A Child 
 
 of the Age 
 
 > 
 
 Francis Adams
 
 1 in 
 
 HARRY HARVEY, 
 
 BOOKSELLER & STATIONER 
 
 21 & 22 Broad St., OXFORD.
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE
 
 Copyrighted in the United States 
 All rights reserved
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 BY FRANCIS ADAMS 
 
 Stirb und werde ! 
 Denn so long du das nicht hast, 
 Bist du nur ein triiber Gast 
 Aufder dunkeln Erde. 
 
 GOETHE. 
 
 LONDON : JOHN LANE, VIGO ST. 
 BOSTON: ROBERTS BROS., 1894
 
 [NOTE. This novel is the first of a series which Francis Adams intended, had he 
 lived, to complete. In a letter, dated March 23rd, 1893, he says : ' It was my modest 
 little scheme to draw types of all the social life of the day. " A Child of the Age," is 
 the first of a series of novels and tales. Oh, I was going to do as big as Balzac that 
 way I Fancy what a pretty scheme for a jackanapes of eighteen, and to have 
 sweated at it all these years I I finished the last but one of the novels (chronologically) 
 on my way back from Australia [1890]. There are three novels to do yet and about 
 eight short tales.' He also intended to work through the same cycle of characters in 
 his Verse. The early chapters of the ' Poetical Works' correspond to and illustrate 
 this novel. 
 
 In 1879, at the age of seventeen, Adams left Shrewsbury School the Glastonbury of 
 this novel and spent the next two years chiefly in Paris. In 1880 he wrote the first 
 draft of the book, and during the two years following, latterly in London and Ventnor, 
 he recast and corrected his work. Under the title ' Leicester, an Autobiography' it 
 was published in 1884, while the author was in Australia. Some time after, on 
 reading his novel critically as the work of another writer, he was surprised to find 
 how truly he had depicted experiences which at the time of writing he had still to 
 undergo. In another letter [1885] he says : ' I see its faults clearly, but entirely fail to 
 reproduce its excellences. It is a remarkable book and it came to me to write it in a 
 quite spontaneous and inspired way.' He said on another occasion : ' It was an 
 honest attempt to give a candid revelation, but it was crude and morbid and not quite 
 candid. Beware,' he adds, ''of taking~my 'characters' forfmyself. t'l'anv terribly 
 objective; even when I wrote "Leicester," I wrote of one entirely unlike myself." 
 
 The book is now published in its final form as revised and to a great extent 
 rewritten by its author a year or two before his death.]
 
 TO 
 
 A. L. A. 
 Vita janua mortis. 
 
 Let me think of you, pure and radiant Spirit, as you 
 were to me once, and as you are to me now. 
 
 I thought of you as noble, great, god-like. I saw only the 
 serene beauty of what was best in you, and it transfigured all 
 your Work, and gave it a divine significance. Now I notify 
 faults in you and in it, grave faults and limitations as grave. 
 My worship of you is over, and I discriminate in my very 
 admiration. My worship is over, but I sometimes feel as if 
 my love were scarcely begun. And I perceive also that, even 
 in my boyhood's doting blindness, I yet saw clearly; for, to 
 me as I was then, you were indeed wonderfully significant, 
 noble, great, god-like. You were the father of my soul no 
 less than of my body, and the yearning to achieve Works not 
 altogether unworthy of the simple grandeur of truth and 
 contemplation found its well-spring in the light and limpidity 
 of your heavenly-brooding eyes. 
 
 You never knew this, and now you will never know it. 
 When I passed from the blinding midsummer light that lay 
 deep upon the green strange earth and the blue and winding 
 sea-gulf, and entered that shadowy room when I closed the 
 door, and, in all the fulness of my solitary anguish, bent and 
 kissed you on the eyes and lips (You could not withdraw 
 yourself from my embrace, my love, my god, for all your 
 transcendant beauty of perfected life!), it was as if some 
 unloved and unregarded Lazarus had kissed the dead lips and
 
 VI 
 
 eyes of Christ. You were my Christ. You raised me from 
 the dead, from the hell of the departed, and my faith u-as to 
 accomplish the equal miracle of your own resurrection. 
 
 But the disillusionment of the evolution of time, for all true 
 Spirits, though it if grievous and implacable, has the most 
 precious consolations. As I have lost Christ the Son of God, 
 but have gained Jesus the Son of Man, and count my loss for 
 gain : so, pure and radiant Spirit, I have but changed the 
 impassioned idolisation my boyhood lavished upon you for a 
 chaster affection, an everlasting regard. 
 
 1886.
 
 ' Die and live again ! For so long as thou 
 hast not done so, thou art nought but a be- 
 wildered stranger upon the darksome earth. '
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 AT some time in my earliest childhood I must, I think, 
 have lived near a wind-mill : for I have, every now and 
 then, ever since I can remember, seen one in the middle 
 of a tender yellowy-golden band of sunset on a sandy 
 elevation. Somewhere, perhaps below in the house in 
 which I am, a canary, cageless, with upward-throbbing 
 throat, sings. 
 
 And then I know a darker vision : a darker vision of 
 a slanting planked floor, with an uncertain atmosphere 
 therein, and a sound from thereout, as of a ship on the 
 sea. A dim-rayed lamp oscillates in the middle. A 
 woman is up in one of the berths, soothing and giving 
 suck to a baby fractious with sleep and misery. In the 
 far corner is a huddled tartan-petticoated lump-round, 
 with two protruding bare knees a child unkempt, 
 dirty, miserable, afraid of some heavy coming footstep. 
 I know in some way that I am the child. 
 
 And then comes yet another vision, but lighter, and in 
 a broader scene. A red-cheeked woman rolls a peram- 
 bulator and a quiet little boy down a cindery path in 
 the shine of a moist sunset. They stop by a grey, 
 sweating, barred gate. (There are four or five bars : 
 not less.) In a little, the boy struggles out from the 
 tarpaulin of the perambulator on to the clammy earth : 
 crosses the tall wet rank grasses : climbs on to the gate, 
 and looks at a band of tender yellowy-gold down by 
 the horizon, which is to him a new revelation of his 
 earliest dreams. For on that day that tender yellowy- 
 gold band and far sky of light seem to him to contain
 
 2 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 faint outlines of great white-winged angels : beyond, a 
 chasm of clearer purer light ; and beyond, God. 
 
 Now everything changes. My next recollection of a 
 certain fixed occasion brings with it an acquaintance, 
 often strangely minute and distinct, of myself and of 
 the life that was around me. Thus : 
 
 From standing with some wistfulness in the twilight 
 road, I turn slowly away, shoulders rounded, collar 
 awry, hands deep in my pockets : slouch to the right, 
 along the second side (at right angles to the road) of 
 the wall, and there stop thinking. 
 
 A white duck hurries waddling, filled with anxious- 
 ness, across the grass farther on, and paddles her bill 
 in the edge of the stream. And I walk with big 
 strides till I am parallel to her : reach the wooden 
 bridge (duck the while paddling her bill in the stream's 
 border of watery mud) : give one look at a hole in the 
 bank from which trickles the thick inky, sluggish drain- 
 fluid ; and enter the porch. 
 
 No one in the kitchen. The clock tick-tacking with 
 big silent swing : the plates, with their ruddy flickering 
 fire-light, in rows : the lamp not lit yet. 
 
 Then I hear a motion as of some one shoving a jar 
 on to a shelf in the pantry : cross quickly through the 
 kitchen : down the red-tiled passage (up come two or 
 three loose tiles with a collapsed fall), catching a semi- 
 earthy smell from under the cellar door (some one 's in 
 the pantry : Anne, I think) : run upstairs two steps at 
 a time : turn down the dark passage : reach the ladder 
 foot : climb up : shove open the door : enter the dim 
 garret : go on to the window : look out over the grave- 
 yard, and then turn and begin to take in, half-uncon- 
 sciously, the red-painted lines on the card over the 
 washing-stand : ' I love them that love ME, and those that 
 seek ME early shall Jind ME.* 
 
 At that I turn again : go back to the window, and, 
 with a knee on the white-painted window-sill, look out 
 into the twilight sky, in which I see vaguely the tall 
 dark wild rook -trees with their black broad tops, the 
 many gravestones, and the small church to the right. 
 
 Then: 
 
 'Ber-tie!'
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 3 
 
 The word, rising a note, startles me, half-thrills me. 
 Anne is at the foot of the ladder. 
 
 Up she steps : shoves the door open altogether, and 
 at once begins : 
 
 'Lor', Master Bertie, why you look as if you'd bin 
 seem' a ghost out in the graveyard, you do. Gracious 
 alive, the eyes of him ! Did you ever now ? . . .' 
 
 ' What do you want ? ' I ask. 'If you want me for tea, 
 I 'm not coming. Tell Mrs. Purchis so.' 
 
 Anne urges that Mrs. Purchis is in such a bad temper 
 this evening. And it being his last night too, eh? And 
 it isn't good for him to drop off his victuals like that, 
 and he going away to school to-morrow, and hasn't eat 
 anything to speak of this week, considerin'. 
 
 I take to my old attitude, with my knee upon the 
 white-painted window-sill, now faint and dim, and look 
 through the dark rook-trees into the darkening fields. 
 Anne continues : 'Which she does hope he doesn't bear 
 any malice, Master Bertie, and him going away to- 
 morrow, to school, and might never see her again, but 
 they both be dead and buried before then ; and, if it 
 wasn't that . . . (Then, sharply) : But she always did 
 say, and we'd see who was right or not, that that boy 
 would come to no ' 
 
 I leap to her. 
 
 ' I will throw you down the ladder/ I say, catching 
 her by the arm, ' if you don't go . . .' 
 
 She, rather frightened, goes. 
 
 All that evening I sat on the sill, looking out across 
 the churchyard to the hedge and the rook-trees. The 
 black shadows grew broader and deeper. There was 
 no moon. A light wind was singing through a crack in 
 the lead-work, close by my ear. And at last Timothy 
 Goodwin, the sexton, came limping along the London 
 Road with a lantern : unlocked the gates, locked them 
 again, carefully, after him : limped to old Mr. Atkin's 
 grave, and began cutting the grass on it with a clink- 
 ing shears, having put down the lantern by him. 
 
 I watched him and thought about things. 
 
 Presently he lifted up his light : put it down again 
 and began on another patch. Ihen he took up his
 
 4 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 light and stood for a moment, brushing the knees of 
 his corduroys with his hand : then turned, and limped 
 towards the gates. I smiled through the tears that 
 were in my eyes and on my cheeks. If I had been 
 there with old Timothy, I would have put my arms 
 round his neck and kissed him. 
 
 On he limped over the grass, through the tombs, 
 over the sanded walk, the lantern-light passing before 
 him ; till now, he reached the gates : unlocked them : 
 has gone out : re-locked them. And there he goes, 
 jogging over furrows and hollows like a Will-o'-the-wisp, 
 up the London Road. 
 
 The clock in the square dark church-tower struck out 
 the hour. 
 
 An impulse came to me. I went to the bed and 
 down onto my knees ; but then, remembering that He 
 God was up above in the sky, I clasped my two 
 hands together, and looked up to Him, and said : 
 
 ' Dear God, You are a long, long way away from me : 
 right up in the deep, blue sky, higher than all the 
 darkness, and farther away than even the sun, and the 
 moon, and the stars. But I love You ! oh, I love You ! 
 because You know everything I think about, and every- 
 thing that I want to do. And I pray that You won't 
 let me die till I am very old and have done all the 
 things I want to do. But please help me to be a great 
 man. Through Jesus Christ our blessed Lord, Amen.' 
 
 Then I got up, and undressed, and slipping into bed, 
 was soon asleep. 
 
 The next morning Mr. Purchis and I came up by 
 train to some large station, where we got out and 
 crossed to another platform. As we were going, he, 
 having me by the hand, told me to tie my white woollen 
 comforter round my arm, so that ' the Colonel's man ' 
 might know me at the other end. I was put into a 
 third-class compartment : Mr. Purchis gave me a shake 
 by the hand, and turned and went away down the 
 platform. I did not care to watch him more than a 
 few yards or so. I did not care to look at the other 
 passengers. It all seemed like a sort of dream, and I 
 did not think I was going anywhere in particular.
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 5 
 
 There were a good many other people in the 
 carriage. Some got in : some got out : I didn't 
 notice them much. 
 
 After a long time (it was growing darker now) an 
 old lady next me, who'd been asleep, awoke and took 
 a basket from under the seat and put it upon her knees, 
 and, in a little, said to me that we were ' close to 
 London now, my dear.' I said : ' Thank you ! ' and 
 looked out of the window. 
 
 Then the train stopped by a long planked platform, 
 and the people (three now) all rose up. A clergyman 
 got out first and pulled a glazed bag along the floor 
 down to him. Then the old lady got out, and her 
 daughter (as I thought) handed her down the basket 
 and got out too. 
 
 After a little I went up to the other window and 
 pressed my face against the pane and looked for 'the 
 Colonel's man.' Then I thought that he mightn't be 
 able to know me without the white-comfortered arm, 
 so I put it out through the door, and waited. 
 
 All at once a man with thin legs in brown trousers 
 came out from between two old ladies with band-boxes 
 right up to me. He touched his hat. This was ' the 
 Colonel's man.' 
 
 We took a cab and went across London, and stopped 
 in a square before another large station, but not so 
 large a one as the first. A porter undid the door, and 
 we got out, and the box was taken down, and put on to 
 a trolly, and we followed it into the station. There it 
 was tilted beside two others onto its head (the trolly I 
 mean), and we had ten minutes to wait before the 
 train-gate was open. 
 
 ' The Colonel's man ' began talking to the porter 
 about something. I went on a little and stood and 
 looked at some pictures hung up by a newspaper stall. 
 One was of a great ship in the docks, going to be 
 launched. As I was looking 
 
 ' Come along,' said ' the Colonel's man,' taking me 
 by the hand, 'the gate 's open.' 
 
 We went along the platform together and got into a 
 carriage pretty far up. I sat silent : and every now and 
 then my eyelids drooped, and my head moved forward,
 
 6 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 and I nearly fell. I should very much like to have lain 
 down and gone to sleep in a cool clean white bed. 
 
 At last we came, after many short stops, to a stop, 
 and ' the Colonel's man ' put his hand on my arm : and 
 then I was lifted down, and we went out, I just behind 
 him, a porter carrying the box. At the door in the 
 cool evening wind, 'the Colonel's man ' agreed with a 
 boy to take the box up to Park Road for sixpence. And 
 we all set off. 
 
 After a little ' the Colonel's man ' and I wore ahead. 
 It was a steep hill, and I felt rather tired but not so sleepy 
 now. We went on slowly, till he stopped and said : 
 
 ' Give us a hand. It is a bit of a pull up this hill, 
 young 'un, ain't it eh ? ' 
 
 I gave him my hand and we went on again till, 
 passing through the light of a tall lamp-post and 
 through an open gate, we stood on the flagstone before 
 a low doorway. ' The Colonel's man ' pulled at the 
 bell-handle. A bell rang. Then, in a little, we heard 
 steps and the door was opened by a maid with a white 
 apron and cap. 
 
 'Well, good-bye, my lad/ said 'the Colonel's man,' 
 turning to me, ' I 'm about at the end of my part o' 
 the business, I reckon. Good luck to ye, sir, good 
 luck to ye ! ' 
 
 He put his hand on my shoulder, and passed out 
 through the gate and into the darkness. I looked after 
 him slowly. The maid stamped her feet on the ground. 
 
 'Where's your box?' said she. 
 
 At that moment the boy with the wheel-barrow and 
 the box appeared under the lamp-post at the corner, 
 some little way off. She must have seen him. 
 
 'Oh, that's it,' said she, 'I suppose he's paid all right?' 
 
 'Yes : "the Colonel's man" paid him,' I said. 
 
 'Then you'd better go into the dining-room. Give 
 us your keys first.' (I found and gave her the key of 
 my box) ' That 's it.' She pointed to the door in the 
 left side of the hall. 
 
 I crossed the oil-cloth carpet : opened the door, 
 and went in. 
 
 A large fire was burning with a flickering light. It 
 flickered on the black glazy table-cloth of a long thin
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 7 
 
 table in the middle of the room, and on another 
 running at right angles to it across the right side of 
 the room, in a broad half-bay window. Outside there 
 was a veranda, and the dark evening. 
 
 I went to the bench and, half upon it, leant my face 
 in my arms on the cool table-cloth. The things around 
 me were all in a sort of noise above my ears. I could 
 not weep soft tears : the tears were dried behind my 
 eyes. But, after a little, I seemed to grow dreary : 
 and could have wished to sleep. . . . 
 
 I took to no one. One or two fellows made up to 
 me a little at first; but I just answered them and 
 turned away, neither caring to talk to them or let 
 them talk to me. It was not that I was homesick : I 
 had no home. I did not know what it was. 
 
 I like Wallace better than any of the others. 
 Neither of us ever have jam or cake : he has not even 
 3d. a week like me. He loves his little belly. He '11 
 always go to Harris's, the grub shop, for anyone who '11 
 give him a good big bit of the stuff they 're getting. 
 (Of course you 're licked if you're caught going, except 
 on Saturdays and Wednesdays from two to three.) 
 And I have often told him that I think it is beastly 
 of him to do it; but he doesn't care, so long as he 
 gets the grub. That's one reason why I don't care to 
 talk to him about some things I know of. I tell him 
 tales, and all that ; but that 's different. 
 
 Whittaker is an old beast. He's fond of caning 
 us I 'm sure. When you go into the library on Satur- 
 days after school, to get three strokes if you 've had 
 more than twelve mistakes in dictation, he won't let 
 you kneel down loose, as if you were praying, but he 
 makes you bend up over till you're quite tight. It's 
 very nasty going tight again after the first one. 
 
 Mrs. Whittaker is a humbug. She says f 'umble' 
 and f 'otel' and ''ospital,' and says it's right to say 
 them that way. She listens to what the fellows say, 
 and then tells the Reverend, and they catch it. Like- 
 wise she reads fellows' letters. She corrects fellows' 
 letters home, and makes them say that Mr. and Mrs. 
 Whittaker are very kind to them, and other things.
 
 8 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 Besides, she tells lies. She has two babies, little brats 
 that squawl. I hate her. 
 
 I don't mind the work much, especially the history. 
 Latin 's rather rot, and so is geography and arithmetic. 
 I like poetry best : we have a book full of it. The 
 first poem is called 'The Universal Prayer,' by A. Pope. 
 The one I like best is called 'A Psalm of Life/ by 
 H. W. Longfellow. 
 
 One Saturday night when Cookie was bathing me 
 you see, that particular night I was rather funny, 
 having been out on the Heath alone (of course I 
 should have been punished, perhaps licked, if I'd 
 been caught ; we were never allowed out except we 
 got leave, in twos) and thinking about all sorts of 
 things, and particularly that I should die before I was 
 twenty. So, as Cookie was bathing me, I asked her 
 if she knew what 
 
 f For the soul is dead that slumbers 
 And things are not what they seem/ 
 
 meant. She didn't. Then I asked her about the 
 other things in it, one by one; but she didn't seem 
 to understand them much either. 
 
 Well, after I 'd gone up to the dormitory (I was 
 first that night), while the others were up at prayers, 
 she came in quite quietly as I was lying looking at the 
 white ceiling, and sat down on the bed by me and 
 took out a little round hot pasty, and said I was to eat 
 it while she was cutting my nails. So she drew back 
 the cubicle curtain, and I got out of the clothes, and 
 she began to cut my nails. And while I was sitting 
 in that way, eating the hot pasty, I thought I 'd like 
 to tell her the 'Psalm of Life' : so I asked her if she 'd 
 care to hear it. She said ' Yes.' So I began to tell it 
 her. She 'd finished cutting by the time I 'd got about 
 half through, and sat with my foot in her lap, looking 
 at me, till I 'd done it. Then we heard them coming 
 down from prayers : so she told me to jump into bed, 
 and tucked me up and gave me a kiss, and said : 
 
 f I hope it won't make you conceited, Master Leicester, 
 but you're the best-looking of the boarders. And I 
 hope you'll be happy.'
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 9 
 
 I didn't think of this till Wallace told me on Monday 
 night that Cookie had left. And afterwards Mrs. 
 Whittaker said Cookie was a thief and had stolen a lot 
 of her things, but I didn't believe it. 
 
 At the end of the term we were examined by a 
 gentleman who came from Glastonbury School, where 
 Whittaker was when he was a kid. Blake was his name. 
 I liked him. We were all examined together in English 
 and Scripture, and he said that I was the brightest boy 
 of the lot, and he said it to the Reverend too, when he 
 came in at one o'clock and they were standing talking 
 together at the door. 
 
 The next day was Speech-day. We most of us had 
 pieces of poetry, Shakespeare or out of the poetry-book, 
 to say. We were supposed to choose our own pieces. 
 I was just head of my form by the term marks (there 
 were only five in it, Black, Campbell, Morris, Wallace, 
 and I), and I chose the 'Psalm of Life/ Currie (the 
 undermaster) didn't mind ; and so I learnt it again, a 
 little excited : I mean, I read it over with the book, 
 and repeated it again and again, to make sure I hadn't 
 forgotten any of it. 
 
 I sat in my place, waiting for my turn, with my lips 
 rather dry, and every now and then I shivered as if a 
 draught came upon me through an opened door : but I 
 wasn't really afraid. I was a little excited, I say; and 
 yet it seemed somehow like a dream and I couldn't 
 notice anyone's face. 
 
 At last my turn came. It was after Whitman's. I 
 got up shivering, and I thought I shouldn't have breath 
 to say it all with. But when I got up on to the green- 
 baize platform, and stood in the middle, and looked 
 down over them, the ladies in their white and coloured 
 dresses, and the men, and the boys all at once the 
 shivering went away from me altogether, and I turned 
 my head straight to Mr. Blake at the table at the side, 
 and smiled to him. He smiled too, but only in his 
 eyes. And I began : 
 
 Tell me not in mournful numbers, 
 
 "Life is but an empty dream !" 
 For the soul is dead that slumbers, 
 
 And things are not what they seem.'
 
 10 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 And my voice rose, growing stronger and clearer, 
 and at last I did not see anything there at all, not even 
 the coloured mass of the dresses, but only a warm gold 
 air all round me, and something singing softly all round 
 me like far-off sunshiny water. 
 
 Then all at once I laughed, and, though the tears 
 were quite full in my eyes, I could have shouted out, 
 I felt so bold and brave and ready for it all, even for 
 when I should have to die and be buried in the cold 
 dark earth. And my voice rang as I said : 
 
 ( Lives of great men all remind us 
 We can make our lives sublime, 
 
 And, departing, leave behind us 
 Footprints in the sands of time ; 
 
 Footprints that perhaps another, 
 
 Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 
 Some forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 
 
 Seeing shall take heart again. 
 
 Let us, then, be up and doing, 
 
 With a heart for any fate ; 
 Still achieving, still pursuing-, 
 
 Learn to labour and to wait.' 
 
 Towards the end I had grown sadder a little, and, 
 now it was all said and over, I stood there for a moment 
 with my head bent down looking at the ground of the 
 room below the green- baize platform. It seemed some 
 time, but I dare say it was only a moment, but when 
 they all began to clap, and I looked up quickly and 
 saw them all round me, I hated them all in my heart 
 and could have seen them die and not stirred. Not all ! 
 All but one : Mr. Blake. I seemed to love him a 
 little. 
 
 And he nodded and smiled to me again with his 
 eyes, and I smiled back to him as I went down. And 
 after that I did not hate the others any more ; for I 
 did not think of them. 
 
 The next thing I remember was that I heard the 
 Reverend saying : 
 
 'This prize is adjudged by Mr. Blake to Leicester, 
 but, as he is only a new boy this term, he retires in 
 favour of Whitman (whose recitation of Marc Antony's
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 11 
 
 speech over the body of Caesar is highly creditable to 
 him) and he receives the certificate.' 
 
 I cared neither for the prize nor for the certificate. 
 I do not quite know what I was thinking about : but 
 it was about something very far away, by the tops of 
 blue misty mountains, and down the middle trickled a 
 black stream from bowl to bowl. It was very sweet. 
 So that when the prize-giving was over, and they went 
 out crowding, I still sat in my place for a little, puzzled 
 because the mountain and the black stream had gone 
 away with a trail of mist. 
 
 Then, as I sat like that, thinking about the trail of 
 mist that went away with the mountain and the stream, 
 Mr. Blake came, bending his head, in through the far 
 doorway. I looked at him. 
 
 Seeing me, he stepped down the passage between 
 the chairs, and came to me on the form, and put his 
 hand on to my shoulder lightly, and smiled with his 
 lips. But I couldn't smile back again ; for the moun- 
 tain and the stream had gone away from me. 
 
 ' You did well, little man,' he said at last. ' Where 
 did you learn to recite poetry like that ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, but I did not understand it all/ I said, ' the 
 two first verses, I mean, and I don't care for the rest, 
 till the last bit. But that is grand ! ' I looked up into 
 his eyes. 
 
 He patted my shoulder twice gently : 
 
 ' You go too quick, you go too quick, child ! What 
 can't you understand in the first two verses ?' 
 
 ' " And the soul is dead that slumbers." ' 
 
 ' Well ? ' 
 
 ' What does it mean ? ' 
 
 ' And that the soul, which only slumbers, is dead.' 
 
 ' But what does that mean ? ' 
 
 ' Dead : that is, that there is an end of it. Some 
 people (such foolish people !) say that when you die, 
 there is an end of you. That is, that you have no soul. 
 No such place as heaven ! no such person as God ! 
 Longfellow says : Do not tell me that man's soul, 
 which when we die only slumbers and will awake, 
 perhaps soon, perhaps late, perhaps never at all, in a
 
 12 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 perfected state of beauty in heaven is dead, finished, 
 ended, over, when a man dies and his body corrupts 
 and turns into dust. . . . Do you see?' 
 
 ' Yes,' I said, ' I see.' 
 
 There was a pause for a moment. Then : 
 
 ' Would you like to go to Glastonbury when you are 
 older ? ' he said. 
 
 ' Is Glastonbury a big school ? How many fellows 
 are there ? ' I asked. 
 
 ' Not so big as many others : my old school, for 
 instance, Winchester. But there are quite enough : 
 two hundred. What do you think ? ' 
 
 ' Would you be there ? ' I asked. 
 
 'Yes,' he said, '/ should be there.' He did not 
 seem to be thinking about me then. 
 
 I looked at him. My look seemed to recall him 
 from somewhere. 
 
 ' Listen ! ' he said suddenly, brightening and bending 
 down ; ' don't brood so much, little man. You hear 
 me, don't you ? Don't go thinking about things till 
 they grow hateful to you. Try to be bright and merry. 
 Be with the other fellows more. ... I was right, 
 there? You aren't much? "They're such fools!" 
 hey?' (He laughed.) 'Well, you mustn't mind that. 
 You 're not always wise, are you ? . . . You don't think 
 I'm sermoning you?' 
 
 ' No,' I said, ' I see.' 
 
 A pause. 
 
 He smiled again. 
 
 'At any rate,' he said, and pinched my cheek gently, 
 'Mr. Whittaker has given me permission to write to 
 your guardian, Colonel James, as well as promised to 
 write himself, about your going to Glastonbury. You 
 would like to go ? ' 
 
 'Yes,' said I, 'I should if you would be there.' 
 
 ' In all probability, I should,' he said. 
 
 ' I,' I began, ' I . . .' but did not go on. 
 
 And it was somehow with this that we parted. 
 
 I watched him go up along the passage between the 
 chairs and, bending, through the far door. And then 
 I felt that I wished I had said something to him, but I 
 did not know what.
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 13 
 
 In the holidays we (Wallace and I) had breakfast 
 and dinner with the Reverend and Mrs. W., but had 
 our tea alone. I liked that : but Wallace talked too 
 much. And we might go out as we liked on to the 
 Heath or into Greenwich Park, but not down into the 
 town. Three or four times I chanced it, and went to 
 the Painted Chamber, which Campbell had told me of, 
 saying that there were fine pictures of sea-fights there 
 and some of Nelson. I liked to be there : I liked 
 most of all to look at the picture of Nelson being 
 taken up into heaven, for I thought I too should be 
 taken up into heaven some day, when I had done 
 great things and was dead. Then there was the 
 picture of him all bloody and wounded, as he ran up 
 on deck in the middle of the fight : and the relics. I 
 liked the holidays. 
 
 Next term wasn't much different from last ; except 
 that some of the fellows were allowed, in June and 
 July, to go down to the Greenwich baths early on two 
 mornings in the week to bathe. I tried to get the 
 Reverend to let me go, but he wouldn't. 
 
 In the next holidays he, and Mrs. W., and the brats, 
 and Jane (the new cook), went to the sea-side, leaving 
 Alice (the maid) to look after us two. (Thomas, the 
 page-boy, didn't stay in the house then. I don't know 
 why.) I liked that better still. I was out almost all 
 day long, on the Heath, in the Park, down by the 
 river. Once I went up the river as far as Westminster 
 in a boat. That was rare sport. Some men played on 
 a harp and a clarionet, and the music almost made me 
 cry. Wallace hadn't the pluck to come, though Alice 
 offered to lend him the money. 
 
 The next term was very bad. I had chilblains : 
 only on the feet though. Wallace had them on his 
 hands and ears. And it was so cold and dull in the 
 Christmas holidays, that I was almost glad when the 
 term began again. 
 
 A week after it had begun, I had a letter from 
 Colonel James, and Mrs. W. said I must answer it. So 
 I had to w r rite an ansAver in prep, one night and show 
 it to Mrs. W. after prayers in the drawing-room. She 
 said it was ' so peculiar,' and scratched out most of it, and
 
 14 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 told me what else to write. So next day I made a fair 
 copy, and, having shown it her, it was put in an envelope 
 which I directed as she read out and spelled to me,, and 
 then she put a stamp on it, and I went out and posted it. 
 
 Mr. Blake didn't come to examine us this term : 
 another gentleman did, Mr. Saunders, a friend of the 
 Reverend's, who'd been at Oxford with him. But the 
 first day of the holidays I had a letter from Mr. Blake, 
 and he said that he was sorry he hadn't written to me 
 before; he had often thought about it, but he had such 
 a great deal to do that he found it very hard to write 
 to anyone. Perhaps when I had grown up, and had a 
 great deal to do, I should find it the same. But what 
 he was sorriest about was, that he was going away from 
 Glastonbury to another school, Penhurst, and so we 
 should not see one another there as he had hoped, and 
 he hoped 7 had hoped, we should ; but I would perhaps 
 find when I got there that I was not quite a stranger, but 
 that there was at least one fellow who would take an 
 interest in me and help me, as much as it was good that 
 I should be helped. And I was to be sure and write to 
 him whenever I liked, for he would always be glad to 
 hear from me. I thought it was a very kind letter and it 
 almost made me cry, that about being sure to write to him 
 whenever I liked, for he would always be glad to hear 
 from me. I hadn't known till then that I was going to 
 Glastonbury, but, when I asked the Reverend if I was, 
 he said, Yes, in another two years or so, perhaps. But 
 I didn't write to Mr. Blake : I didn't like to, somehow. 
 
 In the midsummer term I was allowed to go to the 
 Greenwich baths in the early mornings twice a week 
 with the fellows that went. Langholm, a big fellow of 
 eighteen who'd been at a public school, promised the 
 Reverend he'd look after me and teach me to swim. 
 So he did. And I soon learnt. And he said I was the 
 pluckiest little devil he ever saw in his life. I liked 
 him to say that. 
 
 In the middle of the next midsummer term I had a 
 letter from Colonel James. (He used only to write to 
 me once a year, about Christmas.) He told me that I 
 was going to Glastonbury next term, and a lot of stuff
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 15 
 
 about industriously pursuing my studies, and that 'a 
 good knowledge of the classics, more especially of 
 Cicero, was the foundation of all that was worth 
 knowing in the humaniora ' : which I didn't understand, 
 and didn't want to. Cicero was rather a fool, I think. 
 Mrs. Whittaker, he said, would see that my clothes, 
 etc., were in a fit condition, and she had also been in- 
 formed that I might have two shillings over and above 
 my usual pocket-money. I felt rather older after that. 
 I didn't tell anyone about it though. 
 
 The Whittakers went away to the seaside, as usual, 
 leaving Wallace and me with Margaret, the new maid. 
 (There were always new maids.) I enjoyed these 
 holidays. I bought a pipe and some tobacco, and 
 smoked it one day in Greenwich Park, but I was very 
 nearly ill and very dizzy, and thought I would never do 
 it again. I did though, not liking to be beaten by it ; 
 but at last I found the tobacco and matches came ex- 
 pensive, and so left off. 
 
 The Whittakers came back early in September, and 
 then I had a new suit bought, and a lot of shirts and 
 drawers and things, so as to be ready to go to Glaston- 
 bury. 
 
 II 
 
 AT Glastonbury I first kept a diary. Here is an 
 extract from it : 
 
 ' I don't like any of the fellows here. The fellows 
 in my study are fools, all in the third form, and so 
 of course we are always having our study windows 
 catapulted, and then get it stopped out of allowance. 
 (Pocket-money.) I haven't had a penny since I came, 
 and that's a month ! Then look at the big fellows ! 
 They none of them care a bit about fairness ! I was 
 sitting on the table in the hall yesterday evening after 
 call-over when Leslie, a big bully in the Remove, shoved 
 me off as he was going by, for nothing at all ! I fell 
 on to the form, and the form went over and I hit my 
 head against one of the iron posts. I got up and ran 
 after him up the stairs and caught him up in the passage 
 just before the door of his bedroom. Then I said to
 
 16 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 him, " I beg your pardon, Leslie ; but why did you 
 shove me off the table? I did nothing to you." In a 
 moment he said, "What damned cheek!" (All the 
 fellows say " damn " here. No one thinks anything of 
 it.) And caught me a kick would have sent me over, if 
 it hadn't been for the wall. As it was, I got my coat all 
 whited and bumped my head again on the other side.' 
 
 I kept this diary for the first month I was at Glas- 
 tonbury. After that, repetitions became more frequent, 
 and at last one half-holiday late in October, more than 
 a week behind, I in a pet gave it up, and put the book 
 containing it at the back of my locker in the hall. 
 
 The term dragged on wearily. 
 
 It grew colder and colder. I got chilblains, first on 
 my feet and then on my hands, at last suffering torments 
 with them. And the bread and meat were often quite 
 uneatable, and what else was there to live on ? 
 
 It was a somewhat strange feeling of pleasure, I 
 remember, that which came over me after I had eaten 
 my first dinner in the holidays in the house of Mr. 
 Jones, the solicitor. I suppose Colonel James paid for 
 me. I didn't care for them. Mr. Jones was only at 
 home in the evenings, and didn't speak to me much 
 then. But I was happy enough ; for I could just go 
 where I liked and Mrs. Jones didn't bother if I didn't 
 come in to lunch in the middle of the day so long as I 
 told her I wasn't going to. At first I felt rather odd going 
 ' out of bounds ' ; but that wore off. Mrs. Jones is a fat 
 lady, good-humoured and, altogether, not bad ; but she's 
 always asking me questions about myself and Craven 
 and Mrs. Craven and the other masters and the ladies 
 they 're married to. As if / knew anything about them ! 
 
 The snow was down then everywhere ; it was cold 
 too ; but I had some new thick red woollen gloves, and 
 my chilblains were much better, and I didn't mind it. 
 One day I asked Eliza the cook (I liked her pretty 
 well : she reminded me of Cookie) to give me some 
 bread and butter and an apple ; for the sun was shining 
 and I wanted to go out for a long walk into the coun- 
 try. I like walking along the roads like that, looking 
 at the snow all glistening, and now and then a little 
 bird hopping about or, out by Raymond wood, even a
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 17 
 
 rabbit loppeting along over the white under the trees. 
 Well, after I'd been walking some way, a big man 
 cracking a whip in front of a horse and a manure-cart 
 caught me up, and I walked beside him a little, for he 
 had a nice face, till he spoke to me. And then we got 
 on so well together that I told him a great many things 
 that I had read in books about lions, and tigers, and 
 rhinoceroses, and boa-constrictors and many other 
 animals ; and, at last, that I myself was writing a book, 
 in which a good many of these things I had been tell- 
 ing him were to be introduced ; but more especially I 
 told him about the snakes, some of which were to try 
 to stop Jugurtha in a secret passage as he was coming 
 to kill his brother. For Jugurtha was the name of the 
 hero. He was an illegitimate son of Mastanabal, king 
 of Numidia : that meant that his father and mother 
 weren't married; but in those days (many, many 
 hundreds of years before our blessed Lord came) 
 people sometimes did have children without being 
 married. I had read about some others like that, in 
 the Classical Dictionary. 
 
 But the carter kept silence and I, fearing from this 
 and a look I had taken at his face, that there was 
 some weakness in this early stage of my book, hastened 
 to add that I knew it was a little funny, that part, but 
 as it happened hundreds of years before our blessed 
 Lord came or any of us were born, perhaps it wouldn't 
 matter so much, after all ? The carter agreed that ' it 
 was odd, too ; at they early times ! ' Which rather 
 relieved me. 
 
 It couldn't have been much further on than that, 
 that I said good-bye to him and turned back to get 
 home again. But I lost my way. 
 
 It was colder now, and darker. The sunlight had 
 gone away from everything but a few clouds behind 
 overhead, and, after a little, when I turned to look, 
 it had gone away from all of them but two. I 
 trudged on again. After another little, I began to feel 
 my legs tired, and turned back again to see about the 
 sunlight. It was all gone now. Then I wished I was 
 at home. But the shadows were all coming down 
 thicker arjd thicker, and the road was so slippery, and
 
 18 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 my legs more tired and more tired, and I couldn't hold 
 my shoulders up. Then I saw a man coming along on 
 the left side of the road under the trees and was afraid : 
 then forgot that and went on up to him, but, when I 
 saw him nearer and, at last, what an old man he was, 
 with bleared eyes and a red neck-cloth tied round his 
 throat, although I was almost sure I 'd lost the way, I 
 was afraid he was going to catch hold of me : so how 
 dare I stop and say to him : ' Can you tell me, please, 
 which is the road to Glastonbury ? ' He went on by 
 me, and I went on by him, and under the trees, and on 
 along the road, and he did nothing. 
 
 It was almost dark, black I mean, when I came to a 
 farm. I had met no one else but the old man with the 
 bleared eyes and the red neck-cloth. I was very tired. 
 
 I stopped at a gate and looked into the farm-yard, 
 where the pond was frozen over and a light shone in one 
 of the small farm windows. I did not like to go in and 
 ask anyone to tell me the way : besides, I had begun to 
 think about some of the fellows and what they had done 
 to me till I hated almost everybody, and could have 
 lain down in the snow and gone to sleep and died and 
 been carried up by angels past the moon into heaven. 
 
 All at once a woman ran out with a flutter in her 
 dress, across the yard into a dark outhouse. I did not 
 stir : I stood thinking about dying and being buried. 
 And so, in a little, coming back more slowly, she saw 
 me standing there with bent head looking through the 
 second gate-bar. 
 
 She stopped. Then came and asked me what I 
 wanted ? And then, somehow, she had the gate open, 
 and was trying to get me in by the hand and I pulling 
 back a little. 
 
 Well, the end of it was that we went together up 
 the yard to the door by the small window with the 
 light in it, and in, into the light warm kitchen : and 
 she sat me down in a chair by the fire, and, when I 
 wouldn't answer anything to her but turned away my 
 head, I don't know quite why (but I still wished I were 
 dead and buried and no one knew anything about me), 
 she got up again, and cut a thick piece of bread, and 
 put a lot of butter upon it and then sugar, and went
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 19 
 
 with a glass and brought it back full of warm milk, and 
 
 came and knelt down by me again and began to coax 
 
 me. And now there was a big lump in my throat, and 
 
 I kept swallowing it, but it kept coming back again. 
 
 And at last, when I wouldn't look at her she put down 
 
 the bread and butter and sugar and the milk on the 
 
 piece of carpet, and lifted up my face with her hand 
 
 under my chin, and laughed into my face with hers, her 
 
 lips and her eyes, and then called me ' a saucy boy ' and 
 
 gave me a kiss (and how fresh and red and soft her 
 
 lips were!). Why, I just threw my arms round her 
 
 neck and began crying and laughing and laughing and 
 
 crying and wondering where I 'd been to all this time, 
 
 and in the end gave her a kiss on the lips, and we were 
 
 great friends. I don't know how it happened, but 
 
 somehow or other I told her all about Robinson Crusoe, 
 
 and ever so many other things besides. And, then her 
 
 husband, John, came in. And, when I was going away 
 
 with John, she put two great apples, one into each 
 
 of my trouser pockets, and said I must be sure and 
 
 come and see her again and tell her some more about 
 
 ' all they fine things in the pictur' books.' And so John 
 
 and I set off together, turning every now and then to 
 
 wave our hands to Mary at the door in the middle of 
 
 the light and she waving hers; till the road wound 
 
 round and we went by it and couldn't see her any more. 
 
 Then I began to be tired again and, in a little, John 
 
 lifted me up on to his back, and I fell asleep, I suppose, 
 
 and didn't wake up till he put me down on Mr. Jones's 
 
 door-step. 
 
 And so we parted. For the term began two days 
 after that, and, as they were both snow-stormy, Mrs. 
 Jones wouldn't let me go out to see Mary and John. 
 And I did not know how to write to them, for they 
 hadn't told me where to. I had quite forgotten about 
 its being so near the end of the holidays. 
 
 We had a new monitor in the bedroom this term 
 Bruce. (Martin, the old one, had left.) Everyone 
 called him a surly devil, but I didn't mind him so much. 
 This was how my liking for him began. One day, early 
 in the term, he was taking Lower Round. Football is 
 compulsory. There are three Rounds, Upper, Lower
 
 20 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 and Middle. One or two fellows in the Team, or pretty 
 high up in the Second Fifteen, always ' take ' Middle 
 and Lower Round, that is, they see the small boys play 
 up, kicking them, etc. Well, one day he was 'taking' 
 Lower Round, when Leslie, who's in the Team too, 
 took to playing back on the other side, so as to show 
 off. Then I thought I 'd like to see if I couldn't charge 
 him and, when a chance came and Leslie had the ball 
 and was dribbling past a lot of us small boys, I ran at 
 him with all my might, and we both went over. But 
 / got the cramp. He was up and off again pretty 
 quickly ; but, of course, / couldn't do much but sprawl 
 about. But Bruce, who must have been close behind, 
 came up and put his hands under my armpits and lifted 
 me up like a child (I remember how I somehow liked 
 to be lifted up in that way by him) and asked, was I 
 hurt ? The game had swept off to the other side of 
 the field. 
 
 ' No/ I said, looking up into his face, 'it's only the 
 cramp in my calf. It'll go in a moment. I 've had it 
 before like that.' 
 
 He made me play three-quarters back for the rest of 
 the game and, once or twice, as he passed me asked if 
 I was all right now ? To which I answered, ' Thank 
 you, yes.' 1 liked him after that in a different way to 
 what I had before. 
 
 Sometimes, if we were alone in the room together, 
 as before dinner washing our hands and brushing our 
 hair, he would talk to me, about nice things. But the 
 moment any of the other fellows came up, he always 
 stopped and went on doing what he was doing in 
 silence. I don't mind that either. I believe he thinks 
 the other fellows are fools like I do. At night he never 
 speaks without some one speaking to him, and then he 
 won't make a conversation. Everyone hates him, even 
 the small boys. 
 
 The last few days of that term were very warm. 
 There was a talk of having cricket and river-bathing : 
 at any rate rackets began and, I think, some boating 
 was done. Football of course had stopped a few weeks 
 before the Sports, so as to get the field ready : I mean 
 the Rounds had stopped ; but there was always ' little
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 21 
 
 game ' in the Circus field for anyone who cared to go 
 up. I liked better going walks by the river or about 
 the fields. I liked to whistle as I went along : some- 
 times even I hummed tunes. The spring makes one 
 feel so glad somehow. 
 
 One half-holiday, I remember, I got as far up the 
 river as Morley Mill. 
 
 Just past there the bank is very high and thickly 
 wooded. I began to go up, intending to sit there and 
 look round a bit : there was not time to go on to the 
 mill. Up I went by the narrow path, and all at once 
 came upon Bruce, lying at full length on a piece of 
 grass with a bundle of flowers and a small microscope- 
 sort-of-thing, in his hand, through which he was looking 
 at something. He did not notice me. Then some 
 earth rolled away from under my foot and went down 
 rustling, and he raised his head slowly and saw me, 
 and said : 
 
 ' Hullo, Leicester. Is that you ? ' 
 
 I could think of nothing to say but, Yes, and stood 
 still. 
 
 ' What brought you out so far as this ? ' asked he. 
 
 ' I don't know. I 'm fond of walking, especially by 
 the river.' 
 
 ' Are you fond of flowers ? ' 
 
 ' Yes. You mean looking at them under microscopes 
 and things? I have never done that; but I like flowers. 
 They are so ... so pleasant somehow/ 
 
 His chin flattened on his coat as he looked down, 
 holding a grass in the fingers of the arm he leant on. 
 
 At last I said : 
 
 ' You have polished that stone nicely, Bruce.' 
 
 He looked up. 
 
 I 1 didn't polish it ! It is a piece of limestone. Would 
 you like to look at it ? ' 
 
 ' Thank you/ I said, ' I would.' 
 
 He held the piece of stone and the microscope for 
 me to look. I was surprised at the beautiful shapes in- 
 laid on it. He explained that they were shells. 
 
 I asked if I might look at some of the flowers through 
 the microscope. Certainly, said he : had I never looked 
 through a microscope before ?
 
 2 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 'Never, Bruce/ I said, looking up and into his eyes. 
 He turned his onto the dried grass. 
 
 Then somehow we began to talk about birds, and he 
 told me about how they paired in the spring. 
 
 He was sure birds had a sense of the beautiful. 
 Darwin thinks so. 
 
 He paused, and ended, looking up over the tops of 
 the trees below us. 
 
 After a little : 
 Who is Darwin ? ' I said. 
 
 He looked round, and then to me : 
 
 ' The biggest man, maybe, that has ever lived/ he 
 said. 
 
 'Do you mean he 's the greatest man who ever lived?' 
 I asked. 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 'I don't think he's as great a man as Sir Walter 
 Scott/ I said. 
 
 ' What do you know of Sir Walter Scott ? ' 
 
 ' I have read two of his novels, Ivanhoe and The 
 Talisman, and I am going to read them all. There 
 are thirty-one. I counted them yesterday.' 
 
 'Yes?' 
 
 A pause. 
 
 Then, after a little, I asked him if he was not 
 leaving this term ? He said, Yes. 
 
 ' Are you going to Oxford or Cambridge ? ' 
 
 ' To neither. I am going to London.' 
 
 'Why don't you go to the 'Varsity ?' 
 
 ' Because I don't want to. I don't see the good of it.' 
 
 Another pause. I sat with my hands clasped round 
 my knees, looking over the river. Suddenly I thought 
 I would ask him something. So I said : 
 
 ' Bruce.' 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 'Would you ever like ... to be a great man a 
 big man ? ' 
 
 He looked at me with a gather in his brows : 
 
 ' Well/ he said, ' I suppose I might. Why ? ' 
 
 'Oh, I only wondered. / shall be a great man 
 some day, before I die. And I like to think about it 
 when I 'm IOAV, low in my spirits I mean. Now yester-
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 23 
 
 day, as I was standing by my locker, I got hit in the 
 eye with a board (crust of bread) by' a fellow, and 
 it hurt me very much and almost made me cry with 
 anger ; it seemed so unfair. But, when I got up into 
 my room and thought about it a little, I didn't mind 
 much. For, when Leslie dies, no one will ever speak 
 about him again or be sorry for him, but, when / am 
 dead, people will often speak about me and be sorry 
 for me and like me. It 's very nice to think of people 
 liking you when you 're dead, I think. . . .' 
 
 I sat looking into the lower sky, not remembering 
 Bruce. But all at once I heard him talking in a 
 strange voice, and started and looked at him. 
 
 He saw me looking at him and jumped up, before 
 I noticed what his face was like. 
 
 'You're a rum little beggar!' he said. Then sat 
 down again, and went on : 
 
 ' Do you tell everyone all this sort of thing ? ' 
 
 'No, I've never told anyone of it before, I don't 
 think. Why should I ? ' 
 
 He blew softly through his lips : 
 
 ' Ph-o-o . . . Fellows do. Do you know Clayton ? ' 
 
 ' No.' I shook my head. 
 
 'Or ... Gildea?' 
 
 'Well ... a few days ago I was writing lines in 
 my study after second lesson, and he came round for 
 some ink, and we talked a little then. That's all I 
 know of him.' 
 
 A pause. 
 
 Then he : 
 
 'Take my advice, and have nothing to do with 
 Gildea ' 
 
 Another pause. 
 
 ' Why?' asked I. 'He 's rather a nice fellow, isn't he?' 
 
 'Because . . . He'll do you no good.' 
 
 ' I don't twig that, quite/ 
 
 'It's no matter/ he said. 'You'll find plenty of 
 things you can't twig, I expect, before you are a great 
 man. Now you had better be starting back/ he 
 added, getting up, 'or you'll be late for call-over.' 
 
 He took out his watch and stood looking at the 
 face for a little.
 
 24 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 I got up, turned away, and began to descend the hill. 
 ! He passed me a few fields farther on without 
 even a nod. 
 
 I never talked with him any more. A week or so 
 after, the term ended, and then, of course, he left. 
 
 Those holidays began badly. I went out to Ray- 
 mond to see Mary the first Monday. When I got to 
 the farm I found it shut up, and, after I had tried at 
 every door to find if there was anyone inside, went 
 away sadly, feeling very lonely. I only walked out 
 that way once again in the holidays. It was still 
 shut up. I did not try to discover if there was any- 
 one inside. 
 
 Still, these midsummer holidays were, on the whole, 
 by far the happiest time I had ever spent. I was on 
 the river almost every moment that I could be, sculling 
 about in a whiff I got from one of the boat-owners of 
 the town, with a 5 note sent to me by Colonel James 
 at the end of July. I bathed a great deal. I see 
 myself swimming down the red-brown river between 
 the thickly-wooded banks on either side : down past 
 ' the snag/ to where the river grows shallower and the 
 sunlight filters through into the water-grasses. Can 
 see myself dive, and go with large arm-strides over the 
 pebbly weedy bottom : now rolling over a luxuriant 
 wavy head of soft green, now turning to face the 
 current ; and all in the fairy light of flowing water 
 that the sun shines upon. Again, can see myself 
 driving my light boat down the twilight stream, or, 
 resting on my oars, drifting slowly with soft har- 
 monious-moving thoughts. 
 
 Ill 
 
 THE next midsummer holidays, to which I had looked 
 forward eagerly, were a disappointment. The weather 
 was bad, chill, windy, and rainy. I forsook my boat- 
 ing at last : took to long walks over the wet fields, 
 with sadness through all my thoughts. In the end, 
 dreams became almost nightly, fantastic dreams, never 
 quite nightmares, although the shadow of nightmare
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 25 
 
 was often in them like a polyp in a dim submarine 
 water. I wrote odd things about this, fragments, half- 
 understood by myself, almost always torn up after a 
 few lines had been put down, and then I sat bent over 
 the table, the end of the pen or pencil in my mouth and 
 my eyes staring at nothing, till the fit passed. The 
 dull or rainy weather held on almost uninterruptedly. 
 I was somewhat relieved when the holidays were over. 
 
 With the new term came finer weather. September, 
 the end of it, and half October were soft and beautiful. 
 Then two or three wind-gales blew, whirling all the 
 leaves and many twigs, and even boughs off the roaring 
 trees : nay, pulling some trees, and not small ones, to 
 the earth. These gales past, the 'Challenge Matches' 
 between the several ' houses ' began. I got my School 
 House 'colours' all right, as 'three-quarters back.' I 
 enjoyed those games. The excitement of the fellows 
 over the stiff tussles we, School House, had with 
 Gough's and Mason's thrilled me every now and then. 
 A sort of viciousness and devilry came into me. I re 
 member well how once, when Harper, after a grand run 
 down the left side of the Mere field (we had the wall 
 goal), got past first one back and then the other and 
 came on at full speed, the ball not two yards before 
 him, hurrying to pass me the short run I took, so as 
 to poise myself, and then how I went straight as an 
 arrow for the ball and him. We met violently. I, 
 half spun round: tottered: recovered myself: saw the 
 ball, j ust turning, a yard or so to the right : leaped to 
 it : kicked : saw it go right up, round, through the air, 
 on over the heads of the yelling crowd of fellows a 
 quarter way up the field, and then turned, to see Harper 
 get up off his knee and move away. I could have given 
 a shout of delight. That swift rush and violent meeting 
 had gone into my heart and head like strong wine. 
 
 Just for the two weeks we wanted fine cold dry 
 weather (for the Challenge Matches I mean), we had 
 it. Then it broke up : rain took the place of the sun 
 and warm damp the place of the cold dry. The effect 
 upon me was evil. The sadness through all my thoughts 
 was with me again. 
 
 One night, hot, feverish even, unable to work, I
 
 26 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 could not get myself and present sayings and doings 
 out of dream-land. My throat was sore too, as if I 
 had an inflammation there. Preparation and prayers 
 over, I went up to the bedroom ; undressed, and lay 
 in the cool sheets, thinking in a vague way about death 
 coming to me sometime soon. The thought was, like 
 everything this evening, in dream-land. I spent a 
 hot sleepless night. 
 
 Next morning I went from bad to worse. It was a 
 Saturday. I felt like what I thought a melancholy 
 bird felt, moping with a malady. I went up to my 
 room and lay on my bed till, after about an hour, being 
 thirsty and getting up for some water, I saw my face 
 in the glass over the washing-stand, a scarlet patch 
 upon my right forehead; so bright a scarlet that I 
 wondered a little. I had scarcely lain down again 
 when there was a knock at the door. ' Come in/ I 
 said, and entered Clayton. I made a dissatisfied 
 noise to myself. 
 
 Then he began to ask if I didn't feel well ? could 
 he do anything for me ? would I like any books from 
 the library ? (he could easily get the key from 
 'monitors' room/ you know), and the rest of it. In 
 the end he went off, and I thought that that was the 
 end of him. 
 
 I was dozing when there came a knock again. 'Come 
 in/ angrily from me, and there was Clayton with a pile of 
 books in one hand and a bulging paper-bag in the other. 
 
 ' I thought you might like some oranges/ he said, 
 putting the books down on the next bed and opening 
 the bag's mouth. I wished him at the devil. Why 
 can't people leave you alone when you 're moping? 
 
 After a little : 
 
 'You'd better skip first lesson to-morow/ he said, 
 ' and go aeger. You look as though you were sicken- 
 ing for something or other. There 's a lot of measles 
 about in the town.' 
 
 Another pause. Then up he rose, and saying : 'Well 
 I see you 're tired, I won't stay any longer' had passed 
 the second bed, going for the door, before I got out : 
 
 'Thank you for the oranges, but I don't want them, 
 thank you ; and for the books too.' I forget the rest
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 27 
 
 of it. Somehow he came back for the bag, and took 
 it away, and the door shut, and I turned round to the 
 wall and fell into a doze. 
 
 The next morning I lay still. When Mother 
 McCarthy came her rounds at about half-past eight 
 to see who'd skipped 'first lesson,' she recognised the 
 fact that I had scarlet fever. I didn't care much. 
 
 I was put into hospital, and the days passed 
 dimly. But, on the seventh or eighth morning, when 
 the rash was all but gone, Mother McCarthy told me 
 as she brought in my breakfast, that ' Mr. Clayton 
 had taken it.' That set me off laughing : not that I 
 wanted him to have it (I did not care a jot about him 
 one way or the other), but it struck me as not bad 
 sport in the abstract, that Clayton should have it and 
 be cooped up here with me. 
 
 They soon got him into bed, wrapped up in flannels 
 and the rest of it. I couldn't help laughing to see 
 his face, so elongated, as solemn as if at the celebration 
 of a rite. The idea of what he would look like later 
 on, red all over and his tongue like a white strawberry, 
 quite overcame me. I believe he thought he was not 
 far from death. He closed his eyes with a resignation 
 that was not without sweetness and his lips moved, as 
 if in prayer, I thought. Such a fit of laughter came 
 into me that I had to stuff a piece of the sheet into my 
 mouth. I ended by being rather ashamed of myself. 
 
 But later on he cheered up amazingly. His attack 
 was a slight one. Despite my eight days' start he was 
 convalescent before me ; for one night I, impatient at 
 my itching hide, got out of bed and took to stalking 
 up and down the length of the room in my nightshirt, 
 despite his assurances that I should catch cold and 
 have dropsy and inflammation of the kidneys and the 
 brain, with convulsions, and God knows what besides. 
 Sure enough I did get something rheumatic in my joints 
 and I was told by the doctor that some inflammation 
 of the eyes I had had not been improved by a chill I 
 must have taken somehow. I kept silence, and made 
 the best of it. 
 
 Later on, one day when my eyes were still too weak 
 to see to read well, Clayton insisted on reading aloud
 
 28 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 to me, and a half week's insisting turned it almost into 
 a habit. The fact was I had rather begun to like the 
 fellow. 
 
 At last he was well enough to bear the journey 
 home. I remember that last evening, or rather after- 
 noon, we spent together well. 
 
 We had been playing draughts by the window, while 
 the sun set in veins of gold and red-hued light, visible 
 to us as we looked out in the pauses of the game. Then 
 it had become too dark for my weak eyes to see well, 
 and we did not care to have the gas lit. We went and 
 sat by the fire, I lying back in the large, cane easy- 
 chair, he beside me bent forward with his hand twirling 
 a little piece of paper in the fingers resting on the 
 wicker arm. We had been talking about different 
 things that had taken place in the school and gradually 
 dropped into silence. 
 
 All at once : 
 
 ' Leicester/ he said, making a movement. 
 
 'Well.' 
 
 ' Why are you such an odd sort of fellow ? ' 
 
 I answered nothing. 
 
 ' Now don't scowl,' he said. ' You are, you know. . . . 
 Do you know, I think you 're very unjust to yourself? 
 almost as unjust to yourself as you are to other people/ 
 
 ' Yes ? ' I said. 
 
 ' You 're such a porcupine ! You 're always putting 
 up your quills at people. Why do you do it ? ' 
 
 ' Do I ? ' I said. 
 
 ' Now you know quite well you do/ 
 
 I answered nothing. 
 
 He went on : 
 
 ' If I were you, I 'd give it up : I would indeed ! 
 Where 's the fun in living day and night with your own 
 sulky self? Don't you ever feel as if you 'd give a great 
 deal to laugh and and amuse yourself (you know 
 what I mean) like other fellows ? . . . Instead of brood- 
 ing over your wrongs in a corner . . . Eh ? ' 
 
 I kept silence. 
 
 ' Now answer me, do ! ... Come, now don't you often 
 feel as if you 'd very much like to have friends like 
 other fellows have ? '
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 29 
 
 f No,' I said, f not like other fellows have.' 
 
 Another pause. 
 
 Then he, with a loud sigh : 
 
 ' Friends^ then ? You'd like to have friends, wouldn't 
 you ? ' 
 
 ' One 'ud be enough/ I said. 
 
 Another pause and another loud sigh as he said : 
 
 ' You 're in one of your bad humours to-night.' 
 
 Then he burst out : 
 
 ' Upon my word, Leicester, you're a confounded fool ! 
 There you sit, like a miserable old cynic, hugging your 
 conceit, as full of morbid nonsense as you can well hold, 
 a fool . . . a . . . a . . .' He stammered. 
 
 ' Well ? ' 
 
 Then he came to a full stop : made another move- 
 ment in his chair, and began again, with some resolution: 
 
 ' Now look here. There you are : a fellow who might 
 be as liked as any one in the school, if you only cared. 
 Instead of that, you're the most ofwliked in the 
 school, and all on account of your confounded conceit ! 
 You think everyone else is a fool but yourself: and you 
 think you think it doesn't matter in the least what they 
 think, about you or anything else either ! Now that's 
 rot!' 
 
 ' I don't see it,' I said. ' In two years, who will know 
 whether I was liked or disliked at a school called 
 Glastonbury ? Of course I don't care about it ! Who 
 would ? ' 
 
 ' You do care, you care a great deal ! ' 
 
 ' Yes, Clayton ? ' 
 
 ' I know it. If you didn't care, would you take the 
 trouble to tell yourself so a hundred times a day like 
 you do, and make yourself miserable about it? ... 
 Pooh-h ! You do care, right enough.' 
 
 I kept silence. 
 
 He proceeded : 
 
 ' Leicester, you 're a fool. And it 's all the worse 
 because you needn't be one without you liked. You 
 might be a very nice fellow. You can be when you 
 like.' 
 
 A pause. 
 
 'Well?' asked he.
 
 SO A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 Well/ I said. 
 
 'Then I hope it may do you good then !' he cried, 
 I am only saying it in that hope. I think too well of 
 you to believe that you 're blind to your own faults : 
 and it may do you some good to see yourself as others 
 see you. And that 's all I 've got to say/ 
 
 A pause. 
 
 At last he, slowly and not unsoftly : 
 
 ' I 'm going away this evening. . . . Mother McCarthy 
 told you p'r'aps ? . . . For good. ... I shall be sorry 
 to go. . . . My father is a silk merchant, and he wants 
 me to enter his office. He 's come up here to take me 
 home. ... The dear old dad ! . . . Well (he gave 
 his shoulders a little shrug) ... I suppose I shall be 
 going abroad soon. There 's a branch out in China he 
 wants me to go to . . . or something like that' 
 
 Another pause. 
 
 Then: 
 
 ' Do you want to go ? ' I said. 
 
 No/ he said. f No, I don't.' (He made a move- 
 ment in his chair.) ' It's the last thing I should choose 
 myself. But only one man in a thousand in this 
 world can choose the profession he likes. . . . I 'm my 
 father's only son, vou see/ he added. 
 
 < Well ?'*! said. 
 
 ' Well, the long and the short of it is ... that I wish 
 you wouldn't . . . You know what I mean, Leicester. 
 I don't want to preach to you, but I somehow think 
 you really might . . . might do so much better, if you 
 liked. You '11 be a great man some day ... if you 
 live, that is, and God wills it.' 
 
 ' What ? ' said I. 
 
 ' Did you ever know a man called Blake ? ' he 
 
 asked. 
 
 'Yes/ I said, 'I did. Why?' 
 
 ' Did you know he was dead ? ' 
 
 I was startled. I looked at him sharply. 
 
 ' Dead ? ' I said. 
 
 ' Yes. He died a little while ago.' 
 
 < How ? ' 
 
 ' It was an accident. He fell off a ladder somehow, 
 and his head struck upon a stone, and it gashed a great
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 31 
 
 hole into the brain. A piece of the brain was hanging 
 out over his eye when they found him. It was in his 
 garden. He had been training up a rose-tree that had 
 been blown down by the wind. That about the piece 
 of the brain hanging out over his eye has haunted me 
 ever since I heard it. ... Those clear steadfast eyes ! 
 It is horrible ! ' 
 
 I kept silence, scarcely thinking. 
 
 He went on in a low voice : 
 
 ' . . . The night before he left I was in his rooms, 
 talking with him. He was heavy about leaving the 
 old place. He said he felt somehow as if he were 
 going away from the grave of some one he loved. I 
 remembered that afterwards. Well, among other 
 things he spoke about you. He had seen you at some 
 school he had been to examine, I forget the name now. 
 You had recited a poem of Longfellow's, " The Psalm 
 of Life," I think. He seemed very much struck with 
 you. He said he thought you would be a great man 
 some day. He said some other things about you, and 
 asked me to look after you when you came here. He 
 told me you were coming here soon . . . Well, so I did, 
 as much as I thought I ought to, for, don't you see, it's 
 not good for a fellow high up in the school to do much 
 for a small boy. It 's not good for the small boy. It 's 
 better for him to fight out his battles alone. And I 
 didn't think I was likely to leave for some time at 
 any rate. But my brother died : and my father, whose 
 whole heart 's in his business, asked me to to give up 
 my plan, and help him with it. So I did.' 
 
 ' What did you want to be, Clayton ? ' I said. 
 
 'Oh I'd a foolish idea of my own' (with a smile), 
 ' about going up to the 'Varsity and studying Hebrew 
 and science and all sorts of things and then going out 
 to Palestine. You see I should have liked to have 
 helped Blake if I could, and, when he died why, the 
 idea came into my head of trying to do what he hadn't 
 been able to do. You know he was poor . . . And he 
 gave such a lot of what he had away. I believe he kept 
 his mother and sister, too. I always thought so. Any 
 how (with another smile), there 's an end to all those 
 ideas of mine ! '
 
 32 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 f Will you tell me what you wanted to do ? ' I said. 
 
 ' Oh ! ' he said, ' it wasn't so much me : it was Blake. 
 He put the idea into my head. He thought that the 
 great need that the Church has at this present moment 
 is some man who would devote his life to a real patient 
 study of the origins of Christianity ; so that it might be 
 shown forth, once and for all, that Christianity has for 
 its foundation no vain legend, but events as historically 
 true, and as capable of being shown to be historically 
 true, as anything that has happened within the boasted 
 ages of science. That this might be done, could be 
 done, and would be done, he felt sure, and so do I. 
 But you see, at present, they all seem so taken up with 
 themselves, with their miserable grains of sectarian 
 sand I mean, that such a man is not to be found, or if 
 he is to be found . . . Well, God only understands these 
 things ! It does seem hard, at times, that all should be 
 so against us ! They all seem to think it's not worth 
 the trouble ! or it can't be done ! or that there 's no 
 need for it ! O fools ! fools ! fools ! Can't you see by 
 the shore of what flood we are standing ? Can't you 
 read the signs of the times ? Can't you see an Art that 
 becomes day by day more and more of a drug, less and 
 less of a food for men's souls. A misty dream floating 
 around it, a faint reek of the east and strange unnatural 
 scents breathing from it ; but underneath mud, filth, 
 the abomination of desolation, the horror of sin and of 
 death ! O my God, sometimes, thinking of it, my brain 
 turns and I fear I shall go mad. And to be able to do 
 nothing ! To see these devils in human shape ' 
 
 Suddenly he stopped short: swallowed: put the back 
 of his fingers to his lips, and with a smile said quietly : 
 
 ' Nay, he was right ! There is no need for me, or God 
 would let me go, in such a crisis as this is. Yet there 
 come these moments when I seem to hear his voice as 
 from behind, coming down through the thick clouds, 
 saying to me: ' Go forth.' It may be delusion. I'm 
 not sure. I don't know. It is terrible to be so tossed 
 in opinion ! ' (He was beginning to grow troubled : 
 paused a little, and then with the same smile, his eyes 
 all the while looking brightly before him, went on.) 
 ' Nay he was right ! And what should I have learnt
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 33 
 
 from him if I could not ... To leave my post ! . . .' 
 (Smiling again. Then, after a moment's rest :) ' . . . I 
 remember it so well ! I can hear his voice now. " Where- 
 ever any man shall take his place, either because he has 
 thought it better that he shotdd be there, or because his 
 captain has put him there there, as it seems to me, should 
 he remain to face the danger, and take no account of death 
 or of anything else in comparison with disgrace !" And 
 my captain is God/ he said. And with that he bent 
 forward a little with a faint light in his face and 
 round his lips as of a bright smile that seemed to grow 
 deeper and deeper in a dim dream that lacked not 
 sweetness. I sat for a time watching him ; till I too 
 grew into a dream, a dim one, but it had no forms or 
 shapes nor any sweetness. 
 
 Suddenly I started up and out of it. Looking at him, 
 and perceiving no gap in our talk : 
 
 ' Who says that ? ' I said. 
 
 He answered slowly as if unaware of me : 
 
 ' Plato makes Sokrates say it. ... But I was thinking 
 of a particular occasion.' 
 
 The door was unlatched : opened, and Mother 
 McCarthy put in her head, t& say that the doctor had 
 come up to say good-bye and shake hands with Mr. 
 Clayton. 
 
 'It's very good of him ! ' cried Clayton, jumping up. 
 ' Isn't he afraid ? Although,' he added, turning back a 
 little to me from half-way down the room, 'there's not 
 much fear of us two, anyway. I '11 be back in a sec. !' 
 
 He nodded : turned, and went out. The door closed : 
 up went the latch : fell : steps crossed the planks : 
 another door opened, and closed. Silence. 
 
 I sat thinking vaguely about what he had been say- 
 ing : vaguely, till my eyelids began to droop, and head 
 to nod, and at last I must have fallen fast asleep. 
 
 I woke up with a start. The fire was almost out. I 
 was full of sleep : got off my things somehow : dropped 
 into bed, the cool clean sheets : into sleep again, and 
 slept soundly till morning. 
 
 Mother McCarthy woke me bringing in breakfast. 
 The gold sunshine was pouring through the window. 
 Her tongue was stirring already. Mr. Clayton came in
 
 34 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 last night, but found I was asleep and wouldn't have me 
 woke. But he left a note for me. 
 I got it and opened it at once : 
 
 '8.30. P.M. 
 
 ' Good-bye, my dear fellow ! I am sorry our conversation 
 was interrupted, or rather, I should say my monologue : your 
 part of it would have come in later p'r'aps ! Write to me at 
 21 Norfolk Square, London, whenever you care to. I shall 
 always be glad to hear from you. Indeed I do hope we shan't 
 lose sight of one another altogether. At present my plans 
 are vague in the extreme. I '11 write again soon. I 'm afraid 
 I must have seemed rather a fool to you an hour ago ? at any 
 rate, very confused and peculiar ? I was stirred, you see. I 
 feel strongly about those things. And believe me, my dear 
 fellow, those things are the only things in the world worth 
 feeling strongly about. You '11 think so too some day. But 
 I must dry up now. Excuse paper, also almost illegible 
 pencil, also this final scribble into a corner. And believe me 
 that I am now, as always, truly yours, 
 
 'ARCHIBALD CLAYTON. 
 
 1 P.S. Don't be a porcupine ! ' 
 
 TV 
 
 EARLY in the next term I received another letter from 
 Clayton. There wasn't much in it, I thought. ' He 
 was really about to leave old England, going to learn 
 his occupation in life, where every man should learn 
 it under fire, and in the smoke of the battle.' 
 
 I put the letter into my pocket, intending to answer 
 it that evening at preparation: indeed, did begin upon 
 it, but, after the first seven lines or so, tore the sheet 
 up and went on with my work. I didn't care about 
 the fellow enough to write to him any of my thoughts, 
 and, if I couldn't write them, I didn't want to write 
 anything. 
 
 I believe he said or wrote things about me to one or 
 two of his friends, especially Scott. For Scott is every 
 now and then polite to me, Avhen the chance occurs, 
 as Clayton himself used to be ; but that sort of polite- 
 ness has no relish. 
 
 That midsummer term I remember well enough by 
 its dreariness. Dull skies and rain, and our wretched
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 35 
 
 School House 'crew/ pulling up the river, and down 
 again, and on home mostly sulky. Once or twice I 
 almost gave it up ; but the thought of the good the 
 exercise did me restrained me. Then the Bumping 
 Races came. On the fourth night we bumped Gough's, 
 and kept our place as head of the river for the remain- 
 ing four nights. 
 
 As I was passing through the hall after the last 
 night's races, I saw two or three letters on the end 
 table and, stopping, I don't know quite why, to glance 
 at them, saw one was for me. I recognised Colonel 
 James's handwriting at once. He wrote to me usually 
 in the first week of August enclosing a 5 note, for 
 which I as usually thanked him, in a jerked letter 
 which invariably caused me not a little impatience ; 
 for, as I have already said, when I didn't care about 
 people enough to write to them any of my thoughts, I 
 didn't care about writing to them at all. His letter 
 was somewhat after this fashion : 
 
 'JUNIOR UNITED SERVICE CLUB, 
 July 21st, 18. 
 
 ' DEAR LEICESTER, A communication has been forwarded 
 to me from my lawyer's, purporting 1 to come from Mr. 
 Charles Cholmeley, of the Myrtles, Seabay, Isle of Wight, 
 who, I am thereby informed, is the only brother of the late 
 Mrs. Leicester your mother. He has I believe been residing 
 for some time abroad, owing to the weak state of his health, 
 and is, as he is good enough to inform me, by birth an 
 American. He has received from me what information I 
 thought fit to give him about your affairs, and you may 
 shortly expect to receive a direct communication from him 
 yourself. He desires that you should be allowed to pass 
 the first fortnight of your midsummer vacation with him at 
 the Myrtles, Seabay, Isle of Wight, and I at present see no 
 objection to your accepting- his invitation ; but you are, as 
 far as I am concerned, at liberty to please yourself in the 
 matter. He is, I understand, likely to go abroad again 
 very shortly, having only come to England, as he informs 
 me, in order to transact some urgent business which requires 
 his presence in England ; so that, as there need be no 
 further acquaintance between you, beyond perhaps some 
 small correspondence, I have not, as I have said, seen any 
 objection to your accepting- his invitation to pass the first 
 fortnight of your midsummer vacation with him. At the
 
 36 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 same time I desire you to understand, that, as long as you 
 are under my care, I must insist that your acquaintance 
 with any of the late Mrs. Leicester's, your mother's, rela- 
 tions be nothing beyond what ordinary courtesy to them 
 shall require. Any intimacy with them was strongly de- 
 precated by the late Major Leicester, your father, during 
 his lifetime, and both as his friend and as your guardian I 
 feel myself bound to follow out his wishes on the subject, 
 even if my own did not coincide with them, as, I may add, 
 they do most completely. 
 
 ' I enclose my accustomary allowance of .5 to you for 
 the year's pocket-money. You can apply to the Rev. Dr. 
 Craven for the necessary funds for your travelling expenses, 
 an account of which I shall expect you to forward to me. I 
 remain, truly yours, THOS. R. JAMES. 
 
 ' BERTRAM LEICESTER.' 
 
 As I stripped myself, ran down to the wash-room, 
 took my place behind the last fellow on the stairs, and 
 as I was washing in the wash-room before I went 
 under the tap, I thought in a half-dreamy way about 
 this uncle of mine, and then about my mother and 
 Colonel James, and then about my father. But going 
 under the tap and standing there with the cool water 
 gushing all over my chest and down my body, my 
 thoughts, arrested, took another turn, and it was not 
 till I was in bed that night that they reverted to the 
 matter. Who was my mother ? My father was a 
 major in the army, a ' friend ' of Colonel James : some- 
 thing like Colonel James seems to me, perhaps: a stiff- 
 bodied, stiff-kneed, steel-grey-headed old gentleman 
 modelled upon Thackeray's Major Pendennis. . . . Was 
 my mother the woman up in one of the berths of that 
 second darker vision, the woman up in one of the 
 berths, soothing and giving suck to the child fractious 
 with sleep and misery ? The baby-boy, then, was my 
 brother or sister ? Had I a brother or sister ? I felt 
 somehow that I had not. Had I a mother? I felt 
 that, on the other side of some broad, shelved and dim 
 atmosphere, I had. Sometimes she stood still, turned 
 towards me ; but neither of us made any great effort 
 to see the other. ' My father lies dead in the close 
 dark coffin in the ground with a frown on his face. . . . 
 And my thoughts of them,' I said to myself, ' are this
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 37 
 
 much worth : that my mother is dead, " the late Mrs. 
 Leicester," and my father's face probably past all 
 frowning now. Nay, they probably are semi-dissolved 
 bodies together ! ' On which thought I fell asleep, 
 and had a horrible dream of propping up the body of 
 my father, great, naked, flabby, which would come 
 upon me. This dream disturbed me for the whole of 
 the next day with a feeling of flabby death near and 
 not near me, by and not by me, my father and not my 
 father. 
 
 The morning after that, at breakfast, Armstrong, 
 who sat next me, getting up to look at the letters 
 when they were brought in, returned and threw one 
 on to my plate. It was addressed to B. Leicester, Esq., 
 in a thin scratchy hand, and the envelope was large 
 and oblong and of glazed white paper. In a little I 
 opened it, supposing it to be from Mr. Cholmeley, and 
 rightly. It ran like this : 
 
 ' THE MYRTLES, SEABAY, ISLE OF WIGHT, 
 '22nd July 18. 
 
 ' DEAR MR. LEICESTER, I daresay that by this time, my 
 name, Cholmeley, will convey some impression to your 
 mind ; for I must suppose that your guardian, Colonel 
 James, has not left you in complete ignorance of the 
 correspondence that has been passing between us. 
 
 ' I prefer coming at once to the point, or rather one of 
 the points ; for there are two. The first is, some explana- 
 tion of what you must suppose to have been nothing short 
 of absolute neglect of yourself on my part ; the second is, as 
 you are probably aware, to ask you to confer upon me the 
 pleasure of your society here for the first fortnight in August. 
 I should, indeed, have been happy to have given you a some- 
 what larger invitation ; but, as my health requires me to 
 hasten south again to those parts which alone seem able to 
 make my wretched old body an endurable habitation, you 
 will see that this is impossible. 
 
 ' I now return to the first point. I saw but very little of 
 my sister, Isabel, your mother ; for having very early shown 
 a decided inclination for the study of the classics, that chief- 
 est laborum dulce lenimen, and my grandfather, having himself 
 been a scholar of no despicable pretensions (although of a 
 somewhat more artificial, if sounder, character, than those 
 at present in vogue), and moreover money not being a want 
 to us, I naturally desired, and at last gained, my father's
 
 38 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 permission to return to England, ultimately proceeding to 
 Cambridge, where I obtained the distinction of Chancellor's 
 Medallist and Second Classic, terms doubtless familiar to you, 
 a member of a school in which, I believe, the old classical tradi- 
 tion is still handed down unsullied by the barbaric bar-sinister 
 of either Science or, what they call, a 'Modern Side !' Shortly 
 after my matriculation I had heard that my father's health 
 was a little shaken by a severe chill caught at some festal 
 gathering, but the evil effects were, apparently, eradicated 
 by care and a good doctor, and I had given up any anxious 
 thought about the matter. Indeed, the account I had of him 
 for the next few years was encouraging in the extreme. You 
 may, then, imagine my consternation and grief when, shortly 
 after my last University success, I received intelligence of his 
 sudden death and of my sister's desire to come to England as 
 soon as possible, in order that she might take up her residence 
 with an aunt of ours at that time residing near Manchester. 
 This voyage was actually performed, and I myself stayed for 
 a few days at my aunt's house, from the experience of which 
 few days I formed that estimate of, what appeared to me to 
 be, your mother's natural disposition, which, despite all sub- 
 sequent events, I have seen no proper reason to cease to hold 
 as being, in the main, a correct one. I can say with the 
 most absolute sincerity, that I believe that the greatest of 
 her faults was thoughtlessness, and that I have so far con- 
 sidered, and shall in all probability continue to consider to 
 the end of my life, that all attempts to make her out as, 
 either naturally or by her early training, depraved are as 
 unfounded as they are ungenerous and unjust. I make no 
 doubt that you already know at. any rate the general outline 
 of your unhappy mother's subsequent career, and I shall, 
 therefore, make no further allusion to it than that which I 
 have already made. 
 
 ' You will J think easily perceive, that her marriage with 
 your father andjtheir instantaneous departure for Cork, where 
 his regiment was then quartered, and my scholastic labours 
 and ultimately my own marriage, to say nothing of our most 
 opposed spheres of life, made any close intimacy between the 
 two families all but impossible. After a short, too short ! 
 period of happiness I was left to face life with the motherless 
 pledge of mutual affection and a frame shattered by an, alas 
 useless, attendance on the sick bed of my beloved wife and 
 companion. I felt that change of scene and change of 
 climate were absolutely necessary to me. I left England 
 therefore ; and so it came about that, unhonoured by the 
 confidence of my sister, I remained for long in ignorance of 
 anything more than the general facts of her history. It was 
 only through inquiries, instituted by me shortly after I had
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 39 
 
 received intelligence of her death, that I learnt of your 
 existence at all, and then, being informed that you were well 
 cared for, and being myself at the time engaged upon a most 
 laborious and absorbing undertaking, I thought it no great 
 neglect of you to wait till, that undertaking completed, how- 
 ever unworthily, and my presence in England being from the 
 nature of the thing (I need not scruple to inform you that I 
 refer to my forth-coming edition of the plays of Sophocles) 
 an absolute necessity, at any rate for a short season, I could 
 make your acquaintance personally, instead of being com- 
 pelled to know you and be known of you through nothing 
 more intimate than the post ! 
 
 ' There are other things which I desired to say to you, but, 
 for the present, I must forbear, for my exertions of the last 
 few days have so worn out these wretchedly shattered nerves 
 of mine, that I find both energy and acumen to be pitiably 
 lacking. Let this, I pray you, be some excuse for the paltri- 
 ness of this letter : and more especially for the abrupt ending 
 which I am now about to give to it. I hope to hear from 
 you shortly, and, in the meantime, ask you to believe me, 
 dear Mr. Leicester, to be your affectionate uncle, 
 
 CHARLES K. CHOLMELEY.' 
 
 The letter made no impression upon me at the time; 
 for it did not seem to have much, if any, concern with 
 me. I had read it with half-absent thoughts : then I 
 put it into my breast-coat pocket : finished my break- 
 fast : got up to my locker : took out one or two books, 
 and went off to my study to look through some 
 Cicero, the Pro Milone, which we had for exam, at 
 second lesson. It was not till, the exam, paper over, I 
 stood at my locker in the hall again, putting away my 
 pen and blotting-paper, that my mind recurred to Mr. 
 Cholmeley and his invitation. I shut-to the locker 
 door : took my hat off one of the pegs, and went out 
 into the quad, with my hands in my pockets, thinking : 
 ' I suppose I may as well go down there. . . . And 
 yet I don't know. There 's the boating, and I reckoned 
 on a happy time by myself. Well, it 's only for three 
 weeks at the worst : and I suppose, as he 's my uncle, 
 I ... And he might tell me something about my mother.' 
 (I lifted up my head). ' I have just enough care about 
 her, or her history, or whatever it is, to call it curiosity.' 
 It was on some doubt consequent on this thought that 
 I went in to see Craven.
 
 40 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 I found him in the study taking off his gown. He 
 received me affably. Yes, he had received a letter 
 
 (this was it !) from Mr. Mr. Cholmeley, yes Mr. 
 
 Cholmeley My uncle ? Ah yes, my uncle ! asking 
 permission from him to allow me to spend the first 
 fortnight of my midsummer vacation with him at Seabay 
 in the Isle of Wight. Colonel James had been good 
 enough to make his (Craven's) permission a requisite ? 
 Well (looking up from his inspection of the letter), he 
 had no objection to my going: no objection: No. 
 Mr. Cholmeley was my uncle ? Did I know if he was 
 any relation of ... Ah, it must be the same, he saw: 
 Charles K. Cholmeley. He had not noticed the initials. 
 
 ' Are you aware, Leicester/ he said with his foolish 
 blinking smile, 'that Mr. Cholmeley is one of the great- 
 est authorities on the Greek tragedians that we have ? 
 What, what ? You weren't aware of it ? ... Now I 
 hope you '11 be careful not to . . .' And so on. The 
 end of it being that he informed me, after a pause, that 
 he thought a fortnight at Seabay would do me good. 
 I was not to forget to warn Mrs. Jones of the change 
 in my plans. There were some charming pieces of 
 scenery in the neighbourhood of Seabay. 
 
 ' That is/ he said with another of his silly grins, 
 
 ' if you care for charming pieces of scenery, Leicester ? 
 What, what ? ' 
 
 I thought that it would be purposeless to say to him 
 that I did or how much I did : so kept silence with my 
 eyes on the ground, waiting for the old fool to finish. 
 
 ' Well, well ! ' he said. ' Perhaps that will come 
 later on ! You may go, Leicester/ 
 
 I went out and up into my study, and sat down in a 
 chair, tilting it back and putting my feet against the 
 table by the window looking out on to the quad., and 
 began to think whether I really wanted to go and see 
 my uncle, or wasn't it foolish to give up the pleasure 
 of an extra fortnight alone on the river? 'Well,' I 
 said, getting up, ' I shall go^ow I suppose.' 
 
 The remaining week passed with imperceptible 
 fleetness. I read a good deal : stalked out and over 
 the fields to the bathing-place twice or three times, 
 and sculled a little up the river.
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 41 
 
 I remember, the last night, going in to Mother 
 McCarthy to get my hat from the cupboard how I 
 came along the dark passage : opened the door, with 
 Gordon (the monitor) under the gas, leaning against 
 the iron-work of Armstrong's bed, reading a book and 
 biting his nails: went on to by my bed; threw the hat 
 on to it : turned to the opened window and looked out 
 through the branches of two of the dark deep trees, 
 into the quad, all there in the moonlight with the 
 shadowed houses and, beyond, the opened heaven 
 paley blue, lit with some self-containing radiance. 
 
 And a feeling of soft peace grew in me, something 
 which was unspeakable and which could not be left, 
 to turn round to the bright gas-light, and the bedded, 
 jugged room and the fellows; so that the thought of 
 them left me, trailing and fading away as some half- 
 pulsing sort of tentacle in a dream, and I remained 
 with the fulness of that soft peace unspeakable : until 
 there was a start, my attention taken backward, a 
 book snapped up, and I knew the butler had been in 
 and put out the gas. 
 
 I went from the window into the space between the 
 two beds, and undressed in silence, thinking.
 
 42 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 II 
 
 ARMSTRONG lived in London. As we were getting up 
 in the early morning he found out that I too had to 
 go to London, and asked me to have breakfast with 
 him at Miller's, where they give you a decent tuck-in 
 for 1/6, and besides Knight's is so dirty, and he hadn't 
 paid his tick there yet for last term. I agreed to go 
 with him, though in a glum sort of a way ; for I was 
 in an irresolute humour, half dissatisfied with every- 
 thing and everybody, particularly myself. Well, into 
 Miller's we went together through the shop into a 
 small poky gaslit room where, round a table, sat some 
 four or five fellows ' tucking in ' at coffee, bread, eggs 
 and bacon, and jam. In a little, I got a seat next 
 Tolby-Jenkins, a fat monitorial fool of ignoble sort. 
 
 Armstrong and I were coming down the grey- 
 morning hill to the station before I returned to myself 
 again. And then there was an entry into a tobacconist's 
 just opened and a purchase by Armstrong of bird's-eye 
 and some cigarettes. 
 
 ' Aren't you going to get anything ? ' asked he, half- 
 turning to look at me who was looking out of the door 
 across the station yard to the station steps and door- 
 way. I turned and met his look. 
 
 'Very well,' I said, 'give me a box of cigarettes.' 
 And took out a shilling and ' lifted ' it from where I 
 was on to the counter. 
 
 We crossed into the station. A good many fellows 
 were about. Armstrong had talk with some, and, in 
 the end, I got into one of the London carriages after 
 him and sat down next the fellow at the far end facing 
 the engine. Directly opposite me was Norris our 
 stroke, of the School House I mean, and in the corner
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 43 
 
 Davidson. In the other corner of that side, friend 
 Leslie on his last journey home from Glastonbury 
 School. Armstrong next Leslie, Jones junior on my 
 right, and Jacobson next him in the corner. 
 
 For the first hour we had a loud time of it. Norris 
 sang solos of popular songs and the rest joined in 
 deafening choruses, enlivened by occasional horse-play. 
 I was set off almost smiling more than once at the 
 thought of my solemn self sitting there, drawing every 
 now and then from a desultory cigarette, and sending 
 out a faint whiff of smoke into the rush of air that 
 passed through one window rollingly out of the other. 
 It wasn't that I didn't care for mirth, I thought ; for 
 there have been times when I have felt ready for a 
 witch's sabbath over the hills, or any laughter-devilry 
 you please ; not to recall other times, when the 
 readiness for a gibe at some young woman of the 
 Beatrice stamp was all but irresistible, and prompted 
 shouting and mirthfulness only ended by sheer ex- 
 haustion. But what was there in these ' earthy ' fools 
 (I mean, as if they were not unlike fat, half-lousy 
 Flemish revellers among the barrels of a cellar : and 
 yet not quite that !) to inspire mirth, or even laughter ? 
 So I sat thinking, till, all at once, Norris set up a 
 ringing sea-song that, after a little listening, made a 
 cold shiver go down my back, and my eyes light up, 
 and the necessity for a loud shout in the chorus a 
 simple half-conscious satisfaction. 
 
 The rest of the journey was peaceful, by com- 
 parison perhaps. Norris and Leslie left us at Bridge- 
 town : Davidson got out soon after. We could hear 
 the other London fellows in the next carriage singing 
 for a little after that ; but those in here grew quieter, 
 reading or talking, while I sat still thinking. And so 
 the time went. 
 
 At London there was a general shaking of hands all 
 round and quick parting, and I changed to my second 
 train. 
 
 At Portsmouth I went on board the boat. It was a 
 heavenly afternoon ; a mild sky streamed with tender 
 colours, and the air mild, not hot or cool. I stood 
 leaning against the rigging forward by the bowsprit,
 
 44. A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 while the gentle scene went by. Faint unreality was 
 with me and something dreamy. 
 
 ' Altogether/ I said to myself, sitting in the engine- 
 side corner of the waiting train with my hand in my 
 cheek and my elbow in the window-ledge, ' to-day has 
 been a day of dreamy changes : one unlike any one I 
 know, save perhaps three or four of my fever days.' 
 What I remember next was looking forth at Seabay on 
 a long board we were passing. Then we stopped. I 
 put my hand out of the door ; turned the handle ; 
 shoved open the door with my knee ; and got out. It 
 was a hot late-afternoon, though a gentle sea-breeze 
 was blowing. The sky was full of rare colours. A 
 porter pulled my box out of the luggage van and landed 
 it, over the stone border, on the brick-red gravel. 
 
 I stood by the box and the train went on and away : 
 stood for some little, reflecting that I had forgotten 
 Mr. Cholmeley's address and had neither his letter nor 
 Colonel James's to refer to. It didn't trouble me. I 
 stood still, thinking about things in a vague way. Then 
 took to looking at the station and a tall grass bank 
 opposite. There seemed no one in the station now. 
 A hen fluttered out of some furze a little farther on 
 into the line. Some ducks came paddling their bills 
 along in a broad rut on the other side of it. I could 
 hear a telegraph clock tick-tick-tick-ticking. 
 
 As my slow gaze went to the doorway and a small 
 book-stall towards the other end of my side of the 
 station, an old gentleman's head, bent shoulders, and 
 black-clothed body came from just past the book-stall. 
 He had a white stock round his neck. And then, 
 between him and the book-stall, stepped a fair young 
 girl. They came on slowly along the brick-red gravel. 
 
 I observed them with a new feeling : them, neither 
 the old gentleman particularly nor the girl. All at 
 once, he stopped. Then she stopped. 
 
 He said : 
 
 ' My dear, I don't see him.' 
 
 The girl raised her head, and looked towards me. 
 Our eyes met. Everything in me stood still, effortlessly 
 though. Then she looked down to him : lifted her 
 hand to his arm, and said in a low tone :
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 45 
 
 ' I expect that is Mr. Leicester there, father.' Up 
 went his head ; out came two horned glasses on to his 
 nose, and he had a look at me. I smiled. 
 
 ( God bless my soul/ he said, ' of course, of course ! 
 My dear, I 'm as blind as a bat.' And on that we all 
 were together, and he had shaken my hand with his 
 two ; and with ' This is my daughter Rayne/ she and 
 I had shaken hands. Then we all turned together 
 and went on our way over the gravel to the other end 
 of the station. 
 
 ' You see/ he was saying, ' it was my fault that we 
 weren't up here to meet the train. Yes, my dear/ he 
 proceeded, ' it was my fault, I acknowledge it.' 
 
 'But where's your luggage ?' said the girl, staying. 
 
 Mr. Cholmeley was seized with a sudden and violent 
 fit of coughing. 
 
 ' There is my box/ I said, turning and looking towards 
 it ; and, at that moment seeing a porter come out of 
 a small room we had just passed, called to him. 
 I turned back to them : 
 
 ' Shall I tell him to ... How ? Are there cabs 
 . . . or . . .' 
 
 ' Well/ said Rayne, with the light of laughter in her 
 eyes, there 's the pony carriage outside, but ...I'm 
 afraid your box will be rather too much for it ! ' 
 
 I laughed. 
 
 'Eh?' said Mr. Cholmeley, 'What? Eh? The 
 box, my dear ? you said it was too big ? ' He turned 
 also : adjusted the two horned glasses, and took a look 
 at it. The porter was waiting by us. 
 
 ' Well/ I said, turning and speaking to him, ' will 
 you manage to bring it up ? ' 
 
 'Yes, sir. I'll see it's brought up. Where to, sir?' 
 
 I paused : looked at Rayne : again laughed: and said : 
 
 ' I don't know ! You see, sir/ I went on to Mr. 
 Cholmeley, ' I forgot the address of the house I was 
 going to, and I hadn't either your letter or Colonel 
 James's in my pocket to refresh my memory with.' 
 
 'The Myrtles/ said Rayne to the porter: 'Well/ 
 she added to me (he had gone with a queer comical 
 look and a 'Yes, miss'), 'it was lucky we came to 
 meet you then ! '
 
 46 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 'Very/ I said. Mr. Cholmeley had started slowly 
 on in the original direction. We came up to him in a 
 few steps, one on each side. 
 
 ' I can't make out/ I went on, ' what could have 
 made me so forgetful.' 
 
 ' In the over-wrought condition of our nerves nowa- 
 days,' said Mr. Cholmeley, 'the wonder is that we 
 remember anything/ 
 
 And with that we went out of the station to a small 
 pony-carriage and a small brown fat pony, waiting by 
 the kerb. Rayne drew back. Mr. Cholmeley got in, 
 and made a motion to sit down in the front seat. I ran 
 round to the other side to stop him. and succeeded. 
 In a moment Rayne had jumped in : taken the reins : 
 touched up the pony, and we were off at a smart trot. 
 
 Mr. Cholmeley was leaning back with his eyes closed. 
 
 Then Rayne asked something about my journey. 
 And I answered in sort : till Mr. Cholmeley came into 
 the conversation, and it drifted to Glastonbury. He 
 asked me a good many questions about the school : 
 the system of teaching the classics in use, the subjects 
 taught in each form, the amount taught, and other 
 things, I answering as I best could. 
 
 All at once : 
 
 ' I do not care for Latin,' said Rayne. ' It is dry.' 
 
 Mr. Cholmeley lay back again with his eyes closed, 
 smiling serenely. 
 
 ' Nor do I, Miss Cholmeley,' I said, ' I can't under- 
 stand Latin properly. It seems all so lifeless to me, 
 as if they had all sat down and written it to pass away 
 the wet afternoons. But Greek ! Homer, or even 
 Xenophon. You remember that bit in the seventh 
 book, I think, where they see the sea - ' 
 
 Mr. Cholmeley murmured : 
 
 ' Kcu TO.O. &r a.Kovova-1 3owvT(av TU>V 
 
 0aAarTa, OdXarra, KCU Trapfyyvwvrwv. A beautiful 
 little touch, that TrapeyyvwvTon'.' 
 
 ' What does it mean ? ' she asked. 
 
 I, looking at Mr. Cholmeley and perceiving his eyes 
 still closed, answered rather diffidently : 
 
 ' It means, passing the cry on to one another like 
 the watchword, I think.'
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 47 
 
 ' Yes/ said Rayne, ' but / never got as far as that ! 
 I read some Xenophon last January/ she added to 
 me, ' but it was frightfully uninteresting, / thought. 
 Nothing but : Thence he marches nineteen stages, twenty- 
 seven parasangs to some place or other ; a city populous, 
 prosperous and great. And the river Scamander (or 
 Menander, or whatever it is), flows close to it, and there 
 is a park and a palace in the middle of the city ! ' 
 
 'My dear\' said Mr. Cholmeley, smiling with still 
 closed eyes, ' Menander \ ' 
 
 ' I don't think I shall ever want to read any other Greek 
 but Homer/ she went on, flicking with the whip-lash. 
 
 In a little : 
 
 ' Perhaps, Miss Cholmeley/ I said, ' you '11 like to 
 read Plato some day, like Lady Jane Grey did. I have 
 only read part of the Apology and the Crito ; but it 
 seemed to me that it was fine.' 
 
 1 Eh ? hey ? ' said Mr. Cholmeley, opening his eyes 
 and erecting his head and body, ' Why, here we are ! ' 
 
 I gave a glance at the house. It was a small house 
 at the other end of a garden pretty with bright flowers. 
 There was a faint noise heard, like the wind in a row 
 of tree-tops. Looking on, as I got down, I saw a line, 
 about a quarter way up the house, with a pale blue 
 band : the sea ! The breeze came up softly. There 
 was a boy waiting just by the gate for the pony, whose 
 rein close by the mouth he now held. 
 
 I stretched my hand for Mr. Cholmeley. He rested 
 on it, and getting down : 
 
 ' It 's a beautiful day for August in Seabay/ he 
 said, ' That is'to say if I may believe what they tell me 
 about it. An antiquarian friend of mine at Newport 
 describes the place as a bed in a cucumber-frame, in 
 summer. Myself I am inclined to doubt it for reasons.' 
 
 Rayne was already down and on to open the gate ; 
 but I was there first, and unlatched and threw it in- 
 wards wide. Mr. Cholmeley passed in slowly, she 
 following with a look at me like that of when she said : 
 ' Well, there's the pony-carriage outside, but ...I'm 
 afraid your box will be rather too much for it.' I went 
 in last, with an arriving thought that I had seen her 
 eyes somewhere before, and perhaps her face.
 
 48 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 We went in, through a small green-covered porch, 
 to a small hall : then to the right, clown a passage that 
 met the little hall at right-angles ; down a staircase ; 
 along a little hall again with an open door at the end 
 and green garden and bluey sea-view ; then to the 
 right into a large light room, in the middle of which 
 was a laid table and, for the far-side, a large half-bay 
 window with the two central flaps opened outwards. 
 
 Mr. Cholmeley sank down sighing in an armchair 
 that Rayne turned a little to the window. 
 
 ' Ah-h/ he said, ' I'm very soon tired out now \ ' 
 
 Then, in a little, recovering himself, and looking up 
 at me standing by the window to his left : 
 
 ' But perhaps Mr. Leicester is hungry ' (turning his 
 look up to Rayne above the right arm of the armchair). 
 'We forget that. And dinner is not till half-past 
 seven.' 
 
 ' No,' I said, ( I am not hungry at all, thank you.' 
 
 'Are you sure?' 
 
 1 Certain,' I said, ' I had some things on the way.' 
 
 A pause. 
 
 ' Then I think,' he said, ' that the best thing to be 
 done, will be for Rayne and you to go for a ramble 
 along the shore together, and leave me here. I'm 
 afraid I should be but poor company just at present. 
 In fact, I confess that I should like a little nap before 
 dinner. You remember, my dear, I had no siesta this 
 afternoon, and I 'm tired.' His voice fell. 
 
 We left him rather lingeringly, more particularly 
 Rayne. We went down over the first plot of grass, the 
 gravelled walk, and the lawn in silence. Then she led 
 me round a clump of bushes, and on to a path whose 
 front was a low sea-wall. There was a break of a yard 
 therein a little farther on. Arrived there, I saw a 
 ladder, like those from bathing-machines, that touched 
 the sand. 
 
 We stayed a moment. Then I jumped down and 
 held my hand up for her. She jumped past it alighting 
 well, and stepped seawards, I following. 
 
 ' I hope you didn't mind my father going to sleep,' 
 she said as we moved off together through the dry 
 loose sand tuneful to our heels. ' He usually takes his
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 49 
 
 nap after lunch, but to-day your coming disturbed him 
 so, that he couldn't take it, and he is easily exhausted 
 . . . now/ Her voice too fell. 
 
 ' I am sorry/ I said. 
 
 ' Why should you be sorry ?' 
 
 'To have disturbed him.' 
 
 ' I didn't mean that ! I meant that it had excited 
 him, thinking you were coming, and so he couldn't get 
 to sleep after lunch. But that wasn't your fault.' 
 
 We moved on in silence for a little. Then she said : 
 
 ' How beautiful the sea is now, and the sky.' 
 
 We stopped a moment to look at them. 
 
 ' I have never,' I said, ' seen the sea before that I 
 can remember : and, I cannot tell you why, but it seems 
 to make me wish now to laugh and then to cry.' 
 
 We walked on in silence again for some twenty steps 
 Then: 
 
 ' It is so/ she said, ' sometimes, early in the morning, 
 when I have come out, and the sun was shining, and 
 everything seemed so happy, I have run down to the 
 sea dancing and singing. But when I saw how it lifted 
 itself up, and threw out its arms once twice over and 
 over again on to the sand ; and it seemed so tired, so 
 tired ... I have stood and pitied it : till I felt the 
 tears all coming out of my eyes. I think it is God who 
 makes you pity the sea.' 
 
 I laughed, and we moved on together again. 
 
 Then we talked of Greek, and how we both loved it, 
 and of Homer. And I could have cried out with plea- 
 sure when she said straight off the line : 
 
 f3rj 8' d/ceojv Trapa Oiva 7roAv<^Aotcr/?oto OaXao-crr)^ 
 
 which I had thought one of the most beautiful 'ideas' 
 that I knew : the old man going in silence down by 
 the loud-sounding sea. And then we traced the words 
 with a stick on the clean smooth sand, and she said 
 that she wished she knew how to put the accents on 
 the words, for they didn't look quite right without them, 
 and I said that the general rules for marking the 
 accents were very simple, and explained about oxyton, 
 paroxyton, proparoxyton, perispomen, properispomen, 
 and other matters connected therewith.
 
 50 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 From that, in some way or other, we went to French, 
 of which I knew next to nothing ; but, when I asked 
 her and she spoke some of it, it pleased me to listen to 
 it as it came from her lips, some poetry she had learnt, 
 and lastly a little song. I was sorry when the song 
 was over, and went on by her without a word, for a 
 little, as if the music would continue of itself. Then 
 I remembered, and said that I liked to hear her sing. 
 This led us somehow to Italian, and she repeated some 
 Italian too for me. 
 
 'It must give you pleasure/ I said, looking at her 
 ' to know these beautiful languages.' 
 
 'Well/ she answered, it does please me sometimes; 
 but I Ve known them ever since I was quite small, and 
 so they seem somehow natural to me.' 
 
 ' I have never been out of England/ I said, ' I should 
 like to see Italy. I think I should like to die in Italy, 
 where the sun shines always, and there is no cold wind 
 and rain, and the fields are full of flowers.' 
 
 ' But the wind does blow/ she said, ' horribly some- 
 times. The sirocco in the autumn is terrible, and so 
 are the spring winds in Florence so piercing and cold. 
 All the people wrap themselves up in great cloaks.' 
 
 'Ah but/ I said, looking at her, 'that's not the time 
 I was thinking of.' 
 
 Then she began to tell me about Italy and their life 
 there. I asked particularly about the pictures and 
 statues, telling her that the only pictures I had ever 
 seen were in the Painted Chamber at Greenwich, and 
 described the one of Nelson rushing wounded on deck, 
 and the other of him being taken up, a pale dead body, 
 into heaven. 
 
 At that point we stopped (for walking on the bank of 
 stones and shingle on which we were was toilsome) and 
 she looked aside and up under the cliff, and I also. It 
 was a sort of plateau a few yards higher than the bank, 
 covered with thick grass, and having small trees here 
 and there. She was looking at one part of it. There 
 were two small streams, the one larger a little than the 
 other, which made two small cascades flowing down 
 from a higher elevation through the grass, gathered 
 tufts of v/hich and weeds guided the flow into the
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 51 
 
 round earthen basin below. There was a gentle mur- 
 mur, and by the right side, a tree, with a faint shadow 
 against the earthen wall behind. 
 
 We climbed up. 
 
 It was a pretty place. Clear streaks of colour, all 
 hues of red, on the earthen wall that was sheeted with 
 the ruffled water : then, from an arched break up above, 
 came the main stream, dividing, to cross and flow down 
 the swaying grass and weeds into the round earthen 
 basin. 
 
 Rayne sat down on a thick clump of grass under the 
 tree ; and I leant against the wall with the line of 
 water just by me. We were both quite happy, I think. 
 
 All at once she jumped up, looking along the shore 
 to the brown cliff that ended the bay. I looked also. 
 
 'We're caught!' she said. 
 
 There was a play of foam, as she spoke, at the foot 
 of the brown cliff behind which was the sun now almost, 
 or altogether, set. She rose : crossed the plateau : 
 jumped down on to the shingle, and started off at a run. 
 I was up and after her in a moment. She ran well, for 
 a girl. But the shingle, giving with each footfall, \vas 
 tiring to the limbs, and then there were her petti- 
 coats. She began to flag a little. We were still quite 
 a hundred yards from the point. 
 
 ' Will you take my hand ? ' I said, passing her, ' let 
 me help you. The stones ! ' 
 
 She would not. I fell back. 
 
 We ran on as before. 
 
 Looking down as we came on to some smooth half- 
 hard sand, I saw the ' B?; 8' axewv ' which we had 
 written ; the rest was washed out. 
 
 At last we came to the point. The waves were 
 dashing up foamingly all round. She went straight to 
 a boulder; jumped on to it, and, with her hand against 
 the brown earthen side, was about to step to another, 
 when up had come a large swelled sideward wave, 
 swirled over the first ring of rocks, and the next moment 
 she was in a shower of spray. I stepped to try the 
 boulder on which she was ; caught firm hold of her 
 round the hips, and, lifting her up, made straight on- 
 ward. Up came another wave, but smaller; swept
 
 52 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 past and through my legs up to the knees, but I kept 
 to both her and the ground. She did not move, one 
 arm holding me firmly round the shoulders. I looked 
 aside. There was a large wave just off shore coming 
 in swiftly. ' Now ! ' 
 
 The wave went back. I dashed on ; stumbled over 
 a stone ; recovered myself; a small leap, a run, and 
 we were in the light of the setting sun, and she was 
 standing on the sand before me. The billow struck 
 through the first ring of rocks, and burst full upon the 
 cliff into a lit cloak-like shower of rainbow drops flying 
 through the soft sunny air. Then I looked at her. 
 Laughter was in her eyes, and on her lips,'and in her face. 
 
 ' I will never forgive you for not letting me get a 
 ducking,' she said, ' I had set my heart on it ! ' 
 
 She turned, and we hurried on, not saying much. 
 I never had felt so happy in all my life. 
 
 So we reached the garden wall, and she went up the 
 ladder, and then I : along the path : round the bushes 
 and out on to the lawn. There we saw Mr. Cholmeley 
 looking through a pair of lorgnettes along the other 
 shore. 
 
 She came up to him quietly, I following, and put 
 her left arm round him and said : 
 
 ' Here we are, daddy ! I hope we haven't kept you 
 waiting for dinner ? ' 
 
 ' Eh ? hey ? ' he said, smiling at her, with the lorg- 
 nettes lowered. Then, looking at me : ' Why, I thought 
 you would be sure to go along the shore towards Grem- 
 lin, child ! ' 
 
 And we went over the grass together and up into 
 the dining-room laughing and talking. 
 
 II 
 
 THE fortnight I was at Seabay went like a spell of fair 
 weather in November. 
 
 When I awoke one morning and informed myself 
 that this was the last day I should be here with them, 
 it seemed to me that I thought foolishly. Not even 
 that evening, when we three were in the open air, Mr. 
 Cholmeley in the arm-chair in the middle of the out-
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 53 
 
 flung bay window, Rayne on a stool at his feet, touch- 
 ing him with her dear beautiful hand from time to time, 
 and I half lying on and over the edge of the terrace 
 not even then, with the certain quiet and sadness with 
 us that was of a last evening together, could I realise 
 that I was going away from the beauty and the life here 
 with them, not to see either again for long, perhaps ever. 
 
 We began to talk a little, of work, its length and 
 weariness and the final rest when it was over : or 
 rather Mr. Cholmeley spoke of it, and every now and 
 then she or I asked him of the things he told or of 
 other thoughts thereby. 
 
 Then she left us for a moment to go to speak to Mrs. 
 Jacques about our breakfast, and I came up and sat in 
 her place. 
 
 For a little there was silence, and I knew, somehow, 
 that he wished to speak to me about my mother. I 
 waited quite calmly. He was trembling. But at last 
 the words came. 
 
 He had felt that he had not done all he might have 
 done for her. He ought to have remembered that he was 
 the only person she had in the world of whom she had 
 a right to expect care and affection. But he had not 
 thought of it in that way then. As he had told me, 
 they had seen so little of one another, that she did not 
 seem to him to be his sister, and so ' sister' had meant 
 but a name that was not as near to him even as ' friend.' 
 He was so full of other things then, his studies, his 
 work ; and she seemed happy and contented with her 
 aunt. And then they both married, and she seemed 
 happy and contented with her husband. He knew 
 that he had done wrong. It was clearly his duty, both 
 as a man and her brother, to have befriended her. 
 Perhaps if he had done so, she might never . . . God 
 only knew ! 
 
 He was so moved, that all I saw good to do was to 
 quieten him. 
 
 I said, as I thought, that he had acted for the best, 
 and that he could not be blamed. The questions that 
 I would like to have asked him what my mother had 
 done, and when and why she had done it were not, I 
 saw, to be asked then. I was once almost afraid that
 
 54 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 he would do himself some harm, and, as I tried to 
 soothe him, I felt in some strange way that the pulse 
 of life beat but faintly here, and, feeling it, grew sad. 
 
 And so at last Rayne came back, and we talked of 
 other things. 
 
 The next morning she went with me down to the 
 station to see me off. When I had got my ticket and 
 seen that the box was all right in the luggage van, we 
 walked up and down the gravel platform talking a 
 little, of her father and of their going abroad and 
 when we might meet again. She seemed to have no 
 idea that he was very ill, and mine, of the faint-pulsing 
 life, having passed away, there was no certainty in me 
 to tell her of what might after all have been no more 
 than fancy. 
 
 She would write to me once every month, she said : 
 that was better than promising to write often and not 
 writing ; for it is so difficult to know what to tell a per- 
 son if you write often, and it is much nicer to have the 
 whole month and write to them when you feel inclined 
 to ; didn't I think so ? Then I reminded her of her 
 promise to learn hard at Latin and of mine to learn 
 hard at French, so that we might both know the same 
 languages and compare our thoughts upon them. 
 'And,' I said, 'I shall set upon Italian soon, and see 
 what I can make of it, and write and tell you.' 
 
 And a little after that the train came up, and we 
 went stepping down it, till we saw an empty carriage. 
 And then I got into it, and put my coat on the seat, 
 and got down again by her ; but we said little, standing 
 together, and I now and then looking at her, and know- 
 ing a tremble in me and the lump, and would have held 
 her and kissed her on the lips and said 'Rayne' and never 
 let her go. But the last carriage-door banged to, and 
 the porter was by mine, and there was a hurry to get 
 in and in the hurry somehow I touched her hand, and 
 she rose on her toes with her cheek for me to kiss, and 
 I kissed it, and then was I up in the moving train and 
 not able to see her for the tears, till we were past the 
 end of the station, when I saw her standing and 
 waving her hand with a smile on her dear sweet face. 
 Oh, Rayne, Rayne ! Oh, Rayne, Rayne / . . .'
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 55 
 
 Glastonbury seemed very dull to me when I first came 
 back from Seabay. I roamed about the fields in search 
 of consolation for something I had lost, but could find 
 little or none. It was a relief when the term began. 
 
 I had determined to work hard. I did work hard, 
 and this term I got my remove into the sixth, and was 
 under Craven, but it seemed that the moments of taste- 
 lessness, as Mr. Cholmeley had once said, were more 
 frequent as the autumn grew more damp and decaying 
 and the moments of hopeful delight more rare : and 
 all the while no letter from Rayne. 
 
 At last, late on in September that is, the letter came. 
 She was sorry not to have written to me quite within 
 the month, as she had said she would, but her father 
 ('father' simply, as she wrote) had been very ill, and 
 she could not settle down to write me a long letter 
 about some things she had been thinking about, and 
 she did not care to send to me ' a scribble.' They had 
 returned to Paris for a few weeks to see a doctor there 
 about father, and then back again to Switzerland, Thun, 
 which he was very fond of. What she had been think- 
 ing about was her neglect of religious study. I can re- 
 member that some one had brought this home to her, 
 and that she was reading the New Testament in the 
 original, and a general idea of mine that she had a fit 
 of religious seriousness upon her that puzzled me in a 
 vague sort of way. I didn't think about religion myself. 
 I never had thought about it, somehow. 
 
 I answered her at some length, giving a summary of 
 the authors I had read and the impressions I had 
 formed therefrom, with occasional allusions to events 
 or things that interested me, afterwards noticing to 
 myself that I really wasn't thinking very much about 
 her in connection with what I had written. I directed 
 the letter, as she told me, to a paste resiante, some- 
 where in Italy, where they were going shortly. 
 
 Late in October her second letter came. I give it 
 entire. 
 
 ' MY DEAR BERTRAM, It is a wet and tempestuous after- 
 noon, and therefore I consider it a fitting occasion to answer 
 your long and with difficulty decipherable epistle. Yesterday 
 was one of the hottest days 1 remember here, my thermometer
 
 56 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 going up to over 100 in the shade, and so I knew we should 
 have thunder and lightning. We did have, of a sort, but 
 utterly disappointing. Of course I went out of doors to see 
 what would happen, but, beyond two livid sickly green 
 flashes, all was thick pitchy darkness. So I returned a sadder 
 and wiser woman, dripping wet. We have been enjoying the 
 most glorious weltering simmering heat, and I am out of 
 doors reading or rambling alone through the " lustrous wood- 
 land," or else ^lazily boating, the whole day. You would 
 never have got this letter written, if it had not been for the 
 wet day. I don't believe this place can be matched for pure 
 natural beauty anywhere. Yesterday I went out in a boat, 
 with two damsels. It was rough, and they were both sick 
 and very afraid ; but there was a kind of new glory over 
 everything, the air marvellously clear, in preparation for the 
 storm in the night I suppose : the hills all a perfect indigo 
 blue, and masses of cloud entangled in the ' misty mountain 
 tops. ' It was a 
 
 ' ' Glory beyond all glory ever seen 
 By waking sense or by the dreaming soul." 
 
 And I stood upright in the boat with my head bared, and 
 revelled in it all- 1 - much to the disgust of the damsels in 
 question. They shouldn't have plagued me to take them 
 out ! . . . I have got through two volumes of Carlyle's French 
 Revolution, as you desired, and am much impressed and 
 edified. There is rather a tempest going on outside, and so 
 I am going to try to dodge my dear old daddy and Sir James, 
 and get out my boat and enjoy it. By-the-by, I had forgotten 
 to tell you that an old friend and favourite of ours, Sir James 
 Gwatkin, has been staying with us this last week. He is a 
 most amusing mondain en v&igiaturt, with a marvellous 
 French and Italian accent, and altogether a very amusing 
 companion to father, and myself at times. He knows what 
 seems to me a great deal about Art, the Old Masters par- 
 ticularly. Father is far from well. The spitting is very 
 troublesome, and now often tinged with blood. Three days 
 ago he sent my heart into my throat and made me quite 
 restless for the night, by breaking a blood-vessel ; but he 
 has felt far better since, he says, more free and relieved. The 
 doctor says too that it has done him good. But I really must 
 go out now ! Excuse this final scrawl. I have hopes of a 
 storm to-night. Love of course from the daddy. In haste, 
 dear Bertram, Truly yours, RAYNE CHOLMELEY. 
 
 ' P.S. As we 're on the move I '11 send you an address to 
 send your answer to in a little. R. C.' 
 
 (The part about her standing up bare-headed in the 
 boat thrilled me : the rest was almost interestless.)
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 57 
 
 One day at the end of second lesson Craven came 
 upon a piece of Italian in one of his books of reference, 
 and could not translate it all. He half-smilingly asked 
 if any of us knew Italian ? No one did. But I re- 
 called some words of mine to Rayne, and determined 
 that I would learn Italian. After second lesson, then, 
 I went down to the school bookseller, and bought of 
 him a little Italian dictionary and grammar. The man 
 knew nothing of Italian literature, nor did I : I could 
 not even remember any of the names Rayne had quoted, 
 except Dante, Petrarca and Boccaccio. But all at once 
 I thought of Macaulay's Essay on Machiavelli and of 
 some words therein, and asked the man if he had a 
 Machiavelli. After some search he found a little red- 
 paper covered edition of the Principe. I said that 
 would do, and bought it. 
 
 I took it up to the school with me and sat at it for 
 the remaining half-hour before dinner. Puzzled out 
 six lines and a half, and came up to wash my hands for 
 dinner, pleased. And after that I gave an hour per 
 day to Italian, at first only to learning the grammar, 
 but, up to the irregular verbs mastered, turned at last 
 joyfully to my book, and found it fairly easy and ex- 
 tremely interesting. It set me about thinking some- 
 what in this fashion : ' Most things are this or that, 
 because they are made this or that, that is to say, there 
 are certain laws by observing which you can bring about 
 certain results. It is surprising that the world, which 
 I had somehow or other always supposed to be one 
 great witness to the justice of God, seems to be after 
 all rather more like a great stage on which the drama 
 of Might over Right is perpetually being played. Now 
 does pure Right ever come off best ? that is, does pure 
 Right ever win by its own unadulterated purity ? I 
 rather doubt it. For, surely, when Right is crowned 
 victor, there are certain laws which, having been ob- 
 served, have brought this about, and consequently 
 Wrong, if it only knows how to observe these laws, is 
 crowned victor also. Honesty is the best policy : 
 rogues can be honest.' 
 
 But in a little came a certain disgust with the'whole 
 matter, and I determined not to think about it any
 
 58 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 more. But determination was wasted. This brought 
 it about that, on more than one occasion, suddenly 
 catching myself at the old thoughts which then bled 
 me I gave vent to a sharp impatient ( Damn ! ' to the 
 surprise of those who happened to hear me. I re- 
 member once in second lesson so losing patience with 
 myself that, unconscious of the presence of anyone, I 
 let fly with my foot at a form in front of me, which went 
 over with a loud bang on to the boards in a small dust- 
 cloud, and as I sat motionless frowning at my book, and 
 answered nothing to the questions Craven asked me 
 about the matter, was given the lesson to write out 
 twice, and afterwards was called up and spoken to on 
 the subject. I preserved complete silence, for what 
 was the good of telling a fool of this sort, who grew 
 furious over a false quantity and preached invertebrate 
 sermons, the truth ? I would as soon have thought of 
 telling him a lie ! Well, I wrote out the lesson twice, 
 and there that part of the affair ended. 
 
 The Christmas holidays were an evil time. I gave 
 myself up to, as it were, an entirely new consideration 
 of affairs. A week's close thought, out on my walks, 
 in bed at night, often till after twelve or one o'clock, 
 made me look upon the Bible as a fairy tale. Then 
 came a fortnight or so of utter confusion, inexplicable 
 to myself : excitement of body and soul, wild dreams, 
 visions or half-visions, a purgatory ! Finally I emerged 
 with a certain calmness to wonder at that time, wonder 
 that it had belonged to me. It seemed so dimly far 
 away now, and as if belonging to someone else, and yet 
 not to someone else, and yet not to me. 
 
 The opening of the term wrought a change. A new 
 form of the thing which had once done duty to me as 
 woman came to me, producing an amount of longing for 
 her and her love that frequently found vent in emotion 
 and even tears over pencilled poetry sheets. Then Christ 
 was introduced, as a sweet tender friend who consoled 
 me for her present absence by telling me of her future 
 coming. But, after a time, this too passed, and I re- 
 turned to my old doubtful state, deciding that happi- 
 ness was undoubtedly the end of life, and that happi- 
 ness to me meant having written certain quietly de-
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 59 
 
 lightful books, while I stayed alone apart in a dim place 
 that had little to do with life and nothing with death. 
 My old idea of greatness en bloc was childish, absurd ! 
 My new trouble about God and the world was useless, 
 absurd ! My ideas about everything were hopelessly 
 vague ! Happiness and selfishness are synonymous 
 terms. Everybody is selfish. Good men are good, 
 because they couldn't be happy bad. Bad men are 
 bad because they couldn't be happy good. Men who are 
 the most unselfish are the most selfish : the very pain 
 that their unselfishness causes them is their pleasure. 
 Therefore when I intend to be happy I am simply in- 
 tending what everybody intends. It was surprising 
 how calm I grew upon this and other thoughts ; how 
 quietly assured of my uninterrupted course towards the 
 cultured happiness that I now began to look upon as 
 mine. 
 
 Then suddenly an incident occurred. 
 
 Some way on in February, one Saturday afternoon 
 just after dinner, to me, sitting up in the bedroom 
 looking through some of the De Oratore for 'third 
 lesson/ enter Armstrong, who throws me a letter and 
 exit. I pick it up : recognise Colonel James's hand- 
 writing : open and read it. He must request my presence 
 in London immediately on important matters. I could 
 apply to Dr. Craven for the necessary funds. There was 
 a train arrived in London to-morrow about one. (The 
 letter was addressed from a street adjoining Piccadilly. 
 I forget its name.) He hoped I should not be later 
 than that. He had something of the greatest impor- 
 tance to communicate to me. I must excuse a hasty 
 letter, but the state of his health at present made every 
 unusual effort very painful to him. 
 
 I at once went in to see Craven about it. 
 
 I came out from the short interview a little puzzled. 
 He had heard from Colonel James, he said. He gave 
 me enough money for my fare second-class to London 
 and a few shillings over. I might start when I liked. 
 I told him (I don't know why) that I thought I should 
 take the early morning train, as Colonel James had 
 mentioned it as one that would do. 
 
 As I was dressing for tea, it suddenly occurred to me
 
 60 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 that I had heard somewhere about a train which left 
 Glastonbury about six and got into London pretty late 
 that night. Why not go by it ? As well as not ! 
 
 When I had dressed I went into Mother McCarthy's 
 to see if she had a time-table. She had. I found that 
 there was a train left Glastonbury at 5.55 or so, and got 
 into London at about eight. I looked at the clock. It 
 was twenty minutes to six now. I would try it ! 
 
 I had bought a glazed black bag last holidays, as 
 being a useful sort of thing for a peripatetic to have. 
 I got a clean night-gown, a clean shirt, a couple of 
 collars, a pair of socks, and some handkerchiefs out of 
 my linen locker : went back into my room : fished the 
 black bag from under my bed : packed in the things I 
 wanted: took my great-coat off the peg,and started away. 
 
 I swung into the station at four or five minutes after 
 the train was due to start. I had a sharp cut and run 
 on to and down the platform and got into an empty 
 carriage just as it moved off. The liveliness of the 
 whole affair delighted me. I felt fora little something 
 like an excited child. 
 
 The journey did not seem long to me; for I slowly 
 fell into my dim thought-world, and only came out of 
 it for a moment when (about half-way I think) a fat 
 old gentleman got into the carriage with a bulged old 
 carpet-bag which he put on to the seat beside him : then 
 took a newspaper from his inside breast-pocket : put on 
 a pair of black horn pince-nez, and began to read. Just 
 before London they collected the tickets, and I became 
 aware that I felt empty internally : I had had no tea. 
 But I went back into my old dim thought-world again, 
 and was not out of it when we glided down a long gas- 
 lit platform, and it was borne in on me that we were in 
 London. 
 
 I got into a hansom and gave Colonel James's address 
 to the driver. We drove through many streets, mostly 
 having little traffic in them, till we drew up suddenly 
 before a house, above the door of which was an oblong 
 of glass lit by a gas-lamp, and in the middle, in black 
 figures, 15, Colonel James's number. I got out; paid 
 the driver, and rang at the bell. The door was opened 
 almost immediately by a man in evening dress with a
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 61 
 
 napkin in his hand. I asked did Colonel James live 
 here ? He said, Yes, he did. I said : 
 
 ' Can I see him ? ' 
 
 The Curling wasn't very well this evening, sir, he 
 said. He was upstairs there with his cawfee just now, 
 sir. He (the man in evening dress with a napkin) 
 didn't think he 'd like to be disturbed. But I might 
 give him (the man) my card, and he'd take it up to him. 
 
 ' I have no card/ I said. ' My name is Leicester. 
 Will you tell Colonel James that I came to-night, in- 
 stead of to-morrow, and want to know if I can see him?' 
 
 The man turned and went slowly up the first few 
 staircase steps : then half-turned, and said : 
 
 ' Leicester was the name you said ? ' 
 
 'Yes,' I said, 'Leicester.' 
 
 I leant against the glazed-paper wall, looking at a 
 large print of Wellington meeting Blucher after Water- 
 loo. A clock ticked in an adjacent room. I heard the 
 man from the top of the stairs say : 
 
 ' Will you step up, please ? ' 
 
 I put bag and hat on to a dark-red mahogany chair 
 by an umbrella stand, and went up. The man ushered 
 me in through an open door to the right. I entered. 
 
 The first thing I saw was the part of a large low red- 
 clothed table under the light of a red-shaded lamp : 
 then, a rather thin old gentleman standing on the right 
 side of the hearthrug with his back to the fire. He 
 raised his head. There was a light-flash on his glasses. 
 
 He spoke. 
 
 ' Mr. Leicester ? ' he said. 
 
 'Yes, sir,' I answered. 
 
 'Ah yes exactly so.' 
 
 He paused, looking aside. Then again raised his 
 head with the light-flash on his glasses. 
 
 ' Will you please sit down ? ' he said. ' Perhaps you 
 would like to take your coat off? It is very warm in 
 here, I dare say after the street.' 
 
 I slowly took off my greatcoat, and then sat down in 
 a chair by the table facing him, he remaining standing. 
 
 After a pause : 
 
 ' You have rather taken me by surprise, Mr. Leicester,' 
 he said, ' I, ah, did not expect you till to-morrow morn-
 
 62 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 ing : as you have said, as you have said. Did Dr. Craven 
 give you any information about the, ah, reason for your 
 journey ? ' (Looking up at me as before.) ' No ? he did 
 not ? Very well. He acted wisely. I have every 
 possible reason to believe that Dr. Craven is a man of 
 distinguished, ah, fore-thought.' (He kept on inserting 
 'ah's' in that way all the while.) 
 
 Another pause. Then : 
 
 ' I have a very bad piece of news to give you, Mr. 
 Leicester/ he said, ' I am much afraid so ; I am much 
 afraid so. But I think that I had better give it you at 
 once, and without, ah, preamble. Your father's small 
 personal fortune, amounting to, ah, from 120 to 130 
 a year, was invested in given up to (I am not quite 
 sure about the correct expression ; but it is, ah, im- 
 material) to a bank in which he had every confidence. 
 I constantly, during his later years, did my best to 
 prevail upon him to ah, make some other investment 
 with his money : as, ah, I had myself seen a very sad 
 ah, incident in my own family in connection with 
 banks. You may have heard that the Great Southern 
 Bank has recently, ah, become insolvent, or whatever 
 it is ? No ? Well, ah, it is so, and every hour is bringing 
 in worse information on the, ah, matter. It is, you may 
 perhaps see, Mr. Leicester, quite impossible for you to 
 continue your career at Glastonbury. Every penny 
 of your father's money has gone. I, ah, have, I am 
 glad to say, absolutely nothing to to do with it myself 
 personally. . . . Have you any, ah, designs yourself as 
 to a future, ah, career ? ' 
 
 I put my hand to my mouth, looking steadily at him. 
 He glanced aside and back again, as before : 
 
 ' I am not to return to Glastonbury ? ' I asked. 
 
 ' Ah, surely not.' 
 
 I spoke rather to myself than to him : 
 
 ' Not to work any more ? not to be able to read my 
 books ? not to learn ? Why, all my books are there 
 with all the notes I have taken such, trouble to write 
 out and I here. . . . What must I do ? ' 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 I rose, and said : 
 
 ' I can only think of one thing, sir. I have, I believe,
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 63 
 
 some brains, and, I believe, of that sort which can be 
 turned to use. I have more than once desired to write. 
 If I only had time, I am confident that I could make 
 my livelihood ' 
 
 'Good heavens, sir!' he exclaimed, 'You are not 
 thinking of becoming a a writer. Ah ! Why, it is, 
 ah, another word for starvation ! ' 
 
 ' Men have made their fortune with nothing but their 
 pens to help them before now/ I said, 'and I am not 
 afraid.' 
 
 I noticed a thick blue vein swelling out on his fore- 
 head. He threwuphis hands, and exclaimed vehemently: 
 
 ' It is madness, madness, sheer, ah, insanity ! I will 
 not hear of it ! I will give you no help! (He seemed 
 suddenly to collapse.) ' You must go away. I must 
 ring for Salmon, to show you out. You must go away. 
 You are agitating me dreadfully ! I am not to be 
 agitated. Doctor Astley says so. I am not to be 
 agitated.' 
 
 At first I was startled : then amused : then saddened : 
 last angered, by this unexpected outburst. I moved a 
 step nearer to him. He looked at me for a moment, 
 and then dropped into the arm-chair by him to the 
 right of the fire. 
 
 ' Oh, don't touch me ! ' he cried, ' Don't look at me 
 like that ! I will not have it ! I will not endure it ! 
 Salmon, Salmon, take him away. He agitates me. . . . 
 Please go away, sir. I am dreadfully agitated.' (I 
 was looking at him frowning. He cried out, almost 
 in a scream) ' For God's sake, don't look at me like 
 that ! My God, my God, my God ! . . . She used to 
 look.' . . . (Then he suddenly started up, exclaiming) 
 ' I say I won't endure it ! Do you hear ? I won't 
 endure it. Don't act at me, sir ! I know it 's in your 
 blood, but, if you think you 're going to browbeat me, 
 you 're mistaken ! ' (Then he began to fail.) ' Salmon, 
 he is going to act at me. No, no you 're not as careful 
 of me as Edgar used to be. Why did I ever let him 
 go ? Why did I ever let him go ? ' (Ending in a wail.) 
 
 I began to grow a little weary of it, and looked aside. 
 He went on maundering about her having killed him, 
 yes, killed him, and other things which I did not notice.
 
 64 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 At last came a pause. I determined to go : then thought 
 of some questions I would care to ask him, and said : 
 
 ' I cannot understand, sir, why you have spoken to 
 me like this. I know nothing of my father or my 
 mother. You say you were my father's friend ' 
 
 'So I was/ he wailed, f so I was till she came 
 between us ! ' 
 
 I gave my teeth an impatient clench : then bit my 
 lip and closed my right hand with all my strength, 
 determined not to say what was now on my tongue. 
 What good could it do ? 
 
 I said : 
 
 ' I have nothing left then, absolutely nothing ? ' 
 
 He stared at me half vacantly. 
 
 ' Absolutely nothing/ he repeated. 
 
 A new resolution came to me: to leave the questions 
 unasked and go go at once. 
 
 ' Good-night, sir, I said, ' I will leave you now.' 
 
 He stared at me as before. 
 
 ( You are not, ah, going ? ' he said. 
 
 'Yes, sir, I am going/ I said; ' good-night.' 
 
 As I was turning away, he started up convulsively 
 and burst out : 
 
 ' But it is insanity ! I will not hear of it ! I will 
 not endure it ! I am your guardian. Do you hear, 
 sir, that I am your guardian ? Salmon ! Damn the 
 man ! Salmon, I say ! ' 
 
 I was out of the door and had closed it to. I could 
 hear his voice now wailing as I went to the head of 
 the stairs. Then it died away. I found my bag and 
 hat in the hall. My coat was over my arm : I do not 
 remember either having taken it up or put it there. 
 I went on to the hall-door : opened it, after a little 
 trouble with the latch : went out : pulled it to, by its 
 big round brass handle in the middle, once, twice, 
 and passed over the step and on to the pavement. It 
 was raining. 
 
 I walked on into a main street, and then, turning to 
 the right, walked on down it. The perpetual move- 
 ment of people and horses and things about me brought 
 a feeling into me that I had never felt before. I 
 forgot about myself and my own affairs and my hunger
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 65 
 
 in considering them all. So I went on, till I came to 
 a corner where the main street ended. There I some- 
 what mechanically crossed. As I reached the pavement 
 on the other side., I heard a man call out twice : 
 ' Kil-burn ! Kil-burn ! ' and looked at him standing, 
 keeping on by a strap with one hand and holding out 
 the other, on an omnibus perch. 
 
 ' Kilburn,' I thought, ' is the farthest place he goes 
 to. Probably, then, it 's a suburb. I may as well go 
 there as anywhere, for what I intend to do. At any 
 rate, I '11 see.' 
 
 And with that went straight to the omnibus step 
 and clambered up by the ladder on to the top, where 
 I found myself exchanging looks with a man sitting 
 on another omnibus that just then passed by. I laid 
 the bag down and put on my coat, when the conductor 
 got up, crossed to my side, and began removing the 
 tarpaulin from the seat. 1 thanked him and sat down 
 with the bag beside me, and took to half-absently 
 watching the people passing in and out of the light 
 from the shop windows as we drove on. We drove on 
 for some time. 
 
 At last we turned into a long straight rather dark 
 street Edgware Road, I heard the driver say. As 
 we were some way up it, I noticed what seemed 
 torches or something of the sort flaring by the right 
 side, at the top, just above where it bifurcated. I 
 determined to get down there. 
 
 We stopped on the left side just below them. I let 
 myself down with my bag in my teeth, and paid the 
 conductor my fare, 2d. or 3d., I forget which. Then 
 I turned from him, crossed the street, and sauntered 
 on looking at the stalls. There were not many people 
 along the pavement : the hawkers cried their cries 
 rather plaintively : one old man, sitting in front of an 
 oven with a small steam-jet, cried out every now and 
 then sharply : ' 'Ot ! 'Ot ! ' 
 
 It was still raining and it seemed colder. I sauntered 
 on. A tall girl, with a singularly well-made body and 
 well-poised head, moved with a long swinging step in 
 front of me. She stopped in a moment, to buy some 
 nuts, and I saw her face. It was pleasant to look at 
 
 E
 
 66 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 it, so pure and clear-cut, with crystal eyes and red 
 rarified lips and large regular white teeth. I followed 
 her slowly, thinking of her dear face : I felt sure she 
 would love me if she knew me. 
 
 She stopped to listen to a man addressing a few 
 gaunt, shivering children whose faces formed a line 
 along the far side of his stall. I went up close to her 
 and looked at her. She was eating nuts, and every 
 now and then let the shell-bits fall out of her mouth 
 down her black coat to the ground. At last she turned 
 her eyes to mine : then exclaimed in an undertone : 
 
 ' Oh my ! I hope you 11 know me next time you see 
 me, young man.' 
 
 I turned away and crossed the road. I faced a 
 pawnbroker's. An idea came to me. I went in 
 into a dusky clothes-hung place where a man was 
 sprawling over the counter, under a large gas-jet, 
 with a cigar in his mouth. I said : 
 
 I 1 want to sell this greatcoat. What will you give 
 me for it ? ' 
 
 1 Let 's see it, sir,' he said. 
 
 I took it off. 
 
 In the end he gave me fifteen shillings for it. It 
 was quite new. 
 
 I went out and counted my money before the next, 
 a jeweller's shop window which was brightly lit up. 
 I had one shilling and sevenpence halfpenny in my 
 pocket. That left me fourteen shillings and ninepence 
 for myself; for I owed Colonel James threepence for 
 my omnibus fare. This and the rest he should have at 
 once. Some day (I hoped soon) he should have to 
 the last farthing I owed him. I turned away, putting 
 his money into one trouser-pocket and my own into 
 the other, and went on for a little. Then feeling the 
 rain and the air colder, and under some unnoticed 
 impulse turning up my coat-collar, I re-crossed the 
 road and wandered on. I did not remark particularly 
 where I went, only that I turned down the narrowest 
 streets I happened to see. 
 
 All at once my eye was caught by a card in a small 
 window I was passing. I stopped to look at it. The 
 window, or rather, a linen-blind, was lit-up from within,
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 6? 
 
 the card marking a small oblong on the ledge of one 
 of the upper panes. I looked closer, to read the 
 actual letters : Apartments. 
 
 Not seeing either bell or knocker, I rapped at the 
 door with my knuckles. 
 
 An old woman holding up a guttering candle half- 
 opened it. I said : 
 
 ' Do you let apartments ? ' 
 
 ' I Ve a room. Yes.' 
 
 ' How much is it a week ? ' 
 
 'Five shillings a week, sir.' 
 
 <Oh!' 
 
 A pause. I turned away considering. 
 
 ' But I think I could take four, sir, perhaps ? ' 
 she said. 
 
 ' Will you let me see it ? ' I asked. 
 
 'Please step upstairs, sir. Mind the wall, sir, it 
 comes off.' 
 
 I followed her upstairs. 
 
 I took the room, and paid for two weeks in advance. 
 
 The furniture consisted of a bed, a washing-stand, a 
 table, a chair, and two ragged scraps of carpet, one under 
 the table, one by the side of the bed. There was a look- 
 ing-glass over the chimney-piece, and three photographs 
 in faded violet frames of velvet, worn out : Napoleon in., 
 the Empress Eugenie, and the Prince Imperial as a 
 boy. She had left a gas-jet turned full on. 
 
 I bolted the door, and began pulling off my coat, 
 when I felt the emptiness inside me again. I sat 
 down on the unsteady chair, and began thinking about 
 what had occurred to me to-day ; but I soon gave it 
 up : rose and, for a moment, stood irresolute whether 
 to go out and get some food, or to ask this woman, 
 Mrs. Smith, for some, or to get into bed without any ? 
 At last I thought I would get into bed. Sleep, cool 
 quiet sleep, would calm and refresh me. 
 
 I threw my waistcoat on to the top of the coat, and 
 stood irresolute again, stretching my arms up and down. 
 Then an impulse came to me. I fell down on to my 
 knees and, leaning my arms on the bed, leant my head 
 on my arms. 1 began in a half whisper : 
 ' If there be a God '
 
 68 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 After a pause, of thought almost as much as of words, 
 I said : 
 
 ' I ask You, God, if You are, to have pity on me if I 
 am blindly wandering, and to lead me to know You 
 some day before I die. I don't know how I am going, 
 but I know where I desire to go : and yet I don't know 
 more than that it is somewhere.' Then the feeling of 
 light and shadow, dream and reality, an eclipsed sun 
 and moon, came to me so strongly that I got up again, 
 slowly, with the intention of saying no more prayers 
 that night. The things around me were all in a sort 
 of noise above my ears. I went and turned out the 
 gas ; and then slowly undressed, in the dark save for 
 the light that came from a gas-lamp in the street, 
 through the far window. 
 
 I pulled down the upper-clothes ; got into bed ; sank 
 into enclosing coolness, and very soon sleep. 
 
 Ill 
 
 WHEN I first woke up, I thought I was back in my room 
 at Glastonbury : then recalled, but slowly, all that had 
 happened the day before. That next-day awakening 
 was a dreary thing : everything that I had done seemed 
 so purposeless ! It would be better to marry a red- 
 cheeked woman, with untidy gold hair and a brown 
 homely dress, and smoke a pipe in the sun all day 
 while she brushed out the house. The picture I con- 
 jured up made me laugh aloud. I leaped out of bed. 
 The sun was shining. 
 
 I went to the other far window : pulled down the 
 upper part, and looked out. The air clear and rather 
 sharp, but not cold : as something almost corporal, to 
 my inhaling lungs. I had no watch. It was about half- 
 past seven or eight, 1 thought. A man came with sound- 
 ing steps down the street and passed invisibly below 
 me. I pulled up the window again ; stripped, and pre- 
 pared to wash. Such a little jug and such a little basin! 
 And no sponge ! What was I to do without a sponge ? 
 
 I made the best of it : dried myself on the one flabby 
 towel, and began to dress. Dressed quickly, and then 
 taking up my hat, went slowly downstairs.
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 69 
 
 At the house door, I met Mrs. Smith coming out of 
 the room on the left, where I had seen the card. I 
 said ' Good morning,' and she said ' Good morning, sir/ 
 and I asked if there was a park anywhere near ? (I had 
 an idea that there were parks all about London.) She 
 told me that it was about ten minutes sharp walk to the 
 Regent's Park, and gave me some confused directions 
 how to get there. I bought a half-pound of dates and 
 a large brown loaf at a shop close by, and with these 
 under my arm, asked my way, which was a very simple 
 one ; passed out of a somewhat dirty road, through 
 some lodge gates, and so over two bridges into the 
 Park itself. I sauntered along the side of the lake, 
 looking at the swans and ducks. 
 
 It was a glorious morning. The sun breathed a gentle 
 heat upon me, and warmed me gratefully. The dew 
 was still on the grass : a few people hurried across by 
 the pathways : every now and then a duck whirred 
 through the air. I reached another bridge, went on to 
 it, and stood and watched a flight of sparrows bathing 
 themselves wantonly in the shallows of a small bay on 
 the far shore. 
 
 ' It is beautiful,' I said. 
 
 I ate my dates and loaf on a seat beside a tree on an 
 elevation that runs up there parallel to the curve of the 
 lake. The loaf was of good thick crumby bread, and 
 satisfied without satiating me ; the dates, a half-pound, 
 4d., gave the bread a flavour. The only thing that 
 seemed lacking was a crystal stream from which I 
 might drink a pure cool draught. My breakfast done, 
 I rose almost readily, and went back again to the bridge 
 that leads to the gates. For, the fight is begun and 
 loitering looks like laggardness. 
 
 Finding myself in the road that led to my street, 
 Maitland Street, and opposite a small newspaper- 
 stationer's, I went in and invested in a pen, nibs, ink 
 and paper. These were my weapons. Then I proceeded 
 on home : went upstairs : found my bed already made 
 (which was pleasing) : put my weapons on the table, 
 myself into the chair and, tilted back, began to consider. 
 
 I had seen somewhere or other that Byron received 
 500 or so for his shorter pieces, 'The Bride of Abydos/
 
 70 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 ' Giaour/ etc. There is, then, surely a good chance 
 of my getting at least .10, or perhaps 20 if my book 
 sells well, for two pieces, each of (say) 600 lines. On 
 that I could subsist for a long time and a long time 
 meant more poems and more money. You see, if you 
 only live as economically as I am going to ... Well, 
 many things may be done. 
 
 After a little preliminary thought, I came to this : I 
 had had these almost two years two tales in my head, 
 that is, connected narratives with a definite beginning 
 and end ; a story, a fact : not the embodiment of a 
 passing humour that, being exalted, has to be climbed 
 up to, but a narrative, to be clothed in the best clothes 
 I could put on it, and then sent on a journey with the 
 reader to amuse and try to instruct him, if only in a 
 lesson of pathos, on the road. I at once set upon the 
 first of my ' tales.' 
 
 By the time it grew dusk, I had finished over two 
 hundred lines of it. I was not at all satisfied. I had 
 not, I thought, twined the melody of the rhythm 
 enough into the sense : that is, had lost some of the 
 scent, in transplanting my flower. I was afraid of 
 becoming a mere painter, and losing the scent al- 
 together. Still, I reflected, the less subtle I try to be, 
 the more likely am I to please those who are likely to 
 read this poem of mine. One must live prose, before 
 one lives poetry : prose is paying for your cake, and 
 poetry is eating it. Get something to support your 
 body first : the body is the keystone. It is no good 
 having your brain full and your belly empty, for at that 
 rate you soon die, and look foolish. 
 
 For all such thoughts, I was a little ashamed of what 
 I had done. My muse had not moved me : she dwelt 
 but in the suburbs of my good pleasure. ' Well, well, 
 it cannot be helped.' So I left her there, and went out 
 into the streets to buy stamps and return Colonel James 
 his money. 
 
 I wandered far that night. At last to the Serpentine, 
 where I stood, some little time, trying to explain the 
 lamp reflections across the water two together, large 
 space, two together. Then I must have gone down 
 Piccadilly, and through Leicester Square : then into
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 71 
 
 the Strand, I think, and so down by Charing Cross 
 station, for I went under a bridge and ended on the 
 Embankment. 
 
 I came home with an 'aerial breathlessness' upon me: 
 sat down to my poem and finished it. It had indeed 
 moved me this time : two tears had fallen from my eyes. 
 But, what I had heard called 'mysticism' by some people 
 (meaning, as I supposed, that it seemed so to them) had 
 run riot, and I knew that I had not written what I meant 
 to write. I lost patience. It seemed very hard, that I 
 should not be allowed to try to do my best. I thought, 
 not unbitterly, of the thousands of silly men and women, 
 who squandered on luxury for mere luxury's sake, or 
 hoarded for mere hoarding's sake, that which would en- 
 able me . . . Then it struck me that sometimes men 
 starved. The thought seemed like a cruel being of 
 darkness. I looked up sharply, almost hearing a sort of 
 clang of its departing wings. And there arose a circling 
 black cloud, from the outer dark-smokiness of which 
 many, many eyes looked at me, the eyes of the many, 
 many men who had struggled and perished. I glanced 
 up sharply again, almost hearing my own mental reply : 
 ' Ay, but great men never struggled and perished : they 
 always struggle and win ! ' But still that circling black 
 cloud stayed, with the many, many eyes looking at me 
 from the outer dark-smokiness, the eyes of the many, 
 many men who had struggled and perished. 
 
 For four days I worked at my two poems : finished 
 them and, sauntering out that night, looked into a 
 newspaper-shop's window by chance, and there noted 
 a publisher's name and address on a board below, and 
 sent him the poems next day. I had said nothing more 
 to him than that I begged to submit them for his in- 
 spection, enclosing stamps for their return in case of 
 rejection. I was sure that he would take them. 
 
 I spent most of my time in my room, either writing 
 more poetry, or reading and studying a Shakespeare, 
 which I had bought for a few pence in the Edgware 
 Road market one Saturday night from an amusing man 
 who was selling off a cartload of books to the stolid 
 people as he best could. Generally in the late after-
 
 72 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 noon I went out for a walk into the Regent's Park, 
 feeling as if I were away from the streets and the life- 
 worn people there. Many happy hours were spent by 
 me wandering whistling over the middle grass plateau 
 (it seemed to me like a plateau), thinking of my work 
 and, sometimes, of the dear woman to whom some day 
 I should tell all of this ; for she had come back to me 
 now, and not quite what she had ever been before, 
 more real because more gentle, more loving, more true, 
 knowing what was in my heart and soul and having 
 much in her own heart and soul that mine would be 
 glad to know of. Often I watched the sun setting in 
 the cloud banks, and once saw him in the dim, slatey, 
 sky-layer, hanging like a blood-red spider, gradually 
 covered with a sort of dusty smokiness and darkened 
 till he was wrapped invisible from me. 
 
 I lived all the time on bread, with an occasional 
 relish of fruit or a glass of milk. 
 
 I soon learnt my way about, at any rate in one great 
 block that was between Regent's Park and the Thames 
 by Charing Cross. I was very fond of wandering by 
 night : especially to the top of Primrose Hill, to look 
 out over the great city, and the rings of light closer to, 
 as in a vestibule-court of an almost boundless palace- 
 building : especially, too, I loved the populous streets 
 like Oxford Street and the Strand. 
 
 One night I had wandered along Oxford Street past 
 the Circus, and then turned down on the right into the 
 block of buildings that is between Seven Dials and 
 Regent Street ; had wandered on and on, till I found 
 myself in dim streets, in which every now and then 
 shadows as of women moved with a certain inspiration 
 of fear. I passed close to some of them, drawn as by 
 some latent power of fascination on the ground and in 
 them, but not looking at their faces : till at last, passing 
 somewhat quickly into an alley, I met one face to face 
 under a protruding shadowed lamp. For a moment I 
 stood breathless, with my eyes in the mad wolfishness 
 and glitter of hers, and then, like a lightning flash that 
 fills the whole air, terror of her filled me quite. I 
 leaped aside and then past her : plunged into a dark- 
 covered way that was behind and beyond her, and
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 73 
 
 hurried on, past two silver-ornamented women who 
 stood laughing and talking at a corner shop-door, out 
 into a city street again, not streets of this city of 
 horrible shadowiness ! But the impression of that place, 
 its shadowed air, its shadowed women, and the mad 
 wolfishness and glitter of their eyes, was upon me all 
 that night, turning my sleep into a nightmare. It was 
 several days before that impression left me. 
 
 It was about this time that a vague idea came to me 
 that I had caught some fever. My hands were so hot 
 at nights, and cheeks and ears. I grew so impatient 
 too. One evening I tilted over the table; and the ink- 
 bottle was in the middle of my scattered blacked sheets 
 on the floor, and I was almost crying, and had scarcely 
 heart to pick the things up again. 
 
 This was the evening I determined to go down to 
 Norfolk Square and see the house in which Clayton lived. 
 I rose from the table where I had been reading with 
 the light of a coffin-wicked dip-candle (the gas was 
 an extra shilling a week), took up my hat, and set out. 
 It was a long walk. At last I entered Norfolk Square, 
 a long dark oblong, with a long black thin-railed garden 
 in the middle. And, when I found out No. 21, I was 
 facing a lampless eyeless house, up from the area rails 
 of which protruded a towering To Let board. In a few 
 moments, standing, I realised this, and turned away 
 sick at heart. I was quite alone in this city, this care- 
 less, cruel London, and, if I were to lie down there in 
 the hollow under the garden rails, and sleep, and never 
 wake again, there would be no one, not a man, not a 
 woman, not a child who ... I gave up the thought 
 as I began walking. I had never realised that I was 
 quite alone here before this. The realisation seemed 
 to deaden the soul in me. My later weary wandering 
 of that night saw nothing of what was around me. I 
 reached home somehow, and bed, and sleep. 
 
 The next morning I went for a long walk out to 
 Hendon, and when I got there, lying on the grass, felt 
 too languid to move : till at last, I summoned enough 
 resolution to set off home again. It was two when I 
 got there, hungry and yet not hungry, thirsty and yet 
 not thirsty, hot and yet shivering. I sat down : lounged
 
 74 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 over the table, and began to read at the opened 
 Shakespeare. I read on till it grew a little dusk. All 
 at once a few of the letters seemed to disappear or to 
 have disappeared. I strained my eyes. More went. 
 I peered closer. Two atmospheric circles almost in- 
 visible were out-turning on either side of my sight. 
 In a little I could make out nothing but a blurred mass 
 where the two small printed pages had been. I closed 
 them up ; then leant my face in my arms over the 
 table and closed my eyes; but the two atmospheric 
 circles almost invisible still were out-turning on either 
 side of my sightlessness. I felt dimly that I had made 
 that movement somewhere before : perhaps in a dream ? 
 No, it was not in a dream. I remember now. It was 
 once when a boy (and that is why it may have seemed 
 at first like a dream to me) went to the bench and, half 
 upon it, leant his face in his arms on the cool table- 
 cover. . . . And could not weep soft tears : the tears 
 were dried behind his eyes. 
 
 I started up impatiently. I was crying, my hands 
 were wet with my tears. This was all accursed folly ! 
 Hysteria : like a woman ! What was the matter with 
 me ? Was I ill ? Or going to be ill ? Or what ? . . . 
 I was tired. That was all. It was nothing more. 
 But my eyes ! . . . God, if I break down ! ' Nay ! ' 
 I cried aloud, smiling through my tears. 'I'm 
 the boy who says there is no God ! ' " The fool hath 
 
 said in his heart " Cha ! That's David's opinion. 
 
 If ever / write Psalms, I '11 put it the other way on. 
 David was the man who never saw the righteous 
 deserted nor the righteous man begging his bread. 
 There 's " inspiration " for you ! You blind old driveller 
 you ! into the ditch, I say ! There '11 be plenty of your 
 tribe to follow.' I smiled again, but differently : 
 
 ' Still Kebes : always hunting out something ! ' 
 
 I had waited for thirteen days now. 
 
 It happened that, the afternoon after I had the affair 
 with the eyes, coming home from Hampstead Heath 
 by the Grove End Road with my eyes as usual on the 
 ground, I saw what looked like a small part of a silver 
 coin in a heap of dust by a lamp-post. I stopped;
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 75 
 
 bent; stretched down my hand, and found a two- 
 shilling piece. I looked up. I could see no one in 
 the road : no one behind me. I might take it then ; 
 for how could I possibly find its owner ? And to have 
 found it, I, who had never found anything in my life 
 before ! It seemed quite strange. I had three shillings 
 now. That meant another fortnight. On the force of 
 it, I got a glass of milk, as I went down the Edgware 
 Road. 
 
 I came home almost buoyant, and had run up the 
 two first steps before I saw someone was descending. I 
 drew down and back. It was a petticoated being, a 
 girl, but of what sort, the dark of the place and the 
 duskiness of the hour combined to hide. Anyhow, she 
 said ' Thank you,' and went on : and I up and, as I 
 went to my door, I thought that the one on the left 
 must be hers ; but perhaps she sleeps up in the attics 
 like a clay- homed swallow ? Then I remembered to 
 have heard muffled stirring in that room by mine, and 
 concluded it must indeed be hers, and proceeded to 
 forget all about the matter. 
 
 The next day was chilly and rainy. I set out for a 
 walk to Hampstead ; for I must, I felt, take exercise 
 to keep ' breakdown at a fit distance. I had some 
 trouble with my heel which had become sore, till, at last, 
 by the time I was three-quarters there, economical 
 pain-shirking foot positions had made every step pain- 
 ful. None the less I was determined to get as far as the 
 Hampstead Pond. It began to drizzle. I toiled on. 
 I found once that deep thoughts made me forget the 
 pain of movement : so I kept trying this plan, with 
 short-timed success, till (now a quarter way back again, 
 and the rain thicker) a desperate attempt to separate 
 body and soul by resolution proved fruitless. Then an 
 utter despair came upon me. I stood still. It was at 
 a corner in front of the rails of the dingy garden of a 
 lampless house. I could have sunk down upon the 
 shining pavement there ; covered my face with my 
 arms, and sobbed myself like a tired child to sleep, 
 but oh ! a sleep that should know no waking, no waking 
 to misery and despair ! At that moment a light leaped 
 up and out from the big window on the left of the
 
 "6 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 door. I saw it, but did not move. Then I leant 
 against the nearer hard, cemented gate-post in that 
 dreary rain of half-darkness, and my body seemed all 
 bloodless. A girl, with her dress huddled up all round 
 her, showing dainty white petticoats and dark-coloured 
 stockings, and with a nice umbrella spread over her, 
 came hurrying up to me. I looked at her slowly. She 
 gave me a quick glance, and hurried more. A devil 
 rose in me. I made a short half-step after her. I 
 would seize her : tear that thing from her hand : rip 
 and rend her laced clothes : rip and rend them off her, 
 till she stood tattered, naked, there in the rain of the 
 half-darkness with me ! And all I would desire more, 
 would be to take mud and bespatter and befoul her, 
 and then turn and go on my way with wild laughter. 
 The thoughts were lightning swift. I gave a cry of 
 fierce-suppressed delight : stepped : and halted. Was 
 I mad ? I turned, and went back, and on. 
 
 When I got home I set upon a poem by the light 
 of a new dip. If I had had to die for it, alone and in 
 the early grey morning, I could not have kept out my 
 mysticism now. I must speak to some one now ! it 
 could not always be silence ! I had need to speak to 
 some one. I thought my heart was breaking. And 
 I could not fall asleep till I had told my death-tale. 
 
 But I was too weary to finish it. I gave it up at 
 last. I was in an evil plight, I knew : burning and 
 shivering and with an empty stomach. I undressed 
 slowly, as usual, in the dark, save for the light that 
 came from the gas-lamp in the street through the far- 
 window. As I got into bed I determined that the next 
 day I would seek some work, even manual ; for I did 
 not, after all, care to die till I had heard about my 
 poems (it was ridiculous ! I smiled, but in a strange, 
 sad way), and I should have to pay four shillings at 
 the end of the week, rent, and I had only three left 
 for food. 'Wherefore, work must be done if money is 
 to be earned : work, even manual, and why not ? ' At 
 last I fell asleep. 
 
 But in the morning I lay in a half-dreamy, half- 
 exhausted state of heat, from which I had not will 
 enough for long to rouse myself. This grew into a
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 77 
 
 dull, languorous lethargy, not unsweet, and in my very 
 bones, making me altogether indifferent to everything 
 save a sort of aching hunger, which at last drove me 
 out of bed to the table for the half-pound of dates and 
 the loaf I had bought last afternoon. I got them : 
 went back into bed again, and, I suppose, ate them. 
 When I awoke it was evening, the gas-lamp lighting 
 up a part of the far end of the room. I felt flushed 
 with the hunger still in me, and became aware of 
 many troublous crumbs in the sheets and some date- 
 stones, but of neither bread nor dates. In a little I 
 got up, and washed and dressed slowly and listlessly, 
 with the dull hunger ever in me. Now I would go 
 out, I thought. I went to the door, opened it, and 
 heard a voice say : 
 
 'Well, I can't help it, you must go !' It was Mrs. 
 Smith's voice, harder and drier than usual. 
 
 Another answered some soft, pleading words. I 
 leant against the door-post, rather exhausted, scarcely 
 knowing why I stayed there. 
 
 A pause. Then : 
 
 'You know it's the second week owing/ pursued 
 Mrs. Smith, ' I can't do it any more, and what 's more, 
 I won't ! So there ! . . . You must give me something, 
 or you must go, that 's all.' 
 
 ' I 've only got a shilling/ said the other voice, ' I 
 gave it you. Won't you wait till the end of the week, 
 Mrs. Smith ? I shall have my wages then ? ' 
 
 ' You said that last week ! No, not I ! Tick 's not 
 nat'ral to me, I say. I 'm a lone widdy woman, 7 am, 
 but I pays my way, and why don't every one, I want 
 to know ? . . . Why didn't you pay me last week, 
 then?' 
 
 ' I was ill. I had to pay for the medicine.' 
 
 ' Drat the medicine ! You shouldn't be ill. . . . 
 Come now, what are you going to do ? Look sharp. 
 Don't go and be blubbering now. It's no go with me, 
 young woman that ! ' 
 
 Another pause. 
 
 ' I 've never blubbered to you, Mrs. Smith. I asked 
 you to wait a bit, that 's all. I 'm down on my luck, 
 that 's what I am. A lady took a piece of work I did
 
 78 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 out of hours, a week ago ; but she won't pay for it till 
 the end of the month, she says.' 
 
 'O my eye, that's likely, ain't it now? It's all 
 fudge that 's what it is ! Now look here. You pay me 
 to-night or you go ! So there, plain and straight ! I've 
 got to live like the rest of you, I suppose ? Will you 
 give it me now? What's more, let me tell you, I'm 
 reg'lar hard up, meeself. . . . You've given me a 
 shilling already. Now come ! give us the rest, and I'll 
 let you go tick for the other week till Saturday.' 
 
 Another pause. 
 
 ' You know you can get it, if you like, you know 
 you can.' Mrs. Smith's voice too was soft now, but 
 hoarsely. 
 
 ' I can't ! How can I ? Or else I would give it you.' 
 
 ' O you can if you like.' 
 
 ' How can I ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, come ! You know well enough ! . . . You ain't 
 so bad looking as all that' 
 
 I put my hands behind me ; my breath went from me. 
 My fingers scraped lightly on the wood and paper. I 
 was trembling all over. I did not know whether to cry 
 out, or, keeping silence, to see what would be the end. 
 
 I waited, the blood pulsing through my head, and whir- 
 ring in my ears, till I was nigh blinded and deafened. 
 
 It seemed to me that it was half an hour before 
 either of them spoke again. 
 
 Then : 
 
 ' O do wait, do wait, Mrs. Smith,' pleaded the other, 
 ' I really will pay you on Saturday night. I will really. 
 I 've been ill. I will ' 
 
 Her voice maddened me. I pulled-to my door some- 
 how and threw myself on to the bed, shivering and 
 clutching myself, muttering into the pillow : ' O, there 
 cannot be a God in heaven, who is just and good and 
 will let such things be ! ' 
 
 At last I stopped. What mould she do ? The thought 
 stayed me all into listening for a moment. 
 
 Then I began to struggle again, and again stopped 
 and listened. It seemed I was so for hours. 
 
 As I listened the fourth or fifth time, I heard Mrs. 
 Smith's voice almost at the door : then there came
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 79 
 
 silence : a door closed : I heard slow heavy footsteps 
 with clamping heels go down the stairs. My door was 
 ajar. I got up, and closed and carefully latched it. 
 ' What mould she do ? ' 
 
 c What is the girl to me ? ' I thought. ' There are 
 hundreds like what she will be, in this city. And 
 one more : " What is one among so many ? " All soul- 
 less things too like me ! And useless things too, who 
 will try to do no more than live in the sun, breed 
 maggots, and perish. Whereas I What will she do ?' 
 
 I came to my bed and lay, face downwards, on it. 
 .' . . . That three shillings perhaps means life/ I 
 thought again, ' who knows if I can get any work ? and 
 how to live in the meantime? And I'm so frightfully 
 weak. . . . Means life : means hope, and all my dreams ! 
 means everything ! That is its meaning. And, if I give it 
 up. . . . No; I won't give it up ! I won't give up my life ! 
 It is the only thing here : the rest is but hope and fancy.' 
 
 I heard a board creak. 
 
 Some one went down the stairs quietly but quickly. 
 . . . Who was it?- Along the passage. The door 
 closed. It was just beneath my head. I seemed to see 
 it, and her. I got on to my knees on the bed : pulled 
 up the piece of linen, that hung half across the window, 
 and looked out. She 'was hurrying across the road, 
 with her head bent down, and her hands hanging be- 
 side her. 
 
 ' Let her go ? ' I thought, ' what is she to me ? Let 
 her go. Let her go. Why, see : if I had gone out in 
 the morning, as I had intended, I might very well 
 never have known anything about it. I will not do it. 
 Why, now ' I stopped. 
 
 ' You coward ! ' I cried, ( you miserable coward ! ' 
 
 I covered my face with my hands, pressing my elbows 
 against my body and tightening everymuscle in my body. 
 
 At last I moaned : 
 
 ' If I only thought there was a God who saw us ! 
 both ! A good God who would not leave us die 
 despairing I would give it her ! But as it is I . 
 I ' 
 
 ' Coward ! ' I cried, almost choking. ' Coward / . . . 
 You cannot let her go ! '
 
 80 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 I got up on to the carpeted plank : dragged open the 
 door : and went quickly down the steps. At the foot, 
 with my hand on the latch, I cried out : ' Mrs. Smith ! 
 Mrs. Smith ! ' And, when she ^ame from the room on 
 the left just by me, put the three shillings into her 
 hand, the florin and one shilling, and said : 
 
 ' There is the money for her.' 
 
 I had the door open as her fingers closed. She was 
 staring at me stupidly enough ; but I saw that she 
 understood what I meant. Then I stepped out quickly : 
 ran across the road, and stopped for a moment, looking 
 ahead to see if I could see her. . . . If she escaped me 
 after all ! 
 
 Three great gas-jets flared some fifty yards down, on 
 the opposite side, in front of a fish-shop. I saw her 
 pass by it, casting an irresolute shadow, her head bent 
 down as before, her hands evidently holding one 
 another in front. A few people were moving to and fro. 
 
 I walked quickly along the pavement, till I came 
 opposite her. 
 
 She hesitated for a moment at the corner of a street. 
 I crossed over, just behind her. As she made her first 
 step forward, I touched her arm, and said : 
 
 ' Stop.' 
 
 She started, turned round sharply, and seemed to 
 recognise me. For a moment we stood facing one 
 another. 
 
 ' You must not go,' I said, ' I have persuaded Mrs. 
 Smith. She will let you she will wait till the end of 
 the week.' 
 
 She answered nothing. Then I turned from her, 
 and walked away. 
 
 I had gone some ten yards, when I heard her running 
 after me. She laid her hand for a moment on my arm, 
 and said, panting : 
 
 ' You are very kind, sir : very kind. You 're very 
 good ' 
 
 ' I am neither kind, nor good. I have done nothing,' 
 I said. 
 
 ' You have paid Mrs. Smith for me/ she said, ' I know 
 you have. She would not wait else. But I will pay 
 you back, sir, for sure, on Saturday.'
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 81 
 
 ' You need not trouble about it ' (Looking at her 
 face, I added smiling :) ' Child.' 
 
 ' Indeed, sir, I am very grateful to you/ she said. 
 
 I could not bear to listen to her any more. 
 
 ' It is nothing/ I said. ' I am very glad to have been 
 of any use to you. Good-night.' 
 
 And left her. 
 
 Near the end of the street I passed a man who 
 stopped and stared at me, till I noticed it and stopped 
 also, wondering what was the matter. I had no hat on ; 
 that was it. I proceeded a little : then, almost as if 
 recollecting something, turned back and came home. 
 
 I found my hat up in my room : put it on,, and went 
 out again. I felt as if I must go, as if I was going, 
 somewhere. 
 
 Wandered out towards the Park and then, up-skirting 
 it, on to Primrose Hill, up which I climbed slowly. It 
 seemed to me that I would not much care whether I 
 lived or died. I would seek for no work. No, not I ! 
 It was nothing to me what happened, or to anyone 
 else, or to God. I was glad the girl had not been driven 
 to prostitute herself in these hellish London streets. 
 When the barrier of the first time you do a thing is 
 broken through, the second time is easier, and the 
 third easier still. I am only sorry that this miserable 
 carcase of mine should have so conquered me as to give 
 the tyranny of its thoughts to my soul. These last few 
 days have unmade me.' 
 
 I stood by a bench not far from the top, and turned, 
 and looked out over the darkness from which came the 
 cool breeze fanning my feverish face. All at once I 
 cried out passionately : 
 
 ' I will know, I tvill know ! ' 
 
 Then my head fell down on to my breast, and I said : 
 
 ' Oh fool, fool ! Dost thou think, then, that thou art 
 the first, and wilt be the last, to cry that cry ? They 
 have not known, they will never know ! Ay, they are 
 all wise, and they none of them find out anything ! 
 They beat the air with heavy flails, proving each other 
 fools and us slaves and beasts, and then they also die, 
 and rot, and are eaten. Behold, I here, a starving 
 beggar-boy, know all that they know, and that is
 
 82 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 Nothing! Ay, you foolish Wisdoms, that spend your 
 days in spinning clothes of air with which to clothe the 
 long procession of Humanity, behold I here, a starving 
 beggar-boy, laugh at you and say to you what you know : 
 ' Why, you go naked, naked, as when you came from your 
 mother's womb ! ' Oh, oh, oh ! we are all fools together. 
 And there's a consolation in that; but not much, if 
 you happen to be starving. Starving ? I, starving,' I 
 cried fiercely, 'with a better head on my shoulders 
 than all these damned . . . Come, come, we mustn't 
 boast even now ! ' 
 
 Laughing a sad, short laugh, I stepped out and down, 
 and began to descend. 
 
 Half way, or so, down, some impulse made me stop 
 and look up. And I saw what I took for a small woman, 
 coming down also, just above the seat where I had been 
 standing. Seeing her, I laughed again. The poor girl ! 
 (For, of course, it was my girl, following me.) She 
 thought me, me ! a good, kind, heaven-sent saviour, 
 perhaps ? 
 
 I burst out into a keen short laugh and went on : 
 went on in home, with the wings of a shadowy bird- 
 thing or moth-thing fluttering in my inner ear. Up 
 these weary old stairs with an up-pulling arm. The 
 landing at last. My door open. My room. 
 
 I took the match-box off its mantelpiece corner; found 
 the candle ; struck a light ; lit it, and looked. Then I 
 saw a large envelope lying on the table, and started. 
 
 I looked at the candle-light, one long half-vacant 
 look, and turned and went to the table, and took up 
 the letter and slowly opened it and read : 
 
 ' DEAR SIR, Our reader thinks very well of your Poems ; 
 but as there is little sale in poetry now-a-days, he does not, 
 on that account, think the work would command a re- 
 munerative sale. The following is an extract from the report 
 which we have received on the MS. " There is evidence of 
 power in his book which, with due care and cultivation, may 
 ripen into ability to achieve real and lasting poetic work." 
 
 ' If it were not for the poor attention poetry attracts in 
 these days, we would gladly have made you an offer for a 
 little work which contains so much beauty and melody. 
 Yours faithfully, PARKER, I.VNES, & Co.' 
 
 ' We are sending the MS. to you per book-post.'
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 83 
 
 I put it down with a short laugh, and smiling, 
 shrugged my shoulders. 
 
 ' Very well. There is nothing left for me now, I 
 suppose, but to write my will after Chatterton, and 
 
 invest in arsenic and water, was it ? But I forget ; 
 
 I have no money ! I must go out into the streets, even 
 at this hour then, and beg a few pence to be able to 
 kill myself, since in London, too, one can't die for 
 nothing ! There is the river. My old river at Glaston- 
 bury. If I could roll over and over in the long green 
 weeds, why, it wouldn't matter much whether I was 
 able to come back to the brown earth again, would it ? 
 And to look up through the dusky, jewelled light- 
 shafts of the currents ! Ha, there are flocks down 
 there ! I read about it in a story book once, and a man 
 wentdown in a sack to find them. But he was drownded. 
 No, drowned. Dronmded is bad grammar ; but what 's 
 the odds, I say ? These idiotic wordmongers here talk 
 about nothing but grammar ..." For a good know- 
 ledge of the classics (especially of Cicero) is the founda- 
 tion of all that is worth knowing in the humani. ..." 
 You think so, my good fellow ? You think Art 's 
 growing more and more of a drug, do you ? And you 
 think, too, that I shall be great some day ? But I 've 
 no ambition to be great, I tell you. Fools are great. 
 When they die they rot and are eaten. We all shall 
 die some day, and rot, and be eaten. I wish I were a 
 worm. . . . Hush ! Hush ! What was that ? Who 's 
 there ? hi ! who 's there ? Rayne ? You, Rayne ! No, 
 
 I assure you ! Not starving ! Only But take care, 
 
 or you'll have the boat over. Why are women done 
 up like mummies ? If ever / have a wife, Rayne, she 
 shall wear knickerbockers, and race up Taygetus. . . . 
 Hush, hush ! Here 's Christ come to see me. O dear 
 Christ, O sweet Christ, give me your soft hand ! I '11 
 tell you all about it. I seem to know you so much 
 better than God. And I haven't a friend in the world. 
 
 1 'm afraid they won't understand them . . . Poor 
 
 little poems ! Too mystic ; too mystic ! I must keep 
 out my mysticism ; but how can I, when my heart 's 
 breaking ? breaking, breaking. . . . Chut, chut, tnere ! 
 You mustn't sit down on the bed like that. Why,you're
 
 84 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 a woman ! These are clothes, and here 's . . . your soft 
 breast ? And your face ? and your hair ? O you dear 
 woman, why are you holding me so with your soft arms, 
 and laying my face on your soft breast ? Let 's go to 
 sleep like that together. Will you ? Come close to 
 me, I will tell you something. Do you know, I've been 
 longing for you to come to me ... to come to me, 
 ever since . . . But let 's rest, now you are come, dear. 
 I saw a woman with a sweet face to-night. She passed 
 me on the pavement in the crowd : but not so sweet as 
 yours. I love to ... Closer, closer ! Let me feel you, 
 I am beginning to be afraid ! Don't let these wasp- 
 waisted waterspouts touch me ! . . . How dark it grows. 
 The waterspouts ! the waterspouts ! Ashtaroth, the 
 terrible woman ! A star over her brow, driving in 
 the midst, under the shadows. They are on to me ! 
 over me ! I am sinking ! . . . Up ! up ! Hold me 
 up ! ... Catch me by the hair. . . . Rayne ! . . . Rayne ! ' 
 
 IV 
 
 I AWOKE in the dusk. 
 
 Up leaped a core of light at the far end of the room : 
 then grew steady and lived. Some one had lit the gas- 
 lamp at the street-corner below. I turned over in my 
 bed. I thought that it was lazy of me to be lying 
 warm here: to-day, when I had, I remembered, intended 
 seeking work. Work ! Work for what ? Well, it was lazy 
 of me to be lying warm here. Where had I been? . . . 
 
 Some one came in softly (the door had opened). 
 And why didn't they knock ? 
 
 Turning round I saw a girl on her way to the table 
 with a paper-bag in her hand. 
 
 < Hullo!' I said. 
 
 She dropped the bag on to the floor with a start : 
 sharply picked it up, and, looking with round shadowed 
 eyes at me : 
 
 ' Good gracious, how you did frighten me ! Why, 
 he 's better ! ' she said. 
 
 'Certainly, he is,' I answered, turning aside my eyes. 
 * There was never anything the matter with him that 
 he is aware of.'
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 85 
 
 She stood, with her hands joined in front of her, 
 holding the bag, and looked down at me. 
 
 ' You 've been very ill, sir,' she said, and gave her 
 head a shake. 
 
 ' I assure you, madam, that you are mistaken. I 
 have just woken up. " Abou ben Adhem, may his tribe 
 increase," and so on.' 
 
 ' You have been insensible for on two days/ she said. 
 
 I stared at her round shadowed eyes. She nodded 
 her head, and, I saw, smiled at me. 
 
 ' Insensible ? . . . Why I have never fainted in my 
 life.' I saw an open letter on the table-cloth in that 
 dusky light. 
 
 I let my head sink on to the pillow with a sigh and 
 shut my eyes. Memory had flowed back on to me. 
 
 ' I have brought you some grapes/ she said, ' I 
 thought you might like them.' 
 
 I raised my head again, and opened my eyes in the 
 room, now full of light. I had not noticed that she 
 had lit the gas. 
 
 ' You are kind ; but ' 
 
 ' You will not take them ? ' 
 
 ' No, thank you.' 
 
 ' Oh very well ! I shall throw them out of the 
 window then ! Why shouldn't you take a present from 
 me ? . . . I haven't paid you back the four shillings I 
 owed you yet : but I can now.' 
 
 She took out a purse : unhasped it : opened the 
 leaves : put in two of her fingers, and then, with a 
 quick lift-up of her head and a bright smile came to- 
 wards me, holding two florins in her extended palm. 
 
 ' I only lent you three/ I said. 
 
 ' And I have got no change ! Think of that ! Only 
 gold and silver. Isn't it ri-diculous ? Will you eat 
 some of the grapes ? . . . Please ! ' 
 
 A pause. 
 
 ' It was kind of you to bring me them/ I said, 
 f and I am afraid I must have been giving you a great 
 deal of trouble . . . Miss ' 
 
 ' Oh no ! none ! You will eat them then ? ' 
 
 I was silent. 
 
 'Oh, Miss '
 
 86 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 ' Do you want to know my name ? ' she asked with 
 a drop in her voice. 
 
 ' Only if you care to tell me/ I answered, a little 
 sorry for my first attempt at some sort of formality 
 or other. 
 
 ''Owlet is my name: I'm from Rutland. Rosy's 
 my Christian name. But I hope you won't call me 
 Miss 'Owlet.' 
 
 ' Why do you hope not ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, Howlet is such a horrid name ! ' 
 
 I could not help laughing. Then she laughed. 
 
 ' But what shall I call you ? ' I asked. 
 
 'You called me "child" once. I'm not a child. 
 I 'm seventeen.' 
 
 I smiled at her. She at once caught up the bag of 
 grapes, undid the mouth, and offered it to me. 
 
 ' Then I beg your pardon,' I said. 
 
 She pouted : 
 
 ' But you have not taken any ! ' 
 
 And our eyes met, and the bag was once more 
 offered, and I dipped two fingers into it and lifted a 
 big bunch half out (she looking at me all the time, 
 and I at the bag-mouth), and stretched out my other 
 hand to break off a portion of the bunch, and had 
 broken off a portion, and was about to drop the remains 
 of the original bunch into the bag again, when she 
 drew back her arm quickly and said : 
 
 ' That 's not fair ! ' 
 
 Then she took out another bunch : squashed up the 
 bag in her hands : threw it on to the floor, and came 
 to me holding it up with two fingers in the air. Our 
 eyes met again, and I stretched up my hand and took 
 it. She smiled at me. A small thin black kitten ran 
 out and began chasing the paper-bag. 
 
 She turned, saw it, and cried out : 
 
 ' Minnie, Minnie ! Oh, you silly thing ! Let it 
 alone, can't you?' 
 
 She turned to me again : 
 
 'That's my cat Minnie. Isn't she a beauty?' 
 
 ' Well . . . yes/ I said. 
 
 ' Why, I should think so ! Now I must go. I 
 oughtn't to have let you talk so much : it 's not good
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 87 
 
 for you. I hope you're feeling better? Here, Minnie, 
 Minnie, Minnie, Min, Min! Oh, she's after that piece 
 of paper. Silly thing ! . . .' (Turning to me again.) 
 ' I '11 let her stop with you ... if you like.' 
 
 ' Thank you,' I said, ' that 's kind of you. I should 
 like.' 
 
 'Good-bye,' she said. 
 
 ' Good-bye/ I answered to her slowly going, ' and 
 thank you for all your goodness to me, Miss' (she 
 stopped) ' Rosebud.' 
 
 ' I shall see you soon again,' she said ; and, at the 
 door, ' If you wouldn't mind going into my room in a 
 little that 's this one here,' (opening the door and 
 pointing to the right), ' we 'd get your bed done very 
 quickly, and you could come back again. I don't 
 think you ought to dress and go out yet.' 
 
 'Very well,' I said, 'thank you. I will.' 
 
 She went out ; but looking in again. 
 
 ' Put on your coat or something/ she said, ' for fear 
 you catch cold.' And withdrew her head, and the 
 door closed, and she was gone. 
 
 I sat up in bed, and threw out my arms. 
 
 ( Oh you Rosebud!' I said, laughing, 'you Rosebud!' 
 
 We had a short conversation together that evening 
 as I ate my tea in bed, and then we said good-night, 
 and she left me. And I set about thinking what I 
 had best do now. The failure of my attempt to earn 
 my livelihood by my pen was a heavy blow to me, and 
 the heavier that it was unexpected. But I gave up 
 further consideration of the matter for the present : 
 I must have some means of support, and immediately. 
 And what was the good of thinking of poetry, after 
 what Parker, Innes & Co. had said about it ? 
 
 All at once the idea of becoming a schoolmaster 
 flashed upon me. Why not ? I was sure I was quite 
 as capable of teaching as poor Currie, the undermaster 
 at Whittaker's. Or a private secretaryship ? I let 
 my thoughts go, and had planned out my life as 
 under-master, or private secretary, or tutor, before I 
 fell into a sweet dreamless sleep. 
 
 The next day, in the morning, although I was, I
 
 88 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 found, uncommonly weak, I managed to get into the 
 Edgware Road as far as a stationer's, where I inquired 
 in a general sort of a way about such things as under- 
 masterships and tutorships, of the genteel middle-aged 
 party who was in the shop. She took a great interest 
 in me, I considered, for a complete stranger; but 
 could not help me in the least. 
 
 In the afternoon I made three more attempts at 
 stationers', and at the last one was so far successful 
 that I learnt the name and address of the people 
 whom, it seemed, I wanted. 
 
 I set off for Grenvil Street at once (a weary walk of 
 toil to weak me), and interviewed a respectful clerk a 
 good deal better dressed and, doubtless, fed than 
 myself. He thought he might possibly get me an 
 ushership in some small school pretty soon ; but I 
 must observe that it was not the time for such (that is 
 to say, instant) engagements now, half way through 
 the term. I told him the sooner the better, for I was 
 in straits. He had an equally discouraging account to 
 give of tutorships and secretaryships. All these things 
 required time. I said that speed was the one necessity. 
 And on this understanding we parted : I, I cannot say 
 how forlorn, nay, once or twice on my walk home, 
 even wearier and more toilsome, near to tears. Indeed 
 I felt more like drowning myself than making any 
 further fight for existence. 
 
 When I reached Maitland Street, I scarcely knew 
 what I had said or done down at the agent's. Every- 
 thing was a muddle, and a jumble, from beginning to 
 end. I cast myself down on my bed, and the long- 
 suppressed tears came. O why had I not died in that 
 strange, sweet, terrible dream after the reading of the 
 letter ? I lay sighing to myself till I dozed. 
 
 From this half-sleep of despondency the Rosebud 
 roused me in the early evening, and took me out for a 
 short walk. I don't know what we talked about. 
 Everything was still a muddle and a jumble, from 
 beginning to end. I was glad to get back, and creep 
 into bed, and sleep. 
 
 I was better in the morning : inclined, it seemed, to 
 feel cheerful, and began, as I lay with closed eyes
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 89 
 
 thinking, to put the events of yesterday into something 
 like connection and tout ensemble ; but with no great 
 success. The one comforting thought seemed to be, 
 that the clerk had said he would send me up anything 
 that came. Surely something must come ! I could 
 not believe I was destined to die here like a rat in a 
 hole. I played upon my inclination to be cheerful, 
 till it had brought me to cheerfulness : and, getting 
 up briskly, perceived a letter on the chair by my 
 bedside. The agent, of course ! 
 
 'Ha,' I said, ' the tide's on the turn! . . . What's 
 in here ? ' I hesitated. The sun was shining in through 
 the window upon the envelope. 
 
 I ripped it open ; took out the letter, and scanned it. 
 
 'DEAR SIR, Please call early to-morrow on Alexander 
 Brooke, Esq., 5 Dunraven Place, Piccadilly, W., who 
 wishes to engage at once a secretary to go abroad with him. 
 The engagement would be at least for a year, if not more. 
 
 'Terms between ^100 and ,150 per annum. 
 
 ' Please inform us of the result of your interview. And 
 oblige, Yours faithfully, 
 
 LIXICLATER, PEMBRIDGE AND BLENKINSOP.' 
 
 I threw the letter on to the table with new life in 
 me, and began to wash, whistling to myself. As I was 
 folding on my necktie I noticed how dirty my collar 
 was, and then my shirt, and more particularly the 
 cuffs. I put on a clean, the last, collar in the bag. 
 And that set me off thinking for a moment about my 
 clothes. ' Well, well ! ' I said, ' I shall have to tell the 
 man the truth I suppose : and why not ? ' For I did 
 not doubt but that he would have me. 
 
 Rosy was of course off to her work these three hours. 
 This, and what she would think about the secretary- 
 ship, came to me as I passed her door and went down 
 the dark stuffy old wooden staircase. What would the 
 Rosebud think? 'Well, well!' I said as before, 'it'll 
 be time enough to think about what she thinks when 
 I 've got it.' And yet did not doubt for one moment 
 but that I should get it. 
 
 I knew my way to Piccadilly. It was a crisp clear 
 morning : the stir of the breezy air and of the life 
 brighter than usual elated me a little. I went along
 
 90 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 down the Edgware Road, eating my brown bread and 
 dates with some cheerfulness. Then I had a refreshing 
 glass of milk. And, by the time I was half way across 
 the Park by the path that leads from the Marble Arch 
 up to the Gates at Hyde Park Corner, I seemed to 
 have regained something of my former self : something 
 of my Glastonbury character of will and self-reliance. 
 The last three weeks seemed a dream ; almost a bad 
 dream, a nightmare, for a little : then only a dream, 
 save for something of the Rosebud that seemed to 
 reach out half-weakly into the present light. I asked 
 the policeman at the Gates where Dunraven Place 
 was, and he directed me. Then I arrived at No. 5, 
 and was shown into a beautifully furnished room. 
 
 Waiting, I began to examine a book-shelf that was 
 full of beautifully bound books that harmonised with 
 the room. They made me think how I should like to 
 be rich and have all the books I wanted. I had my 
 eye particularly on a large Gervinus's Shakespeare in 
 half-calf, and my fingers began to feel as if they ought 
 to take it down, and run away with it to a convenient 
 arm-chair, and begin upon it at once. As I stood so, I 
 heard a step behind me and turned. 
 
 ' You are looking at my books, I see,' he said. 
 
 ' Yes, sir/ I answered, ' it was a Gervinus's Shake- 
 speare. I hope ' 
 
 ' Oh, not in the least ! Please sit down.' 
 
 He motioned me into a large red leather chair on 
 one side of the fire-place. 
 
 ' You come from Messrs. . . . The name is rather 
 confusing,' he said. '. . . . I want a secretary to help 
 
 me with to make himself generally useful as I may 
 
 direct. Another young gentleman has been here this 
 morning already : I mean from Messrs. . . .' He 
 smiled. ' He objected to going out to Africa. Do you?' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' You see shortly I want some one to help me to 
 get together my things, write letters, and so on. You 
 understand me ?' 
 
 ' I think so.' 
 
 'The young friend who was going with me has 
 suddenly been taken ill, and, as it is important that I
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 91 
 
 should be out of England in under a month you 
 follow me ? ' 
 
 ' I think so/ 
 
 ' Good. Now tell me. Can you shoot ? No. Ride ? 
 No. Um ! You are strongly made. Where were you 
 at school ? ' 
 
 ' At Glastonbury.' 
 
 ' Ah, so was I ! With Craven, I suppose ? ' 
 
 'Yes, sir.' 
 
 1 Did you go in for sports much ? ' 
 
 ' 1 was in the first football fifteen, and rowed in my 
 house-boat.' 
 
 ' School House ? ' 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 ' So did I. It was head of the river in my year.' 
 
 ' And in mine too.' 
 
 ' Tell me something about yourself.' 
 
 I paused for a moment. Then I said : 
 
 ' I have been at Glastonbury five years. My father, 
 who is dead, had placed all his fortune in the Southern 
 Bank. My guardian called me up to London about 
 three weeks ago, to inform me of this. I determined 
 then to try to make my livelihood by my pen, and 
 . . . failed. That is, shortly, why I am here.' 
 
 'Tried to make your livelihood by your pen, and 
 failed ? Did not your guardian help you ? How did 
 you ' 
 
 ' I angered my guardian by refusing to try for a 
 
 clerkship. I thought that I had something here ' 
 
 (Lifting my finger.) 
 
 ' " Quelque chose la " Yes. Well.' 
 
 ' I wrote two poems, which I sent to a publisher, 
 hoping ' 
 
 'Why all, or nearly all, poetry has to be paid for 
 now-a-days, my poor boy. Of course they sent it back 
 again ? ' 
 
 ' They did.' 
 
 ' Well ? And may I ask how you lived in the in- 
 terim ? You had funds ? ' 
 
 ' I sold my greatcoat.' 
 
 ' Excuse me. I am not asking from mere curiosity. 
 . . . Would you care to tell me more ? I will ' (looking
 
 92 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 for a moment in my eyes), ' if you will allow me, write 
 to Dr. Craven about you. Not that I doubt what you 
 say ; but you must see. . . . You understand ? ' 
 
 ( Perfectly. You have no guarantee that I am not 
 a rogue/ 
 
 ' Aha ! I think you are wrong there ! However/ 
 (suddenly), ' how much did you get for your coat ? ' 
 
 ' Fifteen shillings.' 
 
 ' And you have lived on that for nearly three weeks?' 
 
 ' Just three weeks.' 
 
 ' Impossible ! You are joking ! ' 
 
 ' No, sir, since I did. My room only cost me four 
 shillings a week, and I ' 
 
 ' Then you must have lived on a shilling a week ? ' 
 
 ' No. I have not paid my rent for this third week yet.' 
 
 ' And how are you going to ? ' 
 
 ' I cannot say. Perhaps, I may get an ushership in 
 some school, within the next few days. I should 
 anticipate my pay.' 
 
 He stood up ; we looked for some little in one 
 another's eyes. Then he stretched out his arm, and 
 let his hand fall on my shoulder. 
 
 ' You are a brave fellow/ he said, ' and I believe you 
 are a true one. I believe what you have told me. 
 There, there, now.' (For my eyes were suddenly full 
 of tears) ' There, there, there, there, there ! It 's all 
 right now.' And he turned away and let his arm drop. 
 
 Then : 
 
 'Stop/ said he, 'did you know Blake at Glastonbury ?' 
 
 ' He left just before I came ; but I met him once. He 
 came to examine a school at Blackheath, where I was.' 
 
 ' Ah, I am sorry! He was a dear, dear friend of 
 mine an old college chum ; but I had known him 
 before then. He was a Wykehamist.' 
 
 'Yes; so I remember.' 
 
 ' It would have been enough to me that he had 
 thought well of anyone. He would have liked you, 
 I am sure.' 
 
 He smiled, and added : 
 
 'You see that I have let slip how well I think of 
 you, and what you have said to me.' 
 
 'Thank you, sir. Some day, perhaps, I may be able
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 93 
 
 to show you that I deserved your belief in me. Mr. 
 Blake was kind to me when he came to my old school. 
 He was pleased, I think, with some verses I had to 
 recite, and so . . .' He had snapped his fingers im- 
 patiently, and made a sharp noise with his lips. 
 
 I stopped speaking. He cried out with a smiling 
 mouth : 
 
 'You are not the boy who recited Longfellow's 
 "Psalm of Life?" 
 
 ' I am/ I said. 
 
 ' Immediately after that visit he came and stopped 
 with me here in London for a few days.' 
 
 His face grew sadder. He went on slowly : 
 
 ' It was the last time I saw him. You know of his 
 terrible death, not so long after ? All that he said in 
 those few days has been treasured up by me, and lives 
 for ever in my memory. The first night he came, after 
 dinner, as we were sitting here by this very fire over 
 our cigars and wine, he told me about the little boy he 
 had seen that afternoon ! ' 
 
 He caught himself up : 
 
 ' Well, and how old are you now ?' 
 
 ' Eighteen.' 
 
 ' You strange boy ! Eighteen. Why, it is ridicu- 
 lous ! (I really must read some of those Rejected 
 Addresses of yours some day.) You are very tall for 
 your age, and look very old for eighteen.' 
 
 I smiled : 
 
 ' This fortnight has made me older by five years, I 
 think. Years are no test of age, sir.' 
 
 We talked togetherfor almost an hour of many things. 
 Then he looked at his watch and jumped up, saying : 
 
 ' You have made me forget that I have a very great 
 deal to do this morning, young man.' 
 
 f l am sorry, sir.' 
 
 ' But very pleasantly.' 
 
 ' Then I ani glad.' 
 
 I smiled, and so did he. He touched me on the 
 shoulder. 
 
 As I was going, he spoke of Mr. Blake again how that 
 he was a truly great and good man, one who was without 
 the cant of the two words, a Christian gentleman.
 
 94 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 A pause. Then I : 
 
 ' I think I ought to tell you something, sir, that I 
 have not told you yet/ 
 
 ' Aha ? ' he said. 
 
 ' I am not a Christian, and ... I do not say that I 
 do not believe in a God, but I do not think that I 
 believe in one.' 
 
 He put -his hand on my shoulder again, and smiled : 
 
 ' It will pass, it will pass ! We most of us go in a 
 circle now-a-days : most of us, that is, who are worth 
 anything. Christian, or perhaps nothing at all, till 
 seventeen : Atheist till twenty : Materialist till twenty- 
 one (we soon get tired of that !) : Deist till thirty, 
 (though some of the wilder sort go in for a course of 
 that nonsense called Pantheism) : and then, either the 
 old original Christianity again on to the end, or some 
 slight modification of it. Take my word for it, boy, 
 there is no religion worth calling a religion that does 
 not take Christ and Christ's teaching as its original. 
 And how much better is it to lift up your eyes from 
 considering the shadow on the ground, to consider the 
 One that casts the shadow, even Christ Jesus, who is 
 as the standing figure that watches this our on-rolling 
 earth, yearning for it as a mother for her wandering 
 child, waiting for the hour when He shall take it to His 
 bosom and for ever ? ' He paused. I kept silence. 
 
 We shook hands. I turned to go. 
 
 He called to me : I turned again : 
 
 ' I shall not write to Craven.' 
 
 ' Thank you, sir.' 
 
 We again shook hands, and I had my hand on the 
 door, when he said : 
 
 ' Stay a moment. You are my secretary for a year. 
 It is so agreed ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, sir : as far as I am concerned.' 
 
 'Then allow me to give you your first quarter in 
 advance. It is always I always manage it in that 
 way. You may be in want of a little ready money. 
 And ... as regards Messrs. Messrs. X. Y. and Z., 
 you will of course allow me to settle that with them 
 myself.' 
 
 I stood irresolute.
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 95 
 
 ' Come, come ! ' he said. ' Now don't be foolish, 
 Leicester. If you are going to . . .' 
 
 I stepped to him suddenly, saying : 
 
 ' Sir, sir, you are very good to me ! ' 
 
 He took my hand in his and pressed it. 
 
 ' Yes, yes, yes, yes ! that 's all right now ! Now you 
 really must run away ! You said that you would like 
 to come to me to-morrow morning, didn't you ? Very 
 well. I will tell you about what you will have to do, 
 then. So good-bye, or rather au revoir, or rather 
 (when I think of it) both.' 
 
 I was at the door, when he called : 
 
 ' O you dreadful boy, you haven't taken all your 
 belongings away with you ! Here is your first quarter 
 on the table yet. You are inclined to be careless, I see. 
 Look to it. It is an evil, evil vice carelessness ! ' 
 
 I found that I could scarcely see the folded pieces of 
 paper that he had put down on the edge of the table. 
 
 When I had it safely in my hand, I gave one look at 
 him and a bright smile, and went out as quickly as I 
 could ; for my eyes were full of tears, and I feared some 
 might drop out. 
 
 Riding up on the outside of an omnibus to Praed 
 Street, I felt as I had felt in some of the days at Glas- 
 tonbury when I had longed to leap and give a shout 
 and move onwards towards something. And then I 
 grew a little sad, if it is possible to call joy sad, and 
 began to say to myself: 
 
 ' Well, well, pray that there is a God ; for you long 
 to thank Him for this ! And see, it is very sweet to 
 you to think, that perhaps, perhaps, He has but afflicted 
 you and chastened you by this your suffering so that, 
 in the end, He might lead you nearer and nearer to 
 Himself. ... It is a sweet thought ! ' 
 
 I spent that afternoon happily. First of all I had a 
 good dinner at a restaurant in Oxford Street, and that 
 gave me an insight into what a healthy pleasure in food 
 meant : and then (the day continuing sunny and almost 
 warm) I went for a long walk in Hyde Park, stopping 
 to look at the men and women riding or driving by, 
 and not one of whom I, in this bright day's dawn of a
 
 96 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 new life, could possibly envy. Their wealth might give 
 me the chance of leading another life which would not 
 be without its charm, nay, its delight ; yet how much 
 nobler this one that I was entering upon now, this one 
 that had work to do, work for others, that is, which 
 would require self-sacrifice conquest of self ! 
 
 And after that I came up home, buying on the way 
 fruit and cakes and other things, for a tea I had in my 
 mind with the Rosebud in my room. Then I set about 
 making it all ready, so that, by the time she came in, 
 half-past seven, the room, lit up with gas and fire and 
 well-laid table, was most cheerful. 
 
 But the tea was not. For Rosy took my good news 
 most gravely, and did not laugh once the whole time. 
 
 After tea we went out for a walk together, and, when 
 we had gone a little way, I said, smiling, that I in- 
 tended to get her a bonnet to wear as a memory of me. 
 But she would not see anything to laugh at in that, and 
 refused the bonnet with dignity. Then I tried a coat, 
 but she suddenly exclaimed : 
 
 ' And do you think I would keep it all rags and 
 tatters ? ' Dismissing the idea. 
 
 I tried a locket as a last resource. 
 
 After some persuasion she at last agreed. We went 
 into a jeweller's (the very jeweller's under whose win- 
 dow I had counted my money on the first night I was 
 in London) in the Edgware Road together, and she 
 chose a small round silver locket, and relented a little. 
 
 ' No/ she said, as we were walking slowly away. 
 f For the bonnet and the jacket would wear out, and I 
 couldn't very well keep them then eh ? And they 
 wouldn't look nice, all in rags and tatters, would they ? 
 But I shall always be able to keep the locket, you 
 know : and when I look at it I shall think of you and 
 give a sigh ; for you 've been very nice to me.' 
 
 ' Ah,' I said, ' who 's talking nonsense now ? ' And pro- 
 ceeded to demonstrate that, if anybody had been ' nice ' 
 to anybody, it was she to me. To which she answered 
 that she liked to hear me talk so, and for a moment 
 I felt rather foolish, and proposed that we should go up 
 to the top of Primrose Hill, and she agreeing, we set off'. 
 
 I began to question her a little about herself, and she
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 97 
 
 answered readily, nay, entered upon a regular discourse, 
 to which I played the accompaniment with some plea- 
 sure of amusement and otherwise, till we were half way 
 up Primrose Hill : when I all at once remembered a 
 certain bench not far from the top, by which I had on 
 a certain night stood and looked out over the darkness 
 from which came the cool breeze fanning my feverish 
 cheek. Could it have indeed been me, this living, 
 moving, thinking me here, who lived and moved and 
 thought that certain night as memory silently told me 
 that I had ? Poor me ! 
 
 I led her a little round and then up to it. And we 
 sat down upon it together and talked softly. 
 
 What thousands and thousands of stars were in the sky ! 
 And what millions and millions of people had looked up 
 at the thousands and thousands of stars, and yet would 
 look up, and when would it all ever come to an end ? 
 
 ' Rosy,' I said again, ' does it never seem to you, as if 
 you were here alone in the world, quite alone ? I 
 mean, as if nobody else belonged to you somehow ; and 
 they are all here, and they live and they die, and you 
 can't tell where they go to : and you can't tell where 
 you will go to, but you don't think you really ever will 
 die, although you know you will ; but when you do die, 
 that you will go to somewhere else, where you will be 
 quite alone again and nobody else will belong to you 
 somehow, and they will be all there, and they will all 
 live there, and then die, and you can 't tell where they 
 go to, and then you will die. . . . And it goes on 
 like that for ever ! Did you never think of it in that 
 way ?' 
 
 ' I never thought about it at all,' she said, ' but I 
 like to hear you talk like that. . . . Go on.' 
 
 I started and laughed, and then said : 
 
 1 Now I '11 tell you a little piece of poetry, a merry 
 little piece, and then we must be going home ; for it's 
 getting late.' 
 
 She composed herself to listen. 
 
 ' It 's in Greek,' I said, ' but, you '11 be able to under- 
 stand it. I '11 tell you about it, first. It 's called a 
 Swallow Song. The little boys sang it in Greece when the 
 swallows came back after the winter. They used to go
 
 98 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 round to all the houses and sing it, just like boys sine 
 carols at Christmas. This is it : 
 
 " She comes, she comes, the swallow, 
 bringing beautiful hours, 
 beautiful seasons, 
 white on the belly, 
 black on the back. 
 
 Do thou roll forth a fruit-cake 
 out of the rich house, 
 and a beaker of wine 
 and a basket of cheeses ; 
 and wheat-bread the swallow 
 and the pulse porridge 
 
 does not reject. Say, shall we go away, or something receive ? 
 If thou givest well ! But if not, we won't let you off ! 
 Shall we bear off the door, or else the lintel ? 
 Or else the wife that is seated within ? 
 She 's a small body, easily shall we carry her off ! 
 But if you give us something, 
 something great may you get. 
 Open, open the door to the swallow, 
 we are not old men, but childerkins here. " ' 
 
 Then I went on to recite to her the Greek, and she 
 swayed her body a little in sympathy with the rhythm 
 of the words, so that I, who was pleased with it all, 
 gradually grew into the humour in which I had been 
 before when I exclaimed : ' Oh you Rosebud ! ' till, at 
 the words 17 rav yvvaiKa. TO.V ccrto Ka6r]fj.fvav, I gave one 
 look at her, sitting there, childlike and fairy-like and 
 dear, and could have caught her up in my arms, and 
 then ... I didn't know what I should have done then.' 
 
 I sat still, looking out into the night. 
 
 After a little : 
 
 ' I wonder/ said her quiet voice, ' I wonder if you 
 would teach me that ? . . . I think I could soon learn it.' 
 
 ' .You need not wonder any more,' I said slowly, 
 
 still looking out into the night, ' I will teach it you.' 
 
 And so we began, I to repeat the translated words, 
 she to say them after me, I still looking out into the 
 night, she as I knew looking up at my face. She had 
 an excellent memory. She had soon learnt the piece, 
 and repeated it alone faultlessly. 
 
 ' You have a good memory,' I said.
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 99 
 
 ' Yes/ she said, ' I always was quick at learning things 
 when I liked them ! I like that ! ' . 
 
 A pause. Then : 
 
 ' Now we must be going/ I said, rising, ' it is getting 
 late. 1 
 
 We went slowly down the dark hill-side together. 
 
 Then something seemed to grow with and about us, 
 and I began to feel somehow as if I were leaving a 
 thing that had closely to do with me in some low, dim, 
 dull plain, whereas I was going away to mount up into 
 a rich warm country of gentle sunshine. And then in 
 half-forgetfulness of this, I would have taken her hand 
 with mine, and we, two children, would have wandered 
 on so over the dim fields together for ever and ever, till 
 we softly faded away. And yet I felt that I was moving 
 in a dim dreaminess, and she in one parallel to it and 
 that she would not (perhaps could not) meet. Then 
 we turned up one of the roads at the back of St. John's 
 Wood in order to get to Maitland Street. I looked at 
 her walking along beside me. 
 
 'You're very quiet, Rosy/ I said. 
 
 ' So are you/ she said, looking in front of her. And 
 then we went on together with the same quietness ; for 
 I had no care to say more, nor she either, it seemed. 
 
 As we stopped opposite No. 3, she heaved a sigh. I 
 stretched out my hand and opened the door. She said : 
 ' Thank you/ and went in, I following. 
 
 Up the dark stairs we went together till we reached 
 her door, the handle of which she had in one hand as 
 she half turned to me. 
 
 ' Good-night/ she said. 
 
 ' Good-night/ I said, finding her other out-held hand, 
 and holding it half-loosely for a moment I could not 
 see her face in that intense blackness. 
 
 She opened her door inwards, and a little light came 
 from the turned-down gas opened it wider. She went 
 in slowly, and closed it after her. I unlatched my own 
 door, and went into the room. The gas there too was 
 turned down. I went and turned it up. 
 
 ' Heigh, ho ! ' I said, with suppressed weariness. I 
 sat down in the chair : and stretched out my legs, and 
 tilted the chair back, and lifted the hands of my
 
 100 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 stretched arms to my head, and thought. All at once 
 I stopped wiih listening powers like a rock balanced 
 on the edge, breathless, motionless. 
 
 A low knock came at the door. 
 
 ' Come in/ I said, breathless, motionless. 
 
 The latch was lifted and the door opened a little. 
 
 ' It 's me,' said Rosy's low voice. 
 
 Then, the door opening a little, I saw her. ' Rosy/ 
 she said, ' may I come in ? ' 
 
 I started and sat up straight. 
 
 ' Yes/ I said. . . ' Yes/ 
 
 She came in : her face flushed, her eyes bright, her 
 hair loosed a little round her head in wavy brown 
 threads. I seemed to inhale her fairness like a soft 
 sweet air. She said : 
 
 * I thought that as as you were going away in the 
 morning before I come back you know and as I get 
 up early at seven so as to be down at my work by 
 eight I thought . . . that that perhaps I that 
 perhaps you . . . wouldn't mind if I was to if I . . / 
 She paused with an indrawn breath. Then I was with 
 her, and had taken her hands. 
 
 '. . . What is it, Rosebud?' I said, with a trembling 
 in me. 
 
 All at once two large tears came out of her eyes and 
 trickled down her cheeks. 
 
 Then she looked at me steadfastly, trying to smile 
 and not wink her eyelids, whose long lashes had crystal 
 drops on them. The trembling passed out of me. I 
 thought only of her distress. I put one arm round her, 
 and so, holding her small body, stroked her soft brown 
 hair back softly, saying : 
 
 'Why, Rosebud, you mustn't mind like that. I'll 
 come back again some day ! ' 
 
 ' Oh, you were so nice to me/ she said. ' But you 
 will come back again to see me . . . some day Eh ? ' 
 
 ' Surely I will. And bring you a bonnet with blue 
 ribbons and a flower that . . . What is it ? ' 
 
 ' . . . I don't want a bonnet ! ' 
 
 ' Not a bonnet ? ' 
 
 ' . . . No ' . . (piteously). ' I want yon ! ' 
 
 ' Very well then : I '11 bring you me/ I said, ' some
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 101 
 
 day : and some grapes, and bon-bons to make me go 
 down well.' 
 
 Her arms hung listlessly. She seemed very miserable 
 about it. 
 
 I kissed her on the cheek, kissed a tear that was 
 stealing down. Then the next moment felt her breast 
 heave and shake against mine, and she sobbed out : 
 
 ' Oh I wish you weren't going away : I wish you 
 weren't going away ! ' 
 
 I kissed her again, and at last found voice to scold 
 her gently : telling her that this would not do, and 
 that she would be all right again soon. For we should 
 see one another again soon, and have long walks in the 
 evening again. 
 
 ' And learn more Swallow Songs ? ' asked she, 
 looking up. 
 
 'Yes/ I said, 'and all sorts of other things as well.' 
 That would be nice : wouldn't it ? ' she said. 
 
 ' Yes. And climb up to the top of Primrose Hill 
 and look at the lights.' 
 
 ' Yes, and go up the River some day, as you said 
 once. That would be nice too, wouldn't it ? ' She had 
 stopped crying at last. 
 
 Then, holding her little upturned face in my hands, 
 I kissed her again, first on one cheek and then on the 
 other. And then we said good-night. 
 
 But at the door she suddenly turned back to me with 
 her arms half-raised, and said piteously : 
 
 ' Kiss me again, do ! ... I do like you to kiss me so!' 
 
 I took her hands and, smiling a little, went and kissed 
 her on the cheek. 
 
 ' Kiss me on the lips,' she whispered, half giving herself 
 to me. 
 
 I kissed her on the lips and drew back. 
 
 ' . . . Good . . . night/ she said. 
 
 ' Good-night, Rosy, good-night ! ' 
 
 She was gone. 
 
 Then trembling came into me again, and I stretched 
 out my arms before me as round something in the air. 
 And then threw them up with an unknown word, and 
 turned away. 
 
 ' Good-night, Rosebud, good-night.'
 
 102 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 III 
 
 I BROUGHT a certain amount of enthusiasm to bear upon 
 my new life. The idea of working in co-operation with 
 ' the friend of Blake ' was a powerful incentive to per- 
 severance. I wrote in the Journal, which I began to 
 keep at this time : 
 
 ' I have had a great deal to learn and to do in this 
 swift-flown fortnight. And I have found both the 
 learning and the doing very pleasant to me. It would 
 seem that my just-past struggle for existence partook, 
 all along, greatly of the cul-de-sac ; whereas this new 
 life is like an open road that leads to a great city : that 
 city has to be reached : certain things have to be done, 
 which things constitute a "cause." There can be no 
 doubt that a definite aim, object, end is the making of 
 a man.' 
 
 But the next week came a reaction. I began to 
 weary of the details of my work, more weary of the 
 people with whom I was thrown, and there was grow- 
 ing in me a deaf unrecognised notion in connection 
 with Mr. Brooke that would have partaken, had I let 
 it, of disillusionment. Hear the Journal of three days 
 later, a propos of a dinner at a Mr. Starkie's, a friend of 
 Mr. Brooke's, where I had met some, what I called, 
 ' travellers ' : 
 
 ' " Travellers " are an aggravating tribe. They seem 
 to- expect you to know their books better than they do 
 themselves : to pretend that no one else ever went 
 where they went, or, if some one else undeniably did 
 go, then that that some one else went the wrong 
 way, came back the wrong way, and made rather a fool 
 than otherwise of himself every bit of the way ! People
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 103 
 
 have no business to be active monomaniacs : passive 
 ones, as much as you like : I see no harm in that. I 
 am a passive monomaniac myself.' 
 
 A little later : 
 
 ' Imps have been at me to-day. The air has been 
 densely populated with them. Here is a lugubrious 
 account for you ! I begin from the beginning. 
 
 'Since the morning I had a longing to write one 
 particular thing haunting me. In crowded shops, 
 before me as the cab cut through the streets, beside 
 me as I sat at my desk ; wherever I was, whatever I 
 was doing, I saw the same silent figure, with its hand 
 to its brow, standing under a tree in the early evening. 
 I was like an inveterate smoker, robbed of his pipe and 
 left staring at his full tobacco-jar. Once or twice I 
 very nearly went up to my room with paper and pencil 
 to fill in my imaginary picture : having resisted and 
 conquered, I was irritable with everything about me 
 for my own firmness. How cruel it was that I had no 
 time ! how badly organised was the world, that so many 
 other people had time, and wasted it ! 
 
 ' Driving down New Bond Street, I saw a young girl, 
 with a pince-nez and walking-stick, staring into a 
 jeweller's window. I at once began to revile her as 
 frivolity's foolish wasp, and must have done so aloud, 
 for the coachman opened the trap to inquire if I had 
 said anything ? " No," I said, "drive on .'" 
 
 ' In the evening (this evening) we had a dinner-party. 
 The two men who are going with us on the Expedition, 
 Clarkson and Starkie, were there with their wives. 
 Also some other " men of mark " with their wives. But 
 the female element was (thank God !) in the minority. 
 That didn't save me, though. I sat between a beetle- 
 browed prude who kept making (bad) eyes at her 
 husband opposite us (a travelling monomaniac, of 
 course !), and a big cavalry officer who had cantered 
 through half a continent, and, as soon as he came home, 
 sat down and written a book on all its histories, lan- 
 guages and literatures. The beetle-browed prude told 
 me about her husband's travels : the cavalry officer 
 about his own. (The lady he had taken in to dinner 
 was a philanthropist, very distinguished, very loquacious,
 
 104- A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 but unfortunately deaf. She and the cavalry officer 
 soon gave one another up : the cavalry officer, for me, 
 the female philanthropist for a course of lectures to a 
 weak-eyed man on her right subject, parochial rates, 
 I think.) The officer varied the conversation once, by 
 remarking that Darwin did not appreciate the spirit of 
 Nature, so leading the prude into a disquisition on 
 Eternal Love ; but, in the end disagreeing, they called 
 me from my thoughts under the ceiling to give my 
 opinion : found I knew nothing about the points in 
 question, and so repeated them in their entirety for my 
 edification- even to the disagreement. 
 
 ' After dinner, when we joined the ladies, the prude 
 motioned me to her side by a smile and a gesture. I 
 heard the officer repeating his remark about Darwin to 
 another prude (square-browed : lifeless, combed-back 
 hair, slow eyes, and an altogether suggestiveness of 
 "shoulder arms") just behind us. My own particular 
 prude seemed for some time (that is, till I grew dreamy 
 and inattentive) to have eyes, and I should say a good 
 many tongues, for me only : then she carried me off, 
 tripping over her spasmodic train, to her dear, dear friend 
 Mrs. Basingstoke (to whom she really must introjooce 
 me a most cul-tivated and highly de-lightful crea-ture, 
 she assured me !) and I was presented, as (in a whisper) 
 "a. most z'/j-ter-esting young man, with de-cidedly 
 marked tastes, my dear Mrs. Basingstoke" (What 
 could I have been saying ?) " and alas ! a rare en- 
 dowment of young men now-a-days earnest re-ligious 
 con-victions." Goats and monkeys ! 
 
 ' But jam satis ! After they were all gone, I stood 
 frowning on the hearthrug. Mr. Brooke came in from 
 the Hall, having seen the last of them off. 
 
 ' " Aha, Leicester," he said, " and how about those 
 things from Taunton's ? I was dressing when you came 
 back. They are all right ? " 
 
 ' " Well, no, sir. The tubes had to be made on 
 purpose " 
 
 '"I ordered them a fortnight ago." 
 
 ' " And they came. But one of the people in the shop 
 managed to crack one " 
 
 ' " And the whole thins will have to be done again.
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 105 
 
 Bother ! . . . Hoity-toity, I 'in very tired ! . . . You 
 look tired too." 
 
 <"I am." 
 
 ' " I saw you making yourself very agreeable to Mrs. 
 Napier, and afterwards to Mrs. Basingstoke." 
 
 ' I curled my lip. Then, feeling that I should say 
 something foolish in a moment if I stayed, and irritated 
 that I should have to save myself by running away, said : 
 
 ' I think I will go to bed, sir. There is nothing more 
 to be done to-night ? ' 
 
 f "Ah-h-h ... no! That is, I don't think so. 
 Hamilton and Malmesbury sent up everything ? They 
 are the rudest and most unpunctual people in all 
 London ; but they have the best . . ." 
 
 ' I made a quick noise with my lips, expressive of 
 impatience and disgust. I had forgotten altogether 
 about Hamilton and Malmesbury. What business on 
 earth had / with running about seeing that Hamiltons 
 and Malmesburies sent up things ? Why not use a 
 servant ? Or the post ? The post is one of the greatest 
 institutions of our country. There w r as not any need 
 for such frantic haste. Whereas there were creatures, 
 like that girl with the pince-nez and walking stick, 
 who dawdled away their whole lives ! And here was / 
 going out on an expedition into the wilds of Africa, 
 to be killed by fever and eaten by jackals and vultures, 
 or run through with spears and eaten by negroes ! 
 Oh, it was too hard ! I really must write to some 
 Croesus : state my cruel case, and ask for 100 for 
 three years, offering to refund it out of my first year's 
 earnings. Nay, a better idea would be, to insert an 
 advertisement in the Times agony column : " An un- 
 appreciated GENIUS (male), cetat. 18, desirous of benefiting 
 humanity by devoting himself to HIMSELF, would be glad to 
 meet with some young woman who would give Mm the means 
 of pursuing this lofty course of action. Millionairesses 
 with a hankering after (literary} immortality are strongly 
 advised not to let this opportunity slip, as a similar one may 
 never arise again. Apply for further particulars to B.L., 
 5 Dunraven Place, Piccadilly, W., who . . ." And I 
 burst out into a laugh, rather a bitter laugh. 
 
 ' " What 's the matter ? " asked Mr. Brooke.
 
 106 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 'I shrugged back my shoulders with a half-sigh, 
 half-groan, 
 
 < " I think I am ill/' I said. 
 
 ' He rose from his desk, where he was sitting ex- 
 amining some papers : came across to me and, smiling, 
 put his hand on to my shoulder in his usual kindly 
 unctuous manner. I could almost have struck him. 
 
 '"Come, come, come!" he said, "You must not 
 mind now. It will soon pass, this malaise. You have 
 lived so much in yourself, that you find it very hard to 
 live in other people ? Ah well, well ! We most of us 
 have that little difficulty to contend with sooner or 
 later." But I, hanging down my head, bit my under- 
 lip with all my might for a moment. The pain made 
 me master of myself. I looked up in his face, with my 
 eyes hedged about with tears, but ready to listen to 
 what he had to say to me. 
 
 1 He pressed my shoulder with his hand : 
 
 ' " Don't dream so, my boy," he said, " don't dream 
 so. You 're always at it, you know ; and it 's such a bad 
 habit. It leads to absorption in one's own world, and 
 that means selfishness. Why, I have known in my time 
 at least three dreamers, who ruined all their own happi- 
 ness and their families' as well, simply because they 
 would have their dreams. Such are they whom the 
 world calls ' geniuses ' and their friends ' brutes,' for no 
 sacrifice is too great for these precious empty dreams 
 of theirs not excluding the dreamers' lives. It angers 
 me to hear people erecting special codes of morality 
 for such men. Because a man is dubbed 'genius,' is 
 he also to be dubbed demi-god, and allowed to pick 
 and choose from the laws of the land, which he will be 
 so good as to obey and which he won't ? Give up 
 thinking that you can do anything, and there is a 
 chance of yeur doing something. Get out of yourself 
 and into other people : they are, probably, better than 
 you are. You don't mind me speaking like this to 
 you ? Now, do you now ? " 
 
 '"No," I said, "it's true what you say. I live too 
 much in myself, and I am impatient of what I think 
 are other people's smallnesses ... I will try to be 
 more patient."
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 107 
 
 t "Very well. Don't let's talk about it any more. 
 One moment, though. Am I to halve the dose ? Is it 
 too strong for you ? " 
 
 1 " No, sir : double it ; but " 
 
 ' " Your stomach can't stand it yet ? Never mind. 
 I only wonder that it has stood so much. Go on taking 
 your medicine like a man (I don't mind your pulling 
 faces now and then : perhaps it is rather nasty !) and 
 . . ." (w r ith a smile). "Well you shall have some jam 
 afterwards !" 
 
 ' " Will you tell me the sort ? " I asked, but in a pur- 
 poseless sort of way, for it seemed as if he expected me 
 to ask for an explanation of his "jam afterwards." 
 
 ' " You will be more contented, less self-conscious, a 
 better member of society generally : I mean, more 
 ready to put yourself out to talk to ' fools,' less eager 
 to find fault with wiser people than yourself. In a word, 
 more healthy ! " 
 
 ' I kept silence ; for I felt that it would be quite 
 useless to speak.' 
 
 The next day has : 
 
 ' Mr. Brooke with me to the Riding School. Nothing 
 particular.' And, after a space, the following remark : 
 
 ' These riding lessons five times a w r eek are not with- 
 out their pleasure to me. I am pleased at my complete 
 freedom from fear. But, can I ever be afraid of any- 
 thing again ? For have I not realised how small an 
 atom I am of things living and dead, how valueless, as 
 I am, to things as yet uncreated ? I am a spectator of 
 existence in general, and of my own in particular. 
 How can a man who believes in nothing but bare exis- 
 tence and the beauty of Truth, and feels that he is 
 floating along, weak and not far from helpless, have 
 fear ? What are a few more seconds to him ? ' 
 
 Here my enthusiasm for a full Journal seems to have 
 given way. The rest is made up of simple notifications 
 of the general events of each day. 
 
 This short period of my life is, strangely or not, one 
 of those about which I remember least. It may be that 
 I was too absorbed in what Mr. Brooke dubbed for me 
 my ' dreams ' to notice even what took place to myself. 
 It may be. Perhaps that may account for the long
 
 108 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 filing trail of ' society ' dressed people that represents 
 my memory of it all, and for a certain lifeless wanness 
 that I seem to find in even these conversations between 
 Mr. Brooke and myself, although written so shortly 
 after they were spoken. But as the days wore on, I 
 with a little astonishment found that I was again be- 
 ginning to take an interest in my work. At first, as I 
 have said, this astonished me, and I half anticipated 
 that ' it would go off soon/ But, when it did not, but 
 rather grew, till it seemed to have achieved some per- 
 manent strength, I was led to look upon my early dis- 
 content as the momentary humour and this calmer 
 readiness as the actual individuality. Something too 
 of my old adventurous love was rising in me at the 
 near approach of our departure, and this helped me to 
 realise that, past denial, there was much in me that 
 was morbid and self-concentrated, and helped me to 
 determine to resist these infirmities. I had begun to 
 like Mr. Brooke better, and this, although I was far 
 from holding him up to myself as ' the ideal friend/ as 
 I had done at starting. No one could help liking the 
 man's earnestness : an earnestness that had something 
 of the tenderness-inspiring in it. It did not matter 
 that the aim of this earnestness was not altogether ap- 
 parent to you. You saw the effect : the effect was 
 beautiful, earnestness and honesty welded together, and 
 you ' liked ' it. What matter about the cause ? 
 
 It was in a humour of this sort that, some days later, 
 I sat with him after dinner in the library, he smoking 
 a cigar, I thinking about things. 
 
 We sat in silence. 
 
 At last, with a slight yawn : 
 
 'We shall be off/ he said, 'before this time next 
 week. Oh-h-h ! . . . How delightful it is to think of 
 it!' 
 
 ' Mr. Clarkson is to meet us at Brindisi, isn't he ! ' I 
 said. 
 
 ' Yes. He does not want to go through Paris, and it 
 would scarcely do to go through the Continent and he 
 not go with us. I do not think so, at least. . . . He 
 has a perfect monomania about Paris. He caught 
 typhoid fever when he was there three years ago, and
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 109 
 
 almost died of it, up at the top of an hotel, alone. He 
 declared that he would never put his foot inside the 
 place again. It was a very horrible idea, I must confess 
 death, alone, in a strange hotel, in a strange city.' 
 
 ' But, if he 's afraid of fever, surely it is rather a 
 strange thing to go to ' 
 
 ' Yes, yes, it is I But men are made up of such 
 inconsistencies. I, for example, am shudderingly afraid 
 of small-pox. Yet I have been through a cholera epi- 
 demic : nursed diphtheritic cases ; known cancer, and 
 what not besides.' 
 
 'King Alfred used to pray that God's will might be 
 done in all things, but that he should prefer not to die 
 of a loathsome disease. I should perhaps be afraid of 
 such things too, if it wasn't that . . .' I paused. 
 
 'Wasn't what?' he said. 
 
 ' O, an idea of mine ! I don't believe that I shall 
 ever catch anything again, somehow ! ' 
 
 ' Fearlessness is half the battle. ... I too have 
 prayed to God that I may not die of a disease that 
 makes others fearful of me and myself loathe myself.' 
 
 'And I do not see why God should not grant your 
 prayer, if ' I left the rest, ' If He is and can,' un- 
 said ; for I had seen his face contract a little. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon,' I said, ' if I have offended you.' 
 
 ' Oh no ! I am foolish to notice it. I should not 
 have, but that it recalled to me that the same vile 
 bartering thought had, I am ashamed to say, occurred 
 to me too, as it were despite myself, before now. You 
 see I am trembling ' (he held up his hand) ' like a 
 terrified woman. Upon my word I ought to be 
 ashamed of myself ! ' 
 
 He resumed more slowly : 
 
 ' I cannot quite account for this hysterical dread of 
 one particular disease. My father died of it just before 
 I was born, and my mother was nigh losing life, and 
 then reason, in giving birth to me. Perhaps that is 
 enough to excuse my poor nerves. . . . But I Ve not 
 much belief in these things. Hereditaribility, as Herbert 
 Spencer would say, has been done to death now-a-days. ' 
 
 I remembered a somewhat contrary remark to this of 
 his, and smiled a little to myself.
 
 110 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 There was a silence for a few moments. 
 
 At last he lifted up his head ; looked across at me, 
 and jerked his cigar-end under the grate., saying : 
 
 ' By-the-by, Leicester, I have something to say to 
 you. ... It's about my book.' He paused for a mo- 
 ment. Then proceeded : 
 
 ' You know that it is not yet published ? indeed, it 
 is not fit to be published. It is like (Caesar's Comment- 
 aries nudi, recti et venusti (I think that's the expression 
 all right), omni ornatu orationis tamquam veste detracto 
 ' Unadorned, severe and decent, stripped of all the 
 embellishment of expression, like a garment.' But I 
 was carried away from its actual state, nudus, into its 
 ideal state, rechis et venustus, Decent, comely, that is the 
 best attribute for a man, his thoughts and his actions, 
 that there can be. But you see my poor book never got 
 beyond starkness ! It was meant to be as a sort of intro- 
 duction, or prelude, to a future work, my magnum opus I I 
 did not care to tell the tale of my failure not, at least, 
 till I could tell with it the tale of my success. But . . . 
 if anything happened to me who can foresee even a 
 moment here ] Quid humanitus, as Cicero has it any of 
 
 those chances to which humanity is liable ' He 
 
 paused again. His speech seemed perseveringly jerky. 
 
 I waited. He resumed : 
 
 ' I should like it brought out then : supposing, I 
 mean supposing aliquid humanitus. For, you see, it 
 might be of some use to others : more especially to 
 those following on my track. It contains my attempt 
 from the south, and my last journey ending at Injiji.' 
 
 ' Yes ? ' I said. 
 
 Another pause. 
 
 Then he : 
 
 ' Ah, but I thought I had the bird in my hand that 
 time ! Only in the bush, only in the bush ! And I 
 with no more twine with which to mend broken nets 
 and snare it. I have not told you before, how bitter 
 that moment was to me. To turn back at Mount Nebo, 
 within sight of Canaan, into the sandy desert, so hot 
 and waterless ! And as I turned, verily my anguish 
 shamed me out of my manliness to play the w r oman. I 
 did restrain myself till they had pitched the tent there,
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE ill 
 
 in the roar and very breath of the mighty waters ; but 
 then I went apart, and sat, and looked at the smoking 
 columns of the Falls fading into the purpling sky, and 
 wept. It seemed to me, as I sat there alone that 
 evening, that I was not turning back, to come again 
 with new victorious face and reach to It : but it seemed 
 to me I cannot tell you how, or why ; I can only tell 
 you that so it was. It seemed to me, I say, that a still 
 small voice spoke whispering to my heart, and I knew 
 that I should not see Mount Nebo again ; should not 
 even cross the desert again, but die far away in the 
 land of Egypt, in a land of glory and sin.' 
 
 Another pause. 
 
 He w r ent on : 
 
 ' Since then, I have tried to persuade myself that I 
 was mistaken. Life is so ordinary : it is hard to believe 
 always in the faith of one's higher moments. And you 
 see, my dear boy, in a few days we are off! What do 
 you say ? Well, what I want to tell you is this. Sup- 
 posing aliquid hiunanitits. You follow me ? ' 
 
 He looked at me, who was a little mystified by it all. 
 
 'Yes,' I said, ' to a certain extent.' 
 
 He smiled. 
 
 ' Ah, you 've grown deep into my heart, boy ? you 
 cannot know how deep ! Perhaps there is some selfish- 
 ness in my love for you : I do not say that there is none. 
 But I do love you ! I have been rather sharp with you 
 at times : forget it ! It is, that I cannot bear to see 
 you with the ideas you have, about this beautiful world 
 and God. It seems to me almost a crime that you 
 . . . Forgive me ! Now you do, now ? ' 
 
 He had touched my leg : laid his hand on it, and looked 
 so fondly into my eyes that I was moved, but not quite 
 with an answering feeling to what he called his love. I 
 turned my look aside. 
 
 ' You see that I believe in you/ he said, ' Believe in 
 you even as you are now, a mere boy ! I know that if 
 you only had some great work cut out for you to do, 
 you would do it, and that there would be no need for 
 it to be done again something that would require all 
 your heart and soul ! At present . . . Why, I am 
 afraid for you, and that is the truth ! And being
 
 112 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 afraid, I am jealous for you, and so cross with you ! 
 That is my way. . . Can't you understand it ? ' 
 
 ' Yes/ I said, ' I think so.' 
 
 He went on at last, I was glad, looking away from me. 
 
 ' I have this presentiment in my mind, and I cannot 
 shake it off. I shall never reach my heart's desire. 
 God's will be done ! And I feel it so strongly that 
 I ... I am afraid I am very clumsy, beating about the 
 bush like this ! See now. Here it is out straight for 
 you ! I want you to promise me to go on and finish 
 what I feel / shall never be able to do more than begin. 
 Every river, every lake of that land shall be mapped 
 out and known ! ' (His voice rose and rang) ' Why, I 
 tell you I dreamt about it as a boy at school. I have 
 kept it by me all my life. A grand idea ! But not 
 yet, not yet, you understand. That would be foolish. 
 If we if they, fail this time, I want you to come back 
 to England and wait here four or five years, preparing 
 for it. You will grow apace. Then try again : and 
 when you do it ! when you do it ! then . . . tell them 
 of my poor old dead book : and of me, just a little, to 
 say how I dreamt of that hour all my life ! Oh 110, 
 none of the glory ! I don't want any of that ! All that 
 shall be yours ! But if I could only think that through 
 me, if not by me, the thing had been done at last ! if 
 I could only think that, why . . . 
 
 He began again deliberately ! 
 
 ' I want you to promise me that, in the event of any- 
 thing happening to me, you will devote yourself to the 
 Cause. You see ? Study for it : toil for it ; do for it 
 everything ; forget nothing ! On that condition I 
 make you my heir.' 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 Then I said quite simply : 
 
 ' I cannot ! ' 
 
 ' Yes, yes/ he cried, ' you can do it, if anyone can ; 
 and it is to be done ! I am sure you can do it ! I know 
 you better than you know yourself. You will grow old 
 apace : a man by twenty : a something more than a 
 man by thirty, if God wills. I pray He may ! No, I say. 
 Don't be afraid of that. I have no relation whom I can 
 wrong by making you my heir : be easy on that point/
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 113 
 
 He stopped suddenly : 
 
 ' You answer nothing ? ' 
 
 In a little, I, with my eyes downcast, said : 
 
 ' You have so completely taken me by surprise ' 
 
 ' Yes : yes : yes, I know. It was foolish of me. I 
 had intended working up to it slowly : training you into 
 what I wanted you to become.' 
 He began to drift away : 
 
 'Last night I ... I had a horrible, a horrible 
 dream. . . . Strange, strange how we all are troubled 
 by our dreams ! . . . What accursed shadows I saw ! 
 shadows of sin ; shadows of a tormented universe ! Oh 
 my God ! . . . My time is short. ... I know it. I 
 shall not get further than Paris. I know it. ... 
 " Blake, old fellow : Allan 's dead." " Dead ? " he said. 
 " Yes, dead. Renshaw brought me news of it last 
 night. He carried him on his back over a mile through 
 the sands. It was evening when they got to the water- 
 hole. Allan was delirious. I cannot think of his poor 
 parched lips muttering, and his eyes stared so, Renshaw 
 says. But at the last, he grew quite calm, and asked 
 him to hold him up. Are those the mountains out there ?' 
 he asked. ' Yes,' said Renshaw. ' How peaceful they 
 are ! ' Then he closed his eyes for a little ; but opened 
 them all of a sudden and cried out : ' Do you see the 
 Cross there ? ' ' No,' said Renshaw. ' Where ? ' 
 * Upon the mountain top, the ridge I mean. Christ is holding 
 it. Hoiv sweet His face is. . . . Oh what a light, what a 
 light ! It bursts out all round Him. And see. the shadow ! 
 There, there on the sand. The shadow of the Cross. 
 Nearer nearer nearer, fleet over the golden sand. The 
 sliadow of the Cross!' And so he died."' 
 I shook him by the arm : 
 ' Sir, sir You are ill,' I said. 
 f No,' he said, ' not ill, only tired.' 
 All at once he started up : 
 
 ' I 've been talking quickly. . . . My blood 's been 
 boiling. But I 'm all right now. You have understood 
 all that I said ? No. I see that you don't realise it. 
 Well, well. That is nothing. We '11 begin again. 
 No, I assure you, I 'm all right now. Sit down. Draw 
 your chair closer. Now I will go through it again.'
 
 114 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 It seemed he had quite forgotten the story he had 
 told me of his friend's death. He began to explain the 
 object of the expedition : what was to be done this time: 
 what was to be done next time : lastly, what he wanted 
 me to do. I listened patiently, although I was, as it 
 were, physically wearied of it all. 
 
 Dawn was breaking as I stood looking from my bed- 
 room window. I wished that I stood on some Thames 
 bridge, to look at the sleeping town : then turned away 
 sighing, and glad that I was not there anywhere but 
 where I was, a few yards off my cool, comfortable bed. 
 
 As I had one knee on it, getting in, I paused, made 
 half-irresolute by a thought. How long was it since 
 I had prayed ? Had I grown so sure, then, that there 
 was no ' good ' in it ? None ! none ! ' If God is, He 
 knows what is in my heart without my telling Him. 
 And yet I haven't given much thought to the subject 
 of late : not had time to go searching for new material 
 with which to build up my belief in disbelief, as I used 
 to do at Glastonbury. Ah, I was a boy then. Now I 
 am ... a fool to be standing here like this ! ' I was 
 into bed and had the clothes over me. 
 
 ( . . . I wonder what Rosy 's doing now ? Asleep, of 
 course, like a good little girl. I wish 7 was ! I wish 
 this world had never been made. I wish I had never 
 been born, and then I shouldn't have been plagued 
 with all these things. . . . A"o ; this world is not much of 
 a place to be happy in ! 
 
 II 
 
 FOR some time, when I lay half-awake next morning, I 
 was aware of a letter with the usual cup of tea by my 
 bedside. At last I roused myself sufficiently to stretch 
 out my hand and lift the letter into the bed by me. 
 Then I managed to open it, and began, still half-awake, 
 to read it : 
 
 Mr. LEICESTER, I have been informed of your 
 appointment as private secretary to Mr. Brooke, and that 
 you are about to accompany him on his expedition to Central 
 Africa, to which I wish all possible success. I have a pro-
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 115 
 
 found admiration for Mr. Brooke personally. I once had 
 the honour of meeting him at the house of my distinguished 
 friend, Professor Strachan, F. 11. S. I think that you are to 
 be greatly congratulated on the results of your independent 
 course of action in having faced the world so boldly on your 
 own account ' (about this point 1 woke up completely), ' and 
 I have no doubt that you will always do credit to the name 
 you bear. I have to regret and apologise for any little 
 disagreeableness that may have arisen during our last inter- 
 view, and to ask you to ascribe it to the very indifferent state 
 of my health at the time. I am still, I believe, in rather a 
 critical condition ; but my doctors give me every hope of the 
 ultimate recovery of my accustomed vigour. Thinking that 
 perhaps you might require some small moneys, cash for your 
 outfit, etc., I have directed that the sum of one hundred 
 pounds shall be deposited to your account at my agents', 
 Messrs. Milnes and Co., Axe Street, which you will do me a 
 great pleasure by accepting as a small token of my personal 
 regard. I remain, Yours truly, THOS. R. JAMES. 
 B. LEICESTER, Esq. 
 
 'P.S. The 100 will be handed over to you on personal 
 application. I have to ask your indulgence for the indifferent 
 composition of this letter, which you must please to ascribe 
 to my present condition. I find any mental effort very pain- 
 ful to me.' 
 
 I lay back, with my head deep in the pillow, staring at 
 the ceiling : ' Either the man is soft-brained,' I thought, 
 ' or flunkey-hearted, or ... I don't understand it ! 
 But I certainly shan't waste a quarter of another 
 minute in trying to. What's the old hypochondriac 
 to me ? Of course, I won't take his money, damn him ! ' 
 
 Then a crowd of other thoughts came upon me. 
 There was Rosy, and my books still at Glastonbury, and 
 the general futility of existence, and particularly of my 
 own. 
 
 A barrel-organ began playing some way off. I lay 
 and listened to it in an arid disgust. At last it stopped. 
 Then I got up, and proceeded to my toilet. ' This is 
 what is generally known as getting, or having got, out 
 of the wrong side of your bed this morning/ thought I, 
 going downstairs. 
 
 Mr. Brooke seemed better. He talked to me quite 
 naturally at breakfast about things. Then we parted : 
 he to go I do not know where, I to see about some
 
 116 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 orders that had not been punctually fulfilled, etc. But 
 when we met again at luncheon, I thought he had rather a 
 beaten-out look, a look of extreme weariness. I ascribed 
 it to the amount of conventional thought and worry that 
 he had gone through of late, and perhaps a little to the 
 unusual excitement of last night. 
 
 The next day was quite ordinary and uneventful. 
 And so the day after. Everything was done now. We 
 were to start early in the morning from Charing Cross. 
 Consequently, that night we went to bed earlier than 
 usual at about half-past nine. 
 
 I, out in the hall, lit my candle first : said good-night 
 to him in the library : and was almost up to the top of 
 the first staircase, where our ways separated, when I 
 heard him call out. I stopped and listened. 
 
 He called again ; 
 
 ' Boy ! ' 
 
 I answered : 
 
 'Yes?' 
 
 ' Good-night ! ' 
 
 ' Good-night.' 
 
 ' No : wait. I will be up in a moment to shake hands 
 with you. The night before the campaign opens, eh ? ' 
 
 He came out : lit his candle (I watched him over the 
 bannisters. I see him now) : and came up slowly. I 
 stepped back, and stood waiting for him in the dark 
 entrance of the passage. 
 
 Then we shook hands, but he did not let mine go 
 after he had pressed it. I turned my eyes from his face 
 generally to his eyes, and looked into them, puckering 
 up my mouth a little to one side. 
 
 He smiled : smiled a second time, and let fall my 
 hand. He meant something by that smile, and I under- 
 stood something, but I did not, and do not, quite know 
 what. 
 
 Mine was a dreamless sleep that night. 
 
 Sitting opposite him in the railway-carriage some five 
 minutes before we were to start, he caught me glancing 
 at him in a peculiar way. 
 
 ' I can tell you what you are thinking of/ he said, 
 bending towards me and putting his hand on my knee, 
 ' you are half-puzzled, half amused at my " delusion."
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 117 
 
 Oh yes, that's your word: "Delusion." Very well ! 
 We shall see what we shall see. My dear boy, / am 
 not given to morbidity, believe me. You didn't for- 
 get to get some papers ? ' 
 
 I started up. 
 
 ' I am sorry. I have forgotten all about them. I 
 will go at once. What papers shall I get ? ' 
 
 f No, I should have got them myself. Let me go. 
 I have been doing all the talking and you all the work. 
 It was very kind of old Gordon to come down to give me 
 a God-speed and shake o' the hand, wasn't it, Starkie ? 
 You didn't see him, I thought. He kept me chatter- 
 ing with him. Stop ! stop ! I J ll go. I really insist on 
 going ! ' 
 
 ' It is only at the end of the platform, sir/ I said, ' let 
 me ' 
 
 ' No, no, I will go myself.' You stop here. Is there 
 any paper you particularly like, Starkie ? Are you a 
 liberal or a conservative ? ' 
 
 Mr. Starkie, with his feet upon the cushions, looked 
 round with his usual beard-twitching smile : 
 
 ' Oh, I 'm neither. They 're both equally bad. Get 
 me a "society" paper.' 
 
 As Mr. Brooke hurried away, Mr. Starkie said some- 
 thing sarcastic about 'society papers.' Then, after a 
 pause (I knew nothing about 'society papers'), I went 
 on to the platform, and began walking up and down 
 before the carriage. 
 
 All at once I saw Mr. Brooke, with some papers in 
 his hand, coming towards the open gate. A shabbily- 
 dressed man was slouching along at right-angles to him. 
 They met. I saw Mr. Brooke start back : half-loose 
 and then clutch the papers : let the man pass by, and 
 then come towards me, but more slowly. 
 
 I thought nothing of it : re-entered the carriage ; and 
 a moment after he was at the door, and threw the 
 papers on to the seat. I was arranging some rugs upon 
 the rack. Then the guard came to the door to ex- 
 amine our tickets. I had Mr. Brooke's. As I gave 
 it up with mine, I noticed him. He was sitting staring 
 in front of him, with his hand supporting his head. He 
 was very pale. I stood in doubt, looking at him.
 
 118 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 ' Are you ill ? ' I asked. 
 
 He started and laughed. 
 
 ' Oh, it is nothing.' We are to have a fine day for 
 our journey. See how the sun is shining through the 
 mist ! It must be quite clear out in the country. . . . 
 Do you know what time we get to Dover, Starkie ? ' 
 
 There was a door between Mr. Brooke's room and 
 mine at the Hotel de Manchester in Paris. We had it 
 opened, and talked as we were dressing for dinner. He 
 was instructing me in the programme that had to be 
 gone through here in Paris. I was at my glass, spoiling 
 a white tie, when I heard him come from his room into 
 mine, but did not turn, thinking he was only continuing 
 the conversation. All at once I saw his face reflected 
 beside mine. I jerked myself round. 
 
 His eyes kept opening and shutting. I caught him 
 by the arm. He smiled at me. 
 
 1 It is as I thought/ he said slowly, ' we must get 
 out of this, boy. . . . That man at the station. I ran 
 against him.' 
 
 He shuddered. I heard his teeth click as he closed 
 his jaws. 
 
 ' You are ill ? ' 
 
 ' Yes. That man ! It went through me like Weland's 
 sword. Oh, the horrible smell ! ' 
 
 ' You think you have caught the small-pox ? ' I said. 
 
 ' I do not think : I know. How weak my eyes are. I 
 could almost fancy I saw motes before. . . . What folly !' 
 
 ' It is the crossing,' I said. ' You will be all right 
 soon/ 
 
 ' The crossing ? An old sailor like me ? Pooh ! And 
 yet ' 
 
 He began to consider to himself: 
 
 'And yet . . . how possibly . . .' 
 
 I caught him by the arm : 
 
 'Stop: stop!' I said. ' You will give yourself the 
 small-pox if you go on at that rate. Have you been 
 vaccinated ? ' 
 
 He moved from me, saying, with great calmness : 
 
 ' Not I ! Nonsense, every bit of it ! I never wanted 
 to have all the vile diseases flesh is heir to pumped in-
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE lip 
 
 to my system with bad lymph ! See. I will sit down 
 here, on the bed. I don't feel well : that 's all at 
 present. Giddy. Go and tell Starkie. Then go and 
 find a room for me somewhere. A nice room : and 
 flowers. Mind you tell the people what it 's for : a case 
 of small-pox.' (He stopped and smiled.) 'Variola 
 confluens, if they are particular. That means some- 
 thing like the certainty of a dead body in the house. 
 You may add that : people like to know. Never mind 
 what you have to pay. A nice room, Leicester. Re- 
 member, I shall want to be in it probably a fortnight 
 before I die. I used to like Passy : try in Passy. 
 Now go. No : I am not mad : not in the least ! ' 
 
 ' Will you let me fetch a doctor ? ' I said. 
 
 ' You will anger me in a moment ! Go and tell 
 Starkie, and find me a nice room. I want to get there 
 while I am sure of myself. We must think of other 
 people as well as of ourselves. Please go at once/ 
 
 I went to Starkie and sent him into my room : then 
 ran downstairs ; found out the maifre d'hotel, and tried 
 to explain to him that I wanted to know where I should 
 be able to find a house agent. Seeing that I only con- 
 fused the man, I came up to the room again. 
 
 Mr. Starkie was sitting beside Mr. Brooke, speaking 
 to him earnestly trying, I think to persuade him that 
 he was mistaken in his idea about the small-pox. He 
 stopped speaking as I came in. 
 
 I explained how useless it was for me to try to get 
 what was wanted : I did not know a street in Paris, 
 and could not speak French : Mr. Starkie had better 
 go, and leave me here with Mr. Brooke. They both 
 seemed to see this. Mr. Starkie jumped up, saying 
 that of course I was quite right. It would be a dread- 
 ful waste of time for me to go, and in the end I might 
 not be successful. Mr. Brooke thanked him. 
 
 As the door closed I sat down beside the bed. 
 
 After a little : 
 
 ' I wish you would let me get a doctor,' I said. 
 
 ' Not yet, not yet, useless ! We shall see, boy, in a 
 little while. I hate doctors. They are a blundering 
 race. . . . But I have one or two things to say to you 
 before you go ... Bertram/
 
 120 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 It was the first time he (or indeed anyone since I 
 was quite a child,) called me by my Christian name. 
 I felt a sort of answering thrill in me. 
 
 ' Before I go ? ' I said. 
 
 'Yes. I shall not allow you to stay, and run the 
 chance of catching it. That would never do. Nor must 
 Starkie : he will have to hurry on to Brindisi ; but I'm 
 afraid Clarkson won't care to go on without me. . . . 
 And he wishes to put it off, too. It is hard : after all 
 these years ! ' 
 
 A pause. 
 
 ' I have been speaking to him about you,' he went 
 on, ' he knows all my wishes. He is one of my exe- 
 cutors ... A brave man : rough and ready : will 
 follow anywhere, but can't lead. Clarkson has all the 
 brains of the party. You must have scientific observa- 
 tion to hand, or you can never do any real good. That 
 is the mistake we have all of us made. Brave men can 
 plod on and, when there is need, shoot straight (but 
 the less shooting, the better) : but there is something 
 else wanted as well, and that's perception. They don't 
 recognise more than half they see. There has only 
 been one naturalist in Africa yet Klesmer, I mean. 
 Think of that ! And he, poor devil, came to grief on 
 the ubiquitous reef of poverty. I have often regretted 
 I didn't know of him in time. But it 's the old, old 
 story ! When they had muscle, they hadn't brains : 
 and when they had brains, they hadn't muscle. These 
 explorers (especially the French) are a queer lot. Du 
 Camp's gorillas are . . . well, let's only say exaggera- 
 tions. And as for Louis . . . But there, there ! 
 Starkie knows all about it. He will tell you some day. 
 I have a thousand things in my head, and can only 
 bring you out one. About yourself. You would not 
 promise that night to give up your life to the Cause. 
 You said that you believed you had other work to do. 
 I want you to promise now. You must leave me to-night, 
 Bertram very soon/ 
 
 ' Leave you ? Here, with strangers ? ' 
 
 1 1 want no one but the Sisters. I have seen them 
 at work before : have worked with them. They are 
 all I want. With the small-pox, men die in delirium,
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 121 
 
 loathsome to everyone. You could not stay. ... I am 
 thinking of going into an hospital instead of taking an 
 apartment if it can be managed as I want it. Starkie 
 has gone to see. That was a foolish idea of mine : I am 
 glad you came back. It is all right. Starkie knows all 
 about it. If the doctors will only leave me alone. . . . 
 Oh, boy/ he said, ' if you would but promise to try ! Go 
 back and study, say, for three years : only three years ! 
 And learn everything, everything ! And then go down 
 there for another year to learn the life. And you will 
 pick up experience very quickly. I know you. Starkie 
 says he will do it ; he will not be too old : a brave fellow ! 
 Ah dear ! ah dear ! I have so many things that I want 
 to tell you : so many, so many that they confuse me, 
 and I can scarcely tell you anything. All one gigantic 
 jumble, eh ? But I have not been like myself since 
 that dream. You will promise ?' 
 
 I answered nothing. 
 
 He lifted up his head. 
 
 ' Promise me ! I am so sure you could do it. If you 
 only had some beacon-light to steer by ! At times I 
 have thought that I am infatuated about you. You did 
 not know that I was married once ? . . . And God 
 took away my son from me. Yet I bore it. And then 
 my wife, too. " The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken 
 away. Blessed be the name of the Lord." That was 
 what Blake said to me in the evening when my son 
 died. I only saw him dead. It was very sudden. 
 Dear child ! dear child ! . . . You have something of 
 him in you, Bertram, at times. . . . And then Ratcliffe 
 came and fell ill. He was not worth much. Intelli- 
 gent, and all that ; but had no interest in his Avork, and 
 could not have done much for it if he had had. And then 
 God sent you to me. Your struggle in London ! Oh, 
 you must promise me ! . . . Ha ! I am a fond old fool !' 
 
 At last : 
 
 ' You have not answered me,' he said, ' will you not 
 promise ? How taciturn you are sometimes ! ' 
 
 c I cannot, sir. It is as if you asked me to become a 
 priest, having no vocation.' 
 
 ' But I have determined that you shall promise ! I 
 have made you my heir. I am not rich. Some eight
 
 122 
 
 hundred a-year now ; much less than I once had. I 
 have spent much in the Cause. You will promise ? ' 
 
 ' I cannot, sir. I thank you none the less ; but you 
 must give it to some one else. To Mr. Starkie. I cannot 
 promise to give up my life to the pursuit of a thing 
 I do not care for : I mean care for,, enough for that.' 
 
 After a little he : 
 
 ' You will think better of it when you are older. 
 You are full of dreams now. Promise me now. In five 
 years . .. It is not for five years.' 
 
 ' I cannot promise. You must not leave me that 
 money. I could not take it without I did promise, 
 and I will never promise. How could I honestly?' 
 
 He sighed : 
 
 ' My head is too heavy. I cannot talk any more 
 now. Remember ; I will alter nothing. You will go 
 some day. Wait till you have been out in the world, 
 boy. I have seen bees covered with tiny red spiders 
 innumerable, tickled to death. I will alter nothing.' 
 
 I took his hand gently : 
 
 ' I am sorry sir/ I said, ' to seem so ungrateful. It 
 is not that I am really ; but . . I cannot do this : I 
 cannot give up my life to such a thing ! Do not think 
 that I set great store by my life. I do not. I am not 
 far from indifferent whether I live or whether I die 
 as yet. But, as you have just said, I am full of dreams. 
 I have scarcely dared to whisper to my own heart 
 what they are, but, such as they are, I will either climb up 
 to them or to nothing. Greatness is the only truth.' 
 
 In a little he said : 
 
 ' Oh greatness, greatness ! what greatness, boy ? It 
 is all vague visions dreams emptiness ! ' 
 
 ' No, no, not to me now.' 
 
 ' I am too weary to talk of it any more. Rest, rest ! 
 This is not the end.' 
 
 I did not say what was upon my tongue. I was 
 foolish to have said so much. I kept silence for a 
 little. Then : 
 
 ' Can I get you nothing ? ' I said. 
 
 ' Nothing, nothing ! . . . Let us wait for Starkie.' 
 
 I rested my elbow on my knee and my chin upon 
 my hand ; and so sat, looking at the floor. Mr. Brooke
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 123 
 
 lay motionless on his back with his eyes closed. His 
 breathing seemed to me short and heavy. 
 
 At last Starkie came. It was all right : Mr. Brooke 
 might go to the hospital. 
 
 Just before he went downstairs, he asked Mr. Starkie 
 to leave us alone for a moment. I stood by the large 
 wardrobe mirror, with a certain feeling of almost shame, 
 making me wish to avert my eyes from his face. He 
 came to me put one hand on to my shoulder in his 
 old way, smiling, and said : 
 
 'Well, Starkie knows all about the Book, too. It is 
 to be brought out soon after my death, and you are to 
 be joint editor with him.' 
 
 ' I, sir ? I know nothing about Africa ; nothing 
 even of literary matters. How shall I ?' 
 
 ' I wish it so. You will not refuse me this ? ' 
 
 ' But, sir, I am so young.' 
 
 ' People will laugh. Is that it ? ' 
 
 ' What people do or do not do, is nothing to me.' 
 
 'You say it with lots of emphasis. Very well. 
 Then you accept ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, sir. But I hope that neither Mr. Starkie nor I 
 may ever have to touch your book. You may recover.' 
 
 He smiled again ; less sadly than before, it seemed 
 to me. 
 
 ' No, no, that is not to be ! God has laid his hand 
 upon me ; and I am to pay the penalty of my sin. It 
 is just. May His will be done in all things !' 
 
 I answered nothing. 
 
 He sighed ; let fall his hand from my shoulder 
 listlessly ; turned, and was moving to the door. I 
 followed him and touched his arm : 
 
 ' You have not said good-bye to me, sir,' I said. 
 
 I passed in front of him. He raised a hand to 
 either shoulder, feeling up my right sleeve, but not 
 the other : then bent his face forward towards mine, 
 murmuring : 
 
 ' My eyes are a little weak. I too am a little weak 
 a little feeble. That is tautological eh ? . . . I 
 did not say good-bye to you ? That was careless of 
 me. You were in my thoughts in the thoughts 
 behind my thoughts, Bertram. Good-bye, boy, good-
 
 124 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 bye ! . . . I have no fear for thee in the end. Thou 
 wilt do it in the end. Keep a brave heart. God is 
 not so far from thee. . . .' 
 
 His lips moved after that, but I heard no sound 
 that came from them. Then felt the pressure of his 
 hands moving me aside : caught the door handle : 
 turned and opened the door, and he went out. 
 
 I stood watching him. Mr. Starkie was at the top 
 of the stairs. He offered Mr. Brooke his arm, who 
 half-absently took it ; then started, looked at him, and 
 smiled. They went down together slowly. 
 
 Mr. Starkie was to go on to Brindisi next day. I 
 told him that I would not leave Paris until I had heard 
 decisive news of Mr. Brooke. I had still ,15 left from 
 my 25, and had scarcely spent anything, Mr. Brooke 
 having insisted on paying all my expenses of outfit, etc. 
 
 Mr. Starkie told me of a ' pension ' in the Avenue 
 de Fontenoi. I went there on the same evening that 
 Mr. Brooke went to the hospital. The last thing Mr. 
 Starkie said to me (we were sitting in the courtyard 
 of the hotel: I was about to leave him for the 'pension'), 
 was that he had very little doubt but that Clarkson 
 would agree to give up the expedition, but still, if he 
 wished to go on, there was nothing left but to go on 
 with him : in which case I should hear at once, either by 
 letter or from Mr. Starkie himself. As for my expenses 
 at Paris, those would, of course, be defrayed by Mr. 
 Brooke : but of this, and many other matters, more anon. 
 
 It was late in the evening when I arrived at the 
 Avenue de Fontenoi. I went straight up to bed and 
 slept heavily. 
 
 In the morning no one appeared for cafe au lait and 
 petit pain in the salle-a-manger but Madame Rouff, her 
 child, and myself. 1 learnt from her that there was 
 a park quite close to us, the Pare Monceau. 
 
 I went there at once. It is a pretty greenery. I 
 found a sunlit, bubbling spring at the end of a pool in 
 what I took to be a sham ruin. And so, first of all, 
 sitting watching and playing with the stream : then 
 sitting watching the passers and some horses being 
 ti'ied, I was happy enough for the time. The sense of
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 125 
 
 it all being in an air and place somewhere between 
 dream and reality was perpetually with me. There 
 were water-jets of pierced hose playing to right and 
 left on the fresh grass : cooings of pigeons, and the 
 flappings of their wings as they took flight : small birds 
 taking baths in the dust : all the morning smiling and 
 soft, and fresh-breathed. I thought of my first morn- 
 ing in Regent's Park, and of others, and that by 
 degrees led me to thinking of Rosy. What was she 
 doing now ? And Minnie ? Such a dear beast, but 
 infernally thin ! 
 
 Later in the day I went to inquire about Mr. Brooke. 
 Nothing new. 'The symptoms of small-pox, you 
 know, sir, advance with order. This does not hurry 
 itself for anyone. You must keep quiet.' And so, day 
 after day, I went, and it was always the same answer. 
 ' This advances, this goes on advancing.' 
 
 I tried once to make myself unhappy by thinking 
 about him. I could not. My sorrow for him was of 
 itself hushed and not untender ; but I could not make 
 it into a disturbing gnat buzzing in my ears at all 
 hours. After that one attempt, I let my thoughts 
 wander on at pleasure, as I had always done before, 
 and was contented ; for such unceasing misery, pro- 
 ducible, it seemed to me, by continued concentration 
 of the mind on one subject, was not f true.' I in- 
 stinctively shrank from it. 
 
 My old wandering spirit came back upon me in 
 Paris quickly enough. I had nothing to interest me 
 indoors. Perhaps there were few things that could 
 have taken me out of myself then : I was living for my 
 ' dreams.' I saw many things before me. 
 
 So passed ten or twelve weary days, whose only 
 memory to me is unrecorded weariness. At last J 
 received a letter from Starkie, saying that he was back 
 at the Hotel de Manchester. Clarkson had decided 
 to proceed, but Starkie had refused to do so until 
 Brooke's fate was decided. I went down to him, and 
 we discussed the whole matter together. Then the 
 weary time began again. I spent most of it in wander- 
 ing about Paris, reading, and talking with Starkie ; but 
 that last was only as we went down together to the
 
 126 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 hospital each morning for news, and sometimes an 
 hour or so in the evenings, he having a good deal of 
 business to do in one shape or another. 
 
 On about the thirteenth day (but all accurate record 
 or memory is gone) I lit upon the Louvre, and from that 
 hour forward was in it continually. It gave me much 
 quiet pleasure. 
 
 This was broken into by the news of the nineteenth 
 morning. Secondary fever had set in. For the first 
 time, Starkie seemed to give up hope. The effect on 
 me was quite different. I could not realise the fact of 
 Mr. Brooke being in the state I, I almost thought, knew 
 he was in. I went into the Pare Monceau, and sat 
 there in a sort of warm, gold dream of wilderment for 
 some time, till, all at once, I caught myself starting up 
 with the exclamation : 
 
 ' No, no ! If I was right, then, in refusing, I am right 
 in now having refused.' And I was right. For what 
 had I to do with it ? ' 
 
 I spent the afternoon sculling on the river out at 
 Courbevoi. 
 
 After dinner I went for a walk along the boulevards, 
 softly singing or whistling to myself; till, in a dim 
 street by the Opera, I woke up out of vague, sweet 
 thoughts into the perception of something like a breath 
 of fluttering music in me, now melting, now languoi-ous, 
 now fierce, floating up into my brain and pulsing 
 through me, from time to time, with a longing and 
 yearning to stretch out my arms in a happy cry to some- 
 thing. And in this strange, half-ecstatic state I came 
 home ; threw off my things, and got into bed as into a 
 white cool haven. 
 
 In that night I had a strange and vivid dream. I 
 stood below somewhere, and saw a lady I had known 
 once, in a carriage with a dead child, on a green-lit 
 down by the sea. The carriage had just crossed a 
 bridge. A river rolled down smoothly over golden 
 sands. A boy on the right shore stood watching a ball 
 that the up-cresting sea-waves kept lifting up to and 
 back from him every moment. I rose, and crossed over 
 the stone bridge ; came behind the carriage and began 
 climbing over it from the back. The lady turned, and,
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 127 
 
 seeing me, put out her brown-gloved hand to me ; and 
 then, when I would have caught and pressecj it into 
 my bosom, touched my chest with her finger-tips : the 
 carriage moved onwards : the child wailed : I fell back- 
 wards and down, and awoke trembling and wet with 
 trickling sweat. 
 
 It was the next morning that, when we came to- 
 gether to the hospital, they told us that Mr. Brooke 
 had died during the night delirious. 
 
 In a long moment Starkie turned away. I followed 
 him. 
 
 We went in silence along the pavement with the on- 
 moving people, till I said to myself half-aloud : 
 
 ' I cannot realise that it is so.' 
 
 ' Nor I,' he said in the same way, ' nor I scarcely. 
 ... He was a good man.' 
 
 Then I said : 
 
 ' It is a deep thought to think that his soul has gone 
 out like a candle, and that tJiat is the end of him.' 
 
 Starkie answered nothing. 
 
 ' I wish,' I said, ' you would tell me truly and from 
 the bottom of your soul : do you believe that that is 
 the end of him ? ' 
 
 In a little : 
 
 ' I believe it,' he said, ' the energy that was in him 
 has undergone some change. We call that change 
 death. It is, I believe, the end of us.' 
 
 ' Do you think that, when that change comes to you, 
 you will end, that there will be no more of you?' 
 
 ' I do. Death looses that which grips the gathered 
 threads of our individualities : the threads fall away, 
 going to other invisible work, just as the threads of the 
 body which is left slowly fade into the earth and air, 
 going for other visible work. What death or, to use 
 what seems to me its proper name, solution may be, I 
 cannot of course pretend to guess : but our grand- 
 children may be able to, and their grandchildren, 
 perhaps, to know. You asked me to tell you my belief : 
 what I truly and from the bottom of my heart believe. 
 That is my belief.' 
 
 ' I thank you for it,' I said, ' for from to-day I purpose 
 beginning my soul's life anew, and I might go far be-
 
 128 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 fore I met one who believed what you believe, and 
 would tell it me as you have told it me. Will you let 
 me ask you one more question ? ' 
 
 ' Twenty, if you care to- ask them.' 
 
 ' Have you not in you a feeling, a strange unaccount- 
 able, but nevertheless undeniable feeling, that you, you 
 your individuality, as you said, cannot possibly be 
 destroyed ? ' 
 
 ' You mean have I, what is called the instinct of im- 
 mortality ? No : I have not, now. When I first 
 began to think about these things, my mind was 
 strongly prepossessed in favour of immortality, and 
 consequently this instinct soon developed itself from 
 its passive unconsciousness into active consciousness, 
 and I held fast to the idea of immortality when every- 
 thing else, save belief in a deity, had gone. It was not 
 till after more than three years of thoughtfulness and 
 study, that I learnt that my desire for immortality was 
 only a synonym for my selfishness, and, having learnt 
 this, I began to see, too, the complete needlessness, 
 though as complete naturalness, of that desire. I de- 
 termined to devote myself to benefiting, as far as I 
 could, my fellow men. Whether this was a result 
 from, or parallel to, my loss of all belief in immortality, 
 it would be difficult to say. At any rate, there are the 
 two facts contemporaneous.' 
 
 ' And do you not believe in a deity either ? ' 
 
 ' I cannot answer you ; for I do not know. I am 
 content, seeing a world full of ignorance and woe, to 
 strive to lessen however little of that ignorance, 
 knowing that thereby I shall lessen a corresponding 
 amount of that woe. This seems to me the one un- 
 deniable duty of each of us : to make the earth better 
 for our having been in it.' 
 
 I answered nothing. We walked on together in 
 silence till we came to the hotel door. Then, as he 
 half-turning faced me, I held out my hand for his, and 
 when it was in mine, pressed it, looking into his eyes 
 that looked into mine, and I said : 
 
 ' Thank you.' 
 
 We passed to other matters ; for what more was to 
 be said or done as regarded this ?
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 129 
 
 We bought Brooke's grave in Pere-Lachaise a 
 perpetuite. Upon the tombstone a plain white marble 
 cross was to be put, his name, the dates of his birth 
 and death, and below : 
 
 ' Thy tvill be done.' 
 
 Ill 
 
 ON my way to London, I sketched out something like 
 a plan of action for what I should do when I got there. 
 The first thing, I thought, was the mastering of Mr. 
 Brooke's business affairs, all (I meant) that was con- 
 nected with his property and money : the next thing, 
 the editing of the book. I had determined to take as 
 much of the income of one year as would keep me in 
 comfort while I was engaged upon my work for him. 
 Starkie had given me a letter of introduction to Pro- 
 fessor Strachan, who would assist me, or rather, who 
 would be assisted by me. Doubtless, after the first 
 few weeks, I should be able to find time to set about 
 the recovery of my books and clothes from Glastonbury. 
 Also, to see Rosy. Also, to meditate as to what I 
 should do when the time of my work for Mr. Brooke 
 was over. 
 
 I had a certain amount of trouble about the business 
 affairs, despite both what Starkie had already done to 
 save me from as much of it as possible, and the ex- 
 treme courtesy, and indeed kindness, of Mr. Brooke's 
 lawyers. Howbeit, at the end of some ten days, I 
 found that it was now time to present the letter of 
 introduction to Professor Strachan. 
 
 He received me quite cordially. I had, at a dinner 
 at Mr. Brooke's, seen but not spoken to him, and so 
 he was not altogether a stranger to me : besides which, 
 I had heard a good deal about him from Starkie on 
 our last night together, and he, I could see, was not 
 unacquainted with me. He arranged to come to 
 Dunraven Place the next morning, and we would then 
 proceed to examine the work that was before us. 
 
 After we had talked a little on general subjects, he 
 asked me to go up with him and have some tea with
 
 130 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 Mrs. Strachan in the drawing-room. Up, then, we 
 went and into the drawing-room, where we found 
 three womenkind, one middle-aged and two young, 
 to whom I was presented : Mrs. and the two Miss 
 Strachans. Mrs. Strachan struck me as an ordinary 
 good-looking middle-aged female, and her two daughters 
 as two ordinary pretty young females, clothed with 
 decorous fashionableness and speaking platitudes of 
 the most irreproachable character : or shortly, as three 
 'ladies.' And, this seeming so, it followed that not 
 even a certain demureness in Miss Connie's face and 
 manner, not unsuggestive of experience in the art of 
 flirting, added to what I subsequently was told was a 
 ' grave sweetness' in Miss Isabel, were enough to 
 entice me out of my shell. It was far more amusing, 
 as it seemed to me, to sit and listen to their silly 
 prattle, which, it was not hard to see, they took for 
 delightful if not brilliant conversation, than to enter 
 into the splashing shallows myself; for, if I had been 
 a talker, I must inevitably have missed over half of the 
 nature-strokes which as a listener I caught. The 
 amusement of hearing Mrs. Strachan and her daughters 
 talk about ' Culture/ while the Professor sat drinking 
 his tea and occasionally throwing in a gibe, which they 
 either did not hear or quite misunderstood, seemed to 
 give me something of an insight into the meaning of 
 the word Comedy. Finally, towards the end of an 
 almost irrepressible fit of amusement, I rose and said 
 good-bye to them, and went away down the stairs and 
 out into the street, hot and a little exhausted. If I 
 had stayed much longer, I thought, I must have shown 
 some sign that perhaps might have offended them, and 
 that would have been to be regretted. And then I 
 was led to think of my last society experiences of 
 three, it seemed years, but it was only weeks ago, 
 till I came to Dunraven Place, when it occurred to me 
 to write to Mother McCarthy about my things at 
 Glastonbury. 
 
 Accordingly I wrote : took out my letter and posted 
 it ; and went for a walk into the Park, Hyde Park, till 
 seven, when it was time for supper. And after supper 
 came a reading of Esmond, highest Thackerayan
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 131 
 
 art, in the low, red-leathered armchair under the green- 
 shaded lamp ; till eleven, dumb-bells, bed and sleep. 
 
 The next morning Professor Strachan and I began 
 our work. 
 
 My Journal takes out a new lease on that evening. 
 (It seems to have given me pleasure, though no great 
 pleasure, I fancy, to record events or conversations, or 
 to deliver some few of my impressions of present 
 people and things in that way. Perhaps there was 
 some small necessity upon me to write these things. 
 I cannot say.) 
 
 Here is from a week later : 
 
 'We are often almost in despair over the manu- 
 scripts. In the first place the writing is fearful. He 
 seems to have thought it quite enough to write the 
 first three or four letters of a word, for the rest is 
 nearly always comprised in a twirl. Now this is 
 aggravating to the son of man. Then, the Journal 
 is broken off by chance notes, and these notes have 
 references to other note-books, and so on. I never 
 was made for editing other people's books. I lack 
 patience, and the worst of it is, that 1 don't believe 
 that anyone can do anything worth calling thing 
 without patience. The Professor is Job and Griselda 
 put into one. 
 
 'After a week's hard work we have arranged the 
 stuff, I should say materials or notes, I suppose, 
 into something like chronological order, having sepa- 
 rated the whole mass into three almost equal parts : to 
 wit, The Travels in Palestine and parts of Arabia, The 
 Expedition from South Africa upwards, and the last 
 Expedition to Injiji. 
 
 ' A sheet was pasted on to the inside of the cover of 
 the first note-book of the " Journal through Palestine 
 and parts of Arabia/' which we are going, we think, to 
 use as an introduction to the two first expeditions. It 
 is as follows : 
 
 ' " This .Journal through Palestine and parts of 
 Arabia was undertaken by me in 18 , with a view 
 to helping by details, principally geographical, my 
 dear friend the Rev. Charles Blake, in the compilation
 
 132 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 of his proposed History of the Origins of Christianity. 
 On returning home, however,, in 1 8 , I learnt that he 
 had been compelled to abandon his scheme for certain 
 most satisfactory reasons. I therefore laid aside my 
 MS., hoping that events might some day make it 
 possible for him to utilise it as he had originally 
 intended. With that hope I seal it up now. In case 
 of my death, this packet is to be given to him unopened. 
 
 '" February Uth, 18. 
 
 ' " My Journal through parts of Arabia was connected 
 with the same scheme, Blake proposing to draw a 
 parallel between the life of the Saviour and that of 
 Mahomet, as illustrating " [Last two words erased.] 
 
 ' It seems in some way a little strange to be sitting 
 here copying out these words of a dead man. It would 
 perhaps seem really strange if I realised even now, 
 that he was dead. Is he dead ? It seems rather as if 
 he had gone a journey into a far land, and now stays 
 there. I wonder if I shall ever read this after many 
 years to come, and what shall I think of it then? 
 
 ' I think I should like to go to Palestine some day. 
 Nazareth must be a very beautiful place, from what he 
 says of it, and what so sweet as to wander in that dear 
 
 land, thinking of ' [Cetera desunt, and this last 
 
 scratched out.] 
 
 A little lower : 
 
 'That sheet may originally have been pasted on the 
 outside of the packet ; at any rate the packet has been 
 broken open ; for the note-books are all mingled with 
 those of the other two journals in the drawer,' etc., etc. 
 
 Another entry : 
 
 ( Books and things from Glastonbury. My Ruperti's 
 Juvenal missing, also my Greek Lex., also several 
 note-books. A distinct nuisance. I have divided my 
 day off as follows Breakfast, 8.30: Italian, 9 to 10: 
 The Book with Strachan, 10 to 1 : Walk, 2 to 5 : 
 Greek, 5 to 7 : (Supper): Latin, 8 to 10: English, 10 
 to 1 1 . I find it is the only way to get any real work 
 done. Now and then I go with the Strachans to the
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 133 
 
 theatre, or spend afternoons or evenings out at people's 
 houses. Mrs. Strachan does her best to drag me into 
 what she calls " society," by introducing me to her 
 women friends (especially those having daughters), who 
 send me invitation cards, and the rest of it. I believe 
 she would like to see me married, or at any rate en- 
 gaged, to some young woman or other. She seems to 
 look upon me as lawful prey in the matter of endurance 
 of female agacerie. Sometimes I grow mischievous, 
 and talk " atheism " to the young women she puts me 
 with, or who are put with me, or whatever the real 
 case may be. It is sufficiently amusing. I had great 
 sport with Miss Isabel's " grave sweetness" last Wed- 
 nesday afternoon in this way. (Miss Isabel would 
 marry me, "atheism" and all, I think, if I, after all 
 proper formalities, asked her to ; which is a tribute to 
 my personal charms and her belief in my personal 
 possessions that I appreciate.) Miss Connie, however, 
 resolutely refuses to be drawn into discussion of any- 
 thing deeper than flirting, and I respect her for it. 
 She is a frank little sensualist. Take it all in all, the 
 womenkind I have so far met with have been of a 
 most God-forsaken sort. There is not one that has 
 seemed to me worth more than a mild sort of feeling 
 that might by some be denominated "lust." The 
 idea of having to live with one of these things for your 
 natural life, short though it is ! But the idea is happily 
 out of the question; for where could you find one that 
 would live with you without being your wife with bell, 
 book, ring, and the rest of it ? And I simply would 
 not, could not, go through the foolery of the marriage 
 service for any woman (or so I think) alive. The more 
 I consider Christianity as compared with humanity I 
 mean, that Christianity is the only divinity and all 
 other than Christians are either damned or at the best 
 deluded the more I revolt against it as an accursed 
 libel on God, if He is, and His justice.' 
 
 About three weeks later : 
 
 ' The first part of our work was finished to-day. I 
 must say I hope the rest may be a little more interest- 
 ing. And, indeed, it has at times seemed, perhaps
 
 134, A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 illogically, that this "Journal through Palestine and 
 parts of Arabia" has been as it were extra work; at 
 any rate, it has at times made me feel a little 
 aggrieved. Strachan doesn't care for it, either. I 
 told him that Mr. Starkie had said nothing to me 
 about it, nor yet of Blake's proposed "History" in 
 connection with which Brooke's journey appeared to 
 have been taken. He said that he had known of it 
 through Clarkson, but had thought that the MS. had 
 been destroyed, he did not quite know why. 
 
 'We should have liked not to have suppressed or 
 added a single word of it, for obvious reasons ; but 
 this was really quite impossible. At times we came 
 upon whole pages of, what I dare say were abbrevia- 
 tions, but which were to us absolutely meaningless 
 signs : then there were long extemporary prayers, 
 coupled with the most childish virulent attacks on 
 different scientific men of the day and Christians whose 
 conceptions of Christianity were different to Brooke's 
 own. Now all this was neither beautiful nor to the 
 point, and, besides, we felt sure that he himself would 
 never have wished them to see the light, at any rate, 
 in their present form. Accordingly we eliminated 
 certain passages that seemed to us to offend : and 
 were, I think, justified in so doing; for to whom could 
 they do good ? Certainly not to the future investigator 
 of the origins of Christianity : certainly not to the people 
 who would read this book : certainly not to the memory 
 of Brooke. None the less, I for my part felt that it was 
 very delicate work touching anything, and so (ap- 
 parently) did Strachan. However, it's done now, and 
 the best we could do it : so what 's the good of troubling? 
 
 ' It is astonishing how carelessly he put his materials 
 together, considering that the object in view was one 
 apparently so dear to him. I had to copy it nearly all 
 out. The only interesting part was where he debated 
 upon the sincerity of Mahomet. This we left intact 
 in the form of an excursus.' 
 
 The next day has : 
 
 'Went to Maitland Street this afternoon, after a 
 good boring at Mrs. Cunningham's. Upon my soul
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 135 
 
 (Fa$on de parler /) I don't think I will ever enter a 
 drawing-room again. The sickening foolery we all 
 talked ! And yet ' [a pause expressed on continuing 
 by half a row of dots.] ' . . . And yet, how, if I do 
 not go out into the world and talk with people therein, 
 am I ever likely to meet the woman I am to love, nay, 
 love already in my heart ? " O dear woman with 
 sweet clear eyes, standing waiting and looking for me 
 while in my light boat on that, the night of my life, I 
 pass from the shadowiness into the silver-purled moon- 
 track ; pass on and on to the grass mingled with the 
 gently-moving wave in which the roses dip. I am 
 there now, and know not of you : see, breathe, only 
 this terrestrial beauty. I step from the boat into the 
 soft grass : the rope is tied, and I turn and come up 
 through the rose-perfumed garden, up through the 
 brushing dew-laden bushes ; and look into the blue 
 unspeakable depth, and the stars, and one crystal- 
 rayed star beside the peerless moon, and then look and 
 see you, O dear woman mine, with sweet, clear eyes, 
 standing waiting and looking for me, and feeling that 
 I am come at last. And at first it seems that we are 
 there in a dream, parts, unknown parts of it ; and I 
 come closer to you, closer and closer, till more than 
 dream's passion grows in me, and at last my eyes are 
 in yours and yours in mine, and my lips can feel your 
 playing breath. Oh the kiss ! the kiss ! the kiss ! the 
 draining of life and love! "Mine, mine, mine, mine at 
 last ! 3/t 1 / in Ike time of eternity : met, and with a meeting 
 that can never be undone. thou loved, thou loved, tJiou 
 art come to me at last ! thou loved, thou loved, take me 
 body and soul to thyself. As river mingles with sea, as 
 moisture with cloud : so let mine mingle with thine ; for 1 
 am thine, and thou art mine, and we are Love's !" 
 ' Rosy was out.' [A pause, expressed as before.] 
 ' ... I do wonder if I ever really shall meet a 
 " dear woman " ? It doesn't seem like it somehow. 
 At any rate, I shan't meet her in that way. What 
 brought up that sudden vision ? I saw it as distinctly 
 as I see that window-curtain there with the red blind 
 behind it. This is purposeless. 
 
 ' Rosy was out, and, as I didn't feel like waiting, I
 
 136 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 scrawled a few lines for her on a leaf of my pocket- 
 book : tore it out, and, giving it to Mrs. Smith, who 
 was wiping her dirty hand on her dirtier apron, asked 
 if anyone had my room now ? 
 
 '"Oh yes, sir, Miss 'Owlet 'as it now, sir! Another 
 young lady, Miss Martin, sir, 'as the back room. Miss 
 Rosy've changed, sir. She likes the front room best, 
 sir she does ! It 's more airy like.' (With a twist 
 of the jaw, and an indescribable tone.) 
 
 ' " Oh," I said. 
 
 1 "Miss Martin's a friend of Miss 'Owlet's, sir. But 
 I don't know anything about her 'istory nothing 
 about her 'istory, sir." 
 
 ' " Oh," I said again. And then : 
 
 ' " You will give her that when she comes in, Mrs. 
 Smith ? " 
 
 ' " Yes, sir, I '11 be sure I will, sir.' 
 
 '"Thank you," I said. "Good-evening." 
 
 ' " Good-evening, sir. . I '11 be sure to give it her." 
 
 ' The old she-devil ! ' 
 
 The next entry is five days later : 
 
 ' Rosy, not seeing fit to write to me as I asked her 
 (I don't quite know what I expected her to write), I 
 went to No. 3 again yesterday. She had just gone 
 out. I was a little angered (having a most ridiculous 
 v idea that she had done it on purpose): scrawled her 
 another note, " Why hadn't she written to me ? If she 
 would only tell me some fixed hour, I would be happy 
 to come and see her," etc. : gave it to Mrs. Smith, as 
 servile as usual ; and then went for a long walk. Half 
 round Regent's Park : up Primrose Hill once more, 
 and then back to Dunraven Place. It was all strangely 
 dim to me, this walk over the, old land. 
 
 ' After my afternoon's walk to-day, I found a letter 
 from Rosy waiting me. 
 
 ' " DEAR MR. LEICESTER, I was very happy to see you 
 had not forgotten me. 
 
 " I am very sorry that I was out when you called on me 
 the two times. I hope you are quite well, aud have en- 
 joyed yourself in Paris. 
 
 " Minnie is quite well, and I am quite well. 
 
 "And I have not forgotten the Swallow Song. Yours 
 truly, ROSY HOWJ,ET.
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 137 
 
 " P.S. I shall be in to-morrow night early by eight. If 
 you care to go a walk with me then, 1 shall be very happy to 
 go a walk with you. I hope you have not forgotten Minnie. 
 Yours truly, ROSY HOWLET (Rosebud.)" 1 
 
 The Journal follows : 
 
 'The work is much easier now, though not par- 
 ticularly interesting. Brooke, I must say, seems to 
 have taken a good deal more pains over his own par- 
 ticular mania than over his friend's. Great parts of 
 this second Journal are continuous narrative that (thank 
 God) require nothing on our part. Strachan thinks 
 my old friends Parker, Innes, and Co., will be the best 
 publishers to send it to when it 's done. Here is a 
 copy of my preface. But I can't trouble to do it now. 
 I only said that all the credit of the editing of the book 
 was due to Strachan, that I had only, etc., etc., etc. 
 There was nothing else to be said. 
 
 'He calculates finishing it by about the middle of 
 July. O Destiny ! ' 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE next day after lunch, I went for a walk to H amp- 
 stead, and wandered about there, my thoughts alter- 
 nating between the beautiful sweet nature about me 
 and the past days of my first London weeks, till half- 
 past six. Then I remembered that Rosy would be 
 waiting for me at eight. It used to take me some- 
 thing under an hour to get from Maitland Street to 
 Hampstead. It was now half-past six. What to do 
 with myself for an heur? from seven to eight, that 
 was. Then my thoughts turned off in memory : 
 memory of the many times I had come marching 
 along this very pavement in those first London days 
 whose second half was an age of weariness and woe. 
 Here was the very corner at which I stood that dreary 
 day. Was it all a dream ? ' I stand still here to-day/ 
 I said to myself, ' as I stood still here that day, and 
 look at the brown cracked concrete of the low wall 
 and the black sooty rails that top it. The windows 
 are lampless too, as they were when I first stood still 
 here. Will the left one light up suddenly too as it
 
 138 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 did then ? No. Lampless yet. Who lives here ? 
 God knows ? And yet, foolish though it be, will not 
 the thought occur again : ' /* it nothing to you, all ye 
 who pass by, my weariness and my woe.' Here I put my 
 hand on the nearer cemented gate-post, brown and 
 cracked like the low wall, and think of the figure that 
 leant against it in that dreary rain of half-darkness 
 when my body seemed all bloodless, and the girl 
 hurried by me with her huddled-up dress and umbrella 
 spread over her. I see her now her quick glance, 
 and that hurry by : the devil that rose in me ' 
 
 The door above opened and an old lady came out 
 and, looking at me through the spectacles on her 
 elevated nose, asked : 
 
 ' Do you want anything, young man ? ' 
 
 I took off my hat and held it off. 
 
 'Nothing,' I said, 'madam, I thank you. I hope 
 my stopping a moment to examine your gate-post has 
 not troubled you ? I see that the cement is cracked 
 and peeling off. Now I am the patentee of a cement 
 which is warranted ' 
 
 ' No/ she said sharply, looking at me over the 
 spectacles of her depressed nose, '/ don't want any 
 of your cement, young man. Good-day ! ' 
 
 And was in and viewing me suspiciously through 
 the glass panel of the closed door. If I had not been 
 afraid of disturbing her feelings, I should have given 
 a shout. As it was, I repressed the shout, and marched 
 off quickly, laughing to myself. 
 
 It was a little past seven when I reached the canal 
 bridge at the bottom of Maida Vale. I stayed a little 
 there, looking at the flowers, finally buying a rose, 
 and carrying it off with me. This I took to No. 3, and 
 inquired of Mrs. Smith if Miss Howlet was in ? She 
 wasn't : as I expected. I left the rose, and went for 
 a prowl about the streets. 
 
 All at once I found myself looking at the Marble 
 Arch clock, by which it was five minutes past eight. 
 Away I went up the Edgware Road, and was marching 
 along at full speed, a little past Praed Street on the 
 right side, when, passing before a gas-flaming fruiterer's, 
 my eye took in a girl's form, and by the time I had
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 139 
 
 gone five or six yards my heart was up in my throat 
 at the sudden thought of Rosy I I turned back at 
 once. We met face to face, she smiling up into mine, 
 I looking with a strange graveness into hers. 
 
 ' Well/ she said, ' you were in a hurry ! ' 
 
 We were walking on together, I taking one stride 
 to her two. It seemed to me remarkable somehow, 
 this meeting. We had not shaken hands. I did not 
 know what to say. We walked on together for a little 
 in silence. Then I began : 
 
 ' I am very glad to see you. And I hope you are well. 
 If you have taken walks, as you told me you would, then 
 I am sure you are better than you were when I left you.' 
 
 We talked of general things that did not interest me 
 or, I think, her much, till we came to the corner of Mait- 
 land Street. Then ensued questions and explanations, 
 and, in about five minutes, Rosy returned from her visit 
 to No. 3, full of the beautiful rose I had given her. 
 
 ' Beautiful rose ? ' I said. ' . . . How do you know 
 / gave it to you ? ' 
 
 ' Because,' she answered, ' who else would ? ' 
 
 She was ready for the walk now. We set off at 
 once, in a half-mechanical way Park-wards, beginning 
 to talk like two children. 
 
 All at once : 
 
 ' Here 's your locket ! ' she said, taking it from inside 
 her coat, and holding it out, small and round and silver. 
 
 ' Nay, yours,' I said, 'not mine.' 
 
 ' You gave it me, though.' 
 
 ' I did. That made it yours/ 
 
 ' But it was yours before that, or how could you have 
 given it me ? ' 
 
 I acquiesced, with the reflection that Adam must 
 have had some trouble to get an authentic account of 
 the eating of the historic apple. 
 
 ' What are you laughing at ? ' said Rosy. 
 
 ' Have you forgotten the Swallow Song ? ' 
 
 ' Forgotten it ? O my gracious, no ! 
 
 " She comes, she comes, the swallow, 
 bringing beautiful hours, 
 beautiful seasons, 
 white on her " 
 
 What are you laughing at ? '
 
 140 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 It was no wonder she asked. Peal after peal of 
 laughter, quenchless, re-echoing, came from me. The 
 more I tried to stop it, the more it came. At last I 
 stood still, exhausted, with my hands on rny hips. But 
 a glimpse of her face was enough to generate a fit of 
 laughter as violent as the first. 
 
 We went on together somehow or other, I still shaking 
 with this second fit, she solemn to a degree. All at 
 once it struck me that she was a little afraid I was 
 mad. And then came the task of appeasing her 
 outraged sense of dignity. I was sorry, I said, to have 
 laughed in this way. I explained that what had made 
 me begin was the way she scampered over the Swallow 
 Song . . , and so on. 
 
 Her outraged sense of dignity took a good deal of 
 appeasing, but I managed it in the end. Nay, I 
 pleaded so hard, that I obtained from her a repetition 
 of the Swallow Song, as we sat on that seat not far 
 from the top of Primrose Hill, which I knew so well, 
 so well, and she too remembered perhaps. 
 
 We parted at the door of No. 3 at about eleven. 
 
 As I marched away down the Edgware Road, I went 
 through the evening I had spent with her, ending at 
 her grave bow of the head as I went back from her 
 at the door with my hat down in my hand ; but, going 
 across the Park, other thoughts came to me, and I 
 had lost sight of the evening I had spent with her 
 when I reached home. 
 
 Here the Journal has a single entry : 
 
 ' O Claire, Claire, that we should have met here in 
 the time of eternity, and so parted ! Claire, Claire ! 
 Oh, it is a vile devil's earth, and good is only in the 
 slave. To have held thee in my arms, and, with 
 my eyes in thine, to have kissed thee once, and 
 died. Death were sweet so. But it is useless to 
 think. This city is a market where souls are pledged 
 for bodies, and bodies for souls, and wealth buys all. 
 I will go out from it. Useless to think, useless to 
 think ! ' 
 
 It was a few days after this that Rosy and I went
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 141 
 
 our second evening walk together. There is no allusion 
 to it in the Journal, and as I was during most of it in 
 more or less of a half-dreamy, half-abstracted state, I 
 cannot remember much of what we said. That walk 
 was not what might be called a success. We went up 
 to the top of Primrose Hill again, and I snuffed in the 
 breeze and was somewhat revived; but (it had been 
 raining heavily earlier in the day) that made me 
 appreciate how stickily muddy it was going down, and 
 I was forthwith driven into a state of utter saplessness 
 and disgust. Rosy mocked at me as well as she could, 
 but I took no heed. Finally she declared she wouldn't 
 walk with me any more. (This was half-way down 
 the St. John's Wood Road.) I acquiesced. W T e stood 
 still, I looking in front of me at nothing in particular, 
 not thinking of offering my hand. Then she turned 
 and walked away. I did not look at her. \Vhen she 
 had got some twenty yards, I looked at her with a 
 comic smile : sighed : hit my iron-tipped stick-end 
 straight on the pavement : said a little wearily, ' Oh 
 dear,' and went with large strides after her. 
 
 I soon caught her up, and we walked on side by 
 side in silence ; till I observed : 
 
 'I'm sorry I was rude if I mas rude.' 
 
 ' Then you were rude then ! ' said Rosy, tossing her 
 head a little. 
 
 'Rudeness implies deliberation,' I said, 'now the 
 best definition of sin is : the deliberately doing any- 
 thing that may harm anyone else. Thus, it is sin to 
 buy a pistol, intending to kill, and then absolutely 
 killing a man : or, to ruin your body by excess, intending 
 to beget, and then absolutely begetting, children.' 
 
 ' You talk great stuff ! ' said Rosy. 
 
 ' Dear child,' I answered, ' I intended you to apply 
 my definition of sin to the point at issue, my rudeness 
 or unrudeness. But this, like so many good intentions, 
 has gone to the artificial protection of infernal cause- 
 ways.' 
 
 Rosy vouchsafed no reply. 
 
 I proceeded : 
 
 ' Well, be that as it may, considering the inability of 
 the feminine intellect to comprehend anything of subtle
 
 142 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 in the matter of metaphysical psychology, or anything 
 else you like, I shall proceed to admit that I was rude ; 
 and apologise accordingly.' 
 
 '/never asked you to apologise/ she said. 
 
 ' I never said that you did, my dear well, something 
 or other.' 
 
 'You're very aggravating to-night, that's what you 
 are !' 
 
 'Oh, Polyphemus and Abracadabra, did you ever 
 hear such a libel as that ? ' 
 
 Rosy began to hum a tune shortly and defiantly. 
 
 After a little I said : 
 
 ' Lady, it seemeth unto mine uncultured ear that 
 thou warblest the melody of which men say the vene- 
 rable vaccine one rendered up the ghost. Now : 
 
 ' You 're very cruel ! ' she suddenly sobbed. ' And I 
 hate you. Why do you go on at me like that ? . . . 
 (The rest inarticulate.) 
 
 ' God bless our souls ! ' cried I, standing still, ' if ' 
 
 And I proceeded in a brotherly way to comfort her. 
 And so at last got her in a rather limp state to No. 3, 
 where we said a final good-night after I had promised 
 to write and tell her when I could get time to go for 
 another walk. 
 
 If it had not been for my recalling friend Horace to 
 the effect that ' Dulce est desipere in loco,' I should 
 have been in a most disconsolate humour going home. 
 As it was, I could not help laughing at the memory of 
 my fantastic squabble. 
 
 The next entry in the Journal is a record of my 
 having seen, or thought I had seen, at a theatre the 
 girl of the nuts, her who struck me so on the night of 
 my interview with Colonel James. (She was playing a 
 second part in a ' realistic drama,' and not playing it 
 badly, it seemed to me.) 
 
 ' I was with the Strachans in a box made for two 
 people to see comfortably in, and three others to be as 
 miserable as they disliked. I asked the Professor, 
 when we two went out for a stroll in the passages 
 during an entr' acte, if he had seen her before, and he 
 said that he had not. 
 
 ' I should like to know her. She might marry me
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 143 
 
 perhaps, and then I should be properly wretched for 
 the rest of my life, if I didn't murder her or she me 
 before the honeymoon was over. Well, the original 
 expression holds all right, even then. I wouldn't much 
 mind her murdering me, if I was only sure she'd be 
 hanged afterwards. I have thoughts of proposing to 
 Connie. She is a sweet little cocotte, only wanting 
 development. But it would be better fun to marry 
 Isabel, and see what could be done in the way of 
 ruffling her " grave sweetness " a little. I '11 stop here.' 
 
 My feeling towards the book was, at the end, nothing 
 short of positive loathing. Strachan, I think, perceived 
 this ; for he did all he could to lighten my share of the 
 work. And I accepted his doing so without remark. 
 I remember his asking me one morning if I hadn't been 
 a little out of sorts of late, and my answering that my 
 bowels were not as they used to be, and that I feared 
 I had trichinosis. I don't know what he thought of 
 my answer. He said nothing. 
 
 Late on in June is the next entiy in the Journal. 
 
 'Last night. 
 
 ' Something making me come back quickly from 
 the corner of the street, I found that she had not 
 opened the door with her key yet ; or even taken the 
 key out of her pocket ; but was standing watching me 
 seriously. I took off my hat, and stepped close to her 
 with it in my hand. The moon was shining clear. 
 
 ' Neither of us spoke. We looked into one another's 
 eyes. 
 
 ' At last : 
 
 ' " What made you such a serious Rosebud to-night ? ' 
 I said. 
 
 ' She sighed softly : 
 
 ' " . . . I don't know. . . ." 
 
 ' " Good-night, Rosy." 
 
 ' " Good-night." 
 
 "'Good-night ?" turning, I repeated to myself, and 
 put on my hat, and strode away. . . . 
 
 ' Round the corner, I drew a breath of relief. That 
 was temptation. 
 
 ' I will not see that child again.'
 
 144 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 IV 
 
 IT was four days after this, a Wednesday as I see, that 
 I awoke at about half-past eight in the morning and 
 found that there was a letter with my cup of tea. 
 After a while I summoned up sufficient energy to pull the 
 letter somehow from the table on to the bed, and then 
 must have fallen off into a dose again ; for I remember 
 that the writing of the envelope that must have been 
 just under my half-closed eyes, was wound with some 
 other writing in and out of a fantastic sort of a dream- 
 space from which I suddenly started, with the recogni- 
 tion that the letter was Rayne's. 
 
 With all my soul in my eyes, I stared at it. A large 
 white glaring envelope with 
 
 ' B. LEICESTER, Esq., 
 
 ' Glastonbury School, Glastonbury.' 
 
 in Rayne's hand, in 'the middle, the last three words 
 lined through, and below in a thin scrawly hand : 
 
 ' 5, Dunraven Place, 
 
 ' Piccadilly, London.' 
 
 These details realised, I took the envelope ; ripped 
 it up at the back ; produced the thick white folded 
 double sheet inside, and opened it. This is something 
 like what I read : 
 
 1 22 Balmoral Street, W. 
 
 ' MY DEAR BERTRAM, We are in London for a short time 
 three or four weeks, before going north to spend the 
 summer at Kirkory, my husband's family seat, or I should 
 say home. I have wondered a little at hearing nothing from 
 you. You are, at the least, two letters in my debt. I do
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 145 
 
 not even know where you are, and address this at random. 
 I need not say, dear Bertram, how pleased I should be to 
 see you again ; but I am afraid you have quite forgotten me. 
 Why, it is how long is it, since you last wrote to me ? I 
 last heard from you at Montenotte in the autumn of ! 
 How long ago is that ? You ought to be ashamed to think ! 
 But here is time and space and patience all exhausted. I 
 must end, as usual, in a hurry. Write to me and tell me 
 what you are doing. You know that, if for no other reason 
 than because you were loved by what I loved best in the 
 world, you are and always must be dear to me : and so let 
 me write myself down as being what, I trust, I always shall 
 be, Your friend, RAYNE GWATKIN. 
 
 I lay still for a time and thought about what I had 
 read, and then re-read it, and thought of the past that 
 concerned all this strange present, and of my whole 
 life. And so at last I got up and went to my small 
 polished-oak box (a small box in which I kept certain 
 things that were, or had once seemed, precious to 
 me), and, having opened it, found a letter, which 
 began : 
 
 ' MY DEAR BERTRAM, ' It is a wet and tempestuous after- 
 noon, and therefore I consider it a fitting occasion to answer 
 your long and with difficulty decipherable epistle.' 
 
 Through this letter I glanced, till I came to words 
 that stopped my glancing and steadied it : 
 
 ' . . . Rather a tempest going on outside, and so I am 
 going to try to dodge my dear old daddy and Sir James, 
 and get out my boat and enjoy it. By-the-by, I had 
 forgotten to tell you that an old friend of ours, Sir James 
 Gwatkin, has been staying with us this last week. He is a 
 most amusing mondain en villegiature, with a marvellous 
 French and Italian accent, and altogether a very amusing 
 companion to the father, and myself at times. He knows 
 what seems to me a great deal about . . .' 
 
 And I folded up the letter and put it into the box, 
 and relocked the box, went back to bed ; and lay 
 thinking for another half-hour, when I got up and 
 dressed. 
 
 At breakfast I reconsidered the matter : 
 
 The news amounted to this : Rayne had married the
 
 146 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 amusing mondain en villegiature, and was here, in 
 London, for a short time three weeks or so, before 
 going north to spend the summer at Kirkory, her 
 husband's family seat or home. Where was Mr. Chol- 
 meley ? 
 
 I started: 
 
 'Dead!' 
 
 'That could not be. . . . And yet ' I took 
 
 out her letter and considered it. ' " You know that 
 if for no other reason than because you were loved by 
 
 what I loved best " (Nay, that may be nothing : 
 
 or only mean that she loves her husband best. And 
 there is no black edge on this white sheet.) " by what 
 I loved best in the world, you are and always must 
 be dear to me : and so let me write myself down as 
 being, etc., etc." ' 
 
 All at once I exclaimed : 
 
 ' She oughtn't to have married that man ! ' 
 
 ' . . . Why ? ' asked the faint voice of the air and the 
 room. 
 
 I answered to myself : ' I wish she hadn't.' 
 
 ' . . . Why ? ' said the same faint voice. 
 
 I considered a few moments, and then rose, a little 
 viciously. Some of the viciousness was expended in the 
 sharp putting of my chair directly in front of my plate : 
 the rest in my casting myself into the arm-chair in the 
 window, my hands at my mouth, scraping my lower lip 
 with my upper teeth. 
 
 Then : 
 
 'What is the matter with me?' I said to myself; 
 and, after a pause : ' I don't know ! Is there anything, 
 then, in the whole world would make me happy ? I 
 don't know. I don't think so. I 'm just weary of it 
 all ! What of that new soul's life of mine, produced 
 before Starkie, and believed in then ? What have I 
 done? What shall I do? What do I believe in? 
 What do I doubt about ? Doubt about ? Everything ; 
 even doubt ! ' I let my thoughts rest for a moment. 
 Then once more : 
 
 ' If I only knew something ! If I only loved some- 
 thing ! Oh, is there not a woman in the whole wide 
 world who would take me as I am, and help me to be
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 147 
 
 what I want to be ? A woman to save me ? Oh, God, 
 God, God, God, I would I had never been born ! Nay, 
 is it not strange that, in an hour of weakness like this, 
 the only thing I cry out to for help is what I have 
 always thought I despised as being itself incarnate 
 weakness woman ! I don't know what's the matter 
 with me. I 'm not myself. Virtue is gone out of me. 
 This must be a passing humour. I shall be strong 
 again, as I used to be. Or was it tJiat I did not know my 
 weakness ? . . . I don't know ! ' A complete sense of 
 loneliness and purposelessness seemed suddenly to grow 
 like a great grey-cut chasm in me. I could struggle 
 no more to find out what was the matter with me. I 
 turned and let the current take me where it would. 
 
 From that depth of weariness I raised myself a little 
 to take up a book off the table beside me and read it. 
 It was no good staying stretched on the bottom of that 
 dark submarinity in that way. Better kill myself at 
 once ; and that most certainly I would not do. . . . 
 Why not? I was afraid of death ? I didn't know. I 
 had not thought about it. I would not think about it. 
 A piano-organ was playing outside. 
 
 I looked out into the sunshiny day ; for some little 
 of the sunshine had entered me even then. I would 
 go out for a walk. Nay, I would go and see where 
 Rayne lived. Why not ? 
 
 Away I went, and out for my walk out and away to 
 beautiful summer Hampstead, fresh and green from 
 the late showers, in the soft lights of the early day. 
 I did not think much of Rayne. I do not remember 
 what I thought of: probably of hundreds of uncon- 
 nected things, passing in a fairy-procession in the 
 yellow-gold light before my eyes. I wandered about 
 happily till about one o'clock, when hunger made itself 
 perceptible, and I went off in the pursuit of bread and 
 fruit and milk. Followed a Pythagorean feast on the 
 grass, with delightful half-dreams as in the old time ; 
 till it occurred to me to return home and read. Ac- 
 cordingly, after a little trifling with resolution in the 
 shape of dawdling about in hollows, looking at a small 
 stream's meandering water, or the serried grasses and 
 the earth, I fairly set off.
 
 148 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 After a little, it occurred to me again to go and take 
 a look at Rayne's house. So I asked the next police- 
 man I saw where Balmoral Street was, and learnt that 
 that it was on this side of the Park, and, more particu- 
 larly, close by Lancaster Gate, for which I had better 
 ask. That was all I wanted at present. I set off again, 
 and was in Maida Vale before I was aware of it. I had 
 no idea of going to see Rayne to-day : I only wished to 
 look at the house. 
 
 I went on seriously enough, and began to think about 
 Rayne Where she was now and what she was doing ? 
 somehow as if I had wondered thus about some other 
 woman some time and somewhere ; till a faint far-away 
 tremulousness entered into me and was perceived. 
 
 I came sharply round an area-railed corner, and 
 beheld ... a low carriage, two horses, two footmen, 
 the pillars of an exit into the street, a lady just out of 
 the open door passing to the top step descending 
 Rayne ! I stood still. 
 
 Some one followed. Rayne was on the pavement, 
 making for the low carriage door, now held open. She 
 stopped a moment, half turned. And the some one 
 following was in her view and mine. It was the mon- 
 dain en villegiature : I knew him at once. But Rayne's 
 face was all to me ; and yet I could not see it properly. 
 Then our eyes met. 
 
 Somehow or other I was moving to her with my hat 
 in my hand, and she had said : ' Bertram ! ' and I had 
 stood still again. 
 
 Her face seemed to me, as it were worn, but filled 
 with the light of steadfastness, and her eyes were 
 quiet and deep. I had seen, not her face, but her 
 face's form, and, as it were the light of it, before, and 
 this memory was on me now almost as in the dim low 
 distance. I cannot say what either she said, or he or I 
 for a little ; not that I was bewildered by their pre- 
 sence and its thoughts within me, but that this memory 
 of the likeness to the light of her face kept me from 
 them. 
 
 At last I had shaken hands with the mondain, and 
 she was sitting in the carriage and we two, standing by 
 the low opened carriage door, were talking together.
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 149 
 
 ' It was, indeed, a surprise to see you in London/ 
 she was saying, ' I thought you were ... In fact I 
 did not know what to think, for you did not answer 
 either of the letters I sent to you ' 
 
 ' Letters ? ' I said. ' I received no letter from you, 
 excepting this morning, since November two years ago.' 
 
 ' I am a witness to the writing of at least two/ said 
 he, looking at me with a little smile round the corners 
 of his mouth. 
 
 'Then you did not know ' she said, 'And I had 
 wondered why you had not written to me. . . ' 
 
 'That Mr. Cholmeley was dead ' I said softly, 
 perceiving that her dress was of black. ' . . . I feared 
 so this morning.' What sorrow was in me for her was 
 given in the words here. 
 
 ' And where have you been all this while ? ' she said, 
 looking up, ' if I may ask ? ' 
 
 I bowed my head. 
 
 ' I left Glastonbury last February. I was in London 
 for a little, and then in Paris for a little, and then in 
 London again till now/ 
 
 ' Perhaps/ he said, ' Mr. Leicester would go with 
 you ? You must have a great deal to say to one another 
 after so long and so silent a separation?' I saw, or 
 thought I saw, that she did not desire that I should go 
 with her. Half-hesitation of hers was not enough to 
 entice me. I said : 
 
 ' I am afraid that, even if Lady Gwatkin should be 
 so kind as to think of allowing me to inflict my com- 
 pany upon her, I should be unable to do so.' There 
 was a surprise in this for him, perhaps for her : pleasure 
 for me to find my nerves my own, and under the govern- 
 ment of a Jupiter will in a serene heaven that might 
 have seemed Olympus, if it hadn't seemed like a 
 monkey-house on its good behaviour. She with some 
 few gentle low sentences, bowed to or accepted my 
 words' meaning, and then it was time for her to be 
 going, and I drawing back with an apology to Sir James 
 for being in the way. 
 
 Then came preliminaries of movement followed by 
 movement, and her (and his) expressions of wish to see 
 me again soon, and she (with him) had passed away,
 
 150 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 while I stood bareheaded, watching her as she sat, till 
 the corner was rounded, and she was gone, and I alone 
 with the streets and houses and all the dismal day-time. 
 
 The next morning I found a note from her, asking 
 me to dine with them on Monday. I smiled, and, when 
 I had had breakfast, wrote an answering note of ac- 
 ceptance. Then Strachan came in, and had a short 
 talk with me. He had his doubts about the financial 
 success of the Book, considering that I wished to have 
 illustrations. I was in an absent humour, and simply 
 echoed his remark Yes, I wished it to have illustra- 
 tions, maps, and everything of that sort. 
 
 ' Of course,' said he, ' we have abundance of material ; 
 but I am rather inclined to doubt Brooke's accuracy in 
 these matters, and, in short . . .' 
 
 ' Has he taken it ? ' asked I, ' Parker, I mean.' 
 
 ' No ; ' he said, ' he hasn't taken it yet ; but . . . 
 Well, well we '11 talk about that later on ! What are 
 you going to do with yourself this morning? A walk ; 
 what do you say ? I 'm just going to the Museum for 
 half an hour or so, to look at some bones Davies has got 
 hold of. Will you come ? ' 
 
 ' I 'm very sorry,' I said, ' but I do my work in the 
 mornings. I find that if I go out then, it ends in my 
 doing no work at all.' 
 
 We made talk of this sort while he was nearing the 
 door and at last had it a little open, when : 
 
 ' Did you ever,' I said, ' hear of a man called Gwat- 
 kin ? Sir James Gwatkin, a knight or a baronet, I don't 
 know which.' 
 
 1 Hum,' he said, Gwatkin ? Gwatkin ? I know the 
 name somehow. Oh yes, / know him ! I met him 
 down at Oxford at dinner at a don's two years ago ! 
 One of the Culture people. He has written a book 
 about Michelangelo. I remember him quite well now. 
 The next day I stumbled upon him with Sir Horace 
 Gildea ' 
 
 'Horace Gildea?' said I, 'I was at school with 
 him. Do you know him ? ' 
 
 The Professor grimaced : 
 
 ' Yes, a little. He did me the honour of seducing 
 one of my maids.'
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 151 
 
 I laughed. The Professor proceeded : 
 
 ' They 're an odd lot, those Culture fellows. I don't 
 believe in them myself. A ' (turning his eyes to mine) 
 ' I hope they 're not friends of yours, either of these 
 two ? If so, of course I ' 
 
 ' Nay/ said I, ' they 're no friends of mine ! I only 
 wanted to know if you could tell me anything about 
 Gwatkin what books he 'd written, and that sort of 
 thing. I happen to be dining at his house on Monday, 
 and one likes to know something about one's host's 
 particular line of thought, if he happens to have one.' 
 
 ' Ah yes, just so, yes/ said the Professor, turning his 
 eyes to and then away from mine. And on that we 
 parted. 
 
 I came back from the closed hall-door into the library, 
 and went to the window and stood looking out on the 
 sunny day. A feeling of disgust at work rose in me. 
 I sighed as I took down ' Antigone/ the Greek play I 
 was then reading, and lexicon and translation, and 
 bundled myself into the easy chair. Folly ! and I knew 
 it. None the less I intended proving it once more. 
 
 I had last time stopped just before a Chorus. I began 
 on the Chorus now. Such a delightfully corrupt Chorus; 
 and here (in two nice close-printed note columns) was 
 what Hermann thought about the first lines, and then 
 what somebody else thought, and then what the present 
 Editor thought, damn him ! Finally I gave it up in 
 disgust : got myself out of the easy chair and the books 
 into it ; and stood looking disconsolately out of the 
 window. Then the idea of taking a steamer down the 
 fresh breezy river came to me to Greenwich, and go 
 into the Park, or, first, to see the Painted Chamber, and 
 
 day places. Why not ? 
 
 I went. It was a fair sweet morning on the river, 
 somehow as I suppose my Italy to be, with the air so 
 pure, like wine that had no fieriness in it. I got out 
 at Greenwich : I saw the Painted Chamber again, my 
 heart making its flutter felt as I passed along that 
 coloured gallery where I had moved and dreamed in 
 the dim sun-shot air of my boyhood. Ah, here was 
 Nelson, and here ! And here the sacred relics of him !
 
 152 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 How long, how long ago it was since I stood looking at 
 that pallid body going with its heroic message of 
 ' England expects every man to do his duty ' up to ... 
 Where ? Somewhere where the pallid bodies of heroes, 
 who have fought the fight and done that duty well, are 
 taken by soft hands and laid in the quiet of the Eternal 
 Fields. And how I used to think that, in some simple 
 way, although it seemed so vague and unreal, that body 
 was my body and that duty well done was my duty, and 
 this small child here, with eyes half-brimmed with tears, 
 so saw the final requiem of its own manhood, the seal of 
 death with which it had sealed life, the fight well fought, 
 the duty well done, and the pallid body taken by soft 
 
 hands and laid in the quiet of the Eternal Fields. 
 
 ' It is all changed now ! ' 
 
 I turned from it with the lump of tears m my throat 
 and went out into the air, and away. And I thought 
 in this wise : that the dreams of boyhood are for boy- 
 hood and are sweet, while the sights of manhood are for 
 manhood and are bitter : and, that it is given to many 
 to desire the well-fought fight and the well-done duty 
 and the tender progress to the quiet of the Eternal 
 Fields, but that few, the dwindling sacred few, achieve 
 to it: and that it is very hard to learn this simple 
 lesson, that I, this me, this only real existence that I 
 know in Space and Time and Life, is one of the many. 
 
 As I slowly climbed up the hill, I noted the old tree 
 in the middle of the path, against which I, dizzy and 
 faint from the pernicious tobacco smoke inhaled in the 
 shade of a gnarly oak while the small gentle deer fed 
 round me, leant full of the nausea of this wretchedness, 
 resolute never to incur it again ! Then I came in sight 
 of the haunted house, darksome abode of awe and 
 wonder. Then there was the field on the brow of 
 which I had lain with Wallace, playing some game at 
 ' chuck ' with clasp-knives, looking at times out over the 
 dark, silver-twining Thames, and dusky, far-stretching 
 London ; till one unlucky throw of his spiked my hand 
 (here is the scar on my right thumb still), and how I 
 insisted that there was not the end of chuck for the 
 day! 
 
 It is all changed now, the field in which we played
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 153 
 
 that game or, lying along the grass, talked as we ate 
 sugared compounds or the satisfying parkin. Even the 
 school is changed. The brass-plate is gone from the 
 gate. The house is freshly painted and enlarged, but 
 empty. I see the top of the cherry-tree over the wall. 
 
 I turned from it and went down the little lane, 
 passing many remembered spots and things, and down 
 the hill and to the small boat pier. And as I stood I 
 began to think of my future. There was something of 
 Capua in my present case : not so much bodily, as 
 spiritual, Capua, and yet I knew quite well that at the 
 best it was not in either case a campaigning ground. 
 It was time I took some steps towards the great 
 object of supporting myself. Time ? more than time ! 
 Why had I not thought of it before ? This money of 
 Brooke's it was not mine. I had said that I would 
 not take it : I had said that I could not devote myself 
 to the Cause. Oh Jupiter and the other immortals, I 
 should think not ! . . . And yet, why such a decided 
 not ? Supposing I did devote myself ? Well ? . . . 
 No, it would not do. I don't care about it. No : I 
 won't do that. No ! I couldn't take and keep the 
 money. . . . God knows it 's a poor earth enough, this 
 earth ; and where is belief in fire and brimstone being 
 my reward for doing this or any thing ? But that 's 
 nothing. There is the tribunal of my soul that ideal 
 of myself, by which I measure the actual of myself, 
 and do not care to find too great a difference between 
 them. 
 
 ' And yet/ I thought, standing up at the bow of the 
 boat and looking across the river, ' I could wish that I 
 was sleeping the sleep of death, under the earth at 
 rest ! ' 
 
 II 
 
 WHEN I awoke on Monday morning it was into a state 
 of dreaminess, the shadowy realm that is between the 
 night's dreams and the day's. Rayne moved in it, 
 with Claire, and myself; but all so dim and bodiless 
 that they could not be called by names whose counter- 
 parts were realities. They were not of the night's
 
 154 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 dreams : they were not of the day's, but emanations. 
 Outside this shadowy realm there was some other 
 emanation, some child's, that was more of the earth 
 than ours that were of this middle place, and it would 
 have entered therein, but could not. And if this was 
 a distress to anyone, I could not tell, not even if it 
 was to myself. The end was that a start shot up 
 through me, and I awoke fully. The green blinds 
 covered the two large windows opposite my bed. A 
 little light came in through them and made a sub- 
 marine atmosphere in the room. This I had known 
 before. I sat up : then raised myself, till I could see 
 myself in the large dressing-table mirror between the 
 two green-blind-covered windows. That made me 
 smile. 
 
 After lunch I went out for a walk. 
 
 The knowledge that whatever humour I went out 
 in was sure to be different from the humour in which 
 I returned, held to me a momentary trouble now. For 
 I was happy enough with the life of the morning, the 
 mild sunny air and soft heaven, to wish for no better 
 state in which to face the ordeal of to-night. ' Ordeal ? 
 Ay ; the faint tremor that comes to me at the thought 
 is surely enough to tell me that to-night will be an 
 ordeal. Ordeal ? No : what ordeal can there be ? . . . 
 Of what am I thinking ? I do not know. . . . Ay, 
 that is the truth : " I do not know." And yet the 
 sense of the unknown does not. . . . What ? Was 
 ever such confusion ? No : not confusion. What 
 then? I don't know. It's folly trying to be subtle.' 
 I gave it up. 
 
 That day was a day apart. A day apart is a day in 
 which the past is pallid : the present pallid : the 
 future a mist into which the earth-floor goes, not even 
 unknown : a day of feelings about feelings, of dreams 
 about dreams. 
 
 I came in about five. I had seen many things, 
 known nothing. I felt and realised that I was hungry. 
 I went to the top of the kitchen-stairs and called to 
 Mrs. Herbert, asking if I could have some soup and 
 rice? She agreed. I went into the study again, and 
 stood in the window, and looked out.
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 155 
 
 I finished the soup and the rice. 
 
 Dinner was at seven. I had not the intention of 
 eating a dinner then. That was why I had eaten the 
 soup and the rice. It was almost six now by the 
 mantelpiece clock. I got up and rang. Then : ' But 
 Mrs. Herbert/ I thought, 'tells me she has varicose 
 veins.' So off I went down the kitchen-stairs, and got 
 a can of hot water for myself. 
 
 Then I came up again and began slowly to mount 
 the hall-staircase. 
 
 As my heavy foot struck the soft carpet, and one or 
 two of the rods sounded, I suddenly recalled my going 
 up the staircase that last night of ours in London. 
 After a few steps, I stopped and looked over the broad 
 banister down upon the dark shiny table where my 
 bed-candle was, and where two had used to be then. 
 I went on again : the thought had occurred to me 
 before this. Now, I have always supposed that there 
 would be something of ... of something or other, in 
 living in a house, and alone too, where you had lived 
 with some one that is dead. The sharp sound that 
 struck your hearing would startle you ? The lonely 
 depth of the darkness, or the shadowiness, or the 
 gloom would contain its spectre ? I cannot say. Death 
 is so dim a thing, if it is anything at all, to me. What 
 do you mean by death ? You are not dead. 7 am not 
 dead. Who is dead ? And with the thought that this 
 was rather ridiculous, I came into my bedroom with 
 the hot-water can. The gas was low. 
 
 I put down the can on the washing-stand, and went 
 and turned up the gas. The room was all light. I 
 took off my coat and threw it on to the bed. 
 
 I washed slowly, thinking. There was a little of 
 the tremulousness in me somewhere. I felt it for a 
 moment vaguely. But went on thinking and forgot it. 
 I put on, first one, and then the other dress-boot, with 
 the small steel shoe-horn, and tied their laces tight. 
 Then changed my trousers, and brushed my hair before 
 the mirror. Then put on my white shirt, and found 
 and fastened the studs, and my collar to the top stud. 
 As I was looking for the glass-topped box that held 
 the white ties, I thought the gas seemed burning low,
 
 156 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 and looked up at it. It was, confound it ! I found 
 the white tie-box in the shadow of the curtain, and 
 took out a tie, and began to tie it. My fingers con- 
 fused. At that instant everything in me contracted. 
 I stared into the mirror. Brooke was looking over my 
 right shoulder. 
 
 My body was all a creeping thrill. I jerked round 
 like one half-mad, with my fist tightly clenched, in 
 some way saying : 
 
 'Devil!' 
 
 I would have beaten his pale, cold, corpse's face with 
 my hard fist. There was not anything except (I saw) 
 the shadow of the bed-top on the upper wall-paper. 
 
 I paced up and down the room, looking to right and 
 left. 
 
 'Assuredly,' I said aloud in an observer's way, ' I will 
 never believe in ghosts. It is far too easy to see one.' 
 
 In a little I came back and finished my hanging tie. 
 I had been startled. There was no mistake about that. 
 If I had really believed that I should have seen him, 
 I pondered, then I should have seen him. And yet I 
 desired to strike him. And yet I did not believe in 
 him, somehow. 
 
 So, having turned down the gas, I came to the 
 staircase-head and began to descend. A certain some- 
 thing, not too far from fear, prompted the idea of a 
 hand reaching on to me from behind. I desired to turn 
 and look. My will overcame my desire. I descended 
 slowly, step after step, in an actor's way rather. My 
 heel sounded on the tesselated floor of the hall. My 
 eye observed of the big clock that it was a quarter to 
 seven. I had beaten that something not too far from 
 fear. I had not looked either round or behind. 
 
 I went to the coat-rack ; took down my theatre- 
 coat ; felt my latch-key in my right pocket, and went 
 to the door. Opened it : went out, and drew it to 
 with a low clang. Yes, I left certain supersensual 
 things behind in the house with Mrs. Herbert and 
 the varicose veins ! 
 
 I laughed as I drew on my coat; shot open the 
 gibus, and put it on my head. I had been startled. 
 There was no mistake about that. But I was wide
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 157 
 
 awake now, surely. And I was going to dine at Sir 
 James Gwatkin's, with Rayne. I stood on the pave- 
 ment-edge (in Piccadilly now) and called out : 
 
 ' Hansom ! ' 
 
 I should be there, with him, with her in ten minutes 
 in all human probability. 
 
 The hansom came up, and I got in, and gave the 
 address 22 Balmoral Street through the opened 
 trap to the man. We set off quickly, the horse, a 
 small beast, trotting. When we had gone a little way, 
 I knocked up at the trap, two or three times before 
 the man opened it, the horse's speed slackening. 
 
 ' Go through the Park/ I said, ' through the Park ! ' 
 
 He shut down the trap, and the horse's speed 
 quickened again. The evening was light and cool, the 
 sun hid behind thick horizon clouds. We turned through 
 the gates into the Park. I bent forward a little, looking 
 at the carriages and people that we passed. 
 
 Then we swept by the Marble Arch into Oxford 
 Street and by the mouth of the Edgware Road, up 
 which, some way up which by a by-way to the left, 
 lay in a small street, Maitland Street, a small house, 
 No. 3. She would not be in yet. She would be still 
 at her work, sitting sewing probably. Should I ever 
 see her again ? No, best not. Our paths of life went 
 on in all but opposite directions. Poor child ! ' Alone 
 in the world, as if nobody else belonged to her.' In 
 a hundred years, perhaps jfifty, perhaps less, ii mould all 
 be as if it had never been ! 
 
 We drew up sharply. I looked out. It was the 
 house all right. I threw open the flaps, and jumped 
 on to the pavement, and went back and paid the man. 
 Then ascended the steps, and knocked and rang as 
 the little brass plate bade ; and waited. A footman 
 opened the door and ushered me in. Sir James was 
 coming along the passage below the stairs, and saw 
 me. He at once advanced, saying cordially : 
 
 ' Ah, Mr. Leicester, how do you do ? ' 
 
 We went upstairs together slowly, I just a step 
 behind him : then through a tall doorway with a deep- 
 red velvet hanging, and along a room that was like a 
 passage ; and then he had opened a door and we were
 
 158 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 together in the soft light of the drawing-room, he just 
 a step behind me. 
 
 1 at once saw Rayne and some other woman, a 
 young woman, seated close together under the pink- 
 shaded candles, but my look was for Rayne's face, not 
 for her companion's. How beautiful it was ! How 
 steadfast, and how sweet ! And I thought that where 
 I had before seen, as it were, the light of her face's 
 form was in the sad wistful face of a child whose body 
 had been sold to an evil task-master Claire ! And, 
 at the thought, something of tearfulness rose in my 
 heart and gathered to my eyes ; for that sad wistful 
 child's face had grown so bright for me and mine so 
 bright for her, and then we had been parted by the 
 task-master, who was jealous of the soul of the body 
 that he had bought, and I had never seen her again. 
 
 ' Rayne/ I thought, ' would to God or Fate or Chance 
 or what it may be, that I had not found that light on 
 your face too ! . . . Your hand is soft.' 
 
 We had been speaking to one another with low 
 tones and movements, and now I was turned from 
 Rayne, bowing to this young woman her companion, 
 whose name, his courteous voice had said, was Cholme- 
 ley too. And as I looked at her seated there before 
 and below me, I smiled. 
 
 ' It is strange,' said I, sinking with the smile into a 
 chair by her, between her and Rayne, but nearer to 
 her, ' It is strange how much men and women have in 
 common. I mean,' I said, leaning on the elbow next 
 her, and looking at her, 'how much we have in 
 common with one another.' 
 
 ' Yes ? ' she said, elevating her brows a little, being 
 a little surprised, I supposed, and wondering what sort 
 of strange masculinity she had come across. 
 
 ' I mean,' I said, with narrowing eyes, ' that 
 perhaps no one can live a life of his own. Suppose a 
 man or a woman give themselves up to (say) love of 
 money, as common a ruling-passion as any other, then 
 that man or that woman will notice, if they only know 
 how to, that their love of money generates, as it were, 
 a subtle odour in their souls, and they will recognise 
 that subtle odour in the souls of others who have
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 159 
 
 given themselves up to the same dominion. La destinee 
 est une ! ' 
 
 ' I do not see how destiny is one/ said the young 
 woman. 
 
 'Here/ said I, f is the answer for you in eternal 
 words : 
 
 ' " We are what sun and winds and waters make us.'" 
 
 ' I do not see yet/ she said. 
 
 ' We are all what we are made. Some of us are made 
 by the sun ; and some by the winds ; and some by the 
 waters ; and some by them all. And that is how, is it 
 not ? we have so much in common with one another.' 
 
 ' And you think/ said Rayne to me, with something 
 of a smile, 'that the children of the sun recognise one 
 another accordingly ? ' 
 
 ' I suppose I do/ I said, now a little off the direct 
 scent, ' that is, I think that any given passion, as a rule, 
 expresses itself in the same way in different people ; 
 and so one is constantly being struck by resemblances 
 between people, and wondering wherein these resem- 
 blances lie. Am I not clear to you, Miss Cholmeley ? ' 
 I asked. 
 
 ' You are too subtle for me,' said the young woman, 
 ' I am content to do my duty in that state of life and 
 the rest : and leave metaphysics to the choice spirits 
 like you, and Sir James, and ' (turning her head) ' you, 
 Rayne.' 
 
 But it seemed to me that this young woman did 
 not, for some reason, care to have matter of this sort 
 talked now, and had quietly taken steps to stop it. 
 
 We went down to dinner soon after, Rayne and I, 
 and Sir James and Miss Cholmeley : we two so far 
 ahead, that I could say to her, in an odd, unnatural 
 way, that I did not know she had any relation . . . like 
 Miss Cholmeley. 
 
 ' Miss Cholmondeley is no relation of mine/ she said 
 quietly, as we passed through the dining-room door, 
 ' our names are spelt differently.' 
 
 And there the big, liveried dolls stood by. 
 
 ' C-h-o-l-m-o-n-d / said I half to myself, the 
 
 actor's sense growing in me, ' ah I beg your pardon 1 '
 
 160 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 The actor's sense went on growing in me as we took 
 our places, and culminated in my high slightly-frowning 
 downward survey of my menu card : Soup, Turbot and 
 Lobster Sauce, Quenelles. ' Damnation ! ' I said under 
 my breath. It was ludicrous ! 
 
 I shivered : tightened my jaws, and in an instant 
 thought: 'What foolery is this? I . . . ' I might 
 have been sitting, as I sat in my place that prize-giving 
 day at Whittaker's, waiting for my turn, with my lips 
 rather dry, and every now and then shivering as if a 
 draught came upon me from an opened door. But 
 Blake was dead. And Brooke was dead. And Mr. 
 Cholmeley was dead. And I raised my eyes and beheld 
 this vision of fair youthfulness ; with dark-gold hair 
 whose floating outskirts were sunny, and deep slow 
 eyes, and red lips ripe, and half-transparent teeth-tips, 
 and soft sweet whiteness of the rounded throat whose 
 thought was of the soft sweet white cool body. And 
 all the while they talked, and ate from their plates, 
 and I talked and ate from my plate, and the big swift 
 quiet liveried dolls moved hither and thither and bent, 
 ministering to us. 
 
 ' You do not take wine ? ' he was saying. 
 
 ' Nay,' I was answering, ' I love wine ; wine that is 
 yellow and foaming ! ' I could not, or would not, or 
 did not see any face but his, bending with a mask's 
 upward smile to me. 
 
 ' But you refused to have any champagne just now ? ' 
 
 ' My dear Rayne ! ' she was saying, the beautiful, 
 voluptuous young woman was saying (Corisande is 
 her name. It sounds like a cleft pomegranate), 'but 
 you really cannot mean . . .' 
 
 ' I did not notice it,' I said, ' I will have some, if you 
 please.' 
 
 And then from a gold-papered bottle-mouth out 
 came the clear stream into the large round low glass, 
 all foaming, but yellow as I lifted it up and drank it. 
 I sat there, filled with the actor's sense, smiling, and 
 bending and smiling, and smiling and bending and 
 smiling and talking, and, in my deeper heart, in a sort 
 of way, defied this devilry. I knew what they were 
 saying, I knew what I was saying, although I have for-
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 161 
 
 gotten it now. Once, or twice, or three, or four times, 
 I could have laughed outright at all this ; but restrained 
 myself with the feeling that I did well to restrain 
 myself. I drank more champagne, and then fell into 
 a somewhat dreamy state. 
 
 They were talking of French literature ; a string of 
 names and words scarcely comprehended by me, but 
 there was light laughter in the yellowy air and re- 
 strained sadness. There was no one in the room now 
 but we. The footmen had all gone. I was slowly 
 twirling my champagne glass round, with my eyes on 
 it : the light laughter was foaming in the yellowy air, 
 and the sadness almost withdrawn. 
 
 Suddenly she, Rayne, rose. I started up. Corisande 
 rose. Then they were moving round the table, and I 
 was with my backward hand on the door-handle, and 
 my face towards her. I had opened the door. She 
 had passed out, my lovely Rayne ! The young woman 
 was by me, Corisande, the cleft pomegranate, the 
 sweet soft harlot body. I crushed my right hand on 
 the smooth hardness in it. I could have gripped that 
 soft white throat just below the rounded half-shadow of 
 the apple and throttled her, and, as I cast down the 
 breathless limp body, softer but less sweet, the harlot 
 body, been glad with a quiet half-fierce gladness. I 
 closed the door softly upon her, and came back to my 
 place. Sir James was looking at something just before 
 and below his eyes, with the little smile round the 
 corners of his mouth. I all but loved him, for having 
 a swift thought of 'Arise begone,' I had another of one 
 sitting in a summer parlour, with the fat closing upon the 
 blade. I too had a little smile round the corners of 
 the mouth. 
 
 We talked in a quiet orderly way for a little ; and 
 then went upstairs together. 
 
 Rayne was seated in her old place on the sofa, 
 looking half-absently before her, Miss Cholmondeley 
 lying back in the easy chair in which I had sat. She 
 stopped speaking as we came in ; looked up at us, or 
 at Sir James, and smiled slightly. 
 
 We talked in low half-nonchalant tones. The night 
 breeze bulged in the window-curtain behind Rayne
 
 162 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 and the sofa with a slight rustle. There seemed some- 
 thing of hushed, but withal dreamy in the air : perhaps 
 the quiet after the sunny wind-tempest of dinner-time. 
 
 Then Sir James spoke, his words sounding somewhat 
 as a return to one's past humanity. 
 
 ' I have as good as promised Mr. Leicester, Cori- 
 sande/ he said, 'that you would give us Retsky's setting 
 of Vivian's " Lullaby." I hope I did not take too much 
 upon myself ? ' 
 
 She raised her eyebrows a little and the corners of 
 her mouth, as she answered : 
 
 ' But you forget that I only sang it to you the night 
 before last. Rayne, I am sure, must be quite tired of 
 the very name of Vivian by this time.' 
 
 ' No/ she said, ' his story is too sad for one to be so 
 soon tired of hearing his name. I should like to hear 
 the Lullaby again.' 
 
 ' Vivian,' said Sir James, now addressing me, ' was 
 an old school-fellow of mine, and I might add friend.' 
 
 I asked about Vivian. Sir James gave particulars of 
 him : 
 
 ' He ran away from Eton and came up to London, 
 with the idea of achieving fame and fortune with his 
 poetry. It is needless to say that he achieved neither. 
 His parents were poor and obstinate, and he, he had 
 the pride of Milton's Satan. He died starved, rather 
 than ask help from anyone. A volume of his poems 
 has just been published : this is it. You were reading 
 it, Rayne ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' she said ; ' I was reading it this morning.' 
 
 ' How old was he ? ' I asked. 
 
 'A mere boy,' he said, 'eighteen or nineteen. Poor 
 fellow ! There is nothing really remarkable in any of 
 his poems, as poems. Their chief interest lies in the fact 
 of their having been written by one so young.' 
 
 I still stood thinking. ' Poor fellow ! Nay, but I 
 account him rich ; for the strife of living and the terror 
 of dying are for him both past and over now, and he is 
 at rest.' 
 
 Miss Cholmondeley had passed into the other half of 
 the drawing-room through the hanging lace-curtains, 
 to where Sir James was standing fingering the music.
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 163 
 
 Here was I with my head thrown down like a medita- 
 tive cow. I made a few steps towards Rayne, and 
 standing before her, with my head half-bent, said 
 something or other purposeless about the Lullaby and 
 Vivian. She answered with something of the same sort. 
 I asked if she liked Retsky's music ? She said she 
 did not much ; but she was afraid she didn't altogether 
 appreciate it. I said that Sir James had been talking 
 about him to me, saying he was the subtlest of modern 
 composers. Doubtless he had written many pieces 
 that were very ' precious/ if not ' entirely ' so ? She 
 took no heed of my smile, but said that doubtless that 
 was the reason (the subtleness was the reason) that she 
 did not appreciate him. She only cared for simple 
 music, and admitted that most classical music wearied 
 her. But this Lullaby was not like any other music of 
 Retsky's that she had heard. It was simple, and soft 
 and sweet. I was about to say that two of these were 
 rather necessary qualities in a lullaby, especially if the 
 baby was teething, when a flow of soft low notes came 
 and made me think better of it. Certainly Miss 
 Cholmondeley knew how to play. 
 
 I listened attentively. The soft low notes flowed 
 on, flowed on, flowed on, but into their softness was 
 gradually growing some other sound : more like an 
 invasion of still dim water by rolling slaty-coloured 
 volumes than anything else I could then think of. I 
 was the song's now : my whole soul filled with it. A 
 softer, lower place was heard : softer, far away : lower, 
 closer to the front of the picture that was in me, the 
 place in which I felt was a presence, two presences. 
 They were sleeping ; or they were lying together in 
 rest. Then one of them roused himself, for it was a 
 man, or a boy with something of a man's soul : roused 
 himself, and his voice began, at first with unrecognisable 
 words rolling over the low slaty glassiness of the 
 water, and rolling about, till that first melody of soft 
 low flowing notes, all but filled with the rolling 
 volumes, was hidden away. And another voice, a 
 woman's, or a girl's with something of a woman's soul, 
 answered softly and sweetly. And the other voice 
 answered softly and deeply, with the depth of passion.
 
 164 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 And the rolling slaty-coloured volumes of his first 
 unrecognisable words, which had filled the space 
 between this softer lower place and that first mingled 
 melody, had filled it into peacefulness, were growing 
 disturbed : the volumed column of that first mingled 
 melody w r as passing down over the slaty glassiness 
 towards this lower place. The voices rose in an un- 
 speakable harmony together, but some of it was losing 
 itself in the slaty-coloured rolling volumes that came 
 over the glassiness of the water of the now back- 
 confused picture, and at last, half-dying, half-fading 
 away, left the whole picture lost in the coloured rolling 
 volumes : from which now came short, sharp notes, 
 like the cracklings of connected and disconnected 
 electric lines : crackle : crackle : crackle. And then 
 the whole thing was Avhelmed in a full slaty silent 
 flood. 
 
 I awoke. 
 
 ' You remember/ Sir James's voice was saying, 'with 
 what thought Keats closed his sweet, short nightingale's 
 song ? that wish to the bright star of steadfastness. 
 There is just the difference between that death-song 
 of Vivian's and this of Keats' that there was between 
 Hylas and Narcissus.' 
 
 ' Perhaps,' said Miss Cholmondeley, by him with the 
 music in her hand, and looking at it, ' the difference 
 was between their deaths rather than their songs. Do 
 you think Vivian would have said : " Lift me up 7 am 
 dying 7 shall die easy." I don't.' 
 
 ' No,' said Sir James, f he would not. He probably 
 would have died in trying to lift himself up, as Emily 
 Bronte did. But I was not prepared to have my words 
 pressed home. I only meant to notice the two death- 
 songs as being characteristic of the two singers : the 
 likeness and the difference. Vivian's is a child's 
 dream of a sensuous death, Keats' a man's. Of 
 course, any further comparison than the superficial 
 thoughts suggested by the two death-songs would be 
 ludicrous.' 
 
 ' Would it ? ' asked Miss Cholmondeley, looking up, 
 { personally, I prefer Vivian's.' 
 
 I suddenly thought she was teasing him. I thought
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 165 
 
 he was mocking Rayne and mocking me ; so that that 
 she-devil was as the laughter inside the laughter, the 
 aerial merriment that came from Comus under the low 
 horizon clouds. Her song had bewitched me. I 
 had been positively arrayed against Rayne a moment 
 ago. I was bewildered. 
 
 I watched Sir James and Miss Cholmondeley cross 
 into the piano-room again, talking about Retsky's con- 
 ception of the Lullaby. I looked at Rayne. I sat 
 down in the chair I had sat in before going down to 
 dinner. The sensations of being in the chair unsettled 
 my bewilderment. I spoke, scarcely expecting to hear 
 my voice's sounds. 
 
 'That was a wonderful song, the Lullaby.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Rayne, looking at me. 
 
 Her look shot through me. I scarcely realised what 
 it meant : I only felt it, felt it, it seemed to me, in 
 every part of my body and my soul. A mass of ideas 
 rushed into my mind. My eyes flashed. 
 
 We spoke some words together. I do not know 
 what I said. I do not think she knew what she said. 
 Surely some feeling was in her, as it was in me ? There 
 was a sense of mystery in this half-sympathy of ours. 
 I went on speaking to her, not knowing what I said 
 (We were in a low soft melody that rose and fell, and 
 rose and fell. We were alone.), and not knowing what 
 she said, or what she thought ; but she knew, not 
 what I said, but what I thought. My thoughts grew 
 more distinct : 
 
 ' Rayne, Rayne, I will not leave you ! I will rend 
 you from him. He shall not have you. Let him have 
 his soft-bodied harlot there. You are the queen of 
 my soul.' 
 
 I knew that they were together in the next room, 
 and that she was playing that soft melody that rose 
 and fell and rose and fell. We were alone. There was 
 something of the villain and his chance in my heart. 
 I looked at her. Ay, she was dazed, a little dazed ; 
 not altogether. But how could I get her away ? Get 
 her away ? I clenched my teeth. Take her by the 
 hand, lead her out, away ! away ! away ! 
 
 ' Rayne ! ' I said, ' Rayne ! Listen to me. It is the
 
 166 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 night of our lives, this. It is the night of all eternity 
 for us. Come ! quickly ! ' (She was looking at me 
 with dilated, almost sightless eyes, opened breathless 
 mouth, beatless heart. I did not know where we 
 were in heaven, in hell, in the earth, with sea around 
 us, in life, in death, in eternity.) 
 
 ' Are you ill, Bertram ? ' she said. ' What is the 
 matter ? ' I half threw myself back in the chair with 
 something that partook of smile and laugh and was 
 neither smile nor laugh. She knew nothing ! A 
 phantasy ! A pure phantasy ! 
 Then : 
 
 ' Nothing is the matter with me,' I said, ' now. I 
 suffer from my eyes occasionally.' I rose. ' Really, I 
 
 am afraid I must be saying good-night/ I said, ' \* ' 
 
 I looked at her. 
 
 ' Whither away so fast ? ' I thought ; ' are you so 
 sure, oh wiseacre, that she knew, knows nothing ? She 
 knew ! She knows ! ' Then I thought : ' Shall I pass 
 it over in silence ? Shall I say anything of sorrow for 
 it ? No. I am not sorry for it ! My dream ? My 
 dream in Paris ?..."! rose and crossed over the stone 
 bridge : came to behind the carriage and began climbing 
 over it from the back. The lady turned and, seeing me, 
 put out her brown-gloved hand to me ; and then, when I 
 would have caught and pressed it. into my bosom, touched 
 my chest nith her jinger-tips , the carnage moved. . . 
 
 For a moment a superstitious feeling all but possessed 
 me. Then I cried to myself that, at this rate, I might 
 as well become a clairvoyant, or an augurer, or a fool. 
 I looked at her again. (It was not more than four 
 seconds perhaps since I had looked at her before.) 
 
 I said : 
 
 ' I did wrong. I ask pardon.' 
 
 I left her. I passed across the room and through 
 the door and down, and, as one in a day-dream does 
 the things that his body remembers but his soul forgets, 
 took hat and coat and passed out into the night. 
 
 I went on. 
 
 Then the thought came : 
 
 What, was it done ? Was it really done ? Was I not 
 in that room with them and was not this a dream ?
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 16? 
 
 No, I answered to myself, it was no dream. I had 
 left her. . . . What did it mean ? I had left her. I 
 had left her. I had left her. I had left her. I had 
 left her. Ay ; I knew now! That woman was the 
 woman of my heart and soul. My life had been lived 
 for her since the day I had first dreamt of the dear 
 girl-comrade. / had left her. The cross-road of my 
 heart's life and soul's was reached. / had left her ! 
 
 I stopped ; then went on again. 
 
 ' The malice of fate is infinite/ I said, ' It is too late ! ' 
 
 And everywhere was dim. 
 
 Ill 
 
 EVERYWHERE was dim. It seemed as if all the rigging 
 of my soul's bark had turned to calcined semblances 
 that fell, as calcined semblances fall, making no noise. 
 And then it seemed as if some semblance of myself 
 wandered to and fro, and round about, in this strange 
 dim place, and thought and thought, trying to regain its 
 hue and presence of health, and could not. Snatches 
 of the music of that lifeful past came to me and grew 
 into deeper colour, bringing hope of permanency only 
 to be lost again in this strange dim place of noiseless 
 falling calcined semblances. 
 
 At last the great dim mass grew pale and receded : 
 my own figure stood darker in the foreground. I began 
 to think. I had vaguely felt in the earlier part of my 
 walk that my body was a little weary : perhaps it was 
 but the action of the mind on it ; for, now that the 
 mind was in almost healthy activity again, the body was 
 in sympathy with it. I went on with a springy step, 
 and began whistling, turning my thought into the 
 parallel though less distinct expression of music. 
 
 And I had some enjoyment in the fine clear night, 
 its air and its star-sown heaven. So at last I found my- 
 self in Trafalgar Square, where bells had been ringing 
 and the air filled with an aerial swinging merriment ; 
 and the clear-soaring moon up above, and here and 
 there stars. And one particular star twinkling through 
 a slanting downward bank of gauzed clouds. Then I
 
 168 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 was in that road that I knew so well, that road by 
 which I went to Hampstead. A little higher up on 
 the left hand side was the concrete pillar ; the memory 
 of which and its accompaniments made me smile, as, 
 now moving on, I glanced at it. 
 
 Then I stood looking in the Hampstead pool at in- 
 numerous small up-leaping crescents of moonlight, as 
 from a rain of moonlight only turning to colour as it 
 struck. Sadness came to and grew of me, sadness 
 almost of tears, thoughts of that past that was no more. 
 
 I turned and set off homewards. The walking in- 
 vigorated me. 
 
 By the time I had got to Dunraven Place, I was 
 almost happy. I let myself in, and entered the library 
 with an elastic step. The lamp was turned low, casting 
 a tender rose-tinted shadow into the air. My supper 
 was laid out, fruits and bread. The scene, colour and 
 scent of it all pleased me. The tender rose-tinted 
 shadowy light, the mellowed silver of the knives and 
 forks, the subdued colour of the rich-bound books and 
 costly ornaments around me. There were two letters 
 on my plate. 
 
 ' Two letters ? ' I thought, ' Who the devil should 
 write to me ? ' 
 
 I lay back in the soft chair ; reached to some grapes 
 (I was a little hungry), and the plate with the letters 
 on it : put them on the table-cloth just under the 
 lamp, and, eating grapes, observed them. 
 
 ' One blue, stiff, and with two stamps. A double 
 weight of nonsense probably. The other . . . Rosy. 
 Yes, that's her handwriting. What does the child 
 want? I have not seen her for . . .' (I took up her 
 letter and looked closer at the address.) ' How long ? 
 Three weeks ? Well, up you go on to the table-cloth ! 
 . . . Good ! Scientific, quite ! Miss Rosebud can wait 
 a little . . . And now for you, my mystery of blue 
 paper double-stamped. Who the devil are you, and 
 what the devil do you want? . . . You rip up tena- 
 ciously. . . . An enclosure. Two. What 's this ? A 
 
 cheque-book. And you, oh foreign-papered ' 
 
 A sudden suspense was in me before I knew of it. I 
 opened the foreign-papered letter of four sheets, and
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 169 
 
 looked at the end of it 'Colonel James!' Then I re- 
 cognised the writing. I had the other letter open in a 
 moment, (from my mother, perhaps ! from my father !), 
 and had glanced at it. ' Dead ! ' I glanced on : 
 
 ' . . . Sunday night . . . sympathy . . . last thing 
 . . . spoke . . . name . . . reparation . . . heir . . . 
 in all something more than 1,000 . . . beg to en- 
 close . . .' 
 
 I looked up. 
 
 'Great God/ I thought, 'what's this?' 
 
 I read the letter: then re-read it, more slowly. 
 This is what struck me in it. Colonel James had died 
 on Saturday night : had left me his fortune, and a letter 
 this letter enclosed, of the sending of which to me 
 was almost the last thing he had spoken. 
 
 I took up the foreign-papered letter from my knee 
 and began to skim it : 
 
 ' . . . I have, after some thought, concluded that . . . 
 proper and seemly. . . . Your father and mother . . . 
 the regiment stationed . . . theatre in London . . . 
 against the advice of all ... married. [Pause for a 
 moment.] . . . Quartered . . . Cork . . . unhappiness 
 owing to religious ... I ... and the attentions of a 
 . . . Captain Melvil . . . exchanged . . . Guards . . . 
 of whom I frequently warned . . . but in vain . . . 
 shortly ordered to Dungarvan and subsequently . . . 
 Guernsey. I regret to have . . . attentions continued, 
 and I was compelled to speak to your father . . . 
 neglected warning, and . . . next day . . . scene with 
 your mother, in which . . . common talk. I ... 
 could do no more, and remained. . . . One night . . . 
 dining at mess with . . . walked home togeth . . . 
 and . . . silence in the house. She was gone. 1 could 
 not have imagined that anything could have made 
 your father, a man naturally of the most praiseworthy 
 self restraint, and rendered doubly so by his steadfast 
 relig . . . sat down and cried like a child. I felt that 
 I could not leave him in this condition, and accordingly, 
 after having done all I could to comfort him by religi 
 ... so completely prostrated by the blow that I began
 
 170 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 to fear lest . . . sofa; lay there with his face . . . 
 groaning. . . . From that time . . . strange personal 
 dislike to you . . . till at last . . . almost madness 
 . . . considering the state of his health . . . did not, 
 then, think it advisable . . . and as soon as you were 
 able to bear the . . . village in Derbyshire. Most of 
 the rest you know already ; for it has been your own 
 life, I mean your education at Mr. Whittaker's and 
 subsequently at Glastonbury with Dr. Craven. . . . 
 Your father . . . while you were with Mr. Whittaker 
 . . . died . . . Scotland . . . leaving his affairs in a 
 . . . owing to his fatal confidence in. ... It remains 
 for me only to . . . [' What's this?'] . . . Late one 
 bleak, windy night last March, about a fortnight after 
 I had seen you, coming from my club in Waterloo 
 Place . . . Regent's Street . . . lamp -post . . . un- 
 happy woman pestered me, and . . . [A low cry 
 smothered itself in my throat, my eyes growing to the 
 paper.] I turned, saying, 'Here is some money for you. 
 For heaven's sake, go home and ... on such a night 
 as this ...'... then suddenly caught me by the 
 arm, and cried out : ' Captain James, Captain James, 
 don't you know me ? I 'm Isabel Leicester.' I fell 
 against the lamp-post, and almost . . . The apparently 
 reliable news of her death, the . . . seemed like a 
 horrible dream. At first I could not . . . then she 
 told me that she had accidentally heard from a friend 
 that he was dead, and had . . . and then asked about 
 you. I answered nothing, for reasons which you will, 
 I think, understand. But on her repeating her 
 question, and adding that surely she had a right to 
 know how you were, even if I refused to tell her ivhere 
 you were, I felt constrained to speak. I told her that 
 you had been sent, first to a small school, and subse- 
 quently to a public school, where you had, I believed, 
 done satisfactorily : and then proceeded to inform her 
 of the events that had led up to your interview with 
 myself about a fortnight ago, blaming myself as much 
 as I justly considered I could, and you also in the same 
 manner. She listened to me very quietly, and, when 
 I had concluded, asked me if I had any idea where you 
 had gone to ? I answered that I had none. Then, as
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 171 
 
 she remained silently looking in front of her, and as I 
 began to perceive that any further prolongation of the 
 scene could only be very painful and quite useless to 
 both of us, !...'[! suddenly slipped a paragraph, 
 catching only the word 'money.'] '. . . reviled me 
 and flung it into my face with mad curses . . . went 
 away. After some moments' thought, I decided that 
 my duty . . . followed her . . . with a policeman I 
 had happened to ... to an arch under a railway- 
 bridge, where the unhappy creature . . . approached 
 and found that she was sunk in a stupor-like dream 
 . . . and ultimately . . . hospital . . . comforts . . . died/ 
 
 Died. 
 
 I stood up with the letter in my hanging hand. 
 
 Nay, what was the meaning of all this ? I turned 
 to the table. 
 
 How many apples were there on that plate ? One, 
 two, three, four, five, six. I rent the letter into pieces. 
 
 I strode across the room to the opened window : 
 then looked back sharply, viciously, over my shoulder, 
 almost expecting to see some one, some semi-human 
 figure, with a cold smile on his cold face, behind me. 
 Then the idea of Brooke, come from his grave to 
 mock at me, seemed to cut my brain with a lash of 
 madness. Then it was a loin-swathed, emaciate Christ 
 that stood sardonically there in the shadow. I leaped 
 fiercely to the place, and found that light and shade 
 had tricked me. 
 
 Tricked me ? Everything had tricked me ! I was 
 in a cave of trickery. 
 
 Then the realisation of what I had been reading 
 came to me again, and with it the frantic suspicion of 
 false play : I began thinking of my mother, taking my 
 sufferings as being the shadow of hers, for she, too, 
 surely had gone through all that I had. Suddenly an 
 idea came to me that almost made me shriek out. ' At 
 last, passing somewhat quickly into an alley, I met one face to 
 face under a protruding shadowed lamp. For a moment 
 I stood breathless, with mij eyes in the mad ivolfisliness and 
 glitter of hers, and then, 'like a lightning-jiash that fills the 
 whole air, terror of her Jilled me quite. I leaped aside,
 
 172 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 and then passed her, plunged into a dark-covered way that 
 was behind and beyond her, and hurried on, past. . . .' 
 I began to laugh. 
 
 Yes, yes, yes, 7 was the cub of the she-wolf that 
 was driven by hunger into the public way to see what 
 price her empty, filthy carcase would bring ! But she 
 found no purchasers. Nor shall I ! 
 
 Then suddenly, turning to the open window : 
 
 ' Oh, you accursed city ! ' I cried, ' If I could sweep 
 you off the earth with every . . . God ! ' I cried again, 
 wheeling round convulsively with clenched fists, ' I 
 have a few words to say to You, and then I have done. 
 You have given me sight. The earth that You have 
 made and the creatures that You have put into it are 
 foul. You have given me thought. You have no 
 right, be you God a thousand times, to make your 
 creatures foul and then damn them for their foulness : 
 You have no right to make them foul at all ! You 
 have given me love and hatred. With the love You 
 have given me, I loathe You. With the hatred You 
 have given me, I hate I despise and scorn You ! I 
 am but a worm in the earth that is but an atom in your 
 universe. But I stand here and scorn You ! I am in 
 your hand. You can do with me what You will all 
 except this : turn from my heart that scorn I have of 
 You. Hear my last word to You, God. It is the last 
 I will ever speak to You. Henceforth I endure your 
 acts in silence. If I have joy, I will not thank You 
 for it. If I have grief, I will not curse You for it. 
 Henceforth, I am a stranger to You. If You are, You 
 
 are to me as if You were not. If You are not ' 1 
 
 smiled. 
 
 ' Enough of this,' I said : ' perhaps something too 
 much. I am sorry I railed. And yet the poor cuckold 
 that we call soul must pour forth the lava of its dis- 
 covered deception, or it would burst. I have done 
 now, I think.' 
 
 I looked up and saw the other letter lying on the 
 table-cloth, where I had thrown it past my plate. 
 This letter was Rosy's. 
 
 I stretched across to it : opened it ; and glanced 
 into it :
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 173 
 
 ' . . . I waited for you on Friday night for an hour and 
 a half. And I really did think you would come some time 
 to me, or you would write and tell me why you hadn't come 
 these three Fridays. And I am very sorry if you are angry 
 with me for writeing to you to tell you of it ; but I think 
 you must have forgoten that you told me that evening that 
 you would come again the next Friday, and I thought 
 perhaps I had made a mistake about it, and that is why I 
 wated these three Fridays, and I think you might have 
 written to tell me why you could not come. 
 
 1 Minnie is dead. A man hit her across the back with a 
 stick Yesterday, Mrs. Smith says, when I was away, and 
 it killed her. I cried about it ; which thing I have never 
 had to do before quite like that. Please write to me and 
 explain why you did not come these three Fridays, as you 
 said you would. I hope you will please excuse this long 
 letter and the writeing, but I don't suppose you care enough 
 to mind. I am, yours truly, ROSY HOWLET. 
 
 I re-read some parts of it, and then threw it up on to 
 the plate, and rose and began to pace about the room, 
 thinking. 
 
 After a time I stopped at the open window. 
 
 '"There is a budding morrow in midnight/" I 
 said to myself. 
 
 I took up the lawyer's letter, and having folded, put 
 it on the plate, and Colonel James' letter, and Rosy's, 
 and put the cheque-book on the top. Then, standing 
 thinking, I ate all the grapes, and drank a glassful of 
 water, and gathered up what was on the plate, and 
 went upstairs into my room. 
 
 The gas was low as I had left it. I turned it up. 
 I set about doing what I intended. I changed my 
 clothes and boots quickly : put the papers I had 
 brought up, together with my usual cheque-book and 
 a pocket-book containing bank-notes to the value of 
 twenty-five pounds or so, into my breast-coat-pocket, 
 all the gold I had into my right waistcoat-pocket, and 
 all the silver I had into my right trouser-pocket. I 
 had a sudden thought of packing a portmanteau ; or 
 my old black hand-bag. No : I couldn't be troubled 
 with it. I would get what was wanted on the way. 
 
 Then I turned out the gas ; went downstairs again, 
 and wrote a short note to Mrs. Herbert, saying what
 
 174 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 I wished to be done in this matter. And as I sealed 
 up the letter (force of habit, I suppose) I thought that 
 it was lucky Rosy's letter had come in this way. 
 Perhaps I should not have been doing this if it hadn't. 
 
 Luck favoured me again : I lit upon a hansom at 
 the end of the street. I told the man to drive up the 
 Edgware Road, and I would tell him where to stop. 
 
 The gas-lamps burned faintly. There was a hush in 
 the place, broken every now and then by distant sounds 
 of stirring life. We were going quickly. I sat thinking. 
 
 We were almost at the turning that has to be taken 
 for Maitland Street. I thrust my hand out and waved. 
 We came up a little, as it were, sideways to the pave- 
 ment. I got out. How much should I give the man ? 
 I stood with two fingers in my waistcoat-pocket, con- 
 sidering a sovereign and an order to wait here for me. 
 Then I determined no ; and took out some silver, and 
 gave him five shillings. 
 
 I went on alone to the corner of the turn that was 
 to be taken for Maitland Street, and crossed over into 
 the deeper shadow of the other side. The horse was 
 wheeling round : the cab drove away with sounding 
 hoof-strokes. I went on, but rather slowly. Then an 
 idea came into my head to run as far as the corner of 
 Maitland Street. I set off : came to the lamp-post : 
 crossed over ; knocked with strong knuckles at the 
 door, and waited. 
 
 No sound. 
 
 I knocked again as before, but for longer. I listened. 
 No sound. I knocked a third time. Nothing. This 
 was foolery ! 
 
 I went into the road, and bent down to pick up some- 
 thing to throw. There was nothing of the sort there. 
 
 I gave up an idea of thrusting my finger down 
 between the stone-blocks, to jerk out problematical 
 pebbles, and went into Hill Street, and set about 
 searchingTor something to throw. I could find nothing. 
 I went on looking in the road, in the hope of seeing a 
 mended place, whence I could take gravel. At last 
 I found one, and picked up some. 
 
 I returned. There was no sign of life in the house : 
 no sign of life anywhere here apparently. Her head
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 175 
 
 would be by the left-hand window. I threw up a pebble. 
 It struck a pane: cracked it, I thought, and, falling 
 on the pavement, bounded and rolled into the gutter. 
 I made a step, picked it up, and,, standing, threw again. 
 Same result. But I didn't look for the falling pebble : 
 I looked steadily at the window. Surely she was awake. 
 
 Now for a little soft earth ! Up it went. 
 
 I looked steadily at the window. 
 
 No yes ! A movement : a movement of the blind. 
 I stepped back, and, taking off my hat, and turning a 
 little sideways, so that she might if possible see some- 
 thing of my face, looked up as before. 
 
 Another movement of the blind. It was, I thought, 
 drawn aside a little. I held up my outstretched arms. 
 
 All at once I knew the blind ran up ; heard a hasp 
 strike, and the top half of the window came down. 
 There was something white in the dark space that 
 had been the top half of the window. I cried out : 
 
 ' Rosy, it 's me ! me ! Come down and let me in.' 
 
 'O gracious !' said her dear voice, 'how you frightened 
 me ! What 's the matter ? ' 
 
 ' Let me in ! let me in ! let me in ! ' I said, 
 
 ' " Do thou roll forth a fruit-cake 
 out of the rich house, 
 and a beaker of wine 
 and a basket of cheeses ; 
 and wheat-bread the swallow 
 and the pulse porridge 
 does not reject. Say, shall I go away, or something receive !" ' 
 
 Heaven only knew what the poor child thought of 
 it all ! I began laughing at the idea. Then, suddenly 
 serious : 
 
 'Mrs. Smith is fast asleep,' I said quietly, 'down 
 here. I want to tell you something something very 
 important to us both. Will you come and let me in ? ' 
 
 A pause, then : 
 
 'Yes,' she said, 'I will come down.' 
 
 Then the window was drawn up, and I stood waiting 
 for some minutes. At last I heard her coming down 
 the creaking stairs. A bolt was softly undone at the 
 top of the door, a lock shot back : the door opened, 
 and I was standing by her in the narrow passage.
 
 176 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 Don't make a noise/ she said, ' or else you '11 
 
 w 
 
 ake- 
 
 ' " The baby ? " ' I said. She had put on her dress. 
 
 She closed the door softly. 
 
 'What's the matter?' she asked. I was pleased 
 by her quiet tone. 
 
 'Let's go upstairs/ I said, 'and I '11 tell you/ 
 
 We went up carefully ; she first, stopping once to 
 tell me to be quiet, or Miss Martin would hear. My 
 fickle thoughts that had become rather pallid (the 
 trouble of going up so carefully, that is so slowly, and 
 the hitting of my head against some damned beam or 
 something), brought me into the shadowy room in no 
 cheerful state. Why had not she lit a light ? She 
 was groping on the mantelpiece for the matches now. 
 
 She found them ; struck a light ; and then there 
 we were in the yellow full glare of the gas for a 
 moment, before she turned it lower. I had not any- 
 thing to say ready. 
 
 At last : 
 
 'I am tired/ I said, Will you sit down? there '- 
 (pointing to the foot of the bed), ' and I will sit here ' 
 (at the head where the bed-clothes were drawn 
 back). The child obeyed in silence. Although I did 
 not look at her, I noticed her. Her hair was all dis- 
 ordered, and rather matted, her cheeks flushed with 
 what I knew was a hot dry flush. 
 
 I put my hat on the chair by me the old cane- 
 bottomed chair I knew (the same as of old, save that 
 the hole in its bottom was grown larger). Then I said 
 (she looking at me in a strange way all the time) : 
 
 ' Rosy, I have come to make an offer to you. I have 
 committed a crime here, in London, to-night. I must 
 bolt out of England at once. I have scarcely any 
 money left in fact, just enough to get out of the 
 place with. I want to know will you come with me ? ' 
 1 heard her breath go suddenly sharply inwards, and 
 stop for a moment. 
 
 Looking at my booted toes shoving together on the 
 carpet, I proceeded : 
 
 'I don't know what I'm going to do supposing I 
 am not caught, that is. But I dare say I shall be able
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 177 
 
 to turn my hand to something or other that will do to 
 keep body and soul together, and I dare say you, 
 supposing you would care to come with me, might do 
 the same. It's not a very inviting prospect to offer 
 anyone and there's worse to come yet. I don't 
 believe in marriage. You would have to come with me 
 as my mistress. I might tire of you. You would have 
 no guarantee but my word that I wouldn't bolt from 
 you there, just as I am bolting from justice now. You 
 know the sort of creature I am.' I looked up at her. 
 
 Then, in a moment, she was in my arms, kissing me, 
 laughing, crying, kissing me over and over again, and 
 I her, speaking unintelligible sentences, uttering un- 
 known words. A thrill went through me the same 
 thrill, it seemed, that had gone through me that 
 winter's evening in the farm-house kitchen where 
 Mary kissed me with her soft red lips, the same thrill 
 that had gone through me when I saw Rayne standing 
 there on the station platform, while I was carried away 
 from her. 
 
 I pressed her closely to me, my cheek against hers, 
 the tears welling out of my eyes. The stubborn will 
 seemed broken at last. But I was tired, tired in body 
 and soul. Breathless as she was from my embrace, 
 she yet strained me to her with strength, strained me 
 to her when my embrace relaxed, held me when, all 
 things turning and swimming, I would have fallen. 
 In that place of confused and dreamy sensations, I felt 
 her hold, and had some comfort in it. I think I 
 moaned and muttered things scarcely intelligible to 
 myself. At last I opened my eyes. She was smiling 
 at me as a new-made mother might at her wakened 
 child. For a moment I felt the pleasure of that hold 
 and look. Then I loosed myself from her and said : 
 
 'Damn it, I must have been fainting.' 
 
 She nodded her head at me in her old half-merry way. 
 
 ' That's just what you did, then ! ' 
 
 'Dear child,' I said, getting up to my feet, and 
 making some steps, ' I'm a fool. Let me see. What 
 did I say to you just now ? ' But, feeling a little dizzy, 
 came back and sat down on the bed before I said any 
 more.
 
 178 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 Then, looking at my booted toes shoving together 
 on the carpet as before, I began : 
 
 ' We've both, it seems, been making fools of our- 
 selves, especially I. Now listen to me. Did you 
 intend this to mean that you wanted to go with me 
 abroad ? Yes or no ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' she said, f yes !' 
 
 'Did you understand what I told you about the 
 crime I'd committed, and the rest of it? Did you 
 understand it, what it meant ? ' 
 
 'I don't mind about it,' she said, 'one bit, so long 
 as they don't catch you. And I 'm sure they won't \ ' 
 
 ' How do you know that ? ' 
 
 ' It would be so cruel ! ' 
 
 ' What would be so cruel ? ' 
 
 ' Now that I Ve got you, for them to take you 
 straight away from me again ! ' (She shook her head.) 
 ' I 'm sure they won't ! I 'm sure they won't ! ' 
 
 Her tone of voice, almost fierce, made me laugh. 
 
 ' Rosy,' I said, ' I 'm too tired to spend an hour in 
 asking you to consider what a serious question all 
 this is. Do you understand that our life will be a 
 hard one perhaps a very hard one ? ' 
 
 ' Yes/ she said ; ' I don't mind one bit ! ' 
 
 ' Do you understand that I won't marry you now 
 or ever ? ' 
 
 No answer. 
 
 'Ah/ I said, 'You didn't understand that? You 
 thought I was joking? I was not. I am not. I am 
 in earnest. I will never marry you, if you come with 
 me : never, O never ! ' 
 
 I rose and stood before her, and looked at her 
 looking fiercely at me. 
 
 ' Now/ I said, ' answer me simply ; but do not hurry. 
 Reflect before you answer. Don't be afraid of saying 
 " No." Believe I shall not break my heart if you say 
 "No."' 
 
 She looked down now, and seemed to be thinking. 
 What of? Did she believe that I wouldn't break my 
 heart if she said ' No ' ? If that was her thought, I 
 must answer it. 
 
 ' This very night/ I said, ' I asked another woman
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 179 
 
 to come with me, and she wouldn't. You see the sort 
 of man you have to deal with.' 
 
 I waited. 
 
 At last : 
 
 ' Yes/ she said in a low voice, ' I '11 go with you.' 
 
 'You'll have a hard life of it with me even sup- 
 posing the life itself wasn't hard. You see the sort of 
 man I am. I am a little mad. I care for nobody but 
 myself. Then I 'm a terrible liar : you can believe 
 nothing I say. I have told you bushels of lies to-night.' 
 
 She rose, and looked me in the face. 
 
 ' I don't be-lieve you ! ' she said. ' You 're not selfish ! 
 you 're not a liar ! ' 
 
 ' But I 'm quite mad.' 
 
 ' How can you talk like that ? ' she cried out, ' You 
 know I 'd go with you wherever you liked in the whole 
 world ! You know I would ! ' 
 
 'Very well,' I said, 'very well.' I sat down on the 
 bed almost exhausted. 
 
 As I sat with my head bowed, looking at the carpet 
 and not caring to struggle any more, she knelt down 
 in front of me, looking into my face, and then put her 
 arms up and round me. I opened my knees : she put 
 herself between them. I closed my eyes. My head 
 nodded, and nodded, and nodded. 
 
 ' Ha ! ' said I, waking with a start, ' what 's the time ? 
 I mustn't forget to wind up my watch.' I took it out. 
 A quarter-past three. Time had gone quickly. 
 
 ' Let me see/ I said, ' What time 's the morning mail 
 to Paris ? . . . Can we get a cab here easily ? ' 
 
 'Yes/ she said, 'there's a mews at the end of the 
 street.' 
 
 ' It'll be all right if we start by six, I 'm sure.' I 
 was thinking what time it was when Brooke and I left 
 Dunraven Place for the French mail. 
 
 The end of it was that I lay down on the bed to 
 rest myself for a few minutes, while she did something 
 or other (I did not notice what she said), and then I 
 fell asleep. Then I was half-wakened by feeling some 
 one bending over me, to kiss me on the lips : to which 
 I objected, and moved my head, but the other lips 
 came after mine, and almost caught them, despite a
 
 180 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 quick move back again. I awoke after that : and saw 
 Rosy standing by the door, and the room filled with 
 light not the gaslight. 
 
 ' Is it time to go ? ' I asked. 
 
 ' Yes,' she said. 
 
 I got up. 
 
 ' Now, what about the cab ? Where is this mews 
 place you told me about, Rosy ! ' 
 
 ' The cab 's downstairs at the door waiting.' 
 
 ' You didn't go and get it, did you ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, / got it ! ' 
 
 A pause. 
 
 ' What's that ? ' I asked, looking at a bundle on 
 the table. 
 
 ' My things.' 
 
 ' You needn't take them, you know,' I said. 
 
 'But ' 
 
 ' No ; we'll get everything we want in Paris.' 
 
 'But ' 
 
 ' There, now ! there, now ! ' said I, putting my arm 
 round her, and getting her along, expostulating, to 
 the door and opening it. ' Don't talk any more about 
 it ! It 's no good talking about it ! Get along ! ' 
 
 ' But ' she said, turning at the top of the stairs. 
 
 I put my hand on her mouth, whispering : 
 
 1 You'll have Miss Martin up in a moment. Do 
 you owe Mrs. Smith anything ? ' 
 
 ' No,' she said, ' Hush ! ' 
 
 She went down the dark stairs, I following her. 
 Mrs. Smith was standing by her door. She made a 
 sort of curtsey to me. 
 
 ' Good-morning, sir,' she said. 
 
 ' Good-morning/ I said. 
 
 She had the door open for us in a moment Rosy 
 went out quickly, and was into the cab (a hansom), 
 and I followed, without a further word or sign to the 
 old devil. As I was getting in, I told the man 
 ' Charing Cross,' over the roof, and then sank down 
 beside her. 
 
 ' I have had rather a hard day of it on the whole,' 
 I said. 
 
 ' But why did you make me leave '
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 181 
 
 I put my hand over her mouth. 
 
 ' But ' 
 
 I pressed my hand closer. 
 
 ' If,' I said, ' it 's your economical soul that 's alarmed, 
 know, my pippin, that there's no need for it. I 'm not 
 a forger. I 'm not a beggar. I am an atheist. I am 
 a liar. I told you that I had told you bushels of lies 
 to-night, or rather, this morning.' I took down my 
 hand, adding : 
 
 ' Now don't ask more than twenty questions at a 
 time, and I will do my best to explain matters.' 
 
 I looked at her, and seeing her pretty puzzled face, 
 laughed, and gave her a kiss sideways. 
 
 ' You are mad ! ' she said. 
 
 ' I am ! ' I answered, ' everybody 's mad. And the 
 maddest people of all are those that are most sane ! ' 
 
 IV 
 
 FORTUNE favoured our flitting. We arrived at Charing 
 Cross in good time for the train. I took two first-class 
 tickets and tipped the guard heavily, for the privilege 
 of having the compartment to ourselves. I lay back 
 deep in my seat, with my feet up opposite me, full of 
 thought, unobservant. Then I felt a hand steal into 
 mine, and, looking up at a sweet anxious face, smiled, 
 and said : 
 
 ' Well, Rosy ! Here we are, you see ! ' 
 
 ' Yes,' she said, ' Here we are.' 
 
 ' Are you sorry you came ? ' I asked. 
 
 ' No, no ! Not sorry.' 
 
 ' Glad then ? ' 
 
 ' I would be if you 'd speak to me ! ' 
 
 I drew down her face and kissed the cheek, and 
 laughed a little. 
 
 Then she said : 
 
 ' What were you thinking about all this long time, 
 that you didn't say anything to me ? ' 
 
 ' Well,' I said, ' among other things, about where we 
 were to go to.' 
 
 'Yes,' she said.
 
 182 
 
 I proceeded : 
 
 ' I think -the best thing for us to do will be to get 
 out at Calais ; not go on to Paris. Suppose we went 
 to some little seaside village in Brittany for a month or 
 so ? It must be very hot in Paris now.' 
 ' I will do what you like/ she said. 
 'Very well/ I said, 'we'll get out at Calais.' 
 We had a beautiful crossing, the sea like a mill-pond. 
 Rosy wasn't sick, nor was I. Fortune still favoured us. 
 At Calais we got out, and I set about making in- 
 quiries as to the whereabouts of the desired little 
 seaside village in Brittany. After many difficulties, 
 that ended in for me at any rate complete weariness, 
 I found out a place that seemed eligible, Pierlaix. 
 
 In Pierlaix we arrived that evening, and found our 
 way to an inn, where we entered, and I demanded two 
 rooms for the night, and something to eat at once. 
 After some trouble, that would have been amusing if 
 it had not been so dreary to us who were tired out, we 
 were shown two rooms, a bedroom and (as we thought) 
 a sitting-room, which I accepted on the spot, and pro- 
 ceeded to iterate my demands for a bath in the morning 
 and something to eat and drink at once. (We were in 
 the sitting-room.) They left us. 
 
 I opened the folding-windows wide, and stepped out 
 onto the little balcony, into the noise of the sea and 
 the coolness of the evening breeze from over it. As I 
 leant on the rail I felt Rosy at my side, and turned to 
 her. Poor child, how pale and tired she looked ! 
 
 ' Never mind, Rosebud,' said I, putting my arm round 
 her shoulders and smiling at her. ' Keep your heart 
 up ! You'll be all right in the morning ! I'm afraid 
 the sea disturbed your little stomach. Do you feel ill ?' 
 ' No/ she said ; ' I'm all right, thank you.' 
 ' Then let's go up and wash ourselves. I feel filthy.' 
 We went up into the bedroom together, and made 
 some discoveries regarding the quantity of water here 
 considered sufficient for the ablutions of two. How- 
 ever, this difficulty also was at last overcome ; but we 
 gave up the soap in despair. It was just after this 
 that the fat hostess reappeared with considerable com- 
 placency, producing a species of scrubbing-brush, as
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 183 
 
 being, coup siir, what monsieur required. (All the 
 English gentlemen had the habit of using it, she 
 explained to the puzzled host beside her.) 
 
 When they had gone away : 
 
 ' I thought you knew French/ said Rosy, a little 
 piteously, 'What did she bring that scrubbing-brush 
 up for ? ' 
 
 Weary and dreary as I was, I exploded into laughter 
 at this, and kept on at it till I fell exhausted backward 
 on to the bed, and lay. From there, having rested a 
 little, while Rosy was trying to wash her face in the 
 bowl that did duty for a basin : 
 
 ' I was only trying/ I said, ' to make them under- 
 stand that I should like to have a tub in the morning.' 
 
 ' I believe the whole hotel was on the stairs listening,' 
 said Rosy, rather disgustedly. I went off into laughter 
 again. 
 
 ' I don't see what there 's to laugh at/ she said : which 
 made me continue even more than before, she drying 
 her face and hands at the window, with dignity. 
 
 I suddenly stopped. 
 
 ' It will be rather fun/ I said, ' seeing us buying new 
 clothes to-morrow ! You can't expect me to do that 
 for you, you know ! ' 
 
 ' / shan't/ said she. 
 
 f Very well,' I answered philosophically, 'then . . .' 
 She was crying. I jumped up and came to her. 
 
 ' Ah child what's the matter ?' I said, taking her in 
 my arms ; ' what is the matter ? ' 
 
 ' It 's very unkind of you/ she sobbed, ' to go on like 
 that at me, and you know it is.' 
 
 ' Indeed/ I said, ' I 'm very sorry. I didn't think you 
 minded my fun. I was only joking. . . . There, there 
 now ! It 's all right. Give us a kiss, and let 's be friends 
 again.' 
 
 ' I'm tired,' she said, wiping her eyes : 'and hungry.' 
 
 I continued chattering to her, till I at last succeeded 
 in making her cheerful, and in quite a happy humour 
 we went down together into the sitting-room. But, 
 her hunger somewhat appeased by shrimps and fried 
 sand-eels, the weariness once more began to acquire 
 the ascendant. Before we were half through the
 
 184 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 meal, the big brown eyes were blinking fast and fre- 
 quent, and the little head nodding downwards and 
 suddenly starting up when it was approaching the 
 table-cloth, at ever shortening intervals. I persuaded 
 her to sit in the arm-chair in front of the window, so 
 that ' she might look at the sea, since she didn't care 
 to eat any more,' while I finished the stewed fruit and 
 three shrivelled apples. 
 
 When I had peeled apple number two and cut it 
 into pieces, I went round to have a look at her. She 
 was fast asleep. 
 
 I went back and ate the pieces, and then apple 
 number three, thinking all the while till I became 
 quite incoherent in my ideas about things. The end 
 of this was that I awoke with a start, and, having 
 realised where I was and with whom, decided that bed 
 was the best place for both of us. But when I came 
 and looked at her breathing asleep, so pale and tired, 
 I did not care to awaken her. And going, first opened 
 and left open the sitting-room door, and then the 
 bedroom door, and returned, intending to carry her 
 up to bed. The dear child let herself be lifted with 
 no more trouble than a few uneasy sounds and move- 
 ments of her arms ; and then up with her I went, and 
 laid her softly on the bed. She sighed, and sank into 
 unruffled sleep again. I made her as comfortable as I 
 could, and shut the door. 
 
 Over the door there was a small window. The walls 
 of the room were simply boards, polish'ed. I went to 
 the other end ; opened the window, and leant out. 
 Below was a garden. I could hear, but not see, the 
 sea. The evening breeze still blew softly and coolly. 
 I gave a large long yawn, and bethought me of lying 
 down. I took off my coat, putting it on the back of a 
 chair, and came and lay down quietly beside her. I 
 must have fallen asleep almost immediately. 
 
 When I awoke, the room was half-full of sunlight ; 
 a bird was singing outside, and I saw Rosy, lying half 
 a yard away, seriously looking at me. 
 
 ' Good-morning,' I said. 
 
 ' Good-morning/ she answered. 
 
 ' . .1 wonder what time it is ? '
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 185 
 
 I got out my watch and looked at it. Half-past five. 
 
 ' Stopped ! ' I said, ' , . . How long have you been 
 awake ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, a long time.' 
 
 ' . . . I feel hungry.' 
 
 ' What time is breakfast going to be ? ' 
 
 1 God only knows or the fat woman ! / don't 
 
 know what even the French for it is. Suppose I get 
 up and see.' 
 
 I got up ; and, feeling very dried and not a little 
 dirty, pulled off my waistcoat and shirt, and entered 
 upon the best course of ablutions possible with the 
 basin and neither sponge nor soap. 
 
 'This is certain/ I said, drying myself on the small 
 towel, ' I never knew what it was to be without a 
 sponge and soap before ! ' 
 
 We talked a little about such things, till I was 
 dressed. Then, on my way to go out, I stopped by 
 the bedside, and stooped down over her. 
 
 ' May I have a kiss ? ' I asked. 
 
 She put her arms up round my neck, and drew me 
 down to her. Our lips would have met, but that I, 
 avoiding hers, kissed her on the cheek. Then I, 
 supporting myself by my two arms on either side of 
 of her (for she still held me), and, looking at her, said : 
 
 ' If you think you wouldn't be happy with me, Rosy, 
 it is not too late for you to go back again.' 
 
 ' Naughty boy ! ' she said, smiling at me. ' Fancy 
 talking like that ! ' 
 
 'Nay/ I said, 'I was quite serious. You see what a 
 weathercock I am : one moment laughing, the next 
 crying, the next cursing. It is not too late to go back 
 again to your old life. Nay, it will never be too late ! 
 Whenever you are tired of me, you must leave me. 
 Half of what was mine is yours. That goes without 
 the saying. You are your own mistress now, as 
 always, as far as / am concerned.' 
 
 ' Well/ she said, ' then I '11 take you, if you please.' 
 After a moment : 
 
 'That being so/ I said, smiling, 'I am yours till 
 you art, tired of me, that is. Till when, I will do my 
 best what in me lies, to make you happy. So help
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 me my own poor will and love for you ! ' I bent down 
 and kissed her on the lips. 
 
 For the first week or so, there was no one in the inn 
 or, as they called it, the Hotel du Midi but we ; 
 but a good many people came over from the two 
 adjacent towns of St. Denys and Marny to spend the 
 day, going back by the diligence in the evening. Then 
 two Englishmen, evident 'Varsity men or aspirers 
 thereto, en tour, arrived and stayed for a short time ; 
 but, beyond talking with them a little at dinner (what 
 I had taken, by-the-by, for our private sitting-room, 
 turned out to be a public one), we, or rather I, saw- 
 nothing of them. 
 
 The following, written later, refers to now : 
 
 ' I had some things to trouble my peace : to write, 
 and more than once, to Mr. Sandford, the solicitor who 
 had informed me of Colonel James' death and of my 
 inheritance of his fortune, and to Strachan touching 
 the Book. 
 
 . 'I scarcely knew what to say to Mr. Sandford. 
 Certainly I was not going to explain to him the cause 
 of my sudden flight, and as certainly I was not going 
 to lie about the matter. In the letter in which he 
 informed me of the burial of Colonel James in Kensal 
 Green, and of the probable cost of a suitable tombstone, 
 etc. ; he said that he now regretted, after his long, he 
 might say, personal affection for the deceased, an 
 affection which, etc., and in which, etc., etc., but he 
 must request that I would transfer the conduct of my 
 affairs to, etc., etc., etc. 
 
 ' I sat frowning over the regular winged writing for 
 a little, with a vague wonder as to the nature of the 
 friendship here alluded to, and sorrow that I had 
 apparently profaned it : then tore the paper across, 
 and threw it on to the table beside me. And Rosy 
 came in with her hat on, ready for a ramble over the 
 reefs now the tide was out ; and that was the end of 
 the matter as regarded the friendship, I mean. 
 
 ' One afternoon, in a fit of despondency, I sat down 
 and began a letter to Rayne. I am not quite sure 
 whether in my inmost mind I absolutely intended
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 187 
 
 sending it. I think that the chief reason for my 
 writing, or rather attempting to write it, was the 
 relief thereby given to my pent-up feelings. Sheet 
 after sheet was ripped up, and at last I sat still in a 
 disgust that was almost petulant. 
 
 ' Suddenly a hot flush stole up to my cheek, and I 
 looked fixedly at the pile of torn-up paper in front of 
 me, which contained shameful words : hints of what 
 I had done. "I could never see her again/' I had 
 said ; " I could not forget what had passed between 
 us. Did she expect me to return and look at her 
 being consumed alive at the stake of Duty? / was 
 made of flesh and blood. Such a sacrifice as she was 
 making was a sacrifice to Moloch : sin, not heroism." 
 In any case, how purposeless, all this ! in every case, 
 how unmanly ! She had to dree her own weird, and I 
 too, with what light conscience and knowledge could 
 impart. That was all. All that day I felt I had done 
 a wrong to Rosy. If there was a victim anywhere, it 
 was she. 
 
 'Then came Strachan. I told him simply that it 
 was impossible for me to return to London, at any 
 rate, at present : I hoped never. I was going on to 
 Paris in September, and might perhaps take up my 
 permanent abode there. Could not the proof sheets 
 be sent to me there, and from me on to him ? I 
 would write to him again from the Hotel de Manchester, 
 Rue Faubourg St. Honore, when I got there. I hoped 
 Parker, Innes, and Co. had accepted the Book all right. 
 I should stay at the Hotel de Manchester till I found 
 a house to please me. But, more later. I asked him 
 to excuse haste and confusion. As a matter of fact, I 
 hated pens, ink, and paper n'ow. To write at all 
 required an effort. I was thinking of buying a vine- 
 yard, and eating fruit till I brought on whatever the 
 disease was that was induced by a surfeit of grapes. I 
 hoped Mrs. Strachan and the Miss Strachans were 
 well. It was rather dull weather here. We had not 
 had a fine summer for long. I doubted we ever should 
 have one again. And I remained, etc., etc.' 
 
 A few days after this, a small troop of students and 
 girls who, the fat hostess assured me, were their
 
 188 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 brides, arrived, and we had rather noisy times of it at 
 dinner. Rosy did not like any of them. Me they 
 amused. I used to talk with the men, or rather boys, 
 as I best could. (Among other articles I had purchased 
 at St. Denys, was a French dictionary and a stock of 
 French novels at which I studied some hours a day.) 
 But my belief in the brides (I mean in their brideship) 
 was soon first considerably shaken, and then altogether 
 demolished. I remember how one evening I was 
 sitting out on the veranda (in the evenings the sitting- 
 room was nearly always deserted for the garden or the 
 country round about), having been reading Balzac's 
 Memoires dc Deux Jeunes Mariees with some pleasure, 
 when I became aware of one of our young couples at 
 the bottom of the garden, sporting together somewhat 
 as I supposed Isaac to have sported with Rebekah 
 on a certain historic occasion not unconnected with 
 Abimelech and a window. The idea made me laugh, 
 and laugh again, till it shook my book down off my 
 knees : when a hand was put over my eyes and firmly 
 pressed there. I threw it off, and beheld Rosy 
 standing, absolutely glaring at me. 
 
 ' Hullo,' I said, 'what's the matter?' 
 
 ' You were laughing at one of those girls,' she said. 
 
 ' No,' I said, ' I was laughing at a couple there in 
 the bushes, playing together.' 
 
 ' You were not ! You were laughing at that girl 
 with the red hair. I saw her go out there a moment 
 ago on purpose \ ' 
 
 ' Are you joking?' I said surprisedly, getting up. 
 I could see she was not. I turned a little. She turned, 
 so as to keep her eyes on mine. Our eyes met and 
 stayed together while I spoke : 
 
 ' Rosy,' I said, ' I do not tell lies, at least of this sort. 
 When I tell you I have done a thing, I do not expect 
 you to question the truth of my words.' 
 
 ' But you did ! ' she burst out, ' you did. You know 
 you did ! ' 
 
 ' Did what ? ' 
 
 ' Nod to her, and laugh at her ! I saw you ! ' 
 
 I lost patience. I gave one step to her. 
 
 ' I warn you never to say such a thing again,' I said,
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 189 
 
 'there must be trust between us, or nothing. I did 
 not tell you this before. I thought you understood it. 
 Now choose. Believe me, or we part for always. I 
 will never see you again/ 
 
 If I had not caught her, she would have fallen. She 
 writhed about in my grasp, muttering quickly, her face 
 and hands working, her eyelids quivering. I held her 
 and looked at her steadily. I did not know what was 
 the matter with her ; but was decided that she must 
 say she believed me, or we would part. Life with a 
 woman who did not trust you, would be nothing short 
 of the popular conception of hell. 
 
 At last she became coherent enough for me to 
 gather that I had terrified her. Then she appeared to 
 recognise me, and covered me with a hundred endear- 
 ments, beseeching me over and over again not to leave 
 her, or she would kill herself. I did not know how she 
 loved me ! Indeed, indeed, she couldn't help it ! She 
 always was jealous from a child! If I would only 
 kiss and be friends again, as we were before, she 
 would never, never be jealous again. But that girl 
 with the red hair was so forward-like, she didn't care 
 what she did ! 
 
 Weary of this, I sat her down on the sofa, and stood, 
 half-turned away, before her. She went on in the 
 same strain for a little, and then came a pause. Per- 
 haps she was exhausted. I said : 
 
 ' Well, Rosy, have you considered ? I was not 
 joking just now. I asked you to choose. Do you 
 believe what I said to you about those two down there, 
 or do you not ? You know what your choice implies ? ' 
 
 ' What ? ' she asked ; ' what do you mean ? ' 
 
 I answered : 
 
 ' I cannot live with anyone who thinks that I have 
 told them a deliberate lie. If you think I have told 
 you a lie, then I will leave you.' 
 
 I 1 don't think you told a lie. I never said I thought 
 you told a lie.' 
 
 'Didn't you say just now you thought I had been 
 laughing at that red-haired girl ? ' 
 ' Yes, I said I thought you did.' 
 ' And didn't I say I had not ? '
 
 190 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 ' And didn't you say then that I had ? ' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' And didn't I tell you that I had not ? ' 
 
 ' Ye es.' 
 
 'And didn't you refuse to believe me?' 
 
 ' Ye e es.' 
 
 'And what is that but telling me, straightly and 
 directly, that I had lied to you ? ' 
 
 ' I don't understand it,' she said, piteously, bewildered. 
 I walked round the table, with my hands in my pockets. 
 
 Then, standing in the middle of the open window, 
 I stared out into the dull evening and my thoughts. 
 I do not know how long I stood so : maybe scarcely 
 two minutes, but it seemed more than two hours. I 
 roused myself with a sigh, turned round, and going to 
 her, knelt down by her knees ; put my arms round her, 
 and kissed her.' 
 
 How the child smiled, and cried, and laughed, and 
 caressed me ! 
 
 We came on to Paris in the first week or so of 
 September, to the Hotel de Manchester. A letter had 
 arrived there for me the night before, from Strachan. 
 He expressed surprise at my flight in the night time, 
 and hoped that there was nothing serious the matter 
 with me ? But Mrs. Strachan had been pestering him 
 to take her and the girls to Paris for a fortnight, and 
 as his term at the Queen's College did not begin till 
 the end of October (by-the-by he had not informed me 
 that he had just got the chair of Natural History there, 
 had he ?), he thought he might manage it (say) half- 
 way through September. We could talk over matters 
 about the Book then. Parker had agreed to publish 
 it all right ; but there was some lumber about plates, 
 etc. He would write again shortly, or, perhaps better, 
 when he arrived in Paris. 
 
 I answered this letter at once. 
 
 First, as regarded the Book. No expense was to be 
 spared to make it attractive. That was my affair, or 
 rather it was Mr. Brooke's own. I only held his money 
 and property as a guardian till Mr. Starkie returned 
 from Africa, when I should hand it over to him with
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 191 
 
 the account of what had been expended of the one or 
 made use of of the other, during his absence. But, I 
 was quite sure, no possible objection could be raised to 
 any expense undertaken in behalf of the Book. I 
 would be responsible for that. For the rest, I need 
 not say how glad I should be to see him (Strachan) 
 here in Paris, but it would be, I thought, impossible 
 for me to see Mrs. Strachan or his daughters. For 
 this reason : there was with me now one who had given 
 up all she had for my sake, for which I loved and 
 reverenced her, and, considering that the only reason 
 that she was not my wife was because I did not believe 
 in what was known as 'marriage/ I would go nowhere 
 where she could not come with me, and be assured of 
 the same respect as if she were my wife. This I knew 
 was more than I could ask (my first form of the sentence 
 was : than either I could ask or desire) of Mrs. Strachan, 
 with the beliefs that I knew she held. I repeated 
 that I should be indeed glad to see him here, I hoped 
 in my own house, and have some opportunity of re- 
 turning him some little of the hospitality which he and 
 his had given to me while I was in London. 
 
 There was, I thought, no more to be said than this. 
 If he were a true man, it would be enough : if he were 
 not, then let each go on his separate way. It was as 
 nothing to me. Only one acquaintance the less. . . . 
 Should I never have a friend ? 
 
 In the morning Rosy and I set out together in pur- 
 suit of a house, or rather a flat, to suit us. After some 
 trouble, I remembered that, when I had been at the 
 pension in the Avenue de Fontenoi, I had noticed a 
 flat that was to let, some way up the street, which 
 had impressed me favourably for some reason or other. 
 I suggested that we should go there now, and we did. 
 The place suited us, and we took it. 
 
 We, or rather I, began with a delightful scheme of 
 doing each room (there were seven, not counting the 
 kitchen, all opening into one another) in some par- 
 ticular style : as, for instance, there was to be a terra- 
 cotta room, and a brass room, and a silvered room, and 
 so on. I got through the first two pretty well, I think, 
 but with some trouble, in the next three or four days.
 
 192 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 Then one morning came a letter from Strachan. He 
 would manage to see me soon somehow, and we could 
 arrange about the Book. He was bound to cross the 
 Channel hi any case, he found, before the term began. 
 There were some bones in the Museum of Natural 
 History that he must manage to see somehow before 
 he went on any further with a monograph on the 
 Elephas Primogenius he was now working at. Mrs. 
 Strachan and the girls were not coming to Paris this 
 year. I must excuse haste, and, hoping to see me well, 
 he remained, etc., etc. 
 
 What a time that was, furnishing the house ! As 
 for the idea of doing each room of the house in a par- 
 ticular style L'komme propose, les commix disposent ! 
 I really don't know how we ever got the place done at 
 all. However, at the end of a fortnight, we, or rather 
 I, again had made five of the seven rooms habitable, 
 and the two servants I had got had done the same for 
 the kitchen. (The servants of the whole house slept 
 up above in the grenier, as they call it, not in the 
 several flats.) I worked like a slave, and rather liked 
 it : hanging all the pictures, deciding where, and gene- 
 rally helping, to put all the things in their places, and 
 so on ; for I had my doubts about the Parisian sense 
 of the beautiful in the matter of furniture arrangement. 
 
 Rosy's chief anxiety in the matter was as concerned 
 the fate of the things which she had herself ordered, all 
 the linen and the household utensils. She did not care 
 to come up to the place itself, for reasons of her own : 
 not unconnected, I thought, with a small coffin which 
 had happened to be exposed by the door one morning, 
 covered with flowers, a child's coffin. When I had 
 asked her, as we went up the staircase, why she hurried 
 by so quickly, she said in a half-whisper : 
 
 ' It was a child ! Don't let 's talk about it.' 
 
 It must have been a fine thing in the way of amuse- 
 ment to have seen her ordering her things at the 
 Magasin du Louvre her favourite shop, lists in hand. 
 The composition of t ose lists in the evenings with 
 pen, ink, paper, and dictionary was delightful ; but 
 she would not hear of my going with her to see their 
 fulfilment.
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 193 
 
 At last all was ready for her, and the next morning 
 we installed ourselves. 
 
 I remember that, as we sat together that evening, 
 I looked across to her sitting with far-off eyes with 
 her book, and thought how impossible it was to know 
 anything about anyone else. I felt that in her mind a 
 train of ideas existed of which I was absolutely ignorant. 
 
 At last : 
 
 'Rosy/ I said, getting up, 'I have not welcomed 
 you to your home.' 
 
 She rose, and I took her hands, and, looking into 
 her eyes, went on : 
 
 ' Welcome to it, and may you be happy in it ! And 
 here at the beginning of our new life together, let us 
 say that, whatever may happen, one thing shall always 
 be between us Trust. Believe me,' I said, taking her 
 in my arms and looking closer into her eyes, ' Believe 
 me, child, that without Trust, happiness can never live, 
 let love be as broad and as deep as is the sea. Oh 
 Rosy, give yourself to me, heart and soul ! It seems 
 to me, as we are now, that Love is not so far away 
 from us.' 
 
 Her arms pressed me with strange strength. Her 
 face grew to mine : our lips met in a kiss that was her 
 full surrender unto mine : a kiss so sweet, so long, so 
 mingling, that I knew not whether this was death or 
 life, or earth or heaven. And then I thought that it 
 was Love.
 
 194 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 V 
 
 THE Professor came in upon us after twelve o'clock 
 lunch, one mild October day, when we were standing 
 together, outside the study, leaning over the balcony- 
 rails and watching the aerial manoeuvres of two martins. 
 
 ' I am glad to see you/ I said, holding his hand and 
 looking into his face. Then turning to Rosy, who had 
 drawn back on the sudden appearance of this stranger 
 by my side, I explained : 
 
 'This is the friend for whose sake I wushed our 
 house to be ready Professor Strachan.' 
 
 Rosy put out a timid hand, and said blushingly and 
 softly : 
 
 ' I am glad to see you, sir ! ' 
 
 The Professor smiled who could help it? and 
 then gave an odd glance at me which I rejected, and 
 that, I think, dismissed some invisible commonplace 
 trouble of ours into the outer air, and he and I were 
 in some way more really friends than we ever had 
 been before. 
 
 He stayed in Paris for eight or nine days, during 
 which I had the pleasure of going with the Rosebud 
 and him to see the plays which were the best worth 
 seeing. Those evenings were happy ones. He and 
 the child took to one another, quite remarkably : and 
 therein perhaps lay the happiness of those evenings 
 at least to me to sit still and listen to their talk, with 
 a certain half-dreaminess in my thoughts of them, and 
 with a certain half-wonder in the half-dreaminess. I 
 remember how particularly this feeling came to me 
 the last night he was with us (at the Gymnase it was), 
 and how it dominated me all the way home, and how, 
 looking into his eyes, as after supper he said good-
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 195 
 
 night to me a second time at the street-door, the 
 sudden thought came that he knew my final thought, 
 and to where did that final thought tend ? As I came 
 up the dark staircase with my candle-light sending un- 
 couth shadows about me above and below, I wondered, 
 in a half-vague way about the meaning of the thing ? 
 
 When I entered the dining-room, I found Rosy 
 leaning against the mantelpiece, warming one foot. 
 
 ' Are you cold ? ' I said, putting down the candle on 
 the table and throwing myself into an easy-chair, with 
 my knuckles up to my mouth and my eyes to her. 
 
 1 Yes/ she said ; ' I am cold a little.' 
 
 'Why, it's quite warm.' 
 
 She made a little motion with her back expressive 
 of a shiver. I took up a book. She turned her head : 
 
 'Don't read anymore to-night,' she said, 'You're 
 always rea-ding.' 
 
 ' Am I ? ' I asked, looking at the tops of the leaves ; 
 'perhaps I want to get wise. Now if I were you, 
 Rosy, I should learn French. I 'd be only too glad to 
 get you a master. And why not music too ? ' 
 
 ' I don't seem to care about it/ she said. 
 
 ' You are lazy ? ' 
 
 A pause. 
 
 She came to me. 
 
 'Don't sit on the arm of the chair/ I said, 'or you'll 
 break it.' 
 
 She stopped. I continued looking at the tops of the 
 leaves. Then she drew a stool from underneath the 
 table to my feet, and sat down upon it and looked at 
 me. In a little I met her gaze. 
 
 ' Well ? ' I said. 
 
 ' I will learn the French and the music if you like ! ' 
 she said. 
 
 I laughed. 
 
 * My dear, the liking must be yours. I don't want 
 you to do what you don't like.' 
 
 'You 're always rea-ding/ she said, 'I don't believe you 
 ever think about me. You don't care what I do! really.' 
 
 'I don't/ I said, 'You are right.' She seemed 
 struck speechless. 
 
 I opened the book and began reading.
 
 196 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 At last : 
 
 'You don't care what I do?' she repeated in 
 amazement. 
 
 'No/ I said ' You may go to the devil as soon as 
 you please/ 
 
 Silence. I reading. 
 
 At last I said : 
 
 'The Professor, you see, came over later than I 
 thought he would/ 
 
 A pause. 
 
 I felt her hand on my knee. 
 
 ' Are you joking?' she asked. 
 
 ' Joking ? ' said I, lowering the book and looking at 
 her with surprise, ' Not the least in the world. I said 
 I didn't care what you did. I don't. You remember 
 my agreement with you ? You were to take half the 
 money and leave me the moment you tired of me. I 
 have come to the conclusion that it's only fair for me 
 to be able to do the same with you. I'm tired of you/ 
 1 lifted up the book and continued my reading. 
 
 In a little she rose and went to the fire-place. I 
 read on. She made no sign of life. A sudden idea 
 came to me that she had fainted nay, was dead ! I 
 lowered my book : saw her gazing over the table into 
 the air : got up, throwing the book on to the table by 
 the candle, and said slowly : 
 
 'Well, my dear, let's part good friends at the least. 
 It was a blunder our acquaintance, but there is no ill- 
 feeling on either side ; eh ? In token whereof we will 
 spend one more night together, and then part ? . . / 
 
 Silence ; she still gazing over the table into the air. 
 I advanced, and recognised that I desired her, which 
 made me laugh. It was the first time I had recognised 
 the fact. She answered nothing : made no motion. 
 A sudden feeling of the cruelty of my experiment 
 seemed to bite me. I had not thought of it in that 
 way : cruelty. I at once began to undo my sewing : 
 
 'Well, Rosebud/ said I, taking her two little still 
 hands in mine, 'You little duffer, what are you 
 thinking about ? ' 
 
 At last she looked at me ; looked in my eyes long, 
 till I laughed.
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 197 
 
 ' You are a bad man ! ' she said. 
 
 ' You do not mean it ? ' I said saucily. You are a 
 good worn . . .' She had in a moment smitten me 
 smartly on the cheek with the palm of her hand ! I 
 burst out into bright laughter, catching her, as she 
 sat bolt upright with an expression half-startled, half- 
 defiant, in my arms, and smothering her cheeks and 
 lips with kisses. . . . 
 
 But the experiment was spoilt. Perhaps it was 
 premature. 
 
 I wondered that night, or rather morning, as I lay 
 awake thinking in the grey light, while she slept gently 
 like a child beside me, why I had attempted that ex- 
 periment, and what I had quite meant by it ? And 
 wondering, I fell asleep. 
 
 The next evening, I met the Professor at the Gare 
 du Nord, as we had arranged, and (he, at the end of 
 our walk up and down in the hall, commending Rosy 
 to my care as a last sudden thought which I felt he 
 hadn't liked to broach as of any other sort) I saw the 
 last of him that was to be seen, and turned away a 
 little sadly. 
 
 As I walked home to Rosy, who was waiting for 
 me (to go out a walk she had said, and I had half 
 agreed), I had a feeling that we two, she and I, were 
 going through a somewhat difficult stage of develop- 
 ment, and thought of it, as usual now, half vaguely. 
 When I opened our door, I found her seated on the 
 ottoman in the hall, dressed in furs, waiting. 
 
 ' Dear girl,' I said, drawing out the latchkey, ' it 's 
 quite warm out. How can you expect to walk quickly 
 when you're muffled up like a mummy? And stays 
 on underneath, I '11 be bound.' I was smiling. She 
 came towards me with a saucy strut, holding up her 
 dress, so to show her small pointed boots and pretty 
 coloured stockings. I looked at them and said : 
 
 'Oh, frightful!' 
 
 She caught me by the arm and half-swung there. 
 
 ' You 're in such a good temper to-day ! ' she said, 
 laughing. ' We '11 go to a nice cafe on the boulevard, 
 and drink cafe noir, in nice china cups, and play at 
 dominoes. I do like dominoes. We will Eh ? '
 
 198 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 'If/ said I, 'you die before me, I will have you 
 buried in stays and patent-leather boots, and have a 
 corset cut on your gravestone. You won't find corsets 
 in heaven when you get there. You will have to 
 migrate further south. There are plenty of them in 
 hell. Satan invented them.' 
 
 ' How shockingly you do talk ! ' she said. 
 
 ' How so ? tell me that ? ' I said seriously. 
 
 'You shouldn't talk in that way.' 
 
 I sat down laughing on the ottoman. 
 
 ' Shall we go to the cafe by the Fra^ais ? ' I asked, 
 ' You see, my dear, this earth is, after all, rather an 
 odd place to live in ; and we humans or rather, we 
 animals are really, after all, rather odd things to be 
 living in it ; and this is all the more so on account of 
 murder and sausages. Shall we go to the cafe by the 
 
 'How n-fKcmtotu you are !' she said, 'very well.' 
 
 ' My dear/ I said, ' shall we take a cab ? ' 
 
 We took a cab, and I talked like a rational (or 
 irrational) being for the rest of the evening. 
 
 It was late when we got home again, and the con- 
 cierge apparently deep in his slumbers ; for we stood 
 at the door (I pulling at the bell, Rosy seemingly 
 tired into the quietness of an implicit acceptance of 
 things), for over five minutes. At last we got in, and 
 went slowly up the dark staircase together, I all at 
 once thinking of last night's experiment till I began 
 to laugh. Then I found we were standing in front of 
 our own door; perhaps had been so for some time. 
 Rosy stood with her hands muff-wise in her sleeves, 
 and her eyes half-closed, and her pretty little head 
 sleepily quavering downwards. I chucked her sharply 
 under the chin. 
 
 ' It 's time to get up and eat sally-luns/ I declared. 
 
 ' Good gracious, how you did startle me ! ' she said : 
 ' What 's the matter ? ' 
 
 I drew the latch-key out of my pocket, and, at the 
 first shot, drove it into the key-hole, and opened the 
 door. The ornamented, luxurious passage looked as 
 if it were warm and almost cosy in the red light of 
 the hanging oil lamp's little floating red core-flame.
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 199 
 
 She went in, and I after her, closing and locking the 
 door behind me, while she passed on into the morning- 
 room. There was a small window halfway up the left- 
 hand wall of the passage, and it looked into the study. 
 I could see that the curtain, that was usually drawn 
 right across the window, was only half drawn. I went 
 and observed what she was doing. She was on her 
 way across the room to the fire, of course. Down 
 she sat on the hearthrug, and doubtless was staring 
 into the red-ember realm of castles and dreams. Then 
 she looked round: 'Why wasn't he coming?' Then 
 back again at the red-ember realm. What a strange 
 thing for me, here, in Space and Time and Life, so to 
 be observing her here, too, in Space and Time and 
 Life. What were we to one another ? Not only Rosy 
 to me, and I to Rosy, but each one of us each one 
 of us humans to each other one ? The thought grew 
 broader in me, my eyes still regarding the firelight 
 picture there, but not comprehending it. She looked 
 round again. The movement recalled me to my 
 ordinary self. ' Why wasn't he coming ? ' I felt a 
 sudden great tenderness for the poor child waiting for 
 me there. Oh, Rosebud, Rosebud ! 
 
 Then I passed in and through the morning-room, 
 where, on the sofa, lay her furred coat and hat, and, 
 parting the curtains of the doorway, stepped into the 
 study. She was looking back for me. I threw my 
 hat into a chair ; pulled off my coat ; sent it after the 
 hat, and came to her. I threw myself down behind 
 her on the soft hearthrug, and resting my head, that 
 was beside her, on my hand, looked into the eyes that 
 were looking into mine. 
 
 ' Rosy,' I said, ' do you believe in God ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ! ' adding, her eyes in the red-ember realm, 
 ' of course.' 
 
 'Then don't you think you're doing wrong being 
 with me ? ' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' And don't you think you '11 be punished for it ? ' 
 
 ' I am sure I shall,' she said. 
 
 A pause. 
 
 ' Then why do you do it ? '
 
 200 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 ' Because I can't help it ! ' 
 
 ' What do you mean ? ' 
 
 'I can't help it. Can't you see/ she said, turning 
 full unfathomed eyes on me, ' I can't help it ! I love 
 every muscle in your body.' 
 
 The simplicity of thought, and voice and word made 
 me say, with a suspicion of a small smile round the 
 corners of my mouth: ' That's awkward/ and bring 
 my eyes down to the hearthrug, while I thought for 
 a moment of that last expression of hers and its 
 meaning. 
 
 Then, looking up : 
 
 ' Would you like me to marry you ? ' I asked. 
 
 Her eyes went as unfathomed as before into the red- 
 ember realm again, and became distant. Her lips said 
 slowly : 
 
 ' I should like to have you without the sin ; but . . .' 
 
 'Well ' 
 
 ' I shouldn't like you to marry me.' 
 
 'Why?' 
 
 No answer. 
 
 I repeated : 
 
 'Why?' 
 
 ' Can't you see,' she said, turning her eyes to me, 
 ' why I shouldn't like you to marry me ? ' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 She looked to the red-ember realm once more, but 
 not into it, and her eyes became dreamy. 
 
 At last she spoke. ' I don't think/ she said, ' you 'd 
 care for me even as much as you do now if you married 
 me. No ' (she shook her head), ' I wouldn't like you 
 to marry me. Besides . . . .' 
 
 'Well ?' 
 
 1 You will want to marry some one/ she said, suddenly 
 looking at me, ' some day.' 
 
 'No/ I said, ' I shall never want to marry any one!' 
 
 'Ah/ she said, 'wait till you love some one and 
 then ! ' She nodded her head. 
 
 ' Why do you think I didn't marry you ? ' I asked. 
 
 'Because you didn't want to !' she said. 
 
 ' No ! At least, no to your thought.' 
 
 ' What do you mean ? '
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 201 
 
 ' I don't believe in marriage. If I did, I should have 
 married you.' 
 
 'That's sinful, not to believe in marriage. Don't 
 you believe in God ? ' 
 
 ' To the best of my belief, no. One thing I am sure 
 about: I don't believe in Jesus. I suppose Jesus and 
 God are one and the same thing, are they not?' 
 
 1 Yes, Jesus is God.' 
 
 ' And God is Jesus ? ' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' How is that ? ' 
 
 ' That 's the mystery. We don't know. You ought 
 to have faith, and believe in it.' I looked down. 
 There was absolutely no good in attempting to say 
 anything serious on these matters to her. 1 looked 
 up again. 
 
 1 Rosy,' I said, ' I don't like you to think what I can 
 see you do think about my not having married you. I 
 would not marry any woman in the world, however 
 much I loved her. I could not repeat the words of 
 the marriage service with my lips, and laugh at them 
 in my heart. That would not be true.' 
 
 ' You would, though,' she said, looking at me with a 
 look of experience, ' if you loved a person.' 
 
 What was the good of contradicting her? I kept 
 silence, with downcast eyes, for a moment. Then I 
 said. 
 
 ' Why, if you believe that you will be punished for 
 all this, don't you ask me to marry you and chance my 
 not caring for you then even as much as I do now as 
 you say ? What sort of punishment do you think 
 you '11 get ? ' 
 
 ' I shall be burned in jire \ I knew that long ago. 
 ... I knew quite well it would be like this some day. 
 I used to pray to God not to think about you, but I 
 could not help it : I did think about you ! When you 
 went away to Paris, I was ill, and I thought I was 
 going to die ; and I promised God I would never think 
 about you any more ; but I got well again, and I went 
 on thinking about you more than ever ! I couldn't 
 help it ! And at last I felt I couldn't do without you. 
 You 've no idea what a way I used to get in sometimes.
 
 202 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 I used to feel as if I must get up that very moment, 
 and go and find you, and hold you in my arms and 
 love you. I couldn't help it ! I know I shall be 
 punished for it ; I suppose I must be ! Then, you see, 
 you came back, and we had those walks together. I 
 knew you didn't care for me ; but you were so much to 
 me. I couldn't do without you ! ' 
 
 To watch the child as she sat, looking with her 
 dreamy, unfathomed eyes into the fire, and to hear her 
 telling her story in this way ! 
 
 I drew myself up beside her, and put my arm round 
 her shoulders, leaning her body against mine. She did 
 not seem to notice my movement, or to feel my arm 
 round her shoulders. She was silently gazing before her. 
 
 ' Rosy/ I said, ' Rosebud,' rubbing my cheek softly 
 against hers, 'I would do anything, if it were only 
 true, to make you happy. I would marry you to- 
 morrow if it were not for those . . . those words that 
 would be so false in my mouth, that I could not utter 
 them. I could not do that. But there are other ways 
 of marrying people, now I think of it. I will find out 
 about them. Then, you see, you would be my wife : 
 I mean, as far as having my name ; so that no one 
 could think or say anything against you.' (She was 
 shaking her head.) ' Nay,' I said, smiling, 'can't you 
 see that in this way you would have a greater, a more 
 lawful claim, as you might say, upon me, in case I ever 
 did want to marry any one with the marriage-service 
 and the rest of it ? ' I was smiling. 
 
 ' No/ she said ; ' I wouldn't care about that. Not 
 one bit ! ' 
 
 ' But suppose/ I said, ' suppose I ever did fall in love 
 with any one, and did want to marry them ? . . . What 
 then?' 
 
 ' Then you 'd have to, that 's all ! ' she said. 
 
 ' But what would you do ? ' 
 
 'I'd go away, and never see you again ! ' 
 
 ' I hope you wouldn't, Rosy ! I hope you never 
 would, whatever comes or goes. You would always 
 let me be your friend.' 
 
 ' While some other woman had you ? That's likely ! 
 Oh, you don't know what love is ! '
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 203 
 
 ' 1 don't/ I said, c but you know quite well that I 
 never would leave you, however much I loved any one 
 else.' 
 
 ' But / would leave you, if I thought you loved any 
 one else.' 
 
 ' But I wouldn't let you know.' 
 
 'But you couldn't help it.' 
 
 ' But I never shall love any one.' 
 
 ' How do you know that ? / thought / never should 
 love any one ; but, you see, I do. I hope you '11 love 
 some one some day who doesn't love you, and then 
 you '11 know what / have to suffer.' 
 
 A pause. 
 
 ' Supposing,' said I, ' that I loved you, and you 
 didn't love me.' 
 
 'Yes/ 
 
 ' Well, supposing you loved somebody else, and left 
 me, I shouldn't mind always being your friend.' 
 
 She gave a short laugh. 
 
 ' Wouldn't you ! Oh no ! I tell you : if I ever 
 found out that you touched any woman besides me, I 
 would go away from you ! I would never see you 
 again ! You never should touch me again ! The idea 
 of being yonr friend, as you call it ! Do you think I 
 could look at any woman, and know that she had you, 
 and . . . and not Jail her ? ' 
 
 She stopped : then began shaking her head and 
 laughing to herself. I eyed her from under gathered 
 brows : I suspected the actor's sense in her as well as 
 in myself. I turned her head round to me and kissed 
 her full and long on the lips. The effect was strange. 
 It was a new child this, here with me in a new place of 
 early day's air and light. I could scarcely think of the old 
 self of hers that was now gone, gone I knew not where. 
 
 ' Kiss me again/ she said in a low, half-breathless 
 voice, bringing her mouth towards mine, ' kiss me ! ' 
 
 A certain devil's light of mirth came into my eyes: 
 I laughed at her, and drew sharply back with back- 
 spread arms. 
 
 ' No, no, no/ I said, ' you little green-eyed monster 
 you ! You shall chase me for another kiss, if you want 
 it. I . . .' I had stopped.
 
 204 
 
 She bent to me with her hands half-up, frightened a 
 little at the look in my face : 
 
 ' What is it ? ' she said. ' What 's the matter ? ' 
 
 She came close to me anxiously. 
 
 ' What is it, dear ? ' she said, ' Oh, do tell me ! 
 What's the mat-ter with you, dear ? Are you ill} ' 
 
 ' Nothing's the matter with me/ I said. It's time we 
 were going to bed . . . There, there! It's all right, I 
 tell you. Now, off you go to bed ! You 're tired out/ 
 
 I took her hand and patted it between my two ; and 
 then led her, strutting with fantastic, playful gallantry, 
 to the door-way and held up one curtain for her to 
 pass. Just through it, she turned her head and 
 shoulders back and asked prettily : 
 
 ' But you will come, too soon ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' I said, smiling at her, ' I have something that 
 I must do, that will take me a few minutes, and then I 
 will come.' 
 
 I let fall the curtain. In a moment I heard her 
 step go on. 
 
 Then I sat down in the easy-chair and began to 
 think : to think of all this and what it meant, and then 
 of the events of that far night of supreme folly at 
 Rayne's, or best say madness at once. 
 
 Something which I had to do was now done done 
 well, as it seemed to me, and that something was the 
 final and complete clearing away of all the clouding 
 illusion that had blackened the sight of that strange 
 time of devilry, had dimmed the sight of the time that 
 had followed upon the other as an oblivious summer 
 upon an intoxicated spring. I was at last free. I saw 
 things as they were, not as they seemed to be. It 
 might well be that illusion would play its part in my 
 future's wilder hours ; but it never could be what it 
 had been to the daily hours of my past. / was free. 
 And that, I thought, meant something. 
 
 I blew out the candles and drew back the hearthrug 
 (for fear of some hot coals falling out of Rosy's specially 
 procured English grate, and burning her and me and 
 the house, and my so significant freedom in the night), 
 and then went in to her. 
 
 She was already in bed, lying on her side, looking to
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 205 
 
 the door-way curtains. A deep-shaded candle on the 
 reading-table by the bedside threw a light over the 
 lower part of her face, and on one out-stretched arm in 
 its long white-worked frill, and on the hand with up- 
 held fingers on the white rounded edge of the bed. 
 All the rest was shadowed. 
 
 ' Well ? ' I said, smiling, and standing for a moment 
 with the curtains in my backward hands. 
 
 She smiled back to me. I crossed over to her, and 
 sat down beside the outstretched arm of the long white- 
 worked frill and the hand of the upheld fingers on the 
 rounded edge of the bed. And I took the hand of 
 the upheld fingers, while her two eyes looked quietly 
 in mine ; and bent, and softly kissed her two soft red 
 lips ; and she murmured : 
 
 ' You see, I hadn't to chase you for it, after all I ' 
 
 ' No,' I answered, ' I cheerfully do what the dilly- 
 ducks would not do : I come to be killed. Death 's too 
 sweet to be fearful.' 
 
 '. . . What do you mean ?' 
 
 I kissed her, again, smiling : 
 
 ' That I love you.' 
 
 ' . . . Then I hope you Avill always mean that ; for I 
 love you oh, I do love you, ever so much ! ' 
 
 'More than you love yourself?' 
 
 ' I don't think I have any self left to love. It 's all 
 yours ! ' 
 
 Then, in loving myself, I shall but be loving you ? ' 
 
 < Yes ! ' 
 
 ' Love imist be unselfish, then, whether it like it or 
 no. For, in loving itself, it only succeeds in loving 
 somebody else. . . . Do you understand it all ? ' 
 
 And seeing she did not, all of it, I once more bent 
 again, and once more kissed her two soft red lips ; and 
 she once more murmured, laughing low : 
 
 ' I understand that part ! . . . But I seem to think 
 you might do it over a-gain ! ' 
 
 II 
 
 I HAD divided the day off in this way : My books from 
 ten to one ; then lunch ; then generally somewhere
 
 206 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 with Rosy till four or five ; then two cups of tea and 
 slices of thin bread and butter in the study, with the 
 accompaniment of quiet talk, till talk died away in the 
 inspection and desultory reading of desultory books 
 and newspapers ; then, at half-past six, dinner; then 
 either somewhere with Rosy again, or a less desultory 
 reading of less desultory books and newspapers, till, at 
 ten o'clock, bed. The only real work I did was my 
 morning reading. I devoted three hours each day of 
 the week to Homer, Sophocles, Plato, Vergil, Horace, 
 Juvenal, and Dante severally. I do not think I had 
 any definite aim in view then for this study. I was 
 content to do it, as I did all things, and be still. 
 
 Walks with Rosy were not successes at first, for she 
 walked both slowly and badly ; but I soon grew ac- 
 customed to the slowness, and the badness was reme- 
 died by occasional rides on the way. I liked to listen to 
 her ; and she, if she was in good spirits, indulged me 
 to the top of my bent. The childlike and seemingly 
 endless interest that she took in things amused me. 
 Her whimsical likes and dislikes of people she had 
 never spoken to used once to put me out : now I lis- 
 tened to her expositions of their faults with a curious 
 pleasure. Her alternations of passion and quiet, of tears 
 and laughter were an endless April day, and, though 
 sometimes her unreasonableness made me impatient, 
 and at others I could not help teasing her to see the 
 pretty results, on the whole I found it a real pleasure 
 and comfort to be with her. 
 
 One evening, when we were in her favourite posi- 
 tion she between my knees talking to me as I sat in 
 the armchair : 
 
 ' Rosy/ I said, ' I will tell you what you are.' 
 
 f Well/ she said, 'what?' 
 
 ' You are a loving girl one who squeezes softly, and 
 kisses, and tries to steal away breath. I will tell you 
 who was your prototype : a certain Shunamite. ' And 
 let her cherish him and lie in thy bosom.' And moreover : 
 'A bundle of myrrh is my well-beloved unto me; he shall lie 
 all night betwixt my breasts.' And : ' I charge you, ye 
 daughters of Jerusalem, by the roes and by the hinds of the 
 field, that ye stir not up nor awake my love till he please." '
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 207 
 
 ' Yes/ she said, 'that's me.' 
 
 The mild autumn perished in rain-storms and the 
 weather grew colder ; bracing and invigorating to me, 
 enervating to her the veritable traditional winter. At 
 last we had keen frost. She spent most of her time by 
 the fire, generally sitting with her knees gathered up on 
 the hearthrug, reading a book or thinking heaven 
 knows what about ! 
 
 My walks were nearly always alone now. Conse- 
 quently they ceased to be semi-rides and became pure 
 peripatetics. With them came also thought again, to 
 oust its poor substitute of dreaming. The frost con- 
 tinued. We had a little snow. At first I tried to get her 
 to take more exercise ; but being out of doors in such 
 weather was only misery to her, and so I let her alone. 
 ' We will go to Italy next winter/ said I one 
 evening, having been for a tramp in the falling snow, 
 changed my clothes, and stopped by and above her 
 (she on the hearthrug, that is). ' To Italy ! to Italy ! 
 Italy was the dream of my boyhood. I am a real 
 northman. I have the migratory instinct in me. Oh 
 
 Italy, Italy ' 
 
 I stopped, and sat down in the easy-chair, and 
 thought about Italy and about my past dream of Italy, 
 and about some one with me in Italy. 
 At last : 
 
 ' You must be so cold/ she said. 
 ' Not I ! ' I answered, with a sudden look to her, 
 ' I'm as warm as a toast. By Jove ! ' I added, ' I must 
 do something to-night.' (The something being a 
 something in my head that seemed to wish for written 
 expression.) My remark was a sort of outwork de- 
 signed to stop any advancing objections on Rosy's part. 
 None came. She sat silent on the hearthrug, with 
 her chin on her up-gathered knees, and her eyes in 
 the fire. I wished her away in bed the best place for 
 her. I disliked writing with anyone in the room. As 
 I was settling my desk and paper on the table, I sug- 
 gested it to her. 
 
 ' What ? ' she said, looking round at me. 
 'You seem tired/ I said, bringing a chair to my 
 place. ' Hadn't you better go to bed ? '
 
 208 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 ' . . . Is it very cold outside ? ' 
 
 ' Very. The snow is freezing.' 
 
 1 How long do you think it will last ? ' 
 
 ' The snow ? ' 
 
 ' No ; the cold. I do hate it so ! ' 
 
 ' How can I tell ?!...'(! had begun writing some- 
 thing) ' don't know.' 
 
 ' Why do you talk in that way ? ' 
 
 ' What way ? ' 
 
 Ultimately, after some annoying attempts at inter- 
 ruption, she went off to bed, in an injured frame of 
 mind, and I was left alone with my work. An opening 
 scene of a story had occurred to me, and I was inter- 
 ested in expressing it : a not too unfrequent occurrence 
 at that time, so far unfailingly accompanied by gradual 
 loss of interest as the story proceeded till, quite 
 disgusted, I either burnt or cast it into an MS. drawer 
 of mine, and troubled myself no more about it. 
 
 I finished my opening scene in the first heat of 
 emotion, and then, after a pause, re-read what I had 
 done. What seemed to me my grip on, my mastery 
 over the characters I had created, pleased me ; not 
 because it was mine, but because it was there, and in 
 harmony with my mood. Then I sat for long thinking. 
 It was early : I was beginning to feel both tired and 
 hungry. Yes, it was impossible for me to sink into 
 mere sensuousness. I had a work to do in the world 
 and I intended to do it. This work would require 
 patient preparation and I was determined that I would 
 give it. I had been unhappy in London : ' Society ' 
 was not enough for me. I had been unhappy with 
 Rosy : Love was not enough with me. I had been 
 unhappy with my dreams : My self was not enough 
 for me. I had lived for 'society,' for Love, for myself, 
 and had found that they did not satisfy me. It was 
 time that I lived for something else for something 
 higher, and broader, and deeper ! . . . 
 
 I spent the next three or four days in the same way 
 outwardly as any others, that is to say, did my classics 
 in the mornings ; took my ' constitutional ' in the 
 afternoons ; and read in the evenings ; but inwardly I 
 spent them in a different way from any others of my
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 209 
 
 life. I reviewed my past in order that I might see 
 what causes lay there, that were likely to have an 
 influence on my future. I faced all these causes, good 
 or evil, fearlessly, quietly resolved to encourage those 
 that were good, and do all that lay in me to eradicate 
 those that were evil. The one idea that I kept con- 
 stantly before me was the idea of Strength : I must be 
 Strong. 
 
 Rosy looked upon what was already apparent as my 
 new intercourse with her, with a somewhat suspicious 
 eye. I believe she would far sooner have had even 
 the old state of things with her back again. For, if my 
 caprice leaped in evil-humoured moments far away from 
 her ; in happy-humoured moments it leaped close to her; 
 whereas, now her line of life and mine seemed parallel ; 
 and parallel lines are those which are always the same 
 distance from one another, that is to say, which never 
 meet. Rosy, like the true woman she was (so it 
 appeared to me), was quite ready to offer herself up on 
 the altar of my happiness. It troubled her that now, 
 instead of being, as I ought to have been, capricious, 
 that is to say, selfish, I preserved a uniform cheerfulness 
 of demeanour towards her ; was always ready to do her 
 little services ; was always ready to prevent her doing 
 me little services. It is true that I had in our happy 
 period of ' lotus-eating,' as I had once called it to 
 myself, devoted myself to her en bloc ; but, as she had 
 said, or as I had said, in so devoting myself to her en 
 bloc (' loving ' was our term) I was but devoting myself 
 to myself en bloc, and vice versa. Then all the little 
 services had been hers. I had been capricious ; I had 
 been selfish ; and she had delighted in my capricious- 
 ness, in my selfishness whereas, now ! . . . Now I 
 was the highest sinner that is arraigned by Love, the 
 sinless one ! What right had / to the preserving of 
 an uniform cheerfulness of demeanour towards her? 
 What right had / to the perpetual readiness to do her 
 little services, the perpetual readiness to prevent her 
 doing me little services ? ' Ah ! ' thought Rosy, ' that 
 old time was the better time ; for if it knew the depth 
 of hell, it knew also the height of heaven ; whereas, 
 this new time knows only the dead level of purgatory.'
 
 210 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 I remember how I sat one evening, in the after- 
 dinner hour when we were together in the study, 
 obsei-ving her and translating her thoughts into my 
 words, somewhat as above : and how at last, smiling at 
 her for a poor dear child, I got up, and went and 
 chucked her under the chin, and in a serious way that 
 made her eyes looking at me brighten up at the antici- 
 pation of one of the old erratic hours, the old erratic 
 hours so often full of the golden atmosphere of heaven. 
 And indeed there was a temptation in the air for me 
 to enjoy one of those hours again. Why not? I com- 
 menced. 
 
 But it soon made itself apparent to me that I had 
 set myself, not to be, but to act. 
 
 And Rosy showed that she too perceived, perhaps 
 more clearly than I gave her credit for, that it was 
 not the doer but rather the actor that was wooing her. 
 She was up and away in a pet : I, tickled by the idea of 
 energetic desire in my Rosebud, laughing consumedly, 
 careless how she took it. Then all at once I realised 
 that I had once more been cruel to her : nay, but the 
 word should be stronger, brutal. I was serious at 
 once, and away to her to try and soothe her. And 
 succeeded, and we had, as she said, a happy time again. 
 
 Nevertheless her discontent with the new intercourse, 
 as I now called it to myself, and to which I promptly 
 returned, seemed to increase. And at last I found out 
 that the more cheerful and obliging I was, the more 
 uncheerful and disobliging was she, and this discovery 
 having come to a head during the course of a whole 
 evening, erupted in the bedroom in the shape of what 
 is usually (I believe) called a ' scene/ reproaches and 
 tears versus sarcasm and silence. After a few minutes 
 of Tears, Silence betook itself out of the bedroom and 
 the house for a long ramble about the streets, and at 
 last joining itself to Thought in preference to Irritation, 
 with which it had set out, I began to draw a sort of 
 picture of what life would have been with a woman 
 like Rayne, a strong woman ! Rayne had, I felt, been 
 for some time an elevation to me, and now it seemed 
 that she was growing into an ideal. After all, was she 
 not the outward and visible sign of that inward and
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 211 
 
 spiritual Strength which I worshipped ? It was right 
 that she should become an ideal to me ; she was a 
 strong woman. Then I came back home and the storm 
 flew over in April showery kisses. But this made no 
 difference about the new intercourse which was 
 promptly and unquestioningly persisted in. 
 
 Meanwhile she was, I found, apparently in persistent 
 readiness to be suspicious. It occurred to me once or 
 twice that she beheld that there "was a woman in the 
 case, and so kept on the look out for proofs. The idea 
 amused me, and once led me to demonstrations of 
 my feeling somewhat in the manner of that factitious 
 chucking under the chin. She seemed to recognise 
 something ungenuine ; for she would have nothing to 
 say to me at that rate, and so I determined to do with- 
 out the demonstrations in future, and did. I do not 
 know if she was happy at this time. She took a 
 greater interest in her household affairs than before, 
 going out shopping with Auielie (the cook) in the 
 mornings, drawing up lists of things, and so on. I was 
 pleased to see this ; for it gave her something to do. 
 
 In this way it came about in a remarkably short 
 time that we two grew more like acquaintances or 
 friends than lovers. Then I realised this, and was 
 rather troubled by it ; for I felt that the reason for it 
 was mine, and that she could not like the present con- 
 dition of affairs. But what was to be done ? An inch 
 with a child like Rosy meant, not an ell, but the whole 
 article. If I suddenly softened, she would take it as 
 a sign of repentance, and that meant trouble of all 
 sorts ! At present I was working away at my classics 
 and what composition suggested itself; with occasional 
 fits of disgust, it is true, but avoiding the depths and 
 getting out of the shallows as soon as possible. And 
 I bore these occasional fits with a good deal of philo- 
 sophy now, ascribing them to some internal derange- 
 ment, such as of liver, kidneys, or stomach, and as 
 such to be endured in patience and silence. Weather, 
 I found, affected me considerably. 
 
 March came round, but a March more like the 
 traditional May. I took long walks each day, ten 
 miles as a rule : once out to Pere-Lachaise, to look at
 
 212 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 Brooke's grave with its ' Thy will be done,' and saw 
 Balzac's bust, and de Morny's tomb (de Morny being 
 a gilded rascal that interested me) and others, and 
 stood and looked thoughtfully over the city that 
 seemed like a great parasite that had driven its claws 
 into the earth. Then there was the Louvre, and the 
 Luxembourg, and, sometimes, theatres in the evenings 
 with Rosy. A quietly happy time for me, made 
 happier as the days stole on and found me still un- 
 shaken in my scheme of life. 
 
 One evening, Rosy having a headache and not caring 
 to go out anywhere, I went for a ramble about the 
 streets, observing the stirring multitude in a most 
 delightfully philosophic way. The conviction of the 
 general poorness of life was the deepest, but serenely 
 deepest, conviction in me. My view of the matter 
 was that, since I was alive and in certain circumstances, 
 the only thing that was to be done was to make the 
 best of them. 
 
 The dawn was breaking as I pulled at the concierge's 
 bell. I was a little tired, mentally and bodily. I came 
 upstairs ; let myself in, and w r ent into the study. All 
 at once not only the general poorness, but also the 
 general, and also the particular purposelessness of all 
 life and of my own life came over me. I did not care 
 to go to bed, I did not care to do anything. My eyes 
 fell on my easy-chair : I went and lay back in it, in a 
 state that kept, every now and then, rising to a level, 
 over the edge of which lay disgust, and even despair. 
 At last, I rose, with an impatient curse. Was there 
 never to be an end of this foolery ? was I never to have 
 rest, peace, comfort, self-sufficiency, call it what you 
 please, that spiritual sailing with spread canvas before 
 a full and unvarying wind ? Why was it, ir/iy ? Was 
 it really because the strange shadow of Purposeless- 
 ness played the perpetual-rising Banquo at Life's feast 
 for me ? Or was it that I was one who could not lack 
 the Personal Deity with impunity ? 1 didn't know, 
 I didn't know ! I wished that I were dead. I wished 
 that I had never been born. What Personal Deity 
 had I ever had ? . . . My thoughts stood still. I saw 
 a small child go to the bed and slip down on his knees
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 213 
 
 and tell God about it ; but then, remembering that 
 He was up in the sky, clasp his two hands together, 
 and look up to Him ; and say : 
 
 ' Dear God, You are a long, long way away from me : 
 right up in the deep, blue sky, farther away than even 
 the sun, perhaps, and the moon and the stars. But I 
 love You, I love You ! because You know everything 
 I think about and everything that I want to do ! And 
 I pray that You won't let me die till I am very old 
 and have done all the things I want to do. But please 
 help me to be a great man. Through Jesus Christ 
 our blessed Lord, Amen.' 
 
 I threw up my face with my hands behind my head, 
 the sob rising to my lips, the tears to my eyes. ' Oh 
 God, God, why shouldn't I pray to You now ? Is there 
 
 no one to hear me? Is there no one to What? 
 
 Rayne! Rayne ! you here ! ' Everything in me stood 
 still. She was looking at me through the curtains. 
 
 I made a sharp stride and opened them. It was 
 Rosy. 
 
 ' You startled me,' I said, ' I took you for a ghost.' 
 
 ' Took me for a ghost,' she said slowly, advancing 
 slowly, till her eyes were close to mine. 
 
 ' You called me Rayne ! ' she said. 
 
 'No;' I said; 'not you the ghost.' 
 
 Fury seemed suddenly to possess her. 
 
 ' I hate her ! ' she cried discordantly. 
 
 I took her in my arms, in a half-unconscious way 
 that meant quiet. 
 
 ' Don't be a fool,' I said, ' why did you get up ? ' 
 She was struggling a little to get free. 
 
 I let her go ; and, turning, walked away to the 
 hearthrug, and stood collecting my thoughts. I felt 
 her hand touch my arm. I looked aside and down, 
 at her face. 
 
 'Don't be uu-kitid to me,' she said. 'You're not 
 kind to me !' 
 
 ' Then,' I said unaffectedly ; ' I 'm sorry.' I turned 
 again, and, putting my hands on her shoulders, looked 
 at her; 'As for that "Don't be a fool," of mine, you 
 mustn't look upon it, or the things I say like it, as un- 
 kindness.' The expression of her full, half-dreamy
 
 214 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 unfathomed eyes was pleading, pleading all but pitiful. 
 I did not know what to do, what to say. 
 
 At last : 
 
 ' Dear girl/ I said seriously ; ' I 'm afraid you 're still 
 in love with me.' 
 
 She answered nothing. 
 
 ' I wish you weren't/ I said. ' If you only knew 
 what folly it is love, everything ! In ten years, you 
 may be a worm-eaten piece of carrion : in less, perhaps. 
 I too. Where do you think you'll be then? Where 
 shall 7 be ? W 7 hat '11 be the good of your having loved 
 me ? or of my having loved you ? ' 
 
 'You don't love me/ she murmured, with eyes far 
 away. 
 
 ' By Love/ I said, ' I don't know if I love you or 
 not ! Do you love me ? ' 
 
 She smiled a little. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said I, ' I wish to goodness you didn't then ! ' 
 
 'Why shouldn't I if I like?' she murmured, with 
 eyes still far away and something of a little smile 
 round her lips. I slipped my arm round her shoulders, 
 and led her gently towards the door. 
 
 ' Come,' I said, 'we have talked enough. Let us go 
 to bed, and sleep. If so be that ' 
 
 At the door curtains, I turned a little, saying : 
 
 ' I have forgotten to blow out the candles.' 
 
 I went back and blew them out. She waited for 
 me. We went on together, I with my arm round her 
 shoulders as before, through the dark dining-room, 
 and salon just lit with the light from the open door- 
 frame, and into the lighter morning-room, where I 
 said : 
 
 ' Are you afraid of death, Rosy ? ' 
 
 ' No/ she said ; ' I 'm not afraid of it.' 
 
 (W 7 e had passed through the curtains into the bed- 
 room, lit with two unshaded candles.) 
 
 She said no more, nor did I. And we went on to 
 the bed : where I sat her down, and myself close beside 
 her. Her hands she put together in her lap. 
 
 'Would you be afraid to die to-night?' I said softly 
 in her ear, ' Rosy.' 
 
 ' No/ she said.
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 215 
 
 ' Will you die to-night ? ' I asked, a little evilly. 
 
 ' What do you mean ? ' she said, looking at me. The 
 same expression was still on my face, nor did I change it. 
 
 ' Will you die with me to-night ? ' I said ; ' I am 
 ready to die with you ; although, my dear, as the 
 saying goes, I don't love you.' 
 
 ' You are very wicked \ ' she said, her eyes rounding, 
 'That would be wrong.' 
 
 ' No : ' (shaking my head a little) ; ' only tired of it 
 only tired of it ! ' 
 
 Then I looked at her : 
 
 'And so/ I said, 'that would be wrong?' 
 
 I took down my hand from her shoulder and 
 stretched out my arms backward and yawned. 
 
 ' Be it so,' I said, ' That would be wrong ! ' 
 
 I lay awake by her in the dark for a little, thinking 
 about my work, and whether I would go on with it, 
 and whether I would go on with anything. By 
 degrees, my thoughts grew to present occurrences, to 
 to-night's ; and then, without thinking whether she 
 was asleep or not, I asked her, I suppose : 
 
 ' Why did you get up ? ' 
 
 ' Because I wanted to see you.' 
 
 I fell into my thoughts again ; till at last, ' Ah ! ' I 
 said to myself, 'if I were but some some poor, striving, 
 struggling devil in some country town, and she my 
 brave little wife some poor, striving, struggling devil 
 of a man of letters, with hopes of some day forcing a 
 callous English world to know him as its teacher, and 
 she the brave little wife that believed in me ! Ah, 
 why have I not had to strive and struggle ? Perhaps 
 I should have become a great man some day, then. 
 Life would have been self-sufficing for me. I have 
 almost a mind a mind to throw away all these disgust- 
 bearing, despair-bearing golden grains, and go out and 
 struggle and strive again. Surely, I was happier as a 
 boy in London than . . .' But there was little good 
 in talking in this way now, to-night. I did not ask 
 myself why. I left the question alone : and dozed ; 
 and fell asleep. 
 
 I was awakened by being kissed on the lips. I 
 opened my eyes and looked at Rosy. She was a little
 
 216 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 sleepy, a little languorous, lying with her pretty face 
 deep in the soft pillow, and her escaped hair flowing 
 brown-gold tresses round about her head. The 
 sun was on our feet. A little canary she had bought 
 yesterday was singing snatches of song in the morning- 
 room. The idea of her solemn bestowal of that half- 
 awakened kiss made me smile brightly at her. The 
 little canary was singing snatches of song. The sun 
 was on our feet. 
 
 Ill 
 
 THAT was the morning of the evening on which I re- 
 ceived a book and a letter from Mrs. Herbert, enclosing 
 another from Starkie, at last ! I read Mrs. Herbert's 
 first, in order to be able to better give myself up to 
 Starkie's and the book, which I guessed Avas Brooke's. 
 There was nothing of any interest in hers ; a mere report 
 of the satisfactory condition of things at Dunraven Place. 
 Then I opened Starkie's, and began reading it slowly. 
 He had caught up Clarkson at Zanzibar. Things were 
 not going as well as they might. Two months frittered 
 away in taking great pains about doing nothing ! But 
 they had at last started, and here they were on the 
 Continent. Clarkson wanted to turn down to Lake 
 Intangweolo, instead of making for Lake Eugenie, to 
 explore that block, which was comparatively unknown ; 
 whereas the other place was both known and interest- 
 less, save for the fact that poor old Osbaldistone died 
 there. He, Starkie, should like to know what the 
 devil was Clarkson going to do in that galere ? Get 
 fever or dysentery and manure a patch of sand ? He 
 could not possibly say when they might be back ; 
 perhaps not at all. He had a faint hope that it might 
 possibly be before next year was out. But he couldn't 
 write any more of this stuff. He was out of sorts in 
 the blues. Clarkson seemed determined to give his 
 name to a new species of beast, or bird, or die in the 
 attempt. They 'd do no good this time. Only another 
 instance of wasted time, and wasted treasure, and 
 perhaps wasted life. But here was the end, or he
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 217 
 
 would be tearing up this miserable stuff. Mine dis- 
 gustedly, but truly, OLIVER S. STARKIE. 
 
 I began to consider this letter till it struck me that 
 it was odd I had not received it sooner. Then I ex- 
 amined the post-marks, and found that it had arrived 
 in England in early February. 
 
 ' Damn the old woman ! ' I said, and pulled the 
 paper covering off what as I had rightly guessed was 
 Brooke's book, the Book ! Rosy asked what was the 
 matter? I explained, and, after a little small-talk, 
 took to examining the thing. When I had satisfied 
 myself, feeling in a sociable humour, I began babbling 
 with her, and she, soon brightening, came to me gladly. 
 We had a quiet talk about past things, one of the, if 
 not the best talks I had ever had with her. We went 
 over how she had made me eat the grapes and had 
 made me call her Rosy (Miss Rosebud, I insisted. She 
 had not had all her own way from the first !), and how 
 Minnie (poor Minnie !) had chased the piece of paper 
 under the table : and how we had gone out for our 
 first walk together when I was so weak and stupid 
 (Where was the respectful clerk a good deal better 
 dressed and, doubtless, fed, than myself, now?) and 
 how we had tea together that other evening in my 
 room, with the fruit and the cakes and all the other 
 things, including a sweet solemn little owl who wouldn't 
 laugh properly once the whole time, and then the 
 walk together afterwards. And so on. 
 
 And then afterwards, in the bedroom we had a look 
 at a certain little round silver locket (chosen in a 
 jeweller's in Edgware Road), of which there had been 
 some mention in the study, and I repeated dramatically: 
 
 ' But I shall always be able to keep the locket, you know ; 
 and, when I look at it, I shall think of you and give a sigh ;' 
 (and I gave one) 'for you've been ' 
 
 'Don't tease me!' cried Rosy, with puckered brow 
 and a slap on my arm. And I didn't. 
 
 The next day after breakfast I set upon my work 
 again, but could make nothing of it. I felt I had 
 better go out. I went out : down to the Seine and 
 frittered away half an hour or so looking at books in
 
 218 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 the book-boxes on the river walls. It was a dull grey 
 day, with a certain amount of wind, north-east wind I 
 thought : altogether quite like a half-bred London day 
 in early March, before Boreas has grown boisterous. 
 
 I lit upon an ill-used copy of a book by an English 
 writer whose name I had heard spoken (evilly spoken) 
 of in my later London days. I was in the humour for 
 buying the book of such a writer, so I bought it and 
 came home with it and straightway began to read it. 
 The subject was an author whom I had been of late 
 accustomed to read both rather frequently and rather 
 carefully. I was struck by the number of my own 
 thoughts that I found. Then there began to creep 
 over me the sense that I had done nothing yet, written 
 nothing yet, that is : a displeasing enough sense when 
 coupled with another that I never should do anything, 
 write anything ; anything, that is, worth the doing or 
 reading. I envied this man who wrote with such 
 assurance of work done. About which point Rosy 
 came in from her afternoon walk and we had tea. 
 
 It often happened that I was silent at meals and she 
 content to let me so, but this evening, apparently 
 because she saw that I particularly did not care to 
 talk, she kept on asking me questions and chattering 
 ceaselessly. For some time my sense of duty kept 
 successful guard over my patience and I answered her 
 quietly ; but at last I sent my sense of duty packing 
 and began to answer her rather irritably : then, 
 gradually worked into an aggrieved state by her 
 nervous babblement, at last kept a frowning silence. 
 She was defiant : went on gibbering and laughing with 
 flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, and at last proceeded 
 to tease me. I was not in a humour to be teased. I 
 said so. She was excited now and not to be stopped, 
 despite that Marie (the maid) was in the room clearing 
 away the things for dessert. I kept my frowning 
 silence till Marie was gone, and then said, as playfully 
 as I could, that I was rather tired of hearing her little 
 tongue wagging and wished it would stop still for a 
 while. Then came an indignant flare up, to which I 
 made no answer, only looking at the grapes I was 
 eating and my plate : then a second indignant flare
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 219 
 
 up, spiced with hot reproaches. I expected wet 
 reproaches to follow ; and expected rightly. She was 
 getting tired of them when, having finished my grapes, 
 I got up and went into the study. 
 
 I made an attempt to work, but failed : made another 
 attempt, and failed again. I determined I would go 
 out. Then, under the influence of a collapsing sense 
 of tiredness and sleepiness, thought of bed : but bed 
 meant Rosy, and I could not stand her just at present. 
 I went into the dining-room. She was sitting knitting, 
 in a chair. I told her that I was going out, and might 
 not be in till late : to which she deigned no answer. 
 I went into the hall and, taking my hat and stick, 
 down and out. Which way to go ? where to go to ? 
 I stood, whirling my stick about, considering. It was 
 a beautiful night, clear and cool no moon, with the 
 heavens star-sown. 
 
 There was evil in me. I felt it in a little : and did 
 not care to combat it. I walked to the right, a little 
 jerkily like an actor. It was not now, 'Which way 
 to go ? ' but, ' Where to ? ' 
 
 I began to think of piquant pictures of Grevin's 
 dumpy, strutting little cocottes of undeniable chic, 
 and smiled at the thought. There was evil in me, and 
 I did not care to combat it. Names I knew of the 
 supposed haunts of said dumpy, strutting little cocottes 
 Rue Blanche, 'le Skating Theatre' (the pronuncia- 
 tion of which, ' le Skatting Theatre/ made me laugh) 
 and the Folies-Bergeres. 
 
 I took a cab to the Rue Blanche. 
 
 When I entered the hall there was a certain tremu- 
 lousness in me, chiefly the result of an imperfect sense 
 of wrong-doing, and a little, perhaps, of the music and 
 the bright scene. I stalked round the rink, not quite 
 daring to openly regard anyone : in fact, very self- 
 conscious. At last I sat down at a table, and, having 
 ordered a bock, began to argue with myself for a perfect 
 fool. Here was I, who had pondered on Life and Death 
 and Time and Space and God, and God knows what 
 not, absolutely nervous in a hall filled with harlots 
 and harlot-mongers ! What more ludicrous ? I paid the 
 waiter ; drank a little of my bock, and looked about me.
 
 220 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 In five or six minutes I was master of myself: in 
 ten I was stalking round the rink again, observing the 
 people with interest. I thought I would speak to 
 one of ces dames, and see what she had to say for 
 herself. Variety is pleasing. But ces dames had such 
 uninteresting faces, and such puffed out breasts and 
 contracted waists, that I found I had no real inclina- 
 tion to speak to any of them. I wandered about for 
 half an hour or so without seeing any face that attracted 
 me ; and then went out and (not analysing my motives) 
 took a cab to the Folies-Bergeres. 
 
 At first sight, I liked the place better than the Rue 
 Blanche : the fountains pleased me, and the verdured 
 seats. Then I was attracted by a vendeuse of some- 
 things or other, who had a finely developed bust and 
 pair of whiskers, quite bushy. I stood and began 
 imagining her point of view of life and things generally, 
 till, catching my eye, she smilingly proffered one of 
 her somethings or other, addressing me. This made 
 me laugh and, laughingly declining, pass on. I 
 wandered about once more. The faces of the women 
 seemed to me a little more interesting than those at 
 the Rue Blanche, but not interesting enough to be 
 spoken to. 
 
 Once, coming down a staircase, I found myself faced 
 by myself in a huge mirror. I paused in my descent 
 for a moment, in which I saw my solemn face set above 
 my shoulders, squared by my hands being clasped 
 together behind my back. The idea of this figure 
 and face stalking about among these people made me 
 grin to myself. 
 
 At last I grew wearied of it, and went away for a 
 long walk about the streets. 
 
 When I came home I found Rosy sitting in the 
 study, in the easy-chair, looking as if she had kept 
 herself awake by means of some sort of emotion : I 
 soon perceived, jealousy. In a little she began 
 questioning. Where had I been ? why was I so late ? 
 I answered her simply. First, I had been to the 
 Skating Theatre, in the Rue Blanche, then to the 
 Folies-Bergeres : and then for a walk. 
 
 Those were bad places : bad women were there \ I
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 221 
 
 needn't have kept her up all this time,, and then come 
 and told her that ! 
 
 How did she mean that I had kept her up ? Since 
 when had she taken to sitting up for me when I went 
 out at night ? 
 
 She believed that I had been talking with a lot of 
 those women ! And why hadn't I gone home with one 
 and never come back here again ? She (Rosy) had 
 always thought it would be like this ! she knew quite 
 well when I went away this evening that I was going 
 after some . . . some one else (Tears) : I was a 
 horrid . . . 
 
 I thought the child was ill, and tried to comfort her. 
 She would take no comfort. I came to her, intending 
 to try more personal comfort. She was up and, with 
 an intense : ' 1 hate you ! . . . Go away ! ' herself went 
 away. 
 
 After a little pondering, I decided that it would 
 be best to let her alone, and composed myself to sleep 
 in the arm-chair and another chair for my feet. 
 
 Next morning, Marie, entering to dust the room, 
 was apparently the instrument of wakening me from 
 bad dreams. For a little I did not know whether to 
 grin, or pull a face at myself, or take Rosy's quarrel 
 with me seriously : then, observing the sunshine in 
 the room, determined to go out and get rid of all 
 these spiritual cobwebs. Dried and somewhat dirty 
 as I felt, I would not go into the bedroom and wash 
 myself, with the chance of awakening her. I passed 
 into the hall and, taking up my stick, out on to the 
 the landing. I was going down the first flight of 
 steps, with my mind full of thought, when, all at once, 
 there was a stumble; a fall; a clutching at and a 
 missing of the bannister, and I was lying, half-stunned 
 and dazed, on the broad step at the foot of the flight. 
 
 Then wrath rose in and burst forth as I got up in 
 a keen : 
 
 < Blast ! ' 
 
 This foolery was past all endurance ! I suddenly 
 dropped down again. My foot had failed me. The 
 anguish in it, in my ankle particularly, was almost 
 intolerable. It turned me sick. I rolled on to my
 
 222 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 stomach and face, stiffening my muscles so as to bear 
 it without the threatening childish collapse, or, at 
 least, moan. After a little I determined I Avould get 
 up up the flight, into the house. 
 
 With great pain, aided by my stick, I reached the 
 door; opened it; went on into the study, and let 
 myself down in the easy-chair. 
 
 There I began to reflect. 
 
 Presently in came Rosy, dressed, but still in the 
 sulks. I did not speak to her. I was wondering now 
 whether I would send for a doctor for my foot, or no ; 
 deciding no. Rosy pretended she had come to look 
 for something, and, not being able to find it, went out 
 again without a word. 
 
 I got up and made my way to the dining-room door- 
 way ; then through the dining-room to the salon door- 
 way. She was in the salon. I had only a moment's 
 hesitation. I crossed half the salon as ordinarily as I 
 could ; but I knew I limped a little, and this rather 
 angered me. Then I suddenly thought : Why should I 
 care to disguise from her the fact that I am hurt ? and 
 limped altogether. She said nothing. Once in the bed- 
 room, I rang the bell and went and sat down on the bed. 
 
 I got my boot off myself, and Amelie, following my 
 directions, bandaged my ankle up in a wet napkin. 
 Her final adjusting touch of the bandage extorted a 
 sound of some sort from me, and I looked up. Rosy 
 was standing by the doorway, watching. I looked 
 down again. She went away. 
 
 I ordered my breakfast in the study, whither I 
 proceeded, passing by Rosy in the dining-room. My 
 foot was ceaselessly painful. 
 
 I ordered a bed to be put up in, what we called, 
 the bath-room for me. Rosy came into the study at 
 about five ; found a book of hers on the mantelpiece 
 just above my head, and went out without a word. 
 
 At half-past Marie brought in the tea, Rosy follow- 
 ing her. Then she poured out a cup ; put sugar and 
 milk into it, and, taking a piece of cake, retired to the 
 chair in the far-window, where she began to drink the 
 one and eat the other in silence. As I wished for my 
 cup of tea, I got up and poured it out, and, taking a
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 223 
 
 piece of cake, retired to my seat again. I determined 
 that I would have dinner in here, ;n the shape of some 
 fruit and bread and milk. 
 
 When she had done her cup of tea and piece of 
 cake, she renewed them : I, after some thought as to 
 whether the pain of getting them was worth the 
 candle of partaking of them, and the supposed display 
 of my feeling toward her in this matter, did not. 
 When she had finished, she put her cup and saucer 
 on the table and went out of the room. I rang and 
 told Marie what I wished about my dinner. I was 
 not angry or even piqued by Rosy's proceedings ; I 
 was too indifferent to be either. The reason why I 
 did not make advances towards reconciliation with her 
 was, that I did not care to trouble myself so far. 
 
 During the course of the day she contrived what 
 little annoyances she could for me ; but with no other 
 effect than making me rather amused at her simplicity. 
 ' If you quarrel with a woman/ I thought, ' you must 
 expect this sort of thing.' 
 
 Then, when I was in bed, I considered what was the 
 real condition of my feelings towards her. Without 
 doubt, they were those of complete callousness and, 
 perhaps, something more. There was no 'imperfect 
 sense of wrong-doing ' in the thought. It seemed to 
 me to be something little short of folly to stay here 
 and be troubled with her. I ought to go out into the 
 world and see its ways, so as to prepare myself for my 
 work ; that work which was nothing else than, having 
 by self-culture and observation got an impression of 
 things generally, to put down that impression on paper. 
 Truth was the object of my work, and, by the very 
 fact that I was a quite unprejudiced viewer of the 
 phenomena of what is called Life, I did not see why 
 I should not produce such an impression of things 
 generally ' as posterity should not willingly let die.' 
 The idea of telling the truth about things was a 
 pleasing one. I could almost believe that some day 
 that idea might be of itself a sufficient incentive to 
 a love of existence. Meantime the connection with 
 Rosy was passably stupid and tiresome, and perhaps 
 even harmful.
 
 224 
 
 IV 
 
 FOUR days passed. Then it seemed to me to be best 
 to put an end to this. 
 
 The reconciliation with Rosy was therefore effected, 
 and then there came a flow of gentle tears, soft em- 
 bracements, and the rest of it ; all of which I endured 
 in an actively passive sort of way, as being to the 
 female mind the necessary sequence of a ' quarrel.' 
 
 The days sped on again. I was for the present 
 content. Once or twice, I thought to myself that I 
 should, perhaps, have been more content if I had not 
 been content ; for indifference was, I held, to be 
 avoided. But there was always this inevitably unde- 
 cided position of Rosy's and my relations towards one 
 another. One interesting particular I one day learned, 
 as it were, parenthetically, from Rosy. Her departure 
 from No. 3 on that memorable evening, with head bent 
 down and hands holding one another in front, was not, 
 as I had supposed, to the streets, but to the house of a 
 Mrs. Vincent, who owed her money for some work she 
 had done. It was some sign of my philosophy (or 
 indifference) that, on realising that the whole of this 
 luckless connection of ours rested on a mistake, I did 
 no more than remark to myself that it was a pity, and, 
 after thinking about it for a few moments, dismissed it 
 from my mind. Nevertheless it came back to me 
 later on, and my philosophy was more dubious. 
 
 One afternoon we were having tea together in the 
 study, both of us reading or skimming the last batch of 
 illustrated boulevard newspapers, when I, hearing a 
 ring at the bell, looked up, and said : 
 
 ' What's that, I wonder ? ' 
 
 She suggested that it might be some things which 
 she had got at the Bon Marche Magasins in the 
 morning, and proceeded to explain that she had trans- 
 ferred her custom from the Louvre to the Bon Marche 
 for some reason or other which I did not remark. 
 There came a knock at the door. She said, Entrez ! 
 and Amelie came in with a letter on the letter-tray 
 and towards me, saying that it was a letter for monsieur.
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 225 
 
 Rosy inquired who had brought it up ? As I had my 
 upward hand on it, Amelie was answering that it was 
 'monsieur the concierge' who had brought it up that 
 very moment, and had said that he was sorry to have 
 overlooked it in the morning. A glance at the re- 
 directed address had shown me that it was Rayne's 
 handwriting. My heart went up to the bottom of my 
 throat. 
 
 ' Is it from Professor Strachan ? ' asked Rosy as 
 Amelie was going out. 
 
 ' No/ I said, striving to be full master of myself. 
 
 She refrained from further question, and I slowly 
 opened the letter : 
 
 ' DEAR BERTRAM, I should not have written to you, but 
 that many things have come upon me. My little son is 
 dead. God, in His great Love, saw fit to give him to me, as 
 I thought, for my consoling ; and He has seen fit, in His 
 great Wisdom, to take him away from me again. God's ways 
 are not as our ways. 
 
 ' I do not say that my affliction is not hard, very hard to 
 bear. At times I have doubted that I should ever see the 
 good of it. I do not deny this. But I pray always for Faith 
 in His Goodness, and Faith full and perfect, I am sure, will 
 be given to me before the end. Yes, I am dying ! Perhaps 
 it is better so. And yet, I do not mean that. My head, 
 you see, is not quite clear now. There is something I should 
 like to say to you. Will you come to me ? But yet do as 
 you think you ought to, and remember, that any wish of 
 mine is as nothing in comparison with your duty. I have 
 written too much already. But you will understand. For 
 my head is not clear now. 
 
 ' My husband sends this. He has been very good to me. 
 Remember about your duty. If I do not see you again, I 
 ask God to bless and keep you and make you His at last, as 
 I know He will.' 
 
 ' Brave heart,' I said to myself, ' brave heart ! ' 
 
 My eyes stayed fixed on her name for a little : then 
 I thought ; till my thoughts turned to confusion. 
 
 I half crumpled up the letter in my hands. Some 
 one touched me on the arm. I had risen : was standing 
 up, here, in the room. It was Rosy. I did not know 
 she was here too. 
 
 I looked aside at her ; her cheeks flushed red, a
 
 226 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 star-gleam in her eyes, her brows knit. A vixen. 
 What did she want ? 
 
 ' It is from her I I know ... it is from her I She 
 wants you to go to her ? ' (She was panting out her 
 words.) 
 
 ' Yes/ I said. 
 
 ' You will go ? ' 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 ' You shall not go ! Oh, you shall not go ! I will not 
 let you go ! ' 
 
 I passed slowly by her clenched, upraised hand : 
 then, turning, found her close beside me. 
 
 ' . . . My dear girl/ I said, smiling a little evilly, 
 ' she is dying ! ' 
 
 I stood, thinking of Rayne. 
 
 '. . . Won't you say anything to me?' she cried, 
 ' what does she want with you ? What right has she 
 with you ? You are not hers ! She wants to take you 
 away from me. I know her. But she shall not !' 
 
 Suddenly she stepped to me and caught me by the 
 arm, crying : 
 
 ' I won't let you go to her ! I will not ! you shall not 
 go ! I will not let you go ! ' 
 
 ' Hey ? ' I said, ' what are you talking about ? ' and 
 looked at her. 
 
 Realising her to be there, her, the tool demoniac 
 Circumstance had chosen to undo me with, the plague 
 of a mistake, her, the red rag flaunted in my face by 
 the thing that fleered and jeered because I could not 
 gore horse or man again, I concentrated, sudden, 
 unutterable hate in my look at her. She shrank back. 
 
 'Ah/ she whispered, shivering, 'don't! Don't 
 Don't. I will let you go. Yes : really, truly, indeed, 
 now, now ! Only don't look like that, or 1 shall shriek.' 
 
 I turned away my face, indifferent: and thought 
 again. 
 
 ' . . . But you will come back ? ' pleaded she. 
 
 'I have told you/ I said, 'yes.' 
 
 ' You have told me nothing ! Promise me that you 
 will come back. Swear to me ' 
 
 I went to the paper-cupboard ; opened it, and stood 
 looking for the time-table. She touched me on the
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 227 
 
 arm. She had come after me. I turned to her and 
 said : 
 
 'I tell you that I will come back. Now, do not 
 trouble me. You see that I don't want to be troubled.' 
 
 ' Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do ? You will 
 leave me ! And I shall never see you again ! You 
 will never be the same to me again. I hate her !' 
 
 ' She is dying/ I said, smiling again, ' you won't have 
 to hate her long.' 
 
 ' You love her ! ' 
 
 'I do not,' 
 
 ' You do, you know you do ! ' (She caught my hand 
 in hers up to her lips.) ' I cant let you go ? ' she sobbed. 
 
 I comforted her in a quiet way, stroking her hair 
 back : 
 
 ' Come,' I said, ' Come, come ! ' And went on, till 
 all at once it occurred to me that I ought to have 
 looked out the time the night-mail went, and paused. 
 The clock struck six. 
 
 I turned and began rummaging in the cup-board till 
 I had found the time-table. I opened and began to 
 study it. 
 
 A pause. 
 
 ' I am . . . very sorry,' said her soft voice by me. 
 ' I didn't mean to vex you. Will you for-give me ? ' 
 
 ' I have nothing to forgive you for.' 
 
 ' And may I pack your things ? ' 
 
 ' You are kind.' 
 
 ' Don't say that/ she pleaded, don't say that ! Will 
 you give me a kiss, and be friends again ? ' 
 
 I turned round and, with my arm about her back, 
 gave her a kiss on the cheek. I was surprised at her 
 child's woebegone face. Then, leaving her, I went to 
 the window and at last found out the time of the 
 night-mail. I took to walking up and down the room 
 in front of the fire. I saw the envelope of the letter 
 with the newspapers on the floor at the foot of the 
 easy-chair. I picked it up and considered it. A 
 horrible thought came to me : She might be dead ! 
 
 I looked at the postmarks. The letter had taken 
 four days to get to me. I cursed Mrs. Herbert to hell. 
 Where was the letter ?
 
 228 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 I found it it my waistcoat pocket, put there I did 
 not know when. 
 
 Marie opened the door. I told her to tell Amelie 
 to be as quick with dinner as possible, as I wanted to 
 catch a train. Marie agreed and went back, closing 
 the door. ' I have found your small port-manleau,' said 
 Rosy, coming into the dining-room doorway with a 
 noise of the opening curtain-rings. ' Will you come 
 and choose the things you want, because I 'm not 
 s ure ? 
 
 We went together. 
 
 When we, or rather I, had finished packing the 
 portmanteau, we returned to dinner. The portmanteau 
 was to be taken down by the back staircase. 
 
 ' I forgot the flask. Do you know where it is ? 
 You 'd like to take the flask with some cognac in it ? 
 It 's such a pretty flask, and you 've never used it ! ' 
 (She had given it me.) 
 
 'Yes,' I said, 'to be sure.' And told Marie to go 
 and bring it. 
 
 Marie brought it, and then came the question of the 
 cognac. There was none in the house ; which had 
 not struck any of us before. I was for not minding 
 about it, till I saw that Rosy would be hurt if her 
 flask was not used : so Marie was sent down to get 
 some cognac, while Rosy and 1 went into the study 
 again, not caring for more dinner. 
 
 Then Marie returned with the flask filled, which 
 Rosy took from me, and reaching, put on the table. 
 It was not yet time to start. We sat in silence, till I 
 turned my head to look at her seated there with large 
 upward eyes whose gaze was far away somewhere. 
 
 ' Are you all right now ? ' I asked. 
 
 ' Yes/ she said, ' I 'm all right.' 
 
 I was sorry for her : somehow as I had been sorry for 
 her sitting on the hearth-rug in the fire-lit room waiting 
 for me who stood at the small window. I could not 
 help thinking of the pity of it, that that mistake had 
 been made to give me to her and her to me. 
 
 I put my arm round her neck and drew her cheek 
 to meet my lips : 
 
 ' Rosebud,' I said, ' Rosebud ! '
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 229 
 
 Then I felt the tears coming soft from her eyes : and 
 the memory of a scene rose before me, when I said : 
 
 'Why, little Rosebud, you mustn't mind like that! 
 I '11 come back again some day ! ' 
 
 Ah, I had come back again, and had brought her, 
 not a bonnet with blue ribbons and a flower that should 
 look so real that the butterflies should settle on it, but 
 what she wanted myself; and also what I had pro- 
 mised with myself, some grapes and bon-bons ; and 
 also what I had not promised with myself, some thorns 
 and nettles. Alas, alas, was she not indeed ' alone in 
 the world, quite alone, as if nobody else belonged to 
 her. . . .' ' Good-night Rosebud. Good-night ! ' 
 
 Well, I said to myself, there is no good in this. 
 
 'The cocks they crew, and the horns blew, 
 
 And the lions took the hill ; 
 And Willie he gaed hame again, 
 To his hard task and till. 
 
 I must be off, pippin/ I said aloud, 'or I shall miss 
 the train.' And got up and went across the room and 
 turned, looking at her. 
 
 She rose and, saying ' I will fetch your coat,' went 
 out through the doorway, leaving me with my mental 
 stretching and rubbing of limbs that had been asleep 
 and wakened up to the feeling that their blood was 
 sluggish. 
 
 Presently she returned with my greatcoat, which I 
 took with thanks from her, and then I felt that she 
 felt that the final embrace was coming. In a moment 
 it was come. She was in my arms, pressing up with a 
 poor little tearful face for the soft lips' kiss. None 
 other kiss than that now, none other kiss than that ! 
 Oh Rosebud, Rosebud ! Then our beings, scarce met, 
 parted again ; and I had left her. 
 
 I went down. 
 
 As I got into the cab opposite the door, I looked 
 up at our balcony half hoping to see her there. No. 
 Nor at the window. 
 
 Once more, as we drove away, I looked up at 
 balcony and window. No. I was a fool. 
 
 I thought much on my way to the Gare du Nord.
 
 230 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 When I arrived there I found that I had abundance 
 of time. I began to walk up and down the hall, still 
 thinking profoundly. At last this came : ' The next 
 evening I met the Professor at the Gare du Nord as 
 we had arranged, and (he, at the end of our walk up and 
 
 down in the hall There we turned, there he began 
 
 to speak commending Rosy to my care as a last sudden 
 thougfit tliat . . / 
 
 Sudden thoughts came quickly now. I paced up 
 and down. A porter with my portmanteau came to 
 me to remind me that it was time to be getting my 
 luggage weighed and myself on to the platform. We 
 went up the hall together. I looked at the clock. He 
 was right. I made one big step forward, and stopped. 
 He passed me, and stopped too, but not as I had done. 
 
 'Thanks/ I said, ' I shall not go to-night.' 
 
 ' Good, sir,' he said. 
 
 ' If you will put that into a cab,' I said, ' I will be 
 back in a moment.' 
 
 ' Very well, sir,' he said. 
 
 ' I went off to the telegraph office, where I wrote on 
 a form : Lady Gwatkin, 22 Balmoral Street, London, and 
 B. Leicester, Paris, and (in French) / cannot come. 
 Then, when the clerk had shown me that he understood 
 it aright, I returned to my porter and the portmanteau 
 in the cab. 
 
 When I arrived at the Avenue de Fontenoi, I did 
 not look up at either balcony or window, but got down 
 with my portmanteau and, having paid the man, went 
 slowly in. As the impulse to look up had been denied, 
 so was that to ask at the concierge's if she had gone 
 out. But the concierge came forth to proffer carrying 
 up the portmanteau ; and I surrendered it to him. Up, 
 then, I went slowly, deliberately, with mechanical 
 limping foot. At the second story some one came 
 out, a man, and descended upon me : when, through 
 the mutual choosing of first one side and then the other, 
 there was a moment's delay. I cared not. Up I went 
 again slowly, deliberately, with mechanical limping 
 foot ; till I reached our third story, and the door, and 
 had unlocked it, and gone in, and drawn it to quietly. 
 What then ? The passage in the red light of the
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 231 
 
 hanging oil lamp's little floating redder core-flame. . . . 
 No : not to look in at the small window ! In here, into 
 the study. Almost dark : no one here. 
 
 Now into the salon. Almost dark too : no one here. 
 Don't call for her, or your voice will unnerve you as a 
 concession to ghostliness. 
 
 In the morning-room. Almost dark : no one. 
 
 In the bedroom : no one. 
 
 Will you go into the bath-room ? Yes. No one. 
 Stand and think a little. 
 
 Now go back through all those almost dark and 
 empty rooms, restraining that cry that is in the top of 
 your beating heart. And, going back, what an emptiness 
 there is in the place ! 
 
 It is foolish to feel the presence of the ghostly or 
 something visibly unseen here. The matches are on 
 the mantelpiece behind the jar. Don't knock it over, 
 groper . . . Light ? No : darkness ! These thin con- 
 traband matches are better than the stinking sulphers, 
 but still . . . Out again. Damn ! 
 
 Now be careful this time. Light the candle. 
 
 It is lit. 
 
 What is the time ? A quarter to nine. Now 
 A letter on the table. 
 
 She is gone ! 
 
 Open and read the letter. Here : 
 
 ' Mr. LEICESTER, I see it all now. I told you I would go 
 away when it came. The last thing I ask from you is for me 
 never to see you again. You will find everything in the 
 house. I have only taken the clothes I have on and 2 7s., 
 which I had when I went with you. You are not to try to 
 find me. If you do, you are a coward and no gentleman. I 
 pray God will forgive me for my wickedness ; He knows I 
 did not do it for gain, but for pure love for you ; that is the 
 only comfort I have within myself. I loved you, but what is 
 love and how strong when through suffering hate takes the 
 place of that love. I hate you and I always shall. 
 
 <R. H.' 
 
 I sat down and, with my elbows on my knees and 
 my head between my hands, tried vainly to understand 
 it all.
 
 2S2 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 DESPITE every effort that was made to discover her, 
 Rosy remained undiscovered. At the end of a week I 
 made my arrangements and crossed over to London, 
 where I felt sure I should ultimately have news of her. 
 I had been informed by a chief of the Parisian police 
 that either she had got off by the very train which I had 
 intended to take, or else she was dead. I felt a strong 
 conviction that neither had she got off by that train 
 (how was it possible ?), nor yet was she dead ; but at 
 times a horrible idea came over me that she might be 
 being detained in some infamous den. This the chief 
 of police had confidently assured me was not so : I had, 
 myself, wandered about filthy back-streets enough in 
 the forlorn hope of finding her : had at last, thinking 
 of Marina, visited infamous dens enough, places of hot 
 air and bright light and tawdrily-rich ornament, filled 
 with fat and ghastly painted naked women who had at 
 first almost terrified me, thinking of that awful breath- 
 less picture of Juvenal's Agrippina, and then made me 
 sorrowful past tears. And, here in this London, where 
 my own poor mother had offered her body for sale in 
 the public way, what a thought was it to think, that 
 perhaps I had not persevered enough in that search ; 
 that perhaps if I had stayed another week, another 
 day, I might have found her ! I could do no work. As 
 day followed day, and still no news either from Parisian 
 or London police, I became so feverish at nights that I 
 could not sleep. And I knew then in my dread and 
 anguish and horrible reproachful longing, how dear she 
 was to me how inexpressibly dear dearer than any- 
 thing, my darling of love ! 
 
 At last, one evening about a fortnight after she had 
 left me, sitting in my easy-chair in the study window, 
 trying to read a book, I began to think about the little 
 canary (up there now, the little pet, asleep in his cage), 
 singing snatches of song, while the sun was on our 
 feet, and, realising once more that all this was not 
 done in a dream, but that she was indeed gone from 
 me, might at this moment be in misery, might die
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 2SS 
 
 without my ever seeing her again ! the tears came, 
 and then, bowing my head down between my hands, 
 I sobbed and wept. These were the first tears I had 
 shed. They were a relief to me. I began to think of 
 it as I had not yet thought of it, quietly and fully, 
 recognising the great love 1 had for her and resolute to 
 win the radiant future. 
 
 That night, for the first time since she had left me, 
 I had a dreamless refreshing sleep. In the morning 
 I went down the river to Greenwich again, and up 
 on to the Heath, thinking of Rosy and Rayne together, 
 as I had so many times this last fortnight. The place 
 seemed somewhat strange to me now : stranger than 
 it had seemed before. I did not go to the school and 
 the field where Wallace and I had lain and played at 
 ' chuck,' looking out at times over the dark, silver- 
 twining Thames and dusky, far-reaching London. I 
 determined that I would find out about Rayne when I 
 got back. 
 
 I went to Balmoral Street, and, seeing no assuring 
 sign in No. 22 of life or death, rang, and inquired of 
 a maid who opened the door, if Lady Gwatkin was 
 any better ? There was no surprise in her face. Rayne 
 was not dead. My breath flowed out almost in a sigh. 
 Lady Gwatkin was a good deal better. She had 
 gone with Sir James into the country. 
 
 It was enough. Further words I did not hear. I 
 went away almost joyfully. She could be dead to me 
 henceforth without a troubling thought. 
 
 A few days later, I saw Strachan, and spoke about 
 the Expedition, Starkie, Clarkson and Brooke, again. 
 Worked with a will at my classics, and at my spiritual 
 classics as well : struggled against despondent and not- 
 to-be-dismissed terrors and horrors about Rosy : was 
 once almost setting out for Paris, with a notion (il- 
 logical enough) that she was there, but a little reflection 
 showed me that my arrangement of things was best. 
 She was in London I was sure. She would probably 
 write to me in Paris (perhaps not knowing my London 
 address). My man would telegraph at once : I would 
 be with her at once. But a sudden idea that my man 
 might, after all, be negligent, unsettled me.
 
 234 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 The afternoon after my consideration of the matter 
 in this light I spent in a long walk and debate with 
 myself. 
 
 When I returned home, looking as usual on the hall 
 table for the longed-for telegram, I saw one. (My 
 heart started). I picked it up ; came quietly into the 
 study and, at the window, opened it. 
 
 She was found. 
 
 I threw up my face and laughed. Found ! found ! 
 found ! found at last. 
 
 A letter from her. This : 
 
 ' I cannot give you up. I am ill. Do come to me. I am 
 sorry for it. It was wrong of me. Will you forgive me 
 and come ? ' B. H.' 
 
 ' Forgive you ? Come ? ' I said, laughing : ' Oh, little 
 Rosebud, I will forgive you for forgiving me ! I will 
 
 come to you, and keep you, and Ending in 
 
 laughter and tears. 
 
 To have found her again ! To know that I had not 
 . . . Nay, I knew nothing yet ! And she was ill. 
 
 How long it took for the gold-incited hansom to 
 get to the place ! How long the Anglicised Italian 
 woman took to tell me where she was ! But upstairs 
 I went at last : up, up, to the very top of the house, 
 the dusty, dingy attic. She was there. 
 
 I knocked softly at the door and, on her voice saying 
 that I was to come in, went in, and stood for a moment 
 looking. I had but seen her pale worn face on the 
 pillow before she had started up with a wild cry. 
 And then I was holding her in my arms, and she me, 
 silently. 
 
 In a little I felt how she squeezed me in her old 
 dear child's way, so quietly, pulling me in to her, and 
 I bent back my head so as to look at her face. But 
 she would not let me : turning round her head and 
 pressing it to my neck, in her old dear child's way. 
 It seemed a dream that we had ever been away from 
 one another. And then all at once she kissed me on 
 the lips, such a long kiss ; and hid her face again, and 
 sighed contentedly. And so we remained in one 
 another's arms some time in perfect silence.
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 235 
 
 At last I began to think; but had no more than 
 begun, when her breast heaved, all her body heaved, 
 before the sound of the cough came as a relief to it. 
 I feared that my holding her might increase the effort, 
 and made a little move to loosen from her, but she 
 would not. Feared indeed : there was fear in me still. 
 
 ' Rosebud/ I said, when I was sitting by her on the 
 bed, stroking her hand, she lying back on the pillow 
 looking at me, 'you've got a very bad cold.' 
 
 ' Yes/ she said, ' I ' And went off into another 
 
 fit of coughing, the third she had had since I came in. 
 
 ' How did you get it ? ' I asked. 
 
 ' Got it ! ' she said with a smile, ' Caught it ! ' 
 
 'Well ' I began; and stopped. I was deter- 
 mining that she should be out of London before that 
 night. 
 
 And so she was. We went down together to Mickle- 
 hurst, a place I had once heard of as sunny and with 
 a deep blue sky. The child seemed very contented, 
 quietly contented, dreamily contented, somehow con- 
 tented as I did not quite like her to be. The patience 
 with which she bore her convulsive fits of coughing 
 seemed to me strange. Once I caught myself think- 
 ing of a dying monkey I had seen in the Paris streets. 
 
 Arrived in the hotel, albeit I hesitated a little, I 
 determined that I would go and bring a doctor to see 
 her at once. And, having made her comfortable in 
 the window of a room that looked over the blue wind- 
 ing sea-y river, with its girdling darkened mountains, 
 over which the sun was setting in mellow golden 
 warmth, I went down and inquired the name and 
 address of some doctor. I seemed to be drinking in 
 the clear, pure air as I walked along. 
 
 I found the doctor's house, and the doctor; and 
 brought him to see her. He reported a bad cold, 
 cautiously adding that he would come again and see 
 her on Saturday. (This was Wednesday). I accom- 
 panied him down to the hotel door. I rather liked 
 his face : he had a little gold light in his eyes some- 
 where, perhaps only something to do with the sun 
 there. I asked him one or two questions about her 
 which he answered simply. She had caught a bad
 
 236 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 cold : that was clear. Perhaps it was nothing more : 
 perhaps again it was ; perhaps even it might develop 
 into congestion of the lungs. She seemed in rather 
 a low state of health ; but he would see her again in 
 a few days, on Saturday, and then he should be able 
 to tell me if there was anything. I said : 
 
 'Thank you; very well, be it so. My name is 
 Leicester. We shall probably be staying here for 
 some little time/ 
 
 And so we parted. 
 
 Rosy spent a bad night with the coughing. She 
 did not care to go out, although the day was delight- 
 fully sunnily warm, but stayed in an easy-chair by the 
 open window looking over the blue winding sea-y river 
 and the girdling mountains, all set in the deep blue 
 enamelled firmament. I left her with a book for an 
 hour in the morning and went down on to the shore ; 
 and again, late in the afternoon. Her cough grew 
 worse towards evening, and at last it struck me to go 
 out and get her some sweets to suck to try and stop 
 it. I brought in a large packet of divers sorts, which 
 pleased her : and we sat by the fire, which she had 
 wished should be lit, and talked quietly and happily 
 about ourselves in the past. 
 
 This night was worse than the last, and the next 
 day than that which preceded it; and so with the 
 next night. Two or three times during this last 
 after a long fit of convulsive coughing, she brought up 
 some sticky, rusty-coloured stuff, with thin streaks of 
 blood in it, that I examined in the candle-light, and 
 having examined, felt a renewal of that indefinable 
 fear that had entered me when all her body heaved 
 before the sound of the cough came as a relief to it. 
 As I lay back, wondering about this, she all at once 
 said : 
 
 ' I think, dear, I 'm going to die.' 
 
 I was startled. 
 
 After a pause : 
 
 ' What makes you think that ? ' I said. 
 
 After another pause : 
 
 ' I wanted to die ! I knew I was catching it all the 
 Avhile, and I didn't care : I didn't stop it a bit ! That
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 237 
 
 was because I wanted to die. But when I found how 
 
 . . I think God is going to punish me for it.' 
 
 I turned over, and kissed her on the cheek. 
 
 'Serious/ she said, moving her head a little and 
 looking at me, 'Serious !' 
 
 ' Quite serious/ said I, beginning to smile. ' Quite 
 serious/ and kissed her again and was silent. 
 
 That inspection of the handkerchief ultimately de- 
 cided me at breakfast to go and find the doctor again : 
 which I did, but he could not come till later. 
 
 Then Rosy was informed that she would have to go 
 to bed again, and perhaps have to stop there a little. 
 I at once suspected congestion of the lungs, whatever 
 that precisely meant. 
 
 As the doctor and I went down stairs together I 
 catechised him. He said that she had pneumonia. I 
 inquired the precise meaning of pneumonia. 
 
 ' Inflammation of the substance of the lungs.' 
 
 ' Was it dangerous ? ' 
 
 ' Sometimes.' 
 
 ' Fatal ? ' 
 
 ' Sometimes.' 
 
 1 How long did it last ? ' 
 
 'Three or four days, in good cases; more generally 
 a fortnight or so.' 
 
 'I asked him a few more questions, and then he 
 took up the word, and told me what would and what 
 might be required to be done. And so we parted 
 again. 
 
 I came upstairs to Rosy with a feeling as if there 
 was going to be a species of campaign undertaken. 
 The first thing to do was to find out if she minded 
 leaving the hotel. She did not. Then I went out to 
 observe the house that the doctor had recommended 
 to me. 
 
 It was rather a cottage than a house. I liked it. 
 It had a small garden, bright with flowers, in front of 
 the dining-room, a long thin room with two garden- 
 windows opening on to a little lawn. I came back 
 with a description of it, which, having pleased her, 
 sent me off to take the place at once ; and back to 
 bring her to it.
 
 238 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 By lunch-time we, I and the landlady and the 
 servant, that is, had the dining-room turned into a 
 bed-room light, airy, and comfortable. 
 
 The doctor came in the afternoon again. Further 
 directions were given, and he left us, saying that he 
 would leave the prescriptions at the chemist's as he 
 went home. By tea-time everything was ready. Rosy 
 had throughout remained quiescent, except that, as 
 she was coming into the house, she noticed some red 
 daisies in the bed under the window, and plucked one, 
 saying : ' A pretty thing ! ' and for a moment stood 
 looking at it, while I stood looking at her. 
 
 I had everything to hand inhaler, medicines, 
 milk, beef-tea ; and the kettle, with a long brown- 
 paper spout to it, so as to keep the atmosphere 
 moist with the steam, on the fire, from whose im- 
 mediate heat and light she was sheltered by the 
 bed-curtain drawn out and tucked under the mat- 
 tress. I felt no fear now. The sense of her lying 
 there as she was, seemed to admit of no feeling but 
 calm tenderness. 
 
 The cough was very troublesome : more violent, 
 more as it were ineffectual. She was very thirsty, and 
 complained of the warm milk and beef-tea. Orders 
 had been left that it was to be warm, and so of course 
 she would have to drink it warm. I had to coax her 
 to it like a child. The same with the inhalation. At 
 first she, half sleepy, would not inhale, but kept 
 moaning, and turning her mouth away from the pipe, 
 till I bantered her into taking twenty pulls to show 
 she was not afraid of it, and then turned the twenty 
 into thirty, and the thirty into fifty, and so on up to 
 a hundred, and far over (I deceiving her by dropping 
 back the number several times). So the requisite ten 
 minutes inhalation was achieved. The poor child 
 could get no sleep. She kept up a low moaning all 
 the while, occasionally sitting up with her chin on her 
 knees, and the lower part of her hands turned round 
 in her eyes. Once she suddenly looked up at me and 
 said : 
 
 ' Don't you believe I got this as a punishment for 
 wanting to die ? '
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 239 
 
 ' No/ I answered ' I don't. I think you got it as the 
 result of catching a severe cold.' 
 
 ' But I did it I did it on purpose \ ' 
 
 'The cold wouldn't know anything about that. And 
 you mustn't talk any more.' 
 
 She had a violent fit of coughing. When it was 
 done she said : 
 
 ' I do wish you 'd talk to me. I can't get to sleep. 
 I like to hear you talking ! ' 
 
 ' Very well/ I said, ' I '11 tell you a story. Will that 
 do?' 
 
 ' Yes/ she said, ' but lie down there. I don't like 
 you sitting up.' 
 
 I lay down on the extreme edge of the bed, with my 
 head on the bolster, and began my story. It was the 
 story of Undine. Often I had to stop on account of 
 her coughing. Once the story was so broken into by a 
 fit of it, that I hoped she would forget or not care to 
 hear any more and would try to go to sleep. Not so. 
 She began to talk about what had happened to her in 
 London, and would not. brook interruption. At last, 
 I let her say what she had to say. She told me of her 
 life at Wiltshire Crescent. Then, suddenly, after a 
 pause : 
 
 ' I was glad when you came/ she said slowly, ' I had 
 a most horrid dream of you. I dreamed you were 
 dead, and that I saw your coffin carried by men to 
 the ceme-tery. I thought I was in such grief about 
 parting with you in anger, that I would have given 
 half my life to have parted with you friendly. ... I 
 know I have been very wicked in doing what I have, 
 but I do believe God will forgive me. I did love you ! 
 I was also in trouble as to whether you were safe in 
 heaven, and I thought I wept so bitterly, and my grief 
 was so great that, while I was following to see where 
 you were buried, I was obliged to kneel down to pray 
 God to take you to heaven, and to forgive all, at the 
 same time promising I would be good all the rest of 
 my life, in hope to see you there when I awoke and 
 found it all a dream. And I was pleased, but it upset 
 me for days, and at last I made up my mind to write 
 to you, as I could not rest.'
 
 240 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 She had another fit of coughing, and I got up to 
 give her some milk. After that I thought she had 
 forgotten the story, but she requested its continuance, 
 and so I continued it, with the necessary breaks, till 
 four in the morning, when she fell asleep. 
 
 Not even the orders of the doctor prevailed over my 
 disinclination to awakening her at five for her medicine. 
 She herself awoke a little later : the medicine was 
 given ; and at her request the story continued ; but 
 only for a little, for we could not get on with it ' one 
 little bit,' as she said, owing to the growing frequency 
 of her fits of coughing. She was quite exhausted by 
 the time the sun came into the room over the top of 
 the hedge ; that is, about seven o'clock. I was tired, 
 but not sleepy : and less tired when I had washed 
 myself. Then she fell asleep again. 
 
 The doctor came about eleven. He sanctioned her 
 drinking her milk and beef-tea cold if she really did 
 not like to drink it warm ; and Rosy's silence said that 
 she did not like. I went with him to the door and 
 into the garden, where I asked him if he could not 
 give her some opiate ? He shook his head. I said 
 that she was being torn to pieces by the cough, and 
 that I could not help thinking that it was dangerous 
 to let her get as exhausted as she had been a few hours 
 ago, and was yet. He said : 
 
 ' I dare not give her anything.' 
 
 The words and their tone settled the matter. I 
 asked again if it was possible to give her any stimulants 
 now ? He said : 
 
 'No; best not. Go on just the same as yesterday 
 with the inhaler and the poultices, and the milk and 
 beef-tea. That is all.' 
 
 I said that as fast as I gave it her, she brought it 
 all up again : purposelessly. Then, after a proposal 
 about a nurse, which I refused, he left me. I thought 
 no more of him. 
 
 At about five she would have me lie down on the 
 edge of the bed and try to get some sleep ; and, with 
 the promise from her that she would awaken me in 
 an hour, when it would be time for her to inhale again, 
 I closed my eyes. She deceived me. It was seven
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 241 
 
 when I awoke : was awakened by what was, probably, 
 an unusually violent fit of coughing. I scolded her, 
 my thin-faced little darling, as I got the inhaler ready : 
 she, between her coughings, smiling at me. 
 
 After tea I sitting by the bedside, holding her 
 hand and thinking she all at once quite opened her 
 eyes and looked at me. 
 
 ' Where do people go to when they die ? ' she 
 said. 
 
 I looked at her dear child's eyes, but did not answer 
 her. 
 
 1 Do tell me,' she said, in a child's aggrieved tone, 
 rumpling her brow, ' Don't tease me ! Tell me true ! ' 
 
 After a pause, I answered her : 
 
 ' I believe that they go into the earth and the air 
 from which they came.' 
 
 ' Yes/ she said, ' but that 's not their spirits. What 
 do their spirits do ? ' 
 
 ' Their spirits, too, go into the earth and the air/ 
 
 She shook her head : 
 
 ' No,' she said, ' their spirits go up ' (looking up) 
 ' up into heaven ! ' 
 
 I lifted her hand, and bent my head, and kissed her 
 hand softly. 
 
 ' But don't you think so too ? ' she said. 
 
 ' No/ I said, still bent over her hand, ' But ' (looking 
 up at her and smiling), 'what does it matter what I 
 think, dear?' 
 
 She began to cough, and went on for a little. Then : 
 
 'Don't you think/ she said, 'that good people go 
 up to heaven when they die ?' 
 
 ' Don't talk any more in this way ! ' I said, getting 
 up and sitting on the bed by her, ' or I shall Well, 
 I shall have to stop you some way.' And I put my arm 
 round her shoulders, and drew her head to mine. 
 
 'Ah/ she said, drawing her head back so as to look 
 at me, ' but don't you ? ' 
 
 'Don't I what?' 
 
 Her brow rumpled. 
 
 ' Don't tease me ! ' she said, ' You must tell me ! ' 
 
 ' Very well/ I said, ' I will tell you, then. ' I don't 
 think anyone goes up to heaven, dear, however good
 
 242 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 they are, for I don't believe there's any heaven to 
 go to.' 
 
 ' But what be-comes of them, then ? ' 
 
 ' They go into the earth and the air from whence 
 they came.' 
 
 ' That 's horrid ! ' she said, ' I don't ' and began 
 
 to cough again. 
 
 I put my arm round her shoulders, and leant my 
 cheek to hers that was wet. 
 
 ' What is it ? ' I said, ' Why are you crying ? ' 
 
 In a little : 
 
 ' I was thinking,' she said, ' that God wouldn't let 
 us see one another then, perhaps, because we had 
 been so sinful, and because you because you talked 
 in that way. If you didn't talk in that way, perhaps 
 He would, you know ; because I did love you so ! ' 
 (She had turned and thrown her arms round my neck.) 
 ' Oh, / couldn't do without you ! I did try, I did try ! 
 But you were so much to me ! ' Her trembling lips 
 could scarcely finish it. 
 
 At last : 
 
 ' Oh, Rosy,' I said, with a low, choking voice, ' My 
 little Rosebud ! ' 
 
 ' Hush ! ' she said, ' hush, dear. Don't trouble about 
 it afterwards. I don't think God '11 be so hard upon 
 us ; I don't think He will ! And it wasn't your fault, 
 this. It was all my fault ; / did it ! I knew 1 did ! 
 But I don't mind now. Kiss me, dear; kiss me. It 
 wasn't your fault.' 
 
 I kissed her, and straightway the cough caught and 
 shook her poor body through and through ; but she 
 would not have me take my arms from round her. 
 And as I felt all this, the thought in me turned to 
 utter fierceness. 
 
 We talked no more of these things, except that 
 Rosy told me that last night she had dreamt of being 
 smothered by wreaths of smoke, and could not wake 
 me. We talked of the dear hours in the past, and of 
 the dearer that were to be in the future by snatches ; 
 for her cough was almost ceaseless, and, it seemed to 
 me, more violent than last night. She had, apparently, 
 forgotten about the story.
 
 A CHILD OF THE AGE 243 
 
 But, as the night wore on, she became worse. 1 
 had great trouble to get her to take the inhalation. 
 She kept up the low moaning all the time, as she had 
 done on the first night; occasionally, too, sitting up 
 as before, with her chin on her knees, and the lower 
 parts of her hands turned round in her eyes. I did 
 not leave the bed-side for a moment. Now and then 
 she fell asleep, but the low moaning did not cease, 
 except when she muttered incoherently. 
 
 The slow hours passed. I must have dozed. I 
 awoke with a start. She was struggling violently. I 
 saw that, and her swollen, livid face, and eyes strangely 
 prominent with strange, clear brightness. Then I 
 knew that she wanted me, and, in a moment, was 
 across the bed, with one arm round her body and the 
 other loosening her nightdress at the throat ; but she 
 had caught it, as it were, by chance, and rent it down 
 wide open, just as the button was coming undone. I 
 held her steadily up, despite her violent, downward 
 struggles. She knew I was holding her. She could 
 not get breath ; she was suffocating. Her chest seemed 
 rigid. I looked at her livid face again, her bright eyes, 
 her stretched nostrils. 
 
 Then, before I scarcely knew what had happened, 
 except a tightened effort of her body in my arms, she 
 had ceased struggling. 
 
 I looked at her face : looked long, and at last, wildly. 
 I shook her gently ; lowered my arm to shake her 
 again. Her head fell back with upward, staring eyes. 
 I thought, She is dead, she is dead. What did it mean ? 
 No ... No ... 
 
 I gathered her close in my arms, kissing her warm, 
 pure throat, talking to myself; and let both of us 
 lie back in the soft pillows, I with my cheek on her 
 warm, pure breast. Ah, better to sleep now without 
 more words ; better to sleep ! Think no more of that 
 phantasy. I was ever given to such. As a boy, I 
 could not quite tell sometimes whether I was in a 
 dream or awake; I could not quite tell sometimes 
 whether I had seen things in dreams or in the vital 
 air: So now ! But that was enough of speaking. Better 
 to sleep now without more words ; better to sleep !
 
 244 A CHILD OF THE AGE 
 
 'A bundle of myrrh is mi/ well-beloved unto me; she 
 shall lie all night betwixt my breasts, I charge you, ye 
 daughters of Jerusalem, by the roes and by the hinds of 
 the Jield, that ye stir not up nor awake my love till she 
 please' 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Piinted by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to Her Majesty 
 at the Edinburgh University Press
 
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 x. THE BOHEMIAN GIRL AND OTHER STORIES. By 
 HENRY HARLAND. [Early in 1895. 
 
 xi. A VOLUME OF STORIES. By H. B. MARRIOTT 
 WATSON. [Early in 1895. 
 
 xn. A VOLUME OF STORIES. By ELLA D'ARCY. 
 
 [Early in 1895. 
 
 Copyright Editions of the volumes of the KEYNOTES 
 SERIES are published in the United States by 
 Messrs. ROBERTS BROS, of Boston.
 
 THE KEYNOTES SERIES 
 
 Fifth Edition, just ready. 
 
 KEYNOTES. By GEORGE EGERTON. With Title-page by 
 AUBREY BEARDSLEY. Crown 8vo, cloth, 35. 6d. net. 
 
 ' Emboldened, doubtless, by the success of " Dodo," the author of " Key- 
 notes" offers us a set of stories written with the least. amount of literary 
 skill and in the worst literary taste. We have refrained from quotation, 
 for fear of giving to this book an importance which it does not merit.' Pall 
 Mall Gazette. 
 
 ' The sirens sing in it from the first page to the last. It may, perhaps, 
 shock you with disregard of conventionality and reticencies, but you will 
 all the same have to admit its fascination. There can be no doubt that in 
 Mr. George Egerton his publishers have discovered a story-teller of genius. ' 
 Star. 
 
 ' This is a collection of eight of the prettiest short stories that have ap- 
 peared for many a day. They turn for the most part on feminine traits of 
 character ; in fact, the book is a little psychological study of woman under 
 various circumstances. The characters are so admirably drawn, and the 
 scenes and landscapes are described with so much and so rare vividness, 
 that one cannot help being almost spell-bound by their perusal." St. James's 
 Gazette. 
 
 ' A rich, passionate temperament vibrates through every line. . . . We 
 have met nothing so lovely in its tenderness since Mr. Kipling's " Without 
 Benefit of Clergy.'" Daily Chronicle. 
 
 ' For any one who cares more for truth than for orthodox mummery, and 
 for the real flood of the human heart than for the tepid negus which stirs 
 the veins of respectability, this little book deserves a hearty welcome.' 
 -Sketch. 
 
 ' Singularly artistic in its brilliant suggestiveness.' Daily News. 
 
 ' This is a book which is a portentous sign of our times. The wildness, 
 the fierceness, the animality that underlie the soft, smooth surface of 
 woman's pretty and subdued face this is the theme to which she again and 
 again recurs.' T. P. in Weekly Sun. 
 
 ' To credit a new writer with the possession of genius is a serious matter, 
 but it is nevertheless a verdict which Mr. George Egerton can hardly 
 avoid at the hands of those who read his delightful sketches.' Liverpool 
 Post. 
 
 'These lovely sketches are informed hy such throbbing feeling, such in- 
 sight into complex woman, that we with all speed and warmth advise those 
 who are in search of splendid literature to procure " Keynotes " without 
 delay.' Literary World. 
 
 ' These very clever stories of Mr. Egerton's.' Black and White. 
 
 ' The reading of it is an adventure, and, once begun, it is hard to tear 
 yourself from the book till you have devoured every line. There is im- 
 pulsive life in every word of it. It has passion, ardour, vehement romance. 
 It is full of youth; often enough the revolt and despair of youth.' Irish 
 Independent. 
 
 ' Every line of the book gives the impression that here some woman has 
 crystallised her life's drama ; has written down her soul upon the page.' 
 Review of Reviews. 
 
 'The work of a woman who has lived every hour of her life, be she young 
 or old. . . . She allows us, like the great artists of old, Shakespeare and 
 Goethe, to draw our own moral from the stories she tells, and it is with no 
 uncertain touch or faltering hand that she pulls aside the curtain of con- 
 ventional hypocrisy which hundreds of women hang between the world and 
 their own hearts. . . . The insight of the writer into the curious and com- 
 plicated nature of women is almost miraculous.' Lady's Pictorial.
 
 THE KEYNOTES SERIES 
 
 ' She is a writer with a profound understanding of the human heart. She 
 understands men ; and, more than this, she understands women. . . . For 
 those who weary of the conventional fiction, and who long for something 
 out of the ordinary run of things, these are tales that carry the zest of 
 living.' Boston Beacon. 
 
 ' It is not a book for babes and sucklings, since it cuts deep into rather 
 dangerous soil ; but it is refined and skilful . . . strikes a very true and 
 touching note of pathos.' Westminster Gazette. 
 
 ' The author of these able word sketches is manifestly a close observer of 
 Nature's moods, and one, moreover, who carefully takes stock of the up- 
 to-date thoughts that shake mankind.' Daily Telegraph. 
 
 ' Not since the " Story of an African Farm " was written has any woman 
 delivered herself of so strong, so forcible a book. ' Queen, 
 
 ' Powerful pictures of human beings living to-day, full of burning pain, 
 and thought, and passion.' Bookman. 
 
 ' A work of genius. There is upon the whole thing a stamp of down- 
 right inevitableness as of things which must be written, and written exactly 
 in that way.' Speaker. 
 
 ' " Keynotes ' is a singularly clever book.' Truth. 
 
 THE DANCING FAUN. By FLORENCE FARR. With 
 Title-page and Cover Design by AUBREY BEARDSLEY. 
 Crown 8vo, 35. 6d. net. 
 
 ' We welcome the light and merry pen of Miss Farr as one of the deftest 
 that has been wielded in the style of to-day. She has written the cleverest 
 and the most cynical sensation story of the season.' Liverpool Daily Post. 
 
 ' Slight as it is, the story is, in its way, strong.' Literary World. 
 
 ' Full of bright paradox, and paradox which is no mere topsy-turvy play 
 upon words, but the product of serious thinking upon life. One of the 
 cleverest of recent novels.' Star. 
 
 ' It is full of epigrammatic effects, and it has a certain thread of pathos 
 calculated to win our sympathy.' Queen. 
 
 ' The story is subtle and psychological after the fashion of modern 
 psychology ; it is undeniably clever and smartly written.' Gentlewoman. 
 
 ' No one can deny its freshness and wit. Indeed there are things in it 
 here and there which John Oliver Hobbes herself might have signed with- 
 out loss of reputation.' Woman. 
 
 ' There is a lurid power in the very unreality of the story. One does not 
 quite understand how Lady Geraldine worked herself up to shooting her 
 lover, but when she has done it, the descripticn of what passes through her 
 mind is magnificent.' Athenteum. 
 
 ' Written by an obviously clever woman.' Black and White. 
 
 'Miss Farr has talent. " The_ Dancing Faun " contains writing that is 
 distinctively good. Doubtless it is only a prelude to something much 
 stronger. ' Academy. 
 
 ' As a work of art the book has the merit of brevity and smart writing ; 
 while the denouement is skilfully prepared, and comes as a surprise. If 
 the book had been intended as a satire on the "new woman" sort of litera- 
 ture, it would have been most brilliant ; but assuming it to be written in 
 earnest, we can heartily praise the form of its construction without 
 agreeing with the sentiments expressed.' St. James's Gazette. 
 
 ' Shows considerable power and aptitude.' Saturday Review.
 
 THE KEYNOTES'SERIES 
 
 POOR FOLK. Translated from the Russian of FEDOR 
 DOSTOIEVSKY. By LENA MII.MAN. With an Intro- 
 duction by GEORGE MOORE, and a Title-page and Cover 
 Design by AUBREY BEARDSLEY. Crown 8vo, 35. 6d. net. 
 
 ' The book is cleverly translated. " Poor Folk " gains in reality and pathos 
 by the very means that i n less skilful hands would be tedious and common- 
 place.' Spectator. 
 
 ' A charming story_ of the love of a Charles Lamb kind of old bachelor 
 for a young work-girl. Full of quiet humour and still more full of the 
 lachrymce rerum.' Star. 
 
 ' Scenes of poignant realism, described with so admirable a blending of 
 humour and pathos that they haunt the memory.' Daily News. 
 
 1 No one will read it attentively without feeling both its power and its 
 pathos. ' Scotsman. 
 
 ' The book is one of great pathos and absorbing interest. Miss Milman 
 has given us an admirable version of it which will commend itself to every 
 one who cares for good literature. ' Glasgow Herald. 
 
 ' These things seem small, but in the hands of Dostoievsky they make, 
 a work of genius.' Black and White. 
 
 'One of the most pathetic things in all literature, heartrending just 
 because its tragedy is so repressed.' Bookman. 
 
 ' As to novels, the very finest I have read of late or for long is " Poor Folk," 
 by Fedor Dostoievsky, translated by Miss Lena Milman.' Truth. 
 
 ' A book to be read for the merits of its execution. The translator by 
 the way has turned it into excellent English.' Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 ' The narrative vibrates with feeling, and these few unstudied letters con- 
 vey to us a cry from the depths of a famished human soul. As far as we 
 can judge, the English rendering, though simple, retains that ring of 
 emotion which must distinguish the original.' Westminster Review. 
 
 ' One of the most striking studies in plain and simple realism which was 
 ever written.' Daily Telegraph, 
 
 '"Poor Folk" is certainly a vivid and pathetic story.' Globe. 
 
 'A triumph of realistic art a masterpiece of a great writer.' Morning 
 Post. 
 
 ' Dostoievsky's novel has met with that rare advantage, a really good 
 translator. ' Queen. 
 
 ' This admirable translation of a great author.' Liverpool Mercury. 
 
 ' " Poor Folk" Englished does not read like a translation indubitably a 
 masterpiece.' Literary World. 
 
 ' Told with a gradually deepening intensity and force, a pathetic truth- 
 fulness which lives in the memory.' Leeds Mercury. 
 
 ' What Charles Dickens in his attempts to reproduce the sentiment and 
 pathos of the humble deceived himself and others into thinking that he did, 
 that Fedor Dostoievsky actually does.' Manchester Guardian. 
 
 ' It is a story that leaves the reader almost stunned. Miss Milman's 
 translation is admirable.' Gentlewoman. 
 
 ' The translation appears to be well done so far as we have compared it 
 with the original.' W. R. MORFILL in The Academy. 
 
 'A most impressive and characteristic specimen of Russian fiction. 
 Those to whom Russian is a sealed book will be duly grateful to the trans- 
 lator (who has acquitted herself excellently), to Mr. Moore, and to the 
 publisher for this presentment of Dostoievsky's remarkable novel.' Times.
 
 List of Books 
 
 in 
 
 J^elles Retires 
 
 THCBODLEY HEAD 
 V1GOJTLPNDONY 
 
 1894 
 
 ALL BOOKS IN THIS CATALOGUE 
 ARE PUBLISHED AT NET PRICES 
 
 Telegraphic Address 
 ' BODLEIAN, LONDON
 
 A FEW PRESS NOTES 
 
 GALLIENNE (RICHARD LE). 
 
 PROSE FANCIES. Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 53. net. 
 
 ' The sentiment rings true, and the quaint conceits which abound have a 
 dainty prettiness which gives distinction to the prose.' Athenaum. 
 
 ' A more delightful collection of essays has not issued from the press 
 since the time of Charles Lamb.' Weekly Sun. 
 
 ' They deserve to rank forthwith among the gems of English prose. And 
 why? Because they could have been written only by a poet.' Daily 
 Chronicle. 
 
 DAVIDSON (JOHN). 
 
 PLAYS. Small 4to. 73. 6d. net. 
 
 ' Mr. Davidson is in many ways one of the most remarkable of the 
 younger poets, and in many respects the most richly endowed of all.' 
 Mr. QUILLER COUCH in Speaker. 
 
 'A very singular dramatist indeed, and, as a poet, so full of curious and 
 varied power that we have conceived the greatest interest as to his per- 
 sonality and his plans.' Spectator. 
 
 ' There is no truer poet in England to-day than Mr. John Davidson.' 
 Westminster Gazette. 
 
 EGERTON (GEORGE). 
 
 KEYNOTES. Fifth Edition. Crown 8vo. 33. 6d. net. 
 
 ' Singularly artistic in its brilliant suggestiveness.' Daily JVews. 
 
 ' Eight of the prettiest short stories that have appeared for many a day.' 
 St. James's Gazette. 
 
 ' We have met with nothing so lovely in its tenderness since Mr. Kipling's 
 ' ' Without Benefit of Clergy." ' Daily Chronicle. 
 
 ' Not since "The Story of an African Farm " was written has any woman 
 delivered herself of so strong, so forcible a book.' Queen. 
 
 STREET (G. S.). 
 
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A BOY. Second Edition. 
 Fcap. 8vo. 35. 6d. net. 
 
 ' A creation in which there appears to be no flaw.' Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 'A quite priceless treasure. Tubby is indeed a new immortal.' 
 Academy. 
 
 ' There is more observation and art of presentment in this little book 
 than in a wilderness of three- volume novels, even by eminent hands.' 
 A theneeum. 
 
 ' It is admirably done throughout, full of delicate strokes of ironical wit.' 
 Daily Telegraph.
 
 1894. 
 List of Books 
 
 IN 
 
 BELLES LETTRES 
 
 (Including some Transfers) 
 
 Published by John Lane 
 
 VIGO STREET, LONDON, W. 
 
 A 7 B - The A uthors and Publisher reserve the right of reprinting 
 any book in this list if a new edition is called for, except in cases 
 where a stipulation has been made to the contrary, and of printing 
 a separate edition of any of the books for America irrespective of the 
 numbers to which the English editions are limited. The numbers 
 mentioned do not include copies sent to the public libraries, nor those 
 sent for review. 
 
 Most of the books are published simultaneously in England and 
 **""?*' and i* many instances the names of the American 
 Publishers are appended. 
 
 ADAMS (FRANCIS). 
 
 ESSAYS IN MODERNITY. Crown 8vo. 55. net. {Shortly. 
 Chicago : Stone & Kimball. 
 
 ADAMS (FRANCIS). 
 V" A CHILD OF THE AGE. Crown 8vo. 35. 6d. net 
 
 (See KEYNOTES SERIES.) 
 Boston : Roberts Bros.
 
 THE PUBLICATIONS OF 
 
 ALLEN (GRANT). 
 
 THE LOWER SLOPES : A Volume of Verse. With Title- 
 page and Cover Design by J. ILLINGWORTH KAY. 
 600 copies. Crown 8vo. 55. net. 
 Chicago : Stone & Kimball. 
 
 ALLEN (GRANT). 
 
 THE WOMAN WHO DID. Crown 8vo. 35. 6d. net. 
 
 (See KEYNOTES SERIES.) [/ rapid preparation. 
 Boston : Roberts Bros. 
 
 BEARDSLEY (AUBREY). 
 
 THE STORY OF VENUS AND TANNHAUSER, in which is set 
 forth an exact account of the Manner of State held by- 
 Madam Venus, Goddess and Meretrix, under the 
 famous Horselberg, and containing the adventures of 
 Tannhauser in that place, his repentance, his jour- 
 neying to Rome, and return to the loving mountain. 
 By AUBREY BEARDSLEY. With 20 full-page illus- 
 trations, numerous ornaments, and a cover from the 
 same hand. Sq. l6mo. los.6d.net. [In preparation. 
 
 BEECHING (REV. H. C.). 
 
 IN A GARDEN : Poems. With a specially-designed Title- 
 page. Crown 8vo. 5s.net. [In preparation. 
 
 BENSON (ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER). 
 
 A NEW VOLUME OF POEMS. Fcap. 8vo. 55. net. 
 
 [In rapid preparation. 
 
 BROTHERTON (MARY). 
 
 ROSEMARY FOR REMEMBRANCE. With Title-page and 
 
 Cover Design by WALTER WEST. Fcap. 8vo. 55. net. 
 
 [In rapid preparation. 
 
 DALMON (C. W.). 
 
 SONG FAVOURS. With a specially-designed Title-page. 
 Sq. i6mo. 45. 6d. net. [In preparation.
 
 JOHN LANE 5 
 
 D'ARCY (ELLA). 
 
 A VOLUME OF STORIES. Crown 8vo. 35. 6d. net. 
 
 (See KEYNOTES SERIES.) [In preparation. 
 
 Boston : Roberts Bros. 
 
 DAVIDSON (JOHN). 
 
 PLAYS : An Unhistorical Pastoral ; A Romantic Farce ; 
 Bruce, a Chronicle Play ; Smith, a Tragic Farce ; 
 Scaramouch in Naxos, a Pantomime, with a Frontis- 
 piece and Cover Design by AUBREY BEARDSLEY. 
 Printed at the Ballantyne Press. 500 copies. Small 
 4to. 75. 6d. net. 
 Chicago : Stone & Kimball. 
 
 DAVIDSON (JOHN). 
 
 FLEET STREET ECLOGUES. Second Edition. Fcap. 8vo, 
 buckram. 55. net. 
 
 DAVIDSON (JOHN). 
 
 A RANDOM ITINERARY AND A BALLAD. With a Fron- 
 tispiece and Title-page by LAURENCE HOUSMAN. 
 600 copies. Fcap. 8vo, Irish Linen. 55. net. 
 Boston : Copeland & Day. 
 
 DAVIDSON (JOHN). 
 
 THE NORTH WALL. Fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d. net. 
 
 The few remaining copies transferred by (he Author 
 to the present Publisher. 
 
 DAVIDSON (JOHN). 
 
 BALLADS AND SONGS. Fcap. Svo. fs. net. 
 
 [In preparation. 
 
 DE TABLEY (LORD). 
 
 POEMS, DRAMATIC AND LYRICAL. By JOHN LEICESTER 
 WARREN (Lord De Tabley). Illustrations and Cover 
 Design by C. S. RICKETTS. Second Edition. 
 Crown Svo. 73. 6d. net. 
 
 DE TABLEY (LORD). 
 
 A NEW VOLUME OF POEMS. Crown Svo. 55. net. 
 
 [In preparation.
 
 THE PUBLICATIONS OF 
 
 EGERTON (GEORGE). 
 
 KEYNOTES. Fifth Edition. Crown 8vo. 33. 6d. net. 
 
 (See KEYNOTES SERIES.) 
 Boston : Roberts Bros. 
 
 EGERTON (GEORGE). 
 
 DISCORDS. Crown 8vo. 33. 6d. net. 
 
 (See KEYNOTES SERIES.) [In rapid preparation . 
 
 Boston : Roberts Bros. 
 
 EGERTON (GEORGE). 
 
 YOUNG OFEG'S DITTIES. A translation from the Swedish 
 of OLA HANSSON. Crown 8vo. 33. 6d. net. 
 
 [In preparation. 
 
 FARR (FLORENCE). 
 
 THE DANCING FAUN. Crown 8vo. 35. 6d. net. 
 
 (See KEYNOTES SERIES.) 
 Boston : Roberts Bros. 
 
 FLETCHER (J. S.). 
 
 THE WONDERFUL WAPENTAKE. By 'A SON OF THE 
 SOIL.' With 18 full-page Illustrations on Japanese 
 vellum, by J. A. SYMINGTON. Crown 8vo. 53. 6d. 
 net. [In rapid preparation. 
 
 GALE (NORMAN). 
 
 ORCHARD SONGS. With Title-page and Cover Design 
 by J. ILLINGWORTH KAY. P'cap. 8vo, Irish Linen. 
 5s. net. 
 
 Also a Special Edition limited in number on hand-made paper 
 bound in English vellum. i, is. net. 
 
 New York : G. P. Putnam's Sons. 
 
 GARNETT (RICHARD). 
 
 POEMS. With Title-page by J. ILLINGWORTH KAY. 
 
 350 copies. Crown 8vo. 53. net. 
 Boston : Copeland & Day.
 
 JOHN LANE 7 
 
 GOSSE (EDMUND). 
 - THE LETTERS OF THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES. Now 
 
 first edited. Pott 8vo. 55. net. 
 New York : Macmillan & Co. 
 
 GRAHAME (KENNETH). 
 
 PAGAN PAPERS : A Volume of Essays. With Title- 
 page by AUBREY BEARDSLEV. Fcap. 8vo. 55. net. 
 Chicago : Stone & Kimball. 
 
 GREENE (G. A.). 
 
 ITALIAN LYRISTS OF TO-DAY. Translations in the 
 original metres from about thirty-five living Italian 
 poets, with bibliographical and biographical notes. 
 Crown 8vo. 5s. net. 
 New York : Macmillan & Co. 
 
 GREENWOOD (FREDERICK). 
 
 IMAGINATION IN DREAMS. Crown Svo. 55. net. 
 
 [In rapid preparation. 
 
 HAKE (T. GORDON). 
 
 A SELECTION FROM HIS POEMS. Edited by Mrs. 
 MEYNELL. With a Portrait after D. G. ROSSETTI, 
 and a Cover Design by GLEESON WHITE. Crown^ 
 Svo. 55. net. 
 Chicago : Stone & Kimball. 
 
 HARLAND (HENRY). 
 
 THE BOHEMIAN GIRL AND OTHER STORIES. Crown 
 
 Svo. 35. 6d. net. (See KEYNOTES SERIES.) 
 Boston : Roberts Bros. [/ preparation. 
 
 HAYES (ALFRED). 
 
 THE VALE OF ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS. With a 
 Title-page designed by E. H. NEW. Fcap. Svo. 
 
 35. 6d. net. [In preparation. 
 
 HOPPER (NORA). 
 
 BALLADS IN PROSE. With a Title-page and Cover by 
 WALTER WEST. Sq. i6mo. 55. net. 
 
 [In rapid preparation.
 
 THE PUBLICATIONS OF 
 
 IRVING (LAURENCE). 
 
 GODEFROI AND YOLANDE : A Play. With three Illus- 
 trations by AUBREY BEARDSLEY. Sin. 4to. 5s. net. 
 
 [In preparation. 
 
 JAMES (W. P.). 
 
 ROMANTIC PROFESSIONS : A Volume of Essays. With 
 Title - page designed by J. ILLINGWORTH KAY. 
 Crown 8vo. 55. net. 
 New York : Macmillan & Co. 
 
 JOHNSON (LIONEL). 
 
 THE ART OF THOMAS HARDY: Six Essays. With 
 Etched Portrait by WM. STRANG, and Bibliography 
 by JOHN LANE. Crown 8vo. 55. 6d. net. 
 
 Also 150 copies, large paper, with proofs of the portrait. 1, is. 
 net. [Just published. 
 
 New York : Dodd, Mead & Co. 
 
 JOHNSON (PAULINE). 
 
 WHITE WAMPUM : Poems. Crown 8vo. 55. net. 
 
 [In preparation. 
 
 KEYNOTES SERIES. 
 
 Each volume with specially designed Title-page by AUBREY 
 
 BEARDSLEY. Crown 8vo, cloth. 33. 6d. net. 
 Vol. i. KEYNOTES. By GEORGE EGERTON. 
 
 [Fifth edition now ready. 
 
 Vol. ii. THE DANCING FAUN. By FLORENCE FARR. 
 
 Vol. III. POOR FOLK. Translated from the Russian of 
 F. Dostoievsky by LENA MILMAN. With 
 a Preface by GEORGE MOORE. 
 
 v/" Vol. iv. A CHILD OF THE AGE. By FRANCIS ADAMS. 
 
 Vol. v. THE GREAT GOD PAN AND THE INMOST 
 LIGHT. By ARTHUR MACHEN. 
 
 [In October.
 
 JOHN LANE 9 
 
 KEYNOTES SERIES continue*. 
 
 Vol. vi. DISCORDS. By GEORGE EGERTON. 
 
 [/ November. 
 Vol. vii. PRINCE ZALESKI. By M. P. SHIEL. 
 
 [/ November. 
 Vol. vin. THE WOMAN WHO DID. By GRANT ALLEN. 
 
 [/ November. 
 Vol. ix. WOMEN'S TRAGEDIES. By H. D. LOWRY. 
 
 Vol. x. THE BOHEMIAN GIRL AND OTHER STORIES. 
 By HENRY HARLAND. 
 
 Vol. xi. A VOLUME OF STORIES. By H. B. MARRIOTT 
 WATSON. 
 
 Vol. xii. A VOLUME OF STORIES. By ELLA D'ARCY. 
 Boston : Roberts Bros. 
 
 LEATHER (R. K.). 
 
 VERSES. 250 copies. Fcap. 8vo. 35. net. 
 
 Tratisferred by the Author to the present Publisher. 
 
 LE GALLIENNE (RICHARD). 
 
 PROSE FANCIES. With Portrait of the Author by 
 WILSON STEER. Third Edition. Crown 8vo. Purple 
 cloth, uniform with 'The Religion of a Literary Man.' 
 55. net. 
 
 Also a limited large paper edition. 125. 6d. net. 
 New York : G. P. Putnam's Sons. 
 
 LE GALLIENNE (RICHARD). 
 
 THE BOOK BILLS OF NARCISSUS. An Account rendered 
 by RICHARD LE GALLIENNE. Third Edition. 
 Crown 8vo. Purple cloth, uniform with 'The Re- 
 ligion of a Literary Man.' 35. 6d. net. 
 
 [/ rapid preparation. 
 LE GALLIENNE (RICHARD). 
 
 ENGLISH POEMS. Third Edition. Crown 8vo. Purple 
 cloth, uniform with 'The Religion of a Literary Man.' 
 5s. net. 
 Boston : Copeland & Day.
 
 THE PUBLICATIONS OF 
 
 LE GALLIENNE (RICHARD). 
 
 GEORGE MEREDITH : Some Characteristics. With a Biblio- 
 graphy (much enlarged) by JOHN LANE, portrait, etc. 
 Fourth Edition. Crown 8vo. Purple cloth, uniform 
 with ' The Religion of a Literary Man.' 55. 6d. net. 
 
 LE GALLIENNE (RICHARD). 
 
 THE RELIGION OF A LITERARY MAN. 5th thousand. 
 
 Crown 8vo. Purple cloth. 35. 6d. net. 
 Also a special rubricated edition on hand-made paper. 8vo. 
 
 IDS. 6d. net. 
 New York : G. P. Putnam's Sons. 
 
 LOWRY (H. D.). 
 
 WOMEN'S TRAGEDIES. Crown 8vo. 35. 6d. net. 
 
 (See KEYNOTES SERIES.) [In preparation. 
 
 Boston : Roberts Bros. 
 
 LUCAS (WINIFRED). 
 
 A VOLUME OF POEMS. Fcap. 8vo. 45. 6d. net. 
 
 [In preparation. 
 MACHEN (ARTHUR). 
 
 THE GREAT GOD PAN AND THE INMOST LIGHT. Crown 
 8vo. 35. 6d. net. 
 
 (See KEYNOTES SERIES. ) [In rapid preparation. 
 
 Boston : Roberts Bros. 
 
 MARZIALS (THEO.). 
 
 THE GALLERY OF PIGEONS AND OTHER POEMS. Post 
 8vo. 45. 6d. net. [ Very few remain. 
 
 Transferred by the Author to the present Publisher. 
 
 MEREDITH (GEORGE). 
 
 THE FIRST PUBLISHED PORTRAIT OF THIS AUTHOR, 
 engraved on the wood by W. BISCOMBE GARDNER, 
 after the painting by G. F. WATTS. Proof copies on 
 Japanese vellum, signed by painter and engraver. 
 i, is. net. % 
 
 MEYNELL (MRS.), (ALICE C. THOMPSON). 
 
 POEMS. Second Edition. Fcap. 8vo. 35. 6d. net. A 
 NX few of the 50 large paper copies (First Edition) remain, 
 
 *\ I2s. 6d. net.
 
 JOHN LANE n 
 
 MEYNELL (MRS.). 
 
 THE RHYTHM OF LIFE AND OTHER ESSAYS. Second 
 Edition. Fcap. 8vo. 35. 6d. net. A few of the 50 
 large paper copies (First Edition) remain. 123. 6d. net. 
 
 MILLER (JOAQUIN). 
 
 THE BUILDING OF THE CITY BEAUTIFUL. Fcap Svo. 
 With a Decorated Cover. 55. net. [Just published. 
 Chicago : Stone & Kimball. 
 
 MILMAN (LENA). 
 
 POOR FOLK. Translated from the Russian of F. DOS- 
 TOIEVSKY. Crown 8vo. 33. 6d. net. 
 (See KEYNOTES SERIES.) 
 Boston : Roberts Bros. 
 
 MONKHOUSE (ALLAN). 
 
 BOOKS AND PLAYS : A Volume of Essays on Meredith, 
 Borrow, Ibsen, and others. 400 copies. Crown 8vo. 
 55. net. 
 Philadelphia : J. B. Lippincott Co. 
 
 NESBIT (E.). 
 
 A VOLUME OF POEMS. Cr. 8vo. 5s.net. [In preparation. 
 
 NETTLESHIP (J. T.). 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING : Essays and Thoughts. Third 
 
 Edition. With a Portrait. Crown Svo. 55. 6d. net. 
 
 New York : Qias. Scribner's Sons. [In rapid preparation. 
 
 NOBLE (JAS. ASHCROFT). 
 
 THE SONNET IN ENGLAND AND OTHER ESSAYS. Title- 
 page and Cover Design by AUSTIN YOUNG. 600 
 copies. Crown Svo. 55. net. 
 Also 50 copies large paper. 125. 6d. net. 
 
 O'SHAUGHNESSY (ARTHUR). 
 
 His LIFE AND His WORK. With Selections from his 
 Poems. By LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. Por- 
 trait and Cover Design. Fcap. Svo. 55. net. 
 Chicago : Stone & Kimball. \Jmtt published.
 
 THE PUBLICATIONS OF 
 
 OXFORD CHARACTERS. 
 
 A series of lithographed portraits by WILL ROTHENSTEIN, 
 with text by F. YORK POWELL and others. To be 
 issued monthly in term. Each number will contain 
 two portraits. Parts I. to V. ready. 200 sets only, 
 folio, wrapper, 55. net per part ; 25 special large 
 paper sets containing proof impressions of the por- 
 traits signed by the artist, IDS. 6d. net per part. 
 
 PETERS (WM. THEODORE). 
 
 POSIES OUT OF RINGS. Sq. i6mo. 35. 6d. net. 
 
 [/ preparation. 
 
 PLARR (VICTOR). 
 
 A VOLUME OF POEMS. Crown 8vo. 53. net. 
 
 [/ preparation. 
 
 RICKETTS (C. S.)AND C. H. SHANNON. 
 
 HERO AND LEANDER. By CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE 
 and GEORGE CHAPMAN. With Borders, Initials, and 
 Illustrations designed and engraved on the wood by 
 C. S. RICKETTS and C. H. SHANNON. Bound in 
 English vellum and gold. 200 copies only. 353. net. 
 Boston : Copeland & Day. 
 
 RHYS (ERNEST). 
 
 A LONDON ROSE AND OTHER RHYMES. With Title-page 
 designed by SELWYN IMAGE. 350 copies. Crown 
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