t 
 
 ^t * 
 
 ^sT I 
 
 W-H-FITCHETT
 
 [HE 1 IBRARY 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CAL [FORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR
 
 YOU SHOULD HAVE CLEARED WHKN I TOLD YOU.'
 
 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 BY 
 
 W. H. FITCHETT, B.A, LL.D. 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 DEEDS THAT WON THE EMPIRE*; 'HOW ENGLAND SAVED EUROPE* 
 
 'THE COMMANDER OF THE HIRONDELLE'; 'THE UNREALIZED 
 
 LOGIC OF RELIGION, ETC., ETC. 
 
 Ithuriel with his spear 
 
 Touched lightly; for no falsehood can endure 
 Touch of celestial temper. 
 
 Paradise Lost 
 
 Life ia the true Ithuriel's spear. 
 
 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOK. 
 
 J0B00H 
 
 CHARLES H. KELLY 
 
 2 CASTLE STREET, CITY ROAD, AND 26 PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C,
 
 PRINTED BY 
 
 HAZELL, WATSON AND VINEY, LD., 
 LONDON AND AYLESBURY.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAP. PAGE 
 
 I. THE TALK ON THE BRIDGE .... I 
 
 II. ALARMS AMONGST THE ORTHODOX ... 9 
 
 III. A PLATFORM DUEL . . . . . .21 
 
 IV. KATE ARDEN . 32 
 
 V. KATE AND CECIL 39 
 
 VI. A HAPLESS SUITOR 45 
 
 VII. DRUNKEN LOGIC 55 
 
 VIII. A DEFEAT ........ 66 
 
 IX. MYRTLE 76 
 
 X. SLIPPERY PLACES 85 
 
 XI. A THEOLOGICAL ROUND-TABLE .... 93 
 
 XII. A THEOLOGICAL ROUND-TABLE (c0nt.) . . IO2 
 
 XIII. A CREED AT WORK 113 
 
 XIV. HOW IT WORKED . . . . . .121 
 
 XV. AN EXPERIMENT IN YOUTH . . . . 134 
 
 XVI. WHY IT FAILED J 43 
 
 XVII. A MODERN MIRACLE 150 
 
 XVIII. THEOLOGY IN FLOWERS 158 
 
 555321
 
 vi CONTENTS 
 
 CHAP. PAGE 
 
 XIX. THE WRECK . 169 
 
 XX. NIGHT AND SEA 183 
 
 XXI. THE BURGLARY . . . . . . IQI 
 
 XXII. KIT AND THE POLICE ..... 2OO 
 
 xxin. KATE'S CRUELTY . -. . . . .210 
 
 XXIV. THE LOGIC OF A BAD CREED . . . .223 
 
 XXV. AT SEA . 234 
 
 XXVI. THE PRICK OF GOD'S SPEAR .... 250 
 
 XXVII. ON TALANA HILL 260 
 
 XXVIII. A PERILOUS MARCH 277 
 
 XXIX. ONE AGAINST SIX 287 
 
 XXX. FOR A COMRADE , 297 
 
 XXXI. MR. GIFFORD ON HIS TRIAL .... 306 
 
 xxxii. MR. GIFFORD'S LAST LECTURE . . .318 
 
 XXXIII. CHRIST AND THE BROKEN-HEARTED . . 326 
 
 XXXIV. EXIT MR. CREAKLES 337 
 
 XXXV. THE CONFESSION 350 
 
 XXXVI. WAGON HILL 360 
 
 XXXVII. DEUS NON IRR1DETUR . . . ', . . 377 
 
 XXXVIII. HOW THE SIEGE ENDED .... 394 
 
 XXXIX. HOW KIT CAME BACK 403 
 
 XL. IN THE WRECK OF A CREED . . . .413 
 
 XLI. THE SECRET OF CERTAINTY . . , . 421 
 
 XLII. TWO LIVES , , 429
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 'YOU SHOULD HAVE CLEARED WHEN I TOLD YOU 1 . . Frontispiece 
 
 FACING PAGE 
 1 JESUS CHRIST IS NO DREAM," SAID KIT STEADILY .... 6 
 
 ' WHY PUNISH ME," HE ASKED, ' FOR MY UNBELIEF ? ' . -43 
 
 HE PUT HIS STRONG HAND ON THE OLD MAN'S SHOULDER AND 
 
 PUSHED HIM FIERCELY BACK 178 
 
 ' YOU ARREST ME,' HE CRIED PASSIONATELY 2OI 
 
 ' YOU ARE A LITTLE BIT OF COOL ENGLAND, KIT ' . . . . 260 
 
 'i AM A THIEF' > 355 
 
 ' i DIDN'T UNDERSTAND MYSELF WHEN i SENT YOU AWAY ' . . 435
 
 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 THE TALK ON THE BRIDGE 
 
 ' AFTER all,' said one of the three, ' it is an ugly creed, 
 and as cruel as it is ugly.' 
 
 * But, Smears, old fellow,' replied a second figure in 
 the group, ' you can't resist its logic.' 
 
 ' No, Cecil,' sighed Smears, ' I can't, and that's the 
 cruelty of it' 
 
 ' But I do,' said a third, with emphasis. * I say it's all 
 a wisp of rhetorical fog. A ray of sunshine scatters it ! 
 There's no logic in it. It is easy to unsettle things, to 
 sneer at things, to talk windy generalities about things. 
 But the world is built on Christianity. It is unintelligible 
 without it. It would come to a stop if it vanished.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said Cecil, ' we know you are a regular old 
 stickfast, Kit, as stubborn as they make them. But 
 I keep an open mind, and accept truth in whatever 
 shape it comes. The question is not whether a creed 
 is " ugly " or " cruel," but whether it's true.' 
 
 The three young fellows stood on the bridge, the 
 dark, mysterious, sliding waters below them filling the 
 air with a murmurous chant, a soft, whispering recitative 
 
 I
 
 2 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 that rose and sank in response to a thousand vagrant 
 air-eddies. Above, the full moon flooded the wide, 
 deep heavens with its light. The flying white clouds 
 gave the sky a curiously peopled look. There was life 
 in the deep blue spaces. The heavens were busy ; the 
 earth, white in the moonlight, was still and unbreathing. 
 It was Sunday evening. The churches had long since 
 emptied themselves ; the worshippers had gone home ; 
 the streets had grown silent again. The three young 
 fellows who stood leaning on the parapet of the bridge 
 had listened that night to the most successful of 
 Mr. Gifford's lectures, one of a series on ' The Religion of 
 a Sensible Man,' which he was just then delivering in 
 Middleford on behalf of the local Freethought Associa- 
 tion. He had in eager, triumphant accents proclaimed 
 the non-historic character of Christianity, and the un- 
 scientific quality of its teaching. The universe, he 
 argued, was a web of impersonal forces. It emerged 
 from mystery. It was clad in mystery. It was 
 hastening into mystery. No explanation of it was 
 possible. No Divine Maker was visible, still less any 
 Divine Father. The earth was but an atom, wandering 
 in measureless space. Man was an unregarded speck 
 upon this unguided atom. Measured against the stellar 
 spaces, he was a speck of even infinitesimal scale, to 
 express whose insignificance was a feat which left 
 arithmetic itself bankrupt. Then, by way of peroration, 
 Mr. Gifford quoted, in his deep and thrilling voice, and 
 with overwhelming effect, those melancholy stanzas 
 from the ' City of Dreadful Night,' in which despair is 
 heard singing : 
 
 The world rolls round for ever like a mill ; 
 It grinds out death and life and good and ill; 
 It has no purpose, heart or mind or will.
 
 'JESUS CHRIST IS NO DREAM, SAID KIT STEADILY.
 
 THE TALK ON THE BRIDGE 3 
 
 While air of Space and Time's full river flow, 
 The mill must blindly whirl unresting so : 
 It may be wearing out, but who can know? 
 
 The three young fellows had strolled together after 
 the lecture with that happy faculty for comradeship, 
 and for debate on all subjects in heaven and earth, 
 which is the gift of youth to their favourite place 
 of gossip, the bridge. A curious silence presently fell 
 upon them. The glow of the lecturer's eloquence faded, 
 the music of his voice ceased to chime in their ears. 
 Somehow the ordered majesty of the silent yet moving 
 heavens above them, and the white purity of its light, 
 and even the message of the river, whispering un- 
 seen in the darkness below them plaintive as was 
 its key seemed in odd discord with Mr. Gifford's 
 lecture. 
 
 Presently Smears broke the silence, as we have heard, 
 with the abrupt words, ' It's an ugly creed, and as 
 cruel as it's ugly.' 
 
 Smears or, to give him his proper name Claude 
 Meares, was a tall and slight-built figure, with a head 
 that seemed like a heavy flower on a too slender stalk. 
 He had a curiously sensitive mouth, and pensive yet 
 questioning eyes. It was a lovable face, with an aspect 
 at once of frailty and of brooding, half-melancholy 
 thought, which made all motherly women eager to take 
 charge of him. His father had died early ; his mother, 
 a sad-faced woman, who loved her child with an 
 almost morbid affection, had kept him by her side, 
 and he had grown up under the shadow of her sorrow. 
 He had never known the tonic of school-life, with its 
 friendships, its feuds, its eager competitions, its joy in 
 physical contests. He early showed rare promise as 
 an artist, and so had won from the few chums of his
 
 4 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 own age the jesting yet affectionate sobriquet of 
 ' Smears.' 
 
 His mother's death left him alone in the world ; his 
 own broken health arrested his studies. He had a 
 keen religious sense, but his religion had its roots rather 
 in half-melancholy sentiment than in reasoned and 
 spiritual conviction. And Mr. Gifford's rhetoric took 
 his imagination captive. Smears, under the music of 
 that matchless voice, and caught in the sweep of its 
 hurrying but misty eloquence, felt as if there were 
 poured into his blood, into the very cells of his brain, 
 the intoxication of a sortOaf divine hachish. 
 
 But the sensation was brief. The ferment in his 
 blood and brain grew chill ; a mental reaction followed, 
 and poor Smears was awaking to the disquieting 
 consciousness that his early creed had disappeared, 
 and another of very unsatisfactory quality had taken its 
 place. 
 
 Cecil Sparks was much the most notable figure of 
 the three, with keen face, hair as dark as a raven's 
 wing, restless eyes, and a smile which, as it revealed 
 the level white teeth, swept over his dark features with 
 the effect of a sudden and dazzling flash of light. His 
 charm, however, was chiefly one of manner. He had 
 a soft voice, an exquisite tact, and a caressing grace 
 of manner, signs which, as John Henry Newman, with 
 a gleam of uncomfortable and wizardlike insight, says 
 are not seldom hints of a sensual temper. 
 
 ' Old Stubborn,' as Christopher or ' Kit ' Somers 
 was called, was the least striking figure in the group 
 on the bridge. No one would have called him hand- 
 some. He was square-shouldered, square-headed, with 
 fair hair that ran in a wave above his forehead, and 
 honest grey eyes. A famous runner, a fine cricketer,
 
 THE TALK ON THE BRIDGE 5 
 
 with an unconquerable honesty and good temper, he 
 had been the hero of his school, though he had not 
 carried off any great scholastic prizes. He was now 
 a mining engineer, a vocation in which his practical 
 gifts promised success, but he still kept the frank and 
 simple good nature of the schoolboy, though his open 
 face and square chin showed he possessed the strength 
 of a man. Kit, in fact, was cool and level-headed, and 
 religion in him was something better than even a 
 reasoned conviction. It was a verified experience. 
 Words, no matter how sonorous, counted for little with 
 Kit, and he was quite unmoved by Mr. Gifford's most 
 eloquent passages. 
 
 He broke in with serious protest on the talk of his 
 chums, as they loitered on the bridge ; but quite in 
 vain. Cecil accepted his new creed with a sense of 
 exhilaration ; Smears with a sigh ; but both accepted it. 
 
 ' It will kill my art,' said Smears, as he stared at the 
 dim river, a mere flow of softly vocal blackness. ' What 
 room is there in the world for art ? We are only 
 meaningless atoms in the river, as idle as atoms, and 
 gone as swiftly.' 
 
 ' But why should it kill your art ? ' inquired Cecil. 
 ' The world is still beautiful.' 
 
 ' No,' cried Smears energetically, ' no ! The glory 
 has gone from the sunset, the message from the stars, 
 the meaning from the flowers. There is no soul in it 
 all. It's a machine and a brainless machine at that ; 
 though I suppose a brain has shaped it. Love has 
 slipped out of it. So long as I saw God in it the 
 universe meant something ; it taught me something. 
 There was Love behind it all, no matter how hidden. 
 But what am I to the universe ? No more than a 
 drop to the river. And what does the river know of
 
 
 6 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 the drop, or care for it.' And his lips murmured the 
 stanzas Mr. Gifford had quoted : 
 
 While air of Space and Time's full river flow, 
 The mill must blindly whirl unresting so. 
 
 ' Is that what the river is singing ? I don't call 
 such a message music. The life has died out of the 
 face of the universe. Why should I paint a dead 
 face ? I accept it. Yes ! you dear old " Stubborn," 
 it's no use living in a dream. But alas for the dream 
 that has gone 1 ' 
 
 'Jesus Christ is no dream,' said Kit steadily; 'God 
 is no dream. Didn't the poet who wrote the " City of 
 Dreadful Night " commit suicide afterwards as a 
 comment on his own poem ? I'll put Tennyson against 
 your melancholy Thomson. Don't you remember : 
 
 1 Closer is He than breathing ; nearer than hands or feet' 
 
 ' It's a poor business setting poet against poet,' 
 cried Cecil. ' What do they know about the matter ? 
 For my part I stick to prose ; the sober prose of facts 
 and of science.' 
 
 ' But,' answered Kit, ' Mr. Gifford's science is wrong, 
 as well as his poetry. I know enough to know that. 
 My university work taught me it. All science has, 
 at its root, an act of faith. The physical is only a 
 veil behind which the spiritual hides, or an instrument 
 for the spiritual to use. You leave out half the 
 universe and its noblest half if you reject, as he 
 does, the spiritual.' 
 
 ' And where does your science,' demanded Cecil, 
 ' discover the spiritual ? ' 
 
 ' How do you hear the river ? ' asked Kit. ' What's 
 the process in terms of science? The air waves set
 
 THE TALK ON THE BRIDGE 7 
 
 the membranes in the ear vibrating ; the physical 
 vibration runs along the nerve to the brain. There 
 it vanishes into mystery ; it emerges, somehow, in our 
 consciousness, translated into non-physical terms, into 
 the idea of flowing water. The physical vibration is 
 nothing ; the non-physical idea is everything, and 
 we only receive it by a process of faith. It is an act 
 of faith in the veracity of the report brought in the 
 shape of nerve vibrations of our senses, by which 
 we know the river exists. And surely the spiritual 
 organs are as credible as the physical. So I know God 
 and Christ just as surely as I know light and colour 
 and gravitation.' 
 
 ' I didn't believe you capable of so much philosophy, 
 Kit,' commented Cecil jeeringly. ' But it doesn't 
 convince me.' 
 
 ' I'm afraid, Cecil,' said Kit gently, ' you don't par- 
 ticularly want to be convinced.' 
 
 'Well, I haven't the artist's brain, like Smears, and 
 I've not borrowed science from a university like you. 
 I've only the plain sense of the commercial mind. But 
 that enables me to see Mr. Gifford is right' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Smears. ' I love you, Kit, for your very 
 obstinacy, and I envy your faith ; but I, too, think 
 Mr. Gifford's argument is final. The very scale of 
 the universe disproves Christianity. The stage is too 
 big for us to pretend that the poor little drama of 
 our lives fills it. But, oh ! it's cruel ! I hate the 
 universe when I think of it as a huge, pitiless, uncon- 
 scious machine, that will grind me up like a little 
 grain of wheat, caught between the stones of a mill, 
 and not even know what it is doing.' 
 
 ' But I don't mean to be a grain of wheat, with no 
 other end but to be ground,' cried Cecil. ' I'll do the
 
 8 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 grinding. After all, the world is our tool. We can 
 master it and use it. It's common sense to stick to 
 realities ; and so I vote with Mr. Gifford. But pleasure 
 is real ; and money is real ; and life is real, and I 
 don't see why I shouldn't have a good time all the 
 better, indeed, for what Mr. Gifford has taught me.' 
 
 ' But a " good time " doesn't lie that way,' said Kit, 
 ' in pleasure and money ; in a life that will end at 
 the coffin-lid.' 
 
 ' Well, I'll risk it,' replied Cecil. ' It's good enough 
 for me.' 
 
 ' It's not good enough for me,' said Smears, with a 
 sigh ; ' I feel like one who has been reading a 
 wonderful poem. Suddenly the letters all fade, and he 
 is left staring at a blank page.' 
 
 ' Then write your own characters on the blank page,' 
 laughed Cecil, ' and make them pleasant ones.' 
 
 ' Cecil,' said Smears again, after a pause, ' this is all 
 very well ; but what about Kate Arden ? ' And with 
 that question an odd silence fell on the group.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 ALARMS AMONGST THE ORTHODOX 
 
 'SOMETHING must certainlybe done,' said Mr. Sawders, 
 the Congregational minister, meditatively to his fellow 
 committee-men. Mr. Sawders was commonly known 
 as ' Sawdust ' amongst the more frivolous, on account 
 of the alleged dryness of his discourses. 
 
 A few ministers and influential laymen had lingered, 
 after a meeting of the committee of the Middleford 
 Literary Institute, to talk over the movement which was 
 disquieting all the orthodox sentiment of the town. 
 
 ' Our select class of young men,' said, in rueful tones, 
 Mr. Jevons, the superintendent of the largest Sunday 
 school in the town, ' is half deserted.' 
 
 'Our Association is shaken,' said Mr. Twitters, the 
 secretary of the Y.M.C.A., in accents as solemn as 
 though he had been reporting another Lisbon earth- 
 quake. 'The situation grows most serious. Our last 
 Wednesday evening's social did not pay expenses,' and 
 the little man's face grew pensive as he meditated on 
 this tragedy. 
 
 The local Freethought Association of Middleford 
 ordinarily carried on an unregarded warfare against 
 things in general, from an obscure concert-room, hired 
 for Sunday evening use. Mr. Stumps, its paid re- 
 presentative and champion, was a gentleman with a 
 
 9
 
 io ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 strident voice, irregular aspirates, a highly developed 
 gift for controversial rhetoric, and a convenient 
 ignorance of everything not to be found in the columns 
 of the Freethinker. His lectures on ' Moses and 
 Munchausen' evoked much noisy delight from limited 
 audiences, but the collections barely sufficed to pay 
 the rent of the dingy hall in which they were delivered, 
 and Mr. Stumps was usually engaged in shrill and angry 
 warfare with his own followers over the unpaid arrears 
 of his not too generous salary. This was a state of 
 things which allowed the orthodox churches of Middle- 
 ford to slumber in peace. 
 
 Suddenly a stroke of almost bewildering good fortune 
 befell the cause of Freethought in the town. Mr. Hobbs 
 was a retired brewer, afflicted at once with a despotic 
 temper, a gouty foot, and an ignorance of religion 
 which was almost pathetic in its completeness. He 
 alternately patronized and bullied the meek little 
 curate of St. Margaret's, the modest ivy-clad building 
 which Mr. Hobbs used to described as ' my church.' 
 But even a clerical worm will turn at last, if trodden 
 on too industriously. Mr. Hobbs wanted to dismiss 
 the entire choir of St. Margaret's for the somewhat 
 inadequate reason that the daughter of a leading 
 Rechabite had found a place in it. The soft-voiced 
 curate exhausted all his arts of half-feminine diplomacy 
 to escape a quarrel ; then, at last, taking his courage 
 in both hands, he told Mr. Hobbs, in trembling accents, 
 that the choir must remain. 
 
 That gentleman glared with inarticulate wrath at the 
 apologetic, black-coated little figure that yet dared to 
 resist his majestic will. A paroxysm of gout added new 
 fire to the fury of Mr. Hobbs. He would ruin,' he 
 bellowed, ' every church in Middleford ! ' He flung
 
 ALARMS AMONGST THE ORTHODOX II 
 
 himself into the hostile camp without reserve. Red- 
 faced and furious, he hobbled to the dingy rooms of 
 the Freethought Association ; and, to its astonished 
 secretary, Mr. Creakles, announced his intention to hire 
 the best tongue and brain Freethought could produce, 
 and start a crusade which should make every parson 
 in Middleford tremble in his clerical shoes. 
 
 'And hang all expense,' added Mr. Hobbs, with an 
 energy which made Mr. Creakles's eyes snap. 
 
 Yet another piece of good fortune at this point 
 overtook the delighted Mr. Creakles. A lecturer 
 was discovered who bore to the ordinary Freethought 
 orator, with shabby dress and doubtful antecedents, 
 the relation, say, a Derby winner bears to a broken- 
 kneed cab-horse. From the list of authorized Free- 
 thought lecturers Mr. Creakles chose its latest and most 
 promising recruit, Mr. Gifford. Mr. Stumps represented 
 mere fustian, not to say shoddy. To run a thread of 
 shining silk through the dingy web of Freethought oratory 
 would be a great feat, and Mr. Gifford was exactly the 
 artist to achieve this. He undertook to deliver a 
 series of Sunday evening lectures on ' The Religion of 
 a Sensible Man ' ; and when he walked out on the stage 
 of the local theatre, which had been engaged for his 
 use, although Middleford was unconscious of the 
 circumstance, a new force, destined to write a strange 
 page in its history, had made its appearance. 
 
 Mr. Gifford was still a young man, whose life, hitherto, 
 had been a series of unsatisfactory experiments. He 
 was himself a sort of unfulfilled prophecy. He had been 
 a bank clerk, a newspaper reporter, a minor a very 
 minor poet, a university student, the pastor of a Con- 
 gregational church ; and all this in almost breathless 
 succession. But though he attempted many vocations,
 
 12 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 so far he had succeeded in none. He was gently invited 
 to resign his not too elevated post in the bank on 
 account of the incurable vagueness of his arithmetic. 
 He ended his career as a reporter by plunging his editor 
 into a ruinous lawsuit. His modest volume of poems, 
 entitled A sure Gleams, had brought him neither cash 
 nor fame, but only a bitter quarrel with his publisher. 
 He brought his university career to a close without 
 taking a degree, and he ended his history as the pastor 
 of Hepzibah Chapel by renouncing it and Christianity 
 together. 
 
 Mr. Gifford became an ardent champion of a some- 
 what vague theological amalgam which he labelled 
 ' Freethought,' and he undeniably brought to it some 
 rare and fine qualities. He had the gift of eager, mag- 
 netic speech ; a fiery hate of shams, or of what he 
 thought to be shams ; a generous sympathy with dis- 
 credited causes ; a knowledge which, if loose, was wide ; 
 and a logic which, if not always in accordance with the 
 textbooks, was yet flushed with generous sentiment, 
 and so made effective for the crowd. Tall, slender, 
 black-browed, with rushing speech, sonorous voice, eager, 
 kindling eyes, and a certain picturesque knightliness of 
 carriage, he was exactly the figure to capture and sway 
 a mixed audience. His very look 
 
 Drew audience and attention still as night, 
 Or summer's noontide air. 
 
 He had married a wife of good family, whom even 
 the ladies of St. Michael's the very home of social and 
 religious conservatism admitted to be ' very nice, poor 
 thing.' 
 
 Altogether, Mr. Gifford was a very picturesque figure, 
 and his lectures proved a sensation. They half emptied
 
 ALARMS AMONGST THE ORTHODOX 13 
 
 'most of the not over-full churches of the town, and they 
 filled the columns of the local journal with correspon- 
 dence. Young men, especially, were captivated by the 
 ardent rhetoric of this new apostle of doubt. 
 
 His gospel, too, was of a fascinating quality. There 
 was in it no such thing as 'sin.' The very term was 
 unscientific. All healthy, natural instincts justified 
 themselves. ' Theology ' was a sort of Guy Fawkes, 
 fit only to be thumped a stuffed image, with solemn 
 mask, but wooden head and bowels of straw. Orthodox 
 religion was only a bundle of superstitions ; and, in Mr. 
 Gifford's rhetoric, ' superstition ' meant all those beliefs 
 reaching out of the unseen world, out of the realms 
 beyond man and Time, which put limits to human 
 passions, and link eternal consequences to human acts ; 
 the beliefs which open eternal horizons, and reveal God 
 sitting as Master and Judge in the circle of human life. 
 
 Science, Mr. Gifford contended, was the true revela- 
 tion ; utility the sole standard of action. Human nature 
 was intrinsically noble. Man knew, and could know, 
 no Being above himself. He owed account to nothing 
 outside himself. 
 
 Mr. Gifford had the happy art of appropriating what- 
 ever was attractive and plausible in other men's specula- 
 tions, and melting it down into a doctrinal syrup of his 
 own, with flavours which would have astonished the 
 original owner. His science owed much to Comte and 
 Haeckel, and something, though less, to Darwin. His 
 theology was borrowed from Herbert Spencer, and Mill, 
 and Frederic Harrison, with a dash of Nietzsche's gloom 
 added. He contemplated his Bible through spectacles 
 too thickly filmed with doubts to have been borrowed 
 even from Schmiedel himself. All other religions were, 
 he held, but dim hints, unconscious and inarticulate
 
 14 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 prophecies, of this latest theological birth. It had a 
 Worship, a Hope, a Revelation, all in capital letters. 
 What, indeed, the new religion would have done 
 without capitals cannot be guessed. It would have 
 been as bankrupt as a palette without colours ! 
 
 Worship, in the new creed, found its object in man's 
 higher nature ; Hope, its field in man's future the 
 future not of any individual homo, like the actual John 
 Smith who listened, but of Man (spelt, of course, with 
 a capital M) the race. Revelation was supplied not by 
 any choir of inspired prophets and apostles, but by the 
 tests and retorts of human laboratories. 
 
 Perhaps Mr. Gifford's denials were more significant 
 and alarming than even his affirmations. It is so easy 
 to deny ! There was no personal God, having personal 
 relations with His creatures ; no inspired Bible ; no 
 eternal and suffering Love, seeking the lost ; no watch- 
 ing Providence over human life : no City of God whose 
 gates of pearl gleam through even the blackness of 
 death. The only religion was the love of humanity ; 
 the only faith a belief in humanity. 
 
 This mosaic of doctrinal fragments had one great 
 advantage : it was possible to quote so many authorities 
 or at least half-authorities on its behalf! A nimbus 
 of great names surrounded it. If any one, indeed, knew 
 enough of the teachings of these authorities, he might 
 have shown that furious civil war raged amongst them, 
 and each one, in turn, and at some point, had the entire 
 company arrayed against himself. These eminent 
 authorities rejected each other more energetically than 
 they all rejected Moses or St. Paul ; and each of them 
 in turn would have renounced many of Mr. Gifford's 
 principles and nearly all his conclusions. But, then, very 
 few of Mr. Gifford's hearers knew enough to be aware
 
 ALARMS AMONGST THE ORTHODOX 15 
 
 of this inconvenient fact Mr. Gifford, indeed, was un- 
 conscious of it himself. The tissues of a flower absorb 
 only such colour-rays as suit itself, and reject all others. 
 And Mr. Gifford had the happy faculty, common to 
 a certain class of eager disputants, of maintaining a 
 delightful ignorance of all facts which do not fit into 
 their own theories. 
 
 Meanwhile, his eager and daring rhetoric swept the 
 crowd away. Many a timid mother, sitting lonely in 
 her orthodox pew, grew alarmed as she reflected that 
 her son was swelling the excited audiences which 
 cheered Mr. Gifford's lecture on ' Every Man His Own 
 Christ,' at the local theatre. 
 
 Then came a yet more surprising bit of good 
 fortune for the Freethought Association. Mr. Hobbs 
 died suddenly, killed by a paroxysm of wrath, aggra- 
 vated, it was unkindly whispered, by an extra jug of his 
 own beer. But this was unjust to Mr. Hobbs. He 
 knew too much about his own beer to commit the in- 
 discretion of drinking it. His temper, and not his beer, 
 killed him. When his will was read, it was found that 
 his quarrel with the unfortunate curate of St Margaret's, 
 and with all that the curate represented, found startling 
 expression in it. He vested ^"30,000 in trustees for 
 the establishment of a Freethought Lectureship. Mr. 
 Gifford at a generous salary was nominated as the first 
 holder of the lectureship. Five members of the Free- 
 thought Committee including Mr.Creakles were made 
 trustees for the principal sum, and a clause in the will 
 directed the trustees to expend certain moneys at their 
 discretion in 'the practical application of Freethought 
 principles to social problems.' The astonished town of 
 Middleford thus beheld itself turned into a sort of 
 corpus vile for strange theological experiments.
 
 16 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 Mr. Creakles and his fellow committee-men were, as 
 may be imagined, in a state of bewildered delight. The 
 sacred cause for which they argued and laboured had 
 hitherto suffered from an ignoble want of cash. The 
 Association, as a consequence, had been compelled to 
 confine itself to merely vocal exercises. Now it was 
 endowed. It owned a fat bank account. It was com- 
 missioned not merely to orate and criticize, but to 
 undertake ' practical applications of Freethought 
 principles.' Mr. Creakles moistened his thin lips with 
 a sort of canine anticipation as he reflected on the 
 possibilities of the situation. 
 
 On the other hand, orthodoxy in patches, at least 
 grew panic-stricken. ' Something must be done,' argued 
 Mr. Sawders. ' Let us challenge Mr. Gifford ' he added 
 courageously, ' to public debate ! ' 
 
 Mr. Sawders was a pugnacious divine, who reflected 
 with secret complacency on the victory he had achieved 
 over the representative of the Plymouth Brethren cause 
 in the next street, and the triumphant manner in which 
 he had routed a wandering Anglo-Israelite. 
 
 'We are going to put a new carpet in our select 
 class-room,' said Mr. Jevons, the Sunday-school super- 
 intendent. 
 
 ' We have agreed to enlarge our gymnasium and 
 buy a new magic-lantern,' piped Mr. Twitters, the 
 secretary of the Y.M.C.A. 
 
 ' I have arranged for a series of papers on " Modern 
 Doubt," ' solemnly announced Mr. Brush, the editor 
 of the Banner of Zion, the local religious journal. 
 
 ' My dear Sawdust,' said, with a laugh, Mr. Miller 
 a retired Congregational minister, who had parted with 
 all his illusions, and whose uncomfortable function in 
 life it was to discourage people from doing anything
 
 ALARMS AMONGST THE ORTHODOX '17 
 
 ' public debate will only advertise the man. The 
 attractions of a new carpet on the floor of your class- 
 room, Mr. Jevons, or even the addition of a swimming- 
 bath to your gymnasium, Mr. Twitters, will not supply 
 medicine to a sick faith. While as for your papers 
 on modern doubt, Mr. Brush, the only people likely 
 to read them are those who have no doubt at all 
 but who/ he added, in a stage ' aside,' ' may get them 
 from the very articles you write.' 
 
 ' As for me,' said Mr. Walton, the Wesleyan minister, 
 a man of ardent zeal, ' I shall take no notice of the 
 man or of his lectures. What use to argue with unbelief? 
 You might as well try to cure a fever with the multipli- 
 cation table as to convert a sceptic with logic. I am 
 not going to waste my time wrestling with shadows. 
 Our business is to preach positive truth an inspired 
 Bible, a supernatural redemption. I have a sick man 
 to visit, so good-night ' ; and he hurried away. 
 
 ' Mr. Walton is both right and wrong,' said Professor 
 Gardner, with a judicial air. 
 
 Professor Gardner was the head of a theological college 
 planted in the town, and had a benevolent hospitality 
 for what may be called theological freaks, which his 
 stricter brethren sometimes found rather trying. 
 
 ' We best meet unbelief, it is true,' he went on, ' by 
 preaching a real gospel, with an historical basis, a 
 gospel that finds its verification in men's own conscious- 
 ness. But this case is special. We owe something 
 to the cause of truth, which is being publicly misrepre- 
 sented. We owe something to Mr. Gifford too, for 
 he is intellectually honest, and he is only the more 
 dangerous because he is so transparently sincere. I 
 know him, and was once of some service to him. I 
 think if we ask him to meet us privately for frank and 
 
 2
 
 18 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 friendly talk he will accept the invitation. Debate 
 in the presence of crowds usually ends in a mere 
 scramble for victory, and the man with the strongest 
 lungs and the most tricky brain wins. But we don't 
 need Milton to teach us that if Truth and Error grapple 
 together on a fair field Truth will win. I will ask 
 Mr. Gifford to meet us in private and friendly con- 
 ference, where quiet reason will have some chance of 
 being heard.' 
 
 ' And I,' cried Mr. Sawders, grasping his umbrella 
 as though it were the sword Excalibur itself, ' I will 
 challenge him to public debate next week.' 
 
 Mr. Campbell here broke into the discussion. He 
 was the vicar of St. Paul's, a white-headed, sweet-faced 
 man, who, to the homely and humorous wisdom of a 
 kind of clerical Aesop, added the spiritual temper and 
 insight of a saint. 
 
 'Your round-table conference, Professor,' he said, 
 ' will do as little good as Mr. Sawders's platform duel. 
 The man will run his little course, and vanish. Chris- 
 tianity ha? survived nineteen centuries, and it's not 
 going to be killed by Mr. Hobbs's legacy or Mr. Gifford's 
 lectures. Is Christianity a theme fora debating club? 
 May logicians quarrel over it, and sit in judgement 
 on it? Life is the only forum where that great issue 
 is to be tried. 
 
 'Now, I'm delighted with that legacy, and wish it 
 were twice as big. Freethought is going to " apply " 
 itself! The operation will be fatal! Poor Gifford's 
 air-spun nonsense will come into conflict with the 
 passions and forces that throb in human nature, and 
 they'll fare as a cobweb would that tried to bind an 
 earthquake. God will carry on His own controversy 
 and in His own way.'
 
 ALARMS AMONGST THE ORTHODOX 19 
 
 ' Yes ; but we must help Him,' said Mr. Sawders 
 firmly, with the air of a divine who felt the Almighty 
 was in pressing need of his assistance, and who was 
 prepared, in an emergency, to prop the Eternal Throne 
 itself on his private shoulders. 
 
 With a general laugh, which Mr. Sawders thought 
 was very ill-mannered and unnecessary, the little group 
 proceeded to break up. 
 
 One member of the party had, so far, been silent. It 
 was Mr. Looker, who had just retired from the head- 
 ship of a large private school in the town, and still 
 regarded mankind at large as a class of undeveloped 
 boys. His face was a sort of spider-web of wrinkles, 
 his eyes full of shrewdest humour. He was accustomed 
 to say that he found life ' as good as a play ' ; and it 
 was certainly the case that he sat at it like a spectator, 
 looking with equal eyes at all conflicts and all parties, 
 and extracting enjoyment, of an arid sort, from them 
 all. He did nothing himself, his enemies said, and 
 jested at everything anybody else did. This, however, 
 was both unkind and inaccurate. Mr. Looker's humour 
 was certainly of a sly and biting quality ; but he had a 
 very useful office. He resembled the Chorus in a Greek 
 play, and was given to sum up a situation, a dispute, or 
 an incident in some expressive phrase, often to the 
 actors themselves of a very illuminating, if uncomfortable, 
 quality. 
 
 ' The fact is,' he said, ' you can't agree on a common 
 policy amongst yourselves. Each of you looks at 
 some little separate angle of truth, and so it wears a 
 different aspect to you all, and you can't fight a 
 common battle for it. And what a satire it is on all 
 your teaching that your flocks can be whistled away 
 from you with a few pretty phrases by Mr. Gifford !
 
 20 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 You've left their heads, as you found them, empty ! 
 And yet you've been pumping sermons into them at 
 the rate of two every Sunday all their lives ; and at the 
 end of the process they are as empty as they were at 
 the beginning ! 
 
 ' The specific gravity of a sermon,' he went on, with 
 the air of a scientist discussing the properties of some 
 new metal, ' is something tremendous. Platinum isn't 
 in it with an orthodox discourse of the usual dimensions ! 
 And yet its substance, to judge by results, is mere 
 wind-blown fog ! It disappears, like fog, with a change 
 of temperature ! What's become of all the sermons 
 you've expended on your hearers, Mr. Sawders, when 
 they march off, in swarms, in this fashion, to Mr. 
 Gifford ? ' 
 
 But Mr. Sawders walked off indignantly, declining to 
 answer. No wonder Mr. Looker was unpopular !
 
 CHAPTER III 
 A PLATFORM DUEL 
 
 MR. SAWDERS by bent of nature and by confirmed 
 habit was a disputant. Religion, for him, was a 
 dialectical exercise. He had taken Doubt as his 
 special foe, and he wrestled with it victoriously every 
 Sunday, beneath the admiring, if somewhat drowsy, 
 gaze of his congregation. Mr. Sawders had a robust 
 faith in his own controversial powers. His contro- 
 versial victories were many. His pamphlet on The 
 Genesis of an Agnostic, it is true, had only a limited 
 circulation ; but it had been favourably reviewed 
 by the local paper, in whose columns it had been 
 freely advertised, at much cost to Mr. Sawders's own 
 pocket. 
 
 Mr. Looker, indeed, was apt to offer uncomfortably 
 humorous remarks about Mr. Sawders' pulpit victories 
 over Doubt. ' When you first evolve your own heretic, 
 Sawdust ' he was on sufficiently familiar terms to use, 
 in private, this version of Mr. Sawders's name ' and fit 
 him up with a heresy of duly refutable quality, it is 
 easy to take his theological scalp.' 
 
 But Mr. Sawders treated such remarks with the scorn 
 their frivolity deserved. Had he not, in numerous 
 sermons, corrected Professor Huxley's science, exposed 
 
 21
 
 22 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 the historical blunders of Renan, and convicted Strauss 
 of gross metaphysical ignorance ? When had he failed 
 in these pulpit combats? And why should he fail in 
 the duel he contemplated? 
 
 His imagination pictured the crowded audience, the 
 triumphant sweep of his own logic, the shouts of 
 applause, the shattered arguments the flying figure 
 of his foe ! Why should he not break on the vision 
 of an admiring world as a theological St. George, in 
 spectacles and a white necktie, triumphantly slaying 
 with his umbrella the Dragon of Doubt? So, 
 greatly daring, Mr. Sawders addressed to Mr. Gifford 
 a challenge to public debate, for one or more 
 nights, and offered his own church as the scene of 
 the combat. 
 
 There was an unconscious prudence in this latter 
 proposal. Environment counts for much, and Mr. 
 Sawders felt instinctively that he would be braver, as 
 well as safer, in his own familiar pulpit than on some 
 entirely strange arena. 
 
 The answer came back with almost disconcerting 
 promptitude. Mr. Gifford himself, except under pres- 
 sure, was not combative. He hated personal debate, 
 and had no gifts for it. Imaginative and iris-tinted 
 rhetoric was his forte ; and he declined the combat. 
 Mr. Gifford's refusal to wrestle with Mr. Sawders in 
 public debate caused neither surprise nor regret in the 
 minds of his committee. They knew their man, and 
 knew that he had the defects of his qualities. At 
 bottom he was honest, and he was a gentleman. He 
 could not do a consciously unfair thing. He had both 
 too much self-respect and too little controversial 
 cleverness, to be capable of riding off triumphantly 
 from a serious theological debate, on the back of
 
 A PLATFORM DUEL 23 
 
 some poor little conundrum such as 'Who was Cain's 
 wife ? ' 
 
 But Mr. Stumps was available. He was eager, 
 indeed, to have one more chance of fame, and was 
 exactly the man for such a fight and such an 
 opponent as was proposed. He knew all the tricks 
 of debate, and he realized perfectly the chances 
 that such a contest offered. An unhappy divine, 
 dragged from the shelter of his pulpit, and set 
 on a pair of bewildered legs before a hostile crowd, 
 and called to cross wits with an antagonist who 
 granted nothing, not even the multiplication-table, was 
 mere helpless prey to a gentleman of Mr. Stumps's 
 arts. It was a combat betwixt a jelly-fish and a 
 shark ! 
 
 So a letter was promptly sent to Mr. Sawders, 
 saying ' the state of Mr. Gifford's health ' prevented him 
 accepting the offered challenge, but Mr. Stumps would 
 represent the Freethought Association in the debate. 
 The Freethought Committee, quite as shrewdly as Mr. 
 Sawders, knew the importance of drawing their enemy 
 out into unfamiliar ground. ' Neutral ground,' they 
 said, 'must be chosen as the scene of the encounter,' 
 and they proposed that the debate should be held 
 in the local theatre. 
 
 Mr. Sawders, as he read the letter, believed that 
 Mr. Gifford was flying before the first preliminary 
 flourish of his dialectical umbrella. The business of 
 routing the little red-nosed and shabby-coated Mr. 
 Stumps was simple and easy. So, with fatal rashness, 
 Mr. Sawders accepted the terms and the antagonist 
 offered him. 
 
 Every vacant wall in Middleford soon announced, 
 in flaring posters, the approaching tournament, Mr.
 
 24 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 Sawders, with a sort of terror-flavoured delight, saw 
 his name thus proclaimed to the world as the 
 Champion of Christianity. Sometimes, indeed, he felt 
 inclined to take the next train, and fly anywhere, so 
 that he could escape the notoriety which had befallen 
 him. Sometimes that very notoriety half intoxicated 
 him. Mr. Looker's comment was certainly not very 
 encouraging. 
 
 ' Sawdust,' he said, ' you're flying in the face of 
 Nature. Whatever may have been her unkindness to 
 you, she never intended you to play the part of a clown 
 in a circus. A clown, however,' he added meditatively, 
 surveying Mr. Sawders with a cheerful eye, ' does add 
 to the joy of mankind, so the evening won't be alto- 
 gether wasted 1 Whether the clown himself enjoys 
 the performance is, however, I understand, open to 
 doubt.' 
 
 Mr. Sawders's ministerial friends disapproved of his 
 rashness, and stood aloof from the fray. This, however, 
 left Mr. Sawders himself undiscouraged. As a matter 
 of fact, the presence of a minister in his audience usually 
 left his genius rebuked. His rhetoric soared with 
 bolder wing when the eye of no clerical brother watched 
 its flight. 
 
 The fateful night came at last ; the building was 
 packed. The average Englishman loves a fight, even 
 if it is only one of words. Mr. Sawders, as he 
 rose to his feet to open the debate on ' Is the Bible 
 a Divine Revelation ? ' felt that the moment was 
 historic. The lists were set ; the heralds' trumpets 
 were ringing. The famous tournament of Ashby- 
 de-la-Zouch was being translated into theological 
 terms ! 
 
 But the next moment, as he contemplated the audience
 
 A PLATFORM DUEL 25 
 
 through his spectacles, he was seized with a sudden 
 doubt as to his wisdom in undertaking such a task, 
 on such a field, and before such a jury. It was a 
 disconcerting audience ; not yet, as a whole, actively 
 hostile, perhaps, but derisive and captious. The sea 
 of faces bore no resemblance to the reposeful visages 
 on which Mr. Sawders was accustomed to gaze from 
 the elevation of his own pulpit, and which looked back 
 at him with eyes full of drowsy respect. The faces 
 were those of an audience determined to have a ' good 
 time,' and quite indifferent as to whose cost They 
 were the faces of a crowd at a circus, waiting for the 
 clown. And it would be ill for the clown if his jokes 
 didn't come up to expectations. 
 
 Poor Mr. Sawders had his little scheme of proofs 
 carefully drawn out in notes. All his modest theological 
 library was melted down and poured into his argument. 
 Angus's Bible Handbook gave it at least an air of erudi- 
 tion. Paley supplied it with logic, Pope with philosophy, 
 Henry Rogers with humour, Joseph Parker with senti- 
 ment. His argument began with Butler and Pearson 
 on the Creed, and ended with Joseph Cook and the 
 Boston Lectures. But then, alas ! neither Butler nor 
 Pearson ever had to adjust his argument to such an 
 audience as that on which Mr. Sawders looked, with 
 disquieted eyes. He felt, with a swift, alarmed, and 
 perspiring certainty which astonished himself, that the 
 logic which had seemed so triumphant in his own study 
 would awaken from such a jury no other response than 
 laughter. 
 
 But he must make a start. He tried to escape from 
 his own pulpit tone, and shouted, with a quite un- 
 successful attempt to be at ease : 
 
 * My friends ! I will begin with the a priori argument
 
 26 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 for revelation ' ; and he proceeded to build up a fabric 
 of syllogisms on the summit of which the Bible was 
 to be triumphantly perched. 
 
 But somehow his intellect seemed frozen. He 
 struggled on, with failing memory, brain that refused 
 to think, and a tongue that seemed to swell moment 
 by moment, till it threatened to choke him ; while the 
 audience, with that malign insight which every audience, 
 somehow, possesses, read his trouble, grinned at his 
 verbal blunders, and filled up his involuntary pauses 
 with ironical applause. 
 
 At last the time allowed for his opening address 
 was exhausted, the chairman's bell rang, and Mr. 
 Sawders sank into his chair, with the dimmest possible 
 notion of what he had been saying, or what stage of 
 his argument he had reached. 
 
 Then the time for Mr. Stumps came. He rose, alert, 
 hard-featured, lank-haired, with one eye set at a hostile 
 angle to the other, and a voice that had not a pleasant 
 note in it, but which pierced to the remotest edge 
 of the audience like a knife. The opportunity was 
 one which showed Mr. Stumps at his best, and he 
 could have desired no more absolutely helpless victim 
 than the unhappy Sawders. Mr. Stumps was a walking 
 magazine of cavils and objections, all flavoured with 
 sly satire, and made slab and thick with home-spun 
 illustrations and scraps of science. He was rich in 
 stories, told in dialect, which, if they were often 
 vulgar, were also edged with a disconcerting amount 
 of wit. He affected a blunt, down-right common 
 sense. 
 
 ' My concern,' he shouted, ' is not where the Bible 
 comes from, but what it is. It is here, a thing to be 
 touched, handled, read, criticized. What sort of a book
 
 A PLATFORM DUEL 27 
 
 is it ? It runs its stupid head against science. It asks 
 us to believe that the world was built and fitted up 
 betwixt Monday morning and Saturday night ; that 
 man was made out of red mud, and woman out of 
 man's rib. Gentlemen,' he cried, 'does my reverend 
 and learned friend really hold that Mrs. Sawders is 
 nothing but a rib-bone extracted from her husband's 
 side, a mere inconspicuous and not too dignified frag- 
 ment of himself? ' 
 
 Here the audience roared, while Mrs. Sawders, a lady 
 of generous dimensions, a Roman nose,;and an emphatic 
 temper, who sat immediately in front of the platform, 
 glared wrathfully at the unabashed Mr. Stumps. Poor 
 Mr. Sawders ! Into what a stream of evil-smelling 
 dialectical waters had he plunged ! The local town 
 ditch itself was sweetness compared to it. 
 
 The chairman's bell rang. Mr. Stumps subsided 
 into his chair, wiping his perspiring brow with a 
 triumphant air, and Mr. Sawders rose reluctantly to 
 ' reply.' He could only cling in helpless despair to 
 his manuscript. 
 
 ' I now come,' he said, ' to the external proofs of 
 the Bible.' 
 
 But ' the external proofs ' seemed to have emigrated 
 from the chambers of Mr. Sawders's brain. He stumbled 
 on, lost in a distracted labyrinth of tangled dates and 
 disordered history, and came to an end even before the 
 chairman's bell rang. 
 
 Then Mr. Stumps rose, to trample on his already van- 
 quished foe. He felt on sufficiently friendly terms with 
 his audience by this time to borrow the trick of Mr. 
 Sawders's own friends, and transformed his opponent's 
 name unblushingly into 'Sawdust,' a jest which im- 
 mensely tickled his hearers.
 
 28 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 The domestic arrangements of the patriarchs supplied 
 Mr. Stumps with a fruitful text for much broad 
 humour. 
 
 ' Abraham was " the friend of God." But what about 
 that little business with Hagar ? ' Then, with that 
 irreverent and disconcerting trick of making a personal 
 application of his arguments, Mr. Stumps demanded, 
 ' What would Mrs. Sawdust say if she discovered her 
 husband introducing patriarchal usages into the Sawdust 
 household ? ' Whereupon, Mrs. Sawders, a lady, as we 
 have said, of strong feelings and unrivalled power of 
 expressing them in look and gesture, as well as in 
 words grew red and rigid with wrath, and glared at 
 her husband as if the hint were a revelation to her. 
 Mr. Sawders's eyes met those of his wife, and domestic 
 authority instantly asserted itself. The unhappy divine's 
 face wore a look so visibly apologetic and alarmed that 
 the audience, catching the by-play with malign shrewd- 
 ness, roared afresh. 
 
 ' What had the Bible done for the world ? ' demanded 
 Mr. Stumps. ' It had given the world the Inquisition, 
 which had burnt some 25,000 victims. It had set witch- 
 fires blazing over all Europe ; and in Bible-ridden 
 Scotland alone, with its scanty population, were not 
 5,000 witches burned betwixt 1580 and 1680? Dare 
 even Mr. Sawdust deny these " facts " ? ' Poor Mr. 
 Sawders dare do nothing. 
 
 At this point Mr. Sawders was called upon for a 
 third instalment of his argument in defence of the 
 Bible. He rose reluctantly, a consciously beaten man ; 
 he stared in mute despair at the sea of jeering faces 
 before him. Here and there a familiar face, with a 
 quite unfamiliar expression upon it, became, for a 
 moment, recognizable. He caught a glimpse of his
 
 A PLATFORM DUEL 29 
 
 principal deacon, with amazed concern written on every 
 line of his broad face. He saw the grim features of Mrs. 
 Sawders, stony with indignation. 
 
 Memory, by this time, was bankrupt. The lines of 
 his notes had melted into vapour. He held in his hand 
 the manuscript on which he had bestowed such loving 
 toil ; but, as he tried to read them, the words seemed 
 to dance in a derisive waltz across the paper at which 
 he stared. 
 
 To do him justice, Mr. Sawders did not think solely, 
 or even chiefly, of himself and of his own dialectical 
 defeat. He had undertaken to produce an argumenta- 
 tive justification for Christianity which would satisfy 
 a frivolous and jesting crowd ; and he lacked the gifts 
 for the task. He had dishonoured a great cause. He 
 looked once more at the mosaic of grinning and scornful 
 faces before him. Argument he had none. But a 
 sudden impulse drove him once more to speak, and 
 something in his voice some new note of humility and 
 of reality sent a momentary hush across the jeering 
 crowd. 
 
 ' Gentlemen,' he said, ' I cannot swop anecdotes and 
 jeers with your representative. But/ he cried and as 
 he spoke his voice took depth, there came a new 
 carriage to his head, and his somewhat shambling and 
 ignoble figure grew erect ' my cause is good, my creed 
 is true, and you all know it ! What does he repre- 
 sent,' he demanded, pointing his finger sternly at the 
 triumphant Mr. Stumps, 'but a shabby gospel of 
 Denial, a gospel of Despair ? Suppose I can't here and 
 now, in the jesting fashion you want, prove Christianity 
 to be divine. Its works prove it ! It's the one hope 
 of the world. It makes rogues honest, and drunkards 
 sober. It has made Smith's Close almost respectable.'
 
 30 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 Here the spell of the orator's eloquence failed, and 
 he vanished, submerged beneath a flood of exultant 
 yells, while Mr. Stumps sprang to his feet and proceeded 
 to execute a rhetorical war-dance on the body of his 
 prostrate foe. 
 
 As John Blunt, a member of the Freethought 
 Committee, pushed his way through the noisy groups 
 on the steps of the theatre, he found himself beside 
 a fellow workman, David Christie, a hard-headed and 
 devout Scotchman. 
 
 ' Well, John,' he said, ' yon's a poor creature ! No 
 wonder your man made mincemeat of him. But 
 why didn't he stick to facts : to the experimental 
 side of things ? His poor little bits of " external " 
 and " internal " proof fly away wi' him ! The only 
 "proof" Christianity wants is the fact that it makes 
 bad men good. Will your new gospel do that, 
 John ? ' 
 
 * Why not ? ' asked John sturdily. 
 
 'Well,' answered David Christie, 'when ye can 
 show a drunken rogue made a decent man by it, then 
 you may begin to talk. Can you make drunken Tom 
 Oxley stop beating his wife with your gospel of an 
 unknowable God ? Was there ever, on the face of the 
 planet/ demanded David, waxing energetic, ' a tribe of 
 cannibals converted to decent diet and decent morals 
 by a committee of atheists or of agnostics ? John, man, 
 it's easy to destroy. If ye gie worms time enough they 
 will bring down Windsor Castle and be only worms 
 at the end o' it. I am thinking ye are doing worms' 
 work, my man ! And why should the world thank 
 you for that ? ' 
 
 Poor Mr. Sawders suffered most, perhaps, when, the 
 day after the debate, he met Mr. Looker. That gentle-
 
 A PLATFORM DUEL 31 
 
 man grinned upon him with an air of the frankest 
 enjoyment. 
 
 ' Well, Mr. Sawders,' he said affably, ' are you able 
 to settle the question now, of whether the clown enjoys 
 the performance as much as the spectators do ?
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 KATE ARDEN 
 
 THERE had been a pleasant gathering of friends at 
 the Ardens', and the guests, after wandering in the 
 long summer twilight on the garden paths, were taking 
 their leave. Cecil Sparks still lingered, while Kate 
 bade farewell to her friends. She would be alone 
 presently, and he was determined to try his fortune 
 as a lover with her. 
 
 The moonlight lay clear and white on the garden 
 as Kate, with bent and pensive brow and lingering feet, 
 walked down the gravel path. The moonlight, soft, 
 yet keen, made the garden a sort of fairy realm. Far 
 off, a nightingale sang. In the sky above, the stars 
 hung faint in a flood of milky light. Below, a hundred 
 flowers their tints bleached and softened in the moon- 
 light filled the air with scent. The very night seemed 
 
 drunken with the stolen scents 
 Of sleeping pinks : heavy with kisses snatched 
 From roses. 
 
 At the end of the path a great chestnut-tree a stately, 
 wide-based pyramid of whispering leaves made, with 
 its shadow, a pool of inky blackness in the white 
 radiance of the night. 
 
 As the slender, graceful figure, clad in white, a dainty 
 
 32
 
 KATE ARDEN 33 
 
 curve of lace thrown over the rich hair, passed into 
 the shadow of the tree, it seemed to be swallowed up. 
 Beyond, in the leafy doorway of the arbour, stood 
 Cecil, watching, with eager eyes, the girlish figure, 
 with downward-bent head, as it came slowly toward 
 him. 
 
 Kate Arden was a girl that might well stir an even 
 finer and more spiritual imagination than Cecil possessed. 
 A womanly figure, yet slender, and poised so daintily, 
 moving with a step so quick and sure, and with so 
 exquisite a balance of head and neck and foot, that 
 it seemed slenderer than it really was. The lines of 
 the face were pure, the cheek thin. The charm lay in 
 the level eyebrows ; in the deep blue eyes, keen and 
 humorous, yet tender ; in the wide, low brow, with its 
 piled mass of rich brown hair ; in the expressive and 
 sensitive lips ; in the flower-like complexion, in which 
 the vivid colour came and went with every pulse 01 
 changing emotion. Kate's smile, with its gleam of 
 humorous eyes, its tender lips, its sudden revelation 
 of pearly teeth, was a flash of human sunlight. 
 
 And Nature, in some rare mood of generosity, had 
 given Kate a voice so soft and low, yet rich, that its 
 syllables ran in music. The delighted ear hung on 
 them. Her voice was the perfect vehicle of a spirit 
 tender, frank, and brave. When deeply moved, the 
 tones deepened and took a strange, rich fullness. In 
 merriment they ran up with something of the clear 
 carol of the lark. She might easily have become a 
 famous singer. As it was she was a simple maiden, 
 of winsomeness all compact ; who, as wife, would make 
 home a heaven to her husband, and, as mother, would 
 be worshipped by her children. Other girls, beside her, 
 seemed bleached and commonplace. 
 
 3
 
 34 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 Kate herself was wholly unconscious of the dis- 
 tinction she derived from the set of her head, 
 the play of her sensitive lips, and the vivid, softly 
 flushing charm of her face. She was beautiful with- 
 out knowing it. And her charm reached its cul- 
 minating point in her character. Religion came to 
 her as if by direct and divine gift. It was the breath 
 of her life ; a soft and divine fire that gave a new 
 light to her eyes, a richer note to her voice, an added 
 sweetness to her laugh. From the breath of her morning 
 prayer she came out to her household duties with 
 some inner sunshine burning through her face as through 
 a veil. It is recorded of Christ on the Mount of 
 Transfiguration that, as He prayed, the fashion of His 
 countenance was changed ; ' His face did shine as the 
 sun, and His raiment was white as the light.' That 
 miracle is also a parable. Prayer puts a Mount of 
 Transfiguration in every life ; and from it man or maid 
 may come to the commonplace duties of life with shining 
 face and clean garments. This was the gracious miracle 
 wrought daily in Kate's life. 
 
 Religion attenuates some women. It lowers their 
 temperature. It puts acid in their blood, and narrow- 
 ness in their brains ; it makes censures easy on their 
 lips, and smiles rare. Tennyson used to tell of a sourly 
 Calvinistic aunt 'who would weep for hours because 
 God was so infinitely good.' ' Has He not damned,' 
 she cried, ' most of my friends ? But me, me He has 
 picked out for eternal salvation.' ' Alfred, Alfred,' she 
 one day said to young Tennyson, ' when I look at 
 you I think of the words of Holy Scripture, " Depart 
 from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire." ' What is 
 mistaken for religion does teach some women and 
 many men to look on their kind with eyes like this.
 
 KATE ARDEN 35 
 
 But for Kate religion had fulfilled its natural office, 
 the office of sunshine to a flower, giving it colour, 
 perfume, growth. 
 
 Such a girl naturally drew the gaze of many worship- 
 ping eyes. Smears' eyes dwelt on her as though she 
 had been a saint, nimbus-crowned, who had just stepped 
 out of the canvas of one of Fra Angelico's pictures. 
 Kit worshipped her with silent, dogged, half-adoring 
 love, a love that found no speech and cherished no 
 hope. Kate read, with a girl's subtle instinct, Kit's 
 secret, and answered it with sisterly kindness and soft, 
 sudden glances of pity ; a treatment which chilled poor 
 Kit's spirit almost more effectually than a direct refusal 
 could have done. 
 
 Kate moved to and fro, busied with her work in 
 home and church, with her maiden fancy free and 
 untouched. But Cecil, the most enterprising of her 
 worshippers, with his dark, vivid face and caressing 
 voice, seemed at times to disturb her virginal calm. 
 Her cheeks flushed when they met. Her voice took 
 a yet richer note as they talked together. Cecil, who 
 never lacked audacity, had tried hard to win Kate ; 
 but her spirit frank, yet coy and subtle, and with 
 depths beyond his sounding seemed to evade him. 
 Her eyes would linger on his face, half in tenderness, 
 half in pensive, questioning scrutiny, as he urged his 
 suit. He had held her hand, soft and warm, yet with 
 strength under its softness ; and it fluttered in his grasp. 
 
 But his lips had never yet found their way to her 
 cool cheek. She seemed to him like some shy, swift- 
 winged bird, that still flew skyward as he tried to 
 capture it. They were ' Cecil ' and ' Kate ' to each 
 other ; for the two households had been friendly for 
 a generation ; but whether she loved him was a question
 
 36 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 which would have puzzled Kate herself to answer, 
 almost as much as it would have puzzled Cecil. 
 
 He was a lover indeed to fill a maiden's eyes and 
 flatter her imagination. The trouble was that, with 
 Kate, eye and fancy were but servants to keener and 
 nobler faculties. Something, she felt, was missing in 
 Cecil ; she knew not what, and had never yet tried 
 to analyse. 
 
 Then came Mr. Gifford's advent, and the whole world 
 of Middleford adjusted itself to this new factor. Cecil's 
 early and complete surrender to this new apostle's 
 eloquence, and to the strange gospel it proclaimed, 
 sorely distressed Kate. She realized its whole signifi- 
 cance, with a woman's quick instinct, better than Cecil 
 did himself. Tears -were rare to her eyes, for all their 
 wistful tenderness ; but she had wept in solitude some 
 of those tears which only God sees, as she watched the 
 light of Christian faith such as it was fade out of 
 Cecil's life, and his quick and eager intellect yield itself 
 almost gladly to Mr. Gifford's melancholy and perilous 
 creed. 
 
 The genesis of his unbelief was intelligible enough. 
 His father was vicar of St. Silas's or, rather, of ' S. 
 Silas's ' a whole ecclesiastical firmament, in Mr. Sparks' 
 view, parted ' S.' from ' St.,' as the correct abbreviation 
 of the word ' Saint.' A person guilty of describing 
 ' S. Silas ' as ' St. Silas,' would, in his judgement, be 
 capable of mutilating the Athanasian Creed ! For Mr. 
 Sparks was a sacerdotalist of the most advanced type. 
 That he was a true successor of the apostles he had 
 , no doubt. He was a human pipe, through which, by 
 a sort of miraculous plumbing, flowed supernatural 
 grace. He looked on all non-Episcopalians as a good 
 Jew regarded a Samaritan. He would have bathed
 
 KATE ARDEN 37 
 
 seven times in running water, and have counted himself 
 ceremonially unclean, if he had strayed by any chance 
 into a dissenting ' chapel.' 
 
 Now, to Cecil's secular temper, his father's sacer- 
 dotalism had a flavour of the ridiculous. The faithful 
 of S. Silas's saw their vicar robed in parti-coloured 
 garments, and through an atmosphere of incense. Cecil 
 saw his father with his robes off and in the hard day- 
 light. He had heard him storm, with quite unsaintly 
 vehemence, at an. underdone chop, or at the insufficiently 
 starched condition of one of his beloved robes. 
 
 His mother might have been a steadying spiritual 
 force in Cecil's life, and she loved her son passionately. 
 But her love defeated itself. It was of a worrying, 
 agitated, and agitating type, and acted much as a 
 blister on its object. She could extract a tragedy as 
 dark as that of Oedipus from a broken saucer. She 
 clothed herself with worries as with a garment. Every 
 trouble became gigantic and hopeless the moment her 
 hand touched it. 
 
 Now, Cecil had a temperament that hated agitations, 
 and delighted only in the pleasant side of things. The 
 atmosphere of worry that hung perpetually round his 
 mother, added to what he looked upon as the absurd 
 and utterly incredible sacerdotalism of his father, drove 
 him to seek a pleasanter environment than he found 
 beneath the household roof. His hunger for pleasure 
 was starved there. Curiosity drew him to listen to 
 Mr. Gifford, and that gentleman's eloquence was to Cecil 
 a revelation. It set to music, moreover, a creed which 
 exactly suited Cecil's tastes. It was above all things 
 pleasant. ' Freedom ' was its first and last word. There 
 was no imprisoning circle of stern law, no pursuing and 
 inevitable penalty for sin.
 
 38 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 Mr. Gifford had held the sacerdotal version of 
 Christianity up to special ridicule. Its robes, he argued, 
 were but heathen survivals. Its ideas represented an 
 unconscious heathenism more completely than even its 
 robes. 
 
 The sacerdotalist declared all varieties of religion save 
 his own mere shams. Mr. Gifford accepted the first 
 half of that proposition, and then argued that the 
 sacerdotalist himself was demonstrably the greatest 
 sham of them all. And Cecil, with unfilial readiness, 
 accepted the demonstration ! It was, indeed, but the 
 paternal conclusion a little bit enlarged. Great was the 
 joy in the Freethought Committee-room when it was 
 announced that ' the parson's son ' was numbered 
 amongst the followers of Mr. Gifford. 
 
 Both Cecil and Kate felt unconsciously that their 
 relations were nearing a crisis. Cecil was urging his 
 suit more than once met with a soft refusal with 
 resolute ardour. Curiously enough, the gentle and 
 serene certainty of Kate's faith had a subtle charm for 
 him. He did not want an agnostic wife. He felt that 
 his affections would be a little safer if they rested in 
 the heart of a woman not quite so 'emancipated' as 
 himself. He was bent on winning Kate, and feared that 
 if he delayed making sure of her they might drift apart. 
 That Kate's feet lingered, and her brows wore a pensive 
 look, as she moved down the garden, was due to the 
 troubled sense that to-night matters betwixt Cecil and 
 herself must be decided.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 KATE AND CECIL 
 
 CECIL watched Kate approaching with eager eyes. 
 She seemed so slender and so fair that his heart leaped 
 up at the vision. Tennyson's passionate lines somehow 
 began to sing themselves over in his brain : 
 
 She is coming, my own, my sweet, 
 
 Were it ever so airy a tread 
 My heart would hear her, and beat, 
 
 Were it earth in an earthy bed. 
 
 Then, as he watched, she seemed to vanish in the shadow 
 of the great chestnut, swallowed up in its blackness ; 
 and a chill fell on Cecil's heart. Was that the sign of 
 a darker eclipse which was to hide a star so fair from 
 him for ever ? But now Kate emerged into the light 
 again. The moonlight lay on her hair and eyes. It 
 seemed to clothe her in some robe woven of fairy-tissue. 
 She made a vision so soft and gracious that Cecil's 
 imagination broke into sudden fire. He forgot all he 
 had intended to say. Kate started at the passion that 
 thrilled in his voice as he called her name. Then the 
 quick, hurried, eager syllables broke from his lips : 
 ' Kate, I love you ! I love you ! I want you ! ' 
 That sudden appeal shook her. No girl's ears could 
 have listened to such a sound a lover's voice, made 
 deep and broken with passion and not have quivered. 
 
 39
 
 40 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 But Kate drew back from her lover's flushed and 
 stooping face.- 
 
 ' No, no,' she said, with some agitation. 
 
 Cecil went on, with hurrying, passionate speech, 
 urging his plea ; but still she drew back. Cecil 
 felt instinctively that her shy, coy, and virginal spirit 
 escaped him. Into the tumult of his mind there shot 
 a sudden gleam of anger. 
 
 ' She's as dainty as moonlight,' he said to himself, 
 ' and as cold.' 
 
 Then he looked at her again. A glow had stolen 
 into her cheek, a star-like gleam into her eyes. She 
 could be, for the man who won her, mere embodied 
 sunshine, all soft radiance and fire. But his lips, 
 somehow, had not learned the transfiguring word. 
 
 Kate was still silent. Her head drooped lower. Her 
 hand slipped from Cecil's. The truth was, Cecil's 
 vehement appeal had not merely startled her ; it roused 
 her deeper nature. It served as a sort of precipitating 
 shock to a hundred vague moral alarms. It brought 
 her face to face with what she realized, in one swift 
 breathless instant, was a moral issue. 
 
 ' No, Cecil, no. Not yet ! ' she said softly, while her 
 voice trembled. But frankness was native to her. 
 ' Whether I love you I don't know,' she went on, after 
 a pause. ' Perhaps I could,' she said, with an exquisite 
 thrill in her voice. ' But, Cecil, I dare not.' 
 
 ' Dare not ? ' cried Cecil, astonished. ' Can't you trust 
 me, Kate?' 
 
 ' Cecil,' she began then she hesitated, while her lover 
 pressed her with hurried and broken words. 
 
 ' Ah, Cecil,' she said, while her lips quivered. ' You 
 have separated yourself from everything I hold sacred : 
 from Jesus Christ and all He is and means.'
 
 KATE AND CECIL 41 
 
 Cecil experienced a sudden chill to find that his talk 
 with the girl he was eager to win was drifting into such 
 unwelcome realms. 
 
 ' Don't let us discuss theology, Kate. Haven't we 
 something sweeter and better to talk about? I love 
 you ! ' 
 
 ' But there's a gulf betwixt us. You reject Jesus 
 Christ, and I ' here her voice thrilled ' I love Him ! 
 I owe Him every thought. We are on different sides.' 
 
 ' No, Kate ; if I believed that He existed, that His 
 story was true, I would worship Him as earnestly as 
 you do. But, then, I am convinced He never existed.' 
 Then his youthful, arrogant unbelief asserted itself. 
 ' Christianity, at best,' he said, ' is only a dream a 
 priestly dream. You would not have me pretend a 
 love for what I am sure is only a myth ? ' 
 
 ' No, Cecil ! No. That would be worse than un- 
 belief itself. But,' she went on with deepening voice, 
 ' if I must remain unloved and unmated to my dying 
 hour, I cannot give my life to one who rejects Jesus 
 Christ.' 
 
 'You are sweeter to me, Kate, for your obstinate 
 faith ; I would not have you otherwise. I reverence 
 you for your very religion, though it is not mine. But 
 if I waive my creed for you, why cannot you waive 
 yours for me ? After all, there are other things than 
 religion to think about. There is love, and life, and 
 happiness.' 
 
 ' But for me,' said Kate softly, ' religion is love, 
 and life, and happiness. And it's more than all these 
 put together. It's duty. No, Cecil ! I would not give 
 up Jesus Christ, and all He means, for anything under 
 heaven, or in heaven. And to marry you would be, 
 to my conscience, an act of disloyalty to Christ.'
 
 42 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 They had stepped out of the deep shadow of the 
 tree, and stood in the moonlight. Kate lifted her eyes 
 to her lover's face. She had never before seemed to 
 him so fair. The white moonlight gave a more star-like 
 gleam to her eyes and a new beauty to her features. 
 It seemed the face of an angel on which he looked ! 
 In his heart Cecil cursed the scruples that kept him 
 from winning such a prize. 
 
 ' Why punish me,' he asked, ' for my unbelief? ' 
 
 But Kate, with a woman's sure instinct, felt that 
 there was a false note in Cecil's unbelief. He did not 
 give up the Christian faith with grief and reluctance, 
 mourning, as any honest heart might well mourn, that 
 a hope so fair was proved to be false, and feeling 
 that the loss left the world half bankrupt. Cecil was, 
 half unconsciously, glad to find that religion might 
 be put aside as an exploded force ; glad to feel he 
 could dismiss Christianity, as an idle myth, from his 
 thoughts. He moved with a freer and lighter step, like 
 a man released from some imprisoning bond, after 
 his change of creed. Christianity was, to him, an 
 uncomfortable fact. He knew it only by its restraints. 
 It was a relief to find that it was resolved into vapour. 
 
 The dim sense of all this chilled Kate's heart ; for 
 she was saint and woman both. And Cecil felt that 
 behind her deep, tender, softly breathed syllables was 
 an immutable resolve. At bottom he cherished a sort 
 of rough male contempt for the feminine conscience. 
 That a barrier so flimsy should rise betwixt him and 
 the maiden he saw to be so fair kindled a sudden 
 anger in him. His pride was stung ; yet he knew that 
 if he gave way to temper his case was lost. 
 
 ' Kate,' he said, after a pause, ' you might win me 
 to your faith if you married me.'
 
 WHY PUNISH ME,' HE ASKED, 'FOR MY UNBELIEF?'
 
 KATE AND CECIL 43 
 
 ' And would my poor face bribe you to accept 
 Christ ? ' she asked, with a pitiful smile. ' He would 
 not take you on those terms, my poor Cecil. Would 
 you respect me if 1 sold my conscience? Could I 
 respect myself? No ; I will pray for you, I shall always 
 pray for you ; but we cannot be lovers.' 
 
 Now, when a maiden tells her rejected lover she 
 will ' pray for him/ masculine pride is apt to take 
 sulky offence. 
 
 'Spare me your prayers, Kate,' he said. 'They are 
 idle. They may soothe you, they won't change me. 
 All the world,' he added, with a touch of boastfulness, 
 ' will think to-morrow as I do.' 
 
 * That won't alter me,' was Kate's steadfast and low- 
 spoken answer. 
 
 ' If you loved me,' Cecil went on passionately, ' you 
 would not sacrifice me for a scruple ; and sacrifice me 
 because I am honest.' 
 
 Kate tried to say that religion to her was something 
 more than a ' scruple ' ; but Cecil went on impetuously : 
 
 ' I would have given you my life, but you fling me 
 away for what you call your conscience. I don't 
 quite know what " conscience " means to you ; but my 
 brain is my conscience, and I cannot give the lie to 
 my own brain. On your own theory of religion you 
 might have done me some good. But you won't take 
 the risk,' he said, with bitter emphasis. 'You won't 
 risk yourself to help me.' 
 
 ' I won't do what I feel to be wrong,' she said softly. 
 
 ' Wrong ! ' he answered passionately. ' Love knows 
 no right or wrong.' 
 
 ' But that is not what I mean by love and,' she added 
 with deepened voice, ' I shall never know that for any 
 one on earth,'
 
 44 ITHURIEL'S ~SPEAR 
 
 Cecil stood for a moment silent His eyes dwelt 
 hungrily on the graceful figure before him, with its 
 pure brow and clear features, on which the softening 
 moonlight lay like a benediction. Anger struggled with 
 love in his breast ; and the fiercer passion triumphed. 
 
 ' Good-bye,' he said abruptly, ' since our paths must 
 run in opposite directions. You are sacrificing love 
 and happiness for a shadow. You can't know what 
 love is. Good-bye,' he repeated roughly, but with 
 broken voice. 
 
 Kate stood and looked after him till the sound of 
 his feet died away, while the tears ran thick and warm 
 down her cheeks. Yet she was sure she had done 
 right. Did she love Cecil? She could not tell. But 
 to be loyal to her creed, and to Jesus Christ, who was 
 the centre of her creed, was the first necessity of her 
 nature. She could not set in the most sacred chamber 
 of her affection one who thrust Christ out of his life 
 as an impertinence, or as a myth. 
 
 Meanwhile, as Cecil hurried away, he acknowledged 
 to himself, with an unspoken curse, that Smears' query, 
 ' What about Kate Arden ? ' had found a bitter answer. 
 The new theology acted as a test and a solvent to 
 old relationships. And in his secret heart Cecil 
 acknowledged this ought to be so.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 A HAPLESS SUITOR 
 
 MR. ARDEN was the manager of the leading bank 
 in Middleford. Cecil held a poor position in his office ; 
 and Mr. Arden who had consented to Cecil's interview 
 with Kate, learned of its failure with a touch of anger. 
 A youth so keen-witted and bright and swift was 
 sure to go far, and would be a desirable husband for 
 Kate. Mr. Arden, too, had come to lean on Cecil, 
 whose marriage with Kate would have been a relief to 
 him. As they met the next morning in the bank office, 
 Cecil's brow told the story of his failure. Defeat was 
 written in characters of anger on every line of his face. 
 
 ' Then you failed, Cecil ? ' asked Mr. Arden. 
 
 ' Yes, sir,' he said, and his rankling anger gave 
 bitterness to his speech. ' Kate thinks more of her 
 own soul than any one else's happiness. A parson 
 would suit her ; or,' he added, with a sudden impulse 
 of jealous anger that surprised himself, ' say, that very 
 correct young gentleman, Kit Somers.' 
 
 Mr. Arden's brow darkened. 
 
 ' What,' he cried, ' that lout ! ' 
 
 ' He's no lout, sir,' said Cecil reluctantly ; ' but he's 
 too good for this wicked world.' 
 
 ' Well, Kate,' said Mr. Arden to his daughter, as they 
 
 45
 
 46 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 sat at the tea-table in the evening ; ' you have sent 
 Cecil Sparks about his business.' 
 
 'Yes,' replied Kate, half sadly. 
 
 ' One can never tell what a girl wants,' Mr. Arden 
 went on angrily ; ' she does not know herself. What 
 finer fellow could you imagine than Cecil?' 
 
 * Don't let us discuss him, father,' answered Kate 
 softly. ' I suppose a girl has her own judgement, which 
 she can't, perhaps, explain, but which she must follow.' 
 
 ' Well, you will have your own way,' replied her 
 father sulkily ; ' you always do. But don't let that 
 Puritanic fellow, young Somers, come about here too 
 much. You have too much wit, surely, to endure such 
 a soft-headed idiot.' 
 
 Was Kit ' soft ' ? Can a lover be too lowly-minded, 
 and suffer in his lady's eyes as a result of that grace ? 
 This was perhaps the case with Kit. A note of 
 reverence ran through his love for Kate. Her dainty 
 grace ; the look of her pure eyes ; the music of her 
 voice, that made every syllable a delight ; her quick 
 brain ; the sense she gave of rich and vivid life, of 
 remoteness from everything commonplace all this 
 abashed him. The touch of her cool fingers set his 
 blood tingling. She seemed to have broken out of 
 some rich and pure realm upon the commonplace earth. 
 Kate read the worshipping note in Kit's love, and 
 she had enough of the natural woman in her to half 
 enjoy it and be half exasperated by it. Kit put her 
 on a pedestal ; and a pedestal is not, after all, a 
 permanently comfortable seat for untranslated human 
 nature. 
 
 From his boyhood Kit had been Kate Arden's slave. 
 She ruled him with more than queenly authority. To 
 bid him go or come, at her pleasure, and with a
 
 A HAPLESS SUITOR 47 
 
 whisper or a gesture, had become a habit ; and at 
 bottom a girl expects, and admires, a note of master- 
 ship in a lover. Occasionally, indeed, the stronger 
 side of Kit's character would flash out, and temporarily 
 reduce Kate's queenship to mere ruins. The docile, 
 smiling lad, with a look of doglike affection in his eyes, 
 would, on occasion, suddenly show himself a hero of 
 a very imperious and warlike type. 
 
 Kate remembered vividly one such incident of her 
 girlish days. Walking light-footed along a lonely road, 
 betwixt hedges rich in tangled sprays and blossoms, 
 two rough pedestrians had stopped her, and begged, 
 in somewhat peremptory tones. Kate took out her 
 purse ; the eyes of one of the louts gleamed, and he 
 suddenly snatched it from her. His comrade plucked 
 away the slender gold chain which hung round her 
 neck, and commenced, with rough fingers, to unfasten 
 her brooch. She was struggling, white-faced and 
 desperate, but mute, with the pair. Suddenly there 
 was a sound of running feet, the rush of a human body, 
 the crack of a furious blow. One rough went down 
 as though from the stroke of an aerolite. His mate 
 turned with an oath, then hastily put up his hands, 
 and stepped back. 
 
 Kit stood there, a figure of wrath and battle ! He 
 did not glance at Kate. With grimly set lips, and 
 eyes that flashed like steel, he took a step towards 
 the second of the two roughs, feinted, and leaped 
 in on him. There was a lightning-like exchange of 
 blows, and then the second rough went down with 
 such violence that he rolled over and over again. Kit 
 stood, poised, with frowning face, his clenched fist 
 drawn back, as though in act to strike, waiting till his 
 foe gathered himself up.
 
 48 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 The first man, meanwhile, was sitting up, fingering 
 his bruised jaw tenderly, while he spat out blood and 
 teeth and curses. Then he glanced up at the contending 
 figures. A baleful fire of revenge kindled in his eyes. 
 He staggered up, pulled out a huge clasp-knife, opened 
 its dirty but formidable blade, and crept towards 
 Kit. 
 
 Kate had sunk half fainting to the ground, and 
 was watching the two figures before her. Kit still 
 stood, a mere image of combat, lightly balanced, with 
 hands drawn back, ready to leap or strike. Was this 
 the tame and docile lad who went and came at her 
 bidding, and was a sort of sensitive human mirror for 
 her smiles ? Kate felt a wave of half-terrified amaze- 
 ment sweep through her as she saw the lines of power 
 in Kit's figure, and read the sternness of battle in his 
 frowning brow. But the first rogue, knife in hand, 
 was creeping up ; and Kate watched him, frozen almost 
 dumb with terror. 
 
 ' Kit,' she cried, in a voice that sounded strange in 
 her own ears. 
 
 He turned, and in the very act of turning he seemed 
 to leap on the murderous wretch with the knife. The 
 rogue fled in sheer terror ; his comrade, too, by this 
 time had crept away, and was taking to his heels. 
 
 ' Oh, Kit,' gasped Kate, ' you frightened me. You 
 looked as though you would have killed them.' 
 
 'So I would,' he replied promptly, and turned his 
 head with a look of unquenched rage at the two fast- 
 vanishing figures. 
 
 c Why, Kit, there is murder in your look.' 
 
 ' Well,' he replied, with a sudden and ludicrous 
 plunge into half-ashamed apology, ' why did they touch 
 you? '
 
 A HAPLESS SUITOR^ 49 
 
 Then he kindled again. His eyes flashed ; he half 
 turned, as though to start in wrathful pursuit of his 
 enemies. 
 
 ' No, Kit ; don't leave me,' said Kate meekly, cowed 
 by his stern visage. 
 
 Here was a sudden revelation of the heroic and the 
 masterful in her too docile lover ! 
 
 But it passed, and Kit became more completely the 
 slave, and Kate more absolutely the queen, than 
 ever. And to Kate Arden's eyes, for a time, poor 
 Kit was apt to look bleached and colourless when set 
 against Cecil's vivid personality and flashing wit. Yet 
 there would come into Kit's face, on occasions, a 
 sudden look of keenness and power which puzzled 
 Kate. Did she really know him, after all ? He had 
 run or, rather, plodded a successful course as an 
 engineering student, had spent three years in a German 
 school of mines, and already held a good post in a 
 great tin-mine. Whether Kate really knew Kit she 
 sometimes doubted ; whether she loved him was a 
 matter still more doubtful. She, herself, if asked, 
 would have said, ' No.' Yet she often felt curiously 
 impatient that he let Cecil take the lead on all 
 occasions, and was content to be silent while his 
 comrade dazzled all hearers with his bright talk. 
 
 ' Soft ' ? No ! Kit was certainly not that. But he 
 lacked ambition. He did not assert himself. He 
 was content to be second when he might have been 
 first 
 
 But Kit had at last decided to put his fate to the 
 touch. He was offered a post on a South African 
 mine, with a considerable increase of salary. A student 
 chum from Middleford was there already, and was 
 eagerly urging him to come. Yet Kit felt he could 
 
 4
 
 50 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 not leave England without knowing definitely how he 
 stood with the girl he had loved so long and so humbly. 
 But that ill-fate which so often pursues the most 
 deserving of lovers still attended Kit. 
 
 He called early one afternoon, while Kate was yet 
 sore with pity for Cecil, and that epithet of 'soft/ as 
 applied to Kit, was still tingling in her ears. A lover 
 about to 'propose' does not usually wear a very 
 heroic air, and the more genuine his love the more 
 apt he is to suffer from a too despondent modesty. 
 There is doubt on his brow ; his words do not come 
 readily ; his mind runs ahead of the stumbling syllables, 
 and leaves them to ramble on unguided. 
 
 ' Well, Mr. Somers,' said Kate, ' you don't often come 
 to see me at this hour." 
 
 * No, but I wanted to see you alone.' 
 
 Kate's quick instinct told her what this meant. Her 
 girl's heart thrilled at the thought of the coming words. 
 Yet she shrank from their utterance. She would have 
 put Kit off with some light jest, some mock assumption 
 of authority ; but a glance at his dogged brow told 
 her this was impossible. Her lover meant to have his 
 say, and Kate had a sense of half-angry helplessness 
 as she looked at him. 
 
 * I'm not good enough for you, Kate,' he went on. 
 ' No one is,' he added, with conviction. ' But, oh, Kate, 
 I love you,' and his tone conveyed the sense that the 
 sentiment was a decree of fate, a thing inevitable, and 
 one that carried with it a final logic of its own. ' I 
 want our lives to be one.' 
 
 Then by an impulse, the audacity of which almost 
 frightened him, he put out his hand to clasp 
 Kate's. 
 
 The look on his face startled Kate ; there was a
 
 A HAPLESS SUITOR 51 
 
 vibration in his voice which set the pulses in her veins 
 leaping, in spite of herself. But she drew back. 
 
 ' Kit,' she answered softly, and with a quiver on her 
 lips, ' I'm sorry.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Kit doggedly. ' I know it's presumption 
 on my part ; but I can't help it. How could anybody 
 help loving you, Kate ? ' he asked. 
 
 Kate half smiled at the doleful way in which her 
 lover proposed this inquiry. Yet she was curiously 
 shaken by it. But then, by some kindred impulse of 
 pity, Cecil's face rose to her imagination, and one mood 
 of kindness killed the other. Her refusal had cruelly 
 humiliated Cecil ; it would add a new and sharper 
 sting to that humiliation if she accepted another suitor 
 almost immediately after his rejection. Kate's heart 
 was in a tumult, pity contending with pity. Moreover, 
 she suddenly realized with a sense of half alarm that 
 Kit had a power over her hitherto unsuspected by 
 either of them. 
 
 ' Oh, Kit,' she said unwittingly, ' why did you come 
 so soon ? ' 
 
 ' So soon ! ' he cried, in uncomprehending wonder. 
 ' Why,' he added, half bitterly, ' I ought to have spoken 
 years ago. I gave others chances I never took myself. 
 " So soon " ! ' he went on. ' But I'll wait as long as 
 you like, Kate,' and, dimly feeling that in her exclama- 
 tion there was some gleam of only half-understood 
 hope, he tried afresh to capture her hand. 
 
 ' No, no,' cried Kate, with much agitation, and angry 
 with herself at that foolish ' Why did you come so 
 soon ? ' ; ' No, no, Kit ; I like you, oh, so much and I 
 trust you, but ' and she hesitated. 
 
 Had Kit been a less modest and a more enterprising 
 lover, a little more confident of himself, and a little
 
 52 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 more masterful towards her, he might, at that moment, 
 have succeeded. He would have taken Kate, spite of 
 herself, into his arms, and her doubts and self-ques- 
 tionings would have dissolved at the touch of his lips. 
 But he let the golden moment pass. 
 
 ' No,' said Kate, in firmer tones. ' Why did you 
 change the old relationship betwixt us? We were 
 such friends.' 
 
 'Let us be friends at least/ cried poor Kit, in an 
 alarmed voice, giving up, unconsciously, his appeal for 
 a dearer tie. ' I'll not bother you for more, Kate at 
 least,' he added, with a return of his doggedness, ' not 
 just yet.' 
 
 It was a new proof of Kit's modesty a feminine 
 critic would have said of his simplicity that, as he 
 walked away from the house, his chief emotion was one 
 of alarm, that he had run the risk of losing Kate's 
 friendship, and astonished gratitude that such a tragedy 
 had been escaped. He felt like a swimmer who had 
 shot Niagara in pursuit of some great prize, and had, 
 at least, escaped being drowned. 
 
 ' And,' he whispered to himself, with resolute lips, 
 ' I'll win her yet.' 
 
 As for Kate, she betook herself to that characteristic- 
 ally feminine refuge, ' a good cry.' Yet what was the 
 exact emotion behind her tears she herself hardly knew. 
 Was it pity for Kit, or pity for herself? She felt 
 stirring in her very blood a mood of feeling towards 
 her rejected lover that almost frightened her. She 
 half realized that, out of soft-hearted pity for a man 
 she did not love, she had rejected the man she did 
 love or, at least, could love. It was a puzzle and a 
 tragedy. 
 
 Then the master habit of her life asserted itself. She
 
 A HAPLESS SUITOR 53 
 
 had no mother ; but she had God ! She knelt and 
 cast herself and her life on that Eternal Love which 
 comprehends and pities, and will shape to perfect issues 
 the life committed to it. And into her prayers crept 
 the names of both Cecil and Kit. But Kit's name 
 lingered there longest. 
 
 Kit, meanwhile, betook himself that evening to the 
 lonely pier that thrust its rugged length out into the 
 little curving harbour of Middleford. The keen sea 
 air, the whisper of the waves on the brown sands, the 
 curve of the wide sea-horizon, visible beyond the twin 
 black points that guarded the harbour, the gleam of 
 the kindling stars in the deep heavens, the loneliness 
 and silence of it all, made the quiet pier a stage on 
 which Kit could tramp to and fro, and think out, in 
 solitude, his plans, at what he felt was a crisis in his 
 life. Should he accept the offered appointment in 
 South Africa ? If he left Kate with their relations 
 vague and unsettled, as at present, was that not to fling 
 away any chance of winning her? A more hopeful 
 career, rich in golden prospects, beckoned him to South 
 Africa ; but Kate's face acted like a spell, and held 
 him fast to England. 
 
 Presently a graver note crept into his thought. It 
 was a question, not of a career, successful or unsuccess- 
 ful, not even of winning Kate or of losing her, but of 
 duty and of God's will. ' Lord,' he asked, ' what wilt 
 Thou have me to do ? ' 
 
 The night grew dim about him ; dim the darkening 
 waters, the far-off sea horizon ; dim the long line of 
 faintly echoing shore, where the foam of the restless 
 waves broke in ghostly white on the brown sands ; 
 dim the wide, immeasurable heavens, where, points of 
 pale flame, the stars hung faint above him. All this
 
 54 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 seemed to reflect the dimness that lay on his spirit, 
 where no clear light for the moment shone, and no 
 clear voice spoke. 
 
 But Kit had the courageous faith that could wait 
 in silence till some divine Voice spoke. 
 
 ' I've no clear token yet,' he said to himself, ' but it 
 will come, and I'll wait till it does come.' 
 
 It was to come though not yet in a shape, and 
 from a quarter, of which Kit little dreamed.
 
 CHAPTER VII 1 
 DRUNKEN LOGIC 
 
 MEANWHILE, the affairs of the Freethought Association 
 were taking a new and strange turn. John Blunt was, 
 perhaps, Mr. Gifford's most trusted follower. Honesty 
 was writ large on his broad face, and looked out, 
 visible to all men, from his somewhat melancholy eyes. 
 A lonely, much-meditating man for he was a childless 
 widower if death had left his fireside vacant, and his 
 creed had perished in the shipwreck of his affections, 
 yet his nature remained unsoured. He was kindly, 
 just-minded, and, above all things, practical. He was 
 so humble-minded that Mr. Gifford's reading of the 
 universe its vastness, its mystery, its indifference to 
 man was accepted implicitly. 
 
 But there survived in John Blunt an Englishman's 
 obstinate love of concrete results. That it bore apples 
 was, he knew, the only logic which entitled an apple- 
 tree to botanical respect. A creed, orthodox or un- 
 orthodox, must shape character, and shape it nobly, 
 or it deserved nothing but scorn from God and man. 
 Religion even if it was labelled ' Freethought ' had 
 necessarily the office of a medicine for a too visibly 
 sick world ; and a medicine which did not cure was 
 a very poor fraud indeed. 
 
 'Can you make drunken Tom Oxley stop beating 
 
 55
 
 56 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 his wife with your gospel of " no God " or of " an 
 unknowable God " ? ' David Christie had asked. 
 
 John Blunt had unpleasant reasons for anxiety on 
 that score. 
 
 His niece was married to Tom Oxley, a good worker 
 and a shrewd fellow, but who was rapidly becoming 
 a hopeless drunkard, with all the evil possibilities to 
 his own household with which the emergence of that 
 vice is accompanied. In the gross drench of a 
 drunkard's blood all honest affections are drowned ; 
 and John Blunt was sorely concerned about the future 
 of his niece. Oxley, of late, had answered his anxious 
 wife's too sharp-tongued remonstrances with hard blows, 
 and John Blunt himself had seen her with eyes passing, 
 from funereal black, through green and yellow, back 
 to their native hue, as the result of her husband's 
 disciplinary efforts. The poor wife's thin face, too, 
 wore that look of darkening despair which, so soon, 
 and so inevitably, creeps over the face of a drunkard's 
 wife. The man's selfishness, the wife's sufferings, were 
 becoming the scandal of Mill's Court, where the Oxley 
 family resided. 
 
 Oxley had, of late, attended Mr. Gifford's theatre 
 lectures, and his enthusiasm for the new gospel of 
 liberty was loud-voiced. Would Mr. Gifford's teaching 
 prove a regenerating force as far as Tom Oxley was 
 concerned ? Alas 1 so far, its only fruit had been a 
 new and more reckless outburst of drunkenness. 
 
 John Blunt's countenance, as he reflected upon all 
 this, took an air of resolve. Missionary work in behalf 
 of any creed was a novelty to him. He sadly doubted 
 whether he had the tact, the knowledge, the persua- 
 siveness \vhich go to the making of a successful 
 missionary of any sort ; for John Blunt was, as we 

 
 DRUNKEN LOGIC 57 
 
 have said, a humble-minded man. But something 
 ought to be done, and some one must do it. He would 
 visit Mill's Court, remonstrate with Tom Oxley in 
 the sacred and ennobling name of his new creed, 
 and so try, in a practical fashion, the problem of 
 whether it would ' cure a wife-beater.' 
 
 John Blunt was not given to introspection, and 
 attempted no anxious analysis of the motives which 
 fired the missionary impulse in his blood. It 
 certainly was not any zeal for a divine Master, or even 
 for a divine cause. Forces out of unknown worlds 
 did not thrill John's spirit. He certainly did not share 
 the faith which breathes in William Blake's ' Christian 
 War-song.' If John Blunt had been asked : 
 
 And did those feet in ancient time 
 
 Walk upon England's mountain green ? 
 
 And was the holy Lamb of God 
 On England's pleasant pastures seen ? 
 
 he would decidedly have said 'No.' Nor did John 
 Blunt, for one, desire to see ' the holy Lamb of God ' 
 make His appearance in England's pleasant pastures. 
 So John could not have taken William Blake's verse 
 as his motto : 
 
 Bring me my bow of burning gold ! 
 
 Bring me my arrows of desire ! 
 Bring me my spear ; O clouds, unfold ! 
 
 Bring me my chariot of fire 1 
 
 I will not cease from mental fight, 
 Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand, 
 
 Till we have built Jerusalem 
 
 In England's green and pleasant land. 
 
 And yet something of the passion of those lines 
 though without their justification stirred in his blood.
 
 58 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 He had no dreara of any air-drawn ' Jerusalem ' being 
 planted on the soil of the modern world. But he 
 wanted to see his new faith justify itself in the great 
 field of human service. He longed to see it transfigure 
 a slum ; partly, no doubt, because it would in this way 
 equip itself with new and resistless credentials ; but 
 partly, also, because he hungered to see some kind 
 of social deliverance find its way into human life. 
 
 As he entered Oxley's house one evening, Oxley 
 himself sat in the little dingy kitchen, hat on head, 
 sulky and half stupid. It was Monday evening, and 
 the avenging horrors of 'black Monday' were upon 
 him. The wife was ironing some children's garments. 
 Her brow was clouded. Her eyes sometimes burned 
 and snapped with wrathful fire, and sometimes their 
 glance ran furtively to and fro, shining with nervous 
 apprehension. There was an angry emphasis, an Iliad 
 of wrath and battle, in the very way in which she 
 replaced the iron on its stand, while she turned over 
 the little garment she was ironing. But fear was too 
 plainly twin tenant with wrath in the poor wife's be- 
 wildered brain. 
 
 ' You weren't at work to-day, Oxley,' said John Blunt, 
 in what he meant to be a very ingratiating tone. 
 
 ' That's nobody's business but my own,' replied 
 Oxley bluntly. 
 
 John Blunt had as much ' diplomacy ' as an absent- 
 minded cow, and always translated into dialectics and 
 morals the geometrical axiom that a straight line is 
 the shortest distance between two points. 
 
 It's your wife's business too, isn't it ? ' he asked in 
 sharply rising accents. ' If thou doesna work,' he went 
 on, lapsing into dialect, 'there'll be little bread for 
 her and the bairns.'
 
 DRUNKEN LOGIC 59 
 
 ' If she doesn't complain,' answered Oxley defiantly, 
 ' nobody else need. And who says,' he demanded, 
 with rising voice, 'that my wife and bairns want 
 bread ? ' 
 
 John Blunt, with anxious art, tried another line of 
 advance. 
 
 ' I am glad to see you at Mr. Gifford's lectures,' he 
 said, thinking that here, at least, he would find a point 
 of agreement with Oxley. ' Isn't listening to a grand 
 lecture on science and Freethought better than drown- 
 ing your soul in a beer-barrel?' 
 
 ' Mr. Gifford says I have got no soul to drown,' 
 replied Oxley, in sulky tones ; ' so what does it matter ? 
 As to science and Freethought,' he went on, being in 
 a quarrelsome mood, ' what use is it all ? I could 
 understand ' Gentle Jesus, meek and mild,' that mother 
 taught me, and maybe He would have helped a chap 
 who was down, and wanted helping. But Mr. Gifford 
 says there is no Jesus, but only summat he calls Natur'. 
 But Natur' will do nothing to help me up, and if I'm 
 down it will keep me down. A glass of good beer 
 gives more warmth to a poor man's stomach than all 
 your "Natur."' 
 
 ' But, Tom, a man is something else than a stomach, 
 and a stomach to be filled with beer.' 
 
 ' What else is he ? ' asked Oxley combatively. 
 
 John Blunt found it a little difficult, on the 'Free- 
 thought ' version of man, to explain, and while he 
 hesitated Oxley went on in grumbling soliloquy : 
 
 'At all events, my stomach is a good bit of me, 
 and is the only thing I'm sure about. Mr. Gifford 
 doesn't believe in a soul, does he ? ' Oxley asked, in 
 somewhat exasperated accents. 
 
 John Blunt felt it desirable td fall back on more
 
 60 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 practical considerations. The new Creed had not yet 
 made up its mind on the subject of ' souls.' 
 
 ' Oxley,' he said, ' your drinking is killing you and 
 will ruin your family. You used to be a decent fellow, 
 and the trade respected you. You could speak fine 
 at the Union, and they were going to put you on the 
 committee.' 
 
 ' Hang the committee ! ' interjected Oxley, a senti- 
 ment which, in John Blunt's ears who had himself been 
 for years a trusted leader amongst his fellow work- 
 men was nothing short of blasphemy. 
 
 ' But, Oxley, man,' he went on, swallowing with a 
 gulp his wrath, ' your drink is spoiling you. It's 
 making you a broken man before your time.' 
 
 'Who says it's spoiling me? I'll swing the hammer 
 with any fellow in the shop. And if I choose a short 
 life and a merry one, why shouldn't I ? ' 
 
 ' But a drunkard's life isn't a merry one.' 
 
 ' I'm not a drunkard,' replied Oxley, in tones of 
 wrath. ' A drop of drink is a poor man's only comfort' 
 
 'Why don't you try to be like William Martin?' 
 inquired Blunt. ' Everybody respects him. He is the 
 best worker and the cheerfullest fellow in the shop, 
 and sings all the day. He wants no beer to give him 
 comfort.' 
 
 'Aye! Bill Martin's got something to sing about,' 
 said Oxley, with a sudden drop in his voice. ' He's a 
 good soul, and believes in his Bible and in heaven.' 
 
 ' But that's a delusion, you know,' said John Blunt 
 hastily. ' You've a better creed than his poor superstition.' 
 
 ' Aye, it's a better one,' was Oxley's answer ; ' but it 
 sadly needs a little beer to make it comfortable.' 
 
 ' Tom,' said John Blunt, wishing to secure the wife's 
 help, c I fear the publican gets more of your wages than
 
 DRUNKEN LOGIC 61 
 
 your wife does. You help to put silk on the back of 
 the publican's wife, and let your own flesh and blood 
 want decent clothing.' 
 
 ' It's a lee,' cried Oxley, reverting to his native 
 Lancashire patois in his anger. 
 
 ' Don't come making trouble betwixt man and wife, 
 uncle,' remonstrated Mrs. Oxley. ' That's an ill service. 
 My Tom is just as good as other folks' husbands,' she 
 added, with a wife's unreasoning jealousy for her 
 ' man's ' character whatever that character may be. 
 
 John abandoned, with a groan, his missionary effort in 
 the Oxley household, and Mrs. Oxley accompanied her 
 disconsolate uncle to the door in peacemaking fashion. 
 
 ' Oh, uncle,' she said, as he stood on the doorstep, 
 ' if you hadn't taken him away from the little Methodist 
 chapel it would have been better for all of us. He is 
 twice as bad as he was now he goes to hear your 
 Mr. Gifford proving that nothing's wrong and every- 
 body is free to do just as he pleases. That's a doctrine 
 that's ill for the wife and bairns.' 
 
 This version of his creed, added to his disgust at 
 finding that even Mrs. Oxley made common cause with 
 her husband against him, was too much for John Blunt. 
 As he walked away he heard the voice of Tom Oxley 
 from the kitchen, in accents of triumph : 
 
 'Right, lass, thou gav'st it him finely. Now send 
 to the Blue Lion for another pint of beer.' 
 
 ' Another pint of beer ' to be poured into Tom 
 Oxley's beer-drugged veins was certainly not the result 
 John Blunt contemplated when he began his missionary 
 labours in the Oxley household, and it was with very 
 chastened feelings he retraced his way through Mill's 
 Court. 
 
 John Blunt was, as we have said, a humble man ;
 
 62 ITHURIEL'S ~ SPEAR 
 
 and, as he walked in a mood of angry regret from 
 Tom Oxley's door, he charged his own clumsiness, 
 not the defects of his creed, with the blame of his 
 failure. He had been put to rout as a missionary; 
 yet he believed his cause was good, and his creed 
 ought to have in it virile energy enough to make a 
 drunkard sober and a wife-beater gentle. But he had 
 handled his case clumsily. He would invoke the aid 
 of Mr. Gifford himself. His better-instructed brain 
 and more convincing logic, to say nothing of his finer 
 tact, would, he hoped, succeed, in spite of Tom Oxley's 
 disconcerting bluntness of speech. Mr. Gifford, he was 
 sure, would not see with indifference the sacred cause 
 of Freethought used as a salt to sharpen a drunkard's 
 thirst. 
 
 Mr. Gifford, however, somewhat to John Blunt's 
 surprise, showed no enthusiastic desire to interview 
 Oxley. To deliver eloquent lectures to applauding 
 crowds was delightful ; but to undertake the moral 
 reform of men in prosaic units was quite another 
 thing. Why should Mr. Gifford abandon that serene 
 realm in which his eloquence won such shining victories 
 over air-drawn foes, and climb a dirty staircase in Mill's 
 Court for the sake of expostulating with an imperfectly 
 washed and half-drunken workman ? Mr. Gifford, 
 naturally, preferred the easy, rose-tinted abstract to 
 the smoke-coloured and hard-angled concrete ! 
 
 ' I cannot do everything, John,' he said to his dis- 
 appointed follower. ' I've got, no doubt,' he went on, 
 soothingly, ' the defects of my qualities. I can talk to 
 a crowd. I understand it, and am not afraid of it. 
 But I've no small talk, and I don't like dealing with 
 individuals. But bring the matter up at the committee 
 meeting, and perhaps something may be done.'
 
 DRUNKEN LOGIC 63 
 
 John Blunt, accordingly, preferred, in the committee- 
 room of the Freethought Association, his request that 
 Mr. Gifford should visit Oxley, and undertake his 
 reform. Mr. Creakles, the secretary, in a voice which 
 resembled the music of a file gnawing a bit of steel, 
 took strong objections to the proposal. It was illogical, 
 he urged, for the representative of Freethought to spend 
 time and energy in ' visiting ' as though he were 
 nothing better than a city missionary individual cases. 
 The new theology knew nothing of units. Society was 
 to be saved in the mass, not in units. Freethought, 
 in fact, was quite indifferent to the human unit, and 
 cared only for the human race. Wasn't that the principle 
 on which the universe itself was conducted? The 
 individual was nothing, the mass everything. 
 
 John Blunt tried to interject the remark that the 
 race was only made up of units, but found nobody to 
 listen to him. 
 
 Mr. Tinkler, a shoemaker of radical views in both 
 politics and religion, contended that it was best that 
 drunkards should be allowed to kill themselves off as 
 expeditiously as possible. It was the law of nature 
 that deteriorated types should perish. Why should 
 they interfere with the august processes so plainly 
 benevolent of nature, by trying to arrest the operations 
 of a law so beneficent ? 
 
 Mr. Tuggs, another member of the committee, argued 
 that happiness was the proper end of life, and all 
 forms of happiness were equally natural and equally 
 justifiable. If Mr. Oxley found more enjoyment in what 
 was called ' drunkenness ' than in ' sobriety,' it was 
 within his natural right to give effect to his choice. 
 Human liberty was sacred. It was not the business 
 of Freethought, at all events, to interfere with it.
 
 64 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 ' No man has the right,' growled the always practical 
 and now exasperated John Blunt, ' to kill himself with 
 drink, and leave his wife and children to be taken 
 care of by others. It is everybody's business,' he added, 
 in rising tones, ' to try to stop a man from committing 
 suicide. We must show that our creed can arrest vice, 
 not merely as well as an effete Christianity, but a great 
 deal better.' 
 
 ' I thought we agreed,' said Mr. Creakles, with an 
 air of philosophical remonstrance, ' that " vice " was an 
 exploded word, and should not be used to describe 
 the gratification of appetites which are natural ; and 
 being natural, are legitimate.' 
 
 'Well, you may call drunkenness a virtue, if you 
 like,' said John Blunt ; ' but your new terminology will 
 ruin you. Plain sense is not to be tricked in that 
 fashion. Drunkenness is a deadly curse ; and if you 
 don't kill it, it will kill society. Here is an opportunity,' 
 he went on, with growing emphasis, ' of proving that 
 our creed, as a social force, is a better thing than 
 Christianity. Freethought must produce not only 
 fine lectures, but improved lives. Don't we hold our 
 funds in trust for the purpose of making practical 
 applications of Freethought to social questions ? We've 
 done nothing but give Sunday-night lectures, so far 
 They're first-rate,' John said, apologetically, to Mr. 
 Gifford, ' but they're not practical. Oxley is the type of 
 a class, and we ought to prove that our principles, applied 
 to that class, work well. Tom Oxley attends Mr. Gifford's 
 lectures, and Mr. Gifford might well try if he can't 
 save a man who believes his teaching from becoming 
 a drunken suicide.' 
 
 Mr. Gifford was always moved by an appeal to 
 his chivalry.
 
 DRUNKEN LOGIC 65 
 
 ' I will go, John,' he said. ' That the exploded 
 superstitions of Christianity are more tender in sym- 
 pathy, or more fruitful in service, than the scientific 
 and nobler faith we teach, is not to be imagined.' 
 
 'But the society/ remonstrated Mr. Creakles, in his 
 most metallic tones, ' must not be held responsible for 
 your act. You are establishing an inconvenient, and 
 even a dangerous, precedent.' 
 
 ' It's better to try and fail,' said John Blunt emphati- 
 cally, ' than not to try at all.'
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 A DEFEAT 
 
 WHEN Mr. Gifford set out on his visit to Mill Court 
 the next day, he met Mr. Looker on the way. Now, 
 Mr. Looker was accustomed to boast he had ' no 
 prejudices.' He was free of both theological camps. 
 Perhaps it would be more correct to say that his keen 
 tongue and trick of unsparing criticism were equally 
 dreaded in both. He had, somehow, the gift of know- 
 ing everything that was going on. He was interested, 
 he cheerfully confessed, in humanity, and all human 
 affairs were his concern. So all the gossip of the town 
 flowed into his ears. He knew as much about the 
 recent debate in the Freethought Association as if 
 he had assisted at it in person ; and his many-lined, 
 Socrates-looking face lit up with a dry smile as he met 
 Mr. Gifford. 
 
 That gentleman had an uncomfortable consciousness 
 that Mr. Looker knew his exact errand, and discovered 
 humour in it. 
 
 ' Well, Mr. Gifford ! So you are going to beat the 
 Bible-women at their own trade?' said Mr. Looker. 
 ' Only a Bible-woman minus a Bible represents a some- 
 what novel experiment, doesn't it ? ' 
 
 ' I have no intention,' said Mr. Gifford, with an un- 
 comfortable smile, ' of displacing the Bible-woman, and 
 
 66
 
 A DEFEAT 67 
 
 I am not setting up as a city missionary, either with a 
 Bible or without one. But if I can save one who looks 
 to me as a teacher from becoming a drunkard, I think 
 I ought to try to do it. Am I unfortunate enough not 
 to have your approval, Mr. Looker ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, I'm delighted ; only, Mr. Gifford though you 
 don't suspect it you are going to commit theological 
 suicide ! ' 
 
 1 1 hope,' said Mr. Gifford, with a smile, ' that I am 
 not on the verge of anything so alarming.' 
 
 ' Well, you are taking Freethought out of the easy 
 and pleasant realm of rhetoric into the kingdom of 
 facts. You are going to spin a cobweb across the path 
 of a locomotive. That will be bad for the cobweb ! ' 
 
 ' But I don't grant your " cobweb," Mr. Looker. My 
 teaching, as I see it, reflects the eternal and unchange- 
 able facts of the universe ; and they are something more 
 than the filaments of a cobweb.' 
 
 ' Your teaching, whatever it reflects, has not moral 
 energy enough to conquer a vice. No ! It will make 
 vice easy. And you are on the way to prove that in 
 your visit to Tom Oxley ! ' 
 
 'Is it quite polite, Mr. Looker, to say that Free- 
 thought will make vice easy ? ' 
 
 ' I have not considered that,' replied Mr. Looker, with 
 a twinkle of humour in his eye ; ' I thought you put 
 truth before politeness. But what can you say that will 
 cool Tom Oxley's thirst for beer?' 
 
 ' I can say everything that ought to move the self- 
 respect of an intelligent man. I can say all that your 
 Bible-woman can say, and can say it on loftier grounds 
 than she can.' 
 
 'Yes, you can steal the ethics of Christianity. But 
 there is one thing you cannot steal ! '
 
 68 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 ' And what is that ? ' 
 
 ' Its motives ! Its spiritual energy ! ' 
 
 ' Well, truth has its own energy.' 
 
 ' The discovery you are about to make, Mr. Gifford, 
 when you interview Tom Oxley, is that truth has no 
 saving energy in itself. Christianity is a scheme of 
 ethics plus a supernatural force. It is a locomotive plus 
 steam. Now, your Freethought is a locomotive minus 
 steam.' 
 
 * I am glad you concede it is a locomotive,' replied 
 Mr. Gifford, ' and I think you will find there is steam 
 enough to drive it.' 
 
 ' Well, a locomotive without steam is so much old 
 iron. Nay ! it's worse. It's a fraud. It's a mechanical 
 hypocrisy. It undertakes to drag a train, and it can't 
 even make its own wheels turn round. 
 
 * Tom Oxley's case will enlighten you on that point,' 
 continued Mr. Looker, with an air of pleasant certainty 
 that curiously disquieted Mr. Gifford. 'But I will 
 mend my illustration,' he went on. ' The difference be- 
 twixt Freethought your version of Freethought, Mr. 
 Gifford, which is about the best extant and Chris- 
 tianity, is the difference betwixt a time-table and a 
 railway. You have stolen the time-table of Christianity. 
 You have no right to it, you know ! You undertake 
 to reach the same moral ends as Christianity. But 
 how are you to get there ? Shall a man get to London 
 by sitting down on a Bradshaw's Guide ? Committing 
 oneself to the Christian scheme is like getting into 
 an express train. It carries you ! It is a going 
 
 concern ! But Freethought Mr. Gifford, you have 
 
 stolen the time-table, but you can't invent the train ! ' 
 
 ' You have a pretty gift for metaphors, Mr. Looker ; 
 but, then, metaphors don't count.'
 
 A DEFEAT 69 
 
 ' Ah, well ! Tom Oxley is going to educate you. 
 You are on the road to the discovery that my meta- 
 phors reflect eternal facts better than your teaching 
 does ! You won't allow me to accompany you, Mr. 
 Gifford, will you ? ' 
 
 ' No, Mr. Looker,' was the reply. ' I am afraid 
 your atmosphere is unfriendly to my experiment ' ; and, 
 with a somewhat uneasy laugh, Mr. Gifford went on 
 his way. Mr. Looker was decidedly discouraging. 
 
 Mrs. Oxley stared with surprise when the tall form 
 and refined face of Mr. Gifford appeared before her, 
 as she opened the door in response to a knock. 
 
 ' Is your husband in ? ' asked the apostle of Free- 
 thought and, it may be added, with an unconfessed 
 hope that he might be out. 
 
 With visible reluctance Mrs. Oxley admitted he was ; 
 but, she added, he was not fit to see such a visitor 
 as Mr. Gifford. Here a gruff voice from the back 
 room at the end of the passage bade her ' bring the 
 Freethought parson in,' and then Oxley, in person, 
 and in a mood of spirituous exaltation, offered himself 
 to the somewhat embarrassed gaze of Mr. Gifford. 
 
 ' I am glad to see you at my lectures sometimes,' 
 said Mr. Gifford, in a pleasant fashion. 
 
 ' Yes,' admitted Tom Oxley, ' I like to hear you 
 talk ; and, man, you do give it to the parsons,' he 
 added admiringly. ' It gives a chap a deal of comfort 
 to hear you gassing.' 
 
 Mr. Gifford, with wise diplomacy, ignored the de- 
 scription of his lectures as ' gassing.' 
 
 ' Comfort,' he said, ' isn't exactly what I try to 
 give. That is spoon food for invalids. But what is 
 the particular aspect of my lectures which gives you 
 such comfort?'
 
 70 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 ' You see,' said Tom, in beery and confidential tones, 
 with a flavour of dialect, ' some of they old-war!" stories 
 stick to a fellow in spite of himself, and so a man 
 can't get " tight " in peace. There's a text in the 
 old Bible which runs in my brain whiles, " no drunkard 
 shall inherit the kingdom of heaven," and that gives 
 me a creepy feeling like. It spoils a man's beer/ he 
 said, with a note of disgusted indignation in his voice. 
 ' But you make it all fine and clear. There is no 
 kingdom of heaven at all ; so it's no loss to be kept 
 out of it. So,' he added, with a grin, ' I get drunk 
 twice as comfortably and twice as often as I did 
 before.' 
 
 Now, this was decidedly an unexpected, not to say 
 vulgar and disappointing, application of his teaching, 
 and it discomposed Mr. Gifford not a little. 
 
 'Mr. Oxley,' he said, with a touch of sternness, 'if 
 my teaching makes drunkenness easy, and drunkards 
 " comfortable," then it is evil teaching, and as false as 
 it is evil ; and I detest and renounce it. But you 
 quite misunderstand what I say. The new light of 
 science lifts you out of superstition, and calls you to a 
 nobler manhood than before, not to a baser manhood.' 
 
 Calls me to what ? ' asked Oxley, with an air of 
 non-comprehension. 
 
 ' To a nobler manhood.' 
 
 'And what's that?' 
 
 ' To the conquest of your appetites, and to a life 
 spent for others.' 
 
 ' But why should I quarrel with my appetites ? ' 
 asked Oxley. 'You said that everything that was 
 natural was right ; and eh, man ! it's awfu' natural 
 to want a second glass of beer when you've drunk 
 the first.'
 
 A DEFEAT 71 
 
 'You must learn to live for humanity, not for your- 
 self; and least of all for your baser self.' 
 
 ' But I'm a bit of humanity,' argued Tom Oxley ; 
 ' the nearest bit, too,' he went on, with a cunning look 
 in his eyes ; c and the biggest bit the bit I'm most 
 interested in, at all events. Why shouldn't I please 
 my own bit of humanity ? And what will it all matter,' 
 he added, in a lower tone, as if to himself, ' fifty years 
 to come ? It's all very well for you,' he went on, with 
 a kindling sense of injury, 'to say I ought to be ashamed 
 of myself for drinking all the beer I can get. You've 
 got books, and money, and your lectures ; and if you 
 got drunk you'd have none of them. But, I tell you, 
 Mr. Gifford, beer is books, and money, and lectures, 
 and all to me ; and why should I give it up ? As for 
 " humanity," yon's a big word. What does it mean ? 
 Does it mean the boss at the workshop ? Why should 
 I live for him ? He can do without me. Does it mean 
 the landlord at the Blue Lion ? Why, he'd starve if we 
 all turned sober.' 
 
 ' Well,' said Mr. Gifford, with an attempt to translate 
 the vague term ' humanity ' into the more attractive 
 concrete, 'it means your wife and children.' 
 
 ' Ah, poor things,' said Oxley, in half a whisper. 
 ' But,' he broke out, ' dinna you meddle with them. 
 Jack's old enough to take care of himself; and as 
 for little Jess, she's in heaven. At least, no,' he added, 
 'you say there is no heaven. I used to think my 
 little Jess would be shamed, like, among the angels, 
 if they knew she had a drunken father ; and this used 
 to check me whiles. But since I found out from your 
 lectures that there is no heaven, and Jess is nowhere, 
 why/ he asked, with sudden fierceness, ' why shouldn't 
 I drink ? What else is left a man ? '
 
 72 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 'If there's no heaven,' said Mr. Gifford, 'your man- 
 hood is left, and every glass of beer you drink enervates 
 your will. It lowers you. It kills something good in 
 you. It is a seed of future pain.' 
 
 ' But death winds all up,' argued Oxley. ' It will 
 be no worse for me under the coffin lid than for 
 David Christie, who never had a real good time all 
 his life. Now if I believed I had a soul, and it would 
 have to pay for all the sins of my body, I'd tak* a 
 thought and mend. But you don't believe that, Mr. 
 Gifford? Aye, or if I thought little Jess was waiting 
 for me somewhere ayont the grave, and that, maybe, if 
 I died a drunkard, I'd never see her, then I'd stop. But 
 there's no more little Jess no more little Jess,' he 
 repeated, with a groan. 
 
 1 Suppose all the race were to do as you do,' re- 
 monstrated Mr. Gifford ; ' why, humanity would be 
 destroyed.' 
 
 ' What do I care for humanity ? ' said Oxley coolly. 
 ' You told us that science proves the globe will be 
 turned into a ball of ice ; then parsons and Freethought 
 lecturers, and drunkards, and publicans will all end 
 together. What will be the difference betwixt them 
 then ? Better to die drunk,' he went on, with a laugh, 
 ' than to die frozen. I tell you, getting " tight" was always 
 grand, but you didn't know whether it mightn't cost 
 you too much in the long-run. But when you proved 
 there was no right or wrong in the business, and no 
 heaven or hell at the end of it, why, you just made a 
 good " burst," for those who like it, the most sensible 
 thing in the world.' 
 
 Mr. Gifford walked away from Tom Oxley's door 
 in a mood of sorest disgust. A religious reformer, it 
 was clear, ran strange risks. To see his lofty theories,
 
 A DEFEAT 73 
 
 the highest effort of thought and speech of which he 
 was capable, translated into such drab-coloured and 
 unlovely concrete ! What malign logic was this which 
 extracted an argument for drunkenness from the most 
 eloquent of his lectures? It was an idiot's trick ! In 
 the alembic of a drunken fool's brain, any evil trans- 
 figuration was possible. 
 
 A new discomfiture awaited Mr. Gifford. A few 
 steps from the door he found himself face to face 
 with Mrs. Baxter, the Bible-woman, who was plainly 
 on her way to the Oxleys. The little worn-faced 
 Bible-woman, with her black shawl and dowdy bonnet, 
 looked up at the tall figure of Mr. Gifford, and there 
 was a gaze in her honest grey eyes, half-pitying, half- 
 stern, which that gentleman found a little trying. 
 
 'Eh, sir,' she cried, 'and are you visiting the slums? 
 Do you want to rob sinful men and despairing women 
 under these miserable roofs of their Saviour ? ' 
 
 'No, Mrs. Baxter,' said Mr. Gifford, with a smile, 
 ' I don't contemplate any theft so vast. But truth is 
 better and safer than any myth. I don't rob any one 
 by giving them truth instead of a dream.' 
 
 ' But, Mr. Gifford, if Jesus Christ is an invention, who 
 invented Him ? I hear ye quote Shakespeare a great 
 deal, and say he is the most inspired man the world 
 ever knew. And wouldn't an ordinary man a poor 
 fool himself who could invent Shakespeare be more 
 wonderful than Shakespeare himself? And who,' she 
 insisted, ' invented Christ ? Could a bad man have 
 invented Him ? Why, he couldrit have imagined Him ! 
 And a good man wouldrft have invented Him. Fact 
 or invention, Jesus Christ is here, and how do you 
 explain Him ? ' 
 
 ' I don't feel called upon to " explain " Him, Mrs.
 
 74 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 Baxter,' said Mr. Gifford, who found theological dis- 
 course with a shabbily dressed Bible-woman in the open 
 street rather trying. 
 
 ' But,' said Mrs. Baxter, with a gentler note in her 
 voice, ' if Christianity is a lie, isn't it a beautiful lie ? 
 Don't you wish it were true ? Wouldn't it be grand 
 if it were true? if a heart as tender as your mother's 
 were behind the stars, and was seeking me and you 
 and all men ? and if beyond this weary world, with 
 all its tears, there was a heaven, where mothers and 
 their dead children met, and tired folk had endless rest, 
 and there was no pain nor trouble? Mr. Gifford,' asked 
 the little Bible-woman, with eager insistence, ' if you 
 were God, wouldn't you make such a heaven ? I am 
 sure you would ! And don't you think God is as good 
 as you?' 
 
 ' I can't undertake to weigh so wild an imagination,' 
 said Mr. Gifford. 
 
 ' But do you think,' urged Mrs. Baxter, ' that men 
 can imagine anything bigger and better than God 
 can do? Ah, Mr. Gifford, your mistake is that you 
 think God is a little being ; a poorer thing than 
 you are yourself. That is why Christianity seems 
 incredible.' 
 
 And with a smile that lit up her thin and lined face 
 as with a flash of sunlight, the little woman hurried 
 on her errand of pity. 
 
 Mr. Gifford was one of those orators who find an 
 opiate in their own eloquence. His platform rhetoric 
 was, to him, what a narcotic is to a drug-eater. His 
 next Sunday-night's lecture restored his intellectual 
 self-respect ; which, to tell the truth, had been sorely 
 shaken by Tom Oxley's rough logic. He delivered 
 an impassioned oration on ' The Ethical Failure of
 
 A DEFEAT 75 
 
 Christianity,' and ' The Superiority of Marcus Aurelius 
 to St. Paul.' It was unanimously declared to be Mr. 
 Gifford's very finest effort 
 
 Tom Oxley listened to it with a grin, and adjourned, 
 at its close, to the Blue Lion, with a new thirst. John 
 Blunt listened to it with a sigh, and walked home 
 painfully exercised by the problem of why Tom Oxley 
 was a worse drunkard after Mr. Gifford's visit than he 
 had ever been before.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 MYRTLE 
 
 CECIL lost one of the great steadying forces of his life 
 when the tie vague and tentative, yet sweet which 
 bound him to Kate Arden was snapped. A love for 
 a pure girl is a force which makes for purity in the 
 lover himself. His rejection, moreover and the reason 
 behind it stung Cecil's vanity. It kindled an angry 
 resentment ; an evil flame which burned up much that 
 was good in him. His home life, too, fretted him. 
 His mother more than half worshipped him. But it 
 was with an exacting, worrying affection that sorely 
 fretted the nerves of its object. Love itself, when 
 flavoured with the spirit of jealous exaction, may 
 discharge the office of a blister. 
 
 A few mornings after the scene with Kate, Cecil 
 sat at the breakfast-table with a sullen brow and 
 nerves all shaken and irritable. His father, who never 
 understood his son, and was never at ease with him, 
 sat at the head of the table, reading his newspaper, 
 while he ate for it was a household of unsocial habits. 
 When the meal was half through, Mrs. Sparks made 
 her appearance. 
 
 ' Dear, dear,' she cried, ' how close the room is ! 
 How it smells of the breakfast ! ' and she proceeded 
 
 76
 
 MYRTLE 77 
 
 with much clatter to open the windows. Had they 
 been open, she would, with equal clatter, have hastened 
 to shut them. Mrs. Sparks, by bent of nature, was 
 always dissatisfied with things as they were. When 
 she reached heaven, her son used to say banteringly, 
 she would immediately find fault with the ventilation, 
 and want to introduce a few improvements in the 
 wings of the angels ! 
 
 When at last Mrs. Sparks had succeeded in making 
 everybody uncomfortable with her alterations in the 
 room, she sat down at her end of the table, but instantly 
 got up again. 
 
 ' Cecil ! you are not well. Your face is flushed. 
 Whatever is the matter ? I think you must be 
 feverish. Is your throat sore? I must give you 
 some medicine. Mary, fetch down my homoeopathic 
 chest.' 
 
 Now, if there is one thing which the healthy young 
 male abhors, it is to have medicines administered to 
 him, especially by an amateur. But to administer 
 medicines was his mother's favourite occupation. She 
 proceeded to demand from Cecil an exposition of all 
 his feelings. She insisted on his possession of a given 
 set of symptoms ; proceeded to mix the required 
 dose, and spoon in hand, pour it down Cecil's 
 throat. 
 
 Cecil usually submitted to this operation with grim 
 patience ; but he was now in a nervous and sulky 
 mood, which made patience a difficult virtue, and he 
 swore softly under his breath as his mother, having 
 begun to doubt if she had put the required number 
 of drops of the tincture into the glass, wished to go 
 over the process again. 
 
 ' Cecil,' said his father bluntly, ' don't be a cad !
 
 78 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 Have your new friends robbed you of your manners 
 as well as of your religion ? ' 
 
 * Perhaps all the religion I had,' said Cecil, ' was 
 a mere affair of manners like that of some other 
 people.' 
 
 The father, a man of violent temper, felt as if the 
 nearest ecclesiastical equivalent to an oath was the 
 only appropriate answer. 
 
 Mrs. Sparks here broke in with a new agitation. 
 
 ' Cecil, what time did you come in last night ? Did 
 you put the light out in the hall ? Where were you ? 
 Who was with you ? What were you doing ? ' 
 
 Cecil was accustomed to cross-examination of this 
 sort, and an adept in evading it ; but this morning 
 he was too sulky to endure the rack, or to take the 
 trouble to evade it. 
 
 'Why do you make me a criminal, mother, and 
 put me in the dock in this fashion ? Must I give 
 an account of every hour of my time, and a list 
 of the people with whom I talked ? Why can't 
 you let a fellow alone, and let him have a little 
 freedom.' 
 
 ' Oh, Cecil,' cried his mother, ' I am only anxious 
 for your good.' 
 
 ' If you were a little (ess anxious, mother, it would 
 be happier for both of us.' 
 
 ' But your liberty,' said his father, ' is very apt to 
 grow into licence. This is a decent home, and I won't 
 have my son disgracing me by creeping into it after 
 midnight.' 
 
 ' If I disgrace the home, sir,' said Cecil, 'there's one 
 easy remedy : I can leave it.' 
 
 ' Oh, Cecil,' cried the mother ; ' oh, Cecil, you'll bring 
 on my attacks again.'
 
 MYRTLE 79 
 
 Mrs. Sparks had a nervous headache which was 
 producible at pleasure. It was referred familiarly to 
 as ' my attacks,' and was commonly employed when 
 other arguments failed to bring her husband into sub- 
 jection, or to silence Cecil's too bitter tongue. Cecil 
 cast one glance at his father's sulky face, and another 
 at his mother's Niobe-like attitude ; then, with an 
 execration which he did not take the trouble to soften, 
 walked out of the room. 
 
 ' I want a little sunshine of some sort,' he said 
 to himself bitterly, as he drew the door sharply to 
 behind him. There certainly was not much ' sunshine ' 
 in Cecil's home. His father was an embodied thunder- 
 cloud ; his mother a perpetual agitation. 
 
 Discontented with himself, and with his whole en- 
 vironment, Cecil flung himself yet more defiantly into 
 alliance with the Freethought Association. He became 
 its advocate, and found a pleasure in showing the 
 freedom from ancient ' superstitions ' and conventions 
 which his new creed gave him. He discussed new and 
 daring experiments in conduct. Mr. Gifford himself 
 found a pleasure in the society of this young, audacious 
 spirit. Cecil was better educated and of easier social 
 habits than most of the followers Mr. Gifford drew 
 round him, and he translated Mr. Gifford's speculations 
 into conduct with a feverish energy which delighted, if 
 it sometimes alarmed, his teacher. 
 
 One evening he took Cecil home with him. 
 
 ' My house,' he said, ' has a gay visitor, for which 
 it is too dull a cage. Come with me, and lighten a 
 little of its dullness.' 
 
 As they entered the drawing-room a girl sat play- 
 ing the piano. She rose as the two stood before 
 her, and as the bright light fell upon her brow and
 
 So ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 hair she almost took Cecil's breath away, with a vision 
 of keen, dark, intense beauty. 
 
 ' Myrtle,' said Mr. Gifford, ' this is Cecil Sparks. 
 This is my sister, Mr. Sparks, who has come for a 
 while to stay with us.' 
 
 Myrtle glanced at Cecil as he bowed to her. This, 
 then, was the lover which that fair-browed Puritan, 
 Kate Arden, had kept in suspense so long, and had 
 at last rejected. Myrtle's eyes dwelt on him with 
 curiosity. ' Kate Arden,' she thought to herself, ' never 
 had any taste, and she was a simpleton to let such a 
 lover slip.' 
 
 As they sat and chatted, Cecil's soft voice and 
 quick wit deepened the impression which his vivid 
 features had made ; while Cecil allowed his somewhat 
 bold eyes, with ever-growing content, to wander over 
 the face and figure of the girl before him. She lacked, 
 he felt by instinct, the serene intelligence, the depth 
 of feeling, the quick humour, the unshakable principle 
 of Kate Arden. But he was in a mood which rather 
 resented the saintly element in a woman's character. 
 
 Certainly there was nothing of a too icy saintliness in 
 Myrtle. She had the perilous gift of beauty in a 
 much more alluring form than that of Kate. She 
 might have sat to a sculptor as a model of Hebe ; 
 and yet the cool purity of marble was sufficiently 
 remote from Myrtle's warm, rich-tinted grace. Her 
 dark eyes, with a hint of slumbering passion in 
 them, intoxicated like wine. Her full red lips and 
 black almost blue-black shining hair gave Oriental 
 richness to her face. There was a soft and careless 
 ease about her which the careless observer found 
 charming ; but which to keener judgement marked 
 a subtle want of self-protecting purity.
 
 MYRTLE 8 1 
 
 Myrtle was, in fact, of a very epicurean temperament. 
 She loved soft things, and bright colours, and rich 
 scents, and easy, compliant ways. She had passed 
 through her school course with Kate Arden, and then 
 became a teacher ; but she lacked the grit and strength 
 necessary for that somewhat trying office, and so had 
 come to live for a while with her brother, who was 
 much older than Myrtle, and had always exercised 
 a sort of fatherly guardianship over her. 
 
 Myrtle accepted her brother's creed with cheerful 
 facility. She probably did not in the least understand 
 either the new doctrines she accepted, or the old 
 ones she cast overboard ; but at least the change 
 meant the blotting out of existence of a whole world 
 of inconvenient restrictions. Any form of theology, 
 indeed, in shabby clothes and under a social ban, 
 would have repelled Myrtle. But Freethought as 
 she found it flourishing at Middleford over-crowing 
 the churches, followed by crowds, served with eloquence, 
 and fed fat with luxury delighted her. She promised 
 herself ' a good time ' ; and Cecil, as she looked at 
 him, seemed to be excellently qualified to assist her 
 in the discovery of 'a good time.' 
 
 The chat presently wandered in the direction of 
 Kate. Cecil's brow darkened as her name was men- 
 tioned, and Myrtle, who knew his story, noted the 
 sudden look of gloom with amusement. 
 
 ' I knew Kate well at school,' she said. ' She will 
 never marry anybody but a parson. She always put 
 theology first, and was weighing doctrines when we 
 other girls were comparing blouses. Nature intended 
 her to be an eternal Sunday-school teacher. She has 
 no more warmth about her than an iceberg.' 
 
 Cecil knew all this to be unjust, and was almost 
 
 6
 
 82 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 startled at the boldness with which his new acquaintance 
 talked. He felt, with a sure instinct, that there was 
 a higher capacity for unselfish love the love of wife 
 and of mother behind Kate's clear eyes and calm 
 brow than even in Myrtle's warm-blooded figure. And 
 yet it soothed him to hear a girl whose unattainable 
 and star-like grace mocked his desires thus described. 
 He had felt awkward when the talk wandered in Kate's 
 direction ; but now his awkwardness softened into 
 gratitude. The glance of Myrtle's dark eyes, too, ran 
 through his blood like fire. 
 
 1 Miss Arden,' he said, ' is a feminine icicle, an icicle 
 in petticoats. My taste runs to warmer qualities,' and 
 under his daring and expressive glance Myrtle's cheeks 
 took a deeper colour. 
 
 Mr. Gifford had been called away by some engage- 
 ment, and the pair chatted and laughed together to 
 a late hour. Myrtle walked with Cecil to the gate 
 of the little garden, and he pressed her hand, at parting, 
 with a freedom he had never dared to attempt with 
 Kate. 
 
 'A dainty bit,' he said to himself, as he walked 
 away. 'No theology here. No dread of Mrs. 
 Grundy.' 
 
 Her rich beauty would make a sensation in Middleford ; 
 and to walk by her side, and enjoy a monopoly of 
 smiles, would soothe the vanity which Kate's rejection 
 had left sore. 
 
 The meeting of Cecil, in his present mood, with 
 Myrtle, was like the meeting of fire and tow. Mr. 
 Gifford was philosophically unconscious that Cecil 
 was an almost nightly visitor at his house, and 
 that Myrtle's cheeks flushed at his coming ; while 
 Mrs. Gifford's attention was absorbed with her little
 
 MYRTLE 83 
 
 daughter Mary, who was drooping like a rootless 
 flower. 
 
 Mr. Gifford, as a matter of fact, was half fascinated 
 and half frightened with his young disciple. Cecil often 
 sat with him far into the night, and discussed the forms 
 a new society, with morals purged of ' superstition,' and 
 framed on a non-Christian pattern, would take ; and 
 Mr. Gifford found that Cecil had an audacity of 
 imagination, unfettered by conventions, which startled 
 him. Society, he contended, must be remodelled. 
 Virtue had hitherto worn too austere a brow. Enjoy- 
 ment, in the new ethics, rose to the dignity and scale 
 of a duty. The relation betwixt the sexes must be 
 made freer. 
 
 Man, argued Cecil, is cast, without choice of his 
 own, by a Force of which he knows nothing, for an 
 end which he cannot guess, into a world he can never 
 understand, and which, as a matter of fact, is un- 
 conscious of his existence, or indifferent to it. With 
 all this Mr. Gifford agreed ; it was his own rhetorical 
 thunder, vibrating in many a lecture. But Cecil went 
 on to demand : ' In this gap, this brief interval betwixt 
 two mysteries, which we call life, what is man's 
 most urgent business?' And he answered his own 
 question according to his own temperament. It is to 
 enjoy ! 
 
 Cecil grew eloquent on the wasted opportunities of 
 enjoyment with which like fallen blossoms, to which 
 no fruit had ever come every path trodden by human 
 feet was strewn. Nine human lives out of every ten 
 were mere unfulfilled prophecies ; songs unsung ; 
 arrested buds that never broke into blossom. His 
 philosophy was of the carpe diem order. Man was 
 only sure of to-day. To-morrow was doubtful ; next
 
 84 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 year yet more doubtful ; the next century irrelevant. 
 Why not crowd every possible pleasure into every 
 passing moment ? The epicurean creed was the only 
 belief for sane men ; epicurean ethics supplied the 
 only rule by which a healthy life ought to shape 
 itself!
 
 CHAPTER X 
 SLIPPERY PLACES 
 
 MR. GlFFORD, as we have said, began to find the 
 logic of his young disciple almost too audacious for him. 
 He had an uneasy and unconfessed sense, indeed, that 
 such deductions from his teaching as Cecil was trium- 
 phantly drawing would, in the long-run, discredit it. 
 They might be logical, but they were inconvenient. 
 They ought to be esoteric. The world was not ready 
 for them. 
 
 But Cecil, with his more eager temperament and 
 hotter blood, felt that his teacher was, at this point, 
 absurdly timid. His logic halted. He laid down 
 premisses, but shrank from their inevitable conclusion. 
 He planted the seed, but was afraid to look at the 
 flower. The one practical problem about which a 
 sensible man need concern himself was how to secure 
 the widest range of enjoyment in the narrowest limits 
 of time. 
 
 Money was, of course, the tool and servant of all 
 enjoyment ; the open sesame at whose whisper every 
 cabinet of delight would fly open. But money was 
 scanty. Cecil scorned the inadequate salary he earned 
 at the bank. He handled so much money, but got 
 so little ! His fingers lingered over the silver and gold 
 
 85
 
 86 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 coins that filled his safe. They were frozen forces, 
 undeveloped possibilities of enjoyment They could be 
 translated into a thousand delights. Why were they 
 not his ? 
 
 At least their use might be his. How to extract 
 some service from them not dishonestly, though ' hon- 
 esty ' and ' dishonesty ' belonged to the outworn 
 terminology of the Bible but safely? This was the 
 problem to which Cecil bent his quick and restless 
 imagination. 
 
 Presently one ingenious device shaped itself in his 
 busy and scheming brain. The Building Society of 
 which Mr. Creakles was secretary and manager had 
 clothed itself illegitimately with some of the functions 
 of a bank. It offered a tempting rate of interest 
 for ' deposits at call ' ; and offered it in vain to a 
 somewhat incredulous public. But in the bank's safe 
 was a standing reserve of nearly ^50,000 in actual cash, 
 a provision with a generous margin for the daily 
 demands of the counter. A considerable portion of 
 it lay, month by month, idle and unused. 
 
 One department of the strong room held this large 
 sum of bullion. On the upper shelves were rows of 
 canvas bags, each one holding 500 sovereigns ; the 
 middle shelves held bags of silver, the lower ones copper ; 
 each variety of precious metal being packed in bags 
 of a different colour. 
 
 Cecil gazed at these lines of canvas bags, and each 
 one seemed, to his imagination, like Aladdin's lamp, 
 in the Arabian fable, translated into modern terms. 
 It held a genius! He noted how seldom the back 
 line of the yellow bags which held the gold was 
 moved. Even the inspector only counted their number, 
 and seldom opened them to check their contents. Cecil
 
 SLIPPERY PLACES 87 
 
 had possession of one of the two keys which opened 
 the cash safe. His manager Mr. Arden L had the repu- 
 tation of being a keen and able officer, and, in his 
 time, he had rendered the bank distinguished service. 
 But he was growing old. His wife was dead. To 
 soothe his shaken nerves, he had formed the 'opium 
 habit ' ; and he had found in Mr. Gifford's teachings 
 another opiate for more than the senses. He had 
 grown dreamy, indolent, neglectful though with 
 intermittent flashes of his ancient keenness. He had 
 come to lean on his quicker subordinate, and so Cecil 
 enjoyed a somewhat perilous degree of freedom. 
 
 One morning Cecil came to the bank a little early, 
 and sent up to Mr. Arden -who was not yet down for 
 the keys of the strong room. He opened the door of 
 the cash safe with his own key, took out two of the 
 yellow bags of gold from the back row, substituting, for 
 them, two bags of the same colour, but filled with 
 copper. The two pairs of bags exactly resembled each 
 other in colour and bulk. 
 
 Later in the day he made his appearance in Mr. 
 Creakles's office, and lodged 1,000 in gold in his own 
 name, at call. This gave him an additional 40 a year, 
 and the transaction, he argued, was safe, and even 
 justifiable. For the bank ran no risk. He was only, 
 Cecil said to himself, increasing, and without cost to his 
 employers, his quite inadequate salary. 
 
 Mr. Creakles's foxy eyebrows went up with surprise 
 when the deposit was made. How could Cecil Sparks, 
 the parson's son, with the limited salary of a bank 
 teller, become the possessor of 1,000 in gold coin ? 
 One day the 1,000 was suddenly called in by Cecil, 
 and, after a few days, replaced ; and Mr. Creakles 
 noted that the calling in of the money coincided with
 
 88 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 the visit of the bank inspector. Three months later 
 the same events took place in the same order. 
 
 When next Cecil presented himself at Mr. Creakles's 
 office, and, producing his deposit receipt, asked for 
 the .1,000, Mr. Creakles said, drily, he 'had not the 
 cash.' Cecil grew first pale with fear, then, as he noted 
 the somewhat insolent unconcern of Mr. Creakles, he 
 grew red with anger. He stormed furiously at the little 
 fox-visaged secretary, with his shifty eyes. He would 
 burst up the Building Society, he swore. 
 
 ' No, you won't,' said Mr. Creakles. 
 
 ' Why not ? ' angrily demanded Cecil. 
 
 ' Because you will only burst up yourself if you do.' 
 
 ' Myself,' stammered Cecil. 
 
 'Yes ! Where does that 1,000 come from? Won't 
 your bank-safe tell ? ' 
 
 Cecil stood speechless and gasping. 
 
 'Come, come,' said Mr. Creakles, 'we need each 
 other. We ought to work together. Mr. Arden is 
 in the swim, or ought to be. Let him give me a 
 bigger overdraft, and I will give you a cheque.' 
 
 ' But,' said Cecil, after a bitter pause, during which 
 he was perilously near taking Mr. Creakles by the 
 throat, and strangling him summarily, 'we must have 
 security for any extension of the overdraft, or the 
 advance itself will be challenged by the inspector.' 
 
 'Well,' replied Mr. Creakles, 'you have all the 
 scrip and stock of the Association lodged with you 
 for safe keeping. I will sign a lien upon it, and that 
 will give us all time.' 
 
 Cecil noted the ' us,' and winced at the alliance 
 it represented. 
 
 'But you have no authority to give a lien,' he 
 remonstrated.
 
 SLIPPERY PLACES 89 
 
 'You get Mr. Arden to take my authority, or else 
 there will be trouble,' and, with that, Mr. Creakles 
 turned bluntly round and walked into his front office, 
 leaving Cecil in a state of mingled despair and fury. 
 
 As he walked back to the bank the solid earth 
 seemed slipping from under his feet. At the bank 
 another shock of a yet more alarming character awaited 
 him. Mr. Arden had occasion to go to the cash 
 safe, and something some look of newness or strange- 
 ness in the substituted bags drew his eye. His senses 
 were in one of their rare and curious moods of 
 preternatural keenness, and a touch of his fingers 
 told him the bags held pence, and not sovereigns. 
 
 The surprise of the discovery shook him terribly ; 
 but after a moment's pause the cool and alert instinct 
 of the banker awoke in him. He closed the safe, and 
 walked back into his private office. A touch on the 
 electric bell brought Cecil in. 
 
 ' Mr. Sparks,' said the manager, watching Cecil's 
 face with keen and remorseless scrutiny, 'two bags 
 of gold have been taken from the cash safe, holding 
 1,000 sovereigns, and two bags of copper have been 
 put in their place. A thousand sovereigns, in a 
 word, have gone ; and they have gone into your 
 pocket or mine, for only you and I have the keys. 
 The gold is certainly not in my pocket. What have 
 you done with it?' 
 
 Cecil's face, gone suddenly grey with terror, was 
 an ample confession. As Mr. Arden, however, grimly 
 watched him, Cecil pulled himself together a bit, 
 and said, 
 
 ' I have borrowed it.' 
 
 'Borrowed it!' said Mr. Arden, with quiet and 
 intense scorn.
 
 90 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 'There is the deposit receipt,' said Cecil. 'It is 
 in Mr. Creakles's Building Society, and it is safe. 
 The bank has lost nothing. All I have gained is 
 the interest.' 
 
 The two looked steadily at each other. All the 
 manager was alert in Mr. Arden ; but into Cecil's 
 eyes had stolen a look of challenge, not to say menace, 
 which strangely disquieted Mr. Arden. 
 
 'That's a rogue's trick,' he replied, at last. 'There 
 is the jail-cell at the end of it. I must send for the 
 police.' 
 
 'Mr. Arden,' said Cecil, with strange coolness, 
 ' what about your private cheques, where cash ought 
 to be? Are your cheques any better security than 
 Mr. Creakles's deposit receipt? If I go, you go too.' 
 
 Mr. Arden's face, in turn, was by this time grey 
 with fear. He had used the bank cash, putting in 
 his personal cheque as an acknowledgement. It was 
 ' irregular ' ; an offence against all banking ethics. 
 The law might call it, indeed, by a harsher name. 
 His directors certainly would. It would, if known, 
 be his professional ruin. 
 
 ' But the bank would never lose by me,' he said 
 weakly. 
 
 ' Nor by me.' 
 
 Each looked at the other with questioning eyes. 
 In that brief pause the film of use and wont was 
 dissolving. The whole fabric of professional honour 
 was crumbling to dust. The relation of the two men 
 was changed. They were no longer accuser and 
 accused ; they were fellow criminals. And the younger 
 and more daring spirit prevailed. 
 
 ' Mr. Arden,' said Cecil, ' your cheques are irregular ; 
 but they are a harmless and profitable irregularity.
 
 SLIPPERY PLACES 91 
 
 That is just what my deposit receipt is. Let us stand 
 by one another. We know the bank won't lose by 
 us.' 
 
 Mr. Arden's opium-corroded nerves were by this 
 time breaking down. His hands were trembling, as 
 though palsy-stricken ; his lips were twitching. 
 
 But the inspector comes this week,' he whispered 
 feebly. ' It will be ruin if the gold is not there.' 
 
 Cecil by this time felt his power. 
 
 ' It is all right, Mr. Arden. I will put it back in 
 twenty-four hours, but you must give Mr. Creakles 
 a new overdraft for the .1,000.' 
 
 ' I can't without security,' said Mr. Arden. 
 
 ' Well, he'll give a lien on the Freethought scrip 
 and stock. I don't know if he has authority to do 
 it,' said Cecil, 'but we must take that risk.' 
 
 Mr. Creakles, to Cecil's fury, insisted on the new 
 overdraft being ,1,500, and of this Cecil was to 
 receive only the ;i,ooo. But time was short too 
 short for delay or contest and Mr. Creakles had his 
 way. 
 
 From that moment Mr. Arden was at the mercy 
 of his junior. He had condoned a crime. He was 
 an accomplice. A still larger amount of gold went 
 out ' on deposit ' to Mr, Creakles, and for this Cecil 
 drew the interest. Mr. Arden's cheques for still larger 
 amounts became the paper symbols for cash illegiti- 
 mately used by the manager himself. 
 
 Mr. Creakles was the most triumphant member of 
 the group. He grinned with delight as he realized 
 his position. He held the bank in his hand, like an 
 orange, to be squeezed. Manager and teller alike 
 were his tools. His bank overdraft should expand 
 to dimensions of which the unhappy Mr. Arden, at
 
 92 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 present, little dreamed. Mr. Gifford would have been 
 startled if he had known in what financial transactions 
 the secretary of the F.A. and his own best-beloved 
 disciple were engaged. 
 
 Cecil had a disquieted sense that he was in Mr. 
 Creakles's power ; but, on the other hand, was not 
 Mr. Creakles in his power, too? His carpe diem 
 philosophy stood by him, but a new note of reck- 
 lessness stole into it. His time might be short; he 
 would enjoy, no matter who suffered. He visited 
 Mr. Gifford's house that night, and found Myrtle alone, 
 and persuaded her to put on her hat and jacket, and 
 come for a walk with him in the summer night by 
 the river. The sighing, lamenting stream chanted its 
 warning in vain to the passion-filled pair.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 A THEOLOGICAL ROUND-TABLE 
 
 MEANWHILE, the question whether logic is a suffi- 
 cient solvent for unbelief was being tried under new 
 conditions and before a new jury. Professor Gardner 
 had summoned his round-table conference betwixt 
 the representatives of the old faith and of the new. 
 The result was an odd gathering for an odd purpose. 
 
 In the Freethought camp the proposal to hold a 
 round-table conference, a friendly and quiet chat, in 
 Professor Gardner's study, was at first regarded with 
 much suspicion. What was to be gained by it? In 
 such a gathering, debate would lack all its usual 
 inspiring conditions. There would be no crowd to 
 cheer, and, as Mr. Creakles, in particular, complained, 
 no collection to follow. 
 
 Mr. Gifford, however, though he refused to take 
 part in public debate, was too chivalrous to decline 
 Professor Gardner's invitation. He insisted on the 
 proposal being accepted. 
 
 'The representatives of a new and nobler creed,' 
 he said, 'must not be outdone in either courage or 
 courtesy by the spokesmen of a dying faith/ 
 
 Not a few of the committee had openly acknowledged 
 doubts as to Mr. Gifford's capacity to hold his own 
 in the rough-and-tumble of a public debate. He had 
 
 93
 
 94 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 shown an unexpected and disconcerting contempt 
 for some of the best jests by which Mr. Stumps had 
 roused ecstasies of laughter against the Bible. In 
 a round-table conference he might do better ; yet 
 they insisted that Mr. Stumps and Mr. Creakles 
 should accompany him. They were the ' Old Guard ' 
 of secularism. Mr. Stumps, indeed, regarded Mr. 
 Gifford's more refined methods with undisguised con- 
 tempt. There was a painful want of acid in his 
 oratory. 
 
 'Give the slaves of superstition the whip, sir,' he 
 used to say. 
 
 He came to the conference determined that the 
 extremest form of uncompromising scepticism should 
 find expression. John Blunt made the fourth repre- 
 sentative of the Freethought Association. 
 
 It was, as we have said, an odd group, and, as Mr. 
 Looker, in his capacity of ' Chorus,' afterwards remarked, 
 it resembled nothing so much as the sheet of Peter's 
 vision. It held 'all manner of four-footed beasts of 
 the earth, and wild beasts, and creeping things, and 
 fowls of the air, clean and unclean.' 
 
 Mr. Gifford had something knightly in the carriage 
 of his head, the flash of his eye, and his long, flowing 
 beard. He would have been a striking figure in any 
 company. But Mr. Stumps, with his high cheek-bones, 
 bristly hair, and hard and restless eyes, set in conflict- 
 ing angles with each other, was commonplace ; while 
 Mr. Creakles resembled nothing so much as a reddish- 
 grey fox, somehow clothed in human features and 
 dress ; but with the fox very imperfectly concealed. 
 John Blunt was a plain, broad-faced, solid-bodied 
 Englishman. 
 
 As the representatives of orthodoxy, there sat, with
 
 A THEOLOGICAL ROUND-TABLE 95 
 
 Professor Gardner, Mr. Walton, Mr. Campbell, and 
 Mr. Twitters, the Secretary of the Y.M.C.A. Mr. 
 Sawders had been courteously asked to be present, 
 but declined. He had no desire, he ruefully confessed, 
 for any new experiments in controversy, for the present 
 Professor Gardner, with serious, deep-lined face his 
 jet-black hair frostily tipped with white was a fine 
 figure ; Mr. Walton had the head of a patriarch with 
 the eager eyes of an enthusiast; Mr. Campbell's 
 wasted face had the pure lines of a saint. 
 
 Mr. Twitters was a little man, a walking book of 
 quotations. He had never been known to produce 
 an original idea in his life ; but he knew one small 
 section of English literature controversial divinity 
 perfectly, and could quote at will, from almost any 
 authority, on almost any point, and at any length. 
 The chance of firing off a few of the quotations he 
 had secreted with so much toil made him regard the 
 conference as a golden opportunity. 
 
 ' I think,' said Professor Gardner, ' we can start 
 by giving each other credit for perfect sincerity 
 and frankness ; and we are not a mere debating 
 society. We shall contend, not for victory, but for 
 truth.' 
 
 A general murmur of assent followed his remarks, 
 and Mr. Stumps, in particular, cried "Ear, 'ear' with 
 vigour. 
 
 ' But we must start by knowing exactly how far 
 we agree, and the point at which our differences begin. 
 For example, Mr. Gifford, you don't deny the existence 
 of a God ? ' 
 
 ' We have wide liberty of opinion on that subject, 
 in our Association,' said Mr. Gifford, with a slight air 
 of discomfort ; ' and some my friend here, Mr. Stumps,
 
 96 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 for example hold that atheism is the only credible 
 theory.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Mr. Stumps, delighted to find himself 
 in evidence so early ; ' I deny the existence of a 
 God.' 
 
 The whole group regarded the valiant Mr. Stumps 
 curiously. Mr. Walton, in particular, contemplated 
 the little man with a look of mingled pity and half 
 humorous wrath, which was, unhappily, quite wasted 
 on its object. 
 
 ' That is a big and courageous negative,' commented 
 Professor Gardner, with a smile. 
 
 ' Well, I am a convinced atheist/ said Mr. Stumps, 
 ' and have the courage of my convictions. I always 
 spell the word "God" with a small "g." What 
 evidence have you to offer that God exists ? Can 
 you produce two persons who agree in their notions 
 as to what God is? Experience is the only source 
 of knowledge ; and what " experience " has any- 
 body had of God? Who has seen Him, or touched 
 Him?' 
 
 ' But, Mr. Stumps, " there is no God " is a very 
 big negative, and requires a very big demonstration. 
 Have you ever thought of how vast an area of know- 
 ledge is required to entitle you to make that assertion 
 how much you must know in order to know that 
 there is no God? When Robinson Crusoe landed on 
 his island, you remember, he was greatly concerned 
 to know whether it was inhabited. A single foot- 
 print on the beach, or an old shoe under a tree, 
 would have been a sufficient proof of the existence 
 of inhabitants. But to be sure that nowhere an 
 inhabitant existed, he must have explored every 
 yard of the island's surface. And you, Mr. Stumps,
 
 A THEOLOGICAL ROUND-TABLE 97 
 
 must know the whole contents of the universe before 
 you are entitled to say that nowhere does it contain 
 a God. Have you such an intimate acquaintance 
 with the system of things, Mr. Stumps ? How did you 
 acquire it ? ' 
 
 'John Foster says ' began Mr. Twitters, with 
 
 a trembling and eager voice. 
 
 ' Well, well,' interrupted Professor Gardner, ' we will 
 not make John Foster a party to this debate at present.' 
 
 Mr. Stumps looked rather taken aback, and his leader, 
 Mr. Gifford, gave him no help. 
 
 ' Well,' he said, c I know it's hard to prove a negative, 
 and perhaps I oughtn't to have put it in that way. But 
 can you prove the affirmative ? ' 
 
 ' We can afford to dismiss God from our thoughts 
 if you can assure us He doesn't exist, Mr. Stumps. 
 But, as it happens, you can't give us that assurance. 
 On the largest reading of the evidences for atheism 
 there yet remains a possibility that there may be a 
 God. You can't assure us that the universe is empty 
 of Him.' 
 
 ' I agree with that,' said Mr. Gifford, much to Mr. 
 Stumps's disgust. 
 
 'Now, the possibility that He may exist creates a 
 whole world of duty; duty of search after Him, of 
 obeying what we may reasonably suppose to be His 
 will. You may be morally judged by the way you 
 treat that possibility.' 
 
 ' I agree with that too, said Mr. Gifford. 
 
 1 Butler says ' began Mr. Twitters eagerly. 
 
 ' Yes, yes, we all know Butler's argument,' broke 
 in Professor Gardner. 
 
 ' But there's no certainty on one side or the other ' 
 remonstrated Mr. Stumps. 
 
 7
 
 98 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 ' Suppose I admit that,' replied Professor Gardner 
 ' though I don't yet weigh the two uncertainties. 
 " // is certain no God exists " : you can build atheism 
 on that \ " It is not certain God exists " : you cannot 
 build even atheism on that \ Why, religious duty 
 springs into existence from that very uncertainty.' 
 
 ' But I never heard an argument in support of God's 
 existence which did not seem to be absurd,' protested 
 Mr. Stumps. 
 
 ' That perhaps only proves how little you have 
 heard, Mr. Stumps,' replied Professor Gardner, with 
 a smile. ' What do you say to the argument from 
 design ? You don't believe in a ship without a ship- 
 wright, or a watch without a watchmaker. Here is 
 this great universe, as full of intelligent design as 
 ship or watch, but all on a scale of infinite vastness. 
 Must it not have had an intelligent Maker?' 
 
 Mr. Twitters was ready to spring into the debate 
 with Paley, but was sternly suppressed. 
 
 ' Nature produced all that,' said Mr. Stumps 
 doggedly. 
 
 ' But " Nature " is only God spelt with six letters 
 instead of three.' 
 
 ' No, I don't admit that,' objected Mr. Stumps. 
 
 ' By Nature, then, you mean the sum total of 
 phenomena? ' 
 
 'Yes,' replied Mr. Stumps, half suspiciously. 
 
 ' Your creed, then, is that the sum total of things 
 produced each separate thing ? ' 
 
 ' Mr. Stumps represents only a minority of our 
 Association,' broke in Mr. Gifford abruptly ; ' he does 
 not represent my views. I hold atheism to be in- 
 credible. But, Professor Gardner, you are taking the 
 wrong ground. You claim our faith. You must prove
 
 A THEOLOGICAL ROUND-TABLE 99 
 
 something. Suppose you prove atheism wrong ; you 
 have not established Christianity.' 
 
 ' That's just it,' said Mr. Stumps in tones of 
 relief. 
 
 ' You have complained of the size of Mr. Stumps's 
 negative ; but don't forget that you have a very 
 spacious affirmative to prove.' 
 
 By this time Mr. Gifford had got into his lecturing 
 stride. 
 
 ' Let us come,' he cried, ' to close quarters. For 
 my part I challenge the validity of the very title-deeds 
 of Christianity. All religions run back into the realm 
 of myth. The story of Jesus is a myth. The Gospels 
 are not historical. No argument can prove their 
 genuineness. If they are not mere literary forgeries they 
 are, at best, unverified tales. Here is a gulf of nineteen 
 stormy centuries, swept by invasions and revolutions, 
 the blackest centuries known to history. Can you find, 
 running through these centuries, an unbroken line of 
 evidence to show that the biographies and letters of 
 the New Testament were written by the men whose 
 names they bear, at the time they pretend to be 
 written ; and that the writers were competent and 
 honest witnesses? It is a long chain that stretches 
 through nineteen centuries and such centuries ! The 
 task is outside the range of possibility. If the title 
 of a cowshed depended on your " evidence," you could 
 not establish it in any court. You Christians expect 
 us to risk our souls on evidence which would not 
 convince a jury in a case of petty larceny.' 
 
 Mr. Walton, who had been listening with kindling 
 eyes, here broke into the argument. 
 
 ' You invert the problem,' he said. ' I don't believe 
 in Jesus Christ because I am convinced that the New
 
 ioo ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 Testament is "historic" ; I believe the New Testament 
 to be true because I know Jesus Christ to be real.' 
 
 ' And what are the evidences which prove Jesus 
 Christ to be a real person?' asked Mr. Gifford. 
 
 'The evidences,' replied Mr. Walton eagerly, 'are 
 not a cluster of doubtful documents, about which men 
 can wrangle ; a chain of paper proofs. They are facts 
 in the living world of to-day ; facts in my own life 
 and consciousness. It is not the miracles Christ 
 performed, or as you say did not perform nineteen 
 hundred years ago, which convince me ; it is His 
 work in every street of this town ; it is the miracle 
 He has wrought in me ! Look here, Mr. Gifford,' he 
 went on, with kindling eyes, ' the fact that I am a 
 sinner ; that my sins have been pardoned ; that a new 
 spiritual force has entered my life these are things 
 that are attested by my consciousness. I know them 
 exactly as I should know if the poison of a fever had 
 burned in my blood, and had then been cooled. Christ 
 is for me a daily presence. I live in His companion- 
 ship. Every day I do a thousand things, which other- 
 wise would be impossible to me, by the help He gives. 
 You may wrangle over the dates and the authenticity 
 of the written Gospels ; but there is a living gospel 
 in me of which my consciousness is witness. I know 
 it as I know that my feet touch the earth beneath 
 me, or that my eyes see the stars, or that my flesh is 
 warmed by the sun. You waste time in trying to 
 prove that Moses did not write the Pentateuch, or John 
 the Fourth Gospel. You cannot prove my conscious- 
 ness to be a lie ! I am not an apologist, but a witness.' 
 
 ' It would be rude to say you are mistaken, Mr. 
 Walton/ replied Mr. Gifford; 'but your consciousness 
 is only good for yourself. And these arguments from
 
 A THEOLOGICAL ROUND-TABLE 101 
 
 subjective emotions are perilous. The imagination, 
 you know, plays strange tricks. At any rate, a creed 
 built on the subjective experiences of its adherents is 
 built on a cloud. The world wants solid facts.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Mr. Walton, ' but what you call my ' sub- 
 jective experiences' express themselves in facts. My 
 life is changed by it ; and I am not alone. We are 
 a great cloud of witnesses. You shall find men under 
 every sky, in every century, speaking all languages, 
 and under all varieties of civilization and the want of 
 civilization. They are educated and uneducated ; sages 
 and simple peasants ; untaught women and great 
 statesmen. But they all have this as a personal con- 
 sciousness : a spiritual life born of Christ, rooted in 
 Christ, fed by Christ. They talk the same language, 
 breathe the same temper, strive after the same ideals. 
 Now, imagination counts for much ' 
 
 ' And there is an infection in crowds,' interjected 
 Mr. Gifford. 
 
 * Yes, but here ;are men, separated by space, by time, 
 by language, by blood, by unlikeness in training ; yet 
 they have exactly the same spiritual experience : a 
 new life under the empire of new forces. For us 
 Christianity does not depend upon documents about 
 whose date and authorship critics may wrangle ; or 
 on miracles if you like, dubious miracles wrought 
 nineteen centuries ago. It is the miracle in ourselves ! 
 We are Christ's witnesses,' said Mr. Walton, and as 
 he spoke his face flushed, his eyes filled.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 A THEOLOGICAL ROUND-TABLE (Cont.) 
 
 * THE argument from your consciousness is not valid 
 for me,' said Mr. Gifford gently. ' I might put my own 
 consciousness against yours. And your position is 
 very illogical. You believe Christianity because it is 
 true, and it is true because you believe it ! When 
 you carry the argument into the shadowy realm of 
 what you call the ' spiritual ' life, you leave solid ground. 
 I demand evidences of which men's senses can judge, 
 and which are good for those who see them from the 
 outside.' 
 
 ' Well, I can give you exactly those evidences. 
 Don't resolve the dispute into a wrangle about the 
 dates of MSS., or the genuineness of miracles wrought 
 on the other side of the world, and nearly two thousand 
 years ago. I will show you miracles wrought to-day. 
 Come with me down Rogues' Lane, or into Angel 
 Court, and I will show you drunkards made sober, 
 and thieves become honest, and women who were once 
 harlots and are now living lives of patient chastity. 
 And what has done it all is the magic of Christ's 
 touch ! What miracle can be greater than the trans- 
 figuration of a human life? The fact is undeniable. 
 When a drunkard is converted, his wife's face, his 
 children's dress, the food on his table, the furniture 
 
 m
 
 A" THEOLOGICAL ROUND-TABLE 103 
 
 in his house, prove the change? The town lock-up 
 proves it ; for here is somebody who no longer troubles 
 it; Such effects must have a cause. No process of 
 evolution, no chain of natural forces, explains them. 
 The man himself will tell you it is the grace of Christ 
 which has done it all. And there are ten thousand 
 times ten thousand others to whom the same experience 
 has come, and who will tell you the same thing. How 
 can you reject that evidence ? I tell you, the clothes 
 on a converted drunkard's wife and children are the 
 " documents " which prove Christianity.' 
 
 ' But,' said Mr. Stumps, with a grin, ' a Buddhist 
 would say that he has a personal experience of the 
 truth of the writings of Buddhism.' 
 
 ' Where is your Buddhist ? ' asked Mr. Walton, with 
 a touch of disconcerting fire. ' He does not exist ! 
 You invent him. Buddha does not bear to Buddhism, 
 nor Confucius to Confucianism, the relation Christ 
 bears to Christianity.' 
 
 ' Yet,' said Mr. Gifford, ' the Koran certainly revolu- 
 tionized the race which received it ; and if a creed is 
 to be justified, not by its historical proofs, but by its 
 practical effects, this is an argument in favour of 
 Mohammedanism, as well as of Christianity.' 
 
 ' But, 1 asked Professor Gardner, breaking into the 
 debate, ' what is the ennobling element in Mohamme- 
 danism ? It is the doctrine of the unity of God, which 
 is true, and which is borrowed from the Bible.' 
 
 ' And what would your Mohammedan, if you caught 
 him, declare ? ' demanded Mr. Walton. ' That he had 
 a living companionship with Mohammed, and received 
 power to win moral victories through him ? Not a bit 
 of it!' 
 
 ' Some " Mohammedans " are a great deal better
 
 104 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 than some professing Christians,' commented Mr. 
 Stumps. 
 
 ' How do you know ? ' asked Mr. Walton bluntly. 
 ' Is Mohammedan Turkey as good as Christian 
 England ? ' 
 
 Mr. Twitters here found his chance. 
 
 ' " Mohammedanism was founded in imposture, main- 
 tained by treachery, ratified in carnage, and crowned 
 by licentiousness." ' And, proud of having got in 
 one quotation without rebuke, Mr. Twitters smiled 
 triumphantly. 
 
 ' Is that your argument, Professor Gardner ? ' asked 
 Mr. Gifford. 
 
 ' Yes ; Mr. Walton's position, expressed in scientific 
 terms, is that the Christian religion is a question, not 
 of archaeology, but of biology ; not one of documents, 
 but of life. You don't prove that a flower lives by 
 botanical theories. Life proves itself. Disputes as to 
 the dates and authorship of Christian documents are 
 mere archaic curiosities. Does Christianity live ? That 
 is the only question worth asking ; and on that the 
 antiquarians are out of court. It does not belong to 
 their art. Historic credibilities and incredibilities, the 
 accents of witnesses dead for twenty centuries these 
 things do not count. The real historical records of 
 Christianity are in the souls of men. This is not the 
 only argument for Christianity ; but it is legitimate, 
 it is scientific, and I don't know how you are going to 
 overthrow it.' 
 
 ' But the Higher Critics ' began Mr. Gifford. 
 
 ' The Higher Critics ! ' broke in Professor Gardner, 
 * are in furious civil war with each other. The guess 
 of one scholar is the doubt of another ; the logic of a 
 third is the derision of a fourth. Christianity, with its
 
 A THEOLOGICAL ROUND-TABLE 105 
 
 ethics, its enthusiasm, its supernatural authority over 
 the human character how can all this be resolved 
 into a question of documents ? Christianity is a 
 scheme of morals plus a motive power. The only 
 questions worth asking are : Is the ethical scheme 
 sound ? Is its motive power adequate ? No third 
 question is worth debating. You might prove the 
 " genuineness " of all the Christian documents, and yet if 
 it remained, as a scheme of life, powerless, what would 
 it avail ? Now, whether Christianity has power to 
 change human life is a question, not for antiquarians, 
 but for plain men, with eyes in their heads. So far 
 I agree with Mr. Walton.' 
 
 'But,' asked Mr. Gifford, 'do you give up the 
 historical character of the Gospels, and undertake to 
 produce their credentials out of your own consciousness, 
 as a spider spins its web out of its own bowels ? ' 
 
 'Not in the least,' Professor Gardner answered, 
 feeling the argument was drifting into his own special 
 realm again. ' We hold that the evidence for the Gospels 
 and the Epistles are just as strong as those, say, for 
 the writings of Caesar or of Tacitus.' 
 
 ' Well, you won't expect me to prove a negative. 
 You know, of course, that Strauss and Bauer have 
 proved that the New Testament writings are mythical.' 
 
 ' I don't admit that, and you mustn't put Strauss 
 and Bauer in the same scales. You ought to know 
 that Bauer threw Strauss overboard as decidedly as 
 Strauss threw John and Paul overboard. Strauss's 
 myth-theory, Bauer holds, won't explain how the books 
 came to exist. Strauss, too, began by one enormous 
 assumption, that begged the whole question : the 
 assumption that miracles were impossible. The verdict 
 in his case is given before the trial begins. Now, the
 
 106 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 true presupposition is that miracles, as part of the 
 equipment of Christianity, are not only possible, but 
 are, in advance, highly probable.' 
 
 ' You beg the question, then, on the other side.' 
 
 ' Not at all ; but the figure of Christ, on the Christian 
 theory, stands related to two great chapters of history ; 
 one antecedent, and one consequent ; and It completes 
 and explains them both. Taken in its historical 
 connexion, Christianity may be expected to be attended 
 with miracles. The blunder of Strauss and his school 
 is that they take Christ out of His historical setting.', 
 
 ' What do you mean ! ' 
 
 ' All Jewish history goes before Christ, and leads 
 up to Him. He is its completion. The great historic 
 expectation of a Messiah, which lies at the root of 
 Jewish history, finds its fulfilment in Christ The 
 story of the Jewish race is visibly the story of a great 
 educational process, of which Christ is the consummation. 
 And if a great history goes before Christ a great history 
 certainly comes after Him all Christian history ! On 
 any reading of that history you like it is the story 
 of miracle. It has changed the face of the world. 
 It has given new ideals to civilization. It has created 
 saints, and inspired martyrs. It has revolutionized 
 uncounted lives. Now, a Figure which stands between 
 Jewish and Christian history, completing them both, 
 is lifted out of the plane of the ordinary. Its contents, 
 so to speak, must be supernatural. Miracles do not 
 discredit that life. They accredit it. They are natural 
 to it. 
 
 ' If, indeed, you began to surround some common- 
 place life with a nimbus of miracles you would make 
 it, and them, incredible. But you must take the whole 
 of the Christian case. It claims that Christ stands
 
 A THEOLOGICAL ROUND-TABLE 107 
 
 betwixt the two greatest chapters of human history, 
 Judaism and Christianity. He is the completion of the 
 one and the inspiration of the other. Then, for a life 
 so out of the ordinary plane, phenomena transcending 
 ordinary laws are not, in advance, incredible. The 
 Christian documents are not to be, in this fashion, 
 ruled out of court before the case is heard.' 
 
 ' Well,' said Mr. Gifford, ' suppose we concede that. 
 How do you build a bridge for human feet across 
 nineteen hundred years ? Here,' said he, taking up 
 a New Testament, 'is a book in English. How can 
 human wit guess still less prove that a given pair 
 of hands, gone to dust nearly twenty centuries ago, 
 wrote, in a language now dead, these particular pages ? 
 You know, of course, the Christian canon itself is 
 no older than the Council of Trent ; and that canon 
 included the Apocrypha which you Protestants now 
 reject. Fourteen books, that is, have already slipped 
 out of the canon. May we not expect to see the 
 other sixty-six follow ! ' 
 
 * Yes, but the question of what are the true text- 
 books of the Christian faith is not to be settled by 
 the vote of a Church Council three hundred years 
 ago, but by the providence of God in history, and 
 the Spirit of God working in the consciousness of His 
 children.' 
 
 ' And how will you prove that to the satisfaction of 
 any decent jury ? ' demanded Mr. Stumps, in tones 
 of disgusted incredulity. 
 
 ' Well,' said Professor Gardner, the historian and 
 the Scotchman all awake in him, 'let us take it step 
 by step.' 
 
 How long the process lasted, or into what a wilderness 
 of dates and authorities it rambled, it is unnecessary
 
 108 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 here to describe. It is enough to record that it left 
 the disputants flushed, unconvinced, and not too 
 sweet-tempered. 
 
 Mr. Walton had been silent and restless during this 
 stage of the debate. Tired at last of discussion, which 
 left each party to it unpersuaded, he at last broke 
 in. 
 
 ' Tell us frankly, Mr. Gifford,' he asked, ' what is 
 your own faith about God.' 
 
 ' I do not deny that God exists, but we can know 
 nothing about Him. He is unknowable, for ever 
 unknowable. The little curve of our intellect cannot 
 include Him.' 
 
 ' Yet how much you must know about Him, to be 
 able to assert that ! ' said Mr. Campbell, who, up to 
 this point, had sat silent. ' You know so much about 
 Him as to know you can know nothing ! And what 
 a reflection that whole theory is on God ! He, the 
 ruling Intelligence of the universe, exists ; but He 
 does not intend us to know the fact. He has planned 
 our nature so as to make that knowledge impossible. 
 Yet, somehow, we have guessed what He intended to 
 conceal ! Nay, out of this guess which represents 
 the defeat of God's purpose we have evolved a 
 religion, the most influential and beneficent force in 
 human society!' 
 
 Mr. Walton here broke in again, bluntly : 
 
 'Let us know, Mr. Gifford,' he said, 'exactly what 
 your position is about moral obligation. You cancel 
 out God as a force in human life ? ' 
 
 ' Well, He lies, as I have said, outside the possibility 
 of our knowledge.' 
 
 ' So that, as a force, He may be neglected ? For all 
 practical purposes is not that atheism?'
 
 A THEOLOGICAL ROUND-TABLE 109 
 
 ' But I object to that term. I am not willing to be 
 described as an atheist.' 
 
 ' Well, we won't dispute over a word. But, for 
 moral ends, God is non-existent ? Then there is no 
 moral law ? ' 
 
 c Well, there is no external moral authority. But 
 goodness is still good, and truth is true.' 
 
 1 But if a man does not see that and he must use his 
 own eyes no obligation exists for him ? That is, 
 morality has no peremptory and universal authority?' 
 
 ' I don't accept that conclusion.' 
 
 ' But if anybody else does you have no authority to 
 say he is wrong ? ' 
 
 ' No,' answered Mr. Gifford, half reluctantly. 
 
 ' Then, too, there is no future life, on your theory ? ' 
 
 ' Not for the individual ; the race lives.' 
 
 ' But the individual dies ? If good, there is no 
 future heaven to reward ; if bad, no future penalty to 
 afflict ? ' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' No God, no moral law, no future life ? Mr. Gifford, 
 what sort of a world will that give you ? If I read 
 history truly, the failure of atheism is writ large on 
 every century.' 
 
 ' " It has befooled the worshippers," ' cried Mr. Twitters, 
 breaking in with a new quotation ; ' " it has betrayed 
 the legislator, it has ruined the people ! " 
 
 ' Well, it has poisoned the wells of civilization. It 
 has taken the salt out of human life. Had there been 
 only the moral denials your creed represents, the race 
 must have perished.' 
 
 ' But that is only your uncomfortable conjecture.' 
 
 ' No, it is a deduction which has on its side the 
 whole stretch of human history.'
 
 i io ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 'Yes, Mr. Gifford,' Mr. Campbell said at last, 'your 
 controversy is with God, not with us ; and God will 
 answer you. I recognize and admire your sincerity ; 
 but God will fill you in with your own doctrine. He 
 will do it all the more surely because He loves you. 
 Your teaching would kill all the effective motives to 
 righteousness! It would destroy morality 1 And in 
 some way that will touch yourself, or some one you 
 love ; you will be made to feel this.' 
 
 ' I won't undertake any such uncomfortable, and 
 perhaps not too courteous, prophecy/ said Professor 
 Gardner, ' but I agree with Mr. Campbell that your 
 belief would wreck society. There is no law, you say, 
 laid on us by external authority. Our appetites are 
 our laws. There are no penalties breaking out of 
 eternity, and running through eternity, for the sins 
 of Time. That must fatally weaken the barriers to 
 wrong-doing.' 
 
 ' But I deny that, in ethical quality, my creed is 
 lower than Christianity,' said Mr. Gifford. ' It has an 
 even loftier set of motives. It puts the welfare of the 
 race above the welfare of the individual. There is no 
 selfish individualistic heaven ; but society is to endure, 
 though the individual perishes.' 
 
 1 Ah, but,' insisted Mr. Walton, * the average man, 
 beset by temptations, which are fierce and instant, 
 won't find in your gospel any restraint, still less 
 any inspiration.' 
 
 ' I appeal to my consciousness,' said Mr. Gifford, with 
 a smile, 'as Mr. Walton did to his.' 
 
 ' But, remember, you were trained in Christian morals. 
 You breathe an atmosphere charged with Christian 
 elements. Let these be exhausted. Let your denial of 
 all the characteristic beliefs and hopes of Christianity
 
 A THEOLOGICAL ROUND-TABLE in 
 
 take possession of the common mind, and you would 
 have an ethical breakdown which would wreck society. 
 Mr. Gifford,' said Mr. Campbell, lifting his hand, 'you 
 are cutting the dykes which guard the life of the world 
 from mere black floods of devastating vice.' 
 
 ' I am sorry you draw a conclusion so alarming,' 
 Mr. Gifford replied, with a smile ; ' but I do not accept 
 it. Since I must quote myself, I am not conscious 
 of any loss of moral force since I abandoned historic 
 Christianity.' 
 
 ' Look at those violets,' said Mr. Walton, lifting up a 
 tiny vase that held a cluster of those flowers. ' They 
 keep their colour and their scent for a few hours, but 
 they have no root. It's the decree of Nature that a 
 rootless flower dies. And so will a rootless creed. Do 
 you think you will keep for long the flower of a 
 Christian morality divorced from the beliefs which are 
 their root ? Will your children keep the course after 
 you have thrown overboard the compass ? It is the 
 second generation that tests a creed. Nay, you won't 
 have to wait for a second generation. You leave good- 
 ness without a sanction and sin without a penalty. 
 That's a desperate experiment! It will destroy man- 
 kind.' 
 
 ' I don't admit it, or believe it/ said Mr. Gifford. v 
 
 ' Let facts tell,' cried Mr. Walton, rising. 
 
 As the party broke up, Mr. Campbell and Mr. Walton 
 walked away together. 
 
 ' Whatever else Mr. Gifford may do or not do,' said 
 Mr. Campbell, ' he will effect a revolution in Middleford. 
 Men and women, and theories and characters and friend- 
 ships, will all be tested by his teaching, and will 
 crystallize into new forms. He and his doctrine will 
 pass away, but the town will never be quite the same.'
 
 112 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 Mr. Looker at this moment joined the pair, and sur- 
 veyed them with quizzical eyes. 
 
 ' Well,' he said, ' my idea that your conference re- 
 sembled the sheet of Peter's vision breaks down.' 
 
 ' How's that ? ' asked Mr. Campbell, with a smile. 
 
 ' Why, this particular sheet, with its contents, certainly 
 hasn't been taken up into heaven again, has it ? I see 
 its contents, clean and unclean, walking off in all direc- 
 tions, and they're just as clean or unclean as they 
 were before. Was this particular sheet, do you think, 
 let down out of heaven, Mr. Campbell ? ' and Mr. 
 Looker grinned satirically.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 A CREED AT WORK 
 
 THE committee of the F.A. had met to discuss a 
 novel, not to say a revolutionary, proposal. 
 
 John Blunt was a sober-minded, unimaginative 
 Englishman, practical to his finger-tips. Theories were 
 little to him, facts everything. He was galled by the 
 charge that his new creed was morally impotent. Was 
 it true that it could not reform a drunkard, or make a 
 thief honest ? Was it a fact that it could not cleanse 
 a city slum, or even invent a hymn ? He felt instinc- 
 tively that a philosophy which evaporated in mere 
 speech no matter how eloquent had no title to 
 human respect. A creed, in the last analysis, must be 
 judged by its power to colour life and shape character. 
 Why should not the F.A., since it had a scientific 
 creed, a popular leader, and ample funds, do, and do 
 far better than the Churches, some of the reformatory 
 work of the world ? 
 
 He had vaguely contemplated a Freethought mission 
 to some savage land. Why should not the new creed 
 have its missionaries, and even its martyrs ? 
 
 ' Martyrs were mistakes,' was Mr. Creakles's hasty 
 comment when this suggestion reached his ears, ' and 
 missionaries are an impertinence.' 
 
 113 8
 
 II 4 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 But their new creed, John Blunt insisted, would lack 
 one of the necessary credentials of a religion if it 
 could not evolve a Livingstone or a Moffat, in a highly 
 improved form. But where could be found, say in 
 the committee of the F.A. itself, or in the crowds 
 who laughed and cheered under Mr. Gifford's eloquence, 
 these potential Livingstones and Moffats, equipped with 
 a new gospel of a scientific sort? John Blunt looked 
 round him in vain for a possible missionary. Somehow, 
 the new creed did not evolve the passion of zeal and 
 pity which the despised Churches succeeded in pro- 
 ducing, and which assured such an unbroken succession 
 of self-sacrificing evangelists. 
 
 Then what could a Freethought missionary, if he 
 were found, tell to a crowd of naked and spear-brand- 
 ishing savages ? What message had he which would 
 transfigure them, as by a breath of divine magic ; give 
 them a written language, teach them to wear clothes, 
 sing hymns, abjure a diet of human flesh, and rescue 
 shipwrecked sailors, instead of knocking them on the 
 head and cooking them ? 
 
 ' A missionary,' Mr. Creakles repeated, ' is only a bad 
 variety of lunatic.' 
 
 1 Missionaries,' said another member of the committee, 
 ' are an impertinent Interference with the natural liberty 
 of the lower races.' 
 
 ' Why should not the coloured races,' asked a third, 
 ' have their own morality and their own diet and 
 be content with it ? ' 
 
 ' If you were shipwrecked in their neighbour- 
 hood,' said John Blunt rudely, ' you would hardly 
 be content with it. You would probably wish that 
 a Christian missionary had been there before you 
 arrived 1 '
 
 A CREED AT WORK 115 
 
 For this sentiment John Blunt was called per- 
 emptorily to order. But it was clear that if the idola- 
 trous races of the world waited till Freethought 
 missionaries taught them a better way of living, they 
 would wait a very long while indeed. 
 
 But if the new creed was anything it was Humani- 
 tarian, written with a big H. Middleford was mottled 
 with slums mere leper's sores on the civic body. In 
 these labyrinths of evil-smelling lanes all manner of 
 foul diseases lurked. Vice naked, ancient, and 
 unashamed walked about in the very daylight. 
 Filth and poverty and drunkenness abounded. The 
 Churches had their missions to these slums, and ad- 
 mittedly did much good by them. Why should not 
 Freethought start a city mission of its own, on 
 1 liberal ' lines, and beat the Churches at their own 
 work? 
 
 v On this proposal the committee held high debate for 
 some weeks. The proposal to do practical reformatory 
 work, it was discovered, had, on a creed, the office of 
 an acid on metal. It tested it. Many odd views came 
 to the surface in the discussion. 
 
 Mr. Bagge, who owned fifteen public-houses in the 
 town, had a natural and vehement dislike to all tem- 
 perance agitations. Speech almost failed him, from mere 
 depth of emotion, as he protested against the crime 
 of ' robbing the poor man of his beer.' They must not 
 preach a gospel of puritanical sobriety. This would 
 dry up one great source of human enjoyment. In- 
 cidentally, it would ruin Mr. Bagge's fifteen public- 
 houses ! 
 
 Besides, how were they to fight, on secular principles, 
 with the habit of drunkenness? They could not de- 
 clare, with the exploded Bible, ' No drunkard shall
 
 ii6 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 inherit the kingdom of heaven.' There was no kingdom 
 of heaven ; or, at least, they must not assume that it 
 existed. Drunkenness was to be opposed solely on 
 physiological grounds. It must be classed, say, with 
 indigestion, as a disease. 
 
 Then there were the sad garrisons of unsexed 
 women. How would the new theology deal with 
 them? 
 
 Mr. Leech, who owned at least a dozen houses of 
 ill-fame, and extracted fat rents from them, was an 
 active member of the Association. He warned the 
 committee that the question was very difficult. They 
 agreed that the Decalogue was a fragment of fossilized 
 ethics. It might have suited the Stone Age, but it 
 was completely out of key with modern life. ' Thou 
 shalt not commit adultery' was an injunction which 
 certainly had no supernatural sanctions. They must 
 consider the relation of the sexes in a courageous 
 and 'liberal' spirit. They must listen to the best 
 teachers of every creed, such as Plato, in his 
 Republic. 
 
 Mr. Gifford said, ' Yes, but the world has grown 
 since then.' 
 
 But it had not outgrown Plato, Mr. Leech hoped. 
 They surely preferred the Greek theory of life and 
 conduct to the gloomy and illiberal canons of an 
 exploded Semitic theology. He believed that, in the 
 Republic, what was called 'vice' was quite legitimate 
 and respectable. They must pause before venturing 
 to embark on a crusade against a social institution 
 which a great genius and moralist like Plato looked 
 on as legitimate, and even necessary. 
 
 Platonic ethics furnished the text for many daring 
 suggestions.
 
 A CREED AT WORK 117 
 
 At this point John Blunt, who knew little of Plato 
 and the Republic, felt that the discussion was wandering 
 into perilous realms, and he brought it abruptly back to 
 safer and more practical ground. 
 
 ' Think of the poor fallen girls,' he urged. ' Can't 
 we do something to save them from their dreadful 
 condition ? Don't we owe some debt of pity and 
 help to wrecked womanhood ? What are we to do 
 with the poor things ? Can't the world be made 
 cleaner and happier ; and oughtn't we to help in the 
 business ? ' 
 
 Mr. Gifford shared, he said, John Blunt's pity for the 
 human debris about which they were talking ; but a 
 mission, he added, would be only possible where the 
 missionary was equipped with a positive faith, and a 
 definite morality, with adequate sanctions behind it. 
 Now, Freethought had not yet reached that stage of 
 development. What was called Christianity was nine- 
 teen centuries old ; they had not been nineteen months 
 in existence. They must give themselves time. 
 
 ' Ah, but,' John Blunt replied, ' Christianity went out 
 to save the crowd directly it was born ! And while 
 we wait,' he went on with pitying voice, ' the poor 
 creatures are dying, and drunkenness spreads, and 
 little children are growing up with starved bodies 
 and untaught brains. If we admit that we can't 
 cleanse a city slum, we may as well admit that the 
 world has no place or use for us. We have got 
 the money ; we have got the faith ; let us do the 
 work ! ' 
 
 Finally it was agreed though with many doubts and 
 much half-angry reluctance that a particular slum in 
 the city, known as Angel Court, ancient, over-crowded, 
 unwashed and wicked, should be chosen as the field for a
 
 ii8 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 city mission on Freethought lines. But the first business 
 was to find a missioner ; and here, at its very beginning, 
 the whole scheme threatened to break down. The 
 Churches, somehow, never failed to produce a succession 
 of patient women and self-sacrificing men, who toiled 
 in dark lanes, visited sick-beds, washed and taught 
 little children. Their methods, no doubt, were often 
 unwise. Their theology was narrow. Their tracts were, 
 from a literary point of view, just subjects of derision. 
 But they plodded on their errands of pity with untiring, 
 if clumsy, feet ; and if they had all suddenly dis- 
 appeared, every foul slum in Middleford would certainly 
 grow fouler, and the tide of its misery would rise 
 fast 
 
 John Blunt looked round his own theological circle 
 in vain for anything which would correspond to the 
 Bible-woman, or the Sunday-school teacher, of the 
 Churches. Why was this? he asked, with puzzled 
 disquiet. 
 
 Perhaps it was natural that, on the feminine side, the 
 Freethought Association should seem poorest of all. 
 Its creed was, after all, a diet that best fitted the 
 more robust male stomach. But male believers in Mr. 
 Gifford's gospel were visibly the stuff out of which no art 
 could ever construct a city missionary. . Each adherent 
 was content to be relieved of the outworn morality of 
 the Churches ; but no new moral wardrobe took the 
 place of these rejected ethical rags. 
 
 In an ethical sense, indeed, Mr. Gifford's followers 
 were naked and not ashamed. The sense of pity for 
 the morally fallen, and of any obligation to help them up 
 again, was somehow attenuated. All that survived was 
 a faint sense of compassion for certain physical wants 
 for hungry stomachs ; for ill-clad children ; for families
 
 A CREED AT WORK 119 
 
 herded in squalid rooms foul as the dens of wild beasts, 
 and as filthy. 
 
 John Blunt, however, realized, with some disquiet, 
 that any sense of pity for men and women whose 
 lives were spoiled by vice scarcely existed in his 
 circle. Sin, in the new creed, was resolved into a 
 superstition ; and all the sentiments relating to it 
 were subtly changed. The passion of moral pity for 
 fallen men and women so characteristic of Christianity 
 had disappeared ; and, with it, had perished the 
 sentiment that creates the missionary. 
 
 John Blunt, in a word, began dimly to realize that 
 almost forgotten truth, that pity is the special product 
 of Christianity. No other religion creates it, or even 
 knows it. There are faint traces of it in the rarer 
 and the loftier souls of heathenism signs of that 
 divine grace which works everywhere ; but where 
 Christianity is not, pity, as an active and imperious 
 sentiment, exists no more than it does amongst the 
 animals. Pity is the least hardy of the graces. It 
 can live only in an atmosphere charged with Chris- 
 tian elements. Its decay is the first sign of a dying 
 faith. 
 
 It was clear that the F.A. must undertake a strictly 
 secular mission, working by secular motives, towards a 
 purely secular reformation. Was it really true that 
 ' the soul of all improvement is the improvement of the 
 soul ' ? Secular philosophy rejected that much-quoted 
 aphorism. Its aim must be to cleanse, not souls, 
 but gutters ; to create, not pure characters, but 
 well-fed bodies. And this was not a gospel which 
 needed, or could inspire, a missionary, still less a 
 martyr. 
 
 It was settled, at last, that John Blunt must take
 
 120 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 into his own hands the task of applying the gospel 
 of Freethought to the conditions of life in Angel 
 Court ; and, to save his new creed from the re- 
 proach of barrenness, John reluctantly undertook 
 the task.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 HOW IT WORKED 
 
 ONE windy afternoon, John Blunt, in his new office 
 of a secular evangelist, walked down Angel Court, 
 looking with somewhat anxious eyes on the unpromising 
 field where he was to sow the seed of the new gospel, 
 and see it spring up he hoped in regenerated human 
 lives. 
 
 There was a startling contrast betwixt the name of 
 Angel Court and its character. Anything less ' angelic ' 
 than the foul passages, the dingy rooms, the unwashed 
 tenantry of Angel Court, can hardly be imagined. 
 John Blunt knew little of poets and of poetry ; and 
 if he had, it would yet have been impossible for 
 him to quote Austin Dobson's lines on another ' Angel 
 Court,' since, as a matter of fact, they were not written 
 at the time John began his missionary labours. But 
 Austin Dobson's lines might well be applied to the 
 scene of John Blunt's efforts : 
 
 In Angel Court the sunless air 
 Grows faint and sick ; to left and right 
 The cowering houses shrink from sight, 
 
 Huddling and hopeless, eyeless, bare. 
 
 Misnamed, you say. For surely rare 
 Must be the angel shapes that light 
 In Angel Court! 
 
 121
 
 122 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 Nay: the eternities are there 
 Death by the doorway stands to smite; 
 Life in its garrets leaps to light ; 
 
 And Love has climbed that crumbling stair 
 In Angel Court I 
 
 But John Blunt's plodding imagination could not 
 discover ' the eternities ' anywhere in Angel Court ; 
 and never before, perhaps, did so unhappy an apostle 
 set out on a reforming mission. What, exactly, he 
 was to preach, was not at all clear to John himself. 
 Should he begin by trying to persuade the drunken 
 husbands, the slatternly wives, and the untaught 
 children of Angel Court of ' the non-historic character 
 of Christianity ' ? But ' Christianity ' was only an idle 
 name to them. What use was it to slay the dead, 
 or, rather, the unborn? Should he dwell upon 
 'the inexorable order of Nature'? But they knew 
 nothing of ' Nature,' and were indifferent to its 
 ' order.' 
 
 Mr. Gifford's favourite theme was the persistency 
 of the race ; the immortality of human society. But 
 most of the inhabitants of Angel Court were in open 
 quarrel with * society.' It was represented chiefly, to 
 them, by the pockets they could pick, and the con- 
 stables whom they feared. It was idle to try to 
 kindle them into the enthusiasm of a higher life by 
 teaching them that pockets and police were parts of 
 an eternal system of things. 
 
 John Blunt might demonstrate to a drunkard, with 
 the cogency of the multiplication-table itself, that 
 drunkenness did not pay. But he could not say that 
 it was wrong ; and he could not dwell upon any 
 'payment' and 'loss' other than that capable of 
 being expressed in physical terms, or in s. d.
 
 HOW IT WORKED 123 
 
 He could not, that is, appeal to the conscience ; 
 for this organ was only part of the machinery of 
 superstition. 
 
 Could he discourse on a Saviour ? Ah ! that would 
 
 be a tale to tell ! The story of the Magdalen and the 
 
 Christ, with that strange whisper as if out of far- 
 
 j off heavenly realms supposing any such existed 
 
 ' Thy sins are forgiven thee ' ! Somehow, that tale never 
 
 ; seemed, to John Blunt, so divine and moving as when 
 
 he walked past the filthy alleys of Angel Court, and 
 
 meditated on the puzzling problem of how to sweeten 
 
 and cleanse them. 
 
 Surely these poor lapsed creatures needed, not 
 lessons in physiology, or instruction in the mythical 
 character of Christianity, or explanations of ' the in- 
 exorable order of Nature.' They wanted the message 
 of a divine Redeemer ; of the Good Shepherd who 
 laid down His life for His sheep ; of a heavenly order, 
 where the inequalities of this imperfect world will be 
 rectified, and its sorrows eternally healed. John Blunt, 
 in brief, as he stood in Angel Court, trembled on the 
 verge of what Mr. Creakles would have regarded as 
 a very damnable heresy. He almost wished Christianity 
 were true I He felt, for one tempestuous moment, 
 that it ought to be true ! True or false, it was exactly 
 what Angel Court needed. But what a scandal it 
 would be if the apostle of Freethought lost his own 
 faith in trying to impart it to others ! 
 
 John Blunt felt that if he hesitated longer he would 
 never begin at all. He turned abruptly into the first 
 open door he saw, and clambered up some unlit and 
 evil-smelling stairs. On the second landing a door 
 half open, and with one hinge loose, seemed to invite 
 his entrance. He knocked faintly ; then more loudly ;
 
 124 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 then louder still. At last a gruff voice bade him 
 ' Come in.' 
 
 The room was rank with the odours of frowsy linen, 
 of ancient soapsuds, of primitive cooking processes ; 
 and through the unclean atmosphere ran a sour flavour 
 of stale beer. The occupants of the room consisted 
 of a slatternly woman with unkempt hair, three crying 
 children, and a sulky man, hat on head, with bristly 
 chin and gloomy eyes. 
 
 'Well, friends,' said John, 'can't we mend all this?' 
 looking round on the stained walls, the broken furniture, 
 the unwashed floor, and the yet more plainly unwashed 
 occupants. 
 
 ' Well,' demanded the man with the bristly chin, 
 ' and what business may that be of yours ? ' 
 
 ' Perhaps none, but wouldn't you like to have 
 decent clothes, and three meals a day, and a few 
 flower-pots in that window, and these children all at 
 school ? ' 
 
 'Oh, we had all that once,' said the wife venom- 
 ously, ' but Sandy here poured them all down his 
 ugly throat. And if we had them again they would 
 all go to the till in the White Horse round the 
 corner.' 
 
 ' Wife/ said the husband, by way of affectionate 
 admonition, ' shut thy mouth ! But, I say, master,' 
 he added, turning to John Blunt, ' are you going to 
 help us ? If so, hand out the cash ! ' 
 
 ' You must help yourself/ said John sturdily, ' before 
 any one else can help you.' 
 
 'Thank you for nothing/ was the man's answer. 
 ' Are you the new missionary ? ' 
 
 ' I come from the Freethought Association, I don't 
 preach the Bible. We know 1 that isn't true ; and I
 
 HOW IT WORKED 125 
 
 have no cant about heaven or hell. Yet you are a 
 man. You belong to all other men ' 
 
 ' Hanged if I do ! ' ejaculated the man with the 
 bristly chin. 
 
 ' Why don't you help to make the world better by 
 making yourself better?' asked John. 
 
 c What do I care for the world ? ' said Sandy. ' What 
 has it ever done for me ? But you've found out the 
 Bible isn't true, have you? I haven't seen it in the 
 papers. How did you find it out?' 
 
 ' Well,' replied John, ' I needn't trouble you about 
 that.' 
 
 'But I'm uncommon glad to hear it,' commented 
 Sandy. ' That makes things pleasant. A man may 
 do as he likes now.' 
 
 1 No, no ! ' said John hastily. ' That's wrong. 
 You must respect yourself and the race to which you 
 belong.' 
 
 ' But why ? ' asked the man, with inconvenient per- 
 tinacity. 'The race has done nothing for me, and 
 I don't see anything particular about it to respect. 
 But, old fellow, have you got half a crown in your 
 pocket to help us? I have listened to you, and one 
 good turn deserves another.' 
 
 ' Don't give it to him,' screamed the wife. ' He'll 
 only spend it at the White Horse, and be a 
 terror to us when he comes home. Give it to 
 me!' 
 
 ' Why shouldn't I knock it down ? ' demanded Sandy 
 defiantly. 
 
 John looked at the two faces ; one brutal with vice, 
 the other haggard with care, and both greedy for 
 money. What message had he for them ? He thrust 
 half a crown into the woman's hands ; and, as he
 
 126 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 groped his way down the stairs, he heard the pair 
 fiercely quarrelling over the coin the woman's screams, 
 the man's oaths, the cries of the children. His 
 half-crown had only served to kindle a yet hotter 
 flame of strife in Sandy's domestic circle. John 
 Blunt felt painfully that his career as an apostle ought 
 to be brief if he had nothing better than that quarrel- 
 breeding half-crown to give to such a household. 
 
 John next knocked, with reluctant fingers, at a door 
 in a line of cottages of evil fame, known as Gay 
 Villas. A girl with half-fastened dress, one hand 
 meanwhile gathering up a loop of untidy hair, opened 
 the door. 
 
 ' Come in, old fellow,' she said, with an indescribable 
 look. 
 
 ' I'm a missionary,' explained John Blunt hastily ; 
 'a missionary from the Freethought Association. I 
 have come to see if I can do you any good.' 
 
 ' A missionary from what ? ' demanded the girl. ' 
 
 ' From the Freethought Association.' 
 
 ' And what has it got to say to us ? You are the 
 fellows who hold the meetings in the theatre on 
 Sunday nights, aren't you?' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Ah, we've fine times here, after your meetings are 
 over ! And you've turned Jesus Christ out of Middleford, 
 have you ? ' 
 
 ' Well,' said John, ' He never was in it.' 
 
 'What have you got to say to us poor creatures, 
 then ? Why, it's your Mr. Leech who collects our 
 rent every Monday morning ; and cruel rent it is.' 
 
 ' My poor girl,' said John, trying to get to business, 
 ' I pity you. You might all have been happy wives 
 and mothers.'
 
 HOW IT WORKED 
 
 ' Man, you are ower late with that talk, said one 
 poor, haggard girl, evidently suffering from consump- 
 tion. ' Here we are, like the mud of the street, and 
 sermons are wasted on us. Can you mend us ? ' 
 
 John Blunt discovered that his hearers were not 
 unwilling to talk about themselves, and weep easy 
 tears over their own spoiled lives. 
 
 c What respectable house,' asked one fierce~faced girl, 
 'would take one of us as a servant? Would you tell 
 a decent workman to come to Gay Villas for a wife ? 
 What would you do with us ? ' 
 
 John Blunt took refuge in generalities. 
 
 ' Well,' he said, ' begin by respecting yourselves. Be 
 honest women.' 
 
 ' And starve ; or die in the gutter ! ' sneered the 
 fierce-faced girl. ' No, thank you.' 
 
 ' Man,' said one girl, with gloomy, deep-set eyes, 
 ' that old Bible had something to say to us. It told 
 us of Jesus Christ, and how He helped the poor 
 women of His time. Oh, if He came to Middleford, 
 there would be some chance for us! If I had lived 
 by what I learned in the Sunday school I should 
 be a happy woman to-day.' 
 
 John tried to explain that the teaching of the 
 Sunday schools was deplorably erroneous ; that de- 
 lightful as might be the dream of a miraculous 
 Christ, it was only a dream, and they must stick to 
 realities. But his audience listened with angrily in- 
 credulous stare. 
 
 ' Do you say there never was any Jesus Christ ? 
 Why, you make life a worse hell than it was before.' 
 
 'You needn't come here,' said the fierce-faced girl, 
 with emphasis, 'if that's all you've got to tell us 
 poor girls.'
 
 128 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 John began to expound the changeless and mighty 
 'order of Nature,' with the design of showing that 
 they might enlist its force on their side if they tried 
 to reform ; but he was not allowed to reach that 
 stage of his argument 
 
 ' That means,' said one girl abruptly, ' that when a 
 poor soul is down there's no chance of getting up 
 again. Eh, it's the devil's work to tell us that. That's 
 ^ust what he's always telling us.' 
 
 'Old fellow,' summed up one of them, 'send for a 
 jug of beer, and let's have a good time.' 
 
 John struggled out, followed by wild laughter and 
 shrieks of abuse. The new gospel, somehow, didn't 
 work in Gay Villas. 
 
 One little angle of Angel Court, more rank and 
 gloomy than the rest, was familiarly known as Thieves' 
 Lane. This constituted a sort of human rabbit-hutch, 
 packed with a collection of thieves and their women- 
 kind, a little garrison of men, women, and children 
 in open warfare with society, and with all that society 
 values. Now, John Blunt was both honest and courage- 
 ous. He wanted to try his new gospel on the worst 
 examples of humanity discoverable anywhere, and he 
 resolved on paying a visit to Thieves' Lane, as an 
 apostle of honesty of honesty built on a purely 
 secular basis. Here, surely, he would be on simpler 
 and safer ground than when dealing with the frowsy 
 tenants of Gay Villas. 
 
 Yet as he commenced mentally to set in order the 
 arguments for honesty which Mr. Gifford's lectures 
 yielded, he became ruefully conscious that they were 
 of a very attenuated kind, and did not lend themselves 
 to very peremptory expression. 
 
 He found himself, once more, to his own surprise,
 
 HOW IT WORKED 129 
 
 almost regretting that he could not fall back on the 
 stern simplicity of ' Thou shalt not steal,' with the 
 thunders of some supernatural Sinai still vibrating in 
 every syllable of the great sentence. He could not 
 talk of any eternal right and wrong ; for the very 
 word ' eternal ' was hardly in his vocabulary. ' The 
 welfare of society, 1 in his ethics, took the place of 
 the authority of some remote Sinai. Yet, how would 
 the claims of 'society' tell on the imagination of the 
 inhabitants of Thieves' Lane, who only knew of society 
 as the common enemy, with the constable as its un- 
 pleasant representative ? 
 
 John Blunt, however, with sincere if dogged purpose, 
 resolved to make the experiment. He stumbled up the 
 narrow stairs, and groped his way across a foul landing 
 into a room where sat three men playing cards and 
 smoking ; a slatternly woman, on a turned-up bucket, 
 was nursing an unwashed baby. 
 
 ' Well, governor, what do you want ? ' asked after a 
 prolonged stare the eldest of the card-playing trio. 
 
 His closely cropped hair told of a recent jail delivery ; 
 his furtive and shifty eyes spoke the thief. On his 
 head was a soiled billycock, round his hairy throat 
 a red handkerchief was twisted ; a broken nose told 
 of some ancient and desperate combat. A less pro- 
 mising subject for a discourse on ethics could hardly 
 be imagined. 
 
 'Well,' said John Blunt, ' I am on a friendly errand. 
 I belong to the Freethought Association. We want 
 to help you fellows, if we can. You don't seem very 
 well off here. You are always getting into trouble 
 with the police. Jail bread is dry, and jail beds 
 are hard. Can't we help you to do better, some- 
 how?'
 
 130 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 His remarks were received with chilling silence, while 
 the three sets of dirty fingers one after another kept 
 busily dealing the still dirtier cards, exactly as though 
 John Blunt were non-existent. After a pause, John 
 took up his argument afresh. 
 
 ' Come, lads, I'm not a city missionary. I'm not 
 going to preach to you about hell and heaven and 
 the Bible. The world has outgrown these things. But 
 you are fighting with society ; with the whole system 
 of things. And you might just as well go and butt 
 your heads against a locomotive. The locomotive won't 
 suffer, but your heads will. There's a better way than 
 all this. Honest work pays better than stealing. Can't 
 I help you to get work ? ' 
 
 . ' Well, governor,' said the broken-nosed man, ' you 
 are a new kind of parson, and you seem to have got 
 a new Bible. That's good news, for the old one was 
 all on the side of the beaks and of the rich people.' 
 
 1 Yes,' exclaimed John, with energy, glad to find at 
 last a point in common with his hearers, ' the old Bible 
 is as dead as Queen Anne.' 
 
 ' Well,' asked another of the group, a man with keen, 
 thin face, and cruel lips, ' what sort of a Bible is 
 yours ? Does it take the " not " out of all the 
 commandments ? ' 
 
 * No, no,' said John hastily, ' the " not " is still in, 
 right enough ; but it's put in on a new principle. To 
 steal is an injury to society, and you are part of society ; 
 so it is a wrong against yourselves.' 
 
 ' The regular Bible-reader says that stealing is a 
 sin against God. So is " society " the God of your 
 Bible ? ' asked the thin man. 
 
 ' No,' said John again, with much emphasis, ' we don't 
 need to talk about what nobody understands. Leave
 
 HOW IT WORKED 131 
 
 " God " to the parsons, and stick to realities. It doesn t 
 pay to steal. Honesty, in the long-run, gives better 
 wages than dishonesty. It means shorter hours, and 
 lighter work, and more pay, and better meals. Thieving 
 means rags, and hunger, and the policeman's handcuffs, 
 and the jail-cell.' 
 
 ' That depends on how the thieving's done,' suggested 
 the thin-faced man. 
 
 ' And on whether you are caught,' added the third 
 man, with a grin. 
 
 'But,' asked the thin-faced man, 'isn't Mr. Bagges 
 a shining light in your Association ? And he's about 
 the biggest thief in Middleford. It isn't honesty that 
 filled his pockets, is it?' 
 
 John Blunt couldn't pretend that it was. Mr. Bagges 
 was the keenest usurer and the most remorseless rogue 
 in Middleford. 
 
 ' And does that rogue Bagges,' demanded the broken- 
 nosed man, with an oath, 'send you here to tell us 
 that roguery doesn't pay?' 
 
 ' Oh,' said John Blunt, ' Mr. Bagges is a member 
 of our Association ; but we are not responsible for 
 him. There are rogues everywhere. But even if 
 he is the biggest scamp in Middleford, what I tell 
 you is true. You fellows are making a bad business 
 of your lives. You work harder, and get less for 
 your work than if you were ditchers and hedgers. 
 And you are always being hunted by the police, 
 and never sure when you won't find yourselves in 
 jail.' 
 
 ' But the life suits us,' said tne thin-faced man ; 
 ' we take our chance. It's our wits against the world. 
 Sometimes we are flush, and sometimes we are starved ; 
 and if we are copped it's the jail, sure enough. But
 
 132 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 what's the odds? And we are not such rogues, after 
 all, as your Mr. Bagges. And the difference betwixt 
 a thief and an honest man, according to you/ he 
 went on, 'is that one is better paid than the other. 
 But if I make a good haul that's not true. And 
 if it happened to be the other way round, and the 
 plunder was big enough, and nobody knew, it would, 
 according to you, be all right to steal ? ' 
 
 ' No, no. If every man was a thief it would 
 destroy society, and so a thief is an enemy of his 
 kind.' 
 
 'Well, society is hard enough on us,' said the thin- 
 faced man. ' It has never done anything for us 
 except set the policeman on our tracks. Why shouldn't 
 it be destroyed?' 
 
 'Come, old fellow,' said the thin man, 'did you 
 never do any prigging on your own account?' 
 
 ' Never ! ' replied John, with red-faced emphasis. 
 ' Never ! ' 
 
 ' But if it paid you, wouldn't you do it ? ' 
 
 ' Never,' John answered, with dignity. 
 
 ' But why not ? ' 
 
 John felt it difficult to explain, since his chief 
 argument the welfare of society had no authority 
 whatever on his immediate audience. The men had 
 dropped their cards, and gathered round him, in the 
 eagerness of debate, rather closely ; and, as John rose 
 to go, one of the men jostled against him. 
 
 ' Come again, old man,' said the leader of the group. 
 'We like to hear you talk. At least, you've got no 
 cant about you.' 
 
 'And bring that rogue Bagges next time,' added 
 the thin-faced man, 'and let him preach a sermon to 
 us on how honesty pays ! '
 
 HOW IT WORKED 133 
 
 John Blunt emerged from the filthy lane into the 
 scarcely less filthy court with bewildered feelings. 
 Had he converted his hearers, or had they converted 
 him ? It was not quite so easy to construct on secular 
 principles a working theory of honesty which should 
 be entirely convincing in its logic. 
 
 Here John felt for his pocket-handkerchief but 
 discovered that it had vanished. His watch, too, 
 was gone, and his pocket-book. His interesting flock 
 had picked his pockets while listening to his demonstra- 
 tion of the superior advantages of honesty !
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 AN EXPERIMENT IN YOUTH 
 
 JOHN BLUNT had the Englishman's characteristic 
 obstinacy. He was not easily persuaded to give up 
 a task to which he was pledged ; and for many hot 
 and evil-smelling afternoons he toiled and argued in 
 Angel Court ; but always without results, or with results 
 which sorely disconcerted him. 
 
 As, for example, he walked discomfited down the 
 stairs of one of the court's worst tenements one after- 
 noon, he heard, through a half-open door, the sound 
 of bitter and hopeless weeping ; and, pushing the door 
 back, he looked into the room. A little coffin, with 
 lid athwart, was placed on the rough table. A cracked 
 tumbler, with some pallid flowers, stood at its head. 
 A woman, with apron thrown over her face, was 
 rocking herself to and fro, and weeping. The scene 
 told its own tale : a dead child, a desolate mother. 
 
 John Blunt stood looking on, with pitiful eyes. 
 Human grief, no matter how rough its dress, or clumsy 
 its utterance, has always a pathos of its own. What 
 could he do ? The woman lifted her head ; the apron 
 fell from the deep-lined and tear-wet face. 
 
 ' Are you the new missionary ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' No,' replied John. Then, correcting himself, he said, 
 hurriedly, ' Yes, I am the new missionary.'
 
 AN EXPERIMENT IN YOUTH 135 
 
 ' Ah : well, come in and read a chapter/ said the 
 woman, rising and dusting, with her tear-moistened 
 apron, a chair. ' It may do me some good. There's 
 naught else.' 
 
 But John could read no ' chapter.' The extracts 
 from Herbert Spencer, which Mr. Gifford was accus- 
 tomed to read, as a diviner kind of Scripture, John 
 felt would be distressingly out of place here. He found 
 it necessary to keep to the safe ground of purely 
 material wants. Could he help her in any way? 
 
 ' Well, a few shillings always helped,' the woman 
 admitted ; but the funeral club allowance would pay 
 for everything. 
 
 ' But, eh ! man,' she cried, with a new burst of sobs, 
 ' what I want is my little lass. She was just the one 
 flower we had. It will be a black world without her. 
 And there's nae comfort, nae comfort ! ' 
 
 John ruefully agreed with this statement. 
 
 ' But,' said the woman, with a break in her sobs, 
 ' the Bible's always good ; so sit you down and read 
 a while.' 
 
 1 But I have no Bible,' John replied hurriedly. 
 
 ' What have ye, then ? ' asked the woman, with wide- 
 open eyes. 
 
 ' Well,' John stammered, ' I want to help you ; though 
 I don't pretend to explain that,' he added, with pointed 
 finger at the coffin. 
 
 'But you wouldn't take away from me what the 
 Bible says, would you ? ' asked the woman. ' Have 
 you a better book ? ' 
 
 ' A better book ! ' John felt instinctively that even 
 Mr. Gifford's Freetkought Triumphant was hardly, for 
 purposes of comforting such a grief as that on which 
 he looked, a ' better ' book than the non-historic
 
 136 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 Bible. And he felt curiously reluctant to attempt 
 making the poor mother's grief less by explaining 
 to her convincingly that the Bible was non-historic. 
 In his perplexity John Blunt once more almost wished, 
 with a certain note of anger, that the Bible were true ! 
 Human life, in Angel Court at all events, seemed to 
 need it. 
 
 The woman, meanwhile, watched him with, a face 
 that grew steadily grimmer. 
 
 ' What ! ' she asked, ' are ye one of these new lights 
 that want to rob us poor folk of heaven? And this 
 world so hard to us ! And would ye say that my 
 little lass is no' in heaven ? Man, if that's your gospel, 
 you're not wanted in Angel Court ! It's black enough 
 as it is. Do 'e want to make it blacker, with your 
 devil's message ? ' 
 
 Then, with a fierce intensity that made John shiver, 
 she went on : 
 
 1 Gang awa', man ! Ye seem a decent body. There's 
 enough doing the devil's work without your help.' 
 
 John tried to remonstrate ; but language somehow 
 failed. He turned and crept down the stairs. As 
 he went down, the Bible-woman was coming up, New 
 Testament in hand. What message would she bring, 
 John speculated? The music of an ancient chapter, 
 which John once learned at his mother's knee, began 
 to sing itself in his brain, c Let not your heart be 
 troubled . . . ' 
 
 Well, the despised Bible-woman had a message. 
 Pity it was not true ! Oh, the pity of it ! the pity 
 of it! 
 
 John Blunt took a week to recover from the disgusted 
 despair created by his latest experience as a purely 
 secular missionary. He was disposed to abandon the
 
 AN EXPERIMENT IN YOUTH 137 
 
 attempt to reform the grown-up inhabitants of Angel 
 Court ; but why not try the young ? It is true his 
 recollections of the gamins of the Court unwashed, 
 hard-faced, unlovely, with all the sleepless hunger of 
 predatory animals, and much of their cunning did not 
 encourage him. But their youth ought to be charged 
 with at least some faint susceptibilities of improvement. 
 He resolved he would establish a Sunday school on a 
 new and purely secular basis. 
 
 It is true he did not like the term ' Sunday school.' 
 It reeked of ' superstition ' ! But the school must be 
 held on a Sunday, as this was the only day on which 
 the industrial hum of the town was hushed. So a room 
 was secured, and Angel Court was canvassed for scholars. 
 
 This proved unexpectedly successful. The shrill- 
 voiced, much-harassed mothers of the Court were glad 
 to get rid of their offspring, if only for one brief hour 
 in the week ; and curiosity with a prophetic sense 
 of future buns and tea attracted the youth of the 
 Court to the room, where a staring placard announced 
 that ' The Freethought Sunday School ' had taken 
 up its abode. 
 
 On the Sunday afternoon chosen for beginning 
 operations, John Blunt found himself with some thirty 
 boys and girls as his flock. They were typical street 
 arabs, with the ethics and the habits of the gutter ; 
 and John contemplated them with an emotion of 
 something like despair. He had tried but tried in 
 vain to secure a staff of helpers ; Smears especially 
 being strongly pressed to join in the enterprise. 
 
 ' Why should I ? ' asked Smears ; ' or why should 
 you? What will you do with the gutter-rats when 
 you get them? What can you tell them which they 
 can understand, or which will help to make them
 
 138 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 anything better than gutter-rats? Let the Bible-woman 
 have them ! She will teach them to sing " Gentle 
 Jesus " and " Heaven is my home." It's not true, of 
 course. It's only a dream. But, man ! that lie is 
 better than any truth you have got to tell them. 
 Leave them to their dreams. Would to God I could 
 dream again ! ' 
 
 But John Blunt, though keenly disappointed at 
 Smears's view of the matter, held grimly to his plan. 
 The light must be spread, no matter how dingy its 
 lustre. And his new creed must have a chance of 
 showing its reforming virtue. 
 
 John Blunt had not imagination enough to prepare 
 plans in advance. He had to wait till his Sunday 
 school took concrete shape before he could decide how 
 to treat it. And now, as he contemplated his flock 
 as shy as so many rabbits without being as harmless, 
 or as clean poor John felt himself almost in a state 
 of mental bankruptcy. 
 
 The singing was the strong point of the orthodox 
 Sunday schools ; but, curiously enough, secularism 
 does not lend itself to the production of hymns. It 
 refuses to be translated into musical terms ! John 
 Blunt tried in vain to remember, or to discover in 
 Freethought literature, a hymn suited to a Sunday 
 school of its own creed. Mr. Gifford was able to 
 explain this difficulty, but not to remove it. 
 
 ' Hymns,' he said, ' are the language of emotion. 
 Our creed, as yet, is an intellectual process. It has 
 not allied itself to the emotions, or taken them captive. 
 It has not invaded the realm of the imagination. All 
 this will come in time ; but at present its appeal is 
 purely to the intellect ; and intellect and hymns are 
 parted from, each other by an impassable gulf,'
 
 AN EXPERIMENT IN YOUTH 139 
 
 /'His explanations soothed John Blunt's self-respect, 
 but did not solve his difficulty. He was an intense 
 patriot, and thought of beginning with ' God save the 
 Queen ' ; but, on further consideration, a fatal strain of 
 bad theology was discoverable in the National Anthem 
 itself. It would be absurd to bring into the opening 
 exercises of a Freethought Sunday school a remote 
 abstraction named ' God/ who must afterwards be dis- 
 owned. John felt he must be consistent. Superstition 
 was superstition, though expressed in terms no matter 
 how melodious, or in music no matter how patriotic. 
 He could not bring himself to teach his pupils to ask, 
 or to expect, that ' God ' would ' save ' the Queen, or 
 anybody else. The Queen, like everybody else, was 
 a matter of no concern whatever to that passionless 
 ' stream of tendency,' which was the only ' God ' John's 
 theology knew. 
 
 Yet singing seemed essential, so John took a vote of 
 his pupils on the subject, and they, after a stormy 
 debate, which occupied most of the afternoon, decided 
 in favour of a local and well-known ditty, entitled 
 ' Jack Sprat' Grammar was non-existent in the song ; 
 its morality was worse than doubtful ; it was thick and 
 slab with slang. It recited how its hero, Jack, tricked 
 the ' bobbies,' and got the better of the publican. But 
 at least it went with a swing, and thirty youthful 
 voices though, alas ! with nothing of the softness of 
 youth in them recited how 
 
 Jack Sprat 
 Killed the cat, 
 And made a hole in the Bobby's hat. 
 
 John Blunt had to determine his own scheme of 
 ethics, What virtues should he try to enforce on the
 
 140 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 bare-footed youths and ragged maidens of Angel 
 Court? He began with Temperance. He was sure 
 of his ground in dealing with such a vice as drunken- 
 ness. It was the familiar habit of Angel Court, and it 
 meant empty pockets and poisoned blood. It effloresced 
 in rags. It wrote its hieroglyphics of pain on every 
 woman's face and every child's body in the Court. 
 
 John couched his first temperance address in the 
 form of a parable. He told them the immortal story 
 of ' Jack the Giant-killer ' ; and, as it was absolutely new 
 to most of his youthful hearers, it met with stormy 
 applause. But the moral stuck out too obviously in 
 the fable. Jack, in John Blunt's version, was a virtuous 
 youth who washed himself no less than twice a day, 
 and heroically rejected the insidious charms of beer. 
 The giant, who ground the bones of his victims to 
 make his own bread, was a too obvious transcript ten 
 feet high and twice ten feet in girth of Mr. Grimes, 
 who kept the White Horse Hotel the public-house 
 principally affected by the conscript fathers of Angel 
 Court. 
 
 The listening boys and girls, with shrill outcries of 
 contempt, rejected the moral of John Blunt's apologue. 
 Jack the Giant-killer, turned into an animated and 
 moral object-lesson, was loudly declared to be a ' softy,' 
 and a ' spoon/ and John Blunt's excursion into the 
 realms of parable ended in mere disaster. 
 
 John hereupon determined that, in future, he would 
 stick to the solid ground of fact. It suited his practical 
 mind better than parable. He called physiology to 
 his aid ; and the walls of his Sunday school were 
 decorated with inflamed and alarming diagrams illus- 
 trating the effects of alcohol on the digestive organs 
 into which it was poured. The boys, however, insisted
 
 AN EXPERIMENT IN YOUTH 141 
 
 on discussing the diagrams from the severely pictorial 
 standpoint ; and they loudly assured John Blunt that 
 they could draw better ' picturs ' themselves than those 
 he offered them. 
 
 Yet another disconcerting result followed. On the 
 next Sunday afternoon a burly figure, red-faced with 
 much beer, and clad in dingy fustian, lounged into the 
 Sunday school, cap on head, and in stentorian tones 
 
 demanded ' What the d Mr. Blunt meant by drawing 
 
 a libellous picture of his the red-faced man's stomach, 
 and exhibiting it, to the derision of the entire youth 
 of Angel Court ? ' He proposed to make a similar 
 exhibition of John Blunt's internal system if the pictures 
 were continued. 
 
 Mr. Grimes, too, understood that John Blunt had 
 been disparaging the quality and effects of the gin 
 he dispensed at the bar of the White Horse, and 
 he threatened loudly to ' smash ' the unfortunate 
 John Blunt's countenance by way of revenge. He 
 did not actually attempt this, however, for John's 
 features had a grimness which seemed to suggest 
 that the process of 'smashing* would be attended 
 with considerable risk to the operator who attempted 
 this performance. The entire Sunday school, it may 
 be added, gathered round the pair with delighted 
 countenances, and expressed their disgust in shrill 
 rhetoric when Mr. Grimes backed out of the door without 
 coming to personal combat. 
 
 By this time the public sentiment of the court was 
 hostile to this latest experiment in Sunday schools. 
 The curiosity of John Blunt's scholars was satisfied ; 
 buns seemed remote, or even hopelessly improbable ; and 
 they suddenly and simultaneously fluttered away, like a 
 cluster of city sparrows, or a covey of frightened seagulls.
 
 142 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 When they had gone John looked round on the 
 empty forms, the broken windows, the picture sheets 
 hanging in rags from the wall. His flock had left 
 ugly memorials of their flight. He locked the door, 
 and walked away, with the memory of one more failure 
 rankling bitterly in his brain. 
 
 Was it the case that his new theology did not hold 
 the key of the restless, mysterious human heart ; or 
 only that his fingers were too clumsy for its use ? That 
 must be it ! Not that his creed was wrong ; he did 
 not know how to explain it, to apply it, to prove it.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 WHY IT FAILED 
 
 As John Blunt, forsaken by his youthful flock, walked, 
 with tired feet and hanging head, along the street, there 
 broke out on the quiet air of the Sunday afternoon 
 about him a sudden burst of music. Childish voices, 
 at once shrill and sweet, seemed to be mounting higher 
 and higher, in a tumult of thrilling sound, to the sky. 
 The sound burst with such a thrilling shock on John 
 Blunt's ears that he was startled. He stopped breathless, 
 and looked round. It might have been a strain out of 
 the blue, a fragment of some angelic song falling through 
 the commonplace air. 
 
 As John Blunt still stared, with wondering eyes, he 
 found himself standing opposite the prosaic-looking 
 Methodist Sunday school. The children were singing 
 their closing hymn. The words grew clearer as he 
 listened. They syllabled themselves in his ears : 
 
 Little children, little children, 
 
 Who love their Redeemer, 
 Are His jewels, precious jewels, 
 
 His loved and His own. 
 
 The lines were not poetry ; or they were poetry such 
 as a child might write and a child sing. No philosophy 
 was in them, no ' science,' and scarcely even sense 
 
 143
 
 144 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 or rhyme. Yet how the children sang them ! How 
 natural that burst of exultant song seemed, climbing 
 still higher in the quiet air : 
 
 Like the stars of the morning, 
 His bright crown adorning, 
 They shall shine in their beauty, 
 Bright gems for His crown. 
 
 Looked at in cold print, and tried by any decent 
 literary test, the lines were tawdry. But suddenly 
 translated into music, and poured upon the shaken air 
 from the lips of an unseen multitude of children, they 
 were transfigured. Perhaps if John had seen the actual 
 human children singing little hot-blooded commonplace 
 boys and girls the spell might have been broken. But 
 it was a mere song, vibrating in the air ; a tumult of 
 happy voices poured out from unseen lips, and floating 
 heavenward. It justified itself. The over-arching 
 heavens seemed to listen to it, to smile on it. If angel- 
 voices did break the ancient silence of the firmament, 
 this is how they would sing. 
 
 As John Blunt lingered, half entranced by the sound, 
 the door of the school opened, the children poured out, 
 flushed, clamorous, restless ; a moment later came the 
 teachers, and, last of all, Kate Arden. 
 
 She smiled pleasantly at John as she passed. They 
 were old friends. His Jean, indeed, had been in Miss 
 Arden's Sunday-school class, and that thread of sacred 
 memory still knitted the two together, in spite of the 
 separating force of unlike creeds. As Kate passed, 
 some sore and half-jealous sense of failure stirred in 
 John Blunt. 
 
 ' Well, Miss Arden,' he said, ' your Sunday school 
 succeeds, at all events.'
 
 WHY IT FAILED 145 
 
 ' And does not yours ? ' asked Kate. 
 
 ' No, they are all gone. I haven't the art to keep 
 them. I am too clumsy. I have no hymns for them. 
 I suppose our creed is for men, not for children. But 
 we shall have hymns some day.' 
 
 ' Well,' Kate answered, ' when your creed takes to 
 singing, no doubt the world will listen. But won't you 
 find it rather hard to set Mr. Stumps to music, John ? ' 
 
 ' Well, perhaps,' he admitted. ' But hymns are not 
 everything. They are not even poetry, and poetry is 
 less than science. We, Miss Kate, stick to science.' 
 
 ' But a science which does not take account of all the 
 facts of the world, John of God, of sin, of love is, 
 after all, very one-sided.' 
 
 ' Well, I tried to teach them as good morality as you 
 teach them here.' 
 
 ' All morality is loving Jesus Christ, and walking in 
 His steps,' said Kate, ' and you see you have no Christ, 
 Mr. Blunt.' 
 
 1 Nor have you, Miss Arden ; your " divine Redeemer " 
 is only a dream.' 
 
 ' Ah, you don't know Him, John ; some day, perhaps, 
 you will,' Kate added softly. ' But have you no newer 
 and better morality to give to the children than our 
 " dream " teaches us ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, morality is the same for all the creeds/ John 
 admitted. ' I have tried, of course, to teach them not 
 to lie, nor to steal, nor to fight. But, somehow,' he said, 
 with characteristic honesty, ' I haven't the trick of the 
 teacher.' 
 
 'Your creed leaves you nothing to teach. You 
 borrow the morals of Christianity and you leave out its 
 reason and its motives ; and you can't invent any new 
 motives of your own. Your religion is a tea-kettle with 
 
 IO
 
 146 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 no fire under it,' and Kate's eyes shone with humour. 
 ' You will say it is a woman's theory, John ; but love 
 for another, and the sense of being loved, are the only 
 forces that can change character. Now, your secular 
 creed gives you no object to love, and no message that 
 you are loved, does it ? ' 
 
 ' It sticks to facts,' said John Blunt sturdily. 
 
 * No,' replied Kate, with a sudden lighting of her 
 face, ' it leaves out the Fact of facts, the secret of all 
 happiness, and the spring of all goodness God's love ! 
 Isn't that a gospel for children, at least, and one to fill 
 a child's heart and imagination ? ' and she softly sang 
 the words : 
 
 'Little children, little children, 
 
 Who love their Redeemer, 
 Are His jewels, precious jewels, 
 His loved and His own. ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said John, ' but it isn't true.' 
 
 ' Don't you wish it were true ? true,' she added, with 
 a soft fall in her voice, ' for your own little Jean ? ' 
 
 John cleared his voice, which had grown curiously 
 husky, before he could answer. Then, with a break in 
 his tones, he said : 
 
 'Yes, Miss Arden, yes! But truth is more than 
 dreams,' and he hurried away, while Kate looked after 
 him with pitying eyes. 
 
 John began dimly to realize that what he wanted was 
 a ' religion ' ; a force, that is, which broke out upon men 
 from another world. A religion, with its whisper of a 
 life to come ; its revelation of divine love ; its voice of 
 law from without, answered and reverberated by the 
 voice of conscience within ; its vision of a Father ; its 
 promise of eternal compensations. If that were true it
 
 WHY IT FAILED 147 
 
 would suit Angel Court admirably. John Blunt once 
 more found himself wishing it were true. An absurd 
 anger, even, kindled in him because it was not true ! 
 Calvary, with its dying Christ, and its message of 
 Eternal Love ; a city of God, descending out of heaven ; 
 a supernatural regeneration, yes, these were the true 
 forces for slum work. 
 
 To take a cluster of little, half-selfish virtues mere 
 secular prudences ; to be sober ; to be frugal ; to keep 
 the streets swept and the drains flushed was this the 
 way to redeem the soul of man and build the city of 
 God on earth ? 
 
 Imagine all these small, prudential virtues buttoned 
 up in one poor human body. The result might be 
 a man as patient as a Fakir, as passionless as a Stoic, 
 as frugal as a Hindu ryot. But he might be without 
 a brain, or conscience selfish, joyless, morose ; as 
 melancholy as Shakespeare's Jacques, but without his 
 poetry. It wasn't worth while reforming the race on 
 those lines, and for such an end ! 
 
 Yet John Blunt finally decided that morals must be, 
 for the present, omitted from his scheme of reform. 
 The ethical system of the new creed was clearly not 
 at the stage which lent itself to vulgar use ! It was 
 difficult to justify it against the rough logic of de- 
 spairing women and drunken men, and hot human 
 passions generally. He must aim at purely secular 
 results, and must reach them by purely secular methods. 
 It was a question of lower rents and of better drainage ; 
 of baths and parks and schools. 
 
 But here, again, a doubt haunted John's mind. 
 Would the most perfect system of drainage and free 
 baths change the moral character of the denizens of 
 Angel Court? If he could capture a dozen street
 
 I 4 8 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 arabs, clothe them decently, wash them twice a day, 
 put the entire multiplication-table in their hard little 
 heads, teach them the pleasure of full meals, and of 
 warm beds would it change the bent of their tastes ? 
 Would it revolutionize their ethics ? The worst rogue 
 
 o 
 
 John Blunt knew wore broadcloth, lived in a two-story 
 house, and had a good bank account ! Was Mr. 
 Bagges a moral ideal of an inspiring sort? 
 
 The central problem was one, not of environment, 
 but of character. Character and environment, no 
 doubt, subtly influence each other ; but character is 
 something more than the product of environment. 
 What magic would avail to change a character ; to 
 make black white ; turn bitter to sweet ; lift what was 
 base up to nobility in that most stubborn of all 
 materials, the human soul? John would not admit 
 even to himself the moral bankruptcy of his creed 
 at this point ; but from remote and shadowy cells 
 in his own consciousness that ugly fact peeped out. 
 
 Still, he would try ! Whatever moral virtue there 
 was in clean drains and good plumbing, in soap and 
 scrubbing brushes, should be tried on Angel Court. 
 
 He submitted to his committee a proposal to spend 
 part of the funds of the Association in an attempt 
 to sweeten physically some of the foul lanes in the 
 slums. Great was the debate kindled by this proposal ; 
 for this ' meant money ' ; nay, even much money. But, 
 to John Blunt's surprise, Mr. Creakles supported his 
 proposal. He was the treasurer of the Association 
 funds, and had, so far, been singularly unsympathetic 
 towards any proposal to encroach on these for humani- 
 tarian purposes. But now he talked another language. 
 
 They held their funds, he contended, for the purpose 
 amongst other things of 'making experiments in
 
 WHY IT FAILED 149 
 
 applied Freethought.' He proposed a resolution, 
 directing that such amounts as were sanctioned by 
 Mr. Gifford and Mr. Blunt, with himself, should be 
 spent from the funds of the Association in carrying 
 out the reformatory work of Freethought. The 
 resolution was carried. Somehow, in the form in which 
 it was recorded in the minute-book, and in the formal 
 notification to the bank, a slight change crept into 
 the wording of the resolution. 'Or' was substituted 
 for ' with ' ; so that the expenditure was authorized 
 of ' such funds as were sanctioned by Mr. Gifford, the 
 President of the Association, and Mr. Blunt, a member of 
 the committee ; or by Mr. Creakles, the Treasurer.' A 
 trivial change, slurred over in the reading of the 
 minutes ; but destined to have some startling con- 
 sequences.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 A MODERN MIRACLE 
 
 AT the round-table debate Mr. Walton, it will be 
 remembered, had referred to Tom Oxley's ' conversion ' 
 as a fact known to everybody, and attested by a 
 changed life. The drunkard had miraculously, and 
 almost at a breath, become sober, the wife-beater 
 gentle ! How had this strange miracle been wrought ? 
 
 Mrs. Oxley had been ill, so ill that it seemed likely, 
 at one time, that she would never get better. Some- 
 thing of the hush and shadow of the grave itself 
 seemed to have fallen on the kitchen, once full of 
 busy-handed and wifely industry. And Tom Oxley 
 was strangely, if temporarily, sobered by the circum- 
 stance. A dumb, shy, awkward love for his wife lay 
 hidden somewhere in the cells of his beer-drenched 
 brain ; and the sight of her familiar face, made white 
 and unfamiliar with pain, and of the tireless and 
 faithful hands, stretched helpless and idle on the cover- 
 lid of the bed, curiously affected him. Moreover, he 
 had, with big, stiff fingers, to attempt many an 
 unaccustomed domestic office. 
 
 Then, too, while in this mood, a strange thing had 
 
 happened. There is a story of a prodigal who had 
 
 found his evil and disastrous way to a jail-cell, and 
 
 . who was brought there to a mood of repentance by 
 
 150
 
 A MODERN MIRACLE 151 
 
 recognizing on the floor of the passage outside his 
 cell door a bit of matting of the same pattern he had 
 been accustomed to see in the kirk to which his 
 mother used to take him. A thrill of awakened memory 
 took the office of conscience, or made itself the servant 
 of conscience. And a similar stroke of ' God's magic ' 
 fell on Tom Oxley. It is certain that conscience is 
 reached by strange roads, and stirs mysteriously at 
 the touch of strange forces. In rummaging in an old 
 cupboard, Oxley came upon a broken work-box, lidless, 
 battered, empty of cottons and needles and tapes. 
 And lo ! at the sight, a thrill of unaccustomed feeling 
 ran through his somewhat torpid sensibilities. It was 
 his long-dead mother's box ! Many a time had he 
 stood at her knee as she plied the busy needle, the 
 box open at her side, while he, with boyish fingers, 
 explored its recesses. 
 
 Forth from the cells of his memory crept a procession 
 of images. His mother's face, patient, and sweet, as, it 
 seemed to him, never any other face had been. There 
 seemed to thrill on his ears again the sound of her 
 hymns, the quiet tones of her voice as she recited to 
 her boy the stories of the Bible. He seemed to feel, 
 soft and ghostly, the touch of her hand on his head. 
 Then there rose the picture of the cottage garden, 
 seen through the open window, with its blowing scents 
 the garden where, a happy child, he had plucked 
 pink and violet and sweet-william. How far off it 
 all seemed, and yet how near, and real, and vivid ! 
 How far he had wandered from the touch of that 
 mother's hand ! What a gulf separated him from that 
 innocent boyish figure himself and yet not himself! 
 
 He might doubt God in the abstract, the God of 
 sermons, and of the parsons ; but his mother's God !
 
 152 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 He was prepared to darkly suspect, or even vehemently 
 deny, the existence of any general heaven. But there 
 must be a heaven to which his mother had gone ; 
 aye and little Jess ! Nay, God and Christ and the 
 Bible all became credible and natural, as he stared at 
 that old work-box. For out of it, as though it were 
 the magic casket of Eastern fable, stole such a pro- 
 cession of visions and memories. Such voices whispered 
 from it, with echoes of old hymns, and Bible tales, and 
 hushed prayers. Did his mother look on him from 
 those pure realms to which she had gone ? And, if 
 she did, what must she think of him? So sure 
 was he of that faithful love, that he felt, even in 
 heaven, she must be unhappy to know her boy had 
 grown to be such a man. 
 
 Tom Oxley writhed in a quite new self-shame. He 
 had spoiled his mother's heaven 1 He pictured his 
 mother's eyes gazing at him. And beside her was 
 another figure, that of a little child his Jess looking 
 at him, too, with eyes tender, wondering, and sad. 
 Then even these visions faded, and another Face took 
 shape on the tissues of his imagination ; a Face of 
 which these others were, somehow, reflections : the 
 white, sad, tender, and awful Face of Christ ! 
 
 As he sat and pondered on all this, with strange 
 moisture creeping to his unwilling eyelids, the sound 
 of a quick, decided step came down the stairs. It 
 was Mrs. Baxter, the Bible-woman, who, in another 
 moment, stood beside him. 
 
 Mrs. Baxter took from her Welsh birth her high 
 cheek-bones, her keen grey eyes, and the odd little 
 thrill now cooing and dovelike, and now with a stern 
 ring, as of metal, in it of her voice : a voice which, 
 when charged with her hot but tender spirit, never
 
 A MODERN MIRACLE 153 
 
 failed to affect the hearer curiously ; for Mrs. Baxter \ 
 could be hot, and hot with spiritual fire that scorched 
 like actual flame. Her Celtic temperament kindled at 
 the sight of cruelty, or idleness, or vice. She was the 
 terror of slatternly wives and of drunken husbands. 
 Her little body would quiver, and her kind grey eyes 
 would flame, as she faced some huge drink-stupefied 
 man, guilty of blackening his wife's eyes. 
 
 She was the joy of all children, the angel of all sick 
 beds. For her, Jesus Christ was not only a reality ; 
 He was the only reality. All things else were but 
 shadows ! Every day was rich in answered prayers. 
 The Holy Spirit was just Christ's continued life on 
 earth. Miracles, she believed in ; only they were 
 translated into spiritual terms. Leprous spirits were 
 cleansed by a divine touch ; dead souls were miracu- 
 lously quickened by a divine breath ! 
 
 She had nursed Mrs. Oxley back into convalescence ; 
 and now giving up charge of her, meant to discharge 
 her duty by her husband. 
 
 ' You've a good wife, Tom,' she began ; ' and God has 
 given her back to you again.' 
 
 ' Aye, Mary has her faults ; but I won't say she isn't 
 good wife enough,' said Tom, with an English husband's 
 native and incurable reluctance to praise the partner of 
 his joys and sorrows. 
 
 ' She gave her youth and her life to you, Tom,' con- 
 tinued Mrs. Baxter, going with characteristic directness 
 straight to business; 'and it's an ill return to value 
 her at less than a pint of beer.' 
 
 ' And who says that I do that ? ' demanded Tom, 
 startled into wrath. 
 
 'It's true, Tom, though nobody says it. You are 
 selling her happiness for a jug of beer, and bad beer,
 
 154 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 too. And you are selling what is more precious than 
 that.' 
 
 'And what may that be?' asked Tom, somewhat 
 overwhelmed with the little Welshwoman's fiery 
 rhetoric. 
 
 'You are selling Christ and heaven for it.' 
 
 ' But there is no heaven,' said Tom. 
 
 ' And how should you know that, my man ? But 
 there is ! There is ! God's Word does not lie. The 
 hope in my own heart does not lie. There is a 
 heaven ; and it's meant for you, Tom, and you are 
 meant for it. And you are selling your eternal share 
 in the very city of God for a pint of Sam Fox's beer. 
 You are meant to be Christ's man ; and, while God is 
 trying, by the blood of His Son, and the grace of His 
 Spirit, to make a man and a saint of you, you are 
 making yourself a brute. That's a fool's part to play, 
 Tom Oxley.' 
 
 ' And if I do,' said Oxley, white with wrath, and 
 with curiously twitching lips, ' whose business is it but 
 my own ? Nobody is hurt by it but myself.' 
 
 ' Ah, but everybody is hurt. Your wife is hurt, 
 and the world is hurt, and ' she went on with a hushed, 
 yet thrilling voice ' think of it ! Jesus Christ is 
 hurt ! Man, He paid the price of His blood for you ; 
 and you cheat Him of His purchase. Judas sold his 
 Master for thirty pieces of silver and a rope. And 
 you you sell the Christ who died for you for a 
 bottle of beer. Tom, the devil is getting you over 
 cheaply.' 
 
 Tom tried to say that, as he did not believe in a 
 Christ or a devil, all this eloquence was beside the 
 mark. But, somehow, he could not say it. After all, 
 the little Welshwoman was only saying from the out-
 
 A MODERN MIRACLE 155 
 
 side, and saying with irresistible power of conviction, 
 what some voice was always whispering from the 
 inside. And there was a scorching fire in the little 
 woman's eyes, and a ring, half-pitiful, half-wrathful, 
 in her words, that stung poor Tom's conscience with 
 a pain past endurance. He felt himself a scoundrel ; 
 and, what was almost worse, he felt sure he was a 
 fool a fool of the biggest dimensions and of the 
 most brainless sort. And that Figure of the redeem- 
 ing Christ, betrayed and sold afresh for a drunken 
 bout, seemed to accuse and overwhelm him. 
 
 With quick intelligence Mrs. Baxter read the poor 
 fellow's unspoken thought, and her voice and look 
 changed ; they grew strangely soft. 
 
 'Tom,' she whispered, 'the hand of God's love and 
 power is on you. Don't break from it. As I came 
 down the lane Jim Elder's wife was saying to her 
 bairn : " Jimmie, if you are a naughty boy, mother 
 won't love you." But that's a lie ! A mother loves 
 her child, naughty or good. And God's heart is not 
 less tender than a woman's heart, that He made 
 Himself. 
 
 ' " God> who is rich in mercy" she went on to 
 quote, "for His great love, wJterewith He loved us, 
 
 even when we were dead in sins " To love us when 
 
 we are dead in sins ! Oh, Tom, that's good news ! 
 God loves you, Tom, here and now. Eh, the wonder 
 of it ! The wonder of it ! ' 
 
 Tom sat in silence, his soul shaken with strange 
 forces. Mrs. Baxter's voice fell unheard on his ears. 
 Another Voice deeper and mightier was calling out 
 of eternity. 
 
 God does His own work in men's souls, and does 
 it in His own way. Poor Oxley's lips were twitching
 
 156 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 and trembling with feeling. Suddenly they grew 
 firm with purpose. He was looking straight before 
 him ; but his eyes saw nothing of the homely furniture, 
 the dingy wall on which they looked. He saw, as 
 if painted on the air before him, the Face of the Christ 
 who had redeemed him, and on whom he had repeated 
 the sin of Judas. Down the long-dry channels of his 
 cheeks a few reluctant tears crept ; but Tom knew 
 nothing of them. They fell unheeded. 
 
 At last a sudden light kindled in his eyes, the light 
 of a divine resolve, the light of a strangely kindled 
 hope. 
 
 ' If Jesus Christ can make anything of such a fellow 
 as me,' he whispered, ' He shall have His way.' 
 
 'Well, John Blunt,' said Oxley, as they met a few 
 days afterwards, ' I have dropped the White Horse ; 
 and Mary, poor lass, is going to have a better husband 
 than she ever had yet. But, John, no thanks to your 
 Freethought Society ! Man, it makes all vile things 
 easy. It puts oil,' he said, with energy, 'on the steps 
 to hell. Come out of it, John. It taught me I was 
 a beast, and it's easy, then, to live like a beast. It 
 took Christ away from me ; and He's the only One 
 to help a poor fellow up, and keep him up. Yon's 
 poor work, John, thou'rt doing, down in the lecture- 
 hall. To give up Christ for Creakles ! ' 
 
 'Well, well!' said Blunt, ' I'm glad thou'st taken 
 a turn, Oxley, any way. But thou'rt mixing up things. 
 I suppose, though, some do need a Christ,' he added 
 meditatively. 
 
 * I do,' said Oxley, with conviction ; ' and, John, I 
 don't think you'll do much without Him.' 
 
 Mrs. Oxley's face became, henceforth, as Mr. Walton
 
 A MODERN MIRACLE 157 
 
 called it, one of the ' documents of Christianity.' 
 Peace wrote her divine hieroglyphics upon it ; youth 
 crept back to it. Love shone in her eyes, and sang 
 on her lips. Husband and wife began a new life in 
 company. 
 
 Mr. Looker met them, walking side by side to church, 
 he grave and she glad. 
 
 'Well,' he exclaimed to Mr. Campbell, who was 
 beside him, ' I never thought to see a miracle from 
 the Acts of the Apostles on the pavement of Middleford. 
 I almost mistook the door of the little Methodist 
 chapel for the Beautiful Gate of the Temple.' 
 
 'Earth is full of such miracles, thank God/ said Mr. 
 Campbell reverently, ' and the door of any cottage 
 may be the Beautiful Gate of God's Temple.'
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 THEOLOGY IN FLOWERS 
 
 KATE ARDEN was walking amongst her flowers in 
 the early summer morning. Clear skies above, the soft- 
 blowing air, the dew-gemmed grass, the lark a mere 
 floating voice high in air, the hedge a tangle of 
 buds, the white flame of the blossoming fruit trees, 
 the red and blue fires of the rich-coloured flowers all 
 made the simple garden a sort of fairy realm, a cabinet 
 of delights. The magic of the summer air seemed 
 to lighten the trouble that of late had weighed on Kate's 
 heart, and among the clean, pure, soft-scented glories 
 of her garden she moved, herself a human flower, pure 
 and fresh as any rose in it, fragrant as any violet. 
 
 A figure, walking with heavy steps and bent head, 
 stopped a moment by the little white gate, and Kate 
 recognized Claude Meares. A singularly frank and 
 loyal friendship united the two ; a tie more like that 
 betwixt two frank-hearted schoolboys than betwixt 
 persons of opposite sex. Kate was shocked as she 
 looked at her friend. His face was drawn and colour- 
 less. The light of humour and of that hope without 
 which humour is impossible had died in his eyes. 
 Weariness was written on every line of his countenance. 
 His dress looked neglected ; and there was a haggard 
 
 158
 
 THEOLOGY IN FLOWERS 159 
 
 mournfulness of gait and manner which curiously 
 heightened the sadness of his whole appearance. 
 
 ' Claude,' exclaimed Kate, with shocked pity, ' you 
 are not well.' 
 
 'As well as I want to be, Kate,' he replied, with a 
 wan smile. 
 
 ' Want to be ? ' she cried. 
 
 'Yes, you'll think me a fool, Kate, but I am tired 
 of life. I am tired of the world. I want to get done 
 with everything.' 
 
 ' Oh, Claude,' was all that Kate could say. 
 
 The music of pity in her voice, the look of wide- 
 eyed and startled interest in her face, seemed to unlock 
 the frozen fountains of poor Smears's speech. 
 
 ' Yes,' he said, ' I have been wandering all night, and 
 with a worse darkness within me than the midnight 
 skies know.' 
 
 ' And what makes the darkness ? ' asked Kate. 
 
 Kate and Smears had keenly and often debated the 
 new theology which had swept over Middleford ; and 
 with Kate as a listener, Smears found no difficulty in 
 going straight to the root of his trouble. 
 
 ' Well,' he said, ' all my old beliefs have gone. I am 
 bankrupt. And it's the truth that kills me. That's 
 the pity of it ! The hard, cruel, dreadful truth. It's 
 an empty world. We are a forgotten race. If there 
 is a God at all, He is a God of stone and ice ; and 
 He is farther off than the stars.' 
 
 ' That's your new secular gospel,' replied Kate, with 
 energy. 
 
 ' Yes,' he said, ' and it is all the gospel that is left. 
 And, curiously enough, some of them welcome it as 
 a gospel of sunshine. It makes the world brighter 
 for Cecil. Mr. Creakles chuckles over it. Mr. Gifford
 
 160 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 believes it is going to regenerate the race. But though, 
 like the rest of them, I believe it, yet I hate it. It 
 kills me.' 
 
 ' And if it were true, it might well kill you and 
 me, and all the world. But oh, Smears,' she went 
 on, dropping into the more homely sobriquet in her 
 earnestness, ' it is not true 1 You are tricked. Why, 
 God is all about us.' 
 
 ' Ah, that is the Bible,' said Smears, ' but ' ; and 
 
 the sadness of his smile stabbed Kate's heart like a 
 sword. 
 
 * He is not behind the stars. He is here,' and Kate 
 put her hand on her breast 
 
 ' Yes, that's your simple, girlish fancy.' 
 
 '"Fancy?" Oh, Claude! He is the most certain of 
 realities.' 
 
 'Ah, that's a dream.' 
 
 1 Smears,' said Kate, trying with a woman's quick wit 
 to strike some chord of agreement, ' you used to have 
 eyes for the meaning of things. Why, everything about 
 you rebukes your dreadful doubt. Look at that patch 
 of simple grass, with dewdrops on the points of all 
 the soft, slender, innumerable spears. Look, Smears ! 
 It is like a square of rich green lace sprinkled with 
 diamonds. It is a jewelled carpet, spread for man's 
 poor feet. And,' she went on, with a thrilling drop 
 in her voice, 'there's a thought of God at the root of 
 every blade of that grass ; a thought of God in every 
 shining kiewdrop. Why, here is God, before your very 
 eyes, and this is His garden.' 
 
 ' Ah, you are trying to touch the artist in me ; but 
 art is dead. My new theology has killed it. You are 
 the artist, Kate. But your art tricks you as badly as 
 what you call your theology. If you must idealize
 
 THEOLOGY IN FLOWERS 161 
 
 the dewdrops, why not call them tears that have fallen 
 from the sorrowful eyelids of the night on the sadness 
 of the earth ? But all this is to play pretty tricks with 
 words.' 
 
 ' Yet, look,' said Kate, ' how, when the sun comes over 
 the hill, your " tears " are transfigured into jewels at 
 the touch of the slanting sunbeams ! Isn't that one 
 of Nature's parables ? It seems to me like a prophecy, 
 written in living letters on the green parchment of 
 the grass, that, when God's morning dawns, all human 
 tears will be transfigured into jewels to shine for 
 ever.' 
 
 ' Those are pretty words ; but you must come out 
 of the realm of imagination, Kate,' replied Smears, 
 with a bitter smile. ' Your dewdrops, as a matter 
 of scientific fact, are the wandering night vapour 
 condensed by the chill of the earth. Your "jewels" 
 are bred of mere night and cold.' 
 
 ' But/ said Kate softly, ' how divine is the power 
 and how yet more divine is the purpose which, from 
 such poor things from thin air and cold moisture 
 evolves the wonder of that jewelled grass, and so makes 
 a little patch of commonplace meadow a sort of Field 
 of Cloth of Gold ! Ah, Smears, your science doesn't 
 go far enough.' 
 
 ' It goes as far as the facts ; and science can .go no 
 farther, and can stop no sooner.' 
 
 ' I'm little better than an untaught girl, and it's 
 folly of me to talk about science. But,' Kate persisted 
 earnestly, ' matter can't be everything. We know it 
 isn't When a mother kisses her infant's cheek, is 
 there nothing there but the pluck of a given set of 
 muscles, and the contact of two little patches of living 
 tissue? There is the brain behind the muscles, 
 
 II
 
 162 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 and the thought in the brain ; and then there is 
 the' mother's heart behind both. Science takes no 
 account of the love in the mother's kiss ; yet is 
 not that a fact, too ? Isn't it the supreme fact ? 
 And behind the vapour of the night, and the chill 
 of the earth, which give us the wonder of the dew, 
 isn't there a divine love that intends it ; that makes 
 the frontiers of heat and cold, of dry and wet, a fringe 
 of glories ? ' 
 
 * And so you would really find God's handwriting 
 His signature in a grass-plot ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Kate, with energy. ' Why, for me earth 
 itself often seems like heaven. As I walked along 
 this path this morning,' she went on, trying to strike 
 some note, if only of artistic sympathy, in Smears's 
 mind, 'the soft air, the great, peaceful sky, the glad- 
 ness of the birds, the rejoicing earth, seemed so to 
 reflect the mind of the great Maker that I felt the 
 tears gather in my eyes with mere joy. Smears, who 
 bids the glory of the rose suddenly break out from 
 the brown earth and invisible air? It is God! And 
 it reveals God ! I almost felt as if this corner of my 
 garden was a dim little chamber in heaven. Perhaps 
 it is if we could only see all it holds ! If a troop 
 of angels had suddenly begun singing in the sky it 
 would have seemed natural. Perhaps the birds are 
 His singing angels. Oh, how near God and heaven 
 are!' 
 
 'God "near"?' said Smears; 'why, the whole span 
 of the dreadful, immeasurable universe parts Him from 
 us. What does the sun know of the atoms which 
 live and die in its beams ? No, Kate ; I didn't know 
 you were such a poet ! But I must stick to the 
 dreadful prose of facts. The universe is too big in
 
 THEOLOGY IN FLOWERS 163 
 
 scale to make your gospel credible ; and God if 
 there is a God is on the outside of it. All the 
 millions of shining, uncomprehended worlds are be- 
 twixt Him and us. God has the stars to look after, 
 and not the blades of grass, and we are less even than 
 the grass.' 
 
 ' But He does both,' persisted Kate. ' Smears,' she 
 went on, borrowing, unconsciously, the little Bible- 
 woman's argument, 'your mistake is that you make 
 God, not too great, but too little.' 
 
 'Too little?' 
 
 ' Yes ; you think that He can guide the stars on 
 their courses, but can't count the blades of grass, or 
 see when a sparrow falls. He isn't big enough to attend 
 to both ! If the telescope shows how wide God's 
 universe is, doesn't the microscope show how completely 
 He fills it ? But you need not take your theology from 
 either telescope or miscroscope, for they can only 
 show God's work, not God Himself. Oh, Smears | 
 Think of Christ and His love, and His sorrows, and the 
 blood He shed for us ! ' 
 
 ' Ah, Kate, if that were true ' 
 
 ' But it is true ! The God who made the stars is 
 also the Good Shepherd who laid down His life for 
 the sheep. That is the gospel, and that it's true I 
 feel in every drop of my blood ! ' 
 
 Smears smiled sadly. 
 
 'Think of your favourite Tennyson, over whom we 
 used to dispute, Kate. He tells you what the worth 
 of human life is. 
 
 ' A life of nothings, nothing worth, 
 From that first nothing ere his birth 
 To that last nothing under earth.
 
 164 ITHURIEUS SPEAR 
 
 High up the vapours fold and swim, 
 About him broods the twilight dim, 
 The place he knew forgetteth him.' 
 
 Kate knew her Tennyson by heart, and she broke 
 in eagerly : ' Ah ! that is the wrong Voice. You 
 forget how the poet at last awakes, and how his 
 poem ends : 
 
 ' I ceased and sat as one forlorn, 
 Then said the Voice in quiet scorn, 
 "Behold, it is the Sabbath morn." 
 
 Like softened airs that blowing, steal 
 When meres begin to uncongeal, 
 The sweet church bells began to peal. 
 
 So heavenly-toned that in that hour, 
 From out my sullen heart a power 
 Broke, like the rainbow from the shower. 
 
 To feel, although no tongue can prove, 
 That every cloud that spreads above 
 And veileth Love, itself is love.' 
 
 Kate's voice ran like some silver fugue through the 
 verses, but Smears remained unmoved. 
 
 ' I don't take my theology from Tennyson,' he said 
 doggedly. ' My eyes, and the plain facts of the universe, 
 shape my creed. The tenderness of your nature, Kate, 
 may make some greater love somewhere else credible to 
 you. But, then, you are not Mr. Creakles ; still less 
 are you Mr. Bagges. As I look at them any divine 
 Maker and Lover becomes incredible. Now, Kate, if 
 you were God ' 
 
 * Oh, Smears,' she exclaimed sadly. 
 
 ' But when I look at the irony of things in this 
 world the sorrow, the confusion, the tragedy it seems
 
 THEOLOGY IN FLOWERS 165 
 
 to me just such a world as Mr. Creakles, if he were 
 endowed with omnipotence, might create. No, Kate, 
 the water is too deep for our poor feet.' 
 
 Kate looked at him pitifully. 
 
 ' Smears,' she said softly, ' I am only a girl, with 
 a girl's foolish thoughts ; but go to Professor Gardner. 
 He is a scholar. Or,' she added, with a note of deeper 
 confidence, ' go to Mr. Walton. He is a saint ! ' 
 
 ' Perhaps I may, Kate,' he replied wearily, as he 
 moved, with tired feet, away. ' But all desire is killed 
 for me. Nor scholar nor saint can help me.' 
 
 On that same day Mr. Creakles's somewhat dingy 
 office witnessed a curious interview. Cecil sat in it, 
 with gloomy brow and twitching lips, while Mr. 
 Creakles himself wriggled restlessly in his chair opposite 
 him, looking even more like a trapped fox than was 
 usual with him. The pair had been hit badly in a 
 Stock Exchange gamble, run with bank money, and 
 in which Mr. Arden himself had an unacknowledged 
 interest. In part the cash was provided in the 
 disguise of an overdraft to Mr. Creakles ; in part 
 Cecil 'borrowed' it from the depleted shelves of the 
 cash safe under his care. 
 
 Men are apt to play subtly silly tricks with their 
 conscience. Mr. Creakles probably knew he was a 
 rogue, and was untroubled by the circumstance. But 
 Mr. Arden and Cecil wrapped themselves in ingenious 
 illusions. An overdraft was legitimate ; and Mr. 
 Arden diligently avoided any recollection of the fact 
 that there was a fraud at the bottom of the overdraft. 
 As for Cecil, he was only ' using ' capital which the 
 bank suffered most wastefully to lie inert. But fortune 
 had proved cruel, and bank cash to the amount of
 
 166 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 some thousands of pounds had vanished in thin air. 
 The depleted bank-safe was mute and fatal witness 
 against its own guardians. 
 
 Cecil, at that moment, saw before him an air- 
 drawn picture of discovery, ruin, shame. He seemed 
 to feel on his limbs the yellow garb of a convict. 
 The free and cheerful world narrowed to a jail- 
 cell. A thrill of shuddering terror ran through his 
 blood. 
 
 'The inspector's due next week,' he said, 'and it 
 must all come out.' 
 
 He glanced despairingly at Mr. Creakles, who sat, 
 with lowering brow, fiercely gnawing his short and 
 not too clean nails till a faint red stain of blood was 
 on one spot of his bristly moustache. 
 
 'Creakles,' said Cecil savagely, 'you've brought 
 us into this mess. Get us out of it ! ' 
 
 Mr. Creakles was still silent, with unheeding ears. 
 He was fishing in the unclean depths of his memory 
 for some evil expedient which would serve them. 
 
 * We can't cover up the missing cash,' said Cecil. 
 
 ' No,' said Mr. Creakles, without looking up, ' but 
 you might draw a red-herring across it.' 
 
 Cecil looked at him eagerly. There was a curious, 
 indefinable change in Mr. Creakles's face. The lips 
 were pendulous, but the eyes were fierce, the self- 
 complacent smirk was gone, and in the altered lines 
 of his face there was a new expression. It was the 
 face of a criminal, remembering a criminal act, or 
 meditating one ; and Cecil stared at its owner, 
 recognizing the change, but only half realizing its 
 meaning. 
 
 'Could you get me,' said Creakles, with a curious 
 hesitation, ' an impression of the key of the manager's
 
 THEOLOGY IN FLOWERS 167 
 
 safe? And that window opening on the lane could 
 you leave it unbolted or loosen the screws that hold 
 the bolt?' 
 
 'What on earth do you mean?' said Cecil, aghast 
 'Are you putting up a burglary?' 
 
 ' No ; and no one would attempt the strong-room ; 
 but if there was a sham robbery or a robbery of 
 some sort anywhere about the bank that might 
 serve to cover up the cash we've lost.' 
 
 The two men looked at each other, Creakles as 
 though to explore his companion's thoughts, Cecil 
 as if frozen with terror at the vision of another crime^-a 
 crime of a very perilous and naked sort. 
 
 ' I think,' said Creakles hesitatingly and watching 
 the other's face, ' I think I could put my hands on 
 a couple of fellows who would do the job, if it was 
 made safe for them. Of course we'd have to pay 
 them, but they could be trusted.' 
 
 The two guilty heads stooped to each other, and 
 a long whispered colloquy followed. 
 
 Half an hour afterwards Cecil walked out into 
 the street, and took his way to the bank. His face, 
 too, had curiously altered. He had, for the first 
 time, looked openly at crime, and had consented to 
 it. That is an experience which subtly transfigures, 
 to a new and evil pattern, the very countenance of 
 its subject. Something had gone from Cecil's face ; 
 something new and evil had crept into it. There 
 was a furtive look in his eyes, a hunted expression 
 in his very features. The constable at the street 
 corner gazed at him carelessly, and then took a 
 second and keener look. What was it in the clear- 
 cut, handsome face that, somehow, gave the constable 
 a sense of professional interest ? It was crime peeping
 
 
 (68 ITH URIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 out unconsciously, and the constable followed with 
 his eyes Cecil's figure, without knowing why he did 
 it. 
 
 Mr. Creakles ran up that night to London. It 
 was 'business,' he said, that took him there. But it 
 was 'business' that led him into strange regions and 
 very queer company. How did the secretary of the 
 Freethought Association, and the manager of the 
 Middleford People's Building Society, come to possess 
 such an intimate acquaintance with the worst dens 
 in London, and its most dangerous criminals ?
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 THE WRECK 
 
 IT was holiday time in Middleford, and the great 
 'pleasure trip to Slate Island which had grown into 
 an annual institution was just starting. The trip was 
 a run of nearly thirty miles, down the tiny harbour 
 across the narrow strait through which the tides raced 
 and swung in alternate currents, with a speed that 
 'sometimes rose to fury ; then through a tangle of rocks 
 to where Slate Island lifted its grey and splintered 
 peak against the skyline. In fine weather the trip 
 was beautiful ; in foul it was apt to be risky. But 
 Slate Island was a great attraction. Visitors came from 
 far to see it, when the summer seas were singing softly 
 about it. On its western cliffs the great Atlantic 
 breakers, rolling in from measureless leagues of sea- 
 space, broke with tireless fury. 
 
 The great cliff-walls looking seaward were fretted with 
 caves, into which the breakers flung themselves with 
 tireless energy ; so that, when the huge waves swung 
 back in reflux, the whole face of the cliff streamed with 
 cataracts of sea-foam. On the eastern and sheltered 
 side the island ran down with a gentle slope into calmer 
 water, where landing was easy. More than one slender 
 stream leaped in fairy cataracts down the e,aste,ra 
 
 169
 
 170 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 flank of the great parapet of tilted strata which formed 
 the crowning ridge of the little island. 
 
 Three steamers, carrying the pleasure-seekers, went 
 splashing off, with loud clang of bands and gay flutter 
 of bunting. The Freethought Association, amongst other 
 societies, was largely represented in the crowd. John 
 Blunt was there, and Cecil ; Kit Somers, too, was there. 
 He was in no holiday mood, it is true ; but, as he 
 reflected, Kate might be there ; and at the mere 
 imagination his feet carried him off in the direction of 
 the pier, without waiting for any instructions from his 
 brain, and not till the boat started did he find, alas ! 
 that Kate was not in the crowd. 
 
 The three hours' run to Slate Island went pleasantly 
 enough, save when the boats rolled and swung to the 
 sliding tides across the straits. The scene on the 
 island was merry. The grey slope of the great ridge 
 was flecked with white dresses and climbing figures. 
 The sound of happy voices and light laughter floated 
 down from the hill-crest to the sea-shore, with elfin- 
 like effect. But Kit wandered with a heavy heart 
 amongst the merry groups. 
 
 Soon after noon a low bank 'of clouds began to 
 darken in the south-west. Grey fog was apt to drift 
 over sea and land when the wind blew from that 
 quarter ; and, following hard on the fog, and driving 
 it in ragged patches before it, would come a sharp 
 gale. The face of Captain Sill, the grizzle-bearded 
 commodore of the little pleasure-squadron, grew anxious 
 as he watched the grey bank to the south-west steadily 
 darken and climb up the sky. They must begin the 
 homeward run earlier than had been arranged. At 
 three o'clock, instead of five, the steam-whistle blew 
 shrill and long from his boat. But the pleasure-seekers
 
 THE WRECK 171 
 
 came down the slopes with exasperating delibera- 
 tion. Stray couples still loitered in the ravines. 
 Their land-bred senses could discover no reason for 
 haste. 
 
 The first boat at last got itself loaded, and moved off. 
 By the time the second was ready to start a haze had 
 drifted over the waters, chilling the air and narrowing 
 the horizon. The third boat lingered, with orders to 
 collect the last loitering couples, whistling furiously 
 to hurry their too-leisurely steps. The process was 
 long ; but at length the last pair was on board, the 
 moorings were thrown off, and the boat started on the 
 homeward run. 
 
 Round the southern shoulder of the island the fog by 
 this time was blowing in masses of torn, white vapour. 
 Each splintered islet the boat ran past was edged 
 with spray. The voice of the sea took a sighing note. 
 So quickly the sky seemed to darken, so keenly and 
 shrill sang the wind, so low sank the gale-torn clouds, 
 that it was plain the homeward run would be one 
 of discomfort. As the boat moved out of the shelter 
 of Slate Island she took the rising wind on her beam, 
 and heeled over to it heavily. On the bridge the 
 captain looked anxiously to windward, and swore softly 
 under his breath at the careless holiday-makers who 
 had detained him so long. The prospect of a run 
 across the tangled dance of tides and currents, all 
 sown with rocks, through flying fog, quick-coming 
 darkness, and a shrilling gale, was not cheerful. 
 
 The course to Slate Island was a mere pleasure track, 
 used only in summer. No friendly light shone on any 
 rocky point, till ' the straits ' were reached, when a light 
 on a jutting headland, known as ' The Splinters,' marked 
 the entrance to the sheltered inlet which ran up to
 
 i;2 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 Middleford. The captain was eager to catch the gleam 
 of that light before the fast-coming night shrouded sea 
 and islands with utter darkness, and he drove ahead full 
 speed. 
 
 Steadily the clouds seemed to thicken ; a furious rain- 
 storm came driving up from the south-west. It scourged 
 the brown islands, the darkening sea, and the slanting 
 deck of the steamer with ice-cold rain, and swept away 
 to leeward. Squall after squall followed, and night 
 came with them. The headlands grew ghostly and 
 vague. The boat was now in shelter, as it ran to lee- 
 ward of some half-seen mass of rock ; and now, as it 
 passed from under the friendly lee, and caught the 
 hurrying south-wester, it lay over, with its gunwale 
 almost under water. A pleasure-boat, caught by such a 
 gale, at such an hour, and in such waters, was apt to 
 fare badly. But the captain, through whose nerves there 
 still ran a note of temper against the loiterers who had 
 detained him so long, drove ahead. 
 
 ' Serve the fools right,' he said to himself grimly, as 
 he looked down on the wet decks, where some unhappy 
 couples who found the crowd and heat of the little 
 saloon too trying lay prostrate in the throes of sea- 
 sickness. 
 
 Two-thirds of the distance had now been run. 
 Round the next headland the light on The Splinters 
 would become visible. Just then a heavier sea than 
 usual struck the boat. Her bow rose high in air, while 
 the spray flew wildly up over bridge and funnel. Deep, 
 again, in the gulf betwixt two waves, sank the ship's 
 bows, her stern jerked high in the darkness, the screw 
 racing furiously. Another great sea struck the boat on 
 the beam, and the dripping bows rose still higher, and 
 sank again, in turn, still deeper. As the stern lifted
 
 THE WRECK 173 
 
 suddenly, answering the plunge of the bows, there was 
 one wild jerk, and then the furiously racing screw 
 suddenly ceased to shake the boat. The shaft had 
 snapped! The head of the boat swung off to leeward ; 
 and in a moment the steamer was drifting helplessly as 
 a log with the racing waves. 
 
 So violent at the moment was the sea, so narrow the 
 space that parted the ' true track from the rocks to 
 leeward, edged with far-jutting reefs, that almost at a 
 breath the crisis came. The captain was calling out 
 his orders sternly and coolly from the bridge. The 
 mate, with a cluster of hands, was busy in preparation 
 for letting go the anchor. 
 
 ' All ready, sir/ he yelled back to the bridge. 
 
 ' Let go,' came the order. 
 
 The anchor plunged into the sea, the cable rattled 
 fiercely through the hawse-hole. The check of the 
 cable brought the head of the boat up in the teeth of 
 the sea, and the hull swung with a deadly lurch to 
 leeward. At that moment a huge wave struck the 
 boat, the spray blew angrily across the decks, and the 
 hull rose high as the great body of the wave swept 
 beneath it. As it sank there came a crash ; the ship 
 shook from stem to stern. The wave had flung it on 
 the jagged flank of a reef! 
 
 In a moment the wet and slanting deck was a tumult 
 of crying and terrified passengers. As they burst from 
 the crowded saloon, with its close air and shining lights, 
 the terrified wretches found themselves set suddenly 
 face to face with peril in its blackest shape. 
 
 The night had taken a new darkness. And, out of 
 night and space, the black ,waves came riding in onthe 
 shaking hull. The very air was full of wind-driven 
 spray ; the strangling waters broke with pitiless force
 
 174 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 across the deck, and many passengers were instantly 
 swept away into the furious sea to leeward. 
 
 Death is, in one sense, the final touchstone of cha- 
 racter. Life, it is true, searches character subtly ; but 
 death is a test of rougher, more sudden, and peremptory 
 sort. At its coming, all the paper screens of con- 
 ventional beliefs, all the easy habitudes of ordinary life, 
 vanish. What may be called the secondary motives, 
 which govern human conduct, perish like straws in 
 flame. The great primitive emotions emerge. How 
 few and rare are the spiritual forces which can keep 
 steady the human soul in the shock and swoon of 
 death ! 
 
 It was curious to note how diversely the actors 
 bore themselves on that sea-whipped stage. Any 
 strong affection seemed to put the soul in which it 
 dwelt beyond the reach of terror, even under the 
 challenge of that terrifying scene. Thus, a white-faced 
 woman, bare-headed, her gay dress clinging like a wet 
 rag to her figure, her hair blown about her face by 
 the wind, clasped hard to her breast a crying child. 
 The keen spray smote her as with the lash of a whip. 
 One of the boats was already launched, and rose and 
 sank wildly to leeward ; now lifted suddenly out of the 
 darkness, showing a dozen faces pale and wild in 
 the flare of the deck-lights, and now sinking into the 
 darkness as though swallowed up by it. 
 
 The woman stood by the broken bulwarks. As the 
 boat rose into sight again, she realized that here was 
 a chance for her child. She held it out in her arms, 
 and screamed in thrilling accents : 
 
 ' Take her ! Save her ! Oh, save her ! ' 
 
 There was no thought of self. Love mastered all 
 other emotions. All that shaken figure knew was a
 
 THE WRECK 175 
 
 passion of agonized concern for the little child in her 
 arms. 
 
 A working man kissed his wife. 'The blood of 
 Jesus Christ,' he said, ' cleanses from all sin,' and he 
 swung her off the bulwark into the uplifted arms of 
 a sailor, standing on a seat of the boat. It was a 
 watchword and a farewell. 
 
 On the bridge stood the captain ; now silent, with 
 bent head and listening air, as he felt the ship quiver 
 to the shock of the assailing waves ; now leaning 
 forward to shout some stern, brief order to the men 
 at the boats. The sense of duty, the pride of his 
 calling, the habitudes and traditions of a lifetime, 
 kept him cool. He must 'stick by his ship.' He 
 must see his passengers safe. He must not save 
 himself while a single life in his charge was in 
 peril. 
 
 Meanwhile, on the deck, panic reigned. Its accents 
 grew ever shriller. The ship was lost. Fear was 
 unashamed. In some of the unhappy passengers it 
 rose to the fervours of a lunacy. They were passing 
 the women down to one of the boats when the sorely 
 tormented hull shook afresh, to the stroke of a sea 
 of greater fury than the rest. A cry suddenly went 
 up, ' Into the boats ! ' and a general rush was made 
 to the gap in the bulwarks. The chief officer, a 
 cool, brave seaman, faced the crowd, striking right 
 and left. 
 
 ' Be men ! ' he cried. ' Keep your heads ! Let the 
 women go first.' 
 
 But the rush overbore him. He was thrust backward 
 till he fell over the broken bulwark, and disappeared 
 in the sea. The boat rose into the glare of the deck- 
 lights, lifted high by a great wave, and a dozen of
 
 176 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 the terrified passengers leaped for it. Some missed 
 it. One struck the edge of the boat with his head, 
 and sank without a sound. But more than half a 
 dozen reached the boat in the wild leap, and the 
 shock was fatal. The boat heeled heavily over till 
 the eddying sea broke over her thwarts. She sank ; 
 a dozen struggling figures were visible for a moment 
 on the black waters ; then they were swept away like 
 wisps of seaweed. 
 
 Further aft, the quarter-boat had a happier fate. 
 She had swung clear, and been lowered safely. The 
 group waiting to embark in her was smaller than 
 that forward, and woman after woman amongst the 
 passengers was handed down safely. Then the 
 men followed. But the boat, by this time, was 
 crowded. 
 
 ' One more ! Room for one more,' shouted a sailor 
 who, swaying with the wildly swaying boat, looked 
 up his face wet with spray, and white in the light 
 of the flaring deck-lights. 
 
 ' Only one ! ' And a group of five or six clung to 
 the bulwarks, waiting to embark ! At this moment, 
 a shivering and weeping girl was discovered, crouched 
 under the bulwarks. Kit grasped the little figure, 
 and lifted it high in his strong arms over the 
 bulwarks. 
 
 ' Pass the girl/ cried the sailor, from the boat. 
 
 But a rough deck-hand, with an oath, shouted, 
 * Every man for himself ! ' and, putting his foot on 
 the bulwark, he leaped for the boat. As he leaped, 
 his head was struck with the swinging block of the 
 davit, and he fell like a stone into the sea. 
 
 All this passed, so to speak, in a breath. And the 
 shout of the man, his brutal oath, his wild leap, seemed
 
 THE WRECK 177 
 
 to let loose all the elemental passions amongst the 
 group yet on the deck. They fought, and struggled, 
 and swore, striving to reach the gangway, whence they 
 could leap into the boat. Two or three slipped, or were 
 thrust, overboard, and vanished. From the boat, John 
 Blunt looked up and watched that grim drama. He 
 caught a glimpse of Kit's face. It seemed lit up with 
 some strange fire. He still held the girl in his arms, 
 and, leaning forward, cried : 
 
 ' Take the girl ! We men can die.' 
 
 When the crash of the striking ship drew him, in the 
 rush of the other passengers, to the deck, Kit had found 
 himself caught in a crowd of panic-stricken men and 
 crying women. There is a deadly infection in the 
 terrors of a crowd, and Kit felt himself, for a moment 
 swept away by it. Every natural human instinct 
 impelled him to make a struggle for his own life in 
 the mad fashion of the rest But nobler forces almost 
 at a breath asserted themselves. The words of an 
 old Psalm seemed to syllable themselves, without 
 volition or memory of his own, in his brain : 
 
 ' God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in 
 trouble. Therefore will not we fear, tJwugh the earth 
 be removed ; and tJiough tJie mountains be carried into 
 the midst of tJie sea ; though the waves thereof roar and 
 be troubled! 
 
 Then, in Kit's heart, awoke another impulse. He 
 heard men pray, and saw women weep ; and the 
 primary, essential passion of Christianity, pity, took 
 possession of him. He must help others. He found 
 himself comforting one passionately sobbing woman. 
 
 ' Christ is here,' he said. ' He will take care of your 
 child.' 
 
 Some strange faculty of utterance awoke in him. 
 
 12
 
 178 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 He found on his lips words with fire, and authority 
 in them, which acted like a tonic on trembling men and 
 despairing women. He discovered, as we have 
 described, a weeping, forgotten child, crouching under 
 the bulwarks, and sobbing unheeded ; and, catching 
 her up in his arms, he leaned far over the bulwarks, 
 to pass her down to the boat. Then came the leap 
 of the deck-hand ; and, like some mad, swift drama, 
 the rush to the boat. This, too, passed. The sailor 
 had caught the little girl, and passed her aft in the 
 boat Then, looking up, he shouted to Kit, ' Jump 
 quick ! ' 
 
 One bent old figure, still clinging, with chattering 
 teeth and shaking hands, to the bulwark, caught Kit's 
 eye. The white hair was blown about the old man's 
 face ; his crouching attitude prevented him from being 
 seen sooner. Kit looked at him. All the pulses of 
 his young blood were tingling with energy for the leap. 
 But the sight of that bent and pitiful figure arrested 
 him. 
 
 * Now's your chance,' cried the sailor impatiently, 
 as the boat once more was flung up by the sea. 
 
 ' Come on, old fellow,' Kit cried, ' here's your chance,' 
 and he stepped back and drew the tottering figure to 
 the edge of the gangway. 
 
 At that moment another person struggled to the 
 bulwark. It was Cecil. A wave had flung him down 
 and half-stunned him, and he had crouched under the 
 bulwarks while the fight for the boat had raged. Now 
 he struggled up out of the strangling water, and saw 
 the boat, with its freight of black figures and white, 
 upturned faces. That way lay escape ; or, at least, 
 a chance of escape. 
 
 To say that Cecil was a coward would be untrue ; but
 
 - 
 
 HE PUT HIS STRONG HAND ON THE OLD MAN'S 
 SHOULDER AND PUSHED HIM FIERCELY BACK.
 
 THE WRECK 179 
 
 courage is of many sorts. If he had been a soldier, 
 pride in his flag, the passion of combat, the dread 
 of dishonour, would have made him play a gallant part. 
 If peril had faced him in the open day, and there 
 had been a crowd to watch how he bore himself, and 
 to applaud a fine act, Cecil could have played the man. 
 But here was the wild night, the black sea, the 
 shrieking wind. Life was sweet, and death, he believed, 
 meant annihilation. All the forces bred of faith, or 
 born of duty, were gone. Why should he throw away 
 his life the only life he had merely to give that 
 unknown old man a doubtful chance of surviving ? 
 Life, for Cecil, was much more than it could be for 
 him ! He had had his day. There was no ' duty ' 
 in the matter, for duty had lost its authority. There 
 was no glitter of heroism. Shame had no sting where 
 there was no crowd to see. 
 
 Thought is swift in such a crisis. When we stand 
 with death at the touch, we think in leaps of lightning. 
 All the reasoning we are trying to describe ran in a 
 flash of fire through Cecil's brain. The cold night, the 
 cruel wind, the clamour of the waves, the atmosphere 
 of panic all seemed to quench every passion save that 
 of pure selfishness ; and in Cecil's mind that mood 
 became, in an instant, supreme. The baser passions 
 triumphed. They did not seem ' base,' but only natural. 
 
 He put his strong hand on the old man's shoulder, 
 and plucked him fiercely back. Those in the boat could 
 not see the act. They only saw the white head suddenly 
 disappear. John Blunt, alone, as it happened, caught 
 a momentary glimpse of the scene. Then Cecil leaped. 
 The shock of his leap threw the sailor off his balance, 
 and he fell into the sea. 
 
 ' Push off,' cried Cecil, ' she is breaking up.'
 
 i8o ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 With a splash the eager oars fell into the water, and 
 the boat went with a wild swing to leeward. At that 
 moment John Blunt looked up from the crowd in the 
 boat, towards the wreck. Kit Somers leaned, with 
 folded arms, on the bulwarks, looking steadily to- 
 wards the vanishing boat. He suddenly threw up 
 his hand, with a gesture of farewell ; a smile seemed 
 to light up his face. Then the blackness swallowed 
 him up. 
 
 All that night, through foam and storm, the boat 
 struggled on, admirably steered by the third mate. 
 When dawn broke, a fishing-smack, leaning to the 
 gale, like a gull, with slanting wings, but coming almost 
 with the flight of a seagull, bore down, and the 
 bedraggled and half-frozen figures were taken on 
 board. 
 
 As they landed on the pier John Blunt and Cecil, for 
 a moment, stood face to face. Cecil knew, by some 
 swift and sure instinct, that he was judged and con- 
 demned by his companion, and he resented it resented 
 the reproach of his silent lips, and the challenge of 
 his accusing eyes. 
 
 ' Man, Cecil ! ' said John at last, ' I had rather seen 
 you dead than seen you strike down that poor old 
 man.' 
 
 ' But it was every man for himself,' answered Cecil 
 defiantly, ' and my life was worth more than his ; 
 more to me and more to the world, too. Why should 
 I have sacrificed myself for him ? ' 
 
 Somehow, there came to John Blunt's mind an old 
 verse, 'He saved others; Himself He cannot save.' 
 The words seemed to speak out of a world of moral 
 ideals far off, fast fading, yet infinitely noble and in- 
 finitely sweet Cecil had turned away in anger, but
 
 THE WRECK 181 
 
 John stood meditatively. He still seemed to see the 
 two figures of Cecil and Kit painted on the canvas 
 of the darkness. Death stood behind them. The furious 
 sea was leaping at them. Betwixt them was an old, 
 white-headed man, his very helplessness a challenge, 
 a test of character, to each of the two young men. 
 And John Blunt remembered how Kit stepped back 
 and gave the chance of life to the frail old man, 
 while Cecil struck him down, to secure a chance of 
 escape for himself. 
 
 Was each the representative of his system ? Christi- 
 anity taught self-sacrifice ; Freethought believed in 
 the survival of the fittest, and in the right of the ' fittest ' 
 that is, of the strongest to survive. Why not? 
 Cecil's life was worth more to the world than that of 
 the trembling and white-haired figure he had thrust 
 aside. Yet John's heart, in spite of himself, con- 
 demned Cecil, and condemned the theory which would 
 excuse him. His creed, he felt uncomfortably, had 
 no place for self-sacrifice in its ethics. 
 
 Cecil himself, as he sat at night in his room, tried 
 to forget the scene ; but it rose to his imagination again 
 and again, and yet again. He acted it over a score 
 of times. He refused to blame himself. What debt 
 did he owe to this stranger nameless, old, his life at 
 its dregs? Why should he have given up his chance 
 of existence to him ? It was true that Kit did this ; 
 but it was quixotic ; it was absurd. 
 
 Suppose, at that moment, he had been drifting a 
 strangled corpse in the sea-depths, what compensation 
 for the warm, rich life he had lost would it have been 
 to remember that he had been ' unselfish,' ' heroic ' ? 
 Nay, he would be past remembering anything 
 even his own. ' heroism ' ! He must be practical, and
 
 1 82 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 live, not by his old faith, but by his new and better 
 one. 
 
 Yet he felt, somehow, that he had sustained some 
 subtle moral loss in that scene on the deck. He was 
 a worse man for it ! And Kit was nobler !
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 NIGHT AND SEA 
 
 KIT still leaned on the bulwark of the stranded ship. 
 The darkness was full of the flying spray, and the 
 scuffling and furious wind. The deck under his feet 
 trembled continually to the stroke of the waves. 
 He was alone. There might be others, crouching for 
 shelter, and waiting for death elsewhere on the wave- 
 swept deck ; but the darkness hid them. The old 
 man had vanished how, Kit knew not. Every light 
 was quenched. The waves raced at will through the 
 daintily furnished saloon ; the boat was settling down 
 more heavily under the incessant leap of the waves. 
 
 Yet, curiously enough, Kit was conscious for the 
 moment neither of loneliness nor of fear. The sense 
 of a Divine Presence thrilled him. It preoccupied 
 every sense. It filled the darkness ; it sang within 
 the tumult of the storm. The great elemental forces 
 raging about him seemed tamed and harmless in 
 that Presence. Kit felt he knew not why nor how 
 that he belonged to another order, which their rage 
 could not touch. So the pulses of his blood were 
 steady, his senses quick, his imagination unterrified. 
 He was waiting for a crisis ; but waiting without fear, 
 and with a strange and inexpressible exaltation through 
 which ran a certain fire of curiosity in his mood.
 
 184 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 Suddenly the crisis was upon him. Under the raving 
 of the winds, and the tumult of the sea, there ran 
 and beneath his very feet a crash of splintering timber, 
 of rending metal. The boat was breaking amidships ! 
 At that moment a vast wave was riding in on the 
 wreck, its crest looming with a mountainous effect 
 in the darkness. 
 
 Kit realized that to be caught in the whirl of 
 broken timbers would be fatal ; and with quick 
 decision he caught, in the oncoming wave, a chance 
 of escape. As its foam swirled and sang about him, 
 and before the actual weight of the mighty sea tumbled 
 on him, he flung himself on to the lower slopes of 
 the wave, and, with the stroke of a swift and strong 
 swimmer, went riding off with it, above the crest of 
 the reef, and beyond the whirling debris of the 
 destroyed vessel. 
 
 How far the great wave seemed to run ! At last 
 its crest began to sink. The reflux was deep and 
 fierce. Kit sank with it and was caught in its resist- 
 less sweep. A fine swimmer, cool and strong, yet 
 he was helpless as a bit of drifting seaweed in the 
 backward swing of the wave. Presently another great 
 billow a liquid Alps ; a mountain range of black 
 water travelling with the speed of a railway train 
 lifted him on its huge flank and bore him onward. 
 Then, as he flung his hand forward in a swimmer's 
 stroke, it struck the fragment of a spar. 
 
 From an iron ring which bound the spar two 
 massive eyelet holes projected, and from these streamed 
 the fragments of a broken stay. Kit clutched this, 
 and found the spar carried him buoyantly. He held 
 desperately on by the tangled ropes, pushed himself 
 free from the spar when it rolled dangerously on him
 
 NIGHT AND SEA 185 
 
 and so sank and rose as the great billows raced past 
 him, or fell under him. How far and how long he 
 drifted he could not tell. Sometimes he was only 
 semi-conscious beneath the incessant lash of the flying 
 scud. 
 
 At last he heard ahead of him the deeper sound 
 of breakers the angry crash of the rushing waters as 
 they flung themselves on rocks. The sound roused 
 him, with its sullen challenge. If he were to be flung 
 on the reef, his soft flesh, he knew, would be torn, 
 almost at a breath, into bloody fragments on its 
 hundred cruel points. 
 
 He felt himself swept forward by the lifting breaker 
 with almost dizzy speed. Then the wave began 
 to sink. Would the soft water turn, in another 
 moment, into the receding edges of the reef? As 
 it happened, he was flung on the reef just where a 
 mighty growth of seaweed, a vast stretch of elastic 
 gutta-percha-like fronds, clothed it, and padded it into 
 harmlessness. The long, strap-like fronds streamed 
 out in the line of the rushing wave, and Kit found 
 himself swept over them as over some elastic carpet. 
 
 Presently the wave came swinging back, in mighty 
 reflux. Kit grasped the tough and ribbon-like fronds, 
 and held to them desperately. The seaward-rushing 
 waters blinded and almost strangled him. He felt as if 
 his arms must be torn from his shoulder-blades. But 
 he held on stubbornly, burying his face in the sea- 
 fronds. At last the pressure began to lighten, the rush 
 of the wave faltered. Kit turned on his back and 
 looked seaward. Against the black sky there was 
 visible a mass of deeper black, cliff-like in height and 
 shape ; a moving wall coming swiftly on, and climbing 
 higher as it came.
 
 i86, ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 It was another great breaker, and it swept him away 
 like a chip. Presently he felt under his hands again 
 the smooth, tough fronds of the kindly seaweed, and 
 he clutched them. He was crushed and flattened 
 against the reef. The great bed of seaweed still acted 
 as an elastic carpet, but it seemed as if the weight and 
 roar of strangling waters above him would never cease. 
 He was choking, dying. Then the wave swept back- 
 ward ; its weight grew less cruel. It was past. 
 
 Gasping, and well-nigh drowned, Kit lifted his head, 
 and felt the keen salt air rush into his lungs. Another 
 such wave would kill him. But he now felt the solid 
 reef, still masked with seaweed, under his feet, and he 
 struggled forward and upward for a few yards. Once 
 more he heard behind him the roar of the coming 
 water. It was on him ; it pressed him almost to the 
 point of unconsciousness. Yet he held on, and struggled 
 and fought his desperate way up. Now the swinging 
 waves rose no higher than his shoulders ; then his arms 
 were clear ; at last, shaken, bruised, giddy, he felt the 
 rough, prickly grass about his feet, and realized that 
 he was beyond the reach of even those cruel and 
 pursuing waters. 
 
 He fell on the grass, which seemed warm to his 
 chilled flesh, and his blood crept, with tingling pain, 
 through all his limbs. He lay for some hours, half- 
 swooning, half-sleeping. At last he was conscious 
 that the wind had grown less violent ; the roar of the 
 sea took a softer note. The stars shone keen and cold 
 through the flying clouds ; he fell into deep and 
 dreamless sleep. 
 
 When he awoke, a soft haze was stealing up from 
 the eastern horizon. It deepened ; it flushed into rose ; 
 it kindled into flame. The day was dawning. Great
 
 NIGHT AND SEA 187 
 
 bars of light from the unrisen sun shot upward to the 
 zenith like the spokes of some titanic and shining 
 wheel. The sea stretched, like a mottled floor, grey 
 and cold under the morning sky, except where, to the 
 east, the curve of sea-line seemed to borrow fire from 
 the fiery red of the dawn. 
 
 Kit stood up and turned his face towards the glory 
 of the east. It was as though he stood before some 
 altar-flame. The open gates of heaven seemed to burn 
 before him. With a rush, all the memories of the night 
 swept over him. Death had touched him, chilled him with 
 its icy breath. But it had passed by him ! He lived, 
 and life was sweet ! But something sweeter than life 
 itself seemed to burn in his blood. He had struggled 
 not only out of the dark floods of the salt sea, but out 
 of a darker sea of doubts, or of half-beliefs. He seemed 
 to himself to have fought with great elemental forces, 
 with tempest and darkness and sea and with a Shadow 
 behind them all, and mightier than them all, one to 
 which they were but servants the ' shadow feared of 
 man.' And faith had given him victory ! His Master 
 was their Master. Here was a shining and luminous 
 memory, to last a lifetime. 
 
 There are strange and unguessed reserves in religion. 
 In calm days and commonplace experiences it seems 
 tame and commonplace. But at the challenge of fear and 
 death it becomes a supernatural force. Kit had found 
 it to be mightier than the fear of death. It kindled 
 by its mere breath a flame of courage such as burned 
 from no earthly fire. An exultant note of certainty 
 and of triumph sang like the music of some strange 
 psalm in Kit's heart. 
 
 Yes, death was abolished ! Its dark sceptre was 
 broken. Its power to shake the human heart was
 
 188 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 destroyed. Christ had stood beside him on the wave- 
 swept deck, and in the terror-filled darkness ; and in 
 that Presence fear had vanished. ' He that keepeth My 
 words shall not see death. 1 Kit had stood face to face 
 with death, and the mighty Shadow had faded and 
 passed like a wreath of vapour. He lifted his 
 hands : 
 
 ' O God,' he cried, ' Lord of sea and land, Master of 
 life and death : there is no death where Thou art, 
 and to the souls that trust in Thee.' 
 
 He was faint, hungry, bruised, half-naked, alone. 
 But he turned to the waste sea and wild rocks, and 
 smiled on them. They could not hurt him. Their 
 Maker and Master was his Saviour. 
 
 But then came back the empire of familiar human 
 things. 
 
 Kit knew that, as the sea fell, and the gale blew 
 itself out, the boats from the inlet would come in search 
 of possible survivors of the wreck, and of the bodies of 
 the drowned. But he was far to leeward of the wreck. 
 He might wait for many hours perhaps another night 
 before he was rescued. Why should he wait? He was 
 conscious of a curious elation and confidence. His eye 
 ran keenly over the floor of the sea. Wind and tide 
 ran strongly to the north-east. There, in the direction 
 of the softly blowing wind, rose purple against the sky 
 a crag-like rock. At its foot, he knew, was a cluster of 
 fishermen's huts. If he reached it, he was safe. 
 
 He drank deeply of the clear rain-water lying sweet 
 and cool in the hollows of the rock ; made a rough 
 breakfast of shellfish, and then turned himself resolutely 
 to the task of reaching the land. It was, he calculated, 
 some six miles distant. The sea-current would carry him 
 there in half as many hours. It was a daring feat a
 
 NIGHT AND SEA 189 
 
 mad feat. But there was a strange elation in Kit's 
 blood. Some half-understood call which hurried him 
 on was singing in his ears. 
 
 With quick, clever hands he dragged clear the 
 fragment of spar which had been his friend during the 
 wild night, pulled it over a narrow promontory of 
 rock, and pushed it afloat in the sheltered waters to 
 leeward. 
 
 The gale had blown itself out. There was a breath 
 of summer warmth in the air. The sea was mild, 
 and the current ran faster than Kit had guessed ; the 
 distance to the land, too, was probably less than he had 
 imagined. But hours of struggle, now swimming, now 
 drifting, now almost unconscious, left him exhausted. 
 He realized, too, in flashes of clearer reason, that some 
 eddy in the sea-tide might sweep him past the island 
 to sure destruction. The memory of that long struggle 
 with the salt and strangling sea haunted his dreams 
 for years afterwards. He was certainly a little off 
 his head when he made the mad venture ; and long 
 before the desperate swim was over he seemed to him- 
 self to be at times actually dying. A feebler will would 
 probably have consented to death. 
 
 But Kit's stubborn courage bore him up. The sea 
 was kindly ; the current ran fair ; the wind blew softly. 
 Yet he could never have reached the coast. How 
 long he drifted with the sliding tide he never knew ; 
 but a little after noon the Sarah Ann, a bluff-bowed, 
 weather-bleached fishing-craft, somehow butted up 
 against him ; and John Thorne, a red-faced fisherman, 
 dragged Kit's almost unconscious body over the side 
 of the boat. 
 
 The Sarah Ann quickly ran down before the wind to 
 the island, and John Thorne bore his bit of human
 
 190 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 flotsam to his cottage and to the motherly care of 
 his stout-bodied wife. 
 
 It was a fisherman's hut, with low walls and floor of 
 earth, and rank with many ancient and fish-like smells. 
 But warm-hearted Mrs. Thorne wrapped Kit's half- 
 frozen body in warm blankets, poured hot milk down 
 his swollen throat, and rubbed his chilled limbs till 
 at last her patient fell into a stupor-like sleep, from 
 which he did not wake till past noon the next day. 
 
 He found himself stiff in every limb, but otherwise 
 strong and well. After a meal whose dimensions 
 soothed even Mrs. Thome's motherly concern, Kit 
 persuaded her husband to hoist his dingy jib and 
 brown mainsail and carry him over to the mainland. 
 
 As he stepped on to the pier in the little harbour 
 of Middleford, it was nearly eleven o'clock at night. 
 He stood for a moment, lifting his heart in gratitude to 
 God for his deliverance. Then the strange sense of 
 some imperative call which had haunted him for many 
 hours seemed to take possession of him again ; and, 
 with a quick step, he trod the dark road betwixt the 
 port and the town.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 THE BURGLARY 
 
 IT was past midnight when Kit reached the slumber- 
 ing town. The streets were empty and silent : the 
 white moonlight lay on the roofs ; the roadways in the 
 shadows of the tall houses beneath were mere threads 
 of blackness. Some unconscious instinct guided Kit's 
 feet till he found himself standing before the bank, 
 a solid-looking building, with granite front and barred 
 windows. Somewhere within that black mass Kate 
 was at that moment slumbering, and what dreams 
 might not be creeping through the cells of her brain ! 
 Kit lingered, and wondered whether in those dreams 
 his face sometimes appeared. 
 
 Sentiment in Kit, after the usual British fashion, was 
 shy and inarticulate. In the keen daylight he would 
 have been ashamed to stand and scan with sentimental 
 eyes the silent house beneath whose roof dwelt the 
 woman he loved. But with a midnight sky, moon-filled, 
 above him, and the black streets where no whisper 
 stirred, and no footfall could be heard about him, Kit 
 stood as in a sort of waking dream. 
 
 As he stared and dreamed, suddenly a slender pencil 
 of light shot out like a tiny spear of gold through the 
 keyhole of the bank-door. A vague illumination 
 gleamed at the same moment in the barred windows, 
 
 191
 
 192 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 and then vanished. Kit stared with puzzled eyes. 
 Whence came that sudden and mysterious gleam of 
 light at midnight ? It was furtive, guilty ; it suggested 
 crime. Was the bank being robbed? 
 
 Kit thrilled at the thought, and then grew cool. His 
 senses were keenly alert. He ran lightly across the 
 street, and listened at the door. There was no sound, 
 and no return of that furtive gleam of sudden flame. 
 Yet Kit felt oddly sure there was some one upon an evil 
 errand within the walls of the bank. 
 
 A narrow passage ran down one side of the building, 
 and Kit remembered that, looking down upon that 
 passage, there was set high in the wall an old-fashioned 
 window, square-headed and of massive frame. With 
 quick but silent feet, he ran round the corner till he 
 stood beneath the window. He put up his hand and 
 pressed it. It confirmed all his suspicions to find that 
 the sash yielded gently, and swung back for a few 
 inches ! Kit was of dauntless temper, and was an 
 athlete. He grasped the sill with his hands, drew 
 himself up till he sat on it, then he thrust back the 
 window and peered into the dark banking-chamber. 
 As he watched, suddenly, through the soundless 
 darkness, there ran a faint gleam of light. It streamed 
 from the manager's room. 
 
 A wiser man than Kit would have given the alarm 
 to the nearest policeman. But the thought that here 
 were burglars at work within the walls where Kate 
 slept fired his brain. He swung his feet within the 
 building, lowered himself softly, and stood, in a 
 second, on the floor of the banking-chamber. He 
 stole across to the teller's counter, leaped silently 
 over it, and peeped into the manager's room. The 
 room had two doors, one opening from behind the
 
 THE BURGLARY 193 
 
 teller's counter, the other opening from a passage used 
 by customers of the bank. Kit pushed softly back 
 the door at which he stood, and peered in. In the 
 manager's room there was a large safe, meant not 
 for bullion which was kept in the strong-room but 
 for the temporary security of books and documents in 
 actual use ; though in careless fashion notes and gold 
 were sometimes placed in it. Two figures stood in 
 front of the safe, one holding a dark lantern, which 
 threw a faint gleam of light on the safe door. While 
 Kit looked, the safe door swung back with a harsh 
 creak how, Kit could not tell. One of the men lifted 
 the lantern so as to throw its light into the recesses of 
 the safe, and both bent down and peered in. 
 
 Kit seized the dramatic opportunity. He opened the 
 door noiselessly and stepped with light-footed softness 
 across the floor. He was perfectly familiar with the 
 arrangements of the room, and he was so cool that he 
 smiled, with half-boyish humour, as he thought of the 
 surprise which was about to break upon the two thieves. 
 No sense of odds, curiously enough, disturbed him. 
 
 The figure nearest to him was in a half-crouching, 
 half-kneeling attitude. Kit lifted his foot, and gave 
 a thrust on the fellow's shoulders so powerful that the 
 man rolled helplessly over again and again on the floor ; 
 at the same moment Kit struck with all his might at 
 the second figure, and then, with nimble fingers, seized 
 the switch of the electric light, and turned it on. 
 
 The room was, in an instant, flooded with the keen, 
 white, shadowless glare of the great arc lamp. Kit 
 stood with threatening brow, and an attitude of attack, 
 in front of the half-open safe. 
 
 One of the men gasped a fierce oath. The other 
 glanced round for a second, with dazzled and amazed 
 
 13
 
 194 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 vision, and then vanished through the further door, 
 and Kit heard him leap at the window. His comrade 
 was in the act of following, when he lingered irreso- 
 lutely, turned, and looked at Kit. 
 
 ' We've done the job/ he said, as if to himself ; ' but, 
 hang it, I'd like to do for you.' 
 
 He was a big, powerful man, of tiger-like activity, 
 despite his great bulk. The next moment he leaped 
 in, mute but ferocious, on Kit, and struck as he leaped. 
 All had passed, so far, in silence. Kit twitched his 
 head on one side as the man struck ; nevertheless, 
 the blow grazed his cheek and half staggered him. 
 Kit had the Englishman's trick of growing cooler in 
 a fight as he was hard pressed. He threw his assailant 
 off, and, as he ran in again on him, still silent, he 
 struck hard, and true, and quick, two fierce blows 
 on the ruffian's face. The man staggered back, and 
 his body struck the door with a shock. He turned 
 to rush in again, but at that moment feet were heard 
 moving quickly overhead, and the man, with one fierce 
 curse, fled. 
 
 Kit stood, half-dazed, with bloody face ; then, as he 
 cleared his eyes, he saw the figure of Kate at the 
 door. She stood silent, wide-eyed with amazement, 
 her long rich hair falling in a shining flood about her, 
 the white electric light making her cheeks curiously 
 pallid. 
 
 ' Oh, Kit,' she cried, ' what is it ? ' 
 
 Kit tried to tell, but, somehow, stammered in the 
 process. 
 
 Where is Mr. Arden ? ' he asked. 
 
 A step was heard coming, with curious hesitancy and 
 slowness, down the stairs, and, in another moment, Mr. 
 Arden stood in the room. He stared silently at Kit,
 
 THE BURGLARY 195 
 
 and cast a quick, strange look round the room. His 
 eye gleamed as he saw the half-open safe. 
 
 ' What are you doing here, Somers ? ' he demanded. 
 
 Kit's speech had returned to him by this, and he 
 told his story. 
 
 ' Then they robbed the safe,' said Mr. Arden, with 
 what Kit thought was an admirable coolness. 
 
 ' No, I stopped them.' 
 
 Mr. Arden looked at him, and again Kit noted the 
 odd questioning look. 
 
 'The safe is robbed,' he declared positively, as he 
 swung the door wide open. ' The note-box is empty.' 
 
 ' They took nothing,' persisted Kit. 
 
 By this time Kate, conscious of her dressing-gown 
 and flowing hair, had vanished ; the police were beating 
 loudly at the door, and one helmeted head was peering 
 in at the open window by which the burglars had fled. 
 
 The first constable who reached the scene was 
 inclined to arrest Kit off-hand, on the evidence of his 
 bleeding cheek and disordered dress, but yielded so 
 far to Kit's scornful protests as to wait till his inspector 
 arrived. 
 
 The inspector was cool, alert, business-like, but the 
 dispute puzzled him. Mr. Arden declared he was able, 
 at a glance, to see that the entire stock of notes in 
 the safe, more than 5,000, had vanished, together with 
 some valuable securities ; but Kit was equally certain 
 that the burglars had carried off nothing. 
 
 ' You can't be sure, Somers,' said Mr. Arden curtly. 
 ' How long had the men been here before you broke 
 in on them ? ' 
 
 But Kit was sure. The attitude of the men showed 
 that they had just succeeded in opening the safe. 
 They had not touched a coin or a paper in it.
 
 196 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 Kit grew dogged, Mr. Arden was persistent. 
 
 The inspector, meanwhile, was examining the room. 
 Somebody from within, he said, had shot back the 
 bolt of the window, or with criminal carelessness it 
 had been left unfastened. It had not been forced 
 The lock of the safe, too, was uninjured. 
 
 ' What's up ? ' he muttered to himself. ' Who left 
 that window open ? How did the thieves come to 
 have a key of the safe ? And why were the notes 
 and securities not in the strong-room ? ' 
 
 It was an ugly mystery, and its solution was by 
 common agreement postponed to the next morning. 
 
 ' That Somers will ruin us,' said Mr. Arden, with 
 an agitation he strove in vain to hide, to Kate, the 
 next morning, when they met at breakfast. 
 
 ' How can he hurt you, father ? ' asked Kate, in wide- 
 eyed wonder. 
 
 ' He swears the men got nothing, and yet 5,000 
 has vanished. If the men did not get it, where is it? 
 Confound him ! ' he added, as if to himself, but with 
 bitter energy. 
 
 'Oh, father!' cried Kate. 
 
 ' See here, Kate, get that meddling simpleton to 
 admit that he's wrong, or at least that he may be wrong. 
 You can turn him round your finger. If you don't, 
 I am a ruined man. The cash is gone, and the papers. 
 He says they did not take them. The next thing is, 
 people will suspect that they weren't there to be taken, 
 and that means I am the thief.' 
 
 Kate could only cry again in yet more indignant 
 accents, ' Oh, father ! ' 
 
 Mr. Arden and Cecil had a hurried interview before 
 the bank opened the next morning. Their talk ran 
 in undertones.
 
 THE BURGLARY 197 
 
 ' It's awkward,' said Mr. Arden, ' that fellow Somers 
 turning up and swearing the men carried nothing off.' 
 
 ' Well,' replied Cecil coolly, ' he's in it himself. How 
 was it he gave no alarm till the noise of the fighting if 
 they did fight aroused Kate ? ' 
 
 The two men looked at each other. 
 
 ' No,' said Mr. Arden, with a sudden flush. ' Don't 
 take away the lad's character.' 
 
 ' It's his or yours,' whispered Cecil. 
 
 More distressing to Kit than even the unconcealed 
 suspicions of the police was the interview he had with 
 Kate during the morning. Kit told his tale afresh, not 
 forgetting his fight for life in the storm ; his desperate 
 swim to the island ; the strange, uncomprehended 
 impulse that drew him to the bank ; and Kate shed 
 unashamed tears of horror and sympathy as she listened. 
 She had not heard till that moment that he was on 
 board the ill-fated boat. She was woman enough, 
 too, to read more than Kit's somewhat clumsy syllables 
 told. She guessed what the figure of her lover, watch- 
 ing in the white moonlight the house where she slept, 
 meant. 
 
 Then Kit told the story of the gleam of light, the 
 open window in the lane, the discovery of the men in 
 the manager's room, at the very moment they were 
 opening the safe. 
 
 ' But,' said Kate, ' are you sure they had taken nothing 
 out? How can you be sure? It was dark. You don't 
 know how long the men had been there. And, don't 
 you see, it is cruel to father ? Don't you see how the 
 doubt whether the men have carried off the missing 
 notes may injure him ? ' 
 
 Kit saw this clearly enough, and rueful '.y enough ; 
 but he had a stubborn instinct of veracity. It was
 
 198 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 not merely that he was obstinately incapable of a lie ; 
 he could not be diplomatic. He was doggedly and 
 awkwardly truthful. He stuck to his tale. 
 
 ' But,' Kate asked, ' didn't you hear the men say, 
 " We've done the job " ? ' 
 
 Yes, Kit admitted he had. He didn't know what it 
 meant ; but he was sure it didn't mean that they had 
 secured any plunder from the safe. 
 
 Then Kate at last broke out impatiently. 
 
 ' But, Kit, father is responsible for the cash, and what 
 you say may injure him.' 
 
 ' Kate,' said poor Kit, ' I can't say anything else.' 
 
 ' But you have no right to say that. It will destroy 
 him.' 
 
 ' No, but it may destroy me. The police think I 
 am guilty. Your father is ready to say it, and you 
 think it, and all because I won't tell a convenient lie.' 
 
 ' No,' cried Kate, with energy, as the tears ran down 
 her cheeks, ' it is cruel to me to say that. But you 
 are cruel to my father in the tale you tell. And oh, 
 Kit,' she added somewhat illogically, ' you told me 
 you loved me.' 
 
 Kit might have Quoted the old heroic ditty : 
 
 I could not love thee, dear, so much, 
 Loved I not honour more. 
 
 But, then, he was not given to quoting poetry at any 
 time, and he and Kate parted sadly enough. 
 
 Kit the next morning was examined and re-ex- 
 amined. The police-inspector was not, on the whole, 
 unsympathetic. 
 
 1 Look here, young fellow,' he said, ' it is a queer tale. 
 That window was left unbolted. They got access to 
 the safe with surprising ease ; ^5,000 is gone, and
 
 THE BURGLARY 199 
 
 valuable papers. You say they hadn't time to take 
 anything, and didn't take anything. Then did you? 
 Or was it taken before the safe was opened at all ? 
 On your version, it's either you or the manager. It 
 will be cleared up some day, but at present it's a very 
 ugly tale. You will come out all right in the long- 
 run ; but, perhaps, for the present, you had better 
 lie low. I will keep touch with you, and let you know 
 if anything turns up.' 
 
 So Kit began at last to realize, with an amazement 
 beyond speech, that he was himself suspected of being 
 the thief, or an accomplice of the thieves. The bank 
 directors took the view that the thieves had carried 
 off the booty, and so stood by Mr. Arden. 
 
 The irony of the situation was cruel. He had risked 
 his life to save the bank from being robbed, with the 
 result that he was more than half suspected of being 
 the robber himself. He could only clear his own 
 character at the cost of ruining that of Mr. Arden, 
 the father of the woman he loved. This was what 
 that curious premonition, which brought him to the 
 bank at the very moment it was being robbed, had 
 produced !
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 KIT AND THE POLICE 
 
 THE next day a famous detective from London 
 made his appearance, despatched at the request of 
 the board of directors. He inspected the scene of 
 the robbery with keen-eyed and scientific thorough- 
 ness. The incident of the window, and the question 
 of whether it had been imperfectly fastened, or even 
 opened from within, he passed over lightly, perhaps 
 because the local inspector of police was inclined to 
 make much of them. 
 
 ' A clever hand,' he said, ' would have got the bolt 
 back easily.' 
 
 The detective lingered over Kit's description of the 
 two men. He naturally was able to describe more 
 fully the man who had turned back to attack him, 
 and the detective asked many shrewd questions about 
 him. 
 
 'That's "Black Jim," for a thousand pounds,' he 
 muttered, as if to himself. ' What brought him down 
 here ? ' 
 
 To Kit's assertion that he had broken in on the 
 pair before any booty had been secured, and the 
 would-be robbers had fled empty-handed, the great 
 man listened with even more satirical incredulity than 
 the inspector had shown. He plainly thought that
 
 ' YOU ARREST ME,' HE CRIED PASSIONATELY.
 
 KIT AND THE POLICE 201 
 
 Kit, for some purpose, was trying to conceal a robbery 
 that had actually been committed, and in which it 
 was even possible he had a share. 
 
 'Why,' he said, 'according to your own account, 
 the big fellow said, " We've done the job." ' 
 
 'Yes,' Kit admitted, and he could offer no explana- 
 tion of the man's words ; but he kept to his assertion 
 that he had seen the door of the safe swing open, 
 and one of the men lift his lamp to look in ; but, 
 before they had time to take anything out, he had 
 leaped on them. Kit chafed under the keen, hard, 
 unsympathetic questions of the detective. He felt them 
 to be derisive and accusing, and he flashed out, at last, 
 with a haughty and bitter retort. 
 
 ' Look here, young fellow,' said the detective finally, 
 ' you've got to tell a better tale than that. You're not 
 telling all you know.' 
 
 ' You're a fool,' was Kit's contemptuous reply. 
 
 ' I may be a fool,' replied the detective, with a red 
 face, 'but that's better than being a rogue. I must 
 take charge of you, or you'll be off; and we can't 
 afford to lose sight of you just yet,' and he put his 
 hand on Kit's shoulder. 
 
 Kit went white not with fear, but with anger. 
 
 ' You arrest me ! ' he cried passionately, drawing 
 himself back. 
 
 ' Now, lad, keep cool,' broke in the inspector not 
 unkindly. ' It will all come right, I've no doubt ; but 
 the way to make it all come wrong is to kick up 
 a bobbery now. Pull yourself together,' he added 
 sternly. 
 
 Kit, with a strong effort, kept control of himself. 
 
 'Do you want to handcuff me?' he asked, with a 
 scornful laugh.
 
 202 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 Mr. Arden began to protest, with much agitation, 
 against the whole business, but no one paid any 
 attention to him. A cab was called^ into which the 
 detective and Kit stepped, closely followed by the 
 inspector, and the vehicle drove off to the local 
 lock-up. As it moved off, Kit caught a glimpse of 
 Mr. Arden, standing on the bank step, with perplexity 
 and alarm written on every feature of his countenance. 
 And even in the tumult of anger which filled his 
 breast, Kit found room for a moment's wonder 
 that the incident should so curiously affect Mr. 
 Arden. 
 
 The detective, as well as Kit, had somewhat cooled 
 down by the time the police-station was reached. 
 Perhaps the visible disgust of the inspector had 
 hinted caution. 
 
 ' Look here,' he said, ' I won't enter a charge of 
 burglary against you, for that's not bailable. I'll enter 
 a charge of being illegally on the bank's premises.' 
 
 ' Enter what you like,' replied Kit haughtily. 
 
 ' I'll not enter anything at all,' went on the detective 
 conciliatingly, ' if you'll tell me all you know of the 
 business.' 
 
 ' I have told you all. Enter what charge you 
 please.' 
 
 The charge was entered ; a few brief formalities 
 followed ; and then the cell-door shut with a clang. 
 Kit sat in the dim, cold, stone-floored cell, filled with a 
 wrathful amazement, beyond the power of speech to 
 express, at the situation in which he found himself. He 
 was so swallowed up in wonder, indeed, that, for a 
 moment, anger vanished, and a grim sense of humour 
 took its place. But this quickly passed, and a bitter 
 sense of the injustice of it all took hold of him. It
 
 KIT AND THE POLICE 203 
 
 ran like flame through his blood. He had risked his 
 life to prevent a crime, with the result that he found 
 himself suspected of being the criminal ! It would 
 surely have been a happier fate to have perished 
 in the strangling waves on the night of the storm ! Had 
 he been saved for this, to be overwhelmed in a blacker 
 sea of mere shame ! 
 
 Presently, when the storm of his agitation had almost 
 swept past, the cell door opened, and the inspector 
 beckoned him out. Mr. Arden and John Blunt 
 stood in the little office. They had just signed bail 
 bonds for him. Kit was free. He tried to thank 
 them both, but he could, somehow, find no voice. 
 A touch of unexpected kindness had broken him 
 down. 
 
 'Come and see me to-morrow night,' whispered Mr. 
 Arden, as he put a cold hand into Kit's ; and he hurried 
 away, with curious expedition. 
 
 John Blunt stayed to impart comfort, with character- 
 istic directness. 
 
 ' It's all right, lad. That detective's a fool, and only 
 fools will believe him.' 
 
 ' But fools are apt to be in a majority, Mr. Blunt,' 
 Kit replied, with a touch of natural bitterness. 
 
 ' No, lad, they're not. And even fools will have 
 sense enough to know that you're not a rogue. Why, 
 it's written on your face, man ! ' he added, with a 
 laugh. 
 
 ' I'm sorry that a jury of fools may be called upon 
 to say whether the writing's plain, or whether, after 
 all, I haven't suddenly become a rogue.' 
 
 John could only pat him vigorously on the back, by 
 way of showing his confidence ; and Kit found the 
 process soothing, if uncomfortably vigorous.
 
 204 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 One thing which filled poor Kit's mind as he sat in 
 his room with a sense of half-bitter wonder was the 
 circumstance that none of his natural friends and 
 helpers came to his assistance. Why did not Mr. 
 Jevons or Mr. Twitters appear to bail him out ? Did 
 they believe him guilty? Would they take no risk 
 for him ? A strain of angry doubt crept for a 
 moment into his usually healthy mind. Did a non- 
 Christian creed yield a finer generosity than that which 
 grew under the shadow of a Christian church ? 
 
 But while he meditated, restlessly gnawing his lip, 
 there came a knock at the door. It was Mr. Walton, 
 his usually benevolent face wearing a look of battle. 
 He clasped Kit's hand with energy, while an odd 
 expression of mingled humour and wrath burned in his 
 eyes, and words seemed to fail on his lips. 
 
 ' To arrest you, Kit ! ' he at last succeeded in saying. 
 ' What lunacy ! And I never heard of it,' he went 
 on, in exasperated tones, ' till I got back to Middleford 
 to-night' 
 
 Kit found the honest anger in Mr. Walton's eyes 
 an inexplicable comfort. It warmed his chilled spirit 
 like some kindly fire. He was human enough to want 
 some one to be angry on his behalf! 
 
 Mr. W'alton's vigorous cross-examination soon put 
 him in possession of all the facts of the case, and 
 then his anger rose to a higher pitch than ever. He 
 even discovered a new reason for indignation in Kit's 
 own calmness, a circumstance which Kit found both 
 soothing and entertaining. Kit's wonder that John 
 Blunt and Mr. Arden should have bailed him out was 
 not shared by Mr. Walton. 
 
 ' Of course they 9 would,' he replied hotly. ' Why 
 not? They label themselves Free-thinkers, but they
 
 KIT AND THE POLICE 205 
 
 have not succeeded yet in stripping themselves of all 
 orthodox graces. John Blunt, at least, is a better 
 Christian than he imagines himself to be, and than 
 many persons are whose belief is orthodox beyond 
 suspicion.' 
 
 Then Mr. Walton looked at Kit with shrewd 
 eyes. 
 
 * Kit, you are foolish enough to be sore that none 
 of your church friends came to your help.' 
 
 Kit, with a heightened colour, admitted that he 
 felt it to be odd that Mr. Twitters or Mr. Jevons, 
 who knew him well, had not come to him. 
 
 'Or me?' burst in Mr. Walton. 
 
 ' No, not you, sir. I wondered, perhaps, but felt sure 
 you did not know.' 
 
 ' My dear lad, there are a hundred people in Middle- 
 ford who would gladly take any risk for you. Twitters 
 is a timid man ; Mr. Jevons is not very heroic ; and 
 both are slow. But do them justice. They were 
 waiting for my return. We went to the police-station 
 at once together, and found you were free. I would 
 not let them come with me here, but in their own 
 timid way they were perfectly loyal to you.' 
 
 Mr. Arden, on reaching the bank, found Kate sitting 
 at the tea-table, waiting for him. 
 
 'Well, Kate,' he said, 'that obstinate donkey, your 
 friend Somers, has got himself into a queer fix over 
 this business. He has been arrested.' 
 
 The cup fell from Kate's hand, and was shattered 
 to pieces on the tray. She looked at her father with 
 startled eyes, and face from which every trace of colour 
 had faded. 
 
 ' Arrested ! ' was all she could say. 
 
 ' Yes, arrested for being mixed up in the robbery.'
 
 206 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 'Kit?' gasped Kate, in incredulous and questioning 
 tones. ' Oh, father ! Is he in jail now ? ' 
 
 ' No, John Blunt and I bailed him out.' 
 
 1 Thank God ! ' cried Kate. ' That was fine ! That 
 was noble ! ' and she ran with shining eyes and flushed 
 cheeks to kiss her father. 
 
 Her caress seemed curiously to discompose him. 
 
 ' It's all right,' he said peevishly. ' Of course the 
 charge was absurd. But he shouldn't have been so 
 obstinate.' 
 
 Kate was still looking at her father with wet and 
 tender eyes that shone like stars. 
 
 ' Oh, father, I am glad you did it.' 
 
 ' Why shouldn't I have done it ? ' asked Mr. Arden, 
 almost, fretfully. 
 
 But Kate did not explain. She hardly realized 
 herself, perhaps, that she rejoiced her father had 
 helped Kit, because it was the next thing to helping 
 him herself. She felt, too, that her father had 
 acted magnanimously ; and this thrilled her with 
 gladness. 
 
 ' But must he appear in court to-morrow ? ' she asked, 
 her face again blanching. 
 
 ' Of course ; but the charge against bim is ridiculous. 
 I only hope he won't play the fool again by sticking 
 to his tale of no robbery, when the money's actually 
 gone.' 
 
 It was late the next day when the case was called 
 upon, and Kit surrendered to his bail. After a brief 
 argument, the magistrates decided to hear the whole 
 tale of the robbery. Mr. Arden gave formal evidence, 
 and then Kit was allowed to make his statement. 
 The case quickly resolved itself into a dispute as to 
 whether or not an actual robbery had been committed.
 
 KIT AND THE POLICE 207 
 
 Mr. Arden was recalled, to his manifest discomposure. 
 He explained that the cash-book had disappeared, 
 apparently carried off by the robbers, with the rest 
 of their booty, in mere haste, or perhaps they had 
 carried it off for another reason. From an examina- 
 tion of the other books he was able to say there 
 was in the safe on the night of the robbery over 
 5,000 in Bank of England notes, and these had 
 vanished. 
 
 ' Were the numbers of the notes on record ? ' it was 
 asked. 
 
 ' No ; unfortunately the record was in the book 
 which had been carried off ; and perhaps that was 
 the very reason why it was taken, so that no means 
 of stopping the notes, or of tracing them, would 
 remain.' 
 
 The court adjourned at this stage, and Kit's bail 
 was renewed. As Mr. Arden turned away from 
 signing the bond afresh, he said briefly to Kit: 
 
 ' Come and see me to-night ; I will be in my office 
 at eight o'clock.' 
 
 As Kit rang the private bell of the bank that night, 
 Mr. Arden was sitting in his office. He had a little 
 cluster of papers before him, which he was examining 
 with somewhat lack-lustre eyes. He had been soothing 
 his nerves with an opiate, in the usual deadly fashion, 
 after the excitement of the day, and his senses were 
 half dazed. As Kit entered he caught up one of 
 the papers before him, and thrust it into his breast- 
 pocket, and then turned to meet his visitor. He smiled 
 on him in friendly fashion, but Kit was struck with 
 the filmed look of his eyes and the half-dreaming ex- 
 pression of his face. 
 
 'Thank you, sir, for giving bail for me,' said Kit.
 
 208 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 ' I never thought/ he went on, with a bitter smile, 
 ' that any one in Middlcford would have had the chance 
 of rendering me that strange service.' 
 
 ' I was glad to do it, Somers,' Mr. Arden replied, 
 with a benevolent air. 'The police are idiots, and 
 we'll make short work of their charge to-morrow. But, 
 Somers, don't let that bee stick in your bonnet to- 
 morrow about there being no robbery. The men got 
 away with their plunder right enough. They hadn't 
 time to try the strong-room, but they took the notes 
 and the papers from that safe.' 
 
 Kit was silent. He did not wish to have any dispute 
 with Kate's father, and with the man who had stood 
 his friend that day. But his silence seemed to irritate 
 Mr. Arden. 
 
 ' Don't you think it is possible you are mistaken ? ' 
 he demanded. 
 
 ' Yes, it's possible, and I assert nothing. I only 
 describe what I saw.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Mr. Arden, who seemed to have shaken 
 off his drowsiness for the moment, ' but it was a dim 
 light, and one's senses especially when one is excited 
 play strange tricks. Look here, Somers, here is a 
 copy of the list of cash and securities both in the 
 strong-room and in the safe. We have made it out 
 with great care from the various books. Look at it 
 yourself. Take it with you, and look over it quietly 
 to-night. It will convince you.' 
 
 Kit took the paper with ill-disguised reluctance. He 
 did not feel called upon to be a judge in that matter, 
 and no ingenious list of figures could shake him out 
 of the certainty of his own senses. How could any list 
 convince him ? But Mr. Arden pressed it on him with 
 half-dazed obstinacy, and he at last took the paper.
 
 KIT AND THE POLICE 209 
 
 He lingered awhile, hoping he might see Kate. His 
 heart ached for a sight of her face, with a friendly 
 look shining in her eyes. But no Kate appeared. 
 Mr. Arden maundered on disconnectedly, sometimes 
 half-dozing, till in despair Kit took his leave.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 KATE'S CRUELTY 
 
 THAT night, after he had gone to his bedroom, Kit 
 took the paper out of his pocket and opened it care- 
 lessly. It was in Cecil's writing, endorsed on one 
 corner, ' Cash and securities in hand,' with his initials. 
 It was done very roughly, like a hasty private memor- 
 andum, not like a statement intended for official use. 
 The figures Mr. Arden had quoted before the magistrate 
 were vaguely in Kit's memory ; and, as he looked 
 at the totals on the paper in his hand, they seemed 
 to be different. His curiosity, moreover, was quickened 
 by the circumstance that there was no note of any 
 cash being in the manager's safe ; apparently it was 
 all in the strong-room. He got the evening paper, 
 where Mr. Arden's evidence was given in detail. Yes, 
 the figures were different, and there was certainly no 
 mention in Cecil's memorandum of the .5,000 in notes 
 Mr. Arden had declared to have been in his safe, 
 and which were missing. Perhaps this was a memor- 
 andum showing what was in the safe after the robbery. 
 But no ! As Kit examined it closely he found a date 
 roughly endorsed in one corner. It was the very day 
 before the robbery. 
 
 Kit was not quick-witted, but he had a certain 
 luminous and obstinate common sense that reached
 
 KATE'S CRUELTY 211 
 
 its goal later than nimbler brains, perhaps, but grasped 
 it more surely than they. As he looked at the figures 
 before him, the colour came and went in his cheeks. 
 His breath quickened. The meaning of the figures 
 was slowly becoming clear in his brain. Cecil's memor- 
 andum was a statement of the actual cash and securities 
 in hand when the robbery real or sham took place. 
 It showed apparently that the 5,000 was not in the 
 safe, or anywhere else. In that case, the robbery was 
 a trick designed to plausibly cover the absence of 
 cash already lost. Cecil and Mr. Arden were accom- 
 plices in the trick. For their own guidance they had 
 privately kept an account of the cash actually in the 
 bank, and this was what Kit held in his hand. Mr. 
 Arden had plainly given him the wrong paper. His 
 old chum, and the father of the girl he loved, were 
 nothing better than a pair of rogues. 
 
 Kit did not, by conscious, voluntary effort, build 
 up this conclusion. It built itself up in his brain ! 
 Each link in the chain forged itself without stroke 
 of hammer ! But the process was resistless ! Kit 
 was frozen with astonishment and shame. His mind 
 seemed to act automatically, and independently of his 
 will. He w r as watching, as though drawn on the 
 air in lines of fire, the evolution of a crime, a crime 
 where last and least of all a crime was to be suspected. 
 And he saw the whole process with a mental vision 
 so keen and sure that he could no more doubt it 
 than he could doubt the witness of his physical senses. 
 
 Kit had sunk into his chair, and put his head into 
 his hands. The sudden vision of unsuspected roguery 
 almost overwhelmed him. He could understand, now, 
 how unwelcome was his appearance on the scene, 
 and how full of peril to the true criminals was his
 
 212 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 evidence. A hundred odd little incidents words, looks, 
 gestures became intelligible. They fell into order, 
 and constituted a chain of resistless proofs. Cecil, the 
 friend of so many years, was a thief. Aye, and Kate's 
 father was his accomplice, if not his tempter and leader. 
 Mr. Arden, in his bemused condition, had given him 
 that fatal paper. He held in his hand the evidence 
 which might send the father of the girl he loved to 
 a jail-cell. 
 
 His own peril was clear to Kit. One crime makes 
 all others possible. To secure their own safety, Cecil 
 and Mr. Arden would, if necessary, ruin him. They 
 were bitter moments for Kit, as he sat there, seeing 
 with a vision that grew ever clearer the whole ugly 
 landscape of the crime ; moments that might well 
 have wrecked the faith, or soured for all time the 
 mood, of a less wholesome nature than that which 
 Kit possessed. 
 
 But, to do him justice, Kit thought only of Kate. 
 He held in his hand not only her father's character 
 and freedom, but Kate's happiness. How could he 
 speak the word which would break her heart and 
 blacken her life ? Never ! There rose to his imagina- 
 tion her face, so clear and pure and sweet ; her brow 
 grave with thought, but as yet unshadowed by trouble. 
 True, when he last saw it, it wore against him a look 
 of grief and of indignation. He had never before 
 seen such a gleam of angry fire in Kate's deep eyes, 
 or such an aspect of displeasure on her calm brow. 
 But she was angry with generous, if mistaken, indigna- 
 tion for her father ; and Kit found it easy to forgive 
 her. He would not wound her, even if, as an alterna- 
 tive, he had to go to a jail-cell himself. 
 
 But then, what did duty, Wordsworth's ' stern law-
 
 KATE'S CRUELTY 213 
 
 giver,' say? He must do right in scorn of con- 
 sequences of consequences either to Kate or himself. 
 Did duty require him to expose Mr. Arden and his 
 accomplice ? 
 
 On that question he brooded the whole night long, 
 pacing restlessly to and fro ; sometimes casting him- 
 self down by his bedside in an agonv of prayer and 
 distress. But no sign was given him. No sudden 
 gleam of light shot across the dark landscape of his 
 thoughts, such as he might be sure shone direct from 
 heaven. God does not always manifest Himself by 
 signs, nor grant to the perplexed human soul such 
 easy resolutions of difficulty. The conscience has to 
 be tested by conflict, to be tempered in anguish and 
 uncertainty, as steel is tempered by ice and fire. 
 
 Slowly, through clouded lights and thronging doubts, 
 Kit's mind he scarcely himself knew how reached 
 a decision. He would make no use of the fatal paper 
 in his hands. That this might mean some risk to 
 himself he knew ; in his mood of feeling, indeed, that 
 circumstance was one more argument for adopting the 
 course on which he had decided. But what about 
 the bank ? Was he to leave it without warning in the 
 hands that had already robbed it ? 
 
 Kit decided that, after the trial was over, he would 
 in some way let Mr. Arden know how he had held 
 his fate in his hands, and why he had spared him. 
 Neither Cecil nor Mr. Arden would attempt a new 
 fraud, when they knew the proof of the wrong they 
 had already done had been seen by other eyes than 
 their own, and could be used against them. But not 
 even to save Kate's father, or Kate herself, would he 
 lie ! He would tell his story exactly as it happened. 
 A morbid conscience, or one more sensitive, might
 
 2i 4 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 have found it impossible to be content with such a 
 decision. But Kit was acting according to the best 
 light he had ; and it was characteristic of his mental 
 and moral type that, having once reached a decision, 
 he refused to rediscuss it, even in the secret forum of 
 his own conscience. 
 
 Kit stood in the court the next morning, looking 
 curiously haggard, but composed. He told his tale ; 
 and, to Mr. Arden's alarm and anger, repeated his 
 assertion that he saw the safe-door swing open, and, 
 as far as his senses could be trusted, he was sure 
 nothing had been taken from it. 
 
 He was cross-examined ruthlessly ; but having made 
 his plain statement, he kept modestly but firmly to 
 it. He was not believed by the bench. 
 
 ' The robbery is clear enough,' said the presiding 
 magistrate ; ' the prisoner's tale is a mere theory. He 
 might not, indeed, have told all he knew.' 
 
 The evidence in support of the charge of being 
 illegally on the bank premises was, however, slight, 
 and he was discharged. But as Kit walked out of 
 the court he knew it was with a ruined character. 
 Every door would be shut against him. He must 
 seek another field. England was lost to him. He 
 would leave for South Africa by the earliest boat. The 
 post offered to him would hardly be withdrawn. His 
 reputation as a mining engineer, when weighed in the 
 rough balances of a mining company, would outweigh 
 even a damaged character. But he must see Kate 
 first. 
 
 He was in a mood that made him disregard all con- 
 ventions. He might well find Mr. Arden's door shut 
 against him ; but he knocked at it with a resolution 
 bred of mingled distress and desperation.
 
 KATE'S CRUELTY 215 
 
 ' Yes, Miss Arden would see him,' the maid informed 
 him. 
 
 Kate, as yet, had only her father's version of what 
 had occurred in court. The charge against Kit had 
 been dismissed ; he was free from suspicion or peril ; 
 and Kate did not in the least realize the irremediable 
 wrong done to his character and prospects. Her mind, 
 freed from anxiety for Kit, found leisure to become 
 indignant for her father. Kit, it seems, had persisted 
 in the tale that imperilled her father, that put his 
 honour in doubt ; and this after her own appeal, and 
 in spite of the magnanimity which her father had 
 shown in standing by him when he was arrested. 
 
 Kate could thoroughly understand Kit's unshakable 
 persistency ; under other conditions, she could even 
 have admired it. But in the rush of indignant feeling 
 which swept over her, his conduct seemed ungrateful 
 and base. It filled her with resentment, a resentment 
 which had a generous root ; for it was a daughter's 
 anger kindled by a slander against her father. And, 
 though Kate was not conscious of the circumstance, 
 yet perhaps what she resented most in Kit was that 
 he had wrecked her ideal of him. And with characteristic 
 ill-fortune Kit sought the woman he loved just at the 
 moment when she was in this mood. 
 
 The expression on Kate's face as she entered the 
 room sent a chill, as of ice, through poor Kit's heart. 
 The pale cheeks, the lines of resolution round the 
 sensitive lips, the sparkle of indignation in the deep 
 and tender eyes, froze his speech. 
 
 ' I almost wonder you came, Mr. Somers,' she said. 
 
 ' Why do you wonder?' he asked; then he stopped, 
 and his face flushed. Did Kate believe in the shameful 
 charge brought against him ? Was the loss, not only
 
 216 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 of her friendship, but of her respect, the price he had 
 to pay for sparing her father ? 
 
 Kate misunderstood the break in Kit's speech, but 
 she saw the sudden flush in his cheek ; and even a 
 woman's gentleness can be very cruel sometimes. 
 
 'Yes, Kit,' she said sadly, 'you do well to blush. 
 I never thought to blush for you ; but my cheek 
 burned when I heard that, to the very last, you per- 
 sisted in that foolish tale which puts a stain on my 
 father's nanae. What has my father done, that you 
 wish to ruin him ? ' 
 
 ' Wish to ruin him ? ' asked Kit, with a queer smile, 
 which Kate, even in her anger, noted and wondered at. 
 
 ' Yes ! Did he not deal generously with you ? And 
 oh, Kit,' she added, her voice breaking, ' is he not my 
 father ? Could you not remember that ? ' 
 
 By this time Kit was calm, and Kate was conscious 
 he was looking at her with eyes of pity, as though she 
 were in the wrong, and not he. She remembered it 
 better afterwards. At the moment it kindled, she 
 hardly knew why, her anger afresh. 
 
 ' I am going to Africa,' said Kit steadily, ' and could 
 not go without seeing you ' ; and he stopped, waiting for 
 same word or look of regret. 
 
 Kate heard what he said with a sharp but uncompre- 
 hending pang ; but at the moment she was looking at 
 her lover through the lens of what she believed to 
 be a just anger. Behind the anger its root, though 
 Kate hardly realized it was the bitter disappointment 
 she felt at Kit's failure in consideration and generosity. 
 He was less noble than she had imagined. An idol 
 was shattered. Kit was capable of injuring another, 
 rather than admit himself to be wrong ; and the 
 one who was injured was her father. Betwixt her
 
 KATE'S CRUELTY 217 
 
 and Kit there rose, in Kate's vision, the face of her 
 injured father. Had she cared less for Kit, or been 
 less jealous for his truth and goodness, she would have 
 felt a less noble anger than that which now burned in 
 her blood. 
 
 But the look of grief and scorn sat yet on her 
 face, and Kit saw it. He would not argue against it, 
 nor defend himself. 
 
 Both were calm now ; but both felt that they were 
 drifting hopelessly asunder. 
 
 ' Give this to your father,' said Kit, handing Kate 
 an envelope ; ' he will understand what it means.' 
 
 He was heroically bent on saving Kate from the 
 tragedy of knowing the truth about her father ; but 
 her hand should give back to Mr. Arden the fatal 
 paper. It seemed, somehow, to Kit, that the proof of 
 his crime, given back to him by the unconscious hand 
 of his daughter, would be the most effective rebuke and 
 check Mr. Arden could receive. 
 
 ' Good-bye,' he said ; and Kate was doomed to recall 
 with a pang, for many a day, the smile on his lips, the 
 look in his eyes, as he stretched out his hand. 
 
 ' We have been friends for years, Kate ; we will part 
 as friends. God bless you ! ' 
 
 Kate looked at him with uncomprehending eyes. In 
 a moment he was gone. She walked with set, white 
 face to her room ; when she had closed and locked the 
 door she fell on her knees by her bedside. For a while 
 she was silent. She was not praying, except with that 
 speechless silence which is, in God's ears, the truest and 
 humblest of prayers. Then a sob quivered in her 
 throat, and in another moment she was shaken with 
 a passion of tears. It was not merely that Kit had gone, 
 that her love for him, unconfessed and unrecognized,
 
 218 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 was wounded. Her idol had perished. The Kit she 
 thought she knew did not exist. 
 
 Mr. Arden noted his daughter's sad and listless 
 silence at tea, and resented it Was she taking sides 
 with that dangerous young fool ? 
 
 ' Young Somers,' he said, ' is starting for Africa. 
 That's the only sensible thing he has done in his foolish 
 and obstinate lifetime.' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Kate ; ' and, by the way, he gave me this 
 note for you,' and she handed her father Kit's envelope. 
 
 Mr. Arden took it, and opened it. He stared at it 
 for a moment with puzzled eyes, and then his face went 
 ghastly white. 
 
 ' You are ill, father,' cried Kate. 
 
 ' No,' he stammered, and tried to rise ; but was, for 
 the moment, unable to do so. Kate ran quickly to 
 his side. 
 
 ' Oh, father ! what is it ? Let me get you something ! ' 
 
 ' No, no, let me alone. I am a bit shaken ' ; and 
 roughly resenting all help, he walked with stumbling 
 feet to his office, and Kate heard the key turn in the 
 lock. 
 
 She went slowly to her room. What mystery was 
 behind all this ? What letter was this which had power 
 to shake her father's composure so terribly ? She was 
 walking in deep waters. 
 
 Mr. Arden, as soon as he reached his office, sank into 
 his chair, and with trembling fingers opened the paper 
 which he held crushed in his hand. It was Cecil's 
 secret and accurate list of the cash and securities 
 actually in hand at the time of the robbery. But how 
 had it come into Kit's possession? Mr. Arden took 
 from his pocket a little bundle of papers, and, with 
 shaking hands, eagerly spread them out
 
 KATE'S CRUELTY 219 
 
 He realized, in a moment, what had happened. He 
 had given Kit the wrong paper. Did Kit himself 
 understand what the document meant ? For a moment 
 Mr. Arden hoped he had missed its meaning. Then 
 he thought of the lad's steady eyes, his face with its 
 look of latent keenness and power, and his hope vanished. 
 Yes ; Kit, he was sure and with a conviction that he 
 could not explain must know the full significance of 
 the paper. But, then, why had he returned it, without 
 a word, and by his unconscious daughter's hand ? Why 
 was he going himself to South Africa? 
 
 Then a new and sharper pang still ran along Mr. 
 Arden's nerves. He saw with sudden vision how 
 nobly Kit was acting. He understood the mute 
 appeal of the returned document, given back to him 
 by his innocent daughter's hand. The vision of 
 Kit's magnanimity stung Mr. Arden's long-drugged 
 and drowsy conscience. It helped him to judge 
 himself. 
 
 ' Would to God,' he whispered to himself, ' that 
 I had this lad's clean conscience ! ' 
 
 Life has strange ironies. At the very moment Kate 
 was weeping, half-scorched with shame, for what she 
 supposed was the moral fall of her lover, Mr. Arden, 
 sitting in his office, with a bitter groan of self-scorn, 
 was hating himself because he had not that lover's 
 moral erectness ! 
 
 All the great faculties of the human soul are curiously 
 allied. One cannot be touched without the others 
 instantly responding. Mr. Arden's conscience was 
 stung to the very quick ; and the trouble of his con- 
 science stirred his imagination. It startled his memory. 
 From a thousand long-shut cells in that memory there 
 crept out incidents in his own life. He had the vision
 
 220 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 of himself as a lad, high-minded, generous, with brave 
 ideals and a scorn of base things. Yes ! once he, too, 
 could have played Kit's part. But now he felt sunk 
 beneath it by measureless degrees. He looked up to 
 it as an unhappy wretch drowning in some vile stream 
 might look up to the unstained brightness of a star. 
 
 Long into the night on which the fatal paper came 
 back to him Mr. Arden sat and brooded. He doubted, 
 at first, whether he should tell Cecil what had happened ; 
 but he must tell some one. In the morning he called 
 Cecil into his office, and laid the fatal paper on the 
 table before him. 
 
 ' Young Somers,' he said briefly, ' has had that, and 
 has sent it back to me. He knows all about it.' 
 
 1 Good God ! ' gasped Cecil, as his face went suddenly 
 white. 
 
 Mr. Arden stumbled on with his story, telling it with 
 many a shame-filled pause. He had blundered and 
 given Kit the wrong paper. 
 
 ' You fool,' muttered Cecil softly, as if to himself. 
 
 Mr. Arden winced. But this was part of his punish- 
 ment. The time for conventions, or for any respect 
 for them, had long since passed. 
 
 ' Did he understand the meaning of these figures ? ' 
 asked Cecil. 
 
 ' I have no doubt of it' 
 
 ' But the paper proves nothing.' 
 
 ' It is in your handwriting ; it has your initials ; and 
 look at the date on it. That date is the very day 
 before that accursed robbery took place.' 
 
 Cecil stared at the document with twitching lips and 
 fear-drawn face. 
 
 ' But,' he cried at last, with a gasp of relief, ' the fool 
 has given it you back, anyway. He can do nothing.
 
 KATE'S CRUELTY 221 
 
 Unless,' he added suddenly, ' he has shown it to some- 
 body else ; or has taken a photo of it before sending 
 it back. In that case it is a mere trap.' 
 
 Mr. Arden was sure Kit had done neither. He made 
 no attempt to explain the silent appeal made by the 
 return of the paper through Kate's hand. He felt 
 Cecil would be quite untouched by such an appeal ; 
 he would not even understand it. There was a fast- 
 widening moral interval betwixt these two men ; but 
 only Mr. Arden was conscious of it. All that Cecil 
 felt was that his accomplice was betraying a deplorable 
 weakness. 
 
 Cecil was brooding, meanwhile, on the whole situa- 
 tion. 
 
 ' He is a fool,' was his final summary of it. ' He 
 might have kept the paper, and then he could have 
 made his own terms with us ; or he might have sent 
 it to the Board. That would have ruined us and 
 made his case clear. Why has he sent it back in 
 this fashion, and going off to South Africa? No 
 one shall have such a chance against us again,' he 
 added, as he seized the incriminating paper, and flung 
 it into the fire. A flash of white flame and it was 
 gone. 
 
 ' That's safe, at all events.' 
 
 ' But Kit ? ' urged Mr. Arden ; ' he knows.' 
 
 ' Well, who will believe him ? ' asked Cecil coolly. 
 ' Who will believe that, having this proof, he gave 
 it back to us ? What a tale of a tub for any one 
 outside a lunatic asylum to tell ! ' 
 
 ' But it is rough on Somers,' urged Mr. Arden. 
 
 ' Well, do you want it to be rougher still on us ? 
 It is every man for himself. At all events, if it is a 
 question betwixt that young fool and myself, you
 
 222 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 may depend upon it I won't give myself away. Per- 
 haps you will, Mr. Arden ? ' he went on bitterly. 
 ' You did it. You risked putting handcuffs on the 
 wrists of both of us, when you gave young Somers 
 that paper.' 
 
 Mr. Arden was silent. Cecil watched him keenly, 
 and with a vague sense of alarm. 
 
 ' Look here,' he said, ' you have nothing to do but 
 sit fast and hold your tongue. What does it matter 
 what becomes of that young simpleton ? He has made 
 his own bed and must lie on it.' 
 
 ' The old man's going to pieces/ was Cecil's reflec- 
 tion, as he walked back to his desk. ' He may give 
 the whole thing away. It is getting too risky. I 
 must keep my hand on him.'
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 THE LOGIC OF A BAD CREED 
 
 IT was a wild, black night ; a night which, although 
 it belonged to early summer, suggested the bitterest 
 hour of winter. Wildly the wind raved. The rain 
 beat angrily on the shaking window-panes. From a 
 sunless dawn to a starless night the rain had fallen ; 
 and betwixt the weeping skies and sodden earth no 
 bird had sung, and no cheerful gleam had shone. 
 Smears had wandered in the storm, finding, in its 
 blackness and sobbing fury, a sort of echo and re- 
 flection of the sunless gloom which lay on his own 
 heart. 
 
 He loitered for a while on the once familiar bridge. 
 Still the stream ran, coming from some unguessed 
 source, and hurrying to some dark and undreamed-of 
 goal. And as Smears leaned over the wet parapet, 
 the weeping skies above him and the sighing waters 
 beneath, he felt the forlornest outcast the universe 
 knew. He took his new creed, as we have seen, 
 seriously, and even tragically. He was but a vagrant 
 drop in some yet darker stream ! Suppose one of 
 those drops endowed for a moment with consciousness. 
 It could discuss art and philosophy, and weigh creeds, 
 and speculate about the universe. Would it be worth 
 
 223
 
 224 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 while for the drop to employ itself in such a fashion 
 in that swift, vanishing pause which came before the 
 river swept it away ? And man was exactly such a 
 vagrant drop, and what he called life was only a 
 pause ere the black stream swept it away. There 
 was no meaning in existence. There was neither use nor 
 hope for it. There was hope for ' the race,' perhaps ; 
 but none for the individual. Man the unit was but 
 a finer sort of coral insect, working in the reef; and 
 he must die content with having contributed one poor 
 grain of lime to the reef. But ' the race ' is only a 
 phrase an abstraction. It is the individual which 
 suffers, hopes, despairs, dies. 
 
 And then ' the race ' : what title had it to meaning 
 or dignity ? Smears looked at the stretch of slums 
 before him, the tangle of lanes, with its inhabitants, 
 as foul as the insects hidden beneath a stone un- 
 washed ; frescoed with rags ; their speech a mosaic 
 of blasphemy. They ate like dogs ; they represented 
 that worst type of the savage, the failure of civilized 
 forces. An undivine content with ignorance, filth, 
 and vice lay upon them. Seen against the back- 
 ground of the tremendous forces which rush through 
 space and time, what was such a race but a 
 swarm of midges, doomed to perish in the chill 
 of black and swift-coming night ? And what were 
 the passions, the prayers, the struggles, the sorrows 
 and aspirations of men, but the flutter of a midge's 
 wings ? 
 
 It was a sign of his morbid condition that Smears, 
 in his present mood, could extract gall out of the 
 honey of his best-loved poet. He murmured, with 
 a bitter smile, the lines of his one-time favourite 
 Tennyson :
 
 THE LOGIC OF A BAD CREED 225 
 
 What the philosophies, all the sciences, poesy, varying voices of 
 
 prayer ? 
 All that is noblest, all that is basest, all that is filthy with all that 
 
 is fair ! 
 
 What but a murmur of gnats in the gloom, or a moment's anger of 
 bees in their hive ? 
 
 At the street corner Smears met a little human 
 mite in rags, bare-footed on the wet pavement, bare- 
 headed under the pelting rain. She had crept out 
 in terror from the cellar the only home she knew 
 where a drunken father and a half-drunken mother 
 raged and swore and fought together. Smears emptied 
 the contents of his pockets into the weeping child's 
 fingers blue and trembling with cold and then pro- 
 ceeded with morbid art to turn the trembling little 
 figure into a parable. That tiny human waif, homeless, 
 unpitied, with the heavens black above her, and the 
 heedless winds blowing cruelly upon her, became to 
 his vision a type of the human race. It, too, was 
 homeless and forgotten. The elemental powers, blind, 
 inexorable, pitiless, took no heed of it. Nowhere 
 from those deep gulfs of space beyond the stars did 
 a hand of tender purpose reach out towards it. 
 What was man but a grain of sand caught in the 
 sweep of some whirlwind of blind and unconscious 
 forces ? 
 
 Of course the compassion that stirred in Smears's 
 own brooding and unhappy heart towards the little 
 shivering child might have taught him that some- 
 where in the universe there was a great Fountain 
 of Pity. How else did that divine emotion stir in 
 Smears's own imperfect human heart ? Could it come 
 uncaused ? Or was Smears himself of a higher and 
 
 15
 
 226 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 nobler moral type than the Intelligence which planned 
 Smears himself, as part of the universe, and then for- 
 got His own work? Could that Power give him a 
 diviner impulse than moved in itself? For Browning's 
 great lines are true : 
 
 A loving worm within its clod 
 Were nobler than a loveless God. 
 
 The sublime logic of a familiar Psalm, somehow, never 
 suggested itself to Smears : He that planted the ear, 
 shall He not /tear ? He that formed the eye, shall He not 
 see ? It was but one step of sure reasoning, further, to 
 argue : He that teacheth man pity, shall He not be 
 pitiful ? 
 
 But in the scheme of the universe, Smears had now 
 learned there was no place for pity or for love. Nature 
 was but a many-linked chain of inexorable law. Yet 
 Smears's heart was certainly part of the universe, and 
 pity,} somehow, existed in it ! His own consciousness 
 gave the lie to the dreadful theory of an uncompassionate 
 universe. He might have guessed that compassion in 
 himself was but the broken human reflection of a 
 perfect and divine Compassion, which brooded over all 
 suffering worlds. 
 
 Smears, alas ! had accepted without challenge the 
 teaching which dismissed a personal God, capable of 
 personal relationships and emotions, from His own 
 universe. And pity is a strictly personal emotion. So 
 the universe shrank to a tangle of passionless and 
 impersonal laws. As a result beauty had perished 
 from the stars, glory from the light, their message 
 from the flowers. This creed had killed his art ; and 
 when Smears's art died, life was left without strength 
 to survive. He was a shivering human intelligence,
 
 THE LOGIC OF A BAD CREED 227 
 
 standing under the empty heavens ; yearning for 
 sympathy, for knowledge, for love. But it was 
 the mere irony of the universe that planted these 
 longings in him only for the purpose of mocking 
 them ! 
 
 True, there were other men and women with whom 
 relations of love and help were possible ; but that part 
 of Mr. Gifford's system of ethics which taught that 
 the unit must live for the mass the individual for 
 society, the grain for the planet, the glow-worm for 
 the sun had never captured Smears's imagina- 
 tion. Every other human being was, like himself, 
 an idle spark, that shone for a moment, and then 
 faded. Multiply such a cipher as man by what 
 factors you pleased, nothing but ciphers was pro- 
 duced. 
 
 With some the mere vigour of the appetites might 
 supply a reason for living. It was good to be warm, 
 to be well-fed, .to have the pockets full and the senses 
 gratified. But in Smears's frail body the flame of appetite 
 burned faintly. The one passion of his life was for art ; 
 and the creed which took the message from the lark's 
 song, and the splendour from dawn and sunset, killed 
 all art. The human race, as he now saw it, was a 
 dance of accidental atoms, to be swept away by the 
 next gust. Why help to keep this dance of atoms 
 going ? 
 
 The logic of Smears's creed was, in a word, 
 suicide. At least, death meant escape from disquiet, 
 and from the anguish of consciousness. No more 
 problems for the tired brain ! No more hunger for 
 the unfed heart ! Here, it seemed, was an escape 
 from the icy chill of a pitiless and brainless system 
 of worlds.
 
 228 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 ' Thank God for death,' said Smears. ' Dark death, 
 which would pour sleep on the tired eyelids, and 
 forgetfulness on the aching brain ! ' But why should 
 he ' thank God ' for it ? There was no ' God ' in the 
 business ! But, whoever planned it, death was a door 
 out of an unfriendly darkness into a darkness, it 
 might be hoped, unvexed of dreams, untroubled by 
 thought. 
 
 Smears sat in the room which was once his studio, 
 and more than one unfinished canvas told of the 
 tragedy of arrested purpose, and of a frozen imagination. 
 The old woman who kept house for him had been 
 sent away on some remote errand. He sat alone, 
 while the doors creaked to the challenge of the wind, 
 and the rain beat with moist, insistent sharpness at 
 the windows. There rose in the poor lad's sorrow- 
 darkened imagination the vision of his youth : his dead 
 mother's face, with its brooding melancholy ; the hymns 
 with which she used to hush him to sleep ; the Bible 
 stories she told him, as her frail and tender hand 
 caressing his hair they sat by the fireside. How did 
 there come into existence, under a scheme of evolution 
 which knew nothing of tenderness, a soul so pitiful, 
 a relationship so loving if so brief? It was part 
 of the irony of Nature, making sport of her own 
 offspring. If death would only bring him once more 
 the touch of those hands, the music of that tender 
 voice, the benediction of that mother's love, how he 
 would welcome ' the shadow feared of man ' ! But 
 death held in its dusty palm no gifts of this kind. 
 
 Smears poured into a tumbler from a phial a few 
 colourless drops. Here were the true waters of Lethe ! 
 As Smears pictured himself standing on the edge of 
 that dark yet friendly stream, suddenly there rolled
 
 THE LOGIC OF A BAD CREED 229 
 
 over the shaking house a crash of thunder. The 
 sound, by some strange magic, stirred the long-sealed 
 cells of his memory ; and as if keeping time to 
 the iron reverberations of the storm -vexed skies 
 there crept through the chambers of his brain the 
 iron syllables of the old monkish chant : 
 
 Dies irae, dies ilia, 
 Solvet saeclum in favilla, 
 Teste David cum Sybilla. 
 
 Quantus tremor est futurus, 
 Quando ludex est venturus, 
 Cuncta stricte discussurus. 
 
 Latin was the one branch of scholarship in which 
 Smears excelled ; but it was not the Latin of Livy 
 and of Caesar, whose sentences, to his ears, seemed 
 to vibrate with the drums and tramplings of mighty 
 conquests. It was the sweet, sad chant of monkish 
 hymns, dying away in the aisles of vast cathedrals ; 
 the Latin of Augustine and of a Kempis, of Ambrose 
 and of Bernard of Clairvaux. But of all that he 
 knew of those half-forgotten singers of the Middle 
 Ages, why did only the stern syllables of the Dies 
 Irae of Thomas of Celano awaken in his memory 
 and shake it with their harsh challenge? 
 
 But while he thought and brooded, the Dies Irae 
 itself each syllable like the clang of an iron bell 
 grew soft and tender. Half unconsciously he recited : 
 
 Recordare, lesu pie 
 
 Quod sum causa tuae viae; 
 
 Ne me perdas ilia die ! 
 
 Quaerens me sedisti lassus, 
 Redemisti crucem passus, 
 Tantus labor non sit cassus.
 
 230 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 How did those old monks conceive that thought of 
 Love, with worn feet and heavy cross, seeking the 
 wandering human soul ? Then there came into his 
 memory, answering some mystic thrill of association, 
 the lines in which one of the most famous of English 
 statesmen has clad in monkish Latin one of the most 
 evangelical of modern hymns, ' Rock of Ages ' : 
 
 Jesus, pro me perforates, 
 Condar intra Tuum latus, 
 Tu per lympham profluentem, 
 Tu per sanguinem tepentem ; 
 In peccata mi reduuda, 
 Tolle culpam ! sordes munda ! 
 
 Here was deep calling to deep or, rather, saint 
 chanting to saint across nearly six centuries ! What 
 an example of the persistency of ideas ! Was there 
 any fact in the universe to correspond to the music 
 of these hymns ? If there were, how the universe 
 would be transfigured ! And, at the thought, Smears 
 put down for a moment his glass, with the deadly 
 fluid in it, and lifted his head. He looked with 
 questioning eyes, as though expecting to see on the 
 canvas of the darkness some divine, all-gracious Face 
 reveal itself. He listened, as though for the whisper 
 of some tender voice out of the silence. 
 
 But there was no sign nor sound, save that, in 
 another moment, there came a yet deeper and more 
 sullen crash of thunder from the skies ; a wilder shriek 
 of wind-driven rain on the shaking building. Then 
 the iron syllables of ' Dies Irae, dies ilia ' began to 
 repeat themselves in his tired head. 
 
 Smears shuddered for a moment ; then his heart 
 swung back, like a pendulum at the pull of gravitation,
 
 THE LOGIC OF A BAD CREED 231 
 
 to the creed which left his life without salt. He took 
 the tumbler again in his hand, this time with resolute 
 purpose. 
 
 But he put it down once more. Before he drank 
 he would scribble a farewell message to Mr. Gifford. 
 He recollected that Mr. Gifford as though conscious 
 that the logic of his theology pointed towards suicide 
 had dwelt with eloquent emphasis on the 'cowardice' 
 of that step. A suicide was a sentry who left his 
 post ; a comrade who turned his back on his fellows. 
 And, by some odd turn of thought, Smears felt anxious 
 to enter a plea against that unspoken accusation of 
 cowardice. He took a pen, and wrote with nervous 
 haste : 
 
 ' . . . You may count my death an act of cowardice ; 
 I shall not complain. All moral terms have, somehow, 
 lost their meaning for me. Why is it an act of 
 cowardice to lay down a burden which was put on 
 my shoulders without my consent ; or to deliver myself 
 from a life which has neither meaning nor goal ? Why 
 keep the mill-stones turning, when there is no wheat 
 to be ground, and the stones grind only themselves? 
 I might, as you urged, try to make the lives of others 
 happy, and so put a savour into my own life. But 
 what "happiness" is possible to anybody except the 
 happiness of swine with a trough full of acorns ? 
 The one thing to be coveted for the race is an agree- 
 ment of universal suicide. Human life is a mistake. 
 We are accidents, without meaning ; and we are 
 mocked, by some dreadful irony, with instincts 
 which are lies. Our highest aspiration is the desire 
 of the moth for the star. But who put that desire 
 into the moth? Who set the star so high? Who
 
 232 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 taught. the aspirations of angels to burn in the hearts 
 of swine, and in the brains of animalculae ? 
 
 ' I do but anticipate inevitable and kindly death 
 by a few ticks of the clock. Dear master, follow 
 my example ! Why employ brain and tongue in 
 the bitter industry of robbing your fellow men of 
 delusions which may be lies, but which, at least, are 
 lovely ? ' 
 
 When morning came the storm had gone. The 
 summer heavens were clear. The rain-washed earth 
 smiled. The birds sang outside the windows. The 
 sun-kissed flowers sent up a thousand odours to the 
 calling skies. Within lay Smears, his face contorted 
 by the last spasm of pain ; his white brow cold with 
 the frost of death. 
 
 An enterprising reporter got hold of the letter 
 addressed to Mr. Gifford, and it was published, with 
 somewhat chilling effect, temporarily at least, on that 
 gentleman's audiences. A creed whose final logic is 
 suicide was hardly suited for general use. Mr. Gifford, 
 however, delivered a specially eloquent lecture on ' The 
 Place of Death in Freethought Theology.' It was, 
 he explained, the goal of a race-course ; a goal which 
 meant for the winner the prize of an ended race, and 
 a rest for tired limbs. 
 
 Mr. Looker, in his capacity of ' Chorus,' privately 
 offered the comment that a race with no other prize than 
 that of its own conclusion was hardly worth running. 
 If suicide, he added, was the logic of the Freethought 
 creed, he regretted that so few believers in that creed 
 had the cburage to be logical. Most of them persisted 
 in the most inconsistent fashion, in keeping alive !
 
 THE LOGIC OF A BAD CREED 233 
 
 The wrong people, too, were consistent. Now, if Mr. 
 Creakles and Mr. Bagges would only act on their own 
 principles, Mr. Looker declared, the new theology 
 would establish a title to human respect hitherto un- 
 suspected !
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 AT SEA 
 
 A FORTNIGHT after his interview with Kate, Kit found 
 himself on board one of the great Cape liners going 
 southward past the coast of Spain. Behind him was 
 England, with its broken ties and bitter memories ; 
 before him was South Africa, where he hoped to shape 
 a new career, and find, in the strenuous life and fresh 
 companionships of a new land, some kindly nepenthe 
 some healing medicine for his sadly wounded 
 life. 
 
 The sea itself, for Kit, as a matter of fact proved 
 a medicine. From one point of view he was, It is 
 true, very ill-equipped for reading the secret of the 
 sea. He had no gleam of the poet's brooding imagina- 
 tion, and nothing of the artist's quick sensibilities. 
 But the sea, with its blowing airs, its wide horizons, 
 its stinging freshness, was a delight to his senses and 
 a spur to his brain. He felt, dimly, it had a message 
 for him ; something which nothing else in nature 
 not stream, nor hill, nor sky, nor leafy forest could 
 utter, and which, at first, baffled his intelligence. The 
 far-stretching, immeasurable, and heaving floor was 
 a divine manuscript, scribbled over with hieroglyphics 
 to which he had no key. 
 
 234
 
 AT SEA 235 
 
 The sea has a twofold beauty, a beauty of colour 
 and of form ; and it was, perhaps, natural that to Kit's 
 intellect, strong on the mechanical and scientific side, 
 the sea first of all appealed by its beauty of form. 
 His eye followed, with tireless delight, the clear curve 
 of the skyline a circle drawn as if by infinite com- 
 passes the changing surfaces of the swinging waves. 
 As he studied their ever-changing angles, flinging 
 off the light as though they were living and fluid 
 crystals, he understood the meaning of that fine phrase 
 in the Psalms : ' The floods clap tJieir hands.' 
 
 The loneliness of the ocean, too, crept into Kit's 
 mind, and seemed to fit his half-bitter mood. Who 
 wishes to know what loneliness means must wander into 
 the desolate chambers of the sea. Here were measure- 
 less leagues of silent, empty space, stretching north 
 and south and east and west ; from Cape Verde to the 
 West Indies, from the North Pole almost to the South 
 Pole. The sun rises on one empty horizon, and sets 
 on another. No gleam of white sail, no stain of purple, 
 far-off peak breaks the clear skyline. The ship seems 
 to float, a tiny, murmuring shell, in the silent and 
 empty vastness of the ocean. 
 
 What may be called the paradox of the sea, again, 
 curiously pricked Kit's intellect. The wind-blown 
 waves seem a picture of tumult, and of mindless 
 caprice. No order binds the vagrant drops into unity ; 
 no thread of law links them into coherence. And 
 yet Kit, looking at the curving waves with the trained 
 eye of an engineer, realized the order underlying this 
 mask of seeming caprice. 
 
 One Sunday morning, standing in the bows of the 
 huge steamship, he watched the great knife-like stem 
 ripping its way through the purple silk of the sea-
 
 236 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR y 
 
 floor. Twin plumes of white spray leaped up into the 
 air as the great iron stem tore the yielding water ; 
 and the sunlight, smiting through the two white fast- 
 travelling pillars of spray, changed them into tiny 
 rainbows, a double arch of disintegrated light ! And 
 onward, at the speed of a railway train, the great ship 
 ran, with that perfect and exquisite, though broken, 
 arch of untwisted light at its lip. The fidelity, the 
 swiftness, the certainty with which each of those rushing 
 jets of wind-blown spray obeyed the law of its structure, 
 and disintegrated the light that smote it, changing 
 the white rays into a many-coloured rainbow, delighted 
 Kit's scientifically trained mind. It was the revelation 
 of a law that was woven through every atom of the 
 vagrant deep. And behind that law was, surely, a 
 personal, all-controlling Intelligence. 
 
 Only later did the pure beauty of the sea the beauty 
 of rich tint and changing shade creep into Kit's 
 imagination. He realized it was a mirror, reflecting 
 every mood of the sky. By day, under the radiant 
 skies, it was clad in royal purple ; it wore an aspect 
 of effervescing and tumultuous life. When night drew 
 on, the purple deepened into blackness ; then the 
 blackness itself became a second and dusky firmament, 
 reflecting the star-sown deeps of space above. Nay, 
 the night-sea burned with its own strange fires. 
 Phosphorescent sea-flames kindled in its depths. The 
 stem of the great boat flung off diverging lines of 
 foam, and through the soft and creamy foam broke 
 a thousand points of heliotrope-coloured flame. Every 
 curve of the sea became flame-edged. Every wave 
 blossomed into stars. 
 
 So Kit began to realize the great truth that beauty 
 is, with God, no costly and grudged element. It is
 
 AT SEA 237 
 
 the common stuff of which He has made His worlds. 
 He is the great world-artist, who shapes the pattern 
 of every leaf, and mingles the colours for every flower, 
 and sets the glittering stars to a pattern of splendour 
 in the deep heavens. And He who pours the purple 
 into the cup of a violet pours a purple as rich, but 
 in volume beyond all measure, into the mighty cup 
 of the sea. 
 
 Beauty, set in spaces so remote from him, and seen 
 so rarely by human eyes, man is tempted, in his 
 egotism, to think unnecessary, or even wasted. If 
 he be not present he thinks God will have no spectator ! 
 But the sea is, for man, the great teacher of humility. 
 Far beyond the tiny circle of his vision runs the glittering 
 and purple mosaic of its vast floor. And everywhere 
 the waves chant their song. Everywhere the sunsets 
 come and go. Still, night after night, the great mirror 
 of the sea reflects the stars, though no wandering ship 
 breaks the skyline. What matters it that man is 
 dumb, or blind, or missing ? ' All Thy works praise Thee, 
 O God. 1 ' God's way is in the sea, and His wonders in 
 the great deep' 
 
 So the sea was something more than an artistic 
 education to Kit. It proved a moral discipline. 
 
 But Kit had not enough of the artist, or of the 
 philosopher, to find contentment with merely brooding 
 over the changing aspects of nature. His fellow 
 creatures attracted him. And the human land- 
 scape of the ship, he quickly realized, had some 
 unpleasant elements. Amongst the passengers were 
 some who contrived to add considerably to Kit's 
 discomfort. 
 
 Opposite to him sat a young Boer, returning to 
 the Transvaal from a European visit He was a giant
 
 238 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 in stature, his dress heavy with jewellery, his big 
 head crowned with a tangle of wilful hair, his eyes 
 sulky and menacing. He was a gross eater, had a 
 loud and guttural voice, and drank much more than 
 was wholesome for him. Beside him, his constant 
 companion, was a little fair-haired Hollander named 
 Jeppe ; sly, clever, malicious, plainly the evil genius 
 of young Wilmann the ,Boer we have described and 
 yet more than half afraid of him. The quiet, sad- 
 browed young Englishman, with his modest ways and 
 courteous fashion of speech, tempted the pair opposite 
 to continual insult. 
 
 Wilmann blustered at poor Kit, Jeppe stabbed him 
 with sly sneers. They talked offensively to him ; they 
 talked yet more offensively at him. They insisted 
 on discussing Boer politics with him. To wander 
 into such a realm of debate, with such a pair of con- 
 troversialists, was dangerous ; yet to refuse was treated 
 as an insult. And Kit found the sly, clever sneers of 
 the young Hollander at England, and all things English, 
 almost more exasperating than even the loud and 
 arrogant laughter with which young Wilmann endorsed 
 his companion's evil wit. 
 
 Kit found some help and relief in a grave-featured 
 man named Van Wyk, a Boer of the older type, who 
 sat beside him at the dinner-table. His brown skin 
 and silver-white hair, the steady eyes that had looked 
 on peril and death often gave a curious strength 
 and distinction to his face. He was grave and reticent ; 
 and would sit for hours on the deck, reading his big 
 Dutch Bible, speaking to no one. At the table he 
 could exercise, when he chose, a curious restraint on 
 the younger pair opposite him. He would lift his head 
 when they became offensive, look steadily across the
 
 AT SEA 239 
 
 table at them, while his brown eyes seemed to sparkle 
 with fire ; then he would growl out a few words in 
 what Kit afterwards found was the Taal ; and the 
 huge young Boer would sink into abashed silence, 
 while Jeppe, the Hollander, hastened to offer fluent 
 and suave apologies. 
 
 Kit was strangely drawn to the older Boer ; and 
 he, in turn, took kindly to the young Englishman. 
 
 'Young fellow,' he said to Kit, 'don't pay any 
 attention to that pair opposite. They are bad samples 
 of the two types who are the curse of the Transvaal. 
 Jeppe is a Hollander, without a conscience, and up to 
 his eyebrows in corrupt schemes. Wilmann is a Boer 
 of the third generation ; but money has corrupted 
 him. He has lost all the virtues of his stock. He is 
 a fool and Jeppe is a rogue, and both of them are 
 blusterers. But they are dangerous ; so keep clear 
 of them.' 
 
 But to ' keep clear of them ' was difficult The pair 
 seemed to think that Kit was easy and safe game, and 
 they pursued him with gross wit. The smoking-saloon 
 naturally gave them their best opportunities. 
 
 ' Englishman,' said Wilmann to him, abruptly, one 
 day, as they sat in the smoking-saloon, ' what do you 
 want in South Africa ? There are too many English- 
 men across the Vaal already.' 
 
 ' There will be fewer of them there soon,' said Jeppe, 
 with a satirical grin. 
 
 ' Africa is for the Africander,' Wilmann went on 
 arrogantly. ' We will give you Englishmen room to 
 lie underneath the soil ; but there is no room for you 
 on top of it. I helped to put some underneath the grass 
 myself, and mean to put some more there. I was at 
 Doom Kop, where we ran Jameson to earth. I drew
 
 240 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 a bead on Jameson myself, and it was the only time 
 that day I missed. I didn't miss the others ! ' he added, 
 with an unpleasant laugh. 
 
 * My father was at Bronkhurst Spruit/ he continued. 
 ' How they shot the rooineks down that day ! Our 
 men lay in the long grass, while the redcoats stood in 
 line on the road, and they shot them like rabbits. The 
 fools ! Their guns were in the carts.' 
 
 ' Was war proclaimed then ? ' asked Kit. To 
 shoot down unsuspecting men in peace was certainly 
 murder.' 
 
 Wilmann broke out into a jeering, triumphant 
 laugh : 
 
 ' Why should we give them warning ? The vierklaeur/ 
 he cried, ' is going to fly from Zambesi to Cape Town. 
 We will whip you Englishmen out of the country with 
 our sjamboks.' 
 
 ' Perhaps so,' replied Kit quietly ; ' but when the 
 whipping begins strange things may happen.' 
 
 ' We'll crush you,' pursued the young Boer, stretching 
 out his huge hand, and closing it energetically, ' we'll 
 crush you like a rhea-fowl's egg.' 
 
 Just then, Van Wyk, who had been listening, came 
 up, and Wilmann and Jeppe moved off hurriedly. 
 
 ' They talk like fools/ said the old Boer grimly. ' It 
 will be an ill day for both races when fighting breaks 
 out on the Vaal again. I was at Ingogo and at 
 Majuba. The rooineks are. brave enough. It was a 
 brave thing to seize the hill in the night, and they 
 would have held it in spite of us if the officers had 
 shown common sense. But they were blinded that 
 day. There was no leadership. The British general 
 was mad. But the rooineks can fight. Those fools/ 
 he went on, pointing with a gesture to the pair,
 
 AT SEA 241 
 
 who now sat on the other side of the smoking-saloon 
 'those fools think they can drive the British out of 
 South Africa, and they will destroy the two Re- 
 publics in trying to do it ' ; and the old Boer puffed 
 savagely at his pipe. ' One is as sly as a fox,' 
 pursued the old man ; ' the other is as stupid as a 
 baboon.' 
 
 ' You were at Majuba ? ' asked Kit. ' That was a 
 brave deed by your people. There is nothing braver 
 in the history of war.' 
 
 ' Ah, it was brave enough ! But God put it into our 
 blood to do it that day.' 
 
 The old Boer sat looking into space. Plainly, what 
 he saw was not the sunlit deck, the grey sea before him, 
 but that grim hill far off, under the African sky, up 
 whose stony flank he had climbed with his comrades, 
 on the morning when the men of his race did one 
 of the memorable deeds of history. 
 
 ' Yes,' he went on, ' it was a brave thing to seize 
 the hill. We held it in the daytime, but drew off 
 our scouts at night ; and after our men had left it 
 the English, somehow, in a night-march, of which we 
 had never dreamed, seized it. Our camp and our 
 entrenchments lay at their mercy. 
 
 ' I was the first to see them on the hill. I was lighting 
 my fire just as the sun rose ; and, looking up, I saw, 
 against the skyline, more than twenty rooineks on 
 Majuba. The fools ! They had set the trap, and they 
 could not keep themselves hidden till our patrol 
 walked into it ! Many of us were for moving off at 
 once ; for if the English had guns on Majuba they 
 could shoot us down as they liked. But the cornets 
 resolved to attack. We had beaten the English at 
 Laing's Nek and at Ingogo, and we thought we could 
 
 16
 
 242 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 always beat them. But God put it into our hearts ! 
 He led us that day. Nikolas Smidt was our captain ; 
 he was my friend and neighbour, and was a grand 
 fighter. But it was God,' he repeated, 'who led 
 us that day ' ; and again the old man sank into a 
 reverie. 
 
 ' Some of our men lay in the grass,' he proceeded, 
 ' and swept the crest of the hill with their bullets ; 
 while we, the storming party, crept up through rocks 
 and brushwood. The English general threw out no 
 skirmishers. He had dug no trench ; he had built 
 no schanzes, or they were only toy schanzes and built 
 in the wrong places. They didn't command the slope 
 of the hill up which we climbed. The party I was 
 with crawled through scrub and rocks up to a steep 
 kopje on our right, held by men in kilts. They were 
 firing at some of our men to their right, and never 
 saw us. We crept to within eighty yards of them, 
 and could see them above us against the sky. I counted 
 them. There were just sixteen, with a young officer ; 
 and we were sixty ! Their fire swept the naked edge 
 of the hill across which our stormers must run ; but 
 they never saw us. 
 
 ' Our cornet would not let us shoot singly. He made 
 us fire one dreadful volley, a volley from sixty rifles 
 into sixteen men, not eighty yards distant ! The volley 
 smashed up the whole party ! The line of the British 
 near ran back, and we seized the kopje, with the dead 
 Highlanders lying on the rocks. I counted ten bullet 
 wounds in the young officer's body, and any one of 
 them would have killed. Our rifles from where we 
 stood covered the naked edge of the hill. Below, in 
 the brushwood, lay our men, firing fast and hard. 
 Above was a line of broken rocks, held by the rooineks.
 
 AT SEA 243 
 
 They were firing over the heads of our men. When 
 we examined their rifles after the fight they were all 
 sighted for five hundred yards ; and there wasn't fifty 
 yards betwixt the two lines ! If they had rushed down 
 the slope with their bayonets our men must have been 
 destroyed. 
 
 * From the kopje we could see the English fix their 
 bayonets. I had crept forward and I could hear the 
 English officers calling out, in high voices, " Ninety- 
 second," " Fifty-eighth," " Naval Brigade." But, some- 
 how, no one gave the order to charge. I saw an officer 
 run up to the English general and point to the bushes 
 where our men lay firing. He wanted the order to 
 charge, but the general shook his head. That shake 
 of his head lost the English Majuba. 
 
 ' At either end of the line, by this time, we had seized 
 the kopjes, and we shot the poor rooineks down fast. 
 They stood in a crowd together, and our bullets killed 
 double. At last a cry went up, such as I never heard 
 in a fight before or since. It was the cry of brave 
 men giving way to panic ! They broke up ; then went 
 back in little waves. Our line ran forward. Then they 
 were at our mercy ! We held the edge of the basin ; 
 they were below us, in a mass. It was a pit of death 
 for them, and we shot them down as we pleased. Then 
 they ran. They climbed the further slope of the basin, 
 while we stood and shot them. They leaped over the 
 edge of the cliff.' Here Van Wyk's eyes lit up ; his 
 voice rose. The old Boer was looking once more in 
 imagination on the wild scene. 
 
 ' One tall man stood in the open when the line broke 
 and fled. It was the English general. He was a 
 brave man. He never turned or lifted a hand, but 
 looked at us as we came charging down into the little
 
 244 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 valley. One of the Boers it was my neighbour, Hans 
 Vermaak lifted his rifle and shot him, and he fell 
 on his face and never moved. But he was a brave 
 man. 
 
 ' It was a great day and a great deed/ Van Wyk 
 went on. ' The English could have held Majuba against 
 us for ever if they had known the ground ; if they had 
 entrenched ; if they had held the edge of the hill or had 
 sent out a skirmishing line to occupy the rocks below 
 the crest ; if they had held the kopjes on either flank. 
 Or if they had only run in on us with the bayonet 
 when we came to the crest of the hill, we must have 
 failed. But God blinded them ! He fought for us. He 
 meant us to be a nation, and He gave us the victory 
 that day. But He never meant us to come to tJiatj 
 said Van Wyk, pointing to the unlovely pair opposite 
 to them. ' Gold has corrupted us. We are not the 
 oppressed ; we are oppressors. We have flung away 
 our chance. There will be no Majuba Hill again ; 
 unless,' he added after a pause, 'it is on the English 
 side. 
 
 ' Those two/ he went on, ' have been buying big 
 guns and ammunition in Germany. But big guns won't 
 save us if God is not with us.' 
 
 In the deck games got up to lighten the dullness 
 of the long days, Kit's quickness of eye, perfect balance 
 of limb, and training as an athlete, gave him the lead. 
 But in mere contests of brute strength the young Boer's 
 huge stature and brawny limbs enabled him to over- 
 throw all competitors. 
 
 Kit, warned by Van Wyk, avoided any contest with 
 Wilmann.
 
 AT SEA 245 
 
 ' He is twice your weight,' said the old man, ' and he 
 will play you an evil turn.' 
 
 Kit acted on this advice, though at some cost to his 
 own feelings. ' It is odd,' he thought, ' if I could not 
 capsize that huge mass of beer-sodden flesh.' 
 
 The young Boer challenged any one in the ship to 
 one simple test of strength. The competitors sat on 
 opposite sides of the table ; their right elbows 
 touched ; each clasped the other's uplifted hand, and 
 strove to force back his arm. It was a direct contest 
 of strength of wrist and arm, and Wilmann's mighty 
 limb bore down one competitor after another, in some 
 cases injuring them severely. 
 
 * Don't try that test with him,' whispered Van Wyk 
 to Kit. ' He is stronger than you, and he has a trick 
 which might break your wrist. He will certainly do 
 you an evil turn.' 
 
 But Kit found the loud and arrogant challenge that 
 Wilmann flung him across the deck intolerable. He 
 accepted the challenge with a laugh, and the pair sat 
 down on either side of the table. 
 
 Wilmann clasped Kit's palm in his huge fingers, put 
 his whole strength into a thrust, and suddenly tried 
 to twist the Englishman's hand round He meant to 
 break or dislocate his wrist. 
 
 But Kit knew the trick. Wilmann, to his astonish- 
 ment, felt the Englishman's hand shut upon his huge, 
 fleshy fingers as though it was steel. The English- 
 man's eyes flashed into his with a sudden fire that 
 cowed him. He felt his wrist turn, and knew he was 
 in his opponent's power. Another turn and his wrist 
 must be dislocated. 
 
 Suddenly Kit's hand relaxed, Wilmann's huge fingers 
 dropped limply down.
 
 
 246 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 ' We might hurt each other,' said Kit coolly. ' We 
 had better not try any more.' 
 
 Wilmann ruefully stroked his huge hand and wrist, 
 and looked in amazement at his opponent. Then he 
 broke out into deep and guttural oaths. Kit looked at 
 him with steady scorn for a moment, and then |rose and 
 walked away. 
 
 The incident naturally led to trouble, and the trouble 
 suddenly took a shape that Kit found very trying. As 
 he came into the smoking-saloon the next morning 
 he found Jeppe and Wilmann, with their heads close 
 together, bent over an old newspaper ; Jeppe, with his 
 finger, was guiding the young Boer's eyes down the 
 column. The Hollander lifted his head as Kit came 
 in, and flashed at him an evil and triumphant glance. 
 He nudged the Boer, who lifted his big head and 
 stared insolently at Kit. 
 
 ' I know, Englishman,' he said, ' why you go to 
 South Africa. You dare not stay in England ! But 
 what do you think we do with bank robbers in the 
 Vaal ? ' and he pointed with his huge forefinger at the 
 paper before him. 
 
 Kit stared at the pair. Some evil chance had thrown 
 into their hands an account of the case in the magis- 
 trate's court at Middleford. As he still stared, with 
 white face, compressed lips, and flashing eyes, at the 
 two men, Wilmann broke into a slow, deep laugh, a 
 laugh so full of insolence that Kit's blood took fire. 
 He took one light, quick step forward, and there was 
 such a look of battle in the set of his head, and the 
 poise of his clenched fists, that Jeppe stepped hurriedly 
 behind his big comrade. 
 
 I don't fight a thief,' said Wilmann coolly ; so coolly, 
 indeed, that Kit paused.
 
 AT SEA 247 
 
 ' If you have read that story,' Kit said, pointing to 
 the newspaper, ' you know that the charge against 
 me was dismissed. And if you call me "thief" again,' 
 he added grimly, ' big as you are, I'll knock you 
 down ! ' 
 
 The young Boer still stared at him insolently, but 
 he did not repeat the offensive epithet ; and, after 
 lingering sternly for a moment, Kit turned on his 
 heel and walked away. 
 
 But the story spread, and Kit found himself a sort 
 of social outcast. Van Wyk alone stood loyally by 
 him. He listened to Kit's tale, and, at its close, thrust 
 out his brown hand, and, for the first time, shook hands 
 with him. 
 
 ' I know an honest man when I see him,' he said 
 briefly. ' You will not mend this matter by fighting 
 anybody. You must just bear it.' 
 
 The whole incident drove Kit afresh into solitude. 
 He had to find what companionship he could in the 
 sea itself. He grew tired of the idle chatter of the 
 smoking-saloon ; but his ears never wearied of the deep 
 monotone of 
 
 The strongest of Creation's sons, 
 
 That rolls the wild, profound, eternal bass 
 
 In Nature's anthem. 
 
 Nature, he felt bitterly, was kinder to him than 
 man. 
 
 Sea-life, as a matter of fact, usually serves to bring 
 out an ignoble side of human nature. It is idle. It 
 is emptied of all serious duties. Every wholesome 
 law of habit is broken. A curious grossness of appetite 
 is developed ; a curious sloth of brain and conscience. 
 Existence is resolved into a round of foolish games,
 
 248 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 of yet more foolish chat, and of too much eating 
 and drinking. 
 
 And yet, judged by many of its conditions, life at 
 sea ought to be even more serious in tone, and nobler 
 in temper, than life ashore. It is set in a frame so 
 august ; such new perils cast their shadow on it ! The 
 sea is so vast, so restless, so lonely. It is a huge, grey, 
 swinging floor, stretching empty and awful to where 
 grey sea and blue sky meet. In the centre of that 
 mighty, curving horizon tosses the ship ; a tiny metal 
 shell with its fiery heart of roaring furnaces, its pulse 
 of throbbing machinery, its freight of close-packed 
 human lives. At night, with the lonely stars above 
 and the lonely sea beneath, the great ship seems, to 
 the brooding imagination, to float as on the very bosom 
 of eternity. 
 
 How vast are the forces, how wide and lonely the 
 spaces, of Nature ! How little is man ! How near 
 is death ! The rending of a mere skin of metal, 
 and the great ship, with its crowded lives, would 
 sink like a stone, and leave no scar on the elastic 
 waters ! 
 
 Kit found pleasure in pacing the lonely deck at 
 midnight : the officer walking to and fro on the 
 bridge ; the furnaces roaring faintly at the heart of 
 the ship ; but all else silent. The sea itself was a 
 mere liquid darkness ; and the night lay upon it like 
 a shadow on a deeper shadow. The stars shone, stead- 
 fast, innumerable, with an aspect both of multitude 
 and of remoteness and depth, such as they never wear 
 when seen from the solid earth. And on through 
 the silence and the darkness, with measureless depths 
 all black beneath, and gleaming heights of star- 
 sown space above, the great ship moves like some
 
 AT SEA 249 
 
 living thing with its freight of slumbering lives. They 
 are being carried over the depths they cannot fathom, 
 along a track they cannot see, and by forces they 
 do not in the least understand. And yet they sleep, 
 dreamless and unconcerned ! Strange, Kit reflected, 
 that men who trust God so little should trust each/ 
 other so much !
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 THE PRICK OF GOD'S SPEAR 
 
 (LIFE has many tests for creeds and characters ; 
 but death is the final solvent. It 'holds the keys 
 of all the creeds,' in the sense that it tests them 
 all. The touch of its chilly fingers is the prick of 
 IthurieTs spear or, rather, of God's spear. The keen 
 yet merciful steel, just at this period, pricked Mr. 
 Gifford's philosophy at a very sensitive spot. 
 
 A malignant epidemic, bred in the slums of 
 Middleford, and quickened by the summer heats, 
 was creeping through the town and breathing its 
 taint on even the wide and pleasant suburbs. Many 
 a new-dug grave in the cemetery bore mute witness 
 to its ravages. One of the victims was little Mary 
 Gifford ; a dainty maiden, some ten years old, whose 
 light footsteps made the music of the house, and 
 whose laughing face was its sunshine. 
 
 Mary had drooped like a dying flower for some 
 weeks ; then the deadly fever awoke in her veins, 
 raced through her blood, drowsed her brain, crept 
 to her heart. Slender, sensitive, fragile, the child 
 lacked stamina to resist a virus so malignant ; and 
 she was visibly dying. 
 
 She was lying in bed, a fragile little figure, with 
 head moving ceaselessly to and fro. Her bright 
 
 250
 
 THE PRICK OF GOD'S SPEAR 251 
 
 eyes shone with feverish light ; her lips were scarlet, 
 as though moistened with blood ; her little forehead 
 was scribbled over with hieroglyphics of pain ; her 
 breath came and went in hurried and broken pantings. 
 She talked or, rather, whispered incessantly, for fever 
 was in her brain. 
 
 By her side sat her mother, her face white with 
 watching, her eyes heavy with grief. From the 
 next room came the sound of her husband's steps, 
 walking tirelessly to and fro. 
 
 ' Mamma dear,' whispered the dying child, ' do you 
 remember the hymn they sang at Jessie Blunt's grave? 
 It was : 
 
 'Jesu, Lover of my soul, 
 
 Let me to Thy bosom fly, 
 While the nearer waters roll, 
 
 While the tempest still is high : 
 Hide me, O my Saviour, hide, 
 
 Till the storm of life be past! 
 Safe into the haven guide, 
 
 O receive my soul at last ! 
 
 ' You never taught me that hymn, mamma, but I 
 know it ; I know every word of it. " Jesu, Lover of 
 my soul," ' recited the thin lips, over and over again. 
 
 Then came a pause. 
 
 ' Mamma,' she went on, with suddenly knitted brow 
 and eagerly questioning eyes, ' doesn't Jesus love me too? 
 I think He does, mamma dear,' she whispered, with 
 a sudden drop of her voice, and a shy, sweet smile. 
 ' For, do you know, I used to pray to Him before 
 I went to sleep, though you didn't know. Does it 
 make you angry, mamma ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Gifford shook her head, with a wan smile. 
 
 ' I'm sure,' the child whispered, with the same odd
 
 252 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 hush in her voice, ' He loves me. Don't you think 
 He does ? ' she insisted. ' Is it wrong to pray to 
 Him? Jessie used to pray to Him. Her mother 
 taught her. Mamma,' she suddenly demanded, 'why 
 didn't you teach me?' 
 
 What could the poor mother say? She could 
 only kiss passionately her dying child's brow, while 
 her own breast shook with bitter sobs. She had no 
 whisper of comfort for the child, in whose stead she 
 would gladly have died. Her frozen lips frightened 
 even herself. The ghost of her own half-forgotten 
 creed, the creed of her youth, awoke in the cells of 
 her memory ; a sort of despairing vision of what she 
 had once believed, and believed no longer, swept over 
 her. 
 
 But she quickly forgot herself, and thought only 
 of her child. Was there, indeed, no loving and gentle 
 Saviour, who would go with her child on the dark 
 and echoing way of death? That hope was only 
 a lie that tricked human hearts. But would to God 
 it were true? It would be more precious than gold! 
 Her later belief, she suddenly realized, was a creed 
 that might suit full pockets, and healthy blood, and 
 sunny hours. But it left grief without a solace ; 
 it could cast no light on the dim and lonely way 
 of death. Had her child, indeed, no Saviour, the 
 Friend and Lover of little children, whose tender 
 hands could stretch through the awful distances and 
 shadows of death, where even a mother's hands must 
 fail? 
 
 But now her child's voice plucked her out of that 
 maze of wild thoughts. 
 
 'Mustn't I pray to Jesus, mamma?' she was asking, 
 with half-fretful insistence.
 
 THE PRICK OF GOD'S SPEAR 253 
 
 ' Yes, dear, yes ! Lord Christ ! ' cried the grief- 
 bewildered mother, in her distraction, ' Whoever thou 
 art, help me ! ' 
 
 ' Mamma dear,' began little Mary again, her thoughts 
 running obstinately in one groove, ' in Jessie's 
 Testament I read that Jesus said, " Suffer little children 
 to come unto Me." Do you think if I went with the 
 other children, He would take me ? It wouldn't be 
 like Him if He sent me away, mamma, would it?' 
 and she smiled, with a half-laughing joy which broke 
 the mother's heart to see. 
 
 1 When Jessie died,' continued the child herself, 
 alas ! now dying ' don't you remember ? she said 
 she would be sure to see her little sister Grace. 
 Shall I see our little Harold, mamma ? ' suddenly 
 recalling the name of a long-dead little brother. 
 ' And oh, mamma dear, shall I see you ? Won't you 
 come to me ? ' and she broke into a passion of sobbing, 
 and clung to her mother, as there fell on her imagination 
 the terror of death's loneliness, of death as a separating 
 blackness. 
 
 ' Perhaps papa can tell me about Jesus ? ' she went 
 on. 
 
 But her father had already fled from the intolerable 
 anguish of his child's dying face, and strange, persistent 
 questions. He sat now in his study, before the 
 empty fireplace, his head buried in his hands, and a 
 pang, sharper than the kiss of flame or the stab of 
 steel, piercing his heart. What a gate of suffering 
 love itself could be he never realized till he saw his 
 little child torn with a pain he could not soothe, and 
 for which there was no healing. And what turned 
 his child's thoughts, by a spell so resistless, into a 
 channel so strange? Was this part of God's con-
 
 254 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 troversy with him ; God's way of piercing the veil 
 which, with his own hands, he had hung over the 
 Divine Face ? What strange instinct, too, was it 
 which made the spirit of a little child, in the blackness 
 of 'the shadow feared of man,' turn to the discredited 
 superstition of the Jesus of the Gospels? Was that 
 dim, childish instinct wiser than his science? Did 
 it pierce deeper into the mystery, and see with clearer 
 vision ? He thought of Kipling's lines : 
 
 God's mercy is upon the young, 
 God's wisdom in the baby tongue, 
 That fears not anything. 
 
 No ! A thousand times, no ! The luminous 
 teaching of reason was more than the wandering 
 visions of a dying child's brain. Yet how dare he 
 pluck from his child's hand this one hope, which, after 
 all, might have reality behind it ? It was certain he 
 could himself give no other. If the Figure of Christ 
 was only a myth, bred of the disordered human 
 imagination the birth of dark ages and of dark 
 minds yet, somehow, it wore a fairer face, it was of 
 a diviner stature and more radiant brow, than any- 
 thing else reason or science revealed. 
 
 On the platform and before a crowd Mr. Gifford 
 found the exposition of his creed easy enough ; but 
 in the presence of a lonely and dying child his faith, 
 he realized with amazement, had neither message nor 
 office. And the child at whose bedside he had stood 
 with frozen lips was his own ! So a great doubt 
 began to whisper in Mr. Gifford's brain. There might 
 be a Christ. Perhaps all the saints were not wrong, 
 and all the rogues right ! There might be a Christ 
 Could he refuse his child that chance?
 
 THE PRICK OF GOD'S SPEAR 255 
 
 At that moment the door opened, and Mrs. Gifford 
 entered, wild with an anguish which wrote strange 
 lines on her face. 
 
 ' Oh, Frank,' she cried, ' I can't bear it. Mary is 
 dying, is dying, and she talks of nothing but Jesus. 
 And we have taken Him from her,' she went on 
 with rising voice. Then, falling into a heart-breaking 
 whisper, ' Why doesn't He exist ? ' she asked. ' Have 
 you nothing to say to her? She asked me to pray 
 for her ; and wretched mother that I am ! I have 
 no God to pray to ! Will you come and pray, just 
 to soothe her ? ' 
 
 f ' God help us ! ' said the wretched father, falling back 
 unconsciously on the speech of his earlier days ; ' what 
 would prayer do for her or for us ? ' 
 
 ' Frank, we are wrong ! There must be a Jesus 
 somewhere, to love and help our little Mary. I can't 
 bear her questions. Don't be angry with me, dear ; 
 I must send for Mr. Walton. Mary wants him : how 
 can we deny her ? Perhaps he can help her ; we 
 can't.' 
 
 'You must do as you like,' said the unhappy 
 father. 
 
 But Mr. Walton, on being sent for, was found to 
 be absent ; some hours must elapse before he returned. 
 And slowly, for the sick child and the heart-broken 
 mother, the long hours of the afternoon crept past, 
 and the shadows of the evening began to fall. 
 
 While they waited, John Blunt was announced. 
 His bluff good-nature had made him a favourite with 
 the children, and his little daughter Jess had been 
 Maiy's chief playmate ; and so he must be called into 
 the room. 
 
 Mr. Blunt, I am dying,' said Mary, with labouring 

 
 256 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 breath ; for in the consciousness of that fact she 
 seemed to feel herself clothed with a pathetic and 
 quite unaccustomed dignity. ' I shall see Jessie ; don't 
 you think I shall, Mr. Blunt?' 
 
 The sweat broke out thick on John Blunt's brow 
 as he found himself thus appealed to as an authority 
 on the mysteries of the next world. Then the supreme 
 and perpetual question of poor little Mary's heart 
 found speech. 
 
 ' Don't you think Jesus loves me, as He did your 
 Jessie? He did love Jessie, didn't He, Mr. Blunt?' 
 
 John took refuge in generalities. 
 
 ' Every one loves you, Mary dear/ he said. 
 
 * Ah ! but no one can help me now, but Jesus ! 
 The Bible says, " Jesus called a little child unto 
 Him " ; you know, that's on the gravestone of your 
 little boy ' the epitaph belonged, it is needless to say, 
 to the days when his new creed had not yet illumined 
 John Blunt's mind with its dry and uncomfortable 
 light ! ' Is Jesus calling me, Mr. Blunt ? He called 
 Jessie, didn't He ? ' and the child waited for an answer, 
 exploring with eyes preternaturally bright John Blunt's 
 honest face, down which the unashamed tears were 
 now running. 
 
 Mr. Blunt lapsed into his native dialect. 
 
 ' Eh, child,' he said, ' if there isna a heaven for such 
 as thou and little Jess, there ought to be ! ' 
 
 'Will you pray with me, as the minister did with 
 Jessie ? ' asked Mary ; adding in a confidential whisper, 
 ' papa won't.' 
 
 ' Ah, lassie,' said John, ' I cannot. Oh, Mary, 
 woman,' he went on, calling on his wife, lying for 
 long years in her grave, 'why did ye leave us?' 
 
 How he got out of the room, John Blunt couldn't
 
 THE PRICK OF GOD'S SPEAR 257 
 
 tell. At the door he met Mr. Creakles, the secretary 
 of the Association, evidently full of some serious 
 business. 
 
 4 Mr. Blunt/ he said, with an air of importance, ' I 
 understand that our president's daughter is either dying 
 or dead ; and this is a great opportunity for us. A 
 good deal of sympathy will be felt for the parents ; 
 and don't you think this might be utilized for the 
 Cause ? I am sure you will agree with me that this 
 is a chance not to be lost. We ought to seize the 
 occasion to show the advantages of our system. 
 Suppose, for example, we had an impressive funeral, 
 and got Mr. Ripper down from London to deliver 
 his famous address on " Heaven an Exploded Super- 
 stition." It would have a good effect, don't you 
 think ? ' 
 
 Mr. Blunt stared at the little wizen-faced, hawk- 
 nosed man, as though he saw his new creed in breeches, 
 coat, and spectacles before him, and didn't exactly 
 enjoy the vision. 
 
 4 The Association,' Mr. Creakles went on, ' might, 
 as a mark of respect, put up a headstone for the 
 little girl. It wouldn't cost very much, and we could 
 put an appropriate and suggestive epitaph upon it. 
 I don't remember, curiously enough, any epitaph that 
 does justice to our views ; but,' he added, with a smirk 
 of conscious pride, ' I have just drafted a little thing 
 of my own, which, I think, would meet the ideas of all 
 our people.' 
 
 He pulled out of his breast-pocket a couple of sheets 
 of notepaper, and proceeded to read. 
 
 ' What do you think of this, Mr. Blunt ? 
 
 4 " Here lie certain ounces of charcoal and lime, which 
 formerly constituted Mary Gifford (daughter of Frank 
 
 17
 
 258 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 Gifford, president of the Freethought Association of this 
 town), who emerged from a state of protoplasm " 
 I don't know the exact date,' explained Mr. Creakles 
 '"was nurtured in the glorious doctrines of Freethought, 
 
 and lapsed into carbon on " we needn't put in 
 
 the date just yet. 
 
 ' I think/ said the author of this remarkable epitaph, 
 contemplating it with a critical air, ' that ought to be 
 satisfactory. There is nothing bigoted or illiberal 
 about that. It's thoroughgoing. It's strictly scientific. 
 A bit of Latin would, perhaps, give a scholarly touch to 
 it ; but I'm not strong in Latin. I've looked up the 
 dictionary, though, and I think " ex nihilo nihil " might 
 do, or what would you say to " Requiescat in carbone " ? 
 I am not quite sure of the Latin, but I rather think 
 there is a touch of originality about that.' 
 
 ' You might at least,' said John Blunt, with a blunt- 
 ness of double intensity, 'keep your epitaphs till the 
 child is dead.' 
 
 ' But we must be prepared,' remonstrated Mr. 
 Creakles. ' Now, about the address at the grave. If 
 Mr. Ripper can't come, and Mr. Gifford himself is 
 unable to give it, I think the Association will expect 
 you to take his place.' 
 
 'Confound the Association!' said Mr. Blunt, as he 
 broke away. 
 
 By this time the message had reached Mr. Walton, 
 and he quickly stood by the dying child. Mr. Walton 
 was no dialectician. He could not prove his creed 
 by logic. In the wrangle of the critics over the Bible 
 he took little part ; but at the bedside of the dying 
 he was without a peer. His faith moved in a realm 
 beyond the reach of debate. He was Christ's messenger, 
 stooping over one of Christ's little ones.
 
 THE PRICK OF GOD'S SPEAR 259 
 
 How sweetly, on the panting little heart, labouring 
 to the end of its task, fell syllable by syllable like 
 falling dew on flowers, the story of Christ. It needed 
 no proof ! Love has its own credentials ! 
 
 So the immortal story fell from Mr. Walton's lips : 
 how Jesus Christ Himself, the Eternal Son of God, had 
 become a little child ; had lived through the span of 
 human life ; had died, carrying the burden of all human 
 sin ; had risen from death, triumphant, and had 
 opened the kingdom of heaven to all who loved Him. 
 How He was God, and revealed God. How He still 
 lived, and was there by the bed, in the little room, 
 holding the fevered hand, guiding the stumbling feet. 
 How, to those who loved Christ, death was not dark- 
 ness, but light ; not sunset and night, but dawn and 
 the day ; how the shining gates of heaven were just 
 beyond the shadow, and the face of Christ brighter 
 than even the gates of pearl. And then what a company 
 was waiting there to meet the delivered and redeemed 
 spirit : all the loved and pure of all the ages ! 
 
 ' Oh, mamma,' said Mary, while the tears ran like 
 rain down her cheeks, 'didn't you know this? Why 
 didn't you tell me yourself?'
 
 \ 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 ON TALANA HILL 
 
 KIT'S first days in South Africa were days of heart- 
 ache, of home-sickness, and of hard work. But work, 
 for the healthy mind, is a tonic ; duty is a medicine ; 
 and though a new gravity stole into Kit's face, and 
 deeper lines wrote themselves upon it, yet, in time, a 
 finer and serener peace seemed to shine through it. 
 His features showed, too, a new strength ; a strength 
 bred of sorrow patiently endured, of a great choice 
 manfully sustained. 
 
 Boyd, his student chum, was the senior engineer of 
 the mine in which Kit was engaged, and the head of 
 the professional staff. He was a masterful, loud-spoken, 
 energetic man, with flowing beard and irascible grey eyes. 
 He met Kit with a stentorian welcome, which the 
 somewhat sad-hearted young fellow found very pleasant. 
 Boyd had for Kit the affection which is sometimes 
 bred of diversity of temperament and character. He 
 admired him for the qualities which he himself did not 
 possess ; for his cool temper and quiet fashion of 
 speech ; for his unashamed piety ; for his scientific 
 knowledge as an engineer. And Kit, too, brought to 
 him a pleasant breath of England, of old friends, and 
 of old college days. 
 
 ' You are a little bit of cool England, Kit, dropped 
 
 260
 
 1 YOU ARE A LITTLE BIT OF COOL ENGLAND, KIT.
 
 ON TALANA HILL 261 
 
 down in this hot place, and you seem to bring the 
 scent of English valleys and the chatter of English 
 brooks with you.' 
 
 Africa had roughened Boyd, but he had towards Kit, 
 bred of old college experiences, an admiration not 
 unflavoured with envy, and not unvexed, sometimes, 
 with wrath for Kit's quiet but unshakable steadfast- 
 ness of character. 
 
 His views on the burglary in Middleford, and of 
 Kit's unfortunate entanglement with it, were of a 
 character which tickled Kit's sense of humour, yet 
 curiously soothed him. 
 
 ' The whole gang of them,' was Boyd's stentorian 
 summary, ' were either fools or rogues or both. Why, 
 Kit, I don't like your religion over-much ; I can do 
 without it well enough myself or, at least, I can do 
 with a much smaller allowance of it than you find 
 necessary ; but, hang it ! any one who can suspect you 
 of being tangled up in a burglary proves himself 
 qualified for a lunatic asylum.' 
 
 Then his light-grey eyes, that kindled so easily into 
 wrath, shot fire. He turned red-faced with generous 
 wrath. 
 
 ' By Jove ! ' he cried, ' I would like to have that 
 detective for a quiet half-hour amongst the kopjes. 
 I'd let light into his thick head ! ' 
 
 Kit's elevated eyebrows rebuked Boyd's expletives. 
 
 ' It's no use bringing your primness to Africa, Kit,' 
 he laughed. ' The Rand is a bad place for religion. 
 You will have a good deal of pious starch shaken out 
 of you here.' 
 
 ' Religion is something better than a starch, Boyd,' 
 said Kit pleasantly, 'and it seems to me that both 
 for one's own sake, and for the sake of other people
 
 262 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 you want religion as badly on the Rand as in any 
 place in the world.' 
 
 ' No, no, Kit ; you are in Africa, not in England, 
 where you can't stir without butting up against a 
 church. When in Rome you must do as the Romans 
 do.' 
 
 * That is a cowardly proverb, Boyd, and as mean as 
 it is cowardly ! Do you change your principles with 
 your geography ? ' 
 
 ' Ah ! you are the same old stubborn Kit, I see ; 
 but Africa will educate you. Unless, indeed, you hope 
 to educate Africa ! ' 
 
 No ; that's too big a contract for me,' laughed Kit ; 
 ' but, please God, I will keep my own conscience 
 clean.' 
 
 Well ! That's a big contract, too/ said Boyd, with 
 a stentorian laugh. 
 
 To Kit the sun-filled African landscape was a 
 perpetual feast : the deep, ineffable purity of the sky ; 
 the unfenced emptiness of the earth ; the tawny sand 
 of the summer river-beds ; the olive-grey scrub ; the 
 raw, rock-freckled, far-stretching veldt, its yellow grasses 
 mottled though, alas! too rarely as with splashes of 
 red ink or of white snow, by crimson-tufted or pure 
 white flowers; the grey-blue hills in the nearer distance, 
 beyond which, like purple battlements against the azure 
 sky, rose the great mountain-ranges. 
 
 The human landscape, too, keenly interested him. 
 South Africa, at that moment, was a rough geographical 
 palette, on which all known human tints were splashed 
 brown Kaffirs, black Hottentots, coffee-tinted Arabs, 
 white Europeans, Was there ever such a witch's 
 cauldron of fermenting nationalities as that offered by 
 the Rand ! Sullen Boers, sleek Hollanders, voluble
 
 ON TALANA HILL 263 
 
 Frenchmen, guttural-syllabled Germans ; miners from 
 Devon and Cornwall, keen-faced Americans, lean and 
 wiry Australians with fearless eye and frank face. 
 
 But on the African landscape at that moment lay, 
 like some fast-darkening eclipse, the shadow of coming 
 war. The Outlander was bitter with the sense of 
 wrong ; the Boer was sullen with strange fears, and 
 half drunk with stranger hopes. Hollander and German 
 and Frenchman were fermenting with anger bred of 
 defeated greed. Then, at the end of the long-drawn- 
 out negotiations, came Mr. Krugcr's ultimatum, the 
 instant arrest of all business, the flight seaward of 
 the English ! 
 
 Kit watched for days that strange spectacle of the 
 depopulation of Johannesburg a whole city in head- 
 long flight. The 'Outlanders could stay only by 
 special permits, given scantily, and liable to be with- 
 drawn at any moment. If they stayed, too, it was 
 at the risk of being commandeered and compelled 
 to fight against their own flag. So they fled, abandon- 
 ing their mines, their city, their wealth. But it was 
 with the hope that they would come back with rifles 
 and Maxims ; and under the shelter of the British 
 flag build a social system in which, there would be 
 equal rights for white men, and just laws for black 
 men. 
 
 In an Anglo-Saxon community, at such a crisis, 
 the fighting impulse was sure to find ample expression. 
 Companies of volunteers began to crystallize them- 
 selves. Many of the miners eagerly joined these. 
 Boyd who had become Kit's special chum, in spite 
 of their difference in age and their discords of character 
 took an active part in this movement. His vehement 
 temper and habit of frank, loud speech had made him
 
 264 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 in the eyes of the Boer authorities, a ' dangerous ' man 
 and he knew he must not stay in Boer territory 
 after war had broken out. He had himself joined a 
 volunteer company ; and for all his loudly-proclaimed 
 contempt for Kit's piety, he was eager that his comrade 
 should enlist too. 
 
 ' Well, old " Stubborn, " ' he said he had revived Kit's 
 ancient college nickname of ' Stubborn,' an epithet 
 given in half-admiring derision of his known steadiness 
 of purpose ' I suppose your religion won't let you 
 fight ? ' 
 
 ' That depends on the cause, ' replied Kit, with 
 a smile. 
 
 ' Well, isn't this cause good enough ? ' asked Boyd 
 roughly. 'The old flag's worth fighting for, and we 
 want to teach these wretched Dutchmen a lesson.' 
 
 ' Perhaps, for the matter of that, we want to learn 
 some lessons too.' 
 
 * Ah, that's your Christianity,' answered Boyd, with 
 conviction. 'It's a poor, tame thing! A religion that 
 makes you take a licking lying down isn't the religion 
 for men.' 
 
 ' But my religion doesn't teach me that. I think 
 the cause is good, though not quite for your reasons ; 
 and I'll enlist' 
 
 ' Hang the reasons,' said Boyd heartily. ' I thought 
 you had too much honest English blood in your veins to 
 go sneaking off when every good Englishman ought 
 to stand by his flag.' 
 
 Kit, like most men of his race, reached the fighting- 
 point slowly ; and he was deeply religious. How far is 
 a Christian, who is not a soldier by profession, justified 
 in taking his rifle and joining in such a bloody business 
 as war? Kit shared all the resentment of his class
 
 ON TALANA HILL 265 
 
 against Boer rule. He was perhaps hardly just to it ; 
 but what seemed its ignorance shocked his common 
 sense; its corruption kindled his scorn. It meant too 
 often injustice to white men, and cruelty to black men. 
 He had watched the flight from Johannesburg, the 
 trains crowded with women and children, moving off not 
 seldom under the jeers and insults of a Boer crowd. 
 The flag of his country was about to be assailed. The 
 first low, deep thunder of coming war was shaking 
 heaven and earth. Could he turn his back on such a 
 scene, and leave other Englishmen to risk their lives 
 for Queen and country? If he stood aloof, other 
 Englishmen would say Boyd loudest of all that 
 religion cut all the sinews of manliness in its subject. 
 It made him, as a citizen, worthless. 
 
 But Kit mistrusted this ferment of resentments and 
 emotions in his own breast. They were compounded of 
 strange elements : political convictions, pride of race, 
 dread of human scorn, and the mere animal fighting 
 impulse. At last, like a wise lad, he set the whole 
 matter in the clear, high realm of conscience ; and his 
 duty seemed, almost at a breath, to grow clear to him. 
 He must take his part as an Englishman. He must j 
 fight though without either hate or passion for the 
 cause of his country. And Kit had one wholesome 
 intellectual characteristic. When he had reached a 
 decision, and his conscience had endorsed it, it was 
 final. It never came up for re-discussion unless, 
 indeed, new factors emerged. 
 
 Some brains never reach finality. They discuss and 
 rediscuss the same question indefinitely, and reach a 
 decision to-day, only to doubt it to-morrow. And the 
 process goes on till the very power of ' making-up ' one's 
 mind is lost, or there remains no mind to be ' made
 
 266 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 up.' But Kit's brain, though in its cells burned no 
 spark of genius, had, at least, a| capacity for reasoned 
 and final decision. 
 
 During his early experiences as a volunteer, in the 
 camp, and on the march, Kit came to know the veldt 
 well neutral-tinted, and pustuled with kopjes ; and it 
 bred in him that half-fascinated mood of mingled hate 
 and love which the veldt seldom fails to inspire. Poets 
 make landscapes ' smile ' ; but no poet could imagine 
 a smile on the face of the veldt. Grey, void, flowerless 
 save for low-lying patches of white heath, or red 
 dahlias mystic, illimitable ! Grey is not the exact 
 word to express the colour-effect of the African veldt ; 
 the colour note is a yellowish-grey, like bleached khaki, 
 the tint of the garb worn by the men who marched 
 and fought on its surface. Yellow the daisies, the 
 hawkweed, the mimosa blossoms ; grey the tint of the 
 far-stretching levels of grass ; grey the weather-worn 
 rock masses of the kopje. Only where the steel-blue 
 taibosch grows on the lower hill-slopes, or where a 
 vague, curving, elusive line of green marks a river- 
 course, does the fascinated eye escape the dominant 
 note of yellowish-grey. 
 
 The veldt is a sea. Sea-like its vastness, sea-like its 
 hard, curving horizon. But it is a grey and melancholy 
 sea, and its [kopjes resemble dismantled ships, of the old 
 haystack kind, mere floating derelicts in a forgotten 
 ocean. What is Africa itself, indeed, but a vast, flat- 
 topped kopje, with infant kopjes innumerable, sprinkled 
 over its stony back ! 
 
 And above the khaki-tinted veldt rose by day an 
 arch of undimmed blue ; by night one of star-sprinkled 
 cobalt. Only where the boundaries of night and day 
 touched, at dawn and at sunset, did the eastern and
 
 ON TALANA HILL 267 
 
 western horizon, in turn, burn with a flame of almost 
 intolerable colours. The unrealized vastness of the 
 veldt, with the pure, dry atmosphere in which it is 
 bathed, is the reason why its distances are so illusive. 
 Space, somehow, loses its perspective, distance its 
 scale. 
 
 The wild life of the veldt, feathered or furred or 
 scaled, stirred Kit's interest curiously. The red-shanked 
 wood-pigeon in the grass ; the crested eagle, a drifting 
 patch of curved and fretted wings, in the blue air ; the 
 aasvogel, a grey and feathered appetite mere hunger 
 armed with beak and claws floating above the 
 melancholy expanse of the empty landscape ; the lizard, 
 clad in mail of shivering bronze, barred and edged with 
 gold, in the hot sand ; the locusts, flying before the 
 breath of the hot wind, in air-borne armies uncounted, 
 till the air is thick, and the earth is grey, and space 
 itself is choked with them. The sounds of the veldt, 
 too, grew familiar to Kit's ears : the whistling of the 
 rhea-buck in the scrub ; the snapping bark of the 
 baboon in grey and sullen valleys, on which the 
 beetling cliffs looked down ; and, sometimes, at night, 
 the deep, triple-booming roar of the lion. 
 
 It was a new education for Kit : the toil of the 
 march, the quick obedience of the drill-ground, the 
 rough companionships of the camp-fire, the contact 
 with both nature and human nature in their wildest 
 shapes all stretched out through weeks. 
 
 4 Now, Kit,' said Boyd, as the troop of which they 
 were members rode one October afternoon into Symons's 
 camp outside Dundee, ' you are going to have some 
 of your pious notions knocked out of you. Religion 
 may suit a Sunday school, or a prayer-meeting, but 
 it will go to pieces in a campaign. You must leave
 
 268 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 it behind you when you are going into the firing 
 line.' 
 
 ' No, replied Kit cheerfully. ' That is just where 
 I shall want it most of all. And, though you can't 
 understand it, Boyd, yet I shall be a better soldier 
 with my religion than I could be without it.' 
 
 ' Tell that to the marines,' said Boyd, with a laugh. 
 
 Boyd, it may be explained, found in Kit's ' religion ' 
 a fruitful occasion of rather clumsy wit. He expended 
 laborious jests upon it with tireless diligence. But 
 behind all his banter there was an unconfessed and 
 admiring envy. As he looked at Kit, he thought, in 
 his own rough vernacular, ' What a fine fellow he 
 is!' Boyd, himself, was much the more popular and 
 picturesque fighting man of the two. He was bearded 
 like the pard. His loud, frank speech was punctuated 
 with strange oaths. He filled a larger space in the 
 eyes of men than did Kit, with his pleasant face and 
 gentle fashion of speech. 
 
 But Kit brought to his new business the gifts of a 
 born cricketer quick eyes, cool nerves, tireless limbs, 
 lightning-swift decision. He was a good rider, had a 
 fine natural genius for shooting, made deadly by much 
 practice, and a sense of ' locality ' which made him 
 an excellent scout. He had, too, that dangerous habit 
 of the Anglo-Saxon : he got quieter and cooler as he 
 reached the fighting-point. 
 
 His officers quickly discovered his qualities and, 
 on Boyd's part, there came into existence a half- 
 unconscious rivalry with Kit. He would show this 
 ' Sunday-school soldier,' . he swore softly under his 
 beard, that there was a finer manliness possible with- 
 out a religion than with it. 
 
 The first rough test of battle for the two men came
 
 ON TALANA HILL 269 
 
 swiftly. In the grey dawn of October 20, Symons's 
 force Fusiliers and Rifles, with three batteries of 
 guns stood in line on the lower slopes of Talana Hill. 
 On the right flank were the i8th Hussars, and some 
 mounted infantry, and with them the little company 
 to which Boyd and Kit belonged. The men were 
 scanning, with eager eyes, the long hill-slope before 
 them, with its carpet of grey-green grass. The hill 
 lifted its crest high in air, with a sudden curve ; and 
 through the thinning mist its rounded head began to 
 show, black and sullen. This was the position they 
 were to carry. A lower range, at right angles to the 
 main hill, stretched down to the plain. The fire from 
 it would command the British flank when the advance 
 began. 
 
 As the men stood silent, but in loose order, watching 
 the clearing mist and the unfolding landscape, a patch 
 of bright sky became visible, and threw the rounded 
 summit of Talana Hill into sharp relief. Some tiny 
 black specks were seen moving on it. Yet others 
 fretted the skyline. Then came the deep call of a 
 great gun, the long-drawn crescendo of a shell. Talana 
 Hill was speaking ! It was held in force, and the Boers 
 were firing ! 
 
 The British guns dashed to the front, and barked 
 and swore in reply, but it was like a group of terriers 
 answering a bull-dog. The gun on Talana out-ranged 
 and out-bellowed the lighter British artillery. 
 
 Presently came a sharp word of command, the troops 
 swung to their left, and at the quick-step marched in 
 one far-stretching column through Dundee. On many 
 a door-step the women stood, to watch, with pitiful 
 eyes, the files of khaki-clad men who, with eager and 
 set faces, were marching at speed to battle. More
 
 270 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 than once some motherly woman, made tender by the 
 sight of a boyish face in the ranks, would break into 
 loud weeping, or even throw her arms round the neck 
 of the embarrassed soldier and kiss him ! 
 
 The hill was to be attacked on its eastern flank. 
 When its foot was reached by the dusty column, there 
 came a brief halt. The men stood at ease, or flung 
 themselves on the grass ; the officers drew together in 
 groups, and studied the slope up which they were to 
 lead their men. 
 
 Kit looked with curious eyes at the long, gently 
 curving hillside, with its carpet of yellowish grass, 
 sprinkled with rough stones. On that rough and 
 sloping stage the bloody drama of battle was about 
 to be played ! How the Mauser bullets would scourge 
 that unsheltered hillside ! Half-way up the hill was 
 an oblong plantation ; beyond it rose the rough crest. 
 Death seemed to fling its menacing shadow on the 
 whole hill, from grey foot to black summit ! 
 
 Kit turned to look at the men near him. Some 
 stood with parted lips and flushed faces ; some were 
 pale, but with firm-shut mouth. But, in all, the eyes 
 seemed to have the same look, an aspect of eager 
 challenge and expectation. 
 
 Kit, to his own surprise, was conscious of a curious 
 sense of elation. It was not the ferment of the fighting 
 blood in his veins ; it was exactly the mood into 
 which he had been lifted on the deck of the wrecked 
 ship. He had the sense of being raised out of the 
 commonplace. Great forces were touching him. And 
 beneath all other emotions there ran, like some sweet, 
 strong wine, the exultant consciousness that his life 
 was in the almighty hand of God. The rough and 
 perilous way of duty ran up that hillside, where the
 
 ON TALANA HILL 271 
 
 bullets were already tearing the atmosphere with their 
 insistent whisper ; and as the word ' duty ' framed 
 itself in Kit's brain, somehow there awoke in his 
 memory the echoes of Wordsworth's fine lines : 
 
 Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong : 
 And the most ancient heavens, through thee, are fresh and strong. 
 
 Boyd, who stood next him, looked at him queerly. 
 The steadfast, ' lifted ' look on Kit's face surprised 
 him. 
 
 ' Hang this waiting ! ' said Boyd fretfully ; ' why don't 
 they let us go in and get it over ? ' 
 
 ' They know what's best,' replied Kit cheerfully. 
 
 Just then a stern, quiet word ran along the files 
 from officer to officer. The men fell into their places, 
 the line stiffened itself, the intervals widened, and the 
 advance began. 
 
 Steadily, in far extended order, the slender, grey- 
 tinted lines mounted with a wave-like effect the 
 hill, while, from front and flank, came the hooting 
 shells, the hail of softly whistling Mauser bullets. 
 But on, without pause or break, flowed the steady 
 lines. 
 
 On the left of the advance the track of a water- 
 course furrowed the hillside deeply, and the outer files 
 leaped down and marched betwixt its banks. It 
 proved, however, a treacherous shelter. The Boer 
 rifles swept it from end to end with a deadly fire. 
 Boyd, with a curse, broke at last from his file and 
 clambered up the bank ; but Kit swung on, with 
 bent head and set features, and Boyd found time to 
 cast a glance of half-reluctant admiration at his cooler 
 comrade. 
 
 The wood was reached, but it, in turn, proved a
 
 272 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 delusive shelter. It formed a huge natural target for 
 the enemy's shell-fire, while the tiny Mauser bullets 
 searched it from front to rear with venomous intensity. 
 It was riding up to this wood that the gallant, but 
 ill-fated, Symons was shot. The men were broken 
 in order ; many officers had fallen ; Fusiliers and 
 Rifles and Dublins were mixed together. But no 
 man looked back. The fierce fighting impulse carried 
 them to the further edge of the little wood ; and, lying 
 down in the grass, they scanned with eager eyes the 
 scene before them. 
 
 Some four or five hundred yards distant a rough 
 wall ran, like a grey ribbon, across the shoulder of 
 the hill. Above it, and a little beyond it, rose, almost 
 like a battlement, a face of ragged and broken rock, 
 crowned with a grassy slope that ran back in a long, 
 flat curve. Another rough wall ran down at right 
 angles from the main wall, till it almost reached the 
 wood. The ground rose sharply to the right of this 
 wall, and the Boer riflemen, lying amongst the rocks 
 on its edge, swept the face of the hill with a bitter 
 flank fire. 
 
 The British guns were by this time pelting the face 
 and summit of the hill with shrapnel, and the fire 
 in front slackened. But the deadly raking fire on 
 the right snapped and spluttered and stung without 
 pause. 
 
 There was a sudden call of high, shrill voices : the 
 men gathered themselves for the final rush. An officer 
 ran out, leading, and in single file, or in little groups 
 and clusters, the men followed, stooping, as they ran, 
 under the shelter of the wall on their flank. In this 
 way the wall above was reached and lined with breath- 
 less, panting men of all regiments. There was no
 
 ON TALANA HILL 273 
 
 formation. Order was gone ; discipline had vanished. 
 Nothing was left but the native, unconquerable fighting 
 impulse ; the eager purpose of the officers to lead ; the 
 stern willingness of the men to follow. 
 
 The Boer fire had again kindled to fury. It seemed 
 certain death to lift a head above the wall, so fast 
 and so fiercely the bullets sang in the air. The 
 atmosphere was torn with threads of whistling sound. 
 To lift a hand in that shot-tormented air, it almost 
 seemed, was to have it shattered. 
 
 Kit looked round curiously on the scene. Some of 
 the men were jesting roughly ; some silently wiped 
 the sweat, or the blood, from their faces ; others swore, 
 but with no consciousness of their oaths. Many, in 
 crouching attitude, were eagerly peering through the 
 crevices in the wall. One man, near to Kit, daringly 
 lifted his head above the wall, and the next moment 
 fell suddenly, and lay with twitching limbs. 
 
 It was, perhaps, a couple of hundred yards to the 
 foot of the kopje. A broken wall of rock rose steeply, 
 girdling the hill as a belt of armour sorely shattered 
 might belt the sides of an ironclad. Above the line 
 of rock the actual crest of the hill ran back, a skull- 
 shaped curve of slippery grass. The air, torn by a 
 hail of Mauser bullets from the face of broken rock 
 and the crown of yellow grass, seemed full of rustling 
 whispers. The task was to leap over the wall, race 
 across the space of rock-sown grass, climb the fire- 
 spitting face of the kopje, and storm up the glacis- 
 like slope above ; and all this in the teeth of magazine 
 rifles ! The best soldiers in the world might have 
 turned back from such a task without shame. 
 
 But for the men crouching under that wall Dublin 
 Fusiliers, Irish Fusiliers, Rifles, and a sprinkling of 
 
 18
 
 274 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 colonial volunteers to turn back was the very last 
 thing contemplated. No man so much as looked 
 back ! Every face was turned up to that front of 
 rock, with its deadly spray of flying lead. Kit 'was 
 again conscious of the strange exaltation of mood he 
 had known on the deck of the wrecked ship, and at 
 the foot of Talana when the advance began. He 
 looked round and saw everything with strange dis- 
 tinctness : the line of crouching figures, the upturned 
 faces many of them blood-stained that scanned the 
 hill-slope before them. 
 
 The eager, shifting figures seemed only waiting 
 for the shout and gesture of a leader to fling them 
 forward. Putting his hand on the wall, Kit looked 
 round for some one to lead. Boyd crouched near 
 him his face sweat-stained and purple, his eyes almost 
 starting out of his head, and flitting to and fro with 
 animal-like quickness. He cast a strange look at 
 Kit. ' What,' he found time to wonder, ' was the 
 secret of the easy coolness of this " Sunday-school 
 soldier " ? ' 
 
 At that moment came the rush. The British officer, 
 whatever his scientific defects, seldom fails in actual 
 and personal leadership. He is, in brief, the best 
 leader of fighting men, for the actual charge, the race 
 has yet produced ! A Fusilier officer near Kit put 
 his hand on the top of the wall, and, with a shout, 
 leaped over it. The men nearest to him followed 
 instantly. In a moment the wall, from end to end, 
 was a fresco of leaping, khaki-clad figures. The men 
 were over, and the slope was covered with charging 
 soldiers ! Many fell the Fusilier officer that led, 
 amongst them. But onward swept the human wave. 
 The slope behind was strewn with the bleeding and
 
 ON TALANA HILL 275 
 
 the dead, the hill-face in front was edged with stinging 
 fire. But upward, without pause or shrinking, raced 
 the gallant stormers. Light-footed figures were fiercely 
 climbing upon the rocky face. Some paused for a 
 moment at the foot of the glacis-like crown of the 
 hill, till their panting comrades reached them, and 
 then raced up, side by side, with frowning brows and 
 levelled bayonets, to the crest. Amongst these was 
 Kit ; and, stumbling over the rocks, his face redder 
 than ever, came Boyd. He gasped when he saw Kit 
 in advance of him, and, with a rush, overtook him. 
 Side by side they ran forward, shouting men on every 
 side. 
 
 The Boers were fleeing ! That fierce and broken line, 
 edged with threatening steel, that the hail of Mauser 
 bullets could neither daunt nor stop, was too menacing 
 a spectacle for them. 
 
 A huge Boer, with rough-bearded face and unkempt 
 hair, turned suddenly in front, lifted his Mauser, and 
 covered the panting Boyd. Before he could fire, Kit's 
 rifle cracked, and the Boer, dropping, his weapon and 
 flinging his arms up convulsively, ran forward a few 
 stumbling steps, and fell heavily. In another moment 
 they were on him, and Boyd vengefully lifted his 
 bayonet. Kit struck it aside. 
 
 ' Let me kill him,' panted Boyd. 
 
 ' Don't hit a man when he's down,' said Kit, with 
 a laugh. 
 
 Boyd hesitated, and then ran on. But the Boers 
 were in wild retreat ; the crest was won. 
 
 ' Well,' said Boyd, looking with half-grudged admira- 
 tion at Kit, 'you can play the man, young fellow, in 
 spite of your religion.' 
 
 ' I can better play it, because of my religion, Boyd,'
 
 2/6 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 Kit answered. ' But don't let us talk theology now. 
 Thank God, we're safe ! Here are the wounded, and 
 we must help to get them down to the hospital tents. 
 And we must help these poor wretches,' he added, 
 pointing to a cluster of wounded Boers, 'just as much 
 as our own men.' 
 
 ' Confound 'em ! ' was Boyd's comment. Yet he helped 
 Kit to carry Boer after Boer to the spot where the 
 doctors were, by this time, busy.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 A PERILOUS MARCH 
 
 ON the day after the fight that won Talana Hill 
 the British fell back across the railway. But in their 
 new camp they were shelled by a huge Creusot gun 
 which here, for the first time in war, made its great 
 earth-shaking cough audible. Colonel Yule, who was 
 now in command, explored, with his scouts, the passes 
 which led to Glencoe. If he held that town, he would 
 cover the main line of railway, and could use it himself 
 to fall back on Ladysmith, if pressed. 
 
 But the Boers held the passes in strength ; Glencoe 
 and the railway were unattainable. A strong com- 
 mando pouring through Botha's Pass was striking at 
 Yule's rear, and would cut him off from Ladysmith. 
 Only one course was open to the British commander, 
 and he took it promptly. He abandoned his stores 
 and wounded, and marched by Beith and Sunday 
 River for Ladysmith. 
 
 The country was broken, and rough, the roads were 
 almost impassable, the weather was bitter. Not often 
 in war has there been a sharper trial of soldierly en- 
 durance than in that wild seventy-mile march to 
 Ladysmith. On the 23rd Beith was reached ; on the 
 24th the Waschbank was forded ; on the 2$th Sunday 
 River was crossed. 
 
 277
 
 278 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 The last day's march stretched through thirty-four 
 miles. The men splashed along the muddy roads, 
 while the wind-driven rain beat fiercely on them. They 
 were bespattered with mud, faint with hunger and 
 want of sleep, weary with the strain of the four days' 
 march. They had fought and won a battle, had been 
 most of them four days without rations, and six nights 
 without rest or quiet sleep. 
 
 Far to the west, on October 24, they had heard 
 faintly the guns at Reitfontein, where French was 
 fighting to cover their line of retreat. On the 25th 
 the tiny column White had sent out to meet and, 
 if necessary, assist them, met Yule's outposts, and these 
 were almost indignant that anybody should have 
 imagined they needed ' help ' ! Steevens, the famous 
 war correspondent, saw Yule's men as they marched 
 into Ladysmith. 'From their grimed hands and 
 heads,' he says, 'you might have judged them half 
 red men, half soot-black. Their feet were huge balls 
 of stratified mud. Eyelids hung heavy over hollow 
 cheeks and pointed cheek-bones. Only the eye 
 remained the sky-blue, steel-keen, hard, clear, un- 
 conquerable English eye to tell that thirty-two miles 
 without rest, four days without a square meal, six nights 
 for many without a stretch of sleep, still found them 
 soldiers at the end.' 
 
 But the gallant column left not a few ' missing ' 
 behind it, and amongst these were Boyd and Kit. 
 The strain, the hardship, the toil, the scanty, uncertain 
 rations, the blustering winds and incessant rains of 
 that great march did not suit Boyd's temper. He 
 ' went to pieces,' physically and morally, under it. He 
 grumbled and swore and drank. Kit cooler, younger, 
 with cleaner blood and a finer inspiration on the
 
 A PERILOUS MARCH 279 
 
 other hand, showed a steadiness and a power of 
 cheerful endurance which drove Boyd to half envy and 
 half hate him. 
 
 In the brief halt at Sunday River, about an hour 
 after midnight, the pair were roused and detailed for 
 scouting work. They were selected, Boyd for his 
 experience, and Kit for his steadiness, for a perilous 
 task. There was a drift or ford some two miles 
 from where the tired soldiers lay ; a track ran west- 
 ward from it to the railway. It was important to see 
 that no Boer scouts crossed by it and picked up the 
 trail of the column, or it might still be cut off from 
 Ladysmith, and Boyd and Kit were to relieve the men 
 who had kept watch at this point. 
 
 The night was black ; the rain came and went in 
 furious blasts, and Boyd swore and sulked at the task 
 assigned to them. He could keep his place in the 
 firing line with the best, and charge in a crowd with 
 the foremost ; but the ' two-o'clock-in-the-morning 
 courage ' the courage that rain could not damp, nor 
 cold chill, nor solitude and darkness shake was, at 
 the moment, not his. 
 
 The pair splashed on in the darkness for nearly an 
 hour ; and, at last, were left, with brief whispered 
 instructions by their officer, on the edge of the stream, 
 which ran black in the night beneath them. Beyond 
 rose, vaguely, in the rain-filled gloom, the hill on the 
 further bank. Neither of the pair had the mechanical 
 discipline of the regular soldier, who stops at the exact 
 spot where his sergeant places him, and never dreams 
 of acting on his own independent judgement. The map 
 they had studied before they left the camp showed, on the 
 further bank, a road running parallel with the river, and 
 crossing, at right angles, that leading down to the drift
 
 280 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 ' One of us must watch where the tracks intersect,' 
 said Kit 
 
 But to Boyd's tired frame and shaken nerves the 
 black night, the sighing river, the gloomy, whispering 
 forest beyond, were full of evil pontents. 
 
 ' Hanged if I'll go ! ' he said. 
 
 ' But that's the point to be watched,' urged Kit. 
 
 ' You may go, if you like,' said Boyd querulously. 
 
 Kit took the words coolly, as a consent, and, slinging 
 his rifle, made ready to cross. 
 
 ' I'll pick you up here at daybreak,' he said. 
 
 Boyd watched him as he waded into the black, 
 unknown water, stole across, and vanished in the dark- 
 ness of the farther bank. He shivered and then swore 
 beneath his breath. It affronted his vanity that this 
 gentle-voiced and pleasant-faced lad, the butt of many 
 a rough jest, should do what he as he confessed 
 frankly to himself shrank from attempting. 
 
 ' There's pluck in him,' he muttered. ' His religion 
 hasn't spoiled him after all.' 
 
 Boyd began dimly to suspect, indeed, that Kit's 
 religion had, somehow, set a strange flame of courage 
 burning in his blood ! 
 
 Kit found his way to the ridge, chose a point which 
 commanded both roads, and kept guard with alert 
 senses, and in spite of rain and cold, while the bitter 
 hours went past. 
 
 The morning at last showed signs of coming. Grey 
 light filled the skies. The forest seemed to stir 
 mysteriously with life and sound. It was near the 
 time when Kit must fall back, as the column, by 
 this, must have begun its march. 
 
 At this moment the faint snap of a broken stick, 
 and then the yet duller sound of a horse's hoof reached
 
 A PERILOUS MARCH 281 
 
 Kit's ear. He listened keenly, crouching lower in the 
 grey scrub, with its rain-wet leaves. Presently a Boer 
 scout came in sight with broad-brimmed hat, long, 
 unshorn beard, flecked with grey, and bandolier across 
 his chest. He drew up his pony where the roads 
 crossed, and stared down the track that ran to the 
 drift. Then he dismounted, fastened his pony to a 
 tree so that it was hidden by the scrub, and with 
 swinging rifle began to descend the river track. He 
 plainly meant to explore it. 
 
 Kit hesitated. He could not let the Boer cross 
 the river ; he could not burden himself with a prisoner. 
 He covered the man with his rifle ; the foresight rested 
 steadily, a tiny bead, on the broad chest, just below 
 the bandolier. The pressure of a finger and the man 
 would fall ! 
 
 But Kit could not fire in cold blood. He was both 
 too young a soldier and too much a civilized Englishman 
 to be able to shoot down an unconscious foe. It seemed 
 little better than murder. 
 
 The Boer, by this time, was almost abreast of him. 
 Kit stepped out into the open. 
 
 ' This way, lad,' he cried. ' You can't pass here. Go 
 back ! Leave your pony and clear off.' 
 
 The Boer turned with a half-leap as Kit's voice 
 reached him ; his eyes, with the quickness of a wild 
 beast, flitted to and fro. His hand stole to the lock 
 of his rifle. Kit was watching him keenly. 
 
 ' Drop that,' he said sharply ; adding sternly, ' Off 
 you go.' 
 
 The Boer hesitated, but he saw how coolly the 
 Englishman covered him. He grinned what was meant 
 to be a friendly smile, and turned with a gesture of 
 greeting. Kit still watched him intently, with all his
 
 282 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 senses alert. His plan was to capture the pony, and 
 this would leave its owner practically harmless. The 
 track curved round a stout tree a short distance ahead, 
 and the Boer, following the bend in the path, was, 
 for a moment, lost to sight. 
 
 As his body passed behind the tree, Kit, watching 
 with keenest gaze, caught a glimpse of one foot flung 
 in the air, as its owner whirled suddenly round. He 
 stood, with compressed lips and frowning brow, while 
 the hot blood jumped in his veins. He was taking 
 a deadly risk ; but to take cover would be to lose 
 sight of his enemy. 
 
 In a moment a black speck stole out on the further 
 side of the tree. It was the muzzle of the Boer's 
 rifle. Still Kit stood moveless, with keenly watching 
 eye. The next instant his rifle came to his shoulder 
 with lightning swiftness, and he fired. He had caught 
 a glimpse of the Boer's shoulder ; and the flash of 
 his rifle, by one breathless instant, anticipated the 
 stream of flame from the Boer's gun. 
 
 The Boer leaped out into the open, lifted his rifle, 
 and fired again, but the shot flew wide. The next 
 instant he staggered and fell. Kit still stood, with 
 unliftcd rifle, watching. 
 
 ' I thought so,' he muttered, as the body of his 
 antagonist fell heavily. c It was a quick shot, but 
 at that distance I couldn't miss.' 
 
 He strode quietly across, and stooped over the 
 fallen man. The shot, he saw, was fatal. It had 
 entered the right breast, and passed through the 
 body; the red arterial blood was already gushing 
 like a stream from the Boer's mouth and crimsoning 
 his tawny beard. 
 
 ' I saw you first and didn't drop you,' he said
 
 J 
 
 A PERILOUS MARCH 283 
 
 pitifully, 'when I might have done, and you should 
 have cleared when I told you.' 
 
 The dying Boer looked at him with eyes in which 
 hate still burned. Kit stooped over him and put his 
 flask to his lips. 
 
 ' My poor fellow, you are dying. Pray to God for 
 His mercy.' 
 
 A puzzled look came into the Boer's eyes. This 
 hated Englishman had first spared him, had then 
 out-shot him, and now was talking to him with kindly 
 eyes and compassionate voice, as though he had been 
 his own ' predicant.' Kit unbuttoned the rough coat 
 to give relief to the labouring breast of the dying 
 Boer ; but as he did so the man stretched himself 
 out with one deep, choking breath, and died. 
 
 Kit studied the forest, the dark hillsides beyond, 
 the bisecting tracks, with keen and searching eyes ; 
 but nothing stirred. It was plain the Boer had no 
 comrades. He was a solitary scout, perhaps a 
 messenger. At that thought Kit stooped over the 
 body and searched it. 
 
 Yes ; there was an official-looking letter, written 
 in Dutch, and quite unintelligible to Kit ; but he 
 could read the signature. It was signed ' P. Joubert,' 
 the Boer commander-in-chief. Kit put the letter 
 in his breast-pocket ; it might prove to be of im- 
 portance. 
 
 He next walked up to the pony, soothed its alarm 
 at the sound of a strange voice, and, leading it, went 
 back to the ford. Their orders were to fall back at 
 sunrise ; the column was to move still earlier. 
 
 'Well,' asked Boyd eagerly, as Kit clambered up 
 the farther bank of the stream, ' what did you fire 
 at? Where did you get that beast ? '
 
 284 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 Kit told his story briefly. 
 
 ' So you got the better of him,' cried Boyd, with 
 an admiring smile. ' Well done, young fellow ! ' 
 
 ' Let's be moving,' said Kit ; ' the column must have 
 started before this.' 
 
 They moved up the slope ; but when they gained 
 the ridge which looked down upon the river, they 
 stopped for a few minutes. A faint sound just then 
 seemed to steal through the misty air, and float 
 up from the now hidden river. Both men listened 
 intently. 
 
 ' Some one's crossing further up the stream,' whispered 
 Boyd. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Kit, unconsciously taking the lead ; ' we 
 must see who it is, and stop them if we can. Come 
 on ! ' and he moved forward in the direction whence 
 the sound came. 
 
 'Hadn't we better clear?' remonstrated Boyd; 'the 
 column will be a long way ahead.' 
 
 ' But we don't want any Boer scouts to pick up 
 the column, or they may yet head us off from Lady- 
 smith. Let's see who it is.' 
 
 With a touch of reluctance Boyd followed. He 
 began to realize that this ' half-parson ' as he some- 
 times called him had a strain of endurance, of cool 
 and enterprising courage, beyond him. 
 
 They reached a point wher > the ridge dipped, making 
 a shallow valley, running down to the river. 
 
 ' Sec,' said Kit quietly, ' there they are. Only three 
 of them.' 
 
 The figures were plain enough, riding through some 
 broken timber about six or seven hundred yards 
 distar.t. 
 
 Boyd made no reply, and Kit turned to look at him.
 
 A PERILOUS MARCH 285 
 
 He had fallen on one knee, and, with rifle at shoulder 
 was coolly aiming at the distant group. 
 
 ' Don't shoot, Boyd, till we see if it is necessary.' 
 
 ' It's always necessary to shoot a Dutchman,' replied 
 Boyd. 
 
 At that moment a blinding squall of rain swept 
 over the ridge. Boyd dashed the rain-drops from his 
 face, and peered intently in the direction where the 
 Boers had last been visible. 
 
 ' Where are they ? ' he grumbled. ' Why didn't you 
 let me bag one of them ? ' 
 
 'They were going north, and, I should judge, were 
 making for Dundee. They will not hit the track of 
 the column.' 
 
 ' I would like to have a chance of hitting them,' 
 growled Boyd. 
 
 At that moment the three Boers, on their ponies, 
 came into sight again, showing clearly against a patch 
 of grey and drifting fog. 
 
 ' There they are,' said Boyd eagerly. 
 
 He lifted his rifle, and fired two quick shots, then, 
 with a curse, exclaimed : 
 
 ' Missed ! Why didn't you fire ? ' he demanded, 
 savagely, of his comrade. 
 
 ' They are not alone,' replied Kit, who, with bent 
 head, was listening sharply to some sounds on their 
 left. ' I hear horses crossing by the ford we have just 
 left. I am afraid your shots will draw them on to 
 our track, and so they will stumble on the column. 
 We must stop them.' 
 
 ' Let's clear,' urged Boyd impatiently. ' There's nearly 
 a dozen of them, and they are mounted, and we are 
 not.' 
 
 Kit scarcely heard him. He was intently studying
 
 286 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 the wooded slope which ran down to the river. The 
 pair began to move cautiously back in the direction 
 of the first ford ; when, suddenly, some rifles cracked 
 sharply from the trees. Boyd ran forward a few 
 stumbling steps, and then pitched heavily on to the 
 ground. 
 
 ' I'm hit,' he gasped.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 ONE AGAINST SIX 
 
 KIT had flung himself down in the long grass, without 
 replying. After a moment's keen watching he caught 
 sight of a tiny cluster of Boers. They believed they 
 had shot both Englishmen, and were coming on, with 
 more eagerness than caution. Kit's face was stern, 
 as his eye ran along the sights of his rifle. He was 
 a cool and deadly shot ; and he was never cooler 
 than at this moment, when he drew a bead on the 
 breast of the huge Boer who led the party. He fired 
 twice in quick succession, and saw two of his enemies 
 fall heavily, while three others, who made up the 
 party, disappeared behind some rocks with great 
 expedition. 
 
 Then Kit leaped to his feet, and stooped over his 
 fallen comrade. 
 
 Clasp your hands behind my neck, Boyd.' 
 
 With a great effort of strength, he lifted the groaning 
 figure in his arms, and, stooping so as to keep himself 
 as much hidden as possible, half walked and half ran 
 towards a patch of broken rocks, which, showing above 
 the yellow, rain-wet grass, seemed to promise shelter. 
 
 Just as he reached the rocks there came some shots 
 from the further side of the ridge ; but, Kit, still un- 
 harmed, was able to lay the wounded man down in com- 
 
 287
 
 288 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 parative safety. The bullet, he found, had passed through 
 Boyd's body a little below the heart, and the wound 
 was evidently serious. Kit untwisted the long puttee 
 off his leg, made pads of a couple of handkerchiefs, 
 so as to cover the two wounds made by the entrance 
 and the exit of the bullet, and then used the puttee 
 as a bandage, winding it firmly round the body of 
 the wounded man. Twice during this operation he 
 stopped and listened, sharply peering through the gaps 
 in the rocks, to discover any signs of the Boers. But 
 they had learnt caution. These Englishmen, they had 
 discovered, shot with disconcerting accuracy. Two 
 of their number had already fallen. 
 
 But if their losses had made them cautious, they 
 had also made them keen for revenge ; and, from 
 either slope of the ridge, three Boers, Mauser in hand, 
 were creeping up warily to the cluster of rocks on the 
 ridge, where the two Englishmen one of whom, it was 
 clear, was badly wounded had taken refuge. 
 
 Kit, with his single rifle, had to defend his apparently 
 dying comrade against six enemies, creeping up 
 from opposite directions. He might, no doubt, have 
 surrendered ; but, somehow, that reflection did not 
 occur to him ! And he quickly saw that, in one sense, 
 he had an advantage over his enemies. The group 
 creeping up from the direction of the river had to 
 cross a long, clear rift in the trees, where they must 
 come within sure range of his rifle. And Kit's lips 
 shut with strange grimness as he resolved his enemies 
 should not cross that open space without paying deadly 
 toll. As the Boei s were on both sides of the ridge, 
 they could, of course, attack him rear and front at 
 once. But, on the other hand, they could not act in 
 very close concert.
 
 ONE AGAINST SIX 289 
 
 The Boers, confident in their numbers, and in the 
 weakness of their foes, were now moving, with an 
 eagerness too great for caution, through the scrub, and 
 Kit's quick eyes could detect their advance by the 
 shaking undergrowth. 
 
 Boyd, at this stage, had recovered from his semi- 
 swoon. His eyes fell on his comrade as he stooped, 
 his rifle grasped in both hands, ready to be brought 
 to his shoulder, his face white and hard, peering fixedly 
 through a gap in the rocks. There was a frown upon 
 his brow, and the air of battle, and of sternness, gave 
 his countenance a quite new look to Boyd's wondering 
 eyes. 
 
 At that moment some rifles cracked from the opposite 
 side to that which Kit was watching so intently. One 
 bullet grazed Kit's forehead, tearing a furrow in the 
 soft flesh, and Boyd saw, in an instant, the red blood 
 streaming down over his cheek. But Kit did not even 
 turn his head round to look at the quarter whence 
 the bullets came. As it happened, the wound gave 
 him no shock. All he felt was as if a sharp knife 
 had been drawn lightly across his forehead ; and he 
 lifted one hand from his rifle, and wiped the blood 
 that ran hot down his face. But he knew escape or 
 defeat hung on the advance of the other party, and he 
 never turned his eyes from the point he was watching. 
 
 Suddenly he brought his rifle to his shoulder ; once, 
 twice, thrice then a fourth time a stream of white 
 flame poured from its muzzle. Then, to Boyd's 
 astonishment, Kit leaped from the rocks, and, crouching 
 as he ran, disappeared ! 
 
 He had struck down, with quick and deadly aim, the 
 three Boers who were advancing from the river ; then, 
 leaping from the rocks, and keeping below the line 
 
 19
 
 290 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 of the ridge, he ran swiftly to another kopje about 
 one hundred and fifty yards distant, and flung himself 
 down amongst its broken rocks. He had practically 
 wiped out the group coming up from the river, and he 
 reckoned that, if he could seize a new and unsuspected 
 position, he would command the flank of the party 
 of Boers creeping up the opposite side of the ridge. 
 
 And this was exactly what happened. Kit watched 
 till one broad-hatted figure, wriggling through the 
 yellow grass like some huge black lizard, came clear 
 beneath his rifle. A second came, almost directly 
 afterwards, into sight, this time bare-headed, some fifty 
 yards further on. The next moment Kit gasped 
 silently in surprise, as a third Boer, not more than a 
 hundred yards distant, ran in stooping attitude across 
 a belt of open ground, and fell behind some rocks. 
 
 Kit hesitated. He could select his victim ; yet 
 to shoot at the unconscious figures was impossible. 
 At that moment the rifle of the Boer furthest off 
 cracked. The Boer nearest Kit followed. The Boer 
 in the centre was holding his fire ; but the other two 
 shot quick and savagely at the cluster of rocks. The 
 spectacle of their flashing rifles helped Kit to harden 
 his heart. 
 
 He drew a careful bead on the bare-headed figure 
 furthest off, and fired. The rifle fell from the Boer's 
 hands, and the life seemed, in an instant, to slip out 
 of the recumbent body. But Kit had not stopped to 
 watch. He was sure as only a born marksman could 
 be of his first shot, and turned his rifle, with lightning- 
 like quickness, on the centre Boer. The man's face had 
 involuntarily turned to look in the direction from which 
 that unseen rifle had cracked ; and, as he turned, Kit's 
 second bullet crashed through it.
 
 ONE AGAINST SIX 291 
 
 The third Boer, the one nearest Kit, had flattened 
 himself, for shelter, against the rock at his front, and 
 was quite unconscious that still he lay in plain sight 
 of his enemy. Kit hesitated to kill. 
 
 ' Drop your rifle,' he shouted to the Boer, ' and 
 stand up.' 
 
 At the sudden call of his enemy's voice, the Boer half- 
 leaped to his feet, then stooped, as though to run 
 along the face of the rock, for the purpose of reaching 
 the shelter of its further side. But while he yet half- 
 rose, a bullet, by way of warning, crashed on the face 
 of the rock by his side, starring it with lead, and 
 the cry, ' Drop your rifle ! ' came still more menacingly 
 from the ridge above him. 
 
 The Boer dropped his rifle reluctantly, and stood up. 
 Kit, by this time with levelled rifle, was visible above 
 the rocks. The Boer glanced fiercely down at his gun, 
 but Kit called vvarningly, 
 
 ' Move away from that rifle, or I fire.' 
 
 The Boer moved sullenly a few steps off, and Kit 
 came with quick steps down the ridge. He took up 
 the fallen rifle, put his foot on the stock, and, with a 
 strong effort, smashed it. 
 
 Kit then lifted his eyes and looked at his prisoner. He 
 was dressed in a better style, and was of bigger stature 
 than the ordinary Boer ; and as Kit's eyes ran over 
 his figure it seemed curiously familiar. Surely he knew 
 those sulky and threatening eyes, that mass of tangled 
 and wilful hair, framing the fierce face ! It was Wil- 
 mann ! He had last seen him on the deck of the great 
 liner, looking at him with triumphant and threatening 
 eyes ; and, with a startled and almost humorous effect, 
 Kit realized the difference of the scene now. They 
 stood on the yellow veldt, the grey, broken kopje above
 
 292 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 them, the figures of the two fallen Boers in sight. It 
 was a scene of deadly combat ; and Wilmann stood 
 before him, vanquished, disarmed, a prisoner ! 
 
 ' Well, Wilmann,' he said, ' the beating business has 
 begun, but I don't see that you hold the sjambok, 
 after all.' 
 
 Wilmann's lower jaw, by this time, had fallen, his 
 mouth was wide open, his eyes seemed starting out 
 of his head. He had recognized the scorned and quiet- 
 spoken Englishman of the smoking-saloon, the patient 
 butt of his insolent wit. He looked at Kit with amazed 
 stare. There was something in his khaki dress, in 
 the rifle in his hand, in the steady, masterful look of his 
 eyes, which told of the soldier ; but was it possible that 
 this despised Englishman, of all others, had shot down 
 his comrades, and held him at his mercy ? 
 
 Wilmann tried to speak, but his words seemed to 
 choke him. 
 
 ' It is the luck of war, Wilmann,' said Kit, ashamed of 
 the ungenerous taunt he had flung at a beaten enemy. 
 ' It may be your turn next.' But he could not help 
 adding, ' You see, an Englishman can shoot, and you 
 have not yet driven us all down to Simon's Town.' 
 
 ' But you are on your road there,' answered Wilmann, 
 abruptly, his voice still shaken and guttural with angry 
 astonishment. 
 
 ' Well, we are falling back, I admit. Meanwhile, let 
 us look to your comrades.' 
 
 But he hesitated. His prisoner was dangerous. He 
 was of gigantic stature, and there was menace in those 
 big limbs and frowning eyes. If once those mighty 
 arms got him in their embrace, Kit felt it might go 
 hard with him. And he could see in the Boer's eyes a 
 gleam of unsubdued courage.
 
 ONE AGAINST SIX 293 
 
 * Go first,' he said sharply, taking his rifle in both 
 hands. Wilmann turned, with a sudden glance of 
 disappointment, but without a word, and led the way 
 towards the nearest fallen Boer. 
 
 The figure lay on its back, with mouth wide open, the 
 arms extended, the skull shattered. Kit took up and 
 broke the rifle that lay by the dead man's side, and 
 then, with a gesture, signed to his prisoner to walk 
 to the further Boer. He was shot through the body, 
 but was still living and might recover. Kit again took 
 the precaution of breaking the man's rifle, and then 
 stooped over the prostrate figure, examining the course 
 of the bullet. 
 
 While he was still stooping, some instinct made him 
 glance up at Wilmann. He was in the act of stepping 
 towards him, his elbows drawn back, his figure bent, 
 his face thrust forward, with battle in every line 
 of it ! Another instant, and the Boer would have 
 leaped upon him ! 
 
 Kit's quickness of eye and hand served him well at 
 that moment. As they walked towards the second 
 Boer, Kit had unloosed the cover of his revolver, and 
 hitched the weapon forward, so as to be directly under 
 his hand. When he caught the vision of Wilmann 
 about to leap on him, he flung himself erect, drew back 
 a step swiftly, and, with the same movement, grasped 
 the butt of his revolver. He flung up his hand, and 
 Wilmann found the tiny, steady tube pointed directly 
 in his face, while Kit's voice, in cool and stern tones, 
 cried : 
 
 ' Stop ! Hold up your hands,' he added, as Wilmann, 
 with a sense that death was at the touch, stood up, 
 his body still shaking with a combination of passion 
 and of arrested purpose.
 
 294 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 Put up your hands,' repeated Kit quietly, but with 
 an accent which Wilmann found irresistible. ' Now lie 
 down on your face.' 
 
 Wilmann hesitated, but in Kit's steady eyes, for all 
 their quietness, he read a purpose so stern that he 
 quailed before it, and, in a clumsy fashion, he put one 
 knee down to the ground, and then stretched his great 
 body on the grass. 
 
 Kit stooped over the wounded Boer, unclasped the 
 belt round his waist, then stepped over to Wilmann. 
 He slipped the strap across his back and underneath 
 his arms, and, with a sudden exertion of strength, drew 
 the elbows tight together, and slipped the pin of the 
 buckle through a hole in the strap, thus rendering 
 his prisoner harmless. He allowed him to lie there, 
 while he quickly, but as effectively as he could, bound 
 up the wounds of the groaning Boer. 
 
 ' Get up, Wilmann,' he then said. ' We will see to 
 your comrades on the other side of the ridge.' 
 
 Wilmann scrambled up sulkily, the grass in his hair 
 and beard. 
 
 ' Let us look after your other comrades,' repeated 
 Kit, pointing with a gesture up the hill. 
 
 Wilmann stared at him with a more complete 
 astonishment than ever. Was it possible that this 
 quiet-spoken Englishman, no older than himself, and 
 so long the object of his derision, had wiped out the 
 Boers on both sides of the ridge ? 
 
 Yes, it was so ! Of the Boers beyond the ridge, 
 one was dead the other two were wounded one 
 seriously. 
 
 Kit, with religious fidelity, broke all their rifles, 
 bound up the men's wounds as best he could, took 
 possession of their ammunition, turned four ponies
 
 ONE AGAINST SIX 295 
 
 loose without saddles and bridles, and sent them 
 galloping off across the veldt. Then, leading two of 
 the ponies, he returned to where he had left Boyd. 
 
 Kit found, at this point, he must in some way get 
 help from his prisoner ; yet he dare not trust him. He 
 stepped up to Wilmann, and, without a word, released 
 his arms, flinging the strap away. The Boer scrambled 
 to his feet, stretched his big arms out, and rubbed them 
 with rueful diligence. They were cramped by the 
 tight pressure they had suffered. Then he turned and 
 looked at his captor. He was standing a couple of 
 paces distant, his hand lightly resting on the butt of 
 his revolver. 
 
 ' Now, Wilmann, you have got some strength in your 
 big limbs,' he said. ' Lift my comrade into the saddle. 
 Do it gently, too,' he added sharply, as Wilmann bent 
 roughly over the groaning Boyd. 
 
 Giving him brief directions where to put his arms 
 round Boyd, and how to lift him, the wounded 
 Englishman was raised safely enough into the saddle. 
 But it was impossible for Boyd to sit there without 
 help, and Kit had to reluctantly abandon his plan of 
 riding the other pony himself. 
 
 He turned the beast loose, and, with a sharp stroke 
 on its flank, sent it galloping off; then he turned to 
 Wilmann and bade him a grim ' Good-bye.' 
 
 ' Wilmann,' he said, ' we have had our fight, and you 
 have been beaten. But it may be your turn next 
 time. We need not bear each other ill-will. You have 
 got your wounded comrades to look after, and I must 
 take care of my mate.' 
 
 Wilmann stared at him with eyes still full of un- 
 comprehending wonder. He could understand neither 
 Kit's strange fighting skill, nor his equally strange
 
 296 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 magnanimity. Here was a rooinek of a type of 
 which he had never dreamed ; and, for the first time 
 Wilmann began to doubt whether, after all, the 
 business of shooting Englishmen was going to be 
 quite as easy and triumphant as he had imagined. 
 Certainly, if all Englishmen were of this quality, 
 it was a question, not of a march to Simon's Town, 
 but, perhaps, of a flight to Pretoria, and even beyond. 
 
 Kit, however, had by this time turned his back 
 on his prisoner, and begun the long tramp through 
 mud and rain towards Ladysmith, leading the pony 
 on which Boyd sat. 
 
 There was no risk, he calculated, in giving his 
 prisoner freedom. He had neither rifle nor poy, 
 and had three wounded comrades on his hands. There 
 was little fear of his carrying news of the march of 
 the column in time to do any harm.
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 FOR A COMRADE 
 
 KIT knew that with his wounded comrade he could 
 never overtake the column. To attempt to travel fast, 
 or to travel far, would kill Boyd. But the poor fellow 
 was fanatically certain that the Boers would shoot him 
 if he fell into their hands, and he besought Kit so 
 pitifully, and with such agitated insistence, ' not to 
 leave him,' ' to get him away,' that he found it necessary 
 at least to start on the journey to Ladysmith. He 
 was sure they could not travel far ; but the wounded 
 man, as though some fever of fear were burning in his 
 blood, persisted in going on. 
 
 The rain beat on them in bitter driving sheets ; the 
 road was a mere ribbon of viscid mud, twisting along 
 the bottom of a deep and narrow valley, a valley walled 
 in with naked hills ; the gaps in the range were mere 
 funnels, through which the wind came in furious and 
 icy gusts. With bent and swaying figure, and groaning 
 at every step of the plodding horse, Boyd still insisted 
 on pushing forward. 
 
 Kit, however, was studying, with keen eyes, the hills, 
 rent with steep valleys, on either side of the track. 
 Finally, without a word, he turned up one which 
 promised shelter, and brought the horse to a standstill 
 at a place where the tree-clad shoulder of a hill ended 
 
 297
 
 298 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 in a tangle of splintered rocks. Boyd was almost past 
 speech when Kit lifted him from the saddle. A crevice, 
 sheltered from wind and rain, was found ; and here, 
 on a couch of hastily gathered fern, Boyd was laid. 
 Kit piled ferns on the wounded man's feet and body, 
 to keep them warm, put his canteen, filled with water, 
 beside him, with the little stock of bread he had. 
 
 ' Boyd,' he said, ' your one chance is for me to ride 
 forward, and bring back an ambulance and a doctor. 
 You must keep your spirit up. I'll push on fast and 
 hard, and be back with help long before morning/ 
 
 ' They'll not let an ambulance party come out, 1 
 groaned Boyd. ' The Boers will be swarming on the 
 track of the column by that time. They'll not let 
 you come back.' 
 
 ' I'll come if I'm alive,' said Kit steadily. ' I'll come 
 alone if I can't bring help.' 
 
 Boyd looked at him, with despair in his eyes. 
 
 ' I'll be dead before you get back,' he whispered. 
 ' Why should you come back ? Why risk your life 
 for me ? ' he asked bitterly. ' I've not been such a 
 good chum to you. It's every man for himself.' 
 
 * No, unless I'm dead, I'll be back here before day- 
 break. One Englishmart doesn't abandon another in 
 that fashion,' he added, with a smile. 
 
 'You're a good fellow, Somers,' said Boyd huskily. 
 ' There must be something in your religion after all.' 
 
 ' There's everything in it, Boyd,' responded Kit, with 
 energy. 'And look here, old fellow, I'm leaving you, 
 but there's One beside you all the time, and One who 
 knows you, and thinks of you, and loves you, and can 
 help you. My poor fellow, you've tried to live without 
 Him, and you've made a bad mess of it. Talk to Him, 
 Boyd,' he went on earnestly, ' as you lie here alone.
 
 FOR A COMRADE 299 
 
 Listen to Him ! Be a little child before Him ! Don't 
 you need Him ?' 
 
 Boyd, with a groan, said ' Yes, he needed God now, 
 if he never did before ' ; and Kit rode off, feeling that 
 Boyd was in that school of pain where human nature 
 must learn its most needed lessons. 
 
 The sound of the trampling hoofs of Kit's horse died 
 away, and Boyd lay in a great desolation. Fever 
 burned in his blood ; fear, as with a finger of ice, 
 chilled his spirit : fear of the Boers ; fear of the haunt- 
 ing silence and of the coming night ; fear of death, 
 and of Something more terrible than night or death 
 fear of God ! 
 
 Fear and pain and loneliness, and the chill approach j 
 of death itself, are God's servants. They speak when 
 gentler voices are unheeded. At their whisper in 
 Boyd's trembling ears the cells of memory were un- 
 sealed a hint of that awful resurrection, not of buried 
 flesh, but of buried and forgotten deeds, which must 
 come, sooner or later, to every human soul. Boyd 
 caught faintly, at times, the low, deep vibration of guns 
 from some far-off battlefield. In some distant valley, 
 across the hills, men were contending. The sound 
 seemed to flow in through Boyd's senses, and prick 
 his half-swooning imagination with new and strange 
 alarms. It was not the iron lips of actual guns 
 speaking, but some deep voice, out of far-off, unknown 
 chambers of the universe. It would presently swell 
 and deepen, and fill earth and sky and night and 
 space with its tumult ; and then break in on his 
 affrighted spirit in overmastering accents ! 
 
 In those momentary bursts of deep sound, and in 
 the pauses of silence alike, the voices of old memories, 
 of old passions and desires, were swallowed up, and
 
 300 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 all Boyd's faculties were resolved into a mood of eager 
 and affrighted listening. Which he feared most, the 
 deep, muttering sound, to which the air thrilled, or these 
 dread intervals of silence, he could not himself tell. 
 
 Quickly the night drew on, with its deepening shadows 
 and whispering voices. On the black, outspread canvas 
 of the night-sky, figures seemed to shape themselves 
 in outlines of fire. They came, and went, and came 
 back again. The black, empty space was peopled by 
 them. One moment faces of fire seemed painted 
 on the shadow-filled air ; the next, there was nothing 
 but the deep, unilluminated darkness. Boyd's wound 
 was fevering his blood, and playing tricks with his 
 senses ; but an aroused and terrified conscience was 
 shaking yet more terribly his spirit. His life seemed 
 painted on that screen of darkness ; and all things 
 were now set in a new perspective. Against that back- 
 ground of darkness darkness born of Eternity and 
 of Judgement they wore a new aspect. He recalled 
 things base, vile, evil. They stung him with shame ; 
 they shook him with dread. 
 
 . . . And then on the darkness broke the vision 
 of a Divine Face. He knew it by the crown of thorns ; 
 by the deep, tender eyes, challenging, intolerable. 
 Love was in them love measureless, eternal ; love clad 
 in garments of suffering. But that love had in it, as 
 one of its elements, infinite purity. Time and Eternity 
 were its servants. 
 
 As he gazed and trembled and wept, Boyd knew 
 himself. The ancient words of Job crept into his 
 memory, ' Now mine eye seeth Ttiee ; wherefore I abhor 
 myself and repent in dust and as/ies.' 
 
 Meanwhile Kit rode or, rather, splashed on the
 
 FOR A COMRADE 301 
 
 track towards Ladysmith. He drove his tired horse 
 on with ruthless energy. More than once he took 
 to the hills to escape parties of Boers. 
 
 Once, just as night was closing about him, he heard, 
 far off, a faint sound of a hymn, as though chanted 
 in some upper chamber of the air. His blood chilled, 
 his flesh crept at the sound. It seemed to fall in faint 
 and ghostly cadences upon him, out of the blackness 
 of the night-sky. Kit had not much imagination, and 
 what he had was in a state of excellent discipline, so 
 he quickly grasped the real character of the sound he 
 heard. A Boer commando was encamped in some 
 fold of the unseen veldt near him, and the men were 
 singing their evening hymn. Some eddy of the night 
 wind, some curve in the earth's surface, flung the 
 sound far up into space ; it rose high, thin, mournful, 
 wailing from the lonely veldt to the vacant sky, with 
 much more of melancholy than of faith in it. 
 
 More than once he heard, from the black hillside 
 above, the deep, triple-booming roar of a lion. Once 
 a storm, such a storm as only African skies know, 
 swept over him. The lightning almost blinded him 
 with its white flame. He heard the thunder crashing 
 in the mountains, the deep voice of the hills calling 
 to the lowlands, the sound of the swollen streams rushing 
 through their imprisoning banks, the clamour of the 
 wind its hollow note in the valleys, its scuffling shriek 
 on the splintered edges of the cliffs, its mighty trumpet 
 notes on the high peaks. 
 
 And still, through darkness and tempest, through 
 rain and wind, Kit pressed on, dogged, tireless, in- 
 domitable. He must bring his comrade safe to camp. 
 He had no plan beyond that, or other than that. 
 
 The sun had long set when the sprinkled lights
 
 302 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 of Ladysmith came into sight, and, splashed from 
 sole to crown with mud, Kit reported himself to his 
 captain, and told his tale. 
 
 Captain Forrester listened with grim attention as 
 Kit told his story, and he noted, with a soldier's eye, 
 the signs of battle and travel on his face and figure. 
 He brought out, with brief, curt questions, details 
 which Kit omitted. 
 
 ' You've done well, Somers,' he said, at last ' well ! 
 No one could have done better. I'm proud of you, 
 my lad. If every one did as well the Boers would 
 soon hand in their checks. But the orders are dead 
 against sending out small parties. The Boers must 
 be swarming all over the country you crossed, and 
 how you got through I can't guess. Poor Boyd must 
 take his chance. The Boers will pick him up, and 
 they won't treat their prisoners ill.' 
 
 ' But Boyd has special reasons or thinks he has 
 for fearing them ; and, Captain Forrester, I promised 
 him ' 
 
 The captain bit his moustache, with a perplexed 
 air. The natural undisciplined man in him was on 
 Kit's side. 
 
 ' Well, lad ; give me the letter you found on the 
 Boer. I'll see the general and give it to him, and 
 
 report your request, but ' and he went off with 
 
 a discouraging shake of his head. 
 
 'He's a plucky fellow,' said General White, as he 
 listened to Forrester's story ; ' and this dispatch he 
 captured is important. But I can't send out an 
 ambulance party so far. 1 
 
 ' He'll go, general,' said Forrester, in tones of con- 
 viction, and with an air as though he wished to go 
 himself.
 
 FOR A COMRADE 303 
 
 'Well, if he goes and gets back,' said the general, 
 ' he'll deserve to be shot for disobeying orders, and 
 to get the Victoria Cross for doing an amazingly plucky 
 thing.' 
 
 The two officers looked at each other with an odd 
 expression on their faces. 
 
 4 Look here/ said the general, ' you say he's utterly 
 run down. He ought to be relieved from duty for 
 a couple of days. Relieve him, and don't let me 
 know and take care not to know yourself what he 
 does with himself for those two days.' 
 
 So the night was still young as Kit, mounted on 
 a fresh horse, turned his face again towards Sunday 
 River. The crescent moon hung low in the west ; 
 the sky was full of flying clouds, through which the 
 stars shone keenly. The hills rose black and lonely 
 before him. The cheerful sounds of the camp died 
 behind him. There was weariness in every drop of 
 his blood ; his limbs shook as with ague. But it never 
 so much as occurred to him that he need not go. 
 He must keep faith ! 
 
 And he had his plan, which shaped itself in his 
 brain as though automatically, and without any 
 reference to his will. An hour or so after leaving 
 Boyd, he had noticed, in a fold of the hills, a lonely 
 Boer farm. The owner, and every son able to ride 
 a pony or pull a trigger, would, no doubt, be on 
 commando ; only women and Kaffirs would be left. 
 Kit had his rifle across his shoulder, and a handful 
 of honest British sovereigns in his pocket He would 
 buy, or compel, help. A couple of Kaffirs and an 
 improvised stretcher was all he needed to bring Boyd 
 into camp. 
 
 As it happened, the task proved to be unexpectedly
 
 304 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 easy. Kit found his way to the farm, and, though it 
 was now long past midnight, and half a dozen fierce 
 dogs bayed furiously at him, he rode to the door 
 and beat on it till a point of flickering light and a 
 faint murmur of voices told that the household was 
 roused. The door swung sullenly back, the muzzle 
 of a rifle gleamed in the wind-blown light of a 
 candle. 
 
 ' Don't shoot,' said Kit coolly, ' I'm a friend.' 
 
 The startled face of a Boer woman came next 
 into sight. She listened with compressed lips and 
 staring eyes as Kit told his story, and explained what 
 he wanted. The lad's honest face he was little more 
 than a lad yet moved her ; she was woman and 
 mother all over. 
 
 ' My own boy,' she said, ' is on commando with his 
 father. God bring him home safely ! If he needs it, 
 may some good comrade do for him what you are 
 doing for your friend.' 
 
 Three cheerful-faced Kaffirs, whose teeth shone white 
 in their black complexions, were enlisted, a rough rug 
 was fastened with straps of hide to a couple of poles, 
 and the party set off, the Boer woman briefly refusing 
 to take any money. 
 
 Day had just began to dawn in the grey east as 
 Kit and his little party turned up the valley where 
 Boyd lay hidden. As they came near the rough slope 
 of rocks a high, monotonous voice broke out. The 
 swift syllables had no sense in them ; but the shrill 
 voice, floating up the face of the hill with its note of 
 lunacy, had a weird effect, and Kit's Kaffirs flung down 
 their rugs and poles, and prepared to bolt. With some 
 trouble Kit persuaded them to wait, while he went 
 forward and explored.
 
 FOR A COMRADE 305 
 
 Boyd was delirious, and could not recognize his 
 deliverers. Kit poured cool water into the parched 
 lips, adjusted the bandages, strapped the fevered body 
 and shaking limbs on to the stretcher, and the journey 
 back to the camp began. 
 
 The Kaffirs proved invaluable. Their limbs were 
 tireless. They knew the hill paths and the short cuts. 
 Their keen eyes detected any sign of Boer parties. 
 Many a pause had to be made to moisten Boyd's 
 fevered lips, and it was late in the afternoon when the 
 little party reached the British outposts. 
 
 Kit's face was drawn and white ; every limb shook 
 as with ague ; his lips were red with fever ; his eyes 
 were sunken in his head. 
 
 ' Well done, Somers ! ' said Captain Forrester, with 
 emphasis, ' well done ! But, my poor fellow, you must 
 be as bad as Boyd. 1 
 
 Kit was past speech, and that night the hospital 
 tent had two men, fever-patients, and which was in 
 more deadly peril even the grave-faced doctor could 
 not tell. 
 
 20
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 MR. GIFFORD ON HIS TRIAL 
 
 LITTLE Mary's funeral did not take the shape which 
 Mr. Creakles's courageous fancy would have given it. 
 Mr. Gifford declined, abruptly, to allow the bones of 
 his dead child to be ground for the purpose of making 
 rhetorical bread for his committee. A deputation of 
 the Association, indeed, had v/aited on him, to offer 
 suggestions as to the funeral ; but Mrs. Gifford broke 
 in upon the interview, white-faced and dry-eyed for 
 some fire of anger seemed to have scorched up all 
 the moisture of tears. 
 
 'Gentlemen,' she said, while her lips quivered, 'can 
 you not leave us with our dead ? We will bury our 
 child ' 
 
 Here she stopped ; speech failed her, and the pause 
 was more eloquent than speech. 
 
 ' We will not detain you, gentlemen,' said Mr Gifford, 
 with somewhat grim courtesy. ' This is a matter in 
 which the Association has no concern ' ; and the 
 deputation, consisting of Mr. Creakles, Mr. Bagges, and 
 Mr. Leech, shambled out with somewhat undignified 
 haste, and Mr. Bagges, in particular, expended many 
 lurid epithets on things in general when the pavement 
 was safely reached. 
 
 The next day a little cluster of mourners stood 
 
 306
 
 MR. GIFFORD ON HIS TRIAL 307 
 
 round the child's grave. It was a bitter day. The air 
 was grey with vapour, and full of drifting snowflakes. 
 As Mr. Gifford looked into the grave, he saw the 
 cold, white crystals fall softly on the coffin-lid which 
 hid from him the face of his dead child, and cover 
 it with a sheet of glittering particles. Whilst he gazed 
 with tear-wet eyes, Mr. Walton began to recite the 
 words of Scripture. It had been arranged there should 
 be no formal ' service ' at the grave ; but at Mrs. 
 Gifford's express request, Mr. Walton was to pray. 
 He knew his Bible by whole books, and the syllables 
 flowed from his lips with unfaltering clearness : 
 
 'Behold, I show you a mystery. We shall not all 
 sleep ; but we shall all be changed; in a moment, in 
 the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump. For the 
 trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised in- 
 corruptible, and we shall be changed. . . . So when this 
 corruptible shall have put on incorruption, and this mortal 
 shall have put on immortality, then shall be brought to 
 pass the saying that is written, Death is swallowed up in 
 victory. O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where 
 is thy victory ? . . .' 
 
 In the pauses of Mr. Walton's voice, the silence, 
 to Mr. Gifford's imagination, grew intense. Sky and 
 space and earth seemed to listen. In these pauses 
 perhaps by some trick of his overstrained senses 
 the air seemed to thrill to a sound inexpressibly 
 soft, far-off, insistent. It was the elfin-like whisper of 
 the falling snow. 
 
 I The heavens were dark ; the earth was frozen ; the 
 grave gaped a parallelogram of mere blackness at 
 their feet. Yet, through the snow-filled air, and over 
 the new-dug grave, that great message rang as though 
 pealed from some divine trumpet. Mr. Gifford felt,
 
 308 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 in some stir of emotion too deep for speech to utter, 
 or for reason to analyse, how trivial were all the 
 rhetorical performances of his lectures before the 
 triumphant message of those great words. They rang 
 out of the far-off spaces of eternity. They spoke to 
 the depths of the human heart. 
 
 It was not a 'funeral service,' so much had been 
 conceded to the Association ; but Mrs. Gifford had 
 passionately insisted that her child should not be 
 buried 'like a dog,' with no word of blessing spoken 
 over her grave. So Mr. Walton stood there, his vener- 
 able grey head uncovered to the falling snow, and 
 prayed with a simplicity of tenderness, and a loftiness 
 of faith, that melted the bereaved father, in spite of 
 himself, into speechless tears. His sceptical philosophy, 
 for the moment at least, seemed to dissolve in its 
 breath, like an icicle when summer airs blow. Death, 
 set in the perspective of Mr. Walton's prayer, seemed 
 but a momentary accident ; its dreadful sundering 
 was but for a passing breath ; the resurrection was a 
 near and triumphant certainty. Christ would undo 
 all the mischiefs, and restore all the thefts of death. 
 And then death itself should die ! 
 
 Perhaps it was all an idle sentiment ; but from 
 what unrealized forces, and out of what strange cham- 
 ber of the universe, did such a faith creep into the 
 human heart ? 
 
 Amongst the members of the F.A., great was the 
 scandal of this ' superstitious ' service over his child's 
 grave to which Mr. Gifford had lent himself. Their 
 President, they agreed, with angry emphasis, had ' given 
 away' the whole cause of his own creed. He had 
 allowed the faith he was paid to teach to stand dumb 
 and rejected by his child's grave, while a ' parson,' a
 
 MR. GIFFORD ON HIS TRIAL 309 
 
 representative of the despised churches, had prayed 
 John Blunt, too, had taken part in that ignoble surrender 
 to superstition. 
 
 ' Yes,' said John grimly, when remonstrated with in 
 official tones by Mr. Creakles, ' yes, I was there, and 
 would stand there again. But don't be afraid, Creakles, 
 you are safe. Nobody will waste a blessing on your 
 bones, or expend a syllable of prayer on your coffin- 
 lid.' 
 
 ' This is personal,' Mr. Creakles replied, with much 
 dignity, ' and it is irrelevant. The Association must assert 
 itself. It has been betrayed, and betrayed by its own 
 paid advocate ' ; and Mr. Creakles emphasized ' paid ' 
 as though it added a tenfold blackness to Mr. GifFord's 
 guilt. 
 
 The scandal was undeniable. In the extremity 
 of his own grief, the apostle and representative of 
 Freethought had called in the aid of Christianity ! 
 This was, for the new creed, nothing less than an 
 official and public proclamation of mere bankruptcy 
 by its own chief orator. 
 
 Mr. Walton, when questioned by Mr. Looker, showed 
 none of the triumph of a victorious disputant. 
 
 ' Poor fellow,' he said. ' Let him alone ! He is in 
 God's school. He has his lesson to learn ; and Death 
 and Sorrow are stern teachers. Don't meddle with 
 God's plans,' he added, with a touch of sternness which 
 for a moment abashed even Mr. Looker. 
 
 The members of the Freethought Committee, how- 
 ever, naturally rejected this view. It was a gross case 
 of public disloyalty, and, with one accord, they put on 
 their war-paint to avenge it. An angry revolt against 
 their own lecturer broke out. They would renounce 
 him ! They would stop his salary ! They would cast
 
 310 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 him off publicly. Angry heads were put together ; and 
 when their plans were complete a formal meeting of the 
 committee was called. 
 
 The members sat on either side of a long table. At 
 one end sat Mr. Gifford himself. He was silent ; an 
 unusual pallor lay on his face. No man offered him 
 any greeting. At the other end of the table sat Mr. 
 Bagges, the chairman, with Mr. Creakles beside him, as 
 secretary. On either side of the table was a row of 
 frowning faces. Mr. Gifford's act had stung their 
 pride. It threatened their finance ; and, worst of all, 
 it disquieted their confidence. Their new creed was, 
 for them, a sort of moral opiate. It drowsed conscience. 
 It shut out of the intellectual horizon the disquieting 
 shape of God, the haunting vision of Eternity. 
 
 Now, Mr. Gifford's act suggested an unpleasant 
 doubt as to the validity of their creed ; and the members 
 of the committee resented that doubt, as an opium-eater 
 might resent any attempt to rob him of his drug. John 
 Blunt was present, and stirred restlessly from time to 
 time in his chair, as he gazed with perplexed eyes at 
 the silent face of his leader. 
 
 ' Gentlemen,' said Mr. Bagges, the chairman, going 
 straight to his point, ' Mr. Gifford has played it rather 
 low down on us, and on the Cause. We sympathize 
 with him, of course, in his trouble ; but we have a 
 right to expect him to act up to his principles. 
 Especially,' he added, with a snort of indignation, 
 ' since he is paid hard money, and plenty of it, to 
 defend them. Why, there is not a Freethought lecturer 
 in the land who has a salary equal to that we are paying 
 Mr. Gifford. We don't believe in prayer. The Associa- 
 tion's against prayer. Mr. Gifford knows that prayer 
 is all nonsense. Why, the best lecture he ever gave
 
 MR. GIFFORD ON HIS TRIAL 311 
 
 was that on "The Modern Praying-wheel." Yet he 
 allowed the Wesleyan parson to give a double-turn of 
 his prayer-wheel over his child's grave ! The Associa- 
 tion,' Mr. Bagges went on, lapsing for a moment into 
 pathos, ' has a right to expect better things of their 
 President. He has made us ridiculous. He ought to 
 act by Freethought as well as preach it. What do we 
 pay him his salary for ? ' 
 
 Here Mr. Bagges stopped, almost choked with 
 moral indignation, while angry ' Hear, hears ' ran round 
 the table. 
 
 'What has Mr. Gifford to say?' demanded Mr. 
 Bagges. 
 
 ' I have nothing to say, gentlemen,' said Mr. Gifford, 
 ' except that this matter lies outside your functions.' 
 
 ' It's no business of ours, eh ? ' demanded one short, 
 stout, apoplectic-looking member of the committee, 
 Mr. Grimes, the publican. ' But your salary is our 
 business, as you will pretty quickly find out.' 
 
 ' If we admit prayer,' argued Mr. Tinkler, a local 
 shoemaker, whose forte was severe logic, 'we admit 
 everything. You admit a personal God and a personal 
 Providence.' 
 
 At a prospect so appalling the entire committee 
 shuddered. 
 
 ' You might as well,' continued Mr. Tinkler, ' swallow 
 the whole Bible. What will become of Freethought 
 in that case ? ' he demanded, unanswerably, while the 
 lines of frowning brows on both sides of the table 
 wagged tragically. 
 
 ' Every parson in the place is laughing at us,' cried 
 another member of the committee, striking the table 
 with an emphatic fist. 
 
 Mr. Creakles argued that their collections were certain
 
 312 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 to be injured by Mr. Gifford's inconsiderate action. 
 He had destroyed the moral influence of the Association. 
 But Mr. Gifford was young, said Mr. Creakles, with 
 a patriarchal look ; and he was naturally knocked off 
 his legs for the moment by the death of his child. 
 They must allow for a little incident of that sort, and 
 not to be too hard on their lecturer. Let him make 
 some public explanation and apology next Sunday 
 night, and declare that his faith in the glorious doctrines 
 he was paid to teach were unshaken. He had himself, 
 Mr. Creakles explained, prepared ' a little thing,' in 
 the way of an epitaph, on strictly secular lines for 
 Mr. Gifford's child ; if Mr. Gifford would allow that, 
 as a permanent statement of his theological views, to 
 be inscribed on the grave-stone, the Association might 
 deal with him liberally, and even pay for the cost of 
 the epitaph, and so everybody would be gratified. 
 
 ' And would you turn the dead child's grave into 
 an advertisement for Creakles's bad Latin ? ' asked John 
 Blunt, in a disgusted voice. 'We profess to believe 
 in freedom of thought ; why can't we leave Mr. Gifford 
 free to do what he liked by his little girl's grave ? 
 Do you allow to other people only the freedom to 
 agree with yourselves, and not freedom to differ from 
 you ? ' 
 
 ' Confound " freedom " ! ' said Mr. Bagges, the chair- 
 man, with energy, ' if it means that Mr. Gifford is free 
 to take our money and use it to destroy our cause.' 
 
 To treat freedom thus was a strong step. It was like 
 speaking disparagingly of the equator ! But there 
 was undeniable force in Mr. Bagges's logic. 
 
 ' We preach toleration,' pursued John Blunt, ' and 
 we have got to practise it. And we must tolerate not 
 only the things we like, but the things we don't like.'
 
 MR. GIFFORD ON HIS TRIAL 313 
 
 John would fain have hinted that Mrs. Gifford, and 
 not her husband, was responsible for the part Mr. Walton 
 had taken in the child's funeral, and there was no 
 arguing with a broken-hearted mother. But there 
 was a look on Mr. Gifford's face which warned him 
 that this was perilous ground. 
 
 ' Gentlemen,' said Mr. Gifford, at length, ' I acknow- 
 ledge that I owe to the Association and to the public 
 some statement of my position. I will give it on 
 Sunday night, in the Hall, at our usual meeting. You 
 shall then hear all I have to say.' 
 
 ' But what will you say ? ' asked Mr. Creakles, with 
 a note of alarm in his voice. 
 
 'You will know then,' said Mr. Gifford, rising, 'and 
 I can say nothing more now ' ; and, taking his hat, 
 he left the room. 
 
 The members of the committee looked at each other 
 in some perplexity. 
 
 ' We should have stuck to Stumps/ exclaimed Mr. 
 Bagges. ' He would never have risked his salary by 
 giving us away in this fashion. Mr. Gifford has never 
 got rid of the parson in his blood.' 
 
 On reaching his home, Mr. Gifford found a new 
 worry awaiting him, in the shape of a visitor. It 
 was Cecil's mother, an anxious, unhappy woman. 
 Alarm for her son made her forget all social usages 
 and ecclesiastical prejudicies. Mr. Gifford had ' got 
 hold ' of Cecil ; and she had come, all unknown to her 
 sacerdotally minded husband, to see if her woman's 
 fingers could not rescue her son from that gentleman's 
 deadly grasp. She did not understand that Cecil 
 had gone far beyond Mr. Gifford ; and, in fact, regarded 
 that gentleman with some contempt, as a case of 
 arrested intellectual and moral development.
 
 3 i4 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 'This is an unexpected pleasure, Mrs. Sparks/ said 
 Mr. Gifford, holding that lady's card in his fingers. 
 
 Tact may be some women's gift, but tactless women 
 abound, and Mrs. Sparks was a very bad example 
 of the type. She had no more ' diplomacy ' than an 
 average cow, and she blundered straight on to her 
 grievance. But her mother's love and her mother's 
 grief clothed her, somehow, with unaccustomed dignity. 
 
 ' Mr. Gifford,' she said, ' what have you done with 
 my son ? ' 
 
 ' Done with your son ? ' repeated Mr. Gifford, with 
 raised eyebrows. ' Nothing, Mrs. Sparks. He comes 
 to hear me lecture ; but he is bright-witted and strong- 
 willed, and I don't know any one less likely to be 
 influenced by another.' 
 
 ' But, Mr. Gifford,' Mrs. Sparks went on tearfully, 
 1 he is a changed lad. I have lost my son,' she cried, 
 with a thrill in her voice, ' my Cecil. He is quite 
 changed. Your teaching has killed his love for his 
 mother and for his home. His very face is changed, 
 and he is going wrong I know he is going wrong. 
 Mr. Gifford, give me back my boy,' and Mrs. Sparks 
 wept unashamedly. 
 
 Mr. Gifford felt it rather hard. Cecil, he knew, had 
 his own creed and his own law of conduct, which not 
 seldom startled Mr. Gifford himself. To be asked to 
 ' give ' this resolute and advanced young gentleman 
 ' back to his mother,' like some stolen baby, was more 
 than a little ridiculous. 
 
 ' I have not taken your son, Mrs. Sparks. He has 
 chosen his own path. He thinks his own thoughts. 
 You cannot keep a boy in short clothes for ever.' 
 
 ' Oh, would to God I could ! ' cried poor Mrs. Sparks. 
 ' I was a happy mother when my boy held my hand
 
 MR. GIFFORD ON HIS TRIAL 315 
 
 and walked by my side. But,' she went on with raised 
 voice, 'since he attended your lectures he has given 
 up everything I taught him to believe. He laughs 
 at prayer. He has left his home. Mr. Gifford, your 
 Freethought will destroy homes, and break mothers' 
 hearts.' 
 
 ' God forbid ! ' said Mr. Gifford energetically ; ' that is,' 
 he added hurriedly, conscious of a lapse into an out- 
 grown theological formula, ' I hope it is not so.' 
 
 ' Yes, it is,' insisted Mrs. Sparks, with an energy 
 Mr. Gifford found uncomfortably impressive. ' What 
 had I to live for but Cecil ? And now he never comes 
 near me ; and it is you, Mr. Gifford, and your teaching. 
 Take care ! God will reckon with you. You will be 
 stabbed yourself, just as you have stabbed others.' 
 
 Mr. Gifford looked at Mrs. Sparks ; she was not 
 young, nor comely, nor dignified. Her hair was dis- 
 ordered, her hands gloveless, her face moist. And yet 
 her speech had the courage and fire of some ancient 
 prophetess, and Mr. Gifford thought, involuntarily, of 
 Balaam's ass betaking itself miraculously to speech. 
 The next moment he despised himself for the injurious 
 comparison. Here was a mother fighting, as she 
 believed, for her son, and there was both pathos and 
 reality in her words. 
 
 ' What have you taught him ? ' Mrs. Sparks went 
 on to demand. ' The teaching that takes a son from 
 his home, that kills a mother's hopes, and wrings her 
 heart with terror, must be evil. Suppose some one took 
 your child from you ? ' 
 
 ' God has done that,' whispered Mr. Gifford humbly, 
 and with a quiver in his lips. 
 
 ' Oh, yes,' said Mrs. Sparks hurriedly, and with a 
 sudden and half ludicrous drop in her voice, ' I had
 
 316 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 forgotten. Poor Mrs. Gifford ! You will think me 
 foolish,' she continued, half apologetically, ' but my 
 Cecil my Cecil ! ' 
 
 ' I don't think you need be anxious, Mrs. Sparks. 
 I hope he has learnt nothing from me that will do him 
 harm. At any rate, he is not one to be influenced too 
 much by others. He has his own ideals. He knows 
 what he wants, and he will get it' 
 
 ' Ah, but, Mr. Gifford, you robbed him of his 
 Christian faith.' 
 
 Mr. Gifford was tempted to ask whether Cecil 
 ever had any ' Christian faith ' worth stealing ; or 
 whether casting away his father's curious conception 
 of religion represented any serious loss. But he was 
 a gentleman. His own grief made him humble-minded ; 
 and, though he found Mrs. Sparks very trying, yet he 
 would not retort on her. 
 
 Moreover, he felt there was something in her 
 complaint. He was uneasily conscious of a moral 
 deterioration in Cecil ; he had seen in him a more 
 ravenous selfishness, a loss of restraint, a surrender 
 to appetite, a recklessness full of evil omen. Was 
 it really his teaching which wrought that malign 
 transformation ? Mr. Gifford would have scorned the 
 self-accusation once ; but he was, at that moment, 
 conscious of a new and curious doubt. 
 
 ' Mrs. Sparks,' he said, ' if I have any influence over 
 Cecil, and can make him value his own home more, 
 I will use that influence. A creed which makes a 
 son love his mother less must be bad. If my teaching 
 has that effect, I am ashamed of it.' 
 
 ' That is just what it does,' broke out Mrs. Sparks 
 persistently, and with new tears. 
 
 As soon as Mrs. Sparks had been, with much patient
 
 MR. GIFFORD ON HIS TRIAL 317 
 
 tact, got out of the house, Mrs. Gifford came into 
 the room where her husband, weary and dispirited, 
 was sitting. Her face was deathly white ; her eyes 
 dark with grief that tears could not utter ; her whole 
 countenance was scribbled over with strange characters 
 of suffering. She listened as her husband told the story 
 of the scene in the committee. 
 
 ' Yes,' she said, ' they acted after their kind. Frank, 
 that our little Mary has been taken from us is grief 
 enough ; but it is not that which breaks my heart 
 and fills my sleep with dreams which are a terror. Oh, 
 Frank ! what cruel lips were mine to be silent when 
 Mary asked me in her dying hour to pray for her ! ' 
 
 And in the anguish of her grief Mrs. Gifford cast 
 herself into the arms of her husband, who could only 
 stroke her hair with a dumb and helpless pity.
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 MR. GIFFORD'S LAST LECTURE 
 
 IT was Sunday night, and the theatre where Mr. 
 Gifford was accustomed to lecture was crowded as 
 it had never been before. It was his first appearance 
 after his child's death. The ' scandal ' of the funeral 
 had set all tongues wagging. Mr. Gifford's committee 
 was known to be in open quarrel with him, and 
 something sensational was expected. 
 
 Would he justify the manner of his child's funeral, 
 or would he explain it away ? The published title 
 of his lecture, ' Freethought and Broken Hearts,' 
 pricked public curiosity, but gave no clue to what 
 Mr. Gifford's deliverance would be. His committee, 
 indeed, read the title of the lecture with suspicious 
 eyes. 
 
 ' There are no broken hearts, 1 said Mr. Creakles, 
 with conviction. 
 
 ' Anybody who is fool enough to have a heart, or 
 to let it get broken,' added Mr. Bagges, with more 
 naked brutality, ' is a weak creature, who ought to 
 be put in an asylum.' 
 
 ' The world is for men ; and Freethought is a creed 
 for men,' argued the little asthmatic tailor who 
 occupied a seat on the committee of the Association. 
 
 318
 
 MR. GIFFORD'S LAST LECTURE 319 
 
 'The title of Mr. Gifford's lecture is fit only for 
 women.' 
 
 A deputation from the committee sought, in vain, 
 an interview with Mr. Gifford, for the purpose of 
 ascertaining what the lecture was to be about. 
 
 ' We'll make short work of him/ said Mr. Bagges, 
 with wrathful emphasis, as, with the other members of 
 the deputation, he came down the steps which led to 
 Mr. Gifford's house. The more aggressive members 
 of the committee proposed to shut the theatre against 
 a speaker, and a subject, so doubtful ; but this, it 
 was finally decided, would only advertise the scandal 
 more widely, and precipitate an open quarrel. 
 
 As Mr. Gifford stood up before his audience that 
 long-remembered Sunday night, he was an impressive 
 figure. The knightly set of his head was as striking 
 as ever ; but the black flowing beard made the white 
 face almost ghastly. There were new lines on it, 
 lines written by pain and mental conflict. It was a 
 face at once weary and sad, and its deep-set eyes 
 had a new melancholy in them. 
 
 As the audience looked up at the speaker, a thrill 
 of expectation and excitement ran through it. No 
 commonplace 'lecture' could come from such a face. 
 His hearers felt, somehow, that they were spectators 
 looking on a tragedy. 
 
 ' Broken hearts,' began Mr. Gifford, in his deep 
 voice ; ' the world is full of them. They are its 
 puzzle and its tragedy. " Never morning wore to 
 evening but some heart did break." This "river of 
 deep Time," ' he continued, quoting Shelley, ' is made 
 brackish with the salt of tears.' 
 
 Then he went on to paint the many forms grief 
 takes : defeated love, wrecked hopes, broken ties ;
 
 320 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 the child taken from its mother's arms, the bride 
 made suddenly a widow ; the tender lives that are 
 born, and bloom for a moment, and fill a home with 
 their perfume, and then perish at a breath. He 
 painted these diverse forms of human sorrow, while 
 deep thrills ran every now and again through his 
 voice, shaking it, and the hearts of those who listened, 
 till women were sobbing aloud, and unaccustomed 
 tears were running down the faces of bearded men. 
 
 The arithmetical mind of Mr. Creakles was busy 
 assessing the money value of these tears, and he 
 whispered confidentially to John Blunt : 
 
 ' We shall have the biggest collection of the whole 
 series to-night.' 
 
 John's only reply was to glare at him with a 
 ferocity which was almost murderous. 
 
 ' Now,' proceeded the speaker, ' any adequate 
 human creed must give some account of grief; must 
 find a place and use for it ; must bring to it some 
 balm of comfort. A creed that cannot shed light on 
 a child's grave, nor dry a woman's tear ; that has no 
 whisper of hope for love bereaved, and no glad 
 prophecy for life arrested, is not the creed that the 
 world requires. Grief is so large a factor in life 
 that any theory of life and conduct which claims 
 human respect must solve its sad riddle. What has 
 Freethought to say about broken hearts ? ' 
 
 Here came a long dramatic pause. The audience 
 stilled into a silence which was almost death-like. 
 Even Mr. Creakles had, for the moment, forgotten the 
 collection, and sat, with eyes almost starting out of 
 his head. What was coming next ? 
 
 ' My friends,' Mr. Gifford went on, almost in a 
 whisper but a whisper that ran, a clear thrilling pencil
 
 MR. GIFFORD'S LAST LECTURE 321 
 
 of sound, through the great building. ' Freethought has 
 nothing to say ! It is paralysed at the touch of grief. 
 It is dumb at the graveside. It has no eyes to see 
 into that darkness ! I have stood there and I know 
 it. It cannot put a smile on the face of a dying 
 child ; it has no logic that can bid a mother's tears 
 cease to flow. 
 
 ' Why did I not tell you this before ? Because I 
 did not know it. When I saw my child go through 
 the dreadful darkness of death and I could speak no 
 syllable of poorest comfort to her, or to myself, then 
 I learned that, in one hour of human life, at least, 
 and at one point of human experience, my creed is 
 bankrupt. 
 
 1 Why do I tell you this now ? Because I hope I 
 am an honest man, and I must deal honestly by you. 
 I am risking my whole career by the words I am now 
 speaking. I am pulling down the house my own hands 
 have built. After to-night I shall be the jest of 
 multitudes. I have destroyed my own position as a 
 public teacher. 
 
 ' But these things do not count. I have told you, 
 from this platform, night after night, where Freethought 
 is strong ; I now tell you where it is weak. A creed 
 which leaves me without a whisper of counsel, of ex- 
 planation, or of hope when my child dies, is not good 
 enough for me, nor for any other human being. It is 
 not adequate, as a theory of life and conduct, for it 
 does not cover all the facts. 
 
 ' The Gospels represent Jesus Christ saying, " He 
 hath sent Me to bind up the broken in heart." The 
 evidence as to the historic Christ does not convince 
 me. At that point I stand to-night on unchanged 
 ground. But if a Christ did come, that is exactly what 
 
 21
 
 322 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 He ought to say. For "broken hearts" need some 
 touch of divine magic to heal them ! They leave the 
 world the scandal and the jest, as well as the tragedy, 
 of the universe, if there is no message of comfort for 
 them, no compassionate and divine Figure call Him 
 " Christ " or what you will to put His gentle and 
 transfiguring hand on them. 
 
 ' But do I bid you believe in the historic 
 Christ? Have I discovered another creed and a 
 better than that I have hitherto taught from this 
 platform ? ' 
 
 Then came another long and thrilling pause. Pre- 
 sently, in low, deep tones, the speaker went on : 
 ' No ! I will be perfectly frank. Mr. Walton prayed 
 by my .dying child ; and out of his prayer came 
 something which put light into her dying eyes, and 
 comfort into her mother's broken heart. I bless him 
 for that. He did what I, the father and husband 
 and teacher, could not do. Was it a divine reality ; 
 a force reaching out of some unseen world ; a breath 
 coming from divine lips ? Or was it only a human 
 delusion ? ' 
 
 Here came another long and nerve-shaking interval 
 of silence. The speaker seemed to have forgotten 
 his audience. He was holding bitter debate with 
 himself. 
 
 ' I do not know,' he whispered. ' I do not know ! 
 Would that I were sure ! I grope in the dark. But, 
 ladies and gentlemen,' he continued, his voice taking 
 depth and volume, 'if it were a delusion, then,' dropping 
 his tone to a whisper again, ' it is better than any 
 reality I know.' 
 
 At this stage Mr. Bagges tried to interpose, and, 
 by his authority as chairman of the Association, to stop
 
 MR. GIFFORD'S LAST LECTURE 323 
 
 a deliverance which had, for that Association itself, 
 the office of mere dynamite. But it was in vain. The 
 audience had a momentary vision of a stout man, with 
 a red face and wildly gesticulating hands, thrusting 
 himself betwixt the speaker and themselves. But he 
 vanished abruptly, cowed by the sudden and universal 
 shout of wrath which swept over him. 
 
 Mr. Gifford went on, as though not conscious of any 
 interruption : 
 
 ' I shall lecture no more here, nor anywhere else. 
 I go out to begin the world again. I am a child that 
 has been set a new lesson hard and bitter! The 
 ground under my feet fails me. I go out to seek 
 what I have not yet found, a key to the puzzle 
 of the world. But my last word here shall be 
 honest.' 
 
 And with an abrupt gesture of farewell he was gone 
 from the stage, and his hearers were left, staring with 
 open-mouthed wonder at each other. 
 
 Mr. Creakles was the first to recover himself. He 
 seized a collection plate, and advanced on the nearest 
 row of the audience with outstretched hand. But 
 nobody heeded him, and he found he lacked the 
 moral courage to carry the plate round. Mr. Bagges, 
 meanwhile, clambered to the stage, and tried to announce 
 that Mr. Stumps would lecture there the following 
 Sunday evening, and make mincemeat of Mr. Gifford ; 
 but his voice was unheeded. 
 
 The audience was breaking up, with a curious 
 slowness and silence, with ears in which still rang 
 the cadences of Mr. GifTord's closing words. 
 
 ' Man/ said David Christie to John Blunt as they 
 emerged from the crush at the door into the moonlit 
 and quiet street, ' yon was grand ! ' 

 
 324 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 'Yes,' said John defensively, 'of course you think 
 so.' 
 
 ' A nd what do you think ? ' demanded David, 
 with emphasis. 'Can you mend what Mr. Gifford 
 said ? ' 
 
 ' No,' replied John reluctantly ; ' Freethought does not 
 work at every point,' and he thought ruefully of his 
 own experiences as a Freethought missionary. 
 
 ' Why, it doesn't work at any point ! It made Tom 
 Oxley a worse drunkard than he was before. You 
 didn't cure Angel Court with it, did you, John ? You 
 couldn't build a Sunday school on it,' he went on cruelly. 
 'And when death came into Mr. Gifford's own family 
 he found his creed was a fraud. Isn't all that true, 
 John?' 
 
 ' Yes,' confessed John, who was stubbornly honest ; 
 * Yes. But does any creed cover all the facts of life ? 
 Don't they all break down at some point? Isn't the 
 perfect creed yet, after so many centuries, to be 
 evolved ? ' 
 
 ' No,' replied David, with emphasis. ' Religion suits 
 me everywhere. It sets me singing when the sun 
 shines, and it helps me to go on singing when there's 
 no sun. Life is better for it, and so is death. It 
 just suits me, and it will suit everybody else. As for 
 your Mr. Gifford, he did to-night a noble and honest 
 thing. He's in God's school rightly enough. And 
 if he keeps the temper he showed to-night he'll come 
 out all right. John ! do you come with him ! ' 
 
 ' I don't change lightly,' said John Blunt, after a 
 long pause, and with a curious thickness in his voice. 
 
 'But you're an honest man, John, and you must 
 follow the light, no matter where it shines. Man ! 
 would you rather keep company with old Bagges and
 
 MR. GIFFORD'S LAST LECTURE 325 
 
 that creature Creakles than come with the saints of 
 all the ages to the feet of Jesus Christ ? ' 
 
 ' I'd come, David, gladly enough ; but I must first be 
 convinced truth lies that way,' and, without a word 
 of farewell, he turned his back on David, and hurried 
 away.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 CHRIST AND THE BROKEN-HEARTED 
 
 MR. GlFFORD's renunciation of the creed he had 
 preached so eloquently and so long naturally created 
 a profound sensation in Middleford. A star of the first 
 magnitude in the somewhat murky sky of unbelief had 
 been suddenly quenched ! But the event served, in an 
 odd way, as a test of character to all kinds of persons 
 and institutions. To some it was a human tragedy ; 
 to others a human deliverance ; to yet others it was a 
 dialectical victory, to be celebrated with loud beating 
 of party drums. 
 
 Mr. Brush promptly began, in Zioris Banner, a 
 series of articles on ' The Breakdown of Freethought.' 
 The series, however, did not enlarge to any appreciable 
 extent the somewhat limited circulation of that journal. 
 Mr. Sawders announced a line of discourses on ' In- 
 fidelity and the Logic of Facts.' The process of writing 
 these discourses soothed his own self-respect greatly ; 
 but their delivery, while it satisfied his deacons, did not 
 attract the crowds upon which Mr. Sawders fondly 
 calculated. The public of Middleford, as a whole, 
 declined to look at the matter as an incident in a 
 controversy, a mere argumentative victory or defeat. 
 It was the human interest that stirred its imagination ; 
 the vision it offered of how a human soul bore itself 
 in the wreck of its faith. 
 
 326
 
 CHRIST AND THE BROKEN-HEARTED 327 
 
 Only one minister in the town succeeded in catching 
 the public ear on the whole topic. Mr. Campbell 
 announced that he would preach the following Sunday 
 night on the subject of ' Christ and Broken Hearts ' ; 
 and all Middleford crowded to hear him. For Mr. 
 Campbell himself was universally trusted and loved. 
 He was no controversialist, and nobody believed that 
 he would attempt to extract a mere dialectical triumph 
 from the incident. He was sure to treat it generously 
 and nobly, and the crowd rilled every inch of space in 
 his church. 
 
 In one corner of the great edifice sat a woman's 
 figure, clad in deepest black, the unlifted veil hiding 
 her features. It was Mrs. Gifford ! Hers was, in very 
 deed, a ' broken heart.' Her sorrow crushed her. The 
 grief, the wonder, the heartache ; the waking each 
 morning with a sense of loss, the lying down each night 
 with fear of dreams all this overwhelmed her. The 
 very perspective of the world was changed. Dumb, 
 indifferent things a book, a ribbon, a child's lesson- 
 book, the refrain of a song, a little worn glove, a vacant 
 chair all these suddenly stabbed her as with the thrust 
 of a sword. She stretched out hands, empty of her 
 child, in a darkness where no star shone. 
 
 Her husband's face was eloquent with wordless 
 sympathy, but he could not help her. His creed had 
 no key to unlock the mystery of a perished life. When 
 Mrs. Gifford saw that Mr. Campbell had undertaken 
 to expound the message of Christianity to a broken 
 heart, she resolved to hear him. If there were a Christ 
 whose hand could heal, with a divine touch, the wound 
 in her heart, she would welcome Him. So she stole 
 in, with veiled face, and sat, a quivering figure, weeping 
 unseen tears through the whole discourse.
 
 328 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 Mr. Campbell was not a dazzling and picturesque 
 figure in the pulpit. A grave, quaint, homely face, 
 framed in snow-white hair, with fatherly eyes ; eyes 
 in which troubled women found a benediction, and 
 from which tempted men drew strength. His voice 
 had in it no heart-shattering depths, no clarion notes. 
 But its pure and gentle cadences ran in music through 
 the air, and in every accent there was audible a crys- 
 talline sincerity which clad even simple words with 
 the charm of eloquence. 
 
 Mr. Campbell read his text in quiet tones : ' And 
 God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.' The 
 mere words stole like a gently whispered benediction 
 over the great audience. 
 
 ' There are tears,' said the preacher. ' They are part 
 of human history. They will last as long as human 
 history.' He found his poet, characteristically enough, 
 not in the austere grace of Tennyson, or the lyrical 
 exaggeration of Shelley, but in the quieter melody of 
 Longfellow : 
 
 There is no flock, however watched and tended, 
 
 But some dead lamb is there ; 
 There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, 
 
 But has some vacant chair. 
 
 The air is full of farewells to the dying, 
 
 And mournings for the dead ; 
 The voice of Rachel for her children crying 
 
 Will not be comforted. 
 
 ' But,' said the preacher, ' tears are not the final fact 
 of human life. Here is written, and by the hand of 
 pitying and Eternal Love, the consummation of human 
 history. " God shall wipe all tears from their eyes." 
 That is the ideal towards which God is working !
 
 CHRIST AND THE BROKEN-HEARTED 329 
 
 That shall be the final victory of His grace. A day 
 will yet dawn which shall see no tear fall.' 
 
 Tears have their reason, their office, their message ; 
 and the preacher undertook to give the Christian 
 interpretation of sorrow. He took as a typical human 
 grief the death of a child. 
 
 ' It is idle to deny,' he said, ' the puzzle, the tragedy, 
 the grief of such an event. It seems to represent 
 the irony of some mocking Power, the very bankruptcy 
 of human love.' 
 
 Mr. Campbell, like Mark Antony, was ' no orator ' ; 
 but he had the orator's instinct, which made him shun 
 generalities and talk in concrete phrases. He put 
 into speech the amazed anguish of a mother who 
 looks on her dead child. 
 
 ' To what strange and unguessed realms is our 
 child gone, gone without gesture of farewell, and gone 
 at a breath ! What a silence lies on brow and lip ! 
 The alabaster box is broken ; the precious ointment 
 is poured out. A child's life is the preface of a 
 volume, the bud of a flower, the prelude to a song. 
 But here the book, with so fair a preface, is unwritten ; 
 the bud is withered ; the song is unsung. Why did 
 God permit such a love to take root in our hearts ; 
 such a tie to weave itself, by a thousand clinging 
 memories, round our lives ; and then, at a breath, 
 and without a whisper of explanation, destroy it? A 
 love which yesterday was the door by which the 
 purest happiness stole into our lives becomes to-day 
 a dark gate of silence on whose threshold Sorrow sits 
 and weeps. Is it the act of love thus to cheat love, 
 and turn it into anguish ? ' 
 
 Tears were running down the faces of many in the 
 great audience by this time, and Mrs. Gifford felt
 
 330 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 as though some quiet, gentle voice was translating 
 into speech the problems of her own wordless 
 grief. 
 
 ' Then,' continued the preacher, ' there are so many 
 questions the death of a child drives us to ask, and for 
 which there seems no answer. Was our child frightened 
 when she stepped into that strange realm, so utterly 
 beyond our vision, into which she has gone ? What 
 faces did she see first ? What lips spake to her ? Who 
 took her by the hand? Did she forget, in one swift 
 instant, those she had left behind her on earth ? We 
 held our child a moment ago in our arms ; now she 
 is beyond Aldebaran and the Pleiades ! We cannot 
 speak to her, nor touch her. We call her name. Does 
 she hear and know? Love aches to tell her things, 
 to ask her a thousand hurrying questions, to know 
 what she has seen and what has befallen her. But 
 love on this side has no voice, and on that no answer. 
 Oui child in the happy home life had no secrets : 
 not a thought that was not transparent ; not a pain 
 nor a gladness which was not shared. But in a 
 moment she is shrouded in a mystery so profound 
 that the imagination stands dumb before it ! Why 
 have we this passion of longing to do something for our 
 child, and are yet mocked by a helplessness so 
 complete ? 
 
 ' Then there is the question, which stabs like a 
 sword, and which is part of the mystery of death : 
 Need our child have died ? If love had only been 
 wiser, more vigilant, more keenly alert to danger, might 
 she not still be with us? Why was this great office 
 of motherhood and fatherhood given only to be 
 wrecked ? When, through the shadow and swoon of 
 death the landscapes of heaven broke upon our child,
 
 CHRIST AND THE BROKEN-HEARTED 331 
 
 and her wondering eyes saw the shining faces of the 
 angels, did she miss us ? The primary, passionate 
 instinct of a mother's heart, of a father's heart to 
 protect a child, to explain all that is strange, to hush 
 every anxiety stands at the gate of death mocked 
 and baffled. The little figure goes into those strange 
 realms alone ! What has Christianity to say to a 
 puzzle so dark ? Can even the hand of God so touch 
 our eyes that, under the sting of such a sorrow, they 
 shall cease to weep ? ' 
 
 Here Mr. Campbell stopped, while the silence in the 
 church deepened until it seemed as if a thousand people 
 held their breath. Mrs. Gifford, in her far corner, 
 dreaded lest the deep sighs which in spite of herself 
 crept through her lips would turn all eyes upon her. 
 
 'Yes,' began the preacher again, 'religion has a 
 message for grief ; Christ interprets His own divine 
 mission. " He has sent me," He says, " to bind up the 
 broken in heart." ' 
 
 Then he proceeded to expound the Christian view of 
 a child's death. ' Is it true that it is a realm of darkness 
 into which our child has gone ; that no ray of light 
 shines upon it ; that no whisper of revelation has been 
 spoken about it ? That is to declare the Bible a blank 
 book, to assert that Christ has not come, or has not 
 spoken, or that we cannot trust His word. All is told 
 about our dead in Christ which, at this stage of our 
 education, we need to know. We do not need a plan 
 of heaven, and a catalogue of its furniture, a volume 
 to describe its natural history, a picture in detail of the 
 saints in their robes. The one great word of Christ 
 is enough \ I go to prepare a place for you. If this 
 office had been given to human love, if every mother 
 could go before her child into that world, with a warrant
 
 332 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 to w prepare " a special heaven for her little one, would 
 that not be sufficient ? But human love might blunder. 
 The task is too great for clumsy human hands. So 
 Christ takes it upon Himself. It is one of the great 
 offices of His redemption. " I go," He says " I, who 
 have bought the soul of your child with My blood I 
 go to prepare a place for your child." And though the 
 secret of that heaven is still undeclared, yet can 
 sorrow itself ask more than this : that Christ has 
 prepared it ? 
 
 'We may interpret God's love for our child by our 
 own love ; though this is to interpret the sea by the 
 drop, the furnace of the sun by a spark. He Himself 
 taught us the love that burns in our blood. He kindled 
 this instinct of sheltering tenderness in us towards our 
 child. Has He not Himself got what He has given 
 us ? Or is the drop more than the sea, deeper, wider, 
 and swept by mightier tides ? Has the spark a brighter 
 flame than the sun ? 
 
 ' But will God give us back our child ; or is the 
 separation of death an eternal divorce ? We can bear 
 the momentary grief if beyond it there shines the hope 
 that love will yet clasp its object again. Now, to doubt 
 that is to arraign God's love itself. It is the worst 
 sort of atheism. Would any mother give her child 
 so much as a doll, and then, in idle caprice, snatch away 
 the gift, and mock her child's heart ? And will our 
 Father deal so with His children? Is He less good 
 than we are ? If we, being evil, give at love's bidding, 
 and give finally, will not God ? He gave us the child. 
 He inspired the love which wove round His gift the 
 purest and most enduring affections of which we are 
 capable. Will He, in cruelty or in caprice, pluck back 
 His gift ? Will He suffer death to defeac it ? '
 
 CHRIST AND THE BROKEN-HEARTED 333 
 
 Then the preacher's voice rang out like a trumpet : 
 ' The gifts and calling of God are without repentance. 
 They are not caprices. They make visible, for a moment, 
 and under one set of conditions, a divine purpose which 
 is not a vagrant impulse, but an eternal act What God 
 wills once, He wills for ever. What He gives once He 
 gives for ever. " Thy brother shall live again," Christ 
 said to Martha. " Thy brother," not some one else's. 
 " Thy child, O woman, shall live again," God whispers. 
 Thy child ; not so altered as to be no longer thy 
 child. 
 
 'Do you doubt at that point? Do you want some 
 proof that your child still lives ? I will not quote texts. 
 The very intensity of the love God kindled in you 
 for your child, the range and sweep of the affections 
 that gather round it, justify the expectation of im- 
 mortality. Does God make the divinest thing in us 
 a jest ? Does He kindle affections that beat with the 
 pulses of eternity, and then leave them cheated so soon, 
 and so cruelly, by a too swift death ? " Thy child shall 
 live again." A child's grave is one of the strongest 
 arguments for immortality. We might accuse God's 
 love of cruelty, or God's wisdom of folly, as we stand 
 beside it, if there shone upon it no sure light of immortal 
 hope. 
 
 ' But the belief of all this, you say, is hard ; and 
 imagination is even more difficult than faith. To 
 believe, in spite of darkness and mystery, that our 
 child is with God ; that this is far better than being 
 with us ; that her feet, which once made such music 
 in the home, now run on the golden pavements of God's 
 city ; this is hard ! But harder still to realize it. We 
 cannot realize it ! The imagination is frozen, Oh, 
 if we could but feel all this !
 
 334 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 ' This only means that we cannot translate into the 
 terms of the emotions, and of the imagination, the things 
 that belong to the realm of faith ; or that we do so 
 imperfectly, and with many a failure. But this is not 
 a moral process, and has no moral significance. It is a 
 luxury, not necessary to faith ; it is perhaps even 
 injurious to faith. " Blessed," said Christ, " are they that 
 have not seen and yet have believed." " Blessed," He 
 might say, " are they that cannot ' feel,' or ' realize,' or 
 'imagine,' the things that belong to the spiritual 
 realm, and yet believe." To hold by trust things un- 
 realized, this is faith ! 
 
 ' Grief has its gains,' the preacher went on. ' It is 
 part of our education. Nor is " the far-off interest of 
 tears " so far off as Tennyson seems to think. Tears 
 clear the spiritual vision. We get, in the breath and 
 awe of the death-bed if only for a moment a true 
 perspective. We gain a new sensibility. Beyond 
 death, Christ teaches us, there is the resurrection 
 Death and the resurrection are twin and answering 
 facts ; and the resurrection shall undo all the mischiefs 
 of death, shall restore all its thefts. The gate of heaven 
 is the great meeting-place for all the souls death has 
 parted on earth. In the Father's house above shall the 
 whole family gather, and no child be missing. 
 
 4 But in the order of time, in the order of God's grace, 
 in the order of human history, "the last enemy that shall 
 be destroyed is death." The last ! You may not have 
 on this side of the resurrection a bliss God is keeping 
 for you on the other side. We must walk by faith. 
 We must wait God's time. We must trust God's love. 
 And the hour comes swiftly, comes surely, comes soon 
 when the great promise of this text shall be fulfilled, 
 and " God shall wipe away all tears " from human eyes.
 
 CHRIST AND THE BROKEN-HEARTED 335 
 
 O weeping mother, trust that love ! Wait for that 
 hour ! ' 
 
 Then the preacher broke into prayer, while every 
 head in the congregation instinctively bowed. 
 
 ' O Thou who art the Lord of life and death ; who 
 sittest calm in Thy eternity, and dost determine with 
 Thy counsels the coming and going of us, who are 
 creatures of Time : we are Thy children, dear to Thee. 
 Our affections are Thy gifts. All human love but 
 faintly interprets to us Thy love. Thou dost not 
 willingly afflict us. And when the heart fails, and the 
 spirit breaks, Thou knowest ! Thou carest ! Thy 
 succours are near ! We will trust Thee, and wait Thy 
 time. We do not ask to know Thy secrets. Thou art 
 leading us, and if it is in the darkness, it is yet well. 
 Thou wilt bring us to the light, and soon. Until the 
 day dawn, and the shadows flee away, help us to cling 
 to Thee ! ' 
 
 Mr. Gifford was sitting in his study that night, when 
 his wife, with a quick step, entered. Her eyes were 
 shining. Her face was wasted and white, but the 
 lines seemed gone from it. Her lips wore a smile, a 
 smile so sweet and strange, such as her husband had 
 never seen there before. 
 
 'Frank/ she cried, as she ran to him, and put her 
 arms round his neck, ' we have not lost Mary, and I 
 have found Christ ! ' 
 
 Mr. Gifford looked at her in amazement. Had grief 
 overturned her reason ? 
 
 ' No, Frank,' she said, as though reading his thought ; 
 * I am sane. Perhaps for the first time in my life I 
 am sane.'
 
 336 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 Then she told how she had listened to Mr. Campbell ; 
 how her puzzled grief found its interpretation in Christ ; 
 how the shadows had lifted from Mary's grave. 
 
 ' We have not lost Mary,' she repeated, again and 
 again. ' God gave her to us. He has taken her from us for 
 a moment, but He is keeping her for us. He will give 
 her back, for He is Love. My tears,' she said they 
 were running hot down her cheeks as she spoke, but 
 she smiled as she wiped them away 'my tears have 
 a new meaning, and God shall soon wipe away all tears.' 
 
 ' Soon ? ' asked Mr. Gifford, with a sad smile. 
 
 ' Yes, " soon," ' she cried. ' What is a life-time but a 
 moment in God's arithmetic ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, Frank,' she went on, ' did I do wrong to go ? ' 
 
 ' Wrong ? No ! Anything truth or lie which will 
 save your heart from breaking, is welcome. I would not 
 destroy your new faith. I envy it, though I cannot 
 share it.' 
 
 ' But, Frank, you will,' cried his wife, ' you will ! '
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 EXIT MR. CREAKLES! 
 
 MR. CREAKLES sat in his office with lowering brows 
 and hungrily meditative eyes. He felt that his fa- 
 miliar world was tumbling about his ears in ruin. The 
 People's Building Society was, somehow, contemplated 
 by the good people of Middleford themselves in a 
 highly unsympathetic and critical spirit, which was 
 fatal to cash deposits. The speculation with the 
 bank's money, which his league with Cecil made 
 possible, had proved a disastrous failure. Cecil was 
 a squeezed orange. So was the bank. So was 
 Mr. Gifford ; so was the Freethought Association 
 itself. 
 
 Mr. Creakles began to suspect, indeed, that his 
 own turn to be squeezed was coming near ; and at 
 the thought he wriggled in his chair uncomfortably. 
 What could he do to escape that unpleasant process, 
 or who was there to whom he could transfer it? 
 Over this interesting problem Mr. Creakles meditated 
 long and deeply. At last he got up, consulted his 
 letter-book, grinned an evil smile, and, sitting down 
 at his desk, wrote with great care and repeated 
 revisions a few lines on a sheet of paper that bore 
 the official imprint of the F.A. Then, putting on 
 his hat, he took his way to the bank. 
 
 337 22
 
 338 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 Cecil cast a disquieted look at him as he entered 
 the banking-chamber, but Mr. Creakles, with a smile- 
 less nod, passed on to the manager's room, knocked, 
 and entered, carefully shutting the door behind him. 
 
 Something in the careful thoroughness with which 
 Mr. Creakles shut the door fluttered Cecil's nerves 
 It suggested anxious secrecy, and behind that must 
 be a plot ; and Mr. Creakles's plots, as Cecil had good 
 reason to know, supplied ample reasons for anxiety 
 to other people. 
 
 ' What is that rogue Creakles up to now ? ' muttered 
 Cecil. 
 
 Mr. Arden's face, thin and haggard, wore a look 
 as disquieted as that of Cecil himself when he saw 
 the foxy eyes of Mr. Creakles peering at him, with 
 an expression half meditative and half impudent ; a 
 look which made Mr. Arden feel very much like an 
 imperfectly squeezed orange about to be put in the 
 squeezer for another turn. And Mr. Arden was a 
 sadly nerve-shaken man. The mysterious burglary, 
 with the complication brought about by Kit's unexpected 
 appearance on the scene, had sorely tried him. The 
 injury to Kit's character, too, pricked his conscience 
 with a sharpness which surprised even its owner. Then 
 there was the ever-gnawing consciousness that Kit knew 
 his evil secret ! 
 
 Kate saw, with eyes of tender pity and alarm, that 
 her father was a broken man. He sought more 
 diligently than ever the perilous consolation of his 
 drugs, and they failed to soothe him. Some deep 
 disquiet was at work in Mr. Arden, which not all 
 the nepenthe of which poets ever sung could 
 lull. 
 
 ' Well, Mr. Creakles,' said Mr. Arden, pulling himself
 
 EXIT MR. CREAKLES! 339 
 
 together, and putting on an official manner, ' what can 
 I do for you ? ' 
 
 Mr. Creakles, who was still contemplating him with 
 a pair of foxy eyes, whose expression flustered Mr. 
 Arden's nerves sadly, made no reply, and Mr. Arden 
 repeated his question irritably. Still Mr. Creakles 
 continued to gnaw his lips, and to regard Mr. Arden 
 in exasperating silence. 
 
 ' Confound it, Creakles,' broke out the manager, 
 grasping the arms of his chair, ' what do you want ? ' 
 
 Mr. Creakles smiled an evil, contented smile. He 
 had shaken Mr. Arden, so to speak, out of his official 
 wrappages. 
 
 'There's 3,000 to the credit of the Association, 
 beside the securities, isn't there?' he asked. 
 
 Mr. Arden drew a small ledger across the table, and 
 examined a page. 
 
 ' Yes, and I don't think the Association itself knows 
 how its account has shrunk.' 
 
 Mr. Arden wanted to give Mr. Creakles a little of 
 the discomfort he felt himself. But the little man 
 was quite unmoved. 
 
 ' Well,' he went on coolly, ' I will draw out the 
 balance, and take over the securities.' 
 
 ' What ! ' cried Mr. Arden, sitting up. 
 
 ' Yes. Here's an order in due form.' 
 
 ' But your name is not good enough by itself, 
 Creakles. That order is only waste paper.' 
 
 ' Yet you will take it,' persisted Mr. Creakles, 
 steadily. 
 
 ' No, I won't,' said Mr. Arden, with much agitation. 
 ' It would ruin me.' 
 
 ' It will mean ruin to you if you don't,' continued 
 Mr. Creakles, with serene composure. ' Look here,
 
 340 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 Arden, turn up the letter signed by the president and 
 the treasurer of the F.A., authorizing you to make 
 payments for the missionary branch of our work.' 
 
 'Yes, but the orders for such payments were to be 
 signed by three persons Mr. Gifford, Mr. Blunt, and 
 yourself and they have always, as a matter of fact, 
 been signed by the three.' 
 
 * Turn up the letter/ insisted Mr. Creakles. 
 
 Mr. Arden took his letter-file from the safe, and 
 turned up the letter. Mr. Creakles, without any apology, 
 stepped to the desk and looked over his shoulder. 
 
 ' You see/ he exclaimed, with a note of triumph in 
 his voice, ' the orders are to be signed by Mr. Gifford 
 and Mr. Blunt, " or " by myself. Now, here's my 
 order. It will cover you. You must take a little risk/ 
 he went on, to the unfortunate manager, who held 
 his order with shaking fingers. ' There's a bigger risk 
 if you don't/ he added, grimly. ' The whole business 
 we have been carrying on must come out, and that 
 means the jail-cell for all of us. When I have cleared 
 out you can put what you like on me, and that letter 
 will cover you.' 
 
 Mr. Arden still stared with alarmed eyes and frozen 
 lips at the order, while the little man went on smoothly, 
 explaining again and again what he wanted, and why 
 and how, and what advantages would follow to every- 
 body from his plan, till Mr. Arden, with his opium- 
 drugged brain, was semi-mesmerized. 
 
 ' I can't do it/ he groaned at last. 
 
 ' You can, and you must/ persisted Mr. Creakles. 
 ' Look ! Here's my order. There is the letter from 
 the F.A. You can stand on them. You will be 
 happier when I am off, and safer. What do the funds 
 of the Association matter to you ? If I don't go,
 
 EXIT MR. CREAKLES! 341 
 
 everything comes out, and then, instead of broadcloth, 
 you will wear a suit with the broad-arrow all over it.' 
 
 'But the Association never meant to give you that 
 power,' remonstrated Mr. Arden, almost in tears. 
 
 ' How do you know ? ' asked Mr. Creakles ; ' and 
 what does it matter to you ? There's the letter.' 
 
 ' But I oughtn't to act on it without reference to the 
 Association.' 
 
 ' Well, refer it to them a week hence ; but, for a 
 clear week you mustn't let any one any one,' he 
 repeated, with emphasis ' not even your slippery 
 accountant know about the business. I want the 
 securities ; an order at sight on the Bank of England 
 for the cash, and a clear week.' 
 
 It was a battle of wits and of wills, and the keener 
 wit, the more resolute will, naturally prevailed. ' There's 
 some risk if you do it,' argued Mr. Creakles, with 
 monotonous iteration ; ' but it's risk for to-morrow, 
 or for next month. There's ruin if you don't do it ; 
 and it's ruin to-day.' And Mr. Arden, with his drug- 
 shaken nerves, belonged to the class of weak men 
 to whom an inconvenience to-day will always out-bulk 
 irretrievable disaster next week. 
 
 As Mr. Creakles came through the outer office Cecil 
 looked keenly at him, and that gentleman's hand went 
 up, with a sort of protective jerk, to his breast-pocket, 
 which held a somewhat bulky parcel. Cecil noted the 
 act, and wondered what it meant. He stepped into 
 the manager's room, and found Mr. Arden in the act 
 of pouring, with shaking fingers, a few drops of a 
 colourless fluid into a glass half filled with water. 
 
 ' What did old Creakles want ? ' asked Cecil. 
 
 Mr. Arden drained the glass, and then, in what may 
 be called managerial tones, he replied :
 
 342 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 ' Nothing, Mr. Sparks, nothing ; or, at least, nothing 
 about which I need consult you ' ; and Cecil went back 
 to his desk with a muttered oath upon his lips. 
 
 That night Mr. Creakles went by train to London, 
 and his solitary clerk explained to callers that he would 
 not be back for two or three days. 
 
 Exactly a week afterwards, Mr. Bagges, the chairman 
 of the F.A., received a letter from Mr. Arden, stating 
 that a small cheque had come in, drawn upon the 
 account of the Association, and had been paid ; but 
 the account was now overdrawn. Would Mr. Bagges 
 call and arrange matters? If the F.A. wanted an 
 overdraft the manager would be glad to know the 
 amount and the security. 
 
 ' An overdraft ? ' gasped Mr. Bagges, in wrathful 
 astonishment. ' Why, we have got thousands to our 
 credit.' 
 
 He hurried in upon Mr. Arden, red-faced with 
 mingled haste and anger, and, taking no notice of the 
 manager's somewhat nervous smile and outstretched 
 hand, broke out : 
 
 ' What does this mean, Mr. Arden ? ' flinging that 
 gentleman's letter down before him. ' An overdraft ! 
 Why, you've got all our securities, and there must be 
 some thousands to our credit' 
 
 ' There was,' replied Mr. Arden, ' a week ago ; but 
 Mr. Creakles drew it all out.' 
 
 ' Mr. Creakles,' said Mr. Bagges, while his red features 
 suddenly grew redder than ever, and his big goose- 
 berry eyes almost started out of his head. ' That 
 wretched little rogue ! Why, he had no authority.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, he had,' said Mr. Arden, turning up a letter ; 
 ' he had an authority signed by yourself. See,' and 
 he showed Mr. Bagges the historic letter instructing
 
 EXIT MR. CREAKLES! 343 
 
 the Bank to make payments on the order of Mr. 
 Gifford and Mr. Blunt, 'or' Mr. Creakles. 
 
 The characters seemed to dance on the paper before 
 Mr. Bagges's agitated vision. It was all Greek to him. 
 He was slow-witted at best, and just now he was in 
 a state of semi-idiotic bewilderment. He grasped the 
 situation at last, however. Through the crevice of that 
 little ' or' the whole capital of the F.A. had vanished. 
 
 ' The rogue ! ' he gasped ; ' the rogue ! ' 
 
 Then language failed him, and, with protruding eyes 
 and twitching features he stood trembling on the verge 
 of mere apoplexy. He recovered himself at last. 
 
 ' But, Arden,' he shouted, ' you must be a rogue, 
 too. You couldn't have believed that we had given one 
 man, and that man Creakles, power to handle all our 
 cash ! No manager in his senses could believe that.' 
 
 ' I don't know what you meant, Mr. Bagges,' said 
 Mr. Arden, with much dignity. ' But here is what you 
 wrote. And Mr. Creakles is the secretary of the F.A.' 
 
 ' Why didn't you consult us ? ' demanded Mr. Bagges, 
 with a fresh access of bewildered and helpless wrath. 
 
 ' I was busy, and I thought it unnecessary. But 
 surely it's all right. Mr. Creakles ' 
 
 ' Oh, bother Mr. Creakles ! ' interrupted Mr. Bagges. 
 ' He has got the plunder right enough.' 
 
 No doubt about Mr. Creakles's character or intentions, 
 for a single moment, visited Mr. Bagges's brain ! 
 
 He sank down into a chair, and swore at both Mr. 
 Creakles and Mr. Arden, at such length, and with 
 such energy and picturesqueness, that Cecil, attracted 
 by the sound, looked in at the door. 
 
 'You are rogues all,' bawled Mr. Bagges. 'It's a 
 conspiracy. We'll run you all into jail for this ' j 
 and he rushed out in a state of apoplectic fury,
 
 344 ITH URIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 Here was some new alarm ! Cecil looked with 
 questioning eyes at Mr. Arden. That unhappy 
 man sat, with white face and trembling limbs, in his 
 chair. 
 
 ' What's up now ? ' demanded Cecil. 
 
 ' Mr. Creakles,' began Mr. Arden, in what was 
 intended to be a dignified and official manner ' Mr. 
 Creakles has apparently somewhat exceeded his powers, 
 and has drawn out all the cash and securities of the 
 F.A.' 
 
 * Creakles ! ' almost shouted Cecil. 
 
 Then he stepped swiftly to the safe, and threw the 
 door open. The securities were gone. 
 
 'The scoundrel has left us in the lurch,' he cried, 
 ' and has carried off the booty. This explains the draft 
 for 3,000 that came in for collection this morning. 
 It is gone into Creakles's pocket, and we are left to 
 stand the racket.' 
 
 Mr. Arden tried to put to him the view that it was 
 ' better for everybody ' that Mr. Creakles had gone ; 
 that the loss would fall on the Association, and he 
 was covered by Creakles's order. 
 
 ' No,' said Cecil, ' you are a ruined man. No 
 manager in his senses would have parted with the 
 cash and the securities on such an order. This will 
 drag everything into the open. We have got the 
 risk, and Creakles has got the cash and is off.' 
 
 Cecil looked at Mr. Arden with furious contempt. 
 He understood perfectly his weakness and cowardice. 
 This was no ally to be trusted. 
 
 Then a tempest of anger against Creakles swept 
 over him. 
 
 ' That skunk ! ' he broke out, ' to have carried off all 
 the booty . . . ! '
 
 EXIT MR. CREAKLES! 345 
 
 With silent fury he turned his back upon Mr. Arden, 
 seized his hat, and hurried out of the bank. All his 
 troubles had come suddenly to a climax. The solid 
 ground was crumbling under his feet. He had covered 
 up all traces of wrong-doing in the bank's books with 
 infinite skill ; yet he dreaded an investigation, sharp- 
 ened by suspicion. That, he knew, would be fatal. 
 The jail-door seemed to gape wide open before his 
 imagination. 
 
 Cecil suddenly resolved he would 'clear out,' or, at 
 least, he would make preparations for clearing out. 
 He was young. He knew himself to be smart. He 
 would seek, under other skies, a career which had 
 become impossible in England. Why should he stay 
 to live in an atmosphere of fear? 
 
 The meeting of the Committee of the F.A., hurriedly 
 called by Mr. Bagges, was naturally of a very stormy 
 character. The president, Mr. Gifford, had broken 
 with them, and with the abandonment of his lectures, 
 all the public influence of the Association had vanished. 
 The secretary, Mr. Creakles, had gone off with the 
 cash. The members of the committee were left without 
 a leader, without funds, the mere jest and laughing- 
 stock of the community. 
 
 What added infinitely to their discomposure was a 
 letter from Mr. Creakles himself, which Mr. Bagges 
 had received. It ran as follows : 
 
 ' The Committee of the F.A. 
 
 ' GENTLEMEN, I have taken a step which narrow 
 and prejudiced minds will certainly not understand, 
 and may, perhaps, describe in harsh terms. But I am 
 sure the members of the Committee will at once 
 recognize that my action is a beautiful illustration of
 
 346 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 those great principles which the Association exists to 
 disseminate. 
 
 ' I have taken with me all the cash standing at the 
 credit of the Association, and all negotiable securities, 
 as per list enclosed. I have done this under the 
 authority given me by a resolution of the Committee, 
 which will be found on page 320 of the Minutes. 
 My action, therefore, is technically legal ; but it is 
 also, I feel, quite in accordance with the principles 
 of the Association. The legacy of the late Mr. Hobbs 
 was given for the purpose of " making practical applica- 
 tions of Freethought principles." Now, the money was 
 being wasted in the frivolous missionary attempts of 
 Mr. John Blunt. Mr. Gifford was a mere sentimentalist, 
 and it is now known to the Committee that he is 
 disloyal to our principles. I feel that I represent 
 those principles more satisfactorily than either of 
 these gentlemen, or than any other member of the 
 Committee, or than all of them put together. I there- 
 fore have a superior moral right to the funds, as I can 
 employ them more in accordance with our principles 
 than the Committee can. 
 
 ' I contend, therefore, that, as an example of " Free- 
 thought principles applied to practical affairs," my 
 action in taking charge of the funds comes within 
 the terms of the trust, as well as within the letter of 
 the instructions contained in the resolution on page 
 320 of the Minutes. 
 
 ' To avoid unpleasantness I have not sought a 
 personal interview with the Committee before leaving 
 Middleford. As I am a man of peace, constitutionally 
 averse to strife, I do not give my present address, 
 lest any hasty and narrow-minded steps should be 
 taken which would injure our Cause by creating a
 
 EXIT MR. CREAKLES! 347 
 
 scandal. I may explain, however, that I am seeking 
 a clime more favourable to liberal views of life and 
 work than that of England. 
 
 ' I hope the Committee will, in time, derive consolation 
 from the knowledge that the funds are in the ex- 
 perienced hands of one who may be trusted not to 
 betray Freethought, after the deplorable example of 
 Mr. Gifford, and not to waste its cash in ridiculous 
 schemes of so-called " philanthropy," like Mr. John 
 Blunt. 
 
 ' Philanthropy, I feel strongly, should begin at home. 
 The " social problem " in which I am most interested 
 is myself, and to this problem I propose to devote, 
 on the highest principles of Freethought, the remainder 
 of Mr. Hobbs's legacy. 
 
 ' I have the honour to be, 
 ' Gentlemen, 
 ' Your obedient servant, 
 
 'SAMUEL CREAKLES.' 
 
 The debate which followed the reading of this letter 
 was of a very animated character. Mr. Bagges's con- 
 tribution to it consisted chiefly of a series of apoplectic 
 oaths. They were fired off at intervals, like signal 
 guns at sea, without any relation to what was being 
 said at the moment ; they were of great picturesqueness 
 and energy, and they certainly rendered Mr. Bagges 
 himself one useful service. They saved him from a 
 fit ! The rest of the Committee all talked together, 
 each man at the top of his voice, and each in a distinct 
 and separate variety of rage ; Mr. Bagges's oaths mean- 
 while, as we have said, sounding through the tumult 
 of angry voices like so many minute-guns. Mr. Grimes, 
 of the White House, at last, by superior energy of lungs
 
 348 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 and range of expletives, obtained a hearing. ' Let's take 
 out a warrant for the scoundrel,' he shouted. 
 
 'But the money's gone,' wailed Mr. Tuggs, the 
 hairdresser, ' and who's going to put his hands into 
 his pocket for the sake of prosecuting Creakles?' 
 
 ' I won't give sixpence to save the whole Association,' 
 cried Mr. Bagges. ' If Creakles hadn't got the money 
 some other rogue amongst us would. I'm done with 
 the whole racket ' ; and the little man, looking more 
 explosively apoplectic than ever, got up to leave the 
 room. 
 
 ' Mr. Bagges needn't insult the whole Committee,' 
 said Mr. Tinkler, the radical shoemaker, with much 
 dignity. ' And he's one of the trustees of the Associa- 
 tion ; he's responsible for its funds. It might pay us 
 better/ he went on venomously, ' to serve a writ on 
 him and the other trustees for the money that's lost.' 
 
 'What,' bellowed Mr. Bagges, with a new eruption 
 of expletives, 'make me pay for the money Creakles 
 has stolen ! ' and the little man seemed on the point of 
 committing a personal assault on the whole Committee. 
 
 ' Gentlemen,' remonstrated John Blunt, who had 
 hitherto sat silent, ' we're bankrupt in cash, but we 
 needn't be bankrupt in manners or in common sense. 
 We've got the reputation of the Association to protect. 
 We mustn't wash our dirty linen in public.' 
 
 Mr. Bagges breathed his final benediction on the 
 Association in the shape of one loud and comprehensive 
 oath. 
 
 ' Perhaps Mr. Blunt,' the little shoemaker suggested 
 agreeably, ' knows where Mr. Creakles is, and has 
 come to some arrangement with him.' 
 
 John Blunt contemplated the whole company with 
 stern eyes.
 
 EXIT MR. CREAKLES! 349 
 
 1 We're acting like children,' he said. ' Are we going 
 to destroy the whole cause ? Perhaps,' he added, with 
 a disquieted look, as he gazed at the faces before him, 
 'perhaps the cause deserves to be destroyed.' 
 
 ' Well, John,' said Mr. Looker, as they met next 
 morning, ' you needn't be much distressed. Every 
 cause has its unworthy disciples. You have your 
 failures, like more orthodox bodies. But you may 
 at least claim that you have produced one thorough- 
 going and consistent representative of your principles.' 
 
 ' Yes,' answered John Blunt, doubtfully. ' Whom do 
 you mean ? ' 
 
 ' Mr. Creakles, of course,' replied Mr. Looker promptly. 
 And John Blunt, who was, mentally, not very agile, 
 had walked half down the street before he could make 
 up his mind as to what exactly Mr. Looker meant, 
 and whether it was a compliment to Freethought, or 
 a slander on it !
 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 THE CONFESSION 
 
 UNDER the shock of so many incidents, the prick 
 of so many alarms, Mr. Arden's health was breaking 
 down. Without his drugs he felt it impossible to 
 live, and to show an unterrified face to the world. 
 Yet he loathed them. They destroyed his will-power. 
 They were the root of sin ; they bred in him a 
 weakness, a moral enervation which made any baseness 
 possible. His body was a mere web of shaken nerves ; 
 and within sat a terrified conscience that no drug 
 could reach and soothe! He was fear-haunted. 
 Dreams crept into his sleep such as De Quincey has 
 painted in his Opium Eater ; but, in Mr. Arden's 
 case, conscience drew the dreadful imagery of these 
 dream-chambers ! Conscience spoke in the voices that 
 whispered to him, and pursued him through all the 
 realms of sleep ! 
 
 Then came Mr. Creakles's swoop on the funds of 
 the Association. Mr. Arden found himself the un- 
 rewarded accomplice in a new fraud. Out of the 
 alarms bred of this, conscience took a new austerity ; 
 and Mr. Arden was shaken with new conflicts. 
 He was trembling in a perpetual anguish of in- 
 decision, now wildly tempted to suicide, and now 
 
 350
 
 THE CONFESSION 351 
 
 humbly meditating confession, when a malignant fever 
 seized him. 
 
 Kate had long watched with deep disquiet the dull 
 and sunken eyes, the shaking limbs, of her father ; 
 and now, when fever broke out, she hung over him 
 with tireless and gentle ministry. He seemed to be 
 at times visibly dying under her eyes ; and by a 
 curious and subtle bent in her feelings, she was not 
 unwilling that her fears for her father should fan 
 her anger against Kit. For, in spite of herself, that 
 anger was dying away, and in its stead an uncon- 
 fessed and unanalysed sense was growing up that 
 she had wronged him ; and the thought almost 
 broke her heart. And yet if he were the cause of 
 her father's illness, surely her anger against Kit was 
 justified ! 
 
 Cecil, though from quite other motives, was almost 
 as much alarmed at Mr. Arden's illness as Kate her- 
 self. 
 
 'The fool,' he reflected bitterly, 'will certainly blab. 
 He's losing his nerve. He will give the whole thing 
 away.' 
 
 He came as often as he could into the room in 
 which Mr. Arden lay, wasted with fever ; he toiled 
 with infinite art to keep up the courage of his 
 accomplice ; to hold him at least to an unwhispering 
 silence. He felt that, somehow, Mr. Arden was being 
 touched with new and incalculable moral forces. What 
 effect these forces might produce it disquieted him 
 sorely to guess, and Cecil quietly made arrangements 
 to disappear on the first signal of danger. And signs 
 of peril were already emerging. A special examination 
 of the books of the bank had been made, but Cecil 
 had covered up all traces of wrong-doing with such
 
 352 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 ingenuity that apparently nothing particular was dis- 
 covered. But an ominous sign the board notified 
 Mr. Arden that he must be present at its next meeting, 
 prepared to answer questions, and to give any ex- 
 planations of certain facts including Mr. Creakles's 
 disappearance with the funds of the Freethought 
 Association in his power. 
 
 ' Oh, father,' cried Kate, as she saw his unconcealed 
 agitation, 'it's all that dreadful burglary. You have 
 had no rest since then. And it is that foolish and 
 obstinate tale of Kit's. How could he bring all this 
 on you ? ' 
 
 Mr. Arden winced. 
 
 ' Don't blame him, Kate, he only did what was right, 
 or what he thought was right.' 
 
 But this was a magnanimity which only served 
 in Kate's eyes to make the part Kit had played 
 still darker. Her father was ruined in health, and 
 might be dismissed from the bank ; and all through 
 him ! 
 
 But when the Board of Directors met, Mr. Arden 
 was past answering questions. He was in a raging 
 fever, a fever that ran its malign course with deadly 
 speed. His system had no resisting power. All his 
 nerves were drug-corroded. Kate saw with infinite 
 grief her father's unhappy life burning itself out to 
 ashes in a flame of mere fear and disquiet before her 
 eyes. In his lucid intervals she read the Bible to him, 
 sang to him with divine softness and tenderness one 
 hymn after another, talked to him of the_Divine Saviour 
 of men, of the love beyond all human imagination or 
 guess of God. Mr. Arden would make no response, 
 but he listened. The hymns, especially, crept, with 
 their soothing music, into the cells of his restless brain,
 
 THE CONFESSION 353 
 
 and he would ask for them again and again. But, 
 plainly, some strange burden lay on his mind and 
 sealed his lips. It was killing him. 
 
 Kate brought Mr. Walton to see him, and he 
 was shocked at the change he found. There was 
 some unspoken question in the hollow and sunken 
 eyes, fastened, with such pathos, on Mr. Walton's 
 face. The sick man listened to all he could say ; 
 but it was as though he had said nothing. Some 
 curious pre-occupation sealed all the avenues to his 
 mind. 
 
 At last, with a feeble gesture, and a look that almost 
 broke Kate's heart to see, her father waved her out 
 of the room. 
 
 'Mr. Walton,' he said, 'you are an honest man. 
 Tell me : is there any saving mercy for a man who 
 has no mercy on another ? ' 
 
 ' No,' was the reply, given with characteristic honesty 
 and directness ; ' if you refuse to forgive another you 
 make forgiveness impossible to yourself.' 
 
 ' Ah ! it's not a matter of my " forgiving " another,' 
 Mr. Arden replied, with an odd, pathetic smile. ' Ought 
 I to let another bear the shame of a wrong I have done 
 myself?' 
 
 ' No. In this world or any other, you will find no 
 peace with God, and you can have no peace with your- 
 self, if you have injured another, and persist in the 
 injury.' 
 
 But Mr. Arden fell silent. He was restless, haunted 
 with the sense that he ought to confess and make 
 reparation. God's face was stern against him, he felt ; 
 it must be stern it ought to be stern till he did 
 confess. To confess was the only way of reparation. 
 Yet to do that was to betray Cecil. He might have 
 
 23
 
 354 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 borne that; but it would rob him, in addition, 
 he believed, of his daughter's love, and break his 
 daughter's heart. Then Mr. Arden thought of the 
 brave young fellow who had spared him. He was 
 bearing shame that he might spare him, and had 
 made that silent appeal that seemed so little and 
 meant so much. 
 
 A human soul cannot long endure such discords as 
 these. The most dreadful quarrel the human spirit can 
 know is that betwixt the moral sense and the will. 
 The strife betwixt two such forces ends in one of 
 two ways. Eternal peace comes by the surrender of 
 the will to conscience ; or else a brief and dreadful 
 respite is won by the defeat of conscience. For it is 
 a terrifying fact that the moral sense can, for a time, 
 be killed or, if not killed, be silenced by persistent 
 resistance. 
 
 But Mr. Arden found the happier issue. He had 
 lain one evening long silent ; the fever seemed to 
 have burnt itself out, but it left the sick man strangely 
 weak, too weak to even wish to live. Kate sat beside 
 him, stroking his wasted hand with soft fingers. 
 The gathering dusk which filled the room spread 
 what the dying man felt to be a kindly veil on his 
 face. 
 
 ' Kate,' he suddenly whispered, and there was a note 
 in his voice that sent through Kate's blood a strange 
 thrill why, she knew not. 
 
 ' Kate,' he whispered again. 
 
 'Yes, father?' 
 
 ' I must tell you. I can find no peace, but ' 
 
 Here speech failed him, and Kate somehow knew, 
 by one swift flash of instinct, that she was on the 
 verge of some heart-breaking discovery.
 
 ' I AM A THIEF.'
 
 THE CONFESSION 355 
 
 ' Kate, we lost the bank's money. There was no 
 robbery. I lied in the Court. It was not in the safe. 
 Young Somers was right.' 
 
 Kate listened, frozen with grief and astonishment. 
 
 'We never meant,' he went on with quivering voice, 
 'to risk the bank's funds, but Creakles got us into 
 
 his power and ' here his voice broke again. ' I 
 
 was responsible,' he continued bitterly. ' I was trusted. 
 But I was weak. I drifted. I gambled, in the hope 
 of gaining back the money that was lost ; and oh, 
 Kate, I gave away the character of a life-time, and 
 your father is a thief 
 
 Kate was still listening, with parted lips and panting 
 breath. All this was surely a mere wave of delirium, 
 running through her father's brain. But no ! There 
 was a note in the sick man's voice which carried 
 with it a cruel and resistless conviction ; and Kate's 
 fears about her father fears unconfessed even to 
 herself which had long disquieted her, gave a sudden 
 and dreadful attestation to his confession. 
 
 Kate held her father's hand with tightening grasp, 
 while the dying man went on. 
 
 ' Yes, Kate ; it made life hateful to me, and it 
 makes death dreadful.' 
 
 At that word, ' death,' a passion of sobs would have 
 burst from Kate, but she fought with heroic courage 
 against them. She lifted her father's hand to her lips 
 and kissed it passionately. 
 
 'Oh, father,' she cried, with inexpressible tender- 
 ness. 
 
 ' I won't trick myself or you with soft words,' said 
 Mr. Arden. ' I am a thief Then, with a touch of 
 childlike helplessness, he whispered, ' Kate, what shall 
 I do?'
 
 356 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 ' Oh, father,' she cried, ' God forgives ! He waits 
 to forgive ! He delights to forgive ! ' 
 
 'Yes, but I must confess. I must not cover it up 
 with a lie. I must not let another remain under 
 suspicion when I am the thief.' 
 
 "Yes, father,' she answered steadily, 'yes.' The 
 woman and the saint were waking in her, and speaking 
 from her lips. ' But that way lies peace,' she went 
 on. ' Pardon is there, and hope. Anything else is 
 impossible. And, father, we will bear it together. We 
 will help each other. We will cling to each other 
 all the more.' 
 
 ' I can't help you, Kate,' replied Mr. Arden sadly. 
 ' I shall leave you with no other legacy than one of 
 shame, the shame of a dishonest father. You will 
 hate me.' 
 
 'No, no,' said Kate patiently. 'Oh that mother 
 were here ! ' she cried, with broken voice. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' ejaculated Mr. Arden, with a deep sob. 
 ' Ruth ! Ruth ! ' he went on, calling with broken voice 
 on the faithful wife lying silent in her grave. 
 
 Kate steadied herself. She must not give way to the 
 weak selfishness of grief. She must help her father ; 
 and with eager voice and trembling lips, while the 
 unseen tears ran in streams down her face, she talked 
 to her father, as to a child, of Christ, who carried the 
 burden of every human sin ; of God's mercy, flowing 
 through Christ to all men ; of that purity which knows 
 sin, and judges it, and yet does not scorn the sinner ; 
 of the joy in heaven over a repenting soul. ' Father,' 
 she cried, ' mother is with the angels, and she knows. 
 She is rejoicing.' 
 
 Now, the divine can only be known to us through the 
 human. In the passion and tenderness of his child's
 
 THE CONFESSION 357 
 
 love the dying man began to feel there was the hint, 
 the broken revelation, of a Love yet more wonderful ; 
 a love reaching to him out of heaven and out of 
 eternity. 
 
 ' Kate, you must send for Mr. Cairns, the inspector. 
 I will tell him everything. If I live I will pay every 
 penny back to the bank.' 
 
 ' And if you die, father,' whispered Kate, ' I will 
 pay it, every penny of it.' 
 
 ' Then my sin will have robbed you, for it will take 
 every penny I have got.' 
 
 ' And could I keep it, father, and leave your name 
 with a stain upon it?' 
 
 Mr. Arden had now broken down the barrier of 
 shame which kept his lips silent, and it was a relief 
 to tell Kate everything. He talked with feverish and 
 incessant haste, going over every detail of the story 
 again and again ; till at last, even to Kate's feminine 
 intelligence, untrained in business, the whole landscape 
 of the story stood as in clear daylight before her. She 
 comprehended with keenest grief her father's weakness, 
 that left him to drift helplessly, like a straw caught 
 in some strong tide. She realized, with a sorrow almost 
 as deep, Cecil's unscrupulous greed ; she shuddered at 
 the part of a subtle and tempting devil played by Mr. 
 Creakles, who held, at last, in his mean hands, like so 
 much plastic clay, both her father and Cecil. She 
 saw, too, how Kit had stumbled into the plans of 
 the group, and spoiled them, to his own sore injury. 
 
 Mr. Arden at last lay silent, exhausted by mere 
 agitation. After a long pause he began afresh. 
 
 ' Kate,' he said, in a broken whisper, 'if I don't live 
 to tell the board all this, you must tell it for me. I 
 couldn't sleep in my grave with that lie resting on it.
 
 358 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 Tell the board, Kate ; or tell Mr. Benson, the chairman. 
 Tell him everything.' 
 
 Kate could not reply in words. Speech had died 
 on her lips. But she pressed her father's hand, and 
 the silent pressure was a promise to the dying man. 
 
 ' And Kit,' Mr. Arden continued, after another pause. 
 ' He knew.' 
 
 'When?' asked Kate, strangely startled. 
 
 ' After I had given my evidence.' He went on to 
 tell how he had given young Somers the fatal paper. 
 ' And Kate, the envelope he sent me by you held 
 the paper. He gave it back without a word. He 
 knew I would understand, and that it would put a 
 stop to the whole business.' 
 
 Even in the tumult of her grief Kate felt a new pang. 
 She remembered how she had misread Kit, and had sent 
 him away in anger at the very moment when he was 
 sacrificing himself for her father. She guessed, with 
 a swift and sure instinct, what he meant by giving 
 back the document, and giving it through her hand ; 
 and she realized the silent generosity with which Kit 
 had endured to be misjudged, even by her. Her heart 
 was almost broken by the tumult of feelings, half bitter 
 and half sweet, as she thought of all this. 
 
 Presently Mr. Arden fell into a feverish and unquiet 
 sleep. Kate watched by his bed till the sleep grew 
 deep and dreamless. Then she left the nurse in charge, 
 and hurried to her room, and cast herself, with one 
 swift movement, on her knees by the bedside. The 
 burden laid on her girl's heart was too heavy. She 
 cast it, and herself, at the feet of Infinite Love, and 
 wept and sobbed in a passion of grief. What black 
 threads were being woven into the white web of her 
 life!
 
 THE CONFESSION 359 
 
 Presently a strange peace crept into her heart. She 
 was a little child, holding God's hand. A divine, all- 
 comprehending Love was above this strange tangle 
 of wrong and grief. The words of a familiar and ancient 
 promise seemed to sing themselves over softly in the 
 cells of her brain : ' When thou passest through tJte waters 
 I will be with thee, and through the rivers they shall not 
 overflow thee. WJun thou walkest through the fire thou 
 shalt not be burned, neither shall the flame kindle upon 
 thee. For I am the Lord thy God, the Holy One of Israel, 
 thy Saviour' 
 
 Then one great verse seemed to call another out of 
 the cells of her memory : 
 
 ' thou afflicted, tossed with tempest, and not com- 
 forted . . . The mountains shall depart, and the hills be 
 removed ; but My kindness shall not depart from thee, 
 neither shall the covenant of My peace be removed, saith 
 the Lord that hath mercy upon thee' 
 
 If her father had fallen he had repented ; he had con- 
 fessed. Again and again Kate thanked God for that. 
 
 Just as day began to break Kate went down to the 
 sick-room. The nurse sat drowsily in her chair. Her 
 patient, she whispered, apologetically, had been so 
 quiet, she had almost slept herself. 
 
 The patient was, indeed, strangely quiet. Kate bent 
 over the bed. A ray of light crept in betwixt the 
 blinds ; it fell, a beam of gold, across the white pillow, 
 and lit up Mr. Arden's features. He was dead, and 
 death had wrought a strange transformation on his 
 features. The scribbled lines of pain and trouble were 
 effaced ; the dark hieroglyphics of fear had vanished. 
 Calm was on the white brow, a smile on the sealed lips.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 WAGON HILL 
 
 KIT rallied quickly from the prostration which 
 followed the strain of Boyd's rescue. His youth, his 
 clear blood, his serene temper, all helped him. 
 
 ' Young fellow,' said the doctor to him at the end 
 of a week, 'you are going to escape enteric, and it 
 is your pluck that saves you. If you had a faint heart 
 you would have fever, sure enough.' 
 
 For his part, Kit felt humbly enough that if he had 
 a quiet mind, it was part of the divine gains of his 
 religion. He was in God's hands, and that faith gave 
 him an unshakable serenity. Boyd was tossing on 
 his bed, with parched lips and burning cheeks, and 
 restless eyes, the flame of fever scorching his blood, 
 when Kit, looking pale and wasted indeed, but with 
 cool skin and steady eyes and pleasant smile, found 
 his way to his bedside. Boyd looked at him, half in 
 wonder and half in envy. 
 
 ' You beat me, Kit, you beat me at every point.' 
 
 ' But I hadn't your wound, Boyd. That makes all 
 the difference.' 
 
 No ! not all the difference ; you have got some 
 secret that I haven't ; something that keeps you cool 
 when other men get flustered, and cheerful when other 
 
 360
 
 WAGON HILL 361 
 
 men lose heart. Hanged if I don't think it is your 
 religion ! ' he went on, with a curious smile. 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Kit simply, ' that puts the whole uni- 
 verse on your side. Nothing can harm you when you 
 are right with God.' 
 
 He would not ' preach ' to Boyd ; but he noted with 
 what keen and changed interest Boyd now listened 
 to him. He visibly longed to learn Kit's ' secret.' 
 
 Kit was soon dismissed from the hospital, and took 
 his place in his troop again. 
 
 'You will be recommended for the V.C.,' said his 
 captain to him ; ' for no more plucky thing was ever 
 done than your bringing in Boyd. You may not get 
 the Cross, of course ; but a plebiscite of the troop 
 would certainly give it to you.' 
 
 Kit found, indeed, that he had quite a new standing 
 amongst his comrades. He had shown himself a fine 
 shot, a gallant fighter, and a comrade who could be 
 trusted to the death ; and these soldierly virtues were 
 linked to a quiet simplicity of speech and look that 
 half amused and wholly delighted his comrades. This 
 ' boy soldier ' had shown himself one of the best men 
 in the company. 
 
 Lady smith was now closely besieged. From its ring 
 of encircling hills the great guns of the Boers barked 
 angrily ; and poured or rather dribbled, with a sort 
 of leisurely doggedness an intermittent rain of shells 
 on the little town. The days grew into weeks, the 
 weeks into months. Hunger wasted the strength of 
 the defenders ; fever slew more in their ranks than 
 the bullets and shells of the Boers. To the south 
 Buller was trying to break in to their rescue. Some- 
 times, to the ears of the besieged town, there stole 
 in over the southern hills faint pulses of heavy sound.
 
 362 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 It was the guns of Colenso, of Spion Kop, or of 
 Vaalkranz. At night, on the black canvas of the 
 southern heavens, crimson characters would often come 
 and go. It was Buller spelling out, with his search- 
 lights, some message to the beleaguered town. 
 
 The siege practically began at the end of October ; 
 it was on February 27 that Dundonald's gallant horse- 
 men rode into the town. The siege, that is, lasted 
 a hundred and eighteen days. During that long period 
 the bombardment, though it often loitered, never really 
 ceased, and some sixteen thousand shells were flung 
 on the tin roofs of the town, or on the sangars and 
 trenches of the defending lines. The gross number of 
 admissions to the hospital during the siege nearly 
 equalled the total number of the garrison itself! Every 
 tenth man died, killed in fight or slain more cruelly 
 by disease. More than two thousand cases of enteric 
 and dysentery were in hospital at one time, and this 
 when the garrison was living on a scanty diet of 
 horse-flesh, and was almost wholly bankrupt of medical 
 comforts. 
 
 And yet the courage of the garrison never failed. 
 They hit back their besiegers blow for blow. In one 
 night-sortie after another they destroyed the most 
 formidable guns in the Boer trenches. And the seven- 
 teen hours' fight on Caesar's Camp and at Wagon Hill, 
 whether for the grim daring of the onfall, or the cool 
 and inextinguishable valour of the defence, is worthy 
 to stand beside the fight on the great breach of Badajos. 
 In the mere quality of endurance, indeed, the story of 
 scarcely any assault on a besieged city known to history 
 can be compared with it. The fight on the long crest 
 from Caesar's Hill to Wagon Hill, it must be remem- 
 bered, lasted seventeen hours ; Ladysmith, in a word,
 
 WAGON HILL 363 
 
 during that long stretch of one hundred and eighteen 
 days, was a school of hardship, of endurance, and of 
 valour, such as war has not often seen. 
 
 It so happened that for the first two months Kit 
 had no share in the fighting. He was employed as an 
 orderly. His quickness, resource, and cheerfulness 
 made him a favourite with officers and men alike, while 
 he was the good angel of many a little group of pale- 
 faced women, and of little children from whose faces 
 hunger and hardship had blotted out all youthful 
 grace. 
 
 But Kit's hour of trial came. On the night of 
 January 5, he was one of the force holding Wagon 
 Hill, at the western extremity of the long, horseshoe- 
 shaped ridge which formed the southern defence of 
 Ladysmith. The party consisted of three squadrons 
 of the Imperial Light Horse, some sappers, and some 
 details from other irregular troops. They were cover- 
 ing a working party of Highlanders, busy placing a 
 gun in position. 
 
 Kit was one of the fringe of sentries thrown forward 
 a little below the reverse crest, looking towards the 
 Boer lines. 
 
 The night was of an inky blackness ; the face of the 
 hill went down with the abruptness of a vast wall into 
 the deep gloom of the valley. Here and there huge 
 boulders projected from its contour. The valley below 
 was rough with broken rocks, and bristly with Kaffir- 
 thorn. Looking through the darkness straight before 
 him, Kit could see a faint and broken line of twinkling 
 lights. They marked the positions held by the Boers. 
 
 At midnight there came floating across the valley 
 faintly, and as though out of immeasurable distance, 
 the sound of ghostly music. They were singing a
 
 364 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 midnight hymn in the Boer camps, and the high 
 swelling note, the dying fall, of the hymn, floated 
 through the darkness to the ridge where the British 
 scouts kept watch, with a very weird effect. The black 
 depth beneath, the star-sprinkled height above, the 
 midnight quiet, broken only by that whisper of 
 lamenting music, curiously affected Kit. It bred a 
 strange solemnity of feeling. The darkness seemed to 
 stir and murmur with some coming message, a message 
 of warning and peril. Perhaps his spiritual senses, 
 thrilling to some finer atmosphere, caught a forecast of 
 the bloody tempest of battle soon to rage about him. 
 
 As a matter of fact, that far-off, elf-like music was 
 really a battle-hymn. The best fighting commandoes 
 of the Boers were about to fling themselves on the long 
 ridge which stretched from Wagon Hill on the west 
 to Caesar's Camp on the east ; and the stormers were 
 preparing themselves, by chanting that hymn, for a 
 very daring exploit. 
 
 Two hours of silence followed. In the cold and 
 darkness along the three miles of the threatened hill, 
 the British outposts nodded drowsily. Suddenly Kit 
 heard, at some distance to his right, the challenge of a 
 sentry. It rang, keen, stern, and high-pitched, along 
 the hill front, ' Who goes there ? ' 
 
 From the dim valley-depths there floated up, in 
 clear English tones, the reply, ' A friend ! ' The next 
 moment the gloom was pierced with a hundred points 
 of sudden flame, and the Mauser bullets were scourging 
 the crest of the hill. The Boer stormers many of 
 them bare-footed in spite of the Kaffir-thorns had 
 stolen across the valley, had crept up the steep face 
 of the hill, and opened fire on its crest. A dozen 
 points of fire, scattered along a front of nearly half
 
 WAGON HILL 365 
 
 a mile, answered the Boer volley, a feeble response 
 to the long, serrated flame with which the Boer rifles 
 had torn, so to speak, the black vesture of the night. 
 It was the British sentries firing. Almost at the same 
 moment, from the very base of the hill, a long line 
 of rifle-fire burst forth. It was the Boer supports 
 covering the stormers. 
 
 The stormers themselves, a broken front of rough- 
 bearded men, never paused in their rush. On they 
 came, now stooping to find cover while they fired, 
 now running forward, with crouching figures ; and 
 before that long front of black stooping figures, and 
 darting points of flame, coming swiftly on, the British out- 
 posts fell back, as though brushed away by some gigantic 
 besom of spitting fire. As he fell back, firing rapidly 
 at the oncoming line, Kit heard, far to the left, the 
 sound of fierce rifle volleys. Caesar's Camp, nearly 
 three miles to the east, was being attacked, at the 
 same moment as Wagon Hill. 
 
 The British outposts, however or such of them as 
 survived only fell back on their supports. The 
 Imperial Light Horsemen, an irregular line of recum- 
 bent figures, lay in the rocks and the long grass just 
 below the crest on the northern, or Ladysmith, side 
 of the hill. The Highlanders and the Sappers, led by 
 their officers, came running up to the firing line, and 
 flung themselves down ; and when, through the dark- 
 ness, the broken, ragged edge of the Boer line coming 
 eagerly on showed itself, from end to end of the 
 British front ran a chain of swift and deadly rifle- 
 flashes. The Lee-Metfords were pouring in a stream 
 of bullets, before which the Boer line seemed to shrivel 
 into fragments. 
 
 The Boers, in turn, now flung themselves down into
 
 366 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 the grass, just below the crest on the southern side of 
 the hill, and shot diligently in reply. The ridge itself 
 was narrow, and clear of obstruction, and the two 
 irregular firing lines were sometimes parted from each 
 other by an interval of less than fifty yards. Rarely 
 was the interval more than eighty yards, and it tended 
 to grow even narrower as the more daring spirits crept 
 forward to get better aim. 
 
 And so, through the long black hours, till the red 
 dawn began to break far to the left, the fight betwixt 
 the lines raged. Sometimes, with crouching figures, 
 a Boer rush would be attempted ; sometimes a British 
 officer stood coolly up to get a better view of the 
 fight, or ran forward, followed by a cluster of his 
 men, to reach some point of vantage. In every in- 
 stance the attempt drew from the opposite line a new 
 crackle of angry rifles. The British had been surprised, 
 but they clung to the edge of the contested ridge with 
 cool and unyielding pluck. And the Boers, though 
 they had the elan of attack, and the advantage of 
 surprise, could not break their way over that irregular 
 ridge of earth, guarded by the English rifles as with 
 a barbed wire of flame. 
 
 The English, it is to be noted, had on Wagon Hill, 
 at least no trenches, and no sangars ; their only screen 
 was the flashes of their rifles. 
 
 With the quickly growing daylight the fight became 
 keener. The men could not see their foes, it is true, 
 but they could see the rock, the patch of grass, the 
 little ridge of brown earth, from which the hostile 
 rifle flashed. A hundred cool and deadly rifle-duels 
 were waged along that front of nearly a third of a 
 mile. The Boer reserves did not fling themselves 
 frankly into the fight, or they might well have broken
 
 WAGON HILL 367 
 
 through the thin screen of flame that guarded the 
 summit of Wagon Hill. But the Boer front was fed 
 constantly from below. They had two rifles in the 
 firing line for every one the English possessed ; and 
 the losses on both sides of the ridge were cruel. The 
 Sappers and the Gordons were practically destroyed. 
 Amongst the Imperial Light Horse, out of seventeen 
 officers ten were killed, and only three left unwounded. 
 But two more companies of the Light Horse came up, 
 some men of the 6oth Rifles, with a hundred and fifty 
 Gordon Highlanders, and the British front was never 
 shaken. 
 
 A hundred curious incidents marked that strange 
 fight. The excitement and passion of the charge had 
 by this time died out on the Boer side. The British, 
 from the outset on the defensive, had never been 
 kindled to any excitement. On both sides of the 
 ridge the mood was one of steady and iron endurance ; 
 a determination on the Boer side to hang on and win 
 at all costs ; a resolve on the British side to die in 
 the grass where they lay, but not to yield an inch ! 
 It was a fight of Homeric quality ; made up of per- 
 sonal duels, the contest of man against man. 
 
 In front of Kit, a little to his right, a Boer marks- 
 man of very deadly quality had found a lair, covered 
 by two low, broken rocks. His rifle flashed with 
 murderous accuracy, and every British rifle within 
 fifty yards cracked in answer. But still, through 
 the tiny gap in the rocks came, unabated, the deadly 
 flash of the Boer rifle. Kit saw a British officer to 
 his right thrust the muzzle of his rifle a sporting 
 gun over a stone, and lift his head cautiously to 
 take aim. The Dutchman's rifle cracked, and 
 the British officer rolled heavily on his side, while
 
 368 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 his rifle fell from his hands. It was Lord Ava, the 
 son of the Marquis of Dufferin, a most gallant and 
 promising soldier. Another officer near, eager to 
 revenge his friend's fall, lifted his head recklessly ; 
 but before he could fire the Dutchman's gun spoke 
 again, and the unfortunate officer fell, shot through 
 the spine. 
 
 His officer now crept up to Kit. 
 
 ' You are a good shot, Somers, the best among us ; 
 can't you stop that beggar yonder amongst the rocks ? ' 
 
 ' I will try, sir,' said Kit. 
 
 He had studied the ground in front with a keen 
 eye. Some twenty yards in advance rose a tiny 
 eminence. It seemed to offer no shelter, but Kit 
 saw it was covered with long grass and slightly 
 hollowed, like a spoon. If he could reach it, he 
 could not only suppress that fatal rifle in the rocks, 
 but enfilade the Boer line for some distance. But 
 to reach that point, he must creep into the open, 
 and draw upon himself a deadly rifle-fire. It seemed 
 like going out to death. Yet Kit never faltered. He 
 put down his face in the grass for a moment. ' Lord ! ' 
 he whispered, ' be my shield. If I forget Thee, do 
 not Thou forget me.' Then he crept out, like a 
 lizard, through the grass on his perilous adventure. 
 
 ' Come back, Somers,' called the officer ; ' that's 
 madness.' But Kit never paused. If he could reach 
 the spot on which his eye was fixed, he could take 
 that murderous Boer marksman in flank. 
 
 A quick-eyed Boer to the left presently caught 
 the swaying grass through which Kit was wriggling, 
 and whipped it with his bullet again and again. Other 
 rifles from the Boer front joined in the performance ; 
 but Kit, lying as close to the soil as a rock rabbit,
 
 WAGON HILL 369 
 
 crept resolutely onward, till he found himself lying 
 in a tiny curve of the soil considerably in advance of 
 the British line, and at a height which enabled him 
 to cover the ridge for a hundred yards on either side. 
 
 He lay quietly for a few minutes, watching keenly 
 through the long stalks of dry grass the patch of 
 rocks that covered the Boer marksman. Presently 
 an elbow became visible, and the bead of Kit's rifle 
 instantly covered it. He knew, with a born marksman's 
 certainty, that his foe was under his strokes. He still 
 held his fire, however, and as the upper arm, the neck, 
 and head of the Boer cautiously rose into vision, the 
 tiny black bead of Kit's rifle sank lower. The 
 Boer was drawing a deadly bead on some unseen 
 object, when Kit's rifle flashed with a spark of white 
 flame. The Boer's weapon exploded idly in the 
 direction of the sky, and then fell from his hands. 
 That fatal rifle was silenced ! And from behind, Kit 
 could hear a faint sound of clapping of hands. His 
 comrades had watched his exploit, and were cheering 
 it. 
 
 Kit now proceeded to study the ground in front 
 and on either flank, and to clear it of hidden enemies. 
 He wasted no shot, but waited till the flash of a rifle 
 showed where a Boer was hidden, and one by one 
 cleared out the hostile marksmen within his range. 
 
 Suddenly he heard a scuffling behind him. He 
 looked back ; a Gordon Highlander, bare-headed and 
 red-faced, had crept up in his tracks. 
 
 ' Well, young fellow,' he whispered, ' what's the 
 prospect ? ' 
 
 Kit laughed, and pointed to a patch of long grass 
 some hundred and fifty yards distant. 
 
 ' There are half a dozen Boers there,' he said. 
 
 24
 
 370 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 The Highlander's eyes gleamed. 
 
 ' Well/ was his comment, ' I have hit the bull's-eye 
 at seven hundred ; I think I can hit a rifle-muzzle at 
 seventy.' 
 
 He and Kit in succession drove bullet after bullet 
 with careful aim into that patch of grass. In another 
 moment a dark figure was seen creeping out of it to 
 the rear. The Highlander's rifle cracked ; the figure 
 stretched itself out with a sudden jerk, and then lay 
 still. 
 
 ' Bull's-eye,' grunted the Highlander, with a chuckle. 
 
 In another moment four figures leaped up from the 
 long grass and ran zig-zag and crouching down the 
 slope for cover. Kit fired and missed. 
 
 'That's sheer waste,' grumbled the Highlander, who 
 fired, and missed too. A second Boer was making 
 straight for a cluster of rocks. He leaped over 
 them in his run, and while his body was still 
 in the air, the Highlander's rifle spoke again, and 
 the figure, with relaxed limbs, drooped inertly on the 
 rock. 
 
 ' I call that pretty shooting,' said the Highlander, 
 with much complacency, to Kit. 
 
 Meanwhile the slow hours crept past. The heat 
 was great ; the air was acrid with the fumes of gun- 
 powder. Morning grew to noon, noon drew on towards 
 evening. Still the obstinate lines confronted each 
 other ; still the rifles flashed in the grass, and the 
 figures lying still, their last shot fired broad-hatted 
 Boers, khaki-clad British multiplied fast. From his 
 point of vantage Kit could see far along the line, and 
 the drama of the battle had sudden episodes, that 
 transacted themselves under his eyes, of a very startling 
 sort
 
 WAGON HILL 371 
 
 Thus at one point the Boers suddenly made a daring 
 rush across the open, bent on breaking through the 
 slender British line. They ran stumblingly forward, 
 big, slouching figures, their leader, a huge, black-bearded 
 man, leading them gallantly. It was De Villiers 
 himself, in command of the whole Boer assault. But 
 right in their path, a dozen figures leaped up to meet 
 them. Foremost of the group was the major of the 
 Gordons, a shape so commanding that even De 
 Villiers seemed dwarfed in comparison. 
 
 ' Hoo ! ' yelled the Highlander at Kit's side. ' Yon's 
 the major. The Gordons ! The Gordons ! ' and he 
 tried to leap to his feet, that he might race over and 
 join his comrades. 
 
 Kit pulled him sternly down. ' Steady,' he said, 
 ' We must hold the line here. And look ! ' 
 
 The Homeric combat they were watching, as a matter 
 of fact, had reached, and passed, its climax almost at 
 a breath. The Scotsman ran forward a few steps, 
 halted, lifted his revolver, aimed coolly at De Villiers, 
 and fired. He missed ! De Villiers, with equal 
 coolness, had lifted his rifle ; its flash answered, in 
 an instant, the tiny spark of the revolver, and the 
 stately figure of the great Scotsman, shot clean through 
 the forehead, reeled forward and fell, stone dead. 
 
 The appearance of the two groups, the dramatic 
 duel betwixt their leaders, had been so sudden and 
 swift that, as yet, no other rifle had spoken. But now 
 the guns flashed redly and fast on both sides. A 
 Light Horseman, standing beside the fallen Scotsman's 
 body, shot De Villiers dead, and was, in another 
 moment, himself shot. His slayer, in turn, fell like a 
 stone, under the bullet of a young Sapper officer. A 
 wail, a splutter of Gaelic curses, at Kit's side, expressed
 
 372 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 the Highlander's emotion as he saw his major fall. 
 Then he fell silent. Kit heard his rifle grimly busy, 
 while, from every bush and rock near, the English 
 rifles were flashing. The Boers staggered under that 
 relentless fire. Their leader had fallen ; the impetus 
 of their rush had expended itself. They crumpled up, 
 they reeled back, leaving the crest strewed with many 
 dead. 
 
 The artillery, at this stage of the long fight, drowned 
 all other sounds. A battery of guns galloped up to 
 the base of the hill on the English side, wheeled, un- 
 limbered, and commenced to fling shells in a long 
 low curve exactly over the crest on the unseen Boers, 
 clinging obstinately to the reverse slope. The British 
 battery itself lay under the stroke of the great Boer 
 gun on Bulwana ; it was scourged with a deadly rifle- 
 fire ; yet its practice was cool, quick, and perfect. It 
 was fine and gallant shooting ! The shells skimmed 
 the very lines of the British, grazed the ridge, and 
 fell, a hail of deadly, flying splinters, on the Boers. 
 
 About four o'clock came the strangest incident in 
 this long fight. The clouds had been piling them- 
 selves up with tropical blackness in the southern sky. 
 Now there broke over the long and blood-stained hill, 
 with its crouching lines of desperately fighting men, 
 a furious storm. Hail and rain beat with cruel fierce- 
 ness on the slopes, strewn with the wounded and the 
 dead. The deep thunder shook the very skies. The 
 whole scene of conflict was blotted out. The guns 
 ceased firing, since the hill was hidden from the gunners 
 by the whirling mist. The British were crouching 
 for shelter under the lee of every stone they could 
 find. The upper chambers of" the air seemed to be 
 the scene of a mightier battle than that which had
 
 WAGON HILL 373 
 
 raged for so many hours along the bloody ridge of 
 the curving hill. 
 
 The storm was at the back of the Boers ; the eddying 
 mist had silenced the British guns, and seemed to 
 offer a friendly screen for a new assault ; and with 
 fine courage and judgement the chance was seized. 
 
 Suddenly, borne on the howling wind, came a wild, 
 tumultuous shout. Kit, peering through the driving 
 rain across the ridge, saw, like darker shadows against 
 the shadowy background of the grey, whirling fog, 
 a great mass of charging men. The Boers were 
 attacking again ! On they came, with a determined 
 rush. A shout ran along the British front ; every 
 man leaped to his place and opened fire. Some flung 
 themselves down in the grass, and fired fast from that 
 shelter. Others, of more vehement temper, ran forward 
 in the open, and fired on their foes at less than pistol- 
 shot distance. 
 
 A curious fortune had, in the rush, befallen Kit 
 and his Highland comrade. They lay in the direct 
 line of the rush, and the charging Boers swept com- 
 pletely over them, some of them actually treading on 
 them, or stumbling over their bodies. Kit, looking 
 up, could see, through the slanting lines of wind-driven 
 rain, the bent faces stern and bearded of the Boers 
 as they raced over him. Fortunately, they were staring 
 eagerly towards the front, where they expected to 
 crash in on the British line, and they paused to fire 
 no shot at the recumbent figures under their feet. 
 
 The Highlander picked himself up, with many a 
 Gaelic curse, and seizing his rifle, began to shoot 
 wrath fully into the mass of the Boers. 
 
 ' The beggars,' he gasped, ' to run clean over me ! ' 
 
 Kit had his breath almost trampled out of him
 
 374 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 and, when he recovered, found that his rifle was 
 smashed. He could fire no more. 
 
 At this moment the fight reached Its dramatic crisis. 
 Over a point of the ridge, from the English side, came, 
 edged with glittering points the steel of levelled 
 bayonets a far-stretching line of charging men clad 
 in khaki. It was the Devons, led by their colonel, 
 Park. He coolly halted his men, for a moment, under 
 the crest of the hill, to steady them. Then, at a 
 word, the line came quickly up to the open crest 
 smitten with a tempest of flying lead. 
 
 That vision of the charging line broke, with a 
 curious effect, on the startled gaze of the Boers. The 
 Devons had to bring up their left sharply to make 
 their whole line bear on the crowd of their enemies, 
 Kit watched the swinging line, on which the Boers 
 were pouring a hurried and deadly fire. His heart 
 seemed to leap into his throat as the bayonet charge 
 lingered, and scores of wounded and dying men stumbled 
 from the ranks of the gallant Devons. The steadfast 
 line for a moment swayed and faltered, so cruel was the 
 fire that smote it. ' Steady, the Devons ! ' cried their 
 colonel, and the next instant the long line was running 
 in fiercely with the bayonet. The Boers went reeling 
 back, a broken mass ; the British, all along the front, 
 were joining in the charge. 
 
 Kit's Highlander, with a wild ' Hoo ! ' was running 
 fiercely forward, and Kit, picking up an abandoned 
 rifle, followed him. The Boers were being hurled down 
 the wild, steep slope of the hill. The crest was lined 
 with the triumphant British, some shouting madly 
 in the intoxication of their victory ; some hastily binding 
 up their wounds ; some, in the eagerness of their temper, 
 following the broken Boers down the hillside, the
 
 WAGON HILL 375 
 
 cooler spirits kneeling on the edge and firing, with 
 murderous aim, at the flying mass. The rain had 
 swollen the little spruit at its bottom to a rushing 
 torrent. Against the grey water the figures of the 
 Boers showed black, and many fell there, under the 
 relentless fire from the summit of the hill. The whole 
 reverse slope was strewn thick with the dead and 
 the wounded. And just then, far off, from the east, 
 came the faint sound of a British cheer. At Caesar's 
 Camp the Manchesters and the Rifles had fought 
 a fight as gallant as that of which Wagon Hill was 
 the scene, and had won a victory as complete. 
 
 Kit had been over twenty hours without food ; he 
 had endured the nerve strain of close battle for seven- 
 teen hours ; and it seemed, as the Boers vanished 
 in the Kaffir-thorns of the valley beneath, on which 
 the slanting rays of the setting sun were now falling, 
 as if, suddenly, all strength had slipped out of his 
 body. He flung himself down on the ground, utterly 
 exhausted. 
 
 Just then his Highland comrade came, with dragging 
 steps, up the slope. His face was black with smoke, 
 his uniform was in rags ; he still clutched his rifle, the 
 unsatisfied fury of battle was in his eyes. 
 
 'Well, matey/ he said, as he leaned heavily on his 
 weapon, 'yon's a pretty fight. The beggars fought 
 grandly ; there's no denying it. But oh, mon ! we've 
 licked them grandly ! Hurrah for the Gordons ! It'll 
 be grand news for old Scotland the night.' 
 
 ' But/ replied Kit, ' don't you think those young 
 fellows of the Light Horse did well, too ? And what 
 about the sappers and the Devons ? ' 
 
 'Oh, aye/ said the Highlander, in a tone of 
 magnanimous concession, 'they didn't fecht so badly.
 
 376 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 But oh, mon, it's the Gordons, it's the Gordons ! ' In 
 his mental landscape nothing was visible but the 
 kilts! ' If we only had a touch of the pipes!' he 
 went on, while he commenced to strut to and fro, with 
 twitching ringers, as though he heard their triumphant 
 skirl. ' Or,' he added, stopping suddenly, ' a wee 
 drappie o' whuskey ! '
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII 
 DEUS NON IRRIDETUR 
 
 To Cecil, at least, Mr. Arden's death was a secret 
 gladness. It meant the disappearance of a peril. 
 He no longer had to dread that his fellow in wrong- 
 doing would babble indiscreetly. Dead lips tell no 
 tales ! 
 
 Mr. Arden's death, too, brought to Cecil a piece of 
 unexpected good fortune. He was appointed acting 
 manager, and had good reason to hope that he would 
 get the permanent appointment. The horizon for him 
 grew suddenly bright. Security and promotion and 
 both at once were given him. Cecil was more than 
 ever confirmed in the delightful belief that if what was 
 conventionally regarded as a 'crime' were only com- 
 mitted with sufficient ingenuity, the ' criminal ' need 
 fear no retribution. It was mere clumsiness that 
 brought punishment. 
 
 Then the thought of Kate arose again to his mind. 
 Her loneliness, the shadow of grief that lay on her, 
 clad her, to his imagination, with a new and yet more 
 dainty charm. Mr. Arden's estate, too, ' cut up ' 
 to use Cecil's own metaphor better than might have 
 been expected. His life was heavily insured, and he 
 had some safe investments. The estate, Cecil shrewdly 
 calculated, would give a clear $,ooo. 
 
 377
 
 378 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 Kit was out of the running. Kate's very solitude, 
 Cecil reckoned, would give him a chance. He was 
 prepared to throw poor Myrtle away like a plucked 
 and withered flower. Her charms looked tawdry now, 
 when set against the pure grace and sweetness of 
 Kate. 
 
 What Kate passed through in those days none ever 
 knew. Was ever a loving and pure-minded girl set 
 in a perplexity so cruel ! She owed a sacred debt 
 to her father's memory. Yet she owed something to 
 Cecil, too, and something to Kit ; and these obligations 
 seemed to be in deadly and hopeless quarrel with each 
 other. She must keep her promise to her father 
 that obligation was peremptory. But if she told the 
 tale of wrong-doing to the Board it meant ruin to 
 Cecil. Her girl's hand would open the jail-door to 
 him. Then, too, she must keep her promise, and tell 
 Kit. But how could she do this without a cruel 
 sacrifice of maidenly reserve ? It would seem like 
 calling back a once-rejected lover. How could she 
 adjust the tangled equities of the situation ? 
 
 In such a tangle the one clear, sure rule is to do 
 what is immediately and visibly right. The way of duty 
 runs through all perplexity, like a beam of light 
 through darkness ; but often only one step is visible 
 at a time. Kate certainly could see only one step 
 before her, but that she saw clearly ; and where she 
 saw clearly she trod surely. She must keep her word 
 to her father. His saying that 'he could not sleep 
 in his grave with a lie above it' haunted her waking 
 thoughts and pursued her through her dreams. She 
 would tell the Board, and would spend every penny 
 she had in repairing the wrong to the bank. But 
 she must tell Cecil what she was about to do. And
 
 DEUS NON IRRIDETUR 379 
 
 what a tale for a gentle-minded woman to tell the 
 man who had tried to win her love, and whom she 
 regarded with a kindness she herself only half under- 
 stood ! 
 
 Both Kate and Cecil were thus busy in thought 
 about each other, but their thoughts bore a tragically 
 unlike complexion. 
 
 Mr. Arden had been dead a month when Cecil 
 received a note from Kate, asking him to call and see 
 her that evening. Her note puzzled, and at first even 
 alarmed him. It was not Kate's way to lightly send 
 such a message. But Cecil took counsel of his hopes. 
 What more natural than that the lonely girl should 
 turn to her father's friend ? Though, as the word 
 ' friend ' framed itself in Cecil's thought, an uneasy smile 
 crept across his face. 
 
 When Kate entered the room where Cecil waited 
 for her, he gave an involuntary start. It was a new 
 and changed woman on whom he looked. She was 
 dressed in simple black, and the colour brought out 
 with almost dazzling effect her rich and pure com- 
 plexion. But the change was in her expression. The 
 girl was gone. A sorrow-wise and grave-browed woman 
 stood before him. Always there was a peculiar clear- 
 ness in her look. Air the air of summer dawns 
 was not more transparent than her mind ; and this was 
 reflected as the quality of the mind always is reflected 
 in her face. 
 
 But now she had looked on grief. She had passed 
 through the fire of conflict. Her face was as sweet 
 as ever, but there was a new strength and gravity 
 in its lines. And, somehow, her trouble had ennobled 
 her. Not when, clad in summer moonlight, she stood 
 in the garden on the night when Cecil tried to win
 
 3 8o ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 her, did she seem so fair to him as now, in her rich, 
 grave womanhood, black-clad, she stood before him. 
 Here was a woman in whose keeping a man's heart 
 and honour would be safe. 
 
 As he looked at her, Cecil felt with a sudden 
 insight and certainty that puzzled even himself, that 
 safety for him was bound up in Kate's love. As a 
 swimmer drifting seaward on some cruel tide might 
 look up to the clear flame that burned high in the 
 darkened heavens in some tall lighthouse, so, for a 
 moment, Cecil looked at Kate's pure face, with its 
 new depth of expression, its suggestion of strength 
 refined by pain. What an anchorage such a woman's 
 love would be to a drifting soul ! And Cecil realized 
 unconsciously as he looked into Kate's eyes, with their 
 steady depth and sweetness, that he had drifted ; that 
 he was in the rush of unknown currents, bearing him 
 to unknown shores. 
 
 Always impulsive, he broke out at once : 
 
 ' Oh, Kate ! I grieve for you ! Let me comfort 
 you ! Give me a right to comfort you. Let us forget 
 the past. I want you more than ever. You are alone. 
 Take me into your life ! ' 
 
 Kate's eyes took a startled look ; a flush of colour 
 swept across her face as she realized Cecil's meaning, 
 and she lifted her hand with a sudden gesture of 
 almost imperious restraint. Her eyes shone with a 
 strange and steady light, before which Cecil's words 
 died into silence. 
 
 ' Don't, Cecil,' she said, ' don't ! I sent for you 
 to tell you something that is very bitter ; that takes 
 all my courage to say. Don't make the task harder.' 
 
 ' What is it ? ' he asked, with an odd sense of 
 disquiet.
 
 DEUS NON IRRIDETUR 381 
 
 ' It is something that burns my lips to speak of 
 and she faltered. 
 
 Cecil's face turned grey. What did she mean ? 
 
 ' Cecil, my father, thank God ! did not die with an 
 unconfessed sin on his conscience. It broke my heart 
 to hear it, yet it would have broken it worse if I had 
 found it out after his death, and knew that he had 
 died with sin hidden in his life.' 
 
 ' What do you mean ? ' whispered Cecil huskily. 
 
 ' The money was not in the safe, Cecil, on that 
 night of the burglary. It had been taken, and lost, 
 before. The burglary was a trick, intended to conceal 
 a wrong already committed. Yes, Cecil,' she went on 
 steadily and mournfully, ' I know it all. I do not 
 judge you,' she added. 
 
 'Judge me?' stammered Cecil, in what was meant 
 to be a tone of astonished indignation. 
 
 Kate said nothing, but the look of her eyes was 
 more than Cecil could sustain. He shook as though 
 smitten by ague. Then he abandoned all pretence 
 of ignorance or denial and sank into a chair, burying 
 his face in his hands. A moment before, Kate's purity 
 seemed divine to him a harbour, a safeguard. Now 
 it terrified him. It was judging him ! It scorched 
 him like flame. He had thought to win her love ; 
 now he trembled before the knowledge in her eyes. 
 
 Presently Cecil lifted up his face with a new alarm 
 on it, as Kate went on to say : 
 
 ' Cecil, I must tell it all to the Board.' 
 
 ' Tell it all to the Board ! ' he cried, with a note of 
 terror in his voice ; ' that is madness. That will put 
 open shame on your dead father ; and,' he went on 
 bitterly, ' though it may not count for much with you, 
 it will send me to a jail-cell.'
 
 382 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 Kate, like Cecil, was shaken with agitation, but she 
 went on resolutely : 
 
 ' I promised him ! I promised him ! We must make 
 reparation.' 
 
 ' Ah, Kate,' said Cecil in despair, ' your soft hand 
 is going to open the prison door to me ! ' 
 
 ' Oh, it's cruel ! it's cruel ! ' she cried, with broken 
 and tearless sobs, 'but I must keep my word.' 
 
 ' But what good,' urged Cecil, ' will telling the Board 
 do?' 
 
 ' I must pay back every penny of the money that's 
 gone,' Kate answered. 
 
 Cecil stared at her with incredulous eyes. ' Do you 
 mean to say you are going to fling away your money, 
 and go out penniless into the world, just to put back 
 in the bank's safe what somebody else has taken out 
 of it ? ' 
 
 'Yes, I must. It was my father's wrong, and his 
 daughter must, for the sake of his honour, repair the 
 wrong.' 
 
 'Why, it will take every penny you've got,' cried 
 Cecil, with much agitation. ' Kate, it's madness ! It's 
 cruel. If you do that, it's you, and not the bank, that 
 we have robbed ! ' 
 
 ' What else, what less, can I do ? The bread I eat 
 would choke me if it was paid for by money which 
 ought to be spent in undoing my father's wrong.' 
 
 ' But it was my wrong, more than your father's,' said 
 Cecil, in desperation. 
 
 ' It was his, too,' replied Kate steadily ; ' and I would 
 rather work my fingers to the bone than fail to carry 
 out his wish.' 
 
 Cecil looked at her in mingled anger and wonder. 
 What courage there was in this slender, girlish figure !
 
 DEUS NON IRRIDETUR 383 
 
 He felt her will was like steel. It was vain to contend 
 with it. Its impact was like the energy of one of the 
 elemental forces. Then there rushed over him the 
 sense of what it all meant. His crime had come home. 
 It had come by the strangest channel ; that which was 
 least expected, and which he felt at this moment to 
 be the most terrible : by the lips of the woman he 
 loved ! Was it true that there was, over human affairs, 
 no stern, inevitable justice? To doubt that, Cecil 
 realized, was the delusion of a fool. Deus non irridetur ! 
 He thought his crime was buried in Mr. Arden's 
 grave ; and lo ! it had come back to him in dreadful 
 resurrection, and looked on him from the face of the 
 woman he fain would have made his wife ! 
 
 For a moment the ignobler side of Cecil emerged. 
 He would deny everything. Kate had no proof. He 
 would tell her that her tale was only her father's 
 ravings, and would challenge it as a scandal. But, 
 as he looked again at her face, his courage failed. He 
 knew that denial was vain. He had covered the traces 
 of his crime in the bank records with infinite art ; but 
 if the books were examined in the light of Kate's story, 
 detection was certain, and a hundred collateral proofs 
 would emerge. 
 
 He lifted his face at last. 'When do you mean to 
 tell ? ' he asked dully. 4 Give me time to clear out. 
 I shall be an outcast ; but I want to escape the jail 
 if I can. It is not necessary to your father's memory,' 
 he asked, bitterly, ' that I should wear handcuffs, 
 is it?' 
 
 Kate was by this time exhausted. Her strength had 
 slipped from her in the tumult of emotion through 
 which she had passed. She could bear no more. 
 
 ' I shall see Mr. Benson,' she said, ' in a week.'
 
 384 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 Cecil felt her purpose was unshakable. He got up 
 with sullen face. 
 
 ' I will clear,' he said, ' by that time.' And staggering, 
 almost like a drunken man, he crept out of the 
 room. 
 
 A week afterwards, as Mr. Benson, the chairman 
 of the Board, sat in his office, a card bearing the name 
 of ' Miss Arden ' was brought in to him. He glanced 
 at it and frowned. ' Some application for a pension, 
 or for help of some sort to poor old Arden's daughter, 
 I suppose,' he said. Then he added, ' Show the lady 
 in,' and, with a sigh, he prepared himself to spend half 
 an hour in listening to the lachrymose appeals of some 
 helpless woman. 
 
 Kate was shown in, and as she stood before Mr. 
 Benson she pushed up the black veil from her face. 
 That gentleman was waving his visitor to a chair, 
 with a bored expression of countenance ; but, as he 
 caught a glimpse of Kate's features, he instinctively 
 rose, with a gesture of respect. He had never before 
 seen such a face, so clear and high-bred ; nor eyes 
 out of which looked a spirit so gentle and yet so strong. 
 Here was no lachrymose mendicant, bent on winning, 
 by the argument of her tears, a grant from the bank's 
 coffers ! Mr. Benson found himself, to his own 
 amazement, bowing to his visitor as though she had 
 been a duchess. 
 
 ' Miss Arden,' he said, with great respect, ' I am 
 glad to see you for your father's sake. What can I 
 do for you ? ' 
 
 Kate's lips quivered at the note of kindness in 
 Mr. Benson's voice, and that keen-eyed gentleman saw 
 it. He began to fear the tears were coming, after all. 
 A glance into Kate's eyes, however, reassured him. A
 
 DEUS NON IRRIDETUR 385 
 
 bright and steadfast courage shone in them. No ignoble 
 errand had brought the owner of such a pair of eyes 
 to visit him. 
 
 ' Mr. Benson/ said Kate softly, yet looking him 
 steadily in the face, ' I have come on the most bitter 
 errand that ever a daughter had. My father served the 
 bank long.' 
 
 ' He did," interjected Mr. Benson, ' and faithfully. We 
 had no better officer.' 
 
 'That makes it harder for me to say what I have 
 come to say,' replied poor Kate, with a fresh quiver 
 on her lips ; for a moment, indeed, speech quite failed 
 her, and Mr. Benson wriggled uneasily in his chair. 
 He had the usual masculine dread of a woman's 
 tears. 
 
 ' You must judge,' she went on, ' whether what I say 
 is to be treated as confidential. I must put myself and 
 my tale wholly in your hands.' 
 
 Mr. Benson stared. To what was all this the 
 prelude ? 
 
 ' I will treat it,' he replied, with a reassuring smile, 
 'as being strictly confidential.' 
 
 ' My father,' said Kate, with shaking voice, ' served 
 you long. Of late years his nerves gave way. He 
 fell, unhappily, into the use of drugs. I don't think 
 that always he quite knew what he was doing. Before 
 he died, thank God! he quite recovered himself; and, 
 Mr. Benson, what broke his heart, and killed him, 
 was the knowledge that he had acted unfaithfully to 
 the bank.' 
 
 'Yes?' said Mr. Benson, with keen and questioning 
 glance, as Kate paused, and hesitated. He was all 
 the business man now. 
 
 ' He would have told you himself had he lived 
 
 25
 
 386 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 and he charged me to tell you, when he knew he 
 was dying, and to tell you myself, that there was 
 no real robbery at the bank when those men broke 
 in.' 
 
 ' But the money went,' said Mr. Benson hastily. 
 
 ' Yes ; but it had disappeared before. My father 
 had used the bank's money to speculate with, and had 
 lost it.' 
 
 ' What ! ' almost shouted Mr. Benson. 
 
 ' The .5,000," said Kate, ' was lost in gambling on 
 the Stock Exchange.' 
 
 Mr. Benson stared at her in wonder. The theft 
 was not incredible ; but that a daughter and a 
 daughter with such a face should come to tell such 
 a tale of her dead father was an experience quite new. 
 Kate read the astonishment in his eyes. 
 
 ' He could not sleep in his grave, he said, when dying 
 with the shadow of such a crime on his memory. And 
 Mr. Benson, he laid on me, his daughter, the bitter 
 task of telling you.' 
 
 1 Good heavens ! ' muttered Mr. Benson. He had 
 listened to many strange tales in his time, but never 
 to one quite like this. 
 
 ' Was he in his right mind when he told you 
 this ? ' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' What did he hope to gain by telling me ? ' 
 
 ' An easy conscience. No,' she went on with energy ; 
 ' he would have it told because it was right, and he 
 knew there was no forgiveness for unconfessed sin.' 
 
 ' He did not do it alone,' commented Mr. Benson, 
 with a frown. ' Who were his accomplices ? Was 
 young Sparks in it?' 
 
 ' I can only tell you of my father's wrongdoing,
 
 DEUS NON IRRIDETUR 387 
 
 answered Kate steadily ; ' my bitter duty ends 
 there.' 
 
 Mr. Benson cross-examined her keenly. She told 
 him frankly all she knew, but no art could bring out 
 a word or a suggestion that incriminated another. Kate 
 had it on her conscience to confess her father's share ; 
 she would tell the tale of no one else's wrongdoing. 
 
 ' Well, Miss Arden,' said Mr. Benson, at last, ' it 
 is a tale bitter for you to tell and bad for us to hear. 
 It is a hateful thing to know that an old and trusted 
 servant of the bank robbed it. This is the sort of 
 thing,' he grumbled, ' which makes us feel that no one 
 is to be trusted. But we cannot prosecute the dead. 
 Hang it ! Miss Arden/ he demanded bluntly, ' why did 
 you bring this tale to me ? Then there's young Sparks,' 
 he continued meditatively. 'We were going to give 
 him the post, but he must have been in the wretched 
 business, too.' 
 
 ' Mr. Benson,' said Kate quietly, ' my father's life 
 was heavily insured, and, thank God, I am able to pay 
 back to the bank the money that has been lost' 
 
 Mr. Benson stared with new astonishment at her. 
 
 ' That is pleasant news,' he said, rather grimly. ' I 
 think your father's estate is a clear 5,000 ; just about 
 what was lost.' 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 ' And, excuse me, Miss Arden, for asking, but what 
 do you mean to do for yourself? Have you friends 
 who will stand by you ? ' 
 
 ' No,' said Kate, with a sudden drop in her voice that 
 made Mr. Benson's nerves thrill ; ' no, but I have hands 
 and my head. And I have God ! I will work for my 
 bread, and be happier working for it than if I lived in 
 luxury, and left my poor father's crime unredressed.'
 
 3 88 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 ' Well, Miss A^rden, I have not yet met many young 
 ladies who are willing to give up every coin they have 
 in the world for the sake of a father's honour living or 
 dead. You are a brave woman. Yes, by Jove,' he said, 
 striking the table with his hand, ' and an honourable 
 woman, too ! and women are not always honourable. 
 The bank, I am afraid, will take your money. A bank,' 
 he went on ruefully, ' has no bowels. It will distil 
 dividends out of a widow's tears, or grind them out 
 of an orphan's bones. We city men are a hard lot, 
 Miss Arden, but if John Benson has any influence on 
 the Board it won't take every coin you have got. We 
 will make some reasonable composition with you.' 
 
 ' No, Mr. Benson/ answered Kate, with energy, ' the 
 money is sacred to my father's memory. I will give 
 every penny of it, and you shall judge yourself whether 
 you ought to make the story public.' 
 
 4 Why, that would be to put a shadow, not only on 
 his grave, but on your life. If he were alive, it would 
 be an awkward thing to compound a felony. But he 
 is dead, and we are not going to let you buy off his 
 memory and then blacken it after we have got your 
 money. City men, hard as they are, are not such 
 a set of cads as that comes to. We can hold our 
 tongues in such a case. Of course,' he went on, ' there's 
 his assistant, young Sparks. Did he know you were 
 coming to me ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Kate reluctantly. 
 
 ' Well, in that case, if he is guilty, he will clear out, 
 and we will let him go. We have no evidence against 
 him, and we won't hunt for any. We don't want to 
 wash too much dirty linen in public. But, Miss Arden, 
 we must help you in some way.' 
 
 ' No,' said Kate, trying to fight back her tears ; ' I
 
 DEUS NON IRRIDETUR 389 
 
 have the way of duty clear before me to walk in. And 
 if it is sometimes hard, yet there is peace in it. But 
 Mr. Benson/ she went on, and that keen-eyed gentle- 
 man noted that as she spoke a soft colour crept into 
 her cheeks, ' there is Mr. Somers. He played a brave 
 part when the robbers were in the house, and the police 
 suspected him of being their accomplice, and his 
 character is blackened.' 
 
 1 Yes, it is a pity ; but the young fellow, as I under- 
 stand, was foolishly obstinate in the matter.' 
 
 Kate felt that Mr. Benson's tone lacked sympathy, 
 and she went on with a deeper colour in her cheek : 
 
 ' But he was right ; and, Mr. Benson, before he left 
 he knew he was right. He held the proof in his hands, 
 and out of pure kindness he would not use it.' 
 
 ' What proof,' asked Mr. Benson keenly, ' did he get ? ' 
 
 Kate hesitated. At last she told how her father had 
 blundered into giving him the wrong paper a paper 
 showing the actual contents of the safe at the time of 
 the robbery. 
 
 ' And did the young fool part with that ? ' asked 
 Mr. Benson sharply. 
 
 ' Yes/ said Kate reluctantly ; ' he gave it to me to 
 give to my father.' 
 
 ' The fool ! I did not know your father was particularly 
 friendly with him, nor he with your father ? ' 
 
 ' No/ she answered shyly. 
 
 ' Then where did the " kindness " come in ? Whom 
 did he want to help, when he was idiot enough to give 
 back that paper ? ' 
 
 Kate's cheeks were aflame by this, but she answered 
 bravely : ' He wanted to help me.' 
 
 ' Oh/ said Mr. Benson significantly ; and Kate went 
 on : ' I was unjust to him, and he has gone to Africa
 
 3po ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 under a cloud; and, Mr. Benson, it is not just! I 
 cannot help him,' she said, and the tears were by 
 this time running unchecked down her face, ' but the 
 bank can undo the wrong. And if you are a just 
 man, you will be glad to clear the innocent.' 
 
 Mr. Benson smiled humorously. ' I can see, if I 
 don't, Miss Arden, I shall be a mere villain in your 
 eyes ; and to escape that calamity I will see what can 
 be done.' 
 
 He went on to question Kate as to her training, 
 her attainments, and what occupation she wished to 
 get. 
 
 That night as Mr. Benson sat by the fireside with his 
 wife he told her the tale of his visitor. 
 
 ' Ah, John,' said his wife, ' a pretty face and a soft 
 voice are always too much for you.' 
 
 ' Yes/ replied Mr. Benson, with a laugh ; ' that's why 
 you are Mrs. Benson, isn't it ? But this girl is a 
 heroine, and we must do something for her. She won't 
 let the bank help her, but you want a governess just 
 now for the children. What could you wish for better 
 than a brave, pure, high-minded, and well-educated 
 girl like this ? And if she is living in the house of 
 the chairman of the bank that will be the best pro- 
 tection for her father's memory she could wish.' 
 
 'Well, I will see her, John,' said Mrs. Benson, 'at 
 all events.' 
 
 ' Yes, and if you don't see at a glance that she is 
 a jewel you must have lost the insight you had when 
 you had the good taste to discover rny virtues, and 
 take me for a husband,' and with a merry laugh the 
 subject was closed. 
 
 ' I will send for her to come and see me,' said Mrs, 
 Benson presently.
 
 DEUS NON IRRIDETUR 391 
 
 ' No,' replied her husband, ' I am going down to 
 Middleford on bank business in a few days. Come 
 down with me and call on her yourself.' 
 
 'Well, I'm sure! One would imagine that it's not 
 a governess but a friend I'm going to get in Miss 
 Arden.' 
 
 ' And you'll get both,' cried Mr. Benson heartily, ' or 
 I have got no eyes in my head.' 
 
 Kate was surprised in a day or two to receive a 
 note saying that, if it was not inconvenient to Miss 
 Arden, Mrs. Benson would call upon her at a certain 
 hour. 
 
 When Mrs. Benson saw Kate's high-bred yet gentle 
 face, and read, with even keener eyes than her husband, 
 the courage and grief of the girl she looked on, she 
 made a more instant surrender than even Mr. Benson 
 himself. 
 
 'My poor child,' she said softly, as she put her 
 arms round Kate's shoulders, and drew the girl's face 
 to hers. 
 
 Kate hesitated for a moment, and then put her 
 head on Mrs. Benson's bosom and broke into a passion 
 of tears. She was motherless and fatherless, and that 
 touch of generous pity melted her down utterly. Long 
 the two women sat together and talked. 
 
 When Mrs. Benson rejoined her husband that nighr, 
 it was to tell him that everything was settled. 
 
 ' Well, John,' she said, in tones of decision ; ' your 
 goose this time is a real swan. You have done better 
 than you knew. I think Kate Arden will be a treasure. 
 She is to come to us next week. I didn't say a 
 word about salary ; I could no more talk of that to 
 her than to my own child. But you must pay her 
 something handsome.'
 
 392 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 ' But won't it be prudent to take her for a month 
 or two first on trial ? ' asked her husband, with a twinkle 
 in his eye. 
 
 Trial?' snapped Mrs. Benson energetically, 'there's 
 no trial needed. She's a treasure. 5 
 
 ' But we can pay too much for such luxuries,' 
 protested Mr. Benson gravely. ' We'll give her a small 
 salary to begin with, and raise it after three months 
 if she gives satisfaction. 
 
 ' A small salary to begin with ? ' cried Mrs. Benson 
 indignantly. ' I wonder you didn't propose to take 
 your wife on trial for a month before committing 
 yourself for life ! ' 
 
 ' Ah ! the marriage laws are, unfortunately, in a very 
 imperfect condition as yet,' said Mr. Benson, with a 
 pensive sigh. Mrs. Benson looked sharply at her 
 husband ; she caught the twinkle in his eyes. 
 
 ' John,' she said, ' you are just making fun of me. 
 But give a good salary to Miss Arden, and I'll forgive 
 you.' 
 
 There remained for Kate one more task. She left 
 it to the last, and she lingered over it with a curious 
 reluctance, half bitter and half sweet. 
 
 She must write to Kit. He must know that he 
 had been proved to be right, that his name was 
 cleared or would be cleared. She must confess to 
 him that she had been unjust. She must do this to 
 carry out her father's wish ; she must do it to satisfy 
 her own conscience. Yet her womanly sensitiveness 
 made the task hard. She had sent Kit away, and 
 sent him away in anger. This would look like a 
 gesture of recall. Kate indeed more than half felt it 
 was a gesture of recall, if not of surrender on her part. 
 Yet it was inevitable.
 
 DEUS NON IRRIDETUR 393 
 
 The colour was burning in her cheeks as she wrote 
 the letter. She almost felt as if Kit's eyes were looking 
 at her through the characters she traced. Yet her 
 letter was characteristically straightforward. 
 
 'DEAR MR. SOMERS, I was unjust to you when 
 we parted, and I owe it to you to repair, as far as 
 I can, that injustice. My dear father, before he died, 
 told me the whole tale. The men carried off nothing 
 that dreadful night ; the money had been lost before, 
 and my father had betrayed his trust. When he told 
 me the story it was a confession. He knew he could 
 find no peace with God until he had made such a 
 confession. Thank God ! he repented before he died. 
 I know why you sent back that paper, and understand 
 how noble and generous you were. Forgive my rash 
 judgement and unkind words. 
 
 ' We shall perhaps never meet again, but I write 
 this because it was my father's wish. And my own 
 conscience can find no rest till I have written it. I 
 think you will understand why I cannot write many 
 words, and will understand, too, all I feel. May God 
 bless you ! I am lonely, but not unhappy, for God 
 helps me. 
 
 ' KATE.'
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 HOW THE SIEGE ENDED 
 
 WITH that long seventeen hours' struggle on Wagon 
 Hill Kit's experiences of battle in South Africa practically 
 came to an end. There remained, it is true, some seven 
 weeks of close siege before Dundonald's horsemen, on 
 February 28, rode into Ladysmith ; and the slow, 
 eventless days tested the fortitude of the British troops 
 more cruelly than did even the perilous edge of battle 
 itself. The daily rations shrank in scale. The men 
 were wasted with hunger, scorched with fever, worn 
 out with the strain of constant duty. The Boer guns, 
 in slow and sullen fashion, still flung their shells on the 
 streets and roofs of the town ; but it was the strain of 
 waiting, of standing perpetually on guard, the gnawing 
 tedium of the slow days and nights, which tried the men 
 much more than pain of wounds or the peril of death. 
 
 When the siege began, Sir George White said to his 
 staff, ' We have two things to do : to kill time and to 
 kill Boers both equally difficult.' But during the long 
 weeks which followed the one daring effort the Boers 
 made to carry the place by storm, the British found the 
 process of ' killing time ' almost too much for their 
 ingenuity. The hospitals were full. Nearly every tenth 
 man had been slain in battle, or died of disease. The 
 survivors lacked all the outward signs of soldiership. 
 
 394
 
 HOW THE SIEGE ENDED 395 
 
 They were hunger-wasted, ragged, in many cases boot- 
 less. A forenoon's smart drill would probably have 
 killed one-half the fighting force in the town. Only 
 one thing survived : the ancient inextinguishable fighting 
 courage of men and officers alike which belonged to 
 them by virtue of their blood. 
 
 The weariness within the besieged town was accentu- 
 ated, and made well-nigh intolerable, by the sounds 
 of incessant battle which came to them from without. 
 To the south Buller was toiling, in dogged, tremendous, 
 if clumsy, fashion, to break through the passes of the 
 Drakensberg to their rescue. Night by night there was 
 scribbled, in pulses of flame, along the southern sky, 
 some message from him, usually of a cheerful sort : ' All 
 going on well,' ' Progress satisfactory,' &c. While, by 
 day, over the rugged hills to the south came the 
 muttered thunder of great guns. 
 
 Buller, trying to break through the iron barrier of 
 the Drakensberg Range, had a task which almost 
 rivalled that of Massena, as he stood in front of 
 Wellington's great lines at Torres Vedras in 1810. 
 Only, where the Frenchman failed the Englishman 
 succeeded, though he lost five thousand men by death 
 or wounds in the process. 
 
 It is easy to understand how that thunder of far-off 
 battles which never came nearer being fought through 
 slow weeks for their relief must have fretted this im- 
 patience of the besieged garrison. January 23 saw 
 the tragedy of Spion Kop, the hilly Inkermann of 
 South Africa. On February 5 Vaalkranz was won by 
 Lyttelton's gallant Durhams, and Hart's fiery Irishmen 
 and abandoned when won ! Then Buller, having tried 
 in vain to pierce the Boer centre, and to turn their 
 right, flung himself on their left wing. The combats on
 
 396 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 Hussar Hill, Hlangwane, and Green Hill were a bloody 
 prelude to the stern fight on Pieters Hill ; and beyond 
 this Railway Hill still barred the way into Ladysmith, 
 though the Lancashires and the men of the Irish 
 brigade died in scores on its rugged slope. 
 
 Then came, on February 26, the one movement for 
 the relief of Ladysmith in which Buller showed himself 
 a general with a touch of real skill. With Hart's 
 Brigade he held the Boers fast on Railway Hill ; while, 
 in a wide curve, he swung his whole army round, using 
 Hart's Brigade as a pivot, till what had been the ex- 
 treme right of his forces became the extreme left, and 
 the Boer flank was hopelessly turned. On the night of 
 the 27th the great barrier of the Drakensberg was 
 pierced, and in all their trenches and laagers round 
 Ladysmith the Boers were preparing for flight. 
 
 All these stormy days of fighting had reported them- 
 selves in waves of menacing sound to the besieged gar- 
 rison. The vibration of Buller's guns, one keen observer 
 notes, was like the sound of ' a far-off titanic drum- 
 tap ' with the sky, it may be added, for a sounding- 
 board. But as the fighting drew nearer, and became 
 fiercer, these earth-shaking taps became a constant 
 drum-roll, that sank and swelled mysteriously, but 
 never quite ceased. During the fighting on Hlangwane 
 and Railway Hill, the sound of battle rolled amongst 
 the hills, now dying away, now shaking the very skies, 
 for ninety-six continuous hours ! 
 
 On the morning of February 28 Kit was posted on the 
 shoulder of Wagon Hill. By some rare atmospheric 
 condition all the hills had a curious sharpness of outline. 
 A strange clearness lay on them. Every wrinkle in 
 their huge sides was clearly discernible. Kit happened 
 to look eastward, where a hill stood with almost startling
 
 HOW THE SIEGE ENDED 397 
 
 relief against the clear sky ; and he saw what seemed to 
 be a moving thread drawn across its round and lofty 
 back ; a thread that now seemed to gather into tiny 
 knots, and then spread itself out again. What could 
 it be ? Kit carried a pair of excellent glasses, and, 
 taking them out, he quickly found that what he saw 
 was a long, unending procession of Boer wagons, 
 crossing the hill. Their swaying tilts showed every 
 now and again clear against the skyline. It was an 
 army in flight. The great trek had begun. 
 
 For hours that tiny, far-off stream of wagons 
 trickled down the slope of the great hill. It grew 
 denser. Now there came irregular groups they could 
 not be called columns of horsemen and guns. 
 
 All Ladysmith was staring at that sight by this 
 time. Sick men crept from the hospitals to look on 
 it. The. men in the trenches shouted themselves hoarse 
 with delight. They were looking on an historic scene, 
 that will be memorable for centuries. The tide of war 
 had turned. The Boers were abandoning the long-held 
 siege. 
 
 Presently a curious figure, like a black inverted V, 
 appeared above the redoubt on Bulwana Hill, from 
 which Long Tom had, for so many weeks, bullied 
 the town, and smitten it with its fire. It was a 
 derrick ; the Boers were about to carry off their 
 famous and cherished gun. Instantly, from every 
 British battery within range, the guns opened fire 
 upon it, and the black V-shaped derrick vanished in 
 mere splinters ! 
 
 Just at this stage a furious storm of mingled hail 
 and rain swept over the town, with its girdling hills ; 
 but not hail nor rain could abate the exultant shouts 
 that went up from every street in Ladysmith, and every
 
 398 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 hillside trench and battery and sangar held by the 
 British. Kit found himself he scarcely knew how 
 amidst a group of the Gordons, shouting in wild excite- 
 ment Amongst these he recognized his friend the 
 sergeant who had shot side by side with him in the 
 grass on the summit of Wagon Hill. 
 
 ' Eh, mon,' said the Scotchman, ' this is grand. This 
 is nearly as good as yon fight on the hilltop,' and he 
 pointed, with a gesture, to the high ridge of Wagon 
 Hill. 
 
 ' Why, it's better than that, surely/ said Kit. 
 
 ' Weel,' replied the Scotsman, ' I'll no' say that. 
 Yon was a bonny bit of shootin'.' 
 
 'But this means,' said Kit, 'that the siege is ended. 
 The Boers are clearing out.' 
 
 'What else could they do?' asked the sergeant 
 gruffly, ' when the Gordons are here ; and there's more 
 of them coming,' he added, with an air of pride. ' Our 
 second battalion's with Buller.' 
 
 Kit smiled at the delightful certainty with which 
 the sergeant evidently believed that it was the Gordons 
 who had saved Ladysmith. 
 
 But the excitement of the day was not yet over. 
 Evening was drawing on when a thin column a mere 
 brown thread of trotting horsemen was seen coming 
 down the ridge which served as a low wall to the 
 river flat on the south. They were not broad-hatted, 
 loose-riding Boers, but visibly two or three squadrons 
 of British riders. 
 
 The actual relief of Ladysmith was, in a sense, an 
 accident. Buller, always heavy-footed and doubtful 
 in pursuit of a broken enemy, had halted his main 
 body, and sent three hundred Carabineers and Imperial 
 Light Horse to ascertain by what route the enemy had
 
 HOW THE SIEGE ENDED 399 
 
 retreated. This scanty little force pushed onward until, 
 from the summit of a ridge, they looked down on the 
 tin roofs of Ladysmith some three miles off. Mackenzie 
 commanded the Light Horse ; Gough, the Carabineers ; 
 and for a moment, while the column halted, the two 
 leaders held brief debate. The little town was in sight 
 on whose fate all England had hung for many weeks 
 past. Should they push through to the town ? The 
 goal was too tempting and too near to be refused by 
 such a pair of gallant cavalry leaders. 
 
 ' Are we going through to-night, Mackenzie ? ' asked 
 Gough. 
 
 It was not in a soldier's nature to refuse ! A few 
 brief words, a gesture, the bridle-reins were shaken, 
 and, with a shout, the horsemen went galloping down 
 the hill at racing pace, and across the flat, seamed with 
 Boer trenches, and rough with boulders. The intoxica- 
 tion of that wild gallop can be imagined. It was the 
 one memorable hour of the men's lives. They were 
 making history. 
 
 The evening was darkening when the officers suc- 
 ceeded at last in steadying their column, on the edge 
 of the town ; and, with some approach to order, 
 the horsemen rode into the streets of Ladysmith. 
 These were full of shouting men. Sir George White 
 and his staff met them at the centre of the town ; and, 
 while the leaders clasped hands, the crowd went, 
 temporarily, mad with excitement. 
 
 Buller himself was still far off, amongst the hills ; 
 and the Times correspondent in Ladysmith has re- 
 corded how, the same night, he started out in search 
 of that general ; so that, as he put it, ' the first act 
 of delivered Ladysmith was to try and discover its 
 deliverer ! ' Buller, as a matter of fact, did not enter
 
 400 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 Ladysmith until March 3, when his columns the 
 Dublin Fusiliers leading marched in. 
 
 The sight was thrilling. Buller's men came with 
 swinging step and heads erect. They had been 
 tempered in the fire of battle for long weeks. They 
 were brown with the sun, hardy with exposure and 
 toil ; and they looked a body of men with whom 
 as Wellington said of the Peninsular veterans a 
 competent general might have ' gone anywhere and 
 done anything.' 
 
 The contrast in appearance betwixt the relieved 
 garrison and their stalwart relievers was startling. 
 * They were not men,' wrote an officer in the relieving 
 force. ' They were what had been men. Eyes sunk 
 back in their heads ; cheeks hollow, and their necks 
 all fallen away.' Hunger and fever and the whole 
 long strain of the siege, in a word, had reduced White's 
 gallant troops to mere skeletons. Yet which played 
 the braver part the men who forced their way, with 
 a valour so high, through the Drakensberg Ranges, 
 or those who held, for so many months, and with a 
 courage so enduring, a mere open town against such 
 odds who shall decide ? 
 
 Kit had shouted himself hoarse, like everybody else, 
 in the excitement of the relief; and he carried the 
 good news, with the first scrap of nourishing food he had 
 been able to secure, to Boyd, who was supposed to 
 be convalescent, but who, for mere lack of proper 
 diet, was still in peril of death. The fever had burned 
 itself out of his blood ; but, in the poisoned air of 
 the hospital, and under its make-shift diet, his life 
 was still drooping. 
 
 ' Boyd,' cried Kit, ' the siege is over ! The Boers are 
 on the trek, and Buller's horsemen are in ! We'll
 
 HOW THE SIEGE ENDED 401 
 
 soon have you out of this now, and get you to some 
 place where you can breathe clean air and drink sweet 
 milk ; and we'll make a man of you again.' 
 
 Poor Boyd was little better than a skeleton. His 
 beard was streaked with grey ; his eyes were filmy, 
 and sunken deep in his head. But, stirred by the 
 contagion of Kit's cheerful news, and yet more cheerful 
 face, he seemed to rally. 
 
 ' Yes,' pursued Kit, ' we shall have letters from home, 
 and news ; and you will be a hero when this is all 
 over.' 
 
 'There is not much heroic about me,' said Boyd, 
 with a quite new humility. ' I have done nothing 
 except been a trouble to the doctors and a nuisance 
 to everybody else. You are the hero, Kit.' 
 
 ' Nonsense,' said Kit energetically, ' you have had 
 a share in a great history ; and you will tell the story 
 to your children a quarter of a century to come.' 
 
 Boyd shook his head ruefully. ' I shall be a better 
 man, I hope,' he said humbly, ' for all I have suffered. 
 I look at things now with different eyes.' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Kit, ' and that's the gain God meant 
 you to reap in this rough field of war.' 
 
 The day after Buller entered the town the long- 
 accumulated mails came in. Many letters, alas ! were 
 meant for eyes that were now turned to dust. Two 
 or three letters were for Kit ; and one, as he took it, 
 sent a strange shock through him. It was in Kate's 
 writing, and brought the story of her father's death, 
 and her acknowledgement of the injustice which had 
 been shown to Kit. A mist crept into Kit's eyes 
 as he read. He could almost hear the music of Kate's 
 voice running through the syllables as he tried to read 
 them. He shut his eyes to keep back the tears, and 
 
 26
 
 402 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 her face rose to his imagination with a vividness that 
 well-nigh took away his breath. Her voice was 
 calling to him across so many leagues of sea. The 
 letter, he felt, was, consciously or unconsciously, a 
 gesture of recall. He would answer it in person. The 
 long siege had shaken his health ; he had earned his 
 discharge, and would have no difficulty in securing it. 
 
 The thought of looking in Kate's eyes again, of 
 touching her hand, of, perhaps, winning her love, 
 intoxicated him. As soon as the necessary formalities 
 were gone through, Kit was on his way to Cape 
 Town, to take the first steamer to England.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX 
 HOW KIT CAME BACK 
 
 A YOUNG man, with the brown of African suns on 
 his face and a look of curious eagerness and anxiety 
 in his eyes, rang the bell of Mr. Benson's house in 
 Russell Square, one June afternoon, and asked to see 
 Miss Arden. The maid brought his card into the 
 schoolroom where Kate sat, with the innocent-sounding 
 demand, which nevertheless sent the blood from Kate's 
 cheeks : ' Would Miss Arden see Mr. Somers ? ' 
 
 No answer had come to Kate's letter from South 
 Africa. Kit, as we have seen, had determined to bring 
 his answer in person. But Kate, of course, could not 
 know this ; she was in ignorance, indeed, as to whether 
 her letter had ever reached its destination ; for Kit, 
 she knew, had been shut up in Ladysmith. But now 
 he was in England ; in another moment they would 
 meet ! Kate had to put her hand on her breast to 
 steady the throbbing of her heart. She heard his 
 coming footsteps, and was secretly amazed to recognize 
 how familiar the sound was, and what a music lurked 
 in it. She had heard that footstep in her dreams often 
 of late. 
 
 The door opened and Kit stood before her. Their 
 hands clasped, and each gazed eagerly on the other's 
 face. Kit saw before him the Kate of his dreams ; 
 
 403
 
 404 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 graver, perhaps, than the girl he had left, but nobler, 
 sweeter, stronger, as well as graver ; his eyes dwelt 
 with a tingling delight on every line of her face. He 
 recognized the dainty set of her head, the wide brows, 
 the steadfast, starlike eyes, the rich coronet of silken 
 hair. The touch of her hand thrilled him the slender 
 fingers, with such quickness and strength in their 
 slenderness. He wanted no more at that precise 
 moment than the touch of Kate's fingers, the depth 
 and sweetness of Kate's eyes, the frank purity of 
 Kate's brow. Speech, he oddly felt, was unnecessary 
 almost impertinent. He was conscious of no passion 
 of desire to kiss her. Merely to look at her, to breathe 
 the perfume of her presence, to feel the clasp of her 
 hand, had all the sweetness of the most passionate 
 caress. 
 
 Kate, on her part, looked at her lover with a girl's 
 swift and all-including glance. This was not the Kit 
 she had known. Something was in his face now as 
 a constant element which before had only been visible 
 on it at rare intervals : a look of power, of resolution, 
 of clear intelligence. The face had all its ancient 
 frankness and goodness. The steady eyes were there, 
 the level brows, the clear-cut lips. But that white 
 scar, scribbled on his brow by a Boer bullet, was the 
 signature of battle. The fair, crisp, close-cut beard 
 and moustache were signs of manhood. The whole 
 face was of one who had looked on death without fear ; 
 had borne hardship ; had been tested by peril. 
 
 The countenance, in a word, had been shaped, like 
 the character behind it, in the red furnace of battle. 
 There was a curious air of mastery upon it. Yet 
 underlying all these signs of somewhat stern manhood 
 there shone the loyal, unselfish Kit of her girlhood.
 
 HOW KIT CAME BACK 405 
 
 And Kate knew in one breathless instant that her 
 heart had found its master at last. 
 
 Neither spoke at first ; neither felt the need of speech. 
 Each was reading the hieroglyphics which time and 
 change and sorrow had written on the other's face. 
 Each, it may be added, was too completely mastered 
 by the simple over-running joy of meeting for speech. 
 Kate recovered herself first, and she drew back her 
 hand, while a swift and vivid blush swept over her 
 face. Kit contemplated the withdrawn hand with an 
 astonished and visible regret, that made Kate's blush 
 deeper, while it sent a shy smile to her lips. He 
 plainly seemed to think that soft little hand ought to 
 have remained permanently in the clasp of his big 
 fingers. 
 
 ' Kit,' she said, ' you are good to come and see me. 
 I had no right to expect it.' 
 
 ' " No right ? " ' demanded Kit, with a note of indignant 
 interrogation in every letter of the words. ' " Good ? " : 
 he added reflectively ; ' yes, good to myself. " No 
 right?" Why, Kate, what did I come to England 
 for?' 
 
 ' On business, I suppose,' said Kate, with a gleam 
 of humour in her eyes. 
 
 ' Yes ; on business on the happiest business that 
 ever brought a man across the sea. You are my 
 " business," Kate ! I got your letter.' 
 
 Kate winced at the words. They reminded her of 
 her father's shame, and, it may be added, her maidenly 
 self-respect was still a little sore from the process of 
 writing that letter to Kit. 
 
 ' I had to write it,' she whispered sadly. 
 
 ' Yes, Kate ; and it was the kindest and most generous 
 letter a woman's hand ever wrote. That is,' he went
 
 
 406 ITHURTEL'S SPEAR 
 
 on hurriedly, with a sudden sense that he was touching 
 a wound in Kate's life, ' of course it was bitter for you 
 to have to write about your father. But, oh, Kate, 
 I am afraid I am selfish. I always was selfish where 
 you are concerned ' a statement which sent Kate's 
 eyebrows up in half-indignant challenge. 
 
 ' That you thought of me and wrote to me was 
 like yourself. It was generous; it was beautiful.' 
 
 ' What else could I do, Kit ? ' 
 
 'Thank God, you didn't do anything else. But, Kate, 
 I will try not to be selfish. I can guess what your 
 father's death must have been to you. Yet,' he went 
 on in graver tones, ' death is a little thing. I have 
 learnt that, at least, in South Africa. Sin is the one 
 terrible thing ; the one thing that parts souls for ever, 
 and your father repented. God's mercy was in that 
 repentance ; He never rejects a grief He has Himself 
 inspired. You must think of your father as forgiven. 
 God has cast His sin into the deep sea of His own 
 forgetfulness, and we may well do that, too. He is 
 beyond the reach of ill or shame now.' 
 
 The tears by this time were running unashamedly 
 down Kate's face. This was just the sympathy she 
 wanted. Here was one who could think of her father's 
 sin and of her father's repentance exactly as she did, 
 and the look of gratitude she gave Kit was so deep and 
 radiant that for a moment it took his breath away. 
 
 Then with fine, but quite unconscious art, he per- 
 suaded Kate to talk of her troubles. She found it 
 to a degree which amazed herself a relief, if not a 
 gladness, to talk. The quick, sure, all-comprehending 
 sympathy with which Kit hung upon her words, and 
 even anticipated their sense, acted on her like sunshine 
 on some half- frozen flower.
 
 HOW KIT CAME BACK 407 
 
 Presently Kate began in turn to question Kit about 
 what he had seen and done and suffered in South 
 Africa. It gave him the keenest delight to see the 
 eager intelligence in Kate's eyes, and to hear the un- 
 consciously tender concern in her voice; but the moment 
 the conversation swung round upon himself all topics 
 vanished from Kit's mind, save one. 
 
 'Kate/ he said humbly, 'you are the last woman 
 in the world to trifle with a poor fellow, and it is a 
 question of life and death to me. When I got that 
 letter it was like the touch of your hand across the sea. 
 It was your voice whispering to me through all those 
 leagues of space. I thought the letter gave me leave 
 to come back to you, and I have come. Kate, it is 
 a big thing to ask, but give me yourself yourself.' 
 
 ' It is a poor thing to give,' she replied, with quivering 
 lip. 
 
 ' It is more than all the gold in England and South 
 Africa to me.' 
 
 Kit had got possession of her hand by this time, 
 and her shy reluctance seemed to vanish at his touch, 
 and at the fire and passion in his eyes. She lifted her 
 eyes to his, and for a moment went deathly white. 
 There was a look in them Kit had never seen yet, and 
 that almost frightened him. It was the gift of a 
 woman's life. 
 
 Then she yielded to the clasp of her lover's arms. 
 She shut her eyes like a tired child. Her life at last 
 had found its home. She was only half-conscious of the 
 kisses Kit was raining on her hair and eyes and lips. 
 
 Mrs. Benson had of course heard of Kate's visitor, 
 and when they met after Kit's departure she searched 
 Kate's face with keen and humorous eyes. What had 
 happened was writ large on Kate's expressive features.
 
 4 o8 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 There was a glow on her cheek, a soft, tender fire in 
 her eyes, a smile like a quivering sunbeam played about 
 her lips, all of which were very expressive symbols 
 to Mrs. Benson's shrewd gaze. Beneath that keen look 
 Kate's cheeks flushed a yet deeper crimson. Then she 
 ran across the room, flung her arms round Mrs. 
 Benson's neck, and hid her glowing cheeks on her 
 bosom. 
 
 ' Kate,' said that lady, ' so that young man from South 
 Africa has turned up, has he ; and you have surrendered 
 at sight ? ' 
 
 Kate, for reply, only kissed her with silent but ex- 
 pressive energy. 
 
 'But a woman in love,' Mrs. Benson continued, ' has 
 neither eyes nor common sense. She is not to be 
 trusted for a moment. In nine cases out of ten she 
 is in love with a mere phantom.' 
 
 ' A phantom ! ' cried Kate. 
 
 ' Yes ; a phantom of her own creation. I am going 
 to judge for myself. I am not going to let you throw 
 yourself away.' 
 
 'Throw myself away,' replied Kate indignantly, in 
 a crescendo of anger, ' why, he's everything . . .' here 
 voice and words failed her. 
 
 ' Oh, yes,' interrupted Mrs. Benson, with a sniff, ' he 
 is all the cardinal virtues buttoned up in one coat, but 
 that's just your soft foolishness. He'll not trick me, 
 though he has you ' ; and she took Kate by the 
 shoulders and playfully yet with a touch of vexation 
 beneath her humour shook her. 
 
 Mrs. Benson was, in fact, a little bit jealous and more 
 than a little bit anxious. She did not believe in a 
 young man from South Africa driving up to her 
 door and carrying off, as with a gesture, her prote'ge'
 
 HOW KIT CAME BACK 409 
 
 and treasure ; still less a young man whose character 
 needed, like a broken plate, to be ' mended.' Mr. 
 Somers might be an ill-used young man ; he was 
 certainly a very unfortunate one. Love of justice in 
 the abstract is not a woman's strong point. Mrs. Benson 
 had an unreasoning and very feminine prejudice against 
 a lover who had been compelled with no matter what 
 degree of injustice to make his appearance before a 
 bench of magistrates on what was practically a charge 
 of burglary. She stipulated that when the impatient 
 lover called next day she would see him, and she 
 went to the interview in a somewhat hostile mood. 
 
 ' Well, Mr. Somers,' she began, ' Kate wants to 
 persuade me that you and she are engaged.' 
 
 Kit flushed and smiled, but lifted his eyebrows a 
 little bit in wonder. ' Certainly I am quite persuaded 
 of that happy circumstance, Mrs. Benson, and I hardly 
 know whether I am walking on air or on prosaic earth 
 as the result.' 
 
 ' Miss Arden,' said Mrs. Benson, with some grimness, 
 ' is under my care ; she has no mother, and I feel a 
 mother's responsibilities about her.' 
 
 ' Kate is very happy,' replied Kit, ' to have a care 
 so gracious extended to her,' and he looked at Mrs. 
 Benson with an honest gratitude which fairly disarmed 
 that good lady. She, in fact, fell more quickly and 
 hopelessly under the spell of Kit's face and character 
 than did even Kate herself. Kit was visibly sweet- 
 natured. A transparent honesty and frankness shone 
 in his eyes. And yet there was a strength, a soldierly 
 gravity and alertness about him, too, that took Mrs. 
 Benson's fancy captive ; while her sense of humour 
 was tickled, and her jealousy for her sex was disarmed 
 by the mingled humility and fire of Kit's love.
 
 410 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 ' Of co.urse I am not worthy of her,' he went on, 
 as if in soliloquy, ' but, then, no one is ' ; and this 
 was said with such a note of conviction that, while 
 Mrs. Benson smiled, it yet brought the moisture to her 
 eyes. This was a lover to satisfy even the dreams of a 
 maiden's shy and virginal fancy. 
 
 'John,' said Mrs. Benson to her husband with 
 unusual decision as they sat by the fireside that night, 
 'you must do something for young Somers, and you 
 must do it quickly. Kate has had sorrows enough, 
 poor thing ! and now I am determined she shall have 
 a good time.' 
 
 ' You mean that she shall get married with the least 
 possible delay,' said Mr. Benson, with a dry smile ; 
 ' that is a very feminine conception of a good time.' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Mrs. Benson unashamedly, 'it is ; and 
 it will be a golden time for the young man, too. It 
 is pretty to see how plainly Kate's lips are to him what 
 the Beautiful Gate of the Temple was to a good Jew. 
 He waits on them with a sentiment of half-religious 
 worship. But I am not going to let Kate marry a 
 young man whose character is in a damaged condition. 
 What is the bank going to do for him ? ' 
 
 'The bank, my dear, does not feel called upon to 
 patch up a fractured character, even for the sake of 
 advancing by a week or two the date of a wedding.' 
 
 'No; your bank is a horrid thing. It has no con- 
 science and no sentiment. But the young man got 
 into trouble by trying to save the bank from being 
 robbed, and the bank must give him a good position by 
 way of making matters right.' 
 
 ' That is a woman's view of equity,' commented 
 Mr. Benson. ' Here's a young gentleman who knows 
 nothing whatever about banking ; yet because he has
 
 HOW KIT CAME BACK 
 
 got into trouble, for which the bank is in no way to 
 blame, it must appoint him to a post for which he 
 is totally unfit. Mr. Somers may be a good engineer, 
 but he would certainly be a bad banker.' 
 
 ' That's nonsense, John. Mr. Somers is fit for any- 
 thing ; he could be trusted with uncounted gold.' 
 
 'How do you know that, my dear? Is it you or 
 Kate who is in love with this prodigy ? ' 
 
 ' Both of us, my dear,' replied Mrs. Benson unblush- 
 ingly ; ' and you will have no rest till something is 
 done for him.' 
 
 ' This is mere bullying,' said Mr. Benson, with a 
 smile. ' In the interest of my domestic peace I must 
 get this dangerous young man off to South Africa as 
 soon as possible.' 
 
 At the end of a week Mr. Benson sent for Kit. 
 ' Mr. Somers,' he said, ' you played a fine part in that 
 burglary business, and got very unjustly into trouble 
 over it, and the bank owes you something ; but even 
 a bank has sometimes a debt it can't pay. We could 
 hardly make you a grant in money" here Kit shook 
 his head very decidedly 'and we can't take you on 
 our staff. You have not the training. To make you 
 a second-rate banker would be a mere waste of good 
 materials for a young gentleman of your inches and 
 with your gift for adventure. But I am the chairman 
 of a syndicate which has large money investments in 
 South Africa, and is likely, when this war is over, 
 to make them still larger. I believe we could trust 
 you as our representative. Your professional know- 
 ledge is of great value, and from the inquiries I have 
 made about you I think we should be doing well for 
 ourselves if we gave you the post. I am prepared 
 to offer you a salary of 750 a year, with travelling
 
 412 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 allowances and a percentage on profits. And when 
 the world knows that the chairman of the bank has 
 put his private interests in your charge, no one will 
 venture to hint anything against your character. It 
 will be the most effective way of saying that in 
 that unpleasant business you played an honourable 
 part.' 
 
 ' Thank you, Mr. Benson,' said Kit simply. ' I will 
 serve you loyally. I want to bring a clean name to 
 Miss Arden when she becomes my wife, and your 
 offer gives me that.'
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 IN THE WRECK OF A CREED 
 
 THE manifold disasters moral, financial, and contro- 
 versial which had overtaken the F.A. naturally set 
 all tongues in Middleford wagging. Perhaps John 
 Blunt suffered more from this circumstance than any 
 other representative of his side. People were afraid 
 of Mr. Gifford, and no one ventured to approach him ; 
 while nobody took such gentlemen as Mr. Bagges, 
 Mr. Leech, or Mr. Stumps seriously enough to discuss 
 the affair with them, though no doubt a good deal of 
 what may be called the rough satire of the streets, and 
 of public-house bars, was expended upon them. 
 
 But most people liked John Blunt, and everybody 
 trusted him, and hastened to discuss the ill fortunes 
 of his creed with him. Mr. Blunt had a wholesome 
 capacity for silence, and this made the business oi 
 attacking him reasonably safe. He suffered most 
 perhaps from an interview with Mr. Looker. 
 
 The two met in one of the side paths of the Middle- 
 ford public gardens one pleasant afternoon, and Mr. 
 Looker's wrinkled Socratic visage wore a humorous 
 look as he greeted his friend. 
 
 ' Well,' he began, ' Mr. Hobbs's legacy has done its 
 work with singular completeness and success. I heartily 
 congratulate you, Mr. Blunt.' 
 
 413
 
 \ 
 
 4 i4 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 John Blunt stared at his companion uncomprehend- 
 ingly. 
 
 ' Why/ he said, ' we think it a failure.' 
 
 ' A failure ! Oh ! you are far too modest ; though 
 modes-ty, perhaps/ Mr. Looker went on meditatively, 
 ' is the one virtue which Freethought is likely to pro- 
 duce in excess. Events will make it necessary.' 
 
 John Blunt still stared with puzzled and questioning 
 eyes, but made no reply in words, 
 
 ' The legacy/ continued Mr. Looker, ' was for the 
 purpose of making practical applications of Freethought 
 principles to human affairs, was it not ? ' John nodded 
 a silent assent. ' Well, that is exactly what we have all 
 been witnessing. Your principles were applied/ and 
 Mr. Looker carefully checked off each detail on his 
 fingers ' first to Claude Meares, with the result that he 
 became a suicide. They took possession next of young 
 Sparks, arid made him a rogue. Mr. Arden swallowed 
 them, diluted with other opiates, and he is in his grave, 
 assisted thither, it may reasonably be suspected, by 
 the dose. Mr. Creakles, too, was an example of all your 
 queer theology produces, and he has gone off with your 
 funds. Now, that' Mr. Looker went on, with the air 
 of a judge summing up a case ' is a pretty good 
 record. 
 
 'Then, if these are your successes, look at your 
 failures. The spectacle is quite as instructive. You 
 know, Mr. Blunt for you tried that your theory of 
 the universe could not run a Sunday school, or support 
 a mission, or reform a drunkard. You proved that 
 as clearly as any proposition in Euclid. And it could 
 not help a dying child, or bless its grave when it was 
 dead. Mr. Gifford found that out. That is a pretty 
 wide field of practical demonstration. As a contribution
 
 IN THE WRECK OF A CREED 415 
 
 to practical ethics the famous legacy,' said Mr. Looker 
 judicially, ' is the most successful experiment I ever 
 heard of. Don't you agree with me, Mr. Blunt ? ' he 
 inquired with an air of pleasant curiosity. 
 
 ' Well, we have our failures,' admitted Mr. Blunt ; , 
 'but so has Christianity.' 
 
 ' Yes ; but a Christian rogue is one in spite of his 
 principles. He represents the failure of his creed. 
 Your Mr. Creakles and the rest represent the triumph 
 of your theology. They are your successes.' 
 
 ' And is it your theory/ asked Mr. Blunt grimly, 
 ' that Freethought directly tends to produce rogues ? 
 That is scarcely polite, is it?' 
 
 'Well, it destroys the logic which enforces duty, 
 and that pretty well comes to the same thing. But,' 
 Mr. Looker went on, 'your Mr. Gifford keenly interests 
 me ; he will develop, I suspect, in some very surprising 
 directions. He will blossom out next, I am pretty 
 sure, into a sacerdotalist of the High Anglican, or 
 Romish, variety. He is married, unfortunately,' he 
 went on meditatively, ' or he would naturally become 
 a priest, or join one of the Romish orders. I would 
 dearly like to see him with a shaven crown and a 
 Franciscan robe and cowl.' 
 
 John Blunt contemplated his tormentor with puzzled 
 eyes. 
 
 'Mr. Gifford a priest?' he inquired, with astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 ' Certainly ! That's the evident probability. He is 
 a sort of human pendulum, you know, and he will 
 obey the law of the pendulum. He will swing now 
 to the remotest pole from Freethought. Moreover, his 
 self-confidence is shaken. He feels like a man who, 
 when he thought he was walking on solid ground,
 
 416 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 suddenly discovers that he has stepped over a preci- 
 pice. He will clutch at any rope ! " Freedom " has 
 betrayed him. Now he will try to creep under the 
 shelter of some external authority, and the more hoary 
 it is with age, and dark with quarrel against light, and 
 empty of all " freedom " in thought, or anything else, 
 the more eagerly he will accept it. Romanism for him, 
 in his present mood, will be a better opiate than any- 
 thing poor Arden knew. Only to obey ; to let some- 
 body else think for him ; to get quit of the anguish 
 of choice, the weary and perilous responsibility of 
 sitting in judgement on great alternatives this will 
 seem to him the one condition of peace. He will be 
 tempted to depose reason, since reason has proved so 
 false a guide. Yes ; a Trappist monk, or perhaps a 
 theosophist, is Mr. Gifford's next stage. These things 
 follow the wreck of a creed such as his.' 
 
 John Blunt's capacity for patient silence was by this 
 time well-nigh exhausted ; but just then Mr. Walton 
 turned the corner of the path and looked at the pair. 
 His shrewd eyes saw at a glance what was taking place, 
 and he eyed Mr. Looker sternly. 
 
 ' Looker/ he said, ' let the man alone. You have 
 a sort of impish faculty for extracting intellectual en- 
 joyment out of a tragedy. This isn't a mere affair 
 of controversial victory for one side or another. Here 
 are human souls who have been honestly trying a 
 perilous experiment, and their ship has gone to pieces 
 under their feet. Don't jeer at them. Try to help 
 them.' 
 
 'Is it a particularly honest experiment which Mr. 
 Bagges or, say, Mr. Creakles, has been trying ? ' 
 asked Mr. Looker, with an innocent air. 
 
 ' You can count these men out,' said Mr. Walton.
 
 IN THE WRECK OF A CREED 417 
 
 'They are found in all camps. But Mr. Gifford, or j. 
 Blunt here, is as honest as the day. Let us respect 
 them, and not jeer at them ' ; and, with a look of battle 
 in his eyes, Mr. Walton hurried on his way. 
 
 John Blunt was on his road to Mr. Gifford when 
 he was captured by Mr. Looker ; and, disquieted by 
 that gentleman's ingenious forecast of what was likely 
 to happen next, he hurried on his way with a quick- 
 ened step. 
 
 Mr. Gifford had denied himself to all visitors, but 
 he welcomed John Blunt. His honesty was a medicine 
 for him ; his gift of sympathetic silence was a balm. 
 Talking to John was merely a form of thinking aloud. 
 And it was the limitation of Mr. Gifford's oratorical 
 temperament that he could only clarify his thoughts 
 by uttering them rhetorically. His countenance light- 
 ened for a moment when his visitor entered ; but John 
 was startled by the look on his leader's countenance. 
 His face was ashy. There were lines of grey in his 
 dark hair. His eyes seemed deeper set than ever. He 
 was pacing restlessly to and fro, talking to himself 
 as he paced. 
 
 ' Well, John,' he asked, with a pathetic smile, ' did 
 you ever see a wrecked ship on the rocks ? I am 
 that wreck ; or, rather, I am poor Cowper's Castaway ' ; 
 and resuming his restless pacing to and fro, he began 
 to quote with deep voice : 
 
 No voice divine the storm allayed, 
 
 No light propitious shone ; 
 When, snatched from all effectual aid, 
 
 We perished, each alone. 
 But I beneath a rougher sea 
 And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he. 
 
 Inarticulate sympathy was written on John's broad 
 
 27
 
 a.i8 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 face, but he was wisely silent, and Mr. Gifford's 
 soliloquy ran on unchecked : 
 
 'Yes, I thought I was sure I had found rest. 
 My intellect was content. Sometimes,' he mused, ' I 
 had strange and wordless disquiets beneath it all 
 disquiets that came I knew not whence, and meant 
 I knew not what. But they had no root in reason, 
 and I put them aside. I was honest ; I think I was 
 honest.' 
 
 Here John nodded repeatedly in silent but energetic 
 agreement. 
 
 'Christianity, as I saw it, was an exploded super- 
 stition. My new creed seemed to fit all the facts. 
 The very scale of the universe justified it. It had 
 great names and great arguments on its side. It 
 was the cause of science, of a free and brave intellect. 
 And then suddenly a touch a breath destroyed it ! 
 My little child's dying cry refuted it. The grief on 
 my wife's face, the aching of my own heart, brought 
 it to mere bankruptcy. 
 
 ' I doubted it,' he went on, ' when I found that it 
 put fire into a drunkard's thirst. I doubted it some- 
 times when I looked at the faces round our committee 
 table. But I put the doubt aside. Has not every 
 great cause its parasites; every army its camp- followers? 
 My own lectures convinced me. I argued with 
 myself more than with my audience, and I argued 
 myself into new certainty. Smears' death troubled me ; 
 the change I saw creeping over that bright lad Cecil's 
 character troubled me almost more. But it was when 
 I found that my creed went out, like a flame exhausted 
 of oxygen, in the chill and blackness of death that 
 I knew I was mistaken. And the flame that burns 
 in Christianity does not go out ! ' he cried with raised
 
 IN THE WRECK OF A CREED 419 
 
 voice. ' Somehow it does not What is its secret ? 
 I must learn it. There is something in it which has 
 evaded me.' Then he walked to and fro for a space 
 with restless feet and hanging head. 
 
 ' Yes,' he went on again, ' life and death are against 
 my creed, and their logic is final. I give up the 
 dreadful controversy. And, John/ he whispered, 
 stopping abruptly, ' reason has failed me, or betrayed 
 me. It has no office. I want a guide, a master. 
 Christ is no more real to me than He ever was ; and 
 He is too far off if He exists at all. I want an 
 authority at hand visible, audible, that my senses 
 can touch ; one that does not argue, but only com- 
 mands. 
 
 ' Do you know, John,' he said meditatively, ' I think 
 the Romanists have more to say for themselves than 
 we ever imagined. I will have a talk with Father 
 Kelly. He is a Jesuit, and I know the history of 
 that order. It isn't a pleasant tale. But, after all, it 
 is best to have some one else to settle matters for you, 
 and the Jesuits do that, at least. To escape this 
 burden of thinking, this anguish of uncertainty, this 
 strain of self-choice . . 
 
 John here was all amazement, as he reflected on the 
 malign insight of Mr. Looker. 
 
 ' I have talked with Mr. Walton,' continued Mr. 
 Gifford. ' I envy the glow and contentment of his 
 faith, but I can't share it. I don't know how to reach 
 it. An army of shadows bars that path against me. 
 I want some one to decide for me.' A long pause 
 followed. ' I will see Father Kelly,' he suddenly re- 
 peated. ' Will you come with me, John ? ' 
 
 John shook his head vigorously. ' No,' he said, ' I 
 would rather do without a creed than go and sit at
 
 420 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 the feet of a priest We know what Romanism is. 
 You know, Mr. Gifford, even better than I, its history.' 
 
 ' Yes, John ; but think ! It has the centuries with 
 it. It won and held such intellects as Newman and 
 Manning. Yes,' he repeated, ' I will see Father Kelly.' 
 And the last vision John had of Mr. Gifford was as 
 he hurried off to the Roman Catholic presbytery.
 
 CHAPTER XLI 
 THE SECRET OF CERTAINTY 
 
 JOHN BLUNT found himself left stranded and desolate. 
 His humility of mind needed a teacher; and teacher 
 now he had none. Mr. Gifford was visibly a lost mind. 
 John would have gone out with him, bare-footed, if 
 necessary, on a pilgrimage in search of a new faith, 
 and would have waited patiently for some happy dis- 
 covery by his guide. But when John saw Mr. Gifford 
 disappear within the doors of the Jesuit presbytery, 
 he came to a sudden halt. There was enough of a 
 formless and inarticulate Protestantism in him, bred of 
 a vague knowledge of history and the far-off teachings 
 of his boyhood, to make any excursions into Papal 
 territory impossible. As for the Association, John now 
 clearly realized, what he had all along more than half 
 guessed, that he was in hopeless quarrel with its ethical 
 ideals. It belonged to a moral or rather immoral 
 realm in which his honest lungs could not breathe. 
 He was, as far as creed went, bankrupt ; and, with 
 the instinct natural to his patient and humble temper, 
 he looked round for a new guide. 
 
 Could any of the representatives of orthodoxy in 
 Middleford help him ? John passed them all in 
 review. Mr. Looker contemplated everything through 
 satiric spectacles. Professor Gardner was as dry as
 
 422 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 the Scotch oatmeal upon which he was brought up. 
 Mr. Sawders brought to his religion the spirit of a 
 debt-collecting attorney, eager only to win his case 
 and overthrow his opponent. Mr. Walton, with all 
 his goodness, translated his whole creed into terms of 
 emotion ; and John had the typical Englishman's 
 incurable suspicion of emotion. Finally, John thought 
 of Mr. Campbell. He called up the vision of his 
 shrewd, homely face, with its nimbus of mingled humour 
 and saintliness that rarest of combinations ! and his 
 sore heart was curiously moved. Here was a man who 
 might have a message for him. 
 
 While he meditated, walking slowly to and fro in 
 the shadow of the great elms in Middleford Park the 
 sound of approaching footsteps broke upon his ears. 
 He lifted his head, and Mr. Campbell himself, at that 
 exact moment, came into sight. His head was bent 
 pensively, as he came slowly down the avenue, buried 
 in thought. As the two figures approached each other, 
 Mr. Campbell looked up, and his face lightened when 
 he recognized John Blunt. He stretched out his hand 
 frankly. 
 
 ' Mr. Blunt,' he said, ' I have thought a great deal 
 of you of late. We are both idle men, just now ; 
 let us have a talk under the kindly shadows of these 
 elm trees ' ; and the pair commenced to walk slowly 
 to and fro, side by side. 
 
 John Blunt had no power of self-interpretation, and 
 speech at first seemed frozen on his lips. But Mr. 
 Campbell's quick brain, and even quicker sympathy, 
 almost instantly read the poor fellow's trouble ; and 
 with infinite tact and gentleness he drew him out, till 
 John Blunt found himself talking with an ease and 
 a, self-forgetting frankness that astonished himself,
 
 THE SECRET OF CERTAINTY 423 
 
 'Yes/ said Mr. Campbell presently, returning to 
 his starting-point, ' I have been thinking a great 
 deal about you. John, you are not far from the 
 kingdom.' 
 
 ' And what " kingdom " is that ? ' asked John, with a 
 prick of wonder. 
 
 ' The spiritual kingdom, in which the most childlike is 
 the most kingly.' 
 
 ' I am not dreaming about any " kingdom," ' said 
 John ruefully, ' but I do want some little patch of 
 solid ground on which my feet may stand. I confess 
 I feel just now like a man caught in a quicksand, and 
 I don't know how deep the quicksand is.' 
 
 ' Well, Christianity can give you solid ground 
 enough.' 
 
 John shook his head doubtingly. ' I wish it were 
 true. I gave up my secular creed because I found it 
 did not work. That key, at least, does not fit the 
 world's lock. Does Christianity, Mr. Campbell? Will 
 it work ? ' 
 
 'A thousand times over, yes. For the individual 
 man who accepts it, and masters its secret, it is final. 
 It has a new verification in experience every day, and 
 a hundred times a day. Till at last, for the man 
 that lives by its great law, and in its atmosphere, 
 it is not faith, but knowledge ; not hope, but certainty ! 
 It is the last and the oldest of the apostles, you 
 remember it is St. John who, after nearly sixty 
 years' experience of Christianity, affirms over and over 
 again, " WE KNOW ! " " We KNOW that we have 
 passed from death unto life " ; " we KNOW that He 
 abideth in us " ; " we KNOW that when He shall 
 appear we shall be like Him " ; " we KNOW that the 
 Son of God is come and has given us understanding''
 
 424 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 " I believe " is a great word, John ; but " I KNOW " is 
 a greater ! ' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied John meditatively ; ' I wish it were 
 mine ! I wish Christianity were true ! But, looking 
 at the world as a whole, can you really say that 
 Christianity is a success? It has been nearly twenty 
 centuries at work, you know, and are you satisfied 
 with the result ? ' 
 
 'Well, God is in no hurry in working out His 
 problem. He has all eternity, you see, for a black- 
 board ! The mystery of His silent, waiting, and 
 exhaustless patience is wonderful ; and the love in 
 that patience is infinite. He has chosen to make us 
 free agents, with power to delay His great purposes ; 
 even to refuse them. And such a problem needs a 
 great sweep of time for its evolution. What are 
 twenty centuries to God ? What can we say but that 
 the curve of His plans is wider than our little thoughts ; 
 and His great patience leaves our fretting impatience 
 rebuked ? 
 
 ' Yet how much Christianity has achieved ! ' he went 
 on, with energy. ' Its victories are greater than we 
 realize. It works like some divine ferment in human 
 life. It leavens our civilization. It slowly penetrates 
 our | laws. Suppose it were suddenly withdrawn ! ' he 
 cried, with a new turn of thought. ' Imagine the 
 whole world one vast Angel Court, a mere nest of 
 crime and lust and cruelty ; and no better moral 
 forces for its healing than are represented by Mr. 
 Bagges and Mr. Creakles ! ' 
 
 That prospect, John confessed, was of sufficiently 
 alarming quality. But he went on to remind Mr. 
 Campbell that Christianity ought to reach its highest 
 level in the Churches.
 
 THE SECRET OF CERTAINTY 425 
 
 ' Can you say it does ? ' he asked. ' Does any real 
 love exist betwixt the Churches ? The Nonconformists 
 sniff at the Salvation Army ; the Anglicans despise 
 the Nonconformists ; the Roman Catholics shut the 
 door of heaven against the Anglicans ; and I suppose 
 the Greek Church though I don't know much about 
 it anathematizes the Latin Church. Each Church 
 in succession rejects all the others. Christian Churches 
 are a mere catalogue of mutual rejections.' 
 
 ' Ah ! you are quoting the Freethinker, John ! It 
 is clever, but not very accurate. Let the Churches 
 be judged by their agreements, not their differences ; 
 and our agreements though we ourselves commonly 
 forget it are infinitely greater than our differences. 
 Yet I admit Christianity as a whole is waiting for 
 its final and overwhelming credential.' 
 
 ' What is that ? ' 
 
 ' A true brotherhood amongst Christian men. Christ 
 Himself taught us that, at the very beginning. ' That 
 they all may be one,' ran His parting prayer . . . ' THAT 
 THE WORLD MAY BELIEVE THAT THOU HAST SENT 
 
 ME.' And the world, as a whole, never will believe 
 in Christ until His Churches, by their union, supply 
 this last and greatest credential of Christianity. But 
 the truth is, John, that the Churches at present are 
 in the stage of disintegrated light.' 
 
 John looked puzzled. 
 
 ' Pure white light, you know, is really formed by 
 the 'union of a cluster of coloured rays. Suppose the 
 world were lit only by these disintegrated rays ! It 
 would be broken up into separate patches of all the 
 primary colours red, orange, yellow, and all the rest. 
 And each patch of colour would, no doubt, think 
 itself the final and perfect form of light ; the only
 
 426 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 one that had any right to exist. Every other tint 
 would be a mere wicked heresy in tints ! But what 
 a patchwork the world would be ! Not any one of 
 the separate colour-rays, but all knitted together, 
 makes the pure light the true light. And no one 
 of our Churches is the whole of Christianity. Each 
 one holds part in trust. Each one is a separate ray. 
 And some day God will whisper to us all, and then 
 the separate rays of disintegrated light will melt into 
 the white radiance of the perfect light. Disintegrated 
 light,' murmured Mr. Campbell, as if to himself ; ' yes, 
 that is what we all are ! 
 
 1 1 do not think,' he went on, after a pause, ' that 
 Anglicanism is God's last word in the history of His 
 Church ; nor Congregationalism ; nor Methodism ; 
 and least of all Romanism. What you see is a stage 
 in a many-centuried evolution. To that final and 
 perfect Church I love to dream the Anglican will 
 bring his orderly ritual ; the Congregational his 
 freedom ; the Methodist his fire ; the Roman Catholic 
 his unquestioning obedience; the Quaker his genius 
 for silence ; and perhaps the Salvationist his big 
 drum ! ' and Mr. Campbell laughed gently at such a 
 prospect. 
 
 ' But,' he continued, more gravely, ' this is only my 
 dream. Yet be sure that what you see is only a stage 
 in an evolution which stretches through centuries. 
 Don't judge the flower by the half-burst bud, or the 
 perfect song by the mere prelude.' 
 
 Whether John Blunt quite understood all this may 
 be doubted. Perhaps because he did not he broke 
 out suddenly with a new and larger difficulty. 
 
 ' The whole theory of Christianity,' he said, ' its 
 version of man's place in the universe, of God's care
 
 THE SECRET OF CERTAINTY 427 
 
 for each human soul, seems incredible. It is just at 
 this point where Mr. Gifford's lectures were irresistible. 
 How can we believe,' he continued hesitatingly, 'that 
 God stooped to suffer for our sins ? It seems to me 
 His stars must hide us from Him. We are only a 
 race of insects.' 
 
 ' Well, the stars are only the furniture of God's 
 house, and we are His children. We don't put the 
 furniture before the children, or regulate our affections 
 by the foot-rule ; and why should God do it ? Let a 
 mother put her child in one scale and all the Himalayas 
 in the other, and which scale will go up? After all, 
 Jupiter, with all his moons, is simply a mass of matter, 
 dumb, brute, and brainless. A single human soul 
 the soul of a little child with conscience, and will, 
 and power to love, is more than all the clay and 
 granite which could be piled betwixt this and the 
 Pleiades.' 
 
 So the talk went on in many an after-interview ; 
 and poor John often felt that he was wading in 
 waters too deep for him ; or trying to breathe an 
 atmosphere too rare. It was not perhaps that Mr. 
 Campbell's argument moved him ; but his gentleness, 
 his frankness, his quick sympathy, and the tonic of 
 his own strong faith, subtly crept into the very tissues 
 of John Blunt's mind and changed it. 
 
 ' Mr. Campbell,' he said, one night, abruptly, ' you 
 have done me good. You have turned me into new 
 channels. Some new influences,' he said humbly, ' are, 
 I scarcely understand how, stirring in me. But I 
 am going to leave England. Mr. Somers wants an 
 assistant, and he thinks I am fit for the post ; so I 
 am going to South Africa. Perhaps I may learn 
 something more from Kit Somers, and from his wife
 
 428 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 that is to be. They are only children in age compared 
 with me ; but in knowledge I am only a child to 
 them. And I will try to learn.' 
 
 'John/ said Mr. Campbell, ' I come back to my old 
 point : you are not far from the kingdom ! '
 
 CHAPTER XLII 
 TWO LIVES 
 
 Now came for Kit a chain of golden hours. He had 
 won the woman he loved ; and some strong wine of 
 happiness seemed poured into his very blood. And yet 
 his happiness suffered exasperating interruptions. The 
 marriage must necessarily come soon, since Kit had to 
 go back to Africa ; and Mrs. Benson had charged herself 
 with the solemn duty of making all the wedding 
 preparations. Now a wedding for a woman whether 
 her own or any one else's is the supreme event of 
 life. It is a mystery ; a solemnity of almost more than 
 religious seriousness. It must express itself in all the 
 symbolism of millinery. The clumsy male imagination 
 is, of course, unable to understand the mystic sacredness 
 of silks and laces necessary for the due adornment of 
 a bride ; so even the bridegroom himself has to be 
 warned off that enchanted realm in which dressmakers 
 practise their art. 
 
 In the Benson household the empire of the dress- 
 maker was set up with all due solemnities. For Mrs. 
 Benson, her husband, her very children, became for 
 the moment of quite secondary interest. Poor Kit 
 himself shrank into a mere irrelevance. Kate was 
 seized as a sort of captive. She disappeared for long, 
 mysterious intervals from human gaze. Solemn 
 
 429
 
 430 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 councils were held over such high themes as ' shapes ' 
 and tints and materials. There were mysterious con- 
 sultations from which all male critics were banished. 
 
 Poor Kit wandered about the house with rueful 
 visage, mateless and unhappy. ' I am to be yours 
 altogether soon,' Kate replied, with an arch smile, to 
 his complaints. ' You can spare me, sir, for a few 
 hours now.' Then, as he seemed still unconvinced, 
 Kate cried, with lifted eyebrows and in shocked, un- 
 answerable tones, ' You surely wouldn't have me be 
 a dowdy on my wedding day ! ' 
 
 Kate, however, had some pity for her lover ; his 
 melancholy face pricked her conscience ; and when he 
 next came she met him arrayed in dainty outdoor 
 costume, and with the announcement, ' I can spend 
 a long afternoon with you.' 
 
 Kit looked at her the perfect figure, the dainty 
 poise of the head, the flushed cheeks, the eager eyes, 
 the delicacy of the archly smiling lips. Kate had a 
 look at once of girlish youth in its rich spring-time, 
 and of womanly strength that thrilled him. England 
 is the very home of fair women ; but surely it held no 
 other maid so fair ! Kit reflected afresh, and with 
 unexhausted amazement as he did twenty times a 
 day that this figure so shapely, this face so fair and 
 sweet, was his, all his, and for a life-time ! A sudden 
 moisture filled his eyes ; and Kate, looking keenly, 
 saw what it is given to few women to see a man's 
 whole soul flowing out in affection. She, in her turn, 
 thrilled at the look in her lover's eyes, and with an 
 involuntary gesture caught his hand with her slender, 
 quivering fingers. 
 
 ' Come, you foolish children,' cried Mrs. Benson, who 
 at that moment entered, 'get off into the sunshine.
 
 TWO LIVES 431 
 
 Let the birds sing to you. We don't want you here 
 You are to see all the glories of the Kew Gardens, 
 and you needn't come back till dinner-time, unless you 
 get tired of each other's society.' 
 
 The outer world takes its complexion from the inner 
 mind ; and for the happy pair that afternoon it became 
 an enchanted kingdom. Was there ever sunshine so 
 radiant as that in which they walked ? Did lovers' 
 eyes ever before find so royal a purple in the cup of 
 a violet, or tints so rich in the leaves of a rose ? Did 
 ever such dainty perfumes float in the air as those 
 which caressed their senses ? Or when did the birds 
 sing such an epithalamium from the hedges as that 
 which thrilled the ears of this pair of lovers that golden 
 afternoon ! Was there ever, in brief, such anothe. 
 pair so intoxicated with innocent love and happiness ? 
 A touch of the fingers was a caress. A meeting of 
 their eyes was a poem, nay, an epic ! Silence itself, 
 in the crucible of their love, was turned to golden 
 meanings such as music seldom knows. 
 
 Kit, for his part, felt himself drifting on some golden 
 river into fairyland. What plans and dreams they had 
 for the future ! The miracle, in a word, which only 
 love works, the blending of two spirits into perfect 
 unison, was in their case already wrought. And Kit 
 found in his companion a spirit coy yet quick and 
 frank, virginal yet womanly, whose depth and strength 
 filled him with ever-wondering delight. 
 
 The Bensons were accustomed to take, during the 
 summer months, a pleasant seaside villa at Middleford, 
 and this fell in very happily with the marriage arrange- 
 ments. The kindly lips of Mr. Walton were to 
 pronounce the magic words which were to link two 
 lives together for ever. Kate went with the family
 
 432 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 to Middleford for the few weeks preceding the marriage ; 
 and to ramble amongst old scenes with Kate under 
 such conditions was for Kit a sort of enchanted ex- 
 perience. 
 
 They stood together one night on the bridge where the 
 three friends had held debate so many months before, 
 when all the orthodox churches of the town were 
 being shaken by Mr. Gifford's daring eloquence. Again, 
 as on that far-off night, the moon was filling! the 
 wide heavens with its milky radiance, whilst the flying 
 clouds sprinkled the earth with moving shadows. The 
 whispering stream ran beneath their feet. 
 
 Kit thought of the group that stood so long ago 
 on the bridge. His comrades of that night were gone. 
 Smears was lying in a suicide's grave ; Cecil was a 
 fugitive. But he stood there holding Kate's hand 
 and looking into Kate's eyes, while the moonlight 
 touched her brow and cheek with unearthly grace. 
 All the content that perfect human love could give 
 was his ; and behind that human love its source and 
 explanation was an Eternal love. Kit wondered 
 afresh why this happiness should be his. It transfigured 
 the whole world for him, so subtly does Nature answer 
 to the mood of the soul. There was no lament now 
 in the whispering river! It was no longer a parable 
 of dark things. Did the drops, indeed, come out of 
 mystery and vanish into mystery, driven of blind 
 force ? 
 
 Kit told the tale of that far-off talk on the bridge 
 to Kate, and quoted afresh the sad stanzas from the 
 'City of Dreadful Night' 
 
 The world rolls round for ever like a mill. 
 It grinds out death and life, and good and ill: 
 It has no purpose, heart, or mind, or will.
 
 TWO LIVES 433 
 
 But that was assuredly not the message of the river 
 to the pair that stood now on the bridge ! Love had 
 taught them the secret of the universe. It was no 
 ' city of dreadful night ' which lay about them. Kit had 
 no strain of poetrv in his nature ; but the moment and 
 the scene transfigured him. He whispered softly into 
 Kate's ear bending so closely to it that his brow 
 thrilled as it touched the rich, soft silk of her hair 
 1 We are come to Mount Zion, the city of the living 
 God!' It seemed to him, indeed, as if the moon-lit 
 streets of the commonplace town were the golden 
 streets of the New Jerusalem ! Is not love itself the 
 very city of God ? 
 
 'Look, Kate," he said, gazing at the river, with 
 eyes full of the wisdom that lies in gladness. 'There 
 are no vagrant drops, forgotten and wasted, in that 
 stream. Every drop of flowing water comes from 
 one great service and hastens to another. It fell from 
 the sky. It quickened the earth with its coming. It 
 hastened to the sea. It will climb by some ladder 
 of light and heat to the sky again. According to 
 Mr. Gifford, all the worlds are whirling blindly in 
 space, like so many dancing dervishes, and with no 
 hint of reason or meaning in their gyrations. But 
 the world, truly read, is a great, perpetually returning 
 cycle of ordered and beneficent service. And if God 
 remembers and shapes and uses each tiny drop in that 
 stream, He will surely shape our lives for great services.' 
 
 Kate listened with charmed ears to such teaching 
 from such lips. And she found time to wonder that 
 she had never before discovered so much wisdom and 
 poetry in the humble-minded Kit, whom she was 
 accustomed to rule so imperiously in the days long 
 past. 
 
 28 

 
 434 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 On another night he took Kate to the little pier 
 in the lonely harbour where he had fought his fight of 
 trouble and resolve after Kate had rejected him. 
 Nature, in an accommodating mood, reproduced for 
 the pair the scene with all its seeming melancholy. 
 There was again the veiled evening sky, the grey, 
 dusky floor of sea running beyond the reach of the 
 eye, the sound of the lamenting waters on the beach, 
 where the loitering white breakers spent themselves on 
 the brown sands. 
 
 No one shared the silent pier with them ; and Kit 
 told the tale of how, after his interview with Kate, he 
 had paced to and fro there, the starless sky and the 
 sigh of the whispering foam on the beach reflecting the 
 trouble of his own heart, as he realized that he had lost 
 Kate, and tried to plan his life without her. 
 
 Kate pressed closer to his side as she listened. 
 
 ' Kit/ she said softly, ' I didn't understand myself when 
 I sent you away. I might have guessed from my tears 
 after you were gone what you were to me even then.' 
 
 'What, Kate! Did you weep for me?' cried Kit, 
 half in distress and half in wonder of gladness. ' I have 
 vowed a hundred times I would never cost you a tear.' 
 
 ' A girl doesn't always know her own foolish heart.' 
 
 Kit looked round. He could almost picture himself 
 standing there on that sad night so many months 
 ago, a lonely figure in the dusky twilight, half believing 
 that the sun for him had finally set. How nature had 
 tricked him with her symbolism of woe in the grey tints, 
 the faint lights, the sighing notes, that seemed to reflect 
 his wrecked love ! What a golden compensation that 
 he . could stand there again, and by his side a com- 
 panion so dainty and sweet, the very woman he thought 
 he had lost for ever !
 
 'i DIDN'T UNDERSTAND MYSELF WHEN i SENT YOU AWAY."
 
 TWO LIVES 435 
 
 ' There is love behind all shadows,' he whispered to 
 Kate, with conviction. 
 
 And so there came at last the wedding-day. Kit stood 
 at the communion-rails, and saw Kate come up the 
 aisle, her hand on Mr. Benson's arm. Mrs. Benson 
 would have never forgiven him if she had known how 
 absolutely unconscious Kit was of what his bride wore. 
 He had no eyes for the flowing lines of soft white 
 silk, the creamy fall of lace, the soft fire of pearls, or the 
 keen lustre of diamonds. He saw only his bride's face. 
 Nay, he saw only her eyes ! That they shone like 
 stars was little. They were full of a dewy tenderness 
 that gave them a richer meaning than ever burned in 
 any star the night skies know. 
 
 A bride usually goes with serene composure through 
 the whole wedding ceremony, while the bridegroom 
 flounders through his part with a clumsiness which is 
 half humorous and half tragical. Kit certainly was like 
 a man in a dream. He heard Mr. Walton's clear voice 
 reciting the words, ' For better for worse, for richer for 
 poorer ; in sickness and in health . . . till death us do part ' ; 
 and the music of Kate's low voice in turn ran softly as 
 if in pursuit through the syllables. But both voices 
 seemed to Kit as though they fell out of some far-off 
 chamber in the sky. Then the words were spoken 
 which linked together to their last breath the two 
 lives : ' Whom God hath joined together, let no man put 
 asunder' 
 
 ' Kit,' said Kate reprovingly, when they drove away 
 from the church, ' you were wicked. You were looking 
 at me when we knelt at the communion-rails, and 
 Mr. Walton was praying.' 
 
 ' Yes ; so I was. But, Kate,' he asked, ' how did you 
 know ? '
 
 436 ITHURIEL'S SPEAR 
 
 ' I felt your eyes,' she said shyly. ' But why didn't 
 you pray ? ' 
 
 ' Well, Kate, I was looking at God's gift to me, and 
 was thanking Him for it. Wasn't that prayer ? Why, 
 my thoughts keep chanting a perpetual psalm of 
 thanksgiving for you.' Then he cried suddenly, 
 clasping her hand, ' It's for life, Kate ! ' 
 
 ' Nay, it's for ever,' she whispered, with wiser imagina- 
 tion and deeper love than even his. 
 
 Printed by Haell t Watson <S- Viney, Ld., London and Ayleabury.
 
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