HE TRIUMPH 
 OF TIM 
 
 HORACE ANNESLEYVACHELL
 
 /
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF TIM 
 HORACE ANNESLEY VACHELL
 
 By HORACE ANNESLEY VACHELL 
 
 NOVELS 
 
 THK TRIUMPH OF TIM 
 
 SPRAGGE'S CANYON 
 QUINNEYS" 
 
 LOOT 
 
 BLINDS DOWN 
 JOHN VERNEY 
 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 PLAYS 
 
 QUINNEYS* 
 
 SEARCHLIGHTS 
 
 JELF'S 
 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 NEW YORK
 
 THE TRIUMPH 
 OF TIM 
 
 AUTHOR OF "QUINNEYS'," "BLINDS DOWN," "JELF'S," 
 "JOHN VERNEY," ETC., ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
 
 Copyright, 1916, 
 BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OP AMERICA
 
 TO MY UNCLE AND GODFATHER 
 
 ARTHUR LYTTELTON-ANNESLEY 
 
 I DEDICATE THIS BOOK 
 
 2133477
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 BOOK ONE: WHITE 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. THE VICAR OF LITTLE PENNINGTON 11 
 
 II. DAFFY . . ^ 28 
 
 III. IN THE HAPPY VILLAGE 44 
 
 IV. IVY JELLICOE 62 
 
 V. SCOURGINGS 86 
 
 BOOK TWO: GREEN 
 
 I. BUFFETINGS , 105 
 
 II. DREGS 120 
 
 III. POPPIES AND MANDRAGORA 135 
 
 IV. AGUA CALIENTE 151 
 
 V. MAGDALENA 167 
 
 BOOK THREE: BROWN 
 
 I. SANTA BARBARA 185 
 
 II. THE CHERUB . . 197 
 
 III. SUNSHINE AND SHADOW 212 
 
 IV. DROUGHT 224 
 
 V. WHEN TROUBLES COME 239 
 
 VI. Aoiosi ..25} 
 
 vil
 
 viii CONTENTS 
 
 BOOK FOUR: BLACK 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. REHABILITATIONS 267 
 
 \ 
 
 II. POT-BOILING 280 
 
 III. ALETHEA 289 
 
 IV. ACCORDING TO LASHER 299 
 
 V. FORTUNE SMILES 316 
 
 BOOK FIVE: GREY 
 
 I. SPINDRIFT 333 
 
 II. JACK 346 
 
 III. ILLUMINATION 362 
 
 IV. RECONSTRUCTION 375 
 
 V. TWILIGHT , 390
 
 BOOK ONE: WHITE
 
 "To attain knowledge, strength, wisdom, to know life and folly and 
 disaster and triumph these are the things, this is youth, this is the food 
 for the heart, for the spirit. To attain these all sacrifice is good, is splendid; 
 is not sacrifice at all, but a gift rather, a great gift. To do, to be, to grow, 
 to put out roots into the world and suck nutriment from the living rock and 
 living soil! There is naught else, children of the sea, of the Island, of the 
 land encompassed by the Father of Waters!" 
 
 MORLEY ROBERTS, in "Flying Cloud."
 
 BOOK ONE: WHITE 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE VICAR OF LITTLE PENNINGTON 
 
 THE Vicar's name was White. In Little Pennington, 
 however, everybody spoke of him reverentially as the 
 Vicar. He had succeeded a famous man, a poet and a 
 prophet to whose grave in Little Pennington churchyard 
 pilgrims from overseas still bring themselves and votive 
 wreaths. Tertius White was neither poet nor prophet. He 
 would have made an admirable man of business, a great 
 solicitor or administrator, because essentially he was inter- 
 ested in the affairs of others. He never sought preferment, 
 reigning quietly over a Hampshire parish bordered on the 
 east by breezy, high-lying downs ; on the west and north by 
 vast woods. 
 
 He was thirty-five, when he made a romantic marriage, 
 running away with the only daughter of an Irish peer, 
 an elopement which created something of a scandal at the 
 time, for the father was furious and swore that he would 
 never acknowledge the runaways. Nor did he. But he sent 
 after them a portrait of his daughter painted by Pynsent 
 before he achieved fame, a portrait which hung in the 
 parson's study above the fireplace, challenging attention 
 because it seemed preposterously out of tune with the or- 
 dered harmony of that historical workshop. Here his prede- 
 cessor had laboured for more than a quarter of a century. 
 The pilgrims regarded it as a shrine, because it contained 
 the desk, the chair and the bookcases of the poet. Its 
 
 ii
 
 Timothy 
 
 austere simplicity impressed all visitors. There we^e many 
 books in plain bindings, a few engravings of sacred sub- 
 jects, cocoanut matting upon the floor, three Windsor chairs, 
 and a large window through which could be seen a high, 
 carefully-trimmed yew hedge and above it, soaring into the 
 soft skies, the spire of the village church. The big desk 
 faced this window, and the pilgrims always understood 
 the significance of the outlook, the symbolism of the high 
 fence and the inexorable spire. 
 
 Behind the desk hung Mrs. White's portrait. 
 
 Some of the more sophisticated pilgrims may have won- 
 dered whether the parson deliberately worked with his back 
 to the picture, now admitted to be a masterpiece. For 
 Pynsent had painted more than a portrait. Tim's lovely 
 mother, like Lionardo's Gioconda, stood smilingly repre- 
 sentative of Woman, the dulce monstrum of the Early 
 Fathers, the magnet which might lure men's souls to de- 
 struction. The face indicated great possibilities for good 
 or evil. Half a dozen strokes of the brush could have 
 made of it a saint or a sinner. Herein, of course, lay its 
 attractiveness and interest. This radiant creature had 
 bloomed delightfully. It was difficult to believe that she 
 had died prematurely. One realised that she must still 
 live in the person of her child, for life flamed in her eyes, 
 the joy of life so fierce a passion to some, which must, one 
 is constrained to believe, survive the disintegration of the 
 body, an imperishable essence seeking other habitations. 
 
 Mrs. White died shortly after Tim was born; the Vicar 
 never spoke of her, not even to Tim. 
 
 The boy respected this silence, although it informed his 
 childhood with curiosity and mystery. The room in which 
 the portrait hung became an inquisitorial chamber. In it 
 Tim was called to account for his outgoings and ingoings 
 and shortcomings. To his credit he told no lies, although 
 much of the truth was sometimes suppressed. Generally 
 his father would send for him after breakfast. His nurse 
 would say: 
 
 12
 
 The Vicar of Little Pennington 
 
 "You are wanted, Master Tim, in your pa's study." 
 
 Invariably, the father would be seated at his desk, piled 
 high with papers and pamphlets. Tim would seat himself 
 on the hard edge of a Windsor chair, and wait till his sire, 
 with exasperating deliberateness, laid down his pen. The 
 Vicar, upon such occasions, spoke gently to the urchin in 
 a voice singularly sweet but impersonal. As a child Tim 
 vaguely realised that this calm, slow utterance was irre- 
 sistible. Nobody presumed to argue with the Vicar when 
 he adopted this tone, the tone of a wise and merciful judge. 
 As a rule certain formalities were observed. 
 
 "Well, Tim, you are in mischief again?" 
 
 Very soon Tim learned that a simple "Yes," or a nod 
 of a curly head, embarked him safely along the lines oi 
 least resistance. 
 
 "What are we going to do?" 
 
 This "we" was terribly disconcerting. It implied fellow- 
 ship, the warming of a small heart's cockles, implying also 
 a sense of responsibility. To get into mischief might be 
 to a healthy boy a ha'penny matter; to drag a saintly 
 father into the mud of petty peccadilloes became an odious 
 affair, for the boy knew that the father would insist upon 
 doing what the son might elect to leave undone. For ex- 
 ample, Tim could remember the morning when he refused 
 to apologise to an old woman in the village who had con- 
 fiscated a cricket ball wandering too often into her cab- 
 bages. Tim avenged himself by catapulting a cucumber 
 frame. Three marbles were found amongst the cucum- 
 bers, overwhelming proof that the misdemeanant was not 
 a village boy, who would have used pebbles. The Vicar 
 pointed a finger at the marbles. 
 
 "Ours," he said; for he had bought the marbles and 
 given them to Tim. 
 
 "Yes," Tim replied. 
 
 "We must apologise." 
 
 "Sha'n't, daddy." 
 
 "I shall. Come with me." 
 
 13
 
 Timothy 
 
 Important work was abandoned immediately. Father 
 and son marched down the village street, hand in hand, 
 till the old woman's cottage was reached. The Vicar tapped 
 v at the door 
 
 "May we come in?" 
 
 This was the regular formula, acknowledged by curtseys 
 and smiles. The Vicar entered no cottage without permis- 
 sion. 
 
 "I am here to apologise on behalf of this young man. I 
 make myself responsible for the damage he has done. I am 
 sincerely sorry that he has caused you this annoyance." 
 
 "I'm not sorry," said Tim, boldly. "She bagged my ball." 
 
 "Did you?" asked the parson quietly. 
 
 "Yes, sir. I warned 'un again an' again. Seemin'ly, Mas- 
 ter Tim thinks that cricket balls is manure for an old 
 woman's cabbages an' cauliflowers." 
 
 "Keep the ball till he grows wiser. Good-day." 
 
 II 
 
 Tim was sent to the village school when he was eight 
 years old. The squire of Little Pennington happened 
 to be one of the last of England's country gentlemen. He 
 had been the friend far more than the patron of Tertius 
 White's predecessor, working shoulder to shoulder with 
 him in the development of a great estate much impoverished 
 by the mortgages which plastered it. Tim loved the old 
 Squire, a genial autocrat in a high-collared blue coat, who 
 welcomed a schoolboy as courteously as an ambassador. 
 Great men came to Pennington Park, because their host was 
 a distinguished scholar and Parliamentarian. Many won- 
 dered why he had abandoned the great world for Little 
 Pennington. The position of Speaker of the House of Com- 
 mons had been within his grasp. He refused that and other 
 honours because his estate needed him. After his death a 
 tenant said of him : "I had often occasion to ask Sir Gilbert 
 14
 
 The Vicar of Little Pennington 
 
 some particular favour. I can never remember his refusing 
 me without giving me a perfectly adequate reason." This 
 furnishes a glimpse of the man. He was an ardent Church- 
 man and Tory. No Nonconformists, for instance, were to 
 be found amongst his tenants; no Radicals disturbed the 
 village peace. Wisely, or unwisely, this kindly autocrat im- 
 posed his convictions upon his own people. He had made 
 sacrifices for them, and they knew it. He had swept away 
 poverty and vice and ignorance from Little Pennington. 
 He was a Tory in the sense of conserving religiously what 
 he held to be worth conserving, but he was the first to 
 champion the better education of the masses, and to pro- 
 vide out of his own pocket first-class teachers in his own 
 schools. He encouraged cricket on Sundays; he gave his 
 tenants free access to his park. 
 
 Tim was sent to the village school because Sir Gilbert 
 Pennington had chosen the schoolmaster. Here again we 
 have a significant instance of what example may achieve. 
 The village dominie, Arthur Hazel, refused in his turn pre- 
 ferment, devoting life and energies to his scholars. The 
 village doctor, fired by this altruism, remained staunch at 
 his post. It seemed to be understood on all hands that there 
 was work to do in Little Pennington worth the doing. The 
 fame of the model village helped to sustain the standard 
 set by squire and parson, and those under them. Even the 
 gentlepeople in and about the village, the retired colonels 
 and admirals and Indian commissioners were, so to speak, 
 weeded out not so much by the squire or parson as by the 
 force of public opinion. Undesirable tenants wandered in 
 and out of this charmed circle. The right sort (in the 
 Squire's eye) remained whether conscious or unconscious 
 of their privilege. Little Pennington became known as "the 
 happy village." Outsiders might and did scoff at the ad- 
 jective. Insiders smiled complacently.
 
 Timothy 
 
 in 
 
 It is a curious fact that the unkindness, or indifference, 
 or even cruelty, which is the lot of a new boy at genteel 
 preparatory schools is almost unknown in our National 
 Schools. The children in our villages and towns are, with 
 rare exceptions, happy at school, and soon learn to like it. 
 Tim enjoyed himself very well, and came to an understand- 
 ing of his fellows, boys and girls, which endured when much 
 else was forgotten. He had the knack of making friends, 
 particularly with those older than himself, and ran in and 
 out of half the cottages in the village. Moreover, he would 
 call ceremoniously upon Sir Gilbert, and inform him gravely 
 that a cottage roof was leaking. The old man listened to 
 his prattle with twinkling eyes, and profited by it. For ex- 
 ample, the great house was full of beautiful pictures. Tim 
 adored beauty. He would stand entranced before a Gains- 
 borough or a Reynolds and repeat his intention of becoming 
 a painter of lovely women. One morning he found a blank 
 space upon the wall of the north drawing-room. 
 
 "Where is the yellow lady ?" he asked of Sir Gilbert. 
 
 The Squire answered him after his own fashion. 
 
 "She is building new cottages." 
 
 "When is she coming back, Sir Gilbert?" 
 
 "She will not come back." 
 
 Tim nodded. 
 
 "You have sold her?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "How could you?" 
 
 "Come, come, who told me not so long ago that certain 
 persons were thinking of emigrating to Canada, because 
 there was not house-room for them ?" 
 
 "Did you sell the yellow lady to keep the Panels here?" 
 
 "To keep them and others." 
 
 Tim weighed this conscientiously. 
 16
 
 The Vicar of Little Pennington 
 
 "It was fuggy for 'em," he admitted, "but villagers don't 
 mind fug much. Do they know?" 
 
 "Certainly not; I rely upon your discretion not to tell 
 them." 
 
 "I'd have kept the yellow lady," said Tim decidedly. 
 "Canada is a jolly decent place. The Panels wanted to go, 
 but, of course, in Little Pennington nobody does what they 
 want, do they?" 
 
 Sir Gilbert smiled grimly. 
 
 "That is your honest opinion, eh?" 
 
 "They do what Father and you tell 'em to do. It's 
 rather dull. When I grow up I shall try to please myself." 
 
 "I'm sorry." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "I'm sorry that I shall not be alive to hear from your 
 own lips the results. Do you feel very dull in Little Pen- 
 nington ?" 
 
 "Only when I'm very extra good," said Tim, after a 
 pause. "And you see, Sir Gilbert, I'm very seldom good." 
 
 "Original Sin !" murmured Sir Gilbert. 
 
 Alone with the Parson, the old man repeated this con- 
 versation, adding with a chuckle : "He is a rebel." 
 
 The father winced, sensible that Tim's revelation had 
 been vouchsafed to another. The Squire continued geni- 
 ally: "I suppose it's the Irish in him. Forninst the Gov- 
 ernment. The Sheridan tincture what?" 
 
 "Yes; he puzzles me." After a pause, the Vicar con- 
 tinued less calmly : "What a tragedy this inability of 
 one generation to understand another!" 
 
 Sir Gilbert laughed; and yet he had taken seriously 
 enough the fences between himself and his sons, taken them, 
 perhaps, in too big a stride. He pressed his companion's 
 arm with his finely shaped fingers. 
 
 "A generation lies between us, White, and I am sure 
 that you understand me and that I understand you." 
 
 'We are of the same generation. I believe that I was 
 born old. I hardly remember being young. I mean by that 
 
 17
 
 Timothy 
 
 I cannot recall feeling exuberantly boyish. We were very 
 poor; I had to make my way, to plot and plan for myself 
 and others. I liked the struggle; I am not complaining; 
 but there it is. And my experience discolours my view- 
 point of Tim. I never see Tim quite clearly." 
 
 "I do," said the Squire trenchantly. "What an attractive 
 little sinner it is!" 
 
 "Too attractive," murmured the Vicar. "He gets what 
 he wants too easily particularly love and attention, quick- 
 sands both of them, unless a strong hand is on the helm." 
 
 "Our hands are not weak, White." 
 
 "They are growing daily weaker." 
 
 "Will he win this scholarship?" 
 
 "I think so." 
 
 Already, it had been settled that Tim's chance of being 
 educated at a great public school depended on his wits. 
 But Tertius White, who had won scholarships, knew that 
 Tim might be crammed cunningly to pass a given examina- 
 tion; he could never develop into a scholar or be satisfied 
 with a scholar's ambitions. 
 
 "And afterwards ?" 
 
 The parson shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "That lies on the lap of the gods, quite beyond my vision." 
 
 "Have you not a glimpse of him as a painter?" 
 
 "A painter? Any form of Art exacts a long apprentice- 
 ship. Tim loathes drudgery. He will rush at his future, 
 leap into it without looking." 
 
 "We must do the looking." 
 
 "If he will let us." 
 
 IV 
 
 Tim was twelve when his future was thus discussed, a 
 strong handsome boy, amazingly like his mother, who looked 
 down upon him with a faintly derisive smile whenever he 
 sat before the parson upon the hard stool of Penitence. 
 
 Tertius White consoled himself with the reflection that 
 18
 
 The Vicar of Little Pennington 
 
 the boy was really penitent intermittently. He could take 
 a caning from Arthur Hazel with tearless composure, but 
 a deserved reproof from his father might provoke a pas- 
 sion of weeping. Then he would plunge into mischief 
 again with an uplifted heart. 
 
 His resource confounded his elders. The Vicar read 
 prayers before breakfast, and Tim was expected to present 
 himself in parade order. If his appearance indicated im- 
 perfect ablutions, or undue haste in the putting on of gar- 
 ments, he was despatched to his bedroom again. One morn- 
 ing, the Vicar's suspicions were aroused, because Tim's 
 forgetfulness of a hairbrush or a necktie seemed about to 
 become chronic. Tim, moreover, exhibited disappoint- 
 ment when his father's critical eye failed to observe the 
 deficiencies of his toilet. Tim knelt down with a frown 
 upon his face. During Lent, the parson said lightly at 
 breakfast : 
 
 "You wanted to cut prayers this morning." 
 
 Tim's face betrayed uneasiness. 
 
 "Last Wednesday you forgot your necktie; to-day you 
 didn't brush your hair. Own up ! Did you forget, or did 
 you want to cut prayers?" 
 
 "I wanted to cut prayers." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "I do such a lot of praying." 
 
 "You have a lot to be thankful for. Do you grudge 
 thanking me or Sir Gilbert when we give you a good time ?" 
 
 "It doesn't take so long to thank you or Sir Gilbert." 
 
 "We don't do so much for you." 
 
 Tim rallied his wits; then he said triumphantly: 
 
 "You and Sir Gilbert just hate to be thanked too much. 
 Sir Gilbert says, 'Tut, tut,' and you say, 'Run along.' I 
 should think that God got tired of being thanked again 
 and again. I know I should." 
 
 The Vicar said hastily: 
 
 "Well, well, you are hardly old enough to realise what 
 
 19
 
 Timothy 
 
 sincere prayer means, not to God himself, but to the one 
 who prays." 
 
 "If you tell me, I'll try to understand." 
 
 Tim fixed his sparkling eyes upon the parson's face, lean- 
 ing his head upon his hands in an attitude of profound at- 
 tention. The Vicar accepted the challenge after a moment's 
 hesitation. 
 
 "Why do we eat three or four times a day? Because 
 we are hungry, because the body needs constant nourish- 
 ment. It is the same with the soul, Tim. It cannot ex- 
 pand without prayer, which means far more than thanks- 
 giving. It is very important that you should be grateful 
 to God, for He has given much to you, and will require 
 much from you. How will you pay Him back?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "By doing His will, by opening your heart, so that His 
 Will may flow through it, and direct your life aright. 
 Prayer, apart from thanksgiving, means communion with 
 God, it means being with Him, it means walking and talk- 
 ing with Him. He comes when you want Him. And 
 prayer brings God to earth, and exalts Man to Heaven. It 
 is indeed the golden thread between earth and Heaven." 
 
 Tertius White spoke quietly, never taking his eyes from 
 the boy's face. He could see that his words had produced 
 an effect. Tim understood. He had forgotten his break- 
 fast. 
 
 "Goon! Please go on!" 
 
 "I have said enough, Tim." 
 
 "Of course this just settles it." 
 
 "Settles what, my boy?" 
 
 "I shall become a parson like you, because a parson does 
 more praying than anybody else. I always wondered why 
 you were so good, and often I've wondered why you looked 
 so so " 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "So far away. You were with God. I shall not cut 
 20
 
 The Vicar of Little Pennington 
 
 prayers any more, daddy, and I'll make Ernest Judd pray 
 with me." 
 
 "Amen !" said the Vicar. 
 
 Tim hastily finished his breakfast and disappeared. It 
 happened to be Saturday, and a whole holiday. At the end 
 of the village, hard by the Pound, Ernest Judd was waiting 
 for Tim. A great expedition had been planned involving 
 excitements, a breaking of the sacred law of trespass, and 
 possible injury to life and limb, for the boys believed, or 
 pretended to believe, that Lanterton Wood concealed man- 
 traps ! There was a real man-trap in the stable yard of 
 Pennington House, a monstrous affair, enough to strike 
 terror into the heart of the most daring poacher. Sir Gil- 
 bert was too humane a man to use man-traps, and his woods 
 were open to Tim and Ernest. Really and truly, bird's-nest- 
 ing was better in the Pennington woods, because the Squire 
 cared little for game-preserving, and would not allow jays 
 and kites and hawks to be shot by his keepers. But it 
 would be senselessly dull to enter any domain from which 
 trespassers were not rigidly excluded. 
 
 Tim walked the length of the village, slightly under- 
 studying his father's leisurely stride and general deport- 
 ment. He greeted all and sundry with studied courtesy. 
 At the grocer's he entered to buy a penn'orth of pear drops. 
 The grocer sang in the choir, and grew a silky, apostolic 
 beard. Tim admired him enormously. 
 
 "Marnin', Master Tim." 
 
 "Good-morning, Mr. Benner. How is Mrs. Benner?" 
 
 "No better, pore soul! nor likely to be this side o' the 
 grave. Where be going, Master Tim?" 
 
 "That's a secret, Mr. Benner." 
 
 "Up to larks, I'll be bound." 
 
 "You are mistaken." 
 
 "What a queer little gentleman to be sure! Now, tell 
 us what you be up to, and I'll give 'ee better weight." 
 
 Tim hesitated. 
 
 "You sing in the choir, Mr. Benner?" 
 
 21
 
 Timothy 
 
 "Ah! That I do, and have done this many a year." 
 
 "You pray?" 
 
 "Most upliftingly." 
 
 Tim said solemnly : quoting Sir Gilbert : 
 
 "I rely upon your discretion, Mr. Benner, not to repeat 
 what I tell you. Ernest Judd and I are going to pass the 
 day in prayer. Somebody else may join us. Good-day." 
 
 He walked sedately out of the shop, leaving a gaping 
 and gasping grocer behind him. 
 
 Passing the Pennington Arms, which happens to be the 
 last house in the village, Tim broke into a dog-trot. He 
 passed swiftly the meadows where plovers' eggs might be 
 found in early April and pulled up pantingly at the Pound. 
 On the topmost rail Erny Judd was sitting, smoking a 
 brown-paper cigarette. 
 
 "You be late," said Erny. 
 
 "I know, Journey, I've a lot to tell you." 
 
 Journey, a pleasing amalgam of Erny and Judd, nodded. 
 He could boast, with rare veracity, that he had taught the 
 Vicar's son to read. It happened in this wise. Tim was 
 very backward in reading when he joined the village school, 
 and Mr. Hazel had been duly prepared for this. He took 
 Tim in hand, and became humorously sensible of the ur- 
 chin's indifference and inattention. Whereupon, being a 
 man of parts, he said curtly: 
 
 "I can't waste my valuable time with you, Tim. Ernest 
 Judd will give you a lesson. Come here, Erny." 
 
 Tim's pride was outraged, but Hazel had understood 
 what was needful. Tim made up his mind to reveal to 
 Erny and his master powers of application hitherto latent. 
 Erny's superiority as a reader of two syllable treatises was 
 soon rolled in the dust. Nevertheless the boys remained 
 friends, partly, perhaps, because Erny's father was recog- 
 
 22
 
 The Vicar of Little Pennington 
 
 nised and respected by scapegraces as a troublesome and 
 incorrigible character. He had been a sailor before the 
 mast, returning to the village blind of both eyes. He could 
 sing a mellow song, tell many tales of sea and land, and 
 carry more ale without showing it than any man in Little 
 Pennington. He earned a few shillings a week by playing 
 the fiddle; and his wife, a hard-working woman, was head 
 laundry-maid at Pennington House. 
 
 "We ain't a going to no Lanterton Wood," began Tim. 
 Alone with Journey, he used the village vernacular, aban- 
 doning it in serious moments. 
 
 "Why isn't us?" said Journey. 
 
 "Because we be two mis'able sinners. We be going to 
 the Cathedral." 
 
 "The Cathedral? There ain't no nestesses in they 
 beeches." 
 
 The Cathedral had been so named by the poet and prophet, 
 a noble group of lofty beech trees in the heart of Penning- 
 ton High Wood. From some such group Bradford and 
 Ransam and William of Wykeham may have derived in- 
 spiration. The rounded trunks soared upwards till they 
 met overhead in Nature's exquisite fan-vaulting. Beneath, 
 the moss lay thick and verdant. Aisles, transepts and chan- 
 cel were there awaiting the worshippers. 
 
 Tim carried a brown paper parcel tied with string. Jour- 
 ney stared at it interrogatively with a hungry expression. 
 It might contain cake, apples and roly-poly pudding. His 
 face fell when Tim extracted a not too clean nightgown and 
 a yard of black riband. 
 
 Tim dropped the vernacular. 
 
 "I shall go into the vestry and put on my surplice. You 
 kneel down and pray." 
 
 "I'll be danged if I do." 
 
 "Look here, Journey, something wonderful is going to 
 happen, if you behave yourself. I'm expecting Somebody." 
 
 "Who be you expectin'?" 
 
 "God."
 
 Timothy 
 
 "Gosh!" 
 
 "You kneel down and pray. Open your sinful heart." 
 
 " 'Tain't more sinful than yours." 
 
 "You kneel down, or I'll have to punch your head." 
 
 Journey dropped upon his knees. Tim retired behind 
 a majestic tree. When he reappeared he was wearing his 
 nightgown, and the black riband made a passable stole. 
 Journey was much impressed, because Tim's face ap- 
 peared to have changed. He looked angelic. 
 
 "Pray out loud," commanded Tim. 
 
 Journey shut his eyes and opened his mouth. Prayer 
 did not come fluently to his lips, but he repeated a formula 
 kept for special use at school-treats, when either Vicar or 
 Squire might call suddenly upon any boy or girl to ask 
 a blessing. 
 
 "For what we be goin' to receive may the Lard make us 
 truly thankful !" 
 
 Tim stood in front of Journey, gazing into the inter- 
 secting boughs above. A squirrel caught his eye. Instinc- 
 tively he glanced about him for some stick or stone to 
 throw at it. Then he closed his eyes, and prayed in his 
 turn : 
 
 "Come down, O God, and join us ! You say that, Ernest 
 Judd." 
 
 "Come dowrl, O God, and join us." 
 
 Tim was trembling with excitement. Suddenly, he re- 
 membered a familiar passage in the Old Testament. 
 
 "Take off your boots," he commanded. "And socks." 
 
 Soon, they stood bare-footed upon the soft moss. Tim 
 raised up his voice: 
 
 "Come down, O God, and talk. Our hearts are open." 
 
 They waited, blinking through the branches into the ethe- 
 real blue. Tim said impatiently: 
 
 "Ernest, son of Judd, your sinful heart is not open. If 
 Evarannie Bunce were here !" 
 
 Evarannie was the model girl of Little Pennington. 
 24
 
 The Vicar of Little Pennington 
 
 Journey, much troubled, conscious of innumerable misdeeds, 
 said miserably: 
 
 "It don't feel open, Master Tim." 
 
 "You open it quick!" 
 
 "I'm danged if I can." 
 
 "It's locked," said Tim, with conviction, "and you've lost 
 the key. I'm sorry for you, Journey, but you must go and 
 hide yourself. Leave me here alone." 
 
 "Ain't you afeard, Master Tim?" 
 
 "No," said Tim valiantly. "Take these pear drops. 
 You can eat 'em all. I must fast as well as pray." 
 
 Journey took the pear drops and vanished. Looking 
 back, he could see Tim upon his knees, gazing upwards. He 
 heard a rustling of wings, and shivered. A glance into 
 the tree-tops was reassuring ; some wood pigeons were flying 
 through the beeches. He hid himself in a clump of hol- 
 lies, and waited with the patience of the Hampshire peasant. 
 
 VI 
 
 Tim prayed hard, repeating all the prayers he knew, 
 and some that were extemporary. Finally, the conviction 
 forced itself upon him that his heart, like Journey's, must 
 be hermetically sealed. His thoughts strayed to Lanterton 
 Wood, lingering beside a pond where dabchicks nested, 
 with a vigorous mental effort he recalled these vagabond 
 thoughts, dwelling with concentration upon the sinfulness 
 of the Judds, father and son. If only Evarannie were be- 
 side him ! 
 
 At this moment temptation beset him. Was it possible 
 to tell the truth to Journey? Journey, unhappily, lacked 
 discretion. He would tell the other boys, and they would 
 laugh riotously. In time the girls might giggle as Tim 
 walked through the village street. Desperately he clutched 
 at Compromise. 
 
 "Ernest Judd, come forth." 
 
 25
 
 Timothy 
 
 Journey emerged from the hollies with his mouth full of 
 pear drops. Tim was standing up in an attitude which 
 recalled the Vicar in the act of pronouncing the benediction. 
 
 "Kneel, thou son of Judd !" 
 
 Journey, quaking with fear, obeyed. 
 
 "I have talked to God," said Tim. This was true, and 
 might save a lamentable situation. 
 
 "You seen Him, Master Tim?" 
 
 "Thou fool ! Is He not invisible ? I have talked to Him. 
 I have asked Him to open your sinful heart." 
 
 "Thank ye, Master Tim." 
 
 "Tut, tut! Prayer is more than thanksgiving." 
 
 "What happened, Master Tim?" 
 
 "I looked up and saw light. I heard a rustling of many 
 wings. . . ." 
 
 "Them was wood pigeons." 
 
 "Shush-h-h ! We are standing on holy ground. All the 
 sin has gone out of me. I stand white before the Lord." 
 
 "That be your name, Master Tim." 
 
 Tim was immensely struck by this. 
 
 "It's true; I had never, never thought of that. Jour- 
 ney, it's a sign. I shall be a Saint and perhaps a Martyr." 
 
 "Gosh, it sounds fine." 
 
 "You shall follow me into strange lands. We will baptise 
 the heathen and " 
 
 "Catch turtles." 
 
 "Shush-h-h! I shall be a bishop, and you " 
 
 "Your man Friday." 
 
 "If you talk silly I shall take Evarannie instead of you. 
 I want to get into your thick head that I'm going to save 
 your soul, and open it up. I am going to be a good example 
 to you, thou son of Judd. Thou shalt be clean even as I 
 am." 
 
 "Yes, Master Tim." 
 
 "Say Amen." 
 
 "Amen." 
 
 "You can rise from your knees. Do you feel holy?" 
 26
 
 The Vicar of Little Pennington 
 
 "I come all over queer when I seen you kneeling." 
 
 "That's holiness. I never felt holy before. Now I'm 
 going to take off my surplice." 
 
 He slipped away, to return a minute later swinging a 
 brown paper parcel. In silence the boys left the Cathedral, 
 walking soberly side by side. Passing from the shade of 
 the beeches into a sunny glade, Tim said suddenly: 
 
 "Any pear drops left?" 
 
 "Only two." 
 
 "Let's have 'em."
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 DAFFY 
 
 TIM did not remain sinless for any appreciable length 
 of time, although that time lasted longer than was 
 qu,ite agreeable. For the remainder of the Lenten season, 
 Journey and he vowed solemnly to give up biting their nails, 
 but as Tim remarked : "Didn't we just make up for it on 
 Sundays." From Journey's lips dropped highly coloured de- 
 tails of what had passed in the Cathedral. A few boys 
 scoffed, notably George Chalk, who demanded proof of 
 saintship. Tim rose to the occasion. 
 
 "Saints can perform miracles sometimes. Would it be 
 a miracle if I licked you?" 
 
 George was of opinion that it might be almost a miracle. 
 Tim licked him there and then in the presence of a dozen 
 boys and girls, including Evarannie. Afterwards, the con- 
 queror held a prayer meeting, and prayed magnanimously 
 for the soul of George, who looked uncommonly sheepish. 
 He was a head taller than Tim, but measured less round 
 the chest. 
 
 Tim's correspondence with the S. P. G, and kindred so- 
 cieties must be briefly recorded. He obtained a list of such 
 societies from his father, and then wrote boldly demanding 
 pamphlets. The Vicar smiled when the pamphlets came. 
 Tim read two of them aloud to Journey and Evarannie. 
 Incidentally, he slacked at his work. The Vicar was push- 
 ing him on in Algebra and Latin Prose. When reproved 
 for an exercise full of blunders, Tim said loftily: "The 
 disciples were not scholars, but ignorant men. What good 
 28
 
 Daffy 
 
 will Latin and Algebra be to me when I'm a missionary?" 
 
 "Can the blind lead the blind ?" replied his father. "Igno- 
 rance never converted ignorance. Write that out a hundred 
 times." 
 
 Tim was impressed. Next day, he remarked to Ernest, 
 son of Judd : "I'm going to work jolly hard, because igno- 
 rance never yet converted ignorance, and that, may be, is 
 why I don't feel cocksure of having converted you." 
 
 Journey sighed heavily; he was a backslider from Saint- 
 ship; and he knew it. 
 
 Two years passed. Mention has been made of the gen- 
 try living in and about Little Pennington. At each end of 
 the village stood comfortable houses, encompassed by vel- 
 vety lawns, whereon much croquet and tennis were played. 
 Nearly every man, woman and child who dwelt within a 
 two mile radius of Pennington Church was saturated with 
 the Pennington tradition. It became a matter of pride that 
 Penningtonians thought alike upon matters that counted. 
 This Catholic assimilation of a standard set by two strong 
 wise men produced agreeable results ; but it had its dis- 
 abilities for the young and ardent impatient of discipline 
 and restraint. 
 
 About this time, some three months before his examina- 
 tion, Tim fell desperately in love. In the house known as 
 the Sanctuary lived the widow of an East Indian dignitary 
 and her three daughters. The two elder daughters were 
 pleasant, unaffected girls, much given to good works and 
 constant repetition of phrases taken from the lips of squire 
 and parson. The youngest child, Daphne, promised to be 
 a beauty with a will of her own. 
 
 Tim and she studied the French language under the tute- 
 lage of a French governess. Till now, the Vicar had no 
 cause to regret his decision to keep Tim in the village and 
 under his own eye. The boy was clever and strong be- 
 yond his years. It was reasonably certain that he would 
 obtain a scholarship either at Eton or Winchester, prefer- 
 ably the former, because Winchester lay too close at hand. 
 
 29
 
 Timothy 
 
 And he would hold his own, and more than his own, in 
 the playing fields as well as the schools. Originality had 
 not been rubbed off by attrition with commonplace minds ; 
 yet none could call him prig. Had he been sent to a pre- 
 paratory school he might have neglected his work, and 
 focussed all energies upon games. 
 
 Daphne Carmichael hereafter to be known as Daffy 
 was not Tim's first love. Emotional religion, as Salvationists 
 are aware, stirs the human heart to joys described as 
 "evingly" in an earthly sense. Evarannie, that tow-headed 
 model of what little girls should strive to be, captivated 
 Tim for a brief season. They promised to marry each 
 other and live together in a tree situate somewhere in Poly- 
 nesia. Like the excellent wife of the pastor in "Swiss 
 Family Robinson," Evarannie promised, also, to provide a 
 large bag in which everything necessary for arboreal com- 
 fort would be found. Unhappily, Evarannie lacked imagi- 
 nation. Tim found her dull company. Journey hazarded 
 the conjecture that she was too good for Tim. Leaping 
 hot- foot from effect to cause, Tim decided that dullness 
 and goodness were twins, a conviction which discoloured 
 appreciably his future. He passed, indeed, through many 
 vicissitudes of fortune before he discovered for himself 
 that really wicked people may be abominably dull, and vice 
 versa. 
 
 Daffy was not dull. Tim had to bestir himself mentally 
 to keep up with her in the matter of French irregular verbs. 
 Daffy, let it be recorded with regret, purged Tim of all de- 
 sire to become a missionary. This was partly the fault of 
 Adam Judd, whose extended wanderings included the Can- 
 nibal Islands. He had talked with a Cannibal Chief ! Ac- 
 cording to Adam Judd, cannibals preferred black meat to 
 white, but he was positive that a plump young English 
 woman was reckoned gastronomically to command the high- 
 est price per pound. Daffy was plump, and when Adam 
 Judd in her presence affirmed that the calves of a young 
 woman's legs were esteemed the greatest delicacy by Poly- 
 30
 
 Daffy 
 
 nesian gourmets, she declared her intention of marrying 
 an M. F. H. instead of a missionary. To become an M. F. 
 H. with as little delay as possible engrossed Tim's atten- 
 tion, firing him to sustained effort to win his scholarship. 
 From Sir Gilbert he learned with dismay that it might be 
 easier to become a Master of Arts than a Master of Fox 
 Hounds. Sir Gilbert finished on a pessimistic note : 
 
 "I gave up the hounds, Tim, because I couldn't afford the 
 expense. Four days a week, my boy, means four thousand 
 a year." 
 
 "How sickening!" exclaimed Tim. 
 
 Daffy compromised matters when her lover repeated what 
 the Squire had said. A Master of Arts sounded fine ! She 
 would bestow her hand and heart upon Tim when he took 
 his degree. 
 
 Daffy, let it be noted, proposed marriage to Tim, but he 
 kissed her first, in the Dell, a delightful wilderness at the 
 back of Mrs. Carmichael's garden. This first kiss was a 
 great adventure. Tim had kissed Evarannie, and played 
 kissing games on the village green, but Daffy, of course, was 
 a lady. Evarannie did not object to kissing, but she was 
 too prim to kiss back. Kissing her unresponsive lips be- 
 came terribly dreary work, and led, eventually, to a break- 
 ing of bonds. Daffy was much more alluring than Evaran- 
 nie, and she had a little way with her, peculiarly her own. 
 Tim felt in his bones that Daffy dared him to kiss her, and 
 he prided himself that no "dare" passed him supinely by. 
 
 One blessed afternoon he saved her life. Daffy always 
 affirmed this to be sober truth ; and it may have been so. 
 Sir Gilbert was entertaining the children of the gentry in 
 his garden, wherein stood a Swiss cottage built of different 
 woods grown upon the estate, the playhouse of his chil- 
 dren and grandchildren. In the basement might be found 
 a kitchen, with a real kitchener in it upon which could be 
 cooked a four-course dinner. Cooking in the cottage was 
 voted by Tim a bore, because neither Daffy nor he was
 
 Timothy 
 
 chosen as- cook, that supreme office being ordained by the 
 casting of lots. Tim said to his lady-love : 
 
 "Let's slip off to the ponds." 
 
 Daffy hesitated, because the ponds were out of bounds, 
 but Tim prevailed. They crawled through the shrubbery, 
 and reached the boathouse. It was locked! 
 
 "I can get in," said Tim. "You watch on, and do what 
 I do." 
 
 He crawled along the bough of a tree which hung above 
 the water. By swinging a bough, he just managed to get 
 a leg upon the roof of the boathouse. Sliding down the 
 roof, he dropped upon a small platform at the other end. 
 
 "Come on, Daff." 
 
 Daffy essayed the feat, but slipped as she swung upon 
 the roof, sliding swiftly not on to the platform but into 
 the water. Tim could not swim, but he jumped after her, 
 grabbing her skirt. With the other hand he grasped a pro- 
 jecting bough. 
 
 Daffy burst into sobs when she found herself on dry land. 
 
 Tim reassured her. The gamekeeper's cottage was hard 
 by. The gamekeeper's wife, his particular friend, would 
 dry their clothes, and none be the wiser. 
 
 What he predicted came to pass. The truants were not 
 missed. The gamekeeper's wife justified Tim's faith in 
 her. Daffy, when taking leave of Tim, said solemnly: 
 
 "You saved my life." 
 
 That night Tim lay awake wondering whether he could 
 claim a kiss. Next day they met in the Dell. In the Dell 
 was a cave, also out of bounds, for the roof was falling in. 
 
 "Come into the cave," said Tim, boldly. 
 
 "Oh, Tim, we mustn't. It's dangerous." 
 
 "That's why we must. Do you think that Bilboa funked 
 going into a cave?" 
 
 "Bill who, Tim?" 
 
 Tim spoke with enthusiasm of the discoverer of the Pa- 
 cific, and then said : 
 
 "Come on." 
 32
 
 Daffy 
 
 Daffy "came on." They sat down at the farther end of 
 the cave. Daffy, lately introduced to Marmion, and want- 
 ing perhaps to demonstrate to Tim that her own reading 
 was becoming extended, remarked cheerfully: 
 
 "If the roof did fall in, I should be buried alive like 
 Constance de Beverley. She was buried alive alone. It 
 would be some comfort to have you, Tim." 
 
 The coquette nestled closer; in the dim light her pretty 
 eyes sparkled. Tim made up his mind to kiss her, but felt 
 ashamed of himself because he funked it. Daffy continued 
 in her softest voice: 
 
 "You saved my life yesterday ; and I lay awake thinking 
 that you ought to have a medal. I've got my small gold 
 locket for you instead." 
 
 "Oh, no, I couldn't." 
 
 "I shall hang it round your neck, and you will wear it 
 under your jersey. Nobody will know. Here it is!" 
 
 "Daff, you are a darling!" 
 
 "Please don't be silly. I'm serious." 
 
 "As if any fellow could wear a locket. Look here, if 
 the roof did fall in, I should save you somehow. I know 
 I should." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "I should bite a way out. It's real jam saving you. I 
 almost wish the roof would fall in. I've half a mind to 
 give a loud yell just to see what would happen." 
 
 "And get caught! How silly!" 
 
 "I am rather silly about you." 
 
 He slipped his arm round her waist. As he did so, she 
 sighed. Then he kissed her. And she kissed him back, 
 shyly but unmistakably. Somewhat to his surprise, she said 
 with conviction: 
 
 "Now I'm yours." 
 
 She explained fluently what she meant. A kiss exchanged 
 between young persons of opposite sex made marriage com- 
 pulsory. Daffy, quoting her unkissed elder sisters, was 
 
 33
 
 Timothy 
 
 quite positive on this point. She continued with anima- 
 tion: 
 
 "Tim, you can kiss me again, if you want to. Isn't it 
 funny to think that I shall be Daphne White one day? 
 Really and truly you ought to have proposed before you 
 kissed me, but it's all right now." 
 
 Tim blushed, thinking of Evarannie. Possibly, some un- 
 written law of the happy village might constrain him to 
 lead her, instead of Daffy, to the altar. Later, he put the 
 question tentatively to Journey, who somewhat startled him 
 by asserting that village girls thought nothing of kissing. 
 When Tim replied hotly that real ladies were different, 
 Journey sniffed. 
 
 ii 
 
 Tim passed his examination triumphantly, and became 
 an Etonian. He became also a Tug, of which more will 
 be said presently. For the moment he could think and talk 
 of nothing except the bicycle which was solemnly presented 
 to him by Sir Gilbert as a "diligentiae praemium in colendis 
 literis !" 
 
 In those prehistoric days, bicycles were anathema to many 
 worthy persons. They had come "to stay," they were about 
 to become fashionable, a craze, but at this time it was in- 
 conceivable that a woman should ride one. 
 
 The bicycle achieved a notable purpose. It enlarged 
 tremendously a healthy boy's activities, trebling at least the 
 radius of his peregrinations. Tim discovered Southampton 
 and its famous docks, making the acquaintance of master 
 mariners, and tasting rum and water for the first time. 
 Many delightful hours were passed watching the great ships 
 which sailed to and from the Brazils. He presented Daffy 
 with a parrot, but she was not allowed to keep the bird, 
 because it enjoined Mrs. Carmichael to go to a place never 
 mentioned in Little Pennington outside the pulpit! Ulti- 
 mately, the parrot found a permanent home with the Judds. 
 34
 
 Daffy 
 
 Adam Judd remarked sentimentally that listening to the 
 pretty pet was almost as exhilarating as a voyage round the 
 Horn. 
 
 For a season tramp fever consumed Tim, burning off the 
 moss of Little Pennington, and sharpening the wits of a 
 too home-keeping youth. He told Daffy that if marriage 
 were denied him he would become an explorer. Richard 
 Burton rose brilliantly above his horizon as a star of the 
 first magnitude. Amongst the fusty folios and quartos of 
 Sir Gilbert's library Tim unearthed that entrancing work : 
 "Principal Navigations, Voyages, Traffics and Discoveries 
 of the English Nation, by Sea or Overland, to the most Re- 
 mote and Distant Quarters of the Earth, at any time within 
 the compass of 1500 Years," by Richard Hakluyt, preb- 
 endary of Westminster. 
 
 Upon the eve of his departure for Eton, some descrip- 
 tion of the boy must be attempted. Physically, he was as 
 near perfect as may be, finely proportioned for strength 
 and speed. His features were not too regular. Lips and 
 nostrils finely modelled indicated sensibility. The chin was 
 round rather than square; the forehead broad rather than 
 high. Add to this, vivid colouring, eyes, set well apart, of 
 a deep grey blue, shaded by short black lashes, sun and 
 wind tanned cheeks, white even teeth, ruddy-brown curly 
 hair, and the j oiliest grin in the world. Everybody liked 
 the boy, because he, in his turn, liked and was interested 
 in everybody. The famous statue which Cabral made of 
 him afterwards, a Discus Thrower, was bought by an 
 American millionaire, and is less accessible than it deserves 
 to be. Rodin, alone among sculptors, might have trans- 
 ferred to marble the freshness and alertness of the youth, 
 his joy in himself, his joy in others, his incomparable 
 grace so free from any taint of pose. 
 
 Sir Gilbert and the Vicar discussed together the pro- 
 priety of speaking without reserve of what might await 
 such a boy at a public school. Both men were Puritans 
 in the best sense of that much abused word. Certain evils 
 
 35
 
 Timothy 
 
 to them were unmentionable. And the modern father, his 
 son's pal, had not yet appeared in Little Pennington. Tim 
 had been brought up in a model village, amongst clean- 
 living, God-fearing people, whether gentle or simple. The 
 twig, in fine, had been inclined aright. It was now a stout 
 sapling firmly rooted in rich soil, likely to grow into a noble 
 tree. 
 
 Thus Sir Gilbert, wise in his own generation, not so wise, 
 perhaps, in dealing with another's. 
 
 The Vicar hesitated and lost his opportunity. 
 
 Afterwards he realised, with poignant regret, that he 
 had overestimated the influences of the happy village and 
 underestimated Tim's character, chameleon-like in a readi- 
 ness to absorb colour from its surroundings. He ought to 
 have known that a healthy boy, bubbling with vitality, tre- 
 mendously affected by personalities stronger than hislown, 
 is likely to turn from good to evil, merely because any 
 change is thrillingly exciting. The Vicar had good reason 
 to believe that Tim's upbringing justified itself. The urchin 
 who slacked at Latin had become a painstaking scholar ; 
 the boy too selfish in pursuit of pleasure had developed 
 into an affectionate and considerate son. Accordingly the 
 Vicar decided to let well enough alone. 
 
 in 
 
 Tim returned from Eton, after his first half, not much 
 changed outwardly, but somewhat reserved of speech, re- 
 plying curtly to the questions put to him by Sir Gilbert and 
 the Vicar. His affirmation that he was "all right" satisfied 
 the Squire, who had answered his own father in the same 
 words. The Vicar, however, had doubts on the subject. 
 
 To Daffy, under seal of secrecy, Tim unbosomed him- 
 self. 
 
 "Eton is a beastly place for Tugs. I loathe it. If I were 
 an Oppidan it would be all right. It's no use jawing, I've 
 36
 
 Daffy 
 
 got to stick it, and make the best of it, but I tell you this, 
 Daffy a lot of fellows who call themselves English gen- 
 tlemen are beastly cads. Some of 'em think me a cad be- 
 cause I'm a Tug." 
 
 Daffy was much distressed. She kissed him and consoled 
 him, exhibiting herself in a new light as ministering angel. 
 Her sympathy beguiled from Tim further details: 
 
 "They found out that I had been educated at a National 
 School. That was real jam for them!" 
 
 "How perfectly hateful and miserable." 
 
 "It makes me wild with rage, but what's the use of that. 
 It's part of our great and glorious public school system. 
 We Tugs are jolly well made to understand that we're out- 
 siders and we are! We herd together like a flock of 
 beastly rooks. We wear a filthy gown. Damn !" 
 
 "Tim!" 
 
 "I say damn! Why, there are two brothers I know. 
 One is a Tug and the other an Oppidan. The Tug is the 
 elder, and he's clever as he can stick, and a nailer at games. 
 His measly brother is a fat beast who spends his time 
 stuffin' down meringues at Barnes's. This putrid little mag- 
 got cuts his own brother, because he's a Tug. There! 
 Come on round the village. I want to get the taste of 
 Eton out of my mouth." 
 
 "If you told the Vicar ?" 
 
 "Never! I can't tell him those sort of things. He is 
 miles and miles above them. He went through it, but at 
 Winchester, I'm told, it's not so bad. The Collegers put 
 on a lot of side. I wish that I'd gone to Winchester, al- 
 though they do get jolly well licked at cricket. Father paid 
 for his own schooling. Something to be proud of, you'd 
 think ? Not a bit of it ! We'll drop in on old Adam Judd. 
 I do hope the parrot has not forgotten how to swear." 
 
 Long afterwards, Tim wondered sorrowfully whether 
 Daffy's intuition had been right. Suppose he had told his 
 father of the miseries that consumed him ? But, then, such 
 confidences were rare between sire and son. To-day, so it 
 
 37
 
 Timothy 
 
 is affirmed, things have changed at Eton. A Tug has a 
 better time of it. We are writing of conditions thirty-five 
 years ago. And the Vicar's office obscured the man. He 
 and the Squire towered above the village, inaccessible peaks. 
 There was no funicular railway up the Jungfrau, and no 
 short cuts between parents and children, certainly not in 
 Little Pennington, where the Olympians had the heights to 
 themselves. 
 
 Within a week, Tim recovered his high spirits. The vil- 
 lage acclaimed him as the Etonian, pouring balm upon 
 lacerated tissues. Mrs. Carmichael asked him to dine, an 
 unprecedented honour. He was expected to leave the din- 
 ing-room with the ladies, but otherwise he spent a most 
 agreeable evening, and heard himself toasted in a glass of 
 port wine. Daffy was not present upon this memorable 
 occasion. 
 
 IV 
 
 It was, perhaps, unfortunate that there were no young 
 gentlemen of his own age in Little Pennington, that sanc- 
 tuary for the middle-aged. Ferrets, however, proved a 
 lively help in trouble. Sir Gilbert promised a twenty-bore 
 gun at Christmas. 
 
 The Vicar spoke, with his usual reserves, of Tim's future. 
 Tim listened with polite inattention. But he made it plain 
 that he loathed musty quadrangles. No scholar's life for 
 him. Ultimately, the Indian Civil Service with its high 
 emoluments became conspicuous as the right career for a 
 clever and penniless young man. Daffy's father had been 
 a Commissioner. Mrs. Carmichael was quite sure that Tim 
 could pass the stiffest exam. A chorus of ladies shrilled 
 assent. 
 
 Tim submitted, although at the moment his fancy had 
 
 swooped back upon painting as a more agreeable avenue to 
 
 fame and fortune. He had the dangerous gift of caricature, 
 
 and other talents which challenged attention and admira- 
 
 38
 
 Daffy 
 
 tion. He could pick out any tune upon the piano, vamping 
 a passable accompaniment with his left hand. And he could 
 act. 
 
 Admittedly an amusing young dog ! 
 
 By this time Journey was apprenticed to the village 
 saddler and smelled of leather. He told Tim that he hated 
 his job, and talked gloomily of becoming a horse-soldier. 
 Such talk was rank heresy, because soldiers were discred- 
 ited in Little Pennington. Journey said to Tim: 
 
 "This ain't life, Master Tim." 
 
 Tim agreed, uneasily sensible that Journey, poor fel- 
 low, had wandered far from the happy village on the wings 
 of his (Tim's) too per fervid imagination. 
 
 "What be you a goin' to do, Master Tim, after you've 
 ha' done with schoolin'?" 
 
 "India, perhaps." 
 
 "I could come with 'ee." 
 
 "Journey, old cockalorum, I believe you'll have to stick 
 it out here." 
 
 "I be ready to take the Queen's shilling first." 
 
 "Jump out of the pan into the fire. I've stuffed ideas 
 into your poor old head. We had jolly dreams, Journey, 
 but they were only dreams. You talk about life. What 
 d'ye mean, hay?" 
 
 Thus apostrophised in Tim's commanding tones, Journey 
 blushed. He was older than Tim, and of coarser fibre, 
 but the habit of obedience constrained him to answer: 
 
 "Lard love 'ee, Master Tim, you know better than I." 
 
 "I want to know what your notion of life is." 
 
 " Tain't on all fours wi' what Parson preaches." 
 
 "I dare say not. You let yourself rip." 
 
 "A young upstandin' feller wants, seemin'ly, his bit o' 
 fun." 
 
 "What fun?" 
 
 Journey wriggled. 
 
 "It's mothering Sunday here all the time. Made for the 
 old folks, this village wur. 'Tain't possible, so vather 
 
 39
 
 Timothy 
 
 says, for a man to get properly drunk in Little Pennington." 
 Tim's gay laugh encouraged the would-be sinner to speak 
 
 more plainly: 
 
 "I be thinking o' the wenches. Dassn't so much as wink 
 
 at 'em in this holy place. Smokin' at street corners is mor- 
 
 tial sin, too. I be fair aching for one jolly time." 
 
 "So am I," said Tim. "And I mean to have it, some 
 
 day." 
 
 Three years later, he was hardly recognisable, having 
 shot up suddenly into a young man. Eton accomplished 
 her easy task. Tim happened to be handsomer and cleverer 
 than the average Etonian; in other respects he conformed 
 to type. Success at football and cricket brought him popu- 
 larity; inevitably his work was neglected; and the Vicar 
 frowned when he perused the reports. He said sternly : 
 
 "Do you realise what you owe to Eton?" 
 
 "Yes, I do," said Tim, with a derisive smile. 
 
 Sir Gilbert, however, was more indulgent. Even he, the 
 scholar and sometime member for his University, was de- 
 lighted at the prospect of Tim's playing at Lords. Tim 
 pointed out that his place in the Eleven was by no means 
 assured. He added: "Cricket is a tremendous grind." 
 
 "I shall come up, give a luncheon and so forth." 
 
 But Tim, alas, did not get his "Eleven." He explained 
 matters frankly to Daffy, who was bitterly disappointed and 
 indignant. 
 
 "It was blazing hot towards the end of June. I took 
 things too easy. And between ourselves, the Captain, an 
 Oppidan, jumped at the chance of keeping a Tug out. I've 
 been a bit of a fool over this business. I shall be in right 
 enough next year, if nothing happens." 
 
 "What could happen?" 
 
 "I might chuck it." 
 
 "Tim!" 
 40
 
 Daffy 
 
 "I'm pretty sick of Eton. Mum's the word. It's deadly 
 to be a Tug. Eton expects that every Tug all day shall do 
 his duty. The Oppidans have a slack time! Nobody ex- 
 pects anything of them." 
 
 He laughed scornfully. When Daffy remained silent he 
 went on, even more explosively: 
 
 "I'm so fed up with trying to make good. Aren't you?" 
 
 "N-n-no." 
 
 "Being a girl you pretend. Luckily I can unbottle my- 
 self to you. I mean to make you see me as I am. Daff 
 I'm unregenerate. I hate this cut-and-dried business, this 
 shoving of other people into pigeon-holes. I'm to be yanked 
 into the Indian Civil, not because I've any aptitudes for 
 governing Hindus, but because it means four hundred a 
 year as a starter and perks ! There you are. Of course I 
 want to steer myself. But I've 'nous' enough to face facts, 
 even if I hate 'em. The Indian Civil means a tremendous 
 lot. It includes you." 
 
 Daffy was now fifteen, what is to-day called a flapper. 
 She had remained Tim's constant friend and sweetheart. 
 Many persons scoff at love as interpreted by the very young. 
 How serious, what an influence for good or ill, it may really 
 be, only the very young know, and powers of adequate 
 expression are generally denied to them. Daphne Car- 
 michael, not the Vicar, had kept pure Tim's ideas and 
 ideals of women. She discovered this, and so did he, long, 
 long afterwards. 
 
 "It includes you," he repeated, "and the things you care 
 for, the things you are accustomed to, the things I should 
 love to give you, but I feel all the same about the whole 
 business that I'm tied, hand and foot, soul and body." 
 
 Daffy retorted with spirit : 
 
 "You need not feel tied to me." 
 
 "Can't help that, Daff. I am. For your sake I toe the 
 line, but I'm famishing for excitements." 
 
 "Something exciting has happened to us, Tim." 
 
 She had kept her great news for the right moment. 
 
 41
 
 Timothy 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Mummie has come into some money. I think it's quite 
 a lot. We are going to leave Little Pennington, and live 
 in a place of our own." 
 
 "Heavens!" 
 
 "Of course you will come to stay." 
 
 "This is the abomination of desolation." 
 
 "It may mean a -season in London for me." 
 
 "It will be awfully jolly for you; I'm a beast to think 
 only of myself, but I can't imagine this dull old hole with- 
 out you." 
 
 He spoke calmly, but an inflection in his voice made Daffy 
 glance furtively into his eyes. They were dim with tears. 
 
 The long summer holidays passed too swiftly. Tim went 
 back to Eton the week before Mrs. Carmichael left the 
 Sanctuary. By this time everybody in Little Pennington 
 knew that Daffy's mother had become a rich woman. The 
 Vicar said to Tim: 
 
 "Those dear girls will be heiresses." 
 
 Tim's face hardened. He was thinking to himself : "I 
 shan't be asked too often to stay with heiresses. Daffy 
 will marry a swell. What a beastly place this world can be." 
 
 Just two months later, the Vicar walked slowly up the 
 gradual slope between the Vicarage and Pennington House. 
 His strong face looked pinched and drawn. As he walked 
 he muttered to himself, almost senilely. As soon as Sir 
 Gilbert saw him, at the moment when the butler was dis- 
 creetly closing the door of the library, he exclaimed : 
 
 "My dear White, what has happened?" 
 
 The Vicar sank into a chair, saying brokenly: 
 
 "I have bad news, bad news." 
 
 "I am too old," said Sir Gilbert, "to be kept in suspense." 
 
 The Vicar nodded. 
 
 "Yes ; yes ; that is why I came at once. Tim has been 
 expelled from Eton." 
 
 Sir Gilbert stared helplessly at his Grand Vizier, struck 
 dumb by consternation and surprise. Tim was dearer to 
 42
 
 Daffy 
 
 the Squire than some of his own grandsons. He became 
 fiercely incredulous. 
 
 "I'll swear that the dear lad has done nothing dis- 
 graceful." 
 
 "I have no details. He is in confinement. I have been 
 sent for to fetch him home." 
 
 The Squire was eighty, and growing infirm, but he said 
 with all his customary authority: 
 
 "I shall go with you." 
 
 But each knew that a small heaven had fallen about his 
 ears. The Squire's sons had not been safeguarded like this 
 boy. He was, indeed, the hope of the village, its brightest 
 ornament, a gem cut and polished by two experts. The 
 Vicar shivered: 
 
 "How cold it is !" he murmured. 
 
 43
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 IN THE HAPPY VILLAGE 
 
 DURING the dreary journey to London, Sir Gilbert was 
 much moved by the Vicar's dejected silence. If it were 
 safe to predicate anything 1 concerning a friend of twenty- 
 five years' standing, Sir Gilbert would have been prepared 
 to wager a round sum that Tertius White was the last man 
 to confront adversity save with fortitude and serenity. He 
 found himself asking outright whether his old friend 
 might be ill, but the Vicar assured him that that was not the 
 case. Whereupon the Squire said with emphasis : 
 
 "You are taking this too hard, White. It is true that 
 we have each of us sustained a shock, but I refuse to be- 
 lieve evil of your son." 
 
 He expected the Vicar to lift his heavy head, to hold 
 out his hand, to acknowledge in some fashion a sincere 
 tribute, spoken by a man not addicted to flowers of speech. 
 To his amazement the Vicar remained silent. 
 
 "Rouse yourself," said the Squire, more sharply. "Pos- 
 sibly you may think that some word on your part might 
 have prevented this. Your actions, my dear friend, have 
 been more eloquent than any words." 
 
 "My mind is not dwelling on that. Don't press me ! Be 
 patient ! I would tell you gladly all that is in my heart, but 
 I cannot, I cannot. The burden is the heavier on that 
 account." 
 
 "Very good, but I repeat what I said just now. Your 
 son is incapable of a mean or dirty action." 
 
 But the Vicar made no sign. 
 44
 
 In the Happy Village 
 
 At Eton, the head master, austerely gowned, received 
 them. He was very gracious and kind, hastening to reassure 
 an obviously stricken man : 
 
 "The facts are these : the boy is a fine young fellow, but 
 he has broken the law, and gloried in it. Between our- 
 selves we can speak of his offence as an escapade. He 
 escaped from the College at night, and was caught, slightly 
 intoxicated, in a not too reputable tavern." 
 
 "An adventurer!" suggested the Squire, attempting to 
 minimise the matter. 
 
 Authority nodded portentously. 
 
 "One cannot make exceptions. I am sincerely sorry, for 
 expulsion is a serious matter. I believe that love of ex- 
 citement, nothing more, was at the root of this law-break- 
 ing. I will see to it, when the time comes, that the heavy 
 punishment meted out to him does not imperil his future, 
 provided, of course, that he behaves himself in the mean- 
 time." 
 
 "He will," said the Squire staunchly. 
 
 n 
 
 Tim returned to Little Pennington, and remained there. 
 The Vicar spoke to him at length, not unkindly, nor re- 
 proachfully ; but once more, with ever-increasing^ curiosity, 
 Tim realised that the quiet voice was that of the priest 
 rather than the man. Tim sat facing nim, wondering why 
 it was so difficult to believe that his own father was speak- 
 ing. He glanced upward at the lovely face of his mother. 
 She might have wept, or raved. It was inconceivable that 
 she could have spoken impersonally. And yet, the Vicar's 
 quiet words were intensely moving. 
 
 "Our acts our angels are. No man can escape from 
 them. They remain to the end * fateful shadpws." 
 
 He sighed, gazing not at Tim but at the spire soaring 
 above the yew hedge. For the first time in his life, a sharp 
 
 45
 
 Timothy 
 
 doubt assailed the boy, penetrating to his marrow. A man 
 may never be a hero to his valet, but he may achieve saint- 
 ship in the eyes of his family. Tim had always revered his 
 father as a saint, born with a halo growing brighter as the 
 years passed. He wondered vaguely whether this quiet 
 ascetic priest could have emerged white after scorching fires. 
 Once more the name White engrossed his fancy. A smile 
 flickered across his face. The Vicar saw it, and asked 
 swiftly : 
 
 "Why do you smile at what I say ?" 
 
 "I don't !" exclaimed Tim, really shocked at himself. He 
 hastened to explain: 
 
 "I was thinking of our name. It does seem to impose 
 itself. You have always been so white. When I am away 
 from you I think of you in a surplice. But you are never 
 unkind to sinners. Father," his voice shook a little, "I am so 
 ashamed of the misery I have caused you; I know how 
 you feel. I have been a beast." 
 
 "We will say no more," said the Vicar. "You must make 
 a fresh start here." 
 
 "Here?" 
 
 "I cannot afford to send you to a crammer's. Fortu- 
 nately, I have leisure to prepare you for this examination. 
 Sir Gilbert will read some Greek with you. He is a ripe 
 scholar." 
 
 "I'll work like a nigger," said Tim ardently. 
 
 "Good !" 
 
 Tim left the study with a very lively gratitude and re- 
 lief, albeit uneasily conscious that others in the happy vil- 
 lage might treat him less leniently. Alone in his own room, 
 he wrote a letter to Daffy, which may be recorded as 
 expressing adequately enough his feelings at the moment. 
 
 "DARLING DAFFY, 
 
 "I've been sacked from Eton. It's the very devil of a 
 business. Father has behaved like a perfect brick. He 
 is almost too perfect. I wish that he could have sworn 
 46
 
 In the Happy Village 
 
 at me, or licked me. I slipped out of College at night, 
 and was caught. I did it for a lark, because I was feeling 
 deadly dull. I had some champagne, too, but I swear I 
 wasn't drunk, Daff. You'll believe me, won't you? But 
 it looked like it, because I laughed like a fool when they 
 copped me. I couldn't help laughing at their solemn 
 faces. Of course I had to go, but Sir Gilbert, dear old 
 man, has told me that it won't interfere with my future. 
 I am to cram for the Indian Civil at home; and I mean 
 to work like blazes. There will be nothing else to do. 
 "Write and tell me that you are not utterly sick of me. 
 "Yours for ever and ever, 
 
 "TlM. 
 
 "P. S. I am sick of myself." 
 
 By the ill luck of things, Daphne happened to be away 
 from home; and Mrs. Carmichael opened the letter. She 
 was a masterful woman, saturated with certain ideas, which 
 she held to be cardinal principles guiding aright her own 
 life and the lives of others. One hesitates to indict this 
 excellent lady. She acted, in what she chose to consider 
 a grave emergency, according to her lights. Shall we speak 
 of them as the best wax candles? More, she took solemn 
 counsel with her elder daughters, dear good girls who had 
 never caused a moment's anxiety. She might have reflected 
 that Daphne, in character, temperament and appearance, 
 was radically different from her sisters ; but Mrs. Carmi- 
 chael would have replied, not without heat, had such dif- 
 ferences been indicated, that there was one standard of 
 conduct for all young ladies to which they must conform. 
 
 A wiser woman, too, would have allowed her daughter 
 to see Tim's letter. A sympathetic mother, also, might 
 have read between the lines of that letter a genuine remorse, 
 and a poignant appeal for forgiveness and tenderness. Mrs. 
 Carmichael, however, beheld with affronted eyes a love- 
 letter written by an impecunious young scapegrace to a 
 child of fifteen, a prospective heiress, enshrined in her heart 
 as the likeliest of three darlings to make a really satisfac- 
 
 47
 
 Timothy 
 
 tory marriage. She decided that such a billet was confirma- 
 tion of love-passages kept secret from her. And she had 
 boasted, poor woman ! to other mothers that her daughters' 
 minds and hearts were as limpid pools into which she gazed 
 periodically, finding nothing there except what she had de- 
 posited herself. 
 
 "It has come to my knowledge," she said to Daphne, on 
 her return home, "that there is an absurd, sentimental at- 
 tachment between you and Timothy White. Don't deny it !" 
 
 "I shan't," said Daphne. "I love Tim, and he loves me. 
 What of it?" 
 
 Mrs. Carmichael frowned. 
 
 "I beg you not to be pert. Young White has just been 
 expelled from Eton." 
 
 "Expelled ?" faltered Daffy, turning startled eyes upon her 
 mother's face. 
 
 "Expelled," repeated Mrs. Carmichael grimly. "I need 
 hardly point out to you, child though you are, that young 
 men of eighteen are not expelled from a great public school 
 for any ordinary offence. Young White has disgraced him- 
 self and his friends." 
 
 "Oh !" 
 
 Daffy dissolved into tears. 
 
 "It can't be true, mother." 
 
 "Pray don't be silly. It is true. It is equally true that 
 the young man has wild blood in his veins. His maternal 
 grandfather was a disgraceful person. I can't discuss such 
 matters with a young girl, but you may take it from me 
 that the dear Vicar made a terrible mistake when he chose 
 a wife out of a family that is a byword even in the West of 
 Ireland." 
 
 Daffy dabbed at her eyes. Mrs. Carmichael continued, 
 less trenchantly : 
 
 "I am willing to overlook a very grave deception on 
 your part, because of your extreme youth and inexperi- 
 ence. I trusted young White, and I trusted you. It is ter- 
 48
 
 In the Happy Village 
 
 rible to me that such trust and affection should have been 
 taken advantage of." 
 
 Daffy retorted, not without spirit. 
 
 "I should have told you, but you would have said we were 
 silly idiots." 
 
 "Quite true. Any lovemaking between immature young 
 persons is very, very silly and wrong, inasmuch as it leads 
 to wilful deceit. I admit Tim's charm. He charmed me. 
 I have tried to mother that boy. His dear father has my 
 sincerest sympathy and affection. More, I do not say that 
 this unhappy young man may not live down this terrible 
 disgrace, but it will take years of strenuous endeavour. I 
 cannot have him here till he has in some measure expiated 
 his offence. I shall write to him in the kindest spirit, and 
 make that plain. And I ask you, on your word of honour, 
 to promise me that you will not write to him." 
 
 "He may write to me." 
 
 "That is extremely unlikely." 
 
 "If he should ?" 
 
 "In that case I ask you to bring his letter to me. I have 
 no wish to spy upon my daughter, but at your age I have the 
 right to open your letters, and to deal with them as I see fit." 
 
 "I won't write to him unless he writes to me." 
 
 Daffy said this with greater confidence, because she was 
 quite sure that Tim would write. 
 
 "Very good. Kiss me, my child, and believe me when I 
 add that your welfare is dearer to me than anything else 
 in the world. Dry your pretty eyes! This unhappy little 
 experience will be fruitful of much good, if it makes you 
 more careful in the future." 
 
 "But I still love Tim." 
 
 "Teh! Teh! If he is worthy of your affection and 
 friendship, let him prove it. And don't prattle about love, 
 which is a very sacred word. A modest little maid should 
 speak with more restraint. Now, you can trot away." 
 
 49
 
 Timothy 
 
 in 
 
 What Tim suffered when Daffy did not reply to him 
 may be imagined. His heart already softened began to 
 harden again. It became even more indurated when he re- 
 ceived Mrs. Carmichael's letter, after some ten days had 
 elapsed 
 
 "My DEAR TIM : 
 
 "I take up my pen more in sorrow than in anger to 
 reply to a letter which you wrote to Daphne, and which 
 I am answering on her behalf. I have had a long talk 
 with the dear child. She is, I think, fully aware of her 
 wrong-doing and deceit in keeping from her own mother 
 a sentimental attachment which you inspired in her. 
 Daphne is a romantic little puss; and I have dealt ten- 
 derly with her. I desire, my dear boy, to deal as tenderly 
 with you. Your saintly father has written to me a very 
 sweet letter, which I shall always cherish. I share his 
 grief and bitter disappointment. I share also his convic- 
 tion that you will live down this disgrace, and rise upon 
 it to higher things, justifying the affection we bear you. 
 Hard work has sanctified his life, and I pray humbly that 
 it may sanctify and ennoble yours. But I cannot alto- 
 gether ignore the weakness and frailty of poor human 
 nature. I must think of my dear little daughter first. 
 And after what has passed between you Daphne was 
 quite frank with me I should be lacking in my duty 
 as a mother if I allowed you two young people to meet. 
 I have Daphne's solemn promise not to write to you un- 
 less you write to her, and if you write she has pledged 
 herself to bring your letter to me before she answers it. 
 My faith in you, sorely tried as it has been, is still strong 
 enough to justify my conviction that you will not write 
 to my little maid, or attempt to see her against my ex- 
 pressed wish. Your father does not know and I shall 
 not tell him of your attachment to Daphne. If he did, 
 he would, you may be sure, exact some pledge from 
 you. I prefer, instead, to leave the matter to your own 
 50
 
 In the Happy Village 
 
 pride and good feeling. I look forward to the day when 
 you can come again to us, and reinstate yourself in our 
 hearts. 
 
 "Yours affectionately, 
 
 "ANNA CARMICHAEL." 
 
 Tim used bad language when he read and reread this 
 epistle. Daffy he leapt to this conclusion was like other 
 girls, cut to pattern, terrified by a tempest in a tea-pot, docile 
 to Authority a dear anaemic little puss ! 
 
 He rushed hatless into Pennington High Wood. 
 
 It was a cheerless afternoon in late November. In the 
 air hung an odour of decay ; on the ground lay the rotting 
 leaves ; from the bleak branches overhead dripped the tears 
 of a dying November. 
 
 Presently, he found himself in the Cathedral upon the 
 spot where Journey and he had knelt together invoking Om- 
 nipotence to join them. Tim stood still, staring upwards 
 with a derisive smile upon his white haggard face. Yes ; 
 he had believed that God would come down and talk with 
 him. 
 
 And now? 
 
 A strange impulse surged within him to call upon the 
 Devil ! The Vicar believed in a personal Devil. And Tim, 
 ever greedy of new and curious knowledge, had read some- 
 thing concerning the Diabolists. 
 
 Controlling the insane desire to invoke the Supreme 
 Power of Evil, Tim flung himself upon the wet moss and 
 burst into tears, bitter grinding sobs, the expression of all 
 that he had suppressed during the past fortnight. Mightily 
 relieved by this ebullition, he stood upright again, and con- 
 fronted more calmly the situation, glancing to right and 
 left in terror lest some passing woodman might have wit- 
 nessed his weakness. Then he read Mrs. Carmichael's let- 
 ter for the third time. 
 
 Anybody, save a dashing youth, would have questioned 
 its cleverness and sincerity. Tim, however, accepted every 
 
 51
 
 Timothy 
 
 line in the spirit so the writer would have said in which 
 it was penned. By his own act, he had cut himself off 
 from Daphne and her people. They were very nice people ; 
 he knew that; and other really nice people corroding 
 thought! would regard him, as the Carmichaels did, with 
 slightly averted eyes. Sunday, with the residents of the vil- 
 lage streaming out of morning church, had been a bleak 
 experience. Nobody had cut him because, of course, he 
 was his father's son, but each blameless worshipper had 
 blinked, beholding him as the black sheep in a happy fold. 
 Sir Gilbert had taken his arm/ and leaned heavily upon 
 it, subtly suggesting the appeal of age to youth. Sir Gil- 
 bert God bless the old boy! had done his best to white- 
 wash his offence. Nevertheless, Tim stood discoloured in 
 the eyes of the congregation, lending even a tinge of purple 
 to the whiteness of his father's surplice. Adam Judd, who 
 attended divine service from eleemosynary motives, chuck- 
 led as he passed a fellow sinner. Evarannie blushed, con- 
 scious of a too intimate lip-service with a backslider. 
 
 But Tim had brazened it out, carrying a high head, con- 
 fident that his Daphne would not fail him, that she would 
 know and understand. 
 
 Why, why had she not written to him herself? 
 
 He choked down humiliation together with some freshly 
 rising sobs. There must be no more weeping; let him con- 
 tent himself with gnashing of teeth. But his dominant 
 thought was that of wrath against ladies. He could forgive 
 Evarannie for blushing; the demure, downcast glances of 
 the gentlewomen infuriated. What humbugs and hypocrites 
 they all were ! 
 
 He wondered whether the Vicar had preached at him, 
 dismissing such speculation as idle and unworthy. The 
 theme of the Sunday morning's sermon happened to be Eter- 
 nal Punishment, a doctrine quite irreconcilable with Tim's 
 somewhat amorphous conceptions of Divine Love and 
 Mercy. The Vicar could handle such themes with dexterity. 
 He did not belong to the fire and brimstone school of or- 
 52
 
 In the Happy Village 
 
 atory, but always he dwelt persistently upon the unbridg- 
 able gulfs between Heaven and Hell, the ineffable rapture 
 of being with God, the everlasting torment of those cast 
 out of His Presence. 
 
 As a boy Tim had conceived Heaven to be a sort of 
 glorified Little Pennington, embellished by golden crowns 
 and a crystal sea. 
 
 Now, struggling with his own conflicting emotions, a 
 prey to the civil war which sooner or later devastates so 
 many hearts, he attempted to see himself with proper de- 
 tachment. Did he incline towards the sheep or the goats? 
 Sheep were dull creatures ; and goats smelt abominably. 
 Small wonder that the nymphs in the classics fled from the 
 satyrs ? 
 
 He came to the conclusion that he was neither sheep nor 
 goat, a hybrid, like the Alpaca. Was there an Alpaca in 
 the Zoo? If so, he must have a look at it. 
 
 IV 
 
 He answered Mrs. Carmichael's letter with restraint, ac- 
 cepting the conditions imposed. She had not appealed in 
 vain to his pride. Then he plunged into dogged work. 
 
 Somewhat to his dismay, not to mention the Vicar's, Tim 
 soon discovered that he knew less from the point of view 
 of passing stiff examinations than when he won his schol- 
 arship at Eton. The Vicar remarked to Sir Gilbert: "I 
 never had a pupil who seemed to know more, and who really 
 knew less." Nothing daunted, Tim set to work again at 
 principia, which he mastered with gratifying ease and dili- 
 gence. 
 
 Sir Gilbert was very kind to him, mounting him occa- 
 sionally for a day with the Little Pennington hounds, and 
 giving him many a day's shooting in outlying coverts and 
 hedgerows : sport which whetted an appetite instead of sat- 
 isfying it. Tim could not help envying the sons of mag- 
 
 53
 
 Timothy 
 
 nates to whom hunting and shooting were the serious busi- 
 ness of life. About this time, his acquaintance with the 
 son of a neighbouring parson ripened into friendship. Not 
 far from Little Pennington was a hamlet which took its 
 tone from the happy village. The parson happened to be a 
 friend of Tertius White, and like him a poor man. His 
 son, also, had won scholarships, but, unlike Tim, this scholar 
 had a love of scholarship for its own sake. He was des- 
 tined from early youth to become either pedagogue or 
 parson, probably the latter, for much zeal informed him. 
 He, too, owned a bicycle, and the young men spent many 
 hours together scouring the hills and dales of Hampshire. 
 Eustace Pomfret took himself seriously, a source of much 
 amusement to Tim, and was almost a genius in devising 
 schemes of self-culture upon a monumental scale. His life 
 so Tim reckoned was cut-and-dried from the font; and 
 he endeavoured not unsuccessfully to impress upon Tim 
 the necessity of ordering even the most humdrum existence 
 so as to exclude the interference of the Devil. That his 
 influence over Tim was entirely for good may be ques- 
 tioned. Counsels of perfection wearied our hero. Never- 
 theless he liked Eustace, and envied him his powers of con- 
 centration, calling him "The Plodder" to his face, and be- 
 hind his back "The Sap that never Rises." The Plodder 
 was very bashful in the presence of the fair, and seemingly 
 quite proof against their allurements. His weakness he 
 admitted this to Tim was Gothic architecture. When he 
 pursued his hobby too untiringly into dusty transepts, Tim 
 would say derisively: 
 
 "I'd sooner look at a pretty girl." 
 
 "You will repeat that till you believe it." 
 
 "Because I'm normal. You're sexless." 
 
 "I'm not. I suppose, when I can afford it, I shall marry, 
 as my father did. Till that time comes, the less one thinks 
 about pretty girls the better." 
 
 "Girls could teach you a lot." 
 54
 
 * In the Happy Village 
 
 "What have they taught you, Tim?" 
 
 Then Tim would laugh scornfully, and refuse to reply. 
 
 Ash Wednesday ushered in Lent and the godly discipline 
 of the Commination Service, attended by all the gentlefolk 
 and many humbler parishioners. Tim was greatly impressed 
 by the unction with which mild-mannered spinsters an- 
 swered "Amen" to the judgments of Omnipotence against 
 sinners. One ancient virgin positively barked her response 
 with an inflection of impatient finality which tickled the 
 boy's humour. He was reminded of a billiard marker in 
 one of the Winchester taverns, who, calling the score at 
 Pool, would yap out: "Yellow dead!" in a manner that 
 made the hope of starring quite forlorn. Tim wondered 
 whether these worthy women really gloated over this whole- 
 sale cursing, as they appeared to do. Miss Janetta Van- 
 burgh, the spinster aforesaid, conveyed to Tim the con- 
 viction that she had become so intolerant of sinners that she 
 wished them cursed and, so to speak, cast as rubbish to the 
 void without any more ado. Her shrill, staccato "Amen," 
 invariably an instant ahead of the congregation, weighed 
 heavily upon Tim's nerves. Under his breath he cursed 
 her, realising with some contrition that he had thereby low- 
 ered himself to her level. 
 
 Music, more than anything else, nourished Tim's emo- 
 tional sense of religion. His old Dominie, who played the 
 organ beautifully, had trained the choir to sing simple hymns 
 with feeling and distinction. At Evensong, especially, when 
 Tim sat in his pew in the dimly lighted church, gazing at 
 the altar which alone was brilliantly illuminated, seeing 
 the Vicar's fine head, with its placid and yet austere expres- 
 sion, glancing too at the many faces familiar from child- 
 hood, there would sweep into his mind a passionate desire to 
 
 55
 
 Timothy 
 
 achieve saintliness. At such moments John Newman's hymn 
 would move him profoundly 
 
 Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, 
 
 Lead Thou me on ; 
 The night is dark, and I am far from home, 
 
 Lead Thou me on. 
 
 He would say to himself that this church was home to 
 many of the worshippers therein. They had found the 
 Light. His eyes would rest with envy and affection upon 
 the sweet face of the schoolmistress, Mary Nightingale, 
 who never complained that the church was ill-lighted, be- 
 cause she knew all the psalms by heart. The girls of the 
 village owed a deep debt to Mary Nightingale. What a 
 beacon she had been! Some of the Penningtonians had 
 gained the farther shore, after wading through torrents. 
 There was old Whetren, the sexton. The Vicar wrestled 
 long for Whetren's soul, and had prevailed. Benner, with 
 his apostolic beard, had known a stormy youth. Tim went 
 to Benner and asked him if he understood all that the Vicar 
 said. Benner shook his head. 
 
 "It's like this, Master Tim, I find his voice upliftin', yes, I 
 do, even when I misses the words and meanin'. And then 
 I takes a mort o' comfort lookin' at they beautiful glass 
 winders." 
 
 The stained glass in Little Pennington Church was an 
 atrocious sample of mid- Victorian taste. Tim chuckled : 
 
 "Well, Benner, I have always wondered why that glass 
 was put in. Now I know." 
 
 During Lent there were many services. In his robuster 
 moments, after the Sunday luncheon when everybody in 
 Little Pennington feasted heavily Tim would be tempted 
 to indict this wholesale fasting as an orgy of righteous- 
 ness. The women seemed to wallow in self-denial. Really, 
 it afforded them pleasure, not pain, to mortify the flesh. 
 Why not stick to butter and cream, and give up gossip? 
 56
 
 In the Happy Village 
 
 The Vicar, remarking Tim's too pale face, prescribed a 
 change of air and scene after Easter. 
 
 "You have worked finely, Tim. I insist upon a holiday. 
 Go abroad for a full month and brush up your French." 
 
 Eustace Pomfret accompanied him. This oddly assorted 
 pair crossed the channel to Havre, and thence cycled up 
 the Seine, and down the Loire, visiting Rouen, Dreux, 
 Evreux, Chartres, and the Touraine chateaux. Tim was in 
 the highest health and spirits, ready to ride eighty miles 
 a day. Eustace preferred to linger in the cathedrals. Ulti- 
 mately they reached Concarneau, famous for its sardine 
 fisheries and a small colony of artists. They spent a week 
 there; and Tim was once more bitten with the desire to 
 become a painter. At Concarneau, he met Cabral, the sculp- 
 tor, and Briand, the painter of grey skies and seas. He 
 could hardly tear himself from their exciting company. 
 Eustace was not favourably impressed by these Bohemians, 
 and affected to disdain their conversation, quoting Mathew 
 Arnold "Conduct is three-fourths of life." 
 
 In those simple times no railroad brought tourists to 
 Concarneau. The artists fared sumptuously, wine and cider 
 included, for four francs per diem or one hundred francs 
 per mensem. Cabral said : 
 
 "On mene la vie heureuse, mon gargon." 
 
 "Wee, wee," replied Tim, who chattered French fluently, 
 but with an atrocious accent. 
 
 "Tu reviendras hein ?" 
 
 "Wee." 
 
 On departure, Tim was embraced on both cheeks by the 
 patronne of the Hotel des Voyageurs. The bonnes, in the 
 coif and collar of the commune, were smilingly ready to 
 salute him in the same early Christian fashion, but Eustace 
 stood scowlingly by Saint Anthony in knickerbockers. 
 Cheers sped the travellers on their way. 
 
 "Heavenly place," said Tim. 
 
 "Smelly," riposted Saint Anthony. 
 
 "Dear, delightful people," sighed Tim. 
 
 57
 
 Timothy 
 
 "Brazen hussies," murmured the Saint. 
 
 Tim laughed. 
 
 "They didn't offer to embrace you, Old Plodder." 
 
 Eustace remarked solemnly: 
 
 "I thank God that I am not too good-looking." 
 
 "I can thank God that I am not too good." 
 
 Whereupon the Plodder preached a short homily, while 
 Tim thought hungrily of the smiling faces which he was 
 leaving behind him. 
 
 They took the packet from Saint Malo. Eustace had 
 nicely calculated his expenses, arriving at Southampton with 
 just enough in his purse he carried a purse to pay for 
 breakfast. Tim went aboard penniless, and was obliged to 
 offer his bicycle to the purser as security against his fare. 
 The purser, however, cheerily consented to trust him, when 
 Tim stated that he was the son of the Vicar of Little Pen- 
 nington. Eustace asked drily: 
 
 "Why have you not sufficient money?" 
 
 Tim confessed. 
 
 "I nipped into the casino at Dinard, and dropped thirty 
 bob at petits chevaux." 
 
 "Gambling?" 
 
 "Oh, dear, no! Votive offerings to the goddess of For- 
 tune. She will smile upon me next time." 
 
 "I hope there will be no next time." 
 
 "Rot ! Everybody gambles in some form or another. It 
 was jolly good fun." 
 
 "At your father's expense." 
 
 "Pish! Tut! Pooh! I shall pop the gold links Sir Gil- 
 bert gave me." 
 
 And he did so. 
 
 VI 
 
 The Vicar stared hard at Tim when he reached Little 
 Pennington. 
 
 "The pleasant land of France has agreed with you, Tim." 
 "In all my life I have never been so happy." 
 58
 
 In the Happy Village 
 
 The words slipped from his sniiling mouth. Instantly 
 he cursed himself for an ingrate ; but the Vicar nodded ab- 
 sently. Tim, very red in the face, stammered out: 
 
 "All the same, it's jolly to be home again." 
 
 He scampered round the village, dashing in and out of 
 the cottages with a cheery word for everybody. Journey, 
 still smelling of leather, asked many questions. 
 
 "You be brown as a berry, Master Tim." 
 
 "Glorious sunshine, Journey. Blazing on the long white 
 roads; blazing on the faces of the people." 
 
 "Yas ; you've a warm look, Master Tim. Comes o' seein' 
 the world. Is they French maids as gay as I've heerd on?" 
 
 "Gay of heart, Journey. I fell in love with all of 'em." 
 
 "Lard bless 'ee, Master Tim ! And they fell in love with 
 'ee, I'll go bail." 
 
 "Luckily for me, I'd my guardian angel with me. Mr. 
 Eustace Pomfret." 
 
 "I think nothing of he. Wonnerful greenish young gen- 
 tleman, to be sure ! They French maids had no truck with 
 him, I'll wager a pot of ale on that." 
 
 Tim smote his thigh, exclaiming: 
 
 "By Jove! Why didn't I " 
 
 "What, Master Tim ?" 
 
 "Why didn't I egg one of the little dears on to make eyes 
 at him ? What larks it would have been !" 
 
 He laughed riotously, beholding Saint Anthony resisting 
 temptation. 
 
 "Any news, Journey?" 
 
 "Never is no news here," grumbled Journey. "There be 
 a rare pretty maid at the Vicarage, come from Lanterton, 
 she do." 
 
 "From Lanterton?" 
 
 Lanterton enjoyed an unsavoury reputation. It was not 
 easy for a Lanterton girl to find a respectable place. 
 
 "Yas; my granfer he say that in ancient times Little 
 Pennington was even worse than Lanterton. Granfer do 
 
 59
 
 Timothy 
 
 chuckle to hisself when he talks o' they brave old days. 
 Yas ; she be a rare pretty maid, Master Tim." 
 
 Tim said gravely : 
 
 "Journey, you're an old friend, but you mustn't take 
 liberties. It's absolutely nothing to me whether there is a 
 pretty maid at the Vicarage or not. Do you understand?" 
 
 "No offence, Master Tim. My tongue do run away wi' 
 my wits when I be talkin' with J ee." 
 
 Tim laughed, and went his way whistling. Journey picked 
 up his awl as he muttered : 
 
 "The pretty maids '11 come to his whistling. Lard 
 A'mighty! what a fine upstandin' young feller he do be!" 
 
 Tim returned to the Vicarage in time for luncheon, and 
 entered the house, as was his wont, by the back-door. Pass- 
 ing the kitchen, he heard a gay laugh, a silvery ripple of 
 joyous sound. He hesitated, and then opened the kitchen 
 door. Perched upon the dresser sat the maid from Lan- 
 terton. When she beheld Tim, .she sprang to the floor, 
 stood upright for an instant, and then bobbed down in a 
 demure curtsey, but her eyes twinkled roguishly. Tim 
 greeted the cook, an old friend. Then he turned to the new 
 maid. 
 
 "And who is this?" he asked. 
 
 "Ivy Jellicoe," replied the cook. 
 
 The name Jellicoe struck Tim as familiar. Then he re- 
 membered that there was a bold poacher called Jack Jellicoe 
 who had been caught red-handed after a desperate encounter 
 with a keeper. Jellicoe had been sent to Winchester gaol. 
 The cook, reading his thoughts, and quite regardless of the 
 newcomer's feelings, said with unction: 
 
 "She be Jack Jellicoe's daughter, Master Tim." 
 
 "Oh!" said Tim. 
 
 Ivy smiled deprecatingly, displaying an even row of 
 very white small teeth. Her eyelids fell. Tim could not 
 fail to remark how long and dark lay the lashes upon her 
 delicate cheeks, and he perceived also, with an artist's eye, 
 that her features were finely modelled. Truly, a rare pretty 
 60
 
 In the Happy Village 
 
 maid, as Journey had said. Instinctively, he held out his 
 hand. 
 
 "How do you do, Ivy? I hope you will be happy here." 
 She raised her eyelids, flashing at him a glance com- 
 pounded of gratitude and admiration. Then she slipped her 
 hand into his, murmuring bashfully : 
 "Thank you, sir. I do hope so, sir." 
 
 61
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 IVY JELLICOE 
 
 THE Vicar was agreeably surprised by the ardour with 
 which Tim pursued his studies after the holiday in 
 France. He had never questioned the boy's brains, doubt- 
 ing only sustained powers of application. And now he was 
 able to assure Sir Gilbert who, indeed, needed no such 
 assurance that the coveted prize was well within their pu- 
 pil's grasp. One lovely morning, in late May, when the 
 lime trees in the churchyard were bursting into flower, the 
 Vicar took Tim's hand in his and congratulated him with 
 a warmth of feeling which made Tim gasp. A note of 
 personal triumph informed the Vicar's quiet tones : 
 
 "We are in the sunshine again." 
 
 A rare smile flickered about his austere lips. Perhaps 
 at that moment Tim apprehended something heretofore ig- 
 nored, sounding the depths of another's hopes and ambi- 
 tions. He had supposed that the Vicar's work engrossed 
 and satisfied him. Now, he had an illuminating glimpse of 
 ambitions focussed upon himself. His success lay in the 
 womb of another's soul. Travail had brought it forth. 
 
 "Do you care so much ?" he asked wonderingly. 
 
 The Vicar drew a deep breath; and, as he answered, he 
 seemed to be gazing through the clay at Tim's spirit. Soul 
 met soul upon the heights, above baffling mists and dark 
 clouds. 
 
 "I care, I have always cared tremendously." 
 
 For a moment there was silence. The feeling in the 
 Vicar's voice made Tim tremble. It happened to be 9 re- 
 62
 
 Ivy Jellicoe 
 
 markable voice, whose beauty imposed itself subtly in spite 
 of, perhaps because of, certain disabilities. Not a mag- 
 nificent organ such as is possessed by some popular preach- 
 ers ; hardly musical in the accepted sense ; certainly lack- 
 ing in power and volume, lacking, too, in varied inflection, 
 not a voice wherewith to inebriate the multitude, rather the 
 still small voice of a pure conscience seeking patiently to 
 make itself heard by reason of its quality, invariably low 
 and sweet and penetrating. In the pulpit and at the lectern, 
 the Vicar stood before his congregation an arresting figure, 
 because it seemed to be his deliberate aim to suppress him- 
 self. He scrupulously avoided the adventitious tricks of 
 gesture and speech so common to many preachers. He never 
 presented his thoughts to his dear friends ; he was never col- 
 loquial or familiar in the House of God, except, possibly, 
 when he was catechising the children in the nave. But his 
 greatest attribute as an expounder of dogma or doctrine, 
 the attribute which might have secured for him high prefer- 
 ment, was the measured conviction with which he spoke 
 from the chancel, the burning faith in God's message, the 
 absence of doubt in that message. His curate afforded 
 a humorous contrast. That worthy and zealous young 
 man never missed a suitable opportunity of presenting his 
 doubts to the villagers and endeavouring to rout them, 
 often with humiliating ill-success. He dug deep pits into 
 which he floundered, emerging hot and breathless, with, 
 perhaps, the disarming question upon his lips : "Have I 
 made my meaning clear to you, my dear brethren?" Tim, 
 then, was hardly able to restrain the impulse to leap to his 
 feet, and shout out: "No, sir, you have not." 
 
 The Vicar continued : 
 
 "There are reasons into which I cannot go now, which 
 explain why I have cared so much, why, in a sense that you 
 are not yet old enough to understand, I have made your 
 training a matter of supreme importance to myself, a mat- 
 ter almost of faith in what I hold to be true and ever- 
 lasting." 
 
 63
 
 Timothy 
 
 His voice died away. Tim knew that he would say no 
 more, that any questions would be kindly but inexorably 
 vetoed. Curiosity consumed him. He divined vaguely that 
 a mystery lay between himself and the Vicar, a mystery 
 which included his mother. Of that mother and her family 
 he knew just enough to be inordinately greedy for more. 
 His maternal grandfather was dead ; the title and what was 
 left of a crippled estate had passed to a distant kinsman. 
 The Vicar, reading the boy's thoughts, added a few words : 
 
 "Some day, Tim, there may be full confidence between 
 us. I pray that such a day may come, or rather that you 
 may advance to it, because such confidence on my part 
 must be earned by you. When that day does dawn you 
 will understand me and yourself." 
 
 ii 
 
 Meanwhile, Ivy Jellicoe smiled whenever she met Tim. 
 Her voice was soft and beguiling when speaking to su- 
 periors ; in the kitchen and pantry it shrilled, and the Hamp- 
 shire accent became noticeable. 
 
 Tim talked to her as he talked to everybody. And Ivy 
 prattled back to him. Her father was still in gaol; other- 
 wise his daughter would have remained at home. She 
 spoke of the difficulty of finding a respectable place, and 
 of the kindness of the Vicar when this fact came to his no- 
 tice. Tim took her measure with all the cocksureness of 
 eighteen. She was a dear little thing, hardly treated be- 
 cause her sire was a poacher. She continued to smile at 
 Tim. 
 
 Let us say frankly, and have done with it, that Ivy was 
 a healthy, handsome little animal, with inherited animal pro- 
 pensities, and much less intelligent than she appeared. Had 
 the Vicar been quite other than what he was he would 
 never have taken the baggage into his house. The wife 
 of the rector of Lanterton sniffed when she learned that 
 64
 
 Ivy Jellicoe 
 
 he had done so. It is certain, also, that Tim was incapable 
 of beginning an intrigue with a maid in his father's serv- 
 ice. He was working hard, and overworking, which may 
 account partly for what followed. If love be a disease, then 
 its more potent ravages are likely to affect disastrously 
 those who have strayed from the normal. 
 
 It was unfortunate, also, that during this hot summer 
 Tim was cut off from cricket or any other fonn of healthy 
 exercise. Riding his bicycle along dusty roads was not suf- 
 ficiently alluring, and playing tennis with young ladies was 
 almost as boring. Golf had it been possible in those days 
 would have adjusted the boy's equilibrium. 
 
 One morning Tim touched Ivy's soft cheek. He did not 
 plan this move. A tear upon the damask challenged sym- 
 pathy and pity. 
 
 "Anything wrong?" 
 
 "They do throw it up to me that father's in gaol." 
 
 "What a beastly shame! Never mind, Ivy! Cheer up! 
 You're a dear little thing." 
 
 And then he had touched her cheek with the tips of his 
 fingers, smiling pleasantly. Ivy expressed no surprise and 
 no bashfulness. But her uplifted eyes held a note of inter- 
 rogation. She said demurely : 
 
 "Oh, thank you, sir." 
 
 She waited an instant; and then flitted away, looking 
 back smiling. 
 
 This na'ive smile began to interfere with Tim's work. 
 Why did this simple, artless creature smile upon him so 
 persistently? Why did her eyes follow him? 
 
 About a week later, he was alone in the dining-room, late 
 at night, trying to focus a jaded brain upon the helicoidal 
 parabola, when Ivy tapped at the door and came in. 
 
 "Shall I put out the lights, sir? The Vicar has gone to 
 bed." 
 
 Tim looked up from his confused figures and diagrams 
 to behold a face not very unlike the Nina of Greuze. For 
 a moment he stared at her, hearing her question and hav- 
 
 65
 
 Timothy 
 
 ing a curt "Yes" upon his lips, but saying nothing, because 
 her expression, half beguiling, half derisive, confounded 
 him. 
 
 "Come here!" 
 
 She drifted towards him, holding herself very upright, 
 smilingly self-possessed. 
 
 "Why do you always smile at me?" 
 
 She answered calmly : 
 
 "I suppose, sir, it's because I like you." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 She blushed as he put the question. 
 
 "You are such a dear, and so handsome." 
 
 Tim got up. Ivy looked grave, and oddly impassive. 
 Tim discovered that he was trembling, with a choking sen- 
 sation in his throat. 
 
 "Good-night," he said hoarsely. "Put out the lights." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 She walked slowly to the door, turning on the threshold. 
 Her face had become piteous. 
 
 "Are you angry, sir?" 
 
 "Good Lord, no! There! Hook it!" 
 
 Ivy vanished. Tim turned to his diagrams which spun 
 round before his eyes. Query. How do you compare arcs 
 of the same curve which cannot be superposed? Query. 
 Did Ivy think him a fool? 
 
 He tackled the second query first. Yes ; in these affairs 
 the male is placed in an abominably false position, although 
 the shrieking sisterhood deny it. The maid who resists 
 importunity is exalted, even by the man whom she vir- 
 tuously repulses. But the youth who turns from ripe lips 
 is not exalted. Joseph flying from temptation excites ridi- 
 cule. Undoubtedly, Ivy thought him a fool. 
 
 He tried to analyse his emotions. He wanted to kiss 
 
 Ivy. With the greatest effort he had refrained. Well, 
 
 ought he not to feel uplifted? But he didn't. He felt a 
 
 fool. He shut up his books and went to bed thoroughly 
 
 66
 
 Ivy Jellicoe 
 
 disgusted with himself. In the morning, however, he was 
 bursting with excellent resolutions. 
 
 "I'll take jolly good care there's no more of that." 
 
 in 
 
 About a week later he dined at Pennington House. Sir 
 Gilbert was entertaining a distinguished visitor, an ex- Vice- 
 roy of India. Tim felt immensely honoured at being in- 
 vited to meet the great man. County magnates were pres- 
 ent, and their wives. Tim, as the least important male, found 
 himself between Lady Pennington and a sharp-nosed spin- 
 ster who wrote novels. Lady Pennington was listening 
 attentively to the ex-viceroy ; and the lady novelist gave 
 undivided attention to her dinner. He stared affectionately 
 at the family portraits. There was one of Sir Gilbert 
 painted as a young man. But Tim could never behold the 
 Squire as other than what he was, a still vigorous octo- 
 genarian, blending consummately the most dignified self- 
 respect with unfailing courtesy and suavity. As a young 
 man he had been painted in the high stiff black satin stock 
 of the period. His coat seemed to be cruelly tight about 
 the waist. "He never got away from that stock," thought 
 Tim. He glanced at other members of the Pennington 
 family. Two sons and two daughters were present. They, 
 also, exhibited the Pennington traits and distinctions, an 
 easy air of good-breeding, a placid confidence in them- 
 selves, their position, and family. They had nothing in 
 common with what is known to-day as smart society. Fash- 
 ion was too ephemeral for a family so long rooted in the 
 soil. The ladies wore simple gowns and little jewellery. 
 Their voices were clear but low. 
 
 Tim sipped his champagne and enjoyed it. His sharp 
 young ears caught every word that dropped from viceregal 
 lips. And then, suddenly, he was included in that august 
 conversation, Lady Pennington said in her incisive way;
 
 Timothy 
 
 "This is Tim White, our Vicar's son. India is marking 
 him for her own." 
 
 "We must have a word or two together later," said the 
 great man, leaning forward, and looking hard at Tim. 
 
 "Tim can tell you what fritillaries are found in our 
 woods." 
 
 Tim could and did. It appeared that the great man was 
 an entomologist, but he had never captured a Purple Em- 
 peror. Tim could boast a happier fortune. His eyes 
 sparkled as he described the luring of the monarch from 
 the oak-tops, the imperial weakness for raw steak, and the 
 final swoop of the net. The lady-novelist eyed him with 
 kindlier interest, and asked him if he had read her latest 
 novel. Tim, replying in the negative, added hastily: 
 
 "I suppose I'm the only person in this room who hasn't." 
 
 Then he heard the great man's too loud whisper to his 
 hostess : 
 
 "What a handsome boy! Mercury poised for his first 
 flight!" 
 
 Tim blushed with pleasure. 
 
 After dinner, he remained of course with the men, and 
 was made to feel by his kind host that he was at last one 
 of them. When the decanters were circling, Sir Gilbert 
 said genially : 
 
 "Tim, my boy, take a glass of '47 Port. There's not too 
 much of it left." 
 
 Tim obeyed, and was further enjoined to sip the noble 
 wine which he did. 
 
 Dinner parties began and ended much earlier in those 
 days, and the Vicar told Tim to slip back to the Vicarage 
 and go to bed. Possibly, he may have remarked the spar- 
 kling eyes and too flushed cheeks. Tim was not accustomed 
 to mix champagne and port. 
 
 Alone in the fresh night air, walking back to the Vicarage, 
 he felt delightfully exhilarated, tempted to burst into song, 
 paeans of thanksgiving, because everybody had behaved so 
 68
 
 Ivy Jellicoe 
 
 decently. His offence had been shelved if not forgotten 
 pushed out of sight and smell. Yes he was reinstated. 
 
 In this buoyant mood, he returned home to find Ivy 
 sitting up to open the front door, for the Vicar carried the 
 only latch-key. Tim said boisterously : 
 
 "Oh, Ivy, I've had such a splendiferous time." 
 
 "You look like it, sir." 
 
 "And I feel I feel " He burst out laughing. 
 
 Ivy joined in that infectious laugh. 
 
 "How do you feel, Mr. Tim?" 
 
 She pronounced his name softly, but he was too excited 
 to notice that. 
 
 "I'll tell you. I'll confide in you. I feel rather as I did 
 the night I was caught out of College. I feel that I hate 
 to go to bed. I'd like to gallop over the downs to Win- 
 chester, or swim far out to sea. I shouldn't mind a good 
 fight with the gloves, or without 'em, by Jove !" 
 
 "You are excited, sir." 
 
 "Yes; I am." 
 
 She smiled at him, letting her lashes fall, a trick often 
 practised before the glass. Then she said softly : 
 
 "Shut your eyes, Mr. Tim." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Shut them, and see." 
 
 He shut both eyes. Instantly he felt her soft mouth 
 barely brushing his and then a low ripple of laughter. He 
 seized her and kissed her lips, feeling them quiver beneath 
 his own. He heard her murmur : 
 
 "Oh, I do like you, Mr. Tim." 
 
 He said hastily : 
 
 "I say, where's cook?" 
 
 "Fast asleep and snoring." 
 
 "I wanted excitement, and now I've got it." 
 
 "So have I. It's just too heavenly." 
 
 He went quietly into the dining-room. Ivy followed on 
 tip-toe. The curtains were drawn and a lamp was burning. 
 Tim sat down; Ivy slipped on to his knees, encircled his 
 
 69
 
 Timothy 
 
 neck with her arms, and laid her cheek against his. He 
 pressed her to him, as she whispered: 
 
 "There's no harm in a little kissing, is there?" 
 
 Considering the state of his feelings at that moment, it 
 is to his credit that he replied : 
 
 "I am not so sure of that." 
 
 "Haven't you ever kissed a girl before?" 
 
 "Ye-es." 
 
 "Then why shouldn't you kiss me?" 
 
 "Ivy, have you kissed other men?" 
 
 "One or two," she answered carelessly. "They expect it, 
 the gert sillies, when you walks out with 'em. I never kissed 
 a man unless he asked me." 
 
 "You wanted me to kiss you the other night, didn't you ?" 
 
 "Yes, I did. I never liked any boy as I like you. You're 
 handsomer and nicer than anybody else. And I haven't 
 walked out with a young man since I came here." 
 
 From her tone Tim guessed that he was the cause of this 
 remarkable abstention. He said shyly : 
 
 "Why not, dear?" 
 
 "Because I liked 1 you. There! What's the use of pre- 
 tending? I liked you from the first. When you took my 
 hand in the kitchen, I could have kissed you there and then. 
 Don't you want to go on kissing me?" 
 
 Tim hesitated and plunged. 
 
 "Yes, I do." 
 
 IV 
 
 The affair might have gone no further, had it rested 
 with Tim. Not long ago, at a notable Church Congress, a 
 lady declared with apparent conviction that poor girls were 
 at the mercy of any man. It is an amazing fact that nobody 
 present protested against this wholesale indictment of im- 
 pecunious virtue; and no mother or father made mention 
 of the innumerable boys at the mercy of women who delib- 
 erately ruin them body and soul. Those who have this mat- 
 70
 
 Ivy Jellicoe 
 
 ter most keenly at heart will advance their own cause very 
 measurably when they face both sides of the Social Evil. 
 
 Tim felt uncommonly cheap the next morning, and he 
 seized an early opportunity of coming to what he deemed 
 to be a right understanding with Ivy Jellicoe. 
 
 "We let ourselves go a bit last night, Ivy." 
 
 "It was rare fun, Mr. Tim." 
 
 Tim, crimson with nervousness, went on hurriedly : 
 
 "You know, dear, I couldn't marry you." 
 
 "Why, Mr. Tim, I know that. Whatever put such an 
 idea into your head. Marry the likes of me? Well, I 
 declare !" 
 
 She laughed artlessly, with an air of such innocence that 
 a wiser than Tim might have been pardoned for believing 
 her to be guileless. He experienced a lively relief, as he 
 went on, not so nervously : 
 
 "It's all right, if we both agree that it is just fun, and 
 nothing more. Your kisses are sweet, Ivy, but " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "There mustn't be too many of them." 
 She glanced at him roguishly, displaying a brace of dim- 
 ples. 
 
 "You can help yourself, Mr. Tim, when you feel like it." 
 
 "I am afraid of getting too fond of you, dear." 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 "I'll risk that. Any girl would." 
 
 Tim went back to his Sanskrit and Calculus feeling 
 chastened and at the same time triumphant. At all costs to 
 his emotions he must protect this pretty, naive creature 
 against herself. She thought nothing of kissing! Why 
 should he? Girls in her class were accustomed to it. And 
 she had kept her lips for him. That thrilled. 
 
 In a sense, too, he realised that he could now attack his 
 work with renewed absorption. Kissing Ivy had cleared his 
 brain of certain clogging and insistent fancies winged and 
 barbed by Eros. 
 
 71
 
 Timothy 
 
 But he had no doubt as to what the Vicar would say 
 about it, if he knew. 
 
 The dear saint must never know. 
 
 One shrinks from setting down what followed, but the 
 facts must be told in justice to Tim. He succumbed, like 
 many a gallant youth, to overwhelming temptation. Occa- 
 sionally, the Vicar passed a night or two away from home, 
 attending some Diocesan Conference, or preaching to neigh- 
 bouring congregations. No man was more ready to relieve 
 a fellow-priest in distress. 
 
 He was away from home, when Tim, long after midnight, 
 heard a soft tap at his bedroom door. He opened it to find 
 Ivy, shaking with fear. Whether or not that fear was as- 
 sumed may be left to those with a full understanding of the 
 female heart. Let us charitably assume that it was genuine. 
 
 "What's up?" asked Tim. 
 
 "There's a burglar getting into the house." 
 
 "What rot ! We've nothing to burgle." 
 
 "I heard him, Mr. Tim. I didn't wake Cook because she'd 
 scream the roof in, but I had to come to you." 
 
 "Right," said Tim. "By Jove, I rather hope the beggar 
 is there. What a lark it would be to nail him !" 
 
 "You won't run no risks ?" 
 
 "I'll stalk him. Go back to your room." 
 
 "Oh ! I couldn't. I'll wait and see what happens." 
 
 Tim grasped the poker, and crept along the passage, and 
 downstairs, excitement gripping at his vitals. After an 
 exhaustive examination of the premises he came back to 
 find Ivy sitting upon his bed, dangling a pair of bare feet. 
 A dark coat covered her nightgown. 
 
 "Nothing doing," growled Tim. "You pop back into 
 bed !" 
 
 "Mayn't I stay one minute? I'm ever so frightened." 
 72
 
 Ivy Jellicoe 
 
 Tim saw that she was trembling, and put his arms round 
 her to kiss away her fears. She clung to him with an aban- 
 don which swept him off his feet, caressing his hair with 
 her right hand, murmuring again and again her favourite 
 sentence : 
 
 "Oh, I do like you. It is heavenly to be with you." 
 
 Tim's virtue oozed from every pore in his skin. He 
 swore beneath his breath; he tried to push her from him, 
 but she clung to him desperately. 
 
 "Let me go," he said fiercely. 
 
 "Why should I ? You love me, and I love you." 
 
 "Let me go, I say. I want to lock the door." 
 
 She let him go, laughing softly. 
 
 Next morning he was the unhappiest youth in Hampshire. 
 Some six months before he had witnessed a performance 
 of Faust in the company of a retired colonel, who had 
 taken one of Sir Gilbert's houses. The house stood upon a 
 hill; and Tim often thought that although of the village 
 it was in a sense out of it, being less permeated with Pen- 
 nington traditions. The Colonel gave Tim some rough 
 shooting ; and the Colonel's wife, who belonged to a Sketch- 
 ing Club, taught him to draw in water-colour and to play 
 chess. Tim loved them both because they were so kind to 
 him, and because he could chatter more freely to them 
 than to other Olympians. He regarded the Colonel as a 
 man of the world, and not without reason. 
 
 After the play, sitting at supper with his host, Tim crit- 
 icised drastically the protagonists because there had been 
 no struggle. He demanded evidence of a dramatic fight 
 between good and evil. Marguerite, he contended, had 
 yielded too easily. Whereupon the Colonel said tentatively : 
 
 "Well, Tim, I am not so sure of that. There is a deal 
 of cant, my boy, about what is called seduction. I feel sure 
 that the Vicar has never discussed such a subject with you." 
 
 "Never!" said Tim. 
 
 "But you are old enough not to misunderstand what I'm 
 about to say." He paused, glancing at Tim's handsome 
 
 73
 
 Timothy 
 
 face; then he continued slowly: "I do not believe that 
 virtue is easily seduced. I do not believe that there are 
 many men going about deliberately trying to ruin girls." 
 
 "I hope not," said Tim. 
 
 "It is my experience that these unhappy affairs come 
 about without design, and, as a rule, swiftly and unexpect- 
 edly. Nine times out of ten the maid meets the man half 
 way. Each is carried away by irresistible emotion. Mar- 
 guerite, in my opinion, fell a victim to herself. Had she 
 been really virtuous, had she been capable of a tremendous 
 struggle, she would have resisted Faust. The cynical smile 
 with which Mephistopheles looks on indicates that. The 
 poor girl was ripe for the plucking. Virtuous maids, Tim, 
 have not much difficulty in resisting men, and men, with 
 rare exceptions, respect their virtue. Remember this, my 
 boy, if the time should ever come when fierce temptation 
 attacks you. It is almost certain that the temptation will be 
 nearly as overmastering to the woman, and then you must be 
 doubly strong for her and yourself." 
 
 "Thanks," said Tim soberly, much impressed by the 
 Colonel's manner. 
 
 "You have a lot to learn about women, Tim, and from 
 women." 
 
 Now, Tim asked himself miserably whether his education 
 was beginning or ending. Ivy's attitude, when he first met 
 her alone, astounded and confounded him. He expected 
 tears and reproaches. He found smiles. He gasped out : 
 
 "Aren't you furious with me?" 
 
 "Mercy ! Why should I be ?" 
 
 "Heavens! I feel an unutterable beast!" 
 
 "Do you think me a bad girl?" 
 
 "No, no. We have been whirled into this, dear. I ought 
 to have mastered myself. I ought to have thought of a 
 thousand things." 
 
 "What things?" 
 
 He stared at her blankly. Had she not considered conse- 
 quences? Was she incredibly innocent, or immeasurably 
 74
 
 Ivy Jellicoe 
 
 stupid? He told himself that she was neither one nor the 
 other. Yet he must make her see what he saw. 
 
 "Ivy, my poor little girl, don't you know that we are 
 standing upon the edge of a volcano? Aren't you fright- 
 ened?" 
 
 She laughed, not brazenly, but with genuine mirth. He 
 repeated his question. She answered it simply: 
 
 "I was never so happy in my life." 
 
 "And I was never so miserable." 
 
 Between them yawned the ocean of differences which 
 separated Little Pennington from Lanterton, or, let us say, 
 the Vicar from Jack Jellicoe. 
 
 "Kiss me, and don't look cross," said Ivy. 
 
 During unhappy days that followed, Tim tried again 
 and again to peer into the girl's mind. She had given her- 
 self so gladly, so joyously, that he realised with poignant 
 remorse how wholly she was his ; and yet her mind remained 
 a blank. To some questions she presented an impenetrable 
 mask of silence. He decided that she must lack imagina- 
 tion, and was constrained to enjoy the present, being unable 
 to visualise the future. 
 
 "If there should be trouble, I could never forgive my- 
 self." 
 
 She replied confidently : 
 
 "Of course I know that I'm safe with you, because you're 
 a gentleman." 
 
 He answered grimly : 
 
 "I don't feel like one." 
 
 This ingenuous confidence appealed tremendously. Tim 
 began to plan for her happiness. He bought her a trinket 
 or two which she accepted with childlike delight. Again 
 and again she whispered to him: 
 
 "This is the time of my life." 
 
 He met her on Sunday afternoons in the deep woods ; he 
 tried to correct her grammar ; he controlled a too exuberant 
 taste in hats; he wondered whether it would be possible to 
 marry her. It happened that a notorious lawsuit, in which 
 
 75
 
 Timothy 
 
 a pretty actress had been awarded immense damages after 
 a breach of promise suit, was reported in the daily papers. 
 The defendant, a young nobleman, had refused to marry 
 the girl because, so he affirmed, the great ladies of his 
 family would be "nasty" to a daughter of the people. Critics 
 had raised scornful voices, accusing the noble earl of snob- 
 bishness, and throwing mud at the great ladies. Tim dis- 
 cussed the affair with the Vicar. Of late their talks had 
 become of a more intimate character. The Vicar rather 
 invited a free discussion of themes of social interest. In 
 his impersonal way, he presented fairly enough the view- 
 point of the great ladies. 
 
 "Why," he asked, "should they be expected to welcome 
 a girl between whom and them bristles what Stevenson 
 calls 'the barrier of associations that cannot be imparted'? 
 I should be nasty, I fear, to any village girl who aspired to 
 marry you, Tim." 
 
 This was said half- jestingly ; and Tim salted the state- 
 ment, knowing that it was almost impossible for the Vicar 
 to be "nasty" to any human being. Nevertheless, he knew 
 in his heart that this quiet, refined scholar would never 
 love or cherish Ivy Jellicoe, although he might receive her. 
 And such a marriage meant the end of a promising career. 
 
 If the Vicar should find out ? 
 
 The thought drove sleep from his pillow. With some 
 relief he perceived that Ivy was cautious as he in keeping 
 discovery at bay. The intrigue made him miserable; it 
 acted like champagne on her. She declared that she adored 
 the romance of it, the secret meetings in the woods, the 
 mask worn in public, the stolen kisses. 
 
 Tim began to realise that he was desperately attached to 
 her; and he knew also what he hid from Ivy that his 
 work was being undermined. 
 
 76
 
 Ivy Jellicoe 
 
 VI 
 
 He went up to London for the Eton and Harrow match. 
 When he returned home after a three days' absence a 
 strange maid opened the front door. Tim stammered out : 
 
 "Hullo ! Where's Ivy Jellicoe ?" 
 
 The new maid answered primly: "Her pore mother's 
 dyin'. They sent for Ivy yesterday." 
 
 The Vicar came out of the study, and greeted Tim affec- 
 tionately. Tim controlled himself, whilst he answered the 
 Vicar's questions. He was impatient to go to his room, for 
 surely Ivy had left a note behind her. Presently, he 
 searched diligently, finding nothing. He learned afterwards 
 that Ivy had departed in hot haste. 
 
 At dinner the new maid waited indifferently. Tim said : 
 
 "I hope Ivy is coming back." 
 
 "It is not very probable," replied the Vicar. 
 
 Next day, Tim wrote a letter which anybody might have 
 read. He enclosed a stamped and addressed envelope, ask- 
 ing Ivy to let him hear from her by return of post, but she 
 did not do so, which hurt and perplexed him. Was it 
 possible that she failed to realise his cruel anxiety? 
 
 Her letter, when it did arrive three days afterwards, 
 corroborated what the Vicar had said. Ivy was likely to 
 remain at home indefinitely. The letter, nicely written, 
 simply worded, but ill spelt, was full of love. At the end 
 was an artless postscript : "I send you all myself." 
 
 By this time Tim was aware that he loved her to distrac- 
 tion. He hardly dared to admit another truth as naked 
 to his perception. He was angry, because her woman's 
 wit could devise no plan for a meeting, no hint of future 
 correspondence. 
 
 After a sleepless night, he determined to be bold, re- 
 joicing at the necessity for action. He cycled to Lanterton, 
 arriving at three in the afternoon, when the children were 
 at school. Ivy opened the cottage door, giving a gasp of 
 distress when her brown eyes identified the visitor. 
 
 77
 
 Timothy 
 
 "How is your mother?" asked Tim. "May I come in 
 for a minute?" 
 
 He spoke clearly, for a neighbour was listening. 
 
 "Mother's bad," said Ivy. "Please come in, sir." 
 
 Tim was ushered into the tiny parlour. He noticed with 
 satisfaction that Ivy was wearing a clean print gown which 
 suited her admirably. As soon as they were alone, she flew 
 into his arms, exclaiming: 
 
 "You are a darling to come. I've been pining for you. 
 I've cried myself to sleep every night." 
 
 "I've not slept at all," said Tim. "Now, Ivy, is it safe to 
 write to you?" 
 
 Ivy nodded. 
 
 "I take the letters from the postman." 
 
 "Good! Here are some more stamped and addressed 
 envelopes. Can you meet me?" 
 
 "I'll try." 
 
 "Good again. I have thought of a safe place, a snug 
 little nook." 
 
 "Aren't you clever?" 
 
 "Haven't you thought of our meeting?" 
 
 "I've thought of nothing, except our parting." 
 
 He described the trysting-place, adding : 
 
 "We must talk over the future." 
 
 "Oh ! I can't abear the thought of losing you." 
 
 "You are not going to lose me." 
 
 Just then the querulous voice of the mother was heard, 
 calling for her daughter. 
 
 "Coming," cried Ivy. She clung to Tim, choking down 
 her tears, murmuring inarticulate phrases. She concluded : 
 
 "All the happiness I've ever had I owe to you." 
 
 The mother called again, her weak voice rising in a pitiful 
 crescendo of petulance and distress. Tim said hoarsely : 
 
 "Tell your mother that I called to enquire. Arrange a, 
 meeting as soon as possible." 
 
 "Indeed, I will," she replied, 
 
 7*
 
 Ivy Jellicoc 
 
 VII 
 
 A demoralising fortnight followed. Twice, during that 
 time, Ivy made appointments which she failed to keep. Tim 
 waited for her in a copse near Lanterton, tormented by 
 suspense, straining eyes and ears to catch the first glimpse 
 of her, to Jiear the crackling of dry twigs beneath her feet, 
 telling himself that true love surmounted all obstacles, know- 
 ing that he would have gone to her through fire and water. 
 After waiting three hours he rushed back to the Vicarage 
 in a fever of rage and unhappiness. Explanations reached 
 him, but not as he felt he had a right to expect by the 
 following post. The explanations revealed illuminatingly 
 Ivy's lack of resource and imagination, her incapacity to deal 
 with infinitesimal difficulties. Upon the first occasion, so 
 she wrote, she had actually left the cottage, but was joined 
 by a young man, who insisted upon keeping her company. 
 She had not been equal to the task of "shaking" him, as she 
 put it. Tim clenched his fists, thinking savagely how badly 
 shaken the young man would have been had he had his way 
 with him! The unexpected arrival of an aunt burked the 
 second meeting. Ivy wrote piteously : "I told Auntie I 
 wanted to meet somebody, but she laughed at me. What 
 could I say?" 
 
 Tim told her, at some length, what she might have said. 
 
 Finally, at the third attempt, they met, passing a couple 
 of hours in a sanctuary of wet bracken. It drizzled piti- 
 lessly nearly the whole time, and Ivy was more concerned, 
 so it seemed to Tim, with her Sunday gown than with her 
 heart's feelings. As soon as he began to talk of the future, 
 she wriggled uneasily, assuming an expression with which 
 he was already too familiar, the impassive mask of the 
 peasant, which conceals successfully so much and often so 
 little. 
 
 He asked her passionately: 
 
 "Ivy, dear, how do you feel?" 
 
 79
 
 Timothy 
 
 She answered literally: 
 
 "I be getting dreadful wet." 
 
 "Heavens ! What does that matter ?" 
 
 Fortunately, he had brought an umbrella. They sat under 
 a thick holly with the umbrella above them. Lovemaking, 
 under such conditions, is possible but inconvenient. 
 
 "You will come back to the Vicarage, Ivy?" 
 
 "May be." 
 
 "Why are you so cold, dear?" 
 
 She shivered slightly : 
 
 "I be cold. Tis the wind and the rain." 
 
 Tim waxed desperate. The thought gained strength that 
 this might be their last meeting ; for he was approaching the 
 conviction that separation was inevitable; and it is fair to 
 add that he considered her welfare rather than his own. 
 Obviously she was too yourlg and inexperienced to carry 
 on an intrigue. Discovery would destroy her. But if this 
 were destined to be their last tryst, let it be an imperishable 
 memory for each. He would remain her faithful friend 
 always. He spoke miserably of his approaching exam and 
 India. Ivy pouted. 
 
 "It's so silly to think of what's ahead." 
 
 "But, hang it all ! We must." 
 
 "Not now. Have you brought any chocolates ?" 
 
 He had. She munched them with delight, displaying her 
 dimples and smiles, captivating him afresh with her deter- 
 mination to enjoy the passing minute, rain or no rain. He 
 tried to rise or sink to her simple philosophy. Presently, 
 she said softly : 
 
 "We can't help loving each other. It's Nature." 
 
 "Ah ! But we're not living under natural conditions. In 
 the South Sea Islands this would be marriage a la mode." 
 
 "Marriage? You ain't bothering your curly head about 
 that, surely?" 
 
 "I can't help bothering about lots of things." 
 
 "You are a funny dear ! But I just love every word you 
 80
 
 Ivy Jellicoe 
 
 say ; except when you talk of the silly old future. We may 
 be dead and buried come Michaelmas." 
 
 Then he had a revealing glimpse of the rustic mind. 
 This, then, was the point of view of girls in Ivy's station 
 of life. He grasped the elemental fact that sorrow, disease 
 and death encompass the poor from the cradle to the grave ; 
 and just because sorrow is more likely to be their portion 
 than joy, so therefore do they acclaim joy, when it comes 
 to them, as the greatest thing in the world. They know, 
 alas! that sorrow will follow anyway. 
 
 Tim registered a vow that he would give an artless crea- 
 ture what she wanted, and she assured him that this was 
 sufficient unto her. 
 
 Next day he received a letter which pleased him greatly. 
 In it she further revealed herself. "I shall be miserable 
 till we meet again." 
 
 Surely she was telling the truth. Heretofore he had 
 questioned the quality of her love, not its quantity. In 
 moments of depression, waiting 'for her in the bracken, he 
 had told himself that Ivy had taken this love affair too 
 lightly. He did not blame her. Perhaps she was right, 
 poor little dearl to dance in the sunlight regardless of 
 gathering shadows. She had known from the first that the 
 sun would soon decline below her horizon. She had meas- 
 ured the distance between Lanterton and Little Pennington. 
 And then, shutting both eyes, she had jumped. 
 
 This particular letter made a profound impression. Did 
 he dare to marry her secretly ? A vision of Daffy stood by 
 his pillow, Daffy, the pure maiden, once the wife and sweet- 
 heart of his dreams. But he turned from her impatiently, 
 because she had failed him in his hour of bitter need. Ivy 
 had given everything, demanding nothing except kisses 
 and laughter, and chocolates ! At their next meeting he 
 decided to bare his soul, to leave the issues in her keeping. 
 She wrote soon afterwards to name another day, but this 
 billet ended in a minor key: 
 
 "I simply loathe to tell you," she wrote, "that I was out 
 
 81
 
 Timothy 
 
 last Sunday with that young chap who prevented our first 
 meeting. He hangs about and pounces on me. I go with 
 him because, as I told you, I can't shake him, but I keep him 
 in proper order. I felt I had to tell you. Thank Goodness ! 
 he don't worry me on weekdays." 
 
 Tim felt horribly sick. A revulsion seized him. He 
 wrote furiously, telling her that she must choose between 
 this "chap" and himself. He tore up the letter when he 
 reread it. Ivy had been honest with him. The girl must 
 live her normal life, when apart from him, as he lived his. 
 Had he not walked with a pretty girl upon that very Sunday, 
 one of his own class? And she had shown herself slightly 
 flirtatious. But he had not responded. Nor had Ivy. 
 
 The day of the appointed tryst came, a cloudless, sultry 
 morning heralding a broiling afternoon. Unhappily, he was 
 forced to lie to the Vicar about his plans. This made him 
 very dejected and unable to work. He cycled to the tryst- 
 ing-place, and waited two hours. 
 
 Ivy did not come. 
 
 He suffered abominably, racking his brain to determine 
 what could have prevented her. He knew the hour when 
 she had to return home to prepare the evening meal. Upon 
 the off chance of getting a glimpse of her, he rode into 
 Lanterton, and smoked a pipe at a discreet distance from 
 the Jellicoe cottage. Presently Ivy appeared, not alone. 
 
 Ernest Judd was with her. Tim remained in the shade 
 of a tree. The pair parted at the gate of the cottage. 
 Journey sauntered up the road, whistling. Upon his smug, 
 pleasant face lay the expression of one well pleased with 
 himself. Obviously, he had passed an agreeable afternoon. 
 He did not perceive Tim. 
 
 Tim rode home as swiftly as Jehu drove his horses. He 
 told himself that he was a jealous fool and a madman; 
 and the mere repetition of the words seemed to make him 
 more foolish and more mad. Thus do the fetters of the 
 flesh eat into the soul. 
 
 During the reaction that followed, he became hopeful 
 82
 
 Ivy Jellicoe 
 
 again. On the morrow there would be a letter from Ivy, 
 explaining everything. The poor child had been pestered by 
 this fellow, and was too inexperienced to deal with him. 
 Yes, yes; it was insensate folly for him to be jealous of 
 Journey. 
 
 That evening the Vicar commented upon his worn ap- 
 pearance. Tim had to admit that he was sleeping wretch- 
 edly. The Vicar said in his kindest tones : 
 
 "Have you anything on your mind, my dear boy ? If so, 
 tell me." 
 
 "The work is going badly. If I should be spun !" 
 
 The Vicar laughed. 
 
 "Tim, you foolish boy, I applaud your modesty, but you 
 exercise it at the expense of your wits. Seriously, you are 
 not only certain to pass your exam, but to pass high up in 
 the list. Come, come, put such idle misgivings from you." 
 
 Tim nodded. Impulse urged him to confess. Never 
 had he felt so near and dear to his father. He trembled 
 upon the very brink of confession. But he remained silent. 
 
 Next morning there was no letter from Ivy. 
 
 By this time anger and jealousy had passed away. He 
 wrote a tender letter, which assuredly the Vicar, saint as 
 he was, might have read with compassion and sympathy. 
 He beseeched Ivy to trust him, to open her mind and heart. 
 He suspected that her courage might have failed her, that 
 she dreaded discovery and all it included. He ended as fol- 
 lows : "If you are afraid, darling Ivy, and you may well 
 be so, tell me, and I will leave you alone." 
 
 He had to wait thirty-six hours for her answer. This is 
 what she wrote in reply : 
 
 "DEAR MR. TIM, 
 
 "I'm afraid you are right. My courage has failed me. 
 It do worry me so. And my affections is turning to 
 somebody else. I feel as how you will soon get sick of 
 me. I don't blame you, dear. Our hands have met, but 
 
 not our hearts. l( ^ r U1 ,-.., 
 
 Your miserable little 
 
 "IVY." 
 
 83
 
 Timothy 
 
 Then Tim saw red. He replied with a violence which 
 brought relief to his lacerated tissues: 
 
 "YOU CRUEL, HEARTLESS DEVIL : 
 
 "I could almost kill you. May the day come when the 
 real love you never felt for me, but which you may live 
 to feel for another man, is thrown back at you. Do what 
 you like with this letter. Shew it to Ernest Judd, nail 
 it to the Church door, so that all the world may see you 
 as I see you a wanton !" 
 
 She made no reply. Tim attacked his work with fever- 
 ish zeal, but an evil spirit possessed him, and he knew it. 
 He prayed fervently that it might be cast out, that he might 
 become clean. For a few hours he hugged to his soul the 
 fond belief that his prayer had been answered. Then the 
 devil within tore him afresh. 
 
 As the days passed, he regretted his too brutal outburst. 
 He wrote once more to Ivy 
 
 "I ask you to forgive me. I wrote to you harshly, and 
 perhaps unjustly. I take back what I said. I am man 
 enough to hope sincerely that the heartlessness with 
 which you have treated me may not recoil upon you." 
 
 Ivy answered this letter. 
 
 "Of course I forgive you, dear. I could forgive you 
 anything, but the worry is too much. I am still your own 
 little IVY." 
 
 Tim accepted this as final. Part of the autumn he spent 
 in Scotland, fishing and rock-climbing with Eustace Pomf ret. 
 He returned sane in mind and body, able to affirm that the 
 unclean spirit had left him. He knew that it was well for 
 him and for Ivy that the affair was ended. He swore that 
 this bitter experience should colour and not discolour his 
 future. 
 
 84
 
 Ivy Jellicoe 
 
 In this chastened mood, he attacked freshly his work. 
 
 Unhappily, as the Vicar had said, the fateful shadows 
 which dog our actions do not vanish because we fail to 
 see them. One afternoon Tim entered the Vicarage, to find 
 Nemesis limping sadly towards him. 
 
 "Your father wishes to see you in the study, Mr. Tim." 
 
 "Right," said Tim. 
 
 The cook, who delivered this message, said nervously : 
 
 "I'm afraid, Mr. Tim, your pore father is ill." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "I'm sure he looks like death." 
 
 "Heavens! He was well enough this morning. What 
 has he been doing?" 
 
 "Nothing, as I knows on, Mr. Tim. That audacious 
 Jack Jellicoe was with him for nearly an hour. Just out 
 of prison, too. Seems to have upset your father terribly." 
 
 Tim became scarlet. Did this woman guess? Was she 
 trying to warn him, to prepare him for some appalling 
 shock? With a tremendous effort he pulled himself to- 
 gether. 
 
 "I will go to my father," he said.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 SCOURGINCS 
 
 TIM found the Vicar staring at the portrait of Mrs. 
 White. He remembered this afterwards, being too 
 excited at the time to think of anything except impending 
 catastrophe. It was odd, but he had never seen his father 
 staring at that beautiful picture, by far the most lovely 
 object in a prim, dull house. 
 
 The Vicar turned as Tim entered the room, and instantly 
 the boy perceived the ravages of anger and the more subtile 
 stigmata of intense pain. The Vicar's fine face was white 
 and twisted ; his blue eyes were blazing, the pupils much 
 contracted, so that the irides seemed of a larger size and 
 deeper in colour. 
 
 "Stand there!" The Vicar raised a minatory forefinger. 
 
 Tim obeyed. 
 
 "The father of Ivy Jellicoe has been here." The Vicar 
 spoke in a strange voice to Tim, the voice of a furious 
 man. He had never thought of his father as capable of un- 
 governable wrath. So the archangel might have appeared, 
 the mighty Michael, as he stood at the gate of Eden, bran- 
 dishing his flaming sword. 
 
 "He tells me," continued the Vicar, "that Ivy is in trou- 
 ble; you know what I mean?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "The girl lays her trouble at your door. Is it true ? Yes 
 
 -or no." 
 
 "It is true." 
 
 "My God !" exclaimed the Vicar. 
 86
 
 Scourgings 
 
 Tim remained silent. 
 
 "You have defiled this house!" 
 
 Tim opened his lips and closed them. The fatuity of 
 speech overwhelmed him. The Vicar paused for an instant. 
 
 "You seduced this child, sir?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "What do you mean? How dare you take this line?" 
 
 "It happened," said Tim miserably, "all of a sudden. We 
 came together as as the birds do." 
 
 The Vicar laughed scornfully. 
 
 "Indeed? As the birds do. And you compare yourself 
 and her, creatures made in God's image, to the birds, who, 
 let me remind you, rank next to the reptiles in the scale 
 of creation. The birds!" 
 
 He lifted his hand. 
 
 "I am tempted to strike you." 
 
 "Do it," said Tim. 
 
 The Vicar sank into a chair, covering his face with his 
 hands. An eternity of silence followed. Finally, when 
 the Vicar spoke, he had regained somewhat his normal 
 composure. 
 
 "I will listen patiently to what you have to say." 
 
 Tim wondered what he could say. He stammered out: 
 
 "I am ready to marry Ivy." 
 
 The Vicar sat bolt upright. 
 
 "And do you think that marriage will make an honest 
 woman of her, or a clean man of you ?" 
 
 "I don't know," faltered Tim. 
 
 "I do know. I regard Marriage as a sacrament, the 
 greatest, perhaps, of all sacraments so far as this world 
 is concerned. Did you promise her marriage." 
 
 "No." 
 
 "In fine, you took what she had to give, giving nothing 
 in return?" 
 
 "We wanted each other." 
 
 "And that, in your opinion, justifies what ha r taken 
 place?" 
 
 87
 
 Timothy 
 
 "I don't say so." 
 
 "Marriage," said the Vicar trenchantly, "will not satisfy 
 the exigencies of this case. It could only lead to more 
 misery and sin. My mind is clear on that. More, the 
 unhappy girl does not demand marriage, nor does her fa- 
 ther. He came here to-day to ask for money, hush-money. 
 His attitude is that of shameless indifference. I have ar- 
 ranged that the girl shall be sent away. I have promised 
 to provide for her and her unborn child. But, mark me 
 well, such a scandal as this can not be stifled. The truth 
 will leak out. Her parents are not the only persons aware 
 of her condition. And everybody knows that she was here, 
 a servant in my house, under my protection, and presum- 
 ably safe in my keeping." 
 
 The mourn fulness of his tone touched the boy pro- 
 foundly. 
 
 "Father!" 
 
 He held out his hands, trembling, in a white heat of 
 supplication. 
 
 The Vicar stood up. 
 
 "Don't call me that !" 
 
 "I have sinned," cried Tim, "but you are my father. 
 Nothing can alter that." 
 
 "I am not your father," said the Vicar. 
 
 Tim heard, but did not understand. There was another 
 pause, during which Tim's boyhood fled from him. He 
 confronted the other as a man. His voice deepened as 
 he demanded passionately : 
 
 "What do you mean, sir?" 
 
 The Vicar answered quietly: 
 
 "I would spare you, if I dared. In your interests, not 
 mine, the truth must be told. Sit down!"
 
 Scourgings 
 
 ii 
 
 Tim sat down upon a hard Windsor chair. 
 
 "I have hoped and prayed," said the Vicar, "that the day 
 would come when I could tell you the facts of my mar- 
 riage to your mother without inflicting pain upon either 
 you or myself. Such a day would have come, if you had 
 justified your upbringing, if you had proved yourself strong 
 enough to learn the truth, which would have brought us 
 nearer together in a communion not of the flesh but of 
 the spirit. Before God, I have loved you as a son. I will 
 add this : I have staked my happiness and peace upon you : 
 I have said to myself that, if I failed with you, I should 
 regard my life as a failure. And I so regard it to-day." 
 
 Tim felt himself shrivelling, scorched and consumed by 
 the flame in the speaker's eyes. 
 
 "Look at that picture," commanded the Vicar. 
 
 Tim did so. His lovely mother seemed to smile down 
 upon them derisively, as if she were a mute witness of 
 their common suffering. The Vicar continued in a low 
 voice, articulating each phrase slowly and painfully: 
 
 ''Your grandfather gave to me my first living. It was a 
 parish in the West of Ireland, dominated by a Roman Cath- 
 olic priest. My duties were light. I had abundant leisure 
 to reflect bitterly upon my own helplessness and loneli- 
 ness. I met your mother. She was a lovely, impulsive 
 creature, intensely sympathetic, but weak in moral fibre, as 
 you are. We became friends. I learned to love her, but I 
 was aware from the first that she would never care for 
 me, except as a faithful friend. And it seemed to me that 
 this was enough. I did help her to bear an unhappy lot. 
 Your grandfather was one of the handsomest men of his 
 day; he was also a drunkard, a gambler, and an evil-liver. 
 Brilliant men came to his house, because he was a wit, 
 and entertained lavishly, far beyond his means. Amongst 
 his guests was a famous politician, unhappily married to 
 
 89
 
 Timothy 
 
 an insane wife. He fell desperately in love with your 
 mother, and she with him. I looked on, unable to interfere, 
 knowing what was at stake her happiness and good name. 
 Meanwhile, her father was urging upon her a marriage of 
 convenience, from which she revolted. And then the dread- 
 ful day came when she told me how it was with her, and 
 entreated me to help her." 
 
 The Vicar paused. Tim said thickly : 
 
 "But the other the politician?" 
 
 "Was dead," the Vicar replied sombrely. "His yacht 
 went down in a gale of wind in Dublin Bay." 
 
 "And you you married her?" 
 
 "Yes," muttered the Vicar. "I gave her the protection 
 of my name. At first she refused to accept it, but she was 
 weak, and I was strong. Perhaps I hoped that one day 
 she would become mine. That day never came. I took 
 her abroad. You were born. Three weeks later she died 
 in my arms. Afterwards, my old friend, Sir Gilbert, offered 
 me this living. That is all." 
 
 Tim was struck dumb. He stared at his mother's pic- 
 ture and then at the man in whose arms she had died; 
 and all the time a voice, not his own, seemed to be re- 
 peating : 
 
 "He is not your father he is not your father." And in 
 answer to this, as if from a great distance, the Vicar's 
 voice floated to him: 
 
 "Legally, you are my son. I accept that responsibility 
 fully. What I have told you must remain a secret between 
 us to the end, not for my sake, nor yours, but for hers." 
 
 Tim nodded, too dazed to speak. But gradually, like a 
 heavy mist that lifts, his mental atmosphere cleared. The 
 truth was terrible, confounding, but he wondered that some 
 instinct had not prepared him for it. The Vicar sat very 
 still, leaning his head upon his hand, gazing through the 
 window, not at the soaring spire, but at the thick hedge 
 which guarded so jealously the shrine of the poet and 
 prophet. 
 90
 
 Scourgings 
 
 We must think of Tim for the moment as recovering 
 from a terrific blow. First of all he saw himself an orphan, 
 indeed ; then he perceived more clearly the Vicar, looking 
 even as Cook had said sick unto death. The amazing 
 virtue which informed his whole kindly presence seemed 
 to have gone out of him. Tim, following his mournful 
 glance, knew that the saint's high thoughts had descended 
 to earth, and lay there in shattered humiliation. At this 
 moment he was far sorrier for the Vicar than for him- 
 self and well might he be! 
 
 Lastly, with a swallow's flight, he swooped from the 
 happy village to Lanterton, beholding Ivy, that joyous 
 nymph, in sore trouble. The first tears he shed were for 
 her. 
 
 "I must go to Ivy," he faltered. 
 
 "No," said the Vicar, holding up his hand. He spoke 
 harshly, almost threateningly. "That is part of your pun- 
 ishment. You have wrought mischief enough. To the best 
 of my poor ability I have tried to make reparation. The 
 girl leaves her home this day. I promise you that she shall 
 be cared for. When did you see her last ?" 
 
 "Two months ago. We we agreed to part, sir." 
 
 "I gathered as much from the father. You spoke of 
 marrying this unhappy girl, but I doubt whether she would 
 marry you. I forbid you to see her." 
 
 A dull resentment, hounded by a realisation of his im- 
 potence, began to burn in Tim. Once more he told himself 
 that his conduct was to be cut and dried by another, that 
 he must conform, as before, to the dictates of authority, 
 regardless of his own feelings and sensibilities. 
 
 "That's not fair on me." 
 
 "Possibly not. I am considering her, not you." 
 
 "Ivy must want me she must." 
 
 "If her father is to be believed, she does not want you." 
 
 Tim groaned. Yes; he could conceive of Ivy shrinking 
 from him, turning reproachful, despairing eyes upon him,
 
 Timothy 
 
 upbraiding him bitterly, forgetting the happiness which he 
 had brought, thinking only of the shame. 
 
 "And now," said the Vicar wearily, "let us speak of 
 yourself, your future. You are aware that you are not 
 eligible as a candidate for the Indian Civil Service without 
 a signed certificate from me testifying to your moral quali- 
 fications for a profession which exacts the highest integ- 
 rity from the youngest of its servants. I can not sign that 
 certificate." 
 
 "I suppose not," said Tim. 
 
 "The fact of your expulsion from Eton " 
 
 "Don't rub it in !" exclaimed Tim. "I know that you 
 can't lie about me. Do you think I would ask you to do 
 so?" 
 
 "Then we are agreed that we must consider something 
 other than the ordinary professions ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "There remains business. There is no other field for 
 your talents. Meanwhile " 
 
 He paused, sighing. 
 
 "Yes ?" 
 
 "I must have time to to readjust, to have a clearer vision 
 of you, to " 
 
 His voice died away. Tim said passionately: 
 
 "Of course you loathe the very sight of me!" 
 
 The Vicar blinked at him, almost feebly. His eyes seemed 
 to have become dim and dull ; the anger had quite gone out 
 of them. He lay back in his chair with the air of an old, 
 tired man. He shook his head. 
 
 "I do not see you yet. I must be alone. Leave me !" 
 
 Tim moved to the door. As he reached it, the Vicar said 
 incisively : 
 
 "You are not going to her?" 
 
 "I must obey you, sir," said Tim bitterly. "It is all 
 that you ask of me, and you have the right to ask it." 
 
 He went out into the passage, closing the door. 
 
 92
 
 Scourgings 
 
 in 
 
 Tim walked to the coach-house, animated by the desire 
 to mount his bicycle, and rush away from the Vicarage. 
 Then a thought flew into his mind. He ran upstairs to 
 his bedroom. In a corner lay the canvas satchel which 
 he had carried through France. He crammed into it a 
 few things, and then scribbled half a dozen lines upon a 
 sheet of notepaper. He told the Vicar that he was going 
 away for a couple of days, that he meant to ride off the 
 first pangs of remorse, and spare the Vicar the sight of 
 his face. He ended : "I swear to you that I am not going 
 to Ivy." 
 
 He left the note upon the hall table, and mounted his 
 bicycle, riding slowly through the village. It lay placidly 
 basking in the amber sunshine of an autumnal afternoon. 
 Tim passed the church and the churchyard. At the Lych- 
 Gate stood an open fly from which tourists were descend- 
 ing, pilgrims to the grave of the poet. Across the road 
 stood the forge, the post-office, and the principal tavern. 
 East and west wandered the irregular lines of houses and 
 cottages. Out of the girls' school children were streaming. 
 Their laughter and chatter fell insistently upon Tim's ears. 
 Northward was the park, with its herds of fallow deer, 
 its splendid trees, its open wind-swept spaces sloping to 
 the ponds at the farther end. Everywhere Tim remarked 
 ordered simplicity and neatness, as if some beneficent provi- 
 dence had taken a huge pair of shears and then clipped 
 and pruned too luxuriant growths according to immemorial 
 pattern. At the door of a cottage was Lady Pennington's 
 phaeton, drawn by a pair of spirited cobs. A groom stood 
 at their heads. Tim accelerated his pace, unwilling to risk 
 a meeting with an old, kind friend of keenest insight and 
 unerring judgment. She would condemn him, when she 
 knew. He would be cast' out of Pennington House as un- 
 worthy of its unstained traditions. 
 
 He passed the stone wall of the Sanctuary, peering 
 
 93
 
 Timothy 
 
 through the white gate at the smooth gravel sweep bordered 
 by velvety sward. He could remember swinging upon that 
 gate with Daffy. In the Dell beyond he had kissed her. A 
 voice called him by name. Arthur Hazel, the dominie, 
 waved his hand. 
 
 "Whither away?" he asked. 
 
 Tim answered sharply: 
 
 "I don't know." And then he clapped on the brake, and 
 leapt to the ground, propping the bicycle against the wall. 
 He spoke eagerly to the dominie : 
 
 "Mr. Hazel, I gave you a lot of trouble in the old days, 
 eh?" 
 
 "No, no. I loved teaching you." 
 
 "Did you? Well, I've never thanked you; I've never 
 told you that you were awfully patient and good to 
 me." 
 
 Hazel's pale face flushed with pleasure. 
 
 "That is pleasant to hear," he said quietly. "God bless 
 you, my boy." 
 
 He held out his hand, which Tim grasped, unable to 
 speak. He remounted his bicycle, and sped on, hearing 
 Hazel's voice, and above it the cawing of innumerable 
 rooks. Afterwards he could never think of the village with- 
 out seeing the bent figure of the schoolmaster, and hearing 
 the rooks. 
 
 A minute later, by an odd coincidence or was it more 
 than that? he encountered Ernest Judd. He wondered 
 whether Ernest knew. He slowed up, as Ernest approached, 
 trying to read the expression upon a red, bovine face. 
 Ernest had grown into a stalwart young man. Torn by 
 curiosity, Tim jumped down, and accosted his former friend 
 and disciple. 
 
 "Hullo, Journey!" 
 
 "Good-day, Mr. Tim." 
 
 Journey's face seemed to be strangely impassive. Tim 
 put a question with startling abruptness : 
 
 "Have you seen Ivy Jellicoe lately?" 
 94
 
 Scourgings 
 
 Journey's complexion deepened in tint, as he replied 
 defiantly : 
 
 "Yes, I have. Why?" 
 
 "How is she?" 
 
 Their eyes met aggressively. Tim glanced up and down 
 the road. Nobody was in sight. Journey said slowly: 
 
 "You know how she is, seemin'ly." 
 
 "How do you know?" 
 
 "Because she told me." As Tim winced, Journey added : 
 
 "Her secret is safe wi' me, Mr. Tim. God A'mighty 
 knows that, as safe as 'tis with Him." 
 
 Tim trembled. 
 
 "I saw you with her one day." 
 
 "Did 'ee?" 
 
 "Journey, my fa the Vicar knows." 
 
 "Ah ! I reckoned that Jack Jellicoe 'd go first to t' Par- 
 son, pore dear man!" 
 
 "I'm in the most hellish trouble," said Tim. "I feel 
 like killing myself." 
 
 "Ivy feels that way, too." 
 
 Tim recovered his self-possession. 
 
 "Journey, how do you feel about it?" 
 
 " Tain't none o' my business, Mr. Tim." 
 
 "But you liked Ivy ; you walked out with her. Oh, damn 
 it ! you must know a lot that I'd give the world to know. 
 Can't you help me? Say something say something. I'm 
 forbidden to go near her." 
 
 "Ah ! That be common sense, to be sure ! She don't 
 want 'ee to come nigh her. That's truth, Mr. Tim." 
 
 "It seems so strange, so heartless." 
 
 His white wretched face, his trembling limbs, moved the 
 other deeply. Journey began to blubber, great sobs shaking 
 him. Tim jumped hotfoot to the wrong conclusion : 
 
 "Oh, Journey, for God's sake, don't tell me that you cared 
 for her!" 
 
 "I be tarr'ble sorry for ee, Mr. Tim. Yas, I be. I'd 
 like to comfort ee, yas, I would ; I be blubberin', like a fulish 
 
 95
 
 Timothy 
 
 maid because I be so sorry for ee. I ain't sorry for myself, 
 and I ain't too sorry for Ivy, because she's light, Mr. Tim. 
 I could ha' told ee that afore ever you met her. They 
 Jellicoes is all light. 'Tis in the blood. I walked out wi' 
 her for a lark. I wouldn't marry such as she not for 
 fifty pound." 
 
 "Heavens 1 She was light with you ?" 
 
 "No. That fair madded me; yas, it did. Because I 
 knowed she was willin' enough, only afeared. I make bold 
 to swear you was the only one, Mr. Tim. She got after 
 ee, I'll wager my life on that. She's light, pore dear soul. 
 It was tarr'ble bad luck your takin' up wi' she. And now 
 she fair hates ee." 
 
 "Hates me?" 
 
 "Aye. 'Tis well you should know it. Seemin'ly, that 
 proves her lightness to my way o' thinkin'. She never loved 
 ee, Mr. Tim. She loved the good times you had together. 
 And when you got nervous and miserable, why she just 
 turned from ee, yas, she did, and laughed at ee to me." 
 
 Tim's cup overflowed. The grim humour of the situa- 
 tion appalled him. He saw himself as a puppet, the play- 
 thing of Fate and a village girl. Beside him, even poor, 
 blubbering Journey loomed colossal. The blow to his pride 
 was so overwhelming that he was conscious of nothing ex- 
 cept the instinct of the wounded animal to escape, to hide 
 himself for ever and ever. He managed to disguise his 
 feelings from Journey, grasping him fiercely by the hand, 
 so fiercely that Journey winced with pain. 
 
 "Thank you," he said hoarsely. 
 
 "Where be goin, Mr. Tim?" 
 
 Tim answered mechanically as before : 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 IV 
 
 Southampton was reached within an hour. As he passed 
 through the Bargate, Tim became conscious of an extraor- 
 96
 
 Scourgings 
 
 dinary thirst. His throat was parched ; his tongue swollen ; 
 and an evil bitter taste filled his mouth. To quench this 
 awful thirst was his immediate object, but he purposely 
 avoided the well-known hotels, riding on till he came to 
 a tavern near the docks, frequented by the better class 
 of seamen, mates of sailing vessels, and the like, with whom 
 Tim had often exchanged agreeable and informing talk. 
 You may not be surprised to learn that during a brief sixty 
 minutes Tim had tackled and resolved the pressing prob- 
 lem of his future. As a boy he had been enchanted with 
 Ouida's famous "Under Two Flags." He decided, now, 
 that he would find his way to Algiers and offer his serv- 
 ices to the Foreign Legion ; and he hoped that there would 
 be plenty of fighting with Arab sheiks, and the welcome 
 possibility of a glorious death. He selected this tavern 
 partly because he was not likely to meet any acquaintance 
 there, and partly because he wished to discover the quick- 
 est and cheapest way of reaching Algiers. 
 
 The bar was cosy, furnished with old mahogany, and 
 embellished by cases of stuffed birds and butterflies. There 
 were rows of cordials in square cut-glass bottles, a net full 
 of lemons, and sundry small, highly varnished kegs, brass- 
 bound, with shining brass taps. 
 
 The licensed victualler behind the bar, a thick-set fellow, 
 had distinguished himself locally as a boxer. And next to 
 the bar was a large room, hung round with portraits of 
 Jem Mace, Tom Sayers, and other pets of the Fancy. Any- 
 body wanting a round or two with the gloves could sat- 
 isfy such a want easily and quickly. 
 
 Tim called for a pint of bitter, and partially slaked his 
 thirst by swallowing most of it at one draught. The man 
 behind the bar nodded to him. Tim surveyed the com- 
 pany. 
 
 A weather-beaten individual in a thick pilot jacket chal- 
 lenged attention. He seemed a cheery sort ; so Tim invited 
 him to wet his whistle, an invitation promptly accepted. 
 After sparring for an opening, Tim asked for special in- 
 
 97
 
 Timothy 
 
 formation about Algiers. Much to his disappointment, 
 the man in the pilot coat admitted his ignorance of Medi- 
 terranean ports. But he hazarded the opinion that Mar- 
 seilles was the right place. Thence Algiers could be reached 
 either by steam packet or sailing vessel. After more talk, 
 Tim learned that his companion was first mate of a four- 
 master sailing next day to San Francisco, a three months' 
 voyage. 
 
 "Jolly!" said Tim. 
 
 "You wouldn't say so if you was taking in sail in a gale 
 o' wind, my lad, off the Horn." 
 
 "Must be awfully exciting." 
 
 "It is, my lad. Ever been to sea?" 
 
 "Never!" 
 
 "I thought not. You have a drop with me before you 
 go home to lie atween clean sheets." 
 
 Tim said scornfully: 
 
 "I want to get away from clean sheets. That's wh) 
 I asked you about Algiers." 
 
 "Ho! Trouble?" 
 
 Tim nodded. 
 
 "Bit o' skirt, I dessay?" 
 
 "Quite right," said Tim. 
 
 The mate eyed him with greater interest, marking hia 
 handsome face and strong body. He sighed deeply, growl- 
 ing out : 
 
 "I was never much bothered with females. Always sup- 
 posed I wasn't to their taste, and grateful I am to Gawd for 
 that. Give you the chuck, maybe ?" 
 
 "In a way she did," Tim admitted. He was afire to de- 
 liver himself of his burden, for he felt that this cheery 
 fellow might be sympathetic. Just then the talk was inter- 
 rupted by a stranger,- a heavy-shouldered, sandy-haired 
 young man with large dirty hands, hanging nautically at 
 his side. 
 
 "Be you Mr. Tull?" he asked. 
 
 "That's my name right enough." 
 98
 
 Scourgings 
 
 "First mate of The Cassandra?" 
 
 "You've hit it again? What you want?" 
 
 "To work my way to 'Frisco." 
 
 "Ho ! Want to ship with me hay ?" 
 
 "Don't mind if I do." 
 
 The mate eyed him up and down, very critically, whereat 
 the young man said shortly: 
 
 "I can fill the job." 
 
 ''I dessay you can. We do happen to want one more." 
 
 Tim jumped up. 
 
 "Take me, sir." 
 
 The "sir" was a master touch; but the mate laughed 
 genially, saying: 
 
 "You ? Well, I admire your spunk, but ain't you a gen- 
 tleman ?" 
 
 "I'm strong and active. Does anything else matter?" 
 
 The newcomer expectorated his disgust. He stared of- 
 fensively at Tim, stroking a chin upon which bristled a 
 two days' growth of red stubble. 
 
 "Strong? You? I could lick the likes of you with one 
 hand tied behind me back." 
 
 "I don't think so," said Tim modestly. He appealed per- 
 suasively to the mate. 
 
 "Do take me, sir." 
 
 "Shut up yer girlie face," said the other applicant. "I 
 mean business." 
 
 "So do I." 
 
 The mate scratched his head, staring harder than ever at 
 Tim. 
 
 "I like the cut of yer jib," he grunted, "but t'other asked 
 first. Got yer discharges, my lad ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Take me," pleaded Tim. 
 
 "You say one more word," interrupted the heavy- 
 shouldered young man, "and I'll knock yer bloomin' 'ead 
 off." 
 
 "You are at liberty to try," said Tim politely. The mate 
 
 99
 
 Timothy 
 
 roared with laughter, smiting his vast thigh with a hand 
 not much smaller than a leg of mutton. 
 
 "Hold hard !" he shouted, for Heavy Shoulders was put- 
 ting his fists up. "We'll settle this yere little difference 
 of opinion in the next room, if you two kids is agreeable." 
 He turned to Tim, broadly grinning: "I'll take the winner 
 to San Francisco." 
 
 "I'm much obliged to you, sir," said Tim. 
 
 The preliminaries of this sparring match were soon ar- 
 ranged, the Licensed Victualler gladly taking upon himself 
 the duties of timekeeper and referee. Tim stripped to his 
 jersey, and so did Heavy Shoulders, whose massive arms, 
 bull neck and immense hard hands found favour with the 
 onlookers. Nobody was willing to back Tim, except the 
 mate, who took six to one in half crowns. A dirty pair 
 of gloves were pulled out of a cupboard, somewhat to Heavy 
 Shoulders' disgust, for he expressed a preference for bare 
 knuckles. 
 
 "No fightin' here," said the Licensed Victualler. "J ust 
 a leetle friendly set-to. Shake 'ands, both of yer." 
 
 The young men did so. Heavy Shoulders scowled vi- 
 ciously. Tim smiled. He was no tyro at the game, and 
 eyed with pleasure the somewhat weak underpinning of 
 his antagonist. 
 
 " 'Ware clinchin'," said the Timekeeper. 
 
 Heavy Shoulders rushed in, determined to end the fight 
 with one blow. Tim side-stepped neatly, so neatly that 
 Heavy Shoulders staggered and almost fell. A professional 
 fighter would have taken swift advantage of the stumble, 
 but Tim waited, still smiling. Heavy Shoulders, cursing 
 freely, advanced more cautiously. Tim countered a straight 
 left, landing on the jaw lightly. 
 100
 
 Scourgings 
 
 "I'll take five to one," said the Mate. 
 
 At the end of the first round, Heavy Shoulders was pant- 
 ing. Tim was fresh as paint. The Mate said to him 
 earnestly : 
 
 "Keep away from him. Don't mix things up! See?" 
 
 "Right," said Tim. 
 
 In the middle of a more lively second round Tim was 
 knocked off his legs, but sprang up quickly with a bleed- 
 ing mouth. His pleasant smile vanished as Heavy Shoul- 
 ders bored in, swinging both hands. Tim ducked and 
 escaped. 
 
 "Good foot-work," said the Mate approvingly. 
 
 Sticking tight to his man, Heavy Shoulders landed an- 
 other blow. Tim was hitting twice to the other's once, but 
 his blows appeared to lack force. By the end of the round 
 Tim showed slight signs of distress. 
 
 "Stick to his ribs," counselled the mate. 
 
 Tim profited by this excellent advice during the third 
 round, ducking and side-stepping till Heavy Shoulders 
 swore that he was funking. Three times Tim's left struck 
 hard and true just above the belt, but he was slow to 
 follow up such attacks. 
 
 "I'll take four to one," remarked the Mate. 
 
 Heavy Shoulders was perspiring profusely. Looking at 
 his set face and protruding chin, it might be inferred that 
 he intended to finish his man if he could. 
 
 "You watch out this time," counselled the mate, "and, 
 look ye here, when you hit him in the ribs with yer left, 
 follow it up quick with yer right, on 'is 'ead !" 
 
 "Ra ther," said Tim, wiping his mouth. 
 
 The fourth and last round began. Possibly Tim was 
 sensitive to outside criticism; possibly, too, he had gained 
 confidence. When Heavy Shoulders rushed in, he stood 
 still, and let his antagonist close. In defiance of timekeeper 
 and referee, Heavy Shoulders clinched, but as he did so 
 Tim found once more the spot just above the belt, and his 
 body was behind the blow. Heavy Shoulders hung weakly 
 
 101
 
 Timothy 
 
 for an instant. Tim let go his right, crashing full upon 
 the point of the jaw. 
 
 Heavy Shoulders was down and out. 
 
 It may be said of the defeated youth that he took his 
 licking with surprising grace, and with it half a sovereign, 
 with which Tim could ill afford to part. The mate clapped 
 Tim upon the back, and swore that he had the makings 
 of an able-bodied seaman. True to his promise, he en- 
 gaged Tim there and then. It was settled between them 
 that Tim should sell his bicycle, and buy what kit was 
 necessary, the mate undertaking to help him. Finally he 
 said heartily: 
 
 "And now, my lad, what's yer name ?" 
 
 Tim hesitated. What was his name ? He replied slowly : 
 
 "Timothy Green." 
 
 "Ho! Green, is it? Well, my lad, salt water will wash 
 the green out of you before we cross the Line. Green 
 hay?" 
 
 "Why not, sir?'' asked Tim. 
 
 102
 
 BOOK TWO: GREEN
 
 BOOK TWO: GREEN 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 BUFFETINGS 
 
 TIM fell in love with the sea, being obstreperously 
 healthy, but it was not love at first sight. For a time 
 he suffered abominably torments of mind and body. Dur- 
 ing twenty-four hours he was very sea-sick. The smell of 
 the foc'sle made him heave before the ship did. Homesick- 
 ness assailed him, with even sharper pangs, as he stood 
 upon the main deck of The Cassandra, amid a litter of hen- 
 coops, spare gear, and 'longshore truck, and saw the woods 
 of Cadland fading out abeam. The great ship followed her 
 tug into swashing seas. It was blowing half a gale. The 
 Cassandra jerked and jibbed at her hawser, as if she was 
 loath to leave smooth water. The black smoke from the 
 tug's funnels blew into Tim's eyes, and made them water. 
 Was it that, or something else? Sorely was he tempted 
 to jump overboard into the yeasty wake and end all mis- 
 eries and perplexities. 
 
 Then he heard the voice of Tull, the first mate, heart- 
 ening him up at the moment when he was wondering dis- 
 mally how long it took to drown. Tull clapped the boy 
 on the back, bawling out: 
 
 "How goes it, my cock o' wax ?" 
 
 What a nerve-shattering voice ! Tim scraped up a feeble 
 smile. The mate grasped his arm, and went on bawling : 
 
 105
 
 Timothy 
 
 "Get some salt pork into you, my lad. Nothing like that 
 to stick to the ribs. The bo'sun has my orders to go easy 
 with you for a spell, but ain't this grand hay ?" 
 
 Tim responded feebly. The vitality of the mate was 
 irresistible. 
 
 "Dips her nose into it, the pretty glutton !" 
 
 Tim's eyes gazed ahead instead of abeam. Pale amber 
 shafts of wintry sunlight pierced the flying wracks of cloud ; 
 they whitened the foam on the crest of the waves and deep- 
 ened the brilliant emerald of their hollows. As the ship 
 bent before the blast, the water boiled and bubbled through 
 the scuppers. 
 
 "Ain't it good to be alive?" asked the mate. 
 
 Something in Tim made him answer "Yes." 
 
 "Go below ! These slippery decks ain't safe for a green- 
 horn. Lie snug! You'll be right as a trivet before we're 
 out of the Channel." 
 
 Tim went below, where one of the crew for'ard gave him 
 a tin full of boiling coffee and a biscuit. Tim had shipped 
 as a foremast hand (whatever that might mean; he didn't 
 know or care at the time), and, although The Cassandra 
 was pitching and yawing, he was not yet so sea-sick as to 
 be quite incapable of taking a squint at his shipmates. They 
 were, indeed, a fairly good lot, for The Casandra had an 
 honest character; and her skipper was neither bully nor 
 beast; but what a ruffianly crew they appeared to the 
 Etonian! What Gadarene swine! Bearded, salted veter- 
 ans, pallid, greasy foreigners Turks, heretics, infidels, 
 Jumpers and Jews. That line out of the dear old "Ingoldsby 
 Legends" came into his mind as he stared, hollow-eyed, 
 at the companions with whom he would have to talk 
 and eat and sleep and work during three long months! 
 Most of them were half drunk, smelling evilly of beer 
 and bad spirits, cursing sadly because work had yet to 
 purge them of 'longshore appetites and lusts. Heavens! 
 what a rabble, surely the scum of the earth and the high 
 seas! 
 
 106
 
 Buf fetings 
 
 The Cassandra began to pitch more heavily. 
 Tim crawled into his bunk and wished that he was 
 dead. 
 
 ii 
 
 The sickness and homesickness passed. And with it much 
 of his remorse. A boy of nineteen can easily forgive his 
 enemy, if that enemy happens to be himself. The sorrow 
 and disappointment caused to the Vicar gnawed sharply 
 at Tim's conscience ; but he could view with detachment 
 his own emotions. He tried to think of himself as a great 
 sinner, but failed, remaining desperately sorry for the Vicar, 
 desperately sorry for Ivy, but unrepentant of the actual 
 offence. 
 
 The crass exactitudes of our social system, its shib- 
 boleths and hypocrisies, fermented windily. Perhaps he 
 had always been a rebel, questioning in his heart of hearts 
 the dicta and injunctions of priests and teachers? Why 
 were young people given appetites quite as strong and as 
 importunate as hunger and thirst if, in some reasonable 
 way, they were not intended to satisfy them? 
 
 Subdue the flesh! 
 
 Why? 
 
 Intemperance in any gross form was, of course, beastly. 
 Tim detested gluttons and winebibbers. But this terrible, 
 unspeakable sin of his and Ivy's. Why was it terrible, 
 why unmentionable in polite circles? 
 
 He was not old enough or wise enough to answer such 
 questions. Accordingly, he laid them aside, sadly puz- 
 zled and distressed because life was so difficult and mys- 
 terious. 
 
 The coarse talk in the foc'sle, while it offended his ears,, 
 soothed his conscience. Everybody knew that he was a 
 gentleman's son, who had bolted from a too tempestuous 
 petticoat. Tim would have been a fool had he not per- 
 ceived that he was regarded by his fellows as a lively young 
 
 107
 
 Timothy 
 
 spark. What he had done found favour in their sight. 
 They demanded details, and were sulky when Tim refused 
 to gratify salacious curiosities. 
 
 The food, like the talk, tvirned his stomach at first, but 
 soon he learned to wolf it with the rest, just as he learned 
 to smoke pungent, acrid tobacco. 
 
 He won respect with his fists, although pounded to a 
 jelly by a man bigger and stronger than Heavy Shoulders. 
 This fellow was continually sneering at the "gentleman" and 
 playing dirty tricks on him, unmentionable pranks. His 
 name was Nazro, and he came from Massachusetts, a gaunt, 
 big-boned Yankee, a bull of a man, with raucous, bellowing 
 voice, and a huge foot ever ready to kick a man less pow- 
 erful than himself, and a fist as ready to fall upon heads 
 thicker than his own. A bully, and yet brave, brave as 
 Nelson when a hurricane howled, and Death grinned up 
 aloft at the end of a yard ! 
 
 Tim stood it as long as he could ; then he fought like 
 a wildcat; and was half killed. When he recovered con- 
 sciousness, Nazro jeered at him : 
 
 "That gal you was stuck on thought you the h 11 of a fine 
 feller! Pity she can't see you now." 
 
 Tim staggered up; his eyes were battered, but the fire 
 had not gone out of them. He limped towards his con- 
 queror. 
 
 "I've one more word to say to you." 
 
 "Thunder! You want another lickin'?" 
 
 "No; that's why I'm talking now. I fought you fairly 
 and was thrashed. I sha'n't fight fairly next time." 
 
 The men present pricked up their ears. Nazro grinned. 
 
 "You've a nerve, you sucker, you !" 
 
 Tim spoke distinctly: 
 
 "If you play any more beastly tricks on me, I shall wait 
 till your back is turned, and then I'll split your bull's head 
 open with anything that is handy." 
 
 "I kin see you doin' it." 
 
 "No, you won't. You'll see ten thousand stars." 
 108
 
 Bufferings 
 
 Nazro perceived that the boy meant it. Once again qual- 
 ity confronted quantity, and quality prevailed. Nazro let 
 Tim alone; after a time they became friends. 
 
 Thus Tim lived and learned. 
 
 The circle of his sympathies grew larger. The hands 
 for'ard talked nauseatingly of women, and in particular 
 of those forlorn creatures whom Tim had been brought 
 up to consider as utterly lost, and quite beyond the pale 
 of respect or real esteem. Nevertheless, these rough, bru- 
 tally outspoken men made Tim realise that the Mollies and 
 Dollies of the waterfront possessed fine qualities : charity 
 which covereth many sins pluck, and even fidelity. Tim 
 held his peace, marvelling at human nature, and conscious 
 of a strange expanding. He was not yet weaned from Pen- 
 nington pap as he sucked in this strong drink from the hairy 
 breasts of strong men. 
 
 Their strength appealed to him enormously. When he 
 staggered on deck, after his bout of sea-sickness, he was 
 amazed at the change. Everything was shipshape and clean. 
 The litter and lumber had been stowed away; the decks 
 and gear had been miraculously cleansed by the great 
 seas. 
 
 And it seemed to be so with the men. A gale of wind, 
 not yet passed, had cleansed them. Eyes were less bleary ; 
 skins grew cleaner. At the bo'sun's pipe, the hands sprang 
 up, alert and eager, ready for any task that might be im- 
 posed, but it takes nearly three weeks to wash the beer out 
 of most of them. 
 
 He learned another lesson, the rule of thumb, so to speak, 
 which constitutes the code of ethics of the poor, a code 
 jealously guarded, for the simple who are not so simple 
 as they seem repeat like parrots what the gentle expect 
 them to say, what the gentle have dinned into their patient 
 ears during countless generations. Tim discovered the 
 truth when he became of the poor, poorer than they, inas- 
 much as he was ignorant of their crafts so laboriously 
 acquired. His ignorance of knowledge vital to them seemed 
 
 109
 
 Timothy 
 
 at first immeasurable, infinitely greater than their ignorance 
 of Latin and Greek and mathematics. 
 
 This was the rule of thumb: 
 
 Fortitude is reckoned by those who go down to the sea 
 in ships to be a greater virtue than chastity ; generosity soars 
 high above justice ; courage, that king virtue, is greater 
 than truth or even love. Tim salted down this new text: 
 "And now abideth three things, Health and Luck and Pluck, 
 and the greatest of these is Pluck !" 
 
 in 
 
 The Cassandra struck a hurricane on the lower edge of 
 the Bay, a genuine Biscayer, when the tempest ruled su- 
 preme, and even the huge waves were flattened by its vio- 
 lence, unable to raise their angry crests, crouching like sullen 
 hounds. The great ship became the plaything of the gale, 
 a broken-winged bird upon the waters, hove-to under close- 
 reefed topsails, drifting ever to leeward, while the Skipper 
 cursed and the men for'ard swapped stories as dirty as 
 the weather. 
 
 But Tim was not frightened, and this conviction forti- 
 fied him. Every gallant youth wonders how he will feel 
 and what he will do in moments of deadly peril. As a 
 rule circumstances constrain him to do nothing, which chafes 
 to madness his sensibilities. Tommy Atkins, on his tummy, 
 fingering the trigger of his rifle, but sternly commanded 
 not to pull it, whilst the shrapnel is screaming overhead, 
 knows what the deadly sickness of inaction is. Jack, snug in 
 the foc'sle, when the green seas are awash from stem to 
 stern, and the wind howls a "Thanatopsis," may and often 
 does cut his joke, but his heart shrivels within him. 
 
 Tim's heart did not shrivel when the green seas were 
 
 awash from stem to stern. If the bo'sun's pipe sounded. 
 
 he donned his oilskins and seaboots, and rushed riotously 
 
 into action. At that moment he regretted nothing except 
 
 no
 
 Buf fetings 
 
 his ignorance, but he did his best to learn, and he learned 
 fast. 
 
 Fine weather followed ; and The Cassandra moved majes- 
 tically upon an even keel, carrying every stitch of canvas, 
 even her skysails. She was steel-built, of the early eighties, 
 a miracle of speed and symmetry, handled by a master, 
 with the right men under him. 
 
 Tim expected to be bored, but his hands and mind were 
 everlastingly busy ; at night he slept soundly and dream- 
 lessly, falling dog-tired into his hard bunk, but awaking 
 fresh and invigorated, keen as a hound for a fresh trail, 
 eager to beat his mates at their own game. His neck thick- 
 ened ; his chest expanded ; his muscles became hard as 
 hickory. 
 
 The past had faded, like the distant woods upon the 
 Solent. He gazed joyously into the future. His ambitions, 
 for the moment, fluttered like petrels upon the high seas. 
 To command such a ship as The Cassandra, to be lord of 
 his own life and the lives of others, to sail on and on 
 through cloud and sunshine this surely was worth the 
 doing, a nobler task than administering justice to half- 
 famished Hindus, and cramming Western ideas down East- 
 ern throats, with a liver twice its normal size, and a com- 
 plexion the colour of dirty skilly! 
 
 Nazro and he talked together. 
 
 The New Englander was first and last a seaman, who had 
 served his apprenticeship cod-fishing upon the banks of 
 Newfoundland. He feared neither man nor devil, was 
 a liar of the first magnitude, and something of a humour- 
 ist. Tim loved his lies, because they indicated a per fervid 
 imagination and a quality as yet strange to him, essentially 
 transpontine, a desire to shine before other men as your 
 true salt of the world, your pickled, pickling swashbuckler, 
 the irrepressible buccaneer ! 
 
 A Captain Kidd of a fellow! 
 
 "You mark me, you sucker, you ! Geysers and Gizzards ! 
 Ain't you green ?" 
 
 in
 
 Timothy 
 
 "It's coming out in the wash," said Tim modestly. 
 
 "You bet! Wai, sonny, I was greener than you onct. 
 I was the greenest boy on the Banks. That's a dead cold 
 fact, and somethin' to cheer ye up. But I was always 
 full o' ginger, as you air. That's why I waste my time 
 talkin' to ye. Handsome, too. The girls couldn't keep 
 their hands off me. I was merried a dozen times before 
 I was thirty! Yes, sir, a bigamist! I blazed my trail 
 through the wimmenfolk from Maine to Californy." 
 
 "From the North Pole to the South ?" 
 
 "You grin at me, and I'll wager no girl'll ever grin at 
 you agen. Now, I've done with the petticoats. Fed up 
 with 'em. Drink has mastered me. I can drink more bad 
 liquor than any man on earth, and never shew it. I was 
 a champion eater onct. Yes, I was. Consumed eighteen 
 eggs, three Porterhouse steaks and a leg o' mutton at one 
 sittin', and as a starter I hed to down a dozen sugared 
 oysters. Ever eat a sugared oyster ?" 
 
 "Never." 
 
 "One 'd make ye bring up yer liver and lights! Yes, 
 sir, I've bin cock o' many walks. What I don't know ain't 
 wuth knowin'. And I'll learn ye some of it, because yer 
 full o' snap. Yer ignerunce fatigues me awful." 
 
 "You are very kind." 
 
 "I ain't. I'm the h 11 of a feller, a rag'lar devil. I seen 
 the devil in you when you swore to cut my head open. I 
 cottoned to ye then and there. Say, what you mean to 
 do when we fetch 'Frisco?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "Course ye don't. Likely as not ye'll be shanghaied the 
 first night, and wake up to find yerself in blue water agen, 
 in a ship compared to which this yere is a young ladies' 
 seminary." 
 
 "Perhaps you will steer me a bit." 
 
 "I will. Any hankerin' after gold dust? It's a mug's 
 game, minin', but some of 'em strike it. I found one o* 
 the biggest nuggets in Australia, bigger'n my head. I blew 
 
 112
 
 Bufferings 
 
 that nugget in three days, and was King o' Melbourne for 
 precisely that length o' time." 
 
 "Isn't mining played out in California?" 
 
 "Wai, it is and it isn't. Californy is the Golden State, 
 but the gold don't come out o' the placers as it did, and 
 t'other sort o' mining comes high. Kin you ride?" 
 
 "A little." 
 
 "I kin ride anything with hair on. I was a broncho- 
 buster once. I mind me of a bucking pinto that threw 
 every cowboy that climbed on to its back inside o' two 
 minutes by the clock. I rode that devil round and round 
 a corral f er twelve hours without stoppin' ! The boys sat 
 on the rail, and slung cup-custards at us, which I scraped 
 off and swallered to keep my strength up. Ever hear the 
 like o' that?" 
 
 "Never." 
 
 "The trouble with me, sonny, is this. I was born to the 
 sea, and I can't live off it. The sea keeps me straight, 
 keeps me out o' the Penitentiary. No women at sea, and 
 mighty little drink." 
 
 "But you said you'd given up women?" 
 
 Nazro rolled a melancholy eye. 
 
 "That's truth. But they won't give me up. They help 
 themselves see? It's a crool combination, women an' 
 drink ! You put that into the barrel f er keeps ! Druv me 
 into terrible crimes. I've robbed stages ; held up trains. 
 That's why I'm here, sonny, far from sheriffs and their 
 cursed depities, a-talkin' to you and tryin' to work the green- 
 ness outer yer !" 
 
 "I'm ever so much obliged," said Tim. 
 
 IV 
 
 Tull, the first mate, threw crumbs of talk to our hero, 
 which he ate and digested at his leisure. First mates, by 
 the nature of sea things, cannot engage in conversation with 
 foremast hands. Tull, however, kept an eye on the boy,
 
 Timothy 
 
 and chuckled to himself when he perceived that Tim did 
 his duty with alacrity, and showed far greater aptitude than 
 any of the apprentices, whom Tull condemned in words 
 not to be repeated. 
 
 Tull was the antithesis of Nazro, an honest sea-dog, not 
 a sea-wolf with fangs sharpened to slash. Tull had a 
 reverence for the great waters and all therein and thereon 
 which Nazro would have scoffed at. He had begun life, 
 like Nazro, as a fisherman, and then had served a long 
 apprenticeship before the mast. He knew a ship as some 
 skippers never learn to know her, regarding her not as 
 a vehicle for Traffics and Discoveries, but as a sentient 
 being answering to the voice and hand of Man. Often re- 
 bellious and intractable, but obedient to her master in the 
 end. Tull, perhaps, was the only man of The Cassandra 
 who recognised Tim as a gentleman, and took him seri- 
 ously as such. Probably the good fellow had been born 
 in some village not unlike Little Pennington. 
 
 "Coming on fine, you are," he would say, in the middle 
 watch, when Tim was at the wheel. This praise filled Tim 
 with pleasure. 
 
 "Thank you, sir." 
 
 "Nice perlite boy ! Stick to that the perliteness, I mean. 
 It pays even in the foc'sle. So Nazro licked you, hay?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "He's rotten bad, is Nazro, but not so black as he paints 
 himself, my lad. A very gifted liar! And a fine example 
 of what not to be. Been homesick, hay?" 
 
 "It has passed, sir." 
 
 "Good!" 
 
 He would walk away after such meetings, grunting to 
 himself and grinning. Then, perhaps, he would turn, and 
 raise a warning finger : 
 
 "Don't you go and forget, my lad, all that they taught 
 you over there," indicating the right and tight little island 
 with a wave of his vast hand. 
 
 Tim wondered whether he was forgetting. Little Pen- 
 114
 
 Buf fetings 
 
 nington remained as a soft blur upon his horizon growing 
 more and more indistinct. Anything would divert his 
 thoughts from it, a school of flying fish or porpoises, an 
 albatross, the sight of another ship, unless it happened 
 to be homeward bound. 
 
 When he hinted slyly to Tull that he thought of adopt- 
 ing the sea as a profession, the old shell-back eyed him 
 up and down somewhat derisively : 
 
 "Ho! I dessay you'd like to command a clipper?" 
 
 "By Jove, I should!" 
 
 " Tain't everybody's job, my lad ; and a hard life, too." 
 
 "You like it, sir?" 
 
 "I lump it, boy. Take it as it comes, rough and smooth, 
 and more rough than smooth. Be in no hurry! The 
 right job comes to the right man, or he goes to it. Never 
 knowed an exception to that rule." 
 
 "I'm keen about it, sir." 
 
 "Aye! Keen and green. The two sail together. You'll 
 be less keen when the greenness goes." 
 
 Tim candidly admitted that he was green. He was oddly 
 pleased with himself for taking the name temporarily ! When 
 would he change it for another? 
 
 "I shall never be White again," he thought. 
 
 Had he been born white? What truth was there in 
 this seemingly monstrous doctrine of Original Sin? Must 
 the child of sinners be born a sinner? Obviously, the 
 Vicar, dear saint, was cocksure of it. Because of this con- 
 viction had he not strained himself to breaking point in 
 his efforts to conquer heredity with environment? 
 
 Was he a very grievous sinner? Why did Nazro ac- 
 claim the devil in him? 
 
 Such thoughts do not pester healthy, active young men. 
 Tim dismissed them lightly, but they returned like homing 
 doves. They swooped upon him in calm weather, when 
 the canvas flapped idly from the yards, and the sea became 
 a blue carpet, and the work to be done exacted muscle, not 
 mind.
 
 Timothy 
 
 He had written to the Vicar upon the morning he sailed 
 from Southampton, telling him that he had assumed the 
 name of Green. The answer to that letter, and other let- 
 ters, would await him at San Francisco. He wondered 
 whether the scandal had leaked out. Did Sir Gilbert know ? 
 What would he say ? By Jove ! Wasn't a fellow well out 
 of this horrid mess? 
 
 And Ivy, who hated him? 
 
 Journey was right; the fact that she hated him proved 
 her light and heartless, an animal. But he thought of her 
 often, contrasting and comparing her with the Jills be- 
 longing to the Jacks in the f oc'sle. Heavens ! She did not 
 shine out above such odorous comparisons! 
 
 Had he really loved her? 
 
 This was a knotty question, hard to be unravelled. For 
 a season he had been mad about her, willing to make any 
 sacrifices. He could think of her tenderly still, and of 
 her burden. 
 
 But, try as he would, he could not visualise himself as 
 a father. 
 
 The Cassandra made her southing gallantly, crossing the 
 Line thirty days out from Southampton, and heading swiftly 
 for the Calms of Capricorn. Father Neptune did not come 
 aboard, so Tim was spared some man-handling and buf- 
 foonery. But he was by now active enough to go aloft by 
 the chain runners of the topsail halliards, hand over hand ; 
 and he knew nearly as much about running gear as the 
 youngest apprentice, which is feeble praise. 
 
 Tim began to long for another storm. Nazro smiled 
 complacently : 
 
 "I know the feelin', you young sucker. It claws at one ; 
 it ain't to be denied. You'll hev it worse ashore." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "You wait, Mister Green ! Wait till yer foot strikes the 
 116
 
 Bufferings 
 
 water front o' 'Frisco, and you feel money in yer pocket, 
 and Tiger Town is up yonder, and the big saloons. Won't 
 you sail bang into the storm then? I wonder!" 
 
 "I think not," said Tim. 
 
 "You wait, my young chick! Storm? Gizzards and 
 Corsets! The wind from places I know'll blow the sticks 
 bang outer ye." 
 
 And he laughed again more riotously than before. 
 
 Tim edged away from him, hating his evil face and his 
 leering eyes. 
 
 "None of that for me," thought Tim. Nazro pursued 
 him. 
 
 "Scared, eh ? Wai, sonny, I'll tell ye this. Don't you be 
 a baby, whinin' afore .yer hurt." 
 
 "I have been hurt." 
 
 "Pshaw! Scratched that's all. Waitin' fer a blow, air 
 ye? Right! Let yerself rip when it does blow. Clap 
 on all sail and scoot! That's life; that's suthin' wuth 
 waitin' fer. Calms is for old women and children. Ain't 
 yer tumbled to that yet?" 
 
 "Not yet," said Tim. 
 
 The bo'sun piped. 
 
 Nazro sprang to attention, listening. The wind was drum- 
 ming hard upon the great mainsail, and above that deep 
 diapason booming rose the shrilling of stays and backstays, 
 high notes of distress, no more to be mistaken than the 
 swift fall of the glass. 
 
 "We're in fer a reg'lar out-'n-outer," said Nazro. "I've 
 smelled it comin' fer an hour past." 
 
 VI 
 
 "All hands aloft ! Up you go ! Be lively !" 
 The Skipper had a fault which all stout seamen will ex- 
 cuse. He hated to shorten sail till the last moment, loathed 
 it as a man may loathe the clipping of an eagle's wings. 
 
 117
 
 Timothy 
 
 Beside Tim was a young man, named Preble, the son 
 of a petty tradesman in Southampton, a long, lank youth, 
 better equipped to put sand in sugar than into his own 
 heart. He muttered to Tim nervously : 
 
 "Ain't this awful? I'm all of a tremble." 
 
 Tim cursed him. 
 
 "Get the topsails off her!" shouted the Skipper. 
 
 "Oh, Lord !" squeaked Preble. 
 
 The bo'sun bawled his orders, blowing his whistle lustily. 
 Soon Tim sprang up the fore-rigging, followed gingerly 
 by Preble. The wind was terrific. The men crawled out 
 upon the yard-arm, tugging at the canvas till their fingers 
 bled. The great sail came in slowly, reluctantly, defying 
 the strong, gripping hands. 
 
 "I can't stand it much longer," groaned Preble. 
 
 "You must, you fool !" shouted Tim. The boy was drunk 
 with excitement, but he, too, knew that his muscles were 
 being strained beyond endurance, that either he or the 
 ship must conquer, and the sail's victory might mean death 
 to such as Preble. A violent squall shook The Cassandra, 
 as a terrier shakes a rat. Tim heard a ghastly scream, loud 
 above the infernal din of the gale. Preble had disap- 
 peared. He might have fallen overboard, or crashed on to 
 the deck below. Nazro, furling at the bunt, with the sec- 
 ond greaser, yelled savagely: "Claw her in, you lubbers!" 
 Tim felt deadly sick. He remembered that he had cursed 1 
 Preble. 
 
 Yet they went on with that cruel fight against the roaring 
 wind till they ceased to be men and became machines, auto- 
 matic hawlers and grabbers, obeying orders and knowing 
 that disobedience or slackness stood for destruction. They 
 got the sail in and made it fast with the gaskets. 
 
 When, at long last, they got down on deck, there was 
 Preble, dead. They carried him into the foc'sle. The thin 
 body was crushed to a pulp. He had fallen upon his feet ; 
 and his head remained uninjured. Tim could hardly be~ 
 lieve that he had died a violent death. 
 118
 
 Buffetings 
 
 Next day, the gale was over. The Skipper read the 
 burial service, and his mates slid the shattered corpse into 
 the deep. They sold Preble's duds at the mainmast and 
 forgot him! 
 
 Oh ! It was good to be alive after that, to feel the spray 
 and wind upon one's cheek, and the red blood pulsing 
 through one's veins! 
 
 119
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 DREGS 
 
 IN due time The Cassandra dropped anchor in Golden 
 Gate Bay, and Tim saw Mount Tamalpais and Diablo 
 rising out of a soft mist which obscured the crudities and 
 ugliness of the water-front. 
 
 The voyage was over. Soon he would go ashore, a 
 free man, with the new world holding out enticing arms 
 and the old world far away! The run from the Horn 
 to the Farallon Islands had been barren of incident. They 
 had sailed smoothly and swiftly upon summer seas, be- 
 speaking few vessels, alone upon the vast Pacific. Towards 
 the end Tim felt bored. And when he smelt the land he 
 told himself that his ambition to command a clipper lay 
 dead in the deep, like poor Preble. 
 
 When they were berthed alongside the wharf, Tull took 
 him aside. 
 
 "Look ye here, my lad. Cut loose from Nazro at once. 
 Here's the address of a decent boarding-house uptown. You 
 keep away from the water-front and its saloons, unless you 
 want to be drugged and crimped." 
 
 "I don't, sir." 
 
 "Then you mind what I say. I reckon there'll be letters 
 for you at the post-office." 
 
 "I hope so." 
 
 "You read 'em afore you do anything else. Freeze tight 
 on to your bit o' cash. Earn more, my lad. Work'll keep 
 you out of mischief." 
 
 "I can't thank you enough, sir, for all your kindness. I 
 wouldn't have missed this experience for anything." 
 120
 
 Dregs 
 
 "It's made a man of you." 
 
 It had in every sense. When Tim put on his shore 
 togs, he realised how much he had grown. They might 
 have belonged to a younger brother. He felt as if he would 
 burst out of them if he sneezed. And putting them on was 
 an amazing adventure, whirling him out of one world into 
 another. Through a white collar much too tight he beheld 
 Little Pennington clearly, with sharpest definition. The 
 evil-smelling foc'sle grew dim. As his fingers fumbled at 
 his necktie, he thought of Daffy, who was particular about 
 such gear. The shortness of his trousers annoyed him. 
 He became the Etonian as he stared at his scarred, tar- 
 engrained hands. 
 
 Everybody in the foc'sle knew what Nazro was going 
 to do with his time and money. He said complacently : 
 
 "Yes, boys, I'm hell bent fer a snorter. I shall paint this 
 yere little burg my own partic'lar purple. I'm pinin' fer a 
 game o' faro. I'm jest achin' fer a partic'lar brand o' 
 whiskey punch which a barkeep I know has the secret o' 
 makin'. I shall down a dozen of 'em straight, jest to see 
 if I've lost the gift of holdin' liquor. Gizzards! won't I 
 make things sit up and howl to-night !" 
 
 Tim parted soberly from his mates, wondering perhaps 
 when and where he might meet them again. Some of them 
 would herd together till the last cent was "blued." Then 
 they would take up their life again, find themselves home- 
 ward bound, ready to be cleansed afresh. Never would 
 they or could they escape from the old seaways, the paths 
 which they must tread till the end. 
 
 Tim gripped their horny hands and bade them "good- 
 bye" and "good luck." 
 
 II 
 
 He found a packet of letters at the post-office, which he 
 read alone in his room at the boarding-house uptown. The 
 
 121
 
 Timothy 
 
 Vicar's letter was read first. It had been written a month 
 previously, two months after Tim's departure. 
 
 "My DEAR BOY : 
 
 "I am trying to picture you as you read this letter 
 after the great experiences through which you have 
 passed. I know that bitterness must have been washed 
 out of you as it has out of me. And now you are alone 
 and in a great city. May God be with you ! 
 
 "I send you fifty pounds. It will suffice to bring you 
 home, Tim, if you wish to return home. That is as you 
 decide. My house is yours. Remember that! 
 
 "You will be grieved to hear that we have lost our old 
 friend, Sir Gilbert. He passed away quietly at Christ- 
 mas, after a sharp attack of pneumonia. It must be well 
 with him, for his whole life was a preparation for death. 
 His son reigns in his stead. 
 
 "There are no other changes. The scandal which drove 
 you to sea leaked out, as I feared it would. Like all other 
 scandals, it will fade away. Ivy Jellicoe is being cared 
 for. The unhappy girl is hardened and indifferent, like 
 her father. I blame myself bitterly for bringing her to 
 this house. 
 
 "And now, my dear boy, what shall I say to you? I 
 ask myself if I did ill in telling you the truth. I must 
 assume the responsibility, which is a burden to me. And 
 yet, apart from any cloying sentiment, I realise that 
 something stronger than personal feeling made me tell 
 you that truth, which I might have withheld had I fore- 
 seen the possibility of your tearing yourself adrift from 
 me and the influences of this village. It is too late, now, 
 to dwell upon that. 
 
 "Tim, as your father in spirit, as one who has your 
 welfare nearer to his heart than anything else, I entreat 
 you to let that truth strengthen you. You have inherited 
 great qualities, the qualities which may carry you to the 
 heights. You have inherited, alas ! great disabilities, 
 which may drag you down to the depths. Because you 
 are stronger and handsomer and cleverer than your fel- 
 lows, the fight ahead will be the more strenuous. But I 
 122
 
 Dregs 
 
 should be false to every clause in my creed if I did not 
 believe steadfastly that good, ultimately, triumphs over 
 evil. Nourish the good within you, and it will drive out 
 the evil! Start afresh! At this moment I seem to see 
 you at your best, clean and strong and free, out of the 
 bondage of men spiritually and mentally your inferiors, 
 gazing unblinkingly into the sunshine of California, 
 ready to fly, eager to fly fast and far! Let that flight 
 be upward ! 
 
 "Write to me as soon as possible. 
 
 "Your loving father, 
 
 "TERTIUS WHITE." 
 
 Tim sat still upon the edge of a narrow bed staring at 
 the scholar's fine script. He, also, could see the Vicar at 
 his desk, writing slowly, casting and re-casting each sen- 
 tence in his mind before he transferred it to paper. Now 
 and again he would pause to glance at the spire. 
 
 Tim fingered the cheque for fifty pounds. The Vicar was 
 a poor man. Fifty pounds meant self-denial, a more 
 rigorous cheese-paring in a household kept simply and 
 frugally. 
 
 He decided to return the fifty pounds at once. 
 
 Should he take it back ? That meant working his passage 
 round the Horn again. And then? 
 
 The scandal had leaked out. Could he face the blameless 
 village? Not yet. 
 
 He glanced at his other letters. There was one from 
 Eustace Pomfret. He guessed accurately enough what that 
 good fellow would say. There were two or three small 
 Christmas bills. The Vicar had paid them. At the bottom 
 of the small pile lay a square envelope. With a gasp of 
 astonishment, Tim recognised Daffy's writing. He tore it 
 open and glanced at the date. It had been written about 
 a week after he left England 
 
 "DARLING TIM, 
 
 "I have just made a perfectly hateful discovery. You 
 wrote to me and I never saw the letter. I am wild with 
 
 123
 
 Timothy 
 
 rage about it. Annie" (Daffy's eldest sister) "said some- 
 thing which roused my suspicions. I rushed to mother 
 and just wormed the truth out of her, but your letter had 
 been burnt. Mother took it upon herself to answer for 
 me. I can easily guess what she said. Oh, Tim, what 
 must you have thought of me ! I am so miserable ! And 
 I'm writing this against mother's wish, secretly. Tim, 
 darling, I am true to you, and I know you are true to me. 
 Perhaps you aren't. You must think me such a rotter. 
 Please write at once, and put me out of my misery. 
 Everything is perfectly hateful and miserable. I think 
 nothing of your being sacked from Eton, nothing at all. 
 It was beastly hard luck your getting caught ! I'm quite 
 sure you weren't drunk, as Mother hints. 
 "Please write by return! 
 
 "Your own, 
 
 "DAFFY." 
 
 Tim re-read the letter with throbbing pulses. Then he 
 glanced again at the square envelope. It was inscribed 
 Private. Upon the back the Vicar had written something 
 in pencil. Obviously, he had not opened the envelope, for 
 a big red seal was intact, but he knew Daffy's handwriting. 
 This was his comment: "Mrs. Carmichael knows about 
 Ivy Jellicoe." 
 
 in 
 
 Some of the language acquired at the foc'sle dropped 
 from Tim's quivering lips. He felt flattened out by the 
 bludgeonings of Fate. 
 
 Such a small thing had queered his pitch. Let us try 
 to reproduce his thoughts, as they bubbled out of his 
 mind through a much enlarged vocabulary. If Daffy had 
 received his letter and answered it, he would have resisted 
 the beguilements of Ivy. He knew that. Daffy had stood 
 between him and other temptations. Why didn't he guess ? 
 Why didn't he give the darling credit for a fidelity and 
 124
 
 Dregs 
 
 pluck which he knew to be hers? She was barely sixteen, 
 but what of that? 
 
 Let dogs defile the grave of Mrs. Carmichael! 
 
 And now it was too late. Daffy knew the disgusting 
 truth. He could hear the mother discreetly telling the 
 story, bowdlerising parts of it, the essential parts, but ob- 
 literating for ever and ever the image of Tim as it lay 
 enshrined in a maiden's bosom. 
 
 "This is the worst," said Tim, pacing up and down his 
 tiny room, wild with misery and rage. 
 
 He was tempted to dash his head against the wall till 
 he fell senseless. He had seen a Sicilian do this in the 
 foc'sle of The Cassandra. How he despised the silly idiot! 
 
 What a sickening business life was ! 
 
 He flung open a window, and looked out over San Fran- 
 cisco. He could see that vast caravanserai, the Palace 
 Hotel, and the Chronicle skyscraper beside it, overtopping 
 all other buildings. Cable cars, quite new to him, were 
 speeding up a steep hill. The traffic of Market Street 
 boomed in his ears. His first impression was that of pace. 
 Even the foot-passengers, men and women, pushed along 
 swiftly, as if keen to reach their destinations. 
 
 He must join them, push on with them, and find a way 
 out of his miseries. 
 
 Within a minute he was striding up Market Street, head- 
 ing west, towards the declining sun. 
 
 Great cities, like great rivers, have their unmistakable 
 characteristics. Some appear to be eternally old; a few 
 remain eternally young. Each has its individual smell, its 
 atmosphere, its definite sounds. If you approach London 
 by river, you get the taste of it in your mouth, before you 
 recognise St. Paul's. But, possibly, of great cities, San 
 Francisco is or used to be the most amazing amalgam, 
 whilst remaining essentially itself. When Tim first looked 
 upon Mount Tamalpais hardly thirty-five years had elapsed 
 since the discovery of gold in California. The city he be- 
 held had been built during that period of time, built by 
 
 125
 
 Timothy 
 
 and for all sorts and conditions of men. Spaniards, Ital- 
 ians, Frenchmen and Chinese lived in their own quarters, 
 pursuing their avocations regardless of the ever-encroach- 
 ing Anglo-Saxon. It was a city, in a sense, of reconcilable 
 differences. Next to a plutocrat's palace might be seen a 
 board-and-batten shanty. The men occupying such con- 
 trasted habitations might have come West together. One 
 had risen; the other had not. Evidences of really sordid 
 poverty were hard to find; but the rich and the poor, gen- 
 erally speaking, had not yet drifted apart. It was Cosmop- 
 olis, with a sharp pleasant flavour of Bohemia. Amongst 
 other cities, it stood out as being shamelessly wicked, be- 
 cause Vice had not yet slunk out of sight. Vice, indeed, 
 lived out of doors, and was the less pestilent and dangerous 
 on that account. Values, in a word, those nice adjustments 
 which an advanced civilisation imposes, were being com- 
 puted slowly. The old-timers, who had become prosperous, 
 hated to wipe out old landmarks. They loved the colour 
 of the different quarters. Guides took curious strangers 
 into opium dens and the like. Call it a "live and let live" 
 city, and have done with it! Men were too busy minding 
 their own affairs to bother greatly about the affairs of 
 others. 
 
 Tim found his way to Golden Gate Park, not the ordered 
 pleasance then that it is to-day. He sat down upon a 
 bank. 
 
 Spring comes early to California and lingers long in its 
 favoured spots. Spring was abroad this afternoon touch- 
 ing all things with her magical fingers. The Park, how- 
 ever, seemed to be deserted. Along the main roadway sped 
 men in sulkies or light buggies driving fast trotters. Tim 
 saw no women or children. He gave himself up to his 
 thoughts. 
 
 Perhaps it was the first time in his life that he had felt 
 absolutely alone. 
 
 126
 
 Dregs 
 
 IV 
 
 His love for Daffy was tearing at his mind and his senses. 
 Critics of life as they would desire it to be rather than 
 the welter of haphazard variations and permutations which 
 it is may contend that Tim was only nineteen, and in- 
 capable at that age of intense feelings which do, unques- 
 tionably, spare the great majority of striplings. It may be 
 said in reply that he was old beyond his years, and blessed 
 or cursed with ardent inherited imaginations. Daffy had 
 ceased to be the jolly little sweetheart. In her artless letter 
 he had a glimpse, no more, of the woman latent in every 
 female child. She stood to him as The Woman, the in- 
 visible, indescribable She, who has inspired poets and paint- 
 ers for all time. Daffy, he told himself, possessed the 
 mysterious power of whirling him outside himself, of ex- 
 alting him to heights, of firing him to supreme endeavour. 
 
 And he had lost her, because a mother, acting within 
 accorded rights, had suppressed a letter. 
 
 It never occurred to him till long afterwards that Daffy 
 might forgive him. In that regard Little Pennington had 
 accomplished its task only too well. Daffy, poor darling, 
 would accept the verdict of the only world she knew. She 
 would be revolted, beholding her hero metamorphosed by 
 Circe into a swine. 
 
 The fog rolled in from the ocean. Tim returned to 
 his boarding-house and tried to choke down some food. 
 Then he wandered again into the streets full of well- 
 dressed, cheery persons on their way to theatres and other 
 places of entertainment. San Francisco by night was nearly 
 as gay as Paris, but not so brightly illuminated. A seedy 
 individual approached him, trying to conceal a furtive, hang- 
 dog air. 
 
 127
 
 Timothy 
 
 "Like to see the sights, sir?" 
 
 "What sights?" 
 
 "China-town." 
 
 "Beastly place, I've heard." 
 
 "Take you round for a dollar. Here's my badge. I'm 
 O.K., an authorised guide. You'll be quite safe with me. 
 I'll shew you Hell." 
 
 "Thank you, Mr. O. Kay, I've been there this afternoon. 
 Good-night !" 
 
 He pushed on, leaving the man staring after him. Across 
 the road was a famous saloon, embellished by many pic- 
 tures. Tim went in and called for a cocktail. Opposite the 
 bar was a free-lunch counter piled high with food. Men 
 of the better class drank and nibbled and chattered. Their 
 talk, to which Tim listened, concerned itself mainly with 
 business, with proposition. Every man had a "proposition" 
 of sorts. Obviously, California bristled with opportunities. 
 Things seemed to be humming. 
 
 "Biggest bonanza I ever struck," he heard one silk- 
 hatted but short-coated individual remark. "Finest land in 
 the State. And the water handy to make it bloom like the 
 rose ! Put you in on the ground floor." 
 
 "I'm up against a bigger thing," replied his companion. 
 "You read this." 
 
 He thrust a pamphlet into the other's hand, and assumed 
 an expectant attitude, with his cigar cocked at an angle 
 of 45 degrees. 
 
 Upon a red velvet lounge sat three young men, tourists 
 and Englishmen. They were talking of sport, of the fish- 
 ing to be found in British Columbia. Tim began to listen 
 to them, to find pleasure and envy in their familiar phrases. 
 One of them turned presently, and stared hard. 
 
 "Hullo!"' he said, rising. "Surely you're Tim White?" 
 
 When he spoke Tim recognised an Etonian, an Oppidan 
 and a distinguished cricketer. 
 
 "I'm Tim Green." 
 128
 
 Dregs 
 
 "Tim Green? Same old joker! What are you doing 
 "here?" 
 
 "Landed this morning." 
 
 "It's jolly to see you again. Going round the world, as 
 I am?" 
 
 Tim smiled derisively. 
 
 "Not quite as you are, Wynne. I've worked my way 
 round the Horn, before the mast!" 
 
 "Suffering Moses ! I say, you fellows, come over here. 
 Let me introduce an old Eton pal. Mr. Keppel Sir Harry 
 Jocelyn Mr. Timothy White." 
 
 "Green," said Tim gravely. 
 
 The others laughed, not taking Tim seriously. Wynne 
 recited the astounding fact that Tim had worked his way 
 to San Francisco before the mast. He ended up: 
 
 "What a bird ! He got sacked for nipping out of College 
 at night. We were awfully sick about it. Round the 
 Horn I I say, that takes a bit of doin'." 
 
 Tim's face relaxed. Wynne continued genially: 
 
 "You look as fit as a fiddle, and hard as nails. Jove! 
 I'd sooner drink with you than fight. Round the Horn! 
 Phew-w-w !" 
 
 "Any adventures?" asked Keppel. 
 
 "None." 
 
 "I'll bet you held your own," said Wynne. "Look here, 
 old chap, you've got to spend the evening with us. We'll 
 whoop things up a bit, and listen to your yarns. We've a 
 box at the Tivoli, and they're doing The Mikado. I saw it 
 nineteen times in London. Come on!" 
 
 Tim hesitated, glancing at his clothes. Wynne laughed 
 gaily : 
 
 "You have grown out of 'em, Tim, but we don't care a 
 rush about your duds, if we can have the man inside 
 'em." 
 
 "You can have what's left of him," said Tim. 
 
 "There seems to be quite a lot left," said Keppel, with 
 his eyes upon Tim's bulging muscles. He was frail of 
 
 129
 
 Timothy 
 
 build, not likely to make old bones, the senior by some years 
 of the others and evidently in command. He added courte- 
 ously: "I am glad you can join us." 
 
 VI 
 
 They spent a joyous evening. Tim had never seen the 
 famous opera. It whirled him temporarily to Japan, and 
 thence to London, as he reflected bitterly that his compan- 
 ions had means and leisure for such enjoyments and what 
 they stood for. Later the four supped at the Poodle Dog. 
 Wynne said: 
 
 "We must drink White's health in something fizzy. Hi, 
 you! a bottle of wine." 
 
 Out West a bottle of wine means champagne. 
 
 Jocelyn spoke of his own country, Dorset. Tim remem- 
 bered that the Carmichaels lived not far from Dorchester. 
 He said carelessly: 
 
 "Do you know the Carmichaels?" 
 
 "Quite well. Charming people. The little girl, Daphne, 
 is a fizzer, likely to be a beauty, and as jolly and clever 
 as they make 'em. She hunts with the Cattistock and goes 
 like a bird. Men are buzzing about her already." 
 
 "Are they?" said Tim, gulping down his champagne. 
 
 "Do you know them, White ?" 
 
 "Oh, yes; they Jived in our village, Little Pennington." 
 
 Wynne added: 
 
 "White's father is the Vicar of Little Pennington." He 
 glanced at Tim. "I can remember your telling us about the 
 happy village, and all the saints." 
 
 Tim's collar felt at least three sizes too small for him, 
 as the desire gripped him to deny Wynne's statement. He 
 wanted to say: "Look here, the Vicar of Little Penning- 
 ton is the best friend I have in the world, but he's not my 
 father." He became very red, as he controlled a twitching 
 tongue. 
 
 130
 
 Dregs 
 
 "What can we do now?" asked Wynne. 
 
 The head waiter, a lively Frenchman, shrugged his shoul- 
 ders. 
 
 "Ces Messieurs desirent un plongeon?" 
 
 "Un plongeon?" 
 
 "Sapristi ! You can plonge into ze dives." 
 
 ''Let's dive," said Wynne. 
 
 They did so, plunging from the cool breezes of Kearney 
 Street into an atmosphere reeking of tobacco smoke and 
 humanity. A large hall was full of men, sitting on benches 
 and at small tables. 
 
 "Like a box, genelmen? Hall's kinder crowded." 
 
 "A box, by all means," said Wynne. 
 
 They were ushered into a large box, meretriciously up- 
 holstered with red velvet and practicable curtains. It was 
 above the stage upon which some girls were dancing. They 
 looked up and smiled as the young men entered. 
 
 "What will you take to drink?" asked the waitress. 
 
 "Beer," replied Keppel. 
 
 Wynne looked about him, laughing: 
 
 "I say, you fellows, this is the best of the dives. What's 
 the worst like, eh?" 
 
 "We won't try to find out," said Keppel. 
 
 Tim looked at the four girls on the stage. They were 
 young arid fairly pretty, raddled with powder and paint. 
 They glanced and danced at him audaciously. 
 
 "Hullo, Tim," exclaimed the vivacious Wynne. "You've 
 mashed the quartette, by Jove !" 
 
 "They'll be up here in a jiffy," said Keppel. "We'll give 
 'em a drink and let 'em go. They get a percentage on the 
 drinks," he explained. 
 
 "Poor little devils," said Wynne. 
 
 As soon as the "turn" was over, the quartette appeared, 
 taking for granted that they were welcome. But they 
 looked slightly contemptuous when they were invited to 
 drink beer. The prettiest and sauciest said to Tim : 
 
 "We took you for wine-drinking sports."
 
 Timothy 
 
 At this Keppel, who had paid dearly for his experience, 
 said politely: 
 
 "What do you make on a couple of bottles of champagne ?" 
 
 "Quit that!" 
 
 "I'm dead serious. Come, how much?" 
 
 One of the girls laughed and named the amount. Keppel 
 gave her some money, saying pleasantly : 
 
 "There you are! Sit down and talk. Business before 
 pleasure." 
 
 The prettiest girl said to Tim : 
 
 "I like you, boytie sure!" 
 
 Tim thought of Ivy, and then of Daffy. He had been 
 warmed to the core by good food and sparkling wine ; and 
 he had not spoken to a girl for three months. But he felt 
 in an instant sick and sore. He replied hoarsely : 
 
 "Don't waste your time on me." 
 
 She pinched his arm. 
 
 "My! what a muscle. Say, girls, just feel his arm! 
 What a shoulder-striker!" 
 
 The quartette fell riotously upon Tim, who defended 
 himself as best he could. A voice from the hall yelled 
 out: 
 
 "No scrappin' allowed, except on the stage." 
 
 Everybody applauded this, and stared at the stage box. 
 Keppel said incisively : 
 
 "You girls behave, or we shall hook it." 
 
 Order was restored. Tim pulled a pencil from his pocket 
 and made caricatures of the girls upon the programme at 
 which they screamed with laughter. Keppel said : 
 
 "By Jove, you have a talent. Can't you turn it to ac- 
 count?" 
 
 One of the girls answered : 
 
 "Say you see our boss. There's money in it. Make 
 drawin's like that of fellers in the audience. My ! I forgot 
 you was a toff." 
 
 "I am not," said Tim, but it never occurred to him then 
 that either Keppel or the girl spoke seriously. 
 132
 
 Dregs 
 
 Presently duty summoned the young ladies back to the 
 stage, whereupon Keppel observed meaningly: 
 
 "Let's skedaddle before they come back. It will make 
 things easier for them and us." 
 
 Jocelyn wished to stay, spoke of "making a night of it," 
 but wiser counsels prevailed. Tim kept silence, but he was 
 thinking of what Nazro had said. Something within him 
 urged him to fling dull care to the winds, to sail into a gale 
 of excitement, to drink, to make love, to forget. 
 
 The young men walked back to the Palace Hotel. On 
 parting, Wynne whispered to Tim: 
 
 "Where are your diggings? I'll look you up to-morrow 
 morning. I want a yarn alone with you." 
 
 Tim named his boarding-house. 
 
 "Ask for Green." 
 
 "Why, wasn't that a joke?" 
 
 "Not much." 
 
 VII 
 
 Tim pondered many things in his heart as he turned 
 from the magnificent hotel to seek his own drab lodgings. 
 He had laughed and jested with the others, paid in full his 
 shot for a cheery evening, and now it was over. His 
 friends of a night were flitting across the Pacific to China 
 and Japan. Did he wish that he was going with them? 
 He tried to answer the question which included so much. 
 
 If he could be as they ? Keppel had the air of one not 
 
 too well pleased with himself. Jocelyn and Wynne were 
 jolly boys, evidently young men of great possessions, fling- 
 ing money about right and left. Tim had a splendid vision 
 of a promising servant of the Indian Civil Service, persona 
 grata to Mother Carmichael, on his way to the Orient, 
 where preferment and lakhs of rupees awaited him, a Tom 
 Tiddler's ground strewn with gold and silver! 
 
 "I'm green indeed," he groaned. 
 
 He was. At that moment, quite unconsciously, he ex- 
 
 133
 
 Timothy 
 
 hibited the colour to two loafers. Lost in his thoughts he 
 lost his way, taking the wrong turning out of Market 
 Street, sauntering head down, into an ill-lighted side alley. 
 The loafers pursued noiselessly. Tim's gloomy thoughts 
 were put to flight by a stunning blow on the head. 
 He had been sandbagged! 
 
 134
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 POPPIES AND MANDRAGORA 
 
 HE returned to consciousness to find a policeman bend- 
 ing over him. Tim's head felt larger than the dome 
 of St. Paul's, and his body seemed to have vanished. But 
 soon he realised that nothing was missing except a watch, all 
 his money, and the gold links which Sir Gilbert had given 
 to him. The policeman supported him to the boarding- 
 house, and put him to bed, but held out no hopes of cap- 
 turing the sandbaggers or recovering the loot. A ray of 
 light illumined the darkness ; the Vicar's cheque still lay 
 in the Vicar's letter at the bottom of the drawer into which 
 Tim had thrust it before he took the road to the Golden 
 Gate Park. The policeman made reasonably sure that Tim 
 was not much the worse for a blow with a stocking filled 
 with sand, and then took his leave, promising to return on 
 the morrow. 
 
 "Yer derby hat saved you from concussion see?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 That was a bit of luck. Before rushing out of the Vicar- 
 age, Tim had looked for a cap and not found it. He re- 
 membered jamming on his billy-cock. 
 
 Next morning, he lay in bed with a severe headache, the 
 object of solicitude on the part of his landlady, when she 
 learned what had befallen her handsome lodger. Tim told 
 her about the cheque, which may have warmed the cockles 
 of a heart beating hard to earn a living. 
 
 He was still in bed when Wynne came in, almost envious 
 when he heard of the misadventure. Wynne wanted to 
 
 135
 
 Timothy 
 
 fetch a doctor, but Tim assured the kind fellow that he 
 was right as rain, an apt simile in a land of dry seasons. 
 Wynne sat down, glancing nervously at his old school- 
 fellow. 
 
 "I say," he began awkwardly, "I wish you'd confide in 
 me. A nailing good sort like you doesn't ship before the 
 mast for nothing." 
 
 Tim said evasively : 
 
 "You're a nailing good sort, Wynne, and the others, 
 your pals, are like you." 
 
 "How queerly you say that!" 
 
 "Do I?" He looked keenly at Wynne. "What do you 
 call a nailing good sort?" 
 
 Wynne laughed. 
 
 "I'm serious. Try to answer the question. I've a rea- 
 son for asking. What, in your opinion, is a nailing good 
 sort?" 
 
 "I'm dashed if I ever thought about it." 
 
 "Think about it now." 
 
 The mental effort was almost too much for Wynne. He 
 murmured tentatively: 
 
 "He ought to be keen at games and sport, and and 
 straight." 
 
 "What do you mean by straight?" 
 
 "Ypu know. Decently clean and er all the rest of 
 it." 
 
 "Would you call a man decently clean who got a servant 
 in his father's house into trouble and then bolted?" 
 
 "Oh, Lord ! Did you do that?" 
 
 Tim nodded. 
 
 "Fouled your own nest?" 
 
 The familiar expression, often heard at Eton, thawed 
 some secrecies and reserves of youth. Tim said hotly: 
 
 "We always called it that, didn't we? But do you sup- 
 pose that I did it deliberately?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 Tim continued: 
 136
 
 Poppies and Mandragora 
 
 "And yet, if I had sneaked up to town and taken the 
 usual broad and easy way, that would have been deliberate 
 sin ; and then Little Pennington would have asked no ques- 
 tions. My greatest offence was disturbing their holy peace. 
 I feel it in all my bones." 
 
 Then he told his story, got it "off his chest," as he put 
 it, a mighty relief. From your knowledge of the boy, you 
 ought to divine that he used no special plea, attempted no 
 extenuations. Perhaps Wynne supplied these. Tim spoke, 
 too, of the Vicar's misery and horror, suppressing, of 
 course, the truth about the saint's marriage. He concluded 
 mournfully : 
 
 "I am wretched, because I made him wretched; I grow 
 hot with shame when I think of Ivy's shame, which I cannot 
 take away or lessen, but, thank Heaven, I feel about the 
 accursed affair as I did about being sacked from Eton. I 
 have not been worse than thousands of other fellows, only 
 more unlucky. Now you have it." 
 
 "What a beastly mess!" groaned Wynne. "Knocked 
 bang out of the India Civil! Oh, damn it!" 
 
 "Yes damn it ! There doesn't seem much else to say." 
 
 The policeman interrupted this confidential talk. He 
 made a few notes in a greasy pocketbook. 
 
 "Accordin' to Hoyle," he said, apologetically, "we shan't 
 never cop 'em. You was mighty green to go a-saunterin' 
 down that thar alley alone after midnight." 
 
 "I'm one of the green things of this earth," said Tim; 
 "and I can bless and magnify the Lord that you found 
 me and looked after me. Wynne, the Labourer is worthy 
 of more than his hire." 
 
 He winked at Wynne, who responded. The policeman 
 vanished, smiling blandly. Wynne said hastily: 
 
 "Look here, let me help you with with money. I've 
 lots. And you're cleaned out, aren't you?" 
 
 "I have a cheque, but I'd like to send it back. No, no, 
 I can't take money from you." 
 
 137
 
 Timothy 
 
 "I simply insist. What rot!" 
 
 Tim shut his eyes and considered. Wynne murmured 
 persuasively : 
 
 "Please !" 
 
 "What did you give that policeman?" 
 
 "Five dollars!" 
 
 "No wonder he smiled ! Wynne, old man, you're a trump, 
 and I'll take twenty pounds off you, if you can spare it, 
 and return it, too. That I swear." Tim sat up in bed, 
 speaking more excitedly. "I've not much left but pride. 
 And this will drive me to work; work is what I want." 
 
 "You can have more than that, Tim. I can spare it 
 easily." 
 
 "No ; ten might do, but I don't want the horror of being 
 penniless hanging over me. Odd thing your turning up in 
 the nick of time! Often I think that we're just leaves 
 tossed about by the winds, and then an affair like this 
 forces me to dream again of guardian angels and all that. 
 Don't tell him, but Keppel was a sort of guardian angel 
 last night. Say good-bye to 'em for me." 
 
 "But you'll dine with us to-night?" 
 
 "Don't tempt me! Being with you fellows and hearing 
 the old talk tries me too high. Leave your address with 
 the money." 
 
 "Right. I advise you to lie snug in bed. Sleep off that 
 knock." 
 
 "Not much." 
 
 'He sprang out of bed, and stood upright, squaring his 
 great shoulders, expanding his chest. He was wearing a 
 skin-tight jersey. Wynne opened wide his eyes. 
 
 "You are a corker. Built from the ground up, the 
 perfect man, what?" 
 
 Tim laughed scornfully. Presently Wynne went away. 
 Years passed before they met again. But, after the young 
 men had sailed for Japan, a portmanteau arrived at Tim's 
 lodgings with a note 
 138
 
 Poppies and Mandragora 
 
 "DEAR OLD MAN, 
 
 "Don't be too proud to accept what we send. You 
 bolted without clothes, and we have too many. Our 
 excess charges would make you fairly sit up ! 
 "Carry a stiff tail, Tim. The luck will turn. 
 
 "Yours ever, 
 
 "W." 
 
 The portmanteau contained a complete kit. Tim dropped 
 some tears, as he unpacked these sweet-smelling oblations 
 with the scent of heather upon the homespun. And the 
 kindly gift imposed more than mere acceptance. The tag, 
 noblesse oblige, is pinned, sometimes, to an old dress coat. 
 Excess charges had not been altogether wasted upon the 
 garments which Wynne and Co. left behind in California. 
 
 That afternoon, Tim slipped on his foc'sle duds, and 
 went down to the water-front to hunt work. He was not 
 long in finding it, for muscle was at a premium in those 
 days. He engaged himself to help unload a timber schooner 
 from Mendocino County. The boss who hired him for the 
 next day said curtly : 
 
 "Buy a pair of leather gloves." 
 
 Tim held out his hands. 
 
 "Do I need 'em?" 
 
 "You bet." 
 
 After that, he hung about the wharves, eyeing critically 
 the various craft, queer-looking schooners from the South 
 Sea Islands, smelling villainously, coast tramps, fishing 
 smacks, and half a dozen yachts of small tonnage. His 
 headache passed ; he wished that he was at work, earning 
 big fat dollars wherewith to pay back Wynne. Then he 
 sauntered past the saloons, watching some of the men who 
 reeled in and out of them. One big fellow staggered across 
 
 139
 
 Timothy 
 
 the road, singing at the top of his voice. Tim recognised 
 Nazro, who, in his turn, hailed Tim boisterously : 
 
 "Have one with me, sonny?" He jerked his thumb in 
 the direction of a saloon. Tim declined. Nazro swore 
 prodigiously, ending up: 
 
 "You'll drink with me, you young swine, or fight." 
 
 "Then I'll fight, old man." 
 
 Nazro changed the tune : 
 
 "That all's hunky, Tim; I was pullin' yer leg, see? I'm 
 drunk and proud of it ! The rest o' the boys are lyin' par- 
 alysed in Shaughnessy's back parlour. I've drunk 'em stiff, 
 by thunder ! I'm the King, I am." 
 
 "No monarch, I hope, was ever so tight as you are, 
 Nazro." 
 
 He passed on, pursued by a volley of bad language. 
 
 in 
 
 Tim never forgot the three days that followed. Every 
 muscle in his magnificent young body was strained terribly, 
 handling the big six-by-fours. Two men in the gang 
 chucked work at mid-day. Tim blessed the boss for his 
 timely advice. Even with gloves his hands were torn and 
 bruised. And yet, as he sweated and toiled, his soul sang 
 within him, for he was driving out the devils who counselled 
 him to spend Wynne's money and the Vicar's cheque in one 
 tremendous spree. Let those who have passed through 
 this ordeal testify to the temptation! Lest he might yield 
 to it on the morrow, when his limbs would be stiff and 
 tormented, he wrote that night to the Vicar, sending back 
 the cheque. When it was posted, he felt almost happy. 
 
 "I shall come home," he wrote, "when I have made good. 
 Meanwhile, I shall work at anything that turns up. I want 
 to find myself, and your letter has helped me to set about 
 the job. I was never so well in all my life, although I 
 was sandbagged last night. They talk of knocking sense 
 140
 
 Poppies and Mandragora 
 
 into a man's head. The sandbaggers knocked sense into 
 mine. Your loving son, Tim." 
 
 After three days' labour, he rested, wandering about the 
 city, absorbing items of interest to himself. In Montgomery 
 Street he found a real-estate office, with a show window 
 filled with gigantic vegetables : enormous pumpkins, colossal 
 cabbages and onions. These astounding products of the 
 Golden State came, so he was informed, from a valley in 
 San Lorenzo county, which lies some two hundred and 
 fifty miles to the south of the metropolis, and may be 
 reached by rail now, by water then. Tim, after flattening 
 his nose against the big plate glass window, walked into 
 the office, and listened eagerly to a voluble, red-faced agent, 
 who talked as if his mouth were filled with too ripe fruit. 
 His patter amused and edified Tim. 
 
 "You're a Britisher. Well, sir, I'm glad to make your 
 acquaintance. You've struck us at the psychological mo- 
 ment. Things are booming, and real estate up and down the 
 coast is advancing by leaps and bounds. Any information 
 or service required will be promptly extended to you. 
 Ain't them pumpkins immense ? Never struck a better 
 'ad.' Yes, sir, I'm glad of this opportunity of clasping 
 you by the hand. I'd love to make you acquainted with 
 the romance of our history, the salubrity of our climate, the 
 vastness of our resources, and the beauty and grandeur 
 of our scenery. . . ." 
 
 He paused to recover his breath. Tim said soberly: 
 
 "Yes; California seems to be a nice little place. If it is 
 all you crack it up to be, I shall buy it." 
 
 The red- faced agent laughed, expressing a willingness to 
 "set 'em up." But he went on talking. 
 
 Tim escaped after half an hour, saturated with informa- 
 tion, and pockets stuffed with "printed matter." In his 
 room at the boarding-house he read the pamphlets. For- 
 tunes were to be made anywhere and everywhere. Poultry- 
 keeping, bee-keeping, horticulture, viticulture, agriculture, 
 
 141
 
 Timothy 
 
 horse-, cattle-, and hog-raising were indicated as so many 
 broad avenues to Fortune. 
 
 Tim's vivid imagination dealt faithfully with the "facts," 
 facts culled from prominent citizens, male and female. One 
 white Aylesbury duck, the property of Mrs. Caroline P. 
 Biitzberger, had laid one hundred eggs in one season, which 
 had duly matured into ninety-seven ducklings, sold when 
 six weeks old for ninety-seven dollars, less freight, in the 
 San Francisco market ! Michael McMurphy, from one acre 
 of land, for which he had paid five dollars, harvested a net 
 profit of one hundred dollars, raising Early Rose potatoes. 
 Miss Lauretta Gump had made a small fortune out of roses. 
 
 Tim sucked it all in, a baby at the breasts of teeming 
 Nature. 
 
 rv 
 
 Green he was ; and the verdancy within sought verdancies 
 without: green grass, green trees, green wheat and corn. 
 The captious may ask why this young man preferred to 
 work with his hands instead of putting to service brains 
 deemed bright enough to satisfy the Civil Service Commis- 
 sioners. But, at the moment, muscle commanded a better 
 wage. Tim could earn three dollars a day with his hands. 
 A reporter in the boarding-house, a clever young man, 
 with a knowledge of a special business, earned ten dollars 
 a week. A clerk in a bank or a counting-house, if he were 
 competent, might draw a salary of a hundred dollars a 
 month, and could save nothing out of it. Tim had the 
 salt of the high seas still in his blood ; he wanted sunshine 
 and rain, roaring winds and soft zephyrs, the pulsing life 
 out of doors, with its adventures and misadventures. 
 
 For a month he worked hard on and about the water- 
 front, saving money, living simply, finding sufficient enter- 
 tainment and instruction in studying men with whom he 
 came in contact. At night, he would don Jocelyn's blue 
 serge suit, and go to the big saloon where he got a drink for 
 142
 
 Poppies and Mandragora 
 
 twenty-five cents, and a capital supper for nothing. One 
 of the bar-tenders was an Englishman, a some-time gentle- 
 man, late of the Broken Brigade, who knew the slope from 
 San Diego to Seattle. Tim asked him: 
 
 "Ought I to sponge a meal here regularly?" 
 
 The mixer of many drinks replied promptly : 
 
 "The chuck is there, good stuff, too. Ground bait, of 
 course, for thirsty fish. You take your whack at it." 
 
 He talked with his landlady, the widow of a "rustler" and 
 a "rustler" herself. She kept a motherly eye on Tim with- 
 out his suspecting it, preaching the gospel of work. From 
 her lips he heard the ancient wheeze : "The gentlemen of 
 leisure out here are called tramps." 
 
 Tim grinned. He had a kindly feeling for tramps. He 
 could understand a man slipping his fetters, escaping from 
 the bondage of labour into the vagabondage of the road, 
 wandering on and on, obedient only to Fancy. 
 
 Finally, he worked his way south to San Lorenzo by 
 sea. The old mission town was still distinctively Spanish 
 in appearance, but the Spanish-Californians, that pleasure- 
 loving race, were being driven from the big ranches. Tim 
 wandered into the local real-estate office, where a burly 
 agent mistook him for a man of means, with capital to 
 invest. When he learned the truth, he counselled Tim to 
 visit a fellow-countryman who was clearing a, tract of land 
 with a view to planting out vines and fruit trees. Tim de- 
 cided to take this advice. 
 
 April had come to California. The Spring in Tim leapt 
 up joyously to meet the Spring of the year. During these 
 early days, Daffy ruled his thoughts concerning women. 
 He looked up to her once more as his star, now immensely 
 remote, shining upon him with clear cold beam. "I must 
 win up to Daffy," he told himself, "but how how?" 
 
 The mercury within him rose and fell intermittently. 
 
 143
 
 Timothy 
 
 He passed several months working for the Englishman 
 who was clearing cheap land. This middle-aged tenderfoot 
 had a wife and two sons. They were a cheery family, and 
 Tim soon loved them, entering with ardour into their am- 
 bitions, which included a return to England within the near 
 future. The father, Harvey Cooke, was an impassioned op- 
 timist with weak lungs. He had come to Southern Califor- 
 nia for the climate, bringing with him what he could scrape 
 together, a few thousand pounds. He was clever, worldly- 
 wise, and full of resource, but helplessly ignorant of farm- 
 ing, at the mercy of neighbours and foreman, who robbed 
 him mercilessly. Nevertheless, like everybody else, he was 
 prospering. His land had trebled in value; his health had 
 been restored. He planted the wrong trees in the wrong 
 soil, "botched" everything he touched; and then laughed 
 gaily at his blunders. 
 
 "God made the land, but the Devil sent the Cookes." 
 
 "And others," said Tim. 
 
 He enjoyed himself vastly well, becoming a Jack-of-all- 
 trades, carpenter, painter, paper-hanger, plough-boy, cow- 
 boy, and horticulturist. 
 
 Holidays were frequent as the feasts in the Roman Cath- 
 olic calendar. Quail swarmed in the brush hills ; the 
 marshes by the sea held snipe and duck innumerable; in 
 the sand, at low tide, clams could be dug, and transformed 
 into toothsome chowder. 
 
 Why not become a market-hunter on a colossal scale? 
 Harvey Cooke proved himself a true prophet. 
 
 "Market-hunting will be knocked on the head, or else 
 the game will be wiped out." 
 
 Tim wrote to the Vicar, and received letters from him. 
 In due time he learned that Ivy was a mother. Tim lay 
 awake thinking of the baby, unable to measure his half- 
 interest in the atom, unable to assume paternal responsibili- 
 144
 
 Poppies and Mandragora 
 
 ties, and yet queerly sensible of tiny hands clutching at his 
 heart and eyes were they brown or blue mutely gazing 
 into his eyes, full of helpless interrogation. Ought he to 
 write to Ivy? And if he did, what could he say? 
 
 In many ways you must think of him as older than his 
 years. He looked a man, and stroked a small silky mous- 
 tache. He spoke as a man, having an inherited gift of the 
 gab. He felt as a man, when he talked with women; and 
 the daughters of the Golden West made it plain that they 
 liked to talk with him. 
 
 VI 
 
 He returned Wynne's loan, joyously uplifted at doing so. 
 
 Suddenly, he found himself once more foot-loose, with 
 the wide world before him. Cooke sold his ranch and left 
 San Lorenzo county. He spoke to Tim of buying or 
 building a hotel, to be run upon solidly English lines. 
 
 Then he and his vanished, as people do in a new coun- 
 try, to pop up again with startling unexpectedness. 
 
 Tim wandered on to the bunch-grass ranges, and became 
 a cow-boy. With the chappareros, he assumed the manners 
 and speech of the young vaquero, turning up his pantaloons 
 over high heeled boots, wearing a white silk neckerchief, and 
 a vast sombrero, a bit of a buck as all broncho-busters 
 should be. 
 
 The life was hard, tough as the hondo of Tim's lariat, the 
 rawhide rope which hung at the horn of his big, deep- 
 seated saddle. He learned to make a lariat out of a steer's 
 hide, and to throw it accurately. Each morning he rode 
 into the brown foothills. 
 
 At mid-day he returned to the ranch house, to devour as 
 swiftly as possible beans and bacon, and a big chunk of 
 apple or pumpkin pie, with a lump of cheese on the same 
 plate as the pie, and three cups of coarse tea diluted with 
 tinned milk and sweetened with cheap sugar. After smok- 
 ing a couple of cigarettes he would fare forth again upon 
 
 145
 
 Timothy 
 
 a fresh horse. He was on a big unfenced range ; and certain 
 cattle were his peculiar care. He came to know them and 
 their habits intimately. And he learned in time to sit a 
 bucking horse, and brand a wild steer single-handed. Such 
 arts interested him for a season, but the life was deadly 
 dull. Twice a year the spring and fall rodeos (round-ups) 
 varied the monotony. Cattlemen and cattle dealers as- 
 sembled together, outvying each other at a bargain. The 
 fat steers were cut out ; the calves branded, and the festival 
 ended with a big barbecue and feats of horsemanship. 
 
 Every two months, regularly, the "boys" would "strike" 
 town, and a "bust" followed. Few cowboys save money. 
 The real right thing, so Tim discovered, was to hand over 
 your "wad" to the bar-keeper of a saloon, with the injunc- 
 tion: "Say, you keep that, and lemme know when it's 
 gone." It went very soon. Strangers were invited to step 
 up to the bar and drink ; a good deal of glass was broken, 
 and, occasionally, a head or two. Now and again there 
 might be some shooting, and the comment, if such an affair 
 ended seriously, was : 
 
 "It don't pay to fool with Pete," or words to that effect. 
 Pete, in such cases, escaped scot free, if he could shew that 
 his antagonist was "heeled." 
 
 Upon one of these occasions, Tim furnished an object 
 lesson in personal violence, which established his reputation 
 on the ranges as a strong man. Two cowboys, stout healthy 
 fellows, were hammering each other in a saloon. Tim was 
 called upon to separate them. He took each man by the 
 collar, wrenched them apart, brought their two heads to- 
 gether with a crash, and whirled them asunder again. Each 
 man reeled back against the nearest wall, and fell stunned. 
 They admitted cheerfully, when they recovered conscious- 
 ness, that the drinks were "on them." Nobody was more 
 surprised than Tim himself. 
 
 As a rule, like most very powerful men, he kept out of 
 these fights, but he still cherished the conviction that it 
 was his duty, as an Englishman, to strike any man, drunk 
 146
 
 Poppies and Mandragora 
 
 or sober, who called him names. The foreman of the ranch 
 let fall a word of advice which Tim ignored or forgot 
 
 "It's like this, Tim. If a drunken galoot calls you a 
 liar it don't make you one, does it?" 
 
 "I allow no man to call me a liar." 
 
 "Go easy, you tenderfoot, you ! Do you want to kill the 
 man as calls you names?" 
 
 "Hardly." 
 
 "Wai, you mark this. If you strike a feller in this 
 yere country, and he's heeled or carries a knife, he'll try to 
 kill you, and, by Gum! you may have to choose between 
 killing him, or being killed. That's all." 
 
 It was sound advice, kindly offered. About a year after- 
 wards Tim was imbibing bad whiskey with some cowboys 
 from a Spanish grant ; two of them were greasers. One of 
 the latter addressed Tim savagely, using a term never men- 
 tioned by the men of the West without, as Owen Wister 
 says, an accompanying smile. The greaser did not smile. 
 Tim knocked him down. The man got up, approached Tim, 
 and slipped a knife into him. 
 
 Tim was carried to the County Hospital, which served, 
 also, as a poor-house, where he came within an ace of giv- 
 ing up the ghost. Loss of blood had made him unconscious. 
 He drifted back to consciousness to find himself in a cool, 
 white-washed room, containing half a dozen beds. A 
 woman was bending over him, saying: 
 
 "Now, you keep quiet. You've been badly hurt. Lie 
 still. Let me do the talking." 
 
 She told him where he was, and that he might reckon 
 upon being carefully tended. Tim's eyes wandered round 
 the room. One of the beds just opposite to his was 
 screened. He asked dazedly : 
 
 "Why don't I have a nice cute little screen?" 
 
 The nurse said indiscreetly : 
 
 "You're not bad enough for that." 
 
 Tom's wits quickened. 
 
 "I see. We're allowed to die in private?" 
 
 147
 
 Timothy 
 
 The nurse nodded, with a finger on her lip, enjoining 
 silence. Tim moved. And then the room became dim, and 
 the face of the nurse melted into the shadows. When he 
 returned to earth again, screens were round his bed! 
 
 The fact smote him. So he was condemned, was he? 
 Toes tucked up ! Golden slippers all ready ! Not much ! 
 He'd fool the whole silly crowd and live. 
 
 Possibly this tremendous determination not to leave a 
 jolly world kept him in it after two doctors had declared 
 emphatically that he must go. He mended slowly from 
 that hour. 
 
 During convalescence, he made the acquaintance of a man 
 past middle life whom we will call the Sage, a name Tim 
 found for him. The boy thought of him as the Sage, or 
 the Ancient. He was incurably ill, but able to talk. Tim 
 was amazed at the quality of his talk, till it leaked out that 
 the Sage had been a fellow of his College. Why had he 
 gone under, this man of many and brilliant parts? Why 
 was he lying derelict in the county hospital of San Lorenzo. 
 Tim never knew. 
 
 We record some of the Sage's babblings. They were 
 hardly more than that. He was old and very tired. Tim 
 told him part of his story. 
 
 "Yes ; yes ; made a fool of yourself with a rag and a 
 bone and a hank of hair. Who wrote that? I read it 
 somewhere lately, the words of a boy who was born a 
 man." 
 
 "Never heard 'em," said Tim, for Kipling had not yet 
 swum into his ken. 
 
 "I forget names. I lie here thinking of abstractions, my 
 own experiences mostly, whether good or evil. Made a fool 
 of yourself, did you?" 
 
 "Foolishness?" asked Tim grimly. "Little Pennington 
 called it by another name." 
 
 "I daresay. Vice is often folly, although folly is not 
 often vice. Good and evil," he sighed drearily; "they are 
 so relative, aren't they? So dependent upon time and 
 148
 
 Poppies and Mandragora 
 
 place and temperament. I am at the end of my tether, 
 boy, and it has been a long one. I'm ready for the last 
 adventure." 
 
 He closed his eyes and fell asleep. 
 
 Later, Tim spoke of San Francisco. Perhaps he ought 
 to have sought work there, brain-work. The Sage shook 
 his head: 
 
 "All great cities are sad, boy. Pleasure sparkles on the 
 surface, spume of the deep sea ! and catches the eyes of 
 fools. For joy you must go to the country, to the wild 
 places, the mountains and forests. I trapped in the woods 
 of the north; I was quite alone during a blessed winter. 
 I was happy; I loved it." 
 
 And again : 
 
 "Suffer and grow strong." 
 
 But if suffering imposed weakness? Tim thought of 
 Preble relaxing his grip ! 
 
 The Sage was thinking when he spoke to Tim of death : 
 
 "It generally is, and ought to be easy, if a man has lived 
 his life. I was present once at the deathbed of a friend 
 who was esteemed a shining example. He remained all 
 his years in a tiny circle, a celibate from choice. He drew 
 down the blinds between himself and everything that of- 
 fended a curiously fastidious and refined mind. His end 
 was unhappy. He told me, towards the last, that he re- 
 garded himself as a vegetable, a weed upon Lethe's wharf. 
 It really worried him that his life had been so admirably 
 correct. He went reluctantly. Somehow peace at the 
 end fled from him." 
 
 Next day, the Sage died. 
 
 But he had lived. Tim knew that, and became rilled 
 with a curiosity that was never slaked. 
 
 "Et propter vitam vivendi perdere causas !" 
 
 Juvenal's tag came into his mind. To remain all one's 
 life in cotton wool, in a snug partition, like a blown Great 
 Auk's egg with never a crack in it, to be looked at, per- 
 haps, as a rare specimen of virtue never put to the proof, 
 
 149
 
 Timothy 
 
 to be labelled, classified, reduced to a common order, to be 
 spoken of with hushed, reverential whispers as a "museum 
 specimen," was this life? 
 
 On leaving the hospital, he found himself weak as an 
 anaemic girl and almost penniless. Incidentally, his place 
 on the range had been filled up. 
 
 "I shall tramp it a bit," thought Tim. Before leaving 
 San Lorenzo, he overhauled his portmanteau, shelved in a 
 small hotel kept by a Frenchman. The moth had ravaged 
 Jocelyn's blue serge suit, cut by a famous snip. Tim 
 pondered the obvious moral : 
 
 "Has the moth got into me?" 
 
 He bought a light pair of blankets, and made them up 
 into a loop, through which he put his head ; the upper part 
 rested upon his left shoulder, and the lower reached to 
 his right hip. Carrying a small valise, he took the road.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 AGUA CALIENTE 
 
 WANDERING south through Santa Barbara and Los 
 Angeles counties, Tim supported himself fairly well 
 by doing odd jobs splitting stovewood, haying and har- 
 vesting, night-watching in a big hotel, that dreariest of 
 vigils, working on a "gravel train" (ballasting a railroad 
 track), picking up few dollars but much experience. His 
 heels became abnormally sore, so bad at last that he had 
 to lie up in a small country inn. Being invited to inscribe 
 his name in the hotel register, he wrote: 
 
 "W. W. Green." 
 
 The young lady in charge of the office smiled. The 
 stranger limped, but he was very handsome. 
 
 "Are you ashamed," she asked, "of your first names 
 that you don't write them down?" 
 
 "Oh, dear, no!" 
 
 "What are your first names?" 
 
 "William Weary. What are yours?" 
 
 She laughed, tossing a coquettish head. 
 
 "My name is Gladys A dele Fitch, but my intimate friends 
 call me Dellie." She added pleasantly: "You do limp 
 some, but you don't look very weary, Mr. Green." 
 
 "Looks are deceptive," replied Tim. "You don't look 
 very, very good, Miss Fitch, but I'm sure you are." 
 
 Obviously she was flirtatious, but Tim failed to respond 
 after a promising opening. He hated to be pursued, re- 
 membering Ivy and her beguiling: "Oh, I do like you!" 
 Many women had looked boldly or bashfully into his eyes ;
 
 Timothy 
 
 and always he was sensible of a queer revulsion, partly of 
 the flesh and partly of the spirit. Ivy had rolled him in 
 the dust. There were many Ivys in the world. He en- 
 countered them everywhere. Journey predicted that they 
 would come to his whistling; but they came without it. 
 
 At this inn he spent what was left of his money, and, 
 finally, had to take the road again before his heels were 
 fit for tramping. Hard times followed. He became for 
 a season a hobo, and owed much to the kindness and 
 charity of a professional called Ginger. Ginger was what 
 is known as a "poke out." He belonged to the great ma- 
 jority of hoboes who accept, neither humbly nor grate- 
 fully, cold food handed out at the back door. The toffs 
 of the profession are termed "set-downers." To be a set- 
 downer exacts great gifts. A set-down earns by his wits 
 three solid hot meals a day. 
 
 Ginger was a tall, thin, lantern- jawed fellow, with a 
 merry eye. When he felt in good spirits, he would say to 
 Tim : "Gosh ! pard, I kin taste meself this morning." He 
 was sockless, but particular about his appearance. He 
 carried a razor and a clothes brush, which served also as a 
 hair brush, and he wore a double change, two coats, two 
 flannel shirts and two pairs of trousers. 
 
 He did most of the battering (begging), saying genially: 
 "Now, pard, what would you fancy this morning? Chicken 
 a la Maryland ? Waffles with maple syrup ? A cut o' salm- 
 on?" Then he would shamble off to return presently 
 with some cold potatoes and broken meat. Tea would be 
 boiled up in an old tomato can, and the knights of the 
 road would fall to. 
 
 Ginger taught Tim how to beat his way by train with- 
 out being beaten. They crawled under the cars and lay 
 snug upon the "bumpers," the trucks which carry the 
 wheels. Tim would hang on desperately with both hands, 
 not daring to let go whilst the gravel and dirt pounded his 
 face. The dust was awful, suffocating, but long distances 
 were covered. 
 152
 
 Agua Caliente 
 
 Tim, of course, was never of the hobo fraternity. He 
 preferred to work for a meal instead of battering it, much 
 to Ginger's disgust. Unhappily, Tim couldn't work for 
 nearly three months. His health had failed. If he at- 
 tempted manual labour he would break at once into a 
 profuse perspiration, followed by violent sickness and a 
 racking headache. 
 
 He was "on his uppers." 
 
 Gradually his health came back. Ginger said solemnly; 
 "If you mean to work, pard, we must part." 
 
 So they parted. 
 
 Was this sad experience wasted? Tim had learned the 
 adjustment of ways to means and means to ends, the 
 patter of the road fell fluently from his lips, and the songs 
 of the sockless. 
 
 Had he sunk or risen? Answer that question, if ye 
 can, ye fledglings in cosy nests to whom grumbling comes 
 easier than song. 
 
 Kindly remember that he had not yet recovered his 
 strength. The greaser's knife had bled him white, but not 
 to the whiteness of the happy village. His ambitions re- 
 mained in abeyance. 
 
 Presently, he drifted across roughish water into the 
 placid, pellucid bay of Avalon. He became for a summer's 
 season, a beachcomber, living on and by the beach in a 
 small tent, teaching trippers from the hot valleys beyond 
 the Coast Range how to swim, and fish, and pull an oar. 
 
 In Avalon strength and high health became his again. 
 And, also, the desire to win up to his star, to snatch her 
 from the skies. In an illustrated weekly, he saw a picture, 
 and beneath it: "One of this season's fairest debutantes" 
 No tears came to his eyes, as he stared yearningly at Daffy's 
 beautiful laughing face, at the deliciously curved lips that 
 he had kissed. But blood seemed to be dripping out of his 
 heart. The greaser's blade inflicted pangs less poignant> 
 for the sublime and ridiculous meet and mingle in a young 
 
 153
 
 Timothy 
 
 man's heart, and tragedy underlies the fact that youth can- 
 not distinguish between them. 
 
 There are wild goats in the island of Catalina. Tim put 
 up a sign outside his tent: 
 
 "Tim Green is an expert goat-hunter, and a dead shot; 
 but it's always your goat." 
 
 Tourists from the East returned home with trophies 
 when they engaged Tim. 
 
 After a time he grew bored with summer seas and 
 glass-bottomed boats, through which folks peered at the 
 wonders of the deep. He thought to himself: "A good 
 gale would shake them and me up. I must get out of 
 this." 
 
 When the trippers returned at the end of September 
 to their malarious valleys, Tim left Avalon, and wandered 
 back to Santa Barbara county. He had saved a little 
 money, about as much as a son of Dives may spend on an 
 evening's entertainment. Tim carried his cash in a canvas 
 belt snug upon his skin insurance against starvation. 
 
 During that winter if you call the pleasantest season of 
 the Southern California year by so harsh a name he 
 worked for a Spaniard, Don Clodomiro Maria Arellanes, 
 who did little manual work himself, being content to sit 
 beneath a fig tree and meditate upon the past, when he and 
 his lived patriarchally to the sound of guitar and mando- 
 lin, lords of the earth and the fullness thereof, owners 
 of countless horses and cattle, of leagues of land now cut 
 up and mutilated by barb-wire. Arellanes and his daugh- 
 ter occupied an adobe, the last of many possessions. With 
 the adobe went a few acres of rich valley, and a creek 
 gushing generously in the dryest years. There was also 
 an orchard, and a sulphur spring. The place was called 
 Agua Caliente. At the back of this small paradise stretched 
 a wilderness of chaparral and manzanita to which Don 
 Clodomiro owned no title save that of possession, a title 
 never disputed as yet. But, at the time when Tim engaged 
 himself, a hungry horde of squatters was invading the 
 154
 
 Agua Caliente 
 
 wilderness, lured on by the reading of just such pamphlets 
 as had captivated Tim. The squatters, poor souls! be- 
 lieved that these brush hills, hitherto the sanctuary of the 
 coyote and rattlesnake, could be transformed into vine- 
 yards and orchards. 
 
 They came in thousands, driving horses as thin and hun- 
 gry as themselves, with bedraggled, prolific wives sitting 
 beside them, men from bleeding Kansas and the mid-West, 
 blown out of the cornland by cyclone and blizzard, soured 
 fellows, maimed and frost-bitten, with a tiny flame alight 
 in their chilled souls, the hope that somewhere, anywhere, 
 they might find a homestead. To all of them, Southern 
 California had been pictured as Canaan. 
 
 Don Clodomiro swore softly in Spanish when the pil- 
 grims began to take up claims upon the rough hills which 
 he regarded inalienably as his. Argument was wasted upon 
 this quiet, courteous gentleman. The hills were his long 
 before Uncle Sam had pinned a patent to them. Had not 
 his grandfather obtained a grant from the illustrious 
 Gobernador Alvarado, the boundaries to be defined by a 
 horseman galloping helter-skelter from one peak to an- 
 other? And a title to this wilderness might have been 
 confirmed by Uncle Sam, had the "diseno" been submitted 
 to the Commissioners appointed to confirm such vague 
 documents. 
 
 Tim developed an affection for both father and daugh- 
 ter. They were dear, simple gentlepeople, in spite of 
 poverty, some dirt, and an amazing ignorance. Magdalena 
 had been educated in a convent; returning home to wash 
 and cook and sweep. She was engaging and graceful rather 
 than beautiful ; but her eyes were lovely, limpid brown 
 pools with golden flecks in them, as if tiny sunbeams had 
 found their way into cool shadows and there remained. 
 Don Clodomiro adored her. She was small, delicately 
 fashioned, with exquisite hands and feet, and only sixteen, 
 when Tim came to Agua Caliente. 
 
 Tim treated her as if she were a jolly little sister; and 
 
 155
 
 Timothy 
 
 he praised her cooking, as well he might, for she concocted 
 wonderful Spanish dishes, savoury guisados, chiles relle- 
 nos (stuffed chiles), tomales and enchiladas. A great pot 
 of beans always stood on the table, and in an outhouse 
 hung strings of sun-dried venison, a sort of jerky, and 
 onions and red peppers. Magdalena, also, without any 
 special knowledge, seemed to have a gift for poultry-breed- 
 ing. She looked charming when she was feeding her 
 ducklings and chickens and turkey poults. 
 
 Tim became very Spanish. He learned to chatter in 
 that language as fluently as Magdalena, and she taught him 
 how to play the guitar, and to sing pathetic love songs. 
 There was one in particular with a haunting refrain : 
 
 "Adios, adios, para siempre adios !" 
 
 Tim never heard this line without reflecting that it was 
 the swan-song of the Spanish-Calif ornians, a farewell to 
 the wonderful land of sunshine, which had once belonged 
 to them, for such pleasure-loving folk were vanishing, even 
 as the Indians had vanished, slowly fading out of a land- 
 scape which became duller and more drab for their passing. 
 
 He learned much from these Latins, contrasting their 
 patience, good-humour, and happiness in simple things 
 with the nervous, forceful, overworked Anglo-Saxons, never 
 satisfied with existing conditions, bowing down and wor- 
 shipping the Moloch of Progress, doffing their hats to the 
 snorting, smoke-belching locomotive as the symbol of a 
 triumphant civilisation. From the porch of his adobe, 
 which crowned a hill, Don Clodomiro could behold the 
 splendid Jesus Maria rancho, which had once belonged to 
 him and his fathers. Now, the sweeping, parklike pastures 
 were dotted with hideous frame houses and huge barns ly- 
 ing like blots upon the softly-tinted foothills upon which 
 his cattle and horses had grazed. 
 
 No complaints leaked from Don Clodomiro's lips, when 
 he spoke of the times "before the Gringo came," but Tim 
 divined that in his heart smouldered a passionate protest 
 156
 
 Agua Caliente 
 
 and resentment, the stronger because an iron pride sup- 
 pressed it. 
 
 ii 
 
 A year passed swiftly and happily. Tim's wages were 
 not paid regularly nor in full, but he did not care, for he 
 had found a home, and everything sensuous and artistic 
 in him leapt up joyously to acclaim peace and beauty and 
 rest. 
 
 During this year some of the brush hills at the back of 
 Agua Caliente were taken up by squatters, but these claims 
 were far from the adobe, and it seemed probable that the 
 squatters would desert them and move on. Don Clodomiro 
 cursed them magnificently as he rolled his cigarettes, and 
 remained under his fig tree. Tim urged upon him a mas- 
 terly inactivity, knowing that the squatters could be evicted 
 not by law nor by force, but by Nature herself. 
 
 And then, the inevitable happened. 
 
 A prairie-schooner rolled up to Agua Caliente containing 
 the Bannons. Bannon was a rough and tough Missourian, 
 a Piker of aggressive type. He selected a claim within 
 Don Clodomiro's fence, and staked it out. 
 
 "Teem," said Don Clodomiro, "you come with me. I 
 must talk to this dog. Virgen Santisima! I shall say, 
 Teem, what I think, and you will be my weetness." 
 
 "Bully for you," said Tim. "We'll scare the liver out of 
 him." 
 
 They went together to the barn, and saddled up two 
 horses. In the distance Magdalena was flitting about, 
 feeding her chickens. The father gazed at her fondly; 
 then he said to Tim : 
 
 "My Magdalena ! what a darling ! So good, so pretty, so 
 loving, Teem?" 
 
 "All that and more," replied Tim. 
 
 Don Clodomiro pulled at his beard. He was not fifty but 
 his beard had grizzled. 
 
 157
 
 Timothy 
 
 "Eef there should be trouble ?" 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "Eef, Teem, this son of a gun, this Bannon, should get 
 the drop on me ?" 
 
 "Not he." 
 
 "My boy, I speak soberly. I have seen ! Ay de mi! 
 
 I have seen, I say, good men of my race shot down by 
 the Gringos, who are quick, ohe! how quick they are to 
 kill! My brother Sebastian, he die like that in Monterey, 
 and my cousin, Estrada." 
 
 "If he kills you, I'll kill him." 
 
 "Teem, you are a good Teem. I no think of that. I 
 think of my Magdalena, mi querida. Look you, this is be- 
 tween ourselves. One day my Magdalena will be reech." 
 
 "Rich?" echoed Tim. 
 
 "The Agua Caliente and the sulphur spring are mine. I 
 have United States patent. In that hill is bitumen, mi 
 amigo, and somewhere is oil. Always I have known that. 
 And so I have held tight to the old homestead, because one 
 day the Gringos will build a monster hotel here. Oh, yes ! 
 and the oil will flow, my Teem, and then Magdalena will be 
 reech reech !" 
 
 "By Jingo ! I hope so." 
 
 "Now, Teem, if anything happen to me, it is for you to 
 watch out for my darling. You are strong and clever. 
 Yes, I know. You will watch out for Magdalena, eef this 
 Bannon is too mooch for me? Is it not so?" 
 
 Tim grasped his hand. 
 
 "By God!" he said solemnly, "I will." 
 
 "That is all right. And now for the Sefior Bannon. 
 Dios! May he feed the turkey buzzards!" 
 
 "They wouldn't touch his filthy carcase," said Tim. 
 
 They rode down the hill, following a small creek, till 
 they came to the prairie-schooner and a dirty tent. Upon 
 the tent ropes were hanging frayed garments which flut- 
 tered in the breeze. A woman was washing out other gar- 
 158
 
 Agua Caliente 
 
 ments in the creek. Don Clodomiro raised his sombrero 
 and saluted her courteously. 
 
 "The Seiior Bannon? Where is he, senora?" 
 
 The senora stared defiantly at the horsemen. 
 
 "If you mean Tom; he's asleep in the wagon. Call 
 again !" 
 
 "No. I regret moch that I disturb the senor. Have the 
 kindness, to inform the senor that Don Clodomiro Arellanes 
 desires to speak with heem." 
 
 The woman rose sullenly, walked to the tent and said 
 shriljy: "Tom, here's a couple o' Dagos. I tole 'em you 
 was asleep. Git up, and handle 'em yerself." 
 
 Arellanes pulled his beard. He murmured silkily to 
 Tim: 
 
 "He, he! We are Dagos, Teem. You hear that?" 
 
 Tim was brown as any Spaniard. He replied quickly : 
 
 "If you're a Dago, Don Clodomiro, I'm proud to be one, 
 too." 
 
 The Senor Bannon lurched out of the tent, a big, raw- 
 boned ruffian, half full of whiskey. 
 
 "You are the Senor Bannon?" 
 
 "I'm Tom Bannon. What you fellers want?" 
 
 He eyed them both with savage contempt. Don Clodo- 
 miro answered mildly: 
 
 "You have cut my fence, and staked out a claim upon 
 my land." 
 
 Bannon laughed harshly. 
 
 "Yer land? That's good. That's a tale ter pitch ter 
 suckers. It's Uncle Sam's land and you know it. If ye 
 don't know it, the county surveyor'll post ye. I ain't no 
 tenderfoot, old whiskers, see? You own the spring, the 
 adobe, and jest three hundred an' twenty acres o' land, the 
 pick o' the township, too. I'm helpin' myself to my own. 
 If ye've nothin' else ter say git !" 
 
 "You have cut my fence, senor." 
 
 "I hev. I mean to cut more of it. Quit foolin', onless 
 yer huntin' trouble." 
 
 159
 
 Timothy 
 
 "I say this. This senor here is my weetness." 
 
 "An' my wife is mine. Come right here, Mame." 
 
 Mrs. Bannon abandoned her washing reluctantly, stand- 
 ing with arms akimbo, staring at the horsemen, listening 
 attentively with a sour smile upon her weather-beaten face. 
 Half a dozen children, playing about the wagon, made up 
 Don Clodomiro's audience. He spoke very quietly : 
 
 "You cut my fence again, Senor Bannon, and I shoot 
 you, in my own way, and at my own time. I build my 
 fence myself, with my own hands. It ees mine. I warn 
 you fair and square." 
 
 "You go to hell!" 
 
 "Hasta luego," said the Don, raising his sombrero. "I 
 waste no more words with you, senor." 
 
 He rode on, followed by Tim. 
 
 in 
 
 Nothing happened for several days. Afterwards, when 
 Tim came to a better understanding of his fellow-men, he 
 wondered why he had blundered so horribly in his esti- 
 mate of Don Clodomiro's character and temperament. At 
 the time he believed the quiet, gentle Spaniard to be bluff- 
 ing; and he believed, also, that the bluff would not be 
 called by such a stupid, blustering clown as Tom Bannon 
 appeared to be. 
 
 At the end of the week, Magdalena left home to spend a 
 few days in Santa Barbara. An old Indita took her place 
 in the kitchen and corrals. The day before Magdalena left 
 home the wire fence was cut in another place, but Tim 
 did not connect the two incidents. 
 
 Upon the afternoon of Magdalena's departure, Tim was 
 working in the orchard, when he heard a rifle shot. He 
 went into the house, and perceived that Don Clodomiro's 
 rifle, a heavy-barrelled Sharp of ancient pattern was miss- 
 ing. Tim became uneasy. His uneasiness increased when 
 160
 
 Agua Caliente 
 
 the Spaniard appeared shortly afterwards carrying the rifle. 
 
 "Any luck?" asked Tim, lightly. 
 
 "I shoot a coyote, Teem." 
 
 He spoke so naturally that Tim's fears vanished. The 
 Spaniard propped the rifle against an apple tree, and be- 
 gan to roll a cigarette. Tim saw that his thin brown fingers 
 were trembling. Presently he went into the house, carry- 
 ing the rifle with him. Tim worked on for about half an 
 hour ; then he slipped quietly into the adobe, and examined 
 the rifle. An empty case still lay in the breech. Tim 
 glanced about him furtively. Don Clodomiro was in his 
 bedroom. Tim slipped the empty cartridge into his pocket, 
 and then cleaned the rifle. He went back to his work as 
 quietly as he came from it, but he was conscious of a mad 
 excitement. He made certain that Don Clodomiro had sent 
 Magdalena away, and had then despatched his enemy. 
 
 The two men met at supper, which was eaten in silence. 
 Towards the end, Arellanes said abruptly: 
 
 "Teem, you like Magdalena?" 
 
 "Like her? You bet." 
 
 "It ees good." 
 
 The men smoked, whilst the Indita cleared away. It 
 might have been eight o'clock, or thereabouts, when heavy 
 steps were heard on the wooden porch, followed by a loud 
 knocking on the door, which Don Clodomiro opened. 
 
 "Hands up quick!" 
 
 Tim obeyed the familiar injunction. Arellanes never 
 moved, smiling derisively at his visitors. All were masked, 
 wearing masks made out of gunny-sacking. 
 
 "He's not heeled," gasped Tim. "Don't shoot!" 
 
 "What you men want?" asked Don Clodomiro. His 
 voice was as gentle and suave as ever. 
 
 "We want you." 
 
 "Dios! And why?" 
 
 "Tie their hands, boys." 
 
 Arellanes offered no resistance, submitting quietly. Tim 
 
 161
 
 Timothy 
 
 submitted also. About a dozen men were in the room. 
 The spokesman said curtly : 
 
 "This afternoon, along about five, Tom Bannon was shot 
 dead in his tracks, shot jest inside yer fence," he turned 
 his masked head toward Arellanes. "You murdered him, 
 you damned Dago ! In the presence of his pore wife, and 
 this young man, who's a party to the crime, or I'm a liar, 
 you threatened ter shoot him on sight, ef he cut yer fence." 
 
 "Oh, yes ; I tell him that." 
 
 "He did cut yer fence ter git to his own land, an' to-day 
 you shot him." 
 
 "It ees to be proved in a court of justice." 
 
 "It's going to be proved right here and now. Search 
 him, boys." 
 
 They did so, finding nothing. The leader picked up the 
 rifle and opened the breech, glancing down the barrel. 
 
 "It's clean," he said. Involuntarily, Arellanes glanced at 
 Tim, and that glance was a confession. Yes; Arellanes 
 had shot Bannon. 
 
 "Search the young feller!" 
 
 Tim was searched. One of the searchers held up the 
 empty cartridge. 
 
 "Give it here," commanded the leader. 
 
 He slipped the discharged cartridge into the rifle. Then 
 he smelt the end of the barrel, and ran the tip of his little 
 finger round the inside edge of it. 
 
 "Boys, that rifle was fired within a few hours ; the powder 
 ain't dry. He turned savagely to Tim: "Now, look ye 
 here, you answer straight! What was this yere empty 
 shell doin' in yer pocket?" 
 
 Tim lied recklessly: 
 
 "I had a shot at a coyote this this morning. Then I 
 cleaned the rifle, and I suppose I slipped that shell into my 
 pocket." 
 
 "You hit the coyote." 
 
 "I I missed it." 
 
 "Thought so. If you could ha' shown us the scalp we 
 162
 
 Agua Caliente 
 
 might hev believed ye. Boys, this yere is a reg'lar put-up 
 job o' murder, cold-blooded murder. The old man hadn't 
 the nerve ter do it, so this young feller does it fer him. 
 Those in favour of hangin' the two of 'em, here an' now, 
 hold up their hands." 
 
 Some men held up two hands. 
 
 "One hand'll do, boys. Good! You air in favour of 
 lynchin' 'em. You all know, fer a cold fact, that in this 
 yere cow-country any man with a pull kin git off a charge 
 of murder in the first degree. You all know that the sheriff 
 ain't hed to hang a man since he's held office. This Arel- 
 lanes has a pull. If we let the law o' the land deal with 
 him, he'll escape. If ye feel jest as I do, hold up yer hands" 
 agen." 
 
 Arellanes remained silent. Tim said excitedly : 
 
 "I'm a British subject. I've never taken out my naturali- 
 sation papers. You boys had better be careful." 
 
 "A Britisher? Ye look like a Dago. A Britisher?" He 
 laughed savagely. "That makes it easier. We don't want 
 no Dagoes nor no Britishers either in Gawd's country." 
 
 Don Clodomiro spoke slowly : 
 
 "Teem is innocent. He works for me." 
 
 "Innocent? About as innocent as you air! March 'em 
 out, boys. The nearest live-oak'll do." 
 
 "You damned curs and cowards," said Tim. 
 
 IV 
 
 They were marched out, and down the hill till a suitable 
 place of execution was found. Arellanes said nothing ; his 
 face was pale but impassive. Perhaps he was reserving his 
 powers, concentrating all energies upon the last supreme 
 appeal. Two hair ropes were produced and prepared. 
 Tim began to tremble; and then he swore to himself that 
 he would die like a man. The luck had gone dead against 
 him from the first. It struck him as almost absurd that 
 
 163
 
 Timothy 
 
 he might be dead in five minutes. Where would he be in 
 ten? A scene from his early childhood flashed into his 
 mind with startling vividness. His nurse had reported him 
 to the Vicar for some mischievous act. The Vicar lifted 
 him on to his knee, and said : "You know, Tim, you and I 
 are the only two men in this house. Aren't you giving more 
 than your fair share of the trouble?" He had swelled 
 into a man then, and now he was a child for a brief in- 
 stant. His thoughts swooped from the past into the fu- 
 ture. He saw the Vicar's face whiten and wither, as the 
 brutal blow struck him. He might well believe that murder 
 had been done and expiated. Daffy might see a para- 
 graph in the morning paper : "Young Englishman lynched 
 in California." He thought of Preble, who had screamed 
 horribly. He would not scream. Already he felt suffocat- 
 ing; his tongue swelled; his mouth was parched; a bitter 
 taste filled it. Why the devil didn't they hurry up and do 
 the trick? He had a glimpse, no more, of his mother's 
 picture. She had borne him for this. 
 
 The voice of the leader seemed to float from immeasur- 
 able distances. 
 
 "Anything to say ?" 
 
 "Yes, senor," replied Arellanes. He spoke with extraor- 
 dinary dignity and solemnity, weighing his words. "You 
 mean to kill me, and I Clodomiro Maria Arellanes am 
 ready. I am a good Catholic, seiiors, and I am prepared to 
 die. I knew that Bannon would kill me, eef I didn't kill 
 him. And I killed him this afternoon. But Teem, he know 
 nothing. But when I come back, he suspect. Yes; I see 
 that he suspect me. I go to my room, to I am not ashamed 
 of that to pray. Te^m, he look at the rifle, he clean it, 
 and he slip the shell into his pocket. Is it possible, I ask 
 you, that a guilty man should do a thing so foolish, so 
 senseless? and Teem, he have plenty of sense. Kill me, 
 but let Teem go." 
 
 There was silence. Tim knew that his life hung upon a 
 164
 
 Agua Caliente 
 
 word, a nod. The sweat broke out upon his skin. Arel- 
 lanes continued, as clearly and composedly as before: 
 
 "Senors, I have a daughter. She is away from home. 
 Perhaps I send her from Agua Caliente because I know 
 trouble is coming to my house. Let Teem go to her. She 
 will need a man. Some of you are fathers, no? Then you 
 will understand. I have spoken." 
 
 The leader stood silent; some of the others whispered. 
 Tim could guess what might be said. Dead men tell no 
 tales. How often he had read that line in some boy's story 
 of adventure! And now he applied it to himself, recog- 
 nising the inexorable truth of it. Suddenly, the leader 
 spoke : 
 
 "The old man has confessed, and he must hang, as a 
 warning to others. We squatters have no dollars to waste 
 in lawsuits. The boy may or may not be a party, but fer 
 me I believe he ain't. But he may make trouble fer us. 
 I'm willin' ter risk that." 
 
 "Same here," said a voice. 
 
 "Those in favour of hangin' the boy hold up their 
 hands !" 
 
 Two hands shot up ; then three ; then a fourth. Tim felt 
 that the others were wavering. Possibly, the leader real- 
 ised his tremendous responsibility. 
 
 "Cut him loose," he said. 
 
 Tim was released. 
 
 "Come you here," said the leader, in his muffled voice. 
 Tim approached. 
 
 "You skin outer this quick. Go to the girl ; she'll need 
 ye. Saddle yer plug and scoot! And be mighty keerful 
 how you talk o' this yere act o' justice. Ye don't know 
 us, but, by God ! we know you. Git !" 
 
 "Good-bye, Teem," said Arellanes. 
 
 Tim went up to him with the tears raining down his face. 
 He was utterly unstrung, trembling, hardly able to speak. 
 The moon had risen; and he could see clearly the face of 
 
 165
 
 Timothy 
 
 Magdalena's father, the impassive, finely cut features, the 
 strange quiet eyes, deep pools without sun-flecks in them. 
 
 "Embrace me, my son," he spoke in Spanish. 
 
 Tim kissed his cold cheek and remembered afterwards 
 how cold it was. 
 
 "Embrace my Magdalena for me. May the Blessed 
 Virgin protect you and her ! Adios 1" 
 
 166
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 MAGDALENA 
 
 MAGDALENA was crooning a love song when Tim gal- 
 loped into Santa Barbara. During that long ride 
 from Agua Caliente he had wondered how he should break 
 the appalling news. Being little more than a boy, he ig- 
 nored the instinct of women, their amazing divination. 
 Long afterwards Magdalena told him that she was expect- 
 ing trouble. It hung in the air at the adobe; it accom- 
 panied her to Santa Barbara; it haunted waking hours 
 and dreams. Before Tim spoke ever a word, at the first 
 glance into his drawn and stricken face, she wailed out : 
 
 "Ay de mi ! My father is dead dead !" 
 
 Tim answered hoarsely: 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Bannon kill him ! I know I know." 
 
 Tim took her small hand, holding it firmly : 
 
 "Magdalena, your father killed Bannon; and now he is 
 dead." 
 
 At the moment he could say no more. Magdalena rushed 
 into the house, wailing. Tim attended to his horse, which 
 was nearly spent. There were other Spanish women in the 
 house. Tim heard them wailing with Magdalena, a long 
 wild note of anguish. 
 
 Magdalena's host, a kinsman of Don Clodomiro, came 
 out to greet Tim. When he heard the facts, he opened 
 his hands, held them for an instant palm upwards, and 
 
 167
 
 Timothy 
 
 then turned them palm downwards. The gesture was an 
 epitaph on the old order. Tim said: 
 
 "We must bring these hounds to justice." 
 
 The Spaniard shook his head mournfully. Tim said pas- 
 sionately : 
 
 "They murdered Don Clodomiro, and they nearly mur- 
 dered me." 
 
 "Huy !" 
 
 "If there is law in California !" 
 
 "You will see, senor. Nothing will be done, nothing." 
 
 And again that deprecating gesture. 
 
 They drove to Agua Caliente, to cut down the poor 
 body, and take it back to the adobe. Magdalena remained 
 with the women. Tim never saw her alone till after the 
 funeral. 
 
 II 
 
 An inquest followed, of course. 
 
 Tim was called as a witness. On the faces of coroner 
 and jury he beheld a half-sullen, half-derisive expression. 
 Justice, in their opinion, had been vindicated. Judge Lynch 
 had done his duty. The sacred rights of the poor squat- 
 ter were proclaimed in vile English with copious expec- 
 toration of tobacco- juice ! 
 
 A juryman said solemnly to Tim: 
 
 "Young sir, you're hed a mighty close call. Be more 
 keerful after this." 
 
 "I shall pick my company, you may be sure," replied 
 Tim, and the interlocutor lay awake that night for at least 
 half an hour wondering what the derned Britisher meant. 
 
 Uncle Sam took no further action. The writer hap- 
 pened to be at the inquest. He prefers to record the facts 
 without comment. Had Tim died, when the greaser slipped 
 a knife into him, the verdict would have been Justifiable 
 Homicide. 
 
 Don Clodomiro was laid to rest in the Catholic ceme- 
 168
 
 Magdalena 
 
 tery, and soon forgotten. Tom Bannon was buried, also. 
 One of the squatters observed to the widow on the day 
 of the funeral : 
 
 "Cheer up, Marm. We give Tom a fine send-off !" 
 
 in 
 
 Magdalena and Tim met alone in the sitting-room of the 
 adobe. It contained some fine pieces of mahogany brought 
 round the Horn in early days, and paid for with hides and 
 tallow, or with slugs of gold which lay in a basket in the 
 tapanco, or garret. Don Clodomiro, as a young man, would 
 remove a tile from the roof, and drop a lump of tallow 
 at the end of a cord into the basket, and so secure extra 
 pocket-money. His father winked at such petty larceny. 
 Had he not done the same in his youth? 
 
 Magdalena looked pitifully small and forlorn in her 
 black garments, but she assumed a certain dignity as be- 
 came her father's daughter. Tim sat beside her upon a 
 horse-hair sofa. 
 
 "What are you going to do, Magdalena?" 
 
 "Teem, I do not know." 
 
 "You have this ranch and a little money in the bank 
 not much." 
 
 "You will stay with me, Teem?" 
 
 "You want to stay on here?" 
 
 She caught a note of protest, of surprise in his voice. 
 
 "It is my home, Teem. I cannot go to my cousins, be- 
 cause they are poor. Shall I sell Agua Caliente, no?" 
 
 "Not yet, dear." 
 
 He spoke of the bituminous rock, of the oil, of the hot 
 sulphur spring. She listened attentively, nodding her head. 
 She might be ignorant of many things, but here was no 
 empty-pated girl. A woman looked into Tim's blue eyes. 
 
 "You no want to stay, Teem ?" 
 
 "J want to do what is best for you." 
 
 169
 
 Timothy 
 
 Her eyes brightened ; a few sunny flecks danced in them, 
 as she sighed: 
 
 "You are a good, kind Teem." 
 
 He said excitedly: 
 
 "I am so sorry for you, Magdalena. You will never 
 know, dear, how sorry I am!" 
 
 "Ohe ! I know." She pressed his hand softly. 
 
 "I am racking my brains to decide what is best for you. 
 Your poor father asked me to watch out for you: and I 
 promised him that I would." 
 
 "Yes ; you are a good Teem." She continued quietly, as 
 if she had pondered her words. "I wish you to stay here 
 with me." 
 
 "But, Magdalena " 
 
 She just touched his lips with her finger, silencing him. 
 
 "You have been happy here, no?" 
 
 "Most awfully happy." 
 
 "But sometimes, at night, you have thought of your 
 own country, of England, of some pretty girls, perhaps, 
 who is waiting for you, Teem." 
 
 The bitterness in his voice brought a flush to her cheeks, 
 as he replied : 
 
 "There is no girl waiting for me, Magdalena." 
 
 He fell into a reverie; she watched him, playing with 
 the crepe upon her gown. Then she said falteringly : 
 
 "Teem, at the last, when you take leave of my father 
 did he send no message to me?" 
 
 "He called upon the Virgin to bless you." 
 
 Magdalena crossed herself. 
 
 "Nothing else?" 
 
 Tim whispered bashfully: 
 
 "He told me to embrace you for him." 
 
 It sounded oddly in English ; he wished that he was 
 talking Spanish. Magdalena turned her cheek : 
 
 "I will take his last kiss from you, Teem." 
 
 He kissed her solemnly. Her head drooped till it rested 
 upon his shoulder. She began to cry. 
 170
 
 Magdalena 
 
 
 
 "I am so lonely, mi amigo." 
 
 Tim's heart thumped against his ribs. She was clinging 
 to him, sobbing unrestrainedly. A tempest of emotion shook 
 him and her. He, too, felt unbearably lonely and forlorn. 
 She wanted him. She was a sweet, good girl, and a lady. 
 
 He kissed the tears from her eyes. She allowed him 
 to do so. He kissed her pretty hair, her forehead, and 
 lastly her lips. Then doubt fled. He loved her; and she 
 loved him. 
 
 "Magdalena!" 
 
 "Teem?" 
 
 "Will you be my little wife?" 
 
 She answered in Spanish : 
 
 "God of my soul! I have loved you from the first. I 
 adore you. I love you with all my heart and spirit and 
 body." 
 
 Her passion whirled him to heights and depths. Mag- 
 dalena was a pure maiden. Must he tell her his sordid 
 story, blacken the whiteness of her love? He told himself 
 sorrowfully that no other course was open. If she wanted 
 him and he wanted her let her take him as he was, or 
 let him go. But he trembled with fear that she might let 
 him go. 
 
 IV 
 
 He told the tale for the third time, sensible that it lost 
 in the telling, that it exhaled a stale odour, which must 
 offend the nostrils of the girl who listened so attentively, 
 with her great eyes gazing into his. As he recited the crude 
 facts, he could see his image reflected in those liquid pools, 
 a shrunken presentment. He felt abnormally small. 
 
 When he had finished, when he stood naked and ashamed 
 before her, she burst again into tears. But they were shed 
 for him, not for herself. She said brokenly : 
 
 "Oh! you have suffered you have suffered. But it is 
 nothing nothing. I shall make you forget, ohe! My love
 
 Timothy 
 
 will make you forget, Teem. Don't stare at me so, you fool- 
 ish boy! I am not angry. Ah! Dios! but I could strike 
 Ivy. I hate her, because she hated you. You no under- 
 stand me ! And you have given her a child ! And still she 
 hate you ! God of my soul ! is it possible ?" 
 
 "You are a wonder," said Tim. He added in a whis- 
 per: "And not yet eighteen." 
 
 "Eighteen!" She laughed scornfully; her bosom rose 
 and fell. "I have seen girls of fourteen who would un- 
 derstand and weep for you. We are not cold, we Spanish ! 
 But she she must be of ice. To have you, my beautiful 
 Teem, and then to throw you away ! Ay ! Ay !" 
 
 She pressed his head to her bosom with a superbly ma- 
 ternal passion. He could hear the throbbing of her heart, 
 beating for him alone. 
 
 "Heavens !" he exclaimed. "How I'll work for you !" 
 
 She laughed happily. 
 
 "I shall work too, my Teem. We will work together." 
 
 Then she frowned; and Tim kissed away the frown. 
 
 "What is it, you angel ?" 
 
 "It will pass, but I am jealous of the boy. Is it wicked 
 
 of me to grudge her that? Yes; yes. But if she hates 
 uj | 
 
 "No, no, Magdalena. The child is well cared for. He 
 is strong and healthy." 
 
 "Ah! Could your child be anything else? Mi querido, 
 this has drawn you closer to me. How right and wise you 
 were to tell me. A man can tell anything, anything to the 
 woman who loves him." 
 
 She spoke of herself as a woman ; and he had wit enough 
 not to contradict her. 
 
 They were married. 
 
 Tim did not tell the Vicar of his marriage. Remember 
 that he was living in the land of Mariana, with a daughter 
 172
 
 Magdalena 
 
 of a procrastinating race. Day by day, he postponed the 
 task which involved explanations and exculpations; day by 
 day it became increasingly difficult to write with entire 
 frankness. He had married a Roman Catholic. To please 
 Magdalena he had been received into Holy Mother Church. 
 The Vicar would be terribly pained; and surely another 
 man's child had caused him pain enough. No apologies 
 need be offered for Tim's defection from the Church of 
 England. Before and just after the Gringo came, it used to 
 be a saying in Southern California that the Englishmen 
 and Americans who married the senoritas and espoused 
 also their religion left their consciences at Cape Horn. Tim 
 wanted to please a wife who adored him. 
 
 Magdalena made him very happy. 
 
 One must try to behold them as Daphnis and Chloe 
 in Arcadia. They were too young and too healthy to 
 analyse happiness that fatal blunder! They accepted it 
 joyously. Sometimes Tim would say to himself: "What- 
 ever happens now, I have had an inning." 
 
 He went about his work. As a rule, Magdalena accom- 
 panied him. When he ploughed, she would drive the 
 horses; when he chopped wood, she piled it into neat 
 cords. He fed the horses, but she watered them. He helped 
 her in the kitchen, and learned the mysterious processes of 
 Spanish cooking. 
 
 He was obliged to tell her many times a day that he 
 loved her. She would laugh and hold up her finger : 
 
 "Sure, Teem?" 
 
 "Quite sure !" 
 
 "Ohe, what a nice Teem you are!" 
 
 After supper, she would curl up in a chair, and look 
 at Tim, while he read aloud. Sometimes he would pause 
 and say: 
 
 "Do you understand that, Brownie?" 
 
 And she would reply : 
 
 "No; but I love to hear your voice. Go on, Teem." 
 
 Then he would lay down the book or the paper, and try 
 
 173
 
 Timothy 
 
 to make things clear. She had plenty of intelligence, but 
 it was not prudent to lead her far from her own circle. 
 She always frowned a little when he spoke of England. 
 They saw few neighbours, because Magdalena held in hor- 
 ror the squatters, regarding them as murderers; but the 
 invasion continued. Some newcomers, not those who took 
 up claims, were pleasant enough people. They bought land, 
 planted out orchards, and built fairly comfortable houses. 
 Many possessed independent means, and these, as a rule, 
 were seeking health and climate. The fame of the sulphur 
 spring spread abroad. Don Clodomiro had built a small 
 shanty, holding a couple of bath-tubs, made of redwood, 
 stained black by the sulphur. Tim saw possibilities of 
 adding to a small income. He built some cheap bath- 
 houses; and bought many towels, charging a dollar for 
 a bain complet. Within six months, to the immense surprise 
 of our Arcadians, they were making a hundred dollars a 
 month, clear, out of the bathing establishment, with a happy 
 prospect of even handsomer dividends. 
 
 In Don Clodomiro's time there had been no garden, in 
 the, English sense of .the word. In the orchard, all vege- 
 tables grew like Jack's beanstalk, and over the old adobe 
 clambered a few roses, blooming perpetually. Tim was 
 not satisfied till he had a small lawn enclosed with a cypress 
 fence, and many flowers. Watering the lawn was an easy 
 job, for he bought a couple of sprinklers, which Magda- 
 lena kept for ever on the move. Water never failed them. 
 
 He noticed that Magdalena never spoke of the future 
 and very rarely of the past. She lived joyously in an 
 enchanting present. One day Tim said casually: 
 
 "Your father married after he was thirty." 
 
 "Oh, no! He married young. He was twenty; my 
 mother was sixteen." 
 
 "And you were the only child." 
 
 "I was the youngest. There was," she checked them off 
 upon her fingers, "Ramon, and Luis, and Juan, and Narciso, 
 and poor Dolores."
 
 Magdalena 
 
 "Heavens ! But where are they ?" 
 
 "They are dead, Teem." 
 
 "Dead?" He stared at her hungrily. "But how? Why?" 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "The consumption! Ay de mi! So many of our race 
 die of the consumption. It is strange, Teem. The Indians 
 die like that, too, so my father say. And now it is our 
 turn. Perhaps the Gringos will die, too, no?" 
 
 "Consumption?" 
 
 He kissed her fiercely, straining her small body to his 
 mighty chest. He told himself that she enjoyed superb 
 health, which was true, and henceforward he would watch 
 her jealously, keep her in cotton wool, his blessed little 
 wife. 
 
 "Teem, how you squeeze me! How I love to be squeezed 
 by you, mi querido !" 
 
 His fear passed, but the shadow of it lay black across 
 the future. 
 
 VI 
 
 Once a month he wrote to and received a letter from 
 the Vicar. He heard thus of his old friends, and wondered 
 whether they had forgotten him. What fun it would be 
 to crack a long yarn with the dear old Colonel, and to run 
 round the village, chaffing the cottagers ! Perhaps he would 
 never see any of them again. At such moments an odd 
 yearning twisted him, not homesickness, something more 
 subtile, a racial feeling, the call of mother-country which 
 most exiles, however happy, must experience. 
 
 Two years after Tim's marriage, the Vicar reported 
 the news of Daffy's engagement to the eldest son of a 
 rich peer, a well-known ironmaster, exalted by Gladstone 
 to the Upper House, and now so the Vicar wrote a con- 
 firmed Tory. "It's a big marriage, but she is a beautiful, 
 clever woman. I hope she will be happy. The young man 
 is in the Guards. Mrs. Carmichael told me that she was 
 
 175
 
 Timothy 
 
 ready to sing her 'Nunc Dimittis/ but I accepted this with 
 reservations." 
 
 Tim did not show this letter to Magdalena. He rode, 
 instead, into the back-pasture, tied his horse to a live-oak, 
 and gave himself up to introspection. 
 
 Daffy had become an attenuated shade haunting misty 
 corners of his memory. He thought of her tenderly, but 
 he might have shewn such thoughts to Magdalena. Wisely, 
 he did not do so. He tried to behold Daffy as a great lady, 
 a woman of high fashion. She would adorn any station. 
 Her future husband, no doubt, would leave the Army and 
 enter Parliament. Daffy would push him on. Her beauty 
 and cleverness would be incalculable assets. 
 
 He might have married Daffy. 
 
 No regrets tore him. He had taken the colour of his 
 surroundings. He was brown as any Spaniard, brown as 
 the foothills in summer, brown and hard, physically as 
 near perfection as a man can be. To love and be loved, 
 to work not too strenuously at congenial tasks, to behold 
 the concrete results of such labour, to make much out of 
 little wasn't this sufficient for any man ? 
 
 He could not answer the insistent question quite hon- 
 estly. There were ever-recurring moments when something 
 within him clamoured for greater triumphs than a small 
 ranch could furnish. The Vicar sent him papers, the Spec- 
 tator, then under Hutton's admirable editorship, and The 
 Illustrated London News. Now and again he would see 
 the picture or read news of some school-fellow who had 
 achieved distinction. More often than not he could vividly 
 recall the fellow as one whom he had reckoned his intel- 
 lectual inferior. He was not of a jealous temperament, 
 but pangs assailed him when he tried to measure the tri- 
 umphs of his contemporaries. 
 
 Magdalena wanted children, but none came to them. 
 
 He thought of the unknown child to whom he, the fa- 
 ther, was unknown. According to the Vicar, the urchin was 
 thriving, a jolly little chap nearly six years old! What 
 176
 
 Magdalena 
 
 would become of him? Sometimes he wondered whether 
 it might be possible to take the boy from Ivy, if Magda- 
 lena bore him no others. Magdalena would mother his 
 child ; he was quite sure of that. Ivy, heartless little ani- 
 mal, might be glad to let him go. 
 
 Presently, he tore up the Vicar's letter, and watched the 
 summer's breeze play with the bits of paper. One bit was 
 caught by a higher current and whirled out of sight. So 
 it had been with him! 
 
 In his leisure hours, he made many pencil drawings, 
 much admired by Magdalena. He abandoned caricature, 
 and tried to reproduce what he saw as faithfully as possi- 
 ble. Continual practice brought about aptitude. Then he 
 began to paint in oil, attempting many portraits of Mag- 
 dalena, who declared that she loved to pose. A wandering 
 artist from San Francisco saw some of his sketches. 
 
 "These are very good," he said. "Where did you learn 
 to draw?" 
 
 Tim confessed that he was self-taught. He had always 
 drawn, spoiling reams of paper. The artist nodded. 
 
 "That's the only way. It's a pity " 
 
 "A pity?" 
 
 "That you can't take this up seriously. You have an ex- 
 traordinary sense of colour. That is a gift. I shall never 
 have it. You need two years hard work in Paris." 
 
 "Anything else?" asked Tim. 
 
 The artist remained a month, and was kind enough to 
 overhaul Tim's colour-box, and to give him many hints. 
 When he left the neighbouring village, he said to Tim: 
 
 "Stick to your drawing. Draw everything and every- 
 body. I'll send you a text-book or two on perspective 
 and anatomy." 
 
 Another year glided by. 
 
 California was prospering ; the boom in land approached 
 its zenith. One day, Tim opened a letter addressed to the 
 owner of Agua Caliente Rancho; the handwriting seemed 
 familiar. To his immense surprise and pleasure, the let- 
 
 177
 
 Timothy 
 
 ter was written by his old friend, Harvey Cooke, written 
 on business paper and typewritten. Harvey Cooke, appar- 
 ently, was a real-estate agent in Santa Barbara. He wrote 
 to ask if Agua Caliente was for sale, and, if so, at what 
 price. Obviously, he had not the smallest idea that he was 
 writing to Tim. 
 
 In much excitement Tim shewed the letter to Magdalena, 
 who advised him to answer it in person. Let him ride into 
 Santa Barbara, and renew his friendship with Senor Cooke. 
 That would be a fine pasear ! 
 
 "But you do not want to sell Agua Caliente, no?'' 
 
 "That's your affair, Brownie. If we were offered a 
 thumping price, what ?" 
 
 He looked at her curiously, wondering how she would 
 reply. 
 
 "Dios! I should like my Teem to be rich. He is so 
 clever, cleverer than the Gringos. It takes money ta 
 make money. Father say that. I suppose we are almost 
 paisanos." She sighed, adding sweetly : "I am ambeetious, 
 Teem, not for myself, but for you. Ohe ! I would sell 
 Agua Caliente to make you rich." 
 
 VII 
 
 Next day, he rode into Santa Barbara, leaving Magda- 
 lena behind, although he asked her to accompany him. 
 
 "No; you will want to talk and talk with Senor Cooke. 
 I shall prepare a fiesta. Ojala! You will see!" 
 
 Since Don Clodomiro's death, the old Indian woman had 
 remained with them. Magdalena would be quite happy 
 making tamales with her. 
 
 Cooke greeted him very cordially, amazed to hear of 
 Tim's marriage, and eager to recite his own adventures. 
 He had bought and managed a small hotel in Santa Cruz, 
 selling it eventually at a handsome profit. Then he had 
 drifted into the real-estate business, the subdivision of 
 I 7 8
 
 Magdalena 
 
 town plots, fire and life insurance, and so forth. He con- 
 cluded on a jubilant note: 
 
 "I am going to make a pile, Tim. It's a dead cert. I've 
 caught on, cut my wisdom teeth." 
 
 "So have I," said Tim. 
 
 "You look fine. Lord ! how green we were in the old 
 days! You must dine with us to-night. The Missus will 
 hug you." 
 
 "And the boys?" 
 
 "Both doing well, but they've cut loose from me. One 
 in the Railroad fine service! T'other is specialising in 
 prunes in the Santa Clara Valley." 
 
 Tim dined with them. Cooke cracked a bottle of cham- 
 pagne. After dinner the men smoked two big cigars. Cooke 
 said that he would return with Tim and inspect the sulphur 
 spring. 
 
 "It's like this," he had become slightly American in his 
 modes of speech, "you may have a bonanza. And bitu- 
 minous rock indicates oil. You let me nose about a bit." 
 
 "Bring Mrs. Cooke. I want her to meet my wife. We 
 can put you up, if you don't mind roughing it." 
 
 "Done !" 
 
 "Have you any children, Tim?" asked Mrs. Cooke. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "It is funny to think of you as a Benedict." 
 
 Tim rode back early to prepare Magdalena. She was 
 delighted at the prospect of entertaining her husband's 
 friends. Nothing she possessed was too good for them. 
 The old Indita and she retired to the kitchen. 
 
 The Cookes drove over in a buggy, and stayed for two 
 days. Harvey Cooke's energy fired Tim. The elder man 
 seemed to be vastly impressed by the sulphur spring, al- 
 though he made a grimace when he tasted the water, but 
 he remarked hopefully : 
 
 "The worse it tastes, the better. Cheap medicine !" 
 
 Mrs. Cooke talked to Magdalena : 
 
 179
 
 Timothy 
 
 "You have the dearest little place, but isn't Tim rather 
 wasted on a small ranch?" 
 
 "Ohe, I know." 
 
 "My husband has the highest opinion of him. And you ? 
 Wouldn't you be happier in Santa Barbara? Forgive an 
 old woman's frankness, but you are quite charming. Tim 
 is a lucky fellow. Society in Santa Barbara would wel- 
 come such a nice pair." 
 
 Magdalena said proudly: 
 
 "I am of kin to the Estradas, and Bandinis and De la 
 Guerras." 
 
 "Your position, then, will be assured." 
 
 VIII 
 
 This visit brought about immense changes. Cooke's op- 
 timism, combined with his natural shrewdness and worldly 
 wisdom, infected Tim and Magdalena. Any suspicion that 
 his old friends had paid a visit to Agua Caliente for "busi- 
 ness" purposes vanished utterly, when Cooke took Tim 
 aside and said : 
 
 "Look here, my boy, I want you." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "I must have a partner. I see the finger of Providence 
 in this. By George! I do. I want you, Tim, to come in 
 with me right here and now. And between us we'll make 
 the fur fly. I know you, and you know me. It's the chance 
 of a lifetime." 
 
 "But I've no capital." 
 
 "I don't care. You've a good head on stout shoulders. 
 And you've had an immense and invaluable experience of 
 men. You can handle 'em. My notion is to run my real- 
 estate business as I ran my hotel on strictly honest lines. 
 Men with land to sell will hunt us, because we shall treat 
 them squarely; men who want to buy land will hunt us 
 for just the same reason. I tell you, it's a cinch." 
 180
 
 Magdalena 
 
 "And the ranch?" 
 
 "Do nothing hastily about that. We must boom the 
 sulphur-spring business. I suggest putting in a manager 
 pro tern. We'll find some enterprising cove with coin 
 who'll bore for oil on shares. The income from the spring 
 and what you'll make with me will keep you going nicely 
 in Santa Barbara. And, dash it! you ought to think of 
 your wife. Do you propose to bury that charming creature 
 in these brush hills?" 
 
 "This is most awfully good of you." 
 
 "As to that, I repeat I want you. I'd sooner have you 
 than either of my own boys. That's a cold fact. You 
 look somebody, and personality is worth big money in a 
 new country." 
 
 Tim began hesitatingly: 
 
 "If Magdalena " 
 
 "My dear fellow, you ask her. She won't hang back. 
 She has fine blood in her ; so have you ; are you going 
 to chuck all ambitions and sink into a clod?" 
 
 "Damn it, no!" 
 
 Magdalena and he slept little that night. Before morn- 
 ing the matter was settled more or less upon the lines 
 indicated by Cooke. Within a week a deed of partnership 
 had been drawn up by a local attorney, and the signing 
 of it furnished an occasion for more champagne. By this 
 time both Tim and Magdalena were quite intoxicated by 
 the possibilities panoramically displayed by Cooke. He 
 prattled of private cars, steam yachts, and other toys. 
 
 Why not? 
 
 Nevertheless, the actual signing of the deed of partner- 
 ship introduced a complication. Cooke knew Tim's name 
 to be White, although, boylike, he had chosen to leave Eng- 
 land under the name of Green. Cooke objected to Green. 
 
 "Your salad days are over, Tim." 
 
 "I hope so." 
 
 "Some of these big land-owners might not care to en- 
 trust their interests to a Britisher called Green." 
 
 181
 
 Timothy 
 
 "Good! I'll chuck Green." 
 
 "And revert to White?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "But why not?" 
 
 "I have reasons. Do I look white?" 
 
 "You look brown." 
 
 That will do nicely. Cooke and Brown. Tim Brown." 
 
 "It's a good, simple English name," said Cooke. 
 
 "Floreat Brown!" cried Tim. 
 
 182
 
 BOOK THREE: BROWN
 
 BOOK THREE: BROWN 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 SANTA BARBARA 
 
 IT is easy to make money in boom times, because it flows 
 to Man in a percolating, ever-widening stream. When 
 the slump follows, arid channels remain, and Man wonders 
 where the precious fluid has gone. Moreover, to those 
 who have not witnessed a big boom, the most restrained 
 account must appear gross exaggeration. At the height 
 of the land excitement in Southern California, greedy buy- 
 ers stood in line outside the real-estate offices waiting their 
 turn to gobble up town-lots which they had never seen. 
 To beguile the lagging hours they read pamphlets and 
 studied maps upon which were laid out cities nearly as 
 large as San Francisco. 
 
 Tim plunged into this vortex of excitement. Cooke and 
 he were busy from morning till night, and far into the 
 night. You might have ransacked the Golden State to 
 find a team better equipped to pull together. Tim sup- 
 plied youth and enthusiasm: Cooke furnished wisdom 
 and tact. Cooke sat in the office, accessible to all-comers, 
 invariably cheery, suave, and counselling moderation. Tim 
 did the "outside" work, driving clients to ranches near and 
 far, entertaining them en route with a knowledge of the 
 country and its resources gleaned at first hand. The al 
 fresco luncheons of the firm became famous. Tim could 
 barbecue beef on willow spits and serve it piping hot to 
 
 185
 
 Timothy- 
 
 hungry pilgrims. He slaked their thirst with lager beer. 
 He provided the best cigars. The grimmest face relaxed 
 when Tim told his stories, personal experiences racy of 
 the soil. Dust and heat never conquered his high spirits: 
 rain failed to dampen them. 
 
 Cooke said : "Give 'em a hog-killing time. Leave busi- 
 ness to me. Yours is the harder job, my boy. You must 
 play the pioneer, open up their hearts. I'll step in after- 
 wards, and do the rest. Never answer any question unless 
 you are sure of the right reply. Refer what you don't know 
 to me. Avoid exaggeration. Our competitors are mostly 
 liars, and they will be found out." 
 
 At first the firm worked on commission, gleaning small 
 but certain profits. Then a big opportunity presented 
 itself. A tract of land just outside Santa Barbara was 
 offered to Cooke and Brown at what seemed a large price 
 even for boom times. But Cooke contended that the de- 
 mand for suburban lots had hardly begun, and predicted 
 that supply would not keep pace with demand when it 
 did come. He so impressed James Mackinnon, the presi- 
 dent of a local bank, with his views that the firm borrowed 
 a sum of money sufficient to make a first payment. Mackin- 
 non was reckoned to be a "hard nut," possessing an ex- 
 traordinary knowledge of character, gleaned during forty 
 years' strenuous business life, and the ability to use brains 
 other than his own, an essential faculty of business men. 
 In Cooke he recognised the pioneer, for Cooke's methods 
 (since adopted by rivals and successors) were at that time 
 original. The firm's scheme was this: the other payments 
 due to the owner of the suburban tract were secured by 
 a first mortgage on the undivided property. Mackinnon, 
 therefore, had no security except the promissory note of 
 Cooke and Brown, plus the conviction that the firm's "prop- 
 osition" was sound. Cooke promised that all moneys from 
 sales should be paid in full into the bank. A certain 
 percentage of every dollar so paid was credited on the 
 186
 
 Santa Barbara 
 
 firm's note of hand : the rest remained as a sinking fund 
 wherewith to meet the further payments due to the owner 
 of the tract. 
 
 To-day no bank would do business upon such lines. 
 Within a week the tract was surveyed and subdivided. 
 Cooke sold the lots upon terms approved by Mackinnon, 
 taking a one-third cash payment, and a note secured by 
 mortgage for the balance. The bank discounted the notes. 
 Actual facts are given, because the hypercritical might 
 question the result. 
 
 Within three months Cooke and Brown had sold every 
 lot, and cleared up the deal. The firm netted sixty thousand 
 dollars : everybody was satisfied : and the bank, through its 
 President, hinted discreetly that it was prepared to finance 
 another similar enterprise. 
 
 Tim had a quarter share in all profits. 
 
 ii 
 
 Magdalena and he were living in a pretty cottage not 
 far from the Arlington Hotel, the Mecca in those days (and 
 no doubt still) of rich health-seekers. But after the big 
 deal, Tim suggested to his wife the expediency of living 
 in the hotel, more completely in touch with the health- 
 seekers and idle rich. Magdalena made no objections. 
 
 Tim said : "It won't be so dull for you, Brownie." 
 
 "I have never been dull, Teem." 
 
 At this time he wrote to the Vicar, telling him everything : 
 his marriage, his unexpected prosperity, his intention of 
 bringing his wife to Little Pennington. He enclosed a 
 photograph. The Vicar wrote in reply : 
 
 "I am rejoiced. Your little wife looks charming. I am 
 sure that I shall love her dearly for her own sake. Come 
 to me as reasonably soon as possible. I am not growing 
 younger, my dear boy, and I have so much to say to you." 
 
 187
 
 Timothy 
 
 Of course the junior partner could not be spared. 
 
 The first fruits of the move to the Arlington were laid 
 at Magdalena's tiny feet. A syndicate bought Agua Caliente 
 for fifty thousand dollars. Tim and Magdalena jumped hot- 
 foot to accept such a splendid offer, but Cooke remained 
 calm. The syndicate proposed to build an immense hotel, 
 lay out a small town, pave the streets with bituminous 
 rock, and probably bore for oil. 
 
 "Stick out for a one-tenth interest," he advised. Finally 
 this was accorded also. Tim brought the money in one 
 certified cheque to Magdalena. She said smilingly: 
 
 "It is yours, Teem." 
 
 "You sweet thing! Do you think I would touch your 
 money ?" 
 
 He spoke eloquently upon the expediency of having 
 a nest egg. Magdalena became almost cross. 
 
 "Teem, you must do what you please." 
 
 "I shall invest it in gilt-edged stuff, city bonds or some- 
 thing sound. Cooke will know." 
 
 "Ohe! Senor Cooke will know." 
 
 This had become a mild family joke. Cooke, in those 
 days, did seem to be omniscient, but Magdalena smiled 
 with faint derision when she repeated the familiar phrase. 
 
 It never occurred to Tim that Cooke did not quite know 
 all that was passing in a fond woman's heart, a woman 
 constrained by circumstance to stand idle, looking on smil- 
 ingly at the feverish activities of her Anglo-Saxon husband. 
 
 The money was not invested in city bonds. Cooke took 
 Tim aside out of the crowded office when his advice 
 was asked. He spoke tentatively: 
 
 "You have this fifty and almost another twenty of your 
 own, eh ?" 
 
 "As near as no matter." 
 
 "Call it an even seventy thousand dollars. If I put up 
 the same amount of money, and give you an undivided 
 half interest instead of a quarter, we should control a trd 
 mendous working capital." 
 188
 
 Santa Barbara 
 
 Tim nodded, taking the words literally. 
 
 "Yes, just one hundred and forty thousand dollars." 
 
 Cooke laughed jovially: 
 
 "My dear Tim, you are rather dense. I purposely used 
 the word 'control.' Our working capital would be some- 
 thing over a million." 
 
 Tim gasped, accustomed as he had grown to big figures. 
 
 Cooke said slowly: 
 
 "You ignore our credit." 
 
 "Yours, you mean." 
 
 "The credit of the firm with the banks. With this joint 
 capital in hard cash, we can control a cool million." 
 
 "By Jove ! it makes me warm to think of it." 
 
 "Well, think it well over. I leave it to you and Magda- 
 lena." 
 
 Magdalena was told. Tim told her everything: emptied 
 his mind each night for her inspection, a process known 
 as delivering the budget. He believed, poor fellow, that 
 she was deeply interested in his schemes, whereas, in truth, 
 she was interested only in having his confidence. 
 
 "Teem, you must do what the Sefior Cooke says." 
 
 "But it's your money, Brownie, and I hate fooling about 
 with it." 
 
 "You want to be ver' rich, no?" 
 
 "You bet!" 
 
 "Then follow the advice of Sefior Cooke. He knows." 
 
 Next week a new deed of partnership was signed. 
 
 in 
 
 At this time the Santa Barbara Investment and Devel- 
 opment Company was organized by Cooke, and Tim became 
 Honorary Secretary. Most of the well-known business 
 men in the town subscribed so much a month to this ad- 
 vertising scheme, for it was nothing else. The sole object 
 being to publish printed matter about Santa Barbara, and 
 
 189
 
 Timothy 
 
 scatter the same broadcast over the wide earth. Cooke 
 wrote articles which were inserted in the leading newspa- 
 pers. Cooke spoke of these as ground-bait. The money so 
 collected and spent brought fish to the net, but the time 
 came when such expenditure was deemed by the Board no 
 longer necessary. And then occurred an incident which 
 must be recorded, because it brought unlooked-for prestige 
 to Tim, as Honorary Secretary. One of the monthly sub- 
 scribers happened to be a rich storekeeper, absent in Eu- 
 rope when the Company was doing its best work. He 
 returned to Santa Barbara about the time when the I. and 
 D. was wound up. Of all subscribers, this man, Flynt, 
 alone stood in arrears to the tune of some two hundred 
 dollars. Tim tried to collect the money, but failed. He 
 reported such failure to the Board. James Mackinnon, 
 President of the Board, shrugged his shoulders. Flynt was 
 a notorious pincher, so it appeared, and Tim was ignorant 
 of this. 
 
 Mackinnon said to Tim : 
 
 "Why didn't you collect this subscription each month 
 when it became due?" 
 
 "I tried to," said Tim. "Flynt's cashier had no authority 
 to pay, and asked me to wait till his chief returned. I 
 thought it would be all right." 
 
 "And it isn't," said Mackinnon drily. 
 
 Tim flushed, conscious of implied censure. Cooke 
 laughed. 
 
 "We must settle the matter amongst ourselves." 
 
 "Obviously," replied Mackinnon in the same dry tone. 
 
 At this moment inspiration descended upon Tim. He 
 said excitedly: 
 
 "Gentlemen, I feel sure that I can screw this sub. out 
 of the old fellow." 
 
 "Not you," replied Mackinnon. 
 
 Tim said, more quietly : 
 
 "I feel sure of it, if the Board will give me a free hand." 
 
 Mackinnon said curtly : 
 190
 
 Santa Barbara 
 
 "In my opinion we have wasted valuable^ time over a 
 small matter. It is notorious that this man repudiates such 
 responsibilities. We can't go to law." 
 
 "I can get the money," said Tim doggedly. 
 
 Mackinnon's grim face relaxed. He liked Tim, and he 
 was not averse to making a small bet when the odds were 
 in his favour. 
 
 "A box of cigars you can't!" 
 
 "Done!" said Tim. He looked round the table. "Any 
 gentleman here want to bet?" 
 
 Three responded to the challenge. Two more boxes of 
 cigars and a dinner to the Board were wagered. Tim took 
 his receipt book, and tore out a page. Cooke was honorary 
 Treasurer. Tim filled in the receipt and asked for Cooke's 
 signature. 
 
 "After you've got the cash," said Cooke. 
 
 "No, before. That's part of my scheme." 
 
 Cooke signed the receipt. 
 
 "I shall be back before the Board breaks up," said Tim. 
 
 He sped down the street till he came to Flynt's big store. 
 It was past mid-day, and Tim happened to know that at 
 this particular hour Flynt held a small court. He had his 
 hands in a hundred pies, pulling out plums, and amongst 
 his parasites some pressman was sure to be found. 
 
 Tim pushed his way into Flynt's office. Yes, the great 
 man was enthroned in his chair, expounding his ideas to the 
 crowd. Tim recognised with joy a reporter of the Santa 
 Barbara Banner. 
 
 "Good-morning, Mr. Flynt." 
 
 "Glad to see ye, young man. Sit down!" 
 
 "Can't," said Tim. "I've come on a little matter of 
 business connected with our Investment and Development 
 Company." 
 
 Flynt frowned. 
 
 "If it's about that two hundred dollars " 
 
 "It is," Tim raised his voice, speaking slowly and dis- 
 tinctly. "The Board is in session, Mr. Flynt ; I am empow- 
 
 191
 
 Timothy 
 
 ered by the President to say that we regret having pressed 
 you for the payment of this small amount of two hundred 
 dollars. I am happy to bring you a full receipt for the 
 subscription in arrears, and to add with the Board's com- 
 pliments that had we known or even suspected that you 
 were financially embarrassed " 
 
 "What, what, what ?" 
 
 Flynt jumped up purple with rage. The reporter pricked 
 up his ears : his nostrils twitched as he scented a "scoop." 
 
 "Had we known that the meeting of so small an obliga- 
 tion would have inconvenienced you " 
 
 "Inconvenienced me? What the h 11 are you talking 
 about?" 
 
 He snatched the receipt from Tim's outstretched hands, 
 glancing at it with congested eyes. 
 
 "I call this insolence. You tell old Mackinnon that with 
 my compliments. As if I wanted your dirty money." 
 
 He pulled open a drawer, grabbed a cheque-book, and 
 wrote out a cheque. 
 
 "Take that back to the Board, and mind you deliver my 
 message." 
 
 Tim smiled sweetly: 
 
 "I shall not fail to do so. Thank you." 
 
 Tim hurried back to the Board, and waved the cheque. 
 
 When he explained his methods of drawing blood from 
 a flint, there was rib-shattering laughter. 
 
 A first triumph, a score off his own bat! Mackinnon 
 never forgot this little incident. From that moment he 
 treated Tim with distinguished consideration. 
 
 IV 
 
 What makes for success and popularity in a new coun-> 
 
 try is always interesting, so no apology need be offered for 
 
 recording another of Tim's triumphs. His energies were 
 
 not exhausted by business, and soon he told Magdalena 
 
 192
 
 that he must find some form of physical exercise to keep 
 him fit. He bought a punching bag, and punched it dili- 
 gently. And he boxed with a retired exponent of the manly 
 art, a veteran of fifty fights. This retired champion per- 
 suaded Jim Ball, the New Zealand middle-weight, to give 
 an exhibition in Santa Barbara. Jim, let it be said, had 
 just landed in San Francisco and was about to go into train- 
 ing to meet Tarkey, the famous slugger. The men of Santa 
 Barbara assembled to see Ball spar, but, at the last mo- 
 ment, Ball's manager had to announce regretfully that Jim's 
 sparring partner was indisposed, having eaten, so it was 
 whispered, too freely of baked clams. The manager hoped 
 that some gentleman present would take his place, and he 
 ventured to name one Mr. Brown. 
 
 Loud cheers for Mr. Brown. 
 
 Tim jumped up laughing. He was quite ready to do 
 his best. This prompt acceptance of a challenge delighted 
 his fellow townsmen. Tim stripped in a dressing-room, and 
 faced the mighty man, who certainly weighed two stone 
 more than his fighting weight. To the surprised delight of 
 every man in the hall Tim held his own. It will never be 
 known whether Ball was quite sober, but suddenly he at- 
 tacked Tim savagely, with the obvious intention of knocking 
 him out. Tim defended himself, quite aware of his antago- 
 nist's loss of temper, and taking gamely a lot of punish- 
 ment. But his jaw set, and his blue eyes sparkled. Ball 
 began to blow heavily. Somebody at the back of the Hall 
 yelled out: 
 
 "Now's your chance, Tim !" 
 
 Tim feinted with his left and landed hard with his right 
 upon the solar plexus. Ball dropped his guard. Tim swung 
 his left and hooked Ball upon the point of the jaw. With 
 the same blow he had stunned Heavy Shoulders long ago. 
 Ball went to the floor and remained there. 
 
 It was nothing, a victory over a man physically unfit: 
 but Santa Barbara acclaimed it as a triumph. Tim became 
 the most popular citizen of the town : and it was esteemed 
 
 193
 
 Timothy 
 
 a privilege to buy town lots from him. Cooke said after- 
 wards : 
 
 "As an 'ad.' that lucky punch was worth five thousand 
 dollars to the firm." 
 
 And the Senor Cooke knew! 
 
 Meanwhile Magdalena dissembled. Tim marked no 
 change in her, but a wiser than he might have been un- 
 easy. 
 
 She was left alone for many hours each day with nothing 
 to engross her energies but Spanish needle-work. 
 
 She missed her poultry yard, her pots and pans, all the 
 simple occupations which make for the happiness of a 
 daughter of the Latin race. Her beloved Tim was dearer 
 than ever, but he seemed to be striding from her. Upon 
 the ranch he had worked hard : and so had she. In Santa 
 Barbara he worked harder: and she was constrained to 
 look on, a passive eye-witness of energies which seemed to 
 exalt him to heights leaving her in the depths, for pros- 
 perity frightened her. 
 
 She spent some happy hours with her kinswomen, helping 
 them in their household tasks, and she took a wholesome 
 joy in putting on the pretty gowns which Tim made her 
 buy and wear. Often she would walk to the picturesque 
 Mission, and enter the cool, grey Church wherein she had 
 been married and baptised. On her knees she would pray 
 that Tim might not wander too far from her, that she might 
 have once more a home of her own and a child. She knew 
 that Tim wanted a child, although he never said so. But 
 again and again she would mark a question in his eyes 
 which was never put into words. 
 
 A new "proposition" was stirring Tim to his centre, a 
 really tremendous affair. One of the vast Spanish grants, 
 still the undivided property of its owner, was offered to 
 194
 
 Santa Barbara 
 
 Cooke and Brown for eight hundred thousand dollars. The 
 partners rode together through park-like lands, through 
 rich alluvial valleys, through brush hills, along bubbling 
 creeks, past gushing springs. Experts predicted that ar- 
 tesian wells might be had for the boring. The rancho 
 seemed to be the natural home of the olive and, in sheltered 
 spots above the frost line, the orange and lemon. 
 
 After a week of agonising indecision and suspense, for 
 other buyers were in the market, Cooke said to Tim: 
 
 "Go and see Mac." 
 
 "You must do that, old man." 
 
 "No, it's your turn. He likes you and believes in you. 
 Cut along!" 
 
 Tim entered the bank parlour in fear and trembling. 
 Mackinnon supposed that the junior partner had come upon 
 a matter of small importance. 
 
 "What can I do for you, Tim?" 
 
 "I want to borrow six hundred thousand dollars!" 
 
 "Ah! I understand. The Santa Margarita, eh?" 
 
 "Just so." 
 
 "Doesn't it scare you?" 
 
 "Not a bit. I've been over every section. As you know, 
 the owner wants cash." 
 
 "Wise man." 
 
 "Why do you say that, sir ? It seems to me that he ought 
 to be satisfied with a fourth in cash, and a note and mort- 
 gage for the balance." 
 
 "He is thinking of dry years." 
 
 "Years ? There have never been two really dry years in 
 succession." 
 
 "I fear, Tim, that precedent in this case is no guarantee. 
 Mr. Cooke and you mean business?" 
 
 "We do. You will have a first mortgage on the property 
 and we'll turn over all proceeds from sales as before." 
 
 "Um! Six hundred thousand is too large a sum for 
 us, but I'll see what can be done in San Francisco. You 
 are prepared to pay down two hundred thousand?" 
 
 195
 
 Timothy 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Call again the day after to-morrow." Tim left the 
 Bank much exhilarated. Contact with customers had added 
 cubits to his mental stature. Most of them were artlessly 
 simple, asking the same questions and receiving cut-and- 
 dried answers. If the answers happened to be unsatisfac- 
 tory, they blinked and pulled out fat pocket books. They 
 meant to buy: they had joined the great procession: they 
 dared not lag behind. One enthusiast, who proposed to sup- 
 ply the world with honey, took a fancy to a tract of land 
 conspicuous for the absence of bee-food. When Tim men- 
 tioned this, his client said grandiloquently : 
 
 "Sir, it's my opinion that the very air here is full of sac- 
 charine matter." 
 
 It may have been so, doing business became very sweet 
 under such auspicious conditions. 
 
 After some exasperating delays, including a visit to San 
 Francisco, the great rancho became the property of Cooke 
 and Brown. Tim told Magdalena that a fortune was in 
 sight. The Sefior Cooke and he expected to make a million 
 within the year. Magdalena, so he thought, listened to him 
 somewhat perfunctorily : but about a week later she threw 
 her arms round his neck and whispered : 
 
 "I have news for you, Teem." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "You can't guess, no ?" 
 
 He held her at arm's length, staring into her eyes, noting 
 the happy sparks of sunlight in them, noting, too, the deeper 
 flush upon her brown cheeks. 
 
 "You don't mean ?" 
 
 She laughed joyously, nodding her head. 
 
 "Yes it is true. Oh, Teem, what do you say?" 
 
 "Say? By the sun, and the moon, and all the stars, I'm 
 the happiest man in the universe!" 
 
 "And I am the happiest woman." 
 
 196
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE CHERUB 
 
 AFTER this, Tim's life seemed to gain sequence and con- 
 nexion. It ceased to be fortuitous. He was climbing 
 steadily a mountain, and testing each foothold, never look- 
 ing down, and, for the moment, not looking up, engrossed 
 with the step just ahead. 
 
 The Santa Margarita had been subdivided, and was sell- 
 ing, but shewing the land to intending buyers necessitated 
 organisation and attention to a thousand details. The sur- 
 veyor had plotted a small town in the centre of the ranch, 
 which lay some twenty miles to the north east of Santa 
 Barbara : and the firm had built a fairly comfortable hotel. 
 Magdalena gripped opportunity. 
 
 "Mi querido, you are always on the road now?" 
 
 "I have to be." 
 
 "No, listen," she spoke very coaxingly, "listen to my plan. 
 What time would be saved if you lived on the Santa Mar- 
 garita !" 
 
 "But, dash it ! I couldn't leave you." 
 
 "I will live there with you in the old ranch-house. I shall 
 be ever so happy. Teem, it will be another honeymoon for 
 me." 
 
 "It means roughing it," said Tim, "and just now " 
 
 Magdalena, thinking how dense he was in reading her 
 thoughts, cuddled up closer: 
 
 "You foolish Teem, that is what I love. I want some- 
 thing to do when you are busy away from me. I shall be 
 ever so happy in a home of my own." 
 
 197
 
 Timothy 
 
 Tim stared at her. She was wearing one of her dainti- 
 est frocks, and she looked what indeed she was a crea- 
 ture of refinement, sweetly fragrant of lavender and orris- 
 root. Her pretty hands had become white and soft. She 
 seemed created to adorn a charming drawing-room, to play 
 the part of hostess and mistress, issuing her orders and 
 seeing that they were carried out. 
 
 He exclaimed sharply : 
 
 "I loathe the idea of your messing about a kitchen, and 
 all that." 
 
 A gesture implied a casting to the void of manual work. 
 
 "But you did not loathe it at Agua Caliente, no ?" 
 
 "Of course not." For the instant he was cornered, but 
 he went on lucidly enough : 
 
 "We had to do it : and we made the best of it. Grin and 
 bear it was rubbed into me in the foc'sle of The Cassandra. 
 . . . And when I tramped the road too, by George ! I take 
 it that we should make the best of things if we were poor 
 again, but we're not poor. We've money to burn. A home 
 of your own! Do you suppose that I'm not thinking of 
 
 that, and longing for it ! And what sort of a home do 
 
 I see you in? One of these beastly frame houses with a 
 couple of cheeky servants? Not much! My thoughts, 
 Brownie, dwell permanently somewhere in Hampshire, in 
 or near the New Forest. I mean to buy a place that will 
 be a proper setting for you, a dream of a place, a lovely 
 old manor house, in lovely old gardens, where you will reign 
 as queen over a decent establishment." 
 
 She kissed him softly. 
 
 "Yes, I know you think of that, but " She sighed 
 
 and remained silent, gazing at him wistfully. 
 
 "But what?" 
 
 "Somehow, my Teem, I do not see myself over there." 
 
 "Not likely, considering that you've never been out of 
 Santa Barbara county." 
 
 She resumed her coaxing tone. 
 198
 
 The Cherub 
 
 "Ohe ! It will be nice to be queen, of your big house, but 
 now, Teem, I want to go to Santa Margarita." 
 
 "Because you are an unselfish darling : because you think 
 it would help me." 
 
 "Santisima Virgen ! I want it for myself. I swear !" 
 
 "All right. I'll think it over." 
 
 The Senor Cooke furthered Magdalena's schemes, and, 
 possibly, Mrs. Cooke divined something of what was ran- 
 kling in the little woman's mind. Ultimately Tim and his 
 wife took up their quarters in the Santa Margarita ranch 
 house. 
 
 Money poured in. 
 
 ii 
 
 Business was conducted upon simple lines. Tim would 
 show land to intending purchasers, and talk fluently of 
 what had been done elsewhere under similar conditions of 
 soil and climate, adumbrating what could be done upon the 
 Santa Margarita. He had the patter of his calling. His 
 experiences before the mast and tramping the roads were 
 priceless. He knew what the intending settler wanted be- 
 fore the man opened his mouth. He could size him up. 
 Cooke had drawn a form of contract which the most igno- 
 rant could understand. Upon signing this buyers would 
 pay down a small sum, sufficient to bind the bargain. Cooke 
 did the rest. As a rule the buyer was impatient for a deed, 
 delivered when a one-third payment was made. A note of 
 hand for the balance, secured by mortgage, together with 
 the one-third payment, was duly deposited with Mackin- 
 non: whereupon the particular lot sold was released from 
 the original first mortgage held as security by the two 
 banks, local and metropolitan, who had made the loan of 
 six hundred thousand dollars. By this time more than 
 half of this immense sum had been paid. Cooke and Brown> 
 in fine, stood on a variegated carpet of their own weaving, 
 and were accorded honorable mention in Bradstreet. 
 
 199
 
 Timothy 
 
 In this selling of land Tim achieved eloquence. He 
 beheld men of all sorts and conditions dominated by his 
 enthusiasm, held spell-bound by his words. It would be 
 futile to record these speeches, which varied infinitely. 
 
 Relevant to this narrative was the effect on Tim him- 
 self. He became a man permeated with the conviction that 
 he might accomplish greater and more enduring triumphs 
 than those which now engrossed mind and body. 
 
 He became, too, impatient, of the limitations and disabili- 
 ties of others. One day he happened to be strolling down 
 the main street of Santa Barbara, when a Cheap Jack stand- 
 ing on a hand cart was selling, or rather attempting to sell, 
 notions to an indifferent and derisive crowd. Tim listened. 
 Probably the poor fellow was tired or ill. He mumbled 
 on till Tim felt angry with him. 
 
 "You don't know how to sell your stuff," he remarked. 
 
 The Cheap Jack glared at Tim. 
 
 "Don't I? Mebbe you think that you could do it, Mis- 
 ter?" 
 
 "I'd get more ginger into my patter than you do. Here ! 
 Come off it! I'll have a shot." 
 
 To the delight of the crowd, who remembered Tim's 
 victory over Ball, the Cheap Jack was seized by Tim, and 
 deposited upon the ground. Tim leapt upon the hand-cart. 
 
 "You're a lot of blooming fools," he shouted, as the 
 crowd cheered lustily. "And half blind, too, and cold- 
 blooded pagans in a Christian land. Can't you see that this 
 poor devil is sick? But his stuff is all hunky, just what 
 you want. Now come on! Step up and bid! Be lively 1 
 there ! Take aholt !" He snatched up a coffee-pot. "What 
 am I offered for this patent coffee-pot? Brews the most 
 delicious coffee out of beans while the bacon is frizzling. 
 Automatic, everlasting, and just the notion which you, 
 ma'am, have been hunting ever since you led that lucky 
 man, your husband, to the altar. Fifty cents ! Thank you, 
 Ma'am. Go the seventy-five five five! Thank you, Sir, 
 the men are more generous than the ladies. Hi, you, my 
 200
 
 The Cherub 
 
 old friend at the back, with a big wad in your pocket which 
 I saw yesterday. Go the dollar! I'm bid one dollar for 
 an article which will pay for itself in a fortnight. One- 
 twenty-five ! This is a Christian land after all. . . ." 
 
 Everybody cheered, chaffing Tim, who chaffed back. 
 When he descended from the cart it was empty. 
 
 He liked the Americans, and they liked him. He dressed 
 and spoke like a Son of the Golden West: and there is 
 more joy in California over one Britisher who "catches on" 
 to Western ways and manners than over ninety and nine 
 blameless tourists who carry England with them wherever 
 they go. 
 
 Cooke and Brown employed Americans to work for them. 
 There were half a dozen "live" clerks in the office, and 
 two individuals outside, known as "Fatty" and "Skinny." 
 
 Fatty was a bean-fed product of the county, a huge, 
 smiling red-faced fellow, full of humour, and a shrewd 
 judge of human nature. Skinny had lately come from the 
 mid-west. He drove one of the firm's many buckboards, 
 and suffered from dyspepsia and melancholia. Tim used 
 the pair as object lessons, illustrating the salubrity of the 
 Southern California climate. Some of his customers came 
 from the ague-stricken interior. To them Tim would say : 
 
 "Gentlemen, kindly look at those men. They are known 
 in Santa Barbara as "Before" and "After." The stout pink 
 complexioned champion has lived in this town for forty 
 years. The invalid, who can't be seen when he's standing 
 behind a telegraph post, has just left bleeding Kansas. But 
 he's putting on weight." 
 
 Such talk soaped the ways whereon some sulky, obsti- 
 nate pilgrim would slide to the signing of a contract. 
 
 in 
 
 It was great fun while it lasted. 
 Magdalena's baby was born on the Santa Margarita. Tim 
 wished her to move back to the Arlington, but she refused. 
 
 2OI
 
 Timothy 
 
 Fortunately, a doctor had bought land not far from the 
 ranch-house: and he proved most faithful in his ministra- 
 tions. A Spanish woman came as nurse. In the chicken 
 corral thirty tender chickens were penned and fattened in 
 accordance with Spanish custom. Magdalena, like her 
 Mother and Grandmother before her, intended to lie in bed 
 for exactly one calendar month and eat a broiler each day. 
 "Toujours perdrix" is a story that has no moral for the 
 Spanish. 
 
 To Tim's immense relief, the confinement was not severe, 
 testing the husband's fortitude more than the wife's. The 
 Doctor heartened him up before the event by saying that 
 women of the Latin race had a comparatively easy time. 
 
 "Why?" asked Tim. 
 
 "Compensation, perhaps." 
 
 The baby was a big fat boy, blue-eyed, like Tim. Magda- 
 lena lay in bed perfectly happy. Her cup was full and brim- 
 ming over. She whispered to Tim: 
 
 "Now I am no longer jealous." 
 
 "Jealous?" 
 
 "Ojala ! How jealous I have been thinking of the other." 
 
 "What other?" 
 
 Was she delirious ? 
 
 "Ivy's boy in England." 
 
 Tim grew hot and uncomfortable. He had forgotten 
 the other. But it was his his! And he had never seen it, 
 this waif who had crept into life by a back-alley. He 
 kissed Magdalena, and held her hand which lay soft and 
 limp in his own. He was transported to Lanterton. He 
 tried to envisage Ivy and the urchin brought up as a Jel- 
 licoe. 
 
 "Fancy being jealous of that poor little stray!" 
 
 "It has passed." 
 
 "I am ashamed to say, Brownie, that I had forgotten him. 
 Now that I am prospering I ought to do something, if any- 
 thing can be done." 
 
 "Do you want him, Teem?" 
 203
 
 The Cherub 
 
 He frowned, considering the question, seeking to answer 
 it honestly. At Agua Caliente, when he had taken for 
 granted that Magdalena would bear him no sons, he had 
 speculated often and long upon the possibility of getting 
 Ivy's child. But he had dismissed the idea as impracti- 
 cable. 
 
 Did he want the other? 
 
 No. His ripening intelligence co-ordinated swiftly the 
 many complications. Tongues would wag maliciously. He 
 said with decision: 
 
 "I do not want him." 
 
 "Sure, Teem?" 
 
 "Ab solutely." 
 
 Magdalena, however, perceived with bitter-sweet emotion 
 that Tim wanted her child. He hung over it as it lay asleep 
 in its basinette: he helped to bathe it; he talked to it ab- 
 surdly, when he might have been talking to her. 
 
 She asked herself if she were jealous of her own baby, 
 dismissing the idea as ridiculous. Suppose this fat boy 
 came between her and her husband ? She was too sensible 
 to encourage such alarms and excursions into the future, but 
 they flitted into her mind like bats, nasty hybrid creatures 
 which must be driven out of all well-ordered rooms. 
 
 Within a week, an appalling thing happened. The nurse 
 was summoned away to the bed of a dying mother. It was 
 impossible to replace her. Tim took charge of the baby. 
 Not during the day, for neighbours were kind, but at night. 
 And the little wretch slept peacefully most of the day, and 
 remained wide awake and very cross most of the night. The 
 Doctor, much to Magdalena' s rage, said that the child must 
 be weaned. Tim bought a book, entitled "How to feed 
 our Baby," and pored over it : he had to prepare the artificial 
 food at night: he dared reckless man! to experiment. 
 The experiments disagreed with the Cherub, for so Tim had 
 named him. He howled horribly, twisting up his tiny legs 
 when colic seized him. He began to lose his nice rolls of 
 fat : a faint blue tinge crept about his eyes and mouth. Tim 
 
 203
 
 Timothy 
 
 was in despair. Laborious days and sleepless nights affected 
 even his iron constitution. 
 
 Finally, Mrs. Cooke arrived and dealt drastically with 
 the abominable situation. 
 
 "There is nothing wrong but this. The food is far too 
 rich. A tablespoonful of cream in each bottle! Good 
 Heavens! We'll dilute the present mixture with an equal 
 amount of lime-water." 
 
 Within two days the Cherub was restored to high health : 
 and Tim slept as peacefully as his son. 
 
 But it had been an experience emphasising the tremen- 
 dous appeal of weakness to strength. Tim loved the baby 
 the more, because for ten awful nights he had exhausted 
 himself in tending it. And again, through his experiments, 
 he had nearly killed the atom. That reflection was humili- 
 ating. Certainly, he had a lot to learn about babies. 
 
 IV 
 
 When the Cherub was five months old, his father and 
 mother returned to Santa Barbara. The big rancho was 
 practically sold out, and a settlement followed with the 
 banks. 
 
 Cooke and Brown found themselves with a huge sheaf of 
 Bills Receivable, the promissory notes, secured by mortgage. 
 When these were paid in full there would be, as Cooke had 
 foreseen, nearly a million dollars to divide. Meanwhile 
 the firm was short of cash although rich in what is termed 
 collateral security. The ordinary commission business went 
 on as usual, but competitors had secured much of that, be- 
 cause Cooke refused business unless he was able to give it 
 personal attention. Tim and he were planning a bigger 
 campaign. 
 
 At Magdalena's entreaty, Tim rented a house standing 
 in a pretty garden. Two Chinamen were engaged. Tim 
 wished to entertain, and Magdalena raised no objections. 
 204
 
 The Cherub 
 
 Many distinguished travellers sat at the round table in the 
 pretty dining-room, admiring Magdalena but talking to 
 Tim. 
 
 He was now five and twenty, and able so he put it to 
 whip his weight, some twelve stone, in wild cats. Magdalena 
 had become slightly matronly. 
 
 That winter placed Southern California upon what is 
 known in revivalist circles as "the anxious, seat." Light 
 rains fell in November, and a few showers in December, 
 but January ushered in a terrible series of cloudless days. 
 
 Rain was prayed for in the churches, but it did not come. 
 A rain-maker arrived from Texas, and burnt much powder. 
 The clouds gathered and passed on withholding the precious 
 moisture. The miseries of a dry year became inscribed 
 upon the faces of the people. All were affected by the 
 drought except the rich health-seekers, who rejoiced too 
 exuberantly in the soft sunshine. Cooke, however, re- 
 mained invincibly optimistic. 
 
 "This," said he to his partner, "is our Heaven-sent chance. 
 There is a slump in prices. People are scared." 
 
 "Don't blame 'em," growled Tim. 
 
 "Buy on the slumps," quoted Cooke, "We must get hold 
 of every acre we can." 
 
 There were three vast tracts of land to the south of 
 Santa Barbara upon which the firm held an option. But 
 a high price was demanded. 
 
 "The price is steep," admitted Cooke. 
 
 "So is some of the land," said Tim. 
 
 More, the tracts in question lay in a zone much drier 
 than that of the Santa Margarita, but nearer to the rail- 
 road. Cooke observed thoughtfully : 
 
 "A definite offer, say twenty per cent, less than what is 
 asked would be accepted." 
 
 "Yes," said Tim. 
 
 It was, in fine, an immense speculation, sufficient to give 
 pause to the most daring. Adequate rains meant a steady 
 
 205
 
 Timothy 
 
 rise in land values : drought spelt disaster. Tim and Cooke 
 talked till their tongues ached. Then Tim said curtly: 
 
 "Damn it all, let's pitch up half a dollar. If the eagle 
 bird is on top, we'll sail in." 
 
 "Right!" 
 
 Tim produced the coin and spun it, letting it fall to the 
 ground. It struck on its edge and rolled beneath an immense 
 desk. 
 
 "More suspense," said Tim. 
 
 The desk was moved : and the eagle bird met two pairs 
 of excited eyes. It seemed to be flapping its wings. 
 
 "Bueno!" said Tim. 
 
 "I believe in prayer," murmured Cooke, "but these slack- 
 ers don't pray hard enough." 
 
 The offer o.f the firm was accepted: and gangs of sur- 
 veyors and chainmen went to work. 
 
 And then the rain poured down copiously : and the foot- 
 hills became translucently green and ablaze with wild flow- 
 ers. A great syndicate, operating in San Francisco, des- 
 patched a silver-tongued representative to Santa Barbara. 
 He wasted no words at first 
 
 "What will you gentlemen take for your bargain ?" 
 
 "It is a bargain," said Cooke. 
 
 "We do not dispute that. The rain fell in the nick of 
 time. I admit that we were suffering up north from cold 
 feet. I am empowered to offer you a very substantial ad- 
 vance on the price paid by you." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Twenty per cent." 
 
 "We must think that over," said Cooke. 
 
 Their visitor withdrew. 
 
 "Well?" said Cooke. "Cash talks, Tim, and we haven't 
 too much of it." 
 
 "I have that half 4ollar. I'm keeping it as a relic." 
 
 "Spin it! If the eagle bird turns up again we'll take 
 the cash, and a holiday, too. England, my boy, for both 
 of us." 
 
 206
 
 The Cherub 
 
 But the eagle bird did not turn up. The silver-tongued 
 orator exhausted a copious vocabulary. Cooke and Brown 
 refused to deal. 
 
 One day a tall, well set-up Englishman dressed in grey 
 flannels strolled into the office. The office boy grappled 
 with a name not too clearly articulated, and said to Tim: 
 
 "There's an English lord enquiring for you." 
 
 "An English lord," repeated Tim, "what lord?" 
 
 "I missed his name." 
 
 "Shew him in." 
 
 The tall Englishman sauntered in, gazing about with that 
 air of condescending detachment so exasperating to Ameri- 
 cans. He sat dov/n and began to fill a briar pipe. Tim 
 took a dislike to the man before he had spoken a word, 
 recognising and resenting his easy, patronising manner. 
 Tim said quickly: 
 
 "I am sorry, but the boy missed your name." 
 
 "I am Lord Rokeby." 
 
 Tim looked puzzled. The name seemed extraordinarily 
 familiar. Then he remembered that Daffy had married 
 Lord Rokeby's son. But here was a young man not much 
 older than himself, perhaps thirty. Could it be possible that 
 this was Daffy's husband? His visitor continued in rather 
 a bored voice: 
 
 "We my wife and I are at the Arlington. I heard that 
 you were an Englishman. And so I er dropped in." 
 
 "I am glad to see you," said Tim, but he wasn't. Yes, 
 this was Daffy's husband. Why did she marry him ? What 
 a commonplace type! And she, Daffy, was with him, not 
 a quarter of a mile away. The blood rushed into his face. 
 Rokeby, who was leisurely filling his pipe, continued : 
 
 "Rather disappointed in Santa Barbara. Disappointed in 
 California generally. Transition period, what? People 
 very aggressive. Furious if you don't crack 'em up." 
 
 207
 
 Timothy 
 
 "I like them," said Tim crisply. 
 
 "They tell me you've been successful, made a pot, and 
 all that." 
 
 "I have been lucky," Tim admitted modestly. 
 
 Rokeby surveyed him with an approbation which he might 
 have shewn to a likely hunter, or a promising retriever. 
 Evidently a dog and horse fellow, this husband of Daffy's. 
 He said curtly: 
 
 "You look a bit of a thruster." 
 
 "Thanks." 
 
 "I might invest a few hundreds here if I saw a profit 
 in sight. Can you shew me any town property?" 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "Now if you like." 
 
 Again his leisurely lordship favoured Tim with an ap- 
 proving nod. 
 
 "Right! Come on." 
 
 Outside the office Tim pulled himself together. He must 
 be careful not to shew his dislike to Daffy's husband. As 
 a member of the firm it behooved him to treat possible buy- 
 ers with courtesy. Also, he desired to meet Daffy. His 
 pulses throbbed at thought of her. Had she changed abomi- 
 nably, become a mannequin, a society puppet? Would she 
 recognise him? And if she didn't, should he reveal himself? 
 
 "I'll drive you round the town," said Tim. 
 
 The horse in the light buggy pleased Rokeby, and he 
 said so when that gallant trotter struck a three minute gait 
 upon a level stretch of road. He asked the question pat to 
 any Englishman's lips when he meets a fellow-countryman. 
 How long had Tim been in California? Was there any 
 trout fishing handy? Any bears abroad in the hills? Tim, 
 answering these adequately, aroused further interest, cul- 
 minating in the inevitable: 
 
 "Are you a public school man?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Which?" 
 208
 
 The Cherub 
 
 "Eton." 
 
 "You don't say so. Same here. What house?" 
 
 "I was a Tug." 
 
 Rokeby nodded. Since leaving Eton he had amended 
 a youthful dislike of Tugs. He became quite friendly and 
 lost his condescending manner, ending up effusively: 
 
 "I say, can't you dine with us? I'd like you to meet 
 Lady Rokeby. She takes what she's pleased to call an 
 intelligent interest in local conditions. If you don't mind 
 being bored stiff by questions about these damned Missions 
 and olive oil and Yankee politics, join us to-night." 
 
 "With pleasure." 
 
 Soon afterwards the talk drifted into business channels : 
 and it was forced upon Tim's attention that this ex-Guards- 
 man was the son of a famous ironmaster. Rokeby, evi- 
 dently, had inherited some of his sire's executive ability. 
 His manner became offensive again after he had inspected 
 some "eligible" town property. 
 
 "The boom is over," he said sharply. "These prices will 
 come down with a tumble. They go stark mad over here. 
 Lord ! what a slump there'll be presently. And it's a damned 
 ticklish climate. And the settlers know nothing about farm- 
 ing. They starve the soil with repeated wheat and barley 
 crops. You take my tip: it's a good 'un: and you seem a 
 good chap. You've made a pot. Pick it up quick, and go 
 home. There's no place like England, and never will be." 
 
 "I can't go home yet," said Tim. 
 
 He was impressed but unwilling to admit it. Cooke and 
 he were agreed upon the expediency of getting out on the 
 top of the boom. To wait for the slump which must fol- 
 low would be idiotic. The wisest men in the state, the big 
 bankers, the publicists, the men of science, predicted seven 
 fat years of ever increasing prosperity. 
 
 Rokeby went on abusing American methods, while Tim 
 interpolated a "yes" or "no" when such monosyllables be- 
 came necessary. He was thinking of Daffy. Ought he to 
 startle her as he might? It would be awkward indeed 
 
 209
 
 Timothy 
 
 if she cut him, refused to sit at meat with him. Finally he 
 dismissed such speculation as childish. She was now a 
 woman of the world, able to confront any emergency with 
 a cool smile. 
 
 Rokeby and he returned to the office. 
 
 "Half-past seven," said Rokeby. "We're at the Arlington. 
 I'll promise you a decent cigar, not one of those beastly 
 green weeds." 
 
 Tim watched him striding towards the hotel. 
 
 Daffy's husband ! 
 
 VI 
 
 He had to tell Magdalena that he was dining out. She 
 expressed no surprise, assuming the dinner to be a matter 
 of business. Some capital deals had been consummated in 
 the Arlington dining-room. Then he added that he was ex- 
 pecting to meet an old friend, Lord Rokeby 's wife. Magda- 
 lena's suspicions, or shall we say instincts, were quickened 
 not by his words but by his voice, which had an inflection 
 of tenderness when he pronounced Daffy's name. She had 
 never heard of Daffy, but she swooped straight to the con- 
 viction that Tim must have liked her long ago. In her 
 soft beguiling tones she asked: 
 
 "She was a great friend, no?" 
 
 "Daffy Carmichael was a little girl of sixteen, with her 
 hair in a pigtail. We were pals. I pulled her out of a pond 
 once. She may be cold as Greenland's icy mountains, for 
 she heard all about the storm which blew me out of Little 
 Pennington." 
 
 "Ohe! Was she very pretty?" 
 
 "Yes. And now a haughty beauty." 
 
 "She won't be haughty with you, Teem." 
 
 "It's like this, I've half a mind to hide under the name 
 of Brown. She simply can't recognise me." 
 
 "She will, if she liked you. Oh, yes." 
 
 "I'll bet you she doesn't." 
 210
 
 The Cherub 
 
 "I'll bet with you, Teem." 
 
 "Six pairs of white silk stockings against a pair of waders. 
 Mine are worn out." 
 
 "Bueno !" 
 
 "By George! If she doesn't know me, I'll say nothing. 
 I'd hate to have any gossip started here." 
 
 "Dios! she would not start gossip." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Because she liked you, I know. You will see." 
 
 Tim arrived punctually, and was shewn into the hotel 
 drawing-room. Several people were present, but he recog- 
 nised Daffy instantly. She stood by herself, for Rokeby 
 was not in the room. He beheld a tall, slender woman in 
 green, a soft pale sea-green which suited admirably her fair 
 hair and delicately tinted skin. Her eyes he would have 
 recognised anywhere, because of the fearless look, but he 
 noted a change. The candid, direct glance had become more 
 pervasive, as if it swept wider horizons. It was almost 
 panoramic. He divined instantly that this once dear crea- 
 ture, so familiar and so strange, searched for what was 
 big in life, ignoring perhaps the little things which count 
 tremendously with most women. He noted, also, in that 
 first, all-embracing, hungry stare, that her face revealed pa- 
 thos. He knew that she was not happy. 
 
 He came forward slowly, having dismissed the servant 
 upon the threshold of the room. He felt reasonably cer- 
 tain that she would fail to recognise his voice, because it 
 had deepened. 
 
 As he approached she saw him, and the pupils of her eyes 
 dilated. 
 
 "I am Mr. Brown," he said quietly. 
 
 "Heavens !" she exclaimed. "You are Tim !" 
 
 She held out both her hands, with a radiant smile upon 
 her lips. 
 
 211
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 SUNSHINE AND SHADOW 
 
 ROKEBY sauntered in some three minutes later, but 
 much can be said by two eager souls in a short space 
 of time. Daffy and Tim met after eight years, met as man 
 and woman, and yet, for the moment, there was no re- 
 straint. The old friendship renewed itself spontaneously. 
 Tim became instantly conscious that Daffy understood, that 
 she wanted him to remain her friend. He expected re- 
 serves, a certain coldness which might be thawed, or might 
 not. But her gracious welcome re-established intimacy upon 
 the former firm basis. The strength of that intimacy 
 was something above and beyond sexual attraction. Always 
 he had been able to talk to Daffy with entire frankness, to 
 be himself. Even with Magdalena, except perhaps during 
 the months just after their marriage, he was sensible of 
 reserves on both sides. His affairs, the growth of an im- 
 mense business, for example, with its roots wandering in 
 many directions, inspired no interest or excitement in her 
 beyond the fact that it interested and excited him. When 
 he spoke of other men's achievements her attention wan- 
 dered. And, often, he had to admit that he did not quite 
 know what Magdalena wished. She dissembled sweetly in 
 her desire to please him. He was well aware by this time 
 that she had detested the life at the Arlington : and it vexed 
 him terribly that she had undergone months of distress quite 
 unnecessarily. 
 
 Let us hasten to add that an increasing knowledge of 
 essential difference between a dear little wife and himself 
 212
 
 Sunshine and Shadow 
 
 had not undermined love. He counted himself, as well 
 he might, to be one of the luckiest of men, and, tempera- 
 mentally he fixed his eyes upon the bright side of things. 
 
 With Magdalena, too, especially of late, he had, almost 
 unconsciously, striven to appear slightly other than he was, 
 straining upwards towards her idealised conception of him. 
 She believed him to be the strongest and cleverest of men. 
 Insensibly, a certain pose was forced upon him. 
 
 To pose before Daffy would be ridiculous. 
 
 Daffy said at once: 
 
 "You got my letter?" 
 
 "Months after it was written." 
 
 "Yes, yes : when Mother told me why you had left Little 
 Pennington I knew that you would not answer it." 
 
 "I couldn't. It was too late." 
 
 "My poor Tim, what an experience for both of us! I 
 suffered horribly, and so, of course, did you." 
 
 "Yes, it has passed. I suppose you loathed me." 
 
 She smiled faintly, and the smile was maternal. He won- 
 dered whether she had children. 
 
 "If you think that, Tim, you never really knew me." 
 
 "I am married," said Tim. "I must bring my wife to 
 see you. She is a dear and a sweet. I began badly, Daffy, 
 the luck was against me : but Fortune has been kind." 
 
 "Here is Rokeby," said Daffy. 
 
 Rokeby slowly approached. He was in evening dress, 
 which became him better than loose grey flannel. He had 
 assumed again his air of aloofness. An American woman, 
 standing not far from Tim, said to her companion: 
 
 "Say he's IT, isn't he?" 
 
 Tim caught the whisper, and had to stifle a laugh. In- 
 disputably Rokeby was IT, exasperatingly IT! The fact 
 that his assumption of superiority was quite unconscious, 
 absolutely free from any taint of pose, and also ludicrously 
 independent of mental or moral or physical supremacy 
 tickled Tim's humour. It was funny to reflect that there 
 were thousands of Rokebys sauntering about the world, 
 
 213
 
 Timothy 
 
 imposing their mediocre personalities upon others whom 
 they were pleased to designate as foreigners : condescend- 
 ingly bland, and impassive, and self-confident. 
 
 "Hullo, Brown!" 
 
 Daffy's eyebrows went up. Brown? She was expecting 
 a Mr. Brown to dine with Rokeby and herself. Tim had 
 announced himself as Mr. Brown. But she had held out 
 both hands to Tim. 
 
 "Ought to have been down. Sorry!" 
 
 Tim explained matters fluently : 
 
 "Lady Rokeby and I are old 'friends. She knew me long 
 ago as Tim White. I ran away to sea. I was very green 
 in those days. I took the name of Green. When the green- 
 ness was burnt out of me I selected Brown. This is be- 
 tween ourselves." 
 
 Rokeby nodded imperturbably. This fellow was an origi- 
 nal, parti-coloured dog. Worth a dinner, anyhow, 
 
 "Come on into the dining-room." 
 
 The dinner was very pleasant. Rokeby ceased to be 
 superior when talking with an old Etonian. He exhibited 
 no surprise when his wife said incisively: 
 
 "You mustn't call me Lady Rokeby, my dear Mr. Brown, 
 I shall be Daffy to you, I hope, and you will be Tim to 
 me to the end of the chapter." 
 
 Tim laughed gaily. 
 
 When he reached home Magdalena was waiting for him 
 with the familiar smile which always greeted him. 
 
 "I've had a very jolly evening," said Tim. 
 
 "And I have won my bet, Teem, no?" 
 
 "You have, you little witch. Lady Rokeby recognised me 
 at once." 
 
 "Ohe I knew that." 
 
 ii 
 
 The Rokebys spent a week in Santa Barbara. Tim and 
 Magdalena passed many hours with them. Rokeby, it ap- 
 214
 
 Sunshine and Shadow 
 
 peared, had come into his kingdom shortly after marriage. 
 He had left the Army and was giving more or less atten- 
 tion to his late father's business. There were no children. 
 After a long afternoon upon the beach, during the course 
 of which Rokeby paid rather marked attention to Tim's 
 wife, Magdalena said with a wise smile : 
 
 "Lady Rokeby did not marry for love." 
 
 Tim betrayed a slight resentment, as he answered quickly : 
 
 "Daffy is incapable of selling herself." 
 
 "Dios ! I do not say that. But we poor women 
 
 She paused, pursing up her lips, seeking the right phrase 
 in a foreign tongue. Tim and she had ceased to talk Spanish 
 when alone. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "We are so different from you big, strong men. We 
 marry for many reasons which seem good to us. If it is for 
 love alone bueno! That is the best reason. If it is not 
 for love, we think, perhaps, that love will come. We are 
 so curious, too, my Teem. We lie awake and wonder what 
 it is like to be married. And if we cannot love, we love 
 to be loved. Ay! Ay! And often it is so dull at home. 
 My poor cousins say that. They would marry to escape 
 from Tia Maria Luisa if any nice man ask them. You call 
 that selling yourself?" 
 
 "No: I don't, but " 
 
 "Some of us want babies, Teem. I think Lady Rokeby 
 is like that. When she was alone with me, and I shew her 
 Baby, she kneel down by the cot and cuddle him. And 
 then she cry a little. Mebbe she was fond of Baby because 
 she likes you so much : mebbe she wants one of her own. 
 I do not know." 
 
 "Of course she wants a son. So does Rokeby. So does 
 every man worth his salt." 
 
 "Ay di mi ! I am sorry for them both. She is bored with 
 him : and he is bored with her. It is sad." 
 
 "It is," said Tim shortly. 
 
 Was he annoyed because Magdalena had guessed the
 
 Timothy 
 
 truth? Not a complaint leaked from Daffy's lips. Alone 
 with Tim, she talked with surprising sympathy of his life, 
 not her own. She entered with zest and intelligence into 
 his schemes, pored over maps and pamphlets, criticised his 
 methods, rejoiced over triumphs, and predicted more to 
 come. And yet, great and swift as his success had been, she 
 seemed not quite satisfied with it. Her manner and expres- 
 sion betrayed her. 
 
 He perceived that she was leading him on, an old trick! 
 She wanted to escape from California upon the wings of 
 his imagination. 
 
 "And afterwards?" 
 
 He sketched for her, as he had sketched for his wife, a 
 home in England, a sanctuary in Arcadia. Daffy laughed, 
 shaking her head. 
 
 "She is charming, your wife, but a solitude a deux !" 
 
 "We were quite alone on the ranch, and as happy as 
 larks." 
 
 "But, then, you had not tasted blood. Frankly, does this 
 big business suffice ? Do you want to go on and on till you 
 own and subdivide the earth?" 
 
 "We shall get out, of course, before the slump comes." 
 
 "If you can." 
 
 "If we can. And then Cooke and Brown will make a bee 
 line for England." 
 
 "I follow you. Hunting, shooting, fishing, mild politics, 
 a seat on the bench what else?" 
 
 "Old Daff, you worm things out of a fellow." 
 
 "There is something: I knew it." 
 
 "I have an ambition : I think I have always had it It's 
 bedrock, cropping out continually. I had it as a kiddy, as 
 a boy, as a tramp. It is stronger than ever now because 
 it is buried beneath all this land : but it's there, Daffy, and 
 it will crop out again." 
 
 "You want to write." 
 
 "Write? Perhaps I could write. But I should have to 
 set down life as it is, the beastly parts. And I hate all that. 
 216
 
 Sunshine and Shadow 
 
 Zola, for instance, makes me sick. Daffy, I want to paint." 
 
 "To paint !" she repeated softly. 
 
 "Don't laugh. Colour appeals to me tremendously. I 
 have never spoken of it, not even to Magdalena. She knows 
 that I am always drawing: and I painted a lot on the ranch, 
 but to her it is a pastime. There are a few fine pictures 
 in private houses here. They say nothing to her, but to 
 me . . ." 
 
 She regarded him curiously, for he was revealing a new 
 Tim. 
 
 "Try to tell me how you feel . . ." 
 
 "It is a sort of religion." He went on, with less restraint. 
 "What is religion, Daffy? We had rather a dose of what 
 they call religion in Little Pennington. Cut and dried, eh? 
 Cut and come again describes it better. It was the real, 
 right thing for most of 'em. I've come to see that. The 
 mistake they made, at least so it seems to me . . . was 
 their inability to realise that religion should not be standard- 
 ised. You can't impose the same formulas upon everybody, 
 regardless of immense differences. What nourished dear 
 Mary Nightingale disagreed violently with me. But it 
 would be impossible to make her see that." 
 
 "Tim: I have been through this." 
 
 "As if I didn't know! There's Magdalena. She's a 
 dyed-in-the-wool Roman, accepts everything, questions noth- 
 ing. I wouldn't shake her faith in doctrine and dogma 
 for a clear deed to this State. I'll tell you another secret. 
 Lord ! how this does bring back our heart-to-heart talks in 
 the old Dell. I joined the Roman Church because I was 
 terrified of upsetting Magdalena's artless faith. I haven't 
 had the pluck to tell the Vicar. Magdalena would stew 
 herself into a fever if she thought of me as a heretic. And 
 to me the Roman Church is no better and no worse than 
 the English Church. Each is cocksure of itself. The Non- 
 conformists are nearly as bad. There are plenty of Calvins 
 still alive. Religion ought to be something bigger than cram- 
 ming dogmas down unwilling throats. Well, there it is." 
 
 217
 
 Timothy 
 
 Daffy said quietly : 
 
 "But this religion of yours?" 
 
 "I am clearing the way, burning the brush. I left doc- 
 trine and dogma behind in Little Pennington. The Pen- 
 nington code was behind my misdoings. I didn't know 
 it then. It's coming to me clearly now. I've talked with 
 Cooke. He's taught me a lot. I was pitchforked into Eton 
 without a word of warning. When I slipped out of Col- 
 lege for a lark I didn't know what interpretation might 
 be placed upon such an adventure. If I had known, I should 
 not have been expelled. Now we come to the unspeakable 
 offence. I swear to you that Ivy Jellicoe and I never con- 
 sidered consequences until it was too late. The unstained 
 code again. I'm not a fool. Had I been taught a little 
 physiology, I should be in India instead of here. Thank 
 the Lord I am here! Then I found myself in the fo'csle 
 of a sailing ship, and I began to get my bearings. I came 
 aboard compassless, wild with rage and misery. Sun, 
 and wind, and work blew all that bang out of me. And 
 ever since, bit by bit, day by day, I've been reconstructing 
 some order out of my little chaos. I haven't found what 
 I want yet, but I'm hunting hard." 
 
 "Poor old Tim!" 
 
 "Don't pity me, Daffy, I am glad that I've been through 
 all this. I feel, by George, as some of our old timers feel, 
 when they listen to the tourists that cross the Rockies in a 
 Pullman sleeper. California can never be to the tourist 
 what it is to the pioneer. Well we get at last to my paint- 
 ing. I had to have some sort of religion. I went aloft and 
 looked at the sky and sea. I tramped the roads half-starv- 
 ing and broken in health, and I looked at the eternal hills. 
 And something something came to me. How am I to de- 
 scribe it? Shall I call it a sense of beauty? Or a con- 
 viction that all ugliness passes away. I have seen great 
 forests swept by fire. The beauty blotted out, nothing but 
 blackened stumps of trees, and smouldering ashes. And 
 then, a year or two afterwards, a miracle! A resurrection! 
 218
 
 Sunshine and Shadow 
 
 Or a heavenly calm after a terrifying storm. Daffy, dear, 
 these experiences made me see the colour of life, its infinite 
 shades and gradations of tint. I think of myself sometimes 
 as a chameleon. I've tried to adapt myself to my surround- 
 ings, to absorb the colour in them. I could never be white 
 again, or green. I am passing now through the brown phase. 
 There will be others. And this colour which I have ab- 
 sorbed must come out, find expression, but not in words: 
 they are such feeble things. I realised that when I tried 
 to explain to Magdalena what I felt about a great picture. 
 But if I could paint " 
 
 "Tim, will you show me some of your drawings and 
 paintings ?" 
 
 He groaned : "They're awful !" 
 
 "Let me see them, please!" 
 
 "All right. I seem to have jawed a lot." 
 
 "It interested me enormously. I think as you do about 
 the Little Pennington code. It did not adapt itself to in- 
 dividuals, only to certain types. There was no elasticity, 
 no resiliency. I I have been rolled in the dust, too." 
 
 "Tell me, Daffy." 
 
 "I can't. Some day perhaps, when we are older. I have 
 been through the mill." 
 
 "It has ground you fine." 
 
 "Don't say that, Tim! I have listened to you talking 
 about yourself, but don't ask me about myself. That seems 
 unfair, but even in the old days I used to keep things back. 
 I wonder if there has ever been perfect confidence between 
 a man and a woman ?" 
 
 "I wonder," murmured Tim. 
 
 Next day he was engrossed by business, but before Daffy 
 left he managed to find time to show her some of his draw- 
 ings, and a small landscape painted in late autumn, an 
 effect of atmosphere, the brown foothills seen through opa- 
 lescent mists. Daphne said slowly: 
 
 "You can paint, Tim, it is in you to paint a fine picture. 
 
 219
 
 Timothy 
 
 I say it with little technical knowledge, but with all the 
 conviction of a woman's instinct." 
 
 HI 
 
 The Rokebys went on to Japan, leaving a gap which was 
 filled with hard work. The suitable subdividing of the new 
 ranches exacted meticulous attention, because they included 
 much rough land. Jam had to be nicely apportioned to 
 bread. Advertising, moreover, became a problem difficult 
 to resolve. The old methods were inadequate. The coun- 
 try was glutted with printed matter: and settlers were be- 
 ginning to discover that even sworn statements may prove 
 sadly misleading. In the fall, when the pilgrims from 
 East and mid- West filled the trains, Tim organised vast 
 barbecues. A brass band was engaged for these festive 
 occasions. Upon the eve of the first barbecue a somewhat 
 seedy but plausible gentleman sought a private interview 
 with Cooke and Brown. He revealed himself as an advance 
 agent connected with a certain unscrupulous journal. He 
 told Cooke jauntily that a bright "send-off" could be se- 
 cured for a thousand dollars. Cooke listened blandly. 
 
 "You propose to boom us?" 
 
 "Sky-high, Mr. Cooke." 
 
 "For a thousand dollars?" 
 
 "Yes, Sir. A refusal would hostilise strong interests." 
 
 "Tim," said Cooke, in the same bland tone, "kindly tell 
 this gentleman what we think of him." 
 
 Tim could be trusted to rise to such occasions. He shewed 
 his teeth in a wide grin, as he said : 
 
 "You are very kind. We think that this is a blackmail- 
 ing scheme. Take your choice of the door or the window." 
 
 "You'll be mighty sorry for this." 
 
 "You prefer the window?" 
 
 "We'll make you two Britishers squeal." 
 
 Tim rose swiftly : the seeker after "graft" fled. 
 220
 
 Sunshine and Shadow 
 
 Cooke laughed, but he said gravely enough : 
 
 "We're up against an unscrupulous gang. It was bound 
 to come sooner or later." 
 
 "What can they do?" 
 
 "You'll see. The country is getting rotten with this sort 
 of thing. Shooting used to keep it down, but shooting 
 seems to be going out of fashion, more's the pity." 
 
 "If he is going to hurt us, I wish I'd hurt him." 
 
 "He would have squealed before he was hurt." 
 
 Soon afterwards a series of articles began to appear, 
 cleverly attacking the firm's methods. Cooke consulted a 
 famous solicitor who was also a barrister, and an expert 
 upon libel law. He counselled inaction. Action, he pointed 
 out, would be very expensive, and the issue doubtful. On 
 his advice the barbecues were abandoned. 
 
 And then trouble began with some of the men who held 
 land under contract, men who had paid a small sum to bind 
 a bargain, and then broken the spirit of that bargain by 
 doing nothing, holding unimproved land for a rise in price. 
 
 "Things are not quite so rosy," said Cooke. "Somebody 
 is behind these malcontents." 
 
 Nevertheless the sales continued. 
 
 By this time the business had become exceedingly com- 
 plicated. Lack of ready money is at the root of most mun- 
 dane evils, and although we may assume as an axiom that 
 credit is the life-blood of a new country, still even credit 
 must have gold behind it, as the enthusiastic supporters of 
 Mr. Bryan discovered. The banks throughout the State 
 were getting nervous. They had financed this immense land 
 boom, accepting as security innumerable mortgages. The 
 more conservative pointed out to their respective boards 
 that banking was not quite on all fours with the real-estate 
 business. Mortgages had, occasionally, to be foreclosed. 
 Bankers found themselves metamorphosed in a night into 
 farmers and horticulturists. Probably pressure was brought 
 to bear from the East and from Europe. The fact remains, 
 when we survey the history of this period, that money be- 
 
 221
 
 Timothy 
 
 came dear long before the dry seasons came. Cooke and 
 Brown held sheafs of notes which represented gold, but the 
 banks wanted more collateral security and offered in return 
 less gold. 
 And the running expenses of our firm were enormous. 
 
 IV 
 
 The Cherub was now a two-year-old, and frisky for his 
 yeajs. Tim adored him. This may surprise some of the 
 readers of this chronicle, for Tim has been presented so far, 
 as intensely preoccupied with his own development, a healthy 
 victim of ambitions which preyed upon every able-bodied 
 man in the community. As a father we do not envisage 
 him clearly. It is even doubtful whether Magdalena quite 
 realised what Tim felt about his small son, or how large 
 he bulked in Tim's future. The normal father hardly ever 
 talks of his children, if he is much engrossed in working 
 for them. But Tim regarded his boy as part of himself, 
 clay to the hand of a potter. The Cherub was to be an 
 Etonian and an Oppidan, making none of his sire's blun- 
 ders. He was to develop along natural lines, no "cribbing 
 and confining/' no labelling, no cotton wool, a son of the 
 West who would profit by the wisdom of the East. 
 
 The child's beauty appealed to Tim immensely. The 
 little fellow seemed to have taken from his parents what 
 was most admirable in each. He had Tim's strength, and 
 Magdalena's sweetness of disposition. 
 
 But he had inherited something else, that dreadful taint 
 which has been such a scourge to the children of Anglo- 
 Saxon and Latin countries. The discovery of this crept 
 stealthily upon Tim: it came as the fog comes from the 
 Pacific, stealing across the landscape in filmy mists, height- 
 ening its beauty for a time, and then slowly blotting out 
 all colour and form, a dense cloud of impenetrable gloom. 
 
 A cold in the head drifted to the chest. The Cherub 
 222
 
 Sunshine and Shadow 
 
 began to cough. Treatment stopped the cough. The child's 
 beauty was strangely enhanced for a few months. His 
 eyes sparkled with ethereal light, upon his round cheeks 
 glowed a deeper rose, his lips were, a vivid carmine. The 
 health-seekers would stop to speak of him to Magdalena 
 when mother and child took the air together. 
 
 "What a cherub!" they would remark. 
 
 Magdalena, beaming with pride, would reply: 
 
 "Ohe we call him that." 
 
 That summer was particularly dry. The ocean fogs lay 
 far out at sea, kept at bay by the land breeze which blew 
 hot and dry from the torrid valleys beyond the Santa 
 Lucia mountains. The fine white dust settled everywhere, 
 inflaming sensitive membranes, driving housewives to de- 
 spair and thirsty men to drink. 
 
 The Cherub began to cough again. Tim was anxious, 
 but a doctor, who was ignorant of Magdalena's family, 
 reassured him. Tim's own throat was sore and inflamed. 
 
 "After the rains the cough will go." 
 
 Magdalena hugged this comfort to her bosom. But, sud- 
 denly, out of some pigeonhole of memory, fluttered a hide- 
 ous apprehension. 
 
 "Teem," she said, clutching him, "I am frightened." 
 
 "Frightened?" 
 
 "I remember Dolores, my sister. She die when I was 
 eight years old. I see her. Ay de mi ! And to-day I hear 
 her." 
 
 "You heard her?" 
 
 "Baby cough just like Dolores." 
 
 Tim kissed her wet eyes, quoting the doctor, reassuring 
 her that coughs were all alike, but Magdalena shook her 
 head. 
 
 "Baby will go, like Dolores. Yes, I know." 
 
 "Never!" said Tim vehemently. 
 
 223
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 DROUGHT 
 
 EARLY the next morning on his way to the office, Tim 
 called upon the Doctor, who happened to be the per- 
 sonal friend rather than the medical attendant of a family 
 that seldom needed his services. Tim and he often fished 
 and shot quail in company, and probably there is nothing 
 in this world which brings a couple of men so intimately 
 together as camp life in a new country. 
 
 Wason was a bachelor, on the wrong side of fifty. In- 
 variably, Tim's intimate friends had been men older than 
 himself. They were attracted by youth and high spirits. 
 He, in his turn, had a hankering for knowledge and ex- 
 perience. Wason was a thin tall fellow, very active physi- 
 cally and mentally, and a New Englander who had been 
 in Santa Barbara about two years. He possessed independ- 
 ent means, interfering but little with the old practitioners, 
 devoting time and money to bacteriology. 
 
 Tim's face alarmed him. 
 
 "Anything wrong?" 
 
 "My wife is terrified, Wason. She believes that the 
 Cherub has consumption. I never told you, but Magda- 
 lena's brothers and sister died of consumption." 
 
 Wason looked as grave as Tim. 
 
 "What on earth made you hide that from me?" 
 
 "I had forgotten it, so had she. Do you mean to say 
 that it makes much difference?" 
 
 "Yes," said Wason curtly. "What we call a predisposi- 
 224
 
 Drought 
 
 tion to the disease counts enormously. Do you mean to say 
 that they all went that way ?" 
 
 "All." 
 
 Wason groaned. 
 
 "What a damnable scourge it is! However, let us hope 
 that this is a false alarm. You two are such healthy people 
 that I never suspected any taint. Has the boy lost weight ?" 
 
 "A little." 
 
 "Any night sweats?" 
 
 "No, but the cough keeps him awake." 
 
 "I'll see the child at once, and let you know." 
 
 "Thanks." 
 
 Tim went on to the office, where he found Cooke, to whom 
 he communicated his fears. The senior partner cheered 
 him up. 
 
 "Look at me. I left England because the apex of both 
 lungs was affected. And, to-day, I'm as sound as a bell. 
 I don't believe the boy has it, but if there is a little trouble 
 it will yield to treatment in this climate." 
 
 Tim tried, not very effectively, to concentrate his mind 
 upon business. Two hours later Wason telephoned to him 
 to call at his house. One glance at Wason's face was suf- 
 ficient. Tim gasped out: 
 
 "Magdalena was right?" 
 
 "There is some inflammatory consolidation of the right 
 lung. It would be criminal on my part to make light of 
 it to you, although I have calmed the poor little mother. 
 But I am afraid the case may prove acute. There has 
 been a change since I last saw the child." 
 
 Tim sank into a chair, haggard and trembling. Wason 
 spoke incisively, but with great sympathy. 
 
 "I must explain what I mean by acute. The progress of 
 phthisis, as a general rule, is slow and chronic, particularly 
 with adults, but with children, where there is predisposi- 
 tion and exciting inflammatory causes, the ravages are 
 swift." 
 
 "Galloping consumption." 
 
 225
 
 Timothy 
 
 "It has been well named. We are confronted with that 
 possibility." 
 
 "Oh, my God!" 
 
 "Tim, I shall fight for this child as if he were my own !" 
 
 "I know that." 
 
 "And now I want to speak to you about something else. 
 Mrs. Brown will insist upon nursing her child." 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 "I hold tuberculosis to be infectious when there is any 
 latent taint in the system. Opinion is divided it is still 
 raging but Koch's experiments have convinced me, apart 
 from my own researches. I do not think that a perfectly 
 healthy person would be quite safe if constantly exposed." 
 
 "You are not suggesting that Magdalena should be sep- 
 arated from the Cherub?" 
 
 Wason remained silent. Tim continued: 
 
 "She will refuse." 
 
 "I fear so." 
 
 "I know it." 
 
 "I had to tell you. For the rest, you must do what you 
 can. I'll watch her as closely as the boy." 
 
 "I'll take them anywhere anywhere." 
 
 "No : the climate here is equable. Special symptoms must 
 be dealt with. Tim, you must trust me." 
 
 "I do I do, but you have scared the very life out of me." 
 
 "I had to make you realise the gravity of the situation. 
 Co-operate with me, fight with me against little stupidities 
 and negligences. We must guard against changes of tem- 
 perature, fatigue, exposure, dietetical indiscretions." 
 
 Wason continued, explaining his method of treatment, 
 avoiding, as far as possible, the pathology of the case. 
 
 Tim listened, sucking hope from Wason's authoritative 
 tones, but alone, with the impending horror of meeting 
 Magdalena, his fortitude deserted him. He went for a walk, 
 grappling with his fears, conquering them by force of will. 
 But as he strode back to his own house, he met a rich 
 health-seeker, taking air and sunshine in a nurse's com- 
 226
 
 Drought 
 
 pany. One of the doomed, he accosted Tim cheerily, and 
 spoke of the improvement in his condition. Emaciated, 
 racked by cough, a victim of other complications, he was 
 crawling along, leaning heavily upon his nurse's arm. And 
 yet the strange buoyancy which characterises his malady, 
 the spes phthisica, sustained him. 
 
 "I'm getting along fine, ain't I, Nurse?" 
 
 "That you are." 
 
 Tim felt sick. He reached home to find the Cherub play- 
 ing with Magdalena in the garden. He looked the picture 
 of health as he ran towards his father. Tim picked him up, 
 kissed him, and turned to face a smiling mother. 
 
 "Dr. Wason has been here. He was so kind. And very 
 angry with me for being frightened." 
 
 "So am I," said Tim: and the laugh with which he fur- 
 ther reassured her was not, perhaps, the least of many 
 achievements. 
 
 ii 
 
 Six months later the boy was dead. 
 
 All the premonitory symptoms became intensely aggra- 
 vated. In the end the child died of exhaustion and emacia- 
 tion. A tiny skeleton was laid to rest in the cemetery. 
 Husband and wife were affected differently: Tim choked 
 down his emotion with grim despair; Magdalena gave it 
 expression in prolonged fits of passionate weeping. 
 
 Finally Tim took her away to Honolulu. The sea voy- 
 age, going and returning, restored something of her former 
 equanimity, but she looked ten years older and much 
 thinner. 
 
 Tim went back to the office. 
 
 Cooke talked in his usual optimistic vein, but Tim per- 
 ceived clearly enough that his partner had become anxious. 
 The contract-holders were giving more and more trouble. 
 Men who held land and refused to improve it were in 
 arrears with their payments. To evict them meant the ad- 
 
 227
 
 Timothy 
 
 vertising of an abominable situation : not to evict them was 
 a tacit confession of weakness, the encouragement of other 
 malcontents, and an acceptance of a slap in the face from 
 their enemies, who insidiously instigated the worst offenders. 
 Cooke concluded cheerfully: 
 
 "It will be O. K. if we have plenty of rain." 
 
 Everybody made this remark several times a day. All 
 members of the community were affected. Store-keepers 
 who financed the small farmers stared helplessly at the blue 
 skies: bankers stared as helplessly at their ledgers, and 
 wished, too late, that they had conducted their business 
 upon more conservative lines. The cattlemen, sheepmen, 
 and big wheat farmers faced disaster with blanching lips. 
 Nevertheless public opinion decided that Southern Califor- 
 nia could weather one dry season, long overdue according to 
 the statisticians. Cooke said: 
 
 "We shall just scrape through." 
 
 The dry year came. 
 
 Perhaps the hardest thing to bear was the jubilant croak- 
 ing of the Silurians and mossbacks, the fortunate few who 
 had remained passive during years of feverish activity, who 
 had risked nothing, sitting indolently upon what they pos- 
 sessed, predicting disaster to their enterprising brethren. 
 
 This was their hour of triumph, and they made the 
 most of it. 
 
 The banks behaved admirably, standing shoulder to shoul- 
 der in solid phalanx, but all were strained to breaking point. 
 The political situation aggravated their difficulty in carry- 
 ing the dead weight of impecunious customers. The Popo- 
 crats and Silverites brayed their plausible doctrines from 
 every street corner. To be a "gold-bug" in those unhappy 
 days was to invite personal assault. 
 
 in 
 
 During these arid months, the work in the office dwin- 
 dled to the perfunctory keeping of accounts. One clerk 
 228
 
 Drought 
 
 sufficed: Fatty and Skinny were dismissed: outside ex- 
 penses were pared to the irreducible minimum. 
 
 Cooke and Tim talked together, for there was nothing 
 else to do. Insensibly Tim absorbed Cooke's philosophy. 
 Sometimes Wason would join them. Cooke was saturated 
 with the agnosticism of Huxley and Ingersoll, and too busy 
 to work out problems other than the conduct of concrete 
 affairs, such as the sale and subdivision of land, the tactful 
 handling of customers, and the adjustment of conflicting 
 interests. 
 
 Abstractions bored him. He was temperamentally a 
 hedonist albeit a stickler for law and order if his own pleas- 
 ures were threatened. He lived joyously in the present, 
 liked a sound glass of wine and a good cigar, and could 
 thoroughly enjoy both whether it rained or not. 
 
 He hated poverty and vice because anything disagree- 
 able affected his own comfort. He was scornfully derisive 
 of crooked dealing, because he was profoundly of opinion 
 that it paid to be honest. Wason's New England conscience 
 he was the son of a Presbyterian minister constrained 
 him to defend doctrines which Cooke pronounced obsolete 
 and untenable. 
 
 "One must have a standard, Cooke." 
 
 "Let the law of the land provide it." 
 
 "That law is built upon the solid rock of a higher law, 
 God's law, the Ten Commandments." 
 
 "Oh, Moses ! There's an amusing story of Ingersoll 
 
 and Moses. Have you heard it ?" 
 
 "More than once from you. I hate argument bolstered 
 up by anecdote. It comes to this, if there is no God, and 
 no hereafter, and no Law higher than what I suppose you 
 call the coagulated wisdom of centuries, what is to restrain 
 a man from committing, let us say, murder, provided he is 
 clever enough not to be found out? I know enough to 
 kill you, if I wanted to do it, without running the slightest 
 risk of detection. I could inoculate you with cholera 
 morbus, attend you as your physician, sign your death cer- 
 
 229
 
 Timothy 
 
 tificate and collect my fees from your estate. What pre- 
 vents me? My conscience. My conviction that I should 
 be arraigned and judged guilty hereafter." 
 
 "Do you affirm that Huxley was conscienceless?" 
 
 "Certainly not. But the fact that Huxley and Tyndall and 
 Bradlaugh were men who lived useful and blameless lives 
 proves nothing. They obeyed the standard which each 
 adopted for himself." 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 "But if each man is to be a law unto himself, for that is 
 what it comes to ultimately, each man will interpret that 
 law to suit himself. I have known many loose livers, but 
 I swear to you that I have never known one who did not 
 attempt to justify his sexual wanderings, not one!" 
 
 Tim found himself uncomfortably warm. Wason con- 
 tinued : 
 
 "Take away the higher law, and the lower law must be 
 undermined. There must be stern and governing truths be- 
 hind human conduct." 
 
 Cooke never lost his temper in an argument. He said 
 affably : 
 
 "Good old Wason ! You don't infect us with cholera 
 morbus in order to achieve a tremendous reputation by wip- 
 ing out the epidemic because you're scared of eternal pun- 
 ishment You Christians are all alike." 
 
 "Are we?" said Wason grimly. "Shall I retort that 
 you agnostics are all alike in accusing us of doing good in 
 the hope of a heavenly reward and shunning evil for fear 
 of future punishment? Doing good, for good's sake, is, I 
 suppose, the monopoly of atheists. I have no stomach 
 for these arguments : they lead no whither." 
 
 "Perhaps, but Tim and I are interested in knowing where 
 you stand." 
 
 "I'll tell you. My belief in God goes deeper than what 
 
 you call revealed religion : and is independent of it. God 
 
 reveals Himself to me personally. I believe in Him because 
 
 I cannot explain what I know to be the good in me if He 
 
 230
 
 Drought 
 
 is non-existent. When I follow and obey that instinct I 
 am happy. That I know. When I ignore it and wander 
 from it I am unhappy, and a radiating source of unhap- 
 piness to others. Tim, what about a day's quail-shooting?" 
 
 IV 
 
 When they were alone over a camp-fire, Wason said to 
 Tim: 
 
 "I don't like Cooke." 
 
 Tim replied warmly. 
 
 "He's one of the best. Cheery, kind, clever, and abso- 
 lutely straight." 
 
 "Is he straight ? Would he stand a big test ?" 
 
 "I'd stake my life on it." 
 
 Wason said very drily: 
 
 "You would be very foolish." 
 
 The test came some months afterwards. Up till now the 
 firm had been able to meet their obligations, raising money, 
 when it became due, by hypothecating their collateral securi- 
 ties. Of these securities there remained some one hundred 
 and twenty thousand dollars in Bills Receivable, promis- 
 sory notes, for the most part, representing what was left 
 of the profits on the Santa Margarita after a settlement 
 had been effected with the banks. 
 
 In fine, these particular securities were gilt-edged because 
 they covered highly improved property, and, allowing amply 
 for the depreciation in land values, were secured by first 
 mortgages which had been half paid. Everything else was 
 in the hands of the banks as security against the payment 
 of the three tracts lying to the south of Santa Barbara. 
 And now another big cash payment upon those tracts was 
 due. Cooke and Mrs. Cooke went to San Francisco, leav- 
 ing Tim in sole control of the business. Cooke took with 
 him the nest egg to convert into gold. Three days later 
 Tim received the following letter : , 
 
 231
 
 Timothy 
 
 "My DEAR TIM, 
 
 "I send you a draft on the local bank for sixty thou- 
 sand dollars. It is yours : and you can do what you like 
 with it. I have taken my half, and booked a passage to 
 Buenos Ayres. When you read this Mrs. Cooke and I 
 shall be at sea. If you are wise you will leave Southern 
 California and start elsewhere with this capital. Join 
 me, if you like, and we'll retrieve our fortunes in a coun- 
 try which is just beginning to go ahead, the Argentine. 
 I could write reams explaining and excusing my bolting. 
 A few lines will suffice. To stay on, fighting hopelessly, 
 against circumstances we cannot control, means bank- 
 ruptcy and ruin. The dry year has crippled us terribly. 
 Another short season and the shutters would have to go 
 up. I have spent hours over our accounts. Rain might 
 save us, but I doubt it, because, rain or no rain, Califor- 
 nia cannot recover in less than five years. We should 
 starve slowly. Frankly, I am too old to begin again. So 
 I have cut the Gordian knot in my own way. 
 
 "Good luck to you and forgive me. I have to think 
 of my wife, and you must think of dear little Magdalena. 
 This money is really hers. Cut loose, Tim, as I have 
 done, and let the banks take over our business, which, in 
 every sense of the word, is theirs already." 
 
 "Your sincere friend, 
 
 "HARVEY COOKE." 
 
 This unexpected blow fell with shattering violence. Tim 
 told Magdalena, but she could not appreciate the issues in- 
 volved. She kissed and consoled her husband, affirming her 
 belief in his judgment and ability, insisting that he should 
 use this money according to the dictates of his conscience, 
 not hers, but she added mournfully : 
 
 "Teem, our baby is here, you will not go away, no?" 
 
 "I must talk to Wason," said Tim. 
 
 Wason read Cooke's letter and shrugged his shoulders. 
 His silence exasperated the young man. 
 
 "Damn it! Say something, Wason." 
 
 "Cooke is a coward. He has imposed an intolerable 
 232
 
 Drought 
 
 burden on your shoulders. If this is the result of his philos- 
 ophy, it stands gravely indicted. Another instance of self- 
 justification by a man who is a law unto himself." 
 "I am nearly crazy," said Tim. 
 
 The temptation to follow Cooke gripped him unmerci- 
 fully. What restrained him ? Dare we answer such a ques- 
 tion? He could not answer it himself at the time, but long 
 afterwards he came slowly to the conclusion that something 
 inculcated by the Vicar, something transcending cut-and- 
 dried teaching, something which may be termed influence 
 or example, rose up to confront this great moral exigency. 
 
 Let the other fellow worry! 
 
 That was a jest often on Cooke's lips. He had passed on 
 his "worry" to the junior partner, counselling him to trans- 
 fer it swiftly to the banks. Tim asked himself what the 
 Vicar of Little Pennington would do in such an emergency. 
 That question was easily answered. During a long labori- 
 ous life the Vicar had shouldered the worries of others. 
 
 "I shall fight it out alone," said Tim to Magdalena. 
 
 She clung to him. 
 
 "You are my brave Teem. How I love you!" 
 
 "But if this goes, your little dowry, we should be pen- 
 niless." 
 
 "Ohe! I have my one-tenth interest in Agua Caliente." 
 
 Tim nodded. He had forgotten that. And it was worth 
 remembering, for Agua Caliente was developing into a fa- 
 mous health resort. The one-tenth interest, ever increasing, 
 represented a small income of not less than one hundred dol- 
 lars a month. 
 
 "Yes, you have that," he muttered. 
 
 "We have that, mi querido," 
 
 233
 
 Timothy 
 
 Tim went to see James Mackinnon, laying the facts be- 
 fore him as succinctly as possible. In silence Mackinnon 
 listened : then he held out his hand : 
 
 "I am proud to be your friend, Tim. I will help you. But 
 I am sadly in need of help myself." 
 
 These two, the man old in affairs, the young fellow stimu- 
 lated to supreme endeavour, gazed at each other across a 
 table piled high with papers. They met upon the common 
 ground of unmerited misfortune. It was a great moment 
 for Tim. 
 
 "We must go to the city together," said Mackinnon. 
 
 They did so. 
 
 Mackinnon interviewed the cashier of the metropolitan 
 bank which virtually controlled Tim's fortunes. 
 
 To the last Cooke's genius for administration manifested 
 itself. Tim received from a city attorney an instrument 
 which conveyed to him, his heirs and assigns, all of Cooke's 
 interest in the firm, in consideration, so the instrument ran, 
 of sixty thousand dollars, gold coin of the United States. 
 For an hour Tim waited while his fate was determined. 
 Would they scrap him ? It was in their power to do so. He 
 was young, and a Britisher. He could sell land when pil- 
 grims were eager to buy: but Cooke was known, far and 
 wide, as the manipulator, the schemer, the creator of a 
 complex business. Tim repeated to himself axioms cur- 
 rent on the Pacific Slope. "Corporations have no bowels"': 
 and "Friendship cuts no ice in business." 
 
 Without reservations, he had placed the sixty thousand 
 dollars in James Mackinnon's hands. He could keep every 
 cent of it. A payment of nearly double that amount was 
 overdue. 
 
 Tim decided that he would be scrapped. In a moment of 
 pardonable suspense and weakness, he found himself re- 
 flecting that a scrapping would make a free man of him. 
 Magdalena and he could begin again, at the bottom of the 
 ladder. 
 
 Three men received him courteously : the fourth was Mac- 
 234
 
 kinnon. Tim could glean nothing from his impassive face, 
 except the instinctive conviction that an ordeal was to come. 
 Everything depended upon how Mr. Timothy Brown would 
 acquit himself. 
 
 It was another fight to a finish. 
 
 VI 
 
 The cashier spoke first. Tim had met him before. He 
 was a small desiccated man, very grey, one who had grown 
 old in the service of a great institution, one who had weath- 
 ered storms. His manner was delusively mild and depre- 
 cating. 
 
 "Please sit down, Mr. Brown." 
 
 Tim was strangely reminded of the Vicar and the hard 
 Windsor chair upon which he had wriggled uneasily scores 
 of times. 
 
 "How old are you?" 
 
 "Eight and twenty." 
 
 "And married?" 
 
 Tim bowed. The cashier fiddled with a pen, but he held 
 Tim's eyes throughout the interview. 
 
 "On the part of my colleagues and myself, I wish to ex- 
 press our approval of what you have done in placing the 
 conduct of this unhappy affair unreservedly in our hands. 
 Of Mr. Cooke I prefer to say nothing. He has bolted, tak- 
 ing with him money, which, in the strictest legal sense is 
 his, and in no other. Had your firm been forced into liqui- 
 dation to-day, this money would have been absorbed." 
 
 "I know that," said Tim. 
 
 "Good! An understanding of that sort clears the air. 
 You seem to enjoy remarkable health and strength." 
 
 "I'm all right, sir." 
 
 "Good again. I come to the point. Are we justified at 
 this particular crisis in entrusting so young a man with 
 the sole management of a complex business? What have 
 
 235
 
 Timothy 
 
 you to say to us? Speak quite frankly. Submit your 
 claims. I can promise you this : they will be carefully con- 
 sidered." 
 
 Tim said simply: 
 
 "Mr. Cooke is entitled to all the credit for thinking out 
 the general scheme upon which we worked, but I can claim, 
 I think," he glanced at Mackinnon, who nodded solemnly, "a 
 personal knowledge of the men to whom we sold land. I 
 shewed them the land, and, ever since, while Mr. Cooke 
 remained in the office, I have been on the ranches getting 
 to know our customers intimately. It would be impossible 
 now, even if it were advisable, to alter or even to modify 
 the plan upon which we have worked. In that sense Mr. 
 Cooke's work has been done and well done, gentlemen." 
 
 The cashier assented. 
 
 "What remains is to collect money due, to wind up the 
 business gradually, and to evict contract-holders who are 
 making trouble." 
 
 "Evict?" 
 
 From the cashier's tone it was impossible to guess whether 
 or not he approved of eviction. 
 
 "Mr. Cooke was against eviction. I deferred to his riper 
 judgment. All the same " 
 
 "Yes, let us have your opinion." 
 
 "If I had a free hand I should evict certain men. They 
 have been stirred up to make trouble." 
 
 "Stirred up, what do you mean?" 
 
 Tim told the story of the attempted black-mailing. The 
 cashier listened with impassive features, but when Tim 
 finished, he said quietly: 
 
 "A thousand dollars would have secured the good-will of 
 these journals." 
 
 "Yes, but at the sacrifice of an essential principle. And 
 we should have opened the door to other black-mailers." 
 
 "Are we to understand, Mr. Brown, that you propose to 
 begin an active campaign against these contract-holders ? It 
 will stir up a lot of trouble." 
 236
 
 Drought. 
 
 "I know that, gentlemen. But it's like this. A hundred 
 at least of these contract-holders have the money to make 
 a one-third payment and receive a deed secured by mort- 
 gage. The dry year has not affected them. They want the 
 land, but they're waiting to see what the next season is like, 
 gambling, in short, with our money. If I evict half a dozen 
 of the most recalcitrant the others will march into line." 
 
 "I follow you." 
 
 "I suggest, gentlemen, that you owe it to me to give me 
 a trial. I ask for nothing more. I will do my best, and I 
 do know the country, the conditions and the people. I have 
 our sales book here. I can go into every case with you, if 
 you wish it." 
 
 The cashier glanced at his colleagues. 
 
 "I am empowered, Mr. Brown, to speak for the Bank. 
 We accept your proposition. Deal with these contract-hold- 
 ers as you think fit. Times are tight and money is dear, 
 but we will pay the amount overdue to the owners of the 
 three ranches. In other words, we will advance you sixty 
 thousand dollars, the amount er lifted by your late part- 
 ner. This leaves you short of working capital." 
 
 "It does." 
 
 "We are willing to finance you within reasonable limits. 
 You must regard yourself as our general manager, re- 
 sponsible to us. Cut expenses." 
 
 "They are cut." 
 
 "Well, it is up to you to make good. You have our hearti- 
 est good wishes and congratulations. We are, unhappily, 
 at the mercy of the elements, but I believe that you will do 
 all that can be done." 
 
 The interview was at an end. Tim lunched with Mackin- 
 non. They walked together to the Palace Hotel. Mackin- 
 non said curtly: 
 
 "Tim, my boy, that was a personal triumph." 
 
 "I owed it to you, sir. I cannot thank you enough." 
 
 "You are mistaken. They would have turned down my 
 
 237
 
 Timothy 
 
 own son if he had failed to satisfy them. The odds were 
 against you, but you won the confidence of the shrewdest 
 banker in this city in five minutes. I am very pleased." 
 
 "If we have rains," said Tim, "I shall make good." 
 
 "That is my opinion also." 
 
 238
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 WHEN TROUBLES COME 
 
 TIM returned to Santa Barbara conscious of an uplifting 
 which he had not known since the Cherub's death. 
 The autumn was at hand, the autumn which would bring 
 rains and prosperity to this parched land. He gazed at the 
 brown foot-hills as he sped through them, identifying him- 
 self with them, believing that the colour would flow back 
 into his life, the soft tender shades of heliotrope and pink 
 which stole upon the landscape as the sun declined. 
 
 James Mackinnon and he talked cheerfully of the les- 
 sons gleaned from a harvestless year, the necessity of hus- 
 banding water, of boring artesian wells, of keeping sufficient 
 hay and straw to tide cattle over a drought. 
 
 Such topics were on the lips and in the minds of all 
 men. Recuperating influences were at work. The terrible 
 dry year was over. Southern California would wake up 
 from her long sleep, re-invigorated and refreshed to bring 
 forth more abundantly. 
 
 But everywhere, except upon the irrigated areas, lay the 
 signs of catastrophe. By the springs and dried-up water 
 courses the bones of cattle whitened in the sun, the women 
 and children looked gaunt and parched: the men hanging 
 about the stores waiting for work stared sullenly at the 
 passengers who were flitting past them, able to leave and 
 glad to leave a stricken country. 
 
 The news that Tim was captain of a gallant ship, par- 
 tially crippled, but still seaworthy, became known. 
 
 A few guessed the truth, and the majority of these it is 
 
 239
 
 Timothy 
 
 to be feared commended the prudence of the Senor Cooke. 
 
 Within a week the trouble with the contract-holders be- 
 came acute. Tim served notices of eviction upon half a 
 dozen men, which caused an indignation meeting of the 
 others. Amongst them was a fellow called Ginty, an ill- 
 conditioned, powerful ruffian, with a reputation for being 
 a "bad-man." He had, indeed, shot down a fellow citizen 
 in a drunken brawl, escaping punishment upon the thread- 
 bare plea of self-defence. The men who had paid for 
 their ranches were against the contract-holders, whose un- 
 improved patches remained an eye-sore, and a menace to 
 progress. 
 
 Many of these ranchers proved staunch friends to Tim, 
 keeping him "posted," as the phrase runs. Through them 
 Tim learned of the indignation meeting and the resolu- 
 tions carried thereat. Ginty, it appeared, had constituted 
 himself the ring-leader, proclaiming his intention of settling 
 with the Britisher at a pistol's point. 
 
 Tim received a letter 
 
 "DERE SIR, 
 
 "This is to tell you that youve bitten off more'n you kin 
 chew, and must climb down pronto. We means bizness. 
 That ther is a cold fact. The land is ourn and we mean 
 ter freeze onter it till the cows come home. If yer 
 huntin trouble were the boys to make it for ye. 
 
 "Quit foolin with 
 
 "CONTRACT HOLDERS." 
 
 Tim handed this epistle to the Sheriff who could be 
 trusted to do whatever was required. Ginty and his friends 
 became inflamed by bad language and worse drink. Finally 
 Tim learned from a sure source that Ginty was ripe for 
 trouble and coming into town to make it. Tim consulted 
 with his only clerk, a stout fellow, loyal to Tim, who had 
 been with the firm since its inception. The two held coun- 
 cil. A door opened between the outer and inner office. 
 Tim moved his desk so that it faced this. He placed a 
 240
 
 When Troubles Come 
 
 six-shooter in the centre drawer. George, the clerk, carried 
 a smaller pistol in his coat pocket. Tim instructed George 
 to receive Ginty politely, and to ask him to sit down in the 
 outer office. When Tim was ready to receive the fire-eater, 
 George would show him into the inner office. He would 
 be invited to sit down opposite him, facing the window, 
 with his back to the door. Tim concluded: 
 
 "You will be near the door, George. If he tries to draw 
 his gun, shoot! I shall shoot too." 
 
 They rehearsed the business, moving the chair to one 
 side, so as to preclude the possibility of shooting through 
 Ginty at each other. When Tim was satisfied with these 
 preliminary arrangements, he said to George: 
 
 "I don't want to kill this blackguard, but I'd sooner kill 
 than be killed. He thinks that I'm lying awake at night 
 scared to death. We must disabuse his mind of that." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "Cool him down for one thing. When he blusters in, 
 you say that I'm busy. Come to my room and stand on 
 the threshold. Announce the fellow in a loud voice. I'll 
 do the rest. It's up to us, George, to turn a possible tragedy 
 into a comedy. See?" 
 
 "You bet !" 
 
 Tim and George did a little pistol practice. 
 
 Ginty appeared some three days later. George asked him 
 to sit down. Then he opened the communicating door, and 
 said: 
 
 "Mr. Ginty wants to see you." 
 
 Tim said clearly : 
 
 "What Mr. Ginty?" 
 
 "Mr. Thomas Ginty from the San Julian." 
 
 "I'm very busy. I'll see Mr. Ginty in three minutes. 
 Look up his case. Bring me the sales book. Give Mr. 
 Ginty the paper." 
 
 Ginty so George reported afterwards listened to this 
 easy talk with some surprise. Like all ignorant persons 
 he expected, being defiant, to meet defiance. This courteous 
 
 241
 
 Timothy 
 
 reception, this strange indifference to the presence of a 
 "bad man," disconcerted him. He sat down, open-mouthed 
 and open-eyed, and waited. 
 
 Tim thought it prudent to allow him five minutes. A 
 longer time might have been impolitic. Policy was a word 
 often upon Cooke's lips. If Ginty could be handled dis- 
 creetly, the banks would approve. We must admit that 
 it was a delicate situation for a young, hot-blooded man. 
 
 Tim placed an arm-chair for his visitor. It is not easy to 
 shoot from an arm-chair; and if Ginty leapt to his feet, 
 as was probable before "pulling his gun," why then, so 
 Tim reasoned, he would be covered by George before his 
 hand dashed to his pocket. Tim was delighted with George : 
 he exhibited no nervousness : a pleasant smile flickered 
 about lips which indicated plenty of pluck and determina- 
 tion. 
 
 When the five minutes had passed, Tim went to the 
 door, marched into the office, and greeted Ginty affably: 
 
 "Good morning, Mr. Ginty. Glad to see you." 
 
 He held out his hand. Ginty rose awkwardly, met Tim's 
 careless glance, and, after a moment's hesitation, extended 
 his hand. Tim gripped it hard. Ginty, although vinously 
 exalted, had no doubt of Tim's muscular strength. 
 
 "Come into my room, and let's have a talk. George, you 
 can come too, and tell me what I have forgotten about this 
 particular case." 
 
 Forgotten I 
 
 Ginty, as fencers say, was touched. He followed Tim 
 into the inner room, and sat down in the arm chair. Tim 
 sat down also, telling George to place the sales book and 
 other papers before him. 
 
 "Page 119," said George. 
 
 "Thank you, now let's see. Oh, yes. You selected lot 
 23 on the San Julian more than two years ago. You paid 
 down twenty-five dollars, and received our usual contract. 
 A further payment was due of two hundred and fifty dol- 
 lars six months after date. Am I correct?" 
 242
 
 When Troubles Come 
 
 "I guess so," growled Ginty. He was completely non- 
 plussed, upset at discovering that his case required looking 
 up. 
 
 "It appears," said Tim, "that you have made no further 
 payment since the first twenty-five dollars. Mr. Cooke, 
 as perhaps you know, attended to the business end. Did 
 he press you at all for these overdue payments ?" 
 
 "Yes, he did." 
 
 "Times were good then. Tell me frankly why you didn't 
 meet them? George, you can go. I'll call you if I want 
 you. Now, as between man and man, Mr. Ginty, why did 
 you not make these payments ? I take it that you had some 
 money, or you wouldn't have wanted this land." 
 
 "That's my business." 
 
 "But it's mine, as well. Perhaps you regarded this first 
 small payment as what we call option money. You may 
 have hoped, not unreasonably, to sell your land at a higher 
 figure before the second payment fell due?" 
 
 Ginty squirmed. This, indeed, had been his idea. He 
 was an ignorant fool, but fools according to Harvey Cooke 
 might forget what was due to others whilst preserving 
 a lively sense of what was due to themselves. 
 
 Cooke would say : "I never yet engaged a fool who for- 
 got to draw his salary.'' Ginty maintained a sullen silence. 
 Tim went on cheerfully: 
 
 "We are having a little trouble with some of our con- 
 tract-holders, and I received a letter a few days ago which 
 was unsigned. I turned it over to the Sheriff. I dare say 
 you had nothing to do with it; but it was worth money to 
 me, for it furnished conclusive evidence that some of our 
 contract-holders deliberately mean to repudiate their obliga- 
 tions." 
 
 Ginty wrestled with these long words, as Tim expected 
 and desired. 
 
 "Mr. Cooke," continued Tim, "treated our contract- 
 holders with astounding leniency and consideration. Some 
 of you, I mention no names, have been playing our game. 
 
 243
 
 Timothy 
 
 We secured these three big ranches on option. But when 
 the time came to pay up, we paid. Some properties we 
 let go, forfeiting the option money. You gentlemen seem 
 to want it both ways. You pay down a small sum to secure 
 an option upon valuable property, and when the time comes 
 to make good, you decline to do so, but you hold on to the 
 land. Is that your idea of doing square business?" 
 
 Ginty expectorated. 
 
 "Do you want something for nothing? I am anxious 
 to look at the matter from your point of view. Are you, in 
 short, asking me for charity? Would you like me to give 
 you this land?" 
 
 "Charity? Who's talking o' charity?" 
 
 "I am. The long and short of it is that some of you 
 are behaving like beggars in the street. I am beginning 
 to remember you, sir. I shewed you that land. You told 
 me you proposed to fence it, put in a crop, and build a 
 house and barn. I gathered that you were a hustler, a gen- 
 uine settler, not a gambler. Was I wrong?" 
 
 "I waited to see how the season would pan out." 
 
 "That season was a good one." 
 
 "Mebbe I got cold feet. The land out thar ain't what 
 you fellers cracked it up ter be. Not by a damn sight!" 
 
 Tim smiled genially. If he could lure this savage on 
 to talk, sooner or later he would trip himself up. 
 
 "I see. You think that you were imposed upon ?" 
 
 "I ain't the only one as thinks so." 
 
 "Good ! We are getting to bedrock. It's a pleasure to 
 talk with you, Mr. Ginty. I may assume you consider you 
 have been imposed upon inasmuch as you paid down twenty- 
 five dollars to secure 200 acres of land, valued rightly or 
 wrongly, at twenty-five dollars an acre ; and you have kept 
 this land unimproved in the hope of selling it for more 
 than twenty-five dollars an acre; and you have failed to 
 carry out your promise to fence and plough and build; 
 and you have held this property two years, and you want 
 244
 
 When Troubles Come 
 
 to go on holding it although you have suffered such gross 
 imposition ?" 
 
 Ginty said nothing. Tim continued in the same suave 
 tone, never raising his voice, and never taking his eyes 
 from the other's congested face. 
 
 "Let us figure a bit. You are out twenty-five dollars. I 
 am out the interest on five thousand dollars, at 8 per cent 
 for two years, say eight hundred dollars. Which of us 
 has had the best of it, eh?" 
 
 "I dunno or keer overly much." 
 
 "But I do know, and I do care. Now let me impress 
 this upon you, and you will be doing your friends on the 
 San Julian a kindness if you repeat to them what I say. 
 I'll deal with your case alone. We have offered to cancel 
 your contract, which, as a matter of fact, was automatically 
 cancelled long ago, when the first payment was not met. 
 We have faced a big loss presuming that you would face 
 a little loss, but " 
 
 He paused smiling. 
 
 "But what?" 
 
 "If you persist upon holding your contract, you become 
 liable for arrears of interest. You have, so I presume, a 
 home of sorts, horses, cows, and so forth. / can attach 
 the lot. Let me finish. I am glad you have come in, for I 
 propose to settle with you here and now. This is the 
 original contract, of which you hold a duplicate. I make 
 you this offer. Cancel it, and go your way. Or, renew it, 
 and pay up arrears of interest. One more word. You may 
 think that I am the sole owner of the San Julian?" 
 
 Ginty perceived an opportunity for being insolent and 
 malicious : it never occurred to him that Tim presented it. 
 
 "No! I know damn well that the banks hev ye that's 
 why Cooke vamoosed." 
 
 "Perhaps you would prefer to deal with the banks?" 
 
 "I'm here to deal with you, young man." 
 
 "Good! We understand each other. If I vamoosed 
 to-day, you would have to deal with the banks, and I warn 
 
 245
 
 Timothy 
 
 you that they would shew you no consideration whatever. 
 They would attach every stick you possess to-morrow. 
 Now I'm sure your time is valuable, and so is mine. I give 
 you two minutes to decide" Tim laid his watch upon the 
 desk "whether you will deal with me or the Sheriff. You 
 will have to settle with somebody. Two minutes, Mr. Ginty. 
 Can I offer you a mild cigar?" 
 
 Ginty scowled. 
 
 "You ain't a-goin' to flim-flam me." 
 
 Tim said civilly: 
 
 "I have no intention of flim-flamming or being flim- 
 flammed. With your kind permission I'll go on with my 
 work." 
 
 He bent over some papers. Behind Ginty, at short range, 
 stood George, with his hand in his pocket. The centre 
 drawer lay just open. Tim took a paper from it. Ginty 
 stood up. 
 
 "I'll cancel my contrack." 
 
 This was done in due form. Ginty walked to the door, 
 whence he flung a Parthian shaft: 
 
 "You've bested me, damn yer soul! But the dry years'll 
 bust you, higher'n a kite !" 
 
 ii 
 
 This was another fluid triumph, percolating to the minds 
 of the contract-holders and eventually to the knowledge of 
 the cashier of the metropolitan bank. Peace followed war. 
 Many met their obligations : a few cancelled contracts and 
 left the ranches. 
 
 But the rain did not come. 
 
 Tim might have stood the misery of those awful days 
 had he apprehended bankruptcy alone. His greatest trial 
 descended upon him when he was least able to bear it. 
 
 Magdalena became strangely listless. 
 
 But she told Tim that she suffered no pain, and there 
 was no cough. Profuse perspiration at night and a rising 
 246
 
 When Troubles Come 
 
 temperature indicated deep-seated trouble, but Wason was 
 unable to locate it, till abdominal pains and ascytes set in. 
 
 Wason took Tim aside. 
 
 "It is tubercular peritonitis. If the swelling cannot be 
 reduced an operation will be necessary." 
 
 Tim listened, grimly despairing. 
 
 "She will go as the boy went," he said slowly. "The luck 
 is dead against me : it has always been so, always, always." 
 
 Wason counselled a move to San Francisco. Let experts 
 decide! Tim agreed. Wason tried to be hopeful, citing 
 clinical cases by the dozen. The operation would be capital, 
 but fortunately there was no cardiac weakness, and no in- 
 dication whatever that the lungs were affected. 
 
 "You must prepare her," said Wason. 
 
 Tim did so. To his immense surprise Magdalena ac- 
 cepted the truth calmly and hopefully. Afterwards, Tim 
 wondered whether this optimism was merely a symptom of 
 her malady, or whether she dissembled for love of him. 
 
 Magdalena ended by laughing at his solemn face. 
 
 "Look at Tia Maria Luisa! She has had the consump- 
 tion for thirty years. It comes : it goes. Children die quick, 
 quick ! But I am an old married woman. Ohe ! you won't 
 get rid of me easily, my Teem." 
 
 Her gaiety was too severe a strain upon his self-control. 
 He had nerved himself to bear anything except that. She 
 was sitting in a chair, looking up at him, as she spoke. 
 He fell upon his knees, burying his head upon her lap. 
 Great sobs shook him, the expression of all that he had 
 suppressed at the child's death and afterwards, when the 
 work of seven years crumbled into fine white dust. She 
 made no attempt to restrain this passionate outburst. Her 
 thin hand played with his hair. Perhaps she was praying 
 for him rather than for herself. When the paroxysm 
 passed, she kissed his eyes, and then lay 'in his arms with 
 a faint smile upon her lips. Not a word was spoken on 
 either side. Tim noted a serene expression upon her face, 
 an unmistakable happiness. He realised that his passion 
 
 247
 
 Timothy 
 
 of emotion had soothed and satisfied her. She had always 
 been avid for the manifestation of tenderness, never weary 
 of his assurance that he loved her, but of late, engrossed 
 and harassed by business cares, he had neglected these 
 sweet repetitions. Presently she said softly: 
 
 "Teem, you have made me ever so happy. Whatever 
 happens, remember that. The Virgin has blessed me! I 
 think of poor Dolores and the others who died so young. 
 They never knew what I have known." 
 
 Her artless philosophy, her childish wisdom, her ability 
 to measure love and to proclaim that she had been blessed 
 no matter what the future might hold, produced a pro- 
 found effect upon her husband. He remembered what he 
 had said to Wason about the luck being against him. Had 
 it? Already, before he was thirty, he had run the gamut of 
 intense emotions. He had suffered horribly: he had tri- 
 umphed, the bitter and the sweet of life had been his por- 
 tion. He said humbly: 
 
 "You make me ashamed of myself." 
 
 The operation was performed by a specialist in San Fran- 
 cisco, at the California Women's Hospital. Tim was 
 offered quarters there by the House Surgeon, an exception 
 to a necessary rule being made in his case, for Wason told 
 the surgeon that Tim's presence might mean life or death 
 to the patient. Tim held Magdalena's hand, as she lay in 
 bed, when the anaesthetist came in. They carried her to 
 the operating theatre; and Tim was left alone with his 
 thoughts. Magdalena's fortitude sustained him. She ex- 
 hibited no fear, obeying the directions of the anaesthetist 
 intelligently. As she passed into unconsciousness, she 
 gripped Tim's hand with a strength which surprised him; 
 and she called him by name hoarsely, in a voice he hardly 
 recognised. 
 
 He paced up and down the road opposite to the hospital, 
 
 staring at the windows upon the second floor. As soon as 
 
 the operation was over, and Magdalena back in bed, her 
 
 day-nurse promised to hang a towel out of the window. 
 
 248
 
 When Troubles Come 
 
 An hour passed before the signal was given. Tim rushed 
 into the Hospital, to meet the surgeon in the hall. The 
 matron was with him. He said curtly to Tim : 
 
 "She is doing well ; the operation was not so severe as I 
 had feared." 
 
 Tim stammered out a few words of thanks. 
 
 Within a month Magdalena was back in Santa Barbara, 
 convalescent, and so far as could be predicted likely to 
 recover her former strength and health. 
 
 in 
 
 One shrinks from recording the months that followed. 
 
 Hope died out of the hearts of the people as they stared 
 day after day into the pitiless skies. In the remoter foot- 
 hills squatters were starving. Public charity relieved them. 
 Train after train left San Francisco loaded with flour and 
 beans and bacon. Upon the ranges the cattle and horses 
 perished. The young orchards, which represented so much 
 money and labour and solicitude, became dusty deserts, ex- 
 hibiting lines of leafless trees, scarecrows warning all be- 
 holders that horticulture without water is as the weaving 
 of ropes out of sand. But Tim told himself that Mag- 
 dalena had been spared. 
 
 While she lay senseless in the operating theatre Tim 
 prayed to the God of his childhood, the beneficent Provi- 
 dence watching over Little Pennington. He had entreated 
 a Personal Deity to stretch forth His hand and save! 
 Reverting unconsciously to the teaching of his youth, be- 
 lieving for the moment that the God of Israel exacted 
 sacrifice, he had laid upon the altar of his prayers a renun- 
 ciation of mundane ambitions. He had bargained with Om- 
 nipotence, as millions have done in moments of agony and 
 helplessness. 
 
 "Make me bankrupt, O God ! but give me back my wife !" 
 
 Because that prayer had been answered, he confronted 
 
 249
 
 Timothy 
 
 valiantly the future. The banks could not help him, for 
 they too were tottering to their fall. His ready money was 
 exhausted. Magdalena and he moved into a cottage and 
 discharged the two servants. The one-tenth interest from 
 Agua Caliente became their sole source of income. 
 
 Alone in his deserted office, staring at ledgers and cash- 
 books, ever reminded of former triumphs by the maps upon 
 the walls, Tim had to chew the cud of this reflection. 
 
 If a coin, spun at hazard, had fallen with the eagle upper- 
 most, he would have been in England with a fortune of at 
 least one hundred thousand pounds. 
 
 250
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 ADIOS ! 
 
 IN the following May Tim was obliged to make a settle- 
 ment with the metropolitan bank, which treated him 
 not ungenerously. The change, in one sense, was for the 
 better. Tim abandoned all interests, past, present, and fu- 
 ture, as a principal in the big business which Cooke and he 
 had organised upon lines which nobody criticised or con- 
 demned, upon lines, indeed, which were adopted by others 
 when prosperity returned to California. Two dry years 
 in succession ruined Tim. The bank appointed him their 
 general manager at a salary of two hundred dollars a 
 month. Tim regained something of his former buoyancy, 
 for a fixed salary meant increased comfort for Magda- 
 lena. The cashier added some pleasant words : 
 
 "We are well aware, Mr. Brown, that this must be a 
 bitter pill for you to swallow, but it will clear your system. 
 I can make no promises, but I am empowered to say this 
 if times mend, as they must, opportunities will be offered 
 to you by us. This state needs youth and enthusiasm com- 
 bined with integrity. We welcome new blood. Work for 
 us, as you have worked for yourself, and the result may 
 surprise you." 
 
 "Thank you, sir," said Tim. 
 
 George was retained also by the bank. Manager and 
 man had little to do beyond the preparing of elaborate 
 monthly reports, the collection of what money could be col- 
 lected, and the financing of farmers who deserved such 
 help. 
 
 251
 
 Timothy 
 
 It was, of course, Tim's duty to be at the office between 
 the hours of nine and five. As a rule, the morning sufficed 
 to write letters, answer them, and adjust accounts. The 
 afternoons hung heavy upon active hands and wits. Wason 
 suggested reading as a resource. Why not rub up one's 
 Latin and Greek ? Why should any knowledge, laboriously 
 acquired, be suffered to atrophy from neglect? Tim, fired 
 by this sound advice, plunged into the Classics. During 
 six months he read through the Iliad, the comedies of 
 Aristophanes, Terence's plays, Plautus, and Juvenal. Then, 
 suddenly, he grew sick of them. He said to Wason : 
 
 "It's like looking on at cricket." 
 
 "Looking on? Yes. Well, why not play? You can't 
 paint. The Bank would bar that. You've talked a lot to 
 me about the colour of life. Try to set some of it forth 
 in pen and ink. Write ! I believe you can do it. You've 
 done a lot of pamphleteering. You've a knack of vivid de- 
 scription. And you've had astonishing experiences. I say 
 write !" 
 
 Tim tackled this new job with ardour, fortified not only 
 by Wason, but by another friend, the editor of the Santa 
 Barbara Banner, essentially a man of letters, condemned by 
 necessity to sling printer's ink because he lacked the creative 
 gift. His name was Hoyt, and he happened to be of kin 
 to Emerson and Lowell. A fine humanity informed Hoyt 
 and an attractive Bohemianism. He afforded an amusing 
 contrast to Wason, accusing him to his face of being hide- 
 bound by New England sanctions and objurgations. Hoyt 
 was essentially imaginative, beholding life as it might be 
 under happier conditions and with a wider scope for indi- 
 vidual tendencies. 
 
 This had driven him to the West, but he had brought 
 with him and retained the fastidiousness and refinements of 
 the East. He wrote good commercial stuff salted and pep- 
 pered for the California palate, but he abhorred, like Wason, 
 anything which smacked of slipshod accomplishment. With 
 252
 
 Adios! 
 
 abundant leisure, which was denied to him, he might have 
 become a critic del primisimo valore. 
 
 Tim wrote his first short story, and read it aloud to Mag- 
 dalena, Wason, and Hoyt Wason, poor fellow, tired after 
 a long day's work, fell asleep: Magdalena was so furious 
 with Wason that she was quite unable to give attention to 
 the story. Before she heard the opening lines, she had 
 decided that her clever Tim could write better short stories 
 than Rudyard Kipling, if he chose to try. Hoyt suspended 
 judgment, taking the manuscript home with him, asking 
 Tim to drop in at the Banner office next day, after five. 
 
 Wason woke up, apologised abjectly, was forgiven, except 
 by Magdalena, and played his part gallantly at the chafing- 
 dish supper which followed. 
 
 Next day, Tim saw Hoyt alone. Rather to Tim's amuse- 
 ment, Hoyt had assumed a judicial air. He wore a pair of 
 gold-rimmed spectacles : he sat upright in the editorial 
 chair : he waved a minatory hand. 
 
 "It's rotten bad," began Hoyt, touching the manuscript 
 gingerly, flicking at it with nicotine-stained finger-tips. 
 
 "I suppose so," said Tim. 
 
 Hoyt continued solemnly: 
 
 "Do you think I would tell you that if there was noth- 
 ing else to be said? I can get this printed, Tim. I'll print 
 it myself and pay current rates. It's what my readers want. 
 It's full of false sentiment, false psychology and the tech- 
 nique ! Oh, God !" 
 
 "Take another shot," said Tim, as Hoyt paused to roll 
 another cigarette. 
 
 "All the same, I'm surprised and delighted." 
 
 He lay back, laughing genially, surveying Tim above his 
 spectacles, taking some tobacco from a delicately engraved 
 silver snuff-box, which he always carried, and which indi- 
 cated subtly the man's taste and love of craftsmanship. 
 Tim laughed, too. 
 
 "You have it in you," declared Hoyt. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 253
 
 Timothy 
 
 "Ah ! what ? The thing I mean is invisible at present and 
 indescribable. It's a sense of the dramatic in life, and some- 
 thing more, a sympathy, a kindliness, an invincible opti- 
 mism." 
 
 "Go on firing," said Tim. "I wallow in this." 
 
 "May I do what I like with your script?" 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 Hoyt picked it up. 
 
 "Have you a rough draft ?** 
 
 "No." 
 
 Hoyt tore up the manuscript and dropped it into the 
 waste-paper basket. 
 
 "Now, listen to me. Is it possible, I wonder, to teach 
 the young idea how to write? Yes, if the young idea is 
 intelligent. Go on writing! I'll teach you punctuation 
 and grammar by sending across galley slips for you to 
 correct. It's easier to correct the mistakes of others, and 
 much more fun. You can do some reviewing for me for 
 nothing. Slate 'em! Most of 'em deserve it. Write an- 
 other yarn and submit it. Stick to what you know. De- 
 scribe real people, real happenings! Construct a simple 
 story in your mind. Don't wander from your theme; let 
 it develop cumulatively. Be natural ! Be yourself ! Don't 
 strain after effect, or bore people stiff by analysing too 
 closely causes. I'll red-pencil what you write. I'll godfather 
 you, because well, because I believe that you are worth 
 while. Have you sucked it all in?" 
 
 "Like mother's milk." 
 
 "Then, go and spoil more paper." 
 
 ii 
 
 Tim obeyed. But he worked under constant disabilities. 
 
 Afterwards, when he heard writers demanding inviolate 
 
 silence, a room set apart for their use, and a faithful wife 
 
 to keep distracting visitors at bay, he would think of his 
 
 254
 
 Adios! 
 
 literary apprenticeship and the disturbing elements which 
 had to be ignored : the everlasting click of George's Rem- 
 ington, the street sounds, the men and women dropping in 
 at all hours, asking, for the most part, idiotic questions 
 which had to be answered patiently and courteously. 
 
 In time he achieved detachment. He learned to stop 
 in the middle of a sentence, to pigeon-hole his fancy, to 
 tie a string to some kite-like thought, and to concentrate 
 attention upon his theme regardless of outside sounds. 
 
 It was invaluable discipline. 
 
 He had a facility in writing as in speech, which Hoyt 
 deplored, contending that the best work was done with 
 infinite labour and hesitation. He quoted Stevenson. "Play 
 the sedulous ape 1" He was unmerciful in his condemnation 
 of cliche, and colloquial expressions used in narrative. Tim, 
 not too thin-skinned after many bludgeonings, writhed and 
 grimaced when Hoyt's tongue bit deep into a bit of sugary 
 sentiment or pathos. But he came to prize his mentor's 
 praise, cutting and revising copy with the best temper in 
 the world. One day Hoyt said emphatically : 
 
 "This is jolly : there's mirth in it. You have a light touch, 
 Tim: you must cultivate that." 
 
 Tim began a novel dealing with the more humorous side 
 of ranch life, setting forth his blunders and the blun- 
 ders of other men who embarked upon viticulture and 
 horticulture with no knowledge other than what they had 
 gleaned planting corn and raising hogs in the mid-west. 
 Hoyt chuckled : 
 
 "This is the right stuff," he declared. 
 
 And then, when colour and mirth were creeping once 
 more into Tim's life, even as they informed his writing, 
 Magdalena began to cough! 
 
 in 
 
 Wason did not disguise his alarm from the distraught 
 husband. The cough grew harder and more frequent. 
 
 255
 
 Timothy 
 
 Shortness of breath and a rise of temperature at night 
 confirmed the diagnosis. Wason prescribed open-air treat- 
 ment, cod-liver oil, tonics, everything known to the science 
 of the nineties. Magdalena, who had grown plump again 
 after the operation, lost flesh rapidly. 
 
 It was acute phthisis. 
 
 Happily she suffered little pain beyond what was caused 
 by the difficulty in breathing. To the last, till the moment 
 when coma preceded death, she remained hopeful and cheer- 
 ful. Tim's hardest trial, an ordeal from which he would 
 emerge broken and listless, was sitting beside her during 
 long hours while she prattled of the holiday to be taken 
 when her health was reestablished, of the fun they would 
 have together when Tim achieved fame and fortune as a 
 novelist. 
 
 Forty-eight hours before she passed away, he had an 
 illuminating glimpse into her mind. And he knew then that 
 this artless gaiety had been assumed for his sake. He sat 
 alone with her in the shelter which had been built in the 
 garden, where she lived and slept. 
 
 "If I should go, Teem " 
 
 He pressed her wasted hand, unable to speak. 
 
 "You will not grieve too much, no ?" 
 
 "There will be nothing left nothing." 
 
 "Mi querido, do not make it too hard for me. I always 
 knew that the home in England was a dream, a heavenly 
 dream. I loved to dream of that, just as- 1 loved to think 
 of the dream children, which we wanted so badly." 
 
 "I have only wanted you." 
 
 "How happy we have been ! Teem, I shall tell my father 
 that you watched out for me. But he knows, he knows. 
 And if I must go, it is well. It is God's will. I am glad to 
 think that I shall not grow old and fat and ugly and cross 
 like poor Tia Maria Luisa. Is it unkind to say that ? Teem, 
 you have been so good to me. Will you be good to your- 
 self if I go? Because," her voice sank to a whisper, "I 
 256
 
 Adios! 
 
 shall be so unhappy over there if you are miserable and 
 wretched here. I am afraid of that." 
 
 Could he lie at such a moment? He remained silent. 
 
 "You will have your work. It will be fine work, no? 
 Ohe ! I am so sure of that " she sighed contentedly. 
 
 Tim stared at her, stupefied by grief and despair. He 
 tried to envisage himself a week hence alone. He prayed 
 for her sustaining faith, but with a derisive sense of the 
 futility of such prayers. 
 
 A struggle for breath followed. When the paroxysm 
 passed, she asked quietly that her Confessor might be 
 summoned. 
 
 That night the last solemn rites were administered. Tim 
 knelt beside her, thankful at least that such solace was a 
 true and blessed comfort to her. 
 
 Then she fell asleep. 
 
 IV 
 
 Magdalena flits through and out of this chronicle, leav- 
 ing behind an epitaph cut deep in the heart of her husband. 
 She belonged to a generation of wives whom the shrieking 
 sisterhood of to-day denounce scornfully as chattels. 
 
 Sweetly and honestly she disavowed interest in politics, 
 in high society, in business affairs. Art and literature 
 touched her to mild enthusiasms. 
 
 A clever Englishwoman, as a rule, exercises her clever- 
 ness in being disagreeable to clever men. Magdalena's 
 greatest virtue may be described as an incapacity to be 
 disagreeable to anybody. She radiated warmth, being in 
 the best sense of a much abused word, an amoureuse. Tim 
 was never tempted to be unfaithful to his wife in thought 
 or act, because she was proud of the passion which she felt 
 for him. He knew her to be jealous, jealous of women 
 with whom he talked upon subjects beyond her ken, jealous 
 of men, also, who might beguile him from the home which 
 she had created. 
 
 257
 
 Timothy 
 
 Her love became a beacon, keeping Tim from the reefs 
 so long as she lived. Had it not been for her, he might 
 have turned, as so many did during the dry years, to drink 
 and kindred dissipations. He met other women afterwards, 
 who affirmed themselves to be beacons, light-houses, indeed 
 they were: but their light seemed to be turned inwards, 
 not outwards, revealing the machinery which produced it, 
 making the darkness without more dark. 
 
 Magdalena's light was as a lamp set in a window, the 
 small, steady light gleaming over moorland and fen and 
 sea which guides the weary traveller home, which makes 
 him think of logs crackling in an open hearth, of a table 
 simply spread, of the laughter of children, of tender 
 encircling arms and sweet caresses. 
 
 Wason took him away after the funeral. They spent 
 a month together in Monterey County amongst the sigh- 
 ing, singing pines and redwoods. For Wason's sake, not 
 his own, Tim hid his misery. They tramped the hills to- 
 gether, returning to camp so tired that kind sleep came to 
 them. 
 
 Over smouldering logs Wason would talk of the future, 
 but Tim listened brooding upon the past. 
 
 He returned to Santa Barbara, to find a letter from the 
 Vicar, written upon receipt of the telegram which con- 
 tained the news of Magdalena's death. Tim hesitated be- 
 fore he opened the envelope. He shrank with loathing from 
 stereotyped condolence. 
 
 "Mv DEAREST SON 
 
 "Can you come home to me ? I do not urge it. You 
 must decide. I cannot write what is in my heart: al- 
 though I can guess what is in yours. You are standing 
 alone at the Gate of Sorrows. Would that I could stand 
 beside you in this bitter hour, but that cannot be. I have 
 258
 
 Adios! 
 
 seen Daphne. She spoke much to me of Magdalena. 
 Probably she will write to you. I understood from her 
 that your business was of less importance to you than I 
 had fancied. And between the lines of your more recent 
 letters I have discerned an increasing interest in litera- 
 ture. If this be so, wouldn't this quiet village serve your 
 
 purpose 
 
 'I have not seen you, my boy, for more than ten years. 
 My health at best is good, but life is uncertain. I have 
 much to say, things which cannot be written. 
 "Come if you can, and soon. 
 
 "Your loving father, 
 
 "TERTIUS WHITE." 
 
 As he read this letter Tim could hear the cawing of the 
 rooks in the tall elms behind the Vicarage: he could see, 
 clustering about the church, the placid village dominated 
 by tower and spire. What a cradle to lie down in and 
 rest! Merely to think of Little Pennington furnished a 
 soporific to a sleepless man. He beheld the Vicar growing 
 old alone : he recalled the many friends who would greet 
 him kindly, Arthur Hazel, Mary Nightingale, the Colonel 
 and his wife, the cottagers who, from time to time, sent 
 through the Vicar artless messages of peace and good- 
 will. His thoughts concerning all these dear people were 
 clear and symmetrical as crystals. 
 
 And yet 
 
 To return to Little Pennington a failure, broken in for- 
 tune and heart, and health for health, too, had yielded 
 to a strain terribly prolonged to return as a pensioner 
 upon the Vicar's bounty, to be constrained to play a part 
 in the genteel comedy of rural life, to render due obeisance 
 to Caesar, to submit, for decency's sake, to social laws, so 
 irritating to men who have lived in new countries, to do 
 and say the real right thing according to Little Pennington 
 tradition ! 
 
 He told himself very sorrowfully that it was impossible. 
 A week later Daffy's letter arrived. Again he hesitated be- 
 
 259
 
 Timothy 
 
 fore he broke the seal. He had feared that the Vicar might 
 say too much: a greater fear possessed him that Daffy 
 might say too little. 
 
 "DEAREST TIM, 
 
 "The Vicar has told me of your crushing sorrow. To 
 you alone I can whisper that I, too, have suffered mis- 
 erably, and because of that I can share your suffering. 
 The distance between us is so dreadful. Time and space 
 seem to divide us inexorably. Hopelessness and misery 
 must be eating your heart and mind away. I can think 
 of nothing to comfort you but this : Magdalena told me 
 what you had been to her: she let me have a glimpse 
 of what your inner life was, of the devotion and tender- 
 ness which she inspired in you, and which you inspired 
 in her. That, Tim, is an imperishable happiness, a happi- 
 ness which is given to few. Upon it I entreat you to 
 build up your future, whatever that future may be. 
 
 "The Vicar says that he has asked you to come back 
 to Little Pennington : but something tells me the time is 
 not yet for that. It is impossible for him to realise 
 what your life in California has been. I have dared to 
 tell him to be prepared for disappointment. I have 
 paved the way for a refusal which otherwise might have 
 wounded him. 
 
 "I will write again. 
 
 "Your old friend 
 
 "DAFFY." 
 
 Tim put these letter:: away in a despatch box. 
 
 VI 
 
 He went back to the office, to work which had become 
 jejune and exasperating. His novel remained in a drawer. 
 
 In any case, he would have found it difficult to write, 
 because abundant rains were quickening all activities in 
 the state. He became once more the slave of business 
 260
 
 Adios! 
 
 no longer his, with a vision of golden profits which had 
 slipped through his fingers. One day he said to Wason : 
 
 "I can't stick it any longer." 
 
 "I understand. But more is needed than change of 
 skies. Tim, you must try to get out of yourself and 
 stay out." 
 
 "What a counsel of perfection ! Toss grief to the winds, 
 eh?" 
 
 "No. Stand upon it! Don't let it stand upon you." 
 
 "I rise above it at moments, Wason, only to sink again 
 fathoms deep below it into starless night." 
 
 Wason was a man of few words : Hoyt a master of many. 
 Tim could speak with less reserves to Hoyt, although Wason 
 had been, indeed, a tower of strength and silence. Hoyt 
 spoke hopefully: 
 
 "You are like me, Tim. We have laboured abundantly, 
 but the harvest will be gleaned by others. Riches would 
 smother me. I should perish in the effort to spend my 
 dollars before I died. We are two Bohemians. Let's admit 
 it, and have done with it. You are right : you, being you, 
 can't stick it. Then cut loose ! Follow your instinct. This 
 is a very big state, but it may be too small for you. Tell 
 me, if you can, what is in your mind ?" 
 
 "I am thinking of France." 
 
 He spoke at length of Brittany, of its curious intimate 
 charm, of its grey skies and seas, of its twisted oaks, its 
 legends : and the strange alluring effect of these upon him- 
 self when he was a boy at Concarneau. Hoyt nodded : 
 
 "Yes, yes. I can see you there. Lord! how I shall 
 miss you : but if Brittany calls persistently go ! I came 
 West in the same restless, hungry spirit. I chucked good 
 prospects. Well, well, I have never looked back. I found, 
 more or less, what I wanted, what suited me. I believe 
 that, ultimately, you will do the same." 
 
 Tim's old friend, Mackinnon, presented tersely enough 
 the general sense of the community 
 
 "I think this is suicidal. You have established yourself 
 
 261
 
 Timothy 
 
 here. A big opportunity lurks round the corner. You 
 propose to abandon substance for shadow. I suppose this 
 is Hoyt's doing?" 
 
 "Oh, no!" 
 
 "I am much distressed. You have caught on. And now 
 you talk to me of letting go ! I have no patience with such 
 nonsense." 
 
 The old man's persistence kept Tim awake throughout 
 a couple of restless, miserable nights. He was tempted to 
 decide his fate with a spin of the coin, but he did not do so. 
 He struck, instead, a careful balance, setting down all 
 assets and liabilities. Fetters of any sort would, he knew, 
 consume him, eat into his very bones. 
 
 "I shall cut loose," he decided. 
 
 Finally he arranged with a local attorney to forward 
 his only source of income, the one-tenth interest in Agua 
 Caliente. He took leave of his friends with genuine regret, 
 but a more poignant emotion was lacking. Feeling seemed 
 to be dead within him, buried with Magdalena. His mind, 
 for the moment, became obsessed by trifles which hitherto 
 he had contemptuously disregarded. He was suffering from 
 dyspepsia and insomnia. To win back health, to find some- 
 where anywhere! a renewed interest in life, the incli- 
 nation for one honest laugh, for one stimulating, pleas- 
 urable sensation these were worth while, everything else 
 he dismissed as negligible. 
 
 He travelled from San Francisco to New York upon a 
 pass which the cashier of the metropolitan bank obtained 
 for him. He accepted also from the same friendly hands a 
 substantial cheque, perhaps a thousandth part of the for- 
 tune which might have been his. 
 
 Alone upon the platform at Oakland, he watched his 
 fellow-travellers taking leave of their friends. One hap- 
 pened to be the son of a millionaire, a polo-player and 
 pleasure-seeker, whose cheery laugh lacerated poor Tim's 
 nerves. He had seen this young fellow at the Arlington : 
 and he feared that recognition impended. He would be in- 
 262
 
 Adios! 
 
 vited to join a jolly crowd. However, he had changed 
 greatly: and he had only met this boisterous youth once. 
 So he took his seat in the sleeper, and picked up a book. 
 Presently, what he dreaded came to pass. The young fel- 
 low caught sight of Tim, whispered to a friend, and ap- 
 proached. From his expression it was reasonably certain 
 that a doubt concerning Tim's identity was assailing him. 
 He said tentatively : 
 
 "You are Mr. Brown? We met at Santa Barbara two 
 years ago ? You had a big business ?" 
 
 Tim said quietly : 
 
 "You are mistaken. I have no business in Santa Bar- 
 bara. My name is White." 
 
 "I beg your pardon." 
 
 "Not at all." 
 
 Tim spoke in self-defence. He had not thought of aban- 
 doning Brown. But he smiled derisively, as he sat re- 
 flecting how pat the old name had become to his lips. Yet 
 he wore black : he felt black : he was Black. 
 
 263
 
 BOOK FOUR: BLACK
 
 BOOK FOUR: BLACK 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 REHABILITATIONS 
 
 MEANWHILE, war had broken out in South Africa. 
 After leaving the steamer at Liverpool, Tim trav- 
 elled direct to London, and tried to enlist in a cavalry regi- 
 ment, offering himself to a spurred and dashing sergeant 
 whom he met opposite St. Martin's Church. But, as might 
 be expected, he failed to satisfy the Army doctors. His 
 physique, when he stripped for inspection, provoked many 
 questions. Nevertheless the verdict was unanimous: 
 
 "You are not fit for active service." 
 
 Dyspepsia and insomnia had taken flesh and muscle from 
 his magnificent frame. He looked a wreck and felt 
 derelict. 
 
 Upon the evening of the day when he was inspected, he 
 left England for France, travelling straight from Saint Malo 
 to Concarneau. He could not face his many friends in 
 Little Pennington ; he was too miserably ill to meet Daffy. 
 Brittany appealed irresistibly as a place wherein he had 
 been happy as a boy, a place free from disagreeable asso- 
 ciations, where he could do what he pleased without kind 
 or unkind interference. 
 
 Twelve years had sped by since Tim's first visit to the 
 ancient fishing port; and he marked changes in the town 
 and in the people. The new and the old towns lie side 
 by side, linked by a common causeway; and, may be, in 
 
 267
 
 Timothy 
 
 the hearts of the Concarnois new ideas and old lie thus, 
 linked by a common interest, love and fear of the sea which 
 puts food into their stomachs and exacts ruthless toll of 
 their lives. 
 
 Tim beheld smug villas upon the once wild sand dunes 
 to the north of the new town, and a miniature railroad 
 which in summer-time brought many tourists. But for 
 nine months in the year Concarneau remained much as he 
 remembered it; a big village of fisherfolk and peasants 
 with a sprinkling of artists who fled precipitately when 
 their peace became imperilled by the ubiquitous tripper. 
 
 The railroad he soon perceived had affected the peo- 
 ple in many subtle ways, bringing them into closer touch 
 with a civilisation regarded blinkingly as destructive of 
 cherished traditions and superstitions. The old simple faith 
 in things unseen was crumbling away. The language 
 and costume remained. Tim thought of the Bretons as 
 children sadly watching an incoming tide which must sweep 
 away their castles built of sand. 
 
 He became a pensionnaire in the Hotel des Voyageurs, an 
 old granite-built inn facing the quay and market-place, 
 an inn much beloved of artists. He rented, also, a large 
 garret in a house hard by which would serve as a sanctuary. 
 
 The mere sight of the sea made him feel better. 
 
 He watched the men and women at work, inhaling the 
 strong fresh air blowing straight from the Atlantic; he 
 talked to them, and they chattered back shyly at first, but 
 afterwards frankly and joyously. His days became more 
 tolerable; his nights remained bad. He lay awake, hour 
 after hour, thinking of his wife, ravaged by futile rage and 
 misery, cursing the traps and treacheries, the multiform 
 ambiguities of life, and the final overwhelming mystery 
 of death. 
 
 When he tried to work, he became strangely giddy. 
 Twice he fainted, struggling back to consciousness against 
 his will, wondering why some malignant fate ordained that 
 he must live. 
 268
 
 Rehabilitations 
 
 Ultimately, he abandoned all idea of writing till his health 
 improved. 
 
 ii 
 
 For a time he shunned the artists, who kindly let him 
 alone, but gradually he became intimate with some of them. 
 Cabral, the sculptor, was still the great man in Concarneau, 
 but Cabral was away in Paris and not likely to return till 
 March or April. Briand, the painter of grey skies and seas, 
 lived. in Paris with Cabral; they would return together 
 so the good landlady said. 
 
 There was an Englishman, a poet, with a dark melan- 
 choly face, who talked much with Tim, but always of ab- 
 stractions. He, too, had suffered bludgeonings which ab- 
 sinthe helped him to forget. Another absintheur, named 
 Vilard, a painter of much talent, exercised a certain attrac- 
 tion, because life had dealt unkindly with him. Vilard and 
 Lasher, the poet, knew Gaugin, the Impressionist, who was 
 ending his life in a tiny hamlet some five and twenty miles 
 to the south of Concarneau. Add to these a burly, black- 
 bearded Frenchman from the Midi, the antithesis of Vilard, 
 and you have a first glimpse of Tim's companions and fel- 
 low-pensionnaires. The landlady spoke of the three as 
 "mes anciens." They lunched and dined together, drank 
 coffee together, met at the same hour for the evening 
 aperitif, and talked everlastingly till it was time to go to 
 bed. Art to each was not one-fourth of life, but, seem- 
 ingly, all of it! 
 
 Vilard persuaded Tim to begin painting again. Vilard 
 happened to be an admirable draughtsman and anatomist; 
 and in his day had been massier of one of the big French 
 ateliers. His sense of colour had slowly degenerated into 
 nonsense under the sinister influence of Gauguin and ab- 
 sinthe, but his skill with charcoal remained. He took Tim 
 in hand, accepting after much protest a small salary. The 
 big fellow from the Midi, Jerome Mercier, told Tim that he 
 
 269
 
 Timothy 
 
 ought to draw diligently for at least a year before he began 
 to paint. Mercier affected the costume and the manners of 
 a fisherman. He owned a boat in which he went sailing 
 with Tim in all weathers, and he was reputed to be the 
 strongest man in Concarneau. Morning and evening he 
 exercised himself with huge dumbbells, and above his bed 
 hung a small revolver, tied to the wall with blue riband. 
 He shewed this to Tim, remarking solemnly : 
 
 "It is loaded." 
 
 "For what?" Tim asked. 
 
 Mercier rolled his great brown eyes. Tim inferred 
 that the pistol might be used against Mercier's enemies, 
 if they raised against him a weapon which he abhorred 
 ridicule. This great, rough, blustering giant worked in 
 pastel most delightfully, although Vilard spoke contemptu- 
 ously of his work as shik ! 
 
 In February, Otis arrived from Paris, an American 
 painter of marines, a tall, thin enthusiast to whom Tim took 
 an instant and lasting affection. Otis knew California; as 
 a young man he "taught school" in some obscure foothill 
 town. For many years he had lived in France. 
 
 By this time Tim's health was mending, although any 
 mental or imaginative work brought back the attacks of 
 giddiness. He drew in the open, took long walks with 
 Otis, and sailed with Mercier. None of these Bohemians 
 asked questions. Probably they suffered from curiosity, 
 but hid its ravages like Spartans and gentlemen. Traffic 
 with the outside world concerned them not at all. They 
 accepted calmly the presence of English troops in the 
 Transvaal at a time when France was gnashing her teeth 
 thereat. 
 
 Vilard said magnificently : 
 
 "Such talk, look you, smells of the footlights. Now I 
 detest the theatre!" 
 
 Then he would continue, waving the pipe which was al- 
 ways being relighted : "For me, I abominate this bourgeois 
 France, these swaggering fools of politicians seeking to line 
 270
 
 Rehabilitations 
 
 their own nests at the expense of my country. I spit on 
 them, canaille ! I despise the crowd. Avec ma pipe et ma 
 palette je suis content." 
 
 A little bonne happened to be passing the small marble- 
 topped table at which Vilard and Tim were sitting. She 
 smiled, knowingly, murmuring to Vilard: 
 
 "Avec votre petit verre d'absinthe aussi." 
 
 Vilard laughed, and ordered another. 
 
 Herbert Lasher read his poems to Tim. They were 
 mostly concerned with dear dead women, thin wraiths of 
 Lasher's imagination, fluttering wanly amongst poppies, 
 with the odour of death about them. Lasher quoted Ver- 
 laine, whom he had met, with Bibi la Puree at the Cafe 
 Harcourt in Paris. He was making a metrical translation of 
 Baudelaire, which he hoped might appear in "The Yellow 
 Book." The little man was singularly gentle, although, like 
 Vilard, he would burst into passionate and withering con- 
 demnation of facile success achieved by commonplace talent. 
 Both Vilard and he suffered from what Parisians call la 
 nostalgic de la boue. Under the influence of absinthe they 
 seemed to prefer the gutter to a four-post bed! 
 
 But they remained, drunk or sober, consistently kind to 
 Tim, who, indeed, inspired a notable copy of verses to 
 which "The Yellow Book" offered belated hospitality. Vil- 
 ard, too, made an astounding portrait of our hero in black 
 and white which hangs for all eyes to see in one of the 
 Concarneau cafes. 
 
 Nobody, as yet, had identified the thin, haggard man of 
 thirty with the merry boy of eighteen, except the barber 
 near the hotel, a round-bodied, round-faced Breton, who 
 would shave Tim for a couple of sous and then sprinkle 
 his face with toilet vinegar, saying gaily : 
 
 "Qa pique, mais c,a fait du bien." 
 
 He said at once: "I have seen Monsieur before, long 
 ago." 
 
 "I came here for ten days when I was a boy." 
 
 271
 
 Timothy 
 
 "Ah, yes ! One returns to the province. There is a 
 charm. But it's passing. That accursed railroad!" 
 
 Then the little man would declaim superbly, a la Vilard, 
 abusing jerry-builders and les gens de commerce and all 
 and sundry who were tampering with ancient customs, tap- 
 ping his chest and saying: 
 
 "I, too, am an artist and the friend of artists what !" 
 
 "You are," Tim would reply soothingly. 
 
 "I am, Monsieur. They owe me money. I may not get 
 paid, but I care nothing, nothing, you understand, nothing." 
 
 "I do understand," said Tim. 
 
 This, he decided, was part of the charm of a place which, 
 admittedly, smelt abominably when the tide was out. The 
 fishermen, the sardine girls, the peasants, exhibited, often 
 quite unconsciously, a curious sympathy with artists. And 
 the climate seemed to touch even the gerry-built villas with 
 magical ringers, transmuting crude green and red and blue 
 into delicate pink and grey and lavender. 
 
 Tim absorbed it all, as a man absorbs moisture when 
 he is parched with thirst, as a field absorbs dew. The 
 strong winds from the Atlantic, the soft land breezes, the 
 cool grey skies, the wet sands, the ever-changing seas, the 
 quiet landscape, wrought subtly with his tired tissues of 
 mind and body. 
 
 in 
 
 Cabral and Briand arrived in April, when patches of 
 red clover were beginning to encarmine the fields. Tim 
 felt nervous about meeting the great men, but they had 
 quite forgotten him. Cabral stared hard, but, as he ex- 
 plained afterwards, he was immensely struck by Tim's 
 physical symmetry, and contemplating, at first sight, the 
 possibility of persuading a stranger to pose. With this 
 latent in his mind, he made himself vastly agreeable to Tim, 
 and looked over his many studies, repeating: "Yes, yes, 
 you have talent," with an air which suggested that much 
 272
 
 Rehabilitations 
 
 more was necessary. He and Briand, however, were singu- 
 larly free from the affectations of genius. Each met the 
 younger man on equal terms, and rather gloried in it. 
 
 "I am a good comrade," said Cabral. 
 
 "That is perfectly true, mon vieux," Briand would reply. 
 
 Cabral took the head of the table at which the artists 
 dined, and dominated all by a rough eloquence and rude 
 vitality. He had peasant's blood in his veins, and a peasant's 
 thrift. It was good to hear him exclaim : "Now, you will 
 have a chopine with me," proffering the cider of the coun- 
 try (supplied free) as if it were a bottle of vin de cachet. 
 Tim offered, in return, cigars, accepted as tributes to 
 genius. 
 
 Briand worked in the open air, making endless studies 
 of sky and sea, forever chasing the elusive curves of waves 
 rippling over wet sands. Otis said that Briand had "cor- 
 nered" this particular subject. He added: 
 
 "That's the game nowadays. One must go bald-headed 
 for a trade-mark. Briand signs his pictures, but it's a 
 waste of time. I'd like to steal some of his little tricks, but 
 he won't let anyone except Cabral watch him at work. He 
 cleans his palette every day. It's a fact. And locks up his 
 colour-box. A very downy bird." 
 
 Something in Tim, some smouldering cinder all that 
 was left of Californian flames 'made him scheme to find 
 out Briand's tricks. He said, in the presence of Cabral: 
 
 "If I could see Monsieur Briand at work ?" 
 
 Briand replied hastily: 
 
 "Impossible." 
 
 "Pif-f-f !" exclaimed Cabral. "I shall make it my affair 
 that you do. It's understood." 
 
 Briand protested, quite in vain, for Cabral's chaff was 
 irresistible. But his vanity was flattered by Tim's insistence 
 and enthusiasm. Ultimately, Tim became an unattached 
 disciple. Briand acclaimed in him a sense of colour, and 
 prepared a palette for his use. Tim, remembering Hoyt's 
 injunction, played the sedulous ape. Indeed, so clever was 
 
 273
 
 Timothy 
 
 he in stealing Briand's methods that he actually deceived 
 the clever Otis, showing the American a small study, which 
 provoked the remark : 
 
 "Say did old Briand make you a present of that?" 
 
 "It's mine." 
 
 "By Jove ! So it is ! Well, you'd better be careful ! 
 Copying is the devil. Yours? I'm a liar if it didn't take 
 me in. But, no fooling, the old man touched it up for 
 you?" 
 
 "Not a touch." 
 
 "I'm simply damned." 
 
 During the summer holidays, Otis and Tim and Vilard 
 retired to a small hamlet beyond the ken of tourists. They 
 returned to Concarneau in October. Cabral, after a search- 
 ing survey of Tim, said brusquely : 
 
 "Now, I am ready for you. You look fine, my boy. 
 Yes; I propose to immortalise you as a Discus Thrower. 
 You have the body and the head. The head above all ! I 
 have been searching Paris for that. You see, my friend, I 
 want the expression, the look of the athlete who is striv- 
 ing to do something beyond his powers. A tense look, an 
 anxious, eager look. You have that. But it is going. 
 Soon you will lose it. Shall I call it the last look of youth? 
 When can you pose for me?" 
 
 "Name of a name !" exclaimed Tim. 
 
 "What? You refuse? And I have done you favours. 
 I have been a comrade I " 
 
 Tim cut him short. 
 
 "I'll pose, cher maitre." 
 
 Cabral embraced him on both cheeks. 
 
 IV 
 
 The results of this posing had far-reaching effects, which 
 will be set forth when the time comes. For the moment 
 it brought Tim into intimate contact with a man of charac- 
 274
 
 Rehabilitations 
 
 ter and influence. Cabral could no more help imposing 
 his views upon others than the sun can withhold light 
 and heat. Rodin and he stood for primitive, elemental 
 forces, which they expressed in clay and marble. They 
 developed in others that thrusting power which impels men 
 to do anything rather than stand still. Vilard and Lasher 
 were dreamers, and in his heart Tim was aware of this. 
 He had sunk to a low level through sheer ill health when 
 he met these degenerates, and their philosophy so far as 
 it went exercised no evil effect, because he needed com- 
 plete rest after years of strenuous endeavour. He might 
 have cast himself with them at the feet of la reine verte, 
 and probably would have done so, thereby ruining his 
 health, had not that health become to him the object of his 
 solicitude. Vilard and Lasher, poor devils! had never 
 known the robustious joy of perfect health. The memory 
 of that, and all it included, sustained Tim in hours of deep 
 dejection. The doctor whom he consulted shortly after he 
 reached Concarneau told him that he was sound organically, 
 and, when prescribing a rigorous diet, particularly warned 
 his patient against alcohol as a stimulant to jaded and sensi- 
 tive nerves. He said almost brutally: 
 
 "It means suicide, Monsieur." 
 
 Cabral became excited when he saw his model stripped, 
 running his short spatulate fingers over Tim's muscles, and 
 taking accurate measures, which he noted down upon an 
 anthropometric chart. Tim's interest in these proceedings 
 quickened, when Cabral said: 
 
 "You are perfectly proportioned. I have never had such 
 a model, but, all the same, look you, your muscles can be 
 further developed. Talk to Mercier! Exercise with him! 
 I insist. I see in you my masterpiece. You will not refuse 
 to help me?" 
 
 Tim made a grimace, but he said with a faint stirring 
 of vanity: 
 
 "If you could have seen me five years ago !" 
 
 Cabral swooped upon this. 
 
 275
 
 T i m o t Ji y 
 
 "Good! What has been, may be again at your age. I 
 shall begin with the head, but the body is not quite worthy 
 of me. You must add inches to the pectorals, the triceps, 
 the abdominal muscles and the thighs and calf. An all- 
 round development what? Mercier is our man." 
 
 "Why not get Mercier for the body?" 
 
 "Hercules never appealed to me. These big, over-muscled 
 men are lazy. I want the speed and symmetry of an 
 Apollo. You will do what I ask? On my knees I ask it." 
 
 Fired by this Gallic enthusiasm, Tim went to Mercier, 
 and presented himself as a pupil. Mercier insisted upon an 
 exhaustive examination, and became nearly as enthusiastic 
 as Cabral. He added majestically : 
 
 "For the rest if the Master commands, it is for us to 
 obey. I shall feel honoured in carrying out his orders. 
 With you, my son, I can perform miracles." 
 
 Accordingly Tim submitted to the daily discipline of clubs 
 and dumbbells under the tutelage of an expert who under- 
 stood exactly what was needed. 
 
 The result surprised nobody more than Tim himself. 
 Sleep came back to him, and an immense appetite. Cabral 
 rubbed his hands, chuckling as he recorded the increased 
 measurements. 
 
 "Ca va bien! Continuez!" 
 
 Tim had to encounter volleys of chaff at the dinner table 
 and in the cafes, but he was cheered on by the women. 
 
 "Monsieur s'embellit enormement," was the flattering 
 verdict of his landlady and the bevy of hand-maidens. 
 
 In fine, as before, youth and health and strength came 
 back to him. His body below the throat shone like white 
 satin. But the mind remained black. 
 
 Cabral, however, having finished Tim's head to his satis- 
 faction, or rather as approximately to his satisfaction as any 
 genius can attain, said curtly: 
 
 "I have the look I wanted. In return I must take that 
 look from your face, for it indicates an uneasy mind, my 
 friend. It is impossible to deceive me. You are suffering. 
 276
 
 Rehabilitations 
 
 I ask myself why? You are still a young man. Yet I 
 perceive that you look back instead of ahead. That is 
 rank blasphemy." 
 
 Bit by bit Cabral's sympathy extracted details. 
 
 "Yes, yes, all is explained, but life remains. You have 
 work to do. Good! Do it." 
 
 Tim nodded, not very hopefully. He had reached the 
 "sticking" stage. Also, he was well aware that painting 
 exacted a long and patient apprenticeship. Otis told him 
 cheerfully that three years at the Beaux Arts would give 
 him the necessary technique. Three years, the irreducible 
 minimum! It seemed an eternity. Should he abandon 
 painting and turn finally to writing? 
 
 The nerve force to make a decision so vital was still 
 lacking. He temporised, which, perhaps, was wise. And he 
 remembered the Vicar's words : 
 
 "Sooner or later you will find out what you can do, 
 and then you will do it." 
 
 Cabral finished The Discus Thrower and returned with 
 Briand to Paris. 
 
 A year had passed. 
 
 The Discus Thrower, exhibited at the May Salon, added 
 lustre to Cabral's reputation. Incidentally its success as the 
 statue of the year lured Tim to Paris, where he passed a 
 somewhat riotous month. Pleasure beckoned to him with 
 a beguilement only to be measured by those who have drunk 
 to the dregs the cup of Pain. In Paris, at a small hotel, 
 he met two Englishmen of his own age, public-school men, 
 who had remained in the conventional groove. Their 
 prejudices, their absorption in games and sport, their con- 
 tempt for "outsiders," their utter lack of any sense of pro- 
 portion amazed Tim. He had not the smallest notion, till 
 then, of how far he had travelled from them. They were 
 "doing" Paris, with an uneasy conviction that Paris was 
 
 277
 
 Timothy 
 
 "doing" them. And yet they appealed to Tim enormously, 
 because they looked so clean, so well-groomed, and were, 
 on their own ground, such artlessly good fellows. They 
 reminded him of Jocelyn and Wynne. Time seemed to 
 stand still for men of that type. They remained eternally 
 young and almost childish, particularly when they affected 
 the wisdom to which in the nature of things they could 
 never attain. Brief intimacy with them justified Tim in 
 keeping away from Little Pennington. His absence from 
 the happy village lay upon his conscience, but he left it 
 there with a lighter heart after meeting these compatriots, 
 because he learned from them something of vital im- 
 portance, which brought back vividly that last terrible scene 
 between the Vicar and himself. 
 
 They had been talking politics. Tim's new acquaintances 
 were Unionists and presumably Churchmen, although their 
 behaviour in Paris did not warrant the latter assumption. 
 Tim listened, rather bored, to opinions culled, for the most 
 part, from the Tory press, and then, with an unexpectedness 
 which made his heart throb, one young man remarked : 
 
 "My governor says that if Carteret had not been drowned 
 we should have had a Tory Democracy with Carteret him- 
 self as Prime Minister. He was certainly our most bril- 
 liant man at the time. And it's a humiliating fact that we've 
 no one like him." 
 
 "Who was Carteret?" asked Tim. 
 
 He guessed that they were speaking of his father. Of 
 that father, as we know, he knew nothing except that he 
 had been a brilliant politician who went down in his yacht 
 in Dublin Bay. Tim left the matter at that, not even 
 seeking to find out his father's name, although curious in 
 regard to what it was. Such information is not to be picked 
 up in the foc'sle of a sailing ship. By the time Tim reached 
 San Francisco, where such curiosity might have been satis- 
 fied, he decided that he hated his father, because he had 
 brought such terrible trouble to his mother. And then, after 
 reading the Vicar's letter, he accepted finally his guardian 
 278
 
 Rehabilitations 
 
 as sire, casting the other to the limbo of forgetfulness. 
 The Vicar was as he had pointed out Tim's legal father. 
 The other lay dead beneath the sea. Let him remain 
 there ! 
 
 And now, suddenly, he had risen from the dead, and 
 stood facing his son, a pale ghost. 
 
 "Who was Carteret?" repeated the young man. "By 
 Jove! White, you must have forgotten your English his- 
 tory." 
 
 * "I have," said Tim. He could remember Carteret's name, 
 nothing more. "Tell me what you know." 
 
 "That isn't much," said' the other modestly. 
 
 "Carteret was a cousin of sorts to the present duke. He 
 had the ability and the unscrupulousness of the family. 
 He began his political life as a Radical, but came over to 
 us. Just before his death he started a party of his own." 
 
 "When did he die?" asked Tim, wishing to make sure. 
 
 "Some time in the sixties. Before I was born. Went 
 down in Dublin Bay. There's a nailing good life of him. 
 'Rupert Carteret and His Times.' " 
 
 "Thank you," said Tim. 
 
 279
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 POT-BOILING 
 
 AT Galignani's Tim bought his father's biography and 
 carried it back to the hotel to read, devouring it at 
 one sitting, turning the last page long after midnight. Sleep 
 was impossible, so he wandered into the streets till he 
 came to the Place de la Concorde, where he sat down upon 
 a bench, giving himself up to thoughts racing through his 
 brain. Never since the death of Magdalena had he felt 
 so alive, so tingling with the craving to be and to do which 
 he recognised as an inheritance all in fact that a father 
 of like temperament had bequeathed to an unknown son. 
 
 The biography of Rupert Carteret had been admirably 
 done by a kinsman who knew him well, an intimate friend 
 and yet a sagacious critic. In fine, Tim beheld his father 
 for the first time as portrayed by a master hand ; he knew 
 that the picture must be true to life, for life informed it. 
 There were several illustrations; Carteret as child, as boy, 
 as youth, as man. In each Tim recognised himself. He 
 resembled his father rather than his mother. L'enfant de 
 1'amour resemble toujours au pere! 
 
 His father ! 
 
 Why had he been so incredibly foolish as to keep knowl- 
 edge of such a sire at bay? Heavens! Here was a docu- 
 ment by which he could interpret himself. The father 
 lived again in his son. He, too, had suffered abominably, 
 linked for many years to an insane wife, whom he had mar- 
 ried for love. He had seen the mind of his beloved die 
 by inches, while the body changed also from a thing of 
 280
 
 Pot-Boiling^ 
 
 beauty into something worse than death. He had lost a 
 fair fortune and made another. He had been desperately 
 ill, and had regained his health. He had tried half a dozen 
 avenues, to Fame before he found the one leading to West- 
 minster. He had distinguished himself at Oxford, at the 
 Bar, as a writer, as an amateur actor. For the first half 
 of the book, it seemed to Tim that he was reading about 
 himself, of successive phases through which he had passed, 
 although Rupert Carteret had been always in and of the 
 great world. One phrase was illuminating 
 
 "Behold a chameleon!" 
 
 And again 
 
 "Like so many cadets of his illustrious family a rebel." 
 
 Yes ; he had set even ducal authority at defiance, allying 
 himself with Bright and Cobden, espousing the cause of 
 Labour, and then turning again, towards the last, to the 
 Tories, inciting them in vain to justify their position and 
 opportunities as protectors of the poor. Admittedly Rupert 
 Carteret had struggled desperately in his own interests, 
 fired by an ambition half-noble, half-ignoble, seeking to 
 impose his personality upon all with whom he came in con- 
 tact, unscrupulous politically, not too scrupulous morally, 
 for after his wife's incarceration in a private asylum he 
 seemed to have had endless affairs with other women ; and 
 yet, from first to last, a light now flickering faintly, now 
 burning with steady beam shone about him, a divine spark 
 of sympathy in and for others, which revealed the man's 
 essential humanity and greatness. 
 
 Of Tim's mother not a word. 
 
 The absence of any mention of her touched Tim pro- 
 foundly. He could not doubt that this secret love had been 
 guarded jealously, hidden even from the keen eyes of 
 Carteret's Boswell. And he could understand the tre- 
 mendous attraction which such a man, so charming, so 
 versatile, so impulsive and enthusiastic, must have exer- 
 cised over a lovely Irish woman, young and ardent, a pris- 
 oner in the house of an evil liver and spendthrift. He 
 
 281
 
 Timothy 
 
 could understand how inevitable had been her fall, and 
 how sweet her surrender to such a conqueror. 
 
 Every hard thought and there were many which he 
 had entertained concerning this hapless pair was melted by 
 pity and sympathy. His tears fell drenchingly upon their 
 misfortunes. He forgot his own. 
 
 ii 
 
 He returned to Concarneau to attack his art with a zest 
 and determination which excited derisive comments in 
 Lasher and Vilard and high commendation from Otis. 
 Cabral remained in Paris. Briand and he came back to 
 Brittany in October. Cabral was immensely struck by the 
 progress made. Tim had essayed portraiture ; his studies of 
 the sardineres were excellent from the point of view of 
 likeness; but Cabral grumbled at too facile modelling and 
 brush-work. Briand turned from them impatiently. He 
 loathed dirt and ignorance. 
 
 "La bete humaine!" he said scornfully. "Je ne cherche 
 pas ca." 
 
 And then Cabral would reply furiously: 
 "C'est un vrai malheur pour toi, vieux imbecile !" 
 That was the unbridgable difference between the two 
 men, which, possibly, inasmuch as each was artist to his 
 finger-tips, accounted for their comradeship. The work of 
 both ran upon parallel lines, there was no possibility of 
 rivalry or comparison. To Cabral nothing mattered ex- 
 cept men and women and children; Briand sought and 
 found his inspiration upon unfrequented stretches of gleam- 
 ing sands, reflecting tenderly soft little clouds with edges 
 of foaming light. 
 
 However, Briand said seriously: 
 "You have talent; and you see beneath the surface." 
 Otis, too, admitted originality in Tim's backgrounds. 
 He used vivid colour daringly, in defiance of academic 
 282
 
 Pot-Boiling 
 
 standards. Otis had been a pupil of Bonnard and also of 
 Bougereau ; he had worked much at Barbizon, treading in 
 the steps of Jean Frangois Millet and Bastien Lepage. But 
 he had abandoned ugly peasants and beautiful nymphs for 
 seascape, which he was beginning to handle masterfully 
 upon lines exactly opposite to Briand's, after the manner 
 of Stanhope Forbes. But at the back of his mind re- 
 mained the old conventions. Backgrounds, he contended, 
 should be merely indicated. Velasquez understood that! 
 Why try to improve upon him? 
 
 "Colour is my fancy," said Tim. 
 
 "Well, I can't deny that you are grappling with the mod- 
 ern principle. Hit 'em in the eye. That's what the bloom- 
 ing public demands." 
 
 "Why not? I've been hit in the eye myself." 
 
 During these years, Tim lived upon the one-tenth inter- 
 est from Agua Caliente which was remitted from Santa 
 Barbara every six months. What he had saved out of this 
 remittance was spent during his riotous month in Paris. 
 The attorney, who attended to this affair, wrote hopefully 
 of a renewed prosperity in the Golden State, with a sub- 
 acid flavour of regret and disgust because Tim had "let 
 go" too soon. He announced the discovery of oil, and the 
 intention of the Agua Caliente Syndicate to begin boring 
 upon a large scale. He concluded : "Oil may make you a 
 rich man yet." 
 
 Tim was much elated, but premature thanksgiving oozed 
 out of him when his Christmas dividend arrived at Con- 
 carneau split exactly in half. His attorney recited the 
 facts, which were cold indeed. The syndicate had sunk two 
 deep wells without finding the lubricating fluid. Tim was 
 entitled to one-tenth of the net profits; and the profits for 
 the year had been subject to this damnable drain. 
 
 "I must try to sell some stuff," said Tim to Otis. "If 
 they go on boring, which they talk of doing, there may be 
 no profits at all." 
 
 "Quite," replied Otis. "This will buck you up, Tim. I 
 
 283
 
 Timothy 
 
 never knew a remittance man who was not more or less 
 the worse for being dependent on it." 
 
 "It has saved me." 
 
 "Up to a point. But there's nothing like getting into the 
 open market." 
 
 Tim looked at him doubtfully. 
 
 "Have I the cheek to sell portraits?" 
 
 "That's exactly what you have, old man. The cheek 
 to sell 'em is a bigger asset than the ability to paint 'em. 
 I'll find you customers." 
 
 "Right!" 
 
 in 
 
 The humiliating sense that he was a remittance man 
 produced a healthy inflammation. He perceived that his 
 friends regarded him as an amateur, burdened by this re- 
 mittance, above or below the necessity of straining every 
 nerve to save himself from starvation. And behind this 
 lay the grim determination to keep away from the Vicar 
 and Little Pennington till he could go back in mild triumph, 
 a successful man. He wanted to say to his guardian : 
 
 "What you did for me has not been wasted. I have 
 made good. I am something more than a servant of the 
 India Civil Service." 
 
 Rupert Carteret had returned to a ducal establishment 
 in much the same spirit, extorting a belated welcome from 
 the head of his family and a triumphal arch across the 
 main drive to the castle. 
 
 And there was Daffy. 
 
 He longed to meet Daffy again. They corresponded at 
 rare intervals. Necessarily she spoke of her husband, now 
 a pillar of the House of Lords, and an M.F.H. Daffy had 
 wanted to marry an M.F.H. To invite contrast between 
 a county magnate and an impecunious painter was unthink- 
 able to Rupert Carteret's son. 
 
 You will understand, therefor^, how easily our hero fell 
 284
 
 Pot-Boiling 
 
 into the trap which Fate laid for him. Love of his work 
 became merged in the ambition to "make good," the same 
 ambition which had constrained him to devote all energies 
 to the sale of land. 
 
 He believed that he was himself again, that he had found 
 his Ego, that he knew exactly what he wanted, fortune and 
 fame. He put fame before fortune. Let Timothy White 
 ring in the mouths of men. Cabral said to him: 
 
 "Mon enfant, thou art rejuvenated. It is very good!" 
 It was true. The black humours passed. The irony of 
 the change amused and perplexed Tim. He fell to wonder- 
 ing about the immeasurable possibilities latent in Man, his 
 adaptability, his powers of recuperation. That, he decided, 
 was the true significance of the New Testament. Christ 
 must remain for all time the Supreme Type of humanity, 
 the Universal Exemplar. Of what trivial consequence re- 
 mained the harmony or the discrepancy of the gospel nar- 
 ratives. The great illuminating fact, whether you accepted 
 it symbolically or literally, was the victory of life over 
 death, the resurrection of the dead. 
 
 IV 
 
 Between Christmas and Midsummer's Day, Tim painted 
 two or three portraits which he sold at a price which his 
 clients swore faithfully not to reveal, and which they com- 
 municated at once to their friends. This success for so 
 Otis regarded it came opportunely, for the half yearly 
 dividend failed altogether in June, and Tim's agent in- 
 formed him that the syndicate had staked their profits on 
 striking oil, and had not struck it. 
 
 Tim, he added, must not expect any money from Agua 
 Caliente unless the property were sold. It was very valu- 
 able, worth nearly half a million dollars, quite exclusive of 
 the oil rights, and sooner or later the syndicate would find 
 a purchaser. It was being offered for sale. 
 
 285
 
 Timothy 
 
 Tim accepted this in the true Bohemian spirit, giving a 
 small, select supper to celebrate his emancipation. 
 
 "I am now on my own," he stated. 
 
 "Root, hog, or die!" quoted Otis. 
 
 Lasher and Vilard took a less rosy view. The habit 
 of impetrating small loans had become chronic. Perhaps 
 Tim was sorrier for them than for himself. He said to 
 Vilard : 
 
 "We must economise." 
 
 "All true artists," replied that great man bitterly, "should 
 be supported by the State." 
 
 Lasher agreed with him. 
 
 When the time came for fleeing from the trippers, Tim 
 talked of Rochefort en Terre, where there was a delightful 
 inn up in the hills, kept by two charming sisters. Otis, 
 however, protested vehemently : 
 
 "Are you mad, Tim? You must stay in Concarneau and 
 paint the haute bourgeoisie." 
 
 "Never!" 
 
 "I'll stay with you. We'll bleed 'em white. And look 
 here, a mighty rich little widow is coming, a cousin of mine, 
 Mrs. Boal. Ever heard of Boat's Axle Grease?" 
 
 "The brand sounds familiar." 
 
 "I'll bet it greased your wheels in California. And it 
 must grease 'em again here. I shall make her commission 
 a full length. You see!" 
 
 After much argument, Otis prevailed. The others scoffed. 
 Even Cabral said: 
 
 "Ca pue le commerce!" 
 
 Tim and Otis laughed with the scoffers, regarding the 
 whole affair as a joke to be perpetrated by two martyrs at 
 the expense of Philistines. Their landlady was delighted. 
 She stated her views with perspicacity : 
 
 "People come here and ask, 'Where, Madame, are your 
 dear artists?' and then I reply, 'They must have their lit- 
 tle holiday, too'; but it is stupid to leave the town when 
 the fools come, who know nothing of pictures. Always 
 286
 
 Pot-Boiling 
 
 that has enraged me. Now God be praised ! I shall be 
 able to help sell your machines, and you, my dear chil- 
 dren, will not grudge me a small commission what?" 
 
 "Ten per cent.," said Otis, rubbing his hands. 
 
 The landlady, a Bretonne bretonnante, kissed them on 
 both cheeks, adding complacently : 
 
 "We must use tact\ hein? Never, but never, my chil- 
 dren, must you speak of your pictures. That will be my 
 affair. After dinner, when I bring the old cognac, I shall 
 say : 'It is a pity that you cannot see the masterpieces of 
 Monsieur Otis and Monsieur White. Ah! what talent, 
 what genius is there !' And then they will be furious. And 
 to calm them I shall promise to do my little possible. I 
 
 shall make the arrangements, what? With a difficulty ! 
 
 As a supreme favour to me. Ah! la bonne farce! C'est 
 de la comedie, c,a!" 
 
 Then Mercier thumped his enormous chest, and declared 
 his intention of joining the martyrs. Tim was delighted; 
 he had learned to love the black-a-vized giant. Otis said 
 dejectedly: "Le Colosse will spoil our market. His choco- 
 late-boxey pastels will sell like hot cakes." 
 
 Vilard cheered up Lasher by whispering: 
 
 "When we return, cher poete, there will be pickings. 
 What a blessed privilege to be able to assist genius !" 
 
 Mercier said loudly, with the intention of appeasing 
 Cabral : 
 
 "These good bourgeois have pretty wives. We must be 
 civil to them. Yes, yes ; it is strange that we never thought 
 of this campaign before." He continued talking of his 
 bonnes fortunes while Tim chalked on his broad back : 
 
 "Dangerous." 
 
 About the middle of July, the tourists invaded Concar- 
 neau, a terrible crowd. The three martyrs were appalled. 
 Even Mercier quailed, saying querulously: 
 
 287
 
 Timothy 
 
 "I never saw such women. It is a penance to behold 
 them in bathing costume." 
 
 With the crowd came Mrs. Boal. She was a little, faded 
 woman with kind, anxious eyes which rested pleasantly 
 upon Tim. Her chin and nose, faintly encarmined, were 
 rather sharp. She suffered from dyspepsia and had passed 
 her thirty- fourth birthday. Her Christian name was 
 Alethea. Tim was much relieved, because he had ex- 
 pected an over-dressed, bediamonded parvenu from the 
 mid-west, a type that he had met and abominated in Santa 
 Barbara. Mrs. Boal joined the martyrs at a small round 
 table, saying little and eating less, but obviously impressed 
 by the artists. Otis furnished Tim with additional details 
 
 "Gideon T. Boal was a beast, a big money-making brute. 
 He used to ask me why I didn't come back to God's coun- 
 try. I told him that I intended to return there when 
 sixty millions of my compatriots had visited Europe to 
 learn manners. There was a coolness between us after 
 that. I used to wonder why Omnipotence permitted him 
 to accumulate his vast pile. Not a soul was the better for 
 it while he lived; and his death emphasised the eternal 
 fitness of things. Alethea has all his cash, and doesn't 
 know what to do with it, poor dear. Now, Tim, I've fixed 
 you up. You're to paint her full length, and I've named 
 the price. Five thousand francs. Hit the trail, my son." 
 
 "Otis, it's too much." 
 
 "It isn't. If I'd asked less, she would have been scared. 
 And she's taken an uncommon fancy to you, Tim. She 
 saw Cabral's Discobulus in Paris. And I believe she'd have 
 bought it, only some hog-slaying magnate from Chicago 
 snapped it up." 
 
 "I'll do my best," said Tim. 
 
 288
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 ALETHEA 
 
 MR. BOAL," observed Alethea to Tim, "considered 
 me a fool." 
 
 She stood upon the dais in Tim's studio, with the light 
 from the north window slanting upon her face. She 
 wore a frock, created by Pingat for the portrait, a soft, 
 shimmering brocade, exquisitely cut upon simple, flowing 
 lines. Tim admired the frock enormously, and had said 
 so in his usual hearty manner, which established friendship 
 upon an easy footing. He liked Alethea, and felt sorry 
 for her. Obviously, she had borne much from her late 
 husband, everything, in point of fact, except children. Otis 
 was thankful for this, and possibly Alethea joined in 
 silent thanksgiving. When a woman tells a man that an- 
 other man has accounted her a fool, it is not easy to reply. 
 Tim, however, murmured politely: 
 
 "It doesn't much matter now what Mr. Boal thought, 
 does it?" 
 
 "N-n-no," replied Alethea. She gazed wistfully at Tim, 
 hoping that he would be complimentary, but our hero 
 frowned, trying to seize the fugitive expression. 
 
 "By Jove !" he exclaimed. "I've got it ?" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "That little look. It has escaped me till now. What 
 a bit of luck!" 
 
 "May I take a tiny peep?" 
 
 She descended from the dais and approached the portrait 
 now nearing completion. As a work of art it was sub- 
 
 289
 
 Timothy 
 
 jected later to much well-deserved and drastic criticism, 
 but the likeness was undeniable and flattering. Otis had 
 bargained that it should be flattering. He said earnestly 
 to Tim: 
 
 "The poor little woman has been biffed with a fence- 
 rail. You must play the good Samaritan. Make her pleased 
 with herself." 
 
 Tim had succeeded beyond expectation. 
 
 Alethea peeped ; then she said shyly : 
 
 "Do I look as young as that?" 
 
 "You look younger every day." 
 
 "Do I? Well, I don't feel young. Nobody feels young 
 who takes Lacto-Peptine. I take fifteen grains; ten used 
 to be enough, but I had to increase the dose." 
 
 "Oblige me by going back to ten." 
 
 "Really? I suppose you're joking." 
 
 "Try ten." 
 
 "Fried sardines are so indigestible, Mr. White." 
 
 "But they're delicious. I'm sure you think too much 
 and too seriously about yourself." 
 
 "I have to," she admitted naively. 
 
 Tim inferred from her tone all that she intended him 
 to infer. The look which he had just caught indicated 
 a sense of loneliness, and the incapacity to get away 
 from it. 
 
 "I sha'n't touch that canvas again to-day. Do you want 
 to go back to the hotel, or do you feel like sitting here 
 with me and having a talk?" 
 
 She smiled primly and sat down. 
 
 "What shall we talk about?" asked Tim briskly. "Pres- 
 ent or future?" 
 
 "The present, please." 
 
 "Good! Do you think you're making the most of it? 
 Oughtn't you to be sitting to Carolus Duran, for example, 
 instead of to me?" 
 
 "I have liked sitting to you. I should be terrified of 
 those big, conceited men. I hated to sit to you at first." 
 290
 
 Alethea 
 
 "You have sat like Patience on a monument." 
 
 "It has been so pleasant," she sighed. "I shall be so 
 sorry to leave Concarneau." 
 
 "Aren't you wandering into the future?" 
 
 She nodded, and remained silent, watching Tim as he 
 began to clean his brushes. Whenever he happened to 
 turn his back, her face softened, growing prim again 
 when he looked at her. In her heart she was piqued be- 
 cause Tim remained so genially aloof. Many men had 
 made love to his widow since the death of Gideon T. Boal. 
 A select few refrained. She hated the many and liked 
 the few, which shows that she was not the fool which her 
 late husband had considered her. Now, after a month's 
 intimate acquaintance, she began to wonder if she would 
 like Tim to make love to her. From Otis she learned 
 something of Tim's past.. Otis said tersely: 
 
 "Poor Tim has had some nasty knocks. He lost his 
 wife, his money and his health in one rattle out of the 
 box. He looked half dead when he came here." 
 
 "He looks splendid now, Tom." 
 
 "That's because his work has got hold of him. Nothing 
 like work. I predict that Tim will become a fashionable 
 portrait painter. He has a little way with him. You'll find 
 out" 
 
 She had. Tim's little way challenged attention from 
 most women. Alethea said at the end of the first week to 
 her cousin: 
 
 "You know, Tom, your friend, Mr. White, reminds me 
 of that sign at the end of the sand dunes." 
 
 "What sign?" 
 
 She laughed softly: 
 
 "Defence de chasser sur ce terrain!" 
 
 Otis laughed. 
 
 "Great Scot ! Alethea, you were wasted on Gideon. May 
 I repeat that to Tim?" 
 
 "If you do, I'll never speak to you again." 
 
 Otis told Tim the same evening, adding: 
 
 291
 
 Timothy 
 
 "The Discobulus did the trick. There's a big heap of 
 dollars, old man, why not sail in?" 
 
 "You go to blazes!" replied Tim irritably. 
 
 When he had finished cleaning his brushes, Tim sat down 
 not too near Mrs. Boal. 
 
 "We seem to have exhausted the present rather quickly. 
 After all, the future appeals more to the imagination. 
 What are you going to do when you leave here ?" 
 
 "I don't know. That's, the trouble with me. Probably 
 I shall go back to my apartment in Paris." 
 
 "You like Paris?" 
 
 "Not particularly. It's an improvement upon Minneapo- 
 lis. I have been asked to two places in Scotland." 
 
 "Scotland ! Do you shoot, or play golf ?" 
 
 "I don't do anything of that sort. I'm a looker-on." 
 
 "At other people's games. Why not start some of 
 your own ?" 
 
 She regarded him intently, and then gazed reflectively 
 at her hands, which were small and soft and white, the 
 hands of a looker-on. After a pause she said simply: 
 
 "I don't know how to begin games." 
 
 Tim displayed impatience. 
 
 "But, dash it all ! you have money to burn. Why not 
 burn some of it." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "You are interested in the theatre. Produce a play ! Get 
 hold of a budding genius! Make things buzz a bit!" 
 
 "I don't know any budding geniuses. If you had writ- 
 ten a play, Mr. White, I would produce it with pleas- 
 ure." 
 
 "Thanks," said Tim. "I really believe you would." 
 
 "I'd love to help people, but " 
 
 "You hate 'em when they try to help themselves out of 
 Mr. Boal's pile. Of course, you're pestered by the wrong 
 sort." 
 
 "Yes ; I am. It is hateful. I was reading the other day 
 about the lady whom Lord Beaconsfield married. She 
 292
 
 Alethea 
 
 helped him, didn't she? That must have been a real joy 
 to her." 
 
 "Advertise for a rising but impecunious politician. The 
 House is full of them." 
 
 "You laugh at nearly everything I say. I don't know any 
 politicians. I was not impressed by them in America." 
 
 "Nor I. Anyway, I detest party politics. If you really 
 want to help people " 
 
 He paused, looking at her, faintly smiling. 
 
 "I do. Indeed, I do." 
 
 "Then you need not leave Concarneau. The sardines 
 have failed this summer. There will be a lot of misery in 
 the fall and winter. Children and women will starve." 
 
 "Of course, I will help. Why didn't you mention this 
 before?" 
 
 "I wondered whether you would find it out for your- 
 self. But how could you? These Bretons are naturally 
 reserved, and the fisherfolk are extraordinarily proud and 
 plucky. Already there is a lot of hardship. And in bad 
 times the men drink. It used to be cider; now it's bad 
 brandy, la goutte." He went on, speaking with feeling and 
 excitement, in a tone she had never heard from him be- 
 fore : "Life is a damnable affair when you have to face it 
 with an empty stomach." 
 
 "Have you ever done that?" 
 
 "Yes; I have." 
 
 "Oh! Tell me, please! I am so interested." 
 
 "I've been down on my uppers, Mrs. Boal. I've begged 
 a crust of bread and a plate full of cold potatoes. You 
 see I know how these poor devils suffer. Yes; I've been 
 there, but I escaped one misery cold." 
 
 She shivered; her face became forlorn. 
 
 "I don't want to make you feel cold," Tim murmured. 
 
 "You have warmed me. I will help these poor women 
 gladly, if you will show me the way." 
 
 "Come on," said Tim. 
 
 293
 
 Timothy 
 
 She followed him into many houses during the next week, 
 watching him intently, beholding a side of the man quite 
 unfamiliar to her. Talking with his poorer friends, Tim 
 dropped a slightly ironic, reckless tone. With them he be- 
 came of them, simple, ingenuous, very plain-spoken when 
 he encountered whining fraud. The Breton is a singu- 
 lar mixture of simplicity and shrewdness. Recognise him 
 as a Celt, not a Frenchman, and you begin to understand 
 him. Alethea tasted the fish soup, la cotrillade, and lis- 
 tened to some of Botrel's songs crooned by mothers to 
 their children. Tim was saturated with the traditions of 
 Finistere. The quaint customs, the legends, the supersti- 
 tions flowed from his lips. Such knowledge was new to 
 Alethea, and stimulated an imagination somewhat atro- 
 phied by disuse. Tim whirled her out of herself centrifu- 
 gally. He made her giddy. She became intensely conscious 
 of him and dependent upon him for excitement which 
 seemed to exercise a pleasingly rejuvenating effect. He 
 filled her prim mind with curiosities concerning his past 
 life, which he persistently and exasperatingly refused to 
 gratify, whetting them to a sharper edge. In one of the 
 small, granite-built cottages a little boy was slowly dying 
 of arthritis. Tim's rage at this confounded Alethea, who 
 had been brought up a Presbyterian of the straightest sect, 
 knowing the Westminster Confession by heart. The child 
 happened to be illegitimate. Alethea was very sorry for 
 him, but rooted in her mind lay the conviction that the 
 deformed hands and feet were God's judgment upon a 
 child of sin. Tim's wrath confounded her: 
 
 "He has never had a chance. It's too horrible. There's 
 an old woman next door dying of cancer, but she's had her 
 innings; she's lived. This poor little kid has had nothing 
 but pain. It makes my gorge rise." 
 
 Alethea murmured shyly : 
 294
 
 Alethea 
 
 "The way of the transgressor is hard." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 She blushed. 
 
 "He was er born out of wedlock." 
 
 "Heavens ! Do you hold the child responsible for that ? 
 Do you think that illegitimate children are a whit worse than 
 any others?" 
 
 "I don't know," she faltered. "The sins of the fa- 
 thers " 
 
 "Nothing in that at all," said Tim vehemently. "Rather 
 the contrary. Love children, as a rule, are stronger and 
 better looking than the lawful pledges. And a jolly good 
 thing, too. The Doctrine of Compensation comes in." 
 
 Alethea pursed up her pale-pink lips, but she was think- 
 ing that Tim looked extraordinarily handsome when he 
 was excited. 
 
 "Would you think less of me if I were illegitimate?" 
 
 "Of course not, but you aren't." 
 
 Tim burst out laughing. 
 
 in 
 
 Jerome Mercier made love to Alethea, but his methods 
 reminded Alethea of the late Gideon T. Boal, who said 
 brutally that if he wanted a soft thing he asked for it, and 
 generally got it. One afternoon Otis, Mercier, Tim and 
 Alethea were drinking coffee upon the terrasse in front 
 of the hotel. It was market day, and most of the peasants, 
 men and women, were cidralises. Upon the quay, not forty 
 yards distant, an altercation arose between a peasant and 
 his wife, ending in a vicious blow from the man's clenched 
 fist. The couple were separated, but Mercier, much to 
 Tim's amusement, gobbled an opportunity of impressing 
 the rich widow. He had spent a fortnight in England, 
 and liked to air his English. 
 
 "What a 'orror!" he growled to Alethea. "He strike 
 his wife wiz hees feest, so!" 
 
 295
 
 Timothy 
 
 Mercier crashed a huge fist into the open palm of his 
 left hand. Alethea winced, Mercier went on dramatically: 
 
 "Do you think that I, Jerome Mercier, would strike my 
 wife wiz my feest?" 
 
 "No, no," said Alethea, thinking that the fortnight spent 
 by the fiery Gaul in England had not been altogether wasted. 
 "Of course not." 
 
 Mercier went on, delighted to observe that Alethea's 
 eyes were fixed upon his bulging muscles : 
 
 "Eef I was married, hein? And eef my wife should say 
 somesing to me zat I did not like, do you think that I 
 would use my feest?" 
 
 "What would you do?" enquired Tim. 
 
 "Sapristi! I should give 'er a good keeck be'ind." 
 
 Later, Alethea said to Tim : 
 
 "I don't like Monsieur Mercier." 
 
 By this time our hero was uncomfortably aware that 
 Alethea liked somebody else whom he was too modest 
 to name. Otis said with conviction: 
 
 "She's heels over head, Tim. And not a bad little sort. 
 The clinging ivy, what? And you, the sturdy oak!" 
 
 "Don't be a fool !" 
 
 "That is my constant endeavour. It's a cinch, old man. 
 If you don't mind ladling out Lacto-Peptine, three times 
 a day, till death do you part, why mop up what the gods 
 are handing to you in a spoon." 
 
 "Shut up!" 
 
 "It's there to take or leave. You'll be a sucker if you 
 don't open your mouth wide." 
 
 "I say drop it!" 
 
 Otis shrugged his shoulders. In his heart the good fel- 
 low was more concerned with his cousin's happiness than 
 Tim's. He felt sure that Tim would make an admirable 
 husband. 
 
 Some Frenchman has said : "A man chooses his friends, 
 but love imposes itself." Perhaps the exact contrary may 
 be affirmed of American women. Friendship is imposed 
 296
 
 Alethea 
 
 upon them, but they choose their mates. Alethea made up 
 her mind that she wanted Tim, and set to work to capture 
 him. She employed ordinary methods, throwing herself 
 whole-heartedly into the manufacture of nets. 
 
 There are three rules which might appropriately be 
 framed and hung up in young ladies' seminaries : 
 
 (1) Inspire a passion. 
 
 (2) Let it be discreetly seen that passion has been in- 
 spired in you, for most men are terrified of marrying a 
 cold woman. 
 
 (3) Sink, temporarily, your own identity, tastes, and 
 predilections in those of your quarry. 
 
 If these rules be observed, the result is certain. 
 
 Alethea, let it be premised, spread her nets at the right 
 moment. Tim was approaching another crisis in his va- 
 riegated life, With a return of health and exuberant vi- 
 tality, he had grown restless, dissatisfied with himself and 
 his present ambitions. The portrait of Alethea stood out 
 as a commercial success and an artistic failure. That was 
 the unspoken verdict of every man who knew. Nobody 
 knew it better than Tim himself. He could become, if 
 he chose, a painter of fair women; and, with constant 
 practice, his technique would improve. Such portraits, 
 if he struggled towards such an end, would be hung in 
 the Salon and on the walls of the Royal Academy. A com- 
 fortable income, so Otis predicted, was assured. 
 
 "You have the knack," said Otis. 
 
 A success so facile bored Tim. He possessed a tal- 
 ent ! That, invariably, was Cabral's word. An eter- 
 nity of portrait painting, of tactful concessions to pretty 
 clients, of jejune small-talk, appeared to Tim about as 
 alluring as the future of sweet Hosannas promised to the 
 faithful of Little Pennington. To paint a great landscape 
 was another matter. That, indeed, would be worth while. 
 But Briand was doubtful whether such a consummation 
 could ever be reached. 
 
 And meanwhile he must live, pay his way, root vigor- 
 
 297
 
 Timothy 
 
 ously, or sink into abysmal zones of degeneration like 
 Vilard and poor Lasher. 
 
 Happily, he was able to pay his way. The haute 
 bourgeoisie had bought many studies. Mercier and Otis 
 were talking of a three-man show at Nantes and Brest. If 
 Tim chose to take up writing again, he had money enough 
 to support himself in tolerable comfort for at least a year. 
 
 298
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 ACCORDING TO LASHER 
 
 CABRAL returned to Concarneau upon the I5th of 
 September, and nodded portentously when he saw 
 Alethea's portrait. He told Tim that the price paid (Tim 
 showed him the cheque) was not excessive. Then he 
 added : 
 
 "Tu as trouve ton chemin, mon enfant." 
 
 But he smiled derisively, shrugging his broad shoulders. 
 Tim said: 
 
 "Mon maitre, will you be perfectly honest with me?" 
 
 Cabral's thick eyebrows went up. Tim continued: 
 
 "Shall I arrive?" 
 
 "But where?" 
 
 "I am ambitious. It is not enough to paint portraits for 
 the haute bourgeoisie. Of all men you are the one whose 
 opinion I hold to be final. Is it in me, do you think, to 
 paint a great picture?" 
 
 Cabral hesitated. When he spoke his voice had deep- 
 ened in tone; he pulled at his beard, staring keenly into 
 Tim's eager eyes. 
 
 "I do not know, my friend. It means work, work, work. 
 Ah ! God ! how I have worked ! And ever since I was 
 fifteen. And now I am fifty. What a life! Everything 
 sacrificed to my Art. Well, I don't complain. For the rest, 
 you think, they all think, that I have arrived. But, alas ! I 
 never satisfy myself. And then I wonder if it is good 
 enough. I might have married. There was a dear girl 
 
 once ! But my work came between us. She has been 
 
 299
 
 Timothy 
 
 happier with another man. Voila ! You ask for my opin- 
 ion, and here it is. I do not think that your soul is in your 
 painting. It is not everything to you. And you began 
 
 too late. You have reached a point ! You can support 
 
 yourself. It is no small achievement, but a great pic- 
 ture ! Ah ! that will exact sacrifice. It means a road 
 
 other than the one you have taken, a narrow up-hill path; 
 it means infinite patience, infinite pains, and at the end, 
 perhaps, nothing but disappointment." 
 
 "Thank you," said Tim. "You have done me a service." 
 
 That night he reread his novel with a detachment which 
 surprised him. He experienced a craving to finish it. He 
 compared the work of his brain with the work of his hands. 
 And the one, so he decided, was honestly a part of him- 
 self, whereas the other seemed patch-work, odds and ends 
 filched from Otis, from Briand, from Mercier. He faced 
 the demoralising truth : his painting was fake ! 
 
 Next day he said to Otis : 
 
 "I suppose I'm a faker." 
 
 "So am I," said Otis. "I steal everything I can. We are 
 all of us fakers, except Cabral, Briand and Lasher." 
 
 "Lasher?" 
 
 "Lasher, poor devil! is sincere. His output is small, but 
 such as it is I call it original stuff. It's Lasher. Nobody 
 else could do it. That's the test. He has no market; and 
 he's a slacker; but he is himself." 
 
 "You are right." 
 
 "You look solemn, old man." 
 
 "I am thinking of chucking painting." 
 
 "You're quite crazy." 
 
 "I have been crazy." 
 
 II 
 
 Fate furthered Alethea's designs. The Vicar wrote to 
 Tim telling him, with infinite regret, that the Pennington 
 estates were in the market. Tim had always known that 
 300
 
 According to Lasher 
 
 Sir Gilbert's successor was cruelly crippled, that the pos- 
 sibility of such a sale impended above him. And, in Cali- 
 fornia, when money was pouring into his pockets, he had 
 thought that he would like to "make good" by buying such 
 a property. What a triumph that would have been. He 
 remembered prattling about it to Magdalena at the time 
 when Cooke and he bought the three immense tracts to the 
 south of Santa Barbara. 
 
 He said to Alethea : 
 
 "If you want a superb estate in perfect order, with a 
 historical house on it, and inviolate traditions, now's your 
 chance." 
 
 He was jesting, but she took him seriously, asking for 
 details. He talked to her about Little Pennington. 
 
 "I think I should like to settle in England. You see I had 
 no position in America. I should love a beautiful home 
 under certain conditions." 
 
 "You ought to marry again." 
 
 "Yes, I suppose so." 
 
 She glanced at him with a shy, pathetic appeal. Tim 
 said abruptly: 
 
 "If you married an Englishman, do you think that you 
 could settle down, permanently, I mean, in England?" 
 
 "I should just love it." 
 
 She looked almost pretty. Tim's once familiar spirit, 
 recklessness, possessed him. Alethea offered a solution to 
 the problem of his future. She wanted him. And he knew 
 that he could give her a quiet happiness, upon which she 
 would set an inordinate value, because till now unhappiness 
 had been her portion. 
 
 Almost he jumped. 
 
 They made some pleasant expeditions together to Quim- 
 per, to the Pointe du Raz, to Vannes and Brest. Otis, as 
 a rule, played gooseberry, but he had a trick of disappearing 
 which Tim rather resented, because Otis gaily refused to 
 believe that he was really wanted. He carried a sketch 
 book, to save his disappearances. Alethea pottered in and 
 
 301
 
 Timothy 
 
 out of shops, buying things she did not want and paying 
 more for them than their value, obviously at the mercy of 
 shrewd shop-keepers, unless Tim interposed himself between 
 guile and guilelessness. He watched her, thinking how in- 
 timate they had become in a few weeks. It was possible 
 to be alone with her and keep silence, as if it were the pledge 
 and seal of friendship. When such a silence lasted too 
 long, a faint blush would steal into the lady's cheeks. He 
 noticed that she became easily tired, hiding fatigue for his 
 sake; and yet eager to accept a considerate cavalier's min- 
 istrations. Indeed, her gratitude for small attentions both 
 touched and exasperated Tim. He kept on thinking : "What 
 a rotten time she must have had with that brute !" To give 
 her now as reasonably good a time as possible seemed to be 
 the whole duty of any decently kind man. Evidently the 
 brute had trampled savagely upon her opinions and judg- 
 ments. Her deprecating manner, her prim "perhaps I am 
 wrong" aroused a pity in Tim which she may have mis- 
 taken for a kindred sentiment. 
 
 When she smiled at him, he was disagreeably reminded 
 of Ivy Jellicoe. 
 
 Moreover, he was sensible that she determined the tone 
 of their intercourse. She pitched the key a minor key. 
 Her talk began and ended on a monotonously plaintive note. 
 She might have feverish moments, but her temperature 
 was below normal. 
 
 Very subtly, she dangled her wealth before him. She 
 entreated his advice concerning some of her investments. 
 Apparently she was spending about one-fourth of her in- 
 come. It was impossible to escape from the accretions and 
 expansions of her riches. Happily, she was never vulgar 
 when she spoke of these ever-accumulating dollars. She 
 sat upon her vast pile with an odd and disarming dignity. 
 And she managed most astutely to convey a sharp im- 
 pression of what her dollars had left undone for her. Up 
 to the present moment (the unlamented Gideon had been 
 in a marble mausoleum for two years), Boal's Axle Grease 
 302
 
 According to Lasher 
 
 seemed to have lubricated all the wheels in the world except 
 hers. 
 
 She complained of an uninteresting youth. Tim envisaged 
 her as young and pretty but isolated. She had been educated 
 in Switzerland, at Lausanne. At her first coming-out party, 
 the truculent Gideon had captured her. 
 
 Some of her self-revelations alarmed him. She was 
 lamentably lacking in taste. She admired the wrong pic- 
 tures, the wrong furniture and porcelain, although she 
 dressed exquisitely. But her elegance was fictitious, being 
 largely due to her Paris corsetiere and milliner. She 
 couldn't be trusted alone in a provincial hat-shop. At 
 Vannes, for instance, she bought a monstrous affair, which 
 she shewed to Tim and Otis in the railway carriage. Otis, 
 pressed to pronounce judgment, said frankly: 
 
 "My dear woman, it isn't a hat, it's an awful warning." 
 
 Alethea turned to Tim. 
 
 "You like it, don't you, Mr. White?" 
 
 Tim replied kindly : 
 
 "If I had your face I shouldn't hide it under that hat." 
 
 She remained perfectly amiable and resigned. 
 
 "I shall leave it in the carriage." 
 
 The train stopped at Auray. Tim glanced out of the 
 window. Close to the carriage stood a large young woman, 
 who had discarded, apparently, the costume of the province. 
 Her eyes gloated upon the hat, which Alethea still held in 
 her hands. Tim seized the hat, jumped out of the carriage 
 and approached the young woman. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," he said politely. "This is yours. We 
 bought it for you in Vannes. Pray accept it with our united 
 compliments." 
 
 "But, Monsieur !" 
 
 "Not a word, I pray you." 
 
 "But !" 
 
 "You will look ravishing in it. At Mass it will distract 
 the attention of everybody. There!" 
 
 He left it in her hands. As the train moved out of the 
 
 303
 
 Timothy 
 
 station, the large young woman was seen gazing entranced 
 at the hat, surrounded by a chattering and astounded- crowd. 
 Tim kissed his fingers to her, saying to Alethea : 
 
 "Last Sunday, she prayed for a new hat. From this 
 moment her faith is assured." 
 
 "I'm glad she has it," said Otis, "but can she live up 
 to it?" 
 
 That evening, after Alethea had retired (her word) to 
 bed, Tim said to Otis: 
 
 "What is Mrs. Boal's Paris apartment like?" 
 
 "Like that hat. She doesn't know, poor dear!" 
 
 "But she thinks she does." 
 
 Indeed, beneath her anaemic manner lay a streak of 
 obstinacy. She exhibited strong likes and dislikes, and was 
 extraordinarily acute at detecting what she held to be 
 blemishes, or worse. Poor little Lasher provoked the 
 remark : 
 
 "He's shamelessly irreligious." 
 
 "Oh, no," replied Tim. 
 
 "But he is. He scoffs at religious people. He told me 
 that he lived abroad because he could not stand the expres- 
 sion on the faces of people in England coming out of 
 church." 
 
 "The smug, self-righteous look. I dare say poets find it 
 trying, particularly when they're hungry. Some of his 
 relations, perhaps, wanted Lasher to go to church, but did 
 not invite him to luncheon afterwards." 
 
 "He's not fit to go to church, or to have luncheon with 
 decent people. He is not clean." 
 
 "He isn't. Soap is one of his many economies. But 
 he's kind. He's been kind to me." 
 
 "I hate to think that he could be." 
 
 Tim lent her Rupert Carteret and his Times. Here again 
 she displayed almost startling acuteness. She read it care- 
 fully, not missing a line upon principle. Then she delivered 
 her verdict 
 304
 
 According to Lasher 
 
 "I like him because he was so like you. All through the 
 book he reminds me of you." 
 
 "In what way?" 
 
 "He was so alive; and he tried many things, before he 
 found what exactly suited him. I sometimes wonder " 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "If there isn't some big success coming to you, some- 
 thing to make up for all you have suffered." 
 
 "A big success painting?" 
 
 "I wasn't thinking of your painting. Painters have not 
 very much of a position in England, have they?" 
 
 "The smallest county magnate cuts 'em out," replied Tim. 
 
 A day or two afterwards he had a long talk with Lasher 
 about literature. After what Otis had said, he was fired 
 to speak of his novel to Lasher. He found the poet gently 
 stimulated by absinthe. As a rule, he rarely uttered a word 
 worth listening to before five in the afternoon. By dinner- 
 time he became articulate, and towards midnight lucidly 
 eloquent. This first important talk took place just before 
 dinner. Tim ordered the aperitif. 
 
 "I told Otis," he began, "that I was thinking of chucking 
 painting and going back to writing." 
 
 Lasher opened his big sleepy eyes. 
 
 "Why?" he demanded languidly. 
 
 "My painting is fake." 
 
 "Most painting is, and most writing, too. You aren't so 
 mad as to hope to support yourself with your pen?" 
 
 "Well; yes." 
 
 "Got any stuff here?" Tim nodded. "You let me look 
 at it. I'll tell you in two ticks what I think of it." 
 
 "I'm really most awfully obliged." 
 
 Lasher rolled a cigarette, gazing reflectively at Tim with 
 appraising eyes. 
 
 "What are you at?" he grumbled. "Vilard and I come 
 back to find you three fellows positively rank with unde- 
 served prosperity." 
 
 Tim laughed cheerfully. 
 
 305
 
 Timothy 
 
 "That's it. Rank is the word. I can smell myself." 
 
 "Quite amazing," murmured Lasher. "Doesn't my awful 
 example give you pause? I began with a sort of success. 
 I wrote feuilletons for a daily paper, took a cold tub every 
 morning and cut my hair. The quest for the right word 
 has brought me to this. Encouraging, eh?" 
 
 Tim weighed the question, answering slowly : "There 
 is nothing so discouraging as the wrong success." 
 
 "I felt like that once." 
 
 "So you flew the track." 
 
 "Flew the track is quite good. But the result isn't. I 
 piled myself up, to borrow an illuminating expression from 
 Otis. Same thing happened to Vilard and Gauguin, and 
 Verlaine, and a dozen I could name. You'd better stick 
 to the lines, Tim, particularly as you've been off 'em, and 
 know what it is." 
 
 Tim muttered grimly : "I've been derailed right enough." 
 
 "Yes ; but I derailed myself. That's a mighty difference. 
 Now, look here, I'm just beginning to wake up. My mind 
 is working. You mayn't catch me in this receptive and 
 responsive mood for another month. Tell me what you 
 really want?" 
 
 Tim hesitated. Lasher, as he knew, babbled sadly of his 
 own misfortunes when drunk, but not of the affairs of 
 others. Then he said, using the expression so long upper- 
 most in his thoughts : 
 
 "Well, I want to make good. A lot was expected of me 
 when I was a boy. I left home under a cloud. I have 
 never been back." 
 
 Lasher's fine eyes twinkled. He was now immensely wide 
 awake, stimulated by absinthe to an acuteness of perception 
 seldom exercised. 
 
 "I understand perfectly. You wish to return to your 
 native village trailing clouds of glory which will hide for- 
 ever your little cloud of shame. The triumph of Tim!" 
 
 "Something like that." 
 
 "A self-glorification, to be brutally frank ?" 
 306
 
 According to Lasher 
 
 "If you like." 
 
 "Well, I don't like. This is the age of self-advertisement. 
 And I loathe it. People, nowadays, gabble more about 
 the artist than his work. I don't think the artist matters 
 a damn. But his work, if it is the real stuff, matters tre- 
 mendously. I admit that artists are vain, particularly poets, 
 but I say let the poet perish if only one sonnet may live. 
 That isn't your idea, eh?" 
 
 "Not altogether." 
 
 "I thought not. And, mind you, I'm not blaming you. 
 I like you, Tim, because you're so human, and so alive. 
 Lord ! How I envy you that ! And if I can help you, I will. 
 You're one of those lucky devils whom others like to help. 
 I know some editors and publishers. I can steer you a bit. 
 The right start counts, but I must know exactly what you're 
 aiming at." 
 
 "Call it a novel that people want to read." 
 
 "What people ? Are you yearning for the recognition of 
 the few or the many?" 
 
 "Thomas Hardy appeals to both." 
 
 "Urn ! So he does ; but he won the few before the many. 
 I'll put it like this are you contemplating the writing of 
 a big seller ?" 
 
 A derisive, sub-acid intonation provoked Tim to reply 
 with some heat: 
 
 "I want, primarily, to work at something which will en- 
 gross me. I'm not a beginner, Lasher. I served a fairly 
 strenuous apprenticeship in California. And I've lived. I 
 know the seamy side. I know what men and women are. 
 And I've a sense of the beauty of life, which I can't get 
 on to canvas." 
 
 "Soit ! Not another word till I've seen your stuff. Give 
 it to me now. I'll tackle it to-night. And, to-morrow, at 
 this very hour, I'll tell you honestly what I think about it." 
 
 307
 
 Timothy 
 
 in 
 
 Next morning Tim went for a walk with Alethea. They 
 climbed the hill behind the town, and wandered into the 
 much-restored manor house, once the home of a Russian 
 princess, now a historical monument and a museum. In it 
 a collection of warming-pans challenged Alethea's interest 
 and curiosity. These warming-pans had warmed the beds 
 of queens, if you could credit the evidence of coats of arms 
 engraved upon their shining backs. Tim said idly: 
 
 "I wonder if the Princess's bed was cold ?" 
 
 He had to explain this to Alethea, who deemed the 
 remark not quite proper. Tim went on : 
 
 "When a woman collects things, I always have my sus- 
 picions. Warming-pans are astoundingly significant. And 
 one feels somehow that this one, if it be genuine, may have 
 been a comfort to Marie Antoinette. Juliet, if she had 
 lived, might have collected warming-pans." 
 
 "Such odd things you say ! This house is very sad. I'm 
 sure that you are right. The princess did collect things 
 because she was not interested in persons. I have collected 
 things." 
 
 "So Otis told me." 
 
 "I daresay I was imposed upon." 
 
 "It's dead certain you were." 
 
 She gave a little shudder, drawing a feather boa about 
 her thin throat. 
 
 "Let's go and sit in the garden." 
 
 The garden showed signs of neglect, but they found a 
 seat overlooking the harbour and the sea. Alethea sighed 
 contentedly, but Tim was frowning. He had only to whistle 
 and Alethea would flutter to him like a tame canary. Facing 
 the sun, her skin looked slightly yellow. She moved rest- 
 lessly, expecting him to speak. He sat perfectly still, think- 
 ing how warm and pleasant it was. An odd languor pos- 
 sessed him, a desire to drift with the tide, to let chance 
 308
 
 According to Lasher 
 
 carry him and his fortunes whither it pleased. And all 
 the time he was conscious of something within him which 
 fought against this enervating languor. He decided, pres- 
 ently, to hear Lasher's verdict, before he spoke to Alethea. 
 Lasher might consider his writing with the same kind con- 
 tempt which animated Cabral when he stared at Alethea's 
 portrait. 
 
 "How silent you are !" murmured Alethea. "But I don't 
 mind it; I rather like it." 
 
 There was some quality in her meek-eyed glance which 
 seemed to beseech him to speak now, or not at all. 
 
 The ancient manor-house, restored and expanded, filled 
 with tapestries and rare old furniture, with armour and 
 porcelain and pictures, presented itself as an agreeable ob- 
 ject lesson of what a rich woman's money could accomplish. 
 A conscience which wriggled uneasily at the thought of a 
 marriage of convenience was calmed with subtle sedatives. 
 What good work he could do in a charming home of his 
 own ! How much could be done for others with Alethea's 
 dollars ! What a difference unlimited gold would make to 
 hundreds of lives in and about Little Pennington ! 
 
 And then the bleak, ironic reflection: "How easy to be 
 generous with another's money! How cheap and tawdry 
 a triumph!" 
 
 He glanced at his watch. 
 
 "We shall be late for dejeuner," he said. 
 
 IV 
 
 He spent the afternoon alone, wrestling with temptation, 
 ravaged by it, swept hither and thither by gusty ambition, 
 able to measure alike his strength and his weakness, and 
 miserably conscious that his weakness might prevail. 
 
 Remember that he had begged his bread as a tramp, that 
 he had lain weak and penniless in a hospital. If his health 
 should fail him, would he not sink inevitably to the depths 
 
 309
 
 Timothy 
 
 which engulfed Lasher and Vilard ? To place oneself high 
 above such abominable possibilities, out of reach of For- 
 tune's most cruelly barbed arrows, was not this a Heaven- 
 sent opportunity which it were folly to pass by? 
 
 He returned to the hotel at six, spent in mind and body. 
 As he approached the terrasse, he could see Lasher waiting 
 for him, a shrunk, collapsed figure, a wreck of a man! 
 The poet, on closer inspection, exhibited signs of impa- 
 tience. 
 
 He drummed on the marble-topped table with fingers to 
 which Alethea cannot be blamed for taking exception; an 
 empty glass stood at his elbow in a saucer amongst many 
 ends of cigarettes. Tim's typescript lay beside the saucer. 
 It was a pleasant evening with no chill in the breeze. From 
 the masts of the boats in the basin floated the filmy blue 
 nets which captured the elusive sardine. Upon the broad 
 quay men and women were talking and gesticulating. Be- 
 yond rose the grey walls of the Ville Close, the walls de- 
 signed by Vauban to keep the English at bay. Tim never 
 looked upon those solid ramparts without reflecting humor- 
 ously upon the invasion of the province by Britons. 
 
 Lasher said quickly: 
 
 "I've read every line. And, by Jove! you are right to 
 chuck painting. Why did you leave this remarkable chroni- 
 cle half done?" 
 
 Tim explained that he had been too ill to write. 
 
 "I see," said Lasher. "Now, it's an odd fact that I work 
 better when I feel ill. But, of course, my stuff is morbid. 
 This stuff of yours is healthy. It's full of vitality. Finish 
 it! And let me red-pencil it. Then you must have it re- 
 typed, and I'll charge myself with sending it to the right 
 publisher. You need a fellow who'll boom you as a new 
 and original author. First and last it shows extraordinary 
 promise. I think it will catch on, but one never knows. 
 You've been well trained." 
 
 Tim mentioned Hoyt. Lasher listened, nodding his head 
 310
 
 According to Lasher 
 
 with its shock of unkempt black hair. Then he said 
 abruptly : 
 
 "How old are you, Tim?" 
 
 "Nearly thirty-three." 
 
 "That's the right age. Young writers suffer from their 
 appalling ignorance of life. However gifted they may be, 
 they turn out unreal stuff, which damns the better stuff 
 which follows. You've escaped that. I'll just add this. 
 I never believed in you as a painter. Nor has Vilard. It 
 helped to tide you over a bad time. And you're clever 
 enough and versatile enough to make a living at it, which 
 is something. This," he tapped the manuscript, "captivated 
 me, and I'm hard to please. It has freshness, humour, and 
 it's on the side of the angels. The public love that. Also, 
 it's simply written. Now don't get a swelled head. In ten 
 years, if you concentrate all energies upon doing the very 
 best of which you are capable, you may write a big book. 
 I don't want to say another word till you've finished this 
 thing according to your present lights. Then we'll go over 
 every line together." 
 
 "You're a trump, Lasher." 
 
 "What are you?" asked Lasher. "Shall we say an archi- 
 pelago of possibilities. Lord ! How thirsty I am." 
 
 Tim took the hint. Lasher sipped his poison, murmuring : 
 
 "I'm glad you kept away from this." 
 
 Never had Tim felt so sorry for him. He wondered 
 whether Lasher could be reclaimed. The poet, reading his 
 thoughts, answered them derisively : 
 
 "Absinthe helps me to do my best work. It's what opium 
 was to De Quincey. By the way, Tim, can you work at 
 writing without arty thought whatever of pot-boiling?" 
 
 "I've enough for a year." 
 
 "And nobody stands between you and your work?" 
 
 His dark eyes glittered feverishly. Tim flushed. 
 
 "No woman ?" 
 
 Tim remained for an instant silent, wondering if Lasher
 
 Timothy 
 
 could have guessed what was in his mind. He decided that 
 Otis must have been indiscreet. He decided, also, that 
 Lasher was keyed up to a strange pitch. Then he heard 
 the poet's mocking laugh, and his mocking words : 
 
 "You were thinking just now of reclaiming me. That's 
 a hopeless job. At the same moment I was thinking of 
 reclaiming you. If I could, by God! it might be an asset, 
 when the final accounting comes." 
 
 "You're very drunk, my dear old man." 
 
 "In vino veritas. You come with me. I've something 
 to say to you, something to tell you. I'll play the scare- 
 crow for you. I'll flap naked to the wind for you because 
 I'm fond of you, Tim." 
 
 He stood up. Tim stood up also, as if he moved beneath 
 a spell. Lasher took his arm, gripping it. Through a thin 
 sleeve Tim felt burning fingers. 
 
 "I'm pot-valiant," said Lasher. "Come, my son, while 
 the spirit of la reine verte still fortifies me." 
 
 He walked unsteadily across the quay. Tim went with 
 him. They passed the causeway, and approached the stone 
 digue, now deserted. Lasher pressed on, saying nothing, 
 staring at the sea. The tide was out; and Tim could smell 
 the varech on the wet rocks. Afterwards, whenever he 
 recalled this evening, that pungent odour would assail his 
 nostrils. 
 
 They stopped at the end of the digue. Lasher sat upon 
 the parapet, dangling his feet. Tim stood facing him, filled 
 with curiosity. Lasher had a trick of reading his own 
 poems in a voice singularly free from inflection, an impres- 
 sive monotone, as if he wished to present his wares as 
 simply as possible. At such times, Tim was reminded of 
 the Vicar, who delivered his message in a similar imper- 
 sonal manner. Lasher chose to assume this monotone now. 
 His voice seemed to reach Tim from a distance, as if the 
 speaker had travelled far back into the past. 
 
 "I told you that I enjoyed once a sort of mild success. 
 312
 
 According to Lasher 
 
 And amazing as it may seem now, I was rather attractive 
 as a young man. My people lived in Bayswater. My father 
 and my brothers were and are in business up to their 
 thick red necks. From the first I was regarded as a bit of 
 a, freak. They were furious with me because I preferred 
 quill-riding to quill-driving. They were stupid, stolid peo- 
 ple ; and they guessed, I suppose, that I should be a burden 
 to them, that I should never be what they called 'self-sup- 
 porting.' But deep down in their fat commercial souls flut- 
 tered the hope that I might marry money. To that desirable 
 end they conspired together. I was ear-marked for a ward 
 of my father's. I'll say this about her : she was amorphously 
 commonplace. The only sign of intelligence that I could 
 find was her liking for me. That, of course, appealed to my 
 vanity, nothing else. She bored me to tears! But I said 
 to myself that with her money she had about two thousand 
 a year I could devote myself to writing. And so I mar- 
 ried her." 
 
 "You married her," repeated Tim. 
 
 Lasher laughed. 
 
 "It was infamous, empurpled prostitution. I want t to 
 rub that in. I left my self-respect at the altar, and it may 
 be there still. In the vestry, after the ceremony, my mother, 
 in nodding plumes, and still dove-grey silk, kissed me fondly 
 and whispered: 'How beautifully, dearest, everything has 
 gone !' I replied, I remember, with a humour rather credit- 
 able at such a moment : 'Everything has gone !' And she 
 never saw the point. Well, as I was saying, my self-respect 
 never came back, which accounts for a lot. Perhaps I ought 
 to feel sorry for my wife, but she knew jolly well what she 
 was doing. She did for me. We had two children." 
 
 "Children," echoed Tim, stupefied at these revelations. 
 
 "Two pulpy kids cut to the Lasher pattern. She was a 
 cousin of sorts, I must tell you. She inherited the family 
 obstinacy and conceit. The great sell of her life was not 
 marrying me, but the discovery shortly afterwards that she 
 
 313
 
 Timothy 
 
 couldn't make me over to suit her notions. She boasted 
 to her people that she would and could remodel me ! Poor 
 little fool ! I'm afraid I gave her the deuce of a time. I had 
 a typist, a very clever, jolly girl, who understood me. Amy 
 my wife's name was Amy; it couldn't be anything else, 
 could it? Amy hired a private detective. There was an 
 awful row, a poisonous, back-biting scene in my father's 
 drawing-room. It had to be repapered afterwards. It was 
 agreed solemnly that I must choose between Amy and the 
 other. I chose the other. That's all that matters." 
 
 The smell of the varech grew stronger; the sea breeze 
 held a sudden chill. Tim stammered out : "And the other?" 
 
 Lasher laughed, spreading out his hands, a trick he had 
 caught from Vilard. 
 
 "I bolted from Bayswater for ever and ever, but I hadn't 
 the pluck to take the other with me. She wanted to come ! 
 I'm glad she didn't. She's all right, happily married. My 
 remarkable abstention in regard to her may be acclaimed as 
 a solitary virtue. The unpardonable sin against myself, 
 mark you ! was marrying Amy." 
 
 Tim said nothing; Lasher could see that he was tremen- 
 dously impressed. He dropped his monotone, and spoke 
 vehemently : 
 
 "Men make their own particular hells on earth. The 
 most abysmal of all is a loveless marriage. I think I could 
 do with just one more drink." 
 
 They returned to the hotel. Tim dined with Otis and 
 Alethea. After dinner they sat out together, enjoying the 
 cool of the evening. Presently, from the shadows of the 
 dimly-lighted market-place, two men, arm in arm, lurched 
 into view. They passed within a few yards of Alethea; 
 and one of them was bawling a chanson d'atelier. 
 
 Mon pere me maria! 
 
 He, piou, piou! Tra-la-la! 
 Mon pere me maria 
 
 Au fils d'un avocat ah ah ah ah! 
 
 314
 
 According to Lasher 
 
 "Mercy!" exclaimed Alethea. "That was your friend, 
 Mr. Lasher. Has he lost every shred of self-respect?" 
 Tim answered sombrely. 
 "He has. He left it on an altar in a Bayswater church." 
 
 315
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 FORTUNE SMILES 
 
 TIM bolted from Concarneau the next morning, taking 
 his novel with him to Rochefort-en-terre, and leaving 
 his colour-box behind. He chalked upon it R.I. P. He left 
 behind, also, a letter for Alethea, a composition which ex- 
 acted hours of not too agreeable thought. Finally, two 
 closely- written sheets were boiled down to a couple of pages. 
 He stated the bald fact. He was going away to work at 
 his novel amongst the hills, which he hoped might inspire 
 him. He ended simply: "I have wrestled with myself. 
 I feel as Rupert Carteret did. I must find the work which 
 really engrosses me. Perhaps that is all that is left." Then 
 he thanked her for many pleasant hours passed in her 
 company, and expressed a vague wish that they might 
 meet again. He encountered Otis at early breakfast. That 
 sophisticated schemer said significantly: 
 
 "I hope this isn't an irrevocable blunder." 
 
 "It's irrevocable," replied Tim curtly. 
 
 "I think you must have eaten the loco weed in California." 
 
 "Perhaps I did." 
 
 A laugh from Otis dispelled the slight coolness between 
 them. He said delightfully: 
 
 "Old Tim, you may be sane enough about this novel- 
 writing. Last time I was in London town I found Mudie's 
 crowded, and the National Gallery almost empty." 
 
 This absence of illusion in the American was not unbe- 
 coming in the Man, but left the Artist rather stark. What 
 was an Artist without illusions ? A fountain without spray ! 
 316
 
 Fortune Smiles 
 
 Tim loved Otis, and could appreciate his point of view 
 while the conviction gathered irresistibly that his friend and 
 he looked at life with different eyes. Otis knew what he 
 wanted. He had become extremely ingenious and prehen- 
 sile in the practice of his art, so much so that, given a pupil 
 with technical dexterity, he could almost "dictate" a pic- 
 ture. He applied his ingenuity as skilfully in the sale of 
 stuff, which might well be termed "machines." Humanly 
 speaking, he would arrive at his goal public recognition of 
 an ability to paint marines branded as his, although each 
 contained much that was pilfered from others. 
 
 Otis dropped a hint that Alethea would find consolation in 
 the person of an Italian prince, whom he nicknamed Capo 
 di Monte, because he was so decorative. Tim guessed that 
 Alethea's interest in the Russian princess might have been 
 quickened by a premonition that a coronet glittered for her 
 out of a misty future. A "position" counted greatly with 
 the little lady. 
 
 Altogether he felt wonderfully exhilarated when he found 
 himself alone in the train. 
 
 ii 
 
 The door of the ancient inn at Rochefort stood hospitably 
 open when Tim descended some hours later from the dili- 
 gence. Two smiling spinsters greeted him cordially, and 
 assured him that he would not be disturbed by noisy tourists. 
 
 "Tout est calme chez nous," they murmured. 
 
 Tim wandered through the quaint village before dinner, 
 noting the grass in the streets, the lichen on the grey walls, 
 and the curiously carved doorways. Silence and peace 
 soothed him. This was indeed a sanctuary for a man who 
 desired to give undivided energies to writing, and at the 
 same time to detach himself as far as possible from his 
 surroundings. 
 
 He was ushered into a scrupulously clean, freshly white- 
 washed bedroom, overlooking the valley below. The en- 
 
 317
 
 Timothy 
 
 compassing hills were rugged and rocky, covered for the 
 most part with pines. He could smell the resin, balsamic 
 fragrance very different from the odours of a fishing port. 
 Flowers bloomed in old-fashioned gardens ; vines wandered 
 everywhere. He breathed, in fine, a lighter, brighter, more 
 benignant air. A blurred past gave promise of a clearer 
 present. In his recovered perception of "values," he saw 
 that any triumph worth the winning must be engineered by 
 himself alone. And the conviction that he had rounded a 
 dangerous corner made him feel almost young again. 
 
 For twenty- four hours he rested on folded wings, know- 
 ing that soon he would soar into the blue. 
 
 in 
 
 He remained at Rochef ort-en-terre for three months, 
 working hard. At first he experienced enormous difficulty : 
 but slowly the ability to write came back, and with it a sense 
 of the immense advantage which the quill has over the brush. 
 At times he laughed at the notion that he could ever have 
 been fatuous enough to think that he could express himself 
 in colour. For it came ultimately to that. What he craved 
 was self-expression. His half-finished novel engrossed and 
 captivated Lasher, because it was so obviously a sincere 
 record, a transcript of life as it is lived in a new country by 
 men and women untrammelled by the conventions of a too 
 complex civilisation. 
 
 A refreshed consciousness of the past, that happy past 
 at Agua Caliente, was so clearly envisaged at Rochefort that 
 it seemed to become the present. He tasted joys again which 
 then had been gobbled too swiftly. Now they lingered upon 
 his palate, like the bouquet of a fine wine. He was in no 
 hurry, realising that haste had always been his enemy. He 
 seemed to be strolling leisurely to an inevitable end, keenly 
 observant, afraid only that he might lose the elusive atmos- 
 318
 
 Fortune Smiles 
 
 phere, so distractingly iridescent, which coloured his memo- 
 ries and fancies. 
 
 He had never been so happy since Magdalena's death. 
 Indeed, it occurred to him that Magdalena hovered near 
 him. She glided into his dreams with a tender smile upon 
 her dear face, whispering her love. That revealed itself 
 more conspicuously than ever as the supreme thing in life, 
 a platitude upon every lip, but how seldom assimilated ! 
 
 He returned to Concarneau for Christmas with the com- 
 pleted manuscript in his bag. The warmth of his reception 
 touched him deeply. His comrades had missed him. He 
 felt ashamed to think that he had not missed them ; for his 
 work had engrossed him. They told him that there was 
 much distress in the town, and later Otis showed him a 
 cheque just received from Alethea, a hundred pounds for 
 the women and children. 
 
 "We are to distribute it," said Otis. "She named you, 
 old man." 
 
 "Is Mrs. Boal in Paris?" 
 
 "No, Florence. The Italian Prince has got her. He's 
 not a bad chap; and her money is settled on herself, tight 
 as wax. All the same " 
 
 He made a gesture. Tim said emphatically: "She had 
 an escape from me." 
 
 "Wasn't it the other way about ? However, the incident, 
 as the papers say, is closed." 
 
 "Hermetically sealed," added Tim. 
 
 "Is the great work done?" 
 
 "It is. We'll see what Lasher says." 
 
 Lasher said some encouraging things, and assisted Tim 
 in the final revision, deleting adjectives and adverbs with 
 ruthless energy. Finally, the book was sent to England 
 to be re-typed, with instructions to the typist to send the 
 fair copy to Broad, the publisher. Lasher wrote to Broad, 
 assuring him that the novel merited special attention; but 
 Tim had to wait a weary fortnight before he heard from 
 the great man. Broad offered to publish it in the Spring, 
 
 319
 
 Timothy 
 
 paying twenty-five pounds on account of royalties, and ten 
 per cent on every six-shilling copy sold up to two thousand. 
 If more copies were sold, the royalty would be increased 
 to twelve and a half, and ultimately fifteen if the ten thou- 
 sand mark were achieved. Lasher said that the terms were 
 just rather than generous. Broad could be trusted to do 
 all that was possible ; he had read the novel and liked it. 
 No man living could predict how a work by an unknown 
 author would be received by the British public. 
 
 "We are justified," said Tim, "in having a celebration." 
 A dinner duly took place on Twelfth Night, and is still 
 spoken of in Concarneau as the finest gastronomic effort of 
 the chef at the Hotel des Voyageurs. 
 
 IV 
 
 "My stock is booming," said Tim to Otis, some three 
 weeks later. 
 
 He shewed Otis a letter just received from his attorney 
 in Santa Barbara. The Syndicate owning Agua Caliente 
 had sold the property for four hundred thousand dollars. 
 Tim's share, in terms English, amounted to eight thousand 
 pounds, which would be remitted by draft within a month. 
 
 "Another celebration," said Otis. 
 
 Never did Fortune dispense a favour more opportunely. 
 Tim was waiting for proof, and unable to begin another 
 book. A listless reaction had set in ; he lay awake wonder- 
 ing whether ideas for a second novel would ever come to 
 him. Lasher cheered him up: 
 
 "The ideas will arrive in battalions. Never worry about 
 that. For the moment you're played out, an excellent sign. 
 It shews that you put all you had into Dust." 
 
 That was the title of Tim's book. It dealt largely with 
 the dry years in California, but at the end rain laid the 
 dust. 
 
 He had thoughts of returning to Little Pennington, but 
 decided that he couldn't face the Lenten season. However, 
 320
 
 Fortune Smiles 
 
 he wrote to the Vicar that he might be expected after Easter. 
 And he wrote also to Daffy, telling her that at last he had 
 drifted into snug anchorage. Daffy congratulated him 
 warmly. At the end of her letter she told Tim that Rokeby 
 had just left England for East Africa, where he hoped to 
 slay many lions. She concluded : "A friend and I are 
 thinking of spending a few weeks in Brittany. Don't be 
 surprised if you see us in Concarneau." He replied by 
 return of post urging her to come, saying that it would 
 give him enormous pleasure, and singing the praises of 
 Finistere in early Spring. 
 
 The thought of seeing Daffy, and the horrid fear that 
 he mightn't, brimmed him with excitements. Renewed in- 
 tercourse with this old friend would be the keystone of the 
 arch which bridged the past and the future. He had never 
 lost touch with her. He knew that they would meet with 
 no exasperating, unsuspected differences and discrepancies, 
 such as marred so many f oregatherings between friends long 
 severed. 
 
 He tried to analyse his feeling for Daffy, but it escaped 
 analysis. They had both changed; but such change had 
 not affected his conviction that he would be more at home 
 with her than anybody else, which constituted a rare felicity, 
 a sense of well-being, warming a man to the core. He de- 
 cided impatiently that if she didn't come to him soon, he 
 must go to her. 
 
 She came a few days later. 
 
 He heard of her arrival from the good landlady. Madame, 
 she said, was out ; her friend was lying down, fatigued after 
 the journey. Madame did not look fatigued. Much the con- 
 trary! What a beauty, that one! And of a distinction! 
 Tim listened impatiently. He wanted to meet Daffy alone. 
 He felt sure that the same desire animated her. Where 
 
 321
 
 Timothy 
 
 had she gone ? The landlady apostrophised her patron Saint. 
 How could she tell? 
 
 Tim rushed into the market-place. The wind blew from 
 the west. Daffy would stroll up-wind. That was certain. 
 He would find her gazing across the sea. 
 
 He found her not far from the little grey chapel of Notre 
 Dame de Bon Secours, the chapel facing the sea, in which 
 the women gather together to pray, when the storms rage, 
 and the men they love are in deadly peril. He saw her 
 tall, slender figure, and quickened his steps. His heart 
 throbbed. In a moment she would turn, holding out both 
 her hands, smiling sagaciously. 
 
 And it was so. Although he moved lightly, her quick 
 ear caught his step. Swiftly she turned, a glad exclama- 
 tion escaping her : 
 
 "Tim!" 
 
 "Daffy, dear ! This is splendid." 
 
 He was holding her small hands, gazing into her blue 
 eyes, unable to speak, thinking of his dead wife and the 
 years that the locusts had eaten, reading, too, the writing 
 upon her fine face, noting the subtle changes which Time 
 had wrought, deciding that she was more beautiful than 
 ever, a noble woman, nobly planned. 
 
 She sighed as she withdrew her hands. 
 
 "You heard me coming?" 
 
 "Oh, yes." 
 
 His heart swelled with exultation. That she had heard 
 meant so much, a thousand things never to be put into 
 words. 
 
 "Let us walk to the rocks, Daffy. How clever of you to 
 choose this very moment ! How like you !" 
 
 The tide was out. The rocks, covered with varech, 
 stretched into the sea. Tiny waves rippled against them. 
 Upon the horizon the islets of Glenan lay sofly blue, seen 
 through a thin silvery mist. To the right was the Point of 
 Penmarch. Brooding over the sea, as if, like Aphrodite, 
 322
 
 Fortune Smiles 
 
 she had just emerged from the deep, hovered the Spirit 
 of Spring. 
 
 "How heavenly!" said Daffy. 
 
 They moved slowly across the beach. The gulls were 
 mewing overhead ; the brown-sailed boats glided home. It 
 was impossible to say anything because there was so much 
 to say. Impulse moved Tim to utter wild words, to tell 
 his dear friend that this moment had become an imperishable 
 experience, that the sight of her held a grace and a bene- 
 diction which even she could never understand. In the 
 darkness, with the great light of Penmarch flashing inter- 
 mittently, he might have spoken. He held his peace, because 
 Peace seemed to dominate all things and all men. 
 
 "You are in mourning," he said. 
 
 "My mother is dead." 
 
 She stated the fact calmly. Tim offered no condolence. 
 His grudge against Mrs. Carmichael vanished. She became 
 to him what the dry years had been, dust of an irrevocable 
 past. Daffy murmured almost inaudibly: 
 
 "Poor mother ! She meant well." 
 
 That was her epitaph, spoken by the child of her womb. 
 Did she know now, this masterful woman, that meaning 
 well she had wrought ill? Had death sealed her hard eyes 
 only to open them to the light? What an awakening that 
 would be ! Tim hesitated ; then he said quietly : 
 
 "Did your mother arrange your marriage?" 
 
 "Yes," said Daffy. 
 
 Without another word, he understood that Daffy had 
 ceased to harbour hard thoughts against her mother. They, 
 too, were dust which tears has washed away forever. 
 
 "Tell me about your book," said Daffy. 
 
 "My book is myself, Daffy." 
 
 "I know ; that is why I want to hear all about it." 
 
 "You are exactly the same," he exclaimed. 
 
 "Only in that," she answered. 
 
 323
 
 Timothy 
 
 VI 
 
 Tim, however, did not talk of his book; he proposed to 
 read the rough draft aloud to her. He asked for news of 
 the Vicar. Had she been to Little Pennington? 
 
 "My mother is buried there." 
 
 She continued tranquilly, her eyes softening when she 
 spoke of the Vicar. The dear man was well, unchanged, a 
 saint for all sinners to admire and love. 
 
 "I long to see him again." 
 
 "But why haven't you? Was it fair to him?" 
 
 For his mother's sake, he dared not tell the truth. And 
 without it explanations and excuses gave out a hollow sound. 
 
 "Don't press me too hard, Daffy. I couldn't. I felt the 
 same about meeting you." 
 
 She smiled: "What a pride!" 
 
 "Go on ; tell me about the village." 
 
 She did so with an admirable simplicity. 
 
 "It remains a resting-place. I like to go there. I was 
 confirmed in the church." 
 
 "Do you think I had forgotten ?" 
 
 "I can even look with melancholy pleasure at the stained 
 glass windows." 
 
 "Like the apostolic Benner. Is he alive ?" 
 
 "Very much so. He is never happier than when talking 
 about you. You are not forgotten, Tim." 
 
 "It is pleasant to hear that." 
 
 "I sat in the Dell, but the cave has fallen in. The limes 
 in the churchyard have been pollarded." 
 
 "Did my my father talk much to you of me ?" 
 
 "Oh, yes." 
 
 But she did not repeat what the Vicar had said. Tim 
 remained silent, thinking that the water of her mind was too 
 clear and bright for fishing. He said pensively: 
 
 "We have corresponded regularly ; I have all his letters ; 
 
 and yet " 
 
 324
 
 Fortune Smiles 
 
 He paused, meeting her glance, wondering why it was 
 interrogative. 
 
 "And yet ?" 
 
 "Ah, well, you can read them. They are concerned with 
 me and others, not enough with himself." 
 
 "I can understand that you don't know him really. That 
 is something illuminating to come." 
 
 "Daffy, do you feel that you know him?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Her reserves exasperated him, but he accepted them with 
 the compensating reflection that if the Vicar still remained 
 something of a mystery, she bless her! in her attitude 
 towards himself was the same sweet creature not ashamed 
 of her loyalty and affection for the lover of childhood. 
 
 "What a friend you are !" he exclaimed. 
 
 She flushed delicately, smiling at his enthusiasm. 
 
 As they returned to the hotel, she told him about Alice 
 Peronet, a sage, who from the high tower of a chaste widow- 
 hood beheld mankind as mostly fools. 
 
 "Your watch-dog?" 
 
 "That is quite unnecessary. No; a pal. You will like 
 her." 
 
 "I shall adore her if she leaves us alone." 
 
 "We must leave her alone; she bargained for that." 
 
 He spoke briefly of his friends, whom she met presently 
 on the terrasse; and he perceived that she was seeing him 
 through them. She was especially kind to Lasher, winning 
 him at once by the quotation of a line from one of his 
 poems. The men surrounded her, paying homage. She 
 accepted it with the air of a great lady accustomed to lip- 
 service and able to appraise it. 
 
 Mrs. Peronet joined them. Tim eyed her with interest. 
 If Daffy essayed a better knowledge of himself through the 
 personalities of his comrades, why should not he achieve a 
 surer analysis of her through Mrs. Peronet? 
 
 At first sight the petticoated sage challenged pity. She 
 
 325
 
 Timothy 
 
 looked frail and insignificant till her eyes flashed. And 
 the grasp of an emaciated claw was reassuring, almost de- 
 fiantly so, as if it were a warning not to confound physical 
 weakness with lack of vitality. When Daffy met her with 
 the obligatory question : "I hope, Alice, you aren't too 
 tired?" she replied trenchantly: "Tired, my dear! I'm 
 never tired in a new place amongst new people." And it 
 was she, not Daffy, who insisted upon dining at the long 
 table where Cabral presided. She said to Tim : 
 
 "Good food is wasted on me. I eat enough, no more, to 
 keep body and soul together. Good talk nourishes me." 
 
 She was so thin, that Tim was tempted to reply: 
 
 "I fear you have not had much of it lately." 
 
 She deftly picked the unspoken thought out of his mind. 
 
 "I hope to gain weight here." 
 
 After dinner, in the cafe, Cabral and Otis captured Daffy. 
 Tim found himself alone with Mrs. Peronet, who smoked 
 many cigarettes. He discovered that Daffy was her 
 favourite theme of conversation. He wondered whether 
 Daffy were aware of this. Did she realise, hating, as she 
 did, to talk about herself, that Alice Peronet would tell what 
 she shrank from telling. It might well be so. 
 
 Mrs. Peronet liked straight going. She said abruptly 
 to him: 
 
 "Of course we came here to inspect you." 
 
 "Capital. I'm in parade order." 
 
 "Appearances are a mockery. You look uncommonly 
 well. I look ill and spooky, but really I'm one of the 
 healthiest and sanest women in the world. I wanted to 
 meet you, Mr. White, because I'm Daffy's best woman 
 friend, and I know what her affection is for you. I hope 
 you're worthy of it." 
 
 "I share that hope," replied Tim gravely. 
 
 "She is quite wonderful ; and I can assure you that I have 
 the soundest critical apprehension of her." 
 
 Her sparkling eyes challenged him to ask questions. 
 326
 
 Fortune Smiles 
 
 "I can see," he went on slowly, "that she has suffered." 
 "It has strengthened her. Rokeby is an egotist and a 
 fool." 
 
 "Why did she marry him? I met him in California, 
 as you know." She nodded ; he continued eagerly : "I saw 
 that the marriage was a failure, but I dafred not ask her 
 why she had chosen him." 
 
 Mrs. Peronet laughed scornfully. 
 
 "I guessed then what I know to-day, that her mother 
 made the match, but Daffy has a strong will of her own." 
 "That caused the trouble. Her will clashed with her 
 mother's. There were ructions between them at home. 
 That is the primary cause of most disastrous marriages. 
 Rokeby was a great parti. Mrs. Carmichael played her 
 cards cleverly. She gave Rokeby to understand that Daffy 
 was in love with him ; she persuaded Daffy that Rokeby 
 was in love with her the wicked, silly game which has 
 wrecked so many lives. Daffy, poor innocent! fondly be- 
 lieved that she would be a helpmeet to Rokeby. Oh, the 
 fatuity of it ! That is at once her strength and her weak- 
 ness, the desire to help others, which was inspired in her 
 by your father." 
 "By him?" 
 
 "Surely you knew that?" 
 "It has escaped me." 
 Mrs. Peronet seemed surprised. 
 "He is a saint, sanctified by self-sacrifice." 
 "I give you my word that I never saw her by his light." 
 "She must be seen in the right light." 
 Tim said warmly : "Daffy can brave the sun." 
 "I tell you she is best seen by reflected light." 
 "Talking with you, I am beginning to believe it." 
 "Her early upbringing has been a tremendous influence, 
 colouring and discolouring all her actions. I have been to 
 the happy village; and I'm not surprised. And often and 
 often I've wondered whether Daffy's affection for the Vicar 
 
 327
 
 Timothy 
 
 of Little Pennington is a radiation of her affection for you, 
 or vice versa." 
 
 Tim made no reply. 
 
 He went to bed feeling exuberantly happy. 
 
 VII 
 
 Daffy and Alice Peronet listened to the reading aloud of 
 Dust. They sat in Timothy's studio, where Alethea's por- 
 trait framed rather too gorgeously, stood upon the big easel. 
 Tim had promised to send it to the Salon ; and Cabral just 
 hinted, no more, that he might pull strings with the jury. At 
 any rate, the good fellow promised that the portrait should 
 be generously considered. Otis said : 
 
 "It'll be hung all right." 
 
 Neither Daffy nor her friend knew much about painting ; 
 and it seemed to them that Tim had achieved a remarkable 
 success. So much so that Mrs. Peronet became eager for 
 Tim to paint Daffy. This he refused to do, although con- 
 sent meant long hours alone with his sitter. 
 
 "If your novel is as good as that !" Mrs. Peronet 
 
 left the sentence unfinished. 
 
 "You shall be the judge." 
 
 From the first chapter, the book gripped them. He could 
 see that. And he guessed that his listeners were fairly rep- 
 resentative of the better class of readers. But he entreated 
 them to withhold criticism till the end. When that end came 
 Daffy's eyes were wet, tribute most precious to all authors. 
 Mrs. Peronet spoke with authority : 
 
 "It has atmosphere. I've never been to California, but 
 I see this ranch. Set me down in the middle of it and I 
 should know where I was. Also, you have subordinated 
 your effects to your theme, no easy job, that! Your values 
 stand out I call it a fine piece of drawing for a beginner. 
 And your knowledge of painting, your sense of colour, 
 has helped you. As soon as it is published I shall despatch 
 328
 
 Fortune Smiles 
 
 hundreds of postcards to my friends telling them that it is 
 a book to buy." 
 
 "You are most awfully kind." 
 
 "Daffy will do more, because her friends are innumera- 
 ble." 
 
 "My acquaintances, Alice." 
 
 This was pleasant and satisfactory, although Tim was 
 exacerbated at the time by the fear that success, if it were 
 indeed his, might be ephemeral. To soar like a rocket, and 
 fall like its stick, had been the unhappy lot of many men, 
 one-book men, one-picture men. Into Dust he had put him- 
 self, his own experiences and feelings. His next novel must 
 perforce be largely imaginary. Alice Peronet pooh-poohed 
 such apprehensions. In common with Otis she dwelt upon 
 the importance of a fine start. 
 
 Meanwhile, a letter had come from Broad, suggesting a 
 pseudonym, because there happened to be a well-known 
 novelist of the name of White. Tim discussed this at 
 some length with the ladies, who knew that he had been 
 both Green and Brown. 
 
 "And I felt Black," he added. 
 
 "But that has passed ?" murmured Daffy. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 She said slowly : 
 
 "Would Grey do?" 
 
 Mrs. Peronet approved of Grey, so did Lasher, although 
 he pointed out that to him there was something comic in 
 these parti-coloured changes of name. Tim admitted that 
 it was an idiosyncrasy, and he was longing to tell Daffy 
 that he had no right to the Vicar's patronymic. The secret 
 of his parentage had been withheld even from Magdalena. 
 
 Grey! 
 
 He pondered over the name for forty-eight hours, be- 
 neath grey skies, looking across grey waters. The conviction 
 came to him that this would be the last name, and the most 
 fitting for grey, the grey of the Breton landscape, held all 
 colours in its sober keeping. Finally he wrote to Broad, 
 
 329
 
 Timothy 
 
 telling him that he had chosen Grey as a nom-de-plume. 
 What more fitting, replied the eminent publisher, than a 
 pseudonym which suggested the quill from the grey goose. 
 Tim laughed at this mild joke because Lasher contended 
 that nearly all scribblers were geese. At the table d'hote 
 Timothy Grey was toasted. Tim said derisively : 
 
 "A fitter name for me would be Blanc d'Espagne." 
 
 He had to interpret this quip to Alice Peronet. 
 
 "Blanc d'Espagne means white-wash." 
 
 "Indeed !" Her eyes probed his very heart. "You really 
 feel that?" 
 
 He replied grimly: 
 
 "Ever since you arrived." 
 
 330
 
 BOOK FIVE: GREY
 
 BOOK FIVE: GREY 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 SPINDRIFT 
 
 DAFFY and Tim did not break new ground till they had 
 traversed together the old paths down which they had 
 wandered as children. And Tim soon discovered that her 
 memory of those joyous days was even more tenacious than 
 his own. She recalled the butterfly-hunting expeditions to 
 capture some rare fritillary in Pennington High Wood, or 
 the brilliant "Chalk-hill blue" to be found on the downs near 
 Winchester amongst whins where the stonechats nested. 
 They spent an hour talking over a tremendous enterprise, 
 the re-levelling of a tennis-court. Eustace Pomfret had 
 been impressed into service with a barrow, which he would 
 wheel full of earth along a narrow plank, invariably upset- 
 ting it. And then Tim and Daffy would laugh at his serious, 
 distressed face. Tim asked for news of the old "Plodder." 
 It appeared that he took himself more seriously than ever; 
 he was in Orders so Tim learned and Vicar of a big 
 suburban parish, a celibate. 
 
 "He couldn't change much," affirmed Tim. 
 
 "Do any of us change much?" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 She explained: 
 
 "My sisters are just the same. Annie married a Suffragan 
 Bishop ; she has four children. Carrie is an old maid. They 
 repeat the same phrases. 'I quite agree' is still Annie's 
 
 333
 
 Timothy 
 
 cheval de bataille. Carrie is sure that everything is for the 
 best in the best of worlds. And you and I, Tim " 
 
 She paused, smiling at him. 
 
 "We have changed." 
 
 "We were mutineers. And we are so to-day." 
 
 "Are we?" 
 
 "Under our skins. One learns, of course, to dissemble. 
 Poor Mother ! Towards the close of her life I never argued 
 with her ; and I never argue with Rokeby. How inept this 
 forcing of one's opinions down other people's throats. They 
 then cease to be one's own." 
 
 "So, you keep yours under lock and key." 
 
 "I shew them to a very few friends." 
 
 "Shew them to me." 
 
 "Presently." 
 
 He marked her reluctance to talk about herself, but grad- 
 ually the routine of her life was unrolled. Hunting and 
 shooting engrossed Rokeby from October till March; then 
 followed four months in London ; after the season was over 
 they went to Scotland. They entertained hosts of friends 
 coming and going in a never-ending procession. Tim said 
 warmly : 
 
 "Surely you loathe that?" 
 
 "Rokeby likes it," she replied evasively. 
 
 "Sounds to me a tread-mill." 
 
 "It is." 
 
 "Poor Daff !" 
 
 But she frowned slightly when he pitied her, changing the 
 subject. He consoled himself with the reflection that she 
 looked strong and well. 
 
 "Health," he remarked, "is a tremendous asset. During 
 my black phase I could think of nothing else. My mind 
 poisoned my body; and exercising my body purged my 
 mind." 
 
 "Hunting works that way with me." 
 
 "Long ago, I met a fellow in San Francisco. Sir Some- 
 body Jocelyn " 
 
 334
 
 Spindrift 
 
 "Harry Jocelyn?" 
 
 "Yes ; he said that you went like a bird." 
 
 "Poor Harry! He has come to sad grief, ran off with 
 another man's wife. They are living at Dinard, I believe. 
 He wanted to marry her, but she couldn't get a divorce." 
 
 "A dog-in-the-manger trick !" 
 
 "Many men are like that. It is rather a pitiful revenge." 
 
 She sighed. Tim tried quite in vain to read her thoughts, 
 wondering whether Rokeby was a gentleman of the dog-in- 
 the-manger kidney. 
 
 "I should like to hunt again," he observed. 
 
 "One becomes a slave to it," said Daffy. "I can assure 
 you that a master's wife has no easy billet." 
 
 "Then this is a real holiday for you, dear." 
 
 "It is indeed." 
 
 ii 
 
 He watched her with children, Concarneau's never-failing 
 crop. The Spring fishing was slightly better than usual, 
 alleviating the general distress brought about by the sardine 
 famine, but many went hungry. Alethea had loosened gen- 
 erously her purse-strings, tightening those of her heart, 
 perhaps, in a not unnatural revulsion against dirt and 
 squalor. Daffy so Tim perceived exhibited no such 
 shrinkings. Alethea would talk sentimentally about a pretty, 
 clean baby, and on such occasions Tim would have a vision 
 of her going to some well-appointed orphanage and picking 
 out the prettiest boy in it with a view to adopting him, if he 
 proved sweet and good and worthy (a favourite word of 
 Alethea's). Daffy, on the other hand, sought the most for- 
 lorn specimens, protesting vehemently against conditions 
 which according to her view should be wiped out of exist- 
 ence by the concerted wealth and intelligence of the world. 
 She dealt with such conditions sanely and practically, calling 
 in the doctor if he were needed, speaking to the local au- 
 thorities and the parents, quite undaunted by difficulties 
 
 335
 
 Timothy 
 
 which frightened Alethea. Tim became gradually sure that 
 her most poignant regret was childlessness, a regret ineffec- 
 tually hidden from Alice Peronet, who confirmed Tim's 
 diagnosis of a secret malady. Daffy, too, betrayed herself 
 again and again. 
 
 She said to Tim: 
 
 "The hearth here is everything le foyer Breton. Souv- 
 estre fails there lamentably. His stories, charming though 
 they are, arouse an expectation which is never satisfied. The 
 title is misleading. Nobody has described so admirably the 
 manners and customs of the province, but he deals with the 
 rind, not the core. Le Braz, too, is more concerned with 
 legend and costume and functions than with the heart of 
 the people. Bazin might do it. Botrel, in some of his 
 simplest verses, has captured exactly what I mean." She 
 quoted 
 
 Les petits sabots des petits Bretons. 
 
 Petites Bretonnes, 
 Chantent des chansons en differents tons, 
 
 Jamais monotones Toe, toe! 
 Chers petits sabots des petits Bretons 
 
 Trop tot Ton vous quitte: 
 Des petits Bretons les petits petons 
 
 Grandissent trop vite! Toe, toe! 
 
 Many talks upon this subject fired Tim with an eager 
 desire to begin another novel, dealing with Breton life and 
 character. Daffy pointed out that, to her mind, the supreme 
 merit of the first book was due to its sincerity. It con- 
 vinced the reader because it dealt solely with experiences 
 through which the writer had passed. Daffy was sure that 
 Tim ought to continue upon the same simple lines. Every 
 word she uttered became suggestive, and in speaking of 
 women and children she, quite unconsciously, furnished 
 him with information and experience which he, as uncon- 
 sciously, assimilated and garnered. She was never happier 
 or more intelligent than when discussing with him what a 
 
 33 6
 
 Spindrift 
 
 woman would or would not do, given certain conditions. In 
 dealing with men, Tim needed no assistance. 
 
 Finally, he selected a theme entirely Breton. The story 
 dealt with peasants and fisherfolk, types sharply contrasted, 
 for the peasant is slow-witted, cautious and thrifty, whereas 
 the fisherman is his antithesis, intelligent, reckless and a 
 spendthrift of earnings which may be large "quand la sar- 
 dine donne." Together Daffy and Tim wandered into the 
 farmyards and homesteads, into the huts of the sabotiers, 
 into the grey houses of the fishermen. Out of the mouths of 
 little children flowed innumerable answers to their questions, 
 for the parents are exasperatingly reserved, eyeing with 
 suspicion the strangers who wander through the province. 
 
 ''This will be a big book," predicted Daffy. 
 
 And if it were Tim decided that he would owe his in- 
 spiration to her, his dear old friend, and that when she 
 left him the fountain would be sealed. He began to count 
 the days that remained ; he began to envisage himself alone ; 
 he began, alas ! to envisage himself and her together, never 
 to be parted except by death. 
 
 No woman, he reflected sadly, had appealed to him as 
 Daffy did. She seemed to have been created to satisfy every 
 side of him, the physical, the mental, and the spiritual. Com- 
 parisons between her and Magdalena were impossible. The 
 fact that he had loved his wife so tenderly and so faithfully 
 enabled him to grasp what love in its supreme fulness might 
 mean. He could give to Daffy all that had been given to 
 Magdalena and how much more ? And always the thought 
 consumed him : From the first she was mine ! 
 
 in 
 
 They made an expedition to the Pointe du Raz, passing 
 through the country of the Bigoudens, the wildest part of 
 the province, where the women descendants of Phoenicians 
 remain oriental to this day. 
 
 337
 
 Timothy 
 
 When they reached the Pointe, a gale happened to be 
 blowing. Huge waves were breaking upon the granite 
 rocks ; thundering surges rolled in from the Atlantic. To the 
 right lay the terrible Bay des Trepasses. The man who 
 serves as guide to tourists warned Tim that the wind upon 
 the headland would be furious. Tim, however, knew well 
 the narrow track which overhangs the caldron of turbulent 
 waters, and Daffy assured him that her nerves were to be 
 relied on. She, indeed, urged upon him her desire to stand 
 upon the most westerly point of France, and to behold the 
 glorious spectacle of wind and waves in wildest conflict. 
 And, truly, there is no more awful and sublime phenomenon 
 in the world than this duel a outrance which rages but rarely, 
 and in its most tremendous fury only when the Spring tides 
 are at their height, and running against a sou-westerly gale. 
 
 "You are not afraid?" said Tim. 
 
 "Do I look so?" she asked. 
 
 He gazed at her keenly. Her black serge skirt and jacket, 
 closely fitting, accentuated the fine lines of her form and 
 the fair colouring of a face glowing beneath the lashing 
 wind. Her blue eyes sparkled with excitement. 
 
 "Follow me," said Tim. 
 
 He moved cautiously along the slippery face of the cliff, 
 instructing Daffy to tread carefully in his steps. For a 
 few minutes they were comparatively sheltered from the 
 blast, but the roar of the breakers upon the rocks below was 
 punctuated by shrill whistlings and wailings, as if some 
 vast monster were in anguish. 
 
 "I have never known it like this," said Tim. 
 
 He had to shout at her. She nodded, smilingly. 
 
 "We're in big luck," Tim added. 
 
 They reached a corner, the last sheltering place. 
 
 "I'll reconnoitre," said Tim. 
 
 He left her in the shelter. By this time there was no 
 
 doubt either in his mind or hers that the warnings of the 
 
 guide had been justified. Their adventure was fraught with 
 
 grave peril. As Tim rounded the corner, the gale seemed 
 
 338
 
 Spindrift 
 
 to strike him. He staggered back with a sharp exclamation. 
 Then, securing his foothold, he turned a reassuring glance 
 at Daffy, at the moment when she was least prepared to 
 meet it. For an instant she thought that Tim would be 
 dashed into the gulf below. It had never occurred to her 
 that he would look back. 
 
 What he saw drove him mad with exultation. He faced 
 the gale, knowing that she loved him. The question, so 
 insistent of late, was answered. Her friendship had never 
 been in doubt, but had it cooled the old love? Was she 
 tormented by the pangs which assailed him, whenever he 
 thought of what might have been? 
 
 Her face revealed everything she had suppressed so 
 valiantly. It was piteous with anxiety, twisted by misery. 
 He divined that had he slipped and fallen she would have 
 perished with him, leaping after him. Yes ; she was capa- 
 ble of that. 
 
 He crawled on till he reached the vantage point, whence 
 the scene below might be watched in all its immense 
 splendour and majesty. To stand there with Daffy seemed 
 to him to be the greatest moment of his life. If they were 
 dashed to destruction, what of it? He recked nothing of 
 such a death nor would she. The tumult in their hearts 
 matched the tumult of the elements. 
 
 He returned to her. She wondered whether he knew. 
 His face was as impassive as hers. He was obliged to put 
 his mouth to her ear. 
 
 "It's hardly safe," he whispered. 
 
 "I'll risk it with you," she answered confidently. 
 
 He smiled. The risk which beguiled him presented itself 
 as enchantingly to her. To share a common danger can 
 love demand a finer test? 
 
 "I'll go first. Grip my coat with both hands. Slowly 
 does it." 
 
 She obeyed breathlessly; he heard a sigh of satisfaction 
 as she grasped his coat. 
 
 339
 
 Timothy 
 
 Then step by step, they ascended the cliff, drenched by 
 the spray from the waves. 
 
 IV 
 
 When they had crawled in safety to the uttermost point, 
 Tim placed Daffy between himself and the precipice, so that 
 she was sheltered by his body and a great rock. Upon this 
 spot, soon afterwards, the divine Sarah stood alone, when 
 a tempest was raging, and watched the waters. Nothing 
 could be imagined more likely to "expand the spirit and 
 appal" than such a scene. The high Alps, inaccessible at 
 such a moment, might, as Byron suggested, excite similar 
 emotions, but one conceives that a man at the top of the 
 Matterhorn when a ninety-mile-an-hour gale is blowing 
 would be engrossed by the certainty of immediate death. 
 The sun blazed out between inky clouds. The ocean was a 
 pale, lurid grey where the sun shone upon it ; the clouds cast 
 deep indigo shadows. The line of battle where wind met 
 tide was a wall of foam with streamers of spindrift whirling 
 upwards. From the hollows of the cliffs below rumbled a 
 deep diapason note, dominating the other sounds the 
 shrieking of the blast, the crashing of the breakers, and the 
 swish of the spray. 
 
 Daffy and Tim gazed in fascination. Nature seemed to be 
 groaning and travailing beneath the pangs of some tremen- 
 dous birth. Across the northeasterly horizon stretched a 
 double rainbow. Every colour and every gfadation of 
 colour might be found in either sky or sea. 
 
 Presently Tim's thoughts turned inwards. He beheld with 
 clearest vision past storms and tumults which had swept 
 him hither and thither like the spindrift upon the ocean, 
 or a bird struggling to fly against the wind, and suddenly 
 whirled in the opposite direction. Often he had envied 
 men who seemed to forget dark and bitter hours, whose 
 memories lingered in the sunshine, tasting and retasting 
 some small triumph, chewing the cud of it forever and ever. 
 340
 
 Spindrift 
 
 What an attribute, making for peace and happiness, this 
 complacent, indolent self-glorification! It had never been 
 his lucky lot thus to forget pain and to gloat over past 
 pleasure. 
 
 A revulsion of passion gripped and shook him. He stood 
 by his wife's grave, seeing her dear body lowered into the 
 earth, soon to be transmuted into corruption and dust. 
 What a terrifying, agonising moment that had been. After- 
 wards he had loathed the idea so sweet to many of revis- 
 iting her grave. He could conceive of her anywhere except 
 in that narrow, abominable box ! Amongst his papers in a 
 despatch box were instructions that his own body should 
 be cremated, and that the ashes should be flung to the cleans- 
 ing winds and waters. 
 
 He turned his face and met Daffy's eyes. 
 
 "What is it?" she asked, seeing the torment and misery 
 in his heart. 
 
 He did not answer. 
 
 There is no such appeal to women as this, the weakness 
 of a strong man, far more irresistible than his strength, 
 which evokes that poignant pity which is indeed akin to love. 
 Daffy's ministering hands sought his. All the sympathy 
 which at such moments can flow from a noble woman 
 flowed in fullest measure to this stricken friend. But she, 
 also, said not a word, as the tears rolled down her cheeks. 
 Tim gripped her hands. 
 
 She trembled, averting her eyes. 
 
 He saw his advantage, but did not press it, wondering 
 afterwards what power had restrained him in that wild 
 minute when the tempest within and without blew from 
 each the last rags of restraint. The crisis passed as the 
 wind seemed to increase in volume. Every second spent 
 upon this exposed spot endangered Daffy's life. 
 
 "We must go back," he muttered hoarsely. 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 "You go first," he enjoined. "I'll hold you." 
 
 It was impossible to walk upright. They had to crawl to 
 
 341
 
 Timothy 
 
 safety upon the narrow path, advancing inch by inch. When 
 the last perilous corner was turned, Tim asked one question, 
 pointing to the gulf below 
 
 "If we had gone over, would you have cared much?" 
 
 "I was not afraid of that," she answered gravely. 
 
 Yet he had seen fear in her eyes, fear of him and of 
 herself. 
 
 "I'm glad we did it," he replied. 
 
 Next day, another excursion was made to an ancient 
 manor house, once a small feudal castle, which lies upon 
 the banks of a river sheltered by fine trees. The man in 
 charge informed Tim that the property, not a large one, 
 was for sale and mentioned a modest price. This fact quick- 
 ened the interest of the visitors, for the house and grounds 
 were charming. Otis began a sketch ; Mrs. Peronet sat near 
 him, reading; Tim and Daffy explored the garden, which 
 revealed unexpected beauties. Huge rocks covered with 
 moss lay amidst hoary oaks now bursting into full leaf. 
 The storm of the previous day had exhausted itself. A 
 breeze sighed softly in the pines which fringed the higher 
 grounds. Wild flowers carpeted the glades. The river could 
 be seen below, a silvery riband winding towards the sea. 
 The seclusion was absolute. And about the gnarled oaks 
 and rocks lingered mystery. One could conceive of Druidi- 
 cal rites in such a spot. It was haunted by some elusive 
 spirit of the past. Two peasants, a fisherman and a girl, 
 passed Tim and Daffy. They walked side by side, with fin- 
 jars interlaced, lovers, with a brooding expression upon 
 their brown, impassive faces. The girl wore the pretty cos- 
 tume of Pont-Aven ; the man was in faded overalls with a 
 blue beret jauntily aslant upon his head. Tim watched them 
 enviously. 
 
 The shadows swallowed them up. Soon they would 
 342
 
 Spindrift 
 
 emerge upon a stretch of down dotted by gorse bushes 
 blazing yellow in the sun. Then, perhaps, they would stand 
 and talk of what the future might hold, of the house wherein 
 their children would be born, of the boat yet to be built, 
 of the garden to be planted and tended. 
 
 Tim and Daffy wandered on. The small domain formed 
 a peninsula, surrounded on three sides by the river which 
 separated it from a fishing hamlet upon the farther shore. 
 
 "What a place," said Tim. "I could buy it, if I chose. 
 That's a wonderful thought." 
 
 He began to talk of what he could do in such an earthly 
 paradise, sheltered even from the winds of the Atlantic. 
 There was a terrace, with a stone balustrade, running along 
 the fagade which faced the river, and in front a cour d'hon- 
 neur, a miniature affair, but the real thing, once thronged 
 with cavaliers and gay ladies going a-hawking. In the cen- 
 tre was an ancient well with a superb stone top, grotesquely 
 carved. And, inside the chateau, were two immense stone- 
 vaulted rooms. What a delight to fill them with old Breton 
 furniture and faience, to panel the walls with sides of chests 
 bought here and -there out of the farmhouses ! Had Daffy 
 noticed the immense open hearth? Wouldn't it be jolly to 
 sit in front of roaring logs when the winds blew and one 
 could hear the roar of the breakers. 
 
 As he talked, his face flushed; his eyes sparkled. Daffy 
 beheld again the ingenuous youth of Little Pennington ; she 
 heard his mirthful laugh which had so captivated her long 
 ago. Suddenly he stopped. 
 
 "But you would be bored ?" 
 
 "No, no. Go on! To listen to you is like hearing a 
 -dream transposed into words." 
 
 The years seemed to have fallen from her ; she spoke and 
 looked as the Daffy who had sat with him in the Dell, prat- 
 tling of a future to be passed with him. Tim said, abruptly : 
 
 "The dream might come true." 
 
 Silently, she shook her head. He burst out with startling 
 vehemence : 
 
 343
 
 Timothy 
 
 "Why not? Nothing is needed but courage." 
 
 She lifted her hands with an imploring gesture. Tim 
 seized her, drawing her towards him, gazing into her face, 
 trying to interpret the expression of eyes which eluded 
 his. 
 
 "Courage to flout convention, to seize opportunity, to 
 remake our lives to to begin again." 
 
 "Tim ! You hurt me !" 
 
 He released her, but he went on : 
 
 "Ah ! You are afraid. To give up what you have it is 
 too much to ask of any woman." 
 
 Nettled by the irony in his voice, she retorted quickly : 
 
 "Rank is nothing to me nothing. And I am rich enough 
 in my own right. How dare you misunderstand me ?" 
 
 He smiled; she was angry, the dear creature; therefore 
 she loved him. Otherwise she would have laughed. 
 
 "Daffy, what stands between us and the happiness which 
 we could give each other?" 
 
 "I cannot answer you, Tim." 
 
 "You mean you won't." 
 
 "The question will be answered, but not by me." 
 
 She spoke with a restraint that imposed itself subtly 
 upon his quick intelligence. 
 
 "Can I answer it?" 
 
 "Only you. But not here or now." 
 
 "Then when? And where?" 
 
 She drew herself up, standing erect before him, faintly 
 smiling. Her dignity confounded him, for love glowed in 
 her eyes. 
 
 He was about to speak, but she entreated silence with a 
 gesture, continuing softly: "I have never doubted your 
 love for me, not even in that dreary bitter hour when I 
 learned from my mother why you had left England." 
 
 "You are wonderful." 
 
 "I think women who love truly are like that. We were 
 very young, little more than children, but age has nothing 
 to do with love. I shall love you when I am old, Tim." 
 344
 
 Spindrift 
 
 "If you feel that, come to me." 
 
 "I am not afraid of the world's censure. I could sacri- 
 fice my good name for your sake, but if I came to you now, 
 you, not I, would be leaping into the dark, into shadows." 
 
 "But this is mystery." 
 
 "It is indeed, because the mystery lies thick upon you, 
 not me. I cannot see you clearly yet. I can see the boy, not 
 the man. An ordeal lies before you, an experience through 
 which you must pass. When it is over, when your eyes are 
 opened, come back to me. I make no pledges, but what is 
 best in me, which recognises what is best in you, dares me 
 to put you to the proof. If you should fail, if you should 
 not rise to your full stature, to the manhood which I have 
 prayed might be yours, why then, Tim, I might do what you 
 ask, for God knows that your need of me would be tre- 
 mendous." 
 
 "What is this ordeal?" 
 
 "I want you to go to Little Pennington, to see your 
 father." 
 
 "But why?" 
 
 "He will answer that question in his own way and at his 
 own time. Will you go ?" 
 
 "Yes, but I shall come back to you." 
 
 345
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 JACK 
 
 TIM left Concarneau some two days later. Upon the 
 very eve of his departure arrived the draft from Cali- 
 fornia. He shewed it triumphantly to Otis, who entreated 
 him to invest it in gilt-edged securities. Tim mentioned the 
 ancient chateau, but Otis ridiculed such a bargain. 
 
 "Cost you a small fortune to do it up," he remarked. 
 
 "That's where the fun would come in." 
 
 "But, hang it! you couldn't live there alone.' 
 
 To this Tim vouchsafed no reply. 
 
 Daffy and Mrs. Peronet left Concarneau with Tim, but 
 he parted from them at Quimper, where the ladies were 
 passing the night. Apart from his promise to Daffy, he 
 wished to arrive in London upon the day when Dust was 
 published. And he wished, also, to travel through Paris, for 
 the portrait of Alethea had passed the jury (thanks to Cab- 
 ral's influence) and was already hung. Tim, however, had 
 lost interest in it. Nevertheless, such a small triumph 
 counted. In Paris, he saw his picture, high above the line, 
 and spent a joyous evening with Briand and Cabral. Cer- 
 tainly the luck had changed. Cabral said emphatically : 
 
 "Tu as de la veine, toi !" 
 
 He arrived in London upon the 28th of April, refusing to 
 wait for the opening of the Salon. He put up at the Cecil 
 Hotel, dined well, and went to the play. At eleven, the next 
 morning, he called upon Broad, who shewed him his literary 
 first-born, swathed in blue, a promising-looking infant. He 
 346
 
 Jack 
 
 told the publisher that a Breton novel was on the stocks, and 
 Broad expressed a wish to publish it. 
 
 Thanks to his influence with the powerful editor of a 
 morning paper, a review of the novel appeared upon the 
 day of publication. Tim read the following : 
 
 We welcome warmly a sincere piece of work from the 
 pen of a new writer, entitled Dust. Most assuredly 
 it has penetrating qualities ; and we confess that it af- 
 fected eyes which we believed to be dust-proof. Mr. 
 Grey is to be congratulated upon a notable achievement. 
 He transports us to California, to a foothill ranch upon 
 which he must have lived and loved and suffered. It is 
 quite impossible to treat this novel as mere fiction. We 
 venture to affirm it to be autobiographical, a faithful 
 record of life in a land of sunshine during an extended 
 period of drought. With practice Mr. Grey may learn 
 to write with greater ease and distinction; he may ac- 
 quire the tricks and cliches of his trade happily absent 
 from the present narrative; he may become we warn 
 him of this in all good faith a popular caterer to a 
 large public; for we find in this first book possibilities 
 adumbrating alike triumph and disaster. We do not 
 know Mr. Grey personally, but we see clearly in the 
 author of Dust two personalities, the artist, with a de- 
 lightful appreciation of the rhythm and colour of life, 
 with a trained or innate recognition of "values," and, 
 sharply contrasted, the man of business too concerned 
 with dramatic incident, too heedless of psychology. If 
 Mr. Grey achieves success, which of these two person- 
 alities will become the dominant partner? It has been 
 said that business * instinct underlies artistic triumphs, 
 but we are unconvinced of this. We cling to the belief 
 that the best work is accomplished by those who are 
 concerned altogether with that work, concentrating un- 
 divided energies upon it, with no eye lifted to behold 
 the effect on others, with no ear cocked for the applause 
 of the groundlings, with no hand open to clutch the 
 largesse of Fortune. We advise our readers to buy Dust, 
 to read it carefully, and to re-read it. 
 
 347
 
 Timothy 
 
 "That's rather jolly, isn't it?" said Tim, looking straight 
 at Broad, who was lying back in a comfortable chair. He 
 liked Broad, because the great man had not kept him cool- 
 ing his heels in a fusty waiting-room. Lasher cursed that 
 detestable cooling process and the complacent arrogance of 
 rich publishers who enthroned themselves high above im- 
 poverished poets. Broad, however, belonged to the old- 
 fashioned school. He was editor of a literary magazine, 
 and agreeably saturated with its traditions ; he wore grace- 
 fully the mantle of an illustrious predecessor; his manner 
 would have disarmed a nervous school-girl. And the room 
 in which he received his authors was historical, a fine, lofty, 
 Georgian chamber, thickly carpeted, lined with books in 
 glazed mahogany cases. 
 
 "It's handsome," said Broad. He went on comfortably : 
 
 "It will sell many copies. The advance sales, of course, 
 have been negligible, but the orders will come in. Oh, yes, 
 they will come in. A good slating, a long column of abuse 
 would be a capital 'ad.' Prepare yourself for that, Mr. 
 White." 
 
 "I'm not thin-skinned," said Tim cheerfully. "A portrait 
 I have done is hung fairly well in the Salon. The critics 
 will slate that. I don't mind." 
 
 He laughed, throwing back his head. Broad laughed with 
 him, although he said seriously : 
 
 "You paint as well?" 
 
 "I've chucked painting. That was pot-boiling. This 
 isn't, thank the Lord !" 
 
 "I'm glad to hear you say so. A portrait in the Salon ! 
 You are a fortunate young man." 
 
 "Young? Oh, no." 
 
 "Not much more than thirty, I take it?" 
 
 "Nearly thirty-six." 
 
 "Well, you don't look it. Can you do as your reviewer 
 suggests give undivided energies to literary work?" 
 
 "Yes ; I have independent means, enough for my modest 
 wants." 
 
 348
 
 Jack 
 
 "That's quite as it should be. Let me add this without 
 prejudice. Dust deals with California, and the book you 
 have on the blacks concerns itself, so you say, with Brittany. 
 But, if you wish to make a supreme appeal to our public, 
 you must write about England and the English. There are 
 notable exceptions to this general rule, but my advice you 
 will find is sound. Will you dine with me ?" 
 
 "I am leaving London to-morrow morning." 
 
 "Come to-night." 
 
 "You are very kind." 
 
 Broad named a famous club. Tim left his office, con- 
 scious of a thrilling sense of elation. The draft from Cali- 
 fornia lay snug in his pocket-book ; his picture hung in the 
 Salon; his book was on the eve of publication; and Daffy 
 loved him. 
 
 But why had she imposed this ordeal, and what was its 
 nature? Never had he been so completely mystified. Two 
 thoughts obsessed him : the knowledge that she loved him, 
 and her conviction that some strange experience through 
 which he must pass would keep them apart instead of bring- 
 ing them together. Crossing from Saint Malo he had en- 
 deavoured to analyse her mind and his own. Did she believe 
 that the influences of the happy village would prevail against 
 an all-consuming passion? Surely she was too clever, too 
 experienced, and too ardent to weave ropes out of such 
 sand ? And so far as she was concerned, any reluctance he 
 might have felt in tempting her to leave her husband was 
 dispelled by the knowledge that her married life had been 
 cruelly disappointing and unhappy. Avidly, he swallowed 
 details from Alice Peronet. Rokeby was unfaithful, an 
 animal, and unkind. Practically, husband and wife lived 
 apart. Everybody knew it. Tim could envisage himself 
 as Perseus. And he had a notion that the widowed sage so 
 regarded him. Certainly she was no stickler for convention, 
 no upholder of outworn creeds and frayed formulas. 
 Nevertheless, she dwelt too insistently upon Daffy's good- 
 
 349
 
 Timothy 
 
 ness and nobility of character, and her farewell to Tim had 
 been significant. 
 
 "Au revoir, mon preux chevalier." 
 
 Why did she call him a preux chevalier ? Was she ironic ? 
 Or, more consoling reflection, did she acclaim him as Per- 
 seus? 
 
 In this befogged condition of mind, he approached Little 
 Pennington, walking across the Downs from Winchester, 
 sending on his portmanteau in a fly. 
 
 ii 
 
 The Vicar was expecting him, but Tim had not men- 
 tioned a particular train, having a reasonable fear that he 
 might be met at the station. Fancy urged him to walk into 
 the Vicarage and hang his cap upon the old peg. The Vicar 
 would come out of his study, holding out both hands with 
 the familiar smile and gesture which Tim remembered so 
 well. Thus the ice would be broken ; and they would slide 
 at once into an easy intimacy. 
 
 When Tim came to the point whence the spire of Little 
 Pennington church may be first seen he halted, gazing about 
 him. He perceived no changes. The yews looked smaller, 
 a pond by the road, where some sheep were watering, ap- 
 peared to have shrunk. In fine, the landscape, as a whole, 
 presented the features of a delicate miniature rather than 
 a picture. 
 
 "I am bigger," thought Tim. 
 
 He sat upon a gate, filling his pipe, staring about him with 
 a faintly ironical smile. Presently, he made a grimace, 
 shrugging his broad shoulders. What effect would the shat- 
 tering of the Seventh Commandment exercise upon the 
 Vicar? This question worried Tim; but he consoled him- 
 self with the reflection that Rokeby would divorce his wife, 
 and that marriage would adjust the situation in the kinder 
 eyes of age and wisdom. With advancing years, the Vicar, 
 350
 
 Jack 
 
 surely, had discarded some too rigid and exacting conven- 
 tions. But had he? In an odd way, the familiar surround- 
 ings raised this question. The neatly trimmed fences, the 
 carefully cultivated fields, even the smug appearance of the 
 sheep, and, above all, the slender spire, indicated the ab- 
 sence of change. He had changed. Little Pennington re- 
 mained the same. 
 
 Tim smoked his pipe too fast with scant enjoyment. The 
 spirit of his old home entered once more into possession. 
 
 He felt what ? Afraid ? Why did he shrink from taking 
 the last few steps which lay between him and the Vicar? 
 Why did the desire to turn tail afflict him? 
 
 "I'll fight this out," he thought. 
 
 It was a matter of pride that he could face facts, and 
 deal with them masterfully. The moment had come to 
 which he had looked forward. He, the outcast, was return- 
 ing, as he had wished to return, a self-supporting, independ- 
 ent man. After a weary quest, he had found himself. He 
 knew rare accomplishment ! what he wanted. Would he 
 exchange positions with some magnate of the India Civil 
 Service? Did he envy, as he had done, some many-acred 
 squire sitting serene in ancestral halls ? Such boyish ambi- 
 tions had passed. He could wonder at the fatuity which 
 entertained them. What a dire punishment it would be if 
 men were constrained by Fate to dwell in the castles built 
 by youthful Fancy ! From the consideration and enumera- 
 tion of his assets high health, a moderate fortune, a rea- 
 sonable anticipation of fame, and the love of a dear woman 
 Tim turned to compute his disabilities. What he had 
 done would be esteemed by the Vicar of no account, a tale 
 of talents wilfully hidden, if he broke a Divine Law. 
 
 This was the ordeal which Daffy had adumbrated so mys- 
 teriously. She had foreseen the necessity of his meeting the 
 Vicar and accepting his hand in love and friendship, holding 
 out in return a hand about to impose a blow. Nevertheless, 
 this solution of a perplexing problem was too obvious. There 
 must be some factor as yet unperceived. Why had she im- 
 
 351
 
 Timothy 
 
 posed this meeting? Resentment kindled, as he realised the 
 falseness of his position, the hypocrisies that it must 
 impose. 
 
 "Shall I go back ?" he muttered. 
 
 He wriggled uneasily, as he knocked the ashes out of his 
 pipe, staring at them, sensible that every action, however 
 negligible, had definite meaning upon this eventful day. 
 Were his triumphs turning into ashes? 
 
 If he went back without meeting the Vicar, what would 
 Daffy say? Would he shrink in her faithful eyes to mean 
 proportions ? 
 
 Yes; that was inevitable. Out of pity, she might take 
 what was left of a man; and the memory of his cowardice 
 would poison happiness. 
 
 He must accomplish the odious task which she had im- 
 posed. 
 
 in 
 
 He passed some children, carrying garlands. A little girl 
 shyly offered a nosegay of cowslips. Tim said : 
 
 "Thank you very much. What is your name, my dear?" 
 
 "I be Daisy Judd." 
 
 Two more questions revealed that she was the daughter 
 of Journey. To her astonishment, Tim picked up the maid 
 and kissed her. When he set her down he slipped half a 
 sovereign into her fat little hand. 
 
 "Can you give your father a message ?" 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 "Tell him that his old friend, Mr. Tim, is coming to see 
 him. Can you remember that?" 
 
 She replied triumphantly : 
 
 "I can say the names of the kings of Israel." 
 
 "Where do you live, Daisy?" 
 
 She told him. scampering off to join the others. Tim 
 thought of the Cherub, as he passed through the Lych-gate, 
 and entered the churchyard. His eyes rested upon a new 
 352
 
 Jack 
 
 white marble cross, conspicuous for its size. He read the 
 inscription upon it. This was the grave of Daffy's mother. 
 The cross had been erected by Annie, the wife of the suf- 
 fragan bishop. He read a text 
 
 Her children shall rise up and call her blessed! 
 
 Tim lingered by the grave, uncovering his head. Then 
 he moved on to the grim mausoleum which held the bones 
 of the departed Penningtons. Hard by was the tomb of 
 the poet and prophet. Upon it lay two wreaths. Tim stood 
 beside it listening to the cawing of the rooks, inhaling the 
 odours of Spring, ,the mingled fragrance of flowers and 
 herbs. From the forge across the village street came the 
 sharp clang of hammer upon anvil ; hens were clucking in 
 the gardens behind the cottages; blackbirds were chatter- 
 ing in the Vicarage shrubbery. 
 
 The door of the church stood open. Tim looked in. An 
 old woman was kneeling near the font at which, doubtless, 
 she had been baptised. Her pale, withered face seemed ex- 
 traordinarily peaceful. With a shock Tim recognised her 
 as the wife of one of the lodge-keepers, whom he had left 
 a comely woman of fifty. Nothing could have served to 
 emphasise more poignantly the flight of years than this 
 great change in a person once full of energy and strength, 
 now aged and infirm. He glanced at the pew in which 
 he had sat Sunday after Sunday listening to the Vicar's 
 silvery voice. Against that pillar his old friend, the Colonel, 
 would lean his broad back and doze off if the sermon failed 
 to keep him awake. Upon the left of the main aisle, where 
 the women sat, Tim saw the red hassock which belonged to 
 Miss Janetta Vanburgh. Had time chastened the acerbity 
 of her "Amen" ? Under the pulpit was Mary Nightingale's 
 seat. 
 
 He left the church profoundly melancholy, quickening his 
 steps as he entered the Vicarage garden, knowing that the 
 Vicar might see him, if he happened to be sitting at his 
 desk. The study windows were wide open. Above the 
 path, upon sloping ground to the left of the house, was the 
 
 353
 
 Timothy 
 
 lawn and a great over-shadowing cedar. The Vicar might 
 be there. In fine weather he drank tea just outside the 
 dining-room. Tim's heart began to beat, as he saw a figure 
 in a chair. But the figure wore grey flannel. Some stranger, 
 then, was staying at the Vicarage. What an exasperating 
 mischance ! Yes ; the stranger was a young man, who 
 seemed to make himself at home. He was reading, with 
 his feet at ease upon another chair. In just a position, per- 
 haps in the same chair, Tim had struggled with the idioms 
 of Aristophanes. By the young man's side stood a small 
 table with books upon it, which had the appearance of text- 
 books. Tim jumped to the conclusion that the Vicar had a 
 pupil. He consigned the youth to perdition, as he rounded 
 the corner, and approached the front door. 
 
 IV 
 
 "My boy ! My dear, dear boy !" 
 
 "Father !" 
 
 There was no mistaking the Vicar's emotion, as he 
 held Tim's hands and gazed eagerly into his eyes. For a 
 moment Tim, too, remained speechless, forgetting every- 
 thing except the pressure of those hands and the welcome 
 in the quiet voice. Then they surveyed each other with 
 anxious scrutiny, whilst the Vicar's hands rested upon Tim's 
 shoulders. They were alone in the study. Tim perceived 
 that his guardian had become an old man, still erect, with 
 eyes which had lost neither fire nor penetration, but white- 
 haired, wrinkled, too thin, too pale, a sublimated present- 
 ment of his former self. He could not doubt that the 
 Vicar's time on earth must necessarily be brief ; and he felt 
 a pang of anger because Daffy had not prepared him for 
 such a grievous change. Then he remembered that Tertius 
 White was seventy, and that he went about his work in all 
 weathers regardless of personal comfort where the comfort 
 of others might be concerned. 
 354
 
 Jack 
 
 They sat down; the Vicar gently pressed Tim into the 
 armchair facing the window, seating himself upon the 
 Windsor chair upon which Tim had wriggled so uneasily 
 as a boy. 
 
 "I want to look at my son." 
 
 "Am I changed much?" 
 
 "You are a strong man; but I see the boy." He lifted 
 his fine head, adding quietly: "I thank God." 
 
 Tim remained silent, ravaged by remorse. He ought to 
 have come home before. Vanity, false shame, false pride, 
 had prevented him. He realised this intensely, flushing be- 
 neath those keen kind eyes. And he said as much with 
 a feeling which brought an answering flush into the Vicar's 
 cheeks. 
 
 "You are here. I understand; I have waited patiently, 
 knowing the bitter-sweetness of this meeting. The bitter- 
 ness has passed, has it not?" 
 
 "Yes," Tim answered humbly, for any petty feeling of 
 triumph seemed to have oozed from him, clearing his vision, 
 so that he saw for the first time his true relation to the man 
 who had given so much and asked for so little. 
 
 The Vicar began to speak of Tim's work, rejoicing so 
 simply and sincerely in his small success that Tim found 
 himself answering in choked monosyllables. He wanted to 
 escape for a few minutes, to recover his self-control, to 
 measure if he could the confounding sense of disinte- 
 gration which this meeting had wrought so swiftly and 
 unexpectedly. He had pictured himself cool and at ease, 
 speaking fluently of the past and the future, making good ! 
 Instead, he was writhing beneath an intolerable humilia- 
 tion. 
 
 He stood up. 
 
 "I must go out," he faltered. "This has been too much 
 for me." 
 
 "Yes; yes." 
 
 Tim fled into the garden. The Vicar remained for a 
 
 355
 
 Timothy 
 
 moment staring at the picture of Tim's mother. Then he 
 knelt down. 
 
 Tim passed through the dining-room, and on to the 
 lawn, oblivious of the stranger whom he had condemned as 
 an intruder a few minutes before. The youth heard him 
 coming, and jumped up with a smile upon his face. Tim 
 stared a,t him, as the boy said pleasantly : 
 
 "You are Mr. White? Are you looking for the Vicar?" 
 
 Tim hesitated. To pass a guest in his father's house 
 without a word would be churlish. He said awkwardly : 
 
 "I have just seen him." 
 
 The boy nodded, continuing joyously: 
 
 "How splendid! We have talked of nothing else, ever 
 since we heard that you were coming. It wasn't too much 
 for him, was it?" 
 
 The sympathy in his voice challenged Tim's attention. 
 Obviously, his first guess had been the right one. This nice 
 young fellow was a pupil and a friend. The mere tone of 
 the "we" established that. Tim replied confusedly : 
 
 "It was too much for me." 
 
 The boy nodded. 
 
 "I should jolly well think so after sixteen years!" 
 
 Tim dropped into a chair. The boy's prattle soothed 
 him. Perhaps he dreaded being alone with his thoughts. 
 
 Also, something quite indefinable about the boy, some- 
 thing familiar and yet unfamiliar, provoked his curiosity. 
 Was he a Pennington? Or some kinsman of the Vicar's? 
 But he as,ked no questions, listening half absently to the 
 joyous voice rattling on : 
 
 "We got ready your old room. Have you seen it? No. 
 We collected your books. I had some of 'em in my room. 
 And to-morrow there's to be a sort of feast. The Vicar 
 has asked half the village to tea. Mr. Hazel is as excited 
 as anybody. And Benner. And Judd. After breakfast this 
 356
 
 Jack 
 
 morning we went down into the cellar. There are one or 
 two bottles of the famous Pennington Madeira left. I say, 
 I'm not making myself a nuisance, am I? Of course, you 
 don't know me, but I know you, because everybody has 
 talked to me about you. I dare say you want to be quiet. 
 Shall I hook it?" 
 
 "No. My father and you seem to be friends." 
 
 "Rather. He's been ripping to me." 
 
 "Has he? Suppose you tell me who you are. Introduce 
 yourself in form." 
 
 To Tim's astonishment, the boy looked embarrassed. The 
 light died out of his eyes. He said hesitatingly: 
 
 "Then he has never written to you about me?" 
 
 "Never." 
 
 "He took me out of an orphanage, Mr. White. If you 
 don't mind, I'd sooner you asked him. I I don't know 
 very much about myself." 
 
 Tim said hastily: 
 
 "Then you live here?" 
 
 "Yes. This has been my home for ten years." 
 
 Tim was astounded. Why had the Vicar never men- 
 tioned this boy in his letters? He examined him more at- 
 tentively, with an odd but unmistakable jealousy. Evidently, 
 this orphan had taken his place. He frowned, and then 
 a more generous emotion banished both frown and jealousy. 
 The boy had brought youth and mirth to this empty house. 
 He had cheered the Vicar's solitude. 
 
 "What does my father call you?" 
 
 "Jack." 
 
 "Shake!" said Tim. 
 
 In silence they gripped hands. The boy was tall and 
 fair, singularly alert, a personality. It was strange that 
 Daffy had never spoken of him. As he held the boy's hand, 
 Tim asked a question: 
 
 "Have you met Lady Rokeby?" 
 
 Jack's eyes sparkled; the joyous smile came back. 
 
 "Oh, yes ; she's a ripper too !" 
 
 357
 
 Timothy 
 
 Tim thought that he could interpret Daffy's silence in 
 regard to this attractive youth. In a sense he had sup- 
 planted an absent son, filled a void in an old man's heart. 
 The fear of wounding a friend accounted adequately for 
 Daffy's reserve. Tim rose out of his chair, feeling cramped. 
 He told himself that a walk round the village would restore 
 his circulation. 
 
 "Look here, Jack. I want to stretch my legs. Come 
 along!" 
 
 "Are you sure you want me, sir ?" 
 
 "Quite sure. Go on talking about my father." 
 
 His heart was warming towards the young fellow; he 
 eyed him with increasing approval, marking an air of dis- 
 tinction and a delightful absence of swagger. And he knew 
 also that Jack was eager to please him, that he had cap- 
 tivated the youth, whose jolly grin would serve as a pass- 
 port commending the owner to most strangers. It would 
 be easy to elicit information from such an ingenuous source, 
 the details which Daffy had withheld for reasons which 
 still perplexed him. He took the boy's arm, pressing it 
 genially, delighted to feel that he was himself again, that a 
 balance badly shaken had regained its normal equilibrium. 
 Certainly, the Vicar had exhibited perspicacity in selecting 
 this orphan. And how like him to pick a bit of fine clay 
 plastic to his hand. His thoughts swooped farther afield. 
 This, undoubtedly, was the Vicar's second great experiment. 
 Had he yearned for a triumph which might obliterate the 
 memory of a failure? And if this boy should prove a 
 failure ! 
 
 Whilst these reflections were jostling each other in his 
 mind, he asked lightly: 
 
 "And my father's health?" 
 
 The boy answered gravely : 
 
 "Oh, sir, he doesn't take enough care of himself. But 
 now he will listen to you. I am sure of that." 
 
 "Why?" He was amused by the confident tone. Jack 
 hesitated, saying shyly: 
 358
 
 Jack 
 
 "You look as if you could get people to do what you 
 want." 
 
 "Do I ? Well, I shall endeavour to satisfy your expecta- 
 tions. He is terribly frail." 
 
 "He is seventy-one, sir." 
 
 "I know I know, but is there anything organically 
 wrong? You understand me?" 
 
 "He works too hard ; and he eats too little. That's what 
 the doctor says." 
 
 "The doctor? Does he come regularly?" 
 
 "Oh, no. He drops in now and again. He told me to 
 keep an eye on him, to spare him as much as possible. But 
 it's not easy for me," his voice betrayed anxiety, "because 
 he hates being fussed over. Perhaps he would stand seme 
 coddling from you." 
 
 "I wonder," murmured Tim. "I noticed your books 
 that confounded Liddell and Scott, the same one I used. 
 Is he cramming you for any exam?" 
 
 "Yes; f of the India Civil." 
 
 The reply smote Tim. Now he knew, now he under- 
 stood, the veil between himself and the Vicar dissolved. 
 This jolly, quick-witted boy had indeed stepped into his 
 empty shoes, and into the place which had been his in the 
 parson's house and heart. It was the boy, not the grown 
 man, who was destined to justify Tertius White's creed, his 
 fervent belief that good prevailed. Tim said hoarsely, won- 
 dering whether he betrayed the emotion surging within him : 
 
 "Are you keen ?" 
 
 "Keen! Oh, yes, I'm frightfully keen, but I'm not half 
 as clever as you, sir. I crawl so the Vicar says where 
 you pranced along. But he thinks I shall pass. And it's 
 such a splendid service, such opportunities !" 
 
 "Opportunities for what, Jack?" 
 
 But he divined that the boy's answer would be quite 
 other than what he would have replied. He could hear 
 himself saying to Daffy in the Dell : "It means four hun- 
 dred a year and perks it means you." The very words 
 
 359
 
 Timothy 
 
 leapt out of some hiding-place in his memory, as he heard 
 the boy's eager tones 
 
 "The Vicar has told me how badly men are wanted, 
 of what has been done by the right sort. Lawrence and 
 all the others. What a field ! What " 
 
 He broke off, flushing and faltering. Tim found it dis- 
 concerting to interpret this embarrassment. The boy knew 
 that Tim White had been trained, as he had been, for work 
 in this field, and had then forsaken it. 
 
 "I see. You have remembered that I didn't go to India. 
 Do you know why?" 
 
 "I don't, sir." 
 
 Jack spoke with that unmistakable sincerity which evokes 
 sincerity from others. Without pausing to pick his phrases, 
 Tim muttered : 
 
 "I made a mess of things, you understand." And then, 
 with a vehemence which surprised his listener, he gripped 
 the arm within his own, saying : "I may tell you about that 
 when we get better acquainted. It's a nasty story. It 
 it jumps out of the past, my boy, and hits me in the eye 
 to-day. But you won't make a mess of things. You'll 
 pass ?" 
 
 "I hope so." 
 
 They had reached the village forge, where George Chalk 
 the blacksmith, was shoeing a great brown mare. 
 
 "It's Mr. Tim!" 
 
 "How are you, George ?" 
 
 "Lard ha' mercy on us ! I'd ha' known 'ee anywheres. 
 Parson told me you was expected. 'Tis a joyful day for 
 him, dear man!" 
 
 Yes ; the parson had kept his memory green in Little 
 Pennington. 
 
 "Home-along at last," said George. "Ah ! we missed 'ee 
 
 rarely, yes, we did. Full o' life, you was, Mr. Tim. I be 
 
 married this many a year now. I married Everannie Bunce. 
 
 You ain't forgotten Everannie? Not you! Mother o' 
 
 360
 
 Jack 
 
 seven! Come over to the house, Mr. Tim, and taste her 
 currant wine." 
 
 Jack nudged Tim's arm. 
 
 "I say, sir, shall I nip back and fetch the Vicar? He 
 wouldn't miss this for the world." 
 
 Tim nodded. 
 
 "We'll go back to him together." 
 
 361
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 ILLUMINATION 
 
 I 
 
 A PLEASANT pilgrimage followed. But when Jack 
 JL\ and Tim stood together upon the threshold of the 
 study, Tim became aware of a look upon the Vicar's face. 
 Wonder informed its quiet serenity and an austere grati- 
 fication. 
 
 "We two have made friends," said Tim. At the mo- 
 ment he felt intensely grateful to this boy, beholding him 
 as the crutch of declining years, the Benjamin who had 
 filled Joseph's place. If bitterness lay beneath such a rec- 
 ognition, if belated remorse for an absence too protracted 
 cut deep into his sensibilities, if he beheld himself shrunk 
 to truer proportions, he could yet rise above such melan- 
 choly thoughts and rejoice. 
 
 The three set forth upon a round of visits, whither we 
 need not follow them. Jack, the acolyte, remained in the 
 background; but Tim was strangely sensible of his pres- 
 ence, conscious that in some mysterious fashion the boy 
 had to be there, a necessary eyewitness, an inevitable corol- 
 lary. Obviously, too, Jack was welcome for himself. 
 Watching him, Tim could touch with prehensile, sensitive 
 fingers his own youth, and compute the effect of youth upon 
 age, its appeal, its allurement. And in Jack he could see 
 the Cherub as he might have been, the Cherub grown into 
 just such a tall, fair, slender boy. There was a look about 
 the eyes, something in the shape of the head, in the model- 
 ling of the chin, which seemed to raise his little son from 
 the dead. 
 362
 
 Illumination 
 
 And it never occurred to him that there might be more 
 than coincidence in this fleeting, elusive resemblance. 
 
 ii 
 
 Presently, he found himself alone in his bedroom. He 
 sat down upon the bed, staring at the pictures on the wall. 
 There were groups taken at Eton, framed photographs by 
 Hills and Saunders embellished with the College arms, the 
 "twenty-two" cap upon a nail, the school-books; and in a 
 cupboard the bat which he had hoped to wield at Lord's. 
 Above the mantel-piece grinned the mask of a fox killed 
 in the open. Tim had ridden one of Sir Gilbert's horses, 
 which carried him stoutly. And beside the mask hung a 
 fine steel-engraving of the Squire, taken from the famous 
 portrait by Richmond. Just opposite was the still finer 
 mezzotint of the poet and prophet. The two friends seemed 
 to be smiling at each other. As a boy Tim had never 
 appreciated these portraits. How amazing! What reveal- 
 ing documents ! 
 
 Time sped by as Tim sat upon his bed. He dressed 
 hastily and went down to dinner as if he were in a dream. 
 But it is truer to say that he had penetrated through the 
 surface of things to zones of his own being hitherto un- 
 plumbed. A strange fear of himself gripped him, a curi- 
 ous contempt for the outer man warped by circumstance, 
 parti-coloured white, green, brown and black. Had some 
 essential part remained unchanged and unstained? 
 
 After dinner the famous Madeira produced its effect. 
 Tim talked of California. The Vicar listened, lying back 
 in his chair, leaning his head upon his hand; Jack sat bolt 
 upright, now and again moving restlessly, as the spirit of 
 adventure clawed at his vitals. No story-teller could have 
 found a better audience than these two, the old man whose 
 work was nearly done, the youth with the world stretching 
 wide before his eager, shining eyes. Tim warmed into 
 
 363
 
 Timothy 
 
 speech, talking as he used to talk to the pilgrims when he 
 snowed them land upon the Santa Margarita. The Vicar 
 remembered Rupert Carteret and his torrens dicendi copia, 
 which swept all before it. And yet this stirring recital 
 of actions and reactions in a new, wild country obscured 
 rather than revealed the speaker. He wanted to see Tim 
 clearly, and a flood of words submerged him. Tim's let- 
 ters had been like this, a recital of happenings, interest- 
 ing because they were true, because they illuminated condi- 
 tions so different from those to which a country parson 
 was accustomed, but of the effect upon the character of 
 the protagonist no soul-satisfying glimpse had been vouch- 
 safed. 
 
 It was late when Tim finished, too late for a talk alone 
 with the Vicar, who looked tired, almost exhausted. Tim 
 lit a candle, handing it to his father with a remorseful 
 
 "I have worn you out." 
 
 The Vicar smiled, shaking his head. 
 
 "It has been a memorable day. To-morrow after break- 
 fast, while Jack is wrestling with his Greek, we two will 
 spend an hour together. Good-night, my dear son." 
 
 He ascended the stairs slowly, looking back twice to nod 
 affectionately. When the bedroom door closed behind him, 
 Tim said : 
 
 "How slowly he went up !" 
 
 "Yes ; he gets breathless very easily. Shall I put out 
 the lights, sir?" 
 
 Tim started. The words carried him back seventeen 
 years. Some inflection of the boy's voice, a subtle tone, 
 brought Ivy Jellicoe out of the mists of the past. Deliber- 
 ately he had banished her from his thoughts. For ten 
 years there had been no mention of her or her child in 
 the Vicar's letters. After Tim's marriage, when there was 
 money to spare, he had offered to provide for Ivy and the 
 child; but the Vicar had replied rather curtly, saying that 
 this was unnecessary. Jack repeated the words: 
 
 "Shall I put out the lights, sir?" 
 364
 
 Illumination 
 
 "Yes, do ! Good-night, my boy." 
 
 "Good-night, sir. It was awfully exciting listening to you. 
 I simply loved it." 
 
 They shook hands ; and Jack may have wondered why 
 the man so fluent a few minutes before, so gay, so im- 
 petuous, had become of a sudden grave and impassive. 
 He accounted easily for the change. This big, strong son 
 was worried and unhappy about a father's health. He 
 said shyly: 
 
 "It will be all right now you've come back. He never 
 said much, but he wanted you most awfully." 
 
 Tim went upstairs. 
 
 in 
 
 He sat down by the open window and lit a pipe. Rain 
 had fallen during the evening. From the moist earth as- 
 cended those vernal odours which stir the memory. Tim 
 loved this rich, satisfying fragrance, emanation from a 
 grateful, teeming soil. He could recall a night in Cali- 
 fornia, when he stood bareheaded in his garden, letting 
 the rain soak to his skin, waiting for this revivifying ex- 
 perience, this titillating sensation, so significant to dwellers 
 in a land of drought. But now he was thinking not of 
 California, but of rain-drenched bracken in a copse near 
 Lanterton, where a boy stood impatiently expecting a girl. 
 He could see her flitting through the trees, glancing to 
 right and left, fear upon her pretty face, as she hastened 
 to her lover. It all came back vividly, his tormenting 
 thoughts about the future; her provoking, careless accept- 
 ance of the present, clouded for her by a passing shower, 
 and joyously brightened by a box of chocolates. 
 
 Where was Ivy now? Where was her child? 
 
 Then he told himself, wonderingly, that the child must 
 be a young man. How astounding! Why had he so 
 forgotten the flight of time? 
 
 Ivy had come to this room, at this very hour, so fate- 
 
 365
 
 Timothy 
 
 ful for her and him, so pregnant, had he known it at the 
 time, with incalculable possibilities. The key which he had 
 silently turned still lay in the lock. The turning of it had 
 cut him off from Daffy. 
 
 "Shall I put out the lights, sir?" 
 
 He stared into the darkness. Heavy clouds impended, 
 but a few stars twinkled between them. Ivy faded out 
 of his mind. He beheld Jack; he heard Jack's voice with 
 that odd inflection, so familiar, so insistent. 
 
 Then everything became dazzlingly clear. 
 
 Jack was Ivy's son his son his flesh and blood! 
 
 "Oh, my God !" he exclaimed. "Oh, my God, my God !" 
 
 He began to pace up and down the room, unable as yet 
 to apprehend details, conscious only of this fierce, glaring, 
 blinding illumination, as if he were alone a burning atom 
 in illimitable space. 
 
 Doubt assailed him for a few minutes. He opened the 
 door. Jack's room lay next to his. He listened. The 
 boy's breathing could be heard. He must have been 
 asleep for nearly an hour. Tim opened Jack's door very 
 quietly. If the boy awoke, he had an excuse pat upon 
 his tongue. But the boy slept soundly, tired after an ex- 
 citing day. Tim fetched a candle, discarding his shoes. He 
 stole silently to the bedside, shading the candle with his 
 hand. 
 
 Jack lay upon his side, with a tousled head curled into 
 a bare arm. So the Cherub had slept. So Tim had slept 
 when a boy. The last doubt vanished. This was indeed 
 Ivy's son and his. The boy had inherited Ivy's dark lashes, 
 and the delicate modelling of her cheeks. The wide fore- 
 head, the thick hair growing forward at the temples, the 
 thin, sensitive nostrils came from Tim. The bed-clothes 
 were half-flung back, displaying a broad chest. 
 
 "You are mine," said Tim, "my son, my only son." 
 
 He returned to his room. 
 
 366
 
 Illumination 
 
 IV 
 
 Throughout that night he kept vigil with thoughts, for 
 the first time, perhaps, focussed upon others. If there be 
 any truth in the dictum that if you wish to change a man's 
 character you must change his point of view, why, then, 
 the character of Tim became changed between midnight 
 and dawn upon the second of May. During five hours he 
 stood outside himself, or outside his conscious self, for 
 many might contend that the soul of the man looked down 
 upon body and mind. Here we wade into deep waters, 
 and will leave them. 
 
 Whatever faults were his, and they have not been hid- 
 den in this narrative, no one had ever charged Tim with 
 cowardice. Physical courage may or may not be reck- 
 oned a king virtue. Often it degenerates into recklessness ; 
 often it soars into the empyrean of purest altruism, as when 
 a man deliberately risks his life to save another. Tim, 
 we know, was capable of either contingency; he had sunk 
 and he had soared. Now he was poised between the two 
 poles, confronted by consequence, compelled to pass judg- 
 ment upon what he had done and left undone. 
 
 And the arresting figure in his quickened intelligence, the 
 man to use an expression of the theatre who "held the 
 stage," was the Vicar. From Tim's earliest childhood till 
 the present hour that personality revealed itself with ab- 
 solute clarity and distinction. Quarrel as you might with 
 the Vicar's creed, indict as Tim had often done a code 
 of ethics too rigid for most erring mortals, the result shone 
 out with a divine radiance. Tertius White had conse- 
 crated a long life to the service of others; he had shoul- 
 dered their burdens and responsibilities; and he had im- 
 posed no conditions. 
 
 Nevertheless, the conditions remained to be self-imposed 
 by the man who had most profited by this altruism. For 
 
 367
 
 Timothy 
 
 thirty-five years the debt had been steadily swelling. To- 
 night it must be computed to the uttermost farthing. 
 
 Tim felt as if he were bleeding to death inside, the death 
 which precedes the higher life. He knew that the Vicar 
 had passed through this disintegration before he, Tim, was 
 born. 
 
 "Thou fool ! that which thou sowest is not quickened un- 
 less it die." 
 
 The text, out of the Burial Service, which he had never 
 attempted to understand, came into his mind, a straw for 
 a drowning man to clutch at. But he was thinking of the 
 Vicar, not of himself, repeating again and again : "He must 
 have died. And then he lived for my mother's sake, for 
 mine, and for my boy's." 
 
 He had never envied the saint till this moment. How 
 gladly now would he change places with him. How small 
 and petty were the ends for which he had worked. 
 
 Thus he sat beside the open window, bowed and broken, 
 gazing into the darkness, waiting for the dawn. When the 
 first silvery shafts quivered faintly in the eastern horizon, 
 he took off his clothes, got into bed, and slept. 
 
 At breakfast, Tim displayed outwardly no sign of vigils. 
 His skin was too tanned by wind and sun to look pale. 
 An outsider might have thought that the Vicar, not he, had 
 lain awake for many hours, but the Vicar, it seemed, had 
 slept soundly. He read prayers in the same quiet, impres- 
 sive voice; he ate his egg and a thin rasher of bacon; he 
 drank one cup of tea. When Jack went reluctantly to his 
 Greek, the Vicar took Tim's arm and led him into the study. 
 By this time Tim had regained self-control; he knew that 
 any excitement would react disastrously upon his father; 
 he told himself that he must be calm for an old man's sake. 
 But, as soon as they were alone, he said quietly : 
 368
 
 Illumination 
 
 "I have guessed who Jack is ; I have spent the night think- 
 ing of what you have done for me." 
 
 The Vicar said nervously : 
 
 "And wondering why I kept it secret ?" 
 
 "Yes, I did wonder at that." 
 
 "I'll try to explain, Tim. The boy was born in Lon- 
 don. You had my promise that I would look after the 
 mother. I did so to the best of my ability." He sighed, 
 continuing slowly: "It was not easy. Very soon I dis- 
 covered that the child was neglected, not wilfully, but 
 through ignorance and carelessness. The mother jumped 
 at my suggestion that Jack should be placed in a home. 
 Then I got her a respectable place. She left it; I found 
 her another. I I did my best, but she drifted on to the 
 streets." 
 
 Tim groaned. 
 
 "I tried again and again," the Vicar continued mourn- 
 fully; "others tried, too. She never went near the child. 
 Well, I can understand that." 
 
 "Looking at him now, I can't." 
 
 "The maternal instinct seemed to be lacking. When the 
 boy was five years old, I heard of your marriage. I began 
 to abandon the hope of seeing you. My thoughts dwelt 
 persistently upon the child. The scandal in the village 
 had died a natural death. When I brought Jack here, under 
 the name of John Southwark the orphanage was in South- 
 wark nobody suspected that he was yours." 
 
 "Nobody?" 
 
 "Except Daphne Rokeby. She guessed ; she saw a faint 
 likeness; I often see it; and then I told her." 
 
 "Does Jack know about his mother?" 
 
 "He knows nothing; when the right time comes, you 
 will tell him." 
 
 "Heavens! For ten years you have fathered my son, 
 as you fathered me." 
 
 "I did it gladly. I kept it secret from you for two 
 reasons : you were far away and I wanted you to see 
 
 369
 
 Timothy 
 
 the boy first. The other reason was more subtle. I de- 
 sired passionately to test my own faith in the ultimate 
 triumph of good over evil. There is much good in your 
 son, Tim. I speak of what I know." 
 
 "What can I say what can I say ?" 
 
 "Tell me frankly what you think of him?" 
 
 "He is a son that any father might be proud of; and 
 he owes everything as I do to you. I can think of noth- 
 ing else except that his debt and mine to you." 
 
 "Tim, the boy has paid in full. He is very dear to me, 
 not dearer than you ; that would be impossible, but the 
 care of him has been no burden, only a pleasure." 
 
 "Where is the mother now?" 
 
 "Alas ! I can't tell you. She slipped through my fingers. 
 For a time she prospered, because she was so pretty, and 
 she had engaging ways. From what I saw of her, I could 
 understand how greatly you must have been tempted. I 
 sometimes hope that she is dead." 
 
 Tim covered his face; when he looked up again, the 
 Vicar hardly recognised him, so ravaged was he by emotion 
 and remorse. He said hoarsely : 
 
 "I came back blown out with conceit. Daffy made me 
 come. She warned me that I must pass through an ordeal. 
 Father," his voice shook, "I'm not fit to go down on my 
 knees and kiss your boots ! I feel like a pricked bladder. 
 You must give me time to recover, time to understand 
 you, and this boy, and myself." 
 
 "Yes, yes; take all the time you need, Tim." 
 
 They sat on together, in an intimacy which seemed to 
 increase as the Vicar talked about the boy. Tim, in his 
 turn, spoke of Magdalena and the Cherub. Then he fetched 
 his book, watching the Vicar's face when he turned to the 
 dedicatory page, hearing the pleased exclamation when he 
 read his own name. They went for a stroll in Penning- 
 ton Park, passing the great empty house, soon to become 
 the home of a stranger. The Vicar began to talk of Sir 
 370
 
 Illumination 
 
 Gilbert, of the long years during which they had worked 
 together. At the end he said: 
 
 "He had faith in you, Tim. Just before he died, when 
 we may believe that the spirit of prophecy must inform 
 such a man, he whispered to me that you would come back ; 
 he counselled me to wait patiently." 
 
 As he spoke he leaned upon Tim's arm, an eloquent ap- 
 peal of age and infirmity to a strong man. And beneath that 
 kindly pressure Tim felt his relaxed moral fibres stiffening 
 into ropes of steel binding him closer and closer to this 
 generous creditor. He exclaimed derisively: 
 
 "I thought that I had made good." 
 
 "You have, my dear son, you have." 
 
 "Not yet," said Tim. 
 
 VI 
 
 The afternoon came, and with it the Vicar's guests, Hazel, 
 Benner, Mary Nightingale, the Colonel, the village doctor 
 and a round score of cottagers. Journey was there, a stout 
 fellow, humorously alive to the fact that he had profited 
 "by losing of his prayers." 
 
 "I be quite happy now," he assured Tim. "Little Pen- 
 nington is home to me, Mr. Tim, and has been this many 
 a year. When I heard how nigh you come to bein' hanged, 
 I did think to meself that a live saddler in Hampsheer might 
 be better off than a dead gentleman in Californy." 
 
 "You heard the tale of the lynching?" 
 
 Journey said proudly : 
 
 "The Vicar read us bits o' your letters, Mr. Tim. That's 
 how we kept in touch with 'ee. He just made up his mind, 
 seemingly, that you warn't to be forgotten. Lard A'mighty ! 
 I be glad to see 'ee for your own sake, and gladder still 
 for his." 
 
 After tea, Tim had a word with the doctor. 
 
 "How is my father?" he asked. 
 
 The doctor tried to evade giving a candid answer.
 
 Timothy 
 
 "He's getting along in years, Tim. Bless my soul! how 
 they do spin by even in Little Pennington." 
 
 Tim was seldom irritable with his friends, although a 
 habit of getting exasperated with himself was slowly form- 
 ing; he said incisively: 
 
 "Are his arteries thickening? Is there any lesion of 
 the heart ? Any degeneration ?" 
 
 This terminology, acquired from Wason, served to re- 
 mind the doctor that Tim himself was older. He replied 
 in a different tone: 
 
 "It's like this. He is very frail. You can see that ; and 
 the sort of man who goes till he drops. He might go at 
 any moment, for there is cardiac weakness. But, with care, 
 he may live for another ten years. He is singularly free 
 from the petty ailments of old age. He doesn't suffer from 
 rheumatism or dyspepsia. The machine is wearing out, 
 that's all." 
 
 "Thank you," said Tim gravely. 
 
 "I meant to speak to you. Exposure or shock would 
 be probably fatal." 
 
 "Yes, I understand." 
 
 "I'm glad you've come home, Tim. You will keep an 
 eye on him. He's a rare bit, eh ?" 
 
 "He is, indeed." 
 
 "Do you find him much changed? I'm not speaking 
 of his appearance." 
 
 Tim was unable to answer this question. The doctor 
 went on : 
 
 "His sermons now. They are more than straws to indi- 
 cate the change I hint at. In the old days, if one dared 
 to criticize and I'll own that I did I found them rather 
 over my head." 
 
 Tim's interest was challenged. 
 
 "So did I." 
 
 "They were too academic, too rigid, seldom parochial. 
 He preaches now in a more intimate way, less dogma, you 
 know. His themes are very simple. He talks to us in his 
 372
 
 Illumination 
 
 quiet, impressive manner about the things which make for 
 happiness or unhappiness in a village. He lays before us 
 the effects of slander, lying, obscenity, and all the subtle 
 forms of intemperance and unkindness. Next Sunday you 
 will hear and understand. I can say to you that he seems 
 to have descended from the heights to walk familiarly 
 amongst us. His influence here is greater than it has ever 
 been. You will judge for yourself of that." 
 
 "Lord love you!" said Tim. "Don't I feel it in my 
 bones." 
 
 The doctor was a reserved man, no sentimentalist, but 
 he added a few words which impressed Tim : 
 
 "I would sacrifice much, Tim, to keep your dear father 
 with us as long as possible. It is a privilege to do him 
 any service." 
 
 Similar testimony was forthcoming from Arthur Hazel 
 and Mary Nightingale, unstinted tributes from fellow- 
 workers. And when the time came to take leave of their 
 host, it was Hazel who expressed what was in the hearts 
 of the Vicar's guests. 
 
 "We have met here," he said, "for a very special purpose, 
 to welcome home our Vicar's son after long absence. I 
 speak for all of you when I say that we have hoped and 
 prayed that this happy day might come. For more than 
 thirty years our parson has shared our joys and sorrows. 
 During that long period of time he has given to us un- 
 grudgingly all that such a man could give, never counting 
 the cost to himself. To me he looks ten years younger 
 this afternoon. And what we all feel about this home- 
 coming is hard indeed to put into words, because our affec- 
 tion has been inspired by actions, tender ministrations which 
 can never be forgotten, a debt never to be paid here. Be- 
 cause of this his joy is a real joy to us, the greater because 
 it has been so long deferred. On your behalf I bid Mr. 
 Tim welcome home; and I ask him to believe that his 
 father's happiness is ours, and that we share it whole- 
 heartedly and with deepest thanksgiving." 
 
 373
 
 Timothy 
 
 Those present gazed at Tim and at his father. Every- 
 body expected the Vicar to speak, and what he said upon 
 such occasions was never stereotyped, a few words simply 
 chosen and as simply spoken. 
 
 He took Tim's arm, and advanced a few steps, so that 
 they stood together facing a semi-circle of men and women. 
 One may hazard the conjecture that none of those pres- 
 ent, except Tim, had ever beheld the Vicar not master 
 of himself. When his sympathy had flowed most abun- 
 dantly towards some stricken soul, he remained calm, al- 
 ways a serene example of fortitude and patience, infusing 
 his strength into weakness. 
 
 He remained silent. 
 
 Everybody understood that he was too moved to speak. 
 He smiled as his dimmed glance travelled from one face 
 to another; but his quivering lips refused their office. 
 He pressed Tim's arm. Tim spoke for him. 
 
 "My father's silence," he said gravely, "answers Mr. Ha- 
 zel as he would, I fancy, wish to be answered, for behind 
 it is the assurance that his affection for all of you is too 
 deep for words. I thank you for him, and I will add this 
 for myself: I have thought over this homecoming a thou- 
 sand times, and I have wondered how I should feel when 
 I stood once more amongst the friends of my childhood 
 with my dear father standing beside me. Well, it has 
 been a wonderful experience, a memory which I shall carry 
 with me to my grave. I have wandered far from you, and 
 I feared that I must have drifted as far from your re- 
 membrance of me. I know that my father has kept that 
 remembrance alive, and in thanking you for this welcome 
 I thank him with all my heart. If there be anything in me 
 deserving of your affection I owe it to him. While I live 
 I shall regret bitterly that this homecoming was delayed 
 so long. It means far more to me than either he or you 
 will ever know." 
 
 374
 
 N 1 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 RECONSTRUCTION 
 
 EXT day Tim walked alone through Pennington High 
 Wood till he came to the poet's cathedral. The 
 beeches were in full leaf. The wonderful freshness and 
 translucency of the foliage caught at his fancy and held 
 it captive. His last visit had been in November, when days 
 were dun and drear. 
 
 He threw himself down upon the soft moss. 
 
 Passing through Pennington High Wood he had gath- 
 ered a few primroses and violets to send to Daffy; and 
 he had found a woodpecker's nest in the same hole from 
 which long ago Journey and he had extracted two milk- 
 white eggs with a long spoon. In the glades some brim- 
 stone butterflies were flitting here and there in .the sun- 
 shine. Tim remembered what keen pleasure the collecting 
 of eggs and butterflies had been ; and he wondered whether 
 he could renew his youth in the pursuit of pleasures so 
 Arcadian and so simple. Jack was a collector, and some- 
 thing of a naturalist. 
 
 He had come to the cathedral to purge his mind of a pas- 
 sion which could never be gratified. It still gripped him 
 unmercifully, so much so that he trembled with excite- 
 ment when he recalled the look upon Daffy's face, its sweet 
 relaxation, as they stood together upon the Pointe du Raz. 
 
 But he faced the issues honestly. The Vicar stood be- 
 tween him and the woman he loved. To gain her he would 
 have to trample upon his spiritual father. And that meant 
 the loss of his self-respect and hers. Such an act might 
 
 375
 
 Timothy 
 
 kill the Vicar. Argue how he might, this fact was incon- 
 testably established. A man might be a moral idiot accord- 
 ing to Christian ethics, but if he were considering nothing 
 except his own happiness, would not such happiness be 
 imperilled tremendously were it achieved, if but for a brief 
 season, at the expense of others? Daffy had known him 
 better than he had known himself. To think of her except 
 as a faithful friend was an offence against decency and 
 humanity. 
 
 Travelling round and round a vicious circle, he returned 
 always to this point, the impossibility of inflicting such 
 a wound upon a man who had shouldered his burdens, 
 and borne them in silence during sixteen years. 
 
 He gazed upward at the over-arching boughs. Upon 
 this very spot he had entreated Omnipotence to descend 
 from heaven to talk with him. And he had believed fer- 
 vently that Omnipotence would come, that Personal God 
 whom he had imagined as sitting upon a great golden 
 throne, surrounded by angels and archangels, listening eter- 
 nally to their glad hosannas. And when nothing happened, 
 the first doubt had crept into his mind. 
 
 What did life without Daffy mean? 
 
 He knew that all the myriads who have loved and lost 
 must have asked this question and answered it according 
 to the lights burning within them. 
 
 What lights burned within him? 
 
 Let him consider, dispassionately if it were possible, the 
 claims of the spirit as opposed to the claims of the flesh. 
 Where and when they worked harmoniously together, the 
 very angels in heaven might envy such a partnership. He 
 did not doubt that. Never could he accept the idiotic 
 teaching of the Early Fathers, their abasement of Woman, 
 their futile counsels of celibacy. To maintain, as St. Paul 
 did, that the single life was best meant the negation of 
 life itself and its continuance. Tim was as sure of this 
 as a man can be. His married life sealed the conviction. 
 Nevertheless, considering flesh and spirit apart, each in 
 376
 
 Reconstruction 
 
 its particular manifestations, could he tabulate results, set 
 them down in his own mind, and arrive at some definite con- 
 clusion concerning them? He selected two typical cases 
 Ivy Jellicoe and the Vicar. Ivy was almost wholly animal ; 
 the Vicar might be regarded as a saint. Ivy's nature had 
 made her neglect her child and driven her to a life of 
 shame. The Vicar's nature had impelled him as irresistibly 
 to adopt Ivy's child and to labour unceasingly for the wel- 
 fare of others. Apart from creeds and standards, con- 
 sidering the benefit to the human race alone, with no thought 
 of a hereafter, was it the flesh of Ivy or the spirit of the 
 Vicar which had triumphed? A child could answer such 
 an absurd question. 
 
 And leaving others alone, concentrating his intelligence 
 upon his own experience, had the gratification of fleshly de- 
 sires brought him any happiness commensurate with the 
 pure joys which are spiritual? 
 
 He wrestled with this eternal problem. The answer 
 depends entirely upon the nature of the man who asks it. 
 The animal man says "Yes" at once ; the saints and prophets 
 thunder out a "No" as positive, while men such as Tim 
 stand at the cross roads and gaze down each, straining their 
 eyes to behold whither they lead. So it has ever been, 
 and so it must be till the end. 
 
 "I must go back a little," thought Tim. 
 
 With his imagination and memory such a journey into 
 the past was easy. He saw himself as a boy, with no ob- 
 scuring mists, with none of that self-absorbment so natural 
 to youth, which dims a vision of themselves as others see 
 them. How thanklessly he had accepted all that the Vicar 
 had given to him, time long hours after his own work 
 was done devoted to teaching Latin and mathematics 
 money generous gifts out of a slender purse -and a love 
 and tenderness that never failed. 
 
 Was he prepared to do half as much for Jack? 
 
 With what writhings and torment of conscience he com- 
 puted these mere beginnings of his debt to another. 
 
 377
 
 Timothy 
 
 He left the cathedral a very unhappy man, with civil 
 war raging in his heart, but conscious that the victory in 
 the end would not be to the flesh. Two duties had to be 
 accomplished : he must see Daffy, and he must acknowledge 
 his son, tell his wretched story once more to the person 
 most concerned, the joyous, innocent youth. 
 
 But a duty far more difficult and likely to prove much 
 more grievous and harassing imposed itself first. 
 
 He must find out what had become of Ivy. 
 
 That afternoon he walked to Lanterton, passing through 
 the pretty coppice where he had met Ivy for the last time. 
 It was carpeted with primroses ; the bracken was begin- 
 ning to unfold its fronds ; the oaks, later than the beeches, 
 exhibited a russet tint of foliage, still shewing their branches 
 finely articulated against a blue sky. 
 
 Tim knew that John Jellicoe was alive and living in the 
 same cottage. From a tavern-keeper at Lanterton he 
 learned also that Jellicoe was likely to be working in his 
 garden. 
 
 He approached the cottage. It presented a somewhat 
 dilapidated appearance like all the other cottages in this 
 village of unsavoury reputation. A stranger might have 
 divined that the landlord was of those who afford object- 
 lessons to demagogues striving to set class against class. 
 Loafers hung about the three taverns ; the cottage gardens 
 were ill-cared for; gates and palings were rotten with age; 
 thatched roofs were covered with damp moss and lichen, 
 picturesque to the eye of an artist, but eloquent to Tim 
 of miserable conditions beneath. 
 
 In the Jellicoe garden an old man was sitting upon a 
 stool, smoking his pipe and staring at a row of hives, count- 
 ing, possibly, May swarms which might be the equivalent 
 of much ale and tobacco. 
 
 "Yes, I be Jack Jellicoe; who be you?" 
 378
 
 Reconstruction 
 
 This was Ivy's father ; Jack's grandfather, much changed 
 from the once stalwart, handsome poacher; still defiant 
 in voice and manner, obviously a ne'er-do-well. 
 
 "I am Timothy White." 
 
 The old man stared at him sullenly. For the moment 
 the name conveyed nothing. Tim passed through a wicket- 
 gate, and stood beside him. The old man remained seated, 
 looking up at Tim, blinking and frowning. 
 
 "I got your girl Ivy into trouble." 
 
 "Ah ! I mind that. So 'ee did, so 'ee did." He laughed 
 coarsely. "Many a year ago that was, to be sure ! I mind 
 me comin' home, comin' out o' gaol, yes, and my old missis 
 tellin' me the tale. And bright an' early next day I marches 
 over to Little Pennington. They had the law o' me, damn 
 'em ! for snarin' a few hares ; and I meant to have the law 
 of 'ee for poachin' in my preserves ! Haw ! Haw ! But t' 
 parson played the man. Yes; he did. I'll say that for 'un. 
 He paid up fair an' square. Now, Mister Timothy White, 
 what be you wantin' rakin' up things as was settled years 
 and years ago?" 
 
 He stood up, a gaunt, fierce old man, staring derisively 
 into Tim's face. 
 
 "Where is Ivy, Mr. Jellicoe?" 
 
 "Haw ! Why should I tell 'ee, if I knawed," he added 
 slyly. "The baggage went away from here, takin' her trou- 
 ble with her. She never come back. Not likely." 
 
 Tim said quietly : 
 
 "I will make it worth your while to tell me where Ivy 
 is now, if you know." 
 
 Jack Jellicoe scratched his head; he licked thirsty lips; 
 then he replied grimly : 
 
 "She be gone to hell." 
 
 Tim winced; and the man saw it. 
 
 "Did 'ee hope to hear she was in heaven?" 
 
 "I want to help your daughter if I can." 
 
 "Sit 'ee down, sir. I'll be back afore the sun touches 
 yon cloud." 
 
 379
 
 Timothy 
 
 Without another word, he shambled into the house. Tim 
 heard his raucous voice calling: "Mother, mother!" He 
 remembered his last visit, when Ivy's mother lay desper- 
 ately ill. Evidently she was still alive. Voices were heard, 
 the growl of the man, the shrill, querulous tones of the 
 woman. Tim was unable to catch the sense of what they 
 were saying. He wondered whether the mother's heart 
 held any tenderness for the child who had never come back. 
 
 Presently, Jellicoe returned. His face had a smug, sly 
 civility harder to endure than his previous defiance and 
 insolence. 
 
 "I beg pardon if I was rough to 'ee." 
 
 "That is of no consequence." 
 
 "What be this information worth, sir, if I may make 
 so bold?" 
 
 Tim endeavoured to hide his disgust. Jellicoe reminded 
 him of Ginty; he could handle such rascals. 
 
 "Tell me where I can find your daughter, and I'll give 
 you five pounds, neither more nor less, but I must find 
 her first. If you try to bargain with me, I'll deal with 
 your wife instead of with you." 
 
 Jellicoe, with a lively recollection of dealings with magis- 
 trates, recognised an ultimatum. He said cringingly: 
 
 "A thick 'un on account, sir." 
 
 "No." 
 
 " 'Arf a thick 'un then ; we be terrible pore folk, sir." 
 
 Tim gave him half a sovereign. 
 
 "She be in London town, sir." 
 
 "Her mother has her address?" 
 
 "She be in a 'orsepital, pore girl. Not for the first time, 
 neither." 
 
 Tim wrote down the name of the hospital, eliciting a 
 few more details. Ivy, it seemed, had written to her mother 
 from time to time. Tim guessed that she had sent home 
 a little money. Mrs. Jellicoe had sent in return new-laid 
 eggs. That was all. 
 
 Tim returned to the Vicarage by road. He had no stonv 
 380
 
 Reconstruction 
 
 ach for primroses and violets. In his nostrils was the 
 odour of disinfectants. He remembered the all-pervading 
 smell of carbolic acid in the California Woman's Hospital. 
 
 in 
 
 He travelled to London upon the morrow. At Waterloo, 
 upon a bookstall, he saw "Dust," with a tag attached to it : 
 Absorbing Novel by a New Writer! And, in the train, 
 he read in a morning paper another flattering notice of 
 his book, and the reviewer's assurance that he had "come 
 to stay." 
 
 To stay for what? 
 
 Under ordinary circumstances, London would have chal- 
 lenged and engrossed his attention, but for the moment he 
 could only think of the world's capital as holding two 
 women Daffy and Ivy. Lady Rokeby had returned to 
 Rokeby House for the season ; Ivy was lying in a hospital. 
 
 The hospital was in Hammersmith. Tim sent in his card 
 to the house-surgeon, a tall, curt, overworked young man, 
 who had no time to waste in idle talk. From his lips Tim 
 heard the stark truth. The woman Jellicoe lay in the Bertha 
 Dawson ward, a ward added to the hospital through the 
 generosity of a certain Miss Dawson who had devoted her 
 life and fortune to ameliorating the conditions of women 
 well-named "unfortunate." Tirn could see her, although it 
 was not a visitors' day. Recover? Oh, yes, if you could 
 call it that. She would be leaving the hospital in a few 
 days, and the young man shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 Tim followed a porter down a long, cool corridor, and 
 up a flight of well-scoured stone steps. There the porter 
 left him with a nurse. The nurse and he entered the 
 ward together. It was lofty, admirably ventilated, with 
 narrow beds upon each side, and tables in the middle cov- 
 ered with flowers. The nurse said proudly: "You must
 
 Timothy 
 
 look at our flowers, sir. This is the prettiest ward in the 
 hospital." 
 
 Tim looked at the faces upon the pillows. Many of the 
 women were young, some were very pretty. Perhaps the 
 prevailing characteristic was a look of weakness and fa- 
 tigue dominated by a strange contentment. 
 
 "This," said the nurse, "is Jellicoe." 
 
 At first glance, Tim failed to recognise her. She was 
 lying quite still, not asleep, but with eyes closed. Her lashes, 
 long but not thick, fringed a white, sunken pair of cheeks. 
 The lips were fuller and coarser; the hair, which he re- 
 membered so bright and lustrous, had become drab-coloured 
 from the use of dyes. It seemed artificial dead! Her 
 once plump little body was cruelly thin. 
 
 He heard the nurse's pleasant voice : 
 
 "A gentleman to see you, Jellicoe." 
 
 Ivy opened her eyes, staring indifferently at Tim. 
 
 "There's a chair," said the nurse. 
 
 Tim sat down as she bustled away. 
 
 "Who are you?" asked Ivy. It was a shock to find that 
 her voice had changed; the life had gone out of it. 
 
 "You don't recognise me?" 
 
 He spoke very gently, almost in a whisper ; but she made 
 no sign, evidently searching a memory which must hold 
 many indistinguishable shadows of gentlemen. She said 
 listlessly : 
 
 "It was nice of you to come. I'm very -comfortable. 
 However did you know as I was here? I suppose Daisy 
 told you. She's been awfully good, that girl. Was Daisy 
 with me when I met you ?" 
 
 "No. You have not seen me for a long time, Ivy. Can't 
 you remember now?" 
 
 Her listlessness was astonishing; curiosity informed it, 
 however. 
 
 "I'm bad at names, dear. And so often you don't give 
 the right ones, do you? But I ought to remember your 
 face, because it's so handsome. In the Army, are you?" 
 382
 
 Reconstruction 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Never mind! I'm pleased you came. Ain't your 
 eyes blue? Yes; I've seen them before. And if you 
 laughed !" 
 
 "That would be difficult." 
 
 "I remember laughs. I always liked jolly men. I've 
 had my good times. Make me laugh now." 
 
 "Ivy, I am Tim White. I have been out of England for 
 seventeen years." 
 
 It was horrible, but she laughed, the most mirthless laugh 
 that Tim had ever heard; but she put out her hand and 
 spoke kindly: 
 
 "I ought to have known you, Mr. Tim. You ain't changed 
 so very much. Yes ; I ought to have known you anywheres. 
 However did you find me?" 
 
 "I went over to Lanterton." 
 
 "Hateful place." 
 
 Each remained silent. Tim held her hand, pressing it, 
 wondering what he could say, trying vainly to read her 
 mind. Her look at him was piteously vacant, but he could 
 discern no hatred in it, only a childish wonder. Childish ! 
 He would have said that she was nearly forty, judging by 
 the lines upon her face. 
 
 "Why did you want to see me, Mr. Tim? I ain't much 
 to look at now, am I?" 
 
 "You've been very ill. Your colour will come back." He 
 intended to withdraw his hand, but she would not let 
 it go ; she became more animated 
 
 "You do look fine, so big and strong. Fancy coming 
 here to see me !" 
 
 "I came to do what is possible, to help a little, to " 
 
 He was too moved to finish the sentence. Ivy nodded. 
 
 "It's all right," she whispered. "We had some rare fun, 
 didn't we? I was happier at the Vicarage than I've ever 
 been since. Wasn't I fond of you just! It all comes back. 
 Mother told you I was here? Yes. She sends me nice 
 country eggs. I let that girl over there have one yester- 
 
 383
 
 Timothy 
 
 day. She promised me another to-day, but it wasn't fresh. 
 Nice trick that, eh ?" 
 
 She glared at a bed across the ward. Dimly, Tim appre- 
 hended that any one who interfered with her comfort 
 aroused resentment. 
 
 "You shall have plenty of new-laid eggs and fresh cream 
 every day till you are well again." 
 
 She smiled at him, thanking him with effusion. He won- 
 dered whether she was thinking of their child. Tentatively, 
 in a low whisper, he asked a question : 
 
 "My father looked after you after I ran away?" 
 
 "Yes, he did," she answered shortly. "He meant well, 
 but I couldn't stick service again. He got the child into 
 a home. Best thing for it, too. Don't look so glum, Mr. 
 Tim. I was mad with you for getting me into trouble, but 
 I was young and silly, and my people was awful to me. 
 It's all right now. If it hadn't been you, it'd have been 
 somebody else. That's God's truth so cheer up! I was 
 born gay. I wanted you more than you wanted me. 
 What a nice, jolly boy you was ! Such a dear, till you got to 
 worrying about the silly old future. Bad times come along 
 soon enough! Tell us a funny story. Make me laugh as 
 I used to. Don't pull a long face! What's done can't be 
 helped." 
 
 Tim set himself the task of amusing her. That was what 
 she wanted. He told her about his experiences, in the 
 foc'sle of The Cassandra, riding a brake-beam, "battering" 
 a meal, his knifing by a Greaser, his escape from Judge 
 Lynch. She listened, absorbed, smiling and nodding her 
 head. 
 
 "You had hard times, Mr. Tim. Just like me. That's 
 life. The rough and the smooth. Take it as it comes. 
 Grin and bear it." 
 
 When he left her, promising to come again, she thanked 
 him again and again 
 
 "You've cheered me up; yes, you have. And you was 
 the first, Mr. Tim. I liked you best. Daisy tells the same 
 384
 
 Reconstruction 
 
 tale ancient history with us girls. I wanted a bit o' fun, 
 and I had it. No complaints." 
 
 IV 
 
 The house-surgeon told him that he could come back 
 any afternoon between two and four. Tim said hesi- 
 tatingly : 
 
 "When she leaves here I should like to do something. 
 Any hint ?" 
 
 The young man raised his eyebrows. 
 
 "That sort is irreclaimable. She can be cockered up 
 into a sort of health, not the real thing. I give her ten 
 years. They can't exist without excitement." 
 
 "Gay?" 
 
 "What a word, but it tells the tale." 
 
 Tim walked back to his hotel through Kensington Gar- 
 dens and Hyde Park. He decided that he would buy an 
 annuity for Ivy, enough to keep her from want; from 
 time to time he would see her, whatever her life might 
 be. To the end it was humanly certain that she would 
 prefer chocolates to jobations, fresh eggs to stale advice. 
 To reform her, according to Little Pennington notions, was 
 impossible. Was he likely to succeed where his father had 
 failed? 
 
 He could not go straight from Ivy to Daffy, too great 
 a distance lay between the two women. But he wrote to 
 Daffy, telling her that he was in London, and that he 
 would call at ten in the morning upon the day following. 
 
 Rokeby House occupies a corner of Belgrave Square, 
 standing austerely by itself, with a garden behind. Time 
 was when Tim would have liked to live in a stately man- 
 sion. All such ambition had passed from him. The mere 
 thought of filling such a house with chattering guests in- 
 spired disgust. 
 
 Nevertheless, he was impressed when he mounted a great 
 
 385
 
 Timothy 
 
 white-marble staircase, with a balustrade which had come 
 from a doge's palace in Venice. And at the end of a lovely 
 saloon, hung with French tapestries, Daffy stood waiting 
 for him with her enigmatical smile upon her lips. Her 
 first words, when they found themselves alone, struck him 
 as perfectly chosen: 
 
 "We remain faithful friends." 
 
 "Yes," he replied calmly. 
 
 Friendship suffused itself from her, encompassing her 
 gracious figure with an aura. Words were unnecessary; 
 she understood what he felt, what he had undergone, what 
 he must still undergo. She stood before him, ready to 
 help, with eyes softened by sympathy and brightened by 
 hope. She whispered : 
 
 "You have not shrunk, Tim." 
 
 That was true, at any rate. A larger view of life had 
 expanded him. Since he had parted from her he had 
 been constrained to think of others. If life was to be 
 worth the living, he must tread humbly the narrow path, 
 not the broad and easy way. Daffy would walk beside 
 him. 
 
 The delightful sense of intimacy, which he always experi- 
 enced in her company, enabled him to tell her simply what 
 had passed. At the end she said: 
 
 "Then the boy doesn't know ?" 
 
 "Not yet." 
 
 "It will be easy to tell him now." 
 
 "He may loathe me." 
 
 "Have no fear of that. You will live to be proud of 
 him ; and he will live to be proud of you." 
 
 She spoke tranquilly, with 'comforting conviction. 
 
 "And you, Daffy?"' 
 
 He leaned forward, challenging her glance. Had she 
 betrayed a sign of weakness, passion might have swept the 
 pair of them to the bottomless pit. She was prepared for 
 the question. 
 
 "Alice and I came through Dinard on our way home." 
 386
 
 Reconstruction 
 
 "Dinard?" 
 
 "I saw Sir Harry Jocelyn, and the lady who shares his 
 exile. Did I tell you that I knew her before she went away 
 with him? No. Well, I remember telling you that her 
 husband refused to divorce her. She calls herself Lady 
 Jocelyn. Even in Dinard there are many women who won't 
 meet her. Harry is devoted, poor fellow, but he confessed 
 to me that golf was their principal distraction and occu- 
 pation." 
 
 "The common round, then, doesn't furnish all they have' 
 to ask?" 
 
 "They are miserably unhappy. I would have shut my 
 eyes to that, if I could. You and I, Tim, can throw no 
 stones at them. And in their particular case, they had 
 no one to consider except themselves. Yet it has turned 
 out disastrously. Time must make things harder for each 
 of them. I have had them in my mind ever since." 
 
 "But you would have come to me, Daffy, if I had in- 
 sisted and gone on insisting?" 
 
 "I don't know. Perhaps. Your want of me might have 
 overpowered judgment, instinct, everything. Most women 
 are like that, and fortunately few men know it. If there 
 had been nothing left in all the world for you but me, I 
 feel that I might have come to you, and together we should 
 have sunk, Tim, to depth beyond depth, because I am I and 
 you are you. The Little Pennington influence has been 
 too great for each of us. That is why I sent you back to 
 your father. Oh, Tim, I must let you see my heart to-day, 
 even as I seem to see yours. Happiness may not be for 
 us. It is so elusive at best. Those who seek it most un- 
 wearyingly are those who never find it. I doubt if it is 
 ever found at the expense of others, save, perhaps, by men 
 and women who are little higher than the beasts of the 
 field. Peace remains, Tim, and a share in the happiness 
 which flows from others. You have your son, your fa- 
 ther, and your work. I believe that your work will help 
 you and others. You will put into it what you have felt,
 
 Timothy 
 
 the enduring beauty of things ; you will fight on the side 
 of the angels, and it will be well with you." 
 
 "I hope so," he said humbly. 
 
 He told her about his visit to the hospital, and repeated 
 what the doctor had said. Upon this unhappy subject 
 Daffy knew far more than he did ; she had met Miss Daw- 
 son, had worked with her and for her. 
 
 Daffy said sadly: "Are you going to tell Jack about his 
 mother ?" 
 
 "No ; I'm not. I simply can't." 
 
 "It is for you to decide, but I think you are right." 
 
 "She has forgotten him, poor soul! as I did. With 
 greater excuse, too. Her only friend appears to be a girl 
 called Daisy. I must see her and arrange something." 
 
 "I may be able to find some sort of retreat, some shelter." 
 
 Presently he went away, feeling terribly bruised and 
 tired. Like Apollo, he had pursued Daphne; and she had 
 turned herself into a tree. The offer to find shelter brought 
 to his mind the old story. He could see himself, hot and 
 weary, sitting in the cool shade which she provided. 
 
 That night, at his hotel, he fell a prey to an inevitable 
 reaction. Temperamentally, he was the least morbid of men. 
 Even in his darkest hours, just after Magdalena's death, 
 he had clung to life desperately, furious because Fate 
 had dealt cruelly with him, but with fighting instincts 
 aroused and clamouring for expression. Once, long ago, 
 upon the wet decks of The Cassandra, he had been seized 
 with the desire to plunge into the yeasty wake and find ob- 
 livion. That, indeed, was the mad impulse of a reckless, 
 unhappy boy, which had passed swiftly. 
 
 To-night, the temptation gripped him again, with subtle 
 beguilement. He was afraid of himself, not yet able to 
 reckon the change within him, the new, amazing sense of 
 388
 
 Reconstruction 
 
 self-detachment. His passion for Daffy was dead, and 
 with it seemed to have died other interests and ambitions. 
 The Vicar stood forth as a radiant example of how fine life 
 might be without passion. He knew with a conviction that 
 nothing could shake hereafter that if Daffy and he had 
 elected to ignore consequence, consequence would have 
 been less complaisant to them. Life with her, however sweet 
 for a brief time, would have degenerated into bitterness 
 and remorse; a fine symphony murdered by the perform- 
 ers. Passion was incapable of compromise; it blessed or 
 it blighted. 
 
 He reflected ironically that he was indulging himself with 
 catch-penny platitudes. 
 
 If he died now, if he sought the long sleep, the merciful 
 oblivion, what a solution of the problem that would be! 
 Such an end could be accomplished without arousing the 
 suspicions of others. To die painlessly, to escape from 
 woes present and future, to refuse the drinking of dregs 
 the disappointments, the futilities, the crass stupidities of ex- 
 istence why not ? He could provide adequately for Ivy and 
 Jack ; and then he could swim out to sea till some kindly cur- 
 rent carried him to eternal rest 
 
 389
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 TWILIGHT 
 I 
 
 room assigned to Tim in the huge hotel on the 
 A. Thames Embankment overlooked the river. Tim sat 
 at his open window watching the twinkling lights upon the 
 Surrey side. At the moment when he was most tempted 
 to escape from himself, he heard the Westminster chimes 
 and then the slow, solemn striking of midnight. 
 
 A small thing may change the current of a man's thoughts. 
 But this was no small thing. And it happened, oddly 
 enough, to be a first experience, for he had never paid at- 
 tention to such sounds before, although he was acutely sen- 
 sitive to symbolism however it might present itself to his 
 intelligence. 
 
 A new day was at hand. 
 
 With the realization of this, he undressed and went to 
 bed, but he lay awake listening for the next chime, thinking 
 of the bells of Little Pennington, which had been rung upon 
 the night when he returned home. They, too, echoed in his 
 mind, evoking the memories of innumerable Sundays, when 
 he had obeyed most reluctantly their insistent summons. 
 
 The dawn of a new day! 
 
 What a miracle it was, this eternal resurrection of the 
 hours, this triumph of the present over the past, this renas- 
 cence of light and warmth. 
 
 He stretched himself, acutely conscious of physical well- 
 being, knowing that he was "fit," in the very prime of man- 
 hood. The sharp reflection of the thousands in bodily pain 
 who must be listening to the striking of the hours served 
 390
 
 Twilight 
 
 as a tonic ; the faces of the women in the B.D. ward floated 
 before him. 
 
 "I must stick it out," he thought. 
 
 With this determination gathering strength in his mind, 
 he fell asleep. When he woke, the black humours had van- 
 ished, he could wonder why he had entertained them. Some- 
 thing new and fresh took their place, as if dew had fallen 
 upon him during the night, as if Spring had touched him 
 with her rosy fingers. 
 
 During the morning he called 1 upon Broad, who said 
 that Tders were coming in from the big booksellers. Tim 
 read a somewhat drastic criticism of "Dust" which did him 
 no harm, still further quickening his fighting instincts, for 
 the reviewer had picked out all the blemishes and crudities 
 of the novel. Broad said genially : 
 
 "The poor devil was bilious. As a rule they're kinder to 
 beginners. Wait till you sell a first edition of ten thousand ; 
 then you'll get it" 
 
 From Broad's publishing house he walked to the Na- 
 tional Gallery, and spent a profitable two hours in front of 
 a dozen masterpieces. The work accomplished by others 
 began to provoke a desire in him to take up his pen again. 
 He had been right to lay down a too facile and ineffective 
 brush. 
 
 "Could he work in Little Pennington ?" 
 
 Time and experience would determine that. The attempt 
 must be made patiently and sincerely. Surely in that peace- 
 ful village something would come to him, some emanation 
 from the many lives so interwoven with his own. Hope 
 that it might be so evoked the faith necessary to bring about 
 such a consummation. Such thoughts, flitting in and out 
 of his mind, are recorded because they serve to shew the 
 change in Tim's point of view. Hitherto, his intelligences 
 had been synthetic, essentially imaginative and creative. A 
 tremendous shock had shaken up and disintegrated a too 
 selfish philosophy, compelling him, both consciously and sub- 
 
 391
 
 Timothy 
 
 consciously, to take cognisance of its component parts, to 
 analyse them separately, and then, if he could, to piece 
 them together so that they would present a different pattern. 
 To an impartial student of psychology, the change in the 
 man, which was most significant, took the form of a pro- 
 found and humble distrust of himself. 
 
 ii 
 
 He saw Ivy three times before he went back to Little 
 Pennington. During his last visit, he learned that Daffy had 
 come to the hospital bringing with her flowers and an offer 
 of shelter not only for Ivy but for her friend. 
 
 "It ain't a Home for the Fallen," explained Ivy. "Me 
 and Daisy couldn't stand that. It's a cottage in the coun- 
 try. We shall just love it for a month. By that time I'll 
 be strong again, and fatter, I hope. Dull, yes ; but sweetly 
 pretty. She's st good sort, that Lady Rokeby. Dropped 
 no tracks. My ! Ain't I fed up with them. Made me laugh, 
 too, telling me about a dormouse which you gave her when 
 she was a little girl." 
 
 "I paid a shilling for it," said Tim. 
 
 "She told me that she caught it by the tail, and all the 
 fur come off in her 'and. And then the dormouse ate up 
 what was left of its tail. Ain't that funny?" 
 
 She laughed mirthfully. 
 
 Nothing she could have said would have indicated more 
 clearly her amazing irresponsibility, her incapacity to take 
 things seriously. She was a child when he parted from 
 her ; she would remain childish so long as she lived. 
 
 When he took leave of her she cried a little, repeating 
 the old phrase : "Oh, I do like you : you are a dear. It was 
 just sweet of you to hunt me up." 
 
 Then, holding her thin hand, he told her that he had 
 bought an annuity for her. If he expected fervent thanks, 
 he was mistaken. She frowned slightly, as she asked : 
 392
 
 Twilight 
 
 "Does that mean I'm to be good, to go back to Lanter- 
 ton?" 
 
 "No; it only means that you will have enough to live 
 on, enough to keep you from want." 
 
 She smiled again. Tim said desperately': 
 
 "Look here, Ivy. God knows I'm not fit to preach to 
 you; I've been through Hell, dear, and I'm not out of it 
 yet. But I believe I shall get out. I'm going home to begin 
 again. Can't you do the same?" 
 
 "Go home?" She laughed mockingly. 
 
 "I don't mean Lanterton. This friend of yours, Daisy, 
 seems to be fond of you. Couldn't you two start a small 
 shop? Is there no escape from a life which must kill you 
 both?" 
 
 She regarded him sourly. 
 
 "That sort of talk gives me the hump. Escape? S'pose 
 I don't want to escape ? A small shop ! I know more about 
 small shops than you do. Why, it's worse drudgery than 
 service. I must have my bit o' fun. There! That's back 
 of everything. Most of us ain't honest enough to own up. 
 But what's the use of my humbuggin' you? I 2ove my 
 freedom see? I lie here thinking of what? I told the 
 clergyman who visits here, and he nearly had a fit. He 
 expected me to be howling over my sins. I told him my 
 mind was wandering in the Empire promynade. And so 
 it is. Now you have it. No complaints." 
 
 As he was going, she said artlessly: 
 
 "Mr. Tim, couldn't you get me a dormouse?" 
 
 He promised to provide a dormouse. 
 
 in 
 
 It was impossible to think of this poor creature as a bad 
 woman, generic title for all such unfortunates in the happy 
 village and even in Lanterton. Bad! That was positive. 
 A "bad" man in California signified one who liked to shoot 
 
 393
 
 Timothy 
 
 first under slight provocation. The Greaser, who slipped 
 a knife into Tim was "bad." Tim bore him no grudge when 
 he looked reflectively as he did sometimes at the scar. 
 The Greaser was a wild animal; little Ivy how small she 
 looked! was a tame cat, purring when you offered her 
 cream and dormice, shewing her claws when you rubbed her 
 fur the wrong way. 
 
 And she was the mother of Jack. 
 
 He had to assimilate this fact as best he might, but the 
 results, both in his own case and the boy's, must be deemed 
 something of a triumph for environment and personal in- 
 fluence over heredity. 
 
 That night he bared his soul to the Vicar, extenuating 
 nothing in the past, making no pledges for the future. The 
 old man listened with a quiet light in his eyes, saying nothing 
 till Tim had finished. 
 
 "I want to stay here with you and Jack. I want to know 
 Jack. I want him to know me. And then I shall tell him 
 that he is my son." 
 
 "It will not be difficult, my boy." 
 
 They gazed tranquilly at each other. Tim saw that the 
 Vicar was counting his sheaves, the corn that had ripened 
 after long years. 
 
 "I am well content, Tim." 
 
 It was so; for there is an expression upon some men's 
 faces which can never be feigned, a serenity which is the 
 seal of a fruitful life, of high faith, of a courage that never 
 fails. Beholding this look, Tim tasted for the first time 
 a happiness not his own, a cooling, satisfying draught from 
 the cup of another. 
 
 The Vicar added slowly: 
 
 "I have prayed that this hour might come. I can go 
 now in peace." 
 
 394
 
 Twilight 
 
 IV 
 
 Alone once more, Tim swore to himself that this peace 
 should not be imperilled by any word or act of his. He 
 was beginning again, with an open mind. Three clauses 
 in the Apostles' Creed reestablished themselves in that mind : 
 the forgiveness of sins, the communion of Saints, and the 
 resurrection of the dead. 
 
 The odd whim that he, a nameless man, must adopt some 
 name which fitted him touched again his fancy. He would 
 be known henceforward as Timothy White, and it was the 
 Vicar's wish that Jack, when he learned the truth, should 
 call himself White, but to Tim the pseudonym which he 
 had adopted was that he really felt himself to be. He might 
 be young as men reckon years ; he might achieve much ; but 
 the fires of youth had at last burnt themselves out. 
 
 "Now came still evening on, and twilight grey 
 Had in her sober livery all things clad." 
 
 As he came home across Pennington Park, the grey skies 
 seemed to meet and fuse in the grey landscape; the ponds 
 mirrored a silvery radiance ; in the west the sun was sink- 
 ing behind great banks of clouds ; some tall firs were sharply 
 defined against a patch of golden light. 
 
 Out of the silence peace descended upon him. Whether 
 it would linger with him or not, he could not say. , 
 
 395