sleek smooth head, and kiss thy fair large ears, my gentle joy." but tears are near to laughter, and as vox contemplated his completed work he had to sit down a moment and cry. "it's a hard sight, sir," said sweezy, "but bless you, mr. vox, the best of us has just sich among our closest friends. i wish, sir, as how it was my own boy, tommy, you had found the night." and sweezy cried too. sweezy promised to take an early look at the man in the morning when he turned on the steam heat. vox went away to his boarding-house around the corner, vexed at the doctor for getting him into such a scrape, yet feeling down in the depths of his heart a satisfaction that more than half compensated him for his rough experience. he fell asleep thinking of the good samaritan, bottom with the ass's head, salvation army lasses, and the prohibition party; and, in the midst of a horrid dream, woke up imagining himself drunk and about to fall off a precipice. before breakfast next morning he went around to the rooms to look after his charge. the fellow had vamosed. sweezy was taking account of the furniture, and, though nothing was missing, and only a lamp-shade broken, declared that vox had been victimized by a sharper: "a regular sharper, sir. i thought so when you brought him in. you ought to have knowed, sir, at a glance of him, what he was. you've nussed, sir, a wiper in your bosom, and it's a mercy, sir, a mercy if he hasn't stung you no worse. is your pocket-book with you? you ought at least to have took off his boots. that spot on the cover will never come out without piecing." vox contemplated the scene of his first charity exploit much as bonaparte did the battle-field of waterloo. he had but one remark to make, which was: "sweezy, don't you open your head about this business." vox was not in an amiable mood when he met the doctor the next sunday night. he debated with him the inadvisability of decent people attempting to do slumming in the name of either religion or charity. he took the ground that the men who had themselves been rescued from the dens of the city were the only ones to do this work, as they train chetahs to hunt their own kind, and reformed thieves to become detectives. the doctor was half inclined to agree with him, not so much from conviction as from seeing the disgust the business had wrought in the mind of his friend. yet he excused himself for having led vox into this experience on the ground that it is christian duty to try to rescue the fallen, even though one does not accomplish anything. "i don't believe in your theory," said vox, warmly. "let buzzards clean up the offal, but decent birds had better follow their sweeter instincts and keep away. one thing is certain: i am not going to light on such moral carrion again." it was more than a month later when a respectable-looking stranger called upon vox at his rooms. the singer was engaged at the time arranging with a lady of the four hundred for the vocal culture of her daughters. the visitor quietly awaited his leisure. he was very genteel in appearance. if one had been critical he might have thought that for such a stinging cold day an ulster would have been more suitable than the light fall overcoat he wore; and some might have observed that it was not the fashion that season to wear one's outer garment so short that the tails of the under-coat protruded. but vox was occupied with the stranger's face, which was exceedingly prepossessing. "mr. vox, i believe?" "my name, sir. what can we do for each other?" "if i am not mistaken in the person, you once did me a great service." "you must be mistaken in the person," said vox, "or else i have done it unconsciously, for i have no recollection of our having met." the man seemed puzzled. "possibly!" he said, slowly, as he scanned the singer's features. "undoubtedly it is so," said vox, and, seeing the man's perplexity, quickly added, in the most genial manner, "i am sorry it is so, for i should be glad to remember that i had served you. possibly i may do so in the future." the man hesitatingly began to withdraw. near the door he stopped, and, glancing about the room, half to himself and half as an apology to vox, said, "perhaps i have dreamed it. but will you allow me to ask you a question? do you ever sing mazzini's 'muleteers'?" "often," replied vox. "this, you mean," and he struck up the first line. his visitor instantly joined him. vox stopped as quickly. "good heavens!" he exclaimed. "there are not two voices in the world like that." putting his hand on the man's shoulder, he peered into his face. he could not recall the features, for the dim light in brady's harbor and the general slouch of the fellow that night had not really allowed him to see his face fully. he imagined how this man might look with a week's beard on his chin, an untrimmed mustache covering his fine lips, and a dirty derby concealing his forehead. "are you that man?" "i am; or, rather, i was that man. but i hope--thanks to god and you--i am a very different man to-day. i came to tell you my gratitude for a kindness which i had come to doubt one man ever rendered to another, and to apologize for my bestial treatment of you. i was not a man then, mr. vox, only a beast; and, if you will believe me, i was not accountable, for i knew no better. i have the vaguest remembrance of that night, as of many another night. when i awoke at daylight in these rooms i had just sense enough to know that somebody had befriended me or played a trick on me, and to be ashamed to meet him, whoever he was. so i sneaked away. when i was sobered i couldn't recall the place. but the 'muleteers' rang in my ears, and your voice, every note, the tone and quality. i had heard you sing elsewhere, and knew that but one voice, that of vox, could have sung in that way. and now it has taken a month for me to get up manliness enough to come and do the decent thing." "don't talk in that way," said vox, coloring as if he were receiving abuse instead of praise. "i did nothing that any man would not do for another. a man would be inhuman, a mere brute, not to--" then he thought of what he had lately said to the doctor about buzzards and benevolent slummers, and he felt like a hypocrite again. "but don't talk about the past. let it go. isn't there something i can do for you now?" glancing at the man's threadbare coat. "yes, there is one favor i would like very much to have you do me. i have had a hard struggle with myself these few weeks. i resolved that i would not drink again. i have kept my purpose, but it has been like being tied to a wild beast in a cage. more than once i have started out for a drink, but have come back without it. it is hard to feel that you are all alone in the fight, that nobody knows of it. it's like making that cane stand by itself." "but you have friends," said vox, kindly. "friends that have ceased to be friends are worse than strangers," replied the man, in an abstracted sort of way. "my friends don't believe in me; i've got to make new friends, who don't know how weak i am. perhaps they will believe in me for a while at least, and that will give a man some strength. but to be all alone in a fearful struggle! oh, it's the loneliness that takes all the heart out of one. you know how one voice steadies another in singing. drunk as i was when i sang with you, i believe i sang every note correctly; but alone i couldn't have rendered three notes true. i want you to let me rest for a while on your confidence, your good wishes, mr. vox; and to let me drop in once in a while, just to tell you that i am all right yet." "my good fellow, you can come, and you can stay with me just as much as you want to," said vox; and for all that he knew that this was a very rash thing to say to a stranger, he would have resented any one's telling him so. "no," replied the man, "i shall not intrude upon you; but may i ask you to keep this pledge i have written? the paper is crumpled; that's because i have taken it out so often when the temptation was pretty strong. it was something like a friend; and i could say to it, 'you see i have kept faith with you, bit of paper, and i will.' so i would start out on another campaign. but if you will keep it for me i will feel better. i can think then that somebody knows what i am doing." vox took the paper. it was written in fine penmanship, and signed "charles downs." "downs? charles downs? not downs who used to be in the mendelssohn? the tenor at st. martha's? and you are speaking of being grateful to me for a common act of humanity! why, man, i owe more to you than i can ever repay. it was hearing you sing once that gave me my first ambition to be a singer. i began to save my money that night that i might take lessons. i even tried to find you; but you had gone, nobody knew where." "i was on the road to hell then," said downs. "thank heaven you didn't find me; i might have injured you by my example. but no, i think not. you were not inclined my way." the two men sat in silence for a few moments. thought was becoming oppressive. vox was of that mercurial disposition that cannot keep solemn long at a time. his vent-valves worked easily. "come," said he, "let's try the old song." if he had deliberated he would not have chosen a reminder of the past. but there was something irresistible about vox, and downs joined with him as they rollicked through the "muleteers." sweezy stood in the doorway listening. "that," said vox, "is the greatest compliment a man can have. sweezy there has no more music in him than a horse; but see! we have woven the spell about him. i believe we do sing well together. what couldn't we do if we would practise together? now i will keep this pledge for you, downs, if you will promise to come every day at twelve and sing with me. we will lunch together, and i will see that you don't get a drop to drink." "i can't." "why not?" "i have engaged to go to work." "where?" "enlisted." "what! enlisted? to throw yourself away again?" vox gripped the arms of downs as if he were a prisoner. "where have you enlisted?" "in the street-sweeping brigade." "great guns!" said vox. "no, great brooms!" replied his friend. "i need outdoor work; there i will get it. i need to keep away from other men; and on the street i will be left to my own company as nicely as if i were a hermit. besides, there will be a poetic fitness in one who has lived so dirty a life as i have giving himself up to the work of cleaning things. then, too, i can see life; and that will be interesting. nothing is so fascinating to one who has had my experience as the sight of a crowd, if only one can himself keep out of it." with that downs sang: "'hurry along, sorrow and song; all is vanity under the sun. velvet and rags: so the world wags, until the river no more shall run.'" vox readily upset the street-sweeping project by showing downs how he could be helpful to him in certain musical matters he had on foot, and even guaranteed to turn over to him several of his pupils who were trying to develop tenor voices. the next sunday night after service the doctor took the singer's arm at the church door with his usual chirpy invitation, "come, phil, don't let mrs. cupp's pepper and mustard get cold, or the cheese get away from us." "walk around the block with me first, doctor; i've got something to tell you which i'd rather you would hear when you can't see my face." "why, what have you been doing now that you are ashamed of, phil? oh, i know. you have proposed to the soprano, or been perpetrating some other trick on your bachelor friends. i'll forgive you at the start, however, because"--lowering his voice until there was a frog in it--"because i know something about--but it's none of your business, phil, so i won't tell you anything about it. no disappointment, my boy?" "no." "then count on me to marry you for nothing, and throw in the benediction besides." "it's no love-affair," said vox. "cupid might as well break his arrows on a rhinoceros as shoot at me. it's that drunken fellow. i've been awfully taken in." "what! has he turned up? fleeced you again?" "well, not exactly fleeced me, but scorched me; he has heaped coals of fire on my head. i want to take back all i have said against him, and everything i said against slumming." he then related what the reader knows. having worked off the steam of his extra emotion, he accompanied the doctor to the study. here vox gave a description of his new friend: "a well-educated man, a splendid all-round musician, a fine business man; has a wife who won't live with him, nor even let him see her--he has treated her so outrageously; but he loves her tenderly. he was once employed by silver & co., who thought so much of him that they were making proposals for his entering the firm when they began to suspect his rum habit. his name is downs." "downs? with silver & co.?" the names set the doctor thinking. at length, coming out of his reverie, he picked up from the study-table a piece of marble, a bit of a fluted column he had found amid the ruins of the temple of diana at ephesus. he traced on it with the pen the word d-o-w-n-s. then he rubbed the word out with his finger; but a black spot was left that he could not get off the marble. "there! that's the way i would spoil the job if i should try to restore the ruins of downs. phil, stick to that man. i'll leave him to you. he's your parish. with your voice and his love of music, you ought to make him follow you as the rocks followed orpheus. that's the meaning of the old legend--you can sing the hardest wretch into heaven. try it, phil." the doctor spent a half-hour next day in silver & co.'s office. just what he and silver talked about we cannot say; but silver was overheard to remark, as the doctor was leaving, "my wife thinks the world of the little woman, and when those two women are satisfied with his reformation, all right." there never was a finer program for a musicale than that which, some six months later, packed the upper carnegie hall with the elite of the music-lovers of new york. vox was the drawing card, for he had become, if not the celebrity, at least the fad, of the season. "oh, vox! he's just splendid!" was as familiarly heard as the clicking of afternoon tea-cups everywhere between flushing and orange mountain. on the occasion referred to he had achieved a sevenfold encore for one performance. to the surprise of everybody, however, when he appeared to acknowledge the ovation, he led another man with him to the footlights; one who might have been his twin brother, for there was just that sort of difference between them that ought to exist between a tenor and a baritone--the former a little slighter in form and features. curiosity was not allowed to get to the whispering-point when they rendered the graben-hoffman duet, "i feel thy angel spirit." the applause was furious. nothing like it had been heard for six months outside of brady's harbor. vox gracefully stepped a little to the rear. the audience caught his meaning, and the room rang with the cry of "tenor! tenor!" vox slipped to the piano, and played the chords of "salva di mora" from gounod's "faust." and how grandly downs sang it! if deacon brisk had been there, even he, with his "star-twinkling" and "roof-splitting" metaphors, could not have described it. "if faust sang like that," said an elderly gentleman in the audience to his wife, "no wonder he won the heart of marguerite." and he pressed his wife's hand, which somehow had got into his. "hush, john," replied the woman. then she put a handkerchief to her eyes instead of her lorgnette. "he's all right again," said the man, and he squeezed his wife's arm, and nudged her nervously. "john, don't!" and the woman glanced at the woman next to her, as if that individual might care what cooing these old doves indulged in. this other woman wore a half-veil, one of those vizors with which women hide their beauty or their freckles from the gaze of the curious. not seeing her face, one cannot say what was transpiring behind the veil; but the veil shook as if some convulsive emotion might be working itself out, or struggling to keep itself in. when downs left the stage vox hugged him as a bear would her cub. "come," said he, "let's go out in the room and talk to the silvers." "the silvers here!" exclaimed downs, in consternation. "they were here, but i believe they have left. yes, their seats are empty. now that's too bad." "no wonder they left when they saw me on the stage. vox, you know that they know all about me. they would kick me off their doorstep if i were a beggar. you've disgraced yourself by bringing me here, as i told you you would. the silvers, of all the people in the world! i wouldn't have sung if i had suspected their being here." "well, you did sing. thank god for it, too," replied his friend. the next sunday night at the hobnob vox tried to make a report to the doctor of the progress of his protégé. "oh, he sang magnificently! i tell you, that man is reinstated in this community. do you know, doctor, the silvers were both there?" "indeed!" ejaculated his friend, pulling caleb's tail, and laughing at the dog's surprise. then he pulled it again, and laughed at the dog's jump as if he had never seen such antics before. "see here, doctor, you don't seem to care about downs. that dog is more to you than a human being. but you've got to listen to me." vox got rapturous in his account of downs's success, and ended with, "i couldn't help wishing that his wife had been there to see him--handsome, healthy, true man in every feature and tone of voice. she would have had to fall in love again, or i'll forswear all faith in the sex." the doctor rolled himself on the sofa in such glee that the dog accepted his master's antics as a challenge to more of his own, and pounced upon him. "what's the matter with you now?" asked the singer, in amazement. "why, his wife was there," roared the doctor. "the thunder she was!" vox jumped up as if he had been sitting in an electric chair. caleb growled to hear such language in the presence of his patron saint. "i beg your pardon, doctor, but how do you know she was there?" "why, i suppose she was, because mrs. silver promised to go and take her to hear _you_ sing." and the doctor laughed so loud and hilariously that the collie crept under the lounge, as if in fear of some more serious explosion. "and you have been playing the hypocrite with me all the time?" vox was nettled. "if i had known that i wouldn't have sung a note, nor would i have let downs do it, either." "yet you just said you wish she had been there. don't you see that had you known you would have spoiled your own job?" said the doctor, working out of his hysteria. "but, phil, i'm hungry with preaching and laughing at you. light up the chafing-dish, put in plenty of red pepper, and when your cockles are warmed you may read this," tossing him a note. vox read: "dear doctor: when i heard downs sing the other night, i felt sure that your judgment of him was correct, and that he is a new man. mrs. downs has been with him for several days. god bless that little woman! she has borne up bravely during her trial; never lost heart; and now she has her reward. of course downs has his old place with us. i want to know that mr. vox. bring him around to dine with us wednesday night. if my wife can persuade them, we will have mr. and mrs. downs too. "yours faithfully, "john silver." while vox was reading the note caleb came out from under the lounge, and putting his head in the singer's lap, gazed as worshipfully into his face as he had ever gazed into that of his master. * * * * * * * * the looking upward booklets mo, decorated boards, each cents . did the pardon come too late? by mrs. ballington booth. . comfort pease, and her gold ring. by mary e. wilkins. . my little boy blue. by rosa nouchette cary. illustrated. . a wastrel redeemed. by david lyall. illustrated. . a day's time-table. by e. s. elliott, author of "expectation corner," etc., etc. illustrated. . brother lawrence. the practice of the presence of god the best rule of holy life. illustrated. . the swiss guide. an allegory. by rev. c. h. parkhurst. . where kitty found her soul. by mrs. j. h. walworth. . one of the sweet old chapters. by rose porter. illustrated. . the baritone's parish. by rev. j. m. ludlow, d.d. . child culture; or, the science of motherhood. by hannah whitall smith. . risen with christ. by rev. a. j. gordon, d.d. . reliques of the christ. a poem. by rev. denis wortman, d.d. . eric's good news. by the author of "probable sons." illustrated. . ye nexte thynge. by eleanor amerman sutphen. illustrated. . sunday school teaching. two addresses. by r. c. ogden and j. r. miller, d.d. . samuel chapman armstrong. by robert c. ogden. with portrait. . business. a plain talk with men and women who work. by amos r. wells. fleming h. revell company new york: fifth avenue chicago: washington street toronto: yonge street the google books library project (http://books.google.com) note: images of the original pages are available through the the google books library project. see http://www.google.com/books?id=w iwaaaayaaj the drunkard by guy thorne author of "when it was dark," "first it was ordained," "made in his image," etc., etc. new york sturgis & walton company copyright, by sturgis & walton company published january, transcriber's note: inconsistencies in spelling, punctuation, and hyphenation have been retained as printed. the cover of this ebook was created by the transcriber and is hereby placed in the public domain. dedication to louis tracy, esquire _my dear louis_: it is more than a year ago now that i asked you to accept the dedication of this story. it was on an evening when i was staying with you at your yorkshire house and we had just come in from shooting. but i discussed the tale with you long before that. it was either--as well as i can remember--at my place in the isle of wight, or when we were all together in the italian alps. i like to think that it was at that time i first asked your opinion and advice about this book upon which i have laboured so long. one night comes back to me very vividly--yes, that surely was the night. dinner was over. we were sitting in front of the brilliantly lit hotel with coffee and cigarettes. you had met all my kind italian friends. our wives were sitting together at one little table with signora maerdi and madame riva monico--to whom be greeting! my father was at ours, and happy as a boy for all his white beard and skull-cap of black velvet. your son, dick, was dancing with the italian girls in the bright salon behind us, and the piano music tinkled out into the hot night. the alpine woods of ilex and pine rose up in the moonlight to where the snow-capped mountains of st. gothard hung glistening silver-green. i ask you to take this book as a memorial of a happy, uninterrupted and dignified friendship, not less valuable and gracious because your wife and mine are friends also. _nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico!_ yours ever sincerely, guy thorne. foreword the sixth chapter in the third book of this story can hardly be called fiction. the notes upon which it is founded were placed in my possession by a brilliant man of letters some short time before he died. serious students of the psychology of the inebriate may use the document certain that it is genuine. i have to acknowledge my indebtedness to the illuminating study in heredity of dr. archdall reed, m.b., c.m., f.r.s.e. his book "alcoholism" ought to be read by every temperance reformer in europe and america. "the drink problem," a book published by messrs. methuen and written in concert by the greatest experts on the subject of inebriety, has been most helpful. i have not needed technical help to make my story, but i have found that it gives ample corroboration of protracted investigation and study. my thanks are due to mr. john theodore tussaud for assistance in the writing of chapter four, book three. lastly, i should be ungrateful indeed, if i did not put down my sincere thanks to my secretary miss ethel paczensky for all she has done for me during the making of this tale. the mere careful typewriting, revision and arrangement of a long story which is to be published in america and europe, requires considerable skill. the fact that the loyal help and sympathy of a young and acute mind have been so devotedly at my service, merits more thanks and acknowledgment than can be easily conveyed in a foreword. g. t. contents prologue page part i a book of poems arrives for dr. morton sims part ii the murderer book one lothian in london chapter i under the waggon-roof. a dinner in bryanstone square ii gravely unfortunate occurrence in mrs. amberley's drawing room iii shame in "the roaring gallant town" iv lothian goes to the library of pure literature v "for the first time, he was going to have a girl friend" book two lothian in norfolk i vignette of early morning. "gilbert is coming home!" ii an exhibition of doctor morton sims and doctor medley, with an account of how lothian returned to mortland royal iii psychology of the inebriate, and the letter of jewelled words iv dickson ingworth under the microscope v a quarrel in the "most select lounge in the county" vi an _omnes_ exeunt from mortland royal book three fruit of the dead sea i the girls in the fourth story flat ii over the rubicon iii thirst iv the chamber of horrors v the night journey from nice when mrs. daly speaks words of fire vi gilbert lothian's diary vii ingworth redux: toftrees complacens viii the amnesic dream-phase ix a startling experience for "wog" epilogue a year later what occurred at the edward hall in kingsway prologue part i a book of poems arrives for dr. morton sims "how many bards gild the lapses of time a few of them have ever been the food of my delighted fancy." --_keats._ the rain came down through the london fog like ribands of lead as the butler entered the library with tea, and pulling the heavy curtains shut out the picture of the sombre winter's afternoon. the man poked the fire into a blaze, switched on the electric lights, and putting a late edition of the _westminster gazette_ upon the table, left the room. for five minutes the library remained empty. the fire crackled and threw a glancing light upon the green and gold of the book shelves or sent changing expressions over the faces of the portraits. the ghostly blue flame which burnt under a brass kettle on the tea table sang like a mosquito, and from the square outside came the patter of rain, the drone of passing taxi-cabs, and the occasional beat of horses' hoofs which made an odd flute-like noise upon the wet wood pavement. then the door opened and dr. morton sims, the leading authority in england upon inebriety, entered his study. the doctor was a slim man of medium height. his moustache and pointed beard were grey and the hair was thinning upon his high forehead. his movements were quick and alert without suggesting nervousness or hurry, and a steady flame burned in brown eyes which were the most remarkable feature of his face. the doctor drew up a chair to the fire and made himself a cup of weak tea, pouring a little lime-juice into it instead of milk. as he sipped he gazed into the pink and amethyst heart of the fire. his eyes were abstracted--turned inwards upon himself so to speak--and the constriction of thought drew grey threads across his brow. after about ten minutes, and when he had finished his single cup of tea, dr. morton sims opened the evening paper and glanced rapidly up and down the broad, well-printed columns. his eye fell upon a small paragraph at the bottom of the second news-sheet which ran thus:-- "hancock, the hackney murderer, is to be executed to-morrow morning in the north london prison at eight o'clock. it is understood that he has refused the ministrations of the prison chaplain and seems indifferent to his fate." the paper dropped from the doctor's hands and he sighed. the paragraph might or might not be accurate--that remained to be seen--but it suggested a curious train of thought to his mind. the man who was to be hanged in a few hours had committed a murder marked by every circumstance of callousness and cunning. the facts were so sinister and cold that the horrible case had excited no sympathy whatever. even the silly faddists who generally make fools of themselves on such an occasion in england had organised no petition for reprieve. morton sims was one of those rare souls whose charity of mind, as well as of action, was great. he always tried to take the other side, to combat and resist the verdict passed by the world upon the unhappy and discredited. but in the case of this murderer even he could have had no sympathy, if he had not known and understood something about the man which no one in the country understood, and only a few people would have been capable of realising if they had been enlightened. it was his life-work to understand why deeds like this were done. a clock upon the high mantel of polished oak struck five. the doctor rose from his chair and stretched himself, and as he did this the wrinkles faded from his forehead, while his eyes ceased to be clouded by abstraction. morton sims, in common with many successful men, had entire control over his own mind. he perfectly understood the structure and the working of the machine that secretes thought. in his mental context correct muscular co-ordination, with due action of the reflexes, enabled him to put aside a subject with the precision of a man closing a cupboard door. his mind was divided into thought-tight compartments. it was so now. he wished to think of the murderer in north london prison no more at the moment, and immediately the subject passed away from him. at that moment the butler re-entered with some letters and a small parcel upon a tray. "the five o'clock post, sir," he said, putting the letters down upon the table. "oh, very well, proctor," the doctor answered. "is everything arranged for miss sims and mrs. daly?" "yes, sir. fires are lit in both the bedrooms, and dinner is for half-past six. the boat train from liverpool gets in to euston at a quarter to. the brougham will be at the station in good time. they will have a cold journey i expect, sir." "no, i don't think so, proctor. the liverpool boat-trains are most comfortable and they will have had tea. very well, then." the butler went away. morton sims looked at the clock. it was ten minutes past five. his sister and her friend, who had arrived at liverpool from new york a few hours ago would not arrive in london before six. he looked at the four or five letters on the tray but did not open any of them. the label upon the parcel bore handwriting that he knew. he cut the string and opened that, taking from it a book bound in light green and a letter. both were from his great friend bishop moultrie, late of simla and now rector of great petherwick in norfolk, canon of norwich, and a sort of unofficial second suffragan in that enormous diocese. "my dear john," ran the letter, "here is the book that i was telling you of at the athenæum last week. you may keep this copy, and i have put your name in it. the author, gilbert lothian, lives near me in norfolk. i know him a little and he has presented me with another copy himself. you won't agree with some of the thoughts, one or two of the poems you may even dislike. but on the whole you will be as pleased and interested as i am and you will recognise a genuine new inspiration--such a phenomenon now-a-days. such verse must leave every reader with a quickened sense of the beauty and compass of human feeling, to say nothing of its special appeal to xn thinkers. some of it is like george herbert made musical. lothian is crashaw born again, but born greater--sometimes a crashaw who has been listening to some one playing chopin! but read for yourself. give my regards to your sister when she returns. i hear from many sources of the great mark her speeches have made at the american congress and i am anxiously hoping to meet mrs. daly during her stay over here. she must be a splendid woman! helena sends all kind remembrances and hopes to see you here soon. yours affectionately, w. d. moultrie." three quarters of an hour were at his disposal. morton sims took up the book, which bore the title "surgit amari" upon the cover, and began to read. like many other members of his profession he was something of a man of letters. for him the life-long pursuit of science had been humanised and sweetened by art. ever since his days at harrow with his friend, the bishop, he had loved books. he read very slowly the longish opening poem only, applying delicate critical tests to every word; analytic and scientific still in the temper of his mind, and distrusting the mere sensuous impression of a first glance. this new man, this gilbert lothian, would be great. he would make his way by charm, the charm of voice, of jewel-like language, above all by the intellectual charm of new, moving, luminous ideas. at three minutes to six the doctor closed the book and waited. almost as the clock struck the hour, he heard his motor-brougham stop outside the house, and hurrying out into the hall had opened the door before the butler could reach it. two tall women in furs came into the hall. the brother and sister kissed each other quietly, but their embrace was a long one and there was something that vibrated deep down in the voices of their greeting. then miss morton sims turned to the other lady. "forgive me, julia," she said, in her clear bell-like voice--in america they had said that her voice "tolled upon the ear"--"but i haven't seen him for five months. john, here is julia daly at last!" the doctor took his guest's hand. his face was bright and eager as he looked at the american woman. she was tall, dressed with a kind of sumptuous good taste, and the face under its masses of grey hair shone with a minerva-like wisdom and serenity. "welcome," the doctor said simply. "we have been friends so long, we have corresponded so often, it is a great joy to me to meet you at last!" the three people entered the library for a moment, exchanging the happy commonplaces of greeting, and then the two women went up to their rooms. "dinner at half past six," the doctor called after them. "i knew you'd want it. we can have a long talk then. at eight i have to go out upon an important errand." he stood in front of the library fire, thinking about the new arrivals and smoking a cigarette. his sister edith had always lived with him, had shared his hopes, his theories and his work. he was the great scientist slowly getting deep down, discovering the laws which govern the vital question of alcoholism. she was the popular voice, one of the famous women leaders of the temperance movement, the most lucid, the least emotional of them all. her name was familiar to every one in england. her brother gave her the weapons with which she fought. his theories upon temperance reform were quite opposed to the majority of those held by earnest workers in the same field, but he and his sister were beginning to form a strong party of influential people who thought with them. mrs. daly was, in america, very much what edith morton sims was in great britain--perhaps even more widely known. apart from her propaganda she was one of the few great women orators living, and in her case also, inspiration came from the english doctor, while she was making his beliefs and schemes widely known in the united states. as he waited in the library, the doctor thought that probably no man had ever had such noble helpers as these two women to whom such great gifts had been given. his heart was very full of love for his sister that night, of gratitude and admiration for the stately lady who had come to be his guest and whom he now met in the flesh for the first time. for the first part of dinner the ladies were very full of their recent campaign in america. there was an infinity of news to tell, experiences and impressions must be recorded, progress reported. the eager sparkling talk of the two women was delightful to the doctor, and he was especially pleased with the conversation of mrs. daly. every word she spoke fell with the right ring and chimed, he seemed to have known her for years--as indeed he had done, through the medium of her letters. conversation, which with people like these is a sort of music, resembles the progress of harmonics in this also--that a lull arrives with mathematical incidence when a certain stage is reached in the progress of a theme. it happened so now, at a certain stage of dinner. there was much more to be said, but all three people had reached a momentary pause. the butler came into the room just then, with a letter. "this has just come by messenger from north london prison, sir," he said, unable to repress a faint gleam of curiosity in his eyes. with a gesture of apology, the doctor opened the envelope. "very well," he said, in a moment or two. "i need not write an answer. but go to the library, proctor, and ring up the north london prison. say doctor morton sims' thanks and he will be there punctually at half past eight." the servant withdrew and both the ladies looked inquiringly at the doctor. "it is a dreadful thing," he said, after a moment's hesitation, "but i may as well tell you. it must go no further though. a wretched man is to be executed to-morrow and i have to go and see him." edith shuddered. "how frightful," she said, growing rather pale; "but why, john? how does it concern you? are you forced to go?" he nodded. "i must go," he said, "though it is the most painful thing i have ever had to do. it is hancock, the hackney murderer." two startled faces were turned to him now, and a new atmosphere suddenly seemed to have come into the warm luxurious room, something that was cold, something that had entered from outside. "you don't know," he went on. "of course you have been out of england for some months. well, it is this. hancock is a youngish man of five and twenty. he was a chemist at hackney, and of quite exceptional intelligence. he was at one time an assistant at williamsons' in oxford street, where some of my prescriptions are made up and where i buy drugs for experimental purposes. i took rather an interest in him several years ago. he passed all his examinations with credit and became engaged to a really charming young woman, who was employed in a big ladies' shop in regent street. he wanted to set up in business for himself, very naturally, and i helped him with a money loan. he married the girl, bought a business at hackney, and became prosperous enough in a moderate sort of way. he paid me back the hundred pounds i lent him and from time to time i heard that things were going on very well. he was respected in the district, and his wife especially was liked. she was a good and religious woman and did a lot of work for a local church. they appeared to be a most devoted couple." the doctor stopped in his story and glanced at the set faces turned towards him. he poured some water into a tumbler and drank it. "oh, it's a hideous story," he said, with some emotion and marked distaste in his voice. "i won't go into the details. hancock poisoned his wife with the most calculating and wicked cunning. he had become enamoured of a girl in the neighbourhood and he wanted to get rid of his wife in order to marry her. his wife adored him. she had been a perfect wife to him, but it made no difference. the thing was discovered, as such things nearly always are, he was condemned to death and will be hanged to-morrow morning at breakfast time." "and you are going to see him _to-night_, john?" "yes. it is my duty. i owe it to my work, and to the wretched man too. i was present at the trial. from the first i realised that there must have been some definite toxic influence at work on the man's mind to change him from an intelligent and well-meaning member of society into a ghastly monster of crime. i was quite right. it was alcohol. he had been secretly drinking for years, though, as strong-minded and cunning inebriates do, he had managed to preserve appearances. as you know, edith, the home secretary is a friend of mine and interested in our work. hancock has expressed a wish to see me, to give me some definite information about himself which will be of great use in my researches into the psychology of alcoholism. with me, the home secretary realises the value of such an opportunity, and as it is the convict's earnest wish, i am given the fullest facilities for to-night. of course the matter is one of absolute privacy. there would be an outcry among the sentimental section of the public if it were known. but it is my clear duty to go." there was a dead silence in the room. mrs. daly played uneasily with her napkin ring. suddenly it escaped her nervous fingers and rolled up against a tumbler with a loud ringing sound. she started and seemed to awake from a bitter dream. "again!" she said in a low voice that throbbed with pain. "at all hours, in all places, we meet it! the scourge of humanity, the fiend alcohol! the curse of the world!--how long, how long?" part ii the murderer "ma femme est morte, je suis libre! je puis donc boire tout mon soûl. lorsque je rentrais sans un sou, ses cris me déchiraient la fibre." --_baudelaire._ the rain had ceased but the night was bitter cold, as dr. morton sims' motor went from his house in russell square towards the north london prison. a pall of fog hung a few hundred feet above london. the brilliant artificial lights of the streets glowed with a hard and rather ghastly radiance. as the car rolled down this and that roaring thoroughfare, the people in it seemed to morton sims to be walking like marionettes. the driver in front moved mechanically like a clockwork puppet, the town seemed fantastic and unreal to-night. a heavy depression weighed upon the doctor's senses. his heart beat slowly. some other artery within him was throbbing like a funeral drum. it had come upon him suddenly as he left the house. he had never, in all his life, known anything like it before. perhaps the mournful words of the american woman had been the cause. her deep contralto voice tolled in his ears still. some white cell in the brain was affected, the nerves of his body were in revolt. the depression grew deeper and deeper. a nameless malady of the soul was upon him, he had a sick horror of his task. the hands in his fur gloves grew wet and there was a salt taste in his mouth. the car left ways that were familiar. presently it turned into a street of long houses. the street rose steeply before, and was outlined by a long, double row of gas-lamps, stretching away to a point. it was quite silent, and the note of the car's engine sank a full tone as the ascent began. through the window in front, and to the left of the chauffeur, the doctor could see the lamps running past him, and suddenly he became aware of a vast blackness, darker than the houses, deeper than the sky, coming to meet him. incredibly huge and sinister, a precipice, a mountain of stone, a nightmare castle whose grim towers were lost in night, closed the long road and barred all progress onward. it was the north london prison, hideous by day, frightful by night, the frontier citadel of a land of death and gloom and shadows. the doctor left his car and told the man to return in an hour and wait for him. he stood before a high arched gateway. in this gateway was a door studded with sexagonal bosses of iron. above the door was a gas-lamp. hanging to the side of this door was an iron rod terminating in a handle of brass. this was the bell. a sombre silence hung over everything. the roar of london seemed like a sound heard in a vision. a thin night wind sighed like a ghost in the doctor's ear as he stood before the ultimate reality of life, a reality surpassing the reality of dreams. he stretched out his arm and pulled the bell. the smooth and sudden noise of oiled steel bars sliding in their grooves was heard, and then a gentle "thud" as they came to rest. a small wicket door in the great ones opened. a huge sombre figure filled it and there was a little musical jingle of keys. the visitor's voice was muffled as he spoke. in his own ears it sounded strange. "i am dr. morton sims," he said. "i have a special permit from the home secretary for an interview with the convict hancock." the figure moved aside. the doctor stepped in through the narrow doorway. there was a sharp click, a jingle of keys, the thud of the steel bars as they went home and a final snap, three times repeated--snap--snap--snap. a huge, bull-necked man in a dark uniform and a peaked cap, stood close to the doctor--strangely close, he thought with a vague feeling of discomfort. from an open doorway set in a stone wall, orange-coloured light was pouring from a lit interior. framed in the light were two other dark figures in uniform. morton sims stood immediately under the gate tower of the prison. a lamp hung from the high groined roof. beyond was another iron-studded door, and on either side of this entrance hall were lit windows. "you are expected, sir," said the giant with the keys. "step this way if you please." sims followed the janitor into a bare room, brilliantly illuminated by gas. at the end near the door a fire of coke and coal was glowing. a couple of warders, youngish military-looking men, with bristling moustaches, were sitting on wooden chairs by the fire and reading papers. they rose and saluted as the doctor came in. at the other end of the room, an elderly man, clean shaved save for short side whiskers which were turning grey, was sitting at a table on which were writing materials and some books which looked like ledgers. "good-evening, sir," he said, deferentially, as doctor sims was taken up to him. "you have your letter i suppose?" sims handed it to him, and pulling on a pair of spectacles the man read it carefully. "i shall have to keep this, sir," he said, putting it under a paper-weight. "my orders are to send you to the medical officer at once. he will take you to the condemned cell and do all that is necessary. the governor sends his compliments and if you should wish to see him after your interview he will be at your service." "i don't think i shall want to trouble colonel wilde, thank you," said the doctor. "very good, sir. of course you can change your mind if you wish, afterwards. but the governor's time is certainly very much taken up. it always is on the night before an execution. jones, take this gentleman to the medical officer." again the cold air, as morton sims left the room with one of the warders. again the sound of sliding bars and jingling keys, the soft closing of heavy doors. then a bare, whitewashed hall, with a long counter like that of a cloak-room at a railway station, a weighing machine, gaunt anthropometrical instruments standing against the walls, and iron doors on every side--all seen under the dim light of gas-jets half turned down. "the reception room, sir," said the warder, in a quiet voice, unlocking one of the doors, and showing a long corridor, much better lighted, stretching away for a considerable distance. the man stepped through with the noiseless footfall of a cat. the doctor followed him, and as he did so his boots echoed upon the stone floor. the noise was startling in this place of silence, and for the first time sims realised that his guide was wearing shoes soled with felt. they went down the corridor, the warder's feet making a soft padding sound, the steel chain that hung in a loop from his belt of black leather shining in the gas light. almost at the end of the passage they came to a door--an ordinary varnished door with a brass handle--at which the man rapped. "come in," cried a voice. the warder held the door open. "the gentleman to see hancock, sir," he said. the chief prison doctor, a youngish-looking, clean-shaved man, rose from his chair. "wait in the passage till i call you," he said. "how-do-you-do, dr. morton sims. we had your telephone message some time ago. you are very punctual! do sit down for a minute." sims sank into an armchair, with a little involuntary sigh of relief. the room in which he found himself was comfortable and ordinary. a carpet was on the floor, a bright fire burned upon the hearth, there was a leather-covered writing table with books and a stethoscope upon it. the place was normal. "my name is marriott, of 'barts'," said the medical officer. "do take off your coat, sir, that fur must be frightfully hot in here and you won't need it until you leave the prison again." "thank you, i will," sims answered, and already his voice had regained its usual calmness, his eyes their steady glow. anticipation was over, the deep depression was passing away. there was work to be done and his nerves responded to the call upon them. "there is no hitch, i suppose?" "none whatever. hancock is waiting for you, and anxious to see you." "it will be very painful," sims answered in a thoughtful voice, looking at the fire. "i knew the man in his younger days, poor, wretched creature. is he resigned?" "i think so. we've done all we could for him; we always do. as far as i can judge, and i have been present at nine executions, he will die quite calmly. 'i shall be glad when it's over,' he said to me this morning." "and his physical condition?" "just beginning to improve. if i had him here for six months under the second class regulations--i should not certify him for hard labour--i could turn him out in fair average health. he's a confirmed alcoholic subject, of course. it's been a case of ammonium bromide and milk diet ever since his condemnation. for the first two days i feared delirium tremens from the shock. but we tided over that. he'll be able to talk to you all right, sir. he's extremely intelligent, and i should say that the interview should prove of great value." "he has absolutely refused to see the chaplain? i read so in to-night's paper." "yes. some of them do you know. the religious sense isn't developed at all in him. it will be all the easier for him to-morrow." "how so?" "so many of them become religious on the edge of the drop simply out of funk--nervous collapse and a sort of clutching at a chance in the next world. they often struggle and call out when they're being pinioned. it's impossible to give them any sort of anæsthetic." "is that done then? i didn't know." "it's not talked about, of course, sir. it's quite unofficial and it's not generally known. but we nearly always give them something if it's possible, and then they know nothing of what's happening." sims nodded. "the best way," he said sadly, "the lethal chamber would be better still." there was a momentary silence between the two men. the prison doctor felt instinctively that his distinguished visitor shrank from the ordeal before him and was bracing himself to go through with it. he was unwilling to interrupt such a famous member of his profession. it was an event to meet him, a thing which he would always remember. suddenly sims rose from his chair. "now, then," he said with a rather wan smile, "take me to the poor fellow." dr. marriott opened the door and made a sign to the waiting warder. together the three men went to the end of the passage. another door was unlocked and they found themselves in a low stone hall, with a roof of heavily barred ground glass. there was a door on each side of the place. "that's the execution room," said dr. marriott in a whisper, pointing to one of the doors. "the other's the condemned cell. it's only about ten steps from one to the other. the convict, of course, never knows that. but from the time he leaves his cell to the moment of death is rarely more than forty-five seconds." the voice of the prison doctor, though very low in key, was not subdued by any note of awe. the machinery of death had no terrors for him. he spoke in a matter-of-fact way, with an unconscious note of the showman. the curator of a museum might have shown his treasures thus to an intelligent observer. for a second of time--so strange are the operations of the memory cells--another and far distant scene grew vivid in the mind of morton sims. once more he was paying his first visit to rome, and had been driven from his hotel upon the pincio to the nine o'clock mass at st. peter's. a suave guide had accompanied him, and among the curious crowd that thronged the rails, had told in a complacent whisper of this or that monsignore who said or served the mass. dr. marriott went to the door opposite to the one he had pointed out as the death-chamber. he moved aside a hanging disc of metal on a level with his eyes, and peered through a glass-covered spy-hole into the condemned cell. after a scrutiny of some seconds, he slid the disc into its place and rapped softly upon the door. almost immediately it was opened a foot or so, silently, as the door of a sick-room is opened by one who watches within. there was a whispered confabulation, and a warder came out. "this gentleman," said the medical officer, "as you have already been informed by the governor, is to have an interview with the convict absolutely alone. you, and the man with you, are to sit just outside the cell and to keep it under continual observation through the glass. if you think it necessary you are to enter the cell at once. and at the least gesture of this gentleman you will do so too. but otherwise, dr. morton sims is to be left alone with the prisoner for an hour. you quite understand?" "perfectly, sir." "you anticipate no trouble?--how is he?" "quiet as a lamb, sir. there's no fear of any trouble with him. he's cheerful and he's been talking a lot about himself--about his violin playing mostly, and a week he had in paris. his hands are twitching a bit, but less than usual with them." "very well. jones will remain here and will fetch me at once if i am wanted. now take dr. morton sims in." the door was opened. a gust of hot air came from within as morton sims hesitated for a moment upon the threshold. the warm air, indeed, was upon his face, but once again the chill was at his heart. lean and icy fingers seemed to grope about it. at the edge of what abysmal precipice, and the end of what sombre perspective of fate was he standing? from youth upwards he had travelled the goodly highways of life. he had walked in the clear light, the four winds of heaven had blown upon him. sunshine and tempest, dawn and dusk, fair and foul weather had been his portion in common with the rest of the wayfaring world. but now he had strayed from out the bright and strenuous paths of men. the brave high-road was far, far away. he had entered a strange and unfamiliar lane. the darkness had deepened. he had come into a marsh of miasmic mist lit up by pale fires that were not of heaven and where dreadful presences thronged the purple gloom. this was the end of all things. a life of shame closed here--through that door where a living corpse was waiting for him "pent up in murderers' hole." he felt a kindly and deprecating hand upon his arm. "you will find it quite ordinary, really, sir. you needn't hesitate in the very least"--thus the consoling voice of marriott. morton sims walked into the cell. another warder who had been sitting there glided out. the door was closed. the doctor found himself heartily shaking hands with someone whom he did not seem to know. and here again, as he was to remember exactly two years afterwards, under circumstances of supreme mental anguish and with a sick recognition of past experience, his sensation was without precedent. some one, was it not rather _something_? was shaking him warmly by the hand. a strained voice was greeting him. yet he felt as if he were sawing at the arm of a great doll, not a live thing in which blood still circulated and systole and diastole still kept the soul co-ordinate and co-incident. then that also went. the precipitate of long control was dropped into the clouded vessel of thought and it cleared again. the fantastic imaginings, the natural horror of a kind and sensitive man at being where he was, passed away. the keen scientist stood in the cell now, alert to perform the duty for which he was there. the room was of a fair size. in one corner was a low bed, with a blanket, sheet and pillow. in the centre, a deal table stood. a wooden chair, from which the convict had just risen, stood by the table, and upon it were a bible, some writing materials, and a novel--bound in the dark-green of the prison library--by "enid and herbert toftrees." hancock wore a drab prison suit, which was grotesquely ill-fitting. he was of medium height, and about twenty-five years of age. he was fat, with a broad-shouldered corpulence which would have been less noticeable in a man who was some inches taller. his face was ordinarily clean-shaven, but there was now a disfiguring stubble upon it, a three weeks' growth which even the scissors of the prison-barber had not been allowed to correct and which gave him a sordid and disgusting aspect. the face was fattish, but even the bristling hairs, which squirted out all over the lower part, could not quite disguise a curious suggestion of contour about it. it should have been a pure oval, one would have thought, and in the gas-light, as the head moved, it almost seemed to have that for fugitive instants. it was a contour veiled by a dreadful something that was, but ought not to have been there. the eyes were grey and had a certain capability of expression. it was now enigmatic and veiled. the mouth was by far the most real and significant feature of the face. in all faces, mouths generally are. the murderer's mouth was small. it was clearly and definitely cut, with an undefinable hint of breeding in it which nothing else about the man seemed to warrant. but despite the approach to beauty which, in another face, it might have had, slyness and egotism lurked in every curve. . . . "so that's how it first began, doctor. first one with one, then one with another. you know!" the conversation was in full swing now. the doll had come to life--or it was not quite a doll yet and some of the life that was ebbing from it still remained. the voice was low, confidential, horribly "just between you and me." but it was a pleased voice also, full of an eager and voluble satisfaction,--the last chance of toxic insanity to explain itself! the lurid swan-song of a conceited and poisoned man. . . . "business was going well. there seemed no prospect of a child just then, so mary got in with church work at st. philip's. that brought a lot more customers to the shop too. fancy soaps, scents and toilette articles and all that. dr. mitchell of hackney, was a church-warden at st. philip's and in time all his prescriptions came to me. no one had a better chance than i did. and mary was that good to me." . . . two facile, miserable tears rolled from the man's glazing eyes. he wiped them away with the back of his hand. "you can't think, sir, being a bachelor. anything i'd a mind to fancy! sweet-breads she could cook a treat, and burgundy we used to 'ave--california wine, 'big bush' brand in flagons at two and eight. and never before half-past seven. late dinner you might have called it, while my assistant was in the shop. and after that i'd play to her on the violin. nothing common, good music--'orer pro nobis' and 'rousoh's dream.' you never heard me play did you? i was in the orchestra of the hackney choral society. i remember one day . . ." "and then?" the doctor said, gently. he had already gathered something, but not all that he had come to gather. the minutes were hurrying by. the man looked up at the doctor with a sudden glance, almost of hatred. for a single instant the abnormal egoism of the criminal, swelled out upon the face and turned it into the mask of a devil. dr. morton sims spoke in a sharp, urgent voice. "why did you ask me to come here, hancock?" he said. "you know that i am glad to be here, if i can be of any use to you. but you don't seem to want the sort of sympathetic help that the chaplain here could give you far better than i can. what do you want to say to me? have you really anything to say? if you have, be a man and say it!" there was a brief but horrible interlude. "well, you are cruel, doctor, not 'arf!--and me with only an hour or two to live,"--the man said with a cringing and sinister grin. the doctor frowned and looked at the man steadily. then he asked a sudden question. "who were your father and mother?" he said. the convict looked at the doctor with startled eyes. "who told you?" he asked. "i thought nobody knew!" "answer my question, hancock. only a few minutes remain." "will it be of use, sir?" "of use?" "in your work--it was so that i could leave a warning to others, that i wanted to see you." "of great use, if you will tell me." "well, doctor, i never thought to tell any one. it's always been a sore point with me, but i wasn't born legitimate! i tried hard to make up for it, and i did so too! no one was more respectable than i was in hackney, until the drink came along and took me." "yes? yes?"--the hunter was on the trail now, heredity? reversion? at last the game was flushed!--"yes, tell me!" "my father was a gentleman, doctor. that's where i got my refined tastes. and that's where i got my love of drink--damn him! god almighty curse him for the blood he gave me!" "yes? yes?" "my father was old mr. lothian, the solicitor of grey's inn square. he was a well-known gentleman. my mother was his housekeeper, eliza hancock. my father was a widower when my mother went into his service. he had another son, at one of the big schools for gentlemen. that was his son by his real wife--gilbert he was called, and what money was left went to him. my father was a drunkard. he never was sober--what you might rightly call sober--for years, i've heard . . . mother died soon after mr. lothian did. she left a hundred pounds with my aunt, to bring me up and educate me. aunt ellen--but i'm a gentleman's son, doctor!--drunken old swine he was too! what about my blood now? wasn't my veins swollen with drink from the first? christ! _you_ ought to know--you with your job to know--_now_ are you happy? i'm not a _love_ child, i'm a _drink_ child, that's what i am! son of old mr. lothian, the gentleman-drunkard, brother of his son who's a gentleman somewhere, i don't doubt! p'r'aps 'e mops it up 'imself!--shouldn't wonder, this--brother of mine!" the man's voice had risen into a hoarse scream. "have you got what you came to get?" he yelled. his eyes blazed, his mouth writhed. there was a crash as the deal table was overturned, and he leapt at the doctor. in a second the room was full of people. dark figures held down something that yelled and struggled on the truckle bed. it was done with wonderful deftness, quickness and experience. . . . morton sims stood outside the closed door of the condemned cell. a muffled noise reached him from within, the prison doctor was standing by him and looking anxiously into his face. --"i can't tell you how sorry i am, dr. morton sims. i really can't say enough. i had no idea that the latent toxic influence was so strong. . . ." on the other side of the little glass-roofed hall the door was open. another cell was shown, brilliantly lit. two men, in their shirt-sleeves, were bending over a square, black aperture in the wooden floor. some carpenters' tools were lying about. an insignificant looking little man, with a fair moustache, was standing in the doorway. "that'll be quite satisfactory, thank you," he was saying, "with just a drop of oil on the lever. and whatever you do, don't forget my chalk to mark where he's to stand." from behind the closed door of the condemned cell a strangulated, muffled noise could still be heard. "not now!" said dr. marriott, as the executioner came up to him--"in half an hour. now dr. morton sims, please come away to my room. this must have been most distressing. i feel so much that it is my fault." . . . the two men stood at the prison gate, sims was shaking hands with the younger doctor. "thank you very much indeed," he was saying. "how could you possibly have helped it?--you'll take steps--?" "i'm going back to the cell now. it's incipient delirium tremens of course--after all this time too! i shall inject hyoscene and he will know nothing more at all. he will be practically carried to the shed--good-night! _good_-night, sir. i hope i may have the pleasure of meeting you again." * * * * * the luxurious car rolled away from the citadel of death and shadows--down the hill into london and into life. the man within it was thinking deeply, sorting out and tabulating his impressions, sifting the irrelevant from what was of value, and making a précis of what he had gained. there were a dozen minor notes to be made in his book when he reached home. the changing quality of the man's voice, the ebb and flow of uncontrolled emotion, the latent fear--"i must be present at the post mortem to-morrow," he said to himself as a new idea struck him. "there should be much to be learnt from an examination of the peripheral nerves. and the brain too--there will be interesting indications in the cerebellum, and the association fibres." . . . the carriage swung again into the familiar parts of town. as he looked out of the windows at the lights and movement, morton sims forgot the purely scientific side of thought. the kindly human side of him reasserted itself. how infinitely sad it was! how deep the underlying horror of this sordid life-tragedy at the close of which he had been assisting! who should say, who could define, the true responsibility of the man they were killing up there on the north london hill? predisposition to alcohol, reversion, heredity!--was not the drunken old solicitor, long since dust, the true murderer of the gentle-mannered girl in hackney? _lothian_, the father of gilbert lothian the poet! the poet who certainly knew nothing of what was being done to the young man in the prison, who had probably never heard of his existence even. the "fiend alcohol" at work once more, planting ghastly growths behind the scutcheons of every family! a cunning murderer with a poisoned mind and body on one side, the brilliant young poet in the sunlight of success and high approbation upon the other! mystery of mysteries that god should allow so foul a thing to dominate and tangle the fair threads and delicate tissues of life! "well, that's that!" said the doctor, in a phrase he was fond of using when he dosed an episode in his mind. "i'll make my notes on hancock's case and forget it until i find it necessary to use them in my work. and i'll lock up the poems moultrie has sent me and i won't look at the book again for a month. then i shall be able to read the verses for themselves and without any arrière-penseé. "but, i wonder . . . ?" the brougham stopped at the doctor's house in russell square. * * * * * book one lothian in london "myself, arch traitor to myself, my hollowest friend, my deadliest foe, my clog whatever road i go." the drunkard chapter i under the waggon-roof. a dinner in bryanstone square "le véritable amphitryon est l'amphitryon où l'on dine." --_molière._ it was a warm night in july when mr. amberley, the publisher, entertained a few friends at dinner to meet gilbert lothian, the poet. although the evening was extremely sultry and the houses of the west end were radiating the heat which they had stored up from the sun-rays during the day, mr. amberley's dining room was deliciously cool. the house was one of those roomy old-fashioned places still to be found unspoiled in bryanstone square, and the dining room, especially, was notable. it was on the first floor, over-looking the square, a long and lofty room with a magnificent waggon-roof which was the envy of every one who saw it, and gave the place extraordinary distinction. the walls were panelled with oak, which had been stained a curious green, that was not olive nor ash-green but partook of both--the veritable colour, indeed, of the grey-green olive trees that one sees on some terrace of the italian alps at dawn. the pictures were very few, considering the size of the room, and they were all quite modern--"in the movement"--as shrewd mr. amberley was himself. a portrait of mrs. amberley by william nicholson, which was quite famous in its way, displayed all the severe pregnancy and almost solemn reserve of this painter. there was a pastel of prydes' which showed--rather suggested--a squalid room in which a gentleman of , with a flavour of robert macaire about him, stood in the full rays of the wine and honey-coloured light of an afternoon sun. upon yet another panel was a painting upon silk by charles conder, inspired of course, by watteau, informed by that sad and haunting catching after a fairyland never quite reached, which is the distinctive note of conder's style, and which might well have served for an illustration to a grotesque fantasy of heine. mrs. amberley loved this painting. she had a pater-like faculty of reading into--or from--a picture, something which the artist never thought about at all, and she used to call this little masterpiece "an ode of horace in patch, powder and peruque!" she adored these perfectly painted little snuff-box deities who wandered through shadowy mists of amethyst and rouge-de-fer in a fantastic wood. it is extremely interesting to discover, know of, or to sit at ease in a room which, in its way, is historic, and this is what the amberleys' guests always felt, and were meant to feel. in its present form, and with its actual decorations, this celebrated room only dated from some fifteen years back. the waggon-roof alone remained unaltered from its earlier periods. the publishing house of ince and amberley had been a bulwark of the victorian era, and not without some growing celebrity in the earlier georgian period. lord byron had spoken well of the young firm once, rogers was believed to have advanced them money, and when that eminent cornish pugilist "the lamorna cove" wrote his reminiscences they were published by ince and amberley, while old lord alvanley himself contributed a preface. from small beginnings came great things. the firm grew and acquired a status, and about this time, or possibly a little later, the dining-room at bryanstone square had come into being. its walls were not panelled then in delicate green. they were covered with rich plum-coloured paper festooned by roses of high-gilt. in the pictures, with their heavy frames of gold, the dogs and stags of landseer were let loose, or the sly sleek gipsies of mr. frith told rustic fortunes beneath the spreading chestnut trees. but browning had dined there--in the later times--an inextinguishable fire just covered with a sprinkling of grey ash. with solemn ritual, charles dickens had brewed milk punch in an old bowl of lowestoft china, still preserved in the drawing-room. the young robert cecil, in his early _saturday review_ days, had cracked his walnuts and sipped his "pint of port" with little thought of the high destiny to which he should come, and alfred tennyson, then bohemian and unknown, had been allowed to vent that grim philosophy which is the reaction of all imaginative and sensitive natures against the seeming impossibility of success and being understood. the traditions of ince and amberley--its dignified and quiet home was in hanover square--had always been preserved. its policy, at the same time, had continually altered with the passage of years and the change of the public taste. yet, so carefully, and indeed so genuinely, had this been accomplished that none of the historic prestige of the business had been lost. it still stood as a bulwark of the old dignified age. a young modern author, whatever his new celebrity, felt that to be published by ince and amberley hall-marked him as it were. younger firms, greedy of his momentary notoriety, might offer him better terms--and generally did--but ince and amberley conferred the accolade! he was admitted to the dining room. john amberley (the inces had long since disappeared), at fifty was a great publisher, and a charming man of the world. he was one of the personalities of london, carrying out what heredity and natural aptitude had fitted him to do, and was this evening entertaining some literary personages of the day in the famous dining room. the waggon-roof, which had looked down upon just such gatherings as these for generations, would, if it could have spoken, have discovered no very essential difference between this dinner party and others in the past. true, the walls were differently coloured and pictures which appealed to a different set of artistic conventions were hanging upon them. the people who were accustomed to meet round the table in -- were not dressed as other gatherings had been. there was no huge silver epergne in the centre of that table now. nor did the amberley at one end of it display his mastery of ritual carving. but the talk was the same. words only were different. the guests' vocabularies were wider and less restrained. it was the music of piano and the pizzicato plucking of strings--there was no pompous organ note, no ore rotundo any more. they all talked of what they had done, were doing, and hoped to do. there was a hurry of the mind, inherent in people of their craft and like a man running, in all of them. the eyes of some of them burned like restless ghosts as they tried to explain themselves, display their own genius, become prophets and acquire honour in the heart of their own country. yes! it had always been so! the brightest and most lucent brains had flashed into winged words and illuminated that long handsome room. and ever, at the head of the long table, there had been a bland, listening amberley, catching, tasting and sifting the idea, analysing the constituents of the flash, balancing the brilliant theory against the momentary public taste. a kind, uncreative, managing amberley! a fair and honest enough amberley in the main. serene, enthroned and necessary. the publisher was a large man, broad in the shoulder and slightly corpulent. there was something georgian about him--he cultivated it rather, and was delighted when pleated shirts became again fashionable for evening wear. he had a veritable face of the regency, more especially in profile, sensual, fine, a thought gluttonous and markedly intelligent. his voice was authoritative but bland, and frequently capable of a sympathetic interest which was almost musical. his love of letters was deep and genuine, his taste catholic and excellent, while many an author found real inspiration and intense pleasure in his personal praise. this was the cultured and human side of him, and he had another--the shrewd business man of hanover square. he was not, to use the slang of the literary agent, a "knifer." he paid die market price without being generous and he was perfectly honest in all his dealings. but his business in life was to sell books, and he permitted himself no experiments in failure. a writer--whether he produced good work or popular trash--must generally have his definite market and his more or less assured position, before ince and amberley would take him up. it was distinctly something for a member of the upper rank and files to say in the course of conversation, "ince and amberley are doing my new book, you know." to-night amberley, as he sat at the head of his table towards the close of dinner, was in high good humour, and very pleasant with himself and his guests. the ladies had not yet gone away, coffee was being served at the table, and almost every one was smoking a cigarette. the party was quite a small one. there were only five guests, who, with mr. and mrs. amberley and their only daughter muriel, made up eight people in all. there was nothing ceremonious about it, and, though three of the guests were well known in the literary world, none of these were great, while the remaining couple were merely promising beginners. there was, therefore, considerable animation and gaiety round this hospitable table, with its squat candlesticks, of dark-green serpentine and silver, the topaz-coloured shades, its gleaming surface of dark mahogany (mrs. amberley had eagerly adopted the new habit of having no white table-cloth), its really interesting old silver, and the square mats of pure white egyptian linen in front of each person. in age, with the exception of mr. amberley and his wife, every one was young, while both host and hostess showed in perfection that modern grace of perfect correspondence with environment which seems to have quite banished the evidences of time's progress among the folk of to-day who know every one, appreciate everything and are extremely well-to-do. on amberley's right hand sat mrs. herbert toftrees, while her husband was at the other end of the table at the right hand of his hostess--gilbert lothian, the guest of the evening, being on mrs. amberley's left. mr. and mrs. toftrees were novelists whose combined names were household words all over england. their books were signed by both of them--"enid and herbert toftrees" and they were quite at the head of their own peculiar line of business. they knew exactly what they were doing--"selling bacon" they called it to their intimate friends--and were two of the most successful trades-people in london. unlike other eminent purveyors of literary trash they were far too clever not to know that neither of them had a trace of the real fire, and if their constant and cynical disclaimer of any real talent sometimes seemed to betray a hidden sore, it was at least admirably truthful. they were shallow, clever, amusing people whom it was always pleasant to meet. they entertained a good deal and the majority of their guests were literary men and women of talent who fluttered like moths round the candle of their success. the talented writers who ate their dinners found a bitter joy in cursing a public taste which provided the toftrees with several thousands a year, but they returned again and again, in the effort to find out how it was done. they also had visions of just such another delightful house in lancaster gate, an automobile identical in its horse-power and appointments, and were certain that if they could only learn the recipe and trick, wrest the magic formula from these wizards of the typewriter, all these things might be theirs also! the herbert toftrees themselves always appeared--in the frankest and kindest way--to be in thorough sympathy with such aspirations. their candour was almost effusive. "any one can do what we do" was their attitude. herbert toftrees himself, a young man with a rather carefully-cultivated, elderly manner, was particularly impressive. he had a deep voice and slow enunciation, which, when he was upon his own hearthrug almost convinced himself. "there is absolutely no reason," he would say, in tones which carried absolute conviction to his hearer at the moment, "why you shouldn't be making fifteen hundred a year in six months." but that was as far as it went. that was the voice of the genial host dispensing wines, entrées and advice, easy upon his own hearth, the centre of the one picture where he was certain of supremacy. but let eager and hungry genius call next day for definite particulars, instructions as to the preparations of a "popular" plot, hints as to the shop-girl's taste in heroines,--with hopes of introductory letters to the great firms who buy serials--and the greyest of grey dawns succeeded the rosy-coloured night. it was all vague and cloudy now. general principles were alone vouchsafed--indeed who shall blame the tradesman for an adroit refusal to give away the secrets of the shop? genius retired--it happened over and over again--cursing successful mediocrity for its evasive cleverness, and with a deep hidden shame that it should have stooped so low, and so ineffectually! . . . "that's very true. what toftrees says is absolutely true," mr. amberley said genially, turning to young dickson ingworth, who was sitting by his daughter muriel. he nodded to the eager youth with a little private encouragement and hint of understanding which was very flattering. it was as who should say, "here you are at my house. for the first time you have been admitted to the dining room. i have taken you up, i am going to publish a book of yours and see what you are made of. gather honey while you may, young dickson ingworth!" ingworth blushed slightly as the great man's encouraging admonitions fell upon him. he was not down from oxford more than a year. he had written very little, gilbert lothian was backing him and introducing him to literary circles in town, he was abnormally conscious of his own good fortune, all nervous anxiety to be adequate--all ears. "yes, sir," he said, with the pleasant boyish deference of an undergraduate to the provost of his college--it sat gracefully upon his youth and was gracefully said. then he looked reverentially at toftrees and waited to hear more. herbert toftrees' face was large and clean shaven. his sleek hair was smoothly brushed over a somewhat protruding forehead. there was the coarse determined vigour about his brow that the bull-dog jaw is supposed to indicate in another type of face, and the eyes below were grey and steadfast. toftrees stared at people with tremendous gravity. only those who realised the shrewd emptiness behind them were able to discern what some one had once called their flickering "r.s.v.p. expression"--that latent hope that his vis-à-vis might not be finding him out after all! "i mean it," toftrees said in his resonant, and yet quiet voice. "there really is no reason, mr. ingworth, why you should not be making an income of at least eight or nine hundred a year in twelve months' time." "herbert has helped such a lot of boys," said mrs. toftrees, confidentially, to her host, although there was a slight weariness in her voice, the suggestion of a set phrase. "but who is mr. dickson ingworth? what has he done?--he is quite good-looking, don't you think?" "oh, a boy, a mere boy!" the big red-faced publisher purred in an undertone. "lothian brought him to me first in hanover square. in fact, lothian asked if he might bring him here to-night. we are doing a little book of his--the first novel he will have had published." mrs. toftrees pricked up her ears, so to say. she was really the business head of the toftrees combination. her husband did the ornamental part and provided the red-hot plots, but it was she who had invented and carried out the "note," and it was she who supervised the contracts. as mr. amberley was well aware, what this keen, pretty and well-dressed little woman didn't know about publishing was worth nothing whatever. "oh, really," she said, in genuine surprise. "rather unusual for you, isn't it? is the boy a genius then?" amberley shook his head. he hated everything the worthy toftrees wrote--he had never been able to read more than ten lines of any of the half-dozen books he had published for them. but the hanover square side of him had a vast respect for the large sums the couple charmed from the pockets of the public no less than the handsome percentage they put into his own. and a confidential word on business matters with a pretty and pleasant little woman was not without allurement even under the waggon-roof itself. "not at all. not at all," he murmured into a pretty ear. "we are not paying the lad any advance upon royalties!" he laughed a well-fed laugh. "ince and amberley's list," he continued, "is accepted for itself!" mrs. toftrees smiled back at him. "_of course_," she murmured. "but i wasn't thinking of the financial side of it. why? . . . why are you departing from your usual traditions and throwing the shadow of your cloak over this fortunate boy?--if i may ask, of course!" "well," amberley answered, and her keen ear detected--or thought that she detected--a slight reluctance in his voice. . . . "well, lothian brought him to me, you know." mrs. toftrees' face changed and amberley saw it. she was looking down the table to where lothian was sitting. her face was a little flushed, and the expression upon it--though not allowed to be explicit--was by no means agreeable. "lothian's work is very wonderful," she said--and there was a question in her voice "--you think so, mr. amberley?" bryanstone square, the dining room, asserted itself. truth to tell, amberley felt a little uncomfortable and displeased with himself. the fun of the dinner table--the cigarette moment--had rather escaped him. he had got young people round him to-night. he wanted them to be jolly. he had meant to be a good host, to forget his dignities, to unbend and be jolly with them--this fiction-mongering woman was becoming annoying. "i certainly do, mrs. toftrees," he replied, with dignity, and a distinct tone of reproof in his voice. mrs. toftrees, the cool tradeswoman, gave the great man a soothing smile of complete understanding and agreement. mr. amberley turned to a girl upon his left who had been taken in by dickson ingworth and who had been carrying on a laughing conversation with him during dinner. she was a pretty girl, a friend of his daughter muriel. he liked pretty girls, and he smiled half paternally, half gallantly at her. "won't you have another cigarette, miss wallace?" he said, pushing a silver box towards her. "they are supposed to be rather wonderful. my cousin eustace amberley is in the egyptian army and an aide-de-camp to the khedive. the khedive receives the officers every month and every one takes away a box of five hundred when they leave the palace--his highness' own peculiar brand. these are some of them, which eustace sent me." "may i?" she answered, a rounded, white arm stretched out to the box. "they certainly are wonderful. i have to be content with virginian at home. i buy fifty at a time, and a tin costs one and threepence." she lit it delicately from the little methyl lamp he passed her, and the big man's kind eyes rested on her with appreciation. she was, he thought, very like a madonna of donatello, which he had seen and liked in florence. the abundant hair was a dark nut-brown, almost chocolate in certain lights. the eyes were brown also, the complexion the true italian morbidezza, pale, but not pallid, like a furled magnolia bud. and the girl's mouth was charming--"delicious" was the word in the mind of this connoisseur. it was as clear-cut as that of a girl's face in a grecian frieze of honey-coloured travertine, there was a serene sweetness about it. but when she smiled the whole face was changed. the young brown eyes lit up and visited others with their own, as a bee visits flowers. the smile was radiant and had a conscious provocation in it. the paleness of the cheeks showed such tints of pearl and rose that they seemed carved from the under surface of a sea-shell. and, as amberley looked, wishing that he had talked more to her during dinner, startled suddenly to discover such loveliness, he saw her lips suddenly glow out into colour in an extraordinary way. it wasn't scarlet--unpainted lips are never really that--but of the veiled blood-colour that is warm and throbs with life; a colour that hardly any of the names we give to pigment can properly describe or fix. what did he know about her? he asked himself as she was lighting her second cigarette. hardly anything! she was a girl friend of his daughter's--they had been to the same school together at bath--an orphan he thought, without any people. she earned her own living--assistant librarian, he remembered, at old podley's library. yes, podley the millionaire nonconformist who was always endowing and inventing fads! and muriel had told him that she wrote a little, short stories in some of the women's papers. . . . "at any rate," he said, while these thoughts were flashing through his mind "you smoke as if you liked it! all the girls smoke now, muriel is inveterate, but i often have a suspicion that many of them do it because it's the fashion." rita wallace gave a wise little shake of her head. "oh, no," she answered. "men know so little about girls! you think we're so different from you in lots of things, but we aren't really. muriel and i always used to smoke at school--it doesn't matter about telling now, does it?" mr. amberley made a mock expression of horror. "good heavens!" he said, "what appalling revelations for a father to endure! i wish i had had an inkling of it at the time!" "you couldn't have, mr. amberley," she answered, and her smile was more provocative than ever, and delightfully naughty. "we used to do it in the bathroom. the hot vapour from the bath took all the smell of tobacco away. i discovered that!" "tell me some more, my dear. what other iniquities did you all perpetrate--and i thought muriel such a pattern girl." "oh, we did lots of things, mr. amberley, but it wouldn't be fair to give them away. we were little devils, nearly all of us!" she gave him a little parisian salute from the ends of her eyelids, instinct with a kind of impish innocence, the sort of thing that has an irresistible appeal to a middle-aged man of the world. "muriel!" mr. amberley said to his daughter, "miss wallace has been telling me dreadful things about your schooldays. i am grieved and pained!" muriel amberley was a slim girl with dark smouldering eyes and a faint enigmatic smile. her voice was very clear and fresh and there was a vibrant note in it like the clash of silver bells. she had been talking to mrs. toftrees, but she looked up as her father spoke. "don't be a wretch, cupid!" she said, to rita wallace over the table. "cupid? why cupid?" herbert toftrees asked, in his deep voice. "oh, it's a name we gave her at school," muriel answered, looking at her friend, and both girls began to laugh. mr. amberley re-engaged the girl in talk. "you have done some literary work, have you not?" he asked kindly, and in a lower voice. again her face changed. its first virginal demureness, the sudden flashing splendour of her smile, had gone alike. it became eager and wistful too. "you can't call it _that_, mr. amberley," she replied in a voice pitched to his own key. "i've written a few stories which have been published and i've had three articles in the saturday edition of the _westminster_--that's nearly everything. but i can't say how i love it all! it is delightful to have my work among books--at the podley library you know. i learned typewriting and shorthand and was afraid that i should have to go into a city office--and then this turned up." she hesitated for a moment, and then stopped shyly. he could see that the girl was afraid of boring him. a moment before, she had been perfectly collected and aware--a girl in his own rank of life responsive to his chaff. now she realised that she was speaking of things very near and dear to her--and speaking of them to a high-priest of those mysteries she loved--one holding keys to unlock all doors. he took her in a moment, understood the change of mood and expression, and it was subtle flattery. like all intelligent and successful men, recognition was not the least of his rewards. that this engaging child, even, knew him for what he was gave him an added interest in her. all muriel's girl friends adored him. he was the nicest and most generous of unofficial papas!--but this was different. "don't say that, my dear. never depreciate yourself or belittle what you have done. i suppose you are about muriel's age, twenty-one or two--yes?--then let me tell you that you have done excellently well." "that is kind of you." "no, it is sincere. no man knows how hard--or how easy--it is to succeed by writing to-day." she understood him in a moment. "only the other day, mr. amberley," she said, "i read stevenson's 'letter to a young gentleman who proposes to embrace the career of art.' and if i _could_ write feeble things to tickle feeble minds i wouldn't even try. it seems so, so low!" quite unconsciously her eye had fallen upon mrs. toftrees opposite, who was again chattering away to muriel amberley. he saw it, but gave no sign that he had done so. "keep such an ideal, my dear. whether you do small or great things, it will bring you peace of mind and dignity of conscience. but don't despise or condemn merely popular writers. in the kingdom of art there are many mansions you know." the girl made a slight movement of the head. he saw that she was touched and grateful at his interest in her small affairs, but that she wanted to dismiss them from his mind no less than from her own. "but i _am_ mad, crazy," she said, "about _other_ peoples' work, the big peoples' work, the work one simply can't help reverencing!" she had turned from him again and was looking down the table to where gilbert lothian was sitting. "yes," he answered, following the direction of her glance, "you are quite right _there_!" she flushed with enthusiasm. "i did so want to see him," she said. "i've hardly ever met any literary people at all before, certainly never any one who mattered. muriel told me that mr. lothian was coming; she loves his poems as much as i do. and when she wrote and asked me i was terribly excited. it's so good of you to have me, mr. amberley." her voice was touching in its gratitude, and he was touched at this damsel, so pretty, courageous and forlorn. "i hope, my dear," he said, "that you will give us all the pleasure of seeing you here very often." at that moment mrs. amberley looked up and her fine, shrewd eyes swept round the table. she was a handsome, hook-nosed dame, with a lavish coronet of grey hair, stately and kindly in expression, obviously capable of many tolerances, but with moments when "ne louche pas à la reine" could be very plainly written on her face. as she gathered up the three women and rose, mr. amberley knew in a moment that all was not quite well. no one else could have even guessed at it, but he knew. the years that had dealt so prosperously with him; fate which had linked arms and was ever debonnair, had greatly blessed him in this also. he worshipped this stately madam, as she him, and always watched her face as some poor fisherman strives to read the western sky. the door of the dining room was towards mrs. amberley's end of the table, and, as the ladies rose and moved towards it, gilbert lothian had gone to it and held it open. his table-napkin was in his right hand, his left was on the handle of the door, and as the women swept out, he bowed. herbert toftrees thought that there was something rather theatrical, a little over-emphasised, in the bow--as he regarded the poet, whom he had met for the first time that night, from beneath watchful eye-lids. and _did_ one bow? wasn't it rather like a scene upon the stage? toftrees, a quite well-bred man, was a little puzzled by gilbert lothian. then he concluded--and his whole thoughts upon the matter passed idly through his mind within the duration of a single second--that the poet was an intimate friend of the house. lothian was closing the door, and toftrees was sinking back into his chair, when the latter happened to glance at his host. amberley, still standing, was _watching_ lothian--there was no other word which would correctly describe the big man's attitude--and toftrees felt strangely uneasy. something seemed tapping nervously at the door of his mind. he heard the furtive knocking, half realised the name of the thought that timidly essayed an entrance, and then resolutely crushed it. such a thing was quite impossible, of course. the four men sat down, more closely grouped together than before. the coffee, which had been served by a footman, before the ladies had disappeared, was a pretence in cups no bigger than plovers' eggs. amberley liked the modern affectation of his women guests remaining at the table and sharing the joys of the after-dinner-hour. but now, the butler entered with larger cups and a tray of liqueurs, while the host himself poured out a glass of port and handed the old-fashioned cradle in which the bottle lay to young dickson ingworth on his right. that curly-headed youth, who was a pembroke man and knew the ritual of the johnsonian common room at oxford, gravely filled his own glass and pushed the bottle to herbert toftrees, who was in the vacated seat of his hostess, and pouring a little perrier water into a tumbler. the butler lifted the wicker-work cradle with care, passed behind toftrees, and set it before gilbert lothian. lothian looked at it for a moment and then made a decisive movement of his head. "thank you, no," he said, after a second's consideration, and in a voice that was slightly high-pitched but instinct with personality--it could never have been mistaken for any one else's voice, for instance--"i think i will have a whiskey and soda." toftrees, at the end of the table, within two feet of lothian, gave a mental start. the popular novelist was rather confused. a year ago no one had heard of gilbert lothian--that was not a name that counted in any way. he had been a sort of semi-obscure journalist who signed what he wrote in such papers as would print him. there were a couple of novels to his name which had obtained a sort of cult among minor people, and, certainly, some really eminent weeklies had published very occasional but signed reviews. as far as herbert toftrees could remember--and his jealous memory was good--lothian had always been rather small beer until a year or so back. and then "surgit amari"--the first book of poems had been published. in a single month lothian had become famous. for the ringing splendour of his words echoed in every heart. in this book, and in a subsequent volume, he had touched the very springs of tears. not with sentiment--with the very highest and most electric literary art--he had tried and succeeded in irradiating the happenings of domestic life in the light that streamed from the cross. ". . . thank you, no. i think i will have a whiskey and soda." chapter ii gravely unfortunate occurrence in mrs. amberley's drawing room "[greek: misô mnêmona sumpotên], procille." --_martial._ --"one should not always take after-dinner amenities au pied de la lettre." --_free translation._ toftrees, at the head of the table, shifted his chair a little so that he was almost facing gilbert lothian. lothian's arresting voice was quite clear as he spoke to the butler. "that's not the voice of a man who's done himself too well," the novelist thought. but he was puzzled, nevertheless. people like lothian behaved pretty much as they liked, of course. convention didn't restrain them. but the sudden request was odd. and there was that flourishing bow as the women left the room, and certainly amberley had seemed to look rather strangely at his guest. toftrees disposed himself to watch events. he had wanted to meet the poet for some time. there was a certain reason. no one knew much about him in london. he lived in the country and was not seen in the usual places despite his celebrity. there had been a good deal of surmise about this new star. lothian was like the photographs which had appeared of him in the newspapers, but with a great deal more "personality" than these were able to suggest. certainly no one looked less like a poet, though this did not surprise the popular novelist, in an age when literary men looked exactly like every one else. but there was not the slightest trace of idealism, of the "thoughts high and hard" that were ever the clear watchwords of his song. "a man who wears a mask," thought herbert toftrees with interest and a certain half-conscious fellow-feeling. the poet was of medium height and about thirty-five years of age. he was fat, with a broad-shouldered corpulence which would have been far less noticeable in a man who was a few inches taller. the clean-shaven face was fattish also, but there was, nevertheless, a curious suggestion of contour about it. it should have been a pure oval, and in certain lights it almost seemed that, while the fatness appeared to dissolve and fall away from it. it was a contour veiled by something that was, but ought not to have been, there. the eyes were grey and capable of infinite expression--a fact which always became apparent to any one who had been half an hour in his company. but this feature also was enigmatic. for the most part the eyes seemed to be working at half-power, not quite doing or being what one would have expected of them. the upper lip was short, and the mouth by far the most real and significant part of the face. it was small, but not too small, clearly and delicately cut though without a trace of effeminacy. in its mobility, its sensitive life, its approach to beauty, it said everything in the face. thick-growing hair of dark brown was allowed to come rather low over a high and finely modelled brow, hair which--despite a natural luxuriance--was cut close to the sides and back of the head. such was toftrees' view of gilbert lothian, and it both had insight and was fair. no one can be a toftrees and the literary idol of thousands and thousands of people without being infinitely the intellectual superior of those people. the novelist had a fine brain and if he could have put a tenth of his observation and knowledge upon paper, he might have been an artistic as well as a commercial success. but he was hopelessly inarticulate, and æsthetic achievement was denied him. there was considerable consolation in the large income which provided so many pleasures and comforts, but it was bitter to know--when he met any one like lothian--that if he could appreciate lothian thoroughly he could never emulate him. and it was still more bitter to be aware that men like lothian often regarded his own work as a mischief and dishonour. toftrees, therefore, watched the man at his side with a kind of critical envy, mingled with a perfectly sincere admiration at the bottom of it all. he very soon became certain that something was wrong. his first half-thought was a certainty now. something that some one had said to him a week ago at a savage club dinner--one of those irresponsible but dangerous and damaging remarks which begin, "d'you know, i'm told that so and so--" flashed through his mind. "are you in town for long, mr. lothian?" he asked. "you don't come to town often, do you?" "no, i don't," lothian answered. "i hate london. a damnable place i always think." the other, so thorough a londoner, always getting so much--in every way--out of his life in london, looked at the speaker curiously, not quite knowing how to take him. lothian seemed to see it. he had made the remark with emphasis, with a superior note in his voice, but he corrected himself quickly. it was almost as though toftrees' glance had made him uneasy. his face became rather ingratiating, and there was a propitiatory note in his voice when he spoke again. he drew his chair a little nearer to the other's. "i knew too much of london when i was a young man," he went on with an unnecessarily confidential and intimate manner. "when i came down from oxford first, i was caught up into the 'new' movement. it all seemed very wonderful to me then. it did to all of us. we divorced art from morals, we lived extraordinary lives, we sipped honey from every flower. most of the men of that period are dead. one or two are insane, others have gone quite under and are living dreadful larva-like lives in obscene hells of the body and soul, of which you can have no conception. but, thank god, i got out of it in time--just in time! if it hadn't been for my dear wife . . ." he paused. the sensitive lips smiled, with an almost painful tenderness, a quivering, momentary effect which seemed grotesquely out of place in a face which had become flushed and suddenly seemed much fatter. there was a horrible insincerity about that self-conscious smile--the more horrible because, at the moment, toftrees saw that lothian believed absolutely in his own emotion, was pleased with himself sub-consciously, too, and was perfectly certain that he was making a fine impression--pulling aside the curtain that hung before a beautiful and holy place! the smile lingered for a moment. the light in the curious eyes seemed turned inward complacently surveying a sanctuary. then there was an abrupt change of manner. lothian laughed. there was a snap in his laughter, which, toftrees was sure, was meant to convey the shutting down of a lid. "i like you," lothian was trying to say to him--the acquaintance of ten minutes!--"i can open my heart to you. you've had a peep at the poet's holy of holies. but we're men of the world--you and i!--enough of this. we're in society. we're dining at the amberleys'. our confidences are over!" "so you see," the _actual_ voice said, "i don't like london. it's no place for a gentleman!" lothian's laugh as he said this was quite vague and silly. his hand strayed out towards the decanter of whiskey. his face was half anxious, half pleased, wholly pitiable and weak. his laugh ended in a sort of bleat, which he realised in a moment and coughed to obscure. there was a splash and gurgle as he pressed the trigger of the syphon. intense disgust and contempt succeeded toftrees' first amazement. so this, after all the fuss, was gilbert lothian! the man had talked like a provincial yokel, and then fawned upon him with his sickly, uninvited confidences. he was drunk. there was no doubt about that. he must have come there drunk, or nearly so. the last half hour had depressed the balance, brought out what was hidden, revealed the fellow's state. "if it hadn't been for my dear wife!"--the tout! how utterly disgusting it was! toftrees had never been drunk in his life except at a bump-supper at b.n.c.--his college--nearly fifteen years ago.--the shocking form of coming to the amberleys' like this!--he was horribly upset and a little frightened, too. he remembered where he was--such a thing was an incredible profanation _here_! . . . he heard a quiet vibrant voice speaking. he looked up. gilbert lothian was leaning back in his chair, holding a newly-lighted cigarette in a steady hand. his face was absolutely composed. there was not the slightest hint that it had been bloated and unsteady the minute before. intellect and strength--strength! that was the incredible thing--lay calmly over it. the skin, surely it _had_ been oddly blotched? was of an even, healthy-seeming tint. a conversation between the poet and his host had obviously been in progress for several minutes. toftrees realised that he had been lost in his own thoughts for some time--if indeed this scene was real at all and he himself were sober! ". . . i don't think," lothian was saying with precision, and a certain high air which sat well upon him--"i don't think that you quite see it in all its bearings. there must be a rough and ready standard for ordinary work-a-day life--that i grant. but when you penetrate to the springs of action----" "when you do that," amberley interrupted, "naturally, rough and ready standards fall to pieces. still we have to live by them. few of us are competent to manipulate the more delicate machinery! but your conclusion is--?" "--that hypocrisy is the most misunderstood and distorted word in our mother tongue. the man whom fools call hypocrite may yet be entirely sincere. lofty assertions, the proclamation of high ideals and noble thoughts may at the same time be allied with startling moral failure!" amberley shook his head. "it's specious," he replied, "and it's doubtless highly comforting for the startling moral failure. but i find a difficulty in adjusting my obstinate mind to the point of view." "it _is_ difficult," lothian said, "but that's because so few people are psychologists, and so few people--the priests often seem to me less than any one--understand the meaning of christianity. but because david was a murderer and an adulterer will you tell me that the psalms are insincere? surely, if all that is good in a man or woman is to be invalidated by the presence of contradictory evil, then beelzebub must sit enthroned and be potent over the affairs of men!" mr. amberley rose from his chair. his face had quite lost its watchful expression. it was genial and pleased as before. "king david has a great deal to answer for," he said. "i don't know what the unorthodox and the 'live-your-own-life' school would do without him. but let us go into the drawing room." with his rich, hearty laugh echoing under the waggon roof, the big man thrust his arm through lothian's. "there are two girls dying to talk to the poet!" he said. "that i happen to know! my daughter muriel reads your books in bed, i believe! and her friend miss wallace was saying all sorts of nice things about you at dinner. come along, come along, my dear boy." the two men left the dining room, and their voices could be heard in the hall beyond. toftrees lingered behind for a moment with young dickson ingworth. the boy's face was flushed. his eyes sparkled with excitement and the three glasses of champagne he had drunk at dinner were having their influence with him. he was quite young, ingenuous, and filled with conceit at being where he was--dining with the amberleys, brought there under the ægis of gilbert lothian, chatting confidentially to the great herbert toftrees himself! his immature heart was bursting with pride, pol roger, and satisfaction. he hadn't the least idea of what he was saying--that he was saying something frightfully dangerous and treacherous at least. "i say, mr. toftrees, isn't gilbert splendid? i could listen to him all night. he talks like that to me sometimes, when he's in the mood. it's like walter pater and dr. johnson rolled into one. and then he sort of punctuates it with something dry and brown and freakish--like heine in the 'florentine nights'!" with all his eagerness to hear more--the quiet malice in him welling up to understand and pin down this gilbert lothian--toftrees was forced to pause for a moment. he knew that he could never have expressed himself as this enthusiastic and excited boy was able to do. ingworth was a pupil then! lothian could inspire, and was already founding a school . . . "you know mr. lothian very well, i suppose?" "oh, yes. i go and stay with gilbert in the country a lot. i'm nearly always there! i am like a brother to him--he was an only child, you know. but isn't he wonderful?" "marvellous!" toftrees chuckled as he said the word. he couldn't help it. misunderstood as his chuckle was, it did the trick and brought confidence in full flood from the careless and excited boy. "yes, and i know him so well! hardly any one knows him so well as i do. every one in town is crying out to find out all about him, and i'm really the only one who knows . . ." he looked towards the door. thoughts of the two pretty girls beyond flushed the wayward, wine-heated mind. "i'm going to have a liqueur brandy," toftrees said hastily--he had taken nothing the whole evening--"won't you, too?" "now you'd never think," ingworth said, sipping from his tiny glass, "that at seven o'clock this evening prince and i--prince is the valet at gilbert's club--could hardly wake him up and get him to dress?" "no!" "it's a fact though, mr. toftrees. we had the devil of a time. he'd been out all day--it was bovril with lots of salt in it that put him right. as a matter of fact--of course, this is quite between you and me--i was in a bit of a funk that it was coming over him again at dinner. stale drunk. you know! i saw he was paying a lot of compliments to mrs. amberley. at first she didn't seem to understand, and then she didn't quite seem to like it. but i was glad when i heard him ask the man for a whiskey and soda just now. i know his programme so well. i was sure that it would pull him together all right--or at least that number two would. i suppose you saw he was rather off when the ladies had gone and you were talking to him?" "well, i wasn't sure of course." "i was, i know him so well. gilbert's father was my father's solicitor--one of the old three bottle men. but when gilbert collared number two just now i realised that it would be quite all right. you heard him with mr. amberley just now? splendid!" "yes. and now suppose we go and see how he's getting on in the drawing room," said herbert toftrees with a curious note in his voice. the boy mistook it for anxiety. "oh, he'll be as right as rain, you'll find. it comes off and on in waves, you know," he said. toftrees looked at the youth with frank wonder. he spoke in the way of use and wont, as if he were saying nothing extraordinary--merely stating a fact. the novelist was really shocked. personally, he was the most temperate of men. he was _homme du monde_, of course. he touched upon life at other points than the decorous and above-board. he had known men, friends of his own, go down, down, down, through drink. but here, with these people, it was not the same. in bohemia, in raffish literary clubs and the reprobate purlieus of fleet street, one expected this sort of thing and accepted it as part of the _milieu_. under the waggon roof, at amberley's house, where there were charming women, it was shocking; it was an outrage! and the frankness of this well-dressed and well-spoken youth was disgusting in its very simplicity and non-moral attitude. toftrees had gathered something of the young man's past during dinner. was this, then, what one learnt at eton? the novelist was himself the son of a clergyman, a man of some family but bitter poor. he had been educated at a country grammar school. his wife was the youngest daughter of a gloucestershire baronet, impoverished also. neither of them had enjoyed all that should have been theirs by virtue of their birth, and the fact had left a blank, a slight residuum of bitterness and envy which success and wealth could never quite smooth away. "well, it doesn't seem to trouble you much," he said. ingworth laughed. he was unconscious of his great indiscretion, frothy and young, entirely unaware that he was giving his friend and patron into possibly hostile hands and providing an opportunity for a dissection of which half london might hear. "gilbert's quite different from any one else," he said lightly. "he is a genius. keats taking pepper before claret, don't you know! one must not measure him by ordinary standards." "i suppose not," toftrees answered drily, reflecting that among the disciples of a great man it was generally the judas who wrote the biography--"let's go to the drawing room." as they went out, the mind of the novelist was working with excitement and heat. he himself was conscious of it and was surprised. his was an intellect rather like dry ice. very little perturbed it as a rule, yet to-night he was stirred. wonder was predominant. physically, to begin with, it was extraordinary that more drink should sober a man who a moment before had been making exaggerated and half-maudlin confidences to a stranger--in common with most decent living people, toftrees knew nothing of the pathology of poisoned men. and, then, that sobriety had been so profound! clearly reasoned thought, an arresting but perfectly sane point of view, had been enunciated with lucidity and force of phrase. disgust, the keener since it was more than tinged by envy, mingled with the wonder. so the high harmonies of "surgit amari" came out of the bottle after all! toftrees himself had been deeply moved by the poems, and yet, he now imagined, the author was probably drunk when he wrote them! if only the world knew!--it _ought_ to know. blackguards who, for some reason or other, had been given angel voices should be put in the pillory for every one to see. hypocrite! . . . ingworth opened the door of the drawing room very quietly. music had begun, and as he and toftrees entered, muriel amberley was already half way through one of the preludes of chopin. mrs. amberley and mrs. toftrees were sitting close together and carrying on a vigorous, whispered conversation, despite the music. mr. amberley was by himself in a big arm-chair near the piano, and lothian sat upon a settee of blue linen with rita wallace. as he sank into a chair toftrees glanced at lothian. the poet's face was unpleasant. when he had been talking to amberley it had lighted up and had more than a hint of fineness. now it was heavy again, veiled and coarsened. lothian's head was nodding in time to the music. one well-shaped but rather red hand moved restlessly upon his knee. the man was struggling--toftrees was certain of it--to appear as if the music was giving him intense pleasure. he was thinking about himself and how he looked to the other people in the room. drip, drip, drip!--it was the sad, graceful prelude in which the fall of rain is supposed to be suggested, the hot steady rain of the mediterranean which had fallen at majorca ever so many years ago and was falling now in sound, though he that caught its beauty was long since dust. drip, drip!--and then the soft repetition which announced that the delicate and lovely vision had reached its close, that the august grey harmonies were over. for a moment, there was silence in the drawing room. muriel's white fingers rested on the keys of the piano, the candles threw their light upwards upon the enigmatic maiden face. her father sighed quietly--happily also as he looked at her--and the low buzz of mrs. amberley's and mrs. toftrees' talk became much more distinct. suddenly gilbert lothian jumped up from the settee. he hurried to the piano, his face flushed, his eyes liquid and bright. it was consciously and theatrically done, an exaggeration of his bow in the dining room--not the right thing in the very least! "oh, thank you! _thank you!_" he said in a high, fervent voice. "how wonderful that is! and you played it as crouchmann plays it--the _only_ interpretation! i know him quite well. we had supper together the other night after his concert, and he told me--no, that won't interest you. i'll tell you another time, remind me! now, _do_ play something else!" he fumbled with the music upon the piano with tremulous and unsteady hands. "ah! here we are!" he cried, and there was an insistent note of familiarity in his voice. "the book of valses! you know the twelfth of course? tempo giusto! it goes like this . . ." he began to hum, quite musically, and to wave his hands. muriel amberley glanced quickly at her father and there was distress in her eyes. amberley was standing by the piano in a moment. he seemed very much master of himself, serene and dominant, by the side of gilbert lothian. his face was coldly civil and there was disgust in his eyes. "i don't think my daughter will play any more, mr. lothian," he said. an ugly look flashed out upon the poet's face, suspicion and realisation showed there for a second and passed. he became nervous, embarrassed, almost pitiably apologetic. the savoir-faire which would have helped some men to take the rebuke entirely deserted him. there was something assiduous, almost vulgar, a frightened acceptance of the lash indeed, which immensely accentuated the sudden _défaillance_ and break-down. in the big drawing room no one spoke at all. then there was a sudden movement and stir. gilbert lothian was saying good-night. he had remembered that he really had some work to do before going to bed, some letters to write, as a matter of fact. he was shaking hands with every one. "i do hope that i shall have the pleasure of hearing you play some more chopin before long, miss amberley! thank you so much mrs. amberley--i'm going to write a poem about your beautiful dining room. i suppose we shall meet at the authors' club dinner on saturday, mr. toftrees?--so interested to have met you at last." . . . the people in the drawing room heard him chattering vivaciously to mr. amberley, who had accompanied his departing guest into the hall. no one said a single word. they heard the front door close, and the steps of the master of the house as he returned to them. they were all waiting. when amberley came in he made a courtly attempt at ignoring what had just occurred. the calm surface of the evening had been rudely disturbed--yes! for once even an amberley party had gone wrong--there was to be no fun from this meeting of young folk to-night. but it was mrs. amberley who spoke. she really could not help it. mrs. toftrees had been telling her of various rumours concerning gilbert lothian some time before the episode at the piano, and with all her tolerance mrs. amberley was thoroughly angry. that such a thing should have happened in her house, before muriel and her girl friend--oh! it was unthinkable! "so mr. gilbert lothian has gone," she said with considerable emphasis. "yes, dear," mr. amberley answered as he sat down again, willing enough that nothing more should be said. but it was not to be so. "we can never have him here again," said the angry lady. amberley shook his head. "very unfortunate, extremely unfortunate," he murmured. "i cannot understand it. such a thing has never happened here before. now i understand why mr. lothian hides himself in the country and never goes about. _il y avait raison!_" "i don't say that genius is any _excuse_ for this sort of thing," amberley replied uneasily, "and lothian has genius--but one must take more than one thing into consideration . . ." he paused, not quite knowing how to continue the sentence, and genuinely sorry and upset. his glance fell upon herbert toftrees, and he had a sort of feeling that the novelist might help him out. "don't you think so, toftrees?" he asked. the novelist surveyed the room with his steady grey eyes, marshalling his hearers as it were. "but let us put his talent aside," he said. "think of him as an ordinary person in our own rank of life--mrs. amberley's guest. certainly he could not have taken anything here to have made him in the strange state he is in. surely he must have known that he was not fit to come to a decent house." "i shall give his poems away," muriel amberley said with a little shudder. "i can never read them again. and i did love them so! i wish you hadn't asked mr. lothian to come here, father." "there is one consolation," said mrs. toftrees in a hard voice; "the man must be realising what he has done. he was not too far gone for that!" a new voice broke into the talk. it came from young dickson ingworth who had slid into the seat by rita wallace when lothian went to the piano. he blushed and stammered as he spoke, but there was a fine loyalty in his voice. "it seems rather dreadful, mrs. amberley," he said, quite thinking that he was committing literary suicide as he did so. "it is dreadful of course. but gilbert _is_ such a fine chap when he's--when he's, all right! you can't think! and then, 'surgit amari'! don't let's forget he wrote 'the loom'--'delicate threads! o fairest in life's tissue,'" he quoted from the celebrated verse. then rita wallace spoke. "he is great," she said. "he is manifesting himself in his own way. that is all. to me, at any rate, the meeting with mr. lothian has been wonderful." mrs. toftrees stared with undisguised dislike of such assertions on the part of a young girl. but mrs. amberley, always kind and generous-hearted, had been pleased and touched by dickson ingworth's defence of his friend and master. she quite realised what the lad stood to lose by doing it, and what courage on his part it showed. and when rita wallace chimed in, mrs. amberley dismissed the whole occurrence from her mind as she beamed benevolently at the two young people on the sofa. "let's forget all about it," she said. "mrs. toftrees, help me to make my husband sing. he can only sing one song but he sings it excellently--'in cellar cool'--just the thing for a hot night. joseph! do as i tell you!" the little group of people rearranged themselves, as muriel sat down at the piano to accompany her father. "le metier de poëte laisse a désirer," toftrees murmured to his wife with a sneer which almost disguised the atrocious accent of his french. chapter iii shame in "the roaring gallant town" --"is it for this i have given away mine ancient wisdom and austere control?" "'très volontiers' repartit le démon. 'vous aimez les tableaux changeants; je veux vous contenter.'" --_le sage._ when the door of the house had closed after him, and with mr. amberley's courteous but grave good-night ringing in his ears, gilbert lothian walked briskly away across the square. it was very hot. the july sun, that tempest of fire which had passed over the town during the day, had sucked up all the sweetness from the air and it was sickly, like air under a blanket which has been breathed many times. as it often is in july, london had been delightfully fresh at dawn, when the country waggons were bringing the sweet-peas and the roses to market, and although his mind had not been fresh as the sun rose over st. james' where he was staying, lothian had enjoyed the early morning from the window of his bedroom. it had been clear and scentless, like a field with the dew upon it, in the country from which he had come five days ago. now his mind was like a field in the full sun of noon, parched and full of hot odours. he was perfectly aware that he had made a _faux pas_. how far it went, whether he was not exaggerating it, he did not know. the semi-intoxicated person--more especially when speech and gait are more or less normal, as in his case--is quite incapable of gauging the impression he makes on others. in lax and tolerant circles where no outward indication is given him of his state, he goes on his way pleased and confident that he has made an excellent impression, sure that no one has found him out. but his cunning and self-congratulation quite desert him when he is openly snubbed or reproved. "was i very far gone?" he afterwards asks some confidential friend who may have been present at his discomfiture. and whatever form the answer may take, the drunkard is abnormally interested in all the details of the event. born of the toxic influences in his blood, there is a gaunt and greedy vanity which insists upon the whole scene being re-enacted and commented upon. lothian had no one to tell him how far he had gone, precisely what impression he had made upon his hosts and their guests. he felt with a sense of injury that dickson ingworth ought to have come away with him. the young man owed so much to him in the literary life! it was a treachery not to have come away with him. as he got into a cab and told the man to drive him as far as piccadilly circus, he was still pursuing this train of thought. he had taken ingworth to the amberleys', and now the cub was sitting in the drawing room there, with those charming girls! quite happy and at ease. he, gilbert lothian himself! was out of it all, shut out from that gracious house and those cultured people whom he had been so glad to meet. . . . again he heard the soft closing of the big front door behind him, and his skin grew hot at the thought. the remembrance of amberley's quiet courtesy, but entire change of manner in the hall, was horrible. he felt as if he had been whipped. the dread of a slight, the fear of a quarrel, which is a marked symptom of the alcoholic--is indeed his torment and curse through life--was heavy upon lothian now. the sense of impotence was sickening. what a weak fool he had been to break down and fly like that. to run away! what faltering and trembling incapacity for self-assertion he had shown. he had felt uneasy with the very servant who gave him his opera hat! and what had he done after all? very little, surely. that prelude of chopin always appealed to him strongly. he had written about it; crouchmann had played it privately for him and pointed out new beauties. certainly he had only met miss amberley for the first time that night and he may have been a little over-excited and effusive. his thoughts--a poet's thoughts after all--had come too quickly for ordered expression. he was too celtic in manner, too artistic for these staid cold folk. he tried to depreciate the amberleys in his thoughts. amberley was only a glorified trades-man after all! lothian tried to call up within him that bitter joy which comes from despising that which we really respect or desire. "yes! damn the fellow! he _lived_ on poets and men of letters--privileged people, the salt of the earth, the real forces of life!" and yet he ought to have stayed on and corrected his mistake. he had made himself ridiculous in front of four women--he didn't care about the men so much--and that was horribly galling. as the cab swung down regent street, lothian was sure that if his nerves had not weakened for a moment he would never have given himself away. it was, he felt, very unfortunate. he knew, as he could not help knowing, that not only had he a mind and power of a rare, high quality, but that he possessed great personal charm. what he did not realise was how utterly all these things fled from him when he was not quite sober. certainly at this moment he was unable to comprehend it in the slightest. realisation would come later, at the inevitable punishment hour. he over-paid his cabman absurdly. the man's quick and eager deference pleased him. he was incapable of any sense of proportion, and he felt somehow or other reinstated in his own opinion by this trivial and bought servility. he looked at his watch. it was not very much after ten, and he became conscious of how ridiculously early he had fled from the amberleys'. but as he stood on the pavement--in the very centre of the pleasure-web of london with its roar and glare--he pushed such thoughts resolutely from him and turned into a luxurious "lounge," celebrated among fast youths and pleasure-seekers, known by an affectionate nick-name at the universities, in every regimental mess or naval ward-room in great britain. as he went down a carpeted passage he saw himself in the long mirror that lined it. he looked quite himself, well-dressed, prosperous, his face under full control and just like any other smart man about town. at this hour, there were not many people in the place. it would become crowded and noisy later on. the white and green tiles of the walls gleamed softly in the shaded lights, electric fans and a huge block of ice upon a pedestal kept the air cool. there were palms which refreshed the eye and upon the porphyry counter at which he was served there was a mass of mauve hydrangea in a copper bowl. he drank a whiskey and soda very quickly--that was to remove the marked physical exhaustion which had begun to creep over him--ordered another and lit a cigarette. his nerves responded with magical quickness to the spirit. all day long he had been feeding them with the accustomed poison. the strain of the last half hour had used up more vitality than he had been aware. for the second time that night--a night so infinitely more eventful than he knew--he became master of himself, calm, happy, even, in the sense of power returned, and complete correspondence with his environment. the barmaid who served him was--like most of these slaves of the still in this part of london--an extremely handsome girl. her face was painted--all these girls paint their faces--but it was done merely to conceal the pallor and ravages wrought upon it by a hard and feverish life. lothian felt an immense pity for her, symbolic as she was of all the others, and the few remarks he made were uttered with an instinctive deference and courtesy. he had been married seven years before this time, and had at once retired into the country with his wife where, by slow degrees, he had felt his way to the work which had at last made him celebrated. but in the past he had known the under side of london well and had chosen it deliberately as his _milieu_. it had in no way been forced upon him. struggling journalist and author as he was, good houses had been open to him, for he was a member of a well-known family and had made many friends at oxford. but the other life was so much easier! if its pleasures were coarse, they were hot and strong! for years, as many a poet has done before him, he lived a bad life, tolerant of vice in himself and others, kind, generous often, but tossed and worn by his passions--rivetting the chains link by link upon his soul--until he had met and married mary. and no one knew better than he the horrors of life behind the counters of a bar. he turned away, as two fresh-faced lads came noisily up to the counter, turned away with a sigh of pity. he was quite unconscious--though he would have been interested at the psychological fact--that the girl had wondered at his manner and thought him affected and dull. she would much rather have been complimented and chaffed. she understood that. life is full of anodynes. mercifully enough the rank and file of the oppressed are not too frequently conscious of their miseries. there is a half-truth in the philosophy of dr. pangloss, and if fettered limbs go lame, the chains are not always clanking. the poor barmaid went to bed that night in an excellent humour, for the two lads lothian had seen brought her some pairs of gloves. and if she had known of lothian's pity she would have resented it bitterly. "like the fellow's cheek," she would have said. lothian, as he believed, had absolutely recovered his own normal personality. he admitted now, as he left the "lounge," that he had not been his true self at the amberleys'. "at this moment, as i stand here," he said to himself, "'i am the captain of my soul,'" not in the least understanding that when he spoke of his own "soul" he meant nothing more than his five senses. the man thought he was normal. he was not. on the morrow, when partially recovering from the excesses of to-day, there was a possibility that he might become normal--for a brief period, and until he began to drink again. for him to become really himself, perfectly clean from the stigmata of the inebriate mind, would have taken him at least six months of total abstinence from alcohol. lothian's health, though impaired, had by no means broken down. a strong constitution, immense vitality, had preserved it, up to this point. at this period, though a poisoned man, an alcoholised body, there were frequent times of absolute normality--when he was, for certain definite spaces of time by the clock, exactly as he would have been had he never become a slave to alcohol at all. as he stood upon the pavement of piccadilly circus, he felt and believed that such a time had come now. he was mistaken. all that was happening was that there was a temporary lull in the ebb and flow of alcohol in his veins. the brain cells were charged up to a certain point with poison. at this point they gave a false impression of security. it must be remembered, and it cannot be too strongly insisted on, that the mental processes of the inebriate are _definite_, and are _induced_. the ordinary person says of an inebriate simply that "he is a drunkard" or "he drinks." whether he or she says it with sympathetic sorrow, or abhorrence, the bald statement rarely leads to any further train of thought. it is very difficult for the ordinary person to realise that the mental processes are _sui generis_ a kingdom--though with a debased coinage--which requires considerable experience before it can always be recognised from the ring of true metal. alcoholism so changes the mental life of any one that it results in an ego which has _special_ external and internal characteristics. and so, in order to appreciate fully this history of gilbert lothian--to note the difference between the man as he was known and as he really was--it must always be kept in mind under what influence he moves through life, and that his steps have strayed into a dreadful kingdom unknown and unrealised by happier men. he had passed out of one great palace of drink. had he been as he supposed himself to be, he would have sought rest at once. he would have hurried joyously from temptation in this freedom from his chains. instead of that, the question he asked himself was, "what shall i do now?" the glutton crams himself at certain stated periods. but when repletion comes he stops eating. the habit is rhythmic and periodically certain. but the drunkard--his far more sorrowful and lamentable brother--has not even this half-saving grace. in common with the inordinate smoker--whose harm is physical and not mental--the inebriate drinks as long as he is able to, until he is incapacitated. "where shall i go now?" if god does indeed give human souls to his good angels, as gardens to weed and tend, that thought must have brought tears of pity to the eyes of the august beings who were battling for gilbert lothian. their hour was not yet. they were to see the temple of the paraclete fall into greater ruin and disaster than ever before. the splendid spires and pinnacles, the whole serene beauty of soul and body which had made this temple a high landmark when god first built it, were crumbling to decay. deep down among the strong foundations the enemy was at work. the spire--the "central-one"--which sprang up towards heaven was deeply undermined. still--save to the eyes of experts--its glory rose unimpaired. but it was but a lovely shell with no longer any grip upon its base of weakened will. and the bells in the wind-swept height of the tower no longer rang truly. on red dawns or on pearl-grey evenings the message they sent over the country-side was beginning to be false. there was no peace when they tolled the angelus. in oriel or great rose-window the colour of the painted glass was growing dim. the clear colour was fading, though here and there it was shot with baleful fire which the artist had never painted there,--like the blood-shot eyes of the man who drinks. a miasmic mist had crept into the noble spaces of the aisles. the vast supporting pillars grew insubstantial and seemed to tremble as the vapour eddied round them. a black veil was quickly falling before the figure above the altar, and the seven dim lamps of the sanctuary burned with green and flickering light. the bells of a great mind's message, which had been cast with so much silver in them, rang an increasing dissonance. the trumpets of the organ echoed with a harsh note in the far clerestory; the flutes were false, the _dolce_ stop no longer sweet. the great pipes of the pedal organ muttered and stammered in their massive voices, as if dark advisers whispered in the ear of the musician who controlled them. lothian had passed from one great palace of drink. "where shall i go?" he asked himself again, and immediately his eye fell upon another, the brilliant illumination upon the façade of a well-known "theatre of varieties." his hot eye-balls drank in the flaring signs, and telegraphed both an impulse and a memory to his brain. "yes!" he said. "i will revisit the 'kingdom.' there is still two thirds of an hour before the performance will be over. how well i used to know it! what a nightly haunt it used to be. surely, even now, there will be some people i know there? . . . i'll go in and see!" as lothian turned in at the principal doors of the most celebrated music hall in the world, his pulses began to quicken. --the huge foyer, the purple carpets, with their wreaths of laurel in a purple which was darker yet, the gleaming marble stairway, with its wide and noble sweep, how familiar all this dignified splendour was, he thought as he entered the second palace of drink which flung wide its doors to him this night. a palace of drink and lust, vast and beautiful! for those who brought poisoned blood and vicious desires within its portals! here, banished from the pagan groves and the sunlit temples of their ancient glory--banished also from the german pine-woods where heine saw them in pallid life under the full moon--venus, bacchus and silenus held their unholy court. for all the world--save only for a few wise men to whom they were but symbols--venus and bacchus were deities once. when the acropolis cut into the blue sky of hellas with its white splendour these were the chiefest to whom men prayed, and they ruled the lives of all. and, day by day, new temples rise in their honour. once they were worshipped with blythe body and blinded soul. now the tired body and the besotted brain alone pay them reverence. but great are their temples still. such were the thoughts of lothian--lothian the christian poet--and he was pleased that they should come to him. it showed how detached he was, what real command he had of himself. in the old wild days, before his marriage and celebrity, he had come to this place, and other places like it, to seize greedily upon pleasure, as a monkey seizes upon a nut. he came to survey it all now, to revisit the feverish theatre of his young follies with a bland olympian attitude. the poison was flattering him now, placing him upon a swaying pedestal for a moment. he was sucking in the best honey that worthless withering flowers could exude, and it was hot and sweet upon his tongue. --were any of the old set there after all? he hoped so. not conscious of himself as a rule, without a trace of "side" and detesting ostentation or any display of his fame, he wanted to show off now. he wanted to console himself for his rebuff at the house in bryanstone square. vulgar and envious adulation, interested praise from those who were still in the pit of obscurity from which his finer brain had helped him to escape, would be perfectly adequate to-night. after the episode at the amberleys', coarse flattery heaped on with a spade would be as ice in the desert. and he found what he desired. he passed slowly through the promenade, towards the door which led to the stalls, and the great lounge where, if anywhere, he would find people who knew him and whom he knew. in a slowly-moving tide, like a weed-clogged wave, the women of the town ebbed and flowed from horn to horn of the moon-shaped crescent where they walk. against the background of sea-purple and white, their dresses and the nodding plumes in their great hats moved languorously. sickly perfumes, as from the fan of an odalisque, swept over them. many beautiful painted masks floated through the scented aisle of the theatre, as they had floated up and down the bronze corridors of the temple of diana at ephesus in the far off days of st. paul. a mourning thrill shivered up from the violins of the orchestra below; the 'cellos made their plaint, the cymbals rattled, the kettledrums spoke with deep vibrating voices. . . . so had the sistra clanked and droned in the old temple of bronze and silver before the altars of artemis,--the old music, the eternal faces, ever the same! a chill came to lothian as he passed among these "estranged sad spectres of the night." he thought suddenly of his pure and gracious wife, alone in their little house in the country, he thought of the canaanitish harlot whose soul was the first that christ redeemed. for a moment or two his mind was like a darkened room in which a magic lantern is being operated and fantastic, unexpected pictures flit across the screen. and then he was in the big lounge. yes, some of them were there!--a little older, perhaps, to his now much more critical eye, somewhat more bloated and coarsened, but the same still. "good heavens!" said a huge man with a blood red face, startling in its menace, like a bully looking into an empty room, "why, here's old lothian! where in the world have _you_ sprung from, my dear boy?" lothian's face lit up with pleasure and recognition. the big evil-faced man was paradil, the painter of pastels, a wayward drunken creature who never had money in his pocket, but that he gave it away to every one. he was a man spoken of as a genius by those who knew. his rare pictures fetched large prices, but he hardly ever worked. he was soaked, dissolved and pickled in brandy. a little elderly man like a diseased doll, came up and began to twitter. he was the husband of a famous dancer who performed at the theatre, a wit in his way, an adroit manager of his wife's affairs with other men, a man with a mind as hollow and bitter as a dried lemon. he was a well-known figure in upper bohemia. his name was constantly mentioned in the newspapers as an entrepreneur of all sorts of things, a popular, evil little man. "ah, lothian," he said, as one or two other people came up and some one gave a copious order for drinks, "still alternating between the prayer book and the decanter? i must congratulate you on 'surgit amari.' i read it, and it made me green with envy to think how many thousand copies you had sold of it." "you've kept the colour, edgar," he said, looking into the little creature's face, but the words stabbed through him, nevertheless. how true they were--superficially--how they expressed--and must express--the view of his old disreputable companions. they envied him his cunning--as they thought it--they would have given their ears to have possessed the same power of profitable hypocrisy--as they thought it. meanwhile they spoke virtuously to each other about him. "gilbert lothian the author of 'surgit amari'!--it would make a cat laugh!" one can't throw off one's past like a dirty shirt--gilbert began to wish he had not come here. "i ought never to be seen in these places," he thought, forgetting that it was only the sting of the little man's malice that provoked the truth. but paradil, kindly paradil with the bully's face and a heart bursting with dropsical good nature, speedily intervened. other men joined the circle; "rounds of drinks" were paid for by each person according to the ritual of such an occasion as this. in half an hour, when the theatre began to empty, lothian was really, definitely drunk. hot circles expanded and contracted within his head. his face became pale and very grave in expression, as he walked out into leicester square upon paradil's supporting arm. there was a portentous dignity in his voice as he gave the address of his club to the cabman. as he shook hands with paradil out of the window, tears came into his eyes, as he thought of the other's drunken, wasted life. "if i can only help you in any way, old chap--" he tried to say, and then sank back in oblivion upon the cushions. he was quite unconscious of anything during the short drive to st. james's street, and when the experienced cabman pulled down the flag of the taximeter and opened the door, he sat there like a log. the x club was not fashionable, but it was reputable and of old establishment. it was fairly easy to get into--for the people whom the election committee wanted there--exceedingly difficult for the wrong set of people. very many country gentlemen--county people, but of moderate means--belonged to it; the major-general and the admiral were not infrequent visitors; several judges were on the members' list and looked in now and again. as far as the arts went, they were but poorly represented. there was no sparkle, no night-life about the place. the painters, actors and writers preferred a club that began to brighten up about eleven o'clock at night--just when the x became dreary. not more than a dozen suppers were served at the staid building in st. james' on any night of the week. nevertheless, it was not an "old fogies'" club. there was a younger leaven working there. a good many younger men who also belonged to much more lively establishments found refreshment, quiet, and just the proper kind of atmosphere at the x. for young men of good families who were starting life in london, there was a certain sense of being at home there. the building had, in the past, been the house of a celebrated duke and something of comely and decent order clung to every room now. and, more than anything, the servants suggested a country or london house of name. mullion, the grey-haired head-porter who sat in his glass box in the hall was a kind and assiduous friend to every one. he was reported to be worth ten thousand pounds and his manners were perfection. he was one of the most celebrated servants in london. his deference was never tinged by servility. his interest in your affairs and wants was delicately intimate and quite genuine. great people had tried to lure this good and shrewd person from the x club, but without success. for seventeen years he had sat there in the hall, and, if fate was kind, he meant to sit there for seventeen years more. all the servants of the x were like that. the youngest waiter in the smoking-rooms, library or dining room wore the face of a considerate friend, and prince, the head bed-room valet was beloved by every one. members of other clubs talked about him and mullion, the head-porter, with sighs of regret. when gilbert lothian's taxi-cab stopped at the doors of the x club, he was expected. dickson ingworth, who was a member also, had been there for a few moments, expectant of his friend. old mullion had gone for the night, and an under-porter sat in the quiet hall, but prince, the valet, stood talking to ingworth at the bottom of the stair-case. "it will be perfectly all right," said prince. "i haven't done for mr. lothian for all these years without understanding his ways. drunk or sober, sir, mr. gilbert is always a gentleman. he's the most pleasant country member in the club, sir! i understand his habits thoroughly, and he would bear me out in that at any time. i'm sure of that! his bowl of soup is being kept hot in the kitchens now. the small flask of cognac and the bottle of worcester sauce are waiting on his dressing table. and there's a half bottle of champagne, which he takes to put him right when i call him in the morning, already on the ice!" "i know he appreciates it, prince. he can't say enough about how you look after him when he's in london." "i thoroughly believe it, sir," said the valet, "but it gives me great pleasure to hear it from you, who are such a friend of mr. gilbert's. i may say, sir--if i may tell you without offence--that i'm not really on duty to-night. but when i see how mr. gilbert was when he was dressing for dinner, i made up my mind to stay. james begged me to go, but i would not. james is a good lad, but he's no memory for detail. he'd have forgot the bi-carbonate of soda for mr. gilbert's heart-burn, or something like that--i think that's him, sir!" ingworth and the valet hurried over the hall as the inner doors swung open and lothian entered. his shirt-front was crumpled. his face was white and set, his eyes fixed and sombre. it was as though the master of the house had returned, when the poet entered. the under-porter hurried out of his box, prince had the coat and opera hat whisked away in a moment. in a moment more, like some trick of the theatre and surrounded by satellites, lothian was mounting the stairs towards his bedroom. they put him in an arm-chair--these eager servitors! the electric lights in the comfortable bed-room were all switched on. the servant who loved him, not for his generosity, but for himself, vied with the young gentleman who loved him for somewhat different reasons. both of them had been dominated by this personality for so long, that there was no sorrow nor pity in their minds. the faithful man of the people who had served gentlemen so long that any other life would have been impossible to him, the boy of position, united in their efforts of resuscitation. the master's mind must be called back! the master's body must be succoured and provided for. the two were there to do it, and it seemed quite an ordinary and natural thing. "you take off his boots, prince, and i'll manage his collar." "yes, sir." "managed it?" "a little difficulty with the left boot, sir. the instep is a trifle swelled." "good heavens! i do hope he's not going to have another attack of gout!" "i hope not, sir. but you can't ever tell. it comes very sudden. like a thief in the night, as you may say." "there! i've broken the stud, but that doesn't matter. his neck's free." "and his boots are off. there's some one knocking. it's his soup. would you mind putting his bed-room slippers on, sir? i don't like the cold for his feet." prince hurried to the door, whispered a word or two to whoever stood outside, and returned with a tray. "another few minutes," said prince, as he poured the brandy and measured the worcester sauce into the silver-plated tureen; "another few minutes and he'll be beautiful! mr. gilbert responds to anything wonderful quick. i've had him worse than this at half past twelve, and at quarter to one he's been talking like an archdeacon. you persuade him, sir." "here's your soup, gilbert!" "_it's all nothing, there's nobody, all nothing--dark--_," the voice was clogged and drowsy--if a blanket could speak, the voice might have been so. the boy looked hopelessly at the valet. prince, an alert little man with a yellow vivacious countenance and heavy, black eye-brows, smiled superior. "when mr. gilbert really have copped the brewer--excuse the expression, sir--he generally says a few words without much meaning. leave him to me if you please." he wheeled a little table up to the arm-chair, and caught hold of lothian's shoulder, shaking him. "what? what? my soup?" "yessir, your soup." the man's recuperative power was marvellous. his eyes were bleared, his face white, the wavy hair fell in disorder over his forehead. but he was awake and conscious. "thank you, prince," he said, in his clear and sweet voice, "just what i wanted. hullo, dicker! you here?--i'll just have my soup. . . ." he grasped the large ladle-spoon with curious eagerness. it was as though he found salvation in the hot liquid--pungent as it was with cognac and burning spices. he lapped it eagerly, coughing now and again, "gluck-gluck" and then a groan of satisfaction. the other two watched him with quiet eagerness. there was nothing horrible to them in this. neither the valet nor the boy understood that they were "lacqueys in the house of shame." as they saw their muddy magic beginning to succeed, satisfaction swelled within them. gilbert lothian's mind was coming back. they were blind to the hideous necessity of their summons, untouched by disgust at the physical processes involved. "will you require me any more, sir?" "no, thank you, prince." "very good, sir. i have made the morning arrangements." "good-night, prince." the bedroom door closed. lothian heaved himself out of his chair. he seemed fifteen years older. his head was sunk forward upon his shoulders, his stomach seemed to protrude, his face was pale, blotchy, debauched, and appeared to be much larger than it ordinarily did. with a slow movement, as if every joint in his body creaked and gave him pain, he began to pace slowly up and down the room. dickson ingworth sat on the bed and watched him. yet as the man moved slowly up and down the room, collecting the threads of his poisoned consciousness, slowly recapturing his mind, there was something big about him. each heavy, semi-drunken movement had force and personality. the lowering, considering face spelt power, even now. he stopped in front of the bed. "well, dicker?" he said--and suddenly his whole face was transformed. ten years fell away. the smile was sweet and simple, there was a freakish humour in the eyes,--"well, dicker?" the boy gave a great gasp of pleasure and relief. the "gude-man" had come home, the powerful mind-machine had started once more, the house was itself again! "how are you, gilbert?" "very tired. horrible indigestion and heartburn, legs like lumps of brass and a nasty feeling as if an imprisoned black-bird were fluttering at the base of my spine! but quite sober, dicker, now!" "nor were you ever anything else, in bryanstone square," the young man said hotly. "it _was_ such a mistake for you to go away, gilbert. so unnecessary!" "i had my reasons. was there much comment? now tell me honestly, was it very noticeable?--what did they say?" "no one said anything at all," ingworth answered, lying bravely. "the evening didn't last long after you went. every one left together--i say you ought to have seen the toftrees' motor!--and i drove miss wallace home, and then came on here." "a beautiful girl," lothian said sleepily. "i only talked to her for a minute or two and she seemed clever and sympathetic. certainly she is lovely." ingworth rose from the bed. he pointed to the table in the centre of the room. "well, i'm off, old chap," he said. "as far as miss wallace goes, she's absolutely gone on you! she was quoting your verses all the way in the cab. she lives in a tiny flat with another girl, and i had to wait outside while she did up that parcel there! it's 'surgit amari,' she wants you to sign it for her, and there's a note as well, i believe. good-night." "good-night, dicker. i can't talk now. i'm beautifully drunk to-night . . . look me up in the morning. then we'll talk." the door had hardly closed upon the departing youth, when lothian sank into a heap upon his chair. his body felt like a quivering jelly, a leaden depression, as if hell itself weighed him down. mechanically, and with cold, trembling hands, he opened the brown paper parcel. his book, in its cover of sage-green and gold, fell out upon the table. he began to read the note--the hand-writing was firm, clear and full of youth--so he thought. the heading of the note paper was embossed-- "the podley pure literature institute. _dear mr. lothian_: i am so proud and happy to have met you to-night. i am so sorry that i had not the chance of telling you what your poems have been to me--though of course you must always be hearing that sort of thing. so i will say nothing more, but ask you, only, to put your name in my copy of "surgit amari" and thus make it more precious--if that is possible--than before. mr. ingworth has kindly promised to give you this note and the book. yours sincerely, rita wallace." the letter dropped unheeded upon the carpet. thick tears began to roll down lothian's swollen face. "mary! mary!" he said aloud, "i want you, i want you!" . . . "darling! there is no one else in the world but you." he was calling for his wife, always so good and kind to him, his dear and loving wife. at the end of his long foul day, lived without a thought of her, he was calling for her help and comfort like a sick child. poisoned, abject, he whined for her in the empty room. --she was sleeping now, in the quiet house by the sea. the horn of a motor-car tooted in st. james' street below--she was sleeping now in her quiet chamber. tired lids covered the frank, blue eyes, the thick masses of yellow hair were straying over the linen pillow. she was dreaming of him as the night wind moaned about the house. he threw himself upon his knees by the bedside, in dreadful drunken surrender and appeal. --"father help me! jesus help me!--forgive me!"--he dare not invoke the holy ghost. he shrank from that. the father had made everything and had made him. he was a beneficent, all-pervading force--he would understand. the lord jesus was a familiar figure. he was human; man as well as god. one could visualise him. he had cared for harlots and drunkards! . . . far down in his sub-conscious brain lothian was aware of what he was doing. he was whining not to be hurt. his prayers were no more than superstitious garrulity and fear. something--a small despairing part of himself, had climbed upon the roof of the dishonoured temple and was stretching trembling hands out into the overwhelming darkness of the night. "father, help me! help me _now_. let me go to bed without phantoms and torturing ghosts round me! do not look into the temple to-night. i will cleanse it to-morrow. i swear it! father! help me!" he began to gabble the lord's prayer--that would adjust things in a sort of way--wouldn't it? there was a promise--yes--one said it, and it charmed away disaster. half-way through the prayer he stopped. the words would not come to him. he had forgotten. but that no longer distressed him. the black curtain of stupor was descending once more. "'thy will be done'--what _did_ come after? well! never mind!" god was good. he'd understand. after all, intention was everything! he scrambled into bed and instantly fell asleep, while the lovely face of rita wallace was the first thing that swam into his disordered brain. in a remote village of norfolk, not a quarter of a mile from gilbert lothian's own house, a keen-faced man with a pointed beard, a slim, alert figure like an osier wand and steely brown eyes was reading a thin green-covered book of poems. now and then he made a pencil note in the margin. his face was alive with interest, almost with excitement. it was as though he were tracing something, hunting for some secret hidden in the pages. more than once he gave a subdued exclamation of excitement. "it's there!" he said at last to himself. "yes, it is there! i'm sure of it, quite apart from what i've heard in the village since i came." he rose, put the book carefully away in a drawer, locked it, blew out the lamp and went to bed. three hundred miles away in cornwall, a crippled spinster was lying on her bed of pain in a cottage by the sea. the windows of her room were open and the moon-rays touched a white crucifix upon the wall to glory. the atlantic groundswell upon the distant beaches made a sound as of fairy drums. the light of a shaded candle fell upon the white coverlet of her bed, and upon a book bound in sage-green and gold which lay there. the woman's face shone. she had just read for the fifth time, the poem in "surgit amari" which closes the first book. the lovely lines had fused with the holy rapture of the night, and her patient soul was caught up into commune with jesus. "soon! oh, soon! dear lord," she gasped, "i shall be with thee for ever. if it seemeth good to thee, let me be taken up on some such tranquil night as this. and i thank thee, dear saviour, that thou hast poured thy grace into the soul of gilbert lothian, the poet. through the white soul of this poet, which thou hast chosen to be a conduit of comfort to me, my night pain has gone. i am drawn nearer to thee, jesus who hast died for me! "lord, bless the poet. pour down thy grace upon him. guard him, shield him and his for ever more. and, sweet lord, if it be thy will, let me meet him in heaven and tell him of this night--this fair night of summer when i lay dying and happy and thinking kindly and with gratitude of him. "jesus!" chapter iv lothian goes to the library of pure literature "i only knew one poet in my life: and this, or something like it, was his way." --_browning._ the podley library in west kensington was a fad of its creator. mr. john podley was a millionaire, or nearly so, and the head of a great pin-making firm. he was a public man of name and often preached or lectured at the species of semi-religious conversations known as "pleasant sunday afternoons." sunday afternoon in england--though mr. podley called it "the sabbath"--represented the pin-maker's mental attitude with some fidelity. all avenues to pleasure of any kind were barred, though possibly amusement is the better word. a heavy meal clogged the intellect, an imperfectly-understood piece of jewish religious politics was made into an idol, erected and bowed down to. mr. podley had always lived with the fear of god, and the love of money constantly before his eyes. "sabbath observance" and total abstinence were his watchwords, and he also took a great interest in "literature" and had pronounced views upon the subject. these views, like everything else about him, were confined and narrow, but were the sincere convictions of an ignorant, pompous and highly successful man. he had, accordingly, established the podley free library in kensington in order to enunciate and carry out his ideas in a practical way. what he considered--and not without some truth--the immoral tendency of modern writers, was to be sternly prohibited in his model house of books. nothing should repose upon those shelves which might bring a blush to the cheeks of the youngest girl or unsettle the minds of any one at all. "very unsettling" was a great phrase of this good, wealthy and stupid old man. he really was good, vulgar and limited as were all his tastes, and he had founded the library to the glory of god. he found it impossible--when he became confronted by the task--to choose the books himself, as he had hoped to do. he had sat down one day in his elegant private sanctum at tulse hill with sheets of foolscap before him, to make a first list. the "pilgrim's progress" was written down immediately in his flowing clerkly hand. then came the novels of mrs. henry wood. "get all of this line" was the pencilled note in the margin. memories of his youth reasserted themselves, so "jessica's first prayer," "ministering children" and "a peep behind the scenes" were quickly added, and then there had been a pause. "milton, shakespeare and the bible?" said mrs. podley, when consulted. "they're pure enough, i'm sure!" and the pin-maker who had never been to a theatre, nor read a line of the great poets, wrote them down at once. as for the bible, it was god's word, and so "would never bring a blush" etc. it was mr. podley's favourite reading--the old testament more than the new--and if any one had scoffed at the idea that the almighty had written it himself, in english and with a pen, podley would have thought him infidel. the millionaire was quite out of date. the modern expansions of thought among the non-conformists puzzled him when he was (rarely) brought into any contact with them. his grim, uncultured beliefs were such as exist only in the remote granite meeting houses of the cornish moors to-day. "i see that bunyan wrote another book, the 'holy war,'" said mr. podley to his wife. "i never heard of it and i'm a bit doubtful. i don't like the name, shall i enter it up or not?" the good lady shook her head. "not knowing, can't say," she remarked. "but if it is the same man who wrote 'pilgrim's progress' then it's sure to be pure." "it's the 'holy' that puzzles me," he answered, "that's a papist word--'holy church' 'holy mary' and that." "then i should leave it out. but i tell you what, my dear, choosing these books'll take up a lot of your valuable time, especially if each one's got to be chose separate. you might have to read a lot of them yourself, there's no knowing! and why should you?" "why, indeed?" said mr. podley. "but i don't see how----" "well, i do then, john. it's as simple as a. b. c. you want to establish a library in which there shan't be any wicked books." "that is so?" "yes, my dear. pure, absolutely pure!" "well, then, have them bought for you by an expert--like you do the metal for the pins. you don't buy metal yourself any more. you pay high wages to your buyers to do it. treat the books the same!" "there's a good deal in that, dear. but i want to take a _personal_ interest in the thing." "now don't you worry, john. 'tis right that we should all be conscientious in what we do, but them as has risen to the head of great businesses haven't any further call to trouble about minor details. i've heard you say it many a time. and so with this library. you're putting down the money for it. you've bought the land and the building is being erected. you've got to pay, and if that isn't taking a personal interest then i'm sure i don't know what is!" "you advise me?--" "to go to the best book shop in london--there's that place opposite the royal academy that is the king's booksellers. see one of the partners. explain that you want the library furnished with pure books, state the number you want, and get an estimate of the cost. it's their business to know what books are pure and what aren't--and, besides, at a shop like that, they wouldn't sell any wicked books. it would be beneath them." podley had taken his wife's advice. he had "placed an order" for an initial ten thousand pure volumes with the firm in question, and the thing was done. the shop in piccadilly was a very famous shop indeed. it had all the _cachet_ of a library of distinction. its director was a man of letters and an anthologist of repute. the men who actually sold the books were gentlemen of knowledge and taste, invaluable to many celebrated authors, mines of information, and all of them trained bibliophiles. "now look here, lewis," the director said, to one of his assistants, an oxford man who translated flaubert and wrote introductions to english editions of gautier in his spare time, "you've got to fill a library with books." mr. lewis smiled. "funny thing they should come to us," he said; "i should have thought they would have bought them by the yard, in the strand. what is it, american millionaire? question of bindings and wall-space?" "no, not quite," said the director. "it's mr. podley, the pin millionaire and philanthropist. he's founding a public library of 'pure literature' in kensington. the only books he has ever read, apparently, are the books of the old testament. he was with me for an hour this morning. take a week and make a list. he wants ten thousand volumes for a start." the eyes of mr. lewis gleamed. "certainly!" he said. "it will be quite delightful. it seems almost too good to be true. but will the list be scrutinised before the books are actually bought? won't this podley man take another opinion?" the director shook his head. "he doesn't know any one who could give him one," he answered. "it would only mean engaging another expert, and he's quite satisfied with our credentials. 'pure books'! good lord! i wonder what he thinks he means. i should like to get inside that man's head and poke about for an hour. it would be interesting." mr. lewis provided for the kensington institute exactly the library he would have acquired for himself, if he could have afforded it. the result, for all real lovers of books, would have been delightful if any of them had known of it but the name frightened them away, and they never went there. members of the general public were also deterred by the name of the institute--though for quite different reasons--and folk of mr. podley's own mental attitude were too illiterate (like him), to want books--"pure" or otherwise--at all. podley, again after consultation with his wife, appointed a clerk from the birmingham pin works as chief librarian. "it won't matter," that shrewd woman had pointed out, "if he knows anything about literature or not! his duties will be to supervise the lending of the books, and a soft job he'll have too!" a mr. hands had been elected, a limpet-like adherent to podley's particular shibboleth, and a person as anæmic in mind and body as could have been met with in a month of search. an old naval pensioner and his wife were appointed care-takers, and a lady-typist and sub-librarian was advertised for, at thirty-five shillings a week. rita wallace had obtained the post. hardly any one ever came to the library. in the surge and swell of london life it became as remote as an island in the hebrides. podley had endowed it--it was the public excuse for the knighthood he purchased in a year from the liberal party--and there it was! rita wallace had early taken entire charge and command of her nominal superior--the whiskered and despondent mr. hands. the girl frightened and dazzled him. as he might have done at the foot of etna or stromboli, he admired, kept at a distance, and accepted the fact that she was there. the girl was absolute mistress of the solitary building full of beautiful books. sometimes hands, whose wife was dying of cancer, and who had no stated times of attendance, stayed away for several days. snell and his wife--the care-takers--adored her, and she lunched every day with them in the basement. mrs. snell often spoke to her husband about "miss rita." "if that there hands could be got rid of," she would say, "then it would be ever so much better. poor silly thing that he is, with his face like the underside of a dover sole! and two hundred a year for doing nothing more than what miss rita tells him! he calls her 'miss'--as i'm sure he should, her being a commander's daughter and him just a dirty birmingham clerk! miss rita ought to have his two hundred a year, and him her thirty-five shillings a week. thirty-five shillings! what is it for an officer's daughter, that was born at malta too! i'd like to give that old podley a piece of my mind, i would!" "in the first place he never comes here. in the second place he's not a gentleman himself, so that don't mean nothing to him," snell would say on such occasion of talk. he had been at the bombardment of alexandria and could not quite forget it. . . . "now if it was lord charles what had started this--'--magneta--' library, then _'e_ could 'a' been spoke to--podley!" it was four o'clock on the afternoon of the day after the amberleys' dinner-party. hands was away, staying beside his sick wife, and rita wallace proposed to close the library. she had just got rid of the curate from a neighbouring church, who had discovered the deserted place--and her. snubbed with skill the boy had departed, and as no one else would come--or if they did what would it matter?--rita was about to press the button of the electric bell upon her table and summon snell. the afternoon sunlight poured in upon the books from the window in the dome. the place was cool and absolutely silent, save for the note a straying drone-bee made as his diapason swept this way and that. even here, as the sunlight fell upon the dusty gold and crimson of the books, summer was calling. the bee came close to rita and settled for a moment upon the sulphur-coloured rose that stood in a specimen-glass upon her writing-table. he was a big fellow, and like an alderman in a robe of black fur, bearing a gold chain. "oh, you darling!" rita said, thinking of summer and the outside world. she would go to kensington palace gardens where there were trees, green grass and flowers. "oh, you darling! you're a little jewel with a voice, a bit of the real country! i believe you've actually been droning over the hop-fields of kent!" she looked up suddenly, her eyes startled, the perfect mouth parted in vexation. some one was coming, she might be kept any length of time--for the rare visitors to the podley library were generally bores. . . . that silly curate might have returned! the outer swing doors thudded in the hall, there was the click of a latch as the inner door was pushed open and gilbert lothian entered. the girl recognised him at once, as he made his way under the dome towards her, and her eyes grew wide with wonder. lothian was wearing a suit of grey flannel, his hair as he took off his straw hat was a little tumbled, his face fresh and clear. "how do you do," he said, with the half-shy deference that came into his voice when he spoke to women. "it was such a lovely afternoon that i thought i might venture to bring back your copy of 'surgit amari' myself." rita wallace flashed her quick, humorous smile at him--the connection between the weather and his wish was not too obvious. but her smile had pleasure of another kind in it also--he had wanted to see her again. lothian laughed boyishly. "i wanted to see you again," he said, in the very words of her thought. the girl was flattered and delighted. there was not the slightest hint of self-consciousness in her manner, and the flush that came into her cheeks was one of pure friendliness. "it is very kind of you to take so much trouble," she said in a voice as sweet as singing. "i was so disappointed when you had to go away so early from the amberleys' last night." she did not say the conventional thing about how much his poems had meant to her. girls that he met--and they were not many--nearly always did, and he always disliked it. such things meant nothing when they came as part of ordinary greetings. they jarred upon the poet's sensitive taste and he was pleased and interested to find that this girl said nothing of the sort. "well, here's the book," he said, putting it down upon rita's table. "and i've written in it as you asked. do you collect autographs then?" she shook her head. "oh, dear me no," she answered. "i think it's silly to collect anything that isn't beautiful. but, in a book one values, and with which one has been happy, the author's autograph seems to add to the book's personality. but i hate crazes. there are lots of girls that wait outside stage doors to make popular actors write in their books. did you know that, mr. lothian?" "no, i didn't! little donkeys! hard lines on the actors. even i get a few albums now and then, and it's a fearful nuisance. i put off writing in them and they lie about my study until they get quite a battered and dissipated look." "and then?" "oh, i write in them. it would be impolite not to, you know. i have an invaluable formula. i write, 'dear madam, i am very sorry to say that i cannot accede to your kind request for an autograph. the practice is one with which i am not in sympathy. yours very truly, gilbert lothian!'" "that's splendid, mr. lothian, better than sending a telegram, as some one did the other day to an importunate girl. they were talking about it last night at the amberleys' after you left. i suppose that's really what gave me courage to send 'surgit amari' by mr. dickson ingworth. mr. and mrs. toftrees said that they always write passages from their novels when they are asked." "perhaps that's a good plan," lothian answered, listening to the "viols in her voice" and not much interested in the minor advertising arts of the toftrees. what rare maiden was this with whom he was chatting? what had made him come to see her after all?--a mere whim doubtless--but was he not about to reap a very delightful harvest? for he was conscious of immense pleasure as he stood there talking to her, and there was excitement mingled with the pleasure. it was as though he was advancing upon a landscape, and at every step something fresh and interesting came into view. "i _did_ so dislike mr. toftrees and his wife," rita said with a mischievous little gleam in her eyes. "did you?" he asked in surprise. "they seemed very pleasant people i thought." "i expect that was because you thought nothing whatever about them, mr. lothian," she replied. he realised the absolute truth of the remark in a flash. the novelists had in no way interested him. he had not thought about these people at all--this maiden was a psychologist then! there was something subtly flattering in what she had said. his point of view had interested the girl, she had discovered it, small and unimportant though it was. "but why did you dislike poor mr. toftrees?" he said, with an eminently friendly smile--already an unconscious note of intimacy had been sounded, he was interested to hear why she disliked the man, not the woman. "he is pompous and insincere," she replied. "he tries to draw attention to his great success, or rather his notoriety, by pretending to despise it. surely, it would be far more manly to accept the fact frankly, and not to hint that he could be a great artist if he could bring himself to do without a lot of money!" lothian wondered what had provoked this little outburst. it was quiveringly sincere, that he saw. his eyes questioned hers. "it's such dreadful appalling treacle they write! i saw a little flapper in the tube two days ago, with the toftrees' latest book--'milly mine.' her expression was ecstatic!" "for my part i think that's something to have done, do you know, to have taken that flapper out of the daily tube of her life into romance. heaven with electric lights and plush fittings is better than none at all. i couldn't grudge the flapper her ecstasy, nor mr. toftrees his big cheques. i should very much like to see the people in tubes reading my books--it would be good for them--and to pouch enormous cheques myself--would be good for me! but there must be toftrees sort of persons now that every one knows how to read!" "well, i'll let his work alone," she answered, "but i certainly do dislike him. he was trying to run your work down last night--though we wouldn't let him." so the secret was out now! lothian smiled and the quick, enthusiastic girl understood. a little ripple of laughter came from her. "yes, that's it," she cried. "he did all he could." "did he? confound him! i wonder why?" lothian asked the question with entire simplicity. subtle-minded and complex as he was, he was incapable of mean thoughts and muddy envy when he was not under the influence of drink. poisoned, alas, he was entirely different. all the evil in him rose to the surface. as yet it by no means obscured or overpowered the good, but it became manifest and active. in the case of this fine intellect and splendid artist, no less than in the worker in the slum or the labourer in the field, drink seemed an actual key to unlock the dark and secret doors of wickedness which are in every heart. some coiled and sleeping serpent within him, no less than in them, raised its head into baleful life and sudden enmity of good. a few nights ago, half intoxicated in a club--intoxicated in mind that is, for he was holding forth with a caustic bitterness and sharp brilliancy that had drawn a crowd around him--he had abused the work of herbert toftrees and his wife with contemptuous and venomous words. he was quite unconscious that he had ever done so. he knew nothing about the couple and had never read a line of their works. the subject had just cropped up somehow, like a bird from a stubble, and he had let fly. it was pure coincidence that he had met the novelists at the amberleys' and lothian had entirely forgotten that he had ever mentioned their work at the club. but the husband and wife had heard of it the next day, as people concerned always do hear these things, and neither of them were likely to forget that their books had been called "as flat as champagne in decanters," their heroines "stuffy" and that compared to even "--" and "--" they had been stigmatised as being as pawn-brokers are to bankers. lothian had made two bitter enemies and he had not the slightest suspicion of it. "i wonder why?" he said again. "i don't know the man. i've never done him any harm that i know of. but of course he has a right to his own opinions, and no doubt he really thinks----" "he knows nothing whatever about it," rita answered. "if a man like that reads poetry at all he has to do it in a prose translation! but i can tell you why--addison puts it far better than i can. i found the passage the other day. i'll show you." she was all innocent eagerness and fire, astonishingly sweet and enthusiastic as she hurried to a bookshelf and came back with a volume. following her slim finger, he read:-- "there are many passions and tempers of mankind, which naturally dispose us to depress and vilify the merit of one rising in the esteem of mankind. all those who made their entrance into the world with the same advantages, and were once looked on as his equals, are apt to think the fame of his merits a reflection on their own deserts. those, who were once his equals, envy and defame him, because they now see him their superior; and those who were once his superiors, because they look upon him as their equal." the girl was gazing at him in breathless attention, wondering whether she had done the right thing, hoping, indeed, that lothian would be pleased. he was both pleased and touched by this lovely eager little champion, so unexpectedly raised up to defend him. "thank you very much," he said. "how kind of you! my bruised vanity is now at rest. i am healed of my grievous wound! but this seems quite a good library. are you here all alone, does nobody ever come here? i always heard that the podley library was where the bad books went when they died. tell me all about it." his hand had mechanically slipped into his waistcoat and half withdrawn his cigarette case. he could never be long without smoking and he wanted a cigarette now more than ever. during a whole hour he had not had a drink. a slight suspicion of headache floated at the back of his head, he was conscious of something heavy at his right side. "do smoke," she said. "no one minds--there never is any one to mind, and i smoke here myself. mr. hands, the head librarian, didn't like it at first but he does what i tell him now. i'm the assistant librarian." she announced her status with genuine pride and pleasure, being obviously certain that she occupied a far from unimportant position in public affairs. lothian was touched at her simplicity. what a child she was really, with all her cleverness and quickness. he smoked and made her smoke also--"delicious!" she exclaimed with pretty greediness. "how perfectly sweet to be a man and able to afford ben ezra's number ." "how perfectly sweet!"--it was a favourite expression of rita's. he soon got to know it very well. he soon got to know all about the library and about her also, as she showed him round. she was twenty-one, only twenty-one. her father, a captain in the navy, had left her just sufficient money for her education, which had been at a first-class school. then she had had to be dependent entirely upon her own exertions. she seemed to have no relations and not many friends of importance, and she lived in a tiny three-roomed flat with another girl who was a typist in the city. she chattered away to him just as if he were a girl friend as they moved among the books, and it was nearly an hour before they left the library together. "and now what are you going to do?" "i must go home, mr. lothian," she said with a little sigh. "it has been so kind of you to come and see me. i was going to sit in kensington palace gardens for a little while, but i think i shall go back to the flat now. how hot it is! oh, for the sea, now, just think of it!" there was a flat sound in her voice. it lost its animation and timbre. he knew she was sorry to say good-bye to him, rather forlorn now that the stimulus and excitement of their talk was over. she was lonely, of course. her pleasures could be but few and far between, and at twenty-one, when the currents of the blood run fast and free, even books cannot provide everything. thirty-five shillings a week! he had been poor himself in his early journalistic days. it was harder for a girl. he thought of her sitting in kensington gardens--the pathetic and solitary pleasure the child had mapped out for herself! he could see the little three-roomed flat in imagination, with its girlish decorations and lack of any real comfort, and some appalling meal presently to be eaten, bread and jam, a lettuce! the idea came into his mind in a flash, but he hesitated before speaking. wouldn't she be angry if he asked her? he'd only met her twice, she was a lady. then he decided to risk it. "i wonder," he said slowly. "what are you wondering, mr. lothian?" --"if you realise how easy it is to be by the sea. i know it's cheek to ask you--or at least i suppose it is, but let's go!" "how do you mean, mr. lothian?" "let's motor down to brighton now, at once. let's dine at the metropole, and go and sit on the pier afterwards, and then rush home under the stars whenever we feel inclined. will you!" "how splendid!" she cried, "now! at once? get out of everything?" "yes, now. i am to be the fairy godmother. you have only to say the magic word, and i will wave my wand. the blue heat mists of evening will be over the ripe sussex cornfields, and we shall see the poppies drinking in the blood of the sinking sun with their burnt red mouths. and then, when we have dined, the moon will wash the sea with silver, the stars will come out like golden rain and the queen moon will be upon her throne! we shall see the long, lit front of brighton like a horned crescent of topaz against the black velvet of the downs. and while we watch it under the moon, the breeze shall bring us faint echoes of the fairy flutes from prospero's enchanted island--'but doth suffer a sea-change into something rich and strange--' and then the sea will take up the burthen 'ding-dong, ding-dong bell.' now say the magic word!" "there is magic in the magician's voice already, and i needs must answer. yes! and oh, yes, yes a thousand times!" "the commandments of convention mean nothing to you?" "they are the upper ten commandments, not mine." "then i will go and command my dragon. i know where you live. be ready in an hour!" "how perfectly, _perfectly_ sweet! and may we, oh, may we have a lobster mayonnaise for dinner?" chapter v "for the first time, he was going to have a girl friend" "across the hills, and far away beyond their utmost purple rim, and deep into the dying day the happy princess followed him." --_tennyson._ lothian went back to his club in a taxi-cab, telling the man to drive at top speed. on the way he ordered a motor-car to go to brighton and to call for him within twenty minutes. he was in a state of great exhilaration. he had not had such an adventure as this for years--if ever before. a girl so lovely, so clever, so young--and particularly of his own social rank--he had never met, save for a short space of time and under the usual social conditions which forbade any real intimacy. even in the days before his marriage, flirtations, or indeed any companionship, with girls who were not of his class had not attracted him. he had never, unlike other men no less brilliant and gifted than himself, much cared for even the innocent side of bohemian camaraderie with girls. and to have a girl friend--and such a girl as rita wallace--was a delightful prospect. he saw himself responding to all sorts of simple feminine confidences, exploring reverently the unknown country of the maiden mind, helping, protecting; unfolding new beauties for the young girl's delight. yes! he would have a girl friend! the thing should be ideal, pure and without a thought of harm. she understood him, she trusted herself to him at once and she should be repaid richly from the stores of his mind. none knew better than he what jewels he had to give to one who could recognise jewels when she saw them. he changed his hat for a cap and had a coat brought down from his bedroom. should he write a note to mary at home? he had not sent her more than two telegrams of the "all going splendidly, too busy to write," kind, during the five days he had been in london. he decided that he would write a long letter to-morrow morning. not to-night. to-night was to be one of pure, fresh pleasure. every prospect pleased. nothing whatever would jar. he was not in the mood to write home now--to compose details of his time in town, to edit and alter the true record for the inspection of loving eyes. "my darling!" he said to himself as he drank the second whiskey and soda which had been brought to him since he had come in, but there was an uncomfortable feeling in the back of his mind that the words did not ring true. more than ever exhilarated, as excited as a boy, he jumped into the motor-car when it arrived, and glided swiftly westwards, congratulating himself a dozen times on the idle impulse which had sent him to kensington. he began to wonder how it had come. the impulse to bring the book himself had been with him all day. it had taken him till lunch time at least to put himself in any way right--to _appear_ right even. with a sick and bitter mind he had gone through the complex physical ritual necessary after the night before--the champagne at eight, the turkish bath, the hair-dresser's in regent street where fast men slunk with hot and shaking hands to have the marks of their vices ironed out of their faces with vibrating hammers worked by electricity. all through the morning, the bitter, naked, grinning truth about himself had been horribly present--no new visitor, but the same leering ghost he knew so well. escape was impossible until the bestial sequence of his morning cure had run its course. coming down the bedroom stairs into the club there was the disgusting and anxious consciousness that his movements were automatic and jerky, the real fear of meeting any one--the longing to bolt upstairs again and hide. then a tremendous effort of will had forced him to go on. facial control was--as ever--the most difficult thing. when he passed the waiters in the smoking room he must screw his face into the appearance of absorbed thought, freeze the twitching mouth and the flickering eyes into immobility. he had hummed a little tune as he had sat down at a table and ordered a brandy and soda, starting as if from a reverie when it was brought him, and making a remark about the weather in a voice of effusive geniality which embarrassed the well-trained servant. by lunch time the convulsive glances in the mirror, the nervous straying of the hand to the hair, the see-saw of the voice had all gone. black depression, fear, self-pity, had vanished. the events of the night before became like a landscape seen through the wrong end of a telescope, far away, and as if they concerned some one quite other than himself. he had not exactly forgotten the shame of his behaviour at the amberleys' house. but, as he always did after events of this sort, and they were becoming far more general than he realised, he had pushed the thought away in some attic of the brain and closed the door. he would have these memories out some day--soon. it would not be pleasant, but it must of course be done. then he would put everything right with himself, destroy all these corpses, and emerge into the free sunlight for ever more. but not to-day. he must put himself _quite_ right to-day. when he _was_ right then he wouldn't have another drink all day. yes! then by to-morrow, after a quiet, pensive night, he would throw off all his habits as if he were throwing an old pair of gloves over a wall. he knew well what he could do! he knew himself better than any one else knew him. but not to-day. "inshallah bukra!"--"please god, to-morrow!" it had all seemed perfectly natural, though it happened over and over again, and to-morrow never came. he did not know that this was but one more definite symptom of his poisoned state, as definite as the shaking hand, the maudlin midnight invocations of god, the frequent physical nausea of the morning, even. and if the man is to be understood and his history to become real in all its phases, then these things must be set down truly and without a veil. it was a joy to watch her pleasure as they swung out of london in the twenty-horse power ford he had hired. she did not say much but leant back on the luxurious cushions by his side. there was a dream of happiness upon her face, and lothian also felt that he was living in a dream, that it was all part of the painted scenes of sleep. the early evening was still and quiet. the western sky, a faint copper-green with friths and locks of purple, was as yet unfired. in the long lights the landscape still retained its colour unaltered by the dying splendours of sunset. the engines of the car were running sweetly in a monotonous and drowsy hum, the driver sat motionless in front as they droned through the quiet villages and up and down the long white ribands of the road. it was an hour of unutterable content. once they stopped in a village and drew up before the inn. it was a lovely place. a bell was tolling for evensong in the grey church and they saw the vicar pass under the lych-gate with slow footsteps. one of the long, painted windows was caught by the sun and gleamed like a red diamond. the road fell to a pond where green water-flags were growing and waxen-white water-lilies floated. beyond it was a willow wood. the driver sat on a bench before the inn and drank his beer, but gilbert and rita passed through it into a garden that there was. the flowers were just beginning to cense the still air and the faint sound of a water-wheel down the river came to them--_tic, tac, lorelei!_ she would have milk, "milk that one cannot get in london," and even he asked for no poison in this tranquil garden. clematis hung the gables like tapestry of tyrian purple. there were beds of red crocketed hollyhock and a hedge of honeysuckle with a hundred yellow trumpet mouths. at their feet were the flowers of belamour. "men have died, trying to find this place which we have found," he said. a red-admiral floated by upon its fans of vermilion and black as gilbert quoted, and a faint echo from the water-mill answered him. _tic--tac--lorelei!_ "magician! half an hour ago we were in london!" "you are happy?" "i can't find anything to say--yet. it is perfect." she leant back with a deep sigh and closed her eyes, and he was well content to say nothing, for in all the garden she seemed to him the most perfect thing, rosa-amorosa, the queen of all the roses! it was as a flower he looked at her, no more. it was all a dream, of course. it had come in dream-fashion, it would go in the fashion of a dream. at that moment she was not a warm human girl with a lovely face. she was not the clever, lonely, subtle-simple maiden in the house of books. she was a flower he had met. his mind began to weave words, the shuttle to glide in the loom of the poet, but words came to him that were not his own. "come hither, child! and rest; this is the end of day, behold the weary west! "now are the flowers confest of slumber; sleep as they! come hither, child! and rest." and then he sighed, for he thought of the other poet who had written those lines and of what had brought him to his dreadful death. why did thoughts like these come into the flower garden? how true--even here--were the words he had put upon the title-page of the book which had made him famous-- "_say, brother, have you not full oft found, even as the roman did, that in life's most delicious cup surgit amari aliquid!_" the girl heard him sigh and turned quickly. she saw that her friend's face was overcast. it was so much to her, this moment, she was so happy since she had stepped from the hot streets of the city into fairyland with the magician, that there must be no single shadow. "come!" she said gaily, "this is perfect but there are other perfect things waiting. wave your wand again, prospero, and change the magic scene." lothian jumped up from his seat. "yes! on into the sunset. you are right. we must go before we are satisfied. that's the whole art of living--miranda!" her eyes twinkled with mischief. "how old you have grown all of a sudden," she said, but as they passed through the inn once more he thought with wonder that if six years were added to his age he might have been her father in very fact. many a man of forty-one or two had girls as old as she. he sent her to the motor, on pretence of stopping to pay for the milk, but in the little bar-parlour he hurriedly ordered whiskey--"a large one, yes, only half the soda." the landlord poured it out with great speed, understanding immediately. he must have been used to this furtive taking in of the fuel, here was another accustomed acolyte of alcohol. "next stop brighton, sir," he said with a genial wink. lothian's melancholy passed away like a stone falling through water as the car started once more. he said something wildly foolish and discovered, with a throb of amazement and recognition, that she could play! he had never met a girl before who could play, as he liked to play. there was a strain of impish, freakish humour in lothian which few people understood, which few _sensible_ people ever can understand. it is hardly to be defined, it seems incredibly childish and mad to the majority of folk, but it sweetens life to those who have it. and such people are very rare, so that when one meets another there is a surprised and delighted welcome, a freemason's greeting, a shout of joy in laughter land! "good heavens!" he said, "and you can play then!" there was no need to mention the name of the game--it has none indeed--but rita understood. her sweet face wrinkled into impish mischief and she nodded. "didn't you know?" "how could i possibly?" "no, you couldn't of course, but i never thought it of _you_." "nor i of you," he answered. "i'll test you. 'the cow is in the garden.'" "'the cat is in the lake,'" she answered instantly. "'the pig is in the hammock?'" "'what difference _does_ it make?'" she shouted triumphantly. for the rest of the drive to brighton their laughter never stopped. nothing draws a man and a woman together as laughter does--when it is intimate to themselves, a mutual language not to be understood of others. they became extraordinary friends, as if they had known each other from childhood, and the sunset fires in all their glory passed unheeded. although he could hear nothing of what they said, there was a sympathetic grin upon the chauffeur's face at the ringing mirth behind him. "it's your turn to suppose now, mr. lothian." "well--wait a minute--oh, let's suppose that mr. podley once wrote a moral poem--you to play!" rita thought for a minute or two, her lips rippling with merriment, her young eyes shining. a little chuckle escaped her, her shoulders began to shake and then she shrieked with joy. "i've got it, splendid! listen! it's to inculcate kindness to animals. "i am only a whelk, sir, though if you but knew, although i'm a whelk, sir, the lord made me too!" "magnificent!--your turn." "well, what will the title of the toftrees' next novel be?" "'cats' meat!'--i say, do you know that i have invented the one _quite_ perfect opening for a short story. you'll realise when you hear it that it stands alone. it's perfect, like giotto's campanile or 'the hound of heaven.'" "tell me quickly!" "mr. florimond awoke from a deep sleep. there was nobody there but the dog trust." "you are wonderful. i see it, of course. it's style itself! and how would you end the story? have you studied the end yet?" "yes. i worked at it all the time i was in italy last year. you shall hear that too. mr. florimond sank into a deep sleep. there was nobody there but the dog trust." . . . he told her of his younger days in london when he shared a flat with a brother journalist named passhe. "we lived the most delightful freakish lives you can imagine," he said. "when we came into breakfast from our respective bedrooms we had a ritual which never varied. we neither looked at each other nor spoke, but sat down opposite at the table. we each had our newspaper put in our place by the man who looked after us. we opened the papers and pretended to read for a moment. then basil looked over the top of his at me, very gravely. 'we live in stirring times, mr. lothian!' he would say, and i used to answer, 'indeed, mr. passhe, we do!' then we became as usual." "how perfectly sweet! i must do that with ethel--that's the girl i live with, you know--only we don't have the papers. it runs up so!" she concluded, with a wise little air that sent a momentary throb of pain through a man who had never understood (even in his poorest days) what money meant; and probably never would understand. poor, dear little girl! why couldn't he give her-- "we're here, mr. lothian! look at the lights! brighton at last!" rita had been whisked away by a chambermaid and he was waiting for her in the great hall of the metropole. he had washed, reserved a table, and swallowed a gin and bitters. he felt rather tired physically, and a little depressed also. his limbs had suddenly felt cramped as he left the motor car, the wild exhilaration of their fun had made him tired and nervous now. his bad state of health asserted itself unpleasantly, his forehead was clammy and the palms of his hands wet. no champagne for him! rita should have champagne if she liked, but whiskey, whiskey! that was the only thing. "i can soon pull myself together," he thought. "she won't know. i'll tell the fellow to bring it in a decanter." presently she came to him among the people who moved or sat about under the lights of the big, luxurious vestibule. she was a little shy and nervous, slightly flushed and anxious, for she had never been in such a splendid public place before. he gathered that from her whispered remarks, as with a curious and pleasant air of proprietorship he took her to the dining rooms. there was a bunch of amber-coloured roses upon her plate as she sat down at their table, which he had sent there a few minutes before. she pressed them to her face with a shy look of pleasure as he conferred with the head waiter, who himself came hurrying up to them. lothian was not known at the hotel, but it was always the same wherever he went. his wife often chaffed him about it. she said that he had a "tipping face." whether that was so or not, the result was the same, he received immediate and marked attention. rita noticed it with pride. he had been, from the first moment he entered the library in his simple flannel suit, just a charming and deferential companion. there had been no preliminaries. the thing had just happened, that was all. in all her life she had never met any one so delightful, and in her excitement and pleasure she had quite forgotten that he was gilbert lothian. but it came back to her very vividly now. how calmly he ordered the dinner and conferred with the wine-man, who had a great silver chain hanging on his shirt front! what an accustomed man-of-the-world air there was about him, how they all ran to serve him. she blushed mentally as she thought of her simple confidences and girlish chatter--and yet he hadn't seemed to mind. she looked round her. "it is difficult to realise," she said, as much to herself as to her host, "that there are people who dine in places like this every day." lothian looked round him. "yes," he said a trifle bitterly, as his eye fell upon a party of jews who had motored down from london,--"people who rule over three-quarters of the world--and an entire eclipse of the intellect! you can see it here, unimportant as it is, compared to the great places in london and paris--'the feasting and the folly and the fun, the lying and the lusting and the drink'!" rita looked at him wonderingly, following the direction of his eyes. "those people seem happy," she said, not understanding his sudden mood, "they are all laughing and they all seem amused." "yes, but people don't always laugh because they are amused. slow-witted, obese brained people--like those israelites there--laugh very often on the chance that there is something funny which eludes them. they don't want to betray themselves. when i see people like that i feel as if my mind ought to be sprinkled with some disinfecting fluid." as a matter of fact, the party at the other table with their handsome oriental faces and alert, vivacious manner did not seem in the least slow-witted, nor were they. one of them was a peer and great newspaper proprietor, another a musician of world celebrity. lothian's cynicism jarred on the pleasure of the moment. for the first time the girl did not feel quite _en rapport_, and was a little uneasy. he struck too harsh a note. but at that moment waiters bustled up with soup, champagne in an ice pail, and a decanter of some bright amber liquid for lothian. he poured and drank quickly, with an involuntary sigh of satisfaction. "how i wanted that!" he said with a frank smile. "i was talking nonsense, miranda, but i was tired. and i'm afraid that when i get tired i'm cross. i've been working very hard lately and am a little run down," he added, anxious that she should not think that their talk had tired him, and feeling the necessity of some explanation. it satisfied her immediately. his change of voice and face reassured her, the little shadow passed. "oh, i _am_ enjoying myself!" she said with a sigh of pleasure, "but what's this? how strange! the soup is _cold_!" "yes, didn't you know? it's iced consommé, awfully good in hot weather." she shook her head. "no, i didn't," she said. "i've never been anywhere or seen anything, you know. when ethel and i feel frightfully rich, we have dinner at lyons, but i've never been to a swagger restaurant before." "and you like it?" "it's heavenly! how good this soup is. but what a waste it seems to put all that ice round the champagne. ice is so dreadfully expensive. you get hardly any for fourpence at our fishmongers." but it was the mayonnaise with its elaborate decoration that intrigued her most. words failed at the luscious sight and it was a sheer joy to watch her. "oh, what a pig i am!" she said, after her second helping, with her flashing, radiant smile, "but it was too perfectly sweet for anything." the champagne and excitement had tinted her cheeks exquisitely, it was as though a few drops of red wine had been poured into a glass of clear crystal water. with little appetite himself, lothian watched her eat with intense pleasure in her youth and health. his depression had gone, he seemed to draw vitality from her, to be informed with something of her own pulsing youth. he became quite at his best, and how good that was, not very many people knew. it was his hour, his moment, every sense was flattered and satisfied. he was dining with the prettiest girl in the room, people turned to look at her. she hung on his words and was instantly appreciative. a full flask of poison was by his side, he could help himself without let or hindrance. her innocence of what he was doing--of what it was necessary for him to do to remain at concert-pitch--was supreme. no one else knew or would have cared twopence if they did. he was witty, in a high courtly way. the hour of freakish fun was over, and his shrewd insight into life, his poetic and illuminating method of statement, the grace and kindliness of it all held the girl spellbound. and well it might. his nerves, cleared and tempered, telegraphed each message to his brilliant, lambent brain with absolute precision. there was an entire co-ordination of all the reflexes. and rita knew well that she was hearing what many people would have given much to hear, knew that lothian was exerting himself to a manifestation of the highest power of his brain--for her. for her! it was an incredible triumph, wonderfully sweet. the dominant sex-instinct awoke. unconsciously she was now responding to him as woman to man. her eyes, her lips showed it, everything was quite different from what it had been before. in all that happened afterwards, neither of them ever forgot that night. for the girl it was illumination. . . . she had mentioned a writer of beautiful prose whom she had recently discovered in the library and who had come as a revelation to her. "nothing else i have ever read produces the same impression," she said. "there are very few writers in prose that can." "it is magic." "but to be understood. you see, some of his chapters--the passages on leonardo da vinci for instance, are intended to be musical compositions as it were, in which words have to take the place and perform the functions of notes. it has been pointed out that they are impassioned, not so much in the sense of expressing any very definite sentiment, but because, from the combination and structure of the sentences, they harmonise with certain phases of emotion." she understood. the whole mechanism and intention of the writer were revealed to her in those lucent words. and then a statement of his philosophy. "in telling me of your reading just now, you spoke of that progress of the soul that each new horizon in literature seems to stimulate and ensure for you. and you quoted some hackneyed and beautiful lines of longfellow. cling always to that idea of progress, but remember that we don't really rise to higher things upon the stepping stones of our dead selves so much as on the stepping stones of our dead opinions. that is progress. _progress means the capability of seeing new forms of beauty._" "but there are places where one wants to linger." "i know, but it's dangerous. you were splendidly right when you bade me move from that garden just now. the road was waiting. it is so with states of the soul. the limpet is the lowest of organisms. movement is everything. one life may seem to be like sunlight moving over sombre ground and another like the shadow of a cloud traversing a sunlit space. but both have meaning and value. never strike an average and imagine you have found content. the average life is nothing but a pudding in a fog!" lothian had been talking very earnestly, his eyes full of light, fixed on her eyes. and now, in a moment, he saw what had been there for many minutes, he saw what he had roused. he was startled. during this delightful evening that side of their intercourse had not been very present in his mind. she was a delightful flower, a flower with a mind. it is summed up very simply. _he had never once wanted to touch her._ his face changed and grew troubled. a new presence was there, a problem rose where there had been none before. the realisation of her physical loveliness and desirability came to him in a flood of new sensation. the strong male impulse was alive and burning for the first time that night. a waiter had brought a silver dish of big peaches, and as she ate the fruit there was that in her eyes which he recognised, though he knew her mind was unconscious of it. in the sudden stir and tumult of his thoughts, one became dominant. it was an evil thought, perhaps the most subtle and the most evil that can come to a man. the pride of intellect in its most gross and devilish manifestation awoke. he was not a vain man. he did not usually think much about his personal appearance and charm. but he knew how changed in outward aspect he was becoming. his glass told him that every morning at shaving time. his vice was marking him. he was not what he was, not what he should and might be, in a physical regard. and girls, he knew, were generally attracted by physical good-looks in a man. young dickson ingworth, for instance, seemed able to pick and choose. lothian had often laughed at the boyish and conceited narratives of his prowess. and now, to the older man came the realisation that his age, his growing corpulence, need mean nothing at all--if he willed it so. a girl like this, a pearl among maidens, could be dominated by his intellect. he knew that he was not mistaken. over a fool, however lovely and attractive by reason of her sex, he would have no power. but here . . . an allurement more dazzling than he had thought life held was suddenly shown him. there was an honest horror, a shudder and recoil of all the good in him from this monstrous revelation, so sudden, so unexpected. he shuddered and then found an instant compromise. it could not concern _himself_, it never should. but it might be regarded--just for a few brief moments!--from a detached point of view, as if it had to do with some one else, some creation of a fiction or a poem. and even that was unutterably sweet. it should be so, only for this night. there would be no harm done. and it was for the sake of his art, the psychological experience to be gathered. . . . there is no time in thought. the second hand of his watch had hardly moved when he leant towards her a little and spoke. "cupid!" he said. "i think i know why they used to call you cupid at your school!" just as she had been a dear, clever and deferential school-girl in the library, a girl-poet in the garden, a freakish companion-wit after that, so now she became a woman. he had fallen. she knew and tasted consciousness of power. another side of the girl's complex personality appeared. she led him on and tried to draw back. she became provocative at moments when he did not respond at once. she flirted with a finished art. as he lit a cigarette for her, she tested the "power of the hour" to its limit, showing without possibility of mistake how aware she was. "what would mrs. lothian think of your bringing me here to dinner?" she said very suddenly. for a moment he did not know what to answer, the attack was so direct, the little feline thrust revealing so surely where he stood. "she would be delighted that i was having such a jolly evening," he answered, but neither his smile nor his voice was quite true. she smiled at him in girlish mockery, rejoicing! "you little devil!" he thought with an embarrassed mental grin. "how dare you." she should pay for that. "would you mind if my wife did care," he asked, looking her straight in the eyes. "i ought to, but--i shouldn't!" she answered recklessly, and all his blood became fired. yet at that, he leant back in his chair and laughed a frank laugh of amusement. the tension was over, the dangerous moment passed, and soon afterwards they wandered out into the night, to go upon the pier "just for half an hour" before starting for london. and neither of them saw that upon one of the lounges in the great hall, sipping coffee and talking to the newspaper-peer herbert toftrees was sitting. he saw them at once and started, while an ugly look came into his eyes. "look," he said. "there's gilbert lothian, the christian poet!" "so that's the man!" said lord morston, "deuced pretty wife he's got. and very fine work he does too, by the way." "oh, that's not his wife," toftrees answered with contempt. "i know who that is quite well. lothian keeps his wife somewhere down in the country and no one ever sees her." and he proceeded to pour the history of the amberleys' dinner-party into a quietly amused and cynical ear. the swift rush back to london under the stars was quiet and dreamy. repose fell over gilbert and rita as they sat side by side, repose "from the cool cisterns of the midnight air." they felt much drawn to each other. laughter and all feverish thoughts were swept away by the breezes of their passage through the night. they were old friends now! an affection had sprung up between them which was to be a real and enduring thing. they were to be dear friends always, and that would be "perfectly sweet." rita had been so lonely. she had wanted a friend so. he was going home on the morrow. he had been too long away. but he would be up in town again quite soon, and meanwhile they would correspond. "dear little rita," he said, as he held her hand outside the door of the block of flats in kensington. "dear child, i'm so glad." it was a clear night and the clocks were striking twelve. "and i'm glad, too," she answered,--"gilbert!" he was soon at his club, had paid the chauffeur and dismissed him. there was no one he wanted to talk to in either of the smoking rooms, and so, after a final peg he went upstairs to bed. he was quite peaceful and calm in mind, very placidly happy and pleased. to-morrow he would go home to mary. he said his prayers, begging god to make this strange and sweet friendship that had come into his life of value to him and to his little friend, might it always be fine and pure! so he got into bed and a pleasant drowsiness stole over him; he had a sense of great virtue and peace. all was well with his soul. "dear little rita," were the words he murmured as he fell asleep and lay tranquil in yet another phase of his poisoned life. no dreams disturbed his sleep. no premonition came to tell him whither he had set his steps or whither they would lead him. a mile or two away there was a nameless grave of shame, within a citadel where "pale anguish keeps the gate and the warder is despair." but no spectre rose from that grave to warn him. end of the first book book two lothian in norfolk "not with fine gold for a payment, but with coin of sighs, but with rending of raiment and with weeping of eyes, but with shame of stricken faces and with strewing of dust, for the sin of stately places and lordship of lust." chapter i vignette of early morning. "gilbert is coming home!" "elle se repand dans ma vie comme un air imprégné de sel, et dans mon âme inassouvie verse le goût de l'éternel." --_baudelaire._ the white magic of morning was at work over the village of mortland royal. from a distant steading came the thin brazen cry of a cock, thin as a bugle, and round the lothians' sleeping house the bubble of bird-song began. in the orchard before the house, which ran down to the trout stream, trust, the brown spaniel dog, came out of a barrel in his little fenced enclosure, sniffed the morning air, yawned, and went back again into his barrel. white mist was rising from the water-meadows, billowed into delicate eddies and spirals by the first breeze of day, and already touched by the rosy fingers of dawn. in the wood beyond the meadows an old cock-pheasant made a sound like high hysteric laughter. the house, with its gravel-sweep giving directly on to the unfenced orchard, was long and low. the stones were mellowed by time, and orange, olive, and ash-coloured lichens clung to them. the roof was of tiles, warm red and green with age, the windows mullioned, the chimney-stack, which cut deep into the roof, high and with the grace of tudor times. the place was called the "old house" in the village and was a veritable sixteenth century cottage, rather spoilt by repairs and minor extensions, but still, in the silent summer morning, with something of the grace and fragrance of an elizabethan song. it was quite small, really, a large cottage and nothing more, but it had a personality of its own and it was always very tranquil. on such a summer dawn as this with the rabbits frisking in the pearl-hung grass, on autumn days of brown and purple, or keen spring mornings when the wind fifed a tune among the bare branches of the apple-trees; on dead winter days when sea-birds from the marshes flitted against the grey sky like sudden drifts of snow, a deep peace ever brooded over the house. the air began to grow fresher and the mists to disperse as the breeze came over the great marshes a mile beyond the village. out on the mud-flats with their sullen tidal creeks the sun was rising like a red host from the far sea which tolled like a mass bell. the curlews with their melancholy voices were beginning to fly inland from the marshes, high up in the still sky. the plovers were calling, the red-shanks piping in the marrum grass, and a sedge of herons shouted their hoarse "frank, frank" as they clanged away over the saltings. only the birds were awake in this remote norfolk village, the cows in the meadows had but just turned in their sleep, and not even the bees were yet a-wing. peace, profound and brooding, lay over the poet's house. dawn blossomed into perfect morning, all gold and blue. it began, early as it was, to grow hot. trust came out of his barrel and began to pad round his little yard with bright brown eyes. there was a sound of some one stirring in the silent house, and presently the back door, in the recess near the entrance gates, was flung wide open and a housemaid with untidy hair and eyes still heavy with sleep, stood yawning upon the step. there was a rattle of cinders and the cracking of sticks as the fire was lit in the kitchen beyond. trust, in the orchard, heard the sound. he could smell the wood-smoke from the chimney. presently one of the great ones, the beloved ones, would let him out for a scamper in the dew. then there would be biscuits for the dog trust. and now brisk footsteps were heard upon the road outside the entrance gates. in a moment more these were pushed open with a rattle, and tumpany swung in humming a little tune. tumpany was a shortish thick-set man of fifty, with a red clean-shaven face. he walked with his body bent forward, his arms hanging at his sides, and always seemed about to break into a short run. it was five years since he had retired even from the coast-guard, but royal navy was written large all over him, and would be until he tossed off his last pint of beer and sailed away to fidler's green--"nine miles to windward of hell," as he loved to explain to the housemaid and the cook. tumpany's wife kept a small shop in the village, and he himself did the boots and knives, cleaned gilbert's guns and went wild-fowling with him in the winter, was the more immediate providence of the dog trust, and generally a most important and trusted person in the little household of the poet. there was an almost exaggerated briskness in tumpany's walk and manner as he turned into the kitchen. blanche, the housemaid, was now "doing" the dining-room, in the interior of the house, but phoebe, the cook--a stalwart lass of three and twenty--had just got the fire to her liking and was giving a finishing touch of polish to the range. "morning, my girl!" said tumpany in a bluff, cheery voice. phoebe did not answer, but went on polishing the handle of the oven door. he repeated the salutation, a shade less confidently. the girl gave a final leisurely twist of the leather, surveyed her work critically for a moment, and then rose to her feet. "there are them knives," she said shortly, pointing to a basket upon the table, "and the boots is in the back kitchen." "you needn't be so short with a man, phoebe." "you needn't have been so beastly drunk last night. then them knives wouldn't want doing this morning. if it hadn't been for me the dog wouldn't have had no food. if the mistress knew she would have given you what for, as i expect your missis have already if the truth were known." "damn the mistress!" said tumpany. he adored mary lothian, as phoebe very well knew, but his head burned and he was in the uncertain temper of the "morning after." the need of self-assertion was paramount. "now, no beastly language in my kitchen," said the girl. "you go and do your damning--and them knives--in the outhouse. i wonder you've the face to come here at all, master being away too. get out, do!" with a very red and sulky face, tumpany gathered up the knives and shambled away to his own particular sanctum. the ex-sailor was confused in his mind. there was a buzzing in his head like that of bees in a hive. he had a faint recollection of being turned out of the mortland arms just before ten o'clock the night before. his muddy memories showed him the stern judicial face of the rather grim old lady who kept the inn. he seemed to feel her firm hands upon his shoulders yet. but had he come back to the old house? he was burning to ask the cook. one thing was satisfactory. his mistress had not seen him or else phoebe's threat would have meant nothing. yet what had happened in his own house? he had woke up in the little parlour behind the shop. some one had covered him with an overcoat. he had not dared to go upstairs to his wife. he hoped--here he began to rub a knife up and down the board with great vigour--he did hope that he hadn't set about her. there was a sick fear in the man's heart as he polished his knives. in many ways a better fellow never breathed. he was extremely popular in the village, gilbert lothian swore by him, mary lothian liked him very well. he was a person of some consequence in the village community where labourers worked early and late for a wage of thirteen shillings a week. his pension was a good one, the little shop kept by his wife was not unprosperous, lothian was generous. he only got drunk now and then--generally at the time when he drew his pension--but when he did his wife suffered. he would strike her, not knowing what he did. the dreadful marks would be on her face in the morning and he would suffer an agony of dull and inarticulate remorse. so, even in the pretty cottage of this prosperous and popular man--so envied by his poorer neighbours--_surgit amari aliquid_! . . . if only things had been all right last night! tumpany put down his knife with a bang. he slipped from his little outhouse, and slunk across the orchard. then he opened the iron gate of the dog's kennel. the dog trust exploded over tumpany like a shell of brown fur. he leapt at him in an ecstasy of love and greeting and then, unable to express his feelings in any other way, rolled over on his back with his long pink tongue hanging out, and his eyes blinking in the sun. "goodorg," said tumpany, a little comforted, and then both he and trust slunk back to the outhouse. there was a sympathetic furtiveness in the animal also. it was as though the dog trust quite understood. tumpany resumed his work. two rabbits which he had shot the day before were hanging from the roof, and trust looked up at them with eager eyes. a rabbit represented the unattainable to trust. he was a hard-working and highly-trained sporting dog, a wild-fowling dog especially, and he was never allowed to retrieve a rabbit for fear of spoiling the tenderness of his mouth. when one of the delicious little creatures bolted under his very nose, he must take no notice of it at all. trust held the (wholly erroneous) belief that if only he had the chance he could run down a rabbit in the open field. he did not realise that a dog who will swim over a creek with a snipe or tiny ring-plover in his mouth and drop it without a bone being broken must never touch fur. his own greatness forbade these baser joys, but like the prince in the story who wanted to make mud pies with the beggar children, he was unconscious of his position, and for him too--on this sweet morning--surgit amari aliquid. but life has many compensations. the open door of the brick shed was darkened suddenly. phoebe, who in reality had a deep admiration for mr. tumpany, had relented, and in her hand was a mug of beer. "there!" she said with a grin, "and take care it don't hiss as it goes down. pipes red hot i expect! lord what fools men are!" tumpany said nothing, but the deep "gluck gluck" of satisfaction as he drank was far more eloquent than words. phoebe watched him with a pitying and almost maternal wonder in her simple mind. "a good thing you've come early, and mistress ain't up yet," she said. "i went into the cellar as quiet as a cat, and i held a dish-cloth over the spigot when i knocked it in again so as to deaden the sound. you can hear the knock all over the house else!" "thank ye, phoebe, my dear. that there beer's in lovely condition; and i don't mind saying i wanted it bad." "well, take care, as you don't want it another day so early. i see your wife last night!" she paused, maliciously enjoying the anxiety which immediately clouded the man's round, red face. "it's all right," she said at length. "she was out when you come home from the public, and she found you snoring in the parlour. there was no words passed. i must get to work." she hurried back to her kitchen. tumpany began to whistle. the growing warmth of the morning had melted the congealed blood which hung from the noses of the rabbits. one or two drops fell upon the flags of the floor and the dog trust licked them up with immense relish. thus day began for the humbler members of the poet's household. at a few minutes before eight o'clock, the mistress of the house came down stairs, crossed the hall and went into the dining room. mary lothian was a woman of thirty-eight. she was tall, of good figure, and carried herself well. she was erect, without producing any impression of stiffness. she walked firmly, but with grace. her abundant hair was pale gold in colour and worn in a simple greek knot. the nose, slightly aquiline, was in exact proportion to the face. this was of an oval contour, though not markedly so, and was just a little thin. the eyes under finely drawn brows, were a clear and steadfast blue. in almost every face the mouth is the most expressive feature. if the eyes are the windows of the soul, the mouth is its revelation. it is the true indication of what is within. the history of a man or woman's life lies there. for those who can read, its subtle changing curves at some time or another, betray all secrets of evil or of good. it is the first feature that sensual vices coarsen or self-control refines. the sin of pride moulds it into shapes that cannot be hidden. envy, hatred and malice must needs write their superscription there, and the blood stirs about our hearts when we read of an angelic smile. the greeks knew this, and when their actors trod the marble stage of dionysius at athens, or the theatre of olympian zeus by the hill kronian, their faces were masked. the lips of hecuba were always frozen into horror. the mouths of the heralds of the lysistrata were set in one curve of comedy throughout the play. voices of gladness or sorrow came from lips of wax or clay, which never changed as the living lips beneath them needs must do. a certain sharpness and reality, as of life suddenly arrested at one moment of passion, was aimed at. men's real mouths were too mobile and might betray things alien to the words they chanted. the mouth of mary lothian was beautiful. it was rather large, well-shaped without possessing any purely æsthetic appeal, and only a very great painter could have realised it upon canvas. in a photograph it was nothing, unless a pure accident of the camera had once in a way caught its expression. the mouth of this woman was absolutely frank and kind. its womanly dignity was overlaid with serene tenderness, a firm sweetness which never left it. in repose or in laughter--it was a mouth that could really laugh--this kindness and simplicity was always there. always it seemed to say "here is a good woman and one without guile." the whole face was capable without being clever. no freakish wit lurked in the calm, open eyes, there was nothing of the fantastic, little of the original in the quiet comely face. all kind and simple people loved mary lothian and her-- "sweet lips, whereon perpetually did reign the summer calm of golden charity." men with feverish minds and hectic natures could see but little in her--a quiet woman moving about a tranquil house. there was nothing showy in her grave distinction. she never thought about attracting people, only of being kind to them. not as a companion for their lighter hours nor as a sharer in their merriment, did people come to her. it was when trouble of mind, body or estate assailed them that they came and found a "most silver flow of subtle-paced counsel in distress." since the passing of victoria and the high-noon of her reign, the purely english ideal of womanhood has disappeared curiously from contemporary art and has not the firm hold upon the general mind that it had thirty years ago. the heroines of poems and fictions are complex people to-day, world-weary, tempestuous and without peace of heart or mind. the two great voices of the immediate past have lost much of their meaning for modern ears. "so just a type of womankind, that god sees fit to trust her with the holy task of giving life in turn." --not many pens nor brushes are busy with such ladies now. "crown'd isabel, thro' all her placid life, the queen of marriage, a most perfect wife." --who sings such isabels to-day? it is calypso of the magic island of whom the modern world loves to hear, and few poets sing penelope faithful by the hearth any more. but when deep peace broods over a dwelling, it is from the mary lothians of england that it comes. mary was very simply dressed, but there was an indescribable air of distinction about her. the skirt of white piqué hung perfectly, the cream-coloured blouse with drawn-thread work at the neck and wrists was fresh and dainty. on her head was a panama hat with a scarf of mauve silk tied loosely round it and hanging down her back in two long ends. in one hand she held a silver-headed walking cane, in the other a small prayer-book, for she was going to matins before breakfast. she spoke a word to the cook and went out of the back door, calling a good-morning to tumpany as she passed his shed, and then went through the entrance-gate into the village street. by this hour the labourers were all at work in the fields and farmyards--the hay harvest was over and the corn cutting about to begin--but the cottage doors were open and the children were gathering in little groups, ready to proceed to school. there was a fresh smell of wood-smoke in the air and the gardens of the cottages were brilliant with flowers. mary lothian, however, was thinking very little about the village--to which she was lady bountiful. she hardly noticed the sweet day springing over the country side. she was thinking of gilbert. he had been away for a week now and she had heard no news of him except for a couple of brief telegrams. for several days before he went to london, she had seen the signs of restlessness and ennui approaching. she knew them well. he had been irritable and moody by fits and starts. after lunch he had slept away the afternoons, and at dinner he had been feverishly gay. once or twice he had driven into wordingham--the local town--during the afternoon, and had returned late at night, very angry on one of these occasions to find her sitting up for him. "i wish to goodness you would go to bed, mary," he had said with a sullen look in his eyes. "i do hate being fussed over as if i were a child. i hate my comings and goings spied upon in this ridiculous way. i must have freedom! kindly try and remember that you have married a poet--an artist!--and not some beef-brained ordinary fool!" the servants had gone to bed, but she had lit candles in old silver holders, and spread a dainty supper for him in case he should be hungry, taking especial care over the egg sandwiches and the salad which he said she made so perfectly. she had gone to bed without a word, for she knew well what made him speak to her like that. she lay awake listening, her room was over the dining room, and heard the clink of a glass and the gurgle of a syphon. he was having more drink then. when he came upstairs he went into the dressing room where he sometimes slept, and before long she heard him breathing heavily in sleep. he always came to her room when he was himself. then she had gone downstairs noiselessly to find her little supper untouched, a smear of cigarette ash upon the tablecloth, and that he had forgotten to extinguish the candles. there came a day when he was especially kind and sweet. his recent irritation and restlessness seemed to have quite gone. he smoked pipes instead of cigarettes, always a good sign in him, and in the afternoon they had gone for a long tramp together over the marshes. she was very happy. for the last year, particularly since his name had become well-known and he was seriously counted among the celebrities of the hour, he had not cared to be with her so much as in the past. he only wanted to be with her when he was depressed and despondent about the future. then he came for comfort and clung to her like a boy with his mother. "it's for the sake of my art," he would say often enough, though she never reproached him with neglect. "i _must_ be a great deal alone now. things come to me when i am alone. i love being with you, sweetheart, but we must both make a sacrifice for my work. it means the future. it means everything for both of us!" he used not to be like this, she sometimes reflected. in the earlier days, when he was actually doing the work which had brought him fame, he had never wanted to be away from her. he used to read her everything, ask her opinion about all his work. life had been more simple. she had known every detail of his. he had not drunk much in those days. in those days there had been no question of that at all. after the success it was different. she had gone to his study in the morning, after nights when he had been working late, and had been struck with fear when she had looked at the tantalus. but, then, he had been spruce and cheerful at breakfast and had made a hearty meal. her remonstrances had been easily swept away. he had laughed. "darling, don't be an old goose! you don't understand a bit. what?--oh, yes, i suppose i did have rather a lot of whiskey last night. but i did splendid work. and it is only once in a way. i'm as fit this morning as i ever was in my life. but i'm working double tides now. you know what an immense strain it is. just let me consolidate my reputation, become absolutely secure, and--well, then you'll see!" but for months now things had not improved, and on this particular day, a week ago now, the sudden change in gilbert, when the placidity of the old time seemed to have returned, was like cool water to a wound. they had been such friends again! in the evening they had got out all her music and while he played, she had sung the dear old songs of their courtship and early married life. they had the "keys of heaven," "the rain is on the river," "my dear soul" and the "be my dear and dearest!" of cotsford dick. on the next morning the post had brought letters calling gilbert to london. he had to arrange with messrs. ince and amberley about his new book. mr. amberley had asked him to dine--"you don't perhaps quite understand, dear, but when amberley asks one, one _must_ go"--there were other important things to see after. gilbert had not asked her to come with him. she would have liked to have gone to london very much. it was a long time since she had been to a theatre, ages since she had heard a good concert. and shopping too! it seemed such a good opportunity, while the sales were on. she had hinted as much, but he had shaken his head with decision: "no, dear, not now. i am going strictly on business. i couldn't give you the time i should want to, and i should hate that. it wouldn't be fair to you. we'll go up in the autumn, just you and i together and have a really good time. that will be far jollier. for heaven's sake, don't let's try to mix up business with pleasure. it's fatal to both." had he known that he was to be called to london? had he arranged it beforehand, itching to be free of her gentle yoke, her wise, restraining hand? was that the reason that he had been so affectionate the day before he went away? his conscience was uneasy perhaps . . . ? and why had he not written--was there a sordid, horrible reason for his silence; when was he coming back . . . ? these were the sad, disturbing thoughts stirring in mary's mind as the near tolling of the bell smote upon her ears and she entered the churchyard. the church at mortland royal was large and noble. it would have held the total population of the village three times over. relic of tudor times when norfolk was the rich and prosperous centre of the wool industry of england, it was only one of the many pious monuments of a vanished past which still keep watch and ward over the remote, forgotten villages of the north east coast. stately still the fane, in its noble masses, its fairness, majesty and strength, the slender intricacy and rich meshes of its tracery in which no single cusp or finial is in vain, no stroke of the chisel useless. stately the grey towers also, foursquare for centuries to the winds of the wash. dust the man who made it, but uncrumbled stone the body of his dream. he had thought in light and shadow. he had seen these immemorial stones when the sun of july mornings was hot upon them, or the early dusks of december left them to the dark. out of the spaces of light and darkness in the vision of his mind this strong tower had been built. inviolate, it was standing now. but as mary passed through the great porch with its worn and weathered saints into the church itself, the breath of the morning was damp and there was a chill within. the gallant chirrup of the swallows flying round the tower, sank to a faint "cheep, cheep," the voice of the tolling bell became muffled and funereal, and mildew lay upon the air. "non sum qualis eram," the lorn interior seemed to echo to her steps, "bonae sub regno ecclesiæ." there was a little american organ in the chancel. no more would the rich plainsong of gregory echo under these ancient roofs like a flowing tide in some cavern of the sea. the stone altar was covered with a decaying web of crimson upon which was embroidered a symbol of sickly, faded yellow. perhaps never again would a priest raise the monstrance there, while the ceremonial candle-flames were pallid in the morning light and hushed voices hymned the lamb of god. these, all these, were in the olden time and long ago. but the presence of god, the peace of god, were in the church still, soul-saving, and as real as when the gracious ceremonies of the past symbolised them for those who were there to worship. mr. medley, the old priest who was curate to a rector who was generally away, walked in from the vestry with the patient footsteps of age and began the office. . . . _almighty and most merciful father; we have erred and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep._ the old and worthy man with his tremulous voice, the sweet matron with her grave beauty just matured to that st. martin's summer of youth which is the youth of perfect wifehood, said the sacred words together. his cultured and appealing voice, her warm contralto echoed under the high roof in ebb and flow and antiphon of sound. it was the twenty-sixth day of the month. . . . "trouble and heaviness have laid hold upon me: yet is my delight in thy commandments." "the righteousness of thy testimonies is everlasting: o grant me understanding and i shall live." the morning was lighter than ever when mary came out of church, and its smile was reflected on her face. in the village street an old labourer leading a team of horses, touched his cap and grinned a welcome while his wistful eyes plainly said, "god bless you, ma'am," as mary went by. a merry "ting-tang clank" came from the blacksmith's shop, ringing out brightly in the bright air, and as she drew near the gate of the old house, whom should she see but the postman! "no. there ain't no letter for you," said the postman--a sly old crab-apple of a man who always knew far too much--"but what should you say," he dangled it before her as a sweetmeat before a child, "what should you say if as how i had a telegram for 'ee?" --"that you were talking nonsense, william. there can't be a telegram. it's far too early!" "well, then, there _is_!" said william triumphantly, "'anded in at the st. james' street office, london, at eight-two! either mr. lothian's up early or he ain't been to bed. it come over the telephone from wordingham while i was a sorting the letters. mrs. casley took'n down. so there! mr. lothian's a coming home by the nine-ten to-night." mary tore open the orange envelope:-- "_arrive nine-ten to-night all my love gilbert_" was what she read. then, with quick footsteps, she hurried through the gates. her eyes sparkled, her lips had grown red, and as she smiled her beautiful, white teeth flashed in the sunlight. she looked like a girl. tumpany was propped against the lintel of the back door. phoebe was talking to him, the dog trust basked at his feet, and he had a short briar pipe in his mouth. "master is coming home this evening, tumpany!" mary said. tumpany snatched the pipe from his mouth and stood to attention. the cook vanished into the kitchen. "can i see you then, mum?" tumpany asked, anxiously. "after breakfast. i've not had breakfast yet. then we'll go into everything." she vanished. "them peas," said tumpany to himself, "he'll want to know about them peas--goodorg!"--accompanied by trust, tumpany disappeared in the direction of the kitchen garden. but mary sat long over breakfast that morning. the sunlight painted oblongs of gold upon the jade-green carpet. a bee visited the copper bowl of honeysuckle upon the sideboard, a wasp became hopelessly captured by the marmalade, and from the bedrooms the voice of blanche, the housemaid, floated down--tunefully convinced that every nice girl loves a sailor. and of all these homely sounds mary lothian's ear had little heed. sound, light, colour, the scent of the flowers in the garden--a thing almost musical in itself--were as nothing. one happy fact had closed each avenue of sense. gilbert was coming home! gilbert was coming home! chapter ii an exhibition of doctor morton sims and mr. medley, with an account of how lothian returned to mortland royal "seest thou a man diligent in his business: he shall stand before kings. he shall not stand before mean men." --_the bible._ about eleven-thirty in the morning, mr. medley, the curate, came out of the rectory where he lived, and went into the village. mortland royal was a rich living, worth, with the great and lesser tythe, some eight or nine hundred a year. the rector, the hon. leonard o'donnell, was the son of an irish peer who owned considerable property in norfolk and in whose gift the living was. mr. o'donnell was a man of many activities, a bachelor, much in request in london, and very little inclined to waste his energies in a small country village. he was a courtly, polished little man who found his true _milieu_ among people of his own class, and neither understood, nor particularly cared to understand, a peasant community. his work, as he said, lay elsewhere, and he did a great deal of good in his own way with considerable satisfaction to himself. possessed of some private means, mortland royal supplemented his income and provided him with a convenient _pied à terre_ where he could retire in odd moments to a fashionable county in which a number of great people came to shoot in the season. the rectory itself was a large old-fashioned house with some pretensions to be called a country mansion, and for convenience sake, mr. medley was housed there, and became de facto, if not de jure, the rector of the village. mr. o'donnell gave his colleague two hundred a year, house room, and an absolutely free hand. the two men liked one another, if they had not much in common, and the arrangement was mutually convenient. medley was a pious priest of the old-fashioned type. his flock claimed all the interest of his life. he had certain fixed and comely habits belonging to his type and generation. he read his horace still and took a glass of port at dinner. something of a scholar, he occasionally reviewed some new edition of a latin classic for the _spectator_, though he was without literary ambitions. he had a little money of his own, and three times a year he dined at the high table in merton college hall, where every one was very pleased to see him. a vanishing type to-day, but admirably suited to his environment. the right man in the right place. the real rector was regarded with awe and some pride in the village. his name was often in the newspapers. he was an eloquent speaker upon temperance questions at important congresses. he went to garden parties at windsor and theatricals at sandringham. when he was in residence and preached in his own church, it was fuller than at other times. he was a draw. his distinguished face and high, well-bred voice were a pleasant variation of monotony. and the theology which had made him so welcome in mayfair was not without a pleasing titillation for even the rustic mind. mr. o'donnel was convinced, and preached melodiously, the theory that the divine mercy extends to all human beings. he asserted that, in the event, all people would enter paradise--unless, indeed, there was no paradise, which in his heart of hearts he thought exceedingly likely. but he did good work in the world, though probably less than he imagined. it was as an advocate of temperance that leonard o'donnell was particularly known, and it was as that he was welcomed by society. he was a sort of spiritual karlsbad and was nicknamed the dean of vichy. the fact was one that had a direct bearing on gilbert lothian's life. the rector of mortland royal was a "managing" man. his forte was to be a sort of earthly providence to all sorts of people within his sphere, and his motive was one of genuine good nature and a wish to help. as a woman he would have been an inveterate matchmaker. did old marchioness, who liked to keep an eye upon her household affairs, bewail the quality of london milk--then she must have it from mr. samuel, the tenant of the glebe farm at mortland royal! did a brother clergyman ask to be recommended a school for his son, the rector knew the very place and was quite prepared to take the boy down himself and commend him specially to the headmaster. with equal eagerness, mr. o'donnell would urge a confessor or a pill, and the odd thing about it was, that he was nearly always right, and all sorts of people made use of the restless, kindly little man. one day, dr. morton sims, the bacteriologist and famous expert upon inebriety, had walked from a meeting of the royal commissioners upon alcoholism to the junior carlton with mr. o'donnell. both were members and they had dined there together. "i am run down," said morton sims, during the meal. "i have been too much in london lately. i've got a lot of important research work to do. i'm going to take a house in the country for a few months, only i don't know where." the mind of the man occupied with big things was impatient of detail; the mind of the man occupied with small ones responded instantly. "i know of the very place, sims. in my own village. how fortunate! the 'haven.' old admiral custance used to have it, but he's dead recently. there are six months of the lease still to run. mrs. custance has gone to live at lugano. she wants to let the place furnished until the lease is up." "it sounds as if it might do." "but, my dear fellow, it's the very place you want! exactly the thing! i can manage it for you in no time. pashwhip and moger--the house agents in our nearest town--have the letting. do let me be of use!" "it's very kind of you, o'donnell." "delighted. it will be so jolly to have you in the village. i'm not there as much as i could wish, of course. my other work keeps me so much in london. but medley, my colleague, is an excellent fellow. he'll look after you in every way." "who lives round about?" "well, as far as society is concerned, we are a little distance from anywhere. lord fakenham's is the nearest house----" "not in that way, o'donnell. i mean interesting people. lord fakenham is a bore--a twelve-bore one might say. i hate the big shooting houses in east england." the rector was rather at a loss. "well," he said, reluctantly, "i don't know about what you'd probably call _interesting_ people. sir ambrose mckee, the big scotch distiller--ambrosia whiskey, you know--has the shooting and comes down to the manor house in september. oh, and gilbert lothian, the poet, has a cottage in the place. i've met him twice, but i can't say that i know much about him. medley swears by his wife, though. she does everything in the village i'm told. she was a fielding, the younger branch." the doctor's face became strangely interested. it was alert and watchful in a moment. "gilbert lothian! he lives there does he! now you tempt me. i've heard a good deal about gilbert lothian." the rector was genuinely surprised. "well, most people have," he answered. "but i should hardly have thought that a modern poet was much in your line." morton sims smiled, rather oddly. "perhaps not," he said, "but i'm interested all the same. i have my own reasons. put me into communication with the house agents, will you, o'donnell?" the affair had been quickly arranged. the house proved satisfactory, and dr. morton sims had taken it. on the morning when mary lothian had heard from gilbert that he was returning that evening, mr. medley, reminded of his duty by a postcard from the rector at cowes, set out to pay a call and offer his services to the distinguished newcomer. the "haven" was a pleasant gabled house standing in grounds of about three acres, not far from the church and rectory. the late admiral custance had kept it in beautiful order. the green, pneumatic lawns suggested those of a college quadrangle, the privet hedges were clipped with care, the whole place was taut and trim. mr. medley found dr. morton sims smoking a morning pipe in the library, dressed in a suit of grey flannel and with a holiday air about him. the two men liked each other at once. there was no doubt about that in the minds of either of them. there was a certain dryness and mellow humour in mr. medley--a ripe flavour about him, as of an old english fruit crushed upon the palate. "here is a rare bird," the doctor thought. and morton sims interested the clerygman no less. the doctor's great achievements and the fact that he was a definite feature in english life were quite familiar. when, on fugitive occasions any one of this sort strayed into the placid domains of his interest medley was capable of welcoming him with eagerness. he did so now, and warmed himself in the steady glow from the celebrated man with whom he was sitting. that they were both oxford men, more or less of the same period, was an additional link between them. . . . "two or three times a year i go up," medley said, "and dine in hall at merton. i'm a little out of it, of course. the old, remembered faces become fewer and fewer each year. but there are friends left still, and though i can't quite get at their point of view, the younger fellows are very kind to me. directly i turn into oriel street; i breathe the old atmosphere, and i confess that my heart beats a little quicker, as merton tower comes into view." "i know," the doctor said. "i was at balliol you know--a little different, even in our day. but when i go up i'm always dreadfully busy, at the museum or in the medical school. it's the younger folk, the scientific dons and undergraduates who are reading science that i have to do with. i have not much time for the sentiments and caresses of the past. life is so short and i have so much yet that i hope to do in it, that i simply refuse my mind the pleasures of retrospection. you'll call me a philistine, but when i go to lecture at cambridge--as i sometimes do--it stimulates me far more than oxford." "detestable place!" said mr. medley, with a smile. "a nephew of mine is a tutor there, peterhouse. he has quite a name in his way, they tell me. he writes little leprous books in which he conducts the christian faith to the frontier of modern thought with a consolatory cheque for its professional services in the past. and, besides, the river at cambridge is a ditch." the doctor's eyes leapt up at this. "yes, isn't it marvellous that they can row as they do!" he said with the eagerness of a boy. "you rowed then?" "oh, yes. i was in the crew of-- --our year it was." "really! really!--i had no idea, dr. morton sims! i was in the trials of-- , when merton was head of the river, but we were the losing boat and i never got into the eight. how different it all was then!" both men were silent for a minute. the priest's words had struck an unaccustomed chord of memory in the doctor's mind. "those times will never come again," morton sims said, and puffed rather more quickly than usual at his pipe. he had spoken truly enough when he had said that he had not time in his strenuous life for memories of his youth, that he shut his eyes to the immemorial appeal of oxford when he went there. but he responded now, instinctively, for there is a freemasonry, greater than all the ritual of king solomon, among those who have rowed upon the isis, in the happy, thrice-happy days of youth! to weary clergymen absorbed in the _va_ and _vient_ of sordid parishes, to grave justices upon the bench, the strenuous cynics of the bar, plodding masters of schools, the suave solicitor, the banker, the painter, or the poet, these vivid memories of the loving mother, must always come now and again in life. the bells of youth ring once more. the faint echo of the shouts from river or from playing field, make themselves heard with ghostly voices. in the chapels of wayneflete, or of laud, some soprano choir is singing yet. in the tower of the cardinal, big tom tolls out of the past, bidding the college porters close their doors. white and fretted spires shoot upwards into skies that will never be so blue again. again the snap-dragon blooms over the grey walls of trinity, the crimson creeper stains the porch of cranmer, and autumn leaves of bronze, purple and yellow carpet all the magdalen walks. these things can never be quite forgotten by those who have loved them and been of them. the duration of a reverie is purely accidental. there is no time in thought. the pictures of a lifetime may glow in the brain, while a second passes by the clock, a single episode may inform the retrospection of an hour. these two grey-headed men, upon this delightful summer morning, were not long lost in thought. "and now," said the clergyman, "have you seen anything of the village yet?" "not yet. for the three days that i have been here i have been arranging my books and instruments, and turning that big room over the barn into a laboratory." "oh, yes. where the admiral used to keep his trafalgar models. an excellent room! now what do you say, dr. morton sims, to a little progress through the village with me? i'm quite certain that every one is agog to see you, and to sum you up. natural village curiosity! you might as well make your appearance under my wing." "teucro auspice, auspice teucro?" "precisely," said medley, with a smile of pleasure at the quotation from his beloved poet, and the two men left the house together in high glee, laughing like boys. they visited the church, in which morton sims took a polite interest, and then the clergyman took his guest over the rectory. it was a fine house, standing in the midst of fair lawns upon which great beech trees grew here and there, giving the extensive grounds something of the aspect of a park. the rooms were large and lofty, with fine ceilings of the adams' school, florid braveries of stucco that were quite at home in a house like this. there were portraits everywhere, chiefly members of the o'donnell family, and the faces in their fresh irish comeliness were gay and ingenuous, as of privileged young people who could never grow old. "really, this is a delightful house," the doctor said as he stood in the library. "i wonder o'donnell doesn't spend more time in mortland royal. few parsons are housed like this." "it's not his _metier_, doctor. he hasn't the faculty of really understanding peasants, and i think he is quite right in what he is doing. and, of course, from a selfish point of view, i am glad. i have refused two college livings to stay on here. in all probability i shall stay here till i die. o'donnell does a great work for temperance all over england--though doubtless you know more about that than i do." "er, yes," morton sims replied, though without any marked enthusiasm. "o'donnell is very eloquent, and no doubt does good. my dear old friend, bishop moultrie, in norfolk here is most enthusiastic about his work. i like o'donnell, he's sincere. but i belong to the scientific party, and while i welcome anything that really tends to stem inebriety, i believe that o'donnell and moultrie and all of them are on the wrong tack entirely." "i know very little about the modern temperance movement in any direction," said mr. medley with a certain dryness. "blue ribbons and bands of hope are all very well, i suppose, but there is such a tendency nowadays among non-conformists and the extreme evangelical party to exalt abstinence from alcohol into the one thing necessary to salvation, that i keep out of it all as much as i can. i like my glass of port, and i don't mean to give it up!" morton sims laughed. "it doesn't do you the least good really," he said, laughing. "i could prove to you in five minutes, and with entire certainty, that your single glass of port is bad, even for you! but i quite agree with your attitude towards all the religious emotionalism that is worked up. the drunkard who turns to religion simply manifests the class of ideas, which is one of the features of the epileptic temperament. it is a confession of ineptitude, and a recourse to a means of salvation from a condition which is too hard for him to bear. that is to say, fear is at the bottom of his new convictions!" certainly medley was not particularly sympathetic to the modern temperance movement among religious people. perhaps mr. o'donnell's somewhat vociferous enthusiasm had something to do with it. but on the other hand, he was very far from accepting such a cold scientific doctrine as this. he knew that the holy spirit does not always work through fear. but like the wise and quiet-minded man that he was, he forbore argument and listened with intellectual pleasure to the views of his new friend. "i know," he said, with a courtly hint of deference in his voice, that became him very well, "of your position in the ranks of those who are fighting intemperance. but, and you must pardon the ignorance of a country priest who is quite out of all 'movements,' i don't know anything of your standpoint. what is your remedy, dr. morton sims?" the great man smiled inwardly. it did really seem extraordinary to him that a cultured professional man of this day should actually know nothing of his hopes, aims and propaganda. and then, ever on the watch for traces of egoism and vain-glory in himself, he accepted the fact with humility. who was he, who was any one in life, to imagine that his views were known to all the world? "well," he said, "what we believe is just this: it is quite impossible to abolish or to prohibit alcohol. it is necessary in a thousand industries. prohibition is futile. it has been tried, and has failed, in the united states. while alcohol exists, the man predisposed to abuse it will get it. you, as a clergyman, know as well as i do, as a doctor, that it is impossible to make people moral by act of parliament." this was entirely in accordance with medley's own view. "of course," he said, "the only thing that can make people moral is an act of god, cooperating with an act of their own." "possibly. i am not concerned to affirm or deny the power of an act of the supreme being. nor am i able to say anything about its operation. science tells me nothing upon this point. about the act of the individual i have a good deal to say." --"i am most interested" . . . "well then, what we want to do is to root out drunkenness by eliminating inebriates from society by a process of artificial selection. it is within the power of science to evolve a sober race. we must forbid inebriates to have children and make it penal for them to do so." medley started. "forbid them to marry?" he asked. "it would be futile. drunkenness often develops after marriage. there is only one way--by preventing drunkards from reproducing their like--by forbidding the procreation of children by them. if drunkards were taken before magistrates sitting in secret session, and, on conviction, were warned that the procreation of children would subject them to this or that penalty, then the birthrate of drunkards would certainly fall immensely." "but innumerable drunkards would inevitably escape the meshes of the law." "yes. but that is an argument against all laws. and this law would be more perfect in its operation than any other, for if the drunken father evaded it in one generation, the drunken son would be taken in the next." the priest said nothing for a moment. the latent distrust and dislike of science which is an inherent part of the life and training of so many priests, was blazing up in him with a fury of antagonism. what impious interference with the laws of god was this? it seemed a profanation, horrible! like all good christians of his temper of mind, he was quite unable to realise that god might be choosing to work in this way, and by the human hands of men. he had not the slightest conception of the great truth that every new discovery of science and each fresh extension of its operations is not in the least antagonistic to christianity when surveyed by the clear, unbiassed mind. mr. medley was a dog-lover. he was a member of the kennel-club, and sent dogs to shows. he knew that, in order to breed a long-tailed variety of dogs, it would be ridiculous to preserve carefully all the short-tailed individuals and pull vigorously at their tails. he exercised the privilege of artificial selection carefully enough in his own kennels, but the mere proposal that such a thing should be done in the case of human beings seemed impious to him. dr. morton sims was also incapable of realising that his scheme for the betterment of the race was perfectly in accordance with the christian philosophy. but morton sims was not a professing christian and was not concerned with the christian aspect. mr. medley was, and although one of his favourite hymns began, "god moves in a mysterious way," he was really chilled to the bone for a minute at the words of the scientist. he remained silent for a moment or so. "but that seems to me quite horrible," he said, at length. "it is opposed to the best instincts of human nature--as horrible as malthusianism, as horrible and as impracticable." his expression as he looked at his guest was wistful. "i don't want to be discourteous," it seemed to say, "but this is really my thought." "perhaps," the other answered with a half-sigh. he was well used to encounter just such a voice, just such a shocked countenance as that of his host--"but by '_best instincts_' people often mean strong prejudices. our scheme is undoubtedly malthusian. i am no believer in malthusianism as a check to what is called 'over-population.' that _does_ seem to me immoral. nature requires no help in that regard. but inebriety is an evil the extent of which no one but an expert can possibly measure. _the ordinary man simply doesn't know!_ but supposing i admit what you say. let us agree that my scheme is horrible, that in a sense it is immoral--or a-moral--that it is possibly impracticable. "the alternative is more horrible and more immoral still. there is absolutely no choice between temperance reform, by the abolition of drink, and temperance reform by the abolition of the drunkard. an ill thing is not rendered worse by being bravely confronted. an unavoidable evil is not made more evil by being turned to good account. it rests with us to extract what good we can from the evil. horrible? immoral? perhaps; but we are confronted by two horrors and two immoralities, and we are compelled to make a choice. which is best; to live safe because strong, or to tremble behind fortifications; to be temperate by nature or sober by law?" . . . they stood in the quiet sunlit library, with its placid books and pictures irradiated by the light of approaching noon. the slim, bearded man in his grey suit, faced the dry, elderly clergyman. his voice rang with challenge, his whole personality was redolent of ardour, conviction, an aroma of the war he spent his life in waging far away from this quiet room of books. for years, this had been medley's home. each night, with his horace and his pipe, he spent the happy, sober hours between dinner and bedtime here. his sermons were written on the old oak table. over the high carved marble of the mantel the engraving of our lord knocking at the weed-grown door of a human heart, had looked down upon all his familiar, quiet evenings. in summer the long windows were open and the moonlight washed the lawns with silver, and the shadows of the trees seemed like pieces of black velvet nailed to the grass. in winter the piled logs glowed upon the hearth and the bitter winds from the marshes, sang like a flight of arrows round the house. what was this that had come into the library, what new disturbing, insistent element? the rector brought no such atmosphere into the house when he arrived. he would sip his coffee and smoke his pipe and linger for a gracious moment with the singer of mantua, or dispute about the true birthplace of him who sent odysseus sailing over wine-coloured and enchanted seas. an insistent voice seemed to be calling to the clergyman--"awake from your slumber--your long slumber! hear the words of truth!" he said nothing. his whole face showed reluctance, bewilderment, misease. the far keener intelligence of the other noted it at once. the mind of the medico-psychologist appreciated the episode at its exact value. he had troubled a still pool, and to no good purpose. words of his--even if they carried an uneasy conviction--would never rouse this man to action. let it be so! why waste time? the clergyman was a delightful survival, a "rare bird" still! "well, that is my theory, at any rate, since you asked for it," morton sims said, the urgency and excitement quite gone from his voice. "and now, some more of the village, please!" mr. medley smiled cheerfully. he became suddenly conscious of the light and comfortable morning again. he felt his feet upon the carpet, he was in a place that he knew. "we'll go through the wicket-gate in the south wall," he said, with alacrity. "it's our nearest way, and there is a good view of the manor house to be got from there. it's a fine old place, empty for most of the year, but always full for the shooting. sir ambrose mckee has it." "the whiskey man?" "yes. the great distiller," medley answered nervously--most anxious to sheer off from any further controversial subjects. they went out into the village. the old red-brick manor house was surveyed from a distance, and morton sims remarked absently upon its picturesqueness. his mind was occupied with other and far alien thoughts. then they went down the white dusty road--the bordering hedges were all pilm-powdered for there had been no rain for many days--to the centre of the village. four roads met there, east, south, west and north, and it was known to the village as "the cross." on one side of the little central green was the post office and general shop. on the other was the mortland royal arms, and on the south, to the right of the old stone bridge, which ran over the narrow river, were the roof and chimneys of gilbert lothian's house nestling among the trees and with a vista of the orchard which stretched down to the stream. "that's a nice little place," the doctor said. "whose is that?" "it's the house of our village celebrity," mr. medley replied--with a rather hostile crackle in his voice, or at least the other thought so. "our local celebrity," medley continued, "mr. gilbert lothian, the poet." neither the face nor the voice of the doctor changed at all. but his mind came to attention. this was a moment he had been waiting for. "oh, i know," he said, with an assumed indifference which he was well aware would have its effect of provocation upon the simple mind of the priest. "the name is quite familiar to me. bishop moultrie sent me a book of lothian's poems last winter. and now that i come to think of it, o'donnell told me that mr. lothian lived here. what sort of a man is he?" medley hesitated. "well," he said at length, "the truth is that i don't like him much personally, and i don't understand him in any way. i speak with prejudice i'm afraid, and i do not wish that any words of mine should make you share it." "oh, we all have our likes and dislikes. every one has his private dr. fell and it can't be helped. but tell me about lothian. i will remember your very honest warning! don't you like his work?" "i confess i see very little in it, doctor. but then, my taste is old-fashioned and not in accord with modern literary movements. my 'christian year' supplies all the religious verse i need." "keble wrote some fine verse," said the doctor tentatively. "exactly. sound prosody and restrained style! there is fervour and feeling in lothian's work. it is impossible to deny it. but it's too passionate and feverish. there is a savage, almost despairing, clutching at spiritual emotion which strikes me as thoroughly unhealthy. the love of jesus, the mysterious operations of the holy ghost--these seem to me no proper vehicles for words which are tortured into a wild and sensuous music. as i read the poems of gilbert lothian i am reminded of the wicked and yet beautiful verses of swinburne, and of others who have turned their lyre to the praise of lust. the sentiment is different, but the method is the same. and i confess that it revolts me to see the verbal tricks and polished brilliance of modern pagan writers adapted to a fugitive and delirious ecstasy of christian faith." morton sims understood thoroughly. this was the obstinate and prejudiced voice of an older literary generation, suddenly become vindictively vocal. "i know all that you mean," he said. "i don't agree with you in the least, but i appreciate your point of view. but let me keep myself out of the discussion for a moment. i am not what you would probably be prepared to call a professing christian. but how about moultrie? he sent me lothian's poems first of all. i remember the actual evening last winter when they arrived. a contemporaneous circumstance has etched it into my memory with certainty. moultrie is a deeply convinced christian. he is a man of the widest culture also. yet he savours his palate with every _nuance_, every elusive and delicate melody that the genius of lothian gives us. how about moultrie's attitude?--it is a very general one." mr. medley laughed, half with apology, half with the grim humour which was personal to him. "i quite admit all you say," he replied, "but, as i told you, i belong to another generation and i don't in the least mean to change or listen to the voice of the charmer! i am a prejudiced old fogey, in short! i am still so antiquated and foolish as to have a temperamental dislike for a french-man, for instance. i like a picture to tell a story, and i flatly refused to get into moultrie's abominable automobile when he brought it to the rectory the other day!" morton sims was not in the least deceived by this half real, half mocking apologia. it was not merely a question of style that had roused this heat in the dry elderly man when he spoke of the things which he so greatly disliked in the poet's work. there was something behind this, and the doctor meant to find out what it was. he was in mortland royal, in the first instance, in order to follow up the problem of gilbert lothian. his choice of a country residence had been determined by the poet's locality. every instinct of the scientist and hunter was awake in him. he had dreadful reasons, reasons which he could never quite think of without a mental shudder, for finding out everything about the unknown and elusive genius who had given "surgit amari," to the world. he looked his companion full in the face, and spoke in a compelling, searching voice that the other had not heard before. "what's the real antagonism, mr. medley?" he said. then the clergyman spoke out. "you press me," he said, "very well, i will tell you. i don't believe lothian is a good man. it is a stern and terrible thing to say,--god grant i am mistaken!--but he appears to me to write of supreme things with insincerity. not vulgarly, you'll understand. not with his tongue in his cheek, but without the conviction that imposes conduct, and perhaps even with his heart in his mouth!" "conduct?" ". . . i fear i am saying too much." "hardly to me! then mr. lothian--?" "he drinks," the priest said bluntly, "you're sure to hear of it in some indirect way since you are going to stay in the village for six months. but that's the truth of it!" the face of dr. morton sims suddenly became quite pale. his brown eyes glittered as if with an almost uncontrollable excitement. "ah!" he exclaimed, and there was something so curious in his voice that the clergyman was alarmed at what he had said. he knew, and could know, nothing of what was passing in the other's mind. a scrupulously fair and honest man within his lights, he feared that he had made too harsh a statement--particularly to a man who thought that even an after-dinner glass of port was an error in hygiene! "i don't mean to say that he gets drunk," medley continued hastily, "but he really does excite himself and whip himself up to work by means of spirits." the clergyman hesitated. the doctor spurred him on. "most interesting to the scientific man--please go on." "well, i don't know that there is much to say--i do hope i am not doing the man an injustice, because i am getting on for twice his age and envy the modern brilliance of his brain! but about a fortnight ago i went to see crutwell--a poor fellow who is dying of phthisis--and found lothian there. he was holding crutwell's hand and talking to him about paradise in a monotonous musical voice. he had been drinking. i saw it at once. his eyes were quite wild." "but the patient was made happier?" "yes. he was. happier, i freely confess it, than my long ministrations have ever been able to make him. but that is certainly not the point. it is very distressing to a parish priest to meet with these things in his visitations. do you know," here mr. medley gave a rueful chuckle, "i followed this alcoholic missioner the other day into the house of an old bed-ridden woman whom he helps to support. lothian is extremely generous by the way. he would literally take off his coat and give it away--which really means, of course, that he has no conception of what money means. "at any rate, i went into old sarah's cottage about half an hour after lothian had been there. the old lady in question lived a jolly, wicked life until senile paralysis intervened. she is now quite a connoisseur in religion. i found her, on the occasion of which i speak, lying back upon her pillows with a perfectly rapturous expression on her wicked and wrinkled old face. 'oh, mr. lothian's been, sir!' she said, 'oh, 'twas beautiful! he gave me five shillings and then he knelt down and prayed. i never heard such praying--meaning no disrespect, sir, of course. but it was beautiful. the tears were rolling down mr. lothian's cheeks!' 'mr. lothian is very kind,' i said. 'he's wonnerful,' she replied, 'for he was really as drunk as a lord the whole time, though he didn't see as i saw it. fancy praying so beautiful and him like that. what a brain!'" morton sims burst out laughing, he could not help it. "all the same," he said at length, "it's certainly rather scandalous." medley made a hurried deprecating movement of his hands. "no, no!" he said, "don't think that. i am over-emphasising things. those two instances are quite isolated. in a general way lothian is just like any one else. to speak quite frankly, doctor, i'm not a safe guide when gilbert lothian is discussed." "yes?" "for this reason. i admire and reverence mrs. lothian as i have never reverenced any other woman. now and then i have met saint-like people, and the more saint-like they were--i hope i am not cynical--the less of comely humanity they seemed to have. only once have i met a saint quietly walking this world with sane and happy footsteps. and that is mary lothian." there was a catch and tremble in the voice of the elderly clergyman. morton sims, who had liked him from the first, now felt more drawn to him than at any other time during their morning talk and walk. "now you see why i am a little bitter about gilbert lothian! i don't think that he is worthy of such a perfect wife as he has got! i'll take you to tea with her this afternoon and you will see!" "i should like to meet her very much. lothian is not here then?" "he has been away for a week or so, but he is returning to-night. our old postman, who knows everything, told me so at least." the two men continued their walk through the village until lunch time, when they separated. at three o'clock a maid brought a note from the rectory to the "haven." in the letter medley said that he had been summoned to wordingham by telegram and could not take the doctor to call on mrs. lothian. the doctor spent the afternoon reading in the garden. he took tea among the flowers there, and after dinner, as it was extremely hot, he once more sought his deck chair under the mulberry tree in front of the house. not a breath of air stirred. now and then a cockchafer boomed through the heavy dark, and at his feet some glowworms had lit their elfin lamps. there was thunder in the air too, it was murmuring ten miles away over the wash, and now and again the sky above the marshes was lit with flickering green and violet fires. a definite depression settled down upon the doctor's spirits and something seemed to be like a load upon lungs and brain. he always kept himself physically fit. in london, during his busy life, walking, which was the exercise he loved best, was not possible. so he fenced, and swam a good deal at the bath club, of which he was a member. for three days now, he had taken no exercise whatever. he had been arranging his new household. "liver!" he thought to himself. "that is why i am melancholy and depressed to-night. and then the storm that is hanging about has its effect too. but hardly any one realises that the liver is the seat of the emotions! it should be said--more truly--that such a one died of a broken liver, not a broken heart!" . . . he sighed. his imaginings did not amuse him to-night. his vitality was lowered. that sick ennui which lies behind the thunder was upon him. as the storm grew nearer through the vast spaces of the night, so his psychic organism responded to its approach. some uneasy imp had got into the barracks of his brain and was beating furiously upon the cerebral drum. the vast and level landscape, the wide night, were alike to be dramatised by the storm. and so, also, in the sphere of his thought, upon that secret stage where, after all, everything really happens, there was drama and disturbance. the level-minded scientist in dr. morton sims drooped its head and bowed to the imperious onslaught. the man of letters in him awoke. strange and fantastic influences were abroad this night and would have their way even with this cool sane person. he knew what was happening to him as the night grew hotter, the lightning more frequent. he, the ego of him, was slipping away from the material plane and entering that psychic country which he knew of and dreaded for its strange allurements. imaginative by nature and temperament, with a something of the artist in him, it was his habit to starve and repress that side of him as much as he was able. he knew the unfathomable gulf that separated the psychical from the physiological. it was in the sphere of physiology that his work lay, here he was great, there must be no divided allegiance. there was a menacing stammer of thunder. a certain line of verse came into his mind, a line of lothian's. "_oh dreadful trumpets sounding, pealing and resounding, from the hid battlements of eternity!_" "i will take a ten mile walk to-morrow," he said to himself, and resolutely wrenched his thoughts towards material things. there was, he remembered with a slight shudder, that appalling passage in a recent letter from mrs. daly-- . . . "six weeks ago a tippler was put into an alms-house in this state. within a few days he had devised various expedients to procure rum, but had failed. at length he hit on one that was successful. he went into the wood yard of the establishment, placed one hand upon the block, and with an axe in the other struck it off at a single blow. with the stump raised and streaming he ran into the house and cried, 'get some rum. get some rum. my hand is off.' in the confusion and bustle of the occasion a bowl of rum was brought, into which he plunged the bleeding member of his body, then raising the bowl to his mouth, drank freely and exultantly exclaimed, 'now i am satisfied!'" horrible! why was it possible that men might poison themselves so? would all the efforts of himself and his friends ever make such monstrous happenings cease? oh, that it might be so! they were breaking up stubborn land. the churches were against them, but the home secretary of the day was their friend--in the future the disease might be eradicated from society. oh, that it might be so! for the good of the human race! how absolutely horrible it was that transparent, coloured liquids in bottles of glass--liquids that could be bought everywhere for a few pence--should have the devilish power to transform men, not to beasts, but to monsters. the man of whom mrs. daly had written--hideously alcoholised and insane! hancock, the hackney murderer, poisoned, insane! the doctor had been present at the post-mortem, after the execution. it had all been so pitiably clear to the trained eye! the liver, the heart, told him their tale very plainly. any general practitioner would have known. ordinary cirrhosis, the scar tissue perfectly plain; the lime-salts deposited in the wasting muscles of the heart. but morton sims had found far more than this in that poisoned shell which had held, also, a poisoned soul. he had marked the little swellings upon the long nerve processes that run from the normal cell of the healthy brain. something that looked like a little string of beads under the microscope had told him all he wanted to know. and that little string of beads, the lesions which interfered with the proper passage of nerve impulses, the scraps of tissue which the section-cutter had thinned and given to the lens, had meant torture and death to a good woman. how dreadfully women suffered! their husbands and lovers and brothers became brutes to them. the women who were merely struck or beaten now and then were fortunate. the women whose lives were made one long ingenious torture were legion. dr. morton sims was a bachelor. he was more. he was a man with a virgin mind. devoted always to the line of work he had undertaken he had allowed nothing else to disturb his life. for him passion was explained by pathological and physiological occurrences. that is to say, passion in others. for himself, he had allowed nothing that was sensual to interfere with his progress, or to influence the wise order of his days. therefore, he reverenced women. hidden in his mind was that latent adoration that the catholic feels about the real presence upon an altar. a good knight of science, he was as pure and pellucid in thought upon these matters as any knight who bore the descending dove upon his shield and flung into the _mêlée_ calling upon the name of the paraclete. in his own fashion, and with his own vision of what it was, morton sims, also, was one of those seeking the holy grail. he adored his sister, a sweet woman made for love and motherhood but who had chosen the virgin life of renunciation that she might help the world. women! yes, it was women who suffered. there were tears in his mind as he thought of women. before a good woman he always wished to kneel. how heavy the night was! he identified it with the sorrowful weight and pressure of the fiend alcohol upon the world. and there was a woman, here near him, a woman with a sweet and fragrant nature--so the old clergyman had said. on her, too, the weight must be lying. for mary lothian there must be horror in the days. . . . "one thing i _will_ do," he said to the dark--and that he spoke aloud was sufficient indication of his state of mind--"i'll get hold of gilbert lothian while i am here. i'll save him at any rate, if i can. and it is quite obvious that he cannot be too far gone for salvation. i'll save him from an end no less frightful than that of his brother of whom he has probably never heard. the good woman he seems to have married shall be happy! the man's fine brain shan't be lost. this shall be my special experiment while i am down here. coincidence, no less than good-will, makes that duty perfectly plain for me." as he stood there, glad to have found some definite material thing with which to occupy his mind, a housemaid came through the french windows of the library. she hurried towards him, ghost-like in her white cap and apron. "are you there, sir?" she said, peering this way and that in the thick dark. "yes, here i am, condon, what is it?" "please, sir, there's been an accident. a gentleman has been thrown out of a dog-cart. it's a mr. lothian. his man's here, and the gentleman's wife has heard you're in the village and there's no other doctor nearer than wordingham." "i'll come at once," morton sims said. he hurried through the quiet library with its green-shaded reading lamp and went into the hall. tumpany was standing there, his cap held before him in two hands, naval-fashion. his round red face was streaming with perspiration, his eyes were frightened and he exhaled a strong smell of beer. his hand went up mechanically and his left foot scraped upon the oilcloth of the hall as morton sims entered. "beg your pardon, sir," tumpany began at once, "but i'm mr. gilbert lothian's man. master have had an accident. i was driving him home from the station when the horse stumbled just outside the village. master was pitched out on his head. my mistress would be very grateful if you could come at once." "certainly, i will," sims answered, looking at the man with a keen, experienced eye which made him shift uneasily upon his feet. "wait here for a moment." he hurried back into the library and put lint, cotton-wool and a pair of blunt-nosed scissors into a hand-bag. then, calling for a candle and lighting it, he went out into the stable yard and up to the room above the big barn, emerging in a minute or two with a bottle of antiseptic lotion. these were all the preparations he could make until he knew more. the thing might be serious or it might be little or nothing. fortunately lothian's house was not five minutes' walk from the "haven." if instruments were required he could fetch them in a very short time. as he left the house with tumpany, he noticed that the man lurched upon the step. quite obviously he was half intoxicated. with a cunning born of long experience of inebriate men, the doctor affected a complete unconsciousness of what he had discovered. if he put the man upon his guard he would get nothing out of him, that was quite certain. "he's made a direct statement so far," the doctor thought. "he's only on the border-land of intoxication. for as long as he thinks i have noticed nothing he will be coherent. directly he realises that i have spotted his state he'll become confused and ashamed and he won't be able to tell me anything." "this is very unfortunate," he said in a smooth and confidential voice. "i do hope it is nothing very serious. of course i know your master very well by name." "yessir," tumpany answered thickly, but with a perceptible note of pleasure in his voice. "yessir, i should say master is one of the best shots in norfolk. you'd have heard of him, of course." "but how did it happen?" "this 'ere accident, sir?" said tumpany rather vaguely, his mind obviously running upon his master's achievements among the wild geese of the marshes. "yes, the accident," the doctor answered in his smooth, kindly voice--though it would have given him great relief to have boxed the ears of his beery guide. "i was driving master home, sir. it's not our trap. we don't keep one. we hires in the village, but the man as the trap belongs to couldn't go. so i drove, sir." movement had stirred up the fumes of alcohol in this barrel! oh, the interminable repetitions, the horrid incapacity for getting to the point of men who were drunk! lives of the utmost value had been lost by fools like this--great events in the history of the world had turned upon an extra pot of beer! but patience, patience! "yes, you drove, and the horse stumbled. did the horse come right down?" "i'm not much of a whip, sir, as you may say, though i know about ordinary driving. they say that a sailor-man is no good with a horse. but that isn't true." yet despite the irritation of his mind, the necessity for absolute self-control, the expert found time to make a note of this further instance of the intolerable egotism that alcohol induces in its slaves. "but i expect you drove very well, indeed! then the horse did _not_ come right down!" just at the right moment, carefully calculated to have its effect, the doctor's voice became sharper and had a ring of command in it. there was an instant response. "no, sir. the cob only stumbled. but master was sitting loose like. he fell out like a log, sir. he made a noise like a piece of luggage falling." "oh! did he fall on his head?" "yessir. but he had a stiff felt hat on. i got help and as we carried him into the house he was bleeding awful." "curious that he should fall like that. was he, well, was he quite himself should you think?" it was a bow drawn at a venture, and it provoked a reply that instantly told morton sims what he wanted to know. "oh, yessir! by all means, sir! most cert'nly! master was as sober as a judge, sir!" "of _course_," sims replied in a surprised tone of voice. "i thought that he might have been tired by the journey from london." . . . so it was true then! lothian was drunk. the thing was obvious. but this was a good and loyal fellow, not to give his master away. morton sims liked that. he made a note that poor beery tumpany should have half a sovereign on the morrow, when he was sober. then the two men turned in through the gates of the old house. the front door was wide open to the night. the light which flowed out from the tall lamp upon an oak table in the hall cut into the black velvet of the drive with a sharply defined wedge of orange-yellow. there was something ominous in this wide-set door of a frightened house. the doctor walked straight into the hall, a small old-fashioned place panelled in white. to the right another door stood open. in the doorway stood a maid-servant with a frightened face. beyond her, through the archway of the door, showed the section of a singularly beautiful room. the maid started. "oh, you've come, sir!" she said--"in here please, sir." the doctor followed the girl into the lit room. this is what he saw:-- a room with the walls covered with canvas of a delicate oat-meal colour up to the height of seven feet. above this a moulded beading of wood which had been painted vermilion--the veritable post-box red. above this again a frieze of pure white paper. at set intervals upon the canvas were brilliant colour-prints in thin gold frames. the room was lit with many candles in tall holders of silver. at one side of it was a table spread for supper, gleaming with delicate napery and cut glass, peaches in a bowl of red earthenware, ruby-coloured wine in a jug of german glass with a lid of pewter shaped like a snake's head. at the other side of the room was a huge chesterfield couch, upholstered in broad stripes of black and olive linen. the still figure of a man in a tweed suit lay upon the couch. there was blood upon his face and clotted rust-like stains upon his loosened collar. a washing-bowl of stained water stood upon the green carpet. upon a chair, by the head of the couch a tall woman with shining yellow hair was sitting. she wore a low-cut evening dress of black, pearls were about the white column of her throat, a dragon fly of emeralds set in aluminium sparkled in her hair, and upon her wrists were heavy moorish bracelets of oxydised silver studded with the bird's egg blue of the turquoise stone. for an instant, not of the time but of thought, the doctor was startled. then, as the stately and beautiful woman rose to meet him, he understood. she had decked herself, adorned her fair body with all the braveries she had so that she might be lovely and acceptable to her husband's eyes as he came home to her. came home to her . . . like this! morton sims had shaken the slim hand, murmured some words of condolence, and hastened to the motionless figure upon the couch. his deft fingers were feeling, pressing, touching with a wonderful instinct, the skull beneath the tumbled masses of blood-clotted hair. nothing there, scalp wounds merely. arms, legs--yes, these were uninjured too. the collar-bone was intact under the flesh that cushioned it. the skin of the left wrist was lacerated and bruised--lothian, of course, had been sitting on the left side of the driver when he fell like a log from the gig--but the bones of the hand and arm were normal. there was not a single symptom of brain concussion. the deep gurgling breathing, the alarming snore-like sound that came from between the curiously pure and clear-cut lips, meant one thing only. morton sims stood up. mary lothian was waiting. there was an agony of expectation in her eyes. "not the least reason to be alarmed," said the doctor. "some nasty cuts in the scalp, that is all." she gave a deep sigh, a momentary shudder, and then her face became calm. "it is so kind of you to come, doctor," she said.--"then that deep spasmodic breathing--he has not really hurt his head?" "not in the least as far as i can say, and i am fairly certain. we must get him up to bed. then i can cut away the hair and bandage the wounds. i must take his temperature also. it's possible--just possible that the shock may have unpleasant results, though i really don't think it will. i will give him some bromide though, as soon as he wakes up." "ah!" she said. that was all, but it meant everything. he knew that to this woman, at least, plain-speaking was best. "yes," he continued, "i am sorry to say that he is under the influence of alcohol. he has obviously been drinking heavily of late. i am a specialist in such matters and i can hardly be mistaken. there is just a possibility that this may bring on delirium tremens--only a possibility. he has never suffered from that?" "oh, never. thank god never!" a sob came into her voice. her face glowed with the love and tenderness within, the blue eyes seemed set in a soul rather than in a face, so beautiful had they become. "he's so good," she said with a wistful smile. "you can't think what a sweet boy he is when he doesn't drink any horrible things." "madam, i have read his poems. i know what an intellect and force lies drugged upon that sofa there. but we will soon have the flame burning clearly once more. it has been the work of my life to study these cases." "yes, i know, doctor. i have heard so much of your work." "believe then that i am going to save this foolish young man, to give him back to you and to the world. a free man once more!" "free!" she whispered. "oh, free from his vice!" "_vice_, madam! i thought that all intelligent people understood by this time. for the last ten years i and my colleagues have been trying to make them understand! it is not a _vice_ from which your husband suffers. it is a _disease_!" he saw that she was pleased that he had spoken to her thus--though he was in some doubt if she appreciated what he had actually said. but already the shuttle of an incipient friendship was beginning to dart between them. two high clear souls had met and recognised each other. "well, suppose we get him to bed, doctor," she said. "we can carry him up between us. there are two maids, and tumpany is quite sober enough to help." "quite!" the doctor answered. "i rather like that man upon a first meeting." mary laughed--a low contralto laugh. "she has a sense of humour too!" the doctor thought. "yes," she said, "tumpany is a good fellow at heart. and, like most people who drink, when he is himself he is a quite delightful person." she went out into the hall, tall and beautiful, the jewels in her hair and on her hands sparkling in the candlelight. morton sims took one of the candles from the table and went up to the couch. a shadow flickered over the face of the man who was lying there. it was but momentary, but in that instant the watcher became cold. the silver of the candle-stick stung the palm of a hand which was suddenly wet. this tranquil, lovely room with its soft yellow light, dissolved and shifted like a scene in a dream. . . . . . . it was a raw winter's morning. the walls were the whitewashed walls of a prison mortuary. there was a smell of chloride of lime. . . . and lying upon a long zinc slab, with little grooves and depressions running down to the eye-hole of a drain, was a still figure whose face was a ghastly caricature of this face, hideously, revoltingly alike . . . mary lothian, tumpany, and two maid-servants came into the room, and with some difficulty the poet was carried upstairs. he was hardly laid upon his bed when the rain came, falling in great sheets with a loud noise, cooling and purging the hot air. chapter iii psychology of the inebriate, and the letter of jewelled words "verbosa ac grandis epistola venit a capreis." --_juvenal._ it was three days after the accident. gilbert lay in bed. his head was crossed with bandages, his wrist was wrapped with lint and a wet compress was upon the ankle of his strained left foot. the windows of his bedroom were wide to the sun and air of the morning. there were two pleasant droning sounds. a bee was flying round the room, and down below in the garden tumpany was mowing the strip of lawn before the house. gilbert was very tranquil. he was wrapped round with a delicious peace of mind and body. he seemed to be floating in some warm ether of peace. there was a table by the side of his bed. in a slender vase upon it was a single marguerite daisy with its full green stem, its rays of white--chinese white in a box of colours--round the central gold. close to his hand, upon the white turned down sheet was a copy of "john inglesant." it was a book he loved and could always return to, and he had had his copy bound in most sumptuous purple. mary came into the bedroom. she was carrying a little tray upon which there was a jug of milk and a bottle of soda water. there was a serene happiness upon her face. she had him now--the man she loved! he was hers, her own without possibility of interference. she was his providence, he depended utterly upon her. there are not many women like this in life, but there are some. perhaps they were more frequent in the days of the past. women who have no single thought of self: women whose thoughts are always prayers: women in whose veins love takes the place of blood, whose hearts are cisterns of sweet charity, whose touch means healing, whose voices are like harps that sound forgiveness and devotion alone. she put the tray upon the bedside table and sat down upon the bed, taking his unwounded hand in hers, stroking it with the soft cushions of her fingers, holding up its well-shaped plumpness as if it were a toy. "there is something so comic about your hands, darling!" she said. "they are so nice and fat and jolly. they make me want to laugh!" to gilbert his wife's happy voice seemed but part of the dream-like peace which lay upon him. he was drowsy with incense. how fresh and fragrant she was! he thought idly. he pulled her down to him and kissed her and the gilded threads of her hair brushed his forehead. her lips were cool as violets with the dew upon their petals. she belonged to him. she was part of the pleasant furniture of the room, the hour! "how are you feeling, darling? you're looking so much better!" "my head hurts a little, but not much. but my nerves are ever so much better. look how steady my hand is." he held it out with childish pride. "and you'll see, molly dear, that when i'm shaved, my complexion will be quite nice again! it's a horrid nuisance not to be able to shave. do i look very bad?" "no, you wicked image! you're a vain little wretch, gillie, really!" "i'm quite sure that i'm not. but, molly, it's so nice to be feeling better. master of one's self. not frightened about things." "of course it is, you old stupid! if you were always good how much happier you'd be! take my advice. do what i tell you, and everything will come right. you've got a great big brain, but you're a silly boy, too! think how much more placid you are now. never take any more spirits again!" "no, i won't, darling. i promise you i won't." "that's right, dear. and this nice new doctor will help you. you like him, don't you?" "molly! what a dear simple fool you are! _like_ him? you don't in the least realise who he is. it's morton sims, morton sims himself! he's a fearfully important person. twice, they say, he's refused to take a baronetcy. he's come down here to do research work. it's an enormous condescension on his part to come and plaster up my head. it's really rather like lord rosebery coming to shave one! and he'll send in a bill for about fifty pounds!" "he won't, gillie dear. i'm sure. but if he does, what's the use of worrying? i'll pay it out of my own money, and i've got nearly as much as you--nasty miser!" they laughed together at this. mary had three or four hundreds a year of her own, gilbert a little more, independently of what he earned by writing. mary was mean with her money. that is to say, she saved it up to give to poorer people and debated with herself about a new frock like a chancellor of the exchequer about the advisability of a fresh tax. and lothian didn't care and never thought about money. he had no real sense of personal property. he liked spending money. he was extravagant for other people. if he bought a rare book, a special japanese colour-print, any desirable thing--he generally gave it away to some one at once. he really liked people with whom he came into contact to have delightful things quite as much as he liked to have them himself. nor was this an outcome of the poisoned state of his body, his brain, and--more terrible than all!--of his mind. it was genuine human kindness, an eager longing that others should enjoy things that he himself enjoyed so poignantly. but what he gave must be the things that _he_ liked, though to all _necessity_ he was liberal. a sick poor person without proper nourishment, a child without a toy, some wretched tramp without tobacco for his pipe--to him these were all tragedies, equal in their appeal to his charity. and this was because of his trained power of psychology, his profound insight into the minds of others, though even that was marred by a rousseau-like belief that every one was good and decent at heart! still, the need of the dying village consumptive for milk and calf's-foot jelly, was no more vivid in his mind than the need of the tramp for a smoke. as far as he was able, it was his duty, his happy duty, to satisfy the wants of both. mary was different. the consumptive, yes! stout flannel shirts for old shepherds who must tend the birth of lambs on bitter spring midnights. food for the tramp, too--no dusty wayfarer should go unsatisfied from the lothians' house! but not the subsequent shilling for beer and shag and the humble luxury of the inn kitchen that gilbert would have bestowed. such was her wise penuriousness in its calm economy of the angels! yet, her husband had his economy also. odd as it was, it was part of his temperament. if he had bought a rare and perfect object of art, and then met some one who he saw longed for it, but couldn't afford to have it in the ordinary way, he took a real delight in giving it. but it would have been easier for him to lop off a hand than to present one of the toftrees' novels to any one who was thirsting for something to read. he would have thought it immoral to do so. he had a great row with his wife when she presented a gaudy pair of pink-gilt vases to an ex-housemaid who was about to be married. "but dear, she's _delighted_," mary had said. "you've committed a crime! it's disgraceful. oblige me by never doing anything of the sort again. why didn't you give her a ham?" "molly, may i have a cigarette?" "hadn't you better have a pipe? the doctor said that you smoked far too many cigarettes and that they were bad for you." for three days lothian had had nothing to drink but a glass of burgundy at lunch and dinner. lying in bed, perfectly tranquil, calling upon no physical resources, the sense of nerve-rest within him was grateful and profound. but the inebriate lives almost entirely upon momentary sensation. the slightest recrudescence of health makes him forget the horrors of the past. in the false calm of his quiet room, his tended state, the love and care surrounding him, gilbert had already come to imagine that he was what he hoped to be in his saner moments. he had, at the moment, not the least desire for a drink. in three days he was already complacent and felt himself strong! yet his nerves were still unstable and every impulse was on a hair trigger, so to speak. the fact became evident at once. he knew well enough that when he began to smoke pipes the most pressing desire of the other narcotic, alcohol, became numbed. cigarettes stimulated that desire, or at least accompanied it. he could not live happily without cigarettes. he knew that mary knew this also--experience of him had given her the sad knowledge--and he was quite certain that dr. morton sims must know too. the extraordinary transitions of the drunkard from one mental state to another are more symptomatic than any other thing about him. gilbert's face altered and became sullen. a sharp and acid note tuned his voice. "i see," he said, "you've been talking me over with morton sims. thank you so _very_ much!" he began to brag about himself, a thing he would have been horrified to do to any one but mary. even with her it was a weak weapon, and sometimes in his hands a mean and cruel one too. ". . . you were kind enough to marry me, but you don't in the least seem to understand whom you have married! is my art nothing to you? do you realise who i am at all--in any way? of course you don't! you're too big a fool to do so. but other women know! at any rate, i beg you will not talk over your husband with stray medical men who come along. you might spare me that at least. i should have thought you would have had more sense of personal dignity than that!" she winced at the cruelty of his words, at the wounding bitterness which he knew so well how to throw into his voice. but she showed no sign of it. he was a poisoned man, and she knew it. morton sims had made it plainer than ever to her at their talks downstairs during the last three days. it wasn't gillie who said these hard things, it was the fiend alcohol that lurked within him and who should be driven out. . . . it wasn't her gilbert, really! in her mind she said one word. "jesus!" it was a prayer, hope, comfort and control. the response was instant. that secret help had been discovered long since by her. of her own searching it had come, and then, one day she had picked up one of her husband's favourite books and had read of this very habit she had acquired. "inglesant found that repeating the name of jesus simply in the lonely nights kept his brain quiet when it was on the point of distraction, being of the same mind as sir charles lucas when 'many times calling upon the sacred name of jesus,' he was shot dead at colchester." the spiritual telegraphy that goes on between earth and heaven, from god to his saints is by no means understood by the world. "you old duffer," mary said. "really, you are a perfect blighter--as you so often call me! haven't you just been boasting about feeling so much better? and, fat wretch! am i not doing everything possible for you. _of course_ i've talked you over with the doctor. we're going to make you right! we're going to make you slim and beautiful once more. my dear thing! it's all arranged and settled. don't bubble like a frog! don't look at your poor missis as if she were a nasty smell! it's no use, gillie dear, we've got you now!" no momentary ill-humour could stand against this. he was, after all, quite dependent upon the lady with the golden hair who was sitting upon his bed. and it was with no more oriental complacence, but with a very humble-minded reverence, that the poet drew his wife to him and kissed her once more. ". . . but i may have a cigarette, molly?" "of course you may, if you want one. it was only a general sort of remark that the doctor made. a few cigarettes can't harm any one. don't i have two every day myself--since you got me into the habit? but you've been smoking fifty a day, for _weeks_ before you went to town." "oh, molly! what utter rot! i _never_ have!" "but you _have_, gilbert. you smoke the virginian ones in the tins of fifty. you always have lots of tins, but you never think how they come into the house. i order them from the grocer in wordingham. they're put down in the monthly book--so you see i _know_!" "fifty a day! of course, it's appalling." "well, you're going to be a good boy now, a perfect angel. here you are, here are three cigarettes for you. and you're going to have a sweet-bread for lunch and i'm going to cook it for you myself!" "dear old dear!" "yes, i am. and tumpany wants to see you. will you see him? dr. morton sims won't be here for another half hour." "yes, i'll have tumpany up. best chap i know, tumpany is. but why's the doctor coming? my head's healed up all right now." there was a whimsical note in his voice as he asked the question. "you know, darling! he wants to have a long talk with you." "apropos of the reformation stakes i suppose." "to give you back your wonderful brain in peace, darling!" she answered, bending down, catching him to her breast in her sweet arms. ". . . gillie! gillie! i love you so!" "and now suppose you send up tumpany, dear." "yes, at once." she went away, smiling and kissing her hand, hoping with an intensity of hope which burned within her like a flame, that when the doctor came and talked to gilbert as had been arranged, the past might be wiped out and a new life begun in this quiet village of east england. in a minute there was a knock at the bedroom door. "come in," gilbert called out. tumpany entered. upon the red face of that worthy person there was a grin of sheer delight as he made his bow and scrape. then he held up his right arm. he was grasping a leash of mallard, and the metallic blue-green and white upon the wings of the ducks shone in the sun. gilbert leapt in his bed, and then put his hand to his bandaged head with a half groan.--"good god!" he cried, "how the deuce did you get those?" "first of august, sir. wildfowling begins!" "heavens! so it is. i ought to have been out! i never thought about the date. damn you for pitching me out of the dog-cart, william!" "yessir! you've told me so before," tumpany answered, his face reflecting the smile upon his master's. "what are they, flappers?" "no, sir, mature birds. i was out on the marshes before daylight. the birds were coming off the meils--and north creake flat. first day since february, sir! you know what i was feeling like!" "don't i, oh, don't i, by jove! now tell me. what were you using?" "well, sir, i thought i would fire at nothing but duck on the first day. just to christen the day, sir. so i used five and a half and smokeless diamond. your cartridges." "what gun?" "well, i used my old pigeon gun, sir. it's full choke, both barrels and on the meils it's always a case of long shots." "why didn't you have one of my guns? the long-chambered twelve, or the big greener ten-bore--they're there in the cupboard in the gun room, you've got the key! did a whole sord of mallard come over, or were those three stragglers?" "a sord, sir. the two drakes were right and left shots and this duck came down too. as i said to the mistress just now, 'last year,' i said, 'mr. gilbert and i were out for two mornings after the first of august and we never brought back nothing but a brace of curlew--and now here's a leash of duck, m'm.'" "if you'd had a bigger gun, and a sord came over, you'd have got a bag, william! why the devil didn't you take the ten-bore?" "well, sir, i won't say as i didn't go and have a look at 'im in the gun room--knowing how they're flighting just now and that a big gun would be useful. but with you lying in bed i couldn't do it. so i went out and shot just for the honour of the house, as it were." "well, i shall be up in a day or two, william, and i'll see if i can't wipe your eye!" "i hope you will, sir, i'm sure. there's quite a lot of mallard about, early as it is." "i'll get among them soon, tumpany!" "yessir--the mistress i think, sir, and the doctor." tumpany's ears were keen, like those of most wildfowlers,--he heard voices coming along the passage towards the bedroom. the door opened and morton sims came in with mary. he shook hands with gilbert, admired tumpany's leash of duck, and then, left alone with the poet, sat down upon the bed. the two men regarded each other with interest. they were both "personalities" and both of them made their mark in their several ways. "good heavens!" the doctor was thinking. "what a brilliant brain's hidden behind those lint bandages! this is the man who can make the throat swell with sorrow and the heart leap high with hope! with all my learning and success, i can only bring comfort to people's bowels or cure insomnia. this fellow here can heal souls--like a priest! even for me--now and then--he has unlocked the gates of fairyland." "good lord!" gilbert said to himself. "what wouldn't i give to be a fellow like this fellow. he is great. he can put a drug into one's body and one's soul awakes! he's got a magic wand. he waves it, and sanity returns. he pours out of a bottle and blind eyes once more see god, dull ears hear music! i go and get drunk at amberleys' house and cringe before a toftrees, mon dieu! this man can never go away from a house without leaving a sense of loss behind him." --"well, how are you, mr. lothian?" "much better, thanks, doctor. i'm feeling quite fit, in fact." "yes, but you're not, you know. i made a complete examination of you yesterday, you remember, and now i've tabulated the results." "tell me then." "if you weren't who you are, i wouldn't tell you at all, being who you are, i will." lothian nodded. "fire away!" he said with his sweet smile, his great charm of manner--all the greater for the enforced abstinence of the last three days--"i shan't funk anything you tell me." "very well, then. your liver is beginning--only beginning--to be enlarged. you've got a more or less permanent catarrh of the stomach, and a permanent catarrh of the throat and nasal passages from membranes inflamed by alcohol and constant cigarette smoking. and there is a hint of coming heart trouble, too." lothian laughed, frankly enough. "i know all that," he said. "really, doctor, there's nothing very dreadful in that. i'm as strong as a horse, really!" "yes, you are, in one way. your constitution is a fine one. i was talking to your man-servant yesterday and i know what you are able to go through when you are shooting in the winter. i would not venture upon such risks myself even." "then everything is for the best, in the best of all possible worlds?" gilbert answered lightly, feeling sure that the other would take him. "unfortunately, in your case, it's _not_," morton sims replied. "you seem to forget two things about 'candide'--that dr. pangloss was a failure and a fool, and that one must cultivate one's garden! voltaire was a wise man!" gilbert dropped his jesting note. "you've something to say to me," he answered, "probably a good deal more. say it. say anything you like, and be quite certain that i shan't be offended." "i will. it's this, mr. lothian. your stomach will go on digesting and your heart performing its functions long after your brain has gone." then there was silence in the sunlit bedroom. "you think that?" lothian said at length, in a quiet voice. "i know it. you are on the verge of terrible nervous and mental collapse. i'm going to be brutal, but i'm going to speak the truth. three months more of drinking as you have been of late and, for all effective purposes you go out!" gilbert's face flushed purple with rage. "how dare you say such a thing to me, sir?" he cried. "how dare you tell me, tell _me_, that i have been drinking heavily. you are certainly wise to say it when there is no witness here!" morton sims smiled sadly. he was quite unmoved by lothian's rage. it left him cool. but when he spoke, there was a hypnotic ring in his voice which caught at the weak and tremulous will of the man upon the bed and held it down. "now really, mr. lothian!" he said, "what on earth is the use of talking like that to me? it means nothing. it does not express your real thought. can you suppose that your condition is not an open book to _me_? you know that you wouldn't speak as you're doing if your nerves weren't in a terrible state. you have one of the finest minds in england; don't bring it to irremediable ruin for want of a helping hand." lothian lay back on his pillow breathing quickly. he felt that his hands were trembling and he pushed them under the clothes. his legs were twitching and a spasm of cramp-pain shot into the calf of one of them. "look here, doctor," he said after a moment, "i spoke like a fool, which i'm not. i have been rather overdoing it lately. my work has been worrying me and i've been trying to whip myself up with alcohol." morton sims nodded. "well, we'll soon put you right," he said. mary lothian had told him the true history of the case. for three years, at least, her husband had been drinking steadily, silent, persistent, lonely drinking. for a long time, a period of months to her own fear and horror-quickened knowledge, lothian had been taking a quantity of spirits which she estimated at two-thirds of a bottle a day. without enlightening her, and adding what an inebriate of this type could easily procure in addition, the doctor put the true quantity at about a bottle and a half--say for the last two months certainly. he knew also, that whatever else lothian might do, either now or when he became more confidential, he would lie about the _quantity_ of spirits he was in the habit of consuming. inebriates always do. "of course," he said, talking in a quiet man-of-the-world voice, "_i_ know what a strain such work as yours must be, and there is certainly temptation to stimulate flagging energies with some drug. hundreds of men do it, doctors too!--literary men, actors, legal men!" he noted immediately the slight indication of relief in the patient, who thought he had successfully deceived him, and he saw also that sad and doubting anxiety in the eyes, which says so poignantly, "what must i do to be saved?" could he save this man? everything was against it, his history, his temperament, the length to which he had already gone. the whole stern and horrible statistics of experience were dead against it. but he could, and would, try. there was a chance. a great doctor must think more rapidly than a general upon the field of battle; as quickly indeed as one who faces a deadly antagonist with the naked foil. there was one way in which to treat this man. he must tell him more about the psychology--and even if necessary the pathology--of his own case than he could tell any ordinary patient. "i'll tell you something," he said, "and i expect your personal experience will back me up. you've no 'craving' for alcohol i expect? on the sensual side there's no sense of indulging in a pleasurable self-gratification?" lothian's face lighted up with interest and surprise. "not a _bit_," he said excitedly, "that's exactly where people make a mistake! i don't mind telling you that when i've taken more than i ought, people, my wife and so on, have remonstrated with me. but none of them ever seem to understand. they talk about a 'craving' and so on. religious people, even the cleverest, don't seem to understand. i've heard bishop moultrie preach a temperance sermon and talk about the 'vice' of indulgence, the hideous 'craving' and all that. but it never seemed to explain anything to me, nor did it to all the men who drink too much, i ever met." "there _is_ no craving," the doctor answered quietly--"in the sense these people use the word. and there is no vice. it is a disease. they mean well, they even effect some cures, but they are misinformed." "well, it's very hard to answer them at any rate. one somehow knows within oneself that they're all wrong, but one can't explain." "i can explain to you--i couldn't explain to, well to your man tumpany for instance, _he_ couldn't understand." "tumpany only drinks beer," lothian answered in a tone of voice that a traveller in thibet would use in speaking of some one who had ventured no further from home than boulogne. it was another indication, an unconscious betrayal. his defences were fast breaking down. morton sims felt the keen, almost æsthetic pleasure the artist knows when he is doing good work. already this mind was responsive to the skilled touch and the expected, melancholy music sounding from that injured instrument. "he seems a very good sort, that fellow of yours," the doctor continued indifferently, and then, with a more eager and confidential manner, "but let me explain where the ordinary temperance people are wrong. first, tell me, haven't you at times quarrelled with friends, because you've become suspicious of them, and have imagined some treacherous and concealed motive in the background?" "i don't know that i've quarrelled much." "well, perhaps not. but you've felt suspicious of people a good deal. you've wondered whether people were thinking about you. in all sorts of little ways you've had these thoughts constantly. perhaps if a correspondent who generally signs himself 'yours sincerely' has inadvertently signed 'yours truly' you have worried a good deal and invented all sorts of reasons. if some person of position you know drives past you, and his look or wave of the hand does not appear to be as cordial as usual, don't you invent all kinds of distressing reasons to account for what you imagine?" lothian nodded. his face was flushed again, his eyes--rather yellow and bloodshot still--were markedly startled, a little apprehensive. "if this man knew so much, a wizard who saw into the secret places of the mind, what more might he not know?" but it was impossible for him to realise the vast knowledge and supreme skill of the pleasant man with the cultured voice who sat on the side of the bed. the fear was perfectly plain to morton sims. "may i have a cigarette?" he said, taking his case from his pocket. lothian became more at ease at once. "well,"--puff-puff--"these little suspicions are characteristic of the disease. the man who is suffering from it says that these feelings of resistance cannot arise in himself. therefore, they must be caused by somebody. who more likely then than by those who are in social contact with him?" "i see that and it's very true. perhaps truer than you can know!" lothian said with a rather bitter smile. "but how does all this explain what we were talking about at first. the 'craving' and all that?" "i am coming to it now. i had to make the other postulate first. in this way. we have seen in this suspicion--one of many instances--that an entirely fictitious world is created in the mind of a man by alcohol. it is one in which he _must_ live. it is peopled with unrealities and phantasies. as he goes on drinking, this world becomes more and more complex. then, when a man becomes in a state which we call 'chronic alcoholism' a new ego, a new self is created. _this new personality fails to recognise that it was ever anything else_--mark this well--_and proceeds to harmonise everything with the new state_. and now, as the new consciousness, the new ego, is the compelling mind of the moment, the inebriate is terrified at any weakening in it. _the preservation of this new ego seems to be his only guard against the_ imagined _pitfalls and treacheries_. therefore he does all in his power to strengthen his defences. he continues alcohol, because it is to him the only possible agent by which he can _keep grasp of his identity_. for him it is no poison, no excess. it sustains his very being. his _stomach_ doesn't crave for it, as the ignorant will tell you. it has no _sensual_ appeal. lots of inebriates hate the taste of alcohol. in advanced stages it is quite a matter of indifference to a man what form of alcohol he drinks. if he can't get whiskey, he will drink methylated spirit. he takes the drug simply because of the necessity for the maintenance of a condition the falsity of which he is unable to appreciate." lothian lay thinking. the lucid statement was perfectly clear to him and absorbingly interesting in its psychology. he was a profound psychologist himself, though he did not apply his theories personally, a spectator of others, turning away from the contemplation of himself during the past years in secret terror of what he might find there. how new this was, yet how true. it shed a flood of light upon so much that he had failed to understand! "thank you," he said simply. "i feel certain that what you say is true." morton sims nodded with pleasure. "perhaps nothing is quite true," he said, "but i think we are getting as near truth in these matters as we can. what we have to do, is to let the whole of the public know too. when once it is thoroughly understood what inebriety is, then the remedy will be applied, the only remedy." "and that is?" "i'll tell you our theories at my next visit. you must be quiet now." "but there are a dozen questions i want to ask you--and my own case?" "i am sending you some medicine, and we will talk more next time. and, if you like, i will send you a paper upon the psychology of the alcoholic, which i read the other day before the society for the study of alcoholism. it may interest you. but don't necessarily take it all for gospel! i'm only feeling my way." "i'll compare it with such experiences as i have had--though of course i'm not what you'd call an _inebriate_." there was a lurking undercurrent of suspicion creeping into his voice once more. "of course not! did i ever say so, mr. lothian! but what you propose will be of real value to me, if i may have your conclusions." lothian was flattered. he would show this great scientist how entirely capable he could be of understanding and appreciating his researches. he would collaborate with him. it would be new and exhilarating! "i'll make notes," he replied, "and please use them as you will!" the doctor rose. "thanks," he answered. "it will be a help. but what we really require is an alcoholic de quincey to detail in his graphic manner the memories of his past experiences--a man who has the power and the courage to lay open the cravings and the writhings of his former slavery, and to compare them with his emancipated self." lothian started. when the kindly, keen-faced man had gone, he lay long in thought. in the afternoon mary came to him. "do you mind if i leave you for an hour or two, dear?" she asked. "i have some things to get and i thought i would drive into wordingham." "of course not, i shall be quite all right." "well, be sure and ring for anything you want." "very well. i shall probably sleep. by the way, i thought of asking dickson ingworth down for a few days. there are some duck about, you know, and he can bring his gun." "do, darling, if you would like him." "very well, then. i wonder if you'd write a note for me, explaining that i'm in bed, but shall be up to-morrow. supposing you ask him to come in a couple of days." "yes, i will," she replied, kissing him with her almost maternal, protective air, "and i'll post it in wordingham." when she had left the room he began to smoke slowly. he felt a certain irritation at all this love and regard, a discontent. mary was always the same. with his knowledge of her, he could predict with absolute accuracy what she would do in almost every given moment. she would do the right thing, the kind and wise thing, but the certain, the predicted thing. she lived from a great depth of being and peace personified was hers, the peace of god indeed!--but-- "she has no changes, no surprises," he thought, "all even surface, even depth." he admired all her care and watchfulness of him with deep æsthetic pleasure. it was beautiful and he loved beauty. but now and then, it bored him as applied to himself. after six months of the unchanging gold and blue of italy and greece, he remembered how he had longed for a grey, weeping sky, with ashen cirrus clouds, heaped tumuli of smoke-grey and cold pearl. and sometimes after a lifeless, rotting autumn and an iron-winter, how every fibre cried out for the sun and the south! he remembered that a man of letters, who had got into dreadful trouble and had served a period of imprisonment, had remarked to him that the food of penal servitude was plentiful and good, but that it was its dreadful monotony that made it a contributory torture. and who could live for ever upon honey-comb? not he at any rate. mary was "always her sweet self"--just like a phrase in a girl's novel. there were men who liked that, and preferred it, of course. even when she was angry with him, he knew exactly how the quarrel would go--a tune he had heard many times before. the passion of their early love had faded; as it must always do. she was beautiful and desirable still, but too calm, too peaceful, sometimes! this was one of those times. one must be trained to appreciate heaven properly, paradise must be experienced first--otherwise, would not almost every one want a little holiday sometimes? he thought of a meeting of really good people, men and women--one stumbled in upon such a thing now and then. how appallingly dull they generally were! did they never crave for madder music and stronger wine? . . . he could not read. restless and rebellious thoughts occupied his mind. the fiend alcohol was at work once more, though lothian had no suspicion of it. the new and evil ego, created by alcohol, which the doctor had told him of, was awake within him, asserting itself, stirring uneasily, finding its identity diminishing, its vitality lowered and thus clamant for its rights. and if this, in all its horror, is not true demoniacal possession, what else is? what more does the precise scientific language of those who study the psychology of the inebriate mean than "he was possessed of a devil"? the fiend, the new ego, went on with its work as the poet lay there and the long lights of the summer afternoon filled the room with gold-dust. the house was absolutely still. mary had given orders that there was to be no noise at all, "in order that the master might sleep, if he could." it was a summer's afternoon, the scent of some flowers below in the garden came up to gilbert with a curious familiarity. what _was_ the scent? what memory, which would not come, was it trying to evoke? a motor-car droned through the village beyond the grounds. memory leaped up in a moment. of course! the ride to brighton, the happy afternoon with rita wallace. that was it! he had thought of her a good deal on the journey down from london--until he had sat in the dining car with those shooting men from thetford and had had too many whiskeys and sodas. during the last three days in bed, she had not "occurred" to him vividly. yet all the time there had been something at the back of his mind of which he had been conscious, but was unable to explain to himself. the nasty knock on his head, when he had taken a toss from the dogcart, was the reason, no doubt. yet, there had been a distinct sense of hidden thought-treasure, something to draw upon as it were. and now he knew! and abandoned himself to the luxury of the discovery. he must write to her, of course. he had promised to do so at once. already she would be wondering. he would write her a wonderful letter. such a letter as few men could write, and certainly such as she had never received. he would put all he knew into it. his sweet girl-friend should marvel at the jewelled words. the idea excited him. his pulses began to beat quicker, his eyes grew brighter. but he would not do it now. night was the time for such a present as he would make for her, when all the house was sleeping and mary was in her own room. then, in the night-silence, his brain should be awake, weaving a coloured tapestry of prose with words for threads, this new, delicious impulse of friendship the shuttle to carry them. like some coarser epicure, arranging and gloating over the details of a feast to come, he made his plans. he pressed the electric button at the side of the bed and blanche, the housemaid, answered the summons. "where is tumpany, blanche?" he asked. "in the garden, sir." "well, tell him to come up, please. i want to speak to him." in a minute or two heavy steps resounded down the corridor, accompanied by a curious scuffling noise. there was a knock, the door opened, a yelp of joy, and the dog trust had leapt upon the bed and was rolling over and over upon the counterpane, licking his master's hands, making loving dashes for his face, his faithful little heart bursting with emotions he was quite unable to express. "thought you'd like to see him, sir," said tumpany. "he know'd you'd come back right enough, and he's been terrible restless." lothian captured the dog at last, and held him pressed to his side. "i am very glad to see the old chap again. look here, william, just you go quietly over to the mortland arms, don't look as if you were going on any special errand,--but you know--and get a bottle of whiskey. draw the cork and put it back in the bottle so that i can take it out with my fingers when i want to. then bring it quietly up here." "yessir," said tumpany. "that'll be all right, sir," and departed with a somewhat ludicrous air of secrecy and importance that tickled his master's sense of humour and made him smile. it was by no means the first time that tumpany had carried out these little confidential missions. in ten minutes the man was back again, with the bottle. "shall i leave the dog, sir?" "yes, you may as well. he's quite happy." tumpany went away. gilbert rose from bed, the bottle in his hand, and looked round for a hiding-place. the wardrobe! that would do. he put it in one of the big inside pockets of a shooting-coat which was hanging there and carefully closed the door. as he did so, he caught sight of his face in the panel-mirror. it was sly and unpleasant. something horrible seemed to be peeping out. he shook his head and a slight blush came to his cheeks. the eyes under the bandaged brow, the smirk upon the clear-cut mouth. . . . "beastly!" he said aloud, as if speaking of some one else--as indeed he really was, had he but realised it. now he would sleep, to be fresh for the night. bromide--always a good friend, though not so certain in its action as in the past--ammonium bromide should paralyse his racing brain to sleep. he dissolved five tablets in a little water and drank the mixture. when mary came noiselessly into the room, three hours later, he was sleeping calmly. one arm was round the dog trust, who was sleeping too. her husband looked strangely youthful and innocent. a faint smile hung about his lips and her whole heart went out to him as he slept. * * * * * it was after midnight. deep peace brooded over the poet's household. only he was awake. the dog slumbered in his kennel, the servants in their rooms, the sweet chatelaine of the old house lay in tranquil sleep in her own chamber. . . . on a small oak table by gilbert's bedside, three tall candles were burning in holders of silver. upon it also was an open bottle of whiskey, the carafe of water from the washstand and a bedroom tumbler. the door was locked. gilbert was sitting up in bed. upon his raised knees a pad of white paper was resting. in his hand was a stylographic pen of red vulcanite, and a third of the page was covered with small delicate writing. his face was flushed but quite motionless. his whole body in its white pyjama suit was perfectly still. the only movement was that of the hand travelling over the page, the only sound that of the dull grinding of the stylus, as it went this way and that. there was something sinister about this automaton in the bed with its moving hand. and in our day there is always something a little fantastic and unreal about candlelight. . . . how absolutely still the night was! not a breath of air stirred. the movements, the stir and tumult of the mind of the person so rigid in the bed were not heard. _what_ was it, _who_ was it, that was writing in the bed? who can say? was it gilbert lothian, the young and kindly-natured man who reverenced all things that were pure, beautiful and of good report? or was it that dreadful other self, the being created out of poison, that was laying sure and stealthy fingers upon the soul, that "glorious devil large of heart and brain"? who can tell? the subtle knowledge of the great doctor could not have said, the holy love of the young matron could not have divined. these things are hidden yet, and still will be. the hump of the bed-clothes sank. the pad fell flat. the figure stretched out towards the table, there was the stealthy trickle of liquid, the gurgle of a body, drinking. then the bed-clothes rose once more, the pad went to its place, the figure stiffened; and the red pen moved obedient to that which controlled it, setting down the jewelled words upon the page. --the first of the long series of letters that the girl of the library was destined to receive! not the most beautiful perhaps, not the most wonderful. passion was not born yet, and if love was, there was no concrete word of it here. no one but gilbert lothian ever knew what was born on that fated midnight, when he wrote this first subtle letter, deadly for this girl to receive, perhaps, from such a man, at such a time in her life. a love letter without a word of love. these are passages from the letter:-- . . . "so, rita, i am going to write a great poem for you. will you take it from your friend? i think you will, for it will be made for you in the first place and wrought with all my skill. "i am going to call it 'a lady in a library.' no one will know the innermost inwardness of it but just you and me. will not that be delightful, rita mia amica? when you answer this letter, say that it will be delightful, please! "'a lady in a library!' are not the words wonderful--say it quietly to yourself--'a lady in a library!'" this was the poem which appeared two months afterwards in the _english review_ and definitely established gilbert lothian's claim to stand in the very forefront of the poets of his decade. it is certain to live long. more than one critic of the highest standing has printed his belief that it will be immortal, and many lovers of the poet's work think so too. . . . "the lady and the poet meet in a library upon a golden afternoon. she is the very spirit and genius of the place. she has drawn beauty from many brave books. they have told her their secrets as she moves among them, and lavished all their store upon her. some of the beauty which they hold has passed into her face, and the rosy tints of youth become more glorious. "oh, they have been very generous! "the thin volume of keats gave her eyes their colour, but an old and sober-backed edition of coleridge opened its dun boards and robbed the magic stanzas of 'kubla khan' to give them their mystery and wonder. "milton bestowed the music of her voice, but it came from the second volume in which comus lies hid. her smile was half herrick and half heine, and her hair was spun in a 'wood near athens' by the fairies--tom iii, _opera glmi shakespeare, editio e libris podley!_--upon a night in midsummer." "random thoughts, cupid! random thoughts! they come to me like moths through the still night, and i put them down for you. a grey-fawn _papillon de nuit_ is fluttering round my candles now and sometimes he falls flapping and whirring on my paper like a tiny clock-work toy. but i will not kill him. i am happy in writing to my friend, distilling my friendship for you in the lonely laboratory of self, so he shall go unharmed. his ancestors may have feasted upon royal tapestries and laid their eggs in the purple robes of kings! "what are the moths like in kensington this night, cupid?--but of course you are asleep now. i make a picture for myself of you sleeping. "the whole village is asleep now, save only me, and i am trying to reconstruct our afternoon and evening together, five days ago or was it six? it is more than ever possible to do that at midnight and alone, though every detail is etched upon my memory and i am only adding colour. "how happy we were! it is so strange to me to think how instantly we became friends--as we are agreed we are always to be, you and i. and think of all we still have to find out about each other! there are golden days coming in our friendship, all sorts of revelations and surprises. there are so many enchanted places in the kingdom of thought to which i have the key, so many doors i shall open for you. "ours shall be a perfect friendship--of your bounty i crave again what you have already given!--and i will build it up as an artificer in rare woods or stained marbles, a carver of moon-stones, a builder of temples in honey-coloured travertine, makes beautiful states in which the soul can dwell, out of beautiful perishable things. "how often do two people meet as you and i have met? most rarely. men and women fall in love, sometimes too early, sometimes too late. there is a brief summer, and then a long winter of calm grey days which numb the soul into acquiescence, or stab the dull tranquillity with the lightnings of tragedy and woe. "we have the better part! we are to be friends, rita, you and i--that is the rivulet of repeated melody which runs through my first letter to you. some sad dawn will rise for me, when you tell of something nearer and more poignant than anything i can offer you. it will be a dawn in which, for you the trumpets, the sackbuts and the psalteries of heaven will sound. and your friend will bless you; and retire to the back of the scene with a most graceful bow! "in the last act of the play, when all the players appear as nymphs and graces, and seasons, your friend will be found wearing the rich yet sober liveries of autumn, saluting spring and her partner with a courtly song, and a dance which expresses his sentiments according to the best choreographic traditions. "but, as he retires among the last red leaves of the year, and walks jauntily down the forest rides as the setting sun shows the trees already bare, he will know one thing, even if spring does not know it then--when she turns to her partner. "he will know that in her future life, his voice, his face, can never be quite forgotten. sometimes, at the feast, 'surgit amari aliquid' that he is not present there with the wistful glance, the hands that were ever reverent, the old familiar keys! "for a brief instant of recollection, he will have for you '_l'effet d'un clair-de-lune par une nuit d'été'_. and you will say to yourself, '_ami du temps passés, vos paroles me reviennent comme un écho lointain, comme le son d'un cloche apporté par le vent; et il me semble que vous êtes là quand je lis des passages d'amour dans vos livres_'." a click of glass against glass, the low sound of drinking, a black shadow parodied and repeated upon the ceiling in the candle-glow. the letter is nearly finished now--the bottle is nearly empty. "'tiens!' i hear you say--by the way, rita, where did you learn to speak such perfect french? they tell me in paris and, mon dieu! in tours even! that i speak well. mais, toi! . . . "well 'how stupid!' i hear you say. 'why does gilbert strike this note of the 'cello and the big sobbing flutes at the very beginning of things?' "why, indeed? i hardly know myself. but it is very late now. the curtains of the dark are already shaken by the birth-pangs of the morning. soon the jocund noises of dawn will begin. "let it be so for you and me. there are long and happy days coming in our friendship. the end is not yet! soon, quite soon, i will return to london with a pocket-full of plans for pleasure, and the magician's wand polished like the poker in the best parlour of an evangelical household, and charged with the most superior magic! "meanwhile i shall write you my thoughts as you must send me yours. "i kiss your hand, "gilbert lothian." the figure rose from the bed, gathering the papers together, putting them into a drawer of the dressing-table. it staggered a little. "i'm drunk," came in a tired voice, from lips that were parched and dry. with trembling hands the empty bottle was hidden, the glass washed out and replaced, the door noiselessly unlocked. then lothian lurched to the open window. it was as he had said, dawn was at hand. but a thick grey mist hid everything. phantoms seemed to sway in it, speaking to each other with tiny doll-like squeaks. there were no jocund noises as he crept back into bed and fell into a stupor, snoring loudly. no jocund noises of dawn. chapter iv dickson ingworth under the microscope "on n'est jamais trahi que par ses siens." --_proverb of provence._ lothian and dickson ingworth were driving into wordingham. it was just after lunch and there was a pleasant cold-snap in the air, a hint of autumn which would soon be here. the younger man was driving, sending the cob along at a good pace, quite obviously a skilful and accustomed whip. his host sat by his side and looked up at him with some curiosity, a curiosity which had been growing upon him during the last few days. ingworth was certainly good-looking, in a boyish, rather rakish fashion. there were no indications of dissipation in his face. he was not a dissipated youth. but there was, nevertheless, in the cast of the features, something that suggested rather more than staidness. the hair was dark red and very crisp and curly, the mouth was well-shaped and rather thick in the lips. upon it, more often than not, was the hint of a smile at some inward thought, "rather like some youthful apprentice pirate, not adventured far upon the high seas yet, but with sufficient experience to lick the chops of memory now and then" . . . thus gilbert's half amused, half wondering thought. and the eyes?--yes, there was something a little queer about the eyes. they were dark, not very steady in expression, and the whites--by jove! that was it--had a curious opalescence at times. could it possibly be that his friend had a touch of the tar-brush somewhere? it was faint, elusive, born more of a chance thought than of reality perhaps, and yet as the dog-cart bowled along the straight white road gilbert wondered more and more. he had known the lad, who was some two and twenty years of age, for twelve months or more. where had he met him?--oh, yes, at an exhibition of caricatures in the carfax gallery. cromartie had introduced them. ingworth had made friends at once. in a graceful impulsive way he had taken lothian into a corner, and, blushing a good deal, had told him how much he had wanted to know him. he had just come down from oxford; he told the poet how eagerly he was being read by the younger men there. that was how it had begun. friendship was an immediate result. lothian, quite impervious to flattery and spurning coteries and the "tea-shops," had found this young man's devotion a pleasant thing. he was a gentleman and he didn't bore gilbert by literary talk. he was, in short, like an extremely intelligent fag to a boy in the sixth form of a public school. he spoke the same language of oxford and school that gilbert did--the bond between them was just that, and the elder and well-known man had done all he could for his protégé. from gilbert's point of view, the friendship had occurred by chance, it had presented no jarring elements, and he had drifted into it with good-natured acquiescence. it was a fortnight after mary had sent the invitation to ingworth, who could not come at the moment, being kept in london by "important work." he had now arrived, and this was the eighth day of his visit. "i can't understand tumpany letting this beast down," ingworth said. "he's as sure footed as possible. was tumpany fluffed?" "i suppose he was, a little." "then why didn't you drive, gilbert?" "i? oh, well, i did myself rather well in the train coming down, and so i thought i'd leave it to william!" gilbert smiled as he said this, his absolutely frank and charming smile--it would have disarmed a coroner! ingworth smiled also, but here was something self-conscious and deprecating. he was apologising for his friend's rueful but open statement of fact. the big man had said, in effect, "i was drunk," the small man tried to excuse the plain statement with quite unnecessary sycophancy. "but you couldn't have been very bad?" "oh, no, i wasn't, dicker. but i was half asleep as we got into the village, and as you see this cart is rather high and with a low splashboard. my feet weren't braced against the foot-bar and i simply shot out!" ingworth looked quickly at lothian, and chuckled. then he clicked his tongue and the trap rolled on silently. lothian sat quietly in his place, smoking his cigar. he was conscious of a subtle change in this lad since he had come down. it interested him. he began to analyse as ingworth drove onwards, quite oblivious of the keen, far-seeing brain beside him. --that last little laugh of ingworth's. there was a new note in it, a note that had sounded several times during the last few days. it almost seemed informed with a slight hint of patronage, and also of reservation. it wasn't the admiring response of the past. the young man had been absolutely loyal in the past, though no great strain had been put upon his friendship. it was not difficult to be friends with a benefactor--while the benefactions last. certainly on one occasion--at the amberleys' dinner-party--he had behaved with marked loyalty. gilbert had heard all about it from rita wallace. but that, after all, was an isolated instance. lothian decided to test it. . . . "of course i wasn't tight," he said suddenly and with some sharpness. "my dear old chap," the lad replied hastily--too hastily--"don't i know?" it wasn't sincere! how badly he did it! lothian watched him out of the corner of his eye. there was certainly _something_. dickson was changed. then the big mind brushed these thoughts away impatiently. it had enough to brood over! this small creature which was just now intruding in the great and gathering sweep of his daily thoughts might well be dissected some other time. lothian's head sank forward upon his chest. his eyes lost light and speculation, the mouth set firm. instinctively he crossed his arms upon his breast, and the clean-shaved face with the growing heaviness of contour mingled with its youth, made an almost napoleonic profile against the bright grey arc of sky over the marshes. ingworth saw it and wondered. "one can see he's a big man," he thought with a slight feeling of discomfort. "i wonder if toftrees is right and his reputation is going down and people are beginning to find out about him?" he surveyed the circumstances of the last fortnight--two very important weeks for him. until his arrival in norfolk about a week ago he had not seen lothian since the night of the party at the amberleys', the poet having left town immediately afterwards. but he had met, and seen a good deal of herbert toftrees and his wife. these worthy people liked an audience. their somewhat dubious solar system was incomplete without a whole series of lesser lights. the rewards of their industry and popularity were worth little unless they were constantly able to display them. knowing their own disabilities, however, quite aware that they were in literature by false pretences so to speak, they preferred to be reigning luminaries in a minor constellation rather than become part of the star dust in the milky way. courtier stars must be recruited, little eager parasitic stars who should twinkle pleasantly at their hospitable board. dickson ingworth, much to his own surprise and delight, had been swept in. he thought himself in great good luck, and perhaps indeed he was. nephew of a retired civilian from the malay archipelago, he had been sent to eton and oxford by this gentleman, who had purchased a small estate in wiltshire and settled down as a minor country squire. the lad was destined to succeed to this moderate establishment, but, at the university, he had fallen into one of those small and silly "literary" sets, which are the despair of tutors and simply serve as an excuse for general slackness. the boy had announced his intention of embracing a literary career when he had managed to scrape through his pass schools. he had a hundred a year of his own--always spent before he received it--and the wiltshire squire, quite confident in the ultimate result, had cut off his allowance. "try it," he had said. "no one will be more pleased than i if you make it a success. you won't, though! when you're tired, come back here and take up your place. it will be waiting for you. but meanwhile, my dear boy, not a penny do you get from me!" so dickson ingworth had "embraced a literary career." the caresses had not as yet been returned with any ardour. conceit and a desire to taste "ginger in the mouth while it was hot" had sent him to london. he had hardly ever read a notable book. he had not the slightest glimmerings of what literature meant. but he got a few short stories accepted now and then, did some odd journalism, and lived on his hundred a year, a fair amount of credit, and such friends as he was able to make. in his heart of hearts the boy knew himself for what he was. but his good looks, his youth--most valuable asset of all!--and the fact that he would some day have some sort of settled position, enabled him to rub along pretty well for the time. without much real harm in him--he was too lacking in temperament to be really wicked--he was as cunning as an ape and justified his good opinions of his cleverness by the fact that his laborious little tricks constantly succeeded. he was always achieving infinitesimal successes. he had marked out gilbert lothian, for instance, and had succeeded in making a friend of him easily enough. lothian rarely thought ill of any one and any one could take him in. to do ingworth justice he liked lothian very much, and really admired him. he did not understand him in the least. his poems were rather worse greek to him than the euripidean choruses he had learnt by heart at school. at the same time it was a great thing to be fidus achates to the poet of the moment, and it was extremely convenient--also--to have a delightful country house to retire to when one was hard up, and a patron who not only introduced one to editors, but would lend five pounds as a matter of course. perhaps there was really some eastern taint in the young fellow's blood. at any rate he was sly by nature, had a good deal of undeveloped capability for treachery latent within him, and, encouraged by success, was becoming a marked parasite. lazy by nature, he soon discovered how easy it was--to take one example--to look up the magazines of three years back, steal a situation or a plot, adapt it to the day, and sell it for a guinea or two. his small literary career had hitherto been just that. if he had been put upon the rack he could not have confessed to an original thought. and it was the same in many other aspects of his life. he made himself useful. he was always sympathetic and charming to some wife in bohemia who bewailed the inconstancy of her husband, and earned the title of a "nice, good-hearted boy." on the next evening he would gladly sup with the husband and the chorus girl who was the cause of the trouble, and flatter them both. master dickson ingworth, it will be seen, was by no means a person of fine nature. he was simply very young, without any sort of ideals save the gratification of the moment, and would, no doubt, become a decent member of society in time. in a lower rank of life, and without the comfortable inheritance which awaited him, he would probably have become a sneak-thief or a blackmailer in a small way. in the event, he was destined to live a happy and fairly popular life in the wiltshire grange, and to die a much better man than he was at two and twenty. he was not to repent of, but to forget, all the calculated meannesses of his youth, and at fifty he would have shown any one to the door with horror who suggested a single one of the tricks that he had himself been guilty of in his youth. and, parasite always, he is displayed here because of the part he is destined to take in the drama of gilbert lothian's life. "i've been seeing a good deal of toftrees lately, gilbert," ingworth said with a side glance. lothian looked up from his reverie. "what? oh, yes!--the toftrees. nice chap, toftrees, i thought, when i met him the other night. awfully clever, don't you think, to get hold of such an enormous public? mind you, dicker, i wouldn't give one of his books to any one if i could help it. but that's because i want every one to care for real literature. that's my own personal standpoint. apart from that, i do think that mr. and mrs. toftrees deserve all they get in the way of money and popularity and so on. there must be such people under the modern conditions, and apart from their work they both seem most interesting." this took the wind from the young man's sails. he was sensitive enough to perceive--though not to appreciate--the largeness of such an attitude as this. he felt baffled and rather small. then, something that had been instilled into him by his new and influential friends not only provided an antidote to his momentary discomfiture but became personal to himself. a sense of envy, almost of hate, towards this man who had been so consistently kind to him, bloomed like some poisonous and swift-growing fungus in his unstable mind. "i say," he said maliciously, though there was fear in his voice, too, "herbert toftrees has got his knife into you, gilbert." lothian looked at the young man in surprise. "got his _knife into me_?" he said, genuinely perplexed. "well, yes. he's going about town saying all sorts of unpleasant things about you." lothian laughed. "yes!" he said, "i remember! miss wallace told me so not long ago. how intensely amusing!" ingworth hated him at the moment. there was a disgusting sense of impotence and smallness, in that he could not sting lothian. "toftrees is a very influential man in london," he said sententiously. at that moment all the humour in lothian awoke. he leant back and laughed aloud. "oh, dicker!" he said, "what a babe you are!" ingworth grew red. he was furious, but dared say nothing more. he felt as if he had been trying to bore a tunnel through the alps with a boiled carrot and had wasted a franc in paying some one to hold his shadow while he made the attempt! lothian's laughter was perfectly genuine. he cared absolutely nothing what toftrees said or thought about him. but he did care about the young man at his side. . . . the other self, the new ego, suddenly became awake and dominant. suspicion reared its head. for days and days now he had drunk hardly anything. the anti-alcoholic medicines that morton sims had administered were gradually strengthening the enfeebled will and bringing back the real tenant of his soul. but now . . . here was one whom he had thought his friend. it was not so then! an enemy sat by his side?--he would soon discover. and then, with a skill which made the lad a plaything in his hands, with a cunning a hundred times deeper than ingworth's immature shiftiness, lothian began his work. but it was not the real lothian. it was the adroit devil waked to life that set itself to the task as the dog-cart rattled into the little country town and drew up before the george hotel in the market square. "thanks awfully, old chap," lothian said cheerfully as they turned under the archway into the stable yard. "you're a topping whip, you know, dicker. i can't drive a bit myself. but i like to see you." for a moment ingworth forgot his rancour at the praise. unconscious of the dominant personality and the mental grin behind the words, he swallowed the compliment as a trout gulps a fly. they descended from the trap and the stable-men began to unharness the cob. lothian thrust his arm through the other's. "come along, jehu!" he said. "i want a drink badly, and i'm sure you do, after the drive. i don't care what you say, that cob is _not_ so easy to handle." . . . his voice was lost in the long passage that led from the stable yard to the "saloon-lounge." chapter v a quarrel in the "most select lounge in the county" "i strike quickly, being moved. . . . a dog of the house of montague moves me." --_romeo and juliet._ the george hotel in wordingham was a most important place in the life and economy of the little norfolk town. the town drank there. in the handsome billiard room, any evening after dinner, one might find the solicitor, the lieutenant of the coast-guards, in command of the district, a squire or two, mr. pashwhip and mr. moger the estate agents and auctioneers, mr. reeves the maltster and local j.p.--town, not county--and in fact all the local notabilities up to a certain point, including mr. helzephron, the landlord and worshipful master of the wordingham lodge of freemasons for that year. the doctor, the bank manager and, naturally, the rector, were the only people of consequence who did not "use the house" and make it their club. they were definitely upon the plane of gentlefolk and could not well do so. accordingly they formed a little bridge playing coterie of their own, occasionally assisted by the lieutenant, who preferred the hotel, but made fugitive excursions into the somewhat politer society which was his _milieu_ by birth. who does not know them, these comfortable, respectable hotels in the high streets or market places of small country towns? yet who has pointed the discovering finger at them or drawn attention to the smug and _convenable_ curses that they are? "there was a flaunting gin palace at the corner of the street,"--that is the sort of phrase you may read in half a hundred books. the holes and dens where working people get drunk, and issuing therefrom make night hideous at closing time, stink in the nostrils of every one. they form the texts and illustrations of many earnest lectures, much fervent sermonizing. but nothing is said of the suave and well-conducted establishments where the prosperous inebriates of stagnant county towns meet to take their poison. when the doors of the george closed in wordingham and its little coterie of patrons issued forth, gravely, pompously, a little unsteadily perhaps, to seek their homes, the police inspector touched his cap--"the gentlemen from the george, going home!" but the wives knew all about such places as the george. it is upon the women that the burden falls, gentle or simple, nearly always the women. mrs. gaunt, the naval officer's wife, knew very well why her husband had never got his ship, and why he "went into the coast-guard." she was accustomed to hear unsteady steps upon the gravel sweep a little after eleven, to see the flushed face of the man she loved, to know that he had spent the evening tippling with his social inferiors, to lie sad and uncomplaining by his side while his snores filled the air and the bedroom was pervaded by the odour of spirits--an admiral's daughter she, gently nurtured, gently born, well accustomed to these sordid horrors by now. mrs. reeves, the maltster's wife, was soured in temper and angular of face. she had been a pretty and trusting girl not so long ago as years measure. she "gave as good as she got," and the servants of the big bourgeois house with its rankly splendid furniture only turned in their sleep when, towards midnight and once or twice a month, loud recriminations reached them from the downstairs rooms. the solicitor, a big genial brute with a sense of humour, only frightened to tears the elderly maiden sister who kept his house. he was never unkind, never used bad language, and was merely noisy, but at eight o'clock on the mornings following an audit dinner, a "lodge night," or the evening of petty sessions, a little shrivelled, trembling spinster would creep out of the house before breakfast and kneel in piteous supplication at the altar rails for the big, blond and jovial brother who was "dissolving his soul" in wine--the well-remembered phrase from the poem of longfellow which she had learned at school was always with her and gave a bitter urgency to her prayers. all the company who met almost nightly at the george were prosperous, well-to-do citizens. the government of the little town was in their hands. they administered the laws for drunkards, fined them or sent them to prison at norwich. their prosperity did not suffer. custom flowed to mr. pashwhip and mr. moger, who were always ready to take or stand a drink. the malt of mr. reeves was bought by the great breweries of england and deteriorated nothing in quality, while more money than the pompous and heavy man could spend rolled into his coffers. the solicitor did his routine conveyancing and so on well enough. no one did anything out of the ordinary. there were no scandals, "alarums and excursions." it was all decent and ordered. the doctor could have given some astonishing evidence before a medical commission. but he was a wise and quiet general practitioner who did his work, held his tongue and sent his three boys to cambridge. the rector might have had an illuminating word to say. he was a good but timid man, and saw how impossible it was to make any movement. they were all his own church-wardens, sidesmen, supporters! how could he throw the sleepy, stagnant, comfortable town into a turmoil and disorder in which souls might be definitely lost for ever? he could only pray earnestly as he said the mass each morning during the seasons of the year. it is so all over england. deny it who may. in whitechapel the fiend alcohol is a dishevelled fury shrieking obscenities. in the saloons and theatres of the west end he is a suave mephistopheles in evening dress. in wordingham and the other provincial towns and cities of england, he appears as a plump and prosperous person in broadcloth, the little difficulty about his feet being got over by well-made country shoes, and with a hat pressed down over ears that may be a trifle pointed or may not. but the mothers, the wives, the sisters recognise him anywhere. the number of martyrs is uncounted. their names are unknown, their hidden miseries unsung. who hears the sobs or sees the tears shed by the secret army of slaves to the slaves of alcohol? it is they who must drink the cup to the last dregs of horror and of shame. the unbearable weight is upon them, that is to say, upon tenderness and beauty, on feebleness and love. women endure the blows, or cruel words more agonising. they are the meek victims of the fiend's malice when he enters into those they love. it is womanhood that lies helpless upon the rack for ruthless hands to torture. cujus animam geminentem! --she whose soul groaning, condoling and grieving the sword pierced through! saviours sometimes, sufferers always. * * * * * into the "lounge" of the george hotel came gilbert lothian and dickson ingworth. they were well-dressed men of the upper classes. their clothes proclaimed them--for there will be (unwritten) sumptuary laws for many years in england yet. their voices and intonation stamped them as members of the upper classes. a railway porter, a duke, or the wordingham solicitor would alike have placed them with absolute certainty. they were laughing and talking together with bright, animated faces, and in this masked life that we all lead to-day no single person could have guessed at the forces and tragedies at work beneath. they sat down in a long room with a good carpet upon the floor, dull green walls hung with elaborate pictures advertising whiskeys, in gold frames, and comfortable leather chairs grouped in threes round tables with tops of hammered copper. mr. helzephron did everything in a most up-to-date fashion--as he could well afford. "the most select lounge in the county" was a minor heading upon the hotel note-paper. at one end of the room was a semicircular counter, upon which were innumerable regiments of tumblers and wine-glasses and three or four huge crystal vessels of spirits, tulip-shaped, with gilded inscriptions and shining plated taps. behind the counter was miss molly palmer, the barmaid of the hotel, and, behind her, the alcove was lined with mirrors and glass shelves on which were rows of liqueur flasks, bottles of brandy and dummy boxes of chocolates tied up with scarlet ribands. "now tell me, dicker," lothian said, lighting a cigarette, "how do you mean about toftrees?" the glamour of the past was on the unstable youth now, the same influence which had made him--at some possible risk to himself--defend lothian so warmly in the drawing room at bryanstone square. the splendour of toftrees was far away, dim in lancaster gate. "oh, he's jealous of you because you really can write, gilbert! that must be it. but he really has got his knife into you!" internally, lothian winced. "oh, but i assure you he has not," was all that he said. ingworth finished his whiskey and soda. "well, you know what i mean, old chap," he replied. "he's going about saying that you aren't sincere, that you're really fluffed when you write your poems, don't you know. the other night, at a supper at the savoy, where i was, he said you were making a trade of christianity, that you didn't really believe in what you wrote, and couldn't possibly." lothian laughed. "have another whiskey," he said. "and what did you say, dicker?" there was a sneer in lothian's voice which the other was quite quick to hear and to resent. on that occasion he had not defended his friend, as it happened. "oh, i said you meant well," ingworth answered with quick impertinence, and then, afraid of what he had done hurriedly drained the second glass which the barmaid had just brought him. "well, i do, really," lothian replied, so calmly that the younger man was deceived, and once more angry that his shaft had glanced upon what seemed to be impenetrable armour. yet, below the unruffled surface, the poet's mind was sick with loathing and disgust. he was not angry with ingworth, against toftrees he felt no rancour. he was sick, deadly sick with himself, inasmuch as he had descended so low as to be touched by such paws as these. "i'll get through his damned high-and-mighty attitude yet," ingworth thought to himself. "i say," he remarked, "did you enjoy your trip to brighton with rita wallace? toftrees saw you there, you know. he was dining at the metropole the same night." he had pierced--right through--though he did not know it. "rather dangerous, wasn't it?" he continued. "suppose your wife got to know, gilbert?" something, those letters, near his heart, began to throb like a pulse in lothian's pocket. one of the letters had arrived that very morning. "look here, ingworth," he said, and his face became menacing, "you rather forget yourself, i think, in speaking to me in this way. you're a good sort of boy--at least i've thought so--and i've taken you up rather. but i don't allow impudence from people like you. remember!" the ice-cold voice frightened the other, but he had to the full that ape-like semi-courage which gibbers on till the last moment of a greater animal's patience. the whiskey had affected him also. his brain was becoming heated. "well, i don't know about impudence," he answered pertly and with a red face. "anyhow, rita dined with _me_ last week!" he brought it out with a little note of triumph. lothian nodded. "yes, and you took her to that disgusting little café maréchale in soho. you ought not to take a lady to such a place as that. you've been long enough in london to know. don't be such a babe. if you ever get a nice girl to go out with you again try and think things out a little more." tears of mortified vanity were in the young man's eyes. "she's been writing to you!" he said with a catch in his voice, and suddenly his whole face seemed to change and dissolve into something else. did the lips really grow thicker? did the angry blood which suffused the cheeks give them a dusky tinge which was not of europe? would the tongue loll out soon? "i _beg_ your pardon?" lothian said coolly. "yes, she has!" the young fellow hissed. "you're trying on a game with the girl. she's a lady, and a good girl, and you're a married man. she's been telling you about me, though i've a right to meet her and you've not!--look here, if she realised and knew what i know, and toftrees and mr. amberley know, what every one in london knows, by jove, she'd never speak to you again!" gilbert lifted his glass and sipped slowly. his face was composed. it bore the napoleonic mask it had worn during the last part of their drive to the town. suddenly gilbert rose up in his chair. "you dirty little hanger-on," he said in a low voice, "how dare you mention any woman's name in this way!" without heat, without anger, but merely as a necessary measure of precaution or punishment, he smashed his left fist into ingworth's jaw and laid him flat upon the carpet. the girl behind the bar, who knew who gilbert lothian was very well, had been watching what was going on with experienced eyes. she had seen, or known with the quick intuition of her training, that a row was imminent between the famous mr. lothian--whose occasional presences in the "lounge" were thought to confer a certain lustre upon that too hospitable rendezvous--and the excited young man with the dark red and strangely curly hair. molly palmer had pressed the button of her private bell, which called mr. helzephron himself from his account books in the office. mr. helzephron was a slim, bearded man, black of hair and saffron of visage. he was from cornwall, in the beginning, and combined the inherent melancholy and pessimism of the celt with the celt's shrewd business instincts when he transplants himself. he entered at that moment and caught hold of the wretched ingworth just as the young man had risen, saw red, and was about to leap over the table at lothian, whom, in all probability he would very soon have demolished. helzephron's arms and hands were like vices of steel. his voice droned like a wasp in a jam jar. "now, then," he said, "what's all this? what's all this, sir? i can't have this sort of thing going on. has this gentleman been insulting you, mr. lothian?" ingworth was powerless in the cornishman's grip. for a moment he would have given anything in the world to leap at the throat of the man at the other side of the table, who was still calmly smoking in his chair. but quick prudence asserted itself. lothian was known here, a celebrity. he was a celebrity anywhere, a public brawl with him would be dreadfully scandalous and distressing, while in the end it would assuredly not be the poet who would suffer most. and ingworth was a coward; not a physical coward, for he would have stood up to any one with nothing but glee in his heart, but a moral one. lothian, he knew, wouldn't have minded the scandal a bit, here or anywhere else. but to ingworth, cooled instantly by the lean grip of the landlord, the prospect was horrible. and to be held by another man below one in social rank, landlord of an inn, policeman, or what not, while it rouses the blood of some men to frenzy, in others brings back an instant sanity. ingworth remained perfectly still. for a second or two lothian watched him with a calm, almost judicial air. then he flushed suddenly, with a generous shame at the position. "it's all right, helzephron," he said. "it's a mistake, a damned silly mistake. as a matter of fact i lost my temper. please let mr. ingworth go." mr. helzephron possessed those baser sides of tact which pass for sincerity with many people. "very sorry, i'm sure," he droned, and stood waiting with melancholy interest to see what would happen next. "i'm very sorry, dicker," lothian said impulsively; "you rather riled me, you know. but i behaved badly. it won't do either of us any good to have a rough and tumble here, but of course" . . . he looked significantly at the door. ingworth took him, and admired him for his simplicity. the old public school feeling was uppermost now. he knew that gilbert knew he was no coward. he knew also that he could have knocked the other into a cocked hat in about three minutes. "i was abominably rude, gilbert," he said frankly. "don't let's talk rot. i'm sorry." "it's good of you to take it in that way, dicker. i'm awfully sorry, too." mr. helzephron interposed. "all's well that ends well," he remarked sententiously. "that's the best of gentlemen, they do settle these matters as gentlemen should. now if you'll come with me, sir, i'll take you to the lavatory and you can sponge that blood off your face. you're not marked, really." with a grin and a wink to lothian, both of which were returned, ingworth marched away in the wake of the landlord. the air was cleared. gilbert was deeply sorry for what he had done. he had quite forgotten the provocation that he had received. "good old sportsman, dicker!" he thought; "he's a fine chap. i was a bounder to hit him. it would have served me jolly well right if he'd given me a hiding." and the younger man, as he went to remove the stain of combat, had kindly and generous thoughts of his distinguished friend. but, _che sara sara_, these kindly thoughts were but to bloom for an hour and fade. neither knew that one of them was so soon to be brought to the yawning gates of hell itself, and, at the very last moment, the unconscious action of the other was to snatch him from them. already the threads were being woven in those webs of time, whereof god alone knows the pattern and directs the loom. neither of them knew. the barmaid, a tall, fresh-faced young girl, came down the room and took the empty glasses from the table. "i say, mr. lothian," she remarked, "it's no business of mine, and no offence meant, but you didn't ought to have hit him." "i know," gilbert answered, "but why do you say so?" "he's got such nice curly hair!" she replied with a provocative look from her bright eyes, and whisked away to the shelter of her counter. lothian sighed. during the years he had lived in norfolk he had seen many fresh-faced girls come and go. only a few days before, he had read a statement made by mrs. bramwell booth of the salvation army that the number of immoral women in the west end of london who have been barmaids is one quarter of the whole. . . . at that moment, this miss molly palmer was the _belle des coulisses_ of wordingham. the local bloods quarrelled about her, the elder men gave her gloves on the sly, her pert repartees kept the lounge in a roar from ten to eleven. once, with a sneer and as one man of the world to another, helzephron had shown lothian a trade paper in which these girls are advertised for-- "barmaid wanted, must be attractive." "young lady wanted for select wine-room in the west end, gentlemen only, must be well educated and of good appearance, age not over twenty-five." "required at once, attractive young lady as barmaid--young. photograph." . . . a great depression fell upon the poet. everywhere he turned just now ennui and darkness seemed to confront him. his youth was going. his fame brought no pleasure nor contentment. the easy financial circumstances of his life seemed to roll over him like a weed-clogged wave. his wife's love and care--was not that losing its savour also? the delightful labour of writing, the breathless and strenuous clutching at the waiting harps of poetry, was not he fainting and failing in this high effort, too? his life was a grey, numbed thing. he was reminded of it whichever way he turned. there was a time when the holy mysteries brought him a joy which was priceless and unutterable. yes! when he knelt at the mass with mary by his side, he had felt the breath of paradise upon his brow. emptied of all earthly things his soul had entered into the mystical communion of saints. to husband and wife, in humble supplication side by side, the still small voice had spoken. the rushing wind of the holy ghost had risen around them and the passion of jesus been more near. and now?--the man rose from his chair with a laugh so sad and hollow, a face so contorted with pain, that it startled the silly girl behind the bar. she made a rapid calculation. "he was sober when 'e come," she thought in the vernacular, "and 'e can stand a lot, can mr. lothian. it's nothing. them poets!" "something amusing you?" she said with her best smile. lothian nodded. "oh, just my thoughts," he replied. "give me another whiskey and soda--a fat one, yes, a little more, yes, that'll do." for a moment, a moment of hesitation, he held it out at arm's length. the sunlight of the afternoon blazed into the glass and turned the liquid to molten gold. the light came from a window in the roof, just over the bar itself. the remainder of the room was in quiet shadow. he looked down into the room and shuddered. it was typical of his life now. he looked up at the half open window from which the glory came. "oh, that i had the wings of a dove!" he said, with a sad smile. molly palmer watched him. "juggins!" she thought, "them poets!" but lothian's words seemed to call for some rejoinder and the girl was at a loss. "wish you meant it!" she said at length, wondering if that would meet the occasion--as it often met others. lothian laughed, and drank down the whiskey. the light from above faded almost instantly--perhaps a cloud was passing over the sun. but, _au contraire_, the shadow of the room beyond had invitation now. it no longer seemed sombre. he went into the shadows and sat down in the same chair where he had been before. he smiled as he lit another cigarette. how strange moods were! how powerful for a moment, but how quickly over! the letters in his breast pocket seemed to glow out with material warmth, a warmth that went straight to his heart through the cloth and linen of his clothing. the new ego was fed. rita! yes! at least life had given him this and was it not the treasure of treasures? there was nothing coarse nor earthly in this at least! the music of the venusberg throbbed in all his pulses, calling, calling from the hollow hill. he did not realise from where it came--this magic music--and that there is more than one angelic choir. rita and gilbert. gilbert and rita! the words and music of one song! so we observe that now the masked musicians in the unseen orchestra are in their places. any little trouble with the management is over. opposition players have sorrowfully departed. the audience has willed it so, and the band only awaits its leader. monsieur l'ame du vin, that celebrated conductor, has just slid into his seat. he smirks at his players, gives an intelligent glance at the first violin, and taps upon the desk. three beats of the baton, a raised left hand, and once more the oft repeated overture to the dance of death commences, with the fiend alcohol beating time. ingworth came back soon. there was a slight bruise upon his upper lip, but that was all. the two men--it was to be the last time in lives which had so strangely crossed--were friends in a sense that they had never been before. both of them looked back upon that afternoon during the immediate days to come with regret and sorrow. each remembered it differently, according to the depth of individual temperament. but it was remembered, as an hour when strife and turmoil had ceased; when, trembling on the brink of unforeseen events to come, there was pause and friendship, when the good in both of them rose to the surface for a little space and was observed of both. "now, dicker, you just watch. they'll all be here soon for their afternoon drink--the local bloods, i mean. it's their substitute for afternoon tea, don't you know. they sit here talking about nothing to friends who have devoted their lives to the subject. watch it for your work. you'll learn a lot. that must have been the way in which flaubert got his stuff for 'madame bovary.'" something of the artist's fire animated the lad. he was no artist. he hadn't read "madame bovary," and it wouldn't have interested him if he had. but the plan appealed to him. it fitted in with his method of life. it was getting something for nothing. yet he realised, to give him his due, a little more than this. he was sitting at the feet of his master. but as it happened, on that afternoon the local bloods were otherwise employed, for at any rate they made no appearance. lothian felt at ease. he had one or two more pegs. he had been so comparatively abstemious since his accident and under the regime of dr. morton sims, that what he took now had only a tranquillising and pleasantly narcotic influence. the nervous irritation of an hour before which had made him strike his friend, the depression and hollow misery which succeeded it, the few minutes of lyrical exaltation as he thought of rita wallace, all these were merged in a sense of _bien être_ and drowsiness. he enjoyed an unaccustomed and languid repletion in his mind, as if it had been overfed and wanted to lie down for a time. mr. helzephron sat down at their table after a time and prosed away in his monotonous voice. he was a man of some education, had read, and was a dickens lover. he did not often have the opportunity of conversation with any one like lothian and he made the most of it. like many common men who are anxious to ingratiate themselves with their superiors, he thought that the surest way to do so was to abuse his neighbours, thus, as he imagined, proclaiming himself above them and flattering his hearer. lothian always said of the landlord of the george that he was worth his weight in gall, and for a time he was amused. at five o'clock the two visitors had some tea and toast and at the half hour both were ready to go. "i'll run round to the post office," ingworth said, "and see if there are any late letters." "very well," gilbert answered, "and i'll have the horse put in." the afternoon post for mortland royal left the town at three, and letters which came in by the five o'clock mail were not delivered at the village until the next morning unless--as now--they were specially called for. ingworth ran off. "well, mr. lothian," said the landlord. "i don't often have the pleasure of a talk with you. just one more with me before you go?" they were standing together at the bar counter when a page boy entered the lounge and went up to his master. "please, sir," he said, "the new young lady's come." "oh, very well," helzephron answered. "i'll be out in a minute. where is she?" "in the hall, sir. and shall boots go down for her trunk?" "yes; tell him to go to the station at once with the hand-cart. a new barmaid," he said, turning to gilbert, "for the four ale bar, a woman of about thirty, not much class, you understand, wouldn't do for the lounge, but will keep the working men in order. it's astonishing how glad they are to get a job when they're about thirty! they're no draw then, and they know it. the worst of it is that these older women generally help themselves from the till or the bottle! i've had fifty applications for this job." he led the way out into the hall of the hotel, followed by lothian, who was on his way to the stable yard. a woman was sitting upon a plush-covered bench by the wall. she was a dark gipsy looking creature, coarsely handsome and of an opulent figure. she stood up as helzephron came out into the hall, and there seemed to be a suggestion of great boldness and flaunting assertion about her, oddly restrained and overlaid by a timidity quite at variance with her appearance. the landlord was in front, and for a moment lothian was concealed. then, as he was about to wish helzephron good afternoon and turned for the purpose, he came into view of the new barmaid. she saw him full face and an instant and horrible change came over her own. it faded to dead paper-white. the dark eyes became fixed like lenses. the jaw dropped like the jaw of a ventriloquist's puppet, a strangled gurgle came from the open mouth and then a hoarse scream of terror. the woman's arms jerked up in the air as if they had been pulled by strings, and her hands in shabby black gloves curved into claws and were rigid. then she spun round, caught her boot in the leg of the chair and fell in a swoon upon the floor. the landlord swore in his surprise and alarm. then, keen as a knife, he whipped round and looked at lothian. lothian's face expressed nothing but the most unbounded astonishment. help was summoned and the woman was carried into the landlord's private office, where restoratives were applied. in three or four minutes she opened her eyes and moaned. lothian, helzephron and a chambermaid who was attending on her, were the only other people in the office. "there, there," said the landlord irritably, when he saw that consciousness was returning. "what in heaven's name did you go off like that for? you don't belong to do that sort of thing often i hope. if so i may as well tell you at once that you'll be no good here." "i'm very sorry, sir," said the poor creature, trembling and obviously struggling with rising hysteria. "it took me sudden. i'm very strong, really, sir. it shan't happen again." "i hope not," helzephron answered in a rather more kindly tone. "elsie, go into the lounge and ask miss palmer for a little brandy and water--but what took you like this?" the woman hesitated. her glance fell upon lothian who was standing there, a pitying and perplexed spectator of this strange scene. she could not repress a shudder as she saw him, though both men noticed that the staring horror was going from her eyes and that her face was relieved. "i'm very sorry," she said again, "but the sight of that gentleman coming upon me sudden and unexpected was the cause of it." "this gentleman!" helzephron replied. "this is mr. gilbert lothian, a famous gentleman and one of our country gentleman in norfolk. what can you have to do with him?" "oh, nothing sir, nothing. but there's a very strong resemblance in this gentleman to some one"--she hesitated and shuddered--"to some one i once knew. i thought it was him come back at first. i see now that there's lots of difference. i've had an unhappy life, sir." she began to sob quietly. "now, drink this," said the landlord, handing her the brandy which the chambermaid had just brought. "stop crying and elsie will take you up to your room. your references are all right and i don't want to know nothing of your history. do your duty by me like a good girl and you'll find me a good master. your past's nothing to me." lothian and the landlord went out into the stable yard where the rainbow-throated pigeons were murmuring on the tiled roofs, and the ostler--like mousqueton--was spitting meditatively. they discussed this strange occurrence. "i never saw a woman so frightened!" said mr. helzephron. "you might have been old bogy himself, mr. lothian. i didn't know what to think for a moment! i hope she doesn't drink." "well, i suppose we've all got a double somewhere or other," lothian answered. "i suppose she saw some likeness in me to some one who has ill used her, poor thing." "oh, yes, sir," helzephron replied. "that's it--she said as much. half the plays and novels turn on such likenesses. i used to be a great play-goer when i was in london and i've seen all the best actresses. but i'm damned if i ever see such downright horror as there was in that girl's face. he must have been a bad un whoever he was. real natural tragedy in that face--william, put in mr. lothian's horse." he said good-bye and re-entered the hotel. lothian remained in the centre of the yard. he lit a cigarette and watched the horse being harnessed. his face was clouded with thought. it was very strange! how frightful the poor woman had looked. it was a nightmare face, a face of gustave doré from the inferno engravings! he never saw the woman again, as it happened, and never knew who she was. if he had read of the hackney murder in the papers of the year before he had given it no attention. he knew nothing of the coarse siren for whose sake the poisoned man of hackney had killed the wife who loved him, and who, under an assumed name, was living out her obscure and haunted life in menial toil. dr. morton sims might have thrown some light upon the incident at the george perhaps. but then dr. morton sims never heard of it and it soon passed from the poet's mind. no doubt the fiend alcohol who provided the incidental music at the head of his orchestra was smiling. for the overture to the dance of death is curiously coloured music and there are red threads of melody interwoven with the sable chords. chapter vi an omnes exeunt from mortland royal "wenn menschen auseinandergehn so sagen sie--auf wiedersehn! ja wiederseh'n." --_goethe._ dickson ingworth returned from the post office with several letters. he handed three of them to lothian. one was a business letter from the firm of ince and amberley, the other an invitation to a literary dinner at the trocadero, the third, with foreign stamp and postmark, was for mary lothian. as they drove out of the town, ingworth was in high spirits. his eyes sparkled, he seemed excited. "good news by this post, dicker?" gilbert asked. ingworth had been waiting for the question. he tried to keep the tremulous pleasure out of his voice as he answered. "well, rather. i've just heard from herbert toftrees. when i saw him last, just before i came down here, he hinted that he might be able to influence things for me in a certain quarter." . . . he paused. gilbert saw how it was. the lad was bursting with news but wanted to appear calm, wanted to be coaxed. well, gilbert owed him that! "really! has something come off, dicker, then? do tell me, i should be so glad." "yes, gilbert. it's the damnedst lucky thing! toftrees is a topping chap. the other day he hinted at something he might be able to do for me in his deep-voiced, mysterious way. i didn't pay much attention because they say he's rather like that, and one mustn't put too much trust in it. but, by jove! it's come off. the editor of the _wire_--ommany you know--wants somebody to go to italy with the delegation of english public school masters, as special correspondent for a month. they've offered it to me. it's a big step, gilbert, for me! they will pay awfully well for the job and it means that i shall get in permanently with the _wire_." "i'm awfully glad, dicker. splendid for you! but what is it exactly?" "the new movement in italy, anti-papal and national. it's the schools, you know. the king and the mayor of rome are frightfully keen that all the better class schools, like our public schools, you know--shall be taken out of the hands of the jesuits and the seminary priests. games and a healthy sort of school life are to be organised for the boys. they're going to try and introduce our system if they can. a harrow tutor, a winchester man, undermasters from haileybury, repton and denstone are going out to organise things." "and you're going with them to tell england all about it! i congratulate you, dicker. it's a big chance. you can make some fine articles out of it, if you take care. it should introduce your name." "thanks awfully, i hope so. it's because i got my running blue i expect. but it's jolly decent of the old toffer all the same." "oh, it is. when do you go?" "at once. they start in four days. i shall have to go up to town by the first train to-morrow." "i'm sorry, but of course, if you must" . . . "oh, i must," ingworth said importantly. "i have to see ommany to-morrow night." unconsciously, as he urged the cob onwards, his head sank forward a little, and he imitated the grave pre-occupation of lothian upon the drive out. mary lothian was sitting in a deck chair in front of the house when the two men came through the gate. a little table stood by the side of her chair, and on it was a basket of the thin silk socks her husband wore. she was darning one of the expensive gossamer things with a tiny needle and almost invisible thread. mary looked up quickly as the two men came up to her. there was a swift interrogation in her eyes, instantly suppressed but piteous in its significance. but now, she smiled. gilbert was all right! she knew it at once. he had come back from wordingham quite sober, and in her tender anxious heart she blessed god and dr. morton sims. she was told of dickson's opportunity. gilbert was as anxious to tell, and as excited as his friend. "oh, i _am_ so glad, dicker!" she said over and over again. "my dear boy, i _am_ so glad! now you've got your chance at last. your real chance. never come down here again if you don't make the most of it!" ingworth sat down upon the lawn at her feet. dusk was at hand. the sun was sinking to rest and the flowers of the garden were almost shouting with perfume. rooks winged homeward through the fading light, and the dog trust gambolled in the middle-distance of the lawn as the cock-chafers went booming by. . . . "think i shall be able to do it, mrs. gilbert?" "of course you will, dicker! put your very heart into it, won't you! it's your chance at last, isn't it?" ingworth jumped to his feet. "i shall do it," he said gravely, as who should say that the destinies of kingdoms depended upon his endeavours. "and now i must go in and write some letters. i shall have to be off quite early to-morrow, mrs. gilbert." "i'll arrange all that. go in and do your letters. we're not going to dine till eight to-night." ingworth crossed the lawn and went into the house. gilbert drew his chair up to his wife. she held out her hand. he took it, raised it to his lips and kissed it. he was at home. "i'm glad, dear," mary said, "that dicker has got something definite to do. it will steady him. if he is successful it will give him a new sense of responsibility. i wouldn't say anything to you, gillie, but i have not liked him so much this time as i used to." "why?" "he doesn't seem to have been treating you quite in the way he used to. he's been talking a good deal to me of some people who seem to have taken him up in london. and i can't help knowing that you've done everything for him in the past. really, gillie, i have had to snub him quite severely, for me, once or twice." "yes." "_yes._ he assumed a confidential, semi-superior sort of air and manner. in a clumsy, boyish sort of way he's tried to suggest that i'm not happy with you." lothian laughed bitterly. "i know," he said, "so many people are like that. ingworth has good streaks like all of us. but speaking generally he's unstable. i've found it out lately, too. never mind. he's off to-morrow. oh, by the way, here's a letter for you, dear, i forgot." mary took the letter and rose from her chair. arm in arm they entered the house together and went upstairs to dress for dinner. gilbert had had his bath, had changed, and was tying his tie in front of the dressing table mirror, when the door of his room opened and mary hurried in. her hair was coiled in its masses of pale gold, and a star of emeralds which he had given her was fixed in it. she wore a long dressing robe of green silk fringed with dull red arabesques--he had bought it for her in tunis. a rope of camels' hair gathered it in round her slender waist and the lovely column of her neck, the superb white arms were bare. "what is it, dear?" he said, for his wife's fair face was troubled. "oh, darling," she answered, with a sob in her voice, "i've had bad news from nice." "about dorothy?" "yes, miss dalton, the lady nurse who is with her has written. it's all been no use, gillie, no use at all! she's dying, dear. the doctor from cannes who has been attending her has said so. and sir william larus who is at mentone was called in too. they give her three weeks or a month. they've cabled to india but it's a forlorn hope. harold won't be able to get to her in time--though there's just a chance." she sank down upon the bed and covered her face with her hands. she was speaking of her sister, lady davidson, who was stricken with consumption. sir harold davidson was a major in the indian army, a baronet without much money, and a keen soldier. mary's sister had developed the disease in england, where she had been ordered from simla by the doctors there. she was supposed to be "run down" and no more then. phthisis had been diagnosed in london--incipient only--and she had been sent to the riviera at once. the reports from nice had become much worse during the last few weeks, and now--this letter. gilbert went to his wife and sat down beside her upon the bed, drawing her to him. he was fond of dorothy davidson and also of her husband, but he knew that mary adored her sister. "darling," he said, "don't give way. it may not be so bad after all. and so much depends upon the patient in all illnesses--doesn't it? morton sims was telling us so the other night, you remember? dolly is an awfully sporting sort of girl. she won't give in." mary leant her head upon his shoulder. the strong arms that held her brought consolation. the lips of the husband and wife met. "it's dear of you to say so," mary said at length, "but i know, dear. the doctor and the nurse have been quite explicit. dorothy is dying, gillie, i can't let her die alone, can i?" "no, dear, of course not," he replied rather vaguely, not quite understanding what she meant for a moment. "she must have some one of her own people with her. harold will most likely not arrive in time. i must go--mustn't i?" then gilbert realised. his swift imagination pictured a lonely hotel death-bed among the palms and mimosa of the côte d'azur, a pretty and charming girl fading away from the blue white and gold with no loving hands to tend her, and only the paid services of strangers to speed or assuage the young soul's passage from sunshine and laughter to the unknown. "you must go to her at once, sweetheart," he said gravely. "oh, i _must_! you don't mind my leaving you?" "how can you ask it? but i will come with you. we will both go. you will want a man." mary hesitated for a second, and then she shook her head. "i shall manage quite well by myself," she said. "it will be better so. i'm quite used to travelling alone as you know. and the journey to nice is nothing. i shall be in one carriage all the way from calais. you could come out after, if necessary." "i would come gladly, dear." "i know, gillie, and it's sweet of you. but you couldn't be of use and it would be miserable for you. it is better that i should be alone with dolly. i can always wire if i want you." "as you think best, dear. then i will stay quietly down here." "yes, do. you have that poem to work on, 'a lady in a library.' it is a beautiful fancy and will make you greater than ever! it's quite the best thing you've done so far. and then there's the shooting." "oh, i shall do very well, molly. don't bother about me, dear." she held him closer. her cool white arms were around his neck. "but i always do bother about you, husband," she whispered, "because i love you better than anything else in the world. it is sweet of you to let me go like this. and i feel so much happier about you now, since the doctor has come to the village." he winced with pain and shame at her loving words. a pang went right through him. it passed as swiftly as it had come. sweet and loving women too often provide men with excuses for their own ill conduct. lothian knew that--under the special circumstances of which his wife knew nothing--it was his duty to go with mary. but he didn't want to go. he would have hated going. already a wide vista was opening before him--a freedom, an absolute freedom! wild music! the wine of life! now, if ever, fate, destiny, call it what he would, was preparing the choicest banquet. he had met rita. rita was waiting, he could be with rita! and yet, so subtle and tortuous is the play of egoism upon conscience, he felt pleased with himself for his ready concurrence in his wife's plans. he assumed the rôle she gave him with avidity, and when he answered her she thought him the best and noblest of men. "it will be dreadful without you, darling, but you are quite right to go. send for me if you want me. i'll catch the next boat. but i have my work to do, and i can see a good deal of morton sims"--he knew well, and felt with shame, the cunning of this last statement--"and if i'm dull i can always run up to town for a day or two and stay at the club." "of course you can, dear. you won't feel so lonely then. now about details. i must pack to-night." "yes, dear, and then you can go off with dicker in the morning, and catch the night boat. if you like, that is." "well, i shouldn't gain anything by that, dear. i should only have to wait about in calais until one o'clock the next day when the train de luxe starts. but i should like to go first thing to-morrow. i couldn't wait about here the whole day. dicker will be company of sorts. i shall get to town about two, and go to the charing cross hotel. then i shall do some shopping, go to bed early, and catch the boat train from the station in the morning. i would rather do it like that." both of them were experienced travellers and knew the continental routes well. it was arranged so. mary did not come down to dinner. a tray was sent up to her room. lothian dined alone with ingworth. the voices of the two men were hushed to a lower tone in deference to the grief of the lady above. but there was a subdued undercurrent of high spirits nevertheless. ingworth was wildly excited by the prospect before him; gilbert fell into his mood with no trouble at all. he also had his own thoughts, his own private thoughts. --"i say, dicker, let's have some champagne, shall we?--just to wish your mission success." "yes, do let's. i'm just in the mood for buzz-water to-night." the housemaid went to the cellar and fetched the wine. "here's to you, dicker! may you become a g. w. stevens or a julian ralph!" "thanks, old chap. i'll do my best, now that my chance has come. i say i am awfully sorry about lady davidson. it's such rough luck on mrs. gilbert. you'll be rather at a loose end without your wife, won't you?--or will you write?" he tossed off his second glass of pol roger. "oh, i shall be quite happy," lothian answered, and as he said it a quiet smile came placidly upon his lips. it glowed out from within, as from some comfortable inward knowledge. ingworth saw it, and his mind, quickened by wine and excitement, found the truth unerringly. anger and envy flushed the young man's veins. he hated his host once more. "so that is his game, damned hypocrite!" ingworth thought. "i shall be away, his wife will be out of the way and he will make the running with rita wallace just as he likes." he looked at lothian, and then had a mental vision of himself. "he's fat and bloated," he thought. "surely a young and lovely girl like rita _can't_ care for him?" but even as he endeavoured to comfort his greedy conceit by these imaginings, he felt the shadow of the big mind falling upon them. he knew, as he had known so often of late, the power of that which was cased in its envelope of flesh, and which could not be denied. perhaps there is no hate so bitter, no fear so impotent and distressing, as that which is experienced by the surface for the depth. it is the fury of the brilliant scabbard against the sword within, decoration versus that which cleaves. ingworth wished that he were not going away--leaving the field clear. . . . "have a cigar, dicker. no?--well, here's the very best of luck." "thanks, the same to you!" end of book two book three fruit of the dead sea "let thy fountain be blessed: and rejoice with the wife of thy youth." "let her be as the loving hind and pleasant roe: let her breasts satisfy thee at all times: and be thou ravished always with her love." "and why wilt thou, my son, be ravished with a strange woman, and embrace the bosom of a stranger?" "_his own iniquities shall take the wicked himself, and he shall be holden with the cords of his sins._" chapter i the girls in the fourth story flat "we were two daughters of one race; she was the fairest in the face;" --_tennyson._ in the sitting room of a small forty-five pound flat, upon the fourth floor of a tall red-brick building in west kensington known as queens mansions, ethel harrison, the girl who lived with rita wallace, sat sewing by the window. it was seven o'clock in the evening and though dusk was at hand there was still enough light to sew by. the flat, moreover, was on the west side of the building and caught the last rays of the sun as he sank to rest behind the quivering vapours of london. last week in august as it was, the heat which hung over the metropolis for so long was in no way abated. all the oxygen was gone from the air, and for those who must stay in london--the workers, who could only read in the papers of translucent sunlit seas in cornwall where one bathed from the beaches all day long; of bright northern moors where dew fell upon the heather at dawn--life was become stifling and hard. in the window hung a bird-cage and the canary within it--the pet of these two lonely maidens--drooped upon its perch. it was known as "the lulu bird" and was a recurring incident in their lives. ethel was six and twenty, short, undistinguished of feature and with sandy hair. she was the daughter of a very poor clergyman in lancashire, and she was the principal typist in the busy office of a firm of solicitors in the city. she had ever so many certificates for shorthand, was a quick and accurate machine-writer, understood the routine of an office in all its details, and was invaluable to her employers. they boasted of her, indeed, trusted her in every way, worked her from nine to six on normal days, to any hours of the night at times of pressure, and paid her the highest salary in the market. that is to say, that this girl was at the very top of her profession and received two pounds ten shillings a week. dozens of girls envied her, she was more highly paid than most of the men clerks in the city. she knew herself to be a very fortunate girl. she gave high technical ability, a good intelligence, unceasing, unwearying and most loyal service for fifty shillings a week. each year she had a holiday of fourteen days, when she clubbed with some other girls and they all went to some farmhouse in the country, or even for a cheap excursion abroad, with everything calculated to the last shilling. this girl did all this, dressed like a lady, had a little home of her own with rita, preserved her dignity and independence, and sent many a small postal order to help the poor curate's wife, her mother, with the hungry brood of younger ones. mr. and mrs. harrison in lancashire spoke of their eldest daughter with pride. she had "her flat in town." she was "doing extraordinarily well"; "sister ethel" was a fairy godmother to her little brothers and sisters. she was a good girl, good and happy. the graces were denied her; she had made all sweet virtues her own. no man wooed her, no man looked twice at her. she had no religious ecstasies, and--instead of a theatre where one had to pay--asked no thrills from sensuous ceremonial. she simply went to the nearest church and said her prayers. it is the shame of most of us that when we meet such women as these, we pass them by with a kindly laugh or a patronising word. men and women of the world prefer more decorative folk. they like to watch holiness in a picturesque setting, elizabeth of hungary washing the beggar's feet upon the palace steps. . . . a little worker-bee saint, making a milk pudding for a sick washerwoman on a gas-stove in a flat--that comes rather too close home, does it not? the light was really fading now, and ethel put down her sewing, rose from her basket-work chair, and lit the gas. it was an incandescent burner, hanging from the centre of the ceiling, and the girls' living room was revealed. it was a very simple, comely, makeshift little home. on one side of the fireplace--now filled with a brown and gasping harts-tongue fern in an earthen pot--was ethel's bookshelf. up-to-date she had a hundred and thirty-two books, of the "everyman" and "world's classics" series. she generally managed a book and a half each fortnight, and her horizon was bounded by the two-hundredth volume. dickens she had very much neglected of late, the new ruskin had kept the set at "david copperfield" for weeks, but she was getting on steadily with her thackeries. rita had no books. she was free of that kingdom at the podley institute, but the little black piano was hers. the great luxury of the chesterfield was a joint extravagance. both ends would let down to make a couch when necessary, and though it had cost the girls three pounds ten, it "made all the difference to the room." all the photographs upon the mantel-shelf were ethel's. there was her father in his cassock--staring straight out of the frame like a good and patient mule. . . . her sisters and brothers also, of all ages and sizes, and all clothed with an odd suggestion of masquerading, of attempting the right thing. not but what they were all perfect to poor ethel, whose life was far too busy and limited to understand the tragedy of clothes. rita's photographs were on the piano. there were several of her school-friends--lucky rita had been to a smart school!--and the enigmatic face of muriel amberley with its youthful mona lisa smile looked out from an oval frame of red leather stamped with an occasional fleur-de-lys in gold. there was a portrait of mr. podley, cut from the _graphic_ and framed cheaply, and there were two new photographs. one of them was that of a curly-headed, good-looking young man with rather thick lips and a painful consciousness that he was being photographed investing the whole picture with suspense. ethel had heard rita refer to the original of this portrait once or twice as "dicker" or "curly." but, then, there was another photograph. a large one this time, done in cloudy browns, nearly a foot square and with the name of a very famous artist of the camera stamped into the card. this was a new arrival, also, of the past few weeks, and it was held in a massive frame of thick plain silver. the frame, with the portrait in it, had arrived at the flat some fortnight ago in an elaborate wooden box. ethel had recognised the portrait at once. it was of mr. gilbert lothian, the great poet. rita had met him at a dinner-party, and, if she didn't exaggerate, the great man had almost shown a disposition to be friendly. it was nice of him to send rita his photograph, but the frame was rather too much. all that massive silver!--"it must have cost thirty shillings at least," she had thought in her innocence. when the gas was turned up, for some reason or other her eye had fallen at once upon the photograph upon the top of the piano. she had read some of lothian's poems, but she had found nothing whatever in them that had pleased her. even when her father had written to her and recommended them for her to read the poems meant less than nothing, and the face--no! she didn't like the face. "i hardly think that it's quite a _good_ face," she said to herself, not recognising that--the question of morality quite apart--her hostility rose from the fact that it was a face utterly outside her limited experience, a face that was eloquent of a life, of things, of thoughts that she could never even begin to understand. in the middle of the room the small round table was spread with a fair white cloth and set for a meal. there was a green bowl of bananas, a loaf of brown bread, some sardines in a glass dish. but a place was laid for one person only. rita was in their mutual bedroom dressing. rita was going to dine out. the two girls had lived together for a year now. at the beginning of their association one thing had been agreed between them. their outside lives were to be lived independently of their home life. no confidences were to be expected or demanded as a matter of course. if confidences were made they were to be free and spontaneous, at the wish or whim of each. the contract had been loyally observed. ethel never had any secrets. rita had had several during the year of their association, but they had proved only minor little secrets after all. sooner or later she had told them, and they had been food for virginal laughter for them both. but now, during the last few weeks?--ethel's glance flitted uneasily from the big photograph upon the piano to a little round table of bamboo work in one corner of the sitting room. upon this table lay a huge bunch of dark red roses. the stalks were fitted into a holder of finely-woven white grass--as delicate in texture as a panama hat--and the bouquet was tied with graceful bows and streamers of purple satin--broad, expensive ribbon. a boy messenger, most unusual visitor, had brought them an hour ago. "for miss rita wallace." the quiet mind, the crystal soul of this girl, dimly discerned something alien and disturbing. the door of the sitting-room opened and rita came in. she was radiant. her one evening dress was not an expensive affair, a simple, girl's frock of olive-green _crêpe de chene_ in the empire fashion, but the girl and her clothes were one. the high "waist," coming just under the curve of the breast, was edged with an embroidery of dull silver thread, and the gleam of this upon its olive setting threw up the fair column of the throat the rounded arms, the whiteness of the girlish bosom, with a most striking and arresting lustre. round her neck the girl wore a riband of dark green velvet, and as a pendant from it hung a little star of amethysts and olivines set in a filigree of platinum, no rare nor costly jewel, but a beautiful one. she was pulling her long white gloves up to the elbow as she entered the room. ethel loved rita dearly. rita was her romance, the art and colour of her life. she was always saying or doing astonishing things, she was always beautiful. to-night, though the frock was an old friend, the pendant quite familiar, ethel thought that she had never seen her friend so lovely. the nut-brown hair was shining, the young, brown eyes lit up with excitement and joy, the tints of rose and pearl upon rita's cheeks came and went as her heart beat. "a duke might be glad to marry her," the plain girl thought without a throb of envy. she was perfectly right. if rita had been in society or on the stage she probably would have married a peer--not a duke though, that was ethel's inexperience. there are so few dukes that they have not the same liberty of action as other noblemen. the beauty market is badly organised--curious fact in an age when to purvey cats' meat is a specialised industry. but the fact remains. the prettiest girls in england don't have their pictures in the papers and advertise no dentrifice or musical comedy on the one hand, nor st. peter and st. george, their fashionable west end temples, on the other. buyers of beauty have but a limited choice, and on the whole it is a salutary thing, though doubtless hard upon loveliness that perforce throws itself away upon men without rank or fortune for want of proper opportunity! "how do i look, wog dear?" rita asked. "splendid, darling," ethel answered eagerly--a pretty junior typist in ethel's office, who had been snubbed, had once sent her homely senior a golliwog doll, and since then the good-humoured ethel was "wog" to her friends. "i'm so glad. i want to look my best to-night." "well, then, you do," ethel replied, and with an heroic effort forbore further questioning. she always kept loyally to the compact of silence and non-interference with what went on outside the flat. rita chuckled and darted one of her naughty, provocative glances. "wog! you're dying to know where i'm going!" some girls would have affected indifference immediately. not so the simple wog. "of course i am, cupid," she said. "i'm going to dine with gilbert." "gilbert?" "gilbert lothian i mean, of course. we are absolute friends, wog dear--he and i. i haven't told you before, but i will now. you remember that night i was home so late, nearly a month ago? yes?--well i had been motoring to brighton with gilbert. i met him for the first time at the amberleys'--but that you know. since then we have become friends--such a strange and wonderful friendship it is, ethel! it's made things so different for me." "but how friends? have you seen him often, then? but you can't have?" rita shook her head, impatiently for a moment, and then she smiled gently. how could poor old wog know or understand! "no!" she cried, with a little tap of her shoe upon the carpet. "but there are such things as letters aren't there?" "has he been writing to you, then?" "writing! i have had four of the most beautiful letters that a poet ever wrote. it took him days to write each one. he chose every word, over and over again. every sentence is music, every word a note in a chord!" ethel went up to her friend and kissed her. "dear old cupid," she said, "i'm so glad, so very glad. i don't understand his poems myself, but father simply loves them. i am sure you will be very happy. only i do hope he is a good man--really worthy of my dear! and so"--she continued, with a struggle to get down to commonplace brightness of manner--"and so he's coming for you to-night! now i know why you look so beautiful and are so happy." two tears gathered in the kind green eyes, tears of joy at her dear girl's happiness, but with a tincture of sadness too. with a somewhat unaccustomed flash of imagination, she looked into the future and saw herself lonely in the flat, or with another girl who could never be to her what rita was. she looked up at rita again, trying to smile through her tears. what she saw astounded her. rita's face was flushed. a knot of wrinkles had sprung between her eyebrows. her mouth was mutinous, her brown eyes lit with an angry and puzzled light. "i don't understand you, ethel," she said in a voice which was so cold and unusual that the other girl was dumb.--"what on earth do you mean?" "mean, dear," ethel faltered. "i don't quite understand. i thought you meant--i thought . . ." "what did you think?" "i thought you meant that you were engaged to him, cupid darling!" "engaged!--_why gilbert is married._" ethel glanced quickly at the flowers, at the photograph upon the piano. things seemed going round and round her--the heat, that was it--"but the letters!" she managed to say at length, "and, and--oh, cupid, what _are_ you doing? he can't be a good man. i'm certain of it, dear! i'm older than you are. i know more about things. you don't realise,--but how should you poor darling! he can't be a good man! rita, _does his wife know_?" the girl frowned impatiently. "how limited and narrow you are, ethel," she said. "have you such low ideals that you think friendship between a man and a woman impossible? are you entirely fettered by convention and silly old puritanical nonsense? wouldn't you be glad and proud to have a man with a wonderful mind for your friend--a man who is all chivalry and kindness, who pours out the treasures of his intellect for one?" ethel did not answer. she did not, in truth, know what to say. there _was_ no reason she could adduce why rita should not have a man friend. she knew that many singular and fine natures despised conventionality or ordinary rules and seemed to have the right to do so. and then--_honi soit_! yet, inarticulate as she was, she felt by some instinct that there was something wrong. mr. gilbert lothian was married. that meant everything. a married man, and a poet too! oughtn't to have any secret and very intimate friendships with beautiful, wilful and unprotected girls. . . . "you have nothing to say! of course! there _is_ nothing that any wide-minded person could say. ethel, you're a dear old stupe!"--she crossed the room and kissed her friend. and ethel was so glad to hear the customary affection return to rita's voice, the soft lips upon her cheek set her gentle and loving heart in so warm a glow, that her fears and objections dissolved and she said no more. the electric bell at the front door whirred. rita tore herself from ethel's embrace. there was a mirror over the mantel-shelf. she gazed into it for a few seconds and then hurried away into the little hall. there was the click of the latch as it was drawn back, a moment of silence, and then ethel heard a voice with a peculiar vibration and timbre--an altogether unforgettable voice--say two words. "at last!" then there was a murmur of conversation, the words of which she could not catch, interrupted once by rita's happy laughter. finally she heard rita hurry into the bedroom, no doubt for her cloak, and return with an excited word. then the door closed and there was an instant of footsteps upon the stone stairs outside. ethel was left alone. she went to her bookshelf--she did not seem to want to think just now--and after a moment's hesitation took down "sesame and lilies." then she sat at the table with a sigh and looked without much interest at the bananas, the sardines and the brown bread. ethel was left alone. chapter ii over the rubicon "inside the horsel here the air is hot; right little peace one hath for it, god wot; the scented dusty daylight burns the air, and my heart chokes me till i hear it not." --_swinburne._ gilbert and rita said hardly anything to each other as the motor-cab drove them to the restaurant where they were to dine. there was a sort of constraint between them. it was not awkwardness, it was not shyness. nevertheless, they had little to say to each other--yet. they had become extraordinarily intimate during the last weeks by means of the letters that had passed between them. in all his life lothian had never written anything like these letters. those already written, and those that were to be written before the end, would catch the imagination of europe and america could they ever be published. in prose of a subtle beauty, which was at the same time virile and with the organ-note of a big, revealing mind, he had poured his thoughts upon the girl. she was the inspiration, the _raison d'être_, of these letters. that "friendship" which his heated brain had created and imposed upon hers, he had set up before him like a picture and had woven fervent and critical rhapsodies about it. the joy that he had experienced in the making of these letters was more real and utterly satisfying than any he had ever known. he was filled and exalted by a sense of high power as he wrote the lovely words. he knew how she would read, understand and be thrilled by them. paragraph after paragraph, sentence after sentence, were designed to play upon some part of the girl's mind and temperament--to flatter her own opinion at a definite point, and to flatter it with a flattery so subtle and delicate, so instinct with knowledge, that it came to her as a discovery of herself. he would please her--since she was steeped in books and their appeal, utterly ignorant of life itself--with a pleasure that he alone could give. he would wrap her round with the force and power of his mind, make her his utterly in the bonds of a high intellectual friendship, dominate her, achieve her--through the mind. he had set himself to do this thing and he had done it. her letters to him, in their innocent, unskilful, but real and vivid response had shown him everything. from each one he gathered new material for his reply. he had lived of late in a new world, where, neglecting everything else, he sat jove-like upon the olympus of his own erection and drew a young and supremely beautiful girl nearer and nearer to him by his pen. he had fallen into many mortal sins during his life. until now he had not known the one by which the angels fell, the last sin of pride which burns with a fierce, white consuming flame. all these wonderful letters had been wrought under the influence of alcohol. he would go to his study tired in body and so wearied in brain that he felt as if his skull were literally packed with grey wool. "i must write to rita," he would think, and sit down with the blank sheet before him. there would not be an idea. the books upon the walls called to him to lose himself in noble company. the dog trust gambolling with tumpany in the garden invited him to play. the sight of mary with her basket on her arm setting out upon some errand of mercy in the village, spoke of the pleasant, gracious hours he might spend with her, watching how sweet and wise she was with the poor people and how she was beloved. but no, he must write to rita. he felt chained by the necessity. and then the fat cut-glass bottle from the tantalus would make an appearance, the syphon of soda-water in its holder of silver filigree. the first drink would have little or no effect--a faint stirring of the pulses, a sort of dull opening of tired mental eyes, perhaps. yet even that was enough to create the desire for the moment when the brain should leap up to full power. another drink--the letter begun. another, and images, sentences which rang and chimed, gossamer points of view, mosaics and vignettes glowing with color, merry sunlight laughter, compliments and _devoirs_ of exquisite grace and refinement, all flowed from him with steady, uninterrupted progress. . . . but now, as he sat beside rita, touching her, with the fragrance of her hair athwart his face, all ideas and thoughts had to be readjusted. the dream was over. the dream personality, created and worshipped by his art in those long, drugged reveries, was a thing of the past. he had never realised rita to himself as being quite a human girl. no grossness had ever entered into his thoughts about her. he was not gross. the temper of his mind was refined and high. the steady progress of the fiend alcohol had not progressed thus far as yet. sex was a live fact in this strangely-coloured "friendship" which he had created, but, as yet, in his wildest imaginings it had always been chivalrous, abstract and pure. passion had never soiled it even in thought. it had all been mystical, not swinburnian. and the fact had been as a salve to his conscience. his conscience told him from the first--when, after the excursion to brighton he had taken up his pen to continue the association--that he was doing wrong. he knew it with all the more poignancy because he had never done sweet mary a treachery in allegiance before. she had always been the perfect and utterly satisfying woman to him. his "fountain was blessed; and he rejoiced with the wife of his youth." but the inhabiting devil had found a speedy answer. it had told him that such a man as he was might well have a pure and intellectual friendship with such a girl as rita was. it harmed none, it was of mutual and uplifting benefit. who of the world could point an accusing finger, utter a word of censure upon this delightful meeting of minds and temperaments through the medium of paper and pen? "no one at all," came the satisfactory answer. lothian at the prompting of alcohol was content to entertain and welcome a low material standard of conduct, a debased ideal, which he would have scorned in any other department of life. and as for rita, she hadn't thought about such things at all. she had been content with the music which irradiated everything. it was only now, with a flesh and blood man by her side in the little box of the taxi-cab, that she glanced curiously at the musician and felt--also--that revision and re-statement were at hand. so they said very little until they were seated at the table which had been reserved for them at a celebrated restaurant in the strand. rita looked round her and gave a deep sigh of pleasure. they sat in a long high hall with a painted ceiling. at the side opposite to them and at the end were galleries with gilded latticework. at the other end, in the gilded cage which hid the performers from view, was an orchestra which discoursed sweet music--a little orchestra of artists. the walls of the white and gold hall were covered with brilliantly painted frescoes of scenes in that italy from where the first proprietor had come. the blue seas, the little white towns clustering round the base of some volcanic mountain, the sunlight and gaiety of italy were there, in these paintings so cunningly drawn and coloured by a great scenic artist. a soft, white and bright light pervaded everything. there was not a sound of service as the waiters moved over the thick carpets. the innumerable tables, for two or four, set with finest crystal and silver and fair linen had little electric lamps of silver with red shades upon them. beautiful, radiant women with white arms and shining jewels sat with perfectly dressed men at the tables covered with flowers. it was a succession of little dinner parties; it seemed as if no one could come here without election or choice. the ordinary world did not exist in this kingdom of luxury, ease and wealth. she leant over the little table against the wall. "it's marvellous," she said. "the whole atmosphere is new. i did not think such a place as this existed." "and the metropole at brighton?" "it was like a bathing machine is to buckingham palace, compared to this. how exquisite the band is! oh, i am so happy!" "that makes me happy, cupid. this is the night of your initiation. our wonderful weeks have begun. i have thought out a whole series of delights and contrasts. every night shall be a surprise. you will never know what we are going to do. london is a magic city and you have known nothing of it." "how could the 'girl from podley's' know?--that's what i am, the girl from podley's. i feel like cinderella must have felt when she went to the ball. oh, i am so happy!" he smiled at her. something had taken ten years from his age to-night. youth shone out upon his face, the beauty of his twenties had come back. "lalage!" he murmured, more to himself than to her--"dulce ridentem, dulce loquentem!" "what--gilbert?" "i was quoting some latin to myself, cupid dear." "and it was all greek to me!" she said in a flash. "oh! who _ever_ saw so many hors d'oeuvres all at one time! i love hors d'oeuvres, advise me, don't let me have too many different sorts, gilbert, or i shan't be able to eat anything afterwards." how extraordinarily fresh and innocent she was! she possessed in perfection that light, reckless and freakish humour which was so strong a side of his own temperament. she had stepped from her dingy little flat, from a common cab, straight into the dance of the hours, taking her place with instant grace in the gay and stately minuet. for it was stately. all this quintessence of ordered luxury and splendour had a most powerful influence upon the mind. it might have made caliban outwardly courteous and debonnair. yes, she was marvellously fresh! he had never met any one like her. and it _was_ innocence, it _must_ be. yet she was very conscious of the power of her beauty and her sex--over him at any rate. she obviously knew nothing of the furtive attention she was exciting in a place where so many jaded experts came to look at the flowers. it was the naïve and innocent aspasia in every young girl bubbling up with entire frankness. she was amazed and half frightened at herself--he could see that. well! he was very content to be pericles for a space, to join hands and tread a measure with her and the rosy-bosomed hours in their dance. it was as though they had known each other for ever and a day, ere half the elaborate dinner was over. she had called him "gilbert" at once, as if he were her brother, her lover even. he could have found or forged no words to describe the extraordinary intimacy that had sprung up between them. it almost seemed unreal, he had to wonder if this were not a dream. she became girlishly imperious. when they brought the golden plovers--king and skipper, as good epicures know, of all birds that fly--she leant over the table till her perfect face was close to his. "oh, gilbert dear! what is it now!" he told her how these little birds, with their "trail" upon the toast and their accompaniment of tiny mushrooms stewed in sillery, were said to be the rarest flower in the gourmet's garden, one of the supreme pleasures that the cycle of the seasons bring to those who love and live to eat. "how _perfectly_ sweet! like the little roast pigling was to elia! gilbert, i'm so happy." she chattered away to him, as he sat and watched her, with an entire freedom. she told him all about her life in the flat with ethel harrison. her brown eyes shone with happiness, he heard the silver ripple of her voice in a mist of pleasure. once he caught a man whom he knew watching them furtively. it was a very well-known actor, who at the moment was rehearsing his autumn play. this celebrated person was, as gilbert well knew, a monster. he lived his life with a dreadful callousness which made him capable of every bestial habit and crime, without fear, without pleasure, without horror, and without pity. the poet shuddered as he caught that evil glance, and then, listening anew to rita's joyous confidences, he became painfully aware of the brute that is in every man, in himself too, though as yet he had never allowed it to be clamant. the happy girl went on talking. suddenly gilbert realised that she was telling him something, innocent enough in her mouth, but something that a woman should tell to a woman and not to a man. the decent gentleman in him became wide awake, the sense of comeliness and propriety. he wasn't in the least shocked--indeed there was nothing whatever to be shocked about--but he wanted to save her, in time, from an after-realisation of a frankness that might give her moments of confusion. he did it, as he did everything when he was really sober, really himself, with a supreme grace and delicacy. "cupid dear," he said with his open and boyish smile, "you really oughtn't to tell me that, you know. i mean--well, think!" she looked at him with puzzled eyes for a moment and then she took his meaning. a slight flush came into her cheeks. "oh, i see," she replied thoughtfully, and then, with a radiant smile and the provocative, challenging look--"gilbert dear, you seem just like a girl to me. i quite forgot you were a man. so it doesn't matter, does it?" who was to attempt to preserve _les convenances_ with such a delightful child as this? "here is the dessert," he said gaily, as waiters brought ices, nectarines, and pear-shaped paris bon-bons filled with benedictine and chartreuse. a single bottle of champagne had served them for the meal. gilbert lit a cigarette and said two words to a waiter. in a minute he was brought a carafe of whiskey and a big bottle of perrier in a silver stand. it was a dreadful thing to do, from a gastronomic or from a health point of view. whiskey, now! he saw the look of wonder on the waiter's face, a pained wonder, as who should say, "well, i shouldn't have thought _this_ gentleman would have done such a thing." but lothian didn't care. it was only upon the morning after a debauch, when with moles' eyes he watched every one with suspicion and with fear, that he cared twopence what people thought about anything he did. he was roused to a high pitch of excitement by his beautiful companion. recklessness, an entire abandon to the dance of the hours was mounting up within him. but where there's a conscience, there's a rubicon. the little brook stretched before him still, but now he meant to leap over it into the forbidden, enchanted country beyond. he ordered "jumping powder." he drank deeply, dropped his cigarette into the copper bowl of rose water at his side and lit another. "cupid!" he said suddenly, in a voice that was quite changed, "rita dear, i'm going to show you something!" she heard the change in his voice, recognised it instantly, must have known by instinct, if not by knowledge, what it meant. but there was no confusion, nor consciousness in her face. she only leant over the narrow table and blew a spiral of cigarette smoke from her parted lips. "what, gilbert?" she said, and he seemed to hear a caress in her voice that fired him. "you shall hear," he said in a low and unsteady voice. he drew a calling card from the little curved case of thin gold he carried in his waistcoat pocket, and wrote a sentence or two upon the back in french. a waiter took the card and hurried away. "oh, gilbert dear, what is the surprise?" "music, sweetheart. i've sent up to the band to play something. something special, cupid, just for you and me alone on the first of our arabian nights!" she waited for a minute, following his eyes to the gilded gallery of the musicians which bulged out into the end of the room. there was a white card with a great black " " upon it, hanging to the rail. and then a sallow man with a moustache of ink came to the balcony and removed the card, substituting another for it on which was printed in staring sable letters--"by desire." it was all quite new to rita. she was awed at gilbert's almost magical control of everything! she understood what was imminent, though. "what's it going to be, gilbert?" she whispered. her hand was stretched over the table. he took its cool virginal ivory into his for a moment. "the 'salut d'amour' of elgar," he answered her in a low voice, "just for you and me." the haunting music began. to the end of her life rita wallace never heard the melody without a stab of pain and a dreadful catch of horror at her heart. perhaps the thing had not been played lately, perhaps the hour was ripe for it in the great restaurant. but as the violins and 'cello sobbed out the first movement, a hush fell over the place. it was the after-dinner hour. the smoke from a hundred cigarettes curled upwards in delicate spirals like a drawing of flaxman's. bright eyes were languorous and spoke, voices sank to silence. the very waiters were congregated in little groups round the walls and service tables. salut d'amour! the melody wailed out into the great room with all the exquisite appeal of its rose-leaf sadness, its strange autumnal charm. it was perfectly rendered. and many brazen-beautiful faces softened for a moment, many pleasure-sodden hearts had a diastole of unaccustomed tenderness as the music pulsed to its close. gilbert's acquaintance, the well-known actor, who was personified animal passion clothed in flesh if ever a man was, felt the jews-harp which he called his heart vibrate within him. he was a luxurious pariah-dog in his emotions as in everything else. the last sob of the violins trembled into silence. there was a loud spontaneous burst of applause, and a slim foreign man, grasping his fiddle by the neck, came from behind the gilded screen and looked down into the hall below with patient eyes. lothian rose from his chair and bowed to the distant gallery. the musician's face lighted up and he bowed twice to lothian. monsieur toché had recognised the name upon the card. and the request, written in perfect, idiomatic french, had commenced, "_cher maitre et confrère_." the lasting hunger of the obscure artist for recognition by another and greater one was satisfied. poor toché went to his bed that night in soho feeling as if he had been decorated with the order of merit. and though, during the supper hours from eleven to half past twelve he had to play "selections" from the musical comedy of the moment, he never lost the sense of _bien être_ conferred upon him by gilbert lothian at dinner. gilbert was trembling a little as the music ended. rita sat back in her chair with downcast eyes and lips slightly parted. neither of them spoke. gilbert suddenly experienced a sense of immense sorrow, of infinite regret too deep for speech or tears. "this is the moment of realisation," he thought, "the first real moment in my life, perhaps. _i know what i have missed._ of all women this was the one for me, as i for her. we were made for each other. too late! too late!" he struggled for mastery over his emotion. "how well they play," he said. she made a slight motion with her hand. "don't let's talk for a minute," she answered. he was thrilled through and through. did she also, then, feel and know . . . ? surely that could not be. his youth was so nearly over, the keen æsthetic vision of the poet showed him so remorselessly how changed he was physically from what he had been in years gone by, for ever. mechanically, without thinking, obeying the order given by the new half-self, that spawn of poison which was his master and which he mistook for himself, he filled his glass once more and drank. in forty seconds after, triumph and pride flared up within him like a sheet of thin paper lit suddenly with a match. yes! she was his, part of him--it was true! he, the great poet, had woven his winged words around her. he had bent the power of his mind upon her--utterly desirable, unsoiled and perfect--and she was his. the blaze passed through him and upwards, a thing from below. then it ended and only a curl of grey ash floated in the air. the most poignant and almost physical sorrow returned to him. his heart seemed to ache like a tooth. yet it wasn't dull, hopeless depression. it was, he thought, a high tragic sorrow ennobling in its strength; a sorrow such as only the supreme soul-wounded artists of the world could know--had known. "she was for me!" his heart cried out. "ah, if only i had met her first!" yes! he was fain of all the tragic sorrows of the great ones to whom he was brother, of whose blood he was. in a single flash of time--as the drowning man is said to experience all the events of his life at the penultimate moment of dissolution--he felt that he knew the secrets of all sorrow, the pangs of all tragedy. the inevitable thought of his wife passed like a blur across the fire-lit heights of his false agony. "i cannot love her," he said in his mind. "i have never loved her. i have been blind until this moment." a tear of sentiment welled into his eye at the thought of poor mary, bereft of his love. "how sad life was!" nearly every man, at some time or other, has found a faint reflection of this black thought assail him and has put it from him with a prayer and the "vade retro sathanas." few men would have chosen their present wives if they had met--let us assume--fifty other women before they married. and when the ordinary, normal, decent man meets a woman better, clever, more desirable than the one he has, it is perfectly natural that he should admire her. he would be insensible if he did not. but with the normal man it stops there. he is obliged to be satisfied with his own wife. the chaos that riotous and unbalanced minds desire has not come yet. and if a man says that he _cannot_ love a wife who is virtuous and good, then satan is in him. "i cannot love her," lothian thought of his wife, and in the surveyal of this fine brain and noble mind poisoned by alcohol it is proper to remember that two hours before he could not have thought this thing. it would have been utterly impossible. was it then the few recent administrations of poison that had changed him so terribly, brought him to this? the fiend alcohol has a myriad dominations. a lad from the university gets drunk in honour on boat-race night--for the first time in his life--and tries to fight with a policeman. but he is only temporarily insane, becomes ashamed and wiser in the morning, and never does such a thing again. lothian had been poisoning himself, slowly, gradually, certainly for years. the disease which was latent in his blood, and for which he was in no way personally responsible, had been steadily undermining the forces of his nature. he had injured his health and was coming near to gravely endangering his reputation. his work, rendered more brilliant and appealing at first by the unfair and unnatural stimulus of alcohol, was trembling upon the brink of a débâcle. he had inflicted hundreds of hours of misery and despair upon the woman he had married. this, all this, was grave and disastrous enough. but the awful thing that he was feeding and breeding within him--the "false ego," to use the cold, scientific, and appallingly accurate definition of the doctors--had not achieved supreme power. even during the last year of the three or four years of the poisoning process it had not become all-powerful. it had kept him from church; it had kept him from the eucharist; it had drawn one thick grey blanket after another between the eye of his soul and the vision of god. but kindly human instinct had remained unimpaired, and he had done many things _sub specie crucis_--under the influence of, and for the sake of that cross which was so surely and steadily receding from his days and passing away to a dim and far horizon. but there arrives a time when the pitcher that is filled drop by drop becomes full. the liquid trembles for a moment upon the brim and trickles over. and there comes a sure moment in the life of the alcoholic when the fiend within waxes strong enough finally to strangle the old self, fills all the house and reigns supreme. it is always something of relatively small importance that hastens the end--ensures the final plunge. it was the last few whiskeys that sent honour and conscience flying away with scared faces from this man's soul. but they acted upon the poison of years, now risen to the very brim of the cup. one more drop . . . people were getting up from the tables and leaving the restaurant. the band was resting, there was no more music at the moment, and the remaining diners were leaning over the tables and talking to each other in low, confidential tones. rita looked up suddenly. "what are we going to do now?" she said with her quick bright smile. "when we went to brighton together," gilbert answered, "you told me that you had never been to a music hall. a box at the empire is waiting for us. let us go and see how you like it. if you don't, we can come away and go for a drive round london in a taxi. the air will be cooler now, and in the suburbs we may see the moon. but come and try. the night is yours, and i am yours, also. you are the queen of the dance of the hours and i your court chamberlain." "oh, how perfectly sweet! take me to the empire." as they stood upon the steps of the restaurant and the commissionaire whistled up a cab, gilbert spoke to rita in a low, husky voice. "we ought to get there in time for the ballet," he said, "because it is the most perfect thing to be seen in europe, outside milan or st. petersburg. but we've ten minutes yet, at least. shall i tell him to drive round?" "yes, gilbert." the taxi-meter glided away through the garish lights of the strand, and then, unexpectedly, swerved into craven street towards the embankment. almost immediately the interior of the cab grew dark. gilbert put his arm round rita's waist and caught her hand with his. he drew her closer to him. "oh, my love!" he said with a sob in his voice. "my dear little love; at last, at last!" she did not resist. he caught her closer and closer and kissed her upon the cheeks, the eyes, the low-falling masses of nut-brown, fragrant hair. "turn your face to me, darling." his lips met hers for one long moment. . . . he hardly heard her faint-voiced, "gilbert, you mustn't." he sank back upon the cushions with a strange blankness and emptiness in his mind. he had kissed her, her lovely lips had been pressed to his. and, behold, it was nothing after all. it was just a little girl kissing him. "kiss met kiss me again!" he said savagely. "you must, you must! rita, my darling, _my darling_!" she pressed her cool lips to his once more--how cool they were!--almost dutifully, with no revolt from his embrace, but as she might have kissed some girl friend at parting after a day together. all evil, dominant passions of his nature, hidden and sleeping within him for so long, were awake at last. he had held rita in his arms. yet, whatever she might say or do in her reckless school-girl fashion, she was really absolutely innocent and virgin, untouched by passion, incredibly ignorant of the red flame which burned within him now and which he would fain communicate to her. "are you unhappy, dearest?" he asked suddenly. "unhappy, gilbert? with you? how could i be?" and so daring innocence and wicked desire drove on through the streets of london--innocence a little tarnished, ignorance no longer, but pulsing with youth and the sense of adventure; absolutely unaware that it was playing with a man's soul. the girl had read widely, but ever with the hunger for beauty, colour, music, the sterile, delicate emotions of others. one of the huge facts of life, the central, underlying fact of all the romance, all the poetry on which she was fed, had come to her at last and she did not recognise it. gilbert had held her in his arms and had kissed her. it was pleasant to be kissed and adored. it wasn't right--that she knew very well. ethel would be horrified, if she knew. all sorts of proper, steady, ordinary people would be horrified, if _they_ knew. but they didn't and never would! and gilbert wanted to kiss her so badly. she had known it all the time. why shouldn't he, poor boy, if it made him happy? he was so kind and so charming. he was a magician with the key of fairyland. he made love beautifully! this was the dance of the hours! the cab stopped in front of the empire. led by a little page-boy who sprung up from somewhere, they passed through the slowly-moving tide of men and women in the promenade to their box. for a little space rita said nothing. she settled herself in her chair and leaned upon the cushioned ledge of the box, gazing at the huge crowded theatre and at the shifting maze of colour upon the stage. she had removed the long glove from her right hand and her chin was supported by one white rounded arm. a very fair young sybil she seemed, lost in the vague, empty spaces of maiden thought. gilbert began to tell her about the dancers and to explain the ballet. she had never seen anything like it before, and he pointed out its beauty, what a marvellous poem it really was; music, movement, and colour built up by almost incredible labour into one stupendous whole. a dozen minor geniuses, each one a poet in his or her way, had been at work upon this triumphant shifting beauty, evanescent and lovely as a dream painted upon the sable curtains of sleep. she listened and seemed to understand but made little comment. once she flashed a curious speculative look at him. and, on his part, though he saw her lovelier than ever, he was chilled nevertheless. grey veils seemed to be falling between him and the glow of his desire, falling one by one. "surgit amari aliquid?"--was it that?--but he could not let the moment escape him. it must and should be captured. he made an excuse about cigarettes, and chocolates for her, and left the box, hurrying to the little bar in the promenade, drinking there almost furiously, tasting nothing, waiting, a strange silent figure with a white face, until he felt the old glow re-commencing. it came. the drugged mind answered to the call, and he went back to the box with light footsteps, full of riotous, evil thoughts. rita had withdrawn her chair into the box a little. she looked up with a smile of welcome as he entered and sat down by her side. she began to eat the chocolates he had brought, and he watched her with greedy eyes. suddenly--maid of moods as she was--she pushed the satin-covered box away. he felt a little white arm pushed through his. "gilbert, let's pretend we're married, just for this evening," she said, looking at him with dancing eyes. "what do you mean, rita?" he said in a hoarse whisper. the girl half-smiled, flushed a little, and then patted the black sleeve of his coat. "it's so nice to be together," she whispered. "i am so happy with you. london is so wonderful with you to show it to me. i only wish it could go on always." he caught her wrist with his hot hand. "it can, always, if you wish," he said. she started at the fierce note in his voice. "hush," she said. "you mustn't talk like that." her face became severe and reproving. she turned it towards the stage. the remainder of the evening alternated between wild fits of gaiety and rather moody silences. there was absolutely nothing of the crisp, delightful friendship of the drive to brighton. a new relation was established between them, and yet it was not, as yet, capable of any definition at all. she was baffling, utterly perplexing. at one moment he thought her his, really in love with him, prepared for all that might mean, at another she was a shy and rather dissatisfied school girl. the nervous strain within him, as the fires of his passion burned and crackled, was intense. he fed the flame with alcohol whenever he had an opportunity. all the old reverence and chivalry of that ideal friendship of which he had sung so sweetly vanished utterly. a faint, but growing brutality of thought came to him as he considered her. her innocence did not seem so insistent as before. he could not place her yet. all he knew was that she was certainly not the rita of his dreams. yet with all this, his longing, his subjection to her every whim and mood, grew and grew each moment. he was absolutely pervaded by her. honour, prudence, his keen insight were all thrust away in the gathering storm of desire. they had supper at a glittering palace in the haymarket. in her simple girlish frock, without much adornment of any sort, she was the prettiest girl in the room. she enjoyed everything with wild avidity, and not the least of the exhilarations of the night was the knowledge--ripe and unmistakable now--of her complete power over him. gilbert ate nothing at the carlton, but drank again. distinguished still, an arresting personality in any room, his face had become deeply flushed and rather satyr-like as he watched rita with longing, wonder, and an uneasy suspicion that only added fuel to the flame. it was after midnight when he drove her home and they parted upon the steps of queens mansions. he staggered a little in the fresh air as he stood there, though rita in her excitement did not notice it. he had drunk enough during that day and night to have literally _killed_ two ordinary men. "to-morrow!" he said, trying to put something that he knew was not there into his dull voice. "to-morrow night." "to-morrow!" she replied. "at the same time," and evading his clumsy attempt at an embrace, she swirled into the hall of the flat with a last kiss of her hand. and even prince, at the club, had never seen "mr. gilbert" so brutishly intoxicated as he was that night. chapter iii thirst "_a little, passionately, not at all?_" she casts the snowy petals on the air. . . . --_villanelle of marguerites._ lothian had taken chambers for a short time in st. james' and near his club. prince, the valet, had found the rooms for him and the house, indeed, was kept by the man's brother. gilbert would not stay at the club. rita could not come to him there. he wanted a place where he could be really alone with her. during the first few days, though they met each night and gilbert ransacked london to give her varied pleasure, rita would not come and dine in his chambers. "i couldn't possibly, gilbert dear," she would say, and the refusal threw him into a suppressed fever of anger and irritation. he dare show little or nothing of it, however. always he had a haunting fear that he might lose her. if she was silent or seemed cold he trembled inwardly and redoubled his efforts to please, to gratify her slightest whim, to bring her back to gaiety and a caressing, half lover-like manner. she knew it thoroughly and would play upon him like a piano, striking what chords she wished. he spent money like water, and in hardly any time at all, the girl whose salary was thirty-five shillings a week found a delirious joy in expensive wines and foods, in rare flowers, in what was to her an astounding _vie de luxe_. if they went to a theatre--"gilbert, we simply must have the stage box. i'm not in the mood to sit _anywhere_ else to-night,"--and the stage box it was. there is a shop in bond street where foolish people buy cigarettes which cost three pence or four pence each and a box of a hundred is bought for two guineas or so. rita wouldn't smoke any others. rita knew no more about wine than she did about astronomy, but she would pucker her pretty brows over the _carte des vins_ in this or that luxurious restaurant, and invariably her choice would fall upon the most expensive. once, it was at the ritz, she noticed the word tokay--a costly johannesburger wine--and asked gilbert what it was. he explained, and then, to interest her, went on to tell of the imperial tokay, the priceless wine which is almost unobtainable. "but surely one could get it _here_?" she had said eagerly. "it's not on the card, dear." "_do_ ask, gilbert!" he asked. a very special functionary was called, who hesitated, hummed and hawed. "there _was_ some of the wine in the cellars, a half bin, just as there _was_ some of the famous white hermitage--but, but"--he whispered in gilbert's ear, "the king of spain, um um um--the grand duke alexis--you'll understand, sir, 'm 'm." they were favoured with a bottle at last. rita was triumphant. gilbert didn't touch it. rita drank two glasses and it cost five pounds. lothian did not care twopence. he had been poor after he left oxford. his father, the solicitor, who never seemed to understand him or to care much about him, had made him an infinitesimal allowance during the young man's journalistic days. then, when the old man died he had left his son a comfortable income. mary had money also. the house at mortland royal was their own, they lived in considerable comfort but neither had really expensive tastes and they did not spend their mutual income by a long way. gilbert's poems had sold largely also. he was that rare bird, a poet who actually made money--probably because he could have done very well without it. it did not, therefore, incommode him in the least to satisfy every whim of rita's. if it amused her to have wine at five pounds a bottle, what on earth did it matter? frugal in his tastes and likings himself--save only in a quantity of cheap poison he procured--he was lavish for others. although, thinking it would amuse him, his wife had begged him to buy a motor-car he had always been too lazy or indifferent to do so. so he had plenty of money. if rita wallace had been one of the devouring harpies of paris, who--if pearls really would melt in champagne--would drink nothing else, gilbert could have paid the piper for a few weeks at any rate. but rita was curious. he would have given her anything. over and over again he had pressed her to have things--bracelets, a ring, a necklace. she had refused with absolute decision. she had let him give her a box of gloves, flowers she could not have enough of, the more costly the amusement of the night the better she seemed to like it. but that was all. in his madness, his poisoned madness, he would have sold his house to give her diamonds had she asked for them--she would not even let him make her a present of a trumpery silver case for cigarettes. she was baffling, elusive, he could not understand her. for several days she had refused to dine alone with him in his rooms. one night, when he was driving her home after the dinner at the ritz and a box at the comedy theatre, he had pressed her urgently. she had once more refused. and then, something unveiled and brutal had risen within him. the wave of alcohol submerged all decency and propriety of speech. he was furiously, coarsely angry. "damn you!" he said. "what are you afraid of?--of compromising yourself? if there were half a dozen people in london who knew or cared what you did, you've done that long ago. and for heaven's sake don't play tartuffe with me. haven't i been kissing you as much as ever i wanted to for the last three days? haven't you kissed me? you'll dine with me to-morrow night in st. james' street or i'll get out of town at once and chuck it all. i've been an ass to come at all. i'm beginning to see that now. i've been leaving the substance for the shadow." she answered nothing to this brutal tirade for a minute or two. the facile anger died away from him. he cursed himself for his insane folly in jeopardising everything and felt compunction for his violence. he was just about to explain and apologise when he heard a chuckle from the girl at his side. he turned swiftly to her. her face was alight with pleasure, mingled with an almost tender mischief. she laughed aloud. "of course i'll come, gilbert dear," she said softly--"since you _command_ me!" he realised at once that, like all women, she found joy in abdication when it was forced upon her. the dominant male mind had won in this little contest. he had bullied her roughly. it was a new sensation and she liked it. but when she dined in the rooms and he tried to accomplish artificially what he had achieved spontaneously, she was on her guard and it was quite ineffectual. they sat at a little round table. the dinner was simple, but perfectly served. during the meal, for once,--once again--he had talked like his old self, brilliantly touching upon literary things and illuminating much that had been dark to her before with that splendour of intellect which came back to him to-night for a space; and brought a trace of spirituality to his coarsening face. and after dinner he had made her play to him on the little bord piano against the wall. she was not a good pianist but she was efficient, and certain things that she knew well, and _felt_, she played well. with some technical accomplishment she certainly rendered the "bees' wedding" of mendelssohn with astonishing vivacity that night. the elfin humour of the thing harmonised so much with certain aspects of her own temperament! the swarming bees of fairyland were in the room! and then, with merry malice, and at gilbert's suggestion, she improvised a podley polonaise. then she gave a little melody of dvôrak that she knew--"a mad scarlet thing by dvôrak," he quoted to her, and finally, at gilbert's urgent request, she attempted the troisième ballade of chopin. it reminded him of the first night on which he had met her, at the amberleys' house. she did not play it well but his imagination filled the lacunae; his heated mind rose to a wild ecstasy of longing. he put his arm round her and embraced her with tears in his eyes. "sweetheart," he said, "you are wonderful! see! we are alone here together, perfectly alone, perfectly happy. let us always be for each other. dear, i will sacrifice everything for you. you complete me. you were made for me. come away with me, come with me for ever and ever. my wife will divorce me and we can be married; always to be together." he had declared himself, and his wicked wish at last. he made an open proffer of his shameful love. there was not a single thought in his mind of mary, her deep devotion, her love and trust. he brushed aside the supreme gift that god had allowed him as a man brushes away an insect from his face. all that the girl had said in answer was that he must not talk in such a way. of course it could never be. they must be content as they were, hard as it was. "i am very sorry, gilbert dear, you can never know how sorry i am. but you know i care for you. that must be all." he had sent her home by herself that night, paying the cabman and giving him the address in kensington. then for an hour before going to bed he had walked up and down his sitting room in a welter of hope, fear, regret, desire, wonder and deep perplexity. he had now lost all sense of honour, all measure of proportion. his desire filled him and racked his very bones. sometimes he almost hated rita; always he longed for her to be his, his very own. freed from all possible restraint, lord of himself--"that heritage of woe!"--he was now drinking more deeply, more madly than ever before in his life. he was abnormal in an abnormal world which his insanity created. the savage torture he inflicted on himself shall be only indicated here. there are deeper hells yet, blacknesses more profound in which we shall see this unhappy soul! suffice it to say that for three red weeks he drove the chariot of his ruin more recklessly and furiously than ever towards hell. and the result, as far as his blistering hunger was concerned, was always the same. the girl led him on and repulsed him alternately. he never advanced a step towards his desire. yet the longing grew in intensity and never left him for a moment. he tried hard to fathom rita's character, to get at the springs of her thoughts. he failed utterly, and for two reasons. firstly, he was in no state to see anything steadily. the powers of insight and analysis were alike deserting him. his _mind_ had been affected before. now his _brain_ was becoming affected. one morning, with shaking hand, bloodshot eyes and a bottle of whiskey before him on the table, he sat down to write out what he thought of rita. the accustomed pen and paper, the material implements of his power, might bring him back what he seemed to be losing. this is what he wrote, in large unsteady characters, entirely changed from the neat beautiful caligraphy of the past. "passionate and yet calculating at the same time; eager to rule and capable of ruling, though occasionally responsive to the right control; generous in confidence and trust, though with suspicion never very far away. "merrily false and frankly furtive in many of the actions of life. a dear egoist! yet capable of self-abandoning enthusiasm, a brilliant embryo really wanting the guiding hand and master brain but reluctant to accept them until the last moment." there was more of it, all compact of his hopes and fears, an entirely false conception of her, an emanation of poison which, nevertheless, affords some indication of his mental state. the sheet concluded:-- "a white and graceful yacht seriously setting out into dangerous waters with no more certainty than hangs upon the result of a toss up or the tinkle of a tambourine. deeply desiring a pilot, but unwilling that he should come aboard too soon and spoil the fun of beating up into the wind to see what happens. weak, but not with the charm of dependence and that trusting weakness which stiffens a man's arm." a futile, miserable dissection with only a half-grain of truth in it. gilbert knew it for what it was directly it had been written. he crumpled it up with a curse and flung it into the fireplace. yet the truth about the girl was simple enough. she was only an exceptionally clever and attractive example of a perfectly well-defined and numerous type. lothian was ignorant of the type, had never suspected its existence in his limited experience of young women, that was all. rita wallace was just this. heredity had given her a quick, good brain and an infinite capacity for enjoyment. it was an accident also that she was a very lovely girl. all beautiful people are spoiled. rita was spoiled at school. girls and mistresses alike adored her. with hardly any interregnum she had been plumped into podley's pure literature library and begun to earn her own living. she lived with a good, commonplace girl who worshipped her. except that she could attract them and that on the whole they were silly moths she knew nothing of men. her heart, unawakened as yet save by school-girl affections, was a kind and tender little organ. but, with all her beauty and charm she was essentially shallow, from want of experience rather than from lack of temperament. gilbert lothian had come to her as the most wonderful personality she had ever known. his letters were things that any girl in the world might be proud of receiving. he was giving her, now, a time which, upon each separate evening, was to her like a page out of the "arabian nights." every day he gave her a tablet upon which "sesame" was written. had he been free to ask her honourably, she would have married gilbert within twenty-four hours, had it been possible. he was delightful to be with. she liked him to kiss her and say adoring things to her. even his aberrations--of which of course she had become aware--only excited her interest. the bad boy drank far too many whiskies and sodas. of course! she would cure him of that. if any one had told her that her nightly and delightful companion was an inebriate approaching the last stages of lingering sanity, rita would have laughed in her informant's face. she knew what a drunkard was! it was a horrid wretch who couldn't walk straight and who said, "my dearsh"--like the amusing pictures in "punch." poor dear gilbert's wife would be in a fury if she knew. but fortunately she didn't know, and she wasn't in england. meanwhile, for a short time, life was entrancing, and why worry about the day after to-morrow? it was ridiculous of gilbert to want her to run away with him. that would be really wicked. he might kiss her as much as he liked, and when mrs. lothian came back they could still go on much as before. certainly they would continue being friends and he would write her beautiful letters again. "i'm a wicked little devil," she said to herself once or twice with a naughty inward chuckle, "but dear old gilbert is so perfectly sweet, and i can do just what i like with him!" nearly three weeks had gone by. gilbert and rita had been together every evening, on the saturday afternoons when she was free of podley's library, and for the whole of sunday. gilbert had almost exhausted his invention in thinking out surprises for her night after night. there had been many dull moments and hours when pleasure trembled in the balance. but no night had been quite a failure. the position was this. lothian, almost convinced that rita was unassailable, assailed her still. she was sweet to him, gave her caresses but not herself. they had arrived at a curious sort of understanding. he bewailed with bitter and burning regret that he could not marry her. lightly, only half sincerely, but to please him, she joined in his sorrow. she had been seen about with him, constantly, in all sorts of places, and that london that knew him was beginning to talk. of this rita was perfectly unconscious. he had written to his wife at nice, letters so falsely sympathetic that he felt she must suspect something. he followed up every letter with a long, costly telegram. a telegram is not autograph and the very lesions of the prose conceal the lesions of the sender's dull intention. his physical state was beginning to be so alarming that he was putting himself constantly under the influence of bromide and such-like drugs. he went regularly to the turkish bath in jermyn street, had his face greased and hammered in the haymarket each morning, and fought with a constantly growing terror against an advancing horror which he trembled to think might not be far off now. delirium tremens. but when rita met him at night, drugs, massage and alcohol had had their influence and kept him still upon the brink. in his well-cut evening clothes, with his face a little fatter, a little redder perhaps, he was still her clever, debonnair gilbert. a necessity to her now. chapter iv the chamber of horrors "let us have a quiet hour, let us hob-and-nob with death." --_tennyson._ three weeks passed. there was no change in the relations of rita wallace and gilbert lothian. she was gay, tender, silent by turns, and her thirst for pleasure seemed unquenchable. she yielded nothing. things were as they were. he was married: there was no more to be said, they must "dree their wierd"--endure their lot. often the man smiled bitterly to hear her girlish wisdom, uttered with almost complacent finality. it was not very difficult for _her_ to endure. she had no conception of the dreadful state into which he had come, the torture he suffered. when he was alone--during the long evil day when he could not see her--the perspiration his heated blood sent out upon his face and body seemed like the very night dews of the grave. he was the sensualist of whom ruskin speaks, the sensualist with the shroud about his feet. all day long he fought for sufficient mastery over himself to go through the evening, fought against the feverish disease of parched throat and wandering eyes; senseless, dissolute, merciless. and one dreadful flame burned steadily in the surrounding gloom-- "_love, which is lust, is the lamp in the tomb. love, which is lust, is the call from the gloom._" "je me nourris de flammes" was the proud motto of an ancient ducal house in burgundy. with grimmer meaning lothian might have taken it for his own during these days. he had heard from his wife that she was coming home almost at once. lady davidson had rallied. there was every prospect of her living for a month or two more. sir harold davidson was on his way home from india. he would go to her at once and it was now as certain as such things can be that he would be in time. mary wrote with deep sadness. to bid her beloved sister farewell on this earth was heart-rending. "and yet, darling,"--so the letter had run--"how marvellous it is to know, not to just hope, but to _know_ that i shall meet dorothy again and that we shall see jesus. when i think of that, tears of happiness mingle with the tears of sorrow. sweet little dorothy will be waiting for us when we too go, my dearest, dearest husband. god keep you, beloved. day and night i pray for my dear one." this letter had stabbed the man's soul through and through. it had been forwarded from mortland royal and was brought to him as he lay in bed at breakfast time. his heavy tears had bedewed the pillow upon which he lay. "like bitter wine upon a sponge was the savour of remorse." shuddering and sobbing he had crawled out of bed and seized the whiskey bottle which stood upon the dressing table--his sole comforter, hold-fast and standby now; very blood of his veins. and then, warmth, comfort--remorse and shame fading rapidly away--oblivion and a heavy sleep or stupor till long after midday. he must go home at once. he must be at home to receive mary. and, in the quiet country among familiar sights and sounds, he would have time to think. he could write to rita again. he could say things upon paper with a force and power that escaped him _à vive voix_. he could pull himself together, too, recruit his physical faculties. he realised, with an ever growing dread, in what a shocking state he was. yes, he would go home. there would be peace there, some sort of kindly peace for a day or two. what would happen when mary returned, how he would feel about her, what he would do, he did not ask. sufficient for the day! he longed for a few days' peace. no more late midnights--sleep. no nights of bitter hollow pleasure and longing. he would be among his quiet books again in his pleasant little library. he would talk wildfowling with tumpany and they would go through the guns together. the dog trust who loved him should sleep on his bed. it was saturday. he was going down to norfolk by the five o'clock train from st. pancras. he would be able to dine on board--and have what drinks he wanted en route. the dining-car stewards on that line knew him well. he would arrive at wordingham by a little after nine. by ten he might be in bed in his peaceful old house. the podley library closed at : on saturday. he was to call for rita, when they were to lunch together, and at five she would come to the station to see him off. it was a dull, heavy day. london was chilly, there was a gloom over the metropolis; leaden opaque light fell from a sky that was ashen. it was as though cold thunder lurked somewhere up above, as lothian drove to kensington. he had paid for his rooms and arranged for his luggage to be taken to the station where a man was to meet him with it a little before five. then he had crossed st. james' street and spent a waiting hour at his club. for some reason or other, this morning he had more control over his nerves. there was a lull in his rapid physical progress downwards. perhaps it was that he had at any rate made some decision in his mind. he was going to do something definite. he was going home. that was something to grasp at--a real fact--and it steadied him a little. he had smoked a cigar in the big smoking room of the club. it was rather early yet and there was hardly any one there. two whiskies and sodas had been sufficient for the hour. the big room, however, was so dark that all the electric lamps were turned on and he read the newspapers in an artificial daylight that harmonised curiously with the dull, numbed peace of the nerves which had come to him for a short time. he opened _punch_ and there was a joke about him--a merry little paragraph at the bottom of the column. it was the fourth or fifth time his name had appeared in the paper. he remembered how delighted he and mary had been when it first happened. it meant so definitely that one had "got there." he read it now without the slightest interest. he glanced at the _times_. many important things were happening at home and abroad, but he gazed at all the news with a lack-lustre eye. usually a keen and sympathetic observer of what went on in the world, for three weeks now he hadn't opened a paper. as he closed the broad, crackling sheet on its mahogany holding rod, his glance fell upon the births, deaths and marriages column. a name among the deaths captured his wandering attention. a mr. james bethune dickson ingworth, c.b., was dead at hampton hall in wiltshire. it was dicker's uncle, of course! the boy would come into his estate now. "it's a good thing for him," lothian thought. "i don't suppose he's back from italy yet. the old man must have died quite suddenly. i hope he'll settle down and won't be quite so uppish in the future." he was thinking drowsily, and quite kindly of dickson, when he suddenly remembered something mary had said on the night before she went to nice. he had tried to make mischief between them--so he had! and then there was that scene in the george at wordingham, which lothian had forgotten until now. "what a cock-sparrow beelzebub the lad really is," he said in his mind. "and yet i liked him well enough. even now he's not important enough to dislike. rita likes him. she often talks of him. he took her out to dinner--yes, so he did--to some appalling little place in wardour street. she was speaking of it yesterday. he's written to her from milan and rome, too. she wanted to show me the letters and she was cross because i wasn't interested. she tried to pique me and i wouldn't be! what was it she said, oh, 'he's such nice curly hair.'" he gazed into the empty fireplace before which he was sitting in a huge chair of green leather. the remembered words had struck some chords of memory. he frowned and puzzled over it in his drowsy numbed state, and then it came to him suddenly. of course! the barmaid at wordingham, molly what's-her-name whom all the local bloods were after, had said just the same thing about ingworth. little fools! they were all alike, fluffy little duffers. . . . he looked up at the clock. it was twenty minutes to one. he had to meet rita at the library as the hour struck. he started. the door leading into the outside world shut with a clang. his chains fell into their place once more upon the limbs of his body and soul. he called a waiter, gulped down another peg, and got into a cab for the podley institute. the pleasant numbness had gone from him now. once more he was upon the rack. what he saw with his mental vision was as the wild phantasmagoria of a dream . . . a dark room in which a magic lantern is being worked, and fantastic, unexpected pictures flit across the screen. pictures as disconnected as a pack of cards. rita was waiting upon the steps of the institute. she wore a simple coat and skirt of dark brown tweed with a green line in it. her face was pale. her eyes were without sparkle--she also was exhausted by pleasure, come to the end of the arabian nights. she got into the taxi-cab which was trembling with the power of the unemployed engines below it. tzim, tzim, tzim! "where shall we go, gilbert?" she said, in a languid, uninterested voice. he answered her in tones more cold and bloodless than her own. "i don't know, rita, and i don't care. ce que vous voulez, mademoiselle des livres sans reproche!" she turned her white face on him for a moment, almost savage with impotent petulance. then she thrust her head out of the window and coiled round to the waiting driver. "go to madame tussaud's," she cried. tzim, tzim, bang-bang-bang, and then a long melancholy drone as the rows of houses slid backwards. gilbert turned on her. "why did you say that?" he asked bitterly. "what difference _does_ it make?" she replied. "you didn't seem to care where we went for this last hour or two. i said the first thing that came into my mind. i suppose we can get lunch at madame tussaud's. i've never been there before. at any rate, i expect they can manage a sponge cake for us. i don't want anything more." --"yes, it's better for us both. it's a relief to me to think that the end has come. no, rita dear, i don't want your hand. let us make an end now--a diminuendo. it must be. let it be. you've said it often yourself." she bit her lips for a second. then her eyes flashed. she put her arms round his neck and drew him to her. "you shan't!" she said. "you shan't glide away from me like this." every nerve in his body began to tremble. his skin pricked and grew hot. "what will you give?" he asked in a muffled voice. "i? what i choose to give!" she replied. "gillie, i'll do what i like with you." she shrank back in the corner of the cab with a little cry. lothian's face was red and blazing with anger. "no names like that, rita!" he said roughly. "you shan't call me that." it was a despairing cry of drowning conscience, honour bleeding to death, dissolving dignity and manhood. however much he might long for her: however strongly he was enchained, it was a blot, an indignity, an outrage, that this girl should call him by the familiar home name. that was mary's name for him. mrs. gilbert lothian alone had the right to say that. just then the taxi-metre stopped outside the big red erection in the marylebone road, an unusual and fantastic silhouette against the heavy sky. they went in together, and there was a chill over them both. they felt, on this grey day, as people who have lived for pleasure, sensation, and have fed too long on honeycomb, must ever feel; the bitterness of the fruit with the fair red and yellow rind. ashes were in their mouths, an acrid flavour within their souls. it is always and for ever thus, if men could only realise it. since the cross rose in the sky, the hectic joys of sin have been mingled with bitterness, torture, cold. the frightful "colloque sentimental" of verlaine expresses these two people, at this moment, well enough. written by a temperamental saint turned satyr and nearly always influenced by drink; translated by a young english poet whose wings were always beating in vain against the prison wall he himself had built; you have these sad companions. . . . _into the lonely park all frozen fast, awhile ago there were two forms who passed. lo, are their lips fallen and their eyes dead, hardly shall a man hear the words they said. into the lonely park all frozen fast there came two shadows who recall the past. "dost thou remember our old ecstasy?" "wherefore should i possess that memory?" "doth thy heart beat at my sole name alway? still dost thou see my soul in visions?" "nay!"--_ and on such a day as this, with such a weight as this upon their tired hearts, they entered the halls of waxwork and stood forlorn among that dumb cloistered company. they passed through "room no. . commencing right-hand side" and their steps echoed upon the floor. on this day and at this hour hardly any visitors were there; only a few groups moved from figure to figure and talked in hissing whispers as if they were in some church. all around them they saw lifeless and yet half convincing dolls in rich tarnished habiliments. they walked, as it were, in a mausoleum of dead kings, and the livid light which fell upon them from the glass roof above made the sordid unreality more real. "there's charles the first," rita said drearily. gilbert glanced at the catalogue. "he was fervently pious, a faithful husband, a fond parent, a kind master, and an enthusiastic lover and patron of the fine arts." "how familiar that sort of stuff sounds," she answered. "it's written for the schools which come here to see history in the flesh--or wax rather. every english school girl of the upper middle classes has been brought here once in her life. oh, here's milton! what does it say about him?" --"sold his immortal poem 'paradise lost' for the sum of five pounds," lothian answered grimly. "_much_ better to be a modern poet, gilbert dear! but i'm disappointed. these figures don't thrill one at all. i always thought one was thrilled and astonished here." "so you will be, cupid, soon. don't you see that all these people are only names to us. here they are names dressed up in clothes and with pink faces and glass eyes. they're too remote. neither of us is going to connect that thing"--he flung a contemptuous movement of his thumb at milton--"with 'lycidas.' we shall be interested soon, i'm sure. but won't you have something to eat?" "no. i don't want food. after all, this is strange and fantastic. we've lots more to see yet, and these kings and queens are only for the schools. let's explore and explore. and let's talk about it all as we go, gilbert! talk to me as you do in your letters. talk to me as you did at the beginning, illuminating everything with your mind. that's what i want to hear once again!" she thrust her arm in his, and desire fled away from him. the dead sea fruit, the "colloque sentimental" existed no more, but, humour, the power of keen, incisive phrase awoke in him. yes, this was better!--their two minds with play and interplay. it would have been a thousand times better if it had never been anything else save this. they wandered into the grand saloon, made their bow to sir thomas lipton--"wog and i find his tea really the best and cheapest," rita said--decided that the archbishop of canterbury had a suave, but uninteresting face, admired the late mr. dan leno, who was posed next to sir walter scott, and gazed without much interest at the royal figures in the same room. king george the fifth and his spouse; the duke of connaught and strathearn--prince arthur william patrick albert, k.g., k.t., k.p., g.c.m.c.; princess royal of england--her royal highness princess louise victoria alexandra dagmar; and, next to these august people, little mr. dan leno! "poor little man," rita said, looking at the sad face of the comedian. "why should they put him here with the king and the queen? do they just plant their figures anywhere in this show?" gilbert shook his head. in this abnormal place--one of the strangest and most psychologically interesting places in the world--his freakish humour was to the fore. "what a little stupid you are, rita!" he said. "the man who arranges these groups is one of the greatest philosophers and students of humanity who ever lived. in this particular case the ghost of heine must have animated him. the court jester! the clown of the monarch--i believe he did once perform at sandringham--set cheek by jowl with the great people he amused. it completes the picture, does it not?" "no, gilbert, since you pretend to see a design in the arrangement, i don't think it _does_ complete the picture. why should a mere little comic man be set to intrude--?" he caught her up with whimsical grace. "oh, but you don't see it at all!" he cried, and his vibrating voice, to which the timbre and life had returned, rang through "room no. ." --"this place is designed for the great mass of the population. they all visit it. it is a national institution. people like you and me only come to it out of curiosity or by chance. it's out of our beat. therefore, observe the genius of the plan! the populace has room in its great stupid heart for only a few heroes. the king is always one, and the popular comedian of the music halls is always another. these, with mr. and mrs. herbert toftrees, satisfy all the hunger for symbols to be adored. thus dan leno in this splendid company. room no. is really a subtle and ironic comment upon the psychology of the crowd!" rita laughed happily. "but where are the toftrees?" she said. "in the chamber of horrors, probably, for murdering the public taste. we are sure to find them here, seated before two remingtons and with the actual books with which the crime was committed on show." "oh, i've heard about the 'chamber of horrors.' can we go, gilbert? do let's go. i want to be thrilled. it's such a funereal day." "yes it is, grey as an old nun. i'm sorry i was unkind in the cab, dear. forgive me." "i'll forgive you anything. i'm so unhappy, gilbert. it's dreadful to think of you being gone. all my days and my nights will be grey now. however shall i do without you?" there was genuine desolation in her voice. he believed that she really regretted _his_ departure and not the loss of the pleasures he had been giving her. his blood grew hot once more--for a single moment--and he was about to embrace her, for they were alone in the room. and then listlessness fell upon him before he had time to put his wish into action. his poisoned mind was vibrating too quickly. an impulse was born, only to be strangled in the brain before the nerves could telegraph it to the muscles. his whole machinery was loose and out of control, the engines running erratically and not in tune. they could not do their work upon the fuel with which he fed them. he shuddered. his heart was a coffer of ashes and within it, most evil paramours, dwelt the quenchless flame and the worm that dieth not. . . . they went through other ghostly halls, thronged by a silent company which never moved nor spake. they came to the entrance of that astounding mausoleum of wickedness, the chamber of horrors. there they saw, as in a faint light under the sea, the legion of the lost, the horrible men and women who had gone to swell the red quadrilles of hell. in long rows, sitting or standing, with blood-stained knives and hangmen's ropes in front of them, in their shameful resurrection they inhabited this place of gloom and death. here, was a man in shirt-sleeves, busy at work in a homely kitchen lit by a single candle. alone at midnight and with sweat upon his face he was breaking up the floor; making a deep hole in which to put something covered with a spotted shroud which lay in a bedroom above. there, was the "most extraordinary relic in the world," the knife of the guillotine that decapitated marie antoinette, robespierre, and twenty thousand human beings besides. the strange precision of portraiture, the somewhat ghastly art which had moulded these evil faces was startlingly evident in its effect upon the soul. when a _great_ novelist or poet creates an evil personality it shocks and terrifies us, but it is never wholly evil. we know of the monster's antecedents and environment. however stern we may be in our attitude towards the crime, sweet charity and deep understanding of the motives of human action often give us glimmerings which enable us to pity a lamentable human being who is a brother of ours whatever he may have done. but here? no. all was sordid and horrible. gilbert and rita saw rows upon rows of faces which differed in every way one from the other and were yet dreadfully alike. for these great sinister dolls, so unreal and so real, had all a likeness. the smirk of cruelty and cunning seemed to lie upon the waxen masks. colder than life, far colder than death, they gave forth emanations which struck the very heart with woe and desolation. to many visitors the chamber of horrors is all its name signifies. but it is a place of pleasure nevertheless. the skin creeps but the sensation is pleasant. it provides a thrill like a switchback railway. but it is not a place that artists and imaginative people can enter and easily forget. it epitomises the wages of sin. it ought to be a great educational force. young criminals should be taken there between stern guardians, to learn by concrete evidence which would appeal to them as no books or sermons could ever do, the nemesis that waits upon unrepentant ways. the man and the girl who had just entered were both in a state of nervous tension. they were physically exhausted, one by fierce indulgence in poison, the other by three weeks of light and feverish pleasure. and more than this. each, in several degree, knew that they were doing wrong, that they had progressed far down the primrose path led by the false flute-players. "i couldn't have conceived it was so, so unnerving, gilbert," rita said, shrinking close to him. "it is pretty beastly," lothian answered. "it's simply a dictionary of crime though, that's all--rather too well illustrated." "i don't want to know of these horrors. one sees them in the papers, but it means little or nothing. how dreadful life is though, under the surface!" gilbert felt a sudden pang of pity for her, so young and fair, so frightened now.--ah! _he_ knew well how dreadful life was--under the surface! for a moment, in that tomb-like place a vision came to him, sunlit and splendid, calm and beautiful. he saw his life as it might be--as doubtless god meant it to be, a favoured, fortunate and happy life, for god does not, in his inscrutable wisdom chastise all men. well-to-do, brilliant of mind, with trained capacity to exact every drop of noble joy from life; blessed with a sweet and beautiful woman to watch over him and complement him; did ever a man have a fairer prospect, a luckier chance? his hell was so real. heaven was so near. he had but to say, "i will not," and the sun would rise again upon his life. to the end he would walk dignified, famous, happy, loving and deeply-loved--if only he could say those words. a turn of the hand would banish the fiend alcohol for ever and ever! but even as the exaltation of the thought animated him, the dominant false ego, crushed momentarily by heavenly inspiration, growled and fought for life. immediately the longing for alcohol burned within him. they had been nearly an hour among the figures. lothian longed for drink, to satisfy no mere physical craving, but to keep the fiend within quiescent. he had come to that alternating state--the author of "dr. jekyll and mr. hyde" has etched it upon the plate for all time--when he must drug the devil in order to have a little license in which to speak the words and think the thoughts of a clean man leading a christian life. so the vision of what might be faded and went. the present asserted itself, and asserted itself merely as a brutish desire for poison. all these mental changes and re-adjustments took place in a mere second of time. rita had hardly made an end of speaking before he was ready with an answer. "poor little rita," he said. "it was your choice you know. it _is_ horrible. but i expect that the weather, and the inexorable fact that we have to part this afternoon for a time, has something to do with it. oh, and then we haven't lunched. there's a great influence in lunch. i want a drink badly, too. let's go." rita was always whimsical. she loved to assert herself. she wanted to go at least as ardently as her companion, but she did not immediately agree. "soon," she said. "look here, gilbert, we'll meet at the door. i'm going to flit down this aisle of murderers on the other side. you go down this side. and if you meet the libricides--toftrees et femme i mean, call out!" she vanished with noiseless tread among the stiff ranks of figures. gilbert walked slowly down his own path, looking into each face in turn. . . . this fat matronly woman, a sort of respectable mrs. gamp who probably went regularly to church, was a celebrated baby farmer. she "made angels" by pressing a gimlet into the soft skulls of her charges--there was the actual gimlet--and save for a certain slyness, she had the face of a quite motherly old thing. yet she, too, had dropped through the hole in the floor--like all her companions here. . . . he turned away from all the faces with an impatient shudder. he ought never to have come here. he was a donkey ever to have let rita come here. where was she?--he was to meet her at the end of this horrid avenue. . . . but the place was large. rita had disappeared among the waxen ghosts. the door must be this way. . . . he pressed onwards, walking silently--as one does in a place of the dead--but disregarding with averted eyes, the leers, the smiles, the complacent appeal, of the murderers who had paid their debt to the justice of the courts. he was beginning to be most unpleasantly affected. walking onwards, he suddenly heard rita's voice. it was higher in key than usual--whom was she speaking to? his steps quickened. . . . "gilbert, how silly to try and frighten me! it's not cricket in this horrid place, get down at once--oh!" the girl shrieked. her voice rang through the vault-like place. gilbert ran, turned a corner, and saw rita. she was swaying from side to side. her face was quite white, even the lips were bloodless. she was staring with terrified eyes to where upon the low dais and behind the confining rail a figure was standing--a wax-work figure. gilbert caught the girl by the hands. they were as cold as ice. "dear!" he said in wild agitation. "what is it? i'm here, don't be frightened. what is it, rita?" she gave a great sob of relief and clung to his hands. a trace of colour began to flow into her cheeks. "thank goodness," she said, gasping. "oh, gilbert, i'm a fool. i've been so frightened." "but, dear, what by?" "by that----" she pointed at the big, still puppet immediately opposite her. gilbert turned quickly. for a moment he did not understand the cause of her alarm. "i talked to _it_," she said with an hysterical laugh. "i thought _it_ was you! i thought you'd got inside the railing and were standing there to frighten me." gilbert looked closely at the effigy. he was about to say something and then the words died away upon his lips. it was as though he saw himself in a distorting glass--one of those nasty and reprehensible toys that fools give to children sometimes. there was an undeniable look of him in the staring face of coloured wax. the clear-cut lips were there. the shape of the head was particularly reminiscent, the growing corpulence of body was indicated, the hair of the stiff wig waved as lothian's living hair waved. "good god!" he said. "it _is_ like me! poor little girl--but you know i wouldn't frighten you for anything. but it _is_ like! what an extraordinary thing. we looked for the infamous toftrees! the egregious herbert who has split so many infinitives in his time, and we find--me!" rita was recovering. she laughed, but she held tightly to gilbert's arm at the same time. "let's see who the person is--or was--" gilbert went on, drawing the catalogue from his pocket. "key of the principal gate of the bastille--no, that's not it. number , oh, here we are! hancock, the hackney murderer. a chemist in comfortable circumstances, he----" rita snatched the book from his hand. "i don't want to hear any more," she said. "let's go away, quick!" in half an hour they were lunching at a little italian restaurant which they found in the vicinity. the day was still dark and lowering, but a risotto milanese and something which looked like prawns in _polenta_, but wasn't, restored them to themselves. there was a wine list in this quite snug little place, but the proprietor advanced and explained that he had no license and that money must be paid in advance before the camerière could fetch what was required from an adjacent public house. it was a bottle of whiskey that gilbert ordered, politely placed upon the table by a pathetic little genoese whose face was sallow as spaghetti and who was quite unconscious that for the moment the fiend alcohol had borrowed his poor personality. . . . "you must have a whiskey and soda, rita. i dare not let you attempt any of the wines from the public house at the corner." "i've never tried it in my life. but i will now, out of curiosity. i'll taste what you are so far too fond of." rita did so. "horrible stuff," she said. "it's just like medicine." gilbert had induced the pleasant numbness again. "you've said exactly what it is," he replied in a dreamy voice.--"'medicine for a mind diseased.'" they hardly conversed at all after that. the little restaurant with its red plush seats against the wall, its mirrors and hanging electric lights, was cosy. they lingered long over their coffee and cigarettes. no one else was there and the proprietor sidled up to them and began to talk. he spoke in english at first, and then gilbert answered him in french. gilbert spoke french as it is spoken in tours, quite perfectly. the italian spoke it with the soft, ungrammatical fluency of his race. the interlude pleased the tired, jaded minds of the sad companions, and it was with some fictitious reconstruction of past gaiety and animation that they drove to st. pancras. the train was in. gilbert's dressing-case was already placed in a first-class compartment, his portmanteau snug in the van. when he walked up the long platform with rita, a porter, the guard of the train and the steward of the dining-car, were grouped round the open door. he was well known. all the servants of the line looked out for him and gave him almost ministerial honours. they knew he was a "somebody," but were all rather vague as to the nature of his distinction. he was "mr. gilbert lothian" at least, and his bountiful largesse was generally spoken of. the train was not due to start for six minutes. the acute guard, raising his cap, locked the door of the carriage. gilbert and rita were alone in it for a farewell. he took her in his arms and looked long and earnestly into the young lovely face. he saw the tears gathering in her eyes. "have you been happy, sweetheart, with me?" "perfectly happy." there was a sob in the reply. "you really do care for me?" "yes." his breath came more quickly, he held her closer to him--only a little rose-faced girl now. "do you care for me more than for any other man you have ever met?" she did not answer. "tell me, tell me! do you?" "yes." "rita, my darling, say, if things had been different, if i were free to ask you to be my wife now, would you marry me?" "yes." "would you be my dear, dear love, as i yours, for ever and ever and ever?" she clung to him in floods of tears. he had his answer. each tear was an answer. the guard of the train, looking the other way, opened the door with his key and coughed. "less than a minute more, sir," said the guard. . . . "once more, say it once more! you _would_ be my wife if i were free?" "i'd be your wife, gilbert, and i'd love you--oh, what shall i do without you? how dull and dreadful everything is going to be now!" "but i shall be back soon. and i shall write to you every day!" "you will, won't you, dear? write, write--" the train was almost moving. it began to move. gilbert leaned out of the window and waved his hand for a long time, to a forlorn little girl in a brown coat and skirt who stood upon the platform crying bitterly. the waiter of the dining-car, knowing his man well, brought lothian a large whiskey and soda before the long train was free of the sordid northwest suburbs. lothian drank it, arranged about dinner, and sank back against the cushions. he lit a cigarette and drew the hot smoke deep into his lungs. the train was out of the town area now. there was no more jolting and rattling over points. its progress into the gathering night was a continuous roar. onwards through the gathering night. . . . "_i'd be your wife, gilbert, and i'd love you--if you were free._" chapter v the night journey from nice when mrs. daly speaks words of fire "into a dark tremendous sea of cloud, it is but for a time; i press god's lamp close to my breast: its splendour, soon or late shall pierce the gloom. i shall emerge one day." --_browning._ a carriage was waiting outside a white and gilded hotel on the promenade des anglais at nice. the sun was just dipping behind the esterelle mountains and the mediterranean was the colour of wine. already the palais du jetée was being illuminated and outlined itself in palest gold against the painted sky above the cimiez heights, where the olive-coloured headland hides villefranche and the sea-girt pleasure city of monte carlo. the tall palms in the gardens which front the gleaming palaces of the promenade were bronze gold in the fading light, and their fans clicked and rustled in a cool breeze which was eddying down upon the queen of the mediterranean from the maritime alps. mary lothian came out of the hotel. her face was pale and very sad. she had been crying. with her was a tall, stately woman of middle-age; grey-haired, with a massive calmness and peace of feature recalling the athena of the louvre or one of those noble figures of the erectheum crowning the hill of the acropolis at athens. she was mrs. julia daly, who had been upon the riviera for two months. dr. morton sims had written to her. she had called upon mary and the two had become fast friends. such time as mary could spare from the sickbed of her sister, she spent in the company of this great-souled woman from america, and now mrs. daly, whose stay at nice was over, was returning to london with her friend. the open carriage drove off, by the gardens and jewellers' shops in front of the casino and opera house and down the avenue de la gare. the glittering cafés were full of people taking an apéritif before dinner. there was a sense of relaxation and repose over the pleasure city of the south, poured down upon it in a golden haze from the last level rays of the sun. outside one of the cafés, as the carriage turned to the station, some italians were singing "_o soli mio_" to the accompaniment of guitars and a harp, with mellow, passionate voices. the long green train rolled into the glass-roofed station, the brass-work of the carriage doors covered thick with oily dust from the italian tunnels through which it had passed. the conductor of the sleeping-car portion found the two women their reserved compartment. their luggage was already registered through to charing cross and they had only dressing bags with them. as the train started again mrs. daly pulled the sliding door into its place, the curtains over it and the windows which looked out into the corridor. then she switched on the electric light in the roof and also the lamp which stood on a little table at the other end. "there, my dear," she said, "now we shall be quite comfortable." she sat down by mary, took her hand in hers and kissed her. "i know what you are experiencing now," she said in her low rich voice, "and it is very bitter. but the separation is only for a short, short time. god wants her, and we shall all be in heaven together soon, mrs. lothian. and you're leaving her with her husband. it is a great mercy that he has come at last. they are best alone together. and see how brave and cheery he is!--there's a real man, a christian soldier and gentleman if ever one lived. his wife's death won't kill him. it will make him live more strenuously for others. he will pass the short time between now and meeting her again in a high fever of righteous works and duty. there is no death." mary held the firm white hand. "you comfort me," she said. "i thank god that you came to me in my affliction. otherwise i should have been quite alone till harold came." "i'm real glad that dear good morton sims asked me to call. edith sims and i are like" . . . she broke off abruptly. "like sisters," she was about to say, but would not. mary smiled. her friend's delicacy was easy to understand. "i know," she answered, "like sisters! you needn't have hesitated. i am better now. all you tell me is just what i am _sure_ of and it is everything. but one's heart grows faint at the moment of parting and the reassuring voice of a friend helps very much. i hope it doesn't mean that one's faith is weak, to long for a sympathetic and confirming voice?" "no, it does not. god has made us like that. i know the value of a friend's word well. nothing heartens one so. i have been in deep waters in my time, mary. you must let me call you mary, my dear." "oh, do, do! yes, it is wonderful how words help, human living words." "nothing is more extraordinary in life than the power of the spoken word. how careful and watchful every one ought to be over words. spoken, they always seem to me to have more lasting influence than words in a book. they pass through mind after mind. just think, for instance, how when we meet a man or woman with a sincere intellectual belief which is quite opposed to our own, we are chilled into a momentary doubt of our own opinions--however strongly we may hold them. and when it is the other way about, what strength and comfort we get!" "thank you," mary said simply, "you are very helpful. dr. morton sims"--she hesitated for a moment--"dr. morton sims told me something of your life. and of course i know all about your work, as the whole world knows. i know, dear mrs. daly, how much you have suffered. and it is because of that that you help me so, who am suffering too." there was silence for a space. the train had stopped at cannes and started again. now it was winding and climbing the mountain valleys towards toulon. but neither of the two women knew anything of it. they were alone in the quiet travelling room that money made possible for them. heart was meeting heart in the small luxurious place in which they sat, remote from the outside world as if upon some desert island. "dear morton sims," the american lady said at length. "the utter sane goodness of that man! my dear, he is an angel of light, as near a perfect character as any one alive in the world to-day. and yet he doesn't believe in jesus and thinks the church and the sacraments--i've been a member of the episcopalian church from girlhood--only make-believe and error." "he is the finest natured man i have ever met," mary answered. "i've only known him for a short time, but he has been so good and friendly. what a sad thing it is that he is an infidel. i don't use the word in the popular reprehensible sense, but as just what it means--without faith." "it's a sad thing to us," mrs. daly said briskly, "but i have no fears for him. god hasn't given him the gift of faith. now that's all we can say about it. in the next world he will have to go through a probation and learn his catechism, so to speak, before he steps right into his proper place. but he won't be a catechumen long. his pure heart and noble life will tell where hearts and wills are weighed. there is a place by the throne waiting for him." "oh, i am sure. he is wonderfully good. indeed one seems to feel his goodness more than one does that of our clergyman at home, though mr. medley is a good man too!" "brains, my dear! brains! morton sims, you see, is of the aristocracy. your clergyman probably is not." "aristocracy?" "the only aristocracy, the aristocracy of brain-power. don't forget i'm an american woman, mary! goodness has the same value in heaven however it is manifested upon earth. the question of bimetallism doesn't trouble god and his angels. but a brilliant-minded saint has certainly more influence down here than a fool-saint." mary nodded. such a doctrine as this was quite in accord with what she wished to think. she rejoiced to hear it spoken with such sharp lucidity. she also worshipped at a shrine, that of no saint, certainly, but where a flaming intellect illuminated the happenings of life. in his way, quite a different way, of course, she knew that gilbert had a finer mind than even morton sims. and yet, gilbert wasn't good, as he ought to be. . . . how these speculations and judgments coiled and recoiled upon themselves; puzzled weary minds and, when all was done, were very little good after all! at any rate, she loved gilbert more than anything or anybody in the world. so that was that! but tears came into her eyes as she thought of her husband with deep and yearning love. if he would only give up alcohol! _why_ wouldn't he? to her, such an act seemed so simple and easy. only a refusal, that was all! the young man who came to jesus in the old days was asked to give up so much. even for jesus and immortality he found himself unable to do it. but gilbert had only to give up one thing in order to be good and happy, to make her happy. it was true that dr. morton sims had told her many scientific facts, had explained and explained. he had definitely said that gilbert was in the clutches of a disease; that gilbert couldn't really help himself, that he must be cured as a man is cured of gout. and then, when she had asked the doctor how this was to be done, he had so little comfort to give. he had explained that all the advertised "cures"--even the ones backed up by people of name, bishops, magistrates, and so on, were really worthless. they administered other drugs in order to sober up the patient from alcohol. that was easy and possible--though only with the thorough co-operation of the patient. after a few weeks, when health appeared to be restored, and the will power was certainly strengthened, the "cure" did nothing more. the _pre-disposition_ was not eradicated. that was an affair to be accomplished only by two or three years of abstinence and not always then. --"i'll talk to mrs. daly about it," the sad wife said to herself. "she is a noble, christian woman. she understands more than even the doctor. she _must_ do so. she loves our lord. moreover she has given her life to the cause of temperance." . . . but she must be careful and diplomatic. the natural reticence and delicacy of a well-bred woman shrank from the unveiling, not only of her own sorrow, but of a beloved's shame. the coarse, ill-balanced and bourgeois temperament bawls its sorrow and calls for sympathy from the sweepings of any pentonville omnibus. it writes things upon a street wall and enjoys voluptuous public hysterics. the refined and gracious mind hesitates long before the least avowal. "you said," she began, after a period of sympathetic silence, "that you had been in deep waters." julia daly nodded. "i guess it's pretty well known," she said with a sigh. "that's the worst of a campaign like mine. it's partly because every one knows all about what you've gone through that they give you a hearing. in the states the papers are full of my unhappy story whenever i lecture in a new place. but i'm used to it now and it doesn't hurt me. most of the stories are untrue, though. mr. daly was a pretty considerable ruffian when he was in drink. but he wasn't the monster he's been made out to be, and he couldn't help himself, poor, poisoned man. but which story have you read, mary?" "none at all. only dr. morton sims, when he wrote, told me that you had suffered, that your husband, that----" "that patrick was an alcoholic. yes, that's the main fact. he did a dreadful thing when he became insane through drink. there's no need to speak of it. but i loved him dearly all the same. he might have been such a noble man!" "ah, that's just what i feel about my dear boy. he's not as bad as--as some people. but he does drink quite dreadfully. i hate telling you. it seems a sort of treachery to him. but you may be able to help me." "i knew," mrs. daly said with a sigh. "the doctor has told me in confidence. i'd do anything to help you, dear girl. your husband's poems have been such a help and comfort to me in hours of sadness and depression. oh, what a dreadful scourge it is! this frightful thing that seizes on noble and ignoble minds alike! it is the black horror of the age, the curse of nations, the ruin of thousands upon thousands. if only the world would realise it!" "no one seems to realise the horror except those who have suffered dreadfully from it." "more people do than you think, mary, but, still, they are an insignificant part of the whole. people are such fools! i was reading 'pickwick' the other day, a great english classic and a work of genius, too, in its way, i suppose. the principal characters get drunk on every other page. things are better now, as far as books are concerned, though the comic newspapers keep up their ghastly fun about drunken folk. but the cause of temperance isn't a popular one, here or in my own country." "a teetotaller is so often called a fanatic in england," mary said. "i know it well. but i say this, with entire conviction, absolute bed-rock certainty, my dear, the people who have joined together to go without alcohol themselves and to do all they can to fight it, are in the right whatever people may say of them. and it doesn't matter what people say either. as in all movements, there is a lot of error and mistaken energy. the bands of hope, the blue ribbon army, the rechabites are not always wise. some of them make total abstinence into a religion and think that alcohol is the only fiend to fight against. most of them--as our own new scientific party think--are fighting on wrong lines. that's to say they are not doing a tenth as much good as they might do, because the scientific remedy has not become real to them. that will come though, if we can bring it about. but i tire you?" "please go on." "well, you know our theory. it is a certain remedy. you can't stop alcohol. but by making it a penal offence for drunkards to have children, drunkenness must be almost eliminated in time." "yes," mary said. "of course, i have read all about it. but i know so little of science. but what is the _individual_ cure? is there none, then? oh, surely if it is a disease it can be cured? dr. morton sims tried to be encouraging, but i could see that he didn't think there really _was_ much chance for a man who is a slave to drink. it is splendid, of course, to think that some day it may all be eliminated by science. but meanwhile, when women's hearts are bleeding for men they love . . ." her voice broke and faltered. her heart was too full for further speech. the good woman at her side kissed her tenderly. "do not grieve," she said. "listen. i told you just now that so many of the great temperance organisations err in their rejection of scientific advice and scientific means to a great end. they place their trust in god, forgetting that science only exists by god's will and that every discovery made by men is only god choosing to reveal himself to those who search for him. but the scientists are wrong, too, in their rejection--in so many cases--of god. they do not see that religion and science are not only non-antagonistic, but really complement each other. it is beginning to be seen, though. in time it will be generally recognised. i read the admission of a famous scientist the other day, to this effect. he said, 'it is generally recognised that any form of treatment in which the "occult," the "supernatural," or anything secret or mysterious is allowed to play a dominant part in so neurotic an affection as inebriety, often succeeds.' and he closed a most helpful and able essay on the arrest of alcohol with something like these words: "'the reference to agencies for the uplifting of the drink-victim would be sadly incomplete without a very definite acknowledgment of the incalculable assistance which the wise worker and unprejudiced physician may obtain by bringing to bear upon the whole life of the patient that power, the majesty and mystery, the consolation and inspiration of which it is the mission of religion to reveal.'" "then even the doctors are coming round?" mary said. "and it means exactly, you would say--?" "i would tell you what has been proved without possibility of dispute a thousand times. i would tell you that when all therapeutic agencies have failed, the holy spirit has succeeded. the power which is above every other power can do this. no loving heart need despair. however black the night _that_ influence can enlighten it. ask those who work among the desolate and oppressed; the outcast and forlorn, the drink-victims and criminals. ask, here in england, old general booth or prebendary carlile. ask the clergy of the church in the london docks, ask the nonconformist ministers, ask the priests of the italian mission who work in the slums. "they will tell you of daily miracles of conversion and transformations as marvellous and mystical as ever jesus wrought when he was visible on earth. mary! it goes on to-day, it _does_ go on. there is the only cure, the only salvation. jesus." there was a passionate fervour in her voice, a divine light upon her face. she also prophesied, and the spirit of god was upon her as upon the holy women of old. and mary caught that holy fire also. her lips were parted, her eyes shone. she re-echoed the sacred name. "i would give my life to save gilbert," she said. "i have no dear one to save, now," the other answered. "but i would give a thousand lives if i had them to save america from alcohol. i love my land! there is much about my country that the ordinary english man or woman has no glimmering of. your papers are full of the extravagances and divorces of wealthy vulgarians--champagne corks floating on cess-pools. you read of trusts and political corruption. these are the things that are given prominence by the english newspapers. but of the deep true heart of america little is known here. we are not really a race of money-grubbers and cheap humourists. we are great, we shall be greater. the lamps of freedom burn clearly in the hearts of millions of people of whom europe never hears. god is with us still! the holy spirit broods yet over the forests and the prairies, the mountains and the rivers of my land. read the 'choir invisible' by james lane allen and learn of us who are america." "i will, dear mrs. daly. how you have comforted me to-night! god sent you to me. i feel quite happy now about my darling sister. i feel much happier about my husband. whatever this life has in store, there is always the hereafter. it seems very close to-night, the veil wears thin." "we will rest, mary, while these good thoughts and hopes remain within us. but before we go to bed, listen to this." julia daly felt in her dressing bag and withdrew a small volume bound in vermilion morocco. "it's your best english novel," she said, "far and away the greatest--charles reade's 'the cloister and the hearth,' i mean. i'm reading it for the fifth time. for five years now i have done so each year." "for ever?" she began in her beautiful voice, that voice which had brought hope to so many weary hearts in the great republic of the west. "'for ever? christians live "for ever," and love "for ever" but they never part "for ever." they part, as part the earth and sun, only to meet more brightly in a little while. you and i part here for life. and what is our life? one line in the great story of the church, whose son and daughter we are; one handful in the sand of time, one drop in the ocean of "for ever." adieu--for the little moment called "a life!" we part in trouble, we shall meet in peace; we part in a world of sin and sorrow, we shall meet where all is purity and love divine; where no ill passions are, but christ is, and his saints around him clad in white. there, in the turning of an hour-glass, in the breaking of a bubble, in the passing of a cloud, she, and thou, and i shall meet again; and sit at the feet of angels and archangels, apostles and saints, and beam like them with joy unspeakable, in the light of the shadow of god upon his throne, for ever--and ever--and ever.'" the two women undressed and said their prayers, making humble supplication at the throne of grace for themselves, those they loved and for all those from whom god was hidden. and as the train bore them through nimes and arles, avignon and the old roman cities of southern france, they slept as simple children sleep. chapter vi gilbert lothian's diary "it comes very glibly off the tongue to say, 'put yourself in his position,'--'what would you have done under the circumstances?' but if self-analysis is difficult, how much more so is it to appreciate the 'ego' of another, to penetrate within the veil of the maimed and debased inner temple of the debauched inebriate?"--"_the psychology of the alcoholic_," by t. claye shawe, m.d., f.r.c.p., lecturer on psychological medicine. st. bartholomew's hospital, london. "like one, that on a lonesome road, doth walk in fear and dread, and having once turned round walks on, and turns no more his head; because he knows, a frightful fiend doth close behind him tread." --_coleridge._ when mary lothian returned home to mortland royal she was very unwell. the strain of watching over lady davidson, and the wrench of a parting which in this world was to be a final one, proved more than she was able to endure. she had been out of doors, imprudently, during that dangerous hour on the riviera between sunset and nine o'clock. symptoms of that curious light fever, with its sharp nervous pains, which is easily contracted at such times along the côte d'azur, began to show themselves. dr. morton sims was away in paris for a few weeks upon a scientific engagement he was unable to refuse, and mary was attended by dr. heywood, the general practitioner from wordingham. there was nothing very serious the matter, but the riviera fever brings collapse and great depression of spirits with it. mary remained in bed, lying there in a dreamy, depressed state of both physical and mental faculties. she read but little, preferred to be alone as much as possible, and found it hard to take a lively interest in anything at all. gilbert was attentive enough. he saw that every possible thing was done for her comfort. but his manner was nervous and staccato, though he made great efforts at calm. he was assiduous, eager to help and suggest, but there was no repose about him. in her great longing for rest and solitude--a necessary physical craving resulting upon her illness--mary hardly wanted to see very much even of gilbert. she was too weak and dispirited to remonstrate with him, but it was quite obvious to her experienced eyes that he was drinking heavily again. his quite unasked-for references to the fact that he was taking nothing but a bottle of beer in the middle of the morning, a little claret at meals and a single whiskey and soda before going to bed, betrayed him at once. his tremulous anxiety, his furtive manner, the really horrible arrogation of gaiety and ease made upon a most anxious hope that he was deceiving her, told their own tale. so did the heavy puffed face, yellowish red and with spots appearing upon it. his eyes seemed smaller as the surrounding tissues were dilated, they were yellowish, streaked with little veins of blood at the corners, and dull in expression. his head jerked, his hands trembled and when he touched her they were hot and damp. her depression of mind, her sense of hopelessness, were greatly increased. darkness seemed to be closing round her, and prayer--for it happens thus at times with even the most saintly souls--gave little relief. "i shall be better soon," she kept repeating to herself. "the doctor says so. then, when i am well, i shall be able to take poor gillie really in hand. it won't be long now. then i will save him with god's help." in her present feebleness she knew that it was useless to attempt to do anything in this direction. so she pretended to believe her husband, said nothing at all, and prayed earnestly to recover her health that she might set about the task of succour. she did not know, had not the very slightest idea, of lothian's real state. nobody knew, nobody could know. on his part, freed of all restraint, his mind a cave of horror, a chamber of torture, he drank with lonely and systematic persistence. it was about this time that he began to make these notes in the form of a diary which long afterwards passed into the hands of dr. morton sims. the record of heated horror, the extraordinary glimpse into an inferno incredible to the sane man, has proved of immense value to those who are engaged in studying the psychology of the inebriate. from much that they contain, it is obvious that the author had no intention of letting them be seen by any other eyes than his own, at the time of writing them. dr. morton sims had certainly suggested the idea in the first place, but there can be no doubt whatever that lothian soon abandoned his original plan and wrote for the mere relief of doing so, and doubtless with a sinister fascination at the spectacle of his own mind thus revealed by subtle analysis and the record of a skilled pen. alcoholised and impaired as his mind was, it was nevertheless quite capable of doing this accurately and forcibly, and there are many corroborative instances of such an occurrence. more than one medical man during the progress of a protracted death agony has left minute statements of his sensations for the good of society. such papers as these, for use in a book which has an appeal to all sorts of people, cannot, of course, be printed entire. there are things which it would serve no good purpose for the layman to know, valuable as they are to the patient students of morbid states. and what can be given is horrible enough. the selected passages follow herewith, and with only such comment as is necessary to elucidate the text. . . . last night a letter came from a stranger, one of the many that i get, thanking me for some of the poems in "surgit amari" which he said had greatly solaced and helped him throughout a period of mental distress. when i opened the letter it was after dinner, and i had dined well--my appetite keeps good at any rate, and while that is so there is no fear of it--according to the doctors and the medical books. i opened the letter and read it without much interest. i am not so touched and pleased by these letters as i used to be. then, after i had said good-night to my wife, i went into the library. after two or three whiskies and a lot of cigarettes the usual delusion of greatness and power came over me. i know, of course, that i have great power and am in a way celebrated, but at ordinary times i have no overmastering consciousness and bland, suave pride in this. when i am recovering from the effects of too much alcohol i doubt everything. my own work seems to me trivial and worthless, void of life and imitations of greater work. well, i had the usual quickening, but vague and incoherent sense of greatness, and i picked up the letter again. i walked up and down the room smoking furiously, and then i had some more whiskey. the constant walking up and down the room, by the way, is a well-marked symptom of my state. the nerves refuse me calm. i can't sit down for long, even with the most alluring book. some thought comes into my mind like a stone thrown suddenly into a pool, and before i am aware of it i am marching up and down the room like a forest beast in a cage. when i had read the letter twice more i sat down and wrote a most effusive reply to my correspondent. i almost wept as i read it. i went into high things, i revealed myself and my innermost thoughts with the grave kindness and wish to be of help that a great and good man; intimate with a lesser and struggling man; might use. in the morning i read the letter which i had thought so wonderful. as usual, i tore it up. it was written in a handwriting which might have betrayed drunkenness to a child. long words lacked a syllable, words ending in "ing" were concluded by a single stroke, the letter "l" was the same size as the letter "e" and could not be distinguished from it. but what was worse, was the sickly sentiment, expressed in the most feeble sloppy prose. it was sort of educated chadband or stiggins and there was an appalling lack of reticence. it is a marked symptom of my state, that when i am drunk i always want to write effusive letters to strangers or mere acquaintances. sometimes, if i have been reading a book that i liked, i sit down and turn out pages of gush to the unknown author, hailing him as a brother and a master. thank goodness i always tear the wretched things up next day. it is a good thing i live in the country. in london these wretched letters, which i am impelled to write, would be in some adjacent pillar box before i realised what i had done. oh, to be a sane man, a member of the usual sane army of the world who never do these things! the above passage must have been re-read some time after it was written and been the _raison d'être_ of what follows. the various passages are only occasionally dated, but their chronological order can be determined with some certainty by these few dates, changes of handwriting, and above all by the progress and interplay of thought. it had not occurred to me before, with any strength that is, how very far my inner life diverges now from ordinary paths! it is, i see in a moment such as the present when i am able to contemplate it, utterly abnormal. i am glad to realise this for a time. it is so intensely interesting from the psychologist's point of view. i can so very, very rarely realise it. immediately that i slip back into the abnormal life, long custom and habit reassert themselves and i become quite unaware that it is abnormal. i live mechanically according to the _bizarre_ and fantastic rules imposed upon me by drink. now, for a time, i have a breathing space. i have left the dim green places under the sea and my head is above water. i see the blue sky and feel the winds of the upper world upon my face. i used to belong up there, now i am an inhabitant of the under world, where the krakens and the polyps batten in their sleep and no light comes. i will therefore use my little visit to "glimpse the moon" like the prince of denmark's sepulchral father. i will catalogue the ritual of the under world which has me fast. i will, that is, write as much as i can. before very long my eyes will be tired and little black specks will dance in front of them. the dull pain in my side--cirrhosis of course--which is quiet and feeding now--will begin again. something in my head, at the back of the skull on the left hand side--so it seems--will begin to throb and ache. little shooting pains will come in my knees and round about my ankles and drops of perspiration which taste bitter as brine will roll down my face. and, worse than all, the fear of it will commence. slight "alcoholic tremors" will hint of what might be. after a few minutes i shall feel that it is going to be. i will define all that i mean by "it" another time. well, then i shall send "it" and all the smaller "its" to the right about. i shall have two or three strong pegs. then physical pains, all mental horrors, will disappear at once. but i shall be back again under the sea nevertheless. i shan't realise, as i am realising now, the abnormality of my life. but i should say that i have an hour at least before i need have any more whiskey, before that becomes imperative. so here goes for a revelation more real and minute than de quincey, though, lamentable fact! in most inferior prose! here this passage ends. it is obvious from what follows that the period of expected freedom came to an end long before the author expected. excited by what he proposed to do, he had spent too much of his brief energy in explaining it. mechanically he had taken more drink to preserve himself upon the surface--the poisoned mind entirely forgetting what it had just set down--and with mathematic certainty the alcohol had plunged the poet once more beneath the ruining waters. the next entry, undated, is written in a more precise and firmer handwriting. it recalls the small and beautiful caligraphy of the old days. there is no preamble to the bald and hideous confession of mental torture. i wish that my imagination was not so horribly acute and vivid when it is directed towards horrors--as indeed it always seems to be now. i wish, too, that i had never talked curiously to loquacious medical friends and read so many medical books. i am always making amateur, and probably perfectly ridiculous, tests for locomotor ataxy and general paralysis--always shrinking in nameless fear from what so often seems the inevitable onslaught of "it." meanwhile, with these fears never leaving me for a moment, to what an infinity of mad superstitions i am slave! how i strive, by a bitter, and (really) hideously comic, ritual to stave off the inevitable. oh, i used to love god and trust in him. i used to pray to jesus. now, like any aborigine i only seek to ward off evil, to propitiate the devil and the powers of the air, to drag the holy trinity into a forced compliance with my conjuring tricks. _i can hardly distinguish the devil from god._ both seem my antagonists. hardly able to distinguish light from dark, i employ myself with dirty little conjuring tricks. i well know that all these are the phantasms of a disordered brain! i am not really fool enough to believe that god can be propitiated or satan kept at bay by movements: touchings and charms. but i obey my demon. these things are a foolish network round my every action and thought. i can't get out of the net. touching, i do not so much mind. in me it is a symptom of alcoholism, but greater people have known it as a mere nervous affection quite apart from drink. dr. johnson used to stop and return to touch lamp-posts. in "lavengro," borrow has words to say about this impulse--i think it is in lavengro or it may be in the spanish book. borrow used to "touch wood." i began it a long time ago, in jest at something young ingworth said. i did it as one throws spilt salt over one's shoulder or avoids seeing the new moon through glass. together with the other things i _have_ to do now, it has become an obsession. i carry little stumps of pencil in all my pockets. whenever a thought of coming evil, a radiation from the awful cloud of apprehension comes to me, then i can thrust a finger into the nearest pocket and touch wood. only a fortnight ago i was frightened out of my senses by the thought that i had never been really touching wood at all. the pencil stumps were all varnished. i had been touching varnish! it took me an hour to scrape all the varnish off with a pocket knife. i must have about twenty stumps in constant use. at night i always put one in the pocket of my pyjama coat--one wakes up with some fear--but, half asleep and lying as i do upon my left side, the pocket is often under me and i can't get to the wood quickly. so i keep my arm stretched out all night and my hand can touch the wooden top of a chair by the bed in a second. i made tumpany sand-paper all the varnish off the top of the chair too. he thought i was mad. i suppose i am, as a matter of fact. but though i am perfectly aware of the damnable foolishness of it, these things are more real to me than the money-market to a business man. * * * * * if it were only this compulsion to touch wood i should not mind. but there are other tyrannies coincident which are more urgent and compelling. my whole mind--at times--seems taken up by the necessity for ritual actions. i have no time for quiet thought. everything is broken in upon. there is the sign of the cross. i have linked even _that_ in the chain of my terrors. i touch wood and then i make this sign. i do it so often that i have invented all sorts of methods of doing it secretly in public, and quickly when i am alone. i do it in a sort of imaginary way. for instance, i bend my head and in so doing draw an imaginary line with my right eye upon the nearest wall, or upon the page of the book that i am reading. then i move my head from side to side and make another fictitious line to complete the cross. a propos of making the sign, the imaginary lines nearly always go crooked in my brain. this especially so when i am doing it on a book. i follow two lines of type on both pages and use the seam of the binding between them to make the down strokes. but it hardly ever comes right the first time. i begin to notice people looking at me curiously as i try to get it right and my head moves about. if they only knew! then another and more satisfactory way--for the imaginary method always makes my head ache for a second or two--i accomplish with the thumb of my right hand moving vertically down the first joint of the index finger, and then laterally. i can do this as often as i like and no one can possibly see me. i have a little copper cross too, with "in hoc vinces" graved upon it. but i don't like using this much. it is too concrete. it reminds me of the use i am making of the symbol of salvation. "in hoc vinces"! not i. there are times when i think that i am surely doomed. but i think that the worst of all the foul, senseless, and yet imperative petty lordships i endure, is the dominion of the two numbers. the dominion of the two numbers!--capital letters shall indicate this! for some reason or other i have for years imagined mystical virtue in the number and some maleficent influence in the number . these, of course, are old superstitions, but they, and all the others, ride me to a weariness of spirit which is near death. although i got my first in "lit. hum." at oxford, have read almost everything, and can certainly say that i am a man of wide culture and knowledge, figures always gave me aversion and distaste. i got an open scholarship at my college and was as near as nothing ploughed in the almost formal preliminary exam of responsions by arithmetic. i can't add up my bank-book correctly even now, and i have no sense whatever of financial amounts and affairs. but i am a slave to the good but stern fairy and the hell-hag . i attempt lightness and the picturesque. there is really nothing of the sort about my unreasoning and mad servitude. it's bitter, naked, grinning truth. in my bath i sponge myself seven times--first. then i begin again, but i stop at six in the second series and cross myself upon the breast with the bath sponge. seven and six make thirteen. if i did not cancel out that thirteen by the sign of the cross i should walk in fear of some dreadful thing all day. every time i drink i sip seven times first and then again seven times. when six times comes in the second seven, i make the cross with my head. my right hand is holding the glass so that the thumb and finger joint method won't work. it would be disastrous to make the sign with the left hand. that is another thing. . . . i use my left hand as little as i can. it frightens me. i _always_ raise a glass to my lips with the right hand. if i use the left hand owing to momentary thoughtlessness, i have to go through a lengthy purification of wood-touching, crossing, and counting numbers. all my habits re-act one upon the other and the rules are added to daily until they have become appallingly intricate. a failure in one piece of ritual entails all sorts of protracted mental and physical gestures in order to put it right. i wonder if other men who drink know this heavy, unceasing slavery which makes the commonest actions of life a burden? i suppose so. it must be so. all drugs have specific actions. men don't tell, of course. neither do i! sometimes, though, when i have gone to some place like the café royal, or perhaps one of the clubs which are used by fast men, i have had a disgusting glee when i met men whom i knew drank heavily to think that they had their secrets--must have them--as well as i. on reading through these notes that i have been making now and then, i am, of course, horrified at what they really seem to mean. put down in black and white they convey--or at least they would convey to anyone who saw them--nothing but an assurance of the fact that i am mad. yet i am not really mad. i have two lives. . . . i see that i have referred constantly to "it." i have promised myself to define exactly what i mean by "it." i am writing this immediately after lunch. i didn't get up till eleven o'clock. i am under the influence of twenty-five grains of ammonium bromide. i had a few oysters for lunch and nothing else. i am just about as normal as any man in my state can hope to be. nevertheless when i come to try and define "it" for myself i am conscious of a deep horror and distrust. my head is above water, i am sane, but so powerful is the influence of the continual fear under which i live my days and nights, that even now i am afraid. "it" is a protean thing. more often than not it is a horrible dread of that delirium tremens which i have never had, but ought to have had long ago. i have read up the symptoms until i know each one of them. when i am in a very nervous and excited condition--when, for example, i could not face anybody at all and must be alone in my room with my bottle of whiskey--i stare at the wall to see if rats or serpents are running up it. i peer into the corners of the library to detect sheeted corpses standing there. i do not see anything of the sort. even the imaginings of my fear cannot create them. i am, possibly, personally immune from delirium tremens, some people are. all the same, the fear of it racks me and tears me a hundred times a day. if it really seized me it surely would be almost enjoyable! nothing, at any rate, can be more utterly dreadful than the continual apprehension. then i have another and always constant fear--these fears, i want to insist, are fantastically intermingled with all the crossings, wood-touchings and frantic calculations i have to do each minute of my life. the other fear is that of prison. now i know perfectly well that i have done nothing in my life that could ever bring me near prison. all the same i cannot now hear a strange voice without a start of dread. a knock at the front door of my house unnerves me horribly. i open the door of whatever room i am in and listen with strained, furtive attention, slinking back and closing the door with a sob of relief when i realise that it is nothing more than the postman or the butcher's boy. i can hardly bear to read a novel now, because i so constantly meet with the word "arrest." "he was arrested in the middle of his conversation,"--"she placed an arresting hand upon his arm." . . . these phrases which constantly occur in every book i read fill me with horror. a wild phantasmagoria of pictures passes through my mind. i see myself being led out of my house with gyves upon my wrists like the beastly poem hood made upon "eugene aram." then there is the drive into wordingham in a cab. all the officials at the station who know me so well cluster round. i am put into a third class carriage and the blinds are pulled down. at st. pancras, where i am also known, it is worse. the next day there is the magistrate's court and all the papers full of my affair. i know it is all fantastic nonsense--moonshine, wild dream. but it is so appallingly real to me that i sometimes long to have got the trial over and to be sitting with shaven head, wearing coarse prison clothes, in a lonely cell. then, i think to myself, i should really have peace. the worst would have happened and there would be an end of it all. there would be an end of deadly fear. i remember "----" telling me at bruges, where so many _mauvais sujets_ go to kill themselves with alcohol, that wherever he went, night and day, he was always afraid of a tiger that would suddenly appear. he had never experienced delirium tremens either. he knew how mad and fantastic this apprehension was but he was quite unable to get rid of it. * * * * * at other times i have the folie de grandeur. my reading has told me that this is the sure sign of approaching general paralysis. general paralysis means that one's brain goes, that one loses control of one's limbs and all acts of volition go. one is simply alive, that is all. one is alive and yet one is fed and pushed about, and put into this place or that as the entomologist would use a snail. so, in all my wild imaginings the grisly fear is never far away. the imaginings are, in themselves, not without interest to a student of the dreadful thing i have become. i always start from one point. that is that i have become suddenly enormously rich. i have invented all sorts of ways in which this might happen, but lately, in order to save trouble, and to have a base to start from i have arranged that rockefeller, the american oil person, has been so intrigued by something that i have written that he presents me with two million pounds. i start in the possession of two million pounds. i buy myself a baronetcy at once and i also purchase some historic estate. i live the life of the most sporting and beneficent country gentleman that ever was! i see myself correcting the bucolic errors of my colleagues on the bench at quarter sessions. i am a providence to all the labourers and small farmers. my name is acclaimed throughout the county of which i am almost immediately made lord lieutenant. after about five minutes of this prospect i get heartily sick of it. i buy a yacht then. it is as big as an atlantic liner. i fit it up and make it the most perfect travelling palace the world has ever seen. i go off in it to sail round the globe--to see all the most beautiful things in the world, to suck the last drop of honey that the beauty of unknown seas, fairy continents, fortunate islands can yield. during this progress i am accompanied by charming and beautiful women. some are intellectual, some are artistic--all are beautiful and charming. i, i myself, am the central star around which all this assiduous charm and loveliness revolve. another, and very favourite set of pictures, is the one in which i receive the two millions from mr. rockefeller--or whoever he is--and immediately make a public renunciation of it. with wise fore-thought i found great pensions for underpaid clergy. i inaugurate societies by means of which authors who could do really artistic work, but are forced to pot-boil in order to live, may take a cheque and work out their great thoughts without any worldly embarrassments. i myself reserve one hundred and fifty or two hundred pounds a year and go and work among the poor in an east-end slum. at the same time i am most anxious that this great renunciation should be widely spoken of. i must be interviewed in all the papers. the disdainful nobility of my sacrifice for christ's sake must be well advertised. indeed all my folies de grandeur are nothing else but exaggerated megalomania. i must be in the centre of the picture always. spartan or sybarite i must be glorified. * * * * * another symptom which is very marked is that of spasmodic and superstitious prayer. when my heated brain falls away from its kaleidoscopic pictures of grandeur owing to sheer weariness; when my wire-tight nerves are strained to breaking point by the despotism of "touchings," the tyranny of "thirteen" and "seven," the nervous misery of the sign of the cross, i try to sum up all the ritual and to escape the whole welter of false obligation by spasmodic prayer. i suppose that i say "god-the-father-help-me" about two or three hundred times a day. i shut my eyes and throw the failing consciousness of myself into the back of my head, and then i say it--in a sort of hot feverish horror, "god-the-father-help-me." i vary this, too. when my thoughts or my actions have been more despicable than usual, i jerk up an appeal to god the father. when fluid _sentiment_ is round me it is generally jesus on whom i call. . . . i cannot write any more of this, it is too horrible even to write. but god knows how true it is! * * * * * this morning i went out for a walk. i was feeling wretchedly ill. i had to go to the post office and there i met little o'donnell, the rector, and dear old medley his curate. it was torture to talk to them, to preserve an ordinary appearance. i felt that old medley's eyes were on me the whole time. i like him very much. i know every corner of his good simple mind as if i had lived in it. he is a good man, and i can't help liking him. he dislikes and distrusts me intensely, however. he doesn't know enough--like morton sims for instance--to understand that i want to be good, that i am of his company really. the rector himself was rather too charming. he fussed away about my poems, asked after dorothy davidson at nice, purred out something that the duke of perth had said to him about the verses i had in the "spectator" a month ago. yet o'donnell must know that i drink badly. neither he nor medley know, of course, how absolutely submerged i really am. no one ever realises that about a "man who drinks" until they read of his death in the paper. only doctors, wives, experienced eyes know. i funked medley's keen old eyes in the post office and i couldn't help disgust at o'donnell's humbug, as i thought it, though it may have been meant kindly. curious! to fear one good man because he detects and reprobates one's wickedness, to feel contempt for another because he is civil. i hurried away from them and went into the mortland royal arms. two strong whiskies gave myself back to me. i felt a stupid desire to meet the two clergymen again, with my nerves under proper control--to show them that i was myself. going back home, however, another nerve wave came over me. i knew how automatic and jerky my movements were really. i knew that each movement of my legs was dictated by a _conscious_ exercise of command from the brain. i imagined that everyone i met--a few labourers--must know it and observe it also. i realise, now that i am safe in my study again, that this was nonsense. they couldn't have seen--or _could_ they? --i am sure of nothing now! . . . it is half an hour ago since i wrote the last words. i began to feel quite drunk and giddy for a moment. i concentrated my intelligence upon the "telegraph" until the lines became clear and i was appreciating what i read. now i am fairly "possible" i think. reading a passage in the leading article aloud seems to tell me that my voice is under control. my face twitched a little when i looked in the mirror over the mantel-shelf, but if i have a biscuit, and go to my room and sponge my face, i think that i shall be able to preserve sufficient grip on myself to see mary for ten minutes now. directly my eyes go wrong--i can feel when they are beginning to betray me--i will make an excuse and slip away. then i'll lunch, and sleep till tea-time. after two cups of strong tea and the sleep, i shall be outwardly right for an hour at least. i might have tea taken up to her room and sit by the bed--if she doesn't want candles brought in. i can be quite all right in the dusk. the next entry of these notes dates, from obvious evidence, three or four days afterwards. they are all written on the loose sheets of thick and highly glazed white paper, which lothian, always sumptuous in the tools of his work, invariably used. it will be seen that the last paragraphs have, for a moment, strayed into a reminiscence of the hour. that is to say they have recorded not only continuous sensations, but those which were proper to an actual experience. the notes do so no more. the closing paragraphs that are exhibited here once more fall back into the key of almost terrified interest with which this keen, incisive mind surveys its own ruin. there are no more records of actual happenings. yet, nevertheless, while gilbert lothian was making this accurate diagnosis of his state, it is as well to remember that _there is no prognosis_. he _refuses to look into the future_. he really refuses to give any indication of what is going on in the present. he puts down upon the page the symptoms of his disease. he catalogues the tortures he endures. but in regard to where his state is leading him in his life, what it is all going to result in, he says nothing whatever. psychologically this is absolutely corroborative and true. he studies himself as a diseased subject and obviously takes a horrible pleasure in writing down all that he endures. but there are things and thoughts so terrible that even the most callous and most poisoned mind dare not chronicle them. while the very last of what was gilbert lothian is finding an abnormal pleasure, and perhaps a terrible relief, in the surveyal of his extinguishing personality, the other self, the false ego--the fiend alcohol--was busy with a far more dreadful business. we may regard the excerpts already given, and the concluding ones to come, as really the last of lothian--until his resurrection. sometimes a lamp upon the point of expiration flares up for a final second. then, with a splutter, it goes out. and in the circle of confining glass a dull red glow fades, disappears, and only an ugly, lifeless black circle of exhausted wick is left. i didn't mean in making these notes--confound morton sims that he should have suggested such a thing to me!--well, i didn't mean to bring in any daily happenings. my only idea was, for a sort of pitiful satisfaction to myself, to make a record of what i am going through. it has been a relief to me--that is quite certain. while i have been writing these notes i have had some of the placidity and quiet that i used to know when i was engaged upon purely literary pursuits. i can't write now--that is to say, i can't create. my poetic faculty seems quite to have left me. i write certain letters, to a certain person, but they are no longer the artistic and literary productions that they were in the first stages of my acquaintance with this person. all the music that god gave me is gone out of me now. well, even this relief is passing, i have more in my mind and heart than will allow me to continue this fugitive journal. here, obviously, lothian makes a slight reference to the ghastly obsession which, at this time, must have had him well within its grip. well, i will round it up with a few final words. * * * * * one thing that strikes me with horror and astonishment is that i have become quite unable to understand how what i am doing, the fact of what i have become, hurts, wounds and makes other people unhappy. i try to put myself--sympathetically--in the place of those who are around me and who must necessarily suffer by my behaviour. _i can't do it._ when i try to do it my mind seems full of grey wool. the other people seem a hundred miles away. their sentiments, emotions, wishes--their love for me . . . it is significant that here lothian uses the plural pronoun as if he was afraid of the singular. --dwindle to vanishing point. i used to be able to be sympathetic to the sorrows and troubles of almost everyone i met. i remember once after helping a man in this village to die comfortably, after sitting with him for hours and hours and hours during the progress of a most loathsome disease after closing his eyes, paying for his poor burial and doing all i could to console his widow and his daughters, that the widow and the daughters spoke bitterly about me and my wife--who had been so good to them--because one of our servants had returned the cream they sent to the kitchen because it was of inferior quality. these poor women actually made themselves unpleasant. for a day at least i was quite angry. it seemed so absolutely ungrateful when my wife and i had done everything for them for so long. but, i remember quite well, how i thought out the whole petty little incident one night when i was out with tumpany after the wild geese. we were waiting in a cold midnight when scurrying clouds passed beneath the moon. it was bitter cold and my gun barrels burnt like fire. i thought it out with great care, and on the icy marshes a sort of understanding of narrow brains and unimaginative natures came to me. the next day i told my servants to still continue taking cream from the widow, and i have been friendly and kind to her ever since. but now, i can't possibly get into the mind of anyone else with sympathy. i think only of myself, of my own desires, of my own state. . . . * * * * * although i doubt it in my heart of hearts, i must put it upon record that i still have a curious and ineradicable belief that i can, by a mere effort of volition, get rid of all the horrors that surround me and become good and normal once more. when i descend into the deepest depths of all i am yet conscious of a little jerky, comfortable, confidential nudge from something inside me. "you'll be all right," it says. "when you want to stop you will be able to all right!" this false confidence, though i know it to be utterly false, never deserts me in moments of exhilarated drunkenness. and finally, i add, that when my brain is becoming exhausted the last moment before stupor creeps over it, i constantly make the most supreme and picturesque pronunciations of my wickedness. i could not pray the words aloud--or at least if i did they would be somewhat tumbled and incoherent--but i mentally pray them. i wring my hands, i abase my soul and mind, i say the pater noster and the credo, i stretch out my hot hands, and i give it all up for ever and ever and ever. i tumble into bed with a sigh of unutterable relief. the fiend that stands beside my bed on all ordinary nights assumes the fantastic aspect of an angel. i fall into my drunken sleep, murmuring that "there is joy in heaven when one sinner repenteth." i wake up in the morning full of evil thoughts, blear-eyed, and trembling. i am a mockery of humanity, longing, crying for poison. there is only a dull and almost contemptuous memory of the religious ecstasies of the night before. my dreams, my confession, have not the slightest influence upon me. i don't fall again into ruining habits--i continue them, without restraint, without sorrow. * * * * * i will write no more. i am adding another fear to all the other fears. i have been making a true picture of what i am, and it is so awful that even my blinded eyes cannot bear to look upon it. thus these notes, in varying handwriting, indicating the ebb and flow of poison within the brain, cease and say no more. at the bottom of the last page--which was but half filled by the concluding words of the confession--there is something most terribly significant, most horrible to look at in the light of after events. there is a greenish splash upon the glossy paper, obviously whiskey was spilt there. beginning in the area of the splashed circle, the ink running, a word of four letters is written. two letters are cloudy, the others sharp and clear. the word is "rita." a little lower down, and now right at the bottom of the page, the word is repeated again in large tremulous handwriting, three times. "rita, rita, rita!" the last "rita" sprawls and tumbles towards the bottom right-hand corner of the page. two exclamation marks follow it, and it is heavily underscored three times. chapter vii ingworth redux: toftrees complacens "les absents ont toujours tort." --_proverb._ mr. herbert toftrees was at work in the splendidly furnished library of his luxuriously appointed flat at lancaster gate--or at least that is how he would have put it in one of his stories, while, before _her_ remington in the breakfast room mrs. herbert toftrees would have rapped out a detailed description of the furniture. the morning was dark and foggy. the london pavements had that disgustingly cold-greasy feeling beneath the feet that pedestrians in town know well at this time of year. within the library, with its double windows that shut out all noise, a bright fire of logs burned in the wide tiled hearth. one electric pendant lit the room and another burned in a silver lamp upon the huge writing table covered with crimson leather at which the author sat. the library was a luxurious place. the walls were covered with books--mostly in series. the complete scott, the complete dickens, the complete thackeray reposed in gilded fatness upon the shelves. between the door and one of the windows one saw every known encyclopedia, upon another wall-space were the shelves containing those classical french novels with which "culture" is supposed to have a nodding acquaintance--in translations. toftrees threw away his cigarette and sank into his padded chair. the outside world was raw and cold. here, the fire of logs was red, the lamps threw a soft radiance throughout the room, and the keyboard of the writing-machine had a dapper invitation. "confound it, i _must_ work," toftrees said aloud, and at once proceeded to do so. to his left, upon the table, in something like an exaggerated menu holder was a large piece of white cardboard. at the moment toftrees and his wife were engaged in tossing off "claire" which went into its fifth hundred thousand, at six-pence, within the year. the sheet of cardboard bore the names of the principal characters in the story, and what they looked like, in case the prolific author should forget. there was also marked upon the card, in red ink, exactly how far toftrees had got with the plot--which was copied out in large round hand, for instant reference, by his secretary upon another card. clipped on to the typewriter was a note which ran as follows: chapter vii. book v. love scene between claire and lord quinton. to run, say, , words. find biblical chapter caption. mrs. t. at work on chapter in epilogue--discovery by addie that lord q is really john boone. with experienced eyes, toftrees surveyed the morning's work-menu as arranged by miss jones from painstaking scrutiny and dovetailing of the husband and wife's work on the preceding day. "biblical chapter caption"--that should be done at once. toftrees stretched out his hand and took down a "cruden's concordance." it was nearly two years ago now that he had discovered the bible as an almost unworked mine for chapter headings. "love! hm, hm, hm,--why not 'love one another'--? yes, that would do. it was simple, direct, and expressed the sentiment of chapter vii. if there were any reason against it miss jones would spot it at once. she would find another quotation and so make it right." now then, to work! "claire, i am leaving here the day after to-morrow." "yes?" "have you no idea, cannot you guess what it is that i have come to say to you?" he moved nearer to her and for a moment rested his hand on her arm. "i have no idea," she told him with great gravity of manner. "i have come to ask you to be my wife. ah, wait before you bid me be silent. i love you--you surely cannot have failed to see that?--i love you, claire!" "do not," she interrupted, putting up a warning hand. "i cannot hear you." "but you must. forgive me, you shall. i love you as i never loved any woman in my life, and i am asking you to be my wife." "you do me much honour, lord quinton," she returned--and was it his fancy that made it seem to him that her lips curled a little?--"but the offer you make me i must refuse." "refuse!" there was almost amusing wonder and a good deal of anger in his tone and look. "you force me to repeat the word--refuse." "and why?" "i do not want to marry you." "you do not love me?"--incredulously. "i do not love you,"--colouring slightly. "but i would teach you, claire"--catching her arm firmly in his hold now and drawing her to him,--"i would teach you. i can give you all and more of wealth and luxury than----" "hush! and please let go my arm. if you could give me the world it would make no difference." "claire, reconsider it! during the whole of my life i have never really wanted to marry any other woman. i will own that i have flirted and played at love." "no passport to my favour, i assure you, lord quinton." "pshaw! i tell you women were all alike to me, all to be amusing and amused with, all so many butterflies till i met you. i won't mind admitting"--making his most fatal step--"that even when i first saw you--and it was not easy to do considering warwick howard kept you well in the background--i only thought of your sweet eyes and lovely face. but after--after--oh, claire, i learned to love you!" "enough!" cried the girl-- and enough also said the remington, for the page was at an end. toftrees withdrew it with a satisfied smile and glanced down it. "yes!" he thought to himself, "the short paragraph, the quick conversation, that's what they really want. a paragraph of ten consecutive lines would frighten them out of their lives. their minds wouldn't carry from the beginning to the end. we know!" at that moment there was a knock at the door and the butler entered. smithers was a good servant and he enjoyed an excellent place, but it was the effort of his life to conceal from his master and mistress that he read shakespeare in secret, and, in that household, his sense of guilt induced an almost furtive manner which toftrees could never quite understand. "mr. dickson ingworth has called, sir," said smithers. "ask him to come in," toftrees said in his deep voice, and with a glint of interest in his eye. young dickson ingworth had been back from his journalistic mission to italy for two or three weeks. his articles in the "daily wire" had attracted a good deal of attention. they were exceedingly well done, and herbert toftrees was proud of his protégé. he did not know--no one knew--that the denstone master on the committee was a young man with a vivid and picturesque style who had early realised ingworth's incompetence as mouthpiece of the expedition and representative of the press. the young gentleman in question, anxious only for the success of the mission, had written nearly all ingworth's stuff for him, and that complacent parasite was now reaping the reward. but there was another, and greater, reason for toftrees' welcome. old mr. ingworth had died while his nephew was in rome. the young man was now a squire in wiltshire, owner of a pleasant country house, a personage. "ask mr. dickson ingworth in here," toftrees said again. ingworth came into the library. he wore a morning coat and carried a silk hat--the tweeds and bowler of bohemia discarded now. an unobtrusive watch chain of gold had taken the place of the old silver-buckled lip-strap, and a largish black pearl nestled in the folds of his dark tie. he seemed, in some subtle way, to have expanded and become less boyish. a certain gravity and dignity sat well upon his fresh good looks and the slight hint of alien blood in his features was less noticeable than ever. toftrees shook his young friend warmly by the hand. the worthy author was genuinely pleased to see the youth. he had done him a good service recently, pleased to exercise patronage of course, but out of pure kindness. ingworth would not require any more help now, and toftrees was glad to welcome him in a new relation. toftrees murmured a word or two of sorrow at ingworth's recent bereavement and the bereaved one replied with suitable gravity. his uncle's sudden death had been a great grief to him. he would have given much to have been in england at the time. "and the end?" asked toftrees in a low voice of sympathy. "quite peaceful, i am glad to say, quite peaceful." "that must be a great consolation!" this polite humbug disposed of, both men fell immediately into bright, cheerful talk. the new young squire was bubbling over with exhilaration, plans for the future, the sense of power, the unaccustomed and delightful feeling of solidity and _security_. he told his host, over their cigars, that the estate would bring him in about fifteen or sixteen hundred a year; that the house was a fine old caroline building--who his neighbours were, and so on. "then i suppose you'll give up literature?" toftrees asked. dickson ingworth was about to assent in the most positive fashion to this question, when he remembered in whose presence he was, and his native cunning--"diplomacy" is the better word for a man with a caroline mansion and sixteen hundred a year--came to his aid. "oh, no," he said, "not entirely. i couldn't, you know. but i shall be in a position now only to do my best work!" toftrees assented with pleasure. the trait interested him. "i'm glad of that," he said. "to the artist, life without expression is impossible." toftrees spoke quite sincerely. although his own production was not of a high order he was quite capable of genuine appreciation of greater and more serious writers. it does not follow--as shallow thinkers tell us--that because a man does not follow his ideal that he is without one at all. they smoked cigars and talked. as a matter of form the host offered ingworth a drink, which was refused; they were neither of them men who took alcohol between meals from choice. they chatted upon general matters for a time. "and what of our friend the poet?" toftrees asked at length, with a slight sneer in his voice. ingworth flushed up suddenly and a look of hate came into his curious eyes. the acute man of the world noticed it in a second. before ingworth had left for his mission in italy, he had been obviously changing his views about gilbert lothian. he had talked him over with toftrees in a depreciating way. even while he had been staying at mortland royal he had made confidences about lothian's habits and the life of his house in letters to the popular author--while he was eating the poet's salt. but toftrees saw now that there was something deeper at work. was it, he wondered, the old story of benefits forgot, the natural instinct of the baser type of humanity to bite the hand that feeds? toftrees knew how lavish with help and kindness lothian had been to dickson ingworth. for himself, he detested lothian. the bitter epigrams lothian had made upon him in a moment of drunken unconsciousness were by no means forgotten. the fact that lothian had probably never meant them was nothing. they had some truth in them. they were uttered by a superior mind, they stung still. "oh, he's no friend of mine," ingworth said in a bitter voice. "really? i know, of course, that you have disapproved of much that mr. lothian seems to be doing just now, but i thought you were still friends. it is a pity. whatever he may do, there are elements of greatness in the man." "he is a blackguard, toftrees, a thorough blackguard." "i _am_ sorry to hear that. well, you needn't have any more to do with him, need you? he isn't necessary to your literary career any more. and even if you had not come into your inheritance, your italian work has put you in quite a different position." ingworth nodded. he puffed quickly at his cigar. he was bursting with something, as the elder and shrewder man saw, and if he was not questioned he would come out with it in no time. there was silence for a space, and, as toftrees expected, it was broken by ingworth. "look here, toftrees," he said, "you are discreet and i can trust you." the other made a grave inclination of his head--it was coming now! "very well. i don't want to say anything about a man whom i have liked, and who _has_ been kind to me. but there are times when one really must speak, whatever the past may have been--aren't there?" toftrees saw the last hesitation and removed it. "oh, he'll get over that drinking habit," he said, though he knew well that ingworth was not bursting with that alone. "it's bad, of course, that such a man should drink. i was horribly upset--and so was my wife--at that dinner at the amberleys'. but he'll get over it. and after all you know--poets!" "it isn't that, toftrees. it's a good deal worse than that. in fact i really do want your advice." "my dear fellow you shall have it. we are friends, i hope, though not of long standing. fire away." "well, then, it's just this. lothian's wife is one of the most perfect women i have ever met. she adores him. she does everything for him, she's clever and good looking, sympathetic and kind." toftrees made a slight, very slight, movement of repugnance. he was a man who was temperamentally well-bred, born into a certain class of life. he might make a huge income by writing for housemaids at sixpence, but old training and habit became alive. one did not listen to intimate talk about other men's wives. but the impulse was only momentary, a result of heredity. his interest was too keen for it to last. "yes?" "lothian doesn't care a bit for his wife--he can't. i know all about it, and i've seen it. he's doing a most blackguardly thing. he's running after a girl. not any sort of girl, but a _lady_."-- toftrees grinned mentally, he saw how it was at once with the lad. "no?" he said. "indeed, yes. she's a sweet and innocent girl whom he's getting round somehow or other by his infernal poetry and that. he's compromising her horribly and she can't see it. i've, i've seen something of her lately and i've tried to tell her as well as i could. but she doesn't take me seriously enough. she's not really in love with lothian--i don't see how any young and pretty girl could really be in love with a man who looks like he's beginning to look. but they write--they've been about together in the most dreadfully compromising way. one never knows how far it may go. for the sake of the nicest girl i have ever known it ought to be put a stop to." toftrees smiled grimly. he knew who the girl was now, and he saw how the land lay. young ingworth was in love and frightened to death of his erstwhile friend's influence over the girl. that was natural enough. "suppose any harm were to come to her," ingworth continued with something very like a break in his voice. "she's quite alone and unprotected. she is the daughter of a man who was in the navy, and now she has to earn her own living as an assistant librarian in kensington. a man like lothian who can talk, and write beautiful letters--damned scoundrel and blackguard!" toftrees was not much interested in his young friend's stormy love-affairs. but he _was_ interested in the putting of a spoke into gilbert lothian's wheel. and he had a genuine dislike and disgust of intrigue. a faithful husband to a faithful wife whose interests were identical with his, the fact of a married man of his acquaintance running after some little typewriting girl whose people were not alive to look after her, seemed abominable. nice girls should not be used so. he thought of dodges and furtive meetings, sly telephone calls, and anxious country expeditions with a shudder. and if he thanked god that he was above these things, it was perhaps not a pharisaical gratitude that animated him. "look here," he said suddenly. "you needn't go on, ingworth. i know who it is. it's miss wallace, of the podley library. she was at the amberleys' that night when lothian made such a beast of himself. she writes a little, too. very pretty and charming girl!" ingworth assented eagerly. "yes!" he cried, "that's just it! she's clever. she's intrigued by lothian. she doesn't _love_ him, she told me so yesterday----" he stopped, suddenly, realising what he had said. toftrees covered his confusion in a moment. toftrees wanted to see this to the end. "no, no," he said with assumed impatience. "of course, she knows that lothian is married, and, being a decent girl, she would never let her feelings--whatever they may be--run away with her. she's dazzled. that's what it is, and very natural, too! but it ought to be stopped. as a matter of fact, ingworth, i saw them together at the metropole at brighton one night. they had motored down together. and i've heard that they've been seen about a lot in london at night. most people know lothian by sight, and such a lovely girl as miss wallace everyone looks at. from what i saw, and from what i've heard, they are very much in love with each other." "it's a lie," ingworth answered. "she's not in love with him. i know it! she's been led away to compromise herself, poor dear girl, that's all." now, toftrees arose in his glory, so to speak. "i'll put a stop to it," he said. the emperor of the sixpenny market was once more upon his virtuous throne. his deep voice was rich with promise and power. "i know mr. podley," he said. "i have met him a good many times lately. we are on the committee of the 'pure penny literature movement.' he is a thoroughly good and fatherly man. he's quite without culture, but his instincts are all fine. i will take him aside to-night and tell him of the danger--you are right, ingworth, it is a real and subtle danger for that charming girl--that his young friend is in. podley is her patron. she has no friends, no people, i understand. she is dependent for her livelihood upon her place at the kensington library. he will tell her, and i am sure in the kindest way, that she must not have anything more to do with our christian poet, or she will lose her situation." ingworth thought for a moment. "thanks awfully," he said, almost throwing off all disguise now. then he hesitated--"but that might simply throw her into lothian's arms," he said. toftrees shook his head. "i shall put it to mr. podley," he said, "and he, being receptive of other people's ideas and having few of his own, will repeat me, to point out the horrors of a divorce case, the utter ruin if mrs. lothian were to take action." ingworth rose from his seat. "to-night?" he said. "you're to see this podley to-night?" "yes." "then when do you think he will talk to rit--to miss wallace?" "i think i can ensure that he will do so before lunch to-morrow morning." "you will be doing a kind and charitable thing, toftrees," ingworth answered, making a calculation which brought him to the doors of the podley institute at about four o'clock on the afternoon of the morrow. then he took his leave, congratulating himself that he had moved toftrees to his purpose. it was an achievement! rita would be frightened now, frightened from gilbert for ever. the thing was already half done. "mine!" said mr. dickson ingworth to himself as he got into a taxi-cab outside lancaster gate. "i think i shall cook master lothian's goose very well to-night," herbert toftrees thought to himself. mixed motives on both sides. half bad, perhaps, half good. who shall weigh out the measures but god? ingworth was madly in love with rita wallace, who had become very fond of him. he was young, handsome, was about to offer her advantageous and honourable marriage. ingworth's passion was quite good and pure. here he rose above himself. "all's fair"--treacheries grow small when they assist one's own desire and can be justified upon the score of morality as well. toftrees was outside the fierce burning of flames beyond his comprehension. he was a cog-wheel in the machinery of this so swiftly-weaving loom. but he also paid himself both ways--as he felt instinctively. he and his wife owed this upstart and privately disreputable poet a rap upon the knuckles. he would administer it to-night. and it was a _duty_, no less than a fortunate opportunity, to save a good and charming girl from a scamp. when toftrees told his wife all about it at lunch that morning she quite agreed, and, moreover, gave him valuable feminine advice as to the conduct of the private conversation with podley. chapter viii the amnesic dream-phase "in the drunkenness of the chronic alcoholic the higher brain centres are affected more readily and more profoundly than the rest of the nervous system, with the result that the drinker, despite the derangement of his consciousness, is capable of apparently deliberate and purposeful acts. it is in this dream-state, which may last a considerable time, that the morbid impulses of the alcoholic are most often carried into effect." _the criminology of alcoholism_ by william c. sullivan, m.d., medical officer h.m. prison service. "the confirmed toper, who is as much the victim of drug-habit as the opium eater, may have amnesic dream phases, during which he may commit automatically offensive acts while he is mentally irresponsible." _medico-legal relations of alcoholism_ by stanley b. atkinson, m.a., m.b., b.sc. barrister at law. at nine o'clock one evening lothian went into his wife's room. it was a bitterly cold night and a knife-like wind was coming through the village from the far saltings. there was a high-riding moon but its light was fitful and constantly obscured by hurrying clouds. mary was lying in bed, patiently and still. she was not yet better. dr. heywood was a little puzzled at her continued listlessness and depression. a bright fire glowed upon the hearth and sent red reflections upon the bedroom ceiling. a shaded candle stood upon the bedside table, and there were also a glass of milk, some grapes in a silver dish, and the "imitatio christi" there. lothian was very calm and quiet in demeanour. his wife had noticed that whenever he came to see her during the last two or three days, there had been an unusual and almost drowsy tranquillity in his manner. his hands shook no more. his movements were no longer jerky. they were deliberate, like those of an ordinary and rather ponderous man. and now, too, gilbert's voice had become smooth and level. the quick and pleasant vibration of it at its best, the uneasy rise and fall of it at its worst, had alike given place to a suave, creamy monotone which didn't seem natural. the face, also, enlarged and puffed by recent excesses, had further changed. the redness had gone from the skin. even the eyes were bloodshot no longer. they looked fish-like, though. they had a steady introspective glare about them. the lips were red and moist, in this new and rather horrible face. the clear contour and moulding were preserved, but a quiet dreamy smile lurked about and never left them. . . ."gilbert, have you come to say goodnight?" "yes, dear,"--it _was_ an odd purring sort of voice--"how do you feel?" "not very well, dear. i am going to try very hard to sleep to-night. you're rather early in coming, are you not?" "yes, dear, i am. but the moon and the tides are right to-night and the wild duck are flighting. i am going out after widgeon to-night. i ought to do well." "oh, i see. i hope you'll have good luck, dear." "i hope so. oh, and i forgot, mary, i thought of going off for three days to-morrow, down towards the essex coast. i should take tumpany. i've had a letter from the wild fowlers' association man there to say that the geese are already beginning to come over. would you mind?" mary saw that he had already made up his mind to go--for some reason or other. "yes, go by all means, dear," she said, "the change and the sport will do you good." "you will be all right?"--how soapy and mechanical that voice was. . . . "oh, of course i shall. don't think a _bit_ about me. perhaps--" she hesitated for a moment and then continued with the most winning sweetness--"perhaps, gillie darling, it will buck you up so that you won't want to . . ." the strange voice that was coming from him dried the longing, loving words in her throat. "well, then, dear, i shall say good-bye, now. you see i shall be out most of this night, and if tumpany and i are to catch the early train from wordingham and have all the guns ready, we must leave here before you will be awake. i mean, you sleep into the morning a little now, don't you?" he seemed anxious as he asked. "generally, gillie. then if it is to be good-bye for two days, good-bye my dear, dear husband. come----" she held out her arms, lying there, and he had to bend into her embrace. "i shall pray for you all the time you are away," she whispered. "i shall think of my boy every minute. god bless you and preserve you, my dear husband." she was doubtless about to say more, to murmur other words of sacred wifely love, when her arms slid slowly away from him and lay motionless upon the counterpane. immediately they did so, the man's figure straightened itself and stood upright by the side of the bed. "well, i'll go now," he said. "good-night, dear." he turned his full, palish face upon her, the yellow point of flame, coming through the top of the candle shade, showed it in every detail. fixed, introspective eyes, dreamy painted smile, a suave, uninterested farewell. the door closed gently behind him. it was closed as a bland doctor closes a door. mary lay still as death. the room was perfectly silent, save for the fall of a red coal in the fire or the tiny hiss and spurt of escaping gas in thin pencils of old gold and amethyst. then there came a loud sound into the room. it was a steady rhythmic sound, muffled but alarming. it seemed to fill the room. in a second or two more mary knew that it was only her heart beating. "but i am frightened," she said to herself. "i am really frightened. this is fear!" and fear it was, such as this clear soul had not known. this daughter of good descent, with serene, temperate mind and body, had ever been high poised above gross and elemental fear. to her, as to the royal nature of her friend julia daly, god had early given a soul-guard of angels. now, for the first time in her life, mary knew fear. and she knew an unnameable disgust also. her heart drummed. the back of her throat grew hot--hotter than her fever made it. and, worse, a thousand times more chilling and dreadful, she felt as if she had just been holding something cold and evil in her arms. . . . the voice was unreal and almost incredible. the waxen mask with its set eyes and the small, fine mouth caught into a fixed smile--oh! this was not her husband! she had been speaking with some _thing_. some _thing_, dressed in gilbert's flesh had come smirking into her quiet room. she had held it in her arms and prayed for it. drum, drum!--she put her left hand, the hand with the wedding ring upon it, over the madly throbbing heart. and then, in her mind, she asked for relief, comfort, help. the response was instant. her life had always been so fragrant and pure, her aims so single-hearted, her delight in goodness and her love of jesus so transparently immanent, that she was far nearer the veil than most of us can ever get. she asked, and the amorphous elemental things of darkness dissolved and fled before heavenly radiance. the couriers of the wind of the holy-ghost came to her with the ozone of paradise beating from their wings. doubtless it was now that some priest-angel gave mary lothian that last viaticum which was to be denied to her from the hands of any earthly priest. it was a week ago that mr. medley had brought the blessed sacrament to mary. it was seven days since she had thus met her lord. but he was with her now. already of the saints, although she knew it not, a cloud of witnesses surrounded her. angels and archangels and all the company of heaven were loving her, waiting for her. * * * * * lothian went along the corridor to the library, which was on the first floor of the house. his footsteps made no noise upon the thick carpet. he walked softly, resolutely, as a man that had much to do. the library was not a large room but it was a very charming one. a bright fire burned upon the hearth. two comfortable saddle-back chairs of olive-coloured leather stood on either side of it, and there was a real old "gate-table" of dark oak set by one of the chairs with a silver spirit-stand upon it. along all one side, books rose to the ceiling, his beloved friends of the past, in court-dress of gold and damson colour, in bravery of delicate greens; in leather which had been stained bright orange, some of them; while others showed like crimson aldermen and red lord mayors. let into the wall at the end of the room--opposite to the big tudor window--was the glass-fronted cupboard in which the guns were kept. the black-blue barrels gleamed in rows, the polished stocks caught the light from the candles upon the mantel-shelf. the huge double eight-bore like a shoulder-cannon ranked next to the pair of ten-bores by greener. then came the two powerful twelve-gauge guns by tolley, chambered for three inch shells and to which many geese had fallen upon the marshes. . . . lothian opened the glass door and took down one of the heavy ten-bores from the rack. he placed it upon a table, opened a cupboard, took out a leather cartridge bag and put about twenty "perfect" cases of brass, loaded with "smokeless diamond" and "number four" shot, into the bag. then he rang the bell. "tell tumpany to come up," he said to blanche who answered the summons. presently there was a somewhat heavy lurching noise as the ex-sailor came up the stairs and entered the library with his usual scrape and half-salute. tumpany was not drunk, but he was not quite sober. he was excited by the prospect of the three days' sport in essex and he had been celebrating the coming treat in the mortland royal arms. he had enjoyed beer in the kitchen of the old house--by lothian's orders. "now be here by seven sharp to-morrow, tumpany," lothian said, still in his quiet level voice. "we must catch the nine o'clock from wordingham without fail. i'm going out for an hour or two on the marshes. the widgeon are working over the west meils with this moon and i may get a shot or two." "cert'nly, sir. am i to come, sir?" "no, i think you had better go home and get to bed. you've a long day before you to-morrow. i shan't be out late." "very good, sir. you'll take trust? shall i go and let him out?" lothian seemed to hesitate, while he cast a shrewd glance under his eyelids at the man. "well, what do you think?" he asked. "i ought to be able to pick up any birds i get myself in this light, and on the west meils. i shan't stay out long either. you see, trust has to go with us to-morrow and he's always miserable in the guard's van. he'll have to work within a few hours of our arrival and i thought it best to give him as much rest as possible beforehand. he isn't really necessary to me to-night. but what do you think?" tumpany was flattered--as it was intended that he should be flattered--at his advice being asked in this way. he agreed entirely with his master. "very well then. you'd better go down again to the kitchen. i'll be with you in ten minutes. then you can walk with me to the marsh head and carry the bag." tumpany scrambled away to kitchen regions for more beer. lothian walked slowly up and down the library. his head was falling forward upon his chest. he was thinking, planning. every detail must be gone into. it was always owing to neglect of detail that things fell through, that _things_ were found out. nemesis waited on the failure of fools! a week ago the word "nemesis" would have terrified him and sent him into the labyrinth of self-torture--crossings, touchings, and the like. now it meant nothing. yes: that was all right. tumpany would accompany him to the end of the village--the farthest end of the village from the "haven"--there could be no possible idea. . . . lothian nodded his head and then opened a drawer in the wall below the gun cupboard. he searched in it for a moment and withdrew a small square object wrapped in tissue paper. it was a spare oil-bottle for a gun-case. the usual oil-receptacle in a gun-case is exactly like a small, square ink-bottle, though with this difference; when the metal top is unscrewed, it brings with it an inch long metal rod, about the thickness of a knitting needle but flattened at the end. this is used to take up beads of oil and apply them to the locks, lever, and ejector mechanisms of a gun. lothian slipped the thing into a side pocket of his coat. in a few minutes, dressed in warm wildfowling clothes of grey wool and carrying his gun, he was tramping out of the long village street with tumpany. the wind sang like flying arrows, the dark road was hard beneath their feet. they came to tumpany's cottage and little shop, which were on the outskirts of the village. then lothian stopped. "look here," he said, "you can give me the bag now. there really isn't any need for you to come to the marsh head with me, tumpany.--much better get to bed and be fresh for to-morrow." the man was nothing loth. the lit window of his house invited him. "thank you, sir," he said, sobered now by the keen night wind, "then i'll say good-night." --"night tumpany." "g'night, sir." lothian tramped away into the dark. the sailor stood for a moment with his hand upon the latch of his house door, listening to the receding footsteps. "what's wrong with him?" he asked himself. "he speaks different like. yesterday morning old trust seemed positive afraid of him! never saw such a thing before! and to-night he seems like a stranger somehow. i felt queer, in a manner of speaking, as i walked alongside of him. but what a bloody fool i am!" tumpany concluded, using the richest adjective he knew, as his master's footsteps died away and were lost. in less than ten minutes lothian stood upon the edge of the vast marshes. it was a ghostly place and hour. the wind wailed over the desolate miles like a soul sick for the love it had failed to win in life. the wide creeks with their cliff-like sides of black mud were brimming with sullen tidal water, touched here and there by faint moonbeams--lemon colour on lead. night birds passed high over head with a whistle of wings, heard, but not seen in the gloom. from distant wordingham to far blackney beyond which were the cliffs of sherringham and cromer, for twelve miles or more, perhaps not a dozen human beings were out upon the marshes. a few bold wildfowlers in their frail punts with the long tapering guns in the bows, might be "setting to birds"; enduring the bitter cold, risking grave danger, and pursuing the wildest and most wary of living things with supreme endurance throughout the night. once the wind brought two deep booms to lothian. his trained ear knew and located the sound at once. one of the wordingham fowlers was out upon the flats three miles away, and had fired his double eight-bore, the largest shoulder gun that even a strong man can use. but the saltings were given over to the night and the things of the night. the plovers called, "'tis dark and late." "'tis late and dark." the wind sobbed coldly; wan clouds sped to hood the moon with darkness. brown hares crouched among the coarse marrum grasses, the dun owls were afloat upon the air, sounding their oboe notes, and always the high unseen flight of whistling ducks went on all over the desolate majesty of the marshes. and beyond it all, through it all, could be heard the hollow organs of the sea. lothian was walking rapidly. his breathing was heavy and muffled. he skirted the marsh and did not go upon it, passing along the grass slope of foreshore which even a full marsh tide never conquered; going back upon his own trail, parallel to the village. there were sharp pricking pains in his knees and ankles. hot sweat clotted his clothes to his body and rained down his face. but he was unaware of this. his alarming physical condition was as nothing. he went on through the dark, hurriedly, like a man in ambush. now and then he stumbled at inequalities of the ground or caught his foot in furze roots. obscene words escaped him when this happened. they burst from between the hot cracked lips, mechanical and thin. the weak complaints of some poor filthy-minded ghost! he knew nothing of what he said. but with knife-winds upon his face, thin needles in his joints; sodden flesh quivering with nervous tremors and wet with warm brine, he went onwards with purpose. he was in the amnesic dream-phase. every foul and bestial impulse which is hidden in the nature of man was riotous and awake. the troglodytes showed themselves at last. all the unnameable, unthinkable things that lie deep below the soul, far below the conscience, in the lowest and sealed cellars of personality, had burst from their hidden prisons. the temple of the holy ghost was full of the squeaking, gibbering powers of utmost, nethermost hell. --these are similes which endeavour to hint at the frightful truth. science sums it up in a simple statement. lothian was now in "the amnesic dream-phase." he came to where a grass road bounded by high hedges led down to the foreshore. crouching under the sentinel hedge of the road's end, he lit a match and looked at his watch. it was fifteen minutes past ten o'clock. old phoebe hannett and her daughter, the servants of morton sims at the "haven," would now be fast in slumber. christopher, the doctor's personal servant, was in paris with his master. the person who walked in a dream turned up the unused grass-grown road. he was now at the east end of the village. the path brought him out upon the highroad a hundred yards above the rectory, church, and the schools. from there it was a gentle descent to the very centre of the village, where the "haven" was. there were no lights nor lamp-posts in the village. by now every one would be gone to bed. . . . there came a sudden sharp chuckle into the night. something was congratulating itself with glee that it had put water-boots with india-rubber soles upon its feet; noiseless soles that would make no sound upon the gravelled ways about the familiar house that had belonged to admiral custance. . . . lothian lifted the latch of the gate which led to the short gravel-drive of the "haven" with delicate fingers. an expert handles a blown bird's-egg so. it rose. it fell. not a crack came from the slowly-pushed gate which fell back into its place with no noise, leaving the night-comer inside. the gables of the house rose black and stark against the sky. the attic-windows where old dame hannett and her daughter slept were black. they were fast in sleep now. the night-intruder set his gun carefully against the stone pillar of the gate. then he tripped over the pneumatic lawns before the house with almost a dance in his step. he frisked over the lawns, avoiding the chocolate patches that meant flower-beds, with complacent skill. just then no clouds obscured the moon, which rode high before the advancing figure. a fantastic shadow followed lothian, coquetting with the flower beds, popping this way and that, but ever at his heels. it threw itself about in swimming areas of grey vagueness and then concentrated itself into a black patch with moving outlines. there was an ecstasy about this dancing shadow. and now, the big building which had been a barn and which admiral custance had re-built and put to various uses, cut wedge-like into the lit sky. the shadow crept close to the dream figure and crouched at its heels. it seemed to be spurring that figure on, to be whispering in its ear. . . . we know all about the dream figure. through the long pages of this chronicle we have learned how, and of what, it has been born. and were it not that experts of the middle age--when demonology was a properly recognised science--have stated that a devil has never a shadow, we should doubtless have been sure that it was our old friend, the fiend alcohol, that contracted and expanded with such fantastic measures over the moon-lit grass. lothian knew his way well about this domain. admiral custance had been his good friend. often in the old sailor's house, or in lothian's, the two had tippled together and drank toasts to the supremacy which queen britannia has over the salt seas. the lower floor of the barn had been used as a box-room for trunks and a general store-house, though the central floor-space was made into a court for badminton; when nephews and nieces, small spars of main and mizzen and the co-lateral yardarms, came to play upon a retired quarter-deck. the upper floor had ever been sacred to the admiral and his hobbies. from below, the upper region was reached by a private stairway of wood outside the building. of this entrance the sailor had always kept the key. a little wooden balcony ran round the angle of the building to where, at one end, a large window had been built in the wall. lothian went up the outside stairs noiselessly as a cat, and round the little gallery to the long window. here he was in deep shadow. the two leaves of the window did not quite meet. the wood had shrunk, the whole affair was rickety and old. as he had anticipated, the night-comer had no difficulty in pushing the blade of his shooting knife through the crevice and raising the simple catch. he stepped into the room, long empty and ghostly. first, he closed the window again, and then let down the blue blind over it. a skylight in the sloped roof provided all the other light. through this, now, faint and fleeting moonlights fell. by the gallery door there was a mat. lothian stepped gingerly to it and wiped the india-rubber boots he wore. then he took half a wax candle from a side-pocket and lit it. it was quite impossible that the light could be seen from outside, even if spectators there were, in the remote slumbering village. in the corners of the long room, black-velvet shadows lurked as the yellow candle flame moved. a huge spider with a body as big as sixpence ran up one canvas-covered wall. despite the cold, the air was lifeless and there was a very faint aroma of chemical things in it. on all sides were long deal tables covered with a multiplicity of unusual objects. under a big bell of glass, popped over it to keep the dust away, was a large microscope of intricate mechanism. close by was a section-cutter that could almost make a paring of a soul for scrutiny. leather cases stood here and there full of minute hypodermic syringes, and there was a box of thin glass tubes containing agents for staining the low protoplasmic forms of life which must be observed by those who wish to arm the world against the fiend alcohol. at the far end of the room, on each side of the fireplace were two glass-fronted cupboards, lined with red baize. in one of them admiral custance had kept his guns. these cupboards had been constructed by the village carpenter--who had also made the gun cupboard in lothian's library. they were excellent cupboards and with ordinary locks and keys--the mortland royal carpenter, indeed, buying these accessories of his business of one pattern, and by the gross, from messrs. pashwhip and moger's iron-mongery establishment in wordingham. lothian took the key of his own gun cupboard from his waistcoat pocket. it fitted the hole of the cupboard here--on the right side of the fireplace, exactly as he had expected. the glass doors swung open with a loud crack, and the contents on the shelves were clearly exposed to view. lothian set his candle down upon the edge of an adjacent table and thought for a moment. during their intimate conversations--before lothian's three weeks in london with rita wallace, while his wife was at nice, dr. morton sims had explained many things to him. the great man had been pleased to find in a patient, in an artist also, the capability of appreciating scientific truth and being interested in the methods by which it was sought. lothian knew therefore, that morton sims was patiently following and extending the experiments of professor fraenkel at his laboratory in halle, varying the investigation of deléarde and carrying it much farther. morton sims was introducing alcohol into rabbits and guinea pigs, sub-cutaneously or into the stomach direct, exhibiting the alcohol in well-diluted forms and over long periods. he was then inoculating these alcoholised subjects, and subjects which had not been alcoholised, with the bacilli of consumption--tubercle bacilli--and diphtheria toxin--the poison produced by the diphtheria bacillus. he was endeavouring to obtain indisputable evidence of increased susceptibility to infection in the animal body under alcoholic influences. of all this, lothian was thoroughly aware. he stood now--if indeed it _was_ gilbert lothian the poet who stood there--in front of an open cupboard; the cupboard he had opened by secrecy and fraud. upon those shelves, as he well knew, organic poisons of immeasurable potency were resting. in those half-dozen squat phials of glass, surrounded with felt and with curious stoppers, an immense death was lurking. all the quick-firing guns of the navies of the world were not so powerful as one of these little glass receptacles. the breath came thick and fast from the intruder. it went up in clouds from his heated body; vapourised into steam which looked yellow in the candlelight. after a minute he drew near to the cupboard. a trembling, exploring finger pushed among the phials. it isolated one. upon a label pasted on the glass, were two words in greek characters, "[greek: diphth. toxin.]" here, in this vessel of gelatinous liquid, lurked the destroying army of diphtheria bacilli, millions strong. the man held up the candle and its light fell full upon the neat cursive greek, so plain for him to read. he stared at it with focussed eyes. his head was pushed forward a little and oscillated slowly from side to side. the sweat ran down it and fell with little splashes upon the floor. then his hand began to tremble and the light flickered and danced in the recesses of the cupboard. he turned away, shaking, and set the candle end upon the table. it swayed, toppled over, flared for a moment and went out. but he could not wait to light it again. his attendant devil was straying, he must be called back . . . to help. lothian plunged his hand into his breast pocket and withdrew a flat flask of silver. it was full of undiluted whiskey. he took a long steady pull, and the fire went through him instantly. with firm fingers now, he screwed on the top of the flask and re-lit the candle stump. then he took the marked phial from the cupboard shelf and set it on the table. from a side pocket he took the little oil-bottle belonging to a travelling gun-case and unscrewed the top of that. and now, with cunning knowledge, he takes the thick, grey woollen scarf from his neck and drenches a certain portion of its folds with raw whiskey from his flask. he binds the muffler round the throat and nose in such fashion that the saturated portion confines all the outlets of his breathing. one must risk nothing one's self when one plays and conjures with the spawn and corruptions of death! . . . it is done, done with infinite nicety and care--no trembling fingers now. the vial is unstopped, the tube within has poured a drop or two of its contents into the oil-bottle, the projecting needle of which is damp with death. the cupboard is closed and locked again. ah! there is candle grease upon the table! it is scraped up, to the minutest portion, with the blade of the shooting knife. then he is out upon the balcony again. one last task remains. it is to close the long windows so that the catch will fall into its rusty holder and no trace be left of its ever having been opened. this is not easy. it requires preparation, dexterity and thought. cunning fingers must use the thin end of the knife to bend the little brass bracket which is to receive the falling catch. it must be bent outwards, and in the bending a warning creak suggests that the screws are parting from the rotten wood. but it is done at last, surely dexterously. no gentlemanly burglar of the magazines could have done it better. . . . there is no moon now. it is necessary to feel one's way in silence over the lawn and reach the outer gate. this is done successfully, the fiend is a good quick valet-fiend to-night and aids at every point. the gate is closed with a gentle "click," there is only the "pad, pad" of the night-comer's footsteps passing along the dark village street towards the old house with poison in his pocket and murder in his heart. outside his own gate, lothian's feet assume a brisk and confidential measure. he rattles the latch of the drive gate and tries to whistle in a blithe undertone. bedroom windows may be open, it will be as well that his low, contented whistle--as of one returning from healthy night-sport--may be heard. his lips are too cracked and salt to whistle, however. he tries to hum the burden of a song, but only a faint "croak, croak," sounds in the cold, quiet night--for the wind has fallen now. not far away, behind the palings of his little yard, the dog trust whines mournfully. once he whines, and then with a full-throat and opened muzzle dog trust bays the moon behind its cloud-pall. when he hears the footfall of one he knows and loves, dog trust greets it with low, anxious whines. he is no watch-dog. his simple duties are unvaried from the marsh and field. growl of hostility to night-comers he knows not. his faithful mind has been attuned to no reveillé note. but he howls mournfully now. the step he hears is like no step he knows. perhaps, who can say? the dim, untutored mind discerns dimly something wicked, inimical and hostile approaching the house. so the dog trust howls, stands for a moment upon his cold concrete sniffing the night air, and then with a sort of shudder plunges into the warm straw of his kennel. deep sleep broods over the poet's house. the morning was one of those cold bright autumn days without a breath of wind, which have an extraordinary exhilaration for every one. the soul, which to the majority of folk is like an invisible cloud anchored to the body by a thin thread, is pulled down by such mornings. it reenters flesh and blood, reanimates the body, and sounds like a bugle in the mind. tumpany, his head had been under the pump for a few minutes, arrived fresh and happy at the old house. he was going away with the master upon a wild-fowling expedition. in essex the geese were moving this way and that. there was an edge upon anticipation and the morning. in the kitchen phoebe and blanche partook of the snappy message of the hour. the guns were all in their cases. a pile of pigskin luggage was ready for the four-wheel dogcart. "perhaps when the men are out of the way for a day or two, mistress will have a chance to get right. . . . master said good-bye to mistress last night, didn't he?" the cook said to blanche. "yes, but he may want to go in again and disturb her." "i don't believe he will. she's asleep now. those things dr. heywood give her keep her quiet. but still you'd better go quietly into her room with her morning milk, blanche. if she's asleep, just leave it there, so she'll find it when she wakes up." "very well, cook, i will," the housemaid said--"oh, there's that tumpany!" tumpany came into the kitchen. he wore his best suit. he was quite dictatorial and sober. he spoke in brisk tones. "what are you going to do, my girl?" he said to blanche in an authoritative voice. "hush, you silly. keep quiet, can't you?" phoebe said angrily. "blanche is taking up mistress' milk in case she wakes." "where's master, then?" "master is in the library. he'll be down in a minute." "can i go up to him, cook? . . . there's something about the guns----" "no. you can _not_, tumpany. but blanche will take any message.--blanche, knock at the library door and say tumpany wants to see master. but do it quietly. remember missis is sleeping at the other end of the passage." as blanche went up the stairs with her tray, the library door was open, and she saw her master strapping a suit case. she stopped at the open door. --"please, sir, tumpany wants to speak to you." lothian looked up. it was almost as if he had expected the housemaid. "all right," he said. "he can come up in a moment. what have you got there--oh? the milk for your mistress. well, put it down on the table, and tell tumpany to come up. bring him up yourself, blanche, and make him be quiet. we mustn't risk waking mistress." the housemaid put the tray down upon the writing table and left the room, closing the door after her. it had hardly swung into place when lothian had whipped open a drawer in the table. standing upon a pile of note-paper with its vermilion heading of "the old house, mortland royal" was a square oil bottle with its silver plated top. in a few twists of firm and resolute fingers, the top was loosened. the man took the bottle from the drawer and set it upon the tray, close to the glass of milk. then, with infinite care, he slowly withdrew the top. the flattened needle which depended from it was damp with the dews of death. a tiny bead of crystalline liquid, no bigger than a pin's head, hung from the slanting point. lothian plunged the needle into the glass of milk, moving it this way and that. he heard footsteps on the stairs, and with the same stealthy dexterity he replaced the cap of the bottle and closed the drawer. he was lighting a cigarette when blanche knocked and entered, followed by tumpany. "what is it, tumpany?" he said, as the maid once more took up her tray and left the room with it. "i was thinking, sir, that we haven't got a cleaning rod packed for the ten-bores. i quite forgot it. the twelve-bore rods won't reach through thirty-two-and-a-half barrels. and all the cases are strapped and locked now, sir. you've got the keys." "by jove, no, we never thought of it. but those two special rods i had made at tolley's--where are they?" "here, sir," the man answered going to the gun-cupboard. "oh, very well. unscrew one and stick it in your pocket. we can put it in the case when we're in the train. it's a corridor train, and when we've started you can come along to my carriage and i'll give you the key of the ten-bore case." "very good, sir. the trap's come. i'll just take this suit case down and then i'll get trust. he can sit behind with me." "yes. i'll be down in a minute." tumpany plunged downstairs with the suit case. lothian screwed up the bottle in the drawer and, holding it in his hand, went to his bedroom. he met blanche in the corridor. "mistress is fast asleep, sir," the pleasant-faced girl said, "so i just put her milk on the table and came out quietly." "thank you, blanche. i shall be down in a minute." in his bedroom, lothian poured water into the bowl upon the washstand and shook a few dark red crystals of permanganate of potash into the water, which immediately became a purplish pink. he plunged his hands into this water, with the little bottle, now tightly stoppered again, in one of them. for two minutes he remained thus. then he withdrew his hands and the bottle, drying them on a towel. . . . there was no possible danger of infection now. as for the bottle, he would throw it out of the window of the train when he was a hundred miles from mortland royal. he came out into the corridor once more. his face was florid and too red. close inspection would have disclosed the curiously bruised look of the habitual inebriate. but, in his smart travelling suit of harris tweed, with well-brushed hair, white collar and the "bird's eye" tie that many country gentlemen affect, he was passable enough. a dreamy smile played over his lips. his eyes--not quite so bloodshot this morning--were drowsed with quiet thought. as he was about to descend the stairs he turned and glanced towards a closed door at the end of the passage. it was the door of mary's room and this was his farewell to the wife whose only thought was of him, with whom, in "the blessed bond of board and bed" he had spent the happy years of his first manhood and success. a glance at the closed door; an almost complacent smile; after all those years of holy intimacy this was his farewell. as he descended the stairs, the murderer was humming a little tune. the two maid servants were in the hall to see him go. they were fond of him. he was a kind and generous master. "you're looking much better this morning, sir," said phoebe. she was pretty and privileged. . . . "i'm feeling very well, phoebe. this little trip will do me a lot of good, and i shall bring home lots of birds for you to cook. now mind both you girls look after your mistress well. i shall expect to see her greatly improved when i return. give her my love when she wakes up. don't forward any letters because i am not certain where i shall be. it will be in the blackwater neighbourhood, brightlingsea, or i may make my headquarters at colchester for the three days. but i can't be quite sure. i shall be back in three days." "good morning, sir. i hope you'll have good sport." "thank you, phoebe--that's right, tumpany, put trust on the seat first and then get up yourself--what's the matter with the dog?--never saw him so shy. no, james, you drive--all right?--let her go then." the impatient mare in the shafts of the cart pawed the gravel and was off. the trap rolled out of the drive as lothian lit a cigar. it really was a most perfect early morning, and there was a bloom upon the stubble and mortland royal wood like the bloom upon a plum. the air was keen, the sun bright. the pheasants chuckled in the wood, the mare's feet pounded the hard road merrily. "what a thoroughly delightful morning!" lothian said to the groom at his side and his eyes were still dreamy with subtle content. chapter ix a startling experience for "wog" "the die rang sideways as it fell, rang cracked and thin, like a man's laughter heard in hell. . . ." --_swinburne._ it was nearly seven o'clock in the evening; a dry, acrid, coughing cold lay over london. in the little kensington flat of rita wallace and ethel harrison, the fire was low and almost out. the "lulu bird" drooped on its perch and wog was crying quietly by the fire. how desolate the flat seemed to the faithful wog as she looked round with brimming eyes. the state and arrangement of a familiar room often seem organically related to the human mind. certainly we ourselves give personality to rooms which we have long inhabited; and that personality re-acts upon us at times when event disturbs it. it was so now with the good and tender-hearted clergyman's daughter. the floor of the sitting-room was littered with little pieces of paper and odds and ends of string. upon the piano--it was wog's piano now, a present from rita--was a massive photograph frame of silver. there was no photograph in it, but some charred remains of a photograph which had been burned still lay in the grate. wog had burnt the photograph herself, that morning, early. "you do it, darling," rita had said to her. "i can't do it myself. and take this box. it's locked and sealed. it has the letters in it. i cannot burn them, but i don't want to read them again. i must not, now. but keep it carefully, always. if ever i _should_ ask for it, deliver it to me wherever i am." "you must _never_ ask for it, my darling girl," wog had said quickly. "let me burn the box and its contents." "no, no! you must not, dearest wog, my dear old friend! it would be wrong. rossetti had to open the coffin of his wife to get back the poems which he had buried with her. keep it as i say." wog knew nothing about rossetti, and the inherent value of works of art in manuscript didn't appeal to her. but she had been able to refuse her friend nothing on this morning of mornings. wog was wearing her best frock, a new one, a present also. she had never had so smart a frock before. she held her little handkerchief very carefully that none of the drops that streamed from her eyes should fall upon the dress and stain it. "my bridesmaid dress," she said aloud with a choke of melancholy laughter. "we mustn't spoil it, must we, lulu bird?" but the canary remained motionless upon its perch like a tiny stuffed thing. in one corner of the room was a large corded packing-case. it contained a big and costly epergne of silver, in execrable taste and savouring strongly of the mid-victorian, a period when a choir of great voices sang upon parnassus but the greatest were content to live in surroundings that would drive a minor poet of our era to insanity. this was to be forwarded to wiltshire in a fortnight or so. it was mr. podley's present. wog's eyes fell upon it now. "what a kind good man mr. podley is," she thought. "how anxious he has been to forward everything. and to give dear rita away also!" then this good girl remembered what a happy change in her own life and prospects was imminent. she was to be the head librarian of the podley pure literature institute, vice mr. hands, retired. she was to have two hundred a year and choose her own assistant. mr. and mrs. podley--at whose house ethel had spent some hours--were not exactly what one would call "cultured" people. they were homely; but they were sincere and good. "now you, my dear," mrs. podley had said to her, "are just the lady we want. you are a clergyman's daughter. you have had a business training. the library will be safe in your hands. and we like you! we feel friends to you, miss harrison. 'give it to miss harrison,' i said to my husband, directly i had had a talk with you." "but i know so little about literature," wog had answered. "of course i read, and i have my own little collection of books. but to take charge of a public library--oh, mrs. podley, _do_ you think i shall be able to do it to mr. podley's satisfaction?" mrs. podley had patted the girl upon her arm. "you're a good girl, my dear," she said, "and that is enough for us. we mayn't be literary, my husband and me, but we know a good woman when we meet her. now you just take charge of that library and do exactly as you like. come and have dinner with us every week, dearie. when all's said we're a lonely old couple and a good girl like you, what is clever too, and born a lady, is just what i want. podley shall do something for your dear father. i'll see to that. and your brothers too, just coming from school as they are. leave it to me, my dear!" about rita the good dame had been less enthusiastic. "the evening after podley had to talk to her" (thus mrs. podley) "i asked you both up here. i fell in love with you at once, my dear. her, i didn't like. pretty as a picture; yes! but different somehow! yet sensible enough--really--as p. has told me. when he gave her a talking to, as being an elderly and successful man who employed her he had well a right to do, she saw at once the scandal and wrong of going about with a married man--be he poet or whatnot. it was only her girlish foolishness, of course. poor silly lamb, she didn't know. but what a blessing that all the time she was being courted by that young country squire. i tell you, miss h., that i felt like a mother to them in the church this morning." these kindly memories of this great day passed in reverie through the tear-charged heart of wog. but she was alone now, very much alone. she had adored rita. rita had flown away into another sphere. the lulu bird was a poor consoler! still, wog's sister beatrice was sixteen now. she would have her to live with her and pay her fees for learning secretarial duties at kensington college and mr. munford would find bee a post. . . . wog pulled herself together. she had lost her darling, brilliant, flashing rita. _that was that!_ she must reconstruct her life and press forward without regrets. life had opened out for her, after all. but now, at this immediate moment, there was a necessity for calling all her forces together. she did not know, she had refused to know, how rita had dealt with mr. lothian during the past three weeks. the poet had not written for a fortnight; that she believed she knew, and she had hoped it meant that his passion for her friend was over. rita, in her new-found love, her _legitimate_ love, had never mentioned the poet to wog. ethel knew nothing of love, as far as it could have affected her. yet the girl had discerned--or thought she had--an almost frightened relinquishment and regret on the part of rita. rita had expanded with joyous maiden surrender to the advances and love-making of dickson ingworth. that was her youth, her body. but there had been moments of revolt, moments when the "wizards peeped and muttered," when the intellect of the girl seemed held and captured, as the man who wooed her, and was this day her husband, had never captured it--perhaps never would or could. rita wallace had once said to gilbert lothian that she and ethel did not take a daily paper because of the expense. neither of these girls, therefore, was in the habit of glancing down the births, marriages and deaths column. mr. and mrs. toftrees had run over to nice for a month, ingworth was far too anxious and busy with his appeal to rita--none of the people chiefly concerned had read that the hon. mary lothian, third daughter of the viscount boultone and wife of gilbert lothian, esquire, of the old house, mortland royal, was dead. for a fortnight--this was all ethel harrison knew--rita had received no communication from the poet. ethel imagined that rita had finally sent him about his business, had told him of her quick engagement and imminent marriage. she knew that something had happened with mr. podley--nearly three weeks ago. details she had none. yet, on the mantel-shelf, was a letter in rita's handwriting. it was addressed to gilbert lothian. wog was to forward this to him. the letter was unnerving. it was a letter of farewell, of course, but ethel did not like to handle any message from her dear young bride to a man who was of the past and ought never, _never_! to have been in it. and there was more than this. when ethel had returned from charing cross station, after the early wedding in st. martin's church and the departure of the happy couple for mentone, she had found a telegram pushed through the letter-box of the flat, addressed "miss wallace." she had opened it and read these words: "_arriving to you at : to-night, carissima, to explain all my recent silence if you do not know already. we are coming into our own._ gilbert." wog didn't know what this might mean. she regarded it as one more attempt, on the part of the married man who ought never to have had any connection with rita. she realised that lothian must be absolutely ignorant of rita's marriage. and, knowing nothing of mary lothian's death, she regarded the telegram with disgust and fear. "how dreadful," she thought, in her virgin mind, untroubled always by the lusts of the flesh and the desire of the eyes, "that this great man should run after cupid. he's got his own wife. how angry father would be if he knew. and yet, mr. lothian couldn't help loving cupid, i suppose. every one loves her." "i must be as kind as i can to him when he comes," she said to herself. "he ought to be here almost at once. of course, cupid knows nothing about the telegram saying that he's coming. i can give her letter into his own hands." . . . the bell whirred--ring, ring, ring--was there not something exultant in the shrill purring of the bell? wog looked round the littered room, saw the letter on the mantel, the spread telegram upon the table, breathed heavily and went out into the little hall-passage of the flat. "click," and she opened the door. standing there, wearing a fur coat and a felt hat, was some one she had never met, but whom she knew in an instant. it was gilbert lothian. yet it was not the gilbert lothian she had imagined from his photograph. still less the poet of rita's confidences and the verses of "surgit amari." he looked like a well-dressed doll, just come there, like a quite _convenable_ but rather unreal figure from madame tussaud's! he looked at her for a quick moment and then held out his hand. "i know," he said; "you're wog! i've heard such a lot about you. where's rita? may i come in?--she got my wire?" . . . he was in the little hall before she had time to answer him. mechanically she led the way into the sitting-room. in the full electric light she saw him clearly for the first time. ethel harrison shuddered. she saw a large, white face, with pinkish blotches on it here and there--more particularly at the corners of the mouth and about the nostrils. the face had an impression of immense _power_--of _concentration_. beneath the wavy hair and the straight eyebrows, the eyes gleamed and shot out fire--shifting this way and that. with an extraordinary quickness and comprehension these eyes glanced round the flat and took in its disorder. . . . "she got my wire?" the man said--finding the spread-out pink paper upon the table in an instant. "no, mr. lothian," ethel harrison said gravely. "rita never got your wire. it came too late." the glaring light faded out of the man's eyes. his voice, which had been suave and oily, changed utterly. ethel had wondered at his voice immediately she heard it. it was like that of some shopman selling silks--a fat voice. it had been difficult for her to believe that _this_ was gilbert lothian. rita's great friend, the famous man, her father's favourite modern poet. but she heard a _voice_ now, a real, vibrant voice. "too late?" he questioned. "too late for _what_?" ethel nodded sadly. "i see, mr. lothian," she said, "that you are already beginning to understand that you have to hear things that will distress you." lothian bowed. as he did so, _something_ flashed out upon the great bloated mask his face had become. it was for a second only, but it was sweet and chivalrous. "and will you tell me then, miss harrison?" he said in a voice that was beginning to tremble violently. his whole body was beginning to shake, she saw. with one hand he was opening the button of his fur coat. he looked up at her with a perfectly white, perfectly composed, but dreadfully questioning face. certainly his body _was_ shaking all over--it was as though little ripples were running up and down the flesh of it--but his face was a white mask of attention. "oh, mr. lothian!" the girl cried, "i am so sorry. i am so very sorry for you. you couldn't help loving her perhaps, i am only a girl, i don't pretend to know. but you must be brave. rita is married!" puffed and crinkled lids fell over the staring eyes for a moment--as if automatic pressure had suddenly pushed them down. "_married?_ rita?" "oh, she ought to have told you! it was cruel of her! she ought to have told you. but you have not written to her for two or three weeks--as far as i know. . . ." "_married?_ rita?" "yes, this morning, and mr. podley gave her away. but i have a letter for you, mr. lothian. rita asked me to post it. she gave it me in bed this morning, before i dressed her for her marriage. of course she didn't know that you were going to be in town. i will give it to you now." she gave him the letter. his hands took it with a mechanical gesture, though he made a little bow of thanks. underneath the heavy fur coat, the man's body was absolutely rippling up and down--it was horrible. the eyelids fell again. the voice became sleepy, childish almost. . . . "but _i_ have come to marry rita!" wog became indignant. "mr. lothian," she said, "you ought not to speak like that before me. how could you have married rita. you _are_ married. please don't even hint at such things." "how stupid you are, wog," he said, as if he had known her for years; in much the same sort of voice that rita would have said it. "my wife's dead, dead and buried. . . . i thought you would both have known. . . ." his trembling hands were opening the letter which rita wallace had left for him. he drew the page out of the envelope and then he looked up at ethel harrison again. there was a dreadful yearning in his voice now. "yes, yes, but _whom_ has my little rita married?" real fear fell upon ethel now. she became aware that this man had not realised what had happened in any way. but the whole thing was too painful. it must be got over at once. "mr. ingworth dickson, of course," she answered, with some sharpness in her tones. for a minute lothian looked at her as if she were the horizon. then he nodded. "oh, dicker," he said in a perfectly uninterested voice--"yes, dicker--just her man, of course. . . ." he was reading the letter now. this was rita's farewell letter. "_gilbert dear_: "i shall always read your books and poems, and i shall always think of you. we have been tremendous friends, and though we shall never meet again, we shall always think of each other, shan't we? i am going to marry dicker to-morrow morning, and by the time you see this--wog will send it--i shall be married. of course we mustn't meet or write to each other any more. you are married and i'm going to be to-morrow. but do think of your little friend sometimes, gilbert. she will often think of you and read _all_ you write." lothian folded up the letter and replaced it in its envelope with great precision. then he thrust it in the inner breast pocket of his coat. wog watched him, in deadly fear. she knew now that elemental forces had been at work, that her lovely rita had evoked soul-shaking, sundering strengths. . . . but gilbert lothian came towards her with both hands outstretched. "oh, i thank you, i thank you a thousand times," he said, "for all your goodness to rita--how happy you must have been together--you two girls----" he had taken both her hands in his. now he dropped them suddenly. something, something quite beautiful, which had been upon his face, snapped away. the kindness and welcome in his eyes changed to a horror-struck stare. he began to murmur and burble at the back of his throat. his arms shot stiffly this way and that, like the arms of railway signals. he ran to one wall and slapped a flat palm upon it. "tumpany!" he said with a giggle. "my wild-fowling man! mary used to like him, so i suppose he's all right. but, damn him, looking out of the wall like that with his ugly red face!--" he began to sing. his lips were dark-red and cracked, his eyes fixed and staring. "tiddle-iddle, iddle-tiddle, so the green frog said in the garden!" saliva dropped from the corners of his mouth. his body was jerking like a puppet of a marionette display, actuated by unseen strings. he began to dance. blazing eyes, dropping sweat and saliva, twitching, awful body. . . . she left him dancing clumsily like a performing bear. she fled hurriedly down to the office of the commissionaire. when the man, his assistant and miss harrison returned to the flat, lothian was writhing on the floor in the last stages of delirium tremens. as they carried him, tied and bound, to the nearest hospital, they had to listen to a cryptic, and to them, meaningless mutter that never ceased. ". . . dingworth ickson, rary, mita. sorten mims. ha, ha! ha! tubes of poison--damn them all, blast them all--jesus of the cross! my wife's face as she lay there dead, forgiving me! "--rita you pup of a girl, going off with a boy like dicker. rita! rita! you're mine--don't make such a howling noise, my girl, you'll create a scandal--rita! rita!--damn you, _can't_ you keep quiet? "all right, mary darling. but why have you got on a sheet instead of a nightdress? mary! why have they tied your face up under the chin with that handkerchief? and what's that you're holding out to me on your pale hand? is that the _membrane_? is that really the diphtheria _membrane_ which choked you?--come closer, let me see, old chalk-faced girl. . . ." at the hospital the house-surgeon on duty who admitted him said that death _must_ supervene within twelve or fourteen hours. he had not seen a worse case. but when he realised who the fighting, tied, gibbering and obscene object really was, bells rang in the private rooms of celebrated doctors. the pulsing form was isolated. young doctors came to look with curiosity upon the cursing mass of flesh that quivered beneath the broad bands of webbing which held it down. older doctors stood by the bed with eyes full of anxiety and pain as they regarded what was once gilbert lothian; bared the twitching arms and pressed the hypodermic needles into the loose bunches of skin that skilled, pitiful fingers were pinching and gathering. when they had calmed the twitching figure somewhat, the famous physicians who had been hastily called, stood in a little group some distance from the bed, consulting together. two younger men who sat on each side of the cot looked over the body and grinned. "the christian poet, oh, my eye!" said one. "surgit amari aliquid," the other replied with a disgusted sneer. end of book three epilogue a year later "a broken and a contrite heart, o lord, thou wilt not despise." what occurred at the edward hall in kingsway "ah! happy they whose hearts can break and peace of pardon win! how else may man make straight his plan and cleanse his soul from sin? how else but through a broken heart may lord christ enter in?" --_the ballad of reading gaol._ a great deal of interest in high quarters, both in london and new york was being taken in the meeting of leading workers in the cause of temperance that was to be held in kingsway this afternoon. the new edward hall, that severe building of white stone which was beginning to be the theatre of so many activities and which was so frequently quoted as a monument of good taste and inspiration on the part of frank flemming, the new architect, had been engaged for the occasion. the meeting was to be at three. it was unique in this way--the heads of every party were to be represented and were about to make common cause together. the scientific and the non-scientific workers for the suppression and cure of inebriety had been coming very much together during the last years. never hostile to each other, they had suffered from a mutual lack of understanding in the past. now there was to be an _entente cordiale_ that promised great things. one important fact had contributed to this _rapprochement_. the earnest christian workers and ardent sociologists were now all coming to realise that inebriety is a disease and not, specifically, a vice. the doctors had known this, had been preaching this for years. but the time had arrived when religious workers in the same cause were beginning to find that they could with safety join hands with those who (as they had come to see) _knew_ and could define the springs of action which made people intemperate. the will of the intemperate individual was weakened by a _disease_. the doctors had shown and proved this beyond possibility of doubt. it was a _disease_. its various causes were discovered and put upon record. its pathology was as clearly stated as a proposition in euclid. its psychology was, at last, beginning to be understood. and it was on the basis of psychology that the two parties were meeting. science could take a drunkard--though really only with the drunkard's personal connivance and earnest wish to reform--and in a surprisingly short time, varying with individual cases, restore him to the world sane, and in health. but as far as individual cases went, science professed itself able to do little more than this. it could give a man back his health of mind and body, it could--thus--enable him to recall his soul from the red hells where it had strayed. but it could not enable the man to _retain_ the gifts. religion stepped in here. christianity and those who professed it said that faith in christ, and that only, could preserve the will; that, to put it shortly, a personal love of jesus, a heart that opened itself to the mysterious operations of the holy spirit would be immune from the disease for ever more. christian workers proved their contention by statistics as clear and unmistakable as any other. there was still one great question to be agreed upon. religion and science, working together, _could_, and _did_, cure the _individual_ drunkard. sometimes science had done this without the aid of religion, more often religion had done it without the aid of science--that is to say that while science had really been at work all the time religion had not been aware of it and had not professedly called science in to help. to eradicate the disease from individuals was being done every day by the allied forces. to eradicate the disease from nations, to stamp it out as cholera, yellow fever, and the bubonic plague was being stamped out--that was the question at issue. that was, after all, the supreme question. now, every one was beginning--only beginning--to understand that recent scientific discovery had made this wonderful thing possible. yellow fever had been destroyed upon the isthmus of panama. small-pox which ravaged countries in the past, was no more than a very occasional and restricted epidemic now. soon--in all human probability--tuberculosis and cancer would be conquered. the remedy for the disease of inebriety was at hand. sanitary inspectors and medical officers had enormous power in regard to other diseases. people who disregarded their orders and so spread disease were fined and imprisoned. it was penal to do so. in order that this beneficent state of things should come about, the scientists had fought valiantly against many fetishes. they had fought for years, and with the spread of knowledge they had conquered. now the biggest fetish of all was tottering on its foolish throne. the last idol in the temples of dagon, the houses of rimmon and the sacred groves was attacked. the great "procreation fetish" remained. were drunkards to be allowed to have children without state restriction, or were they not? that was the question which some of the acutest and most altruistic minds of the english speaking races were about to meet and discuss this afternoon. * * * * * dr. morton sims drove down to the edward hall a little after two o'clock. the important conference was to begin at three, but the doctor had various matters to arrange first and he was in a slightly nervous and depressed state. it was a grey day and a sharp east wind was blowing. people in the streets wore furs and heavy coats; london seemed excessively cheerless. it was but rarely that morton sims felt as he did as this moment. but the day, or probably (as he thought) a recent spell of over-work, took the pith out of him. "it is difficult to avoid doing too much--for a man in my position," he thought. "life is so short and there is such an infinity of work. oh, that i could see england in a fair way to become sober before i die! still i must go on hard. 'il faut cultiver notre jardin.'" he went at once to a large and comfortable room adjoining the platform of the big hall and communicating with it by a few steps and two doors, one of red baize. it was used as the artists' room when concerts were given, as a committee room now. a bright fire burned upon the hearth, round which were several padded armchairs, and over the mantel-shelf was an excellent portrait in oils of king edward the seventh. the doctor took up a printed agenda of the meeting from a table. bishop moultrie was to be in the chair and the list of names beneath his was in the highest degree influential and representative. there were two or three peers--not figure heads but men who had done and were doing great work in the world. mr. justice harley--sir edward harley on the programme--would be there. lady harold buckingham, than whose name none was more honoured throughout the empire for her work in the cause of temperance, several leading medical men, and--mrs. julia daly, who had once more crossed the atlantic and had arrived the night before at the savoy. edith morton sims, who was lecturing in the north of england, could not be present to-day, but she was returning to town at the end of the week, when mrs. daly was to leave the hotel and once more take up her residence with morton sims and his sister. in a few minutes there was a knock at the door. the doctor answered, it was opened by a commissionaire, and julia daly came in. morton sims took her two hands and held them, his face alight with pleasure and greeting. "this is good," he said fervently. "i have waited for this hour. i cannot say how glad i am to see you, julia. you have heard from edith?" "the dear girl! yes. there was a letter waiting for me at the savoy when i arrived last night. i am to come to you both on saturday." "yes. it will be so jolly, just like old times. now let me congratulate you a thousand times on your great work in america. every one over here has been reading of your interview with the president. it was a great stroke. and he really is interested?" "immensely. it is genuine. he was most kind and there is no doubt but that he will be heart and soul with us in the future. the campaign is spreading everywhere. and, most significant of all, _we are capturing the prohibitionists_." "ah! that will mean everything." "everything, because they are the most earnest workers of all. but they have seen that prohibition has proved itself an impossibility. they have failed despite their whole-hearted and worthy endeavours. naturally they have become disheartened. but they are beginning to see the truth of our proposal. the scientific method is gaining ground as they realise it more and more. in a year or two those states which legislated prohibition, will legislate in another way and penalise the begetting of children by known drunkards. that seems to me certain. after that the whole land may, i pray god, follow suit." she had taken off her heavy sable coat and was sitting in a chair by the fireside. informed with deep feeling and that continuous spring of hope and confidence which gave her so much of her power, the deep contralto rang like a bell in the room. morton sims leant against the mantel-shelf and looked down on his friend. the face was beautiful and inspired. it represented the very flower of intellect and patriotism, breadth, purity, strength. "ah!" he thought, "the figure of britannia upon our coins and in our symbolic pictures, or the latin dame of liberty with the phrygian cap, is not so much england or france as this woman is america, the soul of the west in all its power and beauty. . . ." his reverie was broken in upon by her voice, not ringing with enthusiasm now, but sad and purely womanly. "tell me," she was saying, "have you heard or found out anything of gilbert lothian, the poet?" morton sims shook his head. "it remains an impenetrable mystery," he said. "no one knows anything." tears came into mrs. daly's eyes. "i loved that woman," she said. "i loved mary lothian. a clearer, more transparent soul never joined the saints in paradise. among the many, many things for which i have to thank you, there is nothing i have valued more than the letter from you which sent me to her at nice. mary lothian was the sweetest woman i have ever met, or ever shall meet. sometimes god puts such women into the world for examples. her death grieved me more than i can say." "it was very sudden." "terribly. we travelled home together. she was leaving her dying sister in the deepest sadness. but she was going home full of holy determination to save her husband. i never met any woman who loved a man more than mary lothian loved gilbert lothian. what a wonderful man he must have been, might have been, if the disease had not ruined him. i think his wife would have saved him had she lived. he is alive, i suppose?" "it is impossible to say. i should say not. all that is known is as follows. a fortnight or so after his wife's funeral, lothian, then in a very dangerous state, travelled to london. he was paying a call at some house in the west end when delirium tremens overtook him at last. he was taken to the kensington hospital. most cases of delirium tremens recover but it was thought that this was beyond hope. however, as soon as it was known who he was, some of the best men in town were called. i understand it was touch and go. the case presented unusual symptoms. there was something behind it which baffled treatment for a time." "but he _was_ cured?" "yes, they pulled him through somehow. then he disappeared. the house in norfolk and its contents were sold through a solicitor. a man that lothian had, a decent enough servant and very much attached to his master, has been pensioned for life--an annuity, i think. he may know something. the general opinion in the village is that he does know something--i have kept on my house in mortland royal, you must know. but this tumpany is as tight as wax. and that's all." "he has published nothing?" "not a line of any sort whatever. i was dining with amberley, the celebrated publisher, the other day. he published the two or three books of poems that made lothian famous. but he has heard nothing. he even told me that there is a considerable sum due to lothian which remains unclaimed. of course lothian is well off in other ways. but stay, though, i did hear a rumour!" "and what was that?" "well, i dined at amberley's house--they have a famous dining-room you must know, where every one has been, and it's an experience. there was a party after dinner, and i was introduced to a man called toftrees--he's a popular novelist and a great person in his own way i believe." julia daly nodded. she was intensely interested. "i know the name," she said. "go on." "well, this fellow toftrees, who seems a decent sort of man, told me that he believed that gilbert lothian was killing himself with absinthe and brandy in paris. some one had seen him in maxim's or some such place, a dreadful sight. this was three or four months ago, so, if it's true, the poor fellow must be dead by now." "requiescat," julia daly said reverently. "but i should have liked to have known that his dear wife's prayers in heaven had saved him here." morton sims did not answer and there was a silence between them for a minute or two. the doctor was remembering a dreadful scene in the north london prison. . . . "if gilbert lothian still lived he must look like that awful figure in the condemned cell had looked--like his insane half-brother, the cunning murderer--" morton sims shuddered and his eyes became fixed in thought. he had told no living soul of what he had learned that night. he never would tell any one. but it all came back to him with extreme vividness as he gazed into the fire. some memory-cell in his brain, long dormant and inactive, was now secreting thought with great rapidity, and, with these dark memories--it was as though some curtain had suddenly been withdrawn from a window unveiling the sombre picture of a storm--something new and more horrible still started into his mind. it passed through and vanished in a flash. his will-power beat it down and strangled it almost ere it was born. but it left his face pale and his throat rather dry. it was now twenty minutes to three, as the square marble clock upon the mantel showed, and immediately, before julia daly and morton sims spoke again, two people came into the room. both were clergymen. first came bishop moultrie. he was a large corpulent man with a big red face. heavy eyebrows of black shaded eyes of a much lighter tint, a kind of blue green. the eyes generally twinkled with good-humour and happiness, the wide, genial mouth was vivid with life and pleasant tolerance, as a rule. a fine strong, forthright man with a kindly personality. morton sims stepped up to him. "my dear william," he said, shaking him warmly by the hand. "so here you are. let me introduce you to mrs. daly. julia, let me introduce the bishop to you. you both know of each other very well. you have both wanted to meet for a long time." the bishop bowed to mrs. daly and both she and the doctor saw at once that something was disturbing him. the face only held the promise and possibility of geniality. it was anxious, and stern with some inward thought; very distressed and anxious. and when a large, fleshy, kindly face wears this expression, it is most marked. "please excuse me," the bishop said to julia daly. "i have indeed looked forward to the moment of meeting you. but something has occurred, mrs. daly, which occupies my thoughts, something very unusual. . . ." both morton sims--who knew his old friend so well--and julia daly--who knew so much of the bishop by repute--looked at him with surprise upon their faces and waited to hear more. the bishop turned round to where the second priest was standing by the door. "this is father joseph edward," he said, "abbot of the monastery upon the lizard promontory in cornwall. he has come with me this afternoon upon a special mission." the newcomer was a slight, dark-visaged man who wore a black cape over his cassock, and a soft clerical hat. he seemed absolutely undistinguished, but the announcement of his name thrilled the man and woman by the fire. the priest bowed slightly. there was little or no expression to be discerned upon his face. but the others in the room knew who he was at once. father joseph edward was a hidden force in the church or england. he was a peer's son who had flashed out at oxford, fifteen years before, as one of the cleverest, wildest, most brilliant and devil-may-care undergraduates who had ever been at "the house." both by reason of wealth and position, but also by considered action, he had escaped authoritative condemnation and had been allowed to take his first in lit. hum. but, as every one knew at his time adrian rathlone had been one of the wildest, wealthiest and wickedest young men of his generation. and then, as all the world heard, adrian rathlone had taken holy orders. he had worked in the east end of london for a time, and had then founded his cornish monastery by permission of the chapter and bishop of truro. from the far west of england, where she stretches out her granite foot to spurn the onslaught of the atlantic, it had become known that broken and contrite hearts might leave london and life, to seek, and find peace upon the purple moors of the west. "but now, john," the bishop said to morton sims, "i want to tell you something. i want to explain a very important alteration in the agenda. . . ." there was no doubt about it whatever, the bishop's usually calm and suave voice was definitely disturbed. he and morton sims bent over the table together looking at the printed paper. the bishop had a fat gold pencil case in his hand and was pointing to names upon the programme. mrs. daly, from her seat by the fire, watched her friend, morton sims, with _his_ friend, william denisthorpe moultrie, father in god, with immense interest. she was interested extremely in the bishop's obvious perturbation, but even more so to see these two celebrated men standing together and calling each other by their christian names like boys. she knew that they had been at harrow and oxford together, she knew that despite their disagreements upon many points they had always been fast friends. "what boys nice men are after all," she thought with a slight sympathetic contraction of her throat. "'william'! 'john'!--our men in america are not very often like that--but what, what is the bishop saying?" her face became almost rigid with attention as she caught a certain name. even as she did so the bishop spoke in an undertone to morton sims, and then glanced slightly in her direction with a hint of a question in his eyes. "mrs. daly, william," morton sims said, "is on the committee. she is one of my greatest friends and, perhaps, the greatest friend edith has in the world. she was also a great friend of mrs. lothian and knew her well. you need not have the slightest hesitation in saying anything you wish before her." julia daly rose from her seat, her heart was beating strangely. "what is this?" she said in her gentle, but almost regal way. "why, my lord, the doctor and i were only talking of gilbert lothian and his saintly wife a moment or two ago. have you news of the poet?" the bishop, still with his troubled, anxious face, turned to her with a faint smile. "i did not know, mrs. daly," he said, "that you took any interest in lothian, but yes, i have news." "then you can solve the mystery?" julia daly said. the bishop sighed. "if you mean," he said, "why mr. lothian has disappeared from the world for a year, i can at least tell you what he has been doing. john here tells me that you have known all about him, so that i am violating no confidences. after his wife's death, poor lothian became very seriously ill in consequence of his excesses. he was cured eventually, but one night--it was late at night in norfolk--some one, quite unlike the gilbert lothian i had known, came to my house. it was like a ghost coming. he told me many strange and terrible things, and hinted that he could have told me more, though i forbade him. with every appearance of contrition, with his face streaming with tears--ah, if ever during my career as a priest i have seen a broken and a contrite heart i saw it then--he wished, he told me, to work out his soul's release, to go away from the world utterly and to fight the fiend alcohol. he would go into no home, would submit to no legal restraint. he wished to fight the devil that possessed him with no other aids than spiritual ones. i sent him to father joseph edward." "and he has cured himself?" the american lady said in a tone which so rang and vibrated through the committee room, with eyes in which such gladness was dawning, that the three men there looked at her as if they had seen a vision. the monkish-looking clergyman replied. "quite cured," he said gravely. "he is saved in body and saved in soul. you say his wife, madam, was a saint: i think, madam, that our friend is not very far from it now." he stopped suddenly, almost jerkily, and his dark, somewhat saturnine face became watchful and with a certain fear in it. what all this might mean john morton sims was at a loss to understand. that it meant something, something very out of the ordinary, he was very well aware. william moultrie was not himself--that was very evident. and he had brought this odd, mediæval parson with him for some special reason. morton sims was not very sympathetic toward the middle age. spoken to-day the word "abbot" or "father"--used ecclesiastically--always affected him with slight disgust. nevertheless, he nodded to the bishop and turned to mrs. daly. "gilbert lothian is coming here during this afternoon," he said. "the bishop has specially asked me to arrange that he shall speak during the conference. it seems he has come specially from mullion in cornwall to be present this afternoon. father joseph edward has brought him. it seems that he has something important to say." for some reason or other, what it was the doctor could not have said, julia daly seemed strangely excited at the news. "such testimony as his," she said, "coming from such a man as that, will be a wonderful experience. in fact i do not know that there will ever have been anything like it." morton sims had not quite realised this aspect of the question. he had wondered, when moultrie had insisted upon putting lothian's name down as the third speaker during the afternoon. moultrie was perfectly within his rights, of course, as chairman, but it seemed rather a drastic thing to do. it was a disturbance of settled order, and the scientific mind unconsciously resented it. now, however, the scientific mind realised the truth of what julia daly had said. of course, if gilbert lothian was really going to make a confession, and obviously that was what he was coming here for under the charge of this dark-visaged "abbot"--then indeed it would be extremely valuable. thousands of people who had been "converted" and cured from drunkenness had "given their experiences" upon temperance platforms, but they had invariably been people of the lower classes. while their evidence as to the reality of their conversion--their change--was valuable and real, they were incapable one and all of giving any details of value to the student and psychologist. "yes!" morton sims said suddenly, "if mr. lothian is going to speak, then we shall gain very much from what he says." but he noticed that the bishop's face did not become less troubled and anxious than before. he saw also that the silent clergyman sitting by the opposite wall showed no sympathetic interest in his point of view. he himself began to experience again that sense of uneasiness and depression which he had experienced all day, and especially during his drive to the edward hall, but which had been temporarily dispelled by the arrival of mrs. daly. in a minute or two, however, great people began to arrive in large numbers. the bishop, morton sims and mrs. daly were shaking hands and talking continuously. as for morton sims, he had no time to think any more about the somewhat untoward incidents in the committee room. the meeting began. the edward hall is a very large building with galleries and boxes. the galleries now, by a clever device, were all hung round with dark curtains. this made the hall appear much smaller and prevented the sparseness of the audience having a depressing effect upon those who addressed it. only some three hundred and fifty people attended this conference. the general public were not asked. admission was by invitation. the three hundred and fifty people who had come were, however, the very pick and élite of those interested in the temperance cause and instrumental in forwarding it from their various standpoints. bishop moultrie made a few introductory remarks. then he introduced sir edward harley, the judge. the judge was a small keen-faced man. without his frame of horse hair and robe of scarlet he at first appeared insignificant and without personality. but that impression was dispelled directly he began to speak. the quiet, keen, incisive voice, so precise and scholarly of phrase, so absolutely germane to the thought, and so illuminating of it, held some of the keenest minds in england as with a spell for twenty minutes. mr. justice harley advocated penal restriction upon the multiplication of drunkards in the most whole-hearted way. he did not go into the arguments for and against the proposed measure, but he gave illustrations from his own experience as to its absolute necessity and value. he mentioned one case in which he had been personally concerned which intensely interested his audience. it was that of a murderer. the man had murdered his wife under circumstances of callous cunning. in all other respects the murderer had lived a hard-working and blameless life. he had become infatuated with another woman, but the crime, which had taken nearly a month in execution, had been committed entirely under the influence of alcohol. "under the influence of that terrible amnesic dream-phase which our medical friends tell us of," the judge said. "as was my duty as an officer of the law i sent that man to his death. under existing conditions of society i think that what i was compelled to do was the best thing that could have been done. but i may say to you, my lord, my lords, ladies and gentlemen that it was not without a bitter personal shrinking that i sent that poor man to pay the penalty of his crime. the mournful bell which dr. archdall reed has tolled is his 'study in heredity' was sounding in my ears as i did so. that is one of the reasons why i am here this afternoon to support the only movement which seems to have within it the germ of public freedom from the devastating disease of alcoholism." the judge concluded and sat down in his seat. bishop moultrie rose and introduced the next speaker with a few prefatory remarks. morton sims who was sitting next sir edward whispered in his ear. "may i ask, sir edward," he said, "if you were referring just now to hancock, the hackney murderer?" the little judge nodded. "yes," he whispered, "but how did you know, sims?" "oh, i knew all about him before his condemnation," the doctor replied. "in fact i took a special interest in him. i was with him the night before his execution and i assisted at the autopsy the next day." the judge gave a keen glance at his friend and nodded. the bishop in the chair now read a few brief statements as to the progress of the work that was being done. lady harold buckingham was down to speak next. she sat on the bishop's left hand, and it was obvious to the audience that she understood his next remark. "you all have the printed programme in your hands," said the bishop, "and from it you will see that lady harold is set down to address you next. but i have--" his voice changed a little and became uncertain and had a curious note of apprehension in it--"i have to ask you to give your attention to another speaker, whose wish to address the meeting has only recently been conveyed to me, but whose right to do so is, in my judgment, indubitable. he has, i understand from father joseph who has brought him here, something to say to us of great importance." there was a low murmur and rustle among the audience, as well as among the semicircle of people on the dais. the name of father joseph edward attracted instant attention. every one knew all about him; the slight uneasiness on the bishop's face had not been unremarked. they all felt that something unusual and stimulating was imminent. "it is mr. gilbert lothian," the bishop went on, "who wishes to address you. his name will be familiar to every one here. i do not know, and have not the least idea, as to what mr. lothian is about to say. all i know is that he is most anxious to speak this afternoon, and, even at this late hour pressure has been put upon me to alter the programme in this regard, which it is impossible for me to resist." now every one in the hall knew that some sensation was impending. people nodded and whispered; people whispered and nodded. there was almost an apprehension in the air. why had this poet risen from the tomb as it were--this poet whose utter disappearance from social and literary life had been a three weeks' wonder--this poet whom everybody thought was dead, who, in his own personality, had become but a faint name to those who still read and were comforted by his poems. very many of that distinguished company had met gilbert lothian. nobody had known him well. his appearances in london society had been fugitive and he had shown no desire to enter into the great world. but still the best people had nearly all met him once or twice, and in the minds of most of them, especially the women, there was a not ungrateful memory of a man who talked well, had quite obviously no axe to grind, no personal effort to further, who was only himself and pleased to be where he was. they were all talking to each other in low voices, wondering what the scandal was, wondering why gilbert lothian had disappeared, waked up to the fact of him, when lothian himself came upon the platform. mr. justice harley vacated his seat and took the next chair, while lothian sat down on the right of the chairman. some people noticed--but those were only a very few--that the dark figure of a clergyman in a monastic cape and cassock came upon the platform at the same time and sat down in the far background. afterwards, everybody said that they had noticed the entrance of father joseph edward and wondered at it. as a matter of fact hardly anybody did. the bishop rose and placed his hands upon the little table before him. he coughed. his voice was not quite as adequate as usual. this is what he said. "mr. gilbert lothian, whose name all of you must know and whose works i am sure most of you, like myself, have in the most grateful remembrance, desires to address you." that was all the bishop said--he made a motion with his hand and gilbert lothian rose from his chair and took two steps to the front of the platform. those present saw a young man of medium height, neither fat nor slim, and with a very beautiful face. it was pale but the contour was perfect. certainly it was very pale, but the eyes were bright and the æsthetic look and personality of the poet fitted in very well with what people had known of him in the past. only morton sims, who was sitting within arm's reach of lothian--and perhaps half a dozen other people who knew rather more than the rest--were startled at what seemed to be a transformation. as lothian began to speak father joseph edward glided from his seat, and leant over the back of dr. morton sims' chair. this was a rather extraordinary proceeding and at any other time it would have been immediately remarked upon. as it was, the first words which gilbert lothian spoke held the audience so immediately that they forgot, or did not see the watchful waiting "abbot of mullion." in the first place gilbert lothian was perfectly self-possessed. he was so self-possessed that his initial sentence created a sensation. his way and manner were absolutely different from the ordinary speaker--however self-possessed he may be. the poet's self-possession had a quality of rigidity and automatism which thrilled every one. yet, it was not an automaton which spoke in the clear, vibrating voice that gilbert lothian used. the voice was terrible in its appeal--even in the first sentence of the memorable speech. it was the sense of a personality standing in bonds, impelled and controlled by something outside it and above it--it was this that hushed all movement and murmur, that focussed all eyes as the poet began. the opening words of the poet were absolutely strange and unconventional, but spoken quite simply and in very short sentences. in the first instance it had been decided that reporters were not to be admitted to this conference. eventually that decision had been altered and a gentleman representing the principal press agency, together with a couple of assistants, sat at a small table just below the platform. it is from the shorthand transcript of the press agent and his colleagues that the few words gilbert lothian spoke have been arranged and set down here. those who were present have read the words over and over again. they have remembered the gusts of emotion, of fear, of gladness--all wafted from the wings of tragedy, and perhaps illuminated by the light of heaven, that passed through the edward hall on this afternoon. . . . he was speaking. "i have only a very few words to say. i want what i say to remain in your minds. i am speaking to you, as i am speaking, for that reason. i beg and pray that this will be of help. you see--" he made an infinitely pathetic gesture of his hands and a wan smile came upon his face--"you see you will be able to use my confession for the sake of others. that is the reason----" here lothian stopped. his face became whiter than ever. his hand went up to his throat as if there was some obstruction there. bishop moultrie handed him a glass of water. he took it, with a hand that trembled exceedingly. he drank a little but spilt more than he drank. the black clothed figure of the priest half rose and took the glass from the poet. all the people there sat very still. some of them saw the priest hold up something before the speaker's face--a little bronze something. a crucifix. the bishop covered his face with his hands and never looked up again. gilbert went on. "you have come here," he said, "to make a combined effort to kill alcoholism. i have come to show you in one single instance what alcoholism means." some one right at the back of the hall gave a loud hysterical sob. the speaker trembled, recovered himself by a great effort and went on. "i had everything;" he said with difficulty, "god gave me everything, almost. i had money to live in comfort; i achieved a certain sort of fame; my life, my private life, was surrounded by the most angelic and loving care." his figure swayed, his voice fainted into a whisper. dr. morton sims had now covered his face with his hands. mrs. julia daly was staring at the speaker. her eyes were just interrogation. there was no horror upon her face. her lips were parted. the man continued. "drink," he said, "began in me, caught me up, twisted me, destroyed me. the terrible false ego, which many of you must know of, entered into my mind, dominated, and destroyed it. "i was possessed of a devil. all decent thoughts, all the natural happinesses of my station, all the gifts and pleasant outlooks upon life which god had given went, not gradually, but swiftly away. something that was not myself came into me and made me move, and walk, and talk as a minion of hell. "i do not know what measure of responsibility remained to me when i did what i did. but this i know, that i have been and am the blackest, most hideous criminal that lives to-day." the man's voice was trembling dreadfully now, quite unconsciously his left hand was gripping the shoulder of the abbot of mullion. his eyes blazed, his voice was so forlorn, so hopeless and poignant that there was not a sound among the several hundreds there. "my lord,--" he turned to the bishop with the very slightest inclination of his head--"ladies and gentlemen, i killed my wife. "my wife--" the bishop had risen from his chair and father joseph edward was supporting the swaying figure with the pale, earnest face.--"my wife loved me, and kept me and held me and watched over me as few men's wives have ever done. i stole poison with which to kill her. i stole poison from, from you, doctor!" he turned to dr. morton sims and the doctor sat in his seat as if frozen to it by fear. "yes! i stole it from you! you were away in paris. you had been making experiments. in the cupboard in the laboratory which you had taken from old admiral custance, i knew that there were phials of organic poisons. my wife died of diphtheria. she died of it because i had robbed your bottles--i did so and took the poison home and arranged that mary. . . ." there was a loud murmur in the body of the hall. a loud murmur stabbed with two or three faint shrieks from women. the bishop again leant over the table with his hands over his face. morton sims was upon his feet. his hands were on lothian's arm, his voice was pleading. "no! no!" he stammered. "you mustn't say these things. you, you----" gilbert lothian looked into the face of his old friend for a second. then he brushed his arm away and came right to the edge of the platform. as he spoke once more he did not seem like any quite human person. his face was dead white, his hands fell at his sides--only his eyes were awake and his voice was vibrant. "i am a murderer. i killed and murdered with cunning, long-continued thought, the most sweet and saintly woman that i have ever known. she was my wife. why i did this i need not say. you can all make in your minds and formulate the picture of a poisoned man lusting after a strange woman. "but i did this. i did this thing--you shall hear it and it shall reverberate in your minds. i am a murderer. i say it quite calmly, waiting for the inevitable result, and i tell you that alcohol, and that alcohol alone has made me what i am. "this, too, i must say. disease, or demoniacal possession, as it may be, i have emerged from both. i have held god's lamp to my breast. "there is only one cure for alcoholism. there is only one influence that can come and catch up and surround and help and comfort the sodden man. "that is the influence of the holy spirit." as he concluded there was a loud uproar in the edward hall. upon the platform the well-known people there were gazing at him, surrounding him, saying, muttering this and that. the people in the body of the hall had risen in horrified groups and were stretching out their hands towards the platform. the meeting which had promised so much in the cause of temperance was now totally dissolved--as far as its agenda went. the people dispersed very gradually, talking among themselves in low and horror-struck voices. it was now a few minutes before five o'clock. in the committee room--where the bright fire was still burning--gilbert lothian remained. the judge, the several peers, had hurried through without a glance at the man sitting by the fireside. lady harold buckingham, as she went through, had stopped, bowed, and held out her hand. she had been astonished that gilbert lothian had risen, taken her hand and spoken to her in quite the ordinary fashion of society. she too had gone. the bishop had shaken gilbert lothian by the hand and nodded at him as who should say, "now we understand each other--good-bye." only morton sims, julia daly and the priest had waited. they had not to wait long. there came a loud and authoritative knock at the door, within an hour of the breaking up of the conference. gilbert lothian rose, as a pleasant-looking man in dark clothes with a heavy moustache entered the room. "mr. gilbert lothian, i think," the pleasant-looking man said, staring immediately at the poet. gilbert made a slight inclination of his head. the pleasant-looking man pulled a paper out of his pocket and read something. gilbert bowed again. "it is only a short distance, mr. lothian," said the pleasant-looking man cheerfully, "and i am sure you will go with me perfectly quietly." as he said it he gave a half jerk of his head towards the corridor where, quite obviously, satellites were waiting. gilbert lothian put out his hands. one wrist was crossed over the other. "i am not at all sure," he said, "that i shall come with you quietly, so please put the manacles upon my wrists." the pleasant gentleman did so. father joseph edward followed the pleasant gentleman and gilbert lothian. as the little cortège turned out of the committee room, julia daly turned to dr. morton sims. her face was radiant. "oh," she said, "at last i know!" "you know?" he said, horror still struggling within him, much as he would have wished to control it, "you know nothing, julia! you do not know that the dreadful power of heredity has repeated itself within a circumscribed pattern. you do not know that this man, lothian, has done--in his own degree and in his own way--just what a bastard brother of his did two years ago. the man who was begotten by gilbert lothian's father killed his wife. gilbert lothian has done so too." the woman put her hands upon the other's shoulders and looked squarely into his face. "oh, john," she said--it was the first time she had ever called him by his christian name--"oh, john, be blind no more. this afternoon our cause has been given an impetus such as it has never had before. "just think how splendidly gilbert lothian is going to his shameful death." "oh, it won't be death. we shall make interest and it will be penal servitude for life." julia daly made a slight motion of her hands. "as you will," she said, "and as you wish. i think he would prefer death. but if he is to endure a longer punishment, that also will bring him nearer, and nearer, and nearer to his mary." * * * * * transcriber's note: inconsistencies in spelling, punctuation, and hyphenation have been retained as printed. fifteen years in hell. an autobiography. by luther benson, . table of contents. chapter i. early shadows--an unmerciful enemy--the miseries of the curse--sorrow and gloom--what alcohol robs man of--what it does--what it does not do--surrounding evils--blighted homes--a titan devil--the utterness of the destroyer--a truthful narrative--"it stingeth like an adder." chapter ii. birth, parentage and early education--early childhood--early events--memory of them vivid--bitter desolation--an active but uneasy life--breaking colts for amusement--amount of sleep--temperament has much to do in the matter of drink--the author to blame for his misspent life--inheritances--the excellences of my father and mother--the road to ruin not wilfully trodden--the people's indifference to a great danger--my associates--what became of them--the customs of twenty years ago--what might have been. chapter iii. the old log school house--my studies and discontent--my first drink of liquor--the companion of my first debauch--one drink always fatal--a horrible slavery--a horseback ride on sunday--raleigh--return home--"dead drunk"--my parents' shame and sorrow--my own remorse--an unhappy and silent breakfast--the anguish of my mother--gradual recovery--resolves and promises--no pleasure in drinking--the system's final craving for liquor--the hopelessness of the drunkard's condition--the resistless power of appetite--possible escape--the courage required--the three laws--their violation and man's atonement. chapter iv. school days at fairview--my first public outbreak--a schoolmate--drive to falmouth--first drink at falmouth--disappointment--drive to smelser's mills--hostetter's bitters--the author's opinion of patent medicines, bitters especially--boasting--more liquor--difficulty in lighting a cigar--a hound that got in bad company--oysters at falmouth, and what befell us while waiting for them--drunken slumber--a hound in a crib--getting awake--the owner of the hound--sobriety--the vienna jug--another debauch--the exhibition--the end of the school term--starting to college at cincinnati--my companions--the destruction wrought by alcohol--dr. johnson's declaration concerning the indulgence of this vice--a warning--a dangerous fallacy--byron's inspiration--lord brougham--sheridan--sue--swinburne--dr. carpenter's opinion--an erroneous idea--temperance the best aid to thought. chapter v. quit college--shattered nerves--summer and autumn days--improvement--picnic parties--a fall--an untimely storm--crawford's beer and ale--beer brawls--county fairs and their influence on my life--my yoke of white oxen--the "red ribbon"--"one mcphillipps"--how i got home and how i found myself in the morning--my mother's agony--a day of teaching under difficulties--quiet again--law studies at connersville--"out on a spree"--what a spree means. chapter vi. law practice at rushville--bright prospects--the blight--from bad to worse--my mother's death--my solemn promise to her--"broken, oh, god!"--reflection--my remorse--the memory of my mother--a young man's duty--blessed are the pure in heart--the grave--young man, murder not your mother--rum--a knife which is never red with blood, but which has severed souls and stabbed thousands to death--the desolation and death which are in alcohol. chapter vii. blank, black night--afloat--from place to place--no rest--struggles--giving way--one gallon of whisky in twenty-four hours--plowing corn--husking corn--my object--all in vain--old before my time--a wild, oblivious journey--delirium tremens--the horrors of hell--the pains of the damned--heavenly hosts--my release--new tortures--insane wanderings--in the woods--at mr. hinchman's--frozen feet--drive to town in a buggy surrounded by devils--fears and sorrows--no rest. chapter viii. wretchedness and degradation--clothes, credit, and reputation all lost--the prodigal's return to his father's house--familiar scenes--the beauty of nature--my lack of feeling--a wild horse--i ride him to raleigh and get drunk--a mixture of vile poison--my ride and fall--the broken stirrups--my father's search--i get home once more--depart the same day on the wild horse--a week at lewisville--sick--yearnings for sympathy. chapter ix. the ever-recurring spell--writing in the sand--hartford city--in the ditch--extricated--fairly started--a telegram--my brother's death--sober--a long night--ride home--palpitation of the heart--bluffton--the inevitable--delirium again--no friends, money, nor clothes--one hundred miles from home--i take a walk--clinton county--engage to teach a school--the lobbies of hell--arrested--flight to the country--open school--a failure--return home--the beginning of a terrible experience--two months of uninterrupted drinking--coatless, hatless, and, bootless--the "blue goose"--the tremens--inflammatory rheumatism--the torments of the damned--walking on crutches--drive to rushville--another drunk--pawn my clothes--at indianapolis--a cold bath--the consequence--teaching school--satisfaction given--the kindness of daniel baker and his wife--a paying practice at law. chapter x. the "baxter law"--its injustice--appetite is not controlled by legislation--indictments--what they amount to--"not guilty"--the indianapolis police--the rushville grand jury--start home afoot--fear--the coming head-light--a desire to end my miserable existence--"now is the time"--a struggle in which life wins--flight across the fields--bathing in dew--hiding from the officers--my condition--prayer--my unimaginable sufferings--advised to lecture--the time i began to lecture. chapter xi. my first lecture--a cold and disagreeable evening--a fair audience--my success--lecture at fairview--the people turn out en masse--at rushville--dread of appearing before the audience--hesitation--i go on the stage and am greeted with applause--my fright--i throw off my father's old coat and stand forth--begin to speak, and soon warm to my subject--i make a lecture tour--four hundred and seventy lectures in indiana--attitude of the press--the aid of the good--opposition and falsehood--unkind criticism--tattle mongers--ten months of sobriety--my fall--attempt to commit suicide--inflict an ugly but not dangerous wound on myself--ask the sheriff to lock me in the jail--renewed effort--the campaign of ' --"local option." chapter xii. struggle for life--a cry of warning--"why don't you quit?"--solitude, separation, banishment--no quarter asked--the rumseller--a risk no man should incur--the woman's temperance convention at indianapolis--at richmond--the bloated druggist--"death and damnation"--at the galt house--the three distinct properties of alcohol--ten days in cincinnati--the delirium tremens--my horrible sufferings--the stick that turned to a serpent--a world of devils--flying in dread--i go to connersville, indiana--my condition grows worse--hell, horrors, and torments--the horrid sights of a drunkard's madness. chapter xiii. recovery--trip to maine--lecturing in that state--dr. reynolds, the "dare to do right" reformer--return to indianapolis--lecturing--newspaper extracts--the criticisms of the press--private letters of encouragement-- friends dear to memory--sacred names. chapter xiv. at home again--overwork--shattered nerves--downward to hell--conceive the idea of traveling with some one--leave indianapolis on a third tour east in company with gen. macauley--separate from him at buffalo--i go on to new york alone--trading clothes for whisky--delirious wanderings--jersey city--in the calaboose--deathly sick--an insane neighbor--another--in court--"john dalton"--"here! your honor"--discharged--boston--drunk--at the residence of junius brutus booth--lecturing again--home--converted--go to boston--attend the moody and sankey meetings--get drunk--home once more--committed to the asylum--reflections--the shadow which whispered "go away!" chapter xv. a sleepless night--try to write on the following day but fail--my friends consult with the officers of the institution--i am discharged--go to indianapolis and get drunk--my wanderings and horrible sufferings-- alcohol--the tyrant whom all should slay--what is lost by the drunkard--is anything gained by the use of liquor?--never touch it in any form--it leads to ruin and death--better blow your brains out--my condition at present--the end. preface the days of long prefaces are past. it is also too near the end of the century to indulge in fulsome dedications. i shall, therefore, trouble the reader with only a brief introduction to this imperfect history of an imperfect life. the conditions under which i write necessarily make it lacking in much that would ordinarily have added to its interest. i write within the indiana asylum for the insane; i have not the means of information at hand which i should have to make the work what it should be, and notes which i had taken from time to time, with a view of using them, have unfortunately been lost. much of my life is a complete blank to me, as i have often, very often, alas! gone for days oblivious to every act and thing, as dead to all about me as the stones of the pavement are dumb. nor can i connect a succession of incidents one after the other as they occurred in the regular course of my life. the reader is asked to be merciful in his judgment and pardon the imperfections which i fear abound in the book. the title, "fifteen years in hell," may, to some, seem irreverent or profane, but let me assure any such that it is the mildest i can find which conveys an idea of the facts. expect nothing ornate or romantic. the path along which you who walk with me will go is not a flowery one. its shadows are those of the cypress and yew; its skies are curtained with funereal clouds; its beginning is a gloom and its end is a mad house. but go with me, for you can suffer no harm, and a knowledge of what you will see may lead you to warn others who are in danger of doing as i have done. unless help comes to me from on high, i feel that i am near the end of my weary and sorrow-laden pilgrimage on earth. you who are in the light, i speak to you from the shadow; you who suffer, i speak to you from the depths; you who are dying, perhaps i may speak to you from the world of the dead; in any case the words herein written are the truth. chapter i. early shadows--an unmerciful enemy--the miseries of the curse--sorrow and gloom--what alcohol robs man of--what it does--what it does not do--surrounding evils--blighted homes--a titan devil--the utterness of the destroyer--a truthful narrative--"it stingeth like an adder." truth, said lord byron, is stranger than fiction. he was right, for so it is. another has declared that if any man should write a faithful history of his own career, the work would be an interesting one. the question now arises, does any man dare to be sufficiently candid to write such a work? is there no secret baseness he would hide?--no act which, proper to be told, he would swerve from the truth to tell in his own favor? undoubtedly, many. doubtless it is well that few have the resolution or inclination to chronicle their faults and failings. how many, too, would shrink from making a public display of their miserable experiences for fear of being accused of glorying in their past shame, or of parading a pride that apes humility. i pretend to no talent, but if a too true story of suffering may interest, and at the same time alarm, i can promise matter enough, and unembellished, too, for no embellishment is needed, as all my sketches are from the life. the incidents will not be found to be consecutive, but set down as certain scenes occur to my recollection--heedless of order, style, or system. each is a record of shame, suffering, destitution and disgrace. i have all my life stood without and gazed longingly through gateways which relentlessly barred me from the light and warmth and glory, which, though never for me, was shining beyond. from the day that consciousness came to me in this world i have been miserable. in early childhood i swam, as it were, in a dark sea of sorrow whose sad waves forever beat over me with a prophetic wail of desolations and storms to come. during the years of boyhood, when others were thoughtless and full of joy, the sun's rays were hidden from my sight and i groped hopelessly forward, praying in vain for an end of misery. out of such a boyhood there came--as what else could come?--a manhood all imperfect, clothed with gloom, haunted by horror, and familiar with undefinable terrors which have weighed upon my heart until i have cried to myself that it would break--until i have almost prayed that it would break and thereby free me from the bondage of my pitiless master, woe! to-day walled within a prison for madmen, looking from a window whose grating is iron, the sole occupant of a room as blank as the leaf of happiness is to me, i abandon every hope. on this side the silence which we call death--that silence which inhabits the dismal grave, there is for me only sorrow and agony keener than has ever before made gray and old before its time the heart of man. thirty years! and what are they?--what have they been? patience, and as best i can, i will unfold their record. thirty years! and i feel that the weight of a world's wretchedness has lain upon me for thrice their number of terrible days! every effort of my life has been a failure. surely and steadily the hand of misfortune has crushed me until i have looked forward to my bier as a blessed bed of repose--rest from weariness--forgetfulness of remorse--escape from misery. at the dawn of life, ay, in its very beginning, there came to me a bitter, deadly, unmerciful enemy, accompanied in those days by song and laughter--an enemy that was swift in getting me in his power, and who, when i was once securely his victim, turned all laughter into wailing, and all songs into sobbing, and pressed to my bloated lips his poisonous chalice which i have ever found full of the stinging adders of hell and death. too well do i know what it is to feel the burning and jagged links of the devil's chain cutting through my quivering flesh to the shrinking bone--to feel my nerves tremble with agony, and my brain burn as if bathed in liquids of fire--too well, i say, do i know what these things are, for i have felt them intensified again and again, ten thousand times. the infinite god alone knows the deep abyss of my sorrow, and help, if help be possible, can come from him alone. i shall not attempt in these pages any learned disquisition upon the nature of alcohol--its hideous effects on the system--how it disarranges all the functions of the body--how it impairs health--blots out memory, dethrones reason, and destroys the very soul itself--how it gives to the whole body an unnatural and unhealthy action, crucifying the flesh, blood, bones and marrow--how it paints hell in the mind and torture on the heart, and strangles hope with despair. nor shall i discuss the terrible and overshadowing evils, financial and social, inflicted by it on every class of society. like the trail of the serpent it is over all. look where you will, turn where you may, you can not be blind to its evils. it despoils manhood of all that makes manhood desirable; it plucks hope from the breast of the weeping wife with a hand of ice; it robs the orphan of his bread crumb, and says to the gates of penitentiaries, "open wide and often to the criminals who became my slaves before they committed crime." the evils of which i speak are not unknown to you, but have you considered them as things real? have you fought them as present and near dangers? you have heard the wild sounds of drunken revelry mingling with the night winds; you have heard the shrieks and sobs, and seen the streaming, sunken eyes of dying women; you have heard the unprotected and unfriended orphans' cry echoed from a thousand blighted homes and squalid tenements; you have seen the outcast family of the inebriate wandering houseless upon the highways, or shivering on the streets; you have shuddered at the sound of the maniac's scream upon the burdened air; you have beheld the human form divine despoiled of every humanizing attribute, transformed from an angel into a devil; you have seen virtue crushed by vice; the bright eye lose its lustre, the lips their power of articulation; you have seen what was clean become foul, what was upright become crooked, what was high become low--man, first in the order of created things, sunken to a level with brute beasts; and after all these you have or may have said to yourself, "all this is the work of the terrible demon, alcohol." i shall not attempt to paint any of the countless scenes of degradation, and horror, and misery, which this demon has caused to be enacted. i shall leave without comment the endless train of crimes and vices, the beggary and devastation following the course of this foul titan devil of ruin and damnation. i shall only endeavor to give a plain, truthful history of one who has felt every pang, every sorrow, every agony, every shame, every remorse, that the demon of drunkenness can inflict. i have nothing to thank this demon for, beyond a few fleeting--oh, how fleeting--hours of false delight. he has wrought only woe and loss to me. even now, as i sit here in the stillness of desperation, afraid of i know not what, trembling with a strange dread of some impending doom, gazing in fright backward along the shores of the years whereon i see the wrecks of a thousand hopes, the destruction of every noble aspiration, the ruin of every noble resolve, i cry aloud against the utterness of the destroyer. my life has indeed been a sad one; so sad, so lonely, that no language in my power of utterance can give to the reader a full conception of its moonless darkness. would that the magic pen of a de quincey were mine that my miseries might stand out until strong-hearted men and true-hearted women would weep, and every young man and maiden also would tremble and turn from everything intoxicating as from the oblivion of eternal death. to many, certain events which i shall relate in this history may seem incredible; some of the escapes may seem improbable; but again let me assure you that there shall not be one word of exaggeration. the incidents took place just as i shall state them. i have passed through not only all that you will find recorded in these pages, but ten thousand times more. as i lift the dark veil and look back through the black, unlighted past, i shudder and hold my breath as scene after scene, each more appalling than the one just before it, rises like the phantom line of banquo's issue, defining itself with pitiless distinctness upon my seared eyeballs, until the last and most awful of all stands tall and black by my side, and whispers, hisses, shrieks madness in my ears. i bow my head and find a moment's relief from the anguish of soul in the hot scalding tears which stream down my fevered cheeks. o god of sure mercy, save other young men from the dark and desolate tortures which gnaw at my heart, and press down upon my weary soul! they are all, all, all the work of alcohol. oh, how true it is--how true few can understand until their lives are a burden of distress and agony to them--that the cup which inebriates stingeth like an adder. when you see it, turn from it as from a viper. say to yourself as you turn to fly, "it stingeth like an adder!" chapter ii. birth, parentage, and early education--early childhood--early events--memory of them vivid--bitter desolation--an active but uneasy life--breaking colts for amusement--amount of sleep--temperament has much to do in the matter of drink--the author to blame for his misspent life--inheritances--the excellences of my father and mother--the road to ruin not wilfully trodden--the people's indifference to a great danger--my associates--what became of them--the customs of twenty years ago--what might have been. as to my birth, parentage and education, i am the last but one of a family of nine children, seven of whom were boys, and all of whom, excepting one brother, are now living. both brothers and sisters are, without an exception, sober, industrious and honest. i was born in rush county, indiana, on the th day of september, . if there is one spot in all the black waste of desolation about which i cling with fond memory it is in my early childhood, and there is no part of my life that is so fresh and vivid as that embraced in those first early years. i can remember distinctly events which transpired when i was but two years old, while i have forgotten thousands of incidents which have occurred within the past two years. while it is true that in early childhood a dark shadow fell athwart my pathway, making everything sombre and painful with an impression of desolation, yet was my condition happy in comparison with the rayless and pitchy blackness which subsequently folded its curtains close about my very being, seeming to make respiration impossible at times and life a nightmare of mockery. seeming, do i say? nay, it did, for nothing can be more real than our feelings, no matter how falsely they may be created. the agony of a dream is as keen while it lasts as any other--more so, because there is a helplessness about it which makes it harder to resist. many times, lying in my bed after a disgraceful debauch of days' or weeks' duration, has my memory winged its way through the realms of darkness in the mournful and lonesome past, back through years of horror and suffering to the green and holy morning of life, as it at this moment seems to me, and rested for an instant on some quiet hour in that dawn which broke tempestuously, heralding the storms which would later gather and break about me. at such times i could distinctly remember the names and features of all the persons who dwelt in the vicinity of my father's house, although many of them died long ago or passed away from the neighborhood. i could at this time repeat word for word conversations which took place twenty-five years ago. i do not so much attribute this to a retentive memory as to the habit i have had of thinking, when my mind was in a condition to think, of all that was a part of my early life. again and again, as the years gather up around me, and the valley of life deepens its shadows toward the tomb, do i go back in memory to the days that were. again and again do i awaken to the beauty, the love, the faces and friends of those days. they are all dear and sacred to me now, though i know they can come no more, and that the hollow spaces of time between the here and there--the now and then--will reverberate forever with the echoes of many-voiced sorrows. could those who meet me look down into the depths of my ghastly and bitter desolation, they would behold more appalling pictures of human agony than ever mortal eye gazed upon since the opening of the day of time--since the roses of eden first bloomed and knew not the blight so soon to darken the earthly paradise by the rivers of the east. but i wander from my subject. i lived and worked on my father's farm until i was eighteen years of age. as i have already said, even when a child i found myself sad and much depressed at times. i could not bear the society of my companions, and at such times would wander away alone to meditate and brood over my misery. at the very threshold of life i was dissatisfied and discontented with my surroundings. i was ever anxious and uneasy, ever longing for some undefinable, unnamable something--i knew not what, but, o god, i knew the desolation of feeling which was then mine. the sorrow of the grave is lighter than that. my life has always been an active one--restless, uneasy, and full of action, i naturally wanted to be doing something or going somewhere. from the time i was seven years old up to the time i was fifteen there was not a calf or colt on the farm that was not thoroughly broken to work or to be ridden. in this work or pastime of breaking in calves and colts i received sundry kicks, wounds, and bruises quite often, and still upon my person are some of the marks imprinted by untamed animals. i only speak of these things that the reader may know the character of my temperament, and thus be enabled to judge more correctly of it when influenced and excited by stimulants which will arouse to rash actions the dullest organizations. i was invariably the last one to go to bed when night came, but not the last to rise, for i always bounded out of bed ahead of the others; and in this connection i can assert with truth that for over twenty years i have not averaged over five hours of sleep out of every twenty-four during that time. i have never found in all nature one object or occupation that gave me more than a swiftly passing gleam of contentment or pleasure. that the reader may clearly comprehend my present condition and impartially judge as to my culpability in certain of my acts, i desire that he may know the circumstances and surroundings of my childhood, for i do solemnly aver that my sorrows and miseries were not of my own planting in those days. while i believe that some men will be drunkards in spite of almost everything that can be done for their relief, others there are, no matter how surrounded, who never will be drunkards, but solely because they abstain from ever tasting the insidious poison. temperament has much to do with the matter of drink, and could it be known and properly guarded against, i believe that a majority of those having the strongest predisposition to drink, if steps were taken in time, could be saved from its inevitable end, which is madness and death. i would here say to parents that it is their solemn duty to study well the disposition and temperament of their children from the hour of their birth. by proper training and restraint, all wrong impulses might be corrected and the child saved from a life of shameful misery, while they would themselves escape the sorrow which would come to them because of the wrong-doing of the child. while no person is particularly to blame for my misspent life, yet i can clearly see to-day how its worse than wasted years might have been years of use and honor. its every step might have been planted with actions the memory of which would have been a blessing instead of a remorse. i have no recollection of a time when i had not an appetite for liquor. my parents and friends of course knew that if it was taken in excess it would lead to destruction, but in our quiet neighborhood, where little was known of its excesses, no one dreamed of the fearful curse which slumbered in it for me to awake. had they had the least dread, fear, or anticipation of it they would have left nothing undone that being done might have saved me. my appetite for it was born with me, and was as much a part of myself as the air i breathed. there are three kinds of inheritances, some of money and lands, some of superior or great talents, and others of misfortunes. for myself this misfortune was my inheritance. it came not to me directly from my father or mother, but from my mother's father, and seemed to lie waiting for me for three or four generations, and the mistakes and passion of long dead great grandparents reappeared in me, thus fulfilling, with terrible truth, the words of the divine book. it has been gathering strength until when it broke forth its force has become wide-sweeping, irresistible and rushing--a consuming power, devouring and sweeping away whatever dares to arrest its onward progress. never, never, in those long gone and innocent years of my childhood did my father or mother dream that i, their much-loved child, would ever become a drunkard. if there is anything good, manly, noble or true, that is a part of me, i am indebted to them for it. they loved me, and i worshiped them. the consciousness that i have caused them to suffer so much has been the keenest sorrow of my life. my mother (blessed be the name!) is now in heaven. when she died the light went out from my soul. a pang more poignant than any known before pierced me through and through. my father is living still, and i verily believe there is not a son on earth who more truly and devotedly honors and loves his father than i mine. but i desire to show that i am not wholly responsible for my present unhappy condition. it is natural for every man to wish to excuse, or at least try to soften the lines of his mistakes with palliating reasons, and this i think right so long as the truth is adhered to, and injustice is not done any one. i hope no one will think that i have willfully trod the road to ruin, or sunk myself so low when i have desired the opposite with my whole heart. i was a victim of the fell spirit of alcohol before i realized it. i was raised in a place where opportunities to drink were numerous, as everybody in those days kept liquor, and to drink was not the dangerous and disgraceful thing it's now considered to be. for a radius often miles from our house more people kept whisky in their cupboards or cellars than were without it. i never heard a temperance lecturer until i was twenty years of age, and but seldom heard of one. the people were asleep while a great danger was gathering in the land--a danger which is now known and seen, and which is so vast in its magnitude that the combined strength of all who love peace, order, sobriety and happiness, is scarcely sufficient to meet it in victorious combat. what associates i had in those days were among men rather than boys, and the men i went with drank. they gave whisky to me and i drank it, and whether they gave it or not, i wanted it. some of those who gave me drinks are no longer among the living, but neither of them nor of the living would i speak unkindly, nor call up in the memory of one who may read this book a thought that might excite a pang; but i would ask any such just to go back ten, fifteen, and twenty years, and tell me where, are some of the wealthy, influential men of that time? in the silence of the winding-sheet! how many of them have hastened to death through the agency of whisky? and how few suspected that slowly but surely they were poisoning the wellsprings of life? how many are bankrupts now that might yet be in possession of unincumbered farms, the possessors of peaceful homes, but for that thief accursed--liquor! look, too, at some of the sons of these men, and say what you see, for you behold lives wrecked and wretched. need i tell you what has wrought all this ruin? need i say that intemperance is at the bottom of it? the country where i lived in youth and boyhood was equal, if not superior, to any surrounding it. my father's neighbors were all kind-hearted, generous people, and some of them--many of them, indeed--were good christians, and yet i repeat that twenty years ago there was not a place of a mile in extent but presented the opportunity for drinking. in every little town and village whisky was kept in public and private houses. there was, and yet is, near my father's farm two very small but ancient towns, containing each some twenty or thirty houses, and both of these places have been cursed with saloons in which liquor has been sold for the last thirty years. both of these towns were favorite resorts with me, especially the one called raleigh. i have been drunk oftener and longer at a time in raleigh than in any one place in indiana. i have written thus of my birthplace and surroundings, that the reader may know the temptations that encompassed me about, and not to speak against any place or people. the country in my father's neighborhood is peopled at this time with noble men and women--prosperous, noted for kindness, generosity, and unpretending virtue. i think if i had been raised where liquor was unknown, and had been taught in early childhood the ruin which follows drinking--if i had had this impressed on my mind, i would have grown up a sober and happy man, notwithstanding my inherited appetite. i would have been a sober man, instead of traversing step by step the downward road of dissipation. i am easily impressed, and in early life might have been taught such lessons as would forever have turned my feet from the wrong and desolation in which they have stumbled so often--in which they have walked so swiftly. instead of dwelling with shadows of realities the most terrible, and brooding in the cell of a maniac, i might have now communed with the pure and noble of earth. chapter iii. the old log school house--my studies and discontent--my first drink of liquor--the companion of my first debauch--one drink always fatal--a horrible slavery--a horseback ride on sunday--raleigh--return home--"dead drunk"--my parents' shame and sorrow--my own remorse--an unhappy and silent breakfast--the anguish of my mother--gradual recovery--resolves and promises--no pleasure in drinking--the system's final craving for liquor--the hopelessness of the drunkard's condition--the resistless power of appetite--possible escape--the courage required--the three laws--their violation and man's atonement. when i first started to school, log school houses were not yet things of the past, and well do i remember the one which stood near the little stream known as hood's creek, and sam munger, from whom i first received instruction. the next school i attended was in a log house near where ammon's mill now stands. i attended one or two summer terms at each of these places. there is nothing remarkable connected with my early school-days. they glided onward rapidly enough, but i saw and felt differently, it seemed to me, from those around me; but this may be the experience of others, only i think the melancholy, the fear, the unhappiness which hung over me were not as marked in any one else. i studied but little, because of my discontented and uneasy feeling, but i kept up with my lessons, and have yet one or two prizes bestowed on me twenty years ago for being at the head of my class the greater number of times. i recollect with painful clearness the first drink of liquor that ever passed my lips. it has been more than twenty-four years since then, but my memory calls it up as if it were only yesterday, with all the circumstances under which i took it. it was in the time of threshing wheat, and then, as in harvesting, log-rolling, and everything that required the cooperation of neighbors, whisky was always more or less used. i was little more than six years of age. a bottle containing liquor was set in the shadow of some sheaves of wheat which stood near a wagon, and taking it i crawled under the wagon with a neighbor now living in raleigh. we began drinking from this bottle and did not stop until we were both pitiably drunk. the boy who took that first drink with me has since had some experience with the effects of alcohol, but at this time he is bravely fighting the good battle of sobriety and may god always give him the victory. i never could taste liquor without getting drunk. when one drop passed my lips i became wild for another, and another, until my sole thought was how to get enough to satisfy the unquenchable thirst. to-day if i were to dip the point of a needle into whisky and then touch my tongue with that needle, i would be unable to resist the burning desire to drink which that infinitesimal atom would awaken. i would get drunk if hell burst up out of the earth around me--yes, if i could look down into the flames and see men whose eye-brows were burnt off, and whose every hair was a burning, blazing, coiling, hissing snake from their having used the deadly liquid. and if each of these countless fiery snakes had a tongue of forked fire and could be heard to scream for miles, and i knew that another drop would cause them to lick my quivering flesh, yet would i take it. o horror of horrors! i would plunge into the flames forever and ever. after i once taste i am powerless to resist. when i was ten years of age i went one sunday with a neighbor boy several years older than i, riding on horseback. the course we took was a favorite one with me for it led toward raleigh, just north of which place i contrived to get a pint or more of the poison called whisky. the doctor from whom i got it had, of course, no idea that i was going to drink it, especially all of it, but drink it i did, getting so completely under its horrible influence that when i arrived at home i fell senseless against the door. my father and mother heard me fall and came out and took me into the house, and just as soon as the heat of the fire began to affect me, i sank into a dead stupor; all consciousness was gone; all feeling was destroyed; all intelligence was obliterated. i lay upon my bed that night wholly oblivious to everything, knowing not, indeed, that such a creature as myself ever existed. the morning came at last, and with it i opened my eyes. describe who can the thoughts which rushed through my distracted brain. for a little while i knew not where i was or what i had done. my head was throbbing, aching, bursting. i glanced about me and on either side of my bed my father and mother knelt in prayer! then did i remember what had befallen me, and so keen was my remorse that i thought i would surely die, and, in fact, i wanted to die. o, much loved parents--father on earth and mother in heaven--how often since then have i felt anew the shame of that terrible hour--how often have i seen your sacred faces, wet with the tears of that trial, come before me, looking imploringly heavenward as if beseeching for me the mercy of the infinite god! that morning the family gathered about the breakfast table, but what a shadow rested over all. a solemnity of silent sorrow was upon us. the peace of yesterday had flown with my return home, and the dark misery of my soul tinged with the shade of the grave's desolation the clouds which were gathering in our sky. o, how often have i prayed that the time might be given back, and that it might be in my power to resist the curse; but the past is implacable as death, and i must bear the tortures that belong to the memory of that most unhappy day. that day, and for many succeeding ones, i read an anguish in the saintly face of my mother that i had never seen there before. my father also bore about with him a look of deep suffering which haunted me for years. for one day i suffered intensely both mentally and physically, but being of a strong, vigorous, and healthy constitution, i was almost completely restored by the following morning. of course i resolved and promised my father and mother that i would never again taste liquor. for some time i faithfully kept my promise, and for weeks the very thought of liquor was revolting to me. no one becomes a drunkard in a day or week. alcohol is a subtle poison, and it takes a long time for it to so undermine man's system that he finds life almost intolerable unless stimulated by the hell-broth which must surely destroy him in the end, unless he closes his lips like a vise against it. but for me, i never could drink, from my childhood, without coming under the influence of the accursed poison. i never drank because i liked the taste of liquor, but because i liked the first effects of it. i was never able to tell good liquor or rather pure alcohol--for such a thing as good liquor has never been made--from the worst, the meanest, manufactured from drugs. the latter may be more speedy than pure alcohol, but either will destroy with fatal certainty and rapidity. i drank, as i have said, for the effects, and in the first years of my drinking my first emotions were pleasurable. it sent the blood rushing to the brain, and induced a succession of vivid and pleasing thoughts. but invariably the depression that followed was in the same ratio down as the former was up, and after a time i lost that first pleasant, unnatural feeling, and drank only to satisfy an indescribable passion or craving. at first the wine glass may sparkle and foam, but let it never be forgotten that within that sparkle and foam is concealed the glittering eye of the uncoiled adder. it is the sparkle of a serpent's skin, the foam of the froth of death. here i must confess that for the past five or six years i have not been able to attain one moment's pleasure from drinking. every glass that i have touched has proven to be the dead sea's fruit of ashes to my lips. i drank wildly, insanely, and became oblivious for days and weeks together to all which was about me, and finally awoke to the horrors which i had sought to drown, but now intensified a thousand fold. no man ever buried sorrow in drunkenness. he can not bury it that way any more than eugene aram could bury the body of his victim with the weeds of the morass. whoever seeks solace in whisky will curse the hour which saw him commit a mistake so fatal. woe to him who looks for comfort in the intoxicating glass. he will see instead the ghastly face of murdered hope, the distorted vision of a wasted life, his own bloated corpse. the habit of drink after a time becomes more than a mere habit; the system comes to demand and crave liquor, it permeates and affects every part of the body until every function refuses to perform its part until it has been aroused to action by its accustomed stimulant. the most hopeless and wretched slave on earth is he who has bound himself with the fetters of alcohol, and it is a sad and lamentable truth that among thousands very few ever escape from the soul-destroying, health-ruining bondage of an appetite for intoxicating drink. there is only one here and there of all the hosts that are enchained and cursed who succeeds in breaking the bonds which bind body, soul and spirit. so far as the prospect of success is concerned in winning men from evil, i would say, let me go to the brazen-faced and foul-mouthed blasphemer of the holy master's name; let me go to the forger, who for long years has been using satanic cunning to defraud his fellow-men; let me go to the murderer, who lies in the shadow of the gallows, with red hands dripping with the blood of innocence; but send me not to the lost human shape whose spirit is on fire, and whose flesh is steaming and burning with the flames of hell. and why? because his will is enthralled in the direst bondage conceivable--his manhood is in the dust, and a demon sits in the chariot of his soul, lashing the fiery steeds of passion to maniacal madness. no possible motive or combination of motives can be urged upon him which will stand a moment before the infernal clamorings of his appetite. wife, children, home, relatives, reputation, honor, and the hope and prospect of heaven itself, all flee before this fell destroyer. the sufferings and agonies untold of one human soul securely bound by the chains forged by rum are enough to make angels weep and devils laugh. i have no desire to discourage those who have this habit fastened on them. i would not say to them: you can not break away from it. i would do all in my power to aid and strengthen every such person in any attempt he might make to be free. there is escape, but courage is required to make it, and greater courage than has ever been exhibited on the field of battle, amid the thunders of cannon, the roar of deadly conflict, the gleam of sabre and glitter of bayonet. but rather than die the drunkard's death, and go to the drunkard's eternal doom, every drunkard can afford to make this fight. it were better, ten thousand times, that every such one should do as i have done--voluntarily go to an asylum and be restrained until he so far recovers that he can of his own will resist temptation. and there is another aid--a strength stronger than our own--god! he will help every unfortunate one that goes to him in sincerity and humbly implores the divine aid. i desire here to make a statement in justice to myself. there are three laws, the human, the natural and the divine. you may violate a human law, and the judge, if he sees fit, may pardon your offense. if you violate the divine law, god has prepared a way of escape, and promises pardon on conditions within the reach of all, but for a violation of that which i call natural law, there is no forgiveness. the penalty for every such violation must be, and is, fully paid every time, and while natural laws are as much a part of god's creation as the divine, he would no more set aside a penalty for a violation of one of nature's laws than he would blot out a part of his written word. yet there are recuperative powers and forces in nature that are wonderful, and there is a spiritual strength that helps us to bear, and overcome, and endure every affliction. i was made a new creature in christ jesus at jeffersonville, indiana, on the st of last january, and had i then gone to work to recuperate and restore by all natural means, my broken body, i am most certain that i never again would have tasted liquor; but instead of using the means god had placed about me, in the supreme ecstacy which comes to a redeemed, a new-born soul, i went to work ten times more laboriously than ever, and soon completely exhausted my bodily strength. my system was drained of every particle of its power to resist the slightest attack of any kind whatsoever, much less to make a successful struggle against my great enemy, and so, physically and mentally exhausted when i was assailed by the black, foul fiend of alcohol, i fell, and fell a second time. i resolved, yea, took an oath the most solemn, that rather than again be overtaken by a disaster so dire, i would have myself entombed within an asylum for the insane. here at last, i was placed, and here i intend to remain until nature shall restore to my body sufficient strength to resist, with god's help, the next and every attack of my enemy. as god is my witness, i had rather remain within these walls and listen to the cries of the worst maniac here, from day to day, until the last hour of my life--yes, and die and be buried here in the pauper's graveyard, than ever again go out and drink. and now as i close this chapter with a full heart, i go down on my knees in supplication to god for strength and grace to keep me from that which has wrecked all my life and made it a continued round of sorrow and shame. i ask every one who reads this chapter, to pray to god for me with all your heart and soul. oh! men and women, pray for wretched, miserable, sorrowing, suffering, lonely me. chapter iv. school days at fairview--my first public outbreak--a schoolmate--drive to falmouth--first drink at falmouth--disappointment--drive to smelser's mills--hostetter's bitters--the author's opinion of patent medicines, bitters especially--boasting--more liquor--difficulty in lighting a cigar--a hound that got in bad company--oysters at falmouth, and what befell us while waiting for them--drunken slumber--a hound in a crib--getting awake--the owner of the hound--sobriety--the vienna jug--another debauch--the exhibition--the end of the school term--starting to college at cincinnati--my companions--the destruction wrought by alcohol--dr. johnson's declaration concerning the indulgence of this vice--a warning--a dangerous fallacy--byron's inspiration--lord brougham--sheridan--sue--swinburne--dr. carpenter's opinion--an erroneous idea--temperance the best aid to thought. at the age of sixteen i started to school at fairview, then as now, an insignificant but pretty village, some four miles from where my father lived. william m. thrasher, at this time professor of mathematics in the butler university, at irvington, near indianapolis, was the teacher in charge of that school, and it is to him that i am under obligations for about all the "book learning" that i possess. true, i went to college after that, but i merely skimmed over the studies there assigned me. while at school at fairview i improved every opportunity to drink. a fatal instinct guided me to the rum shop. it was during the first winter of my attendance at the fairview school that i was guilty of my first debauch. a young man from connersville came over to attend school, and i would remark in passing that his father was chiefly interested in sending him to fairview because he thought that his boy would here be out of temptation. he arrived at noon one day, and we were immediately made acquainted with each other, an acquaintance which ripened into friendship on the spot. the roads were in good condition for sleighing, and the next morning i proposed a ride. he gladly accepted my invitation, and together we drove to falmouth. at falmouth we each took a drink, and this fired us with a desire for more. we drove to a house not far away where liquor was kept by the barrel, and tried to get some, but failed--for we waited and waited to be invited in vain--for no invitation was extended to us. disappointed and half crazy for whisky, we left the house and started on further in pursuit of the curse. after driving about eight miles we halted at a place called smelser's mills, where we were supplied with a bottle of hostetter's bitters, which we drank without delay, and which was strong enough to make us reasonably drunk, but which, nevertheless, did not come up to our ideas of what liquor should be. my experience has been that about the worst and cheapest whisky ever sold is that sold under the name of "bitters," and it costs more than the best in the market. excuse the word "best," but certain parts of dante's hell are good by comparison. i say to all and every one, shun every drink that intoxicates, and shun nothing quicker than the patent medicines which contain liquor, and while you are about it, shun patent medicines which do not contain liquor. the chances are that they contain a deadlier poison called opium. at any rate they seldom cure and often kill. after drinking our bottle of poisonous slop--that is, hostetter's bitters--my friend and i began to boast, and each labored hard to impress the other with his greatness. in order to make the proper impression, we agreed that it was highly important that we should demonstrate the large quantity we could drink and still be reasonably sober. i knew of a place a few miles further on--a place called hittle's--where i felt sure i could get whisky without an immediate outlay of cash, a consideration of importance since neither i nor my friend had a penny. we went to hittle's, and there i was successful in an attempt to get a quart of whisky, which we at once proceeded to mix with the hostetter article already burning up the lining of our stomachs. the effect was not long in appearing, for in a little while we were both very drunk, and i in particular was in the condition best described as howling, crazy drunk. we stopped at a house to light our cigars--for of course we both smoked and chewed tobacco--and as my friend did not feel like getting out, i reeled into the kitchen and picked up a shovelful of coals, which i lifted so near my mouth that i scorched my hair and burnt my face, and, worse than all, singed the faint suggestion of a mustache that was visible by the aid of a microscope, on my upper lip. while i was engaged in lighting my cigar, a large dog--a tall, lean, much-ribbed, lank and hungry-looking hound--went out to the sleigh, and my friend induced him to accept passage with us; so when i got back to my seat it was proposed that the hound should accompany us. i have often wondered since if he was not heartily ashamed of being seen in our company that day; but we made a martyr of him all the same. we drove off with a succession of whoops and yells, and carried the hound in front. our first halt was at falmouth, where we ordered oysters. the room in which we sat at table was quite small, and a large stove whose sides were red with heat made it uncomfortably hot--especially for us who were already in a sultry state. i had not sat at the table a minute when i fell from my chair against the stove. my leg struck a hinge of the door, and as my friend was too much overcome to realize my condition, i lay there until the hinge burnt a hole through the leg of my pantaloons and then into the flesh. i carry a scar to-day in memory of that time, and the scar is about three inches long. the burn was over half an inch in depth. god only knows what might have been the final result had not assistance soon come in the person of the owner of the house. he called for help, and as soon as it arrived we were placed in our sleigh, and by a kind of instinct drove to fairview. it was dark by the time we got into fairview, but we contrived to get our horse within the stable and that unfortunate hound into a corn-crib, in which durance he howled so vigorously that the wild winds which whistled and shrieked around the barn could not be heard for him. his complaining lasted all night, and i do not think any one within a mile of the crib slept that night, my friend and myself excepted. ay, we slept--slept as i have so often slept since--a slumber as deep and oblivious as death--a drunken sleep, from which we awoke to suffer hell's tortures so justly merited by our conduct. i awoke with a throbbing, aching heart, but by slow degrees did i become conscious that i had been somewhere in a sleigh and done something either very desperate or very foolish, or both. at first my mind was so muddled, so beclouded with the fumes of the infernal "bitters" and whisky that i thought i had burned a city. while i was trying to solve the mystery of my course, i was aided by a revelation so sudden that it startled me, for the owner of the hound came galloping up and fiercely demanded to know where his dog was. he rated us severely--accused us of stealing the animal, and threatened to prosecute us then and there. i knew what we had done. in the meantime some one opened the door of the crib and turned out the hound. he must have recognized the voice of his master, for he joined the latter in his howling, and between them they gave us good reason to wish that our ambition to keep that dog's company had been in vain. the dog was more easily pacified than the man, but finally on our offering to give him three plugs of tobacco to hush up the affair, he became quiet and smoothed the ragged front of his anger. on adding a cigar or two to the plugs, he brightened up and said we might have the "darned houn'" any how, if we wanted him. but we had had enough of his society and were willing to part from him without further expense. i don't think, seriously speaking, that i ever suffered more keenly from the stings of remorse and fear than i did for one week after this debauch. the remarkable part of it to me was our determination to take the dog. all my life i have disliked dogs--dogs in general and hounds in particular. i resolved never to drink again, and for some time kept the resolution. a few weeks following this "spree" there was an exhibition at the school house, and several of the larger boys--myself among the number--assembled themselves together, and, after a consultation, decided that, in order to make the exhibition a success, there should be a limited amount of whisky secured for our special use. we took up a collection, each contributing a few cents, and two of the largest, tallest, and stoutest boys were dispatched to vienna, a small village three miles distant, to get it. a vision of hounds passed before me, but the desire to get a drink drove them yelping out of memory. the boys, on reaching vienna, bargained for three gallons of liquor, and brought it to our general headquarters. it was wretched stuff--the vilest, meanest, rottenest poison that ever went under the name of whisky. the boys who got it had carried it the three miles by passing a stick through the handle of the jug. they got drunk on the way back with it, and one of them fell into a branch, dragging the jug and the other boy after him. unfortunately the jug was not broken, and fortunately the boys were not seriously hurt. it was a little after dark when they stumbled across the meeting house yard to where we awaited them. the following day we attacked the contents of the jug, and before midnight we were all drunk--some rather moderately drunk, some very drunk, and some dead drunk, as the phrase is. i myself was of the number that were dead drunk. some of the boys kept sober enough to fight, but i never would fight, drunk or sober. i do not think i am a coward as regards personal courage, and i really think the fear of hurting others restrained me from ever mixing in brawls in those days. as the night wore away two or three of the boys became sober enough to hide the jug, which they concealed in a corn-shock. these dragged the rest of us to bed, although one of the party woke up in the wood-box with his head downward and his feet dangling over the top of the box. only those who have been so unfortunate as to be in a similar condition can realize our state of mental and physical feeling. parched lips, scalded tongues, cracked throats, throbbing temples, and burning shame were indisputably ours. so we awoke on the morning of the day set apart for the exhibition, an exhibition in which we were to appear before our respected teacher, friends and relatives, besides all the people of the surrounding country. early in the day we commenced to get ready for the afternoon's work by resorting to the same jug that so recently had bereft us temporarily of reason, and laid us in the mud and snow. i only got one big drink of the poison and so contrived to get through passably well with my part of the performance; some of the boys got too much, and failed to remember anything, so that they failed utterly and hid behind the curtains, and, taken all in all, we did little or nothing toward the success of the exhibition or to making those interested gratified with our parts. some of the boys who figured on the stage that day are dead; but others are alive and of those i am not the only one writhing in the coils of the serpent of alcohol, though not one of them has fallen so low as i. if at that time i might have been permitted to lift the curtain and looked down future-ward through the unlighted years of shame, and weariness, and suffering, i think the dreadful vision would have stayed me forever in a career which has only grown darker and more unendurable with every step. i kept on much in the same way, increasing in length and frequency my ever recurring debauches, until the end of the school term. i was well nigh twenty years of age, and from this place went to cincinnati to attend college. here the opportunities to gratify my hereditary appetite, made keen and sharp, and ever keener and sharper by indulgence, were all about me. my companions were older and further advanced on the road to ruin than i. my steps were more swift than ever before to tread the path which leads surely to the everlasting bonfire. i could not fail to notice while at college that the most brilliant and intellectual--those whose future prospects were the most pleasing and bright--were the very ones who most frequently drowned their hopes, and sapped their strength and energy in alcoholic stimulants. o, vividly do i recall to mind examples of heaven-bestowed genius, talent, health, and abilities, sacrificed on the worse than bloody teocalli of this hideous and slimy devil, intemperance! how many master minds, instead of progressing sublimely through the broad, deep, and august channels of thought, became impeded by the meshes and clogs of intoxication, and were thus worse than prevented from exploring the regions of immortal truth! how many dallied with the sirens of the wine cup, until all power to grapple with great subjects was lost irrevocably! how many are the instances in the world's history of great minds debased and ruined by alcohol! look back and around you at the lives of the brightest literary geniuses and see how many are under the spell of this circe's baleful power! think of the rich intelligences whose brightness has prematurely faded and died away in the darkness of alcoholic night! what hopes has alcohol destroyed! what resolves it has broken! what promises it has blighted! think of any or of all these things, and hasten to say with dr. johnson that this vice of drink, if long indulged, will render knowledge useless, wit ridiculous, and genius contemptible. oh! how many lost sons of earth, whose lamps of genius blazed only to light their pathway to the tomb, might have achieved an inheritance of immortal fame but for this vice, or disease as it may be. i write this with a hope that it may be a heeded warning to the intellectual of earth, not less than the illiterate. the educated man is more liable to suffer from strong stimulants than the man who is not educated. never was there a greater or more dangerous fallacy than that so often urged, that the thinking functions are assisted by the use of stimulating liquors or drugs. o, say some, byron owed a great portion of his inspiration to gin and water, and that was his hippocrene. nonsense! his highest inspiration came from the beauty of the world and from god. lord brougham, it has been declared, made his most brilliant speeches of old port. sheridan, it has been told, delivered some of his most sparkling speeches when "half seas over." eugene sue found his genius in a bottle of claret; swinburne in absinthe, and so on. but who shall say what these great, men lost and will lose in the end by this forcing process? dr. w.b. carpenter, in referring to the supposed uses of alcohol in sustaining the vital powers, says emphatically that the use of alcoholic stimulants is dangerous and detrimental to the human mind, but admits that its use in most persons is attended with a temporary excitation of mental activity, lighting up the scintillations of genius into a brilliant flame, or assisting in the prolongation of mental effort when the powers of the nervous system would be otherwise exhausted. concede this, and then answer if it is not on such evidence that the common idea is based that alcohol is a cause of inspiration, or that it supports the system to the endurance of unusual mental labor. the idea is as erroneous as the no less prevalent fallacy that alcoholic stimulants increase the power of physical exertion. physiologically the fact is established that the depression of the mental energy consequent upon the undue excitement of alcoholic stimulants is no less than the depression of the physical energy following its use. in either case the added strength and exhilaration are of short duration, and the depression and loss exceed the increased energy and the gain. the influence of alcoholic stimulants seems to be chiefly exerted in exciting to activity the creating and combining powers, such as give rise to the high imaginations of the poet and the painter. it is not to be wondered at that men possessing such splendid powers should have recourse to alcoholic stimulants as a means of procuring often temporary exaltation of these powers and of escaping from the seasons of depression to which they and others of less high organizations are subject. nor is it to be denied that many of these mental productions which are most strongly marked by the inspiration of genius, have been thrown off under the inspiration of the stimulating influences of liquor. but it can not, on the other hand, be doubted that the depression consequent upon the high degree of mental excitement is, as already observed, as great as the first in its way--a depression so great that it sometimes destroys temporarily the power of effort. hence it does not follow that the authors of the productions in question have really been benefited by the use of these stimulants. it is the testimony of general experience that where men of genius have habitually had recourse to alcoholic stimulants for the excitement of their powers they have died at an early age, as if in consequence of the premature exhaustion of their nervous energy. mozart, burns, byron, poe and chatterton may be cited as remarkable examples of this result. hence, although their light may have burned with a brighter glow, like a combustible substance in an atmosphere of oxygen, the consumption of material was more rapid, and though it may have shone with a more sober lustre without such aid, we can not but believe that it would have been steadier and less premature without it. we may also doubt that the finest poems and the finest pictures have been written and painted even by those in the habit of drinking while they were under the influence of liquor. we do not usually find that the men most distinguished for a combination of powers called talent or genius, are disposed to make such use of alcoholic stimulants for the purpose of augmenting their mental powers, for that spontaneous activity of mind itself which alcohol has a tendency to excite is not favorable to the exercise of the observing faculties, which are so important to the imagination, nor to those of reason, nor to steady concentration on any given subject, where profound investigation or clear sight is desirable. of this we have an illustration in the habit of practical gamblers who, when about to engage in contests requiring the keenest observation and the most sagacious calculation, and involving an important stake, always keep themselves cool either by total abstinence from fermented liquors, or by the use of those of the weakest kind, in very small quantities. we find that the greatest part of that intellectual labor which has most extended the domain of thought and human knowledge has been performed by men of sobriety, many of them having been drinkers of water only. under this last category may be ranked demosthenes, johnson, haller, bacon, milton, dante, etc. johnson, it is true, was a great tea drinker. voltaire drank coffee at times to excess, and occasionally a small quantity of light wine. so, also, did fontenelle. newton solaced himself with the fumes of tobacco. of locke, whose long life was devoted to constant intellectual labor, who appears independently of his eminence in his special objects of pursuit one of the best informed men of his time, the following explicit testimony is found by one who knew him well: his diet was the same as that of other people, except he usually drank nothing but water, and he thought that his abstinence in this respect had preserved his life so long, although naturally his constitution was so weak. in addition to these examples, which i have quoted at length, i might also mention the case of cornaro, the old italian philosopher, who at the age of thirty-five found himself on a bed of misery and imminent death through intemperance. he amended his way of life, and for upwards of four score years after, by a temperate course of living, lived happily and did all the important work which has placed his name among the men of great intellectual powers. chapter v. quit college--shattered nerves--summer and autumn days--improvement--picnic parties--a fall--an untimely storm--crawford's beer and ale--beer brawls--county fairs and their influence on my life--my yoke of white oxen--the "red ribbon"--"one mcphillipps"--how i got home and how i found myself in the morning--my mother's agony--a day of teaching under difficulties--quiet again--law studies at connersville--"out on a spree"--what a spree means. i left college in the spring of , and returned home to the farm where i spent the summer and autumn months in a very nervous and discontented manner. for over four months my mental condition bordered on that of a maniac, so completely had the use of liquor shattered my nervous system. i became alarmed at my state, and for a time was deterred from drinking, or, if i drank at all, the quantity was small. but fresh air and the little work which i did on the farm, soon restored me. as the summer wore away i attended pleasure parties, and found, not happiness, but a moment's forgetfulness among the merry picnic parties in the woods. i had also the distinguished honor of actually superintending and presiding over two of these festivities, both of which were held in horace elwell's woods, on the unsung, but classically rustic banks of tom. hall's mill-dam, near the village which bears the historic and great name of raleigh. i succeeded in tiding myself through the first picnic without getting drunk. i mean more particularly that i remained sober during the day--that is, sober enough to keep it from being known that i had drank more than once or twice; but that night at the ball at louisville, i bit the dust, or, to get at the truth more literally and unrhetorically, i fell down stairs and came within a point of breaking my neck. had i been sober the fall would have put an end then and there to my miserable and worthless existence; but lest any one should argue from this that after all whisky sometimes saves life, i would have them bear in mind that if i had been sober the chances are i would not have fallen. the next picnic was sadly interfered with by a violent storm of wind and rain, which came up the day before the one set apart for it. the water washed the sawdust which had been sprinkled on the ground for the dancers' benefit into hall's fretful mill-race, and thence down into the turbulent and swollen flat rock. this, as well as other creeks, became so high that it was out of the question to ford them. the boys could get to the grounds very well, and many of them did get there, but the girls were not of a mind to risk their lives for a day's doubtful amusement, and so the picnic failed in the beginning. the young men--myself, of course, in the lot--determined to have what was called "fun" at any rate, and to this end they congregated during the day at raleigh. mr. sam crawford had an abundant supply of beer and ale, and i wish to say that if there are any persons so innocent as to doubt that beer and ale intoxicate they would change from doubt to faith in the power of these slops to make men drunk, could they experience or see what took place at raleigh on that day. they would be willing to testify in any court that beer will not only intoxicate, but, taken in sufficient quantities, it will make men beastly drunk and fill them with a spirit of fiendish cruelty. there were on that day as many as four fights, with enough miscellaneous howling, cursing and billingsgate to fill out the natural make-up of a hundred more. i was drunk--so drunk that i did not know at the last whether my name was benson or bennington. i suppose i would have sworn to the latter, had the question been raised, but it was not. i did not fight, for, as i have said, i seemed to have an instinctive dread of doing something terrible in the event of my getting engaged in combat with another. like falstaff, it may be, i was a coward on instinct. i have always thought, moreover, that the hudibrastic aphorism is worthy of practice, because nothing can be more evident than the fact that "----he who runs away may live to fight another day." from that time to the commencement of the season for county fairs, five or six weeks later, i kept in a condition of sobriety. county fairs, i wish to say, and especially the rush county fairs, did more toward bringing on the disastrous career which has been mine--a career which has befouled the record of my life and marked almost every page of its history--witness this biography--with blots of shame, discord and unholy suffering than any other cause of an external character. i was very young when i first commenced to take stock to the fair to exhibit for premiums. i always went on the first day, and always remained until the fair came to a close, staying on the grounds night and day. there was a vagabond element in my nature which harmonized perfectly with this sort of life. the men with whom i associated were, in general, of that class who like liquor alone or in company, and each had his jug of favorite whisky, which was supposed to be a sure preventive against cold and colds in cold weather, and against heat and fever in hot weather. if invited to drink the rule was to accept immediately and return the courtesy as soon as convenient. in those days i was the proud possessor of a yoke of white oxen, and i made it a point to exhibit them at every fair within my reach, for they invariably won the red ribbon, then a mark of the first prize. alas, that it did not mean to me what it now does! it meant anything rather than total abstinence; it was an unfailing sign of drunkenness; it told of shameful revels, of days of debauchery and nights of misery when not passed in beastly slumber. that ribbon is now a symbol of holy temperance--it was then a souvenir of days of disorder and evil-doing. during the winter i was engaged to teach a district school, and for three months managed to keep tolerably sober--that is, i did not get drunk more than three or four times, and then on saturday nights and sundays. one sunday--it was the coldest day that winter--i went to falmouth and visited a drinking place kept by one mcphillipps. while there i drank eleven glasses of whisky. at nine o'clock in the evening, i can indistinctly remember, i mounted my horse and started home, and from that moment until the next day i knew nothing whatever that took place. from the way i was bruised and battered i judge that i must have struck almost every fence corner between mcphillipps' place and home. my legs were in a woful plight, and having turned black and blue, they were frightful to see. on arriving at the gate which led into the front yard at home, i fell off my horse and tumbled to the ground, a wretched heap of helpless clay. i remained on the ground, lying in the snow, until i froze my hands, feet, and ears. it was about three o'clock in the morning when i got to the house. so they told me, for i have no knowledge of going, and, indeed, i remembered nothing that took place. when i came to consciousness i found myself wrapped up in a blanket, lying in bed, with hot bricks at my feet. i was in the room occupied by father and mother, and the first object that met my wandering sight was the face of my mother. the look with which she regarded me will never fade from my memory. there was in it the sorrow and anguish of death. she rose from her bed at sight of me, and with streaming eyes and screaming voice called the family up to bid them good-by; she said she was dying--that i had killed her. i sprang from my bed in such a horror of terrible suffering, mental and physical, as never swept over the body and soul of mortal man. i felt my heart thumping and beating as though it would burst forth from my bosom; the hot, hissing blood rushed to my aching, fevered brain, and a torrent of sweat burst forth on my icy forehead. i could not have suffered more physical agony had a thousand swords been driven through my quivering body, nor would my miserable soul have been in more insufferable pain had it been confined in the regions of the damned. it was some time before anything like quiet was restored, but as soon as it was, some of the family went to the gate and found my hat and took charge of the horse which i had ridden. that morning i dragged myself to school with a sad, heavy heart. as my scholars came in, they seemed to understand that something was the matter with me, and often during the day their wondering looks were directed toward me as if they sought some explanation of my appearance. the day was a long and weary one to me--a day, like many another since then, of most intense wretchedness. about noon one of my feet became so swollen that it was necessary for me to take off my boot, and by the time i dismissed school it had got so bad that i could not draw on my boot, so that i had to walk home, a distance of one mile, over the frozen ground with nothing to protect my foot but a woolen sock. on entering the house, my mother burst into tears at sight of me. i must have been a pitiable object, and yet how little did i deserve the wealth of priceless sympathy lavished upon me. that night, and many nights succeeding it, the only way i could get into bed was to put an old-fashioned chair with rounds in the back, beside the bed and crawl up round by round until i got on a level with the bed, and then let go and fall over into the bed. it is needless for me to say that i firmly resolved and honestly felt that i would never again taste the liquor which leads to madness, misery, and death. for some time i kept my resolution; and would to god that i could here conclude by saying that i never again allowed a drop of it to pass my lips. but i am writing an autobiography, and i have told you that i would not shrink from telling the truth. so it will happen that other and still more desperate and disgraceful episodes of drunkenness will have to be recorded. in the spring of i went to connersville, and began the study of law with the hon. john s. reid. unfortunately, and i fear designedly, i made my acquaintances among, and selected my companions from, the most dissolute, idle, and intemperate class of young men in the town. connersville then had and still has among its citizens some very wealthy men, who suffered their boys to grow up without much care, mostly in idleness. as might be expected the indifference of the fathers, joined to the natural inclinations of the sons, has proved the ruin of the latter. i now call to mind several of those young men who are hopeless and complete wrecks. idleness and dissipation have done their terrible work in every case which i call to mind. i read a little law, and drank a great deal of whisky, and as a natural consequence the time then passing was for the most part worse than lost. up to this period the duration of my sprees was not longer than a day and night. they now were not confined to one day, for when i went out on what is called a "regular spree," it was liable to be two or three days, as it has since been two or three weeks, before i got back. got back! where from? the reader knows too well. out on a spree! these are melancholy and heart-breaking words. out on a spree! oh, how much of misery is implied! out on a spree! readers, every one, i hope you will never have it said that you are out on a spree. to go out on a spree is to throw away strength, without which the battle of life can not be fought; it is to squander money which you may need badly for the necessaries of life, which had better be thrown into the fire and burnt up than spent in such a way; it is to quench the light of ambition, to crush hope, entomb joy, lay waste the powers of the mind, neglect duty, desert the family, and commit in the end suicide. arson may have walked by your side while out on a spree, red murder may have grinned, dagger in hand, upon you, and death stalked within your shadow, ready in a thousand ways to strike you down. don't go out on sprees. think of the pity of them, the wrong, the disgrace, the remorse, the misery. going on an occasional spree only will not do. some men will keep sober for weeks, and even months, but a birthday, or a wedding, or a national holiday, or a fit of the blues, or a streak of good luck, starts them off, and habit, like a smouldering flame, breaks out, and for a time all is over. such men scotch, but they do not kill the cobra of intemperance, and soon or late the other result will follow, the snake will kill them. the reptile is tenacious of life, and so long as the life remains there is danger from the deadly venom of its tooth. those who have never formed the habit of drinking had better die at once than live to form it. those who have formed the habit should subdue it and never enter into a compromise with it. the good effects of months of abstinence may be swept away in an hour. open the flood-gates of indulgence never so little and the torrent will force its way through and drown every worthy resolution. its tide is next to resistless. days of drunkenness succeed, months of self-denial are lost, and deplorable results follow everywhere. wives are driven to desperation, mothers to despair, children to want. demoralization, starvation, damnation follow. friends are separated, homes are desolated, and souls are driven to hell itself, and yet people will talk lightly, and even jokingly of the very thing which leads to these terrible losses and sufferings--out on a spree. debauches not only destroy all capacity for usefulness while they last, but they demand the vital strength which has wisely been gathered in the system for days of possible need, when sickness and natural infirmities will lay hands on the mind or body. the debauch of to-day will borrow from to-morrow or from next week, or month, or year, that which can not be restored. the bloated face, the dull, glassy eye, the furtive glance of fear and shame, the trembling gait, all speak of ravages produced by other causes than those of time. indeed, the flight of years can produce no such effects, for inexorable and wearing as fleeting days and months are, their natural results differ very widely from those which are caused by an abuse of the powers of nature. besides this, many men who are shattered wrecks are still young in years, and the dew of youth but for dissipation might yet have glistened on their foreheads. it was at this period that the appetite burst forth in a fearful flame which scorched life itself, and burnt every energy of my being. it was fast getting to be a consuming, craving, devouring passion, subjecting my very soul to its dreadful tyranny. my spells increased in frequency, and their duration was more and more prolonged. i would remain drunk from eight to ten days, until i got so nervous that i could not sleep, and night after night i would be counting the hours and longing for morning, which, when it came with its blessed light, gradually revealing the pattern of the paper on the walls, caused me to hide my face in the bedclothes and wish for black and never-ending night to come and hide me from the world and my misery. from such vigils, feverish and unrefreshed, it may easily be supposed that i sought the open window in anguish, and bathed my aching, throbbing forehead in the cool, pure air. at last my condition became so deplorable that my friends sent my father word to come and take me home, which he did. while at connersville, in all my dark and desolate trials, william beck was my friend and helper. he never then forsook me, and he never since has forsaken me, but still remains my faithful and sympathizing friend--a friend whose valuation is beyond gold, and for whom i entertain the deepest feelings of gratitude. i returned home with my father and remained several months, keeping sober all the while. during most of the time i applied myself vigorously to the study of the law, making rapid progress. i believe i have as yet not stated that, in the intervals long or short between my sprees, i abstained totally from the use of ardent spirits. i never could and never did drink in moderation. one drink would always kindle such a fire in my blood that it was out of my power to prevent its spreading into a conflagration. i have very many times been accused of "drinking on the sly," as they say, but every such accusation is false. i have also been accused of using opium. i know the pitiable wretch that started that lie--for it is a lie--and the poor dupe that repeated it. for five years my appetite has been so fierce at times, that, i repeat, had i touched the point of the finest needle in alcohol and placed it to my tongue, i would have got drunk had i known that that drunk would have plunged my soul into hell and eternal torments. o appetite, cold, cruel, heartless, accursed, consuming, devouring appetite! no other malady like thee ever afflicted man. would that i could paint thee, in all thy accursed hideousness, in letters of unfading fire, and write them in the vaulted firmament to flame forth to all generations to come their eternal warning. chapter vi. law practice at rushville--bright prospects--the blight--from bad to worse--my mother's death--my solemn promise to her--"broken, oh, god!"--reflection--my remorse--the memory of my mother--a young man's duty--blessed are the pure in heart--the grave--young man, murder not your mother--rum--a knife which is never red with blood, but which has severed souls and stabbed thousands to death--the desolation and death which are in alcohol. my next move was to rushville, where i opened an office and commenced practicing law. for a time i kept sober, and was so successful in my profession that from the very beginning i more than made my expenses. in fact my prospects for a brilliant career as a lawyer seemed most flattering. the predictions were many that an uncommon future lay before me, but, alas, i could stand prosperity no better than adversity. my appetite grew to such a craving for stimulants that it tortured me. it had slumbered for weeks, as it has since, only to make itself manifest in the end with the force of a hurricane. while it had appeared to sleep it was gathering strength. at the time it dragged me down i was boarding with some others at the house of an elderly widow. so completely was i transformed from a man into something debased that i went to her house and fell through the front door on the floor dead drunk. the landlady had me carried back to my office, where i lay like a water-sodden log, wholly unconscious, until the next morning. when i awoke i had no knowledge of anything that had happened. my friends informed me of my fall at the house, and of their bearing me back to the office. i upbraided myself bitterly, but it was days before i had the courage to show my face on the streets, so keen were my shame and sense of disgrace. time softens the wildest remorse, and in a few weeks i regained a state of quiet feeling. but unfortunately most of my associates were among the class of young men who are never averse to taking a drink, and it was not long before i found myself again visiting the saloons, although i did not give up right away to take a drink with them. but i got to staying in the saloons more than in my office, and began to go down steadily. good people who felt sorry for me, and who wanted to aid me, would do nothing for me unless i would do something for myself, and this i could not, or did not do. i moved from office to office, always descending in respectability, because always violating my promises not to drink. occasionally i would make a desperate effort to reform, gathering about me every element of strength which i could possibly command, and for a while i would be successful, but just as hope would begin to light up my darkened path and my friends begin to feel a new-born confidence in me, an infernal and terrible desire would take possession of me, and in a moment all that i had gained would be swept away by my yielding to the demon that tempted me. a debauch longer and more utterly sickening and vile than the last followed, after which i would settle down into a condition of hopelessness which would appal the bravest and strongest. so deplorable, indeed, was my feeling regarding the matter that then, as since, i kept on drinking for days after the appetite had left me or had been satiated, in order to deaden the horrible agony that i knew would crush me when my reason returned. i now come to an event in my life which affected me at the time beyond the power of words, and which i can not without tears of choking sorrow even now dwell upon. i refer to the death of my mother, which occurred during the winter after my going to rushville in . she had been sick a long time, and had suffered very intense pain, but for days before her death i think she forgot her own physical torments in anxiety and solicitude about me. i went home a few days before she died, and remained with her until the last. she talked to me much and often, always begging and pleading with me as only a dying mother can plead, to save myself from the life of a drunkard. i promised her solemnly and honestly that i would never again taste liquor. as i gazed upon her wasted face and read death in every lineament, and heard the dread angel's approach in every breath of pain she drew, and saw above all in her fast dimming eye that the horrors of her approaching dissolution were almost unthought of in her care for me, i resolved deep down in my heart never to taste liquor again, and kneeling by her dying form, i called heaven to witness that no more, oh, never, never more, would i go in the way of the drunkard, or touch, in any form, the unpitying and soul-destroying curse. i looked on her face, which was growing strangely calm and white. she was dead, and it came upon me that she who had loved and suffered most for me, and without a reproach, was never more to look upon me again or speak words of comfort and aid to my ears, so often unheeding. at that moment, looking through scalding tears at her holy face, and afterwards when i heard the grave clods falling with their terrible sound upon her coffin lid, i swore that i would keep my promise, no matter what the temptation to break it might be. she would not be here to see my triumph, but i would conquer for her memory's sake, and all would be well. i swore by earth, sea, and sky, never, never to break the promise made to her in the moment of her dying. that promise i broke within two months from the day it was solemnized by my mother's death. i shudder still, remembering the agony of that fall. broken, oh god!--the promise has been broken, is what first entered my mind. never before had i suffered as i then suffered. my wild revel was protracted for days out of dread of the awful sorrow and remorse that i knew must surely come on my getting sober. my mother appeared to me in my troubled dreams, and talked to me as in life. many times in my slumber, and in my waking fancies did i see her pale, troubled face, with her pitying eyes looking on me as from that bed of pain and death, and at such times i reached out my hands toward her in mute pleading for forgiveness, forgetting or not knowing that she was dead. but the moment soon came when the truth was flashed through the blackness of night upon me, and then my misery was more than i could bear. for years before her death i had lain in my bed and listened to her moaning in her troubled sleep, to the sighs which escaped from her heart and that of my father, and i promised the god of my hoped-for salvation that if he would only let me live i would no more give them pain. cold, clammy sweat broke out over my face, and my heart beat so low, and slow, and weak, that in very terror i felt that my eyeballs were bursting from my head. again and again i begged, and plead, and prayed that god would spare me and let me live until i could convince my father and mother that i never would drink again. but my prayers were not answered. my mother went out from me in fear, and dread, and doubt. my father lives, but for me he has little or no hope. if ever a mortal longed and yearned for one thing more than another in this uncertain existence, i long for a peaceful and quiet evening of life for my beloved father. i implore the father of all of us to give me grace and strength enough to keep sober until my remaining parent is fully persuaded that i am truly and beyond question saved from the curse which has driven me to an asylum, and well nigh sent him, a broken-hearted man, to his grave. o for a strength which will forever enable me to resist the hell-born and hell-supported power of the fiend alcohol! could i do this and have my father know it his dying hour would be full of sweet peace, and a joy so shining that its light would drive afar off the shadows of his death agony. in that knowledge death would be vanquished and heaven would stoop to earth and cover his grave with glory. oh, god! grant me this one boon! give me this one request! in every step of my life i have disappointed him. in the future let all other hopes, and joys, and aspirations die, if needs be, all but this--this one--that i may never in any way touch liquor again. may every man and woman who sees this allow their hearts to go out in an earnest prayer that i may succeed in this one thing. it is now too late for me to reach the bright promises of other years. it is now too late for me to regain all that has been lost, but this i would do, and it will make me feel at the last that i have not lived altogether to be a remorse and shame to those who are bound to me by ties which can not be broken. god may answer your prayers if not mine, so that from the throne of heavenly grace may come the peace and rest for which my weary soul has sought so long in vain. when i drank after my mother's death, many persons took occasion, on learning of it, to censure me in unsparing terms. it was even said that i did not love my mother in life, that i had no respect for her memory in death, and that i was a heartless wretch. these persons had no knowledge of the power of my appetite. they did not know that the passion for liquor, once developed or firmly established, is stronger in its unholy energy than the love of the heart--of my heart, at least--for mother, father, brother, or sister. but let me beg that i may not be charged with indifference to my mother's memory. she comes before me now; she who was a true wife, a faithful friend, a loving and gentle mother, and i kneel to her and pray her blessing and pardon--i would clasp her to my heart, but alas! when i would touch her, the bitter memory comes that she is gone. but i would not repine, for i know she is with her god. her life was pure and blameless, and her soul, on leaving its weary earthly tabernacle, passed to its inheritance--a mansion incorruptible, and one that will not fade away. she bore her cross without a murmer of complaint, and she has been crowned where the spirit of the just are made perfect. blessed are the pure in heart, we read, and i know that i am not misquoting the spirit of the holy book when i say for the same reason, blessed is my mother, for she was pure of heart, and passed from tribulation to peace, from night to day, from sorrow to joy, from weariness to rest--rest in the bosom of god. it may be that some young man will read these pages whose mother is still among the living. i do not think that such a one will be without love for his mother--a dear, compassionate, doating, gentle mother, who loved him before he knew the name of love; who sang him to sleep in the years that were, and awoke him with kisses on the bright mornings long ago; who bathed his head with a soft hand when it throbbed with pain, and smiled when the glow of health was on his cheek. she wept holy tears when he suffered, and when he was delighted her heart beat with pleasure. it was she who taught him that august prayer which is sacred in its simplicity to childhood. she is aged now; her wealth of brown hair is white with age's winter, her step is no longer quick, her eye has lost its lustre, and her hand is shaken with the palsy of lost vigor. there are wrinkles in her brow and hollows in the cheeks which were once so lovely that his father would have bartered a kingdom for them. she is sitting by the side of the tomb waiting for the mysterious summons which must soon come. oh, young man, you for whom this mother has suffered, you for whom she cherishes a love which is priceless and deathless, you will not hasten her into eternity by an act, or word, or look, will you? it would kill her to know that you had fallen under sin's destroying stroke. sometimes she goes to the portrait of your boyish face and looks at it; at other times she takes down some worn and faded garment, that you were wont to wear in those beautiful days of the past, and recalls how you looked when you wore it; then she goes to the room where you used to sleep and looks at the cradle in which she so often rocked you to sleep, and, after all is seen, she returns to her chair--the old easy chair--and waits to hear tidings of you. what would you have her know? what news of yourself can you send her? think of it well. will you put your wayward foot on her tender and feeble heart? is her breathing so easy that you would impede it with a brutal stab? oh, if you know no pity for yourself, have some for her. you will not murder her, will you? yes, you reply, and the laughter of mocking devils floats up from the caves of hell--"yes! give me more rum!" now, hear the truth: the time will come when the grass will seem to wither from your feet, pain will stifle your breath, remorse will gnaw your heart and fill all your days and nights with misery unspeakable; your dreams will torture you in sleep, and your waking thoughts will be torments; your path will lie in gloom, and your bed will be a pillow of thorns. you will cry in vain for that departed mother. you will beg heaven to give her back, but the grave will be silent. the grasses are creeping over her tomb, and the white hands have crumbled upon her faithful breast. but no, you will not kill her. you will not call for rum. i have wronged you, thank god! you will be a man. you are a man. you will lay this book down, and swear that you will never touch the accursed, ruinous drink, and you will keep your oath. by sobriety and good habits you will lengthen your mother's days in the land, and smooth her troubled brow, and give strength to her failing limbs. rum is a dreadful knife whose edge is never red with blood, but which yet severs throats from ear to ear. it assassinates the peace of families, it cuts away honor from the family name, it lets out the vital spark of life, and is followed by inconsolable death. it pierces hearts, and enters the bosom of trust, goring it with gashes which god alone can heal. rum is a robber who is deaf to hungry children's cries and famished wives' pleadings. he is a fell destroyer from whom peace and comfort and content fly. no one can afford to be his subject, and it is the duty of every one to rise in arms against him. let him be cursed everywhere. let anathemas be hurled against him by the young and old of both sexes. death is an angel of mercy sometimes--this destroyer never. death may open the gates of heaven to every victim, but this destroyer can unbar alone the gates of hell. he takes away concord and love and joy, and in their stead leaves the horror and misery of pandemonium! chapter vii. blank, black night--afloat--from place to place--no rest--struggles--giving way--one gallon of whisky in twenty-four hours--plowing corn--husking corn--my object--all in vain--old before my time--a wild, oblivious journey--delirium tremens--the horrors of hell--the pains of the damned--heavenly hosts--my release--new tortures--insane wanderings--in the woods--at mr. hinchman's--frozen feet--drive to town in a buggy surrounded by devils--fears and sorrows--no rest. from this time until i tried to break the terrible chain that bound me by lecturing on the miseries and evils of intemperance, my life was one long, hopeless, blank, black night. more than one half of the time for five years i was dead to everything but my own despairing, helpless, pitiable and despicable condition. i was afloat without provision, sail, or compass, on an ocean of darkness, and from one period of deeper gloom to another i expected to go down in the sightless oblivion and so end my accursed existence. i could see no prospect of a rift in the curtain of pitchy cloud which hung over me. i was myself an ever-shifting, restless, uneasy tempest. my unrest and nervous dread of some swift approaching doom too awful to be conceived became so intense and real that i fled from place to place. not unfrequently i came to myself during these epochs of madness and found that i was a hundred or more miles from home, without friends, respectable or even sufficient clothing, or money--a bloated and beastly wreck. i know not how i ever found my way back, or why i prolonged my life under such circumstances; but it seems the instinct called self-preservation was yet stronger than the ills which assailed me. days were like weeks to me, and weeks as months, and mouths as years, and in all and through all i managed to crawl forward toward the grave which is still out yonder in the future, finding no pleasure in myself and no delight in anything beautiful and holy. as i lift the dread curtain and glance tremblingly along the path which stretches through the funereal shadows of the past, i feel that it was a thousand years ago when i was a child in my mother's dear protecting arms. sin may have moments of pleasure, but the pleasure is but a hollow semblance in advance of seemingly never-ending hours of remorse and suffering. more than once i made desperate efforts to escape from my humiliating thraldom, and, as i was sober during the days of struggle, i sought and found business, and thus managed to secure a little money, although most of my clients were poor and anything but influential. i always did my best for them, however, and seldom lost a case. but at the end of a few days a strange, undefinable, uneasy feeling began to crawl over me and crept into my heart; i became more and more restless, anxious and nervous. i was soon too uneasy to sit still or lie down. horrible sufferings, agonies untold, woe unspeakable, deprived me of reason, and when i had the inclination i had not the will to guide myself aright. then all of a sudden, my fierce and unrelenting appetite would sweep, vulture like, down upon me, and i would feel myself on the point of giving way. after this i would rally for a brief season, but only to sink into still deeper misery and desperation. there were days without food, and nights without sleep, but--god pity me!--not without liquor. i lived on the hellish liquid alone, and such a life! the devils of the lower world could see nothing to envy in it. it was worse than their own torture. the quantity of liquor which i now required was enormous. i have drank, on the closing days of a spree, one gallon of whisky within the duration of twenty-four hours, and when i could not get whisky, i would drink alcohol, vinegar, camphor, liniment, pepper-sauce--in short, anything that would have a tendency to heat my stomach. i would have drank fire could i have done so knowing that it would satisfy the thirst that was consuming me. i left untried no means that would enable me to break away from my appetite. for two or three summers after i began practicing law, i went into the country and engaged myself to plow corn at seventy-five cents per day, in order to keep myself as long as possible from the dangers of the town. in the autumn season, after a debauch of weeks, i have hired out and shucked or husked corn in order to get money with which to buy myself boots and winter clothing. i occasionally taught school in the country, but not for money, for i have made more at my profession, when in a condition to practice it, in a single day than i got for teaching a whole month. my object was to free myself, to break my manacles, to open the door of my prison cell and walk forth in the upright posture of a man. sadly i write, "in vain!" if i fled, the demon outran me; if i broke a link, the demon moulded another; if i prayed, he put the curse into my mouth. as i look back over my horror-haunted, broken, misspent, and false existence, i realize how worthless i am, and i see that my life is a failure. i am in my thirty-second year, and am prematurely old, without the wisdom, or gray hairs, or goodness, or truth, or respect which should accompany age. my heart is frosty but not my hair. i will now endeavor to recite some of the scenes through which i passed, that the reader may form for himself an opinion regarding my sufferings. i left rushville on one of my periodical sprees (i do not remember the exact time, but no matter about that, the fact is burning in my memory), and after three or four weeks of blind, insane, drunken, unpremeditated travel--heaven only knows where--i found myself again in rushville, but more dead than alive. i experienced a not unfamiliar but most strange foreboding that some terrible calamity was impending. i was more nervous than ever before, so much so in fact that i became alarmed seriously, and called on dr. moffitt for medical advice. he diagnosed my case, and informed me that my condition was dangerous, unnatural and wild. he gave me some medicine and kindly advised me to go into his house and lie down, i remained there two days and nights, and in spite of his able treatment and constant care i grew worse. do you know what is meant by delirium tremens, reader? if not, i pray god you may never know more than you may learn from these pages. i pray god that you may never experience in any form any of the disease's horrors. it was this, the most terrible malady that ever tortured man, that was laying its ghastly, livid, serpentine hands upon me. all at once, and without further warning, my reason forsook me altogether, and i started from dr. moffitt's house to go to my boarding place. the sidewalks were to me one mass of living, moving, howling, and ferocious animals. bears, lions, tigers, wolves, jaguars, leopards, pumas--all wild beasts of all climes--were frothing at the mouth around me and striving to get to me. recollect that while all this was hallucination, it was just as real as if it had been an undeniable and awful reality. above and all around me i heard screams and threatening voices. at every step i fell over or against some furious animal. when i finally reached the door leading to my room and just as i was about to enter, a human corpse sprang into the doorway. it had motion, but i knew that it was a tenant of that dark and windowless abode, the grave. it opened full upon me its dull, glassy, lustreless eyes; stark, cold, and hideous it stood before me. it lifted a stiffened arm and struck me a blow in the face with its icy and almost fleshless hand from which reptiles fell and writhed at my feet. i turned to rush into another room, but the door was bolted. i then thought for a second that i was dreaming, and i awoke and laughed a wild laugh, which ended in a shriek, for i knew that i was awake. i turned again toward my own door, and the form had vanished. i jumped into my room and tore off my clothes, but as i threw aside my garments, each separate piece turned into something miscreated and horrible, with fiendish and burning eyes, that caused my own to start from their sockets. my room was filled with menacing voices, and just then a mighty wind rushed past my window, and out of the wind came cries, and lamentations, and curses, which took shapes unearthly, and ranged about the bed on which i lay shuddering. die! die! die! they shrieked. i was commanded to hold my breath, and they threatened horrors unimaginable if i did not obey. i now believed that my time had come to render up the life which had been so much abused. i asked what would become of my soul when my body gave it up, and they told me it would descend to the tortures of an everlasting hell, and that once there, my present sufferings would be as bliss compared with what was in store for me for an endless age. as my eyes wandered about the room--i was afraid to close them--i saw that innumerable devils were crowding into it. they were henceforth to be my companions, and if the prince of all of them ever allowed me to leave for a brief time the regions of infernal woe, it would be in their company and on missions such as they were now fulfilling. i called aloud for my mother, and a voice more diabolical than any i had yet heard, hissed into my ears that she was chained in hell, but immediately a million devils screamed, "liar! she is in heaven!" i refused then to hold my breath, and told them to kill me and do their worst. in an instant the spirit of my mother, like a benediction, rested beside me. as she begged for me i knew that it was her voice, natural as in her life on earth. while she was yet imploring for me the room became radiant, and i saw that it was full of angels. i felt a strange joy. my sins were pardoned, and i was told that i should go forth and preach and save souls. i was commanded to get out of bed, put on my clothes, and go down stairs, where i would be told what to do. i obeyed, and on opening the door that led to the street, a man came to me and he bid me follow him. the spirits whispered to me that the man was christ, and his looks, acts and steps even were such as i had conceived were his when he was once a meek and lowly sufferer on earth. i followed him about sixty rods, when he told me to stop. i did so, and just then the heavens opened with a great blaze of glory, and millions of angels came down. such music as then broke upon my senses i never heard before, and have never since heard. the angels would approach near me and tell me they were going to take me to heaven with them; then they would disappear for an instant and devils gathered about me. i could hear music and see the heavenly hosts returning. they came and went many times thus, and after they went away the last time, i was again surrounded by fiends who inflicted every torture on me. christ commanded me to stand in that place, i thought, and there i remained. it was very cold, and i froze my feet and hands. i then felt that the devils were burning off my feet, and i shrieked for liquor. i looked down and saw a bottle at my feet, but when i reached down to get it a lion threw his claws over it, and warned me with a fierce growl not to touch it. the snow melted, the season changed, and i was standing in mud and mire up to my neck. ropes were tied around me, and horses were hitched to them to drag me from the deeps, but in trying to draw me out the ropes would snap asunder and i was left imbedded in the clay. they could not move me, because christ had commanded me to stand there. a little while before the break of day the savior appeared and told me to go. i started to run, but when i got alongside the old depot there burst from it the combined screams of millions of incarnate devils. i can hear in fancy still the avalanche of voices which rolled from those lost myriads. i ran into the first house to which i came. its saw at a glance what was the nature of my terrible trouble, but he had no power to help me. i beheld the face of a black fiend grinning on me through a window. in the center of his forehead was an enormous and fiery eye, and about his sinister mouth the grin which i at first saw became demoniacal. he called the fiends, and i heard them come as a rushing tornado, and surround the house. everything i attempted to do was anticipated by them. if i thought of moving my hand i heard them say, "look! he is going to lift his hand." no matter what i did or thought of doing, they cursed me. when daylight at last came--and oh, what an age of dying agony lay behind it in the vast hollow darkness of the night!--the horrid objects disappeared, but the voices remained and talked with me all day. you who read, imagine yourselves alone in a room, or walking deserted streets, with voices articulating words to you with as clear distinctness as words were ever spoken to you. many of the voices were those of friends and acquaintances whom i knew to be in their graves, and yet they--their voices--were conversing with, or talking to me, during the whole of that long, long, terrible day. i was tortured with fears and a dread of something infinitely horrible. i went to my office--the voices were there! i stepped to the window, and on the street were men congregating in front of the building. i could hear their voices, and they were all talking of hanging me. i had committed an appalling crime, they said. i knew not where to go or whither to fly. now and then i could hear strains of music. the dreaded night came on, and with it the fiends returned. in the excitement of breaking from my office, i forgot to put on my overcoat. the moment i got on the street the freezing wind drove me back, but hundreds of voices gathered around me and threatened me with death if i entered the door again. i went away followed by them, and wandered in a thin coat up and down the streets, and through the woods all night. the wonder was that i did not freeze to death. i could hear crowds of excited people at the court house discussing me, i thought. when i started to go there, every door and window of the building flew open and fiery devils darted out and cursed me away. all the time i was dying for whisky, but the saloon keepers would not give me a drop. they saw and understood what was the matter with me, and refused to finish the work begun in their dens. i started at last in the direction of home. just outside of the town a man by my side showed me a bottle of whisky. i was dying for it, and begged him for at least one swallow. he opened the bottle and held it to my lips, and i saw that the bottle was full of blood. again and again did he deceive me. exhausted at last, i sank down in the snow and begged for death to come and end my life, but instead, a company of citizens of rushville, whom i knew, gathered around me and a glass of whisky was handed to me. i saw that everyone present held a similar glass in his hand, which, at a given word, was raised to the mouth. i hastened to drink, but while they drained their glasses, i could not get a drop from mine. i looked more closely at the glass and discovered that there were two thicknesses to it, and that the liquor was contained between them. i studied how i could break the glass and not spill the whisky, and begged and plead with the men to have mercy on me. i got out into the woods four or five miles from rushville, and wandered about in the snow, but all around and above me were the universal and eternal voices threatening me. a thousand visions came and went; a thousand tortures consumed me; a thousand hopes sustained me. i quit the woods pursued by winged and cloven-footed fiends, and ran to the house of andy hinchman. he received and gave me shelter until morning, when he carried me back home in his buggy. i had no more than got into his house when it was surrounded by my tormentors. they raised the windows and commenced throwing lassos at me, in order, as they said, to catch me and drag me out that they might kill me. i sat up in my chair until daylight, fighting them off with both hands. all these terrible torments were, i repeat, realities, intensified over the ordinary realities of life a hundred fold. i had wandered to and fro, as i have described, but the people, the angels and the devils were alike the phantasmagoria of my diseased mind. for one week after the night last mentioned, i had no use of either arm. i had so frozen my feet that i could not put on my boots. mr. hinchman kindly loaned me a pair that i succeeded, although with great pain, in drawing on, for they were three sizes larger than i was in the habit of wearing. the devils were still with me, but i had moments of reason when i could banish them from my mind. on our way to town they rode on top of the buggy and clung to the spokes of the wheels, and whirled over and over with dizzy revolutions. how they fought, and cursed, and shrieked! when i got to my room it was the same, and for days i was surrounded the greater part of the time with demons as numberless as those seen in the fancy of the mighty poet of a lost paradise marshaled under the infernal ensign of lucifer on the fiery and blazing plains of hell! for more than one month after the madness left me i was afraid to sleep in a room alone, and the least sound would fill me with fear. i ran when none pursued, and hid when no one was in search of me. my sleep was fitful and full of terrible dreams, and my days were days of unrest and anguish unspeakable. chapter viii. wretchedness and degradation--clothes, credit, and reputation all lost--the prodigal's return to his father's house--familiar scenes--the beauty of nature--my lack of feeling--a wild horse--i ride him to raleigh and get drunk--a mixture of vile poison--my ride and fall--the broken stirrups--my father's search--i get home once more--depart the same day on the wild horse--a week at lewisville--sick--yearnings for sympathy. my condition now grew worse from day to day. i descended step by step to the lowest depths of wretchedness and degradation. often my only sleeping-place was the pavement, or a stairway, or a hall leading to some office. i lost my clothes, pawning most of them to the rum-sellers, until i was unfit to be seen, so few and dirty and ragged were the garments which i could still call my own. in ten years i have lost, given away, and pawned over fifty suits of clothes. within the three years just past i have had six overcoats that went the way of my reputation and peace of mind. i left rushville at the time of which i am writing, but not until it was out of my power to either buy or beg a drop of liquor--not until my reputation was destroyed and everything else that a true man would prize--and then, like the prodigal who had wallowed with swine, i returned to my father's house--the home of my childhood, around which lay the scenes which were imprinted on my mind with ineffaceable colors. but i had destroyed the sense which should have made them comforting to me. i have no doubt that nature is beautiful--that there are fine souls to whom she is a glorious book, on whose divine pages they learn wisdom and find the highest and most exalting charms. but i, alas, am dead to her subtle and sacred influences. however, i might have been benefited by my stay at home, had it been difficult for me to find that which my appetite still craved; but it was not so. falmouth and raleigh and lewisville were still within easy reach, and not only at these, but at many other places could liquor be procured, and i got it. the curse was on me. my condition became such that it was unsafe to send me from home on any business. i can recall times when i left horses hitched to the plow or wagon and went on a spree, forgetting all about them, for weeks. i had left home firm in the resolve to not touch a drop of liquor under any circumstances, and so thoroughly did i believe that i would not, that i would have staked my soul on a wager that i would keep sober. but the sight of a saloon, or of some person with whom i had been on a drunk, or even an empty beer keg, would rouse my appetite to such an extent that i gave up all thoughts of sobriety and wanted to get drunk. i always allowed myself to be deceived with the idea that i would only get on a moderate drunk this time, and then quit forever. but the first drink was sure to be followed by a hundred or a thousand more. once while in a state of beastly intoxication at rushville, my father came for me and took me home in a wagon, and for two weeks i scarcely stirred outside of the house. but the house which should have been a paradise to me was made a prison by reason of my desires for the hell-created liberty of entering saloons and associating with men as reckless as myself. i became morose, nervous, and uneasy. i took a horseback ride one morning and would not admit to myself that i cared less for the ride than to feel that i could go where i could get liquor. i did not want to drink, but like the moth which returns by some fatal charm again and again to the flames which eventually consume it, i could not resist the temptation to go where i could lay my hands on the curse. there was on the farm, among the horses, one that was unusually wild, which had hitherto thrown every person that mounted it. the only way it could be managed at all was with a rough curb-bitted bridle, and even then each rein had to be drawn hard. if there was any one thing on which i prided myself at that time it was my proficiency in riding horses. i determined on mastering this horse, and early one morning i mounted his back. i got along without a great amount of difficulty in keeping my seat until i got to raleigh. here i dismounted and sat in the corner groceries for an hour or more, talking to acquaintances. finally, like the dog returning to his vomit, i crossed the street and went into a saloon. had the door opened into the vermilion lake of fire i would have passed through it if i had been sure of getting a drink, so sudden and uncontrollable was the appetite awakened. only a few minutes before i had with religious solemnity assured two young men who were keeping a dry goods store there that i had quit drinking forever. to test me, i suppose, one of them had said to me that he had some excellent old whisky, and wanted me to try a little of it, and offered me the jug. i carried it to my mouth, and took a swallow. it was a villainous compound of whisky, alcohol and drugs of various kinds, which he sold in quart bottles under the name of some sort of bitters which were warranted to cure every disease: and i will add that i believe to this day that they would do what he said they would, for i do not think any human being, bird, or beast, unless there is another quilp living, could drink two bottles of it in that number of days and not be beyond the need of further attention than that required to prepare him for burial. it was the sight of the jug and the taste of the poison slop which it contained that aroused my appetite and scattered my resolves to the tempest. once in the saloon i drank without regard to consequences, and without caring whether the horse i rode was as jaded and tame as don quixote's ill-favored but famous steed, or as wild and unmanageable as the steed to which the ill-starred mazeppa was lashed. i did not stop to consider that a clear head and steady hand were necessary to guide that horse and protect my life, which would be endangered the moment i again mounted my horse. ordinarily i would have gone away and left the horse to care for itself, but i remembered the character of the horse, and with a drunken maniac's perversity of feeling i would not abandon it. i designed getting only so drunk, and then i would show the folks what a young man could really do. on leaving the saloon i returned to the jug, which contained the mixture described, and which would have called up apparitions on the blasted heath that would have not only startled the ambitious thane, but frightened the witches themselves out of their senses. i took one full drink--what is called in the vernacular of the bar room a "square" drink--from the jug, and that, uniting with the saloon slop, made me a howling maniac. i have forgotten to mention that i got a quart of as raw and mean whisky in the saloon as was ever sold for the sum which i gave for it--fifty cents. it was about nine o'clock at night when i bethought me of the horse which i had sworn to ride home that evening. i untied the beast with some difficulty, and led him to a mounting block. i got on the block, and, after putting my foot securely in the stirrup, fell into the saddle, i was too drunk to think further, and so permitted the horse to take whatever course suited it best. it took the road toward home, but not as quietly as a butterfly would have started. he flew with furious speed, onward through the night, bearing me as if i had only been a feather. i did not, for i could not, attempt to control him. it was a race with death, and the chances were in death's favor long before we reached the home stretch. possibly i might have ridden safely home had the road been a straight one, but it was not, and, on making a short turn, i was thrown from the saddle, but my feet were securely fastened in the stirrups, and so i was dragged onward by the animal, which did not pause in its mad career, but rather sped forward more wildly than ever. i was dragged thus over a quarter of a mile, and would undoubtedly have been killed had not one and then the other stirrup broken. i lay with my feet in the detached stirrups until near morning, wholly unconscious and dead, i presume, to all appearances. it was quite a while after i came to my senses before i could realize what had happened, who, and what, and where i was, and then my knowledge was too vague to enable me to determine anything definitely. i crawled to a house which was near by, fortunately, and remained there during the morning. i was badly, but not dangerously, injured. the skin was torn from one side of my face, and three of my fingers were disjointed. i was bruised all over, and cut slightly in several places. how i escaped death is a miracle, but escape it i did. the horse went on home and was found early in the morning, with the stirrup leathers dangling from the saddle. when the family saw the horse they at once were of the opinion that i had been killed, and my father took the road to raleigh immediately, thinking to find my dead body on the way. fearing that they would discover the horse and be frightened about me, i started home, and had not gone far when i met my father. as soon as he saw me walking in the road, he burst into tears. i did not dare look as he rode up to me, but continued walking, and he rode slowly past me. i could hear his sobs, but was too much overcome with shame to speak. i walked on toward home as fast as i could, and my heart-broken but happy father followed slowly in my rear. when i got within sight of the house my sister saw me and ran to meet me, crying: "oh, we thought you were killed this time--i was sure you were killed. it is so dreadful to think of!" etc. she was crying and laughing in a breath. my feelings were such as words can not describe. i wanted the earth to open and swallow me up. i suffered a thousand deaths. this is only one of a hundred similar debauches, each more deplorable and humiliating in its consequences than the last. at times, as the waters of the awful sea called the past dash over me, i almost die of strangulation. i pant and gasp for breath, and shudder and tremble in my terror. my spree on this occasion was not yet over; my appetite was burning and raging, and notwithstanding my almost miraculous escape from a drunken death, i watched my opportunity, like a man bent on self-destruction, and again mounted the same horse and started for raleigh. but my father had preceded me, and given orders at the saloon and elsewhere that i should not be allowed more liquor. i was determined to satisfy my appetite, and with this purpose subjugating every other, i went on to lewisville, where i remained for more than a week, drinking day and night. finally one of my brothers, hearing of my whereabouts, came after me and took me home. i was so completely exhausted the moment that the liquor began to die out that i had to go to bed, and there i remained for some time. after such debauches the physical suffering is intense and great; but it is little in comparison with the tortures of the mind. after such a spree as the one just mentioned, it has generally been out of my power to sleep for a week or longer after getting sober. i have tossed for hours and nights upon a bed of remorse, and had hell with all its flames burning in my heart and brain. often have i prayed for death, and as often, when i thought the final hour had come, have i shrunk back from the mysterious shadow in which flesh has no more motion. often have i felt that i would lose my reason forever, but after a period of madness, nature would be merciful and restore me my lost senses. often have i pressed my hands tightly over my mouth, fearing that i would scream, and as often would a low groan sound in my blistered throat, the pent up echo of a long maniacal wail. often have i contemplated suicide, but as often has some benign power held back my desperate hand; once, indeed, i tried to force the gates of death by an attempt to take my own life, but, heaven be forever praised! i did not succeed, for the knife refused to cut as deep as i would have had it. i thought i would be justifiable in throwing off by any means such a load of horror and pain as i was weighed down with. who would not escape from misery if he could? i argued. if the grave, self-sought, would hide every error, blot out every pang, and shield from every storm, why not seek it? they have in certain lands of the tropics a game which the people are said to watch with absorbing interest. it is this: a scorpion is caught. with cruel eagerness the boys and girls of the street assemble and place the reptile on a board, surrounded with a rim of tow saturated with some inflammable spirit. this ignited, the torture of the scorpion begins. maddened by the heat, the detested thing approaches the fiery barrier and attempts to find some passage of escape, but vain the endeavor! it retreats toward the center of the ring, and as the heat increases and it begins to writhe under it, the children cry out with pleasure--a cry in which, i fancy, there is a cadence of the sound which sends a thrill of delight through hell--the sound of exultation which rises from the tongues of bigots when the martyr's soul mounts upward from the flames in which his body is consumed. again the scorpion attempts to escape, and again it is turned back by that impassable barrier of fire. the shouts of the children deepen. at last, finding that there is no way by which to fly, the hated thing retreats to the center of its flaming prison and stings itself to death. then it is that the exultation of the crowd of cruel tormentors is most loudly expressed. but do not infer from what i have said that i look with favor on suicide under any circumstances. that i do not do, but i would have you look at society and some of its victims. see what barriers of flame are often thrown around poor, despairing, miserable men! listen to that indifference and condemnation, and this wail of agony! can you wonder that the outcast abandons hope and plunges the knife into his heart? he is driven to madness, and feeling that all is lost, he commits an act which does indeed lose everything for him, for it bars the gates of heaven against him. before he had nothing on earth; now he has nothing in paradise. alas for those who triumph over the fall of a fellow creature. god have mercy on those who exult over the wretchedness of a victim of alcohol! woe to those who ridicule his efforts to escape, and who mock him when he fails. do they not help to shape for him the dagger of self-destruction? what ingredients of poison do they not mix with the fatal drink which deprives him of breath? with what threads do they strengthen the rope with which he hangs himself! where should the most blame rest, where does it most rest in the eyes of god--with society which drives him forth a depraved and friendless creature? or with himself no longer accountable for his acts? o the agony of feeling that on the whole face of the earth there is not a face that will look upon you in kindness, nor a heart that will throb with compassion at sight of your misery! i know what this agony is, for in my darkest hours i have looked for pity and strained my ears to catch the tones of a kindly voice in vain. but let me hasten to say, lest i be misunderstood, that since i commenced to lecture, i have had the support and active help of thousands of the very best men and women in the land. i doubt that there was ever a man in calamity trying to escape from terrors worse than those of death who had more aid than has been extended to me. could prayers and tears lift one out of misfortune and wretchedness i would long ago have stood above all the tribulations of my life. i desire to have every man and woman that has bestowed kindness on me, if only a word or look, know that i remember such kindness, and that i long to prove that it was not thrown away. every day there rises before me numberless faces i have met from time to time, each beautiful with the love, sympathy, and pity which elevates the human into the divine. there are others, i regret to say, that pass before me with dark looks and scowls. i know them well, for they have sought to discourage and drag me down. their tongues have been quick to condemn and free to vilify me. i seek no revenge on them. i forgive as wholly and freely as i hope to be forgiven. may god soften their tiger hearts and melt their hyena souls. chapter ix. the ever-recurring spell--writing in the sand--hartford city--in the ditch--extricated--fairly started--a telegram--my brother's death--sober--a long night--ride home--palpitation of the heart--bluffton--the inevitable--delirium again--no friends, money, nor clothes--one hundred miles from home--i take a walk--clinton county--engage to teach a school--the lobbies of hell--arrested--flight to the country--open school--a failure--return home--the beginning of a terrible experience--two months of uninterrupted drinking--coatless, hatless, and bootless--the "blue goose"--the tremens--inflammatory rheumatism--the torments of the damned--walking on crutches--drive to rushville--another drunk--pawn my clothes--at indianapolis--a cold bath--the consequence--teaching school--satisfaction given--the kindness of daniel baker and his wife--a paying practice at law. i was at all times unhappy, and hence i was always restless and discontented. i was continually striving for something that would at least give me contentment, but before i could establish myself in any thing the ever-recurring spell would seize me, and whatever confidence i had succeeded in gaining was swept away. i wrote in sand, and the incoming tide with a single dash annihilated the characters. during one of my uneasy wanderings i went to hartford city, indiana. hartford "city," like all other cities in the land, has a full supply of saloons. with a view of advertising myself i had my friends announce on the second day after my arrival that i would deliver a political speech. this speech was listened to by an immense crowd, and heartily praised by the party whose principles i advocated. i was puffed up with the enthusiasm of the people, and repaired with some of the local leaders to a saloon to take a drink in honor of the occasion. the drink taken by me as usual wrought havoc. i wanted more, as i always do when i take one drink, and i got more. i got more than enough, too, as i always do. on the way home with a gentleman whom i knew, i fell into a ditch, but was extricated with difficulty, and finally carried to the house of a friend. my clothes were wet and covered with mud. after sleeping awhile i got up and stole from the house very much as a thief would have sneaked away. i was fairly started on another spree, and for three weeks i drank heavily and constantly. sometime during the third week of my debauch i received a telegram stating that my brother was dead. the suddenness and terrible nature of the news caused me to become sober at once. it was just at twilight when i received the telegram, and there was no train until nine o'clock the next morning. that night seemed like an age to me. i never closed my eyes in sleep, but lay in my bed weak and terror-stricken, waiting for the morning. it came at last, for the longest night will end in day. i got on the train and sat down by a window. i was so weak and nervous that i could not hold a cup in my hand. but i wanted no more liquor. the terrible news of the previous day had frightened away all desire for drink. i had not ridden far when i was seized with palpitation of the heart. the sudden cessation from all stimulants had left my system in a condition to resist nothing, and when my heart lost its regular action, the chances were that i could not survive. all day i drew my breath with painful difficulty, and thought that each respiration would be the last. i raised the car window and put out my head so that the rushing air would strike my face, and this revived me. when i got home my brother was buried. i had left him a few days before in good health and proud in his strength. i returned to find him hidden forever from my sight by the remorseless grave. what i felt and suffered no one knew, nor can ever know. every night for weeks i could see my brother in life, but the cold reality of death came back to me with the light of day. i was stunned and almost crazed by the blow, and yet there were not wanting persons who, incapable of a deep pang of sorrow, said that i did not care. could they have been made to suffer for one night the agony which i endured for weeks they would learn to feel for the miseries of others, and at the same time have a knowledge of what sufferings the human heart is capable. my next move was to bluffton, wells county, indiana, where i arranged to go into the practice of the law. but here at bluffton, as elsewhere, were the devil's recruiting offices--the saloons--and the first night after i reached the town i got drunk. i remained in bluffton until i got over the debauch, which embraced a siege of the delirium tremens more horrible than that already described. when i came to myself, i determined that i would go home. i was without money; i had no friends in bluffton, and but few clothes to my back, and it was over one hundred miles to my father's, but i started on foot and walked the whole way. i stayed quietly at home a few days, and then went to howard and clinton counties on business, which was to make some collections on notes for other parties. while in clinton county i engaged to teach a district school, and in order to begin at the time specified by the trustees, i returned home to get ready. i started to return to clinton county on friday, so as to be there to open school on the following monday. i got off the train at indianapolis, and went into one of the numerous lobbies of hell near the depot. it was a week from that evening before i was sober enough to realize where i was, who i was, where i had come from, and whither i had started. i could hardly believe it possible that i had fallen again, but there was no doubt of the fact. i had been arrested and had pawned my trunk to get money to pay my fine. to this day i don't know why i was arrested, but for being drunk, i suppose. i fled from the city, and walked thirty miles into the country, where i borrowed enough money of a friend to redeem my trunk. i then started for my school. notwithstanding i was one week behind, the trustees were still expecting me, and on monday morning, one week later than the time appointed at first, i opened school. but i was so worn out and confused in my faculties that at noon i was forced to dismiss the school. i hurried from the house to a small village in the neighborhood and there i got more liquor. the next morning i left for home. such a condition of affairs was lamentable and damnable, but i was powerless to make it better. i have often wondered what the people of that neighborhood thought when they found that i had taken a cargo of whisky and disappeared as mysteriously as i came. if the young idea shot forth at all during that season among the children of that district it was directed by other hands than mine. i never sent in a bill for the sixty-two and a half cents due me for that half day's work. if the good people of clinton will consent to call the matter even, i will here and now relinquish every possible claim, right, or title to the aforesaid amount. they have probably long since forgotten the school which was not taught, and the pedagogue who did not teach. i arrived at home in course of time, and remained there a few days. it was not long until my restless disposition drove me forth in search of some new adventure, and now comes the brief and imperfect recital of the most terrible experiences of my life. on the first of july i began to drink, and it was not until the first of september that i quit. during this time i went to cincinnati twice, once to kentucky, and twice to lafayette. i traveled nearly all the time, and much of the time i was in an unconscious state. i started from home with two suits of clothes which i pawned for whisky after my money was all gone. i arrived at knightstown one day without coat, vest or hat. i was also barefooted. a friend supplied me with these necessary articles, and as soon as i put them on i went to a saloon kept by peter stoff, and there i staid four days without venturing out on the street. as soon as i was able, i took up my journey homeward. when i got to raleigh i was so completely worn out that i dropped down in a shoe shop and saloon, both of which were in the same compartment of a building. that night i took the tremens. the next day my father came after me in a spring wagon, and hauled me home. for the most part, during the two months of which i speak, i had slept out doors, without even a dog for company, and i contracted slight cold and fever, which terminated in an attack of inflammatory rheumatism in my left knee. the rheumatism came on in an instant, and without any previous warning. the first intimation i had of it was a keen pain, such as i imagine would follow a knife if thrust through the centre of the knee. when the doctor reached the house my knee had swollen enormously. i was burning up with a violent fever, and was wild with delirium. he at once blistered a hole in each side of my knee, and applied sedatives. my suffering was literally that of the damned. i lay upon my back for days and nights on a small lounge, without sleeping a wink, so great was my suffering. for forty-eight hours my eyes were rolled upward and backward in my head in a set and terrible rigidity. in my delirium, i thought my room was overran by rats. i tried to fight them off as they came toward me, but when i thought they were gone i could detect them stealing under my lounge, and presently they would be gnawing at my knee, and every time one of them touched me, a thrill of unearthly horror shot through me. they tore off pieces of my flesh, and i could see these pieces fall from their bloody jaws. no pen could describe my sickening and revolting sensations of horror and agony. for sixty days did i lie upon my back on that couch, unable to turn on either side, or move in any way, without suffering a thousand deaths. i experienced as much pain as ever was felt by any mortal being, and it is still a wonder to me how i survived. i was, on more than one occasion, believed to be dead by my friends, and they wrapped me in the winding sheet. even then i was conscious of what they were doing, and yet i was unable to move a muscle, or speak, or groan. a horrible fear came over me that they would bury me alive. i seemed to die at the thought, but, had mountains been heaped upon me, it would have been as easy for me to show that i was not dead. but i would gradually regain the power of articulation, and then again would hope rise in the hearts of those who were watching. at last, but slowly, i recovered sufficiently to be able to leave my room. i procured a pair of crutches, and by their aid i could go about the house. next i went out riding in a buggy, and after a time got so that i could walk without difficulty, though not without my crutches, for i did not yet dare to bear weight on my afflicted knee. one day i went to rushville, and--o, curse of curses!--gave way to my appetite. the moment the whisky began to affect me, i forgot that i had crutches, and set my lame leg down with my whole weight upon it. the sudden and agonizing pain caused me to give a scream, and yet i repeated the step a number of times. but the insufferable pain caused me to return home. it was now winter. the legislature was in session at indianapolis, and i was promised a position, and, with this end in view, packed my trunk and bid good-by to the folks at home. at shelbyville, at which place i had a little business to attend to, i took a drink. just how and why i took it has been already told, for the same cause always influenced me. the same result followed, and at indianapolis i kept up the debauch until i had traded a suit of clothes worth sixty dollars for one worth, at a liberal estimate, about sixty-five cents. i even pawned my crutches, which i still used and still needed. one day i went to a bath-room, and after remaining in the bath for half an hour, with the water just as warm as i could bear it, i resolved to change the programme, and, without further reflection, i turned off the warm and turned on water as cold as ice could make it. it almost caused my death. in an instant every pore of my body was closed, and i was as numb as one would be if frozen. even my sight was destroyed for a few minutes, but i contrived to get out of the bath and put on my rags. i found my way, with some difficulty, to the union depot, and boarded a train, but i did not notice that it was not the train i wanted to travel on until it was too late for me to correct the mistake. i went to zionsville, and lay there three days under the charge of two physicians. i then started again to go home, expecting to die at any moment. at last i reached falmouth, and was carried to my father's, where i passed two weeks in suffering only equaled by that which i had already borne. on again recovering my health, i began to look about for something to do, and hearing of a vacant school east of falmouth, and about four miles from my father's, i made application and was employed to teach it. it is with pride (which, after the record of so many failures, i trust will readily be pardoned) that i chronicle the fact that from the beginning to the end of the term i never tasted liquor. i look back to those months as the happiest of my life. i did what is seldom done, for in addition to keeping sober (which i believe most teachers do without an effort), i gave complete satisfaction to every parent, and pleased and made friends with every scholar (a thing, i believe, that most teachers do not do). very bright and vivid in memory are those days, made more radiant by contrast with the darkness and degradation which lie before and after them. as i dwell upon them a ray of their calm light steals into my soul, and the faces of my loved scholars come out of the intervening darkness and smile upon me, until, for a brief moment, i forget my barred window, the mad-house, and my desolation, and fancy that i am again with them. i boarded with daniel baker, and can never forget his own and his good wife's kindness. at the close of my school i was in better health and spirits than i had ever before been. i began to feel that there was still a chance for me to redeem the losses of the past, and i can not describe how happy the thought made me. i again began the practice of law, and for six months i devoted myself to my duties. i had a large and paying practice, and not once but often was i engaged in cases where my fees amounted to from fifty to one hundred dollars, and once i received two hundred and fifty dollars. i will further say that my clients felt that they were paying me little enough in each case, considering the service i rendered them. but during the latter part of the time i suffered much from low spirits and nervousness, and my desire for whisky almost drove me wild at times. i fought this appetite again and again with desperate determination, and how the contest would have finally ended i can not say had i not been taken down sick. the physician who was sent for prescribed some brandy, and on his second visit he brought half of a pint of it, to be taken with other medicine in doses of one tablespoonful at intervals of two hours. i followed his directions with care, so far as the first dose was concerned, but if the reader supposes that i waited two hours for another tablespoonful of that brandy he does my appetite gross injustice. neither would i have him suppose that i confined the second dose to a tablespoon. i waited until my friends withdrew, making some excuse about wanting to be alone in order to get them to go out at once, and then i got out of bed and swallowed the remainder of that brandy at a gulp. a desperate and uncontrollable desire for the poison had possession of me, and beneath it my resolutions were crushed and my will helplessly manacled. i slipped out of the room at the first opportunity, and managed to get a buggy in which i drove off to falmouth where i immediately bought a quart of whisky. this i drank in an incredibly short space of time, and after that--after that--well, you can imagine what took place after that. would to god that i could erase the recollection of it from my mind! days and weeks of drunkenness; days and weeks of degradation; money spent; clothes pawned and lost; business neglected; friends alienated; and peace and happiness annihilated by the fell, merciless, hell-born fiend--alcohol! so much for a half pint of brandy prescribed by an able physician. the vilest and most deadly poison could scarcely have been worse. perhaps i was to blame--at least i have blamed myself--for not imploring the doctor in the name of everything holy not to prescribe any medicine containing a drop of intoxicating liquor. but i was sick and weak, and my appetite rose in its strength at mention of the word brandy, and when i would have spoken it palsied my tongue. i could not resist. the inevitable was upon me. down, down, down i went, lower and ever lower. down, into the darkness of desperation!--down, into the gulf of ruin!--down, where shame, and sin, and misery cry to fallen souls--"stay! abide with us!" i felt now that all i had gained was lost, and that there was nothing more for me to hope for. the destroying devil had swept away everything. i was no longer a man. behold me cowering before my race and begging the pitiful sum of ten cents with which to buy one more drink--begging for it, moreover, as something far more precious than life. i resorted then, as many times since, to every means in order to get that which would, and yet would not, satisfy my insatiate thirst. no one is likely to contradict me when i say that i know of more ways to get whisky, when out of money and friends, (although no true friend would ever give me whisky, especially to start on) than any other living man, and i sincerely doubt if there is one among the dead who could give me any information on the subject. had i as persistently applied myself to my profession, and resorted to half as many tricks and ways to gain my clients' cases, it would have been out of the range of probability for my opponents to ever defeat me. i might have had a practice which would have required the aid of a score or more partners. i understand very well that such statements as this are not likely to exalt me in the reader's estimation, but i started out to tell the truth, and i shall not shrink from the recital of anything that will prejudice my readers against the enemy that i hate. i could sacrifice my life itself, if thereby i might slay the monster. chapter x. the "baxter law"--its injustice--appetite is not controlled by legislation--indictments--what they amount to--"not guilty"--the indianapolis police--the rushville grand jury--start home afoot--fear--the coming head-light--a desire to end my miserable existence--"now is the time"--a struggle in which life wins--flight across the fields--bathing in dew--hiding from the officers--my condition--prayer--my unimaginable sufferings--advised to lecture--the time i began to lecture. it has been but a few years since the legislature of indiana passed what is known as the "baxter liquor law." among the provisions of that law was one which declared that "any person found drunk in a public place should be fined five dollars for every such offense, and be compelled to tell where he got his liquor." it was further declared that if the drunkard failed to pay his fine, etc., he should be imprisoned for a certain number of days or weeks. this had no effect on the drunkard, unless it was to make his condition worse. appetite is a thing which can not be controlled by a law. it may be restrained through fear, so long as it is not stronger than a man's will, but where it controls and subordinates every other faculty it would be useless to try to eradicate or restrain it by legislation. when a man's appetite is stronger than he is, it will lead him, and if it demands liquor it will get it, no matter if five hundred baxter laws threatened the drunkard. man, powerless to resist, gives way to appetite; he gets drunk; he is poor and has no money to pay his fine; the court tells him to go to jail until an outraged law is vindicated. in the meantime the man has a wife and (it may be) children; they suffer for bread. the poor wife still clings to her husband and works like a slave to get money to pay his fine. she starves herself and children in order to buy his freedom. you will say: "the man had no business to get drunk." but that is not the point. he needs something very different from a baxter law to save him from the power of his appetite. besides, the law is unjust. the rich man may get just as drunk as the poor man, and may be fined the same, but what of that? five dollars is a trifle to him, so he pays it and goes on his way, while his less fortunate brother is kicked into a loathsome cell. there never has been, never can, and never will be a law enacted that prevent men from drinking liquor, especially those in whom there is a dominant appetite for it. the idea of licensing men to sell liquor and punishing men for drinking it is monstrous. to be sure, they are not punished for drinking it in moderation, but no man can be moderate who has such an appetite as i have. why license men to sell liquor, and then punish others for drinking it? what sort of sense or justice is there in it, anyhow? there is a double punishment for the drunkard, and none for the liquor-seller. the sufferings consequent on drinking are extreme, and no punishment that the law can inflict will prevent the drunkard from indulging in strong drink if his own far greater and self-inflicted punishment is of no avail. when a man has become a drunkard his punishment is complete. think of law makers enacting and making it lawful, in consideration of a certain amount of money paid to the state, for dealers in liquors to sell that which carries darkness, crime, and desolation with it wherever it goes! the silver pieces received by judas for betraying his master were honestly gotten gain compared with the blood money which the license law drops into the state's treasury--license money. what money can weigh in the balance and not be found wanting where starved and innocent children, broken-hearted mothers and sisters, and deserted, weeping wives are in the scale against it? mothers, look on this law licensing this traffic, and then if you do not like it cease to bring forth children with human passions and appetites, and let only angels be born. after the passage of this law making drunkenness an offense to be fined, i had all the law practice i could attend to in keeping myself out of its meshes and penalties. it kept me busy to avoid imprisonment--for i was drunk nearly all the time. i was indicted twenty-two times. but it is fair to say that in a majority of cases these indictments were found by men in sympathy with me, and whose chief object in having me arrested was to punish the men who sold me liquor. another mistake! it is next to impossible to get a drunkard to tell where he got his liquor. half the time he himself does not know where he got it. i never indicted a saloon keeper in my life. the sale of liquor has been legalized, and so long as that is the case i would blame no man for refusing to tell where he got his liquor. a law that permits an appetite for whisky to be formed, and then punishes its victim after money, health, and reputation are all gone, is a barbarous injustice. instead of making a law that liquor shall not be sold to drunkards, better enact a law that it shall be sold only to drunkards. then when the present generation of drunkards has passed away, there will be no more. i succeeded in escaping from the penalty of the indictments found against me. i plead, in most instances, my own case, and once or twice, when so drunk that i could not stand up without a chair to support me, i succeeded by resorting to some of the many tricks known to the legal fraternity, in wringing from the jury a verdict of "not guilty." but all this was anything but amusing. i have never made my sides sore laughing about it. the memory of it does not wreath my face in smiles. it is madness to think of it. i lived in a state of perpetual dread. when in indianapolis the sight of the police filled me with fear. and here a word concerning the indianapolis police. there are, doubtless, in the force some strictly honorable, true, and kind-hearted men--and these deserve all praise. but, if accounts speak true, there are others who are more deserving the lash of correction than many whom they so brutally arrest. need they be told that they have no right to kick, or jerk, or otherwise abuse an unresisting victim? are they aware of the fact that the fallen are still human, and that, as guardians of the peace, they are bound to yet be merciful while discharging their duties? i have heard of more than one instance where men, and even women, were treated on and before arriving at the station house as no decent man would treat a dog. such policemen are decidedly more interested in the extra pay they get on each arrest than in serving the best interests of the community. many a poor man has been arrested when slightly intoxicated, and driven to desperation by the brutality of the police, that, under charitable and kind treatment, would have been saved. and i wish to ask a civilized and christian people, if it is just the thing to take a man afflicted with the terrible disease of drunkenness, and thrust him into a loathsome, dirty cell? would it not be not only more human, but also more in accord with the spirit of our intelligent and liberal age, to convey him to a hospital? i leave the discussion of this subject to other and abler hands. at one time the grand jury at rushville met and found a number of indictments against me. i was drunk at the time, but by some means learned that an officer had a writ to arrest me. i started at once to go to my father's. i was without means to get a conveyance, and so i started afoot out the jeffersonville railroad. i had then been drunk about one month, and was bordering on delirium tremens. after walking a mile or more, my boot rubbed my foot so that i drew it off and walked on barefooted. my feelings can not be imagined. fear and terror froze my blood. the night came on dark and dismal, and a flood of bitter, wretched thoughts swept over me, crushing me to the earth. before me in the distance appeared the head-light of an engine. it seemed to look at me like a demon's eye, and beckon me on to destruction. i heard voices which whispered in my ears--"now is the time." a shudder crept over me. should i end my miserable existence? i knew that a train of cars was coming. i could lie down on the track, and no one would ever know but i had been accidentally killed. then i thought of my father, and brothers, and sisters, and as a glimpse of their suffering entered my mind, i felt myself held back. a great struggle went on between life and death. it ended in favor of life, and i fled from the railroad. i soon lost my way and wandered blindly over the fields and through the woods all that night. i was perishing for liquor when daylight came. in order to assuage my burning appetite i climbed over a fence, and, picking up a dirty, rusty wash-pan which had been thrown away, i drank a quart of water which i dipped from a horse-trough. my skin was dry and parched, and my blood was in a blaze. when i came to grassy plots i lay down and bathed my face in the cold dew, and also bared my arms and moistened them in the cool, damp grass. when the sun came up over the eastern tree-tops i found that i was about ten miles from rushville. after stumbling on for some time longer i found my way to henry lord's, a farmer with whom i was acquainted. he gave me a room in which i lay hidden from the officers for two days and nights. from this place i went to my father's, and although the officers came there two or three times, i escaped arrest. it is impossible to give the reader the faintest idea of my condition. without money, clothes, or friends, an outcast, hunted like a wild beast, i had only one thing left--my horrible appetite, at all times fierce and now maddening in the extreme. my hands trembled, my face was bloated, and my eyes were bloodshot. i had almost ceased to look like a human. hope had flown from me, and i was in complete despair. i moved about over my father's farm like one walking in sleep, the veriest wretch on the face of the earth. my real condition not unfrequently pressed upon me until, in an agony of desperation, i would put my swollen hands over my worse than bloated face and groan aloud, while tears scalding hot streamed down over my fingers and arms. i staid at home a number of days. at first i had no thought of quitting drink. i was too crazed in mind to think clearly on any subject. after two or three days, i became very nervous for lack of my accustomed stimulants; then i got so restless that i could not sleep, and for nights together i scarcely closed my aching eyes. long as the days seemed, the nights were longer still. at the end of two weeks i began to have a more clear or less muddied conception of my condition, and a faint hope came to me that i might yet conquer the appetite which was taking me through utter ruin of body, to the eternal death of body and soul. the reader must not think that i thought i could by my own strength save myself. i prayed often and fervently. however strange it may sound it is nevertheless true, that, notwithstanding the degraded life i have lived, i have covered it with prayer as with a garment, and with as sincere prayer, too, as ever rose from the lips of pain and sin. my unimaginable sufferings have impelled me to seek earnestly for an escape from the torments which go out beyond the grave. none can ever be made to realize how much pain and agony i experienced during these first weeks i spent at home and abstained from liquor, nor can any know how much i resisted. at that time i had not the least thought of lecturing. many times, when getting over a spree, i had, in the presence of people, given expression to the agonies that were consuming me, and at such times i did not fail to pay my respects to alcohol in a way (the only way) it deserves. my friends advised me to lecture on temperance, and i now began to think of their words. was it my duty to go forth and tell the world of the horrors of intemperance, and warn all people to rise against this great enemy? if so, i would gladly do it. i began to prepare a lecture. it would help me to pass away the time, if nothing more came of it. it has been nearly four years since i delivered that lecture. i will give a history of my first effort and succeeding ones, with what was said about me, in the next chapter. chapter xi. my first lecture--a cold and disagreeable evening--a fair audience--my success--lecture at fairview--the people turn out en masse--at rushville--dread of appearing before the audience--hesitation--i go on the stage and am greeted with applause--my fright--i throw off my father's old coat and stand forth--begin to speak, and soon warm to my subject--i make a lecture tour--four hundred and seventy lectures in indiana--attitude of the press--the aid of the good--opposition and falsehood--unkind criticism--tattle mongers--ten months of sobriety--my fall--attempt to commit suicide--inflict an ugly but not dangerous wound on myself--ask the sheriff to lock me in the jail--renewed effort--the campaign of ' --"local option." i delivered my first lecture at raleigh, the scene of many of my most disgraceful debauches and most lamentable misfortunes. the evening announced for my lecture was unpropitious. late in the afternoon a cold, disagreeable rain set in, and lasted until after dark. the roads were muddy, and in places nearly impassable. i did not expect on reaching the hall, or school house, or church in which i was to speak, to find much of an audience, but i was agreeably disappointed; for while the house was by no means "packed," there was still a fair audience. raleigh had turned out en masse, men, women and children. i suppose they were curious to hear what i had to say, and they heard it if i am not much in error. i was much embarrassed when i first began to speak--more so than i have ever been since, even when in the presence of thousands. i did the best i could, and the audience expressed very general satisfaction. i think some of my statements astounded them a trifle, but they soon recovered and listened with profound and respectful attention. my next appointment was at fairview. here, as at raleigh, i had often been seen during some of my wild sprees, and here, as at raleigh, the people came out in force to hear me. i improved on my first lecture, i think, and felt emboldened to make a more ambitious effort. i settled on rushville as the next most desirable place to afflict, and made arrangements to deliver my lecture there. a number of the best young men in the town of the class that never used liquor, but who had always sympathized with me, went without my consent or knowledge to the ministers of the different churches, and had them announce that on the next monday evening luther benson, "the reformed drunkard," would lecture in the court house. i was nervous from the want of my accustomed stimulants, and the added dread of appearing before an audience before whose members i had so many times covered myself with shame, and in whose court house--the very place in which i was to speak--i had been several times indicted for violations of the law, almost caused me to break my engagement. while still hesitating on what course to take, whether to go before the audience or go home and hang myself, the dreaded monday evening came, and with it came my friends to escort me to the stage, which had been extemporized for me. i waited until the last moment before entering the room. on making my appearance i was greeted with applause, but instead of reassuring me, it frightened me almost out of my wits. however, it was too late to retreat, and so making up my mind to die, if necessary, on the spot, or succeed, i hastily threw off my father's old and threadbare overcoat (i had none of my own) and stood forth in a full dress coat, which showed much ill treatment, and immediately began my lecture. as i warmed to my work, and got interested, i forgot my embarrassment and talked with ease and volubility. i did not fail, in proof of which i have only to add that on the following day i met ben. l. smith on the street, and on the strength of my lecture, he went my security for a respectable coat and pair of boots. from rushville i started on a lecture tour, taking in dublin, connersville, cambridge city, shelbyville, knightstown, newcastle, and other places. by degrees i widened the field of my lectures until it embraced the whole of indiana and parts of many other states. in a little more than three years i have spoken publicly four hundred and seventy times in indiana alone. from the very first i have been warmly and generously supported by the press. there have been exceptions in the case of a few papers, but they were only the exceptions. since my first effort to reform, all good people have aided me. but from the very first i have had to fight opposition and falsehood. i have been accused of being drunk when i was sober, and outrageous falsehoods have been told about me when the truth would have been bad enough. after i had got fairly started to lecture i had always one object paramount, and that was to save myself from the drunkard's terrible fate and doom. after a short time men who drank would come to me and congratulate me, saying that i had opened their eyes, and that from that day forward they would drink no more liquor. mothers, wives, and sisters, who had sons, husbands, and brothers that indulged in the fatal habit, came to me and encouraged me by telling me how much good i had done them. i began to feel a strong additional motive to lecture and save others. and here i wish to say that my efforts to save all men whom i met that were in danger (and all are in danger who touch liquor in any form) of the curse, have been the cause of much unkind criticism. people have said: "o, well, we don't believe benson is in earnest. he don't seem to try very hard to quit drinking himself. he doesn't keep the right sort of company," and so on. this was the language of men who never drank. i have had drinking men by the score come to me with tears in their eyes, and beg to know if there was any escape from the curse. since taking the lecture field i have paid out in actual money over a thousand dollars to aid men and families in trouble caused by the use of liquor. i have the first one yet to turn away when i had anything to give. i have more than once robbed myself to aid others. oftentimes my labor and money have been thrown away, but i have the satisfaction of knowing that i did my duty. in some cases, thank heaven! i have cause to know that my efforts were not in rain. for ten months from the time i quit drinking and began to lecture, i averaged one lecture a day. i lived on the work and its excitement, making it take, as far as possible, the place of alcohol. i learned too late that this was the very worst thing i could have done. i was all the time expending the very strength i so much needed for the restoration of my shattered system. for ten months, lacking two days, i fought my appetite for whisky day and night. i waged a continued, never-ceasing, never-ending battle, with what earnestness and desire to conquer the god to whom i so fervently prayed all that time alone knows, and he alone knows the agony of my conflicts. i dreamed that i was wildly drunk night after night, and i would rise from my bed in the morning more weary than when, tired and worn out from overwork, i sought rest. the horror of such dreams can be known only to those who have experienced them. the shock to my nervous system from a sudden and complete cessation of the use of all stimulating drinks was of itself a fearful thing to encounter. i was often so nervous that, for nights at a time, i got little or no sleep. the least noise would cause me to tremble with fear. i suffered all the while more than any can ever know, save those who have gone through the same hell. the manners and actions often induced by my sufferings and an abiding sense of my afflictions not infrequently militated against me. it has often been said: "he acts very strangely--must have been drinking." again: "i believe he uses opium." these assertions may have been honestly made, but they were none the less utterly false. if people could only know just how much the drunkard suffers; how sad, lonesome, gloomy and wretched he feels while trying to resist the accursed appetite which is destroying him, they would never taunt him with doubts, nor go to him, as i have had men, and even women, come to me (i say "men and women," but they were neither men nor women, but libels on men and women), and say that this or that person had said that that or this person had heard some other person tell another person that he, she, or it believed that i, luther benson, had been drinking on such and such an occasion; or that some one told mr. b., who told miss x.t. that j.b. had said to madam z. that such and such a one had actually told t.y. that o.m.u. had seen three men who had heard of four other men who said they could find two women who had overheard a man say that he had seen a man who had seen me with two men that had a bottle of something which he felt pretty sure was robinson county whisky. therefore b. was drunk! these things had the effect on me that this account will probably have on the reader--they annoyed me exceedingly at times. at times the falsehoods were more malicious still, causing me many sleepless hours. at the end of ten months of complete sobriety, during which i never tasted any stimulant--ten months of constant struggle and determined effort--i fell. alas, that i am compelled to write the sad words! i had broken down my strength; my mental and physical energies gave way, and my appetite had wrapped itself as a flaming fire about me, consuming me in its heat. i commenced drinking at charlottsville, henry county, and went from there to knightstown on a saturday evening. on the following monday i went to indianapolis drunk, and there got "dead drunk." my friends in rushville, hearing of my misfortune, came after me and took me with them to that place, where i remained utterly oblivious until the next sunday, when, by some means--i have no knowledge how--i got on an early train that was passing through rushville, and went as far as columbus, where i got off, and soon succeeded in getting a quart of liquor. between the hour of my arrival at columbus and night i drank three bottles of whisky. that night i returned to rushville, and while mad with liquor, made an attempt on my life by cutting my throat. well for me that my knife was dull and did not penetrate to the jugular artery. the wound self-inflicted was an ugly but not dangerous one. i kept on drinking for a week or more, until i found that it was utterly out of my power to resist drinking so long as i remained in a place where i could see, or buy, or beg whisky. i finally went to the sheriff and asked him to lock me up in jail, which i finally persuaded him to do. once in jail i tried in vain to get more liquor. i remained there until the fierce fires of my appetite smouldered once more, and then i was released. i lay in bed sick several days at this time, sick in mind, soul, and body. i felt that for me there was nothing left. i had descended to the lowest depths. i was forever ruined and undone. many who had said that i would not or could not stop drinking seemed to be delighted over my terrible misfortune. the smile with which they would say, "i told you so!" was devilish and fiendish. but many friends gathered about me and cheered me with hope that by renewed effort i might rise again. well and truly did a great english poet, campbell, i believe, say:-- "hope springs eternal in the human heart." i determined once more that i would not give up, i would fight my tireless enemy while a breath of life or an atom of reason remained in my being. it was now july, . an exciting political campaign was coming off, the main issue was "local option." i took the side and became an advocate of local option, and until the election in october, averaged one speech per day, frequently traveling all night in order to meet my engagements. that campaign broke me down completely, and on the first of november i again yielded, after a prolonged and desperate struggle, to the powers of my sleepless and tireless adversary. so terrible were the consequences of this fall that in the hope of preventing others from ever indulging in the ruinous habit which led to it, i wrote out and published a full account of it under the title of "luther benson's struggle for life." inasmuch as this book will be incomplete without it, i will embody that brochure in the next chapter, so that those who have never read it may now do so, if they desire. chapter xii. struggle for life--a cry of warning--"why don't you quit?"--solitude, separation, banishment--no quarter asked--the rumseller--a risk no man should incur--the woman's temperance convention at indianapolis--at richmond--the bloated druggist--"death and damnation"--at the galt house--the three distinct properties of alcohol--ten days in cincinnati--the delirium tremens--my horrible sufferings--the stick that turned to a serpent--a world of devils--flying in dread--i go to connersville, indiana--my condition grows worse--hell, horrors, and torments--the horrid sights of a drunkard's madness. depraved and wretched is he who has practiced vice so long that he curses it while he yet clings to it; who pursues it because he feels a terrible power driving him on toward it, but, reaching it, knows that it will gnaw his heart, and make him roll himself in the dust. thus it has been, and thus it is, with me. the deep, surging waters have gone over me. but out of their awful, black depths, could i be heard, i would cry out to all who have just set a foot in the perilous flood. for i am not one of those who, if they themselves must die the death most terrible and appalling of all others, would drag or even persuade one other soul to accompany them. but as the oblivious waves are surging about me, and as i try to brave and buffet them, i would cry to others not to come to me. when but just gasping and throwing up my hand for the last time, it would not be to clutch, but, if possible, to push back to safety. could the youth who has just begun to taste wine, and the young man his first drink--to whom it is as delicious as the opening scenes of a visionary life, or the entering into some newly-discovered paradise where scenes of undimmed glory burst upon his vision--but see the end of all that, and what comes after, by looking into my desolation, and be made to understand what a dark and dreary thing it is for a man to be made to feel that he is going over a precipice with his eyes wide open, with a will that has lost power to prevent it; could he see my hot, fevered cheeks, bloodshot eyes, bloated face, swollen fingers, bruised and wounded body; could he feel the body of the death out of which i cry hourly, with feebler and feebler outcry, to be delivered; could he know how a constant wail comes up and out from my bleeding heart, and begs and pleads with a great agony to be delivered from this awful demon, drink; could these truths but go home to the hearts and minds of the young men of the land; could they feel for but one single moment what i am compelled to live, and battle, and endure day in, and day out, until the days drag themselves into weeks that seem like months, and months that seem like years, striving all the time, a living, walking, talking death, and cares, pleasures, and joys, all gone, yet compelled to endure and live, or rather die, on; could every young man feel these things as i am compelled to feel and bear them, it seems to me that it would be enough to make them, while they yet have the power to do it, dash the sparkling damnation to the earth in all the pride of its mantling temptation. at the very threshold of blooming manhood i found myself subject to all the disadvantages which mankind, if they reflected upon them, would hesitate to impose upon acknowledged guilt. in every human countenance i feared to find an enemy. i shrank from the vigilance of human eyes. i dared not open my heart to the best affections of our nature, for a drunkard is supposed to have no love. i was shut up within my own desolation--a deserted, solitary wretch in the midst of my species. i dared not look for the consolation of friendship, for a drunkard is always the subject of suspicion and distrust, and is not supposed to be possessed of those finer feelings that find men as friends. thus, instead of identifying myself with the joys and sorrows of others, and exchanging the delicious gifts of confidential sympathy, i was compelled to shrink back and listen to the horrid words, you are a drunkard--words the very mention or thought of which has ten thousand times carried despair to my heart, and made me gasp and pant for breath. thus it was at the very opening of life, and thus it ever has been, and thus it is to-day. i have struggled, and with streaming eyes tried to wrench the chains from my bruised and torn body. my weary and long-continued struggles led to no termination. termination! no! the lapse of time, that cures all other things, but makes my case more desperate. for there is no rest for me. whithersoever i remove myself, this detestable, hated, sleepless, never-tiring enemy is in my rear. what a dark, mysterious, unfeeling, unrelenting tyrant! is it come to this? when nero and caligula swayed the roman scepter, it was a fearful thing to offend the bloody rulers. the empire had already spread itself from climate to climate, and from sea to sea. if their unhappy victim fled to the rising of the sun, where the luminary of day seems to us first to ascend from the waves of the ocean, the power of the tyrant was still behind him; if he withdrew to the west, to hesperian darkness and the shores of barbarian thule, still he was not safe from his gore-drenched foe. rum! whisky! alcohol! fiend! monster! devil! art thou the offspring in whom the lineaments of these tyrants are faithfully preserved? was the world, with all its climates, made in vain for thy helpless, unoffending victim? to me the sun brings no return of day. day after day rolls on, and my state is immutable. existence is to me a scene of melancholy. every moment is a moment of anguish, with a trembling fear that the coming period will bring a severer fate. we talk of the instruments of torture, but there is more torture in the lingering existence of a man that is in the iron clutches of a monster that has neither eyes, nor ears, nor bowels of compassion; a venomous enemy that can never be turned into a friend; a silent, sleepless foe, that shuts out from the light of day, and makes its victim the associate of those whom society has marked for her abhorrence; a slave loaded with fetters that no power can break; cut off from all that existence has to bestow; from all the high hopes so often conceived; from all the future excellence the soul so much desires to imagine. no language can do justice to the indignant and soul-sickening loathing that these ideas excite. a thousand times i have longed for death, and wished, with an expressible ardor, for an end to what i suffered. a thousand times i have meditated suicide, and ruminated in my soul upon the different means of escaping from my load of existence. a thousand times in wretched bitterness i have asked myself, what have i to do with life? i have seen and felt enough to make me regard it with detestation. why should i wait the lingering process of an unfeeling tyrant that is slowly tearing me to pieces, and not dare so much as die but when and how the marble-hearted thing decrees? still, some inexplicable suggestion withheld my hand, and caused me to cling with desperate fondness to this shadow of existence, its mysterious attractions, and its hopeless prospects--appetite, fiendish thirst, a burning, ever-crying demand for a poison that is death, and for which a man will give his body and soul as a sacrifice to whoever will satisfy his imperious cravings. let this appetite entwine itself about a man, let it throw its iron arms about his bruised body, and he will curse the day he was born. but some one says, why don't you quit? just don't drink! in answer i would say, o god, give me poverty, shower upon me all the hardships of life, turn me a prey to the wild beasts of the desert, so i be never again the victim of rum. suffer me to call life and the pursuit of life my own, free from the appetite for alcohol, and i am willing to hold them at the mercy of the elements, the hunger of beasts, or the revenge of cold-blooded men. all of these, rather than the poison of the accursed cup. solitude! separation! banishment! these are words often in the mouths of human beings; but few men except myself have been permitted to feel the full latitude of their meaning. the pride of philosophy has taught us to treat man as an individual. he is no such thing. he holds, necessarily, indispensably, a relation to his species. he is like those twin births that have two heads and four hands, but if you attempt to detach them from each other, they are inevitably subjected to a miserable and lingering destruction. if a man wants to conceive a lively idea of the regions of the damned, just let him get himself in that condition that he is alone with an enemy while he is surrounded by society and his friends--an enemy that is like what has been described as the eye of omniscience pursuing the guilty sinner and darting a ray that awakens him to a new sensibility at the very moment that otherwise exhausted nature would lull him into a temporary oblivion of the reproaches of his conscience. no walls can hide me from the discernment of my hated foe. everywhere his industry in unwearied, to create for me new distress. never can i count upon an instant of security; never can i wrap myself in the shroud of oblivion. the minutes in which i do not actually perceive and feel my destroyer are contaminated and blasted with the certain expectation of speedy interference. thus it has been, and thus it is to-day, and with every returning day. tyrants have trembled, surrounded by whole armies of their janizaries. alcohol--venomous serpent! robber and reviler!--what should make thee inaccessible to my fury? i will unfold a tale! i will show thee to the world for what thou art, and all the men that read shall confess my truth! whisky--abhorrer of nature, the curse of the human species!--the earth can only be freed from an insupportable burden by thy extermination! rum--poisoner! destroyer! that spits venom all around, and leaves the ground infected with slime! accursed poison-makers and poison-dispensers!-- do you imagine that i am altogether passive; a mean worm, organized to feel sensations of pain, but having no emotion of resentment? did you imagine that there was no danger in inflicting on me pains, however great; miseries, however direful? do you believe me impotent, imbecile, and idiot-like, with no understanding to contrive my escape and thy ruin, and no energy to perpetrate it? i will tell the end of thy infernal works. the country, in justice, shall hear me. i would that i had the language of fire, that my words might glow, and burn, and drop like molten lava, that i might wipe you from the face of the earth, or persuade mankind to turn away and starve you to death. think you that i would regret the ruin that had overwhelmed you? too long i have been tender-hearted and forbearing. whisky, whisky sellers and whisky makers, traffickers and dealers in tears, blood, sin, shame, and woe!--ten thousand times you have dipped your bloody talons in my blood. there is no evil you have scrupled to accumulate upon me! neither will i be more scrupulous. you have shown me no mercy, and you shall receive none. let us look at the rumseller, that we may know what manner of man he is, and then ask if he deserves the pity, sympathy, or respect of society, or any part of it. viewed considerately, in the light of their respective motives, the drunkard is an innocent and honorable man in comparison with the retailer of drinks. the one yields under the impulse--it may be the torture--of appetite; the other is a cool, mercenary speculator, thriving on the frailties and vices of others. he is a man selling for gain what he knows to be worthless and pernicious; good for none, dangerous for all, and deadly to many. he has looked in the face the sure consequences of his course, and if he can but make gain of it, is prepared to corrupt the souls, embitter the lives, and blast the prosperity of an indefinite number of his fellow-creatures. by the selling of his poisons he sees that with terrible certainty, along with the havoc of health, lives, homes, and souls of men, he can succeed in setting afloat a certain vast amount of property, and that as it is thrown to the winds, some small share of it will float within his grasp. he knows that if men remain virtuous and thrifty, if these homes around him continue peaceful and joyous, his craft can not prosper. the injured old mothers, the wives, and the sisters are found where rum is sold. orphan children throng from hut and hovel, and lift their childish hands in supplication, asking at the hands of the guilty whisky sellers for those who rocked their cradles, and fed and loved them. the murderer, now sober and crushed, lifts his manacled hands, red with blood, and charges his ruin upon the men who crazed his brain with rum. the felon comes from his prison tomb, the pauper from his dark retreat, where the rumseller has driven him to seek an evening's rest and a pauper's grave. from ten thousand graves the sheeted dead stalk forth, and with eyeless sockets and bared teeth, grin most ghastly scorn at their destroyers. the lost float up in shadowy forms, and wail in whispered despair. angels turn weeping away, and god, upon his throne, looks in anger, and hurls a woe upon the hand which "putteth a bottle to his neighbor's lips to make him drunken." to balance all this fearful array of mischief and woe, flowing directly from his work, the dealer in ardent spirits can bring nothing but the plea that appetite has been gratified. there are profits, to be sure. death finds it the most liberal purveyor for his horrid banquet, and hell from beneath it is moved with delight at the fast-coming profits of the trade; and the seller also gets gain. death, hell, and the rumseller--beyond this partnership none are profited. go and shake their bloody hands, you who will! the time will be when deep down in hell these miserable, blood-stained wretches will pant for one drop of water, and curse the day and hour that they ever sold one drop of liquor. the experience of ages proves that the use of intoxicating agents invariably tends to engender a burning appetite for more; and he who indulges in them shall do it at the peril of contracting a passionate and rabid thirst for them, which shall ultimately overmaster the will of his victim, and drag him, unresisting, to his ruin. no man can put himself under the influence of alcoholic stimulants without incurring the risk of this result. it may not be perceptible at once. it may be interrupted, and while the bonds are yet feeble he may escape. but let the habit go forward, the excitement be often repeated, and soon a deep-wrought physical effect will be produced; a headlong and almost delirious appetite, of the nature of a physical necessity, will have seized the whole man as with iron arms, and crushed from his heart the power of self-control. my whole nature was almost constantly demanding and crying out for stimulants. during the period that i abstained from them, and for two weeks before i touched or tasted them the last time, my agony was unbearable. in my sleep i dreamed that i was drinking, and dreamed that i was drunk. day by day my appetite grew fiercer and more unbearable, until in my misery i walked my floor hour after hour, unable to sleep, and feeling that if i lay down i should die. one night, about a week before i yielded, i walked my room until midnight, suffering the torments of hell. i felt that i was dying, and rushed out of my room and walked and ran across fields and through the woods, panting and gasping for breath. i felt that my head was bursting to pieces. my blood boiled, and hissed, and foamed through my veins. i could feel my heart throb and beat as though it would burst out of my body. at that time i would have torn the veins of my arms open, if i could have drawn whisky from them. when light came, i found that i had walked and run seven miles since leaving my room at midnight. all that day i was burning up for liquor. had i been where i could lay my hands on it, a thousand times that day i would have drank though it steeped my soul in rivers of death. in just this condition i went to indianapolis to address the woman's temperance convention. i felt that i would drop dead before i finished my speech. that night i did not sleep more than an hour, and that was a miserable hour of sleep, in which i dreamed that i was drunk. i woke up with a burning thirst, and sharp pains darting through my brain. the very least noise would send a new pang to my head, and when i attempted to walk, my own footsteps would jar upon my brain as though knives were driven through it. the next day and night i fought it like a tiger, but my thirst only increased, and then one gets tired at last of fighting an enemy all day, knowing that he must confront that same enemy the next day, and the next, for one can not live always on a strain, always in fear, and doubt, and dread. the next day i started for richmond, where i had business, intending to go from there to cincinnati and covington, and thence east. i got to richmond, haunted, every inch of the road, with an inexpressible longing for stimulants. when i got there, i knew that i was where i could get a little rest from my intense suffering, for i could get whisky. when the thought of what would be the result of touching it forced itself on my mind, my agony was so terrible that i could feel the sweat streaming down my face, and i could have wrung water from my hair. if ever there was a man in ruins, a perfect spectacle of utter desolation, i was that man, as i stood in the depot at richmond, burning up for whisky. had i been standing on red-hot embers my sufferings could not have been more intense. i feel that i can almost hear some one say, "why did you not pray? just go and ask god to help you." i have been told to do that ten thousand times by good-meaning men and women, who do not know how to pray as i do, and never will until (which god forbid) they have suffered as i have. i did pray, and beg, and plead for mercy and help, but the heavens were solid brass and the earth hard iron, and god did not hear or heed my prayers. talk about having the appetite for stimulants removed by prayer! that appetite is just as much the part of a man as his hand, heart, brain, or any other part of his body. every one of god's laws are unchangeable and immutable. the day of miracles is over. when one of god's creatures violates his laws, he must pay the penalty; and i think it would be far better to educate the rising generation that there is no escape for them from the consequences of their acts, than to preach them into the belief that they may for years pursue a course of dissipation, violate every law of their being, and then by prayer have the chains of habit stricken off and be restored whole. then there is another class of individuals who have said to me, "when you get into that condition, when you feel that you must have liquor, why don't you just take a little in moderation?" moderation! a drink of liquor is to my appetite what a red-hot coal of fire is to a keg of dry powder. you can just as easily shoot a ball from a cannon's mouth moderately, or fire off a magazine slowly, as i can drink liquor moderately. when i take one drink, if it is but a taste, i must have more, if i knew hell would burst out of the earth and engulf me the next instant. i am either perfectly sober, with no smell f of liquor about me, or i am very drunk. some of those moderate drinkers, who are increasing their moderation a little every day, and also some pretended temperance people, who are always suspicious of others, because they are sneaking, cowardly, sly, deceitful and treacherous themselves, are constantly asking me if i do not drink a little all the time. and then they say i use morphine and opium. there is nothing that has made me more wretched, and done more to weaken and drag me down, than the continued accusation of doing something that it is just as impossible for me to do as it would be to live without breathing; that is, to take a drink of liquor without getting drunk. and if there is any one thing that will make me hate a man--loathe, abhor, and despise him--it is to have him accuse me of drinking or using any kind of stimulants regularly and moderately. i just want to say here, now, and for all time, that they who thus accuse me, lie in their teeth, mouth, throat, and away down deep in their dirty, cowardly, craven, black hearts. i walked from the depot in richmond--or, rather, almost ran--until i came to a drug store kept by a young man i have known for five or six years. he keeps nearly all drugs in barrels, well watered, and drinks them regularly, and, as he calls it, moderately. that is to say, he has not been sober for five years. always full, bloated, imbecile, idiotic--has no idea of quiting himself, and would suffer as keenly as any brute is capable of suffering, at the thought of any one else who is in the habit of drinking becoming a sober man. when i went in, he was leaning back in a chair dozing, dreaming, drunk, or as drunk as that kind of a man generally gets. i asked him for whisky. he straightened up, and a more fiendish gleam of joy than lit up his brutal face never sat upon the hideous countenance of a fiend fresh from hell. he got up to get me the liquor, saying at the same time, "i will bet you five dollars you are drunk before night." i looked at him, saw the smile of joy, and the intense pleasure that my getting drunk was going to afford him. suffering, choking, and almost bereft of reason, as i was, his look and act caused me to hesitate and wonder what manner of man it was that was so utterly base and heartless as to rejoice at the ruin of one whose continued prayer is to live and die sober. then and there i prayed god to deliver me from such friends, and keep me from their accursed influence. hell knows no blacker deformity than that which would drag a fellow-creature again to degradation. satan was as much a friend of human happiness when he slimed into eden. in my very youth, i made a resolve that i never would, knowingly, stand in the path of any man and a better life: that i would never do anything to prevent a man from leading a better life, and i have never broken that resolution. i gathered strength and courage enough, by a desperate effort, to get out of the store without drinking, and started in an opposite direction from where anything was kept to drink. i had gone but a short distance, when there was no longer any enduring of the torture. i turned back and went into another drug store, and told the proprietor that i was sick, and asked him for whisky with some kind of medicine in it. the man who gave it was not to blame, for he knew nothing about me, nor the fiendish thirst with which i was possessed; and while he was not more than a minute getting the liquor for me, it seemed an age, and when i took the glass, i read "death" in it just as plainly as ever "death" was written upon the field of battle. i hesitated a moment, while something whispered, "death!" i struggled, but could not let go of the glass. i felt the hot, scalding tears come in my eyes. i thought if i could only die--just drop dead; but i could not, yet i felt that i was dying ten thousand deaths all the time! i lifted the glass and drank death and damnation! i drank the red blood of butchery and the fiery beverage of hell! it glowed like hot lava in my blood, and burned upon my tongue's end. a smouldering fire was kindled. a wild glow shot through every vein, and within my stomach the demon was aroused to his strength. i had now but one thought, but one burning desire that was consuming me--that was for more drink! it crept to my fingers' ends, and out in a burning flush upon my cheek. drink!--drink! i would have had it then if i had been compelled to go to hell for it! but i got it just one step this side the regions of the damned. i went to a saloon and commenced to pour it down, and continued until i was crazed. all power over my appetite was gone; i was oblivious to everything around me. i took the train for cincinnati. i have a dim, shuddering remembrance of some parties at the depot trying to keep me from taking the cars. i don't know who they were, or what they said. i got to the city that night, and staid at the galt house. i have no remembrance of anything from the time i left richmond until i awoke next day about ten o'clock, with an aching head, swollen tongue, burnt, black, parched lips, and a thirst for whisky that was maddening. death would have been kindness compared to what i suffered that morning. and here let me ask the reader to indulge me for a while, that i may explain just the condition i was in, both physically and mentally. i know just how much charity i am to expect and receive from the corrupt wilderness of human society, for it is a rank and rotten soil, from which every shrub draws poison as it grows. all that in a happier field and purer air would expand into virtue and germinate into usefulness is converted into henbane and deadly nightshade. i know how hard it is to get human society to regard one's acts as other than his deliberate intentions. but of being a drunkard by choice, and because i have not cared for the consequences, i am innocent. i can say, and speak the truth, that there is not a person on earth less capable than myself of recklessly and purposely plunging himself into shame, suffering and sin. i will never believe that a man, conscious of innocence, can not make other men perceive that he has that thought. i have been miserable all my life. i have been harshly treated by mankind, in being accused of wickedly doing that which i abhor, and against which i have fought with every energy i possessed. the greatest aggravation of my life has been that i could not make mankind believe, or understand, my real and true condition. i can safely affirm that a blasted character, and the curses that have clung to my name, have all of them been slight misfortunes compared to this. i have for years endeavored to sustain myself by the sense of my integrity; but the voice of no man on earth echoed to the voice of my conscience. i called aloud, but there was none to answer; there was none that regarded. to me the whole world has been as unhearing as the tempest, and as cold as the iceberg. sympathy, the magnetic virtue, the hidden essence of our life, was extinct. nor has this been the whole sum of my misery. the food so essential to an intelligent existence, seemed perpetually renewing before me in its fairest colors, only the more effectually to elude my grasp and to attack my hunger. ten thousand times i have been prompted to unfold the affections of my soul, only to be repelled with the greatest anguish, until my reflections continually center upon and within myself, where wretchedness and sorrow dwell, undisturbed by one ray of hope and light. it seems to me that any person but a fool would know that i had not purposely led the life of misery that has marked my steps for fifteen years. it would have been merciful in comparison, if i had planted a dagger in my heart, for i have suffered an anguish a thousand times worse than death. i would have had liquor that morning at cincinnati if i had known that one single drink would have obliterated my body, soul, and spirit. i had no power to resist; and to prove that i was powerless, let us see what effect alcohol, in its physiological aspect, exerts. alcohol possesses three distinct properties, and consequently produces a threefold physiological effect. . it has a nervine property, by which it excites the nervous system inordinately, and exhilarates the brain. . it has a stimulating property, by which it inordinately excites the muscular motions, and the actions of the heart and blood-vessels. . it has a narcotic property. the operation of this property is to suspend the nervous energies, and soothe and stupefy the subject. now, any article possessing either one, or but two of these properties, without the other, is a simple and harmless thing compared with alcohol. it is only because alcohol possesses this combination of properties, by which it operates on various organs, and affects several functions in different ways at one and the same time, that its potency is so dreadful, and its influence so fascinating, when once the appetite is thoroughly depraved by its use. it excites and calms, it stimulates and prostrates, it disturbs and soothes, it energizes and exhausts, it exhilarates and stupefies simultaneously. now, what rational man would ever pretend that in going through a long course of fever, when his nerves were impaired, his brain inflamed, his blood fermenting, and his strength reduced, that he would be able, through all the commotion and change of organism, to govern his tastes, control his morbid cravings, and regulate his words, thoughts and actions? yet these same persons will accuse, blame, and curse the man who does not control his appetite for alcohol, while his stomach is inflamed, blood vitiated, brain hardened, nerves exhausted, senses perverted, and all his feelings changed by the accursed stuff with which he has been poisoning himself to death, piecemeal, for years, and which suddenly, and all at once, manifests its accumulated strength over him. in sixteen months i have fought a thousand battles, every one more fearful than the soldier faces upon the field of conflict, where it rains lead and hails shot and shell, and i have been victorious nine hundred and ninety-eight times. how many of these who blame me would have been more successful? a man does not come out of the flames of alcohol and heal himself in a day. it is struggle and conflict, and woe; but at last, and finally, it is glorious victory. and if my friends will not forsake me, i will promise them a victory over rum that shall be complete and entire. i have neither the heart nor the desire to attempt a description of my drunk at cincinnati. those who have never been in that condition could not understand it; and to those who have, it needs no description. i was at the galt house for about ten days, and during all that time i was as oblivious to all that was passing as if i had been dead and buried; i did not know day from night. i have no remembrance of eating anything during the whole time i was there. i only remember a burning thirst for whisky that seemed to be consuming me. the more i drank, the more i wanted. after the first four nights i could get no sleep, so i just staid up and drank all night, until, for the want of slumber, my whole body was torn with torment for long days and nights. i knew from former experience what was the awful ending! none who have ever even seen a victim cursed with delirium tremens will ever wish to look upon the like again. no human language can describe it; but its scenes burn in the eyeball so deeply that they never pass away. during the time, all the dread enginery of hell is planted in the victim's brain and he subject to its terrible torments. most persons laugh at the idea of one having the tremens, and think it a sign of weakness. but there is more disgrace and shame for the man who can drink liquor to intoxication for ten years, and escape the drunkard's madness, than there is for the man who has had the tremens two or three times during that period. tremens are brought about by the effects of the liquor upon the brain and nerves, and the less brain or nerves a man has the less liable he is to be a subject of the tremens. while in this situation the victim imagines that everything is real, and thinks and believes every object he sees actually exists. with this explanation, i will now proceed to tell what i have seen, felt, and heard, while in that condition. i had felt the delirium tremens coming on for two or three days. i was just standing on the verge of a mighty precipice, unable to retrace my steps, and shuddering as i involuntarily leaned over and looked down into the vortex which my wild and heated imagination opened before me; and i could see the lost writhe, and hear them howl in their infernal orgies. the wail, the curse, and the awful and unearthly ha! ha! came fearfully up before me. i had got into that condition that not one drop of stimulants would remain on my stomach. i had been vomiting for more than forty-eight hours every drop that i drank. in that condition i went into a saloon and asked for a drink; and as i tremblingly poured it out, a snake shot its head up out of the liquor, and with swaying head, and glistening eye looking at me, licked out its forked tongue, and hissed in my face. i felt my blood run cold and curdle at my heart. i left the glass untouched, and walked out on the street. by a terrible effort of my will, i, to some extent, shook off the terrible phantom. i felt that if i could get some stimulants to remain on my stomach i might escape the terrible torments that were gathering about me; and yet, at the very thought of touching the accursed stuff again, i could see the head of that snake, and could hear ten thousand hisses all around me, and feel it writhing and crawling through every vein of my body; while at the same time i was scorching and burning to death for more whisky. at that time i would have marched across a mine with a match touched to it; i would have walked before exploding cannons for more liquor. i went to another saloon, thinking i might get a drink to stay on my stomach, and steady my nerves, and give me strength to get home before i died; for i felt that this time there could be no escape from death. this time i was afraid to touch the bottle, and stood back, shaking and shuddering in every limb, while the murderer poured out the whisky; and again that liquor turned to snakes, and they crawled around the glass, and on the bar, and hissed, writhed, and squirmed. then in one instant they all coiled about each other, and matted themselves into one snake, with a hundred heads; and from every head glittering eyes gleamed, and forked tongues hissed at me. i rushed from the saloon, and started, i did not know or care where, so that i might escape my tormentors. i had walked but a short distance, when a dog as large as a calf sprang up before me, and commenced to growl and snap at me. i picked up a stick about three feet long, thinking to defend myself; but just as soon as i took that stick in my hand, it turned to a snake. i could feel its slimy body writhe and squirm in my hands, and in trying to hold it to keep it from biting me, every finger-nail cut like a knife into the palm of my hand, and the blood streamed down over that stick, that to me was a living snake. hell is a heaven compared to what i suffered at that time. at last i dashed the cursed thing from me, and ran for my life. i got to some depot, i don't know what one, and took the cars. i didn't know or care where i went; at about ten miles above cincinnati i left the cars. at times, for a little while, i could reason and understand my condition. i found, on looking around, that i was in a little town, where a young man lived who had been a college mate of mine. i went and told him my condition, and he did for me everything that one friend can do for another. but as night came on my tormentors returned in ten thousand hideous forms, and drove me raving mad. i went to a hotel, and there they persuaded me to lie down. just as soon as i got to bed i reached my hand over, and it touched a cold, dead corpse. the room lighted up with a hundred bright lights, and that corpse, that now appeared to me like nothing that had ever been visible in human shape, opened its large, glassy, dead eyes, and stared me in the face. then its whole face and form turned to a demon, and its red eyes glared at me, and its whole face was full of passion, fierceness and frenzy. i shrank back from the loathsome monster. on looking around, i beheld everything in my vision turn to a living devil. chairs, stand, bed, and my very clothes, took shape and form, and lived; and every one of them cursed me. then in one corner of my room, a form, larger and more hideous than all the others, appeared. its look was that of a witch, or hag, or rather like descriptions that i had read of them. it marched right up to me, with a face and look that will haunt me to my grave. it began to talk to me, saying that it would thrust its fingers through my ribs, and drink my blood; then it would stick out its long, bony, skeleton-like fingers, that looked like sharp knives, and ha! ha! then it said it would sit upon me and press me to hell; that it would roast me with brimstone, and dash my burnt entrails into my eyes. saying this, it sprang at me, and, for what seemed to me an age, i fought the unearthly thing. at last it said, "let me go!" and when it did, it glided to the door, and as it went out, gave me a fiendish look, and said, "i will soon be back, with all the legions of hell; i will be the death of you; you shall not be alive one hour." i left my room, and just as soon as i touched the street i stepped on a dead body. the whole pavement and street were filled; men, and women, and little children, lying with their pale faces turned up to heaven; some looked as though they were asleep; others had died in awful agony, and their faces wore horrid contortions; while some had their eyes burst from their heads. every time i moved i stepped on a dead body, and it would come to life, and rear up in my face; and when i would step on a baby corpse it would wail in a plaintive, baby wail, and its dead mother would come to life and rush at me, while a thousand devils would curse me for stepping on the dead. i would tremble and beg, and try to find some place to put my feet; but the dead were in heaps, and covered the whole ground, so that i could neither walk nor stand without being on a corpse. if i stepped, it was on a dead body, and it would rise up and throw its arms about me, and curse me for trampling on it; and it was in this way that i put in that whole night. when light dawned the horrible objects disappeared to some extent, and by a terrible effort i was able to control my mind, and reason on my condition. i was weak, nervous, and sick. i thought i would eat something, and try to gain a little strength. the very moment that i sat down to the breakfast table, every dish on that table turned to a living, moving, horrid object. the plates, cups, knives and forks became turtles, frogs, scorpions, and commenced to live and move toward me. i left the table without eating a bite. i went back to the city that day. i had but just got there when i wanted some whisky. i took a drink. during the day i drank as many as twenty glasses of liquor, and by evening i had got myself so steadied that i took the cars for home. i got as far as connersville, where i remained during the balance of my drunk. i kept drinking for three or four days, and then commenced to vomit again. by this time i had got so weak that it was with the greatest effort that i could stand on my feet or walk one step. i felt the madness coming on again with tenfold fury. my terrible fear gave me more strength. i left the house, and started out on the road, and in an instant i was surrounded by what seemed a million of demons and devils; it seemed as though hell had opened up before me. the earth burst open under my feet, and hot, rolling flame was all around me. i could feel my hair and eyebrows scorch and burn; then in a moment everything would change. i could hear a thousand voices, all talking to me at the same time, and every one threatening me with some horrid death; then i would be surrounded with wild animals, fighting and tearing each other to pieces, and glaring at me, while devils told me they would tear me to pieces; then a tiger took my whole arm between his bloody jaws, and mashed and mangled it to pieces, and tore that arm from my shoulder; then some fiend, in the shape of an old hag, would come up and pour red-hot embers into the bleeding wound, from which my arm had been torn. when i screamed in agony, devils would laugh a horrid, devilish laugh. i looked down and saw a jug of liquor at my feet, and when i reached down to get it i heard the click of a hundred pistols, and a grinning black devil threw his claws over the jug; then devils and witches boiled the whisky. i could see it on the fire, and hear it seethe and foam; then they danced around me, and said they had the liquor so hot that it would scald me to death; then they pried open my mouth, and poured it down my throat. i could feel my brain bursting out of my head, as that boiling liquor scalded and burned my tongue out of my mouth, and that tongue turned to a snake, and with forked tongue hissed at me. the next thing i found myself standing on a railroad track; i could just see the headlight of the engine and hear the faint rumble of the cars, and when i tried to move off the track i found i was tied with a hundred ropes. it seemed to me there were a hundred devils up in the air, and each one had hold of a rope that was wound around my body in such a way that i could not move. the cars were coming closer and closer, faster and faster; the light of the engine looked like one horrid eye of fire; i could hear the rattle and rush of a thousand wheels; it was coming right on me with the rapidity of lightning. i could feel the beating of my heart, and my hair stood up and shook and shivered. the engine ran up to me and stopped, the hot smoke and steam choking and smothering me. the devils cursed and howled because the cars did not run over me; they said the next time there would come sure death; then they opened the doors of the engine, and threw in cats and dogs, men, women, and children. i could hear them scream as the hot flames wrapped themselves about them, until they would burst open; and that engine was red-hot. i could see the grin of skeleton demons, as, with a horrid curse, they motioned the engine to move back; and back, back it went, until i could just see a faint light; then, at the wild, cursing, screaming command of my tormentors, i could hear the cars coming again, faster and faster, closer and closer, and that engine ran at me just that way all night. it seemed just as real, and my sufferings were just as intense, as if it had been a reality. when morning came the devils left me, swearing that they would come back at night, and thus i was tortured all day with the dread of what was coming again at night. that day, as i was walking, hens and chickens would turn into little men and women; they were dressed up in bloody clothes; they would surround me, and pick my body full of holes; then they would pick my eyes out, and i could see my eyes dropping from their bloody bills. when night came i went to my room. i could hear voices talking in all parts of the house. they would gather about me and whisper and talk about some way in which they would kill me; then the windows would be full of cats, and i could feel little kittens in my pockets; and when i walked i would step on kittens, and they would mew, and the old cats would howl and burst through the windows, and claw me to pieces. then devils would take live, howling, squalling cats, and pound me with them until i was surrounded and walled in with dead cats. the more i suffered, and the harder i tried to escape, the more intense seemed their joy. the room would be full of every loathsome insect; they would crawl, fly, and buzz around me, stinging me in the face and eyes. then the room would fill with rats and mice, and they would run all over me. then ten thousand devilish forms would all rush at me. there were human forms of every size and shape. some of them had the face and look of a demon, and from every part of the room their eyes glared at me; others had their throats gashed to the very spine, while every one of them accused me of being the cause of their misery. then devils and men would rush at me and pin me to the wall of my room, by driving sharp, red-hot spikes through my body. i could see and feel the blood streaming from my wounds until my clothes were covered with it. then they would take red-hot irons, and burn and scrape my flesh from my bones. they would pull and tear my teeth out, and dash them in my face. then they would take sharp, crooked knife blades, and run them through my body, and tear me to pieces, and hold up before my eyes my bleeding, burned and quivering flesh, and it would turn to bloody, hissing snakes. then i looked and could see my coffin and dead body. then i came back to life again, and i heard voices under my head cursing me, and saying that they would bury me alive. at this the devils seized me, and i could feel myself flying through the air. at last they stopped, and i heard a heavy door open. they dragged me into what they told me was a vault, and, when i tried to escape, i found nothing but solid walls. the floor was stone, and slippery and slimy. i could hear rats and mice running over the floor. they would run up my sleeves and down my neck. in trying to escape from them i struck a coffin; it fell on the hard stone floor and burst open; then the room lighted up, and the skeleton from the burst coffin stood up before me, and a long, slimy snake crawled up and wrapped the skeleton to the very neck; and that horrid thing of bones, with a living snake coiled all about it, walked up to me and laid its bony fingers on my face. no language can give the least idea of the horrid sights and sufferings in the drunkard's madness. chapter xiii. recovery--trip to maine--lecturing in that state--dr. reynolds, the "dare to do right" reformer--return to indianapolis--lecturing--newspaper extracts--the criticisms of the press--private letters of encouragement-- friends dear to memory--sacred names. after recovering from the debauch just described, which i did in the course of two or three days, i went east to the state of maine, where i remained about three months, lecturing in all the principal cities, and in some of them a number of times. in bangor, especially, i was warmly welcomed, and i spoke there as often as ten times, each time to a crowded house. dr. reynolds, the celebrated "dare to do right" reformer, was at that time a resident of bangor, and i had the honor to make his acquaintance. while in bangor i made my headquarters at his office, and was much benefited and strengthened by coming in contact with him. days and weeks passed, and i did not taste liquor, although at times, when depressed and tired from over-work, i found it difficult in the extreme to resist the cravings of my appetite. i returned to indianapolis in the spring of . i remained in indiana, lecturing almost daily, or nightly, until autumn, when i again started east on a lecturing tour, which lasted eight months. during this time i averaged one lecture per day. at times, for the space of an entire week, i did not get as much sleep as i needed in one night, and the work i did in those eight months was enough to break down the strongest and healthiest constitution. i spoke in all the more notable cities and towns of massachusetts, new hampshire, and maine. with regard to my success, i will let the eastern press speak for me. it is not from any motive of vanity that i insert the following notices of the papers, but from a wish to establish in the minds of my readers the fact that my labor was earnest, and not without good results. these extracts are not given in the order in which they appeared; i insert them, taken at random, from hundreds of a similar character. the first is from the boston daily advertiser: "mr. luther benson, of indiana, delivered a temperance lecture last evening in faneuil hall, before a large and enthusiastic audience. * * * "the meeting was opened with prayer by the rev. mr. cooke, of the hanover street bethel, after which, mr. e.h. sheafe introduced the lecturer. the temperance theme is so old and long discussed that it seemed well-nigh impossible to present its merits in a new and attractive way, but mr. benson in a simple, straightforward manner, in language clothed with the peculiar western freedom of speech, together with an accent of marked broadness, held the undivided attention of his audience from the beginning of his lecture to the close. the several stories told by the speaker seemed to exactly suit the temper of his hearers, as the frequent applause testified, and altogether it was probably one of the most satisfactory temperance lectures ever delivered in this city. mr. benson, who is a reformed drunkard, describes his trials and struggles in overcoming the evils of intemperance in a very impressive manner, awakening a strong interest for the cause which he pleads. "during his lecture mr. benson paid a marked compliment to the old hall in which he was speaking, and the liberty of speech allowed within its portals. total abstinence was the one thing needed throughout the land. there could be no such thing as moderate drinking. prohibition should be enforced, and great results would necessarily follow." from the boston daily evening traveler i clip this concerning my lecture at chelsea: "hawthorn hall was crowded to the very gallery last evening with an audience assembled to listen to a lecture on temperance by luther benson, esq., of indiana. mr. benson is one of the most powerful and eloquent orators that have ever stood before an audience. for one hour and a half he held his audience by a spell. he painted one beautiful picture after another, and each in the very gems of the english language. he was many times interrupted by loud bursts of applause. words drop from his lips in strains of such impassioned eloquence that they go directly to the hearts of the audience, and his actions are so well suited to his words that you can not remember a gesture. you try in vain to recall the inflection of the voice that moved you to smiles or tears, at the speaker's will. mr. benson is a young man and has only been in the lecture field a little over one year; yet at one leap he has taken the very front rank, and is already measuring strength with the oldest and ablest lecturers in the country." the next is from the boston daily herald: "temperance at faneuil hall. "the old cradle of liberty was filled last evening by a large and appreciative audience, assembled to hear luther benson, a well-known temperance advocate from indiana. mr. e.h. sheafe, under whose auspices the lecture was held, presided, and the platform was occupied by the rev. mr. cook, who offered prayer, and by messrs. timothy bigelow, esq., f.s. harding, charles west, john tobias, s.c. knight, and other well-known temperance workers in this city. mr. benson is a reformed man, and, speaking as he did from a terrible experience, he made an excellent impression, and proved himself an orator of tact, talent and ability. a number of his passages were marked with true eloquence and pathos, and for an hour and a quarter he held the closest attention of his large audience in a manner that could only be done by those who are earnest in the cause, and appeal directly to their hearers." from the dover (n.h.) democrat, this: "luther benson, esq., spoke to the largest audience ever gathered in the city hall, last night. notwithstanding the snow, more than fourteen hundred people crowded themselves in the hall, while hundreds went away for want of even standing-room. he has created a perfect storm of enthusiasm for himself in the cause he so earnestly and eloquently advocates. last night was mr. benson's fourth speech in this city, each one delivered without notes or manuscript, and with no repetition. he goes from here to great falls and berwick. next sunday he returns to this city, and speaks here for the last time in city hall at half past seven o'clock. there never has been a lecturer among us that could repeatedly draw increased audiences, and certainly no man--not even gough--ever so stirred all classes of our people on the subject of temperance as has benson. the receipts at the door last evening were about one hundred and forty dollars. a number who had purchased tickets previous to the lecture were unable to get in the hall." and this from the pittsburg (pa.) gazette: "luther benson, esq., of indiana, has just closed one of the most powerful temperance lectures ever delivered here. the house was one solid mass of people, with not one spare inch of standing-room. for nearly two hours he held the audience as by magic. at the close a large number signed the pledge, some of them the hardest drinkers here. the people are so delighted with his good work that they have secured him for another lecture wednesday evening." the next extract is from the manchester (n.h.) press: "smyth's hall was completely filled, seats and standing room, at two o'clock sunday afternoon, with an audience which came to hear luther benson. the officers of the reform club, clergymen and reformed drunkards occupied seats upon the platform. mr. benson is a native of indiana, and says he has been a drunkard from six years of age. he was within three months of graduation from college when he was expelled for drunkenness. then he studied for a lawyer, and was admitted to practice, being drunk while studying, and drunk while engaged in a case. at length he reduced himself to poverty, pawning all he had for drink. at length he started to reform, and though he had once fallen, he was determined to persevere. since his reformation two years ago he had been giving temperance lectures. he is a young man, a powerful, swinging sort of speaker, with a good command of language, original, with peculiar intonation, pronunciation and idioms, sometimes rough, but eminently popular with his audiences. he spoke for an hour and a half steadily, wiping the perspiration from his face at intervals, taking up the greater part of his address with his personal experience. he said he had had delirium tremens several times, once for fifteen days, and gave an exceedingly minute and graphic description of his torments. a number of men signed the pledge at the close of the meeting, among them was one man, who sat in front of the audience and kept drinking from a bottle he had, evidently in a spirit of bravado, but at the conclusion of the address he signed the pledge, crying like a child." from the saltsburg press, of pennsylvania, i copy the following: "on monday evening, th inst., the people of our staid and quiet little town had their dormant spirits stirred to their inmost depths, by an eloquent and thrilling lecture delivered in the presbyterian church by luther benson, esq., a native of indianapolis, indiana, who chose for his topic "total abstinence." he opened his lecture by delineating in the most touching and beautiful language the almost heavenly happiness resulting in a total abstinence from all intoxicating beverages, and by his well-aimed contrasts demonstrated that, in the use of those beverages, even in a temperate degree, there was but one result--drunkenness and eternal death. he was no advocate of temperance; that is, the temperate use of anything hurtful. did not believe that anything vicious could be tampered with, without harm coming from it. he argued to a final and satisfactory conclusion, that in the use of alcoholic beverages there could be no such thing as temperance; that the man who took a drink now and then would make it convenient to take more drinks now than he would then, and in the end would as surely fill a drunkard's grave as the man who persistently abused the beverage in its use. his description of the two paths through life was a most beautiful word picture. that of sobriety leading through bright green fields, over flowery plains, by pleasant rivulets, where all was peace and harmony, and over which the spirit of heaven itself seemed to brood and watch; and that of drunkenness, in which all the miseries and tortures of the imaginary hell were concentrated in a living death; of blighted hopes, of wasted life, of ruined homes, of broken hearts, of a conscience goaded to an insanity--to a madness--to fairly wallow in the lethean draft, that memory might be robbed of its poignant goadings; that the poor, helpless, and degraded victim might escape its horrors in oblivion. "he had been a victim in the toils of the monster for fifteen years; had endured all the horrors it inflicted upon its votaries during that time, and made an eloquent appeal to the young men present to choose the right way and walk therein. he pictured the inevitable result in new and convincing arguments holding up his own almost hopeless case as a warning. his description of delirium tremens, while it was frightful, was not overdrawn. he told the simple truth, as any one who has passed through the horrible ordeal can testify. "we have not space to follow mr. benson through his lecture, which was truly original in language, style and delivery. he is a lawyer by profession, about twenty-eight years, and is wonderfully gifted with a pleasing way, rapidly flowing and eloquent language, that carries to the audience the conviction that he is in earnest in the work of total abstinence; that in the effort to reclaim himself he will leave nothing undone to save those who may have started out in life impressed with the belief that there is pleasure and enjoyment under the influence of intoxication. that he will accomplish good there is no doubt. he goes into the work under the influence of the holy spirit; maintaining that the grace of god alone can work a thorough reformation. we have heard gough lecture, but maintain that the eloquent, forcible, humorous, pathetic, and convincing language of mr. benson is of a better and higher order, and will prove more effectual in touching the hearts of those who stand upon the verge of ruin. "mr. benson will lecture this (tuesday) evening, in the presbyterian church. doors open at : ; lecture commencing at : . the lecture this evening will be on a different subject, and no part of the lecture of last evening will be repeated. "as a result of the lecture monday evening, one hundred and sixty-two persons signed the pledge." with reference to the lecture delivered at faneuil hall, the boston temperance album gives the succeeding synopsis: "mr. benson, on being introduced, paid the following eloquent tribute to the hall: "ladies and gentlemen: it is with emotions such as i have never experienced upon any former occasion, that i stand before you to-night in this, the birthplace of american liberty. it was in this hall that was first inaugurated the grand march of revolution and liberty that has gilded the page of the history of our time with the most glorious achievements of the patriot that the world has ever had to admire. it was here that was inaugurated those immortal principles that caused revolution to rise in fire, and go down in freedom, amid the ruins and relics of oppression. it was here that the beacon of liberty first blazed, and the rainbow of freedom rose on the cloud of war; and as a result, of the patriotism and heroism of our forefathers, liberty has erected her altars here in the very garden of the globe, and the genius of the earth worship at her feet. and here in this garden of the west, here in this land of aspiring hope, where innocence is equity, and talent is triumph, the exile from every land finds a home where his youth may be crowned with happiness, and the sun of life's evening go down with the unmolested hope of a glorious immortality. who is not proud of being an american citizen, and walking erect and secure under the stars and stripes? "if there be a place on earth where the human mind, unfettered by tyrannical institutions, may rise to the summit of intellectual grandeur, it is here. if there be a country where the human heart, in public and in private, may burst forth in unrestrained adulation to the god that made it, it is here, where the immortal heroes and patriots of more than one hundred years ago succeeded in establishing these united states, as the 'land of the free and the home of the brave.' here, then, human excellence must attain to the summit of its glory. mind constitutes the majesty of man, virtue his true nobility. the tide of improvement which is now flowing like another niagara through the land, is destined to flow on down to the latest posterity, and it will bear on its mighty bosom our virtues, or our vices, our glory, or our shame, or whatever else we may transmit as an inheritance. thus it depends upon ourselves whether the moth of immortality and the vampire of luxury shall prove the overthrow of this country, or whether knowledge and virtue, like pillars, shall support her against the whirlwinds of war, ambition, corruption, and the remorseless tooth of time. and while assembled here to-night, in this, the very cradle of liberty, let us not forget that there are evils to be shunned and avoided by us as individuals and as a common people. "it is about one of these evils that is threatening the stability, prosperity, and happiness of this whole country that i would talk to you to-night. let us approach near to each other and talk, if possible, soul to soul, and heart to heart, i would talk to you to-night of liberty, that liberty that frees us, body, soul, and spirit, from the slavery of the intoxicating bowl; a slavery more soul-wearing and life-destroying than any egyptian bondage. why, it is but a few years ago that this whole continent rocked to its very center on the question as to whether human slavery should endure upon its soil! that was but the slavery of the body, a slavery for this life; and that was bad enough, but the slavery about which i talk to you is a slavery not only of the body, but of the soul, and of the spirit; a slavery not only for this life, but a slavery that goes beyond the gates of the tomb, and reaches out into an infinite eternity. the slavery of intoxication, unlike human slavery, is confined to no particular section, climate, or society; for it wars on all mankind. it has for its home this whole world. it has the flesh for its mother and the devil for its father. it stands out a headless, heartless, eyeless, earless, soulless monster of gigantic and fabulous proportions." as a _very few_ persons have said my labors in the cause of temperance were not, and are not, productive of good, i will give just very short extracts from a number of letters which i have received from persons who ought to know: frankfort, ind., october , . luther benson, esq.--_my dear sir_--yours of the th is before me for answer, and, although very busily engaged in court, i can not refrain from answering at some length. first, i will say, "i have kept the faith." though "the fight" is not yet over, my emancipation from the terrible thralldom is measurably complete. occasional twinges of appetite yet admonish me to maintain my vigilance. it was while struggling with one of these that your letter came like a messenger from heaven to encourage and strengthen me. not a day passes but that i think of you, and to your wise counsel and affectionate admonition, under providence, i owe my beginning and continuance in this well-doing. * * * may the lord spare you to "open the lips of truth" to those who, like myself, will perish without a revelation of their danger. with high esteem and sincere affection, i am, ever your friend, ---- salem, mass., october , . bro. benson--i write you these few lines to cheer your heart, and assure you that your labor in salem has not been in vain in the lord's cause (the temperance reform). our friend and brother, ----, from beverly, was over at our meeting on wednesday evening last, and it would do your heart good to see the change in him. he will never forget luther benson, for it was your first speech in salem that saved him. ---- i desire now to come down to the very near present, as some claim that my late _afflictions_ and sore misfortunes have extinguished my capacity for good: memphis, mo., feb. , . dear benson--i know of my personal knowledge that you did a grand work here. bro. b., you remember my pointing out to you a dr. ----, and telling you what a persecutor of churches he was, and how hard he drank. he in two nights after you were here signed the pledge, and in telling his experience, said that you saved him--that no other person had ever been able to impress him as you did. truly, ---- ----, jan. , . my very dear friend--i wish i could be with you and knee with you as in the past, and hear your faith in god. here is my hand forever. you have done more for me than all the shepherds on the bleak hillsides of this black world. lovingly, ---- terre haute, ind., feb. , . dear benson--you have done more for me than all the men and women on earth. one year ago i heard you lecture on temperance in lafayette. then i was a poor outcast drunkard; you saved me. i am now a sober man and a christian. ---- i could furnish thousands of such testimonials as the above, but deem these sufficient to convince any honest person that my toil is not in vain. from one of the journals of my native state i clip the concluding extract: "luther benson, the gifted inebriate orator, is still struggling against the demon of strong drink. he spoke at jeffersonville recently, and in the middle of his discourse became so chagrined and disheartened at his repeated failures at reform, that he took his seat and burst into a flood of tears. he has since connected himself with the church, and has professed religion. may his new resolves and associations strengthen him in the line of duty. but, like the man among the tombs, the demons of appetite have taken full possession of his soul, and riot in every vein and fiber of his being. it is a fearful thraldom to be encompassed with the wild hallucinations begotten through a life of dissipation and debauchery. the strongest resolves at reform are broken as ropes of sand. all the moral faculties are made tributary to the one ruling passion--drink, drink, drink! but still his repeated resolves and heroic efforts betoken a greatness of soul rarely witnessed. may he yet live to see the devils that so sorely beset him running furiously down a steep place into the sea, and sink forever from his annoyance. but when they do come out of the man, instead of entering a herd of heedless swine for their coursers to the deep, may they ride, booted and spurred, every saloon-keeper who has contributed to make luther benson what he is, to the very verge of despair, and to the brink of hell's yawning abyss." i might give many more well written and flattering criticisms, but from the foregoing the reader can determine in what estimation to hold my labor. for myself i am not solicitous for anything beyond escape from my thraldom, and that peace which is the sure accompaniment of a temperate christian life. if i thought that my readers were of the opinion held by some of my enemies that my lectures have not been productive of good, i could quote from numberless private letters received from all parts of the land, in which i am assured of the good results which have crowned my humble efforts--in which i am told of very many instances where my words of entreaty and self-humiliation have been the means of bringing back from the darkness and death of intemperance, fathers, husbands, sons, and brothers who were on the road to destruction. i have letters from the wives, mothers, and sisters of these men, invoking the blessings of heaven upon me for the peace and happiness thus restored to them. i have letters from little children thanking me also for giving them back their fathers, and i thank god from the depths of my torn and desolate heart that i have been the humble instrument of good in these cases. in my darkest hours, when i feel that all is lost, when hope seems to soar away from me to the far-off heavens from which she first descended to this world, these letters, which i often read, and over which i have so often wept grateful tears, give me strength and courage to face the struggle before me. my most earnest prayer to god has been that i may do some good to compensate in some measure for the talent which he gave me, and which i have so sadly wasted. i have avoided mentioning the names of the many dear friends who have not forsaken me in this last extremity. as i write, name after name, dear to memory, crowds into my mind. i can hardly refrain from giving them a place on these pages, but to mention a few would be manifestly unjust to the remainder, and it is out of my power to print all of them in the space which could be afforded in this small book. but i wish to assure every man and woman who has ever given me a kind word of encouragement, or even a kind look, that they are not and never will be forgotten. whatever my future fate may be, you did your duty, and god will bless you. your names are all sacred to me. chapter xiv. at home again--overwork--shattered nerves--downward to hell--conceive the idea of traveling with some one--leave indianapolis on a third tour east in company with gen. macauley--separate from him at buffalo--i go on to new york alone--trading clothes for whisky--delirious wanderings--jersey city--in the calaboose--deathly sick--an insane neighbor--another--in court--"john dalton"--"here! your honor"--discharged--boston--drunk--at the residence of junius brutus booth--lecturing again--home--converted--go to boston--attend the moody and sankey meetings--get drunk--home once more--committed to the asylum--reflections--the shadow which whispered--"go away!" i returned home from this second tour in the eastern states in april, , with shattered nerves and weary brain, but instead of resting, i went on lecturing until my overworked mind and body could no longer hold out, and then it was, after nearly two years of sobriety, that i once more fell. for weeks before this disaster overtook me, i was actually an irresponsible maniac. my pulse was never lower than one hundred to the minute, and much of the time it ran up to one hundred and twenty. i was so weak that with all my energy aroused i could only move about with feeble steps, and a constant anxiety and longing for something to drink preyed upon me. i was not content to remain in one place, but wanted to be going somewhere all the time, i cared not where. in this condition i dragged along my existence for weeks, until at last, driven to a frenzy, reason fled, and i plunged headlong into the horrors of another debauch. my downward course appeared to be accelerated by the very struggles which i had made to rise during the past two years. the moment i recovered from one horrible spell another more fierce seized me and plunged me into the very depths of hell. i now conceived the idea of getting some one to travel with me, thinking that by this means i could perhaps throw off the morbid gloom and melancholy which hung over me. but again i did the very thing i should not have done--i lectured. on the th of september, , i started from indianapolis, in company with gen. dan. macauley, on a third lecturing tour east. i was drunk when we started, and remained in that accursed state during the journey. at buffalo, new york, we got separated, thence i went to new york city alone, where i continued drinking until i had no money. i then commenced to pawn my clothes--first, my vest; second, a pair of new boots, worth fourteen dollars; i got a quart of whisky, an old and worn-out pair of shoes, and ten cents in money, for my boots. i drank up the whisky, and traded off my overcoat. it was worth sixty dollars. i realized about five cents on the dollar, and all the horrors of all hells ever heard of, for i was attacked with the delirium tremens. by some means, of which i am entirely ignorant, i got across the river, into jersey city, and was there arrested and lodged in the calaboose, in which i remained from saturday until the following monday. i suffered more in the forty-eight hours embraced in that time than i ever before or since suffered in the same length of time. i do not know the hour, but it was getting dark on that saturday evening, when i got deathly sick, and commenced vomiting. i continued vomiting until monday. nothing that i swallowed would remain on my stomach. about eight o'clock saturday evening the authorities, the police officers, put a large number of men and boys, who were arrested for being drunk, in the room in which i was confined. by midnight there were fourteen of us in a small, poorly-ventilated, dirty room. planks extended around the room on three sides, and on these those who could get a place lay down. among the number of "drunks" imprisoned with me were some of the worst and largest roughs of jersey city, and these inhuman wretches, in the absence of the police, threatened; to take my life if i vomited again. in the room adjoining ours a madman was confined, and i don't think he ceased kicking and screaming a moment from saturday night until monday. in the room just across the narrow hall, fronting ours, was an insane woman, who swore she had two souls, one of which was in hell! she, too, kept up an incessant, piteous wailing, begging some one, ever and anon, with piercing screams, to bring back her lost soul! indianapolis is more civilized than jersey city in respect to her prisons, but not with respect to her police. and i am pretty sure that, as managed by its present superintendent, the unfortunate insane are in no other state cared for as they are in the indiana asylum, and in no other state is the appropriation for running such a noble institution so beggarly as in ours. i have visited other asylums, and am now an inmate of this, and i know whereof i speak. the reader may have a faint idea of my sufferings while in the jersey city calaboose when i tell him that the least noise pierced my brain like a knife. i can in fancy and in my dreams hear the wild screams of that woman yet. on monday morning we were marched together to a room, and i saw that there were about fifty persons all told under arrest. among the number were many women, and i write with sorrow that their language was more profane and indecent than that of the men. i stood as in a nightmare and heard the judge say from time to time--"five dollars"--"ten dollars"--"ten days"--"fifteen days"--and so on. i was so weak that i found it almost out of my power to stand up, and as the various sentences were pronounced my heart gave a quick throb of agony. i felt that a sentence of ten days would kill me. at this moment "john dalton" was called. i answered "here, your honor!" for dalton was the name i had assumed. my offense was read--and the officer who arrested me volunteered the statement that i was not disorderly, and that i had not been creating any disturbance. i felt called upon to plead my own case before the judge, and without waiting for his permission i began to speak. it was life or death with me, and for ten minutes i spoke as i never spoke before and have never spoken since. i pierced through his judicial armor and touched his pity, else the fear of being talked to death influenced him, to discharge me with the generous advice to leave the city. either way i was free, and was not long in getting across the river into new york, where i succeeded in finding general macauley who saw that my toilet was once more arranged in a respectable manner. that night we started for boston, and arrived there on tuesday morning. i got drunk immediately and remained drunk until saturday, on which memorable day i went in company with the general to junius brutus booth's residence, at manchester, mass., where i staid, well provided for, until i got sober. i then began to fill my engagements, and for six weeks lectured almost every day and night. i again broke down and came home. i finally got sober once more and did not drink anything until in january last, when i again fell. i went to jeffersonville to lecture, and while there became converted. had i then ceased to work and given my worn-out body and mind a much needed rest, i would have to-day been standing up before the world a free and happy man. but my desire to see and tell every one of the new joy which i had found controlled me, and for six weeks i spoke every day, and often twice a day. i started east again and went to boston. i attended the moody and sankey meetings, but was troubled with i know not what. all the time an unnatural feeling seemed to have possession of me. one afternoon, just after getting off my knees from prayer, a strange spell came over me and before i could realize what i was doing, the devil hurried me into a saloon, where i began to drink recklessly, and knew nothing more for two or three days. then i awoke, i knew not where. some of my friends found me and sent me home. i now suffered more mental torture than i experienced on sobering up from any other spree i was ever on. i believed firmly that i was saved; that my appetite for liquor was forever gone. i felt now that there was no hope for me. oh, the despairing days and long black nights of agony unspeakable that followed this debauch! in time i recovered physical health, and began to lecture, though under greater difficulties than ever before. i was so harrassed by my own shame and the world's doubts that within a month i again got drunk. while on this spree my friends made out the necessary papers, and i was committed to the indiana hospital for the insane. here, then, i am to-day, very near the end of my most wretched and misspent life. how can i tell the emotions which swell in my heart? it is on the record of this asylum that i was brought here june th, a victim of intemperance. everything is being done for me that can be done, but i feel that my case is hopeless unless help comes from above. ordinarily restraint and proper attention to diet and rest would in time cure aggravated cases of that peculiar insanity which manifests itself in an abnormal and excessive demand for liquor. but with me the spell returns after months of sobriety with a force which i am powerless to resist, as the reader has seen in the several instances given in this autobiography. the rule of treatment for patients here varies with the different characters of the patients. the impressions which i had formed of insane asylums was very different from those which have come from my sojourn among the insane. there is less screaming and violence than i thought there would be, and for most of the time the wards in which the better class of patients are confined are as still and apparently as peaceful as a home circle. the horror experienced during the first week's, or first two weeks' confinement wears off, and one gradually forgets that he is in a house for the mad. many amusing cases come under my observation, but there are others which excite various feelings of pity, disgust, fear, and horror. there is, for instance, a man in "my ward" who imagines that he has murdered all his relations. another believes that he swallowed and carries within him a living mule which compels him to walk on his hands as well as his feet. one poor fellow can not be convinced but assassins are hourly trying to stab or shoot him. one is afraid to eat for fear of being poisoned, and another wants to disembowel himself. twice a day the wards, which number from thirty to forty patients under the charge of two attendants, one or the other of whom is constantly on duty, are taken out for a walk in the beautiful grounds around the asylum. sometimes, when it is thought that the patient will be benefited, and when he is really well but still not in a condition to be discharged, he is allowed the freedom of the grounds. after i had been here two weeks i was permitted to go out on the grounds alone. but my feelings are about the same outside the building as inside. even as i write i feel that there is a devil within me which is demanding me to go away from this place. i want whisky, and would at this moment barter my soul for a pint of the hellish poison. i have now been here a little over a month. like all the other patients, i am kindly treated. our beds are clean, and our food is well prepared, such as it is, and it is really much better than could be expected on the appropriation made by the last legislature. i doubt if there is another institution of the kind in the united states that can be compared with this in the ability, justice, kindness, and noble and unswerving honesty of its management. dr. everts, the superintendent, is a gentleman whom i have not the honor to know personally, but whose commanding intelligence, and equally great heart, are venerated by all who do know him. this is the fourth day of july, and i have written to my friends to come and take me away--for what purpose i dare not think. i am utterly desolate and miserable, and dare not look forward to the future, for i dread to face the uncertain and unknown to-come. to stay here is worse than madness, in my present condition, and to go away may be death. o, that some power higher than earth would reach forth a hand and save me from myself! i can not remain here without abusing the kindness and trust of a great institution, nor can i go away, i fear, without bringing disgrace on my friends, and shame and death on myself. god of mercy, help me! i know how useless it would be to lock me up in solitary confinement, and i think my attendant physician also feels that i can not be saved by any means within the reach of the asylum. with others not insane, but cursed with that insanity for drink which, if not checked, will soon or late lead to the destruction of reason and life itself, there is a chance to restore them from the curse to a life of honor and usefulness, and no means should be left untried which may ultimately save them, especially the young who, but for this curse infernal, might rise to a useful and even august manhood. the shadows of the evening are settling upon the face of the earth. now and then the report of a cannon in the direction of the city recalls what day it is, and i am reminded that crowds are thronging the streets for the purpose of witnessing the display of holiday fireworks; but vain to me such mimicry. a tall and mysterious shadow, more dark and awful than any which will steal among the graves of the old churchyard to-night, has risen and now stands beside whispering in the stillness--"go away!" chapter xv. a sleepless night--try to write on the following day but fail--my friends consult with the officers of the institution--i am discharged--go to indianapolis and get drunk--my wanderings and horrible sufferings-- alcohol--the tyrant whom all should slay--what is lost by the drunkard--is anything gained by the use of liquor?--never touch it in any form--it leads to ruin and death--better blow your brains out--my condition at present--the end. after writing the words "go away," which close the preceding chapter, i lay down and tried to compose my thoughts, but the effort was futile. i passed a sleepless night, and when morning came i had fully resolved to leave the hospital if in my power to do so. during the forenoon i took up my pencil a number of times for the purpose of writing, but i was so disturbed in mind that i could not write a line intelligibly, and i will here say that from that day, july fifth, to this, september fifteenth, the manuscript remained untouched in the hands of a very dear friend, to whom i am under many obligations for his clear advice and judgment on matters of this sort as well as on others. i will now write this, the fifteenth and last chapter of this book; and in order to make the story of my life complete up to this date, i will go back and resume the thread of the narrative where it was left off on the evening of the fourth of july. it will be remembered that in my last chapter i spoke of having written letters to some of my friends desiring them to come and ask for my discharge. i awaited impatiently their coming, but when they came, which was on the sixth of july, i think, they were undecided whether it would be better for me to "go away," or remain longer at the asylum, but i plead to go, as if my life depended upon it. after consultation with the authorities at the hospital, who were clearly of the opinion that they had no right to detain me under the circumstances, and who, therefore, felt it incumbent upon them to discharge me, particularly if my friends were willing, it was by all parties decided that i should go. i felt glad in my heart that the institution was relieved of all responsibility in my case, for i did not wish to bring reproach upon anyone, and i feared if i remained longer i might take some rash step (abusing the generous kindness of my officers) that would do so. they had done their whole duty by me, and it remained for me now to do my duty to myself and friends. but as soon as i got to indianapolis the pent-up fires of appetite blazed forth, and while on the way to the union depot to take the train to rushville, i gave my friends the slip, and, sneaking like a thief through the alleys, i sought and found an obscure saloon in which i secreted myself and began to drink. i was once more on the road which leads to perdition. the old enemy, who had crawled up the walls of the asylum and slimed himself through my grated windows, and coiled around my heart in frightful dreams, again had me in his possession. thus began one of the most maniacal and terrible drunks of my life. i became possessed of the wildest and most unreal thoughts that ever entered a crazed brain. i abused and misrepresented my best friends, and cursed everything but the thrice cursed liquor which was burning up my body and soul. i told absurd and terrible stories about the places where i had been, and about the friends who had done most for me. i was insane--as utterly so for the time as the worst case in the asylum. i knew not what i did or said, and yet my actions and words were cunningly contrived to deceive. for the greater part of the fifteen days which followed i was as unconscious of what i did or said as if i had been dead and buried in the bottom of the sea. what i know of the time i have learned since from the lips of others. the hideous, fiendish serpent of drunkenness possessed my whole being. i felt him in every nerve, bone, sinew, fiber, and drop of blood in my body. there were moments when a glimmer of reason came to me, and with it a pang that shriveled my soul. during the period that i was drinking i was in rushville, after leaving indianapolis, falmouth and cambridge city. of course, for the most part of the time, i knew not where i was. as i think of it now, i know that i was in hell. my thirst for whisky was positively maddening. i tried every means to quit, when conscious of my existence: i voluntarily entered the calaboose more than once, and was locked up, but the instant i got out, the madness caused me to fly where liquor was. i drank it in enormous quantities, and smothered without quenching the scorching, blazing fires of hell which were making cinders and ashes of every hope and energy of my being. i made my bed among serpents; i fed on flames and poison; i walked with demons and ghouls; all unutterable and slimy monsters crawled around and over me; every breath that i drew reeked with the odor of death; every beat of my fast-throbbing heart sent the hissing, boiling blood through my veins, which returned and froze about it. i have neither words nor images sufficiently horrible to typify my condition. i became, for the time an abhorred object; the sex of my sainted mother made a wide sweep to pass me by, and dear, little, innocent children fled from me as from a monster. my soul was no longer my own. the fiend appetite had given it over, bound and helpless, to the fiend alcohol. i turned by bleared vision towards the vaulted skies, and cursed them because they did not rain fire and brimstone down upon me and destroy me. and yet, oh! how i dreaded to die! the grave opened before me, and a million horrors were in its hollow and black chasm. the scalding tears i shed gave me no relief; the cries i uttered were unheard; and every ear was deaf to my pleadings. at times i thought of the asylum, and i would have given worlds could i have retraced my steps, and slept once more securely within its merciful and protecting walls. o, god! i screamed, why did i leave it? as day after day dragged its endless length along, and no relief came, my despair was a delirium of wretchedness. the sun appeared to be extinguished, and the universe was a void of black, impenetrable darkness, out of which, before and after me, rose the hideous specters, death and annihilation. the unimaginable horrors of the tremens were upon me. once more hear my voice, you who read! lose no opportunity to strike a blow at intemperance. it may smile in the rosy face of youth, but do not be deceived; there are agonies unspeakable hidden beneath that smile. look not on the wine cup when it is red, no matter if the jeweled hand of a princess hold it between you and the light. it is the beginning whose end is degradation, remorse, misery and death! turn from a glass of beer as from a goblet of reeking and poisoned blood. it is a danger to be shunned. beware that you do not learn this too late. alcohol, ruin, and death go hand in hand. the region over which alcohol is king is one of decay. it is full of graves. the ghosts of the million joys, he has slain wail amid its ghastly desolations; there are sounds of sobbing orphans there; echoes of widows' shrieks; and the lamentations of fond mothers and wives, heart-broken, vex the realm; youth and age lie here dishonored together; in vain the sweetheart begs her lover to return from its fatal mists; in vain the pure sister calls with trembling tongue for her erring brother. he will not come back. he is the slave of a tyrant who has no compassion and knows no mercy. oppose this tyrant, all ye who love the home circle better than the bawdy house; fight him all ye who set honor above dishonor; curse him all ye who prefer peace to discord, and law to anarchy; war against him in all ways unceasingly all ye to whom the thought of liberty and safety is dear, to whom happiness and truth are more desirable than misery and falsehood. what, let me ask, is to be gained by drinking? what blessing comes from forming or indulging the habit? pause here and think well before you answer. you could not afford to drink if the wealth of a nation were yours, because no man can afford to lose health and happiness if he hopes enjoyment in life. if you are strong, alcohol will destroy your nerves and sap your vigor. if you are weak, it will enfeeble you the more. if you are unhappy, it will only add to your unhappiness. look at the subject as you will, you can not afford to drink intoxicating liquors. the moment you begin to form the habit of drinking that moment you begin to endanger your reputation, health and happiness, and that of your family and friends also. and let me say right now that you begin to form the habit when you touch your lips to any sort of intoxicating drink the first time. i have drank the sparkle and foam, and the gall and wormwood of all liquors. do you envy me the horrors through which i have passed? you know how to avoid them. never touch liquor. if you are bent on going to hell and destruction, choose a nearer and more honorable way by blowing your brains out at once. a few words more, dear readers, and i will bid you good by. many of you have no doubt heard of my restored peace and lasting favor with god at fowler, indiana. with regard to it and my condition at the present time, i will incorporate in substance the letter which i recently published in reply to inquiries addressed to me from all parts of the country, shortly after that event. i will give the letter with but little change, even at the risk of repeating what is elsewhere recorded. it is as follows: on the evening of january twenty-first, , at jeffersonville, indiana, god pardoned my sins and made me a new creature. for weeks happiness and joy were mine. the appetite--rather my passion--for liquor, which made the present a misery and the future a darkness, was no longer present. its heavy burdens had fallen from me. of this there could be no doubt; but i had been educated to believe that "once in grace always in grace," and this led to a fatal deception, a belief that i could not fall; that after god had once pardoned my sins i was as surely saved as if already in paradise. that they were pardoned i had not a doubt, for the manifestations were as clear as light. falsely thinking that i was pardoned for all time, my soul grew self-reliant: i became at the same time careless of my religious duties. i neglected to pray, to beware of temptation, and, naturally enough, soon found myself drifting into the society of those who neither loved nor feared god. had i trusted alone in god and permitted the savior to lead and keep me, i should not have fallen. instead, i went back to the world, gave no thanks to god for his mercy and love, and thus dishonoring him, his face was hidden from me. i went to boston to speak in moody and sankey's meeting. i never once hoped by so doing to be the means of others' salvation; my sole thought was self and selfish ambition. instead of talking at the moody meeting, i took a drink of liquor, soon got drunk, and so remained for days. when i came out of the oblivion of that debauch, the agony experienced was terrible. all the shames, all the burning regrets, all the stinging compunctions of conscience i had known on coming out of such debauches before my conversion were almost as joy compared with the misery which preyed upon my heart then. i can not describe the hopeless feeling of remorse which came over me. i lived and moved in a night of misery and no star was in its sky. in the course of a few days i recovered physically so far as to be able to lecture. i prayed in secret, long and often, for a return of that peace which comes from god alone, but in vain. i was justly self-punished. at the end of four or five weeks i fell again, and this time my degradation was deeper than before. i would at times console myself with the thought that my suffering had reached the limit of endurance, and at such times new and still keener agonies would rise in my heart, like harpies, to tear me to atoms. it was at this time that i was committed to the hospital for the insane at indianapolis. the reader is aware of what took place on my arrival at indianapolis, after leaving the hospital. i felt somehow that it was my last spree. i kept it up until nature could endure no more. i felt that my stomach was burned up, and that my brain was scalded. i was crucified from my head to the soles of my feet. i began to feel sure that this time i would die, and, when dead, go to the hell which seemed to be open to receive me. july twenty-first i left indianapolis, and went to fowler, indiana, at which place, for five days and nights, i suffered every mental and physical pang that can afflict mortal man. day and night i prayed god to be merciful, but no relief came. the dark hopelessness in which i lay i can not describe. i felt that i was undeserving of god's pardon or mercy. i had wronged myself, and my friends more than myself; i had trampled upon the love of christ; i had loved myself amiss and lost myself. the christian people of fowler prayed for me; they called a prayer-meeting especially for me, to ask god to have mercy on and save me. on wednesday night i went to the regular prayer-meeting, and, with a breaking heart, begged, on bended knee, that god would take compassion on me. the next day, july twenty-sixth, was the most wretched day i ever passed on earth. it seemed that whichsoever way i turned, hell's fiercest fires lapped up around my feet. there seemed no escape for me. like that scorpion girt with flames, flee in any direction i would, i found the misery and suffering increasing. i resolved to commit suicide, but when just in the act of taking my life the spirit of god restrained me. i met the rev. frank taylor, the pastor at fowler. i told him my hopeless condition. he cheered me in every way possible. in the evening we took a walk, and it was during this walk, while in the act of reaching my hand down to my pocket to get a chew of tobacco, that i felt a power hold back my hand, and, plainer than any spoken words, this same power told me not to touch it. i obeyed, withdrew my hand, and at that instant the glory of god filled my heart, suffering fled from me, and in its stead came sweet peace. i had been using enormous quantities of tobacco, and the use of this narcotic increased, if it did not aid in bringing on my appetite for liquor. i have at times suffered keenly from suddenly renouncing its use, but from the time god fully restored me i have not tasted nor touched tobacco and whisky or any other stimulants. do not understand me as saying that the appetite for them is dead, or that i have had no hours of depression and struggle in which the old satan tempted me. i expect all my life to wage a battle against him, and to know what sorrow is and pain. but by the grace of god i will dare to do right, and with his help i mean to be victorious in every fight against sin. i will abase myself with a trusting heart, and shrink from all self-esteem at war with the true principles to which a follower of christ should cling. i will grind myself to dust if by so doing i may have god's grace. i fully realize that left to myself i am nothing. jesus is not only my savior; he shall be my guide in all things. his precious blood has redeemed me, and i am at rest in the shadow of the rifted rock. peace dwells within me, and joy and praise to the father of all mercies fill my soul. to that father almighty be the praise. i earnestly desire the prayers of all christian men and women. every time you pray ask god to keep and save me with a salvation which shall be everlasting. the end. the last days of l.a. by george h. smith _murder on a small scale may be illegal and unpleasant, but mass murder can be the most exhilarating thing in the world!_ [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, february . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] you are having the same recurring dream, the dream that has haunted the whole world since that day in . the dream of the sudden flash in the night, the rising mushroom cloud and then annihilation. you are living the nightmare again but this time it's true, you know it's true. you can't be dreaming. the bombs are actually falling and huge fireballs are sweeping upward while seas of flame spread at supersonic speeds to engulf the city. you feel the blast, the searing heat, you feel your flesh melting away. you try to scream but the sound dies in your throat as your lungs shrivel. horror makes you try again and somehow you do scream and wake yourself up. once more, this one more time, it is only a dream. you lie there panting, too weak from terror to move out of the puddle of your own sweat. you lie there and think and your thoughts aren't very pretty. it's a week day and you ought to be down at the office turning out advertising copy by the ton but instead you lie there and think even though you don't like what you're thinking. it's got to be soon. it can't be much longer now, not the way things are going. you finally crawl out of bed around noon and ease your way into the kitchen. you realize that you have a hangover and since you can't remember what you did the night before you suppose you must have been drunk. by the time you finish one of the two quarts of beer you find in the refrigerator you know that isn't what you need, so you put on some clothes and wander out to a bar. after a few quick drinks you walk somewhat unsteadily out into the street again and head toward the place you always think of as the bar. a wino edges up to you and asks for money to buy a sandwich and a cup of coffee. you give him a dollar but make him promise not to spend it on anything so foolish as food. "liquor, brother, is the salvation of the race," you tell him. "believe and be saved!" "amen!" he says and hurries off. you make the mistake of stopping to read the headlines on the corner so you know you're not drunk enough yet. u. s. rejects new russ note. moon guns can destroy cities: kaganovitch. burma leader killed in fresh uprising. just before you get to the bar you pass an alleyway and as you glance into the darkness, you see a huge rat standing there staring at you with arrogant red eyes. after a moment he walks away, unhurried and cocky. an icy chill runs down your spine. the rats will survive. the rats always survive. maybe _they_ are the master race. something else tugs at your memory, something you read somewhere. oh yes, it was a statement by an oceanographer. he said that even if the h-bomb should annihilate every living thing on the surface of the earth, the sea creatures would be able to carry on. the rats and the fish will carry on and build a better world. your friends are sitting in their usual places when you get to the bar. john jones-very who has the reddest, bushiest and longest beard and also the record for staying drunk the longest, is doing the talking. listening are dale bushman who paints huge canvases which he never finishes, ian, an out-of-work musician whose last name you don't know, pat o'malley the actor and, of course, anna. anna is small and thin with deeply tanned skin drawn tightly over high cheekbones. she wears a plain dress and no makeup and her hair is done up in a bun on the nape of her neck. the poetry she writes is a kind of elegant pornography. she is the only one in the group who makes any money and that is because her book flame rose has been banned all across the country. you like her very much, probably because she is the most irritatingly ugly woman you have ever met. a howling bank of jets hurls across the sky screaming for human blood and you shiver as you squeeze in at the table. you are convinced that the elementals of hell are loose above and the world is in its last stages. all the children born this year will probably have twenty-one teeth and anti-christ will walk the land. "why worry about the next war?" dale bushman asks. "it won't last forever." "no," john says. "no war ever has ... yet." "do you think it's coming?" you ask. "if you read the papers, you'd take to the hills right now," pat o'malley says, finishing his bowl of chili and reaching for his drink. "ah, the hills," ian says. "but what good? the h-bomb is bad enough but they'll use the c-bomb, the cobalt bomb, and this is the final weapon." "just the same," you say. "i think we ought to take to the hills." why not hide yourself way back of nowhere? hide so deep in the woods and mountains that you won't even know when it happens. you could wrap the silence around you and pull the earth over you. you could bury yourself so deep that ... but of course you won't. you have a job and, like everyone else, at least a thousand other reasons for staying on until the end. "but really," you say, "a man should be able to survive a time of terror by disengaging himself as completely as possible from the rest of the human race. if he were to reduce his needs to a minimum ... a little bread, a few vegetables, a blanket or two, a warm cave and...." "a blonde or two," pat says. bushman adds, "a cellar of good scotch." "and books, lots of books," jones-very puts in. "no blondes, no scotch, no books," you tell them, banging your mug on the table so hard their glasses jump. "minimum needs ... minimum needs!" "how about plumbing?" anna demands. "i won't go without plumbing." "we're facing the end of the world," says john, "and you worry about plumbing!" "i'm sorry, but if plumbing isn't going to survive, i'd just as soon not either," anna says. "i just can't see myself squatting in the bushes." "what difference does it make?" ian asks. "everybody dies anyway. from the moment you're born, you start dying." "yes, but--" "so why bother? everybody dies. why prolong it more than you have to? everybody dies." "worlds may or may not blow up," o'malley says, "but it seems to me it's the little indignities of modern life that hurt the most. the constant repetition of the advertising slogans that insult your intelligence, and the women with the pearly teeth and perfect permanent waves, without body odor or souls." "i have body odor," anna says. "but no soul," ian says. "no soul at all." "you're just mad because i wouldn't sleep with you last night." "no soul," ian says. the jukebox offers tin pan alley's solution to the whole thing: oh baby, oh my baby o my baby is my baby o my baby is my baby o my baby loves me o she does, she does, she does o "our trouble is too much history," john says. "a period without history is a happy one and we've had too much history." "no soul--too much history," ian hiccups. "not enough sex--everybody dies." "everybody is going to die damn fast, unless something happens," you say. "no soul--so sad," ian mumbles. "no soul and no sex ... everybody dies, nothing happens." "so what?" anna demands. "what is life anyway? why try to be like everyone else in this beautiful but messy brave new world of ? why run searching for a messiah when all the messiahs died a thousand years ago?" this starts you thinking about religion. you've never thought much about it before but a man can change, maybe even accept the old myths as real until they actually begin to seem real. instead of dwelling on your body being burned to a cinder in an atomic holocaust you could think of your slightly singed soul being wafted to paradise on a mushroom cloud while u- atoms sing a heavenly chorus to speed you on your way. the others don't even notice when you get up and walk out to look for a church. * * * * * churches aren't hard to find in los angeles on any day of the week or at any hour of the day. they're behind the blank fronts of painted-over store windows. they're located in big old nineteenth-century houses along adams; they spring up under tents in vacant lots and in large expensive temples and bank-like buildings in the downtown area. you pass by several likely-looking churches because they are in neighborhoods that have alleyways, and you still remember that rat, that red-eyed rat. then as you walk through downtown crowds, you remember something else. some dentist once said that the teeth of the people in the a-bombed japanese cities hadn't been affected by radiation. this is very funny, it makes you laugh. you picture a world of blistered corpses, none of whose teeth have been affected. you laugh out loud and people turn to look at you. a woman points you out to a policeman and he looks your way. you want to keep on laughing but now you don't dare to. so you just keep on walking, trying to keep the laughter from bubbling out of you. "hey, bud," the policeman calls to you, "what's the matter with you?" "nothing--nothing at all, officer," you tell him, and dive into the next church you pass. this one is called the church of the new cosmology. inside, a round-faced little man is talking to a few listless people. "a geologist will never know the rocks until he has seen the rock of ages. the botanist will never know plants until he has beheld the lily of the valley, the cosmologist will never know the universe until he has listened to the word of god! "let us consider for a moment the sun. what do we know about the sun, my friends? what do the so-called scientists know about it? what do they tell us about our heavenly light? they say it's a giant ball of fire millions of miles across and ninety-one million miles away. now why, i ask you, would that be so? the bible says that god made the sun to light the world. now have you ever known the lord to do anything silly or foolish? of course you haven't! then why do they ask us to believe that he would put the sun, which is supposed to light the world, ninety-one million miles away from it? an engineer who did something like that wouldn't be much of a god. the true answer, my friends, is that jehovah god did nothing so impractical and no matter who tells you different, don't believe it!" the little man's voice dropped to a husky whisper. "i have studied my bible and i've listened to the scientists and i've talked to god himself about it and i tell you this is the truth. the sun is our heavenly light, the sure sign of god's love, and right this minute it is just two thousand three hundred miles from los angeles! it is not a wasteful million miles across, it is just forty-five and five-tenths miles across ... just the right size to give us our beautiful california sunshine. "how do i know?" the whisper had grown to a hoarse shout. "how do i know? i know because it's the word of god, my friends! the personal word of god given to me by god himself. "what else do i know? what else has god told me, to confound the godless scientists? why, my friends, the bible says that this earth upon which we live is flat--as flat as this book!" he brings his hand down with a sharp slap on the bible. "you ask then how is it possible to circumnavigate the world when it is a flat plane. the answer is that it isn't possible. a ship that seems to go around the world really makes a circle on the flat surface like this." with a stubby forefinger he draws a circle on the book. "now i know that those scientists up on the moon say that the world is round, but whoever saw or heard of a scientist that wasn't a liar? can any of you really bring yourselves to believe that this flat earth of ours is traveling through space at the tremendous speed that they say it is? tell me, do you feel any wind from this great speed? do you feel anything at all?" no, you have to admit, you don't. you don't feel a thing. even his own congregation doesn't seem to. this is thirsty work. you have a couple more drinks and then you look for another church. you find one called the church of christian capitalism. the thin old man with the dusty fringe of gray hair has his audience well in hand as you walk in and take a seat. he makes the sign of the cross and the sign of the dollar over their heads as he harangues them. "blessed are the wealthy for they shall please god," he says. "christ was the first capitalist, dear friends. he took a loaf and seven fishes and blessed them and made them into enough food to feed a multitude. he walked in poverty but he came to own the world! "god is the good capitalist, the owner and proprietor of all things on this earth. this country was created by those saints of capitalism--morgan, rockefeller and gould." christian capitalism sends you home to bed by way of another bar. * * * * * you're sitting in a room with people all around you. at first you don't know why you're there and then you remember it's a party. everyone except you is laughing and drinking and having a good time. you have a strange sense of foreboding, of something about to happen that you can't avoid. you see a girl you know across the room and get up and start to cross the room to her. there's a sudden blinding flash of light outside the house and the windows come crashing in. you see murderous slivers of glass piercing the flesh of those about you and you hurry over to the girl you know only to find her face and neck slashed by the flying glass and blood streaming down over her bare breasts. you try to stop the flow of blood with a handkerchief but it's coming in such strong spurts that you can't. a second shock wave follows the first with an even brighter flash. you're knocked to the floor and the building comes crashing down. you struggle against the falling masonry but it does no good. you feel the crushing weight and scream ... and your screams wake you up. you feel almost as bad awake as you did asleep, only now the crushing weight is on your head instead of your chest and your mouth is filled with the taste of death and decay. you figure you must have been drinking last night but you can't quite remember. you reach out your hand and it locates a bottle that still guggles a little. without opening your eyes you lift it hurriedly to your mouth and then almost choke trying to spit it out. mouthwash! you manage to get your eyes open, and remember with thankful heart that today is sunday and you don't have to go to work. it's been five days since the last dream and that's not so bad, but just the same you'd better get up and get a drink because this one really shook you up. or maybe you ought to go to church. perhaps you'd better do both. a tall blond man in a black suit is standing on a platform in the center of a group of forty or fifty intensely quiet people as you enter. "is there a wall in front of you?" he asks. "yes, there is a wall in front of us," the people answer. "can you see the wall in front of you?" "yes, we can see the wall." "is there a wall behind you?" "yes, there is a wall behind us." "can you see the wall behind you?" they all turn around and look. "yes, we can see the wall behind us." "is there a floor beneath your feet?" "yes, there is a floor beneath our feet." "are you sure? feel the floor with your feet." there is a loud shuffling as they do as they are told. "are you sure the floor is there?" "yes, we're sure the floor is there." "now feel your feet with the floor." there is more shuffling and during this you steal quietly out. this one reminds you of the d.t.'s and you want nothing at all to do with that. you get tossed out of the next place you try because the preacher says you're drunk. you're not, but you wish you were, so you head toward the bar. you stop when you see the sign, "flying saucer convention." it's over the door of a large building and underneath in smaller letters it says, "listen to the words of the space people. hear the advice they bring us in these troubled times." surely, you tell yourself, the space people will have a solution, surely they can bring peace. you enter and see a young, ordinary-looking fellow addressing a crowd of about three hundred. you take a seat next to a bald man who is writing down what the young man is saying even though it doesn't seem to make much sense. "... member of a small group that has been in touch with the space people and feel that this world can be saved only through the aid of superior beings. i will now play this tape which i obtained from the captain of a flying saucer." he places the tape on the spindle and it begins to whirl. a voice begins to speak in slightly stilted english. "i am lelan. i am what you people of earth think of as the head of the government of the planet nobila. i speak to you across the parsecs in order to bring you good and bad news. the good is that a new age is about to begin for the people of earth through the aid of we nobilians. we have already contacted the president of the united states, the pope of the catholic church and all other world leaders. a new age is about to begin for you as soon as we have saved you from the evil influence of the vicious zenonians from the planet zeno. all earth knowledge will become obsolete as we supply you with new information and all good things will be free in the days after we drive the zenonians from among you. "but first we must warn you that the zenonians will try to stop us, but you can help avoid this if you are alert. look around you for persons who seem strange. it is the zenonians who have made you what you are. it is the zenonians who cause your wars and your crime with their evil rays. we will use our good nobil rays to combat their evil z rays. when we have driven them out, the world will be a better place in which to live. but--beware! they are all about you. examine the man next to you. beware! they are all about you. you shall hear from us again." you turn and look at the man next to you; he's looking at you. he _is_ a rather strange-looking guy and you edge away from him just as he edges away from you. you turn to look at the man on the other side of you. he is moving away from you also. then you hear the stories of the people in the audience. every one of them who stands up to speak has had a mysterious visitor in the night or had a flying saucer land in his backyard. most of them have had trips to the moon and elsewhere in flying saucers. space you think must be as crowded as the hollywood freeway at rush hour. almost all of them have been contacted by superior beings from space because they are the only people in the world who are wise enough to interpret the space people to the earth people. you feel pretty good from the drinks you've had, so you stand up and tell them what you think. "the first flying saucers were sighted after the atomic bombs were first exploded," you begin. "and they became very prevalent after the first earth satellites were put into space and again after the first moon rockets. i therefore think that the earth is a cosmic madhouse in which the human race has been incarcerated for its own good and that every time we start rattling the bars, the keepers hurry down to take a look." no one seems to care much for your theory, and you are escorted to the door none too politely. no, the space people don't seem to have the answer. with the headlines you see at every corner chasing you, you head for the bar and dive gratefully through the door. "so everybody dies," ian is saying. "we're all dying, just sitting here." "will you stop that? god damn it, will you stop that?" you yell at him. ian looks at you owlishly for a few seconds and then back at his drink. jones-very and the others go right on with the conversation. "it's merely what i was saying the other night," jones-very says. "it's the contagious spread of the madness that is epidemic in our time. no one wants war. but still we are going to have a war. after all, the very zeitgeist of our times is one of complete callousness toward human life. you have only to think of the russian slave camps, the german gas chambers and our own highway slaughter." "maybe life itself is just some sort of stupid mistake," anna says. "maybe we're a cosmic blunder, a few pimples on the tail of the universe." "that isn't so," you blurt out. "there's purpose--there's got to be purpose. you can't look around you and say there isn't purpose in the universe; that there isn't a reason for our being here." this time they all turn and look at you strangely. then they look at each other. "i wonder," jones-very says, "if i wasn't closer to the truth than i thought when i talked about contagion." "what the hell do you mean by that?" you demand, half rising from your seat. "nothing ... nothing at all," jones-very says, looking at the others. "what this world needs is a moral renovation--a new birth of the spirit," you go on. "oh, my god," jones-very moans, his head in his hands. "would you listen to that, in this age of space stations and moon guns," anna says. "john, you're right--you're right! it's got him!" bushman says. you won't listen to any more of this. you get to your feet and stagger with great dignity to the door. * * * * * you're dressed in high altitude equipment and you're sitting in the nose of a jet bomber listening to the vicious growling of the motors. you have a tremendous feeling of power and you think about how many you'll kill this trip. you think about the big black bombs nestled in the bomb bay and remember there is one for each of the three cities on your list. god, it will be beautiful! you can almost see the glorious colors of the rising mushroom cloud and hear the screaming of the shattered atoms. you can't hear the screaming of the people up here, that's one of the nicest parts of this kind of murder. you can't hear them. this makes you as happy as it must have made attila and hitler when they killed their millions. murder on a small scale may be illegal and unpleasant, but mass murder can be the most exhilarating thing in the world. then your bombs are gone and you're passing through the most beautiful clouds you've ever seen but somehow they smell of charred flesh and even up here you hear the screams of the people. the sound rips and tears at your brain, destroying what little sanity you have left. you've got to stop them! you've got to, before they drive you completely mad. you tilt the nose of the bomber and dive toward the screams. you've got to stop them! you scream back at them as you dive and again your own screams wake you up. this is the worst one you've ever had and your hangover is almost as bad. you dress and hurry out of your apartment to get away from the terror and the guilt but suddenly you remember that you aren't really the guilty one. or are you? you look for a bar or a place to buy a bottle and then remember that you haven't any money. you see pat o'malley up ahead of you in the crowd and hurry to catch up with him. he hasn't any money either, so you suggest that both of you go to church. "why not?" he says. "we have only our souls to lose." the two of you enter the first one you come to and the woman on the platform is an amazing sight. she's big and full-bodied and has all the grace and arrogance of a lioness. she's got the word and she's passing it out in large doses. "that's dr. elinda a. egers, d.c.f.," o'malley whispers. "doctor of complete faith." you watch fascinated as that lush body of hers moves restlessly around the platform. "in these troubled times the tortured mind of man is hanging in the balance, because he has forgotten his great enemy," elinda shouts. there's a wildness in her eyes and a sensuousness in the way she moves her body that makes you move forward until you're sitting on the edge of your seat. any stripper, you muse, would give her g-string to be able to imitate this woman's uninhibited way with her hips. "why are our asylums filled with millions of the mentally sick? and why are there tens of millions of the physically sick among us? why?" she demands at the top of her lungs. "because the doctors and the psychologists absolutely fail to recognize or blindly refuse to recognize the demoniac origin of these illnesses. they have failed, my dear friends, because they are bound to the unreality of conventional science. they have failed because they did not look into their souls to see what god has written there for all to read. "if we face the truth, we will learn to recognize the presence of demons and only then can we cure the inflicted!" demons, you think. what a lovely idea. perhaps you have fallen through a rift in time and come out in the middle ages with only wonderful things like witches and demons to worry about. you turn to o'malley to tell him this, only to find him sound asleep. you've often wondered where he did his sleeping, and now you know. "the battle in the world today is not between nations but between jesus christ and the devil!" she has gone into a kind of bump and grind routine now with her hands on those glorious hips and her body moving back and forth while her legs remain absolutely still. it looks real good from where you sit but you think it might look even better up closer so you leave pat snoring gently and take a seat further toward the front. "come to me and the lord will put out his hand and save you. he has said unto me: 'you shall have the power to cast out demons,' and i have replied that i will do so. if you feel it, say amen!" there is a lusty chorus of amen's from the winos and bums who fill the auditorium. you have an idea they were attracted here by the same thing that keeps you on the edge of your seat. a man with the jerks of some sort comes down the aisle and the healing starts. dr. egers lays one hand on his head and the other at the back of his neck. "get out of him, you demons! out! out! in the name of the lord, i charge thee--get out!" the man jerks even more violently. "heal him, lord, heal him! they're coming out ... the demons are coming out. can't you feel them leaving you, brother?" the fellow jerks once more and almost falls as an attendant leads him away. "he's cured," elinda shouts. "praise god! he'll never have another convulsion." "praise god! praise god!" the congregation shouts. only the still-jerking man seems to have any doubts as to his cure. "the power of god will save you," she says to the little boy now kneeling before her. "from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet, i charge you, satan, come out!" she hugs the child against those astonishing breasts of hers. "this can be your cure if you believe, jimmy. all things are possible if you only believe. little jimmy, do you have faith?" the boy nods his head eagerly and his face is so full of faith and belief that you find yourself nodding with him. "restore him tonight in the name of jesus christ!" she shouts, placing her hands on his thin little legs. "this little leg, lord ... send the power to restore this little leg. drive the demon of evil from it!" her voice grows even louder. "the power is coming! the power is coming! the power is within me now and it will flow from me to you. do you feel it, jimmy? do you feel it? do you feel it flowing in your legs?" she has lifted him from the floor and is cradling him in her arms. "do you feel it, jimmy?" christ, you can almost feel it yourself. "don't your legs feel different, jimmy?" "i think they're tingling a little," he says. "do you hear that?" she shouts again. "his legs are tingling! the god power is making them tingle!" she lowers the child to the floor. "you can do it, lord! send the power in the name of jesus! send it into this little foot, into this little leg. try, jimmy, try it for me, try it now!" jimmy tries to stand up but wavers and falls. with renewed effort he manages to pull himself erect and stand swaying. "you've seen it! you've seen it with your own eyes!" elinda screams at them joyously. sure they've seen it but they don't seem much impressed. in fact, most of them get up and leave after this round. you ease yourself out of your seat and head toward the door, because you need a drink, but you turn before going out to look back at her. she looks tired and disappointment shows in her full sensuous face. you know that she's the most wonderful thing you have ever seen. you've found your religion. you've found something to worship--elinda egers, the only real goddess in the world. you'll come here every night and the bomb won't worry you because you have a religion now. elinda egers will save you. you head for the nearest bar, singing "rock of ages" at the top of your lungs. * * * * * you're running ... running, terror riding you like a jockey using the whip. you're running while a boiling sea of flame rolls over the city. behind you and close on your heels come breakers of radioactive hell, smashing buildings and lifting cars and people into the air. people are running on all sides of you. a girl in a spangled evening dress, a puffing little man in bermuda shorts, a woman carrying two children, a man with a golf bag over his shoulder and two men in gray flannel suits followed by a woman in a sack dress that keeps blowing up over her face as she runs. the harder you run, the closer the fire seems to get. you can feel it singeing your back and the fat little man screams as a lashing tongue catches up with him and turns him into a cinder. the woman in the sack dress tramples across the bodies of the two men in gray flannel but the man with the golf club fights her off with his mashie. then the four of them are eaten up by the hungry flames. you moan and your legs pump harder. there's an underground shelter ahead and you run toward it only to find the entrance jammed with people. you try to fight your way in. you grab hold of a man but his boiled flesh comes away in your hands. then you see they are all dead, packed together so tightly they can't fall. you're running again and you see the woman with the two children only there's nothing left of them but a charred arm and a hand which she still clutches. the girl in the evening dress falls in front of you and you stumble over her. you see her dress and then her hair burst into flames. she throws her arms around you and you feel the suffocating flames. "oh lord--lord," you moan, and wake up. the bottle of wine on the nightstand is only half empty and you drink from it gratefully and think of going out for more. but you remember your goddess and you know that you have to go to see her. she's in good form tonight as she talks about the kinsey report. "if you're listening, say amen!" she raises both arms as she yells this and you're amazed at the way her big breasts rise with them. "in the old testament, god demanded death for the adulteress but dr. kinsey in his day tried to make her sins sound normal. but i tell you that this sin is the road to hell, for the person and for the nation. god has destroyed other cities for this sin and his wrath will fall upon yours as well. "if you're listening, say amen!" "amen!" "are you really listening? do you honestly want to hear? or do you prefer the way los angeles and the rest of the nation is going? do you prefer the way of sex, the way of fornication and adultery? do you prefer to read about sixteen-year old girls found in love nests with older men? do you prefer to think of boys and girls in the back seats of cars? do you prefer to think of some man's hand running over your daughter's body, touching her...." elinda egers is swaying back and forth, her body rigid, her breath coming faster and faster. someone else is breathing heavily and you're not surprised to find it's you. "if this is what you want, say amen!" "amen!" you shout before you realize you're not supposed to this time. no one seems to notice. beads of perspiration are forming on the back of your neck and trickling down your spine. the tabernacle is jammed and there isn't much ventilation. you're dizzy with the wine, lack of food and desire. "go ahead! let your kids go to hell! let them read comic books and smoke and drink and fornicate in the back seats of jalopies! let them go to filthy movies, let them listen to dirty jokes on television, let them look at the brazen women with their breasts hanging half out of their dresses." "oooooh ..." a woman in front of you moans, and you feel like moaning with her. "but if you don't want these things," elinda shouts, her voice on the verge of breaking, "sing--sing, sing with me! "_come home, come home, ye who are weary, come home._" you are sitting in a metal room with telescreens on the wall and a big red button in front of you. sweat is standing out on your forehead and trickling down the back of your neck because you know the time is coming, the time when you have to decide whether to push that button and send a dozen icbm's with hydrogen warheads arcing over the pole. in the telescreens you see cities ... peaceful scenes of people going about their business. then the people are running, leaping out of their cars and leaving them on the street, vanishing into buildings and underground shelters. your hand is poised over the big red button and your muscles are tightened as if your whole hand and arm were turned to wood, and you know that even if you have to, you can't push that button and destroy half the world. then in one of the telescreens there is a sudden white glare, and the screen goes blank--burned out--and then in another telescreen you see destruction fountaining like dirty white dust boiling out of the streets ... and you see the buildings breaking and falling in rubble, and now you hear the people's screams, a sound that tears through your guts and drives you crazy, and the rubble is falling and sending up more fountains of gray dust--and you know that this is happening to your own country, your own people, and you have to strike back, you have to push the button and avenge them, stop the slaughter by killing the enemy's people and destroying their cities too, but you can't make yourself push the button, your arm won't move and your fingers are paralyzed, and then all the telescreens are glaring white or blowing up in clouds of destruction, and you scream, scream in the metal room until you can't hear anything but your own screaming, and then somehow you force your hand down and push the button. and just as you feel it go down, the walls of the room burst inward in a volcano of noise and terror and the gray dust comes swirling in over you, blotting out your screams.... you wake up and hurry through the streets with this last dream hanging over you more heavily than any of the others. you've got to run--you've got to get out. but look at all the other people. none of them are running. they're going home from work--going into cafes, walking the dog ... oh god, walking the dog at a time like this.... you're scared. the bloody world is coming to a bloody end. you know it just as sure as you're sitting here in the warm sun in macarthur park with the fifth you've bought and are drinking from in a paper bag. it's close now. you're not sure how close but it's close. the world is coming to an end and you know you can't convince anyone that it is. you feel the way henny penny--or was it chicken little?--must have felt. the sky is falling! the sky is falling! hell--you're just one more caterwauling messiah in a city of messiahs. los angeles, where every man is his own messiah. then you know what the trouble is. you've been looking for someone to help you, when what you should have been doing was helping them. now you realize that you are the _one_, you are the messiah you've been seeking. it's up to you to lead them out to the city into the wilderness. you drink more and you drink it fast and the more you drink the more a feeling of infinite compassion comes over you for your fellow men. you can save them. you can do it. you drain about two-thirds of the bottle and then get up and walk toward a man in that uniform of success, a gray flannel suit. "wait a minute, friend," you say, shifting the bottle to your left hand so you can take his arm with your right. "what is it? what do you want?" he says, looking at you as though you're drunk. "have you seen the papers today, friend?" you ask. "let go of me," he says, pulling away. "if you have seen them, what are you going to do about it?" "i'm going home and eat my dinner." he hurries off. you approach a plump, pretty little blonde pushing a baby carriage. "miss, can i have a few minutes of your time in which to save your life?" she looks frightened and tries to wheel the buggy around you. "have you thought about the future of this dear little child of yours?" she breaks into a half trot and soon disappears with the baby carriage bouncing along ahead of her. you sit down for a few minutes and have a few more swallows of the bourbon. when you get up you're surprised to find that you stagger a little. but you've got to tell the people, you've got to make them listen. your eye lights on a garbage can a short way off and you know you've found the way to do it. you take a stand beside the can and with the bottle tucked safely in your pocket you begin to pound on the can with both hands. "hey, listen, everybody! i've got to tell you about the last days of los angeles. listen to me! i can save you if you'll just listen! you're doomed. the city is doomed!" you pound like mad on the can, but this being l.a. where such things happen every day, only a very few passersby stop. "come over here and let me tell you about it!" you yell. "do you know what the power of the h-bomb can do? have you heard of the c-bomb? do you know what nerve gas is? have you seen the sputniks overhead? do you know how far an icbm will travel and how fast? do you know that there is no defense?" you grab a man by the arm, but he shakes you off, so you reach for a gray-haired old lady and get an umbrella in your middle from the dear little thing. "boy, is he ever soused." two teen-aged girls are standing in front of you, giggling. "did you ever see a guy so drunk?" you want to save them and you start toward them with outstretched arms, but they move back into the crowd. this makes you furious and you start to yell again. you grab the nearest person. it's a woman but you shake her anyway. someone has got to listen. "let go of me, you masher," the woman screams. "help, somebody, help!" the crowd closes in on you. a sailor grabs you from behind and a man in working clothes hits you with a lunch bucket. you let go of the woman and hit back at him. "help! help!" the woman is still yelping. "call the cops--a man's trying to rape a girl!" someone hits you with an umbrella, and you know it's the same dear little old lady. a guy grabs you by the neck and tries to throw you to the ground but you kick him in the groin and trade punches with two others. then they're all over you. the old lady trips you and you go down. she starts beating you with the umbrella as a man's foot smashes against your head. you see a woman's nylon-clad leg as she raises her spiked heel and brings it ripping down across your cheek. other feet crash into you. "let me help you," you're still yelling, but they keep on kicking. some of the shoes have blood on them, you notice through the haze, but they still keep on kicking. then it's getting dark and you lie there and think how henny penny--or was it chicken little?--must have felt. you want to tell someone about it but you don't. you just lie there and wait for the screaming sirens to come and take you away. (new york public library) the betrayal of john fordham by b. l. farjeon author of "aaron the jew," "a fair jewess," "the last tenant," "the peril of richard pardon," etc., etc. * * * r. f. fenno and company fifth avenue new york copyright, , by b. l. farjeon. _betrayal of john fordham_. the betrayal of john fordham. * * * chapter i. john fordham's confession. my name is john fordham, and i am thirty-four years of age. so far as i can judge i am at present of sound mind, though sadly distraught, and my memory is fairly clear, except as to the occurrences of a certain terrible night in december two years ago, which are obscured by a black cloud which i have striven in vain to pierce. these occurrences, and the base use to which they have been turned by an enemy who has made my life a torture, have brought me to a pass which will cause me presently to stand before the world as a murderer. no man accuses me. it is i who accuse myself of the horrible crime, though i call god to witness that i know not how i came to do it, save that it must have been done in self-defense. but who will believe me in the face of the damning evidence which i afterwards found in my possession--and who will believe that when the fatal deed was done i did not see the features of the man i killed, and did not know who he was? my protestations will be regarded as weak inventions, and will be received with incredulity--as probably i should receive them were another man in my place, and i his judge. it is the guiltiest persons who most loudly proclaim their innocence, and i shall be classed among them. am i, then, weary of life that i deliberately place myself in deadly peril, and invite the last dread sentence of the law to be passed upon me? in one sense, yes. not a day passes that my torturer does not present himself to sting and threaten me and aggravate my sufferings. my nights are sleepless; even when exhausted nature drives me into a brief stupor my fevered brain is crowded with frightful images and visions. so appalling are these fancies that there is a danger of my being driven mad. death is preferable. and yet, but a few moments before i committed the crime, i was looking forward hopefully to a life of peace and love with a dear and noble woman who sacrificed her good name for me, and whom i promised to marry when i was freed from a curse which had clung to me for years. the night was cold, the snow was falling, but there was joy in my heart, and i walked along singing. great god! my heart throbs with anguish as i think of the heaven which might been mine had not cruel fate suddenly dashed the cup of happiness from my lips. but it is useless to repine; i yield because it is forced upon me. one consoling thought is mine. the dear woman i love with a love as true and sincere as ever beat in the heart of man, will turn to me with pity, will visit me in the prison to which i go of my own accord, and in the solemn farewell we shall bid one another will extend her hands and forgive me for the wrong i have done her and our child. these last words cause me to waver in my purpose. our child! hers--mine. i am the sweet little fellow's father. i saw him yesterday with his mother, though neither he nor my dear ellen knew that i was near them, for i was careful they should not see my face. how he has grown! yesterday was his fourth 'birthday, and to-day ellen is wondering who left the toy horse and cart at her lodgings. his sturdy little limbs, his lovely hair, his large brown eyes with their wonderful lashes, the music of his voice! what bliss, what torture i endured as i followed and listened to his prattle. "oh, mother!" he cried, dragging at her hand. "look--look! do look!" his excitement was caused by a display of toys in a window, and they stood together--ellen and my boy--gazing at the treasures there displayed. he liked this, he liked that, and wasn't this grand, and wasn't that beautiful? and, oh! look here, mother, and here, and here! he was especially fascinated by the horse and cart. very tenderly did ellen coax his attention to a box of white lambs, which was to be obtained for sixpence, and they went into the shop, where it was placed in his arms, for his little hands could not grasp it firmly, and he wanted to carry it home himself. as he and his mother walked away i observed him look longingly over his shoulder at the horse and cart, and doubtless there was in his young mind a hope that one of these fine days when he was a big, big man such a treasure might also be in his possession, and that he would be able to ride off in it straight to fairyland. i am sure ellen would have given it to him could she have afforded it, but she is obliged to be economical and sparing with her pennies. she earns a trifle by needlework, and, through a solicitor, she receives a pound a week from me, whom she believes to be thousands of miles away. upon this she lives in modest comfort, saving every penny she can, and looking forward cheerfully to the future. the future! alas for her--for reggie--for me! reggie's father hanged for murder! but he need never know. he does not bear my name, for ellen would not have it so. "not till the laws of god and man sanction it," she said, and i let her have her way. spirit of truth and justice! show me the path wherein my duty lies. more than one path is open to me. i could disappear at sea beneath the waters, and my enemy would never discover how and by what means i had severed the cord of life. he would hunt for me, and gnash his teeth at the escape of his prey. some satisfaction in that. oh, miserable fool, to express such a sentiment! but let it stand. i have no desire to conceal my weaknesses. being gone, ellen would still receive her pound a week. this is secured to her, and it is this my enemy would snatch from her. "you have money left," he cried. "i will have my share of it, or i will denounce you." he shall not succeed. he shall not rob ellen, nor shall he denounce me. no man except myself shall bring me to the bar of justice. i could kill him, and the world would be rid of a monster. i am strong; he is weak. i have held him with one hand, so that he could not move a step from the spot upon which he stood. dead, he could do no more mischief. wretch that i am! add murder to murder? no. i will not burden my soul with conscious guilt. i will do what i resolved to do, and this confession, when it is completed, shall be sent to ellen. condemn me, world. ellen, in my last hours i look to you for one blessed ray of light. there was a dread crisis in my life when you were my guardian angel, and saved me from destruction. you will not fail me now. receiving consolation at your dear hands, from your pure heart, i shall lay down my load, and with sobs of thankfulness shall bid the world farewell. in heaven, where the truth is known, we shall meet again. chapter ii. were it not necessary i would make no mention of my child-life, but this record would be incomplete were i to pass it over in silence. all that i can do is to dwell upon it as briefly as possible. my mother died a few weeks after i was born; my father waited but twelve months before he married again, and in less than two years his second wife was a widow. thus i lost both my parents at too early an age to retain the slightest recollection of them. by his second marriage my father had one child, a boy; my half-brother's name was louis, and by him and my stepmother i was regarded with aversion--by her, indeed, with a much stronger feeling, for when i was old enough to reason out things for myself i learned that she hated me. my father had made a fortune by commerce, and in his will he behaved justly to those who had a claim upon him. half of his fortune was left to his widow, without restriction of any kind except that she was to rear and educate me, and that her home was to be mine until i was twenty-one years of age; then i was to become entitled to my share, one-fourth, which was so securely invested and protected that she could not touch it. the remaining one-fourth was left to louis in the same way. two of my father's friends were appointed trustees, to see to the proper disposition of his children's inheritance. in the conditions of this will my stepmother found a double cause for resentment. she was angry in the first place that the whole of the fortune was not bequeathed to her, and in the second place that she was not appointed trustee; and she visited her anger upon me, an unoffending child, who could have had no hand in what she conceived to be a plot against her. upon her son she lavished a full measure of passionate love, while i was allowed to roam about, neglected and uncared for. nothing was too good for louis, nothing too bad for me. he had the best room in the house to sleep in, i the worst; he was always beautifully dressed, and i was made to wear his cast-off clothes. it was the breast of the fowl for louis, the drumstick for me, and dainty dishes were prepared for him which i was not allowed to taste; my meals were measured out, and if i asked for more i was refused. he was taken to theatres and entertainments, i was left at home. his christmas trees were at once a delight and a torture to me. they could not prevent me from looking and longing, but not a toy fell to my share. the heartless woman told me that i had robbed her and her son of their inheritance, and i have no doubt that she had nursed this grievance into a conviction. "you are nothing but a pest and a nuisance," she said. and as a pest and a nuisance i was treated. in these circumstances it would have been strange indeed if my child-life had been happy. i was glad when i was sent to school, and i did not look forward to the holidays with any feeling of pleasure. studious by nature, i did well at school, and good reports of my progress were sent home, which my stepmother tore up before my face. notwithstanding this systematic oppression i strove to win affection from her and louis, but every advance i made met with cold repulse, the result being that we became less and less friendly. at length i gave up the attempt, and suffering from a sense of injustice preserved my self-respect by an assertion of independence. instead of bending meekly beneath the lash, i stood up boldly, and seized and broke it. this really happened. one scene, which lives in my memory, will serve as an illustration. i do not say it in praise of myself, because these things come by nature, but i have a tender feeling towards all living creatures, and cannot bear to see them tortured. to louis it was a delight, and even his pets did not escape when he grew tired of them. he had some white rabbits, and one day i saw him bind all the limbs of one of them round its body till it resembled a ball in form. then he threw it high in the air again and again, and frequently failing to catch it the poor thing fell upon the gravel path in the garden till it was covered with blood. i was fourteen years of age at the time, louis was twelve. i darted forward, and picking up the wounded animal was loosening its bonds, when he snatched it from me. i endeavored to take it from him, telling him it was cruel to torture the helpless creature. we had a struggle, and his screams brought his mother from the house. she fell upon me, and dragged me away. "see what he has done," said louis, pointing to the bleeding rabbit, which had fallen to the ground. "you did it," i retorted. "it's a lie," he screamed. "you did it, you did it." it was not the first falsehood he had told by many to get me into trouble. panting with rage, my stepmother ran back to the house, and returned with a cane she had often used upon me. "i will punish you for the lie," she said. "how dare you say my darling would do such a cruel thing? you are a disgrace to the name you bear." she flourished the cane; i stepped back. "i have told the truth," i said, "and i don't intend to be punished any more by you for faults i do not commit." "you do not intend!" she answered, advancing towards me. "i will teach you; i will teach you!" swish went the cane across my face; only once, for as she was about to repeat the blow i wrested it from her, broke it, and threw it over the garden wall. in a frenzy of ungovernable fury she seized the first weapon that caught her eye--a gardener's spade--and attacked me with it, and at the same moment louis ran at me with a three-pronged rake. he slipped and fell, and in his fall wounded himself with the prongs. his cries of pain diverted his mother's attention from me; she flung away the spade, and caught him in her arms. alarmed at the sight of blood dripping from his face i stepped forward to assist her. "keep off, you murderer!" she shrieked. "you have killed my boy! you will come to the gallows!" she flew into the house with louis, and i saw nothing more of her that day. louis, as i afterwards learned, kept his room for a week; it was not till months had passed that we met again, and then i noticed a scar on his forehead which i was told he would carry with him to the grave. from that time i was made to feel that i had two bitter enemies in my father's house. arrangements were made to keep me at school during holidays, and i was not sorry for it. once a year only was i allowed to visit my home, and then i was shunned; my meals were served to me in a separate room, and not the slightest attention was paid to my wants. i grew to be accustomed to this, and took refuge in study, longing for the day to arrive when i should be free. i recall the conversation which took place on that day between my stepmother and me. "you have made arrangements, i presume," she commenced, "for residing elsewhere?" "i have been thinking what i had best do," i said. "that is not what i asked you. it is perfectly immaterial to me what you have been thinking of. i presume your arrangements to live elsewhere are already made." as a matter of fact they were not, but i could not pretend to misunderstand her. "you wish me to leave the house soon?" i said. "at once," she replied, "without a moment's unnecessary delay. you shall not eat another meal here. your presence is hateful to me." "i have known that all my life," i said, mournfully. "then why have you remained so long?" she asked, speaking with angry vehemence. "a man with a particle of spirit in him would have gone away years ago, but you, like the creature you are, have sponged upon me to the last hour. you are twenty-one to-day, and i am no longer legally obliged to keep you. go, and disgrace yourself, as you are sure to do." "i shall never do that." "it has to be proved," she retorted. "as if any one knowing you would believe a word that passes your lips! we shall see your name in the papers in connection with some scandalous affair." "you are mistaken. i bear my father's name, and i would suffer a hundred deaths rather than see it dragged through the mire." "swear it," she cried. "i swear it. but, hating me as you do, why should you be so sensitive about my good name?" "your good name!" she said, scornfully. "it is only because i bear it, because louis bears it, as well as you, that i exact the pledge from you. otherwise, do you think i care what becomes of you?" "truly," i said, "i believe it would rejoice you to hear the worst." "it would." % "i hope to disappoint you. on my solemn word of honor nothing that i do shall ever make our name a theme for scandal or reproach." "i hold you to that. we shall see whether there is any manhood in you, or the least sense of honor. now, go!" "cannot we part without enmity?" i asked. persecuted and wronged as i had been, some touch of sentiment--of which i was not ashamed--moved me to the endeavor to soften the heart of my dead father's wife. "no, we cannot," she answered. "to ask it proves your mean spirit. but do you think we shall forget you? we have something to remember you by be sure--be sure that it will not be forgotten while there is blood in our veins." "to what do you refer?" "there is a scar on my louis' face inflicted by you, which he will bear with him to the grave." "no, no," i cried. "it is not true to say i did it. i deplore the accident, but it was caused by his own cruelty." "how dare you utter the lie? it is not the first time; you said as much on the day you tried to kill him. yes, you would have murdered him had i not been by. we shall remember you by that, and it shall be evidence against you if there is ever occasion for it. cruelty! my darling louis cruel! he has the tenderest heart. you coward--you coward! had he been as old and strong as you you would not have dared to attack him. but that is the way with such as you--to strike only the weak. time will show--time will show! you are going into the world; there is no longer a check upon you. there will be a woman, perhaps, whom you will beat and torture. oh, yes, you will do it; and you will lie to the world and whine that the fault is hers. let those who stand by her come to me and louis--we will give you a character; you shall be exposed in your true light. i hate you--i hate you--i hate you! may your life be a life of sorrow!" and she flung herself from the room. the time was to come when these cruel words were to be used against me with cruel effect; there was something prophetic in their venom. i did not see louis before i left the house, and on that day i commenced a new life. chapter iii. for three years it was uneventful. i lived much alone, and made a few friends, with one or another of whom i took a holiday every year on the continent. then an event occurred which gave birth to the startling incidents and experiences of my life. ten years ago this month barbara landor and i were married. i was twenty-four, and barbara was three years my senior. to a young man in love--as i must have been at that time, though my feelings for my wife soon underwent change, and i look back upon them now with amazement--such a disparity is not likely to cause uneasiness. it did not cause me any. i was swayed entirely by my passionate desire to make the woman with whom i was infatuated my wife. i had known her only a short time before i proposed, and was accepted. our engagement was of but a few weeks' duration, and during our courtship i observed nothing in barbara's manner to disturb me. no one warned me; no friend bade me pause before i bound myself irrevocably to a woman who was to be my ruin. occasionally her face was rather flushed, and she was eager and nervous, which i ascribed to the excitement of our engagement. her sparkling eyes, her rapid speech, the occasional trembling of her hands--all this i set down to love. she confided to me that she had no fortune, and that she had thought of seeking employment as a governess or as a companion to a lady. she possessed great gifts, which, of course, i magnified; she was a good musician, could speak french, german and italian fluently, and sang to me in those languages with a rich contralto voice. "had it not been for you," she said, "i might even have got into the chorus at the opera." "is not this better?" i asked, embracing her. "much better," she replied, returning my embrace. she was a handsome woman, dark, tall, and commanding, and her nearest relative was a half-brother, maxwell, much older than she, for whom i had no special liking. naturally, after i had drawn from barbara an avowal of her love, i addressed myself to him. he stood towards her in the light of a guardian, and she was living in his house. in reply to his questions i was very candid as to my worldly position and prospects, and he professed himself satisfied; but i remembered afterwards that when i came courting his sister he would look at me with an expression of amusement on his features, as though he was enjoying a joke he was keeping to himself. he was in the habit of boasting that he was a man of the world, and knew every trick on the board. it was chiefly at his urging that the marriage was precipitated. "long engagements are a mistake," he said. "don't you think so?" i replied that i was entirely of his opinion. "that simplifies matters," he said, "because i am going abroad. i shall not take a sister with me, you may depend upon that." it was a plain hint, and the wedding day was fixed. soon after this, when i called to do my wooing, he told me that barbara was not well enough to see me. "she has a frightful headache," he said, "and is not in a condition to see anybody." i was much distressed, and i asked if she had a doctor. "not necessary," he said. "she will get over it. when she is in that state best leave her alone, old fellow. there's a hint for you in your matrimonial campaign. barbara hates the sight of doctors; she is a delicate creature, very highly strung, something of the full-blooded racer about her, the kind of woman that requires managing." "i shall be able to manage her," i said confidently. "i should think you would," he said, with a mocking smile. "barbara and you are going to have a high old time of it. by the way, can you lend me a tenner for a few days?" it was not the first time he had asked me for a loan, which was always to be paid in a few days; but he never returned a shilling of the money he borrowed from me. i gave him the ten pounds, and inwardly resolved to have as little as possible to do with him after my marriage. i debated with myself whether i should communicate the news of my engagement to my stepmother and louis, and acting upon the advice of barbara--to whom i gave a truthful relation of my child-life--i wrote to them in affectionate terms. to me no answer was returned, but barbara received a letter which she told me she tore up the moment she read it. "your stepmother must be an awful woman," she said, "but we can do without her and her beautiful son." it was very considerate of barbara, i thought, not to show me the letter, the tenor of which it was not difficult to guess, but i could not help looking grave. "no long faces, you dear boy," cried barbara. "do you think i believe a word she says? do you think i care for any one but you? if she hadn't been the meanest creature living she would at least have sent a wedding present." the wedding was a very quiet one. a friend acted as my best man, and a few other of my friends were present. on barbara's side there was only maxwell, who gave his sister away. she looked beautiful, and was in high spirits. the ceremony over we hastened to maxwell's house, where i and my friends expected to sit down to a wedding breakfast. to my surprise there was nothing on the table but the bridecake and a couple of bottles of wine. it was not a time to ask for an explanation of this inhospitable welcome to the wedding guests, but i was deeply mortified, and i saw that my friends were angry and offended. maxwell made light of the matter; he filled the glasses, and in a florid speech proposed the health of bride and bridegroom, to which i responded very briefly. "there is nothing else to wait for, i suppose," said my best man, in a sarcastic tone. no one answered him, and with shrugs and halfhearted wishes for happiness he and the other guests took their departure, leaving barbara and me and maxwell alone. "don't quarrel with him," barbara whispered to me; "he has the most awful temper." for her sake i put the best face i could upon the slight that had been passed upon me. maxwell appeared to be unconscious that he had behaved in any way offensively; he drank a great deal of wine, and urged barbara to drink, but she refused. "a glass with me, darling," i said. "to our future." she raised the glass to her lips, and set it down, untasted, with a shudder. i had noticed at the meals we three had together that she drank nothing but water. "you do not like wine?" i said. "i detest it," she replied. "i'll drink your share whenever you call upon me," shouted maxwell. "she is quite right, isn't she, john? milk for women, wine for men." he was getting intoxicated, and began to troll out a song about wine and women. i strove to quiet him, but he went on laughing hilariously. excited and enraged, i quickly emptied my glass, and was about to drink again, when barbara laid her hand upon my arm. i put the full glass upon the table, at which maxwell, who had been observing us, laughed louder still. "maxwell!" cried barbara, angrily. "barbara!" cried maxwell, with his bold eyes upon her. "well, my lady?" they looked strangely at one another, and it was barbara who first lowered her eyes. there was something threatening in maxwell's glance, and she seemed to be frightened of him. i was not sorry, for i accepted it as an indication that she would side with me in my desire not to court his society when we returned from our honeymoon trip. we were to start for the continent in the evening, and there were still two or three hours before us. to pass this interval of time in maxwell's company was not a pleasant prospect, but i scarcely knew how to avoid it. he evinced no disposition to leave barbara and me together, and i felt awkward and out of place, and really as if it was i who was intruding. the house was his, and in a certain sense we were his guests. a bright idea occurred to me. i proposed that barbara should dress for our journey, and that we should go and lunch at an hotel. barbara, however, said she could not eat, and maxwell cried boisterously: "what are you thinking of, brother-in-law? a newborn bride sitting down to eat at an hotel on her wedding day. she would sink to the ground in shame, wouldn't she, barbara? but i accept your invitation with pleasure, my boy. i am famished, and you must be. i insist upon you fortifying yourself; it is a duty you owe to barbara and to society at large. with what is before you, it is absolutely necessary that you should keep up your strength. take my word for it; i'm an older bird than you. let us go. barbara will nibble a biscuit, or make a meal off a butterfly's wing, if she can catch one." i turned to barbara, and she whispered that it would be best. she was tired and would lie down while we were away. i saw that she was weary, and disgusted with her brother's behavior, so to save her from further annoyance, i consented to go with maxwell. "i don't like to leave you for a moment, darling," i said, "but i must get him away. i shall be back in good time; be sure you are ready." i said this smilingly, as if i referred to woman's proverbial failing in seldom being ready at an appointed time when she has to dress for a journey or a dinner, or anything, in fact. she did not return smile for smile. in a weak, helpless way she clung to me for a moment, and then abruptly left the room. "oh, turtle doves, turtle doves!" exclaimed maxwell, hooking his arm in mine, as we walked along. "oh, golden day, with love's fetters binding one fast! auspicious epoch in a man's career when he is strung up for life! love, honor, and obey, and all that sort of thing. connubial bliss, darby and joan, till death doth us part. not for me, my boy, not for me; but every man to his taste. fol-de-riddle! chorus of infatuated bridegrooms--fol-de-riddle, fol-de-riddle!" "hold your tongue," i said, between my teeth, "or i'll not stay with you another moment." "right you are, my sensitive plant," he returned. "i'm mum as the inside of a screwed down coffin." but he continued to sing softly to himself, and to chuckle as he cast furtive glances at me. in such circumstances it was not likely that i could enjoy my meal, and i sat for the most part doing nothing, while maxwell disposed of the various courses he ordered. drinking did not affect his appetite, and he would have kept at the table all the day had i not called for the bill. "time to go, eh? love's call must be obeyed," he said, rising, and pouring out the last glass of wine in the bottle. with his left hand on the table he steadied himself, and held up the glass. "you're not half a bad sort, john, but you're a bit soft. you want hardening, my boy, and you'll get it." "what do you mean?" i asked. "what do i mean? why, that barbara's all your own now, all your own. well, here's a happy honeymoon to the fond couple." he drained the glass. i hardly knew how to take his words, and i did not answer him. on our way back he borrowed twenty pounds of me, and i determined it should be the last he would ever get from me. i was strongly inclined at first to refuse, but i was afraid he would make a scene, and so for barbara's sake i gave him the money. "thank you, john," he said, pocketing the notes. "you're a trump, but a trifle green. here we are at the house. what a jolly wedding-day!" i could have struck the mocking devil in the face, for by this time i was thoroughly out of temper; but, again for dear barbara's sake, i refrained from uttering the hot words that rose to my lips. the carriage was at the door and my wife was ready. maxwell opened his arms for a parting embrace, but barbara slipped from him and entered the carriage. as it moved away i caught a last glimpse of him standing on the doorstep laughing immoderately, and i almost fancied i heard him call after us, "what a jolly wedding day!" chapter iv. the next day we were in paris. we had a miserable crossing and two miserable railway journeys. on neither of the lines could i get a compartment to ourselves, both the french and english trains being crowded to excess. on the steamboat barbara was very ill, and i gave her into the charge of the stewardess, being too unwell myself to attend to her. we were not, as may be imagined, a very cheerful couple, nor was this a cheerful commencement of our honeymoon. i did my best, however, to keep up barbara's spirits, but she continued to be sad and despondent, and did not rally till we reached the gay city. the bright sunshine and the animation of the streets did wonders for us. i held her hand in mine as we drove to the hotel in which i had engaged rooms, and life assumed a joyful aspect. the color came again to barbara's cheeks, the sparkle to her eyes. "the worst is over, dearest," i said, "and we are together--and alone." she pressed my hand fondly. was i really in love? i cannot answer. the fire of youth was in my veins, the light of hope was in my heart. call it what you will--love, passion, desire--barbara was all in all to me, and our fond endearments caused the hours to fly at lightning speed. the embarrassments and mortifications of yesterday were forgotten; to-day was ours, to enjoy. we dined at the hotel, by barbara's plate a caraffe of iced water, by mine a bottle of old burgundy. at nine o'clock, knowing that barbara had some unpacking to do--for it was my intention to remain in paris a week--i said that i would take a stroll in the streets, and would return at ten. "it will take me quite two hours," she said, with a trembling eagerness in her voice, "to get my boxes in order." "i will return at eleven," i said gaily, kissing her. i strolled through the brilliantly lighted streets in a dream of delight. there was no maxwell near to disturb me with his mocking laughter. barbara was her bright self again, and she and i were "man and wife." "man and wife," i murmured. "nothing can come between us now, nothing can separate us. she is mine forever. i am really a married man." i saw in the window of a jeweler's shop a brooch with two hearts entwined. it was emblematical of barbara's heart and mine, and i went in and purchased it, and purchased also at a florist's a bouquet of the loveliest flowers. it was now ten o'clock, and i had still an hour to myself. a long time to carry a large bouquet of flowers amidst a throng of people, but what cared i? why should i hide my happiness? was i not proud of my beautiful barbara, whose pure and innocent heart i had won, and whose sweet companionship would brighten my days till we were both old and white-haired? let the whole world know that the flowers were for my bride--let the whole world know that i was in love. was not this the city of love? the hum of merry voices proclaimed it--the myriad stars, the soft air, the brilliant lights, the animated gestures of men and women, all proclaimed it. there were no dark shadows to blot the bright picture; joy was universal; there was no sadness, no death, no cankered care to wither the glad hopes of the future--all was light and love. at a quarter to eleven i hastened to the hotel of which she was the sun, and paced the boulevard a few yards this way, a few yards that, and strolled into the courtyard, and looked at my watch, and impatiently counted the seconds, and fretted and fumed until the minute hand reached eleven. then i eagerly mounted the stairs, and entered our sitting-room. the lights were burning, and the room had a cheerful appearance. a communicating door led to the bedroom, and i listened at this door a moment, but heard no sound from within. i arranged the bouquet of flowers in a vase, which i filled with water, and then i turned out the lights, with the intention of entering our bridal chamber. but the door was fast. i tried very softly again and again to open it, and then with greater force, but it would not yield. "barbara," i called in a low tone, "it is i. why have you locked the door?" no answer reached my ears. i called several times, with the same result. long before this i had become alarmed, and had re-lit the gas in the sitting-room. stories of dark crimes committed in this city of light flashed through my mind. the door was locked, but that might be a blind. it was scarcely possible that barbara could be in the room; she had been decoyed from the hotel upon some pretense, perhaps by the delivery of a false message from me. if so, what would be her fate? and even supposing her to be in her room, how to account for the frightful silence? fool, criminal that i was to leave her alone, a hapless woman in a strange city! it was i, and i alone, who had brought the woman i loved into this perilous position. i rushed down to the manager of the hotel, and asked if any visitors had been admitted into my rooms during my absence, or any message delivered to my wife. the manager, who was the soul of politeness, and who was smoking a cigarette after the labors of the day, made inquiries of the concierge and of the servants who had not retired to rest. no person had called to see madame; no message had been taken to her; she had not been seen to leave the hotel. had she rung for refreshment or assistance? no. had any sounds of disturbance been heard in her apartment? no, the apartment had been perfectly quiet. were they certain that madame could not have left the hotel without being seen? it was not possible. she would have had to pass through the courtyard, and the concierge or an assistant was constantly on the watch, noting who came and who went. then, how to account for the facts of her bedroom door being locked and of her not answering to my call? the servants could not account for it; the manager could not account for it. with profuse apologies he hazarded a question. was madame subject to fainting fits? was it that she had swooned? with my permission he would accompany me to the apartment, and together we could ascertain. we ascertained nothing; we discovered no clue to the mystery. the door defied all our efforts to open it, and no reply was given to our summons. the suspense was maddening. "see, monsieur," said the manager, stooping, and putting his eye to the key-hole, "the door is locked from within. the key is in the lock. be tranquil; madame is safe; she has fallen into a sound sleep. i myself sleep so soundly that----" i interrupted him impatiently. "if my wife has fallen asleep she must be awakened." he did not see the necessity; if i would be patient madame would herself awake when she had slept enough; then all would be well. "my wife must be awakened," i repeated vehemently. "undoubtedly," he then said, falling complacently into my humor. "if you insist, monsieur, madame must be awakened." "but how?" i cried, in a fever of anxiety, which with every passing moment grew more intense. "as monsieur says," he replied, with exasperating coolness, "but how?" "the lock must be forced." "a million pardons, monsieur. the lock of the door is of a particular kind. it is not a common lock--no, no. it was put on especially for a distinguished visitor, who frequently occupies this apartment. it is what is called a patent lock, and is the property of our distinguished visitor. i cannot consent that it shall be forced." "then we will have a piece cut out of the door. by that means we can reach the key, and turn the lock from within." "again a million pardons. the door is of oak; it was made for our distinguished visitor. i cannot consent, monsieur, that the door shall be destroyed." "hang you! stand aside!" i pushed him away, and applied my shoulder to the door. i was young, i was strong, but i might as well have set myself against a rock. the door held firm and fast, and the noise i made did not arouse barbara. even in the midst of my despair i heard the manager remark, "these eccentric english!" finding my efforts vain, i beat the panels with my fists. a servant entered, and whispered to the manager. "desist, monsieur," he said, stepping forward, "you are disturbing our visitors. it cannot be permitted. in the adjoining apartment is a sick gentleman. he has already inquired whether there is a fire or an earthquake. if monsieur pleases, there is another way.' "what is it? quick--quick!" "the window of madame's room looks out upon a courtyard at the back. it is easily reached by a ladder. the night is warm; madame may have left her window unfastened----" i stopped any further explanation by hurrying him to the courtyard at the back. on the way he insisted upon informing me that the hotel was of the highest character and eminently respectable. no robbery had ever taken place in it; no crime had ever been committed within its walls. madame was fatigued by her journey, and had probably taken an opiate. i should find her asleep in her bed quite safe--quite safe. "the ladder--the ladder!" i cried, in a frenzy. "where is the ladder?" it was soon brought--though i thought it an age before it was fixed against the wall--and a porter commenced to ascend. but i pulled him back with a rough hand, and said i would go up myself. "these eccentric english!" i heard the manager again remark to those assembled around him. his surmise was correct. the window was closed but not fastened; i pushed it open and stepped into the room. it was dark, but by the light admitted through the open window i saw the form of my wife huddled upon the bed. i laid my hands upon her and called, "barbara--dear barbara!" a faint moan was the only response. "great god!" i cried. "she is dying!" i swiftly lighted the gas, and the room was flooded with light. then i discovered the horrible truth. an empty brandy bottle rolled from the bed to the floor, and on the dressing table was a corkscrew with the cork still in it. the cork was new, and the bright capsule by its side denoted that the bottle must have been full when it had been opened. i bent over barbara's stupefied form, the fumes of liquor which tainted her hot breath were sickening. my wife was not dying. she was drunk! the whole room was in a state of disorder; the bed curtains were torn, articles of feminine attire were scattered about, brushes and combs and other toilet requisites had been swept from the table, a chair had been upset; but at that moment i took little note of these signs, my attention being centred upon the degrading human spectacle which lay before me on the bed--my wife, the woman i had idealized as an embodiment of purity and simplicity. i was not allowed to remain long undisturbed; i heard a smart rapping at the bedroom door, and i became instantly conscious that i had a new part to play. i closed and fastened the window, and drew the curtains across it, i lowered the gas almost to vanishing point, and then, turning the key in the lock, i opened the door just wide enough to see the manager's face. "madame is safe?" he inquired. "quite safe," i replied. "as i said. asleep?" "yes, asleep." "as i said. there has been no crime or robbery?" "there has been no crime or robbery." "and madame is well?" "quite well." "i trust you are satisfied, monsieur." "perfectly satisfied." "is anything more required?" "nothing more." "no assistance of any kind? the chambermaid is here. shall she attend to madame?" "her assistance is not needed. good-night." "good-night, monsieur." as he and the attendants left the adjoining room, i heard him remark for the third time, "these eccentric english!" chapter v. the first thing i did was to securely bolt and lock every door, to darken every window that gave access to our rooms. i must be alone with my shame and my grief. no one must know--the secret of this vile, this unutterable disgrace must not escape, must not be whispered, must not be suspected. from the friends who had been present at the wedding ceremony i could not expect sympathy after the way in which they had been treated; from strangers i could hope for none; by friends and strangers alike i should be pointed at and derided. i must wear a false face to all the world--as false as the face my wife had worn to me during our courtship. for in the first flush of the frightful discovery i did not stop to palter with myself, i did not attempt to disguise the truth, to delude myself with the hope that this was a new experience in barbara's character. the fatal truth fastened itself in my heart. signs which had borne no baneful significance in the past were now suddenly and rightfully interpreted. i understood maxwell's mocking words and laughter: "you want hardening, my boy, and you'll get it," he had said, again, "barbara is not in a condition to see anybody. when she is in that state, best leave her, old fellow. there's a hint for you in your matrimonial campaign." and then his last derisive exclamation, "what a jolly wedding day!" the meaning of the looks he and barbara had exchanged on that day when we three were together after the ceremony, was now clear to me, as clear and withering as a blasting lightning stroke. she was a drunkard, and he was keeping the joke from me. his look conveyed the threat, "be careful, or i will betray you." aye, betray her before she betrayed herself! the momentary defiance in her eyes died away, and she trembled in his presence. "i will betray you!" good god, how i had been betrayed! barbara was mine forever; as maxwell had said, she was all my own. we were linked together; our fates were united. there were no separate paths which each could tread apart from the other. hand in hand we must take our way, and death alone could tear us asunder. on my honor as a man there died within me during those few moments of torturing reflection all the love i had borne for barbara. i awoke to the fact that it was not true love, but animal passion for her beauty, that had led me into this pit of shame and despair. some men arrive, by slow and devious roads, at a belief that shakes their faith to its foundations. not so i. as surely as i knew that i lived and moved did i know that i was wedded to a drunkard, and that there was no civilized law that could divorce me from her. i was barbara's shield and protector, her lord, her master, her victim. her claim upon me was not to be evaded; even to dispute it would cover me with ignominy, would make my name a bye-word. i could not break the fetters of the law which bound us together and made us one. had barbara not been a confirmed drunkard, she could never have drank a full bottle of brandy in so short a time. three or four glasses would have overcome her, and she could not have continued to tipple. think what you will of me, i declare that i had no compassion for the woman i had married. no pity for her stirred my heart. perfect in its devilish cunning was the duplicity she had practised. "you do not like wine?" i had said to her. "i detest it," she had answered; and never in my presence had she drank anything except water. most artfully had she concealed from me a secret which was to wreck all my hopes of happiness, which was to shut out from me all the pure and innocent pleasures which a man at my time of life might naturally look forward to. what pity could i have for one who had done this evil? i made no attempt to rouse my wife, not because i feared i should not succeed, but because i had no desire to restore her to consciousness and to hold converse with her. i needed time to review more calmly the position in which i was placed and to decide upon my course of action in the future. meanwhile i applied myself to an examination of the bedroom. one of barbara's trunks was unlocked; the lid was down, but a litter of feminine apparel on the floor denoted that it had been hurriedly opened and the articles of clothing as hurriedly snatched from the top, with no intention, as barbara had indicated, of putting her things in order, but rather of getting quickly at something which lay beneath. had i the right to search this trunk? was the question i mentally put to myself. i did not, however, stop to discuss it. right or wrong, i raised the lid, and taking out the garments which first met my eyes i found beneath them damning proofs of barbara's degradation. five bottles of brandy were brought to light--the one she had emptied made the sixth. she had provided herself liberally, sufficient for six days at the rate she had commenced. my first impulse was to throw them out of the window, but i checked myself in time. the noise of the broken glass would have brought the manager and his staff buzzing about me. what should i do with the cursed things? leave them in her trunk? no; it would be inviting a series of disgraceful exhibitions such as that which lay within my view. from me she would receive no assistance to reach a lower depth than that into which she had fallen. i could at least make it difficult for her to obtain her next supply of liquor without my knowledge, so i carried the bottles to the outer room, and secreted them in one of my own trunks, determining to get rid of them by some means in the course of the next few hours. then i huddled barbara's clothes into her trunk, and closed the lid. without casting another glance at my wife, who was now beginning to breathe more heavily, i returned to the sitting-room, and sinking into a chair, burst into a passionate fit of weeping. thus did i pass my bridal night. chapter vi. at seven in the morning i heard my wife shifting restlessly and moaning in her bedroom. i had not had a moment's sleep during the night. my eyes closed occasionally from weariness, but sleep did not come to me; nor did i woo it, for i felt the necessity of keeping awake, lest barbara should create a disturbance. her condition was a new and bitter experience to me, and i did not know what form it might take. in whatever form it presented itself i must be prepared to cope with it; and it behoved me, therefore, to keep on the watch. i paid no attention to barbara's moans, but went to my dressing-room and bathed my face with cold water which refreshed and strengthened me. in the front courtyard the birds were singing and the fountain was playing. i threw the window open; the air was sweet and fresh, and i was grateful for the relief it afforded me. my wife continued to groan and toss about, and still i did not go to her. at length she called my name in a fretful voice. "well?" i said, standing by the bedside. "why did you not come to me before?" she asked, querulously. "did you not hear me?" "yes, i heard you." "and you kept away! how could you, love, how could you, when i am suffering so?" she paused for a sympathetic word from me, which she did not receive. "i am so ill, dear john, so very, very ill! my head is on fire. give me your hand." i made no responsive movement, and she looked at me from beneath her half-closed lids. "you are not looking well yourself, john. have you had a bad night?" "a most horrible night." "i am so sorry, dear. watching by my side for so many hours has tired you." "i have not been watching by your side." "you bad boy--what could you have been doing; and why do you speak to me so unfeelingly? i am sure i have done nothing to deserve it. oh, my poor head! you did not know i was accustomed to these headaches." "no, i did not know." "i ought to have told you, dear." "yes, you ought to have told me. it would have been better for both of us." "i don't see that; unless you have deceived me, it could have made no difference in your feelings, and i believed every word you said--yes, i did, john, dear." she shuddered and moaned, as though seized with an ague. "get me something, or i shall go mad with pain!" "what will you have? a cup of tea?" an expression of disgust spread over her features. "tea! it is the worst thing i could take. you do not understand--of course you do not understand. put your arm round me, dear; let me lean my head on your shoulder; it will relieve me." i did not stir. "what do you mean by treating me so cruelly? i am your wife, and you promised to love and cherish me. have you forgotten so soon, so soon?" i did not reply, and her voice grew more imploring. "when women suffer as i do, john, they need something to keep up their strength. oh, this frightful sinking! i am sure a little brandy would do me good. don't be shocked; i wouldn't ask for it if i wasn't certain it would remove this horrible pain." "otherwise," i said, with sad and bitter emphasis, "you would not touch it, you have such abhorrence of it." "why, of course i have. i take it only as a medicine." i picked up the empty brandy bottle, and placed it on the dressing table. "oh, that," she exclaimed. "it was filled with lemonade, and i drank it every drop while you were away last night. what kept you so long? oh, my head is racked! i hope no pretty frenchwoman----" "be silent!" i cried, sternly. "of what use is this subterfuge? you cannot deceive me." "i never tried to r i would not be so wicked. it is cruel of you to pick a quarrel with me the moment we are married. people wouldn't believe it if they were told. for god's sake, get me a little brandy!" "from me, barbara, not one drop!" "you won't?" "no, i will not." "brute! leave my room!" i was glad to obey her, feeling how idle it was to pursue the conversation. the moment i was gone i heard her scramble from the bed and lock the door. then i heard the sound of things being violently tossed about, and presently the door was unlocked, and she stood before me with a flaming face. "you are a thief!" she screamed. "you are a sneak and a spy----" "hush, barbara! the people in the hotel will hear you." "let them hear! what do i care? you are my husband, and you are a thief. how dare you rob me? how dare you sneak, and pry, and search my boxes, while i am asleep? you'll be picking my pocket, next, i suppose. but i'll show you that a married woman has rights. you men can't grind poor weak women into the dust any longer. i'll show you!" she rang the bell violently. "the servants must not see you in that state, barbara," i said, with my back against the door. "they shall see me in any state i please, and i will let them know--i will let all the world know--that we have been married hardly a day, and that this is the way you are treating me. i give you fair warning. if you don't get me the brandy i will scream the house down!" what could i do? a waiter rapped at the door, and asked what monsieur required. i gave him the order, and when the brandy was brought i took it from him without allowing him to enter. before i had time to turn round barbara snatched the decanter from my hand, and ran with it into the bedroom. in a few minutes she returned, looking, to my astonishment, bright and well. "see what good it has done me," she said, in a blithe tone. "when i am suffering nothing has such an effect upon me as a small glass of brandy. it pulls me together in a moment almost. the doctor ordered it especially for me, and when i can't get it at once i feel as if i should go mad. i don't know what i say or do, so i am not accountable, you know. ask the doctor. i'll let you into my secret, my dear.' all women take it, from the highest to the lowest. fact, upon my word. you are a goose. now, we will not quarrel any more, will we? kiss me, and make it up." i kissed her to keep her quiet, and, indeed, i felt that i was helpless in the hands of this brazen and cunning woman. "barbara," i said, "you have caused me the greatest grief i have ever experienced." "i am so sorry, so very, very sorry!" she murmured. "can i say more than that?" "you can, barbara. you can promise me never to drink spirits again." "do you think i ever intend to?" she asked, in a tone of astonishment. "i don't know." "now listen to me, love," she said, with an ingenuous smile. "i will never touch another drop as long as i live." "do you mean that truly?" "truly, truly, truly! i was so ill, and so unhappy at being left alone! i can't bear you out of my sight, john, dear, and if you won't take advantage of it i don't mind confessing i am a wee bit jealous. we will not talk of it any more, will we?" "it is a solemn promise you have given me." "a solemn, solemn promise, love. if you have any doubts of me i will go down on my knees and swear it." "i take your word, barbara." while barbara was dressing the manager of the hotel waited upon me, and to my surprise handed me my account. as i had not been in the house twenty-four hours i inquired if it was usual for his visitors to pay from day to day. no, he replied blandly it was not usual. then why call upon me so soon for payment? did he mistrust me? he was shocked at the suggestion. mistrust an english gentleman? certainly not--no, no. this with perfect politeness and much deprecatory waving of his hands. "but you expect a settlement of this account," i said, irritated by his manner. "if monsieur pleases. and if monsieur will be so obliging as to seek another hotel in which he will be more comfortable, more at his ease----" "i understand," i said. "you turn me out. why?" "if monsieur will be pleased to listen. the servants were not used to the ways of monsieur and madame; and there had been complaints from visitors. the sick gentleman in the next apartment----" "enough," i said, impatiently. "i leave your hotel within the hour, and i will never set foot in it again." he was grieved, devastated, but if monsieur had so resolved---- these uncompleted sentences were very significant, and afforded a sufficiently clear explanation of the proceeding. with suppressed anger i ran my eye down the account, and pointed to an item of five francs for brandy. "supplied this morning," he explained, "to monsieur's order. five francs--yes, monsieur would find it quite correct." "i required only a small glass," i said. "it is an imposition." he trusted not; such an accusation had never been brought against him. would monsieur be kind enough to produce the decanter? a proper deduction would be made if only one small glass had been taken. "produce the decanter! certainly i will." i called to barbara to give me the decanter, and, her white arm bared to the shoulder, she handed it out to me. it was empty. i blushed from shame. "does monsieur find the account correct?" "it is correct. here is your money." he receipted the bill and departed with polite bows and more deprecatory waving of his hands. as i sat with my closed eyes covered by my hand, barbara touched my shoulder. i looked up into her smiling face. "have i made myself beautiful, dear?" most assuredly she would have been so in other men's eyes, for she was eminently attractive, but she was not in mine. her beautiful outside served only to accentuate what was corrupt within. "why do you not answer? are you not proud of your wife?" proud of her? great god! proud of a woman who had brought this shame upon me, and who, but an hour ago, was as degraded a spectacle as imagination could compass. "don't get sulky again," she said, and as i still did not speak, she asked vehemently, "what is the matter now?" "simply that we are turned out of the hotel," i replied. "is that all? the insolent ruffians! it is a thousand pities we ever came here. but why get sulky over it? paris is crammed with hotels, and they will only be too glad to take our money." "it is not that, barbara. i wish to know if you drank all the brandy in the decanter." "all? it wasn't more than a thimbleful. and see what good it did me." "did you finish it before you promised never to touch spirits again?" "what a tragedy voice, and what a tragedy face! of course i did. do you think i would be so dishonorable as to break a promise i gave you--you, of all, men? that isn't showing much confidence in me." "you will keep that promise faithfully, barbara?" "i should be ashamed to look you in the face if i did not mean to keep it faithfully. you will never find me doing anything underhanded or behind your back, john." i rallied at this. my happiness was lost, but there was a hope that our shame would not be revealed to the world. as for what had occurred in this hotel, once we were gone it would soon be forgotten. the swiftly turning kaleidoscope of life in paris is too absorbing in its changes to allow the inhabitants to dwell long upon one picture, especially on a picture the principle figures in which were persons so insignificant as ourselves. "not a sou," cried barbara, snapping her fingers in the faces of the servants who swarmed about us when we were seated in the carriage; "not one sou, you greedy beggars!" we drove out of the courtyard, and barbara, turning to me, said in her sweetest tone, "i hope you will be very good to me, john, for you see how weak i am. oh, what i have gone through since you put the wedding ring on my finger! the dear wedding ring!" she put it to her lips and then to mine. "i do nothing but kiss it when i am alone. it means so much to both of us--love, faithfulness, truth, trust in one another. all our troubles are over now, are they not, love? and we are really commencing our honeymoon." chapter vii. there was no difficulty in obtaining accommodation at another hotel. the choice rested with me, for i was not particular as to terms, i had no scruple in spending part of my capital, my intentions having always been to adopt a profession, and not to pass my days in idleness. my inclination was for literature; i was vain enough to believe that i had in me the makings of a novelist, and i had already in manuscript the skeleton of a work of fiction upon which i intended to set to work when i was settled down in life. before our marriage i had confided my ambitious schemes to barbara. "delightful!" she exclaimed. "my husband will be a famous author. what a proud woman i shall be when i hear people praise his books!" i brought away from the hotel letters which had arrived for me, and barbara carried the bouquet i had purchased for her on the previous night. the moment we were in our new quarters she called for a vase, and placed the flowers in water. the brooch i had purchased at the same time was still in my pocket; the device of two hearts entwined was a mockery now in its application to barbara and myself. "how sweet of you to buy these flowers," she said, with tender glances at me. "you will always love me, will you not--you will always buy flowers for me? i have heard people say that marriage acts upon love like cold water on fire--puts it out, but i should die with grief if i thought that would be so with us. what are your letters about, dear?" they were from agents, giving me particulars of two houses, either of which would be a suitable residence for us when we returned to london, and set up housekeeping. barbara and i had made many pleasant journeys in search of a house, and we had selected two in the neighborhood of west kensington. one was unfurnished, the other had been the residence for a few months of a gentleman who had furnished it in good style, and was desirous of selling the furniture and his interest in the lease. i preferred the former, barbara the latter, and i now gave her the letters to read. the furnished house was offered to me for a sum which i considered moderate, and an answer had to be given immediately, as another likely purchaser was making inquiries about it. "now sit down, like a good boy," said barbara, "and send the agent a cheque, and settle it at once. it will be the dearest little home, and we shall be as happy as the day is long." i had no heart to argue the matter; after the experiences of the last twenty-four hours one house was as good to me as another. a home we must have, and i earnestly desired to avoid contention, so for the sake of peace i did as barbara wished, and wrote to the agent to close the bargain. while i was attending to my correspondence barbara was bustling about and chatting with a chambermaid with whom she appeared to be already on confidential terms. "what delightful rooms these are," she said, looking over my shoulder as i was writing, "and what a clever business man my dear boy is! i am ever so glad we moved from that disagreeable hotel. you must consult me in these things for the future; i have an instinct which always guides me right. the moment i entered the place i knew we should not be comfortable there. go on with your letters while annette assists me to unpack. you must not look on, sir; i shall not let you into the secrets of a lady's wardrobe till we have been married a year at least. when you have finished your letters you can arrange your private treasures while i am arranging mine, or if you are too tired you can lie on the sofa and smoke a cigar. would it shock you very much if i smoked a cigarette? it is quite the fashionable thing for ladies to do." i replied that i did not like to see women smoke. "then you shall not see me do it," she said, vivaciously. "i would die rather than give you one moment's annoyance." annette was the chambermaid, a tall, thin-faced, spare woman of middle age; and a stranger, observing her and my wife together, would have supposed they had been long acquainted. barbara was given to sudden and violent likings and dislikings, and had once said to me, "i love impulsive people. they are ever so much better and so much more genuine than people who hum and ha, and want time to consider whether they are fond of you or not. they resemble spiders who, after watching for days and days, creep out of their corners when you least expect it, and bind you tight so that you can't move, and say, 'i have made up my mind; i am going to eat you bit by bit.'" i thought this speech very clever when i first heard it, and i became immediately a worshiper of impulsiveness. that barbara should strike up a sudden friendship with the new chambermaid did not, therefore, surprise me. together they proceeded with the unpacking of barbara's wardrobe, barbara darting in upon me now and then to give me a kiss, "on the sly," she whispered, "for she mustn't see." then she would return to annette, and they would laugh and talk. my letters written, i lit a cigar and took up a french newspaper. once barbara brought a peculiar flavor into the room, and i asked her what it was. "cloves," she replied. "i dote on them." she popped one into my mouth, and said, "now we are equal and you can't complain. oh, john, promise me never, never to eat onions alone. i am passionately fond of them. you are beginning to find out all my little failings." she ran into the bedroom to tell annette the joke, and there was much giggling between them. "how provoking!" she cried, darting in for the twentieth time. "i have mislaid the key of my small trunk. lend me your keys; perhaps one of them will fit." i gave her my bunch of keys, and she was a long time trying them. i took no notice of this, being engrossed in a feuilleton, and taking from the style in which the exciting incidents were described a lesson for the novel i contemplated writing. "not one of them will fit," said barbara, throwing the keys into my lap. shortly afterwards she called out, "congratulate me, john, i have found my key. it was in my pocket all the time. see what a simple little woman you have married; and you thought me clever, you foolish boy!" so far as i can recall my impressions i am endeavoring to describe them faithfully. i went through many transitions of feeling in those days, now hoping, now despairing, now accusing myself of doing my wife an injustice, now sternly convinced that i was right. on this day i was comforted, barbara was so bright, so ingenuous, and i firmly believed she would keep the promise she had given me. she brought into play all the arts and fascinations by which she had beguiled me in our courting days. she ordered me to take her for a drive, to buy her violets, to drive to the magazin de louvre to make purchases (where she selected a number of things she did not need), to take her to a famous restaurant to dine--"it is so dull," she said, "to dine in a stuffy little room all by ourselves"--and, dinner over, she invited me to accompany her to a theatre where a comedy was being played which annette had told her was very amusing. "i can't live without excitement," she said. "i love theatres, i love bright weather, i love flowers, i love handsome men--why do you look so grave, sir? do you not love handsome women? you are a ninny if you don't, and if you don't, sir, why did you marry me?" "barbara," i said gravely, "it is a strange question, i know, but do you think we are suited to one another?" "it is a strange question," she replied, laughing. "my dear, we were made for one another. fie, love! do you forget that marriages are made in heaven?" "ours, barbara?" "certainly, ours." wonderful were the inconsistencies of her utterances; one moment questioning whether she had not made a mistake in marrying me, the next declaring that our marriage was made in heaven. "i have not a secret from you," i said. "nor i from you," she returned. "i hope you agree with me, john, that there should be perfect confidence between man and wife, that they should hide nothing from one another." "i do agree with you; not even the smallest matter should be hidden." "yes, john, love, not even the smallest matter. little things are often very important, and it is so awkward to be found out. i am so glad we are of one mind about this. when we first engaged i said to maxwell, 'john shall know everything about me--everything. all my faults and failings--nothing shall be hidden from him. then he can't reproach me afterwards. i will be perfectly frank with him.' maxwell called me a fool, and said there were lots of things people ought to keep to themselves, and that i should be horrified if i were told all the dreadful things you had done. he spoke of wild oats, and bachelors living alone, and the late suppers they had in their chambers with girls and all sorts of queer company. but i was determined. you might deceive me, but i would not deceive you. i would not have that upon my conscience." "you really kept nothing from me, barbara?" "nothing, love." "and you are keeping nothing from me now?" "nothing, love." i did not press her farther. her smiling eyes looked into mine, and i had received incontestible proof that she was lying to my face. chapter viii. i was an inveterate smoker, and at this period my favorite habit was a consolation to me. i smoked at all hours of the day, and barbara had encouraged me, saying that she loved the smell of a cigar. but on the morning following the conversation i have just recorded she complained that my cigar made her ill, and i went into the boulevard to smoke it. when i had thrown away the stump i returned to the hotel to attend to my trunks, which were not yet unpacked. these trunks were in a small ante-room, the key of which i had put in my pocket. i had adopted this precaution in order that they should not be in barbara's sight, that she should not be left alone with them, and that when i unpacked them she should not see what they contained. upon my return to the hotel barbara was in her bed-room, attending to her toilet, and annette was with her. it was barbara's first visit to paris, and we had arranged to make the round of its principal attractions. the first trunk i opened was that in which i had deposited the five bottles of brandy i had found among barbara's dresses. to my astonishment they were gone. i was positive i had placed them there, but to make sure i searched my second trunk, with the same result. the bottles had been abstracted. by whom, and by what means? the cunning hand was barbara's. what kind of a woman was i wedded to who spoke so fair and acted so treacherously, who could smile in my face with secret designs in her heart against my peace and happiness? i could go even farther than that, and say against my honor. fearful lest my indignation might cause me to lose control over myself and lead to a scandalous scene, i locked the trunk and left the hotel. in the open air i could more calmly review the deplorable position into which i had been betrayed. it is the correct word to use. treacherously, basely, had i been betrayed. it was long before i was sufficiently composed to apply myself to the consideration of the plan by means of which barbara obtained the bottles of brandy. the lock of the trunk had not been tampered with, and no force had been used in opening it. she must have had a duplicate key. how did she become possessed of it? i examined my keys, and i fancied i discerned traces of wax upon them. i inquired my way to the nearest locksmith, and giving him the bunch asked whether an impression in wax had been taken of any of them. "of a certainty, monsieur," he said, "else i could not have made them." "it is you, then, who made the duplicates?" "assuredly, it is i, monsieur." "of how many?" "of two, monsieur." "of these two?" indicating the keys of my two trunks. "exactly, monsieur." "from impressions in wax which you received." "yes, yes, monsieur," he said, redundantly affirmative. "have you come to ask for them? but they were delivered and paid for last night." "by a thin-faced, middle-aged woman, with gray eyes and a white face?" "the description is perfect. i trust the keys are to your satisfaction, and that they fit the locks." "they fit admirably," i said, and i gave him good morning. annette! she was in my wife's pay; together they had conspired against me. the first practical step towards obtaining access to my boxes was taken when barbara informed me that she had mislaid one of her keys, and borrowed my bunch; then the impressions in wax, and annette going to the locksmith to give the order; then the packet containing the keys which annette had secretly conveyed to my wife while my back was turned; then barbara's complaint this morning that my cigar made her ill, and my going out to smoke. during my absence my trunk was opened and rifled. the petty little mystery was solved. it was late when i returned to the hotel. i expected a stormy scene, it being now two hours after the time i had appointed to take barbara to see the sights of paris; but she was not in our rooms to reproach me. in the bedroom i noticed that two padlocks had been newly fixed to each of her trunks. i went into the office to make inquiries. "madame is out," said the manager. "on foot?" "no, monsieur; in the carriage that was ordered." "did she go alone?" "no, monsieur; annette accompanied her." "annette!" i exclaimed. "has she not her duties to attend to here?" "she is no longer in our service," was the reply. "she is engaged by madame. it was sudden, but she begged to be allowed to leave. your wife implored also, monsieur, and as another woman who had been with us before as chambermaid was ready to take her place, we consented--to oblige madame." "is annette a good servant?" "an excellent domestic." "trustworthy, honest, and sober?" "perfectly. madame could not desire a better." every word he spoke was in annette's favor, and i felt that another burden was on my life. if i could not cope with barbara alone, how much less able was i to cope with her now that she had such an ally as this sly creature? at five o'clock they came in together, my wife flushed and elated, annette quiet and placid as usual. "i have had a lovely day," said barbara, as annette assisted her to disrobe. "i suppose my dear boy has been running all over the city in search of me." "you are mistaken," i replied. "i have not searched for you at all." "i am not going to believe everything you say, you bad boy," she said, darting into the bedroom. i divined the reason; it was to ascertain whether the padlocks on her boxes had been tampered with. reassured on this point, she resumed her chatter. "how lonely my dear boy must have been! i declare he has been smoking. annette, give me my cloves. will you have one, john? no? is it not good of annette to accept the situation i offered her? she will travel with us to switzerland and italy, and will tell us all we want to know about the hotels there, and what is worth seeing, and what not. she will save you no end of money. and what a perfect lady's maid she is! i wonder what possessed me to leave england without one; but i am glad now that i did not engage one there, for i could not have got anybody half so handy and clever as annette." while my wife was speaking annette made no sign, and nothing in her manner indicated that she understood what was being said in her praise. had she been a stone image she could not have shown less interest. this was carrying acting too far, for her name being frequently mentioned, she would naturally have exhibited some curiosity. "and only thirty-five pounds a year," my wife continued, and would have continued her prattle had i not interrupted her. "i should like to speak to you alone, barbara." "we are alone, you dear boy." i looked towards the imperturbable woman she had engaged. "oh, do you object to annette? what difference can she make? she understands no language but her own." "i should prefer to be alone with you." "to say disagreeable things, i suppose, when there are no witnesses present. oh, i know you. she shall not go." "do you think it right to oppose me in such a small matter? surely we ought to keep our quarrels to ourselves." "who is quarreling?" she retorted. "i am not. and as to what is right and wrong, i am as good a judge as you." "annette," said i, addressing the woman in french, "leave the room." "oui, monsieur," she replied, with perfect submissiveness, and was about to go when my wife said: "annette, remain here." "oui, madame," she replied, without any indication of surprise at these contradictory orders. to outward appearance she was an absolutely passive agent, ready at a word to go hither or thither, to say yea or nay, without the least feeling or interest in the matter; but any one who judged her by this standard would have found himself grievously at fault. "very well," i said. "i will postpone speaking of a very serious subject till i can do so out of the hearing of strangers. i will only say now that you should not have engaged this woman without consulting me." "indeed, i shall not consult you," returned barbara, "upon my domestic arrangements, and i am astonished at your interference. it is i who have to attend to them, and i will not be thwarted and ordered to do this or that. you think a wife is a slave; i will show you that she is not." she paused a moment, and then shrugged her shoulders. "what you have to say had best be said at once, perhaps. in heaven's name let us get it over." she stepped to annette's side, and whispered a word or two in her ear; the next moment we were alone. "now, john, what is it?" "with the connivance of that woman you have had false keys made, with which, in my absence--artfully contrived by yourself--you have opened my trunks." "go on." "you admit it." "i admit nothing. go on." "with those false keys you ransacked my trunks, and stole certain articles from them." "stole?" she cried with a scornful laugh. "a proper word for you to use." "never mind the word----" "but i shall mind the word. you will be dictating to me next how i shall express myself. if there is a thief here, it is you. i call you thief to your face. you ought to feel flattered that i followed your example, but nothing seems to please you. and you should consider, my dear--what is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. you opened my trunks on the sly; i opened yours on the sly, and took possession of my property which you had stolen from me." "i admit," i said, speaking without passion, "that i was wrong----" "oh, indeed! and that admission justifies you?" "the end justified me; what i found justified me." "in your opinion, because you can do no wrong. seriously, my love, do you look upon me as a child, and do you think i will allow myself to be spied upon and robbed with impunity?" "what i did was for your good." "allow me, if you please, to be the judge of what is good for me. will it offend you to hear me say that no gentleman would act as you have done?" it would have been wiser, perhaps, had i refrained from uttering the retort that rose to my lips. "would any lady act as you have acted?" but who can control himself when he is brought face to face with an overwhelming and undeserved misfortune. "best leave ladies and gentlemen out of the question," she said, mockingly. "as you pay me the compliment of declaring that i am not a lady, pay me the further compliment of designating what i am." i was silent. "i will give you a little lesson in frankness, my dear. when i married you i believed i was marrying a man of honor, unfortunately i was mistaken. it has not taken me long to discover that my husband is a common spy--attached to the detective office, probably, the sort of man who listens at keyholes and searches his wife's pockets when she is asleep. don't forget, love, that it was you who commenced it. if i were a milksop i should sit down and weep, as some poor creatures do, but i am not a milksop; i can protect myself. therefore, john. i am not going to make myself unhappy; i am much too sensible. i am not an old woman yet, and i intend to enjoy my life. and now, my dear," she added, after a moment's pause, "i am waiting for your next insult." "i am afraid it is useless to argue with you," i said, sadly. "upon this subject, quite useless," she replied. "upon any other i am your humble servant. have you finished, then? thank you. annette!" the woman came in so promptly as to convince me that she had been listening in the passage. "she waited outside by my orders," said my wife, laughing. i left them together. chapter ix. when i had left barbara and annette together, i took myself seriously to task. i asked myself whether i understood barbara's character, and the answer seemed clear. i had not studied it; i did not understand it. she was a beautiful creature with whom i had fallen in love; it was surface love, and i had made no attempt to probe the inner life. in this respect i was no worse off than multitudes of men and women who marry without knowing each other. was barbara to blame for it? no. she was in a state of dependence upon a brother whose character i detested. i had offered myself and was accepted. for the fate in store for me i, and i alone, was to blame. i would be lenient towards her; i would devise some wise plan by which she could be wooed from the wrong path. after all, she was, perhaps, to be pitied. thus did i argue, thus did i manufacture excuses for her, thus did i school myself into a calmer frame of mind. in this better mood i met her when annette was not with her, and asked where she would dine. "where you please," she answered, meekly. her softened tone filled me with pity and remorse. "my wish is to please you," i said. she glanced at me in surprise. "are you setting a trap for me?" she asked. "no, barbara, only i have been thinking that we do not quite understand one another." "it seems so," she admitted, in a mournful voice, "and it is making me very unhappy." "well, don't let it make you unhappy any longer. we both have faults, and we will try to correct them." "you dear boy!" she cried, throwing her arms round my neck. "then you confess you were in the wrong?" "yes, i confess it, barbara." "and i confess that i was in the wrong. now, we are equal." after a pause: "no one is quite perfect, john." "it is not within human limits, barbara." "we agree--we agree!" she danced about the room in delight. "isn't it delightful? oh, i was beginning to despair!" there was really something childlike in her voice and manner, and i followed her movements with admiration. suddenly she stopped, and throwing herself on the sofa, hid her face in the cushion, and began to sob. it was the first time that an act of mine had caused a woman to sob, and it unmanned me. i sat by her side and soothed her with awkward, endearing words, and my efforts were rewarded; she became calmer. "it is so sweet, so sweet, when you are like this!" she murmured, and dried her eyes. "you are my dear old boy again, just as you were before we were married. oh, john, why did you go over my boxes on the sly?" "it was wrong; i have confessed it." "but i like to hear you say it. you were wrong!" "yes, i was wrong." "you mean it, dear--you are not deceiving me?" "no, barbara, i am not deceiving you." she pouted. "it is nothing but 'barbara, barbara.' 'yes, barbara,' 'no, barbara.' not so very long ago you would say, 'no, my love,' 'yes, my darling.' now, my dear, dear boy, say out of your very heart, 'i am not deceiving you, my darling.'" i repeated the words; to have refused, to have hesitated, would have destroyed the good work, the better understanding, of which i seemed to see the promise. "i am not deceiving you, my darling." "oh, how good it is to hear you speak like that! it is like waking out of a horrid dream to a delightful reality. and you truly, truly love me?" again i answered, under pressure. "i truly love you." "then i don't care for anything else in the wide, wide world, and i am the happiest woman in it. you had almost forgotten, had you not, john, that i was alone in this city, without a friend but you? i have only you--only you. i hardly cared to live, for what is life without love? but i was frightening myself unnecessarily--or were you doing it just to try me. you will be kind to me, will you not, dear?' "indeed, i have no other desire." "see how a foolish woman can create shadows that terrify her. that is what i did; but they are gone now, all blown away by my dear boy's tender words. and you don't mind my little faults--you will put up with them." i ventured a saving clause. "yes, barbara, and i will try to correct them." "of course you will; i expect you to. but you must do it in a nice way. long lectures are horrid. when i try to correct yours--for that will be only fair play, john, will it, not?--you will see how gentle i will be." "at the same time, barbara, while we are correcting each other's faults, we must help ourselves by trying to correct our own." "i promise, with all my heart; and when i make a promise in that way you may be perfectly sure that it will be performed. that is a virtue i really possess. and so we will go on correcting each other till we are old, old people, ready to become angels, when we sha'n't have any faults at all to correct. for angels are faultless, you know. i am deeply religious, john, dear. there are angels and devils. the good people become angels, the wicked people devils." "you are mixing up things, rather, are you not, barbara?" "well, it is full of mystery, and who does know for certain? but one can believe; there is no harm in that, is there?" "none at all." "and i believe there is a heaven and a hell. you believe it, too, of course?" "assuredly i believe there is a heaven, but not that there is a hell hereafter." she pondered over the words. "a hell hereafter! why the 'hereafter,' dear?" "because i have a firm conviction that we may suffer hell in this life, but not in the next." "a hell in this life! that would be awful. we will not suffer it, love." "i trust not, sincerely." "'trust not!' you mean you are sure we shall not, surely." "i am sure we shall not, barbara." i was as wax in her hands, standing, so to speak, forever on the edge of a precipice of her creating, and compelled to the utterance of sentiments to which i could not conscientiously subscribe, in order to escape the wreck of a possible happiness. "that i believe in hell fire and you do not," she said, thoughtfully, "shall not be a cause of difference between us. everybody thinks his own ideas of religion are right. perhaps bye and bye i will try to convert you, and if you feel very strongly on the subject of hell you shall try to convert me. which do you think worse--a hell in this life, or a hell in the next?" "i have never considered it. don't let us worry ourselves about theological matters during our honeymoon." "you are right, john; see how quickly i give in to you. i will tell you why, sir--because it is a wife's duty. you will never find me behindhand in that. our honeymoon! how nicely you said it. there shall be nothing but sunshine and flowers, and the singing of birds, and love. oh, what a happy, happy time! and you are no longer angry with me that i have engaged annette?" "i am not angry with you at all." "john," she said, shaking her finger playfully at me, "that is an evasion, and you mustn't set me bad examples. answer my question immediately, sir." "well, barbara, so long as she does not bring discord between us----" she stopped me with a kiss. "no, john, that will not do--it really will not do, you bad boy. you mustn't take unreasonable antipathies to people. a lady's-maid has a great deal to put up with, and mistresses are often very trying. there, you see, i don't spare myself--oh, no, i am a very just person, and i like every one to be justly treated. say at once, sir, that you are no longer angry with me for engaging annette." mistrusting the woman as i did, i was forced, for the sake of peace, to express approval of her. barbara clapped her hands, and declared we should be quite a happy family. it was after this interview that barbara had a religious fit. twice a day she went to the madeleine, and spent an hour there upon her knees. sometimes annette accompanied her, sometimes i, upon her invitation. i asked her why she, a protestant, frequented a catholic place of worship. "what does it matter, the place?" she asked, in return, speaking in a gentle tone. "it does one good to pray. even to kneel in such a temple without saying a prayer strengthens one's soul. through the solemn silence, broken now and then by a sob from some poor woman's broken heart, a message comes from god. women are greatly to be pitied, john." "men, too, sometimes," i said. "oh, no," she answered, quickly, "there is no comparison." a trifling incident may be set down here, in connection with the brooch, with its device of two hearts, which i had purchased as a present for barbara on the first night we were in paris, and which i afterwards determined not to give her. i was in the sitting-room clearing my pockets. among the things i had taken out was the brooch, which i had almost forgotten. i was still of the opinion that it would be an unsuitable gift, and i was thinking what to do with it when annette passed through the sitting-room to the bedroom, her eyes, as usual, lowered to the ground. in the course of the day i went to the jeweler of whom i had purchased the brooch, and he took it back at half the price i had paid for it. i thought no more of the matter. chapter x. i had taken circular tickets for a two months' ramble through switzerland and italy, intending to visit lucerne, berne, interlaken, chamouni, and geneva, then on to the italian lakes, and i was studying the plan i had mapped out, and making notes of bye-excursions from the principal towns, when barbara burst in upon me with the exclamation that she was sick of paris. this surprised me. we had intended to remain for two weeks, only one of which had elapsed, and i had supposed that the busy, brilliant life of the gay city would be so much to barbara's liking that i should have a difficulty in getting her away from it. for my own part i was glad to leave, glad to travel sooner than we intended to regions where we should be in closer contact with nature. barbara had never visited switzerland or italy, and i hoped that association with the lakes and mountains of those beautiful countries would be beneficial to her, would help her to shake off the fatal habit which she had allowed to grow upon her. "very well, barbara," i said, "we will leave for lucerne to-morrow." "how long does it take to get to geneva?" she asked. "from lucerne?" "no, from here." "there is a morning train, which gets there in the evening." "then we will go to-morrow morning to geneva." "but that will make a muddle of the route i have mapped out, and jumble up the dates." "what does that matter? you can easily make out another; our time is our own. i want to be in geneva to-morrow night." "for any particular reason?" i asked, rather annoyed, for i knew how difficult it was to divert her from anything upon which she had set her mind. "for a very particular reason. maxwell will be there." "did he tell you so before we left england?" "no; he tells me in a letter, and says how nice it will be for us to meet there." i thought otherwise. i had no wish to see maxwell, but i did not say so. "when did you hear from him?" "this morning." "his letter did not come to the hotel. they told me in the office that there were none for us." "he doesn't address me at the hotel." "where then, for goodness sake? the hotel is the proper place." "perhaps i don't care about always doing what is proper," she retorted, lightly. "besides, do i need your permission to carry on a correspondence with my brother?" "not at all; you are putting a wrong construction upon my words." "oh, of course. i don't do anything right, do i? never mind, you may make yourself as unpleasant as you like, but you won't get me to join in a wrangle. do i pry into your letters? well, then, don't pry into mine." "i have no desire to do so. only, as i suppose this is not the first letter you have received from maxwell since we have been in paris----" she interrupted me with "i have had three letters from him." "well, i thought you might have mentioned it--that's all." "i didn't wish to annoy you." "why should it annoy me?" "now, john," she said, in a more conciliatory tone, "haven't i eyes in my head? women, really, are not quite brainless. do you think i didn't find out long ago that there was no love lost between you and maxwell? not on his side--oh, no; on yours." i could have answered that, according to my observation of her, her feelings towards maxwell were similar to mine, but i was determined to avoid, as far as was possible, anything in the shape of argument that might lead to contention. "i do hope you will get to like him better," she continued, "and you will when you understand him. that is what we were talking about a few days ago, isn't it?--about the advisability of people understanding each other before they pronounce judgment. if they don't they are so apt to do each other an injustice. maxwell is as simple as a child; the worst of it is, he takes a delight in placing himself at a disadvantage when he is talking to you, saying the wrong thing, you know, but never meaning the least harm by it--oh, no. he leaves you to find it out--so boyish, isn't it? he is inconsistent; it is a serious fault, but it is a serious misfortune, too, when one can't help it. it is a shame to blame us for our imperfections; we didn't make them; they are born with us." "but, barbara," i said, a feeling of bewildered helplessness stealing over me at the contradictions to which she was everlastingly giving utterance, "we are reasonable beings." "oh, yes, to a certain extent, but no farther. the question is to what extent. take the son of a thief, now; how can he help being a thief? he was born one." "you wouldn't punish him for stealing?" "i don't think i would, for how can he help it? i would teach him--i would lead him gently." i brightened up. "that is what we are trying to do." "yes; for it is so wrong to take what doesn't belong to us--and to take it on the sly, too! to go over boxes when one is ill and unconscious. fie, john! i hoped we were not going to speak of that again." "but it is you who brought it up." "oh, no, love, it was you. you shouldn't allow things to rankle in your mind; it is hardly manly. what was i saying about maxwell? oh, his inconsistency. i am glad i am not inconsistent, but i am not going to boast of it. only you might take a lesson from me. the weak sometimes can help the strong. remember the fable of the lion and the mouse." i changed the subject. "we will start for geneva to-morrow morning. it is a delightful journey." "everything is delightful in your company, you dear boy. you are glad that we shall soon see maxwell, are you not?" "yes, i am glad if it will give you pleasure." "thank you, dear. could any newly-married couple be happier than we are? give me a kiss and i will go and do my packing." i recall these conversations with amazement. i was as a man who was groping in the dark, vainly striving to thread his way through the labyrinths in which he was environed. there was an element of masterly cunning in barbara's character by the exercise of which i found myself continually placed in a wrong light; words i did not speak, motives i did not entertain, sentiments which were foreign to my nature, were so skillfully foisted upon me, that, communing afterwards with my thoughts, i asked myself whether i was not the author of them and had forgotten that they had proceeded from me. but barbara's own conflicting utterances were a sufficient answer to these doubts. one day she informed me that maxwell had a contempt for me, the next that he had a high opinion of me. now she despised him, now she was longing for his society. one moment he was all that was bad, the next all that was good. i did not allow these contradictions to weigh with me. my aim was to do my duty by my wife, and to save her from becoming a confirmed drunkard; to that end all the power that was within me was directed. in order not to put temptation in barbara's way i became a teetotaler, and from that day to this, except upon one occasion, have not touched liquor of any kind. "no wine, john?" barbara said, as we were eating dinner. "no, barbara; i am better without it." "turned teetotaler?" she looked at me with a quizzical smile. "yes." "about the most foolish thing you could do. wine is good for a man. everything is good in moderation." "i agree with you--in moderation." "i said in moderation--the word is mine, not yours. you will alter your mind soon." "never," i said. "it would be common politeness to ask if i would have some." "will you, barbara?" "no," she replied vehemently, "you know i hate it." the next morning we were comfortably seated in the train for geneva. annette was knitting, i was looking through some english papers and magazines i had obtained at brentano's, and barbara was reading a french novel she had purchased at the railway stall. she appeared to be so deeply interested in it that i asked her what it was. she handed it to me. i started as i looked at the title. "l'assoimmoir!" i handed it back to her, thinking it strange she should have selected the work, but drawing from it a happy augury, for there is no story in which the revolting effects of drink are portrayed with greater coarseness and power. it did not occur to me that i should have been sorry to see such a work in the hands of a pure-minded woman, and that the absence of the reflection was a wrong done to a woman who was but newly married--and that woman my own wife! my thought was: what effect will the story have upon barbara? will it show her in an impressive and personal way the awful depths of degradation to which drink can bring its victims, and will it be a warning to her? "have you read it?" she asked. "yes," i answered. "it is a terrible story; it teaches a terrible lesson." "i have heard so," she said, "and i was quite anxious to read it myself. it opens brightly." "wait till you come to the end," i thought. she went on with the reading, and was so engrossed in the development of the sordid, wretched tragedy that she paid but little attention to the scenery through which we were passing. i did not interrupt her. "let it sink into her soul," i thought. "god grant that it may appall and terrify her!" in the afternoon the book was finished. but she was loth to lay it aside. she read the last few pages, and referred to others which presumably had produced an impression upon her. then she put the book down. i looked at her inquiringly. "you are right," she said. "it does indeed teach a terrible lesson." i did not pursue the subject. if the effect i hoped for had not been produced no words of mine would bring it about. a fellow passenger engaged me in conversation, and we stood upon the landing stage awhile. when i returned to the carriage i detected that barbara had been tippling; the signs were unmistakable. later in the day she made reference to the story and expressed sympathy for the victims of the awful vice. "is that your only feeling respecting the story?" i asked. "what other feeling can i have?" she replied, sorrowfully. "it was born in them. poor gervaise! poor coupeau! i don't know which i pity most." "and the terrible lesson, barbara?" "everything in moderation," she said, and after a little pause, added, "besides, it isn't true; it isn't possible. novel writers are compelled to draw upon their imaginations, and they invent unheard-of things--as you will do, i suppose with your stories. make them hot and strong, john, and you will stand a greater chance of success. people like to have their blood curdled. if i had the talent to write a novel i should stick at nothing. look at----," she mentioned the name of a living english author whose stories were wonderfully successful--"he deals in nothing but blood; in every novel he writes he kills hundreds and hundreds of people, and slashes them up dreadfully. his pages absolutely reek with gore. now, you can't convince me that he is describing real life; he is describing things that never occurred, that never could have occurred. it is just the same with this story that i have been reading. very clever, of course, and very horrible, but absolutely untrue." that was her verdict, and i knew it was useless to argue with her. we arrived at geneva between eight and nine o'clock. in accordance with barbara's wish, we took the omnibus of the hotel de la paix, where maxwell was to meet us. she was disappointed that he was not at the station; we looked out for him, but we did not see him. it happened that the lady and gentleman of whom i have spoken took the same omnibus and were seated when we entered. they drew into a corner of the omnibus, and the gentleman shifted his place so that he sat between his companion and barbara. he seemed to be desirous that the ladies should not sit next to each other. a disappointment awaited barbara at the hotel. maxwell was not there. when i gave my name to the proprietor and was speaking about the rooms we were to occupy, he said, "there is a letter for madame," and handed it to her. it was from maxwell. she read it with a frown. "it is a shame--a shame!" she cried. "what does he say?" i asked. "he will not be here till the end of the week," she replied, fretfully. "he may not be here at all." "i am sorry," i said. "you are not," she retorted, fiercely. "you are glad." and certainly it was she who spoke the truth. we went up in the lift to look at our rooms, and then i came down again to order dinner. returning to inform barbara that it would be ready in twenty minutes, i found the door locked. "let me alone," barbara cried from within. "i don't want any dinner. you can have it without me. it won't spoil your appetite." i turned to go downstairs and met annette. "is my wife unwell?" i asked. "madame is disturbed that her brother has not arrived," the woman answered. "she does not require me any longer to-night. i am to get something to eat and go to bed. good-night, monsieur." "good-night, annette." she had spoken sulkily, as though vexed at not being allowed to wait upon her mistress. i had my dinner alone, and afterwards strolled along the banks of the beautiful lake, smoking a cigar. there was no moon, but the sky was bright with stars. i was in no hurry, knowing that when barbara was in one of her passionate fits it was best to give her plenty of time to get over it. my presence irritated her, and i did not care to be the butt of her unreasonable anger. chapter xi. there was still no news of maxwell, and i was pleased to be spared his presence. now, i cannot say whether the scene which took place later in the day between me and barbara was inspired by a communication which she had just received from annette, or whether she had been already enlightened upon the subject, and had stored up the pretended grievance for use against me when she was in the humor for it. it matters little either way, and perhaps it would have been wiser of me to treat the accusation with contempt; but there are limits to a man's patience, and i could not always keep control of myself. it was commenced by barbara inquiring whether my lady friend had followed us to geneva, and by her answering the question herself. "but of course she has. you have laid your plans artfully. keep her out of my way, or i'll strangle her." "you are mad," i muttered, and indeed, i must either have believed so, or that she was at her devil's tricks again. "not yet," she screamed, and then i knew that she had been drinking. "not yet. you may drive me to it in the end, but the end hasn't come yet. no, not by many a long day, johnnie, my dear! only don't let me get hold of her, or there'll be murder done." "tell me what you mean," i said, closing the doors and windows, for i was anxious that the people in the hotel should not hear, "and i may be able to answer you." "where is the lady's brooch you bought in paris?" she asked. "show it to me, and i'll be satisfied. well, where is it?" then i recollected that annette had passed through the room of the hotel in paris when i emptied my pockets there; i was looking at the brooch, debating what i should do with it. "you are thinking what to say," barbara continued. "i will save you the trouble of inventing a lie. say that you bought it for me." "it would be the truth. i did buy it for you." "give it me, then; it belongs to me." "i cannot give it to you; i have parted with it." "i knew it without your telling me. you gave it to the other woman." "there is no other woman in the case. be reasonable, barbara. things are bad enough, god knows, but i can honestly say you have no cause for jealousy. the brooch was intended for you, but i changed my mind, and returned it to the jeweler." "not thinking it suitable for me." "exactly. i did not think it suitable for you." "the device was not appropriate, eh?" "it was not appropriate." "i wonder you are not ashamed to look me in the face. it was a device of two hearts entwined--yours and another woman's--and it was not a suitable device to offer to me, whom you had married but the day before!" (i thought with dismay that annette must have sharp eyes to have seen it in that brief moment when she passed me, looking slyly on the ground.) "you are a clumsy liar, john. if you want to know, it was because i was maddened by your shameful conduct that i left you last night. i was sorry for it afterwards. i reasoned with myself, saying, he is my husband, and it is my duty to be by his side. that is why i was not sorry when you found me this morning. you may break my heart, but i will never leave you again, never, never! now that i have found you out don't presume to lecture me again upon any little faults i may have--but keep your women out of my sight, my dear." i argued no longer; my heart was filled with bitterness; the smallest of my actions was turned against me with such ingenuity as to render me powerless. i will not dwell upon the incidents that enlivened the remaining weeks of this mockery of a honeymoon. again and again did i find barbara under the influence of drink, and again and again did i seek refuge in silence, for every word i spoke was twisted into an accusation against myself. we saw nothing of maxwell, and after a month's tour barbara declared she was tired of foreign countries and foreign people, and yearned to take her proper place in our dear little home in london. "where you will discover," she said (she was in one of her amiable moods), "that i am a model wife, and a perfect treasure of a housekeeper." we were in london nearly two months before we settled in our new home, which, as i have stated, was situated in west kensington. immediately upon our return barbara and i drove to the house, and took a tour of inspection through the rooms. it seemed to me that a few days would suffice for the necessary alterations and additions, but barbara was of a different opinion. this piece of furniture did not suit her, that would not do, the other was altogether out of place. she did not like the paper on the walls, the ceilings were frightful, the patterns of the carpets horrible. before our marriage we had come to london to see the house, and then she was satisfied with everything, now she is satisfied with nothing. if i ventured to make a remonstrance her reply was: "do let me manage! what can you know about domestic affairs? leave them to me; i will soon put things to rights." seeing that her idea of putting things to rights would cost a large sum of money, i said: "remember, barbara, i am not a millionaire." "perhaps not," she answered, "but you have thousands and thousands of pounds, you stingy fellow, and we must commence comfortably. our whole happiness depends upon it. i sha'n't ruin you, my dear. besides, are you not going to coin money out of your books?" "they have to be written first." "of course. and to write striking stories you must have a cosy study. do you think it is my comfort i am looking after? my dear old boy, you shall have the snuggest den in london." "when they are written---if they ever are"--i was tortured by a doubt whether my mind would be sufficiently at ease for literary work--"they may not find favor with the publishers." "i will manage them, john. don't meet troubles half way. there is a clever song--did you ever hear it?--' never trouble trouble till trouble troubles you.' that is what i call common sense." the result was that she had her way. my one desire was for peace. love held no place in my heart the utmost i could hope for was that i should not be plunged into disgrace. i had very little to do with the new arrangements of the house. finding that every suggestion i made was received with opposition, i became wearied with the whole affair, my share in which was limited to paying the bills. this exactly suited barbara, who now and then rewarded me by declaring that she was having a delightful time. during these few weeks we lived in a furnished flat in bloomsbury, and having nothing else to do, i spent the greater part of the day in the reading-room of the british museum, for which i had held a ticket since i left my stepmother's house. barbara and i would breakfast together in the morning, and make arrangements for a late dinner. then we would separate; barbara for west kensington, accompanied by annette, i for the british museum, or for a lonely walk or ride. once or twice a week, when the weather was fine, i would ride on the top of an omnibus to its terminus, and return to my starting-point by the same conveyance. my favorite ride was eastward, through whitechapel, and occasionally i would alight in the centre of that wonderful thoroughfare--where a greater variety of the forms of human life can be met than in any other part of the modern babylon--and plunge into the labyrinth of narrow streets and courts with which the district abounds. what made the deepest impression upon me in my wanderings thereabouts was the poverty of the residents and the immense number and the magnificence of the gin palaces, in the immediate vicinity of the most flourishing of which were usually congregated groups of wretched men, women and children--chiefly the latter during the midday hours of my visits--whose one idea of life and life's duties was drink. the subject had a fascination for me, and my heart sank as i noted the hideous degradation to which it brings its victims. the soddened, bestial faces, the shameless lasciviousness, the frightful language, the hags of forty who looked seventy, the young children with preternatural cunning stamped on their features, and from whose ready tongue familiar blasphemies proceeded; girl-mothers with exposed breasts putting glasses of gin to their babies' lips--these were horrible and common sights. i was standing watching such a scene in a narrow, squalid street, flanked at each corner by a gorgeous, shining palace of gin, when i noticed a policeman at my side. we entered into conversation, and i learned that he had placed himself near me as a protection. "a famous thieves' quarter this, sir," he said; "i thought you mightn't know." "thank you for the warning," i replied; "the people are very poor; all the houses seem to be tumbling down." "they belong to a big swell." "does he not come to inspect them?" the policeman--an intelligent man, evidently with some education--laughed. "he may have seen them once in his lifetime, and that was enough for him. the property is managed by an agent, in the employ of the steward of the estate, who walks through it perhaps once a year." "the rents must be very low." "not low enough for them that live here. there isn't a house in the street with less than three or four families in it." i pointed to two girls whose ages could not have been more than fifteen or sixteen, each with a baby at her breast, "what becomes of them when they grow old?" "they never grow old," was his significant reply. "are you a reporter for a newspaper, sir?" "no; i am here merely out of curiosity." "don't come at night--alone," he said, as he turned away. his question had put an idea into my head which i thought might be carried into effect for the benefit of that half of the world that does not know how the other half lives. i make no excuse for introducing this episode into my story; the sights i saw had an indirect bearing upon my own life. in the evening barbara and i would meet in our bloomsbury flat, and go out to dinner, generally to a foreign restaurant, and sometimes afterwards to a theatre or a music hall, the latter being always of barbara's choosing. i followed in her wake; the least resistance or reluctance to carry out her wishes only brought fresh misery upon me. she continued to tipple, but not in my presence; it seemed to be a principle of her life to do everything in secret. on sundays she went to church, and professed to be much edified by the discourse. she would pray at home, too. once when i entered our sitting-room i discovered her on her knees before a couch, her face buried in the cushion. she remained there so long that i put my hand on her shoulder. she did not move. looking down i found she was asleep, with a vacuous smile on her countenance. i moved to another part of the room, and soon afterwards she staggered to her feet, and stood, reeling to and fro. "annette!" she called querulously. the woman entered, and supported her to her bedroom. the next day she complained of her heart. "i was very ill yesterday," she said. "i fainted while i was praying. my prayers were for you, john." i did not answer her, and she asked me whether i ever thought of the future world. "it is our duty, my dear," she said. "life in this is very sad." chapter xii. while the house was being prepared for our reception, i heard nothing of maxwell. i thought of him often, and i sometimes fancied that barbara was not so ignorant as myself of his whereabouts and doings--a supposition which proved to be true, but his name was not mentioned by either of us. in looking back upon those days i can see that i was acting a part as well as barbara. i was miserably conscious of it at the time, but it did not strike me as it strikes me now. words of affection had no meaning, and we knew it--and knowing it, nursed in our hearts the belief that the other was a hypocrite. i have no desire to show myself in a favorable light to barbara's disadvantage. her judgment of me was warped by her passion for drink, and my judgment of her was perhaps harsher than it should have been because of the bitter disappointment under which i labored. i could not always be patient, i could not always endure in silence; she stung me by her sly cunning, by the artful entanglements she wove for me, by the detestable assumption of religious fervor which she used to mask the degrading vice which made my life a hell. i had to be continually on the alert to avoid public exposure, and in this endeavor annette was useful, for she did what she could to shield her mistress. self-interest was her motive, for barbara was continually making her presents of money and articles of jewelry and dress. i was quite aware that she was my enemy, that when she spoke of me she lied and traduced me, but i could find no fault with her when she was in my presence. it may be that she held me in contempt because i did not beat or kill my wife. we gave up our flat, and took up our quarters in the home in which before my marriage i had hoped to live an honorable and happy life. that hope was dead, and in my contemplations of the future i could see no ray of light. there was but one source of relief--work. hard toil, exhausting manual labor would have done me good; failing that, i had my pen. my visits to the vice-haunted haunts of london had supplied me with a theme. "what does my dear boy think of it?" barbara asked, on the morning we entered the house. "it looks very clean and new," i replied, as we walked through the rooms. "it is what i aimed at, dear. we are going to commence a new life. no more wrangles or disagreements, no more misunderstandings, everything that is unpleasant wiped off the slate. i am never going to worry you again. can i say more than that?" "we shall be all the happier, barbara, if you keep that in mind." '"of course i shall keep it in mind. and you, too, john--you will keep it in mind, and not worry me. fair play's a jewel. this is my morning room. isn't it sweet? and this," opening a communicating door, "is my prayer room, my very, very own. i shall come here whenever i feel naughty, and pray to be good. oh, what a consolation there is in prayer!" the walls were lined with pictures of sacred subjects and moral exordiums in oxford frames. there was an altar with prayer books ostentatiously arranged, and a cushion for her to kneel upon when at her devotions. she looked at me for approval, and i said that prayer chastened and purified. "it is what it will do for me, dear john. however earnest and wishful to do right one may be there are always little crosses. i intended this room for your study, but i felt that you would rather i put it to its present use." "then there is no study in the house for me?" "no, dear. we can't have everything we wish. i thought you might take a room elsewhere for your literary work. you can go and scribble there whenever you feel inclined; it will be so much better for you. there will be nothing to disturb you--no sweeping and scrubbing of floors and difficulties with servants, which put men out so. you see how i thought of you while i was arranging things. there are some nice quiet streets off the strand where you can take chambers and be comfortable and cosy. if you had a business in the city you would have to go to it every morning, so it is just as if you were a business man. we shall dine at home at half-past six. i shall expect you to be very punctual, or the cooking will be spoilt and the cook will give notice. oh, the worry of servants! but i take all that on myself." i was not displeased at the arrangement. had it been left to me i should have chosen it, so i said i was quite satisfied, and she clapped her hands and kissed me. "i have an agreeable surprise for you," she then said. "maxwell is in london." "you have seen him?" "oh, yes, every day almost. he has been of immense assistance to me in choosing furniture and wall paper, and managing the people who did the work. if it hadn't been for him i should have been dreadfully imposed upon, and it would have been ever so much out of your pocket. you will be glad to hear that he will dine with us this evening." i said i should be glad to see him; and indeed it was a matter of indifference to me, but i determined to be on my guard against him. "i was angry with him," she continued, "for not meeting us in geneva, as he promised; but he couldn't, poor fellow. he met with an accident, and had to lay up in a poky little village in italy. it is such a comfort to me that he is near us. there is no one like our own." "is he living in london?" "for the present. he has been unfortunate and has lost a lot of money--the stupid fellow is so trustful. he went security for a friend and was taken in. don't you go security for people, john, it's a mistake. i have another surprise for you. 'our first dinner in our dear little home shall be an unexpected pleasure to john,' i said to myself, when i was looking over my letters, and came across one from your mother." "my stepmother, barbara." "it's all the same. such a pretty, friendly letter; so full of good advice! young wives need advice, and old wives can give it them." "but when did you hear from her?" i asked. "don't you remember? it was when we were engaged." "i remember that i wrote to her of our engagement, and that she did not reply to me. she wrote to you instead. is that the letter you refer to?" "yes." "you told me that you tore up the letter the moment you read it, and that she must be an awful woman. i distinctly recollect your saying that we could do without her and her beautiful son." "what a memory you have, john! or are you making it up?" "i am not making it up. you did not tear up the letter?" "no," she said with a beaming smile, "i kept it by me, and i am sure you are mistaken in what you think i said. i did not show it to you because i knew you had some feeling against her and louis, and i didn't want to annoy you. i am not the woman to make mischief between such near relations. little differences will arise, and it is our duty to try and smooth them over. that is what i did, and you will be delighted to hear that they are content to let byegones be byegones, and are burning to see you." "i will think over it." "i have thought over it for you, dear. they are coming to dinner this evening." "do you consider it right, barbara, to invite them without consulting me?" "i do, my dear. i am a peacemaker. our housewarming will be quite a family party." i submitted, wondering to what length barbara would go in her duplicity, and whether she or i was mistaken in our recollection of the circumstances in connection with this particular letter. i did not wonder long. i knew that i was right. maxwell made his appearance an hour before dinner, and--having made up my mind--i received him with a cordiality which i did not feel. "well, here you are," he said, with a searching glance at me, "a regular married man after your lovely holiday tour. enjoyed yourself?" "barbara has given you a full account, no doubt," i replied, all the evil that was in my nature aroused by his mocking voice; "judge from that." "you must be a model husband, then," he said, laughing quietly to himself, "and she a model wife. i owe you an apology for not joining you on the continent. the fact is"--he looked to see that barbara was out of hearing--"i was not traveling alone, and upon considering the matter i came to the conclusion that our company might not suit you. a question of morals, you know." "i am obliged to you." "for keeping away? good. one to you. where are you going, barbara?" "domestic affairs," she replied. "to do the cooking." and she left the room. "was your accident very serious?" i asked. "accident!" he exclaimed. "what accident?" "then you did not meet with one?" "not that i am aware of. i had the jolliest time." i dropped the subject, and we talked of other matters, with a lame attempt at civility on both sides, until barbara re-entered the room, when he cried out: "i say, barbara, what is this about my meeting with an accident on the continent?" "you did meet with an accident," she said, boldly. "did i? well, then, i did." he looked me full in the face, and laughed. "i am disgusted with you, maxwell," barbara exclaimed. "don't pay any attention to him, john; you can't believe a word out of his mouth." thereupon he laughed still more boisterously, winding up with, "don't expect me to take a hand in your matrimonial squabbles; you must settle them yourselves." "we don't have any, do we, john?" said barbara, in her sweetest tone. maxwell appeared to be immensely amused, and they had a bantering bout, in which i took neither share nor interest. when they appealed to me i replied in monosyllables, until barbara said: "there, you have offended him. ask his pardon immediately. i won't have my dear boy annoyed." his eyes twinkled as he held out his hand, which i was compelled to take to avoid an open rupture. "i ask your pardon, john." "that's all right," said barbara, gaily. "for goodness sake, don't let us have any quarreling on our house-warming day." i felt as if i were in a hornets' nest. a few minutes afterwards my stepmother and louis were announced, and barbara ran forward to welcome them. "i am so glad you have come! there's no need of an introduction, is there? i am john's wife, barbara. you must call me barbara--yes, i insist upon it. this is my brother maxwell. maxwell, mrs. fordham--how funny there should be two of us! and this is your son, mr. louis fordham, john's brother. i hate formality. you mustn't be shocked at my saying that i am a bit of a bohemian. so is maxwell, but he goes farther than i do, of course, as he is a man. i hope you are one, too, mr. louis?" "i will become one," said louis, gallantly, "under your instructions. how do you do, john? what a pretty house you've got!" i shook hands with him and with my stepmother. louis was cordial enough in his manner; my stepmother was frigid. years had passed since i had seen her or louis, but she had not forgotten, and never would forget. only with her death would the old animosity die out. she was no older in appearance; louis had grown into a well-built man, and she doted on him, as she had done since his birth. a good-looking man, too, but for the scar on his forehead. as i raised my eyes to it--with no evil meaning, i am sure--the blood rushed into it, and it became scarlet, while a dark look flashed into my stepmother's eyes. "he will bear it with him to his grave," said my stepmother. "what a pity!" said barbara, who had observed this bye-play. "how did it happen?" "john gave it him," said my stepmother, coldly. "but they were boys then," said barbara, defending me maliciously, "and boys are so cruel." "the boy is father to the man," remarked my stepmother, with venomous emphasis. "now, john," said barbara, "what have you to say to it?" my impulse was to reply that the story was false, but i checked myself in time, and simply said: "nothing. either my memory or yours"--to my stepmother--"is at fault." "you have a shocking memory, john," said barbara. "not your fault, my dear--you were born with it. we all forgive you, don't we, mrs. fordham--and you, too, louis? it would be dreadful if we nursed every little grievance, and saved disagreeable things for future use against one another. let us talk of something pleasant." "you have the temper of an angel, barbara," ejaculated maxwell. "it runs in our family," returned barbara, casting up her eyes, "and we won't boast of it. whether we are married or single, we don't lie on beds of roses." by the time the dinner came to an end the inuendoes, the sly thrusts, the holding up of my wife as a martyr to my disparagement had become unbearable. the ladies retired to the drawing-room, and i refused to stop and drink with louis and maxwell. strolling from the house i lit a cigar, and upon my return the guests were preparing to take their departure. "such a pleasant evening," said my stepmother. "i hope you will turn over a new leaf, john, and be kind to your wife. you have a treasure in her. you must come and dine with us, soon." i stood at the street door while she and the men entered a cab together. barbara, standing by my side, waved her handkerchief to them. the moment the cab was out of sight she turned upon me like a fury. "you beast!" she cried. "is that the way you treat my friends?" and she ran into the house. sadly enough i followed her, in doubt of the best course to pursue. she solved the doubt by saying: "i am going to my room. you will find the spare room ready for you." "this is a bad commencement, barbara," i ventured to say. "thank yourself for it," she retorted, and disappeared. i possessed a small library of books, which i had sent to the house, and i endeavored to while away the time by reading. but i could not fix my attention; i turned over page after page without any comprehension of the printed words. and so i passed the time in a dull, lethargic state until eleven o'clock struck. i left my book and set myself to the old task of reviewing the incidents of the day, with the same old result. if the fault were mine there must be some defect in my understanding of passing events in which i was concerned. my melancholy musings were interrupted by the sound of barbara's voice in the room above. she was laughing and singing--a babble of unconnected lines, the laughter of a woman under the influence of drink. the door of her room was opened and shut, and i heard annette descend the stairs. i intercepted her. "what is the matter with your mistress?" "madame is unwell." "what is your errand now?" "madame has left her medicine in the dining-room; i am fetching it for her." i left her to fulfill her errand, but kept watch on the landing above. again i intercepted her. in her hands, as i suspected, was the decanter of brandy. "is that the medicine you were sent for?" "i could not find it, monsieur. i thought this would do her good; she is depressed, and needs something strengthening." there was no sign of confusion on the woman's face; she was calm and composed. "go down again and search for the medicine you were sent for," i said, taking the decanter from her. "but, monsieur, i have already sought for it, and cannot find it." "to search again, then, would be useless?" "quite useless, monsieur." "you can go to bed, annette. i will attend to your mistress." "it is impossible, monsieur. madame requires me. madame engaged me; i am her servant." "you are my servant also." "oh, no, monsieur. it is madame who orders me." "i am master here. do as i bid you. go to bed." she did not move. while this colloquy was proceeding there was silence in barbara's room. suddenly the door was dashed open, and my wife appeared, her dress disordered, her eyes inflamed, her face distorted by the hysterical passion of the habitual drunkard. as in a flash, i saw the inroads the bestial vice was making upon her beauty. "beast, beast, beast!" she shrieked, throwing herself upon me as i recoiled from the horrible sight. by engaging in a disgraceful struggle i might have retained the decanter of brandy, but i was not equal to it. she wrested it from me, and clutching annette's arm, she dragged her into the room, the lock of which i heard turned a moment afterwards. then came to my ears her mad laughter at the triumph she had achieved. chapter xiii. if i have dwelt at greater length than i intended upon the incidents which made their fatal mark upon the early months of my married life, it is because i wish barbara's character to be clearly understood, and because they supply a pregnant index to what followed. the first night i spent in our new home was a prelude to innumerable nights of the same nature. safe from observation and free to indulge in her besotted habits, with a willing tool at her beck and call in the person of annette, with a helpless protector chained to her by bonds which he could not break, she found herself absolute mistress of a drunkard's hellish heaven. she reveled in it, and gave her passions free play. day after day, night after night, i had by my side a creature who had reached the lowest depths of bestial degradation, and whose one aim in life seemed to be to reach a lower still. she was a large-framed woman with a magnificent constitution, or she would soon have succumbed and become a driveling idiot. throughout all, singular to say, she preserved her cunning, and the expedients by which she hedged herself in and kept her besetting vice from the knowledge of others except myself and annette, were nothing short of marvelous in their ingenuity. the room she called her prayer room was her sanctuary, and it was there, attended by annette, that she freely indulged. she acquired, indeed, a reputation for sanctity, and even our servants were deceived by her clever devices. annette became housekeeper and the nominal mistress of the establishment, and from her they received their orders. they saw their real mistress only when she was sober, and then she spoke kindly and was liberal to them. when she secluded herself they were given to understand that she was ill or at her devotions. she was supposed to suffer from a mysterious disorder, and her driveling screams in the middle of the nights were attributed to pain. i subsequently learned that they were often attributed to my beating her and knocking her about. i recall the day when she sat at the table with a livid bruise on her cheek, caused by her falling against the sharp corner of a piece of furniture. the parlor-maid assisted annette to apply hot fomentations to the bruise, and when, later in the day, i noticed the frightened, horrified looks the girl cast at me, i knew that she had been told the lie that i had struck my wife. against these calumnies i had no defense. in the kitchen i was regarded as a monster of cruelty, and the servants shrank aside as i passed them. before the domestics barbara invariably addressed me in frightened, humble tones. she kept her revilings for my private ear, the only witness of the scenes between us being annette. the character foisted upon me was not confined to the house. our servants related shameful stories against me to their friends in the neighborhood, who, in their turn, poured these stories into their mistresses' ears. wives and mothers looked darkly at me, and those with whom i had become acquainted did not return my bow. i was completely and effectually ostracised. under these persecutions was it any wonder that i felt myself becoming hardened? my nature was changed. i grew habitually morose and savage, and by my manner defied my traducers. this made matters worse for me, and gave color to the stories of systematic cruelty laid to my charge. after awhile i slept in the spare room alone, and offered up prayers of thankfulness that we had no children. it was indeed a blessing for which i could not be sufficiently grateful. one evening when we were at dinner, and barbara was toying with her food and sighing in the presence of the maid who waited at table, i suggested that she should call in a doctor. "it is not a doctor i require," she said, gazing at me with mournful significance. "oh, john, if only you----" and then she checked herself, as if she would not say anything to my discredit before the servant. "finish the sentence," i said. "if i only what?" "do not force me to speak," she cried, in an imploring tone. bursting into tears she rose from the table and left the room. what clearer evidence of my barbarity could be supplied? the maid would have been bereft of sense not to have understood the implication, and there is no doubt that she took the tale down to her fellow servants in the kitchen. before them, at meals, she never drank, but it was a common practice with her when we and annette were together at dinner, to help herself to copious draughts of brandy. i no longer remonstrated with her; she would have added to my distress by drinking deeper. in all these tricks she was assisted by maxwell and my stepmother. louis, for the most part, was a passive spectator. maxwell drank with her and laughed. my stepmother said: "see what you are driving her to. you are breaking her heart. i always knew what would happen if you married." "you are saying what is false, because you hate me," i replied. "i am speaking the truth," she retorted, "and truly i have no cause to love you. it is my opinion you have some wicked scheme in view. but there will be a judgment upon you for all your cleverness. you robbed me; you robbed louis of his patrimony. what good is the money doing you?" it is well i had matters apart from my domestic affairs to occupy me, or my mind would have lost its balance entirely. in accordance with the plan barbara had laid down for me, i took a small set of chambers in one of the streets leading from the strand to the river--the locality she had herself proposed--consisting of three rooms, a sitting-room, bedroom, and bathroom; and there i pursued my literary labors. the chambers were at the top of the house, and the sitting-room looked out upon the river. how happy could i have been there, had it not been for the living weight which held me down! gladly every morning did i leave my home, sadly every evening did i return to it. at first i wrote a few short stories, which i sent to the magazines. they were refused. every fresh rejection brought disappointment with it, but disheartened me only a short time. when my manuscripts came back to me i read them carefully, found faults in them, re-wrote them, and tried again, with the same result. thus a year passed, and i had not advanced a step. two or three times in the course of this year barbara visited me. "you are happy here," she said, and i did not gainsay her. "you like it better than your own home." "it was your own proposition," i replied. "will nothing satisfy you?" "it was not my proposition," she said. "you chose this yourself, and you have assignations here with creatures you love better than me. oh, i know why you spend the day in these rooms. do you think i am blind to the life you are living." she carried her venom to the length of tearing up manuscripts upon which i was engaged; i submitted to this awhile, but eventually i protected myself by locking up my papers when i heard her knock at the door. she was furious at my refusal to give her duplicate keys to the chambers. "a clear proof," she cried. on one of these occasions i proposed a separation, and offered to settle upon her half the money i possessed, so long as we remained apart. "will you give it me in a lump?" she asked. "no," i answered, "there must be a guarantee that you will not violate the conditions of the deed, which would be drawn up and signed by both of us. you shall have the interest of the money. if i die before you it will all be yours without restriction." "thank you, my dear," she said. "i prefer things as they are. you will not get rid of me so easily. you would divorce me if it were in your power. of course you won't answer that. but you will never get the chance, love. i am acquainted with the grounds upon which a divorce can be obtained. you shall have no reason to say that i am not a true and faithful wife to you." and, indeed, upon the score of faithfulness--in its legal sense--i entertained no doubts. she had but one love--brandy. while i was endeavoring to obtain a footing in the literary field by means of short stories, i was preparing a series of articles upon the curse of the land--drink--drawing upon actual facts and real life for my pen and ink pictures. by good fortune i obtained an introduction to the editor of a paper, the columns of which were open to social subjects, and i submitted a few of these articles to him. he approved of them, and suggesting certain alterations, which i agreed to make, consented to use them. his paper was one which did not admit of signed contributions, and had it been otherwise i should not have put my name to them, my domestic troubles on the same theme being a bar to such a course. the editor did not inquire into the source from which i obtained the facts for my descriptions of the effects of the awful vice; he was content with my method of treatment and with my literary style. "just one word of advice," he said, "don't shrink from speaking broadly and plainly. it is a burning question, and you can't put it too strongly. i am not so well up in the subject as yourself, but i should say, even if a man drew entirely upon his imagination, he could not paint more striking pictures than reality can supply. the successful artist paints from life and nature." "what i describe," i replied, "is what i have seen. nothing more horrible can be met in the vision of hell. this city of shame and sin is full of little hells, and if there is any truth in pulpit sermons and religious ministrations, in every little hell souls are daily being damned." he threw a searching glance upon me. "i like that. don't forget the metaphor; use it in one of the early articles. some writers keep their big plums till the last; it is a mistake. fairy tales can be written on a swiss mountain or an italian lake, but to do justice to such a subject as yours you must dig into babylon's crust; you need the pest-houses of civilization, the hog-like natures of men and women familiar with crime and poverty." "the evil is not confined to hovels," i remarked, "nor to the criminal classes. mansions of the well-to-do supply fruitful material." "well, do your best," he said. "we shall create a sensation." we did. my articles were quoted far and near. writing under a burning sense of wrong i was not sparing of epithet and denunciation. i worked at fever heat, and was often appalled at what i wrote, but it went into print with scarcely the alteration of a word. had i written under my own name i might have become a celebrity. in one of my articles i touched upon the marriage tie in relation to the evil. i described a home--a type of many--in which the wife was a confirmed dipsomaniac; another, in which the husband was drunk every day of his life. they were cases which came under my own eye in the localities where i pursued my investigations. from the lips of the sufferers themselves i received the terrible details of the gradual sinking into the slough of despair. here was the wretched husband, once a bright mechanic earning a fair wage, whose wife's filthy habits had brought ruin upon him--hopeless, irremediable ruin. vainly had he striven to reform her, vainly had he pointed out to her the sure consequences of her dissipation. coming home at night from his work he found his rooms in darkness, his hungry children lying almost naked on the bare boards, and his wife drunk in the nearest gin palace. it had become a common occurrence. she pawned the beds, the furniture, the children's clothes and his own, again and yet again, and when he dragged her from the public-house she lay through the night, gibbering at the awful sights her diseased imagination conjured up. he replaced the furniture, he bought new beds and clothing, he gave his children food, and when his wife was able to crawl out again, off she crept to the pawnbroker to repeat her evil work. the children had grown stunted and deformed, their rags hung loosely on their shrunken limbs, like starving dogs they nosed the gutters for offal. "my god, my god!" he cried, the tears streaming down his face. "what shall i do? how shall i save my children? how shall i save myself?" his voice sank to a whisper. "one night i shall kill her, and there will be murder on my soul!" in the other case it was the husband who drank, who would not work, who starved his wife and children, and beat them till their flesh was covered with livid bruises. it was the wife who told me the story. "if it were not for my children," she moaned, "i would make a hole in the water." it was not my habit to make more than a passing comment upon my descriptions of real and suffering life as it is to be seen to-day in the fester-spots of london. i had wished to do so, but was requested by my editor to put some restriction upon myself in this respect. "leave that," he said, "to the editorial pen." at the end of the article in which i narrated these two cases, i wrote: "and these poor creatures are, by the church and the so-called laws of god, chained to a living curse which blights, destroys, and damns the innocent." the words were allowed to stand. on the following day a powerful leading article was written by the editor, in which a change in the law of divorce was imperatively demanded. "confirmed drunkenness," he said, "is a crime against the true laws of god and man; it is far worse than adultery, and more than a sufficient cause for separation. it is not alone that humanity demands it, but could god make himself heard in this sinful world there would be a divine mandate to enforce it." other papers took up the subject. one popular journal (the season being over, and the house not sitting) made it a theme for the usual yearly correspondence, and columns of letters were printed every day--from despairing husbands and wives approving, from the clergy protesting, from politicians shilly-shallying. meanwhile my articles had come to an end. there was no change in my home, except for the worse, and i grew to hate it, to hate all who visited it, to hate myself. i had as little authority in it as any chance guest. i breakfasted, dined, and slept there--and, for variation, there were the scenes i had with barbara. the lies that were circulated as to my brutality towards her bore fruit, and i was shunned by every soul in the neighborhood. not a person i met there had a smile or a cordial word for me, and not for one sober hour did barbara relax her cunning. in her mad fits she was visible only to me and annette; when she went about the house or was seen in the streets her sad, listless ways (she was always sad when sober) were apparent to all, and her conspicuous ill-health was attributed to my conduct. it was the popular belief that i was "killing her by inches." i heard the words uttered by one of our servants to a servant in the adjoining house, and the indignant comment upon them--"brute!" maxwell tried to borrow money from me, but i was sufficiently incensed to refuse him. "not another shilling while i live," i said, and he replied that i would live to repent it. scoundrel as he was, he spoke the truth. the cases of the two poor homes ruined by a drunken husband and a drunken wife, which i have just narrated, drove my thoughts upon my own--and indeed it may have been because of the position in which i stood that i sifted them to the bottom. they had a peculiar fascination for me. but even if the law of divorce were so altered as to rescue those who are driven to despair, sometimes to crime, by this frightful vice--which i pray may soon be so--a man situated as i was would find no relief in it. the shame would have to be proved, and the web which had been spun around me was of so cunning a nature that proof was impossible in my case. on the contrary, indeed; all the evidence, except my bare statements, would be turned against myself. as an instance of the base arts employed to still further entangle and incriminate me i recount the following circumstances. whose devilish ingenuity first conceived the idea i never discovered. the spare room in which i slept was at the back of the house, and its window faced the window of another house, used also, i believe, as a bedroom. i stood in front of this window, shaving, one morning; the blind was up and the day was bright. while the razor was at my cheek barbara rushed into the room, crying at the top of her voice: "john--john--john! for mercy's sake, don't!" and as she spoke she threw herself upon me. fearful lest the razor should cut her i threw it away, but not before i had gashed my cheek, causing blood to flow. then, observing that she was in her nightdress and that the bosom was open, i quickly drew down the blind. "what is the meaning of this?" i inquired, bitterly. "do you fear that i intend to kill myself?" her only answer was a series of hysterical shrieks which could be heard a long distance off. for a few moments i thought she had gone mad, and i stooped to raise her from the floor, upon which she had fallen. "for mercy's sake, for mercy's sake!" she screamed, and in the midst of the confusion annette entered the room and led her mistress away. i followed her into the passage, the blood running down my face, and there upon the stairs were the servants, who had naturally been alarmed by barbara's screams, and had run up to see what was the matter. "go down," said annette, speaking to them in a tone of command. "madame is ill--very, very ill. i will attend to her." i did not see my wife again that day; the door of her room was locked against me. to all my inquiries after her annette replied: "she is more composed; she will recover in a few days, perhaps." "i wish to see her, annette." "madame will not be seen by any one but me. she ordered me to say so to you." i had, perforce, to give up the attempt. i thought of the scene during the day; it was of a different nature from those to which i was accustomed, but there was something strange in it which i could not unfathom. finally i came to the conclusion that barbara's malady was developing itself in a new direction, and the last thought in my mind was that anything more than generally prejudicial to my character would come of it. chapter xiv. towards the end of that week i had invited my friend the editor to take a mid-day chop with me. he had put my name down as a candidate for admission into a literary club which i was anxious to join, and there was a difficulty in regard to my qualification. had the articles i wrote for his paper been signed with my name, there would have been no question as to my being properly qualified, but they had been published anonymously, and i was personally unknown to the members. my proposer had vouched for me and had passed his word, but it was not deemed sufficient; they wanted proof positive, and this nettled him. certain members of this committee had spoken to him privately, and had advised him to withdraw his candidate, but he had set his heart upon the matter, and was determined to carry me through. he held an influential position in the club, and it seemed to him that his influence would be weakened if he beat a retreat. and now on this day he came to tell me that the difficulty was at an end. "somehow or other," he said, "it has leaked out that you are the writer of those articles, and your election is assured. the committee meet in a fortnight, and the vote will be unanimous." i was greatly disturbed. it had been my earnest desire to keep my name from being associated with the exposures i had made. had i been unmarried and free, it would have been my pride that the world should know and give me my meed of praise, but married to barbara, and with the curse of drink in my own home, i shrank from public gaze. a foreboding of evil stole upon me. "the fellows are wild to meet you," continued my friend, "and every member of the committee has promised a white ball. this has set my mind at ease about you, for it is a serious matter being pilled in such a club. i know a case or two where a black ball has meant social death. i should have felt it more than you. you see, i am your sponsor. 'what do you say now to my candidate being qualified?' i said to two members who were dead against you on the score of your being a stranger. a man crept in once, and we discovered he was a blackleg. he gave us a chance, and we expelled him. since then a strict watch has been kept upon candidates. before it leaked out who you really were, they wanted to know whether you were a gentleman, a man of honor and good character, one it would be agreeable to mix with--what we call a clubbable man. they have no doubts now. you will be cordially welcomed by a band of as good fellows as can be met with in london, and you may look upon yourself as one of the inner circle." "i am sorry my anonymity as a writer is destroyed," i said, speaking with reserve. "it lessens the value of one's work." "oh, i don't know," was his reply. "up to a certain point it is all very well, but when a man has won his spurs everybody is ready to shake hands with him. what have you to be ashamed of, and why shouldn't you reap your reward? you wrote those things devilishly well; i was amazed at some of your word pictures. you must have had rare opportunities of studying the subject. 'that man is a vivisectionist,' said a very good judge." it would have been better for me had i made a clean breast of it there and then, had i confided to him the awful sorrow which lay like a poisonous worm in my heart. but i let the opportunity slip. he remained with me a couple of hours, and urged me to contribute a second series of articles on the same subject. "you have drawn your illustrations for the first series from the poor," he said; "draw those for your second series from the rich." "you forget," i rejoined, "that the skeletons of the rich are kept in iron closets with patent locks. the skeletons of the lower classes stand at open doors." "invent your instances," he suggested. "with such a rich store of material as you have at command, you can't go wrong. that is an ugly gash you have on your cheek. cut yourself shaving, i suppose." i nodded. "ah, i knew a man who was frightened to take a razor in his hand for fear he would cut his throat." inwardly resolving not to execute the commission, i promised to consider the matter, and he took his departure. i walked with him to his office, and then mounted an omnibus and rode a few miles, thinking of the disclosure that had been made and dreading to see my name in the papers. but i did not know how to prevent it. we live in an age of personalism, and very little of the private life of public men can be hidden from the paul prys of journalism. almost to a certainty it would come under the notice of maxwell and my stepmother, who would be ready to weave mischief out of it. surely no man ever shrank from fame as i did. the prospect chilled me to the heart. it is anticipating events by a few hours to record that on the following morning i received a letter from the editor informing me that he was over-worked and was going to germany for a rest. he had designed to go earlier, but while there was a doubt of my election he felt it to be a point of honor not to leave london. he intended now to enjoy his holiday. i gathered from his letter that he would be absent a week. at five o'clock i returned to my chambers, and my heart sank when i saw a huddled heap of clothes lying in front of my door--a woman in a drunken sleep. i had no need to stoop to ascertain who it was. by her side was an empty brandy bottle, which she must have purchased on the road; the satchel on the ground was large enough only for the spirit flask i found in it--empty, as a matter of course. i carried her into my sitting-room; her drunken stupor was of too profound a nature for her to make any resistance. it was as much as i could do to accomplish the task, for barbara had grown very stout and unwieldy. her condition was most disgraceful; i had seen nothing more degrading and shameful during my recent investigations. probably to obtain ease for her feet, which she had complained of lately as being swollen, she had unlaced her boots, her clothes were torn and untidy, her hands ungloved, her hair hung loose about her bloated face, her lips and mouth were unsightly with the stains and dribble of liquor. it was of the utmost importance that i should get her home without attracting attention to myself. a large latitude is allowed to men who occupy chambers, but in this particular house were old established offices of respectable firms, and there was a special clause in my lease as to doing anything which might cause annoyance to my neighbors. i rang for the housekeeper, and slipping half-a-sovereign into her hand, begged her to assist me. she did not put any awkward questions to me, but called up her servant. between them they repaired as far as they were able the disorder in my wife's dress and appearance, and, the offices in the house being closed--it was now past six o'clock--we managed to half carry, half support her to the street door, and into a four-wheel cab. thus, on this occasion at least, was open exposure averted, but i thought, where shall i find rest if this fresh form of persecutions be added to the list? and indeed i had an assurance of it in a subsequent scene with barbara, during which she said, "you are living an infamous life away from your home. i will follow and disgrace you wherever you go." a still bitterer blow was to fall upon me, a blow which drove me to the brink of despair. at the end of a week, the limit of time fixed by the editor for his holiday, i wrote him, and as no notice was taken of my letter, i concluded that he had not returned from his tour. my intention was to reveal my story, to acquaint him with barbara's resolve to follow and disgrace me, and to request him to withdraw my name from candidature for his club. in his absence this course could not be taken, and i was compelled to await the course of events. on the day following that on which the committee meeting was held, i received a letter from my proposer, which overwhelmed me. he informed me that i had been balloted for by the committee, and had been unanimously blackballed. he expressed his approval of this result. "i had the power," he wrote, "to withdraw your name, but having been made acquainted with the infamies you have practised, i considered it due to the committee to disclose the matters to them, expressing at the same time my sincere regret that i should have been so misled as to place your name on the candidates' book. the unanimous blackball was given as a warning to careless members to be exceedingly careful as to the character of the persons they desired to introduce into a club of gentlemen." he then proceeded with a minute narration of the charges brought against me, and i learned the names of my accusers. first, my wife; then her brother maxwell; then my stepmother and her son louis; then annette; then the servants in our house; then an independent witness in the person of a gentleman who, with maxwell and louis, had been stationed at the window of the house opposite to that of my bedroom, and had witnessed the scene between barbara and me when i was shaving. this scene, which had been cunningly prepared for my benefit, was construed into an attack i had made upon my wife with my razor; her agonized shrieks were appeals for mercy; my rapid drawing down of the blind was due to my fear that my barbarous behavior might be witnessed from the opposite house. it was represented that i was a man who habitually concealed his vices beneath a veil of gentle melancholy, as of one who was himself oppressed, and that my systematic cruelty had broken down my wife's health and made her a confirmed invalid. there was a still more horrible charge. with a morbid craving for notoriety i had plied barbara with brandy, and had made her an object lesson in the various stages of intoxication, so that my descriptions might be true to nature. she was my model, a living victim whom i was deliberately driving to madness. it appears that maxwell having learnt through the public journals that i was the author of the articles on drink which had attracted general attention, called upon the editor of the paper in which they were published, and brought these accusations against me. at first the editor refused to listen, characterizing the charges as too horrible for belief and as being utterly inconsistent with the opinion he had formed of me. maxwell, however, persisted, and the editor, impressed by his earnestness, consented to see the witnesses and hear what they had to say. for the last week a private court of inquiry had been made behind my back. the editor was convinced. shocked at the revelations he advised my wife to apply for redress in the divorce court, but she said she would rather die than bring that shame upon me; she still clung to me, still trusted that obedience and affection would win me to a better comprehension of my duty towards her; and i was warned by my correspondent to consider my position while there was yet time, and not to lightly throw away the treasure of a good woman's love. he required, he concluded, no further contributions from my pen, and wherever his influence could be exerted it would be to prevail upon other editors not to accept my writings. his last words were--"henceforth we are strangers." i knew what this letter meant. the fiendish malice of the enemies in my home had brought upon me social and moral death. i wandered forth like cain, accursed of men, and though, unlike him, there was no guilt upon my soul, the reflection brought me no comfort. my life had come to wreck. a gulf of black despair lay before me. men have been driven mad by physical torture, and under the pressure of mental agony some have lost their reason. upon no other grounds can i account for my conduct after this last crushing blow fell upon me. i offer no excuses. my wife's theory--put forward in palliation of her own misconduct--that man is not responsible for his actions, is entirely opposed to my view. for what i did during that dolorous time i was and am accountable. i sinned, and have been punished; and little did i deserve the heavenly consolation administered to me in the darkest hour of my life. i did not go home that day or night. dazed and forlorn, i wandered, an outcast, through the streets and over the bridges. chapter xv. it was well on in the afternoon when i entered my house. i had been to my chambers, and having transacted some business which the change in my affairs seemed to me to render imperative, i gave up the keys, and turned my back forever upon the brighter side of my existence. i had also visited a clergyman and a barrister with whom i had a slight acquaintance; it was waste power, time thrown away, and i must have paid the visits without the least hope of deriving any good from them. as i walked towards my home i was overcome with faintness, and i reeled like a drunken man. then i recollected that food had not passed my lips since breakfast yesterday morning. i entered the nearest restaurant--it happened to be a public-house--and standing at the counter ate some sandwiches and hard boiled eggs. the barmaid asked what i would take to drink and for a moment i thought of calling for brandy, but it was not on that occasion i broke my vow never to touch spirituous liquor. i drank a glass of lemonade, and pursued my homeward way. as i entered the house i heard barbara moaning and gibbering upstairs. the sounds were familiar to me, and it was with a sickening feeling that i entered the sitting-room. maxwell was there and my stepmother. maxwell was quite composed; my stepmother looked rather scared at my sudden entrance and wild appearance. they did not welcome me with effusion. maxwell made the remark that they had been wondering what had become of me, and he inquired why i had not come home last night. i did not answer him. my stepmother volunteered the information that poor barbara was very ill. "you had better not go up to her," she said. "the sight of you will make her worse." neither did i reply to her. their presence was so hateful to me that i left the room unceremoniously. they followed me into the passage, and, my foot on the stairs, some words of what passed between them reached my ears. "mad, i think," said my stepmother. "looks remarkably like it," responded maxwell, pulling at his mustache. "or, let us be charitable, and put it down to drink." "supposing," she said, and finished the sentence in a whisper. i stepped back. "supposing you drove me mad between you," i said, "there would be an end of me, and you and my wife would have control of my property. is that it, dear friends?" they looked at each other, and my stepmother said, boldly: "decidedly mad. not a doubt of it." "no, dear stepmother," i said, my voice and manner expressing detestation of her, "not yet mad. sane as yourselves. you remind me of an omission which i must repair. i have not made my will; it is a thing that ought not to be neglected. not one of you shall profit by it, i promise you. pray let me know what you are in my house for." "we are here to protect my sister from your brutality," said maxwell, and it pleased me to see that i had disconcerted them. "indeed! from my brutality? of which you have already given evidence in your secret court of inquiry. and your sister, too. there was a time when i fancied there was no great love on either side. you pair of scheming devils! i will show you that i am master here. out! the pair of you! out of my house!" and i advanced towards them with so threatening an air that they began to retreat. "we will see what the law says to this," blustered maxwell. "we have witnesses enough." "false witnesses--false testimony. when you come to consider the matter it may not suit your purpose to appeal to the law. establish that my wife lives in fear of me, and that i am systematically cruel to her, and you will succeed in obtaining a judicial separation. i shall not thwart you, for it is what i pray for. the courts award her maintenance, the income of a third of what i am worth. then i am free, and you and she can trouble me no more. free! can you understand what that means to me? fools! i have offered her more than a third, and she has refused. why, if i gave her cause for a complete divorce she would not avail herself of it. she is too good a wife, too pure, too mindful of her wifely duties to desert the husband she loves so well." had it not been that i was apprehensive of falling into deeper public disgrace i should not have spoken so openly, for it was speaking against my own interests; but, indeed, i might have spared myself this small duplicity, for nothing was farther from their wishes than to sever the bonds which bound me to barbara. while those held firm they had, through her, some power over my purse; loosen them, and the power was gone. it was only through my enforced bondage that they could hope to gain. "when you were a child," said my stepmother, white to the lips, "i foresaw what you would grow into." "you did your best for me," i retorted. "you made my home a paradise--not much worse than this home is to me--you showed me daily how you loved me. i remember well your tender care of me. truly there are men and women who are baser than beasts." "if i were a man i would thrash you," she hissed. "ask your son louis, my loving half-brother, to do it for you. ask that reptile by your side to undertake the task. cunning and malice have had their day. let us try brute force." i laughed in their faces. in this encounter we were more like animals snarling at one another than human beings. meanwhile barbara continued her moaning and gibbering upstairs. "that is my work, is it not?" i went on. "it is i who have made her what she is, a living shame to decency. before our marriage she never touched strong drink--is that the way it goes? she was an innocent, simple child of nature, and it is i who have debased and contaminated her. that is what you have made my friends believe. if it is any satisfaction to you, hear from my lips that your cowardly plot has succeeded, and that the honorable career i had mapped out for myself is at an end. has my wife told you that on the first night of our marriage she locked herself in her room in paris and drank herself into such a filthy state of intoxication that we were turned out of our hotel? but doubtless she kept this delectable piece of information to herself." "another of your abominable inventions," cried my stepmother, "as true as all the rest." "exactly. as true as all the rest. women such as she, and you, should be whipped daily for the public good." "oh!" cried my stepmother, digging her nails into her palms. if she could have killed me with a look she would have done it--and with shame i admit that i should have deserved a greater punishment than that for expressing myself as i did. but i was stung to utter recklessness, to utter forgetfulness of what was due to one's own sense of self-respect. "come, come, john," said maxwell, trying another tack, "you are over-excited. you will be sorry for this to-morrow." "i am sorry for it to-day. it was not to be expected when i courted your sister that you should warn me of the pit into which i was falling--you were too anxious to be rid of her. i see now, but did not see then, the meaning of your covert sneers when you spoke of our married life. by the way, from time to time you borrowed money of me in those days. are you prepared to repay it?" "what i owe you," he replied, with a dark look, "i will repay--with interest. as for money, i never had one farthing from you." he turned to my stepmother. "he is good at invention, this john of ours." "he is good at anything low and vile," she said. "mark my words--one of these days he will commit murder." "you nurse your hatred well," i responded. "and now, quit my house." they retreated before me, and i drove them, as though they were cattle, to the street door. "john," said maxwell, with a sudden show of amiability, "this is all nonsense, you know. let us be friends." he held out his hand, and the impulse was upon me to strike it down, but i merely gave him a contemptuous look, and threw open the street door. as they stood on the threshold louis came up, and i think for a moment that maxwell, with this reinforcement, had an idea of forcing his way in again. "do you see what he is doing?" cried my stepmother to her son. "the low wretch is turning us out of the house." "what else can you expect?" asked louis, the scar on his forehead becoming blood-red in my frowning glance. "we shall come back," said maxwell, and i slammed the door in his face. my conduct was brutal; i admit it. it would have been manlier had i behaved with dignity, but during that evil time all my impulses were evil. there is an element of savagery in every human being, and it leaped forth and mastered me, and robbed sorrow of its crown. it led me into further excesses, and had not an angel appeared and rescued me, i might have deserved all the obloquy that had been thrown upon me, and have become utterly, irretrievably lost. it was evening, and i lingered in the passage outside barbara's door, which was locked against me. then i called aloud: "annette, are you there?" at first no answer; then, the question repeated, the reply: "yes, monsieur." "open the door." "but, monsieur, it is madame's orders," she began, but i did not allow her to finish. "open the door." "i dare not disobey madame." "open the door." this time she did not answer. i put my shoulder to the door, and exerted all my strength. it is not a thing to boast of that i am a man of great muscular power, and that on this occasion i exulted in it. the evil spirit within me urged me on. as i strained my muscles there was silence in the room; for a little while barbara's voice was not heard. the door creaked, yielded, then burst open with a crash. annette stood upright, her cold, gray eyes fixed upon me. she was a woman of indomitable firmness, and in my knowledge of her she never showed the least trace of fear. my wife cowered on the floor, clad only in her nightdress, and in a more disgraceful condition than when i found her lying at the door of my chambers in the strand. her body was trembling and convulsed, her features twitched, there was a nameless terror in her eyes. the atmosphere of the apartment reeked with the fumes of liquor. "you are a faithful servant," i said to annette, "to encourage your mistress in these disgusting orgies. you have a human excuse, i suppose. it pays you." "i am paid with ingratitude," she answered, composedly. "to keep this"--pointing to my wife--"from the other servants in the house--is not that faithful service?" "and to give false evidence against your master," i retorted, "that also is faithful service, is it not? i know you for what you are, annette--a panderer to vice and infamy." "that is defamation, monsieur, i can make you pay for it." "do so. it will rid me of you. i am willing to pay the price." this bickering was stopped by a piercing scream from barbara. "see there--see there!" the wretched creature shrieked. "those devils are creeping in again! keep them off--keep them off! save me--save me!" she bit, she snarled, she tore at the phantoms. i cannot describe the scene. my pen halts, my fingers refuse to trace the words. i remember helping annette to lift my wife to the bed; i remember noting with morbid curiosity the singular phase in her delirium that she clung to annette for protection while she clawed at me; i remember her falling from the bed, and creeping under it to hide herself from the imaginary terrors which afflict the dipsomaniac; i recall her delirious entreaties for more brandy, her shrieks for mercy, her ribald utterances when, for a brief space, these terrors ceased, her shuddering paroxysms, her tears, her hysterical sobs. good god! can we call such beings human? should there not be a law to put them under restraint, to treat them as we treat the mad, to free the innocent partners of their unspeakable degradation from the horrible curse which weighs like a blight upon despairing hearts? so the night passed, and i paced the passages, the rooms, the stairs, in a frame of mind the memory of which even now, after a lapse of years, sends a shudder through me. for the time being i lost faith in human goodness. purity and sweetness were delusions--they had no existence. charity, virtue, kindliness, our holiest sentiments, the spiritual instinct which lifts our thoughts above sordid cares and rewards, all were mockeries, and he who believed in them was a fool. nothing was real but corruption. beneath the lying mask on the world's face lurked treachery and foul desire, and over this mass of impurity reigned the spirit of evil. at the end of the succeeding week i broke the vow i had made never to touch spirituous liquor. to my shame be it recorded. i had eaten scarcely anything the previous two days, and was suffering from terrible depression. it was while i was in this state, pacing the dining-room, up and down, up and down, with nerves so sensitively attuned that any sudden noise made me start, that my eyes fell upon a bottle of brandy which had just been uncorked, and inadvertently left upon the sideboard. it fascinated me. i turned from it, was drawn to it again, and for several minutes gazed fixedly at it. here was rest, here was forgetfulness, here was at least a transient relief. an enticing devil lurked in that bottle, inviting me, tempting me, luring me on. i laid my hand upon it. my conscience smote me, but my moral strength was sapped. character, reputation, happiness, all were lost. let the last remnants of self-respect go with them. in all the wide world there was not one man or woman who cared what became of me, not one human being who entertained for me a spark of affection. whether i died the death of a dog or a martyr would not affect the judgment which had been passed upon me. my epitaph was already written, and nothing could alter it. the fiend insomnia held me in his grip. during the past week i had not had two consecutive hours' sleep. to save myself from going mad i must have a few hours' oblivion from the misery which encompassed me. i poured the liquor into a tumbler, and drank it neat. it burnt my throat, but almost immediately i was conscious of a riotous revulsion of spirits. again and again i drank, forcing the liquor down my throat till the bottle was empty, when i must have fallen to the ground in a drunken stupor. i recall that it was broad daylight when i yielded to the temptation, and put the final touch to my sorrows by this act of self-degradation. chapter xvi. when i awoke all was dark. my throat was parched, there was a horrible racking pain in my head, a nauseating faintness at my heart. but worse than this was the torment of remorse which weighed me down. i had placed myself on a level with my curse, had proved myself worthy of it. there was no excuse for the shameful excess in which i had indulged. a hypocrite, self-convicted, i had become a willing slave to the vice i had condemned, and i could now take rank with the abandoned creatures from whom i had shrank in horror. with difficulty i rose from the floor, upsetting furniture in the effort, and felt my way to my bedroom, where i plunged my head into a basin of cold water, keeping it there for some time, and sucking in the water like a dog. as i stood dripping, in the darkness, i heard a kind of sing-song proceeding from barbara's room. stealing into the passage, i listened to the drivel. "beast john is drunk--dead, dead drunk! he preaches, preaches, preaches--oh, the good man! maxwell knows, his mother knows, louis knows. ha, ha, ha! how funny! beast john is drunk--dead, dead drunk! now let him preach--now let him write to the papers." there was no method in her singing, no rythmical arrangement of the insane song. the words dropped from her lips in disjointed fashion, and there was a taunting exultation in her utterance of them. a frightful temptation assailed me--to kill her and myself, and be done with the world. "what matter?" i muttered. "there is no god! if there were he would not permit such women to live." even at this distance of time--yes, even though i know that my days are numbered--i am thankful that some mysterious force within me leaped up to fight the demon that would have damned my soul. i was conscious of the inward conflict, the conflict of the two spirits, the good and the evil, which are said to be forever warring for supremacy in a man's heart. i hope i may say now (though i did not believe so then) that my suffering had not crushed all the good out of me, and that there was still some vitality in the better impulses of my being. i did not openly recant the impious words i had muttered; my mood was too sullen for that. i was ready for sin, but not for crime. my life was mine, and i could do with it as i pleased, but it was not within my right to dispose of the life of another mortal. brooding upon this i fled from the house as from a pestilence. intent upon self-destruction, i bent my steps riverwards. it was a wretched night. rain was falling heavily, and there was no light in the sky. the spirit of black death brooded over the city. it was as if nature favored my sinful purpose--or so i chose to interpret the signs. there were but few persons about; i took no notice of them, nor they of me. small incidents became unduly magnified. i had walked some three or four miles, and was in the immediate vicinity of westminster abbey when the cathedral clock began to strike. i paused and listened with extreme attention, standing quite motionless and counting the strokes till the hour was fully announced. it appeared to me a singular and unusual thing that it should be three o'clock; singular, also, that the rain should have ceased, and that a fog was creeping over the streets. it was only when i was again in motion that the significance of time, in relation to the purpose i had in view, impressed me. "three o'clock," i thought. "at four i shall be dead." crossing the road at the top of parliament street a man, passing hastily, stumbled against me. in a spirit of fury i grappled and threw him to the ground--and stood over him, ready to stamp on him if he showed resistance. all my senses were alert for evil. the man did not stir, and i passed on. but i had not proceeded far before i stopped to consider whether i had killed him. i groped my way back to the spot upon which i had left him. the man was gone. i was neither glad nor sorry. a woman--one of the misery's children--accosted me; appealed to me, for the love of god, to give her a penny for a cup of coffee. the coffee stall, which i had not seen, was within a dozen yards of us; its lights shone dim through the fog, and shadowy, ghost-like forms hung about it. i gave the woman a shilling, and continued on my way. i was now on westminster bridge. the fog was thickening. i could scarcely see the water. the dull reflection of the lamps on the embankment added to the general despondency of the scene. i was enwrapped in gloom and silence. i walked to the end of the bridge, and stood on the steps leading down to the river. upon what a slight foundation rests a man's fate! a chance turning this way or that, a moment's hesitation, may make or mar, may lead to destruction or salvation. i heard the muffled tread of a policeman, and fearing that i had been seen, and my purpose discovered, i did not descend the steps, but crossing the road, walked slowly towards kennington, intending presently to return and carry out my sinful design. the probability is that i had not been seen, and should not have been interrupted, for the policeman did not follow me, and the echo of his footsteps gradually died away. when i was assured of this i should have turned again towards the river had not a simple incident changed the whole current of my life. the sound of a woman's suppressed sobs fell upon my ear. chapter xvii. she was standing at the door of a chemist's shop, endeavoring to arouse the proprietor by repeated pulling of the night bell, pausing between each summons, and vainly endeavoring to choke back her tears. i could not see her face, but so keen and poignant was her grief that i should have been less than human had i passed by without a word. the note of suffering in her voice touched a sympathetic chord in my heart, and awoke the dormant sense of good within me. "what are you crying for?" i inquired, stepping to her side. my question seemed to terrify her, and she made a movement as if about to fly. but the duty upon which she was bent gave her courage. "don't speak to me!" she implored. "for heaven's sake, leave me!" i knew what she intended to convey by this appeal. she mistook me for one of the human ghouls who prowl the streets in the belief that every woman is frail. "i will not harm you," i said, and i repeated my question. "what are you crying for?" my sad voice reassured her--so she subsequently informed me--and after a pause she answered timidly. "i have been trying for a quarter of an hour to make the chemist hear, but he will not come down. it is life or death, and he will not come down!" "your life or death?" i asked. "no," she replied, "not mine; my mother's--my dear mother's!" "let me see what i can do," i said, and i pulled the bell, and listened, with my ear close to the door. there was no response, and i pulled again, and failed to hear the ring. i discovered then that the night bell was broken. there was another bell on the other side of the door, and this i pulled vigorously, and beat on the door with my fist. "what is the matter with your mother?" "she is very ill--she has been ill for months. are you a doctor, sir?" "no. what does the doctor who is attending her say?" "we have none, sir." "but why? surely in a matter of life or death one is necessary." i continued to ring and beat on the door. "i know, i know," she murmured. "oh, will he 'never come?" i gathered from this mournful reply that they were poor and could not afford a doctor, which was presently confirmed. my vigorous summons was successful in arousing the chemist, who, with a sleepy and unwilling air, opened the door and admitted us. now, by the light in the shop, i saw that the woman was young, hardly yet out of her teens, and though grief was stamped too plainly upon her countenance, that she was fair and prepossessing. so modest and gentle was she that i was filled with pity for her. her eyes were dim with tears, her hair had become loosened and hung in lovely disorder upon her white neck, her features bore traces of exhausting vigil. with a trembling hand she held out a prescription, saying in a wistful tone: "i am sorry to disturb you, but my mother is much worse to-night. i will pay you to-morrow--i have some work to take back." he grumbled a little and hesitated, and i, stepping back so that the young woman could not see my action, nodded to him and held up my purse. understanding from this that i intended to pay him he made up the medicine and gave her the bottle, with which, after expressing her gratitude, she was about to depart, when i said to her: "will you wait for me a moment at the door? you may trust me." the sincerity i felt must have made itself manifest in my voice, for she bent her head slightly, and waited for me outside. "what is the matter with her mother?" i asked. "i cannot say," replied the chemist. "she has been ill a long time and ought to have a doctor. this is an old prescription; i have made it up several times." "am i right in supposing that they cannot afford 'a doctor?" "that is evident. they are very poor. they owe me for three bottles already." "she appears to be respectable," i said, as i paid him what was due. "no doubt of it. she works day and night, and i should say it is as much as she can do to keep body and soul together." at my request he wrote the address of a doctor in the neighborhood, and instructed me how to find him. then i joined the young woman. "you must accept my escort," i said. "it is hardly safe for you to be out on such a night. i am sincerely sorry for your trouble. i may be able to lighten it." she trembled so violently that i feared she would fall, but she did not accept my arm. we walked side by side, in silence, till we reached one of the poorest houses in one of the poorest streets. there she stopped, and wished me good night, and thanked me for my services. "i am going to fetch a doctor to your mother," i said. "how shall we obtain admittance?" "i am afraid i must refuse, sir," she said. "we are not in a position to pay him." "leave that to me," i replied. "when one dear to you is in peril you cannot refuse to accept assistance even from a stranger. i can sympathize with honest pride, but surely this would be carrying it too far. your mother needs a doctor. she shall see one." i looked up at the windows, and in one at the top of the house i could faintly distinguish a glimmer of light. "is that your room?" "yes, sir." "shall i knock or ring when i come back with the doctor?" "if you will give a gentle knock, so as not to disturb the other lodgers, i will come down." then, after a momentary pause, "i did not believe there was such goodness in the world." "you overrate my services. if you knew what you have saved me from----" i did not finish, but asked her to give me the name of the street and the number of the house, which she did. "and your name?" "cameron, sir." "thank you. the trust you repose in me shall not be abused." i waited till she had let herself in with a latch-key, and then i departed on my errand. by this time the fog was so thick that i doubt whether i should have found the street to which i had been directed had it not been for the assistance of a policeman, who accompanied me to the doctor's house. the doctor himself answered my summons, an elderly gentleman, with a careworn, benignant face, who, when he learned what was required of him, said he would come with me at once. we conversed on the way, and he informed me that he had some knowledge of the camerons, who had called him two or three months ago to prescribe for the mother. they were respectable people, he told me, who had, like numbers of others in the locality, a hard fight to keep the wolf from the door. they belonged to the class who slaved and suffered patiently and silently; everybody spoke well of them, and the daughter was specially modest and gentle in her manners. except that they appeared to be superior in point of conduct and education, to their neighbors, he knew nothing more of them. he was surprised, the mother being so ill, that the daughter had not come to him; but yet, on second thoughts, he was not surprised, their peculiar delicacy in money matters stopping the way. it was often so with the poor, who were hyper-sensitive in their pride. i then explained what it was i wished him to do--to attend to the sick woman regularly, and to prescribe what was necessary in the shape of food and medicine. he was to relieve their minds in respect of his fees, which, with all other expenses, i would pay. in token of my sincerity and ability to carry out my desire i begged him to accept a couple of sovereigns in advance, to which he very willingly consented. "my patients are not quite regular in their payments," he said in a gentle tone, "and it is not in my nature to press them. so far as gratitude goes, i am richly repaid. you are, perhaps, a relative of the camerons." "i am not in any way related to them," i replied. "a friend of long standing, then." "i have never seen the mother, and scarcely an hour ago i saw miss cameron for the first time--by chance," i added. "a singular hour," he observed, "and a strange night for a chance meeting." "yes--but so it happened." and i related how it came about, saying nothing of myself or of the circumstances which caused me to be perambulating the streets at such a time. he was silent for a little while, and i fancied i heard him sigh. then he said, "you are a gentleman." "i hope i may lay claim to the title." "in station, by which i mean worldly circumstances, far above the camerons--at least, so i judge." "well?" "they are poor and lowly. miss cameron is young, and not unattractive." "i understand you. my motives are open to suspicion." "is it not natural?" "quite, and i do not blame you for doubting me, but you must not do miss cameron an injustice. she is absolutely blameless. i have related the simple truth, and were you acquainted with my story--which i do not consider myself free to disclose--your doubts would vanish. can you not credit me with a sincere desire to serve two poor and deserving persons without harboring a base thought towards them?" as my sad voice had won miss cameron's confidence, so it now won the confidence of the good doctor. "it is a censorious world," he said, "and i spoke out of its mouth. forgive me." miss cameron must have been keeping watch for us, for my soft tap on the street door was almost immediately answered. standing in the passage, her hand shading the candle from the night air, she seemed to hesitate whether to invite me in, and i, divining--which was the case--that she and her mother occupied but one room, resolved the difficulty by saying, "i will see you bye and bye, doctor," and pulling the street door to. left alone in the dark street, i fell to musing upon the events of the last twenty-four hours. i could scarcely see a dozen yards before me, and even at that distance a moving form would have presented the semblance of a shadow created by the spreading fog; not a sound but that of my own footsteps disturbed the stillness of the dreary scene. and yet, dismal as were my surroundings, i was conscious that my spirits had assumed a more healthy tone. i was devoutly grateful for the change that had come over me, and i did not stop to consider whether it was due to chance or to a merciful interposition of providence at the most critical period in my life. a heavy weight was lifted from my heart. i had been saved by a woman's face, a woman's voice; she had set free the sealed springs of sympathy and pity--i once was more human. do not misunderstand me. the brief interview with miss cameron, the few words we had exchanged, had not inspired me with love for her--that was in the future, and to be reared upon a more reasonable foundation; but it had revealed to me that there was still some worthy work for me to do, that having sinned through self-indulgence in a vice i abhorred, and having contemplated a deed the thought of which now sent a shudder through me, i might work out my redemption by simple acts of kindness to beings even more forlorn than myself. no, it was not love i felt, but deep gratitude that an example of self-sacrifice and devotion should have crushed forever out of me the impious doubt of the existence of a beneficent creator. it was to this i owed my salvation, and as i paced the foggy street i thought of the daughter toiling for her sick mother. i saw her patient face of suffering, heard her wistful voice saying: "i will pay you to-morrow; i have some work to take back." ah, what a story is here revealed! i dwelt upon the modesty which caused her to shrink from the compassionate advances of a stranger, and with tears in my eyes dwelt also upon the child-like confidence she had reposed in me. she became to me an incarnation of purity. there were good women in the world--thank god for that. through her spirit my faith in human goodness was restored, and i saw my life in a clearer light, unstained and unclouded by vice and degradation. peace, if not happiness, might yet be mine. to one course i pledged myself, and vowed that nothing should turn me from it. i would never live with my wife again; her revolting duplicities, her shameful debasement, should no longer torture me. i would be done with her, so far as personal association went, and with those other relatives who had systematically persecuted me and maligned me. the infamous law--wickedly and falsely called the law of god--which bound me to a living curse, to a moral pest, could not compel me to inhabit the house in which she indulged in her depravities. of so much of my fortune as was left she should have a share, and should receive it through an agent. one visit only would i pay to what was in mockery called my home, and that for the purpose of removing my private papers. then would i shake the dust of that earthly hell from my feet, and turn my back upon it forever. to this end i must efface myself, and must be known henceforth by another name than fordham. that was easy, and i was stung by no reproach as to justification. if ever a man was justified in practising such a deceit it was i. my musings were interrupted by the unclosing of the street door. the doctor was there, and miss cameron; he was bidding her take some repose. "we must not have you break down," he said. "ah, here is our friend. the fog has not swallowed him up." "how can i thank you?" she said to me, holding out her hand. it trembled as it lay for a moment in mine, and her eyes shone with tears. "by following the doctor's advice," i replied, "and by allowing me to call when i have had some rest myself. your mother is no worse, i hope?" the doctor--one of those sensible practitioners who help their patients to get well by bright words--answered for her. "no, not worse, not at all, not at all. with heaven's help we'll set her up again. there, there, my dear, don't cry; and what are you about, stopping here in the cold? go and lie down. i will send the medicine at nine o'clock." as we walked away together he said: "it would be cruel to tell her the truth." "then there is no hope?" i said. it seemed to me as if in those few words he had pronounced a sentence of death, and as if i were about to sustain a personal loss. "oh, yes, there is hope," he replied; "but for poor people the gates are closed." i begged him to explain, and he did so. mrs. cameron was suffering not only from debility, brought on by want of nourishing food, but from a chest and throat complaint which would certainly result fatally if she remained in london. the pestilential air, the poisonous fog--they spelt death. she could not possibly live through the coming winter. she needed a purer air, wine, and better food, and these were out of her reach. by slaving day and night at her needle the mother and daughter earned eight or nine shillings a week. they had no rich friends. what could they do? "it is a question of money?" i said. "yes, it is a question of money, though even then i do not say she will recover. the privations she has endured have made terrible inroads upon her constitution." "but there would be a chance of recovery." "undoubtedly a chance of recovery. in fact, the only chance. it is painful to witness such cases, to stand by a bedside and see a life passing away which money would probably save; but there is no help for it. the poor girl will suffer terribly. i have seldom witnessed such love, such devotion. it is surprising how she keeps up." "there is help for it, doctor," i said, "and i should like to see you to-morrow to speak about it." "i am home for consultations till twelve. may i ask your name?" "fletcher," i replied. thus was the first stone in my self-banishment laid. chapter xviii. i passed the next few hours in a common lodging-house, and laid down on a bed without undressing. i dozed, but did not sleep, my mind being occupied in formulating a plan with regard to the camerons. i rose at nine o'clock, washed, and had breakfast, and then went in search of apartments in a respectable house. i had little difficulty in finding what i required--three furnished rooms in a street inhabited by a decent class of people. the landlady murmured something about a reference, but i satisfied her with a month's payment in advance. the rent was moderate, and i arranged for breakfast, and the occasional cooking of a dinner if i desired. i gave, of course, the same name, fletcher, retaining my christian name. so i began my new life as john fletcher. at twelve o'clock i presented myself to the worthy doctor, and unfolded my plan. it was nothing less than the removal of mrs. and miss cameron to swanage, the climate of which place the doctor said would suit the invalid. i proposed that i should go down to swanage to arrange where they were to stay, and that they should get out of london before the end of the week. "all this will cost a great deal of money," said the doctor. "not so very much. they can live--perhaps in a farmhouse--for two or three pounds a week. i can afford it." "do you know what it means to them? they will look upon it as a fairy tale, and will be afraid of waking up and finding it a dream." "as you see, it is no dream, and it is nonsense to talk of fairy tales. it is plain common sense. they will need warm clothing. give them this--it will come better from you. i daresay there will be sufficient left to pay their fares down." "do you intend to accompany them." "no, i shall remain in london; but there must necessarily be some correspondence between us." "and still--pray don't be angry--i am puzzled and curious as to your motive." "let me put it to you in this way, doctor. you see now and then in the papers an acknowledgment from the chancellor of the exchequer of a parcel of bank notes from x. y. z., for unpaid income tax. it is called conscience money. the difference is that i have wronged neither man nor woman, yet what i am doing is an affair of the conscience. will not this content you." "it must." then after a pause, "you have seen trouble?" "few men have had harder trials, bitterer disappointments." "i regret to hear it. and now, who is to acquaint the camerons with your scheme?" "you." "i decline. i will give them the money you have entrusted with me, and i will make miss cameron understand that it is imperatively necessary that her mother be removed without delay. the rest is in your hands." "very well--though i should prefer it otherwise." "i am going now to see my patient, and i will prepare them for this change in their fortunes. you will probably see miss cameron in the course of the afternoon." "kindly tell her i will call at two o'clock. i shall leave for swanage by the five o'clock train." i make but brief reference to my interview with miss cameron. she was profoundly grateful for the services i was rendering them, but seemed, indeed, as the doctor had said, to fear that it was a dream from which she would presently awake, though the small sum of money i had sent her by the doctor's hands should have convinced her. i did not see her mother, our interview taking place in a lower room in the house, which the landlady placed at her disposal. it was difficult for her to understand why a stranger should step forward to befriend her, and my lame attempts at an explanation did not assist her to a better understanding of the matter. seeing her now in the daylight the impression i had formed of her was confirmed. her features, without being handsome, were full of sensibility, and there was a pleasing refinement in her language and manners. what most attracted me in her were her eyes. truth and resignation, and the strength which springs from a reliance upon the goodness of god, dwelt in their clear depths, and now, illumined by hope, they instilled in me a faith in her which from that hour has not been shaken. the faith she had in me touched me deeply. in contrast with the women it had been my ill-fortune to mix with she was an angel from heaven. "you will hear from me in a day or two," i said. "will your mother be strong enough to travel then?" "the doctor says she will," she answered. "have you money enough to provide what is necessary for your journey?" "more than enough," she said, bursting into tears. i had to tear myself away. the journey down to swanage was one of the happiest i had ever taken; i had an object in life, and there was seldom absent from my thoughts the light of hope that shone in miss cameron's eyes. suitable accommodation for her and her mother was easily obtained in a farmhouse near to the sea. the terms were exceedingly moderate, and in a letter to miss cameron, i bade her get ready, and requested her to meet me at the doctor's house on the following day. then, for the first time, i signed myself, "john fletcher." at the appointed hour i met miss cameron, and giving her written particulars of the place i had taken for her, and instructions as to trains, i bade her good-bye and god-speed. i had debated whether i should accompany them to the railway station, and had decided not to do so. they were accustomed to look after themselves, and my presence would embarrass them, and add to their sense of obligation. "write to me as soon as you are settled," i said, "and let me know whether you are comfortable. if you are not, we will soon find another place for you. and mind, you are going down for your mother's health, and you are not to worry. leave everything to me." i pressed an envelope into her hand, and to cut short her thanks, hastily took my departure. i had now plenty to occupy me. my first visit was to a solicitor, to entrust him with the execution of the plan i had laid down with respect to my wife--before doing which i had devoted some time to a careful survey of my pecuniary position. there had been much waste and extravagance on barbara's part, and my little fortune had dwindled. i decided to allow her £ a year, quite sufficient for her to live upon in comfort. that i should have to encroach upon my capital for the payment of this sum and for my own expenses did not cause me anxiety. i did not go beyond the next few years in my calculations; meanwhile i might be able to earn money. whatever was my income, barbara should have an equal share of it; she could not reasonably ask for more, having only herself to support. if a court of law were called upon to decide the matter she would probably have less. upon £ a year the house in kensington could not be kept up, and i determined that it should be sold. all household debts contracted to date were to be discharged, and so much of the furniture as barbara would not need in her new quarters was to be disposed of by auction. the solicitor undertook the management of this troublesome business, and i bound him down to absolute secrecy. upon no consideration whatever was the slightest clue to my movements, and to the name i had assumed to be given to inquirers. i left him to prepare the necessary documents, and proceeded to my house, armed with written discharges of the servants in my employ. a cab i had engaged stood at the door, and a porter accompanied me into the house. all the evil crew were there--maxwell, my stepmother, louis and barbara. her bloated face filled me with loathing. she gave me a sullen look. "the prodigal son has returned," said maxwell. "where's the veal?" i rang the bell, and the parlor-maid entered the room. "send all the servants up," i said to the girl, "and tell that woman, annette, i wish to see her." "what do you want the servants for?" demanded barbara. "you will see." i heard them in the passage, and i opened the door for them, annette coming in last. "you sent for me madame?" she said in her smooth voice, gliding with catlike motion to barbara's chair. "i sent for you," i said. "at your service, monsieur." "it is like a scene in a drama," said maxwell, with an attempt at jocularity. "get to the action, john." i handed the women their written notices of discharge, and gave them to understand that after the expiration of their month i would be no longer responsible for their wages. "take no notice of him," said barbara, flushing up. "he is out of his senses." with a nod she dismissed them, and they trooped out. i turned to annette and held out the discharge. she refused to take it, and it fluttered to the ground. "i am in madame's service, monsieur." "that is her affair and yours. you are not in mine. i discharge you. your next month's wages will be paid, after which you will not receive another shilling from me." "upon what grounds am i discharged, monsieur?" "you are not discharged, annette," exclaimed barbara. "i know, madame. i take it only from you. i asked monsieur a question." "upon the grounds of treachery and unfaithfulness," i said, calmly. "you hear," she said, appealing to the others. "it is slander. you are witnesses. it is not the first time--no, it is not the first time." "our law courts are open to you," i said. "try them, and see what an english judge will say to you." "madame is perhaps right," she remarked, with a sly glance at the decanter of brandy on the table. "monsieur is not in his senses." her voice was as smooth as if she were paying me compliments, and her manner was entirely unruffled. at this point barbara started up in a fit of passion. "you monster!" she screamed, and would have thrown herself upon me had not maxwell held her back. "hold hard, barbara," he said. "let us see the end of it. don't spoil the drama. it is really a very good drama, john." i went up to my bedroom, and rapidly packing my bag, called to the porter to take it to the cab. then i re-entered the parlor. "one last word," i said to barbara. "in the presence of your friends i take my leave of you. this house will be sold soon, and you will have to reside elsewhere. my solicitor will write to you presently, and will make you acquainted with the arrangements i have decided upon. it is my fervent hope that we shall never meet again." "by god, he is in earnest!" cried maxwell. as i left the room i saw barbara staring at me with parted lips, and maxwell, my stepmother, and louis looking blankly at each other. annette was smiling quietly, and playing with her cap strings. chapter xix. on the following day i received a letter from miss cameron. they were very comfortable, the place was beautiful, the air delightful, her mother seemed to be better already. she signed herself ellen cameron, and hereafter i thought of her only as ellen. it was not such a letter as an ordinary needlewoman would have written. the writing was that of a lady, and the wording appropriate and well-chosen. the signs of fair culture in it were very pleasing to me. i did not reply to it immediately, thinking it unbecoming to show haste. in a day or two i wrote, expressing satisfaction at the report, and bidding her take advantage of every hour of fine weather. acting upon the doctor's suggestion, i dispatched a hamper of fruit, wine, and jelly, and continued to do so at regular intervals. ellen's thanks for these gifts were extravagant, and rather humiliated me. if thanks were due to either of us, it was she who should have been the recipient. the task i had entrusted to my solicitor was one of extreme difficulty, but fortunately for me he was a man of inflexible resolution and perfect self-possession, qualities which made him more than a match for maxwell, who undertook the management of barbara's affairs. every resistance was made to the carrying out of my plans, and a solicitor of doubtful reputation was employed by maxwell to threaten and bluster. my own solicitor made light of this. "it will do them no good to go to law," he said to me. "the only satisfaction they would get would be the bringing up of your name before the public. the fact of their employing a lawyer of such a character shows that they are aware of the weakness of their case. in no event would they benefit to a greater extent than you propose." it was a wearisome and distressing business, and it is needless to say that i took no pleasure in it. i was animated by no sense of triumph, and was only upheld by my stern determination not to be turned from my purpose. finally, maxwell adopted other tactics. "the income you offer my poor sister," he wrote, "is utterly inadequate for her support. through your misconduct she is now in such a deplorable state of health that the utmost care is needed. make it five hundred pounds a year, and a public exposure of your brutality will be avoided. within a few days of your marriage barbara discovered that you had a mistress, and as a man of the world i know that there has been all through another woman in the case. it will be worth your while to make it five hundred pounds. i am not at the end of my resources, and if you refuse to act in a sensible way i will make it warm for you. you shall not have a moment's peace." finally, after the lapse of several weeks, the distressing affair was brought to a conclusion. the house was sold, and barbara removed from it, taking with her the whole of the furniture, to which, for the sake of peace, i offered no objection. the worry and anxiety had affected my health. living alone, with no friend to cheer me, i should have felt myself a complete outcast from the world had in not been for the regular correspondence i kept up with ellen. her letters were my only comfort, and i may truly say that they preserved the balance of my mind. confident as i was in the justice of my cause it may have been that, but for the consolation i drew from them, i should have again given way to despair. the natural reserve which distinguished her letters when she first began to write to me had melted away, and she wrote now as to a friend of long standing. it was at this period that i received a letter from her mother. she said that her daughter did not know she was communicating with me, and that her letter was posted by a servant in the farmhouse. there was something on her mind which she wished to impart to me, and she had also an earnest desire to see the friend to whom they were so deeply indebted. if my engagements in london would permit of it she would esteem it an honor to shake hands with their dearest friend and confide to him a secret which was oppressing her. the request came opportunely. the good doctor had spoken of my changed appearance, and had advised me to go into the country for a rest. "would swanage suit me?" i asked. "i prescribe swanage," he replied, smiling. he knew me only as john fletcher, and had no suspicion that i was a married man. chapter xx. i now approach a period in my life which, in comparison with what i have already related, shines like a garden in an arid desert--a fair garden blooming with the flowers of peace and happiness. it is not easy to say when i began to love ellen, and she has confessed that she does not know when she began to love me. chance, or fate, led us to each other, and has led us to the end, which is very near. much of the past i would undo were it in my power, but, although a miracle would be needed to free me from the peril in which i stand, i would not undo that part of it which ellen and i shared together despite the fact that it may be said to have created the mystery in which i am entangled. i have read somewhere how a withered rose may be restored to freshness and sweetness. so was it with my life in the hour that ellen and i first met. i did not go down to swanage immediately. with the knowledge that my enemies were at work, i waited a few days alert and on the watch, and when i reached the delightful spot it was by devious ways and cunning breaks in my journey which would have puzzled the smartest human bloodhound that could have been set to track me. meanwhile i wrote both to ellen and her mother, saying that i intended to visit them shortly and that no further letters were to be sent to me in london. that was all the notice i gave them, and when i presented myself it was at an unexpected moment. the day was bright and fine, the sea calm and benignant, the air already fragrant with the promise of spring. i walked towards the farmhouse as a man newly born to joy might have done. friends true and sincere awaited my coming, and those who have read these pages will understand what that meant to me. ellen sprang from the house at my approach. she had seen my form in the distance, and, as i came nearer, recognized and flew to welcome me. "my friend!" she murmured, holding out her two hands. i dropped my bag and clasped them. "ellen--i beg your pardon, miss cameron!" "no. ellen, if you wish it." we gazed at each other, she with a blush on her cheeks, but with no false modesty or reserve, and i in a dream of happiness. "i have taken you by surprise?" "the pleasantest of surprises. every day we have been hoping you would come; every day we have been looking out for you." "and your mother--how is she?" "better, she says, and brighter--oh, so much brighter! what do we not owe you?" "i beg you never to say that again. you owe me nothing. one day i may perhaps tell you what i owe you. your mother is better. that is good news. and you--but i need scarcely ask." "i have never been so well." "more good news. the day is propitious. you saw me coming?" "mother and i were sitting by the open window. we are not overrun by company; that makes it all the more delightful." "you are fond of the country?" "i love it. we are closer to what is best in the world. there is my mother at the window. she thinks it so strange that she has never seen you." "well, she will see me now--and will be disappointed." "no, no. that is not possible. you are her hero." "ah, that makes it all the more certain. we raise an ideal; best never to see it in flesh and blood. reality is a disenchanter. far better to continue to dream." as i said this i gazed at ellen, and there must have been a growing earnestness in my gaze. i had raised an ideal of her--had it met with disappointment? i was self-convicted. "i recant," i added in a tone of satisfaction. "i am glad," she said, and my heart beat more quickly at the thought that she understood me. we were within a dozen yards of the farmhouse. "does your mother recognize us?" "hardly. she is very short-sighted." "let us walk quickly." mrs. cameron rose, her hand at her heart, in a state of agitation. i observed that she rose with difficulty; before we reached her she sank into her chair. "it is mr. fletcher, mother." i prevented her from rising again, perceiving that she was not strong, and i did not interrupt the little speech in which she gratefully welcomed me. there was a strong likeness between her and ellen; though worn with suffering, i noticed the same delicately cut features, the same trustful eyes, in which the spirit of goodness shone. sitting there, talking to her, it seemed to me as if i had rejoined a family knit to me by close ties of sympathy and kinship. ellen had taken up her work, and was busy with her needle. "what is it you are making?" i asked. "a dress for one of the landlady's children," she replied. on a chair by mrs. cameron's side was another dress of a similar character. "we are not good dressmakers," said mrs. cameron; "but we manage these little frocks very well. our landlady has a large family." "are you working for money?" i inquired, gravely. "yes." "but it is against the rules. you did not come here to work." "we cannot be idle," said mrs. cameron. "it is not work; it is pleasure. when night comes we lay the needle aside. it was not so in london." "so i have heard. still, i repeat, you should not work." "we should be unhappy without it. we do not tire ourselves. how long do you intend to stay in swanage, mr. fletcher?" "several weeks, i hope. i am here for a holiday, by the doctor's orders." ellen raised her eyes. "then you are not well," said mrs. cameron, quickly. "i have had a great deal of anxiety lately. don't look troubled. it is over now--happily over." "oh, i am glad. ellen, we must take care of mr. fletcher." the young girl nodded sympathetically. "there is a vacant room in the farmhouse." "no, i will find a bedroom elsewhere; but if you will allow me, i will take my meals with you." "it will be a great pleasure to us. there is another farmhouse half a mile away, where you can get a room. ellen will show you the way. there is no hurry for a few minutes. we must go into accounts." "accounts?" "yes," said mrs. cameron, and at a sign from her, ellen brought forward a small account book. "you have sent us more money than we need. we can't quite keep ourselves, but we can do something towards it. you will find the figures correct, i think, though we are not very clever at arithmetic." it was useless for me to protest; they had their ideas of what was just, and seeing that i was giving them pain by objecting, i waived further objection, and looked through the book. everything was neatly set down. i had sent them so much money; they had earned so much; their weekly account for board and lodging came to so much; and in the result there was a balance of four or five pounds, which they insisted belonged to me, and which i was forced to accept. if any proof were needed to convince me that i had been thrown into the society of ladies of scrupulous integrity and uprightness, it lay before me in this little account book; it increased my respect and esteem for them, and i thanked my good fortune for the association, and inwardly vowed never to desert them. what the mother had to impart to me was disclosed within twenty-four hours of my arrival. it was sufficiently grave, and strengthened my resolve to remain with them. "my days are numbered, mr. fletcher," she said in a tone of much sweetness and resignation. "ellen does not know the truth; i have kept it from her. dear child, she has had enough to bear. she has nursed me for years, and does not see the signs which i feel are unmistakable and irrevocable. when the blow comes, she will suffer terribly; it would be cruel to destroy the peace we are now enjoying. it is peace, blessed, blessed peace--peace and rest; and i wait with patience, and with infinite confidence in the will of the supreme. i think it will come soon, and as the dear friend whom god sent to us in our darkest hour, i wished you to know. do not think it is an old woman speaking to you out of her fears. i do not fear death. there is a hereafter, and i shall see my dear child again when her time comes. i should welcome the hour when i am summoned were it not for my darling and for the grief in store for her." "you are not old," i said in a low tone, "and there is still hope. ellen tells me you are only forty-five." "yes, i know, i know, but my sands are run, and there is no appeal." and, indeed, as i looked at her i felt there was none; death was in her face, which, in her daughter's presence, ordinarily wore a smile. "there is no hope, mr. fletcher; the most skillful medical advice would not avail me now. what mortal could do for me you have done; you have prolonged my life, and i am inexpressibly grateful to you. has ellen told you we have no relatives?" "no." "we have none. ellen will be left alone, to battle with the world." "not while i have life, mrs. cameron." she stretched forth her trembling hand, and the expression on her face was that of an angel in the act of blessing. "oh, dear friend, dear friend!" she murmured, and the tears ran down her cheeks. "god sent you to us--truly, truly!" "it was for this assurance you sent for me." "i hoped for it--prayed for it--and my prayers are answered. sorrow is our heritage, but the world is full of goodness. god never sleeps; his watchful eye is eternally over us. you are young; never lose sight of this, never forget it, never lose your faith in him. ellen is brave; she knows no fear, and is prepared to fight the battle; faith and prayer are her support. there is something i ought to tell you about her, but i should like you not to mention it to her. since we have been here she has had an offer of marriage. a gentleman--no, not exactly a gentleman in the ordinary sense--a man working for his living, came to this place in the performance of a duty. he was unknown to us, but, his duty performed, he came again--twice. he had seen ellen, and confessed his love for her. i need not mention his name, for the affair is over, so far as we are concerned. she refused him, and he appealed to me, and frankly explained his position to me. his calling is not a high one, but he satisfied me that he could keep a wife in fair comfort. anxious for ellen's future, i spoke to her, and she listened patiently; she is never violent or unreasonable. her answer to me was the same she had given to him. she would never marry a man she did not love. for one she loved she would make any sacrifice, endure any hardship, but where her heart was not engaged she could entertain no feeling but friendship--and that was not enough. i did not argue with her; i made no attempt to persuade her. the sentiments she uttered were my own, the lot she chose was the same i had chosen for myself. i married a poor man, and though he died early and my life has been a life of struggle, i never repented, never thought i had acted unwisely. so ellen's suitor went away, but i doubt whether he will ever forget her. there was much that was good in him. before he left he said that if it was ever in his power to serve her she had only to come to him and he would do his best for her. i am sure he loved her, and i am sure that ellen, not loving him, did what was right. this is ellen's secret, mr. fletcher." "i will respect it," i said. "unless she mentions it to me herself she will never know that i am in possession of it." there was much more than this said during our interview, but i have given the gist of our conversation, and i left mrs. cameron with a sad feeling that her forebodings would be realized. as, indeed, they were before the end of the month. she suffered no pain, but became so feeble that she could not take a step without support. she did not keep her bed; by the doctor's permission, and at her own wish, she sat at the window during the day in an easy chair which i obtained for her. there she could watch the advance of spring and breathe the balmy air; there she could see ellen and me, whom she sent frequently into the open, saying it would do us harm to keep constantly in doors in such lovely weather. we never went far from her; the slightest motion of her hand, or her gentle voice calling "john" or "ellen," brought us to her side, eager to do what she required. there was always a smile upon her face, a smile of peace, and content, and love, and i think her last days on earth were the happiest she had ever spent. she said as much: "i am quite, quite happy, dear children; do not grieve for me. in everything before me i see the goodness of god; i seem to see his face." when she raised her eyes to the bright clouds it was my firm belief that she beheld a spiritual vision of his glory, and when she lowered them to earth she saw a deeper meaning than we in the evidences of his wondrous power. she drew keen delight from the flowers and birds, from the air which floated from the sea, from the early budding of the trees. not a murmur passed her lips, not a word of complaining. "i shall see all these things with a clearer eye presently," she said, "and bye and bye you will see them with me. bear your trials patiently; do your work in the world, and let your mind dwell upon his love and goodness." she relied greatly upon me. it was i who carried her from room to room--ellen not being strong enough for the task; it was i who sat by her side when she insisted upon ellen taking a little rest during the day. ellen needed this, for i knew, without being told, that she watched by her mother's bedside night after night without closing her eyes. every evening i read aloud a chapter from the bible; not in the stateliest church was truer devotion felt than in the room in which she lay dying. once when we were alone, she said: "do you love ellen?" "with more than my heart, mother; with my soul." it was her wish that i should call her "mother." on one occasion it escaped me inadvertently, and she asked me always to address her so. "ellen loves you," she said. "you are a good man. i leave her in your care." she spoke constantly of ellen, and related stories of her childhood, drawing from love's memory instances of ellen's sweetness and unselfish affection. "we have been very poor," she said, "but we had always one priceless blessing--love." as with her towards ellen, so was it with ellen towards her mother. with tears in her eyes, the woman i loved related stories of the mother's continual sacrifices for her child; how she had nursed her through sickness, denied herself food for her, even begged for her. there was no shame in these privations; the recalling of them brought into play the tenderest feelings; all through, from mother to daughter, from daughter to mother, it was a song of love, which it did me good to hear. unselfishness and self-sacrifice on either side, each striving to give the other the merit; poverty patiently borne, work which resembled slavery cheerfully undertaken, the hardest trials encountered with a brave heart; heroic qualities not properly recognized by mankind. search behind the veil--there you will see the human pulse throbbing to the touch of attributes which it is not sacrilege to call divine. i was lifted higher by this intercourse; the dust of self-complaining fell from me; i felt myself purified. new views of life opened themselves to me; i saw the poor in a different aspect. if saints are necessary, seek for them in courts and alleys; you will find the true ones clothed in rags. such were my thoughts then; such are my thoughts to-day. i turn to the first pages of this confession, and i recognize the littleness of spirit in which i wrote. i was forgetful of the lessons i learned from the lips of pure souls. i am reminded of them, and i will meet my fate bravely, without repining. the last day arrived. there was apparently no change in mrs. cameron. she sat at the window, smiling towards us. the birds were singing; the fragrance of flowers was in the air. "mother has fallen asleep," said ellen. presently we want softly into the room, and stood by her side. we had gathered flowers which ellen placed in a vase, within reach of the mother's hand. she liked simple flowers the best, modest stars, with tender color, which grow by the wayside. i held my breath; the light of love and pity shone in ellen's eyes. gazing intently at the white, still face, a sudden fear shot through me. i stooped, and placed my mouth close to hers. "mother!" cried ellen, as i raised my head. never again on earth was that sacred word to receive an answer. ellen and i were alone. chapter xxi. twelve happy months passed by. we were still in swanage, but had removed farther inland. it was by ellen's desire that we remained; she wished to be near her mother's grave. we lived in a small cottage, the walls of which were covered with roses and flowering vines. the few acres of land which belonged to us were rich in fruit-trees and bushes, which, with our flower and kitchen gardens, kept us busy pretty well all the day. what acquaintances we had--they were not many--were drawn from the ranks of the poor, by whom ellen was loved as few women are. a quiet, happy life--if but the past could have been blotted out! i had not concealed my story from ellen's knowledge, but before it was told i knew that i had won her love, and she knew that to live without her would be worse than death to me. for me she sacrificed herself, and i, in the selfishness of my heart, accepted the sacrifice only too gladly and willingly. questioning my conscience i did not reproach myself, though sometimes i trembled for ellen; and she, i am sure, never for one moment reproached me, and did not tremble for herself. if a cloud was on my brow she chased it away with tender words. man's law prevented me from giving her my name; god's law joined us and made us one. the beauty of her character awoke all that was good within me; she was to me like the sun and dew to the opening flower. i was guilty of one act of duplicity, and i bitterly repented it. i did not disclose to her my true name, but retained that by which i had introduced myself to her. she knew me only as john fletcher. twelve happy months, and i had almost taught myself to forget. one morning ellen whispered to me a secret which filled me with joy and fear. into her heart fear did not enter; it was pulsing with the joy of motherhood; in a few months we should have a child. i walked alone to the seashore deep in thought. my sense of security was disturbed; i had now again to reckon with the world. a father owes a duty to his child which the world will not allow him to forget. and the mother!--yes, it was of ellen i chiefly thought, and it was to her, presently, that my thoughts were chiefly directed. for, looking up, i saw within a dozen yards of me a man whose mocking eyes were following my movements. though there was a change in his appearance i knew him immediately, and i caught my breath in sudden alarm. the man was maxwell. the change i had observed was in his circumstances. his shabby clothes and hat, his boots down at heel, his unshaven face, denoted that he had not prospered lately. but there was a light in his face as our eyes met resembling that of one upon whom had unexpectedly fallen a stroke of good fortune. "how are you, john?" he said, advancing with outstretched hand. "but why ask? you look like a cherub--rosy, fat and sleek. i rejoice--and you, too, eh? what is there so delightful as the renewal of old affectionate ties, broken through a misconception? do you see my hand held out in friendship? better take it, john. no? you are wrong, brother-in-law, very wrong. you were always rash, always acting upon impulse, always fond of romance, always being led away by false notions of right and wrong. i frequently offered you advice which you would not take. in effect i was constantly saying to you, 'be worldly, my boy; take the world as you find it, and make the best of it, not the worst.' that is my way, though it has treated me scurvily since we met. what do i do? repine? not a bit of it. 'luck will turn,' said i to myself, and here's the proof. luck has turned." during this speech, which was very heartily spoken, he walked close to my side with a hateful affectation of cordiality. as i did not answer him, he continued: "why so silent, my dear john? are you overcome by your feelings? ah, yes, that must be it. sudden joy confounds a man--makes it difficult for him to express himself. now, i am never at a loss for words, but then i am older than you, more accustomed to ups and downs. i don't mind confessing to you--with a proper knowledge of your sympathetic nature--that i have had during the last twelve months any number of 'downs 'and no 'ups' worth mentioning. all my little ventures and speculations have come to grief. half-a-dozen times i have been on the point of making my fortune and have been baulked by want of cash. you don't play cards, i believe. i do. you don't care for racing. i do. you don't tempt fortune by crying double or quits. i do. it's in my blood. i give you my word i should have been as right as a trivet if it hadn't been that just at the critical moment i found myself cursed with an empty purse. devilish hard, wasn't it, when a fellow has a rich brother-in-law who would have said, 'here's my purse, old boy; go in and win.' the mischief of it was that this dear friend had run off to lotus-land, to revel in the lap of beauty and virtue, the world forgetting, but not by the world forgot. no, john, not by the world forgot. we bore the absent one in mind; we talked of his excellencies; we deplored his absence; we longed for his return to the fold." he now went to the length of linking his arm with mine; i wrenched myself free. "what is it you want of me?" i demanded. "the oracle speaks," he cried, gaily. "what do i want? what does every one want?" "money?" i asked. "intelligence returns," he answered, "and we are getting into smooth water. yes, john; money." "did you track me here?" "john, john," he said, reproachfully. "do i look like a spy? did you ever know me to be guilty of a mean action?" "answer my question." "being in the witness box i use the customary formula. from information received i was led to suppose that the lost one would be found on this beautiful shore. i flew hither on the wings of love, anxious to serve him, to show my interest in his welfare, to promote his happiness." "if i refuse to give you money?" "it will be unwise, john, distinctly unwise, and will carry with it certain consequences exceedingly disagreeable to--let us say to a lady of spotless reputation. how pained i should be to set these consequences in motion! is it not man's privilege to protect the weak? but, alas, john! alas! alas! necessity is a slave-driver, and compels tender hearts to lay on the lash!" with his old mocking smile upon his face, he went through the pretense of drying his eyes. "speak plainly," i said. "if i disappoint your expectations, what will you do?" "i will deal honestly by you, brother-in-law, and speak, as you desire, quite plainly. what will i do? let me see. there is no place on earth, be it ever so remote and secluded, in which character is not at a premium. there are husbands who have wives, parents who have daughters. a woman comes to live among them who poses as madame virtue. she is good to the poor--it costs so little, john, to be good to the poor; the clergyman's wife visits her; she goes to church; she gives a basin of soup to an old woman. cheap tricks, brother-in-law. madame virtue leads a happy life; she is respected; people greet her smilingly and affectionately, and say, 'there's an example for you!' suddenly a rumor is set afloat that madame virtue is no better than she should be. sad, very sad. the rumor is authenticated. a gentleman comes from the city and verifies the rumor. madame virtue has, of course, a reputed husband, who shares her popularity. the gentleman says he knows the saintly couple very well indeed, and that they are simply a pair of impostors. he offers to supply proof, and he does so upon the invitation of the clergyman and the local gentry. he regrets the necessity, but what can he do? he owes a duty to society. if there is one thing, john, i pride myself upon more than another, it is that i never shrink from the performance of a duty. what is the result in this instance? the clergyman's wife turns her back upon madame virtue, the local gentry likewise; the poor lose their respect for her, and talk of her behind her back. in a word, the saint is turned into a sinner. judge the effect upon madame virtue, you, dear brother-in-law, who know her so much better than i. have i put the matter plainly? there is even more to say which it might not be agreeable to you to hear. take a turn or two on these beautiful sands, and think it over. i can wait." i did not disguise from myself that for a time at least, i was in this man's power, and that his malice would carry him even farther than he had threatened. the effect upon ellen would be serious. she valued the respect in which she was held, and drew happiness from the affection by which she was surrounded. moreover, she was in a delicate state of health, and i dreaded the consequences which would follow maxwell's malignity. at all risks, at all hazards, i must purchase his silence. "you are in want of money," i said, "and you come to extort it from me." "i am in want of everything," he retorted, "but i am still a gentleman. if you are not more particular in your language, i will set my heel upon you and madame virtue." "name your price," i said. "ah, now we are getting sensible. my price? i must consider. for to-day, fifty pounds--as an installment, john. this day week we will have another chat, and come to terms." i knew it was useless to argue or protest; he held me bound and would show no mercy. i had not so much money about me, and i proposed to bring it in a couple of days to any address he named. "no, no," he said. "you can come with me to the private boarding-house where i have engaged a bed, and can write me a cheque there. a man of means always carries his cheque-book with him. unless you prefer to invite me to dinner at your lovers' nest." "i will come with you," i said. on our way he reproached me for not asking after barbara, and i replied that i received all the news i wished to hear through my solicitor. he entertained me, however, with a long account of her, which i knew to be false, and to which i listened in silence. she was much better, he said, and was looking forward to the end of our differences. she had become a convert to the catholic church, and was held in the highest esteem by the priests and nuns; the children in the schools doated on her; she deprived herself to provide them with clothes and food; she prayed for me day and night, etcetera, etcetera. and all the time he regaled me with this tissue of falsehoods he was laughing at me in his sleeve. the truth about her was that her excesses had become even more frightful than in my experiences of her; she had not a sober hour, and was continually turned out of her lodgings. maxwell was curious to ascertain how much of the truth i knew, but i did not satisfy him. at the boarding-house i wrote a cheque for fifty pounds, and made an appointment to meet him that day week, when we were to "come to terms." i said nothing to ellen of this meeting or of the misery into which i was plunged. to have made her a sharer in my unhappiness would serve me no good purpose. on the appointed day maxwell and i met again, and then he named a sum so large that i hesitated. it amounted, indeed, to a third of what remained of my fortune. "you refuse?" he said. "i must," i replied. "i will not submit to be beggared by you." "sheer nonsense, john. i have made a calculation, and i know, within a hundred or two, how much you are worth. cast your eyes over these figures." to my surprise i discovered that his calculation was as nearly as possible correct, and that by some means he was fairly well acquainted with my pecuniary position. "it is for you to decide," he said. "i have something to sell which you are anxious to purchase. you can make either a friend or an enemy of me, and you know whether it will be worth your while to buy. i don't deny that i am hard up, and that in a certain sense you represent my last chance. i am not fool enough to throw it away. understand clearly--i intend to make the best of it. you see, john, i hold the reins, and i can tool you comfortably down a safe and pleasant road, or i can send you headlong to the devil--and in your company madame virtue. i have learned something since last week. you are living here under an assumed name, and i have a suspicion that madame virtue is not aware of it. another trump card in my hand. it rests with me whether i bring about an introduction between barbara and madame virtue, and whether i bring your excellent stepmother and louis down upon you. there's no escape for you, brother-in-law. best make a friend of me, my boy, and keep the game to ourselves." in the end i consented, with some modification, to his terms, upon his promise that he would never molest me again; and so we parted. months passed and i heard nothing more of him. gradually i recovered my peace of mind. we were living modestly within our means; peace had been cheaply purchased. our child was born, a boy. the delight he brought in our home cannot be described. he was a heavenly link in our love, and bound ellen and me closely together. i will not dwell upon that joyful time. this confession is longer than i conceived it would be, and events of a more exciting nature claim attention. one evening upon my return home, after transacting some business in bournemouth in connection with my affairs, ellen, speaking of what had occurred during my absence, mentioned a gentlemanly beggar who had solicited alms from her. he had told her a plausible tale of unmerited misfortune, and of having been brought down in the world by trusting a friend who had deceived and robbed him. she described the man, and my heart was like lead; i recognized the villain. "he was so nice to baby," said ellen, "and spoke so beautifully of our home. poverty is much harder to gentlefolk who have been used to comfort than it is to poor people. i pitied him from my heart." "beggars do not always say what is true," i observed. she looked at me in surprise. "he could hardly be called a beggar, john. did i not do right in relieving him?" "quite right, dear," i said, with an inward prayer that i was mistaken in the man. "i am quite sure he spoke the truth," she said, and there, as between us, the matter ended. before many hours had passed my fears were confirmed. i kept watch from the cottage, and saw maxwell in the distance, coming in our direction. i went to meet him. "this is friendly of you, john," he said. "where shall we talk? in the society of the charming madame virtue and her sweet babe, or alone?" "alone," i replied. "i forbid you to present yourself in my house again." "a tall word, john, forbid. it depends, my boy, upon you. keep a civil tongue in your head, and be amenable to reason, and you shall continue to tread the path of righteousness and peace. defy me, and up the three of you go. a pretty piece of goods, madame virtue, mild-tempered and long suffering, a different kind of character from my adorable sister. i can imagine a scene between them--madame virtue soft, pleading, reproachful; barbara hot, flaming, revengeful. but perhaps i mistake. when a woman discovers that she has been betrayed and deceived she occasionally turns into a fury. i know something of the sex." "you promised not to molest me again." "am i molesting you? i come in brotherly love to lay my sorrows at your feet. john, i am broke." "that is not my business." "pardon me, it is. we are partners in goodness, mutually bound to spare a charming lady and her sweet babe from a sorrow worse than death. it is a mission i love; it appeals to my tenderest feelings. i feel good all over." "you are a devil!" "in humility i bow my head. revile me, john, pour burning coals upon me; i shall enjoy it all the more. here i stand prepared for the martyr's stake." my blood boiled; i gave him a dangerous look. "you are trying my patience too far. drive me to desperation, and i will not answer for the consequences." "drive me to desperation," he said, pausing to light a cigarette, "and i will hunt her into the gutter. i will make her life a living misery, and when the end comes she shall curse you with her dying breath. nothing like frankness, dear john. behold me, an epitome of it." if i had not turned from him i should have committed some act of violence. it was thought of ellen alone that restrained me, that enabled me to regain my self-command. he struck at her, not at me, and well did he know his power. when i was living with barbara, i believed that suffering had reached its limit; i was to learn that i was mistaken. hitherto i had suffered for myself, a selfish feeling affecting only my life and future, but now that another being had wound herself into my heart, a sweet and loving woman whose happiness was in my hands, my former misery seemed light indeed. and her babe--my own dear child! to allow passion to master me would have been unpardonable. "are you cooler, john?" asked maxwell. "in god's name," i cried, "tell me why you continue to persecute me." "in god's name, i will. i regret to say, i am suffering from the old complaint, john. misfortune pursues me, and if i don't have a couple of hundred pounds----" i would hear no more. i went with him to a public-house, and wrote a cheque for the amount. "you are a trump," he said, pocketing the cheque. "upon my soul, if you had a better knowledge of me you would find i am not such a bad fellow, after all; but when needs must, john, the devil drives." that night i told ellen that we must remove from swanage. "i shall be very sorry, john, dear," she said. "is it really necessary?" "it is imperative, ellen." she sighed. "we have been so happy here." "we can be happy elsewhere, dearest." "why, truly," she said, brightening up, "so long as we are together what does it matter where we live?" my idea was to escape from my enemy; to hide ourselves in some corner in england, where we should be safe from his cruel persecution. after much study and cogitation i fixed upon cornwall, and thither we went, and established ourselves in a cottage on the outskirts of penzance. i was in a fever of alarm during the removal, and kept unceasingly on the watch, but observed nothing to cause me apprehension. when we were settled i breathed more freely; here, surely, in this remote place, we should be secure. ellen was cheerful and bright, and she made me so. her time was fully occupied; she had not an idle moment; she did not allow herself one. our child, the garden, the home, kept her busy. her consideration for me, the loving attention she paid to my slightest wish, even anticipated it, touched me deeply. tenderness was expressed in every word she spoke, in every movement she made. it would be impossible for me to describe how dear she was to me. it is such as she who have raised woman to the position she holds in the scale of humanity. what troubled me greatly was the state of my finances. the inroads made upon my purse by maxwell's exactions were so serious that i foresaw the time when, if my wife's allowance was to be continued, i should find myself penniless. we were living at a moderate rate, our expenses being under three pounds a week. the money i had left, apart from the allowance to barbara, capitalized, would bring in a little over fifty pounds a year, and i felt that i was daily jeopardizing ellen's future and the future of our child, as well as my own. i was not a business man, and had no trade to which i could turn my hand; in england my only weapon was my pen--a poor weapon to most who have to live by it. the difficulty was solved presently by events of which i was not the originator. meanwhile i wrote a short story which i read to ellen, and was pleased with myself. needless to say, she was delighted with it, and elevated me immediately upon the pinnacle of fame. under a nom de plume, i sent it to a magazine; it was declined. i sent it to another magazine, with the same result. this second refusal came when we had been four weeks in cornwall, and i went from my house to post it to a third editor when, almost at the door, i saw maxwell. "again, john," he cried with brazen effrontery, "like a bad penny returned. i can't afford to lose sight of you. what a sly dog you are! but i am a slyer. it is an amusing game. set a thief to catch a thief, you know." "it is you who are the thief," i said, all my fears returning, "but you have had your journey for nothing this time. you can get nothing more out of me for the best of reasons; you have robbed me of almost my last penny." "we shall see. so you thought to give me the slip. you may thank your stars you did not succeed. i have come to see you not on my account, but on barbara's." "you might have spared yourself the trouble," i said, coldly. "i have nothing to say to her; she can have nothing to say to me." "that is where you are mistaken. passion blinds you, john. mind, i don't mean to say you have nothing to complain of. i see now that you were not suited to one another, and i dare say i was to blame in not opening your eyes before you married her. there were reasons. in the first place--i admit it frankly--i wanted to get rid of her. i am no saint, but she tired me out; honestly, i was sick of her. in the second place, she bound me down. 'it is my last chance,' she said. why, she was engaged three times before you met her, and was found out in time by her lovers, who were not slow in beating a retreat. you were the unlucky one to fall into the trap, and though i've been hard on you i am sorry for you. in running away from her and taking up with another woman you did what i should have done if i had been in your place. however, it is all at an end now." "at an end!" i echoed, regarding him with amazement "at an end," he repeated, gravely. "you will soon be free, and then i suppose you will wash your hands of me. well! perhaps i shall have a bit of luck in another quarter. i don't mind telling you that i had a man watching you all the time you were in swanage. i knew when you left and where you ran to. i could have been here three weeks ago if i wished, and i have only come to bring you the news. barbara is dying." god forgive me, the exclamation that escaped me was not one of horror, but of relief; and the next moment i was shocked at myself. "she has behaved abominably," he continued, "but after all, she is your wife, and you can hardly refuse to see her, and whisper a word of forgiveness--supposing we are in time. i left her this morning; the doctor was with her, and said he doubted whether she would live over to-morrow." "it is so sudden," i said, and still my thoughts continued to dwell upon ellen and our child. "has she been long ill?" "she has not been ill at all in that sense," he replied. "it was an accident. yesterday morning, when she was in her usual state--you understand, john--she slipped from the top of the stairs to the bottom, and broke her spine. the moment the doctor saw her he said there was no hope. will you come?" it was my duty; i should have been less than man had i hesitated. "yes," i said, "i will come. when is the train?" "it starts in an hour if you can get ready by that time." "i will meet you at the station," i said, and went at once to ellen to inform her of what had occurred. she approved of my going, and hastened my departure. for barbara she had only words of pity, and her eyes overflowed in commiseration for the wasted life so near its end. in this crisis it would have been contrary to nature had we not thought of ourselves, and of what barbara's death meant to us, but it was a subject we avoided. i breathed a blessing over our sleeping child, and promising to write to ellen directly i got to london, i bade her good-bye. maxwell was at the station. "plenty of time, john," he said, "the train doesn't start for half an hour. you'll stand me a brandy and soda and a sandwich, i suppose. i haven't had a bite or a drink since the morning. i'm shipwrecked again. serve me right, you'll say. so say i. i shall have to turn over a new leaf. would you believe i had to travel third-class, and didn't have money enough to pay for a return ticket? hard lines for a gentleman; but such is life." "you'll have to travel back third-class," i said. "i have no money to waste." he grumbled at this, but i paid no heed to him. after disposing of his brandy and soda he asked for another, which i refused. he laughed, and complimented me upon displaying a strength of character which he had not given me credit for. if i had not hurried him we would have missed the train. few people were traveling by it, and we had a compartment to ourselves. such conversation as we had on the journey was of his seeking; meeting with no encouragement from me he leant back moodily and closed his eyes. quite two hours passed without a word being exchanged, when suddenly he said: "john, after barbara's death you will marry madame virtue, of course. how soon after? i shall expect an invitation, old fellow." i did not answer him, and he made no further attempts at conversation. at the end of our journey i asked him where barbara lived. "islington way," he said, sulkily, and calling a cab, gave the driver the address. the cab pulled up at the door of a wretched house in a narrow street between "the angel" and the agricultural hall. i paid the man and followed maxwell to the second floor, where, opening a door, he fell back, motioning me to enter first. the room was in semi-darkness, the window-curtains being drawn down. "is that you, john?" a voice asked, and at the same moment the curtains were drawn aside. it was the voice of my stepmother. from an inner room came the sound of driveling laughter. as i turned and saw maxwell standing with his back against the door, and an insolent smile on his face, suspicion entered my mind. it was to some extent confirmed when i observed the insolent smile reflected on the face of my stepmother. "barbara is still alive, dear brother-in-law," said maxwell, laughing quietly to himself. "you are in time, you see. oh, yes, you are in time." i threw open the door of the adjoining room. a strange woman was there, standing by a chair in which barbara was lolling. except that she had grown more unwieldy, that her eyes were bleared and dim, and that her driveling mouth and hanging jaws gave her the appearance of a besotted hag, she bore no traces of a mortal illness such as maxwell had described. the truth rushed upon me with convincing force. i had been tricked. "neat, wasn't it?" exclaimed maxwell, as i closed the door upon the disgusting sight. "would you believe," addressing my stepmother, "that our dear john was actually calculating the time when he would be free to marry the low woman for whom he deserted his lawful wife?" "i would believe anything of him," said my stepmother. "i warn you," i said. "another such allusion, and i will thrash you within an inch of your life." "oh! i'm not to be frightened by threats," he blustered, "and i'm not going to quarrel with you." "you will gain nothing by the trick you have played me," i said. "i am already making your sister an allowance which my means do not warrant, and which no court of law would compel me to pay." "a pretense of poverty for which we are prepared. and we are prepared also to make your affairs public property unless you listen to reason." "you are in the plot against me," i said to my stepmother. "that is a lie," she replied, composedly. "i am not in any plot against you, but i am ready to give evidence when called upon." "we are here, john, in the presence of a witness," said maxwell, "for the purpose of coming to an understanding. you have had sufficient experience of me to be aware by this time that you are no match for me. if you wish to be left in peace, to lead any life you choose, you will have to pay for it. shall i name the price?" "it will be quite useless. you will never obtain another shilling from me." "you shall have the opportunity to consider it, john. for one thousand pounds--a sum you can well afford to pay--you shall be left forever at peace, to go your own way to the devil. i will bind myself never to molest you again by any legal document you may lay before me. consider it well, brother-in-law. what i offer is worth the price." "it needs no consideration. you have my answer." "i give you a week to think it over," he continued. "if then you persist in your refusal, i will dog you like your shadow--and not only you but the lady; observe how polite i am--in whom you take an interest. i will hunt you down and make your life and hers a daily misery. you may be able to stand it for a time. if i am any judge of appearances she will not. you have a gift of imagination. imagine the worst i can do, and you will fall short of the reality. if not for your own sake, john, for hers, think it over." "you have my answer," i repeated; and brushing him aside, i left the house. chapter xxii. before the expiring of the month from the date of the deception practiced upon me i had put into execution a plan i formed while maxwell was threatening me. to continue to live in england persecuted by his malignant ingenuity would have been an act of folly; to purchase intervals of peace at the cost of being reduced to beggary in a year or two would have been no less. at all hazards i was determined that some small sum should be secured to ellen, to shield her and our child from penury, and to this end i made over to her the balance of my fortune, securely invested in consols, the interest on which she would receive monthly from my solicitor, the principal reverting to her at my death. i take this opportunity of expressing my heartfelt thanks to this gentleman for the faithful manner in which he has carried out my instructions and executed the delicate business i entrusted to him. for my own immediate necessities i took one hundred pounds, which indeed was all that remained after the investment which secured to ellen one pound a week during my lifetime. it was my desire at first, that she should accompany me to australia, but my solicitor argued against it; and his arguments were strengthened by a medical opinion that neither the voyage nor the australian climate would be good for my dear ellen's health. in the winding up of this business and the preparations for my departure, i exercised the greatest caution and secrecy, in order that my enemies should have no suspicion of the locality in which it was determined that ellen should reside. we chose london as offering the greatest security for her, and because she would be within hail of my solicitor, to whom she was to apply for protection in the event of molestation. the knowledge that i had baffled my pursuers was a satisfaction to me, and more than once i put successfully into practice the tactics i adopted when i first discovered i was being watched and followed. with respect to our correspondence i arranged that my letters to ellen, and ellen's to me, should be sent under cover to my solicitor, who would forward them to their correct address. it was probable that i should be shifting from place to place in australia, and ellen might have occasion to remove. during the month a number of communications from maxwell reached me through my solicitor. some contained threats, some invited me to a meeting in which a modification of his terms could be discussed. i did not acknowledge one of these letters, and in the last i received maxwell wrote: "i have discovered that it is your intention to leave england with madame virtue and your precious infant. if you think you will escape me you are mistaken. go where you will you will be shadowed and not allowed to rest until you come to terms. be wise in time, dear john." this threat did not alarm me; the discovery he announced was probably mere guesswork; even if it were not, my departure would strengthen the chances of ellen's safety. before i left there was still a neglected duty to perform--to inform ellen that i had deceived her as to my real name. she evinced no surprise, and did not reproach me, nor did it shake her faith in me. from the hour we met my dear ellen has never uttered a word to cause me pain. humbly do i ask forgiveness for the sorrows i have brought upon her. at length the day of our separation arrived. i had put off my departure to the latest moment, and was to travel by the night train to meet my ship. we sat together in ellen's humble room, her head on my shoulder, our child in my arms. though he could not yet speak an intelligible word he had, thank god, learned to love me. what ellen and i had to say was but a repetition of the fond assurances we had exchanged that we would be true to each other to the last hour of our lives. she was outwardly more cheerful than i; such women as she have a strength of endurance denied to man, whose courage often deserts him at the supreme moment of a moral crisis. ellen rose to spread the cloth for our last meal together, and it touched me to observe how she had consulted my tastes in what she had placed upon the table. to please her i forced myself to eat, and supper ended, she gave her babe the breast, her eyes shining with tenderness and love. "you must be brave, dear," she said. "you must never lose heart--never for one single moment." "and you, ellen, you must also be brave." "i am--i shall be; and cheerful, too. if i were to mope, dear, baby would suffer--and that would never do, would it, darling?" i see her now a picture of sweetest motherhood, as she sat crooning to the little fellow, who was drawing life and goodness from nature's fount. in the dark watches of my lonely life the picture rose before me, and i saw the dear woman with her baby at her breast, her tender eyes shining upon me. it taught me patience, and never failed to comfort me. across the seas a heart was throbbing with love for the wanderer, a mother was whispering to her babe of the absent father; an invisible link stretched from the quiet bush to the fevered city, along which, in hours of unrest, sped the spiritual message: "i am thinking of you. dear love, dear love, do not lose heart; i am thinking of you." and so we parted. the last words were spoken, the last kiss given. i turned and saw, through tears, ellen standing at the door, a blessing on her lips, her soul in her eyes. "farewell, dear heart, farewell!" chapter xxiii. it is not pertinent to my story to dwell at any length upon my australian experiences. as i am not writing for literary purposes, brief allusion to them will suffice. i went out steerage in a sailing vessel, and was brought into contact with new phases of life and adventure. had i been less anxious about myself and those connected with me, i should have found ample scope for contemplation and study in these novel pictures of human life and struggle; and even as it was, they frequently afforded me a healthy diversion from my own private cares. my time on board was chiefly occupied upon a diary which i subsequently sent home to ellen, and being written for her i took pains to make it interesting. it interested me too, and i was amused at the importance with which trivial incidents were insensibly invested. i was, it is true, subject to fits of depression, but the salt breezes, the rough life, the open air, the alternations of storm and sunshine, invigorated me, and helped to shake them off. i had with me, besides, an infallible charm in the portraits of ellen and our child, which i wore close to my heart. whenever i gazed upon these pictures ellen's words recurred to me: "dear love, dear love, i am thinking of you," and hope bloomed like a flower within me. at home i had given little thought to the special groove in which i should strive to obtain a livelihood in the colonies. i was ready and willing to undertake any kind of work, but i was certainly not prepared for the difficulties i encountered. the market was crowded with unemployed labor; on all sides i heard the cry of hard times, and yet money seemed to be abundant. surely, thought i, there must be some place for me, a man of education, in this great city, but this very quality of education seemed to stop the way. gentlemen were at a discount; bone and muscle were the staple, despite the fact that bone and muscle were striking against capital. the wages rejected by rough workingmen i should have been glad to accept, and had i been a bricklayer, a carpenter, or a stonemason, i should soon have been in a situation; having no special trade to back me, i went to the wall. after weeks of vain endeavor, i determined to go up country and see what i could do on the goldfields. i could wield a pick if i could do nothing else. i had lived very sparingly, but my little store of money was dwindling fast, and would, even with extreme frugality, be exhausted in a month or two. no time, therefore, to lose in idleness. to the goldfields i set my face, tramping it alone through the bush, seeking employment on the way, which i did not obtain. the golden days of the colonies were over, and the familiar and magic cry of "rush, o!" was seldom heard. still, gold was being dug from the earth, and nuggets were as much my property as any man's--if i could only get on the track of them. i did not. for me tom tiddler's ground was nearly barren, the few pennyweights of gold i managed to extract from alluvial soil being scarcely sufficient to provide me with the commonest necessaries. strangely enough, certain qualities which should have served me in good stead tended rather to retard me, and indeed made me unpopular with the class i mixed with. for instance, my sobriety. i was frequently invited to drink, and my steady refusal was regarded with disfavor, occasionally with contempt. lucky diggers celebrate their good fortune by "going on the spree," and standing treat to one and all. no inducement could prevail upon me to join them; i held aloof from them, and they showed their feelings by refusing to associate with me. i regretted this the more because as a rule they were a set of free-hearted men, whose instincts were generous, if not exactly prudent. the consequence was that i made no friends, which did not help me in the battle i was waging. in this fight for fortune my greatest consolation was derived from ellen's letters. every month i received from my lawyer, through the melbourne post office, a packet containing ellen's letters, and one from himself upon business matters. his communications were brief. there was nothing of importance to report concerning my wife; her allowance was drawn regularly, and there was no improvement in her habits; maxwell had called several times, and on one occasion would not depart without an interview, which was granted. he expressed anxiety about my welfare, and made efforts to ascertain where i was; the information not being supplied he retired, after indulging in mysterious threats--as to which, my lawyer said, i need not be in the least degree alarmed. ellen's letters were longer, and i need hardly say i read them again and again with delight. not in one of them was to be found a complaining word; instinctively she always took the bright and cheerful view, and i knew that for my sake she would make light of crosses. how did her letters run? she was happy and in good health; she was comfortable in her lodgings, and the landlady was kindness itself; our child was wonderfully well, and was growing "so big" that i would hardly know him; his eyes were more beautiful than ever; everybody noticed them, everybody fell in love with him; it made her so proud to see people look admiringly at him, and "you would not believe the notice he takes of things"; he had learned already to lisp "mamma" and "papa;" and he sent his love to his dear papa, and a thousand, thousand kisses; she had obtained some needlework by which she was earning a few shillings a week, "not that through your great kindness we have not enough to live upon, but i want to put something by for a rainy day;" i was to be sure not to order her to give up the work, because she had too much idle time on her hands, and the hours flew by more quickly when she was fully employed; "when my needle is in my hand my thoughts are always on baby's dear father, and i am wondering what he is doing at that precise moment--but indeed, my love, you are never out of my thoughts;" and so on, and so on. not a detail of her domestic life which she believed would afford me pleasure was omitted, "and i hope i am not worrying you by speaking of these small matters, but it is such a pleasure to me; i write every night when baby is asleep and my work is done." the tender expressions of concern for my welfare were inexpressibly comforting to me. in my lonely tent i saw with my mind's eye the dear woman in her london lodging sitting pen in hand at her labor of love, with baby asleep in his little crib, and everything in the humble room clean and sweet and orderly, and i thanked god she was happy and well. things went from bad to worse with me. driven by necessity i wandered from place to place, and there seemed to be no rest for the sole of my foot. when i plied my pick on the goldfields i worked as "a hatter," by which is meant a man who works singlehanded. i spent weeks and weeks prospecting for gold and finding none. bad luck dogged me wherever i went, whatever i undertook. i had a reasonable longing for money--for the sake of my dear ellen and my boy, and once i missed a great fortune. i had been compelled to part with all my belongings except a short-handled pick. all my other tools were gone, and tent and blankets as well; not a shilling in my pockets, but happily the best part of a cake of cavendish and a cutty. no man knows the comfort that lies in a pipe of tobacco as a bushman does; it has sustained the courage of many a man in as desperate a plight as i was in on that day. i had started in the early morning for a cattle station where i had heard there was the chance of a job, and towards evening found that i had missed my way. had there been such twilight as we enjoy in england there would have been time to get into the right track, but in australia night treads close upon the shadows of evening. it was not the first time i had been "bushed," and i accepted the position as cheerfully as my circumstances would permit. the night was fine, the sky was filled with stars, the air was sweet and warm. i had camped out under more favorable conditions, but i made the best of this, comforting myself with the reflection that i had only a few hours to wait before i obtained a meal at the cattle station i had missed. meanwhile i smoked my pipe, and soon afterwards fell asleep upon a bed of dry leaves. i was up with the sun, and was about to resume my search for the lost track when my eyes fell upon a range of hills studded with quartz. i thought of the stories i had heard of rich reefs being accidentally discovered by men who had lost their way in the bush, and considered that it was as likely to happen to me as to another. it is true i was hungry, but i could hold on a bit longer, and i determined to spend an hour or two in prospecting. so to it i went, selecting the most likely-looking hill, on the uppermost ridge of which rested a huge boulder of quartz, which a vivid imagination might have converted into the fantastic image of a human monster. detaching some pieces of stone from the base of this boulder i saw fine specks of gold in them in sufficient quantity to give promise of a paying reef. the specks were so finely distributed that they could only be won by the aid of fire, water, and quicksilver, and the pulverizing stamps of a crushing machine. the discovery was therefore valueless to me in its power to relieve my present necessities, but i marked the spot and determined to return to it when my circumstances were more favorable to the opening of a new reef. i reached the cattle station in the evening, and to my disappointment learned that there was no work for me. the kind-hearted people on the station gave me a plentiful supper and a shake-down, and when i rose the next morning to continue my wanderings i was not allowed to depart empty-handed. the life i led in the colonies was rough and hard, but it was studded with stars of human kindness which i can never forget. six months afterwards i was in a position--having a few pounds in my pocket--to visit the quartz ranges i had prospected, my intention being to mark off a prospector's claim and set to work. other men were before me; every inch of ground north and south was marked off for miles, and a thousand miners were at work. the huge boulder in which i had found specks of gold had been blasted away, and i was informed that a wonderful amount of gold had been taken from it. the claim upon which it had stood was the richest on the line of reef, the stone averaging five or six ounces to the ton. a quartz crushing machine had been erected, and was merrily pounding away. with a sigh i turned my back upon the el dorado i was the first to discover. hundreds of other men on the goldfields have missed fortune in the same manner by a hair's breadth. i will not prolong this record of my three years' sojourn in australia. at the expiration of this time a stroke of good fortune really fell to my share, and then it was that i received news of an event which changed the current of my life and led to the unconscious committal of the crime for which i must answer to the law. on a partially deserted goldfield, where there were still a few miners at work on claims which were supposed to be worked out, i took possession of a shaft, and in one of the pillars i found a "pocket" of gold which in less than a fortnight yielded me between fifty and sixty ounces. mammon worship is an evil instinct, but gold can bring unalloyed joy to suffering hearts. it brought joy to mine. i was sorely tempted. longing for home, for a sight of ellen and my boy, had for some time past assailed me; there had been hours when i rebelled against my lot, when it needed all my moral strength to overcome the anguish of my soul. i had now the means to gratify my cherished desire--why should i not do so? debating the risks of the adventure, i was tossed this way and that, now held back by the fear that my presence in london might be discovered by my enemies to the disturbance of the life of peace which ellen was enjoying, now encouraged by my ardent wish to clasp my dear ones in my arms. the question, however, was decided for me. a mail from home was due, and i was expecting my monthly packet of letters, which i had directed to be forwarded to a neighboring township. so anxious was i that i set off for this township in the middle of the night. the mail had arrived and was being delivered. scores of bearded men were clustered about the wooden building in anxious expectation. some came away from the little window with joy on their faces, some fell back with a sigh of disappointment. the strength of the human tie which binds heart to heart is nowhere more strikingly displayed than on these distant shores, where groups of rough, stalwart men hurry to the post office in the hope of receiving letters from home. my packet was handed to me, and i stood aside to open it. ellen's budget i put into my pocket; i could not read her loving words with prying eyes around me. the lawyer's letter was bulkier than usual, and i tore it open. i read but a few lines when i reeled. "hold up, mate," cried a man, catching me by the arm. "bad news?" "no, no," i muttered, and the denial struck me like a spiritual blow the moment it was uttered. to some men the news which caused this shock would have brought a never-to-be-forgotten sorrow. to me it brought release from a chain which had galled my soul. barbara was dead! it would be the worst kind of hypocrisy to say that i felt as a man feels at the loss of one who is dear to him. it was impossible--impossible. there are those who deem it fitting to assume a grief which finds no place in their hearts; it is common to see white handkerchiefs held before tearless eyes. let it tell against me that i neither felt nor assumed such sorrow. equally wrong--and at the same time unjust to myself--would it be to say that i rejoiced. but an immense weight was lifted from my heart. barbara was dead and i was free! yes, free to marry ellen, to commence a new and purer life, to have a home which i could enter without fear; a home where love awaited my coming, where i could look in my child's face without shame, where i could show by my devotion how deeply i appreciated the sacrifices his dear mother had made for me. to remove the stigma which in the eyes of the world was attached to ellen through her association with me--to give her my name, to call her "wife"--was this nothing to be grateful for? was it for this that i should put on a mournful face and conjure false tears into my eyes? no. heaven had sent me relief, had proclaimed that my long agony was over, had lifted the curse from me. it was not for me to play the hypocrite. my agitation somewhat subdued, i set myself to the perusal of the lawyer's letter. the details of barbara's death were shocking and startling. her depraved habits had been the cause of a miserable tragedy. the letter stated that the first intelligence the writer received of the event was through the newspapers, cuttings from which he enclosed. my wife, it seems, had not removed from her lodging in islington where i last saw her. in the middle of the night an alarm of fire was raised, and the lodgers in the house had great difficulty in escaping. barbara had not been thought of. she did not make her appearance and no cries proceeded from her room. when she was missed the firemen made their way to her apartment, and brought out her charred body. the fire, it was proved, had originated in her bedroom, and it was supposed that she overturned a lighted candle, and so caused the catastrophe. among the newspaper cuttings was a report of the inquest, which my solicitor had attended, and evidence was given of barbara's depraved habits, one witness stating that "she was drunk from night till morning, and from morning till night," a statement which maxwell declared was a calumny. his sister had dreadful troubles; her married life was most unhappy, but she suffered in silence. his attempts to bring obloquy upon me were frustrated by my solicitor, and by the evidence of the doctors. the latter proved that she must have been a confirmed dipsomaniac for years; the former produced receipts for the allowance i made her. the verdict was in accordance with the evidence. after the funeral, the arrangements for which were made by my solicitor, maxwell called upon him with a document purporting to be barbara's will, in which she left everything to him, including the £ a-year i had allowed her. upon my solicitor suggesting that he should take legal steps to obtain what he called "his rights," he offered to compromise and to forego his claim for a stated sum. this being scouted, he asked whether it would not be worth my while to give him a smaller sum to get rid of him forever. my solicitor replied that that was a matter for my consideration upon my return home, but that he should advise me not to give him a shilling, and there the matter ended. my solicitor said he gathered from my letters that i had not prospered in the colonies, that my presence at home was necessary for the settlement of my financial affairs, and that he enclosed me a draft for £ to defray the expenses of my passage and outfit. ellen's letter was of the usual affectionate nature, somewhat steadier in tone because of the tragedy which she had read in the papers. she expressed herself most pitifully towards barbara, whose errors were expiated by her death. "she is now at peace, and i am sure you will have none but tender thoughts for her." nobility of soul, in alliance with the tenderest feeling and the purest sentiments shone forth in every line. it softened my heart towards the dead; it made me solemnly grateful for the living. she said not a word about her position and my intentions. she trusted me and had faith in me. conscious that i would do what it was right to do, she made not the most remote reference to our future. our future! how brightly it spread before me! there was a new sweetness in the air, a fairer color in the skies. how strangely, how strangely are woe and joy commingled! blessed with a good woman's love, with no fear of poverty before me, i would not have changed places with the highest in the world. the money i had capitalized to secure barbara's allowance was now without a charge upon it, and reverted to me. the future was assured, the way was clear, the sun shone upon a flower-strewn path. alas! the reality! there was nothing to detain me a day longer in the colonies; the richest claim on the goldfields would not have tempted me to delay my journey home. i had money enough for content, and love made me rich. i looked through the shipping advertisements in a melbourne newspaper. a mail steamer was advertised to leave for london this very day; i could not catch it, and i should have to wait a fortnight for the next. another merchant steamer was to leave for liverpool in two days. i determined to take passage in it. i could get to melbourne in time. as i walked to the telegraph office, the man who had saved me from falling when i opened my solicitor's letter passed by and looked me in the face. "better, mate?" he asked. "yes," i answered. "it was good news, then?" he said. "yes," i said, mechanically, and caught my breath. what if i had told him that the good news was the death of my wife? from the telegraph office i dispatched three messages. one to the shipping agent in melbourne to secure a cabin in the outgoing steamer; the second to my solicitor in london, announcing my intended departure from the colony; the third to ellen--"i am coming home." wonderful was the contrast between this sea voyage and the last i had undertaken. for the greater part of the time i think i must have been the happiest man on board. on the first voyage i had schooled myself into resignation and submission to my fate, and had taken but a fitful interest in the novel aspects of life by which i was surrounded. now they appealed to me sympathetically, and i instinctively responded to the appeal. i chatted and made friends. i found zest in the simple amusements of ship life. i spent many happy hours in contemplation of the future, and in arranging the details. ellen and i would go to some quiet country place, where we were not known, and there we would get married. deciding not to live in london, we would discuss together in what part of england we would make our home. the sunniest months of my life had been passed in swanage, and i would have chosen that delightful spot because of its memories, and because it would have been ellen's choice, had i not been restrained by the thought of maxwell. although with barbara's death his power over me had practically disappeared, still in the circumstances of our life in swanage--ellen a single woman and i a married man living apart from my wife--maxwell's malice might sow thorns in our path. as far as was possible, this must be avoided. we would select some part of england where we were strangers, where the people we mixed with had no personal experience of our past. there, in a little cottage with a garden we would pass our days, and there i would resume my literary labors, and under a nom de plume strive to obtain a footing in the field most congenial to me. my adventures on the goldfields would supply me with attractive themes. in this endeavor i had no personal vanity to serve; it was simply that i recognized the mischief of living an idle life. i would have no more wasted days. if i did not succeed with the pen i would bring my muscles into play. i laughed as the idea occurred to me that i might eventually become a market gardener, a cultivator of fruits. straightway my thoughts traveled gaily in that direction. towards the end of the voyage i became impatient. the nearer we got to england the greater was my eagerness to see ellen. i was on the threshold of a new existence, and i was in a fever to cross it. this uncontrollable desire burnt within me to the exclusion of every other topic. i became restless and abstracted, and i withdrew from cordial relationship with my fellow-passengers. this mood--for which i cannot account except on the grounds of pure selfishness--lasted a week, and then i took myself to task and endeavored to make myself companionable; but i was not regarded with the same favor, and my society was not courted. it taught me a lesson, and i inwardly reproached myself with ingratitude. it is perhaps necessary to mention that i still retained the name i had adopted, and that i appeared on the passenger list as john fletcher. time enough, i thought, to resume my own name when ellen and i were married. but my principal reason for retaining the name of fletcher was the fear that some of the passengers might have read the account of the fire in which barbara perished. newspapers nowadays deal largely in horrors, and accounts of the fire had been published in the melbourne journals. naturally i shrank from identification. the date of my arrival in liverpool was the th of november, and i landed late at night in the midst of a snowstorm. from a railway guide on board ship i noted that a train for london started from lime street at midnight, and by this train i had decided to travel to london. fatal decision! had i been struck down dead in the streets, my fate would have been the happier! chapter xxiv. it is at this point of my story that i cannot entirely trust my memory. i am, however, sufficiently clear-minded as to the course of events up to the moment when, in a street, the name of which is unknown to me, an attack was made upon my life. that a watch had been kept upon my movements, and that the attack was premeditated, i have no reason to doubt; but it is almost incredible that hatred could be so far-seeing and vindictive. as i have said, the snow was falling heavily. it was the first time i had been in liverpool, and i was therefore not familiar with its thoroughfares. so inclement was the weather, and so thickly did the snow lay upon the ground, that i could not obtain a vehicle to take me to the railway station, the two or three cabs which were available being snapped up before i could reach them. i had no alternative but to walk to lime street. there was ample time to get to the station, and i was proof against much more serious obstacles than a snowstorm and a gale of wind. i was in joyous spirits at the prospect of soon embracing ellen and my boy, and i walked along (after inquiring my way at the docks) with buoyant steps and a song on my lips. it may have been that this preoccupation of mind made me absent-minded, or that i had been misdirected, for in the midst of my pleasant musings a doubt arose as to whether i was on the right road. i remember stopping by a lamp-post to look at my watch, which i had purchased before i left melbourne; i remember the time, five minutes to eleven, and my feeling of satisfaction that i had nearly an hour to get to the station. but which was the right way? there was not a person in sight of whom i could make inquiries, and at hap-hazard i turned down the street to which i have referred. it was a narrow, ill-lighted street, and i did not notice whether the houses in it were places of business or private residences. suddenly, either from one of the houses or from some dark courtway, a man rushed out and attacked me with such violence that had i been less powerful than i am his first onslaught would have accomplished his purpose. as it was, i grappled with him at the moment of his attack, and a furious struggle began--a struggle for life. maddened by the attempt to dash the cup of happiness from my lips i put forth all my strength. and here it is that memory fails me. the recollection of the salient features of this desperate encounter may doubtless be depended upon as correct, but i can go no further in my recountal of the issue of it. one maddening thought, i know, was dominant throughout--the thought that i was fighting for ellen and love. the struggle must have lasted a considerable time. i could not see the face of my assailant, and it is my impression that he strove to avoid recognition; nor did he speak. we struck at each other savagely and in silence. from first to last, so far as i am aware, not a word passed between us. we swayed this way and that, each man's hand at the other's throat; then i felt myself lifted from my feet--a wrestling trick--and flung into the air. but i was up like lightning, and as i seized him again i was dimly conscious of the sight of blood dropping on the snow--whether his blood or mine i cannot say. it seemed to be his purpose to drag me into a house, the door of which was open, and in this he succeeded. grappling and raining blows upon each other in the dark passage, we fell upon the stairs, and struggling to our feet without losing our hold, continued the contest. the only weapon i had about me was a fossicking knife in its sheath, and this i must have drawn, as was proved by the result, though i am unable to say whether i drew it in the street or in the house. i cannot account for the fatal use i made of this weapon except upon the supposition that a weapon of some kind was being used against me, and that i was prompted by a savage instinct of self-preservation. in such an emergency a man has no time to reflect upon the consequences of his acts; reason is lost, instinct rules. my aim was to escape into the street, his to drag me from it--and he prevailed. at what period of the brutal conflict we gained the landing of the first floor, at what period we stumbled into a room, and when i dealt the fatal stroke which gave me a frightful victory--all this is hidden from me. scores of times since that night have i said to myself, "let me think, let me think!" and vainly endeavored to follow the progress of the awful struggle. in the moment of victory i must have received a blow which might have proved deadly, for darkness fell upon me, and i sank to the ground in a state of unconsciousness. when i came to my senses i found myself in an apartment lighted up by two lamps and half-a-dozen candles. the oil in the lamps was almost exhausted. the candles were guttering down. the scattered furniture denoted the savage nature of the struggle in which i had been engaged. chairs had been flung here and there, a large table was upset; had the candles or lamps been upon it the house would have been set on fire. against the wall, in front of me, was a sideboard garnished with bottles and glasses, among them a syphon of mineral water. this was all i discerned in the first few moments of returning consciousness. i put my hand to my face, and drawing it away found blood upon it; my other hand and my clothes were also stained with blood. this caused me to think of my assailant, whose condition could have been scarcely worse than my own. what had become of him? why had he left me here without finishing his work? was he so badly wounded that he had no strength to kill me? all was silent in the house. not a sound of its being inhabited reached my ears. i must fly from it directly my own strength returned, thankful that i had come with life out of the desperate encounter. gradually my sight grew clearer, and i rose to my feet. my throat was parched. i went to the sideboard, and pouring out a glass of mineral water, raised it to my lips. in the act of doing this, i turned mechanically, and brought into view that part of the room which i had not yet seen. the glass dropped from my trembling hand, the water untasted. on the floor, close to the opposite wall, lay the motionless form of a man. this was he, then, who had sought my life, this still form, struck down by my own hand. what i could distinguish of his clothing proclaimed him to belong to the well-to-do classes; a silk hat and gloves, which i had not previously observed, were on a small side table. a nameless horror stole upon me. with slow, stealthy steps i approached and knelt by his side, unconscious at the moment that i was kneeling in a pool of blood. there, gazing with terrified eyes upon him, i waited for a sign which did not come. not a breath, not the vibration of a pulse. his arm lay across his face. tremblingly i lifted it aside, and let it fall with a cry of terror on my lips. the face i had uncovered was that of my half-brother louis! he was dead, and i had killed him! the scar on his forehead was blood-red, and though i was guiltless of causing it, seemed to accuse me; blood was on his face and clothes, there was a wound in his breast--his death-blow--delivered by me whom he hated, by me, who had hated him in life. oh, cruel fate that made me his murderer! the shock of the discovery overwhelmed me. i knew what his death meant for me. it did not dawn upon my mind; it came in one sudden, blasting flash. all that had gone before was light in comparison with this mortal blow, which dealt by my own hand, destroyed beyond redemption the newly-born hopes which had filled my heart with gladness. my dream was over. ellen and i were forever parted. oh, god! i can hear again the echo of the cry of anguish to which i gave in voluntary utterance. oh, god! oh, god! but of what use appeal to him? rather appeal to man, by whom i should be judged; relate my story to the earthly judge before whom i should be arraigned; hide nothing from first to last; expose the remorseless persecution, the vile cunning, the unspeakable degradation which had made my home a hell upon earth; state how i had only landed this night; how, passing through the street i was suddenly attacked and had simply defended myself, as any man would have done under similar circumstances---- pshaw! who would believe such a tale? it would be scouted with derision. if an angel were to come down to testify to the truth of my story he would not be believed. how, then, could i expect to be believed when human witnesses would testify to the hate i bore the man whose spirit was now before god's judgment seat? to hope that i could break the chain of evidence that would be brought against me was the hope of a madman. one by one the candles had gone out; the room was now in semi-darkness. i stood in thought. whoso sheddeth his brother's blood--yes, but i was innocent of murderous design. why, then, should i declare myself a murderer and bring despair upon ellen, bring ignominy and shame upon her and our child? life-long despair, life-long ignominy. every man's finger would be pointed at her. in my child's ears would ring the words, "your father is a murderer!" better for him never to have been born. i had not myself alone to think of, to act for, ellen could never now be my wife, the delights of home would never be mine. but for her, a lesser evil, though she would never realize it, was to be found in my concealment of my crime. it would be necessary for me to keep apart from her, for in her presence i should be continually confronted by the temptation to betray myself, to make confession, and to do this would be to inflict upon her frightful suffering. sweet and patient as she was, and implicit as was her faith in me, the duplicities i should be compelled to practice in order to prevent any meeting between us, could not but injure me in her eyes. setting love aside--an inconceivable hypothesis, for i never loved her as i did in this despairing hour--honor and honest dealings called upon me to give her the name of wife. she would grieve that i did not make amends to her for the sacrifices she had made for me; but far better that i should sink in her esteem than inflict upon her the crushing horror of seeing me condemned for murder. for her sake, then, silence and secrecy, if they could be compassed. there had been no witnesses of the tragic incidents of the night. i was alone with the dead. the silence that reigned in the house favored my design of secret flight. if any persons resided there they must have heard the sounds of the struggle, the stumbling on the stairs, the dashing into the room, the upsetting of the furniture. i would make sure, however, that the house was uninhabited. the oil in the lamps was nearly exhausted; but i had matches in a box which ellen had given me before my departure for australia. i crept into the passage and listened above, below. no sound. striking matches as i proceeded i went all over the house from basement to attic, and saw no signs of habitation. the rooms on the ground floor had been partially dismantled, and presented the appearance of having been used for offices, while those on the upper floors had served for private residence, the most completely furnished apartment being that in which louis lay dead. i made my investigations cautiously and quietly, and kept myself prepared for a possible attack. once, when i was taking a match out of the box it slipped from my hand, and though i groped for it in all directions i could not find it. there was no time to waste; every moment that i remained in the house was charged with danger, and i was so beset by terrors springing from the perturbed state of my mind that the flapping of a door, the wind tearing through the street, even the slightest sound which fell unexpectedly on my ears, set all my nerves quivering. the storm had increased in violence. through an uncurtained window on the top floor i saw the snow descending thick and fast, the wind whirling it furiously onward and upward. a wild night, but i had reason to be thankful for it. the conflict of the elements lessened my chances of being caught red-handed. standing by the uncurtained window i felt for my watch; it had not occurred to me before to ascertain the time. the watch was gone, the chain hung loose; but the pocket-book in which i kept my money was safe. the loss of my watch did not induce the suspicion that robbery was the motive for the attack; it must have been jerked out of my pocket in the course of the struggle. it was dangerous to leave it in the house; it was more dangerous to remain. i consoled myself with the thought that i might have lost it in the street, and that it would be found by some person who would be satisfied to retain it without making inquiries. in any circumstances there was no name engraved on it to prove that i was the owner. a faint scratching on the wainscot at this point of my reflections drove my heart into my mouth. so harmless a creature as a mouse was sufficient to inspire terror. i felt my way down to the fatal room, having no means of obtaining a light. it was quite dark now, and my footsteps were dogged by phantoms created by the fever of my blood. i saw the forms of struggling men, watched by glaring eyes and haunted by formless shadows; incidents of the struggle which remained in my memory repeated themselves with monstrous exaggeration; my brain teemed with startling images. i must get from this house of terror quickly; in the white snow the phantoms would fade away. these imaginings did not cause me to lose sight of my purpose to avoid the consequences of my unpremeditated crime. a dual process of thought was going on within me, one belonging to the real, the other to the unreal world. reason cautioned me to arm myself against the chances of detection. such as lay in the stains of blood on my hands and face. the snow would serve me here. from my blood-bespattered clothes the stains could not be removed so easily. i should not have returned to the death-room had i not noticed an ulster coat thrown across a chair which, in the open air, would render me reasonably safe from observation. i groped for the chair, found it, thrust my arms into the ulster, and buttoned it up. all was still as death--and death itself, a muffled figure, my father's son, lay outlined near the opposite wall. the deep darkness did not shut it from my sight. as i made my way to the street door my foot touched an object on the stairs. i stooped and picked up a watch, which i put into my pocket with a feeling of relief at a danger averted. i had a little difficulty in opening the door, and when this was accomplished and i closed it behind me, i did not linger a moment. every step i took from it added to my chance of safety. turning into another street i bathed my hands and face in snow, and removed all traces of the bloody conflict. the storm was now a gale; the wind tore and shrieked through the streets, the snow, whirling furiously into my face, almost blinded me. not a soul was about, and i walked on unobserved, with no idea in which direction i was proceeding. chance favored me, for my hap-hazard wanderings led me to the lime street station. i looked up at the clock--two minutes past four. i took a first-class single to euston, it being safer, i thought, to travel first-class than third. my fingers were numbed, and i was rather slow in picking up my change. "you had better hurry, sir," said the clerk, "if you want to catch the : ." i hurried off, followed by a porter. "any luggage, sir?" "no." "what class, sir?" "first." "not that way, sir," said the porter; "the train goes from this platform." he showed me to the carriage and thanked me for the tip. i had barely time to take my seat before the train started. being the only passenger in the carriage i could, without fear of interruption, deliver myself up wholly to my reflections. needless to say, they were of the most melancholy nature. the incidents in my life which were in some way connected with my present position, rose to my memory with fatal clearness, and formed a chain of events which might have been forged by a spiritual agency bent upon my destruction. an inexorable fatality had attended all my actions, and used them as weapons against myself. in every instance the circumstantial evidence was overwhelming; my own bare, valueless word was the only testimony of my innocence. additional support of this fatalistic theory was supplied in the course of my reflections. taking out the watch i picked up on the stairs, i discovered that it was not my own. there was an inscription on the case: "to louis from his loving mother." in the struggle louis' watch had been torn from his pocket as well as my own, and it was now in my possession. i argued out my position to a possible and logical point. as thus: the body of a murdered man having been found in the house an hour or so after my departure, the attention of the police was immediately directed to the early morning trains for london. at four o'clock, a gentleman, looking flurried and anxious, had presented himself at the ticket-office and paid a first-class fare to euston. he was so agitated that it was with difficulty he gathered his change. he wore a long gray ulster coat and had no luggage--not even a bag, a most unusual circumstance. he betrayed his ignorance of the platform from which the london train started by proceeding in a wrong direction, and was set right by the porter; presumably, therefore, he was a stranger in liverpool. telegrams were at once dispatched to the stations en route, and to euston, to detain the passenger unless he could give a satisfactory account of himself. his explanation affording grounds for suspicion, he was searched, and there was found upon him a watch with the inscription: "to louis, from his loving mother." by his own previous admission, his name was not louis. questioned as to how he came into possession of the watch, he gave no answer. there was also found upon his person a leather sheath, into which a gold-digger's knife with which the fatal wound had been inflicted exactly fitted. when this damning piece of evidence presented itself to my mind,' i felt for the knife. i had left it behind me. the sheath was empty. what now was left to me to do? leave matters to chance, and in the event of the worst not happening, protect myself by every possible means, or give myself up to the authorities? the deed i had done was beyond recall, and would ever stand as a black mark against me. if i could have harbored a hope of proving that it was done in self-defense i should not have hesitated, but this was impossible. for ellen's sake i would adhere, as far and as long as lay in my power, to my plan of silence and secrecy. tortured as i was, i felt relieved when i came to this final decision, and i began to consider how to provide for my safety. to attempt to get rid of the watch and the ulster coat would be attended with danger, inasmuch as there were at present no other means of ridding myself of them than by flinging them out of the window or leaving them in the carriage, and thus courting the attention i desired to avoid. until a safer course presented itself i must therefore retain them. but brain and body were exhausted, and i could not continue my deliberations. lifting the dividing arms between the seats i sank upon the cushions, and closed my eyes in sleep. chapter xxv. the train arrived at euston at half-past eight in the morning. it marked an epoch in my fate. though i showed in my manner neither haste nor hesitation, it was with apprehension that i alighted from the carriage, with relief that i walked through the gates, a free man! the snow was falling in london as in liverpool, but not so heavily, and the wind was less fierce. the weather was dreary enough, and i was in wretched spirits, uncertain what to do and where to go. but in order that my movements should not attract observation it was imperative that my uncertainty should not be apparent; i must act with an appearance of decision. being now in a locality with which i was familiar, i made my way to a thoroughfare where cheap clothes' shops abounded, and at one of these, the shutters of which had just been taken down, i purchased a suit of clothes, an overcoat, and a shirt, without trying them on, and a gladstone bag in which i directed them to be packed. hailing a cab i drove to a turkish bath in euston road, and, bathing there, changed my clothes, as is not infrequently done in such establishments. i then drove to an hotel, where i engaged a room, informing the manager that my stay would depend upon letters which i expected to receive. then i breakfasted, scarcely realizing until i sat down how sorely i was in need of food. refreshed by the meal i retired to my room, where, locking the door, like a criminal engaged in a desperate endeavor to escape justice, i bent my thoughts again upon the perilous situation into which i had been plunged. well did i know that it was a subject which would never leave me. the motive for louis' attack upon my life. let me first fix that definitely. i could think of no other than that of obtaining possession of the few thousands of pounds which, through barbara's death, reverted back to me. my own death proved--whether by natural means or murder mattered not--and leaving (as was rightly presumed) no will, my property would fall to my half-brother louis and his mother, as next-of-kin. undoubtedly this was the motive; but in what way information had been obtained of my arrival from australia, and by whom i had been tracked from the liverpool dock to the deserted street, it was not in my power to fathom. did louis have an accomplice? if so, who more likely than maxwell? the conjecture was natural, but i soon dismissed it. two men would have made short work of me. revenge and greed would have chained maxwell to louis' side, and i should not now be alive and comparatively uninjured. there had been blood on my face and hands, but it had not come from me--a proof that i had not, as i supposed, been attacked with a knife. the only weapon used in the struggle was used by me, and it had only to be established as belonging to me to serve as fatal evidence against me. and yet it was strange that in an attack deliberately premeditated and thought out, my assailant should have had no weapon at his command. there was, however, no certainty of this. knowing; that i was a powerful man he would hardly have trusted to his own physical strength to overcome me. the reasonable presumption was that he had a weapon, which he had either been unable to draw or had dropped in the scuffle. i adopted these conclusions as facts beyond dispute. he had no accomplices, he had a weapon. the former fact added to my chances of safety, for having confided his savage purpose to no one, the secret was confined to his own breast. and he died without revealing it. for the deed itself i did not, i could not, hold myself any more responsible than if i had been attacked by a wild beast. discovered, i must bear the consequences, but i was justified in keeping it secret, and in leaving to others the task of detection. and, indeed, it was now too late for me to take the initiative. my flight and the property in my possession were sufficient proofs of guilt. innocent (it would be argued), what had i to fear? justice never errs--never! what mockery! being guilty, i had done what all guilty men do. what could be clearer? i was now afflicted with the doubt whether i had acted wisely in adopting a policy of concealment. it is in the nature of such a labyrinth of circumstance as that in which i was wandering never to be sure of the road, to be ever in doubt whether the right track has not been hopelessly missed. there are no sadder reflections than those inspired by what is and what might have been. lost moments--lost opportunities--if i had done this, if i had done that! so do we torture ourselves when the fatal issue is before us. but i had chosen my course, and it was now too late to retrace my steps. i deemed it fortunate that in my cable messages to ellen and my solicitor i had not stated the name of the vessel by which i had taken passage home, my intention having been to give my dear one a delightful surprise. i had time for further deliberation, to more fully mature my plans. it would be necessary that my lawyer should be made acquainted with the facts of my arrival, but i need not communicate with him for a few day. my present concern was to learn from the newspapers of the discovery of louis' body, and what was said about it. in the afternoon i went out and bought copies of the evening papers, taking care to show myself only in those thoroughfares where i deemed myself safe. the leading principle of all my movements at this period was caution, and i did not lose sight of it even in so trifling a matter as the purchase of a few newspapers. i evinced no anxiety to read them, but put them into my pocket with assumed carelessness, as though i were not interested in their contents. two or three times i fancied that i was being followed, and i put it to the test, and satisfied myself that my fears had misled me. returning to the hotel, i looked through the papers in the solitude of my room, without meeting with any reference to a liverpool tragedy. neither in the papers of the following day was any allusion made to it. i put the true construction upon this silence. the house in which i had left louis' body was practically untenanted, and no indication of anything unusual had been found in the street. but it would have been folly on my part to suppose that the murder could remain forever undiscovered. the suspense was dreadful. so several days passed by. i removed from the hotel, and took apartments in the north of london. from that address i wrote to my solicitor, requesting him to call upon me in the evening, and asking him to say nothing of my return home. at the appointed hour we were closeted together. after the first few words of greeting he spoke of barbara's death, and said it was a happy release for her and for me. he then spoke of ellen, and i gathered that he had formed a high opinion of her; but he made no inquiries as to my intentions with respect to her. he asked, however, whether it was my wish that she should not be informed of my return. i replied that i wished nobody to know, and he promised to preserve absolute silence. if he felt surprise, he evinced none. "have you seen much of her?" i asked. "very little," he replied. "altogether, i think, not more than four or five times. i send her her allowance every month through the post, and she sends me an acknowledgment by return. am i to continue to send the money?" "yes; it is hers for life, whatever becomes of me." he raised his eyes. "life is uncertain," i added. "and i shall feel obliged by your forwarding any letters to her which i may address to your care, and by your forwarding her letters to any address i may give you. my reasons for concealment are such as i cannot confide to you." "my dear sir," he returned, and i observed a coldness in his tone, "this is purely a matter of business, and it is my practise never to inquire into reasons or motives. all i have to do, as your solicitor, is to carry out your instructions. when you ask for my advice i shall be ready to give it." we then went into accounts, and he said that on his next visit he would bring papers for my signature, which would place me in possession of the money which had been set aside to secure my allowance to barbara. it was in the afternoon of the day on which this visit was to be paid that i carried into execution my cherished design of seeing my dear ellen. an effectual disguise was imperative, and for this purpose i had purchased in another neighborhood a false beard which i had no difficulty in slipping on, unobserved, in a quiet street. thus protected, with my overcoat drawn up to my ears, and my hat shading my eyes, i proceeded to the house in which she resided. i had to wait some time before she appeared. she came out alone, and as she crossed the road she raised her eyes to an upper window, disclosing in that mother's glance the room in which she had left her darling boy. she entered a provision shop a few doors off to make a purchase, and was absent from him not longer than five minutes. her eye was bright, her step elastic, her face wore an expression of content. how sweet, how beautiful she was! oh, cruel fate, that kept me from the shelter of her love, that held me bound in bonds i dared not break! i groaned in agony of spirit. but she was happy--yes, happy with her boy, and through her faith in the man to whom she had given her heart. i should have been grateful for that; and i was; but none the less did i suffer, and sigh for the happiness which i had hoped would be mine. she left the shop, and returned quickly to the house. is there no way, i thought, is there no way? could we not live together in some distant country where there would be no fear of detection? there had not been a word in the papers of the liverpool tragedy; perhaps the danger was already over. i had but to keep the secret safely locked in my breast, to keep a seal upon my lips. surely that could be done. so ran my musings as i walked back to my lodgings, where presently i was joined by my solicitor, between whom and myself the final accounts were soon adjusted. our business finished, he bade me good evening with a noticeable lack of cordiality. what cared i for that, for him, for any one in the world but my dear ellen and my boy? as i took up the thread of my musings my heart cried out for them. why should i, guiltless in intent of crime, be condemned to lifelong misery and despair? it was intolerable--more than intolerable--more than man could bear. i would not bear it--i would not--would not---- hush! what was that? the newsboys were calling out the special editions of the evening papers. "horrible discovery in liverpool! horrible murder! extra special! horrible discovery--horrible murder!" i flew into the street, all my nerves on fire, and purchasing a paper, was about to re-enter the house, when a hand was laid on my shoulder. "my dear old john, how are you?" i turned with a cry of terror, and saw maxwell smiling in my face. chapter xxvi. in sight of this new danger i was speechless. i had no power to define its nature or to examine it with a clear mind, but i could not resist the foreboding that a grievous burden was added to my pack of woe. there was an airy insolence, a light-hearted mockery in maxwell's voice which betokened that he had reached a haven for which he had been searching; and i knew from old experience that this was a sign of evil. "you don't appear to recognize me, dear john. am i so changed, or is it that you have not recovered from the shock of the loss we have sustained? our poor barbara! lost to us forever. she had her faults, but she has atoned for them, and is now in a better world. let that be our consolation. find your voice, old man, and bid me welcome." "you are not welcome," i said, endeavoring to keep command of myself. "you have brought misery enough upon me. no living link gives you now a place in my life." "true; but dead links are stronger and more binding. how they drop away, those who are dear to us! one burnt to death, another murdered in cold blood!" everything swam before me. the paper rustled in my trembling hand; the shouts of the newsboy: "horrible discovery in liverpool! horrible murder!" fell upon my ears with a muffled sound, though he was but a few yards away, charged with dread import. i knew that maxwell continued to speak, but i did not hear what he was saying till he shook me by the shoulder. "you are inattentive, dear john. the latest murder the newsboy is calling out fascinates you. i see you have bought a newspaper off him; they are selling like wildfire. all over london they are screaming--'murder, murder; horrible murder!' but you are shaking with cold. it will be better--and safer--to converse in your room, where we can read the news you have waited for so long. how true is the old adage, 'murder will out!' after you, brother-in-law. the host takes the lead, you know. tread softly, softly!" he spoke with the air of one who holds the man he is addressing in the hollow of his hand, but he was always a braggart. in the midst of my terror and despair that thought came--this man maxwell was always a braggart. i would hear what he had to say, and speak myself as little as possible till he was done. thus much made itself intelligible to my dazed senses. so i led the way into the house, and up the stairs to my room, maxwell following at my heels. safe within, he turned the key gently in the lock. "we can't be too careful, john, when life and liberty are at stake. and you would have sent me away--me, your only friend, the one man in the world who can save you from the gallows!" "you speak in enigmas," i managed to say. "nonsense, brother-in-law--nonsense. drop the mask; you are not in the criminal court; the police are not yet on your track. your voice is husky. are you still a teetotaller? yes? astonishing. drink this glass of water--it will clear your throat. but, as my host, you will allow me something stronger. if i ring the bell the slavey will come, i suppose. i must trouble you for a few shillings, john. i am in my chronic state, dead broke, as usual. bad luck sticks to me, but i would not change places with you for all that. my pockets are empty, but my neck is safe. what does the paper say about it?" he took it from my hand, and took also the purse i had thrown on the table. the servant had answered the bell, and was waiting in the passage. he opened the door, and giving her money sent her for a bottle of brandy. "any other lodgers on this floor, john? no? that's fortunate. the less risk of our being overheard. what name do you go by here? your own? no? what then? tush! you can't conceal it from me; i have but to ask the slavey or the landlady. there is no need even for that, except by way of confirmation. shall we say fletcher--john fletcher? a great mistake. will tell fatally against you if they run you down, or if you make me your enemy. you should have kept to fordham; it would have been a point in your favor. poor louis! he wasn't half a bad sort of fellow; but you never loved him. you almost killed him when you were boys together, and you only waited your opportunity to finish him. well it's done, and badly done. i don't set myself up as a particularly moral or virtuous party, but my hands are free from blood. ah, there's the slavey with the liquor, and i'm perishing for a drink." i kept my eyes from him while he helped himself and drank; my fear was lest some look in my eyes should betray me; my cue was to ascertain from his own lips the extent of his knowledge, and how he came by it. his thirst assuaged he re-locked the door, and drew a chair close to that in which i was sitting at the table. then he spread the newspaper upon the table, so that the revelation i dreaded could be read by both at the same time. "shall i read it aloud, john?" "no." "as you please." we bent our heads over the paper, and this is what i read. i copy it from the cutting i have kept by me since that night: "horrible discovery in liverpool." "a horrible discovery was made last night in an empty house in rye street, liverpool. a couple of years ago the house was taken on lease by a corn merchant, who used the lower floors for storage, and let the upper floors for residence. five or six months afterwards the tenants left, the reason being that they considered the building unsafe. then the merchant furnished the first floor, and occasionally slept there. at the end of the year he had no further occasion for it, and he gave the keys to a house agent, with instructions to let the whole or part of the house to the best advantage, in order that he might be relieved of some portion of the rent, for which he was responsible. for eleven months it remained uninhabited, and then a gentleman giving the name of mollison offered to take it for a month to see if it would suit him to become a permanent tenant. the agent closed with the offer; a month's rent was paid in advance, and the keys delivered over. it may be mentioned that mr. mollison was a stranger to the agent, who saw him only once, the arrangement being made at the first interview between them. a london reference was given, and the agent received a reply in due course which he considered satisfactory. meanwhile, although the month's rent had been paid, the house seemed to remain uninhabited, no persons being seen to enter or issue from it, but there is some kind of circumstantial evidence that on one or more occasions the new tenant was there, either alone or with companions, there being a back entrance in a blind alley which after sunset was practically deserted. candles and lamps have certainly been burnt in the room on the first floor facing the front entrance, but these were not seen from the street, for the reason that well-fitting shutters masked the windows, and that over the shutters hung heavy tapestry curtains. "for some time past the liverpool police have been seeking a clue towards the discovery of a gang of coiners who were supposed to be carrying on their unlawful occupation in that city, and two or three days ago their attention was directed to this house, which, from its situation and circumstances, offered facilities for these breakers of the law. a close watch was set upon the front and back entrances, but no one was observed to enter the premises. there being a likelihood that coiners' implements, if not the coiners themselves, might be found in the house, it was decided to break into it last night. this was done at midnight, but no implements of any kind were found. the efforts of the police, however, were not unrewarded, and a horrible discovery was made. in the passage from the street door to the first flight of stairs traces were seen of some frightful struggle having taken place there. proceeding upstairs were further traces of the struggle, and upon the floor of the first floor front room--the shutters of which were closed and the curtains drawn across--was discovered the body of a man who had been ruthlessly murdered. it was not a quite recent murder; at least a fortnight must have passed between its perpetration and discovery. the room was in great disorder. the furniture was thrown in all directions, and proved the desperate nature of the struggle. upon the face of the victim a heavy table had fallen or been dashed, with the evident intention of rendering the features unrecognizable. "that this object was accomplished will not, perhaps, increase the mystery which surrounds the affair, for the clothes of the murdered man should provide means of identification. no cards or documents of any kind were found upon the body. in one of the pockets was an empty purse. a watch chain was found on the floor, but no watch. the chain appeared to have been torn away, and the absence of watch, money, and jewelry points to robbery. death was caused by a stab in the heart, but a careful search through the house failed in the discovery of the weapon. the house agent states that the deceased is not the man to whom the place was let, of whom he has furnished a description to the police, but he seems not to be confident as to its correctness. from the stale remains of food and the lees of liquor at the bottom of glasses and bottles in the apartment it is presumed that the murder was committed thirteen or fourteen days ago, probably on the night of the snowstorm which did so much damage in the city. the police are busy investigating the horrible affair, which is at present enveloped in mystery. a subsequent additional statement has been made by the house agent, who says, though still speaking with uncertainty, that there are points of resemblance in the body to the man to whom the house was let." maxwell finished the reading of this, to me, fatal news, before i had, and when i looked up from the paper he was smoking one of my cigars, to which he had helped himself from my cigar case. what now remained was to hear from him how he had learned of my connection with the murder. he was sitting with folded arms, a glass of liquor before him, puffing at the cigar, and with his eyes fixed on my face. "rather startling, john," were his first words. i returned his gaze without answering, and so we sat for several minutes, staring at each other. at length he spoke again. "i am waiting, john." "for what?" i asked. my voice was strange to me; it was as if another man had spoken. "well, i thought you would like to make some comment on this newspaper report of the discovery of the crime. i do not wish you to incriminate yourself. no need for that. any fool looking at you now, would jump at the right conclusion. we know who the murdered man is; the police don't, and may never discover. it depends upon me." "upon you?" "upon me. i hold the threads, and the evidence upon which you would be convicted. i make a shrewd guess that there is other evidence in your possession which would bring the guilt home to you." he rose and went into my bedroom; i followed his movements with my eyes, and made no effort to arrest them. presently he returned. "i have taken the liberty to look over your clothing. there is no mistake about one article--louis' ulster. why do you keep it by you? man alive, it is fatal--fatal!" "how do you know it is his ulster?" "well, it may not be, but the last time i saw the poor fellow--let me see, it was about five weeks ago, here in london--he wore one suspiciously like it. of course, it is easy of proof. do you deny it was his?" "i deny nothing; i admit nothing." "politic, but weak and useless. i will make another shrewd guess. the missing watch--louis's watch. a search warrant would probably find it on your person or in these rooms. it may be difficult to identify unmarked clothing--i beg your pardon, you were about to speak." i drank a second glass of water to clear my throat. "it does not state here," i said, pointing to the newspaper, "that the clothing is unmarked." "no, it does not, but i assume it, for if his handkerchief, or shirt, or any of his underclothing, bore his initials, the fact would be at once made public to expedite discovery. the reasonable conclusion, therefore, is that there are no initials on his clothing to assist the police. a fortunate thing for you. l. f. it would be all over the country. some woman with whom he is connected--not his mother--would say to herself, 'l. f., louis fordham.' for the best of all reasons the man she is interested in does not make his appearance. away she goes to the police, examines the clothes, examines the body, and declares the name of the murdered man." "why would not his mother do this?" "again, for the best of all reasons. she is dead." "my stepmother dead!" "as a doornail. you are in luck. alive, and the body proved to be that of her son, she would argue it out. 'who was my son's bitterest enemy--who has always been his bitterest enemy? who but john fordham?' she would swear to bring the murderer to justice; she would leave no stone unturned; she would hunt you down, john; she would tell the story of your life, with embellishments, in the public court, and make your very name infamous. lucky for you, therefore, that she is dead. as i was saying, it may be difficult to identify unmarked clothing, but not so with a watch. it is almost a living witness, and found in your possession would send you to the gallows without a tittle of other evidence. what on earth made you run off with it, and what on earth made you leave your own behind? your health, john. talking is dry work. wouldn't you like to ask me a few questions?" "tell me what you know, and how you know it. i cannot ask questions." "anything to oblige, and in any way you please. i will a round, unvarnished tale deliver. these are capital cigars of yours; you were always a good judge of tobacco. well, then, to begin, with the prefatory remark that one part of it might be called a chapter of accidents. i won't dwell much on the past; it isn't by any means an agreeable subject, and i am quite aware that there was no love lost between us. but one thing i will say--i think we were all unjust to one another, all a little too hard on one another, making the worst of everything instead of endeavoring to smooth it over. you had provocation; barbara had hers. she got the idea of another woman in her head, and it drove her to excesses. you can't deny that she was mistaken in her idea; another woman there was, another woman there is--and then, there's the child. that sort of thing is enough to drive a wife mad, so you can't call yourself blameless for poor barbara's death, because you see, john, one thing leads to another. by a process of reasoning you might be proved to be the direct cause of your wife's death, and therefore her murderer. no doubt you can justify yourself to your own satisfaction, and i am not going to argue with you, but as barbara's brother it is due to her memory that i should say a few words on her behalf. of course you know, through your solicitor, that when you disappeared i tried to discover your whereabouts. you were too clever for me, and for some time i was at fault; at length i found out--never mind how--that you had gone to australia. then came the question, had you taken the other woman with you? i found an answer to it. you had not." i pause here to say all the time maxwell was speaking he was watching my face, as if for confirmation of certain of his statements. i did not observe it during the interview; it occurred to me afterwards when, in a calmer mood, i thought of what had taken place between us. he continued: "of your life in australia i know little or nothing. it is more than likely you made a fortune there; you were always a lucky devil, with a handful of trumps in your hand that ensured a winning game. even now--with me for a partner--the game is not lost. now let us see what brought you back to england. it was not, perhaps, because you were tired of australian life and longed for london pleasures, though that motive is sufficiently strong. but there was barbara to reckon with. what an encumbrance! too bad altogether. (your way of thinking, john; it is your point of view.) by a fortunate fatality--your view again, john--the encumbrance is removed. barbara is dead; the road is cleared for you. the winning game is in your hand. you lose no time; home you come--to marry the other woman. am i right? silence gives consent." he threw away the stump of his cigar and lit another. "now begins the chapter of accidents. on the th of november i happened to be in liverpool; business called me there for just one day, and of all days in the year just that day. in the night my business finished, and not to my satisfaction (all my life i have been robbed right and left, but that's a detail which will not arouse your sympathy), i walked back to my hotel in no very agreeable frame of mind. what a night it was! you remember it, john--you will remember it all your life. it was the most awful snowstorm in my recollection--a record. my way to my hotel lay through rye street. the wind cut me in pieces, the snow blinded me; i give you my word i could not get along. i was literally blown back every step i took, actually and literally blown into a house the street door of which was open when i was trying to pass it. i stood in the passage to recover my breath, and then going to the door saw the madness of endeavoring to reach my hotel through such a frightful storm. i did the sensible thing. "'here is a house,' thought i, 'the street door of which has been accidentally left or blown open; the inmates will surely accord me shelter for the night; if not a bed, at least a seat by the fire." "i was so nipped and frozen with cold, that after closing the door, it took me some time to get my matchbox from my pocket and strike a light, for the passage was in intense darkness. then the fear came over me that i might be mistaken for a burglar. so i called out at the top of my voice without receiving a reply. thinking it very strange i made my way upstairs to the first floor, and entered a room in which there was no light. i called out again, and still received no reply. i must make the people hear, thought i, and i left the room and ascended the second flight of stairs. to cut a long story short, i went all over the house, and came to the conclusion that it was uninhabited. but i had observed in the room on the first floor signs of some person having been there, but whether recently or not i could not judge without further examination. so i groped back to that room, and by good luck happened to put my hand on a small piece of candle on a sideboard. this i lighted, and you will understand how startled i was at what i saw. "the furniture seemed to have been violently hurled in all directions, a table at the further end of the room was upset, and an object which i did not immediately distinguish lay beneath it. my first impulse was to fly from the house; there had evidently been a desperate fight in the room, and i might be implicated in what had taken place. upon second thoughts i became reassured. i could account for every minute of my time during the day and night, up to the moment i had entered this strange house; and my curiosity led me to ascertain the nature of the proceeding which had brought about such confusion. that done i could proceed to the police station and report what i had seen. i will not attempt to describe my horror when i saw the body of a dead man beneath the table, and when, examining the mutilated features, i discovered that the murdered man was louis fordham. it makes me sick to think of it. i must have another drink." he tossed off a full glass of brandy and water, and rose and paced the room. i sat in silent agony, waiting for what was to come. "let me make an end of it as quickly as possible," he said. "louis lay there before me, stone dead. who was the murderer? at whose cowardly hand had he met his death? the newspaper report says that his features were unrecognizable, but though his face, when i saw it, was dreadfully disfigured, i could not mistake it. then, the fortnight that has elapsed may have made some change in him; then again, there may be some exaggeration in the report. such sensations are always made the worst of; newspaper writers like to pile up the agony. i searched for some evidence that would help to bring the guilt home to the murderer. it is curious, john, that they generally leave something behind that proves fatal. you did. the first thing i found was the knife with which the deadly stab had been inflicted. there was blood upon it. now, why should the discovery of that knife have directed my thoughts in your direction? a kind of lame explanation can be given, but it doesn't quite account for it. perhaps it was what we call providence, perhaps it was because the knife was not one which a man living in england ordinarily carries about with him. it was such a knife as gold-diggers use, and carry in a sheath. do you see the connection? a gold-digger's knife. you have been in australia, and most likely on the goldfields. a steamer from australia had that very day arrived at liverpool. that formed a sequence, which i accepted all the more readily because i had no cause to love you. i am frank, you see; i am always frank. i detest duplicity. "continuing my search i found a watch. it was like a watch you used to wear in happier days, but of this i could not be sure. however, as i have said, the history of a watch can be traced. it was not such a watch as louis was in the habit of wearing. still continuing my search, i found a matchbox, and on the lid the initials, j. f. they stand for john fordham. they stand also for john fletcher. did it strike you when you assumed that name that the initials were the same? your having been in australia, the arrival of an australian vessel, the gold-digger's knife, the watch, the matchbox with the initials, j. f., formed a complete chain. i said to myself, 'my brother-in-law, john, is the murderer.'" he had spoken all through with zest, and as he went on his enjoyment of the story he was relating seemed to increase. having now reached a dramatic point he paused again to give it greater weight. "what now remained to me to do?" he continued. "to denounce you--to put the rope round your own neck? undoubtedly that would have been the right course, and had i acted upon the impulse of the moment the whole country would be howling at you for a cold-blooded monster, who had since boyhood nursed his vindictive hatred of his brother, and only waited a favorable opportunity to barbarously murder him. for it was a murder of the most savage kind, john; poor louis' body was frightfully battered and bruised. but second thoughts deterred me. you were related to me by marriage; disgrace to you meant, in some small measure, disgrace to me; i might, after all, be mistaken in the conclusions i had drawn; it would only be fair, before proceeding to extremities, to give you a chance of saying a word in your own defense; and, though it may be hard to believe, i have really a sneaking regard for you. upon the top of this came the reflection that you might invent some sort of story, upon the strength of which you would give yourself up and take the chances of the law. a voluntary surrender would go far in your favor, and you might issue from the trial a free man, or if not free, with a nominal punishment for manslaughter. it was perhaps foolish of me to allow these considerations to prevail, but it was the course i adopted. so, bearing away with me the articles which prove your guilt, i stole from the house unobserved. the next day i was in london. a week passed by, and no news relating to the murder appeared in the papers, nor was there any notice of your giving yourself up. this deepened my conviction that you were the murderer. innocence proclaims itself, guilt hides its head. and every hour that was passed fixed the rope more firmly round your neck in case of discovery. then i set myself to the task of finding you, and here you behold me with my round, unvarnished tale delivered. i think i am entitled to ask a question. innocent or guilty, john?" "both," i answered. "ah. you have heard my story. let me hear yours." i related it to him without distortion or exaggeration. as i related the events of that fatal night i was filled with dismay at the weakness of the only defense i could make. conscious of my innocence, i recognized that my silence and concealment had made the web in which i was entangled so strong that there was no human hope of escape. at the conclusion of my tale maxwell shook his head and smiled. "it won't do, john. you will have to invent something more plausible than that." "you don't believe me?" "ask yourself whether a jury would. the clumsiest lawyer would sweep away such a cobweb. 'your story true,' he would say, 'why did you not come forward immediately and relate it?' your answer,' i was afraid it would not be believed.' 'exactly,' he would say, 'it would not be believed.' i see the jury putting their heads together; i hear the judge pronouncing sentence, 'to be hanged by the neck till you are dead, and may the lord have mercy on your soul!' no, no, john, it will not hold water. capital cigars, these of yours; wish i could afford to buy a box or two. well, it may be. i am a very worldly man, john; i sigh for the fleshpots of egypt. you would like to know, perhaps, how i found you out. it wasn't easy. i may thank your lawyer for the information." "did he give you my address?" "oh, no. i have held no communication with him. he hasn't a high opinion of me, i am afraid. believing that you were in london, and that you had business to transact with him in connection with barbara's money, which ought to have been settled absolutely upon her, and which, by her will, would have fallen to me--we were very short-sighted not to have insisted upon the settlement--i kept watch upon him, and followed him, among other places, to this house. he paid his second visit to you this evening, but i was not sure you were here till you made your appearance at the door to purchase a newspaper. the rest you know." "is it the first time you have seen me?" "the first time since you left england." it was a great relief to hear this, and to be convinced--as i was--that he spoke the truth. i was afraid he might have followed me, earlier in the day, to ellen's lodgings. he would not spare her; whether he intended to spare me i had yet to learn. it was to this end i now spoke. "having tracked me down," i said, "what do you intend to do?" "it depends upon you, john," he answered. "i am disposed to stand your friend." "in what way?" "by keeping silence. it is just on the cards that the body may not be identified, in which case the secret is yours and mine. if i don't appear against you, if i destroy the evidence in my possession, you are safe." i did not stop to consider. my one, my only thought, was how to secure ellen's peace of mind. the means were at my disposal, the opportunity was offered to me, and i availed myself of it. it was cowardly, the confession i have made now might as well have been made then, but i did not foresee the use which maxwell made of the power he held over me. he needed money; i gave it to him. he needed more money; i gave it to him; more, and i still gave it to him. at first i submitted to his exactions without remonstrance, but as they became more oppressive i offered resistance. then he threatened, and i became a coward again. the honest course was before me and i stepped aside. at all hazards i should have taken it, and submitted to the ordeal. too late i see my error. alas, those fatal words--too late! how often have they wrecked life and honor and happiness; how often have they brought misery and shame not only upon the cowardly doer of wrong, but upon those who trusted and believed in him! and yet it was to save ellen and my son from the misery and shame which my punishment would have brought to them that i did as i have done. i have no other excuse to offer. again and again has maxwell pointed out that the arguments he used were not fallacious, and in this he was right. up to the present moment the body of louis has not been identified. for a few weeks after the discovery of the murder the newspapers continued to give their readers such information as was supplied by the police--meagre and unsatisfactory enough, and leading to no solution of the mystery--until another tragic sensation thrust it from the public mind. all this time i have been in hiding, with maxwell ever dogging and robbing me; all this time i have been sending letters to ellen in the care of my solicitor, making false excuses for my detention in australia; all this time i have been receiving letters from her, every line in which proved the faith and trust she had in me, and her confidence that what i did was right. the sweetest, the dearest letters! with eyes over-brimming i have read and re-read them--read them with shame, with terror, with remorse, with the distracting thought eternally in my mind, "if she but knew--if she but knew!" would it have been better for me had louis' mother been alive? this reflection has frequently occurred to me. she loved him and hated me, and this love and hate linked us together in her mind. his disappearance would have brought into play the full power of her malignity and love. she would have moved heaven and earth to unravel the mystery, and i do not doubt that she would have dragged me from the frightful haven of unrest in which i have been lurking. would it have been better for me? perhaps. not much that maxwell says deserves to be remembered, but certain words he spoke have burnt themselves into my heart. "innocence proclaims itself; guilt hides its head." it is not always true. proclaiming myself guilty i protest my innocence of evil intent. and now i am ruined and a beggar. maxwell's exactions have brought me to this pass; all that remains is ellen's pitiful allowance. maxwell, by some means, has discovered this, and has repeatedly threatened to denounce me if i do not hand it over to him. if i were weak enough to yield he would devise some new form of torture when that small sum was squandered. it shall not be. hope is dead; my life is desolate. despairing days, sleepless nights--i live in purgatory. the end has come, my confession is made. solemnly i declare that every word i have written is true. dear ellen, forgive me, comfort me, console me! part ii. chapter xxvii. related by paul godfrey, private detective. it is not often that a private detective--that is my occupation, and i am not ashamed of it--takes up a case for love, but that is what i did when i took up the great rye street murder. i don't deny that professional pride had something to do with it, for any man would have been proud to be employed in putting together the pieces of so celebrated a mystery. it was love that gave me the command, and that is not the least curious part of an affair which filled the newspapers for weeks, and puzzled the cleverest heads in scotland yard. the way of it was this. a few years ago business took me to swanage, where i met miss cameron, her christian name, ellen. she and her mother (since dead) had gone there for mrs. cameron's health. i was, and still am, a bachelor, and i fell in love with miss cameron. i proposed and was not accepted, and i left swanage a sadder, but i can't say a wiser man. proverbs and popular sayings don't always apply. in such circumstances some men are angry; others pretend not to care, and say there are as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it. others are sorry for a week or so, and then see another girl who takes their fancy. it was not the case with me. i knew i had lost a prize, and that it would be a long time before i got over it. between you and me i don't think i have got over it to this day, and that, perhaps, is a thing i ought not to say. it is down, however, and there it shall remain. before i bade miss cameron good-bye in swanage i couldn't help saying that if it was ever in my power to serve her i would do so willingly. i hadn't the least idea that i should ever be called upon, and i should have called the man a fool who said, "one of these days you will find yourself engaged in a murder case that has set all the country ringing, and in which the happiness of the woman you love is at stake." clever writers say it is the unexpected that always happens. it happened to me. on the morning of my introduction into the case i was sitting in my office, idling away my time. i had nothing particular to do, and was waiting for something to turn up in the way of business. it seemed as if i should not have long to wait, for my clerk came in and said that a lady wished to see me. i brisked up. ladies don't come to a private detective for nothing. "divorce case," thought i. "what name?" i asked. "name of cameron," my clerk answered. "lady didn't have a card." i jumped up, all my nerves tingling, and told the lad to show the lady in. i didn't wait for him to do it, though; i pushed past him, and there stood ellen cameron, the woman i loved and had never forgotten. i held out my hand with a smile, and she took it with a sigh. her sad face showed that she was in trouble; her lips quivered as she asked whether i could give her a few minutes of my time, and her hand was cold as ice. "if any one calls," i said to my clerk, "i am busy." and i led miss cameron to my private room. "you want my advice," i said, drawing a chair up to the table; "sit down and tell me all about it. how did you find me out?" "i saw your advertisement in the paper," she answered; "and i thought you would be willing to assist me." the newspaper in which i advertise twice a week was on the table. "you thought right," i said, and would have said more if i had not observed that her eyes were fixed with fear upon the newspaper. i looked over her shoulder, and saw that she was gazing upon a paragraph headed, "the rye street murder." it will clear the ground if i give the substance of this paragraph, which i had already read with great interest. on the previous evening john fordham presented himself at the marylebone police court, and had charged himself with the murder, stating that the murdered man was his half-brother, that the name (up till then unknown) was louis fordham, and that he had acted in self-defense. according to his tale this john fordham landed in liverpool from an australian vessel on the night of a great snowstorm, and being anxious to get to london without delay, was walking to the lime street station to catch a train. passing through rye street, a man rushed out of a house and attacked him. a desperate struggle ensued, in the course of which he was dragged into a house and up the stairs into a room on the first floor, where he fell down in a state of unconsciousness. when he came to his senses he saw the body of the man by whom he had been attacked, and was horrified by the discovery that it was his half-brother, louis fordham. distracted, and scarcely knowing what he was about, he left the house and took a morning train to london, where, living under an assumed name, he had been in hiding ever since. he made no disclosure of the motive which had induced him to give himself up after this lapse of time. his statement was taken down by the inspector; who, of course, asked him no questions. this was the bare story, and i attached no credence to it, having made up my mind at once that john fordham was guilty, and that he had been driven by remorse to take the last step. "what will be done to him?" asked miss cameron, in a trembling voice, pointing to the paragraph. surprised at the question i drew the newspaper away, saying it was of no importance what became of this john fordham, and that she had better proceed to the business she had called upon. "but what will become of him?" she asked again. i shrugged my shoulders, and to satisfy her said he would be brought up at the police court, and would be remanded. "and then?" "he will be remanded two or three times to enable the police to make inquiries, after which he will be committed for trial." "and acquitted?" she exclaimed, clasping her hands, and with such an appealing look in her eyes--as though i were the judge who was trying the man--that i held my breath and made no reply. the suspicion that flashed upon me--that she had come to ask my assistance in this very murder--staggered me; but i steadied myself, and inquired if it really was the case. "yes," she answered. "you believe him guilty?" "from what is stated here i can come to no other conclusion." at this she fairly broke down, and i sat staring open-mouthed at her tears and misery. dropping her veil over her face she tottered to the door, and was about to leave when i stopped her. "no, miss cameron," i said; "you must not go away like that. you have come to ask my assistance, and i will give it you. there may be some mystery here which needs unraveling. i place myself honestly and unreservedly at your service. but you must be absolutely frank with me; to enable me to serve you nothing must be concealed--understand, nothing." let me confess, though the stronger reason for this offer was to be found in the interest i took in miss cameron, in my sympathy for her, that i was urged thereto by a less powerful motive. my professional pride was aroused by the suggestion of a mystery which i might be the means of bringing to light. to a man like myself, nothing more attractive could present itself. she turned to me with a gasp of thankfulness. "i will conceal nothing," she said. "you will condemn me, perhaps, but i must not allow that to stand in the way. there is no other man i can trust, there is no other man that can serve me, there is no other man who can prove john fordham to be innocent of the crime of which he accuses himself." "you believe him to be innocent." "to believe him otherwise would be to lose my faith in the goodness of god. this will explain all. when you have read it you will know what john fordham is to me, and whether there is any chance of proving his innocence. you have used the word 'mystery.' there is a mystery here which only a man in your profession can solve, which only a true friend would take the trouble to solve. how thankful, how thankful i am that i came to you!" she took a large packet from beneath her mantle, and placed it in my hands; then, giving me her address, and saying she would always be at home, or would call upon me at any time i might appoint, she left me to the perusal of the manuscript. but i did not apply myself to it immediately, beyond glancing at the opening words. thinking i might be in time to see john fordham brought up at the police court, i posted off to marylebone, and there i found the case proceeding. fordham was in the dock, a pale, worn man, with an expression on his face of one who had undergone much suffering. he looked like a gentleman, but i did not allow that to influence me, for i put no trust in appearances. there are men standing high in public esteem whose faces would condemn them if they were charged with a criminal offense; and guilt itself too often wears the aspect of innocence. asked if he had anything to say, fordham replied that he hoped to be able on his trial to make a statement, which would be accepted in extenuation of his crime; until that time arrived he would be silent, but if he could assist the police in any way, he was ready to do so. this unusual reply awoke within me a stronger interest in him, and i studied his features carefully; there was stamped upon them the expression of a man who had prepared himself for the worst. the police asked for a remand, which was granted, and he was taken back to the cells. as i issued from the court a cab drove up, and miss cameron alighted; she had taken a four-wheeler, and was too late for this preliminary examination. i hastened to her, and told her what had taken place. "shall i be allowed to see him?" she asked. i said there would be no difficulty, but that it would be best to consult a solicitor. she mentioned the name of one who had acted for fordham for several years, and i advised her to go to him. she thanked me and drove off, and i returned to my office to read john fordham's confession. if i were to attempt to describe at any length the impression it produced upon me i should fail. i am very fond of fiction, and i have read most of the leading novels of my time, but i doubt if i have ever read anything in which a man's trials and sorrows were more powerfully portrayed. i do not speak in a literary sense, for in that respect i am a poor judge, but the effect of this confession upon me was startling. i seemed to see the man's heart and soul, and sometimes i lost sight of the fact that i was perusing a story of real life. the kind allusion to myself and the thoughtful suppression of my name affected me strongly, and john fordham's description of the character of ellen cameron showed me what a treasure i had lost. but i should have been a despicable fellow to bear him any animosity for having won the love i sought, and i thought none the worse of him or ellen cameron for having thrown their lots together. so much for my private feelings and for the small part i had played in miss cameron's life. i set them aside entirely, and threw myself heart and soul into the mystery which surrounded the murder. it was plain enough to me that the confession was worthless as evidence; a clever writer might have invented and written it for the purpose of exculpating himself, and by fordham's own admission he was a writer of great power. i had read the articles he wrote on drunkenness, and i knew that the pictures he presented were drawn from life. but if they were cited at his trial they would tell against instead of for him, and would serve to discount the speech he might make in his defense. the mystery must be grappled with in a more practical manner, and i was the more determined to grapple with it sensibly and with as little sentiment as possible, because, when i finished the confession i was convinced that fordham was quite truthful in all he had set down. it would be hoping too much to hope that the judge and jury would think so, but i might succeed in discovering something that would lead to a verdict of manslaughter, and the passing of a light sentence; and it was not altogether impossible that a verdict of complete acquittal might be compassed. in which case what becomes of the censure passed by fordham's solicitor upon the class to which i belong? i cast the word "vermin" in his teeth. he and others are glad enough to avail themselves of our services when they need them. fordham says that to establish his innocence (or bring about his acquittal, which i suppose means the same thing) a miracle is needed. not at all. if it is done, common sense will do it. so, to work. how many persons in the drama? leaving out ellen cameron, who is not connected with the mystery, six. mrs. fordham, john fordham's stepmother. dead. louis fordham. dead. barbara, wife of john fordham. dead. annette, the french maid. disappeared. no mention of her. maxwell. alive. where was he? john fordham. in prison. there remained, therefore, only one person upon whom there was a likelihood of laying hands. maxwell. i must see him. john fordham would be able to give me his address. i decided to seek an interview with john fordham early in the morning. but would it be easy to find maxwell? he was accessory after the fact. john fordham seems not to have thought of that. maxwell, with better knowledge of the law, undoubtedly thought of it. natural conclusion--maxwell would keep out of the way. no reason why he should not be tracked. it was something in my line. about the house in rye street, in which louis fordham met his death, and the circumstances of the fatal struggle. was it likely that louis alone knew of the house and had no confederates? not at all likely. who were his confederates? i put the name of one on paper--maxwell. good! a ray of light. like looking through a chink in the floor. i saw possibilities. who took the house, and for what purpose was it taken? certainly not for the purpose of killing john fordham. i dismissed the idea instantly. the confederates, even if they knew the name of the vessel in which john fordham was traveling, could not have known that it would arrive at such and such an hour on such and such a day; could not have known that he would walk through rye street on his way to the railway station; could not have known that a great snowstorm would arise to cloak their proceedings; could not have timed the moment that he would pass the house. natural conclusion that the meeting between him and louis was accidental, and that during the struggle, louis was as little aware as john of the identity of his assailant. and here i was confronted with those elements of the affair which added to john fordham's danger. his taking louis' ulster to hide the stains of blood on his clothes, his accidental picking up of louis' watch, believing it to be his own, his assumed name, and his remaining in hiding for so long a time. to all these i had satisfactory answers, but no jury in the world would entertain them. my hopes fell almost to zero. i was setting these details down in the order of their occurrence. of the strange discoveries i subsequently made i will make no mention till the proper time arrives. before i went to bed i posted a comforting letter to miss cameron, in which i said much of my hopes and nothing of my fears. on the following day i paid a visit to john fordham. he looked at me suspiciously, and was not satisfied with my friendly professions until i related the manner of my introduction into the business. when i mentioned miss cameron's name his eyes became suffused with tears. "what do you expect to do for me," he asked, "when my own evidence proves my guilt?" "do you believe yourself to be guilty of murder?" i asked in return. "no," he answered. "would it not be a good thing to convince others of that?" "indeed it would," he said, but shaking his head at the same time, as though it were not possible. "at all events," i continued, "it is your clear duty to do all you can to remove the stigma from those you love. there is a mystery to be solved; at miss cameron's request i have undertaken the task--with what success remains to be seen. if you will have confidence in me it will make the task all the easier. surely it is not for you to throw difficulties in the way of your friends." "forgive me," he said. "i am ungrateful. i will tell you anything you wish to know." "first, as to maxwell. had he any suspicion of your intention to give yourself up?" "i do not think so." "it will come upon him as a blow. can you give me his address?" "i do not know it." "since your arrival in england have you never visited him?" "never." "nor written to him?" "no." "he visited you frequently?" "two or three times a week for the purpose of obtaining money from me." "he wrote to you?" "occasionally." "was there no address on his letters?" "none." "did it not strike you as somewhat singular?" "i never gave it a thought." "and of course you did not examine the postmarks on the envelopes?" "i did not." "did you destroy his letters?" "not all. there may be one or two in a desk in my lodgings." i scribbled an order which he signed. it gave me authority to enter his rooms and look through the desk, the lock of which he informed me was broken. he then furnished me with a precise description of the personal appearance of maxwell. "your wife's maid, annette, had another name?" "her full name was annette lourbet." "have you any idea what has become of her?" "no." "i want you now to take your mind back to the night of the struggle. it appears very strange to me that in the course of the fight you should both have ascended a flight of stairs. much more likely to have stumbled down than up. can you account for it?" "no." "when you finally left the house, louis fordham's body was lying at the end of the room opposite the door. can you be sure of that?" "i am quite sure." "the table was in the middle of the room?" "yes." "some significant details have escaped your notice. do you not recollect that in the newspaper reports it was stated that louis' body was beneath the table?" he started at this, and i perceived that he was becoming more interested. "i recollect it, but it did not strike me at the time, my mind being occupied by but one thought. louis was dead. i had killed him." "it appears strange to you now?" "very strange," he answered, thoughtfully. "in order to argue this out," i continued, "i will suppose that when you left the house, you were mistaken in your belief that louis was dead. shortly afterwards he came to his senses. getting upon his feet he staggered about the room in the dark till his hands touched the table. in his endeavors to reach the door the table was upset." "yes, that explains it." i smiled at his readiness and simplicity. "but the fairer assumption is that he would have fallen upon the table, not under it." he stared at me; a light seemed to be breaking upon him. in an unsteady voice he asked, "what deduction do you draw from that?" "that another person entered the house after your departure; that another person hurled the table--a massive oak table, according to the newspaper reports--upon the body in such a way as to purposely mutilate the features." "another person did enter," said john fordham. "i know. maxwell." "yes, maxwell. he happened, as he said, to be passing through the street on the night of the snowstorm, and found the street door open." "i have read the particulars in the document you sent to miss cameron. do you believe his statement?" "what reason is there for disbelief?" he asked, "when he was acquainted with so many things which i thought no one knew but myself?" "which you thought. it would, perhaps, be more correct to say that you accepted his statement without thinking. mr. fordham, it is not my habit to throw discredit upon coincidences; at the same time i do not accept them blindly, and i decline to accept this. in an inquiry such as this upon which i am engaged my mind is open not only to probabilities but to possibilities; everything humanly possible must be taken into account. let one of the reins slip through your fingers, and you upset the coach. maxwell says he found the street door open; you state that when you left the house you closed it behind you. i range myself on your side. the street door was shut." "then to enter the house maxwell must have had a key?" "exactly. he had a key, and he and your half-brother were accomplices. from your experience of them, probable or possible?" "probable. but this will not exculpate me." "i do not know where it will lead, but i intend to follow it up if i can. by the way, where was your wife buried?" "in the highgate cemetery," he answered, with a look of surprise, "where my father lies. we have a family grave there." "your stepmother must have been buried in that grave." "very likely--but these are idle questions." "not so idle as they seem, perhaps. another question, more to the point. maxwell states that he found three articles belonging to you in the rye street house--your watch, your gold-digger's knife, and your matchbox. did he return them to you?" "no. he retained them as evidence against me." "i shall be astonished if they are ever brought against you. my impression is that he will keep out of the way. i may not have time to see you again this week. if you have anything to communicate--if anything occurs to you that may assist me--write to my office." i proceeded immediately to john fordham's lodgings, where he was known as john fletcher, and had a chat with the landlady. she spoke in the highest terms of her lodger; he was polite and civil, "a perfect gentleman," and gave no trouble; but she knew "all along that there was something on his mind." he always paid in advance, and there was a fortnight of his last payment still to run. in his desk i found only one letter from maxwell; the envelope had been destroyed. it was friendly, and contained nothing incriminating. there was a reference in it to "low spirits" from which "dear john" was suffering, and the writer, who signed himself "m.," could not understand why john fordham should be so melancholy. "cheer up, old fellow," said "m.," "i shall come and see you tomorrow, and shall try to put some life into you." i understood why the letter was so carefully worded; maxwell was guarding himself against the chance of his correspondence falling into other hands. before i left the house, with the letter in my pocket, i inquired of the landlady whether she had seen maxwell and had spoken to him. "oh, yes," she answered. "mr. maxwell is a very pleasant gentleman, and often asked me if i knew what made mr. fletcher so low-spirited, but of course i couldn't tell him." maxwell had evidently acted with great caution. a few hours afterwards i got out at the liverpool station. my business in that city did not take me long, but it led to something of the greatest importance. in fordham's written story of his life which he had sent to miss cameron he says he is uncertain whether the man who attacked him rushed out of a courtway or a house. there is no court near the house in which the struggle took place, therefore that point is settled. the house is still uninhabited, and i had no difficulty in obtaining admission. mentally following the course of the fatal struggle between john and louis fordham from the street door to the room on the first floor in which louis' body was found, i was struck by the peculiar formation of the staircase. there were two sharp turns in it, one of them being nearly an acute angle. that two men striking blindly at each other, and fighting for life or death in dense darkness, should have ascended this staircase, seemed to me exceedingly improbable, and the doubt presented itself whether john fordham's account of the conflict was to be depended upon. when a man's sober senses are at fault, he is apt to be misled by his imagination. was it so in this instance? i examined the oak table in the room. it is of unusual size, six feet square, exceedingly heavy, and set on four massive legs. all the pressure i could bring to bear upon it was ineffective in tilting it, and i came to the positive conclusion that it could only have been overturned by a powerful effort from beneath. this proved that neither john nor louis was responsible for the position in which the table was found by the police. i was convinced that a third person was implicated in the tragic affair; but though it was inevitable that my suspicions should point to maxwell, i did not pledge myself to it. there might have been a fourth. my interview with the agent who had let the house to a "mr. mollison" for a month upon trial opened up the field of conjecture, and was the means of leading to a direct clue--in fact, to two. he had seen mr. mollison on one occasion only, and he gave me such a confused and bungling description of that person that i felt it would be foolish to place any dependence upon it. in relation to this description i put but one question to him. "did you observe a scar upon mr. mollison's forehead?" "no," he answered, after a little hesitation: "i do not think there was any scar." we then spoke of the london reference which mr. mollison had given him, and he produced the letter he had received in reply to his own. it was signed "r. lambert," and addressed, adelaide road, n. w. from subsequent inquiries i learned that this house had been inhabited for only a few weeks during the last six or seven years, and then not by a person of the name of lambert. now, i do not profess to be an expert in handwriting, but placing f. lambert's letter by the side of maxwell's, which i had taken from john fordham's desk, a certain resemblance (by no means perfect) forced itself upon my attention. accompanied by the agent, i went to the office of an expert, who partially confirmed my suspicion, but declined to pledge himself to it without a more minute examination. i left the letters with him, and directed him to forward them to london with his report. this was one of the clues i obtained during my brief stay in liverpool. the more important one (which led to a startling result) was obtained in the following manner: on our way from the office of the expert in handwriting to that of the agent, the latter mentioned that, although he had seen mr. mollison only once, a clerk in his employ had met him in the street after the house was taken. without delay i interviewed this clerk, who admitted that he had seen mr. mollison a fortnight after the agreement was signed. having taken no particular notice of that gentleman, he could furnish me with no better description of him than his master had supplied, except that he looked like a gentleman. "which was more than the man who was with him did," he added. "oh," i said, "he was not alone?" "no," was the reply, "he was walking with a friend." "with a friend?" i said. "though one was a gentleman and the other was not?" "well, i suppose they were friends, because they were laughing at something." "what did the other man look like?" "a common sort of man; but he was dressed well enough. i can't say he seemed easy in his clothes." "what made you notice him particularly?" "as i came up to them mr. mollison said, 'you did it cleverly, jack.' 'oh, i can show 'em a trick or two,' said the man he called jack; and then they burst out laughing. that made me turn round and look at the clever one." "what did you notice in him?" "that his face was pock-marked, and that he had a club foot." "was he tall or short?" "short." "did they see you looking at them?" "i think so, because just then they turned the other way." "and did you not follow them?" "what should i follow them for?" i pressed him hard, but he could tell me nothing more. all the way back to london my thoughts ran chiefly on this club-footed, pock-marked jack. such a business as mine brings a man into queer company, and, without boasting, i may say that i am acquainted with half the bad characters in london. some years ago i was a detective in the police force, but thinking i could do better, i said good-bye to scotland yard, and started a private office of my own. i like a free hand, and i got it and have done well with it. jack. with a club foot. a short man, who did not seem easy in good clothes. his face pock-marked. what better marks of identification could a detective desire? i was on the threshold of discovery, and yet some perverse streak kept me from seeing it. not till the train was a mile from st. pancras did i suddenly cry aloud--for all the world as though the name flashed itself out on one of the advertisements in the carriage--"jack skinner!" yes, jack skinner. he answered the description perfectly. he was short, he was pock-marked, he had a club foot, he was accustomed to wear fustian. i was really annoyed with myself that i had not thought of him at once. but it happens so sometimes. jack was his proper name. i dare say. skinner was a nickname, bestowed upon him for certain peculiarities by which he was distinguished. the house-agent's clerk heard him say, "i can show 'em a trick or two." i should think he could. no man better. but for all that, he hadn't done any good for himself. jack and i were old friends. i nicked him once as clean as a whistle, and got him three months. "you're too much for me, guv'nor," he said with a grin. he had a wholesome fear of me, but it was a long time since i had set eyes on him. the board was before me, with a lot of pieces on it. my next move was to hunt jack down. i will not waste time by relating how i did it. a fortnight it took me before i had him under my thumb. i don't mind confessing (i didn't tell him as much) that i was not prepared for the disclosures he made. they took me fairly by surprise, and let a lot of light upon the rye street mystery. i shall let jack speak for himself. the story he related shall be told in his own words. part iii. chapter xxviii. jack skinner makes a statement. look 'ere. it ain't a plant, is it? i'm a bad lot, i know, about as bad as they make 'em, but when it comes to committin' a murder, it ain't in me to do it. if i 'ad the 'eart to kill a man, i ain't got the pluck--wot's that yer say? i 'ad a 'and in it? i'll take my oath on my mother's bible i 'adn't. i don't remember my mother--i wos chucked on the world wery young, guv'nor--and i don't know as she ever 'ad a bible, but that don't make no difference, do it? if she did 'ave a bible, and it was afore me now, i'd take my oath on it. i can't speak fairer nor that, can i? i wos there--i don't deny i wos there when it wos done but i 'adn't no more to do with it than the babby unborn. if it wos the last word i 'ad to speak with my dyin' breath, i'd swear i didn't 'ave no 'and in it, and i couldn't prevent it no more nor you could, guv'nor, bein', as i dessay you wos, a 'undered mile away at the time. why, it come upon me like a clap of thunder, and upon mr. louis, too, pore chap, and there 'e wos--good lord! i can 'ardly bring my tongue to say it--there 'e wos, layin' on the flore, stone dead, and the blood porein' out of 'im. 'ere, i can't stand it no longer, i can't. from that night to this i've never 'ad a easy minute. 'underds and 'underds of times since then i've seed 'im layin' afore me as 'e laid that night. it wos only yesterday, while i wos playin' a game o' pyramids, and the red balls wos scattered all over the table, that all of a suddent there wos the pore chap layin' on the green cloth in the middle of a dozen large, round clots o' blood. it was only a wision, i know, like any number of others i've 'ad, but it turned me sick, and put me off my play so that i couldn't pot a ball all through the game. never a green field i see but there 'e is, layin' in the middle of it, with the grass all red about 'im. it ain't a pleasant sight, guv'nor, is it? it sets me all of a tremble, and over and over again i've sed to myself, "make a clean breast of it, jack, and bring it 'ome to the man wot done the deed. you can't be 'ung for it, you can't, jack," ses i to myself, "cos your 'and wos never raised agin 'im. make a clean breast of it, wunst and for all, and get rid of the wisions that's a 'aunting of yer day and night." and now, on the top o' that, you come to me, guv'nor, and ses, "yer've got to tell me everythink, jack, about that there murder. prove to me yer didn't do it, and not a 'air of your 'ead shall be touched. scot free yer shall go, and for wunst in your life yer'll 'ave the satisfaction of bein' on the right side o' justice." ses you to me, "keep yer mouth shut, and yer'll find yerself in a 'ole. queen's evidence is your game, jack, if yer know wot's good for yerself." well, guv'nor, when i put alongside o' that wot i've read in the papers about somebody givin' of 'isself up for the murder, it makes me think i'd best accept yer orfer. guv'nor, i do accept it. 'ere's my 'and. but there's somethink you've got to do fust. you've got to take yer gospel oath that yer'll be as good as yer word, and that i sha'n't be 'urt for wot i didn't do. you're willing? well, take it. that's bindin', mind yer, and don't forgit yer'll be burnt in 'ell fire if yer've swored false. 'ave yer got anythink else to say afore i start? i don't want to be meddled with once i begin, 'cause it'd be bound to muddle me, and i should git off the track. i must tell everythink i know about myself and my pals and mr. louis? it's a large order, but all right. a clean breast i've promised to make, and a clean breast it shall be. 'ere goes. there wos three of us, outside of 'im that's gone. maxwell (that's the only name i knowed 'im by), and morgan (that's the only name i knowed 'im by), and me. they called me jack, and if yer don't mind i'll call the other louis. it saves a lot of time to drop the misters. there ain't much to tell about myself up to the time i fust set eyes on maxwell and morgan. i never learnt a honest trade, and in course i 'ad to do somethink for a livin'. i've been a billiard marker, a race-course runner, a ticker snatcher, a crossin' sweeper (not longer at that nor i could 'elp, it wos playin' it so low), a tout for sharps, a decoy for mugs, a thimble-rigger, a tipster, a nigger minstrel, and i don't know what else. wunst i wos that 'ard up that i carried a punch and judy for a showman mean enough to skin a flint; 'e wouldn't pay me wot wos doo, so me and toby took our 'ook together. there wos a week i run arter cabs from the railway stations on the chance of a job to carry the luggage in. yer can't play it much lower nor that, can yer, guv'nor? the things i could tell 'd fill a book if i 'ad the gift to set 'em down. if i'd been eddycated up to it i might 'ave done well among the swells, i'm that neat with the pasteboards. i can shuffle 'em in any way i want, kings at top, aces at bottom, in the middle, anywhere you like. my fingers wos made for it. set down at all-fours with me, and i'll tell yer every card in yer 'and. with three peas and a thimble i've earnt many a thick 'un. and now yer've got my pickcher. if open confession's good for the soul, i ought to feel comfortable about mine. it wos billiards as fust brought me and maxwell and morgan together. i wos marker at the jolly ploughboy under a false name, and when they come in i wos practising the spot stroke, no one else bein' in the room. i'd made thirteen spots, and wos well set for a run, but the minute i set eyes on 'em i began to kid, and missed a lot of winnin' 'azards. i wosn't born yesterday, yer know. they stood watchin' me a little till i laid down my cue and arst 'em if they wanted a game. they looked at each other, and larfed. "o-ho," sed i to myself, "'untin' for mugs." "if he ain't 'ere at four o'clock," sed maxwell to morgan, "we needn't egspect 'im till five." "that's so," sed morgan. they waited till five minutes past four, but the party they wos egspectin' didn't turn up. "we'll secure the table," sed maxwell, and arst me 'ow many i'd give 'im in a 'undered. "'ow many 'll yer give me?" wos the question i put to 'im. "that's cool," sed 'e, "a billiard marker wantin' points." "i ain't been long at the game," sed i, by way of apology. "we want the table till seven," sed maxwell, "to play with a friend wot's comin' to see us, so you and me 'll 'ave a game even." "i'll try my luck," sed i, and we set to work, morgan bein' so obligin' as to mark for us. "let's 'ave a bet on it," sed maxwell. "i'm agreeable, as fur as a shillin' goes," sed i; "it's as much as i can afford to lose." it wos a funny game. 'e 'adn't taken 'arf-a-dozen shots afore i sor 'e wos kiddin', missin' easy shots, and makin' difficult ones, and pretendin' they wos flukes. but i could kid as well as 'im, and i don't think 'e suspected my play 'arf as much as i suspected 'is. we passed each other over and over agin; now 'e wos a'ead, now me. morgan seemed to be amused at the game, and wos wery free with 'is remarks. at 'arf-past four maxwell wos eighty-two, and i was twelve behind. "let's make it two 'undered," 'e sed, "and double the stakes." "all right," sed i, "we ain't dabs either of us." we went on with the game, scorin' wery slow. at ten minutes to five we wos " all," neck and neck. maxwell looked up at the clock. "our friend 'll be 'ere in ten minutes," sed 'e; and i'm blest if 'e didn't set to work and score fifty-eight off the balls, within two of the game. "ten to one in shillin's you lose, marker," sed morgan, when 'is pal commenced 'is big break. "done with you, sir," sed i, but i didn't like the bet a bit when i sor wot maxwell could do with the balls. luckily for me 'e missed 'is last shot, a loser off the white, and i knew it wos all up with me if i give 'im another chance. so i pulled myself together, and played up in real earnest. i wanted sixty to win, and i run 'em out jest as the clock struck five. they looked staggered a minute, and then they bust out larfin', and threw me my winnin's. as i wos pocketin' the twelve bob with a innercent look (the money come wery 'andy jest then, guv'nor) the friend they wos waitin' for pops 'is 'ead in. it was pore louis. i can't say i ever took to 'im, 'e wos that stuck up, but when a cove comes to sech a end as 'e come to it sorftens the 'eart. the minute i sor 'im i spotted wot they wos up to. maxwell and 'im wos old friends accordin' to their talk, but morgan wos a new pal, and it wos 'im as tackled louis at billiards. louis had plenty of money to sport; e'd been backin' winners, and 'ad pulled off a double event, two thousan' to twenty. it made my mouth water to 'ear 'em talk about it. maxwell 'ad been nicked the other way through backin' losers. "wot does it matter?" 'e cried. "every dawg 'as 'is day. it'll be our turn next." "you think yerself clever, you do," sneered louis. "you've only got to touch a thing to make a mess of it." "you're the clever one," sed maxwell, but i sor 'e didn't like the slap. "wot do you think?" said louis, rattlin' the money in 'is pocket. morgan and 'im played pyramids at fust, a dollar a ball. louis fancied 'isself a bit, and they kep' praising 'is good shots, but 'e wos as much a match for the man 'e wos playin' with as a mouse is for a cat. it didn't take me long to see that morgan could give louis four balls out of fifteen, and beat 'is 'ead off. but the way 'e kidded! i never sor anythink like it. 'e let louis win three games right off, and then they played a match at billiards, five 'undered up. maxwell backed louis, and they 'ad any amount of larfin' and charfin' over the game. it wosn't my place to say anythink; it's a marker's business to 'old 'is tongue if e' wants to keep 'is place. besides, wosn't i as bad as they wos, and wouldn't i 'ave won money of louis if 'e'd give me 'arf a chance? not that morgan took any of 'is tin that afternoon. 'e won five pound, and so did maxwell, and 'e chuckled over it as if 'e'd won a 'atful. they went away when the game wos over, and didn't come into that billiard room agin while i wos marker there. "i didn't stop long, it's true. there was a devil of a row one night, and a man who knew me rounded on me and called me a thief. while the row wos goin' on in come the landlord with 'is fightin' potman, and i was bundled out neck and crop. it ain't easy to get a honest living, guv'nor. i wasn't flush of tin, when i lost my situation; 'arf a quid was all i 'ad, and that was soon blooed. then i 'ad sech a spell o' bad luck that it drove me fairly wild. windsor races wos on, and i thought i'd try my luck there, so i borrowed a old pack o' cards, a deal board, and a couple of tressels, and tramped it to the course, startin' in the night to get there in time. i give yer my word i wos 'most starved, and as for my togs--well, i 'ad to tie the soles of my boots to the uppers with bits of string. between the races i set up my table, and begun to show my card tricks. unfortunately i ain't wery good at patter, and you know, guv'nor, no one better, wot a long way that goes with a crowd. i tried to make clever speeches, but couldn't, and the consekence wos that the day wos nearly over, and eightpence was all i managed to screw out o' the mangy lot. a tanner o' that went in 'ard-biled eggs, and bread, and a go o' stooed eels, and there wos i with tuppence left to take me back to london. it wos saturday, and there wos no chance of gittin' anythink to-morrer. a tight 'ole, wasn't it? a life like mine ain't all beer and skittles, i can tell yer. "down-'earted as i wos, i went on with my tricks, and never did 'em better in all my life. but it wos no go; them as gathered round wouldn't part. i wos beggin' of 'em to chuck in their coppers when who should i see among 'em but maxwell. 'e didn't speak to me jest then and 'e didn't give me nothink; presently 'e went away, and come back with morgan, and they stood watchin' me shuffle the pasteboards. then they looked at each other, and sed somethink i didn't 'ear. morgan walked off, leavin' maxwell be'ind. 'e took me aside. "yer down on yer luck," said 'e. "never 'ad sech a cussed run in all my born days," sed i, showin' my rags. "you're clever with the pasteboards," sed 'e. "wish i could git my livin' out of 'em," sed i. "per'aps yer can," sed 'e. "if i orfer yer a job will yer take it?" "will a duck swim?" i answered. 'e scanned me all over, jest as if 'e was measurin' me for somethink, and sed, "you ain't over-partickler, i suppose?" "me over-partickler!" i cried. "that's a good 'un. wot sort of a job?" "pickin' feathers," he said, as serious as a judge. "wot sort of bird?" i arst. "pigeon," he answered. "a fine fat 'un." "i'm yer man," sed i, and then 'e took a card from 'is pocket, and told me to call at the address to-morrer at one o'clock. 'is rooms wos on the fust flore, 'e said, and i was to march straight into the 'ouse and up the stairs, and say nothink to nobody. as 'e wos tellin' me this morgan came runnin' up to 'im and whispered somethink about a 'orse that wos goin' to run in the next race, and they made off together. "mean cuss!" thought i, for the least 'e could 'ave done wos to give me a bob or two on account, seein' the state i wos in. 'owsomever, the chance of a job cheered me up a bit. when the races wos over i looked about for maxwell or morgan, but they wosn't in sight, and there wos nothink for it but to shoulder my traps and tramp it to london. not a pleasant journey, guv'nor, with the rain comin' down in torrents. past five in the mornin' when i got back, and i wos that 'ungry i could have eat a brick if i could 'ave got my teeth in it. i ain't tellin' yer this to egscuse myself for wot i did afterwards, only i want yer to know that i wos never in my life so desperately 'ard up as i was that night when i footed it from windsor to london through the peltin' rain. i wouldn't like a dawg belongin' to me to go through wot i did, and if it 'adn't been for a woman givin' me the best part of 'er mug of corfey at a night stall at two in the mornin' it's my opinion i should 'ave 'ad to throw up the sponge. the address on the card was newman street, soho, and i wos there to the minute. up i limped--i'd run a nail into my foot--to the fust flore, as maxwell told me to do, the street dore bein' on the swing. if anybody 'ad opened it to me they'd 'ave slammed it in my face, and small blame to 'em, i wos sech a scarecrow. the landin' was so dark that i could 'ardly see, but my 'and touched a knocker, and i used it free. maxwell 'imself answered it, and i follered 'im to 'is room. "by gum," said 'e, "you've got yerself up for egshibition! 'ave yer spent that twelve bob yer won of us at billiards?" "give me somethink to eat," sed i. "i'm 'arf starved." he took a pie of some sort out of a cupboard, and i made short work of it. "beer or whisky?" 'e sed, when i wos arf way through. "both," i answered, and 'e laughed as 'e put a bottle o' beer and 'arf a tumbler of whisky afore me. i finished the beer and put the whisky atop of it. it warmed me, i can tell yer. "now for business," he sed; "but fust go into that bath room, and wash the dirt off your 'ands." i got 'em as clean as i could, and then 'e sed, "there's a pack o' cards on the mantelshelf. let's 'ave a game o' piquet." i stared at 'im, and sed i didn't know the game. "i'll learn it yer," he sed. "you beat me at billiards; i want to see if yer can beat me at piquet." "i ain't got no money to lose," sed i. "we'll play for nuts," sed 'e with a wink. 'e told me all the pints of the game, and in 'arf-a-hour i 'ad it at my fingers' ends, and knew as much about it as 'e did 'isself. "d'yer want me to play on the square?" i arst. "i want to see 'ow yer can palm the cards," he answered. "i told yer at windsor yesterday that the job i 'ad to orfer yer wos to pick feathers. a fat pigeon, with feathers of gold. do yer twig?" "yes," i sed. "i can palm the pasteboards pritty well myself," he went on, "but i ain't allus to be depended on. morgan's a muff, 'is fingers are all thumbs. 'old up yer 'ands. good--as steady as a rock. come on; it's your deal." we played, and i 'ardly ever dealt myself a 'and without four aces, or four kings, or a point of sixteen or seventeen from the ace. in less than a hour i won nigh upon a thousand points of 'im. 'e watched me close, but 'e couldn't find out 'ow it wos done, and 'e said with a sour grin that i wos the prince o' sharps, and that 'e wouldn't like to play me for money. then 'e let me into the secret. there wos a young feller 'im and morgan wos wery intimate with; 'e 'ad money of 'is own, and 'ad won more at the races, where the three of 'em went together. they'd won a little off 'im at cards, but they 'ad a notion e' wos gettin' suspicious of 'em, though they wosn't sure. per'aps 'e wos, per'aps 'e wosn't. their scheme was to introduce a fourth gentleman who'd jine the game. "you're the fourth gentleman," sed maxwell. "me!" i cried. "why, i've only got to open my mouth to show wot i am." they 'ad considered that. i wos a common, ignorant man, with a good 'eart--i wos to be sure to 'ave a good 'eart--as 'd made a fortune on the goldfields. i wos to lose money as well as the pigeon, and that'd make 'im less suspicious. the difference atween me and 'im wos that he paid in good money and i paid in flash notes. "one night," sed maxwell, "arter yer've lost double as much as 'im yer'll set down with me while 'e's in the room, and in an hour or two yer'll win back double as much as yer've lost. that'll egg 'im on, and 'e'll try to do the same with me or you--it don't matter which--and then we'll clean 'im out. we'll 'ave every shillin' 'e's got. we play for ready money--no infernal cheques--and when we've done with 'im 'e can go to the devil. see?" i did see. it wos a artful plot, and like enough to turn out jest as 'e calkylated. "wot am i to gain by it?" i arst. "a reg'lar swell rig-out," 'e answered, "fine togs, a gold watch and chain, and a ring, and two pound a week to keep yerself. when the job's finished yer'll get a fourth of the winnin's." i didn't throw away the chance--not me! fine togs, a gold watch and chain, a ring, and two pound a week--why, it wos a reg'lar slice o' luck, with me starving, and not knowing where to git my next meal from! "i'll jine yer," said i. "'ere's my 'and on it. who's the pigeon?" "d'yer remember that friend of our'n as morgan played billiards with at the jolly ploughboy?" arst maxwell. "send i may live!" i cried. "if that's 'im we're done! 'e'll know me agin as sure as guns." "i'll eat my 'ead if 'e does," sed maxwell. "you 'ad a mustarsh and a pair o' whiskers, and you've got 'em now. shave 'em off, and slip into yer new togs, and yer own mother wouldn't know yer." he wos right. yer wouldn't believe the difference it made in me. when i looked in the glass i thought i wos some one else. louis never suspected, and maxwell sed i played my part tip-top. 'e acted square as fur as 'is fust promises went. the watch and chain wos only silver gilt, and the ring was abyssinian gold and sham stones, but the togs wos all right, and so wos the two quid a week. i told 'im if 'e did me in the end when the job was finished, i'd make it warm for 'im. i've come across some bad 'uns in my time, but i never come across sech a scoundrel as that maxwell. 'e'd 'ave skinned 'is own mother if 'e could 'ave made anythink out of it and if 'e could 'ave put the skinnin' on a pal. for that's where 'e beat us--'e knew 'ow to make 'isself safe if we wos blown on. louis wos mad on 'orse-racin', and so wos all of us, for the matter of that, but 'e took the cake. we went all over the country, whenever there wos any sport on, and yer may bet yer life we never give our own names nowhere. i think that louis stuck to us because 'e wos mad to git back the money 'e'd lost to maxwell and morgan; 'e wos regularly pricked, and sometimes went for maxwell like a mad bull. but maxwell kep' cool; 'e only lost 'isself once, and you'll 'ear of it presently. 'e couldn't keep wot 'e won; 'e dashed it down on the race-course, and wos more orfen stone broke than not. 'e wos allus goin' to win a pot on the next race, and it never come off--never once. 'e knowed sech a lot, yer see. that's wot's the matter with most of us. we're so clever. there wos 'ardly a night as we didn't end up with a gamble. louis kep' on droppin' 'is money, and the more 'e dropped the closer 'e stuck to us. i dropped twice as much as 'e did, but then it made no difference to me, one way or the other. when 'im and me wos pardners agin maxwell and morgan, we lost four times out of five. it wos allus settled before'and if 'e wos to win or lose, and the cards wos dealt accordin'. if they'd been dealt fair 'e'd 'ave lost, but not as much. 'e reckoned 'isself the best player in the crowd, and it 'appened 'e wos the wust. a barn-door fowl wosn't in it with 'im for crowin'. "never say die," i sed, when we wos reckonin' up our losses. "luck must turn. maxwell don't play a bit better nor you or me. i'll git all my money back, and a bit over, afore i've done with 'im." it turned out that way 'cause it wos part of the plot. we'd jest come to liverpool, and it wos bitter weather. it was snowin' all day and freezin' all night, and the racin' 'ad to be postponed. "we'll finish the job 'ere," sed maxwell. so as to keep ourselves to ourselves a 'ouse 'ad been taken near the docks; it wos only 'arf furnished, but that didn't matter. morgan took it for a month on trial, and give the name o' mollison. the agent arst for a reference, and one wos sent 'im from london, i don't know by who. we took possession without anybody noticin' us. there wos a room on the fust flore pritty well stocked with chairs, tables, sideboard, lamps, lookin' glass over the mantelpiece, and all that. we smuggled in grog, and wine, and cigars, and when we built up a big fire the room looked cosy and comfortable. we used to go there after dinner, and smoke, and drink, and play. one night i told louis that i meant to have a dash at maxwell single-'anded. "we ain't lucky as pardners," i sed, "i'm goin' to tackle 'im alone." by that time louis 'ad dropped a matter of three thousand quid, accordin' to 'is reckonin', and 'e wos mad to git it back. i never found out where the money went to; maxwell wos always swearin' 'e 'adn't a shillin'. i'll do 'im the justice to say that 'e threw it away right and left at the races, but 'e never showed us any account of 'ow 'e got rid of it. "yer'll give me my revenge, yer'll give me my revenge!" that wos allus louis's cry when 'e settled up. "give yer yer revenge!" said maxwell. "in course we will. we don't want yer tin." and perhaps the next time louis 'ud win two or three pound. that wos the way 'e wos led on. maxwell knew 'ow to play 'is fish. well, maxwell took up my challenge to play single-'anded, and we set down to our match. louis and morgan wos playin' the same game--piquet it wos--in another part of the room, but 'earin' the big talk atween me and maxwell they left off and come to our table. "d'yer mind my lookin' over yer 'and?" sed louis to me. "not a bit," i answered. "i'm winnin', and i ain't sooperstitious." in course i palmed the cards, but it'd 'ave took a cleverer chap nor louis to ketch me. i ought to be rollin' in money. "rubicon'd agin!" cried maxwell with a oath, dashin' 'is fist on the table. "keep yer 'air on," i said with a larf as i picked up the cards. "i'll give yer a chance. what d'yer say to two-pound points?" "done with you," sed maxwell, wery eager. "'ow much 'ave yer won?" arst louis. "count it up for me," sed i, givin' 'im the paper where the score was marked down. "it's over a thousand," 'e cried with blazin' eyes. "it's my night," i sed. "didn't i tell yer? i've got 'im on toast." "'oller when yer out o' the wood," growled maxwell. we went on playin', and i kep' on winnin'. over two thousand wos now the figger. louis could 'ardly keep still. there was no mistake about 'is bein' in dead earnest, but as for us--well, we wos all larfin' in our sleeves at 'im. it didn't turn out a larfin' matter in the end. it was gittin' late, and i orfered to leave off. "wot d'yer mean?" cried maxwell. "do i ever orfer to leave off when i'm winnin'? let's 'ave six games at five-pound points. it'll take a denced sight more nor that to break me." "would yer?" sed i, lookin' up at louis. "let me take yer place," sed 'e; "i'll play 'im for any points 'e likes." "no," i answered, "i'll see it out with 'im." so we resoomed the game, and at the end i'd won a matter of five thousand pound. didn't i wish it was real instead o' gammon? "now i'm on welwet," sed i, grinnin' and rubbin' my 'ands. "fortune o' war," sed maxwell, takin' out a pocketbook stuffed with flash notes. "who cares? my turn yesterday, yourn to-day." "plenty more where that comes from, i 'ope," sed i. "don't you be afeerd," sed maxwell, "if yer won ten times as much off me yer'd git every farthin' of it." "that's a comfort," sed i, countin' out the money as 'e passed it over to me. the wonder wos that louis took it all in, but i never did see sech a migsture as 'e wos. one minute 'e could be as cunnin' as a fox, and the next as soft as butter. there was somethink atwixt 'im and maxwell i never got to the bottom of, a sort o' relationship through a sister as wos dead, and they talked sometimes of some one abroad, and sed if they got 'old of 'im they'd make it warm for 'im. but all that wos nothink to me. eg if louis 'ad 'ad a chance of 'andlin' the flash notes as i counted 'em out it'd been all up the orchard with us, but we took care that 'e never at any time 'ad one in 'is fingers. 'e wos short-sighted, and at a little distance the flimseys looked all right. the notes of some o' the country banks, yer know, ain't as spick and span as bank of england paper, but there' a lot o' that sort knockin' about in the ring, and the bookeys pay 'em out free to them as 'll take 'em. the biggest part of the wonder wos that louis should 'ave believed we carried sech large sums o' money about us. 'e wos jest the sort o' chap that's took in with the confidence trick, and you read of 'em pritty orfen in the papers. there's more o' that goin' on nor people think of. for one case as comes afore the beak there's twenty that's never 'eard of. if ain't a bad payin' trade, i can tell yer. as i pocketed the notes maxwell arst if i'd play 'im another match to-morrer. "no, no," cried louis, all of a tremble; "it's my turn now. yer've got to give me my revenge!" the fish wos 'ooked. "that's only fair," sed i. "you 'ave a shy at 'im, louis." "i will--i will!" 'e cried. "if 'e's game." "game!" sed maxwell. "we've seed a lot of each other, and when did yer see me show the white feather? but i'm too tired now to go on playin', i want to git to bed." "to-morrer night, then," sed louis. "it shall be make or break." "all right," sed maxwell. "we'll begin at nine." "agreed. at nine o'clock." so it wos settled, and wot we'd been workin' for so long wos comin' off at last. chapter xxix. at nine o'clock we all met together in that room, and if any one 'ad seed our faces 'e'd 'ave guessed there wos serious business on 'and. it comes over me now to say as there wos a green carpet on the flore, and i dare say that's the reason why i sor the wision of louis yesterday on the billiard table, and why it comes so orfen when i'm crossin' a green field. i never noticed the color o' the carpet afore that night. we settled it atween us--that is, me and maxwell and morgan did--that when the night's work wos over we'd clear out o' liverpool immediate, and make tracks separately for london, where we wos to meet at maxwell's rooms. and wot a night it wos! the snow wos comin' down enough to blind yer, and it wos as much as a man could do to stand agin the wind. "all the better for the job we've got to do," sed maxwell; "nobody'll notice us goin' in or out." morgan and me set down at one table, and louis and maxwell at another. our chairs wos placed so as we could see the others without turnin' round. we didn't pay much attention to the game we wos playin', though we pretended to be in earnest over it. but we couldn't keep our eyes off the other two. we wosn't as careful as we might 'ave been, for all of a sudden the man as wos bein' rooked cried savagely: "wot are you fellers watchin' me for?" "we ain't watchin' yer," growled morgan. "you are, and yer know you are," sed louis. "keep your eyes off me, or i'll wash my 'ands of the 'ole crew." "'ow am i to take that, louis?" arst maxwell, speakin' very quiet. when 'e spoke like that, with the look on 'is face 'e 'ad then, 'e wos a dangerous man to tackle. "take it as yer please," louis answered. "you and me 'ave knowed each other a goodish long time now, and i've been thinkin' it ain't been much in my pocket. from fust to last it's been a case o' shell out, shell out." "oh, that's it, is it?" sed maxwell, getting white about the gills. "yes, that's it," sed louis. "let's see. wot am i winnin'?" he counted up. "six 'undered. shall we leave off?" "it ain't wot we arranged," sed maxwell, pullin' in 'is 'orns. "i say, you fellers--louis is right. we don't want none o' your interference, so keep yerselves to yerselves." "and i'll 'ave no lookin' over our 'ands," said louis. "some people don't mind it. i do. stick to yer own table, and show us yer backs." "wot are yer makin' a row about?" arst morgan. "we don't want ter 'ave nothink to do with yer." upon that we turned our chairs so as we couldn't ketch sight of the other table, and it wos only when louis and maxwell spoke out that we could 'ear what wos goin' on. "i sha'n't be sorry when it's over," whispered morgan to me. "more shall i," sed i. if louis'd carried out 'is threat of washin' his 'ands of us then and there, it'd been better for 'im. but 'e couldn't guess wot wos going to 'appen no more nor we could. we all went on playin', and sometimes the room wos so quiet that you could 'ave 'eard a mouse walk across the flore. we wosn't surprised when louis sed 'e'd won six 'undered; it wos part of the plot to let 'im win at fust. it's an old trick, yer know. from chance words we caught now and then, we knew the luck 'ad turned, and that it wos maxwell now as wos winnin'. "that makes five 'undered. eight fifty. double the stake if you like. thirteen 'undered. another rubicon. twenty-four 'undered. luck wos agin me last night; looks as if it wos turning. your deal. i've got six from the king! good! and sixteen's twenty-two. and four queens, ninety-six." it wos maxwell as spoke from time to time, and we knew that things wos goin' on the way they'd been planned to. later on, from wot we could make out, louis got tired of piquet. 'e cussed the cards, and cussed 'is luck, and cussed the company 'e wos in; and then proposed to play cribbage, the best two games out of three, and go double or quits. maxwell, arter objectin' to sech a 'eavy stake, give in, and they got out the cribbage board. "it'll soon be over," whispered morgan. i nodded, and he looked at my watch. i can't be sure o' the time, but i think it wos about eleven o'clock. "fust game to me," sed maxwell. they went on with the second, when all of a sudden louis cried, "stop!" so loud that we 'eld our breaths, wonderin' wot was comin'. "wot's the matter now?" arst maxwell, as gentle as a lamb. "wot's the matter now!" screamed louis. "you're an infernal scoundrel, that's wot's the matter. i've done with yer--and my mother shall be done with yer. i sor yer palm them two fives. and look 'ere--and 'ere! the cards are marked. that's 'ow you've been swindlin' me all along!" morgan put one of 'is 'ands on mine, and the other on 'is lips, as much as to say, "let 'em alone. we shall make it wuss if we put our spoke in." "you're out of yer senses," sed maxwell, without raisin' 'is woice. "i've won the money fair." "you're a common cheat," cried louis, "and you lie!" "don't say that agin," sed maxwell. "you lie--you lie--you lie!" screamed louis. morgan and me both started to our feet, but we wos afraid to turn round. i wos so scared that i wished myself well out of it, and from morgan's face i guessed he wished the same. no one spoke for a little while, and then it wos maxwell wot led the way. "yer'll 'ave to apolergize to me for this," 'e sed; "i'll wait till yer cool." "yer'll wait till yer in yer grave, then," sed louis, "and i'll see yer in ---- fust." "are yer goin' to pay wot yer owe me?" arst maxwell. "not one brass farden," louis answered, "and i'll see if i can't git back wot yer've robbed me of already. i'll have my revenge on yer some'ow; i'll make a public egshibition of yer. you're a blackleg and a swindler, and i'll take these marked cards to prove wot i say." "drop 'em," sed maxwell, "or it'll be wuss for yer." "try and make me, yer blackleg!" cried louis. "you low-bred thief, you shall die in the 'ulks!" "you fool," sed maxwell, "take that for yer pains!" and then there come a scream that curdled my blood. morgan and me turned and rushed towards 'em, and at that moment louis dropped to the flore with a knife in 'is 'eart. "good gawd!" cried morgan. "wot 'ave yer done?" them was the last words i 'eerd, for i run like a madman to the door, and flew downstairs quick as lightnin'. wot i wanted wos to git out of the 'ouse and 'ide myself somewhere. i'd never been mixed up with anythink like that afore, and i wos frightened out of my life. we usen't to 'ave a light in the passage, so it wos quite dark; but i made my way to the street door, threw it open, and rushed out. i 'adn't time to take a step afore i found myself in the arms of a man who was just outside, and there i wos, strugglin' and fightin' with 'im for dear life. wot flashed through me wos that louis' scream 'd been 'eard, and that i should be taken up for murder. the man i wos fightin' with sed somethink under 'is breath, but i didn't ketch the words. i struck into 'im, and 'e struck into me, and the snow seemed to be the color o' blood. then 'e dragged me back into the passage, and we went on fightin' like wild cats. 'ow long it lasted i can't say. my 'and was on 'is throat, and 'is 'and on mine, and there we kep' on tearing at each other in the dark passage till i 'eerd 'im give a groan. then i flung 'im off, and 'e fell agin the stairs, i think, and laid there quiet. i didn't stop, yer may bet yer life. the minute i wos free i run out of the 'ouse and through the snow, as if a 'undered devils wos at my 'eels. the next thing that i remember wos that i wos at the railway station, taking a third class for london. that's all i know about it, guv'nor. wot i've sed i'll swear to. it's the truth, the 'ole truth, and nothink but the truth, so 'elp me gawd! part iv. chapter xxx. paul godfrey, private detective, continues his narrative. i did not doubt it. i believed every word that dropped from jack's lips, and it set me thinking. the extraordinary turn which his disclosure had given to the mystery opened up so many channels of conjecture, some of which would assuredly be misleading and likely to throw a man off the track, that i recognized the imperative necessity of proceeding with the utmost care. to avoid falling into a pit of confusion, system was no less necessary; the threads must be disentangled; jack's statement and john fordham's confession must be studied and compared and discrepancies accounted for, not by the light of any extraordinary agency, but by that of common sense; and when all this was done the principal difficulties had yet to be encountered. there were many doors in the mystery, two or three of which were now either quite or partially open; the others were locked, and it was for me to find the keys. partly for john fordham's sake, and chiefly for the sake of miss cameron, i was elated by the discovery that it was not he who had killed his half-brother louis. it gave me the greatest pleasure to think of the exquisite feeling of relief she would experience when i supplied her with proof of his innocence--sufficient for her and for me, but not sufficient, perhaps, in a legal sense. considering the feelings i entertained for ellen cameron, it may appear strange that i should have become so zealous in the cause of the man who had supplanted me, but there is nothing in the world so enthralling as the gradual unfolding of a mystery such as this; there is no task so absorbing as that of following it up step by step, and of at length piercing the darkness which at first seemed impenetrable. there are higher callings than mine, but i doubt if there are any more interesting; and if you think it is one which does not demand fine powers of reasoning, as well as the exercise of physical courage, you are greatly mistaken. as for the hold it has upon the public, there is no question about that. it is easily to be accounted for. if a simple puzzle which is sold in the streets for a penny will interest thousands of 'people, how much more so will a puzzle so intricate and mysterious upon the unraveling of which the lives and happiness of human beings depend? you may run us down as much as you like (i have just been reading something of the kind), but you can't do without us, and will never be able to; and without us, many and many a wrong would never be righted. and after all, what are your finest lawyers, and judges, and lord chief justices but a superior kind of detective? there are black sheep among us, and there are black sheep among them. there are black sheep everywhere. so, having had my say, i will go on with my story. to my mind, nothing was more natural than the encounter between john fordham and jack, nothing more natural than the instantaneous conclusions drawn by the combatants--jack believing his antagonist to be an officer of the law, and fordham believing his to be a ruffian, bent upon robbery or murder. in many respects jack's disclosures corroborated the account written by fordham, but there were important gaps that required to be filled in. jack did not admit any lapses of memory; he went straight on from beginning to end without hesitation. fordham was less confident, and his admission of a failure of memory at a vital point of his story would lead to the presumption that his memory was not to be depended upon in other points. whether judge and jury would accept jack's evidence with as much faith as i did remained to be seen. he was a tainted witness, and an accessory to the fact of the murder. then, again, i had pledged myself that he should not be harmed. if he were brought forward in the present position of the case he would certainly come to grief. for a time, therefore, he must be kept in the background. only through the principal being charged with the crime could he be accepted as queen's evidence, and even then his statements would require corroboration. morgan could corroborate them, but would he, being himself in danger? and before morgan could be produced, he had to be found. maxwell, also. it was not likely that either of them would present himself of his own accord. well, they must be hunted down. before i left jack i questioned him upon various matters, testing him, as it were, and putting him in the witness-box. there was one statement especially which emphatically needed confirmation or refutation, and this i did not introduce till the end. there was no prevarication in his answers; his description of louis' personal appearance, with the scar on his forehead which flushed and reddened when he was excited, tallied with that given by fordham, and he adhered unflinchingly to his account of the last scene of the tragedy. a few of my questions were such as would be put to him in the witness-box under the fire of cross-examination. "you say your back was turned during the altercation between louis and maxwell?" "yes." "and morgan's also?" "yes." "you heard them threaten each other!" "yes." "then you heard a scream?" "yes." "and turning, saw louis fall to the ground with a knife sticking in him?" "yes." "but you did not see the blow struck?" "no." "it might have been done by himself?" "now, look 'ere, guv'nor," said jack, slipping out of the imaginary witness-box, "is that likely?" "why not, jack? i will put it in this way. they quarrel and threaten each other. 'you low-bred thief,' cries louis, 'you shall die in the hulks!' 'you fool,' cries maxwell, 'take that for your pains!' and he lets drive with his fist at louis' face. at that precise moment louis, with a knife in his hand, makes a drive at maxwell. the collision diverts his aim, and the knife is jammed into his own breast instead of maxwell's. how does that strike you?" "it won't wash," answered jack, "'cause i say it wos the other way." "because you say! you're a creditable kind of witness, you are--such a respectable character--you can show such a clean record, you can--and as for telling a dozen or two lies, who would believe you capable of such a thing, jack?" "all very true, guv'nor, wuss luck--but it don't make black white, 'cause i'm a wrong 'un." "doesn't it? there's no telling what a smart lawyer can do with a witness like you in the box. you'd twist and squirm like a skinned eel. but we'll pass that for the present, and come to something more important. you say that at the commencement of the quarrel louis cried, 'i've done with you, and my mother shall be done with you.' are you positive he said just those words? be very careful about this, jack." "if 'e didn't say jest them words," jack replied, "'e sed somethink so near to 'em that yer couldn't tell the difference. but i don't see wot's that got to do with it." "it isn't for you to see. make up your mind to one thing--that i know a good deal more about the affair than you do. you are positive he said, 'my mother shall be done with you?'" "i'll swear to it, guv'nor. wot should i 'ave knowed about 'is mother if 'e 'adn't spoke about 'er, 'isself? 'ow wos i to guess 'e 'ad a mother when i didn't know who 'e wos or where 'e come from?" "that seems conclusive," i said. "by the way, did you happen to hear maxwell or louis mention the name of annette?" "not as i remember." "annette lourbet," i said, to jog his memory. "a frenchwoman." "no, guv'nor, i never 'eerd the name." "thank you. what are you doing for a living just now?" "i can't say i'm doin' anythink pertic'lar. pickin' it up any'ow." "well, look here, i can put something in your way. i want you to keep your eyes open and to go about london--especially about the suburbs." "wot's the little game, guv'nor?" "don't be a dull boy, jack. you might come across maxwell or morgan. i'd like particularly to have a little chat with maxwell." "i shouldn't mind it myself," said jack, with a kind of growl. "do i understand you have seen either of them since you left liverpool?" "never set eyes on 'em." "as to the best chance of coming across them now? can you suggest anything?" "to keep on the trot, in course," he said, reflectively. "but it ain't to be done by a man like me without a object. if i went about without a object the coppers 'd say, 'allo! wot's 'e up to?'" "naturally. but if you kept on the trot with an object, they wouldn't think of following you. eh?" "no, they'd let me alone. there's one way it's to be done, guv'nor." "name it." "a barrer, with or without a moke." "and on the barrow?" "flowers in pots, all a'blowin' and a'growin'." "capital," i said, admiringly. "how much would the stock-in-trade cost?" "the barrer and moke could be 'ired by the day. yer'd go as fur as a moke, guv'nor, wouldn't yer? it's killin' work draggin' a barrer full o' flower pots up and down 'ill. there's 'ampstead way, now. think o' wot it means, from coven' garden to 'ampstead 'eath." "i'd go as far as a moke, jack." his face brightened. "and the flowers would cost?" "a thick 'un 'd do it, guv'nor, and i don't know but wot it wouldn't pay." "let us hope it will. here's twenty-five shillings to set you up." i gave him the money and my address, and telling him to call upon me at the end of the week, or earlier if he had anything to communicate, i bade him good day--with an impression that he was really pleased at the prospect of earning an honest livelihood. as he himself had pathetically said, such a life as his wasn't all beer and skittles. let me state here why i was so anxious with respect to his allusion to his mother which, according to jack, was made by louis during his quarrel with maxwell. the apparently unimportant words, "my mother shall be done with you," assumed intense significance when placed side by side with the information volunteered by maxwell a fortnight afterwards, that john fordham's stepmother was dead. jack, being unacquainted with louis' family connections, could not have invented louis' mother--therefore the words were certainly spoken by louis, establishing without a shadow of a doubt that at that time his mother was living. only a fortnight intervened before maxwell declared that she was dead. i dismiss the hypothesis that the woman--i will not call her a lady--died during the interval. setting that aside, i come face to face with the question, "for what reason did maxwell wish john fordham to believe that his stepmother was dead?" i was fairly puzzled; i could find no answer to the question. next, i turned my attention to a consideration of the state and progress of affairs when jack, in a frenzy of fear, rushed from the house in which the murder was committed. the fight between him and fordham is going on in the street; the street door is dashed open and the combatants stumble into the passage, where the savage conflict is continued. in the room above louis lies dead, and morgan and maxwell stand in terror, listening to the sounds of the struggle below. what does it portend--what, except that they are in deadly peril? they are too terrified to move. if they open the door, they will be pounced upon and arrested for the crime, for they do not doubt that the police have been watching their movements, and have obtained entrance to the house. suddenly the sounds cease. fordham lies senseless on the stairs, and jack is speeding to the railway station. all is quiet without and within, for the partners in crime are too frightened to move. at length they venture to speak, but in a whisper, for they still fear that officers are lurking outside to secure them. after a long interval of time they pluck up sufficient courage to open the door. no one molests them. they creep out into the passage, and down the stairs, and are stopped by the body of fordham. maxwell recognizes him, and a devilish plot suggests itself. john fordham and louis are old enemies--how easy to fasten the murder upon john! he and morgan carry the body of the unconscious man into the room, and place it near the dead body of louis. they find a knife upon him--they dip it in louis' blood. maxwell takes fordham's watch, and finds his matchbox on the stairs. he has an idea that they may come in useful to fix the murder upon fordham. he leaves the knife. then he and morgan steal from the house. thus far did i trace the probable course of action. if it were anywhere near the truth, it established a binding link between maxwell and morgan, each of whom, from that night, held the other in his power. i asked myself whether maxwell confided to morgan the existence of the family connection which existed between him and john fordham. to this question i found an answer. no. it was not in maxwell's nature to impart to any one a confidence which might result to his disadvantage. without having met the man, i seemed to see him, so graphically was he portrayed by fordham and jack. he was one who kept his own secrets. what followed on their departure is related by fordham up to the moment of his own departure, when he fled from the house, leaving the dead body of louis as its only occupant. possibly he was watched and seen by his enemies, who re-entered the house after he was gone. they feel in louis' pocket for his watch. "he has stolen it," they say. they look round for louis' overcoat. "he has run off with it," they say. and then their eyes fall upon fordham's blood-stained knife, which he foolishly left behind him. i can imagine their fiendish glee at these discoveries. "he has convicted himself," they say. but there is still a possible danger. louis might have been seen in their company. if his features were mutilated so that it would be difficult to establish his identity, it would afford them an additional element of safety. the heavy oak table is dashed upon his face, and their work is complete. once more the house of death is left in possession of its ghastly occupant. while i was following out these conjectures (for of course they were nothing more, and it will be seen in time whether they were correct) i received a report from the liverpool expert to whom i had entrusted the two letters. it confirmed my suspicions, and furnished me with another link to the chain i was weaving. although an attempt had been made to disguise the writing of the letter sent by "mr. lambert" to the house agent, the expert stated that both letters were written by the same hand. scoundrel as maxwell was, he would have been more careful had he imagined that the plot to fleece louis would have ended so tragically. now, of what legal value was all this evidence? a skillful lawyer might do something with it, but i doubted whether, unsupported and uncorroborated, it would establish john fordham's innocence. in this view fordham himself concurred; indeed, it was he who first laid emphasis upon it. i have seldom seen a man more agitated when he learned from me that there was no guilt of blood upon his soul. for several minutes he could not speak. he sat with his face buried in his hands, and when he raised his head the tears were still running down his cheeks. "i can bear the worst now," he said; and i knew from the remarks he made, that he was more grateful for ellen's sake than for his own. i shall call her ellen; surely i have the right, working as i was for her and for the man who had, in a sort of way, supplanted me. had she seen me first--but of what use is it to speculate upon what might have been? as i have said, it was fordham who laid stress upon the evidence against himself, evidence of his own supplying. his silence, his long concealment in london under an assumed name, the incriminating articles in his possession, which he had given up to the police, were strong points against him. "if my innocence is not clearly proved," he said, "i shall not care to be released." "you can't compel a jury to declare you guilty," i urged, and i confess to being angry with him. "no," he replied, "but the doubt would remain and would darken my days." "well," i said, "anyway, the police are not likely to let you go without a searching inquiry. for the present we must be silent, and bend all our energies to the discovery of maxwell and morgan." it was a hard matter to convince ellen of the wisdom of this course, and indeed we did not succeed in convincing her; but she was compelled to yield in the end, though she protested against the injustice of fordham being kept in prison. there is a reason of the heart and a reason of the head, and when we are dealing with stern facts, we know which is likely to come out the winner. the position, you see, was one of great difficulty. i was pledged to jack, and to break my word would be to bring him immediately into danger. this i determined not do until every other chance failed me. it was a prudent as well as a just resolve. if jack found himself betrayed and brought to bay, it was as likely as not that he would deny everything, or that he would commit himself to statements which would place fordham in jeopardy. i met my card-sharping friend before the end of the week, when it had been decided that he was to pay me a visit. i was on my way to highgate cemetery, and i came across him in the n. w. district. he had hired a donkey, and there was a gay show of flowers on his barrow. seeing me approach, he gave me a wink and an almost imperceptible shake of the head. i inferred from the wink that business was prospering, and from the nod that he did not wish to be spoken to. i returned his wink and passed on. my object in going to highgate cemetery was to ascertain if a lady of the name of fordham was buried there, as would certainly have been the case if, as had been stated by maxwell, louis' mother was dead. as i have already said, i did not believe he had spoken the truth, but if i was mistaken i should be able to learn the address from which the coffin was taken. i was not mistaken. there was a family grave in the cemetery purchased by john fordham's father, but since his death no one had been buried there. undoubtedly maxwell had lied, and louis' mother was alive. chapter xxxi. paul godfrey, detective, continues his narrative. the motive--the motive. this was the subject of my thoughts as i walked from the cemetery. what possible motive could maxwell have in making john fordham believe that his stepmother was dead? if she were living, fordham could have nothing to hope from her; if she were dead, it was an obstacle removed from his path, a witness the less against him. it was not likely that maxwell was anxious to afford him this satisfaction; there was a cunning motive for the deceit, but though i twisted the question a dozen different ways, i could not make head or tail of it. puzzling my head over the matter, i found myself in the neighborhood of soho. it was not chance that directed me there. i had not forgotten the woman, annette lourbet, who plays so important a part in john fordham's confession, and though she seemed to have passed out of the story at about the time he left england for australia, i had an idea, if i succeeded in discovering her, that i might obtain some useful information. i hardly knew in what shape, but in such a task as mine the slightest clue frequently leads to a momentous result. up to this day my search for. annette had been unsuccessful. of course, i had looked through the london directory for the name of lourbet, but curiously enough, it did not appear there, and i concluded either that the woman had married or had returned to her native country. if she had married and was still in london, soho was the most likely neighborhood in which to find her, and i had already spent several fruitless hours in those narrow thoroughfares. my patience, however, was not exhausted, and i was now treading them again in the hope of a better reward. i think i may say that hitherto chance had not befriended me, but on this day it did me a turn, and in a singular way. about to pass a continental provision shop, of which there are a great many in soho, and in the windows of which was the usual display of german sausages, pickles, potted meats, french mustard, pretzels, dutch herrings, cucumbers, etc., i was obstructed by a ladder, and had to cross the road. a sign-painter was at work on the ladder, and glancing at the board over the window, i saw that a name had been erased and was being replaced by another, the first letter, l, having just been painted in bright blue. i walked on, attaching no importance to the incident; but when, half an hour afterwards, i passed the shop again, and saw that the painter had got as far as l o u, something like an electric shock darted through me. l o u, the first three letters in the name of lourbet. i did not linger; the next minute i was in an adjoining street. the shop would not run away, and the proprietor would not run away. i could afford to wait. i did wait for an hour and more before i sauntered again through that particular street. the sign was finished, and stared me in the face. i could have hugged myself when i saw the full name of lourbet on the signboard. now, was the name that of a woman, and was her christian name annette? half a dozen persons were looking up at it in admiration of the painter's skill. one, however, a little man who appeared to have been drinking was regarding it with wrath and dissatisfaction; he even went so far as to shake his fist at it. he was a most disreputable looking character, and evidently a confirmed toper. as he held up his fist a woman darted from the shop, and standing at the door fired one word at him. "pig!" in response to which he directed his fist towards her face. this so inflamed her that she flew at him, and, seizing him by the collar, shook him with such violence that he fell to the ground the moment he was released. by this time a crowd had gathered, whose sympathies were entirely on her side. they jeered and laughed at the man, with whom they appeared to be acquainted, and who lay in a state of collapse. not that he was hurt, except, as a matter of course, in his feelings, but he was afraid to rise and risk a second shaking at the hands of the woman, who seemed to be smarting under a sense of injury. to my surprise she became suddenly quite calm and composed, and stood looking down upon him with a disdainful smile on her thin, white lips. "it is well done, madame lourbet," cried a frenchwoman in the crowd. "it is as he deserves. i would wring his neck if he had served me so." "thank you, madame," replied madame lourbet, "for the name. it is my own. behold it, pig!" addressing her discomfited foe, and pointing to the newly-painted sign. "i r-r-renounce you. come to me no more. begone!" there was a melodramatic touch in her words, but not in her utterance of them. had i not witnessed it i could hardly have believed that they were spoken by the woman who had behaved with so much violence. the cold, passionless voice was, in my judgment, the result of long training, and i detected in her so many little resemblances to the annette portrayed by john fordham in his confession that i did not doubt i had found her at last. i was careful to keep out of her sight, having determined to seek enlightenment first from the man, for i was curious to learn the meaning of this singular scene. the approach of a policeman put an end to it. the crowd dissolved, madame lourbet returned to her shop, and the man, whose furtive looks had followed her movements, slowly picked himself up. if he had been inclined to appeal against the judgment which had been pronounced he was manifestly not in a condition to do so just now; seemingly recognizing this, he slunk off with the air of a whipped cur. the policeman took no notice of him, and was soon out of sight; i kept in his track till he halted at the door of a public-house and fumbled in his pockets. finding nothing there he relapsed into a state of maudlin despair. this was my opportunity, and i took advantage of it. over a friendly glass or two, he drinking my share and his own with cheerful alacrity, he ventilated his grievances. annette was his wife, so ne declared; they had lived together three years; she had worshiped the ground he trod on, and his name had been painted over the shop window. and now, after he had ruined himself for her (he did not specify in what way) she turned upon him and cast him adrift. he would not stand it--no, he was an englishman, and he would not stand it. she was tired of him, was she? she had another lover, had she? he would have his blood. and so on, and so on. the real fact was that there had been a trifling informality in the marriage, the man i was pumping being married already when he went through the ceremony with annette. it was true that his first wife died shortly after he married his second, but annette had only lately discovered that her own marriage was illegal, and being tired of the rascal was glad to be quit of him. she had been prudent enough to protect her savings; the business was hers, the stock was hers, and she had turned him out with never a penny in his pockets. "not a penny, not one single penny," he whined. i sympathized with him, of course, and i left him at his lodgings--a garret in the same street as the shop--with a promise to call upon him the next night and see if anything could be done to soften annette's heart. the information i had extracted from him was not of much present use to me, but i saw the possibility of the acquaintanceship being of service, and i was by no means dissatisfied with my day's work; but the day was not yet over. i have good reason to remember it, and so has every person associated with the mystery, so many strange things occurred--the strangest of all (which at first seemed to have not the slightest connection with the affair) leading to a most surprising and unexpected discovery. it was my intention to pay madame lourbet a visit, and i thought that evening would be the best time. i had business to transact at my office, for this liverpool murder, though it occupied so much of my time, was not the only thing i had to attend to. so to my office i went and spent a useful hour in straightening my affairs and giving instructions to my clerk. then i sat down to catch up arrears of correspondence, and by four o'clock i had everything in order. i had put away my papers and stamped the last of my letters when my clerk announced a lady--mrs. barlow, who was most anxious to see me. she was shown in, an elderly lady, with a careworn face and ladylike manners. she had been recommended to me, as a likely person to discover her son, whom she had not seen for five or six years. "nor heard from him?" i asked. "not a line," she answered in a sad voice. "is he in england?" "i do not know." "well, tell me all about it," i said, "and bear in mind that your time and money will be thrown away if you keep anything in the background." i condense what she related. she was a widow, with one child, this son who had deserted her. he had always given her trouble. not that he was bad at heart, but so easily led away, believing in everybody, trusting everybody. (mother's love, here; i knew its value in a practical sense.) unfortunately he had fallen into bad company, and her belief was that he was ashamed to return to her. years ago they had been fairly well off, but little by little he had got from her all she was worth, and then he left her. she managed to rub along, however, being assisted by philip's uncle, her deceased husband's brother. this uncle had lately died and left her a small legacy, which she had received. a legacy of three thousand pounds was left to philip; in case of his death at the time of the testator's decease the money would go to a charitable institution. philip had not presented himself to claim the legacy, and she was naturally anxious to discover him, so she had come to me to assist her. a simple story, before the end of which i had made up my mind about the man. a thoroughly bad lot--an opinion i kept to myself, however. i put a few questions to mrs. barlow. "can you think of any reason why your son should not come forward to claim this fortune?" "no." she was afraid to express what must have been in her mind--that he was dead. "he fell into bad company, you say. what kind of bad company? i must press for an answer." "unfortunately he was fond of cards." "blacklegs got hold of him, then?" she sighed. "did he bet on horses?" "yes." "that explains a great deal. he went to races and lost his money?" "everybody took advantage of him." "i see. now, mrs. barlow, if i take this matter up i must have a free hand. among other things i shall do i may have to advertise. if you have any objection, you had best say so at once." "you may do anything you like--only discover my son for me." "very well. have you a portrait of your son?" "yes--a cabinet in a frame. i did not bring it with me." "send it immediately to my private address. i should like it soon." "you shall have it to-night. i will bring it myself." i gave her my private card, and took five pounds from her for preliminary expenses. she was about to leave, when she turned and said: "perhaps i ought to tell you that a friend mentioned that he thought he saw philip." "certainly you ought to tell me. the mischief of these cases is that there is always something kept back. where did he see him?" "in liverpool, but he is not certain it was philip." "very stupid of him. how long ago was it?" "over a year ago." "is that all?" "yes, that is all," she said, and bade me good-day. before i left my office i wrote an advertisement for the personal columns of the daily papers, to the effect that if philip barlow called upon or communicated with me, he would hear of something very much to his advantage. instructing my clerk to insert the advertisement in three of the principal newspapers, i went to my lodgings and made a change in my appearance, which i deemed prudent, in view of my visit to madame lourbet. that lady was not in her shop when i entered it. in response to a rap on the counter, she issued from an inner room, and asked what i required. there was a glass panel in the door of this room, across which a green curtain was drawn. i have a faculty of observation which enables me to see a great deal at a glance. while i was making a few small purchases, i entered 'into conversation with her. i said that i had been recommended to her shop, but had some difficulty in finding it, in consequence of the name over the window being altered. she admitted the alteration, and said that the business would in future be conducted under the new name. "your own name, i presume, madame?" i said. "my own name," she answered. "it makes no difference in what i sell." "none at all," i said, briskly. "you were spoken of, i remember, as madame annette." "that, also, is my name. may i ask, monsieur, by whom you were recommended?" i watched her face keenly as i replied, "madame, or rather, mrs. fordham." as i uttered the name i observed a slight disturbance of the green curtain. "pardon me, monsieur," she said, and went into the private room, the door of which she carefully opened and shut. "now," thought i, "what is the meaning of this, and will it make any difference in madame lourbet's behavior?" it made a perceptible difference. something had passed between her and the person in the inner room which had put her on her guard, and she was watching me now as keenly as i was watching her. "madame fordham," she remarked, with assumed indifference, continuing our conversation. "who is madame fordham?" "i supposed she was a customer of yours," i answered. "it may be," she said. "oh, yes, it may be; but does one know all one's customers?" "that would be difficult," i said, laughing, "with such a connection as you have, madame." "you are right, monsieur, it would be difficult. do you require anything more?" "nothing more, thank you, madame." she let an arrow fly. "i will send the articles home and the bill, if monsieur will kindly give me his address." "much obliged, madame," was my reply: "i will pay for them, and take them with me." so the little passage at arms ended, and i walked away just a trifle wiser than i came, for i had learned that madame lourbet did not desire to talk about john fordham's stepmother, and that there was some person behind the green curtain who also had an interest in the matter. had i deemed it safe i would have kept watch for that person outside madame lourbet's shop, but i felt that i was dealing with a woman as clever as myself, and i recognized the necessity of caution. it was annoying, but there was no help for it. the day had been one of the busiest in my recollection, and i was glad to sit down to a cup of tea in my own private apartment. during the meal i was debating how the incidents i have recorded could be turned to advantage, when the landlady came in and informed me that a man was down-stairs who insisted on seeing me. she did not like to let him up, she said, he was such a common-looking man; besides, he was the worse for liquor. but he would not go away. "i did all i could, sir," said my landlady, "but go he wouldn't. 'tell him it's jack,' he said." "jack!" i cried, interrupting her. "show him in at once, and don't let us be interrupted; i have business with him." much astonished, she departed on her errand, and the next minute jack stood before me. my first impression was that the landlady was right, and that jack had been drinking. his face was as white as a sheet, his eyes glared, and his limbs shook like a man in a palsy. "you're a pretty object," i said, sternly; but he did not seem to hear what i said. "guv'nor," he gasped, in a horse voice, "is that tea? will yer give me a cup? my throat's on fire." "well it might be," i answered, filling a cup, "but i should have thought brandy was more in your way. you'll come to a bad end, my lad." still he did not seem to understand me, but took the cup with his shaking hands, holding it in both lest it should slip to the ground. as it was he spilled half of it before it reached his mouth. i took the cup from him, and placing it on the table said: "now, what is the meaning of this? how dare you come here in such a state?" "give me time, guv'nor, give me time," he croaked. "i shall be better in a minute. yer think i've been drinkin'. yer wos never more mistook. i 'ad a pint o' mild this mornin', but i 'ope i may drop down dead if another drop 'as passed my lips the 'ole of this blessed day. i've 'ad a scare, guv'nor--i've 'ad a scare." he dropped his voice, and bending forward, said: "did yer ever see a ghost?" "not that i'm aware of, jack. you look as if you'd seen one." "i 'ave, guv'nor." "ah," said i, becoming interested, in spite of my suspicion that he was drunk, his manner was so earnest, "whose ghost?" "the ghost of 'im as wos murdered. the ghost of louis fordham." "you are dreaming, jack," i said, staring at him. "not me, guv'nor. i'm wide awake, i am. oh!" he gave a sudden start, and turned his head over his shoulder, as though a spirit was standing behind him. "you see one now, perhaps," i said. "no, guv'nor, but i don't know as 'e mightn't appear in this wery room. is there such things, or am i goin' mad?" "not unlikely, jack, when you come to me with such a cock and bull story. i recollect your saying that you'd seen the murdered man lying on a green field and on a billiard table. this is something of the same sort, i suppose." "no, guv'nor, that was a wision, and i knew it wosn't real. but this wos. i touched it as it passed." "oh, it passed you, did it? come, my man, let us have the whole of it; i may understand it better then. where were you, what time of day was it, and in what shape did it appear to you?" "the shape wos 'is own, and the time o' day was four this arternoon, and the place wos finchley road." "go on, jack," i said, seeing that he believed in it. "i was out with the barrer," he continued, "and was bargainin' with a lady for some daisies. there they wos on the pavement, and she and me lookin' at 'em. as i stooped to pick up a pot, somethink brushed by me. we touched each other. lookin' up i sor louis, and the pot dropped from my hand." "did you go after him?" "me go arter 'im. i'd 'ave run a 'undered miles the other way." "did he vanish in blue flames, jack?" "no, guv'nor. 'e turned a corner." "but, consider, my lad. the man is dead." "don't i know it?" cried jack, as if my remark exasperated him. "is it likely i should 'ave come to you if 'e'd been alive?" "you looked up at him, you say. did he look down at you?" "no, guv'nor, not that i noticed. d'yer think i've been makin' up the story?" "no, i don't think that, because there's nothing to gain by it. what i do think is that you've been scared by seeing some one who bears a resemblance to louis. it isn't at all an uncommon thing. innocent men have been hanged upon such evidence." "guv'nor," said jack, impressively, "it wos 'im, i tell yer. there wos 'is 'eight, there was 'is build, and there wos the scar on 'is fore'ead. i'll take my bible oath it wos louis' ghost." "even the scar may be on the other man's forehead," i persisted. "there have been much closer resemblances. a dozen witnesses have sworn to the identity of a man who was being tried for a crime of which he was as innocent as i am, have sworn to his voice, to the color of his eyes and hair, to secret marks upon his person, to a missing tooth, to the peculiar shape of his fingers, and he has been condemned upon their evidence. only after his death has it been discovered that the wrong man had been hanged. wives themselves have been taken in, and have lived for years with men they believed to be their husbands. go home, jack, and think of these cases, much more wonderful than your accidental resemblance, and don't make a fool of yourself." i might as well have spoken to a stone. jack was not to be argued out of his fright, and that it was genuine was proved by the startled looks he cast behind him from time to time. a gentle tap at the door sent his heart into his mouth. it was my landlady, who came with a parcel that had been left for me by a lady, who wished to hand it to me herself, but was told i was engaged and could not be disturbed. as i had exhausted all my arguments upon jack, and as he did not seem in a hurry to go, i opened the parcel in his presence, and drew out the cabinet portrait of mrs. barlow's missing son which she had promised to bring to my lodgings. "send i may live, guv'nor!" cried jack, peering at it over my shoulder, his eyes almost starting out of his head, "where did you get that from?" "it's the picture of a missing man, jack," i replied, "who has had a lump of money left to him. i want to lay my hands on him." it was then that i noticed the strange expression on jack's face, and i added, jokingly, "it isn't a ghost." "no, it ain't a ghost," he said, "it's morgan." "morgan!" i exclaimed. "your card-sharping liverpool friend?" "that's 'im, guv'nor. a lump o' money left 'im! why don't 'e come and collar it?" "are you sure you are not mistaken?" i asked. "'ow could i be mistook?" he demanded. "wosn't 'im and me together day and night for weeks and weeks? i'd swear to 'im among a 'undered." reluctant as i was to take jack's word for louis' ghost, i could not dispute with him as to morgan's portrait. it was long before i could get rid of him, and he went away as firmly convinced of one as he was of the other. in such positive terms did he express his conviction on the former subject that if i were not a hard-headed, practical man, with very little sentiment in my nature, it is quite on the cards that he would have shaken my belief that he was laboring under some monstrous delusion in respect of the murdered man. at the same time i confess to being curious about louis' "double," and to having a desire to see him with my own eyes. it was for this reason, on the chance of being gratified, that i made an appointment to accompany jack the next day in his peregrinations through the n. w. district, in the disguise of a brother coster. the hour of appointment was noon. meanwhile there was much to think of, much to do. fortunately i am a healthy man and can do with three or four hours' sleep, or i should never have got through with it. there was in my mind the design, not yet thoroughly planned out, of having louis' body exhumed, in order that its identity might be established beyond the possibility of doubt. this would effectually dispose of jack's fancies, which, after further reflection, i set down to the stings of conscience, and as properly belonging to that form of imaginative creation which had conjured up the vision of louis' body lying on a billiard cloth and on green fields. to establish this identity witnesses would be required. i could give evidence as to the scar upon the forehead, but only from what i had been told; it would be secondary evidence, and therefore not admissible. i mentally ran through the names of the witnesses whose evidence, from personal knowledge, would be of value. john fordham, for one. though it might tell against himself, he would be ready and willing to testify. i needed nothing to convince me that he was a truthful and honorable man who would not palter with his conscience even though it added to the peril in which he stood. then, jack. but it would bring him into danger. a far different character he from fordham. he would be dragged forward against his will, and in these circumstances his word could not be depended upon. in the present aspect of the affair his was the only evidence upon which fordham's innocence could be to some extent proved. believing himself to be in danger such a man as jack would be capable of anything; he might deny all that he had admitted, he might even concoct a story which would throw the entire guilt upon the man i was trying to save. therefore, jack's evidence upon this question of identity could not be reckoned with just now. for a time at least it must be set aside. then, louis' mother. but her son's name had appeared in the papers as that of the man whom, by fordham's confession, he had murdered. it must not be forgotten that i was convinced she was living. that being so, why was she silent? why did she remain in hiding? that was one of the unanswered questions in the mystery. then, maxwell. also in hiding. he, of all who were associated in the mystery, was the least likely to come forward of his own free will. then, morgan---- at his name my reflections were diverted into another channel. three thousand pounds was a handsome sum--a godsend to such a man. why had he not claimed it? there was more than one answer to the question. he might not be aware of his uncle's death; as his own mother did not know his address the solicitors to the will could not communicate with him. he might be dead; he might have left the country. if he were living would my advertisement in the personal columns of the newspapers be successful in unearthing him? it occurred to me that it would increase my chances of success if i advertised for him in his assumed name, and i drew out the following advertisement:-- "a large sum of money has been bequeathed to ---- morgan, who is supposed to have been residing in liverpool, where he was last seen about a year ago. full particulars will be given to him upon application to paul godfrey, buckingham palace road." to reduce the chances of receiving letters from every morgan in the kingdom, i wrote to mrs. barlow, requesting her to give me the date of her son's birth, his age, and whether he had any marks on his person by which he could be identified. though it is running ahead of my narrative, i may state here that mrs. barlow supplied me with the date of her son's birth and his age (which particulars i inserted in the advertisement), and informed me that there were two marks on him which would render identification easy--a large mole on his left side, a little above the hip, and a peculiar formation in the toe next to the big toe on his right foot. it was bent completely under, she said, and presented the appearance of having been cut clean off at the joint. i went out at eleven o'clock that night to post my letters to mrs. barlow, and was returning home, deep in thought, when a hand was laid on my shoulder. "good evening, godfrey." the voice was wheeler's, like myself a private detective, with whom i had worked on two or three cases. there was a talk of our going into partnership, but it had not yet come to a head. there are few smarter men than wheeler. "good evening," i said, and immediately began to consider whether he could be of use to me. "anything stirring?" "well," he answered, "i was coming to see you." "what about?" instead of giving me a direct answer, he began to laugh, and said, "you were in soho this evening." "hallo," said i, interested immediately, "there's something in the wind. did you see me there?" "no, but i saw you coming into leicester square." "how did you find me out?" i asked, rather nettled. "i thought my disguise a good one." "so it was. there isn't one in a thousand who would have recognized you. i happen to be that one. you see, godfrey, when you are thinking of something very particular, you have a nasty habit of stroking your chin with the middle finger of your right hand." "good," said i, "you will never catch me doing that again when i'm somebody else. well?" "seeing that, i took special notice of you, and followed you home to make sure. when you stopped at buckingham palace road, and let yourself in, i was satisfied it was you." "there's nothing very smart in that." "i don't say there is. i kept myself out of sight, for a reason you'll appreciate." "out with it." "i wasn't the only one who was following you." "you don't mean to say i was being shadowed?" i cried, excitedly. "that is exactly what i do mean. 'i'll see this out,' said i to myself." "man or woman?" "man." "did you catch sight of his face?" "yes. tall, dark, beard and whiskers. might have been false. when you were in the house he passed the door, looked at the number and walked away." "and you let him go?" i said reproachfully. "i didn't think that of you." "you needn't. i followed him on your account." "bravo!" "had to be very careful. his eyes were in all directions." "did he go back to soho?" "no. he took a 'bus to piccadilly circus. i took the same 'bus. he got down there, with a lot of others, and i slipped out among them. then he took an atlas 'bus to the eyre arms. so did i. he walked towards the swiss cottage, and my difficulties commenced. not much foot traffic between the eyre arms and the swiss cottage, you know. he went on to fitzjohn's parade. more traffic there. the job got easier. beyond fitzjohn's parade, very little traffic indeed. i had to be more careful than ever, so few people about. that was the end of it." "you know the house he went into?" i cried. "i don't," he answered. "i am ashamed to say he gave me the slip. i don't know whether he suspected he was being followed, but the fact remains that he gave me the slip. how he managed it beats me. i am fairly ashamed of myself." "you ought to be. wheeler, you were on the track of a great mystery," and just at the very point---- i was so annoyed that i couldn't finish the sentence. "i remained in the neighborhood a couple of hours," he continued, "but saw nothing more of the gentleman. if i had suspected there was anything important hanging to it he would have had to be a great deal smarter than he is to throw me off the track. however, it's no use crying over spilt milk. i've nothing to do this week. can i be of any help to you?" "i think so," i replied. "come and see me at eight o'clock in the morning, and i'll tell you all about it. i must have time to think this out. though you were not entirely successful you have done me a great service, and i am obliged to you. oh, wheeler, if you had only seen the house he went into!" he shook his head mournfully, and left me, promising to call in the morning. i had, indeed, plenty to think about. it was in finchley road that jack fancied he saw the ghost of louis. this man, following me from madame lourbet's shop, where he had been hidden from my gaze by a green curtain, had made his way to finchley, where, presumably, he lived. i might now almost call the case upon which i was engaged the mystery of the green curtain. chapter xxxii. punctually at eight o'clock the following morning wheeler presented himself, and under the seal of secrecy i gave him a fair insight into the mystery. he was greatly excited, and said if i succeeded in bringing the truth to light i was a made man. i was beginning to think so myself, but i did not underrate the difficulties with which i had to contend. i seemed to be pulled in so many ways at once, and to have so many things to look after, that i saw the danger of wasting my time upon matters of no importance and allowing the leading strings to slip away from me. i was glad, therefore, to obtain the services of a man upon whom i could rely, and as i deemed it imperatively necessary that i should remain in london, i explained to wheeler my desire that louis' body should be exhumed and identified, and asked him if he thought he could manage it. he was confident he could; he had friends among the liverpool police who would do all in their power for him; he laughed at the suggestion of the difficulties that might present themselves, and declared he would carry out his mission even if he had to dig up the body himself in the dead of night. knowing wheeler to be a bit of a bulldog, and daring as well as tenacious, i was more than satisfied with his assurances. "you will have a surgeon with you," i said, "whose evidence will be conclusive as to the scar on the forehead. i understand the bone was penetrated. everything must be done quickly, and above all the affair must be kept out of the newspapers." i laid special emphasis upon this, because i did not intend that the game should be taken out of my hands. we settled upon an address in liverpool to which i could write or wire any further instructions that might be necessary, and he went off in high spirits to catch the ten o'clock train. before proceeding to my office i paid a visit to my dram-drinking friend who had been cast off by madame lourbet. his name, which she had renounced, was whybrow. i passed her shop on the way, having no fear that i would be recognized, and taking particular care not to rub my chin with the middle finger of my right hand. i saw madame lourbet behind the counter, and caught a glimpse of that confounded green curtain. it is curious how one thing suggests another. the moment my eyes fell upon the curtain an idea suggested itself which set me laughing, and which proved to be perhaps the most important step in the elucidation of the mystery. i will not mention it in this place, but i determined to act upon it later on if i considered it advisable. clever as madame lourbet was i hoped to show that i was one too many for her. mr. whybrow was in bed, pining for liquor. i sent out for a quartern of gin--that being the cheapest tipple--and under its influence, and fortified by my saying that i thought i should be able to bring madame lourbet to book in his interests, he became communicative. i learned that she had two friends who visited her from time to time, and with whom he was not allowed to strike up an acquaintance. one of these was a man, the other a woman. i paid close attention to his description of the man, whom he suspected had supplanted him in her affections. this man was tall and dark; but he had no beard or whiskers. i thought of wheeler's words, "they might have been false," and i left mr. whybrow with the conviction that it was the man who had followed me from soho. if that were so i had alarmed him by my reference to louis' mother, and he had signaled to madame lourbet to give her a warning that i might be a spy; his beard and whiskers being false was another point in my favor. i had sufficient confidence to introduce myself in my own proper person to that lady and make a trifling purchase. she served me politely, but there was trouble in her face, which rather pleased me than otherwise. i was pleased, too, that she betrayed no recognition of me, and did not connect me with the man who had paid her a visit the night before. leaving her, i went on to john fordham, who was still under remand, and likely to remain so for some time yet, for the police had not progressed in their inquiries, and fordham had made no recantation of the accusation he had brought against himself. cheering him with the news that i was gathering valuable information (of which i did not give him the particulars) i obtained from him a description of maxwell's personal appearance. tall and dark, wearing neither beard nor whiskers. that settled it. maxwell was the man who was stationed behind the green curtain, who had shadowed me to my lodgings, and who was so frightened by fordham's public confession of the murder that, for his own safety's sake, he went about now in a disguise. good. then on to my office, where mrs. barlow was waiting to supply me with a description of the birth marks of her missing son by which he could be identified. these have already been recorded and need no further mention here. needless to say, i did not inform mrs. barlow that i had already obtained a clue to the career of her son since she last saw or heard from him. i made short work of the business in my office which required attention. so absorbed was i in this mysterious murder mystery that i could not think seriously of any other subject. my advertisement for philip barlow had thus early unearthed three men of that name, whom i found in my office upon my arrival there. i confronted them with mrs. barlow, and they were immediately dismissed, much to their dissatisfaction. my second advertisement inquiring for morgan, was dispatched to the newspaper offices, and i left with my clerk a memorandum of the age and birthday of mrs. barlow's son, which were to be the first questions put to all applicants of either name who presented themselves. their answers not tallying with my memorandum, they were to be sent to the right-about. by these means a great deal of unnecessary trouble was avoided. at a quarter to twelve i sallied forth to keep my appointment with jack, having first effected the requisite alteration in my appearance. my own clerk was startled when i emerged from my private room in the character of a costermonger, and was driven to say it was "the best thing i had ever done in the way of disguise." he was not far from the truth; i am always most successful when i depict the manners of the lower class. jack himself was taken in when i slouched up to him and engaged him in conversation, and it was not till i spoke in my proper voice that he recognized me. "well, i'm darned!" was his admiring exclamation. "guv'nor, you ought to go on the stage." it was a genuine compliment, and i felt that i had achieved something great. if i don't make a fortune as a private inquiry agent i will go to the music halls and sing coster songs. "well, jack," said i, "do you still believe in your ghost?" "i'll take my oath on it," he replied. then we went boldly forth, on the road to finchley. first, however, in pursuance of the idea which set me laughing earlier that morning when i passed madame lourbet's shop, i turned the donkey's head in the direction of soho, which was not much out of our way. i had the temerity to enter her shop with a couple of fine ferns, which i offered at so low a price that she was tempted to purchase them, but not before she had baited me down twopence a pot. the price she paid was eightpence. a shrewd woman at a bargain, this madame lourbet. laughing in my sleeve i rejoined jack, and we pursued our journey in search of louis' ghost. it did not appear, and though i kept a sharp lookout i saw nothing of maxwell. the only satisfaction i obtained was that the route taken by jack was the same by which wheeler had tracked the tall, dark man who had been concealed behind the green curtain in madame lourbet's shop. i returned home late at night, and completely tired out. a costermonger's life is not an easy one; he truly earns his livelihood by the sweat of his brow. a telegram from wheeler lay on my table: "all goes well. the body will be exhumed to-night." my opinion of him was justified; he was not the man to let the grass grow under his feet. nothing more could be done till i received his report. on the following morning i received another telegram from him: "will be with you at four this afternoon." not a word as to the result of the examination; but he certainly had lost no time. so impatient was i as the hour approached that i could not keep indoors, but walked up and down the street, to hail him the moment he appeared. a few minutes past four o'clock his cab rattled up to the door, and out he jumped. "i am a little behind time," he said as he paid the cabman, and i could see that he was excited. "those confounded trains--they are always late." "you have news," i said. "rather queer news," he replied. "let us go in and talk." he followed me to my room, the door of which he locked. "give me a bite first," he said, "and a drink; and then you shall hear something startling." i curbed my impatience while he ate and drank. "that has done me good," he said; "i was almost famished. before i commence, godfrey, i want to ask whether you deceived me." "in what way?" "in this. you told me that a man of the name of louis fordham was murdered, and you described a certain mark by which his body could be identified." "yes." "the mark was a scar on his forehead, caused by a wound inflicted upon him by a gardening tool. it penetrated to the bone, you said, and he would carry the scar to his grave. if i misunderstood you, let me know." "you did not misunderstand me. the scar is as i described. i have evidence that it turned blood-red whenever he was excited. i have not misled you in the slightest particular." "i am glad to hear it. his half-brother, john fordham, who gave himself up for the murder----" "of which we know him to be innocent," i interrupted. "that is not the point i'm coming to," said wheeler. "he gave himself up for the murder, and he is positive that he left the dead body of louis in the rye street house when he left it on the morning of that terrific snow-storm." "he is quite positive." "he recognized the body as that of louis by the scar on the forehead?" "quite correct." "then all i can say is that there is another mystery to be unraveled. now, for what i did. i went down to liverpool, determined to see this matter through, and not to waste a moment over it. i may fairly claim that not a moment has been wasted." "undoubtedly. i could not have done it more expeditiously myself." "i 'pass over," he continued, "the preliminary steps i took to effect my object. the police assisted me, and an order from a magistrate armed me with the necessary authority. accompanied by two of the force and by a surgeon who knew what he was about, the grave was dug up at eleven o'clock last night, and the coffin taken to the surgeon's house. there an examination of the body was made. the upper portion of the skull was perfect. neither during the man's lifetime, nor after his death, had the slightest injury been inflicted on a single bone in it." "impossible!" i cried. "here is the surgeon's report. it leads to but one conclusion. if such an injury as you described to me was inflicted upon louis fordham, the body that was buried is not his, but another man's." i gazed at wheeler, open-mouthed. here was another mystery, indeed, if what he stated was true. "you must have dug up the wrong grave," i said, when i recovered from my astonishment. "it occurred to me that it might be so," he said, "and i had it looked into. no mistake has been made. the body the surgeon examined was that of the man who had been murdered in rye street. make up your mind to that, or you will be thrown straight off the scent. the man we dug up was murdered; his face had been smashed in, but as i have said, the upper part of the skull was uninjured. what do you make of it?" what could i make of it except that both john fordham and jack were laboring under some monstrous delusion? but to establish that hypothesis the conclusion must be drawn that these two men were in collusion, and that an impossible story had been invented for some hidden purpose. now, except during the struggle on the night of the murder, when jack had dashed out of the house into the arms of john fordham, who was under the impression that a murderous attack was made upon him, the men had never met, and each declared that he had not seen the face of the other. how, then, could they have invented such a story? i dismissed the idea as impossible. while i pondered over this fresh mystery, wheeler sat quietly looking at me and fingering the surgeon's report, which i had not taken from him. presently i found my voice. "were there any other marks on the body by which it might be identified?" "oh, yes," wheeler replied, "two. on the left side, just above the hip, is a small growth of bone, which in lifetime might have been mistaken for a mole; and the bones of the toe next to the big toe on the right foot are completely bent under." i listened in silent amazement. these were the marks upon the body of philip barlow, alias morgan. here, then, was the key to the mystery--here, to a certain extent, was an explanation of the ghost of louis that jack saw in finchley. for if only one body was found in rye street, and only one body was buried (of which there was proof positive), it was that of maxwell's associate and confederate, morgan, and louis fordham must be alive. it was not louis' ghost that jack saw, it was louis himself, and the reason why philip barlow had not come forward to claim the legacy left to him by his uncle was satisfactorily explained. i declare, my breath was almost taken away. but how had this substitution of bodies been effected? everything seemed to hang upon an answer to this question. it must be answered, and answered soon, and now without delay must i put into execution the idea that crossed my mind when i caught sight of the green curtain on the morning of this very day. if any person could assist me that person was madame lourbet. in as few words as possible i explained to wheeler the position of affairs and my plan of action, in the carrying out of which his assistance was necessary. he followed me with lively interest, and in a few minutes we were on our way to soho. i entered the shop alone, wheeler keeping watch in the street. i stood at the counter while madame lourbet served a customer, and then she turned to me. "what do you require, monsieur?" "a little information, madame." "well, monsieur?" "in private, madame," i said, "unless you wish all the world to know." she gathered from my tone that i had not come as a friend, and she was instantly on her guard. "what is it, monsieur, that i should not wish all the world to know?" "i advise that we speak in private," i replied. "if i r-refuse, monsieur?" "you will take the consequences, and we will converse before your customers." "ah," she said, playing a devil's tattoo on the counter with her fingers, "if i mistake not, you were one of my customers this morning, monsieur. i had the pleasure of serving you." "i had also the pleasure of serving you this morning, madame." "so!" i assumed the voice of a costermonger, and inquired if she wished to buy any more ferns. she caught her breath, and cried, "it was you!" "it was i, madame. it was also i, madame, who purchased of you last night and gave you a reference." "a reference, monsieur?" "a reference, madame--to mrs. fordham, louis' mother, and stepmother to john fordham, now in prison for murder." "you are clever, monsieur--very clever." i smiled. "what is your john fordham to me? and what are you?" "i have the honor to be a detective. in that capacity behold me here." i thought this rather dramatic and frenchified, and i had the pleasure of seeing her turn white to the lips. "a comrade is on watch outside," i continued. she slipped from the counter to the door, and peering cautiously about, saw wheeler, who, i being by her side, gave me a nod of recognition. "are you satisfied, madame?" i asked, when she had taken her place again behind the counter. "there is protection for women in this country," she said. "are you employed by the government?" "fortunately for you i am not. you will, perhaps, understand when i say i am a private detective. if a government official were in my place it would be with a warrant." "a warrant, monsieur?" "a warrant, madame--for your arrest. shall we converse here or in your private room?" she moved towards the green curtain. "a moment," i said. "last night, when i had the pleasure of purchasing some of your very excellent provisions, and happened to mention that i was recommended by mrs. fordham, you had a visitor in that room, who gave you a signal. is the gentleman there now?" "there is no gentleman in the room," she said, throwing open the door. "how know you there was one?" "i shall surprise you, madame, with the extent of my knowledge. in order that we may not be interrupted we will turn the key in the shop door." "you are not afraid?" she asked, and there was a look in her eyes resembling that of a cat who is about to spring. "oh, no, madame," i replied, following her to the inner room, "the english are not afraid of the french." "nor the french of the english," she hissed. "you are a brave nation," i said, with a polite bow, "so are we. i propose, in your interests, an alliance." "not in your own, monsieur?" "not in my own, madame. i am merely an agent, and am not in any danger. you are a principal." "a principal! what is that?" "your knowledge of our language, madame lourbet, is almost perfect; one might take you for a native, you speak english so fluently. but at your wish i will explain what i mean by my use of the word. it is that of a man or a woman who, without actually committing a crime, aids in its perpetration. "i defy you to prove that i knew of it," she cried. "i have not finished--though your denial, being in the past tense (a point of grammar, madame), is partial proof that it does not apply to the present. by the term 'principal' i mean also a man or a woman who, not being a witness of the crime, assists afterwards in keeping those who are guilty out of the hands of justice, and who, at the same time, assists in fixing that crime upon the innocent. that affects you, madame, and if you persist in shielding the guilty, you will see the inside of a prison door. i am going to be quite plain with you. some years ago you, being then in paris, entered the service of a gentlemen who is now in prison on a charge of murder." "i did not. i entered the service of a lady." "john fordham's wife. in english law it is the same. you were john fordham's servant. you came to england with him and his wife and exercised authority in his house. i am acquainted with every particular of your conduct during the years you remained with them. you hated your master, and conspired against him. your mistress was a drunkard, and you secretly supplied her with liquor." "she gave me orders, and i obeyed them." "you went much further than that, madame. you invented lying stories against your master, you gave secret evidence against him. i could entertain you for an hour with the details of your treachery and that of other enemies of his with whom you were in collusion. it succeeded too well. it drove him from his home, it drove him from his country. confess, madame, that i am well informed." "i confess nothing. i wait." "do not wait too long, madame. i pass over the intervening years, and come straight to the peril in which you stand--a peril which, if you do not avert it by your own action, your own immediate action, madame, will make a convict of you. you know what that means, do you not? a convict--so many years' imprisonment--hard labor--no more red wine, no more nice french dishes. somewhat over a year ago a brutal murder was committed in liverpool, and quite lately your former master, mr. john fordham, laboring under a singular hallucination, accuses himself of the murder of his half-brother louis." i kept my eyes on her face as i mentioned the name, but not a muscle moved. "it is his own business," she said, "not mine." "i shall prove to you that it is yours in an indirect manner. you know of this murder, you know that john fordham is in prison on the charge of committing it. it is my turn to wait now, madame." "say that i know of it. what then?" "this. you are aware that louis fordham was not murdered, you are aware that he is this day alive, and that john fordham is innocent of the crime of which he accused himself, and for which you would like to see him hanged. you are intimately acquainted with louis, you know where he lives. last night, when i was in your shop, a man was concealed behind this green curtain." "it was not monsieur louis," she cried, and then she bit her lip, as though she had said too much. "no, madame," i said, smiling, "it was not monsieur louis. the man was your dead mistress' brother, maxwell. you see, madame, we have been keeping watch on you. we have even the evidence of the rascal you married under a deplorable misrepresentation. i refer to monsieur whybrow." "ah!" she exclaimed. "the ingr-rate!" "he is a scoundrel, madame, but evidence is evidence, and we shall take advantage of his if it be necessary. you can punish him--why do you not? is it that you fear he might blurt out something about your present intimacy with monsieur louis' mother and with maxwell, who visits you disguised with false beard and whiskers? is it that you fear that this might lead the police to inquire into the reasons for your association with the villain who murdered monsieur morgan?" and now i had the satisfaction of seeing her blanch and of knowing that i had hit the nail on the head. "it would make you in some sense an accomplice in the crime. do you perceive the danger that hangs over you, madame? do you perceive that your hatred of john fordham may be carried too far? intensely disagreeable as it will be to you to assist in proving his innocence, it is your only chance of safety. decide for yourself; i use no persuasion." "no, you use threats," she said, and i think, if a look from a woman's eyes could kill, i should not be here now to tell my tale. "hardly that. i have been very frank with you; if i have hurt your feelings permit me to offer you my apologies." "what do you require of me?" she asked. "the address of monsieur maxwell, and of louis fordham and his mother," i replied. "nothing more?" "nothing more." "and then you and your spies will trouble me no more?" "no more than is necessary to protect ourselves from treachery." "i will not be dragged into your witness box," she cried. "i will not--i will not!" i considered a moment. if success continued to attend me--and i believed that it would--we could dispense with her evidence. to be able to lay hands upon john fordham's enemies this very night was the all-important move in the game. to-morrow they might be out of our reach, and i should be confronted with difficulties that might be unsurmountable. "every effort shall be made," i said, "not to bring you forward as a witness." and, indeed, as i spoke these words, i was penetrated by a conviction that such evidence as she could give would be of little value; but i kept this to myself. it is not wise to show your weak cards. "you promise it," she said, "on your honor as a gentleman?" "on my honor as a gentleman, madame," i replied, with my hand on my heart, and repressing a smile, "i promise it." to my surprise she sprang to her feet; the devil within her obtained the mastery, and i never heard the human voice express hatred so vindictively and forcibly. the stories i had heard of the female fiend in the french commune came vividly to my mind; a representative stood before me in the person of madame lourbet, as she hissed: "no, i will not help him! i would go in my holiday clothes to see him hanged!" "you shall not have that pleasure, madame," i said. "i wish you good evening." her fears returned. there is no weapon so effective as calmness in dealing with hysterical natures. if you shriek, they shriek the louder; if you stand firm, they quail. "what to do?" she asked, showing in her face the conflicting emotions by which she was torn. "to obtain a warrant for your arrest," i answered boldly. "my spies will take care that you do not escape." i was half out of the room when she cried, "stop! i will do it--i will do it!" "i do not know, madame," i said, appearing to hesitate. "we can manage without your aid. you shall stand in the dock by the side of your friend maxwell." and now she was thoroughly terrified; she wept, she implored, she fell upon her knees. it was a great victory, but though i knew i could not do without her i did not yield easily. when i had worked her up to a proper pitch i said: "rise, madame, and write the address in finchley where i shall find your friends." "they are not my friends," she cried, tottering to the table on which lay writing materials. "they would ruin, they would destroy me! and you, monsieur--you will save me? you have promised, on the honor of a gentleman. you will save me--you will save me!" "i will keep my promise, madame. write--it is your only chance. you allowed your hatred of john fordham to carry you too far. be thankful that i came here as your friend." "if i had never met these fordhams," she said, her hands trembling as she took up a pen, "it would have been better for me." "it would have been better for you if you had been faithful to your master, and not entered into a conspiracy against him. we english have a proverb--honesty is the best policy. take it to heart, and for the future be content with making money out of us." i looked at the address she had written, lethbridge road, n. w. "do they all live together, madame?" "i think so, monsieur," she replied, and even now she made a motion, as though she would have liked to pluck the paper from me. there was no fear of my forgetting the address, and i held it out to her. "do you wish for it back?" "no, no!" she said with a shudder. "very good. just another word of sensible advice, madame. keep in your shop, and preserve silence until i bring this affair to a satisfactory conclusion. if you stir you will be followed; if you write a letter of warning it will fall into the hands of the police. you understand?" "yes, i understand.'' "it only remains to me to thank you for this very pleasant interview." so i left her, saying to myself as i rejoined wheeler. "checkmate to madame lourbet." "well?" said wheeler. "success, my boy, success!" i replied. "the game is in our hands, but not a moment must be lost. i am going in for desperate measures. will you back me up?" "in anything." "do you carry a pistol?" i asked, grasping his hand. "colt's double action revolver, six chambers," he answered, tapping the back of his waistband. "took it to liverpool with me." "good. i have mine on me. i want two more men. jack for one. can you recommend another?" "a capital man. pick him up in five minutes. sure to be at home. just married, and in want of a job. name, bob garlick." "he's the man for us." i hailed a growler, and wheeler told the driver where to go. "i have screwed maxwell's address out of madame lourbet," i said, as we rattled along. "you would have laughed if you had heard us argue--i fairly frightened her. i shouldn't be surprised if he and louis, and perhaps louis' mother, are preparing for flight, and i hope to catch the lot to-night. there's nothing in the last two that would warrant us in arresting them, but it is on the cards that i shall arrest maxwell for the murder of morgan, whose real name is philip barlow." "how do you know he murdered him? best be sure of your ground, godfrey." "i will make sure. the plan i have in my head will not fail. i never in my life felt more confident, but everything, of course, depends upon our coming face to face with the scoundrelly crew. we are going straight to their house, you, i, bob garlick, and jack, and then we shall see what we shall see." what my plan was will presently be made clear. sufficient now to say that we found our new recruit at home, and that he took it as a compliment to be invited to work with me. jack also joined us. he was overjoyed to hear that it was not a ghost he had seen in finchley road, but louis himself in the flesh. "you've lifted a ton weight off me, guv'nor," he said. "that clears me, don't it?" "you will come out of it with flying colors, my lad," i answered, clapping him on the shoulder. "but 'ow did it happen?" he asked, in wonder. "we shall know soon," i said. "only keep cool." "poor morgan!" he sighed, with genuine feeling. "'e was worth a 'undered of sech stuck-up cads as louis." over a hasty and ample meal, for a full stomach puts courage into a man, i gave my recruits their instructions, and then the four of us rattled on to lethbridge road. night had fallen before we reached our destination. a dark night, too, for which i was not sorry. directing the cab where to wait for us, we proceeded to the house. "how are we to get in?" whispered wheeler. i did not answer him, but rang the bell, and gave the double rat-tat of a messenger from the telegraph office. chapter xxxiii. whenever a summons of this kind is answered quickly it betokens either that the inmates are in a nervous state or are in dread or expectation of important news. a peaceful household takes things more calmly, and is content to let the telegraph messenger cool his heels on the doorstep. i did not expect this household to be at peace with itself, nor did i wish it, for such a state of things would have augured ill for the success of my expedition. i was therefore pleased to hear a rush of footsteps in the passage, followed by the swift opening of the street door. the woman who answered the summons held a candle in her hand, and there was nothing particularly clever in my jumping at the conclusion that louis' mother stood before me. until this night i had never seen her or her son, nor, so far as i am aware, had they seen me. i had counted upon this as of importance in the move i was about to take. we being in the dark, and mrs. fordham in the light, we had the advantage of her. as she peered forward and held out her hand for the telegram, three of us darted into the passage, wheeler, bob garlick, and myself. jack was on the watch outside, to be called in by a whistle when he was required. mrs. fordham fell back with a shriek of alarm, and a man ran out of the nearest room, crying: "what's the matter?" this man had a scar on his forehead. "mr. louis fordham, i believe," i said, advancing, while mrs. fordham continued to retreat. "yes." "no." the two answers came simultaneously from the man and the woman, the man acknowledging his name, the woman denying it. we were moving slowly towards the room from which louis had emerged, and now reached the door. mrs. fordham flung herself against it, and crying, "you can't come in here--this is a private house," actually had the boldness to blow out the candle. i could not but admire her for it, for she must have seen that there were three of us, and pluck, especially in a woman, always commands my admiration. but she reckoned without her host, for two bull's eye lanterns instantly flashed their light upon her face. "have you come to rob us?" she demanded. "i will call the police." "save yourself the trouble," i replied. "we are officers, and i warn you not to resist. here is a police whistle, if you would like to use it." she did not take it, and driving her and louis before us we entered the room. the gas was lighted there, and it was clear to see what was going on. trunks and bags were open, and the floor was littered with clothing and traveling requirements, on the point of being packed away. "preparing for a journey?" i remarked. "that doesn't concern you," mrs. fordham retorted. "no, it concerns you more than us," i said. "i am afraid your journey will have to be postponed." i motioned to wheeler, and pointed to an inner door which communicated with another apartment. "see who is in there." "it is my bedroom," screamed mrs. fordham. "you ruffians--how dare you?" "see who is in there," i repeated. "there is nobody there," she said. we did not take her word for it. wheeler examined the apartment, and returning, said it was empty. "whom did you expect to find?' demanded mrs. fordham. "shall i give him a name?" "you can do as you please about that." "oh, i thought you wanted to know." "you shall suffer for this," she said, but curiosity was too much for her. "give him a name, then." "what do you say to a party of the name of maxwell?" she made no answer, but i observed that her face grew suddenly white, as had been the case with madame lourbet when i made a good shot. in dealing with self-willed women this is always a satisfactory sign. my observation of the tender sex leads me to another conclusion--the most obstinate of them when the barriers are broken down show the most fear, and are the most subservient and submissive, though i am bound to say this was not exactly the case with mrs. fordham. but then she was an exceptional woman, and she hated john fordham as only a woman can hate. "who is in the house besides yourselves?" i asked. "you wouldn't have dared to molest us," she answered, "if we had protectors." "answer the question," i said sternly. "you know that we are alone in the house." "go and see," i said to my two assistants. "i can take care of these." they departed on their errand, and until their return, when they informed me that the house was empty except for those who were in this room, not a word was exchanged between me and mrs. fordham. as for louis, he had taken no part in the conversation. he was evidently ruled by his mother, for he kept his eyes upon her, and took his cue for silence from her. "now," said i, "we are here upon very serious business, and i don't want you to incriminate yourselves. i have had an interview with one lady to-day--a friend of yours, madame lourbet, provision dealer, soho--. and after some stupid reluctance on her part, i put it to her whether she would treat me as a friend or an enemy. if it had been as an enemy she would have been in prison by this time. i should have had her arrested. but she acted like a sensible woman, and accepted me as her friend, recognizing that it was her only chance of being kept out of the criminal dock. the consequence is, she is free--and safe." i repeated the last two words. "and safe. i offer you the same chance. if, without incriminating yourselves, you can do as she did, i advise you to follow her lead. if it is to be the other way, blame yourselves for the course i shall take." louis made a motion, as though about to speak, but his mother restrained him. "be silent," she said. "pray what course do you propose to take?" "i shall arrest you, mrs. fordham, and you, louis fordham, on the charge of complicity in the murder of a man known as morgan, over a year ago in liverpool." louis staggered, and caught at the mantelpiece for support, and mrs. fordham rushed to his side. i remembered what john fordham wrote in his confession about the love she bore her son, and i now had evidence of it. "you are not very strong," i said, stating a palpable fact. "probably you still feel the effects of the wound you received on the night morgan was murdered." and now louis was not to be restrained. "what do you know of it?" he screamed. "what do you know of it?" "up to a certain point," i replied, "i know everything. of the company you kept in liverpool and elsewhere, of the way you spent your days and nights, of the gambling that was going on, of your accusing maxwell that he cheated you at cards, of your being stabbed by him"--i stopped here. i had given them an inkling of what i did know, but had no intention of telling them what i did not know; so i branched off on another tack. "you are both aware that john fordham is in prison for a murder he did not commit. your presence alone in a criminal court will prove him to be innocent. but we do not need that to set him free; it can be accomplished without your aid. and for the rest--well, it is in your hands. i shall not give you long to decide." "my son was a victim," said mrs. fordham. "he is no murderer." "you can prove that to a judge and jury instead of to me, if you prefer it. i have a conveyance waiting for you. be advised. don't trifle with me." "you mentioned an alternative, but have not explained it." "ah, you are growing sensible. i must have plain answers to plain questions, and a plain statement of facts." "may i speak privately to my son?" "i have no objection, but it must be in this room. we shall not let you out of our sight. you can talk in the corner there, and we will remain here by the door. if you speak low we shall not overhear you." she dragged louis into the corner, and there they held a whispered conference. i did not seek to overhear them, but i saw that louis, overcome by fear, was ready, even eager, to unbosom himself. such opposition as was apparent to me came from her. she was the kind of woman that hates to give in--she and madame lourbet would have made a pretty pair--but in the end she allowed herself to be persuaded. "we will answer your questions, such as we think fit to be answered," she said, "under compulsion. understand that--under compulsion." i shook my head and smiled. "that will not do. you will answer all my questions of your own free will, or you will answer none; and your desire is to assist the course of justice." she shut her mouth with a snap, and i think she would have liked to bite me. "if you don't answer," cried louis, "i will." "put your questions," she said, frowning at him and us. "you wish me to do so?" i asked, knowing i had her in my power, and she was forced to answer, "yes." she did not exactly love me at that moment. i pointed to the litter of clothing and open trunks. "you are packing up to go away?" "yes--we have a right to go where we please." "to paris?" "yes." "and from there?" "it is not decided." "it was your intention to travel by the night train?" "yes." "who was to go with you?" "a friend." "he is not a friend," louis exclaimed, "i don't care for your dark looks, mother; i will speak! he has never been my friend. didn't he rob me--didn't he nearly murder me? and you stand up for him because--because----" "hold your tongue!" she cried. but though he did not finish the sentence i did, in my mind. she stood up for maxwell because there was a tie between them; he had obtained a hold upon her through her affections--for even such women as she can love. conjectures, of course, but i afterwards learned that they went straight to the bull's eye. i continued. "maxwell was to be your companion?" "yes." "he is coming for you? you expect him here tonight?" it needed but the slightest hesitation on her part to cause me to turn to louis, and when he answered, "yes, he is coming for us," i thought she would have struck him. "quarrel away," thought i, "it all makes for us." it made for us also, that she was torn two ways at once--by her undoubted love for louis, and by what had taken place between her and maxwell. "at what time do you expect him?" "at ten." i looked at my watch; there was nearly an hour to spare. "when was it arranged that the three of you were to go together to the continent?" "yesterday." "last night, you mean." "well, last night. that is yesterday." "it was maxwell who suggested it?" "yes." "after he had followed a certain person home from madame lourbet's shop?" "you are well informed," said mrs. fordham, bitterly. "there is very little in this rascally affair," i responded, "upon which i am not well informed, but it is always satisfactory to receive confirmation. i have no further questions to ask at present. what i require now is a plain statement of facts. relate what occurred after maxwell stabbed you." i do not propose to set it down in louis' own words. mrs. fordham wished to give me the information, but i would not receive it from her, although it was to her eagerness to prove louis' innocence that i was indebted for some part of the disclosure. for the filling in of the narrative i am also indebted to the natural intelligence of a man who knows his business, that man, without any affectation of false modesty, being myself. the importance of this disclosure cannot be exaggerated. it filled up the gaps of the mystery, and made the whole thing clear. i give the incidents in the consecutive order in which they occurred. when louis fell to the ground in the house in rye street, maxwell and morgan, believing him to be dead, stood transfixed with fear, appalled by the tragic termination to their plan of robbery. jack had rushed from the room in terror, but this they scarcely noticed, so engrossed were they in fears for their own safety. what aroused them were the sounds of a desperate fight in the passage below--the fight that was going on between john fordham and jack. their impression was that they had been watched, and that the police were upon them. if that were indeed the case, their peril could not have been greater, for, with the body of their victim on the ground, they would be caught red-handed. the conflict in the passage continued for several minutes, and it seemed as if one or more of the combatants were endeavoring to force their way upstairs. suddenly there was a lull--they heard the thud of a fallen body, and then the violent slamming of the street door. following that, a dead silence. it was long before they could muster sufficient courage to go from the room to ascertain what had taken place. they took a light with them, and coming upon the body of a man, they stooped to see who it was. "by god!" cried maxwell. "it is my brother-in-law, john fordham! how did he come here?" and then, "what a slice of luck!" i can almost hear him utter these words as i write them down--and if he did not utter them he thought them, which i take it amounts to the same thing. quick as lightning he saw the opportunity of diverting suspicion from himself, and fixing the guilt upon an innocent man. assisted by morgan, to whom probably he disclosed his plan, he carried fordham's body into the room, took the knife with which he had stabbed louis, and put in its place the gold-digger's knife he found in fordham's sheath, smearing it first with blood. then he and morgan removed every article which would draw suspicion upon themselves, and stole from the house to await the issue of events. whether they kept watch upon the house to see what john fordham would do--for they had ascertained that he had only been stunned by the fall, and was certain to soon recover his senses--or went away and returned after an interval, is not material. sufficient that they did return--to find john fordham flown, and louis still lying on the ground in a state of insensibility, and apparently dead. but the wound he had received was not mortal, as we know. he became conscious while maxwell and morgan were quarreling. morgan, it appears, was under the impression that maxwell intended to cheat him of his share of the spoil, and he was insisting upon a fair division then and there. maxwell refused, and a stormy scene ensued, of which louis was a witness, though he did not dare to stir lest they should really make an end of him. from words, the two men came to blows, and maxwell was heard to threaten to serve morgan as he had served louis. but morgan, thoroughly enraged, was not to be intimidated, and a savage struggle ensued--ending in maxwell dealing morgan a death stroke with the knife with which he had stabbed louis. in a paroxysm of fury he battered the face of the dead man and stamped upon it; and finally overturned the heavy table upon the body, and fled. then louis, fearful lest the murder would be fastened upon him, managed to rise and stumble from the house unobserved. the violence of the storm, which was raging furiously without, favored him, and he succeeded in making his way to a common lodging-house, frequented by thieves and men of the worst character, to whom the sight of a man who had been engaged in a desperate fight was familiar. there he remained in hiding for a couple of days, by which time he was strong enough to leave liverpool and take train to london, where he joined his mother and was nursed by her. meanwhile maxwell had also returned to london, devoured by anxiety, and by curiosity to ascertain what had become of john fordham. after keeping quiet for a week he paid a visit to louis' mother, and was astonished to see louis in her house. as may be imagined he was not cordially received, for louis had given his mother a true account of what had occurred. at this juncture maxwell's natural cunning--of which there are so many instances in john fordham's confession--came to his aid. he professed the greatest delight at louis' escape, and the deepest regret that he had allowed his temper to master him in their dispute over cards. concerning morgan's death he pointed out that louis' peril was no less than his own, and that, if the worst should happen, it was not he alone who would be accused of the murder. naturally, he argued, louis would throw the crime upon him, and naturally he would throw it upon louis. it was a fair assumption that his story would be believed before louis' because of the wound which the latter had received, which people would say was inflicted by morgan while defending himself against the attack made upon him. these arguments were strong enough to show the dangerous position in which louis stood in relation to the crime. maxwell then went on to say that their safety lay in fixing the guilt upon john fordham, and he related to them how that unfortunate man came to be entangled in the affair. the hatred they bore to john fordham induced them to listen with avidity to the villainous proposal, and they hailed with pleasure the opportunity of being revenged upon him. "he believes you to be dead," said maxwell to louis. "let him rest in that belief. all you have to do is to keep quiet. if, as i suspect, he is in london, i will track him down. by barbara's death a large sum of money has reverted to him. let me but succeed in finding him, and i will bleed him of every shilling. you need not be seen; i will do the dirty work, and you shall share the plunder." the temptation was irresistible, and a peace was patched up between them. by what means maxwell discovered john fordham in hiding in london under an assumed name, and how he worked upon the unhappy man's feelings till the poor fellow was beggared, is fully explained by fordham himself in his confession. thus, step by step, was the whole mystery revealed. i had good reason to be satisfied with my work, though something still remained to be done. when his story was finished louis looked anxiously at me, but i was silent, having a mind to play with him a bit. "it proves my innocence, doesn't it?" he asked at length. "i believe it does," i answered. "the question is, will others believe it? you see, maxwell will stick to his story as you will stick to yours. he is not likely to have any feeling of tenderness towards his betrayers." "do you see what you have done, you fool!" cried mrs. fordham. "you have set that beast john free, and you have put a halter round your neck! we have been tricked--tricked!" she looked about her wildly, and louis trembled in every limb. i smiled amiably at her. "in that nice liverpool party of yours there were four men--you, maxwell, morgan, and another." "jack!" he cried. "he can prove my innocence. he saw maxwell stab me!" "yes," i said, "he is the only man who can back up your story and save you from maxwell. if he could be found now, and be induced to speak the truth?" "he must be found," screamed louis; "he must be! for god's sake give me something to drink, or i shall go into a fit!" his mother flew to the sideboard, and poured brandy into a glass, which she held up to his chattering teeth. i enjoyed the sight--i don't deny it--and had it not been that the time was drawing near for the appearance of maxwell upon the scene, i have no hesitation in admitting that i should have prolonged the agony. my blood fairly boiled within me as i gazed upon the terror-stricken wretches, and thought of the sufferings they had inflicted upon john fordham. i controlled my feelings, however, and applied myself steadily to the business i had in hand. "talking is dry work," i said. "being in a manner of speaking your guests, it would be politeness on your part to pass the bottle round." "i second that," said bob garlick, passing his tongue over his lips. the woman took no notice of the hint, but louis stumbled eagerly forward and held out the bottle to me. if i had not taken instant hold of it a lot of good liquor would have been wasted, his hand was so shaky. we helped ourselves, and felt the better for it, and then i said: "i don't drink at any one's expense--except in the way of friendship--without paying for it. i am going to pay for the drinks, and to prove to you that you have acted wisely in trusting us. you have called your son a fool, mrs. fordham, and it would be rude to contradict a lady. perhaps he is something worse than that, but at all events he has not been a fool tonight. had he followed your advice the pair of you would have seen the inside of prison walls. as it is, he has saved you and himself. do you think we left jack out of the reckoning? not a bit of it. at this present moment he is within twenty yards of us, waiting for orders, and it is a good job that his account of the stabbing tallies with that we have just heard. i shouldn't like to have such a record as yours, mr. louis, to my score, but there will be no charge of murder brought against you. that is all you care for, i expect, never mind what happens to any one else." his eyes literally flashed with joy when he heard this, and mrs. fordham drew a long, deep breath of relief. she would have made almost any sacrifice to save both men, but louis came first. that is the way with mothers, even when they are the worst of women. "is the liquor paid for?" i asked. "yes, yes," louis replied. "take some more." i put the bottle aside, and held up my hand, for just then we heard three single raps at the street door, a short interval between each. then, after a longer interval, three rapid knocks. "is that maxwell's signal?" i whispered. "speak low." "yes." "do you have to say anything? must he hear your voice?" "yes. and i must hear his." "go and say it, and open the door, and leave the rest to us. we shall be behind you." i did not trust her even then, you see. we stepped softly out of the room, mrs. fordham first, and we at her heels. the passage was dark; i would not allow her to carry a light. "who is there?" she asked. the answer came. "all right, m." she was in such a state of agitation that she fumbled at the lock. i put my hand warningly on her shoulder, and the door was opened. "what did you keep me so long for?" cried maxwell, as he entered. "is that you, louis? everything's ready. what the----" before he could get out another word he was seized and handcuffed. i blew my whistle, and jack came up. directing him in an undertone to remain in the passage till i called for him, i followed wheeler and bob garlick into the room where they had conveyed their prisoner, mrs. fordham having run in first. she was panting as though she had lost her breath. maxwell had said nothing more in the dark passage, his impression being, of course, that the police were upon him, and that silence would best serve him. when i entered he was safe in the grasp of my assistants, and was glaring at mrs. fordham and louis, neither of whom had the courage to meet his eye. "have you searched him?" i asked of my assistants. they shook their heads. "well, let us see what he has in his pockets." we turned them out, the slight resistance he was able to make being of no avail. there was a loaded pistol, money, keys, and other oddments, and a pocketbook, containing letters and memoranda. some of the letters were old and some recently written. among the old letters were two signed by morgan before the liverpool affair, the contents of which proved the association of the two men for the purpose of robbing louis. the recent letters were from mrs. fordham, and my hurried perusal of them left no doubt as to the nature of the intimacy between her and maxwell. it was a ticklish position for a woman--on one side a lover, on the other a son whom she worshiped; but she had made her choice, and there was no retreat for her. while i was examining the letters there was no sound in the room except the rustling of the papers. the truth dawned slowly upon maxwell, and his face grew darker and darker as he gazed upon the forms of his confederates. he could no longer control himself. "----you all!" he cried. "what is the meaning of this?" "you are charged with the murder of a man you knew by the name of morgan in liverpool," i replied. "it's an infernal lie!" he shouted. "and you--what have you to say to it?" he addressed this question to louis and mrs. fordham, but neither of the two answered him. "so," he said, between his teeth, while a deadly pallor spread over his features, "you have laid a trap for me, after all i have done to save you. there stands the murderer"--with a nod of his head towards louis--"and i am ready to give evidence against him." "what kind of evidence?" i asked. "the evidence of an eye witness," he said. "i saw him do it--saw him strike morgan down!" "ah," said i, and i stepped to the door, and beckoned jack in. "what do you think of your ghost now, jack?" his face beamed, and then his eyes wandered from louis to maxwell. "don't you know an old pal when you see him? but i forgot. he has something on him which does not properly belong to him." and as i spoke i plucked the false beard and whiskers from maxwell's face. "maxwell!" cried jack. then the murderer knew that the game was lost. * * * * * * that very night, after lodging maxwell in prison, and laying the information against him, i paid a visit to ellen cameron. it was past midnight when i reached her lodgings, but i knew she wouldn't mind that when she heard the news i brought. luckily the landlady of the house was up, or i should have had some trouble in obtaining admittance; she had a birthday party, and they were merrymaking. i explained to her that i had some wonderfully good news to communicate to her lodger, and she allowed me to go to her rooms. ellen's voice trembled as she answered my summons at her door, and trembled more when she heard who her visitor was. i called to her not to be frightened, but to dress herself quickly. "good news!" i cried. "the best of good news!" i was soon admitted. what a picture of neatness that room was, and how sweet and pretty ellen looked, despite the trouble she had gone through! i declare a lump rose in my throat as i looked at her--but there! another man had got her, and he was worthy of her, and she of him. we spoke low because her boy was asleep in the next room, and as she listened to the story i had to relate, tears of joy ran down her beautiful face. i finished, and rose to go. "john is to be brought up to-morrow," i said, "and to-morrow he will be free. come to my office at half-past nine in the morning, and we will go to the court together. i know you would like to be there to welcome him. that is one of my reasons for coming here at such an hour. another reason is, that i thought it would be a sin if i lost a single minute in giving you the good news." she fell upon her knees and buried her face in her hands. tears were in my eyes, too, as i was stealing out of the room. but she sprang to her feet and caught my hand, and kissed it. "how can we repay you--how can we repay you!" she sobbed. "i am repaid already," i said, and i pressed her hand and left her. * * * * * * and indeed in one way i was more than repaid. you know the stir the case made in the papers, and the flattering things that were said of my skill--which i am too modest to set down here. my proceedings were not perhaps exactly regular, and it is quite likely that scotland yard would rather have had the credit of bringing the mystery to light. i doubt if they would have succeeded had it been left to them. and as for what i did, and the way i did it--well, nothing succeeds like success. i became famous--really. and the business that flocked upon me! i am in a fair way of making my fortune. no need to go on the stage. * * * * * * all this happened twelve months ago. john and ellen are in australia doing well, and as happy as birds in summer time. we write to each other regularly, and they are continually sending me little presents. pleasant, isn't it, to feel that, though many thousands of miles are between us, we shall hold one another in affectionate remembrance to the last days of our lives? and then, would you believe it, a week or two ago i was introduced to a young lady so like ellen that they might be sisters. the moment i set eyes on her my heart went twenty to the dozen, and---- but that has nothing to do with the story. the end. * * * * * * a few press opinions on a little wizard by stanley j. weyman mo, cloth, cents new york times "mr. weyman now builds his romance on english soil. the time is the beginning of the puritan uprising, before the firm establishment of the commonwealth, and the personages are roundheads and cavaliers. that is to say, the small boy and his fugitive brother, who are the most sympathetic characters in the story, represent the royalist class, and they are set among crack-brained fanatics, sniveling hypocrites, and sturdy, well-meaning dissenters. there is a strong and convincing sketch of cromwell before he had reached the zenith of his power, which is quite in mr. weyman's best vein. "the little story, which seems to have been intended as a boys' book, is well devised and the interest is maintained to an abrupt and startling denouement. there are no battles, but there is an admirable description of a march of cromwell's troops across the wet moors, and mr. weyman's strong feeling for landscape effects, which so greatly helps the interest of all his romances, pervades this little story." christian advocate "a new historical tale by stanley j. weyman is set in the time of cromwell, just after the battles of marston moor and naseby, and before the surrender by the scots' army of charles i. it is called 'a little wizard,' and recites incidents in the careers of two youthful sons of a cavalier gentleman who has sacrificed his life to the royalist cause, and one of whom--the little wizard--figures pathetically in the story, under the care of a faithless family servitor who has sinister connections with the puritan roundheads. the story has much of the literary and historic charm which marks all of mr. weyman's works, and it will find many interested readers. it is illustrated, and has a portrait of the author." brooklyn eagle . . . . "'a little wizard,' in a small volume, which will be found just big enough for an evening's reading. the author has come back to england in this narrative, which is of the time of cromwell. it is a fragment only, but it is like a remnant of some rich piece of tapestry on which is found embroidered the story of some brave deed of an older time, and so rich is it, so full of art, so vigorous with life, that the finder mourns that the whole history is not before him. . . . it is to be hoped that he will work this vein somewhat further. his picture of cromwell in the 'little wizard' is very lifelike. one cannot help wishing that he would attempt the same drawing on a larger canvas. it is time we had once more a story of romance and adventure with english ground as its foothold. it would be a blessed relief from some of the pictures of passion, pure and impure--chiefly the latter--which of late has given rise to the question as to whether or not english reserve and modesty has become a forgotten virtue in literature." the outlook "the artist is often revealed as strongly in small things as in great. mr. s. j. weyman's 'the little wizard' is short and slight, but, within its chosen limits, is a thoroughly artistic bit of fiction. its hero is a little royalist lad of the times of charles i., who falls among rustic fanatics and, by an odd train of events, becomes suspected of being endowed with witch powers and of bringing a storm to hinder the march of cromwell's army. the brief glimpse of cromwell himself is admirably given. the close is dramatically managed and effective." cleveland plain dealer "in 'a little wizard,' stanley j. weyman leaves his familiar french ground and locates his story in england during the war between the royalists and roundheads, the tale reciting incidents in the careers of two sons of a cavalier gentleman who had fallen in the royalist cause. it is an interesting novelette that does not take long in the reading and has no pages to be skipped on account of dullness." * * * * * * r. f. fenno & company fifth avenue new york a few press opinions on a new note world "the latest book of which people are talking; this new book is very much up to date." daily telegraph "the book is really a remarkable one, of high literary quality, replete with strong human interest and displaying masterly ability. widespread popularity awaits 'a new note.' ere long everybody who is anybody will read it." st. james's gazette "eminently readable, and we should say will be read. the writing is brisk and clever, and the character-drawing very good." manchester guardian "its merits are far above the average, the characters are admirably drawn, they are living people and stand out in solid relief amid the shadowy unsubstantial hosts that people the pages of most modern fiction. the authoress has knowledge of the human heart. there is much cleverness and power in the book." saturday review "a promising story; the verdict on this must be decidedly favorable." guardian "it is of an uncommon power and breadth, rare and vivacious humor. its incidents and _mise-en-scene_ are decidedly fresh, and the conversations brisk and to the point." st. paul's "shows much knowledge of character and skill in portraiture. there is scarcely a character that we might not single out for praise; the dialogue, too, is excellent--smart without being flippant, and witty without being labored." athenæum "this cleverly written novel. . . . the book is written with considerable alertness of style, and the sketches of the old maiden aunt and half a dozen other minor characters are touched off with no little skill and humor." post "its crisply rounded phrases, bright dialogues, and general knowledge of the world, might be envied by many a practised writer. the book is a novelty in the best sense of the term, vivacious and refined." academy "the note in the book is struck well, and with a purpose--delicate insight into shades of feeling and certain hold of human nature. the characters the author has made her own she has made a distinct success." post "combines adequate knowledge of the world with a high degree of literary skill. the character of the heroine is admirably conceived and managed. the situations are powerful without effort, and the dialogue is often as brilliant as the reflections are shrewd. this is one of the novels of the season." times "it introduces to the novel reading public a writer of no mean powers. a story of human interest, thoroughly bright and wholesome. the heroine is a new conception. every reader of the book will readily recognise the genuine gifts of the author." speaker "there is undoubted ability in 'a new note.' the author is clever and can write well; she can also draw accurate sketches of the better side of social life." globe "the author displays a feeling for character, skill in dealing with the crises and events, and a pleasant style." mail "a clever bit of literary work, well conceived and admirably developed. the heroine is that extraordinary latter-day creation, 'a new woman.'" a few press opinions on the professor's experiment by mrs. hungerford (the duchess) mo, cloth, $ . ; paper covers, cents the watchman "the 'experiment,' which gives name to the story, is a weird one and picturesquely presented, reminding one faintly of the old french story of the 'broken ear.' it turns the red light briskly on the hero and heroine, who, having been thus vividly introduced to us and to each other, proceed to the business of the occasion by falling in love with each other and entangling themselves in divers nets of embarrassing circumstances, settling away from the storm to a peaceful horizon of marriage at last. it has become necessary, in these days, to indicate the exceptional and welcome fact that this is a pure story; painting cheery pictures of normal domestic life, and opening no side doors to encourage the stealthy adventures of a prurient fancy. it is a novel, strictly speaking, involving neither sermon nor stump speech. it offers entertainment only, but it gives what it offers; resting the tired brain and leaving no poison in the blood." evening bulletin "it is a capital story of an irish savant, who, like the magicians of mediæval days, passed his years in concocting a draught to put his subjects to sleep. fortunately a beautiful girl of eighteen is found insensible on the professor's doorstep. she becomes his patient, enters upon a long sleep, and, in the 'large awakening,' learns that she is heiress to an immense fortune and the professor's grand-daughter." indianapolis journal "'the professor's experiment' is the title of a new book by mrs. hungerford (the duchess). it is of a somewhat more elaborate and ambitious character than this writer's recent stories, and shows a return to her earlier manner. the heroine is the impulsive, warm-hearted young irish girl with whom all mrs. hungerford's readers are well acquainted, but of whom, in her various phases and reappearances they do not tire." * * * r. f. fenno & company, fifth avenue, new york [frontispiece: _the captain tore at the shoulders and neck of the gray horse with his gleaming teeth_. page ] "i conquered" by harold titus with frontispiece in colors by charles m. russell a. l. burt company publishers new york published by arrangements with rand, mcnally & company _copyright, ,_ by rand mcnally & company the contents chapter i. denunciation ii. a young man goes west iii. "i've done my pickin'" iv. the trouble hunter v. jed philosophizes vi. ambition is born vii. with hoof and tooth viii. a head of yellow hair ix. pursuit x. capture xi. a letter and a narrative xii. woman wants xiii. vb fights xiv. the schoolhouse dance xv. murder xvi. the candle burns xvii. great moments xviii. the lie xix. through the night xx. the last stand xxi. guns crash xxii. tables turn; and turn again xxiii. life, the trophy xxiv. victory xxv. "the light!" xxvi. to the victor "__i conquered" chapter i denunciation danny lenox wanted a drink. the desire came to him suddenly as he stood looking down at the river, burnished by bright young day. it broke in on his lazy contemplation, wiped out the indulgent smile, and made the young face serious, purposeful, as though mighty consequence depended on satisfying the urge that had just come up within him. he was the sort of chap to whom nothing much had ever mattered, whose face generally bore that kindly, contented smile. his grave consideration had been aroused by only a scant variety of happenings from the time of a pampered childhood up through the gamut of bubbling boyhood, prep school, university, polo, clubs, and a growing popularity with a numerous clan until he had approached a state of established and widely recognized worthlessness. economics did not bother him. it mattered not how lavishly he spent; there had always been more forthcoming, because lenox senior had a world of the stuff. the driver of his taxicab--just now whirling away--seemed surprised when danny waved back change, but the boy did not bother himself with thought of the bill he had handed over. nor did habits which overrode established procedure for men cause him to class himself apart from the mass. he remarked that the cars zipping past between him and the high river embankment were stragglers in the morning flight businessward; but he recognized no difference between himself and those who scooted toward town, intent on the furtherance of serious ends. what might be said or thought about his obvious deviation from beaten, respected paths was only an added impulse to keep smiling with careless amiability. it might be commented on behind fans in drawing rooms or through mouths full of food in servants' halls, he knew. but it did not matter. however--something mattered. he wanted a drink. and it was this thought that drove away the smile and set the lines of his face into seriousness, that sent him up the broad walk with swinging, decisive stride, his eyes glittering, his lips taking moisture from a quick-moving tongue. he needed a drink! danny entered the lenox home up there on the sightly knoll, fashioned from chill-white stone, staring composedly down on the drive from its many black-rimmed windows. the heavy front door shut behind him with a muffled sound like a sigh, as though it had been waiting his coming all through the night, just as it had through so many nights, and let suppressed breath slip out in relief at another return. a quick step carried him across the vestibule within sight of the dining-room doorway. he flung his soft hat in the general direction of a cathedral bench, loosed the carelessly arranged bow tie, and with an impatient jerk unbuttoned the soft shirt at his full throat. of all things, from conventions to collars, danny detested those which bound. and just now his throat seemed to be swelling quickly, to be pulsing; and already the glands of his mouth responded to the thought of that which was on the buffet in a glass decanter--amber--and clear--and-- at the end of the hallway a door stood open, and danny's glance, passing into the room it disclosed, lighted on the figure of a man stooping over a great expanse of table, fumbling with papers--fumbling a bit slowly, as with age, the boy remarked even in the flash of a second his mind required to register a recognition of his father. danny stopped. the yearning of his throat, the call of his tightening nerves, lost potency for the moment; the glitter of desire in his dark eyes softened quickly. he threw back his handsome head with a gesture of affection that was almost girlish, in spite of its muscular strength, and the smile came back, softer, more indulgent. his brow clouded a scant instant when he turned to look into the dining room as he walked down the long, dark, high-ceilinged hall, and his step hesitated. but he put the impulse off, going on, with shoulders thrown back, rubbing his palms together as though wholesomely happy. so he passed into the library. "well, father, it's a good morning to you!" at the spontaneous salutation the older man merely ceased moving an instant. he remained bent over the table, one hand arrested in the act of reaching for a document. it was as though he held his breath to listen--or to calculate quickly. the son walked across to him, approaching from behind, and dropped a hand on the stooping, black-clothed shoulder. "how go--" danny broke his query abruptly, for the other straightened with a half-spoken word that was, at the least, utmost impatience; possibly a word which, fully uttered, would have expressed disgust, perhaps--even loathing! and on danny was turned such a mask as he had never seen before. the cleanly shaven face was dark. the cold blue eyes flashed a chill fire and the grim slit of a tightly closed mouth twitched, as did the fingers at the skirts of the immaculate coat. lenox senior backed away, putting out a hand to the table, edging along until a corner of it was between himself and his heir. then the hand, fingers stiffly extended, pressed against the table top. it trembled. the boy flushed, then smiled, then sobered. on the thought of what seemed to him the certain answer to the strangeness of this reception, his voice broke the stillness, filled with solicitude. "did i startle you?" he asked, and a smile broke through his concern. "you jumped as though--" again he broke short. his father's right hand, palm outward, was raised toward him and moved quickly from side to side. that gesture meant silence! danny had seen it used twice before--once when a man of political power had let his angered talk rise in the lenox house until it became disquieting; once when a man came there to plead. and the gesture on those occasions had carried the same quiet, ominous conviction that it now impressed on danny. the voice of the old man was cold and hard, almost brittle for lack of feeling. "how much will you take to go?" he asked, and breathed twice loudly, as though struggling to hold back a bursting emotion. danny leaned slightly forward from his hips and wrinkled his face in his inability to understand. "what?" he drawled out the word. "once more, please?" "how much will you take to go?" again the crackling, colorless query, by its chill strength narrowing even the thought which must transpire in the presence of the speaker. "how much will i take to go?" repeated danny. "how much what? to go where?" lenox senior blinked, and his face darkened. his voice lost some of its edge, became a trifle muffled, as though the emotion he had breathed hard to suppress had come up into his throat and adhered gummily to the words. "how much money--how much money will you take to go away from here? away from me? away from new york? out of my sight--out of my way?" once more the fingers pressed the table top and the fighting jaw of the gray-haired man protruded slowly as the younger drew nearer a faltering step, two--three, until he found support against the table. there across the corner of the heavy piece of furniture they peered at each other; one in silent, mighty rage; the other with eyes widening, quick, confusing lights playing across their depths as he strove to refuse the understanding. "how much money--to go away from new york--from you? out of your _way_?" young danny's voice rose in pitch at each word as with added realization the strain on his emotions increased. his body sagged forward and the hands on the table bore much of its weight; so much that the elbows threatened to give, as had his knees. "to go away--why? why--is this?" in his query was something of the terror of a frightened child; in his eyes something of the look of a wounded beast. "you ask me why!" lenox senior straightened with a jerk and followed the exclamation with something that had been a laugh until, driven through the rage within him, it became only a rattling rasp in his throat. "you ask me why!" he repeated. "you ask me why!" his voice dropped to a thin whisper; then, anger carrying it above its normal tone: "you stand here in this room, your face like suet from months and years of debauchery, your mind unable to catch my idea because of the poison you have forced on it, because of the stultifying thoughts you have let occupy it, because of the ruthless manner in which you have wasted its powers of preception, of judgment, and ask me why!" in quick gesture he leveled a vibrating finger at the face of his son and with pauses between the words declared: "_you_--are--why!" danny's elbows bent still more under the weight on them, and his lips worked as he tried to force a dry throat through the motions of swallowing. on his face was reflected just one emotion--surprise. it was not rage, not resentment, not shame, not fear--just surprise. he was utterly confused by the abruptness of his father's attack; he was unable to plumb the depths of its significance, although an inherent knowledge of the other's moods told him that he faced disaster. then the older man was saying: "you have stripped yourself of everything that god and man could give you. you have thrown the gems of your opportunity before your swinish desires. you have degenerated from the son your mother bore to a worthless, ambitionless, idealless, thoughtless--drunkard!" danny took a half-step closer to the table, his eyes held on those others with mechanical fixity. "father--but, dad--" he tried to protest. again the upraised, commanding palm. "i have stood it as long as i can. i have suggested from time to time that you give serious consideration to things about you and to your future; suggested, when a normal young man would have gone ahead of his own volition to meet the exigencies every individual must face sooner or later. "but you would have none of it! from your boyhood you have been a waster. i hoped once that all the trouble you gave us was evidence of a spirit that would later be directed toward a good end. but i was never justified in that. "you wasted your university career. why, you weren't even a good athlete! you managed to graduate, but only to befog what little hope then remained to me. "you have had everything you could want; you had money, friends, and your family name. what have you done? wasted them! you had your polo string and the ability to play a great game, but what came of it? you'd rather sit in the clubhouse and saturate yourself with drink and with the idle, parasitic thoughts of the crowd there! "you have dropped low and lower until, everything else gone, you are now wasting the last thing that belongs to you, the fundamental thing in life--your vitality! "oh, don't try to protest! those sacks under your eyes! your shoulders aren't as straight as they were a year ago; you don't think as quickly as you did when making a pretense of playing polo; your hand isn't steady for a man of twenty-five. you're going; you're on the toboggan slide. "you have wasted yourself, flung yourself away, and not one act or thought of your experience has been worth the candle! now--what will you take to get out?" the boy before him moved a slow step backward, and a flush came up over his drawn face. "you--" he began. then he stopped and drew a hand across his eyes, beginning the movement slowly and ending with a savage jerk. "you never said a word before! you never intimated you thought this! you never--you--" he floundered heavily under the stinging conviction that of such was his only defense! "no!" snapped his father, after waiting for more to come. "i never said anything before--not like this. you smiled away whatever i suggested. nothing mattered--nothing except debauchery. now you've passed the limit you're a common drunk!" his voice rose high and higher; he commenced to gesticulate. "you live only to wreck yourself. yours is the fault--and the blame! "it is natural for me to be concerned. i've hung on now too long, hoping that you would right yourself and justify the hopes people have had in you. i planned, years ago, to have you take up my work where i must soon leave off--to go on in my place, to finish my life for me as i began yours for you! i've had faith that you would do this, but you won't--you can't! "that isn't all. you're holding _me_ back. i must push on now harder than ever, but with the stench of your misdeeds always in my nostrils it is almost an impossibility." danny raised his hands in a half-gesture of pleading, but the old man motioned him back. "don't be sorry; don't try to explain. this had to come. it's an accumulation of years. i have no more faith in you. if i thought you could ever rally i'd give up everything and help you, but not once in your life have you shown me that you possessed one impulse to be of use." his voice dropped with each word, and its return to the cold normal sent a stiffness into the boy's spine. his head went up, his chin out; his hands closed slowly. "how much money will you take to get out?" the old man moved from behind the table corner and approached danny, walking slowly, with his hands behind him. he came to a stop before the boy, slowly unbuttoned his coat, reached to an inner pocket, and drew out a checkbook. "how much?" danny's gesture, carried out, surely would have resulted in a blow strong enough to send the book spinning across the room; but he stopped it halfway. his eyes were puffed and bloodshot; his pulse hammered loudly under his ears, and the rush of blood made his head roar. before him floated a mist, fogging thought as it did his vision. the boy's voice was scarcely recognizable as he spoke. it was hard and cold--somewhat like the one which had so scourged him. "keep your money," he said, looking squarely at his father at the cost of a peculiar, unreal effort. "i'll get out--and without your help. some day i'll--i'll show you what a puny thing this faith of yours is!" the elder lenox, buttoning his coat with brisk motions, merely said, "very well." he left the room. danny heard his footsteps cross the hall, heard the big front door sigh when it closed as though it rejoiced at the completion of a distasteful task. then he shut his eyes and struck his thighs twice with stiff forearms. he was boiling, blood and brain! at first he thought it anger; perhaps anger had been there, but it was not the chief factor of that tumult. it was humiliation. the horrid, unanswerable truth had seared danny's very body--witness the anguished wrinkles on his brow--and his molten consciousness could find no argument to justify himself, even to act as a balm! "he never _said_ it before," the boy moaned, and in that spoken thought was the nearest thing to comfort that he could conjure. he stood in the library a long time, gradually cooling, gradually nursing the bitterness that grew up in the midst of conflicting impulses. the look in his eyes changed from bewilderment to a glassy cynicism, and he began to walk back and forth unsteadily. he paced the long length of the room a dozen times. then, with a quickened stride, he passed into the hall, crossed it, and entered the dining room, the tip of his tongue caressing his lips. on the buffet stood a decanter, a heavy affair of finely executed glassworker's art. the dark stuff in it extended halfway up the neck, and as he reached for it danny's lips parted. he lifted the receptacle and clutched at a whisky glass that stood on the same tray. he picked it up, looked calculatingly at it, set it down, and picked up a _tumbler_. the glass stopper of the bottle thudded on the mahogany; his nervous hand held the tumbler under its gurgling mouth. half full, two-thirds, three-quarters, to within a finger's breadth of the top he filled it. then, setting the decanter down, he lifted the glass to look through the amber at the morning light; his breath quick, his eyes glittering, danny lenox poised. a smile played about his eager lips--a smile that brightened, and lingered, and faded--and died. the hand holding the glass trembled, then was still; trembled again, so severely that it spilled some of the liquor; came gradually down from its upraised position, down below his mouth, below his shoulder, and waveringly sought the buffet. as the glass settled to the firm wood danny's shoulders slacked forward and his head drooped. he turned slowly from the buffet, the aroma of whisky strong in his dilated nostrils. after the first faltering step he faced about, gazed at his reflection in the mirror, and said aloud: "and it's not been worth--the candle!" savagery was in his step as he entered the hall, snatched up his hat, and strode to the door. as the heavy portal swung shut behind the hurrying boy it sighed again, as though hopelessly. the future seemed hopeless for danny. he had gone out to face a powerful foe. chapter ii a young man goes west from the upper four hundreds on riverside drive to broadway where the lower thirties slash through is a long walk. danny lenox walked it this june day. as he left the house his stride was long and nervously eager, but before he covered many blocks his gait moderated and the going took hours. physical fatigue did not slow down his progress. the demands upon his mental machinery retarded his going. he needed time to think, to plan, to bring order out of the chaos into which he had been plunged. danny had suddenly found that many things in life are to be considered seriously. an hour ago they could have been numbered on his fingers; now they were legion. it was a newly recognized fact, but one so suddenly obvious that the tardiness of his realization became of portentous significance. through all the hurt and shame and rage the great truth that his father had hammered home became crystal clear. he had been merely a waster, and a sharp bitterness was in him as he strode along, hands deep in pockets. the first flash of his resentment had given birth to the childish desire to "show 'em," and as he crowded his brain against the host of strange facts he found this impulse becoming stronger, growing into a healthy determination to adjust his standard of values so that he could, even with this beginning, justify his existence. oh, the will to do was strong in his heart, but about it was a clammy, oppressive something. he wondered at it--then traced it back directly to the place in his throat that cried out for quenching. as he approached a familiar haunt that urge became more insistent and the palms of his hands commenced to sweat. he crossed the street and made on down the other side. he had wasted his ability to do, had let this desire sap his will. he needed every jot of strength now. he would begin at the bottom and call back that frittered vitality. he shut his teeth together and doggedly stuck his head forward just a trifle. the boy had no plan; there had not been time to become so specific. his whole philosophy had been stood on its head with bewildering suddenness. he knew, though, that the first thing to do was to cut his environment, to get away, off anywhere, to a place where he could build anew. the idea of getting away associated itself with one thing in his mind: means of transportation. so, when his eyes without conscious motive stared at the poster advertising a railroad system that crosses the continent, danny lenox stopped and let the crowd surge past him. a man behind the counter approached the tall, broad-shouldered chap who fumbled in his pockets and dumped out their contents. he looked with a whimsical smile at the stuff produced: handkerchiefs, pocket-knife, gold pencil, tobacco pouch, watch, cigarette case, a couple of hat checks, opened letters, and all through it money--money in bills and in coins. the operation completed, danny commenced picking out the money. he tossed the crumpled bills together in a pile and stacked the coins. that done, he swept up the rest of his property, crammed it into his coat pockets, and commenced smoothing the bills. the other man, meanwhile, stood and smiled. "cleaning up a bit?" he asked. danny raised his eyes. "that's the idea," he said soberly. "to clean up--a bit." the seriousness of his own voice actually startled him. "how far will that take me over your line?" he asked, indicating the money. the man stared hard; then smiled. "you mean you want that much worth of ticket?" "yes, ticket and berth--upper berth. less this." he took out a ten-dollar bill. "i'll eat on the way," he explained gravely. the other counted the bills, turning them over with the eraser end of his pencil, then counted the silver and made a note of the total. "which way--by st. louis or chicago?" he asked. "we can send you through either place." danny lifted a dollar from the stack on the counter and flipped it in the air. catching it, he looked at the side which came up and said: "st. louis." again the clerk calculated, referring to time-tables and a map. "denver," he muttered, as though to himself. then to danny: "out of denver i can give you the union pacific, denver and rio grande, or santa fé." "the middle course." "all right--d. and r.g." then more referring to maps and time-tables, more figuring, more glances at the pile of money. "let's see--that will land you at--at--" as he ran his finger down the tabulation--"at colt, colorado." danny moved along the counter to the glass-covered map, a new interest in his face. "where's that--colt, colorado?" he asked, leaning his elbows on the counter. "see?" the other indicated with his pencil. "you go south from denver to colorado springs; then on through pueblo, through the royal gorge here, and right in here--" he put the lead point down on the red line of the railroad and danny's head came close to his--"is where you get off." the boy gazed lingeringly at the white dot in the red line and then looked up to meet the other's smile. "mountains and more mountains," he said with no hint of lightness. "that's a long way from this place." he gazed out on to flowing broadway with a look somewhat akin to pleading, and heard the man mutter: "yes, beyond easy walking from downtown, at least." danny straightened and sighed. that much was settled. he was going to colt, colorado. he looked back at the map again, possessed with an uneasy foreboding. colt, colorado! "well, when can i leave?" he asked, as he commenced putting his property back into the proper pockets. "you can scarcely catch the next train," said the clerk, glancing at the clock, "because it leaves the grand central in nineteen min--" "yes, i can!" broke in danny. "get me a ticket and i'll get there!" then, as though to himself, but still in the normal speaking tone: "i'm through putting things off." eighteen and three-quarters minutes later a tall, young man trotted through the grand central train shed to where his pullman waited. the porter looked at the length of the ticket danny handed the conductor. "ain't y'll carryin' nothin', boss?" he asked. "yes, george," danny muttered as he passed into the vestibule, "but nothing you can help me with." with the grinding of the car wheels under him danny's mind commenced going round and round his knotty problem. his plan had called for nothing more than a start. and now--colt, colorado! behind him he was leaving everything of which he was certain, sordid though it might be. he was going into the unknown, ignorant of his own capabilities, realizing only that he was weak. he thought of those burned bridges, of the uncertainty that lay ahead, of the tumbling of the old temple about his ears-- and doubt came up from the ache in his throat, from the call of his nerves. he had not had a drink since early last evening. he needed--no! that was the last thing he needed. he sat erect in his seat with the determination and strove to fight down the demands which his wasting had made so steely strong. he felt for his cigarette case. it was empty, but the tobacco pouch held a supply, and as he walked toward the smoking compartment he dusted some of the weed into a rice paper. danny pushed aside the curtain to enter, and a fat man bumped him with a violent jolt. "oh, excuse me!" he begged, backing off. "sorry. i'll be back in a jiffy with more substantial apologies." three others in the compartment made room for danny, who lighted his cigarette and drew a great gasp of smoke into his lungs. in a moment the fat man was back, his eyes dancing. in his hand was a silver whisky flask. "now if you don't say this is the finest booze ever turned out of a gin mill, i'll go plumb!" he declared. "drink, friend, drink!" he handed the flask to one of the others. "here's to you!" the man saluted, raising the flask high and then putting its neck to his mouth. danny's tongue went again to his lips; his breath quickened and the light in his eyes became a greedy glitter. he could hear the gurgle of the liquid; his own throat responded in movement as he watched the swallowing. he squeezed his cigarette until the thin paper burst and the tobacco sifted out. "great!" declared the man with a sigh as he lowered the flask. "great!" he smacked his lips and winked. "ah! no whisky's bad, but this's better'n most of it!" then, extending the flask toward danny, he said: "try it, brother; it's good for a soul." but danny, rising to his feet with a suddenness that was almost a spring, strode past him to the door. his face suddenly had become tight and white and harried. he paused at the entry, holding the curtain aside, and turned to see the other, flask still extended, staring at him in bewilderment. "i'm not drinking, you know," said danny weakly, "not drinking." then he went out, and the fat man who had produced the liquor said soberly: "not drinking, and havin' a time staying off it. but say--ain't that some booze?" long disuse of the power to plan concretely, to think seriously of serious facts, had left it weak. danny strove to route himself through to that new life he knew was so necessary, but he could not call back the ability of tense thinking with a word or a wish. and while he tried for that end the boy commenced to realize that perhaps he had not so far to seek for his fresh start. perhaps it was not waiting for him in colt, colorado. perhaps it was right here in his throat, in his nerves. perhaps the creature in him was not a thing to be cleared away before he could begin to fight--perhaps it was the proper object at which to direct his whole attack. enforced idleness was an added handicap. physical activity would have made the beginning much easier, for before he realized it danny was in the thick of battle. a system that had been stimulated by poison in increasing proportion to its years almost from boyhood began to make unequivocal demands for the stuff that had held it to high pitch. tantalizingly at first, with the thirsting throat and jumping muscles; then with thundering assertions that warped the vision and numbed the intellect and toyed with the will. he gave up trying to think ahead. his entire mental force went into the grapple with that desire. where he had thought to find possible distress in the land out yonder, it had come to meet him--and of a sort more fearful, more tremendous, than any which he had been able to conceive. through the rise of that fevered fighting the words of his father rang constantly in danny's mind. "he was right--right, right!" the boy declared over and over. "it was brutal; but he was right! i've wasted, i've gone the limit. and he doesn't think i can come back!" while faith would have been as a helping hand stretched down to pull him upward, the denial of it served as a stinging goad, driving him on. a chord deep within him had been touched by the raining blows from his father, and the vibrations of that chord became quicker and sharper as the battle crescendoed. the unbelief had stirred a retaliating determination. it was this that sent a growl of defiance into danny's throat at sight of a whisky sign; it was the cause of his cursing when, walking up and down a station platform at a stop, he saw men in the buffet car lift glasses to their lips and smile at one other. it was this that drew him away from an unfinished meal in the diner when a man across the table ordered liquor and danny's eyes ached for the sight of it, his nostrils begged for the smell. so on every hand came the suggestions that made demands upon his resistance, that made the weakness gnaw the harder at his will. but he fought against it, on and on across a country, out into the mountains, toward the end of his ride. the unfolding of the marvels of a continent's vitals had a peculiar effect on danny. before that trip he had held the vaguest notions of the west, but with the realization of the grandeur of it all he was torn between a glorified inspiration and a suffocating sense of his own smallness. he had known only cities, and cities are, by comparison, such puny things. they froth and ferment and clatter and clang and boast, and yet they are merely flecks, despoiled spots, on an expanse so vast that it seems utterly unconscious of their presence. the boy realized this as the big cities were left behind, as the stretches between stations became longer, the towns more flimsy, newer. a species of terror filled him as he gazed moodily from his pullman window out across that panorama to the north. why, he could see as far as to the canadian boundary, it seemed! on and on, rising gently, ever flowing, never ending, went the prairie. here and there a fence; now a string of telephone poles marching out sturdily, bravely, to reduce distance by countless hours. there a house, alone, unshaded, with a woman standing in the door watching his speeding train. yonder a man shacking along on a rough little horse, head down, listless--a crawling jot under that endless sky. even his train, thing of steel and steam, was such a paltry particle, screaming to a heaven that heard not, driving at a distance that cared not. then the mountains! danny awoke in denver, to step from his car and look at noble evans raising its craggy, hoary head into the salmon pink of morning, defiant, ignoring men who fussed and puttered down there in its eternal shadow; at long's peak, piercing the sky as though striving to be away from humans; at pike, shimmering proudly through its sixty miles of crystal distance, taking a heavy, giant delight in watching beings worry their way through its hundred-mile dooryard. then along the foothills the train tore with the might of which men are so proud; yet it only crawled past those mountains. stock country now, more and more cattle in sight. blasé, white-faced herefords lifted their heads momentarily toward the cars. they heeded little more than did the mountains. then, to the right and into the ranges, twisting, turning, climbing, sliding through the narrow defiles at the grace of the towering heights which--so alive did they seem--could have whiffed out that thing, those lives, by a mere stirring on their complacent bases. and danny commenced to draw parallels. just as his life had been artificial, so had his environment. manhattan--and this! its complaining cars, its popping pavements, its echoing buildings--it had all seemed so big, so great, so mighty! and yet it was merely a little mud village, the work of a prattling child, as compared with this country. the subway, backed by its millions in bonds, planned by constructive genius, executed by master minds, a thing to write into the history of all time, was a mole-passage compared to this gorge! the woolworth, labor of years, girders mined on superior, stones quarried elsewhere, concrete, tiling, cables, woods, all manner of fixtures contributed by continents; donkey engines puffing, petulant whistles screaming, men of a dozen tongues crawling and worming and dying for it; a nation standing agape at its ivory and gold attainments! and what was it? put it down here and it would be lost in the rolling of the prairie as it swelled upward to meet honest heights! no wonder danny lenox felt inconsequential. and yet he sensed a friendly something in that grandeur, an element which reached down for him like a helping hand and offered to draw him out of his cramped, mean little life and put him up with stalwart men. "if this rotten carcass of mine, with its dry throat and fluttering hands, will only stick by me i'll show 'em yet!" he declared, and held up one of those hands to watch its uncertainty. and in the midst of one of those bitter, griping struggles to keep his vagrant mind from running into vinous paths, the brakes clamped down and the porter, superlatively polite, announced: "this is colt, sah." a quick interest fired danny. he hurried to the platform, stood on the lowest step, and watched the little clump of buildings swell to natural size. he reached into his pocket, grasped the few coins remaining there, and gave them to the colored boy. the train stopped with a jolt, and danny stepped off. the conductor, who had dropped off from the first coach as it passed the station, ran out of the depot, waved his hand, and the grind of wheels commenced again. as the last car passed, danny lenox stared at it, and for many minutes his gaze followed its departure. after it had disappeared around the distant curve he retained a picture of the white-clad servant, leaning forward and pouring some liquid from a bottle. the roar of the cars died to a murmur, a muttering, and was swallowed in the cañon. the sun beat down on the squat, green depot and cinder platform, sending the quivering heat rays back to distort the outlines of objects. everywhere was a white, blinding light. from behind came a sound of waters, and danny turned about to gaze far down into a ragged gorge where a river tumbled and protested through the rocky way. beyond the stream was stretching mesa, quiet and flat and smooth looking in the crystal distance, dotted with pine, shimmering under the heat. for five minutes he stared almost stupidly at that grand sweep of still country, failing to comprehend the fact of arrival. then he walked to the end of the little station and gazed up at the town. a dozen buildings with false fronts, some painted, some without pretense of such nicety, faced one another across a thoroughfare four times as wide as broadway. sleeping saddle ponies stood, each with a hip slumped and nose low to the yellow ground. a scattering of houses with their clumps of outbuildings and fenced areas straggled off behind the stores. scraggly, struggling pine stood here and there among the rocks, but shade was scant. behind the station were acres of stock pens, with high and unpainted fences. desolation! desolation supreme! danny felt a sickening, a revulsion. but lo! his eyes, lifting blindly for hope, for comfort, found the thing which raised him above the depression of the rude little town. a string of cliffs, ranging in color from the bright pink of the nearest to the soft violet of those which might be ten or a hundred miles away, stretched in mighty columns, their varied pigments telling of the magnificent distances to which they reached. all were plastered up against a sky so blue that it seemed thick, and as though the color must soon begin to drip. glory! the majesty of the earth's ragged crust, the exquisite harmony of that glorified gaudiness! danny pulled a great chestful of the rare air into his lungs. he threw up his arms in a little gesture that indicated an acceptance of things as they were, and in his mind flickered the question: "the beginning--or the end?" chapter iii "i've done my pickin'" then he felt his gaze drawn away from those vague, alluring distances. it was one of those pulls which psychologists have failed to explain with any great clarity; but every human being recognizes them. danny followed the impulse. he had not seen the figure squatting there on his spurs at the shady end of the little depot, for he had been looking off to the north. but as he yielded to the urge he knew its source--in those other eyes. the figure was that of a little man, and his doubled-up position seemed to make his frame even more diminutive. the huge white angora chaps, the scarlet kerchief about his neck and against the blue of his shirt, the immense spread of his hat, his drooping gray mustache, all emphasized his littleness. yet danny saw none of those things. he looked straight into the blue eyes squinting up at him--eyes deep and comprehensive, set in a copper-colored face, surrounded by an intricate design of wrinkles in the clear skin; eyes that had looked at incalculably distant horizons for decades, and had learned to look at men with that same long-range gaze. a light was in those eyes--a warm, kindly, human light--that attracted and held and created an atmosphere of stability; it seemed as though that light were tangible, something to which a man could tie--so prompt is the flash from man to man that makes for friendship and devotion; and to danny there came a sudden comfort. that was why he did not notice the other things about the little man. that was why he wanted to talk. "good morning," he said. "'mornin'." then a pause, while their eyes still held one another. after a moment danny looked away. he had a stabbing idea that the little man was reading him with that penetrating gaze. the look was kindly, sincere, yet--and perhaps because of it--the boy cringed. the man stirred and spat. "to be sure, things kind of quiet down when th' train quits this place," he remarked with a nasal twang. "yes, indeed. i--i don't suppose much happens here--except trains." danny smiled feebly. he took his hat off and wiped the brow on which beads of sweat glistened against the pallor. the little man still looked up, and as he watched danny's weak, uncertain movements the light in his eyes changed. the smile left them, but the kindliness did not go; a concern came, and a tenderness. still, when he spoke his nasal voice was as it had been before. "take it you just got in?" "yes--just now." then another silence, while danny hung his head as he felt those searching eyes boring through him. "long trip this hot weather, ain't it?" "yes, very long." danny looked quickly at his interrogator then and asked: "how did you know?" "didn't. just guessed." he chuckled. "ever think how many men's been thought wise just guessin'?" but danny caught the evasion. he looked down at his clothes, wrinkled, but still crying aloud of his east. "i suppose," he muttered, "i do look different--_am_ different." and the association of ideas took him across the stretches to manhattan, to the life that was, to-- he caught his breath sharply. the call of his throat was maddening! the little man had risen and, with thumbs hooked in his chap belt, stumped on his high boot heels close to danny. a curious expression softened the lines of his face, making it seem queerly out of harmony with his garb. "you lookin' for somebody?" he ventured, and the nasal quality of his voice seemed to be mellowed, seemed to invite, to compel confidence. "looking for somebody?" danny, only half consciously, repeated the query. then, throwing his head back and following that range of flat tops off to the north, he muttered: "yes, looking for somebody--looking for myself!" the other shifted his chew, reached for his hat brim, and pulled it lower. "no baggage?" he asked. "to be sure, an' ain't you got no grip?" danny looked at him quickly again, and, meeting the honest query in that face, seeing the spark there which meant sympathy and understanding--qualities which human beings can recognize anywhere and to which they respond unhesitatingly--he smiled wanly. "grip?" he asked, and paused. "grip? not the sign of one! that's what i'm here for--in colt, colorado--to get a fresh grip!" after a moment he extended an indicating finger and asked: "is that all of colt--colt, colorado?" the old man did not follow the pointing farther than the uncertain finger. and when he answered his eyes had changed again, changed to searching, ferreting points that ran over every puff and seam and hollow in young danny's face. then the older man set his chin firmly, as though a grim conclusion had been reached. "that's th' total o' colt," he answered. "it ain't exactly astoundin', is it?" danny shook his head slowly. "not exactly," he agreed. "let's go up and look it over." an amused curiosity drove out some of the misery that had been in his pallid countenance. "sure, come along an' inspect our metropolis!" invited the little man, and they struck off through the sagebrush. danny's long, free stride made the other hustle, and the contrast between them was great; the one tall and broad and athletic of poise in spite of the shoulders, which were not back to their full degree of squareness; the other, short and bowlegged and muscle-bound by years in the saddle, taking two steps to his pacemaker's one. they attracted attention as they neared the store buildings. a man in riding garb came to the door of a primitive clothing establishment, looked, stepped back, and emerged once more. a moment later two others joined him, and they stared frankly at danny and his companion. a man on horseback swung out into the broad street, and as he rode away from them turned in his saddle to look at the pair. a woman ran down the post-office steps and halted her hurried progress for a lingering glance at danny. the boy noticed it all. "i'm attracting attention," he said to the little man, and smiled as though embarrassed. "aw, these squashies ain't got no manners," the other apologized. "they set out in there dog-gone hills an' look down badger holes so much that they git loco when somethin' new comes along." then he stopped, for the tall stranger was not beside him. he looked around. his companion was standing still, lips parted, fingers working slowly. he was gazing at the front of the monarch saloon. from within came the sound of an upraised voice. then another in laughter. the swinging doors opened, and a man lounged out. after him, ever so faint, but insidiously strong and compelling, came an odor! for a moment, a decade, a generation--time does not matter when a man chokes back temptation to save himself--danny stood in the yellow street, under the white sunlight, making his feet remain where they were. they would have hurried him on, compelling him to follow those fumes to their source, to push aside the flapping doors and take his throat to the place where that burning spot could be cooled. in colt, colorado! it had been before him all the way, and now he could not be quit of its physical presence! but though his will wavered, it held his feet where they were, because it was stiffened by the dawning knowledge that his battle had only commenced; that the struggle during the long journey across country had been only preliminary maneuvering, only the mobilizing of his forces. when he moved to face the little westerner his eyes were filmed. the other drew a hand across his mouth calculatingly and jerked his hat-brim still lower. "as i was sayin'," he went on a bit awkwardly as they resumed their walk, "these folks ain't got much manners, but they're good hearted." danny did not hear. he was casting around for more resources, more reserves to reinforce his front in the battle that was raging. he looked about quickly, a bit wildly, searching for some object, some idea to engage his thoughts, to divert his mind from that insistent calling. his eyes spelled out the heralding of food stuffs. the sun stood high. it was time. it was not an excuse; it was a godsend! "let's eat," he said abruptly. "i'm starving." "that's a sound idee," agreed the other, and they turned toward the restaurant, a flat-roofed building of rough lumber. a baby was playing in the dirt before the door and a chained coyote puppy watched them from the shelter of a corner. on the threshold danny stopped, confusion possessing him. he stammered a moment, tried to smile, and then muttered: "guess i'd better wait a little. it isn't necessary to eat right away, anyhow." he stepped back from the doorway with its smells of cooking food and the other followed him quickly, blue eyes under brows that now drew down in determination. "look here, boy," the man said, stepping close, "you was crazy for chuck a minute ago, an' now you make a bad excuse not to eat. to be sure, it ain't none of my business, but i'm old enough to be your daddy; i ain't afraid to ask you what's wrong. why don't you want to eat?" the sincerity of it, the unalloyed interest that precluded any hint of prying or sordid curiosity, went home to danny and he said simply: "i'm broke." "you didn't need to tell me. i knowed it. i ain't, though. you eat with me." "i can't! i can't do that!" "expect to starve, i s'pose?" "no--not exactly. that is," he hastened to say, "not if i'm worth my keep. i came out here to--to get busy and take care of myself. i'll strike a job of some sort--anything, i don't care what it is or where it takes me. when i'm ready to work, i'll eat. i ought to get work right away, oughtn't i?" in his voice was a sudden pleading born of the fear awakened by his realization of absolute helplessness, as though he looked for assurance to strengthen his feeble hopes, but hardly dared expect it. the little man looked him over gravely from the heels of his flat shoes to the crown of his rakishly soft hat. he pushed his stetson far back on his gray hair. "to be sure, and i guess you won't have to look far for work," he said. "i've been combin' this town dry for a hand all day. if you'd like to take a chance workin' for me i'd be mighty glad to take you on--right off. i'm only waitin' to find a man--can't go home till i do. consider yourself hired!" he turned on his heel and started off. but danny did not follow. he felt distrust; he thought the kindness of the other was going too far; he suspected charity. "come on!" the man snapped, turning to look at the loitering danny. "have i got to rope an' drag you to grub?" "but--you see it's--this way," the boy stammered. "do you really want me? can i do your work? how do you know i'm worth even a meal?" a slow grin spread over the westerner's countenance. "friend," he drawled in his high, nasal tone, "it's a pretty poor polecat of a man who ain't worth a meal; an' it's a pretty poor specimen who goes hirin' without makin' up his mind sufficient. they ain't many jobs in this country, but just now they's fewer men. we've got used to bein' careful pickers. i've done my pickin'. come on." only half willingly the boy followed. they walked through the restaurant, the old man saluting the lone individual who presided over the place, which was kitchen and dining room in one. "hello, jed," the proprietor cried, waving a fork. "how's things?" "finer 'n frog's hair!" the other replied, shoving open the broken screen door at the rear. "this is where we abolute," he remarked, indicating the dirty wash-basin, the soap which needed a boiling out itself, and the discouraged, service-stiffened towel. danny looked dubiously at the array. he had never seen as bad, to say nothing of having used such; but the man with him sloshed water into the basin from a tin pail and said: "you're next, son, you're next." and danny plunged his bared wrists into the water. it was good, it was cool; and he forgot the dirty receptacle in the satisfaction that came with drenching his aching head and dashing the cooling water over his throat. the other stood and watched, his eyes busy, his face reflecting the rapid workings of his mind. they settled in hard-bottomed, uncertain-legged chairs, and jed--whoever he might be, danny thought, as he remembered the name--gave their order to the man, who was, among other things, waiter and cook. "make it two sirloins," he said; "one well done an' one--" he lifted his eyebrows at danny. "rare," the boy said. "an' some light bread an' a pie," concluded the employer-host. danny saw that the cook wore a scarf around his neck and down his back, knotted in three places. when he moved on the floor it was evident that he wore riding boots. on his wrists were the leather cuffs of the cowboy. danny smiled. a far cry, indeed, this restaurant in colt, colorado, from his old haunts along the dark thoroughfare that is misnamed a lighted way! the other was talking: "we'll leave soon's we're through an' make it on up th' road to-night. it'll take us four days to get to th' ranch, probably, an' we might's well commence. can you ride?" danny checked a short affirmative answer on his lips. "i've ridden considerably," he said. "you people wouldn't call it riding, though. you'll have to teach me." "well, that's a good beginnin'. to be sure it is. them as has opinions is mighty hard to teach--'cause opinions is like as not to be dead wrong." he smeared butter on a piece of bread and poked it into his mouth. then: "i brought out my last hand--i come with him, i mean. th' sheriff brought him. his saddle an' bed's over to th' stable. you can use 'em." "sheriff?" asked danny. "get into trouble?" "oh, a little. he's a good boy, mostly--except when he gets drinkin'." danny shoved his thumb down against the tines of the steel fork he held until they bent to uselessness. chapter iv the trouble hunter knee to knee, at a shacking trot, they rode out into the glory of big places, two horses before them bearing the light burden of a westerner's bed. "my name's jed avery," the little man broke in when they were clear of the town. "i'm located over on red mountain--a hundred an' thirty miles from here. i run horses--th' vb stuff. they call me jed--or old vb; mostly jed now, 'cause th' fellers who used to call me old vb has got past talkin' so you can hear 'em, or else has moved out. names don't matter, anyhow. it ain't a big outfit, but i have a good time runnin' it. top hands get thirty-five a month." danny felt that there was occasion for answer of some sort. in those few words avery had given him as much information as he could need, and had given it freely, not as though he expected to open a way for the satisfaction of any curiosity. he wanted to forget the past, to leave it entirely behind him; did not want so much as a remnant to cling to him in this new life. still, he did not deem it quite courteous to let the volunteered information come to him and respond with merely an acknowledgment. he cleared his throat. "i'm from riverside drive, new york city," he said grimly. "names don't matter. i don't know how to do a thing except waste time--and strength. if you'll give me a chance, i'll get to be a top hand." an interval of silence followed. "i never heard of th' street you mention. i know new york's on th' other slope an' considerable different from this here country. gettin' to be a top hand's mostly in makin' up your mind--just like gettin' anywhere else." then more wordless travel. behind them colt dwindled to a bright blotch. the road ran close against the hills, which rose abruptly and in scarred beauty. the way was ever upward, and as they progressed more of the country beyond the river spread out to their view, mesas and mountains stretching away to infinite distance, it seemed. even back of the sounds of their travel the magnificent silence impressed itself. it was weird to danny lenox, unlike anything his traffic-hardened ears had ever experienced, and it made him uneasy--it, and the ache in his throat. that ache seemed to be the last real thing left about him, anyhow. events had come with such unreasonable rapidity in those last few days that his harassed mind could not properly arrange the impressions. here he was, hired out to do he knew not what, starting a journey that would take him a hundred and thirty miles from a place called colt, in the state of colorado, through a country as unknown to him as the regions of mythology, beside a man whose like he had never seen before, traveling in a fashion that on his native manhattan had worn itself to disuse two generations ago! out of the whimsical reverie he came with a jolt. following the twisting road, coming toward them at good speed, was the last thing he would have associated with this place--an automobile. he reined his horse out of the path, saw the full-figured driver throw up his arm in salutation to jed, and heard jed shout an answering greeting. the driver looked keenly at danny as he passed, and touched his broad hat. "who was that?" the boy asked, as he again fell in beside his companion. "that's bob thorpe," the other explained. "he's th' biggest owner in this part of colorado--mebby in th' whole state. cattle. s bar s mostly, but he owns a lot of brands." "can he get around through these mountains in a car?" "he seems to. an' his daughter! my! to be sure, she'd drive that dog-gone bus right up th' side of that cliff! you'll see for yourself. she'll be home 'fore long--college--east somewheres." the boy looked at him questioningly but said nothing. "college--east--home 'fore long--" might it not form a link between this new and that old--a peculiar sort of link--as peculiar as this sudden, unwarranted interest in this girl? through the long afternoon danny eagerly awaited the coming of more events, more distractions. when they came--such as informative bursts from jed or the passing of the automobile--he forgot for the brief passage of time the throb in his throat, that wailing of the creature in him. but when the two rode on at the shambling trot, with the silence and the immense grandeur all about them, the demands of his appetite were made anew, intensified perhaps by a feeling of his own inconsequence, by the knowledge that should he fail once in standing off those assaults it would mean only another beginning, and harder by far than this one he was experiencing. every hour of sober reflection, of sordid struggle, added to his estimate of the strength of that self he must subdue. he was going away into the waste places, and a sneaking fear of being removed from the stuff that had kept him keyed commenced to grow, adding to the fleshly wants. if he should be whipped and a surrender be forced? what then? he realized that that doubting was cowardice. he had come out here to have freedom, a new beginning, and now he found himself begging for a way back should the opposition be too great. it was sheer weakness! cautiously jed avery had watched danny's face, and when he saw anxiety show there as doubt rose, he broke into words: "yes, sir, charley was sure a good boy, but th' booze got him." he looked down at his horse's withers so he could not see the start this assertion gave danny. "he didn't want to be bad, but it's so easy to let go. to be sure, it is. anyhow, charley never had a chance, never a look-in. he was good hearted an' meant well--but he didn't have th' backbone." and danny found that a rage commenced to rise within him, a rage which drove back those queries that had made him weak. day waned. the sun slid down behind the string of cliffs which stretched on before them at their left. distances took on their purple veils, a canopy of virgin silver spread above the earth, and the stillness became more intense. "right on here a bit now we'll stop," jed said. "this's th' anchor ranch. they're hayin', an' full up. we'll get somethin' to eat, though, an' feed for th' ponies. then we'll sleep on th' ground. ever do it?" "never." "well, you've got somethin' comin', then. with a sky for a roof a man gets close to whatever he calls his god--an' to himself. some fellers out here never seem to see th' point. funny. i been sleepin' out, off an' on, for longer than i like to think about--an' they's a feelin' about it that don't come from nothin' else in th' world." "you think it's a good thing, then, for a man to get close to himself?" "to be sure i do." "what if he's trying to get away from himself?" jed tugged at his mustache while the horses took a dozen strides. then he said: "that ain't right. when a man thinks he wants to get away from himself, that's th' coyote in him talkin'. then he wants to get closer'n ever; get down close an' fight again' that streak what's come into him an' got around his heart. wants to get down an' fight like sin!" he whispered the last words. then, before danny could form an answer, he said, a trifle gruffly: "open th' gate. i'll ride on an' turn th' horses back." they entered the inclosure and rode on toward a clump of buildings a half-mile back from the road. off to their right ran a strip of flat, cleared land. it was dotted with new haystacks, and beyond them they could see waving grass that remained to be cut. at the corral the two dismounted, danny stiffly and with necessary deliberation. as they commenced unsaddling, a trio of hatless men, bearing evidences of a strenuous day's labor, came from the door of one of the log houses to talk with jed. that is, they came ostensibly to talk with jed; in reality, they came to look at the easterner who fumbled awkwardly with his cinch. danny looked at them, one after the other, then resumed his work. soon a new voice came to his ears, speaking to avery. he noticed that where the little man's greeting to the others had been full-hearted and buoyant, it was now curt, almost unkind. curious, danny looked up again--looked up to meet a leer from a pair of eyes that appeared to be only half opened; green eyes, surrounded by inflamed lids, under protruding brows that boasted but little hair, above high, sunburned cheek bones; eyes that reflected all the small meanness that lived in the thin lips and short chin. as he looked, the eyes leered more ominously. then the man spoke: "long ways from home, ain't you?" although he looked directly at danny, although he put the question to him and to him alone, the boy pretended to misunderstand--chose to do so because in the counter question he could express a little of the quick contempt, the instinctive loathing that sprang up for this man who needed not to speak to show his crude, unreasoning, militant dislike for the stranger, and whose words only gave vent to the spirit of the bully. "are you speaking to me?" danny asked, and the cool simplicity of his expression carried its weight to those who stood waiting to hear his answer. the other grinned, his mouth twisting at an angle. "who else round here'd be far from home?" he asked. danny turned to jed. "how far is it?" he asked. "a hundred an' ten," jed answered, a swift pleasure lighting his serious face. danny turned back to his questioner. "i'm a hundred and ten miles from home," he said with the same simplicity, and lifted the saddle from his horse's back. it was the sort of clash that mankind the world over recognizes. no angry word was spoken, no hostile movement made. but the spirit behind it could not be misunderstood. the man turned away with a forced laugh which showed his confusion. he had been worsted, he knew. the smiles of those who watched and listened told him that. it stung him to be so easily rebuffed, and his laugh boded ugly things. "don't have anything to do with him," cautioned jed as they threw their saddles under a shed. "his name's rhues, an' he's a nasty, snaky cuss. he'll make trouble every chance he gets. don't give him a chance!" they went in to eat with the ranch hands. a dozen men sat at one long table and bolted immense quantities of food. the boiled beef, the thick, lumpy gravy, the discolored potatoes, the coarse biscuit were as strange to danny as was his environment. his initiation back at colt had not brought him close to such crudity as this. he tasted gingerly, and then condemned himself for being surprised to find the food good. "you're a fool!" he told himself. "this is the real thing; you've been dabbling in unrealities so long that you've lost sense of the virtue of fundamentals. no frills here, but there's substance!" he looked up and down at the low-bent faces, and a new joy came to him. he was out among men! crude, genuine, real men! it was an experience, new and refreshing. but in the midst of his contemplation it was as though fevered fingers clutched his throat. he dropped his fork, lifted the heavy cup, and drank the coffee it contained in scorching gulps. once more his big problem had pulled him back, and he wrestled with it--alone among men! after the gorging the men pushed back their chairs and yawned. a desultory conversation waxed to lively banter. a match flared, and the talk came through fumes of tobacco smoke. "anybody got th' makin's?" asked jed. "here," muttered danny beside him, and thrust pouch and papers into his hand. danny followed jed in the cigarette rolling, and they lighted from the same match with an interchange of smiles that added another strand to the bond between them. "that's good tobacco," jed pronounced, blowing out a whiff of smoke. "ought to be; it cost two dollars a pound." jed laughed queerly. "yes, it ought to," he agreed, "but we've got a tobacco out here they call satin. ten cents a can. _it_ tastes mighty good to us." danny sensed a gentle rebuke, but he somehow knew that it was given in all kindliness, that it was given for his own good. "while i fight up one way," he thought, "i must fight down another." and then aloud: "we'll stock up with your tobacco. what's liked by one ought to be good enough for--" he let the sentence trail off. jed answered with: "both." and the spirit behind that word added more strength to their uniting tie. the day had been a hard one. darkness came quickly, and the workers straggled off toward the bunk house. tossing away the butt of his cigarette, jed proposed that they turn in. "i'm tired, and you've got a right to be," he declared. they walked out into the cool of evening. a light flared in the bunk house, and the sound of voices raised high came to them. "like to look in?" avery asked, and danny thought he would. men were in all stages of undress. some were already in their beds; others, in scant attire, stood in mid-floor and talked loudly. from one to another passed rhues. in his hand he held a bottle, and to the lips of each man in turn he placed the neck. he faced jed and danny as they entered. at sight of the stranger a quick hush fell. rhues stood there, bottle in hand, leering again. "jed, you don't drink," he said in his drawling, insinuating voice, "but mebby yer friend here 'uld like a nightcap." he advanced to danny, bottle extended, an evil smile on his face. jed raised a hand as though to interfere; then dropped it. his jaw settled in grim resolution, his nostrils dilated, and his eyes fixed themselves fast on danny's face. oh, the wailing eagerness of those abused nerves! the cracking of that tortured throat! all the weariness of the day, of the week; all the sagging of spirit under the assault of the demon in him were concentrated now. a hot wave swept his body. the fumes set the blood rushing to his eyes, to his ears; made him reel. his hand wavered up, half daring to reach for the bottle, and the strain of his drawn face dissolved in a weak smile. why hold off? why battle longer? why delay? why? why? why? of a sudden his ears rang with memory of his father's brittle voice in cold denunciation, and the quick passing of that illusion left another talking there, in nasal twang, carrying a great sympathy. "no, thanks," he said just above a whisper. "i'm not drinking." he turned quickly and stepped out the door. through the confusion of sounds and ideas he heard the rasping laughter of rhues, and the tone of it, the nasty, jeering note, did much to clear his brain and bring him back to the fighting. jed walked beside him and they crossed to where their rolls of bedding had been dropped, speaking no word. as they stooped to pick up the stuff the older man's hand fell on the boy's shoulder. his fingers squeezed, and then the palm smote danny between the shoulder blades, soundly, confidently. oh, that assurance! this man understood. and he had faith in this wreck of a youth that he had seen for the first time ten hours before! shaken, tormented though he was, weakened by the sharp struggle of a moment ago, danny felt keenly and with something like pride that it had been worth the candle. he knew, too, with a feeling of comfort, that an explanation to jed would never be necessary. silently they spread the blankets and, with a simple "good night," crawled in between. danny had never before slept with his clothes on--when sober. he had never snuggled between coarse blankets in the open. but somehow it did not seem strange; it was all natural, as though it should be so. his mind went round and round, fighting away the tingling odor that still clung in his nostrils, trying to blot out the wondering looks on the countenances of those others as they watched his struggle to refuse the stuff his tormentor held out to him. he did not care about forgetting how rhues's laughter sounded. somehow the feeling of loathing for the man for a time distracted his thought from the pleading of his throat, augmented the singing of that chord his father had set in motion, bolstered his will to do, to conquer this thing! but the effect was not enduring. on and on through the narrow channels that the fevered condition made went his thinking; forever and forever it must be so--the fighting, fighting, fighting; the searching for petty distractions that would make him forget for the moment! suddenly he saw that there were stars--millions upon countless millions of them dusted across the dome of the pale heavens as carelessly as a baker might dust silvered sugar over the icing of a festal cake. big stars and tiny stars and mere little diffusive glows of light that might come from a thousand worlds, clustering together out there in infinite void. blue stars and white stars, orange stars, and stars that glowed red. stars that sent beams through incalculable space and stars that swung low, that seemed almost attainable. stars that blinked sleepily and stars that stared without wavering, purposeful, attentive. stars alone and lonely; stars in bunches. stars in rows and patterns, as though put there with design. danny breathed deeply, as though the pure air were stuffy and he needed more of it, for the vagary of his wandering mind had carried him back to the place where light points were arranged by plan. he saw again the electric-light kitten and the spool of thread, the mineral-water clock, the cigarette sign with flowing border, the-- whisky again! he moved his throbbing head from side to side. "is it a blank wall?" he asked quite calmly. "shall i always come up against it? is there no way out?" chapter v jed philosophizes morning: a flickering in the east that gives again to the black hold of night. another attempt, a longer glimmer. it recedes, returns stronger; struggles, bursts from the pall of darkness, and blots out the stars before it. and after that first silver white come soft colors--shoots of violet, a wave of pink, then the golden glory of a new day. jed avery yawned loud and lingeringly, pushing the blankets away from his chin with blind, fumbling motions. he thrust both arms from the covers and reached above his head, up and up and--up! until he ended with a satisfied groan. he sat erect, opening and shutting his mouth, rubbed his eyes--and stopped a motion half completed. danny lenox slept with lips parted. his brown hair--the hair that wanted to curl so badly--was well down over the brow, and the skin beneath those locks was damp. one hand rested on the tarpaulin covering of the bed, the fingers in continual motion. "poor kid!" jed muttered under his breath. "poor son of a gun! he's in a jack-pot, all right, an' it'll take all any man ever had to pull--" "'mornin', sonny!" he cried as danny opened his eyes and raised his head with a start. for a moment the boy stared at him, evidencing no recognition. then he smiled and sat up. "how are you, mr. avery?" "well," the other began grimly, looking straight before him, "mr. avery's in a bad way. he died about thirty year ago." danny looked at him with a grin. "but old jed--old vb," he went on, "he's alive an' happy. fancy wrappin's is for boxes of candy an' playin' cards," he explained. "they ain't necessary to men." "i see--all right, jed!" danny stared about him at the freshness of the young day. "wouldn't it be slick," jed wanted to know, "if we was all fixed like th' feller who makes th' days? if yesterday's was a bad job he can start right in on this one an' make it a winner! now, if this day turns out bad he can forget it an' begin to-morrow at sun-up to try th' job all over again!" "yes, it would be fine to have more chances," agreed danny. jed sat silent a moment. "mebby so, an' mebby no," he finally recanted. "it would be slick an' easy, all right; but mebby we'd get shiftless. mebby we'd keep puttin' off tryin' hard until next time. as 'tis, we have to make every chance our only one, an' work ourselves to th' limit. never let a chance get away! throw it an' tie it an' hang on!" "in other words, think it's now or never?" jed reached for a boot and declared solemnly: "it's th' only thing that keeps us onery human bein's on our feet an' movin' along!" breakfast was a brief affair, brief but enthusiastic. the gastronomic feats performed at that table were things at which to marvel, and danny divided his thoughts between wonder at them and recalling the events of the night before. only once did he catch rhues's eyes, and then the leer which came from them whipped a flush high in his cheeks. jed and danny rode out into the morning side by side, smoking some of the boy's tobacco. as the sun mounted and the breeze did not rise, the heat became too intense for a coat, and danny stripped his off and tied it behind the saddle. jed looked at the pink silk shirt a long time. "to be sure an' that's a fine piece of goods," he finally declared. danny glanced down at the gorgeous garment with a mingled feeling of amusement and guilt. but he merely said: "i thought so, too, when i bought it." and even that little tendency toward foppishness which has been handed down to men from those ancestors who paraded in their finest skins and paints before the home of stalwart cave women seemed to draw the two closer to each other. as though he could sense the young chap's bewilderment and wonder at the life about him, jed related much that pertained to his own work. "yes, i raise some horses," he concluded, "but i sell a lot of wild ones, too. it's fun chasin' 'em, and it gets to be a habit with a feller. i like it an' can make a livin' at it, so why should i go into cattle? those horses are out there in th' hills, runnin' wild, like some folks, an' doin' nobody no good. i catch 'em an' halter-break 'em an' they go to th' river an' get to be of use to somebody." "isn't it a job to catch them?" danny asked. "well, i guess so!" jed's eyes sparkled. "some of 'em are wiser than a bad man. why, up in our country's a stallion that ain't never had a rope on him. th' captain we've got to call him. he's th' wildest an' wisest critter, horse or human, you ever see. eight years old, an' all his life he's been chased an' never touched. he's big--not so big in weight; big like this here man napoleon, i mean. he rules th' range. he has th' best mares on th' mountain in his bunch, an' he handles 'em like a king. we've tossed down our whole hand time an' again, but he always beats us out. we're no nearer catchin' him to-day than we was when he run a yearlin'." the little man's voice rose shrilly and his eyes flashed until danny, gazing on him, caught some of his fever and felt it run to the ends of his body. "oh, but that's a horse!" jed went on. "why, just to see him standin' up on the sky line, head up, tail arched-like, ready to run, not scared, just darin' us to come get him--well, it's worth a hard ride. there's somethin' about th' captain that keeps us from hatin' him. by all natural rights somebody ought to shoot a stallion that'll run wild so long an' drive off bunches of gentle mares an' make 'em crazy wild. but no. nobody on red mountain or nobody who ever chased th' captain has wanted to harm him; yet i've heard men swear until it would make your hair curl when they was runnin' him! he's that kind. he gets to somethin' that's in real men that makes 'em light headed. i guess it's his strength. he's bigger'n tricks, that horse. he's learned all about traps an' such, an' th' way men generally catch wild horses don't bother him at all. lordy, boy, but th' captain's somethin' to set up nights an' talk about!" his voice dropped on that declaration, almost in reverence. "well, he's so wise and strong that he'll just keep right on running free; is that the idea?" asked danny. jed gnawed off a fresh chew and repocketed the plug, shifted in his saddle, and shook his head. "nope, i guess not," he said gravely. "i don't reckon so, because it ain't natural; it ain't th' way things is done in this world. did you ever stop to think that of all th' strong things us men has knowed about somethin' has always turned up to be a little bit stronger? we've been all th' time pattin' ourselves on th' back an' sayin', 'there, we've gone an' done it; that'll last forever!' an' then watchin' a wind or a rain carry off what we've thought was so strong. either that, i say, or else we've been fallin' down on our knees an' prayin' for help to stop somethin' new an' powerful that's showed up. an' when prayin' didn't do no good up pops somebody with an idea that th' lord wants us folks to carry th' heavy end of th' load in such matters, an' gets busy workin'. an' his job ends up by makin' somethin' so strong that it satisfied all them prayers--folks bein' that unparticular that they don't mind where th' answer comes from so long as it comes an' they gets th' benefits! "that's th' way it is all th' time. we wake up in th' mornin' an' see somethin' so discouragin' that we want to crawl back to bed an' quit tryin'; then we stop to think that nothin' has ever been so great or so strong that it kept right on havin' its own way all th' time; an' we get our sand up an' pitch in, an' pretty soon we're on top! "all we need is th' sand to tackle big jobs; just bein' sure that they's some way of doin' or preventin' an' makin' a reg'lar hunt for that one thing. so 'tis with th' captain. he's fooled us a long time now, but some day a man'll come along who's wiser than th' captain, an' he'll get caught. "nothin' strange about it. just th' workin' out of things. 'course, it'll all depend on th' man. mebby some of us on th' mountain has th' brains; mebby some others has th' sand, but th' combination ain't been struck yet. we ain't _men_ enough. th' feller who catches that horse has got to be all man, just like th' feller who beats out anythin' else that's hard; got to be man all th' way through. if he's only part man an' tackles th' job he's likely to get tromped on; if he's all man, he'll do th' ridin'." jed stopped talking and gazed dreamily at the far horizon; dreamily, but with an eye which moved a trifle now and then to take into its range the young chap who rode beside him. danny's head was down, facing the dust which rose from the feet of the horses ahead. the biting particles irritated the membrane of his throat, but for the moment he did not heed. "am i a man--all the way through?" he kept asking himself. "all the way through?" and then his nerves stung him viciously, shrieking for the stimulant which had fed them so long and so well. his aching muscles pleaded for it; his heart, miserable and lonely, missed the close, reckless friendships of those days so shortly removed, in spite of his realization of what those relations had meant; he yearned for the warming, heedless thrills; his eyes ached and called out for just the one draft that would make them alert, less hurtful. from every joint in his body came the begging! but that chord down in his heart still vibrated; his father's arraignment was in his ears, its truth ringing clearly. the incentive to forge ahead, to stop the wasting, grew bigger, and his will stood stanch in spite of the fact that his spinning brain played such tricks as making the click of pebbles sound like the clink of ice in glasses! then, too, there was jed, the big-hearted, beside him. and jed was saying, after a long silence, as though he still thought of his theme: "yes, sir, us men can do any old thing if we only think so! nothin' has ever been too much for us; nothin' ever will--if we only keep on thinkin' as men ought to think an' respectin' ourselves." thus they traveled, side by side, the one fighting, the other uttering his homely truths and watching, always watching, noting effects, detecting temptations when the strain across the worried brow and about the tight mouth approached the breaking point. with keen intuition he went down into the young fellow and found the vibrating chord, the one that had been set humming by scorn and distrust. but instead of abusing it, instead of goading it on, jed nursed it, fed it, strengthening the chord itself with his philosophy and his optimism. they went on down ant creek, past the ranches which spread across the narrow valley. again they slept under the open skies, and danny once more marveled at the stars. that second morning was agony, but jed knew no relenting. "you're sore an' stiff," he said, "but keepin' at a thing when it hurts is what counts, is what gets a feller well--an' that applies to more things than saddle sores, too." he said the last as though aside, but the point carried. at the mouth of the creek, where it flows into clear river, they swung to the west and went downstream. danny's condition became only semi-conscious. his head hung, his eyes were but half opened. living resolved itself into three things. first and second: the thundering demands and the stubborn resistance of his will. when jed spoke and roused him the remaining element come to the fore: his physical suffering. that agony became more and more acute as the miles passed, but in spite of its sharpness it required the influence of his companion's voice to awaken him to its reality. always, in a little back chamber of his mind, was a bit of glowing warmth--his newly born love for the man who rode beside him. it was night when they reached the ranch. "we're arrived, sonny! this is home!" cried jed, slapping danny on the shoulder. "our home." the boy mastered his senses with an effort. when he dismounted he slumped to one knee and jed had to help him stand erect. danny remembered nothing of the bed going, nor could he tell how long the little, gray-haired man stood over him, muttering now and then, rubbing his palms together; nor of how, when he turned toward the candle on the table, burning steadily and brightly there in the night like a young crusader fighting back the shadows into the veriest corner of the room, his eyes were misted. it was a strange awakening, that which followed. danny felt as though he had slept through a whole phase of his existence. at first he was not conscious of his surroundings, did not try to remember where he was or what had gone before. he lay on his back, mantled in a strange peace, wonderfully content. torture seemed to have left him, bodily torments had fled. his heart pumped slowly; a vague, pleasing weakness was in his bones. it was rest--rest after achievement, the achievement of stability, the arrival at a goal. then, breaking into full consciousness, his nostrils detected odors. he sniffed slightly, scarcely knowing that he did so. cooking! it was unlike other smells from places of cookery that he had known; it was attractive, compelling. all that had happened since his departure from colt came back to him with his first movement. his body was a center of misery, as though it were shot full of needles, as though it had been stretched on a rack, then blistered. dressing was accomplished to the accompaniment of many grunts and quick intakings of breath. when he tried to walk he found that the process was necessarily slow--slower than it had ever been before. setting each foot before the other gingerly, as if in experiment, he walked across the tiny room toward the larger apartment of the cabin. "mornin'!" cried jed, closing the oven door with a gentleness that required the service of both hands. "i allowed you'd be up about now. just step outside an' wash an' it'll be about ready. can you eat? old vb sure can build a breakfast, an' he's never done better than this." "by the smell, i judge so," said danny. the warm breath of baking biscuits came to him from the oven. a sputtering gurgle on the stove told that something fried. the aroma of coffee was in the air, too, and jed lifted eggs from a battered pail to drop them into a steaming kettle. the table, its plain top scrubbed to whiteness, was set for two, and the sunlight that streamed through the window seemed to be all caught and concentrated in a great glass jar of honey that served as a centerpiece. danny's eyes and nostrils and ears took it all in as he moved toward the outer doorway. when he gained it he paused, a hand on the low lintel, and looked out upon his world. away to the south stretched the gulch, rolling of bottom, covered with the gray-green sage. over east rose the stern wall, scarred and split, with cedars clinging in the interstices, their forms dark green against the saffron of the rocks. up above, towering into the unstained sky of morning, a rounded, fluted peak, like the crowning achievement of some vast cathedral. the sun was just in sight above the cliff, but danny knew that day was aging, and felt, with his peace, a sudden sharp affection for the old man who, with an indulgence that was close to motherly, had let him sleep. it made him feel young and incompetent, yet it was good, comforting--like the peace of that great stillness about him. except for the soft sounds from the stove, there was no break. above, on the ridges, a breeze might be blowing; but not an intimation of it down here. just quiet--silvery and holy. the sun shoved itself clear of the screening trees. a jack rabbit, startled by nothing at all, sprang from its crouching under a brush shelter and made off across the gulch with the jerky lightness of a stone skipping on water. as he bobbed the grass and bushes dewdrops flew from them, catching sunbeams as they hurtled out to their death, for one instant of wondrous glory flashing like gems. danny lenox, late of new york, drew a deep, quivering breath and leaned his head against the crude doorway. he was sore and weak and felt almost hysterical, but perhaps this was only because he was so happy! chapter vi ambition is born and then began danny's apprenticeship. jed, the wise, did not delay activity. he commenced with the boy as soon as breakfast had been eaten and the dishes washed. that first day they shod a horse, danny doing nothing really, but taking orders from jed as though the weight of a vast undertaking rested on his shoulders. the next day they mended fences from early morning until evening. gradually the realization came to danny that he was doing something, that he was filling a legitimate place--small, surely: nevertheless he was being of use, he was creating. a pleasing sensation! one of the few truly wholesome delights he had ever experienced. danny thought about it with almost childish happiness; then, letting his mind return again to the established rut, he was surprised to know that mere thinking about his simple, homely duties had stilled for the time it endured the restless creature within him. the boy's bodily hurts righted themselves. long hours of sleep did more than anything else to speed recovery. those first two nights he was between covers before darkness came to the gulch, and jed let him sleep until the sun was well up. on the third evening they sat outside, danny watching jed put a new half-sole on a cast-off riding boot. "they're your size," the old man said, "an' you'll have to wear boots, to be sure. them things you got on ain't what i'd call exactly fitted to ridin' a horse." danny looked down at his modish oxfords and smiled. then he glanced up at the man beside him, who hammered and cut and grunted while he worked as though his very immortality depended on getting those boots ready for his new hand to wear. oh, the boy from the city could not then appreciate the big feeling of man for mankind which prompted such humble labor. it was a labor of love, the mere mending of that stiff old boot! in it jed avery found the encompassing happiness which comes to those who understand, happiness of the same sort he had felt back there at colt when he saw that there was a human being who needed help and that it was in his power to give him that help. and the peace this happiness engendered created an atmosphere which soothed and made warm the heart of the boy, though he did not know why. "guess we'd better move inside an' get a light," jed muttered finally. "i'll shut the corral gate. you light th' candle, will you? it's on th' shelf over th' table--stickin' in a bottle." danny watched him go away into the dusk and heard the creak of the big gate swinging shut before he stepped into the house and groped his way along for the shelf. he found it after a moment and fumbled along for the candle jed had said was there. his fingers closed on something hard and cold and cylindrical. he slid his fingers upward; then staggered back with a half-cry. "what's wrong?" asked jed, coming into the house. danny did not answer him, so the old man stepped forward toward the shelf. in a moment a match flared; the cold wick of the candle took the flame, warmed, sent it higher, and a glow filled the room. the boy looked out from eyes that were dark and wide and filled with the old horror. the hand held near his lips shook, and he turned on jed a look that pleaded, then gazed back at the light. the candle was stuck in the neck of a whisky bottle. danny opened his lips to speak, but the words would not come. that terror was back again, shattering his sense of peace, melting the words in his throat with its heat. jed moved near to him. "it's a bright light--for such a little candle," he said slowly, and a stout assurance was in his tone. "but i--i touched the bottle--in the dark!" danny's voice was high and strained, and the words, when finally they did come, tripped over one another in nervous haste. his knees were weak under him. such was the strength of the tentacles which reached up to stay his struggles and to drag him back into the depths from which he willed to rise. such was the weakness of the nervous system on which the strain of the ordeal was placed. jed put a hand on the boy's shoulder and gazed into the drawn face. "it's all right, sonny," he said softly, his voice modulating from twang to tenderness in the manner it had. "most men touches it in th' dark. but don't you see what this bottle's for? don't you see that candle? burnin' away there, corkin' up th' bottle, givin' us light so we can see?" then the other hand went up to the boy's other shoulder, and the little old rancher shook young danny lenox gently, as though to joggle him back to himself. "i know, sonny," he said softly. "i know--" then he turned away quickly and smote his palms together with a sharp crack. "now get to bed. i'll finish these here boots to-night and in th' mornin' we ride. if you're goin' to get to be a top hand, we've got to quit foolin' around home an' get to learn th' country. they's a lot of colts we got to brand an' a bunch of wild ones to gather. it means work--lots of it--for you an' me!" he set to work, busily thumping on the boot. in the morning, danny was subdued, subdued and shaking. the spontaneity that had characterized his first days on the ranch had departed. he was still eager for activity, but not for the sake of the new experiences in themselves. that gnawing was again in his throat, tearing his flesh, it seemed, and to still the trembling of his hand it was necessary for him to clutch the saddle horn and keep his fingers clamped tightly about it as they rode along. they climbed out of the gulch, horses picking their way up an almost impossible trail, and on a high ridge, where country rolled and tossed about them for immeasurable distances, jed stopped and pointed out the directions to his companion. thirty miles to the south was clear river with its string of ranches, and the town of ranger, their post office. twenty miles to the southeast was the s bar s ranch, the center of the country's cattle activity, and over west, on sand creek, a dozen miles' ride across the hills and double that distance by road, was another scattering of ranches where dick worth, deputy sheriff for that end of clear river county, lived. "an' to th' north of us," continued jed, with a sweep of his hand, "they's nothin' but hills--clean to wyoming! we're on th' outskirts of settlements. south of th' river it's all ranches, but north--nothin'. couple of summer camps but no ranches. it's a great get-away country, all right!" the riding was easy that day, and in spite of his stiffness danny wished it were harder, because the turmoil kept up within him, and even the unbroken talk of jed, giving him an intelligent, interesting idea of the country, could not crowd out his disquieting thoughts. but it was easier the next day, and danny took a deep interest in the hunt for a band of mares with colts that should be branded. jed's low, warning "h-s-s-t! there they are!" set his heart pounding wildly, and he listened eagerly to the directions the old man gave him; then he waited in high excitement while jed circled and got behind the bunch. the horses came toward him, and danny, at jed's shout, commenced to ride for the ranch. it was a new, an odd, an interesting game. the horses came fast and faster. now and then to his ears floated jed's repeated cry: "keep goin'! keep ahead!" and he spurred on, wondering at every jump how his horse could possibly keep his feet longer in that awful footing. but he had faith in the stout little beast he rode, and his spirit was of the sort that would not question when a man as skilled in the game as was jed urged him along. the mares with their colts pressed closely, but danny kept going, kept urging speed. straight on for the ranch he headed, and when they reached the level bottom of the gulch the race waxed warm. "into th' round corral!" cried jed. "keep goin'! you're doin' fine!" and into the round corral danny headed his mount, while the nose of the lead mare reached out at his pony's flank. the gate swung shut; the mares trotted around the inclosure, worried, for there their offspring had been taken from them before. the colts hung close to their mothers, snorting and rolling their wide eyes, while the saddle horses stood with legs apart, getting their wind. danny's eyes sparkled. "that's sport!" he declared. "but, say, will these horses always follow a rider that way?" jed loosed his cinch before he answered: "horses is like some men. as long as they're bein' pushed from behind an' they's somebody goin' ahead of 'em, they'll follow--follow right through high water! but once let 'em get past th' rider who's supposed to be holdin' 'em up--why, then they's no handlin' 'em at all. they scatter an' go their own way, remainin' free. "as i said, they're like men. to be sure, lots of men has got to give that what's leadin' 'em such a run that they beat it to death an' get a chance to go free!" danny rubbed his horse's drenched withers and agreed with a nod as jed walked over to the gate and fumbled with the fastening. "say," he said, turning round, "i like th' way you ride!" danny looked up quickly, pleased. "i'm glad," he said, but in the simple assertion was a great self-pride. "most fellers strange in th' country wouldn't fancy takin' that kind of a bust down off a point. no, sir. not such a ride for us old heads, but for a greenhorn-- well, i guess you'll get to be a top hand some day, all right!" and the influence which more than all else was to help danny become a top hand, which was to set up in his heart the great ambition, which was to hold itself up as a blazing ideal, came early in his novitiate as a horse hunter--came in a fitting setting, on a day richly golden, when the air seemed filled with a haze of holy incense, holy with the holiness of beauty. it was one of those mountain days when the immensity of nature becomes so obvious and so potent that even the beasts leave off their hunting or their grazing to gaze into wondrous distances. the sage is green and brash in the near sunlight, soft and purple out yonder; the hills sharp and hard and detailed under the faultless sky for unthinkable miles about, then soft and vague, melting in color and line, rolling, reaching, tossing in a repetition of ranges until eyes ache in following them and men are weak about their middles from the feeling of vastnesses to which measurements by figures are profane. jed and danny searched for horses along two parallel ridges. now and then they saw each other, but for the most part it had been a day of solitary riding. late afternoon arrived, and danny had about abandoned hope of success. he was considering the advisability of mounting the ridge above the gulch into which he had ridden and locating jed, though loath to leave the solitudes. his pony picked them out and stopped before danny's eyes registered the sight. the boy searched quickly, and over against a clump of cedars, halfway up the rise, he saw horses. "no, that's not they," he muttered. "jed said there were two white mares among them. not--" his pony started under him, gave a sharp little shudder, then moved a step backward and stood still, a barely perceptible tremor shaking his limbs. then a sound new and strange came to danny. he did not know its origin, but it contained a quality that sent a thrill pulsing from his heart. shrill it was, but not sharply cut, wavering but not breaking; alarm, warning, concern, caution--the whistle of a stallion! then silence, while the mares stood rigid and the saddle horse held his breath. again it came, and a quick chill struck down danny's spine. his searching eyes encountered the source. there, halfway between the mares and the crown of the ridge he stood, out on a little rim-rock that made a fitting pedestal, alert, defiant, feet firmly planted, with the poise of a proud monarch. even across the distance his coat showed the glossiness seen only on fine, short hair; his chest, turned halfway toward the rider, was splendid in breadth and depth, indicating superb strength, endurance, high courage. danny looked with a surge of appreciation at the arch of the neck, regal in its slim strength, at the fine, straight limbs, clean as a dancing girl's; at the long, lithe barrel with its fine symmetry. a wandering breath of breeze came up the gulch, fluttering the wealth of tail, lifting the heavy mane and forelock. the horse raised a front foot and smote the ledge on which he stood as though wrath rose that a mere man should ride into his presence, and he would demand departure or homage from danny lenox. he shook his noble head impatiently, to clear his eyes of the hair that blew about them. and once more came the whistle. the mares stirred. one, a bright buckskin, trotted up the rise a dozen yards, and stopped to turn and look. the others moved slowly, eyes and ears for danny. again the whistle; a clatter of loosened stones as the black leader bounded up the hillside; and the bunch was away in his wake. "the captain!" danny breathed, and then, in a cry which echoed down the gulch--"the captain!" he was scarcely conscious of his movements, but his quirt fell, his spurs raked the sides of his pony, and the sturdy little animal, young and not yet fully developed, doing his best in making up the ridge, labored effectively, perhaps drawn on by that same raw desire which went straight to the roots of danny's spirit and came back to set the fires glowing in his eyes. the boy rode far forward in his saddle, his gaze on the plunging band that scattered stones and dirt as they strove for the top. but he was many lengths behind when the last mare disappeared over the rim. he fanned his pony again, and the beast grunted in his struggles for increased speed in the climbing, lunging forward with mighty efforts which netted so little ground. as he toiled up the last yards danny saw the captain again, standing there against the sky, watching, waiting, mane and tail blowing about him. his strong, full, ever delicate body quivered with the singing spirit of confidence within him and communicated itself to the weakling pursuer. just a glimpse of the man was all that the black horse wanted, then--he was off. as danny's horse caught the first stride in the run down the ridge he saw the captain stretch that fine nose out to the flank of a lagging mare, and saw the animal throw her head about in pain as the strong teeth nipped her flesh, commanding more speed. danny lenox was mad! he pulled off his hat and beat his pony's withers with it. he cried aloud the captain's name. he went on and on, dropping far down on his horse's side as they brushed under the cedars, settling firmly to the seat when the animal leaped over rocks. his shirt was open at the neck, and his throat was chilled with the swift rush of air, while hot blood swirled close to the skin. his eyes glowed with the fire set there by this new fascination, the love of beautiful strength; and through his body sang the will to conquer! it was an unfair race. danny and his light young horse had no chance. off and away drew the stallion and his bunch, without effort after that first crazy break down the ridge. the last danny saw of him was with head turned backward, nose lifted, as though he breathed disdainful defiance at the man who would come in his wake with the thirst for possession high within him! and so the boy pulled up, dropped off, and let his breathing pony rest. his legs were uncertain under him, and he knew that his pulses raced. for many minutes he strove to analyze his emotion but could not. jed slid off the next ridge and came up at a trot. his face was radiant. "well, he got you, didn't he?" he laughed aloud. "i thought he would, all along; and i knowed he had you when i see you break up over th' ridge. you've got th' fever now, like a lot of th' rest of us! mebby you'll chase horses here for years, but you'll always have an eye out for just one thing--th' captain. you won't be satisfied until you've got him--like all of us; not satisfied until we've done th' biggest thing there is in sight to do." then, as though parenthetically: "an' when we've done that we've only h'isted ourselves up to where we can see that they's a hunderd times as much to do." "gad, but he goes right into a fellow's heart!" breathed danny, looking into the sunset. "i didn't know i was following him, jed, until the pony here commenced to tire." he laughed apologetically, as though confessing a foolishness, but his face was glowing with a new light. a fresh incentive had come to him with this awakening admiration, inciting him to emulation. the spirit of the stallion stirred in him again that vibrant chord which had been urging him to fight on, not to give up. his ambition to overcome his weakness began to take quick, definite direction. added to the effort of overcoming his vices would henceforth be the endeavor to achieve, to compass some worthy object. this was his aim: to be a leader to whom men would turn for inspiration; to be unconquerable among men, as the captain was unconquerable among his kind. as the ideal took shape, springing full-born from his excitement, danny lenox felt lifted above himself, felt stronger than human strength, felt as though he were forever beyond human weaknesses. when they had ridden twenty minutes in silence jed broke out: "sonny, i don't want to act like 'n old woman, but i guess i'm gettin' childish! i've knowed you less than a month. i don't even know who you was when you come. we don't ask men about theirselves when they come in here. what a feller wants to tell, we take; what he keeps to hisself we wonder at without mentionin' it. "but you, sonny--you couldn't keep it from me. i know what it is, i know. i seen it when you got off th' train at colt--seen that somethin' had got you down. i knowed for sure what it was when you stopped by th' saloon there. i knowed how honest you was with yourself in that little meetin' with rhues. i know all about it--'cause i've been through th' same thing--alone, an' years ago." after a pause he went on: "an' just now, when i seen you comin' down that ridge after th' captain, i knowed th' right stuff was in you--because when a thing like that horse touches a man off it's a sign he's th' right kind, th' kind that wants to do things for th' sake of knowin' his own strength. you've got th' stuff in you to be a man, but you're fightin' an awful fight. you need help; you ought to have friends--you ought to have a daddy!" he gulped, and for a dozen strides there were no more words. "i feel like adoptin' you, sonny, 'cause i know. i feel like makin' you a part of this here outfit, which ain't never branded a colt that didn't belong to it, which ain't never done nothin' but go straight ahead an' be honest with itself, good times an' bad. "i used to be proud when they called me old vb, 'cause they all knowed th' brand was on th' level, an' when they, as you might say, put it on me, i felt like i was wearin' some sort of medal. i feel just like makin' you part of th' vb--young vb--'cause i can help you here an'--an' 'fore god a'mighty you need help, man that you are!" an hour and a half later, when the last dish had been wiped, when the dishpan had been hung away, danny spoke the next words. he walked close to the old man, his face quiet under the new consciousness of how far he must go to approach this new ideal. he took the hard old hand in his own, covered its back with the other, and muttered in a voice that was far from clear: "good night, old vb." and the other, to cover the tenderness in his tone, snapped back: "get to bed, young vb; they's that ahead of you to-morrow which'll take every bit of your courage and strength!" chapter vii with hoof and tooth so it came to pass that danny lenox of new york ceased to exist, and a new man took his place--young vb, of clear river county, colorado. "who's your new hand?" a passing rider asked jed one morning, watching with interest as the stranger practiced with a rope in the corral. "well, sir, he's th' ridin'est tenderfoot you ever see!" jed boasted. "i picked him up out at colt an' put him to work--after charley went away." "where'd he come from? what's his name?" the other insisted. "from all appearances, he ain't of these parts," replied jed, squinting at a distant peak. "an' around here we've got to callin' him young vb." the rider, going south, told a man he met that jed had bestowed his brand on a human of another generation. later, he told it in ranger. the man he met on the road told it on sand creek; those who heard it in ranger bore it off into the hills, for even such a small bit of news is a meaty morsel for those who sit in the same small company about bunk-house stoves months on end. the boy became known by name about the country, and those who met him told others what the stranger was like. men were attracted by his simplicity, his desire to learn, by his frank impulse to be himself yet of them. "oh, yes, he's th' feller," they would recall, and then recite with the variations that travel gives to tales the incident that transpired in the anchor bunk house. young vb fitted smoothly into the work of the ranch. he learned to ride, to rope, to shoot, to cook, and to meet the exigencies of the range; he learned the country, cultivated the instinct of directions. and, above all, he learned to love more than ever the little old man who fathered and tutored him. and young vb became truly useful. it was not all smooth progress. at times--and they were not infrequent--the thirst came on him with vicious force, as though it would tear his will out by the roots. the fever which that first run after the captain aroused, and which made him stronger than doubtings, could not endure without faltering. the ideal was ever there, but at times so elusive! then the temptings came, and he had to fight silently, doggedly. some of these attacks left him shaking in spite of his mending nerves--left him white in spite of the brown that sun and wind put on him. during the daytime it was bad enough, but when he woke in the night, sleep broken sharply, and raised unsteady hands to his begging throat, there was not the assuring word from jed, or the comfort of his companionship. the old man took a lasting pride in danny's adaptability. his comments were few indeed, but when the boy came in after a day of hard, rough, effective toil, having done all that a son of the hills could be expected to do, the little man whistled and sang as though the greatest good fortune in the world had come to him. one morning jed went to the corral to find vb snubbing up an unbroken sorrel horse they had brought in the day before. he watched from a distance, while the young man, after many trials, got a saddle on the animal's back. "think you can?" he asked, his eyes twinkling, as he crawled up on the aspen poles to watch. "i don't know, jed, but it's time i found out!" was the answer, and in it was a click of steely determination. it was not a nice ride, not even for the short time it lasted. young vb "went and got it" early in the mêlée. he clung desperately to the saddle horn with one hand, but with the other he plied his quirt and between every plunge his spurs raked the sides of the bucking beast. he did not know the art of such riding, but the courage was there and when he was thrown it was only at the moment when the sorrel put into the battle his best. vb got to his feet and wiped the dust from his eyes. "hurt?" asked jed. "nothing but my pride," muttered the boy. he grasped the saddle again, got one foot in the stirrup, and, after being dragged around the inclosure, got to the seat. again he was thrown, and when he arose and made for the horse a third time jed slipped down from the fence to intervene. "not again to-day," he said, with a pride that he could not suppress. "take it easy; try him again to-morrow." "but i don't want to give up!" protested the boy. "i _can_ ride that horse." "you ain't givin' up; i made you," the other smiled. "you ought to have been born in the hills. you'd have made a fine bronc twister. ain't it a shame th' way men are wasted just by bein' born out of place?" vb seemed not to hear. he rubbed the nose of the frantic horse a moment, then said: "if i could get this near the captain-- jed, if i could ever get a leg over that stallion he'd be mine or i'd die trying!" "still thinkin' of him?" "all the time! i never forget him. that fellow has got into my blood. he's the biggest thing in this country--the strongest--and i want to show him that there's something a little stronger, something that can break the power he's held so long--and that _i_ am that something!" "that's considerable ambition," jed said, casually, though he wanted to hug the boy. "i know it. most people out here would think me a fool if they heard me talk this way. me, a greenhorn, a tenderfoot, talking crazily about doing what not one of you has ever been able to do!" "not exactly, vb. it's th' wantin' to do things bad enough that makes men do 'em, remember. this feller busted you twice, but you've got th' stuff under your belt that makes horses behave. that's th' only stuff that'll ever make th' captain anything but th' wild thing he is now. sand! _grit!_ th' _wantin'_ to do it!" a cautious whistle from jed that afternoon called vb into a thicket of low trees, from where he looked down on a scene that drove home even more forcibly the knowledge of the strength of spirit that was incased in the glossy coat of the great stallion. "look!" the old man said in a low voice, pointing into the gulch. "it's a percheron--one of thorpe's stallions. he's come into th' captain's band an' they're goin' to fight!" vb looked down on the huge gray horse, heavier by three hundred pounds than the black, stepping proudly along over the rough gulch bottom, tossing his head, twisting it about on his neck, his ears flat, his tail switching savagely. up the far rise huddled the mares. the captain was driving the last of them into the bunch as vb came in sight. that done, he turned to watch the coming of the gray. through the stillness the low, malicious, muffled crying of the percheron came to them clearly as he pranced slowly along, parading his graces for the mares up there, displaying his strength to their master, who must come down and battle for his sovereignty. the captain stood and watched as though mildly curious, standing close to his mares. his tail moved slowly, easily, from side to side. his ears, which had been stiffly set forward at first, slowly dropped back. the gray drew nearer, to within fifty yards, forty, thirty. he paused, pawed the ground, and sent a great puff of dust out behind him. then he swung to the left and struck up the incline, headed directly for the captain, striding forward to humble him under the very noses of his mares--the band that would be the prize of that coming conflict! he stopped again and pawed spitefully. he rose on his hind legs slowly, head shaking, forefeet waving in the air, as though flexing his muscles before putting them to the strain of combat. he settled to the ground barely in time, for with a scream of rage the black horse hurtled. he seemed to be under full speed at the first leap, and the speed was terrific! foam had gathered on his lips, and the rush down the pitch flung it spattering against his glossy chest. his shrilling did not cease from the time he left his tracks until, with front hoofs raised, a catapult of living, quivering hate, he hurled himself at the gray. it ended then in a wail of frenzy--not of fear, but of royal rage at the thought of any creature offering challenge! the gray dropped back to all fours, whirled sharply, and took the impact at a glancing blow, a hip cringing low as the ragged hoofs of the black crashed upon it. the captain stuck his feet stiffly into the ground, plowing great ruts in the earth in his efforts to stop and turn and meet the rush of the other, as he recovered from the first shock, gathered headway, and bore down on him. he overcame his momentum, turning as he came to a stop, lifted his voice again, and rose high to meet hoof for hoof the ponderous attack that the bigger animal turned on him. the men above heard the crash of their meeting. the impact of flesh against flesh was terrific. for the catch of an instant the horses seemed to poise, the captain holding against the fury that had come upon him, holding even against the odds of lightness and up-hill fighting. then they swayed to one side, and vb uttered a low cry of joy as the captain's teeth buried themselves in the back of the percheron's neck. close together then they fought, throwing dirt and stones, ripping up the brush as their rumbling feet found fresh hold and then tore away the earth under the might that was brought to bear in the assault and resistance. a dozen times they rushed upon each other, a dozen times they parted and raised for fresh attack. and each time the gray body and the black met in smacking crash it was the former that gave way, notwithstanding his superior weight. "look at him!" whispered jed. "look at that cuss! he hates that gray so that he's got th' fear of death in him! look at them ears! hear him holler! he's too quick. too quick, an' he's got th' spirit that makes up th' difference in weight--an' more, too!" he stopped with a gasp as the captain, catching the other off balance, smote him on the ribs with his hoofs until the blows sounded like the rumble of a drum. the challenger threw up his head in agony and cringed beneath the torment, running sidewise with bungling feet. "he like to broke his back!" cried jed. "and look at him bite!" whispered vb. the captain tore at the shoulders and neck of the gray horse with his gleaming, malevolent teeth. again and again they found fleshhold, and his neck bowed with the strength he put into the wrenching, while his feet kept up their terrific hammering. no pride of challenge in the gray now; no display of graces for the onlooking mares; no attacking; just impotent resistance, as the captain drove him on and on down the gulch, humbled, terrified, routed. the sounds of conflict became fainter as the percheron strove to make his escape and the captain relentlessly followed him, the desire to kill crying from his every line. the battling beasts rounded a point of rocks, and the two men sprang to their horses to follow the moving fight. but they were no more than mounted when the captain came back, swinging along in his wonderful trot, ears still flat, head still shaking, anger possessing him--anger and pride. he was unmarked by the conflict, save with sweat and dust and foam; he was still possessed of his superb strength. he went up the pitch to his band with all the vigor of stride he had displayed in flying from it to answer the presumption of the gray. and the mares, watching him, seemed to draw long breaths, dropped their heads to the bunch grass, and, one by one, moved along in their grazing. jed looked at vb. what he saw in the boy's face made him nod his head slowly in affirmation. "you're that sort, too," he whispered exultingly. "you're that sort! _his_ kind!" chapter viii a head of yellow hair the next day jed declared for a trip to ranger after grub. the trip was necessary, and it would be an education for vb, he said with a chuckle, to see the town. but when they were ready to start a rider approached the ranch. "if it ain't kelly!" jed cried. then, in explanation: "he's a horse buyer, an' must be comin' to see me." and the man's desire to look over the vb stuff was so strong that jed declared it would be business for him to stay at home. in a way, danny was glad of the opportunity to go alone. it fed the glowing pride in his ability to do things, to be of use, and after a short interchange of drolleries with the man kelly, whom he instinctively liked, the boy mounted to the high wagon seat and drove off down the gulch. it was a long drive, and hours alone are conducive to thought. danny's mind went back over the days that had passed, wandering along those paths he had followed since that july morning in the luxuriously dim house on riverside drive. and the reason for his departing from the old way came back to him now, because he was alone, with nothing to divert his attention. the old turbulence arose; it wore and wore with the miles, eating down to his will, teasing, coaxing, threatening, pleading, fuming. "will it always be so?" he asked the distances. "when it comes to challenge me, to take away all that i hold dear, shall i always be afraid? shan't i be able to stand and fight and triumph, merely raging because it dares tempt me instead of fearing this thing itself?" and he spoke as he thought in terms of his ideal, as materialized in the captain. "but will it always be so with him?" he asked again. "won't some horse come to challenge him some day and batter him down and make defeat all the more bitter because of the supremacy he has enjoyed? would it then be--worth the candle?" and as he bowed his head he thought once more of the beacon in the bottle, corking it up, driving back the shadows, making a livable place in the darkness. nothing is ever intrinsically curious. curiousness comes solely from relationships. time and place are the great factors in creating oddities. five miles farther on vb saw a curious thing. this was at the forks of the road. to his right it went off behind the long, rocky point toward sand creek; to the left it wandered through the sage brush over toward the s bar s ranch, and ahead it ran straight on to ranger. along the prong that twisted to the left went an automobile. nothing curious about that to vb, for many times he had seen bob thorpe driving his car through the country. but at the wheel was a lone figure crowned by a mass of yellow hair. that was the curious thing he saw! all vb could distinguish at that distance with his hot eyes was yellow hair. the machine picked its way carefully along the primitive road, checking down here, shooting ahead there, going on toward the horizon, bearing the yellow hair away from him, until it was only a crawling thing with a long, floating tail of dust. but it seemed to him he could still make out that bright fleck even after the automobile had become indistinguishable. "she's alone," muttered vb. "she's driving that car alone--and out here!" then he wondered with a laugh why he should think it so strange. many times he had ridden down fifth avenue in the afternoon traffic congestion beside a woman who piloted her own car. surely the few hazards of this thoroughfare were not to be compared with that! but it was the incongruity which his association of ideas brought up that made him tingle a little. that hair! it did not belong out here. he had not been near enough to see the girl's face--he was sure it was a girl, not a grown woman--but the color of her crowning adornment suggested many and definite things. and those things were not of these waste places; were not rough and primal. they were finer, higher. once before he had experienced this nameless, pleasurable sensation of being familiar with the unknown. that had been when jed had sketched with a dozen unrelated words a picture of the daughter of the house of thorpe. the motor car with its fair-haired pilot had been gone an hour when danny, watching a coyote skulk among distant rocks, said aloud: "east--college--i'll bet--i--i wonder--" dusk had come when young vb entered ranger and put up at the ranch, which made as much pretense of buildings as did the town itself. morning found him weak and drawn, as it always did after a night of the conflict, yet he was up with the sun, eager to be through with his task and back with jed. purchasing supplies is something of a rite in ranger, and under other conditions, on another day perhaps, it might have amused vb; but with the unrest within him he found little about the procedure that did not irritate. in the store there one may buy everything in hardware from safety pins to trace chains; groceries range from canned soup to wormy nuts; in drugs anything, bounded on one end by horse liniment and on the other extreme by eye-drops guaranteed to prevent cataracts, is for sale; and overalls and sewing silk are alike popular commodities. all is in fine order, and the manager is a walking catalogue of household necessities. vb was relieved when the buying had been accomplished. he crowded a can of ten-cent tobacco into the pocket of his new overalls and started for the team. a dozen strides away from the store building he paused to look about. it was his first inspection of ranger in daylight, and now as he surveyed its extent his sense of humor rose above the storm within him, and he grinned. the store, with its conventional false front, stood beside the post office, which was built as a lean-to. next to it was a building of red corrugated iron, and sounds of blacksmithing issued from it. behind vb was a tiny house, with a path running from it to the store, the home of the manager. next it a log cabin. down at the left, near the river, was another house, deserted, the ranch where he had stayed, and beyond it a trio of small shacks on the river bank. "ranger," he muttered, and chuckled. the road, brown and soft with fine dust, stretched on and on toward utah, off to the west where silence was supreme. the buildings were all on the north side of the road. "a south front was the idea, i suppose," vb murmured. "mere matter of--" his gaze had traveled across the road to a lone building erected there, far back against a sharp rise of ground. it stood apart, as though consciously aloof from the rest, a one-story structure, and across its front a huge white sign, on which in black characters was painted the word: [illustration: saloon] unconsciously his tongue came out to wet the parched lips and his fingers plucked at the seams of the new overalls. why not? the insidious self argued, why not? all changes must come gradually. nothing can be accomplished in a moment. just one drink to cool his throat, to steady his nerves, and brace him for the fight he would make--later. as he stood there listening to that inner voice, yet holding it off, he did not hear the fall of hoofs behind him or the jingle of spurs as a rider dismounted and approached. but he did hear the voice--drawling, nasty, jeering: "was you considerin' havin' a bit o' refreshment, stranger?" vb wheeled quickly and looked straight into the green glitter of rhues's red-lidded eyes. the cruel mouth was stretched in an angular grin, and the whole countenance expressed the incarnate spirit of the bully. into danny's mind leaped the idea that this thing before him, this evil-eyed, jeering, leering, daring being, typified all that was foul in his heart--just as the captain typified all that was virtuous. the intuitive repulsion surged to militant hate. he wanted to smother the breath which kept alive such a spirit, wanted to stamp into the dust the body that housed it--because it mocked him and tempted him! but young vb only turned and brushed past the man without a word. he heard rhues's laughter behind him, and heard him call: "ranger ain't no eastern sunday school. better have one an' be a man, like th' rest o' th' boys!" however, when rhues turned back to his pony the laugh was gone and he was puzzling over something. after he had mounted, he looked after the boy again maliciously. vb was on the road in half an hour, driving the horses as fast as he dared. he wanted to be back in jed's cabin, away from ranger. this thing had followed him across the country to colt; from colt to the anchor; and now it lurked for him in ranger. the ranch was his haven. the settlement by the river reached its claws after him as he drove, fastening them in his throat and shaking his will until it seemed as though it had reached the limit of its endurance. it was dark when he reached home. a mile away he had seen the light and smiled weakly at thought of it, and the horses, more than willing, carried the wagon over the remaining distance with a bouncing that threatened its contents. when vb pulled up before the outer gate jed hurried from the cabin. "vb," he called, "are you all right?" "all right, jed," he answered, dropping from the seat. and the boy thought he heard the older man thank his god. without words, they unharnessed and went to the cabin. kelly was sleeping loudly in the adjoining room. the table had been moved from its usual place nearer to the window, and the bottle with its burning candle was close against the pane. jed looked at the candle, then at vb. "i'm sorry," he said, seeing the strain about the boy's mouth. "i never thought about it until come night, young vb. i never thought about it. i--i guess i'm an old fool, gettin' scared th' way i do. so i shoved this candle up against th' window--because i'm an old fool and thought--it might help a little." and vb answered: "it does help, jed! every little thing helps. and oh, god, how i need it!" he turned away. chapter ix pursuit summer drew toward its close and the work became more exacting. jed was sure that more of his colts ran the range without brands, and the two rode constantly, searching every gulch and break for the strays. one day they went far to the east, and at noon encountered three of bob thorpe's men building fence. "it's his new drift fence," jed explained. "he's goin' to have a lot of winter pasture, to be sure he is. it'll help us, too. when we come takin' these here willow tails off this ridge they'll find somethin' new. it's so close up to the foot of the rise that they can't jump it." "thorpe must be rich," remarked young vb as they went on along the fence. "rich don't say it! he's rollin' in money, an' he sure knows how to enjoy it. every winter, when things gets squared away, he takes his wife an' goes to california. i s'pose he'll be takin' his girl, too--now that she's quit goin' to school." the boy wanted to ask questions about this daughter of bob thorpe's, but a diffidence, for which there was no accounting, held him back. he was curious as he had been whenever he heard of or thought of her, and as he had been when he had once seen her. but somehow he did not care to admit that curiosity even to jed, and when he tried to analyze the reason for his reticence there was no doing so. now came more knowledge of the waste places with weeks of riding; more knowledge of the barren area in his own heart with self-study; more pertinent, that which the captain typified. and all the time that struggle continued, which at times seemed only the hopeless floundering of a man in quicksands--life on the river bank so close; death below, certain, mocking his efforts. "he has faith in himself because he is physically equipped," vb murmured one day as he saw the captain standing against the sky on a distant ridge. "his belief in himself is justified. but i--what do i know about my own capabilities?" yet a latent quality in the boy was the sort that offsets doubts, else why this emulation of the stallion, why this feeling that was almost love, constant, always growing, never hesitating? like most men, young vb was unprepared for the big moments of his life. could we only foresee them, is the plaint of men! could we only know and go out to meet them in spirit proper! and yet that very state of preparation might take from the all-encompassing grandeur of those passages a potent element. after all, this scheme of things has its compensations, and inability to foretell the future may be one of the greatest. with fear in his heart and black discouragement and lack of faith, young vb went out to meet what proved to be his first great moment. jed had gone to the railroad, bound for the springs, to untangle a mess of red tape that had snarled about his filing on some land. vb was left alone, and for days the young fellow saw no one. in the natural loneliness that followed, the assault came upon him with manifold force. he could not sleep, could not eat, could not remain in one place or keep his mind on a fixed purpose. he walked about, talking to himself in the silence, trying ineffectually to do the necessary work of the ranch, trying to stifle the loud voice that begged him to forego all the struggle and let his impulses carry him where they would. but were not his impulses carrying him? was it not his first impulse to go on with the fight? he did not think of that. at times it was hard indeed to differentiate between the real and the unreal. the voice that wheedled was such a twister of words and terms, and its ally, the thirst, raged with such virility that he was forced to do something with his body. to remain an unresisting victim to the torture would only invite disaster. throwing a saddle on his "top" horse, young vb set out, leaving the half-prepared dinner as it was, unable even to wait for food. he rode swiftly up the gulch to where it forked, and then to the right, letting the stanch animal under him cover the ground at a swinging trot. in three hours he was miles from the ranch, far back in the hills, and climbing to the top of a stretching ridge. he breathed through his mouth, to let the air on his burning throat, and twisted his bridle reins until the stout leather was misshapen, utterly lost in the conflict which went on within, heedless of all else. suddenly he realized that his horse had come a long distance without rest. he dismounted in a thicket of cedars, sharply repentant that his own torment had led him to forget the beast that served him, and even the distraction of that concern brought relief. with the cinch eased the horse stood and breathed gratefully. but he was not fagged, he was still alert and eager. his ears were set stiffly forward, and he gazed upwind, sniffing softly now and then. "what you see, cayuse?" vb asked, trying to make out the cause of that attentiveness. again the sniffing, and of a sudden the horse froze, stopped his breathing, and vb, a hand on the beast's hip, felt a quick tremor run through him. then the man saw that which had caused the animal to tremble, and the sight set him tingling just as it always did. a hundred yards up the ridge, sharp against the sky, commanding, watchful, stood the captain. he had not seen or scented vb, for he looked in other directions, moving his head from point to point, scanning every nook of the country below him. something mannish there was about that beast, a comprehensive, planned vigilance. down below him in a sag fed the mares. as vb looked at that watcher he felt the lust to possess crawling up, surging through him, blotting out that other desire, that torment, making his breath congest, making his mouth dry. he tightened his cinch and mounted. the captain did not see vb until the rider came clear of the cover in which he had halted. for the instant only, as the rushing horseman broke through the cedars, a scudding, fluttering object hurtling across the low brush, the black stallion stood as though his feet were imbedded in the rock under him, his head full toward the rushing rider, nose up, astonishment in the very angle of his stiff ears. then those ears went flat; the sleek body pivoted on its dainty hind feet, and a scream of angered warning came from the long throat. even as the captain's front hoofs clawed the ground in his first leap, the mares were running. they drew close together, frightened by the abruptness of the alarm, scuttling away from the punishment they knew would be coming from their master if they wasted seconds. vb was possessed again. his reason told him that a single horseman had no chance in the world with that bunch, that he could not hope to keep up even long enough to scatter the band, that he would only run his mount down, good horse that he was. but the lust urged him on, tugging at his vitals, and he gave vent to his excitement in sharp screams of joy, the joy of the hunt--and the joy of honest attempt at supreme accomplishment. the dust trailed behind the bunch, enveloping the rushing captain in a dun mantle, finally to be whipped away by the breeze. they tore down stiff sagebrush in their flight; and so great was the strain that their bellies skimmed incredibly close to the ground. vb's horse caught the spirit of the chase, as do all animals when they follow their kind. he extended himself to the last fiber, and with astonishment--a glad astonishment that brought a whoop of triumph--the boy saw that the mares were not drawing away--that he was crawling up on them! but the captain! ah, he was running away from the man who gave chase, was putting more distance between them at every thundering leap, was drawing closer to his slower mares, lip stretched back over his gleaming teeth, jaws working as he strained to reach them and make that band go still faster. vb's quirt commenced to sing its goading tune, slashing first on one side, then on the other. he hung far forward over the fork of his saddle, leaning low to offer the least possible resistance to the wind. now and then he called aloud to his pony, swearing with glad savagery. the captain reached his bunch, closing in on them with a burst of speed that seemed beyond the abilities of blood and bone. the man behind thought he heard those long teeth pop as they caught the rump of a scurrying mare; surely he heard the stallion's scream of rage as, after nipping mare after mare, running to and fro behind them, he found that they had opened their hearts to the last limit and could go no faster. they _could not_ do it--and the rider behind was crawling up, jump for jump, gaining a yard, losing a foot, gaining again, steadily, relentlessly. vb did not know that kelly, the horse buyer, and one of dick worth's riders had given the outlaws a long, tedious race that morning as they were coming in from the dry country to the west for water and better feed. he did not know that the band had been filling their bellies with great quantities of water, crowding them still more with grasses, until there was no room left for the working of lungs, for the stretching of taxed muscles. he saw only the one fact: that he was gaining on the captain. he did not stop even to consider the obvious ending of such a chase. he might scatter the band, but what of it? when the last hope had been cast the captain would strike out alone, would turn all the energy that now went to driving his mares to making good his own escape, and then there would be no more race--just a widening of a breach that could not be closed. but vb did not think of anything beyond the next stride. his mind was possessed with the idea that every leap of the laboring beast under him must bring him closer to the huddle of frantic horses, nearer to the flying hindquarters of the jet leader who tried so hard to make his authority override circumstance. the slashing of the quirt became more vicious. vb strained farther forward. his lips were parted, his eyes strained open with excitement, and the tears started by that rushing streamed over his cheeks. "e-e-eyah!" he shrieked. the buckskin mare found a hole. her hind legs went into the air, sticking toward the sky above that thundering clump of tossing, rushing bodies with its fringes of fluttering hair. her legs seemed to poise a moment; then they went down slowly. the captain leaped her prostrate body, to sink his teeth into the flank of a sorrel that lagged half a length behind the others. vb passed so near the buckskin as she gained her faltering feet that he could have slashed her with his quirt. yet he had no eyes for her, had no heed for any of the mares. he was playing for the bigger game. the sorrel quit, unable to respond to that punishment, fearful of her master. she angled off to the right, to be rid of him, and disappeared through a clump of trees. the stallion shrilled his anger and disgust, slowing his gallop a half-dozen jumps as though he wanted to follow and punish her cruelly. then he glanced backward, threw his nose in the air and, stretching to his own tremendous speed again, stormed on. the huddle of mares became less compact, seemed to lose also its unity of purpose. the captain had more to do. his trips from flank to flank of the band were longer. by the time he had spurred the gray at the left back into the lead the brown three-year-old on the other wing was a loiterer by a length. then, when she was sent ahead, the gray was lagging again. and another by her side, perhaps. "e-e-eyah!" vb's throat was raw from the screaming, but he did not know it--no more than he knew that his hat was gone or that his nerves still yearned for their stinging stimulant. the cry, coming again and again, worried the captain. each time it crackled from vb's lips the black nose was flung high and an eye which glared orange hate even at that distance rolled back to watch this yelling pursuer. vb saw, and began to shout words at the animal, to cry his challenge, to curse. the galloping gray quit, without an attempt to rally. the captain brought to bear a terrific punishment, dropping back to within thirty yards of the man who pressed him, but it was useless, for she was spent. the water and luscious grass in her dammed up the reservoirs of her vitality, would not let her respond. when the stallion gave her up and tore on after the others she dropped even her floundering gallop, and as vb raced past her he heard the breath sob down her throat. on and across they tore, dropping into sags of the ridge, climbing sharp little pitches, swinging now to the right and bending back to the left again in a sweeping curve. the uneven galloping of the horse under him, the gulps for breath the pony made as the footing fooled him and he jolted sharply, the shiftings and duckings and quick turnings as they stormed through groups of trees, the rattle of brush as it smote his boot toes and stirrups were all unheeded by vb. once his shoulder met a tough cedar bough, and the blow wrenched it from its trunk. his face was whipped to rawness by smaller branches, and one knee throbbed dully where it had skimmed a bowlder as they shot past. but he saw only that floundering band ahead. the buckskin was gone, the sorrel, the gray; next, two mares quit together, and the captain, seeing them go, did not slacken his speed, did not even scream his rage. only four remained, and he gambled on them as against the slight chance of recovering any of those others; for that screaming rider was closing in on him all the time. oh, water and grass! how necessary both are to life, but how dangerous at a time like this! pop-pop! the teeth closed on those running hips. the vainness of it all! they could go no faster. they had tried first from instinct, then from willingness; now they tried from fear as their lord tortured them. but though the will was there, the ability could not come, not even when the captain pushed through them, and in a desperate maneuver set the pace, showing them his fine heels and clean limbs, demonstrating how easy it was to go on and on and draw away from that rider who tugged at his muffler that wind might find and cool his throat, burning now from unalloyed hope. and so vb, the newest horse runner on the range, scattered the captain's band, accomplishing all that the best of the men who rode that country had ever been able to boast. the stallion tried once more to rally his mates into escape, but their hearts were bursting, their lungs clogged. they could do no more. then away he went alone, head high and turning from side to side, mane flaunting, tail trailing gracefully behind him, beauty in every regal line and curve, majestic superiority in each stride he took. he raced off into the country that stretched eastward, the loser for the time of one set of conquests but free--free to go on and make himself more high, more powerful, more a thing to be emulated even by man. he ran lightly, evenly, without effort, and the gap between him and the rider behind, narrowed by such tremendous exertion from that lathered pony, widened with scarce an added effort. but vb went on, driving his reeking pony mercilessly. he had ceased yelling now. his face was set; blood that had been whipped into it by his frenzy, by the rushing of the wind, by the smiting of branches, left the skin. it became white, and from that visage two eyes glowed abnormally brilliant. for the captain was taking off the ridge where it bent and struck into the north, was plunging down over the pitch into the shadows. he was going his best, in long, keen strides that would carry him to the bottom with a momentum so tremendous that on the flat he would be running himself into a blur. and vb's face was colorless, with eyes brilliant, because he knew that along the bottom of the drop ran the new drift fence that bob thorpe's men were erecting. he began to plead with his pony, to talk to him childishly, to beg him to keep his feet, to coax him to last, to pray him to follow--and in control of himself, and on time! as they dropped off the ridge, down through the sliding shale and scattered brush, vb's right hand, upraised to keep his balance, held the loop of his rope, and the other, flung behind the cantle of his saddle, grasped the coils of the sturdy hemp. oh, captain, your speed was against you! you took off that ridge with those ground-covering leaps, limbs flying, heart set on reaching the bottom with a swirl of speed that would dishearten your follower. but you did not reckon on an obstruction, on the thing your eyes encountered when halfway down that height and going with all the power within you. those fresh posts and the wires strung between them! a fence! men had invaded your territory with their barriers, and at such a time! you knew, too, that there was no jumping it; they had set the posts so far up on the pitch that no take-off had been left. so the captain tried to stop. with haunches far under him, front feet straight before, belly scrubbing the brush, he battled to overcome the awful impetus his body had received up above. sprawling, sliding, feet shooting in any direction as the footing gave, he struggled to stop his progress. it was no simple matter; indeed, checking that flight was far more difficult than the attaining of that speed. in the midst of rolling, bounding stones, sliding dust, breaking brush, the great stallion gradually slowed his going. slow and more slowly he went on toward the bottom; almost stopped, but still was unable to bring his muscles into play for a dash to right or left. on behind, pony floundering in the wake of the captain, rode vb, right hand high, snapping back and forth to hold him erect, rope dangling from it crazily. he breathed through his mouth, and at every exhalation his vocal chords vibrated. perhaps even then the captain might have won. the odds of the game were all against him, it is true, for breaking down the pitch as he did, it required longer for him to reach the bottom in possession of his equilibrium than it did the slower-moving horse that bore vb. it would have been a tight squeeze for the horse, but the man was in a poor position to cast his loop with any degree of accuracy. but a flat sliding stone discounted all other factors. nothing else mattered. the captain came to a stop, eyes wild, ears back. with a slow-starting, mighty lunge, he made as though to turn and race down along the line of fence before vb could get within striking distance. the great muscles contracted, his ragged hoofs sought a hold. the hind legs straightened, that mighty force bore on his footing--and the stone slipped! the captain was outlucked. his hind legs shot backward, staggering him. his hindquarters slipped downhill, throwing his head up to confront vb. his nostrils flared, that orange hate in his eyes met the glow from his pursuer's, who came down upon him--only half a dozen lengths away! chapter x capture it does not take a horse that is bearing a rider downhill an appreciable length of time to take one more stride. gravity does the work. the horse jerks his fore legs from under his body and then shoots them out again for fresh hold to keep his downward progress within reason. vb's pony went down the drop with much more rapidity than safety, in short, jerky, stiff-legged plunges, hindquarters scrooged far under his body; alert, watching his footing, grunting in his care not to take too great risks. when the captain, fooled by false footing, was whirled about to face the down-coming rider, the pony's fore feet had just drawn themselves out of the way to let his body farther down the slope. and when the sturdy legs again shot out to strike rock and keep horse and vb upright, the black stallion had started to wheel. but in the split second which intervened between the beginning and ending of that floundering jump, eyes met eyes. the eyes of a man met the eyes of a beast, and heart read heart. the eyes of a man who had frittered his life, who had flaunted his heritage of strength in body and bone until he had become a weakling, a cringing, whining center of abnormal nervous activities, fearing himself, met the eyes of a beast that knew himself to be a paragon of his kind, the final achievement of his strain, a commanding force that had never been curbed, that had defied alike his own kingdom and the race from which had sprung the being now confronting him. the eyes of him who had been a weakling met the eyes of that which had been superstrong and without a waver; they held, they penetrated, and, suddenly born from the purposeless life of danny lenox, flamed young vb's soul. all the emulation, all the lust this beast before him had roused in his heart, became amalgamated with that part of him which subtly strove to drag him away from debauchery, and upon those blending elements of strength was set the lasting stamp of his individuality. his purpose flamed in his eyes and its light was so great that the horse read, and, reading, set his ears forward and screamed--not so much a scream of anger as of wondering terror. for the beast caught the significance of that splendid determination which made for conquest with a power equal to his own strength, which was making for escape. the telepathic communication from the one to the other was the same force that sends a jungle king into antics at the pleasure of his trainer--the language that transcends species! the pony's hoofs dug shale once more, and the upraised right arm whipped about the tousled head. the rope swished angrily as it slashed the air. once it circled--and the captain jumped, lunging off to the left. twice it cut its disk--and the stallion's quivering flanks gathered for a second leap. it writhed; it stretched out waveringly, seekingly, feelingly as though uncertain, almost blindly, but swiftly--so swiftly! the loop flattened and spread and undulated, drawing the long stretch of hemp after it teasingly. it stopped, as though suddenly tired. it poised with uncanny deliberation. then, as gently as a maiden's sigh, it settled--settled--drooped--and the captain's nose, reaching out for liberty, to be free of this man whose eyes flamed a determination so stanch that it went down to his beast heart, thrust itself plumb through the middle. the hoarse rip of the hard-twist coming through its hondu, the whistle of breath from the man's tight teeth, the rattle of stone on stone; then the squeal from the stallion as for the first time in his life a bond tightened on him! he shook his head angrily, and even as he leaped a third time back toward his free hills one forefoot was raised to strike from him the snaring strand. the pawing hoof did not reach its mark, did not find the thin, lithe thing which throttled down on him, for the captain's momentum carried him to the end of the rope. they put the strain on the hemp, both going away, those horses. vb struggled with his mount to have him ready for the shock, but before he could bring about a full stop that shock arrived. it seemed as though it would tear the horn from the saddle. the pony, sturdy little beast, was yanked to his knees and swung half about, and vb recovered himself only by grabbing the saddle fork. the black stallion again faced the man--faced him because his heels had been cracked in a semicircle through the air by the force of that burning thing about his neck. for ten long seconds the captain stood braced against the rope, moving his head slowly from side to side for all the world as a refractory, gentled colt might do, with as much display of fight as would be shown by a mule that dissented at the idea of being led across a ditch. he just stood there stupidly, twisting his head. the thick mane rumpled up under the tightening rope, some of the drenched hair of the neck was pulled out as the hemp rolled upward, drawing closer, shutting down and down. the depression in the flesh grew deeper. one hind foot lost its hold in the shale and shot out; the captain lifted it and moved it forward again slowly, cautiously, for fresh, steady straining. then it came. the windpipe closed; he coughed, and like the sudden fury of a mountain thunderstorm the captain turned loose his giant forces. the thing had jerked him back in his rush toward freedom. it held him where he did not want to be held! and it choked! forefeet clawing, rearing to his hind legs with a quivering strength of lift that dragged the bracing pony through the shale, the great, black horse-regal screamed and coughed his rage and beat upon that vibrating strand which made him prisoner--that web--that fragile thing! again and again he struck it, but it only danced--only danced, and tightened its clutch on his throat! he reached for it with his long teeth and clamped them on it, but the thing would not yield. he settled to all fours again, threw his head from side to side, and strove to move backward with a frenzied floundering that sent the pebbles rattling yards about him. it was a noble effort. into the attempt to drag away from that anchorage the captain put his very spirit. he struggled and choked and strained. and all the time that man sat there on his horse, tense, watching silently, moving his free hand slightly to and fro, as though beating time to music. his lips were parted, his face still blanched. and in his eyes glowed that purpose which knows no defeat! system departed. like a hot blast wickedness came. teeth bared, ears flat, with sounds like an angered child's ranting coming from his throat, the stallion charged his man enemy just as he had charged the powerful percheron who had come to challenge him a month ago. the saddle horse, seeing it, avoided the brunt of the first blind rush, taking the captain's shoulder on his rump as the black hurtler went past, striking thin air. vb felt the captain's breath, saw from close up the lurid flame in his eyes, sensed the power of those teeth, the sledge-hammer force behind those untrimmed hoofs. and he came alive, the blood shooting close under his skin again and making the gray face bronze, then deeper than bronze. his eyes puffed under the stress of that emotion, and he felt a primitive desire to growl as the captain whirled and came again. it was man to beast, and somewhere down yonder through the generations a dead racial memory came back and young vb, girded for the conflict, ached to have his forest foe in reach, to have the fight run high, to have his chance to dare and do in fleshly struggle! it was not long in coming. the near hoof, striking down to crush his chest, fell short, and the hair of vb's chap leg went ripping from the leather, while along his thigh crept a dull, spreading ache. he did not notice that, though, for he was raised in his stirrups, right hand lifted high, its fingers clutched about the lash of his loaded quirt. he felt the breath again, hot, wet, and a splatter of froth from the flapping lips struck his cheek. then the right hand came down with a snap and a jerk, with all the vigor of muscular force that vb could summon. his eye had been good, his judgment true. the captain's teeth did not sink into his flesh, for the quirt-butt, a leaden slug, crunched on the horse's skull, right between the ears! the fury of motion departed, like the going of a cyclone. the captain dropped to all fours and hung his head, staggered a half-dozen short paces drunkenly, and then sighed deeply-- he reached the end of the rope. it came tight again, and with the tightening--the battle! thrice more he charged the man with all the hate his wild heart could summon, but not once did those dreadful teeth find that which they sought. again the front hoof met its mark and racked the flesh of vb's leg, but that did not matter. he could stand that punishment, for he was winning! he was countering the stallion's efforts, which made the contest an even break; and his rope was on and he had dealt one telling blow with his quirt. two points! and the boy screamed his triumph as the missile he swung landed again, on the soft nose this time, the nose so wrinkled with hateful desire--and the captain swung off to one side from the stinging force of it. not in delight at punishment was that cry. the blow on the skull, the slug at the nose stabbed vb to his tenderest depths. but he knew it must be so, and his shout was a shout of conquest--of the first man asserting primal authority, of the last man coming into his own! the dust they stirred rose stiflingly. down there under the hill no moving breath of air would carry it off. the pony under vb grunted and strained, but was jerked sharply about by the rushes of the heavier stallion, heavier and built of things above mere flesh and bone and tendon. the captain's belly dripped water; vb's face was glossy with it, his hair plastered down to brow and temple. the three became tired. in desperation the captain dropped the fight, turned to run, plunged out as though to part the strands. vb's heart leaped as his faith in the rope faltered--but it held, and the stallion, pulled about, lost his footing, floundered, stumbled, went down, and rolled into the shale, feet threshing the air. it was an opening--the widest vb had had, wider than he could have hoped for, and he rushed in, stabbing his horse shamelessly with spurs and babbling witlessly as he strove to make slack in the rope. the slack came. then the quick jerk of the wrist--the trick he had perfected back there in jed's corral--and a potential half-hitch traveled down the rope. the captain floundered to get his feet under him, and the loop in the rope dissolved. again the wrist twitch, again the shooting loop and-- "scotched!" screamed young vb. "scotched! you're my property!" scotched! the rope had found its hold about the off hind ankle of the soiled stallion, and there it clung in a tight, relentless grasp. the rope from neck to limb was so short that it kept the foot clear of the ground, crippling the captain, and as the great horse floundered to his feet vb had him powerless. the stallion stood dazed, looking down at the thing which would not let him kick, which would not let him step. then he sprang forward, and when the rope came tight he was upended, a shoulder plowing the shale. "it's no use!" the man cried, his voice crackling in excitement. "i've got you right--right--_right!_" but the captain would not quit. he tried even then to rise to his hind legs and make assault, but the effort only sent him falling backward, squealing--and left him on his side, moaning for his gone liberty. for he knew. he knew that his freedom was gone, even as he made his last floundering, piteous endeavors. he got up and tried to run, but every series of awkward moves only sent his black body down into the dust and dirt, and at last he rested there, head up, defiance still in his eyes, but legs cramped under him. and then vb wanted to cry. he went through all the sensations--the abrupt drop of spirits, the swelling in the throat, the tickling in the nostrils. "oh, captain!" he moaned. "captain, don't you see i wouldn't harm you? only you had to be mine! i had to get bigger than you were, captain--for my own salvation. it was the only way, boy; it was the only way!" and he sat there for a long time, his eyes without the light of triumph, on his captive. his heart-beats quickened, a new warmth commenced to steal through his veins, a new faith in self welled up from his innermost depths, making his pulses sharp and hard, making his muscles swell, sending his spirit up and up. he had fought his first big fight and he had won! blood began to drip from the stallion's nose. "it's where i struck you!" whispered vb, the triumph all gone again, solicitation and a vast love possessing him. "it's where i struck you, captain. oh, it hurts me, too--but it must be so, because things are as they are. there will be more hurts, boy, before we're through. but it must be!" his voice gritted on the last. sounds from behind roused vb, and he looked around. the sunlight was going even from the ridge up there, and the whole land was in shadow. he was a long way from the ranch with this trophy--his, but still ready to do battle at the end of his rope. "got one?" a man cried, coming up, and vb recognized him as one of the trio of fence builders, riding back to their camp. "yes--one," muttered vb, and turned to look at the captain. then the man cried: "you've got th' captain!" "it's the captain," said vb unsteadily, as though too much breath were in his lungs. "he's mine--you know--mine!" the others looked at him in silent awe. chapter xi a letter and a narrative jed avery had been away from young vb almost two weeks, and he had grown impatient in the interval. so he pushed his bay pony up the trail from ranger, putting the miles behind him as quickly as possible. the little man had fretted over every step of the journey homeward, and from colt on into the hills it was a conscious effort that kept him from abusing his horse by overtravel. "if he should have gone an' busted over while i was away i'd--i'd never forgive myself--lettin' that boy go to th' bad just for a dinky claim!" it was the thousandth time he had made the declaration, and as he spoke the words a thankfulness rose in his heart because of what he had not heard in ranger. he knew that vb had kept away from town. surely that was a comfort, an assurance, a justification for his faith that was firm even under the growling. still, there might have been a wanderer with a bottle-- and as he came in sight of his own buildings jed put the pony to a gallop for the first time during that long journey. smoke rose from the chimney, the door stood open, an atmosphere of habitation was about the place, and that proved something. he crowded his horse close against the gate, leaned low, unfastened the hasp, and rode on through. "oh, vb!" he called, and from the cabin came an answering hail, a scraping of chair legs, and the young fellow appeared in the doorway. "how's th'--" jed did not finish the question then--or ever. his eagerness for the meeting, the light of anticipation that had been in his face, disappeared. he reined up his horse with a stout jerk, and for a long moment sat there motionless, eyes on the round corral. then his shoulders slacked forward and he raised a hand to scratch his chin in bewilderment. for yonder, his nose resting on one of the gate bars, watching the newcomer, safe in the inclosure, alive, just as though he belonged there, stood the captain! after that motionless moment jed turned his eyes back to young vb, and stared blankly, almost witlessly. then he raised a limp hand and half pointed toward the corral, while his lips formed a soundless question. vb stepped from the doorway and walked toward jed, smiling. "yes," he said with soft pride, as though telling of a sacred thing, "the captain is there--in our corral." jed drew a great breath. "did you do it--and alone?" "well, there wasn't any one else about," vb replied modestly. again jed's chest heaved. "well, i'm a--" he ended in inarticulate distress, searching for a proper expletive, mouth open and ready, should he find one. then he was off his horse, both hands on the boy's shoulders, looking into the eyes that met his so steadily. "you done it, young vb!" he cried brokenly. "you done it! oh, i'm proud of you! your old adopted daddy sure is! you done it all by yourself, an' it's somethin' that nobody has ever been able to do before!" then they both laughed aloud, eyes still clinging. "come over and get acquainted," suggested vb. "he's waiting for us." they started for the corral, jed's eyes, now flaming as they took in the detail of that wonderful creature, already seen by him countless times, but now for the first time unfree. the stallion watched them come, moving his feet up and down uneasily and peering at them between the bars. vb reached for the gate fastening, and the horse was away across the corral, snorting, head up, as though fearful. "why, captain!" the boy cried. "what ails you?" "what ails him?" cried jed. "man alive, i'd expect to see him tryin' to tear our hearts out!" "oh, but he's like a woman!" vb said softly, watching the horse as he swung the gate open. they stepped inside, jed with caution. vb walked straight across to the horse and laid his hand on the splendid curve of the rump. "well, i'm a--" again jed could find no proper word to express his astonishment. he simply took off his hat and swung it in one hand, like an embarrassed schoolgirl. "come over and meet the boss, captain," vb laughed, drawing the black head around by its heavy forelock. and the captain came--unexpectedly. the boy realized the danger with the first plunge and threw his arms about the animal's neck, crying to him to be still. and jed realized, too. he slipped outside, putting bars between himself and those savage teeth which reached out for his body. foiled, the stallion halted. "captain," exclaimed vb, "what ails you?" "to be sure, nothin' ails him," said jed sagely. "you're his master; you own him, body and soul; but you ain't drove th' hate for men out of his heart. he seems to love you--but not others--yes--" his voice died out as he watched the black beast make love to the tall young chap who scolded into his dainty ear. the soft, thin lips plucked at vb's clothing, nuzzling about him as he stood with arms clasped around the glossy neck. the great cheek rubbed against the boy's side until it pushed him from his tracks, though he strained playfully against the pressure. such was the fierceness of that horse's allegiance. his nostrils fluttered, but no sound came from them: the beast whisperings of affection. all the time vb scolded softly, as a father might banter with a child. and when the boy looked up a great pride was in his face, and jed understood. "that's right, young vb--be proud of it! be proud that he's yours; be proud that he's yours, an' yours only. keep him that way; to be sure, an' you've earned it!" then he stepped close to the bars and gazed at the animal with the critical look of a connoisseur. "not a hair that ain't black," he muttered. "black from ankle to ear; hoofs almost black, black in th' nostrils. black horses generally have brown eyes, but you can't even tell where th' pupil is in his! "say, vb, he makes th' ace of spades look like new snow, don't he?" "he does that!" cried vb, and putting his hands on the animal's back, he leaped lightly up, sitting sidewise on the broad hips and playing with the heavy tail. "vb, i'm a-- lord, a thousand dollars for a new oath!" at vb's suggestion they started back to the cabin. "why, boy, you're limpin'!" the old man exclaimed. "an' in both legs!" he stopped and looked the young fellow over from hat to heel. "one side of your face's all skinned. looks as though your left hand'd all been smashed up, it's that swelled. you move like your back hurt, too--like sin. vb?" the boy stopped and looked down at the ground. then his eyes met those of the old rancher, and jed avery understood--he had seen the bond between man and horse; he realized what must have transpired between them. and he knew the love that men can have for animals, something which, if you have never felt it, is far beyond comprehension. so he asked just this question: "how long?" and vb answered: "six days--from dawn till dark. one to get a halter on him, another to get my hand on his head; three days in the scotch hobble, and the last--to ride him like a hand-raised colt." jed replaced his hat, pulling it low to hide his eyes. "ain't i proud to be your daddy?" he whispered. an overwhelming pride--a pride raised to the _n_th degree, of the sort that is above the understanding of most men--was in the tone _timbre_ of the question. they went on into the house. "jed," vb said, as though he had waited to broach something of great import, "i've written a letter this morning, and i want to read it to you, just to see how it sounds out loud." he sat down in a chair and drew sheets of small tablet paper toward him. jed, without answer, leaned against the table and waited. vb read: "my dear father: "i am writing merely to say that i know you were right and i was wrong. "i am in a new life, where men do big, real things which justify their own existence. i am finding myself. i am getting that perspective which lets me see just how right you were and how wrong i was. "since coming here i have done something real. i have captured and made mine the wildest horse that ever ran these hills. i am frankly proud of it. i may live to do things of more obvious greatness, but that will be because men have had their sense of values warped. for me, this attainment is a true triumph. "i am now in the process of taming another beast, more savage than the one i have mastered, and possessing none of his noble qualities. it is a beast not of the sort we can grapple with, though we can see it in men. it is giving me a hard battle, but try to believe that my efforts are sincere and, though it may take my whole lifetime, i am bound to win in the end. "this letter will be mailed in kansas city by a friend. i am many days' travel from that point. when i am sure of the other victory i shall let you know where i am. "your affectionate son," he tossed the sheets back to the table top. "i'm going to get it over to ant creek and let some of the boys take it to the river when they go with beef," he explained. "now, how does it sound?" "fine, vb, fine!" jed muttered, rubbing one cheek. "to be sure, it ain't so much what you say as th' way you say it--makin' a party feel as though you meant it from th' bottom of your feet to th' tip of th' longest hair on your head!" "well, jed, i do mean it just that way. that horse out there--he--he stands for so much now. he stands for everything i haven't been, and for all that i want to be. he ran free as the birds, but it couldn't always be so. he had to succumb, had to give up that sort of liberty. "i took his power from him, made him my own, made him my servant. yet it didn't scathe his spirit. it has changed all that bitterness into love, all that wasted energy into doing something useful. i didn't break him, jed; i converted him. understand?" "i do, vb; but we won't convert this here other beast. we'll bust him wide open, won't we? break him, body an' spirit!" the boy smiled wanly. "that's what we're trying to do." he pointed to the candle in its daubed bottle. "just to keep the light burning, jed--just to keep its light fighting back the darkness. the little flame of that candle breaks the power of the black thing which would shut it in--like a heart being good and true in spite of the rotten body in which it beats. and when my body commences to want the old things--to want them, oh, so badly--i just think of this little candle here, calm and quiet and steady, sticking out of what was once a cesspool, a poison pot, and making a place in the night where men can see." while a hundred could have been counted slowly they remained motionless, quiet, not a sound breaking the silence. then jed began talking in a half-tone: "i know, young vb; i know. you've got time now to light it and nurse th' flame up so's it won't need watchin'--an' not miss things that go by in th' dark. some of us puts it off too long--like a man i know--now. i didn't know him then--when it happened. he was wanderin' around in a night that never turned to day, thinkin' he knowed where he was goin', but all th' time just bein' fooled by th' dark. "and there was a girl back in kansas. he started after her, but it was so dark he couldn't find th' way, an' when he did-- "some folks is fools enough to say women don't die of broken hearts. but--well, when a feller knows some things he wants to go tell 'em to men who don't know; to help 'em to understand, if he can; to give 'em a hand if they do see but can't find their way out--" he stopped, staring at the floor. vb had no cause to search for identities. from the corral came a shrill, prolonged neighing. vb arose and laid a hand gently on jed's bowed shoulder. "that's the captain," he said solemnly; "and he calls me when he's thirsty." while he was gone jed remained as he had been left, staring at the floor. chapter xii woman wants gail thorpe rose from the piano in the big ranch house of the s bar s, rearranged the mountain flowers that filled a vase on a tabouret, then knocked slowly, firmly, commandingly, on a door that led from the living room. "well, i don't want you; but i s'pose you might as well come in and get it off your mind!" the voice from the other side spoke in feigned annoyance. it continued to grumble until a lithe figure, topped by a mass of hair like pulled sunshine, flung itself at him, twining warm arms about his neck and kissing the words from the lips of big bob thorpe as he sat before his desk in the room that served as the ranch office. "will you ever say it again--that you don't want me?" she demanded. "no--but merely because i'm intimidated into promising," he answered. his big arms went tight about the slender body and he pulled his daughter up on his lap. a silence, while she fussed with his necktie. her blue eyes looked into his gray ones a moment as though absently, then back to the necktie. her fingers fell idle; her head snuggled against his neck. bob thorpe laughed loud and long. "well, what is it this morning?" he asked between chuckles. the girl sat up suddenly, pushed back the hair that defied fastenings, and tapped a stretched palm with the stiff forefinger of the other hand. "i'm not a western girl," she declared deliberately; and then, as the brown face before her clouded, hastened: "oh, i'm not wanting to go away! i mean, i'm not truly a western girl, but i want to be. i want to fit better. "when we decided that i should graduate and come back here with my mommy and daddy for the rest of my life, i decided. there was nothing halfway about it. some of the other girls thought it awful; but i don't see the attraction in their way of living. "when i was a little girl i was a sort of tom-cow-boy. i could do things as well as any of the boys i ever knew could do them. but after ten years, mostly away in the east, where girls are like plants, i've lost it all. now i want to get it back." "well, go to it!" "wait! i want to start well--high up. i want to have the best that there is to have. i--want--a--horse!" "horse? bless me, _bambino_, there are fifty broken horses running in the back pasture now, besides what the boys have on the ride. take your pick!" "oh, i know!" she said with gentle scoffing. "that sort of a horse--just cow-ponies. i love 'em, but i guess--well--" "you've been educated away from 'em, you mean?" he chuckled. "well, whatever it is--i want something better. i, as a daughter of the biggest, best man in colorado, want to ride the best animal that ever felt a cinch." "well?" "and i want to have him now, so i can get used to him this fall and look forward to coming back to him in the spring." bob thorpe took both her hands in one of his. "and if a thing like that will make my bambino happy, i guess she'll have it." the girl kissed him and held her cheek close against his for a breath. "when i go to denver for the stock show i'll pick the best blue ribbon--" "denver!" she exclaimed indignantly, sitting straight and tossing her head. "i want a real horse--a horse bred and raised in these mountains--a horse i can trust. none of your blue-blooded stock. they're like the girls i went to college with!" bob thorpe let his laughter roll out. "well, what do you expect to find around here? have you seen anything you like?" she pulled her hands from his grasp and stretched his mouth out of shape with her little fingers until he squirmed. "no, i haven't seen him; but i've heard the cowboys talking. over at mr. avery's ranch they've caught a black horse--" bob thorpe set her suddenly up on the arm of his chair and shook her soundly. "look here, young lady!" he exclaimed. "you're dreaming! i know what horse you're talking about. he's a wild devil that has run these hills for years. i heard he'd been caught. get the notion of having him out of your head. i've never seen him but once, and then he was away off; but i've heard tales of him. why-- "nonsense! in the first place, he couldn't be broken to ride. men aren't made big enough to break the spirit of a devil like that! they're bigger than humans. so we can end this discussion in peace. it's impossible!" "all right," gail said sweetly. "i just let you go on and get yourself into a corner. you don't know what you're talking about. he has been ridden. so there! i want him!" he thrust her to one side, rose, and commenced to pace the room, gesticulating wildly. but it all came to the invariable end of such discussions, and twenty minutes later gail thorpe, her smoking, smiling dad at her side, piloted the big touring car down the road, bound for jed avery's ranch. young vb sat on a box behind the cabin working with a boot-heel that insisted on running over. he lifted the boot, held it before his face, and squinted one eye to sight the effect of his work--then started at a cry from the road. the boot still in his hands, vb stopped squinting to listen. undoubtedly whoever it was wanted jed; but jed was away with the horse buyer, looking over his young stuff. so young vb, boot in hand, its foot clad in a service-worn sock, made his uneven way around the house to make any necessary explanations. "that must be he!" the light, high voice of the girl gave the cry just as vb turned the corner and came in sight, and her hand, half extended to point toward the corral, pointed directly into the face of the young man. he did not hear what she had said, did not venture a greeting. he merely stood and stared at her, utterly without poise. in a crimson flash he realized that this was gail thorpe, that she was pretty, and that his bootless foot was covered by a sock that had given way before the stress of walking in high heels, allowing his great toe, with two of its lesser conspirators, to protrude. to his confusion, those toes seemed to be swelling and for the life of him he could make them do nothing but stand stiffly in the air almost at right angles with the foot. his breeding cried out for a retreat, for a leap into shelter; but his wits had lost all grace. he lifted the half-naked foot and carefully brushed the dirt from the sock. then, leaning a shoulder against the corner of the cabin, he drew the boot on. stamping it to the ground to settle his foot into place, he said, "good morning," weakly and devoid of heartiness. bob thorpe had not noticed this confusion, for his eyes were on the corral. but gail, a peculiar twinkle in her eyes, had seen it all--and with quick intuition knew that it was something more than the embarrassment of a cow-puncher--and struggled to suppress her smiles. "good afternoon," thorpe corrected. "jed here?" "no; he's riding," vb answered. the cattleman moved a pace to the left and tilted his head to see better the captain, who stormed around and around the corral, raising a great dust. "we came over to look at a horse i heard was here--this one, i guess. isn't he the wild stallion?" "used to be wild." "he looks it yet. watch him plunge!" thorpe cried. "he's never seen an automobile before," vb explained, as the three moved nearer the corral. the horse was frightened. he quivered when he stood in one place, and the quivering always grew more violent until it ended in a plunge. he rose to his hind legs, head always toward the car, and pawed the air; then settled back and ran to the far side of the inclosure, with eyes for nothing but that machine. they halted by the bars, thorpe and his daughter standing close together, young vb nearer the gate. the boy said something to the horse and laughed softly. "why, look, daddy," the girl cried, "he's beginning to calm down!" the captain stopped his antics and, still trembling, moved gingerly to the bars. twice he threw up his head, looked at the machine, and breathed loudly, and once a quick tremor ran through his fine limbs, but the terror was no longer on him. bob thorpe turned a slow gaze on vb. the girl stood with lips parted. a flush came under her fine skin and she clasped her hands at her breast. "oh, daddy, what a horse!" she breathed. and bob thorpe echoed: "lord, what a horse! anybody tried to ride him?" he asked a moment later. "he gets work every day," vb answered. "_work?_ don't tell me you work that animal!" the young chap nodded. "yes; he works right along." the captain snorted loudly and tore away in a proud circle of the corral, as though to flaunt his graces. "oh, daddy, it took a _man_ to break that animal!" the girl breathed. the bronze of vb's face darkened, then paled. he turned a steady look on the sunny-haired woman, and the full thanks that swelled in his throat almost found words. he wanted to cry out to her, to tell her what such things meant; for she was of his sort, highly bred, capable of understanding. and he found himself thinking: "you are! you are! you're as i thought you must be!" then he felt thorpe's gaze and turned to meet it, a trifle guiltily. "yours?" the man asked. "mine." thorpe turned back to the captain. gail drew a quick breath and turned away from him--to the man. "i thought so when he commenced to quiet," muttered thorpe. he looked then at his daughter and found her standing still, hands clasped, lips the least trifle parted, gazing at young vb. something in him urged a quick step forward. it was an alarm, something primal in the fathers of women. but bob thorpe put the notion aside as foolishness--or tenderness--and walked closer to the corral, chewing his cigar speculatively. the stallion wrinkled his nose and dropped the ears flat, the orange glimmer coming into his eyes. "don't like strangers, i see." "not crazy about them," vb answered. thorpe walked off to the left, then came back. he removed his cigar and looked at gail. she fussed with her rebellious hair and her face was flushed; she no longer looked at the horse--or at vb. he felt a curiosity about that flush. "well, want to get rid of him?" thorpe hooked his thumbs in his vest armholes and confronted vb. no answer. "what do you want for him?" the young fellow started. "what?" he said in surprise. "i was thinking. i didn't catch your question." the fact was, he had heard, but had distrusted the sense. the idea of men offering money for the captain had never occurred to him. "what do you want for him?" vb smiled. "what do i want for him?" he repeated. "i want--feed and water for the rest of his life; shelter when he needs it; the will to treat him as he should be treated. and i guess that's about all." the other again removed his cigar, and his jaw dropped. a cow-puncher talking so! he could not believe it; and the idea so confused him that he blundered right on with the bargaining. "five hundred? seven-fifty? no? well, how much?" vb smiled again, just an indulgent smile prompted by the knowledge that he possessed a thing beyond the power of even this man's wealth. "the captain is not for sale," he said. "not to-day--or ever. that's final." there was more talk, but all the kindly bluffness, all the desire instinctive in bob thorpe to give the other man an even break in the bargain, fell flat. this stranger, this thirty-five-dollar-a-month ranch hand, shed his offers as a tin roof sheds rain and with a self-possession characterized by unmistakable assurance. "tell jed i was over," the big man said as they gave up their errand and turned to go. "and"--as he set a foot on the running board of his car--"any time you're our way drop in." "yes, do!" added the girl, and her father could not check the impulse which made him turn halfway as though to shut her off. chapter xiii vb fights jed returned that evening, worn by a hard day's riding. he was silent. vb, too, was quiet and they spoke little until the housework was finished and jed had drawn off his boots preparatory to turning in. then vb said: "bob thorpe was over to-day." "so?" "uh-huh; wanted to buy the captain." after a pause jed commented: "that's natural." "wanted me to give you the good word." the old man walked through the doorway into the little bunk room and vb heard him flop into the crude bed. a short interval of silence. "jed," called vb, "ever hear where his daughter went to school?" a long yawn. then: "yep--don't remember." another pause. "she was over, too." "oh-ho-o-o!" the boy felt himself flushing, and then sat bolt upright, wondering soberly and seriously why it should be so--without reason. young vb slept restlessly that night. he tossed and dreamed, waking frequently under a sense of nervous tension, then falling back to half-slumber once more. thorpe came, and his daughter, offering fabulous sums for the captain, which were stubbornly refused. then, shouting at the top of her voice, the girl cried: "but i will give you kisses for him! surely that is enough!" and vb came back to himself, sitting up in bed and wadding the blankets in his hands. he blinked in the darkness and herded his scattered senses with difficulty. then the hands left off twisting the covers and went slowly to his throat. for the thirst was on him and in the morning he rose in the grip of the same stifling desire, and his quavering hands spilled things as he ate. jed noticed, but made no comment. when the meal was finished he said: "s'pose i could get you to crawl up on the captain an' take a shoot up curley gulch with an eye out for that black mare an' her yearlin'?" vb was glad to be alone with his horse, and as he walked to the corral, his bridle over his arm, he felt as though, much as jed could help him, he could never bring the inspiration which the black beast offered. he opened the gate and let it swing wide. the captain came across to him with soft nickerings, deserting the alfalfa he was munching. he thrust his muzzle into the crook of vb's elbow, and the arm tightened on it desperately, while the other hand went up to twine fingers in the luxurious mane. "oh, captain!" he muttered, putting his face close to the animal's cheek. "you know what it is to fight for yourself! you know--but where you found love and help when you lost that fight, i'd find--just blackness--without even a candle--" the stallion moved closer, shoving with his head until he forced vb out of the corral. then with his teasing lips he sought the bridle. "you seem to understand!" the man cried, his tired eyes lighting. "you seem to know what i need!" five minutes later he was rushing through the early morning air up the gulch, the captain bearing him along with that free, firm, faultless stride that had swept him over those mountains for so many long, unmolested years. throughout the forenoon they rode hard. vb looked for the mare and colt, but the search did not command much of his attention. "why can't i turn all this longing into something useful?" he asked the horse. "your lust for freedom has come to this end; why can't my impulses to be a wild beast be driven into another path?" and the captain made answer by bending his superb head and lipping vb's chap-clad knee. the quest was fruitless, and an hour before noon vb turned back toward the ranch, making a short cut across the hills. in one of the gulches the captain nickered softly and increased his trotting. vb let him go, unconscious of his brisker movement, for the calling in his throat had risen to a clamor. the horse stopped and lowered his head, drinking from a hole into which crystal water seeped. the man dropped off and flopped on his stomach, thrusting his face into the pool close to the nose of the greedily drinking stallion. he took the water in great gulps. it was cold, as cold as spring water can be, yet it was as nothing against the fire within him. the captain, raising his head quickly, caught his breath with a grunt, dragging the air deep into his great lungs and exhaling slowly, loudly, as he gazed off down the gulch; then he chewed briskly on the bit and thrust his nose again into the spring. vb's arm stole up and dropped over the horse's head. "oh, boy, you know what one kind of thirst is," he said in a whisper. "but there's another kind that this stuff won't quench! the thirst that comes from being in blackness--" they went on, dropped off a point, and made for the flat little buildings of the ranch. as he approached, vb saw three saddled horses standing before the house, none of which was jed's property. nothing strange in that, however, for one man's home is another's shelter in that country, whether the owner be on the ground or not, and to vb the thought of visitors brought relief. contact with others might joggle him from his mood. he left the captain, saddled, at the corral gate, bridle reins down, and he knew that the horse would not budge so much as a step until told to do so. then he swung over toward the house, heels scuffing the hard dirt, spurs jingling. at the threshold he walked squarely into the man rhues. the recognition was a distinct shock. he stepped backward a pace--recoiled rather, for the movement was as from a thing he detested. into his mind crowded every detail of his former encounters with this fellow; in the anchor bunk house and across the road from the saloon in ranger. they came back vividly--the expression of faces, lights and shadows, even odors, and the calling in him for the help that throttles became agonizing. rhues misconstrued his emotion. his judgment was warped by the spirit of the bully, and he thought this man feared him. he remembered that defiant interchange of questions, and the laugh that went to vb on their first meeting. he nursed the rankling memory. he had told it about that avery's tenderfoot was afraid to take a drink--speaking greater truth than he was aware--but his motive had been to discredit vb in the eyes of the countrymen, for he belonged to that ilk who see in debauchery the mark of manhood. coming now upon the man he had chosen to persecute, and reading fear in vb's eyes, rhues was made crudely happy. "you don't appear to be overglad to see us," he drawled. vb glanced into the room. a mexican sat on the table, smoking and swinging his legs; a white man he remembered having seen in ranger stood behind rhues. jed was nowhere about. he looked back at the snaky leer in those half-opened green eyes, and a rage went boiling into his brain. the unmistakable challenge which came from this bully was of the sort that strips from men civilization's veneer. "you've guessed it," he said calmly. "i don't know why i should be glad to see you. these others"--he motioned--"are strangers to me." then he stepped past rhues into the room. the man grinned at him as he tossed his hat to a chair and unbuckled the leather cuffs. "but that makes no difference," he went on. "jed isn't here. it's meal time, and if you men want to eat i'll build a big enough dinner." rhues laughed, and the mockery in his tone was of the kind that makes the biggest of men forget they can be above insult. "we didn't come here to eat," he said. "we come up to see a horse we heerd about--th' captain. we heerd jed caught him." vb started. the thought of rhues inspecting the stallion, commenting on him, admiring him, was as repulsive to young vb as would be the thought to a lover of a vile human commenting vulgarly on the sacred body of the woman of women. the mexican strolled out of the house as vb, turning to the stove, tried to ignore the explanation of their presence. he walked on toward the ponies. a dozen steps from the house he stopped, and called: _"por dios, hombre!"_ rhues and the other followed him, and vb saw them stand together, staring in amazement at the captain. then they moved toward the great horse, talking to one another and laughing. vb followed, with a feeling of indignation. the trio advanced, quickening their pace. "hold on!" he cried in sudden alarm. "don't go too near; he's dangerous!" already the captain had flattened his ears, and as vb ran out he could see the nose wrinkling, the lips drawing back. "what's got into you?" demanded rhues, turning, while the mexican laughed jeeringly. "i guess if you can ride him a _man_ can git up clost without gittin' chawed up! remember, young kid, we've been workin' with hosses sence you was suckin' yer thumb." the others laughed again, but vb gave no heed. he was seeing red again; reason had gone--either reason or the coating of conventions. "well, if you won't stand away from him because of danger, you'll do it because i say so!" he muttered. "o-ho, an' that's it!" laughed rhues, walking on. vb passed him and approached the captain and took his bridle. "be still, boy," he murmured. "stand where you are." he stroked the nose, and the wrinkles left it. rhues laughed again harshly. "well, that's a fine kind o' buggy horse!" he jeered. "let a tenderfoot come up an' steal all th' man-eatin' fire outen him!" he laughed again and the others joined. the mexican said something in spanish. "yah," assented rhues. "i thought we was comin' to see a _hoss_--th' kind o' nag this feller pertended to be. but now--look at him! he's just a low-down ----" vb sprang toward him. "you--" he breathed, "you--you hound! why, you aren't fit to come into sight of this horse. you--you apologize to that horse!" he demanded, and even through his molten rage the words sounded unutterably silly. yet he went on, fists clenched, carried beyond reason or balance by the instinctive hate for this man and love for the black animal behind him. rhues laughed again. "who says so, besides you, you ----. why, you ain't no more man'n that hoss is hoss!" he saw then that he had reckoned poorly. the greenhorn, the boy who cowered at the thought of a man's dissipation, had disappeared, and in his stead stood a quivering young animal, poising for a pounce. being a bully, rhues was a coward. so when vb sprang, and he knew conflict was unavoidable, his right hand whipped back. the fingers closed on the handle of his automatic as vb made the first step. they made their hold secure as the easterner's arm drew back. they yanked at the gun as that fist shot out. it was a good blow, a clean blow, a full blow right on the point of the chin, and, quickly as it had been delivered, the right was back in an instinctive guard and the left had rapped out hard on the snarling mouth. rhues went backward and down, unbalanced by the first shock, crushed by the second; and the third, a repeated jab of the left, caught him behind the ear and stretched him helpless in the dust. his fingers relaxed their hold on the gun that he had not been quick enough to use, so lightning-like was the attack from this individual he had dubbed a "kid." vb stepped over the prostrate form, put his toe under the revolver, and flipped it a dozen yards away. then jed avery pulled up his horse in a shower of dust, and vb, his rage choking down words, turned to lead the captain into the corral. the animal nosed him fiercely and pulled back to look at rhues, who, under the crude ministrations of his two companions, had taken on a semblance of life. a moment later vb returned from the inclosure, bearing his riding equipment. he said to jed: "this man insulted the captain. i had to whip him." then he walked to the wagon shed, dropped his saddle in its shelter, and came back. rhues sat up and, as vb approached, got to his feet. he lurched forward as if to rush his enemy, but the mexican caught him and held him back. vb stood, hands on hips, and glared at him. he said: "no, i wouldn't come again if i were you. i don't want to have to smash you again. i'd enjoy it in a way, but when a man is knocked out he's whipped--in my country--judged by the standards we set there. "you're a coward, rhues--a dirty, sneaking, low-down coward! every gun-man is a coward. it's no way to settle disputes--gun fighting." he glared at the fellow before him, who swore under his breath but who could not summon the courage to strike. "you're a coward, and i hope i've impressed that on you," vb went on, "and you'll take a coward's advantage. hereafter i'm going to carry a gun. you won't fight in my way because you're not a man, so i'll have to be prepared for you in your way. i just want to let you know that i understand your breed! that's all. "don't start anything, because i'll fight in two ways hereafter--in my way and in yours. and that goes for you other two. if you run with this--this _thing_, it marks you. i know what would have happened if jed hadn't come up. you'd have killed me! that's the sort you are. remember--all three of you--i'm not afraid, but it's a case of fighting fire with fire. i'll be ready." rhues stood, as though waiting for more. when vb did not go on he said, just above a whisper: "i'll get you--yet!" and vb answered, "then i guess we all understand one another." when the three had ridden away jed shoved his colt tight into its holster again and looked at the young chap with foreboding. "there'll be trouble, vb; they're bad," he said. "he's a coward. the story'll go round an' he'll try to get you harder 'n ever. if he don't, those others will--will try, i mean. matson and julio are every bit as bad as rhues, but they ain't quite got his fool nerve. "they're a thievin' bunch, though it ain't never been proved. nobody trusts 'em; most men let 'em alone an' wait fer 'em to show their hand. they've been cute; they've been suspected, but they ain't never got out on a limb. they've got a lot to cover up, no doubt. but they've got a grudge now. an' when cowards carry grudges--look out!" "if a man like rhues were all i had to fear, i should never worry," vb muttered, weak again after the excitement. "he's bad--but there are worse things--that you can't have the satisfaction of knocking down." and his conspiring nostrils smelled whisky in that untainted air. chapter xiv the schoolhouse dance young vb held a twofold interest for the men of clear river. first, the story of his fight with the captain spread over the land, percolating to the farthest camps. men laughed at first. the absurdity of it! then, their surprise giving way to their appreciation of his attainment, their commendation for the young easterner soared to superlatively profane heights. when he met those who had been strangers before it was to be scrutinized and questioned and frankly, honestly admired. now came another reason for discussing him about bunk-house stoves. he had thrashed rhues! great as had been the credit accorded vb for the capture of the stallion, just so great was men's delight caused by the outcome of that other encounter. they remembered, then, how rhues had told of the greenhorn who was afraid to take a drink; how he had made it a purpose to spread stories of ridicule, doing his best to pervert the community's natural desire to let the affairs of others alone. and this recollection of rhues's bullying was an added reason for their saying: "good! i'm glad to hear it. too bad th' kid didn't beat him to death!" though his meetings with other men were few and scattered, vb was coming to be liked. it mattered little to others why he was in the country, from where he came, or who he had been. he had accomplished two worthy things among them, and respect was accorded him across vast distances. dozens of these men had seen him only once, and scores never, yet they reckoned him of their number--a man to be taken seriously, worthy of their kindly attention, of their interest, and of their respect. bob thorpe helped to establish vb in the mountains. he thought much about his interview with the young chap, and told to a half-dozen men the story which, coming from him, had weight. his daughter did not abandon her idea of owning the captain. bob told her repeatedly that it was useless to argue with a man who spoke as did jed's rider; but the girl chose to disagree with him. "i think that if you'd flatter him enough--if we both would--that he would listen. don't you?" she asked. bob thorpe shook his head. "no," he answered. "you can't convince me of that. you don't know men, and i do. i've seen one or two like him before--who love a thing of that sort above money; and, i've found you can't do a thing with 'em--ding 'em!" the girl cried: "why, don't feel that way about it! i think it's perfectly fine--to love an animal so much that money won't buy him!" "sure it is," answered her father. "that's what makes me out of patience with them. they're--they're better men than most of us, and--well, they make a fellow feel rather small at times." then he went away, and gail puzzled over his concluding remark. a week to a day after her first visit she drove again to jed's ranch. "i came over to see the captain," she told the old man gayly. "well, th' captain ain't here now," he answered, beaming on her; "but vb'll be back with him before noon." she looked for what seemed to be an unnecessarily long time at her watch, and then asked: "is that his name?" "what--th' captain?" "no--vb." jed laughed silently at her. "yep--to be sure an' that's his name--all th' name he's got." "well, i wish mr. vb would hurry back with the captain," she said. but that easy flush was again in her cheeks, and the turn she gave the conversation was, as they say in certain circles, poor footwork. within an hour the captain bore his rider home. gail stayed for dinner and ate with the two men. it was a strange meal for vb. not in months had he eaten at the same table with a woman; not in years had he broken bread with a woman such as this, and realization of the fact carried him back beyond those darkest days. he remembered suddenly and quite irrelevantly that he once had wondered if this daughter of bob thorpe's was to be a connecting link with the old life. that had been when he first learned that the big cattleman had a daughter, and that she was living in his east. now as he sat before neglected food and watched and listened, feasting his starved spirit on her, noting her genuine vivacity, her enthusiasm, the quick come and go of color in her fine skin, he knew that she was a link, but not with the past that he had feared. she took him back beyond that, into his earlier boyhood, that period of adolescence when, to a clean-minded boy, all things are good and unstained. she was attractive in all the ways that women can be attractive, and at the same time she was more than a desirable individual; she seemed to stand for classes, for modes of living and thinking, that young vb had put behind him--put behind first by his wasting, now by distance. but as the meal progressed a fresh wonder crept up in his mind. was all that really so very far away? was not the distance just that between them and the big ranch house under the cotton woods beyond the hills? and was the result of his wasting quite irreparable? was he not rebuilding what he had torn down? he felt himself thrilling and longing suddenly for fresher, newer experiences as the talk ran on between the others. the conversation was wholly of the country, and vb was surprised to discover that this girl could talk intelligently and argue effectively with jed over local stock conditions when she looked for all the world like any of the hundreds he could pick out on fifth avenue at five o'clock of any fine afternoon. he corrected himself hastily. she was _not_ like those others, either. she possessed all their physical endowments, all and more, for her eye was clearer, her carriage better, she was possessed of a color that was no sham; and a finer body. put her beside them in their own environment, and they would seem stale by comparison; bring those others here, and their bald artificiality would be pathetic. the boy wanted her to know those things, yet thought of telling her never came to his consciousness. subjectively he was humble before her. the interest between the two young people was not centered completely in vb. each time he lowered his gaze to his plate he was conscious of those frank, intelligent blue eyes on him, studying, prying, wondering, a laugh ever deep within them. now and then the girl addressed a remark to him, but for the most part she spoke directly to jed; however, she was studying the boy every instant, quietly, carefully, missing no detail, and by the time the meal neared its end the laughter had left her eyes and they betrayed a frank curiosity. when the meal was finished the girl asked vb to take her to the corral. she made the request lightly, but it smote something in the man a terrific blow, stirring old memories, fresh desires, and he was strangely glad that he could do something for her. as they walked from the cabin to the inclosure he was flushed, embarrassed, awkward. he could not talk to her, could scarcely keep his body from swinging from side to side with schoolboy shyness. the stallion did not fidget at sight of the girl as he had done on the approach of other strangers. he snorted and backed away, keeping his eyes on her and his ears up with curiosity, coming to a halt against the far side of the corral and switching his fine tail down over the shapely hocks as though to make these people understand that in spite of his seeming harmlessness he might yet show the viciousness that lurked down in his big heart. "i think he'll come to like you," said vb, looking from his horse to the girl. "i don't see how he could help it--to like women, understand," he added hastily when she turned a wide-eyed gaze on him. "he doesn't like strange men, but see--he's interested in you; and it's curiosity, not anger. i--i don't blame him--for being interested," he ventured, and hated himself for the flush that swept up from his neck. they both laughed, and gail said: "so this country hasn't taken the flattery out of you?" "why, it's been years--years since i said a thing like that to a girl of your sort," vb answered soberly. an awkward pause followed. "dare i touch him?" the girl finally asked. "no, i wouldn't to-day," vb advised. "just let him look at you now. some other time we'll see if--that is, if you'll ever come to see us--to see the captain again." "i should like to come to see the captain very much, and as often as is proper," she said with mocking demureness. and she did come again; and again and yet again. always she took pains to begin with inquiries about the horse. when she did this in jed avery's presence it was with a peculiar avoidance of his gaze, that might have been from embarrassment; when she asked young vb those questions it was with a queer little teasing smile. a half-dozen times she found the boy alone at the ranch, and the realization that on such occasions she stayed longer than she did when jed was about gave him a new thrill of delight. at first there was an awkward reserve between them, but after the earlier visits this broke down and their talk became interspersed with personal references, with small, inconsequential confidences that, intrinsically worthless, meant much to them. yet there was never a word of the life both had lived far over the other side of those snowcaps to the eastward. somehow the girl felt intuitively that it had not all been pleasant for the man there, and vb maintained a stubborn reticence. he could have told her much of her own life back in the east, of the things she liked, of the events and conditions that were irksome, because he knew the environment in which she had lived and he felt that he knew the girl herself. he would not touch that topic, however, for it would lead straight to _his_ life; and all that he wanted for his thoughts now were jed and the hills and the captain and--this girl. they composed a comfortable world of which he wanted to be a part. gail found herself feeling strangely at home with this young fellow. she experienced a mingled feeling compounded of her friendship for the finished youths she had known during school days and that which she felt for the men of her mountains, who were, she knew, as rugged, as genuine, as the hills themselves. to her young vb rang true from the ground up, and he bore the finish that can come only from contact with many men. that is a rare combination. it came about that after a time the captain let gail touch him, allowed her to walk about him and caress his sleek body. always, when she was near, he stood as at attention, dignified and self-conscious, and from time to time his eyes would seek the face of his master, as though for reassurance. once after the girl had gone vb took the captain's face between his hands and, looking into the big black eyes, muttered almost fiercely: "she's as much of the real stuff as you are, old boy! do you think, captain, that i can ever match up with you two?" before a month had gone by the girl could lead the captain about, could play with him almost as familiarly as vb did; but always the horse submitted as if uninterested, went through this formality of making friends as though it were a duty that bored him. once dick worth, the deputy from sand creek, and his wife rode up the gulch to see the black stallion. while the captain would not allow the man near him, he suffered the woman to tweak his nose and slap his cheeks and pull his ears; then it was that jed and vb knew that the animal understood the difference between sexes and that the chivalry which so became him had been cultivated by his intimacy with gail thorpe. after that, of course, there was no plausible excuse for gail's repeated visits. however, she continued coming. vb was always reserved up to a certain point before her, never yielding beyond it in spite of the strength of the subtle tactics she employed to draw him out. a sense of uncertainty of himself held him aloof. within him was a traditional respect for women. he idealized them, and then set for men a standard which they must attain before meeting women as equals. but this girl, while satisfying his ideal, would not remain aloof. she forced herself into vb's presence, forced herself, and yet with a delicacy that could not be misunderstood. she came regularly, her visits lengthened, and one sunny afternoon as they stood watching the captain roll she looked up sharply at the man beside her. "why do you keep me at this?" "this? what? i don't get your meaning." "at coming over here? why don't you come to see me? i-- of course, i haven't any fine horse to show you, but--" her voice trailed off, with a hint of wounded pride in the tone. the man faced her, stunning surprise in his face. "you--you don't think i fail to value this friendship of ours?" he demanded, rallying. "you--why, what can i say to you? it has meant so much to me--just seeing you; it's been one of the finest things of this fine country. but i thought--i thought it was because of this,"--with a gesture toward the captain, who stood shaking the dust from his hair with mighty effort. "i thought all along you were interested in the horse; not that you cared about knowing me--" "did you really think that?" she broke in. vb flushed, then laughed, with an abrupt change of mood. "well, it _began_ that way," he pleaded weakly. "and you'd let it end that way." "oh, no; you don't understand, miss thorpe," serious again. "i--i can't explain, and you don't understand now. but i've felt somehow as though it would be presuming too much if i came to see you." she looked at him calculatingly a long moment as he twirled his hat and kicked at a pebble with his boot. "i think it would be presuming too much if you let me do all the traveling, since you admit that a friendship does exist," she said lightly. "then the only gallant thing for me to do is to call on you." "i think so. i'm glad you recognize the fact." "when shall it be?" "any time. if i'm not home, stay until i get back. daddy likes you. you'll love my mother." the vague "any time" occurred three days later. young vb made a special trip over the hills to the s bar s. the girl was stretched in a hammock, reading, when he rode up, and at the sound of his horse she scrambled to her feet, flushed, and evidently disconcerted. "i'd given you up!" she cried. "in three days?" taking the hand she offered. "well--most boys in the east would have come the next morning--if they were really interested." "this is colorado," he reminded her. he sat crosslegged on the ground at her feet, and they talked of the book she had been reading. it was a novel of music and a musician and a rare achievement, she said. he questioned her about the story, and their talk drifted to music, on which they both could converse well. "you don't know what it means--to sit here and talk of these things with you," he said hungrily. "well, i should like to know," she said, leaning forward over her knees. for two long hours they talked as they never had talked before; of personal tastes, of kindred enthusiasms, of books and plays and music and people. they went into the ranch house, and gail played for him--on the only grand piano in that section of the state. they came out, and she saddled her pony to ride part way back through the hills with him. "_adios,_ my friend," she called after him, as he swung away from her. "it's your turn to call now," he shouted back to her, and when the ridge took him from sight he leaned low to the captain's ear and repeated gently,--"my friend!" so the barrier of reserve was broken. vb did not dare think into the future in any connection--least of all in relation to this new and growing friendship; yet he wanted to make their understanding more complete though he would scarcely admit that fact even to himself. a week had not passed when gail thorpe drove the automobile up to the vb gate. "i didn't come to see the captain this time," she announced to them both. "i came to pay a party call to mr. vb, and to include mr. avery. because when a girl out here receives a visit from a man it's of party proportions!" as she was leaving, she asked, "why don't you come down to the dance friday night?" "a big event?" "surely!" she laughed merrily. "it's the first one since spring, and everybody'll be there. mr. avery will surely come. won't you, too, mr. vb?" he evaded her, but when she had turned the automobile about and sped down the road, homeward bound, he let down the bars for youth's romanticism and knew that he would dance with her if it meant walking every one of the twenty-two miles to the schoolhouse. for the first time in years vb felt a thrill at the anticipation of a social function, and with it a guilty little thought kept buzzing in the depths of his mind. the thought was: is her hair as fragrant as it is glorious in color and texture? jed and vb made the ride after supper, over frozen paths, for autumn had aged and the tang of winter was in the air. miles away they could see the glow of the bonfire that had been built before the little stone schoolhouse; and vb was not sorry that jed wanted to ride the last stages of the trip at a faster pace. clear river had turned out, to the last man and woman--and to the last child, too! the schoolhouse was no longer a seat of learning; it was a festal bower. the desks had been taken up and placed along the four walls, seats outward, tops forming a ledge against the calcimined stones, making a splendid place for those youngest children who had turned out! yes, a dozen babies slumbered there in the confusion, wrapped in many thicknesses of blankets. three lamps with polished reflectors were placed on window ledges, and the yellow glare filled the room with just sufficient brilliance to soften lines in faces and wrinkles in gowns that clung to bodies in unexpected places. the fourth window ledge was reserved for the music--a phonograph with a morning-glory horn, a green morning-glory horn that would have baffled a botanist. the stove blushed as if for its plainness in the center of the room, and about it, with a great scraping of feet and profound efforts to be always gentlemanly and at ease, circled the men, guiding their partners. vb stood in the doorway and watched. he coughed slightly from the dust that rose and mantled everything with a dulling blanket--everything, i said, but the eyes must be excepted. they flashed with as warm a brilliance as they ever do where there is music and dancing and laughter. the music stopped. women scurried to their seats; some lifted the edges of blankets and peered with concerned eyes at the little sleepers lying there, then whirled about and opened their arms to some new gallant; for so brief was the interval between dances. "well, are you never going to see me?" vb started at the sound of gail's voice so close to him. he bowed and smiled at her. "i was interested," he said in excuse. "getting my bearings." she did not reply, but the expectancy in her face forced his invitation, and they joined the swirl about the stove. "i can't dance in these riding boots," he confided with an embarrassed laugh. "never thought about it until now." "oh, yes, you can! you dance much better than most men. don't stop, please!" he knew that no woman who danced with gail's lightness could find pleasure in the stumbling, stilted accompaniment of his handicapped feet; and the conviction sent a fresh thrill through him. he was glad she wanted him to keep on! she had played upon the man down in him and touched upon vanity, one of those weak spots in us. she wanted him near. his arm, spite of his caution, tightened a trifle and he suddenly knew that her _hair_ was as fragrant as it should be--a heavy, rich odor that went well with its other wealth! for an instant he was a bit giddy, but as the music came to a stop he recovered himself and walked silently beside gail to a seat. after that he danced with the wife of a cattleman, and answered absently her stammered advances at communication while he watched the floating figure of gail thorpe as it followed the bungling lead of her father's foreman. the end of the intermission found him with her again. as they whirled away his movements became a little quicker, his tongue a little looser. it had been a long time since he had felt so gay. he learned of the other women, gail telling him about them as they danced, and through the thrill that her warm breath aroused he found himself delighting in the individuality of her expression, the stamping of a characteristic in his mind by a queer little word or twisted phrase. he discovered, too, that she possessed a penetrating insight into the latent realities of life. the red-handed, blunt, strong women about him, who could ride with their husbands and brothers, who could face hardships, who knew grim elementals, became new beings under the interpretation of this sunny-haired girl; took on a charm tinged with pathos that brought up within vb a sympathy that those struggles in himself had all but buried. and the knowledge that gail appreciated those raw realities made him look down at her lingeringly, a trifle wonderingly. she was of that other life--the life of refinements--in so many ways, yet she had escaped its host of artificialities. she had lifted herself above the people among whom she was reared; but her touch, her sympathies, her warm humanness remained unalloyed! she was real. and then, when he was immersed in this appreciation of her, she turned the talk suddenly to him. he was but slightly responsive. he put her off, evaded, but he laughed; his cold reluctance to let her know him had ceased to be so stern, and her determination to get behind his silence rose. as they stood in the doorway in a midst of repartee she burst on him: "mr. vb, why do you go about with that awful name? it's almost as bad as being branded." he sobered so quickly that it frightened her. "maybe i am branded," he said slowly, and her agile understanding caught the significance of his tone. "perhaps i'm branded and can't use another. who knows?" he smiled at her, but from sobered eyes. confused by his evident seriousness, she made one more attempt, and laughed: "well, if you won't tell me who you are, won't you please tell me what you are?" the door swung open then, and on the heels of her question came voices from without. one voice rose high above the rest, and they heard: "aw, come on; le's have jus' one more little drag at th' bottle!" vb looked at gail a bit wildly. those words meant that out there whisky was waiting for him, and at its mention that searing thing sprang alive in his throat! "what am i?" he repeated dully, trying to rally himself. "what am i?" unknowingly his fingers gripped her arm. "who knows? i don't!" and he flung out of the place, wanting but one thing--to be with the captain, to feel the stallion's nose in his arms, to stand close to the body which housed a spirit that knew no defeat. as he strode past the bonfire a man's face leered at him from the far side. the man was rhues. chapter xv murder the incident at the schoolhouse was not overlooked. gail thorpe was not the only one who heard and saw and understood; others connected the mention of drink with vb's sudden departure. the comment went around in whispers at the dance, to augment and amplify those other stories which had arisen back in the anchor bunk house and which had been told by rhues of the meeting in ranger. "young vb is afraid to take a drink," declared a youth to a group about the fire where they discussed the incident. he laughed lightly and dick worth looked sharply at the boy. "mebby he is," he commented, reprimand in his tone, "an' mebby it'd be a good thing for some o' you kids if you was afraid. don't laugh at him! we know he's pretty much man--'cause he's done real things since comin' in here a rank greenhorn. don't laugh! you ought to help, instead o' that." and the young fellow, taking the rebuke, admitted: "i guess you're right. maybe the booze has put a crimp in him." so vb gave the community one more cause for watching him. quick to perceive, ever taking into consideration his achievements which spoke of will and courage, clear river gave him silent sympathy, and promptly put the matter out of open discussion. it was no business of theirs so long as vb kept it to himself. yet they watched, knowing a fight was being waged and guessing at the outcome, the older and wiser ones hoping while they guessed. when bob thorpe announced to his daughter that he was going to jed avery's ranch and would like to have her drive him over through the first feathery dusting of snow, a strain of unpleasant thinking which had endured for three days was broken for the girl. in fact, her relief was so evident that the cattleman stared hard at his daughter. "you're mighty enthusiastic about that place, seems to me," he remarked. "why shouldn't i be?" she asked. "there's where they keep the finest horse in this country!" "is that all?" he asked, a bit grimly. she looked at him and laughed. then, coming close, she patted one of the weathered cheeks. "he's awfully nice, daddy--and so mysterious!" the giggle she forced somehow reassured him. he did not know it was forced. they arrived at jed's ranch as kelly, the horse buyer, was preparing to depart after long weeks in the country. his bunch was in the lower pasture and two saddle horses waited at the gate. thorpe and his daughter found jed, vb, and kelly in the cabin. the horse buyer was just putting bills back into his money belt, and jed still fingered the roll that he had taken for his horses. "aren't you afraid to pack all that around, kelly?" thorpe asked. "no--nobody holds people up any more," he laughed. "there's only an even six hundred there, anyhow--and a fifty-dollar bill issued by the confederate states of america, which i carry for luck. my father was a raider with morgan," he explained, "and i was fifteen years old before i knew 'damn yank' was two words!" vb was preparing to go with the buyer, to ride the first two days at least to help him handle the bunch. they expected to make it well out of ranger the second day, and after that kelly would pick up another helper. gail followed vb when he went outside. "i'm going away, too," she said. "so?" "yes; mother and i will leave for california day after to-morrow, for the winter." "that will be fine!" "will i be missed?" he shrank from this personal talk. he remembered painfully their last meeting. he was acutely conscious of how it had ended, and knew that the incident of his abrupt departure must have set her wondering. "yes," he answered, meeting her answer truthfully, "i shall miss you. i like you." such a thing from him was indeed a jolt, and gail stooped to pick up a wisp of hay to cover her confusion. "but i'm sorry," he said, "i must be going." she looked up in surprise. the horse buyer still talked and the discussion bade fair to go on for a long time. "you're not starting?" she asked. "oh, no. not for half an hour, anyhow. but you see, the captain found a pup-hole yesterday and wrenched his leg a little. not much, but i don't want him to work when anything's wrong. so i'm leaving him behind and i must look after him. will you excuse me? good-by!" she was so slow in extending her hand that he was forced to reach down for it. it was limp within his, and she merely mumbled a response to his hasty farewell. gail watched him swing off toward the corral, saw him enter through the gate and put his face against the stallion's neck. she strolled toward the car, feet heavy. "he wouldn't even ask me to go--go with him. he cares more about--that horse--than--" she clenched her fists and whispered: "i hate you! i hate you!" then mounting to the seat and tucking the robe about her ankles, she blew her nose, wiped her eyes, and in a voice strained high said: "no, i don't, either." vb and kelly took their bunch down the gulch at a spanking trot. most of the stock was fairly gentle and they had little difficulty. they planned to stop at a deserted cabin a few miles north of ranger where a passable remnant of fenced pasture still remained. they reached the place at dark and made a hasty meal, after which vb rolled in, but his companion roped a fresh horse and made on to ranger for a few hours' diversion. it was nearly dawn when kelly returned with a droll account of the night's poker, and although vb was for going on early, wanting to be rid of the task, the other insisted on sleeping. "i don't want to get too far, anyhow," he said. "those waddies like to rimmed me last night. got all i had except what's in old betsy, the belt. i'm goin' back to-night and get their scalp!" it was noon before they reached ranger and swung to the east. "oh, i'll be back to-night and get you fellows!" kelly called to a man who waved to him from the saloon. vb held his gaze in the opposite direction. he knew that even the sight of the place might raise the devil in him again. a man emerged from one of the three isolated shacks down on the river bank. it was rhues. the two rode slowly, for the buyer was in no mood for fast travel, and for a long time rhues stood there following them with his eyes. at dusk the horsemen turned the bunch into a corral and prepared to spend the night with beds spread in the ruin of a cabin near the inclosure. before the bed-horses had been relieved of their burdens a cowboy rode along who was known to kelly, and arrangements were made for him to take vb's place on the morrow. "well, then, all you want me to do is to stay here to-night to see that things don't go wrong. is that it?" vb asked. "yep-- oh, i don't know," with a yawn. "i guess i won't sit in that game to-night. i'll get some sleep. mebby if i did go back i'd only have to dig up part of my bank here." he patted his waist. "you can go on home if you want to." vb was glad to be released, for he could easily reach the ranch that night. he left kelly talking with the cowboy, making their plans for the next day, and struck across the country for jed's ranch. left alone, the horse buyer munched a cold meal. then, shivering, he crept into his thick bed and slept. an hour passed--two--three. a horse dropped slowly off a point near the corral. a moment later two more followed. one rider dismounted and walked away after a low, hoarse whisper; another pushed his horse into the highway and stood still, listening; the third held the pony that had been left riderless. a figure, worming its way close to the ground, crawled up on the sleeping horse buyer. it moved silently, a yard at a time; then stopped, raised its head as though to listen; on again, ominously, so much a part of the earth it covered that it might have been just the ridge raised by a giant mole burrowing along under the surface. it approached to within three yards of the sleeping man; to within six feet; three; two. then it rose to its knees slowly, cautiously, silently, and put out a hand gently, lightly feeling the outlines of the blankets. a shoot of orange scorched the darkness--and another, so close together that the flame was almost continuous. the blankets heaved, trembled, settled. the man on his knees hovered a long moment, revolver ready, listening intently. not a sound--even the horses seemed to be straining their ears for another break in the night. the man reached out a hand and drew the blankets away from the figure beneath, thrusting his face close. the starlight filtered in and he drew a long, quivering breath--not in hate or horror, but in surprise. he got to his feet and listened again. then he moved into the open, over the way he had come. after a dozen quick, stealthy paces he stopped and turned back. he unbuttoned the jumper about the figure under the blankets, unbuttoned the shirt, felt quickly about the waist, fumbled a moment, and jerked out a long, limp object. again he strode catlike into the open, and as he went he tucked the money belt into his shirt-front. vb rode straight to the ranch. he made a quick ride and arrived before ten. "mighty glad kelly got that man," he told jed. "i'm like a fish out of water away from the captain." at dusk the next day a horseman rode up the gulch to jed's outfit. the old man stood in the doorway, watching him approach. "hello, dick!" he called, recognizing the deputy from sand creek. "how's things, jed?" "better'n fine." worth left his horse and entered the cabin. "vb around?" he asked. "uh-huh; out in th' corral foolin' with th' captain." dick dropped to a chair and pushed his hat back. he looked on the other a moment, then asked: "what time did vb get home last night?" jed showed evident surprise, but answered: "between half-past nine an' ten." "notice his horse?" "saw him this mornin'. why?" "was it a hard ride th' boy made?" "no--sure not. i rode th' pony down to th' lower pasture myself this afternoon." worth drew a deep breath and smiled as though relieved. "bein' 'n officer is mighty onpleasant sometimes," he confessed. "i knew it wasn't no use to ask them questions, but i had to do it--'cause i'm a deputy." with mouth set, jed waited for the explanation he knew must come. "kelly was killed while he slept last night." horror was the first natural impulse for a man to experience on the knowledge of such a tragedy, but horror did not come to jed avery then or for many minutes. he put out a hand slowly and felt for the table as though dizzy. then, in a half tone, "you don't mean you suspected vb? dick--_dick!_" the sheriff's face became troubled. "jed, didn't i tell you i knew it wasn't no use to ask them questions?" he said reassuringly. "i'd 'a' gambled my outfit on th' boy, 'cause i know what he is. when you tell me he got here by ten an' it wasn't a hard ride, i know they's no use even thinkin' about it. but th' fact is-- "you see, jed, everybody in th' country has got to know what's up with vb. they know he's fightin' back th' booze! that gang o' skunks down at ranger--rhues an' his outfit--started out to rub it into vb, but everybody knew they was tellin' lies. an' everybody's thought lots of him fer th' fight he's made." he got to his feet and walked slowly about the room. "but th' truth is, jed--an' you know it--when a man's been hittin' th' booze, an' we ain't sure he's beat it out, we're always lookin' fer him to slip. nobody down at ranger has thought one word about vb in this, only that mebby he could tell who'd been round there. "but, bein' 'n officer, i had th' sneakin', dirty idee i ought to ask them questions about vb. that's all there is to it, jed. that's all! i'm deputy; vb's been a boozer. "but i tell you, jed avery, it sure's a relief to know it's all right." the warmth of sincerity was in his tone and his assurances had been of the best, but jed slumped limply into a chair and rested his head on his hands. "it's a rotten world, dick--a rotten, rotten world!" he said. "i know you're all right; i know you mean what you say; but ain't it a shame that when a man's down our first thought is to kick him? always expect him to fall again once he gets up! ain't it rotten?" and his love for young vb, stirred anew by this sense of the injustice of things, welled into his throat, driving back more words. dick worth was a man of golden integrity; jed knew well that no suspicion would be cast on vb. but the knowledge that serious-minded, clear-thinking men like the deputy would always remember, in a time like this, that those who had once run wild might fall into the old ways at any hour, stung him like a lash. vb opened the door. "hello, dick!" he greeted cheerily. "want me?" worth laughed and jed started. "no; i come up to get a little help from you if i can, though." "help?" "kelly was shot dead in his bed last night." for a moment vb stared at him. "who?" "that's what we don't know. that's what i came up here for--to see if you could help us." and jed, face averted, drew a foot quickly across the boards of the floor. "one of hank redden's boys was with him--th' one who took your place--until dark. little after eight old hank heard two shots, but didn't think nothin' of it. kelly was shot twice. that must 'a' been th' time." vb put down his hat, his eyes bright with excitement. "he'd planned to go back to ranger," he said. "but, after being up most of the night before, he was too tired. he told them at ranger he'd be back. and if i'd been there they'd have got me," he ended. "unless they was lookin' for kelly especial," said dick. "they took his money belt." "mebby," muttered jed,--"mebby they made a mistake." chapter xvi the candle burns time went on, and the country dropped back from the singing pitch of excitement to which the killing of the horse buyer raised it. men agreed that some one of that country had fired the shots into that blanket, but it is not a safe thing to suspect too openly. dick worth worked continually, but his efforts were without result. a reward of two hundred and fifty dollars for the slayer, dead or alive, disclosed nothing. after the evidence had been sifted, and each man had asked his quota of questions and passed judgment on the veracity of the myriad stories, dick said to himself: "we'll settle down now and see who leaves the country." jed and vb went about the winter's work in a leisurely way. for days after the visit of worth the old man was quieter than usual. the realization of how the world looked on this young fellow he had come to love had been driven in upon him. there could be no mistaking it; and as he reasoned the situation out, he recognized the attitude of men as the only logical thing to expect. with his quietness came a new tenderness, a deeper devotion. the two sat, one night, listening to the drawing of the stove and the whip of the wind as it sucked down the gulch. the candle burned steadily in its bottle. jed watched it a long time, and, still gazing at the steady flame, he said, as though unconscious that thoughts found vocal expression: "th' candle's burnin' bright, vb." the other looked slowly around at it and smiled. "yes, jed; it surely burns bright." at the instant an unusually vicious gust of wind rattled the windows and a vagrant draft caught the flame of the taper, bending it low, dulling its orange. "but yet sometimes," the younger man went on, "something comes along--something that makes it flicker--that takes some of the assurance from it." jed had started in his chair as the flame bowed before the draft. "but it-- you ain't been flickerin' lately, have you?" he asked, with a look in the old eyes that was beseeching. young vb rose and commenced to walk about thumbs hooked in his belt. "i don't know, jed," he said. "that's the whole of it: i don't know. sometimes i'm glad i don't; but other times i wish--_wish_ that whatever is coming would come. i seem to be gaining; i can think of drink now without going crazy. now and then it gets hold of me; but moving around and getting busy stifles it. still, i know it's there. that's what counts. i know i've had the habit, been down and out, and there's no telling which way it's going to turn. if i could ever be sure of myself; if i could ever come right up against it, where i needed a drink, where i wanted it--then, if i could refuse, i'd be sure." he quickened his stride. "seems to me you're worryin' needless," jed argued. "don't you see, vb, this is th' worst night we've had; th' worst wind. an' yet it ain't blowed th' candle out! it bends low an' gets smoky, to be sure. but it always keeps on shinin'!" "but when it bends low and gets smoky its resistance is lower," vb said. "it wouldn't take much at such a time to blow it out and let the darkness come in. you never can tell, jed; you never can tell." ten minutes later he added: "especially when you're afraid of yourself and daren't hunt out a test." another time they talked of the man that he had been before he came to colt. they were riding the hills, the captain snuggling close to the pinto pony jed rode. the sun poured its light down on the white land. far away, over on the divide, they could see huge spirals of snow picked up by the wind and carried along countless miles, finally to be blasted into veils of silver dust that melted away into distance. an eagle flapped majestically to a perch on a scrub cedar across the gulch; a dozen deer left off their browsing, watched the approach of the riders a moment, and then bounded easily away. the sharp air set their blood running high, and it was good to live. "ain't this a good place, vb?" jed asked, turning his eyes away from a snow-capped crag that thrust into the heavens fifty miles to the east. vb slapped the captain's neck gladly. "i never saw a finer, jed!" he cried. "if those people back in new york could only get the _feel_ of this country! you bet if they once did, it would empty that dinky little island." "you never want to go back?" the older man ventured. vb did not answer for a long time. when he did he said: "some day i shall go back, jed, but not to stay. i will not go back, either, until i've come to be as good and as strong a man as the captain is a good and strong horse. that's something to set up as a goal, isn't it? but i mean every word. when i left the city i was--nothing. when i go back i want to be everything that a man should be--as this old fellow is everything that a horse should be." he leaned forward and pulled the captain's ears fondly, while the stallion champed the bit and lifted his forefeet high in play. vb straightened then, and looked dreamily ahead. "i hope that time will come before a man there gets to the end of things. he was hard with me, my father, jed--mighty hard. but i know he was right. perhaps i'm not doing all i could for his comfort, perhaps i'm making a bad gamble, but when i go back i want to be as i believe every man can be--at some time in his life." he turned his eyes on the little, huddled figure that rode at his side. "then, when i've seen new york once more, with all its artificiality and dishonest motives and its unrealities--from the painted faces of its women to its very reasons for living and doing--i'll come back here, jed; back to the captain and to the hills. "i've seen the other! oh, i've seen it, not from the ground up, but from the ground down! i've gone to the very subcellars of rottenness--and there's nothing to attract. but here there's a bigness, a freedom, an incentive to be real that you won't find in places where men huddle together and lie and cheat and scheme!" they returned to the ranch in late afternoon and found that a passing cowboy had left mail for them--papers and circulars--and a picture postal card. vb had picked up the bundle of mail first, and for a long time he gazed at the gaudy colorings of that card. palm trees, faultlessly kept lawns, a huge, rambling building set back from the road that formed a foreground, and a glimpse of a superblue pacific in the distance. he held it in his fingers and took in every detail. then, with a queer little feeling about his middle, he turned it over. a small hand--he remembered just how firm the fingers were that held the pen--had written: +--------------------------+ | mr. vb | | ranger, colorado | +--------------------------+ and across the correspondence section of the card was inscribed this: give my very best regards to the captain and to mr. avery. home early in april. he read the message again and again, looking curiously at the way she had formed the letters. then he muttered: "why didn't she send it to jed--or to the captain?" when jed came into the cabin vb asked him, as though it were a matter of great concern: "where's that calendar we had around here?" that night the young fellow lay awake long hours. the thirst had come again. not so ravishing as it used to be, not inspiring all the old terror, but still it was there, and as it tugged at his throat and teased from every fiber of his being, he thought of gail thorpe--and tossed uneasily. "why?" he asked himself. "why is it that the thirst calls so loudly when i think of that girl?" he could not answer, and suddenly the query seemed so portentous that he sat up in bed, prying the darkness with his eyes, as though to find a solution of the enigma there. and his wandering mind, circling and doubling and shooting out in crazy directions, settled back on the captain, and with it the hurt of his jumping nerves became dulled. he closed his eyes, picturing the great stallion as he had first seen him, standing there on a little rim-rock protecting his band of mares, watching with regal scorn the approach of his adversary. "and his spirit didn't break," vb muttered. "it's all there, just as sound as it ever was--but it's standing for different things. it's no longer defiance--it's love." when march was well on its way jed and vb drove to ranger for more supplies. the captain had been turned into the lower pasture, and followed them as far as he could. when stopped by the fence he stood looking after them inquiringly, and when they topped a little swell in the road, ready to drop out of sight, a long-drawn neighing came from him. "poor captain!" muttered vb. "it's like going away from a home--to leave him." "you're foolish!" snorted jed. later he said sharply: "no, you ain't, either!" when they reached ranger three cowboys were shooting at a tin can out on the flat, and before entering the store they stopped to watch. a man came out of the saloon and walked swiftly toward the buildings along the road. as he approached both recognized rhues. "better come in," said jed, moving toward the door. "wait!" with apparent carelessness vb lounged against a post that supported the wooden awning. rhues slowed his pace a trifle as he saw who the men were, and vb could see his mouth draw into an expression of nasty hate as he passed close and entered the blacksmith shop. no further sign of recognition had passed between them. when the trading was finished and they walked back toward the corral jed remarked uneasily: "i don't feel right--havin' you around rhues, vb. he's bound to try to get you some time. i know his breed. he'll never forget th' beatin' you give him, an' th' first time he sees an openin' he'll try for you. men like him lives just to settle one big grudge--nothin' else counts." vb raised a hand to his side and gripped the forty-five that was slung in a shoulder holster under his shirt. "i know it, jed. i hate to pack this gun--makes me feel like a yellow dog or a broadway cow-puncher--i don't know which. but i know he means business. i don't want to let him think i'd step an inch out of his way, though; that's why i didn't go into the store." he lowered his voice and went on: "jed, i wouldn't say a word that would send the worst man in the world into trouble with the law unless i was absolutely certain. i've never mentioned it even to you--but i think when kelly was killed the man who did that shooting believed he was getting me." jed spat lingeringly. "vb, i've thought so, too," he said. they reached the ranch the next afternoon, greeted by a shrilling from the captain that endured from the time they came in sight until vb was beside him. "captain," the boy whispered, rubbing the velvety nose, "making them respect you is worth having a gunman on my trail--it is." chapter xvii great moments they were a long way from camp, and night impended. "we won't go back," jed decided. "we'll go on over to th' s bar s an' put up for th' night." vb said nothing, but of a sudden his heart commenced to hammer away so lustily that the pulse in the back of his neck felt like blows from metal. it was beyond the middle of april, and he knew that gail must have returned from the coast; for days he had been wondering when he would see her again, had been itching to ask questions of every chance passer who might know of her return. yet that unaccountable diffidence had kept him from mentioning it even to jed. now, though, that he was to go for himself, that he was to see her-- he gripped the captain fiercely with his knees. he told himself, in an attempt to be sane, that this discomfiture was merely because he had been out of the sight of women so long. they rode into the thorpe ranch after dark. lights shone from the windows, and jed, knowing the place, declared that they were eating. "hello, bob!" he cried when thorpe himself threw the door open. "keep a couple of stoppers to-night?" "well, jed, you're a rough-looking old rascal; but i s'pose we'll have to take you in. who else--that young animal-tamer, vb?" "right!" laughed jed. vb, peering into the lighted room, saw a figure jump up from the table and hurry toward the door. as it came between him and the light it seemed to be crowned with a halo, a radiant, shimmering, golden aura. then her voice called in welcome: "hello, mr. avery!" before jed could make answer she had gone on, as though ignoring him. "hello, mr. vb! aren't you coming in to shake hands?" vb wanted to laugh, like a boy with a new gun; his spirits bubbled up into his throat and twisted into laughter any words that might have formed, but he managed to answer: "i'll feed the captain--then i'll be in." without a word she turned back. long ago--years ago, it seemed--he had drawn away from her to go to the captain; then it was the love of the horse that took him. now, however, it was nothing but confusion that drove him away. not that he held the captain less dear, but he wanted to put off that meeting with gail, to delay until he could overcome that silly disorganization of his powers of self-control. out in the corral he flung his arms about the black's head and laughed happily into the soft neck. "vb, you're a fool--a silly fool!" he whispered. but if it was so, if being a fool made him that happy, he never wanted to regain mental balance. it was a big evening for vb, perhaps the biggest of his life. bob thorpe and his family ate with the men. democracy unalloyed was in his soul. he mingled with them not through condescension, but through desire, and his family maintained the same bearing. not a cow-puncher in the country but who respected mrs. thorpe and gail and would welcome an opportunity to fight for them. the men had finished their meal before vb and jed entered. mrs. thorpe made excuses and went out, leaving the four alone. while jed talked to her father, gail, elbows on the table, chatted with vb, and young vb could only stare at his plate and snatch a glance at her occasionally and wonder why it was that she so disturbed him. later bob took jed into his office, and when gail and vb were left alone the constraint between them became even more painful. try as he would, the man could not bring his scattered wits together for coherent speech. just being beside that girl after her long absence was intoxicating, benumbing his mind, stifling in him all thought and action, creating a thralldom which was at once agony and peace. an intuitive sensing of this helplessness had made him delay seeing her that evening; now that he was before her he never wanted to leave; he wanted only to sit and listen to her voice and watch the alert expressiveness of her face--a mute, humble worshiper. and this attitude of his forced a reaction on the girl. at first she talked vivaciously, starting each new subject with an enthusiasm that seemed bound to draw him out, but when he remained dumb and helpless in spite of her best efforts to keep the conversation going, her flow of words lagged. long, wordless intervals followed, and a flush came into the girl's cheeks, and she too found herself woefully self-conscious. she sought for the refuge of diversion. "since you won't talk to me, mr. vb," she said with an embarrassed laugh, "you are going to force me to play for you." "it isn't that i won't--i _can't_," he stammered. "and please play." he sat back in his chair, relieved, and watched the fine sway of her body as she made the big full-toned instrument give up its soul. music, that--not the tunes that most girls of his acquaintance had played for him; a st. saens arrangement, a macdowell sketch, a bit of nevin, running from one theme into another, easily, naturally, grace everywhere, from the phrasing to the movements of her firm little shoulders. and vb found his self-possession returning, found that he was thinking evenly, sanely, under the quieting influence of this music. then gail paused, sitting silent before the keyboard, as though to herald a coming climax. she leaned closer over the instrument and struck into the somber strains of a composition of such grim power and beauty that it seemed to create for itself an oddly receptive attitude in the man, sensitizing his emotional nature to a point where its finest shades were brought out in detail. it went on and on through its various phases to the end, and on the heavy final chord the girl's hands dropped into her lap. for a moment she sat still bent toward the keyboard before turning to him. when she did face about her flush was gone. she was again mistress of the situation and said: "well, are you ever going to tell me about yourself?" vb's brows were drawn, and his eyes closed, but before he opened them to look at her a peculiar smile came over his face. "that man chopin, and his five-flat prelude--" he said, and stirred with a helpless little gesture of one hand as though no words could convey the appreciation he felt. "i wonder if you like that as well as i do?" she asked. he sat forward in his chair and looked hard at her. the constraint was wholly gone; he was seriously intent, thinking clearing, steadily now. "i used to hear it many times," he said slowly, "and each time i've heard it, it has meant more to me. there's something about it, deep down, covered up by all those big tones, that i never could understand--until now. i guess," he faltered, "i guess i've never realized how much a man has to suffer before he can do a big thing like that. something about this,"--with a gesture of his one hand,--"this house and these hills, and what i've been through out here, and the way you play, helps me to understand what an accomplishment like that must have cost." she looked at him out of the blue eyes that had become so grave, and said: "i guess we all have to suffer to do big things; but did you ever think how much we have to suffer to appreciate big things?" and she went on talking in this strain with a low, even voice, talking for hours, it seemed, while vb listened and wondered at her breadth of view, her sympathy and understanding. she was no longer a little, sunny-haired girl, a bit of pretty down floating along through life. before, he had looked on her as such; true, he had known her as sympathetic, balanced, with a keen appreciation of values. but her look, her tone, her insight into somber, grim truths came out with emphasis in the atmosphere created by that music, and to young vb, gail thorpe had become a woman. a silence came, and they sat through it with that ease which comes only to those who are in harmony. no constraint now, no flushed faces, no awkward meeting of eyes. the new understanding which had come made even silence eloquent and satisfying. then the talk commenced, slowly at first, gradually quickening. it was of many things--of her winter, of her days in the east, of her friends. and through it gail took the lead, talking as few women had ever talked to him before; talking of personalities, yet deviating from them to deduce a principle here, apply a maxim there, and always showing her humanness by building the points about individuals and the circumstances which surround them. "don't you ever get lonely here?" he asked abruptly, thinking that she must have moments of discontent in these mountains and with these people. "no. why should i?" "well, you've been used to things of a different sort. it seems to be a little rough for a girl--like you." "and why shouldn't a nicer community be too fine for a girl like me?" she countered. "i'm of this country, you know. it's mine." "i hadn't thought of that. you're different from these people, and yet," he went on, "you're not like most women outside, either. you've seemed to combine the best of the two extremes. you--" he looked up to see her gazing at him with a light of triumph in her face. vb never knew, but it was that hour for which she had waited months, ever since the time when she declared to her father, with a welling admiration for the spirit he must have, that he who broke the captain was a _man_. here he was before her, talking personalities, analyzing her! four months before he would not even linger to say good-by! surely the spell of her womanhood was on him. "oh!" she cried, bringing her hands together. "so you've been thinking about me--what sort of a girl i am, have you?" her eyes were aflame with the light of conquest. then she said soberly: "well, it's nice to have people taking you seriously, anyhow." "that's all any of us want," he answered her; "to be taken seriously, and to be worthy of commanding such an attitude from the people about us. sometimes we don't realize it until we've thrown away our best chances and then--well, maybe it's too late." on the words he felt a sudden misgiving, a sudden waning of faith. and, bringing confusion to his ears, was the low voice of this girl-woman saying: "i understand, vb, i understand. and it's never too late to mend!" her hand lay in her lap, and almost unconsciously he reached out for it. it came to meet his, frankly, quickly, and his frame was racked by a great, dry sob which came from the depths of his soul. "oh, do you understand, gail?" he whispered doubtfully. "can you--without knowing?" he had her hands in both his and strained forward, his face close to hers. the small, firm fingers clutched his hardened ones almost desperately and the blue eyes, so wide now, looking at him so earnestly, were filmed with tears. "i think i've understood all along," she said, keeping her voice even at the cost of great effort. "i don't know it all--the detail, i mean. i don't need to. i know you've been fighting, vb, nobly, bravely. i know--" he rose to his feet and drew her up with him, pulling her close to him, closer and closer. one arm slipped down over her shoulders, uncertainly, almost timidly. his face bent toward hers, slowly, tenderly, and she lifted her lips to meet it. it was the great moment of his life. words were out of place; they would have been puerile, disturbing sounds, a mockery instead of an agency to convey an idea of the strength of his emotions. he could feel her breath on his cheek, and for an instant he hung above her, delaying the kiss, trembling with the tremendous passion within him. and then he backed away from her--awkwardly, threatening to fall, a limp hand raised toward the girl as though to warn her off. "oh, gail, forgive me!" he moaned. "not yet! great god, gail, i'm not worthy!" his hoarse voice mounted and he stood backed against the far wall, fists clenched and stiff arms upraised. she took a faltering step toward him. "don't!" she begged. "you are--you--" but he was gone into the night, banging the door behind him, while the girl leaned against her piano and let the tears come. he was not worthy! he loved; she knew he loved; she had come to meet that great binding, enveloping emotion willingly, frank with the joy of it, as became her fine nature. then he had run from her, and for her own sake! all the ordeals he had been through in those last months were as brief, passing showers compared with the tempest that raged in him as he rode through the night; and it continued through the hours of light and of darkness for many days. young vb was a man who feared his own love, and beyond that there can be no greater horror. he sought solace in the captain, in driving himself toward the high mark he had set out to attain, but the ideal exemplified in the noble animal seemed more unattainable than ever and he wondered at times if the victory he sought were not humanly impossible. the knowledge that only by conquering himself could he keep his love for gail thorpe unsullied never left him, and beside it a companion haunter stalked through and through his consciousness--the fact that they had declared themselves to each other. he was carrying not alone the responsibility of reclaiming his own life; he must also answer for the happiness of a woman! in those days came intervals when he wondered if this thing were really love. might it not be something else--a passing hysteria, a reaction from the inner battle? but he knew it was a love stronger than his will, stronger than his great tempter, stronger than the prompting to think of the future when he saw the thorpe automobile coming up the road that spring day on the first trip the girl had made to the ranch that year. and under the immense truth of the realization he became bodily weak. doubt of his strength, too, became more real, more insistent than it had ever been; its hateful power mingled with the thirst, and his heart was rent. what if that love should prove stronger than this discretion which he had retained at such fearful cost, and drag him to her with the stigma he still bore and wreck her! gail saw the constraint in him the instant she left the car, and though their handclasp was firm and long and understanding, it sobered her smile. she tried to start him talking on many things as they sat alone in the log house, but it was useless. he did not respond. so, turning to the subject that had always roused him, that she knew to be so close to his heart, she asked for the captain. "in the corral," said vb, almost listlessly. "we'll go out." so they went together and looked through the gate at the great animal. the captain stepped close and stretched his nose for gail to rub, pushing gently against her hand in response. "oh, you noble thing!" she whispered to him. "when you die, is all that strength of yours to be wasted? can't it be given to some one else?" she looked full on vb, then down at the ground, and said: "you've never told me how you broke the captain. no one in the country knows. they know that he almost killed you; that you fought him a whole week. but no one knows how. won't--won't you tell me? i want to know, because it was a real achievement--and _yours_." he met her gaze when it turned upward, and for many heartbeats they stood so, looking at each other. then vb's eyes wavered and he moved a step, leaning on the bars and staring moodily at the stallion. "it hurts to think about it," he said. "i don't like to remember. that is why i have never told any one. it hurt him and it hurt me." she waited through the silence that followed for him to go on. "i've worked and rubbed it and curried it, and nursed the hair to grow over the place. it looks just like a cinch mark now--like the mark of service. no one would ever notice. but it isn't a mark of labor. _i_ marked the captain--i had to do it--had to make him understand me. it laid his side open, and all the nursing, all the care i could give wouldn't make up for it. it's there. the captain knows it; so do i." she followed his gaze to the little rough spot far down on the sleek side. "all wild things have to be broken," she said. "none of them ever become tame of their own volition. and in the breaking a mark is invariably left. the memory hurts, but the mark means nothing of itself, once it is healed. don't you realize that? "we all bear marks. the marks of our environment, the marks of our friends, the marks of those we--we love. some of them hurt for a time, but in the end it is all good. don't you believe that? we see those who are very dear to us suffer, and it marks us; sometimes just loving leaves its mark. but--those are the greatest things in the world. they're sacred. "the marks on a woman who goes through fire for a man, say; the marks of a--a mother. they hurt, but in the end they make the bond tighter, more holy." she waited. then asked again: "don't you believe that?" after a long pause vb answered in a peculiarly bitter voice: "i wish i knew what i believe--if i do believe!" chapter xviii the lie vb's eyes burned after gail as she drove away. he followed the car in its flight until it disappeared over the hump in the road; then continued staring in that direction with eyes that did not see--that merely burned like his throat. jed came up the gulch with a load of wood, and vb still stood by the gate. "i never can get used to these here city ways," he grumbled, "no more'n can these ponies." vb noticed casually that a tug had been broken and was patched with rope. "runaway?" he asked, scarcely conscious of putting the question. "oh, bob thorpe's girl come drivin' her automobile along fit to ram straight through kingdom come, an' don't turn out till she gets so close i thought we was done for; to be sure, i did. peter, here, took a jump an' busted a tug." he looked keenly at vb. "funny!" he remarked. "she didn't see me, i know. an' she looked as if she'd been cryin'!" he could not know the added torture those words carried to the heart of the young fellow battling there silently, covering up his agony, trying to appear at ease. for the thirst had returned with manifold force, augmenting those other agonies which racked him. all former ordeals were forgotten before the fury of this assault. by the need of stimulant he was subjected to every fiendish whim of singing nerves; from knowing that in him was a love which must be killed to save a woman from sacrifice arose a torment that reached into his very vitals. the glands of his mouth stopped functioning, and it seemed as though only one thing would take the cursed dryness from his tongue and lips. his fingers would not be still; they kept plucking and reaching out for that hidden chord which would draw him back to himself, or on down into the depths--somehow, he did not care which. anything to be out of that killing uncertainty! as he had gained in strength during those months, so it now seemed had the thirst grown. it battered down his spirit, whipped it to a pulp, and dragged it through the sloughs of doubt and despair. his will--did he have a will? he did not know; nor did he seem to care. it had come--the slipping backward. he had battled well, but now he could feel himself going, little by little, weakening, fighting outwardly but at heart knowing the futility of it all. and going because of gail thorpe! "i can't put this mark on her!" he moaned against the captain's neck. "she said it--that even those we love must bear the mark. and she said it was all good. she was wrong, wrong! such a thing can't be good! "suppose i did keep above it, was sure of myself for a time in a sham way, wouldn't it only be running the risk of a greater disaster? wouldn't it surely come some time? wouldn't it, if-- "and then it would kill her, too!" he hammered the captain's shoulder with his clenched fist and the great stallion snuggled his cheek closer to the man, trying to understand, trying to comfort. then would come moments when his will rallied and young vb fought with the ferocity of a jungle cat, walking back and forth across the corral, talking to the captain, condemning his weaker self, gesticulating, promising. at those times he doubted whether it was so much the actual thirst that tore him as it was wondering if he could be worthy of her. then the old desire would come again, in an engulfing wave, and his fighting would become empty words. jed, who had ridden up the gulch to look after a gap in the fence, returned at dusk. as he watched vb feed the captain he saw in the gloom the straining of the boy's face; heard him talk to the stallion piteously; and the old man's lips framed silent words. "if it's that girl," he declared, shaking his fist at the skies--"if it's that girl, she ought to be--ought to be spanked. an' if it's th' wantin' of whisky, god pity th' boy!" supper was a curious affair. vb tried to help in the preparation but spoiled everything he touched, so far removed was his mind from the work of his hands. jed ate alone. vb sat down, but could not touch the food offered. he gulped coffee so steaming hot that jed cried aloud a warning. "burned?" scoffed vb. "burned by that stuff? jed, you don't know what burning is!" he got to his feet and paced the floor, one hand pressed against his throat. the boy sat down twice again and drank from the cup the old man kept filled, but his lips rebelled at food; his hands would not carry it from the plate. once jed rose and tried to restrain the pacing. "vb, boy," he implored, "set down an' take it easy. please do! it's been bad before, you know, but it's always turned out good in th' end. it will this time--same as always. just--" "don't, jed." he spoke weakly, averting his white face and pushing the old man away gently with trembling hands. "you don't understand; you don't understand!" for the first time he was beyond comfort from the little old man who had showed him the lighted way, who had encouraged and comforted and held faith in him. after a while a calm fell on vb and he stopped his walking, helped with the work, and then sat, still and white, in his chair. jed watched him narrowly and comfort came to the old soul, for he believed the boy had won another fight over the old foe; was so sure of it that he whistled as he prepared for the night. the candle burned on, low against the neck of the bottle, but still bright and steady. vb watched it, fascinated, thought tagging thought through his mind. then a tremor shot through his body. "jed," he said in a voice that was strained but even, "let's play a little pitch, won't you?" it was his last hope, the last attempt to divert the attack on his will and bolster his waning forces. his nerves jumped and cringed and quivered, but outwardly he was calm, his face drawn to mask the torture. jed, aroused, rubbed his sleepy eyes and lighted his pipe. he put on his steel-rimmed spectacles and took down the greasy, cornerless deck of cards to shuffle them slowly, with method, as though it were a rite. vb sat motionless and a little limp in his chair, too far from the table for comfortable playing. jed peered at him over his glasses. "you might get th' coffee beans," he said, with a great yawn. when the other did not answer he said again: "you might get th' coffee beans, vb. sleepy?" the young chap arose then to follow the suggestion, but ignored the query. he went to the cupboard and brought back a handful of the beans, the cowman's poker chips. his hand was waiting for him. "good deal?" jed asked. vb shook his head. "not better than a couple." "o-ho, i'm better off!" and jed slammed down the ace of hearts. vb leaned low and played the four-spot, almost viciously, gritting his teeth to force his mind into the game. it rebelled, told him the uselessness of such things, the hopelessness before him, tried to play on the aridness of his throat. but for the moment his will was strong and he followed the game as though gambling for a life. suddenly the thought surged through him that he was gambling for a life--his _own_ life, and possibly for a woman's life! jed made his points, and again, on his own bid, he swept up the coffee counters. then he took off his glasses and laid them aside with another yawn. vb wanted to cry aloud to him to keep on playing; he wanted to let jed avery know all that the simple, foolish little game of cards meant to him. but somehow his waning faith had taken with it the power to confide. jed made four inexcusable blunders in playing that hand, and each time his muttered apologies became shorter. when the hand was over and he had won a point he did not notice that the boy failed to give him the counter. vb dealt, picked up his cards, and waited for the bid. but jed's chin was on his breast, one hand lay loosely over the scattered cards before him; the other hung at his side limply. his breath came and went regularly. sleep had stolen in on vb's final stand! oh, if jed avery had only known! if his kindly old heart had only read vb better, divining the difference between calm and peace! for a long time vb looked at the old man, his breath gradually quickening, the flame in his eyes growing sharper, more keen, as the consuming fire in him ate away the last barriers of resistance. once his gaze went to the candle, burning so low against the bottle, yet so brightly, its molten wax running down and adding to the incrustment. he stared wanly at the bright little beacon and shook his head, terror wiping out the vestiges of a smile. action! that was what he wanted! action! he must move or lose his mind and babble and scream! he must move and move rapidly--as rapidly as the rush of those thoughts through his inflamed mind. he trembled in every limb as he sat there, realizing the need for bodily activity. and yet, guilefully, craftily, softly, that voice down within him told that action could be of only one sort, could take him only in one direction. it whined and wheedled and gave him a cowardly assurance, made him lie in his own thoughts; made him cautious in his sneaking determination, for he knew any question jed might ask would bring frenzy. vb rose, slowly, carefully, so that there might be no creaking of the boots or scraping of chair legs. he picked up his hat, his muffler, his jumper, and moved stealthily toward the door, opened it inch by inch, and shut it behind him quickly, silently, cutting off the draft of night air--for such a thing might be as disastrous as a cry aloud. the moon rode above the ridge and the air had lost its winter's edge. it was mild, but with the tang of mountain nights. it was quiet below, but as he stood in the open, pulling on his jumper, he heard the stirring of wind on the points above. it was a soughing, the sort of wind that makes stock uneasy; and vb caught that disquieting vibration. he stepped out from the cabin and a soft calling from the corral reached him. "coming, captain, coming," he answered. and with a guilty glance behind him he felt for the gun nestling against his side. his jaw-muscles tightened as he assured himself it was fastened there securely. the captain was waiting at the gate. vb let it swing open, then turned and walked toward the saddle rack. the horse followed closely, ears up as though in wonder at this procedure. "it's all right, captain," vb whispered as he threw on the saddle blanket. as he drew the cinch tight he muttered: "or else all wrong!" action, action! his body begged. he must have it; nothing else would suffice! he wanted to fly along, skimming the tops of those ghost bushes, ripping through the night, feeling the ripple of wind on that throat, the cooling currents of air against those hammering temples. and vb knew it was a lie! a rank, deliberate, hypocritical lie! he knew what that action meant, he knew in what direction it would take him. he knew; he knew! "oh, captain!" he sobbed, drawing the bridled head against his chest. "you know what it is to fight! you know what it is to yield! but the yielding didn't break you, boy! it couldn't. you were too big, too great to be broken; they could only bend and--" with a breath of nervous rage he was in the saddle. the captain's feet rattled on the hard ground with impatience. an instant vb hesitated, gathering the reins, separating them from the strands of thick mane. then, leaning low, uttering a throaty wail, he gave the captain his head and into the veiled night they bolted. the cattle were coming on him, and he was powerless to move! they were bunched, running shoulder to shoulder, and his bed was in their path! jed tried to raise his arms and could barely move them; his legs rebelled. the stampede was roaring at him! oh, the rumble of those hoofs, those sharp, cloven, blind, merciless hoofs, that would mangle and tear and trample! jed avery awoke with a start. he was on his feet in the middle of the floor before consciousness came, gasping quickly at the horror of his dream, his excited heart racing! but it was no stampede. running hoofs, but no stampede! he stumbled to the door and flung it open. his old eyes caught the flash of a lean, dark object as it raced across the dooryard straight at the gate, never pausing, never hesitating, and taking the bars with a sturdy leap that identified the horse instantly. "vb!" he called the name shrilly into the night, but his cry was drowned to the rider's ears, for the captain's hoofs had caught ground again and were spurning it viciously as he clawed for the speed, the action, that was to satisfy the outraged nerves of his master! that lie! it was not the action that would satisfy. the flight was only an accessory, an agency that would transport vb to the scene of the renunciation of all that for which he had battled through those long months. for a long moment jed stood in the doorway as he had poised at first, stiff, rigid. the sounds of the rushing horse diminuendoed quickly and became only a murmur in the night. jed avery's figure lost its tensity, went slack, and he leaned limply against the door frame. "he's gone!" he moaned. "he's gone! it's broke in on him--oh, vb, i'm afraid it has! no good takes you south at this time, after th' spell you've had!" he slammed the door shut and turned back into the room. unsteady feet took him to his chair, and he settled into it heavily, leaning against the table, his eyes registering the sight of no objects. "he was fightin' harder'n ever," he whispered dryly, "an' i set here sleepin'. to be sure, i wasn't on hand when vb needed me most!" the ending of his self-accusation was almost a sob, and his head dropped forward. he sat like that for an hour. the fire in the stove went out, and the cool of night penetrated the log walls of the cabin. he gazed unblinkingly at the floor; now and then his lips formed soundless words. the candle, burning low, fed the flame too fiercely with the last bit of itself. the neck of the bottle was a globule of molten wax in which the short wick swam. the flame had become larger, but it was dead and the smoke rose thickly from its heavy edges. the grease seemed to be disturbed. it quivered, steadied, then settled. the flame slipped down the neck of the bottle and was snuffed out by the confines of the thing. jed avery drew a long, quivering breath, a breath of horror. he turned his face toward the place where the light had been, hoping that his sight had failed. then he reached out and found the bottle. his hard fingers ran over it, felt the empty neck, paused, and drew away as though it were an infectious thing. the old man sagged forward to the table, his face in his arms. chapter xix through the night on into the night went the captain, bearing vb. over the gate the bridle-rein drew against his neck and the big beast swung to the right, following the road southward, on down the gulch, on toward ranger--a fierceness in his rider's heart that was suicidal. all the bitterness vb had endured, from the stinging torrent his father turned upon him back in new york to the flat realization that to let himself love gail thorpe might bring him into worse hells, surged up into his throat and mingled with the craving there. it seeped through into his mind, perverted his thoughts, stamped down the optimism that had held him up, shattered what remnants of faith still remained. "faster, captain!" he cried. "faster!" and the stallion responded, scudding through the blue moonlight with a speed that seemed beyond the power of flesh to attain. he shook his fine head and stretched out the long nose as though the very act of thrusting it farther would give more impetus to his thundering hoofs. vb sat erect in the saddle, a fierce delight aroused by the speed running through his veins like fire--and, reaching to his throat, adding to the scorching. he swung his right hand rhythmically, keeping time to the steady roll of the stallion's feet. the wind tore at him, vibrating his hat brim, whipping the long muffler out from his neck, and he shook his head against it. he was free at last! free after those months of doubt, of foolish fighting! he was answering the call that came from the depths of his true self--that hidden self--the call of flesh that needs aid! he cared not for the morrow, for the stretching future. his one thought was on the now--on the rankling, eating, festering moment that needed only one thing to be wiped out forever. and always, in the back of his mind, was the picture of gail thorpe as she had turned from him that afternoon. it loomed large and larger as he tore on to the south through the solitude, ripping his way through the cool murk. "i won't put my mark on her!" he cried, and whipped the captain's flanks with his heavy hat, the thought setting his heart flaming. "i won't!" he cried. and again, "i won't!" he was riding down into his particular depths so to stultify himself that it would be impossible to risk that woman's happiness against the chance that some time, some day, he would go down, loving her, making her know he loved her, but fighting without gain. that, surely, is one sort of love, faulty though the engendering spirit may be. the whipping with the hat sent the horse on to still greater endeavor. a slight weariness commenced to show in the ducking of his head with every stride, but he did not slacken his pace. his ears were still set stiffly forward, flipping back, one after the other, for word from his rider; the spurn of his feet was still sharp and clear and unfaltering; the spirit in that rippling, dripping body still ran high. and closing his eyes, drinking the night air through his mouth in great gulps, vb let the animal carry him on and on,--yet backward, back into the face of all that fighting he had summoned, doubling on his own tracks, slipping so easily down the way he had blazed upward with awful sacrifice and hardship. an hour--two--nine--eleven--the captain might have been running so a week, and vb would not have known. his mind was not on time, not on his horse. he had ceased to think beyond the recognition of a craving, a craving that he did not fight but encouraged, nursed, teased--for it was going to be satisfied! the stallion's pace began to slacken. he wearied. the bellows lungs, the heart of steel, the legs of tireless sinew began to feel the strain of that long run. the run waned to a gallop, and the gallop to a trot. there his breathing becoming easier, he blew loudly from his nostrils as though to distend them farther and make way for the air he must have. vb realized this dully but his heeding of that devilish inner call had taken him so far from his more tender self, from his instinctive desire to love and understand, that he did not follow out his comprehension. "go it, boy!" he muttered. "it's all i'll ask of you--just this one run." and the captain, dropping an ear back for the word, leaned to the task, resuming the steady, space-eating gallop mile after mile. all the way into ranger they held that pace. in the last mile the stallion stumbled twice, but after both breaks in his stride ran on more swiftly for many yards, as though to make up to his master for the jolting the half falls gave him. he was a bit unsteady on those feet as he took the turn and dropped down the low bank into the river. they forded it in a shimmer of silver as the horse's legs threw out the black water to be frozen and burnished by the light of the moon. the stallion toiled up the far bank at a lagging trot, and on the flat vb pulled the panting animal down to a walk. oh, vb, it was not too late then, had you only realized it! your ideal was still there, more exemplary than ever before, but you could not recognize it through those eyes which saw only the red of a wrecking passion! you had drained to the last ounce of reserve the strength of that spirit you had so emulated, which had been as a shining light, an unfaltering candle in the darkness. it was stripped bare before you as that splendid animal gulped between breaths. could you have but seen! could something only have _made_ you see! but it was not to be. vb had forgotten the captain. in the face of his wretched weakening the stallion became merely a conveyance, a convenience, a means for stifling the neurotic excitement within him. he forgot that this thing he rode represented his only achievement--an achievement such as few men ever boast. he guided the stallion to a half-wrecked log house south of the road, dismounted, and stood a moment before the shack, his glittering eyes on the squares of light yonder under the rising hill. he heard a faint tinkling from the place, and a voice raised in laughter. as he watched, a mounted man passed between him and the yellow glare. in a moment he saw the man enter the saloon door. "come, boy," he muttered, moving cautiously through the opening into the place. "you'll be warm in here. you'll cool off slowly." then, in a burst of hysterical passion, he threw his arms about the stallion's head and drew it to him fiercely. "oh, i won't be gone long, captain!" he promised. "not long--just a little while. it's not the worst, captain! i'm not weakening!" drunk with the indulgence of his nervous weakness, he lied glibly, knowing he lied, without object--just to lie, to pervert life. and as the captain's quick, hot breath penetrated his garments, vb drew the head still tighter. "you're all i've got, captain," he muttered, now in a trembling calm. "you'll wait. i know that. i know what you will do better than i know anything else in the world--better than i know what--what _i'll_ do! wait for me, boy--wait right here!" his voice broke on the last word as he stumbled through the door and set off toward the building against the hill. he did not hear the captain turn, walk as far as the door of the shack, and peer after him anxiously. nor did he see the figure of a man halted in the road, watching him go across the flat, chaps flapping, brushing through the sage noisily. vb halted in the path of light, swaying the merest trifle from side to side as he pulled his chap belt in another hole and tried to still the twitching of his hands, the weakening of his knees. the tinkling he had heard became clear. he could see now. a mexican squatted on his spurs, back against the wall, and twanged a fandango on a battered guitar. his hat was far back over his head, cigarette glowing in the corner of his mouth, gay blue muffler loose on his shoulders. he hummed to the music, his voice rising now and then to float out into the night above the other sounds from the one room. the bar of rough boards, top covered with red oilcloth, stretched along one side. black bottles flashed their high lights from a shelf behind it, above which hung an array of antlers. the bartender, broad stetson shading his face, talked loudly, his hands wide apart on the bar and bearing much of his weight. now and then he dropped his head to spit between his forearms. three men in chaps lounged before the bar, talking. one, the tallest, talked with his head flung back and gestures that were a trifle too loose. the shortest looked into his face with a ceaseless, senseless smile, and giggled whenever the voice rose high or the gestures became unusually wild. the third, elbows on the oilcloth, head on his fists, neither joined in nor appeared to heed the conversation. back in the room stood two tables, both covered with green cloth. one was unused; the other accommodated four men. each of the quartet wore a hat drawn low over his face; each held cards. they seldom spoke; when they did, their voices were low. vb saw only their lips move. their motions were like the words--few and abrupt. when chips were counted it was with expertness; when they were shoved to the center of the table it was with finality. near them, tilted against the wall in a wire-trussed chair, sat a sleeping man, hat on the floor. two swinging oil lamps lighted the smoke-fogged air of the place, and their glow seemed to be diffused by it, idealizing everything, softening it-- everything except the high lights from the bottles on the shelf. those were stabs of searing brightness; they hurt vb's eyeballs. his gaze traveled back to the mexican. the melody had drifted from the fandango into a swinging waltz song popular in the cities four years before. he whistled the air through his teeth. the cigarette was still between his lips. the face brought vague recollections to vb. then he remembered that this was julio, the mexican who ran with rhues. he belonged to rhues, they had told him, body and soul. thought of rhues sent vb's right hand to his left side, up under the arm. he squeezed the gun that nestled there. of a sudden, nausea came to the man who looked in. it was not caused by fear of rhues--of the possibility of an encounter. the poignant fumes that came from the open door stirred it, and the sickness was that of a man who sees his great prize melt away. for the moment vb wanted to rebel. he tore his eyes from those glittering bottles; tried to stop his breathing that treacherous nostrils might not inhale those odors. but it was useless--his feet would not carry him away. he knew he must move, move soon, and though he now cried out in his heart against it he knew which way his feet would carry him. he half turned his body and looked back toward the shack where the captain waited, and a tightening came in his throat to mingle with the rapaciousness there. "just a little while, captain," he whispered, feeling childishly that the horse would hear the words and understand. "just a little while--i'm just--just going to take a little hand in the card game." and as the mexican finished his waltz with a rip of the thumb clear across the six strings of his instrument, young vb put a foot on the threshold of the saloon and slowly drew himself to his full height in the doorway. framed by darkness he stood there, thumbs in his belt, mouth in a grim line, hat down to hide the pallor of his cheeks, the torment in his eyes; his shoulders were braced back in resolution, but his knees, inside his generous chaps, trembled. chapter xx the last stand even the vibrating guitar strings seemed to be stilled suddenly. for vb, an abrupt hush crushed down on the scene. he felt the eyes as, pair after pair, they followed those of the mexican and gazed at him; even the man slumbering in his chair awoke, raised his head, and stared at him sleepily. he stood in the doorway, leaning lightly against the logs, returning each gaze in turn. "hello, vb!" one of the trio before the bar said. "hello, tom!" answered the newcomer--and stepped into the room. then what hush had fallen--real or imaginary--lifted and the talk went on, the game progressed. perhaps the talk was not fully sincere, possibly the thoughts of the speakers were not always on their words, for every man in the place stole glances at the tall young fellow as he moved slowly about the room. they had known for months the fight that was going on up there on jed avery's ranch. they knew that the man who had mastered the captain and set his name forever in the green annals of the country had been fighting to command himself against the attacks of the stuff they peddled here in the saloon at ranger. they knew how he had fought off temptation, avoided contact with whisky--and now, late at night, he had walked slowly into the heart of the magnet that had exerted such an influence on him. so they watched vb as he moved about. the sharp lights from those black bottles! like snakes' eyes, they commanded his--and, when this power had been exerted, they seemed to stab the brain that directed sight at them. in the first few steps across the rough floor vb answered their call to look a half dozen times, and after each turning of his gaze jerked his eyes away in pain. he did not turn toward the bar--rather, kept close to the wall, passing so near the squatting mexican that the flap of his chaps brushed the other's knees. the greaser picked at the strings of his instrument aimlessly, striking unrelated chords, tinkling on a single string; then came a few bars from the fandango. his head was tilted to one side and a glittering eye followed the slow-moving figure of young vb. by the time the newcomer was halfway toward the poker table the mexican got to his feet, sliding his back slowly up the wall until he reached a standing position. then, for the first time taking his eyes from vb, he stepped lightly toward the door. after a final tinkling chord had fallen he disappeared, guitar slung under one arm, walking slowly away from the lighted place. but when he was beyond sight of those within, he ran. vb went on, past the just-awakened man in his chair, close to the poker table. the players looked up again, first one, with a word of recognition; then two spoke at once, and after he had raked in the pot the fourth nodded with a welcoming grunt. the young fellow leaned a shoulder against the log wall and watched the game. that is, he looked at it. but continually his fevered memory retained a vision of those glares from the bottles. his mind again played crazy tricks, as it always did when the thirst clamored loudly. the rattle of the chips sounded like ice in glasses, and he turned his head quickly toward the bar, following the imaginary sound. the four men there were just drinking. he followed their movements with wild eyes. the bartender lifted his glass to the level of his forehead in salute, then drained its contents slowly, steadily, every movement from the lifting to the setting down of the empty glass smooth, deliberate--even polished--the movements of a professedly artful drinker. the silent man offered no good word--merely lifted the glass and drank, tipping his head but slightly, emptying the glass with an uneven twisting of the wrist, something like an exaggerated tremble. the short man tossed his drink off by elevating the glass quickly to his lips and throwing his head back with a jerk to empty it into his mouth. the tall man, who talked loudly and motioned much, waved his drink through the air to emphasize a declaration, and with an uncertain swoop directed it to his lips. he leaned backward from the hips to drink, and the movement made him reel and grasp the bar for support. as he had followed the movements of those men, so vb followed the course of the stuff they drank down their throats; in imagination, down his throat, until it hit upon and glossed over that spot which wailed for soothing! oh, how he wanted it! still, all those months of battling had not been without result. the rigid fight he had made carried him on, even in face of his resolve to yield, and he delayed, put it off just a moment--lying to himself! he turned back to the game. "sit in, vb?" one of the players asked. "don't mind." he dragged another chair to the table, unbuttoned and cast off his jumper, gave the hat another low tug, and tossed a yellow-backed twenty to the table. the chips were shoved toward him. "jacks or better," the dealer said, and shot the cards about the board. vb won a pot. he bet eagerly on the next and lost. then he won again. the game interested him for the moment. "oh, just one more li'l' drink!" cried the garrulous cowboy at the bar. vb had passed the opening, went in later, drew three cards, failed to help his tens, and hiked the bet! called, he dropped the hand; and the winner, showing aces up, stared at the boy who had bet against openers on lone tens. he noticed that vb's hands trembled, and he wondered. he could not feel vb's throat. nor could he hear the careless plea of the sotted rider for just one more drink ringing in vb's burning brain. a big pot was played and the winner, made happy, said: "well, i'll buy a drink." the bartender, hearing, came to the table. "what'll it be?" he asked. "whisky," said the man on vb's right, and the word went around the circle. then a moment's pause, while the cards fluttered out. "vb?" there it was, reaching out for him, holding out its tentacles that ceased to appear as such and became soft, inviting arms. it was that for which he had ridden through the night; it was that against which he had fought month after month until, this night, he realized that a fight was useless; it was the one solace left him, for indirectly it had brought into his life the glorious thing--and wiped it out again. so why hold off? why refuse? but those months of fighting! he could not overcome that impetus which his subjective self had received from the struggle. consciously he wanted the stuff--oh, how he wanted it! but deep in him _something_-- "not now--thanks," he managed to mutter, and clasped his cards tightly. the bartender turned away, rubbing his chin with one finger, as though perplexed. vb dealt, and with lightning agility. he even broke in on the silence of the playing with senseless chatter when the drinks were brought. he held his cards high that he might not see the glasses, and was glad that the men did not drink at once. nor did they drink for many moments. the opener was raised twice; few cards were drawn. a check passed one man, the next bet, the next raised, and vb, the deal, came in. the opener raised again and the bartender, seeing, stepped across to watch. the drowsy lounger, sensing the drift of the game, rose to look on. vb dropped out. he held threes, but felt that they had no place in that game. the betting went on and on, up and up, three men bent on raising, the fourth following, intent on having a look, anyhow. vb threw his cards down and dropped his hands loosely on the table. the back of his right hand touched a cold object. he looked down quickly. it was resting against a whisky glass. "and ten more," a player said. "ten--and another ten." more chips rattled into the pile. his hand stole back and hot fingers reached out to touch with sensitive tips that cool surface. his nostrils worked to catch the scent of the stuff. his hand was around the glass. "i'm staying." "you are--for five more." vb's fingers tightened about the thing, squeezed it in the palm of his hand. it had felt cool at first; now it was like fire. the muscles of that arm strove to lift it. his inner mind struggled, declared against the intention, weakened, yielded, and-- "well, i'm through. fight it out." the man at vb's right dropped his cards in disgust and with a quick movement reached for his drink. his nervous, hot hand closed on vb's and their surprised glances met. "excuse me," muttered vb. "sure!" said the other, surly over his lost stake, and gulped down the whisky. two of the players went broke in that pot. the fourth had a scant remnant of his original stack left, and vb was loser. the two who had failed shoved back their hats and yawned, almost simultaneously. "how about it?" asked the winner, stacking his chips. "i'm satisfied," said the man at vb's right. "and vb?" "here, too!" the boy sat back in his chair with a long-drawn breath after shoving his chips across to be cashed. he pushed his hat back for the first time, and a man across the table stared hard as he saw the harried face. the others were busy, cashing in. "just get in, vb?" some one asked. he heard the question through a tumult. his muscles had already contracted in the first movement of rising; his will already directed his feet across the room to the bar to answer the call of those searching bottle eyes. inwardly he raged at himself for holding off so long, for wasting those months, for letting that other new thing come into his life only to be torn away again; when it all meant mere delay, a drawing out of suffering! only half consciously he framed the answer: "yes, i rode down to-night." "goin' on out?" "what?" he asked, forcing his mind to give heed to the other. "goin' on out, or goin' to hang around a while?" "i don't know." the boy got to his feet, and the reply was given with rare bitterness. "i don't know," he said again, voice mounting. "i may go out--and i may not. i may hang around a while, and it mayn't take long. i'm here to finish something i started a long time ago, something that i've been putting off. i'm going to put a stop to a lying, hypocritical existence. i'm--" he broke off thickly and moved away from the table. no imagination created a hush this time. on his words the counting of chips ceased. they looked at him, seeing utter desperation, and not understanding. a face outside that had been pressed close to a window was lowered, darkness hiding the glitter of green eyes and the leering smile of triumph. a figure slunk along carefully to the corner of the building and joined two others. it was his chance! rhues was out to get his man this moonlight night, and there was now no danger. young vb was no longer afraid to take a drink. he would give up his fight, give up his hard-wrung freedom, and when drunken men go down, shot in a quarrel, there is always cause. he had him now! vb lurched across the room toward the bar. in mid-floor he paused, turned, and faced those at the poker table. "don't mistake me," he said with a grin. "don't think i'm talking against any man in the country. it's myself, boys--just _me_. i'm the liar, the hypocrite. i've tried to lie myself into being what i never can be. i've come out here among you to go by the name of the outfit i ride for. you don't know me, don't even know my name, say nothing of my own rotten self. well, you're going to know me as i am." he swung around to face the bar. the bartender pulled nervously on his mustache. "what'll it be, vb?" he asked, surprised knowledge sending the professional question to his lips. "the first thing you come to," the boy muttered, and grasped the bar for support. chapter xxi guns crash out in the shadow of the building three men huddled close together, talking in whispers--rhues, matson, and the mexican. rhues had watched the progress of the poker game, waiting the chance he had tried to seek out ever since that day up at avery's when he had been beaten down by the flailing fists of that tall young tenderfoot. he had seen vb start for the bar; he knew the hour had struck. "we've got him!" he whispered. "he won't get away this time. they won't be no mistakes." "s-s-s-s!" the greaser warned. "aw, nobody'll ever know," rhues scoffed in an undertone. "they'll never know that unless you spill. an' if you do--it'll mean three of us to th' gallows, unless--we're lynched first!" silence a moment, and they heard vb's voice raised. then rhues whispered his quick plans. "take it easy," he warned in conclusion. "don't start nothin'. let him git drunk; then he'll do th' startin' an' it'll be easy." inside a bottle was thumped on the bar, a glass beside it. feverishly vb reached for both, lifting the glass with uncertain hand, tilting the bottle from the bar, not trusting his quaking muscles to raise it. the neck touched the glass with a dull clink; the mouth of the bottle gurgled greedily as the first of the liquor ran out--for all the world as if it had waited these months for that chuckle of triumph. and then that romanticism of youth came to the surface of his seething thoughts again. it would be the closing of a chapter, that drink. it was for her sake he would lift it to his lips. he wanted to bid her a last, bitter farewell. she was over there, far across the hills, sleeping and dreaming--with her golden hair--over there in the northeast. he laughed harshly, set the bottle back on the bar, and turned his face in her direction. those who watched from the other end of the room saw him turn his head unsteadily; saw the sudden tenseness which spread through his frame, stiffening those faltering knees. he turned slowly toward the door and thrust his face forward as though to study and make certain that he saw rightly. like a rush of fire the realization swept through him. a man stood there in the moonlight, and the sheen from the heavens was caught on the dull barrel of a gun in his hand. vb was covered, and he knew by whom! the man who had fought less than half a dozen times in his life, and then with bare fists, was the object of a trained gun hand. he could almost see the glitter of the green eyes that were staring at him. instinct should have told him to spring to one side; a leap right or left would have carried him out of range, but instinct had been warped by all those months of struggle. he was on the brink, at the point of losing his balance; but the battling spirit within him still throbbed, though his frenzy, his lack of faith, had nearly killed it. now the thing came alive pulsing, bare! an instant before he had not cared what happened. now he did, and the end was not the only thing in view; the means counted with young vb. he did not jump for shelter. he roared his rage as he prepared to stand and fight. the others understood before his hand reached his shirt front. the bartender dropped behind the fixture and the others in the room sprang behind the barrels and stove. by the time vb's hand had clasped the neck of his shirt he stood alone. when the vicious yank he gave the garment ripped it open from throat halfway to waist the first belch of fire came from that gun out there. the bottle on the bar exploded, fine bits of glass shooting to the far corners of the room. "come on--you--yellow--" vb's fingers found the butt of his colt, closed and yanked. it came from the holster, poised, muzzle upward, his thumb over the hammer. possibly he stood thus a tenth part of a second, but while he waited for his eyes to focus well a generation seemed to parade past. he was hunted down by a crawling piece of vermin! a parallel sprang to his mind. while rhues sought his body did not another viper seek his soul? was-- then he made out the figure--crouched low. the forty-five came down, and the room resounded with its roar. he stood there, a greenhorn who had never handled a weapon in his life until the last year, giving battle to a gun fighter whose name was a synonym! out of the moonlight came another flash, and before vb could answer the hunched figure had leaped from the area framed by the doorway. "you won't stand!" the boy cried, and strode across the room. "don't be a fool! vb!" the bartender's warning might as well have been unheard. straight for the open door went the boy, gun raised, coughing from the powder smoke. but the mustached man, though panderer by profession, revolted at unfairness; perhaps it was through the boy's ignorance, but he knew vb walked only to become a target. twice his gun roared from behind the bar and the two swinging lamps became scattered, tinkling fragments. vb seemed not to heed, not to notice that he was in darkness. he reached the door, put his left hand against the casing, and looked out. with lights behind he would have been riddled on the instant. but, looking from blackness to moonlight, he was invisible for the moment--but only for a moment. the stream of yellow stabbed at him again and young vb, as though under the blow of a sledge, spun round and was flattened against the wall. his left breast seemed to be in flames. he reached for it, fired aimlessly with the other hand in the direction of his hidden foe, and let the gun clatter to the floor. he wondered if it were death--that darkness. he felt the fanning of the wind, heard, dimly, its uneasy soughing. it was very dark. a movement and its consequent grip of pain brought him back. he saw then that a heavy cloud, wind driven, had blotted out the moon. in a frenzy he came alert! he was wounded! he had dropped his gun and they were waiting for him out there, somewhere; waiting to finish him! he could feel the smearing of blood across his chest as his clothing held it in. his legs commenced to tremble, from true physical weakness this time. and the captain was waiting! that thought wiped out every other; he was possessed with it. he might be dying, but if he could only get to the captain; if he could only feel that silken nose against his cheek! nothing would matter then. if he could get up, if he could mount, the captain would take care of him. he could outrun those bullets--the captain. he would take him home, away from this inferno. "i'm coming, captain!" he muttered brokenly. "you're waiting! oh, i know where to find you. i'm coming, boy, coming!" he stepped down from the doorway and reeled, a hand against his wounded breast. it seemed as though it required an eternity to regain his balance. then he lurched forward a step. oh, they were merciless! they opened on him from behind--when he had no weapon, when his life was gushing away under his shirt! those shots never came from one gun alone. more than one man fired on him! his salvation then was flight. he ran, staggering, stumbling. he plunged forward on his face and heard a bullet scream over him. "oh, captain!" he moaned. "can't you come and get me? can't you?" he snarled his determination to rally those senses that tried to roam off into vagaries. he got to his hands and knees and crawled, inch by inch. he heard another shot, but it went wild. he got to his feet and reeled on. they thought they'd done for him when he fell! he heard himself laughing crazily at the joke. "oh, you'll laugh, too--captain!" he growled. "it's a joke--you'll--if i can only get to--you!" his numb, lagging legs seemed to make conscious efforts to hold him back. his head became as heavy as his feet and rolled about on his neck, now straight forward, now swinging from side to side. his arms flopped as no arm ever should flop. and he heard the blood bubbling under his vest. perhaps he would never get there! perhaps he was done for! "oh, no--i can't quit before--i get to--you, captain!" he muttered as he fell again. "you're waiting--where i told you to wait! i've got to--get--there!" of only one thing in this borderland between consciousness and insensibility was he certain--the captain was waiting. the captain was waiting! if he could get that far-- it was the climax of all things. to reach his horse; to touch him; to put his arms about those ankles as he fell and hold them close; to answer trust with trust. for through all this the captain had waited! the shack where he had left the horse swam before his eyes. he heard the breath making sounds in his throat as he crawled on toward it, counting each hand-breadth traveled an achievement. he tried to call out to the horse, but the words clogged and he could not make his voice carry. "just a moment, boy!" he whispered. "only--a moment longer--then you won't have--to wait!" he was conscious again that his pursuers fired from behind. it was moonlight once more, and they could see him as he reeled on toward the shack. he sprawled again as his foot met a stone, and the guns ceased to crash. but vb did not think on this more than that instant. he found no comfort in the cessation of firing. for him, only one attainable object remained in life. he wanted to be with the thing of which he was certain, away from all else--to know a faith was justified; to sense once again stability! his hand struck rough wood. he strained his eyes to make out the tumble-down structure rising above him. "captain!" he called, forcing his voice up from a whisper. "come--boy, i'm--ready--to go--home!" clinging to the logs, he raised himself to his feet and swayed in through the door. "captain," he muttered, closing his eyes almost contentedly and waiting. "captain?" he started forward in alarm, a concern mounting through his torture and dimming his sensibilities. "captain--are you--here?" he stumbled forward, arms outstretched in the darkness, feeling about the space. he ran into a wall; turned, met another. "captain!" he cried, his voice mounting to a ranting cry. the captain was gone! reason for keeping on slipped from vb's mind. he needed air, so his reflexes carried him through the doorway again, out of the place where he had left the stallion, out of the place where his trust had been betrayed. he stumbled, recovered his balance, plunged on out into the moonlight, into the brush, sobbing heavily. his knees failed. he crashed down, face plowing into cool soil. "captain"! he moaned. "oh, boy--i didn't think--_you_ would--fail-- no wonder--i couldn't keep--going--" he did not hear the running feet, did not know they rolled him over, rhues with his gun upraised. "i got him, th' ----" he muttered. "then let's get out--_pronto_!" twenty minutes later a man with a lantern stepped out of the shack in which the captain had stood. two others were with him. "yes, he left his horse there, all right," the man with the light muttered. "he got to him an' got away. nobody else could lead that horse off. he couldn't 'a' been hard hit or he couldn't 'a' got up." chapter xxii tables turn; and turn again a young chap from the east who was in clear river county because of his lungs named her delilah when she was only a little girl--delilah gomez. she cooked now for the double six ranch, the buildings of which clustered within a stone's throw of the ranger post office. and that night as she sat looking from her window she thought, as she did much of the time, about the smiling julio with his guitar--the handsome fellow who lived with señor rhues and did no work, but wore such fine chaps and kerchiefs! she sighed, then started to her feet as she saw him come through the gate and up the path, and hastened to open the door for him. julio took off his hat. "it is late," he said, flashing his teeth. "i come to ask you to do something for me, delilah." "what is it--now--so late?" she asked breathlessly. "in the old house across the road"--he pointed--"is a horse. it is the horse of a friend. a friend, also, of señor rhues. he is now in the saloon. he is drunk. will you take the horse away? to the place of señor rhues? and put him in the barn? and be sure to fasten the door so he will not get out?" delilah was puzzled a moment. "but why," she asked, "why so late?" julio bowed profoundly again. "we go--señor rhues, señor matson, and i, julio, to take our friend away from the saloon. we are busy. senor rhues offers this." he pressed a dollar into her palm. and for the dollar and a flash of julio's teeth, delilah went forth upon her commission. the three men watched her go. "that devil'd tear a man to pieces," rhues muttered. "any woman can handle him, though. git him locked up, an' th' ---- tenderfoot can't make it away! he'll have to stay an' take what's comin'!" the girl led the captain down the road, past the double six ranch, on to the cramped little barn behind the cabin where lived rhues and his two companions. it was not an easy task. the captain did not want to go. he kept stopping and looking back. but the girl talked to him kindly and stroked his nose and--vb himself had taught him to respect women. this woman talked softly and petted him much, for she remembered the great horse she had seen ridden by the tall young fellow. besides, the dollar was still in her hand. she led him into the cramped little barn, left him standing and came out, closing the doors behind her. then she set out for home, clasping the dollar and thinking of julio's smile. the first shot attracted her. the second alarmed, and those that followed terrified the girl. she ran from the road and hovered in the shadow of a huge bowlder, watching fearfully, uttering little moans of fright. she heard everything. some men ran past her in the direction of rhues's cabin, and she thought one of them must be julio. but she was too frightened to stir, to try to determine; too frightened to do anything but make for her own home. the girl moved stealthily through the night, facing the moon that swung low, unclouded again, making all radiant. she wanted to run for home, where she could hide under blankets, but caution and fear held her to a walk. she did not cry out when she stumbled over the body; merely cowered, holding both hands over her lips. for a long time she stood by it, looking down, not daring to stoop, not daring to go away. then the hand that sprawled on the dirt raised itself fell back; the lips parted, a moan escaped, and the head rolled from one side to the other. the fear of dead things that had been on her passed. she saw only a human being who was hurt. she dropped to her knees and took the head in her lap. "oh, _por dios_! it is the _señor_ who rode the horse!" she muttered, and looked quickly over her shoulder at the rhues cabin. "they left him; they thought he was dead," she went on aloud. "they should know; he should be with them. they were going for him when the shooting began!" she looked closer into vb's face and he moaned again. his eyes opened. the girl asked a sharp question in spanish. "is the _señor_ much hurt?" she repeated in the language he understood. "oh, captain!" he moaned. "why? why did you--quit?" she lifted him up then and he struggled sluggishly to help himself. once he muttered: "oh, gail! it hurts so!" she strained to the limits of her lithe strength until she had him on his feet. then she drew one of his arms about her neck, bracing herself to support his lagging weight. "come," she said comfortingly. "we will go--to them." no light showed from the rhues cabin, but the girl was sure the men were there, or would come soon. loyal to julio for the dollar and the memory of his graciousness, she worked with the heart of a good samaritan, guiding the unconscious steps of the muttering man toward the little dark blot of houses. it was a floundering progress. twice in the first few rods the man went down and she was sorely put to get him on his feet again. but the moving about seemed to bring back his strength, and gradually he became better able to help himself. they crossed the road and passed through the gap in the fence by the cabin. vb kept muttering wildly, calling the girl gail, calling for the captain in a plaintive voice. "there they are now! see the light?" she whispered. "it is not much. they have covered the window. yes." "what?" vb asked, drawing a hand across his eyes. she repeated her assertion that the men were in the cabin and he halted, refusing drunkenly to go on. "no," he said, shaking his head. "i'm unarmed--they--" but she tugged at him and forced him to go beside her. they progressed slowly, painfully, quietly. there was no sound, except vb's hard breathing, for they trod in dust. they approached the house and the girl put out a hand to help her along with the burden. a thin streak of light came from a window. it seemed to slash deeply into the staggering man, bringing him back to himself. then a sound, the low, worried nickering of a horse! the mexican girl felt the arm about her neck tighten and tremble. "the captain!" vb muttered, looking about wildly. he opened his lips to cry out to the horse as the events of the night poured back into his consciousness, to cry his questioning and his sorrow, to put into words the mourning for a faith, but that cry never came from his throat. the nickering of the stallion and the flood of memory had brought him to a clear understanding of the situation; a sudden glare of light from the abruptly uncovered window before which he and the girl stood provoked an alertness which was abnormally keen, that played with the subjective rather than the more cumbersome objective. he stooped with the quickness of a drop and scuttled into the shadows, cautious, the first law of man athrob. the man who had brushed away the blanket that had screened the window burst into irritated talk. vb recognized him as matson. back in the shadows of the room he saw the mexican standing. a table was close to the window, so close that in crowding behind it matson had torn down the blanket that had done service as a curtain. a lamp burned on the table, its wick so high that smoke streamed upward through the cracked chimney. and close beside the lamp, eyes glittering, cruel cunning in every line, the flush of anger smearing it, was the face of rhues! vb, crouching there, saw then that matson's finger was leveled at rhues. "it ain't good money!" that was the declaration matson had made as the blanket slipped down and disclosed the scene. he repeated it, and his voice rose to a snarl. delilah started to rise but vb jerked her back with a vehemence that shot a new fear through the girl, that made her breathe quickly and loudly. for the first time he turned and looked at the girl, not to discover who this might be that had brought him to the nest of those who sought his life, but to threaten. "you stay here," he whispered sharply. "if you make a sound, i'll--you'll never forget it!" his face was close to hers and he wagged his head to emphasize the warning. where she had expected to find a friend the mexican girl realized that she had encountered a foe. where she had, from the fullness of her heart and for a dollar and the admiration of julio, sought to help, she knew now that she had wronged. his intensity filled her with this knowledge and sent her shrinking against the wall of the cabin, a hand half raised to her cheek, trembling, wanting to whimper for mercy. "keep still!" he warned again, and, stretching one hand toward her as though to do sentry duty, ready to throttle any sound, to stay any flight, to bolster his commands, he crept closer to the window. "why ain't it good?" rhues was asking in a voice that carried no great conviction, as though he merely stalled for time. vb saw him stretch a bill close to the lamp and matson lean low beside him. the light fell on the piece of currency, not six feet from vb's fever-bright eyes. he saw that they were inspecting a fifty-dollar bill issued by the confederate states of america! and rhues said grudgingly: "well, if that ain't good, they's only six hunderd 'n all!" up came the buried memories, struggling through all the welded events in the furnace consciousness of the man who pressed his face so close to the window's crinkly glass. his eyes sought aimlessly for some object that might suggest a solution for the slipping thought he tried to grasp. they found it--found it in a rumpled, coiled contrivance of leather that lay beside the lamp. it was a money belt. the money belt that kelly, the horse buyer, had worn! six hundred dollars! and a confederate states fifty-dollar bill! they were quarreling over the spoils of that chill murder! vb swayed unsteadily as he felt a rage swell in him, a rage that nullified caution. he turned his eyes back to the mexican girl cringing just out of his reach and moved the extended hand up and down slowly to keep his warning fresh upon her. he wanted time to think, just a moment to determine what action would be most advisable. his heart raced unevenly and he thought the hot edges of his wound were blistering. "that's two hundred apiece, then," rhues said, and straightened. vb saw that the hand which had dropped the worthless piece of paper held a roll of yellow-backed bills. "two hundred we all git," he growled. "you git it, julio gits it, i git it--an' i'm th' party what done th' work!" vb stooped and grasped delilah roughly by the arm. he held a finger to his lips as he dragged the shaking girl out to where she could see. "watch!" he commanded, close in her ear. "watch rhues--and the others!" rhues counted slowly, wetting his thumb with hasty movements and dropping bills from the roll to the table top. "both you"--he looked up to indicate matson and julio--"gits 's much 's me, an' i done th' work!" "an' if we're snagged, we stand as good a chanct o' gettin' away as you," matson remarked, and laughed shortly. rhues looked up again and narrowed the red lids over his eyes. "you said it!" he snarled. "that's why it's good to keep yer mouths shut! that's why you got to dig out--with me. "if i'm snagged--remember, they's plenty o' stories i could tell about you two--an' i will, too, if i'm snagged 'cause o' you!" he worked his shoulders in awkward gesture. "an' that's why we want our share," matson growled back. "an' want it quick! we watched th' road; you done th' killin'. we thought it was jus' to settle things with that ----, but it wasn't. it was profitable." he ended with another short laugh. "well, i said i'd git him, didn't i? an' i did, didn't i? an' if th' first time went wrong it was--profitable, wasn't it?" "yes, but queek, queeker!" the mexican broke in. "they might come--now!" "well, quit snivelin'!" snapped rhues. "it didn't go as we planned. i had to shoot 'fore i wanted to. but i got him, didn't i?" julio reached for the pile of bills rhues shoved toward him; matson took his; rhues pocketed the rest. and outside, vb relaxed his hold on the girl's wrist, raising both hands upward and out, fingers stiff and claw-like. kelly, good-natured, careless, likable, trusting kelly, had gone out to pay toll to this man's viciousness; had gone because he, vb, would not submit to rhues's bullying! and now they laughed, and called it a profitable mistake! all his civilized, law-abiding nature rose in its might. all that spirit which demands an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, which makes for statutes and courts and the driving of nations into fixed paths, lifted vb above any caution that the circumstances could have engendered. his whole nature cried out for the justice he had been trained to respect; his single remaining impulse was to make this man rhues suffer for the act of which there was such ample evidence. he struggled to find a way toward retribution, for in a moment it might be too late. he had no thought beyond the instant, no idea but to possess himself of something more, to make the case stronger for society. he had seen, he had heard, he had the girl beside him, but he wanted more evidence. matson moved away from the window and as he did so the sash sagged inward. it was a hinged casing! his hands numb from excitement, vb forced his arms against it, shoving stoutly. the force of his effort precipitated his head and shoulders into the room! he had a flash of the three men as they whirled and poised, with oaths, but his mind did not linger on them. his fingers clutched the money belt, drew it to him, and as rhues dropped a hand to his hip vb staggered backward out of the window, stuffing the money belt inside his shirt, in against the hot wound, and stared about him. for an instant, silence, as rhues stood, gun drawn, shoulders forward, gazing at the empty window. then upon them came a shrill, quavering, anxious cry--the call of the captain. chapter xxiii life, the trophy to vb, at the sound of the stallion's neighing, came the realization of his position--weaponless in the midst of men who, now of all times, would shoot to kill! his righteous abhorrence of the murder rhues had done and in which the others had been conspirators did not lessen. he did not falter in his determination for vengeance; but his thirst for it did not detract one whit from his realization of the situation's difficulties. seconds were precious. just a lone instant he poised, looking quickly about, and to his ears came again the cry of the horse, plaintive, worried, appealing. "captain!" he cried, and started to run. "captain! you didn't fail! they _brought_ you!" his voice lifted to a shout as he rounded the corner of the house, and the captain answered. with the horse located, vb stumbled across the short intervening space, one hand to his breast doing the double duty of attempting to still the searing of that wound and hold fast to the money belt. he flung himself at the door of the low little stable, jerked the fastening apart, and, backing in, saw men run from the house, heard them curse sharply, and saw them turn and look, each with his shooting hand raised. vb drew the door shut after him, trembling, thinking swiftly. the captain nosed him and nickered relief, stepping about in his agitation as though he knew the desperate nature of the corner into which they had been driven. "we've got to get out, boy," vb cried, running his numb hands over the animal's face in caress. "we're up against it, but there's a way out!" it was good to be back. it was good to feel that thick, firm neck again, to have the warm breath of the vital beast on his cheek, to sense his dominating presence--for it did dominate, even in that strained circumstance, and in the stress vb found half hysterical joy and voiced it: "you didn't quit, captain!" he cried as he felt the cinch hastily. "you didn't quit. they--that woman! she brought you here!" he flung his arms about the stallion's head in a quick, nervous embrace at the cost of a mighty cutting pain across his chest. then the cautious voice of rhues, outside and close up to the door, talking lowly and swiftly: "julio, saddle th' buckskin! quick! i'll hold him here till we're ready! then i'll shoot th' ---- down in his tracks! we got to ride, anyhow--nothin' 'll make no difference now!" raising his voice, rhues taunted: "pray, you ----! yer goin' to cash!" vb pressed his face to a crack and saw rhues in the moonlight, close up to the door. he also saw another man, julio, leading a horse from the corral on the run. two other animals, saddled, stood near. he was cornered, helpless, in their hands--hard hands, that knew no mercy. but he did not give up. his mind worked nimbly, skipping from possibility to possibility, looking, searching for a way out. he reeled to the black horse and felt the animal's breath against the back of his neck. "we're up against it, boy," he whispered. and the voice of rhues again: "they'll find him to-morrow--with th' belt!" he broke off suddenly, as though the words had set in his mind a new idea. vb did not hear; would not have heeded had his senses registered the words, because an odd apathy had come over him, dulling the pain of his wound, deadening the realization of his danger. he sighed deeply and shook himself and tried to rally, but though a part of him insisted that he gather his faculties and force them to alertness, another tired, lethargic self overbore the warning. half consciously he pulled the stirrup toward him, put up his foot with an unreal effort, and laboriously drew himself to the saddle. there, he leaned forward on his arms, which were crossed on the captain's neck, oblivious to all that transpired. but the great stallion was not insensible to the situation. he could not know the danger, but he did know that he had been led into a strange place, shut there and left virtually a prisoner; that his master had burst in upon him atremble with communicable excitement; that strange voices were raised close to him; that men had been running to and fro; that the sounds of struggling horses were coming from out there; that some man was standing on the other side of the door, closer than most men had ever stood to him. he breathed loudly; then stilled that breath to listen, his head moving with frequent, short jerks as he saw objects move past the cracks in the building. he switched his tail about his hindquarters sharply, and backed a step. another voice called softly to rhues, and rhues answered: "dah! when i rolled him over his holster flopped out of his shirt, empty. he dropped it in th' s'loon. if he'd had a gun he'd done fer us 'n there, wouldn't he?" then his voice was raised in a sharp command: "help him, julio! hang on to his ear an' he'll stand. _pronto!_" sounds of men grunting, of a horse striving to break from them; a sharp cry. these things--and emanating from a scene taking place outside the captain's sight! he half wheeled and scrubbed the back wall of the stable with his hip, blowing loudly in fright. he stamped a forefoot impatiently; followed that by a brisk, nervous pawing. he tossed his head and chewed his bit briskly; then shook his head and blew loudly again. he shied violently as a man ran past the door, wheeled, crashed into the wall again and, crouching, quivered violently. vb moaned with pain. when the horse under him had shied the boy had pushed himself erect in the saddle and the effort tore at the wound in his chest. the pain roused him, and as the captain again wheeled, frantic to find a way out of this pen, vb's heels clapped inward to retain his seat, the spurs drove home, and with a whimper the horse reared to his hind legs, lunged forward, and the front hoofs, shooting out, crashed squarely against the closed door! under the force of the blow the door swept outward, screaming on its rusty hinges. a third of the way open it struck resistance, quivered, seemed to hesitate, then continued on its arc. a surprised, muffled shout, the sound of a body striking ground, a shot, its stream of fire spitting toward the night sky. then the vicious smiting of hoofs as the captain, bearing his witless rider, swung in a short circle and made for the river. rhues, caught and knocked flat by the bursting open of the door, was perhaps a half-dozen seconds in getting to his feet. he came up shooting, a stream of leaden missiles shrieking aimlessly off into space. julio and matson, busy with the refractory buckskin, heard the crash and creak of the swinging door, heard the shout, heard the shot; they turned to see the black stallion sweep from the little building and swirl past them, ears back, teeth gleaming, and bearing to the north. still clinging to the buckskin's head, the mexican drew his gun; matson, utterly bewildered, fearful of impending consequences, gave the cinch a final tug, but before julio could fire the water of the river was thrown in radiant spray as the captain floundered into midstream with vb low on his neck. then rhues was on them, putting into choking words the vileness of his heart. he did not explain beyond: "th' ---- horse! th' door got me!" he seized the cheek strap of the buckskin's bridle and swung up, while the others watched the horse running out into the moonlit river. the pony reared and pivoted on his hind legs. "git on yer hosses!" rhues screeched, yanking at the bit. "he can't git away, with his hoss run down once to-night! an' if we let him--we swing!" goaded by that terror they obeyed, hanging spurs in their horses' flanks before they found stirrups, and the trio whirled down to the water. "he's goin' home!" rhues cried above the splashing. "that's our way out; we'll git him as we go 'long! we'll ride him down; he ain't got a gun! an' they'll find him out yonder with th' money belt on him! we--" he broke short with a laugh. "we could claim th' reward! two fifty, dead 'r alive!" matson snarled something. then, as their horses struggled up the far bank of the stream, completed it: "---- with th' reward! what we want's a get-away!" "we're on our way now," growled rhues, and lashed his pony viciously with the ends of his bridle reins. knee to knee they raced, the ponies stretching their heads far out in efforts to cover that light ribbon of road which clove the cloudlike sage brush and ate up the distance between their position and that scudding blur ahead. each had his gun drawn and held high in the right hand ready for use; each, with eyes only for that before them, with minds only for speed--and quick speculation on what might happen should they fail. the creak of leather, the sharp batter of hoofs, the rattle of pebbles as they were thrown out against the rocks, the excited breathing of horses: a race, with human life the trophy! and vb, looking back, saw. with set teeth he leaned still lower over the captain's neck in spite of the raging the posture set up in his torn breast. no will of his had directed the stallion in that flight northward. his unexpected dash through the barn door, the quick recognition of the point they had scored, the sharp pang which came when vb realized the fact that the horse's, break for home had cut him off from help that might have remained in ranger, left the wounded man in a swirl of confused impressions. behind all the jumble was the big urge to reach that place which had been the only true haven of his experience. he felt a glimmer of solace when he sensed that he was going home which quite neutralized the terror that the glance at those oncoming riders provoked. the comfort inculcated by the idea grew into clear thinking; from there on into the status of an obsession. he was going home! he was on the way, with that mighty beast under him! he raised more of his weight to the stirrups and laid a reassuring hand on the snapping shoulder of his horse. and on his trail rode the merciless three, their eyes following the bending course of the road, hat-brims now blown back against the crowns, now down over their eyes in the rush through the night. rhues rode a quarter of a length ahead of the others, and his automatic was raised higher than were their gun-hands. now and then one of the trio spoke sharply to his horse and grunted as he raked with a spur, but for the greater part of the time they did not lift their voices above the thunder of the race. they knew what must happen; they held their own, and waited! "go, boy, go!" whispered vb. "we'll run their legs off; they'll never get in range!" the captain held an attentive ear backward a moment, then shot it forward, watching the road, holding his rolling, space-eating stride. vb turned his head and again looked back. they were still there! no nearer--but he had not shaken them off. two, perhaps three, miles had been covered and they hung by him, just within sight, just beyond that point where they might fire with an even chance of certainty. he pressed his arm against his burning breast, crowding the treasured money belt tighter against the wound. somehow, it seemed to dull the torment, and for minutes he held the pressure constant, still lifted to supreme heights of endeavor and ability to withstand suffering by the rage that had welled up from his depths as he stood back in the shadow of the cabin and had the suspicion of how and why kelly had met death become certainty. another mile, and he turned to look back again. they still hung there, making a blur in the moonlight, fanciful, half floating, but he knew they were real, knew that they hammered their way through the night with lust for his life! "captain!" he cried, apprehension rising. "go it, boy; go it!" he pressed a spur lightly against his side and felt the great beast quiver between strides. the pace quickened a trifle, but vb saw that the ears were no longer held steadily to the fore, that the head ducked with each leap forward as he had never seen it duck before. and as the thought with its killing remorse thundered into his intelligence, vb sat erect in the saddle with a gasp and a movement which staggered the running animal that bore him. the captain's strength had been drained! for twenty strides vb sat there, inert, a dead weight, while grief came into his throat, into his vision, deadening his mind. in all that melodrama which began when he stared through the saloon door and saw rhues standing in the moonlight, gun ready, the reason for his presence in ranger, the history of the earlier night, had been obliterated for the time being. now, as he felt the beast under him labor, heard his heavy breathing, saw the froth on his lips, it all came back to young vb. "oh, captain!" he wailed, leaning forward again, eyes burning, throat choking. and for a long time he rode as though unable to do else but hold his position over the fork of the saddle. he was stunned, beaten down by poignant remorse. the captain had made the long ride from jed's to ranger at a killing pace. vb remembered acutely now that the stallion had staggered as he emerged from clear river and came into view of the saloon lights. and he had been there how long? an hour of poker, perhaps; an hour more at the outside. two hours for the horse to regain the strength that had been taken from him in that cruel ride--a ride taken to satisfy the viciousness which made vb a man uncertain of himself! the captain had been wasted! he had gone, as had vb's heart and mind, to be a sacrifice for hideous gods! in an hour of weakness he had been offered, had been given gladly, and without thought of his value! for had not vb gloried in that ride to ranger? had it not been the end of all things for him? an end for which he was thankful? had it not been all conscious, witting, planned? it had--and it had not been worth the candle! the boy moaned aloud and wound his fingers in the flapping mane. "captain!" he cried. "it was all wrong--all false! i threw you away an hour ago, and now--you're _life_ to me! oh, boy, will you forgive? can you?" no fear of death tapped the wells of his grief. there was only sorrow for his wasting of that great animal, that splendid spirit, that clean strength! after a moment he sobbed: "you can't do anything else but go on, boy! you're that sort! you'll go, then i'll go; anyhow, it will be together!" and the great beast, blowing froth from his lips, struggled on, while from behind came the sounds of other running horses--perhaps a trifle nearer. chapter xxiv victory the road writhed on through the sage brush sixteen miles from ranger before it branched. then to the right ran the s bar s route, while straight on it headed into jed's ranch, and the left-hand course, shooting away from the others behind a long, rocky point, followed sand creek up to the cluster of buildings which marked the domicile of dick worth. it was more than halfway. the captain, now trotting heavily, now breaking once more into a floundering gallop, passed the first fork, that leading toward worth's. with a gulp of relief vb saw that the moon hung low in the west--so low that the road home would be in the shadow of the point, which seemed to come down purposely to split the highway. he might then find refuge in darkness somewhere. he must have refuge! at the tenth mile he had suspected, now he knew, that it would be impossible to stand off his pursuers clear to the ranch, and there were no habitations between him and jed's. "they haven't gained on you, boy!" he cried as he made out the distinct outlines of the point. "they're right where they were at the start! no other horse in the world could have done it; not even you should be asked to do it--but--but--" he choked back the sob that fought to come. he knew he must concentrate his last energy, now. if he came through there would be time to think of his crime against the captain! but now-- futures depend on lives. his life dangled in the balance, and he wanted it, as men can want life only when they feel it slipping. back there three men raked the streaming sides of their ponies with vicious spurs. "he can't make it!" rhues swore. "th' black's quittin' now! if he gits away, what chance we got? we got to git him! it'll give us th' last chance!" "we're killin' our horses," growled matson. and julio, a length behind, flogged his pinto mercilessly. no craving for vb's life prompted rhues now. he must go on for the sake of his own safety. he and those other two had all to gain and nothing to lose. if they could drop the man ahead it would be possible to skirt the ranches, catch fresh horses, and make on toward wyoming. but let vb gain shelter with jed or any one else, and a posse would be on their trail before they could be beyond reach. no, there could be no turning back! they had made their bet; now they must back it with the whole stack. and before them--that blot in the moonlight--a wounded, suffering man cried aloud to the horse that moved so heavily under him. "make it to the point, captain!" he begged. "just there! it'll be dark! only a little faster, boy!" the stallion grunted under the stress of his effort, moving for the moment with less uncertainty, with a jot more speed. they crawled up to the point and followed the bend of the road as it led into the dimness of the gulch. across the way, far to the right, moonlight fell on the cliffs, but where the road hung close to the rise at the left all was in shadow. to vb, entering the murk was like plunging from the heat of glaring day to the cool of a forest. the men behind him would be forced to come twice as close before they could make firing effective. then, when he reached the ranch-- he threw out an arm in a gesture of utter hopelessness. reach the ranch? he laughed aloud, mocking his own guilelessness. he had come only a little more than half the distance now, and captain could scarcely be held at a trot. three miles, possibly five, he might last, and then his rider would have to face his pursuers with empty hands. his was the very epitome of despair. a weaker man would have quit then, would have let the stallion flounder to his finish, would have waited submissively for rhues to come and shoot him down. but vb possessed the strength of his desperation. rhues might get him now, as he had tried to get him twice before, but he would get him by fighting. not wholly for himself did the boy think, but for the likable, friendly kelly, who had died there in his blankets without warning. if he could rid men of the menace which rhues represented he would have done service, and the life of those last months had implanted within him the will to be of use--though, a few hours back, he might have thought it all a delusion. so vb was alert with the acute alertness of mind which is given to humans when forced to fight to preserve life--when everything, the buried subconscious impulses, the forgotten, tucked-away memories, are in the fore, crying to help. abandoning hope of reaching jed's, he turned all his physical force, even, into the mental effort to seek a way out; fought his way to clarified thought, fought his way into logic. he could not go on much longer; there was no such thing as turning back, for he could hear them, nearer now! he could hear the click of pebbles as his pursuers' horses sent them scattering, and a pebble click will not travel far. ahead--weakening muscles; behind--guns ready; to the right--moonlight; to the left-- the bridle rein drew across the captain's lathered neck. the big beast swung to the left, out of the road, crashed through the brush, and lunged against the rise of rocks. the horse seemed to sense the fact that this was the one remaining chance, the last possibility left in their bag of tricks. he picked his way up among the ragged bowlders and spiked brush with a quickness of movement that told of the breaking through into those reservoirs of strength which are held in man and beast until a last hope is found. vb went suddenly faint. the loss of blood, the pain, the stress of nervous thought, the knowing that his full hand was on the table, caused him to reel dizzily in the saddle. he made no pretense of guiding the captain. he merely sagged forward and felt the horse lunge and plunge and climb with him, heard the rasping breath that seemed to come from a torn throat. below and behind, the trailers swept from moonlight into shadow, horses wallowing as though that hard road were in deep mud, so great was the race that the stallion, spent though he might be, had given them. rhues was ahead, revolver held higher than before, matson's pony at his flank and julio a dozen lengths behind. bridle reins, knotted, hung loosely on their horses' necks; the three left hands rose and fell and quirts swished viciously through the night air. "we got to close in!" rhues cried. "we'll have him 'n a mile!" and he called down on the heads of the horses awful imprecations for their weakness. on into the darkness they stormed, julio trailing. and when rhues had passed by fifty yards the point where the captain had turned to take the steep climb the mexican opened his throat in a cry, half of fright, half of exultation. the captain, almost at the end of his climb, leaping from rise to rise, had missed his footing. the soft earth slid as he jumped for a ledge of rock, and the front feet, coming down on the smooth surface in frantic clawing to prevent a fall, sent fire streaming from their shoes. in the darkness julio had seen the orange sparks. at his cry the others set their ponies back on haunches and, following the mexican, who now led, cursing vb and their weakening mounts, they commenced the climb. vb knew. the flash from the stallion's feet had roused him; he heard the shout; he knew what must follow. he gave no heed to the bullet which bored the air above him as he was silhouetted for the instant against moonlit space before he commenced the drop to the road leading up sand creek. where now? with a sigh which ended in a quick choking, as though he were through, ready to give up this ghost of a chance, ready to quit struggling on, the captain dropped from the last little rim and turned into the road. not on ahead--into that void where they could ride him down. not back toward ranger, for it was impossibly far. where then? what was there? sand creek! and up sand creek was dick worth's! vb caught his breath in a sob. it was the one goal open to him, though the odds were crushing. he pressed the money belt tightly. dick worth was the man who should have that--dick worth, deputy sheriff! he lifted his voice and cried aloud the name of the deputy. to the north once more the captain headed, and with no word from vb took up the floundering way again. the boy looked behind and saw the others commence the drop down the moonlit point--saw one of the blurs slump quickly and heard a man scream. then he leaned low on the stallion and talked to the horse as he would talk to a child who could pilot him to safety. behind him, along the road, came the blot again, now, however, smaller. vb did not know that it was julio who had fallen, but he knew with a fierce delight that the captain, running on his bare spirit, had killed off one of the pursuers! the boy grew hysterical. he chattered to the stallion, knowing nothing of the words he uttered. at times his lips moved but uttered no sound. continually his hands sought his breast. he knew from the dampness that crept down his side, on down into the trouser leg, that the wound still bled, that his life was running out through the gash. through the clamoring of his heart a familiar ache came into his throat, and the boy lifted his voice into the night with a rant of rage, of self-denunciation. "oh, captain! you were the price!" he moaned. but still he wanted--just one drink! not to satisfy that craving now, but to keep him alive, a legitimate use for stimulant. the stallion ceased pretense of galloping. now and then he even dropped from his uncertain trotting to a walk. vb, watching behind, could just make out those other travelers in the light of the low-hanging moon which seemed to balance on the ragged horizon and linger for sight of the finish of this grim drama worked out in the lonely stretches. as the horse stumbled more and more frequently under him vb knew that those who pressed him were coming closer. then a flash of flame and a bullet spattered itself against a rock ahead and to the right. "they're closer, captain!" he muttered grimly. "the game's going against us--against you. i'm too much of a burden--too much weight." his mind seized upon the aimless words. the suddenness of his shifting in the saddle made the stallion stagger, for vb's whole weight went into the right stirrup. he drew the other up with fiendish tinges shooting through his breast and tore at the cinch. it came loose. the saddle turned. vb flung his arms about the captain's neck and kicked it from under him. "fifty pounds gone!" he muttered triumphantly, and the horse tossed his head, quickening the trot, trying once again the heavy gallop. vb could hear the horse breathing through his mouth. he looked down and saw that the long tongue flopped from the lips with every movement of the fine head. tears came to his eyes as he caressed the captain's withers frantically. "can i do more, boy?" he asked in a strained voice. "can i do more?" it was as though he pleaded with a dying human. "yes, i can do more!" he cried a moment later in answer to his own question. "you've given your whole to me; now i'll give you back your freedom, make you as free as you were the day i took you. i'll strip you, boy!" he reached far out along the neck, drawing his weight up on the withers, and loosed the head-stall. the bridle fell into the road and the captain ran naked! and, as though to show his gratitude, the horse shook his head groggily and reeled on in his crazy progress. a half mile farther on the captain fell. vb went down heavily and mounted the waiting horse again in a daze--from which he was roused by the fresh gushing on his breast. another shot from behind--then two close together. dawn was coming. he looked around vaguely. the moon was slipping away. perhaps yet it would be in at the finish. the shimmering light of new day was taking from objects their ghostly quality; making them real. the men behind could see vb--and they were firing! the boy said no word to the captain. he merely clamped his knees tighter and leaned lower on his neck. he had ceased to think, ceased to struggle. his trust, his life, was in the shaking legs of the animal he rode, whose sweat soaked through his clothing to mingle with the blood there. the stallion breathed in great moaning sobs, as though his heart were bursting, as though his lungs were raw and bleeding. he reeled from side to side crazily. now and then he ran out of the road and floundered blindly back. his head hung low, almost to his knees, and swung from side to side with each step, and at intervals he raised it as though it were a great weight, to gasp--and to sob! from behind, bullets. rhues and matson fired grimly. they had ceased to lash their ponies, for it was useless. the beasts were beyond giving better service in return for punishment. their sides dripped blood, but they were beyond suffering. handicapped as he had been, the captain had held them off, almost stride for stride. better light now, but their shooting could not hope to find a mark except through chance. they cursed in glad snarls as they saw the stallion reel, sink to his knees; then snarled again as they saw him recover and go on at his drunken trot. before vb's eyes floated a blotch of color. it was golden, a diffused light that comforted him; that, for some incomprehensible reason, was soothing to the senses. it eased the wound, too, and put new strength in his heart so that he could feel the warm blood seeping slowly into his numb arms and hands and fingers. he smiled foolishly and hugged the captain's neck as the horse reeled along. oh, it was a glorious color! he remembered the day he had seen a little patch of it scudding along the roadway in the sunshine. why, it had seemed like concentrated sunshine itself. "gail," he murmured. "it was you--i didn't want to put--that mark--on you!" the nature of that color became clear to him and he roused himself. it was a light--a light in a window--the window of a ranch house--dick worth's ranch house! bullets had ceased to zip and sing and spatter. he did not turn to see what had become of his pursuers, for he was capable of only one thought at a time. "dick worth! dick worth!" he screamed. then he looked behind. away to the left he saw two riders pushing through the dawn, détouring. and he laughed, almost gayly. another blotch of light, a bigger one, showed in the young day. it was an opened door, and a deep chest gave forth an answer to his cry. dick worth stepped from the threshold of his home and ran to the gate to see better this crazy figure which lurched toward him. it was a man on foot, hatless, his face gray like the sky above, hair tousled, eyes glowing red. he stumbled to the fence and leaned there for support, holding something forward, something limp and bloodstained. "dick--it's kelly's money belt--rhues--he killed him-- he shot me--he's got the money--on him--he's swinging off west--two of 'em-- their horses are--all in-- he--he shot kelly because--i wouldn't take--a drink--he--and i need--a--drink--" he slumped down against the fence. after an uncertain age vb swam back from that mental vacuity to reality. he saw, first, that the captain was beside him, standing there breathing loudly, eyes closed, sobbing low at every heave of his lungs. a quavering moan made its way to the boy's throat and he moved over, reaching out groping arms for the stallion's lowered head. "captain!" he moaned. "oh, boy--it was our last ride--i can never--ask you to carry me--again." he hugged the face closer to his. then he heard a man's voice saying: "here, vb, take this--it'll brace you up!" he turned his face slowly, for the strength that remained was far from certain. his wound was on fire, every nerve of his body laid bare. his will to do began and ended with wanting to hold that horse's head close. he was as a child, stripped of every effect that the experiences of his life could have had. he was weak, broken, unwittingly searching for a way back to strength. he turned his head halfway and beheld the man stooping beside him who held in his hands a bottle, uncorked, and from it came a strong odor. the boy dilated his nostrils and drew great breaths laden with the fumes of the stuff. a new life came into his eyes. they shone, they sparkled. activity came to those bare nerves, and they raised their demands. he opened his mouth and let the odor he inhaled play across that place in his throat. the smell went on out through his arteries, through his veins, along the nerves to the ends of his being, to the core of his soul! he was down, down in the depths, his very ego crying for the stimulant, for something to help it come back. he coaxed along that yearning, let it rise to its fullest. then he raised his eyes to meet the concerned gaze of the other man. and the man saw in those eyes a look that made him sway back, that made him open his lips in surprise. "to hell with that stuff!" the boy screamed. "to hell with it! to hell--_to hell!_ it belongs there! it--it killed the captain!" tears came with the sobs, and strength to the arms that held the stallion's head; strength that surged through his entire body, stilling those nerves, throttling the crying of his throat. for vb had gone down to his test, his real ordeal, and had found himself not wanting. chapter xxv "the light!" jed avery sat alone. it was night, a moonlight night in colorado, the whole world bathed in a cold radiance that conduces to dreams and fantasies. but as he sat alone jed's mind wove no light reveries. far from it, indeed. he was sodden in spirit, weakened in nerve. he rested his body on the edge of a chair seat and leaned far forward, elbows on his knees. his fingers twined continually, and on occasion one fist hammered the palm of the other hand. "you old fool!" he whispered. "you old fool! now, if he's gone--" for twenty-four hours he had not dared frame the words. he lifted his eyes to the window, and against the moonlight stood a bottle, its outlines distorted by incrustings of tallow. no candle was in its neck. there was only the bottle. after a time the old man got up and paced the floor, three steps each way from the splotch of moonlight that came through the window. he had been walking that way for a night and a day--and now it was another night. while it was daylight he had walked outside, eyes ever on the road, hoping, fearing. and no one had come! now, as the night wore on and the boy did not return, jed's condition bordered on distraction. his pacing became faster and more fast. he lengthened the limits of his walk to those of the room, and finally in desperation jerked open the door to walk outside. but he did not leave the threshold. two figures, a man and a horse, coming up the road held him as though robbed of the will to move. he stood and stared, breathing irregularly. the man, who walked ahead, made his way slowly toward the gate. he was followed by the horse, followed as a dog might follow, for not so much as a strap was on the animal. the man's movements were painful, those of the horse deliberate. jed knew both those figures too well to be mistaken, even though his sight dimmed. he wanted to cry out, but dared not. one question alone crowded to get past his teeth. the answer would mean supremest joy or sorrow. fear of the latter held him mute. the man unfastened the gate and let it swing open. "come, boy," he said gently, and the big animal stepped inside. with the same slow movements again, the man closed the bars. jed stood silent. a coyote high on the hills lifted his voice in a thin yapping, and the sound made old vb shiver. the boy came slowly toward the house. he saw jed, but gave no sign, nor did the old man move. he stood there, eyes on the other in a misted stare, and vb stopped before him, putting a hand against the wall for support. then came the question, popping its way through unwilling, tight lips: "shall i light th' candle, young vb?" his voice was shrill, strained, vibrant with anxiety. but vb did not answer--merely lifted a hand to his hot head. "vb, when you left last night th' candle dropped down into th' bottle an' went out. i didn't dare light a new one to-night--" his voice broke, and he paused a moment. "i didn't dare light it until i knowed. i've been settin' in th' dark here, thinkin' things--tryin' not to think dark things." one hand went halfway to his mouth in fear as he waited for the other to answer. vb put a hand on jed's shoulder, and the old man clamped his cold fingers over it desperately. "yes, jed--light it," he said huskily. then he raised his head and looked at the old man with a half smile. "light it, jed. let it burn on and on, just for the sake of being bright. but we--we don't need it any more. not for the old reason, jed." the cold hand twitched as it gripped the hot one. "not for the old reason, jed," vb continued. "there's a bigger, better, truer light burning now. it won't slip into the bottle; it can't be blown out. it didn't waver when the true crisis came. it'll always burn; it won't slip down into the bottle. it's--it's the real thing." he staggered forward, and jed caught him, sobbing like a woman, a happy woman. they had the whole story over then by the light of a fresh candle. when jed started forward with a cry at the recital of the shooting vb pushed him off. "it's only a flesh wound; it don't matter--much. mrs. worth dressed it, and i'm all right. it's the captain i want to tell about--the captain, jed!" and he told it all, in short, choking sentences, stripping his soul naked for the little rancher. he did not spare himself, not one lone lash. he ended, crushed and bleeding before the eyes of his friend. after a pause he straightened back in his chair, the new fire in his eyes, the fire the man at worth's had seen when he offered drink. "but i've got to make it up to the captain now," he said with a wild little laugh. "i've got to go on. he gave me the chance. he took me into blackness, into the test i needed, and brought me back to light. i've got to be a man, jed--a man--" and throughout the night jed avery tended the wound and watched and muttered--with joy in his heart. morning came, with quieted nerves for vb. he lay in the bunk, weak, immobile. jed came in from tending the horses. "he didn't bleed, did he, vb?" "no." "it ain't what you thought, sonny. it ain't bad. give him a rest an' he'll be better'n ever. why, he's out there now, head up, whisperin' for you! you can't break a spirit like his unless you tear his vitals out!" vb smiled, and the smile swelled to a laugh. "oh, jed, it makes me so happy! but it won't be as it was. i can never let him carry me again." the old man turned on the boy a puzzled look. "what you goin' to do with him, vb--turn him loose again?" "not that, jed; he wouldn't be happy. he'll never carry me again, but perhaps--perhaps he could carry a light rider--a girl--a woman." and from jed: "oh-o-o-o!" an interval of silence. "that is," muttered vb, "if she'll take him, and--" "would you want him away from you?" the old man insisted. "oh, i hope it won't be that, jed! i hope not--but i want her to-- you understand. jed? you understand?" the other nodded his head, a look of grave tenderness in the old eyes. "then--then, jed, i'm all right. i can get along alone. would you mind riding over and--asking her if she'd come-- "you see, jed, i know now. i didn't before--i'm sure it's worth the candle--and there'll be no more darkness; no lasting night for her if--" jed walked slowly out into the other room and picked up his spurs. vb heard him strap them on, heard his boots stamp across the floor and stop. "i'd go, vb, but it ain't necessary." the boy raised his head, and to his ears came the bellow of a high-powered motor, the sound growing more distinct with each passing second. "lord, how that woman's drivin'!" jed cried. "lordy!" and he ran from the house. the bellow of the motor rose to a sound like batteries of gatlings in action; then came the wail of brakes. with a pulsing thrill vb heard her voice upraised--with such a thrill that he did not catch the dread in her tone as she questioned jed. she came to him swiftly, eyes dimmed with tears, without words, and knelt by his bunk, hands clasped about his head. for many minutes they were so, vb gripping her fine, firm forearms. then she raised her face high. "and you wouldn't let me help?" she asked querulously. he looked at her long and soberly, and took both her hands in his. "it was the one place you couldn't help," he muttered. "it was that sort--my love, i mean. i had to know; had to know that i wouldn't put a hateful mark on you by loving. i had to know that. don't you see?" she moved closer and came between him and the sunshine that poured through the open door. the glorious light was caught by her hair and thrown, it seemed, to the veriest corners of the dingy little room. "the light!" he cried. she settled against him, her lips on his, and clung so. from outside came the shrilling call of the captain. vb crushed her closer. chapter xxvi to the victor up the flagged walk to the house of chill, white stone overlooking the north river went a messenger, and through the imposing front portal he handed a letter, hidden away in a sheaf of others. a modest-appearing letter; indeed, perhaps something less than modest; possibly humble, for its corners were crumpled and its edges frayed. yet, of all the packages handed him, daniel lenox, alone at his breakfast, singled it out for the earliest attention. and what he read was this: dear father: in my last letter--written ten years ago, it seems--i promised to tell you my whereabouts when i had achieved certain ends. i now write to tell you that i am at the thorpe ranch, one hundred and thirty miles northwest of colt, colorado, the nearest railroad point. i can inform you of this now because i have won my fight against the thing which would have stripped me of my manhood. and i want to make clear the point that it was you, father, who showed me the way, who made me realize to what depths i had gone. i am very humble, for i know the powers that rule men. when i left new york there was little in me to interest you, but i am making bold enough to tell you of the greatest thing in my life. i have won the love of a good woman. we are to be married here the twentieth, and some day i will want to bring her east with me. i hope you will want to see her. your son, danny. while the hand of the big clock made a quarter circle the man sat inert in his chair; limp, weak in body, spirit, and mind, whipped by the bitterest lashes that human mind can conjure. then he raised his chin from his breast and rested his head against the back of the chair, while his hands hung loose at his sides. his lips moved. "hope--you will want to see her," he repeated in a whisper. a pause, and again words: "he wouldn't even ask me--wouldn't dream i wanted to--be there!" an old man, you would have said, old and broken. the snap, the precision that had been his outstanding characteristic, was gone. but not for long. the change came before the whispering had well died; the lines of purpose, of decision, returned to his face, his arms ceased to hang limp, the look in the eyes--none the less warm--became definite, focused. suddenly daniel lenox sat erect and raised the letter to the light once more. "the twentieth!" he muttered. "and this is--" another train fumed at the distances, left cities behind, and crawled on across prairies to mountain ranges. as it progressed, dispatchers, one after another, sat farther forward in their chairs and the alert keenness of their expression grew a trifle sharper. for the lenox special, new york to colt, colorado, invited disaster with every mile of its frantic rush across country. freights, passenger trains, even the widely advertised limiteds, edged off the tracks to let it shriek on unhampered. in the swaying private car sat the man who had caused all this disarray of otherwise neat schedules. at regular, short intervals his hand traveled to watch-pocket and his blue eyes scrutinized the dial of his timepiece as though to detect a lie in the sharp, frank characters. in the other hand, much of the time, were held sheets of limp paper. they had been folded and smoothed out again so many times and, though he was an old man and one who thought mostly in figures, fondled so much, that the ink on them was all but obliterated in places. he read and reread what was written there as the train tore over the miles, and as he read the great warmth came back to his eyes. with it, at times, a fear came. when fear was there, he tugged at his watch again. up grades, through cañons, the special roared its way. at every stop telegrams zitted ahead, and hours before the train was due an automobile waited by the depot platform at colt. daniel lenox heeded not the enthusiastic train-men who held watches and calculated the broken record as brakes screamed down and the race by rail ended. bag in hand, he strode across the cinder platform and entered the waiting automobile, without a single glance for the group that looked at him wonderingly. "you know the way to the thorpe ranch?" he asked the driver of the car. "like a book!" "can you drive all night?" "i can." "good! we must be there as early to-morrow as possible." and ten minutes before noon the next day the heavy-eyed driver threw out his clutch and slowed the car to a stop before the s bar s ranch house. saddled horses were there, a score of them standing with bridle reins down. sounds of lifted voices came from the house, quickly lulled as an exclamation turned attention on the arrival. from the ample door came a figure--tall and lean, well poised, shoulders square, feet firm on the ground. pale, true, but surely returning strength was evidenced in his very bearing. vb's lips moved. his father, halfway to him, stopped. "dad!" "am i on time?" queried the older man. "_dad!_" with a cry the boy was up on him, grasping both hands in his. "i didn't--dare hope you'd want--dad, it makes me so--" the other looked almost fiercely into the boy's face, clinging to the hands that clutched his, shaking them tremblingly now and then. the penetrating blue eyes searched out every line in the boy's countenance, and the look in them grew to be such as vb had never seen before. "did you think i'd stay back there in new york and let you do all this alone? did you think i wouldn't come on, in time if i could, and tell you how ashamed i am to have ever doubted you, my own blood, how mean a thing was that which i thought was faith?" his gaze went from vb to gail, coming toward him clad all in simple white, flushing slightly as she extended her hand. he turned to her, took the hand, and looked deep into her big eyes. he tried to speak, but words would not come and he shook his head to drive back the choking emotion. "bless you!" he finally muttered. "bless you both. you're a man--danny. and you--" his voice failed again and he could only remain mute, stroking the girl's hand. then jed came up and greeted the newcomer silently, a bit grimly, as though he had just forgiven him something. "come over here, you three," said vb, and led them over to where two horses stood together. one was the bay the boy had ridden that afternoon he charged down the ridge to make the great stallion his, and beside him, towering, head up, alert, regally self-conscious, stood the captain. the bay bore vb's saddle. on the captain's back perched one of smaller tree, silver mounted and hand tooled, with stirrups that were much too short for a man. they looked the great horse over silently, moving about him slowly, and danny pointed out his fine physical qualities to his father. a rattling of wheels attracted them and they looked up to see a team of free-stepping horses swing toward them, drawing a light buckboard. the vehicle stopped and from it stepped a man in the clothing of a clergyman. "he's here, vb," jed muttered. "to be sure, an' he's got his rope down, too. th' iron's hot; th' corral gate's open and he's goin' to head you in. 't ain't often you see such a pair of high-strung critters goin' in so plumb docile, mister lenox!" and from the corner of his eye he saw the man beside him wipe his hand across his cheek, as though to brush something away. the captain pawed the ground sharply. then he lifted his head high, drew a great breath, and peered steadily off toward the distant ridges, eagerly, confidently, as though he knew that much waited--out yonder.