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 COLLECTION 
 
 OF 
 
 BRITISH AUTHORS 
 
 TAUCIINITZ EDITION. 
 
 VOL. 3281. 
 
 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 BY 
 
 ANNIE E. HOLDSWORTH. 
 
 IN ONE VOLUME. 
 LEIPZIG: BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ. 
 
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 May 1898. 
 
 Tauchnitz Edition. 
 
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 {Continued on page j of cover)
 
 COLLECTION 
 
 OF 
 
 BRITISH AUTHOES 
 
 TAUCHNITZ EDITION. 
 VOL. 3281. 
 
 THE GODS ARRIVE. BY ANNIE E. HOLDSWORTH. 
 
 IN ONE VOLUME.
 
 TAUCHNIIZ EDITION. 
 
 By the same Author, 
 Tllli YEAK.S THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN
 
 THE GODS ARRIVE 
 
 ANNIE E. HOLDSWORTH, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE YEARS THAT THE LOCUST HATH EATEN. 
 
 COPVlUCIir EDITION. 
 
 LEIPZIG 
 BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ 
 1898.
 
 Heavlily know, 
 When half-gods go 
 The gods anive. 
 
 Emerson.
 
 m 0^3^!^^^^ 
 
 TO 
 
 MY FRIEND. 
 
 July 20, i!
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PART I. „ 
 
 Page 
 
 Chapter I. When Half-Gods go g 
 
 — II. The Voice of the People 1 8 
 
 — III. Kathcrine stands in the Wings 27 
 
 — IV. The Key of the Spring 42 
 
 — V. And behold! it was a Dream 52 
 
 — VI. The Horsehair pricks 61 
 
 — VII. "To Katherine, on Leaving" 74 
 
 — VIII. A-foot to Great Lowlands 84 
 
 — IX. A Return to Nature 97 
 
 — X. Peggy at the Fair 107 
 
 — XI. The Ethics of the Situation 115 
 
 — XII. Gods or Mortals? 132 
 
 PART IL 
 
 Chapter I. Oh, what a Plague is Love! 140 
 
 — II. Woman's Independence 156 
 
 — III. Katherine claims her Friend 166 
 
 — IV. There is always a Way out 179
 
 3 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Chapter V. On the Eve of Defeat 195 
 
 — VI. The White Gate 204 
 
 — VII. A Man's Love 211' 
 
 — VIII. Reapers i2i 
 
 — IX. Shall we taste this wonderful Wine . . . ^«5 
 
 — X. Martha's Advice is sound 231 
 
 — XI. Vigil 247 
 
 — XII. Where two love true 258 
 
 — XIII. A Mecca-window in the Temple .... 264 
 
 — XIV. The Book is a Masterpiece 271 
 
 — XV. The Gods arrive! 281
 
 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 WHEN HALF- GODS GO. 
 
 "Still, the end spells triumph," said Franklin, gloomily. 
 His voice roused the girl, huddled up, asleep, in the chair 
 beside the window. In a minute she was wide awake, 
 but she did not move or speak. She smiled to herself. 
 
 "If I were so certain of triumph I should at least have 
 the gaiety of my convictions," she thought. "They win 
 who laugh, yet he has won already, in spite of his serious- 
 ness." Tender lines gathered round her mouth as she 
 thought of the story that had first attracted her to Richard 
 Franklin. He had beggared himself to feed the starving 
 women and children in a great dock-strike. A book- 
 lover, he had sacrificed his library for them; his furniture, 
 his savings, even his clothes had been offered up. Finally, 
 to save himself from starvation he had been forced to 
 take a humble post in the Labour movement. 
 
 The story made him a hero and even a saint in 
 Katherine Fleming's eyes.
 
 lO THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 In the dim light she could not see his face, but she 
 knew the look that in his present mood it would wear. 
 
 By a quick turn of thought she threw his profile 
 against the dusk: the sharp outline that expressed the 
 eagerness and dissatisfaction of the enthusiast; the straight 
 forehead, the nose clear-cut and powerful, the firm lips 
 above the firmer chin. And seeing her idea of him 
 only half complete, her glance wandered to the man 
 himself. But twilight had fallen between them, and the 
 dying fire showed neither her brother's friend nor her 
 brother. 
 
 "Your triumph will be the 'victory of the vanquished,'" 
 laughed Mark Fleming. 
 
 There was as little prophecy of success in his mirth 
 as in Franklin's melancholy, but it pricked the other man's 
 mood. He sat up sharply, and the edge in his voice cut 
 like a knife through Katherine's musing. 
 
 ' We must triumph!" he cried. "The next century 
 will see the end of the aristocracy, and then — " 
 
 He stopped, knit his brows, and finished his sentence 
 in a lower key. 
 
 "And then. 
 
 '"Heartily know, 
 When half-gods go 
 The gods arrive!'" 
 
 "Meanwhile," said Mark, discontentedly, "we are face 
 to face with a crisis like this; and the people — you would 
 say the gods — are powerless." 
 
 "'Powerless to be born,'" said Franklin, sadly, in the 
 slow voice that contrasted so oddly with the eagerness of 
 his face. "But it can't be always so! If we only had a 
 historian. . . . You see," he went on more quickly, "we 
 have no book that has ever brought the subject before
 
 WHEN HALF-GODS GO. I 1 
 
 the thinking world. Our story is yet on the knees of the 
 gods — If it were only written. . . ." 
 
 His fingers drummed impatiently on the arm of his 
 chair. . . . "But there isn't a man among us who could 
 write it!" he finished. 
 
 "There isn't a man," said Mark; "but there might be 
 a woman, — Katherine, for instance." 
 
 "Your sister!" Franklin said incredulously; and his 
 tone sent the blood galloping in Katherine's veins. 
 
 She opened her lips to tell them she could hear what 
 they were saying, but she remained silent. What did it 
 matter? They knew she was there. ... If they chose to 
 discuss her. . . . She shrugged her shoulders and did not 
 speak. 
 
 "Your sister?" Franklin repeated, but in a more 
 guarded tone, throwing a glance at the figure beside the 
 window. 
 
 "She is asleep, — she won't hear," said Mark, also 
 lowering his voice. "Yes, I mean Kit — Why shouldn't 
 she write this book? She has heart and brains; she is 
 clever and enthusiastic." 
 
 "Cleverness and enthusiasm; humph!" said Franklin, 
 disparagingly. "It is easy to be an enthusiast when one 
 feels the grip of a movement. That does not imply power 
 to grasp its details and its meaning. ... As to clever- 
 ness, that is an easy feminine virtue. . . ." 
 
 His eyes darkened; he was silent a minute. "Let me 
 see; how long has your sister been in town?" he added 
 suddenly. 
 
 "Three years," Mark answered. 
 
 "And she came fresh from Newnhani. What can she 
 know of life, let alone the problems of life?" 
 
 "Oh, come, old man, as much at any rate as you,
 
 12 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 shut up among your books for twenty years! A girl 
 can't be a journalist without learning something of life; 
 and as to problems, it's women who make the problems 
 of life. . . . Besides, Kit's clever, successful too; and suc- 
 cess is not an easy feminine virtue. Did you see that 
 article of hers in 'The Flight'? . . . Coates says she will 
 get on. Newnham has given her balance and a trained 
 mind. You might do worse than suggest that she should 
 write the History of the Labour movement." 
 
 Franklin pursed up his lips: "A trained mind is not 
 necessarily a strong mind. The science tripos won't solve 
 the problems of existence. Your sister looks at things 
 from the sentimental side: and sentimentalists weaken the 
 force of great movements." 
 
 "They make 'em popular though," said Mark. 
 
 "We must have knowledge," Franklin returned. He 
 bent his brows toward the end of the room, where Ka- 
 therine made a patch of deeper shadow on the shadow. 
 The light from a lamp outside streamed through the 
 window, and showed her eyes on him, scornful and in- 
 dignant. 
 
 She sprang up, and crossed the room and faced 
 Franklin, her figure drawn to full height. 
 
 "So this is your opinion of me!" she cried pas- 
 sionately. "And all the time I thought. ... I thought. 
 . . . But you are wrong! I am not a sentimental en- 
 thusiast. The people's cause is everything to me. ... I 
 would give all I have to make a better life for them. . . ." 
 
 Her voice broke. She steadied herself against the 
 table, twisting the corner of the table-cloth in shaking 
 fingers. "And I thought you believed in me . . . under- 
 stood me. . . ." Her eyes appealed to Franklin. 
 
 "Yes?" he said.
 
 WHEN HALF-GODS GO. I 3 
 
 The interrogation in his voice was maddening. It 
 lashed the girl. 
 
 "Ah! you don't believe in me?" she gasped. "But 
 I will make you. ... I will become a power in the Labour 
 movement. ... I will write that book. You shall see I 
 am not a weak-minded woman. You think I haven't 
 balance and judgment — I will make you own your mis- 
 take." 
 
 "I am always obliged to anybody who makes me do 
 anything," said Franklin, gravely, stroking his moustache 
 to hide his amusement. The kindly gleam in his grey 
 eyes was lost on Katherine. She amused him by her 
 independence and spirit, though these were not in his 
 category of feminine virtues. He had only studied woman 
 through the medium of Schopenhauer; and he had no 
 wish to study her for himself. 
 
 But Katherine intruded on his thoughts — he told 
 himself that her type was objectionable; nevertheless, he 
 listened to her frank utterances, and approved of her life 
 with her brother. He kept his eyes on her now till the 
 anger died out of her face and left it only resolute. 
 
 "You doubt if I have the power?" she said quietly. 
 "You shall see. The end will spell triumph for me, too." 
 
 "We thought you were asleep, Kit," said Mark, with 
 a halting apology in his voice. 
 
 "I was dreaming," she said; "but Mr. Franklin woke 
 me. How cold and dark it is! ... Is it you who have 
 let the fire go out, Mr. Franklin?" 
 
 She turned to him with a casual, indifferent manner. 
 
 "It is not out," he answered; and he dug his 
 heel into the coal, and sent the flames roaring up the 
 chimney. 
 
 Katherine kneeled down and held her fin<2;ers to the
 
 14 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 blaze, her attitude almost inviting the criticism Franklin 
 was giving her. He had never thought about her seriously 
 enough to be critical. Her enthusiasm for the people 
 was only a phase; she supported herself by journalism, — 
 and a woman must be ambitious, clever, unscrupulous, to 
 succeed there. Was there a strong side to her character? 
 He looked at her curiously. 
 
 The flames showed him a girl with a strained, pas- 
 sionate face, and a mass of bright hair on a small 
 head. His eyes wandered to the hands she held to the 
 fire. 
 
 They were so slight and thin they touched his pity; 
 but his eyes remained critical. 
 
 "Her brain is not solid enough, her nature is not 
 large enough for real work," he said to himself. "She 
 can feel, but she hasn't begun to feel. She thinks she 
 is thinking, but she doesn't even know when other people 
 are thinking. If she were not so young she would not 
 take herself so seriously, and then she might be a nice 
 little thing." His severity relaxed; the gentler expres- 
 sion came back to his eyes. "After all, she is very 
 young," he added, from the standpoint of his two-score 
 years. 
 
 Mark lighted the gas, and Franklin realised that at 
 least twenty-five years must have gone to the moulding 
 of Katherine's face. 
 
 "You are looking haggard. Kit," said Mark. "Too 
 much work, as usual. How much have you done to- 
 day?" 
 
 "I have reported a wedding, the opening of Mary- 
 lebone Concert-hall, and Mrs. Bland's reception," she an- 
 swered, in a voice whose evenness was a glove thrown 
 down to Franklin.
 
 WHEN HALF- GODS GO. I 5 
 
 "Great Scott! and she calls that work!" he said to 
 himself. "And does it pay, Miss Katherine?" he asked 
 cynically. 
 
 "It pays so that I can dress well enough to make 
 Mrs. Bland's footman take me for one of the guests," she 
 answered, glancing at her smart green frock. 
 
 "And is that worth doing?" 
 
 "Anything is worth doing that gives power;" looking 
 up, her eyes met his steadily. 
 
 She rose slowly and stood beside the mantelpiece, 
 her figure slim and straight, ambition in the set of her 
 head. Her attitude irritated as much as it amused 
 Franklin. To hide his vexation he walked to the window 
 and stood in silence while Mark and Katherine talked to- 
 gether. 
 
 Out in the night the people kept the carnival of 
 want. Goodge Street was ablaze with light; over the 
 stalls that edged the pavement, the naphtha flames flashed 
 and flared , shaming the steadier glow of the lamps. On 
 the stalls Plenty lay rioting, mocking the hungry crowd that 
 hustled each other on the pavement. 
 
 It was Saturday night, when the curtain is lifted on 
 the tragedy of the poor; and Franklin knew that Ka- 
 therine was used to make one of the spectators of the 
 drama. 
 
 On Saturday night she sat at the window to take 
 notes of all she saw. The scenes stirred imagination 
 and pity, waking comprehension of the struggle of life. 
 They had turned her thoughts to the problem of the 
 people. It was this that had coloured her writing so 
 that a red glow in her articles flashed strange lights 
 across the society news and gossip. Now and then a 
 deeper red betrayed heart. The tinge was unusual, and
 
 1 6 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 attracted notice. Katherine Fleming began to be known 
 as a daring and original journalist. But Franklin had 
 never read her articles. He gave her credit only for the 
 fashionable chronicle. He stood looking out with darkened 
 eyes. 
 
 The streams of people flowed steadily along the street. 
 The cry of the salesmen at the stalls rose shrilly; the 
 murmurs of those that bought struck the lower keys of 
 sound. A child's cry pierced through the noise and 
 broke on the upper silence. In the middle of the road 
 a quarrel blazed and spluttered. A woman went past, a 
 despairing figure swaying to her doom. . . . 
 
 The man noticed nothing. He was annoyed that 
 Katherine had heard his criticism of her. He did not 
 like modern women, and had no faith in their pretensions; 
 but he had never let Katherine see that. She was bright 
 and clever, and he had come to take Mark's opinion of 
 her, and to share Mark's comradeship with her. They 
 had been good friends, and he had not meant to quarrel 
 with her. In fact, he had liked the girl. But to-night 
 she had disappointed him. A woman who loved power 
 and sought it inwiriably became unsexed. He did not 
 wish to think of Katherine as unsexed. He turned sud- 
 denly round and caught her in the act of kissing Mark's 
 head. She lifted herself and gave him a defiant look, 
 while she reddened. 
 
 He lounged across the room, as if he had seen no- 
 thing. "And what will you do with your power if you 
 should ever get it. Miss Katherine?" he said carelessly. 
 
 "I will make you recognise it," she answered. 
 
 "I think you would not be so cruel," he laughed. 
 
 His teasing fired her resentment. 
 
 ''Good-night," she said coldly, and swept from the
 
 WHEN HALF-GODS GO. I 7 
 
 room. In her bedroom her self-control failed. She paced 
 the floor, hurt, angry, indignant. 
 
 "He doubted her power. He said her love for the 
 people was all a matter of sentiment with her!" 
 
 The word sentiment bit into her thoughts like acid on 
 steel. Was it true? Had she never touched modern 
 questions on their practical side? She listened to the 
 ideas round her and gave them currency when she talked 
 or wrote her articles. But were they any more than the 
 small change of her interests by which she paid her way 
 among the workers? She was ready with sympathy for 
 the people's cause; but was it for the cause or for the 
 sake of Franklin, to whom it was life? She thrust the 
 thought from her. No, it had not been for his sake! She 
 had studied the subject for itself, and because it opened 
 a new world to her. She had given it the same interest 
 she had given to her Newnham studies. . . . She drew 
 herself up sharply. . . . Those absorbing studies no longer 
 interested her. Was her interest in social questions only 
 another phase to be lived through? Would it follow her 
 interest in Franklin, which the last hour had killed? 
 
 Shallow, incapable, insincere! This was his idea of 
 her, while she had thought him impressed and attracted 
 by her qualities. . . . All these months she had been 
 sharing his interests, consulting his opinion, deferring to 
 him on all points, showing openly her admiration of him; 
 and for what? To find that she was nothing to him but 
 a sentimental woman, probably a bore! 
 
 Her heart sank. She tasted the bitterness of the 
 woman's lot, — to wait in silence while love passed by; to 
 make no sign while happiness stumbled past blindfolded. 
 
 She clinched her hands as she paced the room. Then 
 she lifted her head proudly. 
 
 The Gods Arrive. 2
 
 IS THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 Well, SO much the better that she knew it; so much 
 the better that he should go before he had made himself 
 necessary to her life. Now she could prove to him and 
 to herself that she had joined the Labour Movement for 
 the sake of the people. She would give herself to it with 
 no weak womanish desire to share Franklin's work. . . . 
 
 Yes! let him go. What was it he had said? 
 
 "When half-gods go 
 The gods arrive!" 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE. 
 
 The next day was Sunday. Katherine woke feeling 
 sore and bruised. Conscious of a strange misery, she 
 stayed for a moment in the borderland between sleeping 
 and waking. Then she opened her eyes, and the outer 
 world clashed into the world of dreams. 
 
 She was in her own room, surrounded by the pictures 
 and books that told of her success. She spent a good 
 part of each year's income on books, and her library was 
 growing. That, and the etchings, were eloquent of the 
 phases through which she had passed. 
 
 In art, beginning with the dawn of Dante, Rossetti, 
 and the other pre-Raphaelites, through the noonday of 
 Botticelli and the Masters, she had travelled into the 
 twilight of Impressionism. And the same movement could 
 be traced in her religious life. It had passed from the 
 "De Imitatione" through High-Churchism into the desert 
 of the Materialist. The path she had travelled was strewn 
 with relics, — the well-worn Thomas a Kempis, the shrines
 
 THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE. IQ 
 
 and rosary, the crucifix over her desk, the works of 
 Comte and Frederic Harrison. 
 
 It was a curious collection of past moods, and char- 
 acteristic. Even her furniture betrayed progress, from the 
 sofa-bed and oak of Newnham days to the luxurious 
 cushions and rugs of a later date. Her eyes went round 
 the room, but found nothing to account for her wretched- 
 ness. Success shouted a contradiction of Franklin's 
 estimate of her abilities. 
 
 Then she remembered what had happened, and for- 
 got her misery in disdain of his opinion. 
 
 She was to address a Labour meeting in the Park 
 that afternoon; and she sprang from her bed, eager for 
 the hour that should show him what she could do. The 
 tingling cold of her bath braced her still further; and by 
 the time she had dressed, her face had lost the haggard 
 look it had worn the night before. Her eyes were bright 
 and alert, her face was full of movement and charm. 
 While she dressed, the colour had come rosily to her 
 cheeks. 
 
 She stood before the glass, twisting the heavy coils of 
 hair about her head, and she nodded and smiled at the 
 face that looked at her. 
 
 "There is nothing of the lovelorn woman in you, 
 Katherine Fleming. I even begin to doubt that it was 
 love you felt. Thank goodness! the modern woman is 
 not dependent on the emotions for interest in life. Power 
 is a greater thing than love." 
 
 She finished her dressing hurriedly, and walked up 
 and down, repeating aloud her speech for the afternoon. 
 It was true there was nothing of the lovelorn woman in 
 her appearance.
 
 20 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 She was disturbed by Sarah the maid. Would Miss 
 Fleming be so kind as to let her do the bed-room now? 
 
 Katherine was scarcely conscious that she spoke. 
 "Come in after breakfast, Sarah; I don't want to go into 
 the sitting-room yet." 
 
 Sarah looked appealingly at her. 
 
 "If you please, miss, I'm going with my young man to 
 'Ampton, and Mrs. Gumtion says I can't go without the 
 rooms is all done; and the boat starts at nine, and it's 
 gone eight now. . . ." 
 
 Katherine had not listened at all. "Don't interrupt 
 me now," she said impatiently. "Go away, Sarah, I'm 
 busy." She was walking up and down, muttering to her- 
 self, and Sarah dared not speak again. She knew that 
 Miss Fleming had a temper. 
 
 A few hours later, and Katherine, grave and self-pos- 
 sessed, stood on the platform in Hyde Park, listening to 
 the applause that greeted her name. Above the clapping 
 she could hear the women's voices: "That's our Miss 
 Fleming!" "Kitty Fleming, bless her sweet face!" "She's 
 the friend of the workingwoman, she is!" 
 
 "The voice of the people is the voice of God," 
 Katherine thought, hearing them. Franklin was on the 
 platform close to her. Would this convince him? 
 
 She breathed fast; her face flushed, and her eyes 
 grew soft. She could not speak at once, and there was 
 a minute's silence. Then she leaned forward and 
 stretched out her hands to the crowd. 
 
 "Dear hearts!" she said, "God bless you, God bless 
 you ! " 
 
 The directness and unexpectedness of the words, the 
 little graceful gesture, were charming. She was always
 
 THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE. 21 
 
 popular; to-day she had touched the people's hearts, and 
 while she spoke she held them. 
 
 Her triumph was fitly set in the twilight of the wintry 
 afternoon, among leafless trees spectral in mist. The 
 picture itself, the platform with its group of workingmen, 
 the girl, the massed faces like a key-board swept by her 
 voice, — this was real enough, and stood out in the fore- 
 ground in living impressionism. Franklin sat on the plat- 
 form, his scholarly air marking him out among the Labour 
 leaders. His lips were pursed; his eyes, apparently see- 
 ing nothing, raked the faces below the platform. He was 
 listening to Katherine, wondering at her graciousness and 
 earnestness. Was this the girl who had defied him last 
 night? Where were her pride and her passion? She 
 was speaking simply, earnestly, effectively. 
 
 "She is doing pioneer work," he said to himself. 
 "She inspires faith in the cause, makes it popular, as 
 Mark said. It is true she has no grip of the movement; 
 but the movement has taken hold of her. And what a 
 clever little face it is!" Her closing words interrupted 
 his thoughts. His eyes brightened with cynical amuse- 
 ment; he leaned forward, listening with a half-smile to her 
 elaborate peroration. 
 
 "I ask you to believe that the Labour movement is 
 leavening the nations," she was saying. "A strong force 
 working silently for the lifting of the masses; a complex 
 power, far-reaching and inevitable, stirring peoples still 
 unborn; a life uncrusted by the tyranny of wealth, un- 
 trammelled by the bands of property. The movement, 
 an unseen tide, is carrying its healing waters to every 
 shore, bearing life to the nations far off; and with irre- 
 sistible force — a mighty current of God — is laving our 
 shores with the first onset of a wide industrial peace."
 
 22 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 She stopped, threw out her arms, and her voice rose 
 to a cry, ringing and passionate. 
 
 "Yes, the tide is coming in. But oh, dear men and 
 women, are we waiting for it to Hft us into new condi- 
 tions? But the new conditions are within us; and the 
 movement will only raise the individual when the life 
 within the individual has touched the movement." 
 
 She sat down, trembling and breathless. 
 
 Franklin was the next speaker, but he came too late. 
 His voice, following Katherine's, was like a cold mist after 
 a glowing sunrise. It was useless for him to expound his 
 pet theory, — a policy of alliance with constituent move- 
 ments, in vain to show the impossibility of trades-unionism 
 working unaided the miracle of the workingman. His 
 plea for co-operation and socialism was so much waste. 
 His facts were like sucked bones thrown to well-fed dogs. 
 In three minutes the audience had scattered, leaving one 
 or two of the hungrier sort to wrestle with the dry data 
 of Franklin's reasonableness. Katherine was still on the 
 platform, but she had forgotten that he was speaking. 
 She was intoxicated with her first taste of leadership. 
 She could not even recall the words that had moved the 
 people. At that near view memory was blurred and in- 
 distinct; but the "Bravo!" of the men round her, Frank- 
 lin's "Hear, hear!" and the hands held out were high 
 lights in her remembrance. To-morrow she would see the 
 whole clearly; to-day she was content with the bare out- 
 line of the picture. 
 
 The fierce, hopeless faces seen through the veil of the 
 mist were but eyes into which she had brought a gleam 
 of hope. The human side of the question had touched 
 her. The workers were no longer mere mathematical 
 signs — noughts and crosses — for presenting the problem
 
 THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE. 2^ 
 
 of civilisation to the country. She saw in each unit the 
 desperate, unquenched hfe of the whole; in each in- 
 dividual she imagined a lonely fight for the mere right of 
 being, and she was honestly moved. 
 
 She did not doubt the sincerity of her feeling; she 
 knew that it had told. The people listened to her, not 
 to Franklin. 
 
 Her quick glance lighted on him, and on his poor 
 handful of listeners, and her eyes sparkled. "So much 
 for knowledge," she thought. "He hasn't learned that 
 love counts. Brains? What are brains? To reach the 
 people one only needs a heart." 
 
 Suddenly her mood changed to pity. How pale he 
 looked! His face had lost its eagerness. He was speak- 
 ing slowly and wearily, with that cynical intonation that 
 marked his bitter moods. She understood how galling 
 it must be to him to see that he could not hold his 
 audience. 
 
 "I wish I had not spoken first," she thought with pas- 
 sionate regret; "I would have given up my success to see 
 him succeed!" 
 
 The mood was quickly over. Her changing colour 
 and excited air conquered the pity in her eyes. Mark 
 laughed at the spring in her feet as she hung on his arm 
 going through the Park homeward. 
 
 "Well, are you satisfied, Kit?" he smiled. "What do 
 you think of your triumph?" 
 
 Her eyes brightened. "You call it a triumph?" 
 
 "Rather! Brace and Coates said we have had no 
 speech like that since Mrs. Sturge left us." 
 
 "Did Franklin hear that?" she asked eagerly. 
 
 "Yes. He couldn't have been over-pleased after what 
 he said last night."
 
 24 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 "Did he seem vexed?" 
 
 "No; he isn't small. He told Brace yom- last sen- 
 tence was worth the whole of what had gone before. 
 That's his cussedness. I thought the end an anti-climax. 
 You should have stopped at 'the first onset of a wide 
 industrial peace.' " 
 
 Katherine lost what he was saying; her brows were 
 puckered. 
 
 "I can't remember my last sentence. What was it, 
 Mark?" 
 
 "Oh, ask Franklin! It didn't strike me. How- 
 ever, you did splendidly, Kit, and I am proud of 
 you." 
 
 She gave his arm a grateful squeeze. 
 
 "Dear old boy! you are always so good to me. 
 Mark, I wonder" — she hesitated — "Wouldn't it be 
 splendid if some day we two led the whole move- 
 ment?" 
 
 Mark shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "That will never be so long as Franklin is in it. 
 He's bound to come to the top. Besides, I don't hanker 
 after leadership. I fancy someone has other ideas for 
 my future." 
 
 Katherine looked up sharply. The tone of the last 
 words was not Mark's usual tone. 
 
 "Other ideas for your future?" she echoed, staring at 
 him. "To give up the people! You can't mean that 
 mother wants you to go back to Great Lowlands? What 
 do you mean, Mark?" 
 
 Mark flushed. His eyes dropped before Katherine's. 
 He smiled vaguely, deliberated a moment, while he bit 
 the end of his moustache, then decided to put off ex- 
 planations till events forced them.
 
 THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE. 2^ 
 
 "What would be the use of my going home?" he 
 asked; "my genius doesn't he in farming, as the poor 
 old dad saw when he made that ridiculous will of 
 his. But I fancy they are in a bad way at home. That 
 young Tom is a lazy beggar; the farm has done no- 
 thing since he has been on it. He wants a pushing 
 person like you over him. You should have been the 
 farmer, Kit." 
 
 Katherine made a grimace. "I a country farmer? 
 Imagine it! No, thank you. I mean to be a Labour 
 leader." 
 
 Mark laughed. "Well, stranger things have happened, 
 but, you see, there's Franklin. You are an ambitious 
 small person to want to rival him. Still, you scored over 
 him to-day." 
 
 Her eyes flashed. "And yet he says I have no ability. 
 Mark," she went on quickly, "I shall never rest until I 
 have proved to Franklin that he was wrong." 
 
 Mark half stopped in his walk, and stared at her. 
 Her mouth was set; there was a hard glitter in her eye. 
 The glitter seemed to be in her voice, too; it rang like 
 steel. Mark had never seen her in such a mood. He 
 was proud of her ability, and her unlikeness to the rest 
 of the family, — the weak mother, and the lazy brother on 
 the farm at Great Lowlands. A sudden wonder at her 
 seized him. They had lived together in the lodgings at 
 Goodge Street for three years, and he had helped her in 
 her journalism and watched her grow to self-reliance. 
 She owed her career to him, and yet she seemed at 
 once to have gone beyond him. This tone of hers made 
 him almost uncomfortable, but her next words reassured 
 him. 
 
 "Don't look so frightened, Mark," she laughed softly.
 
 26 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 "I will triumph over him in fair fight. I can write that 
 book, and I will do it. You believe in me, and I will 
 prove that you are right and he is wrong. What a lot I 
 owe to you! You helped me through Newnham, and now 
 you give me an ideal life. I want nothing better than my 
 life with you." 
 
 The very decision in her voice told of doubt. She 
 looked before her and missed Mark's expression. 
 
 "That is all very well," he laughed uneasily. "But 
 some day you will want another home, another com- 
 rade . . ." 
 
 "I shall never want anyone else," she interrupted 
 fiercely; "I shall never love anyone else. I only want 
 you." 
 
 He did not answer, but walked more quickly, im- 
 patient for the end of the conversation. 
 
 They had left the Park and were among the bricks 
 and mortar of the streets, the mean-looking houses, the 
 sordid life that fringed the wealthier neighbourhood. 
 Over them rested the Sunday quiet like a sleeping strife. 
 The fog touched them with chill fingers; the lamp-posts 
 vanished in the distance, grim, and grey, and unstarred. 
 There were no lights in Goodge Street.
 
 KATHERINE STANDS IN THE WINGS. 27 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 KATHERINE STANDS IN THE WINGS. 
 
 From that time Katherine set herself to forget that 
 she had ever loved Frankhn, Her heart was torn and 
 wounded, but she hid her pain under an assumed in- 
 difference. 
 
 She was proud too, and when she met him nothing 
 in her manner betrayed her. She was a Uttle more casual 
 perhaps, a little less friendly than before; but that was 
 all. The change was so slight that neither Franklin nor 
 Mark saw it. Only to Katherine it was a change from 
 summer to winter, from dawn to midnight. 
 
 She knew it was his opinion of her that had altered 
 her feeling. But she told herself, and partly believed it, 
 that the change was due to discovering her mistaken 
 estimate of him. He had weaknesses to match the 
 strength that had first attracted her. His calmness was 
 only indifference; his power self-assertion. His clever 
 cynicism was a disguise for self-consciousness; his stability 
 of purpose was sheer obstinacy. 
 
 She stirred the porcupine of Franklin's character, yet 
 when the beast stood before her, roused and prickly, she 
 took it again to her breast, forgetting her wounded fingers 
 in disdain of the creature she loved. 
 
 To escape from her emotions she threw herself into a 
 whirl of occupation. She was never idle a moment. She 
 went here, there, and everywhere; reporting meetings, 
 describing weddings, attending receptions, interviewing
 
 28 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 celebrities; tossed ceaselessly on the restless waves of 
 modern civilisation. 
 
 She was living the life of the successful woman 
 journalist, and it brought power of a sort. She met, no 
 matter how, the men and women who had "arrived." 
 She was sought by those who had not arrived, and who 
 knew the value of newspaper paragraphs. 
 
 She was flattered at the notice they gave her, though 
 she despised them for giving it. She saw the bare bones 
 of the motive, but she did not shrink from the skeleton. 
 She faced it gaily at every board to which she was in- 
 vited. What did it matter to her that it was only human 
 vanity that made her a person of consequence at the 
 feast of life? She had not been long enough in journalism 
 to savour it. It offered her life, and the zest of life 
 intoxicated her. The bitterness was in the dregs of the 
 cup, and as yet she had not drunk deeply. 
 
 Contrasting the rapidity of her life with the old days 
 at the farm, or even at Newnham, Katherine told herself 
 that she had only now begun to live. 
 
 She compared the theories that in Newnham days 
 had seemed to be deepest philosophy with the theories 
 of the men she met. And she gave to the latter a value 
 that lay in difference of sex and an uncomprehended 
 point of view — and not at all in the worth of the theories 
 themselves. 
 
 She contrasted life seen through college gables, and 
 actual contact with men and women; and she was glad 
 that the maidenly outlook was no longer hers. She was 
 close to the human drama, standing in the wings, an on- 
 looker at the play that other women saw only from stall 
 and gallery. Did it matter that from her standpoint
 
 KATHERINE STANDS IN THE WINGS. 2g 
 
 there was little scope for imagination and less for pleasant 
 illusion? 
 
 Was there not an end to imagination, an awakening 
 from pleasant illusion? 
 
 She thought with a great bitterness of the awakening 
 that had come to her; and her heart rose passionately 
 against the conventions that made woman a modern 
 Prometheus. Let her but touch the divine fire, and she 
 must be chained to the rock to have her heart torn by 
 vultures, a spectacle for gods and men. 
 
 Katherine hid her scarred palms and told herself 
 proudly that she was glad she took part in the great 
 human drama. From her place in the wings she watched 
 the tragedy of her own heart, and so learned to under- 
 stand the piece on the boards. 
 
 Once, wondering if she had chosen well in entering 
 journalism, she had looked enviously at her Newnham 
 friends, — high-school teachers, secretaries, literary women. 
 But some of these same women had come to her to push 
 them before the public, and she had scorned them. Her 
 work needed no recognition for which she had to pray; 
 they touched life from the outside, at one point; she was 
 in the very heart of it, among the unseen forces that made 
 their world. 
 
 Franklin had given her her first real dissatisfaction 
 with journalism. He had been a frost biting the blossom 
 of success; but the frost was bracing too. It had nerved 
 her ambition, and set her seriously to work on a history 
 of the Labour Movement. And since she had begun the 
 work she had seen beyond Franklin a power ruling the 
 future. Every hour she could spare from journalism she 
 spent in the reading-room of the British Museum, gather- 
 ing facts and data for the book. The study gave the
 
 30 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 articles she wrote solidity and weight, while it influenced 
 her life with Mark. 
 
 She was rarely at the rooms in Goodge Street now; 
 and missing her companionship, Mark hurried on what 
 was to give the death-blow to Katherine's career in 
 London. 
 
 She was too absorbed to notice his silence and pre- 
 occupation. A year ago his absence night after night 
 would have hurt her. Now she did not even know he 
 was absent. 
 
 Sometimes Mark would look wistfully at her and open 
 his lips for confession. Then the pucker on her forehead 
 and her inward gaze would deter him. She was living 
 furiously, he saw; booted and spurred for race, she had 
 no eyes for the wayfarer plodding along the road. She 
 had long ago out-distanced him; why should he check her 
 pace? 
 
 Then he would shrug his shoulders with the relief of 
 the man who has avoided a scene, and would attack his 
 dinner with new appetite. 
 
 "It's a jolly good thing for Kit she is finding her own 
 interests, and can go alone," he would think, under the 
 whistle that silenced his uneasiness at the secret he kept. 
 
 Meanwhile Katherine's Museum study was making her 
 knowledge of the Labour Question less superficial. She 
 understood something of what she talked about, and would 
 criticise the speakers and speeches in the Park with as 
 much true inwardness as Franklin himself 
 
 Franklin heard these criticisms with growing wonder. 
 They made him question his idea of her shallowness; but 
 they confirmed his detestation of public work for women. 
 Katherine's self-assertiveness had always irritated while it 
 amused him. Now, noticing that she grew hard, and had
 
 KATHERINE STANDS IN THE WINGS. 3 I 
 
 ceased to defer to him, he told himself that he disapproved 
 of her. 
 
 "She is losing all softness and womanliness," he would 
 say, biting savagely at his moustache. "Why can't she 
 leave public questions to men?" 
 
 An irritated glance at her would show him that her 
 nose was becoming pinched, her face sharp and eager; 
 that there was no gentleness in her eyes, and that the 
 absorbed pucker on her forehead was rarely smoothed 
 out. Sometimes he met in her attitude the defiance of 
 the woman- with- a-purpose, and he would sigh. There 
 was nothing sweet or girlish in her appearance but the 
 soft bright hair that stood out round her head halo-wise. 
 
 Franklin did not guess that he had had to do with 
 the change. He had never suspected her feeling for 
 him — his life had been lived altogether apart from women 
 in the provincial town where he had kept his second- 
 hand book shop, and avoided things feminine. A few 
 portraits of women hung in his gallery of memories. They 
 were neatly and solidly framed in the knotty oak of his 
 -prejudices. One was that of his housekeeper, who had 
 tyrannised over him; another belonged to his stepmother, 
 who had been a thorn in the flesh to his studious minister 
 father; a third was a sketch of woman in the abstract as 
 delineated by Schopenhauer; the fourth frame held 
 Katherine. Because she was Mark's sister he had had a 
 certain friendship for her. He would have been glad 
 now to prevent her from taking a place in the car of the 
 Labour Movement. He gave his life and heart to the 
 Movement, but he saw that it suffered from its friends. 
 It would never advance on the lines of garrulous sentiment 
 on which its supporters were pushing it into notice. 
 
 To Franklin the question of the poor was too urgent,
 
 ^2 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 too bitingly insistent to be answered by young and ill- 
 informed women. He abhorred the modern woman, and 
 especially the platform woman with her cheap echo of 
 second-hand opinions. 
 
 He watched the development of Katherine ironically. 
 The change vexed him. She seemed to be compacted 
 of faults. There was none of the shyness of the girl 
 about her; none of that dainty mystery which is woman's 
 subtlest charm. She did not rouse his curiosity, — he saw 
 all her nature at one view: — there was no other side to 
 her. She was hke a map of womanhood on Mercator's 
 projection, — an expanse of qualities. There was no sug- 
 gestion of roundedness, of unseen lands and unknown 
 continents; no poles of passion, no zones of change. 
 There was nothing but the flat extension of sex. And 
 not even this last; for she had laid it aside, and in face 
 and bearing and manner was simply a journahst, an in- 
 dividual that is common as to gender. 
 
 His office was in Fleet Street, — the girl's necessary 
 haunt, — and he often saw her pushing along the pave- 
 ment with her eager air, openly impatient of the men 
 who lounged and gossiped, obstructing the footway, and 
 hindering busy women who had work to do. Or perhaps 
 she was catching an omnibus, running after it, springing 
 on the footboard, like any printer's devil whose educated 
 heel did service for his uneducated head. 
 
 He met her at all hours of the night going home from 
 newspaper offices, or saw her hanging about the box 
 offices of theatres, waiting for a stray returned ticket. 
 He watched her in a crowd, elbowing her way to the 
 front, wherever place was possible by i-eason of push 
 getting it. 
 
 He knew that her paragraphs arrived first in the
 
 KATHERINE STANDS IN THE WINGS. ^^ 
 
 editor's room. Whenever a specially audacious or catch- 
 ing report appeared in "The Flight", he recognised her 
 hand in it. 
 
 All this was hateful; and his detestation of the modern 
 woman grew with his annoyance that Katharine of all 
 women should be in the frenzy of public affairs. 
 
 One day he had been lunching with Mark at Ludgate 
 Circus. They were standing outside the restaurant when 
 a shouting turned their gaze to Farringdon Street. Dash- 
 ing down towards Memorial Hall came a runaway hansom, 
 heading straight for the river of traffic that flowed across 
 the Circus. There was no driver on the box. A woman's 
 face stared wildly from under the hood. "God help her!" 
 Franklin exclaimed, springing forward. 
 
 "Don't be a fool. You can't save her!" said Mark. 
 
 Just in time he swung Franklin back by the collar 
 from under the nose of a carter's van. 
 
 Franklin shook him off. "Let me go!" he said, breath- 
 ing hard. 
 
 "You can't do impossibilities," said Mark, coolly. "But 
 you can kill yourself." 
 
 Franklin saw he could not reach the horse in time. 
 His face whitened. His eyes were on the woman in the 
 hansom. They stood on the Fleet Street side of the 
 Circus, and the horse was on the brink of the traffic. . . . 
 Suddenly, into the middle of the road, right before the 
 galloping feet, sprang a girl. . . . With a sickening horror 
 Mark saw that it was Katherine. 
 
 Franklin had recognised her, too, and his heart stopped 
 beating. His fascinated eyes were glued to the figure in 
 the very pathway of the maddened horse! ... It was on 
 her! . . . No, it had swerved and half stopped. . . . 
 
 T/ie Gods Arrive. 3
 
 34 
 
 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 In that moment Katherine leaped up and locked her 
 arms round its neck. , . . 
 
 The horse reared, lifting her from her feet, and 
 Franklin fell back giddily against a window. But Ka- 
 therine held on, and came safely to the ground. . . . She 
 had checked the speed. . . . Another instant a dozen 
 men were with her, and the horse, quivering and foam- 
 flecked, had been stopped on the very edge of the stream. 
 Neither Mark nor Franklin could move. But when Ka- 
 therine shook herself free of the crowd and crossed to- 
 wards Fleet Street, Mark swallowed a lump in his throat 
 and went to meet her. 
 
 "What do you mean by trying to commit suicide?" 
 he said roughly; but his face was grey. 
 
 She stared at his frightened eyes. Then, with a 
 strong effort, she controlled her own excitement, and 
 laughed nervously. 
 
 "What are you frightened at, Mark? It was no 
 worse than catching the horses in the meadow at home." 
 
 "It might have killed you. Kit;" his voice shook. 
 
 She laughed again. "How absurd! Well, I'm not 
 going to stand here for the crowd to stare at. Good- 
 bye." 
 
 She swung away from Mark and was face to face 
 with Franklin. 
 
 "Are you quite safe, not hurt?" he said, catching her 
 arm. "You must have had a shock. . . . Come into my 
 office Let me get you something. . ." 
 
 His voice was strange and hoarse. Katherine gazed 
 at him in amazement. 
 
 She saw his lips tremble under the heavy moustache, 
 the nervous twitching of his face, his jerky manner. 
 There was a new expression in his keen eyes, — pity.
 
 KATHERINE STANDS IN THE WINGS. 35 
 
 terror, admiration. She noticed it all in a glad exulta- 
 tion. "He loves me! he loves me!" she said to herself. 
 
 Franklin saw her grow pale. He put his arm quickly 
 through hers. "You are faint; it has been too much . . ." 
 he cried anxiously. 
 
 His tone recalled her pride. She freed herself. 
 
 "Thank you," she said easily; "it was only for a 
 minute. I'm quite well now. I must get on to the 
 'Scribblers' to finish a report. This will work into 
 copy. . . . You and Mark are making a great fuss about 
 nothing." 
 
 "You are a plucky girl," he said, glancing at her 
 slight figure and delicate face. 
 
 The colour mounted prettily to her cheeks. "Certainly 
 a busy one," she smiled. "This is my 'bus. Good-bye." 
 
 On the top of the omnibus her self-control relaxed; 
 her knees trembled; her face grew white. A flickering 
 happiness came and went in her eyes. "He loves me! 
 he loves me!" her heart chimed like a peal of bells. 
 "Some day he will know it, too. ... A plucky girl? Ah, 
 he will say more than that one of these days." 
 
 Franklin watched her disappear towards the Strand. 
 He drew a long sigh, passed his handkerchief over his 
 face, and shook off the terror that had unmanned him. 
 With a hurried word to Mark, he turned into his office. 
 But he could not take up his work again. A small white 
 face intruded among the ranks of figures. Its expression 
 changed with every instant. It was set, defiant, childish, 
 scornful, appealing, resolute. It eluded him, reminding 
 him in likeness and unlikeness of the girl he had just 
 left. 
 
 He dropped his pince-nez from his nose, and pushed 
 aside his papers with a short, embarrassed laugh. He
 
 36 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 leaned back in his chair, and selected a cigar, after a 
 precise study of those in his case. He watched the 
 wreaths of smoke rise and curl about his head, and his 
 thoughts twisted themselves into coherence. 
 
 "What is the girl to you? What is any woman to 
 you?" The subject of Katherine was in the wooden 
 frame of his prejudices; he saw the frame, and missed 
 the picture. . . . 
 
 When his cigar had burnt to the end, he took up his 
 pen again, his mouth set to a smile half regretful, half 
 relieved. The girl was nothing to him; — he had never 
 given her a thought. He adjusted his pince-nez and 
 turned cheerfully to his work. A small white face in a 
 wreath of smoke flitted mockingly among the figures. 
 
 Katherine had meanwhile alighted from the omnibus, 
 and plunged down one of the streets leading from the 
 Strand to the Embankment. In this street was the 
 "Scribblers," a club for literary women, — journalists and 
 the younger novelists. 
 
 She went directly to the reading-room, where she 
 wrote her article. Then she wandered into a larger 
 room. The prevailing tone here was green, palms and 
 cushions and carpet echoing it. A flippant visitor — a 
 man — had said that the green room and the blue women 
 were responsible for the yellow that tinged the fiction of 
 the day. Katherine threw herself into one of the big 
 chairs, and leaned back with closed eyes, smiling. Her 
 heart rested against the look she had surprised in Frank- 
 lin's eyes. 
 
 A maid came in and out, preparing a table for tea; 
 it was the day of the weekly At Home. 
 
 Katherine professed to think these functions a bore; 
 but they supplied her with paragraphs. Scraps of literary
 
 KATHERINE STANDS IN THE WINGS, 37 
 
 talk, journalistic items, fashions, art gossip filled the room. 
 She listened and found copy. 
 
 About four o'clock the rooms began to fill. One or 
 two men dropped in for tea and mutual compliments. 
 Well-dressed women with happy faces moved about. 
 Handsomely dressed women with haggard faces and worn 
 eyes filled lounge and chair. The women who looked 
 happy were still on the road to success. The others were 
 already there. 
 
 There was another class of women writers, those who 
 wrote starving; but these were not members of the club. 
 If, by chance invitation, one happened to be present, 
 she might be known by her careful dress and careless 
 gaiety. 
 
 Katherine had once taken an interest in one of these, 
 — a bright little woman whose witticisms were quoted at 
 the club a year after she had dropped over Waterloo 
 Bridge. Since that time Miss Fleming had been careful 
 not to probe through the merriment of any woman. She 
 sat now in a corner behind a big india-rubber plant, but 
 she was not long hidden. A plump lady with very red 
 cheeks and very black eyes sat down beside her in a rol- 
 licking fashion, and rolled out a big hearty laugh. 
 
 "So here you are, Miss Fleming! I have been hunt- 
 ing everywhere for you. I wanted to congratulate you." 
 
 "Yes?" gasped Katherine, feeling as if the great voice 
 had put arms round her and was choking her. 
 
 "Yes; those articles in 'The Flight,' — they are really 
 excellent. . . . Such grasp ! . . . And you lectured at South 
 Place last week. ... I heard all about it. ... I ought to 
 congratulate you again. . . ." 
 
 "We all want to congratulate Miss Fleming," said a 
 thin elegant woman on the other side; "really I feel
 
 38 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 quite proud of knowing such a distinguished person, — I 
 do really. . . ." 
 
 "Now then, Miss Vincent," rolled out the big voice, 
 "you are not to speak till I have finished my talk with 
 Miss Fleming. . .. It is so seldom. . . . And I have some- 
 thing very important. . . ." 
 
 "I will give you two minutes," said Miss Vincent, 
 playfully, withdrawing herself like a furtive shadow pursued 
 by the sun. 
 
 Katherine turned to the sun: "You had something 
 important? . . ." 
 
 "Yes, indeed. You know I hate log-rolling; — I think 
 it is immoral. . . . But a little dainty appreciation. . . . 
 Besides, if you don't roll the log you are rolled under 
 it. ... I said th'at to my publisher to-day, and he quite 
 agreed with me. . . . And you know your things are 
 
 quoted everywhere; — yes, they are, don't look so modest 
 
 I saw a man reading one in the train quite lately. Trust 
 a man for looking at the lady's letter in a newspaper. . . . 
 Two minutes up. Miss Vincent? Why, I haven't even 
 begun. ... All I wanted to say to you was this. Couldn't 
 you give me a note or two about myself and my new 
 book — 'Green Daffodils'? I hear it's the best thing I've 
 done yet. . . Say what you like about me — it can only do 
 good. Describe my figure; — my stays are thirty-six, but 
 you can say thirty. I don't mind tvhat you say, so long 
 as you say it. . . . You will? Thank you so much. Are 
 you engaged for Sunday? Come to dinner, do. . , . Yes, 
 Miss Vincent; I've quite done." 
 
 The stout lady rose with difficulty from the low chair; 
 Miss Vincent slipped into it and sunk her voice. 
 
 "You are so influential. Miss Fleming, and you know 
 everybody. I wonder if you could get me some light
 
 KATHERINE STANDS IN THE WINGS. 39 
 
 post. . . . On any paper, I don't mind which. . . . Politics, 
 art criticism, or music, or a fashion column. I shouldn't 
 mind writing up new plays; it's so nice to go to the theatre. 
 I am sure I could do something of that sort. ... In fact, 
 I could do anything I was wanted to. . . . Don't you think 
 I could?" 
 
 "Miss Vincent, the woman who can do anything 
 usually can do nothing," said Katherine, brutally. "Adopt 
 a political creed, — no matter if it is illegitimate — and 
 specialise! specialise! specialise! After that you will help 
 yourself." 
 
 Katherine rose as she spoke, but Miss Vincent put out 
 a trembling hand and detained her. 
 
 "I read your articles in 'The Flight,' " she stam- 
 mered. "And I thought you of all women would help a 
 woman. . . ." 
 
 "Miss Fleming, may I inti'oduce Mr. Celandine Am- 
 brose? You quoted him the other day in your clever 
 paper on 'The Social Butterfly,' and he is longing to talk 
 to you." 
 
 From Miss Vincent's plaintive appeal Katherine turned 
 easily to the new-comers. Mr. Celandine Ambrose was 
 a minor poet. If one had not known this, one would 
 have thought he was a woman. He bowed gracefully 
 over Katherine's hand, and murmured the verses she had 
 quoted. Katherine forgot Miss Vincent while he spoke 
 of his long hope of meeting her, his admiration of her 
 writing, his happiness in realising his hope. . . . 
 
 He purred on contentedly, but he was not allowed to 
 monopolise her. A crowd of eager women besieged the 
 corner, and Katherine was flattered, congratulated, en- 
 treated. She felt proudly that she was a power in jour-
 
 40 THE GODS AKRIVE. 
 
 nalism. Even Franklin must have been impressed if he 
 had been there to see her popularity. 
 
 Her half-god had gone, but the gods themselves were 
 at the gates. Not even Mrs. Angel Harrington, whose 
 novel was the talk of the town, had received so much 
 attention, . . . Her cheeks burned, her eyes flashed. . . . 
 She lifted her head and met the irony of Franklin's quiet 
 amusement. 
 
 She returned his look with a change in her manner, a 
 drop in her elation. He had touched the butterfly wing 
 of her triumph, and it fluttered, maimed, to the ground. 
 He came forward, pushing a way for a handsome girl 
 whose eyes studied Katherine curiously. 
 
 "Miss Fleming," Franklin addressed her, "I have 
 brought Mark's friend. Miss Rossetter — Miss Tonina Ros- 
 setter — to speak to you." 
 
 Katherine looked from the blushing face of the girl 
 to the significance of the man's manner, and back again 
 to the girl; — and her ease deserted her. 
 
 "Mark's friend. Miss Rossetter?" she echoed, stupidly. 
 
 "Hasn't he ever mentioned her?" Franklin asked, 
 lifting his brows. 
 
 "No; but I am glad to meet any friend of Mark's," 
 she said, regaining her composure, and holding out her 
 hand to the girl with a smile. 
 
 "But he has told me of you. . . . He is so proud of 
 the clever sister Katherine. ... I know you quite well, 
 oh! quite well," said Miss Rossetter, in a pretty foreign 
 fashion. She took Katherine's hand in both hers, and 
 looked smiling into her face. 
 
 But Katherine's eyes held a thundercloud. She turned 
 stiffly to Franklin.
 
 KATHERINE STANDS IN THE WINGS. 4 I 
 
 "Won't you take Miss Rossetter into the tea-room, 
 Mr. Franklin?" 
 
 "There is no getting near the table," he laughed. 
 "But you must have some tea too. You have been so 
 surrounded you have not had a chance. And you look 
 tired," he added kindly. 
 
 At his tone Katherine lifted her head quickly. Then 
 he had seen her popularity! But her exultation was 
 beaten back at the sight of the girl beside him. 
 
 Who was Miss Tonina Rossetter; and why was she 
 Mark's friend? and what did Franklin's manner mean?
 
 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE KEY OF THE SPRING. 
 
 All the week the thought of Miss Rossetter pressed 
 heavily on Katherine; yet she would not force Mark's 
 confidence by asking the meaning of his friendship. 
 Franklin's manner had been significant. Was it possible 
 that she was to lose her place with Mark, to step into 
 the second after walking abreast with him in the first 
 rank? There was a new strain on her face during the 
 days following; but she bore the pain and doubt in proud 
 silence, and soon even the dread was crushed down by 
 work. It was the height of the season, and life was a 
 rush from function to function. Thought was an impos- 
 sibility. She was only conscious of impressions passing 
 in quick and vivid succession. 
 
 She had to give up her Labour interests at the very 
 time when indignation contrasted society London and its 
 under- world. She burned to denounce the world, the 
 flesh, and the devil in season and out of season; to paint 
 the West-end lurid before the eyes of the East-end; to 
 prove herself the workingman's friend by attacking her 
 friend, the rich man. 
 
 In place of this she gathered the season's harvest, — 
 with defiant eyes for the ironical fulness of her purse. 
 
 Every day found her chronicling fashionable wed- 
 dings, making inventories of wardrobes. She saw drawn, 
 white faces of pitiful women crushed under the piled silk
 
 THE KEY OF THE SPRING. 43 
 
 and lace. She heard their sobs m the smiHng silence of 
 the bride; and she set her lips, and wrote rosily of bells 
 and bridals. One marriage followed another till she 
 loathed the rustle of satin, and longed for crape and 
 death's realities. Her work was robbing life of all 
 romance. It was not easy to spy sentiment in the crush 
 at St. George's, or to gauge love by the number of shoes 
 in the troussemi. And when Death struck its silence 
 through the chimes, and her favourite poet died, she had 
 no time for regret, nor even for a natural gravity. She 
 heard under the slow tramp of the horses the galloping 
 feet of the hours. In describing the greatness of his ob- 
 sequies she forgot that a great man had passed. It was 
 not possible to mourn while clamouring for the names of 
 the distinguished mourners. Journalism barred the door 
 to the emotions; but it let her into the grand circus of 
 fashionable life. 
 
 She received invitations to "smart" houses, accepted 
 them, and next day paid for them in paragraphs in 
 society papers. Her reputation as an agitator also brought 
 invitations from that set whose smartness lay in interest 
 in the world farthest removed from its own. 
 
 It was fashionable this season to be earnest; and 
 women, the cut of whose clothes betrayed the man, 
 protested publicly against the sweating in tailors' dens; 
 or, on the platform, harried the eight hours' question, 
 regardless of the dressmaker fretting out her appointment 
 at home. 
 
 Miss Gore of Park Lane was earning a reputation for 
 seriousness by her ignorance of the Labour" Movement, 
 and she found a valuable ally in Katherine. The girl 
 was in the movement. She knew celebrities abroad, and 
 fashionables at home. She made remarks that could be
 
 44 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 quoted; and her capable air struck a new and original 
 note in the crushes in Park Lane. 
 
 Katherine was going to one of Miss Gore's evenings. 
 It would supply copy while she amused herself; and she 
 could work it in with a reception at the Imperial In- 
 stitute. It was after ten when her hansom pulled up be- 
 fore the door in Park Lane. Outside it was dark and 
 raining, but the house was brilliantly lit. Under the 
 canopy which stretched from door to pavement a crowd 
 pushed and peered at the dresses and jewels that made 
 sudden lights on the steps. 
 
 Among the faces straining in Katherine caught sight 
 of two or three familiar ones. The women were journalists 
 too. Note-book in hand, they stood with wet mackin- 
 toshes and damp hair, bedraggled and miserable, in the 
 night and the rain. They were like a shadow cast by 
 the happier crowd that climbed the steps and disappeared 
 in the light. 
 
 As the guests passed, the journalists pressed forward 
 to the footmen, begging for names, while making a mental 
 inventory of the colours and style that had supplied the 
 personality. 
 
 When the flunkeys condescended to answer, they 
 patronised the newspaper women, who missed the in- 
 solence, made hasty notes, and appealed again for verifi- 
 cation. 
 
 It was mere chance that Katherine did not make 
 one of that voracious group hungry for detail, but the 
 men did not know this. One of them hurried to meet 
 her. As she alighted he protected her dress from the 
 wheel. 
 
 "Who is she?" "What's her name?" "That gown 
 is Jay's."
 
 THE KEY OF THE SPRING. 45 
 
 The whispers hissed past her, then ceased with a 
 suddenness that told her she was recognised. 
 
 She stepped under the awning, her feet, daintily 
 shod, sinking in the soft pile of the carpet. Then she 
 stopped, and held out her hand to the nearest of her 
 friends. 
 
 "How tired you look. Miss Rowe! . . . Are you writ- 
 ing this up? I am sure it is going to be v^ery dull. . . . 
 And such a night! Look here, don't stop in all this rain. 
 I will get the names for you and leave them at Charles 
 Street as I pass. . . . That will save your standing 
 about." 
 
 "It's awfully good of you," said the girl, gratefully 
 lifting a weary face. "I'm too tired for anything, and 
 I've had nothing to eat since lunch. . . . May I tell the 
 others you will come to Charles Street, that they may go 
 home too?" 
 
 "Yes, of course," said Katherine; and she passed 
 on, proudly conscious of her fall in the eyes of the 
 footmen. 
 
 She found her hostess, and was given over to Ce- 
 landine Ambrose, who swept her with the current into 
 the drawing-room. He chose a seat for her, and hung 
 over her, talking. She was thinking less of what he 
 said than of the people round her. She was cynically 
 watching beauty on sale, age masquerading as youth, 
 the paint and the powder, the boredom, the second-hand 
 culture. 
 
 But the scene fascinated too. The electric lights 
 shrouded by silk-petalled flowers, the soft-rayed candles, 
 subtle perfumes, the air heavy with wealth and ornament 
 and luxury, touched her aesthetic sense, and led her natur- 
 ally back to the accents of Celandine Ambrose.
 
 46 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 He was talking softly of his new poems, and the 
 flattery of her article on Social Butterflies. 
 
 "So you think quotation is the sincerest flattery?" 
 said Katherine, laying aside her cynicism, and looking up 
 at him with one of her brilliant smiles. 
 
 "When you quote," he said, and fell into a most 
 tender silence. 
 
 High above the rustle of talk a violin had made itself 
 heard, and the first notes of the Kreutzer Sonata shattered 
 the meaningless hubbub. 
 
 With quick appreciation Katherine turned towards 
 the sound, sat up sharply, and stared at the violinist, — 
 a girl whose yellow dress flamed in the foreground near 
 the piano. 
 
 "Who is that?" she asked in a voice suddenly eager. 
 
 "The girl playing? That's Tasma Railton. Haven't 
 you heard her before? She is quite the rage this season. . . . 
 has a good many engagements. ..." 
 
 "Yes?" said Katherine, vaguely. "Then she is? . . . 
 Of course I have heard of Tasma Railton." 
 
 "Of course you have; who hasn't? Yes, she is a 
 professional; fine girl, if you admire bulk ... I don't." 
 
 His sea-green eyes looked significantly at Katherine. 
 
 "Do you know much about her? What is her real 
 name?" she asked, avoiding the look. 
 
 "Tonina Rossetter — father an Italian, or something. 
 She is married, I think; if not, going to be, like every 
 woman. . . , But I am not interested in Miss Railton. . . . 
 Do you know you remind me of a rondel I wrote the 
 other day? . . . May I say it? ... It is called Schliissel- 
 blume, the key-flower that comes in the spring. ... 
 
 »
 
 THE KEY OF THE SPRING. 47 
 
 " O Love, your fingers hold 
 
 The golden key of the spring ; 
 The meadows are dusted gold, 
 
 The lark is high on the wing; 
 
 And his song bright notes doth fling 
 Like living stars on the wold; 
 O Love, your fingers hold 
 
 The golden key of the spring. 
 
 "But the day is wintry cold 
 
 And the lark no more can sing; 
 The meadows in mist are stoled, 
 
 Your heart is locked to its king; 
 O Love, your fingers hold 
 
 The golden key of the spring." 
 
 "It rhymes well," said Katherine, letting her eyes 
 fall in order not to betray her amusement; "and how 
 finely it contrasted with the strength and passion of the 
 sonata!" She looked innocently at him. "Is Miss Ros- 
 setter going to play again?" 
 
 "She never gives more than one performance in any 
 place," he said coldly, suspecting her innocence. "That 
 is the secret of her success; one never gets tired of 
 her. . . . You are not leaving me already, Miss Fleming?" 
 
 He rearranged the loose bow that served him for 
 neck-tie and distinction. 
 
 "I must; I too wish to be a successful woman," Kathe- 
 rine smiled. She had risen, and was eagerly looking 
 after a yellow dress passing down the room. A sudden 
 impulse had seized her. She would follow Miss Rossetter 
 and find out. . . . 
 
 She shook off Ambrose with difficulty, found her 
 cloak, and reached the hall-door in time to see Miss Ros- 
 setter drive away in a hansom with a man who might 
 certainly have been Mark.
 
 48 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 Katherine stood hesitating at the door, heedless of 
 the footman's questions as to her carriage, when Richard 
 FrankUn ran up the steps with a quick offer to see her 
 home. 
 
 In the surprise of meeting him there, she hesitated, 
 and was lost. 
 
 Taking possession of her, he drew her arm in his, 
 and she slowly went down the steps with him. The 
 rain had ceased, and the air felt cool after the stifling 
 rooms. The first note of Franklin's voice was like the 
 fresh air after the artificial atmosphere of the poet's senti- 
 ment. She drew a long breath of happiness. 
 
 "1 don't want a hansom; let us walk home. . . ." 
 
 He looked dubiously at her . . . "Your dress? . . ." 
 
 She laughed gaily. "It is all right, being black; and 
 I will pull this hood over my head. Now, isn't that per- 
 fectly correct?" She lifted eyes sparkling under the hood, 
 and Franklin's smile met hers. 
 
 He liked this confiding mood; the touch of her hand 
 on his arm was pleasant. It did not occur to him 
 that he had been thinking a good deal about her since 
 the day when he had decided that he never gave her a 
 thought. 
 
 "I came at the right time, it seems," he said shyly, 
 by way of saying something. 
 
 "What were you doing in Park Lane?" she asked; "I 
 didn't know you knew Miss Gore." 
 
 "I don't. Mark asked me to walk with him; he said 
 you were here, but he had promised to see Miss Rossetter 
 home." 
 
 "What is Miss Rossetter to Mark?" 
 
 He hesitated a moment — "If Mark has said no- 
 thing. . . ."
 
 THE KEY OF THE SPRING. 49 
 
 "Don't go on!" she cried sharply. "I don't wish to 
 know. . . . But why should he take her home?" 
 
 "Miss Rossetter has not been a professional woman 
 long enough to lose the womanly grace of dependence," 
 he said soberly. 
 
 "You mean the feminine vice of helplessness," Kathe- 
 rine retorted. 
 
 Her gaiety vanished; the cloud was partly vexation at 
 Mark, partly vexation at Franklin's allusion to professional 
 women. It roused the sleeping grudge. She hardened 
 again the heart that had softened at the contrast between 
 his sincerity and Ambrose's hot-house sentiment. 
 
 Franklin felt vaguely uncomfortable at her changed 
 manner, but he explained it as caused by Mark's secret. 
 He talked on, but she answered curtly, and dismissed him 
 in Mortimer Street. 
 
 "I intend to see you home." He looked at her with 
 a quiet masterfulness. 
 
 "I am not going home." 
 
 "Where are you going then?" 
 
 "To Charlotte Buildings, to take an account of the 
 reception to some girls who depend on it for their dinner 
 to-morrow." 
 
 "I will go with you to Charles Street." 
 
 She stopped and faced him. 
 
 "But . . . You hate my work. . . . Why should you 
 go out of your way to do me a service?" she asked hotly. 
 
 "I don't think I should go out of my way to do you 
 a service." His manner held the balance between eager- 
 ness and indifference. It nettled the girl. 
 
 "I know that. Please don't emphasise it. . . . But I 
 can take care of myself Fortunately I have been a pro- 
 fessional woman long enough to lose some feminine vices." 
 
 The Gods Arrive. 4
 
 50 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 "And gain others," he suggested. 
 
 She would have taken her hand from his arm, but he 
 laid his fingers over it and held her against her will. 
 
 "I mean to take care of Mark's sister," he said, with 
 a pitying thought that the days when Mark would take 
 care of his sister were at an end. " You could walk safely 
 in Piccadilly in this dress, but not in Charles Street." 
 
 "A working- woman has no right to wear a dress that 
 is not suitable everywhere," she burst out. 
 
 "I quite agree with you." 
 
 In spite of her rage, Katherine laughed, and Franklin 
 joined her. At Charlotte Buildings she asked him meekly 
 if he would wait downstairs, or come up to Miss Rowe's 
 room. He said he would go with her; and they toiled up 
 some two hundred steps to the top of the great block. 
 
 Miss Rowe herself opened the door, and they followed 
 her into a sitting-room furnished with an evident desire to 
 conceal its near relationship to a bedroom. 
 
 There were cups and saucers, some butter, and an 
 empty sardine tin on the table. Near the gas-stove two 
 girls crouched, shivering; a horrible smell from the paraf- 
 fin lamp mixed with the horrible smell of the gas. It 
 was all so poor, so mean, so unhomelike, that Franklin's 
 heart rose in pity for the struggling women to whom life 
 gave nothing better than this. He wondered if it was 
 the sort of place in which Katherine would live by-and- 
 by. . .. . But no! she was too clever, too fine, too delicate 
 to come to this. . . . He glanced at her. She stood be- 
 fore the girls, explaining with a gracious kindliness the 
 points in the notes they had made, adding names, giving 
 hints. Her manner was quite simple and girlish; there 
 was not a trace in her of the Katherine who had quar- 
 relled with him on the way. He noticed the deference
 
 THE KEY OF THE SPRING. 51 
 
 the Other girls gave to her, and he was pleased with it. 
 They seemed to hke her too. 
 
 "I wonder if there is another side to her nature," he 
 said to himself; and the picture of a gentle woman help- 
 ing less fortunate women took the place of some other 
 pictures of her on which he had dwelt in irritation and 
 disgust. 
 
 When they stood before the house in Goodge Street 
 he took her hand very kindly. 
 
 "I have helped you in spite of yourself to-night, Miss 
 Katherine. Will you let me help you again if ever you 
 should need help?" 
 
 She gazed at him in surprise, and answered perversely, 
 out of sheer gladness of heart: "I hope I shall never be 
 so unfortunate as to need your help." 
 
 He lifted his hat in silence. Something in his manner 
 showed Katherine that he was angry. Her fingers trem- 
 bled as she turned the latch-key in the door. She thought 
 of Ambrose's verses: 
 
 "Your heart is locked to its king; 
 
 O Love, your fingers hold 
 
 The golden key of the spring."
 
 52 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 AND behold! it WAS A DREAM. 
 
 Katherine climbed the lodging-house stairs in a tumult. 
 She had swept the whole gamut of feeling during her 
 walk from Park Lane with Franklin, and one by one she 
 dwelt on her emotions. They pointed contrasts that she 
 scarcely understood. His presence had given her free- 
 dom, yet enchained her. She had felt humiliation at his 
 allusion to professional women; pride in his domination; 
 fear that he could so easily move her; courage to move 
 him. Beneath it all was the unplumbed depth of her 
 love, and trust, and ignorance of life; and she paused in 
 a sudden horror of self-distrust. 
 
 She stood before the sitting-room, the handle of the 
 door in her hand, a shrinking girl, weak and fearful. 
 Then she lifted her head resolutely and tossed off the 
 weakness, and showed herself under the shrouding mood, 
 a woman who faced the future confidently. 
 
 Some letters were on the table in the room. She 
 opened the first, — a small pink feminine envelope covered 
 it. Her eyes darkened, she frowned as she read, then 
 threw the letter on the table and stamped her foot, 
 
 "He ought to have told me! He had no reason to 
 hide it! He has treated me shamefully! He could tell 
 Franklin, but his own sister! . . . Ah, I didn't deserve 
 it." . , . Tears of disappointment and passion were in her 
 eyes; but all at once a new expression flashed across her 
 face. "After all, it makes my own way easier. ... I
 
 ■^ AND behold! it WAS A DREAM. 53 
 
 could not have left Mark. . . . But if he marries I shall 
 be free." . . . Gentle lines broke up the hardness of her 
 mouth; her eyes cleared, her brows grew smooth. She 
 thought a moment, whispering half under her breath: 
 "Yes, it is true. 'When half-gods go; — when half-gods 
 go!'" 
 
 In a dreamy abstraction she opened the next letter; 
 but her face awoke at the first sentence, and a vivid 
 triumph sent the blood to her cheeks. 
 
 "To represent the women workers at the Labour Con- 
 gress? — how splendid!" she cried. "Success is nearer 
 than I thought — The gods arrive!" 
 
 Her air was radiant. . . . She saw her life opening 
 out, ever more and more successful; she saw her dreams 
 realised, her hopes fulfilled, success in her grasp, love at 
 her feet. "How good it is to live!" she said breath- 
 lessly. 
 
 She took up the last envelope. Her fingers shook, 
 though the interest was in the letter she had just read, 
 and not at all in this. She knew her mother's writing, 
 and before reading could tell the contents of every page 
 that came from Great Lowlands. 
 
 She toned down her mood now to meet the com- 
 plaints of Tom's laziness, the threatening failure, the want 
 of servants, the greater want of money. But she had not 
 read far before she began to frown. She put down the 
 letter scornfully. "Of course, that is utterly impossible," 
 she said definitely. She laid aside her cloak in the 
 manner of a person who was laying aside also a subject 
 that she found cumbersome. Her thoughts went back to 
 the second letter. They lingered over its effect on Franklin, 
 He would see her growing influence. This would con- 
 vince him. . . .
 
 54 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 It was after one, but she was too excited for sleep. 
 She would sit up for Mark. 
 
 She threw herself on the sofa, and dreamed of the 
 future. Through the open door of success she saw the 
 great procession of the gods, — Jove with starred forehead, 
 Mercury speeding before him. Mars armed for fight, Sa- 
 turn of gloomy brow, Apollo shining in white robes, Pan 
 radiant in sunshine, and, last of all. Love himself. 
 
 They passed before her, her thoughts, like dancing 
 maidens, clashing cymbal and striking lyre; and as Love 
 came in and she saw beyond him an averted face, she 
 sprang up with a cry. 
 
 Mark was beside the sofa, looking down at her, and 
 laughing. 
 
 "You have been asleep. Kit. I am sorry I woke you ; 
 but you shouldn't have waited for me." 
 
 "I wasn't asleep," she answered, sitting up and blink- 
 ing away the procession of the gods. 
 
 "Dreaming then," he said, throwing his gloves on the 
 table. "Anything interesting?" he added bashfully, seeing 
 the pink envelope. 
 
 "Well, yes!" she exclaimed. "Mark, imagine it! They 
 want me to speak at the Labour Congress; to go as the 
 women's representative. . . . And I never dreamed of such 
 a thing for years to come!" 
 
 "Whew!" Mark whistled, looking delighted. "You 
 are getting on, Kit. Do you think you are equal to it?" 
 
 She drew herself up, and stood before him, her black 
 dress making her figure slighter even than usual, her bare 
 arms and neck showing rigid muscles. 
 
 "Do you think I look equal to it?" she asked. 
 
 "I can't say that I see any signs of weakness," said 
 Mark, laughing. "What strikes me more is the incongruity
 
 AND behold! it WAS A DREAM. 55 
 
 between your present appearance, and yourself as a re- 
 presentative of the working-woman." 
 
 Katherine's face clouded. "You think I am not in 
 earnest because I don't wear the sackcloth and ashes of 
 the woman with a purpose," she said bitterly. 
 
 "Well, really, Kit, my dear, if you think of it, you 
 don't act like a woman whose heart is bleeding for the 
 wrongs of the poor. You hobnob with Park Lane, and 
 wear purple and fine linen." 
 
 "And why not?" she said simply. "Should I help 
 the people by looking dowdy and never going out of 
 Goodge Street?" 
 
 "You would prove your claim to be one of them; 
 and that would be a first step towards helping them." 
 
 "I am helping them," she cried passionately. "I have 
 begun the book that will be the first step towards a new 
 life for them; and I am making friends for them among 
 the rich. I shall take Miss Gore to see the match-girls. 
 I mean to get her into the ranks; her money will help." 
 
 "I like your enterprise," said Mark. "If only Tom 
 had some of it, there would be hope for Great Low- 
 lands." 
 
 He eyed the little pink envelope as he spoke, but 
 Katherine would not see the glance. 
 
 "Tom, oh, Tom!" she cried. "I don't know what is 
 to be done about him, — such a list of his shortcomings in 
 mother's letter to-day. She says they are on the verge 
 of ruin. Now he is infatuated with some girl and spends 
 his time with her, neglecting his work; and mother says 
 . . . But there is the letter; read it for yourself." 
 
 Mark took the letter she handed to him. His brows 
 knit as he read, then he looked up at Katherine.
 
 56 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 "Mother is quite right, Kit; you will have to go down 
 and pull them out of this rut." 
 
 Katherine jerked up her head. Her face was scarlet. 
 
 '' What!" she gasped. 
 
 His eye dropped before her look. He fingered the 
 letter nervously. 
 
 "Well, the fact is. Kit," he stammered, "there's no 
 doubt they need you at home, if only to keep that young 
 rascal from making a fool of himself. We don't want a 
 country wench in the family, you know. Things are going 
 to ruin; the mother is ill and worried. It's your clear 
 duty to give up your work here and go.'^ 
 
 "My — clear — duty — to — give — up — my — work — 
 here — and — go?" Katherine echoed, pausing between 
 every word. 
 
 "Why, of course it is," said Mark. "Someone must 
 go; and who is there but you?" 
 
 "I am not the only person in the family," she said 
 slowly. The colour had died out of her face, leaving it 
 white and still. "There is, for instance, yourself." 
 
 Mark shook his head. 
 
 "That's quite out of the question now. I'm no 
 farmer. The poor old dad's will shows clearly that he 
 thought you the best man of us all; and for his sake you 
 ought to go. Besides, you are the only person who can 
 do anything with Tom." 
 
 "And you would let me sacrifice my career to the 
 farm and Tom?" she asked wonderingly, 
 
 Mark's eyes wavered when he saw the tragedy on 
 her face. He was fond of Katherine, but she stood 
 between him and his plans for the future. If she went 
 to Great Lowlands his difficulty would be solved in the
 
 AND behold! it WAS A DREAM. 57 
 
 manner most easy for him. He fidgeted with the letters 
 on the table. They were both silent. 
 
 "You see, it's a question of duty, not sacrifice," he 
 said at last. 
 
 "But ... to give up my profession?" Katherine 
 interrupted, fighting with the lump in her throat. 
 
 She saw so clearly what it would mean to leave town 
 just now; to give up success and fame and love. 
 
 Great Lowlands stretched before her bare and bleak 
 and desert-like. Around her were the lights of London. 
 Franklin's eyes shone among them. 
 
 Her own eyes were piteous. 
 
 "You needn't give up your profession," said Mark, 
 encouragingly. "You could write articles at home." 
 
 "Between nursing mother, seeing to the maids, look- 
 ing after Tom, working the farm. Oh, Mark, what chance 
 would my writing have?" 
 
 "Come now, Kit, you don't give up so much," said 
 Mark, coaxing. "You are fagged to death with this ever- 
 lasting press-work. Franklin was saying only to-day he 
 never saw anyone so changed. He said journalism was 
 ruining your character." 
 
 "Stop!" said Katherine. 
 
 At her tone Mark looked up sharply. He turned 
 away at once. He knew what it would cost her to leave 
 town, and he could not bear to see her face. 
 
 "It is a pity you have showed so much of your prickly 
 side to Franklin," he said, with a natural desire to find 
 fault with someone. But Katherine stopped him again. 
 
 "Don't bring Franklin's name into the discussion. He 
 has never given me credit for any character ... or 
 ability ... or ... or anything good." . . . She swallowed 
 down her tears. . . . "We need not take him into con-
 
 58 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 sideration at all. You forget that I should not give up 
 journalism only. . . . There is the Labour Movement." 
 
 "As far as that goes, Kit, I begin to think the Labour 
 Movement is nothing more than an attempt to roll a 
 stone up a hill." 
 
 "Mark!" 
 
 Mark balanced himself on the edge of the table, and 
 did not meet her eyes. 
 
 "Fact, Kit," he said. "What was it I heard the 
 other day? 'The movement will only raise the mass 
 when the life within the individual has touched the move- 
 ment.'" 
 
 "Ah!" she cried, "I remember now. I said those 
 very words myself in the Park long ago; and you said 
 they were worth nothing. How you have changed!" 
 
 "Yes, I have changed. It is the life within the in- 
 dividual that must touch the movement, and there is no 
 life in me for it. These questions are not to be answered 
 in a moment; they are a riddle that it will take all the 
 ages to read. The poor will always be with us. They 
 are the soil from which the flower of civilisation springs." 
 
 "And like the soil they are to be trampled on," she 
 said hotly; "only, unlike the soil, they feel the tread of 
 the cruel feet. You think because a man is poor he has 
 no human feeling, no passion, no longing, no ideals, no 
 consciousness even of the beauty of the flower that rises 
 from the human soil he provides for its growth. . . . And 
 you call yourself a Socialist!" 
 
 "I am losing faith in the whole thing," said Mark. 
 
 "Well," she returned scornfully, "if you are leaving 
 the cause, that is all the more reason why I should re- 
 main here to help it on." 
 
 "You'll do no good, Kit. Women are not made of
 
 AND behold! it WAS A DREAM. 5Q 
 
 the stuff that makes a cause. They care more for raising 
 themselves than for raising the people." 
 
 She threw out her hands with an appealing gesture. 
 
 "Mark, do you mean that I am like that?" 
 
 He laughed uneasily. "I don't; but other people do. 
 And, Kit, I hate to hear them say it. I always thought 
 you would do something big until Franklin . . ." 
 
 "Franklin again!" she cried passionately. "Oh, I 
 begin to hate his very name!" 
 
 "It was not Franklin only," said Mark. "Look here, 
 Kit, my dear, I do think this life is spoiling you. You 
 are not a bit like the girl you were. What chums we 
 used to be once! but we scarcely see one another now, 
 you have so many things in hand. And you are growing 
 nervous and over-strained. It will be the saving of you 
 to go back to Great Lowlands." 
 
 "For which my Newnham career has so admirably 
 prepared me," Katherine said, with a bitter laugh. "You 
 wished me to go to Newnham, and now you wish me to 
 lose all I have gained there. It is not like you, Mark, to 
 want to sacrifice me to Tom. But I see no reason to 
 sacrifice my future, just when success is in my reach, 
 too." . . . Her voice bent as she thought of some elements 
 that would be lacking in her success, Mark's words had 
 wakened her from her dream of love, , , . "Tom must 
 make his own life," she went on. "And as to Great 
 Lowlands, if the farm fails mother can come and live 
 with us, and Tom must emigrate." 
 
 "I hate to have you sit there so coolly discussing the 
 ruin of the old home," Mark cried. "If mother were 
 likely to marry again so that the place would come to 
 you, you would not take it so easily. Franklin was right 
 when he said public life made women heartless."
 
 6o THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 "I have nothing to do with Franklin," she said very 
 coldly. "The question lies between you and me. Ought 
 I to give up my prospects, my future, my home here, — 
 to leave you alone?" 
 
 "That is just it," said Mark, hurriedly, overcoming 
 his nervousness. "I intended to tell you before, only 
 you never gave me a chance. I have just got engaged, 
 and when I marry . . . You see, Kit, two is company . . ." 
 
 He stopped incoherently as he saw Katherine's face. 
 
 "Don't take it too hard, old girl," he said, laying his 
 hand on her shoulder. 
 
 She gazed at him despairingly. "Mark, we have been 
 everything to each other. Are you going to give me up 
 now?" 
 
 "Why, no. Kit," he said awkwardly. "But one's wife 
 must come first, and Tonina is a splendid girl. . . . You 
 met at the Scribblers. ... I asked her to tell you of our 
 engagement." 
 
 "Yes, she has told me," said Katherine; "I suppose 
 she is braver than you. . . ." Her voice broke. "I hate 
 her for coming between us!" she added passionately. 
 
 "Kit," said Mark, quietly, "we have been good 
 friends, but I shall not forgive you for hating my sweet- 
 heart." 
 
 His voice softened at the last word, and a little smile 
 relaxed the set of his lips. The smile stung Katherine 
 more than his words. She flung away from him, and ran 
 from the room. 
 
 Mark stood where she had left him. His eyes dark- 
 ened as he stroked his moustache. 
 
 "Poor old Kit, it's hard lines on her," he said to him- 
 self "Of course she could live alone, and go on with 
 her work, but the mother would never consent to that.
 
 THE HORSEHAIR PRICKS. 6 I 
 
 And I couldn't ask her to live with us. . . . This call to 
 Great Lowlands has come in the nick of time. It's the 
 best way out of the difficulty, and it's absolutely neces- 
 sary that she should go." 
 
 But conscience stirred. Would he have thought it 
 absolutely necessary for Katherine to go to the farm if 
 her going had not removed an obstacle in his way? 
 
 Then he caught sight of the little pink envelope, and 
 his face cleared. He flung himself into a chair, and for- 
 got Katherine and her claims upon him. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE HORSEHAIR PRICKS, 
 
 Katherine went to her work the next day, but there 
 was no pleasure in it. The conversation with Mark had 
 broken the springs of life. 
 
 She was exhausted by a sleepless night; but she had 
 arranged to interview a professional optimist, and she 
 was obliged to keep her appointment. 
 
 With interested deference she listened to his sunlit 
 opinions on the future of the race, the extension of hap- 
 piness, the greater capacity for enjoyment of humanity. 
 
 Within a stone's throw of his easy-chair one could 
 hear the sob of the people, the wail of London's poor. 
 The moans of those crushed under the wheels of the city 
 were the background for his brave words. 
 
 Katherine questioned him in her turn, her charm of 
 delicate sympathy fascinating him into confidences that 
 gave local colour to her sketch when it appeared next 
 day in "The Flight." Her brightness and animation con-
 
 62 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 firmed him in his vicious optimism. Here was a young 
 woman in the very teeth of the struggle of Hfe, — gay, 
 well-dressed, self-reliant. Surely the world went well 
 with her! Yes, a younger generation was at the door, 
 dowered like this very interesting young person with the 
 wealth of a highly sensitised being, more and more 
 capable of discernment, enjoyment, intellectual apprecia- 
 tion. . . . 
 
 Outside the door the mask fell from Katherine's face. 
 
 "Fool!" she thought bitterly. "It is like virtue sit- 
 ting at home in slippers telling us there is no mud in the 
 streets." 
 
 She picked her way through the slush of the pave- 
 ments, hardly conscious of the fog that clung to her, and 
 was like her mood taking form. 
 
 It was May in London; but in the streets through 
 which she passed there was no sign of the spring. The 
 houses stood row upon row in gloomy ranks, wearing the 
 same dull faces that had greeted winter. They were 
 dead things that could not feel the stir and tumult of the 
 year; that knew nothing of the sweet secrets of parting 
 earth and pushing bud. There was not even a tree to 
 whisper May's name as Katherine went through the fog, 
 her muddy skirts clinging to her ankles in just the same 
 way as the fog was delaying the feet of the young spring. 
 She dragged herself wearily into the lodgings in Goodge 
 Street. She had had no lunch, and she rang the bell for 
 tea and a fire. Sarah brought in the tea, but explained 
 that after spring-cleaning Mrs. Gumtion did not allow 
 fires. 
 
 Katherine's dispirited "It doesn't matter" made her 
 take a second look at the figure on the sofa. She 
 hesitated.
 
 THE HORSEHAIR PRICKS. 63 
 
 "I could bring you a hot bottle, Miss Fleming. You 
 do look cold and upset, to be sure." 
 
 The kindness made Katherine aware of her forlorn- 
 ness and misery. "I am awfully upset," she agreed; and 
 with feminine desire for sympathy she plunged into her 
 trouble. Her brother wished her to leave London and 
 go to live in the country. 
 
 At the word country Sarah's eyes snapped. 
 
 "Oh, lor, Miss Fleming, you don't mean as you think 
 that a trouble! I was on a farm before I comed here, 
 and I'd give the eyes in my head to get back again, only 
 there's Jim, — my young man, the milkman, miss." 
 
 "You don't understand," said Katherine, wearily. "I 
 am working here to make a better and happier life for 
 the poor. And I've been asked to speak at a great meet- 
 ing. It is an honour to be asked, and . . ." 
 
 She stopped, vexed at the tears in her eyes. 
 
 "Well, and indeed, miss," said Sarah, sympathetically, 
 "the first floor as was here before you, was one of them 
 public ladies; and she went up and down the country 
 speaking on Woman's Sufferings; and it couldn't have 
 agreed with her, for she was that thin and peaked look- 
 ing. ... If it's only that as you're leaving, you hadn't 
 ought to fret yourself about going. Jim and me was in 
 the Park that Sunday you wouldn't let me get away to 
 'Ampton, and we heard you speaking about helping the 
 poor. And Jim, he said as how it would ha' done more 
 good to ha' helped two sweethearts to be happy together 
 than all the talk about making the poor happy in a lump. 
 Jim, he said as you can't swaller a can of milk in a 
 mouthful, though you can get through it a gill at a time. 
 . . . But I'll just get that hot bottle," she added hastily, 
 seeing Miss Fleming's face.
 
 64 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 Katherine turned her head on the horsehair cushion, 
 and the prickly cloth fretted her cheek as Jim's criticism 
 fretted her mood. But she would not let the ignorant 
 words of a servant disturb her. What did Sarah know 
 about modern problems? How could Jim understand the 
 questions that puzzled educated minds? 
 
 But she was very miserable. She forgot the tea while 
 she thought of Franklin's misunderstanding of her aims, 
 her capabilities, her ideals. He could not love a girl of 
 whom he disapproved. . . . He thought her ambitious, 
 while all the time it was for him . . . 
 
 A knock came at the door, and expecting only the 
 hot bottle Katherine did not turn her head. But a 
 sudden lightening of the atmosphere, a sense of stir and 
 freshness and perfume startled her attention. She sat up 
 frowning. 
 
 The dingy room was all at once bright. There was 
 a warmth of red drapery, — the colour was repeated in 
 the cheeks and lips of the girl before her, — a gleam of 
 white teeth, the flash of great dark eyes, and a light of 
 daffodils. 
 
 Tonina Rossetter pressed forward, holding out her 
 hand while concern shadowed her face. 
 
 "Oh, you are ill! And you have been crying! I am 
 so sorry; you must tell me what is wrong." 
 
 She flung the daffodils on the table and knelt down 
 beside the couch. She took Katherine's hand, and looked 
 pitifully at the face, haggard with weariness and disap- 
 pointment. 
 
 "Won't you sit down?" said Katherine, drawing away 
 her hand. 
 
 "Ah, no!" Tonina cried. "I want to comfort you; I 
 want you to love me. . . . See, I have had your naughty
 
 THE HORSEHAIR PRICKS. 65 
 
 letter; and you will not visit me, so I come to you. That 
 big stupid Mark has made everything wrong. . . ." She 
 laughed, blushing at Mark's name. . . . "And so . . ." 
 She stopped again, and her eyes sparkled as they darted 
 about the room. . . . "You have tea all ready, and I . . . 
 Oh, I am very thirsty. . . ." 
 
 It was impossible to resist the appeal in the dancing 
 eyes; impossible for Katherine to maintain her grudging 
 humour. She looked toward the tray. 
 
 "You will let me give you some tea?" she said, re- 
 lenting. 
 
 Tonina laughed with delight. "Ah, no, no! But I 
 will give myself some, and you also. How cold you look! 
 and you have no fire, though the day outside — it is 
 wicked with your London fog. See, I will make the fire." 
 
 She sprang to her feet, crossed the room, removed 
 the screen from the grate, and showed coals and sticks 
 laid ready. Then she took a silver match-box from her 
 pocket, lighted a match, and kindled the sticks; Katherine 
 "thinking meanwhile of the change in Mrs. Gumtion's laws 
 against fires. 
 
 A gleam of amusement came into her eyes when 
 Tonina's gaiety bubbled over at the sight of Mark's 
 moustache cup on the tray. She insisted on taking it 
 herself while she gave Katherine the smaller cup; and in 
 the quarrel over this detail, the last of Katherine's cold- 
 ness vanished. The tea thawed her reserve, and Tonina 
 fascinated her. In wondering at her foreign graces, her 
 friendliness and abandon she forgot that this was the 
 woman who was taking her place in Mark's love. 
 
 Finishing her tea, Tonina took up the daffodils and 
 brought them to Katherine. 
 
 "I brought you some daffodils, for they are like you. 
 
 The Gods Arrive. 5
 
 66 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 Yes, I told Mark, 'Your sister is a daffodil in her funny 
 green frock with her pale face and the yellow hair over 
 her brown eyes;' and so I brought you the daffodils. . . . 
 What do you say? — Sweets to the sweet?" 
 
 She looked admiringly at Katherine, who could not 
 resist the admiration though her thoughts were bitter. 
 
 "You bring me asphodel, the flower of my dead 
 hopes." 
 
 Her silence touched Tonina wistfully; her mouth 
 drooped a little as she felt Katherine's bitterness. 
 
 "Ah, you are grieved!" she cried; "and I — I am very 
 sorry because Mark has made trouble. He wishes that 
 you should go from London to the dull country, but it is 
 not my wish." 
 
 Katherine's eyes flashed dangerously. 
 
 "Mark only wishes it because you wish it," she said. 
 
 Tonina sprang up from her chair and knelt down 
 again beside the couch. 
 
 "Ah, but Mark is stupid!" she cried passionately. "I 
 did but tell him, 'Katherine is so clever; she has a salo7i 
 with clever women; she works with her head and despises 
 me, who have but clever fingers. She is cold because 
 she thinks me not worthy of her brother. . . .' " 
 
 Tonina stopped, her big eyes grown pathetic, and 
 Katherine was touched. She was also softened by that 
 idea of herself holding a salon ; and she put out her hand 
 and stroked the fingers Tonina had knitted together. The 
 touch enraptured Tonina. She caught the thin fingers and 
 kissed them. 
 
 "Ah! you will love me!" she cried. "You will stay 
 with us; and you will make me clever like you and Mark; 
 and the three, we shall be very happy." 
 
 "Yes, I will love you," said Katherine, slowly. "You
 
 THE HORSEHAIR PRICKS. 67 
 
 are like a flower too, — the japonica. It will be nice to 
 have a sister. . . . And if I live with you . . ." 
 
 She broke off thoughtfully and was silent a minute. 
 The knowledge that she would not be first with Mark 
 embittered her welcome. . . . But she liked Tonina's 
 brilliance and her appreciation. It would be quite easy 
 to have her own way with that profuse southern nature. 
 . . . She lifted her face smiling; and Tonina with a little 
 happy cry flung her arms round her and gathered her to 
 her heart. 
 
 When Franklin, after a repeated knock, opened the 
 door and looked in, he saw Katherine's face lying 
 like a white flower against Tonina's dark beauty. He 
 felt a quick impatience with Mark. Katherine looked so 
 frail; she ought not to be turned adrift to care for herself 
 while Mark sheltered and tended the stronger woman. 
 
 He slowly came forward, drawing off his glove, and 
 receiving the gushing warmth of Tonina's greeting with a 
 forgiving smile. 
 
 At his entrance she had got up from the floor, laughing 
 and blushing. She shook hands with him, and hurried away. 
 
 Katherine lifted herself from the sofa, but Franklin 
 stopped her. 
 
 "Don't move, — you look so very tired. I came in to 
 see Mark; — he said six o'clock." 
 
 "It is not quite six," said Katherine. Her voice 
 was very low, stopped by the furious throbbing of her 
 heart. "Won't you sit down and wait?" she added 
 hoarsely, conscious of the searching look in the eyes bent 
 on her. 
 
 Franklin drew a chair near the sofa. 
 
 "You are certainly overworking," he said bluntly. "Or 
 perhaps you have some trouble?"
 
 68 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 Her fingers plucked at a button in the sofa. She 
 reminded herself that Franklin had criticised her to Mark, 
 and she controlled her agitation and met his eyes steadily. 
 
 "I have no trouble, and I am not overworking." 
 
 "No?" His glance touched her shaking fingers and 
 pointed the question. He adjusted his pince-nez and 
 gave her a long keen look that ended illogically in a sigh. 
 
 "Well," he said, turning away his eyes, "if you were 
 my sister, Miss Katherine, I would not let you remain a 
 day longer in town. 1 would send you into the country." 
 
 His words were like gunpowder on fire. 
 
 "I thought I had you to thank for it," Katherine 
 blazed up. "I knew Mark would never have wanted 
 to send me away. He has some faith in me; — it is 
 you . . ." 
 
 "Yes," he said gravely, waiting for her to finish the 
 sentence. 
 
 "Oh, it is too bad!" She dashed her hand across 
 her eyes. "We were so happy; — and Mark believed in 
 me. He thought everything of me till you . . . till you 
 said . . ." 
 
 "What did I say?" said Franklin, keeping from his 
 eyes the amusement that he felt. He stooped forward to 
 see her face, and her glance cut through him with the 
 coldness and sharpness of steel. She mastered her anger 
 and spoke quietly. 
 
 "You said that I was a mere sentimentalist — I was 
 doing no good in the Movement. . . . And . . . and you 
 have no faith in me. Even my character you say is de- 
 teriorating, and you never counted it very high." 
 
 She tried to smile, but her mouth trembled. Across 
 her passion a flickering weakness played. He did not 
 understand her eyes.
 
 THE HORSEHAIR PRICKS. 69 
 
 There was no amusement in his glance now. He had 
 never before seen in her a sign of weakness; she had 
 seemed unwomanly — even hard — in her self-reliance. The 
 trembling mouth appealed to his strength. 
 
 He looked away from her, wondering if he had ever 
 the true Katherine. He had a curious wish to vin- 
 dicate himself in her eyes. "Tell me all about it, Miss 
 Katherine." 
 
 The gentleness of his voice was like the wind that 
 shakes rain from overcharged clouds. The tears that no 
 harshness would have called forth came at the first kind 
 word. She covered her face with her hands, sobbing. 
 
 Franklin coloured. Then he rose and walked to the 
 window, where, moved and bewildered, he stayed looking 
 out on the street while only conscious of the girl sobbing 
 on the sofa. When he turned again she was staring before 
 her; but there were no hard lines on her face, and she 
 could not keep her lips from trembling. 
 
 He moved nearer, and stood looking down at her, a 
 hand in his pocket, twisting into pellets an envelope that 
 was there. 
 
 "I think you must have misunderstood me; I could 
 never have wished to pain you like this." 
 
 He paused. Neither of them spoke. 
 
 "You have no faith in my work," she faltered at last. 
 
 "For any woman to enter your sort of journalism is 
 a mistake," he said. "The work is fatal to womanliness. 
 . . . You will not misunderstand me? It is a sad thing 
 to see a noble nature warped by work that is ignoble." 
 
 "It is not only journalism. . . . You oppose my work 
 for the people — you think it is only ambition that makes 
 me work for them. . . ." She stopped, breathing with 
 difficulty.
 
 70 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 "Do you think there has been no ambition in it?" he 
 asked. 
 
 She flushed, but went on in a carefully controlled 
 voice, — 
 
 "And you said I was not equal to writing the History 
 of the Movement. ..." 
 
 "I still think so," he said quietly. 
 
 "You were wrong!" she exclaimed, starting up. 
 "I told you I should write it; and I have begun it 
 already. . . ." 
 
 His silence made her feel he was still of the same 
 mind. She fell back on the sofa, white and trembling. 
 
 "Was I not right that you have been overworking. 
 Miss Katherine?" 
 
 The tears poured down her face. She was too angry 
 now to conceal them from the eyes that gazed at her 
 with a new expression. Katherine in a helpless fury was 
 more attractive to Franklin than she had ever been. She 
 was no longer the intellectual woman, calm and balanced 
 in judgment, but a wilful child; and she needed to be 
 soothed and constrained like a child. He sat down again 
 beside her. 
 
 "Listen," he said firmly. "You are wrong if you think 
 I have ever acted in an unfriendly manner to you. I 
 wanted to be your friend. Will you treat me as a friend 
 now, and tell me what has happened? Why does Mark 
 wish to send you away?" 
 
 "They want me at home," she said brokenly. "Great 
 Lowlands, the farm, is going to ruin, and my mother is 
 ill. Mark will be married; and he says I am to give up 
 my career and go home." She bit her lips. 
 
 "And you don't want to go?" 
 
 Franklin hastily thought out the case. If Mark mar-
 
 THE HORSEHAIR PRICKS. 7 I 
 
 ried and Katharine left him, there was nothing before her 
 but the life Uved by so many working-women, — lone- 
 Hness, late hours, insufficient meals; life without its 
 amenities. 
 
 He thought of her in Charlotte Buildings, coming 
 home at midnight, wet and tired, to sardines and tea, 
 and the wretched comfort of the gas-stove; and his heart 
 revolted. Even in good conditions, with Mark's care, she 
 felt the strain of the life. What would it be when she 
 joined the ranks of women like Miss Rowe? 
 
 It was infinitely better for her to go to the healthy, 
 out-door life at the farm. 
 
 "Why don't you want to go?" he changed his 
 question. 
 
 She blinked away her tears. 
 
 "To bury myself in a place like Plimpton!" she cried. 
 "To see the end of my dreams ... all my hopes . . . 
 To leave London — ^in the season, too!" 
 
 "My good child," said Franklin, repressing a smile, 
 "Plimpton has its season too, when all the country 
 beauties come out: the hawthorn, the cherry-trees, the 
 apple-blossom; you will see them at their gayest. . . . 
 Every tuft of lichen in the orchard will be in merry green 
 or dainty pink. And if you are needed at home, a sick 
 mother, and work to be done — surely it is no hardship 
 to go. . . ." 
 
 "I lose everything if I go!" she cried despairingly. 
 "And . . . and . . . you are not even sorry . . ." Her voice 
 failed under the burden of her pain. 
 
 He shook his head, looking at her kindly. 
 
 "No, Miss Katherine, you lose nothing that is worth 
 keeping. I shall not be sorry to see you go from the life 
 that is hurting you."
 
 72 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 Katherine dropped her eyes. Her heart fell, stunned 
 to death by the words. 
 
 "He doesn't care! it is nothing to him whether I go 
 or stay," she said to herself, very miserably. 
 
 Her silence spurred Franklin's thoughts. Galloping, 
 they overtook his last sentence. Was it true? Would he 
 not be sorry if she went away? He would miss the 
 pleasant evenings in Goodge Street. . . , She was the 
 only woman with whom he had had any friendship at 
 all. . . . Would her absence not cause a blank? . . . He 
 looked at her face closely. It bore the marks of hys- 
 terical overstrain, and he shook his head a second time. 
 
 No, she would cause no blank that work could not 
 fill. She was too highly-strung and nervous — not the sort 
 of woman that could ever influence his life. . . . 
 
 "You will lose nothing by going away," he said, with 
 a sudden definiteness that startled Katherine. She lifted 
 herself. 
 
 "I lose everything by going," she answered passion- 
 ately. "I had a future before me, success, useful work, 
 and recognition. What do I get if I leave them? I only 
 lose what I have gained. Does it need intellect to see 
 after sheep? Is the science tripos adapted to the needs 
 of the potato-bed?" 
 
 "I should think you might adapt it to the needs of the 
 potato-bed," he said, with a laugh. "The cultured spade 
 will make an impression even on uncultivated ground. . . . 
 Come now. Miss Katherine, things are not so bad. You 
 ought to go away from town; and you can leave Mark, 
 knowing he will be looked after. . . ." 
 
 Katherine sat up stiffly and gazed at him wide-eyed. 
 "You mean that I ought to go to Plimpton? . . . that I 
 ought to give up my career for the farm?' she cried.
 
 THE HORSEHAIR PRICKS. 73 
 
 "But you said your mother was ill! I thought they 
 needed you! . . ." he said, surprised. 
 
 "But I must consider myself," Katherine said quickly. 
 "Spinoza says, 'Man's happiness consists in the preserva- 
 tion of his own essence.' I could not be happy at Great 
 Lowlands, and they can do without me." 
 
 "I have heard somewhere that there is something 
 better than happiness," Franklin said half shjly. The 
 allusion to Spinoza had taken him back to the little dis- 
 senting chapel of his boyhood where his father had 
 preached another philosophy. 
 
 "You mean duty," said Katherine. "Duty? What is 
 duty?" she laughed. 
 
 The laugh jarred through his mood, and almost made 
 him return to his first idea of her. 
 
 "And yet — and yet she is not a heartless and selfish 
 girl," he thought; and a real fear for the loss of the 
 gentler Katherine that had moved him made his manner 
 unusually brusque. He got up suddenly and looked for 
 his hat. 
 
 "Mark must have met Miss Rossetter, and gone home 
 with her. It is no use waiting for him," he said. 
 
 Katherine saw the door close upon him. Then she 
 turned passionately and buried her face in the horsehair 
 cushion. She did not notice the prick and scratch of the 
 little sharp points.
 
 74 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 CHAPTER VIL 
 
 "to katherine, on leaving." 
 
 Mark did not come in to dinner, and Katherine was 
 too miserable to make any pretence at eating. She 
 would have hked to nurse her sorrows, to brood over the 
 loss of Mark, to scourge herself for having given her 
 love to a man who despised her; but there was no time 
 for this. 
 
 Her interview must be ready that night; and from 
 seven to nine o'clock she wrote, the optimism of her 
 celebrity giving ironical value to her own despair. 
 
 When the work was done, she dragged herself to the 
 office of "The Flight," gave in her copy, and turned 
 wearily home. 
 
 Mark was still absent. That was good. She did not 
 wish him to see her when she was weak from that scene 
 with Franklin. She would need all her strength to hold 
 her own against that absurd idea that it was her duty to 
 go home. 
 
 "Duty? What is duty?" she said to herself as she 
 crept into bed. She had no answer ready, but in the 
 silence she heard Franklin's voice: "I have heard some- 
 where that there is something better than happiness." 
 
 "Yes," she said eagerly to herself, "work is better 
 than happiness; it never fails. . . . And if I go home, I 
 give up my work for the people." 
 
 Across this thought flashed a voice: "We heard you
 
 "to katherine, on leaving." 75 
 
 talk of helping the poor, and Jim said as how it would 
 be a better thing to help two sweethearts to be happy 
 together . . ." 
 
 "But I shall do that;" she silenced the voice. 
 "I shall help Mark and Tonina when I live with 
 them. . . ." 
 
 But the words were interrupted by Mark's voice, 
 "Two is company . . ." 
 
 "And three is trumpery," she finished the sentence 
 dismally. "He meant that he didn't want me. I am no- 
 thing to him, and I used to be everything . . . And how 
 selfish he has grown; he doesn't consider me at all. 
 Even Franklin was more considerate. . . ." 
 
 Her thoughts hung about Franklin's manner when he 
 had soothed her unreasoning passion, and she softened 
 towards him. 
 
 "He is a strong man. ... If only he had cared for 
 me, he would have made me a better woman. ... I 
 would do anything for love. . . . But he doesn't love me, 
 else he would not have wished me to go away. ... I am 
 nothing to him. He doesn't care! he doesn't care! . . . 
 And he is all the world to me. . . ." 
 
 She lay moaning. The tears gathered in her eyes 
 but could not fall. In her heart was a great longing, and 
 silence that was pain. 
 
 Mark came whistling in to breakfast, threw a glance 
 at the table, and walked by force of habit to the fire- 
 place, where he stood with his back propped against the 
 mantelpiece. 
 
 Katherine gave him a glance that made him uncom- 
 fortable. 
 
 "You needn't try to warm yourself there, Mark," she
 
 76 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 said. "The fire Miss Rossetter lighted burnt out very 
 soon. There is nothing but cinders left to-day." 
 
 Mark ignored the words, but he came over to the 
 table. 
 
 "Is the bacon quite cold, Kit? I'm awfully late this 
 morning." 
 
 "I have kept it warm for you," said Katherine, lifting 
 the cover from a hot-water dish. "You were awfully late 
 last night," she went on. "Franklin waited here for you 
 a long time." 
 
 "Did he?" said Mark. "I met Tonina, and went 
 home with her . . . How did you get on with her?" he 
 added bashfully. 
 
 "I liked her," said Katherine, shortly. "She has 
 little foreign ways that amuse me. She won't be dif- 
 ficult to live with. I think we shall get on together very 
 well." 
 
 Mark took up a letter and broke the envelope. 
 Then he sat down carelessly. "So you liked Tonina? 
 ... By the way, I must tell you, Kit. . . . Tonina said 
 she wanted you to live with us; and of course that 
 would have been very nice, but don't you see it won't 
 do? Someone must go to Great Lowlands; — and, Kit, 
 you ought to go." 
 
 "Why should I go?" she asked. 
 
 Mark attacked an egg, to which he gave his attention 
 while he spoke. 
 
 "Well, you see I am moving into a flat, and it 
 will be expensive. I've taken one of those in Ridgmont 
 Gardens." 
 
 Katherine's face became very still. Was there, then, 
 no place in his life for her? 
 
 "He doesn't want me," she thought. "He is driving
 
 "TO KATHERINE, ON LEAVING." 77 
 
 me away. No one wants me, — no one but Tom and 
 Great Lowlands. Well, I will go to the farm. If I have 
 no love according to Franklin, and no home according to 
 Mark, I have little enough to sacrifice. If Great Lowlands 
 offers me dust and ashes, has my life here given anything 
 more?" 
 
 "Pray say no more, Mark," she said aloud, quietly. 
 "I will not inflict myself upon you and your wife. I have 
 made up my mind to go home." 
 
 She winced as she saw the relief in his face. 
 
 "You are a brick, Kit," he said heartily. "I always 
 knew you would do the right thing." 
 
 He threw himself back in his chair and beamed 
 on her. 
 
 "It is not a question of the right thing," she said 
 coldly. "It is the only thing. You give me no alter- 
 native." 
 
 "Well, you ought to go for the mother's sake, and 
 . I am glad you are going; though, of course, I shall miss 
 you." 
 
 "Don't take the trouble to say polite nothings," she 
 burst out. "We have been everything to each other, all 
 our lives, and now I am nothing to you! . . ." 
 
 "My dear girl, that is ridiculous. Marriage is not the 
 awful change you make it out to be. . . ." 
 
 "It kills me to think of the change it means for me!" 
 she cried fiercely. 
 
 Mark took up his cup and buried his face in it. The 
 action was very different from that of Tonina the day 
 before. Katherine thought of the merry eyes that had 
 danced across the rim of that self-same cup; and seeing 
 Mark's down-dropped and cowardly a sudden scorn of 
 him seized her. This was not the brother she had wor-
 
 78 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 shipped. The man before her cringed meanly, and had 
 not the courage of right deeds. It was not the attitude 
 of Frankhn, who had looked her in the face, and told 
 her that her duty was at Great Lowlands. Was Mark 
 selfish? 
 
 "I'll write and tell mother you are going," he said, 
 his face still eclipsed. 
 
 "You needn't write. I'll wire." 
 
 "But that is not necessary. A letter will reach them 
 soon enough." 
 
 "I start to-morrow," said Katherine, rising from the 
 table. He put down the cup and looked at her. The 
 expression on her face was unpleasant. 
 
 "Look here, Kit," he said coaxingly. "It'll do no 
 good for you to go off in a huff. You only make your- 
 self wretched. Then there's your work; that will have to 
 be arranged." 
 
 "Oh, that is easy," she said cynically. "In journalism 
 there are fifty pairs of feet waiting for one pair of shoes. 
 I take off the shoes now and Miss Rowe puts them on 
 to-night. Poor soul, she'll be glad enough of the chance. 
 You see, Mark, you have stepped out of the Labour world 
 only to find work for the unemployed." 
 
 "And there is your packing," Mark went on; "and 
 the furniture in your room." 
 
 "That can be warehoused, and my packing is a 
 slight matter." 
 
 "Ah, don't go to-morrow. Kit," he exclaimed. "Why 
 should you? There is no earthly reason for it." 
 
 Now that it was settled and Katherine was leaving 
 him, Mark saw what was passing out of his life. He was 
 going to lose his sister, an influence that had ruled the 
 past years. But with the memory of those years came
 
 "TO KATHERINE, ON LEAVING." 79 
 
 the remembrance of Katherine's intensity, her strength 
 and enthusiasm that had dominated his aims, the tyranny 
 of her earnestness. His thoughts sank back with rehef 
 on the softness of Tonina's womanhood. 
 
 "You need not go off in such a hurry," he said, less 
 warmly. "I have to go to the office to-night; and to- 
 morrow I must go down to a meeting at Luton, You 
 may as well stop till next week. Kit." 
 
 " 'What thou doest, do quickly,' " she answered. 
 
 She would not give herself time to repent. She would 
 not risk meeting Franklin, and breaking down before him. 
 She turned, and Mark looked regretfully at the door she 
 closed behind her. 
 
 "Franklin was quite right," he said to himself. "This 
 life is ruining her. It's the best thing that could happen. 
 ... I wonder . . ." He drummed on the table. "It's 
 just possible they might have got on together," he said 
 thoughtfully. "But she is better away, and in any case 
 they want her at home." ^ 
 
 In her bedroom Katherine with shaking fingers was 
 putting on her hat. She scarcely knew the face that met 
 her from the glass, it was so changed and old. She 
 smiled, seeing it. 
 
 "It is the face of the woman who buries her dead," 
 she whispered. She had no time for reflections. Her 
 day would be crammed and running over with affairs. 
 She must go from office to office, giving up her work, 
 finding those who would replace her at a moment's no- 
 tice. 
 
 Under the haste she was very bitter against Mark. 
 Yet she knew that it was not he but Franklin who had 
 decided her action. His wishes still had power with her. 
 And he had wished her to leave town. She hurried into
 
 8o THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 Tottenhamcourt-Road, where she waited for a 'bus. One 
 after another went by, full inside and out. "There seems 
 to be no room in the world for me to-day," she said to 
 herself. 
 
 At last there was a vacant seat. She climbed to the 
 top, and her tired eyes looked on the sordid scenes about 
 her with a passion of regret. 
 
 The street was in the undress of the early morning; 
 pieces of paper, dead flowers, bits of orange peel, the 
 ashes of yesterday, gave it the unkempt air of a late 
 reveller. 
 
 The people taking down the shutters were still half- 
 asleep. They loitered on the pavements. Underfoot it 
 was muddy; overhead a tattered curtain of fog was drawn 
 across a sickly sun. The fog brightened the radishes and 
 lettuces piled before the greengrocer's window. Katherine 
 remembered it was springtime. 
 
 Reaching the Strand, she was again reminded of 
 the spring. In the highways and byways leading from 
 Covent Garden there flowed a stream of colour, — hyacinths, 
 daffodils, narcissus, roses, — glad waves of flowers that 
 flushed the dingy streets and swept the spring upon the 
 flood. 
 
 Katherine's eyes brightened and saddened again. 
 "I have to leave all this. I have to leave it all," she 
 moaned. 
 
 She climbed the stairs to the office of "The Flight." 
 The bustle up and down, the printer's boys ascending 
 and descending, the sharp footsteps, the keen faces stirred 
 her pulses. This was life, and the force of life, and 
 she was leaving it. She caught her breath. To-mor- 
 row she would drift into the backwash of the current 
 where she would not feel even the flow of the tide of
 
 "to katherine, on leaving." 8 I 
 
 events. She did her business without delay and with- 
 out sentiment, though her suggestion that Miss Vincent 
 should fill her place bordered on the latter. 
 
 It was flattering to see the editor's reluctance to ac- 
 cept her resignation. 
 
 "Called suddenly into the country, Miss Fleming? 
 Well, we shall miss your pars.; they were smart, uncom- 
 monly smart. We could always rely on you to hit the 
 bull's eye. Good day, good day. . . . Simmons, wire 
 Miss Vincent, 17 North Crescent, Westminster, and ask 
 her to look round to-day." 
 
 Everywhere it was the same thing. There was little 
 time for regret or personal feeling. The same hand that 
 helped her down from her seat helped her successor into 
 it. Katherine learned that her place was easily filled. 
 It opened her eyes to the value of the power she had 
 vaunted. But she had time neither to think nor to feel; 
 — not even at the office of "The People," where with 
 -unfeigned relief the editor heard that she could supply no 
 more articles on Labour topics. 
 
 "The fact is, Miss Fleming, your style is becoming 
 too technical. Those last articles were heavy, very. 
 We don't want facts, you know; we have plenty of those. 
 What we want is a popular style; it tells more." 
 
 "And means less," Katherine added brightly, that 
 he should not see her pain. Here also she suggested Miss 
 Vincent as her successor. The veiled satire pleased her. 
 
 All day through the streets she went, one of the 
 crowd hurrying from place to place, not resting, not 
 pausing even to eat. She used her luncheon time in a 
 hurried visit to Westminster, where she gave Miss Vincent 
 hints and directions that afterwards impressed the editor, 
 and gained her appointment on the staff of "The Flight." 
 
 The Gods Arrive. o
 
 82 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 When she came out of the house Katherine gazed 
 round her, hesitathig. Then her face took on its reso- 
 lute air. 
 
 The underground raihvay would set her down at the 
 Temple, where she would be within a minute's walk of 
 the Scribblers' Club. It was Friday, — the day of the 
 weekly crush. She would run in, have tea, say good-bye, 
 hold her salon once more, for the last time. 
 
 She did not notice that her appearance proclaimed 
 the change in her fortunes. She was haggard, her face 
 marked by fatigue; her dress was less carefully arranged 
 than usual. She did not look like the brilliant Miss 
 Fleming. The news that she was leaving town had arrived 
 before her. It was being eagerly talked over by women 
 anxious to fill the gap she was making. 
 
 After listening to some hurried regrets and many 
 entreaties for introductions to her editors, Katherine saw 
 that her day was past. There were no offerings of com- 
 pliment and congratulation; she sat alone in her corner 
 behind the india-rubber plant. There a late arrival, Ce- 
 landine Ambrose, found her; and his delight soothed her 
 cynical humour. 
 
 She allowed him to lead her again into the land 
 of self-esteem, and his wail at her news kept her patient 
 while he struck off a rondel "To Katherine, on Leaving." 
 
 He read it to her, and Katherine was pleased and 
 touched. 
 
 " I made a wreath of snow 
 To crown my fair Delight; 
 'T was wrought where torrents flow, 
 And winter binds the night.
 
 "TO KATHERINE, ON LEAVING." 83 
 
 "Love's brow with youth was bright; 
 Her eyes were stars aglow; 
 I made a wreath of snow 
 To crown my fair Dehght. 
 
 "The snow is gone; and lo! 
 
 With spring the crags are dight. 
 Love, where the roses blow, 
 
 Twines roses red and white. 
 I made a wreath of snow 
 
 To crown my fair Delight." 
 
 At the last lines he took Katherine's hand: "May I 
 come and see you some day at Great Lowlands, where 
 the roses blow?" he asked softly. 
 
 Katherine's heart was sore. She had been tossing 
 all day on the waves of a cruel strife, battered in the 
 tossing against the flotsam and jetsam of human nature. 
 The tender words and look were like a sunny haven 
 into which she had drifted. 
 
 For a second she thought of Franklin, dwelling resent- 
 fully on his criticism of her. Ambrose appreciated her; 
 he believed in her. 
 
 Her face flushed when she told him she would look 
 forward to seeing him at Great Lowlands. 
 
 There was no one to disturb her in her packing at 
 Goodge Street. Mark did not return to dinner; there 
 were no callers. It was her last evening in town, and 
 she spent it alone. With a bitter disdain she tossed 
 her clothes into the trunks. She packed the manuscript 
 of her book on the Labour Movement among them. 
 
 "I shall write it yet," she said, setting her lips. 
 
 6*
 
 84 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A-FOOT TO GREAT LOWLANDS. 
 
 There was still half-an-hour before the cab would 
 come. Mark had left early for Luton and would not be 
 able to see Katherhie off. 
 
 She sat down in her bedroom and looked at the dis- 
 mantled walls, the empty bookcases. The room figured 
 her life, from which all meaning, and culture, and art 
 had been snatched. Philosophy, the religion of humanity, 
 had gone. The relics of her old faith, the shrines and 
 rosaries, had been packed among the things to be ware- 
 housed. She was taking nothing of her life with her. 
 She would not be reminded at Great Lowlands of what 
 she had lost. With a morbid pleasure she saw the 
 empty room. A white cross on the dirty wall-paper 
 showed where the crucifix had hung. 
 
 She was in a cynical mood. She had made the 
 great sacrifice, and there were no spectators to applaud. 
 She was taking the chief part in a tragedy, and no one 
 saw in it anything but comedy. 
 
 Mark had given her a gay kiss, and told her not to 
 fret. "Of course it is hard lines to leave town, but 
 Plimpton's not a bad sort of place, you know, Kit. You'll 
 be the chief person in the village; that will suit you." 
 
 Katherine had smiled bitterly. Yes, she would be 
 the chief person in the village. Great Lowlands was the 
 only house of any pretension. The rector was unmar-
 
 A-FOOT TO GREAT LOWLANDS. 85 
 
 ried; the doctor's wife was an invalid; there was no other 
 society in the place; and Mark said gaily it was "not 
 bad." 
 
 That was the farewell she had earned after three 
 years of devotion to him. He did not understand her 
 feeling at all. He cast her off so soon as he had no use 
 for her. How selfish men were! And now she was 
 going away, and there was no one to bid her good-bye; 
 not even Mrs. Gumtion, who had gone marketing. 
 
 Sarah came to say the cab was at the door. She 
 looked half-frightened at Katherine's hard face. Then, 
 from under her apron, she brought a bookmark: "And 
 would you accept this, miss, to remember me with?" 
 
 Katherine took it from her. There was a "posy" in 
 fancy stitches: "When this you See, Remember Me," 
 framed in a device of hearts and love-knots. 
 
 "Oh, Sarah, how kind!" she exclaimed. "I won't 
 forget you." She ran downstairs and sat in the cab 
 while her boxes were taken out. She did not want to 
 "break down before the girl; and by the time she reached 
 the station she had controlled her tears, and was lashing 
 herself with scorn that a foolish thing like that should 
 have upset her. She did not know that it had relaxed 
 the tension of her mood. In the train she took out the 
 bookmark and looked at it again. The hearts and love- 
 knots were very funny, "A return to Nature," she called 
 them. She could not help smiling at the crude senti- 
 ment. It reminded her of Martha Collop, the old cow- 
 man's wife at the farm. There was a wreath of forget- 
 me-nots, too, bluer forget-me-nots than those in the pond 
 before Martha's cottage. 
 
 She remembered the last spring she had spent at 
 home, when Tom had waded knee-deep into the water
 
 86 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 to get her the flowers that Martha said bound the water 
 like a blue sash-ribbon. She thought of the handsome, 
 reckless fellow with a wistful longing. Tom had always 
 been fond of her; and she had always ignored him for 
 Mark. And now Mark had cast her off. ... Memory 
 dwelt on the contrast between the brothers: Mark, the 
 more intellectual, thin and dark and wiry, pursuing his 
 aims with a relentlessness that she had admired until 
 now, when she had seen the cloven foot of selfishness. 
 She turned with relief to Tom's fair, good-humoured face, 
 his merry blue eyes. His loose build, mental and physical, 
 seemed just now more attractive than Mark's unbending- 
 ness. Tom would never have cast her adrift in order to 
 rent a fashionable flat. . . . 
 
 Her thoughts swung round to Mark. The lines 
 gathered again about her mouth; her eyes became cold. 
 She fixed them on the past, and missed the compensations 
 the hour offered. The train had left London, and was 
 speeding along through cuttings, the banks embroidered 
 with daisies and primroses. Larch and willow trees 
 made delicate tracery against a blue sky. Here and 
 there a cluster of pines struck a deep note of green, and 
 blossoms hung in white knots on the blackened boles of 
 the cherry-trees. But Katherine missed it all. 
 
 She alighted at the station for Plimpton, her eyes 
 searching eagerly for Tom. There was no one to meet 
 her; not even a cart to take her boxes to Great Low- 
 lands. She thought with dismay of the four miles' up- 
 hill tramp, but she would have to walk. No conveyance 
 was to be had at the station, and the nearest inn was 
 two miles away in the opposite direction. 
 
 Leaving her luggage with the porter she set out for
 
 A-FOOT TO GREAT LOWLANDS. 87 
 
 Plimpton, her feet weighted by disappointment and weari- 
 ness. 
 
 The road, winding among trees, rose higher and 
 higher to the table-land on which the village rested. The 
 silence of the country, after the roar of the London 
 streets, struck her with a sense of loneliness. She had 
 no eyes to see the blazing sunlight that was itself like 
 sound outspread, no ears for the thousand tiny noises of 
 wood and field and growing corn; and she dragged her 
 way up the steep road, indignant with Tom, indignant 
 with her mother, indignant with fate. It was a hot after- 
 noon. She was wearing the winter clothes that had been 
 necessary in town, and the heavy serge was a pain and 
 a weariness. 
 
 She looked about for a seat, but the banks were wet, 
 soaked by recent rain. While she hesitated to sit down, 
 a sound of wheels came nearer and nearer and a dog-cart 
 overtook her, 
 
 "What a pretty boy!" Katherine thought, till she saw 
 that the driver wore a skirt. The girl in the cart stopped 
 her horse. 
 
 "You look just awfully tired," she said with frank 
 directness. "Are you going to Plimpton? Do let me take 
 you up." 
 
 "Thank you," said Katherine, soberly. 
 
 She was too tired to be independent, and she clam- 
 bered into the cart and sat down beside the young woman. 
 
 "Awfully jolly country, ain't it?" said this person. 
 "You can't beat it for scenery." 
 
 "It is very pretty," said Katherine. 
 
 The young woman carefully and scientifically whipped 
 off two flies from the horse's neck, then turned good- 
 humouredly to Katherine.
 
 5 8 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 "From London, ain't you?" 
 
 "Yes," said Miss Fleming, stiffly. 
 
 "I thought so; and yet there's a cut of Cambridge 
 about you, too. I never saw a green serge made like that 
 except at Newnham." 
 
 "Have you been to Newnham?" Katherine asked 
 quickly, her face waking up. 
 
 The grey eyes twinkled with amusement. From under 
 the brim of her bowler the girl shot a shrewd glance 
 at her. 
 
 "My goodness, you are easy to draw!" she laughed. 
 "I am Girton, that is to say, I was. I came down after 
 a year at classics. I got tired of them, and took to cycling 
 instead, and my uncle said it was less expensive for me 
 to rotate at home. He's a good old thing; he only laughed 
 when I gave up the bike for horses." 
 
 "And you are living with him here?" Katherine 
 asked. 
 
 "Good gracious, no! I found a business; and he 
 bought me a cottage, out of gratitude that I left him to 
 his old bachelor life." 
 
 "And you drive about alone like this?" Katherine 
 looked surprised. 
 
 The young woman laughed, showing a row of strong 
 white teeth. 
 
 "Don't you think I look as if I could take care of 
 myself?" 
 
 The words invited scrutiny. Katherine glanced at her 
 companion, taking in at a flash the short hair and jaunty 
 set of the hat, the tailor-made gown, shirt, collar, and 
 horsey pin. Certainly the skirt was the only concession 
 to the woman. 
 
 "Since you ask me, I think you look as if you might,"
 
 A- FOOT TO GREAT LOWLANDS. 89 
 
 she said smiling, her ill-humour passing before the disco- 
 very of a Girton girl in the neighbourhood of Great Low- 
 lands. 
 
 The young woman tossed her head till the short curls 
 danced. 
 
 "I can look after myself, you bet! Are you staying 
 in Plimpton?" 
 
 "I have not decided what to do," said Katherine, 
 coldly. 
 
 "Oh, not sure of lodgings? There's only The Three 
 Soldiers, and I don't think that will suit you. I won- 
 der . . ." She stopped, bit the handle of her whip, and 
 considered. "Look here," she said unexpectedly, "I know 
 the loveliest old farm-house. Great Lowlands. They don't 
 take lodgers, but they are friends of mine, and they might 
 — if I asked them — put you up till you were suited. It's 
 a nice earwiggy old place, with a pond and a boat and 
 apple-trees, — perfectly heavenly. Or there's Milkmaid 
 Cottage; it's only the cowman's; but his wife, Martha 
 CoUop, is a perfect old pagan, and you would love her. 
 I'd ask you to my place, but I have only one bedroom. 
 Well, if you are in a box, just ask for Laburnum Drive 
 and Miss Saunders, and I'll fix it somehow." 
 
 "You are very good," said Katherine, with an inward 
 amusement at being offered rooms in her own house. "I 
 don't know why you should wish to do me a service, I 
 am sure." 
 
 "Nor I!" laughed the other; "only you look sort of 
 worn-out; and your face reminds me of a person who 
 has been good to me; so I suppose I want to be good to 
 you." 
 
 The young woman smiled deprecatingly, and Katherine 
 noticed that her ear had grown pink.
 
 go THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 "I suppose there is very little going on in Plimpton," 
 she said, to break the silence. "How do you amuse 
 yourself?" 
 
 "Amuse myself? Good gracious! I amuse myself 
 by working. I am a professional woman. What do you 
 think of Girton as a preparation for horse-training?" 
 
 "Horse- training?" Katherine echoed. 
 
 "Exactly," the girl laughed. "I am a horse-trainer. 
 I wish you could see the muscles on my arm! This colt 
 now, I broke him in myself." 
 
 "Seriously?" said Katherine. 
 
 "My goodness, yes. I could always do what I liked 
 with uncle's horses; and when I got bored living with him 
 I thought it would amuse me to have a profession. And 
 it does. The profession makes the life." 
 
 "Professions are danger-signals," said Katherine. 
 
 "Danger is stimulating," answered the girl. 
 
 They were driving slowly past a green lane closed at 
 the end by a gate. The horse shied at the white bars 
 of the gate. The girl managed him smartly, and a stroke 
 from the whip sent him dashing past the turn. 
 
 "You needn't be frightened; he always shies at that 
 gate," she said to Katherine, who had clutched the side 
 of the cart. "When I was breaking him in for riding I 
 used to try and make him take it, but he wouldn't. 
 There's a nasty dip in the field beyond, and I saw it 
 would be sheer suicide to make him go over, so I gave 
 it up. But he may have to do it yet. . . . When life gets 
 too hard for me I shall make him take the leap." 
 
 She set her face with a grim expression, and Katherine 
 smiled. 
 
 "I should think the horse will be dead long before 
 that happens."
 
 A-FOOT TO GREAT LOWLANDS. 9 1 
 
 "Goodness! I should just hope so. ... I'd hke to 
 see the trouble I couldn't get over." 
 
 The girl smiled, a splendid, sufficient smile that made 
 Katherine suddenly aware of her own weakness. 
 
 They were close to the village. She could see the 
 long stretch of the green, with its duck-pond and pump; 
 the thatched houses grouped round it, brown and mossy 
 and old; the red brick of a row of new cottages; the lat- 
 ticed windows of the old-fashioned inn. 
 
 On the other side of the green stood the little old 
 church, in which slept the Flemings of long ago. One of 
 them had been a crusader. Katherine had put an ivy 
 Avreath on his tomb before she had left home to take her 
 place in the Labour war. She remembered the sentiment 
 with a touch of pity for herself. She was coming back 
 from her crusade uncrowned. She bore neither victory 
 nor death. Then her pulse quickened, her cheeks flushed. 
 She bent eagerly forward. Beyond the church she had 
 . caught sight of the ivied gables of Great Lowlands. 
 
 "Shall I put you down here?" asked her companion. 
 "There's The Three Soldiers. This is my way to the 
 stables. And mind you fall back on Laburnum Drive if 
 you find you can't get in at Great Lowlands." 
 
 After a glance and a smile at the manly pose of the 
 girl in the cart, and the capable air with which she held 
 the reins, Katherine stepped smartly across the green. 
 
 There was a new spring in her walk. Her load had 
 been lifted by the cheery strength of a friend. Life seemed 
 less hopeless than it had been an hour ago. 
 
 She had not thought the village was so pretty. Now 
 she noticed the sun-flecked lights and shadows on the 
 green, the line of white ducks waddling to the pond, the
 
 gZ THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 warm tones in house and wall, the soft blurred effects of 
 moss and lichen. After the strained face of London 
 Plimpton's was like that of a rosy sleeping child. The 
 garden gate of Great Lowlands stood open. Moved and 
 excited, she walked in and passed under a row of lime- 
 trees to the house. 
 
 The emptiness and dreariness of the garden went 
 with her as she entered the house by the French window 
 opening on the lawn. Her mother was on the sofa in the 
 room. She stretched out a thin hand laden with rings. 
 
 "Oh, my child, you should not have come!" 
 
 The worn face sent a pang to Katherine's heart. She 
 kissed it gently. 
 
 "But, mother, you sent for me." 
 
 "Yes, I did," Mrs. Fleming said fretfully. "But I never 
 expected you to leave your work and come off in this 
 impulsive manner! If you had arranged to come in two 
 or three months it would have done." 
 
 "But you are ill, and the farm is being ruined," said 
 Katherine, chilled at her reception. 
 
 "But will it help the farm to have another person to 
 support? Remember that our income is limited, and you 
 have been independent for years. Mark should have 
 thought of this. You ought not to give me another 
 burden. . . . And you don't look strong either, not equal 
 to farm-work. My child, you have done a foolish thing 
 to come here." 
 
 Mrs. Fleming picked up her lace handkerchief and 
 sighed delicately as she looked at her daughter. She was 
 a thin, elegant woman, who had once been pretty; but 
 one saw only the fretfulness of her mouth. 
 
 Katherine gazed at her, struggling with pity for her
 
 A-FOOT TO GREAT LOWLANDS. 93 
 
 weakness, and anger at her words. So this was what her 
 sacrifice meant? . . . She could have laughed at the irony 
 of the thing. 
 
 "I will go to my room and take off my things," she 
 said hoarsely. 
 
 "I don't suppose it is ready, Katherine. Jane is out, 
 and Mary is ironing. I told them to leave the room till 
 you came. You can go to mine." 
 
 With a stormy face Katherine went up to the bedroom 
 that was called hers. She threw open the door and 
 looked in at the unswept floor, the furniture swathed in 
 sheets, the naked bed. There were no curtains at the 
 window, but the ivy trailed a branch of bright green 
 across it. 
 
 She flung open the casement and leaned out, her 
 elbow on the sill propping her head, her heart bursting 
 with passion and pain. 
 
 And this was all that her sacrifice meant — an added 
 burden to her mother! Her thoughts were salt with tears. 
 She did not notice the touch of the breeze on her fore- 
 head, the light fingers of the ivy on her hair. She was 
 in the grip of that chilly welcome. Ah ! how vain it was 1 
 She had given up everything, everything! and found! . . . 
 what had she found? 
 
 Her blank eyes travelled across the snow of the apple- 
 trees in the orchard, and beyond the green to the little 
 grey church on the slope of the hill. They saw only the 
 irony of life, its vanity, its vexation of spirit. All at once 
 something soft and perfumed dashed against her cheek, 
 and a bunch of rose petals fell on the window-sill. 
 
 She looked down into the yard, and met a broad smile 
 from a man who, with legs planted apart, was in the act 
 of aiming a handful of leaves at her.
 
 94 THE GODS ARRIVE, 
 
 "Hillo, Kit! So you've turned up again!" Tom called. 
 "Well, come down and let's have a look at you. What 
 are you grizzling about all alone up there?" 
 
 Katherine slowly withdrew from the window, and went 
 down into the garden. Tom gave her a casual salute, 
 but held her at arm's length afterwards, and studied her 
 gloomy face. 
 
 "Well, I declare you don't look a bit pleased to see 
 a fellow!" he said gaily. "What's up. Kit? Are you 
 bad-tempered, or only hungry?" 
 
 "I believe I am both," she said, half-smiling at his 
 twinkling eyes. She noticed that he had grown more 
 manly, and she felt a gratification in calling this well- 
 built, handsome fellow her brother. "I am as bad- 
 tempered as I can be," she added, her mouth quivering 
 to the smile. 
 
 "Of course! You have had no dinner; and the old 
 lady has been giving you the dolefuls. Well, look here, 
 I am hungry too. Just go into the arbour and wait." 
 
 Katherine walked slowly into the arbour, over which 
 the traveller's joy rioted in early leaves; and in a short 
 time Tom came back with a tray heaped with apple- 
 pasties, bread and honey, a junket, and a jug of milk. 
 
 "None of your lady-like afternoon teas for me!" he 
 said, setting down the tray. "Jane is a Devonshire lass, 
 and knows how to make pasties and junket. They're 
 better than bread and butter wafers, Kit. Try 'em." 
 
 In another minute Katherine was biting at a pasty, a 
 mug of milk in her other hand. The first mouthful 
 cheered her. She had not realised how faint and hungry 
 she was. She took a long draught of milk, and sighed 
 with pleasure when she put down the mug.
 
 A-FOOT TO GREAT LOWLANDS. 95 
 
 Tom watched her, pleased, his face round with the 
 pasty he was eating. 
 
 "Good?" he mumbled. 
 
 "Awfully good," she answered. 
 
 They both laughed, then set themselves to the tray 
 again, honey and junket and bread disappearing under 
 their onset. Katherine began to understand that the joy 
 of life is intimately connected with the fulness of the 
 stomach. 
 
 The fresh air, the young leaves, the smell of the 
 orchard, made a dainty setting for the country fare; and 
 when she had finished, her face was rosy with content. 
 
 "This is better than tea at the Scribblers'," she said 
 to herself; "only Celandine Ambrose ought to be here to 
 make a rondel to the junket." 
 
 "Well, you look a little more fit, old girl," Tom 
 chuckled. "And now perhaps you will tell me what the 
 dickens you mean by turning up in this fashion?" 
 
 "I think you might have met the train," she said 
 reproachfully. 
 
 "Couldn't; had to go on business of Peggy's." 
 
 "Who is Peggy?" Katherine asked. 
 
 "Oh, Peg is my girl, and a rattling good girl too. 
 That was a rose she gave me I threw at you. . . . None 
 of your fine-lady airs about her." 
 
 Kathei'ine remembered the allusion in her mother's 
 letter to Tom's infatuation, and she dropped the subject 
 with a shiver of distaste. 
 
 "How is it things are in such a bad way here, Tom?" 
 
 "But they aren't!" he answered cheerfully. "At least, 
 not worse than usual. The mother is always complaining 
 for nothing. If you listen to her she will give you the 
 blues and no mistake,"
 
 96 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 "Then things are not going to ruin? The crops have 
 not failed?" 
 
 "Not a bit of it!" he laughed. "Of course you can't 
 expect to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, and you'll 
 never get good crops out of this farm. . . . For one thing, 
 it wants draining. . . . That old fool CoUop is always tell- 
 ing me that!" 
 
 "Then why don't you drain it?" she said quickly. 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. "Reason why! But what 
 has brought you back so suddenly. Kit? Mark given you 
 the sack?" 
 
 "I've come back to see if I can't make things better 
 here." 
 
 "Well, you can't! Do you think you are going to 
 work miracles? I tell you the place has beaten me. 
 What with the weather, and the price of corn, and the 
 new-fangled notions, farming is the very devil to pay. 
 It's sheer waste of flesh and blood. The best thing you 
 can do is to chuck the whole thing and go back to town. 
 That's why I didn't send for your traps. You can take 
 the next train back, and I'll drive you to the station. I'll 
 be delighted to do it."
 
 A RETURN TO NATURE. 97 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 A RETURN TO NATURE. 
 
 Katherine slept the sleep that is weighted by a weary 
 mind. When she woke in the morning she felt a strange 
 zest in the day. Instead of the hoarse roar of Goodge 
 Street there greeted her a delicate silence threaded by 
 the song of a bird; a busy twittering, the tap of leaves 
 against a lattice. She opened her eyes on chintz dotted 
 with green, the hangings of her little white bed. Curtains 
 and sheets smelt of rosemary and lavender, and Katherine 
 started up with a delighted sniff. 
 
 She smiled as she saw her room. It was spring-time 
 there also, a dainty green showing among the white. At 
 the window snowy curtains fi-amed the ivy leaves; the sun 
 made daffodil splashes on the wall, and where it touched 
 the carpet the butter- cups blossomed. She sprang out of 
 bed, stretching her limbs luxuriously as she remembered 
 she need not begin the day with a rush. Her bath 
 stood ready, and the clear water pleased her. "To be 
 clean is the first step towards happiness," she said as she 
 plunged in. 
 
 Then she remembered that she had no cause to feel 
 glad, to be stirred to any gay tumult. She faced failure. 
 She had given up her work in London, and she was not 
 wanted at Great Lowlands. She had offered up herself 
 on the altar of a useless sacrifice. 
 
 Her brow clouded; but while she dressed it cleared 
 
 The Gods Arrive. 7
 
 g8 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 again. Who could be miserable on a day flooded with 
 sunshine? Even her perplexities were simplified by the 
 sounds of cheerful life outside. There seemed to be 
 room in the world for her to-day. Away from the 
 crowded life of London her limbs were free to live and 
 move and have their being. There was space for breath, 
 space even for the ideal calm she had once sought; — the 
 voices outside were part of the silence from strife. 
 
 She could hear the fowls clucking, and someone 
 speaking: "Come, my dears, come. Breakfiist is ready; 
 Mother 's got your breakfasses ready. Chuck ! chuck ! " 
 
 Katherine put her head through the window. Under 
 the apple-trees in the orchard she could see a little old 
 woman in a figured print gown carrying a wooden bowl. 
 At her heels flew and scrambled a brood of chickens, 
 and the old woman laughed and chuckled as she stepped 
 gingerly so as not to tread on them. "There, my darlings, 
 there! Don't be too pushing, you yellow boy; give your 
 sisters a chance, like a little gentleman." 
 
 The old woman had a little round face with a pretty 
 pink on it; and she wore a pink sunbonnet over her white 
 hair. Her gown was sprigged with rosebuds, and she 
 made a charming picture under the apple-trees. 
 
 Katherine's face brightened as she saw her. "Dear 
 old Martha, what a darling she is! — and as vain as 
 ever!" 
 
 She hurried over her dressing, and ran downstairs, 
 and out of doors, calling "Martha! Martha Collop! where 
 are you hiding?" 
 
 "Here, missie, here;" and Martha came bustling 
 round the fowl house, her face beaming. She put down 
 her bowl and made a curtsey, then ran to Katherine and 
 kissed her.
 
 A RETURN TO NATURE. QQ 
 
 "I'm real glad to see missie back. You won't mind 
 the old woman, duckie? I made my obedience, but I 
 says to myself, 'Bother! I must have a kiss.' I does love 
 to kiss a soft face; yes, I does." 
 
 "I think you are the only person who is glad to see 
 me back, Martha." 
 
 "What does Miss Katherine say that for?" Martha 
 asked reproachfully. "As soon as I knowed you was 
 corned I took little Snowdrop, — that do be the white 
 chicken as I were terrible fond of, — and I off with his 
 head as quick as a swallow. He do be lovely plump, 
 and will make missie a sweet toothful." 
 
 "Oh, Martha, stop!" Katherine cried, putting her 
 hands over her ears. "How can you kill the creatures 
 you love?" 
 
 "Ay, I were terrible fond of he, but I couldn't- a-bear 
 to have en die hard. I just catched en in my hand, and 
 he knowed I wouldn't hurt en; and before he had time 
 to sneeze there was his head off. . . . Ay, he died very 
 peaceable, did Snowdrop." 
 
 "How is Collop?" Katherine asked. 
 
 "Well, missie, Collop be but tottering. I tells en he 
 ain't so young as he might be, but he don't believe me. 
 He do be a foolish old carle, Collop," she added with the 
 conscious look of a girl speaking of her sweetheart. 
 
 "I must go and see him," said Katherine. "And how 
 are all your children, Martha?" 
 
 "They do be getting on wonderful, duckie. I was 
 like to lose the grey pigeon in the winter through in- 
 formation in his crop. But I cut en and emptied en, 
 and sewed en up again, and now he be setting on the 
 purtiest eggs you ever seed." 
 
 7*
 
 lOO THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 "Oh, Martha, you are too funny with your children," 
 Katherine laughed, moving away. 
 
 "Don't go, missie, don't go!" said Martha, eagerly. 
 "I be right upset waiting on Mr. Tom. Fan had seven 
 pups last night, and the poor lass can't rear en all; and 
 I'm waiting on Mr. Tom to say how many must be 
 drownded." 
 
 "Where is Mr. Tom?" Katherine asked. 
 
 "He be sweethearting, duckie. He do carry on, to 
 be sure. Up with the sun and away he is, and the lass 
 spoiling her clothes in the wet grass. . . . But there! a 
 young man a-courting is neither to have nor to hold. 
 And no blame neither, for what be a man worth if he 
 ain't a-foUering of nature?" 
 
 A merry twinkle set a light in Martha's eye. "And 
 Collop do say," she added, "long courting makes short 
 farming. And there's Fan and the babies pulling till 
 she don't know which is herself and which puppy, poor 
 lass!" 
 
 "Martha, does Collop think the farm is being neglected?" 
 the girl asked slowly. 
 
 "There's small doubt o' that, duckie. . . . But what 
 can you expect of a young man with all his juices in en? 
 'Miss Katherine, 't was her had ought to have farmed 
 the land,' Collop says every day. And if you'd bide on, 
 duckie, 't would surely be the saving of the place." 
 
 Katherine stood with troubled eyes. She felt quite 
 equal to managing the farm and giving orders to the 
 men; but how could she do this if her mother and Tom 
 were not willing? 
 
 "What sort of girl is this Mr. Tom spends his time 
 with, Martha?"
 
 A RETURN TO NATURE. lOI 
 
 A roguish look knotted together the wrinkles on the 
 old woman's forehead. She chuckled delightedly. 
 
 "Lor, missie, her is neither lad nor lass, nor man nor 
 maid. Not but what her be personable. Breech her, 
 and her would be woman; but being gowned, you sees 
 the man in her. . . . And Mr. Tom is off with her, and 
 poor Fan in her trouble. . . ." 
 
 "Seven pups, did you say, Martha?" . . . There was 
 a sudden decision on Katherine's face. . . . "Well, get rid 
 of three. Save the best. You can tell Mr. Tom I gave 
 the order. . . ." 
 
 "I'll go this very minute," said Martha, gleefully. "I 
 tell Collop 't was Providence what's putten the pond 
 nigh to Milkmaid Cottage for the young things to go 
 peaceable out of this weary world." 
 
 Martha sighed happily as she hobbled away, and 
 Katherine turned and went in to breakfast. 
 
 She had not finished when Martha knocked at the 
 door and came in with an air of mysterious gaiety. 
 
 "Oh, duckie," she cried in a loud whisper, "I can't 
 drowned en, not a single one on en. . . ," She clasped 
 her hands in an ecstasy. . . . "The pups is all little boys, 
 everyone o' the seven! . . . And I couldn't drowned a 
 little boy, — no, not if 't was ever so . . ." 
 
 "And how is Fan to bring up seven pups?" Katherine 
 asked. 
 
 "Oh, Fan," Martha said scornfully; "her is nob- 
 but a woman, and it's woman's duty to bear children. . . . 
 Fan '11 just have to do her duty by the seven." 
 
 Katherine remained in the breakfast room, thinking 
 over the situation. Mrs. Fleming was still in bed; Tom 
 had not come in. 
 
 The French window was wide open; a bed of narcissus
 
 I02 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 loaded the air with fragrance, and a Hght wind tossed the 
 smell into the room. A thrush sang madly, swaying on 
 the topmost branch of the fir-tree before the window. 
 Beyond the garden a field of struggling corn sloped up- 
 ward to the dead oak that marked the western boundary 
 of the farm. 
 
 Katherine's eyes clouded. The flower beds were rank 
 with weeds; the ground was strewn with dead needles 
 and cones; the corn in the field was blighted. Someone 
 was needed to snatch the place from ruin. She saw work 
 before her, and her fingers ached to begin it. Opposition 
 had always stirred her, and because she was not wanted 
 here she longed to stay. 
 
 She sprang up and ran into the garden. But the 
 luxuriance of the season had hidden defects and covered 
 up faults; and where they were glaring, as in the un- 
 tended lawn, the dandelions and daisies rollicking un- 
 abashed made her pardon them. The neglect in the 
 kitchen garden was more serious. Her eye caught the 
 ruined asparagus bed, the fruit-trees unprotected from 
 frost. The peaches on the south wall held straggling 
 branches towards her; an apricot had torn itself from its 
 fastenings and was trailing on the ground. 
 
 "What in the world have they been doing?" she 
 thought impatiently. "It is so much capital being thrown 
 away. . . . Well, it is high time I came to the rescue. . . ." 
 
 It was a relief to get beyond the walls into the rows 
 of strawberries that filled several acres of ground. This 
 crop, at least, was hopeful. . . . She lifted her eyes from 
 the buds lurking among the leaves, and saw an old man 
 coming towards her. It was CoUop, a tall figure crowned 
 by a face gnarled and knotted like the trunk of an oak. 
 Katherine noticed that he seemed dry and withered like
 
 A RETURN TO NATURE. IO3 
 
 a dead branch. Not a muscle of his face moved at the 
 gu-l's smile. 
 
 "Morning, Miss Katherine," he said gravely. "Hope 
 I sees you well this morning," 
 
 "Yes, thank you, Collop. How are you?" 
 
 He leaned one hand on his stick, and wiped his 
 mouth before he spoke. 
 
 "Well, missie, I beant partickler well," he said slowly. 
 "I've got too much on my mind, I have, for to feel com- 
 forrable like. You see, missie, 'tis here. . . . There's no- 
 body to see to things but me, cos Master Tom, — well, he 
 don't apply his mind like. No use having a mind if you 
 don't apply it. You must apply the mind." . . . He shook 
 his head and thought a moment, his eyes fixed on the 
 distance. . . . "Now if you was a-going to stay at Great 
 Lowlands, Miss Katherine, you and me, us could work 
 the farm; because you see, us should apply our minds 
 together. . . . Now, I say to Master Tom, I say to en, sez 
 I: 'Master Tom, there's that old Suke.' . . . That old long 
 Jersey, you see, missie. . . . 'She be past calving, and past 
 milking too, nearly; what be the use o' keeping of she? 
 Her ought to ha' been sold three year ago.' — 'What's the 
 use o' selling her?' sez he. 'Sha'n't get nothing for her. 
 Sell that young heifer and calf,' sez he; 'her'll make some 
 money.' . . . And so 'tis with most everything that be 
 worth anything. 'Tis selling what's worth and keeping all 
 the old truck that do be fit for nowt." 
 
 "Hm!" said Katherine. "That's bad farming, isn't 
 it?" 
 
 "Bad farming, missie? Ay, it be bad farming. 'T is 
 wuss than bad. It do be right down wickedness to keep 
 cattle just to turn into coin for a man's own pleasure, and 
 to take the very meat out of the beastes' mouths. What
 
 I04 THE GODS ARRWE. 
 
 do'ee think, missie?" he said, digging his stick into the 
 ground. . . . "Theer be the Home-close, the best meadow 
 on the farm. . . . Ah, the old master, he used to say, 
 'Collop,' sez he, 'that meadow has turned out ten pounds' 
 worth of hay an acre this year. ..." Good crop that, Miss 
 Katherine; and Master Tom what did he do this spring 
 but cart away twenty tons of the best soil in that theer 
 meadow: — draed it away, missie, and what for? Why to 
 make a pleasure ground wi'en for to knock about balls in 
 en wi' his swaitheart. . . . Ha!" said Collop, drawing in a 
 long hissing breath, "if the old master had seen en, he'd 
 ha' knocked en about, he would, like a ball! . . ." 
 
 "What's he done with the soil?" said Katherine. 
 
 "Why, put en in that old hole by the drive that used 
 to be a quarry, where you used to play. Miss Katherine, 
 when you was a girl. Didn't look well, he sed, coming 
 up the drive to see that old hole. So he had en filled 
 up; and a fine crop o' weeds he hath a-gotten there to 
 be sure. . . ." 
 
 Collop jerked his head up and sniffed ironically. 
 "Now if you would stay on a bit, missie, us two could 
 get things a bit straighterer." He turned glassy eyes on 
 Katherine, and drew himself up and waited her answer. 
 
 She stood silent, her face grave. Then she lifted her 
 head with a quick little movement of decision. She would 
 show that she was needed. She would prove that she 
 could succeed where Tom had failed. 
 
 Collop did not need words to tell him how she had 
 decided. He lifted the palm of his hand in a half-military 
 salute and went on his way. 
 
 Katherine's eyes were bright as she passed into the 
 meadows, where the grass was already laid up for cutting. 
 It was thick and lush, and promised a heavy crop. Here
 
 A RETURN TO NATURE. IO5 
 
 and there a buttercup peeped out, a golden sun paling 
 the dim moon of the last primrose in the hedge. She 
 gathered them, and said unconsciously to herself: — 
 
 "'O Love, your fingers hold 
 
 The golden key of the spring.' " 
 
 The thought added a deeper radiance to the flowers. 
 "Brighter than these," she whispered, as her mind reached 
 out over the blossoms towards another mind, to answering 
 thoughts, and comradeship, and love. But Franklin's 
 memory was under lock and key. She dared not open 
 the Pandora box in which he was hidden. It was Am- 
 brose who filled her thoughts, she told herself, as she 
 passed along, looking like the spirit of the year in her 
 green frock, with the wistfulness in her eyes called there 
 by the tender pulsing life of the spring. 
 
 She strolled dreamily on, and, rounding a hedge, 
 came face to face with two people before she suspected 
 their presence. 
 
 They all stopped together, Tom half-bashful, his arm 
 dropped from the girl's waist. 
 
 "Hillo, Kit, you nearly knocked a fellow over!" 
 
 Katherine's eyes shot past him. She held out her 
 hand, smiling. So this was Tom's friend — no village lass, 
 but the girl who had driven her home the day before. 
 
 Miss Saunders took her hand with a frank laugh. 
 
 "So you are Kit! — what luck!" 
 
 "Hillo, do you know Peggy?" Tom cried amazed. 
 
 "I met Miss Saunders yesterday," Katherine said cor- 
 dially, delighted to find that Tom's choice was so much 
 to her own liking. 
 
 "Goodness, to think I didn't know you!" Peggy cried. 
 "Yet it must have been your likeness to Tom that at- 
 tracted me."
 
 106 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 "Of course it was!" said the beaming Tom. En- 
 couraged by Katherine's mildness he sHpped his arm 
 round Peggy again. . . . "Kit, this is the rattUng girl I was 
 telling you about. . . . We are sweethearts, aren't we, my 
 dear?" 
 
 "Rather!" said Miss Saunders, vigorously. "Vou are 
 out very early, aren't you. Kit?" 
 
 "So are you!" said Katherine, laughing. 
 
 "Oh, well, you see, being a busy woman, I have no 
 time for sentiment unless I make time. And really it is 
 awfully jolly to do one's love-making by sunrise: — 
 
 "'Bnishing with hasty steps the dews away 
 To greet the sun upon the upland lawn,' 
 
 and all the rest of it, don't ye know." 
 
 The quotation pleased Katherine. She liked the 
 thought of love in the fresh morning, and it was not hard 
 to find excuses for Tom. What man could resist a walk 
 through green fields with Peggy, when her eyes were ten- 
 der and the mystery of dawn was round young love? 
 
 "I am afraid I shall not be able to say Tom is wast- 
 ing his time," she said prettily. 
 
 "Kit, you are a brick!" Tom exclaimed. "And, I 
 say, since you aren't going to cut up rough about Pegg)'', 
 you might as well stay on here and keep the old lady 
 quiet."
 
 PEGGY AT THE FAIR. 107 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 PEGGY AT THE FAIR. 
 
 "Well, it's confounded meddling on your part to 
 interfere with my orders," said Tom, hotly. 
 
 His face was very red; he had burst into the break- 
 fast-room in a rage, and he stood looking angrily at Kathe- 
 rine, who was at the table doing accounts. 
 
 "It was time someone did meddle," she returned 
 quietly. Her steady eyes probed to his conscience; he 
 shifted his ground uneasily. 
 
 "Look here, Kit," he said, changing his tone, "I'm not 
 going to have you fooling round playing master. Jackson 
 wouldn't give credit for the last fodder we had — curse 
 his cheek! — and I told him I'd never give him another 
 order. . . . And you go paying ready money for his rotten 
 stuff." 
 
 "We must buy fodder, Tom," said Katherine. "The 
 cows are half-starved. They give a quart of milk where 
 they should give four. . . ." 
 
 "Well, that's not my fault. . . . Why don't you speak 
 to Collop?" 
 
 "I did. He said we needn't expect milk while the 
 cows are in the hill fields." 
 
 "Collop is an old fool!" said Tom, testily. "If I had 
 listened to him I wouldn't have laid up all the meadows 
 for hay this year. . . . And think what grand crops we 
 should have missed!" He glanced triumphantly at Kathe- 
 rine.
 
 I08 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 "Meanwhile we lose on the cattle," she said, with an 
 aggravating superiority in her voice. "There isn't enough 
 pasture for the cows, let alone the sheep and the young 
 bullocks." 
 
 "And I want to know who gave the men their orders 
 to-day?" Tom ignored the reproach. 
 
 "I did," said Katherine. "They can't loaf about all 
 the morning waiting till you come in." 
 
 Tom threw down his riding-whip on the table, and 
 lifted his head masterfully. 
 
 "Hang it all. Kit! You are playing it rather high, 
 you know. The farm ain't yours." 
 
 "It may be mine some day," she interrupted. 
 
 Tom remembered his father's will. 
 
 "Pooh! not likely," he said. "Anyhow, things can't 
 go on like this. . . . Either you manage the place, or I 
 do. . . . Which is it to be?" 
 
 He drew himself up and looked at Katherine, and as 
 he looked the definiteness in his gaze wavered. 
 
 Her silence told him that his inches were no match 
 for her will. Her pose, the concentration on her face, 
 her questioning eyes pointed contrasts with his high-handed 
 bluster. The weakness of things left undone unmanned 
 him. For a moment he kept his attitude of indignant 
 protest and gazed sternly at the girl. Then the absurdity 
 of the thing struck him. He slapped his thigh and burst 
 into a good-natured laugh. 
 
 "My word. Kit, it's a farce if ever there was one! To 
 think of a shrimp like you challenging me on my own 
 ground! Do they teach farming in newspaper offices? ... 
 Well, I'm sick of the farm. I don't mind if I let you try 
 your hand at it for a bit." 
 
 "I'hanks," said Katherine, loftily. "I mean to try."
 
 PEGGY AT THE FAIR. lOQ 
 
 She could not help a smile at his astonished face. 
 
 "You will see that I can do it," she said with decision. 
 Then she rose and put her arm through his coaxingly. 
 
 "Meanwhile, Tom dear, do come and help me choose 
 the sheep for Plimpton fair." 
 
 "Not I, my fine lady," he said teasingly. "If you 
 manage the farm you manage it by yourself. I have 
 plenty on my hands." 
 
 "What are you going to do to-day?" she asked. 
 
 "Oh, I'm going to Grimple market. . . . And by the 
 way it's time I was off." 
 
 He glanced at the clock, and took up his whip. 
 
 "I'll go too," said Katherine, eagerly. "I haven't been 
 to market for ages." 
 
 It was a fine day. She had been at home a fortnight, 
 and in all that time she had had no amusement. The 
 sunshine beguiled her. She would like to swing through 
 the country lanes on her pony. Tom's careless gaiety 
 was, after all, a relief from the earnest discontent of the 
 Labour leaders. It rested her strained nerves, and toned 
 in with the joyous abandon of nature. 
 
 But Tom had made other arrangements for com- 
 panionship. 
 
 "Tut, tut!" he mocked. "How would the grass grow 
 and the potatoes sprout if you were not here to give them 
 a leg up? No, Kit, my dear. If you're a farmer you 
 can't amuse yourself. You must stay at home and do 
 your duty by the land." 
 
 Katherine laughed amiably at his enjoyment of the 
 sarcasm. "Well, I'll leave you to represent Great Lowlands 
 at the market," she said good-humouredly. "To be sure, 
 the eggs and butter that should be there will be absent." 
 
 She stood at the window watchincr him as he cantered
 
 I lO THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 away down the drive, after making her a sweeping ironical 
 bow. He looked his very best on horseback. 
 
 No wonder that Peggy admired the handsome fellow, 
 Katherine thought with a sigh. Then she dismissed Tom 
 from her mind and went with the old cowman to choose 
 the sheep for Plimpton fair. 
 
 Where the road parted by the common, Peggy was 
 waiting for Tom. He saw the pride with which she 
 watched him coming, and it consoled him for Katherine's 
 scorn. Peggy's open devotion restored his self-esteem. 
 What did he care for a midge of a girl, when he could 
 twist a fine woman like Peggy round his finger? Tush! 
 let Katherine prove her superiority. He was quite willing 
 to give her the chance. . . . Besides, now he could spend 
 his time as he liked. No one could reproach him for 
 neglecting; his work when Katherine had taken it out of 
 his hands. There was a fine carelessness, a triumphant 
 gaiety in his manner that delighted Peggy as they rode 
 to Grimple. She answered his mood in kind: they jumped 
 the fences, and raced each other, and finally, flushed and 
 laughing, they entered the town, — a pair of hearty young 
 lovers with the spring in their blood. 
 
 They put up at the Wheat Sheaf, and then walked 
 towards the market-place, the girl's face sobering, her 
 eyes critical and alert for business. It was Grimple horse 
 fair, and more than one young farmer stopped her for an 
 opinion of the horse he had bought or wanted to buy. 
 
 Tom stood beside her, flaunting his intimacy with 
 Miss Saunders. He was proud of her knowledge and 
 smartness. They reflected credit on himself, who had 
 taught her. 
 
 In the High Street a chestnut mare was showing her 
 paces, and at the same time her vices. Peggy stopped.
 
 PEGGY AT THE FAIR. I I I 
 
 She Stuck her hands iii the pockets of her riding-coat, 
 and, head on one side, a cynical smile on her lips, 
 watched the performance. 
 
 At last the mare unseated her rider, and came trotting 
 easily down the street. Peggy went forward, caught the 
 bridle, and patted the quivering animal into confidence. 
 Then, the reins on one arm, and her habit hitched up on 
 the other, she sauntered up to the dealer, who was swear- 
 ing at finding business "off" for the moment. 
 
 "What do you want for her?" she asked casually. 
 
 "Five and fifty guineas, miss, and not a penny less." 
 
 Peggy liked the look of the mare now she was stand- 
 ing firm and square on her legs, but there was a fine 
 irony in her voice. "You're surely not opening your 
 mouth half wide enough for such a sweet buck-jumper. . . . 
 Here, I'll give you thirty pounds for her, and take her 
 faults in as a gift." 
 
 She had seen the powerful double bit, too high by 
 an inch in the mouth, and the curb chain a couple of 
 links too tight. "An easy Pelham, a slack curb, and a 
 pair of light hands are all that she wants," she thought. 
 
 She stepped back a few paces, and let her eye run 
 first over the mare's near side from between her ears 
 to the tail, then in the same way looked at the off 
 side. 
 
 "Hm!" she said, pursing up her lips. 
 
 She stooped and felt the legs with their tendons like 
 iron rods, and finished up by opening the mouth. 
 
 "Rising five," she said to herself, "and the look in 
 
 her face is mettle and courage, not temper Pll have 
 
 a deal. . . ." She turned to the man. "Hm!" she said 
 again, disparagingly. "If guineas will part you I'll spring 
 the extra shillings and risk it."
 
 I I 2 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 "Not by a houseful!" replied the dealer. 
 
 "Well, you have the mare and I have the money," 
 she said, turning away indifferently. 
 
 "Don't be in such a hurry," said the man. "The 
 mare's shadow on the wall is worth all I'm asking you. 
 But I'm no Quaker; you can take her or leave her at 
 five-and-thirty." 
 
 "Done in pounds!" Peggy cried, "if you give me a 
 sovereign back for luck." 
 
 "We'll split that," returned the dealer, "and the 
 mare's yours." Peggy haggled no longer, but, swinging 
 her habit round, found the opening in the skirt which led 
 to a pocket tied round her waist. She drew out a roll 
 of notes, and counting out seven offered them to the 
 dealer, then opened her other palm for the luck-penny. 
 
 This the man solemnly and half-reluctantly jerked out, 
 and then Peggy delivered up the notes. 
 
 "Ever carried a lady?" she said carelessly. 
 
 "Well . . . not as I knows on." The man scratched 
 his head deprecatingly; — but he had his money. "I 
 doubt the last lady as had her would sooner mount a 
 clothes-horse than that there mare," he added. 
 
 "Bring her round to the Wheat Sheaf," Peggy com- 
 manded. She looked her purchase up and down, then 
 turned to Tom, her white teeth showing in a broad 
 smile. 
 
 "What do you make of her? Ain't she a beauty?" 
 
 "She's a nasty temper," said Tom. "What'll you do 
 with her?" 
 
 She laughed. "Sell her again for ten pounds more." 
 
 "I'd like to see you do it!" 
 
 "You'll see!" she returned. 
 
 At the Wheat Sheaf Peggy told the hostler to put her
 
 PEGGY AT THE FAIR. I I 3 
 
 saddle on the mare. She went out herself and saw that 
 bit and curb were well set. 
 
 "You aren't going to mount that tricky business?" 
 Tom cried. 
 
 She tossed her head. "I bet I am!" 
 
 "I'll not have it," said Tom, masterfully. "It's as 
 much as your neck is worth. I forbid you to attempt it." 
 
 "Forbid your grandmother!" she said lightly, and 
 leaped into the saddle. The mare reared, but Peggy sat 
 her trimly. A minute after, with many a prance and 
 curvet, they were making towards the crowd in the High 
 Street. 
 
 Tom watched the progress, anger fighting with anxiety. 
 It was the first time Peggy had defied him; but as he 
 saw her skill in controlling the mare, vexation and anxiety 
 gave way to pride. He loitered about, listening to the 
 criticisms on her. 
 
 "My word, but the lass is a bold 'un! And she's 
 gotten spirit. I wouldn't be paid to mount that temper- 
 some baggage." 
 
 "You! You couldn't mount a bubbly-jock! . . . Peg 
 Saunders '11 mount any brute living " 
 
 "She's a fine smart maid . . . well set up, too." 
 
 "As fine a figure of a woman as ever God made! 
 She'll take some breaking-in . . . the sort o' wife to suit 
 me." 
 
 "Lord! I'd as lief wed a steam-plough. No breaking 
 in there. He'll be a bold man as tries it. . . ." 
 
 The talk tickled Tom's sense of ownership. He 
 stroked his moustache proudly. He was going to marry 
 this spirited woman. He could master her as easily as 
 she mastered the mare. . . . The smile in his eyes was 
 dimmed by a sudden thought. She had taken her own 
 
 The Gods Arrive. 8
 
 114 "T^E GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 way just now in spite of him. Would the question of 
 wills between them always end in his defeat? ... A fierce 
 wish to prove his mastery awoke in him. Peggy had 
 never seemed so desirable as now, when, seeing her 
 prowess, he was uncertain of her. It would be worth a 
 man's while to manage a woman who could manage a 
 horse like that. . . . 
 
 He waited about for her; and when he lifted her 
 down from the saddle the fire in his glance set her pulses 
 beating. 
 
 She turned from him to a man who had followed her 
 and was now examining the mare. He was one of her 
 customers. The consciousness on her face gave way to a 
 business-like alertness. 
 
 "Any business, Mr. Rogers?" she said, with a sudden 
 brilliant smile. 
 
 "Well," he said slowly, "I dunno as I'd made up my 
 mind. " 
 
 "I ain't selling," said Peggy. She nodded to the 
 hostler. "Take her in. Give her a feed." 
 
 "Not so fast, not so fast, Miss Saunders. Fact is, I 
 like her looks . . . nice feet . . . good action. . . ." 
 
 "Don't I know that?" Peggy laughed. "She'll foot it 
 nicely to Plimpton." 
 
 "That depends, that depends, young lady. You're 
 in such a hurry . . . now, then, what'll you take?" 
 
 "She's vicious," said Peggy, drily. "Has a pretty 
 trick of shying." 
 
 "All the more reason to sell when you can." 
 
 "Think I don't know blood when I see it?" She 
 moved away. 
 
 "I'll give you forty sovereigns; there now; that's an 
 offer . . ."
 
 THE ETHICS OF THE SITUATION. I I 5 
 
 Peggy walked towards the inn-door. "Forty-five;" he 
 followed at her ear. The handle of the door was in her 
 hand. "Fifty! and here's the money. . . ." 
 
 "And there's the mare!" she turned unexpectedly on 
 him. 
 
 They struck hands on the bargain. 
 
 Tom hurried after her into the inn-parlour. His 
 pulses were beating faster than usual, spurred by the 
 praises of the girl's spirit and cleverness. His eyes had 
 not lost the abandon of the ride to Grimple; and, meet- 
 ing them, the madness of the morning overtook Peggy 
 again. 
 
 She laughed as she ran round to the other side of 
 the table. "Pve made sixteen sovs on the mare, Tom. 
 Want 'em?" 
 
 "Bother your money ... I want you," Tom answered. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE ETHICS OF THE SITUATION. 
 
 "Well, you are blue!" Peggy shouted to the me- 
 lancholy figure in the boat. "Why are you so miserable, 
 Kit?" 
 
 Katherine was sitting with one of Fan's puppies in 
 the boat, which was drifting among the lily leaves and 
 duckweed in the middle of the pond. Her face was 
 hopeless, but it cleared at the sight of Peggy standing 
 on the bank, a hand on each hip, her legs planted firmly 
 apart. 
 
 "Will you come aboard?" Katherine called. 
 
 "That was my intention," said Peggy. 
 
 8*
 
 Il6 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 Katherine took the oars and pulled to the bank, and 
 Peggy settled herself in the seat in the stern of the boat. 
 
 " You are a nice midsummer maiden," she said severely. 
 "What in the world are you grizzling for? Anything 
 wrong?" 
 
 "Everything!" Katherine cried passionately. "Every- 
 thing!" 
 
 "That is to say, Tom isn't behaving," said Peggy, 
 chewing a twig of willow with a wry face. 
 
 "It isn't only Tom," said Katherine. "It's mother, 
 and the house, and the land, and the hay, and the 
 cows. . . . The whole business is maddening!" 
 
 "Your liver is out of order," said Peggy, encourag- 
 ingly. "The place is trim and tight; — the garden is a 
 pretty dear, as Martha says." 
 
 "That is just it!" Katherine interrupted. "Whatever 
 my pair of hands can do I may do; but the instant I 
 need help or money I'm stopped short. The gardens are 
 in order, and 1 want to set to work on the farm; but Tom 
 won't help, and mother frets and says there's no money. 
 Tom's mismanagement must have done away with what 
 little there was. Farming doesn't pay now unless you 
 put your brains into it." 
 
 "What's wrong with Tom's farming?" said Peggy, 
 shortly. She did not like the subject, but she was eager 
 to defend Tom. 
 
 "He cares for nothing as long as he has a good horse 
 to ride, and makes a good show at the fairs, and has 
 money to spend. Look at the cattle. . . . You know what 
 the poor starved things look like. Last winter there 
 wasn't enough for them to eat; and there were forty 
 young bullocks he had to sell for a song in the very 
 cheapest time. He'd have made double the price if he
 
 THE ETHICS OF THE SITUATION. I I 7 
 
 could have waited till spring. Now he has laid up all 
 the meadows in hay, and left thirty acres of the worst 
 pasture for ten cows, three hundred sheep, all the calves, 
 and the horses. It's perfect madness!" 
 
 "Hm!" grunted Peggy. "Tom must have his rea- 
 sons . . .." 
 
 "Reasons!" Katherine cried bitterly. "With the men 
 clamouring for corn for the horses, and the shepherd 
 for cake for the sheep, and Collop worried about the 
 cows . . ." 
 
 "Collop is a cheerful soul," laughed Peggy. "I don't 
 wonder he makes the cows too miserable to give milk." 
 
 "It's not a laughing matter, Peggy. ... I go to the 
 fodder merchant, he can't give us any credit. I go to 
 mother; — there's no money. I go to Tom. 'Sell the 
 damned sheep,' he says. 'And how will you buy for 
 next year?' I answer, and the cows are starving. It's a 
 hopeless mess!" 
 
 "Well, cut the hay, and give it 'em," said Peggy. 
 
 "We have cut some, but think of the waste of it," 
 said Katherine. 
 
 Peggy shrugged her shoulders. "Goodness! you ate 
 hipped." 
 
 "You would get hipped in my place," Katherine said 
 furiously. "I am wasting my life. ... If it were not for 
 the pups and the boat I'd have nothing to make my days 
 tolerable." 
 
 "You are lucky to have two things to make them 
 bearable," said Peggy, drily. "I am grateful for one." 
 
 "Your profession?" said Katherine. 
 
 Peggy sat up straight. "Good gracious no! A pro- 
 fession is only a makeshift. Love is woman's real busi- 
 ness. I can imagine devoting myself to horse-training,
 
 1 I 8 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 but only if Tom were in it; so it's probably really Tom 
 that I should devote myself to." 
 
 "But are you doing even that?'' said Katherine, 
 severely. 
 
 Peggy flushed rosily, remembering the hours she spent 
 with Tom. 
 
 "I think I do," she said, hanging her head, and 
 attempting to look coy by the aid of a finger in her 
 mouth. 
 
 "Goose!" said Katherine, catching her expression. 
 "I didn't mean that," contemptuously; "that isn't devot- 
 ing yourself to Tom, — that's only fooling with him. Are 
 you making him a stronger man? Is he doing better 
 work because of you?" 
 
 The two faced each other, Katherine looking straight 
 at Peggy with firm lines gathering round her mouth. She 
 had long wanted this talk with Peggy. 
 
 Peggy seemed to shrink and grow small. She tried 
 to wriggle out of her position. 
 
 "Aren't you managing the farm?" she said suggest- 
 ively. 
 
 "Yes, I am; but why? Because Tom neglected it for 
 you." There was silence for a while. A boat is an awk- 
 ward thing to quarrel in, and Katherine held the oars. 
 Suddenly Peggy's eyes fell. 
 
 "Pm afraid you're right, Kit," she said humbly; "but 
 you know I have no influence with him." 
 
 "No influence?" repeated Katherine, scornfully. . . . 
 She stopped. What would she gain by hectoring Peggy? . . . 
 She went on more gently: "You must have some influence, 
 Peggy, good or bad. Everyone has. . . ." 
 
 "Well, perhaps mine's bad according to your reckon- 
 ing," said Peggy, breezily. "But you know. Kit, Pm not
 
 THE ETHICS OF THE SITUATION. I I Q 
 
 sure that mine is a worse way than yours. . . . Anyhow 
 it's a less melancholy one; and it's better to make two 
 people happy than one miserable. You like going in 
 harness. I'd rather be an untamed colt and follow my 
 own free will and fancy." 
 
 Katherine shook her head. Her own feelings had 
 been too long under the mastery of her will for her to 
 be much in sympathy with Peggy. Deep down in her 
 heart was the buried thought of Franklin, stirring now 
 and then and forcing a way up to her consciousness. It 
 framed her answer now. 
 
 "When one loves a man one wants to be an influence 
 in his life, not a doll for him to play with," she said 
 gravely. 
 
 Peggy shrugged her shoulders. "Bless you! we are 
 as different as we can be. I'm a gay butterfly, happy in 
 the sun, and miserable out of it. Just now I'm quite 
 content to sun myself in Tom's smiles." 
 
 She nodded and laughed at Katherine's sober face. 
 
 "You make a mistake in giving him everything he 
 wants, and demanding nothing, Peggy. By and by when 
 he meets someone else he will throw you off like an old 
 glove. ..." 
 
 Peggy snapped her fingers — "Hear! O Cassandra!" 
 
 "I'm no prophet," said Katherine, quietly; "but every- 
 one knows that the future will grow out of the present. 
 Tom has no stability. He is horribly reckless. As soon 
 as he gets a thing he doesn't care for it. Because of 
 him I am wasting my life here, and I see no way out." 
 
 "There is always a way out," said Peggy. 
 
 "How?" Katherine asked. 
 
 "The white gate." 
 
 Katherine stared at her. "You mean? . . ."
 
 I20 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 Peggy nodded. 
 
 "That's the traitor's gate," said Katherine, shortly. 
 "I'd never go out by it." 
 
 "One never knows," said Peggy, knitting her eye- 
 brows together. Her face was suddenly cloudfed. Kathe- 
 rine gazed at her surprised. 
 
 "Is that your butterfly mood?" she asked. "Look 
 here, Peggy; when I came down here last month I felt 
 like that; and it was you who helped me out of it. You 
 seemed so free and healthy, and you feasted on life. 
 I never saw anyone more simply glad. . . . And all the 
 time you have had this skeleton of a thought at the 
 feast. . . ." 
 
 "It was you who took my skeleton out of his cup- 
 board, Kit. But it's well to know your resources," said 
 Peggy, heartily. "If life gets the bit in his teeth and 
 runs away with you, it's well to put your hand on the 
 curb. When your horse won't move, you like to know 
 your spur is on. . . . Hand me over that puppy, like a 
 good soul." 
 
 "Certainly not, he's asleep. It's a shame to disturb 
 him." 
 
 "What a mixture you are!" Peggy exclaimed. "You 
 are hard enough on your kind, but tenderness itself 
 with young things. Martha says you are a born 
 mother. . . ." 
 
 "Martha thinks to bear children is the whole duty 
 of woman." Katherine smiled. "She never learned the 
 shorter catechism of the modern woman." 
 
 "She is a pagan," said Peggy, briskly, "and I love 
 her for it. . . . Kit, I see Tom eating strawberries. I must 
 go and help him." 
 
 "Help him! Go and stop him!" Katherine cried.
 
 THE ETHICS OF THE SITUATION. I 2 I 
 
 "Mark and Tonina are coming over this afternoon. We 
 must have strawberries for them." 
 
 "Hm! What is Tonina hke?" Peggy questioned. 
 
 "A strawberry," Katherine answered. "Red and 
 round and sweet, with Httle hard seeds of obstinacy 
 in her." 
 
 "Why did they come to Grimple for the honeymoon?" 
 
 "Mark had to go on business; — they are starting a 
 Labour Bureau there. I don't think Tonina is enjoying it. 
 She says there isn't a decent inn in the place." 
 
 "There's the Wheat Sheaf," said Peggy, quickly. "A 
 dear old place with large rambling rooms . . ." 
 
 She stopped suddenly and awkwardly, but was reas- 
 sured by the other's unconsciousness. 
 
 "I know," said Katherine. "Tom put up there the 
 night he stayed over the horse fair." 
 
 Katherine was pulling to shore; Peggy stood in the 
 boat ready to get out, her face red and eager, her feet 
 impatient. 
 
 "Don't pull in," she said. "Pll jump as soon as we 
 are near enough." 
 
 Katherine disdainfully noticed her excitement. What 
 a poor thing was a woman's heart when a man like Tom 
 could call that rosy consciousness to Peggy's face! . . . 
 
 "You can't jump," she said. "The pond is deep at 
 this end." 
 
 "Pooh!" said Peggy. "Besides, I can swim." 
 
 She stepped on the seat as she spoke. 
 
 "Don't!" Katherine screamed. "You overbalance . . ." 
 
 Another instant, and the two girls were under the 
 water. They rose together and Peggy seized Katherine's 
 sleeve. Then with a sweep of her disengaged arm she 
 caught the rudder of the boat and held on to it.
 
 122 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 "You must swim ashore, Kit." 
 
 "I can't!" Katherine gasped. "My skirts . . ." 
 
 "All right: I'll manage. . . ." 
 
 "The puppy! the puppy!" Katherine screamed, as the 
 dog rose close to them and sank. 
 
 One instant Peggy thought of the network of roots, 
 and the difficulty of the dive; then "Hold on to the 
 boat," she cried, and loosing Katherine disappeared after 
 the pup. 
 
 Katherine's teeth were chattering. It seemed a long, 
 long minute before Peggy rose. She shook the water 
 from her hair and floated alongside the boat. 
 
 "Take the precious pup. Kit, and I'll get you both to 
 land." 
 
 But Martha Collop had seen the accident from Milk- 
 maid Cottage, and was running down to the pond. Fan 
 at her heels. At the sight of the puppy Fan gave a 
 yelp, pushed into the water, seized the pup, and swam 
 to shore. 
 
 "Thanks be to goodness the baby is safe!" Martha 
 screamed. "But oh! my good fortunes, you'll take your 
 deaths the pair on you . . . not to speak o' my rheu- 
 matiz . . . and who's to fetch you out?" 
 
 But in a few strokes Peggy brought Katherine to the 
 bank, where the two stood, shivering and laughing, while 
 Fan licked the puppy and comforted it. 
 
 "Ah, the pretty pet!" said Martha, "a sup of his 
 mammy, that will hearten he. . . . And you're both very 
 wild young misses, and deserve what you've gotten, yes, 
 you does. . . . Come right into the kitchen. I were mak- 
 ing Collop a sup o' onion gruel, and Fan shows as the 
 way to warm the outside is to warm the inside. So you'll 
 both on you just drink it."
 
 THE ETHICS OF THE SITUATION. I 23 
 
 Katherine shuddered at the name of onion gruel, but 
 Peggy shouted with laughter. The June day was hot; 
 a blazing sun struck through their wet clothes, warming 
 them. They could afford to laugh at Martha's threats. 
 
 "Ah, you may laugh, missie," said Martha, reproach- 
 fully. "'T would ha' been no matter for laughing if the 
 baby were drownded." 
 
 Peggy's face sobered, but it cleared again, even before 
 Katherine spoke. 
 
 "It was Miss Saunders who saved the pup, Martha. 
 She really risked her life for it." 
 
 "And quite right," said Martha. "I don't know what 
 Fan would ha' said if her had lost en. Her thinks a 
 sight o' that pup, being the last one borned. . . . But go 
 right into the wash'us, duckies, the couple on you; and 
 take off your things where you won't spoil no floors. I'll 
 fetch you my Sunday gown. Miss Katherine; but a pair 
 o' Collop's breeks will be more the cut o' missie there." 
 
 Martha chuckled gleefully as she hobbled off. 
 
 Seeing the two girls that afternoon no one would have 
 recognised the bedraggled figures of the morning. 
 
 To impress Mark and his wife Peggy had put on 
 her most dashing tweed with brass buttons. Katherine's 
 soft delaine contrasted with Tonina's black and yellow 
 stripes. 
 
 Tonina was suffering from an interview with Mrs. 
 Fleming; but in the open air her spirits came back. 
 Katherine and Tom made much of her; and the delight- 
 ful orchard, the rose garden, the strawberries, atoned for 
 her depressing welcome. Mrs. Fleming's most elegant 
 attitude on the sofa, her daintiest tea-gown, and tearful 
 pathos had adorned Tonina's reception. 
 
 Mark was proud to show Tonina his home. He had
 
 I 24 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 never seen Great Lowlands in such excellent order, and 
 it did not occur to him that it was Katherine's work. 
 
 "Kit ought to thank me for sending her down here," 
 he said to himself. "I wouldn't mind having such a 
 comfortable berth myself It's done her no end of good. 
 She's a different girl, softer and gentler too. . . ." 
 
 He glanced critically at her, a girlish figure beside 
 
 Peggy- 
 There was a look on her face it had not worn in 
 Goodge Street. Mark had brought Franklin over from 
 Grimple, and the first sight of him had transformed Kathe- 
 rine. She had greeted him quietly and coldly, but her 
 heart had wakened at his touch, and the life of a blos- 
 soming springtime was on her face. She knew that what- 
 ever she might profess to believe, her love for Franklin was 
 not dead. 
 
 He had come to Great Lowlands to get away from 
 Labour questions; but when he saw Katherine he won- 
 dered if he had thought of meeting her. . . . He would 
 have liked to ask her about her life, but she gave him no 
 opportunity. 
 
 She left him to Mark while she fluttered about, chat- 
 ting to Tonina, laughing with Peggy, setting tea in the 
 orchard. 
 
 His eyes followed her. He found Mark's conversa- 
 tion a tiresome intrusion on his thoughts. He was won- 
 dering if this soft-gowned, soft- eyed girl was the passionate 
 Katherine of his remembrance. 
 
 "She is finding her real self; she is developing," he 
 thought as he watched her. 
 
 By and by Mark went into the house to talk to his 
 mother; and Franklin, with a certain irritation, found him- 
 self handed over to Peggy. Her independence and slang
 
 THE ETHICS OF THE SITUATION. I 25 
 
 set him musing if he had ever thought of Katherine as 
 mannish, or modern, or unwomanly. He looked again at 
 Katherine, who was beside Tonina, and his eyes lighted 
 up pleasantly as they rested on the slim, girlish figure. 
 How simple and dainty she was contrasted with Tonina's 
 gorgeous colouring! . . . 
 
 Tom had fallen under Tonina's fascinations. She 
 liked the admiration in his blue eyes; and, in her desire 
 to make friends with Mark's people, she set herself to 
 charm the handsome brother. Her flattery was new, 
 and subtler than Peggy's honest admiration. Tom loitered 
 beside her, neglecting Peggy, who affected to be engrossed 
 by Franklin. 
 
 Tea was spread near the blossoming rhododendrons 
 in the orchard, where the grass was newly mown. There 
 was a smell of new scones, and cream stood thick in 
 glass jugs. The china was old and quaint, set in a 
 tracery of golden bars, that quivered with the trembling 
 of the leaves. 
 
 Tonina saw it all with delight, and trilled out gaily: — 
 
 "Under the greenwood tree 
 Who loves to He with me, 
 And tune his merry note 
 Unto the blackbird's throat, 
 
 Come hither, come hither, come hither! 
 Here shall he see 
 No enemy 
 But winter and rough weather." 
 
 Tom gazed admiringly at her. She looked with her 
 red cheeks and dark skin and flashing eyes like some 
 brilliant flower among the grey apple -bouglis. They 
 gathered round her at her song, but Mark drew her down 
 beside him on the grass.
 
 126 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 "But I want to sing," Tonina pouted, half rebelling. 
 
 "But I want tea," Mark answered, "and it's getting 
 cold." 
 
 "Oh, but this man is bete!" Tonina laughed, with a 
 little shrug. "He has not the soul of the artist; he cares 
 but for his dinner. ... A strawberry, — it is more to him 
 than the divinest sonata. . . ." 
 
 Mark stopped her grumbling by a strawberry between 
 her red lips. "At this moment strawberries and cream are 
 divinest realities," he said. "Come, Kit, you wouldn't 
 change places with us now, would you? This is better 
 than Goodge Street, eh?" 
 
 Franklin twisted round sharply to Katherine. He 
 wished to hear her answer. He saw her sudden flush, 
 the old bitterness hardening her mouth. 
 
 "It is not always afternoon at Great Lowlands," she 
 said. 
 
 Franklin bent towards her. "Would you choose to go 
 back to town and leave all this. Miss Katherine?" 
 
 "Would I choose?" she answered; and the cry of 
 pain in her voice startled him. . . . He wondered if he 
 had imagined it when the next instant she turned smiling 
 to Peggy. 
 
 "What do you say, Peggy — town or country?" 
 
 "My goodness! How can any person with eyes and 
 a nose ask a question like that?" said Peggy. 
 
 "But I think that Katherine is right," Tonina broke 
 in. "The country, oh, it is very dull. ... I am bored at 
 Grimple. ... I would I had run away to London again." 
 
 Katherine looked quickly at Tonina. There was a 
 pout on her lips, and a longing in her eyes that had not 
 been there in the old days. Mark kept his face bent on 
 his plate, and Franklin broke the awkward silence.
 
 THE ETHICS OF THE SITUATION. I 2"] 
 
 "It is my fault that you are bored, Mrs. Fleming. I 
 take up Mark's time, and you are left too much alone." 
 
 "Ah, no!" said Tonina, lifting her big eyes pathetic- 
 ally. "It is not then that I am bored. For no! I have 
 ray violin. ... It is the stupid Mark who is jealous of my 
 violin-love. . . ." 
 
 "I should think so, indeed," Tom exclaimed. "A 
 man would be jealous of a fiddlestick if it took you away 
 from him. . . ." 
 
 Katherine led the talk away from the subject, and 
 when they had finished tea she rose. 
 
 "You will let me run away now? The cowman is ill, 
 and I want to see to the cows." 
 
 A little later they saw her going through the meadow, 
 driving before her the udder-laden cows. She had changed 
 her delaine for a print petticoat. She carried a stick and 
 a pail, and her hair blew loosely in the wind. 
 
 Franklin sprang to his feet. 
 
 "Did you ever see the like?" said Tom. "That's 
 one of Kit's fads, to milk the cows like any farm lass " 
 
 "There's no need for her to do that sort of work," 
 said Mark, angrily biting at his moustache. His face was 
 darker than usual. 
 
 Tom shrugged his shoulders. "Collop is ill, and she 
 says the boy doesn't milk properly. She is a regular 
 missus, is Kit, and makes everybody about the place sit 
 up. She's too masterful for me." 
 
 "She is a brick," said Peggy, suddenly. "A right- 
 down sensible girl. She is worth a round dozen of 
 ordinary women." 
 
 Franklin glanced kindly at Peggy, whose face had 
 flushed in her vindication of Katherine. Then his eyes 
 strayed to the figure driving the cows in the distance.
 
 128 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 By and by he strolled off towards the farmyard. It 
 was not difficult to find the cow-sheds. He stopped by 
 the window and looked in. Katherine sat on a stool 
 milking, her head pressed against Suke's lean side, her 
 sleeve rolled up, showing the dimple at her elbow. The 
 milk was frothing into the pail in a steady flow, and 
 Franklin noticed that her fingers had grown plump. Her 
 face in profile had lost its sharpness. He saw her lips 
 move, and heard the words: — 
 
 "Though I do my best, I shall scarce succeed, 
 But what if I fail of my purpose here.""' 
 
 She was silent, then she began again in a more assured 
 tone: — 
 
 "Let a man contend to the uttermost 
 For his life's set prize, be it what it will. . . ." 
 
 With face twitching, Franklin drew back from the 
 window. It touched him whimsically to hear Browning 
 (juoted to the cows. The scene jarred on him, showing 
 him a glimpse of the sentimental enthusiast. It implied 
 so much more true socialism and New Religion than 
 Katherine had ever possessed that it branded insincerity 
 on the whole of her farm life. ... In a little while the 
 frown cleared from his eyes. Almost against his will he 
 went into the shed. 
 
 She looked up, but there was no light of welcome in 
 her eyes. 
 
 "Don't come too near, please. Suke has a trick of 
 kicking. And I am no longer in society dress." 
 
 "It is all very pretty and pastoral," he began, then 
 stopped. "No, it isn't," he said bluntly. "It's affected 
 and exaggerated. . . . Miss Katherine, can't you, even here 
 in the simplicity of nature, do without a ... a pose?"
 
 THE ETHICS OF THE SITUATION. I 2g 
 
 She looked up sharply. "You men are so consistent! 
 When I wore a pretty frock Mark told me I could not be 
 a working-woman. Now I wear the dress of my work and 
 you call it a pose!" 
 
 "It's not gowns, it's the spirit in which you work!" he 
 said impatiently. 
 
 She looked steadily at him. . . . "Yes?" 
 
 He saw the dangerous light in her eyes, the proud 
 set of her head. A sudden cowardice seized him. No, 
 he could not find fault with her. His expression softened. 
 . . . His eyes stayed with hers. . . . There was a deep, 
 full silence. Then it seemed that Katherine's glance had 
 fled trembling from that long contact with his; and he 
 was left alone burning with strange fire. 
 
 "Would you . . . would you like some milk?" she 
 faltered. 
 
 "I . . . think ... no ... I can't take it. . . ." He 
 scarcely knew what he was saying. . . . "Have you nearly 
 -finished? Can I speak to you?" 
 
 "We can talk here," said Katherine, hurriedly. "How 
 is the Labour question progressing? I sha'n't feel that I 
 am, . . . wasting time ... if we talk . . , while I 
 work. . . ." 
 
 "Don't you think it's . . . unusual ... to touch on 
 that subject with a milkmaid?" he smiled, recovering 
 himself. 
 
 "I think it is," she answered coolly. "And don't you 
 think there is something wrong with a question that is not 
 to be discussed with the class it affects most?" . . . 
 
 Her eyes darkened with thought; her fingers paused 
 on the cow's udder. . . . "The Labour question seems to 
 affect the labourer less than it affects the Labour leader," 
 she added. 
 
 T/ie Gods Arrive. 9
 
 130 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "Oh, don't you see?" she cried eagerly. "Look at 
 the people round here; they know nothing of questions. 
 They eat and they sleep, and work and are healthy. The 
 problem of existence doesn't trouble them ... it solves 
 itself." 
 
 "Then you have lost sympathy with my work?" 
 
 She hung her head, but he had seen the colour flood 
 her cheeks. 
 
 "It is not that," she said shyly. "But all these ques- 
 tions are like the customs civilisation forces on us. They 
 only cramp and distress us. Why don't we leave our- 
 selves to nature? Earth would support her children if we 
 lived simply and naturally." 
 
 "The life here satisfies you?" he asked. 
 
 "Satisfies me?" she said bitterly. "I work like any 
 farm drudge, and for what? ... I get no thanks. . . . 
 Tom and mother oppose me on every point, and you 
 think . . ." 
 
 "I think you are doing good work," he interrupted 
 hurriedly; "better work than if you were — for instance — 
 writing an inadequate treatise on the Labour Move- 
 ment. . . ." 
 
 She started up passionately, and knocked over the 
 milking stool. 
 
 "You don't understand! You never do understand 
 me!" she cried. "You have no faith in me. You think 
 I am good for nothing but this . . . though at Newn- 
 ham . . ." 
 
 Her voice broke, but her eyes flashed eloquently. 
 
 His silence piqued her into consciousness of her short 
 petticoat and her bare arms. The anger died from her 
 face, and a reluctant smile answered the gleam in his eyes.
 
 THE ETHICS OF THE SITUATION. I 3 I 
 
 "Oh, I know there is humour in the situation," she 
 said, half-laughing, half-angry. "It is funny enough when 
 I think of it. Pray laugh, if you want to." 
 
 His face lighted up. 
 
 "I don't want to laugh. Miss Katherine. I want to 
 shake hands and congratulate you on possessing a sense 
 of humour." 
 
 She laughed a little as she put her hand into the one 
 he held out. 
 
 "It is harder than yours," she said bashfully. "I am 
 a labourer now. . . ." 
 
 "Yes," he said, "you are working. I am only think- 
 ing of working. ... I want you to let me help you. . . ." 
 
 She drew away her hand suddenly from his lingering 
 hold. 
 
 "You can carry that pail to the house," she said, 
 drily. " You will see one of the maids there." 
 
 She pointed to the pail, but he looked hesitatingly at 
 her. 
 
 "And are you coming too?" 
 
 "No," she said brusquely. "I am going to feed the 
 pigs." 
 
 Franklin took up the pail and walked away without 
 another word. The girl piqued him. He was baffled by 
 her contradictoriness. This brusque manner was cold 
 water on the flames lighted a few minutes before. "To 
 feed the pigs" jarred again on his trust in her. Was it 
 possible that the girl could be sincere when she seized 
 every opportunity of assuming an alien character? What 
 did she mean by all this show of humility, this doing of 
 the lowliest work of the farm? Tush! she had no sense 
 of proportion; she overdid her part. . . . 
 
 By the time he reached the house he had worked
 
 132 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 himself up into the old condition of irritation against 
 Katherine, and it mastered his wish to talk to her about 
 his plans. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 GODS OR MORTALS? 
 
 Without knocking, Tonina came bursting through the 
 French window. Inside the room she stopped, laughing 
 at Katherine's astonishment. 
 
 "Tonina?" 
 
 "And who else?" Tonina cried gaily, kissing her. 
 She threw hat and gloves on the sofa and sat down. 
 
 "Pouf! it is warm!" 
 
 "Tonina, what has happened?" Katherine asked 
 anxiously. 
 
 The letters from Ridgmont Gardens had lately hinted 
 of difficulties between Mark and his wife. 
 
 "I've run away," said Tonina, taking a malicious 
 pleasure in Katherine's alarm. "I would amuse myself. 
 That is not possible when one is married." 
 
 Katherine's face cleared at sight of the wicked eyes 
 a-sparkle. 
 
 "How will you amuse yourself at Great Lowlands?" 
 she asked, smiling. "And how will Mark amuse himself 
 without you?" 
 
 "Pouf!" said Tonina again, sweeping Mark away with 
 a wave of her hand. "When Mark is alone he bores 
 himself; when I am with him he bores me." 
 
 "Haven't you been well, Tonina?" 
 
 Katherine studied the face, thinner and more care- 
 worn than on Tonina's first visit to the farm a year
 
 GODS OR MORTALS? I 33 
 
 before. Tonina's gay manner dropped off her like a mask. 
 She sank back on the cushions. 
 
 "I am tired, httle Katherine," she said plaintively. 
 "And I am hungry for the sun and the light. And 
 there is no more music in me. . . . And I remembered 
 the summer, and the merry life under the apple-trees; 
 and I said to Mark, 'I will go to little Katherine. . . .'" 
 
 "Tonina, that was lovely of you!" Katherine lifted 
 the drooping face and kissed it heartily. "I am so glad 
 you thought of coming. You must be in the sun all day. 
 You shall help me with the hay and in the gardens, and 
 you will soon grow strong again. . . ." 
 
 "The good God forbid!" Tonina laughed. "Figure 
 me with the hands all red and the face all brown! . . . 
 Ah, no! But we will eat strawberries together, and pick 
 the roses, and lie under the trees, and so will we make 
 holiday." 
 
 Katherine threw a dismayed thought to her work. 
 How could she spare time from the farm to make holiday 
 with Tonina? 
 
 "But, Tonina, I can't idle all day. You must work 
 with me or amuse yourself without me. . . ." 
 
 Tonina pouted. "Oh, but that is quite impossible. 
 If then you do not amuse me, who will?" 
 
 Before Katherine could answer they heard a gate 
 fall back noisily, and a sound of hoofs ringing on the road. 
 
 "There is Tom!" Katherine said. "He has been 
 trying one of Peggy's horses. He says he wants to buy 
 it; but it will end by her giving it him. But it's a lovely 
 creature. . . ." 
 
 Tonina darted to the window, and clapped her hands 
 at the sight of Tom, mounted superbly, trotting down the 
 drive.
 
 134 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 "Ah! but he is Phoebus Apollo, this gay Tom!" she 
 cried. "I would Mark looked like that . . . Tom must 
 teach me to ride also." 
 
 "I'll be thankful if you can get him to do as 
 much," said Katherine, drily. "I never saw such an 
 idle fellow." 
 
 "So the better for me," Tonina cried gleefully. 
 "So he shall amuse me. Let us go to meet this idle 
 monster." 
 
 She sprang out of the window and ran down the 
 drive. Her red frock caught up, a many-frilled petticoat 
 falling about her like the petals of a scarlet rose, made 
 her a sudden blossom under the green linden branches. 
 
 Tom reined up before the brilliant little creature that 
 danced like a will-o'-the-wisp in his path. He leaped 
 from the saddle, smiling his brightest welcome. Tonina 
 caught his hand in both hers and shot radiant eyes 
 at him. 
 
 "Set me on this splendid horse, you handsome Tom. 
 I too would look divine." 
 
 Tom reddened and laughed bashfully as he lifted her 
 to the saddle and held her there while Katherine led 
 Rocket along the drive. 
 
 In three days Tonina had made her own place in the 
 house. She talked to Mrs. Fleming, fascinated Tom, and 
 did not interfere with Katherine. 
 
 Out of doors she wanted no society but Tom's. He 
 taught her to ride, to drive, to row. \Vhen they were not 
 engaged with these serious occupations they were playing 
 hide-and-seek in the hay, or tennis in the old quarry. 
 Tonina's violin lay dumb in its case. 
 
 Peggy was breaking in a young horse, and did not 
 join the idle pair, who made holiday for a long fortnight.
 
 GODS OR MORTALS? I 35 
 
 Then one evening Tonina took her violin, and played 
 for hours. . . . The next morning she left the farm as 
 suddenly as she had arrived. She had found her art 
 again. 
 
 She stood at the carriage window tossing kisses to 
 Katherine, her old bright self But Tom watched her 
 from the platform with a new look on his face. 
 
 That afternoon Katherine was weeding a bed of 
 onions when a shadow fell on her work. It was Peggy, 
 who had come up unobserved. 
 
 "Hillo, Kit! So Tonina's gone at last?" 
 
 "Why didn't you come to say good-bye?" Katherine 
 asked. 
 
 "Afraid of betraying my grief at losing her," said 
 Peggy. "Has Tom recovered from his yet?" 
 
 "Tom? I haven't seen Tom," said Katherine, 
 straightening herself "What do you mean, Peggy?" 
 
 "You blind bat! Haven't you noticed his infatua- 
 tion?" 
 
 "Don't be absurd, Peggy," said Katherine, impatiently. 
 "It is not like you to talk in this way." 
 
 Peggy laughed lightly. "Well, we'll not quarrel over 
 Tom. Tonina's gone, and it's all right." 
 
 "It would have been all right, however long she had 
 stayed," said Katherine, doggedly. 
 
 Peggy laughed again. "Let's forget Tonina. . . . Did 
 you see that your friend Franklin had been distinguishing 
 himself? He opposed all the Labour people in the coal 
 strike; and in spite of them he has made terms with the 
 masters and got a victory for the men." 
 
 "How splendid!" Katherine exclaimed, flushing. 
 
 The thing was with her for the rest of the day. It
 
 136 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 woke the slumbering thought of FrankUn, but she was too 
 busy to dwell on her pride in him. 
 
 At last night came, and the house was still. She 
 climbed to her room, and throwing open her lattice, she 
 drank in the peace of the moonlit night. There was 
 peace in her heart too. 
 
 Success had come that summer with the fruit. The 
 garden was paying well. Strawberries and new potatoes 
 were bringing in already a harvest of silver. 
 
 Mrs. Fleming wept at the indignity of selling "like 
 common gardeners," and Tom mocked; but Katherine 
 went her way, being helped by Collop and Martha. 
 
 It was easy enough to have her way. Mrs. Fleming, 
 seeing that she was not consulted in house or farm, spent 
 her days on the sofa, reading novels; and during the last 
 fortnight Katherine might have sold all their stock and 
 Tom would not have known it. 
 
 Tired as she was, Katherine felt a glow of pleasure in 
 her work. It was pleasant to know the men said Miss 
 Fleming was best man at Great Lowlands, and was saving 
 the farm. If the thought of her ruined career. came to 
 her she put it aside. Life was not over. When the farm 
 was saved she would return to London, write her book, 
 and become a leader in the Labour movement. It was 
 right that she should return. Tonina had told her 
 that Mark had given up the cause, and taken a post 
 as editor of a society paper. It paid better than 
 public questions, and the flat in Ridgmont Gardens was 
 expensive. 
 
 Katherine's lips curled as she thought of Mark. To- 
 nina's talk of him showed that he had grown mercenary 
 and selfish. Well, she would return to help the people's 
 cause. Meanwhile she was not wasting time. On the
 
 GODS OR MORTALS:* 1 37 
 
 farm and in the village she saw the Labour question from 
 the inside; and she felt she had a surer grip of the 
 subject. 
 
 She had more grip of herself too. A year of out- 
 door life had settled her nerves; her ideas were no 
 longer hysterical; she had more balance. She had found 
 that the educated mind told on the farm as well as in 
 journalism. 
 
 She had gained other knowledge as well. She had 
 learned the secrets of sky and cloud; of the warm red 
 earth and its burden of green; and the knowledge was 
 all the fairer for the Greek idea in which she could 
 enfold it. 
 
 The breezes had more life when she summoned them 
 to the Tower of the Winds and saw the winged pro- 
 cession floating round the capital. Every tree she knew 
 held its Dryad, every stream its Naiad. In the torn fur- 
 rows of earth she had glimpses of life that "made her less 
 forlorn;" and in every field she saw Demeter with the 
 wistful Persephone beside her. 
 
 "It is a good life," she said to herself, as she looked 
 through the grey lichened trunks, and saw on the grass 
 the trembling moonlight bars like the score of some wizard 
 melody. "It is a good life; but the gods don't arrive; 
 not Jove and not Eros." 
 
 Her thoughts turned wistfully to Franklin. He had 
 kept silence all these months, and had never returned to 
 the farm. And yet she had been conscious of a change 
 in him the last time she had seen him. There had cer- 
 tainly been meaning in that glance. . . . 
 
 She pulled herself together. Had she not resented 
 his persistent misunderstanding of her? Had she not set 
 aside the thought of him all these months? . . .
 
 I3S THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 But she was proud of him to-day, of his independence 
 and truth. He was a stroi.g man, not a pretty boy hke 
 Celandine Ambrose. He was blunt, even rough in man- 
 ner, but his grave face held possibilities of tenderness. 
 His eyes could be wonderfully kind. . . . 
 
 She stopped herself again. . . . After all, Franklin was 
 nothing to her. . . . And why should she dream of love? 
 Mark had loved, yet he had grown selfish. Peggy loved, 
 and it made her unkind and suspicious, Martha loved, 
 and she had to bear the burden of Collop's failing health. 
 "Oh, what a plague is love!" Katherine sighed. "Why 
 should any woman wait for it as the gift of the gods?" 
 And yet . . . Ah! it was a good gift, with all its pain and 
 disillusion and agony. . . . Peggy had had the gladness 
 of the merry dawn in the corn-fields; and Martha helping 
 her old man down the valley was tasting the sacrament 
 of love. 
 
 Tears gathered in Katherine's eyes. "Neither death 
 nor life, nor things present nor things to come, will bring 
 us anything better than love!" she cried passionately. . . . 
 "And I would give up everything for his love. . . . He 
 doesn't know how empty his life is. . . . And he will grow 
 old and need a woman's love. ... If he only knew how 
 I love him! . . ." 
 
 She looked into the shadows, and her face showed 
 sharp and strained in the moonlight. 
 
 Suddenly her eyes sprang between the branches 
 below. Something whiter than the light was moving 
 there. 
 
 She leaned forward, holding her breath, and her 
 hands tightened on each other. . . . Dim and cold and 
 ghostly two figures threaded the light and shade of the 
 orchard. The bare, beautiful forms were surely more
 
 GODS OR MORTALS r" 1 39 
 
 than mortal. The wind carried their voices through the 
 orchard in soft whisperings. 
 
 Katherine scarcely breathed. "The god's arrive," she 
 thought; "Jove himself and Eros. . . ." 
 
 She pinched her arm to prove that she was awake. 
 Then a cloud darkened the moon, and when she could 
 see again, the orchard was empty and silent but for the 
 quivering music bars on the grass. 
 
 She turned dazed into the room. Who could be in 
 the orchard at that hour? Tom had long ago gone to 
 bed, and the men left the farm at sundown. Besides, the 
 naked figures had been slight and boyish. . . . Who could 
 it have been if not unearthly visitants? 
 
 Like a pleased child Katherine clapped her hands 
 and laughed aloud. 
 
 She had seen — 
 
 "White presences upon the hills, 
 And heard the voices of the immortal gods."
 
 PART II. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 OH, WHAT A PLAGUE IS LOVE! 
 
 "We shall soon have a frost," said Katherine, blowing 
 on her fingers, red and tingling with cold. "Peggy, don't 
 you love these autumn days?" 
 
 It was Sunday afternoon. The two girls were sitting 
 in the arbour in the orchard. The smell of the traveller's 
 joy a-blossom mixed with whiffs from the bruised apples 
 lying on the grass. Overhead the fruit hung, clustering 
 redly. Peggy's eyes strayed between the boughs to the 
 green of young pines bounding the yellow fields. 
 
 Her face had grown thin lately, but there was the 
 old sturdy ring in her voice when she answered, — 
 
 "Can't say I do. There's something depressing about 
 harvesting." 
 
 "Depressing!" Katherine echoed. "It's the triumph 
 of the year. There's not a note of sadness in it." 
 
 "That's all nonsense," said Peggy. "It's sad; it's 
 horribly sad. You see the awful inevitableness of nature, 
 — the tremendous power drawing like from like. . . . You 
 feel the doom of consequences. You know you have to 
 reap your crops. . . . And if you think about it at all it 
 drives you mad." 
 
 Katherine turned amazed eyes on Peggy.
 
 OH, WHAT A PLAGUE IS LOVE! I4I 
 
 "Fact, Kit," she nodded, a smile twisting her hps. 
 "Saul among the prophets, and Peg Saunders among the 
 preachers." 
 
 "I don't see how you can joke about it," said Ka- 
 therine. 
 
 "Gracious! I'm not joking," said Peggy; "but a light 
 seat will carry you better over the fence. Laugh and 
 grow wise is a good old saw. ... No, Kit, I don't like 
 harvest fields; I prefer pine-trees. . . ." 
 
 "Aren't my pines coming on splendidly?" Katherine 
 exclaimed. "Pm so proud of my plantation." 
 
 "What's the good of planting trees? You'll be dead 
 before they're grown." 
 
 "I plant for the immortal gods," said Katherine, proudly. 
 
 Peggy laughed at the classic answer. "You'd have 
 done better to see to the human trees round you," she 
 said, suddenly grave. . . . "Tom, for instance." 
 
 "What has he been doing?" 
 
 "He won't let me give him Rocket, as fine a piece of 
 horseflesh as ever you saw. . , . And I know he can't buy 
 him." 
 
 "Pm glad he has enough self-respect to refuse the 
 present," said Katherine. 
 
 "It ain't self-respect. ... By that same token he has 
 refused me," said Pegsiy, brusquely. 
 
 "What do you mean, Peggy?" 
 
 "What I say," Peggy answered. "Tom's off with the 
 old love, and on with the new." 
 
 "Tom has jilted you?" Katherine cried. 
 
 Peggy knotted her fingers together, and her eyes 
 looked straight before her. 
 
 "The coward! the base coward!" Katherine ex- 
 claimed. "I'm ashamed to own him."
 
 142 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 "It's not Tom's fault," said Peggy, stonily. "It's the 
 natural end to a butterfly love. If you catch your 
 butterfly, you bruise its wings, and it's not worth keeping. 
 . . . You told me it couldn't last; he would find some- 
 one else. Well, he has found someone else. . . ." 
 
 "But who is there?" Katherine asked bewildered. 
 "There is no one here, , . ." 
 
 "There is Tonina. . . ." 
 
 "Absurd!" said Katherine, frowning. "Tom never 
 sees Tonina." 
 
 Peggy laughed a bitter, mirthless laugh. 
 
 "It is you who never see Tom. The thing has been 
 going on these three months, ever since she was here in 
 June. Tom has gone to town every week, and you were 
 only relieved that he was out of your way. It's your fault 
 if he is ruined. . . ." 
 
 "IVIy fault! But I never interfere with Tom." 
 
 "That is just it," Peggy answered. "You never inter- 
 fere with Tom. You leave him free to go to the devil if 
 he will. . . . You came and took his one duty — the farm 
 — from him. . . . Why didn't you teach him to manage 
 it, to see his duty to the land and the crops and the 
 cattle and the men? But no! you turned him adrift with 
 nothing to do. . . . Then you came and told me what I 
 ought to do. . . . That was right enough. It was true 
 what you said. It has come true, you see. . . ." 
 
 Katherine listened to Peggy's hopeless tones, her face 
 changing from red to white, from white to red. 
 
 When Peggy was silent she lifted her head haughtily. 
 
 "Every just person knows I have sacrificed everything 
 for the farm. I've done all I could for Tom. It's not 
 my fault that he is despicable." 
 
 "Yes, yes, you have done all you can," Peggy interrupted.
 
 OH, WHAT A PLAGUE IS LOVE! 1 43 
 
 "One can never do much for a person one despises. . . . 
 You need trust and love. You never trusted Tom's man- 
 hood, — ^just as I never loved him in the right wa3\ And 
 now it is too late." 
 
 The humble, broken words went to Katherine's heart. 
 She took Peggy's hand. 
 
 "No, it is not too late. We will try together, Peggy. 
 No one has come between you and Tom. . . ." 
 
 "If you could have seen anything beyond your own 
 good you would have seen otherwise long ago," said 
 Peggy, curtly. 
 
 She got up from her seat and walked off, whistling 
 gaily. 
 
 But Katherine had seen her pitiful eyes. 
 
 "Oh, what a plague is love!" Katherine thought as 
 she watched her. 
 
 She sat still, pondering on what Peggy had said, re- 
 sentful of her accusation. . . . But of course there was 
 ' nothing in it. Peggy took a warped view of the situation, 
 and did not understand her difficulties with Tom. . . . 
 As to his coldness, there was nothing in that either, — a 
 little pique at his refusal of the horse. The story of To- 
 nina she dismissed with a shrug. Peggy had always had 
 an unreasoning dislike to Tonina. Tom would never 
 break faith with Peggy. He was a lazy fellow, but 
 lovable; and he had a good heart. During his mother's 
 long illness he had carried her downstairs every day, and 
 wheeled her about the garden for hours. Katherine re- 
 membered her home-coming, and the lunch he had given 
 her in this very arbour. He had been simple and kind 
 and affectionate then. Fifteen months could not have 
 made him base and a coward. . . . She had only to speak 
 to him, and he would make up this little lovers' quarrel.
 
 144 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 As to this Story of visits to Toniiia, — that was ridicul- 
 ous! . . . 
 
 She gave herself a little determined shake. She would 
 see Tom and set things right at once. 
 
 On her way to the house one of the maids met her. 
 "If you please, miss, Collop's dying; and Martha says will 
 you go to the cottage as soon as you can." 
 
 Without a word Katherine turned towards Milkmaid 
 Cottage. All the eager decision and quick method had 
 passed from her face. 
 
 "Poor Martha! poor old Martha!" she said pitifully. 
 
 She pitied herself too. If Collop died, who would 
 help her with the farm? It was he who had told her 
 the right thing to do, — when to cut the hay, when to hoe 
 the turnips, when the corn was ripe; what bullocks to 
 sell, how many sheep to keep, — all the daily order and 
 sequence which belong to the farm life, which looks so 
 astonishingly simple, and is in reality so bewilderingly 
 complex. 
 
 Her success had been due to him, and no one had 
 suspected that he was the god behind the machine. 
 
 She passed the pond, and noticed the dip of boughs 
 in the water, the ripples made by the wind, the swing of 
 the plants in the tiny waves. The forget-me-nots made 
 her think of Sarah's book-mark with its blue flowers and 
 hearts and love-knots. 
 
 The boat was moored under the trees; it rose and 
 fell softly with the moving water. Her thoughts went 
 back to the summer morning long ago when she had 
 lectured Peggy in the boat; and now it was Peggy who 
 accused her. . . . 
 
 She opened the garden gate and passed up to the 
 cottage between the rows of hollyhock and sunflowers that
 
 OH, WHAT A PLAGUE IS LOVE ! 1 45 
 
 Martha loved. A great green cushion spiked with purple 
 lavender pins stood beside the door; and under the bush 
 Fan was asleep with a two months' puppy. Fan opened 
 her eyes, and wagged a lazy tail in welcome. The house 
 was very still. Katherine looked through the kitchen 
 window, and she shuddered at the sight of a crouching 
 figure by the fire. It was Susan Parkin, the professional 
 "layer-out" of Plimpton. . . . Then Collop was dead. . . . 
 
 She stepped on tiptoe into the kitchen. 
 
 "When did it happen?" she whispered. 
 
 The woman lifted her head. "He ain't gone yet, 
 drat en! He takes a tarrible long time a-dying; and I 
 durstn't leave he though there's another waiting as may 
 go any minute." 
 
 "Why do you stay?" 
 
 The woman seemed to be measuring the girl's chances 
 of life. "Pm bound to stay," she answered. "Martha 
 Collop is that contrary, her says as her will lay out 
 Collop hersen, and nobody sha'n't touch the corp. ... It 
 be taking the very bread out of a pore woman's mouth, 
 and I be setting here to stop en. I ha' the ironing board 
 ready and the towels and bandagings; and the minute 
 the breath do be out of en I'll nip up and get he laid 
 out before Martha's done her grieving; which be nat'ral 
 to a widder left respectable and no family." 
 
 Katherine went to the door and flung it wide. 
 
 "Go out of the house this minute!" she said, her 
 cheeks white with anger. "Do you hear me? . . . Go!" 
 
 She stamped her foot; and Susan Parkin hobbled to 
 the door, giving her a sideways, resentful glance. 
 
 "Hoity toity! and you're a young miss to be order- 
 ing in and ordering out," she grumbled. "And you'll be 
 ordering me in to the great house before long. ... I alius 
 
 The Gods Arrive. lO
 
 146 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 knows en. ... I do smell death in en months before; and 
 so I telled Martha the beginning o' the week before last. 
 Says I, 'Martha,' I says, 'wash your 'usband and make 
 en coniforrable, for I smells death in en.' And her that's 
 to be young Mrs. Tom her do be marked for death. . . . 
 ay, I smells death in en. . . ." 
 
 Katherine savagely pushed the woman into the garden 
 and locked the door. Sick with loathing she stumbled 
 up to CoUop's room. Hearing nothing, she pushed open 
 the door and went in. 
 
 Collop had his eyes towards the window that framed 
 a picture of leaves trembling against clouds white as the 
 pillows on which he lay. A light wind wafted about the 
 smell of herbs — thyme and mint and lads' love — that 
 were under his fingers on the counterpane. Martha held 
 his other hand. Her sprigged pink gown was the only 
 colour in the room. 
 
 Katherine stooped and kissed her, in silence. 
 
 "He be past feeling or hearing, missie," Martha whis- 
 pered. "He'll go peaceful, looking out on that friar's 
 balsam he alius had a fancy for. I moved the curtains 
 a-purpose." 
 
 "How beautiful everything is, Martha. You have 
 made it all so clean." 
 
 Martha's lips trembled, but she looked round her 
 proudly. 
 
 "He's been a rare man for things decent, my old 
 man; never could a-bear dirt. ... It do be hard lines to 
 think on en going from dust to dust. . . . This arternoon 
 I seed his time were come, and I up and puts on a 
 clean print that Collop should see me as fair at the last 
 as on the day we courted. ... I doubt they won't know 
 to make him comforrable where he be going to. . .
 
 OH, WHAT A PLAGUE IS LOVE! 1 47 
 
 Parson telled he o' the angels and the music and the 
 harps. . . . But Collop never could a-bear they German 
 bands. He'd sooner hear the old woman's tongue than 
 the finest music. . . . Missie, you're tarrible book-learned. 
 You can put things better than such as we. I'd take it 
 kindly if you telled me Collop and me will live together 
 again, please God." 
 
 Katherine was silent; a lump rose in her throat. 
 Book-learning had given her no consolation for Martha. 
 Philosophy could not satisfy the heart standing at the 
 parting of the ways. 
 
 "My old man, he thought a sight o' you, duckie," 
 said Martha. "Whenever as anything worrited he, 'Now, 
 if Miss Katherine was here, her would ret it right quick 
 as you're thinking,' he'd say. And that do be a great 
 question: to know if me and Collop will live together 
 again." 
 
 Her eyes questioned hungrily. Katherine groped 
 among her memories for some truth on which the poor 
 soul could stay her heart. In her mind was a confusion 
 of premises and data; but there was no logical sequence 
 to the premise of life but death. And, after all, was that 
 a logical sequence? . . . 
 
 She remembered some lines from a Persian poet: — 
 
 "A house, though a million winters old, 
 A house of earth comes down at last; 
 Then quarry thy stones from the crystal All 
 And build the dome that shall not fall." 
 
 But what was there here of heart's comfort for the dying 
 and the living? 
 
 Katherine was dumb. Her tears rolled down and 
 fell on Martha's hand. Martha's fingers tightened on 
 
 10*
 
 148 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 Collop's. Her eyes left the girl's face and travelled to the 
 dying man's, and stayed there hopelessly. . . . 
 
 Through the window came the sound of church bells 
 ringing for evensong. . . . 
 
 The old woman got up slowly from her seat, and 
 kissed the cold hand she laid down. 
 
 "It be time the fowlses had their suppers," she said. 
 "I'll see to them if missie will stay with my old man." 
 
 "I'll go and feed them!" Katherine sprang up eagerly. 
 
 Martha shook her head. 
 
 "They knows me, and I wouldn't have 'em think I 
 neglected 'em, no, that I wouldn't. And the old white 
 hen be setting on duckses eggs, and I must see if any be 
 comed out." 
 
 She went downstairs, and Katherine heard her calling, 
 but there was no cheery note in her voice to-day. "Come, 
 my dearies, come! Mother's got your suppers: come, 
 dearies. Chuck! chuck! Quick, duckies, quick! Mother 
 wants to get back to father." 
 
 When she returned she brought some tea, which Ka- 
 therine drank, choking. She was so sorry for Martha, 
 and she couldn't even comfort her. 
 
 There was nothing to be done for Collop. Katherine 
 sat on, fascinated by the picture of the dying man and 
 his wife. 
 
 While she watched a change came over Martha. Her 
 face became full and rosy and young. Katherine shivered, 
 seeing that strange youth. "Martha will die when Col- 
 lop dies," she thought. She knelt down beside her and 
 touched her hand. 
 
 "Martha, what are you thinking about?" 
 
 "I do be thinking o' the time we was courting, 
 duckie."
 
 OH, WHAT A PLAGUE IS LOVE! 149 
 
 "Tell me about it," said the girl, softly. 
 
 A happy light was on the old face. Martha spoke 
 like one in a dream. 
 
 "I was a bit of a girl, sixteen past; and I were dairy- 
 maid on a farm at a shilling a week, so you may know 
 as I was young. And Collop were working on the turn- 
 pike a-pulling down of some old housen, and he used to 
 whistle at me going by to my work. . . . Well, gals was 
 not so forward then — no, I am sure they was not! and I 
 thought nothing on en till one day I met he alone. . . . 
 And I got all in a flutter, and that shy I could only 
 hang my head and stand making knots in my apron. 
 And Collop said we'd take a walk the next Sunday to- 
 gether. And I said, 'Oh, go along! I'm sure we won't 
 then;' but I meant going all the same. And so we went 
 on the Sunday. The sun shone lovely, and we went 
 through the meddars, and him pelting me with big ox-eye 
 daisies. . . . That was love toys. . . ." 
 
 She stopped. Her eyes were far away. Katherine 
 pressed her hand. "And after that, Martha?" 
 
 "There was nothing said of love, dearie. And the 
 very next week they moved en to another part. . . ." 
 
 "And then, dear?" 
 
 "I didn't see en for six year, nor thought about en 
 neither. . . . And no more he did o' me, and maybe went 
 a-courting to another sweetheart. . . . But one day my 
 brother Harry comed in, and says he, 'Martha, there 
 was a man to-day asking for you.' — 'Oh, bother!' I 
 says, 'go along with your tales. I don't believe you.' — 
 'It's gospel truth,' says he, 'and he gived me sixpence, 
 and there 'tis.' True enough, Harry had gotten a whole 
 sixpence. . . . And the next week I went to be cook and 
 dairymaid at Grimple. . . ."
 
 150 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 "But, Martha, that was not all? , . ." Katherine 
 softly broke the long silence. 
 
 "No, that it wasn't. One Sunday I were going to 
 church. 'T was Foresters' day, and the clubs was march- 
 ing wi' their bands. Me and some other gals was 
 a-marching along beside 'em when I felt a knock be- 
 tween my shoulders, and when I turned there were Col- 
 lop! . . . He was growed, and had a stubby beard, and 
 carried a bow-arrow in his hand; and he wore a green 
 sash over his smock as made he look a personable man. 
 And 't was the bow-arrow he'd knocked me with. . . . 
 'Well,' says he. 'Well?' says I. 'Will you have a walk 
 after church?' says he. 'Oh, go along!' says I; 'there's 
 another young man after me.' — 'He won't have you, then, 
 for I will have you,' says he. With that I looked at en, 
 thinking, 'Bother! I likes you!' But I only tossed my 
 head at en to pretend as how I thought nothing of en. 
 . . . But I went to church and sat in the gallery, and 
 kept my eyes on en all through the sermon. . . ." 
 
 Martha's eyes were smiling now. 
 
 "Well, Martha, well?" Katherine said eagerly. 
 
 "Ay, duckie, 'twas well indeed. The very next Sun- 
 day, 'Sweetlips,' says he, 'I'm a-going to take you to my 
 mother. I telled her I was courting, and you're to have 
 your tea with my mother.' Well, missie, I was that shy. 
 . . . But I went with CoUop, as they was expecting of 
 me, and I was just taken aback with the clean house." 
 She went on quickly in pleased remembrance. "They 
 was poor folkses, but they had a bit o' ground, and a 
 pig or two, and everything was just as clean, — Collop's 
 mother being a religious woman, with the minister visiting 
 en constant. . . . The tea were set in the arbour lovely; 
 and all round 'em there was cherry-trees and merry-
 
 OH, WHAT A PLAGUE IS LOVE! I5I 
 
 trees, and gooseberries and strawberries and currants. 
 And there was a beautiful cloth on the table as clean as 
 a mouse. . . . 'Humph,' I says to myself, 'there's a deal 
 o' cleanliness with very little grub.' For though the loaf 
 was big as a cottage, the butter was the size of a walnut 
 . . . But there was grace said, both before and after, — 
 she alius had en that way, poor dear! — and when us 
 was well through with the loaf her fetched out a piece o' 
 meat and offered en. . . . Well, I could ha' laughed at 
 such ways; and did, going home with Collop. And every 
 now and again he'd put a cherry or a merry in my 
 mouth. . . . But that was only love toys. . . ." 
 
 Martha was a long time silent. "Go on, dear," 
 Katherine whispered. 
 
 "Six months after that we was married, duckie. I 
 wore a slate-coloured alpaca, flowered, with a cape to 
 match, and a white straw bonnet that costed three and 
 sixpence, with white ribbons at fourteen pence the yard, 
 and orange blossoms inside; so you may know 'twas 
 good. And Collop was as fine as a bird, wearing black 
 pants and a white linen smock with tippets. It was 
 worked lovely, and split at the sides for the pockets. . . ." 
 
 "And was that all?" Katherine asked. 
 
 "That was nothing at all, missie. I hadn't been 
 a-married long before I found out that Collop were 
 nobbut a man. But from that day to this us haven't 
 had ne'er a wrong word between us; no, not even when 
 there were money-talk between us. . . . But I never was 
 one to keep my old man short; he alius had a shilling in 
 his pocket. He knowed he durstn't spend it, but it 
 quietened en. . . . No, never no words between we there 
 was, though we ha' been married forty year." 
 
 "You have been very happy," said Katherine.
 
 152 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 "Ay, as happy as a pair o' linnets. . . . Oftens when 
 I puts on a clean print I durstn't go into the kitchen if 
 Collop were there. I knowed 'twould be 'Gie us a 
 kiss, sweetlips.' He be so soft, be Collop, when I'm 
 dressed up a bit . . . only to-day he ha'n't took no no- 
 tice. . . ." 
 
 Martha woke from her dream, and fixed her eyes 
 wistfully on the old man's face. . . . Then the smile 
 faded, and lines and wrinkles chased the youth from her 
 face. Trembling, she rose and drew the lids over Col- 
 lop's eyes. 
 
 "He be gone very quiet, as quiet as a worm, thank 
 God," she said hoarsely. "And that be the last of my 
 old man till the burying on Wednesday. . . ." 
 
 She stood looking at the dead. Katherine dared not 
 move lest she should break the silence that had fallen 
 in the room. Martha stooped and stroked Collop's limbs; 
 and twilight laid its shadows about the living and the 
 dead. 
 
 Stepping very softly Katherine went downstairs. The 
 fire was out in the kitchen, and the empty grate smote 
 her coldly. She went into the garden and brought in 
 Fan's puppy. She lighted a candle, and by the deserted 
 hearth she lived over again the terror and the pity of the 
 scene upstairs. 
 
 She had never faced the question of death before. 
 She had never looked into blank eyes, and felt the shock 
 which loosens one's hold of both worlds. Her heart cried 
 out for some sure resting-place. . , . 
 
 The puppy in her arms looked up and licked the 
 tears running down her cheeks. She could hear Martha 
 upstairs moving about, doing the last service for her old 
 man. How pitiful it was, she thought, the end of this
 
 OH, WHAT A PLAGUE IS LOVE! 1 53 
 
 forty years' love, . . . But was it the end? Would love 
 meet love again? There was no escape from it; she was 
 back again at the great question. She had no answer for 
 it; but it had roused another: — 
 
 "Of love that never finds its earthly close, what 
 sequel?" Martha had tasted life's best. What of the 
 heart to which love only came in mockery? 
 
 A shadow passed the window, then came back, and 
 rested on the uncurtained window. 
 
 The candle showed the girl sitting with grief-stricken 
 eyes, the puppy, heavy with sleep, pressed against her 
 face. 
 
 Franklin had never seen Katherine look so humble 
 and sad and gentle. An unwonted tenderness stirred in 
 him. He knocked and came into the kitchen. 
 
 Katherine started up, and the colour flooded her face. 
 She reached out her hand, and her fingers clung to his, 
 sending the blood through his veins in a tumult. 
 
 "I wanted to see you," he said quietly. "They told 
 me you were here. . . . What a jolly little chap. . . . 
 What do they call you, sir, eh?" He played an instant 
 with the dog, pulling his ears and teasing him. "Can 
 you spare me a minute, Miss Katherine?" 
 
 She drew Collop's arm-chair forward for Franklin, and 
 sat down herself in the seat opposite. 
 
 "Poor old Collop is dead," she said, as if to explain 
 her agitation; "and — and you surprised me. . . ." 
 
 "You are suffering," he said anxiously. 
 
 "It is not that," she answered gently. "But things 
 are so hard. One strives and strives and strives, and it 
 is all failure. Life is lonely, and death is lonely. . . . And 
 we are helpless before it all. Nothing serves. . . . We
 
 154 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 cry out for eternity — and we can't even tell if there is an 
 eternity." 
 
 "The kingdom of God is within you," said Franklin, 
 shyly. "Isn't that enough? . . ." 
 
 She did not answer. 
 
 "We are having a meeting at Grimple on Wednes- 
 day," he said, suddenly changing his tone. "Pilchard is 
 standing for South Hampshire. Will you come and speak 
 for us?" 
 
 She lifted her head sharply, and he saw the life 
 flash back to face and eyes. Her dejection was banished 
 by the ambition that braced the lines of her figure. 
 
 "To speak again!" she cried, with a long, slow 
 breath of delight. 
 
 "Yes; you could manage it easily. You will come 
 then? Wednesday, three o'clock. , . ." 
 
 Katherine's face changed. 
 
 "I can't go," she said drearily. "I must stay with 
 Martha. It is Collop's funeral. . . ." 
 
 The shadow was on his face too when he spoke. 
 
 "I am very sorry; but of course you can't leave 
 the poor old lady. . . . Well, never mind," he 
 said more cheerfully. "We shall do very well without 
 you. . . ." 
 
 "Yes, you can do without me," she said bitterly. "It 
 is always the same thing. I am not wanted, — not here 
 nor in the Movement." 
 
 "You are certainly needed here," he said. "Move- 
 ments can do without us; we are not necessary to any 
 cause. They will run their course without us. We are 
 only necessary — men and women are only necessary to 
 ... to each other. ..."
 
 OH, WHAT A PLAGUE IS LOVE ! 155 
 
 He drew out his watch. "My tune is up. I must 
 fly. . . ." 
 
 He took her hand a minute. "There was something 
 . . .But I will see you again. I must see you again 
 soon," 
 
 Katherine sat still in her chair in a tumult of feeling 
 from which Martha called her. 
 
 "Missie, will you come and help me to lay out my old 
 man?" 
 
 And while Katherine's hands moved about the dead 
 man, her thoughts were circling round Franklin and a 
 living love.
 
 156 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 woman's independence. 
 
 It was late on Monday night. Katharine was lying 
 on the sofa in the parlour, worn out after her work and 
 the emotions of the day before. She was sitting up for 
 Tom. She must have the talk with him that Collop's 
 death had deferred. 
 
 Her thoughts wandered to Franklin's unexpected 
 appearance at the cottage, and she forgot her weari- 
 ness. . . . 
 
 Franklin had wished her to speak at Grimple! "I 
 always knew he would change his opinion of me," she 
 thought proudly. 
 
 But pride gave way to a softer feeling that poured 
 through her like a flood of sunlight. "I wasn't mis- 
 taken," she whispered shyly, "I know he cares for me. . . ." 
 
 A sudden warmth set the blood galloping in her 
 veins. She remembered his words, "Men and women 
 are only necessary to each other." Had he begun to find 
 that out? . . . Her heart laughed aloud in its gladness. 
 . . . She tried to recall his features, and failed. Were 
 his eyes blue or grey? . . . She only remembered their 
 kindness. . . . She dwelt on the moment when he had 
 held her hand. She had felt a curious sense of having 
 lost her hand in his. There had been only one 
 hand in that clasp. How strong yet how fender it had 
 been! . . . And he was wise and strong and restful. If
 
 woman's independence. 157 
 
 he took life more seriously than most men she Hked him 
 the better for it. That undertone of earnestness gave 
 stabihty. ... Ah ! how fine he was ! And how she loved 
 him! How could she ever have thought her love was 
 dead? . . . 
 
 She got up from the sofa, lifting her arms with a fierce 
 longing to draw his face to hers, to feel her love resting 
 against his love. 
 
 Her bosom swelled; she seemed to grow taller and 
 fairer in the exaltation of feeling. She loved him! She 
 loved him! And he loved her, and would make her 
 worthy of him. . . . Ah! she was not worthy. 
 
 Her arms dropped; she withered and grew small. 
 . . . What would she give him for all he would give 
 her? Intellect? What was intellect worth when it could 
 not solve the problem of death? Success? But her suc- 
 cess on the farm had been due to Collop. Energy? 
 Perseverance? But they were the tools of ambition. 
 Love? Yes, she loved him, but would her love last? 
 
 She had loved Mark in the old days when he had 
 helped her and given her independence. She had said 
 she could never be happy away from him; yet he had 
 passed out of her life, and she did not even miss him. 
 . . . She shivered. Peggy had said she could see nothing 
 beyond her own good. Was it true? Was her love merely 
 selfish? 
 
 She probed her love for Franklin; then with a sob- 
 bing triumph she lifted her head. Here at least she was 
 safe. She loved him for nothing that he could give her, 
 not position, not power, not the life that attracted her. 
 He was a poor man wearing shabby clothes. He was not 
 good-looking even. She loved him only for himself If 
 he stood penniless, a beggar in rags, she would be proud
 
 158 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 to marry him. If by dying she could serve him, death 
 would be sweet. . . . 
 
 She breathed fast; her eyes smiled. "Greater love 
 hath no man than this," she whispered. . . . But was 
 that the supreme renunciation? She could give her life 
 for Franklin; could she give up her love for him? 
 
 The triumph was over. . . . Her face grew blank. She 
 crouched down beside the sofa, and her arms tightened 
 across her bosom as if to strain to her the love she could 
 not renounce. 
 
 "Hillo, Kit! What in the world are you doing down 
 there on the floor?" 
 
 It was Tom. He came into the room, sat down, and 
 began kicking off his shoes. 
 
 "Hang the beastly things! They've driven me mad 
 all day." 
 
 Katherine came round to his side and looked down 
 at the shoes. 
 
 "What is wrong with them?" Her manner was quite 
 commonplace. 
 
 "Too beastly tight," he grumbled. "Enough to make 
 a fellow swear. Get me something to drink, will you. 
 Kit?" 
 
 "Supper is in the breakfast room, Tom." 
 
 Katherine's eyes passed from the fashionable shoes 
 on the floor to the lemons -coloured kid gloves on 
 the table. She studied Tom curiously. He wore the 
 high collar and white tie of the masher. A coat of smart 
 cut made the most of his excellent figure. He seemed 
 unusually well set up about the legs. What did it mean? 
 For whom did he dress like this? Was Peggy's story 
 true? Had Tonina wakened the vanity that sleeps in 
 every man, even in the most good-looking? Katherine
 
 woman's independence. 159 
 
 brought Tom's slippers with a grave face. She watched 
 him at his meal. He ate nothing; and when he had 
 emptied the jug of home-brewed he stretched himself, 
 yawning. 
 
 "Well, I'm off to bed. What are you so glum for. 
 Kit? Anything up?" 
 
 "Yes," said Katherine. "I wanted to ask you 
 about it." 
 
 "Humph! You don't often want to ask me about 
 anything." 
 
 "I know," she said eagerly. "But now Collop is dead 
 I want a man to advise me about things, and you must 
 help me, Tom dear." 
 
 He looked amiably at her, and sprawled complacently 
 in the chair he had pushed from the table. It might 
 have occurred to Katherine that flattery was the road to 
 his heart. 
 
 "Well, fire away, old girl. I suppose it's the new 
 cowman you want to talk about. It's a new thing for you 
 to want a fellow's advice. . . . Coming round to the ordi- 
 nary woman, eh?" 
 
 "Yes," said Katherine. "I think, Tom, I want to be 
 an ordinary woman. I want a man's love and strength. 
 . . . It's better to have these than the most brilliant pro- 
 fession." 
 
 "Course it is," said Tom with superiority. "Didn't I 
 always tell Peggy that. . . ." 
 
 He stopped, hitched up his collar, and excused his 
 red face with, "This confounded necktie!" 
 
 "Peggy has been here to-day, Tom. I'm anxious 
 about her. She is in trouble. . . ." 
 
 "What's that got to do with me ? " said Tom, 
 boldly.
 
 l6o THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 He walked to the mantelpiece and stood with his back 
 to Katherine, kicking the coal, and whistling. 
 
 "Tom, do listen!" she said entreatingly. "Isn't it 
 your fault? Are you treating her well?" 
 
 He turned round sharply. "What has she told you?" 
 
 "She said you had given her up." 
 
 "And so I have." He laughed uneasily. "Peggy is 
 not the sort for me. I want more spirit. Mark is a lucky 
 dog. Tonina's a rattler if you like. . . . No getting round 
 her." 
 
 "Peggy has spirit enough," said Katherine, warmly. 
 "Her only fault is in loving you so much. Tom, it will 
 break her heart if you throw her off." 
 
 "Not it!" he shuffled uneasily. "It's nothing to her. 
 That sort of girl doesn't break her heart. . . . Well, if 
 that's all you've got to say. Kit, I'm off." He yawned 
 again. 
 
 " Oh, Tom, don't go ! You haven't told me how Tonina 
 is. And did the flat look nice?" 
 
 Tom fell into the trap. 
 
 "Ripping!" he said. "And Tonina was as larkish as 
 ever. Mark didn't come home, so we had it to ourselves. 
 Tonina knows how to amuse a fellow." 
 
 He twirled the end of his moustache and looked out 
 of the corner of his eye as if he could have said more if 
 he had wished. 
 
 "Tell me all about it," said Katherine. 
 
 "Not I! I'm dead tired. I'm off to bed. Ask me to- 
 morrow." 
 
 Katherine sat over the fire thinking. Then Peggy was 
 right; Tom's visits to town were visits to Tonina. . . . 
 - In a while the trouble cleared from her eyes. He 
 had answered her questions easily and naturally; there
 
 woman's independence. i6i 
 
 was nothing to conceal. His friendship with Tonina had 
 been honest enough in the summer. They had amused 
 themselves like two children; and Tonina was not the 
 sort of woman to have a flirtation with a simple country 
 farmer. Still, for Peggy's sake, his visits to her must 
 stop. . . . 
 
 Katherine made up her mind to go to town and see 
 Tonina after Collop's funeral. . . . She would take her 
 some fruit; flowers, too; asters and sweet peas and 
 Michaelmas daisies. Tonina loved forget-me-nots, but they 
 were over. 
 
 Back again to her mind came the thought of Sarah's 
 book-marker with the forget-me-nots, and "Remember Me 
 when this you See." 
 
 Katherine wondered hovi^ Sarah was getting on, and 
 the milkman Jim who had criticised her work. 
 
 "He was quite right," she thought humbly. "It would 
 have been better to have made two sweethearts happy 
 together." 
 
 She looked back with amazement at the girl who had 
 refused to help Sarah's holiday. Could she ever have 
 been so selfish? It would be impossible to act like that 
 now. It would please her to help two lovers to be happy 
 together. . . . And why shouldn't she help these two? 
 She must find a new cowman. Jim might do for the 
 post, and Sarah had been laundry maid at a farm. They 
 might marry and come to Great Lowlands. . . . 
 
 The idea seized Katherine's imagination. She would 
 go to Goodge Street and have a talk with Sarah. She 
 grew excited over the plan that would atone for that re- 
 gretted selfishness. . . . 
 
 Tuesday and Wednesday were busy days, divided 
 from Thursday by a veil of emotion when she stood be- 
 
 Tlie Gods Ai-rive. 1 1
 
 I 62 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 side Martha at CoUop's grave. She had no hope to give, 
 but she followed the rector's voice with wistful longing: 
 "'It is sown in dishonour, it is raised in glory. It is sown 
 a natural body, it is raised a spiritual body.'" 
 
 She slept at Milkmaid Cottage that night, and waking 
 in the grey dawn she felt the desolation of the house that 
 is empty of human presence. She sprang from the bed 
 with a cry for Martha. The silence was a frame in which 
 she saw the strange youth of Martha's face the day Collop 
 had died. . . . She hurried on her clothes, and searched 
 the rooms, afraid of finding the old woman dead. 
 
 The cottage was empty. Her terror growing, she went 
 round the pond and among the trees, calling, "Martha, 
 Martha, where are you, Martha?" 
 
 "Here, missie, here!" The old woman forced a way 
 through the underwood and came out into the open. 
 
 Katherine Avas pale; she ran to meet her, eye and 
 voice reproachful. 
 
 "Oh, Martha, how you frightened me! Why are you 
 out so soon, before five o'clock?" 
 
 There was nothing of the depressed mourner about 
 Martha. A roguish twinkle was in her eye; her sunbonnet 
 was newly starched and frilled; she wore a clean print 
 gown tucked high above the wet grass, and she carried 
 a basket of nettles drenched in dew. At Katherine's 
 question her face puckered up merrily. 
 
 "Hush, duckie," she said, in a mysterious whisper. 
 "I be gathering nettles for Susan Parkin's boys, saucy 
 warmints! Her do bring 'em o' Saturday nights to the 
 pump in the yard; and her washes 'em in the trough; 
 and they runs about naked, which it wouldn't be decent, 
 only boys is so prutty. And they gets in the orchard and 
 treats the rosydondrons shameful, pulling 'em about tar-
 
 woman's independence. 163 
 
 rible. ... I seed 'em Saturday, and I'd ha' nettled 'em 
 on their bare bodies only for CoUop lying a-dying. But 
 I thinks to myself, 'Wait till my old man be safe under- 
 ground, and you shall feel nettle-bite, you mischievous 
 young vagabonds.' I thought on 'em yesterday, when I 
 did see 'em at Collop's burying — yes!" 
 
 Martha sighed contentedly as she finished. 
 
 "But, Martha, nettles sting dreadfully," Katherine 
 laughed, tickled at the contrast between her idea of 
 Martha dead of a broken heart and the Martha be- 
 fore her. 
 
 "Ay, they do hurt tarrible sore," said Martha; "and 
 it do go to my heart to sting they boys' bodies, boys 
 is so prutty. But Susan Parkin have tormented me tar- 
 rible, waiting on Collop dying. . . . Ay, he gived her the 
 slip, did Collop," she chuckled. "He wouldn't have laid 
 easy if he had knowed he would make a corp for Susan 
 Parkin." 
 
 She hobbled along gaily beside Katherine. The girl 
 was silent. This, then, was the explanation of the white 
 presences she had seen last summer. Would all her 
 visions end in such prosaic fashion? Would the gods 
 arrive to show themselves mischievous vagabonds tearing 
 down the "rosydondron" bushes? 
 
 Peggy drove her to the station, her jaunty air flaunt- 
 ing itself unnecessarily, as it seemed to Katherine. 
 
 She held the reins tightly, and managed Sambo with 
 all her old spirit; but her gaiety was forced. Katherine's 
 story of Martha and the nettles lost its humour in her 
 hard laugh. She mocked cynically at the errand to Tonina, 
 to Katherine's disgust. 
 
 "Look here, Peggy, why do you go on like this?
 
 164 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 Where is your pride? What's the use of education if it 
 doesn't teach women to control their emotions?" 
 
 "Education be blowed!" Peggy said, sitting up sharply. 
 "You may educate a woman till she is brain from head 
 to foot, and a single glance from a man's eye will make 
 her forget everything but that she is a woman. . . . Oh, 
 you may stare! Wait till your womanhood gets hold of 
 you. Fight sex as you will, there comes a moment when 
 it conquers you. . . ." 
 
 "Nonsense!" said Katherine, vigorously. "Women are 
 growing independent of sex." 
 
 "A woman will never be independent of nature," said 
 Peggy. "Hold up, horse! what are you doing?" She laid 
 the whip smartly across Sambo's back. 
 
 "It's the same gate at which he shied before," said 
 Katherine, holding on to the cart as it swerved. 
 
 "That's the white gate." Peggy's sidelong glance was 
 full of meaning. 
 
 Katherine remembered the talk in the boat. 
 
 "Peggy!" 
 
 Peggy returned her look, shrugging her shoulders. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "You are not a coward!" said Katherine, mastering a 
 sick fear that had taken hold of her at the expression on 
 Peggy's face. 
 
 Peggy laughed. "A coward? Not I; cowards fear 
 death. . . . Katherine, suppose it is life that I fear?" . . . 
 
 Katherine's heart seemed to stop beating. 
 
 "Oh, Peggy!" she said hoarsely. 
 
 "Yes," said Peggy, affecting carelessness. "I thought 
 Tom loved me. ... It seems I was mistaken. He only 
 loved himself" 
 
 She whipped Sambo forward.
 
 woman's independence. 165 
 
 Katherine said nothing. After all, Tom was her 
 brother. Then she touched Peggy's arm. 
 
 "Poor old Peggy! I am so sorry, dear." 
 
 Peggy's lips trembled. 
 
 "Kit, you're a brick!" She hummed softly to her- 
 self:— 
 
 " Come out, 'tis now September ! " 
 
 "Peggy," Katherine interrupted, "it will all come 
 right. It must. Tom may be selfish, but he is not dis- 
 honourable." 
 
 "That is where it is hopeless," said Peggy. "You 
 can move dishonour; but the selfish man is never moved. 
 . . . No, Kit; you can't make a saddle out of a bearing 
 rein." 
 
 They were at the station, in which the train stood 
 waiting. Katherine jumped hurriedly from the cart, and 
 looked up to Peggy with a resolute purpose in her eyes. 
 
 "It's all right, Peggy. I will manage Tom. Don't 
 worry; everything will come right." 
 
 She ran for her ticket and sprang into the carriage. 
 The train puffed noisily out of the station.
 
 1 66 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 KATHERINE CLAIMS HER FRIEND. 
 
 Katherine was going back to London, which she had 
 left with such bitter regret; but she feh no pleasure in 
 revisiting the glimpses of her triumphs. Contrasting the 
 old life with the strong human interests of Great Low- 
 lands, the tragedies of love and death, she saw that in 
 town she had not tasted life; she had only known its in- 
 fluence upon herself. At Plimpton she had been forced 
 to play a part in the lives of others. 
 
 The train came into the region of roofs and chimney- 
 pots. She wondered at the wretched aspect of the things 
 she saw. The sun blazed on the dirt and poverty, on 
 the jerry-built houses, the sordidness of slumdom. The 
 air was thick with struggle. She longed for the clean 
 breath of the fields. 
 
 She took a 'bus at the station, and gazed down at 
 the crowd on Waterloo Bridge. It flowed, a swollen tide, 
 over the arches, matching the turbid flow of the river 
 under the arches. The human stream moved on, as 
 merciless, as ruthless as the water below. Here and 
 there she saw a white face borne down by the stream; 
 one of those that disappear in the living flood, over which 
 the darkness closes. 
 
 In the Strand she peered eagerly about her, seeking 
 the fascination that had once held her. But she saw
 
 KATHERINE CI,ATMS HER FRIEND. 1 67 
 
 only the strain of life, the fever and unrest of the faces 
 hurrying by. 
 
 The flowers were absent to-day excei)t at Charing 
 Cross station, where the flower girls held out their wired 
 roses. ... At Great Lowlands honeysuckle wreathed all the 
 hedges, and in every ditch meadow-sweet heaped the 
 snows of autumn. 
 
 She walked along St. Martin's Lane, her eyes pitiful 
 for the struggle she saw. How hard these faces were, 
 how hopeless! She studied them with a new com- 
 prehension of the lives bearing the burden and heat of 
 the day. These were no longer the "people," the 
 "masses;" but men and women who lived and sinned 
 and loved and suffered, battened down in brick and 
 mortar like rats in sewers till death carried them out to 
 liberty. 
 
 Katherine's heart swelled with longing to help them. 
 She realised that she had not known the first elements of 
 sympathy in the days when she had taken up the people's 
 cause. 
 
 She went first to Goodge Street to find Sarah, stirred 
 by the thought of seeing the house where she had lived 
 and known her brief successes. But the dark little hall, 
 with its shabby linoleum, its crooked umbrella stand, and 
 dingy brushes, gave her a shock. Had everything been 
 musty and dusty like this in the old days? It would be 
 a great thing to take two people out of the life of the 
 city into the broad free life of the country. ... At Kathe- 
 rine's proposal, Sarah's eyes glimpsed Paradise. 
 
 It was pleasant to go from this first success to the 
 second waiting her in Ridgmont Gardens. 
 
 Thursday was Tonina's At Home day, and she was 
 playing to her visitors when Katherine arrived. The room
 
 I 68 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 was dark, the air heavy with the scent of yellow roses 
 heaped in blue bowls on every table. 
 
 The girl smiled at Tonina, slipped into a chair, and 
 looked round her. 
 
 The softness and luxury, the silk-shaded lamps, the 
 half-tones, belonged to another world than that in which 
 Mark and she had lived. Katherine's lips curled. No 
 wonder that in such surroundings Mark had grown effe- 
 minate and selfish. . . . And Tonina would not help him 
 into a more robust life. Katherine frowned at the beauti- 
 ful woman in her clinging yellow draperies. 
 
 Celandine Ambrose was there; and Franklin, whose 
 presence struck a harsh note in the harmony of the room. 
 His face was tired, his clothes contrasted oddly with the 
 smartness of the other men. Ambrose, curled and per- 
 fumed, seemed to belong to the upholstery of the place. 
 
 Katherine turned from him to Franklin, proud at the 
 contrast between the two. Franklin, she said to herself, 
 was the only man in the room. The others belonged 
 mostly to the profession of amateurism. She smiled for- 
 givingly, noting the arts that went to their expression. 
 
 By and by the music made way for conversation. 
 The talk was full of catch phrases; it discussed the last 
 new novel, the problem play, the smartest private view. 
 Katherine listened impatiently. Not so long ago she had 
 called this living; to make one in groups like this, success. 
 . . . Her thoughts flew to Martha and Collop, to their 
 simple love, their simpler life that was at the heart of 
 nature. Love and life and death seemed to be things 
 remote from the people here. The society crust could 
 not bear the weight of realities. 
 
 Ambrose moved languidly to her side. The spark of 
 eagerness in his eyes was blown out by her breezy greeting.
 
 KATHERINE CLAIMS HER FRIEND. l6g 
 
 "How terribly robust you look!" he sighed. 
 
 Katherine laughed. "That is terrible, indeed." 
 
 "Yes," he said regretfully. "You have lost your ex- 
 quisite delicacy, and . . . really . . . you are less . . ." 
 
 "Attenuated," Katherine said, as he paused for a word. 
 
 "I think that must be it." 
 
 He looked sadly at her. That healthy complexion 
 was positively coarse; and a double chin lurked in the 
 roundedness of her face. 
 
 "You never came to Great Lowlands," she said mis- 
 chievously. 
 
 "No, but another summer . . . among the roses," . . . 
 he murmured. 
 
 "Who is that distressing person beaming on you. Miss 
 Fleming? We have all been laughing at him. Some- 
 body called him John the Baptist, — his clothes, you 
 know. . . ." 
 
 "That is my friend, Mr. Franklin," said Katherine, in 
 a clear high voice. "If he is like John the Baptist it 
 is because he is not indebted to his tailor for his 
 clothes. . . ." 
 
 Ambrose lifted his glass-covered left eye and fixed it 
 on Franklin. 
 
 "Ton my soul, an original person!" 
 
 Some people, Franklin among them, were moving. 
 With a curt apology Katherine rose too. 
 
 Two spots of colour burnt on her cheeks, her eyes 
 shone. She was going to claim her friend before those 
 who had laughed at him. The men looking on grinned 
 as they saw the meeting between the shabby man and 
 the pretty girl. A soft shy light was in her eyes; her 
 lips were parted. The expression on her face was beauti- 
 ful. They saw her hand linger in his.
 
 170 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 Franklin brightened as he spoke to her. 
 
 "I am sorry now that I am leavmg so soon; but I 
 have a good deal to see to before six; I am going back 
 to Grimple." 
 
 "I go down by the six train, too," she said quickly. 
 
 "Good; I'll look out for you then." 
 
 He smiled again as he went out. His eyes had 
 kindled at the warmth of her glance. 
 
 Katherine outstayed the other guests. 
 
 "I want a talk with you, Tonina," she said when they 
 were alone. "I've come up on purpose to speak to you 
 about Tom." 
 
 Tonina flashed a brilliant smile at her. 
 
 "Ah, mon ami Tom! He is the great bear and I 
 tame him." 
 
 She settled herself among the cushions on the sofa, 
 then took up a fluffy cat from the rug and began tickling 
 and teasing it. 
 
 "Tonina, do be serious!" Katherine cried. "What 
 does Tom do when he comes here?" 
 
 Tonina pursed up her dainty lips. 
 
 "He listens divinely. He sits with the eyes open, 
 listening while I play and play and play." 
 
 "And when you have finished playing?" 
 
 "Ah, then he no more amuses me; and I send my 
 stupid bear from me." 
 
 "I knew that was all!" Katherine cried triumphantly. 
 "Of course that was all! But, Tonina, you mustn't let 
 him come any more. It is spoiling him. He doesn't want 
 to marry Peggy." 
 
 "Ah! so the better for Peggy," Tonina laughed softly. 
 
 "You forget she loves him," said Katherine, her face 
 grave.
 
 KATHERINE CLAIMS HER FRIEND. 1 7 I 
 
 "Pouf!" said Tonina, expressively. "I, too, loved 
 Mark; and now, ... ah, yes, love does not last. . . ." 
 
 "You are wrong, Tonina, love lasts. It isn't love that 
 you feel if in one month or in one year it is dead. 
 Tonina," she went on earnestly, "it means everything to 
 Peggy to marry Tom. You can influence him. ... I want 
 you to help me. . . ." 
 
 Tonina lifted herself from the cushions, smiling provok- 
 ingly. 
 
 "And who has taught you that love lasts, little Kathe- 
 rine? Your friend who bores me with his talk of you?" 
 
 "Celandine Ambrose?" Katherine smiled. 
 
 "Ah, no, he is an angel! . . . No, it is our dull friend, 
 Franklin, who is so in love with you. He has no eyes for 
 me. He comes here but to talk of Mark's sister. . . ." 
 
 Katherine's eyes flashed with a great light. "He 
 loves me! I wasn't wrong. Even Tonina sees it. . . ." 
 
 Her heart sprang forward to the journey that would 
 set a crown upon the day. . . . Then the light faded from 
 her eyes. She had only time for Peggy. 
 
 But Tonina would not be serious. She laughed and 
 cooed and purred at all Katherine told her of the change 
 in Tom; and she screamed with delight at the story of 
 the fashionable shoes. 
 
 "He had pinched the feet for me; and I thought only 
 how great they were!" she laughed, wiping her eyes. 
 
 Then she pushed back the hair from her forehead, 
 and was suddenly grave. 
 
 "And what is it that I must do to this monster 
 Tom?" 
 
 "You must forbid him to come here again," said 
 Katherine; "and you must make him promise to marry 
 Peggy."
 
 172 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 Tonina pouted, but agreed, and Katherine sprang up 
 gaily. 
 
 A great load was off her mind. Joy ran ahead to 
 the meeting with Franklin. 
 
 "Where is Mark?" she asked, as she said good-bye 
 to Tonina. 
 
 Tonina gave a little shrug. "I never see him. . . ." 
 
 "But he lives here?" said Katherine, flushing. 
 
 "He sleeps here," Tonina answered, "and he eats 
 here; but live? . . . Pouf! Mark does not live. He has 
 the soul of a rat and no more. The stupid Tom has 
 more soul. Tom is glad to hear my violin, but Mark . . ." 
 She spread her hands. 
 
 Katherine looked at her with frightened eyes. 
 
 "Tonina, aren't you happy, then?" 
 
 Tonina flashed at her a curious baffling smile. 
 
 "Who can tell? We never know happiness till it has 
 left us." 
 
 Katherine had barely time to get to Waterloo. She 
 had to hurry away. 
 
 She ran on to the platform at six o'clock, passed the 
 barrier, and came up to the train as the signal to start 
 was given. Franklin stood beside an open door; he 
 handed her into the carriage, and sprang in himself. 
 
 "I had just made up my mind to be disappointed," 
 he said. 
 
 He straightened his pince-nez, and did not notice her 
 flush, the sudden smile. 
 
 "I had a run for the train," she panted. 
 
 They were alone in the carriage. He took the corner 
 opposite to hers, and laid down his newspaper, smiling at her. 
 
 Katherine was all at once shy; a recollection of 
 Tonina's words overpowered her.
 
 KATHERINE CLAIMS HER FRIEND. I73 
 
 Franklin seemed preoccupied. 
 
 "How did your meeting go off?" Katherine asked 
 at last. 
 
 He shook his head gloomily: "A wretched fiasco. 
 Pilchard is the last man for the place. I wish you could 
 have been there to help." 
 
 She bent forward eagerly; her eyes seemed to dart 
 at him. 
 
 "You are beginning to think I am of use," she cried. 
 
 Words and manner annoyed him, recalling the past. 
 He bent his head gravely, and was silent. His eyes 
 strayed to his Westmmster Gazette; and so they tra- 
 velled on. 
 
 But Katherine could not remain silent. She longed to 
 hear his voice. 
 
 "They tell me you have been asked to stand for 
 Hull," she said. 
 
 Franklin roused himself. 
 
 "I? Yes, I had thought of it; . . . but since then . . . 
 The fact is I am leaving England. . . ." 
 
 "Leaving England!" she echoed. 
 
 Her tone startled him. He glanced curiously at her 
 blank face. For some reason or other he hesitated to 
 speak. 
 
 "Yes . . . the West Indies. I intended to tell you on 
 Sunday." 
 
 "And I took up the time with my hateful moods!" 
 she cried passionately. "Oh, if I had only known. But 
 it is not too late? . . . You have not decided? . . . You 
 are not going? . . ." 
 
 He lifted his brows. She exaggerated her regret, 
 as she overdid everything. ... He frowned down his dis- 
 approval.
 
 174 '^^^ GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 "I've almost made up my mind to go. . . ." 
 
 His quiet tones whipped Katherine's feeling into 
 excitement. She could not think calmly. . . . She seemed 
 to be losing him again just when she had found him. 
 
 "To go!" she exclaimed. "Oh, you can't mean it! 
 You are not going away just when you . . . when I need 
 you so much. ..." 
 
 "You need me?" he said slowly. "But ... I don't 
 understand. . . ." 
 
 "Yes," she gasped, "I need you. . . . You told me 
 to come to you when I wanted help; and you can help 
 me. . . ." 
 
 The train slackened speed, and stopped. A signal 
 was against them. Katherine's heart was big with misery. 
 "He is going away; he is going away," was all her 
 thought. She put out her hand entreatingly. "Oh, Mr. 
 Franklin, don't go away. ... I can't let you go unless . . . 
 unless ... I go too. ..." 
 
 Franklin stared at her. What did she mean? What 
 was all this emotion? . . . He could not understand her. . . . 
 Here was yet another mood to bewilder him. 
 
 "You go too, Miss Katherine?" he said, with a con- 
 strained laugh. "But that is impossible. . . ." 
 
 "Ah! it is not impossible!" she cried. "I would 
 go with you because ... oh, don't you know? . . . be- 
 cause ..." 
 
 Her shrinking attitude and broken voice, the pain in 
 her eyes, found his heart. . . . His face whitened. ... A 
 great wave of pity for her caught and swept him off his 
 feet. In that bewilderment it seemed that he loved the 
 girl trembling before him. . . . 
 
 But no; this feeling was not love. The stir and tumult 
 of passion were wanting.
 
 KATHERINE CLAIMS HER FRIEND. 1 75 
 
 He had long since decided that she was nothing to 
 him. It would be foolish to yield to a mere sentiment 
 of pity. . . . He mastered the impulse of tenderness, 
 crushing down the feeling that had almost conquered 
 him, 
 
 "It is weakness, absolute madness," he said sternly to 
 himself. Then he turned to Katherine and, in spite of 
 himself, his eyes were full and tender. 
 
 "Let us both forget that you have told me this," he 
 said gently. 
 
 He saw the life die slowly out of her face and leave 
 it old. 
 
 "You mean? . . ." her voice shuddered. 
 
 He looked his sorrow, but he would not yield. 
 
 "Yes, I mean that," 
 
 All at once the muscles round her mouth stiffened. 
 Across her lips the words came cold and hard, dropping 
 'one by one like shot falling. 
 
 "You . , . don't . , , love , . , me? , . ," 
 
 Franklin's silence surged over him like another wave, 
 beating him down, snatching the breath from him. Not 
 Katherine, but he liimself was drowning in the cold depths 
 of that silence, , . . Did he love her? Was this over- 
 whelming pity love? . . . 
 
 She felt the rigid aloofness of his attitude, and sank 
 crouching in her corner and covered her face. "I thought 
 you loved me; I thought you loved me," she moaned. 
 
 Franklin walked to the other end of the carriage, and 
 stood there fighting with himself He saw nothing of 
 the purple waves of heather that lapped the edge of the 
 line and flooded the moorland to the distant firs. The 
 piney breath of autumn was round him, but his senses 
 were dull. What could he do? How could he close this
 
 176 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 dreary scene? It was impossible to speak; it was heart- 
 less to be silent. "I thought you loved me; I thought 
 you loved me," rang in his ears. 
 
 Why did she think so? Had he ever given her 
 cause to suppose she was more to him than any other 
 woman? 
 
 His survey of the past told him little. At the mo- 
 ments when he had felt most tenderness for her she 
 had always repelled him. . . , Certainly she had moved 
 him, and more than once. ... In that milking scene at 
 the farm. But then she had taken him unaware, at a 
 time when Mark's honeymoon had turned his thoughts to 
 sentiment. And immediately after she had opened his 
 eyes to his mistake. . . . He might have loved her then, 
 but . . . Besides, was her attitude towards him the 
 attitude of a woman who loved? She had always quar- 
 relled with him, disagreed with him, charged him with 
 misunderstanding her. . . . And now she thought he loved 
 her! In all his forty years he had never given a woman 
 a thought; and should he end by marrying an hysterical 
 girl who had attracted and repelled him, repelled and 
 attracted him ever since he had known her? 
 
 His mind spun round like a wheel, revolving the 
 question of what he was to do. The central point, the 
 pivot on which the question revolved, was his own repeated 
 assurance that he did not love the girl. . . . 
 
 It seemed that hours passed while he stood there. 
 Then he crossed to his old seat and leaned forward. 
 
 "Miss Katherine, I want to thank you for telling me 
 this. I shall never forget. ... I wish it had been pos- 
 sible. . . . But ... I have never thought. ... All my 
 life ... it never seemed likely . . ." 
 
 She lifted her head and her eyes, sunken with anguish,
 
 KATHERINE CLAIMS HER FRIEND. I 77 
 
 Stretched out to him, and laid themselves about his 
 heart. . . . 
 
 He made a gesture towards her. But she shrank away. 
 Her face was suddenly strong. 
 
 "Don't!" she cried sharply. "I wasn't asking you 
 for pity. I need no one's pity. . . . Love doesn't mean 
 giving for giving, not the best love. . . . There is a love 
 that will give itself, though it can have nothing in re- 
 turn. ... I am glad I have known you. ... I shall always 
 be glad for much. ... I would have made your 
 life brighter, if you would have let me. ..." Her lips 
 trembled. . . . "Perhaps, some day, you may like to 
 remember that someone cares for you. . . ." She smiled 
 palely and held out her hand. 
 
 Franklin could not speak. He took her hand and 
 stroked it softly, all the time fighting a fight in which his 
 conception of Katherine warred against the Katherine 
 that stormed his heart, taking it by force, tearing down 
 his banner of self-sufficingness. 
 
 It was she who drew away at last, and began with 
 gentle dignity to talk of other things, — Parliamentary news, 
 the topics of the Labour world. Half- reluctant, half- 
 relieved, he suffered himself to be led away from per- 
 sonalities. Her self-command startled him. He looked 
 wonderingly at her, trying to get behind the cold white 
 expression that she wore like a mask. He felt chilled, 
 now that he was outside the warm circle of feeling; but 
 her commonplaces kept him there. For the rest of the 
 journey he did not catch sight of the woman whose pas- 
 sionate abandon had stirred him in strange fashion. 
 
 He left Katherine at Grim pie; but he waited on the 
 
 The Gods Arrive. I 2
 
 178 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 platform, looking after the vanishing train with eyes that 
 contradicted the cynical twist of his mouth. 
 
 Left alone, the mask dropped from Katherine's face, 
 showing the quivering, smarting flesh, the torn heart, the 
 dreadful eyes. The pain of that terrible hour threw its 
 shadow forward across her whole life. "How shall I bear 
 it? How shall I bear it?" she moaned. 
 
 She gazed stonily from the window. The moon was 
 a little silver boat sailing across the blue, wafted by the 
 breath of pine and heather. The firs stood solemnly by 
 the purple waves that met the purple rim of the sky, 
 and earth showed wide and free and beautiful. The soft 
 folds of nature wrapped around the woman battling 
 with pain and the treachery of the heart and the vanity 
 of life.
 
 THERE IS ALWAYS A WAY OUT. 179 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 THERE IS ALWAYS A WAY OUT. 
 
 The post had come in. Tom had read Tonina's 
 letter with stormy face, and had gone out without a word. 
 Katherine had scarcely noticed him. Tom was of little 
 account beside the disaster in her own life. 
 
 Franklin did not love her. Like a knell the words 
 tolled in her brain: "He does not love me; he does not 
 love me!" 
 
 She hardly felt the pain of it. An aching emptiness 
 in her heart was all that remained of the agony with 
 which she had struggled through the night. But her 
 face was pinched and wan behind the everyday purpose 
 of its expression. The strong pitilessness of nature had 
 overtaken her. She knew herself to be a woman, with a 
 woman's heart and a woman's need and a woman's 
 denial. 
 
 She had wrestled with the great god Love, and had 
 not prevailed; and to the end of life she would go 
 haltingly on the shrunk sinew where the Divine had 
 touched her. 
 
 She felt no regret at her own self-betrayal. A year 
 ago she might have been ashamed at finding that she 
 had given love unsought. To-day, larger and freer, her 
 nature stood proudly unabashed. 
 
 "Thou shalt not confess thy love" had been written 
 for the smaller woman whom conventions ruled. Katherine
 
 lOO THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 obeyed a higher law-giver; and while the woman in her 
 shiank, wounded by Franklin's scorn, the greater nature 
 crowned itself with its pain and triumphed. 
 
 She could not cease to love him because he had no 
 love to give her. . . . Gentle thoughts of him silenced the 
 tolling words. She cried softly to herself for her great 
 pain and her great pride. . . . 
 
 But she had no time for weeping. She must work. 
 The men were waiting for their orders. There were 
 tomatoes to be picked, the pollen to be transferred from 
 flower to flower. Katherine acted the part of bee and 
 butterfly in the tomato- frames, and so secured a good 
 yield of "love-apples," as Martha called them. 
 
 She set aside her thoughts of Franklin, and went to 
 give Mrs. Fleming her plans for the day. She had only 
 lately begun to consult her mother on the working of the 
 farm. But she was learning to respect her position, and 
 to bear with her petulance. To-day she gave her a new 
 tenderness. A woman who had lived and loved and lost 
 demanded the sweetest pity of life. 
 
 Mrs. Fleming felt the difference at once, and was 
 curious to account for the change. 
 
 She questioned Katherine about her journey to town, 
 Mark's wife, the flat^ the furniture, Tonina's friends. 
 
 Katherine's thoughts swung back to Franklin. She 
 answered shortly, and Mrs. Fleming sighed over the un- 
 satisfactoriness of motherhood. 
 
 "I am not clever like you, Katherine," she said plain- 
 tively; "but I'm your mother. And I think there should 
 be confidence between mother and child." 
 
 "I think so too," said Katherine, brusquely. "Mother, 
 why has there been so little confidence between us? I 
 know nothing of your life with father. . . . You never talk
 
 THERE IS ALWAYS A WAY OUT. 151 
 
 of him. Were you happy with him? Did you love him 
 very much?" 
 
 For the first time Mrs. Fleming realised that Katherine 
 was not a child. A faded blush showed on her cheek as 
 she answered, — 
 
 "He was very good. I would have been happy with 
 him, only . . ." 
 
 "Only what?" said Katherine, pitilessly. 
 
 "Only I had loved someone else before." 
 
 "And why didn't you marry the one you loved?" 
 
 Mrs. Fleming shrank away from Katherine's compelling 
 eyes, and twisted her hands together. "I am sure I don't 
 know why you should catechise me like this, Katherine," 
 she said nei"vously. 
 
 "I am not catechising," Katherine said. "Only it is 
 always interesting to know why people marry each other, 
 or why they don't. It seems to be the one subject in life 
 that doesn't lose its interest," she added wistfully. 
 
 "I was very fond of Colonel Jacob," said Mrs. Fleming; 
 "and I thought he cared for me, and would ask me to 
 marry him. . . . But he never did. . . . He went abroad 
 without a word. . . . Then, after I was married, he up- 
 braided me and said he had always loved me," 
 
 "Why didn't he tell you that before?" 
 
 "Oh, Katherine, how can I tell? men are so strange. 
 They like a woman and don't find out that they love her 
 till they can't have her. . . ." 
 
 "I wonder — " said Katherine, quickly, her eyes 
 flashing. . . . 
 
 She checked the words. She had seen a rift in the 
 cloud, and beyond a glimpse of blue. ... It might be 
 that Franklin loved her after all, and did not understand 
 himself . . . She had been so certain that he cared; and
 
 1 82 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 Toiiina had seen his interest. . . . The thought flashed a 
 bright and shining Hght into dark places; the gleam of 
 hope remained with her. 
 
 "I wonder what became of Colonel Jacob," she said 
 softly. 
 
 "It was a great blow to him," said Mrs. Fleming, 
 sentimentally. "He remained in Afghanistan, and I have 
 heard nothing of him for more than twenty years." 
 
 "Mother, do you love him now?" 
 
 Mrs. Fleming's eyes faltered. She plucked at the 
 folds of her gown. 
 
 "Really, my child, what strange questions you ask," 
 she quavered. "It is thirty years since we met, and so 
 many things have happened. ... I should scarcely call it 
 love, and yet . . ." 
 
 A weak little tear hung on her eyelashes. Katherine 
 saw it, and stooped down and kissed her. 
 
 "Poor little mother!" she said tenderly. 
 
 "Oh! Katherine," Mrs. Fleming sobbed. "Be thank- 
 ful that you don't know what it is to be fond of anyone. 
 After all these years the pain is as great as it was in the 
 beginning. . . ." She wiped her eyes furtively. "And yet 
 I married your father. . . ." 
 
 "That was wrong," said Katherine, stoutly. "That 
 was where you were wrong. There would have been no 
 pain if you had had the right to love him still." 
 
 "I was so lonely . . . x^nd I thought he didn't love 
 me, Katherine. But I think your father guessed there 
 was someone else. That was why he made that strange 
 will. He knew I would never oppose the boys." 
 
 "If I had been at home he would never have made 
 it," said Katherine, scornfully. 
 
 "But you see, Katherine, you thought it more im-
 
 THERE IS ALWAYS A WAY OUT. 1 83 
 
 portant to get through your examination than to come 
 home. . . ." 
 
 Katherine reddened. Yes, it had seemed more im- 
 portant then to get a "first" than to nurse the father 
 whom she had scarcely known. . . . And now what part 
 had "firsts" in her Hfe? 
 
 "Poor little mother!" she said again. 
 
 She kissed her with a sudden comprehension of the 
 long pain borne in silence these thirty years. How hard 
 life was for women! Would her fate be the same, — the 
 hungry longing for love denied growing and growing 
 until, desperate, she stayed her heart on a mockery of 
 love? 
 
 Her face was haggard when she went from the room; 
 but her heart was more pitiful and tender towards her 
 mother than it had ever been. She felt a new respect 
 for her. Only a strong woman would have suffered in 
 silence. 
 
 She wondered at the contradictions of our manifold 
 nature. Here was a nature tossed hither and thither by 
 the lightest breeze of disappointment that had stood 
 firm under a tempest fury of grief; — a tree ruffled by the 
 wind, whose roots were immovable deep down in the 
 heart of the ground. 
 
 Going from the room she met Tom. His eyes were 
 furious. He scowled as he saw her and stopped. 
 
 "Look here, Kit, I've told Peggy I won't marry her. 
 I wouldn't, not if there wasn't another woman in the 
 world. What right had she to send you with tales to 
 Tonina? . . . And what right had you to interfere? 
 Tonina's thrown me off, and that's all that your con- 
 founded meddling has done!" 
 
 He glared passionately at Katherine.
 
 184 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 "Oh, Tom!" she said beseechingly, "think of Peggy. . . . 
 You must marry her now. . . . You can't . . ." 
 
 "I tell you I won't,- — so there! Hang you, let me 
 pass, will you!" 
 
 He pushed her aside roughly, and she did not try to 
 keep him. There was something in his manner that told 
 her she could not prevail against the obstinacy of weak- 
 ness. She stood where he had left her, with terrified 
 eyes gazing at the tragedy of the situation, — no less tragic 
 because the pain and horror were not the fruit of crime, 
 but of a weak will and a shallow passion. . , . 
 
 Her heart was heavy when she went into the farm- 
 yard to give her orders for the day. Then, as usual, she 
 went on to the tomato-frames. But the sight of the fruit 
 reddening among the green leaves gave her no pleasure. 
 In each love-apple she saw Peggy's bleeding heart. It 
 made her own pain small to realise the girl's trouble. . . . 
 
 At last Katherine threw down the camel-hair brush 
 with which she had been carrying the pollen from flower 
 to flower, and ran into the house. . . . She must go to 
 Peggy and comfort her. 
 
 It was raining, but she was used to being out in all 
 weathers. Walking quickly, she crossed the green, which 
 looked bedraggled and untidy in the windy turmoil. The 
 storm had shaken down the autumn leaves; and the 
 discs that in sunshine would have patterned the grass 
 with a bright mosaic were curled up and sodden and 
 grey. 
 
 The rushes in the pond were torn, broken by wind 
 and rain. The pollard willows that edged the water 
 lifted yellowing rods to the clouds. Here and there the 
 flame of the burning bushes glowed in the distance 
 through thinning foliage.
 
 THERE IS ALWAYS A WAY OUT. 1 85 
 
 The houses stood round the green, forlorn in aspect, 
 and the ceaseless fall of the rain beat on Katherine's 
 ears with a sound of weeping. The hopelessness of the 
 stricken year set itself to the grief within. Her heart had 
 bidden good-bye to summer. 
 
 She remembered the day when she had come back 
 to Plimpton and had crossed the green in all the glory of 
 the May sunshine. It was Peggy who had set her footing 
 it merrily, — the same Peggy that weighted her feet now 
 with bewildered sorrow. She wondered at the bitterness 
 with which she had renounced her London life. Surely 
 she had made much ado about nothing. Bitterness? Ah! 
 she had never tasted the bitterness of life until now. 
 
 The churchyard gate stood open. She could see the 
 new red earth of Collop's bed where he had lain two 
 days already. . . . "Already!" But she had lived years 
 since she had listened to the rector's reading of the 
 burial office, with Susan Parkin's boys standing open- 
 mouthed gazing, and Martha's eyes watching them behind 
 her handkerchief 
 
 Susan Parkin had said there would soon be a corpse 
 at Great Lowlands. She shook off the uncanny re- 
 membrance, half wishing that it could be true for her. 
 Her heart was wounded to death, but she knew she 
 would live still as if she had never known the anguish of 
 yesterday. . . . 
 
 She hurried on towards Peggy's cottage. It was a 
 tiny place; two rooms and an attic served for parlour, 
 kitchen, and bedroom. 
 
 An oak dresser stood in the kitchen; and some old 
 oak chairs were ranged round the distempered walls. A 
 Henry VII. table stained with age made a shadow on 
 the red brick floor. A bowlful of copper leaves stood
 
 I 86 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 on the table. The only picture in the room was Watts's 
 "Love and Death." Blue plates and dishes in a rack 
 ornamented the opposite wall. Over the chimney-piece 
 was a collection of pewter mugs in a frame of riding- 
 whips. Everything was very clean. Peggy lived alone 
 and did her own housework. 
 
 She was not here, but Katherine found her in the 
 parlour. The furnishings here were as simple as those 
 in the kitchen, but there were more pictures. Botticelli's 
 "Spring," with its atmosphere of flower-crowned happi- 
 ness, struck a crude contrast with the "Iphigenia" front- 
 ing it. 
 
 Peggy was on her knees, rubbing the brasses. She 
 lifted a hot, red face to Katherine. 
 
 "Cleaning day," she said tersely. "Sit down. You 
 can talk while I polish the tongs." 
 
 The tension on Katherine's face gave way before the 
 commonplace words. Peggy was not fretting then. "They 
 look bright enough," she said. 
 
 "Hm!" Peggy grunted, looking at them critically. 
 "Well, yes. But, you see, an extra rub now means an 
 extra shilling when they're sold." 
 
 "Oh, Peggy! You would never sell those lovely old 
 tongs?" 
 
 "You nev^er know what you'll do," said Peggy. 
 
 "If ... if you want some money, . . ." Katherine 
 began. 
 
 Peggy let the tongs fall with a rattle and stood up, 
 her arms akimbo. Her manner was unconcerned, but 
 there was a hunted look in her eyes. 
 
 "Don't be stupid. Kit. If I wanted to borrow I wouldn't 
 beat about the bush. I'd ask you at once." 
 
 "I ... I knew Tom had been here," Katherine stam-
 
 THERE IS ALWAYS A WAY OUT. 1 87 
 
 mered, flushing. "It struck me ... I thought you might 
 wish to go away." . . . 
 
 Peggy smiled grimly. 
 
 "So you thought that, too? Tom hinted that I might 
 clear out of Plimpton altogether." 
 
 "I didn't mean that — I thought. . . . There's your 
 uncle ..." 
 
 Peggy burst into a loud laugh. . . . "Poor old Uncle 
 Jacob! Imagine it . . . an old bachelor, too!" 
 
 She laughed till she cried. Katherine was crying too. 
 If Peggy would only be sad it would be easier. . . . 
 
 The rain beat on the windows. The wind shook 
 the house, and roared around them as if to tear from their 
 hearts the thing that kept them silent and constrained. . . . 
 The silence hurt Katherine, but she could not break it, 
 and Peggy would not. 
 
 "Who is your uncle?" Katherine said baldly at last. 
 
 "Colonel Jacob of The Moat, Chester. Would you 
 recognise him now I have described him. Kit?" 
 
 "Peggy, you don't treat me well," Katherine said re- 
 proachfully. "I have done my best to help you; and I 
 thought I had succeeded. Don't hold aloof from me like 
 this. . . . Let me help you to bear it." 
 
 "Thanks," said Peggy, airily. "For the future I shall 
 manage by myself. There is no help for any one of us 
 but in ourselves." 
 
 Round her mouth the lines hardened; the hunted 
 look in her eyes set its strain on the muscles of her 
 face. Seeing her, Katherine's eyes filled again. Peggy 
 stood and looked at her with an immovable smile that 
 mocked the howling of the wind and the steady drip of 
 the rain. 
 
 "Kit, you might have saved this," she said suddenly.
 
 I bo THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 "I know, I know," Katherine whispered; "if only I 
 had seen in time." 
 
 "Tom thought all the world of you once, and he is 
 easily led" . . . said Peggy; "else he would not . . . Ah, 
 well! it's too late now," she sighed. "But, Kit, you ought 
 to help him. . . ." 
 
 "I will try," said Katherine, humbly; "and perhaps . . . 
 in the end . . . everything will come right. . . ." 
 
 "I wonder," . . . said Peggy. Her eyes darkened; 
 then she shook off the momentary weakness. "No, it 
 can't be," she said, and laughed grimly. "Kit, the 
 hounds have been baying round here a long time. . . . 
 Well, they've unearthed their fox at last. I shall have to 
 leave my hole. . . ." 
 
 "What do you mean? what hounds, what hole, 
 Peggy?" 
 
 "The hounds of remorse," she said lightly. "Laburnum 
 Drive is the hole." 
 
 Her glance travelled about the room. Suddenly she 
 twisted round to Katherine, and there was a wistful note 
 in her voice. 
 
 "It's a jolly little crib, isn't it? But now I think I 
 should be lonely. . . ." 
 
 "You were not lonely before," Katherine said. 
 
 "Good gracious, child, when were you born?" said 
 Peggy, briskly. "Don't you know that a woman who 
 loves is never lonely? It is only when she knows her 
 love is hopeless that the loneliness eats into her life." 
 
 The brisk manner made the words more pathetic. 
 Katherine turned away her white face, and caught her 
 breath with a sob. If she could speak of her hopeless 
 love it might help Peggy to bear hers. . . . But she 
 could not unveil her heart. She remained silent, listen-
 
 THERE IS ALWAYS A WAY OUT. 1 89 
 
 ing to the falling rain. "Was this tragedy in every 
 woman's life?" she thought bitterly. "Must the love 
 sown in pain be reaped not by life, but by death?" 
 
 Back to her mind came the voice of the rector read- 
 ing the burial office: — 
 
 "'it is sown in dishonour, it is raised in glory; it is sown in 
 weakness, it is raised in power; it is sown a natural body, it is 
 raised a spiritual body That was not first which is spiritual, but 
 that which is natural; and afterwards that which is spiritual. The 
 first is of the earth, earthy; the second is the Lord from heaven.'" 
 
 The words carried a confused meaning, seeming to 
 answer her question, but vaguely, and in a way she 
 hardly understood. Perhaps, after all, there might be 
 some glad sequel to the love that never found its earthly 
 close, — some sheaves of rejoicing for the. sowers. 
 
 "I should wish you to have that picture of 'Iphigenia' 
 when I go away. . . ." 
 
 Peggy was speaking. Katherine's mind came leaping 
 back; it had gone far in the silence. 
 
 "I bought it because I used to think sacrifice was the 
 greatest thing in life," Peggy continued. . . . "There's 
 'Spring,' too, but it ought to have been Autumn. Well, 
 I shall be away from Plimpton when I reap my har- 
 vest." . 
 
 Katherine lifted her eyes. 
 
 "Peggy," she whispered, "I think that love sown in 
 dishonour may be raised in glory. . . ." 
 
 Peggy stared at her. 
 
 "I don't understand it, anyway." 
 
 "It seems true," said Katherine. "The thing that 
 perishes, that earth claims, is only that part of love that 
 belongs to earth. There is a part of it that lives. 'The
 
 I go THE GODS ARRIVE, 
 
 first is of the earth, earthy, the second is the Lord from 
 heaven.' " 
 
 "Good gracious! I never heard you talk hke that be- 
 fore," said Peggy. 
 
 A gust of wind shook the cottage, and the rain rattled 
 hke shot on the window-pane. Peggy looked out at the 
 storm. The havoc in her garden, the bedraggled plants, 
 the sunflowers beaten down where all had been so trim 
 the day before, deepened the pain she was hiding even 
 from herself. 
 
 "I wonder if there is any glory, any 'Lord from 
 heaven,' in love at all?" she cried sharply. 
 
 "Oh, there must be!" Katherine exclaimed pas- 
 sionately. "The pain and the disillusion and the empti- 
 ness can't be all that comes from the strongest thing 
 that our hearts feel. There must be good to follow 
 sometime." 
 
 "Remorse is a good thing, I suppose," said Peggy. 
 "But it is an awful thing to feel its teeth in your flesh." 
 . . . She lifted her head, strangling the sob in her throat. 
 "Kit, I have taught Tom the road to ruin," . . . she said, 
 with ashen face. Katherine turned away her head to 
 hide the pain she could not control. 
 
 "How would you like to have to stand by helpless, 
 and see a person going to ruin?" said Peggy, sharply; "see 
 him, and know it was you who had sent him that way?" 
 
 "I wouldn't stand by helpless," said Katherine, with 
 a touch of scorn in her voice; "Pd do something to turn 
 him out of the way." 
 
 Peggy shrugged her shoulders. "If you are in a tight 
 place yourself, and the way out is blocked?" 
 
 "There is always a way out," said Katherine, looking 
 up in time to see a light kindle on Peggy's face.
 
 THERE IS ALWAYS A WAY OUT. IQI 
 
 It was the light that streams out on a dark midnight, 
 showing the boihng sea and the sharp-edged rocks. . . . 
 Katherine remembered that they had spoken before of 
 "a way out." She put out her hands entreatingly. 
 
 "Oh, Peggy! you wouldn't. . . ." 
 
 "Don't be afraid. Kit," Peggy smiled. "I feel horribly 
 alive. If a hundred teeth in my heart won't kill me, a 
 hundred horses won't." 
 
 Words and manner reassured Katherine. She rose 
 slowly, her face subdued and full of pity, in which there 
 was no dread. 
 
 "I'll come round again later," she said. "Don't de- 
 cide anything, Peggy, I'll see Tom, and try to persuade 
 him. . . ." 
 
 What more could she say to drive that hunted look 
 from Peggy's eyes? She was silent; and the wind howled 
 about the walls, and the rain beat with unsteady pulse in 
 the quiet, 
 
 "Kit, why don't you despise me? ... It is I who 
 have made a mess of Tom's life," Peggy said suddenly. 
 "I was a brute to blame you. He would have tired of 
 me. . . . Men only amuse themselves with love. From 
 the day Tonina came he changed. . . . But I thought 
 that now . . . when he knew" . . . She turned away her 
 face. "What a fool I was!" she laughed. 
 
 Katherine could not bear the ring of pain in her 
 voice. She walked quickly to the door, and under the 
 dripping laburnum arches to the gate. The first time she 
 had seen them the branches had been weighted by golden 
 chains. Now they bent under a load of brown and 
 v/ithered seed-pods, — an unlovely harvest for the blossoms 
 of the sun. 
 
 Peggy stood under the trees, unconscious of the
 
 192 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 snatching winds, and of the rain beating on her bare 
 head. 
 
 She saw nothing of the long country road, vanishing 
 until it lost itself in the common that in the distance 
 looked like a sea of mist. Her gaze fell heedlessly on 
 the cottage roofs. The outer world did not exist for her 
 any more. Her world was within. At last she shook 
 her face free of doubt, and her face became resolute. 
 She lifted her eyes on tree and earth and mist and rain, 
 and she shivered in the cold, and turned back into the 
 cottage. 
 
 She climbed slowly to her bedroom and remained 
 there a long time, touching the things with caressing 
 fingers, lingering over them, stroking them softly. 
 
 When she came down she was in her habit. Her 
 face was pale under the hat-brim. 
 
 She glanced up at the picture in the kitchen, — the 
 closed door, the helplessness of Love against D^ath. 
 
 "It is all wrong," she said aloud. "It is Life who 
 is helpless against Love. It is Love who calls in 
 Death." 
 
 She went out, taking her way to the stable. At the 
 sound of her step the horse turned his head and whin- 
 nied. A frightened look came into her eyes. She flung 
 her arms round his neck and leaned against him. 
 
 "Oh, Sambo! oh, my poor boy! I have to go away 
 and leave you! There is no other way. . . . And you 
 will find another mistress; — but I think Kit will take 
 you. . . . Sambo, do you know it is our last ride?" 
 
 Sambo turned his head and looked round at her, 
 and Peggy wiped away her tears, smiling to think he 
 understood. 
 
 She saddled him herself, fastening buckle and strap
 
 THERE IS ALWAYS A WAY OUT. 1 93 
 
 with reckless trembling fingers. With her own hands she 
 fed him until, satisfied, he scattered the corn she held to 
 his mouth. She loitered over her task, and even laughed 
 when he nosed the food disdainfully. And when she 
 rode through the gate the smile was still on her lips. 
 
 But it faded away as she rode, and her face grew 
 set and hard. "I wonder if I shall ever see it again," 
 she said, her eyes moving over field and meadow. Her 
 gaze lingered about the lanes where she had wandered 
 with Tom; and she tossed up her head, and caught her 
 breath with a little moaning noise. . . . 
 
 Then her mood changed. She set spurs to Sambo 
 and dashed along the road and down the hill, laughing 
 harshly. Sambo turned the whites of his eye, and passed 
 the white gate with a dancing sidelong motion that 
 tightened Peggy's hold on the reins. . . . 
 
 All at once a new look was on her face. It was as 
 if thought, galloping, had been thrown back suddenly on 
 its haunches. . . . She set her lips in a thin red line, and 
 lifted her head jauntily. . . . 'T'll make him do it, if I die 
 for it!" she said recklessly. "Who cares? If there is a 
 way out I'll find it!" 
 
 She twisted sharply round, and went at a gallop 
 towards the gate. 
 
 The Gods Arrive. 1 3
 
 194 
 
 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 ON THE EVE OF DEFEAT. 
 
 All the day following his journey from town Frank- 
 lin's thoughts were engaged with Katherine's confession. 
 No woman had ever claimed his thoughts like this. 
 
 The son of a dissenting minister in Hull, he had 
 spent a lonely boyhood in his father's library, avoiding 
 the Xantippe that was his stepmother. Later, until he 
 found work in the Labour Movement he had passed 
 his days in his book-shop in Hull, and had only known 
 of his housekeeper's presence by the tyranny of her 
 cleanliness. 
 
 Then had come a great dock-strike, and the cry of 
 the starving dockers had been heard in the land, even 
 in the book-seller's den. Franklin could not silence the 
 sound. Outside his door he saw the men grouped, pipe- 
 less, hopeless, undaunted. They were the soldiers in the 
 Labour war, — a war that slays its heroes though not a 
 drop of blood be shed. 
 
 He could not get away from the memory of their 
 faces. They whitened the pages of his books; rugged and 
 worn they looked at him from every cover. 
 
 He came out from his shop to study these human 
 books, and the study fascinated him. It led him into the 
 homes of the people, where women hid their sufferings 
 that men might fight the power that crushed them. He
 
 ON THE EVE OF DEFEAT. 1 95 
 
 saw the strike from the workers' point of view, and all his 
 sympathy went with the dockers. 
 
 He set up a soup kitchen; and during the hungry 
 weeks that followed he beggared himself to feed the 
 women and children. When the war was over he stood 
 among book shelves as empty as the shelves in his larder. 
 ... A pamphlet on strikes bridged him over the next 
 weeks, and drew the attention of the Labour world to 
 him. He was already known as a somewhat quixotic 
 partisan of the people; the pamphlet showed him a 
 thinker. He was offered, and he accepted, a secretary- 
 ship, and went up to town, where his education and en- 
 thusiasm made him a force, and attracted to him all the 
 younger men, among them Mark Fleming. 
 
 Perhaps it was owing to Franklin's steadfastness that 
 Mark had remained so long in the Movement. It was to 
 strengthen the weak knees that Franklin became his friend. 
 And now Mark had left the cause, and all that the friend- 
 ship had brought forth was this unwelcome confession 
 from Mark's sister. 
 
 Franklin wondered how it had come about. He 
 walked up and down the parlour of the Wheat Sheaf at 
 Grimple, biting his moustache, and asking himself how 
 she had come to think he loved her? 
 
 He was not a little disturbed by the episode. He 
 paced the floor, his brows darkening and dismayed. 
 How could he, a crusted old bachelor, have attracted an 
 unformed girl, little better than a child? It was absurd! 
 Certainly he had not misled her by admiration. She was 
 frankly unreserved. She had none of the alluring mys- 
 tery of the womanly woman, the reticence, the modesty 
 he admired. She was proud of her independence and 
 vaunted herself. He had not scrupled to show his dis- 
 
 13*
 
 ig6 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 approval of her qualities. How then could she have sup- 
 posed that he loved her? 
 
 He paused in his walk, and stood drumming discon- 
 tentedly against the window. 
 
 It was market-day in Grimple, and the people were 
 passing the Wheat Sheaf on their way to the High Street. 
 The crowded pavements reminded him of Goodge Street. 
 He stood once more at the window of Mark's lodgings, 
 his heart pitiful for the girl weeping on the sofa. 
 
 Her passion had been that of a child; she had not 
 vaunted herself then. He could almost hear her sobbing. 
 . . . He turned round, half expecting to see a girl hud- 
 dled up on the sofa. Then he smiled constrainedly, con- 
 scious of a softer feeling stirring him. 
 
 "Poor little thing!" he said to himself. 
 
 She had cried then over her fallen ambitions. Would 
 she be crying now over her fallen hopes? 
 
 He took off his pmce-ftez and swung it slowly round 
 and round in his fingers. . . . 
 
 Perhaps, after all, she would not be fretting. There 
 would be her farm-work to do, — the cows must be 
 milked. . . . How sweet and dainty she had been, driving 
 the cows across the field. She had not looked like a 
 strong-minded woman then, but like a simple, wholesome 
 country girl. . . . Yes, she would be hard at work; the 
 old cowman was dead. . . . The thought of Collop took 
 him back to Sunday night and Collop's cottage. . . . He 
 looked through the window, and saw her sitting lonely in 
 the shadowy kitchen, the puppy pressed to her cheek, 
 her eyes dim with yearning. . . . But that could not be 
 the true Katherine, the girl he had called unwomanly, 
 who was not soft and gentle. The real Katherine 
 was a quite different person. How had he seen her last?
 
 ON THE EVE OF DEFEAT. 197 
 
 There flashed before him the picture of an artificially 
 hghted room, and women and men as artificial as the 
 light j and, standing among them, a girl straight and tall, 
 with the fresh air all about her, and the sun burnt red 
 on her cheeks, claiming as friend the shabbiest man in 
 the room. . . . Yes, this was the fearless, frank Katherine 
 of whom he disapproved. 
 
 At the last word he jerked up his thoughts. . . . How 
 could he disapprove of her for the warmth of that gener- 
 ous greeting, for the frankness that set her miles away 
 from those simpering dolls? She had been the only true 
 woman among them all; the only one who had a heart 
 and was not ashamed to show it. And it was this brave 
 heart that he had disdained. . . . 
 
 Franklin frowned. But his vexation at himself only 
 made him bent on justifying his action. 
 
 After all, if a man loved a woman wouldn't he tell 
 her so? She had no right to force a man into a position 
 in which he must look foolish if not ungenerous. . . . Why 
 could she not be content with friendship and the help he 
 had offered? . . . All at once he remembered that she had 
 said she wanted his help, and had begged him not to 
 leave England. He had almost decided to accept that 
 colonial appointment, and yet . . . 
 
 Well, he could advance the cause better if he re- 
 mained in England, and represented his party in the 
 House. He must find out what this trouble was in which 
 she needed help. The girl was lonely enough; an in- 
 effectual mother, Mark absorbed in his wife, and a happy- 
 go-lucky brother, — she stood practically alone. Poor little 
 thing! No wonder she had turned in her need to a man 
 that she trusted. . . . And after all, she had not done 
 anything very terrible. According to the Fabians and to
 
 igS THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 progressive thought, she was quite within her rights to 
 show her feehng for him. A wistful look chased the 
 frown from his face. Why should he be vexed, because 
 she had shown him such favour? A man was fortunate 
 indeed to win the love of a woman who shared his inter- 
 ests, and would be comrade as well as wife. 
 
 He thought of his grim lodgings in Battersea. How 
 much cosier than his Mark's rooms in Goodge Street had 
 always seemed! Was it because of Katherine's presence 
 there? And did that account in any way for his own 
 frequent visits to Mark? He did not go so often to the 
 gaudy flat where Tonina ruled. . . . 
 
 Poor little Katherine! It was hard that Mark 
 should have turned her adrift. She had felt it too; 
 she was a passionate little soul, and her feelings were 
 deep. . . . 
 
 Someone came noisily into the inn-parlour. Franklin 
 turned round. Wlien he saw Mark he felt like "a guilty 
 thing surprised." His air was almost apologetic as he 
 went forward. 
 
 "Well, old man, I didn't expect to see you here," he 
 said, with a gaiety that was its own accusation. 
 
 "Confounded nuisance coming," grumbled Mark. 
 "Pilchard's making a mess of it, isn't he?" 
 
 Pilchard was the Labour candidate. 
 
 "More or less," said Franklin. "The game is nearly 
 up. I always said he was the wrong man. . . . And now 
 Dawson knows it." 
 
 His manner was more natural. Mark had evidently 
 no personal reason for his visit. 
 
 "I know that," said Mark, eagerly; "but I heard 
 something at the office to-day that would alter all that, 
 and give Pilchard the pull over Dawson. Pve come down
 
 ON THE EVE OF DEFEAT. IQQ 
 
 on purpose to tell yon. I have a sneaking fondness for 
 the cause yet." 
 
 "Of course you have!" said Franklin, heartily. "But 
 you might have sent me a wire." 
 
 Mark shook his head. "Too risky. The thing is a 
 dead secret, a personal thing, awfully damaging to Dawson. 
 I got it in confidence at the office, you see, and it's as 
 much as my place is worth to tell it. Still, you're as 
 safe as Pharaoh; and it's touch and go with Pilchard un- 
 less Dawson's crippled. . . . Well?" 
 
 He sat astride the sofa and looked inquiringly at 
 Franklin. But Franklin shook his head, pursing up his lips. 
 
 "Don't you want to know?" Mark said impatiently. 
 
 "No," said Franklin. 
 
 Mark sprang from his perch. "Well, what in the 
 name! . . . And after I've come down on purpose!" . . . 
 
 "The fact is," said Franklin, tossing back his head, 
 "I don't believe in getting a pull over Dawson by foul 
 means. Everything must be straight and aboveboard." 
 
 "Pack o' nonsense!" Mark exclaimed. "What's that 
 to do with it? Look here, you're in charge of this business, 
 aren't you?" 
 
 "Well?" said Franklin. 
 
 "And if Pilchard doesn't get in you'll be blamed 
 for it." 
 
 "Well?" said Franklin again. 
 
 "Well, look here! It's a hanged certainty that he 
 won't get in unless you can check the other man's move. 
 What I can tell you gives him over to you. Pilchard 
 walks in; and the credit is yours." 
 
 "The discredit, you mean," said Franklin, quietly. 
 "Mark, my boy, you meant to do us a friendly turn; 
 but Pilchard mustn't get in by fraud."
 
 200 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 "Moonshine!" said Mark, roughly. "Everything is 
 fair in war." 
 
 "I won't do it," said Frankhn. "Pilchard gets in 
 without fear or favour, or not at all." 
 
 "You are a fool!" said Mark, his thin face flushed 
 and dark. "And you're the only man I dare trust with 
 the thing. ... I daren't risk a libel action for the Hour 
 Glass, else I'd tell Pilchard. . . ." 
 
 "No use;" Franklin shook his head. "If you're be- 
 traying confidence I won't hear." 
 
 "Then I've come all this way for nothing?" Mark 
 grumbled. 
 
 "Not a bit of it. . . . You're in the nick of time for 
 to-night's meeting. Give us a speech." 
 
 "Not I! I'll take the last train up." 
 
 "How is your wife?" said Franklin. 
 
 "Violin-mad," Mark said, with unnecessary bitterness. 
 "She's at it all day until she fairly drives me out of the 
 place. And at night she is generally playing somewhere, 
 so we don't see much of each other." 
 
 "Sounds accommodating," said Franklin, drily. 
 
 There was an ugly twist about Mark's mouth. 
 
 "These professional women are the very deuce; they 
 have a will of their own, and get it. Poor little Kit was 
 a tame cat compared with Tonina." 
 
 "How is your sister?" said Franknn, with elaborate 
 ease. 
 
 "Flourishing, I believe. But I must go; there's just 
 time for that train." 
 
 He glanced at the clock and went out of the parlour. 
 
 Five minutes after, another man put his head in. 
 
 "Hillo, Brace!" said Franklin, rousing himself "How 
 are things going?"
 
 ON THE EVE OF DEFEAT. 20 I 
 
 Brace came in, tossed his hat on a chair, poured out 
 a glass of water from the carafe on the table, drank it, 
 then spoke. "All's up with Pilchard. Only a miracle 
 will get him in." 
 
 "I always thought so," said Franklin, with a grim 
 smile. "We must make a big effort to-night." 
 
 "The fellows are saying you've made a mess of the 
 canvassing." 
 
 "That's not true," said Franklin, quietly. 
 
 "Well, to-night will decide things. ... By the way, 
 don't ask me to speak." 
 
 "You must," said Franklin. "Everything depends 
 on this meeting." 
 
 "I know that; but 'pon my word, it's impossible. I've 
 had a nasty shock, and can't get over it." 
 
 "What has happened?" 
 
 "I was going through Plimpton, and just as I passed 
 that old farm-house the other side of the common a girl 
 came tearing out, riding bareback. Her face was like 
 the grave, but I recognised her at once as Fleming's sister. 
 You will remember her; she used to speak for us in 
 town. . . . Fine girl, capital speaker. I stood watching 
 her, wondering how she stuck to that horse without a 
 saddle; and half an hour after . . ." 
 
 "Well?" said Franklin, impatiently. 
 
 "I passed the house again. They were carrying in a 
 stretcher with the girl . . ." 
 
 "An accident?" Franklin interrupted. He started up 
 from his chair, and stood, his hand gripping the back of 
 the seat. 
 
 "Yes, she had been thrown. She was dead before 
 they picked her up." 
 
 "She was dead before they picked her up?" Franklin
 
 202 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 repeated in a strange, hoarse voice. Both hands gripped 
 the back of his chair. The room was spinning round. 
 
 Brace poured out another glass of water and drank 
 it very slowly. 
 
 "I'd give anything not to have seen it," he said. 
 "They had covered her face with the skirt. She always 
 wore green, I remember. It will be a nasty shock for 
 Fleming; he thought a lot of her. I rather admired her 
 myself. . . , I'll never forget a speech she gave in the 
 Park one Sunday. I couldn't speak to-night without think- 
 ing of it, and making an ass of myself . . . It's a rough 
 business. Poor little girl!" 
 
 Brace passed his hand over his forehead and gulped 
 down some more water. "This will make a difference to 
 Fleming's prospects, I fancy. He told me his father had 
 left a curious will, — the farm to be the girl's so long as 
 she didn't marry, or something like that." 
 
 "Yes," said Franklin, in a dazed manner. He walked 
 to the window and stood with his back to the room. 
 He dared not look round. The silence was an open 
 grave. . . . 
 
 "I hope she wasn't a friend of yours," said Brace at 
 last, awkwardly. 
 
 "I don't think I ever knew her," Franklin answered. 
 
 The .truth of the words held the sting of death for 
 him. He had never known her. . . . 
 
 The room seemed to spin again. He was in town 
 at Ludgate Circus. The noise of train and traffic hurtled 
 round. . . . The shouts of men trying to stop a runaway 
 horse deafened him. . . . He saw Katherine spring for- 
 ward, right in front of the flying hoofs. . . . 
 
 Once again he stood in a horrible paralysis. The 
 woman he loved was in peril of life, and he was power-
 
 ON THE EVE OF DEFEAT. 2O3 
 
 less. . . . "The woman he loved?" . . . Ah, yes! he 
 knew it now. . . . Then all was dark. There was a rush- 
 ing and surging in his ears, a thunder of words. "The 
 horse had thrown her. She was dead before they picked 
 her up." . . . 
 
 From that noise and tumult Franklin groped his way 
 painfully back to the present. He turned to Brace. . . . 
 The words came slowly and haltingly. "Thank you for 
 telling me this. I shall not forget."
 
 204 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 THE WHITE GATE. 
 
 Katherine was going down the drive, when a lad, 
 mounted on one of their own horses, came galloping up 
 to say that Peggy had been thrown. She was in the hill- 
 side field. 
 
 All at once Katherine was marble; and the hard cold 
 voice was like her face. 
 
 "Is she much hurt . . . dead?" 
 
 The boy widened his mouth, dropping the under lip. 
 
 "Her back's broke." 
 
 "Get off!" Katherine cried. 
 
 She almost dragged the boy from his seat, took his 
 place, and flew along the drive and down the road to- 
 wards the hillside field, spurred on by words that tore 
 her memory. "When life gets too hard I will take the 
 leap. . . . There is always a way out. . . ." 
 
 A group of men guided her to the place. Where 
 the white gate had stood there was an opening. Her 
 face blanched as she rode through. 
 
 Peggy lay where she had been thrown. Katherine 
 knelt on the wet grass, and lifted the dead face to her 
 bosom and held it there, the men watching stolid and 
 silent. 
 
 She looked up, and her lips moved, but no sound 
 came. The men turned away, and examined Sambo, 
 lifting his legs and speaking under their breath.
 
 THE WHITE GATE. 2O5 
 
 Katherine laid her burden down, straightening the 
 habit. She folded Peggy's hands on her bosom, and 
 wiped the mud from her face before she lifted herself 
 
 "Bring her home to Great Lowlands," she ordered, in 
 a high strained voice. 
 
 Before they raised Peggy, one of the men folded his 
 coat on the gate, which they had taken off its hinges. 
 . . . The straight, uncovered form pleaded for seclusion. 
 Katherine slipped off her skirt and laid it over face and 
 figure, and the bearers lifted their burden. 
 
 Under the horror that froze Katherine her thoughts 
 moved swiftly. The life struggled in her heart like a 
 caged creature throwing itself against the bars of its 
 prison; but her mind was free, and it hovered about 
 Peggy's need. 
 
 She remounted, and rode quickly to the farm, leaving 
 the men to follow. 
 
 White as the dead, she met them again at the door, 
 and led them up to her room, where she had made her 
 own bed ready. . . . She had sent one of the servants 
 for her mother, who was at the rectory; the other had 
 gone for the doctor. Alone in the house, Katherine did 
 for Peggy what Martha had done for her old man. When 
 the doctor came Peggy lay shrouded and peaceful, and 
 there was no need to disturb her. 
 
 Tom had not been at home since the morning. The 
 thought of him lay a heavy terror on Katherine's mind. 
 Every fresh arrival at the house made her tremble to 
 hear his voice. 
 
 Death had crashed through the quiet of Great Low- 
 lands. People were coming and going. There would 
 have to be an inquest. Katherine had to see everyone, 
 to answer questions, to make arrangements. She had not
 
 206 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 a moment for grief. There were letters to be written, 
 telegrams to send. 
 
 Coming into the hall, Mrs. Fleming saw on the table 
 the telegram addressed to Colonel Jacob, The Moat, 
 Chester. The name had vaguely pricked Katherine's 
 memory; it stood before Mrs. Fleming as the ghost of a 
 dead love. Forgetting the tragedy at her gates, she sank 
 into a chair, agitated and trembling. Katherine found 
 her there crying. 
 
 The girl came forward in the marble coldness that 
 had held her since her ride to the hillside field. The 
 horror was in her eyes; her face was still and white. 
 
 "Mother dear, you must not let it upset you," she 
 said gently. 
 
 Mrs. Fleming wiped her eyes, looking up. 
 
 "It's a terrible thing," she sobbed. "I always said 
 she would kill herself riding those young horses. . . . 
 Katherine . . ." Her tone changed to an eager curiosity, 
 "Katherine, how did you know where to find Colonel 
 Jacob?" 
 
 "Peggy told me," said Katherine. Her voice shook. 
 She knew now why Peggy had told her. 
 
 "It must be the same," Mrs. Fleming said quickly. 
 "I wonder how she knew . . ." 
 
 "He was her uncle. The telegram is to tell him. . . . 
 I have asked him to come here. . . ." 
 
 Mrs. Fleming got up, shaking. "It must be the 
 same. Her uncle! . . . You take too much upon your- 
 self, Katherine," she quavered. "You should have con- 
 sulted me first. . . . Not but what I shall be pleased to 
 see him," she added, a weak smile breaking through her 
 protest. 
 
 "There was nothing else to be done," said Katherine,
 
 THE WHITE GATE. ZO'J 
 
 gravely. "Peggy is here ... it would have been lonely 
 at the cottage. . . ." 
 
 Mrs. Fleming began to cry again: "Oh, Katherine!" 
 she said reproachfully, "to bring her here, when I am so 
 ill and nervous! . . ." 
 
 "She is in my room, mother, away from everybody." 
 
 The thought of Peggy's uncle soothed Mrs. Fleming's 
 fears, "He will feel it very much, I am sure," she said, 
 pressing her handkerchief to her eyes. . . . "And my poor 
 son too." 
 
 "Where is Tom?" Katherine asked. 
 
 "Gone to town . . . You must break it to him gently, 
 Katherine, I believe he was sincerely attached to the 
 girl, though I never thought her a suitable match for a 
 Fleming. ... Of course if I had known she was related 
 to Colonel Jacob I could have put up with her coarseness 
 and unladylike . . ," 
 
 Katherine snatched her hat from the rack and ran 
 from the house, her heart bursting. 
 
 She passed the people, standing in knots on the green 
 talking over the accident. She saw them nudge each 
 other, and grow silent, and stare as she went by; but she 
 took no notice, and walked on furiously to Laburnum 
 Cottage, 
 
 The rain was over. A stormy sunset crimsoned the 
 pools in the road, and flashed red lights to meet her 
 from the windows of Peggy's cottage. 
 
 The door was not locked. She opened it and went 
 in; and the silence in her heart filled all the em[)ty 
 rooms. 
 
 The orderliness in kitchen and parlour made her 
 catch her breath and tread softly. She was in the house 
 of death. She stumbled up the stairs to the bedroom.
 
 2o8 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 Here, too, everything was prepared for Peggy's going 
 away, except that the bed wore clean hnen, as if in ex- 
 pectation of a guest. . . . Katherine's heart rose in her 
 with a great cry. . . . She swayed and clutched at a 
 table to keep herself from falling. With a clatter it came 
 to the ground, scattering the contents of a drawer 
 wrenched open by the fall. 
 
 Katherine gathered together the dainty needle- work, 
 her eyes full of terror and love and pity. Only a few 
 hours before, Peggy's fingers had lingered tenderly among 
 them; but the look on her face had been the look of the 
 woman who sees the fruit of her body dead before 
 her. . . . 
 
 Katherine did not replace the things in their hiding- 
 place. She carried them to the stove in the kitchen, and 
 setting fire to them, watched them burn till Love and 
 Death guarded the ashes that held Peggy's secret. 
 
 Her face was grey like the ashes when she took her 
 way home through the dusk; and the weight of life and 
 death bent her figure so that she walked like an old 
 woman. The green was shrouded in mist. It clung to 
 her face in dank folds. 
 
 Mrs. Fleming had gone to her room. The maids 
 stood at the door talking to Susan Parkin. . . . With a 
 fierce joy Katherine's hand closed over the key in her 
 pocket. It belonged to the locked door, behind which 
 Peggy lay. She passed Susan with a shudder, remember- 
 ing her prophecy. At ten o'clock she sent the maids to 
 bed. She would sit up for Tom. 
 
 She threw herself on the sofa, and lay there with 
 white face and eyes staring at the dead thing the day 
 had brought forth. At last it became intolerable. The 
 sight of Peggy herself would be less dreadful. . . .
 
 THE WHITE GATE. 20Q 
 
 Katherine crawled upstairs to her room and lighted a 
 candle, and sat down beside the shrouded figure. And 
 as she sat there the dead spoke. Peggy's silence arraigned 
 her. 
 
 The day had been charged with wounded love and 
 helplessness, with pain and disappointment; but striking 
 through the agony came now the sharp thrust of a keen- 
 edged thought, — 
 
 "Kit, you might have saved this." 
 
 Katherine lifted herself in quick denial that stopped 
 on her lips. . . . The dead compelled the truth. . . . She 
 shrank back humbled. . . . Was she guiltless? 
 
 Had she not taken Tom's one duty from him, and set 
 him free to drift into any entanglement he pleased? Had 
 she tried to redeem him from his idleness? Had she not 
 feared lest he should interfere with her management? . . . 
 She might have saved this final disaster. . . . 
 
 In the anguish of that stroke her heart lay open. 
 Dazed as she was, she saw herself, her pride, ambition, 
 self-seeking, the strong compelling forces of her conduct. 
 Her ears heard the mute reproach of dead lips. In the 
 quiet it thundered round her, awful, irresistible, filling 
 the room. 
 
 The silence in her soul surged with the words: "You 
 might have saved this." And in her heart the truth 
 rolled and echoed, again: "You might have saved this." 
 The night was full of the thunder of her impeachment. 
 As it crashed round her, she cowered, and sank on her 
 knees, and covered her face before God. 
 
 Footsteps were on the stairs, but she did not hear 
 them. The door opened, and Martha tiptoed in. 
 
 "Missie," she said in a loud whisper, "I be comed 
 
 The Gods Arrive. 1 4
 
 2IO THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 to help you with the poor lass, but I doubt I'm over- 
 late. . . ." 
 
 Katherine rose from her knees, strangling the sobs in 
 her throat. 
 
 "It's all done, Martha; just as you did it on Sunday 
 night." 
 
 "Ay, poor dear! And you've forgot nothing? . . . 
 Well, I'll come along for the coffining, and so no tongues 
 shall wag over the poor heart. Yes, her were a hearty 
 lass. I couldn't but admire her frank ways." 
 
 She turned back the sheet with reverent fingers and 
 looked at Peggy, her face twitching with grief. 
 
 Katherine took the old woman's hand. "Let us go 
 downstairs," she said gently. 
 
 In the kitchen Martha wiped her eyes, and was im- 
 mediately her old bright self. 
 
 "You're killing yourself fretting, duckie," she said, 
 "and fretting never mended no broken bones. 'Tis 
 nature for a man to be roving, we all know. But I telled 
 Mr. Tom many a time 't was well to be on with the new 
 love before he were off with the old. 'T would save a 
 tarrible deal o' pother if men minded that when they 
 went a-sweethearting." 
 
 "Will you stay here to-night?" Katherine asked 
 wearily. 
 
 "No, duckie; the puppy be sadly, poor dear! I come 
 to arst you to see if you could tell what ailed en. He 
 do suffer tarrible, to be sure; — but it do be late, and 
 missie be tired." 
 
 "No, I'll come," said Katherine. "I want to breathe 
 the air. Tom can't be here yet." 
 
 "Then come along, duckie. It be time surely. I 
 doubt the poor boy be missing the old woman."
 
 A man's love. 2 11 
 
 Katherine went out into the darkness. Still she could 
 not think; she could not feel. Life whirled about her. 
 The very earth reeled. Whirled with the reeling world, 
 she had no point of certainty. The one certainty was 
 most uncertain of all. . . . "Peggy is dead. Peggy is 
 dead." . . . The thought focussed her mind to the in- 
 stability of her world. It was not true! How could 
 Peggy be dead? How could Peggy be lying upstairs 
 dead? . . . By /ler oivn hand? The other world crashing 
 into the present loosened her hold of both worlds. The 
 soul of Katherine stood swaying dazed on the edge from 
 which Peggy had slipped swiftly into the unknown. But 
 the girl Katherine followed Martha with feet that did not 
 swerve or falter. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A man's love. 
 
 Katherine was still at the cottage when Tom came 
 in. The room was full of smoke from a flaring lamp, 
 and soot-flakes from the chimney were thick on the cloth 
 and dishes. 
 
 "Phew!" Tom grimaced; "a pretty welcome for a 
 fellow! Kit might have waited up." 
 
 His temper had improved since the morning. He 
 had gone to Ridgmont Gardens, boiling over with indig- 
 nation and thwarted passion; and Tonina had met him 
 with open friendliness, and rallied him gaily on his bad 
 temper. Under her gaiety there was something that 
 baffled him. He could not pass the barrier of her sister- 
 liness. 
 
 14*
 
 212 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 While he sulked and smarted at the change, she 
 chirped on about his "soul" for music, until he began to 
 think his admiration of her had only been admiration of 
 her art, the awakening of a real passion for music. He 
 confessed to a voice; and she made him sing to her, and 
 went into raptures over his ordinary baritone, turning his 
 head with her praise. The flattery softened those other 
 words in which Tonina had scarified those "men who 
 helped women to make mud-pies of their married life." 
 Tom had winced at the veiled reproof, but had had man- 
 liness enough to see that he deserved it. 
 
 And immediately after she had made him forget the 
 sting in allusions to his horsemanship and the splendid 
 figure he cut in the saddle. From this she skilfully led 
 the talk to Peggy, her spirit and courage and originality, 
 until Tom's thoughts harked back to Peggy's smartness, 
 that had first attracted him. . . . He began to see also 
 that his feeling for Tonina changed with her changed tone. 
 Peggy's conscious eyes stirred him more than Tonina's 
 sisterly glances. . . . Because she no longer belonged to 
 him he wanted her. ... By the time he left Ridgmont 
 Gardens he had swung round into a half-formed wish to 
 keep faith with his old love. . . . "With Peggy a fellow is 
 a man; Tonina makes you feel as if you were a whipped 
 schoolboy." . . . 
 
 He hung up his hat and coat in the hall. 
 
 "I suppose Kit's gone to bed huffed because I went 
 to town in spite of her. Well, I'll go upstairs and have 
 a talk with her. I may as well let her know I'm going 
 to make it right with Peggy. I know she isn't asleep." 
 
 He had seen the light in her window. It had been 
 almost the only one in the village, and it had shone with 
 a kindly ray, guiding him home.
 
 A man's love. 213 
 
 "I'll go up now and tell her," said Tom. 
 
 Whistling softly, in great good-humour with himself, 
 lie went along the passage, his steps echoing in the sleep- 
 ing house. A thread of light from the door Katherine 
 had left unfastened lay across the landing and guided 
 him up the stairs. He knocked at the door, and hearing 
 nothing pushed it open and went in. The candle had 
 burnt low, and the small flame flickered, casting thick 
 shadows. Tom saw nothing but the outline of the figure 
 on the bed. 
 
 "None of your shamming, Kit," he said gaily. "I 
 know you aren't asleep, and I want to have a talk with 
 you." 
 
 He went closer, and stooped down, and met the white 
 face of the dead. . . . 
 
 Even in that dim light he recognised the thing he saw; 
 and he stood staring down, shocked into numbness, — 
 thought, sensation, emotion suspended. 
 
 "Peggy!" — the name was in his memory, but it was 
 strange to him. It did not belong to the face that looked 
 up at him from the pillow, to the glassy eyes half-closed. 
 . . . Then fear came crashing through the paralysis. What 
 did it mean? what did it mean? Who was this lying in 
 Katherine's bed, still and pale and awful? . . . 
 
 His dry lips moved. "Peggy . . . Peggy . . . Peggy!" 
 . . . The words dropped one by one into the silence and 
 plumbed its depth. . . . Drops of terror chilled his fore- 
 head. . . . He put out his hand and touched her. . . . 
 
 At the cold of that frozen form he staggered back 
 against the wall where he stood, his eyes fascinated by 
 the dead face. Was this Peggy whom he had loved and ' 
 forsaken, — Peggy whom he still loved, and would not for- 
 sake? . . .
 
 2 1 4 THE GODS ARRI\^. 
 
 Like a moth his glance crossed the shadow and flitted 
 about the hght of that white presence. His eyes burnt 
 and were shrivelled as he looked, but his gaze fluttered 
 about the pillow and could not die. , . . 
 
 "Peggy!" he groaned, "I love you. ... I was a fool. 
 ... I was going to tell you I love you. . . . Tonina's no- 
 thing to me. I only love you." 
 
 It was true. Peggy lying dead and beyond his reach 
 forever was dearer to him than she had ever been in life. 
 He remembered the spring morning when she had gone 
 her own way and had whipped his passion into mad de- 
 sire. . . . And now she had gone her own way by that 
 high road on which he would never overtake her. . . . 
 Passion flamed in him again, fanned by remorse and re- 
 gret and unattainable longing. . . . 
 
 The candle burnt low; the room was suddenly dark 
 but for the pale glimmer of the clouded moon. 
 
 The changed light was as though sound had conquered 
 silence, and it roused Tom. He stumbled to the door, 
 but on the threshold he looked back. . . . 
 
 The face shone white where all was shadowy white, 
 and it drew him again into the room. ... It was cruel to 
 leave her staring up into the darkness. . . . He covered 
 her, but the sheet clinging to her face seemed more cruel 
 than the darkness. He drew it away, and threw his arms 
 about her. 
 
 Katherine followed Martha through the orchard. The 
 moon was hidden, and the trees loomed dark, holding 
 out towards them ghostly branches on which the apples 
 hung unseen. The women's footsteps made no sound as 
 they went over the sodden moss. Cloaked and hooded.
 
 A man's love. 215 
 
 the two passed like mysterious Fates where the gods had 
 rioted. 
 
 They came out of the orchard into the meadow. In 
 the distance the glassy face of the pond looked blankly 
 up at a stormy sky. Beside the bank gleamed the light 
 from Milkmaid Cottage. 
 
 The puppy was lying in a basket beside the kitchen 
 fire. His eyes were dull, his limbs limp; his tail moved 
 feebly at the sound of Martha's steps. 
 
 "Ah, poor Jockie!" she sighed. "Lie still, duckie; 
 mother do be come now. Mother will soon make her 
 boy well. Deary, deary, his little body be as tight as a nut!" 
 
 "Is he very bad, Martha?" Katherine asked pitifully, 
 stooping over him. Then she looked up: "You must get 
 oatmeal and make him a poultice." 
 
 Martha eyed her dubiously. 
 
 "I doubt Jockie would sooner have the poultice inside 
 than out," she began. 
 
 "Don't waste time. Get it at once," Katherine said 
 in her old masterful manner. 
 
 A curious twinkle was in Martha's eye as she made 
 the poultice ready. When Jock's head fell helplessly over 
 the bandage she wrapped him in a shawl and gave him 
 to Katherine. 
 
 The girl sat holding him, her heart pitiful for his 
 helplessness, something like mother-love stirring in her. 
 It soothed the pain of her suffering, and lessened the 
 tension of her dread. Thought steadied itself. She re- 
 membered Peggy's love for dumb things, and her dive 
 into the water to save the drowning puppy. The memory 
 flickered in her heart like a flame trembling to life. . . . 
 Was it possible that tender-hearted Peggy could have wil- 
 fully sacrificed two lives to her despair? Had she not
 
 2 I 6 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 intended to leave Plimpton, and riding recklessly in that 
 last ride met her death? 
 
 The frost about Katherine's heart melted, and the icy 
 bands that had held her were unbound. Her feet stood 
 on ground that did not yield. Grief took the place of 
 horror and dread and intolerable fear. She could bear 
 the thought of an accidental death. ... It lifted the 
 heaviest weight of anguish. ... At last she roused herself, 
 and gave the puppy to Martha. "I must be going back. 
 . . . Tom will be coming home." 
 
 The sharp old eyes searched her face. 
 
 "I'm sure you've cured the baby, duckie. I couldn't 
 a-bear to lose en. I'd ha' missed my old man tarrible 
 bad but for Jockie. . . . Ay, women be a poor box o' 
 tools for shaping love! that be the man's work; but they 
 be well enough for keeping it together once 'tis made." 
 
 "I think they know more of love than men," said 
 Katherine, her weary eyes grown wistful. 
 
 "Lor no, missie!" said Martha, disparagingly. "You 
 thinks so because you doesn't know men and the ways of 
 'em, which it ain't seemly that you should, being a young 
 maid. A woman be like stone fruit with just the one 
 love in her; but a man be as full of love as a pumpkin 
 be of seeds. . . . And he can't help hisself, for 'tis nature 
 do give him the advantage over the woman." 
 
 "I suppose only a woman remains faithful to one 
 love?" said the girl, sadly. 
 
 "Ay, poor, weak fools, they doesn't know their privi- 
 leges! . . . You looks a sight betterish than when you 
 corned in." Martha gave another of her keen glances. 
 "More spunk about you like." 
 
 "Yes, I feel better," said Katherine. "It doesn't look 
 so hopeless. Good-night, Martha."
 
 A man's love. 217 
 
 Martha waited till she heard the garden gate click. 
 Then the lines of her face puckered and twisted. She 
 chuckled delightedly as she lifted Jock out of the poultice. 
 She held him up by his forepaws and laughed aloud when 
 his head fell to one side. 
 
 "Poor heart!" she said, her sides shaking. "Mother's 
 treated her boy shameful. He be as drunk as a lord; 
 and I dunno what missie would say to the old woman if 
 her knowed 'twas only a gill of whiskey that ailed en. 
 But lawks! who'd ha' thought of a poultice for to make a 
 puppy sober? . . . Ah, well, poor lass! it's done en good 
 and roused en a bit. I've knowed a sick chicken keep 
 a maid from breaking her heart for love; yes, I have. . . . 
 And missie'll never know the baby ailed nothing but a 
 drop o'- Glenlivet. . . . Dear heart, he took en as prutty 
 and nat'ral as a dandy. To be sure. Fan be pure Scotch; 
 and we knows what be bred by the flesh will go to the 
 devil. . . ." 
 
 Katherine walked back to Great Lowlands. A trail 
 of light fiom a broken cloud was on the pond. It was 
 as though a sleeping face had awakened. The turmoil 
 in her calmed. She grew strong again. Nerve and muscle 
 knit. There was even a spring in her feet as she walked. 
 The land lay submissive under its burden of night, patient 
 for the slow coming dawn. Soon the shrouded form 
 would stir, the strong limbs thrill, and Earth blush under 
 the eyes of her bridegroom coming out of his chamber, 
 rejoicing as a strong man. . . . 
 
 Katherine drank the midnight strength, her lips at 
 nature's breast, and courage came to her. 
 
 The wind swept through the silence like a melody, 
 bringing remembered words: —
 
 2l8 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 "Temple thou hast none, 
 
 Nor altar heaped with flowers; 
 Nor virgin choir to make delicious moan 
 
 Upon the midnight hours; 
 No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet 
 
 From chain-swung censer teeming; 
 No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat 
 
 Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming." 
 
 Her face woke. Determination took the place of grief 
 and humbleness. She would build a temple to night, to 
 pain, and sorrow, and minister there. She would plant 
 her grove of human trees. . . . Tom should be the first. 
 It was not too late. She would set herself to save his soul. 
 
 The zest of resolve thrilled her; she tried to control 
 it, reproachful at her heartlessness. Not an hour ago she 
 had been stricken to death, dazed, bruised, humiliated; 
 yet the horror of great darkness was passing from her. 
 Already dawn was breaking. . , . She hurried her steps 
 through the orchard and came breathless to the house. 
 
 She went quickly into the parlour, but there was no 
 sign of Tom. The supper table was covered with blacks; 
 the lamp smouldered offensively. . . . She went to the 
 kitchen, cosy with dancing firelight, and spread supper 
 there, making coffee against Tom's coming in. 
 
 When all was ready she took a candle and went up 
 to lock the door that she had left unfastened. It was 
 wide open, and she paused on the landing. The light 
 ran before her into the room. Tom sat on the bed, 
 holding Peggy in his arms. 
 
 Katherine stood frozen, gazing at Tom's dazed white 
 face, the whiter face on his breast. Peggy's bosom rose 
 and fell with his heavy breathing. 
 
 Katherine turned away her eyes and stepped back.
 
 A man's love. iig 
 
 . . . But she could not leave him like that. . . . She went 
 into the room, setting down her candle. 
 
 "Tom," she said softly, "Tom, dear . . ." 
 
 He started, and life flashed back to his face. He 
 laid Peggy down with trembling hands and stood up, his 
 knees shaking. The strength of his unavailing passion 
 had made him weak. 
 
 "What is it? . . . how was it? ... who has done it?" 
 he said brokenly. 
 
 "Sambo threw her," Katherine whispered. "She was 
 quite dead. . . ." 
 
 He turned himself from Katherine's eyes. . . . 
 
 "Then it wasn't me? . . ." 
 
 She went to him and put her arm round him silently. 
 
 "I thought it was me," he said hoarsely. 
 
 Katherine shook her head. She couldn't speak. 
 
 "And now it's too late," he said, as if to himself "And 
 now it's too late . . ." 
 
 "It was over in a minute," Katherine said in a low 
 voice. "She couldn't have felt anything." 
 
 Tom crossed to the bed and stroked Peggy's dis- 
 arranged ^air. His hands lingered about her. 
 
 "I'd give anything if I had known sooner," he groaned. 
 "And I was hard on her. . . . Kit, do you think she had 
 got over it before . . . before? . . ." 
 
 "I was w^ith her," Katherine faltered. "She spoke 
 kindly of you. . . ." 
 
 "Ah, she wouldn't bear malice! she had a good heart. 
 ... I was mad. . . . And now it's too late. . . ." 
 
 "It is not too late," Katherine said gently. "It may 
 come right yet, Tom." 
 
 Her lowered voice sounded hollow in the hush about 
 them.
 
 2 20 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 "How can it come right?" Tom burst out. "Peggy is 
 gone, my one love . . . The only one who loved me. . . . 
 Don't you see that she is gone? ... I have nobody left. 
 How can it come right?" . . . 
 
 Katherine shrank back from his fierce eyes; then she 
 put her hand on his arm. 
 
 "I love you, Tom. And I loved Peggy, too. . . ." 
 
 Tears were pouring down her face. He stared at 
 her, and roughly drew away. 
 
 "You! you!" he cried. "You love nobody but your- 
 self. It's you that came between me and Peggy. Pd 
 never have broken with her if you hadn't interfered. . . ." 
 
 He dashed the tears from his eyes, biting his lips. 
 
 "Oh, Tom, I can't bear to hear you say that!" Kathe- 
 rine sobbed. "But it is true. ... It was my fault. ... I 
 only thought 'of myself. ... I didn't help you. . . ." 
 
 "I didn't help myself; you weren't to blame for that," 
 he said. "Don't cry. Kit," he added more gently. "We 
 won't quarrel before her. . . ." 
 
 "She wished us to be friends," Katherine said humbly. 
 "Tom, won't you be friends?" 
 
 He made no answer. But he let her takq his hand, 
 and they stumbled down the dark stairs into the light.
 
 REAPERS, 2 2 I 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 REAPERS. 
 
 Once again Great Lowlands was astir. There were 
 sounds in the house; the outdoor hfe forced an entrance 
 through open windows. Noises from field and byre, 
 harvesters shouting to their teams, bleating of sheep, low- 
 ing of cattle, mingled with the voices of the maids, busy 
 in removing the traces of Peggy's sorrowful outgoing. 
 Katherine had gone to the grave to weep there. Tom 
 was in the orchard, watching moodily while the apples 
 were gathered. The question of the new cowman had 
 been settled. Jim would take Collop's place. 
 
 The autumn day was glorious. Among the rhododen- 
 drons a thrush piped to the orchestra of grasshoppers 
 that twanged away in the grass. The sunshine burnished 
 the leaves of apple and pear and cherry tree, until all 
 along the orchard the russet branches stood in brave 
 ranks, — an army with banners. It burnished the stubble 
 from which the stooks were being carted, and flaunted 
 with the poppies in the half-reaped furrows. It made 
 splashes of red and blue and yellow on the kerchiefs of 
 the women following the scythes. They sang as they 
 worked, and their voices sounded sweet in the distance. 
 Everyone was out of doors and a-field this morning; only 
 Peggy "Home had gone and ta'en her wages." Even 
 Mrs. Fleming was out, walking with Peggy's uncle — a 
 cheery soul — among the reapers.
 
 222 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 The gay morning had brightened her, bringing colour 
 to her cheeks, and freshening the brown of her hair. Her 
 face was hke an autumn leaf through which the sun 
 shines. When she passed through the fields into the 
 meadows a new spring was in her gait, a hint of youth 
 in her carriage. Now and then she glanced at her com- 
 panion with the shy adoration of a girl. 
 
 He was a little old man, clean-shaven and red-faced, 
 with a short, turned-up nose and twinkling eyes behind 
 gold-rimmed spectacles; not a figure to provoke admira- 
 tion, though Mrs. Fleming gave it him abundantly. A 
 trail of bramble had caught her dress. It delayed her as 
 she went through the kissing gate. 
 
 Colonel Jacob stooped and freed her, a smile broaden- 
 ing his broad mouth. 
 
 "You have found a sweetheart, you see," he panted, 
 raising himself. 
 
 The colonel was over sixty, and stout. He had 
 sacrificed himself to do this little service. 
 
 A faint tinge, the ghost of a blush, showed on her 
 cheek. 
 
 "You always called the bramble so, I remember," she 
 smiled. 
 
 "Because it had a way of sticking to the woman to 
 whom it was attached." He laughed with boyish glee at 
 his own daring. 
 
 "I think it was because the thorns hurt so," she an- 
 swered, her mouth trembling. 
 
 "Now, Jessica, now, my dear," he said, taking her 
 hand and patting it softly. 
 
 They walked on hand in hand, — a pair of autumn 
 lovers quaint to see: she tall and graceful and yielding; 
 the little man solidly compact.
 
 REAPERS. 22^ 
 
 He shuffled into step with her, on his face an air of 
 dehghtful importance and proprietorship. His eyes were 
 radiant behind his spectacles. . . . He gave her a shy 
 look. She was crying. . . . Concern chased the importance 
 from his face. He stopped. 
 
 "Now, my dear Jessica, now, now." 
 
 With fumbling haste he found his handkerchief, a 
 generous one of yellow silk, and raised himself on tiptoe 
 to wipe away her tears. He did it roughly in his nervous- 
 ness; then he drew her face down and kissed it. . . . 
 
 He set a yard or two between them. . . . 
 
 "I ... I beg your pardon, Jessica. ... I did not 
 know what I was doing. ... I really could not help it. 
 ... I hope I have not vexed you. . . ." 
 
 His pleased air ran ahead of the penitent words. 
 
 "I am not vexed. Colonel Jacob," she stammered. 
 
 He set his glasses straight on his nose, and looked up 
 at her, beaming more than ever. 
 
 "Let me offer you my arm," he said, crooking the 
 limb funnily. His face brimmed over with pleasure and 
 importance and vanity; his body rounded out with grati- 
 fication. . . . He measured his steps with her longer ones. 
 
 "I wonder what you are thinking?" Mrs. Fleming 
 timidly broke the silence. 
 
 "I was thinking that Jacob waited fourteen years for 
 his wife. . . . But he got her at last." 
 
 His eyes looked fiercely over the rim of the spectacles. 
 
 "It is thirty years, . . ." she faltered. 
 
 "But he got her at last!" He jerked her arm closer 
 to his side, jerked himself up, and kissed her again. 
 
 "Colonel!" Mrs. Fleming protested. 
 
 "I'll have one for each year I've waited," he chuckled.
 
 2 24 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 They were in sight of Milkmaid Cottage. She drew 
 her arm away, and they walked on demurely. 
 
 Martha stood at the door, watching Jock asleep with 
 the cat under the lavender pincushion. She waited for 
 the two, and made her obedience. 
 
 "Glory be to goodness that I had on a clean print!" 
 she said to herself. From behind the privet hedge she 
 followed them with her eyes. 
 
 "That be the poor heart's uncle. . . . Well, to be 
 sure! the mistress do look beside en like the wilier- tree 
 beside the soft-water tub in the back garden. . . ." She 
 raised herself on tiptoe. . . . "Oh, lor, if they ain't sweet- 
 heartiiig!" she gasped. "I might ha' knowed it. There 
 be the look on 'em the very ducks and drakes has when 
 they be courting. . . . Oh, be ashamed of herself! a widder 
 with a first family. . . . Now if 't was missie he had a 
 fancy for — fresh and young and tender as a chicken . . . 
 and I knows Miss Katherine would enjoy a gentleman. 
 . . . Lord! what fools men be, to be sure! But there, 
 sweethearting do be in season the whole year round. 
 Here be one pair parted yesterday, and another be mak- 
 ing to-day; and so the world do wag. Though little 't 
 will wag if the men passes the maids for the widders; 
 and a lean-to like the mistress in partikler. ... It minds 
 me o' what Mr. Tom used to call stale-mate in the play 
 of chess."
 
 SHALL WE TASTE THIS WONDERFUL WINE? 2 25 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 SHALL WE TASTE THIS WONDERFUL WINE? 
 
 The South Hants election was over. The speech 
 Franklin had made on Friday night under tension of 
 emotion had turned the scales in favour of the Labour 
 candidate. Pilchard had leaped the hurdle that barred 
 his return, and had run in before Dawson, who was 
 sauntering idly into the constituency. 
 
 Franklin had had no leisure to dwell on his grief. 
 There was a grim humour in the telegram he had sent 
 to Mark: "Am deeply grieved. Let me have details of 
 accident and funeral arrangements." 
 
 Mark had wired in return: "Thrown while riding. 
 Death instantaneous. Funeral Tuesday, twelve o'clock." 
 
 Tuesday was the day of the election, and Franklin 
 had had to remain in Grimple. 
 
 On the Sunday, he debated with himself whether he 
 should go over to Plimpton, but he decided against it. 
 He had no right even to demand a last look. 
 
 Memory lashed him, using for whip the scene in the 
 railway carriage. Why had he not known then that he 
 loved her? . . . She had read his love better than he, 
 who had not been able to interpret the writing on the 
 wall of his heart. And now love's feast was over. Death's 
 hand had written in the house of life, "God hath num- 
 bered thy kingdom, and finished it. . . ." 
 
 He went through his work like a man whose thoughts 
 
 The Gods Arrive. I5
 
 2 26 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 were in irons. When the election was over, Brace and 
 Pilchard said the contest had made an old man of him. 
 
 His opponents noticed his altered appearance. They 
 had seen him sturdily working, cheerfully leading the 
 forlorn hope, keeping his party together by sheer force of 
 will; and now, when he had got his man in, he looked as 
 if he had a crime on his conscience. Dawson set himself 
 to find a reason for his own defeat and Franklin's 
 despondency. 
 
 Before returning to London, Franklin wrote a letter 
 recalling his refusal of that colonial appointment. . . . 
 Then he went over to Plimpton to see the place where 
 they had laid her. . . . 
 
 Like a man in a dream he climbed the hill from the 
 station. His consciousness seemed to be held in the 
 hollow of the flame that scarred his heart; it could not 
 pass the walls of fire. 
 
 The birds sang along the way; the hoarse croak of 
 frogs came up from the ditch. Hips and haws and scarlet 
 arbutus laughed in the hedges; honeysuckle horns blew 
 fairy blasts. He heard nothing and saw nothing. 
 
 He crossed the green, merry with children's voices. 
 The pond was flecked with white where the ducks were 
 busy, diving, wagging tail and bill, having domestic 
 disputes. . . . Beyond the pond the churchyard was 
 flecked with white too. . . . But the stones were motion- 
 less. 
 
 The lych gate was a bower of ivy. . . . He paused 
 under it. . . . Had she rested at this little inn before 
 continuing her journey? There had been a wedding that 
 day; flowers still strewed the path. He stepped care- 
 fully so as not to tread on them. His wavering gaze 
 was caught by a mound of white beside newly turned
 
 SHALL WE TASTE THIS WONDERFUL WINE? 2 27 
 
 earth. . . . His feet dragged as he went towards it. The 
 flowers were drooping in the sun, but a hum of bees 
 shook the silence over the grave. A butterfly balanced 
 lightly on a wreath of immortelles. There was a card, 
 black-bordered, tied to the wreath, "From Martha Collop, 
 wishing Comfort with Respecks." 
 
 A crown of blood-red geraniums caught his eye; there 
 was a card too on this. Franklin stooped and lifted it. 
 "From Tonina with . . ." 
 
 He let the pasteboard drop, and his face was grey. 
 . . . Yes, this was the place. . . . 
 
 He stood there silently, with bared head. . . . 
 
 Thought and feeling whirled giddily round. . . . They 
 had strewn flowers for her bridal with death. And that 
 turf . . . That was the green skirt laid over her face — she 
 always wore green. . . . 
 
 A strong pain made a pivot for the whirling thoughts. 
 . . . She had covered her face on that railway journey, 
 and he had been glad not to look on her. . . . And there 
 was nothing here he could bear to look on. ... 
 
 Thought twisting rapidly seemed to stand still. . . . 
 Now he was back in his boyhood, — a little lad in the 
 dissenting chapel at home, hearing his father preach. 
 The whitewashed walls were splashed with sunlight; the 
 hum of bees came drowsily through the open window, a. 
 background for the preacher's voice: "The kingdom of 
 God is within; isn't that enough?" 
 
 It was his own voice speaking. He was talking to 
 Katherine in Collop's cottage. . . . The walls were covered 
 with book-shelves; the room looked small, and dark but 
 for the one candle. She sat in the chair opposite him, 
 holding a child in her arms, and listening while he read 
 from the little brown Keats, — a first edition, too. 
 
 15*
 
 2 28 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 "I will be thy priest, and build a fane 
 In some untrodden region of the mind, 
 Where branched thoughts new-grown with pleasant pain 
 Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind. 
 And in the midst of this wide quietness 
 A rosy sanctuary will I dress 
 With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain; 
 With buds, and bells, and stars without a name. 
 And there shall be for thee all soft delight 
 That shadowy thought can win; 
 A bright torch, and a casement ope at night 
 To let the warm Love in! . . ." 
 
 He looked across at Katherine and smiled. . . . The 
 chair was empty. Wife and child were gone. . . . 
 
 Then his sun went down while it was yet noon. . . . 
 The earth under him yielded and sank. . . . He crushed 
 the flowers as he fell. . . . 
 
 In the darkness that gathered, Katherine came to 
 him; and he saw her in a dream as Milton saw his "late 
 espoused saint." She laid her hand on his heart, and it 
 beat again. Her tears fell on his face, and life came 
 back. The touch of her lips set the blood swinging in 
 his veins. . . . His eyelids fluttered apart. A golden 
 haze like a curtain made a dimness round him. ... He 
 stirred. . . . The curtain lifted, showing him Katherine's 
 face, red as the geranium wreath, and close to his. . . . 
 Contented, he sank again into the dream that gave him 
 back his love. . . . He was on his feet again, faint from 
 the smell of the flowers. When the mists cleared he 
 saw Katherine's face, pale and fearful, across the grave. 
 
 "Katherine!" his voice trembled. "But it can't be 
 Katherine! . . . 'The winged Psyche with awakened 
 eyes.' "... 
 
 His glance groped blindly towards her.
 
 SHALL WE TASTE THIS WONDERFUL WINE? 2 2g 
 
 She came round to his side. "You are ill!" she cried 
 anxiously. 
 
 His shaking fingers fumbled with his glasses; his look 
 was strange. 
 
 "Then I've been dreaming; and you aren't dead? . . . 
 And you weren't here just now?" 
 
 The colour flamed in her face. She stooped and 
 picked up his hat, and held it to him with a hand that shook. 
 
 "Please let me take you home. You are very ill," 
 her voice shook too. She touched his arm. "Mr. Franklin, 
 you must come with me at once," she said urgently. 
 
 At her touch consciousness leaped its prison walls. 
 He put his hand to his head in a bewildered fashion. 
 
 "Who is buried here, — in this grave?" 
 
 "Peggy, Tom's fiancee. . . . Surely you knew? . . . 
 You wired to Mark. . . ." 
 
 "She was dead when they picked her up," he said 
 vaguely. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "The day after I saw you. . . ." 
 
 The colour fell away from her face; she remembered 
 their last talk. 
 
 "You will come and see my mother?" she said, shrink- 
 ing from the eyes that flashed upon her with a strange 
 gladness. 
 
 He tossed up his head, throwing off his sorrow and 
 his doubt at once. 
 
 "Yes, yes," he cried. "Let us go away from the 
 graves. . . . For this my love was dead and is alive 
 again. . . . She was lost, and is found." He hurried 
 along the path; in his haste trampling down the flowers 
 that strewed the way. 
 
 "We won't go indoors," he said excitedly. "I couldn't
 
 230 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 bear a roof over me. I want to be in the air and 
 breathe. I want to see you and feel that you are ahve 
 on the earth." 
 
 Katherine shook her head gravely. "You ought to 
 come in; you were unconscious when I found you. You 
 have been very ill. . . ." 
 
 "111? not I!" he cried, a triumphant ring in his voice. 
 "Don't look so frightened, dear; it is only that much 
 gladness doth make me mad. They told me that you 
 were dead. Look at me, Katherine. . . . Tell me I am 
 not dreaming. . . ." 
 
 His look claimed her face. Her eyes found his, and 
 nestled there. . . . 
 
 "I am not ill now," he smiled contentedly. 
 
 "Ah, yes! you look so old. . . ." 
 
 "I've lived a hundred years in one week, Katherine. 
 . . . But I am old, child, over forty. . . . Are you sure 
 you can love an old man?" 
 
 "You must find out," she said shyly, smiles bringing 
 back youth to the face that had also grown old in a 
 week. Then she resumed her practical manner. "But 
 I am a busy woman. I have to see Martha about the 
 chickens. . . ." Then the soft light rushed back to her 
 face and made her eyes tender. "Please come with me," 
 she said, blushing prettily. "You must tell me why you 
 thought I was dead." 
 
 As they walked he told her of Brace's mistake, and 
 his own sorrow. His love was a secret that eye and 
 voice and manner cried from the house-top. To Kathe- 
 rine it was a call to prayers and praise. "Love has 
 come! Love has come!" she cried triumphantly. 
 
 She told him of Peggy's end, and they were grave as 
 they came to Milkmaid Cottage.
 
 MARTHA'S ADVICE IS SOUND. 23 I 
 
 Martha saw them from the window, and put down 
 her work to watch them. She dropped back when they 
 came to the garden gate. 
 
 "Oh, my good fortune! If there ain't another two 
 sweethearting! Lawks! it might be spring-time, and all 
 the birdsies and the beastsies a-pairing and a-mating. . . . 
 But lor! missie have chosed a sour un! I likes the looks 
 of her ma's gentleman better'n him; yes, I does! Little 
 Tubby ain't so personable, but he do have some spunk 
 with en. He knows what he wants, and he do laugh 
 till he gets en. . . . But this chap be all of a rough-and- 
 tumble, and sour like a cow with the colic. . . . But Lord 
 love us! a man be a man if not a mouse, and not to be 
 despised." Then she was at the door, smiling and mak- 
 ing her obedience. . . . "And would missie please to walk 
 in, and the gentleman too, and taste her gooseberry wine, 
 that folkses did say was a rare thing for breeding love 
 between couples. . . ." 
 
 Franklin looked at Katherine with a laugh in his eye. 
 
 "Well, shall we go in and taste this wonderful 
 wine?" 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 MARTHA'S ADVICE IS SOUND. 
 
 Colonel Jacob was on his way to Milkmaid Cottage. 
 He had struck up a friendship with Martha Collop and 
 her excellent homemade wine; and the cottage offered a 
 refuge from Tom's silence and Mark's obstinacy. 
 
 He regretted to leave Jessica to fight with those over- 
 bearing young cubs, but it was a delicate affair, and he 
 was better away. Besides, Miss Katherine was on her
 
 232 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 mother's side, and she was a better man than either of 
 her brothers. 
 
 But it was preposterous that the sons should oppose 
 the marriage. Great Heavens! what would the world 
 come to if the younger generation was to have a say in 
 its guidance! . . . Pish! a couple of callow youths! . . . 
 Poor Jessica was so conscientious and easily led — it was 
 always the people with consciences that were willing to 
 be guided — they might persuade her it was her duty to 
 give him up. And all because of a foolish clause in a 
 foolish will, — Great Lowlands to the girl if the widow 
 married again! Did ever anyone hear the like? And 
 what had Fleming meant by it? That the boys could 
 not keep the farm together without their mother? Or 
 did he mean to give them a reason for objecting to a 
 second marriage? ... It was a shameful and preposterous 
 thing! . . . "Ton my soul, it's well my dear niece didn't 
 live to be tied to a Fleming! Poor girl! I owe her a 
 grudge too; for if she had told me of her engagement 
 I'd have discovered Jessica a year ago. To think she 
 has been a widow six years! 'Pon my soul, I have a 
 mind to get a special licence and marry her out of 
 hand! . . ." 
 
 He walked on angrily, and the quick pace took away 
 his breath. He stopped to rest at the wicket. He was 
 really quite puffed by that little walk from the house; 
 and it was downhill too. 
 
 "Bless me, I can't be growing old yet," he said to 
 himself. "A man is in his prime at sixty, especially if 
 he isn't married and has no domestic cares to worry 
 him. . . . Domestic cares? A — a — ah!" He drew a long, 
 considering breath; then he pulled himself together, 
 relieved. "No, impossible, quite impossible. But she is
 
 MARTHA'S ADVICE IS SOUND. 233 
 
 not strong. I always thought her a dehcate girl. . . . 
 'Pon my soul, it would be a risk for me to marry a 
 delicate woman! The whole thing has been too sudden. 
 It's taken me unawares. A bachelor of sixty should think 
 twice before he lets a woman have a finger in his life. 
 A woman in a house is an awful nuisance, — tidying h'=^re, 
 and clearing away there. . . . And you mustn't smoke in- 
 doors because of the curtains; and you mustn't smoke 
 out of doors because it ain't respectable. And you mayn't 
 wear slippers in the drawing-room because she is there; 
 and you mayn't take 'em off in the parlour for the same 
 reason. You mustn't tell a good story because she's a 
 lady; and you mustn't sit silent because it ain't polite to 
 the woman. . . . No, no, marriage is a company where the 
 liability is limited to one; and that one is the man. . . . 
 I'm rather afraid it's too late for me to draw back now; 
 but I hope to goodness the sons — sharp, sensible lads 
 both of 'em — will persuade their mother against a second 
 marriage." 
 
 He walked briskly up the path, and rattled his stick 
 against the cottage door. Martha opened it, bobbing and 
 smiling while she tied on a clean apron. 
 
 "Well, Mistress Collop, I thought I would look in as I 
 was passing." 
 
 Martha was used to the formula. She curtsied again. 
 
 "You're welcome as flowers in May, sir. Would you 
 be pleased to walk in?" 
 
 "Well, since you press me, for a minute; only for a 
 minute, Mistress Collop." 
 
 He shuffled into the parlour and took the chair she 
 dusted for him. 
 
 "And would you be pleased to taste my gooseberry 
 wine, sir?"
 
 234 "^^^ GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 "Well, since you press me. . . . But it must be only 
 one glass. . . ." 
 
 Martha knew this formula also. She bustled into the 
 kitchen and took a half-empty bottle of wine from the 
 cupboard. She tipped it on one side, eyeing it doubtfully. 
 
 "He have had three bottles already; 't would serve 
 him right if I put a drop o' water to this one. Lawks! 
 it do be as strong as a lion; he'd never know no 
 difference." 
 
 She carried the bottle to the pump; but she shook 
 her head and turned back into the kitchen. "No, I can't 
 do it; not if 't was ever so! I respecks good wine too 
 much to water it. . . . But pray goodness the wedding 
 come soon, else my cellar be empty, and not a sixpence 
 to show for it." 
 
 She hobbled into the parlour, carefully protecting the 
 cobwebs round the bottle she carried. 
 
 "There, sir! Now, if that ain't a pictur'?" she said 
 proudly. "Ah, you may trust a spider for scenting out 
 the best bottles! There be a glass for you, sir; wliich is 
 wishing long life, a pleasant wife, and pleasure." 
 
 "Thank you, Mistress Collop; ah, thank you!" 
 
 He hid a red face behind the glass, which he set 
 down empty. 
 
 "It's better wine than they had at the funeral," he said. 
 
 "Oh, go along, sir! 'T would be wasting good wine 
 for to have it at a burying. Them what do be mourning 
 sincere don't know if the wine be good or bad. And 
 them what ain't be mourning honest wouldn't have it 
 knowed as they had the onfeelingness to fancy the wine 
 or not to fancy it. . . . But I sees you are a knowledge- 
 able gentleman for wine, sir." 
 
 She filled the slass a second and a third time.
 
 MARTHA'S ADVICE IS SOUND. 235 
 
 "Can you tell me the difference between a funeral 
 and a marriage, Mistress Collop?" The colonel was 
 critically considering the bottle. 
 
 "Surely, sir; for the one do end life and the other do 
 mend it." 
 
 "No, no; the one rends life, and the other darns it." 
 
 Martha chuckled, shaking her sides. 
 
 "Lawks! I sees you are a jocular gentleman, sir, with 
 your jokes and naughty words. But 't is said hereabouts 
 that death be naught, and love be naughty. . . ." 
 
 The colonel's face was like one of Katherine's "love- 
 apples." 
 
 "Ah, a man may well hesitate. . . . What was it that 
 young dog Mark said to-day about degrees in love? 
 'Courtship is bliss, and marriage is blister.' And Miss 
 Katherine retorted smartly that the bliss was positive 
 while the blister was only comparative. . . ." He absently 
 filled the glass again. . . . "Yes, yes; a man may well 
 hesitate before setting sail on the sea of matrimony." 
 
 "And if you hesitates long there be little o' my goose- 
 berry wine spared for another couple," said Martha to 
 herself. She twisted a knot in her apron and hung her 
 head coyly. "If I were a young gentleman thinking of 
 'Marrikay and the United States, I'd sooner steam than 
 sail, sir; yes, I would!" 
 
 The colonel's eyes twinkled. "Very good, — ah, very 
 good, indeed! But when a man's single, Mistress Collop, 
 he'd better remain so." 
 
 He drank his fifth glass slowly and thoughtfully. 
 
 "Oh, go along with you, sir!" Martha cried, her eyes 
 on the bottle. "A mole could see as a gentleman like 
 you were intended to make a lady happy, if not two, only 
 you've wasted your chances."
 
 236 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 A gentle, genial warmth stole through the colonel. He 
 lingered about the subject. 
 
 "So you don't believe in bachelors, Mistress Col- 
 lop?" 
 
 "Bachelors? Lord love you, no, sir! poor weak tools! 
 For what's a man without the woman but the half of a 
 pair of scissors, neither knife, nippers, nor good screw- 
 driver. . . . And all because he ain't got the spunk to 
 face the screw as would jine the two halves together. 
 Lord! I do never have no patience with a man without 
 a pardner." 
 
 "But a bad partner, — an unsuitable partner. Mistress 
 Collop?" 
 
 "Oh, go along, sir! A man may play timid all his 
 life, and in the end a woman do get him. . . . Lord! 
 I've seen seventy eagerer to be a groom than seven-and- 
 twenty. You can't be locking the door against nature. 
 If her don't come in decent by the door, her do jump 
 down the chimbley, bringing the soot with en." 
 
 "Then you don't recommend single blessedness?" he 
 said drearily. 
 
 "What be single blessedness," she said scornfully, 
 "but butter-milk as won't make butter, though you churns 
 yourself giddy! Blessedness be sing'lar enough in this 
 weary world, but it do take more 'n one to make en. 
 Lawks! if the Lord sent the beastsies two and two into 
 the ark, saving the lady with the gentleman, it be useless 
 for man to kick against the pricks. My old man said 
 them words, and there never was a happier man mated. 
 Love were as fresh the day we parted as the day we 
 paired, and that were forty year." 
 
 She poured out the last glass of wine and did not 
 notice that it was the last.
 
 MARTHA'S ADVICE IS SOUND. 237 
 
 "You have lost your husband, Mistress Collop, yet you 
 enjoy hfe." 
 
 Martha did not resent the colonel's irony. 
 
 "Lawks, what be the use o' fretting? 'T would never 
 bring ray old man back! Widders as sees their husbands 
 comforrable in the ground has a deal to be thankful for." 
 
 "That is true," said the colonel, cheerfully. "The 
 grave ends many an unhappy marriage." 
 
 "Ay, that it do," Martha sighed. "But lawks! we 
 never knows if it be to begin again on the other side. 
 We can but leave it. . . . Parson do say, 'Cast thy burden 
 on the Lord, and thou shalt find it after many days.' " 
 
 Colonel Jacob's little twinkling eyes were grave behind 
 the glasses. 
 
 "It would undoubtedly be a relief to know that a 
 wife would not meet her first husband in another life," 
 he said hesitating. 
 
 "Ay!" said Martha; "and I put the question to 
 missie, but her couldn't give the answer. But lor! my 
 mind do be settled now; for if Collop and me knows 
 anything on the other side we'll know to come together 
 again. And if we knows nothing 't will be the same to 
 both." 
 
 "And what do you think of second marriages. Mistress 
 Collop?" said the colonel, blowing his nose noisily. 
 
 "I be thinking a empty bottle will hold four gills o' 
 wine just as well as four gills o' emptiness," she answered. 
 "If you be for marriage, marry quick, says I; for the 
 pears that hang on into the winter the frosses do nip. . . ." 
 
 "Not a single glass more!" said the colonel, rising 
 suddenly. "No, I will not be persuaded. ... I must go 
 back to see that those overbearing young cubs don't force 
 their dear mother into doing as they wish. . . . You are
 
 230 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 a sensible person, Mistress Collop, a very sensible person. 
 Your advice is as sound as your excellent wine. 'If you 
 marry, marry soon.' " 
 
 "Ay!" Martha sighed, "my thoughts runs on mar- 
 riages after a burying. And if what I hears be well in- 
 formed there will soon be a wedding at Great Lowlands." 
 
 "What! what!" Colonel Jacob turned again into the 
 room and looked fiercely at her. 
 
 "The new cowman, sir, as be stepping into my old 
 man's dead shoes. Missie do say as he'll wed the servant 
 lass where he come from. And Milkmaid Cottage be the 
 home for the new pair; so the old woman be cuckoo'd 
 out of her nest, and forty year in en. . . ," 
 
 "Dear, dear," said the little man, sympathetically. 
 "That is hard; that is hard indeed. Mistress Collop." 
 
 "Lord love you, no, sir! 't is nature," said Martha, 
 briskly. "What be Jenny Wren wanting wi' nesses now 
 Cock Robin be dead? ... I be but a leaking tub to fret 
 over it. . . ." 
 
 "And where will you go to?" said the colonel, 
 anxiously. 
 
 "There be two places certain sure in this life," said 
 Martha, cheerily, while her face worked. "Them be the 
 Union or six foot o' churchyard, and the old woman can 
 take one or t' other. Glory be to. goodness! the club 's 
 paid Collop's grave, and 't will pay my burying, so they 
 can't do me out o' my little clay shanty." 
 
 "Nonsense! nonsense!" said the colonel; "it is not to 
 be thought of Dear, dear, what a waste of talent it would 
 be! You could not make your excellent wine in the 
 Union, and still less in the churchyard. No, no, Mistress 
 Collop; there's the cottage I bought for my dear niece, 
 furnished too; I'll put you in as caretaker. You shall
 
 MARTHA'S ADVICE IS SOUND. 239 
 
 have it rent free as long as you live; and a trifle for 
 keeping it, say five shillings a week." 
 
 "Oh, lawks!" Martha gasped, and fell suddenly into 
 a chair. She threw her apron over her head and laughed 
 aloud. Then she stood up and made her obedience. 
 "Heaven bless you, sir, and send you long life, a pleasant 
 wife, and pleasure!" 
 
 She sat down again, swaying backwards and for- 
 wards. 
 
 The colonel tiptoed softly to the door, glancing back 
 over his shoulder at the old woman sobbing behind her 
 apron. He closed the door gingerly, and his fat little 
 legs went at a run down the garden path. At the gate 
 he stopped, and flourished his handkerchief about his 
 hot face. 
 
 "I'll get a special licence!" he panted. "Long life, a 
 pleasant wife, and pleasure! . . ." 
 
 Martha lifted the tray with the bottle and the glass. 
 
 "I doesn't grudge him a drop!" she said stoutly; "not 
 a single blessed drop, though it do be four bottles. . . . 
 Furnished! and rent free! . . . and five shillings a week 
 till my old bones be laid with Collop's and the club pays 
 the burying! ... And all of a bottle of o' gooseberry 
 wine and a heart soft with courting! . . . Oh, Lord! what 
 fools men be!" 
 
 Mrs. Fleming and her children were still in the 
 breakfast-room. The French window stood open, showing 
 lawn and shrubbery and flower-beds. Away in the dis- 
 tance the fields lay newly reaped on the hill crowned by 
 the dead tree that marked the western boundary of the 
 farm. 
 
 Kathenne faced the window, and eyes and thoughts
 
 240 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 were far away in the sunshine with the joyous reapers 
 and with her own glad harvest-time. Smihng, she re- 
 called her thoughts, but still they ranged beyond the 
 window and beyond the present to the morning after her 
 return to Great Lowlands. The fir-tree in which the 
 thrush had sung was deserted now; but the autumn day 
 had its minstrels too. A robin whistled in the holly 
 hedge; the bees hummed about the sweet peas. From 
 the meadows came the bleat of this year's lambs. In 
 the sky was a living, wavering cloud and the twitter of 
 gathering swallows. The mellow fruitfulness of the day 
 sang of hope realised. Eighteen months ago all had 
 seemed so hopeless, and to-day she looked on the work 
 of her hands and saw that it was good. 
 
 The house wore a different air; the garden was jocund 
 with flowers, — daisies and dahlias, sunflowers and asters. 
 Marigold and nasturtium lit beacon fires on the heights 
 of the raised beds. Last week the linden-trees had been 
 wind-worn and tattered; now the yellowing leaves tossed 
 their sunshine back to the sky. All was gay and glad 
 outside, and gay and glad in Katherine's heart. It was 
 not only Franklin's love that had wrought the change. 
 She had risen from the old life of ambition, pride, and 
 self, and was seeking higher things. Peggy's death had 
 been an earthquake shock releasing her from the bonds 
 of a living death. She had come forth from the tomb 
 bound by the graveclothes of her old life; and, freeing 
 herself, had worn only the garments of her humiliation. 
 But in her shame she had heard a Voice: "Bring forth 
 the best robe and put it on her, and put a ring on her 
 finger and shoes on her feet. For this my love was dead 
 and is alive again. She was lost and is found. . . ." 
 
 It was another Katherine who had gone from that
 
 MARTHA'S ADVICE IS SOUND. 24 1 
 
 Voice into the old workaday world. Her hands were 
 busy still, her feet never idle. She planned and arranged 
 as before; but in place of the self that had filled her 
 horizon there were three figures, — mother and brother and 
 friend. 
 
 Mrs. Fleming was going about, a pathetic happiness 
 on her face, giving Katherine confidences about her old 
 love, to which the girl responded heartily. 
 
 Tom was more difficult, and Katherine could not 
 break down the stubborn gloom that had encased him 
 since Peggy's death. She beguiled him into a grudging 
 interest in the good harvest; but he shunned her society 
 and went about the fields sulking and morose. 
 
 Colonel Jacob's presence at Great Lowlands irritated 
 him. It kept open his wound in the eyes of the villagers. 
 He hated to know that they were pitying him, and looking 
 and wondering "how he do be bearing up." 
 
 Peggy's uncle, bustling about the village, cheery and 
 good-tempered, joking with the mason when he chose a 
 stone for the grave, laughing while he paid the under- 
 taker's bill, only made them pity "young mester" the 
 more. Under his breath Tom swore at the colonel, who 
 comforted him with gay sympathy and cheery reminiscences 
 of "poor Peg." 
 
 Nothing damped the colonel's spirits. He had 
 snapped his fingers at Mark's anger at the engagement; but 
 now Mark had come himself to add force to Tom's sullen 
 opposition to the marriage. The sons had a reason for 
 their opposition. If Mrs. Fleming married again the farm 
 would be Katherine's. They would not consent to the 
 marriage, and Mrs. Fleming would not marry without their 
 consent. 
 
 The Gods Arrive. lO
 
 242 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 "Katherine, won't you speak to your brothers?" she 
 asked, weeping. 
 
 The voice woke the girl from her dreams, and she 
 looked up. It vexed her to see Mark's dictatorship and 
 Tom's sullenness. The old hardness glittered in her eyes. 
 
 "If mother chooses to marry again, Mark, why should 
 you object?" she cried. "It is pure selfishness that makes 
 you stand in her way." 
 
 "You have nothing to do with this," said Mark, 
 quietly. "The affair is between mother and Tom and 
 me." 
 
 "But I can't sit here and see you make mother 
 miserable," Katherine protested. 
 
 "It is quite easy for you to go away," said Mark. 
 
 "Oh, Katherine, don't leave me!" sobbed Mrs. Fleming. 
 "Your brother is so hard. . . . He can't understand a 
 woman's feelings." 
 
 Katherine went to the sofa and sat down beside her 
 mother. She threw her arm round her and faced Mark 
 with eyes blazing. 
 
 "Now, Mark, say what you have to say and let us 
 end the scene." 
 
 Mark angrily walked to the mantelpiece, and propped 
 his back against it. Tom was stretched in an arm-chair, 
 his legs straight before him, his chin on his breast. 
 He kept a gloomy silence, and took no notice of the 
 combatants. 
 
 "If mother marries again she simply burdens the 
 farm with another person," Mark said frowning. "Of 
 course he will control her income; and what sort of a 
 lookout would there be for us? We don't want any 
 more masters here. . . . Besides, mother is better off as 
 she is."
 
 MARTHA'S ADVICE IS SOUND. 243 
 
 "She loved him years ago, . . ." Katherine began. 
 
 "You talk like a schoolgirl," Mark interrupted testily. 
 "She only loves him because she didn't marry him. 
 Marriage will cure any love." 
 
 He laughed cynically, and dug his hands into his 
 pocket. Katherine gave him a look that did not miss 
 the unpleasant light in his eyes and the sneer on his thin 
 lips. How hard he was! how changed from the Mark of 
 Goodge Street days. He bore her gaze with a hardened 
 nonchalance. 
 
 "Listen to me," he said firmly. "You are all for 
 sentiment. I am protecting mother against herself. A 
 week after the marriage she would wish herself free 
 again. . . ." 
 
 "I don't know why you should say that," Mrs. Fleming 
 bridled, and made a feeble protest. 
 
 "That is not the point," Katherine said to Mark. 
 "Mother can judge for herself Why should there be 
 all this fuss? I for one would be glad to know she was 
 happy. . . ." 
 
 "Twaddle!" said Mark, vigorously. "If anyone has 
 not made mother happy it is you. She has not been 
 able to call her soul her own since you came to the 
 place." 
 
 Katherine's eyes fell. She had deserved the hard 
 thrust. 
 
 "I should be thankful for someone to love me," said 
 Mrs. Fleming, plaintively; "and Colonel Jacob would not 
 be in your way. He is independent, indeed, well off; 
 and we should live at Chester." 
 
 Tom looked up at the words. "I am not going to 
 stay here alone and work the farm by myself," he put in 
 sulkily. 
 
 16*
 
 244 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 "There's your sister," Mrs. Fleming quavered. "She 
 could not think of leaving the farm to go to ruin again. 
 She is necessary here, but I am not. I have been set 
 completely on one side." 
 
 Katherine had a sudden comprehension of what she 
 had done. The responsibility of success was on her. 
 She must be tied to Great Lowlands because she had 
 saved it. She had chosen to manage by herself, and 
 now she must be left to manage alone. Her ability 
 had come home to roost, — a bird that fouled its own 
 nest. 
 
 "As long as Kit stops it will be all right," Tom said. 
 "But what's to hinder her from marrying too, and leaving 
 the farm on my hands?" 
 
 A quick shiver passed through Katherine; a white 
 cloud fell across her face. She had not thought this 
 marriage would affect her own future. She knew that 
 Franklin loved her. Some day he would claim her. 
 Would she have to give up his love and stay with Tom? 
 How could she give up what was more than life to her? . . . 
 She argued the point. She was not free to choose. She 
 owed something to Franklin, and something to the people 
 for whom they would work together. . . . 
 
 The last plea was silenced by a voice: "It would be 
 better to help two sweethearts to be happy together. . . ." 
 
 These two, her mother and her lover, had waited thirty 
 years for happiness, — to be denied at last? . . . 
 
 Katherine thought of the promise made to Peggy, that 
 she would help Tom. She could only help him by 
 staying here. She confronted her duty with a stoical 
 quiet, facing it with set mien that gave no sign of her 
 tortured heart. She was learning the wisdom of life. She 
 could lift the cup of renunciation with steady hand, and
 
 MARTHA'S ADVICE IS SOUND. 245 
 
 drink the bitter draught without change of front. . . . She 
 stared before her, and did not see the flowers that made 
 a rainbow round about the window. . . . The soHtary 
 figure of a woman toiled up the hill towards the tree that 
 spread its arms crosswise on the summit. In the silence 
 she drained the cup. . . . The coldness of death was in her 
 voice when she spoke, — 
 
 "If mother marries, I shall stay here with you, Tom. . . . 
 So that need not interfere. . . ." 
 
 "It doesn't matter who goes or stays," Mark fumed; 
 "the thing is out of the question. I for one won't consent 
 to losing my rights in the land." 
 
 Katherine went to the table and stood leaning against 
 it. Her breath came quickly, her face was white and 
 passionate. 
 
 "Mark, haven't you any feeling? Haven't you any 
 pity for women who break their hearts? She has loved 
 him thirty years. . . . She might be happy now if you 
 would let her. . . ." 
 
 "I am not going to lose the property that ought to 
 be mine," said Mark, doggedly. 
 
 Katherine leaned heavily against the table. Should 
 she leave things alone and give Mark the responsibility of 
 keeping her mother at the farm, and freeing her to go to 
 Franklin? ... 
 
 It was a short, sharp struggle; and then she spoke. 
 
 "If mother marries, the place is mine. . . . Well, then, 
 Mark, give your consent, and I will hand over the farm 
 to you and Tom. . . ." 
 
 For a long minute there was silence. Then Mark's 
 dark face flushed. He lifted himself from the mantel- 
 piece with an awkward laugh.
 
 246 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 "I'm agreed," he said. "But you'll have to sign it 
 away legally before witnesses. . . ." 
 
 "Hang the whole confounded business! I'll have no- 
 thing to do with it!" Tom cried, and flung angrily out of 
 the window. 
 
 Katherine did not speak again. She walked un- 
 steadily from the room, and climbed the stairs and threw 
 herself on her knees beside the bed where Peggy had 
 Iain. . . . She faced her resolve quietly, and did not strive 
 or cry. She would put Franklin out of her life. . . . 
 
 Two years ago she had fought with all her strength 
 against a lesser sacrifice. To-day she put away from her 
 life and the joy of life, and no one knew what she had 
 done. But the soft gladness died from her face, and 
 pain stood sentinel before her barred eyes.
 
 viGir,. 247 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 VIGIL. 
 
 And now it was winter. A special licence had given 
 Colonel Jacob his wife almost before the engagement was 
 a settled fact. Katherine was high in favour with her 
 step-father. 
 
 "She shall not suffer for giving up the property," he 
 said to himself. "When I make my will we shall see. . . . 
 Good, unselfish girl, she shall not suffer." 
 
 His bridesmaid's present to Katherine was a cheque 
 for £100. Katherine put it in the bank against a rainy 
 day. 
 
 There were other changes at Great Lowlands besides 
 Mrs. Fleming's absence. The new cowman and his wife 
 were at Milkmaid Cottage, and Martha was living at 
 Laburnum Drive. She had not accepted Katherine's 
 offer of a home with her. 
 
 "No, no, missie; when Mr. Right do come you'll be 
 off at a gallop, and then the old woman do be turned 
 out. This little shanty be all I wants. I've gotten Collop's 
 bed what he died on, and I'll put en in the lean-to. 
 'Twill make me a good warm bedroom with the kitchen 
 neighbourable. Lawks! think o' me with a parly and 
 best bedroom like a lady in the land!" 
 
 "But why shouldn't you use the bedroom, Martha?" 
 Katherine asked. 
 
 "Lawks, duckie! I couldn't sleep comforrable on any
 
 248 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 bed but Collop's. When I wakes o' nights I lays thiukuig 
 of he, and I sees his poor old head on the piller, and 
 him dying as quiet as a mouse; and it do cheer me tar- 
 rible well, and be company for me." 
 
 So Katherine was alone at Great Lowlands with Tom. 
 She had attained her goal; she was acknowledged head 
 of house and farm; and the goal was only the picturesque 
 entrance to a wilderness where the springs were waters 
 of Marah. 
 
 Tom was working with her on the farm,— he the little 
 wheel of the bicycle, she making the great revolutions in 
 management. She kept their interests linked while they 
 worked; but after work they went different ways. Ka- 
 therine sat with knit brows making up accounts and 
 puzzling out schemes of drainage and tillage; while Tom 
 lounged on the green, or loitered at Milkmaid Cottage 
 talking to Jim and Sarah, whose cockney smartness 
 flavoured the talk. 
 
 It was the same thing over again. Katherine forged 
 ahead, absorbed in her plans, and left Tom to devise his 
 own schemes of amusement. She carried out her resolu- 
 tions only as far as they fitted in with her own necessities. 
 She was not any nearer to Tom than she had been be- 
 fore. She knew nothing of the moods when, gloomy and 
 remorseful, he walked by himself, thinking miserably of 
 the past. She accepted his reckless merriment for a sign 
 of returning content, and did not try it to see if it rang 
 true. . . . She had plucked out her right eye and cut off 
 her right arm to save her brother, and, satisfied with 
 her mutilation, had gone her way, leaving him un- 
 saved. 
 
 She raised a barrier of work round her to hide from 
 view the places where the gods walked. Franklin's love
 
 VI Gil.. 249 
 
 went with her through all her busy days; but she would 
 not suffer herself to be led into the fair places to which 
 it beckoned her. His letters were the points of light in 
 her life. They were full of hope, and of vexation at the 
 uncertainty of his plans. Katherine blessed the un- 
 certainty; knowing that this alone kept Franklin from 
 speaking of their marriage, and kept her from putting an 
 end to his hopes. 
 
 Franklin waited for the decision of his committee, 
 secure in the thought of Katherine's love. Through the 
 winter days life blazed with light and warmth for him. 
 Foggy London, the Labour world groaning and travailing 
 in pain, were swept out of his consciousness. Katherine 
 made his world, where summer reigned. 
 
 Outwardly he was still quiet and reserved; but there 
 was a snap and a sparkle in his eye that signalled an 
 awakening. 
 
 Coming into his rooms one night he showed plainly 
 the new man in him. Dissatisfaction had gone from his 
 face; cynicism was there yet, but poised lightly, ready for 
 flight. He held himself straight, seeing his goal near. 
 That air of youth had not been supplied by his tailor. 
 His clothes were shabby still, — not clothes for a man with 
 whom the world went very well. That eager youthfulness 
 should be tricked out bravely, — silver buckle and silken 
 hose, scarlet doublet, a plumed hat for love's cavalier. 
 
 Franklin threw himself into his favourite chair, lit his 
 pipe, leaned his head back, and sent his thoughts to 
 Katherine. His eyes were glad, watching the rings of 
 smoke he puffed into the air. . . . They were wedding- 
 rings, of course. . . . Ah ! if she sat here beside him, close 
 so that he might touch her, he would be the happiest 
 man in London. . . . How had those humdrum days in
 
 250 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 the old bookshop ever contented him? Peace and leisure 
 forsooth! A man would get enough of those in the 
 grave. . . . Books! Had books ever taught him as much 
 as he had learned from one look into Katherine's eyes? 
 Had any book ever thrilled him as he had been thrilled 
 by the touch of certain little fingers? Love was the only 
 culture! . . . And there was no law to divorce a man 
 from his reading because he married a wife. It would 
 make his reading richer to share it with Katherine. . . . 
 His thoughts lingered about the confused picture he had 
 seen of Collop's cottage that was yet his little house in 
 Hull, and Katherine sitting with the child in her arms 
 while h^ read Keats to her, giving 
 
 "All soft delight 
 That shadowy thought could win." 
 
 Ah! that first edition had been offered up on the 
 altar of the Labour agitation. . . . Well, well! he could 
 not grudge anything to the Movement that had given him 
 Katherine. 
 
 It was on a Labour platform that he had seen her 
 first. The clever little face had pleased him. He had 
 asked who she was. . . . But that could not have been 
 the reason of his friendship for that uncertain quantity, 
 Mark Fleming? 
 
 Franklin blushed like a girl at this impeachment of 
 his motive, and threw back his head, and laughed self- 
 consciously because he saw its truth. 
 
 It was she who had taken him to Goodge Street from 
 the very first, and he had not suspected it. He might 
 have known it before, if he had not guarded his heart by 
 a prickly criticism of her. . . .How could he have been 
 so hard on the child? Her sentiment and enthusiasm
 
 VIGIL. 251 
 
 were trailing vines gracing the strong nature whose roots 
 were deep. And what if she hadn't abih'ty to write that 
 History? Who wanted a woman to be all intellect? It 
 was enough if she was all heart. . . . Ah, well ! some day 
 they would write that History together. He could supply 
 the knowledge and judgment, and she would give it form 
 and structure. . . . What a marriage theirs would be, — a 
 true comradeship! No mere humdrum existence! She 
 had too many pointed opinions of her own meekly to ac- 
 cept his views. . . . He would never tame his shrew. . . . 
 But he didn't want to tame her! The conventional 
 woman — an india-rubber doll grimacing and squeaking at 
 a husband's will — was intolerable. He admired force 
 and ambition and self-guidance in a woman. Katherine 
 was his ideal. . . . 
 
 His thoughts were interrupted by the postman's knock 
 at the house door. The letter carried his appointment 
 as secretary to the Labour Organisation in the West 
 Indies. He must be prepared to start in a fortnight. 
 
 His face was suddenly grave. That was sooner than 
 he expected. Would she consent to an immediate mar- 
 riage? A fortnight! It scarcely gave her time to buy an 
 outfit. And, now that he came to think of it, they were 
 not even betrothed. . . . The formality had not seemed 
 necessary. He had to go to Glasgow to the Conference 
 to-morrow night, else he would have run down to talk it 
 over. He would write at once, of course; but he wished 
 he could have given her more time. . . . 
 
 He puffed his last smoke-ring into the air, and with 
 considering eyes watched it float away and fade into no- 
 thingness. 
 
 While Franklin was seeing wedding-rings in the smoke 
 Katherine was crouching over the fire, listening to the
 
 252 THE GODS ARRWE. 
 
 howl of the storm outside. She was alone, sitting up for 
 Tom. It was a wild night. The rain pattered on the 
 window. She could imagine it swathing the darkness, 
 wrapping and clinging to the night. . . . That gust shook 
 the house. It must have torn the thin film of the rain 
 into tatters. . . . 
 
 Suddenly the storm was inside; the lamp flamed up; 
 a rushing mighty wind filled all the room. The rain 
 lashed the carpet; the fire leaped in the grate. . . . 
 Katherine sprang to her feet. The French window had 
 swung wide; a wind-battered figure was driven in from 
 the garden. 
 
 "Oh, Martha! how you frightened me, coming in like 
 a ghost! And you are wet through! come to the fire this 
 instant." 
 
 "Hush, duckie, hush!" Martha whispered breathlessly. 
 "I wants you; and I doesn't want the serving-maids to 
 know as I do be come. Put on your things, and come 
 along o' the ©Id woman. 'Tis Mr. Tom, he be at The 
 Three Sojers, and drunk as a lord. Jim were with en, 
 but I have started he off home to Sarah. Not a button 
 will Mr. Tom budge. He thinks he be at the Wheat 
 Sheaf, a-courting his poor dead sweetheart. He do be 
 carrying on shameful, and the men be larfing at en and 
 nudging each the other, and leading en on cruel . . ." 
 
 Katherine was already in the hall, putting on her 
 cloak. Her mouth was hard; her eyes glittered in sockets 
 grown suddenly hollow. Her heart flew helplessly on the 
 storm, driven with the wind and tossed. There was no 
 ark in sight; underneath were black depths. 
 
 She came back into the room, drawing on her hood. 
 
 "Come, Martha," she said brusquely, and the two 
 went forth.
 
 VIGIL. 253 
 
 They crossed the lawn and found the gate. The 
 road was dark, and a sudden gust blew out the flame in 
 the lantern Martha carried. 
 
 They stumbled along, the rain beating them back 
 with its scourge of small cords. Above the churchyard 
 wall the wind howled among the poplars. The trees 
 creaked and groaned, bending towards the ranks of white 
 tombstones. 
 
 "Glory be to goodness! Not one o' they ghostses 
 would be getting out o' their warm graves on such a 
 night," said Martha, cheerfully. "And if they did, the 
 wind would tear their poor thin bodies all to shreds be- 
 fore ever we seed them." 
 
 They crossed the green, their feet splashing into the 
 pools that had gathered there. A pitchy darkness swathed 
 everything. The light in the inn was the one wakeful 
 eye in all the village. They came near, and Katherine 
 put her face close to the window and looked through a 
 chink in the shutter. 
 
 The chimney-piece jutted out into the room, framing 
 the hearth, on which a heap of logs crackled. A settle 
 was ranged on either side, and before each was a narrow, 
 long table with jugs of beer. 
 
 The men on the settle had weather-battered faces, 
 to which clung a suggestion of the soil. They were not 
 unlike potatoes or swedes. Tom was leaning forward, his 
 head on the table, asleep. 
 
 Katherine's heart beat with noisy throbs. She leaned 
 against the wall to recover herself. VVhere she stood she 
 could hear the talk. 
 
 "Lawks, young mester do sup as much as a young 
 maid and no more. But his belly be fuller than his 
 noddle, I'll be sworn."
 
 2 54 "^"^ GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 '"Tis a true word; but he be shoved out o' 's right- 
 ful place, and needeth small wit. He niun foller young 
 miss like dam and shadder. Lord! young miss be tar- 
 rible hard to beat, — a man all but the breeks." 
 
 "They do say her be breeched under her female 
 gowning. Yon day in hillside fields when her shifted oft' 
 her skirt for the dead maid, her stood knickerbocked, and 
 brazened it without a fall o' eyelashes." 
 
 "Ay! 'tis cruel hard to wear a man's masterfulness in 
 a maid's weak frame. My missus were saying there be 
 small woman about en by the way her drives men folks, 
 i' place o' bending the neck to 'em. . . ." 
 
 "The new cowman were saying how she stood among 
 her betters i' Lunnon, and spoke up bold as brass. She 
 were a rare one for working- folkses up there; but the 
 whole parish might be starving hereabouts and her 
 wouldn't ever know it. . . ." 
 
 "Her were tarrible fond-like o' the dead maid. . . . 
 But what be young mester saying o' his sweetheart?" . . . 
 
 "'Tis but boasting in his cups, and not to be enter- 
 tained. The maid were quality, for all her jockeying wi' 
 horses. Young mester were nodding. . . . When the drink 
 be in, the wit be out. . . ." 
 
 Katherine drew herself up. 
 
 "Wait here, Martha," she commanded. 
 
 She went to the door, turned the handle, and stepped 
 inside. The tobacco reek made her fall back an instant, 
 and the men saw a white face thrown sharply against the 
 background of night and storm. They recognised her as 
 she came forward. Her glance mowed down their eyes 
 like a scythe. One after another the men shuffled up 
 and slunk to the door. The landlord watched the scene 
 from the bar.
 
 VIGIL. * • 255 
 
 Katherine called Martha, and together they raised 
 Tom and got him out into the night. Half dragging, half 
 pushing him, stopping every minute for breath, they made 
 their way across the green. 
 
 They stopped at the lych gate. "Oh, Martha! we can 
 never get him home," Katherine gasped. 
 
 "We mun leave en in churchyard," said Martha, 
 gaily. "And if Mr. Tom do want more sperrits he can 
 dig en up like turnups. Come, duckie, my old bones do 
 ache wi' carrying en; best leave he in churchyard where 
 the dead be dumb." 
 
 It was impossible for the two women to drag 
 Tom all the way to Great Lowlands. Katherine sighed 
 with relief when they laid him down on the seat in the 
 porch. 
 
 Martha lighted the lantern and showed the key in 
 the church door. 
 
 "Now, thank the Lord that do temper the wind to 
 'the shorned lamb, and do make parson a forgetful man;" 
 she chuckled. 
 
 They raised Tom again, in spite of his incoherent 
 objections, and laid him down on the matting in the 
 aisle. 
 
 Martha lifted herself with a sigh. "Now then, duckie, 
 he do be safe. We mun leave en to hisself, and pray 
 goodness he come to a better man." 
 
 "I shall stay here with him," Katherine said quietly; 
 and Martha was obliged to obey the girl, and leave her 
 alone with Tom. 
 
 The great door swung heavily to, and silence fell 
 about the place where Katherine sat watching Tom, who 
 had fallen asleep. And as she sat there the devil came 
 to her, tempting her. To what purpose was this waste
 
 256 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 of strength and love and devotion? Was she to break 
 the vase of love for the anointing of life's fool, when the 
 king himself knelt for the consecrating oil? Tom was not 
 worthy of the sacrifice. He was not only going to ruin 
 himself, he was leading Jim to ruin. ... A sharp pain 
 thrust through the pain of her shame. Jim had been 
 steady and sober until she had brought him here to be 
 led into temptation. . . . Sarah's happiness was a burden 
 of responsibility she had placed upon herself. She must 
 stay on at Great Lowlands to deliver Jim from her brother 
 and Tom from himself. . . . 
 
 The lantern threw long shadows across the aisle, and 
 the pillars sprang out of the darkness, stony guardians 
 of the silence. At the eastern end was the tomb of the 
 crusader Fleming. Katherine could see the pale glimmer 
 of the marble against the dusk. As she sat there, the 
 mystery and awe of her childhood returned to her. 
 She felt once more the aspirations of the little girl 
 dreaming of great deeds like those of that far-off 
 ancestor. 
 
 The years passed; and she sat in the family pew, 
 her eyes, wistful under the confirmation veil, straying to- 
 wards the marble figure while she vowed to be a true 
 soldier of the cross. The ecstasy and exaltation of the 
 hour came back to her. 
 
 Then, later, she stood beside the tomb, and vowed 
 herself to the Crusade of the poor. 
 
 All the old influences thronged round her like ghosts 
 of the dead. She had kept none of those old vows; she 
 had lived through many phases of renunciation, and 
 still she sought herself, and only herself. And here at 
 her side was another battle to be fought; the prin- 
 cipalities and powers of darkness were to wrestle with, —
 
 VIGIL. 257 
 
 the kingdom of a man's soul was to be redeemed from 
 the enemy. . . . 
 
 She Hfted her lantern and walked to the end of the 
 church, where the Flemings of long ago kept their ancient 
 pomp and state. The figure of the Crusader stood out 
 whitely against the darkness, and the light she carried 
 struck the crossed hilt of the sword. "The cross is 
 mightier than the sword," Katherine whispered, with a 
 swift thought of One, surely the greatest among the Gods, 
 who had conquered by love. Standing there, she vowed 
 herself to this new Crusade with a humility and a passion 
 that had not touched her former vows. Holding the 
 lantern high, she lingered a moment on the chancel steps 
 before the altar. As the light streamed round, the dark- 
 ness fell like tattered banners about the lonely figure of 
 the girl. 
 
 The Gods Arrive. 1 7
 
 258 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 CHAPTER Xli. 
 WHERE TWO LOVE TRUE. 
 
 Franklin sat on the platform in the great public hall 
 at Glasgow, seeing the throng of faces gathered into one 
 little face held in a hard and conflicting silence. They 
 had just handed a letter to him, Katherine's answer to 
 his urgent appeal against her decision. 
 
 "No, she could give him no other answer. She 
 begged him not to try and see her." 
 
 The tones of Brace's voice drummed in his ears; 
 but the voice was Katherine's voice. . . . He crushed 
 the letter in his hand, and thrust it deep into his 
 pocket. 
 
 His face had not lost the shock her first letter had 
 given him three days before. It was still drawn and 
 haggard, and very tired. He leaned back in his chair, 
 and his thoughts swept about the girl to find a reason 
 for this repulse. 
 
 She had said she could love him with no hope of 
 winning love again. ... If she loved him, would she re- 
 fuse to give him a reason for her conduct? He could not 
 believe she did not love him. . . . 
 
 She was clever at a pose, he knew; but she had 
 not been acting in that scene in the railway carriage. 
 He saw the piteous eyes, the soft shrinking glance, the 
 entreating hands. . . . She could not have deceived him then 
 
 And she had not repulsed his love when he had
 
 WHERE TWO LOVE TRUE. 259 
 
 found her at Peggy's grave. Her eyes had not lied to 
 him then. 
 
 Yet when, confident in her love, he had written to 
 claim his wife, she had thrown at him a cold denial hard 
 with finality. . . . Even his last pleading letter had failed 
 to move her. She could not write again. She begged 
 him not to see her. , . . She had cast him off with the 
 heartlessness of a heartless woman. . . . 
 
 Brace's voice droning on carried him back to the inn 
 at Grimple. He was dazed and stunned; and it was 
 Brace speaking: "The farm is the girl's as long as she 
 doesn't marry." The words startled him to compre- 
 hension. . . . 
 
 Here was motive for this repeated refusal. She loved 
 rule and the means of power. The farm gave scope for 
 both. . . . When she had to decide between love of him 
 and love of power the man must go. . . . 
 
 His lips curled. She had always loved power, and 
 confessed it. He remembered that scene long ago in 
 Goodge Street. 
 
 "Anything is worth doing that gives power," she was 
 saying. 
 
 "And what will you do with your power if you should 
 ever get it?" he asked. 
 
 "I will make you recognise it." 
 
 "I think you would not be so cruel," he had 
 laughed. 
 
 He laughed to himself now very bitterly; and the old 
 cynicism captured his face and put iron bands round it. 
 . . . Anything was worth doing that gave power . . . even 
 if in doing it she broke a man's heart. 
 
 His anger gathered with the swiftness of a summer 
 tempest. Eyes and brow were black with storm. 
 
 17*
 
 26o THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 "Fool! to have trusted a woman! . . ." 
 
 Did he not know the treachery of women? He had 
 seen the arts of his stepmother, the trickery with which 
 she forced his father's hand. . . . He had found out his 
 housekeeper's frauds, lying, petty meanness, theft. . . . 
 The only women he had known had been dishonest. . . . 
 Even Katherine had once played the eavesdropper. Pah! 
 they were all alike. . . . 
 
 His distrust had warned him; yet he had allowed 
 her to caress it to sleep. She had played with him as 
 a cat plays with a mouse, after she had caught him. 
 This letter was the tardy, final nip in which she took 
 his life. 
 
 His lips twisted bitterly. . . . She could hardly be 
 blamed for it; it was the woman's instinct of capture. 
 Now his love was dead, and he stood beside her 
 grave. The flowers were red with the red deed she had 
 done. . . . 
 
 Ah, well! no woman should ever come into his life 
 again. He would never again play mouse to any feminine 
 cat. . . . 
 
 It was his turn to address the meeting. He rose and 
 spoke easily and fluently, but his sarcasms bit. While he 
 spoke, the hand in his pocket tore Katherine's letter to 
 shreds, rolling up the pieces into little pellets. He did 
 not know, he destroyed the postscript that, written overleaf, 
 he had missed: — 
 
 "I love you with all my heart. Tell me you will trust 
 me till I can explain." 
 
 Katherine walked with drooping head in fhe sun- 
 shine. She carried the Daily Chronicle, which told her 
 Franklin had sailed from Southampton. He had never
 
 WHERE TWO LOVE TRUE. 26 I 
 
 answered her last letter. He had not told her he would 
 trust her. . . . She was glad he had not tried to see 
 her; she could not have trusted herself to keep to her 
 purpose. . . . But if she could have seen him . . . 
 
 She walked on. . . . But she had been right not to 
 give reasons for her refusal. Even if Franklin misunder- 
 stood her silence she could not blazon out the sacrifice 
 she was making. ... If he could not trust her, he might 
 even have thought it another pose, renunciation for effect. 
 . . . Her lips trembled. . . . Yes, she had been right 
 to remain silent. . . . She said it again and again, silenc- 
 ing her own doubts. . . . But she had thought he 
 would understand. . . . She had thought he would trust 
 her love. . . . 
 
 The red fields were furrowed and scarred with the 
 plough. In the distance a green haze showed the spring- 
 ing corn. Beyond were the pines she had planted "for 
 the immortal gods." 
 
 She steadied her white lips, smiling faintly. 
 
 Life was not over; love was not gone forever. There 
 were human trees to plant, — a temple to build for the 
 immortal gods. And while she loved she could not lose 
 the love she had lost. 
 
 "Who loves, has," she whispered, half-sobbing. . . . 
 
 She took the road to Peggy's cottage. Martha was 
 in her sprigged print, standing on a chair, fastening a 
 curtain before Botticelli's "Spring." She looked down at 
 Katherine. 
 
 "Bide still, duckie, I be just finishing. Yes, I mun 
 cover up they shameful hizzies. I be bashful to look at 
 that young woman a-wearing a figured bedgown in broad 
 daylight."
 
 262 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 The light came leaping back toKatherine's eyes. "Oh, 
 Martha! that is not a shameful hizzy. It is perfectly 
 beautiful. Don't hide it." 
 
 Martha drew the curtain across the picture and came 
 down from the chair. 
 
 "Beauty or no beauty, it be no picture for a decent 
 woman. Lawks, it do mind me o' Susan Parkin in drink 
 when they warmints o' boys dressed en up, and drum- 
 med en on the green. Come to the kitchen, duckie; it 
 do be unseemly for a young maid to sit looking at that 
 curtain." 
 
 "And have you covered up the picture in the kitchen, 
 Martha?" 
 
 "Why for should I?" Martha said snappishly. "What 
 be there ondecent about en?" 
 
 "There's the little Love," said Katherine. 
 
 "Ay! he do be a little Love, prutty boy! No, I 
 wouldn't cover he up; not if 'twas ever so." 
 
 "He hasn't on even a bedgown," Katherine laughed. 
 
 "And why for should he? Flesh ain't ondecent; 'tis 
 the bits o' rags, hiding a leg here, and showing an arm 
 there, what do make ondecency. I alius feels if there 
 was no clothes there'd be nothing shaming; but 't was 
 Eve knowed better than her Maker, dressing up wi' fig- 
 leaves! ... Sit down, duckie, I've just had Mr. Tom 
 a-calling." 
 
 "What did he want?" Katherine asked. 
 
 "A bit o' talk; he do be kind o' lonely-like. I spoke 
 en fair and sound, telling en 't were ill to scandalise the 
 dead; and he were that shamed-like. . . . No, he'll never 
 go nigh The Three Sojers no more. . . . And here be 
 Jock, pleased as pleased to see his lady . . ."
 
 WHERE TWO LOVE TRUE. 263 
 
 Katherine lifted up the puppy, holding her chin 
 high to avoid his kisses, while Martha looked on, 
 chuckling. 
 
 "Ay, kiss en, Jockie! missie's face be long as a gar- 
 den rake to-day." 
 
 "You are cheerful enough, Martha," said the girl, red- 
 dening. "Don't you miss poor old Collop?" 
 
 "Miss my old man? Lord love you, no, duckie! I 
 knows he be well covered up in churchyard; but where 
 two loves true it takes more than two yards o' earth to 
 part 'em." 
 
 "But life parts them," said Katherine, sadly. 
 
 "Not a bit on't!" said Martha, gaily. "When man 
 and maid do love they'll come together through fire and 
 flood." 
 
 "But many who love never marry," said Katherine. 
 
 "Lawks, duckie, that ain't love! When love's true 
 there be enough strength in man and maid to shove sun 
 and moon and stars out o' the road so they meets. . . . 
 Yes, the unborn child fights for life; and them what God 
 calls together comes together." 
 
 "I wish I could believe that, Martha," 
 
 Martha darted a sharp look at the girl. 
 
 "And why do Mr. Right leave you hanging your head 
 like a chicken wi' the pip?" 
 
 "Who is Mr. Right, Martha?" 
 
 "Why that old Sober as was here in harvest. . . . 
 Oh, I seed what you be up to! I knowed you was his 
 lady and he your gentleman. 'Tis ill hedging and ditch- 
 ing wi' love, duckie. Gather your rosebuds when roses 
 be budding. Them that be meant to many marries 
 though they tarries, like your ma and the Angel Jacob.
 
 264 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 Mind, duckie, time makes a show in front, but he be bald 
 behind." 
 
 "I can't leave Tom," said Katherine, passionately. 
 "I'll never leave him alone." 
 
 -'Lord bless the poor simple heart of a maid! Why, 
 you'll be wedded and bedded ere Mr. Tom have lost the 
 taste of his sweetheart's burying." 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 A MECCA- WINDOW IN THE TEMPLE. 
 
 Something unusual in the Plimpton landscape thrust 
 itself through Mark's brooding. He lifted his sullen eyes 
 to the man driving the gig. 
 
 "That's a capital crop of peas. . . . But I always 
 thought the ground hereabouts was waste swamp," he 
 said. 
 
 "So it were," the driver answered. "But the ground 
 be redeemed and turned fruitful since young Mester 
 Fleming ha' drained en. . . ." 
 
 "I shouldn't have given him credit for doing it," said 
 Mark, curtly; and sank back to the recollection of the 
 waste Tonina had made in his life. 
 
 The horse dragged slowly up the hill from the station; 
 and the two men were silent. 
 
 Presently they drew to one side to let a drove of 
 cattle pass. Mark eyed them with the glance of the 
 prospective farmer. 
 
 "Good country for pasture about here," he re- 
 marked.
 
 A MECCA-WINDOW IN THE TEMPLE. 265 
 
 "Well, that depends if the beastses gets the pasture," 
 said the driver, stolidly. 
 
 "Those have nothing to complain of," said Mark, with 
 a backward twist of the eye at the drove. 
 
 "No, that be true this year. But two year since you 
 could ha' putten your hand 'tween the ribs o' every one 
 o' them same beastses; they was that clemmed and lean- 
 like." 
 
 "Whose fault was that?" said Mark carelessly. 
 
 "'Twere young Mester Fleming what had the blame. 
 He had the wit to know better, 'twere sure, but he 
 wouldn't turn hisself to en. There be a mighty great 
 change at Great Lowlands sin' he ha' settled his mind to 
 the farming." 
 
 "I thought it was Miss Fleming," said Mark. 
 
 "Well," said the driver, slowly, "they do say 'twere 
 her showed young mester the way. But now he do be 
 farming like a great wise man, and young miss be handi- 
 "ful wi' the women folk and childer in Plimpton. She be 
 a rare un for helping folkses to help theirselves, be young 
 miss," 
 
 "She might have helped Tonina and me," Mark 
 thought bitterly. 
 
 He wondered how he would explain his sudden re- 
 turn to Great Lowlands; and when he reached the house 
 an explanation seemed necessary. 
 
 "Where has Tonina gone?" Katherine asked when he 
 had finished. 
 
 "To Italy, with her confounded fiddle," said Mark. 
 
 His words were nimbler than his eyes. They moved 
 slowly, weighted by care. 
 
 "Can't something be arranged?" Katherine asked. "Is 
 the separation final?"
 
 266 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 "Of course it is! She won't give up playing, and I 
 can't work at home." 
 
 "Mark, why did you give up the office work?" 
 
 "I had to. It was that South Hants election. Daw- 
 son stalked me down, saying it was the information I gave 
 Franklin that won the seat for Pilchard. I had to resign, 
 though he could prove nothing. . . ." 
 
 "And what are you going to do now?" 
 
 "Turn farmer," he laughed awkwardly. "That will 
 set you free to go back to town, Kit. You can lake 
 rooms; and there is the furniture you warehoused. . . ." 
 
 "I gave it to Miss Rowe," said Katherine, quickly. 
 "Her rooms in Charlotte Buildings were so bare; but I 
 don't quite understand, Mark. Are you driving me out 
 of Great Lowlands?" 
 
 "Of course not!" he answered sharply. "I'm only 
 setting you free to take up your work again. You 
 should go down on your knees and thank me for liberty." 
 
 There was a queer little smile about Katherine's 
 mouth. She did not speak. Her eyes were full on Mark 
 where he stood, cringing and sheepish and mean. . . . 
 Then she softened towards him. She curbed the quick 
 retort on her lips. 
 
 "I daresay you mean kindly, Mark," she said gently. 
 "If I had been free to leave the farm I would have gone 
 before without your permission." 
 
 There was a little break in her voice. ... Last 
 winter freedom would have meant a new heaven and a 
 new earth to her. 
 
 "But I thought Tom was running the farm now," said 
 Mark, surprised. "I thought he was doing so well since 
 Peggy died." 
 
 "He is doing spTendidly," said Katherine, with a
 
 A MECCA-WINDOW IN THE TEMPLE. 267 
 
 proud smile; "but I have other work here that I can't 
 leave." 
 
 It was true. The criticisms that she had heard at 
 The Three Soldiers had opened her eyes to work in the 
 village. It was not only in London that the poor suf- 
 fered. . . . There were birth and death and pain and 
 poverty — all the persons of the drama — on the stage of 
 Plimpton life. The tragedies were not mounted with the 
 scenic effect of the London boards, but they were no less 
 tragic. 
 
 There were Labour questions in the village as urgent, 
 as insistent, as those in London. The great cure might 
 be applied as well here to the few as there to the multi- 
 tude. She could be emptying her can of milk a gill at 
 a time. Improve the condition of the labourer, and 3'ou 
 improve the conditions of labour. 
 
 She had gone in and out of the homes, meeting the 
 women as a woman who had loved and suffered and lost, 
 and learned to make the best of life. 
 
 Tom had helped her to start a working-man's club. 
 There was a smoking-room where he was always ready 
 with a good song; and in the gymnasium he taught 
 fencing and athletics. 
 
 Katherine had the women's side of the club, where 
 the mothers sewed while she lectured on household topics, 
 or read to them or sang. The club had taken root in 
 the village. If she left it, it must wither and die. And 
 there was Tom. The club filled up his evenings, and 
 led his interests into healthy channels. She could not 
 launch him on Mark's society with any confidence that 
 
 he would not lapse into the old reckless idling No, 
 
 she could not leave Plimpton, though Mark's presence at 
 the farm might set her free to go elsewhere. But where
 
 268 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 could she go? — Her mind flew round the village and 
 lighted on Martha's cottage; on bedroom and parlour 
 still empty. ... Its doors swung on hinges of free- 
 dom and independence. There the fetters of the big 
 house would fall from her. She would burst the bonds 
 of domestic affairs. Her heart leaped up with a joyful 
 cry. . . . She was free at last to write her History of the 
 Labour movement. At last the aloe had blossomed. . . . 
 She had planted her human trees; she was building her 
 temple. The book should be the Mecca-window in her 
 temple, — it would face the man she loved. She had 
 her life-purpose in her grasp. . . . The moment made 
 turmoil in her veins. Hope stood a-tiptoe in an eager 
 outlook, seeing life; and life was good. It trailed clouds 
 of glory with it; it was golden with rays of Godhead. 
 . . . What if love never found its earthly close? It was 
 good to have loved. . . . What if her temple was empty? 
 She could keep the sacred fires alight. What if she 
 must die in the wilderness? She could plant her groves 
 for the immortals. . . . She looked back on the past, — 
 on its pain, its disillusion, its failure; and behold, it was 
 very good. . . . Out of the eater had come forth meat, 
 and out of the strong sweetness. She would write her 
 book and send it to Franklin, and he would know that 
 she was true to him. There was a sound of bells in 
 her voice when she spoke, — a distant tinkle as of the 
 herd coming home from the pastures, udder-laden and 
 willing. 
 
 "We can talk about my leaving afterwards, Mark. 
 You look so tired! Won't you come into the dining-room 
 and let me get you some lunch?" 
 
 Mark lifted his brows surprised. This was not Ka- 
 therine as he had known her. . . .
 
 A MECCA-WINDOW IN THE TEMPLE. 26q 
 
 During the day he watched her. She looked more 
 womanly, older too; but added years did not account for 
 that equable tone in all that she did and said, for her 
 ordered calm. 
 
 When the men came for direction there was no sharp 
 command from her. It was Tom who answered, she who 
 asked his advice. 
 
 She listened to an interminable tale in the kitchen 
 while her soup cooled in the dining-room. But she came 
 back smiling; and "Tom, I wonder if the club would run 
 to flannel for Susan Parkin's rheumatism?" 
 
 He missed the impetuous Katherine, but he saw the 
 strength in everything she did. Later in the day he 
 caught a glimpse of the girl. 
 
 Going into the barn he stumbled over a score of 
 babies playing "Nuts in May," with Katherine leading. 
 Her hair was tousled, her dress tumbled; her eyes leaped 
 and laughed. She looked the biggest baby of them all. 
 Sarah — an old friend from Goodge Street, nursing a baby 
 of her own — explained that on Thursdays there was a 
 mother's tea at the club; and Miss Fleming always took 
 charge of the children so as to free the women for the 
 afternoon. "She's a friend to the whole village," she 
 finished, looking proudly and fondly at Katherine. "It's 
 her as helps poor women, and makes their homes happier- 
 like." 
 
 Mark went out of the barn whistling. He found 
 Tom, and laid his plans before him; and long before the 
 interview was over he was staring at the manliness and 
 self-direction Tom had developed. 
 
 When Katherine came in from the barn with roses on 
 her face and a gay prankishness in her eye, he addressed 
 her solemnly; —
 
 270 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 "Kit, I've been thinking over matters." 
 
 Katherine jerked her thoughts back from "Gathering 
 Nuts in May," and looked at him, her face a- blossom 
 with fun. 
 
 "Yes, Mark," she smiled. 
 
 "Look here. Kit, I don't want you to go away. You 
 must stay with us. I haven't forgotten how well we 
 used to get on. . . . I've had a talk with Tom too. He 
 won't hear of your going. And he says he'll have no- 
 thing to do with the land unless you have a third of the 
 profits." 
 
 Katherine's face was undefended from its feeling. 
 
 "Tom is a dear!" she said heartily. "It was generous 
 of him to say that." 
 
 "And I'm quite willing to agree," said Mark, loftily. 
 "We'll share and share alike, and you'll stay on." 
 
 "I'll stay on in Plimpton," said Katherine, joyously. 
 "But I will go to another house where I shall be free to 
 write." 
 
 Her eyes glowed; her face became strong and earnest. 
 Yes, she would write her book. And she would send it 
 to Franklin; it would bridge the silence that was a deep 
 gulf between them. Her work would be the fruit of 
 these years of struggle and pain, of wrestling and defeat, 
 of courage waxing and waning, of a reed shaken by the 
 wind. ... Ah, it was good to have lived the years in 
 which she had eaten the fruit of the knowledge of good 
 and evil in herself, — which had taught her the anguish 
 and the ecstasy of life. 
 
 She had learned the difficult patience of denial. She 
 had learned too the humble dignity of the common day. 
 The light in her eyes was a flaming torch that swept 
 present and past and future.
 
 THE BOOK IS A MAS'J ERriECE. 2"] I 
 
 Her thoughts sang. The words on her Hps were 
 grave: — 
 
 " With aching hands and bleeding feet, 
 We dig and heap, lay stone on stone; 
 We bear the burden and the heat 
 Of the long day, and wish 'twere done. 
 Not till the hours of hght return 
 All we have built do we discern." 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 THE BOOK IS A MASTERPIECE. 
 
 The year kept the feast of Spring. In every garden 
 banners were fluttering; the meadows were spread with 
 cloth of gold. Hawthorn swung its censer by field and 
 fence where earth heaped her green spaces with white 
 .billows, matching the cloud billows heaped above in the 
 blue spaces. From the blue came the rapture of the 
 lark; from the green the bleat of young lambs. Looking 
 from Martha's cottage, the common in the distance with 
 its yellow gorse seemed to be a colour echo of the 
 laburnum glory in the garden. The living sunshine 
 laughed up to the living sun. 
 
 Two figures crossed the light. Mark and Tom were 
 going to the common to play golf. Jock sat on the 
 window sill, and barked recognition. He looked wistfully 
 after them. Why must a dog sit indoors when there 
 were geese to chase, rabbits to hunt, balls to find? The 
 eye he turned to Katherine held a melancholy question 
 in its depth. 
 
 Katherine caught him and tossed him up, and kissed
 
 272 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 him for sheer gladness. Her heart kept the feast. The 
 winter of toil was over. . . . She had built her temple; 
 she had written her book. . . . 
 
 Her heart dashed cymbals and danced before the 
 festive company of her thoughts. They went in proces- 
 sion to the temple. The Mecca-window was open to 
 airs of heaven. . . . She could write to Franklin now, and 
 send him her History. She would send also that letter 
 from the Chairman of the Labour Congress, which said 
 the book would do more for the cause than all the agita- 
 tion of the past six years. And Franklin would reply 
 kindly . . . and then. . . . Yes, her work at Great Low- 
 lands was over, and she was free to go to him. There 
 was no fear of Tom's lapsing now. This last year had 
 established him. 
 
 Katherine's life in the cottage had proved a restrain- 
 ing influence. He could not visit her without being re- 
 minded of Peggy; and if he stayed away he missed the 
 petting and spoiling that Martha and Katherine and 
 Jock gave him. He went every day, and did not know 
 how strong the women were to keep him in safe paths. 
 He had Mark's companionship at home and at the club. 
 
 To rid himself of the burden of leisure Mark had 
 strolled into the club. Its interests seized him; he was 
 once more under the tyranny of Katherine's earnestness. 
 He lectured on Labour topics until he had swung round 
 to his old position and views. Katherine laughed happily 
 when she told him he had come to Great Lowlands to 
 be a Labour leader. 
 
 The club and Tom could spare her now. She saw 
 her wilderness aflame with golden success; and Love sang 
 its lark's song in the sky. 
 
 The History she had written owed everything to
 
 THE BOOK IS A MASTERPIECE. 273 
 
 Franklin. His theories and ideas ran like a pattern 
 through the warp and woof of facts. His judgment 
 weighted every sentence. Her own research in town, and 
 experience in the country had been blossoming plants; 
 Inanklin's mind had transferred the pollen from flower to 
 flower, and made the plants fruitful. She told herself 
 fancifully that her History of the Labour Movement — that 
 unappetising thing! — was a love-apple! 
 
 Then she kissed Jock joyfully, and agreed with him it 
 was too good a day to stay indoors. It was a high day 
 and a holiday. She would go and play golf with the 
 boys; and he might come too and chase the balls. 
 
 She swung along with a frolic happiness, tossing her 
 club and humming to herself And the song was Am- 
 brose's "Schliisselblume." But though she carolled his 
 verses, she gave never a thought to the poet. He had 
 come to Plimpton last summer to see Katherine "where 
 the roses blow." 
 
 He had found her superintending the afternoon tea 
 of a litter of pigs, crown and glory of Martha's establish- 
 ment. 
 
 He had suffered many things from the draped Botti- 
 celli, from "Love and Death" desecrated in the kitchen; 
 from Martha's gooseberry wine, and from Jock, who licked 
 the shine off his patent-leather shoes. 
 
 It was horrible to see that when Katherine was not 
 feeding pigs she was soiling her hands with the Labour 
 Question. He had sniffed at her History. . . . The club 
 with its coal societies and clothing societies, its dominoes 
 and drum-and-fife band, made him shudder. Katherine 
 herself, sunburnt and healthy and wise, was not his ideal 
 of the dainty feminine. . . . He had taken the next train 
 
 The Gods Arrive. I o
 
 274 'T^^ GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 back to town without offering to her the rondel that held 
 his heart. He had gone out of Katherine's life as lightly 
 as he had entered it. She sang his verses and gave him 
 never a thought. 
 
 She overtook her brothers on the common. Tom had 
 a letter for her that he had forgotten to leave at the cot- 
 tage. Katherine's heart saw Franklin's writing before her 
 eyes skimmed the envelope. She carried off her letter to 
 read it alone. Her feet sprang with the turf He had 
 written at last! . . . "For lo! the winter is past. The rain 
 is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the 
 time of the singing of birds is come. . . . Arise, my love, 
 my fair one, and come away." 
 
 What would his letter say? No need to break the 
 seal; she knew! "Arise, my love, my fair one, and come 
 away." He had loved and trusted her through that long 
 silence as she had loved and trusted him. . . . And now 
 the winter of silence was over. . , . 
 
 She hid herself under a burning bush of gorse. The 
 flowers flamed about her, but the bush was not consumed. 
 The thorns pricked her hands as she crept among them. 
 What matter! 
 
 She loitered over the letter, reading the address, criti- 
 cising the writing, bruising the grape of anticipation before 
 she would yield it wholly to tongue and palate. 
 
 Ah! how merry was this gay world, where love 
 shrilled high unseen, and success blossomed abroad! . . . 
 And those two figures with silver shafts in the sun, were 
 they not the young gods come at last to earth? . . . 
 
 She broke the envelope, and drew out the letter, smil- 
 ing tremulously.
 
 THE BOOK IS A MASTERPIRCE. 275 
 
 Dear Miss Fleming, — I send you the MS. of a History 
 of the Labour Movement that I have written. Bates and 
 Bullen have agreed to take it; but you may possibly care 
 to see it before it goes to press. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 Richard Franklin. 
 
 National Liberal Club, 
 London, W. 
 
 Katherine sat there still, holding the letter. There 
 was even a smile on her face, — the afterglow of the sun- 
 set. . . . She had taken her heart in her hand, and was 
 watching it gasp out its life. That red stain where the 
 gorse had pricked her was its Hfe-blood. . . . 
 
 Franklin had written a History too, so her work would 
 be useless. In any case it would be eclipsed by the 
 brilliance of his. The success she had sighted would 
 never be hers. . . . What did that matter! She could 
 see a hundred successes go, and snap her fingers at the 
 retreating figures! . . . But Love had gone. . . . She had 
 built her temple. And as she had builded, the walls had 
 sprung up of marble overlaid with gold. The great 
 spaces had been flooded with light from a mystic Presence 
 that she had thought was Love himself. . . . And Love 
 had not come to his temple. Long ago she had seen 
 the vision of the gods threading the spaces of the moon- 
 light. And when day came she knew it had been only 
 mischievous boys tearing down the flowers. It was the 
 same thing over again; he had torn down all her gar- 
 lands. . . . 
 
 Was this the letter of a man to the woman he loved? 
 and after those long months of silence and separation?
 
 276 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 There was no love here; friendship even would have given 
 more than those chill words. . . . She had asked bread, 
 and Love had given her a stone. . . . 
 
 And the winds howled and the rains beat and the 
 floods came; and the house she had built fell. And great 
 was the fall thereof. 
 
 She found Franklin's manuscript at the cottage, and 
 she took it away to read undisturbed. 
 
 It was merely a long pamphlet, a somewhat inadequate 
 resume of the story of the Labour Movement; the sort of 
 thing Katherine herself might have written before she had 
 made her elaborate Museum research. It showed the 
 threadbare garments that covered the people; but its 
 proposals for patching and mending were unpractical, 
 even sentimental. Some of the sentences had a familiar 
 ring in her ears; but she did not recognise them as echoes 
 of her own speeches, the emotional utterances of her plat- 
 form days. . . . 
 
 The alertness on her face steadied itself, poised be- 
 tween security and dread. . . . Franklin could not fail. . . . 
 His failure was before her. . . . 
 
 She did not guess that the strong intellect had been 
 warped by his brooding distrust; that loss of faith in the 
 woman had worked to slackened faith in the cause he 
 had loved. Franklin's heart had reacted on his brain to 
 the disadvantage of the book. It was unworthy of his 
 knowledge and power and enthusiasm. It could not 
 greatly affect the cause. An ineffectual arrow, it fell short 
 of the mark. Many such had already been aimed at the 
 bull's eye of the Labour Question. Katherine revolted at 
 the thought that Franklin should fail like other men. . . .
 
 THE BOOK IS A MASTERPIECE. 277 
 
 If she could only substitute her work for his! But that 
 was impossible. Her book would never be published now. 
 . . . She would not flaunt her triumph in the face of 
 Franklin's failure. . . . Even though her History would do 
 more for the cause than years of agitation she would 
 suppress it. . . . She could not humble the man she 
 loved. . . . 
 
 She remembered the Sunday in the Park when the 
 people had listened to her and not to him. . . . His 
 failure had hurt her then; and she loved him a hundred 
 times more to-day than she had loved him then. Yes, 
 though his letter might say he had ceased to love her, 
 she loved him still. . . . She could not deal him a blow 
 in order to help on any cause. The people must give 
 way before the individual. 
 
 She got up wearily and began to pace the room. The 
 stinging thoughts buzzed about her. Was it right to 
 sacrifice the people merely in order to spare Franklin's 
 feelings? The picture of Iphigenia, Peggy's last gift, fol- 
 lowed her steps. She could not get away from it. 
 
 Peggy herself stood in the room. Katherine could 
 hear her speaking: "The best thing in life is sacrifice. . . . 
 Love means sacrifice. . . ." 
 
 Katherine's eyes were dark with struggle. She threw 
 out her hand passionately. "I could sacrifice myself," she 
 cried, "but I can't sacrifice him. He is a proud man; it 
 would be bitter to him to see that I could succeed where 
 he failed. . . . Let the people go! What do I care if the 
 cause suffers? Movements can do without the individual; 
 men and women are only necessary to each other. I loved 
 him first; my love for the people came second. . . ." 
 
 Again the silence spoke, but now it was her own 
 voice answering: "The first is of the earth, earthy; the
 
 278 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 second is the Lord from heaven." Then came Peggy's 
 wistful accents: "I wonder if there is any Lord from 
 heaven in love at all?" 
 
 Katherine shrank back. There could be nothing god- 
 like in her love that could not renounce itself. And she 
 had once believed in renunciation. ... A far-away echo 
 came to her from the old days before Newnham. . . . 
 "Go where thou wilt, seek whatever thou wilt, thou shalt 
 not find a higher way above nor a safer way below than 
 the way of the cross. . . . The cross is always ready, and 
 everywhere waits for thee. Thou canst not escape it 
 whithersoever thou runnest; for wheresoever thou goest, 
 thou carriest thyself with thee, and shalt ever find thy- 
 self." 
 
 Franklin sat in his room and read Katherine's letter 
 again. But by this time he knew every word in it. 
 
 Dear Mr. Franklin, — I have read your book, and 
 you will forgive me if I tell you frankly it does not do you 
 justice. I am sending you a History that I have written. 
 You will see that whatever is of value in it is due to you. 
 Please tell me which of the two shall be published. I 
 would have suppressed mine in order to make way for 
 yours, but it seems wrong to let my wishes influence me 
 in a matter of this sort. Have you quite forgotten your 
 old friend? I have not forgotten you. I long to know 
 that you are well and happy. 
 
 Faithfully yours, 
 
 Katherine Fleming. 
 
 Franklin smiled a grim smile that much use was wear- 
 ing down to a pleasant one. . . . But he hardened his
 
 THE BOOK IS A iMASTERPIECE. 279 
 
 heart again. "She can afford to be conciUatory," he said; 
 "the book is a masterpiece. . . . She can even afford to 
 remember the wretch she grinds under her car-wheels " 
 
 Still he could not convince himself that it was the 
 letter of a woman triumphing. She had not forgotten 
 him. . . . Had he for a single moment let her slip from 
 heart or mind? This very book had been written to 
 please her, in spite of his sore sickness. She had inspired 
 it. In that far country where he had fed on the husks 
 of love's denial he had been prodigal of thought for her. 
 He had dressed a rosy sanctuary "With the wreath'd 
 trellis of a working brain." . . . And now she said the 
 book did not do him justice. . . . Ah! there peeped out 
 the cloven foot. She was clever; but nature betrayed her. 
 Could a woman be critical where she loved? . . . No, he 
 would not risk a second denial. He barred and locked 
 his heart against her. 
 
 He looked grey and worn, a man old before his 
 time. His eyes were dull. He showed the marks of 
 the fever that had sent him home invalided. . . . Even 
 if she loved him, what had he to offer to any woman, — 
 the wreck of a man? No, he must not imperil his resolu- 
 tion. He would return her manuscript, and then . . . 
 No, even friendship was impossible. . . . 
 
 Katherine read the slip of paper with white face. 
 
 "You must publish your History. It is a most 
 valuable contribution to the literature of the movement. 
 
 "R. F." 
 
 She looked round her piteously. Jock put up his 
 head and licked the tears from her f;ice. Katherine 
 laid her face against his shaggy coat. Even a dog's
 
 28o THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 love may be an angel at the tomb. . . . But there was 
 no abandonment in the purpose of the clear eyes she 
 lifted again. 
 
 Love sprang to its old seat; and faith — poised lightly 
 above the whirling doubt and evasive circle of the 
 moment — sped onward to meet the future. She could 
 wait; and while she waited she could work for the 
 people.
 
 THE GODS arrive! 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 THE GODS arrive! 
 
 "Ay! I sees you picking my white clover!" said 
 Martha. "You doesn't dig, but you ain't ashamed to 
 pkick." 
 
 Katherine raised herself, laughing, from the garden- 
 plot. 
 
 "The flowers are so sweet, Martha," she said, a dainty 
 deprecation in her tone. 
 
 "Sweet? ay, sweet enough! but sour enough oftens. 
 White clover be Memories. I sets it with the balm, what 
 be Sympathy, and beside the foxglove Sincerity. . . . 
 They makes a prutty posy for the dead, meaning 'Sincere 
 sympathy with remembrance.'" 
 
 "Have all your flowers a meaning?" Katherine asked. 
 
 "In course they has, duckie. The bluebells be Con- 
 stancy, and the voylet leaves stands for Love. The blos- 
 soms be past, but there's seeds setting, and next year, 
 please God, we'll have a rare show. ... I plants en close 
 to the veronica, meaning Faithfulness, and not so far off 
 I puts yellow heartsease, which be Waiting. That bit o' 
 dead heather do mean Solitude. It had used to grow 
 under the bay-tree, which be Glory, but the leaves killed 
 en. The blue salvy you be wearing is Knoivledge. The 
 plant be like to choke up the flax, meaning Fate." 
 
 "Oh!" said Katherine, with a little delicate, unex- 
 pected laugh. "To think that I have had this grand 
 company about me, and never knew it!"
 
 20 2 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 "Lawks!" said Martha, "we be poor fools, for we 
 doesn't see to understand the meanings that nature do 
 stick into the hfe she fetches up out o' the ground. 
 Who'd ha' thought to find Love a-hanging his head under 
 the leavses, and hiding behind them clover- tops? And 
 missie herself minds me of a whole posy o' meanings; 
 yes, you does." 
 
 Katherine made an inarticulate noise in her throat, 
 and the red flooded her face. She stooped and added 
 some violet leaves to the posy in her belt. . . . She lifted 
 herself, and her eyes sought the blank road. It was 
 more than a week since Franklin had returned her manu- 
 script, and she was still expecting him. . . . She had 
 looked into her life, and found it empty. All that lay 
 there were the napkins she had bound about her love, — 
 the times of her achievements, the hours of her triumphs, 
 the great moments big with promise. Love had no need 
 of these. He had risen. . . . Soon, in some shining grey 
 dawn, he would meet the woman seeking him. She had 
 found him once on Peggy's grave, and her kiss had 
 wakened him. . . . 
 
 Suddenly her eyes darted forward and eagerly ques- 
 tioned the distance. Where the road twisted round from 
 Great Lowlands a cloud of dust came sweeping down 
 the wind. Katherine's face fell; not one, but a troop 
 was coming. ... 
 
 She could hear them singing. The familiar tune bore 
 the words far: — 
 
 "Here we come gathering nuts in May, nuts in May, nuts in May; 
 Here we come gathering nuts in May so early in the morning." 
 
 The village children were making holiday. Katherine's 
 eyes gladdened. She hummed the tune herself, tapj^ing
 
 THE GODS arrive! 283 
 
 her foot. Who could be sad on a spring morning, with 
 the sun in his best mood, the south wind attending, 
 earth laughing, children singing, and the lark high on 
 the wing? Not Katherine, though only a fortnight had 
 passed since that day when she had cowered under the 
 thorny gorse. The flame that encircled life had not con- 
 sumed the joy of life. 
 
 "Is it so small a thing 
 To have enjoyed the sun? 
 To have lived light in the spring, 
 To have loved, to have thought, to have done? 
 To have advanced true friends, and beat down 
 battling foes?" 
 
 She said the words smiling, and there was a bloom 
 on her smile, the purple soft indefiniteness of a royal as- 
 surance. 
 
 "Who will you gather for nuts in May, nuts in May, nuts in May? 
 Who will you gather for nuts in May so early in the morning?" 
 
 The shrill voices came nearer, the treble questioning. 
 
 "We'll gather a maid for nuts in May, nuts in May, nuts in May, 
 We'll gather a maid for nuts in May so early in the morning," 
 
 the boys sturdily answered. 
 
 "Lawks! I quite forgot 't were White Monday," said 
 Martha, running to the fence. "Bless the little mites! 
 I loves to see 'em, boys and maids together as nature 
 meant." 
 
 "Who will you send to fetch her away, fetch her away, fetch her 
 away ? 
 Who will you send to fetch her away so early in the morning?" 
 
 The thin treble soared high, the refrain sounding like 
 the beat of ascending wings. Martha and Katherine
 
 284 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 could see the children's faces now. Jock got up from 
 his nap on the doorstep, and cocking his ears sauntered 
 condescendingly to the gate, to watch also. 
 
 The children walked two and two, carrying flowers 
 tied on poles, and wearing garlands of May and lilac and 
 laburnum. As they came on, the boys' strident voices 
 took the road: — 
 
 "We'll send young Love to fetch her away, fetch her away, fetch 
 her away ; 
 We'll send young Love to fetch her away so early in the morn- 
 ing." 
 
 "They Parkin boys be marching first," said Martha; 
 "and the young warmints has gotten they rosydondrons 
 from our orchard, I'll be sworn." 
 
 Katherine ran to the gate and leaned over to see 
 them pass. Susan Parkin's lads headed the procession, 
 their heads crowned with chaplets of rhododendron 
 leaves. They had only flowers enough for the poles, it 
 seemed. 
 
 Behind them came more boys, carrying branches of 
 palm and willow catkins. They wore clean smocks and 
 stepped out, challenging and bravely bashful, before the 
 girls. Nimble and eager and shy the little maids fol- 
 lowed, their aprons filled with flowers. 
 
 "... send young Love to fetch her away . . ." 
 
 The singing trailed off to the end of the column, where 
 the babies lisped on "Fetch her away, fetch her away," 
 not knowing that their elders were dumb. 
 
 The boys had caught sight of Katherine, and were 
 openly conscious. They pulled their forelocks, grinning; 
 the girls made their obedience, smiling with soft eyes. 
 Leaning over the gate under the yellow laburnum bloom
 
 THE GODS arrive! 285 
 
 Katherine kissed her hands to them. "Dear httle hearts! 
 Bless you! bless you!" 
 
 When they had all passed beyond the thin screen of 
 the dust Katherine looked down the empty road. There 
 was a peculiar quality in her glance, — freedom, a noble 
 deliverance that gave dignity. The young faces, free and 
 glad, facing the future — gods that feared not — had sent 
 her thoughts back to the children of the city, who toiled 
 and strove and suffered, not knowing if there was any 
 God at all. 
 
 A great yearning was in Katherine's heart to go to 
 these with her message of joy, and the hope of life and 
 good to crown the year. She, too, would gather nuts in 
 May that there might be food for these poor souls. . . . 
 
 "Martha," she cried, "I must leave you. I am going 
 to London to live. I must take the nuts I have gathered 
 here for those that are hungry." 
 
 Her voice broke. She swung round from Martha. 
 
 "Oh, be ashamed o' yourself! Crying and redden- 
 ing your eyes for a pack o' nonsense! What be the 
 good o' old nuts that do require salt to make 'em tasty? 
 Wait till the young nuts be ripe." 
 
 Katherine dashed away her tears and turned to the 
 old woman, her voice broken outright beyond control. 
 
 "Ah! haven't they eaten the salt?" she cried shrilly. 
 "They have eaten the salt; they have eaten the salt, and 
 have never tasted the nuts!" 
 
 She took her hat and went forth to think alone over 
 her resolve. Her eyes were composed and steady and 
 confident. There was no appeal, no uncertainty in their 
 depths. They held the fruits of autumn in the lap of 
 summer's maturity. Determination straightened her figure,
 
 286 THE GODS ARRIVE. 
 
 but the strong pole was crowned with flowers. Her face 
 was garlanded with a holiday happiness. She was free 
 at last to give herself wholly to the service of the people. 
 She would go to her work; and when she was worthy 
 Love would walk with her there. 
 
 Unconsciously she had taken the road to the station. 
 Thought set its screen between her and things outside. 
 She did not see the man toiling wearily up the hill. 
 
 Franklin's love was dead; but he could not go away 
 without coming to see the place where she was laid. . . . 
 
 While she was yet a long way off he saw her, and 
 he knew that his love was not dead. He would have 
 run to meet her, but he was still too weak; only his eyes 
 pressed on and embraced her. 
 
 They feasted on the grace and freedom of her walk. 
 She swung her hat in her hand; and the hair stood out 
 round her head like a halo. He could not see the posy 
 she carried in her belt. The salvia and veronica and 
 clover were hidden, but the wind bore to him the strong 
 smell of the sprig of balm. Joy and strength were as 
 gods that walked with her. 
 
 She came nearer. ... A flashing happiness in his eyes 
 lighted a torch to greet her. 
 
 "For this my love" ... he began. . . . 
 
 But she was close now. She must see him if she 
 recalled those distant eyes. . . . How grave and earnest 
 she looked! . . . Had he ever doubted that face? ... He 
 could trust her with honour itself . . . Now she had seen 
 him! . . . No, her gaze passed beyond him! . . . 
 
 Katherine's mind was behind the screen, in the past. 
 This was the same road that had brought her to Great 
 Lowlands three years ago. She remembered the morning 
 she had toiled up the hill, bearing the burden and heat
 
 THE GODS arrive! 287 
 
 of tlie day, her heart bitter, joy dead, the temple of hope 
 in ruins. . . . Peggy had helped her on her way. . . . 
 There was the white gate; it had been the gate of death 
 and the gate of life. . . . 
 
 She had raised another temple, and had built for the 
 gods. . . . But they had not come to their temple. . . . 
 One Figure had entered. His scourge of small cords had 
 driven out those that bought and sold. He had over- 
 turned the tables of the money-changers. He had no 
 form nor comeliness; his visage was marred more than 
 the sons of men. . . . She had called him Death, not 
 knowing the strong Son of God. . . . And now the house 
 she had built was empty of guests. She would go out 
 into the highways and hedges and compel them to come 
 in that her house might be furnished. She would fill the 
 place with the halt and the lame and the blind. The 
 temple she had built should be a home for the People. . . . 
 
 A great light shone on her face. 
 
 Franklin stopped. . . . She had recognised him! . . . 
 No, not yet. Her eyes gazed beyond him as if they saw 
 a vision of angels. 
 
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