EDEN PHILLPOTTS
 
 SANTA BAPvBARA STATE COLLEGE LIBRARY
 
 THE BANKS OF COLNE
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 HEW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO • DALLAS 
 ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 MACMILLAN & CO., Limited 
 
 LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA 
 MELBOURNB 
 
 THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA. Ltd. 
 
 TOKONTO
 
 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 [THE NURSERY) 
 
 BY 
 
 EDEN PHILLPOTTS 
 
 Author of "Brunel's Tower," 
 "Old Dklabole," etc. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 1917 
 
 All rights reservtd
 
 Copyright, 1917 
 By the MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Set up and electrotyped. Published, May, 1917.
 
 PR 
 
 snl 
 
 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 AT HYTHE 
 
 Down the street that falls from Colchester to Hythe, on 
 an evening in high summer, there walked a young woman. 
 
 None accosted her, for none knew her. A man or two 
 turned a second glance upon her, because she was fair to 
 see and her widow's weeds made a striking frame for the 
 picture of her corn-coloured hair, grey eyes, and beautiful 
 mouth ; but she was a stranger, and, as she strolled down 
 Hythe Hill, she reflected that not a soul of all the thou- 
 sands circling round about her had ever seen her face or 
 heard her name. The thought cheered her rather than 
 cast her down. Resolution and humour both homed in 
 her expression ; her almond-shaped eyes were keen, her 
 mouth was wide awake. The lips moved and tightened 
 sometimes. She looked about her and marked everything; 
 occasionally she lifted her hands to shut in a picture, or 
 half closed her eyes to get the colour values of a scene, as 
 artists will. She wore little crape, yet contrived to make 
 it clear that she was a widow, newly made. Her interest 
 in the scene about her was fitful, for between moments of 
 attention to the life and bustle of the quays on Colne 
 river-side, the woman retreated into herself. But out- 
 ward forms of things — their lines and colours and move- 
 ments — continually attracted her eyes and distracted 
 her thoughts. 
 
 She felt a desire to hear human speech and asked ques- 
 tions of men at their work. Great warehouses thrust up 
 
 1 
 
 : COLLEGE LIBRARY 
 •5i /^<£r •? yi
 
 2 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 on either side of the narrowed mouth of Colne estuary. 
 They hung their cranes over the water, and beneath them 
 the little merchant coasters and small tramp steamers lay, 
 to give, or receive. Great Thames barges were here and 
 other less splendid craft. They brought coals and timber 
 and grain, and bore away oil and oil-cake, ironwork, and 
 the varied merchandise of Colchester. 
 
 There was a barge with open hatches unloading 
 Indian corn, and the wanderer found herself much at- 
 tracted by the great masses of red-golden seed. ISIen 
 bore it away, and one stood below knee-deep in the bright 
 corn and scooped it into the sacks of the stevedores. 
 They came and went sure-footed along bending planks, 
 and transferred the cargo to a granary, whose open door 
 gaped for them on the other side of the street. The girl, 
 for she was not much more, found great pleasure in this 
 spectacle and made a mental picture. 
 
 Presently she turned away and followed a path that led 
 south over meadow-land beside the widening river. The 
 fields were spattered with dark-coloured kine, and beyond 
 them, to the east, a low hill rose, heavily wooded. A rail- 
 way ran below it — the line to Wyvenhoe and Brightling- 
 sea. Looking back, the painter saw how pleasantly the 
 masts of the ships spired together among the houses. 
 Long shadows fell now, but above them the spars flashed 
 up into the sunshine, and little pennons fluttering at their 
 peaks twinkled, like red and blue stars. 
 
 The visitor found a stile in the fields and sat down on 
 the topmost bar. She was tall, but now she drew up her 
 legs, rested her elbows on her knees and remained in this 
 somewhat cramped position with thought in her eyes. 
 Her lips moved to the tune in her mind. Sometimes they 
 flickered with a fleeting smile ; but that was seldom. For 
 the most part her expression ranged over more serious 
 emotions. Actual sorrow found no home there. Passion 
 once lit her eyes ; her mouth set and her teeth flashed 
 whitely. But the anger vanished in an expiration and
 
 AT HYTHE 8 
 
 she grew mild again. Underlying all the play of light and 
 darkness revealed in her features, there dwelt determina- 
 tion. Little hair lines were already woven by the spiders 
 of thought and care upon her forehead; but her face was 
 imperious as well as beautiful, and under repose it showed 
 will and nerve. 
 
 A fellow-creature came to the stile — one who seemed 
 less at pains to practise self-control. She was a girl of 
 eighteen or nineteen, clad in a plain homespun dress and 
 a black straw hat with a white ribbon. She wore no 
 gloves and carried nothing. She stared in front of her 
 on the ground Avith her head bent over her bosom. She 
 was slim and only blessed with the beauty of youth. She 
 looked haggard and her gait appeared unsteady. The 
 stranger alighted from the stile to let her pass, and, climb- 
 ing over without thanks, she went forward toward Hythe. 
 
 The elder's eyes followed her with interest until the girl 
 had vanished ; then she returned to her thoughts for 
 another hour. Presently she looked at her watch, saw 
 that it was past eight o'clock, and began to walk back by 
 the way she had come. Instead of crossing the bridge at 
 Hythe, however, she followed the dwindling creek with pur- 
 pose to reach her destination by the river. For the valley 
 invited her and the sun, that had set behind a mist of dis- 
 tant trees, made beauty there. But clouds swallowed it 
 quickly and night soon fell. She was now in a region some- 
 what lonely at this hour, for the workpeople had all gone 
 and the river-side was deserted. Presently she felt 
 doubtful of her way and desired the appearance of a fellow- 
 creature to guide her. But none came. The light died 
 fast and for a moment the artist stood irresolute on rough 
 and broken ground by the river. At water's edge a barge 
 was building and its naked ribs rose over her head and made 
 a pattern against the sky. The stern of the barge stood 
 not much above the river where, oily, sluggish, silent, it 
 rounded in a backwater. Colne thrust out a muddy finger 
 here, that narrowed through a channel into the fields be-
 
 4 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 hind, and the woman was hesitating whether to turn back, 
 when she saw something move between the stem of the 
 growing barge and the water. At first she thought it was 
 a dog; then she saw it was a human being. An accident 
 of movement revealed her. She was a girl — the same girl 
 who had passed over the stile two hours before. 
 
 So the two met again, and the stranger welcomed the 
 native. 
 
 " For goodness' sake tell me how to get out of this 
 hole," she said. " I'm utterly lost." 
 
 For a moment no answer came ; then the crouching girl 
 spoke in the accents of one suddenly wakened from sleep. 
 
 " You can't go that way, and you won't find the path 
 if you're new to it. Best go back to the bridge." 
 
 " But I'm not sure of the way behind me now. And 
 you.'' Aren't you going somewhere? " 
 
 " Yes, I am," said the dreary voice. 
 
 " Are you waiting for somebody ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 There was a pause and the elder's memory quickened. 
 
 " Forgive me, but you passed me in the fields at a stile, 
 didn't you.?" 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " You don't sound happy." 
 
 " Who is.? You'd best to go away and look after your- 
 self." 
 
 " That's what I'm doing. There's nobody else to look 
 after me but myself. Perhaps it's better luck to look 
 after yourself than depend upon other people." 
 
 " If your life's worth living — not if it isn't." 
 
 " Of course it's worth living. Isn't yours ? Such a 
 young thing as you, with your life all in front of you." 
 
 " My life's all behind me for that matter." 
 
 " Well, come up out of that mud and talk to me. 
 You're lonely and I'm lonely ; and you know the way out 
 of this dead hole and I don't." 
 
 The girl did not move or reply, so the speaker ap-
 
 AT HYTHE 5 
 
 preached her. She was sitting on a plank with her feet 
 dangling over the water a 3^ard beneath. Upon it floated 
 dim, amorphous washes of tar, stained to brightness by 
 the last light of the western sky. 
 
 " What a horrid place to choose ! '* 
 
 " As good as any other." 
 
 The stranger put her hand on the girl's shoulder. She 
 had divined the situation. 
 
 " To think," she said, " that I should come to another 
 girl at a minute like this. You poor, little, forlorn dear ! 
 But I wonder if you are as poor and forlorn as I am? " 
 
 She saw the expression on the face of the unhappy one 
 and stooped down and kissed her. The caress unsealed a 
 torrent of tears. 
 
 " Go away and let me alone," sobbed the girl ; but irreso- 
 lution was in her voice and the elder found her task easy 
 enough. 
 
 " Get up and come away from this evil water and talk 
 to me. Notliing happens by chance, you know. It 
 wasn't meant you should. It's seldom worth while — 
 never from anything outside. If a girl's sick inside, per- 
 haps — but not for anything outside." 
 
 A sort of wonder came into the face of the sufferer. 
 
 " I swear to God I'd have done it," she said. 
 
 " I don't doubt your pluck — only your sense. Tell 
 me about it. But come away from the water first." 
 
 In her heart the elder found a shadow of a smile. 
 
 But she spoke seriously and pretended more than she 
 felt. The girl was a slight thing for all her grief, and 
 doubtless the grief was exaggerated. The stranger 
 woman assumed a sterner vein, raised up the girl, then 
 linked an arm in hers and led her from the water. 
 
 " What's your name.'' " she asked, but the other did not 
 reply. She took out a pocket-handkerchief and dried her 
 t^ars. For a time she walked in front and turned her 
 way up the valley. The beady light of a gas lamp twin- 
 kled far off, and neither spoke untU they reached it. It
 
 6 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 stood beneath a hedge, and beyond was a gate that opened 
 to a road. Then the girl turned on the woman. 
 
 " You've lost a husband by the look of it — and I've 
 lost him that was going to be my husband. You've kept 
 me alive to-night. But what was the sense of doing 
 that?" 
 
 *' Were you betrothed to him ? " 
 
 " No ; but he meant it all right. Then he had bad luck 
 and forgot all about me. As if bad luck mattered to me. 
 He loved me, and then bad luck stopped him and he 
 stopped loving me. And what worse can happen than 
 that?" 
 
 " Plenty of things. I suppose you're making all this 
 fuss because you're going to have a baby ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, I'm not. He's not that sort. More am I. 
 He's a gentleman, and a very clever man. We're superior 
 people. I'm a clerk. He was going to ask me to marry 
 him when he came home. I knew it without his telling me. 
 There was a lot understood and not spoken between us. 
 Everybody knew it was like that. Then he went ; and 
 when he did come home without any luck, he dropped 
 me." 
 
 " Why didn't you tackle him and tell him his luck made 
 no difference to your feelings ? " 
 
 " It was for him to ask me if it did. Besides, we'd never 
 talked about feelings." 
 
 " Perhaps you thought he meant more than he did? " 
 
 " I'm too clever for that. I know exactly what he 
 meant." 
 
 *' I'm sure you're clever. I dare say it will all go right 
 yet. If he's had a hard knock, it may take him time to 
 get over it. Men are different from us. All sorts of silly 
 little things throw their love-making out of gear. Per- 
 haps he's proud? " 
 
 " Yes, he is." 
 
 " Then, of course, if he's not in a position to go on with 
 it "
 
 AT HYTHE 7 
 
 " 'V\Tiat do things like that matter to a girl who loves 
 him?" 
 
 " It's what they matter to him — not you. With 
 women love's stronger than pride; with men it isn't. If 
 
 he's brave and clever, he'll get right again, and then 
 
 Have you got friends? " 
 
 " Yes, I have." 
 
 " That's sometliing. I haven't got a friend in the 
 world." 
 
 "What! With a beautiful face like that? But per- 
 haps you don't want them now your husband's dead." 
 
 " I want them badly enough." 
 
 "Poor?" 
 
 " Ever so poor." 
 
 The girl thought for a moment. 
 
 " I'll be your fnend," she said. " I must be, come to 
 think of it, whether you want me for a friend or not. I'd 
 be dead flesh now but for you." 
 
 " What's your name? " 
 
 " You won't tell about this ? You never would whisper 
 it to man or woman, would you ? " 
 
 " Need you ask another woman that? I've thought of 
 it, too, for that matter." 
 
 " It's lovely things like you they do find drowned," said 
 the girl, " not homely creatures like me." 
 
 " You're pretty when j^ou're happy, I expect. Every- 
 body's pretty when they're happy." 
 
 " There's a gentleman I know has got a death mask of a 
 French girl that was drowned," continued the native. " An 
 artist, going into the Morgue, found her and thought it 
 wasn't good such loveliness should be lost. So they made 
 a mask of her face before it was gone. You can see the 
 matted eyelashes on her little cheek. Made to love, not to 
 drown, that girl." 
 
 " Drowning often follows loving. I know the mask. 
 I've copied it when I was learning to draw." 
 
 There fell a silence, then the girl spoke suddenly :
 
 8 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 " My name's Margery Mahew, and I'm a clerk at Am- 
 brose's gardens. And who might you be? " 
 
 " My name's Aveline Brown, and I'm stopping in Station 
 Road. I'm an artist, and I shall find plenty of beautiful 
 pictures here. D'you tliink I shall find anybody to buy 
 them?" 
 
 " I hope so. I don''t know." 
 
 They trudged along for some time without speaking. 
 Then Margery explained the road. 
 
 " The Park is up to our left now, and we shall come out 
 by the bridge presently. That's the mill on the other side 
 of the river." 
 
 " It looks beautiful even in the dark." 
 
 " I live at Mile End, the other side of the railway. So 
 I can show you home to Station Road as I go." 
 
 " Do they expect you at home? " 
 
 " Yes — some time. I go and come. I live with my 
 uncle — a gardener at Ambrose's. I keep house for him." 
 
 " Come to my lodgings and have some supper with me," 
 suggested Mrs. Brown. " It's nice to know one person 
 here. You say you'll be my friend. Come and calm 
 down, and tell me about Colchester." 
 
 " D'you mean it ? " 
 
 " Yes, do come." 
 
 " This has been an unreal sort of day for me," mur- 
 mured the girl. " I feel as if I was dreaming." 
 
 " I know just how you feel. We all have dream days 
 like that. Come and eat some bread and cheese and bis- 
 cuits with me, and wake up before you go home." 
 
 " You've done a big thing, I suppose," answered Mar- 
 gery, but her voice was heavy and grudging. 
 
 " It's you who've done the big thing. Forget the night- 
 mare part of the dream, and forget yourself by being kind 
 to me. Life's going to be all right for you. I know it — 
 something tells me so. I never make a mistake about 
 people." 
 
 The other showed a spark of perception.
 
 AT HYTHE 9 
 
 " I don't know so much about that. You wouldn't have 
 no friends in the world, a lovely piece like you, if you never 
 made mistakes about people," she said. 
 
 The widow laughed rather mournfully. 
 
 " Perhaps it's because people make mistakes about me," 
 she answered. 
 
 For some time neither spoke again. They ascended 
 from Colne at the bridge below North Street, turned to the 
 right and proceeded to the station. 
 
 " To think what a day may bring forth," said the girl 
 suddenly. 
 
 " Are you coming to supper with me? " 
 
 *' I'll come if you aren't ashamed of me," 
 
 " And who am I to be ashamed of anybody ? And 
 you're going to be my friend, remember. You don't know 
 half that means to me." 
 
 They reached Station Road and entered a little house 
 together.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE WATER GARDEN 
 
 AvELiNE walked early next morning along the river-side, 
 to see in daylight what she had passed by with Margery 
 on the previous night. Everything was strange and inter- 
 esting and beautiful. She longed to begin painting at 
 once. Under the bat willows, that rose in an avenue beside 
 the water, morning light flashed on the stream, and the 
 arrowy foliage of the trees sparkled and twinkled. Other 
 willows flourished on the opposite bank of Colne, and swans 
 swam upon the river, where it broadened into a reach 
 bright with sunshine above the mill pool. 
 
 The artist's purpose was to find a picture and study it 
 under early light. 
 
 Now she found what she wanted, and, stepping back- 
 wards, nearly trod upon a man. He was lying on a sack 
 in the grass, and by him, upon a big canvas bag, there sat 
 a woman. They had been watching Aveline's actions and 
 speculating upon them. Both man and woman were some- 
 what extraordinary figures, and both smoked pipes. The 
 woman bore the marks of beauty in ruins. She might 
 have been forty-five, and was tanned a brick red by ex- 
 posure. Her eyes were bright and of the darkest brown ; 
 on her head she wore a bedraggled hat, with one great 
 turkey feather set bolt upright upon it ; her hair was cut 
 short and her thin bosom was buttoned up in an old Nor- 
 folk jacket. Her dress, of withered brown, ended in a 
 fringe of rags ; but her boots were new and sound. Her 
 companion appeared rather better dressed. He had a 
 round, unhealthy face, with a thin beard and moustache. 
 His eyes were dim and bleared. 
 
 10
 
 THE WATER GARDEN 11 
 
 " If I'm in the way, say so," said the man, as Aveline 
 nearly fell backwards over him. She apologised, and he 
 laughed. 
 
 " Me and Emma was wondering what you were up to." 
 
 " I'm going to paint a picture." 
 
 " Why.'* " asked the man. 
 
 " I live by it." 
 
 " Can't say as I've seen you before, have you, Emma? " 
 
 " No, for certain," answered the woman. 
 
 *' I'm a new-comer to Colchester." 
 
 " That accounts for it. We're very well known — 
 famous, in fact," explained Emma. 
 
 " But our liking for fresh air and objection to what they 
 call ' honest toil ' make us people apart," drawled the man. 
 " I'm William Ambrose, and she's Emma Darcy, better 
 known as ' jMarmalade Emma,' owing to a misunderstand- 
 ing at a grocer's." 
 
 " There was three of us once," said the woman, in a deep, 
 pleasant voice. " Me and Billy and Captain Slasher. 
 Above all law and order, you understand, and lived to- 
 gether and tramped together. Well known throughout 
 the Tendring Hundred for our fearless opinions and that. 
 We live from day to day, and the morrow don't fright us 
 more than it does a bird. Do it, Billy.'' We don't know 
 the least mite what's going to come of us to-morrow; and 
 we don't care." 
 
 " It was because Cap'n Slasher fell away from that, 
 that trouble overtook him," said Billy. " We got on very 
 well for a bit and shared everything that come along ; but 
 then he grew impatient and started making money." 
 
 " Would sing," explained Emma. " He'd walk down the 
 middle of the street through the housen and sing for 
 pence." 
 
 " He'd howl that dismal, cowardly hymn — you know 
 — * Rock of Ages cleft for me. Let me hide myself in Thee.' 
 A mean-spirited bit of nonsense, in my opinion. Who 
 the devil wants to hide in somebody else.'' A song for
 
 12 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 slackers, I call it. And he sang it once too often, and he 
 got it in the neck at last, yelping down St. Paul's Road. 
 A few unknown men set on the Cap'n and left him sense- 
 less in the dark of a winter's evening." 
 
 " We were willing to take him back when he came out of 
 orspital," continued Emma ; " but goodstruth ! ' Never 
 again,' he says, * I'm fed up with Colchester.' So he van- 
 ished away. I missed him more'n what Bill did. I nilly 
 cried my eyes out for him. In fact, I made Billy jealous, 
 didn't I, Bill?" 
 
 " Jealous I never was and never could be," answered 
 Mr. Ambrose. 
 
 Aveline sat on a wooden seat close to this singular pair. 
 They were quite willing to talk, and both smoked while 
 they did so. 
 
 " If you're a stranger here, you'll find that we are a 
 law-ridden and a parson-ridden town," said the man. 
 *' If I could work, which I can't, I'd try to show people that 
 the days for all this driving and harrying and bullying 
 are past. Under socialism there is a complete change 
 coming, and we shall look at things and people as they 
 really are — not as their cash makes 'em appear. The 
 way we live now three-quarters of the people are handi- 
 capped to hell from the minute they're born, and the other 
 quarter get the lot, on the strength of being their father's 
 sons. Property is the idea that wrecks England. Take 
 apples, for example." 
 
 " We take enough of them, anyway," said Emma. 
 
 " Very well then. Here's a hedge and here's an apple 
 tree, and Nature looks after it. She don't care a damn 
 who planted the tree, any more than she cares who planted 
 the grass at the foot of the tree, or who planted the corn 
 on the other side of the hedge. She looks after the tree 
 for the community — birds and squirrels and mice, and 
 Emma and me, included. And when we get to understand 
 that Nature works for the community and not the indi- 
 vidual, there's no doubt we shall begin to see light."
 
 THE WATER GARDEN 13 
 
 " But Nature does work ; so why shouldn't you? " aslied 
 Aveline. 
 
 " A mean question, and easily answered. But for the 
 minute I'm talking about apples. Well, there's the tree 
 covered with the fruits of the earth — the earth, mind 
 you — and I, that live by the fruits of the earth, hold 
 views that make me feel I've as much right to the apples 
 as the man who says there're his, or the king on his throne 
 for that matter. So I take them in no unreasonable and 
 small spirit. The unreasonable man would take more 
 than his share, with an eye to selling again, which is what 
 I call dishonest; and the poor-spirited man would palter 
 with them and ver}^ like only pick up the windfalls, and so 
 quiet a bad conscience. Not so me and Emma. We've 
 got no conscience, bad or otherwise. So we take, say, a 
 dozen of the best, having first sampled a few to see the tree 
 ain't cheating us — for the outside is often as false in 
 apples as in humans. Then we go on our wa}', at peace 
 with God and man. If the thing's brought home and man 
 isn't at peace with us, we bend to force. A blind gener- 
 ation has often interfered with the freedom of my body — 
 never with the freedom of my mind." 
 
 " He's been locked up seven times," said Emma. 
 
 The heart of the artist went out to these people. She 
 had large sympathy with the egregious, and their isola- 
 tion awoke hidden instincts. 
 
 *' But what about work ? " she asked. " I know everj^- 
 thing's all wrong, but why don't you try to set it right? " 
 
 " I've not got the powers for preaching. I'm a living 
 protest — so's Marmalade Emma. Some women would be 
 ashamed of that nickname, seeing how she came by it. 
 But she's not. A pot of marmalade, traced back to its 
 foundationals just the same as an apple, or pear, or peck 
 of corn. And when 3'ou sa^^ ' work,' you must remember 
 that Nature makes us all different — some to work, some 
 to wander, some to dream dreams. Let them that are 
 called to work do their work. I never stood between a
 
 14 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 inan and a bit of work in my life, and never shall. The 
 drones do their proper work, as well as the bees, and Ave 
 must have variet}', and respect each man's nature. Work 
 by all means, I don't prevent it ; but as I'm bom to play, 
 it's your right and duty to respect my birthright and let 
 me play. In fact, pushed home, you ought to help me to 
 play, not hinder me. It's every man's duty to help the 
 destiny of every other. Take Emma's brother. He's a 
 freeman of Brittlesea ^ — a man of the sea, with his right 
 in the oyster fisheries. A glutton for work, and engaged 
 on the Fishery Company's steamer. Peewit. Well, did I 
 ever come between him and his labours? And yet, when 
 winter overtakes us, and Emma, who is his only relation 
 worth being proud of, comes down on him for a room to 
 cover us of a night till the spring returns, do you think 
 he welcomes us gladly? Not at all. Thomas Darcy is as 
 ignorant a man, for all I've known him ten years, as any 
 man living. My own brother hasn't got less sense as to 
 what the community owes the non-workers." 
 
 " Have you got a brother? " asked the listener. 
 
 Emma pointed behind them, where a black fence ran. 
 Above it, on a white board, twenty feet long, was written 
 in red and gold a single name — 
 
 "AUBREY PARKYN AIMBROSE, 
 
 CoLNESiDE Gardens " 
 
 " That's his brother," she said. " He's the biggest nurs- 
 eryman in Colchester. Worth hundreds of thousands, I 
 dare say — and the Mayor of Colchester this year in the 
 bargain." 
 
 " I'm the thorn in his flesh," declared the tramp. 
 " He's offered me two hundred pounds per annum in quar- 
 terly payments, if I'll leave the country. When I see him 
 swelling by, I say, * But for the grace of God, there goes 
 Billy Ambrose ! ' Poor soul, I could rise to pity him, if 
 
 1 Brittlesea = Brightlingsea.
 
 THE WATER GARDEN 15 
 
 he wasn't such a good and model type of man. You can 
 judge of people entirely by their attitude to my brother, 
 Parkyn. Them that admire him are no friends of mine; 
 but for such as hate him by natural instinct and proper 
 feeling, there's hope." 
 
 The artist h-ad been considering Emma's strong features 
 and remarkable hat. 
 
 " I wonder if you'd let me paint you.^ " she asked, " just 
 as you are." 
 
 " Just as I am, without one flea," said Emma, and 
 William roared. 
 
 *' You've never heard a woman make a joke like that, I'll 
 bet.^ " he asked. 
 
 " I never did," confessed Aveline ; " but let me paint her 
 - — here, to-morrow." 
 
 " To-morrow's an unknown quantity with me and 
 Emma," explained INIr. Ambrose. " You'll never catch us 
 committing ourselves to to-morrow. ' Never trust to- 
 morrow,' is a wise saying invented by me. To-morrow 
 we may be here, or at Brittlesea, or Mersea Island, or 
 Jericho." 
 
 " In fact, we're like the hares and pheasants," declared 
 Emma. " If you want us, you've got to hunt us ; and 
 because you hunt us, it don't follow by any means you'll 
 catch us, do it, Billy.'' " 
 
 " We have our haunts and holts, like the natural crea- 
 tures we claim to be," said William Ambrose. " However, 
 you'll very likely see us about. We circle round Colches- 
 ter, like the moon circles round the earth." 
 
 " Will you accept a little momento of our meeting, 
 then.?" 
 
 " In the same spirit as you give, we'll accept," promised 
 Emma. " We like you, don't we, Billy .'* " 
 
 " Yes," said the man, " you're a lovely bit, for all your 
 silly, black weeds ; and the chap who died and had to 
 leave you behind was unluck}^ We don't thank you for 
 this half-crown. We take it as the fair return for our
 
 16 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 friendship, which is j^ours in future. Now we must get on 
 the war-path, Emma." 
 
 " Can I walk in the gardens over there? " asked Aveline. 
 
 " Most certainly. My brother opens them to the pub- 
 lic. I go in myself when I feel like it. Sometimes, if I 
 want to reward one of the right sort, I go in by night and 
 lift a valuable plant, and cover myself with glory. Mind 
 you go and look at the larkspurs. To the understanding 
 eye, they're a sermon. Not that flowers ever preach any- 
 thing but cash to my poor brother." 
 
 " He preaches to them more like," said Emma. 
 
 " No, my beautiful girl," answered Billy. " The flowers 
 have got nothing to learn from Parkyn Ambrose. The 
 flowers teach : they're far above learning. To sell flowers, 
 in my opinion, is very nearly as bad as keeping a slave 
 market. His nursery's a prison, and I for one shall 
 alwa^'s break in and rescue a plant now and again, when 
 I'm in the mind to do so. You see he lives by them, and 
 yet here am I, that have forgot more about flowers than 
 ever he knew, poor soul." 
 
 William shouldered the sack, and waved his hand to 
 Aveline. Then he went forward with Marmalade Emma 
 paddling in his wake; while, laughing to herself and the 
 happier for this venture, the artist walked by the river, 
 presently found a gate that opened into the enclosures and 
 entered them. 
 
 The immense nurseries extended as far as she could see ; 
 but close at hand, in the lap of Colne, stretched a water 
 garden, perhaps the fairest in all England. A great 
 weeping willow hung over the way, and its bright tresses 
 had been cut into an arch where the path ran under it. 
 Now Aveline passed through this golden tunnel and stood 
 before a lake. 
 
 The water lily ponds were spread in a place of cool 
 green and whispering boughs. Willow folk made the 
 dominant decoration and broke the contours of the banks 
 with domes and canopies of grey and green. Here they
 
 THE WATER GARDEN 17 
 
 sparkled with white fire where the breezes lifted their 
 leaves ; here they fell like fountains and trailed their deli- 
 cate boughs in the water. With them the fern-leaved 
 alder sprang, and behind them towered a row of poplars, 
 that marked the river banks beyond. 
 
 The lake itself was led with art into its appointed 
 form. Little headlands gave upon it and offered a new 
 picture at each turn, yet preserved the restful distinction 
 of the whole. The fingers of the water islanded many a 
 fine mass of riparian things, and rush and sedge, bamboo 
 and flowering grasses were broken deftly in their masses 
 and brightened and lightened by a thousand flowers. 
 
 First came the legions of the meadowsweets, from white 
 to cream, from palest pink to red. With plumes and 
 spires they nodded and swayed in their drifts along the 
 water side ; and some drooped their blossom sprays and 
 some rose stiffly together and drove a fine, upright pattern 
 into the graceful tangles of the grasses. The great and 
 lesser reed-mace similarly sprang upward, and with their 
 black velvet spears brought symmetry and strength into 
 all the yielding lines from which they rose. Giant rhu- 
 barbs lifted their red flower-stalks half as high as the wil- 
 low trees, and inflorescence still touched their branches 
 with sparks of russet. Beneath them a thousand plume 
 poppies feathered together above their glaucous leaves and 
 swayed their delicate flower pannicles in a warm mist of 
 amber light, that deepened into rose where a drift of 
 willow-herb spread beyond. At one island salient stood 
 a prickly rhubarb with foliage crinkled and vast, each 
 leaf the green sky of a little world spread under it, and 
 beside these noble plants throve water gladiolus, with 
 umbels of pale pink, and pickerel weed, flashing sky-blue 
 flowers among its arrowy leaves. At hand the true arrow- 
 leaf lifted many blossoms among its lance-shaped foliage, 
 and the whorls of white flowers, each triple-petalled with 
 a knot of gold, rose one above another to break the lines 
 of a peninsula that stretched out into the water behind
 
 18 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 them. Many fair grasses also ventured daintily into the 
 water, and gleaming glycera and blades of sweet acorus 
 stood forth among the shallows. Above them a New 
 Zealand flax, its swords slashed with silver, cast a bright 
 reflection upon the lake, and the zebra-rush lifted striped 
 sheaves beneath it. But all this brightness was cunningly 
 disposed to break up heavier masses of foliage and lend 
 vitality and leaping joy to the bank side. Life twinkled 
 starry everywhere, and the flow^er-light, now high, now low, 
 ran in a rainbow over the clouds of summer green. Great 
 plantain lilies lifted their lavender spikes above their deep- 
 ribbed leaves and brought back a memory of the wistarias 
 that had hung their purple over the water in spring ; but 
 the true lilies were nearly all sped, and only a leopard lily 
 or two still opened his scarlet and ebony-spotted bells in 
 the jungle at water side. The last of the water irises still 
 opened patines of opal and dull crimson above their green 
 swords ; but the globe flowers and primroses were gone ; 
 the fairy lacework of the bog-bean had vanished ; the white 
 stars of American mandrakes had given place to heavy 
 scarlet fruits, and the baneberries were clad with a blood- 
 red harvest. 
 
 For summer days were glowing, and the sun-bright 
 colours began to enrich each dingle with lemon and orange. 
 Hues so vivid demanded skill for their planting and fore- 
 sight for their values on the mass ; but experience and 
 understanding had ordered their mingled tones and bal- 
 anced their assertive splendours. The ragwort's flame 
 mingled with dim red burnets ; the giant buttercups lifted 
 their constellations in a setting of sombre green; the sky- 
 blue lyme grass was ablaze with invasion of monkey flowers, 
 orange and pink; and the yellow loosestrife maosed nobly 
 with the purple. Early meadowsweets had set a bank of 
 rufous seed-heads that blended with other yellow blos- 
 soms, and spartina's nodding plumes and spikelets of gold 
 fell about forget-me-nots gathered at her feet. Away
 
 THE WATER GARDEN 19 
 
 beyond, the companies of a giant groundsel sprang like 
 fire against a verdurous bank and lighted the darkness of 
 many a shady nook. Eight feet high they towered to fill 
 their place in the middle distance with a glow of flame; 
 while other ragworts of orange-red burned like sunset 
 beyond. Their masses were nearly hidden, but they blazed 
 through the receding green and led the sight to other inlets 
 and estuaries of the lake, where rose the mighty parsnip 
 of Hercules, with snowy umbels ; the rose-bright heads of 
 giant agrimonies, and the pale mauve stars of mulgediums, 
 that towered beside them. 
 
 A ray, cast from moon-coloured blossoms In a dingle, 
 rested Aveline's eyes a little, and while she looked at their 
 lemon crests, she dreamed a hundred pictures ; but the 
 planning of them brought her down to the lake itself and 
 the water lilies that sparkled at her feet. 
 
 Bright as the jewelly dragon-flies that danced there, the 
 lilies floated in their proper companies and echoed the 
 harmonies of the meadowsweets. But their colour ranged 
 beyond : their whiteness was more silvery and sparkling ; 
 their redness was of a grander lustre ; their pinkness was 
 more pure than the spiraeas. They deepened through pale 
 canary yellow to a crimson splendour, where no flower 
 upon the banks could follow them. From the green and 
 mottled discs of leaves overlapping on the clear water, 
 there sprang the flowers, snow-white and shell-pink, blush 
 rose and amaranth and ruby. Their petals, held together 
 with brooches of wrought gold, were of that pearly texture 
 that only water lilies know ; their forms were stars that 
 expanded and cups that curved. 
 
 Aveline heard footsteps behind her and, looking round, 
 observed a man. He wore grey tweeds, with knicker- 
 bockers, and walked briskly. He was tall and well set up. 
 His brown face and clear grey eyes gave a look of health 
 and strength to his countenance. His hair was black and 
 rather long, and he wore a heavy moustache, which con-
 
 20 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 ccaled the lines of his mouth. He walked close to the 
 visitor, and when he had passed her, glanced round to see 
 her face. 
 
 It was Aveline who spoke. 
 
 " I hope I am not trespassing? " she said. 
 
 Then the young man stopped, raised his cap and an- 
 swered — 
 
 " Oh, no ; the gardens are free to the public most part of 
 the day." 
 
 " This is perfect. But only an artist could know how 
 perfect." 
 
 " Are you an artist? " 
 
 " A painter, and an artist, too, I hope." 
 
 He nodded. Her frank manner set him at ease, though 
 her rare good looks made him careful. 
 
 " This is my water garden." 
 
 " Then you're Mr. Ambrose, I suppose? " 
 
 " No. I'm an artist, too, in my way — one of his de- 
 signers. It's my water garden only in the sense that I 
 planned it." 
 
 " You made all this loveliness ? " 
 
 " Not that either. Colne river made it. I sketched the 
 picture and brought the plants together, and Nature and 
 Colne painted it." 
 
 *' You can't escape the responsibility like that," she said 
 lightly. 
 
 The man spoke again, for her pleasant voice and cheer- 
 ful manner offered a contrast to her widow's weeds and 
 interested him. 
 
 " People despair of getting garden beauty out of the 
 flat," he said, " so they dig holes and fling up mounds and 
 try to be what they call ' natural.' As though a level 
 meadow is not as natural as a hillside. But given water, 
 you can do this sort of thing only on the flat." 
 
 " I understand." 
 
 " Being an artist, I dare say you hate everj'thing for- 
 mal," he said. " But I'm a formalist ; so's Mr. Ambrose.
 
 THE WATER GARDEN 21 
 
 We're spreading the cult of the formal garden — a thing 
 proceeding by just laws out of the dwelling-house, and not 
 wholly independent of it." 
 
 " I believe in form. ■ All good art is founded on form ; 
 but forms change. Things that are thought formless 
 to-day will be voted too formal to-morrow." 
 
 To hear a woman speak thus surprised the designer. 
 
 " You've thought about it," he said, but she did not 
 answer. 
 
 " How lovely it would be to see the moonlight on them," 
 she remarked a moment later, looking down at the water 
 lilies. 
 
 " They shut up at night," he answered ; then he knelt 
 at the water's edge, stretched forward, dipped his hand 
 under the water and plucked a gorgeous crimson blossom 
 of great size. In the midst of its star was a red gold 
 heart. 
 
 " D'you see how the dye of the petals runs over into the 
 yellow anthers and stains them ruby.'' That's a dead 
 man's work — Marliac's masterpiece." 
 
 " You have taken the queen off her throne," said Aveline. 
 
 " A hybrid — the very best water lily in the world." 
 
 He dried the stalk as he spoke and handed the flower to 
 her. 
 
 " What a noble thing ! May one sketch here, or is that 
 asking too much? " 
 
 " By all means, if you wish to." 
 
 " I'd love to try this lakelet ; but I expect it would beat 
 me," she confessed. " D'you know the underlying colour 
 in it.'' But you made it, so no doubt you do. It's gold. 
 You feel it more than you see it, but it's everywhere — 
 soaking everything. It can't contain itself. It actually 
 flashes out on a dead water lily leaf, or the edge of a reed, 
 or in those warm, cloudy masses of plume poppy beyond ; 
 but the green is full of it, too ; it warms every colour — 
 whites and purples and everything — to the ripening seed- 
 heads and flying cotton from the willow-herbs."
 
 ii'Z THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 " A painter would have to remember the gold, or he'd 
 make it cold and chilly and untrue, I suppose," said the 
 man. " Turner painted Colchester from these meadows 
 once upon a time. There was no water garden then, 
 though." 
 
 " There's gold in all he ever painted," she said. 
 He hesitated and was about to go. 
 
 " Am I to keep this.? " she asked, lifting the great lily 
 still in her hand. 
 
 " Please do ; and — and — if you care for this sort of 
 thing — garden planning, I mean — perhaps some day 
 you'd like to come to the studio and see some odds and 
 ends." 
 
 " How good of you ! Of course I should." 
 " Any time. I'm generally there ; and if I'm not, my 
 colleague is. But ask for me — Peter Mistley." 
 " I'll gladly come." 
 
 " Not your art, you know. But mine." 
 *' By the way, this is ' Colneside,' isn't it.'' " 
 " Yes — ' Colneside Gardens.' " 
 
 " I know a girl who works here — Margery Mayhew." 
 " A typewriter — yes. D'you know her well.'* " 
 " Pretty well. I'm so sorry about her." 
 " She and Hempson ? She'll get over it." 
 Aveline pretended that she knew as much as Mr. Mistley. 
 " Of course. I expect she dreamed it, poor little thing." 
 " No ; I think not. Hempson is one of the best. A real 
 good chap. You won't mention it to her, of course. But 
 he was very much in love with her and meant to ask her to 
 marry him after he came back from China." 
 " Why didn't he ask her before he went? " 
 " Because there was a chance he might not come back. 
 A good deal of danger attaches to seed collecting in these 
 out-of-the-way places. As a matter of fact, he did have a 
 squeak of his life. He came back from China in the spring. 
 Out there he was doing well in the hills and breaking new 
 ground. The people seemed friendly enough; but he got
 
 THE WATER GARDEN 23 
 
 into a tight corner and wasn't too diplomatic with them, I 
 suppose. Too EngHsh, or insular. Didn't respect their 
 manners and customs enough. Anyway they fell out with 
 him and they attacked him and his party and destroyed 
 a dozen cases of plants he had collected. One man was 
 killed, but Hempson and the rest escaped. There's a little 
 romance in the matter; perhaps Miss Mayhew told you.'' " 
 
 " Only her own romance.'* 
 
 " Poor Hempson carried one poppy seed in his hand for 
 three days — a sacred poppy or something that he had 
 heard was a marvel. For three days and nights he clung 
 to that capsule, saved it, and brought it home. It's just 
 flowered — a worthless weed. Sacred, perhaps, but its 
 sanctity won't save it." 
 
 Aveline was silent, speculating on the misfortunes of the 
 plant-collector. Her natural bent of mind decided her 
 reply. 
 
 " He'll have some splendid good luck next time — to 
 make up." 
 
 " Doubtful if there'll be a next time. He may not get a 
 commission abroad again — certainly not till after the 
 war." 
 
 They parted then, and Peter Mistley said good-bye and 
 went up the gardens. 
 
 When he was gone, Aveline thought about him, rather 
 liked him, and wondered if he were married. She decided 
 that he was a sort of man who would be. Then she con- 
 sidered " Marmalade Emma " and William, and laughed 
 gently. Whatever her recent griefs, the young woman 
 appeared full of a joy of life that could not long or 
 patiently regard them.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE STUDIO 
 
 There are two orders of human beings who lack power of 
 self-expression: those who neither know the need nor feel 
 it — the bulk of mankind — and those who are aware of 
 the lack and in consequence suffer. To these latter be- 
 longed Peter Mistley. He was not, however, to be pitied 
 as much as he pitied himself, for while his tongue was slow, 
 his hand was swift. He possessed his art, and through 
 that medium made himself known and valued. As an ar- 
 chitectural gardener he had won no small fame, and 
 though he worked anonymously for another and his 
 achievements went to the credit of the firm of Ambrose, yet 
 he was well known in horticultural circles, and his opinions 
 commanded respect beyond his own country. Art sweet- 
 ened his life and filled it, yet he escaped not the com- 
 mon lot of a discontented mind, and his grievance with 
 fate centred in this : that people preferred his art to him- 
 self. His brusque manner alone accounted for it ; but he 
 felt himself not really ungracious and, though now accus- 
 tomed to the experience, continued to regret the coldness 
 of mankind. People were agreeable and amiable while he 
 worked for them ; but his accomplishments made no friends. 
 When a garden was finished, those for whom he made it 
 forgot the artist and generally took the applause to their 
 credit. 
 
 As a youth he had been morbid and rather absurd in his 
 exactions ; now he was thirty-two and growing more sen- 
 sible. He began to perceive his own limitations with 
 greater patience and concede a charm to others which was 
 beyond his power to imitate. But he grew less self-con- 
 
 24
 
 THE STUDIO Z5 
 
 scious, and cultivated the doing of kind acts and the saying 
 of kind words. He suffered much at the missing of many 
 opportunities, but that he saw the opportunities argued 
 his heart ; that he missed them only proved the obstinacy 
 of inherited character over acquired instincts. To-day, as 
 he returned from the water garden to his workshop at 
 another part of " Colneside " nurseries, he felt pleased with 
 himself. For he had spoken freely to a strange woman; 
 he had been amiable, and won from her smiles and given 
 her pleasure. This was an achievement and he was grati- 
 fied at himself. 
 
 The studio, where Mistley and another worked together, 
 stood near the packing sheds and offices. It was a lofty 
 chamber with sea-green walls and white rafters support- 
 ing an open roof. High windows rose above the drawing 
 tables, and curtains ran across them, so that light might 
 be modified at need. Upon the walls were hung a hundred 
 drawings, great and small, in plan and elevation. Some 
 were mere notes ; some had been highly finished and col- 
 oured. They represented gardens in being, or yet to be. 
 Here were studies of lakes and open spaces planned for 
 woodlands and the massing of harmonious trees ; here were 
 designs for landscape work and rock gardens fasliioned in 
 the natural style. For IVIr. Ambrose considered all tastes, 
 and if the art of Peter Mistley, his first draughtsman, was 
 held too severe, and a client desired some achievement in 
 the modern, meandering manner, then did Geoffrey Sea- 
 brook undertake the commission, for his skill ran in the 
 direction of the natural garden. Long and endless were 
 the arguments between the fellow-workers — sometimes 
 good-tempered and amiable, sometimes tinged with acer- 
 bity, according to the elder man's mood. For it was 
 Peter who occasionally lost patience, never Mr. Sea- 
 brook. He was also a bachelor, of delicate build and 
 fair complexion. He had a prett3^, rather than a hand- 
 some, face, was verj'^ fair, with fine eyes, fine teeth, a little 
 roguish, straw-coloured moustache, waxed at the points,
 
 26 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 hair flaxen-bright with a natural curl, and long, amber 
 eyelashes. He was finely turned and, in secret, prided him- 
 self upon his instep and his ankles. Of a bourgeois family, 
 he dreamed dreams of ancestors unknown, and though pre- 
 senting a humble and obsequious exterior — a slight man 
 in the estimation of his colleagues and the nursery at large 
 
 — in his heart harboured the sense of power, and under his 
 humility and imperturbable cheerfulness there dwelt a 
 secret spirit shared and adored by only one other person in 
 the world. 
 
 He was a lesser artist than Mistley and proceeded on a 
 lowlier system. 
 
 They were arguing to-day as they worked, and Peter, for 
 the thousandth time, enunciated his principles. 
 
 " There's one right and proper way for all artists," he 
 said, " and that is to go to the theatre of a creation with 
 an empty mind, not a preoccupied one. You always in- 
 vent a beautiful garden from pure imagination, then, when 
 you've got to make a garden, you take it with you in your 
 head, and, whether the place is suited to it or not, that's 
 the garden you make. I go empty-minded, and, if left 
 alone, which, of course, I seldom am, I let the new site, with 
 all its features of architecture and nature, soak into me for 
 a week or a fortnight ; and so my garden slowly grows up 
 
 — inspired entirely by the scene it is to occujjy." 
 
 " A way of perfection," answered Seabrook. " You 
 know that nine times out of ten it don't work, and that, as 
 a rule, what you think fine, the people who have to live with 
 the garden probably hate. You know what a thing ought 
 to be ; I know what the average, so-called ' keen gardener,' 
 with some money to chuck about, likes. And if you're a 
 shopman, which we are, the thing is to please your cus- 
 tomer, not yourself." 
 
 " You are a shopman and you've got the soul of a shop- 
 man," answered Mistley. " And so you take the goods 
 in your pocket, like a commercial traveller, and have no 
 respect for places, but only for persons. I despise persons
 
 THE STUDIO 27 
 
 and venerate places, if they are worthy of veneration. 
 Why should we mutilate a scene and prostitute art for the 
 sake of our own generation? The garden goes on, but the 
 midgets that creep about in it go off and die." 
 
 " And so do we," said Geoffrey, laughing, " but we've got 
 to live first." He had a cheerful laugh, like the sudden 
 song of a chaffinch. 
 
 " All great artists reverence place," said the other. 
 " Not only painters, but sculptors and novelists, and even 
 musicians." 
 
 " Novehsts don't," argued Geoffrey Seabrook. " The 
 greatest novelists only reverence character and psychology 
 and all that. And the greatest of all arts, music, is above 
 time and place and all limitations. It defies material 
 bonds, and Beethoven or Wagner will be just as good in 
 the next world as they are in this — perhaps better." 
 
 He spoke with animation, for he was a musician him- 
 self, sang well and loved to sing. 
 
 " You are a far greater artist than I am," he went on. 
 " I know that well enough. What beats me is your use 
 of the material of living things, as well as brick and stone 
 and statue and bridge, and iron scrollwork for great gates, 
 and so on. You're a magnificent, unerring colourist, and 
 you manage water better far than any man in the game." 
 
 " Thank you," said Mistley. " You know how to 
 praise. People demand everything at once: that's the 
 nuisance. They deny time its work and want to see raw 
 stone weathered to look like the native rock in a week, a 
 cedar tree look a hundred years old in a twelvemonth." 
 
 " We must suffer fools gladly, since we mostly live by 
 them," said Seabrook. " Time is the only great artist 
 when all's said. He puts the master touches to book and 
 picture and garden — always assuming there's strength 
 and stuff in them to stand his hand." 
 
 A motor hooted outside the gardens and the sound was 
 familiar. They continued their conversation, and ten 
 minutes later Mr. Ambrose appeared.
 
 28 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 " Good-morning, gentlemen," he said, and they returned 
 the sakite. Mistley continued his plan as he did so, but 
 Seabrook dropped his brush, rose, gave a little bow and 
 then sat down again. 
 
 Aubrey Parkyn Ambrose was a full-bodied, handsome 
 man of five-and-fifty. His clean-shaved face was some- 
 what round, but well modelled as to nose and chin; his 
 brow rose high and his thick hair turned towards iron- 
 grey. He had large brown eyes and a big and booming 
 voice. His expression never changed. It presented a 
 steady and unalterable intelligence which never sank to 
 vacuity and never sparkled to inspiration. Like his voice, 
 his face was monotonous. Neither were unkindly; yet 
 neither revealed a ray of humour, or humanism. He 
 moved somewhat heavily. 
 
 The master of " Colneside " had inherited and not 
 created his business. His uncle was responsible for it, and 
 he had succeeded by right of law when still a young man. 
 He had a cast of mind destined to succeed in any commer- 
 cial enterprise, and would have picked up the burden as 
 willingly had the commodity been tea or soap, iron or 
 bricks. His concern lay only with the prosperity of the 
 business, and in course of time, mastering the public needs, 
 he surrounded himself with skilled horticulturists and 
 artists, who knew every detail of nursery work. Each 
 department of the garden was considered and placed in the 
 hands of a specialist ; while the financial details alone were 
 the occupation of Mr. Ambrose. He worked very hard, 
 and saw to it that, from Mistley to the smallest garden 
 boy, his staff did the like. He inspired respect, not en- 
 thusiasm. In Colchester Mr. Ambrose stood for more 
 than his own stake. He represented the horticultural dis- 
 trict interests, and had long been a Borough Councillor 
 for the North Ward and also a member of the County 
 Council for the Tendring Hundred. At this moment he 
 was Mayor of Colchester, for the second time in ten years, 
 and no local worthy had ever discharged his varied duties
 
 THE STUDIO 29 
 
 in that capacity with more dignity and success. He was 
 married to a woman twenty years younger than himself, 
 who loved the picturesque side of his official duties, and 
 interested herself in his business to the extent of being 
 much attached to flowers. They dwelt not at Colchester, 
 but on Mersea Island in a handsome residence, whose lawns 
 sloped to the sea. Mr. Ambrose drove in daily by motor- 
 car. He rose at six o'clock, winter and summer, and only 
 on rare occasions was out of bed after ten o'clock at night. 
 
 " No letter from Ireland, Mistley," he said. " I expect 
 his lordship is preoccupied with recruiting, and won't re- 
 new interest in the gardens yet awhile." 
 
 Mistley nodded and sat back from his work. 
 
 " I thought of going into Devonshire next week to see 
 the Saltoun place." 
 
 " I should do so. Mr. Saltoun awaits your coming. 
 He wants something pretty extensive, I fancy. He was 
 describing the idea to me when I met him at the meeting of 
 the Royal Horticultural last month. You'll like him: he 
 has your large, synthetical ideas. It's an old Eliz- 
 abethan house and " 
 
 " I have the photographs," said Mistley. 
 
 " Well, go down at your own convenience." 
 
 The manner of Mr. Ambrose was courteous and deferen- 
 tial; but upon addressing Seabrook it changed. The 
 deference, not the courtesy, disappeared. 
 
 " If you're not desperately busy, Seabrook, I wish you'd 
 ask Bultitude to pick a basket of carnations for Mrs. Am- 
 brose. She is in the car, waiting for me." 
 
 " I'll do so at once," answered the draughtsman. Then 
 he rose, took his hat, and went into the gardens. 
 
 After he had gone, the master examined his work. 
 
 " Does this strike you as altogether happy,'* " he asked, 
 and Mistley came over to look at the design. 
 
 " It's the sort of thing they wanted, I believe." 
 
 "What is his purpose here?" inquired Mr. Ambrose, 
 pointing to an empty space in the plan.
 
 30 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 " A clump of deciduous stuff with good autumn colour. 
 A sugar maple, he thought, with shumacs and liquidamber, 
 and parrotia, perhaps." 
 
 " Excellent. I'm bound to say, however, that I share 
 your dislike for these winding paths. There's a tendency 
 to overdo them." 
 
 " One remembers the old French joke — that these wob- 
 bling ways can only be invented by a drunken gardener." 
 
 Mr. Ambrose did not smile. 
 
 " I see the point of the jest, though I can't say it 
 amuses me. Seabrook's tendency is to let imagination run 
 away with his art. That's why your influence is so 
 valuable." 
 
 " He gives people what they want." 
 
 " The average artist is content with tliat, I believe." 
 
 " Yes, and mistakes their applause for success." 
 
 " Seabrook is not touched to your higher issues. A wor- 
 thy fellow and rich in imagination. One can't deny that 
 he has planned many beautiful gardens ; but he will never 
 make your higher appeal. He has much to learn from 
 you, though very likely he would not be such a valuable 
 man to me if he learned it." 
 
 " He won't change." 
 
 " In some ways," said Mr. Ambrose, " you might learn 
 from him, too — not in the matter of horticultural ar- 
 chitecture, my dear fellow : we are all your pupils there — 
 but in a matter far more important. You know what I 
 mean." 
 
 Mistley nodded and returned to his own drawing. 
 
 " Faith is a very fine thing," he admitted ; " but reason 
 is finer." 
 
 " Faith can move mountains, Mistley." 
 
 " Reason can tunnel them. I've got faith, too, for that 
 matter. You can't live without it." 
 
 " Not the childlike faith of our common friend." 
 
 " No, but a manlike faith, founded in reason — faith in 
 mankind."
 
 THE STUDIO 31 
 
 " We Christians do not lack that, you know. I'm 
 bound to say that reason does not awake in me that admir- 
 able trust in my own species which is so vital — the trust 
 and sympathy with man as man. But I trust them in the 
 light of their Maker. Did He not send His own Son, to 
 save them from themselves.'' And shall we distrust the 
 being for whom His Maker made so stupendous a sacrifice.? 
 No ! PerhaiDS you have not thought of that.'' I made the 
 point to myself — while I was meditating recently among 
 our delphiniums. 
 
 " The simplicity of Seabrook," continued INIr. Ambrose, 
 " has a great value. The simple-minded, wuth no arms but 
 the breastplate of Faith, have made their mark on the 
 world's history. Take the Crusaders. If history tells us 
 aright, they were animated by one pure and uplifted pur- 
 pose. I have been reading about Peter the Hermit only 
 lately. What a flame animated that man ! " 
 
 " Such men are used by inferior men to advance their 
 own base purposes. Those that led the Crusaders were 
 out for a good deal more than the rescue of the Holy 
 Land from the Turk. But I don't know much about it, I 
 confess." 
 
 Seabrook returned, and Mr. Ambrose discussed his plan 
 with him. 
 
 " I rather deprecate these curves," he said, and the 
 draughtsman instantly fell in with his suggestions. 
 
 " I haven't felt quite happy about them myself, Mr. 
 Ambrose. I waited to consult you. My alternative idea 
 was this. In fact, that is how I laid out the plan first." 
 
 He pencilled the drawing. 
 
 " Better — emphatically better. Send in the drawing 
 before Saturday. Sir Charles is a busy man, and he will 
 then be able to study it, for he spends his week-ends at 
 home. This should please him. Money is not an object, 
 and he will be prepared to pay for specimen plants. When 
 the carnations come up, you might take them to the car, 
 Seabrook. My wife has a favour to ask."
 
 82 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 " Proud to oblige Mrs. Ambrose, always, sir." 
 
 Mr. Ambrose smiled. 
 
 " You are the most good-natured of men. I am going 
 to the office now for a few moments. I shall return this 
 afternoon about four of the clock. I lunch at Colchester. 
 The Council meets afterwards." 
 
 He left them, and neither spoke for a few moments. 
 Then Mistley burst out — 
 
 " What a worm you are, Seabrook ! I hate j^ou some- 
 times for cringing to that man." 
 
 " I don't cringe, my dear chap. Why should you call it 
 cringing? If anybody is polite and considerate and deli- 
 cate-minded, as Ambrose always is, why should not I be the 
 
 same r 
 
 ?» 
 
 " He patronises you." 
 
 " I don't think so ; and if he does, there's no harm in 
 having a patron. After all, what's the sense in being 
 uppish or grudging? I work for him. My money comes 
 from him." 
 
 " You could get your money anywhere." 
 
 " Perhaps I could ; but why think it necessary to snap at 
 the hand that feeds you — as you do ? " 
 
 " I don't snap ; I'm merely independent. You lick the 
 hand that feeds you." 
 
 Seabrook flushed under his clear skin. 
 
 " Why are you so unpleasant? " 
 
 " What does she want you for? To sing at one of her 
 blessed concerts, or dinner-parties. To sing, either for 
 charity, or to amuse her guests." 
 
 " Very likely. Why not? I can sing, and why should I 
 refuse to sing? " 
 
 " And behind your back she calls you the ' harmless, 
 necessary Seabrook.' " 
 
 " Not unkindly — not with any unpleasant meaning. 
 She is much too good-hearted for that. To be necessary 
 and harmless is more than some people are."
 
 THE STUDIO 33 
 
 Mistley, for invisible reasons, appeared to be in a bad 
 temper. He was silent for a few moments, then suddenly 
 recovered. 
 
 "I'm sorry. What the devil business is it of mine? 
 Ambrose said I'd got a bit to learn from you and he was 
 right. You're worth a hundred of me. To be self-pos- 
 sessed is the whole art of living — so Goethe says. You're 
 always self-possessed — that's something — perhaps ev- 
 erything." 
 
 " I can get what I want out of life my way. And I hope 
 you'll get what you want out of it your way. Though I 
 doubt it," answered Seabrook, smiling. 
 
 " Only an inferior order of intellect is ever contented, in 
 my opinion," answered the elder. 
 
 The head man of the gardens entered with a mighty 
 bunch of carnations, scarlet and crimson, pink and white. 
 
 James Bultitude was short and square and solid — a 
 resolute, underhung man, who had worked in the gardens 
 from his twelfth year and was now in supreme authority 
 out of doors. 
 
 " Here's the carnations," he said. " If Mr. Ambrose 
 wants me, I'm in the propagating house." 
 
 Geoffrey Seabrook, bareheaded, with his curls shining in 
 the sun, proceeded where a lady sat in a motor-car out- 
 side the gate of the gardens. 
 
 Mrs. Ambrose was slight and dainty. She looked hardly 
 more than twenty-five, though in reality ten years older. 
 Her fair face beamed with vivacity and sex; her mouth 
 was large and showed her white teeth at every word. Her 
 manner was a little exaggerated and theatrical. She chal- 
 lenged and charmed ; but though her heart was warm, her 
 memory was short. Kind thoughts and generous promises 
 leapt to her lips ; but she often lacked steadfastness to 
 preserve the one, or perform the other. She was wholly 
 delightful in anybody's company; but out of sight proved 
 often out of mind with Helena Ambrose. Her friends for-
 
 34* THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 gave her on the score of her busy life and indifferent mem- 
 ory ; impartial people said she was insincere. She greeted 
 the draughtsman effusively, took the flowers from him and 
 chatted while he stood by the car. Once or twice she 
 rested her hand on his arm. He stood quiet, happy and 
 submissive. 
 
 " Good-morning, Mr. Seabrook. How lovely ! What 
 glorious weather ! Did my husband tell you ? A favour. 
 I'm always asking favours. You've guessed it. Our din- 
 ner-party next month. It will be so heavenly of you if 
 you'll come." 
 
 " With the greatest pleasure. I've got the new song 
 right now — the one you told me to get — words by Cam- 
 maerts." 
 
 " How splendid of you ! Did you like it? I thought it 
 beautiful ; and the moment I heard it, I said ' that's the 
 song for Mr. Seabrook ' ! " 
 
 " I liked it tremendously." 
 
 She made a little face at the back of the white-clad car- 
 driver, who sat in front of her. 
 
 " I'm afraid it won't be a very lively entertainment." 
 
 " Then it will be your first party that was dull." 
 
 " That godless old Carbonell is coming, and Parkyn 
 always wants a stout Christian or two to support him when 
 Dr. Carbonell comes. Mr. Odington and his wife and 
 •daughter, and Mrs. Chaffe and her girl. That's the lot. 
 Only eight. Do you feel equal to it? " 
 
 " I shall look forward to it exceedingly." 
 
 " You can't form any idea of the pleasure you'll give," 
 she said, staring into his eyes. " You're much too modest 
 to dream it, you gifted thing ! " 
 
 Her husband appeared and entered the car. 
 
 Geoffrey bowed rather low as they prepared to start, 
 and Mr. Ambrose spoke. 
 
 " To the Moot Hall," he said to the driver, then turned 
 to Seabrook. " Be good enough to tell Miss Mayhew to
 
 THE STUDIO S5 
 
 have all mj letters ready for signing at four o'clock — not 
 later." 
 
 They sped away, the man gazing at the sky, while liis 
 wife, gathering up the carnations, nursed them, conscious 
 that she made a picture.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 " PERFECTION IN A NUTSHEIX " 
 
 AvELiNE had promised to visit her new friend and she kept 
 her word. Margery Mayhew Hved with her uncle, who 
 was head working gardener at " Colneside," and the com- 
 mon interests of niece and uncle centred at the nurseries. 
 
 Aveline was warned by Margery on the day of her visit, 
 for she reached " Fair View Villa " at Mile End before Mr. 
 Mushet returned. 
 
 " He's house-proud," explained Gregory's niece. " This 
 little house was planned by him and made for him. He'll 
 want to take you round, and, seeing the size, you mightn't 
 think that was much of an ordeal ; but it will be, because 
 he'll stop every minute." 
 
 " It's a very comfortable house, I'm sure." 
 
 They were in the little front garden as they spoke, 
 where every flower stood in its place, tied to a stick, like 
 somebody being photographed with his head on a rest. 
 
 " Uncle's got a saying, and I warn you not to laugh 
 when he says it, Mrs. Brown. He'll tell you that perfec- 
 tion is what he's out for, and he won't be put off with any- 
 thing less." 
 
 " Doesn't he know you can't get perfection? " 
 
 " Rather not ! That's the beauty of it. He reckons 
 he has got perfection. And he calls ' Fair View Villa ' 
 ' perfection in a nutshell.' " 
 
 A man passed the outer gate, where the women stood to 
 welcome Mr. Mushet. He was very tall, broad-shoul- 
 dered and brawny. He wore a strange hat, and his face 
 was half buried in a heavy black beard and whiskers and 
 
 36
 
 ■^ "PERFECTION IN A NUTSHELL" 37 
 
 moustache. The eyes were bright, the nose massive, the 
 expression gloomy. He smiled, however, at seeing Mar- 
 gery, and nodded to her, hesitated, as though about to 
 stay, and then passed on with a brief salutation. 
 
 " Good evening, Margery." 
 
 " Good evening, Andrew." 
 
 " What a splendid man," said Aveline, when he had 
 passed. Then she looked at the girl and started, for Miss 
 Mayhew had turned very pale. 
 
 " Is that the ]\Ir. Hempson Mr. Mistley was telling me 
 about .? " she asked, ignoring the other's emotion. 
 
 Margery nodded. 
 
 " What wonderful experiences he must have had in 
 China, and what bad luck ! " 
 
 Margery nodded again. 
 
 " It's his turn for good luck now, and I'm positive he's 
 soon going to get some," declared the elder, who possessed 
 a fatal instinct for telling people things that she felt they 
 would like to hear. 
 
 A little warmth returned to Margery's cheek. 
 
 " He's nothing to me," she said, thereby indicating that 
 Mr. Hempson was everything to her. 
 
 Then came Gregory Mushet. He was a small, sturdy 
 man, solidly built and rather bow-legged. The marks of 
 toil were on his boots and gaiters and hands. His mouth 
 was clean-shaved, but a white fringe of hair descended 
 from his ears and met under his chin. His head was very 
 bald; his eyes, over which age had half drawn the eyelids, 
 were cheerful, contented and confident. 
 
 " This is Mrs. Brown, who has come to live at Colches- 
 ter, Uncle Greg." 
 
 Mr. Mushet shook hands. 
 
 " I'll brush up and we'll have tea. Don't you show 
 Mrs. Brown the place, Margery. I'll go round with her. 
 She'll be wishing to see it, no doubt." 
 
 They had tea presently, and Mr. Mushet proved in a 
 philosophic vein.
 
 38 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 Apropos of a man who had that day been dismissed 
 from the nurseries for intemperance, he spoke. 
 
 " I often say you never know what you may come to. 
 Now that's a true and helpful thought, eh ? " 
 
 " True, yes," answered Aveline, " but not particularly 
 helpful." 
 
 " Most helpful," declared Mr. Mushet triumphantly, 
 " because it often helps you not to come to it ! " 
 
 The visitor laughed. 
 
 " I hadn't thought of that," she said. 
 
 " For young people, you always want to set up an 
 object before their eyes — something for them to work 
 for and hope for," he said. " For instance, take this 
 house. A young person, without any particular ideas for 
 his future, comes in and has tea with me and Margery, as 
 you are doing now. They see this house, and then, most 
 likely for the first time in their lives, understand to what 
 a pitch a house may be brought up. What happens then ? 
 If he's worth anything, the young person instantly gets a 
 hope and a resolve, that some day, please God, he'll have 
 a house like it. It uplifts him to work, and very likely 
 improves his whole career." 
 
 " It's a very compact house," said Aveline. 
 
 " It's a great deal more than compact, I assure you," 
 declared the owner. " A box of matches is compact. We 
 rise a good bit above that at ' Fair View,' don't we, 
 Margery.-^ Cast your eyes round this room, for in- 
 stance." 
 
 Aveline obeyed. She began to dislike Mr. Mushet: he 
 was conceited. 
 
 Round the walls of the parlour, in remarkable frames of 
 his own making, the gardener had arranged works of art. 
 A print of " The Forester's Family," by Sir Edwin Land- 
 seer, occupied the place of honour and hung high on one 
 wall. Next came the picture of a knightly figure in 
 armour bidding farewell to a beautiful damsel. It was a 
 wash-drawing touched with white chalk. There followed
 
 "PERFECTION IN A NUTSHELL" 39 
 
 an oleograph landscape with black fir trees, a blood-red 
 sunset, and much snow upon which five wolves hunted a 
 man in a sledge. 
 
 " Life and action, you see," explained Mr. Mushet. 
 " It catches the evening sun, and that's the time to look 
 at it. Some people say it's hand-painted, others that it's 
 a print ; but what does it matter how it was made if it 
 couldn't be better? I dare say you've marked that I will 
 have variety with my pictures. These works were bought 
 at sales. I've let many and many a picture go — just 
 because it missed perfection. You may notice my relig- 
 ious picture is hung over the harmonium." 
 
 Aveline lifted her eyes to a German print of " Daniel in 
 the Lion's Den." 
 
 " To have hung that over the harmonium was a touch I 
 dare say you'd missed? " asked Mr. Mushet. 
 
 " I'm afraid I had." 
 
 " Many do until I point it out. And then they see. 
 It's just a feeling for propriety. The house bristles with 
 touches like that, and the result is completeness. It runs 
 through the bedrooms and everything. You might find 
 many a house with more luxuries, and yet nothing of the 
 completeness. As for luxuries, so called, when you come 
 to examine them, they often fade into air. For instance, 
 what's the use of a bathroom if you never have a bath? 
 None, and I'll challenge the world to deny it." 
 
 " You do have a bath every Saturday night, uncle," 
 said Margery. 
 
 " I wash myself in my own way — every inch," admitted 
 Mr. Mushet ; " but not by lying and stewing in hot water. 
 That's luxury, and I despise it. Then take electric light. 
 A candle was good enough for my forefathers, and how 
 am I better than them, except by education? Comfort is 
 better than show, and ease of body more important than 
 pride of mind. Try that arm-chair." 
 
 Aveline, who had finished an excellent tea, obeyed. 
 
 " Deliciously comfortable," she said ; " but every time I
 
 40 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 looked up I should be wondering if the wolves were going 
 to catch the man." 
 
 " They can't, because it's a picture," explained Mr. 
 Mushet. " In this house — the work of forty years 
 almost — you go from completeness to completeness. 
 What I was out for was perfection in a nutshell, you 
 understand, and I claim no less. You must see the best 
 parlour now. Margery calls it the drawing-room; I call 
 it the best parlour." 
 
 " What's in a name? " asked Aveline. 
 
 " Exactly. Here we eat, there we sit. My best pic- 
 tures of all are there, and other works of pure ornament 
 for the eye, such as glass and china. So what I say is, 
 that if anybody gave me a thousand a year and a castle, 
 d'you know what I'd do? I'd sell the castle and put the 
 money in the bank and stop at ' Fair View ' ! " 
 
 " You're the most contented man I ever met," said Ave- 
 line. 
 
 " The truth of the matter is that Uncle Gregory 
 doesn't know he's born," explained Margery. " He 
 doesn't know the dreadful things that might have hap- 
 pened to him, and so he doesn't know his luck." 
 
 But Mr. Mushet would not allow this. 
 
 " If I granted that, it would be to give up all credit," 
 he said. " There's lots of traps set for every man that 
 hops hopefully into the world — just as there is for every 
 bird — and I'm not vain enough to say I was never caught. 
 Who can? But I shouldn't be where I am — in this house 
 — if I'd been caught many times." 
 
 Aveline had never seen anybody quite so pleased with 
 himself as Mr. Mushet. Her responsive nature began 
 to share the old man's enthusiasm. 
 
 " It's too wonderful for anything," she said. " Your 
 house is a work of art, Mr. Mushet. So's your garden, 
 I'm sure." 
 
 " When you say ' garden,' Mrs. Brown," he answered, 
 " you touch my pride. If I was a vain sort of man I
 
 "PERFECTION IN A NUTSHELL" 41 
 
 might weary your mind about my garden. But when 
 anybody says 'garden,' I answer nothing and just take 
 'em into mine and let them draw their own conclusions." 
 
 " And the conclusion always is that, for its size, Uncle 
 Gregory's garden is the most wonderful in Colchester," 
 said Margery. 
 
 " Only twelve yards by eighteen — you must always 
 keep that in mind," explained Mr. Mushet. " Only twelve 
 by eighteen and yet, as Madge says, nothing like it in 
 Colchester. Of course, as a professional gardener I have 
 a big pull in that matter over amateurs ; yet when I tell 
 them the size, many of the nicest minded people think I'm 
 a liar." 
 
 They went out presently and inspected the garden. A 
 withering precision characterised it. 
 
 " Here you see the difference between a garden and a 
 nursery," said the owner. " In our forty acres of nurs- 
 ery, the plants have a certain amount of freedom and are 
 nearer to nature, so to speak ; but let a plant once come 
 into such a garden as this and it instantly gets under the 
 influence of science." 
 
 " In your garden they soon find ' that life is real, life is 
 earnest.' " 
 
 " Yes," said the gardener. " You can get shirkers in a 
 flower-bed, same as anywhere else, and it isn't everybody 
 knows when a plant's not doing its best. I'll have no non- 
 sense here. I do my part — above ground and beneath ; 
 and Nature does her part ; and if the plant don't do its 
 part, I soon put a sharp question." 
 
 " I suppose they have got their constitutions," sug- 
 gested the visitor, " and some are inigged and hearty and 
 some are delicate and tender.'' " 
 
 " Yes, that is so ; and if you like hospital work, you can 
 always fill your garden with half hardy stuff and doubtful 
 doers and miffy plants that quaver before rain or sun, or 
 heat or cold. In fact, invalids. ' Colneside ' must have 
 such plants, of course, because some people's whole idea of
 
 42 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 gardening is to make things live in England that God 
 planned to flourish in the Canary Islands, or to murder 
 good plants on a south wall, that only ought to dwell in a 
 hothouse. But when a plant begins to go home here, he's 
 very soon out of his misery and out of my garden." 
 
 " I don't believe uncle's ever got to love flowers, though 
 he's worked at them all his life," said Margery. 
 
 " I like 'em as my brother, Samuel Mushet, of the oyster 
 fishery, likes his marine engines," explained Gregory. 
 " My brother, you must know, is the engineer on the Fish- 
 ery Company's steamboat. Peewit, and his engines are a 
 picture, same as my garden is ; but he'll stand no nonsense 
 and will have everything just so ; for with a steam-engine, 
 just the same as with a garden such as this, you must be 
 servant, or master." 
 
 " And has he got such a wonderful house as yours .'' " 
 asked Aveline. 
 
 " No, he has not : he's married. I'm not running down 
 his house, however. He's got a mechanical mind, and 
 you'll very seldom find a man that looks after machinery 
 to live in an untidy or lawless house. A man, if he is a 
 free man, is reflected in his house and his clothes, and his 
 outlook on the world in general; but a married man is not 
 a free man: he's only half a man, in the sense that he's 
 called to share his life with another order of creation, that 
 looks at all things from the female angle, which, of course, 
 is quite different from ours. So when you go into my 
 brother's house at Brittlesea you don't go into the house 
 of Samuel Mushet, you go into the house of Mr. and Mrs. 
 Mushet, which, naturally, is quite another creation. 
 Then, again, if a pair have no children, the understanding 
 mind knows it before they've walked through the hall of 
 the house, and so you may say a house is either the home 
 of a man, or the home of a man and his wife, or the home 
 of a man and his wife and his family." 
 
 " I never heard anything truer than that," declared 
 Aveline.
 
 "PERFECTION IN A NUTSHELL" 43 
 
 " In my brother's case, he has one boy ; a very good, 
 hard-working, modest youth. He'd marry Madge to-mor- 
 row for that matter." 
 
 " Teddy's a dear, good chap, but I never could marry 
 any man not older than myself," replied Mr. Mushet's 
 niece. " Brightlingsea's a very nice place," she continued. 
 " It's flat down there, but the mud banks are beautiful 
 when the sea lavender comes out." 
 
 " Mud banks are always beautiful," said Aveline. " I 
 love Essex already ; it's a most delightful county, to my 
 thinking — full of wonderful landscape and covered with 
 wonderful skies, because the horizons are often so low. 
 I'm going to paint pictures, and I shall be perfectly happy 
 if I can only sell them." 
 
 " To make things is one job: to sell them is another," 
 said Mr. Mushet. " The things that people must have, 
 like food and clothes and a roof overhead, they'll buy ; but 
 when it comes to the higher flights, they think twice. 
 There must be perfect peace of mind and easiness of 
 pocket before we reach up to pictures." 
 
 " My rooms are too expensive," declared the visitor, 
 " and I shan't have easiness of pocket much longer if I 
 stop in them. D'you think I could find two up here? 
 I like it here on the hill. It's breezier than down below. 
 But perhaps lodgings will be more expensive here.'' " 
 
 " What about Mrs. Hempson, Madge? " asked her uncle. 
 " Since Andrew Hempson had his bad luck they're a bit in 
 low water, and I happen to know his mother's going to let 
 if she can. Andrew wants to be off again, but Mr. Am- 
 brose isn't taking any more chances for the present — not 
 till after the war, anyway. Too fiery, that man — Hemp- 
 son, I mean. I believe half the mess he got into was owing 
 to his temper." 
 
 " I'm sure it wasn't," said Margery. 
 
 " He couldn't hit it off with the heathen, where the rare 
 plants grow, and they very nearly knocked his brains out," 
 explained Mr. Mushet.
 
 44. THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 " If Margery will take me to see Mrs. Hempson to-mor- 
 row, or any convenient day, I'll gladly go," said Aveline; 
 " and now I mustn't keep you any more. I've enjoyed 
 myself very much indeed, and some day I'll paint a picture 
 for you, Mr. Musliet." 
 
 She left them, and each was a little dubious when she 
 had gone. 
 
 " If she goes there, she'll fall in love with Andrew — 
 sure to," said Margery. " She's lovely, isn't she? " 
 
 " She's a lady," answered Gregory Mushet. " You can 
 always tell them. And a very nice lady to look at, as you 
 say ; but she's one of two things — hard-hearted, or light- 
 minded. Or she may be both." 
 
 " She's not hard-hearted, uncle. I know that. She's 
 all heart." 
 
 " Then she's light-minded," replied the old man. " For 
 why? She's a new-made widow, for one thing, though her 
 black's only just decent for the state. And being so, she's 
 a darned sight too cheerful and lively in my opinion." 
 
 " Perhaps her husband wasn't nice," suggested Margery. 
 
 " Another thing," continued Mr. Mushet, " she's seen my 
 pictures, and in my judgment it was a thought pushing to 
 offer me one of hers, before she knew if I had any use for 
 it. It's rather vain to offer your work to another who's 
 got what's better already, for you may feel pretty sure a 
 handsome, pleasure-loving young woman like her can't 
 paint a picture worthy to stand beside mine. And if, with 
 the best intentions, she gives me a picture I don't hold with, 
 I shan't put it up, I warn you. I won't spoil the house to 
 minister to an outsider's vanity."
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 THE DWARF riK TREES 
 
 AvELiNE began the picture of the water garden and 
 worked in a broad, free, modern method. She drew very 
 largely with the brush. Her personal experience was that 
 if the sky came right, the rest came right ; if the sky came 
 wrong, then she began once more. Her sky she always 
 put in first and never touched again. She painted very 
 wet, and had a little effective trick with water shadows of 
 which she was proud. Artists said her work was naive 
 and alive ; laymen either liked it very much, or frankly dis- 
 liked it. She had been accepted and hung in London on 
 one or two occasions ; but to paint for a living was a new 
 experience, and Aveline novv' tried to impress upon her 
 mind the gravity of the situation. 
 
 " I've always lived to please myself until now," she 
 thought, " and now I must please other people to live at 
 all." 
 
 Peter Mistle}^ came down during her second morning at 
 the picture, and she painted without embarrassment, while 
 he looked on. To his surprise he found that Aveline made 
 no business of showing him the picture, and revealed no 
 particular desire to learn what he thought of it. She 
 greeted him in a bright and cheerful spirit and went on 
 with her thoughts aloud. 
 
 " So glad to see somebody to talk to," she said. " I 
 hate thinking to myself; it's so much pleasanter to think 
 to other people. I was just envying those artists who can 
 do absolutely first-rate work — and still be popular. 
 There are just a few wonderful painters and writers who 
 are great artists and at the same time have a wide circle. 
 
 45
 
 46 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 So they get the best of both worlds. Now people like that, 
 I think, are the luckiest on earth, don't you ? " 
 
 " Perhaps they are ; but that's not fame. Fame is some- 
 thing that embalms the work of the dead and inoculates it 
 against the moth and rust of time. But it must be a joy, 
 as you say, to please those whose opinion you value — 
 even to get one really first-class man to be interested in 
 you." 
 
 " Or one really first-class woman," said Aveline. 
 
 " One can't wish for better luck. Ruskin made 
 Turner." 
 
 " Turner made himself. Ruskin pointed out that Tur- 
 ner was a stupendous swell ; which, for the moment, people 
 didn't see. But Ruskin wasn't the only person in the 
 world that mattered. It was Turner who mattered, not 
 Ruskin. Ruskin may have quickened things and helped 
 Turner's banking account ; but he doesn't help Turner's 
 fame — not if Fame's what you say it is." 
 
 " But Ruskin incited Turner — bucked him up, made 
 him paint." 
 
 " I don't believe it," declared Aveline. " I believe that 
 Turner must have often been bored to death by Ruskin. 
 I believe it was the trying to live up to Ruskin that made 
 it absolutely necessary for Turner to vanish and wallow 
 in the stye from time to time, just to be human and get a 
 bit of his own back. I don't believe Ruskin bucked him up 
 at all. I think it's much more likely that he depressed 
 him and lowered his vitality. Nothing lowers the vitality 
 like trying to be good ; because nine times out of ten, 
 you're trying to be something you can't be and were never 
 meant to be. Turner was never meant to be good. He 
 was meant to be an immortal genius, sent into the world 
 that we might have light, and have it more abundantly. I 
 hate all this talk about being good. You don't Avhine at a 
 grape because the pips are sour, or at a lily because its 
 bulb lives happiest in the mire. That's the lily's business, 
 and if the petals are like those " — she pointed at a silver
 
 THE DWARF FIR TREES 47 
 
 star in the water at their feet — " and if its heart is such 
 a miracle of precious workmanship, why on earth do you 
 want to worry, because it doesn't hve on bread and butter 
 and spend its spare time doing good works ? " 
 
 Mistley was much astonished, for she spoke almost 
 with bitterness. This was no impersonal criticism. Her 
 thoughts sprang from experience. He marvelled, and his 
 heart went out to her till his head pulled it back a little. 
 
 " Dangerous sort of doctrine. But we do gather grapes 
 from thistles and figs from thorns, where art is born," he 
 admitted. 
 
 " And I'd sooner be great than good, any day," she de- 
 clared ; " but most people, of course, are neither. Any- 
 how we know what greatness is ; but we don't know what 
 goodness is. And some of us don't care," 
 
 " I feel like that — up to a point," he said. 
 
 *' The thing is to make things — if you can," she de- 
 clared. " The only reall}^ precious people in the world are 
 those who make things ; and if other people, through igno- 
 rance or stupidity or wickedness, come between us, who 
 can make things, and our work, then life isn't worth living. 
 Men don't understand that half as well as women. For 
 thousands of years you've told us we can't make things, 
 and prevented us from making anything but babies, and 
 then invited us to see that everything worth making is 
 made by man. But now we're being educated and getting 
 a chance, you'll soon see that in everything that matters 
 we're as good as you." 
 
 " I dare say j^ou'll prove it in time. In fact you are 
 proving it. It is cruel and damnable to take men away 
 from making things. That is one of the cruel, damnable 
 things about this war. Thinking of sending creators — 
 artists — out to destroy." 
 
 " And be destroyed. I don't care how many Germans 
 we kill, because their art is dead — poisoned at the roots 
 — and this generation of them may as well be swept away 
 as not ; but our art is full of life and hope."
 
 48 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 He became personal. 
 
 " You belong to the school of East and Brangw\'n, I 
 see," he said. " As a landscape man myself, I admire 
 them. You're getting the essentials of this place. D'you 
 see the willows as dark as that.'' " 
 
 "Don't you.?" 
 
 " No — can't say I do. But perhaps you want them 
 dark for the sake of something else? " 
 
 " I'll lighten them." 
 
 " Don't, if you think they're right." 
 
 " I never think anything I do is right when it's done," 
 she answered. " It's only a joy while I'm doing it." 
 
 " The water's going to be glorious," he said. He stood 
 and watched her work. It seemed slap-dash after his own 
 careful convention, for he only painted in elevation for the 
 sake of customers, who lacked the imagination to see the 
 force of ground plans. His art was represented by the 
 finished garden ; but hers was a greater thing. He called 
 her attention to a passage or two, and she saw the value of 
 his criticism sometimes, but not always. 
 
 " Some of the things you don't like are wrong," she ad- 
 mitted, " but some of the things you don't like are right, 
 because they are just me." 
 
 " You paint wonderfully," he assured her. " This gar- 
 den has never been done your way. Most people smother 
 it with details ; you're going to get the larger truth of 
 it, which is easily lost among a lot of little niggling 
 truths." 
 
 She stopped presently, lifted her board off the easel and 
 set it in the sun. 
 
 " Now it must dry," she said. " Have you got a ciga- 
 rette? " 
 
 He had not. 
 
 " I only smoke a pipe," he confessed. 
 
 " It doesn't matter. I wanted to see what sort you 
 smoked," she answered, very frankly. Then she produced 
 one of her own.
 
 THE DWARF FIR TREES 49 
 
 " I've got to choose some dwarf trees. Come and help 
 me," he suggested, wondering at himself. 
 
 She agreed, and they left the water garden and walked 
 to another part of the nursery, a quarter of a mile distant. 
 She lagged among the lovely things, but he would not stop 
 until they came to a colony of tiny conifers — perfect, 
 pygmy trees from Canada and Italy, from China and Ja- 
 pan. Here Avere pines and firs ; yews and thuyas ; won- 
 drous, magic junipers of every shape and hue, some golden 
 bright ; some silvery, some very dark and solid, some with 
 feathery finials as blue as the sky. 
 
 Aveline was enthusiastic. " They're darlings," she said, 
 
 " Natural dwarfs — fat and prosperous, as you see." 
 
 " So much the better. I don't like things pinched and 
 starved and stunted." 
 
 " That's only because you don't understand what the 
 Japanese are after. They would scoff at this show of 
 healthy, hearty things. Mind you, I don't like Japanese 
 gardens stuck in the middle of English ones ; but our gar- 
 dens to theirs are a child's mud-pie to a princess's wedding- 
 cake." 
 
 " I like to see plants happy," she declared. 
 
 " The earthiness of our gardens is simply revolting," he 
 assured her ; and in her reply Aveline told him more about 
 herself. 
 
 " What's the matter with earthiness ? " she asked. 
 " What's the good of starving plants to stimulate our 
 souls? We don't starve cats and dogs." 
 
 " The pathetic fallacy it's called, I believe," he an- 
 swered. " We see a dwarfed fir a century old, and it tells 
 us of strife and struggle against adversity. It is trained, 
 perhaps, to look as though it had been struck by lightning, 
 and it bears such a weight of affliction in its branches, that 
 the tiny thing typifies the whole human experience." 
 
 " A sermon in a flower-pot. But not a sermon for me. 
 What does it really mean? That man has bullied Nature 
 for a century and turned what might have been a happy
 
 50 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 forest tree into a miserable little object hanging with one 
 root in the air over the side of a bit of porcelain." 
 
 " How brutally rational ! You know something about 
 plants?" 
 
 " Nothing at all, nothing at all," she answered hur- 
 riedly ; " but of course everybody's seen these things — 
 these tortured things, clinging to dear life by their eye- 
 lids." 
 
 " Such solemn atoms, rightly understood, mean such a 
 lot," he argued. 
 
 "I know just what they mean and I hate what they 
 mean. I'm a Northern vandal, and I don't love these ema- 
 ciated, Japanese masterpieces a bit. I know it's subtle 
 and full of soul to make a mountain on a flower-pot, and a 
 countryside on a tea-tray, and put little, withered, blasted 
 plants in just the right places. I know the artists who 
 do these things are faithful and great; but I hate thirst 
 and starvation myself — and root pruning and discipline 
 generally. And so do the plants. I know what they feel 
 about it well enough, because I've been root-pruned and 
 starved and made to live upside down myself in my time. 
 And I've got no use for the spiritual significance of it all, 
 or the Wisdom of the East either ; and if I had a garden, 
 I'd let things grow as they liked and make them happy 
 below ground, so that they should be lovely above it. So 
 there ! " 
 
 " I never ! " said Mistley. 
 
 " I want the joy of life, I suppose, while I'm young 
 enough to feel the joy of life. Beauty is a relative term. 
 Probably I haven't got a soul." 
 
 " You've got a soul all right." 
 
 " We've all got lots of things we don't bother about 
 while we're young — joints and eyes and livers and hearts. 
 We shall know we've got them soon enough. I came to 
 Colchester to give my soul a rest." 
 
 " Jolly sensible. Nothing wants more rest than a man's 
 soul."
 
 THE DWARF FIR TREES 51 
 
 *' Except a woman's. I love these happy, little trees." 
 
 " Choose six for me, Mrs. Brown." 
 
 "All different?" 
 
 " Yes — they'd better be." 
 
 She obeyed, and gave her reasons for her choice. The 
 man began to find himself forgetting time and space. 
 Her beauty, already exaggerated in his eyes, fascinated 
 him ; her point of view rather harmonised with his own. 
 He became very interested and desirous to know more 
 about her. The glimpses were exciting. She gave him 
 more. She had taken two rooms with Mrs. Hempson at 
 Mile End, and was going to work very hard indeed. 
 
 " D'you think one of the picture shops here would let 
 me give a little exhibition presently ? " she asked. 
 
 " I'll inquire about it, if you'll let me." 
 
 " How good of you. But not yet. I must paint thirty 
 or forty pictures first. I'm afraid my way of painting 
 won't be much good here." 
 
 " You must educate Colchester up to your way." 
 
 " You can't do that. Still, if I can get just a few to 
 believe in me " 
 
 " I'm certain you will. You'll have to make some con- 
 cessions though. You know what people call ' finish.' " 
 
 " Only too well," she said. 
 
 An hour was gone, and Mistley left her to return to her 
 picture alone. He marked the plants that she had chosen. 
 
 " They're going to Devonshire," he told her. 
 
 " Lucky little beggars," said Aveline. " I wish I was 
 going with them. I've been once and loved it." 
 
 " Why did you come here, then ? " 
 
 " For no reason in particular. After my husband died, 
 I was free to go where I pleased. And Colchester just 
 came into my head. And when anything comes into my 
 head I generally do it ; and when a place comes into 
 my head, I generally go there — if I can." 
 
 " It shows you only think of frightfully innocent things, 
 if you can always do them."
 
 52 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 "Doesn't it?" 
 
 " Have you ever been abroad? " 
 
 " Never ; but I'm going." 
 
 " You'll be so happy in Italy some day, that you won't 
 come home again," he prophesied. 
 
 " You came home again." 
 
 " How d'you know I went ? " 
 
 " Because you speak so positively about it." 
 
 " I have been, and mean to go again." 
 
 " Heavenly gardens there? " 
 
 " Heavenly — and pictures." 
 
 "To be painted?" 
 
 " Already painted and to be painted — by you, per- 
 haps. I must go. They'll wonder what has become of 
 me." 
 
 At the end of that day there came a strange, wistful, 
 not unpleasant feeling into Mistley which was new to him. 
 He had never loved anything but his art, and held that no 
 artist should marry; for he believed that to the artist a 
 wife can only be a mistress.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE DOCTOR 
 
 Billy Ambrose and Emma Darcy were walking down the 
 High Street of Colchester regardless of the attention they 
 commanded. Their fame was of long standing and they 
 were indifferent to it. Youngsters, greatly daring, would 
 sneak close, squeal " Marmalade Emma ! " and then fly to 
 safe distance. But the hawk does not disdain the protest- 
 ing swallows more than they the insulting boys. They 
 strolled along, looked into the shop windows, and pro- 
 ceeded upon their way. 
 
 This man and woman seldom differed, but now they did. 
 Opposite the Moot Hall stood a handsome motor-car, and 
 William, recognising it for his brother's, crossed the road. 
 
 " Good alive ! don't you go over there ! " said Emma, 
 trying to hold him back. " You'd best the Owd Un, we all 
 know ; but you can't best him." 
 
 " Let go, Emma," he answered. 
 
 " Don't be talking, and come along to Dr. Carbonell," 
 she said. " You very nilly choked wi' coughing last night, 
 and you're drunk now." 
 
 " I'm going to tell the bloke I'm ill and see how he takes 
 it," declared William. 
 
 But the car was empty, and so he began to talk to the 
 driver — a young man who became very self-conscious and 
 blushed at Billy's raillery. 
 
 " Why haven't you joined the arm^^ you lazy dog? " he 
 asked. " There 3'ou sit in slave's clothes with a crest on 
 your buttons, which your master's got no right to sport, 
 and lead the life of a louse, instead of being a free man in 
 khaki, fighting for your country." 
 
 " They won't pass me," said the j'outh. 
 
 53
 
 54 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 " I'd go to-morrow," declared Billy, for the benefit of a 
 few gaping hearers, " if it weren't for Marmalade Emma 
 here. But what's going to come of her if I go? " 
 
 " They'd lock her up, where she ought to be," said a 
 man. 
 
 " You dog ! " answered Billy. " If I wasn't weak as a 
 rat with coughing all night, I'd grind your nose in the 
 dirt for that." 
 
 The other retorted, and Emma tried in vain to get Wil- 
 liam along. 
 
 " I don't go till I've seen my brother, the Mayor of Col- 
 chester," he declared. " The poor fellow don't see enough 
 of me, or he'd have more sense." 
 
 People began to collect and a policeman appeared to 
 move them along. Out of respect for his brother, William 
 was treated more leniently in Colchester than might have 
 been the case under other circumstances. Now, however, 
 he was told to be off. 
 
 Then Parkyn Ambrose appeared. 
 
 The two men were alike save that intemperance and ex- 
 posure disfigured the bearded features of the tramp, while 
 his brother's clean-shaven face was healthy and plump. 
 He flushed rosy at sight of William. 
 
 " I beg you — I beg you " he said. 
 
 "Have no fear, old boy — only I just thought I'd see 
 how you liked being Mayor, and if you were going to in- 
 vite me to the Oyster Banquet presently." 
 
 " Take him away, woman," said Mr. Ambrose. " I 
 can do nothing for him." 
 
 " I am taking him so fast as I can," answered Emma. 
 " He's ill — he's got a crool cough, and I'm taking him to 
 doctor — only he won't come." 
 
 " I'm coming, I'm coming. Don't you think I'm going 
 to die, Parkyn, old sport ! Far from it, my poor fellow. 
 I shall live till you're under the daisies — oh, yes, I shall, 
 and then I shall say, ' Lord, lettest thou thy servant 
 depart in peace ! ' "
 
 THE DOCTOR 55 
 
 Mr. Ambrose rolled his eyes like a frightened bullock. 
 He was terribly distressed. He turned to Emma. 
 
 " Take him to the hospital and say I sent him." 
 
 Then the master of " Colneside " attempted to get into 
 his car ; but Billy suddenly sat down in the open door and 
 barred the way. 
 
 "Hospital — eh? You're a brother to be proud of! 
 Oh, you good, Christian man ! If you was ill, you'd send 
 for half Harley Street ; but me — you'd let me rot in a 
 blasted hospital, wouldn't you.? and give the nurse a little 
 bottle of something short to drop in my physic, if you 
 dared ! " 
 
 Mr. Ambrose beckoned the policeman who stood close at 
 hand. 
 
 " Move him," he said. " I'm sorr}^, William Ambrose, 
 but I have no choice. This is outrageous." 
 
 " Take me for a joy ride, there's an old dear," shouted 
 Billy. Then he found himself picked up and handed over 
 to Emma. 
 
 He laughed boisterously and waved his hand to his 
 brother. 
 
 " You go to the hospital and tell 'em to hang out the 
 flags — I'm coming ! " he bawled after the departing car. 
 
 Then, his outrage accomplished, he calmed down and 
 followed Emma. They plunged into a narrow side street 
 and the incident ended so far as the public was concerned. 
 But the woman blamed him. 
 
 " You didn't ought," said Emma. " He's all-powerful 
 now, being Mayor, and he might do you an injury." 
 
 Billy coughed violently and then responded. 
 
 " My dear child, it's good for the poor wretch to be 
 shook up now and again," he said. " It reminds him he's 
 only a mortal man after all, and not a fat angel squatting 
 on the footstool of God. I'm his skeleton at the feast of 
 life. I'm sent here for his good. The poor creature is 
 fairly itching to be at my death-bed, but he shan't : I'll be 
 at his.'»
 
 56 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 The prophecy cheered Billy, and he proceeded quite 
 amiably beside Emma. Past Trinity Church they went, 
 where the little, flowery graveyard lay in peace amid the 
 hum and bustle of the living ; and then, opposite the tower 
 of early English brick and stone, over against that little 
 lancet door so fair to see, the tramps stopped and knocked 
 at the entrance of a small Georgian house. 
 
 They asked for Dr. Carbonell, and the maidservant, re- 
 garding them suspiciously, explained that her master did 
 not see patients. 
 
 " Not common people, we know," said Emma, " but 
 he'll see us." 
 
 William chuckled. 
 
 " That's right. Tell him JMr. Billy Ambrose is on the 
 door-step and the doctor will bid me come in. And don't 
 fear for the umbrellas. We've left ours at home on the 
 grand piano." 
 
 The maid showed uneasiness and departed hurriedly. 
 
 " ' Father, forgive her, for she knows not what she 
 does,' " said William. 
 
 A moment later they were told that the doctor would 
 see them, and they were conducted to his study. The 
 room was mellow in colour and full of books, and stained 
 with long years of tobacco smoke. It contained works of 
 art — little marble copies of Praxiteles — his " Faun " 
 and the " Cnidian Venus " — the " Penseroso " of Michael 
 Angelo, and a copy in bronze of the famous " Mercury," 
 from Naples. 
 
 Before his desk sat Dr. Carbonell, an old man with 
 clear-cut features and pale complexion. He was of the 
 colour of his smoke-stained marbles — a hue of old ivory. 
 But his eyes were bright and blue behind his big spectacles 
 in their tortoiseshell frame. On his head was a black silk 
 cap, for he was quite bald. Of average height, he was thin 
 in person, but very upright for an old man. He wore a 
 black frock coat, grey trousers and purple slippers. His 
 tie was of black satin, and in it appeared a breast-pin
 
 THE DOCTOR 57 
 
 fashioned of flint — an arrowhead of neolithic man. Dr. 
 Carbonell pushed away his papers, took up a pipe with his 
 left hand and greeted Emma with his right. Then he 
 shook hands with Billy, lighted his pipe, and bade the 
 visitors be seated. 
 
 " What have you been up to now, William ? " he asked. 
 
 " Sleeping in damp hay," said the invalid. " At least 
 it was dry when we retired ; but it came on to rain while we 
 slept. I'm barking like a dog, and I believe I'm going to 
 have appendicitis. And if I am, I'd better know it." 
 
 " Everything's appendicitis now," said Emma. " Where 
 does it come from. Doctor .f* " 
 
 The old practitioner was one of Colchester's heroes — 
 famous and admired. There were whispers that the free- 
 dom of the borough was to be presented to him in consid- 
 eration of his lifelong labours for the township. His ac- 
 tivities ranged over many interests. He was a bachelor 
 and alone in the world ; but his urbanity, generosity, and 
 learning made him many friends. Only one disability led 
 Colchester to view him with uneasiness : he was a Free 
 Thinker. But his own views he never obtruded unless 
 challenged to do so ; then he did not hesitate to speak 
 plainly. 
 
 He was a travelled man, and his experience ranged over 
 Europe. Locomotion and Celtic pottery he claimed for 
 his special subjects. He had ridden in Brunei's pneu- 
 matic railway and had flown in an aeroplane. 
 
 " Appendicitis is a thing of yesterday, Emma," he said. 
 " It came in with boracic acid and there's a close link be- 
 tween them. I shan't live to see it established, and my 
 chemistry days are over, though if I were a young man, 
 I'd set myself to the problem and prove I'm right. In my 
 youth, the microscope had no part in therapeutics and the 
 germ theory for practical purposes did not exist. I've 
 cut off many a leg and arm without anjesthetic, or anti- 
 septic either, so you may judge I date back to the early 
 Victorians. And very good times, too. We were more
 
 58 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 sober-minded then, and had much better ideas of the sig- 
 nificance of pleasure and the value of a holiday." 
 
 " We're the Lord's children, and a father likes to see 
 his little ones playing," said William. " And you're ray 
 side and always have been, Doc." 
 
 " I'm not your side at all. For a man to lead your life 
 is a social scandal." 
 
 " It's a protest," explained Billy. " If my brother had 
 been a possible person, I should have lived differently ; but 
 my better nature rose at his dreadful goodness from the 
 first. I'm a saint compared to him. What d'you think 
 he said not ten minutes ago? Told me to go in the 
 hospital ! " 
 
 " There's an ancient Roman joke, that when a wine- 
 bibber hanged himself the people said, ' There hangs a 
 wine-skin, not a man ' ; and when we bury you, we shall 
 write on your grave, ' Here lies a beer-barrel.' That'll be 
 the end of you, if you don't mend." 
 
 " A whisky-barrel, more like, poor darling," said Emma. 
 
 William took off his coat and shirt and submitted to an 
 examination. 
 
 " You might save yourself even now," declared the 
 physician, tapping the patient's hairy chest with the end 
 of his stethoscope. " There's no disease, only a general 
 weakness and malaise from insufficient food and bad cloth- 
 ing. You're tough enough, thanks to living in the open 
 air. If you'd lead a decent life and drop the drink, you 
 might be a respectable member of society in six months." 
 
 " Game's not worth the candle," said William. " I 
 don't want to live to be a hundred, like you're going to be. 
 When first Emma joined me, she'd got a foggy idea that 
 we'd save each other. Hadn't you, Emma? But when I 
 showed her what ' salvation ' meant, her fine siprit rose 
 against it." 
 
 William helped himself from an open tobacco pouch on 
 Dr. Carbonell's desk. Then he handed it to Emma, who 
 also filled her pipe.
 
 THE DOCTOR 59 
 
 The doctor was writing. 
 
 " I'm giving him some physic and some gargle ; and 
 mind he uses it, Emma," he said. 
 
 " A pity you never found a woman such as this to be 
 your handmaiden and the joy of your Hfe, Doc," said 
 Billy, waving his hand towards Miss Darcy. 
 
 " He had a mind above us females," said Emma. " He 
 didn't want us for his pastime, because he was always after 
 books and curiosities." 
 
 " There's no curiosity that's a patch on a woman," de- 
 clared William, " and, complete as he thinks himself. Doc 
 would have been much more complete if he'd added a 
 live one to his collection." 
 
 "And how the mischief d'you know he didn't? " asked 
 Emma. " It ain't every man and woman that hops about 
 together, like a pair of bullfinches, same as you and me do. 
 Of course the married ones do it — to save their faces so 
 often as not. But because a man haven't got a woman on 
 his arm in the street, or at the foot of his table at home, it 
 don't follow he haven't got one in his heart." 
 
 The old physician finished, blotted the prescription, and 
 handed it to Emma. 
 
 " And I wish you'd tell Billy that he must sleep in housen 
 and not under the stars no more," said she. " He'll never 
 get right, not even with your medicine, if he doesn't care." 
 
 " Are you sleeping under hedges now? " 
 
 " Not for the minute. We are along with my brother, 
 Tom Darcy, him that's a sailor on the Oyster Company's 
 Peewit. He's got a very nice house at Brittlesea, and he 
 ought to understand our ways, being a bit of a gipsy, of 
 course, same as me. But William's so restive. He says 
 he can't sleep under a ceiling, because he always fears 'twill 
 fall atop of him — silliness, I call it." 
 
 " What I want," said Billy, " is nothing more nor less 
 than a rest cure." 
 
 He winked at Emma, for he knew Carbonell felt rather 
 strongly on the subject.
 
 60 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 " You're trying to pull my leg, William, but you won't," 
 the doctor said. " A work cure's what you want, my 
 friend. If we gave our fools hard labour as well as our- 
 knaves — but nothing can be done until we make idleness 
 a crime against the State and waste of time an indictable 
 offence." 
 
 " I hope I may not be spared to see it," said William, 
 " for it would mean the triumph of everything that's busy 
 and small and mean and peddling. It would mean that 
 worms like my brother had conquered the world, and that 
 the free spirits, like me, had no place left for the sole of 
 their feet." 
 
 " Your brother's a good man. You're not." 
 
 " Good for what.'' You can't tell me — nobody can tell 
 me ; and none knows better than you that he's tinkling 
 brass and as empty as a drum." 
 
 " You'll never make me despise your brother, William. 
 I respect him, and if he hasn't got the art to win people, 
 that's his misfortune, not his fault. Now be off. Get this 
 made up, Emma Darcy, and see he uses it." 
 
 Dr. Carbonell gave Emma the prescription and five 
 shillings with it. 
 
 " I'd do as much for you if the cases were reversed," 
 said Billy ; " and as to work, don't think it's a prejudice on 
 my part. Some are born to work and love it from their 
 youth up ; but such as me are in another category, and the 
 community can drive us and bore us and harry us ; but it 
 can't make us work." 
 
 " You did work once in the dim past," said Dr. Car- 
 bonell. 
 
 " As a freeman of Brittlesea, I did a bit of work on the 
 water," admitted William. 
 
 " You can't do better than try it again, then." 
 
 " When the oysters come in season," suggested Emma. 
 *' There's always easy work going then, and you never 
 mind getting up in the early morning." 
 
 " If I had to get up in the early morning, I should mind
 
 THE DOCTOR 61 
 
 it very much. Why, if my fellow-creatures rose and or- 
 dered me, on pain of punishment, to drink two quarts of 
 beer a day, I'd very likely turn teetotaller on the instant. 
 I've got the stuff of martyrs in me — if it was worth 
 while." 
 
 " Come, my handsome," said Emma to Billy. " We've 
 took up enough of the doctor's time, and may God send a 
 blessing on the noble creature, I'm sure." 
 
 Then they left him.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 ON THE PEEWIT 
 
 Mrs. Hempson was a practical widow of middle age, and 
 when her son returned from his costly failure in China 
 empty-handed, she supported him under his reverse and 
 sought means to tide herself over the period during which 
 he was out of work. 
 
 She explained the situation to Aveline when the artist 
 went to see Mrs. Hempson's two spare rooms. 
 
 " Every little helps," she said. " My son, Andrew, has 
 been under the weather of late and had bad fortune. He 
 thinks to enlist, but there's no immediate call for him to do 
 so, though if this misbegotten war goes on much longer, no 
 doubt he will join up. And meanwhile I'm very glad to let 
 my two spare rooms." 
 
 They suited the new-comer well enough, and now she had 
 settled in and was painting steadily. But Aveline quickly 
 learned that her pictures would not keep her. The times 
 were bad for art, and her work made no appeal to Colches- 
 ter. Thanks to Mistley's good offices, friendly stationers 
 and a picture dealer were willing to display the pictures, 
 but those of the inhabitants who claimed regard for such 
 things held Aveline's productions unfinished. She sold the 
 drawing of Mr. Ambrose's lily pond, and the purchaser was 
 Mrs. Ambrose, who extolled the picture and desired Ave- 
 line's acquaintance; but as yet she had not met her 
 patron. 
 
 And now, having put an advertisement into a local jour- 
 nal, she hoped for a pupil or two, 
 
 Peter Mistley was gone to Devonshire, and she found 
 that he made a little gap in her life already. She discov- 
 
 62
 
 ON THE PEEWIT 63 
 
 ered herself often thinking about him, and she was pleased 
 when an unexpected letter came from him. There was lit- 
 tle in it save a long description of the garden upon which 
 he found himself engaged ; but he asked her a question and 
 said that he would be infinitely obliged to her if she could 
 go to the water gardens at " Colneside " and tell him the 
 order of things at a certain point in them. " I ought to 
 know it by heart," he wrote, " but it happens that I forget 
 just what I want to remember. Nobody at the nursery 
 can tell me exactly what I want to know as well as you 
 could, so I venture to ask this favour." He praised 
 Devonshire and hoped that she was selling her pictures. 
 There was nothing more in the note, yet to Aveline it 
 seemed inspired with that unconscious intimacy ever exist- 
 ing between artist and artist. 
 
 She did his bidding and made a little drawing of the 
 place he wanted — a sketch in his own manner, indicating 
 the plants. With the picture she sent a letter saying that 
 Colchester connoisseurs Avere not exactly tumbling over 
 each other to buy her pictures, but that she lived in hope 
 and was very busy and more in love with Essex than ever. 
 
 Then came the day with Margery Mayhew, and Aveline 
 put temporary cares from her mind very willingly and 
 gave herself to her friend. She had a child's power of 
 throwing herself into the present hour, to the obliteration 
 of past and future ; she also had a child's faith in the great 
 to-morrows. They were going to Brightlingsea to visit the 
 estuary with Margery's uncle, Mr. Samuel Mushet. 
 
 Brightlingsea is a busy hamlet, from whose main street 
 of little houses and little shops spread arteries to east and 
 west. Southward a three-cornered green terminates the 
 township, and northward, nigh the railway station, are 
 other open spaces and plantations of trees. The place 
 grows steadily, and new buildings rise and thrust forward 
 through its flowery skirts to the market gardens beyond. 
 But at the Hard beats the pulse of Brightlingsea, where 
 her freemen pursue their business ashore and afloat.
 
 64 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 The tide was at ebb when Aveline and Margery reached 
 the pier, and the mud-coloured waters were swept by a 
 strong and stormy wind. The estuary opened west, then 
 wound away to the south round a low bank crowned by a 
 Martello tower. Green meadows ran along this region, 
 and between it and the Hard there lay half a hundred ves- 
 sels — oyster dredgers, smacks and ketches, a steam pin- 
 nace or two, and a little, beamy paddle-boat, the Peewit, 
 to which the women were bound. She rode two hundred 
 yards from shore, and Margery signalled to her with a 
 white handkerchief. Along the shore to right and left 
 rose a wilderness of wooden shanties and slips for vessels. 
 Ships' chandlers and fish supplies, boat builders and marine 
 stores clustered together, and the reek of fish and tarred 
 hemp was brushed to Aveline's nostrils. These places at 
 high tide stood with their steps submerged, while dotted 
 amongst them rose the masts and cordage of dismantled 
 vessels and many a yacht, high and dry, with naked sticks 
 and body wrapped in tarpaulin. For the war had shut 
 down on sport, and the vessels of pleasure now in commis- 
 sion were doing the country's work. 
 
 Away over Mersea Isle to the westward swept up a sum- 
 mer storm. Darker it grew with a noble welter of thunder- 
 clouds piled to the zenith and gashed with white and 
 crooked lightning. Earth and water seemed to shrink to a 
 mere insignificant huddle beneath the immensity of the 
 clouds. Their billows rolled out in white and grey above 
 the purple beneath ; and then the storm climbed upwards 
 to smother the loftier strata, and great fans and moving 
 arms of light broke the darkness and waved across it wild 
 signals from the foundered sun. Half a gale of wind, 
 freshening for five minutes to a whole gale, burst on Bright- 
 lingsea, and sent the life of the Hard flying to cover. Veils 
 of heavy rain softened the hard gloom of the sky ; thunder 
 rattled, and a crash of hail beat on the corrugated iron 
 of the shanties. The waters of the estuary were roughed, 
 and a sudden sea set the anchored vessels, great and
 
 ON THE PEEWIT 65 
 
 small, rolling and dancing. One laden, open boat, lying 
 unmanned and moored to a larger, took a grey sea over 
 her weather bow, shuddered, and sank. Thin shouts and 
 the bob of hurrying heads came from the parent ketch; 
 but their boat was gone, and only a pair of oars and a 
 fish-box danced where she had ridden. Smoke flew from 
 the steamers, and a dozen sailing craft, heeling to the 
 wind, came up with crackling canvas bows on to the squall. 
 But fifty dun-coloured, lumpish monsters, on which stood 
 or sat some hundreds of dun-coloured men, troubled not at 
 the weather. The air-tight, iron things danced to the 
 sudden seas, and their crews shouted and toiled at their 
 endless business of making and unmaking. For they were 
 military pontoons, and the Royal Engineers from Eng- 
 land's newly made armies came daily to the waters to 
 learn the business of bridging estuary and river. Big 
 men they were — some in jack boots, some in canvas and 
 indiarubber slippers — and they toiled daily half in the 
 tide and half out of it, wet as water voles, and as indiffer- 
 ent to wind and weather. Stolidly they learned their 
 business : a corps composed from commanding officer to 
 " sapper " of men specially trained. They were mostly 
 fitters or carpenters by trade. 
 
 Few of the dark, tanned faces that Aveline studied were 
 intellectual, but most were intelligent. The strength and 
 size of the men chiefly impressed her. The greater num- 
 ber had no visible thought beyond the business of the 
 minute — the steering and manipulating of their heavy 
 craft, the linking and unlinking of the bridges ; but here 
 and there among them and the young officers directing 
 them, the artist saw a face with fire and spirit and imag- 
 ination mirrored therein. 
 
 " They are dreaming of doing their work again on the 
 Rhine," she said to Margery. 
 
 " I hope there are dry clothes and hot dinners waiting 
 for them ashore," answered the other. 
 
 Soon the weather brightened and a drift of sunlit cloud
 
 66 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 flung a silvery dance of brightness over the water and 
 reflected itself upon sand and stone. The people crept 
 out again — first ragamuffins, to play with the weed and 
 sea life at water's edge, then the fishermen and longshore 
 folk. A sentry, with glittering bayonet, tramped up and 
 down before the pontoon landing-places ; but now he was 
 relieved and a dry lad took his place. The wet man's 
 khaki had turned to dull brown. Aloft the sky gaped into 
 great patches of blue ; the sun shone on the reeking world 
 and the wind fell suddenly. A steam rose above the Hard 
 and crept in little curls over the beach. 
 
 " Now they'll come for us," said Margery ; and by the 
 time they had returned to the pier-head, a boat pulled by 
 a solitary rower danced out from the side of the Peewit 
 and soon ran alongside the jetty. 
 
 A young, fair man, in a tarpaulin hat, jack boots and a 
 blue jersey, rowed it, and Margery welcomed him. 
 
 " Good-morning, Teddy," she said, then turned to Ave- 
 line and introduced the sailor. 
 
 " This is my cousin, Teddy Mushet — the son of Uncle 
 Samuel on the Peewit," she explained. 
 
 " Squally weather, but you ladles will be all right 
 aboard," declared Teddy. 
 
 He was a big fellow with broad shoulders, a large, sim- 
 ple face, and gentle grey eyes. 
 
 He spread his jacket inside out for them to sit upon, 
 then rowed, with a strong, slow stroke, away and soon 
 reached the Peewit. The little steamer had cast off and 
 was already moving when they came alongside. Hands 
 were extended to the women, and they found themselves in 
 a wide deck aft, while the boat went astern to the length 
 of her painter and rolled along after them in the white 
 wake of the steamer. 
 
 The Peewit churned her way through the harbour, then 
 got clear of the shipping and headed round the mud flats 
 and the Martello tower towards East Mersea.
 
 ON THE PEEWIT 67 
 
 There were a dozen men upon her and Margery knew 
 half of them. She greeted first the skipper of the little 
 steamer. 
 
 " Good-morning, Mr. Rebow," she said. " This is Mrs. 
 Brown, who wants to see the Peewit and hear about the 
 oysters." 
 
 Saul Rebow valued himself on his command. He was 
 very thin, very tall, and very hairy. He had a high- 
 pitched voice, and of his face, so clothed was it in rough, 
 grey hair, that one saw little but his brown eyes and 
 round, heavy nose. 
 
 Behind his back the master of the Peewit was called 
 " Old Tell-yer-fer-wh}'," owing to a didactic habit of giv- 
 ing reasons for everything. He argued, justly, that 
 nought happened without a reason; but he went beyond 
 this safe ground and himself claimed perilous heights of 
 knowledge that solved most human problems. 
 
 " We shall open your eyes, Mrs. Brown," he said, " and 
 show you what's under the water and what's above it." 
 
 " I've seen what's above it already," declared the vis- 
 itor. " Never was such a glorious sky." 
 
 " Yes — owing to the thunder in the elements," said 
 Mr. Rebow. " When there's electricity in the air, you see 
 the clouds drawn together by the electric fluid; and when 
 they touch, there's a great volume of heat given off, and 
 heat produces both noise and light, so you get the light- 
 ning first and the thunder afterwards." 
 
 Margery's uncle was a different type of man. He 
 greeted the girl affectionately^ kissed her, and then wiping 
 his hands on a lump of waste, saluted Aveline. He was 
 clad in a close suit of brown drill, buttoned up to his neck, 
 and he resembled his brother, the gardener, though of 
 much smaller build. His beard was a grizzled red, and 
 his heavy ej'ebrows hung over reddish-grey eyes. His 
 nose was hooked and his expression kindly. Mr. Mushet's 
 little engine-room lay amidships, and from it an iron lad-
 
 68 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 der descended to the stokehole. On either side, under the 
 paddle-boxes, a red wheel beat the sea, and overhead was 
 Mr. Rebow's perch, where he stood at his helm. 
 
 " A squally day and plenty of rain to follow," said 
 Samuel Mushet. " How's Uncle Gregory, Madge ? " 
 
 " He's very well and sent you his respects, and I was 
 to know when you're coming with Aunt Nancy for a day 
 with us." 
 
 " I'm coming, certainly," said the engineer. 
 
 " But you're always coming and never come." 
 
 " You must fix it with your aunt. I'm very hopeful to 
 come next month, if it can be done." 
 
 " Not sooner? " 
 
 " No, for certain. The Peewit goes into dry dock in a 
 fortnight's time, and I must be there. Our engines are 
 going to be overhauled." 
 
 There came a signal from overhead. 
 
 " Now the dredges are going out, so you'd better run 
 aft and see the fun," said Mr. Mushet. 
 
 They left him and went to the broad stern of the boat, 
 where six oyster dredges were about to be cast into the 
 water. They were of steel mesh on a wooden beam — the 
 immemorial pattern of the oyster dredge that has changed 
 not through centuries. The Peewit, at slow speed, 
 danced a little in the lopping sea. Southerly the grey 
 waters stretched to a sun-flash on the horizon, and to 
 the east, flat Mersea Island lay, clear-cut in shadow and 
 gleam behind the mist of the sea. 
 
 The dredges splashed overboard, scratched a hundred 
 yards of sea-bottom and were hauled again. Aveline and 
 Margery stood beside Teddy Mushet and exclaimed as he 
 emptied his net upon the deck. A mass of strange life 
 was tumbled there, and from the shining weed and shell 
 hastened long-legged, green and brown crabs every way 
 as fast as they could scuttle. The lucky ones found chan- 
 nels of escape and fell through them back to sea; some, 
 worthy of the pot, were caught and flung into a pail.
 
 ON THE PEEWIT 69 
 
 Teddy sorted over his mass, wherein Nature apparently 
 desired to exhibit all the strange things that throve under 
 Colne estuary. There were adult oysters, which he threw 
 aside, and then came matted fingers of a white, squirting 
 weed, with other seaweeds ambre and green and olive. 
 
 " Cat-tail, we call that," said Teddy. " We like to see 
 it, because where that does well, the oysters do well, 
 too." 
 
 There emerged also the deadly " five-fingers," a big 
 starfish which preys on the oysters ; a sea hedgehog, the 
 enemy of the infant oysters ; and yet another foe — the 
 tingle whelk — with a hirsute shell and an evil habit of 
 boring into the oyster and devouring it. 
 
 " All this dead cockle-shell is called ' culch,' " said 
 Teddy. " It's brought here from other places and piled 
 up on the saltings to get dry and sweet ; then we shovel it 
 into the sea over the layering grounds, so that when the 
 spat goes down, it finds good foothold. The spat's the 
 oyster spawn ; we're on the look-out for this year's spat 
 now, and hope it will be good. These are young oysters 
 
 — a year or more old." 
 
 He showed them splendid clusters of brood oysters 
 clinging to the culch. They bunched out upon it, as 
 fungus spreads from a dying tree. Each infant oyster 
 was silver-bright and any size from a florin to a shilling 
 
 — their lustrous nacre as yet unstained. 
 
 Mr. Rebow surrendered the wheel to his mate and 
 came aft. In his hand he carried a large magnifying 
 glass. 
 
 "Are you come for learning, or for fun?" he asked 
 the girls. 
 
 " For " began Aveline ; but Margery, who knew 
 
 Mr. Rebow, cut her short. 
 
 " For learning, Captain Rebow," she said. 
 
 " Then I can tell you as much as your heads can hold 
 for the minute," he said. " This is the time for the spat, 
 and we're on the look-out for it. Given sea temperature
 
 70 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 of sixty-four degrees in early spring, we've a right to hope 
 for good spat. But the oyster's worst enemy is cold. 
 Now the multitudes of the spat, every speck of which is a 
 fertilised egg of the oyster, are due. The oyster's ' white 
 sick ' first, as we say, then ' black sick ' ; then the spat is 
 given off in clouds by the oysters, and it floats and moves 
 about briskly in the water for a time; but, as the mantle 
 develops, each speck sinks down on to the sea-bottom 
 upon the dead shell we've spread there; and they fasten 
 on by their heels and never move again, till the dredge 
 moves them." 
 
 " What a dull life," suggested Aveline. 
 
 Mr. Rebow stared at her. 
 
 " You speak as a human," he said. " Their lives ain't 
 more dull to them than yours is to you." 
 
 " What with the tingles, and five-fingered starfish, and 
 sea hedgehogs, I suppose they're not," she admitted. 
 
 " This is a pocket lens," continued the skipper, " and 
 now skilled eyes looking on the culch can see among the 
 spawn of other creatures — American limpets and whelks 
 and such-like — the native oysters not so big as a pin's 
 head yet." 
 
 " All settling down to the business of growing into good 
 oysters," said Aveline. 
 
 " Exactly so." 
 
 He examined some shell and presently showed them 
 spat. " The spat's falling," he said. 
 
 " Our enemy here," he went on, " is the Slipper limpet 
 
 — these ugly, yellow creatures with their shells all massed 
 in lumps. They'd smother the oysters and fill the whole 
 estuary if we didn't fight 'em every hour of every day. 
 They breed like the pestilence, and we destroy thousands 
 of tons in a year. I can remember a time when there 
 wasn't a limpet here. Lord knows where they came from 
 
 — America in my opinion. It was like the enemy sowing 
 tares by night." 
 
 Captain Rebow continued his search for spat, while
 
 ON THE PEEWIT 71 
 
 the men went roughly through their heaps, broke off and 
 separated the clusters of oysters, set aside the limpet 
 and soon threw back the debris to the sea. Then the 
 trawls went down again, and in Teddy's next haul there 
 came a twelve-fingered starfish, a splash of rare colour 
 amid the browns and greys and greens. It was as bril- 
 liant as a cock's wattle. 
 
 " We call them ' roses,' " said Teddy, " and they do no 
 harm. And that's a ' Queen,' " he added, handing Ave- 
 line a dainty little s<"ollop shell. " They are good to eat, 
 but rare. You mightn't catch a dozen in a day." 
 
 They admired much that was beautiful, and shuddered 
 at certain manifestations of marine life that, on their 
 values, appeared hideous, but were only strange. 
 
 With hand-boards, or " sheirds," Teddy presently flung 
 back to sea the immature oysters and debris from his 
 trawl. But the "five-fingered jacks," wicked tingles and 
 sea hedgehogs he crushed and destroyed, before return- 
 ing their corpses to the water. 
 
 " You kill the beautiful things and let the fat, ugly 
 oysters go on living," said Aveline. 
 
 Teddy laughed. 
 
 " The oysters are our friends," he explained, " and it's 
 our business to kill their enemies when we catch 'em." 
 
 Then Aveline grew weary of the fishing and turned to 
 the sky again, while Margery spoke to another man. 
 
 He was dark, with a close, black beard, a brown skin, 
 and black, curly hair. His eyes were small and bright, 
 and he wore little gold rings in his ears, and round his 
 throat a handkerchief, that had once been red, but was 
 now weathered to pale pink. 
 
 " How are you, Mr. Darcy ? " asked Margery, and he 
 nodded and wished her good-morning. 
 
 " I'm going on all right," he said, " as I always do, for 
 that matter ; but I'm under the weather for the minute 
 owing to family reasons. In fact, my sister Emma and 
 Billy Ambrose are along with me for the present."
 
 72 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 None at Colchester had missed the fame of Emma and 
 William. 
 
 " I expect they're rather trying," said Margery. 
 
 " Emma's all right — so far as such a godless woman 
 can be. It might be the salvation of her if she left him; 
 but she would no more leave him than the light leaves the 
 moon. He brings us all under his command, William do. 
 'Tis no good raging at the man." 
 
 " This is Mr. Thomas Darcy," said Margery to Ave- 
 line, who had come back to earth from sky again. " He's 
 the brother of poor Emma — you know." 
 
 They talked at intervals while the dredges were down. 
 Aveline was full of ideas for Emma ; but they were vain. 
 
 " They're two in one and one in two, you may say," 
 declared Darcy, " far more than most properly married 
 people, in fact. They hate law and order. Emma was 
 always a roamer before she met him. She belonged to the 
 gipsies by birth, you may say, and though my family had 
 given up their ways and lived in houses for generations, 
 Emma was a ' come back,' and run away from school at 
 twelve." 
 
 A ketch steered alongside presently and, in another 
 squall of rain, twenty heavy bags of oysters were trans- 
 ferred from her to the steamer. Then the Peewit turned 
 north and made for Pyefleet Creek. 
 
 " We're off to the fatting grounds now," explained 
 Teddy Mushet, when the rain had passed and the visitors 
 emerged from the shelter of the engine-room. 
 
 " All these full-sized ware ^ we've caught are going to 
 be flung overboard again into the creek, and they'll stay 
 and grow fat for two months or more before the season 
 opens. But " 
 
 He stopped as Mr. Rebow approached. 
 
 " This is Pj^efleet Creek, ladies," began the captain, 
 " and yonder lies Peewit Island, where you see a building 
 
 1 Ware, full-grown oysters.
 
 ON THE PEEWIT 73 
 
 rise up on the flats. That's the Company's island and 
 the Company's packing sheds ; and the oyster pares are 
 there, where the oysters are stored day by day in the sea- 
 son. Nothing doing now; but a busy place when we 
 begin to market. Now we're in the fatting grounds, and 
 under our keel there's millions of fine natives lying thick as 
 the sand on the shore." 
 
 The saltings spread to right and left, and Aveline 
 noticed how the sunlight polished the water and frosted 
 the mud. But mud and water were of the same colour, 
 though of different surface texture. The low mud banks, 
 scooped out by the tides, hung over, like solid waves that 
 would not break and tumble ; and for foam along their 
 crests ran seafaring plants — dim orache and sea asters 
 and sea lavender, that now began to light the saltings, 
 with rush and broken sedges and other weeds of the coun- 
 try that had stolen here and suffered a sea change in 
 flower and leaf. The glasswort grew on spaces sub- 
 merged at high tide. Stiff and sprightly its tiny forests 
 sprang from the mud. Mr. Rebow called it " samphire " 
 and held it a valuable vegetable. He explained its virtues 
 both boiled and pickled. 
 
 " I picked a good bunch for you yesterday," said Teddy 
 to his cousin. " It's home, waiting for you." 
 
 Margery thanked him. 
 
 " Uncle Gregory's very fond of it," she said. 
 
 The oysters were flung into the creek broadcast with 
 spades, and the deck of the Peewit sluiced and cleansed. 
 Then, the morning's work ended, she headed for home, 
 while Margery chatted with Captain Rebow and Aveline 
 stood aft alone and rejoiced in the low horizons, the green 
 meadows and elms of Mersea Island, and the receding mud 
 flats swept by light and shadow amid the steel-bright 
 waters of distance. 
 
 " I'll wager you young women are hungry now," said 
 the engineer when they landed, and both declared that 
 they were.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE WAX-WING 
 
 Quaker influences may be marked in many a home of East 
 Essex. It is a county famous for Bloody Mary's mar- 
 t3^rs and savouring of the Roundheads to this day. Ex- 
 amine the libraries and the works are found to be mostly 
 religious. It was so in the dwelling of Samuel Mushet, 
 and Nancy, his wife, declared herself still a Quaker. She 
 spoke to Aveline while the men washed and made ready 
 for dinner. 
 
 Nancy was a small, dark, dapper woman, well pre- 
 served for her fifty years. She had a little tip-tilted nose, 
 and the fascinating, but unclassical mouth that often 
 accompanies that feature. 
 
 " You're looking at my books I see, Mrs. Brown," she 
 said. " Here's Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress and John 
 Milton and the Book of Martyrs, and, for light reading 
 I've several works of travel in the Holy Land. We've 
 got Shakespeare, too : that's my husband's book. Bun- 
 yan's my man." 
 
 They spoke of names at dinner, and Mr. Mushet de- 
 clared that his own appellation had once been very dif- 
 ferent, 
 
 " I'm told by my brother, who got it out of Mr. Am- 
 brose, at ' Colneside,' that Mushet was Mont-fitchet once, 
 and that the race was very high and mighty in Essex long 
 ago. But for my part you can't be too simple in such 
 matters. Mont-fitchet is a fantastic sort of a name, in 
 my opinion -r- almost something godless to it, you might 
 say. Mushet is straightforward, and Mushet means 
 
 74
 
 THE WAX-WING 75 
 
 Essex to the understanding mind, but Mont-fitchet means 
 nothing." 
 
 " I expect it means a good deal, if you looked it up," 
 said Aveline. 
 
 " I have," said Nancy, " and it means to them so called 
 in the past, money and lands and a peck of troublesome 
 adventures. The high people can't live quietly and jog 
 along like us. They must be doing and stirring." 
 
 " They taste life," said Aveline. 
 
 But Mr. Mushet grunted. 
 
 " They taste a lot of things," he said, "such a lot, in 
 fact, that a time comes when they've got no more use for 
 food as food, or life as life. They want all life to be an 
 adventure, and don't know what's going to happen to 'em 
 in a month's time more than we know what the weather's 
 going to be." 
 
 They ate very heartily. Aveline dishonestly admired 
 the decoration of the room. It consisted of stuffed birds 
 in glass cases. 
 
 " They're held a very good collection, and all fell to my 
 father's gun," explained Mrs. Mushet. " He was a great 
 sportsman and a man who understood the hidden ways of 
 birds. That's a wax-wing you're looking at now. An 
 amazingly rare creature. My father always hoped he'd 
 be spared to shoot one. And he was. It came to his gun 
 in his seventieth year." 
 
 She turned, where Teddy Mushet sat very silent beside 
 her, eating his dinner with his mouth and eating Margery 
 with his eyes. 
 
 " Tell the story of grandfather and the wax-wing, Ted. 
 'Tis a very good tale. And Margery will help me change 
 the plates." 
 
 " My grandfather never let his work come between him 
 and a bit of shooting by all accounts," began Teddy; 
 " and he loved the things he shot, and if they was worth 
 it, he'd stuff them to the life, as you can see. And one 
 day there came a wax-wing to the woods where grand-
 
 76 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 father worked, out away by the church. And an under- 
 standing man mentioned it in the bar of the ' King's Head.' 
 A gamekeeper he was, and a friend of my grandfather's ; 
 and grandfather pricked his ears. * Good alive ! ' said 
 grandfather, * you don't mean it, George .? ' And George, 
 who knew every bird that flies, swore he'd seen the creature 
 twice. And in the bar also was grandfather's great and 
 bitter rival — an old, lame tally-man, called Noah Pullen. 
 
 " ' That's a master-bit of news, sure enough — if it's 
 true,' said old Noah. Then they left it at that, and the 
 fun began, because both these old boys put everything else 
 from them from that moment and only lived to slay the 
 wax-wing. Early and late they went about to shoot it. 
 And then came a morning — the greatest in his life, as he 
 always said — when my grandfather dropped the wax- 
 wing; and never, since the day he shot a hoopoe, twenty 
 years earlier in his life, did he rejoice like he did then. 
 And going out of the woods to his breakfast, who should 
 hobble along but old Noah with his fowling-piece.'' He 
 was suspicious like ; but grandfather set him at his ease. 
 * Did you hear gun-fire.'* ' asked Noah. ' Surely I did,' 
 answered grandfather. ' 'Twas George over to Squire 
 Bateman's.' And then he asks t'other old chap a ques- 
 tion. ' Haven't seen nothing of this wax-wing they tell 
 about, have you, Pullen?' 'No — and shan't,' says 
 Noah ; ' they tell all the lies they can think of in Brittle- 
 sea. There never was a wax-wing in the Tendring Hun- 
 dred and there never will be!' A fortnight later grand- 
 father asked old Noah to come in the house and have a 
 drink and a game of ' shove-halfpenny,' and Noah Pullen 
 went ; and the first thing he see staring at him was the 
 wax-wing, stuifed and smart as life in that very case you're 
 looking at now. They often chuckled at it afterwards, 
 but Noah didn't chuckle at the time. In fact, he was sore 
 for a good bit, and even went so far as to say the bird 
 wasn't a wax-wing, though too well he knew it was." 
 
 They laughed over their pudding and, finding the guest
 
 THE WAX-WING 77 
 
 very sympathetic, Nancy Mushet grew friendly and more 
 personal. The talk was of punctuality, and Mrs. Mushet 
 declared her husband the least punctual person in the 
 world. 
 
 " Though not as bad as his father before him, I grant," 
 she said. 
 
 " My nature is to be behind time," confessed Samuel, 
 " but if you have to do with machinery and steam, as I 
 have, then the fault is largely cured. Steam waits for no 
 man, nor yet does tide." 
 
 " Where you're servant, you're punctual enough, I 
 grant," admitted Nancy ; " but not where you're master. 
 Nothing to your old father, however." 
 
 " He missed pretty well all he could in his life," ad- 
 mitted Mr. Mushet. *' He missed a legacy, and he missed 
 the woman he wanted to marry most, and he missed his 
 market three days a week, and he missed his meals, and 
 he missed everything but bad luck — born under a bad 
 star you might say. Never went out of Brittlesea in his 
 life, so far as I remember. He was going to Colchester 
 once ; but he missed the train and couldn't work up energy 
 enough to try again. He didn't miss Heaven, however, 
 for a better man never walked, though so belated." 
 
 They spoke of Gregory and his house. 
 
 " There's Flemish blood in us," explained Samuel. 
 " You'll find a lot of it in these parts, and it came over 
 when we traded a good deal in a small way with the Low 
 Countries and Holland. And it's took the form of pride 
 and love of property in my brother. I tell him he's a 
 Dutchman. He works for plants and I work for oysters, 
 and I say my work is above his, because an oyster is higher 
 than a plant, and he says it ain't. In fact, he'd put a 
 plant higher than an oyster, and that's outrageous." 
 
 " For beauty, perhaps," said Aveline. 
 
 " What's more beautiful than an oyster, inside and out? 
 A fine oyster, with its fringe of new-built shell, can't be 
 beat for beauty to the trained eye, and when you open
 
 78 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 'em, what flower has got petals so beautiful as mother-of- 
 pearl? " 
 
 Mrs. Mushet looked uneasy. 
 
 " You'll vex ]Mrs. Brown, I shouldn't wonder," she said. 
 
 " Certainly not," he answered. " I'm only telling her 
 that an oyster is a higher creation than a cucumber, and 
 nobody that ever I met but Gregory denies it. But he's 
 narrowed his outlook by remaining a bachelor. He's cut 
 himself off from any voice in the next generation, which 
 ought to have been his rightful business." 
 
 Mr. Mushet looked at the stalwart and fair Teddy as he 
 spoke, and so did Mrs. Mushet. Fired by the work of the 
 pontoons, the boy was going to join the Engineers, and 
 his mother, with her whole heart and soul, resented as an 
 outrage the necessity that called him. Her Quaker blood 
 rose passionately against the thought that any child of 
 hers should even learn how to fight. 
 
 Silence fell, and Margery knew and Aveline guessed at 
 the thoughts in the parents' minds. His niece spoke to 
 Samuel. 
 
 " Well, you'll be coming to see us soon, I do hope. 
 Uncle Gregory told me a lot of times to make you name 
 the day. And poor old Mr. Pettikin in the gardens — 
 he's always asking after you." 
 
 " I'll come — next month as likely as not — and your 
 aunt also, and Ted, if he's here." 
 
 " I shan't be," said Teddy ; " and if you're going to 
 catch the train, you ought to be on the way, Madge." 
 
 They started five minutes later, and young Mushet, 
 carrying a great bunch of green " samphire," walked with 
 them to the station. 
 
 The last thing that Aveline noted was the boy's round, 
 wistful face fixed humbly on her friend.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE DINNER-PARTY 
 
 Mr. Parkyn Ambrose was travelling homeward in his 
 motor-car, and beside him sat Geoffrey Seabrook. The 
 car also contained a large bunch of flowers, wrapped in 
 tissue paper, and a suit-case. 
 
 The day of the dinner-party at Mersea Island had come, 
 and Mr. Ambrose was driving the draughtsman home. 
 Seabrook appeared much impressed with this kindness and 
 now reiterated his thanks. 
 
 " It's uncommonly good of you to give me a lift," he 
 said. 
 
 In his heavy, condescending voice the master of " Colne- 
 side " replied : 
 
 " Not at all, my dear fellow. The obligation is ours. 
 Other guests come to talk ; you give us the pleasure of 
 song, which is often far better." 
 
 " Who dine with you, if I may ask ? " 
 
 " Just a little, quiet party — hardi}' a dinner. I am 
 against anything like an entertainment while the nation is 
 at war. My old friend, Mr. Odington, the rose-grower, 
 and his wife, a Mrs. Chaffe and her daughter, Dr. Car- 
 bonell and yourself — these are our guests. You stay 
 the night at the Manor House and return with me to-mor- 
 row." 
 
 " It's more than kind and I hope no inconvenience." 
 
 " Far from it, I assure you. You had better draw up 
 the glass on your side. The rain is coming in." 
 
 The car splashed and snorted through the summer rain 
 to Mersea Island, where it lay embowered in elms and rich 
 farmlands between the estuaries of Blackwater and Colne. 
 
 79
 
 80 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 By a causeway it is approached from the mainland, and 
 this neck, which crosses Pyefleet Creek, is called the Strood 
 — a Roman road of old time. Once upon the island the 
 way forked, and the car of Mr. Ambrose took the right 
 hand branch for West Mersea, a fishing hamlet, nigh which 
 he dwelt. It is a place of ancient fame, for Briton, Saxon 
 and Roman have all left their mark upon it. Mr. Am- 
 brose preserved in his garden fragments of venerable for- 
 tifications and some details of Roman tessellated pave- 
 ment ; while to the church he also took friends interested 
 in such matters. It was a Norman building of flint and 
 stone, brightened with Roman brick. South of it stood 
 the Manor House, where Mr. Ambrose dwelt, and westerly 
 stretched the village — a place very picturesque, full of 
 pleasant, red-roofed cottages lifted above the Blackwater 
 and the mud flats. 
 
 Mrs. Ambrose welcomed her husband and the visitor. 
 
 " Why ! What an inspiration ! " she said at sight of 
 the flowers. " I am going to wear white to-night." 
 
 Seabrook had brought a large bunch of very dark, 
 velvety, crimson carnations. 
 
 They drank tea, and, the weather clearing, all three of 
 them walked out afterwards. The gardens sloped to the 
 sea and below them a sandy beach extended. Helena ran 
 and played with two white Pomeranian dogs, while Mr. 
 Ambrose perambulated with the guest. 
 
 " My wife is the very impersonification of youth," de- 
 clared Parkyn ; " but you must not think she lives for 
 pleasure." 
 
 " They say at the hospital that she helps the men to get 
 well and has a marvellous instinct to brighten up the 
 wounded soldiers." 
 
 Mr. Seabrook invented this pleasant picture, for nobody 
 had said it, or thought it. But the husband was gratified. 
 
 " Woman's work — ministering angels ' when pain and 
 anguish wring the brow.' They were not exactly minister- 
 ing angels who broke into Kew Gardens last year, how-
 
 THE DINNER-PARTY 81 
 
 ever, and destroyed many valuable specimens of the orchid 
 family. But I think the war has sobered them and awak- 
 ened their purer and loftier feelings." 
 
 Mr. Seabrook was pleased to hear it. 
 
 " I always respect and venerate woman," he said. 
 
 " Go on doing so, my good fellow," advised Mr. Am- 
 brose. " If they lose our respect and veneration, what 
 else have they? Nothing but to declare a sex war. And 
 that is contrary to nature, therefore it cannot happen." 
 
 Upon this great verity returned Mrs. Ambrose, breath- 
 less, as a gong sounded from the house. 
 
 " The dressing gong — we must return," said Mr. Am- 
 brose. 
 
 On their way back, Helena asked a question of Sea- 
 brook. 
 
 " Are you going to sing at our Red Cross Concert? " 
 
 " I shall be proud to if I am at Colchester. I go to the 
 North shortly." 
 
 " Concerning General Sir David Appleyard's garden, I 
 had a singular letter to-day," declared Mr. Ambrose. 
 " So far as I can understand him, he wants a military 
 garden." 
 
 His wife laughed, 
 
 " How ridiculous ! " she said. 
 
 " If he wants forts and redoubts and salients and all 
 that sort of thing, I shan't be able to help him, I fear." 
 
 " Your tact will not fail you," prophesied Parkyn. 
 " Humour him. If a man wants a garden suggestive of 
 military operations, no doubt such a garden can be 
 created." 
 
 " It's one's privilege and pleasure — and business to 
 catch a client's spirit and reflect it back to him if pos- 
 sible." 
 
 " I wish our mutual friend, Mistley, could hear you," 
 answered Mr. Ambrose. " Mistley is a genius, but, like 
 all geniuses, too eager to impose his ideals and too im- 
 patient of other people's ideas."
 
 82 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 They went in then, and at five minutes to the dinner 
 hour, Seabrook entered the drawing-room in very perfect 
 evening raiment. He brought down his music with him. 
 The room was empty, and he turned to a looking-glass 
 and gave his tie and his hair a touch with a light, quick 
 hand, as a woman does. 
 
 Then Parkyn Ambrose and his wife appeared, and a 
 few moments later the guests arrived. Mrs. ChafFe and 
 her daughter lived near, while Dr. Carbonell had accepted 
 the offer of the Odingtons and come with them in their 
 motor-car from Colchester. 
 
 " There is one great charm about the automobile : it 
 extends one's radius and enables us to enlarge the circle 
 of our friends," said Mr. Ambrose, after he had asked a 
 blessing. He took in Mrs. Odington, while to the lot of 
 Mr. Odington fell Helena. Dr. Carbonell sat at the left 
 hand of Mrs. ChafFe and Seabrook on the left of Miss 
 Chaffe. She was a good-natured creature, who laughed 
 at everything, and her moon face beamed out from a cloud 
 of towy hair, ill done. Mr. Odington — a little man with 
 a quick way of turning his head to the right and left, like 
 a stoat, had never room in his mind for more than one idea 
 at a time. He admitted this, and when Mrs. Ambrose dis- 
 covered that the idea for that evening was to be the horti- 
 cultural value of bacteria in peat, she wavered more and 
 more to her right-hand neighbour, the doctor. Then Mr. 
 Odington made a bacterial attack on Miss Chaffe, who sat 
 on his left, and such was her softness of heart that, once 
 entangled in the subject, she remained a listener, fright- 
 ened to escape back to Geoffrey Seabrook. He, for his 
 part, thus released, discussed music with Mrs. Odington, 
 who was understood to know something about it. But he 
 found that the subject rendered Mrs. Odington uneasy. 
 
 " Before I married," said Mrs. Odington, " I lived for 
 music, and sang in the choir at the Handel Festival on two 
 occasions." 
 
 " Do you still sing? " asked Geoffrey.
 
 THE DINNER-PARTY 83 
 
 *' Only to my husband." 
 
 *' How greedy of him." 
 
 " No, it is kind of him. INIy voice is not what it was 
 and could give other people no pleasure; but a woman's 
 voice is like her beauty in the ear of one who loves her 
 from the past." 
 
 " I'm sure you are far too young to be so sentimental," 
 said Mr. Seabrook, and the lady, whose age was fifty- 
 seven, approved of him. 
 
 At a moment when the young man was making a tactful, 
 but futile, effort to rescue Miss Chaffe from the bacteria, 
 Mrs. Odington, under her breath, praised him to Mr. 
 Ambrose. 
 
 " You are right ; he is a high-minded, worthy fellow — 
 quite a young man worth cultivating," said Parkyn. 
 
 The host was old-fashioned and practised old fashions. 
 He caught Mr. Odington's eye and took wine with him. 
 He breathed a spirit of amiable platitude. 
 
 The meal was neither elaborate nor lengthy. 
 
 As the ladies left the dining-room, Mrs. Ambrose said, 
 " Don't be long." 
 
 But Dr. Carbonell loved a good cigar, and though 
 Parkyn Ambrose was no smoker, he never criticised the 
 habit in others. The men assembled round Ambrose, and 
 the rose-grower asked his host his candid opinion concern- 
 ing bacterialised peat in the garden. 
 
 " My own feeling is to fight novelty," said Mr. Oding- 
 ton. " There is far too much novelt}^ in the world now- 
 adays, and people often accept a new thing just because it 
 is new." 
 
 " Not seldom at the expense of something that is better, 
 though older," declared Mr. Ambrose. " Yes, Odington, 
 I agree with you : this rush for novelty is not a good sign 
 of the times." 
 
 " In the past, truth had to fight for acceptance and a 
 new thing was always suspect," said Dr. Carbonell. " Our 
 fore-fathers were more conservative than we are, and
 
 84 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 looked into new truths very sharply — to see that they 
 didn't clash with old truths. A new truth had to fight 
 tooth and nail to get established." 
 
 " Yet what commonplaces some of the great funda- 
 mental facts are to-day," observed Seabrook, and the old 
 doctor quoted poetry. 
 
 " ' No truth is ere so simple but of old 
 
 It scarce could win men's credence, nor is aught 
 So great, so wondrous in its majesty 
 But by degrees we cease from wondering.' 
 
 That's Lucretius — the first and greatest poet of reason 
 — not read enough nowadays. De Quincey said he was 
 mad ; but De Quincey thought everybody mad — Shelley, 
 Goethe and all the rest — who had brains enough to de- 
 mand freedom of thought. That was his charity, poor 
 soul, to declare free thought only a poisonous flower stuck 
 in a madman's hair." 
 
 Mr. Ambrose looked uneasy at this challenge; but for 
 the sake of his other guests he felt called upon to take it 
 
 up. 
 
 " We Christians cannot feel satisfied of the sanity of 
 any man who rejects what seems to us so vital," he said. 
 " The Almighty makes our brains according to His own 
 will; but He never shuts the possibility of faith out of 
 them. To some it is easy, to some difficult, to all possible. 
 Faith, I mean. The bent of every brain is God's design. 
 God is a free agent, and nothing curbs His power to make 
 men as He likes and worlds as He likes — for His pur- 
 poses, of course, not ours." 
 
 " You mustn't say that," answered the veteran. " A 
 clergyman would condemn you. There was a pious soul 
 called Vanini, who declared that God desires to have the 
 world as it is, and that if He had wished it better. He 
 would have made it better. What would you have done 
 to such a man? " 
 
 Mr. Ambrose fell into the trap.
 
 THE DINNER-PARTY 85 
 
 " I should have said it was a very sensible position to 
 take. The world is getting better, and man, by the grace 
 of God, is working out his own salvation. No doubt 
 this Vanini believed in a good God and trusted the world 
 to Him." 
 
 " You're no Christian if you think that. What the 
 Church of Christ did was to tear Vanini's tongue out and 
 burn him alive for daring to suggest that the Almighty 
 was a free agent. You must be careful, Ambrose, or your 
 large-minded views will land you in unorthodoxy." 
 
 Seabrook ventured a tilt at the doctor. 
 
 " No doubt the principle of evolution comes into re- 
 ligion," he said, " and we Christians accept the Faith in a 
 larger spirit than early Christians used to do. We're 
 more tolerant, and allow more credit to people who think 
 differently." 
 
 *' You're more tolerant because you've got to be," an- 
 swered Carbonell. " Science and Reason have won such 
 a measure of recognition under improved education that 
 many of j^our positions have to be yielded : your front-line 
 trenches are gone. It is a sign of the times that 3'ou 
 claim for your faith the principle of evolution — the very 
 principle that your faith most vehemently denied, when 
 first it challenged the world." 
 
 " I deprecate these struggles between revealed religion 
 and Science," said Mr. Ambrose. 
 
 " They must continue, however," answered the other, 
 " because if the two sides do not find some golden mean, 
 intellectual peace cannot return to earth and we continue 
 a vicious system of party in ethics, as in politics. We 
 must have our metaphysicians, our Bradleys and our Bal- 
 fours, on the one side, and our physicists, our Haeckels 
 and Lankesters, on the other. There can be no lasting 
 peace yet." 
 
 " Would you banish the spiritual out of the world, Doc- 
 tor.'' " asked Seabrook. 
 
 " Emphatically, no. Though faith in supernatural
 
 86 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 things was burned away for me in the athanor of h!fe be- 
 fore you were born, young man, yet I never was without 
 faith and never shall be. I go further than many mate- 
 rialists, and say that there is a precious spiritual stand- 
 point in monism ; but it is far removed from everything 
 that we understand by ' revelation.' Rationalism will 
 grant human nature infinite possibilities of expansion and 
 improvement ; but she limits the power of individual expan- 
 sion to the life of the unit; she believes that death must 
 circumscribe it ; she declines to think force away from 
 matter, or thought away from brain; just as you, no 
 doubt, would decline to think the edge of a knife away 
 from the knife, or imagine wetness without moisture, or a 
 shadow without substance to cast it. That's where phys- 
 ics, the strong, has to be patient with metaphysics, the 
 weak." 
 
 " Tell me what you would do in this case, before we join 
 the ladies," said Parkyn. 
 
 " I am about to dismiss a man from my employment — 
 a very good man regarded as a son of the soil ; but a very 
 bad man regarded as a member of the community. A 
 leopard cannot change his spots, nor a son of the soil his 
 stains. This man has ruined a girl and he won't marry 
 her. Can I do less than dismiss him, as a good Christian, 
 or a good citizen? " 
 
 "As to the individual, you're the best judge. If he's 
 the right age, let him marry her and go to the war. He's 
 only a victim of our social failure, and so is the woman. 
 We fight Nature foolishly, and never see that man must 
 run in double harness with Nature, if he wants to go to his 
 own possible limit. But he won't break himself into that 
 double harness. We're always trying to cheat the tide, 
 we men. Instead of harnessing the hot blood in the veins 
 of youth and the will to live and enjo}' — the mightiest 
 dynamic force on the earth — we frustrate it and declare 
 it a danger and a sin. Yes, it is the ultimate, disgraceful 
 sin to obey Nature's loudest, most incessant cry to youth.
 
 THE DINNER-PARTY 87 
 
 Instead of striving to understand that cry, we pit our 
 voice against it and try to shut it down. We're develop- 
 ing society on lines that make it more and more impossible 
 for men to wed young. On the one side is the Church and 
 State shouting to us to increase and multiply, and breed 
 souls for God and bodies for cannon fodder ; on the other 
 side a natural dread of children, begot of the increasing 
 difficulties of life and the increasing disabilities under 
 which those labour with a quiver full. But more and more 
 decent people keep down their families for motives purely 
 altruistic, and consider the unborn with such real affection 
 that they do not bear them." 
 
 They talked on and Mr. Ambrose watched the doctor's 
 cigar ; when it was relinquished, he rose. 
 
 " Now let us join the ladies," he said. " Music will 
 soothe our minds after these grave problems." 
 
 In the drawing-room, Mrs. Ambrose was already at 
 the piano, at the wish of Mrs. Odington, who talked little 
 and was glad to escape the necessity to talk at all. 
 Helena played with a great deal of manner, but no distinc- 
 tion. She sang also, and had been carefully taught to do 
 all possible with a restricted voice. The older men stood 
 and listened, but Seabrook went forward to turn the pages. 
 They praised the song, which was of a light and joyous 
 character. 
 
 " It's something to be cheered up nowadays," said Mrs. 
 ChafFe. " My girl will sing mournful, heart-breaking 
 stuff, and I say, what's the good? " 
 
 " Not much certainly, as she sings," whispered Geoffrey 
 Seabrook to Helena, and she showed him by a flash, for his 
 eye only, that she appreciated the jest. 
 
 " I can still be happy," said Mrs. Ambrose, replying to 
 Mrs. Chaffe. " A few of us elderly people still cherish 
 the art of being happy ; though the young have quite lost 
 it, I fear." 
 
 It was a little trick of hers to be quite middle-aged one 
 day and an infant the next ; indeed, she could assume both
 
 88 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 roles in the same hour. Children, however, saw through 
 the affectation and it bored them ; neither were her elders 
 much impressed when she pretended weight of years. 
 
 " Some people never get middle-aged even," declared 
 Mr. Odington. 
 
 " We're as old as our temperaments," said Dr. Car- 
 bonell. 
 
 Nelly Chaffe now sang, and while Seabrook turned the 
 music, Mrs. Odington praised him to Mr. Ambrose. 
 
 " What a nice young man he is," she said. " A thor- 
 ough gentleman, and with very refined feelings." 
 
 " And a good Christian also, which is something to a 
 man's credit nowadays," answered Parkyn. " We had a 
 deep discussion when you ladies left us, and against the 
 opinions of Dr. Carbonell, who supports views of a very 
 doubtful character, Seabrook opposed his simple faith." 
 
 " You've made him, no doubt." 
 
 " I have been very glad to advance him, as I am very 
 glad to advance every hard-working and right-thinking 
 young man. Among his other virtues is gratitude." 
 
 Nelly Chaflfe sang in a thin, little voice that seemed 
 absurd contrasted with her ample person. All joy of life 
 and youth departed from her at the piano. From being 
 a jolly and giggling maiden, too distractingly addicted to 
 laughter, she grew anxious and downcast. Her song, in 
 a minor key, was of the most heart-broken description, 
 and so tiny and so liquid were her vocal gifts that the 
 general effect, heard at a little distance, was rather that 
 of a disordered soda-water syphon. 
 
 Mr, Ambrose, however, praised the effort. He had an 
 idea to marry Seabrook to Nelly Chaffe some day. It 
 struck him as a likel}' engagement for his protege. 
 
 " A sorrowful composition," he said, " but in keeping 
 with the times." 
 
 Mrs. Odington was praising Helena's white gown and 
 admiring technical triumphs. 
 
 " To learn to wear clothes one must go to Paris," said
 
 THE DINNER-PARTY 89 
 
 Mrs. Ambrose. " In England fashion is a duty : at Paris 
 it is a pleasure." 
 
 She quoted thus sometimes from books, which her hus- 
 band and her friends did not know, thus winning in her 
 circle an undeserved reputation for wit. Wit she had, 
 however: it appeared in her power of selection. 
 
 " The result is," continued Helena, as her own opinion, 
 " that in Paris new clothes are alive ; in England they are 
 merely new and the breath of life is not in them." 
 
 " You would make a sack alive, my dear lady," declared 
 the gallant Mr. Odington. 
 
 Then Seabrook performed, and the character of the 
 entertainment gained qualit3\ He controlled a light 
 tenor voice with art. The Cammaerts lyric was much 
 approved, but better still they liked " The Keys of 
 Heaven," to the original English setting. This he gave 
 by request of Mr. Ambrose, who declared it to be his 
 favourite musical number. Mrs. Ambrose pla3^ed his ac- 
 companiments. At ten o'clock the party broke up, and 
 at half-past ten Mr. Ambrose retired. 
 
 " Early hours have always been my golden rule," he 
 said ; " but I must not impose them upon you." 
 
 Geoffre}^, however, declared that early hours were his 
 rule also, though once in the seclusion of his chamber, his 
 acts belied his words. Very deliberately he went to bed 
 and blew out his candle. Then he produced an electric 
 reading-light and a book from his suit-case, placed the 
 light in position and read. A clock chimed midnight and 
 still he read on. The book was Flaubert's first Tempta- 
 tion of St. Anthony. At five minutes to two he shut the 
 work, extinguished the light and got out of bed. As the 
 clock chimed the hour, he opened his door stealthily and 
 went into the passage. He crept along it and presently 
 heard ponderous and steady snoring proceeding from a 
 distant chamber. 
 
 All was intensely dark. Then he heard a little sound 
 and a moment later a pair of arms were round his neck.
 
 90 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 For twenty seconds a man and a woman were locked and 
 trembling in calentures of joy. They rained silent kisses 
 upon one another. Then they fell apart. No whisper 
 passed between them ; the embrace of ghosts had not been 
 more soundless. Seabrook went back to his room, burn- 
 ing with delight. He returned to bed, heaved a contented 
 sigh and swiftly slept. The woman did the same.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 IN THE GARDENS 
 
 Peter Mistley never repeated himself, and though the 
 studio of " Colneside " was hung with the drawings of his 
 happiest achievements and designs for existing summer- 
 houses, pergolas, terraces, and bridges spanning streams, 
 or ornamental waters, to these he seldom referred a second 
 time for inspiration. Not two stairways did he set up 
 alike, or two pillars. Thus he escaped any persistent and 
 inviolate pattern, and none could say of his gardens, what 
 can be said of the creation of many famous gardeners in 
 the past, that such and such a garth was one of his. 
 
 Aveline came to see him at the studio soon after his 
 return from Devon, and he spoke about his work. At first 
 her excitement was immense; then before his enthusiasm 
 hers fainted a little. 
 
 " I love problems," he said, " as where river levels are 
 prone to rise and threaten a system of ponds, or how to 
 preserve things worthy of preservation, even though they 
 threaten the inspiration that has come to you ; and so on." 
 
 He showed her designs of a work he held a triumph, 
 where a small red-tiled house crowned three tiers of rock 
 and walled garden and found the apex of the pile with its 
 own roof-tree. Round about were green meadows and 
 woodlands. 
 
 " It looks like a butterfly on a flower : you expect to see 
 it fly away," declared Aveline. 
 
 Under the window, on the drawing-table, he was work- 
 ing at a great plan and shading in the flower-beds of a 
 rose garden round about a fountain. 
 
 91
 
 9a THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 " This is the new Devonshire thing," he said. " Let me 
 explain it to you." 
 
 He did so ; and then she looked through volumes of 
 sketches and photographs of Dutch gardens, Italian gar- 
 dens, Japanese gardens and old English gardens copied 
 from ancient prints. There were gates and alleys, leaden 
 and marble statues, cisterns and ancient seats, sundials 
 and fountain figures. Book after book he opened: the 
 block records, the drawing registers and a library of 
 colour prints. 
 
 To him these were, until recently, the most interesting 
 things in the world — the data and shorthand of his life's 
 work; but she grew bored after an hour of it and began 
 to feel — what most wives, sooner or later, feel : the frantic 
 desire to get away from their husbands' business, even 
 though it may be compact of beauty. Not art itself is 
 proof against the monotony of iteration. He saw the 
 cloud flit over her eyes and the unconscious hand steal up 
 to hide a yawn. 
 
 " What a self-centred brute I am," he said. " I'm 
 wearying you to death." 
 
 " It's unkind of you even to think so," she declared. 
 " I love your work. I only yawned because you're very 
 hot and stuffy in here." 
 
 " Come out, then." 
 
 " You've added beauty to every county in England, I 
 believe. I should dearly like to make a pilgrimage to your 
 gardens and worship in them." 
 
 "Would you.? How proud I should be to show you 
 some." 
 
 " The one in France would please me, if it's anything 
 like the drawings." 
 
 " It ought to be better, and full of fine, natural acci- 
 dents by this time." 
 
 " I expect Nature often touches things up after you're 
 gone." 
 
 He laughed.
 
 IN THE GARDEN 93 
 
 " If only Nature did, I shouldn't mind ; but I generally 
 know when I leave people, even while they're smiling and 
 thanking me ever so much, and saying it's all perfect, that 
 they're going to stab me in the back as soon as I've de- 
 parted." 
 
 " I don't believe people ever dream of any such thing. 
 And don't think I've nearly done looking at your pic- 
 tures." 
 
 " You ought to pay me in my own coin and make me 
 come and look at some of yours." 
 
 " I'm thinking of doing so," she said. " You may not 
 escape long." 
 
 " It would be a greater pleasure to me to come and see 
 some of your work than anything else in the world," he 
 answered very earnestly. 
 
 Before this assertion she was dumb for awhile; but she 
 thanked him with a look that made him giddy. They 
 walked out, past a row of packing sheds, and beside rows 
 of frames from which the glass hed been removed for 
 the summer months. A thousand species of alpine 
 plants sparkled prosperously here in twenty thousand 
 pots. 
 
 " How they must long to escape and get back to their 
 mountains," said Aveline. 
 
 " They're happy enough." 
 
 " How on earth do you know that? I understand them 
 a great deal better than you do. Because I'm built irregu- 
 larly: you're built four-square. When I was a child, I 
 always wanted something not immediately attainable ; and 
 when I grew up, I always wanted something not attainable 
 at all." 
 
 " I believe everybody, at some time or other, reaches 
 out for better bread than is made of wheat. The dullest 
 of us have one flight — get wings once — and rise above 
 the earth for a moment or two. Most of us come down 
 again pretty quickly — only the poets and artists can 
 stop in the air."
 
 94 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 " You mean everybody has one adventure? " 
 
 " I mean everybody wants one adventure. Many don't 
 see the chance when it comes and only recognise it after it 
 has gone. Many — most — find the adventure in mar- 
 riage. In fact, that's about the only adventure open to 
 the poor." 
 
 " To the poor-spirited, you mean. Poverty needn't 
 stop adventure. Look at Bill}^ Ambrose and Emma. Of 
 course, marriage might be the most exciting adventure 
 in the world," 
 
 " The ideal marriage oughtn't to be exciting, or dull 
 either ; but just satisfying and beautiful." 
 
 " Can you imagine such a marriage? " 
 
 " Yes," he said, " and so can you. We've both got 
 enough imagination for that." 
 
 " As for me," declared Aveline. " I'd sooner marry a 
 devil than a bore. Because you'd be living all the time 
 with the one ; but you die all the time with the other. It's 
 better to be happy than unhappy ; but it's far, far better 
 to be unhappy than dull." 
 
 " We make our own dulness," he said ; but she would 
 not have that. 
 
 " No we don't — unless we're donkeys. One's only 
 human; one can only fight up to a certain point; then 
 something gives way and the heart breaks, or " 
 
 " You fly or perish." 
 
 She did not answer, but changed colour and stared in 
 front of her. There were tears in her eyes. 
 
 " Why talk of devils or dullards ? " he asked. " There 
 are others." 
 
 " I know that very well. I hate alpines and irises any- 
 way. Show me something else." 
 
 He would have given much to speak then and there ; but 
 he was a man of methodical mind and seldom acted on the 
 spur of the moment. He had ideas about the future and a 
 sense of what was seemly and distinguished. Therefore 
 he did not throw over his predetermined plan. He tem-
 
 IN THE GARDEN 95 
 
 porised, however, and indicated to Aveline that a plan 
 existed. 
 
 " Some day I shall " he said, and that was all. 
 
 " Some day you will be dead ; and so shall I ; and what's 
 that absurd looking creature doing over there? " 
 
 She recovered quickl}^ and he rejoiced, because he rather 
 believed that his four Avords had been understood. He 
 debated for many hours upon this point after he had left 
 her, and came to the conclusion that he was mistaken, and 
 that she had gleaned nothing from his broken speech. He 
 went farther, indeed, and hated himself for speaking those 
 words. They really argued insolence on his part ; for 
 what in the name of heaven did it matter to her what he 
 might, or might not do some day? " 
 
 At the time, as Aveline pointed to a labourer, he had 
 replied. 
 
 " That's Richard Bare. He's only ridiculous till yoxi 
 understand he's got a screw loose. Then he's impressive. 
 Still, he's funny, too, and you can be amused at him and 
 be sorry for him both. Come and see him." 
 
 Richard was a bow-legged man, with buff-coloured 
 gaiters. He wore also corduroy breeches and a blue linen 
 shirt. His coat and waistcoat hung on the limb of an 
 apple tree close at hand. Upon his head was a boy's 
 cricket cap of red and orange segments — a cap too small 
 for him. His head was large, with moony eyes, a flabby 
 mouth and a little button nose. He stood in a broad 
 patch of seedling larkspurs and stripped the pods. Some 
 were ripe and others green. Not far off lay seed trays 
 spread over a path in the sun. Here were fruits of sweet 
 pea, flax and viola, and from the viola trays came a little 
 " crick," " crick," as the triangular capsules burst and 
 discharged their treasure. 
 
 " Richard," said Mistley, " come here." 
 
 The nondescript approached. 
 
 " D'j^ou know what's happening? " asked Mistley. 
 
 " Thank God I don't — and don't want to," answered
 
 96 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 Mr. Bare. *' The newspapers only make my indigestion 
 worse, so I've given 'em up. If I could go into my bed 
 and sleep like a toad for the next two year, I'd pray to let 
 it be done." 
 
 " I'm not talking about the war ; I'm talking about these 
 violas. You've got your trays all side by side and the 
 violas are popping, and half their seed is jumping into the 
 other trays, and then, when we sell our seeds to the buyers, 
 they'll get into trouble, and so shall we." 
 
 " True — all true," admitted Richard, separating the 
 trays. " Be damned if one doesn't learn something every 
 day; and if I had my health, I should be a clever man 
 before I die." 
 
 " I thought you were all right again." 
 
 " So did I ; and I ate a steak and kidney pudding with 
 the faith that moves mountains. And then I found doctor 
 was a liar. I was very near onsensed ^ by my pangs that 
 night." 
 
 He turned to Aveline. 
 
 " I'm a great sufferer in the feeding parts and also a 
 great eater. The result of that is, I've never had enough 
 till I've had too much." 
 
 " What bad luck," said Aveline. 
 
 " A square meal always punishes me," he continued ; 
 " but I won't be beat by my stomach. We English never 
 know when we're beat, thank God, so I shall conquer, or 
 go down to my grave a beaten man." 
 
 " A house divided against itself falleth, Richard." 
 
 " But the man that lets his belly frighten his brain is 
 not worthy of the name. Here am I, a thinking creature 
 with an immortal soul, and am I going to let the lower 
 organs dictate to me and say, ' You shall eat this and you 
 shan't eat that'? It's no better than slavery, as I told 
 doctor. I'll show who's master in my own house ! " 
 
 " He was a great dancer once," explained Peter to Ave- 
 
 1 Onsensed, rendered unconscious.
 
 IN THE GARDEN 97 
 
 line. " Nobody could dance like Richard. There's a 
 famous Essex dance called the ' Purleigh Hornpipe.' It's 
 danced to a tambourine and a melodion, and Richard was 
 renowned for it." 
 
 " Sometimes I think I'll dance again," said ]Mr. Bare ; 
 " though 'tis a punishing performance after the first hour 
 or so. I've danced three hours by the clock in my time, 
 and only stopped at the half-hours for beer. Yes, I've 
 had a whole taproom spellbound before to-day ; but the 
 joints ain't what they were and, for that matter, the com- 
 pany isn't what it was. You don't hear the tambourine 
 like you used to hear it, though a cheerful instrument and 
 calling for some skill. The young men are too proud to 
 learn it, I believe, so I dare say the art will be forgot and 
 the world the poorer. For that matter the ' Purleigh 
 Hornpipe' may be forgot, too, for, God's my judge, no- 
 body will ever have no heart to dance it again if we lose 
 the war." 
 
 They left him then, and Mistley said that he must go 
 back to his work. But he did not go. Aveline declared 
 interest in horticulture and they drifted over to a small 
 party of men digging. Mr. Bultitude superintended the 
 operation and Gregory Mushet stood among the workers. 
 The soil was in pleasant tilth and the tulips and other 
 bulbs came out of it clean and bright. 
 
 Mr. Bultitude showed pleasure, and drew Mistley's at- 
 tention. 
 
 " Look at these things," he said, " never have I lifted 
 finer. They're hazelling wonderful this year." 
 
 " What's ' hazelling,' Mr. Mushet.? " asked Aveline, and 
 Gregory explained. 
 
 " It means Nature's last polish and perfection put to 
 the ripened root." 
 
 " The amber, or russet, or silky overcoat of the bulb," 
 said Mistley. 
 
 Aveline picked up some plump scillas and caressed them 
 for delight of their pleasant surface. Then Peter Mistley
 
 98 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 went his way, and there came Margery through the gar- 
 dens with some news for her uncle. 
 
 Andrew Hempson had gone into the army and received 
 a commission. 
 
 Gregory expressed his satisfaction. 
 
 " It's right and proper and I'm glad to hear it," he 
 said ; " but it won't end there : his example will be followed 
 by a good few at ' Colneside,' who are holding back. But 
 now he's gone, they'll all be going. And what price the 
 gardens then ? " 
 
 " You'll have to get women," said Aveline ; but Gregory 
 shook his head. 
 
 " God forbid we should have a flock of broody hens 
 scratching here," he said. " The war has been brought 
 home to every mind fierce enough, without a bitter thing 
 like that happening." 
 
 " That's very old-fashioned, Mr. Mushet," declared 
 Aveline. 
 
 " So's gardening," answered Gregory. " 'Twas Adam 
 you'll find was the first gardener. He dressed the garden, 
 didn't he, not her? " 
 
 Then he went on with his tulip digging, and the women 
 departed together, 
 
 Margery was tearful now and Aveline sympathetic. 
 
 " It's splendid, if you ask me. If you were a French or 
 Italian girl you'd dress a shrine for him with flowers and 
 pray for him every day. Perhaps he'll speak before he 
 goes, Margery." 
 
 " No, he won't. He'll never speak." 
 
 " He's a taciturn man, but he feels a great deal. His 
 mother likes you ever so much." 
 
 " It'll never be, Aveline. And now, perhaps, he'll go to 
 the front and fall." 
 
 " We must hope for good fortune and fame. Talking 
 of French and Italian girls, there's a story I was told of 
 an old rose-grower at Lyons who was celebrated for his
 
 IN THE GARDEN 99 
 
 new roses, and there came a year when a maiden rose, 
 from which he hoped wonders, put out its first buds. On 
 the day they should have opened, the old rose-grower went 
 to see them and found that every one of them had been cut 
 off in the night, or at early dawn. The next year exactly 
 the same thing happened and, just before the moment of 
 perfection, the rosebuds vanished. But the third year a 
 watch was set over the rose, and a girl was caught about 
 to take the buds. She worked in the violet beds, and had 
 a lover at sea ; and this particular rose went yearly to a 
 little shrine that she kept decorated for her sailor. She'd 
 built up a sort of dream about the rose and her lover, and 
 fancied that he would be safe as long as the Virgin of the 
 shrine had these particular roses. The old rose-grower 
 forgave her, explained what she had done, and gave her a 
 bunch of other roses for her shrine. But she went away 
 doubtful and troubled ; and when she heard soon after- 
 wards that her man was drowned, she raved against the 
 old rose-grower and called him a murderer and other hard 
 names." 
 
 " I can easily understand mixing up a flower, or a star, 
 or a tree, or anything, with the welfare of some particular 
 person," said Margery. 
 
 " So can I. Or a scent, or a colour, or a sound. And 
 some such things, though they may be of no account in 
 themselves, we love for association's sake ; and other 
 things, though they may be beautiful every way, we never 
 stop hating, for the same reason. I hate the smell of ver- 
 bena and the sound of Gregorian music, or the sight of 
 alpine plants, more than any other scent, or sound, or 
 sight in the world — not their fault, but my misfortune." 
 
 " I know," admitted Margery. " If anybody Avas to 
 ask me my favourite flower in the world, I shouldn't tell 
 them ; but if you were to ask me, I should tell you it was 
 that poor, little, ugly poppy that Andrew brought back 
 after his fearful adventures and clung to despite all dan-
 
 100 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 gers. If it had been a lovely thing and a great success, 
 I dare say I'd never have thought of it again; but just 
 because it failed, and he'd hoped so much from it and 
 fought so bravely to keep it, now it's dear to me."
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 OF THE WEDDED AND MAKRIED 
 
 When Margery Mayhew learned that her friend meant 
 again to visit Brightlingsea, she wrote in secret to her re- 
 lations there. Thus, on arriving, Aveline found Teddy 
 Mushet waiting at the station to greet her. He brought 
 a message from his mother and an invitation to midday 
 dinner. 
 
 " However did you know I was coming? " she asked. 
 
 " Madge wrote me a postcard." 
 
 " How like her ! " 
 
 " Great at doing kind things," said Teddy ; and Aveline 
 accepted Mrs. Mushet's invitation and promised to arrive 
 soon after noon. Teddy was in khaki. He had joined 
 the engineers. 
 
 " For pontooning and such-like, fishermen come in 
 handy," he explained. 
 
 The artist, who had come to paint, spent her morning 
 to poor purpose, for any attempt to sketch was immedi- 
 ately suppressed. Brightlingsea was under military con- 
 trol to the foreshore, and she might not so much as make 
 a study of the mud banks, the Martello tower, or the dis- 
 tant horizon of Mersea. 
 
 Half annoyed and half amused, she abandoned her ef- 
 forts and went to see Mrs. INIushet. Samuel was also at 
 home, for the Peezcit had been dry-docked for overhauling 
 and repairs. 
 
 " We have the opening of the fishery next week," he said. 
 " It is a great occasion, and I like to have the Peercit 
 smart for it. Everything is of the best in our fisheries — 
 
 101 
 
 STATE COLLEGE L. 
 
 4 / .«— > »«
 
 102 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 the best ware and the best machinery for catching them 
 and putting them on the market." 
 
 " And the best men in Essex," said Aveline. 
 
 " A very good sort of man, I believe," admitted Mr. 
 Mushet. " And the best oysters in the Thames estuary 
 — the best in the world, for that matter ; for here we've 
 the London clay under us and the most perfect conditions 
 between South Foreland and Orford Ness. So, of course, 
 the Pyefleet oysters are better than any known to man." 
 
 They spoke of the war, and Mrs. Mushet told how" she 
 had trembled and nearly swooned to see her Teddy dressed 
 as a soldier. 
 
 " To think," she said, " that one man can doom count- 
 less better men than himself to don that filthy colour, and 
 stop the progress of the world, and turn the rising gen- 
 eration into a lot of bloodthirsty soldiers. For it creeps 
 into 'em like a devil when they get the khaki on. Their 
 brains are turned away from the things that were good to 
 them before. The most peace-loving get drawn in, and 
 begin to think like soldiers and take interest in all the 
 slaughter and the inventions for killing. I've marked it 
 again and again in young men who've tasted it, and seen 
 death, and been splashed with the blood of their friends. 
 They go out one thing and they come back another." 
 
 " It's a peculiar sort of a war," said Samuel Mushet, 
 " because we're not fighting for a difference of opinion, 
 but a difference of principle. What we want to set up 
 can only be set up in the ruin of Prussia's good ; and what 
 Germany wants to set up can only be set up in the ruin 
 of our good. Because Prussia's good is our evil. And 
 whether the rest of Germany will ever see that Prussia's 
 wrong and we are right is a question. But you can't get 
 any sort of progress without security, and because Prussia 
 threatens the security of the w'orld, it's got to go down." 
 
 " And meantime I'm not allowed to paint pictures in 
 Brightlingsea," summed up Aveline. " So I'm going for 
 a walk instead, to look at 3^our beautiful church."
 
 OF THE WEDDED AND MARRIED 103 
 
 She left them with many thanks for their hospitality, 
 dropped her luggage at the station and then wandered off 
 through the lanes to see the church ; but she never reached 
 it, for familiar objects confronted her half a mile from 
 the village. Upon a bank in full sunshine a man lay 
 asleep, and on guard over him sat a woman smoking a 
 pipe. 
 
 Emma remembered Aveline very well. 
 
 " Goodstruth ! if it isn't ! " she said. " I always told 
 William we should meet you again some time ; and here you 
 are, sure enough. Sit down along with us — there's a 
 pretty ! " 
 
 Aveline, to whom everything unconventional was food 
 and drink, took a seat beside Emma, while Miss Darcy 
 aroused her friend. 
 
 " Wake up, William, here's a visitor," she said — " that 
 young ' Grey Eyes.' " 
 
 Then she turned to Aveline. 
 
 " We always put our own names to people when we talk 
 of 'em. And Billy called you ' Grey Eyes.' " 
 
 "Is he better?" asked Aveline. "I heard about him 
 from your brother on the Peeziit." 
 
 " He's well," declared Emma, " or nilly well. He down't 
 get rid of his cough exactly, but he's eating more and 
 drinking less, ain't you, my bird? " 
 
 Emma's eyes brightened and she regarded him with de- 
 votion. 
 
 " Such a clever creature ! Could have been Lord 
 Mayor of Lunnon if he'd liked ; but God made him work- 
 shy, so all's said." 
 
 "How's the pictures going on?" asked Mr. Am- 
 brose. 
 
 " Nothing much doing," confessed Aveline. " It isn't 
 a time for pictures. But if Emma would only let me 
 paint her, I could do something really interesting." 
 
 " Paint William," said Emma. 
 
 " No, I want you and your turkey feather."
 
 104 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 " You mightn't think it, but she was a rare pretty 
 woman once," declared Billy, yawning. 
 
 " She's lovely now," said Aveline. " I can see her sit- 
 ting with a great mass of torch lilies towering up behind 
 her in your brother's garden. It would be a huge suc- 
 cess." 
 
 " She's too good for Colchester," declared Billy irrele- 
 vantly ; " that woman has got the heart of a queen, and 
 where the hell I should be without her, I don't know." 
 
 " Yes, you do, my sweetness : you'd be in your grave," 
 said Emma ; " and the day you go there, I shall be ready 
 to drop in after you." 
 
 " That's the feeling a man ought to put into his 
 woman," declared Billy. " Did you ever feel so fine about 
 a man, ' Grey Eyes ' ? " 
 
 " No," said Aveline, " I never did." 
 
 " Ah ; then you'll marry again," he said. " I hope you 
 may get the chance to rise to it ; but of course it isn't in 
 every man to lift a woman to such a height as that. You 
 want first a man of rare parts — such as I am ; and you 
 want second a woman big enough to value him and see his 
 greatness — such as Emma is." 
 
 " Why don't you marry Emma.'' " asked Aveline. 
 
 " Tom Darcy asked me that question a bit ago," an- 
 swered William, " and what I answered him, I won't 
 answer you, because I know how to speak to a lady as well 
 as any one. But I'd have given you credit for more sense 
 than to ask a damn silly question like that. You only 
 asked for the sake of something to say. But when you 
 come to Emma and me, you come to people who move 
 as far above all the little rubbishy arrangements of the 
 community as the moon moves above Piccadilly Circus in 
 London. We couldn't be more married than we are. 
 And what do you know about marriage, anyway — a kid 
 like you, that must have been wife and widow inside a few 
 years .f* Mating begins when 3'ou join the man; but mar- 
 riage — that starts afterwards. It's not till you look
 
 OF THE WEDDED AND MARRIED 105 
 
 back and the gilt's off the gingerbread that you begin to 
 know what marriage means. It's like walking into a man- 
 trap with your eyes open." 
 
 " I suppose it often is," admitted Aveline ; " but you 
 never know till you try ; and then it's too late." 
 
 " I've seen a lot of marriage, and come to the conclusion 
 it's a human contrivance that's very nearly played out," 
 said William. " At best it's a safeguard and a makeshift 
 dodge to keep human nature on a path that only a couple 
 here and there are fitted to walk in comfort and decency 
 — like me and Emma, for example. Young mated folks 
 are generally happy enough, before marriage sets in ; and 
 old married couples are resigned, though it generally 
 breaks one or t'other, if not both, to weather life under 
 the same roof ; but the wrench comes, either when the natu- 
 ral state of mating begins to turn into the unnatural state 
 of marriage, or when a man's in the ' roaring forties,' as 
 I call them, and his spirit says, * Now or never.' If they 
 get as far as that in peace and comfort, it's the man who 
 makes the trouble, because, by that time, the woman's 
 thrown up the sponge and her instinct is to let well alone. 
 So you generally get the static spirit of the female up 
 against the dynamic instinct of the male — an irresistible 
 force striking an immovable object according to the 
 paradox." 
 
 " Women aren't always static," said Aveline. 
 
 " They're not, and that's the first division of the un- 
 happy marriages. They break away earlier, if they've 
 got the pluck and sense to do it, when they feel the bonds 
 getting too tight." 
 
 The listener nodded. 
 
 " You know something about it," she said. 
 
 " He knows everything about it," declared Emma. 
 " The looker-on with brains like William knows all there 
 is to anything." 
 
 " A married man who falls in love after he's forty-five 
 is as desperate as a murderer," went on Billy. " He may
 
 106 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 have a pattern wife and a happy home and be quite con- 
 tent with both ; but if the something else he's found out- 
 side can only be got by shattering that home and that 
 wife, he'll shatter 'era — if he's that sort of man. Many, 
 of course, would balance the new woman against the old, 
 and argue it, and decide the game wasn't worth the candle. 
 But that's a factor none can figure out — not even the 
 man himself, till the storm bursts and he's in it, with love 
 calling and standing, like the last rose of summer, between 
 him and middle age. His time's getting short, and his 
 eyes growing dim and his hair grey. And a man in that 
 fix will be very like to weigh all he's done and built and 
 achieved as dust against that sunset promise of a bit more 
 love before the light of passion's out for ever." 
 
 " It's all according as he's been trained and broke in 
 in his youth, and if he's religious, I reckon," said Emma. 
 
 *' It's according to his blood, not his schooling. Many 
 a man who would willingly die for his country won't kill 
 his love — no, not for his own home. Many conquer 
 temptation, if they're built to conquer 'em ; many don't, 
 and wouldn't if they could. It's not a question of right 
 or wrong, but of life or death with such, and it's going 
 to take a bigger thing than wife or children to keep those 
 men from what they want with every fibre of their heart 
 and soul. And most males are built that way, mind you. 
 It's poverty crushes it out of most of them, not morals. 
 But now the instinct is having a lot more to say than when 
 I was a young man, and the Victorian age is past ; and 
 once let women begin to feel the same, thanks to their bet- 
 ter education, then you'll have more happy matings and 
 fewer unhappy marriages. That's what I see coming." 
 
 " The children ? " asked Aveline. " No doubt a man 
 can sometimes make the best of both worlds, if he's rich 
 enough, and recuperate in the cool cloisters of home after- 
 wards, without denying himself the nectar and ambrosia 
 waiting to welcome him outside it ; but what about his 
 children.'' "
 
 OF THE WEDDED AND MARRIED 107 
 
 " Merely a matter of proper law-making," said Billy. 
 "We're frightened away from the subject by that sheet 
 and turnip we call the Church, and that cynical creature 
 we call the State, who holds up the sheet and turnip. But 
 the moment we tackle the problem in a rational spirit, 
 you'll see how much real value there is in the objections. 
 They'll come in your time, and women will be quite as 
 ready to welcome them as men. Freedom's the cry, and 
 if we are not to be free in the vital business of our own 
 lives and our own mates, and in the sacred business of 
 human love, then where does freedom come in? " 
 
 Aveline agreed to this. Her face flushed with excite- 
 ment. 
 
 " People are getting braver," she said. 
 
 " Corpses handcuffed together — that's what fully half 
 of the married are," declared Billy. " Everything that 
 was worth anything in the creatures has been killed, and 
 they just go on revolving round each other like two dead 
 stars — heart dead, soul dead, even pluck to pray for re- 
 lease dead. And now I've told you a bit about it, don't 
 you ask me and Emma why we ain't married. And don't 
 think being wedded and being married are the same thing, 
 because they are not once in a blue moon." 
 
 " Do you understand him, Emma? " asked Aveline. 
 
 " Good Lord, no ! " she answered. " He talks over my 
 head most times, drunk or sober ; but I only know that 
 when we're dead, my dust will want to blow to his, and find 
 no rest in air or water till it have." 
 
 " We all know that sort of home, where everything goes 
 on a pretence ; and we know what happens sometimes of a 
 night when the pair are in bed and the light out. The 
 only way is the brave way — to cut a loss and get clean 
 and keep your vitality," summed up Billy. 
 
 Aveline was in the situation of one who hears his own 
 sentiments echoed forcibly by another and mentally re- 
 joices to find that another shares them. By sharing it, 
 the mouthpiece is exalted to a pinnacle of wisdom, and the
 
 108 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 listener does not stay to consider the value of the new 
 voice, or whether it be worthy or worthless in itself. He 
 applauds because the other repeats his own conviction and 
 thereby doubles its importance. 
 
 " It must be a glorious thing," she said, " to find that 
 other one." 
 
 " Oh! Then you didn't .'' " asked Emma. 
 
 " No, I didn't." 
 
 " Better luck next time then. There's a lot has seen 
 you must have fallen in love with you, I'm sure." 
 
 " I'm not in love with marriage after hearing your 
 Billy," said Aveline. " There's a great deal of silly senti- 
 ment about it." 
 
 " There's people silly sentimental about everything," 
 answered Emma. " You can't shake sense into some folk. 
 When my father ran away from mother and went foreign 
 and never came home again, she cry her eyen out for 
 months and said — what d'you think.? 'The empty 
 chair's so sad ! ' And I kept on saying, ' The empty pock- 
 et's sadder.' But I durseri speak harsh things of my 
 father afore her, for she'd have flown at me if I had." 
 
 " I never quite met her like," declared William. " You 
 couldn't move her more than a rock, and she'd hear no 
 word against her husband, and laugh at naked facts. For 
 my part, I always think it weak-minded to treat God 
 A'mighty in that spaniel fashion, and lick the boot that 
 kicks you; but there's lots will do it and properly rejoice 
 to feel somebody else is dusting the floor with them. 
 That's the pride of the humble: to feel the foot of the 
 strong on their necks, and to suff^er and suffer, and lick 
 their lips at their own torture, and give the strong their 
 blood to drink if they like. The world's full of them sheep 
 people. Come on, Emma. It's time we trailed home. I 
 want some tea." 
 
 " Come along wi' us and have a bite at my brother's," 
 suggested Emma ; but Aveline declined. 
 
 " I must catch my train," she said. " I meant to go
 
 OF THE WEDDED AND MARRIED 109 
 
 and see the church ; but I've heard a sermon instead, from 
 your William." 
 
 " He'd larn anybody but himself," declared Emma. 
 " If he was half so clever as his cleverness, I should have 
 a silk gown home in a box." 
 
 Peter Mistley filled Aveiine's thoughts on her return 
 journey and she wondered how far he would have agreed 
 with William. Upon the whole she believed that Mistley 
 would not have echoed the tramp's sentiments ; yet she 
 could not feel sure of that. 
 
 " He knows nothing about it," reflected Aveline ; 
 " whereas William and I have so much more experience of 
 life than Peter."
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 HELENA AND AVELINE 
 
 Me. Ambrose was talking to his wife. 
 
 " We open the Fisheries, with our usual ancient cere- 
 monial, shortly," he said ; " and, as Mayor for the year, 
 I am the central figure. It is a quaint and venerable 
 custom." 
 
 " I wish I could come. It's sure to be charming, and 
 you'll do it so well and make it all so distinguished," de- 
 clared Helena. 
 
 " One likes to lend one's weight to these observances of 
 old time. Anything dignified always attracts me." 
 
 " You're so dignified yourself," she said. 
 
 " I wish you could come ; but the rite belongs to a day 
 before the sex took any part in public affairs. However, 
 I have it in my mind to ask a guest, perhaps two. It has 
 occurred to me sometimes that it might be well if some of 
 us at ' Colneside ' better understood the diversity and — 
 and importance of my various activities." 
 
 " Surely everybody knows ? " 
 
 " They know ; but don't realise. To be a mayor, if 
 you've not been a mayor yourself, conveys only a vague 
 idea to the mind. Peter Mistley, for example, knows I am 
 Mayor of Colchester. But he has never seen me in the 
 mayoral chair, or at full tide of business, with my officers 
 about me." 
 
 " You want to impress him? " 
 
 " I think perhaps if he had a glimpse of me outside 
 ' Colneside ' " 
 
 " Isn't he civil? Doesn't he show the same tact and 
 proper feeling as Mr. Seabrook shows ? " 
 
 110
 
 HELENA AND AVELINE 111 
 
 " When you say ' Seabrook,' you just mark the differ- 
 ence." 
 
 " So you're going to reward Mr. Mistley for being a 
 little too independent? No, that's not my meaning 
 eithei'," Helena corrected herself, for she seldom let her 
 wit outrun her wisdom with Parkyn. " It's a good idea, 
 my love. He'll see that ' Colneside ' and the making of 
 plans isn't everything." 
 
 " I'm glad 3^ou think so. But you must not entirely 
 subtract the wish on my part to give him pleasure." 
 
 " Shall you ask Mr. Seabrook too.'' Do. It will be a 
 little reward for all his kindness." 
 
 " Not a reward, Helena. The reward — to put it so 
 — consists in the fact that Seabrook knows he is persona 
 grata here." 
 
 " Then it's just pure kindness on your part, dear one. 
 When he was here last, Mr. Seabrook interested me im- 
 mensely. He believes that Mr. Mistley is attracted by 
 that pretty girl who has come to Colchester — the painter, 
 who did that drawing of the pond." 
 
 Mr. Ambrose lifted his eyes to Aveline's picture, which 
 had been purchased by Helena. 
 
 " I fear the young woman will not excel in the pictorial 
 art. If she is allowing herself to think of Mr. Mistley, 
 that would argue a certain callousness of disposition, so 
 soon after the death of her husband." 
 
 " She's not that sort at all. She's a most womanly 
 woman. There's nothing in it on her side, for certain. 
 As to her art, it is quite good, really, Parkyn. You're 
 rather old-fashioned, j^ou know, about pictures." 
 
 " I expect I am," he admitted. " But I suppose all 
 agree that art is the nearest approach to Nature we can 
 attain by our humble efforts." 
 
 " Oh, no, they don't, my darling," answered Helena. 
 " But I'd never convince j^ou. You're a dear, old mid- 
 Victorian, and I wouldn't have you different for the 
 world ! "
 
 112 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 He smiled indulgently. 
 
 " I must see the lady some day for myself." 
 
 " I'm not sure if Mr. Mistley is good enough for her." 
 
 " Very few men are good enough for a good woman," 
 declared Mr. Ambrose ponderously. " However, I will in- 
 vite both the draughtsmen to the Fishery opening." 
 
 He did so, and Mistley and Seabrook each received a 
 letter from the master of " Colneside." 
 
 Seabrook accepted by return with becoming gratitude ; 
 the elder waited for a post, and showed his letter to Ave- 
 line. He had asked her and Margery Mayhew to drink 
 tea at his rooms, and Aveline appreciated the evidence of 
 intimacy when Mistley handed to her the letter of invita- 
 tion. They were growing very friendly now, and knew 
 well enough they desired one another. In the man's case 
 his emotion had run on to the stage of exaggeration, and 
 he already created amazing pictures of Aveline's mind and 
 soul. He magnified with the presbyopia of love ; while she 
 had not reached that height, but was on the way thereto. 
 
 " You'll go," she said ; " and then you'll see that what 
 I told you about the saltings was true. And I've had a 
 letter, too — from Mrs. Ambrose. I'm tremendously ex- 
 cited, for she's going to get me a pupil." 
 
 " You've been telling Mrs. Hempson you'll have to leave 
 her," said Margery ; " but it's no good thinking you're 
 going to, for she won't let you go." 
 
 " I love her," declared Aveline, " and I should hate to 
 leave her : she's been very kind to me ; but I shan't be able 
 to run to two rooms much longer." 
 
 Mistley fell silent while she joked about the need for 
 leaving Mrs. Hempson. He was moved to hear this fact ; 
 but her reduced means seemed to bring her nearer. Peter 
 had already suspected the situation. 
 
 " Don't charge this possible pupil too little," he said. 
 " They'll think nothing of you if you only ask a very small 
 fee. Pitch it pretty high to start with anyhow; then if
 
 HELENA AND AVELINE 113 
 
 they grumble, or Mrs. Ambrose thinks you ought to ask 
 less, you can come down gracefully." 
 
 She promised to obey, and after Aveline and Margery 
 left him and returned homeward on foot to Mile End, the 
 latter spoke of Mistley with admiration. She was genu- 
 ine in her praise, yet allowed it to be a little tinctured 
 with the knowledge that Mistley and Aveline evidently 
 came closer and closer together. Margery, quickened by 
 personal experience of the tender emotions, perceived 
 what the man and woman were each to the other, and she 
 had tried more than once to win a confession on the sub- 
 ject from Aveline and failed. 
 
 Everybody, however, seemed in league to talk to Aveline 
 of Mistley, and if Margery and Mrs. Hempson and an- 
 other here and there did so of set purpose, others only fell 
 accidentally on Mistley's name. Of such — so at least 
 the visitor at first supposed — was Mrs. Ambrose ; but in 
 truth, as appeared, Helena did not speak in ignorance 
 when Aveline accepted an invitation and came to tea at 
 the Manor House of Mersea. 
 
 The day was bright, and she took the public motor and 
 enjoyed the drive and the view. Then came Miss Chaffe, 
 all smiles and laughter and goodwill. She did not know 
 anything about drawing, it seemed ; but dear Helena 
 wanted her to learn ; and no doubt Mrs. Brown would soon 
 teach her. She spoke as though the art of drawing must 
 be on a par with the craft of knitting socks, and Aveline's 
 heart failed ; but Helena foretold that Nelly Chaffe would 
 soon develop talent, " because music and painting always 
 go together," and she decided the fees without asking Ave- 
 line, and fixed them at twice the rate the teacher intended 
 to suggest. 
 
 " That's too much for a beginner," declared the artist. 
 
 " Not at all. The beginner is always most difficult to 
 teach ; and though Nelly won't be difficult, still a beginner 
 is a beginner. I'm sure she's got a sense of colour.
 
 114 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 That's the great thing. You're such a colourist yourself 
 that you'll soon make her feel it." 
 
 It was quite clear that Aveline had been taken under 
 Helena's wing. She was to be patronised and brought 
 into notice. She was " sweet," and a " genius," and pos- 
 sessed all the virtues. Aveline found the atmosphere of 
 admiration pleasant enough. She liked Helena with a sub- 
 stratum of doubt. Her intuition read Mrs. Ambrose up 
 to a point ; indeed she found something of herself reflected 
 in the other woman. But she knew enough to know that 
 she did not know all about Mrs. Ambrose, and, after two 
 or three meetings, began to believe there might be more 
 in her patroness than appeared. But was Helena likely 
 to do anything that would meet with her disapproval.'* 
 That question Aveline asked herself and answered defi- 
 nitely — out of her knowledge of herself rather than her 
 knowledge of the other. Yet her knowledge of herself was 
 faulty and built on very shadowy foundations. Looking 
 back she felt no remorse, and life, as it unfolded, seemed 
 more and more to condone her own past actions ; but yet 
 the underlying, inherited respect of tradition belonged to 
 her. She was like many people, who, while they pardon 
 their own conduct, often (to their own surprise) lament 
 similar courses of action in others. 
 
 Finally Aveline explained this anomaly to her own satis- 
 faction. It was undoubtedly the opinion of Peter Mistley 
 that awoke in her the doubt, and reserved judgment before 
 Helena's friendship. For Peter did not like Mrs. Am- 
 brose, and Aveline suspected that his distrust had served 
 to cloud her own view. Yet even so she blamed herself, 
 for what could be advanced against the lady? The ele- 
 ment of patronage did not disturb Aveline. Yet she could 
 comprehend Mistley's pride and his disdain of Seabrook, 
 who also appeared to enjoy Helena's goodwill and sup- 
 port. She supposed that what might be reasonable in a 
 woman ought to be impossible for a man. She did not 
 mind being patronised herself, but would have resented the
 
 HELENA AND AVELINE 115 
 
 spectacle of anybody patronising Mistley. So she held 
 judgment in abeyance, and was meantime very glad to ac- 
 cept friendship of so practical a nature as Mrs. Ambrose 
 offered. In any case the matter was unimportant to Ave- 
 line now, for with growing love, all other things grew 
 dwarfed. Even her vanishing means troubled her but lit- 
 tle: a far more mighty complication threatened, and her 
 immediate future was beset with difficulties. A strenuous 
 and ordered mind had fainted under them; but her in- 
 herent volatility promised to bring her through. The 
 storm that throws the oak will leave the willow unharmed. 
 
 Mrs. Ambrose talked of men when the subject of pic- 
 tures had been exhausted. 
 
 " What an example they set us of courage and bravery ! 
 When people praise me for my humble Red Cross efforts, 
 I scarcely have patience to reply. The manhood of Eng- 
 land has been magnificent. The way we have risen to this 
 dreadful test ! I wonder if other women are as proud as 
 I am, or if they lack the imagination to see the immensity 
 of it all. I think every British woman ought to feel her- 
 self a Britannia. I'm sure I do." 
 
 Aveline was conscious that Mrs. Ambrose tried to look 
 like Britannia and, indeed, succeeded fairly well. 
 
 " A time is coming," continued the lady, " when more 
 and more will fall upon us, as more and more of our men 
 are wanted. For instance artists, such as Mr. Peter Mist- 
 ley, at ' Colneside,' may be called." 
 
 " Artists wouldn't hesitate for a minute, you may be 
 certain," said Aveline. 
 
 " But what could they do ? Can you turn an artist into 
 a soldier? " asked Miss Chaffe. 
 
 " You can," declared Helena; " an artist, just because 
 he is an artist, may rise to anything. Look at the versa- 
 tile geniuses of the Renaissance. It is the wonderful thing 
 about the creative instinct that you can pour it into any 
 channel, and immediately flowers spring up on the banks 
 of that channel. Turn an artist into a soldier and vou
 
 116 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 will get a super-soldier ; and if artists condescended to go 
 into politics, then you get an order of politicians whose 
 ideas would create a new world, and not leave beauty out 
 of human and national relations. I am sure Mr. Mistley 
 would make a fine soldier, and I dare say Mr. Seabrook 
 might, too." 
 
 " He's such a gentle little man," said Aveline. 
 
 "Gentle, yes; little, no. At least I should judge him 
 to be rather above the middle height." 
 
 " He always seems little to me," said innocent Aveline. 
 
 " You'll find that perfectly proportioned men never sug- 
 gest height, any more than perfectly proportioned towers, 
 or mountains. If a man is too thin, or too stout, he looks 
 too tall or too short as the case may be ; so does a moun- 
 tain. Size is nothing; proportion is everything. But if 
 I had my way I should despatch Mr. Seabrook to France 
 
 — not to fight, but to sing at the base. They call it * the 
 base,' don't they? His wonderful voice would uplift all 
 who heard it, and send the fighters back to the trenches 
 ready for deeds of heroism. To send him to the trenches 
 would be to waste a tonic, a fountain of melody far more 
 precious than his individual effort in arms. Now in the 
 case of Mr. Mistley, how would that apply ? " 
 
 She turned to Aveline, desiring to learn her opinion of 
 Peter and not wishing further criticism of the other 
 draughtsman. 
 
 " I don't know," said Aveline. " He said to me, when 
 he was talking about it, that if the need presently arose, 
 he should go." 
 
 " It is the simple sense of duty that is so fine and im- 
 pressive," pattered on Helena. " I love men for that — 
 all men. I believe they've got a higher sense of duty than 
 we have. They're simpler-minded than we are. That's 
 why they dominate us. We have much more power, really, 
 if we could mobilise it — I said that about the suffragettes 
 
 — but we are so complex and so prone to let the heart 
 master the head, that we never really give our brains a
 
 HELENA AND AVELINE 117 
 
 chance ; and the result is — however, that will all be al- 
 tered after the war. The women have mobilised over the 
 war magnificently, and they will keep so afterwards. I 
 have mobilised ; you have mobilised ; we all have mobilised." 
 
 " I haven't," said Aveline. " And I feel ashamed about 
 it. I'm doing nothing." 
 
 " But Mr. Mistley ? He seems to me a splendid fellow, 
 and more than an artist — a fine man." 
 
 " To be an artist is to be a fine man," said Aveline. 
 " At least to me." 
 
 " Not always. But, of course, the great artists are 
 generally great men too — great soldiers, even. Michael- 
 angelo and Phidias, and so on. Does he ever speak about 
 world subjects, or only gardening art.f* " 
 
 " He finds everything interesting." 
 
 " That's what I say about men : they're so large-minded. 
 But you must have defects with qualities. The worst of 
 large-minded men is that often they're large-minded just 
 where their wives don't want them to be. You can't have 
 wisdom and charm and universal knowledge and so on, 
 without the material from which it springs. In sex mat- 
 ters, for instance — you needn't listen to us, Nelly — 
 there is one thing that a man loves better than his wife, or 
 even his mistress in the long run, and that is variety. The 
 really large-minded man must and will have variety for the 
 health of his soul. We don't understand that." 
 
 " Yes, we do," declared Aveline ; " because some of us 
 are the same." 
 
 This assertion interested Mrs. Ambrose very much. 
 
 " Fancy a chit of a child like you saying so ! " she ex- 
 claimed. " What the rising generation is coming to ! 
 But I hope you're wrong. I believe very few of us want 
 variety, if we are married to the man we really love." 
 
 " That's just it," said Aveline, with memories of Billy 
 and Emma, " very few of us are married to the man we 
 really love." 
 
 " I wonder.'' It's rather sad to hear a girl speak so.
 
 118 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 But perhaps we, who are perfectly and supremely happy, 
 can hardly judge; and so we make the mistake of suppos- 
 ing that all the others are as happy as we are. Still, 
 there's no doubt so many novels wouldn't be written about 
 unhappy marriages if they did not happen. What does 
 Stevenson say? That marriage is only ' a friendship 
 recognised by the police.' It all comes back to my view. 
 Variety is the salt of the male existence — I don't mean, 
 of course, only where we are concerned. We're merely a 
 part of their lives, and not the most important part." 
 
 " We shouldn't think any the better of them if we were," 
 declared Aveline. 
 
 " A man always steals the first kiss, and a woman always 
 begs the last — it's all summed up in that ; the attitude of 
 the sexes, my dear. Not original, however. I should 
 never have made the observation myself — much too old- 
 fashioned and much too happy." 
 
 Mr. Ambrose returned home and entered the drawing- 
 room for a cup of tea. Then the subject was dropped, 
 and the manner of Helena changed. She made much of 
 her husband, and ordered fresh tea to be brought. 
 
 " I never expected you, or we should have waited," she 
 said. 
 
 " Our meeting was postponed owing to the failure of 
 certain people to answer municipal letters," he explained. 
 " It is quite extraordinary how unbusinesslike business men 
 can be. I judge nobody ; but the meeting was postponed." 
 
 Mr. Ambrose discussed painting with Aveline, and was 
 both courteous and kind. 
 
 " It's not for me to advise a professional," he said ; " but 
 I feel, with all humility, that you must consider things as 
 they really appear a little more in your works of art. 
 That would enable us to understand them better. I speak 
 as a plain man, and represent the majority of cultured 
 people, who are not ignorant of what a picture should be ; 
 because we all have some knowledge of the greatest exam- 
 ples in the world. I refer, of course, to the Old Masters."
 
 HELENA AND AVELINE 119 
 
 *' But, my darling, the Old Masters are so old," argued 
 Mrs. Ambrose. " Art cannot stand still for the Old Mas- 
 ters. It must go on — upward, ever upward." 
 
 " If it can surpass Titian and Raphael, I, for one, shall 
 be the first to bend the knee." 
 
 " Just because it can't surpass them, it wants to find 
 new channels and be different," explained Aveline. " It 
 wants to say new things in a new language that's never 
 been used by art before." 
 
 " If a thing has been supremely well said, only vanity, 
 or ignorance, would seek to say it again," declared Parkyn 
 in his magistral manner. 
 
 " We don't want to say it again, Mr. Ambrose. We 
 want to say something new." 
 
 " But is what you want to say worth saying .'* " he asked. 
 
 " We hope to show it is." 
 
 Later in the evening Mr. Ambrose, with characteristic 
 courtesy, accompanied Aveline to the motor omnibus which 
 would convey her back to Colchester. His wife walked 
 with them, and the visitor took a grateful farewell and 
 departed. 
 
 " She's going to give Nelly some lessons in drawing. 
 Isn't she a dear? " asked Helena, as she and her husband 
 turned homeward. 
 
 " She has the bloom and the charm of youth, and con- 
 ceals her sufferings almost too completely," said the mas- 
 ter of " Colneside." 
 
 " What sufferings ? " 
 
 " Is she not a newly-made widow ? " 
 
 *' Yes ; one doesn't realise that, I admit." 
 
 " Again, I had rather hoped from her modesty of man- 
 ner and nice deference to j^ou and me, that she was one of 
 the older-fashioned type. I had hoped to see her travel 
 back to Colchester inside the omnibus ; but you see she 
 went on the top." 
 
 " For the sake of the air and the view. That's nothing, 
 my dear." 
 
 " I suppose not," said Mr. Ambrose ; " I suppose not."
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 OPENING THE FISHERY 
 
 England still remembers many an ancient rite, and pre- 
 serves her old-time ceremonials with jealous care. Indeed, 
 most towns of respectable antiquity possess their proper 
 observances from the past, and hold good citizens who are 
 zealous to support them. Such men preserve their local 
 traditions, and look to it that ancient practice shall not 
 perish. 
 
 The opening of the Colne Oyster Fishery was such a 
 survival. The event is of autumn, and on a day ap- 
 pointed, Mr. Parkyn Ambrose, with the chief officers of 
 Colchester, proceeded to the estuary, there to enact an 
 ordinance from mediaeval time. 
 
 The Mayor and his Councillors, together with the mem- 
 bers of the Fishery Board and such guests as were bidden, 
 set out from Colchester soon after nine o'clock. With 
 them went the Town Sergeant, who carried the mace in a 
 red baize bag; and under his charge also was a tin box 
 containing the robes of the Mayor and the wig and gown 
 of the Town Clerk. 
 
 Some fifty Burghers supported the head of the Borough. 
 Peter Mistley and Geoffrey Seabrook knew several among 
 the throng, and travelled with acquaintance. The Mayor 
 had greeted them and other visitors on the railway plat- 
 form. 
 
 The Chairman of the Fishery also joined the company. 
 He was an old man, but entered upon the labours of the 
 day with the enthusiasm of youth. 
 
 " What he does not know about oysters is not worth 
 knowing," said the Fisheries Manager, behind the Chair- 
 
 120
 
 OPENING THE FISHERY 121 
 
 man's back. Indeed, it was the truth. The veteran held 
 the history of Colchester and its industries at his finger- 
 tips. 
 
 " In Rome to-day," he said to the Town Clerk, with 
 whom he travelled, " men still dig up Colne oyster shells 
 from the strata of the Second Century. The Romans 
 knew a good thing when they found it." 
 
 But the Town Clerk, who had not before plaj^ed his part 
 in the coming ceremony, was more interested in the Fishery 
 and its grants and liberties. 
 
 " Richard the First confirmed our Charter," explained 
 the Chairman, " and the preamble asserts, that even at his 
 date, our rights belonged to time immemorial, so 3'ou'll 
 guess they are not of yesterday. Believe me, Boadicea 
 ate a plate of ' natives ' after she had turned the Romans 
 out of Camalodunum, as Colchester was called in her time, 
 and Blackwater ran red with their blood." 
 
 By wooded Wyvenhoe, the train proceeded over the 
 levels beside Colne until it ran out presently into the region 
 of the saltings, where mud and water shone brilliantly 
 under a cloudless sun. The estuary swiftly opened ; tufts 
 of feathery tamarisk w^aved on the low shores and the sea 
 lavender lighted the flats with its purple, where they 
 stretched out their fingers into the tidal ways. A blue 
 dome of sky lifted above the distant rim of elms and ripen- 
 ing corn, while under the glittering water, up every creek, 
 in every tongue of the tide and far away to sea, the oysters 
 dwelt in millions. 
 
 At Brightlingsea Mr. Ambrose and his supporters came 
 presently to the Hard, where boats already awaited them, 
 and the Peezcit, in glory of bunting and fresh paint, lay 
 off shore with steam up. 
 
 But a cloud was destined to mar the Mayor's embarka- 
 tion. Solemn as a doge he trod the jetty, when suddenly 
 from the local throng assembled to see him start, there 
 stumbled the form of his brother. It was not one of Wil- 
 liam's good days, and he had already lost sobriety.
 
 122 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 " Here we are again ! " he said. " Why — the devil ! 
 Where's your war-paint? I thought you were going to 
 wear your cocked hat and the wine label, you old 
 blighter ! " 
 
 Mr. Ambrose rolled his eyes for help, and the Town Ser- 
 geant hastened to his side. Then Emma's turke}' feather 
 was seen pushing its way through the spectators. The 
 people surged up and Billy was swallowed. He exploded 
 with curses on the jetty, and coarse laughter faintly 
 reached his brother's ears. 
 
 Mr. Ambrose sighed and kept silent for some time. The 
 incident was tactfully ignored by his friends, and soon 
 four boatloads from Colchester and Brightlingsea came 
 alongside the Peewit. With the three crowns of Col- 
 chester fluttering at her masthead and the steamer of the 
 river police leading the way, she set out, dodged the Engi- 
 neers, still toiling on their pontoons, rounded the point 
 and made to sea, that she might patrol the boundaries of 
 the Fishery. Black and grim, a fleet of mine-sweepers 
 slipped out to the Channel before her, and the Peewit 
 dipped her flag to the Admiral's yacht that went with 
 them. His white ensign nodded acknowledgment, and he 
 and his sombre squadron were soon hull down. 
 
 Aboard, the crew wore their best jerseys, and the skip- 
 per was resplendent. Even Mr. Mushet, in the engine- 
 room, had donned a clean suit of russet dungarees, and 
 Tom Darcy looked striking with his golden ear-rings and 
 a flame-coloured scarf about his neck. Mr. Saul Rebow, 
 master of the Peewit, was summoned to the Mayor pres- 
 ently. He descended from his perch and Darcy took 
 his place at the helm. " Old Tell-yer-fer-why " wore 
 snow-white ducks, a blue jersey with Peewit in red letters 
 upon his breast, and a cap of dark cloth with a gold band 
 upon his head. He made much of the Mayor ; indeed they 
 patronised each other. Each was alive to the dignity of 
 his possession, and each regarded their meeting as an event 
 not devoid of historical interest.
 
 OPENING THE FISHERY 123 
 
 " I've seen twenty-two Colchester mayors go through 
 the Opening," said Mr. Rebow, " and I may tell you some 
 shine at it and some don't." 
 
 " Hush ! " murmured Mr. Ambrose ; " there are ex- 
 mayors present to-day." 
 
 " I know it ; I've got my weather-eye lifting," answered 
 the captain. " The mayors come and the mayors go, but 
 me and my crew and my ship go on. I remember you in 
 the past and I'll give you a tip, Mr. Mayor, if you're not 
 above taking it. The human voice have to be lifted a lot 
 above land pitch when you're on sea ; and if you want the 
 old words to roll out proper, you'll have to bellow a bit." 
 
 " I thank you," said Mr. Ambrose. " But I had always 
 understood that water was a good conductor of sound. 
 In this case, too, we shall be grouped fairly close together, 
 as the ceremony will take place on the barge," 
 
 The barge, indeed, was already in sight — a spacious 
 craft at rest in the Pyefleet creek, whither the steamer now 
 turned her way. She was soon at anchor alongside and 
 her passengers assembled themselves on the anchored ves- 
 sel, while Mr. Ambrose and the protagonists of the rite 
 retired into the Peewifs cabin to robe. 
 
 The Native was the name of the beamy barge, and she 
 had been made ready for the occasion. Forward stood a 
 table covered with red cloth, and from it there ran amid- 
 ships two long forms for those about to assist at the cere- 
 mony. The company arrived and sat in two rows upon 
 the forms. It was now noon, with the sun over the fore- 
 yard-arm. The river shone, and the tide, amaking, began 
 slowly to swallow the mud banks round about. Water- 
 fowl flew overhead — crying seagulls, flitting sand-snipe, 
 wailing curlew and a string of barnacle geese, that ad- 
 vanced in line landward before the tide. The hot air quiv- 
 ered over the flats, where, outlined dimly against the flash 
 of many waters, there faded away northerly and easterly 
 the long-shore levels. Here low-lying earth was thronged 
 by the rounded heads of great, innumerable elms. The
 
 lU THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 mainland revealed mile upon mile of their wooded bosses, 
 dim through the summer haze, and Mersea Island was also 
 fledged with fine timber, towering amid her flat meadows 
 and fallow lands. In endless ranks the trees dwindled 
 upon the blue of distance, and among them rose little tow- 
 ers and steeples, single manor houses or farms, and the 
 clustered roofs of hamlet and thorpe. 
 
 Clad in robes of black and gold, with his insignia of 
 office upon a scarlet ribbon, and a cocked hat on his head, 
 Mr. Ambrose now appeared. He was preceded by the 
 Town Sergeant. The Sergeant, a fine figure of a man, 
 also wore black and gold with a three-cornered hat. His 
 noble calves bulged in white stockings. He had a clean- 
 shaved Irish face and a mobile mouth, full of laughter. 
 
 " Oyez ! Oyez ! ! Oyez ! ! ! " he bellowed, in a voice big 
 enough to satisfy Mr. Rebow ; and thus the ceremonial 
 began. 
 
 First came the Mayor, with scroll in hand, and sonorous, 
 but monotonous, inflection. 
 
 " ' I pray all of you here present to keep silence while 
 the Town Clerk do read, according to ancient custom, the 
 Proclamation declaring the Fishery open.' " 
 
 And then was told, in good set terms, how " the Several 
 Fishery of the River Colne and waters thereof hath from 
 time beyond which memory runneth not to the contrary, 
 belonged and appertained to the Corporation of the Bor- 
 ough of Colchester by whatsoever designation called or 
 known." The waters were at present shut in accord with 
 ancient usage; but from this day forward they would be 
 opened, " and continue open until such day as shall be 
 seemed proper and appropriate for the closing thereof." 
 
 The Town Clerk farther read the terms of the procla- 
 mation made in Colne Water during the year 1256. They 
 told how former monarchs, " progenitors of our very ex- 
 cellent Lord King, who now is," have granted to the 
 Burgesses of Colchester various privileges including the 
 fishery of the North Bridge as far as Westnesse on either
 
 OPENING THE FISHERY 125 
 
 side ; and the presents warn that " no man nor other per- 
 son may place piles, weirs nor other works of hand nearer 
 to our said water than is necessary for the maintenance of 
 their properties. Nor that any dredgers of oysters may 
 dredge broods at any time, except in the time limited, 
 under pain of forfeiture and grievous amerciaments." 
 
 Now came the moment for the toast, and when the Town 
 Sergeant had cried with a great voice : " God save the 
 King, the Mayor and this Corporation ! " all were read3\ 
 
 " Three cheers for His Majesty," said Mr. Ambrose. 
 Then rose the greeting, and half a hundred flashes to the 
 sunlight, for in every man's right hand was a wine-glass 
 of gin, and in his left a little cake of ^ngerbread. This 
 was the immemorial fare of the occasion — a legacy from 
 old Flanders, when traffic and inter-trading ^ between the 
 Netherlands, Flanders and Essex were closer than to-day. 
 Still, however, its evidences exist beyond the gin and 
 gingerbread, for the warranty of Flemish and Dutch for- 
 bears is manifest upon our eastern coastline, where old 
 Dutch and Low country names are numerous. 
 
 A telegram was now despatched to the Monarch, and the 
 pinnace of the river police flashed away with it to Bright- 
 lingsea. 
 
 A minor ceremony remained, and when Mr. Ambrose 
 had doffed his fur and gilt, the party returning to the 
 Peewit crowded her bulwarks while she went slowly ahead 
 and watched the throwing of the first dredges for the year. 
 Into the tide splashed a couple of nets, one dropped by the 
 Mayor, and the other by the Chairman of the Fishery ; 
 and presently Tom Darcy and the skipper himself hauled 
 at the ropes and brought the dredges inboard. 
 
 The oysters were of a uniform leaden hue touched with 
 warm umber, and many, making growth, had thrust out a 
 new fringe of shell with lustre as yet unstained. A noble 
 " native " was selected for the Mayor, and opened by Mr. 
 
 1 Sir Walter Scott makes menti( r of this small merchandise con- 
 veyed by Dutch and Flemish sailors.
 
 126 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 Rebow with his cultack. Enthroned on its bed of pearl 
 the silver-grey oyster sat. Six summers had passed over 
 him and brought him to splendour. Mr. Ambrose, per- 
 haps the only man on the boat who smiled not, took the 
 shell in his hand, covered the shell-hinge with his thumb, 
 that no scrap of London mud might follow the oyster to 
 its tomb, and raised it to his lips. A moment of suction 
 and the shining shell was bare. 
 
 " A real ' Whitstable Royal,' " said the Chairman. 
 " One only regrets he will never appreciate his pleasing 
 fate, or know that this dramatic and honourable end was 
 reserved for him." 
 
 Far off on the flats a solitary building rose, and having 
 inspected other reaches of the Fishery and found the con- 
 tents of the trawls full of promise, for harvest was abun- 
 dant, the steamer turned to distant Peewit Island, and 
 many hungry burghers began to reflect on luncheon. 
 
 Hither by the heron-haunted mud flats they came. 
 
 The packing sheds were transformed into bowers of gay 
 bunting above long tables, where a thousand open oysters 
 lay garnished with lemons, flanked by brown bread and 
 butter, supported by a regiment of bottles. Upon the 
 island were ranged the pares, or pits, that the high tide 
 flooded. Round them grew the ubiquitous sea lavender, 
 with sea asters, breaking their flower-buds, sea purslane 
 and other weeds of the land. Seeding grasses waved, and 
 rush and sedge dipped to the mud banks, where the glass- 
 worts began to flush with autumn crimson. Lording it 
 above the ridges, a Thames barge or two went up on the 
 tide to Hythe, and overhead the herons wheeled and cried, 
 " Frank ! Frank ! " or sat humped on their fishing 
 grounds amid the pools and backwaters. The tang of the 
 mud was fresh and sweet. It set an edge on appetite, and 
 the August sun had awakened hearty thirst. 
 
 Speech-making, cigars and song coi eluded the luncheon 
 on Peewit Island. The cigars were of the best, the 
 speeches plain and to the point. War had struck at the
 
 OPENING THE FISHERY 127 
 
 roots of their trade, for highly-priced natives cannot be 
 given away, and the company's huge markets in Belgium, 
 Germany, Russia and France were closed. 
 
 Mr. Ambrose explained the position. 
 
 " Not even our Allies may claim their customary thou- 
 sands," said he, " for oysters are a valuable foodstuff and 
 must not be exported until war is at an end. We have, 
 however, voted ten thousand of the finest oysters in the 
 Colne at this moment to our Red Cross for the hospitals ; 
 and as for the usual three million for this 3'ear's market, 
 I feel very sure that in the expert hands of our Manager 
 and staff, time and opportunity will find a way." 
 
 The Chairman also made a speech, illustrated v,'ith hope 
 and humour. He pinned his faith to the unsurpassable 
 qualities of Colne natives. 
 
 " Still they hold pride of place in the oyster world," he 
 assured his company ; " and though fashion may change 
 and now the American ' Blue Point ' reign, and now that 
 choice fish from County Clare, still our true-born native is 
 the best oyster of them all, and retains that supreme lord- 
 ship he won of old, when paleolithic man first consumed 
 him in doubt and digested him with joy. For older than 
 humanity is the oyster, gentlemen, and he lived and throve 
 for centuries upon the London clay beds, before he was 
 discovered by conscious intelligence and his fame shouted 
 round the prehistoric lodges." 
 
 A song — a veritable oyster classic — followed the 
 speech-making. It was the composition of a famous Col- 
 chester citizen, humourist and man of letters — one de- 
 scended from an Ypres family, whose refugee forefathers 
 had come to England in Elizabethan days. 
 
 The Fisheries' Manager sang this humorous ditty with 
 due effect, and the jest won its measure of applause. 
 
 " Though men may nidely drag him from his shell 
 And probe and prod and pepper him as well 
 And sour his mild existence — yet, what then? 
 To live for some brief space in mouths of men
 
 128 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 Is fame, and this fulfils the Oyster's mission; 
 
 To please and satisfy is his ambition; 
 
 And though not proud, his gentle heart will flutter 
 
 To know he's worthy of his bread and butter!" 
 
 The sun was westering and the tide had turned before 
 the Peeicit set off for home again. Peter Mistley picked a 
 big bunch of sea lavender for Aveline before he left the 
 island, and not a few men decorated their buttonholes with 
 sprigs of it. ■ 
 
 At " The King's Head " the Mayor and burgesses drank 
 tea. It is a long, low-built building of two storeys, with 
 a roof of red tiles and a verandah before its face. In the 
 midst a bubble of glass bulges upon the street, and here 
 lies the public bar — a frank and conspicuous place of en- 
 tertainment, where every man may spy on his neighbour's 
 refreshment. 
 
 During the meal a telegram arrived from the King, in 
 response to that despatched from sea during the morning. 
 He was well pleased to learn that his subjects prospered, 
 thanked them for their loyal greeting, and wished all good 
 to the Fishery. 
 
 One visitor at least echoed that wish from his heart, for 
 Peter Mistley found himself impressed and inspired by his 
 day with wise and kindly fellow-men. 
 
 They had played their parts as their forefathers played 
 them, and in so doing worthily transmitted a tradition that 
 extended far beyond Colne and her ceremonial rites. For 
 such survivals, he thought, seemed to link all England with 
 the rugged, spacious times of the past, with that Merrie 
 England of the Golden Age, when men were building by 
 glorious adventure a coming greatness none could guess, 
 and establishing those steadfast foundations of national 
 character and national courage on which, four-square, 
 there stood the fighting Empire of his day. From the 
 sleepy estuary of Colne, with its stately elms and corn 
 whitening for the sickle, it seemed a remote flight to battle- 
 fields and the red wrath of war ; yet Peter knew that thou-
 
 OPENING THE FISHERY 129 
 
 sands nurtured in these scenes were honouring their 
 motherland j^onder ; and few of the men who had partici- 
 pated in this old custom, but had a son, or brother at the 
 far-flung front. To-day they hid their hearts and kept 
 the shadow out of their eyes ; they performed their tasks 
 in the trivial play of the hour as though it were a vital 
 matter, not to be maimed by an omission, or shortened by 
 a word. 
 
 " For of such is our kingdom," thought the artist.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 COMEDY 
 
 MiSTLEY and his colleague worked together in the studio 
 on the morning after their visit to Colne. 
 
 " Look at this," said Geoffrey, " and tell me if you ever 
 saw anything quite so ridiculous. It's the military gar- 
 den for Sir David Appleyard, in Shropshire. Salients 
 and redoubts. He wants clumps of everything to look 
 like piles of shells ! And if we could perform feats of 
 topiary and put shrubs in the shape of cannon in these 
 embrasures, he'd bless us. He says the world is really a 
 gigantic fortress. He sees military design everywhere. 
 It's his argument that God Almighty planned the races of 
 mankind to make war and slaughter each other." 
 
 " Miserable old fool," said Peter. 
 
 " That's the rum thing: he isn't. Quite intelligent out- 
 side soldiering. He believes in God with a fierce belief, 
 and won't hear a word against faith." 
 
 " The greatest argument against God is man," grunted 
 Mistley; "and the crushing objection to design, that 
 they're always bleating about, is the world. There's 
 chance and hazard and accident in every aspect of the 
 ramshackle pill." 
 
 " You want a pill yourself," said the other. " Any- 
 way, if you'd been called to make it, we should have had — 
 goodness knows what — something between the hanging 
 gardens of Babylon and the Tuileries, I suppose, with all 
 the seas square and all the rivers straight lines from 
 source to mouth." 
 
 " And if you had," retorted Peter, " we should have seen 
 something between the Crystal Palace grounds and the 
 
 130
 
 COMEDY 131 
 
 transformation scene in a pantomime — grandiose, bla- 
 tant, absurd. Your buttercups would be as big as basins 
 and your daisies a foot across. I can see your idea of 
 flowers, with birds to match — tomtits as big as eagles — 
 violets that you could smell a mile off ; everything blazing 
 with colour and never a cloud in the staring, blue sky." 
 
 Seabrook laughed at this picture of his world. 
 
 " How did she like the bunch of sea lavender? " he asked 
 abruptly. 
 
 But the other did not choose to hear. Seabrook's 
 efforts at a little mild chaff on the subject of Aveline were 
 always ignored by him. 
 
 " Those mud flats were very splendid — stately and 
 simple, with their flower masses used as they should be 
 used," said Mistley. 
 
 " Nature ought to feel flattered." 
 
 " The whole thing was fine — the ceremony and the 
 people." 
 
 " You're not a misanthrope after all." 
 
 " Ambrose has just the mind for a thing like that. He 
 carried it off all right." 
 
 " I thought he was grand," declared Seabrook. " I be- 
 lieve Mrs. Ambrose coached him a bit. She has the dra- 
 matic instinct." 
 
 " A rotten instinct, too. If Ambrose had tried to be 
 dramatic he'd have made an ass of himself. His wife is a 
 mass of imbecile affectation, if that's what you mean by 
 dramatic. She's a humbug, through and through. You 
 know by the very voice of her and the way she mouths her 
 words and rolls her eyes that she's not real. Affectation 
 like that sickens me. It's a sort of emasculated lying all 
 the time." 
 
 Geoffrey Seabrook took this indictment against the most 
 precious thing in his life with sublime calm. His voice 
 did not quiver. He uttered his cheery little laugh. 
 
 " It's a game, really," he said. " They play it together 
 — peojDle like that — and if you can't play the game your-
 
 132 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 self, it bores you and seems dull. Theatrical people — 
 actors and actresses, I mean — are mostly like that. 
 After a time they get into an amusing way of always act- 
 ing together, even when they're oif the stage. I believe 
 they go on acting when they're all alone. It's the mimetic 
 temperament." 
 
 " It's unreal, and ruins sincerity and creates an utterly 
 false scale of values." 
 
 " I dare say it does. But where is the scale of values 
 that isn't false? Children love to pretend, and we are 
 told that the childlike mind is beautiful." 
 
 " Posing and insincerity aren't beautiful. That 
 woman's a poser, always looking out of the corner of her 
 eyes to see the effect — always wanting new men at her 
 chariot wheels." 
 
 " What woman ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Ambrose. She's not an artist, really ; she's not 
 capable of feeling in any fine sense." 
 
 Seabrook made no effort to play knight to the dis- 
 tressed damsel. If possible his caution erred in the ex- 
 treme of his indifference. But Peter Mistley, of course, 
 suspected nothing. 
 
 " No doubt you're right," said Geoffrey. " I don't 
 know much about women." 
 
 " Oh, yes, you do," answered the other ; " you know a 
 great deal more about them than I do, for that matter. 
 They interest you more, and you know how to please them, 
 which is more than I do." 
 
 " Don't say that. Now you're being a humbug your- 
 self. You know how to please one, anyway; and I sup- 
 pose nobody wants to please more than one — at a time." 
 
 And then, incited thereto, perhaps, by his senior's blis- 
 tering opinion of Helena, Seabrook determined to speak of 
 Aveline. He had often studied her in the studio, and she 
 had been gracious to him, as she was gracious to every- 
 body. Mistley did not answer his last remark, and now 
 he spoke again.
 
 COMEDY 133 
 
 " All women act more than men. To see a little bit 
 of the truth of them, jou must be onlooker and hear them 
 talking to other people. It's like watching a game of 
 cards. If you're playing a hand yourself, you can't see 
 so much. When Mrs. Brown strolls in — for a bit of 
 india rubber, or a pencil or something — well, one notices 
 little touches. If you're actually talking to her you for- 
 get everything but her eyes and mouth and voice; but if 
 you're not " 
 
 " What then? " said Peter. 
 
 " Then you notice — a sort of — a — sort of illusive- 
 ness — a sort of watchfulness. She's on guard all the 
 time, really." 
 
 " All women are." 
 
 " Not necessarily — not with friends and people they 
 know are harmless. Another thing : she's not so happy as 
 she pretends to be." 
 
 Peter Mistley was profoundly Interested, and endeav- 
 oured to hide the fact. 
 
 " She's hard up and anxious." 
 
 " I don't think being hard up would make her particu- 
 larly anxious. Has she ever told you anything about her 
 married life? " 
 
 " I never asked." 
 
 " Naturally ; but that wouldn't prevent her telling you 
 if she wanted you to know." 
 
 Mistley did not answer, and Seabrook began to praise 
 Aveline. 
 
 " Don't misunderstand me, Peter. I don't mean she's 
 sly, or anything like that. She has a nature that I should 
 think craved for sympathy and understanding. She's an 
 artist, and thundering clever, of course. I'm merely say- 
 ing she's got something on her mind." 
 
 Mistley thawed a trifle. 
 
 " No doubt she can paint. And as to being in need of 
 sympathy and all that sort of thing, I doubt it. She's 
 very independent."
 
 134 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 " If she's as hard up as you say, she can't be inde- 
 pendent." 
 
 Seabrook had now reached the stage when he hoped to 
 win at least a confession of interest from Peter; but what 
 the latter might have said next, he never did say, for they 
 were interrupted. 
 
 There came Mr. Ambrose. 
 
 " Well, young men, I hope you enjoyed yourselves," he 
 began, and both declared they had done so. Seabrook 
 ventured to dwell on the dignity and distinction of the 
 ceremony as conducted by the Mayor himself ; while Mist- 
 ley hinted at how the occasion had struck him as a whole, 
 in words that echoed in his thoughts of the previous day. 
 Mr. Ambrose knew what the younger man would say ; but 
 what Mistley might think he did not know. He seldom 
 wasted time in business hours, but now he talked for some 
 while, his conversation being chiefly devoted to repeating 
 Mistley's terse sentiments in his own more elaborated 
 sentences. He was, however, very gracious to Geoffrey 
 Seabrook, also. Indeed, he had a favour to ask in that 
 quarter. 
 
 " I am off to Scotland next week for a few days, and the 
 visit may extend to a fortnight, if not more," he said. " It 
 is not wholly unconnected with business ; indeed, at a time 
 like this I should not allow myself to go solely for pleas- 
 ure. My direction will be left at the office, and I may have 
 occasion to write to you, Mistley, about possible work 
 near Glasgow. Mrs. Ambrose does not accompany me, 
 and I am going to ask you, Seabrook, if she should need 
 your kindly aid in any direction not to deny it to her." 
 
 " Of course, sir — anything I can do." 
 
 " We put upon you ; indeed we trade upon your extraor- 
 dinary generosity. I have told her so," said Mr. Ambrose. 
 
 " Far from it — a privilege — there's so very little one 
 can do," declared Seabrook. 
 
 " My wife is so eager and willing to sacrifice her time 
 for the good of others that occasionally — I speak in con-
 
 COMEDY 135 
 
 fidence — she forgets that we have not all so much leisure 
 as she herself enjoys. Quite a tyrant — I speak play- 
 fully, of course. But her deep feeling on the subject of 
 the war and her resolution to work night and day for it, 
 and make others do the same, is worthy of all praise. In 
 fact," summed up Mr. Ambrose, " no man knows how 
 good a woman can be unless he be brought into close con- 
 tact with such a woman. That is my privilege, and I hope 
 in course of time you young men will enjoy similar priv- 
 ileges." 
 
 He continued to discourse benevolently for a while, then 
 bade them good-bye until his return, and went to the office. 
 
 " I hope she doesn't want to dance me about," murmured 
 Geoffrey. " I rather hoped to get off for a few days 
 myself ; but I suppose I can't go now till Mr. Ambrose 
 comes back." 
 
 " We're all the same — insincere humbugs, every one of 
 us," growled Peter Mistley. " You tell him to his face 
 you'll be proud to do anything for her, and then, behind 
 his back, swear at the necessity." 
 
 Which was just the impression that Mr. Seabrook de- 
 sired to convey.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 ON THE STOUR 
 
 Sensitiveness belongs to temperament, and culture leaves 
 it where nature did. Many highly educated men and 
 women utterly lack sensitiveness, while a day labourer may 
 possess it. But there is no closer bond, and no parity of 
 tastes and enthusiasms can so well draw people together; 
 since taste is acquired and sensitiveness innate. Thus 
 the very fastidious niceness and acuteness of feeling — 
 that thin-skinned susceptibility, which may keep lovers 
 apart during the earlier stages of a romance — at the end 
 crushes them together in a sympathy that no lesser force 
 can create. Such a man cries to the darkness until he 
 finds the echo of his heart returning to him from the 
 woman ; and then they melt together. 
 
 Without being vain, Peter regarded himself as one who 
 pursued existence with dignity and self-respect, and kept 
 the light burning to the best of his powers. Now the case 
 was altered, for while love soon reaches to the altitude of 
 sublimation and exaggeration where the loved object is 
 concerned, it goes, if anything, to the opposite extreme in 
 the lover's heart, throws a light of remorseless charity into 
 his own soul, infallibly shows him things about himself that 
 he never saw before, and tinges his faintest faults with a 
 colour that reveals what was before invisible,; As the 
 transparent atom is tinctured, that we may observe it 
 under the microscopic lens, so love tints the least unsus- 
 pected traits in a sensitive spirit, and accentuates errors 
 of character already known. Above all, it quickens the 
 instinct for defence, and teaches the lover to conceal his 
 imperfections from the loved one — especially those which 
 
 136
 
 ON THE STOUR 137 
 
 her opinions and taste lead him to suspect would be least 
 pleasing. 
 
 A sense of vagueness and reality slipping away accom- 
 panied Mistley's new illumination. By nature he was 
 neither joyous nor gloomy, but of resolute mind — a faith- 
 ful lover in the cool courts of his Art ; but now things once 
 bright had faded. Faded was the word he used to himself. 
 Reality bored him ; regular habits irritated him and he 
 broke them, as belonging to middle age. He felt both 
 younger and older. Art was no longer his life, but the 
 work of his life. He worked as well as ever and did not 
 fail of imagination or craft ; but he approached his busi- 
 ness from a new point of view that changed its aspect 
 temporally. This location was so complete that it 
 brought a measure of dismay. Yet how infinitely splendid 
 was the usurper! Love hovered about him like an aura 
 and made all outside himself fairer than of old. He found 
 himself more patient with other people, more sympathetic, 
 inspired to look under the surface of his neighbours, dis- 
 posed to feel more interest in the sorrows and joys of his 
 narrow world. 
 
 For himself, however, there was no sympathy, but rather 
 impatience and dissatisfaction. His life was like a gar- 
 ment that had seemed until now comfortable enough. But 
 suddenly it became too small, too tight, shabby, suffocat- 
 ing — no attire for a man. To others, surely, it must 
 also look too small, and therefore ridiculous, even con- 
 temptible. 
 
 As for the woman, she knew that he must soon ask her 
 to marry him and waited for him to do so. Her emotions 
 — far more complex than Mistley's, because they sprang 
 from a far more complex situation — can only be anal^'sed 
 at a later opportunity. For the moment she knew very 
 well that she loved him, and could not trust herself to think 
 how much. Her favourite British painter was Constable, 
 and Peter asked her to go for a long drive with him on a 
 Sunday and visit the Stour valley and scenes of the artist's
 
 138 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 activity. The enterprise had been long planned, and 
 knowing very well what awaited her, Aveline consented to 
 go. 
 
 He arrived at ten o'clock in a comfortable carriage with 
 two horses, and Aveline stood on the step of Mrs. Hemp- 
 son's home awaiting him. They drove away together 
 through hedges draped with the wild hop, growing daily 
 brighter as the fruit of blackberry, rose, and thorn ripened 
 in scarlet and purple lustre by the way. 
 
 " We're going to Dedham," said Peter. " The river's 
 fine there, and there's one of the finest churches in Essex 
 — built, I suppose, when the place w^as more important 
 than now." 
 
 The drive seemed short enough to them both, and their 
 talk was, for the most part, of art. 
 
 " It's a perfect Constable day, heavy with coming rain. 
 I'm glad you're going to see Stour Vale in the grey." 
 
 She looked at the sky. 
 
 " But not too grey — and don't say it's going to rain." 
 
 " Not till evening, I expect." 
 
 They came down the hill to Dedham at last, after slow 
 trotting through many lanes. There they stopped at an 
 inn, ordered luncheon, and walked to the river. It wound 
 away, silent and shining, in long reaches, with expanse of 
 flat meadowland on the eastern bank and willow trees to 
 the west. At streamside grew great docks, and giant but- 
 ter burr, whose flower was gone, but whose leaf patines 
 lay heavy at the water's edge under scrub of pollarded 
 alder. The south wind made a sighing in the grey willows 
 and from time to time a lance-shaped leaf flashed down 
 untimely to the water. In the meadows stood red and 
 white kine, grazing. Some beasts roamed together to a 
 fresh pasture; others lay chewing the cud, and Stour's 
 slow stream made a mirror for them when they came to 
 some shallow to drink. Here and there the wind found the 
 face of the water and swept it into rough silver. They 
 followed it a mile, only to see fresh reaches extending
 
 ON THE STOUR 139 
 
 onward to the sea. A low, sad-coloured sky hung over 
 all. 
 
 " We'll turn now and go up stream, past the mill above 
 the bridge," said Mistley. " The Stour is the northern 
 boundary of the Tendring Hundred. It was made boat- 
 able up to Sudbury in Queen Anne's time, I think ; and 
 then Manning-tree, a hamlet of Mistley, became famous 
 for its fish trade." 
 
 " Is there a place called INIistley? " 
 
 " Rather — a very ancient spot. The word is the 
 Saxon ' Mircel,' meaning ' herb Basil,' and ' ley ' a pasture 
 — at least, so some declare. It's Mitteslea in Domesday. 
 Mistley Hall has gone now, but there were great doings 
 there in early Georgian days, when one Richard Rigby had 
 it. Garrick and other actors and actresses used to visit 
 there. Miss Reay must have been a great favourite of 
 Rigby's, for he built her a ' tea-room ' in the Tower at 
 Walton-on-the-Naze. That's where the parson. Hack- 
 man, fell madly in love with her ; but she couldn't return 
 his passion, and so at Covent Garden, one fine night, the 
 lunatic shot her dead on the stage. They hanged the 
 reverend gentleman for his trouble. The fool deserved it." 
 
 " I don't know," doubted Aveline. " How can we say 
 what he deserved — without knowing her? " 
 
 " You've always got an excuse for ever^^body," he said. 
 
 They turned and went up stream, past a great corn mill, 
 where a ribbon of Stour's silver was deflected. It van- 
 ished, then spouted out again in a cataract, formed a wide, 
 still pool, and so slid back to the river. There was a little 
 lock for barges also. A cottage stood here, its angle 
 worn raw to the red brick by the tow-ropes. Boats miglit 
 be hired on the river, which Peter well knew ; and taking 
 one, he helped Aveline in, then rowed slowly up stream. 
 Into still reaches Mistley rowed, and the moorhens and 
 dabchicks scuttered away before them with fleeting trails 
 of darkness on the shining surface of the stream. 
 
 She spoke of painting, and saw Corot rather than Con-
 
 140 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 stable at every bend of the river. Then he rested on his 
 oars, let the boat glide into the bower made by a willow, 
 and asked her to marry him. 
 
 She knew him so well now that the actual proposition 
 appeared almost unreal. It seemed to her that it had all 
 happened before. She was positive that, when he took the 
 boat, he meant to speak before he left it ; and when the 
 great willow hove in sight, she felt he would row under it 
 and tell her he loved her. She guessed what he would say ; 
 and he did say nearly what she expected him to say. And 
 she, loving him with infinite love, answered as he hoped she 
 would answer, though he knew no more than what her eyes 
 told him of the things hidden in her heart. For she had 
 fought her battle long before, and found her love cried 
 like a child for him and was great enough to wed him, not 
 great enough to refuse. 
 
 He spoke simply, with no flowers of speech ; but the tone 
 of his voice was all she cared to hear, for that rang more 
 musically than any word he uttered, and his imploring eyes 
 would have won her without speech at all and brought her 
 into his arms. 
 
 Yet when he had asked her, humbly enough, if she could 
 share his quiet and humdrum life with him and let him 
 spend the rest of it in making her life completely happy, 
 she longed, like a wild thing in a cage, for a loophole. Not 
 for her sake, but for his, she desired it. A fleeting resolu- 
 tion to tell the truth about herself touched her. Her lips 
 even framed the confession ; but it died upon them. 
 
 " I will come to you," she said, " if you want me. I love 
 you — oh, how dearly I love you, Peter ! " 
 
 Her mind flew far away from him as she felt him swal- 
 low up her hand in his and then cover it with kisses. Her 
 thoughts ranged into the reality of things behind her, and 
 then, absurd and irrelevant as a dream, the face of William 
 Ambrose rose in front of her and she remembered a little 
 of what he had said when last they met. " Don't think 
 being wedded and being married are the same, because they
 
 ON THE STOUR 141 
 
 are not." So had that ruin of a man declared ; and know- 
 ing marriage, Aveline would have been thankful to wed 
 without it. But what did Peter know of marriage, or mar- 
 riage without wedding, or wedding without marriage? 
 
 He could only look at her speechless for a time, but with 
 a reverence in his eyes that made her heart sick. She 
 longed for him to talk and chatter, and paint the future 
 and banish the darkness in her soul. She yearned that the 
 present at least might escape the necessities ahead; she 
 thirsted for the opening of heart, the confidences now vital. 
 But while he kept silent, as one stunned by the immensity 
 of his good fortune, her quick brains were occupied with 
 all the tissues of reservation she must soon be spinning, 
 the half-truths she must substitute for whole truths, the 
 prevarications, the evasions. Again her spirit sank, and 
 the future seemed to beckon with unlovely hand. It was 
 natural that the line of least resistance should arride her ; 
 for those who are fond of sa3'ing pleasant things to others, 
 prefer to say pleasant things to themselves ; but truth was 
 far too terrific to be uttered now. She temporised with 
 her soul and promised it the truth at a later period. But 
 she knew that if passage of time and falling of events 
 combined to make her comfortable without truth, then she 
 would never utter it. 
 
 They returned, and the victor gripped Stour deep to his 
 paddle and sent the skiff flying down stream again. Then 
 they ate together in a little room at the inn. They left the 
 event of the day alone for a time and pretended to talk as 
 they had talked before it. They said the same sort of 
 things ; but each knew the other was laughing at them. 
 The currency of speech, that had been gold to them, seemed 
 tinkling brass before the new coinage from love's mint 
 awaiting circulation. After dinner they went to look at 
 the church, deserted at that hour, and there, in a little 
 sheltered place by the sanctuary, he put his arms around 
 her and kissed her. She responded tenderly to the em- 
 brace.
 
 142 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 " I never felt so like going on my knees," she whispered. 
 
 " My heart has been on its knees all day," he said. 
 
 They drifted apart presently and she looked at one or 
 two of the cenotaphs upon the walls. Then they went out 
 again and soon returned to the carriage, which now 
 awaited them. 
 
 " We'll drive back slowly by way of Stratford, and stop 
 at Stratford Bridge," said Mistley to their driver pres- 
 ently.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE DKIVE HOME 
 
 The river flowed as of old, and many fair houses stood 
 beside her windings ; but the ancient mills were gone, and 
 less attractive buildings had taken their places on Stour 
 bank. 
 
 Their talk strayed back to the passing hour, and the 
 panorama through which they moved formed a sort of 
 beautiful frame to the real picture. 
 
 " Constable's mill wheels and weirs are only immortal 
 in his woi'k," said Aveline. " How he would have hated 
 these ugly things that have sprung up instead." 
 
 " Beauty won't stand still," answered Peter. " Time, 
 that makes a thing beautiful, goes on and defaces what it 
 has created. The new always triumphs, and the new is 
 often ugly to contemporary eyes. But I suppose, if we 
 had the spirit of the forerunners, we should be prophets 
 for the new and see how beautiful it is. I believe every- 
 thing, and every person has a beautiful phase." 
 
 " That's too puzzling a theory to follow. But the new 
 can't kill the spirit of Stour Yale — its own, its very own 
 peculiar spirit of calm. Even to-day — such a stormy 
 day, Peter — can't kill it for me. I never saw such a 
 peaceful river. I'm sure nothing would ever make Stour 
 angry, or dangerous. She couldn't show her teeth, or get 
 into a temper. It's an unchanging thing — beautiful for 
 ever, despite time." 
 
 " It's changing every moment ; but it links one up witli 
 unchanging things," he granted. " It's the eternal change 
 that keeps it all changeless, really. The trees and the 
 smooth water, the grey sky, the reed rend there, with its 
 
 U3
 
 144 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 silky song and purple plumes all shining out again; and 
 the old autumn signals flashing aloft on the elms." 
 
 " The trees and river don't change, and the seasons 
 tramp on still," said Aveline ; " but the people change, and 
 all they stand for." 
 
 " Only their manners and customs — not their hearts." 
 
 " Their very hearts, I tell you. Their manners are no 
 more than their clothes — hung on outside. But their 
 hearts are different — harder, harder. My heart's harder 
 than my mother's ever was : your heart's harder than your 
 father's ever was. In the church just now I saw a monu- 
 ment put up by daughters to their mother. The daugh- 
 ters thanked their mother for the good that Avas in them ; 
 they blessed their mother for the virtues they had won 
 from her. That was the old English way girls' hearts beat 
 once. How many living daughters reverence a mother 
 so?" 
 
 " Didn't you feel like that to your mother.'' " 
 
 "Never; did you?" 
 
 " My mother died when I was born," he told her. 
 
 They drifted back from things to ideas, according to 
 their custom. Unseen he had her hand held tight in his 
 own while he spoke, and she often pressed his fingers. 
 
 " All spirits of nations are made up of hardness and 
 sentiment," he said, " and the ingredients are never mixed 
 the same in any two, so there's eternal confusion and mis- 
 understanding between them. Take ourselves — the inex- 
 orable, unconquerable spirit we hide under laughter, even 
 in the shadow of death, makes other nations stand aghast 
 at us. Our lack of imagination bewilders our friends and 
 wakens simple hatred in our enemies ; and yet I believe it's 
 that very lack of imagination has made England do deeds 
 that beggar imagination. Other people try to understand 
 us and fail. But we never try to understand ourselves : 
 that would be too imaginative. We just go grinding on, 
 rebuking and inquiring and grumbling and belittling and 
 cursing one another, crying out to the world that we are
 
 THE DRIVE HOME 145 
 
 unready, ill governed, lacking control, at odds among our- 
 selves ; and all the while, under the criticism and deprecia- 
 tion, proving to the world that we are the surest, sanest, 
 strongest people in it." 
 
 " And we've got imagination, too," said Aveline, " or we 
 shouldn't laugh at the Germans and answer their hymns 
 of hate with chaff. To me they seem — not human — 
 more like penguins, or some creatures just near enough to 
 humanity to awake ridiculous and horrible images. It's 
 like the beings from Mars in the War of the Worlds. 
 They're outside mankind. But the ^Martians were so far 
 outside as to be awful, the Germans are so near as to be 
 absurd." 
 
 " Presently for their ' God punish England,' we shall be 
 saying, * Man heal Germany,' " foretold Peter. 
 
 " Which will make them angrier than all the hate in the 
 world." 
 
 And so they prattled in the sunshine of their great ad- 
 venture and set the earth right. But soon they came back 
 to themselves. 
 
 " There's a difference between us," he said. " I've never 
 loved bef oi'e, but you have." 
 
 " You can set your mind at ease about that," she re- 
 plied. " I thought I loved my husband, or I should never 
 have married him ; but it wasn't love : I know that very well 
 now." 
 
 " He loved you though? " 
 
 She hesitated. 
 
 " The power to love was left out of him. That wasn't 
 his fault. So many people can't love — half the people 
 that marr}' can't love : they don't know how to. And even 
 when they've got the power, it's just a chance if the one 
 they marry can develop it. And the stages of love aren't 
 always the same on both sides, Peter. In a man, interest 
 may have just quickened into hope, while the woman's in- 
 terest hasn't quickened at all. Or she ma}' have run far 
 ahead, from interest through hope into love, while perhaps
 
 146 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 he's only just beginning dimly to realise what's happening 
 to him." 
 
 It began to rain on the way home and Mistley stopped 
 and had the carriage closed. He was glad, for now he 
 could put his arms round her and kiss her. He talked of 
 the honeymoon. 
 
 " We'll go abroad," he said, " and our honeymoon shall 
 wait till after the war." 
 
 " Our wedding too? " 
 
 " No, no, no ! But for the rest — one hasn't heart." 
 
 " Let it be Rome," she begged ; but he shook his 
 head. 
 
 " I can't stand Rome — it's too sad if you know how to 
 feel. Imperium Romanum gone ! Nothing left but a 
 museum, and the best part of that under the paw of the 
 Unclean Animal. The Pope can look at Belgium and Ser- 
 bia and Armenia and be silent — for Austria's sake — 
 think what that means ! No, the thing that poisoned Rome 
 makes Rome hateful to me." 
 
 " Do you really hate anything.'' " she asked. 
 
 " A humanist must hate the Church of Rome," he de- 
 clared. " The Eternal City is only a dust-heap for anti- 
 quaries to crawl on now. I've studied the art of Greece 
 and Rome there. I've walked in the Vatican and seen the 
 Venus of Cnidus in her tin petticoat. That's a type and 
 symbol — that tin petticoat. We'll go to Florence, where 
 the Renaissance was born. Florence is Florence still; 
 Rome is only the remains of a meal on the plate of Time — 
 broken bones. Florence is the place of pictures, anyway 
 — pictures and gardens." 
 
 " Gardens are pictures when you make them," she said. 
 " To make a garden is to make a painting with living 
 colours — to paint with living things. And you can say 
 what the plants will be doing in your picture each month 
 of the year. So your picture isn't one, but many." 
 
 " I believe you could design a garden that would make 
 my best worthless by comparison."
 
 THE DRIVE HOME 147 
 
 She laughed, but thought that, working together, they 
 might make a beautiful thing. 
 
 " Art's all observation and imagination," he declared, 
 " and some say that observation is the first business of an 
 artist; but observation without the other thing is a train 
 of gunpowder without a match. Imagination does the 
 vital trick : it knows what to keep and what to leave out. 
 Observation doesn't know what to leave out. When Mere- 
 dith went through his masterpieces again, his imagination 
 cut out any amount of wonderful things that his observa- 
 tion had stored up — a lesson that for all artists in any 
 medium." 
 
 The event of the day was showing ]Mist]ey to her in a 
 new light. He appeared exhilarated as though with wine. 
 He took the lead ; his mind moved swiftly ; his face shone ; 
 he laughed and chattered — rare things for him to do. 
 Yet his joy made her ache the more. 
 
 She was glad when the journey ended and she found her- 
 self at Mile End again. He had subsided before that, and 
 she wondered, with her arms round him in a parting em- 
 brace before the horses stopped, if his mood had sprung 
 of the day and would never return, or whether she would 
 find him a new man henceforth, transformed from anxious 
 suitor to rapturous lover. 
 
 " It has been the happiest, happiest day I ever spent," 
 said Aveline. " And the most fearfully unhappy," her 
 spirit murmured to her even as she spoke. 
 
 " Then what must it have been for me? " he asked. 
 
 Another morning had dawned before the woman slept. 
 She spent the night in retracing the past and noting where 
 she had erred. There was much in her life that her future 
 husband could never share — so it seemed to her. Yet she 
 questioned the conclusion and argued against it. Fear 
 was the determining factor, and she decided that to tell 
 him the truth now must surely be to lose him. Immediately 
 on this conviction, her mind began arguing against it. 
 The truth might lift their union to a higher plane and con-
 
 148 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 secrate it in a manner that nothing else could. But that 
 depended on him, and despite his contempt for conven- 
 tionality and the gregarious instincts of self-preservation 
 common to all herds, if faced with her knowledge, he might 
 well find his love threatened. For he would inevitably ask 
 himself, if not her, why she had not told him sooner — why 
 she had reserved facts so vital until after his proposal. 
 
 She felt her whole soul poured out for Peter now and 
 dared not lose him. She remembered where first she met 
 Margery Mayhew and understood the reality of a situation 
 that at the time appeared theatrical and absurd. Real 
 love could never be absurd ; and yet the thing she now de- 
 termined to do was absurd. Even her values — values 
 which had made her cling in self-defence to extremes — did 
 not justify her, and she knew it. But the temptation 
 struck at her weakest spot — an indifference to veracity. 
 She took refuge in Mistley's agnosticism and deluded her- 
 self into hoping that because he championed free thought, 
 he might condone lawless action. She knew that she was 
 a fool even while she argued thus. 
 
 So, like a squirrel in a cage, she went round and round 
 and got no more forward. Her circle of reasoning only 
 completed itself again and again ; and it was inevitable that 
 her conclusion should be postponement of all statement 
 until she had wedded Peter. She even won a measure of 
 satisfaction from this conclusion. It had a bright side. 
 With an inverted logic, only to be appreciated by one who 
 knew the premises, she assured herself that, after all, in the 
 worst event, it was she and not Mistley who would be called 
 to suffer. She was mentally exhausted before reaching 
 this point of her introspection; otherwise she must have 
 perceived that in the light of his love for her, her suffer- 
 ings would certainly be his. Indeed she had gone too far 
 now. Whatever the future might hold in store for them, 
 the truth must make him suffer. Lifelong concealment 
 of the truth, however, if practicable, was not calculated to 
 pain Aveline. Henceforth her anxiety would centre in the
 
 THE DRIVE HOME 149 
 
 need for concealment, not in the torment of it. At least 
 the man should know what love was ; and since she most 
 honestly adored him, she believed her genius would soon 
 weld them together in such fashion that not even the stark 
 raj of truth itself would have power to burn them apart 
 again.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 SAMUEL MUSHEt's HOLIDAY 
 
 The long delayed visit of Samuel Mushet to his brother 
 was paid at last. Not on a Bank Holiday did he cOme, 
 but on a late day of August. Then he arrived at Colches- 
 ter with Nancy, his wife. Gregory had also arranged to 
 make holiday, though he knew the greater part of it would 
 be spent in the gardens of " Colneside." 
 
 Margery met her uncle and aunt at the station, and Mr. 
 Mushet greeted them at the front gate of " Fair View 
 Villa." Everything was spick and span, and Nancy ut- 
 tered the words of praise that her brother-in-law expected. 
 
 " A treat for the orderly mind," she said, " and a great 
 lesson to Margery to be brought up and live in such a 
 home." 
 
 " It will be hers some day, if she behaves," explained Mr. 
 Mushet ; " that is, when I'm called to my heavenly man- 
 sion." 
 
 " Your heavenly mansion will be an eye-opener, Greg," 
 said Samuel, who was on the best of terms with his brother. 
 
 " It will," promised Gregory, " though sometimes when 
 I think upon it, I'm puzzled to know how I shall go one 
 better." 
 
 " You'll see it all from the heavenly standpoint then," 
 declared Nancy, " when you're lifted to eternity, you'll 
 have a larger pattern of ideas." 
 
 " And more room," added Samuel. " You look at this 
 house much as I look at my marine engines on the Peewit," 
 he continued. " I'm very well content with them, for 
 they're perfect in their way, and wit of man couldn't better 
 fit a thing to the work wanted; but if by God's will I'm 
 
 150
 
 SAMUEL MUSHET'S HOLIDAY 151 
 
 allowed to handle steam in the life beyond death, then I 
 naturally look to see myself in command of something with 
 more to it." 
 
 " There'll be work no doubt," said Gregory, " but it isn't 
 for us to say what work, and it shows rather a narrow 
 view to think we shall only be gardeners and engineers in 
 the Better Land." 
 
 " All the same, you can't think of it without gardens and 
 engines," argued Mr. INIushet of Brightlingsea ; " and if 
 gardens and engines, then skilled, angelic angels to run 
 'em." 
 
 " You're wasting time to let the mind dwell on it," an- 
 swered Gregory. " All I know is that I shall do my duty 
 and get advancement there. You and me can face the 
 future with perfect confidence, knowing that in the next 
 world we shall be done by as we do." 
 
 They ate an early dinner, after which it was proposed to 
 spend a long afternoon in the gardens. 
 
 " I've told Bultitude you're coming, and he's going to 
 show you the propagating house himself," promised Greg- 
 ory. " In rearing of plants that man has no equal, and 
 he'll show you some wonders of Nature. And old Pettikin 
 must be spoke to, for he remembers you very well, and 
 would be hurt in his feelings if you didn't pass the time of 
 day with him." 
 
 While they ate, Samuel told how his son prospered with 
 the Royal Engineers, and Nancy's eyes smouldered when 
 she thought upon it. 
 
 Gregory uttered words that he had heard in a sermon 
 respecting the cleansing and purifying of the nation. 
 
 " To be cleansed in the life-blood of our children is a 
 pretty devilish bath, if you ask me," said Nancy aflame; 
 " and to hear safe old men and bishops talk so, makes 
 me " 
 
 " Hush, hush," murmured Samuel. " Gregory don't 
 mean anything like that." 
 
 " The world that can only be kept sweet by the loss of
 
 152 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 its young manhood is all wrong and rotten," she said, 
 " and every woman's heart feels it, and every mother's 
 heart knows it, and men ought to blush to look into our 
 eyes." 
 
 " That's pretty much what Andrew Hempson says," 
 declared Margery. " He's a second lieutenant now, and 
 came to see his mother yesterday. But he says we've let 
 the world slip into this mess with our eyes open, and now 
 we've got to pay the cost of getting it out again. And 
 what maddens him is that they who pay the piper won't 
 call the tune. That's how he puts it. He says that our 
 rulers and parliament men, who might have nipped this 
 thing in the bud ten years ago, if they'd been worth their 
 salt, will be the very men to make the peace ; and he doesn't 
 trust one of them with the peace." 
 
 They talked and argued according to their lights. 
 Then Margery and Nancy left the men, and the elder 
 spoke with great respect of Samuel's wife. 
 
 " For all she dressed me down so sharp, I have a great 
 opinon of Nancy, and always did have," he said. " But 
 there's a narrowness in the Quaker point of view and that 
 can't be denied ; because, if the}' had their way and took 
 it lying down, what's going to become of England, them- 
 selves included.'^ Needs must when the devil drives, and 
 the devil's drove Europe into this, and the devil will take 
 the hindmost, according to his custom. And England 
 ain't going to be the hindmost, according to hers. So 
 we've got to fight — even to the most peace-loving among 
 us. But Nancy has a very clear mind for a woman. And 
 no doubt you've been a happier man, speaking generally, 
 along with her than you would have been without her." 
 
 " Speaking generally, as you say, I have," admitted 
 Samuel, without any great enthusiasm. " She's one in a 
 thousand, and I'm lucky ; but the very best woman ever 
 born can't see life with a man's eyes, or take the long look. 
 Their minds get entangled in details and won't see the 
 wood for the trees. They're born so. And after long
 
 SAMUEL MUSHET'S HOLIDAY 153 
 
 experience I reckon it's a great art for a man to live with 
 his wife, Greg. I love Nancy and think the wide world of 
 her, and yet, to you I say this : that to have lived under the 
 same roof as her for five-and-twenty years is the cleverest 
 thing that I've ever done, or shall do." 
 
 Gregory nodded. 
 
 " I see the point," he said. " It's a rare gift in you, 
 and there's no doubt the fact that man and wife are always 
 called to live in each other's laps after marriage, compli- 
 cates the state." 
 
 They set forth to the gardens and spent two hours in 
 wandering through the radiant acres of " Colneside " ; 
 then they met ]Mr. Bultitude and, at his invitation, visited 
 the great propagating house — a vital factor in the econ- 
 omy of the nurseries. 
 
 Along one side of this important chamber, under a roof 
 of glass, stood pots and pans of choice seedling primulas. 
 Their thousands crowded the stage ; many were known 
 to science ; many were come straight from collectors 
 in the Sikkim Himalaya and had yet to declare them- 
 selves. 
 
 " Often the men out there can only get the seed," ex- 
 plained ]Mr. Bultitude, " and so we don't know what we've 
 got, for they ma}' not be able to send descriptions, or pic- 
 tures of the bloom." 
 
 The gardener-in-chief beamed over his mj^riads. 
 
 " Like children, 3'ou may say," he declared to Mrs. 
 Mushet. " Thousands of children grow up not worth 
 sending to market, so to speak ; but they're reared with 
 patience and loving kindness ; and, mind you, you can't 
 draw a line through the parents either, no matter how 
 well you know 'em, for Nature's got her own way, and 
 twice two ain't four by any means when you're dealing 
 with a hybrid. You may have a famous father and a 
 famous mother, with their place secure in the gardeners' 
 lists, but it don't follow that their offspring are going to 
 be famous. Of course you ma}' get a thing that collectors
 
 15^ THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 will buy at your own price; but far oftener you'll only 
 find a plant for the rubbish heap." 
 
 " Progeny's a doubtful item, though the childless never 
 seem to know their luck," said Gregory. 
 
 The choicer saxifrages were propagated here, and new 
 hybrids already opened tiny rosettes in fairy pots mar- 
 shalled by the hundred. 
 
 " Just the same with plants," continued Bultitude. 
 " The spirit of a raising house is hope. You mix hope with 
 the leaf mould and the water; and though forty years of 
 crossing would chasten a flint, yet hope is just as bright in 
 me to-day as when I was three years old, and planted a 
 clay marble and thought it would grow to a glass one." 
 
 " Every human pair that weds feels the same," said 
 Nancy. 
 
 " Humans are always hybrids, so far as their higher 
 parts are concerned," answered the expert ; " for no two 
 members of the species are just alike outside, or in, and so 
 it follows, in my opinion, seeing that Nature works the 
 same all round, that as you can't expect more than one or 
 two good blends in every thousand seedlings, so you can't 
 expect more than one or two good blends in every thou- 
 sand children." 
 
 " But the bringing up — the bringing up, my dear 
 man ! " cried Mrs. Mushet. " You go too far, and it 
 don't hold. These green things haven't got Christian 
 parents, nor yet Christ waiting with His Hands stretched 
 out to 'em! The human boy and the human girl have a 
 lot more than the blood in their veins to depend upon." 
 
 But Mr. Bultitude doubted. 
 
 " 'Tis the blood, ma'am," he answered. " A man's 
 character, like a plant's, is in his blood, and training can't 
 sweeten that if it is bitter by nature, no more than training 
 can fill a head that Nature's planned empty. I say you 
 can't get a grape from a thorn, but you may get a thorn 
 from a grape, for the natural tendency is to throw back, I 
 reckon."
 
 SAMUEL MUSHET'S HOLIDAY 155 
 
 " A very gloomy thought, however," said Samuel 
 Mushet. " It don't hold with oysters, anyway ; give 'em 
 what they like and keep their enemies away, and they'll 
 come true to type." 
 
 " Life's full of riddles," answered Mr. Bultitude. " But 
 I say that half the subjects that we argue about, and 
 wrangle about, and get hot about, will solve themselves 
 in course of time, and a man has only got to live sixty years 
 in the world to see many and many a thing his mother and 
 schoolmaster taught him for gospel truth blown sky-high 
 by new knowledge," 
 
 Opposite the seedlings stretched the great frames for 
 cuttings. Three feet above ground there extended a plain 
 of white silver sand, a yard broad and nearly thirty yards 
 long. Glass lights on hinges covered it, and each section 
 could be opened and examined separately. On this little, 
 close plateau millions of cuttings had been struck by Mr. 
 Bultitude in the course of many years. The present stock 
 might have numbered ten thousand or more. They stood 
 here in rows — living fragments of every shape, and nearly 
 all so small that three hundred could stand on a square 
 foot without crowding. Yet an air of vigour and pros- 
 perity marked their tiny groves. 
 
 " The secret with cuttings is to take them at the right 
 time," said Mr. Bultitude. " Not too soon, not too late. 
 My touch tells me when the stuff they are made of is 
 ready." 
 
 He plucked a few atoms up from the pure sand and 
 showed delicate filaments, fine as silken threads, already 
 hanging from the stem. 
 
 They left the old man presently with thanks for his 
 attention, and returned to the gardens. Nancy wanted to 
 see a famous hedge of lavender, worth the rest of the col- 
 lection, in her opinion. 
 
 Then appeared the ancient Mr. Pettikin. He had seen 
 Samuel once in the past and entertained .great admiration 
 for him. Now he dropped his weeding hoe and shook
 
 156 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 hands with the engineer and Nancy. He was very aged, 
 but Mr. Ambrose let him come when he pleased. So he 
 still pottered in the gardens and earned a few shillings a 
 week. He was bald, with a ghostly white beard, from 
 which time had long plucked the substance. His eyes were 
 dim and one was shrouded by a grey film. His face had 
 fallen in upon a toothless mouth and wore an inquiring 
 expression, as though nearly a century of years had failed 
 to provide him with any rudimentary meaning to existence. 
 
 " Very glad to see you again, Mr. Mushet, sir," he said ; 
 " and if this is Mrs. Mushet, I'm very glad to see her also." 
 
 " Tell her all them interesting things you told me, Mr. 
 Pettikin," suggested Samuel. 
 
 " So I will then," answered the ancient, and turned to 
 Nancy. 
 
 " I'm eighty-eight and all my race gone," he said. 
 " Though an Essex man born, you must know, I was of a 
 very ranging turn of mind in my middle years and went 
 far afield — so far as Leeds." 
 
 " My — what a way to go ! " said IVIrs. Mushet. 
 
 " It was. I can't remember ezacally why I went ; but it 
 was along of horses. I was very understanding with 
 horses, and I went, and I drove a pair for very rich people. 
 And there I married, aged fifty-one years. I left my wife 
 at Leeds — underground, you understand. God knows I 
 wouldn't have left her any place else, for a better wife no 
 man had." 
 
 " Any family ? " 
 
 " One son, as ran away to sea. It troubled her ; but 
 were no loss to me, for he wasn't a nice boy, though I say 
 it. Last of the race I am, for I doubt he's drowned. 
 Twelve brothers I had — all gone, and sisters all gone. 
 There might have been four or five girls — I can't mind 
 'em now. Loved horses I did. Could make 'em do every- 
 thing but talk. And for that matter they did talk to me 
 in their own simple language." 
 
 " I'll warrant you understood them, Mr. Pettikin,"
 
 SAMUEL MUSHET'S HOLIDAY 157 
 
 " If you're kind to them, they're kind to you. A horse 
 does as he's done by in a very Christian spirit. My old 
 people wouldn't let anybody drive 'em but me. Master 
 was ninety-two when he went and I drove the hearse — 
 wouldn't let anybody drive him but me, you see, dead or 
 alive." 
 
 " You'll live to be as old as him, I shouldn't wonder," 
 said Samuel. 
 
 " I shouldn't wonder if I did," declared Mr. Pettikin. 
 " I'm very careful, for I want to live, though if you was to 
 ask me why, I couldn't tell you. Exercise the bones and 
 thej^'ll hold together and you live ; pamper 'em and they'll 
 fall apart and you die. I get up every morning at five 
 o'clock and hot my drink, and I go to bed at dark, or 
 soon after." 
 
 " You must have seen a lot of changes," said Samuel. 
 
 " I must," admitted Mr. Pettikin ; " but I take no count 
 of 'em ; I just go on weeding out the weeds. I dare say, if 
 it could be known, I've weeded out more weeds than any 
 man in Essex. There's Richard Bare, a young man still ; 
 he's weeded a lot of weeds, but not so many as me." 
 
 Samuel Mushet felt in his pocket and brought out a 
 leather purse. He opened it and seemed surprised. Then 
 he presented the aged gardener with half-a-crown, and 
 expressed great pleasure at meeting him again. 
 
 " And if ever you go as far as Brightlingsea, mind you 
 come in and see us," said Nancy. 
 
 " Thank you, Mrs. Mushet, ma'am, and I will do so ; and 
 long life to you and your good man also," said ]Mr. Petti- 
 kin. " I'd always hoped to see him again, and I'm very 
 pleased it's happened." 
 
 The}' left him, and Samuel spoke to Mrs. Mushet as 
 thej' returned with Gregory to tea. 
 
 " Did I give you a fi'-pun note at the station.'^ " he asked. 
 
 " No," she said. " You gave me nothing," 
 
 " Then I'm very sorry to report I've lost it," declared 
 Mr. Mushet ruefully. " Looking in my purse a minute
 
 158 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 ago for a trifle for that old man, I missed it; but it must 
 have broken loose after I took the railway tickets at Brit- 
 tlesea, without a doubt." 
 
 " Oh dear, oh dear, that's serious," declared Nancy. 
 
 " Hope for the best," advised Samuel's brother. 
 
 " I was a bit rattled at the ticket office by a lot of sol- 
 diers," explained the engineer. " The fine men caught my 
 eye and I didn't look after the business in hand." 
 
 " You may get it back yet if some honest person picked 
 it up," said Margery ; but Samuel felt small hope. He 
 relapsed into gloom, harped on his misfortune, and rather 
 spoiled the tea. Gregory appeared callous, and showed a 
 certain amount of indifference to his brother's trouble. 
 
 " It all depends on the spirit you take it in," he told 
 Nancy. " If you look at it as interest for a whole year 
 on a hundred pounds saved, then, I grant, it seems a bit 
 serious ; but when you think England's spending a lot more 
 than five pounds a second, then it looks small." 
 
 Gregory and their niece saw husband and wife to the 
 station presently, and they departed with expressions of 
 pleasure and gratitude at their entertainment.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 Helena's picnic 
 
 There came a day, long desired, when Geoffrey Seabrook 
 joined Mrs. Ambrose at Mersea and went for a picnic with 
 her. He made an early start by the motor omnibus from 
 Colchester, and enjoyed a ride on the top of that vehicle 
 to West Mersea, where the lady awaited him in snowy 
 white serge, with a white yachtsman's hat, a veil as blue as 
 Demeter's, and a parasol to match it. Both brought ad- 
 ditions to the feast, and Seabrook, who was in grey flannels 
 and yellow boots, had his hands full as they proceeded to 
 the Blackwater estuary, whence the start was to be made. 
 A maze of land and water spread here, the marshes being 
 protected from the sea by dykes and the saltings extend- 
 ing into the mud of the estuary and suffering tidal sub- 
 mersions. 
 
 " Old Adam Wyde is going to row us out to the creek 
 where he has his oysters," explained Helena. " Then w-e 
 shall land and roam away together for the day, and he'll 
 go about his business and come back for us in the evening." 
 
 " I wish he'd forget to," declared Geoffrey. " Fancy 
 being marooned with you on the marshes ! " 
 
 " We can think of something nicer than that," she said. 
 " And mind you pay attention to Adam. And if it ever 
 came out we'd been here, as it may, then Adam is the 
 excuse. The Wydes have belonged to IMersea ever since 
 men had names, I believe. He preaches in the chapels — 
 a fanatic, but quite amusing. He's said to know all INIil- 
 ton by heart, and I dare say he does." 
 
 " Sounds rather dull," murmured Geoffrey ; but Helena 
 assured him the fisherman was anything but dull ; and then 
 
 159
 
 160 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 they descended the beach and found Adam and his boat at 
 water's brink. 
 
 Mr. Wyde was tall and powerful, with a Roman nose, 
 red-brown face and grizzled, red-brown hair. His grey 
 eyes were small and penetrating, his moustache and beard 
 were cropped close to his face. He wore no hat or coat, 
 and his blue linen shirt had no collar, but was fastened 
 with a brass stud. Helena greeted him in friendship, and 
 he relieved Geoffrey of the parcels. 
 
 " Adam's got a fishery of his own," explained Helena, 
 " and you can't beat his oysters. You're to take some 
 home with you to-day." 
 
 " My oysters are a bit green in the beard this year," 
 confessed Mr. Wyde. " It's a pity there's a prejudice 
 against it, for the fish ain't a penny the worse. In fact, 
 there was a time when green-bearded oysters were the 
 fashion. We've got a bit of rotten shell among us too. 
 'Tis a boring sponge that does it, and the oyster shell gets 
 soft and can't be exported without smashing. They won't 
 take 'em at Ostend, though this year it's no great matter, 
 because all foreign trade's shut down and not an oyster 
 is leaving the land." 
 
 Overhead a pride of herons circled and soared. The 
 sun beat down and Helena gave Geoffrey a little shade 
 from her parasol. They passed other boats hanging 
 about the little peninsulas of mud and sedge with fisher- 
 men at their trawls ; and then they reached the flats above 
 Adam's own layerings. The tide was low, and the islets 
 and banks of earth shone above it, their purple pelt of the 
 sea lavender bright under the sunshine. Red and white 
 butterflies danced over the flowers. 
 
 Mr. Wyde brought his boat ashore and, without any 
 ado, picked up Mrs. Ambrose and carried her over five 
 yards of slime and ooze to dry ground ; but Geoffrey, who 
 mourned for his yellow boots and would have liked to be 
 carried also, was left to make the best of his way to 
 land.
 
 HELENA'S PICNIC 161 
 
 " I'm going to look at some new wholves ^ in my oyster 
 pits," said Adam, " and then I'm going back to Mersea 
 City. And at five of the clock I'll be here for you. This 
 is an island at high tide, and don't you walk too far inland, 
 else you won't be able to get back to it." 
 
 He left them and they strolled away to seek shade and 
 seclusion. Above the marshes rose protecting banks, and 
 within these earthern walls spread miles of grazing ground. 
 Here and there in the midst stood a clump of trees, while 
 sheep and cattle roamed over the wide meadows, or clus- 
 tered beside a water-hole where rushes spattered their 
 dark green upon the grass. Fences ran here and tlicre to 
 separate the pastures ; but the land was so low that only 
 a streak of the distant sea ran above the banks, and while 
 the sails of an occasional oyster ketch, or barge, loomed 
 over the green dykes, their hulls might not be seen. 
 
 The lovers talked together as they walked, and Helena 
 told of the joy with which she had anticipated their little 
 holiday. 
 
 " How heavenly it will be when we can escape for a week 
 together," she said. 
 
 His eyes were on a pumping-house in the deserted fields. 
 
 " The very place," he declared. " We'll find some shade 
 there, anyway. I've brought you a bottle of that spar- 
 kling moselle you love." 
 
 " Angel ! " 
 
 Seabrook lacked wisdom, but was rich in wisdom's bas- 
 tard brother, cunning. She talked of the subjects that 
 interested her erotic mind, and his point of view appeared. 
 
 " The platitudes you hear about love are so wearisome," 
 she said. " A woman I know, who wants a man and can't 
 get him, says she believes that yielding is the surest way of 
 winning him, body and soul. Whereas nine times out of 
 ten it's the siege and not the conquest that is the fun for 
 you wretches.'' 
 
 1 Wholves, sluices.
 
 162 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 " Because sieges vary and conquests are more or less 
 alike," said Geoffrey. " But that's not love as it came to 
 me and you." 
 
 " No, no — we're not love-hunters." 
 
 " A man who is really loved," he assured her, " has won 
 an ally second to none in the world. That means some- 
 thing beyond the ken of those sensual fools — men or 
 women — you call love-hunters. We found each other, 
 and that meant that we found the best the earth had 
 for each other. Sit down on my coat. This shade's 
 heaven." 
 
 They called a halt, and he dropped the lunch and went 
 on talking. 
 
 " I number over the things you mean to me — the Good, 
 the Most High, the Complete Satisfaction, the All-Em- 
 bracing, the Rain, the Sun, Inspiration, Refuge, Sanc- 
 tuary — all that and ever so much more — Food, Drink, 
 the Bread of Life and the Wine of Life." 
 
 " You're a darling ! I wish I was half you think me." 
 
 She came and sat on his lap, and he caressed her. 
 
 " How long is your husband going to be away ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 " I don't know. He'll soon be bored and come home, 
 unless commissions brighten things for him." 
 
 " Thank God we're patient and can look a long way 
 ahead. But sometimes my heart sinks. He's the sort of 
 well-regulated man that " 
 
 Geoffrey broke off, while Helena played with his ear 
 and stroked his hair. 
 
 " To him you are just a wife," said Seabrook, " just a 
 wife in the most dismal acceptation of the term. To me, 
 you're the brightest manifestation of all that's vital and 
 sublime and unique. He thinks the world of you, too; 
 but then what is his idea of the world? He's not mentally 
 built to measure you, or receive what you can give. For 
 you to live with him is like playing a Bach fugue to a 
 baby. It's I — outside in the cold — who know the mean-
 
 HELENA'S PICNIC 163 
 
 ing of the Bach fugue — not he who lives in the same house 
 with the music." 
 
 " I'm all yours to-day, every inch of me, you precious 
 lover ! And always. There's nothing quite like you in 
 the world. You're a phoenix, and so many-sided — so 
 perfectly practical and so perfectly romantic. A woman 
 can be both, of course, but there's not another man in 
 the world but you can be." 
 
 " I doubt if women can be both," he said. " Most of 
 them make themselves think they're romantic; but jolly 
 few women really are after thirt3\" 
 
 " Experience teaches them," declared Helena. " They 
 find that the romantic men don't wear well, and that the 
 practical ones pay best. So they adapt themselves. 
 That's what is so wonderful in you. You're a poet and 
 yet so self-possessed and self-controlled and — and — 
 almost businesslike." 
 
 " We've got to keep awake, both of us. If we didn't, 
 we might find reality clashing into our romance a little too 
 sharply to be pleasant." 
 
 " I know, that's almost the most wonderful thing of all 
 — to make me feel absolutely safe, as you do." 
 He smiled. 
 
 " Love sharpens the wits. Men cooling in love grow 
 careless. That's the beginning of the end and a danger 
 signal for the woman. I love you better every day of my 
 life — so you are as safe as any sweetheart on earth, be- 
 cause the very edge and sharpness of my brain is sacred 
 to you." 
 
 " You triumph over difficulties so amazingly — oh, I 
 adore you for it, and am never tired of wondering." 
 
 " I see the danger-points, and keep clear of them. Do 
 you know what I used to fear before I found that you were 
 as wise as you are precious? At first I speculated some- 
 times if I should ever be in the beastly fix of having to pick 
 a quarrel with my master, or fall out with my mistress — a 
 pretty choice of evils. But you soon showed me that fear
 
 164 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 was vain. We're pretty clever, both of us ; and our trump 
 card lies in this, that we both respect and admire JNIr. Am- 
 brose so highly. On his own plane, he is an admirable 
 man. It's not pretence in the least when I praise him." 
 
 " There are times when I hate him awfully — when he 
 patronises you, that's the worst. It makes me mad." 
 
 " Don't let it do that. I like him to patronise me. It's 
 only a question of your sense of humour. For the rest we 
 must be patient and weigh our chances. People would 
 say we were infernally cynical ; but we're not : we've only 
 got the will to live and the will to enjoy unusually devel- 
 oped." 
 
 He pressed her close to him and shut his eyes, like a cat 
 rolling over in the sun. 
 
 "Don't let's think, let's feel — just feel we're in each 
 other's arms, and happy and healthy," she purred. 
 
 " If you can balance thinking with feeling, you keep 
 your dish of life upright and get the best out of both 
 worlds," he said. 
 
 When Helena Ambrose entered this man's life, a deep 
 understanding arose between them. They soon estab- 
 lished the closest possible intimacy, and he was absolutely 
 faithful, and intended to be so for the sake of the future. 
 They looked far ahead and trusted each other. 
 
 Life and training had never put any conscience into Sea- 
 brook and he secretly ignored human values when they 
 clashed with his own, but openly professed them at all 
 times. He tried to make people think him old-fashioned, 
 and most people did. But he only played hypocrite from 
 necessity, not choice, and had wealth and independence 
 been his portion, he would possibly have taken all that he 
 could get without pretence. Need induced the vice, and 
 from his schooldays he practised it and amused himself 
 with his extraordinary skill in duplicity. It had now 
 become second nature to him, and he was often devious for 
 the love of being devious. He had native skill in estima- 
 tion of character and delighted Helena by his display of it.
 
 HELENA'S PICNIC 165 
 
 He made no miscalculations, and had thus far committed 
 no error in their intrigue and inspired her to the same end. 
 She was quick, and bettered his instruction, but lacked his 
 absolute flair. He anticipated the least shadow of danger, 
 and his precautions were such that caution never appeared 
 to be necessary. 
 
 Helena laughed now, and reminded him of recent inci- 
 dents. 
 
 " It's like playing billiards," he said. " The good 
 player never leaves himself a difficult shot. There's only 
 one danger in the world for us. As long as other people 
 do what they ought to do, and keep in character and 
 behave regularly, and don't go in for unrehearsed effects, 
 nothing can ever floor us. We're safe as good motorists 
 are safe, while everybody else plays the game. But 
 nobody's proof against the idiot on the wrong side of the 
 road. As long as people behave consistently, we are all 
 right. Only an earthquake or a lunatic can give the show 
 away." 
 
 " We must avoid earthquakes and lunatics, my dear 
 genius," she said. 
 
 The sun was hot, and the grass was soft and sweet to lie 
 upon. They talked no more and forgot everything but 
 themselves. And a quarter of a mile away, hidden from 
 them by the pumping-house, appeared two objects, not 
 sheep or cattle, but a tattered man with a sack on his 
 back and a sweltering woman, in whose straw hat stuck up 
 a turkey's feather. 
 
 " I'm running away, like a bit of fat afore the fire," 
 said " Marmalade Emma " to William. 
 
 " There's shade t'other side the pumping-house," he 
 answered. " We'll camp there and empty the bottles 
 and have a sleep." 
 
 They spoke no more and shambled along silently over 
 the meadow. Emma gasped, and her tongue hung from 
 the side of her mouth like a dog's. As they approached 
 the promise of shade and ascended the hillock to the
 
 166 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 pumping-house, the sound of a woman's laughter arrested 
 them, and WilHam held up his hand. Whereupon Emma 
 stood still, and he, dropping his sack, went on all fours 
 and crept to the angle of the wall. 
 
 A moment later his red, crapulous face was thrust round 
 the corner. He pulled it back instantly, but Seabrook 
 had seen him. Billy beckoned Emma, spoke to her, cleared 
 his throat loudly once or twice and then, after fetching 
 his sack, marched into the company of the picnickers. 
 
 "Nothing happens but the unexpected, does it.''" he 
 said. " Just come for a sun-bath, I expect, like me and 
 Emma." 
 
 Seabrook only knew the pair by sight, but Helena had 
 been friendly to them in secret on several occasions. She 
 exercised presence of mind, expressed great regret at 
 William's recent illness and hoped he was better. 
 
 " Dr. Carbonell told me you had consulted him," she 
 said. 
 
 " Yes, I consulted him," answered William. " A very 
 large-minded man for his age. I'm all right. Emma and 
 myself are spending a bit of time on the saltings for our 
 health's sake. Getting great good from it, ain't we, 
 Emma ? " 
 
 Emma's round eyes were fixed on Geoffrey Seabrook. 
 She did not answer. 
 
 " Just a little picnic," explained Helena. " Mr. Sea- 
 brook and I " 
 
 But the utter futility of offering any explanation im- 
 pressed her and she stopped. 
 
 " Loneliest place in Essex, too," grinned William. 
 " Some people have no luck. If it's a picnic, you've got 
 something to eat, and we're short in that direction. I've 
 a drop of drink in my bag; but we're badly off for vict- 
 uals." 
 
 " We're fed up with mushrooms, and there ain't much 
 else here," said Emma. 
 
 Seabrook turned his attention to his parcels.
 
 HELENA'S PICNIC 167 
 
 " Stop and have some with us, Emma," suggested 
 Helena ; but William declined, 
 
 " No, no — two's company. And Emma's terrible par- 
 ticular who she knows. How's brother Parkjm ? In Scot- 
 land, they tell me — eating grouse and wearing a kilt, I 
 suppose.^ Deer-stalking, perhaps? He'll bring yon 
 home a pair of fine antlers, I shouldn't wonder." 
 
 Seabrook heaped delicate food into Emma's apron and, 
 ignoring the ribald William, sought to please his com- 
 panion. 
 
 " Have some cigarettes, too? " he asked. 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " Nasty thing, cigarettes," declared William. " We're 
 pipe smokers. Now we'll jog along. And don't you 
 worry — you're all right. Mum's the word. We'll go 
 back to the next pump-house, a mile off, where we sleep of 
 a night." 
 
 " Have a drink before you go," proposed Geoffrey ; but 
 Emma declined. 
 
 " Not out of your bottle," she said. 
 
 " So long, my children ; thank you for your hospitality. 
 Good appetite — good luck ! I'm sure he's a nice young 
 man, Helena — can see that by the way he waxes his little 
 moustache ! " 
 
 For some time after William had departed the lovers 
 said nothing at all. Helena was hysterical. 
 
 " ' Your little moustache ! your little moustache ! ' " she 
 kept giggling, apropos of nothing. 
 
 Geoffrey arranged their luncheon and opened a bottle 
 of sparkling wine. 
 
 " Drink," he said ; " you want it." 
 
 She was woful presently and full of care : he pretended 
 to more calm than he felt, and estimated the significance 
 of this discovery. 
 
 The seasoning of their meal was not love, but a series 
 of shrewd calculations. Helena had become vexed and 
 pettish, and the man's first care was to restore her equi-
 
 168 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 librium. He endeavoured so to do by making light of the 
 incident. 
 
 " Luckily you've always been kind to the creatures. It 
 may mean a little blackmailing ; but if they start that, the 
 only way will be to frighten them. You see nobody, last 
 of all Ambrose, would take their word against yours ; so 
 even if they had the wish to hurt, they wouldn't have the 
 power. But I doubt if they've got the wish to hurt." 
 
 " He might have the wish to hurt Parkyn, and he 
 wouldn't care who else suffered. He hates Parkyn. 
 That's the danger." 
 
 " I expect he's pretty shrewd." 
 
 "No he isn't — he's just a thing of impulse. He's 
 dead to all decency ; you could see that by what he said." 
 
 " We must discount him, then, and not make any secret 
 of the picnic. The rest would merely appear to be the 
 man's own enmity and malignance. Everybody knows the 
 relations between him and his brother. Your husband, as 
 I say, would not believe it for an instant. The beauty of 
 our real friendship has been that not a soul on earth can 
 point to the shadow of its existence." 
 
 But she was not so easily comforted. 
 
 " It looks to me just as though the very thing and the 
 only thing that could wreck us has happened," she told 
 him. " Not ten minutes before they came you had said 
 that only a lunatic or an earthquake could wreck us — 
 and now the lunatic's come." 
 
 But he would not allow this. 
 
 " He's not a lunatic, and if we treat him as a responsi- 
 ble person he'll behave as one. For the minute 3'ou must 
 write to Mr. Ambrose and tell him I came along early with 
 flowers for you, and you kept me and took me to see Adam 
 Wyde. You must say we went on to the saltings, and met 
 his brother and gave him some food. I shall write and 
 mention the fact that you took me out to lunch. I believe 
 he won't think of it again, and you'll soon see, when he
 
 HELENA'S PICNIC 169 
 
 comes home, if there is anything to trouble us. Has that 
 woman any control over William Ambrose? " 
 
 "How do I know? I suppose she has: she always 
 crawls about with him." 
 
 " Well, don't worry before there's anything to worry 
 about. I'm not going to take this seriously. The man's 
 a gin-sodden creature, and a drunkard's memory is worth- 
 less to begin with. He won't be difficult." 
 
 Geoffrey talked and talked; but the day was spoiled, 
 and they were not sorry to go back to the landing-place 
 presently. Indeed they reached it some time before Mr. 
 Wyde returned for them ; therefore they sought him at his 
 oyster pits on the mud banks. By this time Helena's 
 ruffled feathers were a little smoother. She would not let 
 Geoffrey go until he promised to come and see her again 
 in three days, and secretly she intended to call at " Colne- 
 side " before that date. For his part Seabrook came to 
 the conclusion that there need be no great cause for alarm. 
 He decided to recognise the tramps and show friendship, 
 if he came across them; but not to seek them. Helena 
 would mention them in her letter to her husband, but 
 Geoffrey knew that good taste demanded that he should not 
 allude to the brother of Mr. Ambrose. For his part he 
 would dwell on the pleasure of the day, the inunense kind- 
 ness of Mrs. Ambrose, and the interest of meeting such 
 an intelligent and original fisherman as Mr. W3'de. 
 
 They found the old man by his pits, between which ran 
 little pathways of crushed oyster shell. 
 
 " The wholves are very well done you'll be glad to hear," 
 he told them, " and I praised the hand that repaired them. 
 'Always keep a good word for a good job,' is m}' motto, 
 ' and don't spare blame for a bad one.' Here's some 
 oyster shells I've picked up for you to see. ' German writ- 
 ing ' we call that. It's a sea worm that builds on the shell 
 and makes that scrawl over it — as hard as stone. In 
 fact it is stone."
 
 170 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 " Why German writing? " asked Helena ; but Mr. Wyde 
 could not say. 
 
 The scene had changed and, on the top of the tide, 
 their boat soon floated over green banks of sea lavender 
 and silver orache, now submerged. Helena looked down 
 through the water and could see the flowers and grasses 
 glimmering beneath it. Where butterflies had danced lit- 
 tle fish now moved, and a very beautiful dark purple 
 medusa palpitated in the crystal beside the boat. Others 
 of less lovely colour swam in the sea also, with dark pat- 
 terns painted upon their translucent domes. 
 
 " Stingers," said the fisherman. " Don't you touch 
 'em, Mrs. Ambrose, else you'll suff'er for it. I may tell 
 you I'm pleased. For dredging just now, I fetched up 
 some of my new Nore culch and found nice brood on it. 
 And I've brought you a dozen good oysters for your sup- 
 per, Mrs. Ambrose, hoping you'll accept the same." 
 Helena thanked him and whispered to Geoff^rey — 
 " You shall have them : I never touch them," 
 They landed presently, bade the fisherman farewell and 
 walked up to the starting-point of the motor omnibus for 
 Colchester. Soon Seabrook took his leave. He had won 
 her smiles again before he departed, and went home on the 
 top of the vehicle, thoughtfully damning the incident of 
 the day.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 WEDDED 
 
 Emma and William discussed their adventure after leaving 
 the picnickers. 
 
 " For two pins I'd show up that young dog to Parkyn," 
 said the man. " It would be returning good for evil — 
 that's the only objection." 
 
 " Helena Ambrose has always been very sporting, and 
 we've had a good few half-sovs out of her on the quiet," 
 answered Emma. " 'Tis a master-bit of wickedness and 
 all that, but you always do look all round a thing, and 
 when you look all round that woman's life lived along witli 
 your brother, you feel 'tis a case for Christian charit3\ 
 Goodstruth ! Think of her — a man-eating sort of woman 
 like her — doomed to live with her husband, and not a mite 
 of comfort from j^ear to year." 
 
 " I don't blame her for trying to get a bit of life into 
 life. But the chap's fair game. He kept his nerve. He 
 may be a fool, or he may not. We shall see. If he comes 
 to me, he's a fool. If he don't, perhaps I shall go to him. 
 I want a bit of mone}^ against the winter." 
 
 " Don't 3^ou do nothing mean like that. You ain't that 
 sort. I expect he's nilly skeercd in a fit about it, because 
 he works at * Colneside ' and gets his bread from j^our 
 brother. He must be a terrible deceitful young man — 
 properly wicked, you might say. Perhaps, if he gets to 
 know Mrs. Brown is painting my picture in the gardens 
 next week, he'll offer to make friends." 
 
 For Emma had so far conquered William on Aveline's 
 behalf that he consented to the proposed picture, and a 
 week after the adventure on the saltings, she kept an ap- 
 
 171
 
 172 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 pointment, sat down with her bundle In front of a mass of 
 scarlet torch lilies and permitted her friend to paint her 
 portrait. 
 
 William meantime took off his withered boots, washed 
 his feet in a lily pond and then slumbered on a sunny 
 bank. Seabrook was aware from Mistley that the pair 
 were in the gardens ; but he revealed no interest and made 
 no effort to see them. 
 
 " The beggar was over at Mersea last week, when Mrs. 
 Ambrose took me to see old Adam Wyde, and we gave him 
 and that appalling woman half our lunch. However, she 
 was picturesque. I expect Mrs. Brown will make a de- 
 lightful drawing." 
 
 Since the announcement of his engagement, Peter Mist- 
 ley had received many congratulations, and none more 
 hearty than those of his colleague. The wedding was not 
 to be delayed ; indeed they only waited, at Helena's wish, 
 until Mr. Ambrose should return ; and then, to please the 
 master rather than themselves, they agreed to be married 
 in church. 
 
 Both desired a civil marriage only ; but Mr. Ambrose 
 argued with Peter and made such a point of it, that the 
 draughtsman could not, without ungraciousness, refuse. 
 
 " If it were a matter of conscience I should be the last 
 to raise the question," said Parkyn ; " but my wife tells me 
 that Mrs. Brown is indifferent, and I am sure you are not 
 so narrow-minded as to feel any personal objection to our 
 noble service, or quarrel with those who hold matrimony a 
 solemn sacrament." 
 
 " We only want it as quiet as can be, Mr. Ambrose." 
 
 " That is your affair. But my wife and I will attend 
 the ceremony, if you have no objection." 
 
 " It is paying us a great compliment," said Peter. He 
 had planned a brief holiday after the event ; and Aveline 
 begged for Cornwall, which pleased him well enough. 
 
 At church but few appeared, and behind the company, 
 alone, sat Emma, under the turkey feather. Her eyes
 
 WEDDED 173 
 
 were moist and she dreamed dreams, for she had grown to 
 love Aveline. 
 
 She told William all about the service afterwards. 
 
 " They went straight away from the church door to the 
 station," she said ; " but I flung my bag of rice over 'em 
 and then hooked it before the gang came out. There was 
 Margery Mayhew along with old Greg Mushet, and 
 Helena, all ashimmering, in a gown like as if she'd rolled 
 in a flower-bed, and 3"our brother — just as usual. And 
 that beauty you catched at Mersea — he was sitting down 
 the church a hundred miles ofi^, as if butter wouldn't melt 
 in his mouth. And she — Aveline — in silver grey, and a 
 white feather to her hat — just a aingel in woman's 
 clothes. My Gord ! she is a lovely piece ! I hope he'll be 
 good to her. A dark-faced man, with straight eyebrows 
 and stiff in the back ; but 'andsome. I was a mark on the 
 chap when he came out, and popped the rice all over him. 
 He laughed, and she said 'twas nice of me to be there. 
 They take the honey-month away West." 
 
 At Penzance Mistley visited certain noble gardens with- 
 out form but rich in notable plants ; while Aveline rejoiced 
 at the cliffs and the sea. They lived in a dream of abso- 
 lute happiness, unclouded as far as he was concerned. 
 With marriage she emptied nearly all her heart to him, 
 yet found that the secret arcanum she had pictured as 
 being thrown open at last, was now closed for ever. She 
 hoped vaguely that it would never be opened at all, and 
 yet, at the bottom of her mind, was a fixed conviction that 
 it would. She soothed her soul by telling Peter many 
 things that she could not tell him before their marriage. 
 
 They went to the Scilly Islands that they might see a 
 very famous collection of plants; and, in the steamer, as 
 they sat together and watched the sea, she spoke of the 
 past. 
 
 " After we were married — the moment after — I knew 
 he was no good to me — body or soul. Good to nearly
 
 174 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 everybody, but not to me. You'd say I ought to have 
 found that out sooner; but I didn't. The secret of the 
 sex union is often an apocalypse to a girl. It ought to 
 be a minor thing; but it isn't, and a maiden can't know 
 before, and afterwards it is too late. I knew the day fol- 
 lowing my marriage that my husband wasn't the man I 
 ought to share my life with. Being a man yourself, I sup- 
 pose you can't understand what an insufferable, appalling 
 sort of discovery that was. It nearly drove me mad, any- 
 way. Our honeymoon was one long dreadful deceit on my 
 part, and the more I knew this couldn't be love, the fiercer 
 I fought to make it appear that it was. He didn't find 
 it out ; I don't think he ever did find it out — till I told 
 him." 
 
 " What were the symptoms when you settled down to 
 live with him ? " asked Peter. 
 
 *' Everything seemed incomplete, as if you began dinner 
 and had to stop with the fish. I felt tremendous possi- 
 bilities about me, if I only had food to make me strong 
 enough for them. Spiritual food, I mean." 
 
 " No sympathy ? " 
 
 " Plenty ; but no understanding — and sympathy with- 
 out that is bricks without mortar. He couldn't see and 
 I couldn't explain, because no explanation would have 
 made him see. You can't alter people by explaining them 
 to themselves: you only alter their opinion of you. He 
 was a very learned man, and so gentle that he wouldn't 
 have hurt a fly. And 3'^et he tortured me. So I starved 
 and felt that, for nothing but simple starvation, I was not 
 doing the little I might do." 
 
 " Didn't he like your pictures.'' " 
 
 " How could he ? That was nothing. He had his own 
 tastes, and if my pictures bored him, much that he enjoyed 
 bored me. But those are outside things. He often did 
 like my pictures and I was often interested in sides of his 
 work. It wasn't that. It was his attitude to married 
 life."
 
 WEDDED 175 
 
 " You were made to be loved, and he didn't love you? " 
 
 " He thought he did. He was a model husband ; but 
 there's such a lot of difference between a model and a real 
 thing, isn't there? No, he didn't love me, because he 
 couldn't. Lots of people — women as well as men — 
 think they are loving somebody, when all the time, they 
 haven't got the power to do it. Love's no more given to 
 everybody than any other gift. And what does a girl 
 know about it before she feels it — or a boy, either? 
 They're attracted : they like each other ; they build up pic- 
 tures of each other and think about each other and say, 
 ' This is love. How wonderful — how tremendous ! ' 
 They they're fearfully proud of each other for being in 
 love with each other, and presents they marry ; and then, 
 if by bad luck one does really find out what love means, 
 while the other goes ambling uneventful!}^ on incapable of 
 love — there you are — a tragcd}'." 
 
 " The only hope is for neither ever to feel the real 
 thing," said Mistley. " Then you get a happ}^ marriage." 
 
 " Neither, or both. If both do, then they can part like 
 a gentleman and gentlewoman. But if one does and the 
 other doesn't — if one knows it's all wrong and the other 
 thinks it's all right " 
 
 " I Avonder what you'd have done if your liusband hadn't 
 died? " he asked. 
 
 " Died myself," she said. " One of us had to die." 
 
 Presently she surprised Peter. 
 
 " You're like him in some ways — yes, you are ; but oh, 
 so gloriously unlike him, too." 
 
 The man felt a queer shadow, a chill — not for himself 
 but for the dead. Peter unconsciously accepted the con- 
 vention that to speak ill of the dead is unworthy. Avcline 
 had not spoken ill of the dead explicitly ; but it seemed to 
 him that she was callous. He set it down to all she had 
 suffered. 
 
 " The huge difference between you is that 3'ou can laugh, 
 and that to you art is alive," she went on. '* If we ever
 
 176 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 quarrelled, you and I, we'd only have to begin talking of 
 art to forgive each other in five minutes." 
 
 " Yet he cared for art? " 
 
 " Only in a deadly, archaeological sort of way. He 
 liked things in the same way that Dr. Corbonell likes them 
 — for their bearing on history, not for their bearing on 
 your heart and soul. Pottery and flint arrowheads never 
 made him joyous; or if they did, he never showed it. He 
 was born without imagination. Once I felt more sick of 
 life than usual, and I wouldn't get up, and said I'd got a 
 headache, because if I'd said I'd got a heartache he 
 wouldn't have understood. Then came a wretched piano- 
 organ outside the house and I jumped up naked and 
 danced — just danced round and round my bedroom. And 
 he came up with some dry toast and a cup of tea and 
 caught me whirling about like a drunken bacchante. He 
 thought I had gone mad. He began to talk to me gently 
 and soothingly ; but when I said I wasn't mad in the least, 
 he became angry — angry for him, that is — and told me 
 I was no longer a child. My God ! I knew that well 
 enough. What d'you suppose pained him most? He 
 said, ' Think if the housemaid had come in ! ' " 
 
 " And what did you answer? " 
 
 " I told him housemaids don't come in without knock- 
 ing." 
 
 Peter stroked her hand. 
 
 " Poor little chappie ! " he said. 
 
 For her confidences Aveline won Peter's ; but his life had 
 been uneventful and for the most part devoted to work. 
 He, too, was an orphan, and had no near relations. They 
 shared only one skeleton, but that was as yet so far dis- 
 tant that it seemed small. There existed the possibility 
 that Peter might be called to the army ; yet for the pres- 
 ent no demand had gone forth, and he laboured under no 
 immediate sense that it was his duty to enlist. She, for 
 her part, trusted that the need would not arise. 
 
 They lived in the passing hour, and the woman, with her
 
 WEDDED 177 
 
 genius for subordinating painful thought, was happier 
 than she had ever been; while he rejoiced as the sublime 
 understanding grew between them, and the full splendour 
 of a very perfect love swept like a dawn over wedded life. 
 
 From the first she took deep interest in his work and 
 appreciated his theories. That she had indeed already 
 done ; but now he found that Aveline had no mind to look 
 on from the outside. From mastering his principles, she 
 brought her own artistic inventiveness to bear upon them, 
 and though never once did she advance advice, or do more 
 than praise what he had made, or intended to make, yet 
 when he invited an opinion, or asked her to judge between 
 alternatives, she hesitated not to do so ; and it was not 
 love that made him know she was right, but art. 
 
 " Now your every garden's a bit of myself, because it's 
 a bit of yourself," she told him. 
 
 " The only mistakes you ever make," he said, '' are be- 
 cause you haven't yet mastered the stuff I have to work 
 in." 
 
 As intimacy ripened the woman noticed a new thing in 
 the man — a manifestation of character that had seldom 
 appeared during the anxieties of his courting. He grew 
 now more genial, saw more humour in the world and dis- 
 played more humour in his own outlook. They often 
 laughed together and she quickened his sense of the comic. 
 But the war came nearer. 
 
 " You open my eyes wider every day," he said. 
 
 " Not I," she answered ; " it's only your own feeling for 
 justice. You see what a difference there is between two 
 people who have got the best thing in the world and nearly 
 everybody else. And you see what's the average luck of 
 the average man and woman." 
 
 " Khaki's another colour now," he answered ; but she 
 had not meant that. Indeed she was quick to turn his 
 thoughts from the war to the best of her power. Yet, 
 from the height of his own triumphant happiness, he was 
 too just to refuse the larger vision that it brought. Tlie
 
 178 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 war knocked at their door with bony fingers. The enemy 
 flew by night above their new home ; the men from France 
 were coming and going in thousands. Peter began to 
 spend some of his leisure with the wounded. He went 
 shyly at first, much doubting his power to entertain them ; 
 but he persisted, and the experience proved valuable. The 
 massive testimony of man after man accumulated and 
 awoke in him a pride of country that the artist is often 
 found to deprecate. He had been international in thought 
 and feeling, he had held that the artist belongs to a com- 
 monwealth whose bounds extend beyond all lands, to em- 
 brace all peoples. But now he found in time of storm that 
 it was a very great thing to be an Englishman ; he took 
 " the thunder of that ancient name upon his lips with rev- 
 erence " ; and Aveline shared his growing pride in the 
 achievements of the kingdom. 
 
 Through this influence, and by many other channels, 
 the inner natures of both ripened, while the bases of their 
 united life grew broad and took firm root beneath the 
 beauty of perfect relationship. 
 
 " I believe we're only beginning to know all that love 
 really means," said she, after they had been married for 
 six weeks. " It's like a heavenly flower just opening, 
 Peter — every day seems to show another delicious petal."
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 THE POPPY 
 
 Mrs. Jane Hempson felt sorry for herself, and with rea- 
 son. Since the departure of Aveline the widow had not 
 succeeded in getting another lodger ; and now her son was 
 about to go to France with his regiment. He spent a few 
 days with her before he started. 
 
 Neither was sentimental, but they loved one another, 
 and the mother spoke of a matter near her heart. 
 
 " I don't hold with a lot of these young men rushing 
 into marriage before they go abroad," she said. " In a 
 good few cases it's a hysterical sort of business on both 
 sides, and doubtfully fair to the State, because there's 
 bound to be a cruel lot of these bo3's fall, and that means 
 pensions that the nation may have to go on paying for 
 more than half a century. But you " 
 
 He stopped her. 
 
 " Haven't you said enough to prove my case is just like 
 all the rest? Granted that I'm older than these lads 
 rushing into it, then so much the more reason I should 
 have sense. And Margery " 
 
 " If you hadn't interrupted, Andrew, you'd have found 
 there was no need to," replied Mrs. Hempson. " I'm not 
 saying you ought to marry her — not for a minute — but 
 I am saying you might get something definite before you 
 go. You want it, and I've told 3'ou she wants it." 
 
 " That's what I can't believe," he said. " We're very 
 good friends, and she knows I value her friendship ; and 
 she also knows that if things had gone right before the 
 war, I should have asked her to marry me, wlien I came 
 back. But they didn't, and they're not gloriously right 
 
 179
 
 180 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 now, either. I'm doing my duty and that's all you can 
 say." 
 
 " You make me despair," answered his mother. " Don't 
 you know, even now, after all Mrs. Mistley told me and all 
 I've gleaned for myself, that she can't be free, and that 
 there's only one man in the world for her? " 
 
 "If I thought so I'd — I'd just touch on the subject 
 and remind her of the understanding, to be special friends, 
 that we had before I went to China, and ask her if it can 
 stand while I'm in France." 
 
 *' It's a cold-blooded sort of arrangement ; but seeing 
 what she feels and the slights she's had to suffer from you, 
 no doubt it will be a glimpse of heaven for her," answered 
 his mother scornfully. 
 
 The unimpassioned Andrew would not, however, grant 
 this. 
 
 " You may say this and Mrs. Mistley may say that ; but 
 you can't be dead sure you're right, or know what's in her 
 mind." 
 
 " Why don't you ask her what's in her mind, then, like 
 any sane man would? " 
 
 " There again : I don't think that is within my right. 
 She shall have a chance of telling me, however." 
 
 " You're so vague and shadowy that the poor wretch 
 can't meet you half way and get down to something solid," 
 said Mrs. Hempson. 
 
 He was smoking his pipe after an early breakfast. 
 
 " I'm going into Colchester now, for that matter." 
 
 " Well, I want a message to Margery, so you can take it. 
 You'll catch her before she goes to ' Colneside ' if you 
 start at once. Tell her from me to call this evening; and 
 tell her from yourself But there, you're past pray- 
 ing for," answered Mrs. Hempson. " You properly lost 
 your nerve in China, I believe." 
 
 " Then I hope I shall get it back in France," he said. 
 " But I haven't lost my nerve. It all comes to her atti- 
 tude to me, and I'll go a step towards finding out what
 
 THE POPPY 181 
 
 that exactly is, if I can do so without putting any unfair 
 strain on her mind." 
 
 Jane Hempson watched him depart and shook her head. 
 Andrew's line of action in this great affair appeared slov- 
 enly to his mother. But he was all of a piece, and a certain 
 inexact outlook upon life appeared in this vague view of 
 Margery. " She'll have to go a step or two out of her 
 usual way to meet him, or nothing will ever be done," 
 thought Mrs. Hempson ; " and with her sensitive and high- 
 strung and worked up to a nervous state at the thought 
 of Andrew going, and with him rambling and doubtful, it's 
 a very uncertain thing if they'll ever reach to certainty." 
 
 Andrew meantime went his way, entered presently the 
 outer gate of " Fair View Villa " and found Margery in 
 her garden. She had a little patch of ten square feet 
 granted her by Gregory, and within that space she planted 
 what she pleased. It was in a corner and did not inter- 
 fere with Mr. Mushet's own stern horticulture. 
 
 She had her back turned, but heard his footstep and 
 knew it very well. 
 
 They shook hands and he gave the message from his 
 mother. 
 
 " I'll go, of course," she said. 
 
 " Gardening, I see? " 
 
 " Only making sure my garden is tidy. Uncle Greg lets 
 me have it on condition I keep it as neat as his — and 
 that's an effort. Did you ever see such a garden as his? " 
 
 " It reminds me of soldiers drilling, somehow," he an- 
 swered. " I can't tell 3^ou why ; but it's like a review — 
 everything's presenting arms, as if it was being inspected." 
 
 She remembered a trifle, and a flush of colour came into 
 her face, a look almost of fear into her eyes. She sug- 
 gested a bird that tries to lure a prying stranger away 
 from her nest. Her furtive eyes glanced down at her 
 garden, and then she stood between it and the visitor. 
 
 " Come out to the gate. I must be off," she said. 
 
 " I know ; so must I ; but wait half a moment."
 
 182 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 She stood helpless, divided between rejoicing that he 
 should want to talk, and dread of a little secret only hid- 
 den from him by her person. 
 
 For his part he was wondering what to say, and took 
 refuge in the past. 
 
 " When I drill ray men, nowadays, I often wish that I'd 
 had soldiers to help me when I was collecting plants, in- 
 stead of niggers." 
 
 " If you'd had soldiers, you wouldn't have failed. I ex- 
 pect soldiers like your ways." 
 
 " My ways are different," he said. " If you're an of- 
 ficer, you've got to lead. I look harder than I am." 
 
 " You don't look hard, Andrew. Even without your 
 beard you don't." 
 
 His hands were in his pockets and his head downcast. 
 
 " You and I," he began, " you and I, Margery, have 
 always been jolly sensible." 
 
 " Have we? " 
 
 Involuntarily she moved, and his gaze fell upon a little, 
 mean flower she had thought was concealed. It was a 
 flower for which, when hidden in the seed, he had suffered 
 much. After experiment, however, the crop was de- 
 stroyed, and Andrew did not know that it existed still in 
 England. Now he stared and forgot everything but the 
 little, dirt-coloured poppy that was thriving here and 
 flaunting its ugliness happily. It took him back to the 
 discovery of the capsules, the belief that he had found a 
 very great treasure, his struggle to keep the seed while 
 universal loss and disaster overtook the rest of his expedi- 
 tion, and the memory that for three days and nights the 
 worthless seed-pods had never left his hand. 
 
 " Good Lord, Margery, my poppy ! " he murmured. 
 
 The murder was out, and the little gardener trembled. 
 She had to choose between tears and some other expression 
 of emotion. Indifference before his discovery was impos- 
 sible. She tried to laugh and failed. To pretend she did 
 not know the poppy was there would be vain. For some
 
 THE POPPY 183 
 
 moments she kept silence, and that was the best thing she 
 could do ; for it gave Andrew time to get over his astonish- 
 ment and weigh, in the uncertain balance of his mind, the 
 significance of this discovery. While she half turned her 
 back, he examined his futile flower and saw that only love 
 had set it there. 
 
 " That ! " he said. 
 
 Margery grew very pale. She did not know what to 
 answer. There existed no possible excuse but the right 
 one. 
 
 "I — I value it," she told him, and bent to tend some- 
 thing else. For a while he did not speak, but his mind 
 moved swiftly enough and his dark eyes grew bright. 
 Here surely, if ever, was certainty. The thing thrust out 
 and forgotten had become the headstone of Margery's 
 corner. Why had she treasured a flower worthless every 
 way, but for the reason that made it precious to her heart.'' 
 A thousand assurances from other people had not carried 
 half the weight of this blossom now looking up at the man 
 and reminding him of a bitter past. Yet how much more 
 it told of the present ! Only a fool could misinterpret 
 this, and Andrew was no fool. 
 
 " You little wonder ! " he said. " That tells me what 
 Pve been wanting to know for many a day." 
 
 " It's — it's interesting, Andrew. I kept it " 
 
 " I know why you kept it, and I'll ask you to go on 
 keeping it. I hated it till now. And now I'd go through 
 fire and water for the wretched weed. Come indoors a 
 minute." 
 
 She followed him, and they stood under the picture of 
 Mr. Mushet's wolves. 
 
 " Margery," he said, " I'm going to France next week." 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 " Will you marry me when I come back ? " 
 
 She felt faint, and put out her arms helplessly ; but when 
 she found herself in his, she recovered. 
 
 " I love you, Margery, and have loved you these hun-
 
 184 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 dred years. Only — only for fairness I couldn't fix it up. 
 Everything went wrong and it didn't seem sporting, and 
 — but, after all, it was for you to say ' yes,' or ' no.' 
 I've had it in my mind to give you the chance a thousand 
 times ; but what had I to offer,? And what have I to offer 
 now for that matter but myself? " 
 
 "And what more on earth did you think I wanted?" 
 she asked. " You're everything to me and have been ever 
 since I was old enough to love you." 
 
 " Thank God then — and God forgive me for holding 
 off." 
 
 He blamed himself, with reason enough, for a morbid 
 sensitiveness that had made them both unhappy ; but she 
 would not suffer him to do so. She was soon joyous and 
 lifted him to joy. 
 
 " I hate to go out of your sight now," he said. " Can 
 I come in and see your uncle to-night? I'm fearing he 
 won't take this very well." 
 
 " You needn't fear that." 
 
 " May I come to supper? " 
 
 " Will you? How heavenly of you, Andrew ! " 
 
 He saw her to the entrance gate of " Colneside " pres- 
 ently ; and if Margery's typewriting called for a gentle 
 remonstrance from Mr. Ambrose when the letters came 
 before him, there was a reason for it. 
 
 Gregory Mushet heard the news in the dinner hour and 
 accepted the inevitable with secret restrictions. He said 
 nothing at the time, however, and expressed pleasure, but 
 not surprise. 
 
 " The silly man's found his tongue at last, then. I sup- 
 pose he couldn't well go to France without. But I'll have 
 no marriage before he goes, Margery." 
 
 " He never suggested it, Uncle Greg; and may he come 
 in to supper? He won't be calm in his mind till he knows 
 your view." 
 
 " He heard my view before he went for a soldier. I like 
 the man, and always bow to superior education, as you
 
 THE FOPPY 185 
 
 know. I'm not saying it's a lift up for such a girl as you ; 
 but for the family it is, and my brother, Samuel, would be 
 the first to grant it, and so would your mother, if she was 
 ahve. As for the rest, we must be hopeful. He's had 
 such a proper bellyful of bad luck, that on the law of 
 average, which even this war can't change, he ought to 
 run up against a streak of good fortune." 
 
 " So he ought then, you clever dear," said Margery, 
 thankful for this sanguinary prophecy. 
 
 " And given good fortune," continued ^Ir. INIushet, " it 
 don't want a particularly keen outlook to see him uplifted. 
 We mustn't run on too far, and, whatever happens, you 
 don't run out of ' Fair View Villa ' — I warn j^ou of that ; 
 but a man like Hempson may rise in the army till he's a 
 power and a very exalted character. And if it overtakes 
 him, there must be no turning his back on his wife's rela- 
 tions, or nothing of that." 
 
 " Could he.'' If he was a general, could he? " 
 
 " He don't, whether he could or not. And he can come 
 to supper and welcome." 
 
 At the supper-party all went well. ]Mr. Mushet ad- 
 mired and respected Andrew. He also regarded him as a 
 social superior. For Gregory had a conservative mind, 
 and, while vain enough in some ways, made no pretence of 
 education or importance. After supper he talked a good 
 deal, and finding that Andrew had no future plans, indi- 
 cated his own wishes. 
 
 " It's to your credit you don't want to marry her before 
 you go," said Gregory. " She'd agree to anything, tlie 
 silly maid ; but no. All in good time, Mr. Hempson " 
 
 " Call me Andrew, INIr. Mushet." 
 
 " I was waiting for you to ask and I'm willing, and it 
 must be ' Uncle Gregory ' for you ; because, as I told 
 Madge this morning, you needn't think to take her away 
 from her relations. That we wouldn't suffer." 
 
 " I should hope not." 
 
 " And that stands, mind you, wherever you rise to. As
 
 186 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 for her, she's a very praiseworthy girl. I say it to 3'our 
 face, Margery. Speaking generally, every man at the 
 bottom of his heart would sooner marry a Mary than a 
 Martha. They're wrong, of course, but it's the weakness 
 of the average male to put peace before anything, and the 
 Marthas never get the credit that's due to them in the 
 home. Their fine results are took for granted, and all the 
 needful fuss and splutter that go to the results are 
 brought against the poor women, as if you could have any- 
 thing worth having in this world without a bit of fuss and 
 splutter. But Madge is something betwixt and between: 
 she's got the virtues of both and the faults of neither. 
 When I say she rises to this house, I've said all that needs 
 to be said. A Mary would be a proper catastrophe to 
 this house, and a Martha would get over-anxious and be a 
 proper catastrophe to me ; but I've trained up Madge to 
 steer a middle course, so to speak. In fact, being what 
 she is, and having to thank me largely for what she is, it 
 wouldn't be fair to take her away." 
 
 " I wouldn't go — I couldn't," vowed Margery. 
 
 " After the war will be time enough to plan the future," 
 declared Andrew. 
 
 " No," answered Mr. Mushet. " I'm not one of the 
 * wait and see ' sort myself. Take my house. Would it 
 look like it does, and be what it is, if I'd waited to see.'' 
 No, Andrew, you must live with me after the war if you 
 want to live with her. Because Madge is everything I've 
 got in the human line and I mustn't be deprived. She may 
 be your wife, but that's no reason why she should give up 
 being my niece." 
 
 " Or going on with my work at ' Colneside ' either," said 
 Margery. 
 
 The programme by no means chimed with Andrew 
 Hempson's future intentions ; but he felt this an unfit- 
 ting day for argument. 
 
 " So be it then," he said. " My only thought is for her
 
 THE POPPY 187 
 
 happiness, and I know very well she wouldn't be happy 
 far away from you." 
 
 This granted, Gregory was generous. 
 
 " Thank you for that word," he answered. " It would 
 be a great load on my mind if you hadn't spoken it. Of 
 course it's a great lift up for Madge, marrying you; be- 
 cause you stand higher than her on the spindle side, and 
 spear side too, and when I say you mustn't come between 
 her and her relations, I don't mean you marry her rela- 
 tions. We're a proud people." 
 
 " I judge every man by himself, Mr. INIushet, and I 
 judge myself not worthy to tie Margery's shoe-string." 
 
 " That's a figure of speech you'll get over. And if 
 glory comes your wa}', you must rise to it. And I can 
 promise you she will do the same. And this is your home 
 after you marry. That's understood. And I shan't be 
 unworthy of you, no matter what happens, because, in my 
 steadfast way, I'm a credit to the country. If you came 
 home with a V.C. to-morrow week, this house would still be 
 this house and well equal to 3^ou." 
 
 Andrew admitted all these truths. Then he departed 
 with Margery to his mother, and the mere fact of missing 
 Margery during the hour before bedtime, when she was 
 accustomed to sit and listen to him and bring him his 
 " night-cap," convinced INIr. Mushet how wise he had been 
 to make such drastic conditions. He was well aware that 
 they were most unusual. " To strike while the iron was 
 hot was the only thing to do," he thought. " If I'd waited 
 till they'd got used to the change and had time to plan 
 their future, it would have been too late and they'd have 
 resisted me. Now they can't."
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF THE PICTURE 
 
 Marriage did not cloud the vision that Aveline and Peter 
 had enjoyed of each other; no shadow dimmed the horizon 
 of their united days, save the supreme shadow that threat- 
 ened all. Then, from outside, intruded trivial incidents 
 that puzzled Peter, for it seemed not easy to understand 
 why he and his wife should feel so differently to trifles. 
 Upon the subject of the first problem they heartily agreed. 
 They were asked to do something that both disliked, but it 
 happened that she who asked the favour might justly hope 
 to see it granted. It was not easy to refuse her, and while 
 Aveline held out the longer, she reluctantly agreed at last. 
 Upon the question of the second problem, however, they 
 saw with different eyes. 
 
 The first petition had to do with a photograph; while 
 the second was not a favour begged, but a commission 
 offered. 
 
 Nelly Chaffe continued her drawing lessons with Mrs. 
 Mistley, and while making no progress whatever, so much 
 enjoyed the society of her new friend, now out of doors 
 and now in the tiny studio at Aveline's new home, that she 
 persisted in wasting certain hours weekly, though her 
 mistress assured her it was nonsense to continue. 
 
 " You'd be far better employed cutting those cabbages, 
 or digging them up, or planting fresh ones, than trying to 
 paint them," she said on an occasion of open-air sketch- 
 ing. 
 
 But Nelly persisted, and declared that her pleasantest 
 hours were those spent in the drawing lessons. 
 
 Then came a day when Helena called at the studio of her 
 
 188
 
 THE PROBLEM OF THE PICTURE 189 
 
 protegee's new home to drive Nelly back to Mersea, when 
 her task was done. Tea awaited her, and she was full of 
 admiration for the photograph already mentioned. It 
 had been taken at her wish — nay her command, and rep- 
 resented Peter Mistley and his bride. 
 
 And now Helena drank tea and talked and praised the 
 photograph. 
 
 " It's just caught that particular loveliness you had in 
 church on your wedding day," she said. " It's heavenl}-, 
 even without the colour, and I've just taken it to the 
 photographer — why, d'you think ? To have an enlarge- 
 ment, half life-size, for my own little sacred room — m^^ 
 boudoir. Then I shall feel you're there. I don't want 
 your Peter in my boudoir, however. You'll still sit beside 
 him in a silver frame in the drawing-room ; but in my own 
 sacred room you'll be all alone — just your lovely self." 
 
 Helena was going to be photographed. 
 
 " They want me for an illustrated paper in connection 
 with my Red Cross work. My first instinct was to refuse ; 
 but Parkyn seemed pleased, and he reminded me that I 
 hadn't been taken for a year ; so it's to happen next ^Ion- 
 day at twelve o'clock. And now for my greatest piece of 
 news : I've got a commission for you." 
 
 " How much too good you are to me alwa^'s, always, 
 Helena," cried Aveline. 
 
 " It's nothing — quite tiny, hardly worth mentioning ; 
 but it will go into the world and be seen by thousands of 
 people, that's the advantage of it. In fact, Parkyn has 
 decided on a coloured picture for the herbaceous catalogue 
 — the Michaelmas daisies ; and I've got him to let you 
 do it." 
 
 The artist remained silent and her animation died away. 
 She was reflecting, and wholly unconscious of the expres- 
 sion on her face. 
 
 " You're not pleased," said Helena. 
 
 Aveline came to herself. 
 
 " Don't think that. I'd love to do it. There's so little
 
 190 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 I can do for such kind friends. But — but — he couldn't 
 possibly like what I should do — in fact my work doesn't 
 appeal to him." 
 
 " He's getting most understanding about pictures — 
 far more so than you imagine. The Michaelmas daisies, 
 when they're all out together — an acre of them — are a 
 joy, and just a thing you'll do to perfection." 
 
 " I should disappoint him horribly — and perhaps you, 
 too. I'm an absolute duffer at flowers." 
 
 " You're not, Aveline ! " cried Nelly, and she went to a 
 portfolio, before the other could prevent her, and pro- 
 duced the drawing of Emma Darcy and the torch lilies. 
 
 It was one of the painter's successes. Before a flaming 
 background of scarlet and orange flowers, spiring aloft 
 above a green tangle of their foliage, appeared Emma look- 
 ing out upon the spectator. The likeness was happy and 
 a little flattered. Emma's ruined beauty had not wholly 
 vanished, and there was pathos in the picture, though in 
 her hand the vagrant held her pipe. 
 
 JMrs. Ambrose, who had not seen the work, was consider- 
 ably moved by contemplation of it. Her lips fell apart 
 and she stared with genuine interest. For a moment she 
 ceased to be the histrionic Helena. 
 
 " Good Lord ! How like ! " she said. " Poor wretch : 
 her life might have been so different. It's horribly sad, 
 though. Take it away, Nelly. You've given me the 
 creeps." 
 
 " I wasn't going to show it to you," said Aveline. 
 
 " I forgot," said Miss Chaffe. " Forgive me, Helena." 
 
 Their solicitation pleased Mrs. Ambrose. 
 
 " You girls can't possibly know what this unfortunate 
 aff*air means to a proud woman," she said. " It is the 
 skeleton in my husband's cupboard — an everlasting out- 
 rage, so to say." 
 
 " It won't be everlasting," said Aveline. " Poor Wil- 
 liam is killing himself as fast as he can." 
 
 " Really, one can't be very sorry since he refuses every
 
 THE PROBLEM OF THE PICTURE 191 
 
 rational offer. He'd have to confess, if he told the truth, 
 that I have been kind and generous — as much so as I 
 dared. But it's a great disgrace, and Parkyn is wonder- 
 fully patient and long-suffering. Don't talk about it — 
 never talk about it. Nobody can do anything, I'm 
 afraid." 
 
 " He's so clever by nature," said Aveline, thankful that 
 the subject had drifted away from the Micliaclmas daisies. 
 " I've had a long talk with him once or twice, and he's 
 well worth listening to when he's sober." 
 
 " Parkyn says he was a wonderful boy ; but always in- 
 surgent and impossible. Great natural gifts poisoned by 
 an obstinate will and a hatred of all those beautiful prin- 
 ciples that make civilised society what it is." 
 
 " If he'd only had ambition." 
 
 " He never had — except the ambition to be unlike 
 everybody else. He broke his mother's heart, 3'et he 
 always puts primroses on her grave once a year." 
 
 " He's a very kindly man really," said Aveline. 
 
 " I hope he is," answered Helena — " for Emma's sake," 
 she added. 
 
 " He thinks the world of Emma, and she, the world of 
 him." 
 
 This grave matter subdued Mrs. Ambrose entirelj' and 
 made her forget her friend's commission. Aveline was 
 glad that the subject did not arise again during her visit 
 and believed, when Nelly and the elder had departed, that 
 Helena understood she did not wish to paint the picture. 
 
 But, unfortunately for her, the conmiission was not done 
 with, for Peter had also heard the news from Mr. Ambrose 
 himself at " Colneside," and when he came home, told her 
 that he brought a surprise. Mr. Ambrose had mentioned 
 the proposed picture to him and Peter was mildly pleased. 
 
 " It might mean the beginning of some useful and regu- 
 lar work," he said. " Of course, it's child's play to vou." 
 
 He dwelt on the value of the advertisement, and Aveline 
 found it quite impossible to give any adequate reason why
 
 1»2 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 she should dedine the work. DecKne she did, however, 
 much to her husband's astonishment. 
 
 " Out of the question," she said. " Couldn't do it his 
 way and he wouldn't take it if I did it in mine." 
 
 " Of course, do it your way — that's the point. Your 
 way would arrest and challenge. If it is done in the old, 
 conventional style, like every other coloured catalogue, 
 nobody would look at it twice." 
 
 " I don't feel like it. I'm rather tired of painting 
 flowers : it spoils you for more important things." 
 
 " Well, you'll change your mind when you see the 
 Michaelmas daisies," he said ; but she did not wish to leave 
 the matter doubtful, or have the commission hanging over 
 her. She tried another argument. 
 
 " I'm sorry, in a way, you don't feel like I do, Peter," 
 she said. 
 
 " What objection can you have, my precious girl.'' " 
 
 " Well," she said. " Isn't it playing it rather low 
 down.f* I mean to illustrate gardeners' catalogues. Of 
 course, I may never do any good, but now we're married 
 and I can live, I should like in my small way to aim just as 
 high as you do." 
 
 " Well, you are. You're going to send some pictures to 
 London, and I'm sure the autumn shows will hang them. 
 And in these days, when people aren't buying pictures, 
 you may be certain that artists don't mind painting for 
 reproduction. You'll do an interesting thing, and thou- 
 sands of people will see it. You don't value your luck, my 
 lovely girl." 
 
 She knew all this without his telling her, and secretly 
 blamed herself for advancing so feeble an excuse. 
 
 " Yes, of course, that's true," she admitted ; " but some- 
 how I turn against it. I can't tell you why ; but I do." 
 
 " Well, I wish it, Aveline." 
 
 " I know you do, and if anything could make me want 
 to paint them, it would be that. Don't talk about it any 
 more, my dearest — not for the present."
 
 THE PROBLEM OF THE PICTURE 193 
 
 Peter, of course, dropped the commission, and for the 
 rest of that day neither again alluded to it. At break- 
 fast next morning, however, he touched the subject at an 
 angle, but in such a manner as to leave her free to speak 
 of it or not as she pleased. 
 
 She ignored it. 
 
 Thus it happened. He asked if she could give him an 
 hour after noon and she gladly agreed. 
 
 " I want you in the herbaceous garden," he said. " I've 
 got a big white scheme and the whites are easy ; but I 
 should like you to see what's doing and tell me the colours 
 to go with it. So do come. We haven't had a prowl in 
 ' Colneside ' for ages." 
 
 " Of course I'll come." 
 
 " I used to love flowers for themselves," he said ten- 
 derly. " Now I love them for you. Everytliing beautiful 
 and precious that makes me long, or makes me content, or 
 feel glad one way or another — everything worth while 
 means you." 
 
 She rose, put her arms round him and kissed him. 
 
 " It's too much — it's too great — a thousand times too 
 great — all you feel for me. The least flower is more 
 beautiful and precious than I am. There are millions of 
 things more beautiful and precious in the world than the 
 most beautiful, precious woman who ever was born." 
 
 " Bar one. And then we'U stroll over and see the gladi- 
 olus and Michaelmas daisies. This sun will fetch them 
 along. There's a dream of beauty waiting for you — the 
 purple gladiolus and the hybrids of Primulinus, that 
 lemon-coloured, hooded species from America. They are 
 like flames of clear fire. * Tired of flower painting!' 
 Wait till you have a great sheaf of those in one of your 
 big terra-cotta jars, or that sea-green, Morocco glass 
 Miss ChafFe gave you." 
 
 She did not answer, but showed by a contraction of 
 her eyes and a momentary hardening of her lips tliat he 
 pained her, and that she understood the allusion.
 
 1&4 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 She asked him if he would have some more coffee, and 
 he shook his head. 
 
 *' It goes well, as far as we duffers at home can judge 
 from newspapers — the war, I mean," he said. 
 
 " I hope so indeed. I'll be in the herbaceous garden at 
 half-past twelve." 
 
 He went to his work, and when he had gone, Aveline 
 gave way to misery. Indeed, she wept a little. Then, im- 
 patient with herself, she went to her studio and put some 
 finishing touches to Emma and the torch lilies. Work 
 cheered her, and at midday she set off cheerfully enough to 
 the gardens.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 A FLOWER PIECE 
 
 The scene was silvery, shot to brightness where the sun 
 turned beyond the zenith, and the rows of Lombardy pop- 
 lars at water's edge below " Colneside " held bravely to 
 their fading green. In widening perspective to the be- 
 holder stretched the great herbaceous wealth of the nurs- 
 ery, still full of colour splendours ; and here Aveline met 
 Peter beneath a walnut tree. 
 
 They started into the maze of flower-light, its masses 
 disposed in parallel lines due north and south. 
 
 Far off, towards Colchester and Colne, the gardens 
 misted into little clouds of brightness set under the trees, 
 but as they approached, the colours gained in brilliance 
 and grew distinct in masses of azure and scarlet, purple 
 and orange, and creamy white. Beside them shone ame- 
 thystyne globe thistles and spread a patch of, tall speed- 
 wells, blue as southern seas. Then crimson pentstemons 
 massed against a bed of sparkling golden coreopsis and 
 these were followed by Grecian violets, in a sheet of velvet, 
 spangled with butterflies and murmuring with bees. Next 
 opened a drift of lavenders and white spiderworts, flax of 
 bright king's yellow, and another speedwell, that lifted 
 tender, sky-blue wands three feet high above its grey foli- 
 age. Seen closely its tiny amber anthers gave each blos- 
 som a note of distinction ; and, indeed, every flower of these 
 gay legions revealed wonders and subtle personal charms 
 unshared by any other growing thing. Each, while lost in 
 the blaze, enjoyed its own personal beauty. They were 
 as an artist's painting, wherein the wide passages of colour 
 sweetly laid are seen at a glance, yet at closer studj' reveal 
 
 195
 
 196 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 for the connoisseur many a magic and delicate delight to 
 reward intimate search. Thus the giant sea lavenders dis- 
 played one reigning hue of a pale opal — milky and shot 
 with colour; but examined, the tone resolved into unnum- 
 bered points of mingled pink and pure white, where the 
 sterile and fertile blossoms hung closely together over the 
 intricate pattern of the stems. Nor was this all to note, 
 for while the greater blossoms in each mass were pure pink, 
 each of the lesser white stars held a drop of purple in the 
 heart of its tiny cup. Of all these mingled hues was the 
 great picture painted, and full fifty million separate buds 
 had broken to create the whole. 
 
 A sky-blue scabious with ragged petals swayed joyfully 
 beside these great sea lavenders. Then came spaces 
 whence the flowers had fled, and stretched many plats of 
 resting green. Elsewhere a plant or two, or a group of 
 plants ofl'ered little mosaics in the greater pattern of the 
 whole. 
 
 Aveline helped Peter with his choice, and finding her 
 happy again, he was about to suggest a visit to the 
 Michaelmas daisies, when Parkyn Ambrose himself sud- 
 denly appeared. He walked through the gardens on his 
 way to the office. 
 
 " My wife is helping me with the white garden for 
 Shropshire," said Peter. 
 
 " And I hope soon to hear that she will be busy with the 
 star asters. Bultitude tells me they will be in perfection 
 next week. I am glad to have met you, Mrs. Mistley, be- 
 cause I can indicate a little what I want. My pui^pose is 
 an attractive colour scheme to indicate to the public how 
 beautiful these asters are in the mass. Those who visit 
 them understand and realise that only seen in abundance 
 can we appreciate their full splendour and possibilities. 
 Thus we create a laudable inclination to purchase ten 
 plants instead of one. And I want you not to be content 
 with a mere beautiful arrangement of colour — which you 
 may get in a wall paper or a carpet — but to paint the
 
 A FLOWER PIECE 197 
 
 asters, and show they are asters so completely that an 
 expert would be able to name the sorts." 
 
 To Peter's astonishment Aveline quietly nodded and 
 made no declaration of refusal. 
 
 " I feel sure your skill will enable you to do what I 
 want, and yet produce a work of excellent art. Don't you 
 think so ? " asked the great nurserj'man. 
 
 It appeared that Aveline did. Her husband could 
 hardly believe his ears. 
 
 " I quite understand what you want, Mr. Ambrose," she 
 said, " and if I can do it, I will do it. I'll paint the flowers 
 as gardening people see them." 
 
 He beamed. 
 
 " Do, and then you will make a very beautiful picture. 
 The more closely your painting resembles them, the better 
 painting will it be." 
 
 When he was gone, Peter waited for Aveline to speak, 
 but she did not, so he felt called upon to do so. 
 
 " Wonders never cease," he said. " ^\Tiat on earth did 
 Ambrose say to make 3'ou change your mind.'* " 
 
 " I'd decided already," she declared. " I was going to 
 tell you. I really don't know, looking back, why I made 
 any fuss. And I dare say the result will be something 
 better than I've ever done before." 
 
 " What a humbug you are ! " 
 
 She did not answer for a moment ; then she admitted it. 
 
 " Yes — colossal." 
 
 " Come and see the gladiolus field. There are a hun- 
 dred gorgeous, new Americans just out. I'll leave you 
 there." 
 
 They started; but they did not reach their destination, 
 for Gregory Musliet was at work in the way, and from him 
 Aveline heard the news of Margery's engagement. 
 
 " Then I can't go to the gladiolus field, or anywhere 
 else till I've seen her," said Aveline. 
 
 She hastened off with Peter, and when he went to the 
 studio she sought Margery in the office.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 ON PEEWIT ISLAND 
 
 Thomas Darcy was called upon to endure another visita- 
 tion from his sister and the errant William. They de- 
 scended upon him during a wet night, and shattered the 
 peace of his bachelor abode once more. 
 
 But on this epiphany of the usual bedraggled pair, 
 Thomas had the surprise of his life ; for while they shared 
 his supper, Emma related a strange thing. 
 
 " Billy's going to do a bit of work," she said. " It's 
 come over him that a bit of healthy work would set him up 
 before the winter." 
 
 " Goodstruth ! Him work ? " 
 
 " I'm going to touch it," confessed William, " not be- 
 cause it is work, but because it's a change ; and if I can 
 harden up a bit before winter it wiU be a good thing for 
 me." 
 
 " I wanted him to have his hair cut and go looking 
 tidy," said Emma. " But he won't do that." 
 
 "Go where?" asked Darcy, "You don't tell me he's 
 got work for the asking. ^^ The war haven't brought us to 
 him yet.'' " 
 
 " I'm going culling and cleaning and packing oysters 
 for the Company," explained William. " I'm a freeman 
 of Brittlesea, and they're terrible short of hands, as you 
 know, Thomas, and, in a word, the under manager says 
 I may go to the work. It's not new work to me for that 
 matter." 
 
 " We all know that ; and we know what happened last 
 time you took a hand." 
 
 " The oysters would get into my food basket," admitted 
 
 198
 
 ON PEEWIT ISLAND 199 
 
 William. " The wickedness of enemies, no doubt. But 
 that was three 3'ears ago." 
 
 " Twice you were warned, and you'll be a freeman no 
 more if it happens again." 
 
 " The under manager's new since then," explained 
 Emma, " and he didn't know about the past." 
 
 " I go purely for health," explained William. " And if 
 it suits me, I shall continue in uprightness ; and if not, I 
 shan't. I offered at the will of God, and the under mana- 
 ger, knowing me not, took me. So on IMonday next I shall 
 be at the Hard with the rest, half after five o'clock. As to 
 oysters, for the first offence they caution you, for the 
 second they rub it in, and for the third you lose the right 
 to be a freeman. I stopped at the second ; but that's all 
 buried in the past, and I shall consider I've got my three 
 lives again." 
 
 " Don't," said Emma. " You're very well known, and 
 nobody will have a kind word for you if you're catched 
 out with oysters." 
 
 " Cleaning oysters is hard work, as I well remember," 
 continued William, " but there's fine air in Peewit Island 
 and the saltings suit me." 
 
 " I wish I could go," said Emma ; " but they wouldn't 
 suffer women to do it." 
 
 " They may come to it," replied her brother. " They'll 
 be wanting women on the land all through Essex next 
 spring, if not sooner. A time's coming when j'ou could 
 make twentv shillings a week without a doubt, Emma." 
 
 " Oo ! " cried she. " Where, Tom.? " 
 
 " You dare ! " said Billy. " You dare seek work and 
 I'll turn the house out of windows. Hell ! The pco])lc 
 will be saying we're a worthy, hard-working couple and 
 ought to be encouraged." 
 
 Three days later Billy started to work, and stood with 
 a crowd of others on Brightlingsca Hard in a gi'oy October 
 dawn. They chaffed him, and a few resented his presence,
 
 200 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 but William's tongue was more than a match for most of 
 the freemen. A varied company set forth in the boats. 
 Some were working, long-shore folk ; some, aged veterans 
 of fourscore; some, smart middle-aged mariners, prosper- 
 ous and well-to-do. These lent a hand in the business of 
 culling and packing for the fishery from no necessity to 
 earn money, but in their capacity of freemen of the port, 
 all interested in the Colne Fishery. 
 
 The open boats were made fast to the Peewit, which 
 waited for them with steam up. Then she started for the 
 packing shed in Pyefleet Creek. 
 
 The crew of the Peewit marked William Ambrose and 
 discussed him. 
 
 Darcy was asked what it meant, and he told the skipper 
 all that he knew. Mr. Rebow protested. 
 
 " Surely once bit twice shy," he said. " Don't they 
 remember what happened last time the rip had a job cull- 
 ing? " 
 
 " What does he know about culling, anyway ? " asked 
 Samuel Mushet from the engine-room door. " It's skilled 
 work, and a good culler's born, not made. Uneven culls 
 is the plague of the fish shops." 
 
 " Old Tell-yer-fer-why " laughed. 
 
 *' He can cull, Samuel ! When he was caught out three 
 years ago, only the first-class natives were found in his 
 basket." 
 
 " They'll set him at cleaning, I expect," said Tom 
 Darcy ; and he was right, for when the boats came along- 
 side Peewit Island and the workers tumbled ashore, Billy 
 was put to work at the business of scraping and chopping 
 from the oysters the growths of sessile barnacle, seaweed, 
 spawn, " pock," and husk of tingles' eggs that encrusted 
 them. 
 
 The packing sheds were transformed from the gay day 
 of the " Opening." The flags and the tables were gone. 
 Now mounds of oysters and piles of barrels filled the 
 sheds. In the outer chamber, on raised stages running
 
 ON PEEWIT ISLAND 201 
 
 round it, men sat or knelt in rows before and behind the 
 banks of shells, cleaning and culling; while within, the 
 packing proceeded, and barrel after barrel, sack after 
 sack, was filled and fastened for market. The Peewit 
 presently took a cargo and returned to Brightlingsea. 
 Then she picked up a trawling ketch or two working 
 over the creek, and brought their catches to the packing 
 house. 
 
 The workers hammered away and cleansed the shells, 
 while the oysters were then graded, or culled, to their dif- 
 ferent sizes. From the mounds before them trained and 
 quick-eyed men sorted first the " royals," and then, from 
 dwindling piles, selected the " seconds " and the " thirds." 
 In each mass also occurred a small proportion of " crip- 
 ples," or " roughs " — good oysters, but malformed, or 
 broken-heeled in course of their growth. Such do not 
 tempt the fishmonger, but are sold cheaply to the workers, 
 or used for sauce. 
 
 Here arose a babel of sounds — the eternal chink of 
 the cultack, the slither of the shells in the sorters' hands, 
 the hammering of the coopers, fitting hoops or heads to the 
 oyster barrels, and the dull thunder of the packers, who 
 continually banged their barrels on the hollow floor to 
 settle the oysters within them. The skilled packers get 
 their ware into remarkably small space, and a barrel of 
 six or seven hundred " royals " was but a little affair. 
 Gruff voices and slow laughter ran through the medley of 
 sound, and through the sheds permeated a reek and salty 
 smell of weed and brine. Overhead, wooden mallets 
 echoed in an upper chamber, where carpenters worked. 
 Under the rafters stretched a great room, like a sail loft, 
 and within it thousands of barrels waited the needs of 
 the packers. Every sort of barrel was there, from the 
 little toy that would hold fifty 03'sters, to the receptacle 
 for a thousand ; from pail-shaped Belgian " kits " to 
 American iron-hooped barrels, that told the tale of the 
 war. For they had come to England full of horseshoes, 

 
 202 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 and that duty done, were now secured hy the fisheries for 
 another freight. 
 
 William worked for an hour or two, then he cut his 
 thumb with a barnacle and stopped. Presently he pro- 
 ceeded again until the dinner hour, when he ate and drank 
 and smoked with the rest. Emma had stored his basket 
 with ample food ; but he gave most of it to others, and 
 was contented with his pipe and a full bottle. 
 
 The day passed and anon full barrels, large and small, 
 were rowed to the Peewit. Then the sheds were washed 
 down and flooded with sea water, and the oysters that 
 remained were piled into net baskets and dropped in the 
 pits until next day. Soon the steamer went south with 
 her cargo piled aboard and the workers in the boats 
 astern. On the island remained only a member of the 
 river police, his black figure standing stark in the fading 
 light. 
 
 The saltings had grown sere and grey now, and their 
 flowers were dead ; but flashes and streaks of colour per- 
 sisted, for the glassworts were crimson and purple. No 
 sunshine had broken through that still, grey day. 
 
 Some men chaffed William and asked him how he liked 
 the feel of work ; but he was very silent, and created, as 
 he well knew how to do on occasion, a gulf between himself 
 and lesser minds. He smoked and remained abstracted 
 until the landing ; then he came ashore, entered the nearest 
 inn and stopped there, until Emma, guessing his place, 
 entered and took him home. 
 
 She was anxious to learn what he had made of it. 
 
 " What I didn't make of it was ' duty,' " said William. 
 " I told the chaps they mustn't for a moment fancy I was 
 there to do my duty, or any infernal trash like that. I 
 said ' the man who does his duty is no friend of mine.' 
 Then I cut my hand on a damned barnacle ; and if it 
 gathers and I get blood poisoning and die, you ought to 
 have a pension." 
 
 " It won't," said Emma ; " it's nothing at all."
 
 ON PEEWIT ISLAND 203 
 
 " You never know. Mj blood's half whisky. Wonder- 
 ful oysters this year. A week of it will do me good. But 
 a week's likely to be enough." 
 
 Thomas Darcy from the Peewit overtook them. 
 
 " Well, and how did you get on, William? " he asked. 
 
 " A blameless life, Tom. There's not much to choose 
 between the oysters and the Brittlesea freemen that I can 
 see. Poor fellows — the freemen, I mean. To see them 
 so busy and so cheerful and so content in their humble, 
 messy calling: it very near brings tears to the eyes." 
 
 " That's funny," answered Darcy, " for a few of the 
 better chaps spoke to me not ten minutes ago, and they 
 said that to see the brother of Parkyn Ambrose sitting 
 there cleaning oyster shells, and broke down in clothes and 
 mind and body, very near brought tears to their eyes, 
 too." 
 
 " They know not what they say. I tell you, Thomas, 
 that oysters are wiser far than men ; for they never quar- 
 rel, nor war upon each other, nor fill their world with 
 blood and tears, nor envy their neighbours' landmark, nor 
 make a hell of the decent place in which they live. 'Twas 
 no God, Thomas, but a cunning devil that let life rise to 
 conscious existence and cover itself with shame for ever- 
 more." 
 
 That night William Ambrose, after being turned out of 
 the " King's Head " at closing time, succeeded in becom- 
 ing very drunk elsewhere, and next morning he was not 
 on the Hard when the freemen of Brightlingsea set out to 
 their labours.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 THE STAR ASTERS 
 
 Helena Ambrose and Geoffrey Seabrook belonged to 
 that race of spirits who let love throw no dust in their 
 eyes, but preserve a long view and order their transports 
 with circumspection. Not for them would the world ever 
 be well lost. Their passion was perfectly genuine, and 
 they believed it would never perish ; but that it might be 
 the more permanent, they made it a matter of business. 
 
 " We needn't ruin our lives because we love each other," 
 Helena had said at an early stage of the romance, and 
 Seabrook felt the profoundest respect for that senti- 
 ment. 
 
 " On the contrary," he answered ; " we must build upon 
 the present foundations. Misery and ostracism wouldn't 
 alter what we feel for each other; but I don't mean the 
 woman I adore to be miserable and ostracised, and I cer- 
 tainly don't wish to be myself. We've had the enormous 
 luck to meet each other, and there are no complications 
 but the accident of you being married to a very sensible 
 sort of man." 
 
 So things stood, and they decided that they were not 
 sordid, but merely practical. Moreover, from the man's 
 point of view the secrecy and intrigue added much to the 
 salt of the situation, and though such things did not 
 appeal with the same force to Helena, she recognised the 
 need. But now a complication little anticipated began to 
 threaten the draughtsman. Conscription was in the air, 
 and the single man would soon be directed to attest. 
 
 Geoffrey had seen a little of Helena recently, for she 
 arranged a concert for the Belgian Refugees, this time on 
 
 204
 
 THE STAR ASTERS 205 
 
 Mersea Island, and he had spent the night at the Manor 
 House. The occasion had offered opportunity of some 
 talk on the subject of exemption. 
 
 " I should like to advance a claim," declared Mr. Am- 
 brose, " but I will be frank with you. Mistley is, of 
 course, my senior artist, and, as you know, is married." 
 
 "But he married before August, so he's single — just 
 as single as Mr. Seabrook," argued Helena, who was 
 present at the conversation. 
 
 Then Seabrook spoke. 
 
 " I'm a patriot, as Mr. Ambrose knows. Our country 
 wants us and we must go — if we can." 
 
 The elder nodded. 
 
 " I should be the last to question your determination. 
 You do not need to be told that I have reflected deeply 
 on the subject. My business belongs emphatically to 
 the times of peace, and while a certain considerable body 
 of men must still be employed upon it, for the sake of the 
 perishable commodity in which I deal, the issue of design- 
 ing and laying out new gardens may undoubtedly be ad- 
 mitted a minor matter for the present. Were you, or 
 Mistley, infirai of health, or physically prevented from 
 taking your place in the ranks, I should be very thankful 
 to retain your services if it could be done." 
 
 " That's my only fear," confessed Seabrook, who had 
 already discussed the matter very full}' with Mrs. Am- 
 brose. "I'm not strong — not robust, that is — and 
 my heart is not very good; but it would be a terrible sor- 
 row to me, as things are now, if I was prevented from 
 going. And even if I couldn't fight, I should feci I ought 
 to be helping the great cause in some other way." 
 
 Parkyn was interested. 
 
 " I did not know you had a physical weakness. But 
 since that is the case, it might be possible, perhaps, to 
 advance a reasonable claim." 
 
 " I would do anything on earth for you, sir, and make 
 any personal sacrifice in my power. You are a very
 
 206 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 great deal more to me than a master and, if I may say so, 
 I have always felt pride in knowing you were my friend. 
 Loyalty would make me submit to anything that you 
 wished. I hope I may be able to serve; but if I cannot, 
 I shall place myself in your hands." 
 
 " You can't do anything wiser than that, Mr. Sea- 
 brook," said Helena. 
 
 " You have registered? " asked Ambrose. 
 
 " Oh, yes — immediately." 
 
 The elder considered. 
 
 " We can leave it at that for the moment and wait to 
 learn what steps the Government will take." 
 
 The subject was changed, and presently Geoffrey went 
 off to the village schoolroom to sing. Mr. Ambrose did 
 not attend the concert, and his wife had further oppor- 
 tunities of speech with the musician. 
 
 It was true he had a weak heart, and a personal friend 
 in Colchester — a young physician — had testified to the 
 fact ; but the weakness could not be described as serious, 
 and was hardly of a nature to preclude service. 
 
 " You were wonderful with Parkyn : you exuded patri- 
 otism," said Helena. 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 " It's a bore to have to humbug him. Can you well 
 imagine anything more futile than myself in khaki — even 
 for home service? I loathe and hate the whole business. 
 To herd with soldiers, to be driven about like a beast and 
 forced into this disgusting machine, as a Chicago pig is 
 forced into the engine and turned into mincemeat. It's 
 all so unclean and unseemly. But that's war. That's 
 what diplomacy, secret diplomacy, has planned for 
 myriads of decent, self-respecting, useful chaps — gen- 
 iuses included. That's the best that conscious intelli- 
 gence can do in the way of portioning out the earth be- 
 tween the nations of the earth. You can only settle it by 
 killing off the men of the hungry nations. And the 
 nation that kills most, wins. Which means the weakest
 
 THE STAR ASTERS 207 
 
 go down. And the hosts turned to dust are called 
 ' heroes.' That's how the masses of mankind are content 
 to let their cursed Governments rule them. And then we 
 bleat about ' freedom ' and ' liberty,' and all the rest of 
 the idiotic names for things that don't exist and never 
 have existed." 
 
 " You shan't go," she said. " I'll give up everything 
 — all our plans and all our patience and everything. I 
 should die if you went. In any case I should give the 
 show away if you went. I know I should." 
 
 " We must keep our nerve. If I hadn't got you, I 
 shouldn't care a button, for I should have nothing to lose 
 but my life, and that's nothing without you. But having 
 you, I naturally want to live. I can delay and postpone 
 and put off as long as it's decently possible. And the 
 longer I keep out of it, the less chance there is of getting 
 shot." 
 
 '• Some have died in four months from the da^' they 
 put on khaki," she said. 
 
 " My heart might really get queer if I had to go on 
 route marches and all that fooler^'. So we've every rea- 
 son to be hopeful," he answered. " It's amusing to feel 
 you're going to be hunted. I've got a brain that ought 
 to be rather great in a thing like this. I'm not up against 
 a man — only a machine ; and if I can't get the better of 
 a machine, I must be a bigger fool than I think I am." 
 
 "You don't want to go?" 
 
 " Good Lord, no ! Nobody who isn't weak in his head 
 could possibly want to go." 
 
 " One talks about the glor}^ of war, and khaki being 
 the only wear for men and so on," she said ; " but when 
 you're faced suddenly with a hideous possibility like 
 this " 
 
 He laughed again. 
 
 " Ideals are like our best clothes. We trot them out to 
 please and impress other people; and when the other peo- 
 ple are gone, we put them away again. They don't
 
 208 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 influence our working life; they're only decoration and 
 frills. Our real ideals we don't wear outside. If you're 
 a sane man in an insane world, you keep your true opin- 
 ions to yourself." 
 
 Helena met Geoffrey again only three days later upon 
 a question she considered to be urgent. She directed him 
 to be in the gardens at noon at a certain place, where she 
 would also be. Very rarely they permitted themselves 
 one of these apparently accidental meetings. It was a 
 practice held in reserve for exceptional occasions, and 
 when Seabrook got her note, he wondered a little what 
 it might mean. 
 
 They met by the plantations of flowering shrubs, now 
 plunged in autumn sobriety, and she soon enlightened 
 him. 
 
 " I'm afraid that there may be danger," she said. 
 " Nothing comes single-handed. I met ' Marmalade 
 Emma ' two days ago and was nice to her and gave her a 
 sovereign. William has been working — at least he 
 worked for one day, and now he's ill again. And he wants 
 to see you. Emma was on Mersea Island lying in wait 
 to tell me so. I asked why, and said I didn't know 
 William knew you, and so on. But she reminded me of — 
 our picnic. In fact, life seems full of anxiety. If he's 
 really ill, he may get desperate and do something objec- 
 tionable." 
 
 " Don't feel in the least perturbed. If he were respon- 
 sible, it would be another matter, but he isn't. I'll see 
 him, however. But not deliberately, and not in response 
 to that woman's message. I can work it differently, and 
 I know how. I can make the man a friend as easily as 
 possible, and the woman too." 
 
 " Emma's all right, but William's so utterly unex- 
 pected, always. However, j^ou've taken a weight off my 
 mind," she said, " I haven't slept for two nights." 
 
 He mourned this fact and thought her looking pale. 
 
 " I'll take an early opportunity. It's quite easy.
 
 THE STAR ASTERS 209 
 
 They've got a den at Brightlingsea, haven't they? Mar- 
 gery Mushet was telling me about them." 
 
 " Yes, they're there." 
 
 " I shall hear that William Ambrose Is ill and visit him 
 — from 3'ou, for charity. Probably he'll have forgotten 
 all about the past. A drunkard has a short memory." 
 
 Helena took comfort. 
 
 " You heavenly thing ! You've quite set my mind at 
 peace. I'm here to see somebody else — not you, of 
 course. Where are the Michaelmas daisies? I promised 
 Aveline to meet her at the INIichaelmas daisies and take 
 her off to luncheon." 
 
 " I'll show you where Mrs. Mistley's at work. Say 
 you're happ}'^ again? " 
 
 " Yes, I am — as happy as I ever shall be till the mat- 
 ter of your joining the colours is cleared up." 
 
 They traversed the nurseries and presently found 
 Aveline seated before great drifts of the star asters. 
 
 The gardens were flashing their final fires, and on this 
 pure day of October, Colchester misted brightly above the 
 poplars and an azure vapour hung low on Colne. Sum- 
 mer passed slowly from the flowers. In masses of clean, 
 sparkling colour shone the Michaelmas daisies of Aveline's 
 drawing. They made a gladness in the sunshine and a 
 joy for the eye to rest upon. Bold, harmonious con- 
 trasts marked the banks and billows of them. Their col- 
 ours indeed rolled like waves and merged into each 
 other. Here were rich violets and cool greys, golden- 
 eyed mauves and nodding crests of feathery white. The 
 magic children of the heart-leaved aster seemed to queen 
 it over the sturdier species for perfection of graceful 
 form and lustrous hue. They spread in great sheets of 
 flashing light, whereon buttei-flies opened and shut their 
 scarlet and ebony wings. 
 
 Helena found Aveline, bade Mr. Seabrook good-bye, 
 and fell to talking. The picture, now far advanced, 
 quite filled her with dismay.
 
 210 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 " But — but " she said, staring at a pre-Raphael- 
 
 ite production, wherein every star of the foreground 
 flowers was meticulously rayed — " but, my dear child, 
 what on earth are you doing? Your own way was the 
 right and proper and only way to paint this and — good 
 gracious, Aveline — how horrid ! " 
 
 "Isn't it? And you can't think how difficult, too. 
 What did Whistler say once — about Brett's mussels and 
 limpets, I think? — 'Quite wrong, but how the devil does 
 he do it ? ' And when they're brought down to the right 
 size for the catalogue cover, they will just look exactly 
 like every other catalogue cover, and all will be well." 
 
 " This is very naughty," declared Helena. " I'm 
 ashamed of you, Aveline. And now Parkyn will crow 
 over me and give you other pictures to paint. I've a 
 good mind not to take you to lunch." 
 
 "You promised," said Aveline; "and I'll paint the 
 asters again — for you, when I've finished this fearful and 
 wonderful thing." 
 
 " You'll never put your name to this ? " 
 
 "My name? Oh dear, yes, if he likes. What's in a 
 name? " answered the painter.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 THE INSPIRATION 
 
 Geoffrey Seabrook let it be known that he was going 
 down to Brightlingsea to get a breath of salt air and 
 watch the Engineers pontooning. 
 
 But he asked for the holiday. Though free to go and 
 come without restriction, he never lost an opportunity to 
 be correct. When Parkyn Ambrose came into the studio, 
 therefore, Geoffrey suggested a whole holiday, since noth- 
 ing official stood in the way; and Mr. Ambrose made no 
 objection. 
 
 " By all means," he said. " I'm bound to say it is a 
 long time since you relaxed. I entertain a guest at no 
 distant date," continued Ambrose. " And I shall take 
 occasion to bring him acquainted with jNIr. Mistley and 
 3'ou. He wall spend much of his time in the gardens, and 
 the studio will interest him a great deal. I refer to Mr. 
 Mortimer, of Shropshire. He is more than a client: he 
 is a friend." 
 
 He broke off, and Mistley spoke. 
 
 " My wife has finished her drawing," he said. " Shall 
 she send it to you or shall I bring it here? " 
 
 " Bring it here," answered Park^^i. " IMrs. Ambrose, 
 I regret to say, does not feel tlie picture to be one of Mrs. 
 Mistley's most successful achievements. As you will be 
 the first to admit, with a catalogue illustration we want a 
 certain quality. The picture must be helpful to the 
 potential purchaser. Otherwise, why have it? " 
 
 "That's what Aveline felt," said Peter. "I believe 
 you'll like it, INIr. Ambrose." 
 
 " I trust so," replied the master, and went his way. 
 
 211
 
 212 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 " You must admit he's always anxious to be agreeable," 
 said Geoffrey. 
 
 " He is — he's always amazing," answered Peter. 
 " Even I begin to admire him, I believe. The war must 
 have hit him hard, but he keeps calm and never grumbles. 
 I'm wondering how it will go with the married men, when 
 they're called up to the army." 
 
 " You don't come under the head of the married 
 men." 
 
 " I know ; but it doesn't alter the fact that I am mar- 
 ried, does it.'' How is my bob a day, or whatever it is, 
 going to cover my rent and taxes and servant and wife 
 and life assurance, and one or two other things? " 
 
 " Mr. Ambrose will take back every member of his staff 
 — who returns." 
 
 " Yes; but in the meantime .? " 
 
 " No doubt the Government will act. My case is diffi- 
 cult, too. My heart is not quite all it should be unfortu- 
 nately, and the chief wants me, of course, if I can be 
 ' starred ' ; but I'm not sure, even if I can't join the army, 
 whether I oughtn't to chuck this and make munitions." 
 
 " Aren't you ? I shouldn't have thought there was a 
 shadow of doubt. But I dare say you'll be saved the 
 trouble of deciding." 
 
 " I want to pass, naturally. Don't think I'm less con- 
 scious of my duty than you are. I'm taking more exer- 
 cise, and I'm doing Miiller's gymnastics, too. It will be a 
 great shock to me if they turn me down." 
 
 Peter knew the other lied, but was not at the trouble to 
 argue. Geoffrey left the studio presently and sought 
 Gregory Mushet, who was busy in the packing sheds. 
 Under a half light, and surrounded by countless shelves 
 and drawers of ripened bulbs and corms, Gregory worked 
 with a dozen boys, and was called to keep his eye on all 
 twelve at once. 
 
 " I'm going down to Brightlingsea to-morrow, Mushet," 
 said Seabrook, " and it occurred to me that I might be of
 
 THE INSPIRATION 213 
 
 service to you. I know Mr. Samuel Mushet, your 
 brother, the engineer on the Fishery steamer, lives there, 
 and if I might carry a message, or do you any service, it 
 will be a pleasure." 
 
 Mr. Mushet considered. 
 
 " And very kind, I'm sure. We're not much of letter- 
 writers, me and him. But there is a thing. Madge said 
 at breakfast only to-day she wondered how my nephew 
 Teddy was going on. He's gone to France and that's all 
 we know." 
 
 " I'll certainly call and inquire," promised Seabrook. 
 "What's the address?" 
 
 He learned it and received Mr. Mushet's thanks. Then 
 the latter went back to his tulips and bulbous irises, his 
 scillas and crocuses, his wonderful lilies, great and small. 
 For " Colneside " grew the finest lilies in England, and 
 from the giant lily, whose home was in the mist}^ heights 
 of the Himalayas, to the least dainty gem from Japan; 
 from the great, tigred, swamp lilies of America and the 
 snowy trumpet lilies of Bermuda, to the glories of aura- 
 tum and speciosum, there was no such variety or quality 
 as the reaches of the river-side gardens provided. 
 
 Seabrook took himself off next day. His purpose was 
 to learn where William Ambrose might be found and pay 
 him a visit. He went with open mind, hoped heartily to 
 find the tramp beyond the reach of doing further mis- 
 chief, and trusted that it might be possible to make the 
 man feel friendly towards himself. He did not trouble 
 his head with the problem before learning its factors, for 
 if strategy proved needful, it must depend upon the atti- 
 tude of the other party. 
 
 His only care was to conceal the fact of his visit from 
 anybody. He had received further information from 
 Helena by post, and, concerning William Ambrose, he 
 learned that he abode with a member of the PeeiviVs crew, 
 Thomas Darcy, the brother of Emma. 
 
 Full of urbanity, the young man called at the dwelling
 
 214? THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 of the Mushets' in Brightlingsea, and Nancy Mushet an- 
 swered to his summons. 
 
 " I come from ' Colneside,' " he said. " I am here for a 
 while, and my friend, Mr. Gregory, your brother-in-law, 
 is he not? asked me to call. I'm Mr. Seabrook." 
 
 Nancy bade him to enter and he did so, sat in the par- 
 lour, and begged her to be seated. 
 
 " I shan't detain you, Mrs. Mushet. Gregory and 
 Miss Mushet, who both work with us, you know, were 
 anxious at not hearing the last news concerning your son, 
 Teddy." 
 
 " We've heard nothing, sir." 
 
 *' No news is good news." 
 
 " We tell ourselves so. It's a cruel strain. To think 
 these millions of harmless, valuable men should all be 
 swept away at the bidding of a madman, to build a wall 
 of living flesh and blood for him to batter ! It's an out- 
 rage against God — that's what I say." 
 
 " Nothing happens that is not permitted by an All- 
 seeing Wisdom, Mrs. Mushet," replied Seabrook. " We 
 must not repine. We are going through a fearful ordeal, 
 and our Maker has willed that we make this sacrifice for 
 the good of humanity and the triumph of His cause. It 
 is a glorious thing to feel you have a son in God's army. 
 I speak, of course, as a Christian first and a patriot after- 
 wards." 
 
 Nancy regarded him. 
 
 " You're young, and you speak as you feel," she said ; 
 " but nature is nature and Christianity can't kill nature. 
 Christianity can do a lot of things ; but it can't make a 
 fool a wise man, and it can't make a mother's heart any- 
 thing but a mother's heart." 
 
 " True, true," admitted Seabrook. " And no man rev- 
 erences the maternal instinct more than I do. Did not 
 Christ himself reverence it?" 
 
 He uttered further religious sentiments, then came to 
 the matter in his mind.
 
 THE INSPIRATION 215 
 
 " I attended the last Opening of the Fishery and had 
 the pleasure of seeing your husband and the crew of the 
 Peewit. It was a privilege to meet them. There was a 
 middle-aged man called Darcy, I remember — rather a 
 striking personality." 
 
 " He's been on the steamer as long as any of them." 
 
 " A freeman, like Mr. Mushet ? " 
 
 " Just the same. He's a very good chap." 
 
 " One would like to meet him again." 
 
 Mrs. Mushet was not a gossip, but she spoke now of 
 Tom Darcy's difficulties. 
 
 " Coming from * Colneside ' you'll know, of course, 
 about Mr. Ambrose's brother, William.^ " 
 
 " A little. I never inquired. It's a sad business." 
 
 " He's with Darcy." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 " The last cottage in the row up the hill. He's been a 
 thorn in Tom's side for a long time. But, for his sister's 
 sake, he can't do anything." 
 
 " A terrible tragedy." 
 
 " The drink's done it." 
 
 " For such people," said Geoffrey, " one is almost 
 tempted to wish them dead, not only for the sake of the 
 living, but for their own sakes. We may not justify our 
 existence in this world, Mrs. Mushet, but be sure we shall 
 have to do so in the next." 
 
 Nancy approved this sentiment. She began to respect 
 Mr. Seabrook, yet felt a discrepancy between his appear- 
 ance and the excellent opinions that apparently guided 
 him along the road of life. 
 
 " Darcy will be home about four o'clock, I expect, if 
 you want a word with him," she said. " And Mr. Mushet 
 will be back the same time." 
 
 " I'd dearly like to see Mr. Mushet if it was possible," 
 he declared. 
 
 " Would you favour us and drink a cup of tea, if you're 
 not going home sooner, sir?"
 
 216 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 " I shall be delighted, if you're quite sure I may. It's 
 most kind. I must go for a tramp now and get some sea 
 air. What hour will be convenient.'* " 
 
 He planned to be back again at half-past four and then 
 departed. He knew that Darcy would not be at home, 
 but guessed that Emma Darcy must be there with the dis- 
 abled William. 
 
 The house proved easy to find, and he strolled about 
 until the coast was clear, then popped in. 
 
 Emma admitted him, and he told her that he was come 
 from Mrs. Ambrose. 
 
 " She's sorry to hear that your man is so ill," he said. 
 " I was down here for a breath of sea air, and I wanted to 
 see some old acquaintance too, your brother among them, 
 so it fitted in very well." 
 
 Emma regarded him doubtfully. 
 
 " What d'you want along with my brother .'' " she asked. 
 
 " Just the pleasure of a chat. We met on the Peewit 
 at the Opening of the Fishery last August." 
 
 " William sent word for you." 
 
 " And I was so glad I could come. I hope he's better." 
 
 " He nilly croaked two nights ago. But doctor gave 
 us a mite o' comfort to-day. And William finds he don't 
 want to die yet." 
 
 " Die! Of course not. Is he up to seeing me.'* " 
 
 " I'll ask him," she answered, and presently returned 
 to say that the sick man would thank Seabrook to come 
 up. 
 
 " Saturday's moon is good for nought, as everybody 
 knows," explained Emma, " and there was a full moon 
 Saturday, and it done Billy a lot of harm. But he's mak- 
 ing up now." 
 
 The sufferer was in bed, and appeared to be fairly clean 
 and collected. The room was sweet and the window wide 
 open. 
 
 Seabrook offered to shake hands and William saluted 
 him.
 
 THE INSPIRATION 217 
 
 " Now you can go about your business," he said to 
 Emma. " Me and this man will talk. He'll be here 
 half-an-hour, I dare say, if he can breathe the air so long. 
 God knows I won't stop under a roof more than another 
 week, live or die." 
 
 " I'll run out, then," answered Emma, " and buy a 
 thing or two." 
 
 She pulled a curtain from a corner and revealed a row 
 of pegs. Upon one hung her dreadful coat and hat with 
 the turkey feather. These she donned and departed. 
 Geoffrey saw her to the top of the staircase and gave her 
 a half-sovereign. 
 
 " Get him anything he fancies," he whispered, " and 
 don't mention me to anybody for the moment." 
 
 She nodded, descended and went her way, while the 
 visitor returned, offered William a cigarette, and sat on 
 a cane chair beside the sick man. 
 
 There were no witnesses to their conversation, but Sea- 
 brook was very guarded and soon angered William. The 
 invalid proved sober but reckless. He used language wild 
 and vile, and laughed at Geoffrey. In the younger man's 
 opinion, he was not dangerous. 
 
 "Well, 'Moustache,' and how is she.?" asked Billy. 
 
 *' How are you? That's the point." 
 
 " You want me to peg out, of course. You've been in 
 a devil of a stew, I expect, and hoped every day to hear I 
 was dead and you were safe. And if I was to tell you my 
 brother was a scoundrel, and a low thief, and a hypocrite, 
 you'd not believe it." 
 
 " Come, come, he's not so bad as all that." 
 
 " Of course you praise him. That's your game. 
 Greater love hath no man than this : that a man laj^ down 
 his wife for his friend. Ha ! ha ! You're deep, you little 
 cock-sparrow, you're deep ! But I'm deeper. Deep as 
 hell — and shall soon be in it." 
 
 " Pull yourself together."
 
 218 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 " You haven't come from my bliglited brother, or any- 
 thing like that?" 
 
 " No, no." 
 
 " Shall I tell him? " asked William, " and bitch up your 
 show and have you fired out of ' Colneside ' ; or shall I use 
 you against him, and score off him before it's too late? " 
 
 " Can you fairly say he's used you ill? " 
 
 " Yes, as badly as you've used him. I've forgiven the 
 swine a thousand times and made allowances for his ig- 
 norance. But I don't want to die without scoring off 
 him." 
 
 " The best sort of score is to forgive him again." 
 
 " You can preach to me — after Mersea Island ! 
 You've got a front of brass. Why should I forgive 
 him?" 
 
 " You can't hurt him, anyway, so wh}' fret about that? 
 Better make friends, and then he'll look after 3^ou." 
 
 Billy reflected, and his bloodshot eyes stared steadily 
 at Mr. Seabrook. 
 
 " You may wriggle and you may twist, but you're not 
 going to bluff me," he said. " You've got to come down 
 from your perch, my hero." 
 
 " You didn't send for me to make jokes. You wanted 
 me to be useful. Mrs. Ambrose thinks a lot of you and 
 Miss Darcy. She says you're the fine, fearless sort and 
 scorn the herd." 
 
 " And what do you think? " 
 
 " It takes all sorts to make a world. We can't all be 
 wandering philosophers like 3^ou." 
 
 " Or secret blackguards like j'ou." 
 
 " Come, come ! Those Avho live in glass houses — eh? " 
 
 " Ah ! " chuckled Billy. " That's better. Now you're 
 getting down to bed rock. Now, perhaps, we can talk 
 sense. If you admit you're a " 
 
 "I'm admitting nothing. Why should I — just to 
 please you? " 
 
 " You're going to bluff it ? "
 
 THE INSPIRATION 219 
 
 "What does it matter to you? What d'you gain? 
 You think the wife of my master is more to me than slie 
 ought to be? " 
 
 " Garn, you fool ! I never thought that, or said it. I 
 only want you to admit the truth. How the devil do I 
 know what she ought to be, or oughtn't to be? I'm not 
 blaming you for your games. I'm blaming you for pre- 
 tending to me, a bird of your own feather — a night hawk 
 like yourself. Aren't I good enough to be in the know? 
 Ain't my word good enough if I say I'm on your side, as 
 I'm on the side of everybody who scores off my brother? 
 Is it likely that I'll quarrel with anybody that's bested 
 him?" 
 
 " Why d'you hate him? " 
 
 " There you are, wriggling again — anything but the 
 straight answer to the straight question. You want to 
 run with the hare and hunt with the hounds, you do. 
 You want to follow your own way, yet keep in the herd, so 
 that the herd shall protect you. You want to be sheep 
 and tiger both, like most of your dirty sort. I wasn't 
 going to give you away." 
 
 " Look here, William," said Mr. Seabrook. " You're 
 wasting your strength and my time. Everybody's got 
 to run his life on his own lines, and you know very well 
 that few people can exhibit the sublime indifference to 
 other people that you and Emma do. You're unique and 
 all the rest of it, but you're going from your own ideas 
 by badgering others ; because * live and let live ' is 3'our 
 motto. Mrs. Ambrose is very keen to help you ; then 
 why not let her? If you want to go on living, you ought 
 to get away to the South of France, or the Cape, and 
 escape next winter. Well, what's the good of falling out 
 with people who could work that for you ? " 
 
 William did not answer. He would have liked to take 
 Geoffrey by the neck and knock his curly head against the 
 wall ; but he lacked the strength. 
 
 "What d'you think of my brother?" he asked sud-
 
 220 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 denly. " What does Helena say to you about him? But 
 there — don't answer — don't waste lies on me. We're 
 not going to be pals, so I'll tell you what I think of him. 
 He's the biggest damned hypocrite in Colchester — after 
 yourself." 
 
 Seabrook ignored this insult. 
 
 " I always understood you made allowances for his 
 conventional bent of mind." 
 
 An intellect that had been brilliant but for the defects 
 that ruined it, was knitting now against the sleek Geof- 
 frey. At his best, William was still more than a match 
 for the younger man. Thoughts struggled in the elder's 
 head. He saw that he was losing the little bit of fun that 
 he had planned, that Seabrook would confess nothing and 
 did not intend to involve himself. Thereon an attitude 
 of tolerance to the draughtsman was changed. Billy 
 could forgive him for being a humbug and hypocrite to 
 the world ; he could not forgive him for being a humbug 
 and hypocrite to him. Even Helena had not been a 
 humbug and hypocrite to Emma. She had tacitly ad- 
 mitted the sharing of a secret. 
 
 He had a bad fit of coughing and was weary. He 
 pointed to a bottle on a chest of drawers and Seabrook 
 helped him to some medicine. 
 
 " You're one too many for me, I reckon," confessed 
 William, when he recovered from the paroxysm. 
 
 " No, I'm not. I tell you I want to serve you if I can." 
 
 " Begin by hating Parkyn Ambrose, then." 
 
 Emma returned at this juncture in time to hear William 
 pour a torrent of very foul and filthy abuse upon his 
 brother. 
 
 She was much surprised, for William seldom took this 
 line. 
 
 " Goodstruth! " she said. " What's the matter? Have 
 'Moustache' made you hate the man? Don't get so 
 excited. It's bad for you, Billy." 
 
 Then she turned to Seabrook.
 
 THE INSPIRATION 221 
 
 " What's the good of making him rage against your 
 master? " she said. 
 
 " I'm not," declared Geoffrey. " No doubt there were 
 faults on both sides ; but that's no business of mine. I 
 really don't know what your William wants me to do. 
 I've come with a very fine suggestion from Mrs. Ambrose, 
 and I don't want to hear anything about Mr. Am- 
 brose." 
 
 " He won't admit nothing," said Billy, pointing at the 
 visitor. " He won't admit my brother's a swine, and he 
 won't even admit he's a love-hunter himself and gathers 
 his roses where he may. He wants to be a psalm-singer 
 and a Christian, and all that — to me, as if there was no 
 such place as the saltings on Blackwater. And if I 
 asked him now to be a sportsman and help a dying man 
 to get even with a certain party before it's too late, he 
 wouldn't do it." 
 
 " I never said I wouldn't help you," answered the 
 other. " I want to help you, only you won't give me a 
 chance. Mrs. Ambrose saw Dr. Carbonell entirely on 
 your behalf, and the doctor said that if you could be got 
 out of England into a warm climate for the winter, and 
 took a bit more care of yourself, you might live another 
 ten vears." 
 
 " bo ! " exclaimed Emma. " Think, William ! " 
 
 " I don't want to live another ten years," declared the 
 stricken man. " And I know that's rot, anyway. I'm 
 booked, but I've got ideas." 
 
 " If your brother would help you big like that, you can 
 take it, if it's only for my sake," said Emma. 
 
 " Don't mistake," explained Geoffrey. " It's not Mr. 
 Parkyn's suggestion, Miss Darcy: it's the proposal of 
 Mrs. Ambrose. She's always admired William and you, 
 and felt very kindly to you. That's not humbug anyway, 
 for you know it's true. And William needn't think I'm 
 not friendly, because I am ; and if it was in my power to 
 do him a turn I would."
 
 222 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 " The thing for William is to keep calm anyway," said 
 Emma, " and I want for him so to be." 
 
 Seabrook rose. 
 
 " I'll come and see you both again," he said. " Talk it 
 over with him. If he can be patched up and go for a sea 
 voyage, he may be saved. And if he doesn't like that idea 
 and thinks I can help him in any other direction, I'm 
 game to do it." 
 
 William nodded and grew quieter. Then the other 
 soon took his leave. Wlien Emma had seen him off, she 
 returned to the sick man and ventured to praise Mr. Sea- 
 book. 
 
 " He means well, * Moustache ' do. Think if we was 
 to go to a hot, sunny place, how you'd be able to enjoy 
 yourself, Billy." 
 
 " He's a dirty dog and crooked as a sickle," declared 
 the sufferer. " But he's clever, though not so clever as 
 me. I've got ideas." 
 
 " We've never bin foreign," she said. " I'd love to go 
 along wi' you. 'Twould be a very fine thing to have a 
 dollop of money for once." 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 " Far beyond me. But I won't die without a splutter. 
 And I'll get something out of that dog yet." 
 
 And in the meantime Geoffrey went his way and modi- 
 fied his plans a little. He spent the morning in walking, 
 lunched at the " King's Head " and was at the Hard 
 before the Peewit returned. Then, after the boats laden 
 with the cullers and cleaners had come ashore, he marked 
 Mr. Mushet arrive with other hands from the steamer. 
 Seabrook remembered the russet brown of the engineer's 
 apparel and quickly scraped acquaintance. Thomas 
 Darcy, however, he could not see, for Tom stopped 
 aboard, since it was his turn to be watchman until the 
 morrow. 
 
 " I must meet him another time, then. I've called at 
 his house and seen those unfortunate people, his sister
 
 THE INSPIRATION 223 
 
 and William Ambrose, and now I'm coming to tea at your 
 wife's invitation." 
 
 Samuel had no recollection of Seabrook, but took him 
 at his word. They spoke of " Colneside." Then the 
 draughtsman asked for information on oyster lore. 
 
 He enjoyed his tea, expressed his great regret at the 
 situation of Emma and Billy, hoped it presently might be 
 ameliorated, and went so far as to hint at the wishes of 
 Billy's sister-in-law. 
 
 " Don't let it go farther," he said, " for it is, of course, 
 a very confidential matter ; but I believe we may soon hear 
 that they will be induced to leave England, if the man 
 recovers his health sufficiently to do so." 
 
 " He won't," declared Samuel. " Darcy tells me he's 
 on his beam ends, and doubts if he'll ever leave his bed 
 again except for his coffin." 
 
 Geoffrey sighed. 
 
 " One can easily guess what a terrible trial it must have 
 been for his brother, Mr. Parkj-n Ambrose." 
 
 " A proper skeleton in the cupboard, no doubt, and he'll 
 be thankful to God when he pegs out." 
 
 With many thanks for their hospitality and assurances 
 of a future visit, Seabrook left them ; and it was in the 
 train on his way home that the first dim sheet lightning of 
 a great inspiration flashed in his mind. So shadow}^ was 
 it that it escaped him. It came like a night mist — in- 
 visible to the wanderer, yet felt by its effect on temper- 
 ature. It almost chilled him. He flung it aside, but it 
 returned in shape a little less amorphous, and by the 
 time he reached home he felt not prepared to say the 
 infernal idea was vain. Billy Ambrose himself had indi- 
 cated the possibility. He believed that Billy was dying 
 and that he would never leave Tom Darcy's home again ; 
 but there remained in him immense possibilities, given skill 
 from outside to develop them. The inspiration made the 
 young man's heart beat swifter. Here was such an in- 
 trigue as he judged his brains well fitted to conduct and
 
 224 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 control. The danger was great, and upon the duration 
 of Billy's life everything depended; but success meant 
 something so far-reaching and complete, that Seabrook 
 knew no labour on his part, no sacrifice of time and 
 thought, no reasonable risk could be too great, if the}' 
 but brought him to the goal. 
 
 The dark side of the picture centred in this: that 
 Geoffrey would be called to lift the mask in one quarter 
 and suffer another man to know a little of the truth about 
 himself. The need to do so he hated; indeed only one 
 conceivable situation could justify such a hazard, and it 
 remained to be seen whether chance would create that 
 situation.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 THE SPIDER 
 
 AvELiNE met Emma Darcy a few days after Seabrook's 
 visit to Brightlingsea, and seeing her alone on Colchester 
 High Street, made inquiries and learned that William was 
 no better. 
 
 " He's fading," said Emma, *' and the bitter thing is 
 that nobody cares a damn but me. A wonderful man like 
 William — and nobody cares." 
 
 " But there's life yet and you to nurse him. You must 
 be hopeful, Emma." 
 
 " I would be if he wanted to live. He's got such a will 
 that if he said ' I'll live,' then he'd do it. But he don't. 
 He's fed up with life. That Helena's kindness alive and 
 would let us go away to a place in the sun somewhere if 
 William would get well ; and he could, and I'm at him night 
 and day to do it — for my sake, if not his own." 
 
 Presently Emma begged Aveline to come and see Wil- 
 liam. 
 
 " He likes you. If you was to beg him to recover and 
 go to Franco, I lay he'd go. If he knew there was one 
 here and there that wanted him to keep alive, it might 
 spur him to do it. But feeling nobody cares a mite how 
 soon he's underground " 
 
 " I must come if you put it like that," said Aveline. 
 " Let's go and buy something for him now." 
 
 Emma had come for fruit. 
 
 " He's taken a fancy for grapes," she said. " They 
 quench him." 
 
 Two days later Aveline visited Brightlingsea and spent 
 an hour with the sufferer. 
 
 225
 
 226 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 " Last night he skeered me in a fit," confessed Emma, 
 before thej went to the upper chamber where Billy lay. 
 " Half after two I thought he was a goner. And I called 
 up Tom — that's my brother — and begged William for 
 God's sake not to leave me. Then he turned better and 
 said he weren't going for a bit yet, till he'd evened things 
 up here and there. He's got his knife into his brother 
 now. That's a new turn, you may say." 
 
 They went up and found William calm and cheerful. 
 Aveline had brought him a packet of choice cigarettes, 
 and he thanked her and began smoking them at once. 
 
 " Light up," he said to her, " and you too, Em. Smoke 
 does me good. I'm sick of the housen. There's nought 
 more blasted to look at than a ceiling if you're used to 
 stars in the sky. The sky's alive, and now it's clouds and 
 now it's stars, and you get thought out of it ; but a square 
 
 of whitewash There's a big spider lives up in the 
 
 corner. He's taught me a thing or two." 
 
 The man pointed to a grey web two yards from his head. 
 
 " We understand each other," said William. " He 
 knows me and I know him. Catch the beggar a fly, 
 Emma." 
 
 " He's that human," said Emma, " that he's got to 
 know us and trust us." 
 
 " And I'm a spider, too," said William, " and I'll have 
 my fly yet afore I die." 
 
 Emma captured an unlucky house-fly, stood on the bed, 
 and thrust the creature into the edge of the spider's web. 
 Scarcely had her hand left it when from out of its cone 
 flashed a black hairy little shape, grabbed the fly, and 
 retreated. 
 
 Aveline shivered. 
 
 " However can you sleep with that wretch so near.'' " 
 she asked. 
 
 " It's the cherub that sits up aloft," explained Emma. 
 " That's what Billy calls it. He says they've got an 
 understanding — him and the spider. We don't mind
 
 THE SPIDER 227 
 
 creatures except the stingers. We've slept under a wasp's 
 nest afore now and never knowed it until morning, haven't 
 we, William? " 
 
 " There's only one wasp in the world," said William, 
 " and he's called Parkyn Ambrose, Esquire, and I'm the 
 spider that's going to suck his blood yet." 
 
 " Don't you begin that. Here's ' Grey Eyes ' come to 
 have a nice talk and cheer you up. She's been painting a 
 picture for your brother, and is going to get money by 
 it." 
 
 " Paint him a picture of me lying here — brought here 
 by him," said Billy. " And paint these hairy arms and 
 my yellow teeth, and tell him these arms will be round his 
 neck and those teeth in his windpipe yet. Tell him he's a 
 djang man — tell him " 
 
 He stopped and laughed at Aveline's horrified face. 
 
 " I'm teasing you," he said. " Parkyn's all right. I 
 wouldn't hurt him. Why should I? Such a brother as 
 he's been to me. I'll make a good end, you know. But 
 it's his place to come and close my eyes." 
 
 " I'm sure he'd come if 3^ou wished it," said Aveline. 
 
 Then the man blazed out again. 
 
 " Curse the fat dog ! He's done things I wouldn't like 
 a bird on a tree to see me do, or that spider in tlic corner." 
 
 " Let alone Gord," added Emma. 
 
 " And the crushing thing is that he's built not to know 
 he's wrong. If the justice of blasted law books and 
 blasted lawyers is on his side, then he don't care wlio suf- 
 fers. He looks to the law, like decent creatures look to 
 the Almighty. Mercy and the human heart, that hunger 
 to tear the law books and brain the men that wrote 'em — 
 what does he know of them ? " 
 
 " If it's left out of him, he can't help it," said Aveline. 
 
 " There's many things left out that human kindness can 
 put in, however," argued Emma. 
 
 " So there is — the woman's riglit. There's such a 
 thing as opening the eyes of the blind and softening the
 
 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 heart of stone ; but not with Parkyn Ambrose. He'll hear 
 his wife's played him false if I choose to tell him. And 
 what would he do? Would he look into his own withered 
 soul for the reason? " 
 
 " Goodstruth ! Do shut jour mouth, Billy ! " cried 
 Emma, her eyes round with alarm. 
 
 " I shan't shut my mouth — not to this woman, any- 
 how. I lay she knows a darned sight more about it than 
 we do, for that matter. They're pals, ain't they? She 
 knows that dapper little devil's my sister-in-law's fancy 
 man. And as for the husband, I've pitied him all my life ; 
 but I won't pity him no more. He's got it in the neck, 
 and I'm glad he has." 
 
 He had exhausted himself and pointed to a bottle. 
 
 " Didn't you know? " asked Emma of Aveline. 
 
 " It can't be — it's wild nonsense," she answered. 
 
 William panted and spoke again more quietly. 
 
 " Tell the fool she needn't worry. I ain't going to give 
 her away. She was always sporting to us, anyhow. 
 She'll live to put a fine marble tomb over my bones yet. 
 And you tell her there must be room for Emma to creep 
 in it, when she's through." 
 
 The extraordinary interview lasted but a short time 
 longer, for Aveline felt herself useless, and Emma was evi- 
 dently anxious for her to be gone. William said he 
 wanted to sleep, and they left him. 
 
 " He'll sleep a long time now," said Emma. " When 
 he's been chattering in that way it knocks him out, and 
 he's like a lamb for a bit after. And for Gord's sake 
 don't you take no notice of what he's been saying, ' Grey 
 Eyes.' If his sister-in-law thought he was telling people, 
 she wouldn't offer to help no more. Very like she'd have 
 the law of him instead. She'd have to do it to save her 
 face." 
 
 " You can trust me," promised the other. " Of course 
 it's all mad nonsense. But William's evidently very ill, or 
 I'm sure he wouldn't say such things."
 
 THE SPIDER 229 
 
 " It's true enough, for that matter. The young man 
 was over here a bit ago talking to William and trying to 
 calm him down. However, least said soonest mended, and 
 I'll pray you forget about it." 
 
 " You can trust me ; I'll come again some day. Send 
 me a postcard or come and see me, if I can be any good." 
 
 Then Aveline went her way, and Peter only learned that 
 she had been to Brightlingsea, visited Emma Darcy, and 
 found the brother of Parkyn Ambrose apparently dying. 
 
 ** The sooner the better — poor devil." 
 
 " And he might have been successful, too. He's ever 
 so much more interesting than Mr. Ambrose. And now 
 I believe he's going mad." 
 
 " Don't you be too busy in that quarter," advised Peter. 
 " It's a polite fiction at ' Colneside ' that there's no such 
 person as Billy." 
 
 " I won't speak of him, of course," she answered. " We 
 know that our Mr. Ambrose is ever so good — in the most 
 horrid acceptation of the word — and I know Billy is 
 ever so bad ; but, all the same, I dare saj' if Mr. Ambrose 
 had treated him differently Billy wouldn't hate him now." 
 
 " He's sodden, and his brain is probably done for. We 
 can only hope he'll die soon." 
 
 From that moment Aveline's thoughts were entirely oc- 
 cupied with Helena, and her heart went out to her. She 
 devoted her mind to the wife of the master of " Colne- 
 side " and soon found abundant sympathy flowing for that 
 lawless lady. Shared virtues and a kindred enthusiasm 
 for well-doing are good cement; but shared errors and 
 common weakness bring souls into still closer terms of 
 trust. 
 
 Helena and Aveline had been drawn together by a gen- 
 eral tolerance which they found reflected in each other; 
 but each had kept such secrets as she possessed. Helena 
 confessed to no irregularity, but forgave irregularity in 
 others, while Aveline took the same course. They both 
 admitted sympathy with William and Emma; they both
 
 230 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 declared hatred of the stuffy regulations of their middle- 
 class life; while as time went on and their friendship rip- 
 ened, they enlarged the limits of their toleration and 
 supported each other in their private opinions and atti- 
 tude to existence. 
 
 Helena envied Aveline the possession of a husband free 
 from prejudice; and Aveline, while admitting her good 
 fortune, nevertheless confessed that Peter, while large- 
 minded enough before marriage, was tinctured with a very 
 definite stability and respect for tradition, after all. He 
 had even modified her own former opinions in some direc- 
 tions. Whereon Helena replied that Parkyn, far from 
 modifying her opinions in any direction, only served to 
 harden them. 
 
 Aveline went to lunch at West Mersea and found her 
 friend depressed. 
 
 " For heaven's sake, be bright to-day," said Helena, 
 " for I'm in doleful dumps — full of private bothers and, 
 on the top of them, we've got a perfectly deadly man stay- 
 ing with us. One of that hopeless sort of people who love 
 the rare better than the beautiful — the kind that collects 
 postage stamps and gets pleasure out of them. Awfully 
 like my husband in every way, and Parkyn seems to think 
 he's found his second self. A groat gardener, of course. 
 They've gone to Colchester, and Dr. Carbonell's going to 
 show him the museum. Carbonell will want to put him 
 into a bottle or something, for he's a museum specimen 
 himself. However, my husband thinks he's charming." 
 
 " What a bore for you." 
 
 " Tell me about Billy. You went to see him, I know. 
 But I haven't heard again — poor wretch." 
 
 " Mr. Seabrook has been down, too, and Emma wants 
 to go ; but William says he'll die here. And he threatens 
 he's going to do all sorts of dreadful things before he dies. 
 You know the mad way he talks." 
 
 Helena had changed colour very visibly at this speech, 
 and Aveline, whose heart was bursting with sympathy,
 
 THE SPIDER 231 
 
 observed It. But she had spoken thus crudely on pur- 
 pose, as a prelude to more startling words. She did not 
 believe William's assertions with regard to Helena and 
 Geoffrey Seabrook. She assured herself stoutly that it 
 must be the lie of a drunken and worthless man ; but, per- 
 ceiving the danger of such statements, she intended to 
 warn Helena. Had she believed the story, she would not 
 have touched the subject; but she did not believe it and, 
 judging that loyalty to her friend demanded frankness, 
 now spoke. For the situation embraced dreadful possi- 
 bilities. If William were indeed d3ang, his brother might 
 visit hira at the last, and since William had openly prom- 
 ised to do some desperate thing with the fag end of his 
 life, it was possible that he meant an outrage at Helena 
 and Seabrook's expense. There were hopeful features in 
 the story, for Billy had explicitly stated he did not mean 
 to give Helena away ; but that was not surety sufficient of 
 the sick man's intentions. Apart from any other aspect 
 of the situation, Helena's husband might stand in physical 
 danger himself, which fact alone it was but right that 
 Helena should know. 
 
 " You've got to listen to me now," said Aveline. 
 " That's only the beginning. He told me a whole budget 
 of horrible lies and ideas he's got. He's dangerous, 
 frightfully dangerous, Helena, and though he says he 
 doesn't mean any harm to you, he does mean harm to your 
 husband." 
 
 Helena looked relieved. 
 
 " Don't you worry. I dare say he hates Parkyn — 
 that's natural; though, with all his faults, Parkyn has 
 tried to be a good brother to him." 
 
 " It's more you I'm frightened for than anybody — you 
 and Mr. Seabrook." 
 
 " Good gracious, my dear child, what d'you moan? " 
 
 " I mean he's saying — that ^Ir. Seabrook — oh, 
 Helena — that he's your lover. Emma begged him to 
 shut his mouth, but he rambled on, saying horrible things
 
 2m THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 and threatening horrible things — not against you, or 
 Mr. Seabrook — but against your husband. I think he's 
 mad ; but you ought to know. He doesn't mean any harm 
 to you, but the mere fact that he can say such things to 
 me " 
 
 The other collapsed. She gave a low wail and began 
 to cry. Aveline went to her and put her arms round her. 
 
 " I had to tell you, dearest Helena. It wouldn't have 
 been fair not to tell you. And I wouldn't mind an atom 
 if it was true a hundred times over." 
 
 The other seemed to have lost her senses for the moment. 
 She stared and let her tears fall down her face. She had 
 lost all grip. She wandered. 
 
 " God — God — God ! We always bring in God, if 
 there's a disaster, or misery, or tragedy in the air, don't 
 we? When we're happy and having a good time, we never 
 mention Him. We say, ' Oh, my God ! ' when we're in a 
 mess, never when we're happy. It's true. I've got a 
 lover, and those people know it." 
 
 Aveline comforted her with lawless joy. A flame of 
 passionate sympathy blazed up in her. 
 
 " Glory in it ! Glory in it ! " she said. " Don't cry. 
 Why shouldn't you love him? Wliy shouldn't he love 
 you.'* How can either of you help it.-^ And I'm sure 
 there's nothing to be frightened of." 
 
 " He told you. You might have been an enemy." 
 
 " He knew we were friends. He thought I knew it al- 
 ready. Cheer up, Helena. Be brave! What does any- 
 thing in the world matter, if you've got somebody to love 
 you and understand you.f* " 
 
 " Life seems to be crumbling and slipping away," 
 moaned Helena. " Be loyal to me, Aveline. Don't you 
 turn from me, child." 
 
 " Not for anything in the world. You've always been 
 good to me, and we think alike a thousand ways." 
 
 Aveline was prepared to serve Helena in any way she 
 might suggest; but Helena, heartened by this champion-
 
 THE SPIDER 233 
 
 ship, explained that Geoffrey Seabrook had the matter in 
 hand. 
 
 " I can trust him and he can trust me ; and I worship 
 you for offering to help me," she said. " I'm not the least 
 frightened really, because William's word is quite worth- 
 less, and if he attempted to insult me it would be taken 
 from whence it comes and be ignored. But my only fear 
 is that Geoffrey may be called away to serve before those 
 two are packed off out of England, or William dies." 
 
 It was dark before they parted, and Aveline set off 
 homewards in the omnibus. Helena saw her off, kissed 
 her many times before she started, and declared that her 
 support was the most precious, heartening and tonic fea- 
 ture of a sad life. 
 
 " I often longed to tell you," she said. " Now I see 
 how feeble I was not to. Now I have the blessed knowl- 
 edge that you are on my side. That's a tower of 
 strength to me, you lovely thing. You don't know what 
 I've suffered and what my temptations were." 
 
 " Yes, I do," answered the other. " Exceedingly well 
 I know."
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 THE GUEST 
 
 Parkyn Ambrose, amid grave distractions, found time for 
 courtesy to his guest. Mr. Wargrave Mortimer was a 
 man from the north of England, favourably known at 
 " Colneside " as a skilled horticulturist and a valuable 
 customer. And now, on better acquaintance, Parkyn 
 found that the gentleman chimed pleasantly with his own 
 opinions and shared his general views of life and its obli- 
 gations. The visitor was a man of good means, but not 
 wealthy. His life embraced scientific interests. He 
 busied himself with the hybridising of the iris family and 
 brought with him a gift, in the shape of some new crosses 
 between Korolkowi and Oncocyclus, which Mr. Ambrose 
 was to propagate and put on the market. 
 
 In person Wargrave Mortimer was tall, dark and clean 
 shaved. His face was handsome, but his expression never 
 varied and his full grey eyes never changed. He was de- 
 liberate, courteous and obviously a man of refined in- 
 stincts, unrelieved by humour. His voice was well-bred 
 and his views amazingly reactionary. Even Mr. Ambrose 
 felt mild surprise to hear a man ten years younger than 
 himself preserve the pre-war attitude. But while obsti- 
 nate and stiff-necked in opinion, Wargrave IMortimer 
 proved considerate in manner. He was didactic, but quite 
 prepared to give and take. He listened to his host and 
 they applauded each other frequently. 
 
 Now at the entrance to the Moot Hall, upon the morn- 
 ing of the day when Aveline went to see Helena, Ambrose 
 and Mortimer met Dr. Carbonell, and the guest, in antici- 
 pation, thanked the doctor for his courtesy. 
 
 234
 
 THE GUEST 235 
 
 " This is more than kind, to devote time to a stranger," 
 he said. 
 
 " A pleasure. I'm delighted to oblige, for one can't do 
 better than serve a kindred spirit." 
 
 But Carbonell spoke without knowledge, as presently 
 appeared, for the man from the north proved no kindred 
 spirit to him. 
 
 Ambrose left them together. He was to return and en- 
 tertain them at luncheon some hours later. 
 
 " Here are our heroes," declared the doctor, pointing 
 to the front of the Moot Hall. " Audo, Audle}^ Gilberd, 
 who tradition says gave Queen Elizabeth her first electric 
 shock, and Harsnett." 
 
 Mr. Mortimer gazed up at the stone figures. 
 
 " These do not interest me," he said. " Indeed there is 
 little here likely to do so save the ring of bells. I am a 
 keen student of campanology." 
 
 '• Then we'll go aloft," answered the energetic guide ; 
 " but you must let me set the pace. Our bells are very 
 fine, though not ancient, indeed not twent}' 3'ears old. 
 We have a gentleman among us who descends from a 
 refugee Flemish family which settled in Colchester during 
 Tudor times. Flanders, as no doubt you know, is the land 
 of bells and beautiful carillons, or was till the accursed 
 Germans struck them dumb. Our friend has no doubt in- 
 herited his love of these things. At any rate he has writ- 
 ten masterly mottoes for the bells." 
 
 The}?^ ascended by slow stages, and when he had got his 
 breath. Dr. Carbonell expatiated on the view from 
 the tower; but the courteous voice of the other cut him 
 short. 
 
 " I am near-sighted, unhappily, and can see nothing to 
 interest me, though doubtless your view is fine. The bell- 
 chamber ? " 
 
 " Five bells we have, and they sound ' The Westminster 
 Chimes.' " 
 
 Mortimer examined the monsters ranged in the dim bel-
 
 236 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 fry. Then he brought out his notebook and transcribed 
 the inscriptions. 
 
 " Great art and sympathetic understanding goes to 
 those verses," declared Carbonell, and the other agreed 
 with him. 
 
 " Your praise is well justified," answered the visitor, as 
 he set down the bell mottoes in order. 
 
 "Placed here on high, 
 
 We serve the town, 
 Beneath the crown. 
 Beneath the sky. 
 
 II 
 
 Differing in size. 
 
 In note and weight, 
 Yet, small or great. 
 
 We harmonise. 
 
 Ill 
 
 With measured speech. 
 Well-timed and true. 
 Our message due 
 
 We tell to each. 
 
 IV 
 
 Brief, clear and bold 
 We say our say, 
 And then straightway. 
 
 Our peace we hold. 
 
 O mortal race, 
 
 Our lesson learn; 
 
 Each has his turn. 
 And time, and place." 
 
 *' The * crown ' of the first inscription is above us," ex- 
 plained Dr. Carbonell. " The tower is surmounted by a 
 large crown." 
 
 " They are wholly admirable — perfect bell music and 
 masterly in their thought," declared Wargrave Mortimer. 
 " I have read none better."
 
 THE GUEST 237 
 
 But though the duties of the guide began thus pleas- 
 antly, the agreement of the men did not extend much 
 farther. Mr. Mortimer was as full of theories as the doc- 
 tor, and their theories began to clash. They differed on 
 technical questions respecting the Roman walls ; they dif- 
 fered as to the Norman origin of Colchester Castle; they 
 differed upon a multiplicity of minor points respecting the 
 museum pottery. A courtesy almost pitiless marked 
 Mortimer's contradictions ; while the doctor, long accus- 
 tomed to be regarded as the first authority on all questions 
 of local archaeology, grew warm. The curator of the mu- 
 seum supported Carbonell; the visitor preserved a some- 
 what biased attitude. He was, however, amazed at the 
 wonderful wealth of the collection, and annoyed the local 
 antiquaries by declaring that the finest specimens of 
 Roman glass and glaze should be in the National Mu- 
 seum. 
 
 •' Why ? " asked Dr. Carbonell. " This is a national 
 museum just as much as the British." 
 
 " I venture to think that a parochial outlook," declared 
 Mortimer. " Where one can see them here, a thousand 
 would be privileged to do so in London." 
 
 " You speak as though Colchester were at the antip- 
 odes," retorted the other. 
 
 " No, no ; I merely state a fact. Your marvellous 
 riches are not adequately known. Take myself : I should 
 have made this pilgrimage 3'ears ago had I guessed at the 
 treat in store. But I think an expert from headquarters 
 would display the collection and arrange it to better pur- 
 pose." 
 
 " I'm glad I don't agree with you," replied the other. 
 " In my judgment the arrangement and system are per- 
 fect." 
 
 Imperturbed, Mr. Mortimer continued his perambula- 
 tion, and presently, declaring himself fatigued, we went 
 into the air and sat awhile with Carbonell in the Castle 
 grounds. Their talk passed to the war, and here again
 
 238 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 the point of view was so diverse that the elder began 
 heartily to weary of his task. 
 
 Mortimer, of course, entertained cut-and-dried opinions 
 upon the conflict. They were conservative and religious. 
 He spoke as one who had said the same thing, probably in 
 similar words, a great many times. 
 
 " Germany designed to rise above the whole world, not 
 on stepping-stones of her dead self, along the true and 
 only line of progress for individuals or states ; but upon 
 stepping-stones of other people's dead selves. No endur- 
 ing success could be supported on the foul foundations 
 of such warfare. But we need a pure world for honesty 
 to be the best policy in it, and the world is not pure, Doc- 
 tor. It must be racked and refined and drawn from the 
 lees for many a century yet before the ape and tiger in 
 man is finally eradicated. War is the first and greatest 
 refiner and alchemist of human character, and our pro- 
 digious war is helping on the noble work." 
 
 To Carbonell this was cant. 
 
 " You astound me," he answered. " Has reason no say 
 in the argument.'' " 
 
 " The war is above reason." 
 
 " Beneath it, surely. If reason had her place in the 
 sun, this accursed, misbegotten outrage would not have 
 happened. Religion could not stop it, but reason would 
 have done so." 
 
 " Can you assert so much.'' " asked the other. 
 
 " Can you doubt.'' Put this question. Did one man in 
 fifty thousand of the inhabitants of Europe want the war.'' 
 Had there been a public ballot of adult humanity, how 
 many would have voted for it.f* " 
 
 " None would have dared." 
 
 " Exactly ! To evade reason we have secret diplomacy, 
 skulking like a reptile in the dens of the Chancellories. 
 Religion was powerless, because impotent, as always, in 
 any vital question of human welfare. Education and in- 
 creasing knowledge have reduced her to an empty and
 
 THE GUEST 239 
 
 barbaric ornament. And reason was powerless for an- 
 other cause: because she is denied any voice in human 
 affairs, and suppressed by the State itself. The State 
 knows that reason is the deadly enemy of religion, and in 
 her blindness the State conceives an obsolescent creed more 
 useful to her than the freedom of human thought that 
 reason demands. So the State persecutes reason, suffers 
 religion to adulterate education, and attacks rational 
 progress, just as justice is attacked by the system of 
 legal advocacy under which this nation groans. Some 
 fool once said that he cared not who made the laws of the 
 land if he were allowed to make the songs. Not till the 
 laity make the laws will lawyers be put into their proper 
 place. But this is by the wa^^ I'm only arguing that 
 when reason wins to the light, it will drag diplomacy into 
 the light also ; and tliat will be a big nail in the coffin of 
 war. War arises from confusion of thought ; and reason 
 is the enemy of confusion of thought." 
 
 The visitor listened without visible emotion. 
 
 " I find mj'self utterly and absolutely out of harmony 
 with your views," he said, when the elder had finished. 
 " War is a divine ordinance. * Carnage is God's daugh- 
 ter,' as Wordsworth so terribly and truly remarks. Shall 
 you and I contradict Wordsworth? The State looks 
 wisely to the support of the Church, and the Church is 
 doing magnificent work in the war." 
 
 He proceeded in a familiar strain until the veteran 
 could endure no farther. 
 
 " My dear sir ! " he exclaimed. " Leave it. I.ct us 
 talk of anything — pots, pans, oysters, neolithic man, the 
 procession of the equinoxes; but not of what is present 
 and real and vital. You choke me with the dead breath 
 of the Middle Ages. We shall never convince each other." 
 
 " You'll never convince me, certainly, that reason is 
 more than a walking-stick for human progress. The 
 crutch must be religion, faith, childlike trust in One who 
 knows the end from the beginning and who suffers evil
 
 240 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 for His own purposes. Your futile free thought is like 
 the sea foam bursting on the rock." 
 
 " Yes, it is," admitted the other. " We see no great 
 mark of the foam's progress, because human life is short ; 
 but ask the rock. It will tell you that the wave wins in 
 the long run. The static goes down before the dynamic, 
 the dead before the living." 
 
 " But the Rock of Ages will never go down before the 
 shifting currents of the human mind. Only Christianity 
 holds the seed of everlasting life ; all else is chaff." 
 
 He ran on, and the other tried irony and humour, but 
 to no purpose. 
 
 Then there rose in Dr. Carbonell a measure of impa- 
 tience, for he was not a very patient man. 
 
 " Well," he said at length, " I do honestly fear there's 
 something wrong with the drains in the house where your 
 soul dwells ! Now I must be away. Tell Ambrose I 
 shan't join you at luncheon. I'm busy still; for an an- 
 cient I have much to occupy my energies. And you'll 
 both want to talk gardening, of which I know nothing." 
 
 He rose and shook hands. 
 
 " Thank you for your great courtesy," answered the 
 visitor, smiling and bowing over the hand he shook. " I 
 shall pray for you." 
 
 Staggered by this promise, Carbonell departed, secretly 
 laughing at himself and his own absurd impatience ; while 
 Wargrave Mortimer presently joined his host. 
 
 He explained that the doctor would not be at luncheon. 
 
 " I'm very much afraid my views annoyed him. He is 
 a man of strong but mistaken feeling. I think he knew 
 I was getting the better of the argument, while he was 
 getting the worse of his temper. An intelligent man ; but, 
 like all his class, prone to exaggeration and extremes. 
 He reposes too much trust on that faulty guide: human 
 reason. We must hope the Light will be vouchsafed to 
 him before the end." 
 
 " What I always hope for him, too," declared Mr. Am-
 
 THE GUEST 241 
 
 brose. " A noble man ; but of course there are none so 
 blind as those who will not see." 
 
 Having dismissed the doctor, they turned to horticul- 
 ture and passed an hour agreeably to them both. They 
 then proceeded to " Colneside," and devoted the rest of 
 the daylight to the alpines, which enjoyed the visitor's 
 special regard. 
 
 " After the iris," he said, " the flora of the granitic and 
 limestone mountains has always been my particular de- 
 light. And when you visit me, as I hope next spring you 
 will, you shall see how kindly your treasures have taken 
 to my moraines and rock gardens." 
 
 They wandered then where, on an eastern slope of 
 " Colneside," nigh the offices, there spread many hundreds 
 of frames filled with tiny plants. The alpine gardens 
 themselves were built here also, but the bulk of the immense 
 collection flourished in pots inserted in beds of sand. 
 Their glass houses were still uncovered, and the plants 
 enjoyed the autumn sunshine and drank the nightly 
 dews. 
 
 Saxifrage and campanula were Mr. ]Mortimer's special 
 interests, for they throve with him, and now he perambu- 
 lated the frames, notebook in hand, and expatiated on 
 what he saw. The enthusiasm of the collector was upon 
 him, and a gathering row of little pots were set aside by 
 Richard Bare, who waited upon his master. 
 
 They came upon Philip Pettikin at his eternal task of 
 grubbing weeds, and Ambrose bid him approach. But 
 Mr. Mortimer made no delay and revealed indifference. 
 In fact, the human interest of the aged Pettikin did not 
 arride him ; perceiving which INIr. Ambrose dismissed Pet- 
 tikin and felt a passing regret that his guest should have 
 found no attraction in the venerable man. 
 
 But Mortimer was generous enough of praise for the 
 growing things. 
 
 " Your nursery is an epitome of the botanical world, 
 Mr. Ambrose," he said. " Indeed the world itself is a
 
 242 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 nursery for that matter, and one can push the parallel far 
 between men and plants." 
 
 Only an hour or two later Wargrave Mortimer as- 
 tounded his host, and brought amazing incident into the 
 current of Parkyn's life. 
 
 They returned home in due course, and it was an- 
 nounced that the guest must depart on the following day. 
 Relieved to know it, Helena became gracious to him and, 
 before dinner, invited him, for the first time, into her own 
 boudoir. They drank tea there, and Mrs. Ambrose, hav- 
 ing occasion to speak to her husband, left the visitor for 
 a little while alone. Five minutes later she returned to 
 find Mr. Mortimer stretched insensible upon the carpet. 
 In his fall it appeared that he had carried away a little 
 easel on which stood the enlarged portrait of Aveline.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 AT THE " king's HEAD ' 
 
 Such an end game as Geoffrey Seabrook designed and 
 hoped for his intrigue, demanded a certain attitude in Wil- 
 liam and a very definite limitation to William's future 
 activities. After a second visit to the sick man, whereat 
 he exhibited friendship, took gifts and played listener, 
 Geoffrey perceived that Ambrose was dying in earnest, 
 and desired, before he died, to be revenged upon his 
 brother for many fancied wrongs. This was the situation 
 that he had suspected at his first visit, and from which his 
 inspiration sprang ; but he was too cautious to assume its 
 certainty, or to build upon the shifting foundations of 
 Billy's ruined intellect until he satisfied himself that they 
 could be trusted. 
 
 An evening visit he paid, and brought a bottle of old 
 cognac. He explained how he had spoken with Helena 
 and that she much hoped William was better, and might 
 still consider the idea of a winter abroad. 
 
 " He is better, just a thought," said Emma, " but it's 
 only a flicker, along of being took care of and lying in a 
 good bed, A w^eek ago he cried out to rise and sleep in 
 a hayrick; and 'twas all me and my brother could do to 
 over-persuade him. I know how he feels, for I feel the 
 same, and hunger for the smell of hay and the cool night 
 on your cheek, while your body's warm and snug. Billy's 
 all on going out to ' The King's Head ' to-night, for a 
 talk with the chaps and a sight of a bar. He says 'twill 
 be the last time as he'll ever see a pub, and he wants to 
 do it while he's got strength. I pra\' him not to for my 
 sake, but he says that a few more days, or less days, don't 
 
 243
 
 244 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 matter now. He's full of wicked ideas, and I hope you'll 
 calm him down. He's all up against Parkyn now, and 'tis 
 a mercy he's beyond doing any harm, poor dear, else he 
 might have planned some bad action and got in the news- 
 papers." 
 
 " It's sad he feels like that. Pie's got a lot to be thank- 
 ful for, if you consider. That reminds me. Mrs. Am- 
 brose asked me to give you this, Emma." 
 
 He handed her a five-pound note. 
 
 " The Lord'll reward her. Yes, we've had our luck. 
 What I always said was, ' Work for your bread and trust 
 Gord for the butter ' ; but William is like they Barnados 
 homes — trusts Gord for everything. And he's never 
 been disappointed. He says it ain't luck, but virtue re- 
 warded." 
 
 " I'll see him. and try to get him into a better state of 
 mind." 
 
 Billy greeted Seabrook with ribaldry, but presently 
 calmed down. He insisted on having some of the old 
 brandy, and repeated his intention of rising and presently 
 spending an hour at the inn. 
 
 " I can very easily crawl there with an arm on each 
 side. I want to see the boys once more and drink a drop 
 from the pewter." 
 
 " You look better, if anything." 
 
 " Not me. But there's a shot in the locker yet — just 
 one. And that's all I want. You clear out, Emma, and 
 let me talk to ' Moustache.' Him and I have got secrets." 
 
 " No, no," murmured Seabrook. But Emma left them. 
 It was dusk, and she hung up a blanket over the white 
 blind after lighting a candle. 
 
 " Mustn't show a blink of light nowadays, for fear of 
 they Zepps," she said. 
 
 "How's my blasted brother?" asked William, as soon 
 as the woman had departed. 
 
 " I don't think he knows about your illness. Why not 
 write and tell him.'' "
 
 AT THE " KING'S HEAD " 245 
 
 " Perhaps I shall. But he knows all right. His wife's 
 told him. And you know he knows, for that matter." 
 
 " Indeed I do not. She and I are very much concerned 
 about you. She still thinks you might travel." 
 
 " Travel to hell. But not alone. I've got ideas. 
 Only you're such a snaky sort of fool. Ain't we birds of 
 a feather .f* Why can't you trust me? Any creature 
 would trust a dying man, surely ? " 
 
 " I don't distrust you, William. Why should I? " 
 
 " It's like this : I might do you a bad turn, but as I can 
 only do you a bad turn with a man I hate, because he's a 
 wicked scoundrel — my brother, I mean — there's no gain 
 to me in doing it. I've no wish to harm you, or Jezebel. 
 She's all right, and a very good friend to me. But you 
 can help me, and if you won't, then I shall hinder you. 
 That's all straight and fair." 
 
 " If I can help you, of course I will." 
 
 " Then you've got to drop the mask and not pretend 
 any more. You can't have it both ways. If j^ou're going 
 to be the straight, God-fearing Christian and try to bluff 
 me, I let up on you ; if you tell me you're a natural man, 
 up against society and out for j^our own hand, same as 
 I was, then I'll use my fag end of life to do j^ou a good 
 turn. I want to know the naked truth about you. I do 
 know it, for that matter. But last time you came you 
 played about and pretended virtue and thought I didn't 
 see through you. But I did. If you can sa^', ' I'm a 
 damned humbug and only pretending, because you've got 
 to pretend in this mean, lying world,' then I'll respect you 
 and put you on to a good thing. If not, I'll bitch you up 
 if I can, once for all." 
 
 Seabrook half expected this. He had thought quite as 
 much of the future as Billy had thought of it ; and had 
 looked farther ahead. 
 
 He nodded towards the door. 
 
 " Nobod}^ listening, I suppose.'* " 
 
 " Better go and see."
 
 24f6 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 He did so. There were voices below, where Emma was 
 talking with her brother, Tom Darcy. Then he returned 
 and sat by WilHam. 
 
 " Tell me what you want, and if I can help you I will — 
 whatever it is." 
 
 " Now we're getting a move on. But you've been so 
 damned double all your life that you can't make your lips 
 confess it. I don't want much from you — only to get 
 my brother to come and see me. You ought to be able to 
 do that." 
 
 " Just to say ' good-bye ' to him ? " 
 
 " Yes; and just to start him on the road to the devil 
 first." 
 
 Seabrook's heart beat quicker. It seemed too danger- 
 ously straightforward. 
 
 " He's the elder," said William. " It's right he should 
 go first. I want to have my revenge. I want him to 
 know I've cut his thread. You're hearing me, ain't you.'' 
 You're getting it in — soaking it in.^^ I shall be dead in 
 six weeks, maybe less. But they can't hang a dying man. 
 D'you see the game.'' What do you think of it.'' Nuts 
 for you. You can't go to the wars and be shot then, be- 
 cause Jezebel will want you to help a lone widow and keep 
 the gardens going. You'd be ' starred,' and presently 
 you'll fill Parkyn's shoes and be boss of ' Colneside,' and 
 Mayor of Colchester, and the saviour of the poor, and 
 have a marble statue put up to you when you go to 
 Heaven. Good enough — eh ? " 
 
 " Are you sane to say such things ^ " 
 
 *' Saner than the three witches that fooled Macbeth. 
 They wrecked him with tricky lies that looked like truth. 
 I'm not deceiving you. I can make your fortune if you'll 
 let me, and bring my brother to my bedside. A plain deal 
 and a damned good bargain for you. And well you know 
 it." 
 
 Mr. Seabrook took a thimbleful of the old cognac. 
 
 " I must think of it," he said.
 
 AT THE " KING'S HEAD " 247 
 
 " You have thought of it." 
 
 " You're a genius. You're too deep and subtle for me, 
 William." 
 
 " Arcades amho. You're a bigger blackguard than I 
 am, after all, if 3'ou can take this on. So the rest ought 
 to be easy. Come back next Aveek and use jour wits to 
 help me put a touch or two to it. I'm sick, and can't see 
 very clear. I orAy know that I want to do that chap in; 
 and as that would pay you better than any man in the 
 world, I come to you to help. And you will. Call Emma 
 and Tom. I'm going out to drink now — for the last 
 time." 
 
 "What about Emma?" 
 
 " She's all right. She's not a humbug. A saint of 
 God, that woman. She's terrible vexed with me for hating 
 Parkyn. I'll drop that with her now. I'll pretend I'm 
 going to make a good end, see? And so I shall make a 
 good end. That bit of fun's all that's left for me now." 
 
 Seabrook declared that he saw the point. 
 
 " Think all round it," he said. " You're sporting to 
 me and I'll be sporting to 3'OU. Wh}' make up your mind 
 to die? Why not chuck this savage idea and make up 
 your mind to live? " 
 
 " I'm beyond that. I know I'm booked. There's more 
 going on inside me than anybody can tell but me. You 
 needn't worr}^ j^ourself about that. You've got to thank 
 your luck that things are as they are, and the conse- 
 quences will be what the}^ will be. See me again and then 
 go bleating to him and say I'm dying and wish to see him. 
 But I don't want to see him yet. Because once he comes, 
 I must only have enough life left to put him down and 
 out." 
 
 The other called Emma and Tom Darcy, then he bade 
 William good-bye and departed. 
 
 Seabrook walked all the way home through an autumn 
 night. He felt uneasily elated. What puzzled him was 
 that his original inspiration should have found such an
 
 £48 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 exact echo in the mind of William Ambrose. He had been 
 prepared to foment Billy's hatred of his brother, drop 
 poison into the cup, and, with the best cunning that he 
 knew, lead up to the present attitude of Billy's mind. But 
 he came again to find that attitude already affirmed and 
 developed. The sick man needed no mental aid from him ; 
 the only aid he asked was assistance in detail. Geoffrey 
 feared a plot that developed so simply and surely. It was 
 much too good to be true, and he began to search for pit- 
 falls and ambushes. He intended to lie well out of danger 
 himself, whatever happened. He believed William to be 
 sincere, but was ready to circumvent him if he were not. 
 If he feared anybody it was Emma. 
 
 Meantime Billy insisted on being dressed, and while his 
 friends got him into his clothes, he bragged of the praise 
 that Seabrook had bestowed upon him. 
 
 " He said I was a genius too deep for him. He knows 
 a clever man when he sees one, that chap does. There'll 
 be surprises presently. I may be grave-meat, but I've got 
 a brain yet, and it's a brain far out of the common, and 
 always was, and there'll be a bit of fireworks before the 
 last light's out ; and you'll live to see and wonder, Tom 
 Darcy." 
 
 Emma pressed him for explanations. 
 
 " Such a dark member you grow," she said. " What's 
 all this plotting and planning. ? I wish you could take 
 your old point of view, because it was much more restful 
 and high-minded." 
 
 " All very good sense," declared William, " and for that 
 matter, ' Moustache ' has been saying the same to me. 
 You must know, Tom, that I've had a lot to endure from 
 my brother, but up to now I've forgiven the dog. And 
 now I've decided to go on the same way and forgive him 
 to the end." 
 
 " A very wise thing to do," declared Mr. Darcy. 
 
 " We shall meet before the finish. But not yet. I'm 
 going to forgive him."
 
 AT THE " KING'S HEAD " 249 
 
 " You will be talking as if you was going to die," whined 
 Emma, " and very well you know there ain't no call for 
 you to die, if you'd only give your mind to living. You 
 ought to live, whether you want to or don't, for my sake. 
 I've been a proper pal to you and you've been all the world 
 to me, Billy, and what's going to come o' me if you die? " 
 
 " Don't you worry," he said. " You'll be all right. 
 There's lots of fun for you yet." 
 
 " You didn't ought to die," she repeated, " and it'll show 
 you don't care a brass farden for me if you do." 
 
 They reached " The King's Head," and the apparition 
 of William, long-haired and hollow-eyed, astonished not a 
 little those who knew him. He was weak, and glad to sink 
 into a corner by the fire. 
 
 " Wonders never cease," said Saul Rebow, skipper of 
 the Peezcit, who patronised " The King's Head." 
 
 " No doubt to a chap like you they never do," answered 
 William. " But you Avasn't born at mushroom time all 
 the same, else they'd never have called you ' Tell-yer-for- 
 why.' Truth is, I'm going to be put to bed with a shovel 
 before long." 
 
 " Stuff and nonsense," said Mr. Rebow. " You ain't 
 going. You're all right. You did ought to have stuck 
 to the oysters for a bit." 
 
 They encouraged him and hoped he would mend. The 
 liquor flowed and a policeman came in. 
 
 " There's a chink o' light showing, missis," he said, " not 
 enough to make a fuss about, but enough to swear by. 
 You'll do well to lower the gas jet a thought and pull the 
 curtain closer." 
 
 Emma spoke of an adventure. 
 
 " I see a motor-bike kill a cat this morning," she said. 
 " Was on it and over it afore you could say knife. Cruel 
 devils they soldiers on motor-bikes. 'Twould have been 
 just the same if he'd killed a child." 
 
 " 'Twas thought very dangerous to kill a cat in my 
 young days," declared Saul Rebow. " For that matter
 
 250 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 I've known it bring bad luck myself, though of course 
 there's nothing to it really." 
 
 "Who can tell?" asked Emma. "There's a powerful 
 lot of things that have a meaning to 'em, and though we 
 forget them, very like they don't forget us." 
 
 The old woman behind the bar spoke. 
 
 " That's right, Emma Darcy," she said. " It don't fol- 
 low because we don't believe in 'em, the things themselves 
 be gone. Nobody believes in witches now ; but I wouldn't 
 say there was none left." 
 
 " Of course there's witches," answered Emma, " and if 
 a witch come in and sot down, and you put an open knife 
 beside her, she'd jump up again directly." 
 
 " There's wise women about yet," admitted Tom Darcy. 
 " We've got a hand on the Peewit, and his daughter a 
 while ago had her knee-cap off. Yes, she did, and went 
 lame for two year ; then her mother bethought her of a 
 wise woman down Mersea way, and they went to her, and 
 she stroked the girl's knee-cap, and three nights after it 
 flew on again! That's a fact, and our mate would take 
 his Boible oath to it. The same woman charmed ague out 
 of a man, and the man's wife saw the ague wriggle out of 
 the room like a snake, while the man was in a sort of an 
 onsensed state. And he never had no ague from that day 
 till his death." 
 
 Rebow nodded gravely and William jeered. 
 
 " I wish to God I could find the party," he said. " Per- 
 haps she'd charm my rotten lungs away and give me a new 
 pair." 
 
 " If I knew where she was, I'd seek her," declared 
 Emma. 
 
 " She's dead," said Darcy. " But there's no doubt she 
 had great powers. A more amazing thing was the horses 
 and the carter and the cart. Good alive! Never was 
 such a strange affair, and yet as true as gospel, for the 
 carter told it again and many heard about it. Four 
 bosses he had, and a great wain full of sacks of ground
 
 AT THE « KING'S HEAD " 251 
 
 corn. And he couldn't get up a little dip in the road. 
 The hosses sweated and he sweated and whipped and cussed 
 for all he was worth; but nothing would make 'em fetch 
 the top of the hill. And by the side of the road was sit- 
 ting the wise woman, in a grey hood and gown. She 
 watched him for a bit, then in a pause, when he was tired 
 of using language and the hosses were properly shivering, 
 for they knew they was failing in their task, the woman 
 said to him : ' Don't whip the hosses, whip the wheels, 
 master.' Her voice, as he said after, wasn't like most 
 women's voices. He was going to laugh, but he looked in 
 her face and that stopped him. And though it seemed 
 foolishness to do what she bade, he done it and lashed the 
 wheels with all his might, and the waggon went up over 
 the hill as easy as could be ! " 
 
 " Such mysteries happen without a doubt," confessed 
 Saul Rebow, " and I've no patience with them that laugh 
 at them. No man knows all there is to know, and though 
 I'm thought to have a reason for most things, I'd be the 
 first to confess that I don't know the reason for a tale 
 like that." 
 
 " Nor yet anybody but Gord," said Emma. 
 
 William was very quiet. He spoke little, and sat and 
 listened to the company. He coughed presently, though 
 the fit soon passed. He drank as much as he could, but 
 his silence affected his companions and indicated the 
 change in him. 
 
 He rose half-an-hour before closing time and beckoned 
 to Emma. 
 
 " Get me back," he said. " Good-bye, boys. I shall 
 never see a one of you again, but you won't forget me." 
 
 *' Not likely, Billy. There'll be a good many stories 
 about you going round for years, I shouldn't wonder," 
 said the landlady. 
 
 " I'll give you something to talk about yet before I peg 
 out," answered William Ambrose. " And when it hap- 
 pens, you remember what ' Old tel-yer-for-why ' said just
 
 252 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 now. ' No man knows all there is to know.' So long, all 
 — till we meet again in a thirstier place." 
 
 He went out, and Emma took him slowly back to her 
 brother's cottage; but Tom Darcy stopped on at the inn. 
 
 All agreed behind William's back that he was a doomed 
 man. 
 
 " And none but himself to thank, poor useless wretch," 
 said Mr. Rebow. 
 
 They argued then as to whether William could have 
 helped his futile existence, or whether that had been be- 
 yond his power. 
 
 " Everything stood in his favour, and very respectable 
 blood in his veins. So there's no excuse for him," asserted 
 Darcy. 
 
 " The man's a sport, so all's said," explained Rebow. 
 " There's sports in all created things, and they can't help 
 being sports, and 'tisn't for us to judge them, because the 
 Lord wills them to be. Things beyond human knowledge 
 get mixed in with human seed. And when you look round 
 with seeing eyes, you often ask yourself how a man and 
 woman ever find themselves brave enough to take a hand 
 in the business of creation." 
 
 " They're beginning to feel that more and more," de- 
 clared the landlady. " The bigger the wits the smaller 
 the family nowadays. No sane female wants to bear man 
 babies, in sight of this war. Who'd spend twenty patient 
 years of bringing up fine boys to know they was to be 
 blown to dust in other folks' quarrels at the end.^* You 
 ask the robbed, red-eyed women about it and list to them. 
 You ask Nancy Mushet, who heard yesterday her Teddy 
 had fallen — her only one." 
 
 " Poor Samuel's properly cast down," said Darcy, " and 
 so's the rest of us. He was a good, young, sea-loving 
 chap, but no more made for fighting than his father." 
 
 Their talk sank into gloom, and a few minutes before 
 closing time they departed.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 aveline's letter 
 
 On the morning after the last visit to Helena, Aveline re- 
 ceived a letter from her friend, and guessing that the wife 
 of Parkyn Ambrose must have more to say about herself, 
 put the letter into her pocket until Peter had eaten his 
 breakfast and gone to " Colneside." Looking back after- 
 wards she remembered his breakfast talk was of the army, 
 and his growing conviction that he ought to join and not 
 wait longer for the calling of his Class. When he had 
 left her she read the letter, and having read it, her mind 
 fastened, as minds will, upon small issues, even in the light 
 of crushing events. She felt thankful that she had not 
 opened the letter until Peter's departure, and she won- 
 dered how long it would be before she saw Peter again. 
 
 In the very hour when her secret was entrusted to the 
 bosom of Aveline, Helena had been faced with the former's 
 own more tremendous mystery. Thus she wrote — 
 
 "Manor House, 
 " West jNIersea. 
 
 " My dear Child, 
 
 " An awful thing has happened — awful for you 
 
 and awful for me, because I love you. Last night, soon 
 
 after my husband and his friend returned home, Wargrave 
 
 Mortimer, that's his name, fainted suddenly at sight of 
 
 3^our big photograph in my boudoir. When he came to 
 
 again, he apologised, and confessed that he had been 
 
 physically upset by the shock of an astounding likeness. 
 
 Then he asked about you, and heard things, and saw your 
 
 253
 
 254 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 pictures and — my poor, precious dear, you know, only 
 too well, who he is. 
 
 " Oh, my dear girl, why didn't you confide in me, as I 
 confided so frankly and freely in you? Every word I 
 write bleeds for you and I shall stand beside you against 
 the whole world. My husband and yours are talking 
 privately. I don't know what they are going to do. 
 Does Peter Mistley know the truth? If so, all will be 
 well in the long run. I must fly to catch post. 
 
 "Your devoted 
 
 " Helena." 
 
 In the moment of her overwhelming disaster, with life in 
 ruins and the cost of her achievements suddenly calling 
 to be paid, Aveline kept her nerve. An attitude of mind, 
 long trained to this, enabled her to do so. She had always 
 expected the truth to appear. She was schooled to antici- 
 pate disaster sooner or later. Now it fell as a bolt from 
 the blue, without warning, or premonition, as she knew 
 that it would fall. Thus it was bound to come, when it 
 did come. 
 
 In ten minutes the fact seemed familiar knowledge. 
 She considered the immediate situation. Her husband, 
 Wargrave Mortimer, would not approach her ; but he 
 might go to " Colneside " with Parkyn Ambrose to see 
 Peter Mistley. Or Ambrose might break it to Mistley 
 alone. Probably Mistley would not believe it and return 
 at once to her. 
 
 Within ten minutes of that thought, Aveline had left 
 her home. She decided not to go far off, but to put her- 
 self beyond Peter's reach for at least four-and-twenty 
 hours. 
 
 She had not thought much yet, but knew that she could 
 always think best on paper. She went down to Hythe 
 therefore, and, at a sailors' inn beside the river, wrote to 
 Mistley. Her only concern was with him. Her husband, 
 now that he was in a position to do so, would divorce her ;
 
 AVELINE'S LETTER 255 
 
 but for the present she refused to consider what action 
 Peter would take. As her letter proceeded, however, she 
 was called to face the outraged man who believed himself 
 her husband, and the extent of the thing she had done un- 
 folded itself before her. Darkness fell upon Aveline long 
 before she had completed her confession. 
 Thus she wrote — 
 
 " My dear Petes, 
 
 " I know jou will read this. I can write it better 
 than I can tell it, and, of course, I can't stop in your 
 home any more till you have the whole story. I've done 
 an unspeakable thing, and I don't know in the least yet 
 how I'm going to feel about it ; but by the time I've finished 
 this letter, I shall begin to feel, and after I've put down 
 all the past and dug up the details for you, I shall perhaps 
 guess a little how you'll feel, too. 
 
 " One thing I'm not going to do, and that is excuse ni}^- 
 self. I never will, Peter. I'm bitterly sorry for the re- 
 sult of what I did ; but if I live to be a hundred, or if I 
 drown myself in a few hours, I shall never be sorry for 
 the thing itself. I've passed that stage ages ago. 
 
 " My maiden name was Mary Houston, and I married 
 Wargrave Mortimer while my widowed mother was still 
 alive. I married him for one reason, to help my mother 
 die in peace, knowing that her only child would be well 
 provided for and beyond all reach of difficulty and anx- 
 iety. As though difficult}' and anxiet}- in themselves were 
 evils. Mortimer was an old friend of m}' father, who ad- 
 mired him, ' because he had an old head on young shoul- 
 ders.' And I honestly thought I loved Wargrave. I did 
 — for all his goodness to my feckless father — and as I 
 was threatened with penury when my mother should die, 
 and had no near relations and none who might be expected 
 to feel a spark of interest in a pauper orphan of twenty, 
 it all pointed to Wargrave. I admired his probity and 
 honour and his loyalty to my father (for whom, of course,
 
 256 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 he felt not even respect), and when he made his sedate 
 approach I was exceedingly flattered and, with the igno- 
 rance of a virgin mind, believed that I adored him. 
 
 " For some time we were what I thought was contented, 
 in a twilight sort of way. Then I grew to womanhood 
 and found Wargrave older than his age, and bound in 
 misery and iron under every sort of social convention my 
 soul abhorred. Disparity of temperament grew with 
 every breath I breathed, and misunderstandings and sharp 
 differences of opinion came between us. He resented me 
 thinking for myself; he felt it improper that I should 
 disagree with hira. When I told him I hated opinions and 
 only loved ideas, he sent for the doctor to see me and, I 
 believe, thought of consulting an alienist. But our first 
 quarrels were healed, and by the time Mary Mortimer 
 was two-and-twenty it looked as though her husband was 
 going to win. 
 
 " He did not, however. He had the defects of his 
 qualities, as we all have, I suppose, and those defects of 
 narrowness, censoriousness, complacency and lack of sym- 
 pathy with the limitations, or aspirations, of other people, 
 went with just the qualities that made him a slow poison 
 for me. I had no confidante; I was alone in the world, 
 and his friends sided with him, were sorry for him, had no 
 instinct for art or liberty, and thought me a difficult and 
 obstinate idiot. 
 
 " I've told you most of this before, Peter. In fact, I 
 told you nothing that was not true about my husband 
 except the fact that he was alive. To me he was so utterly 
 dead after six months in Colchester, that it seemed impos- 
 sible to imagine him in the land of the living; but once 
 Mr. Seabrook spoke of Wargrave Mortimer to you, when 
 I was in the studio, and I went out with a shudder down 
 my spine and saw his ghost standing among the alpine 
 frames. This isn't flippant: it's the truth. His name 
 carelessly uttered by another person seemed to bring him
 
 AVELINE'S LETTER 257 
 
 back from the dead. By that time, of course, I loved you. 
 But I'll come to that. 
 
 " When I was twenty-three, I decided to run away from 
 my husband, and obliterate my personality and start 
 being an absolutely different woman under a new name. I 
 amused myself all last winter in plotting the details. 
 Ever3'thing made it easy. I had no relations who knew 
 me, but I invented a friend. I created this friend in Lon- 
 don, and at a moment when Wargrave INIortimer was also 
 going from home, to see some gardens and attend a meet- 
 ing of antiquaries, I said that I meant to visit my London 
 friend. He objected mildly and suggested I should go 
 with him ; but I declined, and begged for the fortnight in 
 London — to see pictures and hear some music. I talked 
 him into believing it would really be a good thing for both 
 of us. It was further understood that we should not 
 write to each other during the separation, but return with 
 sheaves of new experiences. I even pressed for a month 
 apart ; but this he refused : he could not leave his garden 
 for so long. 
 
 " I had, then, a clear fortnight to vanish into the void ; 
 and I believed that would be long enough. The thought 
 of this adventure made me so amazingly happy that it 
 quite astonished me, and I began to understand myself, 
 and to see that change and incident and mental distrac- 
 tions were vital to my nature and health of mind. Liberty 
 seemed the onl}' word in the language worth speaking; and 
 I always felt it was, until I met you. Then I found what 
 was better. 
 
 " I held a few shares in stocks, that were left to me by 
 my mother. They only produced a wretched little twelve 
 pounds every year ; but I sold them, without telling my 
 husband, and, as a result, had the glory of possessing two 
 hundred and twenty-one pounds all at once. This seemed 
 boundless riches. With that sum I went to London and 
 hurried on with my plot. I bought mourning, and four
 
 258 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 days later came to Colchester, as a young widow. I chose 
 the name of ' Aveline,' because I had seen it in a poem and 
 loved it, and the name of Brown, because it was a very 
 common name and inconspicuous. I chose Colchester for 
 no earthly reason except that I had seen it on scores of 
 flower catalogues from ' Colneside,' and because it was 
 about as far from Shropshire as I could get. I had meant 
 to stop there a little while and later on drift over to 
 France or Italy if I could do any good with my pictures. 
 I came detached from the whole world to begin a brand 
 new life and, if possible, live by art. Then I fell in love 
 with you, and an act that would have been impossible, 
 while still the aura of Wargrave Mortimer floated about 
 me and the old values persisted, began to be gradually 
 possible. Things happened ; I heard ideas spoken ; I 
 began to see that to be married and to be wedded are two 
 different states. My mind enlarged and, of course, you 
 helped vitally to enlarge it. I said to myself, ' You're 
 married and so you can't marry again ; but you never have 
 been wedded, and why should the one dismal fact prevent 
 you from making the other joyful experiment.'' ' 
 
 " Of course, this was muddled thinking you'll say ; and 
 I ought, no doubt, to have considered all the possibilities 
 and social horrors of such a pretence. And I ought to 
 have given you a chance and not deceived you ; but from 
 much you said I believed 
 
 " No, I won't go into that, Peter. It's no good trying 
 to explain what I did. I hung on your words and opinions 
 at that time, and you contradicted yourself, as everybody 
 does ; and sometimes you were so humane in your views 
 about marriage that I had it on the tip of my tongue to 
 tell you ; and sometimes you were not, but took rather a 
 severe standpoint and believed in discipline and self-con- 
 trol, and our duty to society and the need for personal 
 suff'ering and so on. And then I thanked goodness I 
 hadn't told you. 
 
 " You may think it was difficult to have deceived you so
 
 AVELINE'S LETTER 259 
 
 completely ; but it wasn't, because I had first deceived 
 myself. I'd made believe so perfectly that Wargrave 
 Mortimer was just as dead to me as though I'd stood by 
 his grave. I had. I could have told you the names on 
 the wreaths. And what was still more profound, was the 
 feeling that Mary Houston was dead, too. You must use 
 all your imagination to grasp that, Peter. You must 
 believe that my old self was as dead as last year's flowers. 
 It wasn't Mary Mortimer you married — not this man's 
 wife, and not Mary Houston either — but another woman 
 altogether. 
 
 " Don't let facts bother 3^ou. Of course there are the 
 facts still — just the wretched, lifeless verities of the 
 situation. And you ought to have known them ; but the 
 fear of loss was too frightful. You see I couldn't hurt 
 you by not telling you — not really — not inside. It 
 wouldn't have made me different if I had told you. We've 
 been gloriously happy together, and the facts can't pre- 
 vent that. But if you had known them, perhaps they 
 would have prevented it and all that priceless happiness 
 would have been lost. The facts didn't hurt me ; but then 
 I'd weighed them and found out how worthless they were ; 
 and even when I knew, down in the bottom of my con- 
 sciousness somehow, that, such as they were, the facts 
 would some day or other come to light, I didn't care. I 
 often meant to tell you ; and now, of course, I know it's a 
 disaster that I didn't, because the truth must for ever 
 look different to you from what it docs to me. But, if 
 you'd known the truth as long as I have, you'd feel the 
 same contempt for it as I do. And, of course, the ques- 
 tion now is, what effect is the truth going to have on 3'ou. 
 
 " You must think entirely for 3'ourself and not of mc. 
 I wouldn't influence j'ou even if I could. At least, I don't 
 think I would, at this minute. There's a queer quality of 
 impassivity in me, Peter, as well as my terrific power to 
 feel and enjoy. Artists are like that. There's nobody 
 can be so bitterly hard as a sentimentalist. It belongs to
 
 260 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 the head, not the heart. I've buried my heart for the 
 minute. It's under the water hlies in the mud at ' Colne- 
 side,' I think. I can get on without it, and if you turn me 
 down, I shan't want it again. And, if you turn me down, 
 I shall never lose my wedded life with you, or let the ugly 
 future soil, by even a shadow, the beautiful past. I'll 
 write you my direction when I decide upon it, in twenty- 
 four hours. Anyway, I don't know how much this is 
 going to hurt me yet, because I don't know how much it is 
 going to hurt you. " Aveline." 
 
 Thus she wrote, and, despite her resolute words, ended 
 her letter in very profound gloom. She knew, for all her 
 expressed doubt, exactly how much it was going to hurt 
 him. She knew it so well, that she felt very small hope 
 that he would forgive her, or condone the insult which she 
 had offered a proud man. 
 
 She wrote also to Helena Ambrose, but only a line to 
 thank her for the warning. 
 
 Then she posted the letters, and felt that as her first 
 interesting moments at Colchester had been spent at the 
 Hythe, so would her last hours in the place be spent. " I 
 began my life by this river and I'm ending it here," she 
 thought. Suddenly she determined to take the train and 
 go to Brightlingsea. She felt no desire to hide, or run 
 very far, but was conscious of the need to get out of 
 Peter's way and leave him free to consider her letter and 
 proceed as he thought best. She determined, therefore, 
 to visit Nancy Mushet, and ask to be taken in for a night 
 or two. Failing that, she could go to an inn. 
 
 She was stunned, but not crushed. As yet she had by 
 no means grasped the situation, or the force of its impact 
 upon Peter Mistley. 
 
 Aveline had never been in the least attracted by women's 
 movements or women's politics; abstract justice she never 
 craved, and no ambition to be insurgent or assertive had 
 tempted her. General principles had not inspired her at
 
 AVELINE'S LETTER 261 
 
 any time in her life, and no desire to be in the van of 
 feminine progress ever kindled in her mind. She wanted 
 to be nothing but herself. She had acted purely on the 
 impulse of a driving power to get happiness at any cost. 
 She knew where her strength lay, and, with married life, 
 soon found that her good points were utterly thrown away 
 upon her husband, while her weak ones were acutely per- 
 ceived by him. Where she did excel, he missed everything ; 
 where she was lacking, he had been quick to point the fail- 
 ure. Therefore, with that resolution and courage, most 
 marked in those held back by no inherited caution or in- 
 structed conscience, Aveline had thrown over home and 
 husband and struck out, full of curiosity' and interest, but 
 without fear. And she had found that every hour away 
 from Wargrave Mortimer improved her spirits and her 
 self-respect. Daily it grew upon her to appreciate how 
 wisely she had acted. Not a shadow of remorse clouded 
 the situation, because she knew that Mortimer, on his 
 more subdued plane of feeling, must be experiencing her 
 own comfortable emotions of self-respect restored, and 
 appreciating the distinction of freedom — its cleanliness, 
 hygiene, sanity. 
 
 Well she knew that duty would prompt him to a thor- 
 ough search, that he would leave no stone unturned and 
 proceed upon the impulse of a remorseless conscience, long 
 hypertrophied by inordinate use. 
 
 Time passed and the dread of being discovered grad- 
 ually began to lull. Yet a sort of subconscious intuition 
 always lurked in her mind that the truth would appear. 
 
 " I've had to vanish from a man before ; now I've got to 
 vanish from a man again," she thought. But worlds 
 separated the two occasions. Every rational instinct ap- 
 plauded her first exodus, and she was conscious that not a 
 sane, unprejudiced being in the world could have done less 
 than commend her courage and applaud her purpose ; but 
 Mistley was a very different matter. To deceive such a 
 man and hoodwink him in a vital particular, rather than
 
 262 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 run the risk of losing him, now appeared to be an action 
 that nothing but success could have justified even to Ave- 
 line's own nebulous theories of right. She had failed, and 
 until she set her wits to work and analysed the situation 
 from a standpoint outside right and wrong, until she 
 brought the values of a sentient creature, non-human, to 
 weigh the full significance of her achievement, she suffered 
 remorse and the unfamiliar burning torment of shame. 
 Such emotions were unutterably loathsome to her and she 
 fled from them thankfully along such a path of reasoning 
 as might be pursued by a faun, or other mythic being, pos- 
 sessed of mind, but inspired by no code more moral than 
 the lore of holt and den, with woe only for the vanquished 
 and success the sole criterion. So seen, the situation sad- 
 dened, but did not torment her. 
 
 Of one thing she was assured. She must keep out of 
 Mistley's sight for the present. Mortimer she would not 
 see in any case; but whether she would ever stand before 
 Peter again depended not upon herself, but him. For the 
 time being she was far too excited to weigh what loss of 
 Mistley must mean to body and soul. She knew that to 
 lose him was to lose everything; but that could not be 
 helped, or hindered by her. She had acted too extrav- 
 agantly, had put the man into too false and outrageous a 
 position to feel much hope that his wounds would ever heal. 
 The more she considered his character, the more convinced 
 she became that he would forgive her, and try to forget her. 
 
 To Brightlingsea she went, and surprised Nancy 
 Mushet with her petition for a bed. 
 
 " I want to study the winter dawns over the sea," she 
 said, " and I'd sooner far come to you than go to an hotel, 
 if you can take me in." 
 
 She was doing a kindness unwittingly, for Aveline's visit 
 helped to distract the mother's mind from her recent loss. 
 Mrs. Mushet agreed to the proposal, and it was not until 
 later, when Samuel returned from work, that Aveline 
 learned how Teddy had fallen.
 
 AVELINE'S LETTER 263 
 
 Her instinct was to leave the sad pair ; but Nancy would 
 not suffer her to do so. 
 
 " You're an understanding creature, Mrs. Mistley, and 
 you'll feel for us," she said. " And because I can speak 
 little, don't think I feel little. I'm worn out. I know my 
 loss, but master hasn't quite grasped it yet. A mother 
 feels it pang all through her like lightning; with a father 
 it moves slower." 
 
 " Before it happened," said Samuel, pointing at his 
 wife, " she used to cry out against the war and say shrill 
 things to them that would listen; now she's dumb. The 
 bird shrieks out when it sees the robber come to the nest; 
 but after, when the stroke has fallen and the nest is empty, 
 then all's silent." 
 
 " Everything's changed," sighed Nancy, " for 3^ou 
 naturally build the future on the foundations of your chil- 
 dren. And a time comes when you pretty well look at 
 everything through 3^our children, or your child, as we 
 did ; and then, when the precious life is snatched away, all 
 your plans and contrivances and hopes and little plots — 
 they're all done for." 
 
 " I can very well understand that," said Aveline. 
 " He didn't seek great things — only to be useful and 
 good," murmured the father. 
 
 The visitor found herself in harmony with sorrow. She 
 sj'mpathised and brought her gift of imagination to 
 lighten their grief. She threw her mind into this, and for 
 a time succeeded in putting her own ruined life behind her ; 
 but when she went to bed, turned and tossed in unfamiliar 
 surroundings and reflected what twelve hours had brought, 
 she began to esteem the size of the disaster. 
 
 Then she set herself to diminish its bulk by taking 
 thought, but only lessened her sense of wrong-doing with- 
 out decreasing the eclipse of happiness that awaited her. 
 It was the loss of all happiness that numbed her — that 
 and the thought of the grief of Peter Mistley. She saw 
 him lying awake, too.
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 THE VISIT TO WILLIAM 
 
 Through the hours of night Aveline's mind ran riot. For 
 a time she fancied herself a creature hunted by remorse- 
 less beings, pictured herself driven out of the gardens of 
 happiness, as Eve from Eden. Then she laughed at her- 
 self. No heroine was she — no Eve, the tragic victim of 
 destiny. Not archangels with flaming swords had driven 
 her out of the home she had won, nor was she the plaything 
 of wanton gods. She could thank none but herself for the 
 position she now occupied, and as for the men involved, 
 she had treated both as badly as possible. But to regard 
 either as a remorseless being intent on her destruction, 
 Aveline knew to be ridiculous. And her soul could create 
 no Furies. 
 
 Wargrave Mortimer had been patience personified. 
 Such complete failure to understand her must have irri- 
 tated most men to madness, and taken shape, perhaps, 
 of cruelty ; but he was never angry with her or himself. 
 Aveline wondered how he had been able to explain the facts 
 to Mrs. Ambrose on recovering from his faint. But then 
 she recollected his old sensitiveness — that their differ- 
 ences should be concealed from every eye — must have 
 been largely modified when she ran away. That was not 
 a circumstance he could possibly keep secret, and his world 
 naturally knew the fact of her disappearance. How far 
 her flight had altered her husband she could not tell; but 
 nothing would alter his faultless punctilio, studied cour- 
 tesy and self-control. It was his faultlessness that had 
 made him impossible to live with. She had left him for 
 his kindness, not his cruelty ; for his patience, not his tem- 
 
 264
 
 THE VISIT TO WILLIAM 265 
 
 per ; for his obstinate resolution never to sink to her level. 
 It was the unchanging crepuscule of his attitude that 
 made her fly to seek sunshine or storm, love or hate — 
 anything rather than the uneventful twilight in which he 
 moved as complacently as an owl. To be worshipped and 
 scolded she could have understood, but not to be tolerated 
 in all her moods, and made hourly conscious of the gulf 
 that separated her from her husband. 
 
 Moreover, she knew, better than he did, what an awful 
 strain she put upon him, and what renewed health of spirit 
 must have returned to him when the tension was relaxed. 
 He certainly would neither be cruel, nor remorseless. He 
 would forgive her and then divorce her — if his religious 
 opinions permitted him to do so. 
 
 That brought her to Peter. Fate had flung her from 
 one self-contained and self-respecting man to another. 
 But a universe separated them. She had tried to modify 
 the outlook of Mortimer and failed, and although she and 
 JNIistley were very near together and loved each other, she 
 could not say that they saw entirely alike. He was a man 
 of deep feeling and sublime devotion — quite prepared to 
 give all, but only in exchange for all. His love, so she as- 
 sured herself, was love of a quality that, under certain 
 circumstances, might turn to hate. It could not stand 
 still; it could not preserve a passionless equilibrium. 
 Until the moment of the catastrophe it had steadily grown, 
 but rationally and sanely grown. He wanted her more 
 and more, felt more and more that she was the complement 
 of his being, the first joy and interest of his life; but he 
 never erred in the opposite direction from Mortimer ; he 
 was never uxorious, or silly, or dependent upon her for 
 any addition to his existence not fairly in a wife's gift. 
 She had always respected him and known that he was more 
 to her than she could be to him. 
 
 She had studied him with flashes of intuition and made 
 discoveries. As many another woman, she had found that 
 a man's opinions harden after marriage if the marriage is
 
 266 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 successful, and loosen if it be a failure. She had hoped 
 and expected that his exceedingly tolerant and charitable 
 attitude to sex relations would expand after marriage 
 until it might be possible, at some future date, to tell him 
 the truth without fear of destruction ; but the reverse had 
 happened. Firm in his own experience of a marriage 
 relation more perfect than his fondest dream, Mistley had 
 found his respect for the institution increase. He had, in 
 fact, grown more conventional, and more impressed with 
 the opinion that was oftener crowned with success than he 
 had been led to suppose. 
 
 Yet he, too, would be reasonable. He would remem- 
 ber many things that she had said, and her unconcealed 
 dislike of the marriage bond. 
 
 " In fact," thought Aveline, " they are birds of a feather 
 in some ways, though so radically different, and they will 
 flock together, and go through with it, and discuss the 
 catastrophe like gentlemen. They will spare me, for 
 neither could bully a woman. They will leave me to the 
 last; and when they've decided what they are going to do 
 about it, they will write to me." 
 
 She was not flying from them : she was flying from her- 
 self. She had flown from the self created by Mortimer; 
 and now she must fly from the self created by Mistley. 
 The remorseless and pitiless ones, by all rule of morals and 
 right tragedy, should lie in Aveline's own bosom. She 
 sought them and failed to find them. She suff'ered, how- 
 ever, and strove to discover wherein the suff*ering lay. 
 
 She learned that what hurt her vitally could only hurt 
 as long as she allowed it to do so. The sense of loss and 
 temporal disaster, the destruction of a precious home, and 
 the fact that the man who had taught her to love was prob- 
 ably for ever lost — these thoughts awakened suff"ering 
 enough ; but there was a deeper discomfort and darkness 
 behind the temporal pain and grief. If she allowed this 
 discomfort and darkness to conquer her, then, said she to 
 herself, " I am done for. But I won't — I won't — for if
 
 THE VISIT TO WILLIAM 267 
 
 I'm going to do that, I may as well throw up the sponge 
 and kill myself. The question is whether what's left after 
 the crash is worth keeping; and that entirely depends on 
 how I look on what I've done." 
 
 If she were to confess crime, then all was over, and what 
 spiritual life lay before her would not be worth living. 
 The sequel to admission of guilt could only be along the 
 road of remorse, followed by expiation, self-sacrifice, 
 atonement and a cheerless end, lightened by religious as- 
 surances that ultimate peace with her Maker might be re- 
 garded as reasonably assured. She shuddered at such a 
 picture. It was out of harmony with her temperament 
 and convictions. She reasoned rather that only chance 
 had wrecked her, and that, if her good fortune had held, 
 she would never have suffered a qualm. 
 
 " It may be below good and evil, or it may be above 
 good and evil, but that's how I'm going to look at it," she 
 thought, " because it's madness for a person like me to 
 think of it in any other way. What I have done was the 
 same last week, when I was the happiest woman in Eng- 
 land, as it is to-night. So, if I'm ashamed to-night of 
 what I did, though I was never ashamed before, then I'm 
 a coward. And I'm not built to be a coward, whatever 
 else I am." 
 
 She judged herself sternly, however, and ignored the 
 long struggles sustained before she deceived Peter ; she 
 also put away the past temptations to confess, and the flit- 
 ting throbs, never wholly absent from her heart, after 
 their false wedding. But knowing these trifles only ob- 
 scured the issue now, she dismissed them and tried to bring 
 the problem to principles. To whine about having done 
 wrong, would be just as feeble as to whine about good luck 
 suddenly turned to bad. She was the same woman to- 
 night as the day before, neither better nor worse, and what 
 she had to bring herself to own was, not sorrow for what 
 she had done, but sorrow that it had been found out. Be- 
 cause discovery must make the man she loved unutterably
 
 268 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 miserable. That was certain. He was too logical to feel 
 any personal disgrace, or nonsense of that sort ; but he 
 was too human and too proud not to suffer very bitterly 
 from the fact of her deceit. He would argue that a love 
 capable of stooping so low, could not be the fine emotion he 
 had conceived as representing Aveline's attitude to him. 
 There lay the peril that was going to wreck the future. 
 Her distrust of him would be the unforgivable thing. She 
 knew his character well enough to be sure of this. Per- 
 haps she herself could never have loved a man weak enough 
 to condone what she had done — what she had done out 
 of a selfish fear that the truth would rob her of all she 
 most desired. She had been a coward, though she had 
 just assured herself she could never be that. 
 
 As her mind began to tire, it weakened and told her 
 falsehoods. She said to herself that Mistley had made her 
 — created her as completely as he had created his gar- 
 dens. But this pretence her intellect scorned. 
 
 " If he had," she thought, " I shouldn't be in this fix 
 to-day. It was the vital spark in myself that I never 
 showed him, and never yielded to him when I yielded 
 all the rest — it was just the evasive, unmoral, callous 
 thing that is the intrinsic Me — that has done for me 
 now." 
 
 From abstractions her mind, grown very weary, de- 
 scended to concrete details, trivial and futile. She won- 
 dered if Mortimer and Mistley would shake hands when 
 they met. Even lesser trifles obtruded to annoy her at 
 their jarring impropriety. She was like one mourning 
 beside a grave, who suddenly laughs at the incongruous 
 behaviour of a stray cat. Her mind played the fool with 
 her. 
 
 If Aveline slept at all, it was after the late dawn had 
 broken, and she expressed contrition to Nancy Mushet 
 on descending from her room at ten o'clock next day. 
 
 " You'll never see the sun rise at that rate, Mrs. Mist- 
 ley."
 
 THE VISIT TO WILLIAM 269 
 
 " I slept badly, but not because I wasn't comfortable. 
 I'm in trouble. It'll straigliten itself out all right. 
 Things look worse in the dark." 
 
 " I heard what may interest you, just now," said Mrs. 
 Mushet. " That poor creature, William Ambrose " 
 
 "Not dead?" 
 
 " No, but worse. Tom Darcy called for my husband 
 this morning on the way to the Hard. William's going 
 pretty fast, he thinks." 
 
 " Poor Emma ! " 
 
 " Yes, she'll feel it for a time. Tom hopes that, when 
 he's gone, she may change her ways and become a respect- 
 able woman." , 
 
 " Nothing like misery to make people respectable, Mrs. 
 Mushet. I think I'll go and see Emma. I like her — 
 she's a good sort." 
 
 Aveline had still withheld her direction from those who 
 might desire to know it ; but she wrote to Peter INIistley 
 now, and explained that any letters would reach her at 
 Samuel Mushet's home. 
 
 She visited Emma and found her in distress. 
 
 William was getting weaker fast, and the veil began to 
 thicken between him and the living. Little by little it 
 grew denser, and Emma knew that he would soon be cut off 
 from her. She struggled to get back to him, as all strug- 
 gle to get back to the dj'ing the}^ love ; but invisible hands 
 came between. Moreover, William's interest had dwindled 
 to a point, and that she did not understand. Grief was 
 increased by fears, for though his mind was clear by day, 
 at night, while he suffered most and passed from restless 
 waking to restless sleep, he shouted sometimes, murmured 
 threats, and laughed at coming events that revealed them- 
 selves in the wild scenery of his dreams. 
 
 " There's things hidden," declared Emma. " He got 
 quiet yesterday and called for a pencil and paper and 
 made up some verses. Once or twice I've known him to 
 make rhymes before. The cleverness of that man; and
 
 270 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 now he's on the edge of his grave and full of secrets — 
 secrets from me ! " 
 
 " I expect it's only because he's so ill," said Aveline. 
 " He has no secrets really — only fancies them." 
 
 " He's got his knife into Gord now," declared the 
 mournful woman. " He makes my flesh creep ; and yet 
 there's sense in it. For it's no good His calling Hisself a 
 Gord of love if He don't show it. Everybody keeps shout- 
 ing out He's a Gord of love — to keep their own silly 
 spirits up against the war, I reckon. But 'andsome is as 
 'andsome does, ' Grey Eyes.' My heart's breaking, and 
 what's the good of Gord's love to me if He's going to wipe 
 out William? We're told to let men see our good works, 
 not hear about 'em. Well, why don't Gord let me see a 
 bit of His love?" 
 
 " I don't know," said Aveline. " Oh, Emma, I'm in an 
 awful fix myself." 
 
 A sudden impulse overmastered her to tell Emma Darcy 
 what she had done and where she stood. Then William 
 hammered on the floor over their heads and Emma ran up 
 to him. 
 
 A moment later Aveline was called to come up, and she 
 ascended and stood beside the bed of the sick man. 
 
 Earth, impatient to win back this scrap of itself and 
 restore it to sweet and wholesome matter, extended its sub- 
 stance over the perishing creature, obliterated what was 
 greater than earth and left him all clod. But the fires of 
 mind still burned subdued. Indeed, his brain proved sin- 
 gularly clear and his speech coherent and lucid. He was 
 at his best. Aveline told them about herself almost reck- 
 lessly and in sudden, senseless hunger for sympathy. For 
 a moment even Emma forgot her own sorrows and grew 
 round-eyed at the revelation. William grinned quietly. 
 
 " You're one of us," he said. " I always knew you 
 were." 
 
 He cut to the root of the thing. 
 
 " You're a bigamist. You've broke the law of the
 
 THE VISIT TO WILLIAM 271 
 
 land. They can lock you up for years if they like. A 
 good sporting run for your money — eh? Hard luck, 
 though. You loved him and he loved you — the real thing 
 on both sides, if Chance had only let 3'ou both alone. Is 
 he going to let 'em lock j^ou up? " 
 
 " I never thought of that," said Aveline. 
 
 Billy chuckled. 
 
 " And yet, come to think of it, you did basely, young 
 ' Grey Eyes.' It weren't love — not the high sort of love 
 of the Code. Did you ever hear of the Code — the thirty- 
 one articles? I dare say not. But there was such a thing. 
 And the first article says that the accident of marriage is 
 no plea against love. So you're all right so far. But 
 then there's another commandment, that you oughtn't to 
 love where you can't ask in marriage. The Code, of 
 course, means the man, but it holds for the woman, too, 
 if she's going to take the bit in her teeth and make the 
 running, same as you have. You couldn't marry him, so 
 you shouldn't have loved him — see? " 
 
 " I didn't want to marry him, I wanted to wed him," she 
 answered. " You told me the difference." 
 
 " And you ought to have told him. You ought to have 
 found out whether he could rise to your heights — whether 
 he was worthy to belong to our tribe of people." 
 
 " You will soon find out," said Emma. 
 
 " Not now," explained William. " He can't feel the 
 same now. He can never feel the same to her again, be- 
 cause she didn't trust him. She diddled him into marry- 
 ing her, and he'll feel a damned fool ; and that's tlie hardest 
 thing of all to forgive from a man to a w'oman." 
 
 Emma was sanguine. 
 
 " The man ain't born that wouldn't forgive her blessed 
 eyes," she said. 
 
 " All depends what your love's built up on," answered 
 William. " The first chap was nought to her, body or 
 soul. The second chap was all right. But only soul is 
 lasting. I know that — now my body's gone. Most
 
 272 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 women think the only thing is to give their bodies, and 
 that's the highest masterpiece of love. But the knowing 
 sort very well understand their bodies are the least pre- 
 cious of all their goods. A clever woman often feels glad 
 that a man can be so easily satisfied. She knows that a 
 man who holds her flesh the precious thing isn't the 
 type never to tire of her. But the other sort of friendship 
 is better worth while, and always worth while. The soul 
 friendship, I mean. Always worth while — when a 
 woman's got a soul. So many haven't. That's where 
 Emma and me score." 
 
 " That's all very fine," said Aveline, " but you can't 
 separate a woman's soul from her body like that, William. 
 Can you, Emma.'' It sounds all right, but it ish't true. 
 A man may sneer at his body when he's tired of it, because 
 a man's soul and his body are always two different things ; 
 but a woman's soul and body are not — never." 
 
 " We're interested in our bodies, if we're proper women, 
 to our dying day," confessed Emma. " Yes, if it's only to 
 pity 'cm, and cry over 'em and remember what they was 
 like once." 
 
 William showed interest. 
 
 " If you both say so, it may be true," he admitted. " A 
 man don't bother about his skin and bones after a certain 
 time. He only wants to keep one inside t'other as long as 
 life's worth while. And there's lots of women different 
 from you two. You're built of much the same clay. 
 When I'm dead, ' Grey Eyes,' and Emma's left on her 
 lonesome, you can keep friends with her." 
 
 " I will," said Aveline ; " whatever happens, I'll be 
 Emma's friend as long as I live." 
 
 " And I'll be yours," promised Emma. 
 
 " You won't have much of a time," prophesied William. 
 " You're built on a pattern that never does have much of a 
 time; still, you can be pals and cuss the world together. 
 You've got the craft and Emma has got the sense, so you 
 might help one another along."
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 THE POINT OF VIEW 
 
 Parkyn Ambrose arrived unusually early at " Colneside " 
 on the morning following Mr. INIortimer's discovery. He 
 was very grave, for he found himself confronted with a 
 most painful task. There could be no shadow of doubt 
 that Wargrave Mortimer was not mistaken. He had de- 
 sired to see Peter Mistley at once, and proposed doing 
 so, but Ambrose begged for time. It was arranged, there- 
 fore, that Parkyn would break the truth to Peter and 
 invite him to meet Mortimer afterwards. When IVIistley 
 answered his master's summons, he found him in his pri- 
 vate office alone, and the first thing he did was to shake 
 hands. 
 
 Then he made him sit down. 
 
 " I am faced with a very terrible task, Mistley," he 
 said. " It is m}^ duty to break to you some appalling 
 news. I am bound to say no word can be too strong for 
 it, and if I did not know you were a man of great strength 
 of character and also physically powerful, I could not 
 trust myself to do it. You have to suffer a terrible shock 
 — a thing almost beyond belief. And I have undertaken 
 the task of bringing you this dreadful news, because I felt, 
 as a friend and one who honours and respects you, that 
 none could do it with more feeling." 
 
 Peter stared. 
 
 " I am, of course, assuming you are wholly ignorant 
 of the facts — have no suspicion of them ; but my unfortu- 
 nate guest, Mr. Wargrave INIortimer, doubts this. He be- 
 lieves it impossible you cannot know. Do you associate 
 the name of Wargrave Mortimer with Mrs. Mistley.'' " 
 
 273
 
 274 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 " The client who came to see the studios ? Of course 
 not, Mr. Ambrose." 
 
 " You never heard anything of an unconventional or 
 egregious character concerning Mrs. Mistley's situation 
 in the world before you married her ? " 
 
 Mistley flushed. 
 
 " What are you saying — what are you saying? Who 
 is this man and what does he dare to suggest about my 
 wife?" 
 
 " I was right," answered the other, " and I knew that 
 I must be right. But that makes my task the more pain- 
 ful — far more painful. Brace yourself, my dear fellow. 
 The lady you believe to be your wife is not your wife. She 
 is another man's wife — Wargrave Mortimer's wife. 
 Last night he came across her portrait and fainted from 
 emotion. As I remarked to Mrs. Ambrose, it must have 
 taken a great deal of emotion to make such a self-con- 
 tained man become unconscious. He furnished details of 
 an intimate, remorseless character. The dates are all 
 consonant also. He recognised her water-colour draw- 
 ings, too, from their peculiar style. In fact, not a loop- 
 hole of doubt exists." 
 
 Peter had turned pale. He stared at the speaker. 
 
 " I don't believe it, Mr. Ambrose. It's unthinkable. 
 Nothing but her own words would make me believe it." 
 
 " I am bound to say it is unquestionably true. It is, 
 however, quite right that you should not take this terrible 
 story on my word alone. Mrs. Ambrose feels no doubt 
 whatever. She wept half the night. Woman-like, she is 
 not withholding her support even under these harrowing 
 conditions. At such times logic fails and reason falters. 
 In fact, my wife has gone so far as to say she loves the 
 erring girl better than ever. Such loyalty is, I imagine, 
 impossible to the male, even if it were desirable, which it is 
 not. The safety of society rests with the male, not the 
 female, as some thinkers erroneously imagine. Morti- 
 mer, of course, wishes to see you. His attitude is un-
 
 THE POINT OF VIEW 275 
 
 friendly, because he harbours a suspicion that j^ou knew 
 the truth and must always have known it. Therefore he 
 doesn't think you can be a good man, but quite the con- 
 trary. He will be at the ]Moot Hall at noon, and you had 
 better go and hear what he has to say. He shows no de- 
 sire to visit the lady." 
 
 " I will see my wife at once," answered Peter. " I'm 
 sorry you should have been called to this dreadful busi- 
 ness, and I thank you for the way you've done it. I can't 
 say more now." 
 
 " I appreciate your fortitude," declared Mr. Ambrose. 
 " And don't forget : the INIoot Hall at twelve o'clock. 
 Mortimer, having seen you, proceeds to London to take 
 the necessary steps. One can realise without difficulty 
 what he has been called to endure during the past 3'ear." 
 
 Mistley went out and hastened homeward. His reason 
 prompted him to believe what he had heard ; his experience 
 of Aveline as wife refused to believe it. And 3'et, when 
 he considered her insurgent ideas upon some subjects, her 
 indifference to fundamental rules of what men understood 
 by honour, and her ready inclination to question most ac- 
 cepted dicta, he could not deny that she might have done 
 this thing. There was her love of him to cry out against 
 it. That she loved him with all her heart he knew well 
 enough. But how much did he know of her heart's com- 
 position? Little things came to his mind as he returned 
 home: trifles that yet lent their colour to the disaster: the 
 picture on the catalogue, her aversion from being photo- 
 graphed, her frank dislike of alpine plants. 
 
 He began to dread to meet Aveline; but the moment he 
 found that she was gone, a frantic desire to see her mas- 
 tered him. That she should not be there spoke more for- 
 cibly than Parkyn Ambrose of the truth. She had left no 
 message, but on her little writing-desk was an open en- 
 velope directed to her in Helena's handwriting. He 
 learned that Aveline had left home nearly two hours before, 
 and doubted not that she had taken a train to London.
 
 276 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 It was too soon to meet Wargrave Mortimer, and Peter 
 went into his garden and walked up and down in it. The 
 space was small, and at every fifty paces he had to turn. 
 He tramped for an hour, then it began to rain and he went 
 indoors to his study. The significance of what had hap- 
 pened steadily ground itself into him. Great upheavals 
 made a volcanic country of his mind. He forgot what 
 had happened in between and pictured life without Aveline. 
 To go back again to the emptiness of his previous existence 
 promised annihilation. 
 
 He kept his appointment and found Wargrave Morti- 
 mer waiting for him. It was a curious meeting ; but they 
 took it without any sign of outward emotion, and bowed 
 to each other. 
 
 " If you will follow me," said Mistley, " I can bring you 
 to a quiet eating house, where we shall be out of earshot 
 of everybody and can talk." 
 
 " There is not much to be said between us, I imagine. I 
 should wish to ask a few questions ; but, of course, you 
 are not bound to answer them." 
 
 " I have no secrets. At first every instinct protested. 
 But one isn't dead to reason. I'm afraid it's true enough. 
 I returned home to find her gone. No doubt she will 
 write." 
 
 " Don't be too certain of that." 
 
 Presently they sat in the seclusion of a little chophouse 
 where Mistley was known. They took a corner to them- 
 selves. 
 
 " I will ask you first if you knew the truth, or if you 
 did not," began Mortimer. " Naturally our attitude to 
 each other, or at any rate, my attitude to you, depends 
 on that. I mean that if you can tell me that you did not 
 know that Mary Mortimer was a married woman, I will 
 believe you." 
 
 Instinctively Peter began to hate this man. 
 
 " I understood that she was a widow." 
 
 " Then I'm only less sorry for you than I am for my-
 
 THE POINT OF VIEW 277 
 
 self. Whatever your feelings may have been to her, this, 
 of course, must entirely alter them." 
 
 " You can leave my feelings out. We needn't preach to 
 each other. The only question for me is what you design 
 to do." 
 
 " You surprise me," answered Wargrave Mortimer, 
 and he showed his surprise. " I should have thought my 
 action must be obvious. But I speak hastily. Forgive 
 me. I have to remember that you cannot yet weigh the 
 full significance of what has happened. Therefore, 
 though the shock of coming face to face, as it were, with 
 this misguided woman last night was very great and com- 
 pletely upset my nervous control, it cannot have been 
 worse than the shattering blow you have had this morning. 
 You believed you had married a widow, and discovered 
 that you have been living with a married woman. If you 
 are a Christian, as I have no reason to doubt, then I can 
 understand that your mind must " 
 
 " Nothing of that matters," said Mistlcy. 
 
 " In the sense that you are innocent, it doesn't matter ; 
 but you must feel it tragically. It is worse — far worse 
 than a death. And we know that a death only filters into 
 the mind slowly. By God's mercy the human brain is 
 built in that way — only to take in a great trouble by 
 inches. You don't realise yet what this appalling woman 
 has done, or what she has called on me to suffer in the 
 past and you to suffer in the future. I loved her de- 
 votedly, Mr. Mistley. I did everything a refined and re- 
 ligious man could do to make her life happy, useful and 
 contented. But owing to faulty upbringing, her faith 
 in religion was never well and truly grounded. I could not 
 undo the bad work of the past — one of the bitterest dis- 
 coveries to me, for I had felt sure that I could. She did 
 not tell me that she was going to leave me, but vanished 
 out of my life in a moment, completely and utterly. My 
 grief and dismay were profound. I left no reasonable 
 means untried to discover her, but failed. One clue led the
 
 278 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 authorities to suspect that she had gone to Canada. But 
 they were mistaken. A certain woman, who resembled 
 Mary superficially, was traced to Ontario, but never 
 found, though I spent much money on the search. She 
 went out of my life for ever; but not out of my prayers. 
 I could not tell whether she was a sinner, or the victim of 
 some terrible circumstances beyond her power to control. 
 Now, however, we know, too well, where we stand." 
 
 Mistley regarded the speaker with his straight stare. 
 
 " I am not in a position to say what she may have told 
 you regarding the past," continued ]Mortimer, " nor need 
 you tell me anything unless you wish to do so." 
 
 " She told me, what I doubt not was the truth in every 
 particular save one," answered Peter. " She said, of 
 course, that her husband was dead." 
 
 " And upon that lie lured you into a fancied union — 
 the sacrament of marriage." 
 
 " Yes. You were only dead to her." 
 
 " I was not dead to her ! I was far less dead to her 
 than she was to me. Is it possible you are going to excuse 
 her?" 
 
 " No — I am not excusing her. We must look all 
 round it." 
 
 " For my own part, I have determined, after due con- 
 sideration, to divorce my wife. Understand that I recog- 
 nise no spiritual divorce. With my views and as a Chris- 
 tian, spiritual divorce is impossible, and I shall never marry 
 again. But I owe it to the community and to my own 
 social convictions to separate myself legally from this un- 
 fortunate sinner. I take it that she will pass out of your 
 life also, having abused your life in a manner that puts 
 her beyond the pale. No just man can condone such an 
 unspeakable outrage with all its degrading details of un- 
 truth and immorality " 
 
 " Leave that. You needn't judge her." 
 
 "I am the last to judge her. And for your guidance, 
 should you be at all concerned for her future, I may tell
 
 THE POINT OF \^EW 279 
 
 you that I shall see she does not want, or be led into temp- 
 tation from need. A greater than you, or I, said to a 
 kindred woman, ' Go and sin no more.' Can we say less.'' 
 Her destiny is hidden from us, or why she was permitted 
 to cross our paths. But this much I can assure you. If 
 she seeks to live honestly henceforth and atone, as far as 
 possible for the past, I will take care that she suffers no 
 temporal troubles." 
 
 He looked at his watch. 
 
 " I do not think there is more to be said. My train will 
 leave in three-quarters of an hour. My address will be the 
 Western Hotel for the next few days. Write there, if 
 necessary. You have my deepest sympathy and my 
 support. And you will spare a little from your own dis- 
 tress for me. I, too, have been through dark waters. By 
 the way, I trust there are no complications.'' Forgive me 
 for mentioning a subject so delicate. You know to what 
 I allude?" 
 
 " No ; nothing of that sort." 
 
 " So much the better. The future of a child brought 
 unlawfully into the world is dark." 
 
 " In England, yes." 
 
 " We cannot go beyond, or behind. Divine law, and woe 
 betide the nations that do." 
 
 He extended his hand, but Mistley could not take it. He 
 bowed, and the other flushed at the slight. Then he went 
 out and Peter saw him no more. 
 
 He was conscious of an impulse which sprang of this 
 meeting — an instinct to champion Aveline against this 
 just man. He felt not at all sorry for Wargrave Morti- 
 mer ; nor had the stranger at all surprised him, for his 
 wife's description of him — a portrait completed in many 
 conversations — had been correct and not exaggerated- 
 Peter remembered how he had been astonished sometimes 
 that Aveline could speak so pitilessly of the dead. Now 
 he understood. It was easy enougli to forgive Aveline for 
 leaving Mortimer: the difficulties began after that, and the
 
 280 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 thing that tore his heart was her distrust — not of her 
 husband, but of Mistley himself. For the moment he 
 could not understand why she had not found his love all- 
 powerful and worthy of complete trust. 
 
 But this aspect of the case was pointed out to him before 
 he received Aveline's letter. For, after having seen the 
 last of her husband, Peter, desiring speech with another 
 man, yet aware that neither Ambrose nor any at " Colne- 
 side " could speak wisdom, bethought him of Dr. Car- 
 bonell. They had long been acquainted, for Peter's family 
 was known to the old man, and he entertained regard for 
 him and friendship for Aveline. 
 
 Craving for companionship, Mistley waited until Car- 
 bonell's luncheon hour had passed, perambulated in the 
 Castle grounds until it was two o'clock, and then called at 
 the doctor's house. 
 
 The ancient was busy, as usual. He plunged straight 
 into conversation as he shook hands, and proceeded as 
 though he and the visitor were already in the midst of 
 discussion. 
 
 "Have you ever thought of Essex in Domesday.?" he 
 asked. " Of course you haven't. But I can assure you it 
 was very different from now. Domesday Book shows that 
 our marches had few trees — perhaps none — where our 
 forests stand now. How to prove it.'' Out of Domesday 
 itself. Our pastures were thick with sheep. Swine are 
 not mentioned. Now swine in Domesday mean forest — 
 always forest. They won their sustenance from the trees 
 and the undergrowth of trees. But here are no pigs, 
 hence no woods. Proof positive ! " 
 
 " You're getting on with your book ? " 
 
 " Slowly." 
 
 " I've had a Doom's day all to myself. I'm in awful 
 trouble. I wonder if I may trespass on your time, for old 
 times' sake.'' One couldn't bring the thing to anybody 
 else in the world but you. But you're a humanist, and 
 your outlook isn't blurred by any religious predilections.
 
 THE POINT OF VIEW 281 
 
 You judge facts by themselves, not by their appearance 
 in the light of established laws, or doctrines." 
 
 " What an iconoclast j^ou'd make me ! But the older 
 you get, the more patient you get, Peter, and the more 
 disposed to give credit to the general outlook, and pardon 
 our clumsy shifts to make the world a better place. That 
 is, speaking generally, of course. Criticism mellows as 
 the fires abate. What I ascribe to wickedness in middle 
 age, in old age I credit to stupidity. We are still mostly 
 fools and therefore to be forgiven. I speak in rather a 
 contrite mood, as a matter of fact, for only yesterday I 
 lost my temper with a man and haven't apologised yet. 
 But I must. A friend of Parkyn Ambrose — a most 
 worthy person by the name of Wargrave Mortimer." 
 
 " You won't be able to say you're sorry unless you 
 write to him. He's left Colchester." 
 
 " Has he? A chastening type of the good man — born 
 good — a thief of virtue. Born good, but good for what? 
 Who shall say? What did you think of him?" 
 
 " I have just left him under very peculiar circum- 
 stances." 
 
 " There is something left out of all of us, Peter, else 
 you'd get perfect people, which is absurd. You can't 
 have goodness without badness, and badness is the salt of 
 life, though goodness must be the staple. For the evolu- 
 tion of morals is luckily upwards. At least one thought 
 so, until we saw Germany at war in the twentieth century. 
 It's the gift of most rogues to make friends. The right 
 down bad man generally has friends, who will do or die for 
 him ; but not the flagrantly good man. Now go ahead. 
 What's the matter? Here I chatter and vou are in trou- 
 ble." 
 
 Dr. Carbonell listened while the other told him what 
 had happened. 
 
 " One can't sa}' much till I hear from her," he con- 
 cluded. 
 
 " Do you feel sure you will hear ? "
 
 282 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 " Yes, I'm sure of that. I know she was happy with 
 me. You can't deceive a man over a fundamental thing 
 like that, if he loves a woman. She's been happy even 
 knowing what she'd done. I don't blame her for leaving 
 him and, God knows, I don't blame her for caring for me ; 
 but if she had loved me as I thought she did, could she have 
 done this? Could a woman really value a man and treat 
 him so? Friendship would hesitate at such a deception, 
 how much more love." 
 
 " There is only one sort of pure friendship," said Dr. 
 Carbonell, who thought for some moments before speaking. 
 " Only youth makes real friends and pours itself out in 
 unalloyed, selfless friendship. Adult friendship has al- 
 ways got a pinch of dross in it — even the friendship that's 
 magnified into love. Grown-up friendship soon withers if 
 any strain be put upon it. Y'our wife is like all young 
 things. She has the natural instinct towards happiness 
 born in her, and, in her case, an individuality strong 
 enough and headstrong enough to put happiness before all 
 else. She fought with her own weapons and escaped from 
 an environment that was destroying her. She loved you 
 with all her heart, don't doubt that ; but she could not tell 
 what effect the truth would have had on your love for her, 
 and that's where her weakness came in, or her feminine in- 
 stinct. The deceit wouldn't have been possible to some 
 characters : it was to hers. The woman who could run 
 away in secret from her first husband, could also lead you 
 to suppose you were marrying a widow. She felt that if 
 you knew the truth she must lose you sooner or later, be- 
 cause, doubtless, she would have supposed that to live with 
 you unmarried was merely sowing the wind before being 
 called to reap the whirlwind." 
 
 Thus the old man erred in his estimate of Aveline; but 
 the error was hidden from Mistley. The argument looked 
 sound. He nodded. 
 
 "What follows? " asked the doctor.
 
 THE POINT OF VIEW 283 
 
 " I have to look into my own heart for what follows," 
 granted Mistley. " I have to ask myself whether, had I 
 known the truth, I should have demanded that the truth 
 was made known to her husband and everybody." 
 
 " Exactly. As you had offered marriage, the woman 
 could not well have suggested free love without running a 
 pretty fair risk of losing you altogether. We have hardly 
 reached that social stage yet. And if she had told 3'ou 
 the truth, you could not have married her till all was 
 known and j^ou had enabled her husband to divorce her 
 according to the law's disgusting requirements. Of course 
 altering her name was nothing. That wouldn't have in- 
 validated the marriage. You marry a woman, not a name. 
 The law looks for the individual. Why, her handwriting, 
 or the print of her thumb, is far more important than her 
 name, and rightly so. We exalt mere names, as though 
 they were essentials of organism. She trusted to luck, 
 and the luck failed. It comes back to the bed-rock ques- 
 tion whether she could have won you in any other way. 
 Of course there were far more important things to con- 
 sider than winning 3'ou. But, with her peculiar bent of 
 mind and will to happiness, she wouldn't see an3'thing 
 more important than winning you. I don't excuse her, be- 
 cause she knew that your happiness depended upon it, and 
 did what her conscience, however educated, must have told 
 her was wrong. And yet, perhaps, that's not fair to her 
 either, since we don't know how her conscience was edu- 
 cated." 
 
 " Her father was weak, I fancy — evidently a muddler 
 in money matters and a foggy thinker altogether." 
 
 " That you might expect." 
 
 " But her mother was different. She liked her father 
 better than her mother." 
 
 " You will hear from her, you say. Well, let it go until 
 you hear. It's a shattering thing and I'm awfully sorry. 
 But keep your nerve, though there's no need to tell j'ou to
 
 284 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 do that. It's honestly hitipossible to judge a human char- 
 acter and doubtfully just to blame anybody. We are too 
 complex and too much at the mercy of our ancestors. 
 We're just beginning dimly to realise how difficult it is to 
 allocate responsibility — difficult and increasingly danger- 
 ous. For the strain of life tightens on each successive 
 generation, and at present we are bound about by outworn 
 laws that become increasingly unfitted to control us. Out- 
 worn creeds die the death and outworn laws should do the 
 same. To-day we are under the heels of the lawyers, who 
 have the best possible reason for leaving the law alone. 
 But they must move presently. Pessimists say man un- 
 learns as fast as he learns, and that none of his conquests 
 are held so strongly that he can be certain of not losing 
 them. That's nonsense. Evolution doesn't go back — 
 not even the evolution of morals. It's certain that a thou- 
 sand of the regulations of dead men are unseemly and inde- 
 cent to-day, and do not meet our needs and self-respect. 
 But it's also certain that man's a conservative by nature, 
 and those whose ancestors made the laws — those who still 
 find they don't pinch — hang back and only move on com- 
 pulsion from those who are pinched. It's time the State 
 had a spring cleaning, and I hope the Church and the Law 
 will get a scrub, too. They need it. Perhaps, after the 
 war we shall speed the social machine, if Labour's con- 
 tented with anything less than a revolution. Good-bye 
 for the moment. Well, you know I am ready and willing 
 to help you, if it's in my power. Where is ? " 
 
 " I don't know yet. I hope she'll tell me when she 
 writes." 
 
 " She'll leave the future to you, I fancy. Has she 
 friends who are likely to influence her? " 
 
 " Mrs. Ambrose is fond of her, and, of course, knows 
 about it." 
 
 " At least a charitable woman, though whether her 
 charity arises from affectation, self-interest, or convic- 
 tion, I can't say. Probably a blend, as in most cases."
 
 THE POINT OF VIEW 285 
 
 They parted at Carbonell's front door and Peter Mist- 
 ley went home. 
 
 He did not expect to hear from Aveline until the fol- 
 lowing morning; but her letter, written at the Hythe, 
 reached him by a late post that night.
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 THE REVOLVER 
 
 Geoffrey Seabrook conducted the master achievement 
 of his life with all his energies and spared nothing, since 
 upon success depended his future. The position was 
 curious, because at first he continually found himself cal- 
 culating without the necessary premise. It seemed not 
 strange that he should sometimes forget it ; but the con- 
 dition for which he Avorked and the end he designed de- 
 manded to be kept in sight: otherwise it was impossible 
 to proceed to the best advantage. He had to grasp the 
 fact that fruition meant two men dead, who were still in 
 the flesh. One, indeed, neared his natural end very fast, 
 but the other was in full strength and vigour, with the 
 affairs of life at flood and no hint or suspicion of the fate 
 lying in store for him. And the mechanical operation of 
 Seabrook's mind tended to make him forget that on a day, 
 now swiftly drawing near, Parkyn Ambrose would be 
 dead, with all the interests that he controlled at the mercy 
 of his fellow-men. There was danger to the last, and 
 until the moment when Ambrose entered his brother's 
 death-chamber there could be no abandonment of Sea- 
 brook's attitude. 
 
 Now he sought his employer for an interview. He did 
 not fear the issue, since Helena had already sounded her 
 husband on the subject; but Ambrose knew not the days 
 of his brother's life were running out so swiftly. 
 
 Geoffrey Seabrook, therefore, begged for some words, 
 and Parkyn listened. 
 
 " I don't know whether I'm not taking a liberty," began 
 
 286
 
 THE REVOLVER 287 
 
 the draughtsman. " If I am, please stop me at once, sir, 
 for it is the last thing I should dare to do." 
 
 " I have no fear on that score." 
 
 " I do feel fear, because I refer to other affairs than 
 my own — sacred affairs, in a manner of speaking. A 
 long time ago now I met Mr. William Ambrose and Miss 
 Darcy. And a few days ago I met Emma Darcy again, 
 and to my surprise she stopped me. She was not beg- 
 ging, and seemed in very great distress. She asked me to 
 give you a message, and I said, of course, that such a 
 thing would be improper, and that she should try and get 
 permission to come before you herself. But nothing 
 would convince her that 3^ou would allow her to speak to 
 you. Upon that subject, of course,- I could not speak. 
 She then begged me again to take a message, and I an- 
 swered that it depended upon what the message might be. 
 She spoke, and I found that she referred to Mr. William 
 Ambrose. She fears he cannot live very much longer. 
 She told me that he had greatly changed, and was most 
 anxious to do what he could to atone for the past. I 
 begged her not to go into anything that did not concern 
 me. I kept her to the point. Mr. William has seen a 
 clergyman, and the clerg^mian found him anxious to make 
 peace with the world, and before all else with you. The 
 clergyman was to write, and when Emma Darcy told me 
 that, I said that nothing more need be done. However, 
 she urged me so strongly, and seemed to think it so doubt- 
 ful that you would forgive Mr. William sufficiently to see 
 him again, that I had to promise to mention it. But I 
 hope you will not feel I have taken too much upon myself 
 in repeating what the poor creature said. I could not 
 choose but pity her." 
 
 " You exercised your usual tact, Seabrook. I am 
 bound to say you were right. As a matter of fact I am 
 going to Brightlingsea to take leave of my unhappy 
 brother and assure him of my forgiveness. I am very 
 glad to do so. I had decided before receiving the clergy-
 
 288 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 man's letter. I go down on Thursday afternoon, at four 
 of the clock." 
 
 " Then I need do nothing more? " 
 
 " Nothing whatever, thank you, except to keep the cir- 
 cumstances private. A man of your good feeling will not 
 need to be told what the life of my brother has been to me ; 
 and knowing me, you do not need to be told that I have 
 done all an elder brother could do to retrieve the position. 
 However, I failed. Isn't it true, by the way, that Mrs. 
 Mistley — so to call her — is at Brightlingsea? I could 
 not ask your colleague, but understood from Mushet that 
 she was there." 
 
 " Yes, she is there. Mrs. Ambrose told me so yester- 
 day, when she called here and just missed you. I think 
 Mrs. Ambrose was going to see her." 
 
 Parkyn frowned. 
 
 " I trust not. I cannot believe that would be wise. 
 However, that is no problem for you. I'm bound to say 
 this unfortunate affair has caused me very great pain on 
 Mr. Mistley's account. By God's will the imposition was 
 brought to light in my home. One can only be heartily 
 sorry for all those involved." 
 
 " A terrible thing. I should never have thought a 
 woman could live with such a secret." 
 
 " Her duplicity is no doubt astounding. It argues 
 something quite unfinished and primitive, the callousness 
 of a savage. And all concealed under culture and femi- 
 nine charm." 
 
 " I used to feel, somehow, there was more about her 
 than met the eye," ventured Seabrook. " I remember, 
 before his engagement was announced, telling Mistley I 
 believed that from a sort of furtive and suspicious air 
 that she might be hiding something. Of course, after- 
 wards, I felt very sorry I had said so." 
 
 " No doubt you were right," answered Ambrose. 
 " When at Brightlingsea, I may possibly visit her, but 
 only if Mistley wishes it."
 
 THE REVOLVER 289 
 
 Then he left the draughtsman and Geoffrey proceeded 
 with his work. It was clear that William had made as- 
 surance doubly sure by seeking a clergyman and adver- 
 tising his reformation. Two days only remained before 
 Parkyn's visit to Brightlingsea, and during that time one 
 thing called to be done. 
 
 That day, unknown to her husband, Helena had gone 
 down to see Aveline ; but Geoffrey knew this, and did not 
 desire to meet Helena again or have any more to do with 
 her until all was over. He intended to keep every shadow 
 of the truth from Parkyn's wife, and the story that she 
 would presently hear was the same that the world would 
 hear, when the brothers were no more. That he, Geof- 
 frey, had taken any hand in the death of her husband was, 
 of course, a fact to be hidden from Helena as from every- 
 body else. He had planned all details. Inevitably he 
 must suffer from inquiry and bear the blaze of investiga- 
 tion upon one aspect of the coming deed ; but he had 
 thought his way out and made his story strong at every 
 point. Free of all question he could not go, but the re- 
 sponsibility he was prepared to take involved him in no 
 crime, and did not threaten his liberty. Many might 
 even applaud him, when his part came to be learned ac- 
 cording to his own explanation of it. 
 
 This crucial matter formed the subject of speech be- 
 tween William Ambrose and GeoffrcA^ on the evening of 
 the same day; for Seabrook went down that night and 
 with him took a vital item in the machine of Parkyn Am- 
 brose's destruction. 
 
 William was now grown weak and his interests had nar- 
 rowed. His mind continued clear, however, and since he 
 knew nearly all that Seabrook could tell him, he was only 
 concerned with what the other had brought. When 
 Emma left them she uttered a protest. 
 
 " It's always the same when you come," she said to 
 Geoffrey. " I'm fired out ; and it's a shame, because I 
 know you've got secrets with William away from me.
 
 290 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 And he never had a secret from me before you came sneak- 
 ing down here." 
 
 The sick man's voice was sunk to a whisper now, for his 
 disease was in his throat. 
 
 " Don't you worry," he said. " There's no secrets you 
 won't know in good time. What's hid is only for your 
 own good, and two days from now you'll understand." 
 
 She left them; and when she had gone, Seabrook shut 
 the door and sunk his own voice, so that what followed 
 was spoken almost soundlessly, 
 
 " Have you got it? " asked Billy, and the other brought 
 a small parcel from his pocket. 
 
 " It's light," he said, " but the charge is heavy. You'll 
 only need to fire once, but all the barrels can be loaded." 
 
 He produced a little revolver which the sick man 
 fingered, and found he had strength to raise easily. 
 
 " You know he's coming on Thursday, at four o'clock. 
 Have you thought where you are going to hide this from 
 Emma.? " 
 
 " In the mattress. I've made a hole under me that she 
 don't know about. Did it last night. When the time 
 comes, I'll have it hid under the bedclothes. Where's the 
 cartridges ? " 
 
 " In my pocket. I'll leave them with you — five. Can 
 you load it, or shall I.'' Let me explain. At half cock 
 it's safe. But at full cock, a touch does it." 
 
 Billy learned the mechanism without speaking. Then 
 he put the cartridges into their chambers and hid the 
 weapon in the mattress beneath him. 
 
 " If I can't get it out when the time comes, you can," 
 he said. 
 
 He breathed heavily for a while and looked at Geoffrey. 
 
 " I was wondering how you were going to clear your- 
 self afterwards," he whispered. " How are you going to 
 explain buying the revolver and bringing it to me and all 
 that.?" 
 
 " I've thought of the details."
 
 THE REVOLVER 291 
 
 " Devil doubt you. Where did you get the thing? " 
 
 " Don't you bother about it. That'll be all right." 
 
 " I know. But where? " 
 
 "At Colchester." 
 
 " Ah ! Then you're not going to deny you bought it ? " 
 
 "What's the good? Even if I'd gone to London for 
 it, it's bound to be traced to me." 
 
 " And what are you going to say when I've pegged ? " 
 
 " Only that you hoodwinked me, and — but what does 
 it matter to you ? " 
 
 " I want to know all there is to it. The thing is a bit 
 of art, and though I shan't be here, I'd like to see how the 
 story will look when it's finished. You've got your yarn 
 complete, I'll bet, else I wouldn't have that thing hid in 
 the mattress now. So how do you get out when Parkyn's 
 dead?" 
 
 Seabrook considered, then he spoke. 
 
 " I'm going to say you told me of your sufferings, and 
 that each hour you lived was pain. And I'm going to say 
 you begged me to help you to end it ; and that I put 
 humanity before law and convention, and did as much for 
 you as I would be done by — to shorten your trouble." 
 
 William grinned. 
 
 " You're a wonder," he said. " You're thrown away 
 here. You ought to be helping the Kaiser. That lets 
 you out all right. And there's your blameless record, 
 too. Couldn't have done it better myself. You tell them 
 you tried to get poison for me first, but I refused it and 
 wanted this. Then you stand up for man's duty to his 
 fellow-man, and lecture the coroner and say it's a shame 
 that doctors only think of keeping the sick alive and 
 never of helping 'em to die, and all that. For two pins 
 I would shoot myself — now you've given me the tip. 
 But don't you fear. It won't be till after I've bowled 
 him over." 
 
 Seabrook confessed to some of his illogical confusion 
 of thought already mentioned.
 
 292 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 " When you wanted me to be here, I decided not at 
 first, because I said to myself, ' What will Parkyn Am- 
 brose think if he finds me here ? ' " 
 
 " What the devil does it matter what he thinks, seeing 
 he won't go out of the room alive? " 
 
 " Exactly. I argued without that." 
 
 " They can't lock me up : they can't even try me. 
 They can only stick a bobby at the door till I die. And 
 if I was to turn round and tell the truth, that couldn't 
 hurt you, for who would believe my word against your 
 denial.'' But you've earned your thirty pieces of silver, 
 and you're not the sort to fling 'em away, like Judas. 
 You can give him points." 
 
 " Be careful about Emma." 
 
 " No need to tell me that. I wouldn't trust your prom- 
 ises to keep her out of the gutter, because a man who can 
 do what you're doing don't set any value on his word to 
 friend or foe; but t'other woman will look after Emma." 
 
 " You can feel very happy about her." 
 
 " Jezebel was here to-day. Brought some money, and 
 told Emma that Parkyn had heard from the parson. 
 She wouldn't see me — frightened of the sight of death. 
 But she'll have to look death in the face before long. It'll 
 be a shock to her. She'll want a lot of comforting — 
 eh.?" 
 
 He began suddenly to suffer. 
 
 " Call Emma," he said, and Seabrook obeyed. She ran 
 up at once and gave him some medicine. 
 
 " I'm telling ' Moustache ' I shall never see him again," 
 whispered Billy. 
 
 " I shall remember the most remarkable and original 
 man I ever met," said Seabrook. Then he turned to 
 Emma. 
 
 " Don't you worry," he said. " And don't you think 
 I've been seeing William for any reason to hurt him. 
 We've only got to think of William now — his peace and
 
 THE REVOLVER 293 
 
 comfort ; and we've got to lessen his sufferings all we can. 
 And now his mind's at rest, because Mr. Ambrose is com- 
 ing to see him ; and I hope, after that, his body will be at 
 rest, too. And that's the truest kindness we can do him. 
 Remember what I say, Emma." 
 
 William echoed his last words. 
 
 " Remember what he says, Emma. A very good friend 
 to me, he's been." 
 
 " And Mrs. Ambrose, too," said Emma. " And when 
 you make it up with your brother, then you'll go without 
 a shadow on you, Billy, dear." 
 
 " Did you read Helena my verses ? " asked William. 
 
 " No." 
 
 " You let ' Moustache ' see 'em some day. They'll 
 make him die of laughing." 
 
 Then Seabrook left them and undertook his nocturnal 
 tramp homeward. Once more, and once only, would he be 
 called to visit Brightlingsea ; but he did not desire to go 
 again, and already began to consider if the final journey 
 might be evaded. Only one thing caused him to hesitate: 
 the fear that all might miscarry and William's purpose 
 fail, if he were not there to aid and support him in the 
 supreme moment. William was now exceedingly weak, 
 and how if the thing he designed was perceived and antici- 
 pated by his brother.'* 
 
 On the other hand William was cunning, and his last 
 energy and resolve were knit into this purpose. The ac- 
 tual deed seemed already done in Geoffrey's mind. It 
 was his quality always to look far ahead, and already he 
 saw the next problem and began to consider it. When 
 Ambrose was gone, Helena must make the necessary ap- 
 peal for Seabrook as one in her husband's confidence and 
 essential to administration of " Colnesidc." No such 
 confidence really existed, but she could assert it, and there 
 was none to deny it. Exemption should follow, and, if 
 necessary, be extended.
 
 294) THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 Helena, indeed, knew nothing of the widowhood that 
 was rushing upon her ; but her lover could trust the lady 
 to be clay in his hands. 
 
 A whole chain of incidents awaited his control and de- 
 velopment now, and he longed for the machine to move 
 and the dirty work to be done, that he might find himself 
 free to proceed with a manipulation of the future worthy 
 of his genius.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 HELENA VISITS AVELIKE 
 
 Helena Ambrose devoted herself heart and soul to the 
 business of saving Aveline. She enjoyed the task. As 
 soon as she learned that her friend was at Brightlingsea, 
 she hastened to see her and learn what might best be done 
 to reconcile her with Peter Mistley. 
 
 " My feeling is," she said, " that whatever you've done, 
 he'll have to forgive you, or he'll be cutting off his nose 
 to spite his face. It'll pay him to forgive you." 
 
 They had met at Mr. Mushet's, and now walked 
 through the country lanes on a grey afternoon while the 
 wind blew and the leaves fell. 
 
 " You're looking very ill," said Helena. " Of course 
 that's natural. I want to know what I can do ; you owe 
 it to me ; I can't really help you if I don't understand. 
 It isn't that I'm inquisitive; I'm only dying to be useful." 
 
 " Nobody can. It's up to him now. I wrote all I 
 could think of to say. He was everything in the world 
 to me after I'd known him six months, and I simply 
 couldn't lose him, just for the accident of being married. 
 It seemed so idiotic to let a piece of stupidity wreck our 
 beautiful love for each other. I haven't heard from 
 Peter yet. I thought he might have come down." 
 
 " What did you say to him? " 
 
 " I realh' forget. I wrote pages. But I told him ex- 
 actly why I'd done it — just for fear of losing him and 
 no other reason. You see it was a hundred to one against 
 this happening. I had taken every possible precaution 
 and, after all, the very thing I dreaded, and fought 
 against, and was made to do gave me away. Your photo- 
 
 295
 
 296 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 graph, Helena. My instinct screamed out against it. 
 The same with the picture for the catalogue. I knew my 
 husband would see that and recognise my painting, if I 
 did it my way." 
 
 " Has Mr. Mortimer written? " 
 
 " Of course not." 
 
 " He's going to divorce you at once ; that's one good 
 thing." 
 
 " Billy says I'm a bigamist and ought to be locked up. 
 How absurd the truth can be." 
 
 " Shall I see Peter for you? " 
 
 " Not for the world, Helena. If he doesn't write, or 
 come, then I shall know what to do." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Why, vanish again. But I'm not afraid he'll be un- 
 sporting. I expect he'll just make some sort of arrange- 
 ment, and reckon himself well out of it." 
 
 " If he really loves you, he'll marry you properly the 
 first moment that he can." 
 
 " It's almost too good to be true. No, I'm very much 
 afraid about it. For the moment I don't see how I could 
 live without him." 
 
 "Did you tell him that?" 
 
 " Rather not. I've hurt him enough. I couldn't com- 
 plicate the decision for him with silly threats. We were 
 gloriously wedded, marriage or no marriage, and he 
 knows it. And I always told him I hated marriage and 
 attached no importance whatever to it. I did everything 
 I could short of offering to be his mistress. And if I'd 
 suggested that, no doubt he'd have felt I was on a lower 
 plane and been appalled, and barred me for evermore. 
 For that matter, of course, I am on a lower plane." 
 
 " Can Geoffrey do anything? " 
 
 " Good gracious, no." 
 
 " He is marvellously clever, and a great diplomat. He 
 has got my husband to see poor William once more and 
 forgive him."
 
 HELENA VISITS AVELINE 297 
 
 " I'm sure that's just a thing Mr. Ambrose would have 
 done in any case. Would he ever forgive Peter if Peter 
 forgave me ? " 
 
 " He doesn't blame Peter. He is frightfully sorry for 
 him." 
 
 Aveline speculated. 
 
 " I wonder what on earth he'd do if he found out your 
 romance, Helena ? " 
 
 " You need never wonder what Parkyn would do : you 
 always know. He would divorce me. I dare say it will 
 come to that. I have felt fearfully reckless lately. The 
 war corrects perspective, I think. You can only live 
 your life once, and what on earth is the good of poisoning 
 every hour of it with the need for pretence? To Geof- 
 frey, who is so subtle, all our strategy and concealment 
 and shame is amusement. Pie delights in difficulties and 
 dangers, and makes them all come to nothing in his mag- 
 ical way. But I don't — not now. At first I did ; now, 
 as I get older, I hate all this humbug and lying. It spoils 
 life. I want to be good, Aveline." 
 
 The other agreed. 
 
 *' I expect you're wise," she said. " It's all right for 
 you to feel that, because you're safe. I could endure 
 being bad all right till I was bowled over. Being bad 
 never bothered me. At the best possible Peter won't for- 
 give me — not right awaj^, not f rankl}^ and utterly. He 
 might arrange a long-drawn forgiveness, in instalments. 
 And the last would never be reached. I know how he's 
 built. His heart will fight his reason, and his memory 
 will take now one side, now the other. It's just a ques- 
 tion which will conquer, and I believe it will be a sort of 
 drawn battle, and the result a compromise — just the ar- 
 rangement I always hate most in everything." 
 
 "What's the good of hating it? Life's a compromise. 
 Everything we do amounts to a bargain, cither with other 
 people, or nature, or conscience." 
 
 " Life's a bargain, certainlj'," admitted Aveline, " and
 
 298 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 few get the best of it, either. I thought I had, though." 
 
 " Probably you can't if you're made of fine stuff. The 
 real high-minded people, those with grand ideals, can't 
 possibly get any fun out of a world like this. They've 
 only got to look round them with clear eyes to feel that as 
 things are, they've no right to any comfort even, let alone 
 pleasure and happiness. Why, even m}^ conscience pricks 
 me sometimes — a poor little conscience like mine ; so we 
 may well understand that any superior creature, with a 
 real active conscience, can't make even a compromise with 
 life, but must throw over all selfish thoughts and only live 
 to plan to better the sorrowing world." 
 
 " As for throwing over happiness, it's happiness that 
 throws us over. Who is ever happy for long, whether 
 they're good or bad.'' " 
 
 " At a time like this, with all Europe in tears, nobody 
 ought to be happy," declared Helena. 
 
 " I hate being unhappy. It makes me ill," answered 
 the other. 
 
 Helena went back to tea with Aveline, and upon the 
 way they called to learn how William fared. Emma 
 would only leave him for a moment, and told them that he 
 was worse and weaker. 
 
 " Always making up rhymes he is now," said Emma. 
 " And they're mostly wicked." 
 
 " What'll she do, I wonder.'' " asked Mrs. Ambrose when 
 they had left her. 
 
 *' She won't want to go on living," declared Aveline. 
 *' Billy's everything that matters to her." 
 
 " I'm hoping my husband will do something for her — 
 enough to keep her in comfort and decency. Emma has 
 been a good friend to William, and done all she could for 
 him in the fearful life he chose." 
 
 " I dare say Billy will ask him to remember her. He 
 does care a great deal for Emma." 
 
 " Unhappiness everywhere," sighed Mrs. Ambrose. 
 " Poor little Mrs. Mushet robbed of her boy. I never
 
 HELENA VISITS AVELINE 299 
 
 thought I should live to be thankful I'm not a mother; 
 but I have." 
 
 With her last words the elder prophesied a happy issue 
 to Aveline's troubles. 
 
 " I believe the very worst is over and that you'll hear 
 to-morrow from Peter Mistley — something more or less 
 comforting. After all, he's only human, and it takes a 
 great deal to make a solid man like that stop loving one."
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 MADGE AT BRIGHTLINGSEA 
 
 Fires ascended in the gardens of " Colneside " and 
 mounds of rubbish were converted to char and ash, while 
 the smoke clouds lazily rolled away on the western wind. 
 The pageant of the year sank back to its dust again and 
 returned to the earth that had created it. The day was 
 one of dim light — sluggish, depressing. The gardens 
 were sere, and their splendours had vanished. 
 
 Gregory Mushet, with Richard Bare, stood beside a 
 bonfire and uneasily regarded half-a-dozen women, who 
 worked in a row two hundred yards distant. Mr. Bare's 
 cricket cap was the only bright spot upon that sad-col- 
 oured scene, for the flame of the fire hid under a mass of 
 dead stuff and the girls were clad in black or drab. 
 
 " It brings home the war, don't it, to see females on the 
 land.'' " asked Richard Bare. 
 
 " A very sad and crushing sight," murmured Gregory. 
 " I've often asked myself of late how I'd feel if I found 
 the women here; and now they are here. It makes you 
 despair of Christ's Word and Teaching, to see women 
 messing up the earth. No woman ever did any good in a 
 garden — from Eve down." 
 
 " And worse even than that," declared Mr. Bare ; 
 " from all I hear the women are doing man's work some- 
 thing shameful throughout the whole country, and I read 
 the Essex women were a lesson to the rest of the kingdom ; 
 for they'd come forth in their legions, and there's nothing 
 they won't do ; and seemingly very little they can't do ; and 
 if the Government was to order 'em into khaki, 'tis doubt- 
 ful if there'd be a conscientious objector among 'em." 
 
 300
 
 MADGE AT BRIGHTLINGSEA 301 
 
 Gregory Mushet shook his head. 
 
 " They'll want half the glory of the war. They're al- 
 ways bitter quick to claim credit and bitter feared we 
 men will forget their good deeds if they don't din 'em in 
 our ears. And after all's done and the Germans are 
 whipped back into their kennels and muzzled for a century 
 of Sunday's, please God, then the women will make out 
 such a case for themselves that 'twill take all the wit of 
 man to resist 'em." 
 
 " I've been watching 'em work," said Richard. " 'Tis 
 like a row of starlings for talk. If you want to get all 
 they can do out of 'em, you'll have to spread 'em beyond 
 mouthshot of each other in my opinion. They must be 
 clacking." 
 
 They continued to do nothing themselves. 
 
 " You can see, from this distance, they don't take it in 
 the right spirit," said Gregory. " Not one knows the 
 hidden meaning of what she's doing, or why she's doing it ; 
 and you can bet your life they'll all be ill the minute the 
 weather turns harsh." 
 
 "How's Lieutenant Hempson going on?" asked Bare. 
 
 " He's been mentioned in despatches," answered 
 Mushet. " That's the first step forward, and if he's 
 spared, he'll soon make his mark on the war. He's got 
 the gifts and fears nothing." 
 
 " Your niece is uplifted, without a doubt." 
 
 " Yes ; she's very pleased about it. She's heard from 
 him and read me bits. It's a racking life; but in my 
 experience only a certain amount of bad luck is measured 
 out to every man. Hempson had his bad luck and I be- 
 lieve it's run out. In my poor nephew's case, the bud 
 luck was a bullet in his young heart, and so his good luck 
 is left for the next world. And a tiling that often puz/.les 
 me, Richard, is exactly how it will be with them that have 
 had all the plums in this life when it comes to hereafter. 
 In justice, them as draw a blank here win a prize there; 
 but how are you going to do with him that has good luck 
 
 e^vv -2 COLLEGE L
 
 302 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 with his health and his wife and his children and his 
 money in this world, and dies full of honour at eighty-five 
 or over, to leave a hundred thousand pounds in the bank 
 and a marble statue to keep his memory green? Then, on 
 the other side, there's such as my brother's boy, Teddy. 
 All he had was hard work and to be crossed in love, for 
 Margery was his dream ; and then a fortnight of that hell 
 yonder, and then death. And what does he go to? 
 Mind, I'm not saying their lots won't be made equal; but 
 I don't see how." 
 
 " More don't I," answered Richard Bare. 
 
 " Take our draughtsman, Peter Mistley. Bad luck 
 has broke into his house like an armed man. These 
 things can't be hid. He thought he'd married a widow, 
 poor chap, and finds he ain't married at all, but have been 
 living in fancied security all these months with a scarlet 
 woman. She fled from him when the secret came out, and 
 she's hiding for the moment with my people at Brittlesea. 
 They don't know the awful truth, of course, else they 
 wouldn't let their roof shelter her. But Mistley. 
 There's his bad luck." 
 
 " Who knows? " asked Mr. Bare. " In fact, since he's 
 found out, his luck mendeth, because to escape from the 
 clutch of a bad woman is good luck." 
 
 " To escape from the clutch of any woman is good luck, 
 for that matter," admitted Gregory. " You argue very 
 well, Richard, and now you'd better mend your fires. 
 Rain's coming. I must go and talk to they parlous 
 women now. So sure as ever they reach to the end of a 
 row, they waste five minutes straightening their backs be- 
 fore they bend to the next one." 
 
 Margery Mayhew came down the grey garden at this 
 moment. She sought her uncle before going to the sta- 
 tion. 
 
 " I'm just off to Brightlingsea," she said. 
 
 " And a word in your ear before you go, Madge. 
 Don't you let on to Aunt Nancy about Andrew being men-
 
 MADGE AT BRIGHTLINGSEA 303 
 
 tioned in despatches. Good news like that would onl}' fall 
 cruel hard on your poor aunt's ear for the moment, with 
 Teddy in his unknown grave. Comfort her so well as you 
 can ; and tell her the truth about that fallen woman. And 
 don't you listen to no cunning excuses, or anything of 
 that. She's a very bad lot, and the less you have to do 
 with her the better pleased Andrew would be." 
 
 " He liked her. Uncle Greg." 
 
 " He was deceived. I never trusted her — too pleas- 
 ant. They clever people, who alwa3's know how to get on 
 your blind side and tickle your vanity or other weakness, 
 are never to be trusted. They use their gifts treacher- 
 ously. In fact, you can't be so charming as her, if 3'ou 
 ain't a bit crooked, too. Straight people are never 
 charming." 
 
 " She was a good friend to me — better than an3'body 
 knows but myself," answered Margery. " Anyway, I'm 
 not going to cold-shoulder Aveline for anybody. Slie's 
 worth a thousand of the ever\'day sort, and I shouldn't be 
 here now and happy but for her." 
 
 " Well, don't you say I'm 3'our side, because I'm not," 
 warned Mr. Mushet. Then his niece left him and went on 
 her way. 
 
 Aveline met her at the station, and though Marger3' 
 stoutly vowed to herself that her friend could do no 
 wrong, what she had done rather alarmed the 3'oungcr 
 woman and she felt in awe. That such things could hap- 
 pen at all astounded her. Her friend was changed, and 
 to Margery's eyes had expanded and grown somewhat 
 transfigured since the truth was out. She felt shy at 
 first, and the diffidence which might have been expected in 
 Aveline was manifested entirel3' b3' ^ladge. Tlic latter 
 assumed almost an apologetic mien, while her friend re- 
 mained imperturbed. 
 
 But she acknowledged ^largery's steadfast attitude. 
 
 " I knew you wouldn't give me up," she said. " I've 
 done a very unusual sort of thing and it hasn't been
 
 304 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 crowned with success, Madge; but I've thought it all out 
 and threshed it all out to the last straw, and I'm quite 
 convinced that if the time came again, I should do exactly 
 the same. And now I'm bitterly sorry and very much 
 crushed; but only for one thing, and that is because I 
 didn't tell my Peter the truth. And now I've gone and 
 made an earthquake of his life — and of my own." 
 
 " Don't talk about it if you'd rather not," said Mar- 
 gery. 
 
 " I must. You mustn't mind. I've got nothing else 
 to talk about." 
 
 " Then talk about it. When I hadn't anything else to 
 talk about but Andrew, you heard me patiently enough. 
 If I could only be to you what you were to me." 
 
 " You would if you could." 
 
 " And Andrew's been mentioned in despatches. Don't 
 tell my aunt. But I know you're glad." 
 
 " Yes, I am — very glad indeed, Madge." 
 
 " I had to tell you. Are you comfortable with Aunt 
 Nancy ? " 
 
 " Very. She's more than kind. I believe it is good for 
 her to have me here for the minute." 
 
 " Does she know about it.^* " 
 
 " Yes, she does. I told her last night. I felt I must. 
 Perhaps I wouldn't have told her if I had thought she 
 would turn me out. But I knew her well enough by yes- 
 terday to feel she wouldn't do that. She took it like an 
 angel, but doesn't hide the fact that I've got no more 
 than I deserved. She hopes it will come right. But the 
 question now is, what would ' coming right ' amount to ? 
 He's coming to see me to-morrow." 
 
 " That's good news. If he's coming, then it's all right. 
 If he had anything very terrible to say, he'd have written 
 it." 
 
 " Just what he wouldn't. On the whole it's a bad sign 
 that he's coming." 
 
 " Never ! " declared Madge. " Do you think he'd trust
 
 MADGE AT BRIGHTLINGSEA 305 
 
 himself with you if he'd decided to — to go? He might 
 make it easier for you by coming to speak, but what about 
 him? If he's coming to see you, then you're safe." 
 
 " You're a darling to say so, Margerj' ; but you don't 
 know Peter. He's much greater than that. If he'd 
 cared for the outside of me more than the inside, then 
 there'd be hope; but he didn't. He always trusted in 
 reason." 
 
 " Then he won't do anything unreasonable now," prom- 
 ised Madge. 
 
 " He won't ; but man's reason isn't woman's. I'm 
 groping in the dark. There's so much I don't know that 
 may be influencing him. If I thought he was coming to 
 me to decide about it, then I'd feel a ' mite of hope,' as 
 Emma says ; but he has decided. He'd feel after getting 
 my letter that I'd nothing more to say, and he'd most 
 likely think the letter was, like a man's letter, all carefully 
 thought out before I sent it. He can't be expected to 
 understand that a woman's letter is always different from 
 a man's and always starts from a different place. I 
 don't remember a word I wrote him now ; and if I had to 
 write again, no doubt it would be all different." 
 
 " His mind may not be made up. He may have sug- 
 gestions to make and want to hear what you say about 
 them. Don't think nothing depends on you, Aveline, be- 
 cause, if you think that, you won't fight. You must fight 
 for yourself as never you did before." 
 
 " Did you fight when you wanted Andrew and believed 
 he'd done with you ? " 
 
 " That was different," said ISIargery. " I was a little 
 fool; but you're clever and wonderful, and ^Ir. Mistley 
 knows what it is to live with you. I believe if he once 
 clearly understands that you can't live without him " 
 
 " You want to save me ! " said Aveline. " You want to 
 cry quits and find me sitting on the banks of the Colne 
 waiting to " 
 
 " How can you, Aveline ! Good heavens ! What a
 
 306 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 thing to say. I didn't mean that sort of not being able 
 to live without him. You're not built like that." 
 
 " How do jou know, Madge.? But it's true. I 
 couldn't kill myself — not for fear of death, but for love 
 of life. Life is so worth while if you're not twenty-five. 
 But there are other deaths than death. You can be stone 
 dead, and perfectly alive at the same time." 
 
 " I don't believe for all your cleverness you've really 
 grown up yet," answered the younger doubtfully. " I 
 was grown up when I was seventeen. But some girls 
 never grow up, and I believe you're one of them." 
 
 " Perhaps I shall kill myself all the same — if he won't 
 forgive me." 
 
 " He'll forgive you, of course. What on earth's the 
 good of not forgiving people? It doesn't hurt them and 
 it may hurt you. He'll forgive you and take you back. 
 I believe nine men out of ten would." 
 
 " So do I," answered Aveline ; " but Peter's not nine 
 men out of ten: he's one man out of a thousand." 
 
 " So much the more reason he should know what you're 
 worth to him." 
 
 " You're a clever, comforting little dear. But it's all 
 waste of time talking about it till I see him. And yet I 
 believe I know perfectly well already what's going to 
 happen." 
 
 " I implore you to fight for yourself, Aveline. Don't 
 feel afterwards that you didn't do your best." 
 
 " I know his heart, but I don't know his head. Women 
 are generally in that fix with men. We understand their 
 hearts fairly easily, because it's our business, and Na- 
 ture's built even the greatest fool of a woman to be clever 
 at that ; but they haven't all got hearts, and their heads 
 are always beyond us, Madge. The best men rule them- 
 selves from there. I've seen the battle actually going on. 
 Hang them ! They ' sleep on ' a thing ! When Peter used 
 to say, ' I'll sleep on it,' I knew it was all up. When a 
 man sleeps on a thing, he generally smothers it in his
 
 MADGE AT BRIGHTLINGSEA 307 
 
 sleep. Their hearts are strongest at night — after din- 
 ner; but the wretches know their weak hours, and it isn't 
 at night the}' decide anything that matters: the}' wait till 
 the grey morning, when their hearts are locked up for the 
 day." 
 
 Margery was secretly astonished that Aveline could be 
 flippant at such a time. 
 
 " You're magnificently brave about it, anyway," she 
 said ; " and you couldn't be so brave, whatever you say, if 
 you weren't fairly hopeful. And it's no good telling me 
 that Mr. Mistley's heart won't come into this. If a man 
 has got a heart at all, he'd use it over such a fearful thing. 
 Can he forget all you've been to him ? " 
 
 " No ; and that may make it so much the harder to give 
 me the benefit of the doubt. But j^ou're right : love's 
 quickened your wits, my dear, honest Margery. I am 
 hopeful — Avith a dreary sort of hope. Hope with the 
 salt left out. He's had a battle royal about it. I 
 wanted to write again — miles more; but I didn't, because 
 I thought very likely I'd contradict myself and give my- 
 self away. I've got a vague mind, IMargory — like my 
 father. He meant things when he wrote them : but life 
 buffeted him — he was a feather in the wind of it. And 
 there were always base outsiders ready to take advantage 
 and score off him afterwards. Peter knows me well 
 enough; but the fact that I'm Aveline can't alter the fact 
 that he's Peter. He'll grant that I've got to be myself, 
 but he can't escape from the need to be himself ; and I know 
 what he'll do, though he may not know himself yet." 
 
 " What'll he do, then? But don't sav if you'd rather 
 not." 
 
 " I'd rather not, because I might be wrong." 
 
 They came to the home of the ]\Iushets and discussed 
 Aveline no more. IMargery had not seen her aunt since 
 Teddy's death, and waited for Nancy to mention it. Then 
 they talked of Teddy and a little cenotaph that was to be 
 hung on the wall of Brightlingsca church to his memory.
 
 3Q8 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 " His father's wishful so to do," said Mrs. Mushet, " and 
 there's comfort in it for Samuel seemingly, but none for 
 me. He's buried in my heart, not in the trenches — that's 
 my comfort. He came from me and he's come back to me. 
 Mothers understand that ; you girls that are not mothers 
 wouldn't understand it." 
 
 " I do," said Aveline. " A child feels it as well as the 
 mother of the child." 
 
 " A mother and her boy are one through time and 
 eternity. One in two and two in one they are, and not life 
 or death can change it. And he knows it. I'm an angel's 
 mother now, and that's saving me."
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 THE PARTING 
 
 Peter Mistley and Purkyn Ambrose met by chance at 
 Colchester railway station. They shook hands and spoke 
 together, then found that they were travelling to the same 
 place. 
 
 " I am going to see my brother, William Ambrose. He 
 is now in extremis,'^ said Parkyn. 
 
 " I am sorry to hear it." 
 
 " You are going to Brightlingsea, too? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Then a painful interview lies before us both," said the 
 other. " Life brings these tragedies in its train. You 
 said that you were sorry to know my brother, William, was 
 in extremis. And yet j'ou are mistaken to regret it, for 
 the sooner he passes from these initial failures to another 
 world, where he will begin again to learn his lesson and 
 atone for years of uselessness, the better. For a life 
 spoiled is merely so much time lost. William will be called 
 to endure discipline — it may be terribly severe disci- 
 pline — discipline that may occasion pain and grief to 
 the undisciplined spirit. But the idea of eternal torment 
 I have long since ceased to regard as reasonable. ' It is 
 He that hath made us, and not we ourselves.' It follows, 
 therefore, that eternal condemnation could only overtake 
 a faulty soul with the sanction of the God of Mercy. I 
 am bound to say this will not do." 
 
 Mistley, surprised at such breadth of vision, agreed 
 with him, and they talked fitfully of the war. 
 
 Both relapsed into silence ])efore they reached Bright- 
 lingsea, and while the younger looked out over the salt- 
 
 309
 
 310 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 ings and marked the packing shed on Peewit Island, Mr. 
 Ambrose sat with his hands on his knees and looked 
 straight in front of him. From time to time he sighed and 
 brushed the front of his waistcoat. There was nothing to 
 brush, but he had a habit of doing so. 
 
 Aveline stood on the platform and both men saw her, 
 while the train ran past her into the terminus. 
 
 She had not seen Peter and now, looking at the few 
 who alighted from the train, still failed to mark him for a 
 moment. Then he came and held out his hand to her and 
 she saw that he was in khaki. 
 
 That event she had not anticipated, or thought upon. 
 It staggered her. She started and gave him an oppor- 
 tunity to speak. 
 
 " You didn't expect me to be a soldier yet? " 
 
 " I might have ; but I didn't." 
 
 " I'm in the Fourth Essex, stationed at Colchester for 
 the moment." 
 
 He was quite serious, and had not smiled when he met 
 her. He had taken the hand she had extended to his, but 
 had shaken it as a stranger would. He looked thin and 
 drawn to Aveline. Khaki made him seem smaller, and his 
 moustache was not a military moustache. She felt he 
 must do something to it. Such was her interest in his 
 clothes and appearance that, for a moment, she almost for- 
 got these things were outside her life. 
 
 " I think you ought " she began, in the old im- 
 petuous voice, then stopped and lowered her tone. " I 
 forgot," she said. " Will you come to my rooms, Peter, 
 or would you like to walk? " 
 
 " We'd better go to your rooms." 
 
 " I saw Mr. Ambrose leave the station and saw you 
 talking to him. And yet — so extraordinary — I didn't 
 realise it was you. I never thought you'd be in khaki, so 
 of course a soldier didn't challenge my eye." 
 
 " He's come to see his brother." 
 
 " I saw him yesterday. The poor man wants to be for-
 
 THE PARTING 311 
 
 given. It's heart-rending to see such a clever creature 
 all crushed and ruined and going out of the world without 
 ever having done any good in it." 
 
 " You always said he was clever." 
 
 " I liked him somehow. I suppose he and I were wicked 
 in rather the same way. Do they feed 3^ou properly at 
 the barracks ? " 
 
 He did not answer this. They passed a middle-aged 
 officer and Mistley saluted him. He acknowledged the 
 salute with his e3^es on Aveline. 
 
 " A Royal Engineer," she said. " He lodges near the 
 Mushets. He is very proud of his corps, and was telling 
 Mr. Mushet about it. His sappers are all specially 
 trained men, and have to pass a trade test before they can 
 be sappers at all." 
 
 " In my line regiment we are clerks or ploughboys, as a 
 rule." 
 
 " You're infantry, aren't you? " 
 
 " Yes, we're infantry." 
 
 " Surely the war will be over before j^ou're all trained? " 
 
 " I don't know about all. Some learn quicker than 
 others. INIany of us are quite intelligent and will be ready 
 to take our places in early spring. The fit, keen men who 
 are worth sending, go out in drafts — fifty to a hundred 
 at a time. So there's hope for us, if we work hard enough 
 and learn our business." 
 
 " You want to go, then ? " 
 
 " I do." 
 
 They came to Mrs. Mushet's and soon occupied Ave- 
 line's little parlour. He threw off his overcoat. Then he 
 sat down and took off one of his puttees. 
 
 " Haven't quite got the hang of it yet," he said, start- 
 ing to bind it on again. 
 
 "Can I do it?" 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "I needn't keep you long, Aveline; but of course one 
 had to see you."
 
 312 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 "May I speak first?" 
 
 " Say whatever you want to say. But really there's 
 not much you can. The facts aren't in dispute, are they ? 
 No doubt you've realised what they mean by this time.'' " 
 
 " Well, I won't speak ; then — you must speak." 
 
 " As far as I'm concerned it's summed up in one ques- 
 tion. Why did you do it ? " 
 
 " Because I loved you, and I knew if I told you the 
 truth, you'd stop loving me." 
 
 " How could you possibly know any such thing? " 
 
 " We know lots of things, though we can't explain how 
 we learned them. For instance, I know all you've come to 
 say now before you say it. It's in your face, Peter. 
 You see, I was bound to keep my secret from you, until I 
 knew you quite well, just as I was bound to keep it from 
 everybody else. And when we got beyond that, and I 
 
 knew you loved me and you knew I loved you, then 
 
 Look at it — how could I speak then? " 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " Because it would have been the end, and I should 
 have lost everything in the world. Deal fairly with me, 
 Peter. Ask yourself what you would have done on the 
 day you asked me to marry you if I had then told you I 
 was a runaway wife. Be quite honest : what would you 
 have done? " 
 
 " Blamed you for hiding it, as I do now, bitterly." 
 
 " Yes, of course ; but what would you have done? " 
 
 " I couldn't have gone through the farce of marrying 
 you." 
 
 " But what would you have gone through? Do, before 
 we part, think that out. It depends on what you would 
 have done whether I was justified, or not, in what I did. 
 Your judgment and sentence ought to hang on that." 
 
 " Can you really think it's possible to justify what you 
 did?" 
 
 " In my own eyes, yes. Anything in the world was bet- 
 ter than losing you by that time. Nothing mattered but
 
 THE PARTING 313 
 
 you, and I believed that if I'd told you the truth, you'd 
 have banished me out of your siglit for evermore. That's 
 all I ask you to tell me: if I believed right or not. At 
 least you know what you'd have done. I'll believe what- 
 ever you answer, Peter." 
 
 " There is no need to talk about possibilities that didn't 
 arise," he said. " I haven't the slightest idea what I 
 should have done. I should have felt the truth about 
 yourself was the first thing you ought to have told me 
 instead of the last. But spoken then " 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " Spoken then — when first we met, I mean — it 
 wouldn't have made any difference to my loving you." 
 
 " But why should I be expected to give away my secret 
 to you, before I knew whether I could trust you? Why 
 should a woman alwa3s be supposed to tell her secrets and 
 a m«n never be expected to tell any of his? " 
 
 " Don't muddle the issue, Aveline. I don't blame you 
 for keeping j'our secret until the time I offered to marr^^ 
 you, or at any rate until the time we loved each other. 
 But, after that, there was not a shadow of justification 
 for doing so. It was an utter outrage, impossible if you 
 had reall}^ loved me. And how I was likely to take it 
 doesn't make any difference." 
 
 "Good heavens! Can't you see it made just all tlie 
 difference? " 
 
 " You knew you could not marry me when I asked 
 you." 
 
 " I never wanted to marry ; but I couldn't say so then. 
 It didn't seem to me to matter a button that the mar- 
 riage was all humbug, because I knew we should be glori- 
 ously one, marriage or no marriage. I felt that some 
 day I would tell you. It was acting a lie or losing you, 
 that's how it seemed to me, and naturally a lie weighed 
 nothing against losing you. And you've got to come back 
 to the point, and tell me how you would have acted if you'd 
 heard the truth, Peter. I have no case till I know that.
 
 314. THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 If you saj it would have made no difference and jou would 
 have married me as soon as my husband heard that he 
 could divorce me, then I'm done. For then I mistook you 
 and was utterly wrong in every way. But if you say you 
 would have dropped me on it, then I shall always think I 
 was right to play for my own hand as I did ; and the fact 
 that I have lost won't ever make me believe I've played 
 wrong. Do tackle that and try to think what you would 
 have done, dear Peter. I know it's difficult after all the 
 gorgeous times we've had together; but it's only fair to 
 me. You see my future depends upon it. Of course 
 you've done with me now, I expect that, but the vital thing 
 to me — the thing that will decide if I can live and breathe 
 naturally and respect myself again — is what you would 
 have done if I'd told you the truth when you asked me 
 to marry you." 
 
 " I see. And you, thinking 3^ou knew me perfectly, de- 
 cided that if I heard the truth, I should turn my back on 
 you, Aveline? " 
 
 She felt this unexpected retort, but parried it. 
 
 " You must answer me first — honestly, ever so honestly. 
 You must answer me, Peter, and if I was wrong, then I 
 can only call on the hills to cover me. No indictment you 
 could bring would be half so terrible as my own." 
 
 " I'm sorry for you, then," he said after a pause. 
 " Because I'll swear by any God you like to name, that if 
 you had told me the truth about yourself — even so late 
 as when I asked you to marry me — I should have taken 
 the needful steps to make our marriage possible. You 
 had only to say you loved me as dearly as I loved you, and 
 I should have left no stone unturned until you were free. 
 And as the law demands degradation before it grants 
 freedom, I would have fallen in with its barbarisms and 
 done all in my power to protect you against its insults. 
 I'll go further than that, and say that if your husband 
 had been one of the pious or malignant sort that wouldn't 
 divorce you, that would have made no difference. I
 
 THE PARTING 315 
 
 should have asked you to come to me just the same, and 
 reverenced you the more, and been the more punctilious 
 and jealous for you and the readier to fight the whole 
 world for you. That is how I should have felt and what 
 I should have done, Aveline." 
 
 " Then no woman ever made a more hopeless mistake. 
 I believe you, I believe every word you sa}', though every 
 word's a nail in my coffin, Peter. I deserve to lose you — 
 I can't say more than that. I never knew, or guessed, 
 your love was so great, and I'm punished, Peter, with the 
 usual punishment of ignorance. Nothing's ever punished 
 like ignorance. Wickedness often escapes, but ignorance 
 never does. And I was so ignorant that I couldn't see 
 how big you were and never felt in my bones how much you 
 loved me. I wasn't great enough for you to love me; I 
 wasn't deep enough to hold all the love you poured out on 
 me and wasted on me. There's only one thing I can ask 
 you to do now, and tliat you'll easily do, because it's one of 
 the qualities of greatness to do it always, and again and 
 again if need be. Forgive me, Peter. Saj^ you forgive me 
 before you go. I can't live if you don't do that, and I 
 w^on't. You're free again, and I haven't come between 
 you and the things that mattered — I never did that, did 
 I? I haven't poisoned your life, or anything like that; 
 because you're too strong to be poisoned by me. So 
 what I've done isn't beyond forgiveness. Love makes a 
 woman distrust herself and shakes her judgment. My 
 folly made me choose wrong before a fearfully difficult 
 choice — difficult to a poor thing like me. But it was 
 folly, Peter, not wickedness. I went wrong simply because 
 I was blinded by the awful dread of losing you. But 
 my love wasn't worthy of you. It was only the best I had 
 to offer. I know now that I and my love were in a lower 
 world altogether than you and your love. It's shattering, 
 after our wonderful days together, so equal as they seemed 
 and so beautifully balanced, to find what a gulf there was 
 really. I suppose 3'ou knew it and felt it from the first,
 
 316 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 but were too generous to let me have an inkling of it. I 
 expect there are plenty of splendid, disappointed men 
 throwing dust in women's eyes like that, and the fools 
 don't know it. But now it's got to be known and felt, 
 and the dust has to be washed out of my eyes with tears. 
 And I ought to drown myself in tears. And perhaps when 
 my little mind realises gradually all that this means, I 
 shall. But you must forgive me — despite everything you 
 must do that. Please, Peter." 
 
 She stopped and he did not answer immediately. He 
 looked at her with unutterable sadness in his face ; yet 
 under it was something almost akin to a smile. He had 
 not missed the little ironies of her speech, but knew they by 
 no means altered the fact that she was in terrible earnest. 
 
 " How could you do it, Aveline? " he asked. 
 
 " Because I'm a low-down thing and was never properly 
 lifted above myself when temptation came. And that's 
 not my fault either, for who can be lifted above themselves 
 and who can make what's shallow deep ? But you took me 
 as you found me, and you've got to forgive me as you find 
 me. I don't know how I could do it, Peter ; but I know 
 why I did it. When I say I'm bitterly sorry, it means I'm 
 bitterly sorry for being myself. And yet — and yet how 
 can I be? It was myself you loved." 
 
 " You said in your letter " he began ; but she 
 
 stopped him. 
 
 " Don't waste precious time on that. It really doesn't 
 matter what I said in my letter, does it? Not now that 
 we're here together." 
 
 " You said in that letter you wouldn't influence me even 
 if you could. Do you still feel that? " 
 
 She was impatient with the triviality. 
 
 " Don't waste time with rubbish that makes no differ- 
 ence. Of course I'd influence you if I could. I'd do 
 everything but die, to influence you. I can't go on my 
 knees to you to take me back, Peter ; but I would do even 
 that if I thought it could make you. No, I only ask you
 
 THE PARTING 317 
 
 to see how it looks from my angle of sight. Granted my 
 angle of sight is the result of a squint. jNIost people do 
 squint a little when they look at life. But the few lucky 
 ones who see straight must be merciful to those who do 
 not. And now I've spoken enough. I'm tired. I've 
 talked myself empty. It's up to you, Peter. Would you 
 like to smoke.'' " 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 He sat still, bending forward with his hands locked be- 
 tween his open knees and his head lowered. He did not 
 look at Aveline, but appeared to regard notliing but his 
 boots. 
 
 She saw he was changed. Physically he looked thinner. 
 His voice seemed to have a different quality. There was 
 less light and shade about it, less care for inflection. He 
 seemed dull — as though his mind were growing subdued to 
 the colour of his clothes. But she knew that it was not 
 soldiering that made him inert. She was under no de- 
 lusion as to what he had felt for her, or how his life had 
 changed at her touch. She began to be very sorry for 
 him and to forget herself. 
 
 " Well may you ask me how I could do it," she said 
 presently, finding he did not speak. " It was a damnable 
 thing. I'm not going to try and excuse it any more. No 
 man ever loved a woman better, or half as beautifully as 
 you loved me. You trusted so finely; you believed in me 
 so purely and perfectly. If I wasn't made of stone my 
 heart would have broken — for your sake, not my sake. 
 There's nothing too bad for me, or half bad enough. If I 
 could atone by dying for you, I would ; and I will atone 
 somehow, somewhere. I was hoping you'd give me some 
 idea of what to do — after you'd forgiven me. Penance 
 comes after absolution, doesn't it? Or does it come first? 
 I don't know." 
 
 "You're tiring yourself. You've told me all I want to 
 know, Aveline. You've made a good enough case. When 
 you say you had to be yourself, you say everything."
 
 318 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 " No I don't — don't believe it — don't believe a word 
 I say. I beggar the question when I say that. It's non- 
 sense. Nobody's got to be themselves if they are under 
 the guidance of a stronger nature than their own, and 
 have given up their will and hope and everything to some- 
 body else, as I gave up everything to you. I can't be ex- 
 cused. I knew how you loved me, and I ought to have 
 known your love was big enough to stand the truth. No- 
 body would have understood the truth better than you." 
 
 " Yes, I should have understood it well enough." 
 
 " Then why didn't I know you would? I did know it. 
 There's not an honest word to be said for me." 
 
 " It's no good going round in a circle. Have you got 
 anything you want to say that you haven't said.^ If not, 
 then I'll speak." 
 
 " No, there's only to be forgiven before you go, Peter. 
 And if you could point some sort of a road for me, it 
 would be something. The road would lead away from 
 you, I know ; still, if you'd pointed to it, I could travel it 
 easier." 
 
 " Why should you saddle me with the need to choose for 
 you.'' " he said moodily. 
 
 " No shadow of reason. Merely an impertinence. 
 Still, if you can forgive me " 
 
 " I can't forgive you," he said. " Honestly, Aveline, at 
 this moment I'm not forgiving you. Can't you see what 
 an utter wreck you've made of our lives? A thing never 
 to be built up again. It's no more possible to forgive you 
 than it would be to forget you. And I don't want to for- 
 give you either. I'm in a very curious state of mind, and 
 it's still more curious that I can try to describe it to you. 
 But I feel it's a jolly sight better for us both that I hate 
 you like hell for doing this to me, than that I should for- 
 give you for doing it. Does that sound mad to you? " 
 
 " No ; I understand. Forgiveness is a dead thing and 
 hate is alive," she answered, her mind moving like a flash. 
 " I was a fool to ask you to forgive me, because forgive-
 
 THE PARTING 319 
 
 ness is so often just a door slammed and locked between 
 people. But hate's different. It may end in death or in 
 life; but it can't stop. You can graft on it. It's not a 
 passionless, frozen thing like forgiveness. It's a storm 
 that may end in earthquake or turn into — you never 
 know. Yes, I'd rather you hated me than forgave me, 
 Peter." 
 
 "You understand. What don't you understand? I 
 can't explain, but I suppose your explanation is right." 
 
 He got up abruptly. 
 
 " I'm going to volunteer with the first draft possible for 
 France. I'm thinking of nothing but soldiering now. I 
 try to keep everything else out of my head. Afterwards 
 — God knows. I don't well see how we can keep apart. 
 We're not two people — we're one." 
 
 " Go on hating me and I'll go on loving you, and see 
 who holds out longest." 
 
 " I can't be clear," he said, weakening a little. " Don't 
 use that word for it, Aveline, though there's no other." 
 
 " I know, I know. It isn't hate, it's the smart of 
 wounds — wicked wounds, given you by your own second 
 self. Only give me a chance some day to heal your 
 wounds. I don't ask more from you than that. I'm 
 wicked, but I'm strong. I'll turn my wickedness into 
 goodness. I'll work — not at art. I'll do something that 
 counts." 
 
 " You'll be a free woman when I come back," said Peter. 
 " He's going through with it as soon as possible. There 
 may be a lot of wretched little details — legal, I mean. 
 But that can't be helped." 
 
 " They don't matter." 
 
 " Well, if I get through — I suppose we And in 
 
 the meantime see Dr. Carboncll. He's going to look after 
 things. You'll be all right." 
 
 " You're not much of a hater. Wait — only wait till 
 you come back. There are some things I can do." 
 
 " Good-bye."
 
 320 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 " May I write to you? " 
 
 " Please." 
 
 " Will you write to me ? " 
 
 « Yes." 
 
 "Will you see me just once more before you go to 
 France? " 
 
 " What do you think about it ? " 
 
 " All right — then we won't, Peter. But tell me before 
 you go. And read my letters. I'll soon be doing some- 
 thing useful." 
 
 " Work — work your fingers to the bone. Try and kill 
 yourself with work." 
 
 He hardened up again and she was glad. 
 
 " Now I'll be gone, Aveline." 
 
 " Thank you for coming. It was like you. Very few 
 men would have done it. If I'd worked my fingers to the 
 bone sooner " 
 
 " We've neither of us known what work means yet. It's 
 worth while learning." 
 
 He picked up his cap and coat, hesitated, and then rose 
 and prepared to leave her quickly. That, too, she un- 
 derstood, and was glad he did not touch her again. 
 
 " Good-bye. You'll come back to something better than 
 you're leaving." 
 
 He turned an instant at the door. 
 
 *' This all seems so damned canting and superior on my 
 side. I didn't mean to be like this ; but you understand. 
 Let me go and fight and I shall be clean again." 
 
 *' And I, too," she said. 
 
 " Take — take care of yourself, Aveline. Don't work 
 too hard, of course." 
 
 Then he left her, and she restrained the longing to lift 
 her arms to him and kept them down. 
 
 It was the compromise she had expected ; yet it was 
 better than she expected. He had forgiven her, but did 
 not know it. 
 
 When his footsteps sounded no more a vivid emotion
 
 THE PARTING 321 
 
 swept her — the greatest thing she had felt in her life. A 
 luxuriance of noble resolutions blossomed in her heart. 
 Her imagination was equal to this. 
 
 " My God, I'll do something big ! " she said, while the 
 tears ran. 
 
 Then she shivered and sat down and felt her body grow 
 small and her soul shrink in it. 
 
 " I can't do anything big," she cried to herself ; " I can 
 only hunger to."
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 MURDER 
 
 Parkyn Ambrose, composing his mind to the painful scene 
 that awaited him, sought the home of Tom Darcy and 
 prepared to take leave of his brother. 
 
 A recent incident troubled him slightly, though he 
 doubted not there existed some explanation. Calling to 
 speak with Seabrook that morning in the draughtsman's 
 room at " Colneside," he learned that Geoffrey was not at 
 the studio. But the young man never took holiday with- 
 out asking if he might do so. Therefore Parkyn won- 
 dered whither Geoffrey had gone. He was now to learn. 
 From the upper chamber where Billy lay, two persons saw 
 his brother approach. They were Emma and Seabrook, 
 and the woman announced their visitor. 
 
 " He's coming ! " she said. " He's looking at the num- 
 bers. He's got a big grey coat on, and a stovepipe hat 
 and his umbrella." 
 
 She looked at Seabrook. 
 
 " He'll want to see Billy alone, for certain," she added. 
 
 " William wishes me to stop for a few minutes. Then I 
 shall come down," explained Geoffrey. 
 
 " Let him in and bring him up," he added, as the door- 
 knocker fell. He had taken command. 
 
 " Shall I make a dish of tea for the man, while he's along 
 with Billy, or won't he drink it.'' " 
 
 " By all means make it." 
 
 Emma went downstairs and Seabrook turned to Wil- 
 liam. He was very weak and could only speak under his 
 breath. But he had conserved his senses for this moment. 
 
 " Get it out," he whispered, " and pull to full cock. I'll 
 
 322
 
 MURDER 323 
 
 keep it under the bedclothes. I ain't going to waste time 
 talking." 
 
 Seabrook brought the revolver from its hiding-place, 
 cocked it and put it into Billy's hands. 
 
 " Don't touch the trigger till you fire," he said. " I'll 
 light the candles, it's getting dusk." 
 
 The other was sitting up with his knees lifted. Under 
 the clothes he held the revolver. The footfall of Mr. Am- 
 brose sounded upon the stairs, and his big, slow voice ad- 
 dressed Emma. 
 
 " You should put a light upon the landing. It would 
 enable you to go up and down more safely." 
 
 " I know the way so well I don't need no candle," said 
 Emma. 
 
 She threw open the door. 
 
 " Here's Mr. Parkyn Ambrose come to see you, Billy, 
 dear," she said. " And he'll do the talking — don't you 
 try." 
 
 Parkyn came forward to the bedside and Seabrook sig- 
 nalled to Emma to leave them. She sank away and shut 
 the door behind her. 
 
 William had greatly changed since last his brother saw 
 him. He was now grown to a skeleton, and his thin beard 
 failed to hide the staring cheek bones or 3'ellow cheeks. 
 His forehead seemed to bulge out over his nose, which had 
 lost its ruddiness and grown pointed. His eyes were sunk, 
 his mouth was open and his brcatliing had become diffi- 
 cult. He continually lifted his shoulders. He regarded 
 Parkyn without emotion and made no effort to take the 
 hand he held out. 
 
 " Too weak," he whispered. " I can only listen. I 
 can't speak." 
 
 Then the candles burned up and showed Geoffrey Sea- 
 brook. Until now Parkyn had been merely conscious of 
 another man in the room, and sup])osed he was the doctor. 
 Only when Geoffrey spoke did Mr. Ambrose realise with 
 astonishment the third person present.
 
 QM THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 " Good powers ! You here, Seabrook? " he asked. 
 
 " You'll naturally feel astonishment, sir. I had not 
 time to ask leave, for the urgent message came from Miss 
 Darcy while I was having breakfast. But I knew in the 
 circumstances you'd raise no difficulty. Mr. William ur- 
 gently wished me to be here." 
 
 " Why does he want you? " 
 
 " Speak to him and he'll tell you." 
 
 " It is not a time, nor do I speak for any other ear 
 than his." 
 
 " Exactly what I told him." He turned to the sick 
 man. " You see, Mr. William " 
 
 Billy was not listening, but intent on his own thoughts. 
 His hand moved under the bedclothes. 
 
 Parkyn spoke. 
 
 " There can be no reason why Mr. Seabrook should stay 
 with us at present, William. Our meeting is sacred. By 
 God's mercy you have been won to make your peace with 
 Him, and I have come to say that you have made your 
 peace with me, too. We are all learners here, and few 
 learn the best way to face this difficult life, William ; but in 
 the world to come " 
 
 He broke oif suddenly. He was conscious that Sea- 
 brook had not departed and it annoyed him. But the man 
 stood his ground obstinately. 
 
 " May I ask you to go ? " he said, and Geoffrey, who 
 stood on the right of William's pillow, while his master sat 
 on a chair on the left of it, did not answer, but looked at 
 William. 
 
 It seemed as though this challenge was the signal. 
 
 The sufferer knit himself together and concentrated 
 every energy. In a moment he had produced the re- 
 volver and without delay lifted it, pointed it, aimed and 
 fired. His actions were almost simultaneous, and so near 
 was the muzzle of the weapon to the victim that the man's 
 coat was set on fire. He fell in a heap, writhing, burning 
 and still living. The explosion shook the crockery, and
 
 MURDER 325 
 
 the smoke nearly choked William Ambrose. But it was 
 not his brother that he had slain. He had shot Seabrook 
 under the heart and now looked down at him and laughed. 
 
 The murdered man lived long enough to realise the situ- 
 ation and Billy was glad. " Think of it — think of it ! " 
 he whispered as loudly as he could. " All gone — all 
 wasted. Your cleverness and your plots and your devil- 
 ries. And me, your tool, turned in your hand and cut you 
 to the bone ! Cleverer than you — deeper than you, I 
 was ! Wriggle away ; you won't wriggle that out of your 
 heart." 
 
 Until this moment Parkyn Ambrose had been too ap- 
 palled to speak, or move. Now he leapt to Geoffrey's 
 aid as Emma rushed in. But neither could save him. 
 Consciousness was out. He bled from the mouth and died 
 as they held him. 
 
 The earthquake — the only thing he ever feared — had 
 happened to him. 
 
 " D'you want to know wh}' I did it? Because I didn't 
 like him. Give me something to drink, Emma. Leave 
 messing about with him. He's dead. He wasn't a nice 
 man. Blood's thicker than water, that's true — look at 
 it. Mop it up, Emma, or it'll get through the ceiling. I 
 forgive you all you've thought against me, Parkyn. 1 
 forgive you — for your wife's sake. This carrion wasn't 
 a gentleman. I had a down on him, because he thought he 
 was cleverer than me. Drink, Emma — get mo drink. 
 Take it away — I don't want it again." 
 
 Parkyn took the revolver from him and put it on tlic 
 mantelshelf. He was shaking and trembling. Emma 
 suddenly fell into violent hysterics and began screaming 
 loudly. William, quite indifferent, stared at them b^tji, 
 and at the dead man lying face upwards on the floor. 
 
 His interest was there. 
 
 "He didn't think this was going to happen to him, 
 you know, brother Parkyn. He had different ideas alto- 
 gether. Never mind what they were now. His death was
 
 326 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 the surprise of his life, anyway. A clever chap ; but not so 
 clever as me — clumsy compared to me. Don't you bury 
 us too near together. But I'll make him look silly in hell 
 presently — as I've made him look silly on earth. I'll tell 
 the devils about him. Just cast your eye over him — a 
 bloody fool, eh? That's all he is. Yesterday tingling in 
 every nerve and brimming over with hopes and tricks and 
 plans to get a good life — full of pleasure and free of pain, 
 and now useless clay, with everything lost. Shut your 
 mouth, Emma ; what are you screaming about? Was you 
 in love with the brute, too? " 
 
 Parkyn felt his self-control leaving him before this 
 scene. It seemed clear that Billy was insane. He felt the 
 situation beyond his power to control, and he hastened, 
 hatless, from the house and summoned aid. He returned 
 with two policemen after sending messages for the doctors. 
 
 When he came back Emma had recovered ; but she would 
 not be taken from William. 
 
 " I'd like to tell you all about that muck there," said 
 Billy to the police, " but I can't ; there's other people in 
 it, so you'll never hear how wicked he was, nor yet how 
 clever I was. A masterpiece if it were known, and greatly 
 to my credit. It may get me into heaven, Parkyn. But 
 you mustn't hear the story, my old bird — nobody must. 
 You'll have to wait for the next world. Take it away, 
 policemen. A gentleman's bedroom is no place for that 
 lump of dirt." 
 
 An inspector followed the police and they removed the 
 dead to the floor beneath until a doctor should see him. 
 Billy, who had made Emma give him liquor, was now drunk. 
 He jeered at the corpse as they carried it away, and pres- 
 ently sank into a condition that seemed half sleep, half 
 death. 
 
 His brother made a full statement to the police, but was 
 unable to advance any reasons or explanation of the 
 things that he had witnessed. He could only suppose Wil- 
 liam insane. Mr. Ambrose grew very faint himself before
 
 MURDER 327 
 
 the end of the ordeal, and the doctor when he arrived first 
 tended him. 
 
 They looked to Emma to furnish some evidence of the 
 significance of what had happened. But she could not. 
 
 " I don't know nothing," she said, " and he's said he's 
 not going to tell you about it, so if I knew, I wouldn't 
 tell neither. And I pray God you don't take me away 
 from him. He can't be moved, and you'll only hasten his 
 end and do no use if you take me awa}'." 
 
 Satisfied that Mr. Ambrose need not be doubted, and 
 prepared to accept his word for the facts, the police per- 
 mitted the shattered master of " Colneside " to return 
 home. His brother they desired to arrest ; but two doc- 
 tors were now present, and as both declared it impossible 
 to move William, a policeman stopped beside him and spent 
 the night watches with Emma and Thomas Darcy.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII 
 
 HELENA 
 
 Helena Ambrose concealed her agony and displayed 
 fortitude that amazed herself. But the luxury of grief 
 was demanded by her nature ; she desired to dwell in every 
 chapter again, before the book of her past was closed for 
 ever; and since there was now only one in the world who 
 could be expected to know what Seabrook's death must 
 mean to her, she sought that one and wrote to Aveline. 
 
 " To-day they are burying him — my bright, beautiful 
 Geoffrey," she wrote. " It is all a fearful mystery and 
 will remain one. My life is ended, Aveline, and I shall 
 never believe in a merciful God again. I cannot even 
 weep in peace. There is nobody to share my desolation. 
 My husband, too, is a good deal broken. To see a man 
 slain within a yard of you and to be the brother of a 
 
 murderer But of course the creature was a lunatic. 
 
 Not one word of explanation would he give. When one 
 thinks of my ceaseless kindness to him and the senseless- 
 ness of this dastardly crime, one can only see madness in 
 it. Please arrange to come with me for a little change to 
 Bournemouth. I must get away from here, or I shall cer- 
 tainly go mad and do something dreadful. It is fearfully 
 hard to hide all that I am feeling." 
 
 She proceeded in this strain for several pages and Ave- 
 line feeling sympathy enough, agreed to go. She wrote 
 back on the day of William's death and recorded it. 
 
 At Seabrook's funeral in Colchester a congregation of 
 curiosity filled the churchyard ; but the brother of Par- 
 kyn Ambrose was buried at Brightlingsea and few stood 
 at his grave. Aveline went with Emma and waited beside 
 
 328
 
 HELENA 329 
 
 her while the pit was filled. Tom Darcy accompanied 
 them. 
 
 " My master-bit is took from me," said Emma, who wore 
 a black dress. " I don't know what I shall do, but garden 
 on his grave. I won't go very far away — never from 
 Brittlesea." 
 
 " Mr. Ambrose didn't come to the funeral ? " 
 
 " No, he was fairly fed up with my Billy. He came 
 down once more after that fearful thing; but William 
 never spoke again. They'll always say he died mad, of 
 course ; but you and me know he done it for his brother's 
 honour. But for Parkyn's sake and that Helena's sake he 
 wouldn't tell, and so he goes to his grave in disgrace in- 
 stead of dying a hero. And I'm going to work day and 
 night till I've scratched the money for a proper marble 
 tomb. There's nobod^^ can prevent me putting it up, is 
 there?" 
 
 The day was wet, and as the women walked back from 
 the churchyard Aveline perceived a black stain trickling 
 down the face of Emma. 
 
 "Oo! Have it run.'' 'Tis my turkey feather. I 
 dipped it in the ink, so as it should be like all the rest of 
 me, black — black. I had to wear it. Something called 
 to me to wear it, ' Grey Eyes.' He'd have fancied a 
 stranger woman was walking behind him if I hadn't wore 
 it." 
 
 A week later Aveline joined Helena Ambrose at Bourne- 
 mouth, and in the seclusion of a private lodging the elder 
 lady gave way to grief. She built up an imaginary Geof- 
 frey and soon began to create a myth for her comfort. 
 She found, to Aveline's astonishment, a growing measure 
 of consolation in religion, and withdrew her indictment of 
 the Everlasting after they had been at Bournemouth a 
 week. 
 
 Helena considered her friend also. She expressed 
 thankfulness to know that Peter IMistley had not aban- 
 doned her.
 
 330 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 " He couldn't," she said. " You did wrong for nothing 
 but love. It's about the only thing we poor women ever 
 do wrong for, I believe. I shall never blame you — 
 never." 
 
 " I'm going into a hospital," said the other. " I want 
 to work as I've never worked before. For good reasons, 
 too — for good reasons, Helena. And also because it will 
 make the time seem shorter." 
 
 " Where is he now? " 
 
 " In a training camp. He feels the same about work, 
 and welcomes the physical toil of the army and living with 
 a crowd and everything." 
 
 " Geoffrey was facing it too. His dear, beautiful hands 
 
 were never meant But I mustn't think of things like 
 
 that. I keep him before me now as a spirit — a wise 
 spirit that knows how wrong we " 
 
 " Wrong ! " cried Aveline. " Do you mean to say 
 you've come to that.'' " 
 
 " I'm coming to it," confessed Helena. " I shall come 
 to it. There's nothing else left for me to come to — no 
 peace, or hope, or excuse for living any more unless I do. 
 We've both been blind in different ways ; but these awful 
 things were sent — they were sent to save us. I'm going 
 to work too — really work with my hands. There are 
 trials before me. I shall very likely hurt my husband; 
 but it will be a matter of conscience now." 
 
 " What on earth are you talking about, Helena.'' " 
 
 " It doesn't matter for the present. I'm awakening. I 
 feel it more every day, something new — a dawn. I am 
 young in well-doing yet, God forgive me for it, but I must 
 try and make up for lost time. I yearn to get peace 
 through suffering." 
 
 Life moved with Aveline, and she learned that Mistley 
 had left his affairs in her control. Her husband divorced 
 her and, on visiting Dr. Carbonell, she heard that Mistley's 
 home was to be given up and his possessions stored, after 
 she had taken all that she wanted. It was understood that
 
 HELENA 331 
 
 she would find hospital work for tlic duration of the war. 
 The old doctor was gentle and cheerful. 
 
 " The keen men are getting drafted out after four 
 months' training," he said, " and Peter is as keen as any. 
 He will probably be going to France about February." 
 
 She was startled at this. 
 
 " So soon? I must see him again before he goes. You 
 must make him see me again before he goes. Please, Dr. 
 Carbonell. The idea was we shouldn't ; but I can't stand 
 that." 
 
 " Leave it to him. He'll know what you feel about it. 
 Men get a few days with their friends before they go — if 
 they want them." 
 
 " He may not want them," she said. " Don't tell him 
 what I've told you. Promise. Let him decide." 
 
 A week later Aveline was at work. Helena sometimes 
 came to her hospital with flowers. They met for a few 
 minutes near Christmas time, in the leisure hour that 
 Aveline enjoyed, and during their talk she noticed that her 
 friend was now wearing a little silver cross and the oval 
 medal of a religious confraternit}'. Still she studied her 
 attire, but there was a suggestion of mouse-colour about 
 her, as though she were emerging timidly from mourning. 
 
 " And so I am," declared Helena when Aveline sug- 
 gested it. " That's just what your quick sense would ap- 
 preciate, my darling. There are great changes going on 
 in me and I'm suffering for them, and I'm glad I'm sull'er- 
 ing for them." 
 
 " You're getting religious," said Aveline. 
 
 " The comfort ! Oh, the unspeakable comfort ! Slowly 
 it seemed to dawn over me and warm my frozen heart. It 
 began at Bournemouth at that Anglican service we went 
 to. One had missed half the real help and warmth and 
 light and consolation in our chilly Protestant surround- 
 ings at Mersea. I never guessed what I was losing." 
 
 " The candles, and incense, and going to church before 
 breakfast," suggested Aveline.
 
 332 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 *' Not that exactly ; but the symbolism, the precious, 
 vital symbolism. Such a revelation. The Stations and 
 so on — like spring coming over the winter of my heart. 
 Symbolism is my very food now. I hunger for it." 
 
 She put her hand on her bosom and her little medal 
 jangled against the cross. 
 
 " You've been joining things," said Aveline. 
 
 " Beautiful things ! I can't tell you what a difference 
 it's making. The seed was there. I had the yearning 
 often — for something, I knew not what. And now God 
 has led me to it. And I look back as though the past was 
 all a dream — so unreal you know — and I have woke up 
 to the reality that underlies everything." 
 
 " Lucky woman ! " said Aveline. 
 
 " There's bitter in the sweet, of course." 
 
 "You can't forget.?" 
 
 *' Not so much that. I can't forget, but I don't mourn 
 — for him — only for myself. We erred, because we were 
 in the dark ; we " 
 
 " Are you sorry? " asked Aveline, round-eyed. 
 
 " To say I'm sorry is far too small a word. I feel as 
 the Magdalene felt. And that makes me very sure my 
 Master will not judge me very hardly. Real love is al- 
 ways forgiven. I loved much, Aveline, and much will be 
 pardoned me ; and I know that, behind the veil, poor, mis- 
 taken Geoffrey is learning just what I am learning here. 
 It was high time he began to learn, and he could not learn 
 in this wretched life, so he had to go to the next and learn 
 there. He is not called to suffer as I am suffering. And 
 I am glad to suffer. I love to suffer — I feed on suffer- 
 ing. I have splendid fortitude." 
 
 " What's left to hurt you if you are so pleased with 
 yourself.''" asked Aveline rather coldly. 
 
 " My husband. He's martyring me, and I welcome the 
 pangs. He's low church, you know — in the depths — 
 unspeakably puritan. I never realised, or cared before, 
 of course, and it didn't matter to me if religion, as he
 
 HELENA 333 
 
 understood it, was dead or alive ; but now religion is my 
 life, I can't palter with it any more, Aveline. I go to con- 
 fession. I told Parkyn so and it utterly upset him." 
 
 " Confession, Helena ! What on earth have you con- 
 fessed — not ? " 
 
 " No, Aveline. For myself, I care nothing. If you 
 have reached to what I have reached now, you're abso- 
 lutely selfless. But there was another to consider. It 
 seemed a sort of treachery to the dead. There are some 
 things we should only tell to God and trust to God. At 
 least that's how I feci. But Parkyn is fearfully unhappy 
 — most unreasonable. Of course, I can't change now. 
 I must be true to the new light. I can only go on and 
 endure and hope he'll be helped to understand. That's 
 the worst of his rather stuffy Christianity. God forbid 
 I should say it's only a form ; but I can't make him sec this 
 in the real Christian spirit. His charity, when it comes 
 to the test, is nothing worth. Charity begins at home, 
 and yet he would deny me the consolations I have found." 
 
 " What's his objection.? " 
 
 " Utterly vague and senseless when j'ou come to the 
 point. He talks of ' toying with Rome ' and ' graven 
 images.' It's so stupid, really. Can't an intelligent per- 
 son see the gulf that separates S3'mbolism and graven 
 images.'' His church is as bare as a barn. Not a single 
 symbol for the aching heart to rest upon — the aching 
 eye, I mean. Nothing to feed the hungry. I'm going to 
 be free and open as the daylight henceforth, Avdiiic. 
 There are some people who wear these symbols under their 
 clothes, because they are cowards. I show my good 
 works — at least I'm going to. I'm going to fight and be 
 recognised as a fighter. ' Every one knows what you 
 seem ; few know what you are ' — ^rachiavelli, or some such 
 person, said that. I-et people know what you are, if you 
 want your conscience to be at rest." 
 
 *' How perfectly' wonderful ! " said Aveline. 
 
 " Don't sneer, please," answered the other with a hint
 
 334 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 of acerbity. " Some are led by harsh paths and some by 
 easy ones. I have been led by a thorny and cruel road; 
 you've had your way smoothed out for you and been 
 extraordinarily lucky from a worldly standpoint. But 
 that's no reason why you should " 
 
 " Oh, Helena, I wasn't sneering; I'm much too surprised 
 to sneer. It is wonderful. It's a conversion, isn't it? 
 And conversion is always wonderful." 
 
 " To people who are not converted it may be," answered 
 Mrs. Ambrose ; " but not to those who are. I'm not pre- 
 |;ending to be a saint, Aveline. But I do say this : you've 
 got to be a sinner before you can be a saint. I cling to 
 that. People like Parkyn can't be saints, just because 
 they are outside the possibility of sinning. No sinners, no 
 saints. I'm sure that's so." 
 
 " Poor Billy said something like that about Mr. Am- 
 brose." 
 
 " When I know more, I shall tell you more," declared 
 Helena. " I'm a child in these things as yet — just learn- 
 ing, reading, kneeling in secret for hours with an open 
 heart." 
 
 " You're looking younger — less anxious." 
 
 " Because I'm being myself. I'm not seeming ; I'm not 
 hiding anything. It's the same with you. You needn't 
 hide anything any more. What a relief it is. Some 
 women love secrets — just for the sake of having them. I 
 never did. How do you get on with your work.? " 
 
 " All right ; but a good many women here won't know 
 me." 
 
 " You must expect that. That's your cross. My cross 
 is branded, as it were, inside me. Nobody knows how it 
 burns. Your cross has got to be borne openly. We've 
 each got our own secret Red Cross, besides the one you're 
 wearing on your sleeve. I glory in mine." 
 
 " I don't glory in mine at all," said Aveline. " I was 
 wicked to Peter ; I wasn't wicked to these women."
 
 HELENA 335 
 
 " My dear, that's no argument. You were wicked to 
 everybody when you were wicked to Peter." 
 
 " Were you wicked to everybody when you loved poor 
 Geoffrey Seabrook?" 
 
 " Yes — in a way ; but there's a good deal of difference 
 in the cases really. To deceive where you love, as you 
 
 did But we need not talk of the past now. We are 
 
 forgiven. This world looks so different after one's eyes 
 have been washed with tears ; and so does the next. In 
 fact, you can only see the next through tears — but I'm 
 keeping you." 
 
 " I must go. I'm ever so glad you're happier, Helena. 
 You know that." 
 
 They kissed and prepared to part. 
 
 " This all seems crude to you, no doubt," said Helena ; 
 *' that's because you only see the results, and have not 
 shared the slow successive stages that produced them. 
 Ages of spiritual experience have passed over me in the 
 last two months. The danger is that one may become 
 dry, and find the light ceasing to warm one. Spiritual 
 dryness is a most trying thing — a sort of Nemesis for 
 spiritual pride, I believe ; but, thank God, I haven't felt it 
 yet." 
 
 She babbled herself off — the contented, unconscious 
 vehicle of a dammed sensuality that had broken loose in the 
 terms of religious revival.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 billy's poem 
 
 AvELiNE saw Peter Mistley before he went to France. 
 She had declined any part in his worldly interests or share 
 in his soldier's pay. She explained that it would be 
 more agreeable to her to feel free in every respect until he 
 returned. Asked whether she had money enough, she as- 
 sured him that she had. There were no calls upon her at 
 the hospital. 
 
 They met without endearment. Peter was a sergeant 
 now and declared interest in his new profession. He 
 looked hard and well. Something soldierly had come into 
 his manners ; something of discipline and promptitude into 
 hers. They hid their hearts from each other. Four 
 months of hard work had made Mistley ready for all that 
 might await him. He spent most of his leave at the gar- 
 dens with Mr. Ambrose, and found time to finish two works 
 that Geoffrey Seabrook had left unfinished. 
 
 *' One feels the firm ground slipping in these troublous 
 times," said the master of " Colneside." *' Or rather," he 
 added, " only faith and staunch trust in the ultimate tri- 
 umph of right prevent one from feeling so. I'm bound to 
 say one needs one's faith and is daily more thankful to find 
 it stablished on a rock. There is an instinct abroad in the 
 human heart, that only through simple and childlike trust 
 in the Almighty can we hope to weather this onset of the 
 Powers of Evil. And that trust is awakening in the most 
 unexpected quarters. I hear that in Parliament an in- 
 creasing number of the members attend prayers. Our 
 representatives begin to feel that there is an increasing 
 need for God's light on their operations." 
 
 836
 
 BILLY'S POEM 337 
 
 " There is — without a shadow of doubt," admitted 
 Peter. 
 
 " We are all being tried in the furnace," continued Mr. 
 Ambrose, " and some are melting, and others, as I say, 
 are inspired to seek the only way of escape and ultimate 
 triumph. One does not always approve of the means of 
 salvation sought, and one heartily dislikes the approach to 
 God through channels of the eye and through appeal to 
 other emotional and untrustworthy elements of our na- 
 ture, peculiarly susceptible to unwholesome stimulus just 
 now. But, apart from certain cases, unfortunately under 
 my personal observation at present, the trend is to the 
 good. As for you, I shall regard it as a personal blessing 
 when you are able to return to me. God be with you in 
 your ordeal and strengthen your arm against the foe." 
 
 So Peter went to France, and Avclinc found that he had 
 left her direction with the authority and that all official 
 news of him was to come to her in the name of Mrs. Peter 
 Mistley. A curt official postcard came with certain par- 
 ticulars. 
 
 " You have been noted as next of kin," it said. " // this 
 soldier is reported wounded, admitted to hospital, etc., you 
 •will he informed at once. This xcill he done hefore the 
 fact is published in the newspapers." 
 
 The communication moved her more than an3'thing that 
 had happened to her until she received it. It brought the 
 tremendous truth of the situation to her heart and re- 
 mained like a load thereon henceforth. 
 
 There came a little interlude in her strenuous life, and 
 she attended a wedding — two months after Peter h;id 
 gone to France. Lieutenant Andrew Hempson returned 
 home on leave and married Margery Mayhew bifore he 
 left England again. Hempson had found an excuse for 
 existence. He proved a fine soldier and his qualities won 
 swift recognition. The little ceremony was made bright 
 by the flash of swords, and through a naked glitter over- 
 head, came Margery from her nuptials. Mr. Gregory
 
 3S8 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 Mushet gave her away, and the wedding guests included 
 his brother Samuel from Brightlingsea, and Nancy. 
 
 " Can you trust yourself to come, my old dear?" the 
 engineer of the Peewit had asked his wife ; and Nancy an- 
 swered — 
 
 " Why not? He'll be glad enough to know that Madge 
 is going to be happy." 
 
 Aveline clutched at the little hour and was happy to see 
 the girl's joy. Indeed she felt joyful, too. At Margery's 
 entreaty she attended the wedding lunch in " Fair View 
 Villa," and spoke awhile with Nancy Mushet. But Greg- 
 ory avoided her, and was uneasy that she should be 
 there. 
 
 " Her Red Cross dress saves her," he said to his 
 brother ; " but she's a bad character, and I don't like 
 her in my residence, and she knows it." 
 
 The sun shone for Margery, and a wintry gleam 
 warmed Aveline's heart as she returned to her hospital. 
 The work of the wards grated against every instinct and 
 was torture to her temperament. But she did it to the 
 best of her power. She had received brief letters from 
 Peter telling her that he was well, and she had written 
 many times to him, and sent him certain things that she 
 had seen advertised as valuable for the fighting men. She 
 was expecting another letter, and when she returned to 
 the hospital it awaited her. 
 
 A telegram also awaited her. 
 
 Mistley had fallen. 
 
 Not until long afterwards did she read his letter. It 
 thanked her for the gifts and declared them very useful. 
 
 " I shall be glad to come back to you, Aveline," he con- 
 cluded. 
 
 She broke down upon her sorrows and was invalided. 
 Helena desired to take her away, but Helena's ministra- 
 tions were vain, and presently Aveline thought upon
 
 BILLY'S POEM 339 
 
 Nancy Mushet and went to Briglitlingsca. She had be- 
 come very silent, and here her silence was respected. 
 
 She was built to suffer sharp agonies, but not the long- 
 drawn, unwithcring grief that profounder natures endure. 
 She dwelt with Peter in the past and her memory took her 
 through every scene and painted every image of him — 
 from the first by the HI}' pond at " Colneside " to their 
 final parting on Colchester railway station. Centuries 
 ago the story seemed to begin, yd all told it was short of 
 a year. She distracted her mind by dwelling on the tini- 
 est details of their swiftly growing intimacy. She com- 
 forted herself by remembering that she brightened a part 
 of his life. But that brief sunshine had only served to 
 make the final storm-clouds darker. Was he vcr^^ sorry 
 to die? She knew not. Then she suffered from remorse 
 — an instinct that she had always scoffed and flouted and 
 declared impossible to her. That she could feci it told 
 her new things about herself she had never guessed. 
 
 She watched Nancy iNIushct, and saw that religion was 
 rounding the edges of her sorrow, and faith had served 
 greatly to lessen it. Nancy had reached a stage when she 
 could generalise. There were glimpses of poetry in her; 
 she shared the world's grief and was no longer suffocated 
 by her own. 
 
 " Death's only ]>icking flowers now," said Nancy once, 
 standing in her little garden beside Avelinc. " He lets 
 the ripe fruit and grain go by and only plucks the young 
 flowers. Snatches them with both hands and leaves the 
 old stocks that nourished thcin. But the scent of the 
 flowers clings to the gardens still." 
 
 " Curse death," said Aveline. " It is far better not to 
 have been born than to have to die." 
 
 The older woman took her hand gently. 
 
 "There is no death for anything that matters," slie 
 answered. "What we call death is only putting out the 
 light when we go to sleep. We, who know the sun's going
 
 340 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 to rise and wake us up again presently, don't curse the 
 dark, but welcome it." 
 
 Aveline could not sleep, and she took long walks to 
 weary herself, choosing dreary ways and finding the flat 
 brown earth and the wild skies of March chime with her 
 spirit. She was tramping along a road outside Bright- 
 lingsea one evening and turned to look at the sun going 
 down over the elms of Mersea. The estuary blazed; and 
 she saw the Peewit on her way home from the packing 
 sheds. The little steamer looked very black on the tide- 
 way, for sunset flooded the water with light. 
 
 In a field close to her half-a-dozen amorphous lumps 
 moved in a row. They were women returning from their 
 work and as they approached her, Aveline saw Emma 
 Darcy among them. They had met once recently for a 
 few moments and arranged to meet again. Now they 
 walked side by side back to Brightlingsea and talked to- 
 gether. 
 
 " Goodstruth, It hurts your back above a bit ; but it's 
 welcome hurt to me," said Emma. " If your body's ach- 
 ing, your heart can't. I nilly fainted two days ago ; but 
 I don't care. That Helena wants for me to work in a 
 hospital, but I'm a out-of-doors creature. Billy would 
 rather I was here." 
 
 " Time's the only thing, Emma." 
 
 *' Ah, you're young yet. The young can trust Time 
 to mend their troubles ; but us, middling to old, know 
 Time's thrown us over." 
 
 " You want to be young to feel all a man or woman can 
 feel." 
 
 " It's the distance from death that makes the young 
 smart most," explained Emma. " They've got such cruel 
 far ways to go before they creep to the peace of the 
 grave, and the road looks so terrible long. And that's 
 how you feel now ; but you'll be a mark on living again, 
 and enjoying life too, some day." 
 
 " My life's finished just as much as yours is," declared
 
 BILLY'S POEM 341 
 
 Aveline. " WTiat's left will be a dream : the reality's 
 dead — just as dead as he is. I sneered at the world for 
 trying to tone down death, as it has been lately. It 
 seemed mean and disloyal to life; but now I know better, 
 Emma. We must tone it down, to keep ourselves from 
 going mad. We don't love life as much as we did be- 
 fore the war, because it's much less lovable to most of 
 us." 
 
 " The war's nothing to me. It ain't the war, but the 
 emptiness of everything now Billy's gone," said Emma. 
 
 " Empty — yes. Every breath one breathes is empty. 
 If we had to work to breathe, many of us would stop, feel- 
 ing it not worth while." 
 
 " I'm a good bit torn in half," confessed Emma, " and I 
 catch myself wishing a thousand times a day that Wil- 
 liam was here to tell me Avhat line I ought to take. I'm 
 terrible drawn to go to church, and 3'et can't be sure if 
 it would be false to him if I went." 
 
 " If it would comfort you, I should go." 
 
 "Do you go?" 
 
 "No; it wouldn't comfort me. I haven't forgiven God 
 yet." 
 
 "Oo!" said Emma, "if that isn't like William. But 
 he did forgive God. Would you like to see the rhymes 
 he made up when he was dying.'* Wicked, you might saj', 
 yet wonderful comforting to me. Not to my brother — 
 he's on to me to burn 'em, because he says they are blas- 
 phemy, and might get me locked up if the}' was seen by 
 a Justice ; but I sa}' it's no more blasphemous than Billy's 
 killing of that bad man was murder. He was a great 
 hero to do it, and still greater never to let on why he 
 done it. His brother little knows what he's got to thank 
 Billy for." 
 
 "Helena's like you: she's taken to church, Emma." 
 
 " If you don't, I shan't : you're cleverer than mc." 
 
 " It's how you're built. I hope you'll go. What did 
 Billy write before he died? "
 
 342 THE BANKS OF COLNE 
 
 Emma dived into her bosom and produced a dirty en- 
 velope. 
 
 " Thank God I've got penmanship and could set it all 
 down from his lips," she said. " It's a bit mad, you 
 might say ; but it's William, and I'd keep it and fight the 
 Justices for it because of the last verse. And the last 
 verse is gospel true, ' Grey Eyes,' and I couldn't go on 
 all alone if I didn't know it was true." 
 
 She unfolded a sheet of foolscap. 
 
 " I've pasted it on a old handkercher," she said, " for 
 I oped and unoped it so oft that it began to fall to pieces. 
 He was always making up verses when he was dying — 
 he'd wake me up in the middle of the night sometimes to 
 write one down. And many I tore up, because they were 
 rude. After the end of it, when he killed that poor 
 wretch, he didn't make up no more poetry. He said no- 
 body could make up poetry with a policeman always in 
 the room. A song he called it." 
 
 Aveline read the man's doggerel — 
 
 " I do not know what lies behind the face of the old moon; 
 But this I know, if there's a pub, I'll caU there very soon. 
 
 I do not know who was the bloke who stole my best umbrella; 
 But this I know, despite the theft, he may be a good feller. 
 
 I do not know when He made me, poor God Almighty's whim; 
 But since He did His faulty best, I freely pardon Him. 
 
 What Em will do when I am dead, I really cannot tell; 
 But this I know, she'll nose me out in heaven or in hell. 
 
 We'll tramp the golden streets, or else the cinders and the pitch. 
 So long as we're together, it don't matter a damn which." 
 
 " There's a mite of comfort in it somehow, ' Grey 
 Eyes,' " explained Emma, folding up her treasure. 
 
 " I dare say there is." 
 
 " Of course we shan't tramp no more, nor nothing of 
 that. But he believed that we should meet again; he 
 often said he'd be terrible bored till I came to him."
 
 BILLY'S POEM 843 
 
 " I'm sure he will." 
 
 " He'll be changed ; but I hope not too much changed." 
 
 " I hope not. It would spoil him to change him too 
 much, Emma." 
 
 "And you?" asked the elder. "I'm forgetting your 
 great sorrows. For sure your man felt like what Billy 
 felt and hoped he'd see you again. I knew what I'd got 
 to face and was prepared for it ; you didn't." 
 
 " Yes, I did ; I was prepared for it, too. I only had a 
 ghost of a hope from the first, Emma. I don't think he 
 wanted to come back very much." 
 
 " Goodstruth! How can you say that? " 
 
 " It isn't strange. I ruined his dream of me. And 
 that wrecked his life. He must have known, if he ever 
 really came back, that it would take ages before he could 
 trust me, or respect me any more. And no doubt he felt 
 the game wasn't worth the candle." 
 
 " You oughtn't to say that, and him not here to deny 
 it. Lucky you're so young, for you'll have more than 
 fifty years to see it different. And if he's happy, then 
 'tis your place to be content. And if you could only feel, 
 same as I do, that you're going back to him " 
 
 " Never, never, never. Death's death, and all we're 
 saying about it now is a sleeping draught to soothe our 
 own misery. Only our own secret hearts know whether 
 Death's a friend or an enemy, and Iic'll be my enemy 
 always." 
 
 " I wonder now what 3'ou'll make of life, when you're 
 three tens old," said Emma. 
 
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 future of English fiction. Mr. Phillpotts' latest novel is a repre- 
 sentative example of him at his best, of his skill as a literary 
 creator and of his ability as an interpreter of life." — Boston 
 Transcript. 
 
 " The Green Alleys is the best of all, as good a storj' as Mr. 
 Phillpotts has written." — Neiv York Globe. 
 
 " A drama of fascinating interest, lightened by touches of 
 delicious comedy . . , one of the best of the many remarkable 
 books from the pen of this clever author. " — Boston Globe. 
 
 ** Mr. Phillpotts has the gift of conveying atmosphere in a re- 
 markable degree ... a finely artistic piece of work." — Phila- 
 delphia Public Ledger. 
 
 " Strongly individualized characters, each the vessel of some 
 human drama, crowd the pages, . . . revealed by a thousand 
 delicate and subtle lines of portrayal." — New York Times. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Publithers 84-66 Fifth Aranue Hew York
 
 BRUNEL'S TOWER 
 
 By EDEN PHILLPOTTS 
 Author of "The Three Brothers," "Faith Tresilion," etc. 
 
 Cloth, i2mo, $1.50 
 The regeneration of a faulty character through association 
 with dignified honest work and simple, sincere people is the 
 theme which Mr. Phillpotts has chosen for his latest novel. 
 Always an artist, he has, in tlus book, made what will perhaps 
 prove to be his most notable contribution to literature. Hu- 
 mor and a genuine sympathetic understanding of the human 
 soul are reflected throughout it. The scene is largely laid in 
 a pottery, and the reader is introduced in the course of the 
 action to the various processes in the art. The central figure 
 is a lad who, having escaped from a reform school, has sought 
 shelter and work in the pottery. Under the influence of the 
 gentle, kindly folk of the community he comes in a measure 
 to realize himself. 
 
 "It touches lightly upon love, upon tihe pathos of old age, upon 
 the workman's passion for his work, upon the artist's worship 
 of his art, upon an infinite variety of human ways and moods, 
 and it is filled to its depths with reflections upon life that are 
 very near to life itself. It is Mr. Phillpotts at his character- 
 istic best." — Boston Transcript. 
 
 "The daily bread of life is in this book . . . magnificently 
 written, . . . absorbingly interesting, and holds that element 
 of surprise which is never lacking in the work of the true 
 story teller. It is a book for which to be frankly grateful, 
 for it holds matter for many hours' enjoyment. — Nezv York 
 Times. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Publishers 64-66 Fifth Aveaue New York
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 The Human Boy and the War 
 
 By EDEN PHILLPOTTS 
 
 Cloth, i2mo, $IJ5 
 
 In this book of stories Mr. Phillpotts uses his genial gift 
 of characterization to picture the effect of the European War 
 on the impressionable minds of boys — English school-boys 
 far away from anything but the mysterious echo of the strange 
 terrors and blood-stirring heroisms of battle, who live close 
 only to the m.artial invitation of a recruiting station. There 
 are stories of a boy who runs away to go to the front, teachers 
 who go — perhaps without running; the school's contest for a 
 prize poem about the war, and snow battles, fiercely belligerent, 
 mimicking the strategies of Flanders and the Champagne. 
 They are deeply moving sketches revealing the heart and 
 mind of English youth in war-time. 
 
 " The book is extraordinary in the skill with which it gets 
 into that world of the boy so shut away from the adult world. 
 It is entirely unlike anything else by Phillpotts, equal as it is 
 to his other volumes in charm, character study, humor and in- 
 terest. It is one of those books that every reader will want to 
 recommend to his friends, and which he will only lend with 
 the express proviso that it must be returned." — Arif York 
 Times. 
 
 " In this book Mr. Phillpotts pictures a boy, a real human 
 boy. The boy's way of thinking, his outlook upon life, his 
 ambitions, his ideals, his moods, his peculiarities, those are 
 all here touched with a kindly sympathy and humor." — \'riu 
 York Sun. 
 
 " Mr. Phillpotts writes from a real knowledge of the school- 
 boy's habit of thought. He writes with much humor and the 
 result is as delightful and entertaining a volume as has come 
 from his pen for some time." — Buffalo Evening Nczcs. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 Old Delabole 
 
 Cloth, ismo, $1.50 
 
 A critic in reviewing Brunei's Tower remarked that it would seem 
 that Eden Phillpotts was now doing the best work of his career. 
 There was sufficient argument for this contention in the novel then 
 under consideration and further demonstration of its truth is found 
 in Old Delabole, which, because of its cheerful and wise philosophy 
 and its splendid feeling for nature and man's relation to it, will 
 perhaps ultimately take its place as its author's best. The scene is 
 laid in Cornwall. Delabole is a slate mining town and the tale 
 which Mr. Phillpotts tells against it as a background, one in which 
 a matter of honor or of conscience is the pivot, is dramatic in situa- 
 tion and doubly interesting because of the moral problem which it 
 presents. Mr. Phillpotts's artistry and keen perception of those mo- 
 tives which actuate conduct have never been better exhibited. 
 
 " Among all the English novelists, the command over the inter- 
 action of place and character has its greatest prominence in Mr. 
 Phillpotts. During the past twenty years he has written of the scene 
 and people of England with an accuracy and imagination that have 
 brought them very close to us." — Boston Transcript. 
 
 " Besides being a good story, richly peopled, and brimful of human 
 nature in its finer aspects, the book is seasoned with quiet humor 
 and a deal of mellow wisdom." — New York Times. 
 
 " The main object of his writing is to make his readers see things 
 as they are. He is an absolute realist, drawing life as it is. His 
 chief mental characteristic is the way in which he always thinks 
 truth and faces truth. We are told that when he began his story 
 of the pottery industry (' Brunei's Tower ') he lived for three 
 months among the potters, making friends of them, learning the 
 processes, as Harry Porter does in the book, and even shaping earth- 
 enware on the wheel, until the red color of the clay got into the 
 blood of the characters he was creating. With no less attention to 
 detail was ' Old Delabole ' conceived. While we do not know 
 that Mr. Phillpotts actually descended into the quarries and worked 
 with his hands — though it is quite possible that he may have done 
 so — we do know that he lived on intimate terms with the miners 
 whose lives were bound up in this great industry. 
 
 " By the time a book is completed Mr. Phillpotts is on familiar 
 terms with every inhabitant of the place — and he is popular with 
 them, too. Among these simple folk he is known as kind and un- 
 selfish, a man of charming personality. Almost any farmer or rab- 
 bit warrener or humble worker in the slate mines will tell you that 
 he knows and likes that artist looking chap with the heavy_ brown 
 mustache, dark hair and blue-gray eyes that snap with quiet fun 
 as he talks." — New York Sun. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York
 
 OTHER OF MR. EDEN PHILLPOTTS' NOVELS 
 
 The Three Brothers 
 
 Cloth, i2mo, $7.50 
 
 " ' The Three Brothers' seems to us the best yet of the long 
 series of these remarkable Dartmoor tales. If Shakespeare 
 had written novels we can think that some of his pages would 
 have been like some of these. . . . The book is full of a very 
 moving interest, and it is agreeable and beautiful." 
 
 — New York Sun. 
 
 Knock at a Venture 
 
 Cloth, i2mo, $1.50 
 
 Sketches of the rustic life of Devon, rich in racy, quaint, 
 and humorous touches. 
 
 The Portreeve 
 
 Cloth, i2mo, $i.jo 
 
 " Twice, at least, he has reached and even surpassed the 
 standard on his first notable work. Once was in ' The Secret 
 Woman.' The second time is in 'The Portreeve.' In sheer 
 mastery of technique it is the finest thing he has done. From 
 the beginning to the end the author's touch is assured and 
 unfaltering. There is nothing superfluous, nothing unfin- 
 ished. . . . And the characters, even to the least important, 
 have the breath of life in them." — The Providence Journal. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Publiahers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New Tork
 
 DATE DUE 
 
 STORAGE RBI" 
 
 
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