Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
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 Microsoft Corporation 
 
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MRS BENTE 
 
B Y THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 THE TRIAL OF MAN 
 
 PILGRIMAGE 
 
 [Wayfai^rs Series] 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT SOMETHING 
 
 THE ARNOLD LIP 
 
 THE WISDOM OF THE APOCRYPHA 
 
MRS BENTE 
 
 BY 
 
 C. E. LAWRENCE 
 
 > j > > 
 
 LONDON: 48 PALL MALL 
 
 W. COLLINS SONS & CO, LTD. 
 
 GLASGOW MELBOURNE AUCKLAND 
 
Copyright 191 8 
 
 'Y: U': r-::..*: 
 
TO 
 
 Sir WILLIAM P. TRELOAR Bart. 
 
 IN SIMPLE THANKS FOR 
 MUCH KINDNESS 
 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 The guiding principle of St Brendan's Clergy House 
 was vigorous simplicity. In its cosiest room, the 
 common-room, the cushions were of hard leather, 
 presumably more for argumentative thumping than the 
 easing of repose. The arm-chairs were cane, and the 
 distempered walls, the mantelpiece, the two tables, had 
 as little ornament as might be. A few prints, not of a 
 religious nature, hung above the fireplace and faced 
 the two windows, and there was an athletic group which 
 showed the Vicar as a pale and earnest student, 
 long-haired and whisker-touched. The other rooms, 
 wherein the three clergymen slept or worked, were 
 even more plainly furnished than this, which was 
 called common. 
 
 Vigorous simplicity was the note of the house, from 
 the attic, where Fred the boot-boy slept, and in 
 exciting secret read his penny 'orribles, to the front 
 doorstep which was not piously clean, for the 
 parishioners called often, and invariably brought dirt 
 on their boots. It was a way they had down by the 
 Docks. 
 
 With noise, much breathing, and the blowing of smoke 
 from a stuttering pipe, the Vicar came vigorously into 
 the common-room. 
 
 i 
 
!*••': '.'i •:.'• •: : . ..: :'-'-mS BENMJ 
 
 'Nobody here?' he said aloud, and subsided heavily 
 into the widest of the waiting arm-chairs. 
 
 \Vhat a change was there ! The Vicar was translated. 
 The earnest student with the black locks and pro- 
 tuberant throat was transformed into a wide and 
 weighty man, with a stubbly black beard, bristling hair, 
 and the appearance of force and strength. His huge 
 fist would have graced the blacksmith of the spreading 
 chestnut tree. He grunted to himself through sheer 
 energy of being. 
 
 After a minute or two, during which he looked with- 
 out purpose about him, plucked at his beard and slapped 
 his knee vigorously to remove some all-but-invisible 
 fluff — the actions were signs of intolerable energy — he 
 raised himself from his creaking chair, stumped to and 
 opened the door, and bawled downstairs : — 
 
 'Where are you, Arthur?' 
 
 No answer. 
 
 ' Fred, where' s Mr Jerome?' 
 
 He waited. 
 
 'Fred!' 
 
 Still no answer at the moment came, so he marched 
 back to the chair, again flung himself into it — the poor 
 thing staggered — and resumed his blowing of tobacco- 
 smoke. 
 
 He reached over, took a weekly paper of the snappy- 
 scrappy order from the central wooden table, looked 
 through it for ten seconds, and flung it back. He was 
 not in the mood for Bubble-and-Sgueak. There was a 
 book-case behind him. He half turned to look 
 critically at the backs of the tattered volumes which 
 
MRS BENTE 3 
 
 stood, starving in their rags, and shook his head at 
 them. 
 
 'Where can he be? ' he said, and was answered by a 
 knock at the door. Fred, his eyes a-shine because the 
 villain of ' The Mystery of the Dark Dower-House ' had 
 fallen down a cliff, and the lovers — she the youngest 
 daughter of a duke, he a flying Lieutenant in the Navy 
 — were prospectively reunited, put in his head. 
 
 'Did you call, sir?' he squeaked. 
 
 'I did/ the Vicar squeaked back, mimicking. 
 'Where' s Mr Jerome?' 
 
 'Out, sir. I think 'e' s at the club. 'E was going to 
 practise Winkle with the left-'ook.' 
 
 The lad rubbed his nose with the side of his bare arm. 
 
 1 Very well, Fred; so Winkle' s going t o give you the 
 knockout, what?' 
 
 Fred broke into a grin. 
 
 'I think not,' he answered with studied solemnity, 
 and withdrew. In the passage he practised the swing 
 of the hook, and in his mind's eye saw Winkle sprawling, 
 while a curate in a collar counted ten. 
 
 The room darkened as the day aged. The Vicar was 
 glad t o rest in the repose of the twilight. 1 1 was not 
 often he could indulge that condition of wakeful siesta 
 and he enjoyed it, although his body was iron and his 
 nerves were steel and seemingly non-existent. 
 
 He smoked and stared at the wali, and thought in 
 vague progression of the details of parochial organisa- 
 tion and the struggling circumstances of his church. 
 St Brendan's parish was no bed of roses. 
 
 There was interruption at last. Gervase Bente, 
 
4 MitS BENTE 
 
 the junior curate, came quietly in. There was, at the 
 first impression, something extraordinarily gentle 
 about the personality of this knight of the militant 
 church. Once during moments of genial, idle chaff in 
 a small clerical company (always so earnestly humorous), 
 when Bente had not been present, the Vicar had dubbed 
 him ' Lady B.' The nickname was not unjustified. At 
 times, such as this, there was something almost womanly 
 about Gervase Bente. And yet was his gentleness that 
 of a man who could be strong enough, physically and 
 in character, when the need called. He was a slave 
 to his consideration for others, sometimes carrying 
 self-sacrifice in the passages of everyday life even 
 to unnecessary lengths. He was an idealist with 
 biceps. 
 
 * I'm glad somebody's come/ said the Vicar. ' With 
 Arthur teaching Winkle the knock-out, and you 
 instructing workhouse old women in the niceties of 
 the Oxford accent, and every blooming parishioner 
 minding his own blooming business, I've had the 
 laziest hour of my life/ 
 
 'Glad to hear it. Shall I light the gas, so that you 
 can see how idle you are?' 
 
 'Yes, if you like; but I am quite content/ He 
 yawned. - Confound it ! I'd better do some work, this 
 is demoralising/ 
 
 ' No, take it easy for another hour ! Rest until 
 evensong/ 
 
 Bente struck a match and Ht a gas-jet, which flared 
 and sang until it was regulated, subdued. The Vicar 
 watched him with the casual interest of the active man 
 
MRS bente i 
 
 in a condition of joyous laziness. He noticed the pallor 
 of the curate. 
 
 'You look rather rotten, Gervase. I'm working you 
 too hard/ 
 
 ' You ! • answered the other with a shadowy smile. 
 ' You wouldn't work any one too hard. You want to 
 do it all yourself/ 
 
 The Vicar grunted. 
 
 'Anyhow, you must take things easier/ 
 
 'Oh, I can't. That's the simple truth. It's all too 
 glorious/ His eyes were alight with enthusiasm. 'I 
 just enjoy this old parish.' 
 
 The Vicar watched the eager face with a curious 
 interest. He was not naturally an observant man; but 
 when he did notice anything he noticed it. Bente sat 
 down on the cold and shiny sofa, and breathed a 
 sigh. 
 
 'I had a rare spiritual experience to-day/ he 
 said. 
 
 The Vicar was not at the moment keen for rare 
 spiritual experiences. He was rather thinking of 
 bromides and nerve rest for this silent, excitable, 
 enthusiastic lieutenant of his. Evidently the strain 
 was telling even on his excellent constitution. The 
 slums beat all but the strong men. 
 
 Not receiving any encouragement to proceed with 
 the detailed telling of the rare experience, Bente for 
 the time being closed the gates of his confidence. He 
 took out of the wide pocket of his loose, black clerical 
 jacket a little slippery book of devotions; but instead 
 of opening and reading it, as was his habit and intention, 
 
6 MRS BENTE 
 
 played with the tassel of its marker, and lost himself 
 in a muse. 
 
 It was then that the asceticism of his countenance 
 became more apparent. His pale cheeks seemed to 
 become paler and thinner. His eyes appeared to take 
 a deeper light. He had a prominent nose and an 
 adequate chin; but the face was not that of a strong 
 man. His lips were for ever working and twitching; 
 the long fingers which played with the tassel did not 
 cease to move. 
 
 'What was it?' asked the Vicar suddenly. 
 
 Gervase Bente returned in a flash from his state of 
 reverie; but his natural tendency towards reserve held 
 him, now that the Vicar had missed his chance. 
 
 1 Perhaps I had better wait/ he said. ' It is only an 
 opportunity at present/ 
 
 The curate looked at his companion with eyes 
 shrouded with thought. The tone of his voice was 
 uncertain, vague. 
 
 The Vicar opened his mouth to speak; but closed it 
 again. He put back his pipe and went on smoking. 
 
 Gervase found the place in his Treasury of Devotion 
 and looked with determined eyes at its page : but again 
 his attention wavered; almost at once he was gazing 
 abstractedly at the wali, called by and appreciating an 
 invisible picture. He was troubled, as would have been 
 sufficiently evident to an interested observer. 
 
 The third of the clerical company then came in. 
 
 Arthur Jerome was a vigorous youth (youth was 
 still the word) of seven-and-twenty. His ill-shaven 
 chin and upper lip, the consequence not of carelessness 
 
MRS BENTE 7 
 
 but of a perpetually ill-set razor, and an ungenerous 
 sort of soap, as well as the bull-dog build of his face, 
 caused him to look but little like the curate of a maiden's 
 dreams. 
 
 'For goodness' sake let's have tea early. I could 
 eat a house, ' he said, ' and all that's in it. That young 
 Winkle's coming on. In a brace of shakes he'll take 
 on any fellow his own weight, and down him beauti- 
 fully. It's a strange thing; there are fellows in the 
 Bible class whose ideas of boxing are no better than 
 a ballet-giiTs. It's pat and keep the distance with 
 them all the time. Bally mosquitoes ! But with 
 Winkle — the very first moment he put on the gloves I 
 said, "Here's a fighter — these are fists," and I ' 
 
 ' Then took an interest in his immortal soul/ said 
 the Vicar dryly. 
 
 'Yes. You're extraordinarily astute, old chap — 
 out of the pulpit/ 
 
 Both he and the Vicar laughed. It- was the noisy 
 hilarity of proved good comrades, whose sense of 
 humour is unvarnished. Gervase Bente was looking 
 a little shocked. He slipped his book of devotions 
 into his poeket. 
 
 ' Cheer up, Gervase ! Don't be downhearted. It's 
 only little me ! Can't I ring for tea now? ' went on 
 the British Bull-dog. 
 
 'You can/ the Vicar answered, 'It's physical 
 exercise, if it has no other use. Mrs Jones's deafness 
 is deafer than deafness when she doesn't want to 
 hear; and we don't get grub before her ladyship 
 pleases/ 
 
 I 
 
8 MRS BENTE 
 
 ' Oh well, here goes ! I'll brave the dragon* s 
 wrath!' 
 
 Jerome rang, and rang, and rang, thrice, deliber- 
 ately, to emphasise the fact that the summons was 
 insistent and peremptory. 
 
 1 Now you've done it !' said the Vicar. ' That's 
 spoilt the toast !' 
 
 ■ I can't say that I ara much of an ornament in the 
 pulpit/ went on Jerome, who was indeed entirely 
 indifferent about his often proved oratorical incapacity. 
 ' I always get stumped for words unless I keep banging 
 the cushion, and that always takes the choir's attention 
 from what I want to say. That's the worst of having 
 a reputation/ 
 
 ' You are indeed a rotten preacher, Arthur ! ' Bente 
 declared. 
 
 'We none of us are brightest specimens/ the Vicar 
 confessed, 'but I'll bet Arthur gets invited to preach 
 at St Paul' s before you or I do, Gervase. You' re 
 too finicking, your voice is too pale and sweet ' 
 
 1 Pale and sweet is good ! ' murmured Jerome. 
 
 'And I — I can't be lucid when I talk theology. Not 
 that the people want theology, bless their hearts ! 
 Give them an easy flow, with time for a trot before 
 supper, and they're all right/ The Vicar puffed at 
 his pipe with a contented expression. 'They like to 
 be told that life is like a railway train, or a string 
 of barges. They enjoy a touch of imagination like 
 that/ 
 
 Fred put his head in at the door. 
 
 'Did you ring, sir?' he asked meekly. 
 
MRS BENTE 9 
 
 ' 1*11 wring your neck, young fellow, if we don't have 
 tea at once. Here's the Vicar dying for sustenance. 
 Look at the time ! What's Mrs Jones up to?' 
 
 'She said as I — she desired me to say, sir/ he 
 corrected himself, 'as 'ow if the gentlemen were 
 impatient they could 'ave tea now at once; but that 
 as the milkman 'adn't brought the milk 1 
 
 'Ali right, Fred ! Tell Mrs Jones we'll wait till the 
 hens have laid. Clear off ! . . . That boy can't shut 
 the door without banging it. Oh, Vicar, why can't we 
 get rid of her?' Jerome asked of his chief, 'she really 
 is the wussest !' 
 
 ' Quite true, Arthur ! She is; but I can't chuck 
 her. She couldn't do anything else, there would only 
 be the workhouse; she hasn't a friend in the world, or 
 a stiver other than what we pay her; so it's put up 
 with her/ 
 
 ' It's very good for us ! • said Gervase Bente, who was 
 always suspicious of comfortable worldly circumstances. 
 'A httle discomfort is necessary/ 
 
 'Haven't we enough discomfort as it is? Good 
 gracious ! Look where we live. The least we can 
 expect is that when we are at home our ' 
 
 ' Never mind, Arthur ! ' the Vicar interrupted, 
 'you look well on it. She is a trial, I admit; she can't 
 do anything right. She patches brown socks with 
 blue thread, and does that as if she were making a 
 fishing net; she would sew trouser-buttons on shirts 
 if she weren't reminded. Oh, she's as bad a house- 
 keeper, I admit, as woman can be. She is the complete 
 incompetence; but we've got to put up with her. 
 
io MRS BENTE 
 
 That's the solid fact — almost as solid a fact as her 
 milk puddings ! ' 
 
 ' If only some millionaire would adopt her ! ' Jerome 
 sighed, melodramatically. 
 
 ' We could do with a millionaire down here ! ' piped 
 Gervase, who was bored with the small domestic turn 
 of the conversation Jerome had introduced, and was 
 concerned with the larger affairs of St Brendan's 
 parish. 
 
 ' I don't know ! ' said the Vicar thoughtfully. ' Even 
 a million wouldn't be enough to put these parts straight; 
 and half measures would be worse than useless. So 
 we'd better pig along as we are doing/ 
 
 'Now if I were boss of this show ' began Jerome. 
 
 There was the tiny tinkle of a distant handbell. 
 
 ' The dinner-gong ! ' cried the Vicar. ' Mrs Jones 
 has done one good thing. She's enabled us to escape 
 the boredom of Arthur's Utopia. Come on, Gervase ! 
 Food ! Food ! Arthur could eat a house. I could 
 manage a warship. You ?' 
 
 'He? The Reverend Mr Bente would be satisiied 
 with an orange pip. Don't tell me I smell kippers. 
 Can it be?' 
 
 'Can she have worked a surprise? Mind the corner, 
 Gervase ! I don't believe you reahse that stairs are 
 material things — built upon emptiness/ 
 
 The clergy were thumping down. Their boots made 
 a chorus. 
 
 'No, Arthur/ said the Vicar thoughtfully, 'I don't 
 think it's fish. I think it's blacking. Fred's been 
 doing the boots/ 
 
MRS BENTE n 
 
 ' Let us hope till the door's open at any rate ! 
 Ouvrez la porte, Gervase ! ' 
 
 Gervase did so. The three peered in at the table, 
 
 ' Eggs ! ' said the Vicar. ' It surely can't have 
 been ' 
 
 'It must have been blacking/ 
 
 'Never mind; here goes. Do or die!' 
 
 They did. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 Before he went to bed that night Gervase Bente 
 wrote a letter to his aunt and nearest relative, the 
 spinster who had been to him a comparatively good 
 mother, a faithful guardian, an exacting idealist, an 
 impeccable aunt. He loved her with the f uli warmth 
 of his shyly affectionate nature. He was to her as a 
 good and adoring son. Good was at all his ages the 
 adjective t o apply to Gervase; hence, his becoming 
 a clergyman. 
 
 1 How the time flies ! ' he wrote, after the usual 
 essential, unimportant preliminaries. 'I have now 
 been at St Brendan's three months, all but a few days, 
 and am really extraordinarily happy. (He was in 
 some of his departments very enthusiastic.) The 
 Vicar and Jerome are trumps — that's the word they 
 would use, and I often find myself employing their 
 expressions. Mr Richards is a wonderful man, brusque 
 at times, but never over-bearing : it is a joy to work 
 with him. He is just the man for this parish. He'd 
 be lost at Nuneholm (the name of Miss Bente's 
 village) and any other Sleepy Hollow: but this hard 
 parish with its need for strength brings out all his 
 spiritual muscularity/ 
 
 The phrasing of these sentences had exhausted 
 
 12 
 
MRS BENTE 13 
 
 tissues worn through a long day. Bente's nerves 
 were delicate vehicles. He rose for relief, and went 
 to the window, looking out into the street below. The 
 sight was dismal enough. Black houses and a stony 
 causeway. Yellow gas-lamps were dotted here and 
 there, making the darkness miserably visible. There 
 were puddles between the square, stone blocks with 
 which the road was paved, and the gutters gleamed 
 with rain water, to remain there stagnant until the 
 dry heat of summer should dominate, and draw up 
 the damp with rapid evaporation. He softly opened 
 the window to lean out and stare at a walking shadow 
 shuffling underneath. He peered at the vague figur e 
 until it reached the lighted space beneath the lamps 
 of the public-house at the corner. 
 
 'Ah! I thought it was. I' m glad it wasn't!' he 
 mused; and shutting the window gently, drew across 
 it the dingy cretonne curtain, and returned to the 
 table and his task. 
 
 He read what he had done, checking a word here 
 and there, punctuating, ending by saying aloud the 
 ultimate words. 
 
 ' The people down here are, considering their difncul- 
 ties, a fine lot. They live the roughest possible sort 
 of existence and yet keep extraordinarily cheerful. It 
 bucks one up to see their cheeriness, in spite of 
 insufficiency of food and crowded, often insanitary, 
 dwellings. The Vicar wants me or Arthur — that is, 
 of course, Jerome, my colleague — to go on the borough 
 council. But A. J. won't, because he prefers working 
 among the live people of the parish, especially the 
 
i 4 MRS BENTE 
 
 young fellows who need him; and I do not feel any 
 vocation that way. I looked in at their meeting on 
 Wednesday — they were complaining about the 
 unfairness of the incidence of the rates the whole 
 time. I think it was that. They were very 
 querulous and not at all well-mannered. You don't 
 blame me for not taking the opportunity, do you? 
 I feel I should be so useless. I am so ignorant about 
 concrete and drain-pipes. The only thing attractive 
 about the idea is its intense hideousness. I don't 
 mean this to be a sort of paradox, such as your adored 
 Flashterton writes; but you will, I am sure, under- 
 stand my meaning. You always did. You are the 
 only human being I can talk to with absolut e con- 
 fidence and frankness. There are one or two intimate 
 things I can't find myself telling the Vicar, which I 
 can tell you.' 
 
 Again he paused, and biting his pen, stared at the 
 wali in a waking dream. Should he confide all he was 
 thinking and planning to this aunt who had won his 
 confidence and sympathy? He noticed, with the passive 
 part of his apprehension, that the black-framed print 
 of Durer's 'The Knight, Death, and the Devil/ 
 which occupied the chief place over his mantelpiece, 
 amid a galaxy of portrayed saints and diminished 
 engravings after Whistler and Watts, his own 
 possessions, was not quite straight. It must, of 
 course, be straightened. He rose, put the picture level, 
 and returned t o his seat. The brief, characteristic 
 interruption had settled his decision. 
 
 ' 1 have another reason for not becoming a borough 
 
MRS BENTE 15 
 
 councillor. I can speak t o you frankly. My business 
 is to save souls; and in this parish, this world of the 
 all-but-forgotten which has St Brendan's for its centre, 
 there are souls to be saved : and there is one which 
 will need all my ardour and all my prayers. I have 
 vowed to God that unless He shows me by some 
 visible sign or other manifestation which my conscience 
 can receive and accept, that I am not the instrument 
 for this mission, I will save that soul/ 
 
 He put down his pen and clasped his hands. His 
 eyes had a light of energy, enthusiasm, even fanaticism. 
 His face seemed to shine. He made an effort and 
 controlled himself. He resumed his writing. 
 
 'This would be an achievement worthy of Christ's 
 warrior, as humbly (I can tell you) I aspire to be. To 
 pluck one brand from the burning, to save even one 
 soul alive, is t o win the reward/ . 
 
 He drew a line, deep and black, nearly across the 
 page, and then, as with a forced determination, wrote 
 of the family trivialities, asked the little questions 
 about people, creatures, familiar places which are of 
 concern to the intimates of a domestic circle, until 
 he came to the ' Yours affectionately/ and the cramped 
 signature which brought the dutiful epistle to its 
 close. 
 
 He did not re-read the letter : he left it as it was. 
 He was sensitive about his own outpourings, shy of 
 realising the outer expression of his own superlative 
 intentions; and yet he needed the comfort of making 
 this confidence and let the epistle go. 
 
 When Miss Bente, on the morrow, in the hour before 
 
16 MRS BENTE 
 
 luncheon, received and read the letter, she smiled in 
 her gentle way. 
 
 ' Dear Gervase ! He ought not to have gone to the 
 East End, he is not nearly strong enough for that.' 
 
 That was all she said to herself, about his spiritual 
 aspirations; but for days and weeks thereafter she 
 thought of his cryptic words and wondered whose 
 soul was to be saved. On these things her nephew 
 was silent. There was no report of developments, 
 but Grace Bente was in no respect anxious. She 
 knew her Gervase, had trusted him with justice since 
 the years of his lisping. 
 
 Meanwhile, her Gervase plunged into the routine 
 work of St Brendan's with an increased and growing 
 devotion which made the practical Vicar still more 
 anxious for his health. Such a curate was a godsend. 
 I f Bente had been blessed with the physique of Arthur 
 Jerome, his enthusiasm would have been used by the 
 Vicar to its topmost possibilities. On the Ossa of 
 his enterprise he would have piled Pelion and super- 
 Pelion; but it was not Tom Richards's way, with all 
 his primal simplicity and native force, to be incon- 
 siderate. He refrained from adding unduly to the 
 necessary drudgery of his second mate, who thereby 
 was enabled to adventure on the spiritual excursions — 
 such as that alluded to in the letter to his aunt — 
 which were his heart's and his soul's urgent desire. 
 If martyrdom had been a local possibility, Gervase 
 Bente would have been keyed-up even to that. 
 
 Thanks to the rigours of their circumstances — 
 to which Mrs Jones contributed — and his own 
 
MRS BENTE 17 
 
 insatiable zest for exacting endeavotirs — living the 
 East End parson's life to its ultimate nth of religious, 
 social and personal service — he became daily more 
 unbecomingly emaciated. His nose was thin and 
 sharpened ; it emphasised the seeming asceticism, and 
 even increased the apparent weakness of his face. 
 Whatever his religious ambitions might be, they were 
 assuredly too weighty for that over-taxed body and 
 overstrained eagerness. But what devote, what 
 fanatic — though Gervase was hardly that — cares for 
 the cost of the dear adventure? The enterprise was 
 so high that even failure, the result of an insufficiency 
 of strength, would itself have been some reward. 
 
 Failure was, however, not a word in Gervase Bente's 
 dictionary. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 Even the outcast parish of St Brendan has its 
 instalment of local pride, or vanity, or snobbishness. 
 Compared with any other part of London, it has 
 nothing whatever to be proud of ; but when compared 
 with its own immediate surroundings, its Alma Terrace 
 feels justified in putting on airs. 
 
 It is a row of high, two-story houses, Victorian of 
 tone, with odd window blinds, and faded, painted 
 numbers on disconsolate fanlights. The occupants 
 of the Terrace are generally lodgers, occasionally 
 landladies; sometimes, but rarely, officials employed 
 in the adjacent docks. Drab and disconsolate though 
 it be, to all who for some incomprehensible reason 
 visit the district, it is the only place in the parish of 
 St Brendan which lifts a self-conscious head. Even 
 the public-houses round about it wear aspects of 
 complaint. 
 
 In the end house of this undetached row of eight, 
 lived the blameless widow Barnes. She maintained 
 herself by letting lodgings. An ancient profession, 
 in which the widow without flaunting her fortune 
 took a proper pride. Just at present Mrs Barnes had 
 no fortune to flaunt, for with the exception of a senile 
 pensioner who just had means enough to make ends 
 
 18 
 
MRS BENTE i$ 
 
 fneet with a little over for the landlady's necessity, 
 there was nobody but one; and she was not a consider- 
 able source of income and profit to Mrs Barnes — to 
 say the least of it. 
 
 How Mrs Barnes managed to pay the rent, and the 
 rates, from the earnings of this comparative mansion 
 no one not of her profession can possibly comprehend. 
 How she kept the place clean is more easily understood 
 — for she did not keep it clean. The fiight of a dozen 
 steps which led up to the front-door was gray with 
 years and the hue that comes of an elaborate neglect. 
 The windows were stained, the blinds uneven and dirty; 
 there was a general air of drift about the place, as 
 generally with the other houses in the row — as if Alma 
 Terrace like a Umited but vain old maid had been 
 disappointed and had lost heart. Mrs Barnes prided 
 herself on the elegance and the polish of her domicile, 
 within and without; and merited not one ounce of 
 her self-satisfaction. 
 
 She was a lady who moved heavily and yet must 
 get about, for in those days of the comparative inde- 
 pendence of domestics there was no servant available 
 for 'Number 8.' 'Helps' to be hired must have 
 wages; Mrs Barnes had no money to give to ' the sluts, ' 
 as in her elderly superiority she felt entitled to call 
 them. So the sluts were rarely in the place, and Mrs 
 Barnes 'did' for herself — which meant that she didn't. 
 
 From the basement — her own quarters, except 
 when she could let the rooms, which nowadays was 
 almost never — she was proceeding to the back room 
 « — a bed-sitting room — on the first floor. 
 
20 MRS BENTE 
 
 'Lazy 'ussy/ she was grumbling. 'Fine going's 
 on for a respectable lady's house; gone two, and still 
 a-bed, the nasty 'ussy. I 'ate 'ussies — always did ! ' 
 
 By this time she had reached the door of the room 
 wherein the 'ussy was at rest, and knocked with the 
 knuckles of determination. 
 
 'It's ever so late, dearie. Won't you get up?' 
 
 There was no evident answer. Mrs Barnes stared 
 at the panels with listening eyes. She rapped again, 
 louder. There came a voice in querulous answer. 
 
 ' Oh, don't keep on doing that ! What do you want? ' 
 
 ' It's getting on for four o'clock ! ' screamed the land- 
 lady, with modified truth. 
 
 ' Oh, get away; I'm tired.' 
 
 1 And ought to be, with them goings-on ! * retorted 
 Mrs Barnes, sotto voce. 
 
 'What are you saying?' came the sharp inquiry. 
 
 'Only what a pity it is your lying a-bed all this 
 beautiful day/ 
 
 Silence followed the evasion. 
 
 'Won't you get up, dear?' This in the tone of 
 wheedling. 
 
 'Do bring me a cup of tea, Mrs B., will you? I'm 
 so — I've got such a head ! ' 
 
 The landlady scowled — she disliked making expe- 
 ditions upstairs and downstairs, in the manner of 
 Goosey-Gander — and then exclaimed in tones of false 
 cheeriness : 
 
 'In course I will, dear — and 'ave a cup with you. 
 Then you will get up, won't you? It makes the 'ouse 
 feel so sleepy when there's a lie-a-bed at 'ome.' 
 
MRS BENTE 21 
 
 ' I will — spying cat ! ' The ultimate words, though 
 loud, were not heard by the lady to whom they were 
 addressed, as she was already making lumbering and 
 heavy progress down the kitchen stairs. 
 
 She returned in half an hour with a clattering tray, 
 containing a cup of tea, some dulled lumps ofsugar, 
 bluish milk, and a plate containing straggly slices of 
 ill-buttered bread. 
 
 She opened the door and entered without knocking; 
 she blinked in the curtained darkness. 
 
 'I think m open that window, dear. No wonder 
 you've got a 'ead/ 
 
 ' Oh, do shut up ! ' came the rejoinder from the bed- 
 clothes. 
 
 "Ere's a nice cup of tea for you. Sit up and 'ave 
 it, and try and eat a piece of bread-an'-butter, do ! ' 
 
 The coaxing of the landlady was an irritant to the 
 person tended. Throwing back the coverlet she 
 sat up, glaring with dark and sulky eyes at the 
 intruder. 
 
 'I wish you wouldn't come into my roora ' she 
 
 began. 
 
 ' Oh, if that's your game/ cried the other suddenly, 
 with a touch of the shrillness of vulgar anger, ' I shall 
 say things. This is a respectable 'ouse, and if I'm to 
 be put upon by such as you, out you go, my lady ! 
 You can 'ave some people in, can't you? — And I must 
 wait outside, like a goat at a gate? Not for me, Miss 
 Poppy Parker ! ' 
 
 She put the tray on the dressing-table with a clatter. 
 
 The two glowered. There was no love found between 
 
22 mus bentE 
 
 them : that was as evident as the dust stored in the 
 day-lighted room. 
 
 The woman in the bed was young, and when dressed 
 and coiffed with taste, might have looked attractive. 
 In her present condition of outrageous neglige — her 
 night-gown, low-cut, and decorated with a ribbon 
 and bows of tarnished blue, revealed a thin brown 
 ncck — she was a sight unpleasing. Straight black hair 
 hung in tangles down to her shoulders : her face was 
 yellow with weariness and its naturally sallow com- 
 plexion. Her eyes were dark and of indeterminate 
 colour : they glowed with feverous fires. 
 
 She realised the necessity of not appearing 
 ungracious. 
 
 'You do get in a tower, don't you, Mrs Barnes? 
 I didn't mean to be nasty. Let us have our tea/ 
 
 The landlady was still far from relenting, but she 
 wanted some tea herself; and in her loneliness was 
 glad to have even this human company. 
 
 ' That's better, dearie ! ' she avowed, without any 
 appearance of softening or regard. She poured out 
 some very thick tea. 
 
 ' Drink this, and you'll be better ! ' 
 
 The young woman took the cup and stirred it 
 with seeming repugnance. 
 
 ' Drink it up : and you'll feel much better/ Mrs 
 Barnes conjured, and declared, 'Quite washed-out, 
 you look ! ' 
 
 The other sipped and glowered; then shuddered. 
 
 1 1 wish I could die ! ' she declared, with a fierce 
 gesture and absolute melancholy. She rested her chin 
 
MRS BENTE 23 
 
 between her pointed knees, and stared down a long 
 dark gallery of miserable contemplation. 
 
 ' Oh, come ! ' said Mrs Barnes, wheedling again, 
 as with soiled fingers she folded a piece of bread-and- 
 butter and held it out. 'Eat this, and you'll feel 
 better/ 
 
 The other refused it with a shake of repugnance. 
 
 ' I should choke ! ' 
 
 Mrs Barnes drank her tea with gulps and an immense 
 satisfaction. 'That's better, there's nothing like a 
 nice 'ot cup of good strong tea t o drive away the 
 wretchedness. Would you like to give me some money 
 to go out and get you something — a piece of fried 
 plaice or a fourpenny packet of soup-powder? I don't 
 mind looking after you and you so lonely/ 
 
 The giri paid no attention to this off ering of pity. 
 She merely continued to stare before her; while Mrs 
 Barnes sipped her tea and watched her lodger out of 
 the corner of her small and cunning eyes. The apparent 
 passivity of the lie-a-bed stirred her easy anger. 
 
 ' I'm tired of this ! ' she declared shortly. ' What's 
 the matter with you to-day?' 
 
 1 Oh, leave me alone ! I'm sick of it all ! ' 
 
 ' And well might be ! You don't think of my good 
 name ! ' 
 
 Miss Parker turned to look contemptuously at her 
 companion. 
 
 ' You haven't got one. Get out of my room ! ' she 
 blazed of a sudden. 'I'm not well. Go away!' 
 
 She thrust with her left hand at Mrs Barnes, who 
 caught the extended arm and, gripping it, pinched it. 
 
24 MRS BENTE 
 
 * Don't yon try and hit me, you serat eh cat ! Leave 
 
 that to those who visit you. You ' She was 
 
 about to deseribe her lodger with frankness and with 
 truth, but caught up her own words, through that 
 affectation of modesty which is so insistent in smug, 
 unrighteous breasts. 
 
 ' I didn't try to hit you/ The giri now sulked, re- 
 lapsing to her attitude of dreariness. 'I don't want 
 to hurt you, Mrs Barnes; but why do you goad me? 
 You know I'm miserable, miserable ! ' 
 
 She faltered. Tears came to her eyes. Mrs Barnes's 
 scornful anger melted. 
 
 ' Ali right, dearie ! ' said she, mollified. ' Give me a 
 shilling and I'D go out and get you something nice. 
 You do look peeky, that you do.' 
 
 The giri groped under her pillow and brought out 
 three shillings. She handed one of the coins to Mrs 
 Barnes. 
 
 'What shall it be, dear? A little fish and chips — 
 or a nice fresh chop? ' 
 
 1 1 don't care.' She sank back on the pillow and buried 
 her head under the bed-clothes. Mrs Barnes took up 
 the tray and went out. Her eyes were as eloquent 
 with mystery as are those of the Sphinx. The door 
 swung to behind her. 
 
 * Damn her ! Damn her ! ' said her lodger. 
 
 The visit had, however, roused Poppy. No longer 
 had she any inelination to the heavy kind of slumber 
 that had held her until now. She got wearily out of 
 bed, went over to the looking-glass, and gazed at 
 herself critically. 
 
MRS BENTE 25 
 
 'This life's killing me. What a wreck !' She slowly 
 washed and dressed herself, all the while wearing an 
 expression of entire disillusion and gloom. 'Men are 
 swines ! ' was the only other expression she gave voice 
 to diiring those melancholy minutes. 
 
 There was a knock at the outer door. She started, 
 strained t o listen. A glint of excitement came into her 
 heavy eyes. 
 
 ' I wonder if that is the fool ! ' 
 
 Nobody answered the front door. Mrs Barnes was 
 evidently still out on the quest of the mutton-chop. 
 The giri went into the passage and entered the front 
 room, adjacent to her own. She peeped through the side 
 of the blind. Instinctively her hands were at work, 
 patting or putting into better shape her hair or the 
 neck of her blouse. She saw who was there. A man 
 in black. 
 
 'Shall I?' she thought. 
 
 She crept back to the passage, still considering, 
 and stood there for a brace of moments. 
 
 'No, I'm not up to it to-day. It'll do him good not 
 to find me at home. It'll make him keener for — for 
 my immortal soul/ 
 
 She went into her room, and again examined her 
 appearance in the glass. 
 
 ' Yes, I'm a bit off-colour to-day. Better not ! ■ 
 
 She heard the visitor knock once more an earnest 
 and appealing series of raps; and then not again. 
 Evidently he had given up hoping to find her in. She 
 grinned as she thought of Mrs Barnes's disappointment; 
 for to be hostess to one of the clergy, to exchange 
 
 
26 MRS BENTE 
 
 small-talk with one of the elect, to offer a cup of gluey 
 tea, and perhaps have a brief prayer said for her own 
 individual self, these were privileges as enjoyable to 
 the landlady as must be the receipt by a retired and 
 exalted tradesman of a royal invitation to a lev6e. 
 
 Mrs Barnes was, however, not quite so disappointed 
 as Miss Parker hoped and was soon to learn. 
 
 In due time she brought up a fresh hening and a 
 glass of stout, with bread-and-butter in support. The 
 landlady was more genial now than earlier she had 
 been. 
 
 ' I didn't ask for that/ said the lodger, staring at the 
 food. 
 
 'No, dearie; but I know what's good for you. Now 
 drink it up and eat the fish. I was lucky to get a fresh 
 one so late in the day; but it's as fresh as a daisy; 
 it'll do you good/ 
 
 Miss Parker needed no further coaxing. She drank 
 the stout and ate the food with an eagerness she had 
 given no promise or sign of in the earlier time of tea. 
 
 Mrs Barnes watched her; and — considering who she 
 was — she beamed. 
 
 'You look very pleased with yourself, Mrs B.,' said 
 Poppy sedately. 'I suppose you met the pup-parson.' 
 
 ' My dear/ she said, as if she were gently chiding 
 her, 'you should not speak of a clergyman like that. 
 So you knew 'e called?' 
 
 ' I heard him knock. I guessed it was him — damn it ! 
 he ! ' — She had be^n a governess. 
 
 ' There ! that 's what I call instink. Such a nice 
 gentleman ! So easy to please. 'E does enjoy a cup 
 

 MRS BENTE 27 
 
 of my tea. Why didn't you let 'im in, dearie? Didn't 
 like to be alone with a gentleman — but it can't 'ave 
 been that ! ' There was a touch of insolent significance 
 in the last words. 
 
 The giri looked up. Sudden, quick anger was aflame 
 in her eyes. The discontented lips were alert. 
 
 'What do you mean — tell me what you mean by 
 that — you old ' 
 
 ' Now, now ! ' the other hurried to interrupt. ' Don't 
 you call me names, when I've been out to get you this. 
 Not much thanks, you don't give/ 
 
 'Where's the change? I gave you a bob/ The 
 challenge was most direct. It barbed, as it was meant 
 to do. 
 
 ' And it cost a bob ! ' Mrs Barnes snivelled, a Cockney 
 pseudo-martyr, and then became indignant. 'Well, 
 I never ! If I wasn't a lady I'd give you a very straight 
 talking to, that I would. Suspect me ! — Suspect me 
 of stealing your dirty money? ' 
 
 'Never mind the money; but don't you speak like 
 that again. Don't you let him — know — people come 
 here ' 
 
 The giri paused. She had said enough. Mrs Barnes 
 did not need the full-stop to be assured that a sentence 
 was finished. 
 
 'As if I would ! ' Aven't I my own good name to 
 keep?' 
 
 ' Your own good name ! It makes me sick to hear 
 you cant. Your good name ! If you' d had to go 
 through what I've been through, you' d have been what 
 
 I I've been ! ' 
 
28 MRS BENTE 
 
 ' And am ! Don't forget that ! ' The insult was 
 poignant. 
 
 ' And am ! Oh, I'm no hypocrite. Here/ she 
 flamed with passion so that she fell over her words, 
 as she threw down the knife. 'You can take the 
 stuff away ! I can't eat with you in the room. You 
 are a poisonous woraan/ Her voice was hot with 
 hate. 
 
 1 Poisonous is as poisonous does ! ' said the landlady 
 unctuously, with a sneer. Tve always been respect- 
 able. I've never done nothing my 'usband need be 
 ashamed of ! ' She took up the tray and leaned back, 
 with her lips pursed and her figure as taut as its 
 podginess and shapelessness permitted. 
 
 1 Take the tray, and clear out ! ' The order was 
 peremptory. 
 
 'And you can clear out too. I'm poor enough; but 
 I'd rather 'ave you out of this 'ouse than in it/ 
 
 Mrs Barnes backed to the door as she gave utterance 
 to her decree of expulsion. The exultation of battle 
 was in her veins. When she came to the obstacle she 
 stopped with cruel enjoyment to see how her lodger 
 accepted her fate. 
 
 Not so badly, all things considered. With an air 
 of absolute indifference the young woman began the 
 collection of her belongings. They seemed generally 
 tawdry and were scattered everywhere. She was 
 taking Mrs Barnes at her word. 
 
 This put the fear of the business-woman into the 
 landlady's heart. 
 
 'Oh, no ! ' she said, with no slackening of positive 
 
MRS BENTE 29 
 
 insolence, 'you don't go until you've settled. There' s 
 three days owing/ 
 
 ' Not if you turn me out at a moment like this. I'm 
 quite ready to go, Mrs Barnes; FH not be under any 
 obligation to you, I assure you ! ' 
 
 By this time the landlady' s anger had grown cooler. 
 It had suffered the colder douche of calculation. This 
 lodger paid in tainted pence; but still she paid, and 
 without some pence in season even residence in that 
 poor domicile could not be enjoyed. Prudence prompted 
 Mrs Barnes to display the white flag; but still she hesi- 
 tated to wave it. She watched Miss Parker continue 
 her preparations, which were all the swifter and more 
 deliberate because the errant damsel was well aware 
 that her landlady was on the brink of surrender, and 
 there would be no need to flit before it suited herself 
 to go. 
 
 ' 'M ! When do you think you can pay, Miss Parker? ' 
 
 'Pay?' There was utter disdain, a virulent not e of 
 scorn, in the young woman's voice and mien. 'There 
 is no dimculty in paying. I'm not a pauper/ 
 
 Mrs Barnes snorted. The crushing retort was so 
 obvious; but, surrender was up; and there was no 
 wish at this moment to offend. 
 
 'No, dear,' she weakly agreed. 
 
 'But I don't pay if I'm turned out at a moment's 
 notice/ 
 
 The landlady stared at the floor in an affectation of 
 sympathy. Had she been a crocodile she would have 
 wept. There was no dew in that hard personality. 
 
 ' 1've no wish to turn you out, Miss Parker, I'm sure/ 
 
 
30 MRS BENTE 
 
 she protested. ' I've no wish t o add to your infirmities. 
 I'm a Christian woman, I 'ope; and my text is, Let 
 sleeping dogs lie. -Not that I mean anything personal 
 by that, Miss Parker. I ' 
 
 1 Oh, do clear out ! ' broke in the other impatiently. 
 'If you stay another second I'll break something. 
 Please go ! ' 
 
 Mrs Barnes stared, aghast; but had sense enough 
 to go. She knew she could not afford to lose even this 
 lodger; but outside the door, at the top of the landing, 
 she paused, turned and cursed her with a glare of 
 baleful eyes. 
 
 * You faggot ! ' she screamed, with an entirely muted 
 scream; and resumed her way to the basement, talking 
 aloud to herself and not sparing any expression against 
 the impossible person who occupied the first floor back. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 The Vicar came bustling into the room where Jerome 
 was standing studying with doubtful eyes a smoking 
 dish of hash. He held a letter in his hand. 
 
 ' What swine there are in the world ! ' he said. 
 
 'Meaning?' 
 
 'A spiteful anonymous letter is a damnable thing/ 
 He stormed, and waved it to and fro, and tossed it 
 on to the table. 
 
 'Tear it up; burn it; do anything but pay attention 
 to it/ counselled the curate. ' Shall we wait for Gervase, 
 or begin?' 
 
 The Vicar took his seat, and plunged at the hash 
 with fork and spoon. 
 
 ' We'll begin ! This is hash. I' m not keen on Mrs 
 Jones's hash. It excites the imagination too much. 
 Well, that's for you, Arthur. It looks like a burnt 
 brick; it is probably called a mutton-chop. Have some 
 more splash ! ' He ladled the liquid. 
 
 'Thanks, old man. I could eat even a brick. Better 
 call Fred to carry out Gervase' s portion. We may 
 as well keep it warm. Let it, at least, have that 
 virtue/ 
 
 ' Yes, Gervase, hum ! — this beast of a letter is about 
 him/ 
 
 31 
 
32 MRS BENTE 
 
 Putting down the fork he was holding, the Vicar 
 flicked, with his fingers, at the unpleasant epistle. 
 
 * Then by all means burn the beast at once/ Jerome 
 again advised. 'Don't let him see it at any rate. I 
 suppose a woman sent it — one of our flock ! ' 
 
 The Vicar did not answer at once because he was 
 disjointing a stewed something which stuck like a 
 mollusc or blob of glue to the bottom of the dish. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said he, triumphantly, when he • had won the 
 victory. ' I suppose it was some beastly woman — must 
 be, though the handwriting isn't distinctive. It has 
 that appearance of illiteracy which neither sex has 
 reason to be proud of . . . 1 1' s about a woman ! ' he 
 added. 
 
 'Sure to be. The clergy are a sure mark for the 
 meaner sort of malice, and a woman's nearly always 
 the bait and the baiter. Even so good a chap as Gervase 
 can't be — er ' 
 
 'Immune's the word you want.' 
 
 'So good of you ! Have some beer, Vicar?' Like 
 a warrior raising his shield, Arthur Jerome raised the 
 
 'I knew my heart was panting for something. 
 Thanks ! Give me some froth. I like to see the fat on 
 the top/ He gazed at the liquor with critical eyes. 
 
 ' It's tired ! ' the other made excuse for the lame and 
 weary beverage. 'Mrs Jones ' 
 
 ' Never mind ! It's called beer ! Prosit ! ' 
 
 ' Immune ! ' Jerome repeated. ' Bless you ! ' They 
 quaffed. 
 
 ' That's better ! ' they chorused in one breath. 
 
MRS BENTE 33 
 
 'Now, once more unto the hash, dear friend . . . 
 Yes, man or woman, it was a swine who wrote it. You 
 may as well see it; and then it shall go the way of all 
 paper/ 
 
 'And by showing it you serve the purpose of the 
 writer/ 
 
 'No matter.' The Vicar passed it across. 'Besides, 
 it doesn't serve her end; for- we know Bente too well 
 to believe anything bad of him, even if the flat evidence 
 seemed to stare us in the face. Gervase may be a fool; 
 but he's a Christian and a gentleman always. We 
 must guard against blackmail/ 
 
 Arthur Jerome read the letter aloud. 
 
 'Ask the Reverend Bente why he secretly visits a 
 female every day at A.T. Is it to pray? Blessed are 
 the pure in heart/ 
 
 Jerome's rubicund face grew pale and grave as he 
 contemplated the poisonous words. 
 
 ' It's dreadful ! By George, it is ! What is the good 
 of all our work, Vicar, if this cold sort of snakish evil 
 is possible? The East End is a place to break the 
 heart; it is, it is ! If it weren't for the young fellers 
 I'd chuck it up. It would be easier to be a stoker in 
 a battleship/ He shook his head vigorously at the 
 pepper-box. 
 
 The Vicar smiled sadly at his lieutenant, who 
 seldom showed emotion; but whose personality, as 
 this speech proved, was not all hide-bound. 
 
 'It is pretty rotten sometimes, old chap/ his voice 
 was strangely gentle, 'one needs to be an optimist to 
 be a parson down here : but it's worth while/ 
 
34 MRS BENTE 
 
 ' Fat lot of good is the result of all our labour/ 
 
 'I dare say; but we've got to stick it and to go on. 
 We're on the winning side, that's sure. Have some 
 more hash/ 
 
 'I will; and another glass of the only. Say when?' 
 In the further downpour of flat beverage their deeper 
 mood was drowned. Both men had too much strength 
 and simplicity to continue in that confessedly 
 melancholy and contemplative vein. But still the 
 anonymous letter stared at them. 
 
 'Do you know the handwriting? ' Jerome asked 
 suddenly. 
 
 'If I did — if I did ' The Vicar frowned, and in 
 
 his frowning, in his lurid dreams of punishments 
 administered to the stabber-in-the back, forgot to 
 conclude his sentence. 
 
 ' It doesn't matter whose it is ! ' flashed out the in- 
 dignant Arthur; 'it's a filthy hand, a filthy piece of 
 paper — it came from a penny packet of stationery — 
 and it has a filthy purpose. Let us destroy the beast.' 
 
 He crushed it up, and then tore it into pieces. 
 
 'Where, by the way, is Gervase?' 
 
 'And what or where is "A.T. "?' 
 
 'Oh, Alma Terrace. I don't need a novelist's 
 detective to discover that. But where is our maligned 
 Bente?' 
 
 'He'll soon be here/ Jerome was weary of this 
 insistent interest in the contents of the wretched letter. 
 'Let's talk about football or soap-bubbles, or boxing- 
 gloves or golf-balls — anything. That letter has left 
 a sting/ 
 
MRS BENTE 35 
 
 'Oh, I don't know. Why that particular letter? 
 It isn't the first of its kind we've had by a long 
 chalk/ 
 
 'No, the others didn't matter or couldn't; but this 
 one goes for Gervase, and he's as true a saint as any 
 curate can be. He's a white man, one of the right sort; 
 old iron and good egg. I know him.' 
 
 'So do I. Of course we do. We've lived with him 
 for some months; and he's survived the searching 
 ordeal. But, my dear Arthur, don't let us lose sight 
 of the fact that he is just the sort who can be made 
 a fool of.' 
 
 ' By George, yes, he is/ 
 
 The two clergymen stared at each other gloomily. 
 Gervase Bente was just that sort of carelessly generous 
 spirit who needs a special providence. Impulsive and 
 unselfish, determinately self-sacrificing and poetic 
 of mind; an idealist whose hopes and dreams have 
 not yet been debased or hardened through the horrid 
 facts of a common-clay existence; and, moreover, 
 extraordinarily inexperienced, cOnsidering his ex- 
 perience, he was unusually well suited to be a victim 
 of designing and dangerous persons. Both of his 
 colleagues knew it, and each knew that the other 
 knew it. 
 
 'We'll have to tackle him/ said the Vicar, with 
 decision. 
 
 'Yes, you'd better/ Jerome shrugged his bovine 
 shoulders and smiled comfortably. 
 
 'I?' cried the other. ' Why not both of us?— What ? ' 
 
 'Aren't you his spiritual superior? What am I? 
 
36 MRS BENTE 
 
 A child in these things. Now if it was a hook or a 
 half-nelson. ' 
 
 'Oh, shut up, Arthur!' the Vicar said testily, and 
 tugged at his stubby beard. 'You're a humbug — or 
 would be if you had just a little less conscience. You 
 know very well that you could talk to Gervase in your 
 brusque, blunt, muscular-Christianity manner in a 
 way which I with my — with my delicacy and 
 refinement * 
 
 Jerome burst into a roar. The Vicar made no 
 pause. 
 
 'My — my sensitive sympathy ' In rapt contem- 
 
 plation of the unexpected tendencies he was now 
 discovering, the goodly shepherd forgot what he was 
 going to say. 
 
 'You needn't try and wriggle out of your responsi- 
 bilities ! ' declared the other, in his brusque, blunt, 
 muscular-Christianity manner. 'If Gervase is to be 
 told, and I'm not sure that he is — this hash is very 
 satisfying and it does not make the brain clearer — you 
 must do it. You're the man; and I'm not, and won't 
 — that's flat. Shall I ring for Fred? Where can Gervase 
 be?' 
 
 'He'll have to give us an account of his actions — 
 or rather he won't. I don't know ! . . . Yes, ring, 
 there's a good chap/ 
 
 Jerome rang. Fred appeared. He removed the 
 plates and the dish of hash that wasn't. He returned 
 with an open jam tart with arid spaces. 
 
 'Heard anything of Mr Bente? Know where he is? ' 
 asked the Vicar of the lad. 
 
MRS BENTE 37 
 
 No sooner said than hurrying footsteps made answer. 
 Gervase Bent was returning, and evidently aware that 
 he had forgotten the considerations of the clock. 
 
 TU fetch 'is 'ash, Sir/ said Fred. 'Mrs Jones said 
 it would 'ardly be worth eating — 'im coming so late.' 
 
 'We must aU have been rather late/ murmured the 
 Vicar thoughtfuUy. 
 
 Before Fred had returned a second time Gervase 
 Bente came in. He sank into his chair with a sigh and 
 was evidently very weary. He shrugged his shoulders, 
 a sign of nervous pressure. 
 
 'Where have you been, Gervase? I must insist on 
 my curates keeping their meal hours, at any rate. 
 
 I can't afford for either you or Arthur to be knocked- 
 up.' 
 
 'AwfuUy sorry I' m late, Vicar; but I am profoundly 
 interested in an enterprise — a spiritual enterprise — 
 
 which the — the angels ' he faltered as he spoke thus. 
 
 It was a frank expression of an inner ideal which is 
 perhaps out of fashion in days when the trains and 
 tramcars run and the miracles and martyrdoms do 
 not — 'which the angels would approve/ He spurred 
 himself to speak frankly. 'There is a soul in the 
 balance, and I am putting the weight of my persuasion 
 and my prayers to influence that soul in the right way. 
 
 I I is a great game; the finest.' 
 
 In his enthusiasm of proselytism he had forgotten 
 weariness and all else. He might have been miles 
 away from the parish of St Brendan, away among the 
 hermits, among the neophytes who fled to the desert 
 and the wilderness to be rid of the sordid realities and 
 
 
38 MRS BENTE 
 
 the legitimate joys of the flesh. The Vicar looked at 
 his neophyte with a very serious eye. Tom Richards 
 did not like the look of this enthusiasm. 1 1 smacked 
 of the emotionalism, the fanaticism, which, carried to 
 lengths, may end in neurasthenia and madness. He 
 fiashed a glance at Jerome, who in answer gazed down 
 earnestly at Bente's undisturbed plate. 
 
 'Yes/ agreed the Vicar, to the unspoken suggestion. 
 'Well, we'll have a talk of these things afterwards. 
 Meanwhile, Gervase, forget all else now but the nourish- 
 ment you need if you are to do the necessary work of 
 this parish. Now, take this to heart, Mr Bente/ he 
 emphasised his words by tapping the table, 'You 
 are to keep your meals as if they were spiritual 
 exercises. I don't want a ghost — I want a man — t o do 
 the work of my parish. Do you see? Look at Arthur, 
 
 is he ? ' The suggestion would have been ludicrous, 
 
 as the Vicar half-meant it to be, had they not all 
 been so serious. 
 
 ' All right, Vicar ! ' answer ed Gervase Bente, some- 
 what perturbed by this downright injunction coming 
 bullying into the atmosphere of ecstasy and dreams 
 within which for an hour or two he had been living. 
 'I don't want to be inefficient; though food is a 
 detestable necessity/ 
 
 ' So it is, Gervase ! ' cried Arthur heartily. ' Some- 
 times it's quite detestable — Have some more. Mrs 
 Jones said it was suffering because you weren't in 
 time to eat it/ 
 
 ' I'm sorry/ was the humble answer. ' May I trouble 
 you for a little water? ' 
 
MRS BENTE 39 
 
 'Try a little claret/ 
 
 Gervase shook his head and continued to peck at his 
 meal. 
 
 'Do smoke/ he said, as he realised the others were 
 waiting and watching him. 
 
 'Now, you know you don't like it, Gervase. And 
 mine's such shaggy shag — well, we'll open the window 
 and sit in the distance. Come on, Arthur. We'll smoke 
 and see that Gervase doesn't dodge his due allowance. 
 Peg away, man ! You eat as if life was a sort of head- 
 ache, and not the jolly good battle-fleld it is. That's 
 an idea for Sunday night's sermon, Arthur. You can 
 develop it; but don't bring in the prize ring; otherwise 
 the choir will forget they're choristers. You are so 
 deucedly literal in your gestures.' 
 
 Thus, artfully, did the Vicar endeavour to lure the 
 thoughts of his junior curate from the dazzling subject 
 upon which they had been concentrated; and all the 
 while that he was pufhng at the pipe, all the while that 
 he and Jerome were discussing little questions of 
 interest to their properly parochial minds, he was 
 furtively studying the aspect of Gervase, and the rapt 
 expression of his face. He was piqued by the condition 
 of reticence and exaltation in which he found the 
 curate, who still, though with evident distaste, ate his 
 meal and sipped the water. 
 
 The Vicar was in something of a quandary. He 
 shrank from questioning Gervase on a subject that was 
 not voluntarily raised. The basic principle of their 
 work in St Brendan's was confidence and trust in one 
 another; and it was impossible for them in their daily 
 
 
4 o MRS BENTE 
 
 dealings with many people to consult together on 
 means and possibilities, except in particular cases 
 which required special consideration or joint treatment. 
 Gervase Bente was no child as the years go. He had 
 an excellent record at Oxford and Cuddesdon; and was 
 unquestionably trustworthy so far as things of honour 
 were concerned. But was he — and this was the kernel 
 of the Vicar's cogitation— was he not liable to be 
 imposed upon; and that vile letter was successful 
 in its object so far as this suggestion was concerned — 
 might not a clever ' f emale ' make a f ool of him, and 
 use, misuse, his enthusiasm for his opportunities and 
 work? 
 
 While the Vicar was openly discussing with Jerome 
 the fact that 'Enery 'Arriss's voice was breaking, and 
 that the aitchless youth must be, if not exactly seconded, 
 at least relegated, to the more sparsely occupied men's 
 row in the choir, he was forming the decision that, 
 come what come might, and however much he disliked 
 the course, he must do his Vicar's duty and talk with 
 Bente about that spiritual enterprise which — to say 
 the least of it — had caused Mrs Jones's hash to suffer 
 the deterioration that comes through the postpone- 
 ment of its enjoyment. 
 
 ' Well, so long ! ' said the Vicar as he knocked the 
 ashes from his pipe, and departed heavily, noisily, 
 to the work of the afternoon. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 In spite of the Vicar's decision, it was Gervase himself 
 who raised the question of his mysterious mission. They 
 were in the Vestry after evensong — a duli service which 
 the clergy generally had to themselves and at which 
 they talked Psalms — verse by verse in turns — at one 
 another. 
 
 Gervase Bente had just hung his cassock and surplice 
 in the curtained recess, their place, and was standing 
 aside to permit the Vicar to do likewise, when he said : 
 
 ' The time has come for me to consult you — to make 
 my report to you about ' 
 
 'Glad to hear you say so, Gervase/ the Vicar broke 
 in heartily, testifying to the eagerness with which he 
 wished to settle the matter that, willy-nilly, had been 
 raised by the abused and abominable anonymous letter. 
 * I've been wondering. Let's have it out here/ 
 
 Bente was amazed and impressed; he was also, in 
 a flash, troubled by the rapidity with which Mr Richards 
 had caught him up. He opened his dark gray eyes with 
 the stare of blank surprise. 
 
 'Then you know ! How can you know?' he asked, 
 bewildered; and at the same time turned a wooden 
 chair, which always stood beside the plain vestry 
 table, in order that his superior might sit, 
 
 41 
 
42 MRS BENTE 
 
 'My dear Bente/ the Vicar answered him, with a 
 deliberation due rather to indecision how to reply 
 than to anything else. ' It is my duty to know all that 
 goes on in the parish/ Having so said, and at once 
 feeling an unconscionable prig for making such an 
 utterance, so evasive and cock-sure, he promptly sat 
 down on the chair, and motioned to Gervase to make 
 himself comfortable on the iron chest in which the 
 church registers were kept. 
 
 ' I wonder how much you know ! ' said the curate 
 pensively. 
 
 The Vicar smiled in a non-committal manner. 
 
 * You may as well tell me all/ he said. ' Go on. I've 
 got to call at the workhouse before we go home. The 
 Master wants me to drive Christian sense into some old 
 Daddy's noddle. Proceed, Gervase, -proceed ! Now 
 to the — damsel' — he approached with caution — 'of 
 Alma Terrace?' 
 
 ' You certainly are more observant than I imagined/ 
 Gervase confessed. 
 
 ' Perhaps ! ' said the Vicar, as he thought of the foul 
 serap of paper that Arthur Jerome in his righteous 
 indignation had destroyed. ' Go on ! — and I want a 
 pipe badly.' 
 
 'I will be as frank with you as the delicate affair 
 allows/ Gervase proceeded cautiously. 'I have not 
 absolute freedom to talk, because the — penitent bound 
 me to certain promises/ 
 
 ' Did she ! . . . H' m ! I see ! ' The Vicar watehed 
 him with thoughtful eyes. To his open ingenuous 
 nature that smelt suspicious. 
 
MRS BENTE 43 
 
 'Let me make it clear why I am consulting you/ 
 Bente looked at the floor to avoid distraction and in 
 order that his words should be as judicious as possible. 
 'It is a matter of discipline. I am pledged — I have 
 pledged myself — to this task, this fight; but I want 
 you, as you are my chief and superior officer, to be 
 aware of what I am doing in your parish/ 
 
 The Vicar smacked the table beside him heavily 
 with the flat of his hand, causing the glass-covered 
 water-bottle to rattle. 
 
 ' If that's the spirit of this talk/ he declared, ' we'll 
 waste no more time on it. I thought you wanted 
 counsel, not the unsympathetic sort of thing you 
 seem to be asking.' 
 
 'I must be expressing myself badly/ The curate, 
 lost in contemplation, bit a knuckle of his left hand. 
 
 ' Go ahead ! ' 
 
 'I do, of course, want your counsel; but I chiefly 
 want to put myself straight with you. Nothing now 
 that you can say can put me off the vow Fve made; 
 but I don't want to go in for this big thing without 
 some sort of authority from you/ 
 
 The Vicar was becoming impatient. He loathed 
 preambles and preludes. He wished to be at once in 
 the thick of things; he was the sort of warrior who would 
 be killed at once in the heart of the melee, whereas 
 to stay at a distance and snipe would be the more 
 discreet, and, therefore, perhaps the more valuable 
 thing to do. 
 
 He took his pipe from a pocket, tapped the bowl 
 against his boot, and placed it on the table. 
 
44 MRS BENTE 
 
 While Gervase was speaking and still ordering his 
 thoughts, he had to stare at it, that instrument of 
 sacrifice for shag. He knew why it was put there. It 
 was (presto, the metaphorical transformation !) a 
 spur to the halting steed of his confidences. 
 
 He plunged. 
 
 'This giri is a sister of Mary Magdalen. She has 
 sinned and she has suffered/ 
 
 'Of course ! How did you meet her?' 
 
 'In the streets. I was coming home by the docks, 
 and she accosted me. She looked so pale and 
 fragile, so — so superior to her life of degradation 
 that I felt sorry for her, and — I reminded her of the 
 Magdalen/ 
 
 He looked with saddened eyes at the Vicar, who 
 realised then more than ever he had done before, the 
 sincerity and the purity of this man. 
 
 Richards said nothing. When his curate looked 
 away from him he quietly took his pipe from the table 
 and slipped it into his pocket. 
 
 'Go on, Gervase. Speak right out. Trust me. I 
 am her e to help/ 
 
 'Thanks, Vicar; I never doubted you. Well, she 
 seemed touched and sorry — perhaps ashamed. I hope 
 so, anyhow. I persuaded her at once to go home, with 
 the promise that she would go straight home/ 
 
 'You gave her some money, I suppose?' 
 
 'Well, yes. I had to. Do you not realise, Vicar/ 
 he flamed out, 'the absolute desperation of these poor 
 creatures? There is nothing but the sin of the gutter 
 between them and death ! ' 
 
 

 MRS BENTE 45 
 
 'I do, I do/ answered the Vicar very gently; and 
 Bente, a little ashamed of his outburst, controlled 
 his easy excitement. 
 
 'That was some weeks ago. I have since seen her 
 frequently; and have every reason and satisfaction 
 to know that she is repentant and striving to live 
 virtuously/ 
 
 'What is her name?' 
 
 'Ellen Parker. She is not ill-connected, I under- 
 stand. Her father was a colonel in the Indian army. 
 He died, and she was left alone, or in that worse than 
 loneliness, the charge of indifferent relatives; and 
 became a governess. She went from place to place, 
 earning next to nothing a year, and at last was 
 — taken advantage of . . . There is nobody so 
 helpless as some of those poor independent girls; 
 they ' 
 
 'I know/ 
 
 'She was turned out of the house, with but a few 
 shillings in her purse. Oh, the charity of the Pharisees 
 
 ! ' He clasped his hands in the trembling anger of 
 
 a splendid indignation against those who are merely 
 formally good. 
 
 ' Gently, Gervase ! ' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon ! She had no one to turn to — 
 I suppose it's the same old story in her case as in many. 
 Her relatives, true to pattern, turned their backs on 
 her. You see she was not respectable now. What 
 could the end be in these days of the economic 
 dependence of women, when their wages generally are 
 not enough to ' 
 
 
46 MRS BENTE 
 
 The Vicar interrupted him. He looked back at the 
 clock which ticked with hideous loudness over the 
 brass cross above the fireplace. 
 
 'My time is very limited. Tell me the essential 
 facts of this poor giri/ he said. 'We can discuss the 
 economic circumstances of the case at another time. 
 The thing is, how are we to help Miss Parker — I 
 suppose she's a Miss — and how to help you.' 
 
 'Help me?' Bente was surprised. 
 
 'My dear chap, yes. Don't you realise that you 
 may be the tool of a very designing woman? ' 
 
 Gervase shifted impatiently. He was prepared to 
 speak again, to speak with warmth, with heat; but the 
 Vicar rapping the table beside him with his knuckles 
 impelled him t o remain silent. 
 
 ' Listen to me ! Ellen Parker may be all that you 
 say she is — she may indeed be the victim of cruel con- 
 ditions and the viciousness of some unprincipled man. 
 She may, on the other hand, be just the reverse; a 
 woman — my boy, there are thousands such in this 
 vast Babylon of ours — a woman as prone to vice as 
 a duck to pond-water. Humanity is sometimes a 
 terribly tainted fact; there are girls — it is only common 
 sense to see it — who through the inheritance of 
 tendencies or from innate rottenness — I don't know — 
 can no more help sinning and running after sin than 
 you, my dear Gervase, can resist a spiritually generous 
 tendency. But we will leave that question, too, until 
 some other time — to-morrow, after lunch, perhaps, 
 for it's a fascinating and terrible subject, a condition 
 which we parsons have to face unflinchingly, and realise, 
 
MRS BENTE 47 
 
 or we are no more good for our jobs than plaster saints 
 would be. 
 
 'Let us imagine that this Parker giri is all that you 
 say she was, pure, in the beginning, well-connected, 
 weak, no doubt — ruined by some cursed blackguard. 
 At that point of her life she may have been a saint; 
 as pure in intention, in spite of the fact, as a virgin 
 martyr — as a holy innocent . . . How many years 
 ago was that ? ' He pointed the abrupt, blunt question 
 with an upraised hand. 
 
 1 1 don't know ! ' Gervase had t o answer. 
 
 'No, and for good reason, I suspect. My lady kept 
 to generalities. Ask her when you see her; and don't 
 let her wriggle out of it. Guard against her contra- 
 dictions. These women ' 
 
 'But, Vicar, aren't you judging her after only a 
 partial hearing?' 
 
 ' Perhaps I am, Gervase. I' m afraid I am/ The Vicar 
 brooded for an instant, and gnawed with his lower 
 teeth the edge of his cropped moustache. 'I don't 
 want to be unfair to the giri. Just the opposite. If 
 I — or you — could really save that soul it would be 
 worth all the years of disappointment and despair 
 which have been practically the whole reward of our 
 work in this parish. St Brendan's would have been 
 a heart-breaking place if I'd been — the delicate sort 
 of clergyman/ 
 
 Musing for the moment, he took his pipe and 
 pouch from his pocket and charged the bowl with 
 tobacco. Gervase watched his movements silently, 
 waiting. 
 
4 8 MRS BENTE 
 
 * This is the point I want you to be sure of . Suppose 
 it was three years since Ellen Parker was seduced . . . 
 How old is she?' 
 
 'Oh, young/ 
 
 ' Eighteen — twenty — twenty-six? ' 
 
 He replaced the loaded pipe on the table. 
 
 'I can't tell, and she didn't say. She is a worn 
 creature, fragile, frail, pale; certainly not strong enough 
 for the awful existence she has to endure/ 
 
 'Suppose it is only a year since she was wronged. 
 Is that too long a time? ' 
 
 'It must have been longer than that, considering 
 all she has had to go through.' 
 
 'Very well; is not that time long enough, with all 
 its experiences, anguish, illnesses, anxieties, remorse 
 and persistent sin — the min of youths, the indulgence 
 of satyr-like men — to crush out of her all her finer 
 possibilities, and leave her a desperate, cunning woman, 
 capable of any device to ensnare? ' 
 
 Bente sprang t o his feet. His eyes flashed with a 
 fury of indignation. 
 
 ' What you say is damnable ! ' he cried. ' God for- 
 give me for saying that under this roof ! But it is the 
 word. You do not know the giri. You are arguing 
 without possession of all the facts. I've seen her. 
 I've talked with her, prayed with her/ 
 
 'My dear Gervase/ quietly counselled the Vicar, 
 also rising to his feet and resting a restraining hand on 
 the shoulder of his passionate disciple. ' I may be doing 
 her — and you — an injustice; but I would rather shock 
 you through such an injustice than let you rush into 
 
MRS BENTE 49 
 
 the worst sort of danger with your eyes open, and yet 
 blind.' 
 
 ' Forgive rae, Vicar ! ' Bente began to say. His hands 
 trembled. 
 
 'My dear boy, there's nothing to forgive. I'm glad 
 t o find you are indignant. A champion who can bear 
 quietly imputations which seem to him unjust is likely 
 to be of very poor sort of service to the world. But, 
 speaking quite plainly, you've got to be most careful 
 . . . There is such a thing as blackmail ! These 
 harpies — I mean some harpies ' 
 
 'It's no blackmail here, Vicar. What I've given the 
 giri, to keep her off the streets, I gave voluntarily. 
 I can well afford it; and she ' 
 
 ' Did she demur at taking it ? ' 
 
 'She did. I had to argue with her before she'd be 
 persuaded/ 
 
 The Vicar shook his head — for his own satisfaction. 
 He had his doubts; but he was not going further this 
 evening to distress this ardent Perseus; though he 
 had very profound doubts as t o the character of the 
 chains which fastened Miss Andromeda Parker to the 
 rocks. 
 
 'I must go,' he said, 'Purvis (that was the master 
 of the workhouse) will be giving me up; and I mustn't 
 disappoint him. I' 11 go and see the giri, Gervase; and 
 we'll talk further/ 
 
 'Thanks, Vicar; but let us talk further before you 
 call on her. Remember it is my job ' 
 
 'Oh, I won't forget/ The Vicar smiled. 'I'm not 
 inclined to make it my job, just at present/ 
 
50 MRS BENTE 
 
 1 1 mean that, for good or ill, Fm going to try and 
 save that soul. I'm pledged to it.' 
 
 'To her are you pledged to it? ' 
 
 ' No, to myself . I vowed before the altar, during the 
 Eucharist.' 
 
 Tom Richards turned with his hand on the latch 
 of the door to look back at him with knitted brows and 
 serious eyes. 
 
 'Absolutely pledged?' he asked with a solemnity 
 unusual to him. 
 
 * Absolutely ! I could not now give it up. I believe 
 she was wronged, and at heart is innocent; and that 
 all her suffering and sin — all that you spoke of — was 
 punishment suffered by her for an offence she was 
 originally not truly guilty of/ 
 
 The Vicar seemed about t o make an added rejoinder; 
 but he refrained. 
 
 'You'll lock up carefully, won't you, Gervase; and 
 see that the West door is properly closed and 
 fastened?' 
 
 'I will.' 
 
 The Vicar went out. Gervase bolted the Vestry door. 
 He then went into the darkened church; there was only 
 just light enough t o see by penetrating the West and 
 side windows. 
 
 Obedient to the injunctions of his chief, he went to 
 the West door and tried its fastenings. It was safely 
 closed. He returned to the chancel steps and stood 
 there for some moments in a muse. Suddenly, impetu- 
 ously, he knelt on the cushioned edge which ran by 
 the chancel-rail. 
 
tx 
 
 MRS BENTE 51 
 
 He spread out his arms, and with a sigh that was 
 nearly a cry flung himself prone. 
 
 ' My God . . . My God . . . My God ! ' he breathed 
 with the passion almost of despair. ' Strengthen me ! 
 Give me wisdom and strength . . . Give me Thy 
 Grace. O God ! . . . My God ! . . . ' Then in the 
 softened voice which suggests the resignation of weak- 
 ness after the strain of rare energy, he added, 'Help 
 Thou my unbelief.' 
 
 For a little while he knelt there silently, discord- 
 antly praying, and breathing heavily. His thoughts 
 had no method or texture. It was his heart that 
 prayed, mutely, appealingly, for strength. It was the 
 kind of prayer, the formless yet effective prayer, 
 which, it seems, may be answered. 
 
 He walked home, thereafter, through the darkened 
 streets a rapt and chastened man. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 One result of Gervase Bente's bounty was that Ellen or 
 Poppy Parker — ' Ellen ' was, of course, not good enough 
 for her associates — was able to restore her wardrobe 
 and supply the touches of rouge necessary to disguise 
 with warmth her hollow and sallow cheeks. She won 
 back the sort of self-respect which comes with the 
 consciousness of decent shoes and elegant underclothing. 
 Lack of those foundations of satisfaction — and she had 
 known bad times in the past winter — had made her 
 even more vixenish and desperate than was her 
 wont. 
 
 But still this improved condition of affairs did not 
 prevent some pitched battles and frequent unpleasant 
 skirmishes between herself and the slyly meek, 
 occasionally militant, Mrs Barnes. 
 
 The two women had come to hate each other with a 
 narrow completeness. Each, with reason, despised the 
 other : each in a way was dependent on the other : 
 this very association of misliking and mutual dependence 
 gave edge to their angers; so that the interior of the 
 basement and first floor of Number 8 was too often like 
 a mean version of a shoddy Pandemonium; and all 
 the comparative self-satisfaction of the exterior of 
 Alma Terrace could not disguise the depressedness 
 
 52 
 
MRS BENTE 53 
 
 caused by the rancour and rowing of those intolerable 
 women. 
 
 No wonder the Terrace sometimes lookcd deeply 
 dejected. Houses know, and remember. That is where 
 the ghosts come from. 
 
 There promised to be something of a pitched battle 
 on the day after that on which Gervase had consulted 
 and confided in his Vicar. The 'dearie' stage of ad- 
 dress was past; and the bigger guns were being brought 
 into action, when, despite their growing shrillness, the 
 disputants on the landing outside EUen Parker' s room 
 heard a thunderous volley of knocks on the front door. 
 The two women stared at each other, at once forgetting 
 their common rage and developing insults, in this 
 new interest. The silence was the stranger for the 
 recent turmoil. 
 
 ' Mr Bente ! ' whispered Mrs Barnes. 
 
 ' It was his knock. If you like I'll go/ 
 
 'Yes, dearie; I — I'm too upset. I'll get myself 
 a nice strong cup of tea, and if you're inclined to be 
 friendly, as I hope you will, dear ' 
 
 ' Oh, don't you worry yourself ! ' Poppy interrupted 
 rudely. 'You' d better clear out of it. Tell me, — do 
 I look tidy? Quick ! You — you're a sight.' 
 
 Mrs Barnes breathed deeply, intending a sigh ; and 
 knew she was a sight. 
 
 'Yes/ she answered, 'I feel I am. You look a bit 
 rashed out too; but you'll do !' and turning, thudded 
 Ler way downstairs. 
 
 Poppy rushed into her bedroom, looked at herself 
 >wiftly, critically, in the glass, dabbed a morsel of 
 
54 MRS BENTE 
 
 powder on the side of her nose, rapidly changed her 
 shoes, and hurried to the door. 
 
 She opened it to — the Vicar. 
 
 ' Good-afternoon ! ' said he. ' Are you Miss Ellen 
 Parker?' 
 
 ' No ! ' she answered, lying instinctively, and feeling 
 angry at the disappointment following so much fuss. 
 She had no desire whatever to be interviewed by this 
 clergyman or any other than him within whose breast 
 she was confident she had quickened a special interest. 
 
 The Vicar looked at her keenly. This young woman 
 was in appearance very like the person he had imagined 
 from Gervase Bente's description, dark, petite, wasted 
 through strain and care. 
 
 'Miss Parker lives here, I believe?' 
 
 'Yes, sir.' 
 
 'Is she in?' 
 
 'No, she is out/ 
 
 'Out!' 
 
 'Yes. She is always out at this time of the day. 
 She is a typist/ 
 
 'Can you tell me anything about her?' the Vicar 
 persisted. He was not disposed to have come on a 
 fool's errand, accomplishing nothing. 'May I come 
 in for a few minutes?' 
 
 Poppy had fully recovered her wits by this time, and 
 was disposed to be rid of this possible inquisitor, at 
 once and for ever. 
 
 Tm afraid you can't/ she answered, with seeming 
 frankness, in a most innocent manner — and when 
 she liked she could look extraordinarily simple and 
 
MRS BENTE 55 
 
 innocent. ' I have my work to attend to, and there is 
 no knowing when Miss Parker will be back.' 
 
 ' Is the lady of the house in — Mrs Barnes, I believe? ' 
 
 ' No, she too has gone out, shopping. I am alone in 
 the house and rather busy/ 
 
 By this time the Vicar was feeling conscious that the 
 young woman was probably not telling all the tnith; 
 though courtesy prevented his pressing her further. 
 If she were lying to him, he must needs accept it as 
 the truth; though why she should wish to lie to 
 him passed his understanding. What was the good 
 of it? 
 
 'And it's no use my waiting?' he asked, hesitating 
 what to do. 
 
 ' Oh, you can wait if you like/ she answered promptly, 
 'though she may not be in for hours. Mrs Barnes is 
 not only shopping, but has gone to see her uncle in 
 the Limehouse Road. If you don't mind being left 
 alone you can wait in here — but I thought clergymen 
 had a very great deal to do ! ' 
 
 He laughed suddenly. He was caught by the arch- 
 ness that peeped out of her words. 
 
 'Ali right, young lady, I must try again another 
 day. Will you please tell Miss Parker I called? I'm 
 the Vicar of St Brendan's; and say that if she wan t s 
 to see me I'm at the Vestry nearly e very evening at 
 six, and at home pretty frequently in the course of 
 the day. I'd be glad if she' d call. I want a talk with 
 her. Good-day and thank you ! ' 
 
 He turned and went down two of the steps leading 
 to the gate when he stopped. Poppy had just time to 
 
56 MRS BENTE 
 
 hide the half-grin with which she derided his departing 
 back. 
 
 ' By the way, may I ask your name? ' 
 
 She was equal t o the occasion. 
 
 'Oh, yes. I'm Miss Goodwin. I'm here for a short 
 visit. Good-afternoon ! * and she shut the door. 
 
 The Vicar marched back to the Clergy House, a 
 thoughtful, baffled man. 
 
 Td bet a crooked sixpence it was the giri herself. 
 And yet I don't know. She's too clever for me; and 
 as to Gervase . . . If it was she, he'll have to pay a 
 pretty penny before he's done with her : and yet — she 
 was not unattractive : she had a sort of simplicity that 
 was likeable. There are possibilities there — perhaps it 
 was not the Parker woman after all — perhaps . . . ' 
 
 He was still hovering among the perhapses when he 
 won back home, to the masculine converse of Arthur 
 Jerome, and the comparative comfort of tea. 
 
 'I called at Alma Terrace/ he told Gervase later in 
 the evening. ' I didn't see the giri . . . Does she wear 
 a black dress and a deep white thingumbob for collar? ' 
 he asked. 
 
 ' Not to my knowledge/ Bente had to confess. ' I've 
 never really noticed what she wore/ 
 
 1 Has she a brooch like the back of a beetle on a safety 
 pin, you know. — greeny?' 
 
 'I believe she has/ Gervase stared with his inner 
 eyes at the picture gallery of his memory; 'But really 
 I can't be sure. That sort of brooch is very ordinary 
 and common, I believe/ 
 
MRS BENTE 57 
 
 The Vicar said little more. He intended soon again 
 to try and interview the witch of Alma Terrace; but 
 in his busily-occupied life with its infinite and varied 
 duties, and many calls, that was an intention more 
 easily determined than done. 
 
 As for the ineffable Poppy, she regarded the inter- 
 view and her own bold duplicity with absolut e content. 
 As she was returning to her room she smiled coldly 
 and put out, in derision of the foiled visitor, a pointed 
 tongue. She was proceeding to improve her counte- 
 nance with the needful chemist-shop accessories when 
 she heard Mrs Barnes thudding her way up the wooden 
 kitchen stairs, and the clattering of inevitable tea-cups. 
 
 1 The old sow again ! ' she sighed to herself resignedly . 
 1 I've the patience of a — curate ! ' and laughed with 
 quiet irony to herself. She proceeded calmly with her 
 toilet, while the landlady knocked with the tea-tray 
 at the door, and pausing a moment for permission to 
 enter, which was silently granted, went in, breathing 
 heavily, but with relief. 
 
 ' There now ! ' she said heartily, as she placed the 
 tray on the bed. * And wasn't it him after all? What 
 a disappointment ! ' 
 
 'No . . . it was a tradesman, a butcher, I think, 
 who wanted Number 2. I sent him there!' 
 
 Mrs Barnes looked at EUen ; for a moment her mud- 
 coloured eyes gleamed. ' The imperence ! — and came 
 to the front-door. I'm glad I didn't answer it. I'd 
 'ave give 'im whatfor ! — coming up my clean steps.' 
 
 Ellen made a wry face at the glass, and took the cup 
 of leathery tea offered her. 
 
58 MRS BENTE 
 
 'Now we'll 'ave a nice talk,' said the landlady. 
 
 'No, we won't, dear; not to-day. I've got a great 
 deal to think of, and I must go out/ 
 
 While the young woraan decked and tittivated her- 
 self, putting on tinkling bangles, and port-wine coloured 
 gloves — little did Gervase know the use that had been 
 made of his benevolence ! — she sipped her brew, and 
 the old woman stared and wondered. 
 
 ' The wicked 'ussy ! ' were the words, the kernel, of 
 her cruel thoughts. 
 
 As soon as Poppy was dressed and had stared at 
 herself critically, backward and frontward, in the 
 glass, preening herself like a love-bird (of the hawk 
 family), she nodded graciously to her reflection. She 
 was at last pleased with herself. She nodded also, 
 and actually smiled, to Mrs Barnes. 
 
 ' So long, old dear ! ' she said; and went. 
 
 When the front-door was closed, and that huntress 
 of man was gone Mrs Barnes soliloquised. The thoughts 
 and the words are not worth setting down, but they 
 had to do with gullibility and the deceitfulness of human 
 creatures. The landlady was not a whit hoodwinked 
 by the deeds and devices of this young woraan, her 
 first-floor back — what landlady ever is hoodwinked 
 when naughtiness is abroad? — but she shut her eyes 
 deliberately, telling herself she was too virtuous to 
 see, and convincing herself, through artfulness and not 
 through reason, that she was too innocent to know. 
 Mrs Barnes could not be guiltless; she traded know- 
 ingly on Ellen Parker' s vice : she was an accessory, 
 though quiescent, both before and after the fact. 
 
MRS BENTE 59 
 
 The rent for the room was higher, much higher, 
 because . . . 
 
 . 
 
 The next day Gervase called. Mrs Barnes showed 
 him in t o the front-room, adjoining that in 
 which Poppy Parker was still abed, absorbed in a 
 novelette. 
 
 * She knew it was your knock/ she explained blandly. 
 She beamed on the young man, for she loved the Cloth, 
 and was fully conscious of the mantle of respectability 
 which shrouds every house that is visited regularly 
 by a clergyman. 'She won't be long/ 
 
 ' Oh, then I can't see Miss Parker at once? ' he said 
 in his high tenor voice; and looked at his watch. 
 
 'No, sir, not quite at once. She's lying down. I 
 think she's perhaps not quite well/ she added, loud 
 enough for the dear young thing to hear. 
 
 PHe paused and rubbed his chin in contemplation. 
 ' Then I think, Mrs Barnes, F 11 call again. There is a 
 family in Bartlett's Dwellings I can go and see. How 
 long will Miss Parker be, do you think ? ' 
 
 'Oh, not long, Fm sure. She'd bustle herself a bit 
 to see a gentleman/ There was a touch of vicious- 
 ness in these words. Bente did not realise it, though 
 Ellen did, for she smiled to herself, wryly, as she 
 stretched an arm t o the adjacent dressing-table in 
 search of a cigarette. 
 'Twenty minutes/ he asked, 'or half-an-hour?' 
 "Alf an hour ought to do, Fm sure. F 11 tell 'er. 
 I expect she only wants a touch of eau-de-cologner 
 to set 'er right/ — added Mrs Barnes, who knew well 
 
60 MRS BENTE 
 
 enough that far more than that was needed ere the 
 lady would be ready to be seen. 
 
 'Thank you, Mrs Barnes; then tell her, please, FH 
 be back in about half an hour . . . I' 11 close the 
 front-door; don't trouble/ 
 
 As soon as the curate had gone, Mrs Barnes went to 
 report. 
 
 ' I heard ! F 11 get up. Get me some warm water, 
 there's an old dear; and pass me the stockings/ — 
 of which one was lying in the fireplace, the other dang- 
 ling from the yellow, mottled chest of drawers. She 
 sighed almost luxuriously, while she smoked and 
 thought — thought of things very practical, for this 
 young woman had the business sense passably well- 
 developed, and as much faculty for illusion as would 
 go into an elf's wallet and still leave it somewhat 
 empty. 
 
 1 1 wonder what's 'er game now/ said Mrs Barnes t o 
 the black kettle which squatted sluggardly on the 
 cheerless kitchen fire. Well inight she wonder; well, 
 too, might Gervase Bente have wondered; for it 
 closely concerned him : but at this stage even the 
 giri concerned had only vague glimmerings of her 
 intentions and determinings. 
 
 When the curate returned Poppy herself opened the 
 door to him. She wore a pathetic expression, and 
 smiled wanly. He followed her into the front room. 
 It was just as well for him that the man-of-the-world 
 common sense of the Vicar had left some of its influence 
 behind. Bente was as determined as ever to save this 
 giri' s soul — as he put it — and not to give up the quest 
 
MRS BENTE 61 
 
 while she lived; for even if she failed him and failed 
 him again, failed him for seventy times seven, he vowed 
 he would not abandon her, while, at least, a daily 
 prayer could be offered to Heaven on her behalf. 
 Nevertheless, he was more watchful than was his wont, 
 and disposed t o be prudent. 
 
 With the quickness of her intuition she realised his 
 mood was subtly modified, and looked at him with 
 searching, experienced eyes. 
 
 1 1 have tried to do what you told me. It is hard; 
 but I will try. I will ! ' 
 
 Poppy, though sometimes false and a liar to the back- 
 bone; an actress with a joyous passion for fooling men; 
 was at this moment not entirely insincere. It was a 
 fact, strange to her and not recognised by her, that 
 in Gervase Bente's presence she had a real desire — 
 though that desire was not at all definitely expressed 
 — to be the better woman. 
 
 Still, what she had just said was not the truth. He 
 had left with her a written prayer, to be said by her 
 bedside at night. Despite her protestation, she had 
 not tried to say it : her thoughts and attentions 
 invariably happened at the time to be otherwise 
 engaged. Yet, in that present asseveration and promise, 
 she meant sincerely and meant well. 
 
 The influence of his personality, with its high purity 
 and devotion, was upon her. She desired, at the 
 moment even ardently, though never quite consciously, 
 not to be unworthy of his confidence and trust, and 
 — still for the moment only — hated the squalor of her 
 hapless, unholy life. 
 
62 MRS BENTE 
 
 'I am so glad/ he said, as his face lighted up, dis- 
 missing the former gravity of its expression. 'To try 
 honestly is half the victory. If you can only accustom 
 yourself to thinking quiet, uplifting thoughts in the 
 moments before you sleep, your whole being must 
 become calmer/ 
 
 While he was talking her quick mind was working. 
 The phase of nobler-desiring was already passing, was 
 past, even before he had reached the end of his sentence. 
 
 ' You have a nice mouth ! ' she said mischievously. 
 She could not help it. 'I like those curved ends/ 
 
 He was shocked. ' Oh, stop that ! ' he pleaded. 
 
 'I don't mean anything naughty/ she protested, 
 with a little pale smile, which, if he had been much 
 older and less in earnest, would have surely touched 
 him — as it was meant to do. ' I am trying, really hard, 
 to be a good giri, and to give up bad ways; but you 
 are human, you know, and so am I, and you are — I 
 must say it, you really must let me, — well, rather 
 good-looking/ 
 
 He rose, in a panic. 
 
 'Please, please, Miss Parker; don't talk to me like 
 that ! I know I' m human ; and it is because my 
 human heart is touched that I want to help you, and 
 to save you from the — from the degrading infamy 
 in which you have lived. Do be serious : do let 
 me have confidence that you are serious : otherwise, 
 how can I help you?' Ali was spoken with a panic 
 earnestness and haste. 
 
 'I am sorry, Mr Bente/ She looked down at the 
 folded hands in her lap and felt for the moment truly 
 
MRS BENTB 63 
 
 impressed by his earnestness and regardful of his 
 care for her interests. ' But you must be patient with 
 me. I have been bad, I know it : but I was made bad. 
 If I had not been very unfortunate, very poor and 
 anfortunate, and in want . . .' 
 
 She looked up at him with beseeching eyes — there 
 may have been in them a touch of tears; and knew she 
 had not pleaded in vain. 
 
 'Yes/ he agreed, and his voice was gentle. Its tone 
 was of the nature of a spiritual caress. ' You have had 
 a time which would have crushed any one. I pity you 
 — I pity all poor girls in your case : from the depths 
 of my heart I do/ 
 
 He was very young in experience of this ugly chapter 
 of existence; but his heart was a large one and his 
 mind and wits not those of a fool. 
 
 Moved by his words, she was of a sudden bitterly 
 sorry for herself . She pitied herself with all the weight 
 of her colossal egoism. She saw herself the maiden 
 martyr, paying the price demanded by modern Babylon; 
 and almost wept at the penalties that womanhood 
 must bear. 
 
 'It is hard to escape/ she confessed. 'You may 
 give me these little exercises of praying, and so on, 
 I know you mean well by them; but they are straws/ 
 
 ' It is the beginning; they will grow stronger/ he urged. 
 
 'But passion is stronger still. Oh, Mr Bente, let me 
 be frank with you. I often want to be good, I want 
 to be better now; but it is so hard. In the beginning 
 when I was — wronged, and found out, and dismissed 
 from my situation — chucked out with not even two 
 
64 MRS BENTE 
 
 decent rags to my back, such help as yo'ufs might have 
 saved me. . . . By God, it might ! ' 
 
 He, in his impressibility, was too moved by her words 
 to intemipt, though the concluding objurgation jarred 
 his nerves. 
 
 'But there was no one — absolutely no one — to help. 
 Ali the good women I knew were the hard kind who 
 would think themselves lost in virtue if they gave a 
 helping hand to the poor creature who had fallen. 
 There wasn't a word of true sympathy given me, all 
 the time — really there wasn't ! — or of real help ; 
 only texts and gush about the pure in heart and all 
 that sickening stuff.' 
 
 She glared at him with angry indignation, as though 
 he were the concentrated expression of the righteous 
 and the virtuous and the Pharisee. He was watching 
 with such grief and sympathy of affection that she 
 forgot for the instant the part she was sincerely play- 
 ing; and was inclined to burst out into the laughter of 
 hysteria. 
 
 'If I'd met you in those early months, when I 
 remembered my father and thought of the shame he 
 would have been feeling, I might have remained a 
 good giri, and married a decent man — if there are any ! 
 — but the clergy and the ministers, the parsons and the 
 hypocrites, passed me by like those fellows in the Bible, 
 the good Samaritan, you know ! ' 
 
 'Please don't speak like that; you only spoil your 
 good case/ he counselled. 
 
 'Do I? I suppose I do; but what does it matter if 
 I do spoil my case? You have helped me — I don't wan t 
 
MRS BEMTB 65 
 
 to htirt you : but you'd better realise the hopelessness 
 — yes, the hopelessness — of helping me/ She showed 
 for the moment the mien and aspect, the abandon, 
 of despair; partly deliberate pose, mainly unaffected 
 sincerity. 
 
 'I refuse to believe there is any such hopelessness/ 
 he declared, and the confidence with which he spoke 
 was strengthening. 
 
 ' My Go — my Gracious — I nearly said it ! You 
 are a good — good fellow. Don't give me up, Mr Bente, 
 if any one can save me, you can/ She put out her 
 hands towards him. 'You won't desert me, will you?' 
 
 ' I won't ! ' he said with glad emphasis. ' I will never 
 desert you — never, while there' s a chance of helping you/ 
 
 'Thank you — I think that only you can save me — 
 'sh ! ' she paused. ' I believe that old cat's listening/ 
 She rose and hurried t o the door, opened it, and peered 
 into the passage; finding no one there, she rushed 
 impulsively into her room, the door of which was ajar. 
 Then she heard the creaking of the kitchen stairs. 
 
 'Mrs Barnes/ she said in a cruel, cold, cutting 
 whisper, 'if you eavesdrop again, you dirty mess, 1*11 
 gouge your sneaking eyes out/ 
 
 'I wasn't listening/ the other whimpered; and now 
 her feet thudded as usual, as she fled ponderously to 
 her fortress below that flight of creaking stairs. 
 
 ' You liar, you were ! Don't you come up again 
 while my friend is here : or I leave your lousy house 
 to-morrow — and not pay you a f arthing ! ' 
 
 She watched the landlady shuffle into her own par- 
 ticular seclusion, like a gross spider returning to the 
 
66 MRS BENTE 
 
 sanctuary of its web, and then re-entered the room. 
 Gervase was standing a figure of concern and distress. 
 He was hurt by her sudden change to passionate 
 vindictiveness after such a soul-searching confession 
 and appeal as had been interrupted. She saw the 
 difference in him but misread the cause. 
 
 ' The sneak was listening; but she's not listening now ! ' 
 
 'I had better go,' he said gently and hurriedly. 'I 
 am sorry we were interrupted. You are not in the 
 mood for more counsel from me — to-day at any rate.' 
 
 ' No/ she agreed. She knew she was not. 
 
 'Be patient with your landlady/ he charged her. 
 ' Even that may be a part of your probation. I dare say 
 she is anxious about you, and concerned for you/ 
 
 'Not she— the old limb !' 
 
 'Hush, my dear giri. Be careful, be brave/ His 
 appeal touched her wandering moods. She felt on the 
 sudden a pathetic object again. 
 
 'I can see it's no use our talking further to-day; 
 but come to the Clergy House, or to the Vestry, we 
 can talk there as well, and it would be nice for you to 
 kneel in the church for a little while. I want you to 
 come to the altar artd to pray with you there/ 
 
 'Will that old Vicar be there?' she asked shortly. 
 
 He stared at her, and she remembered. She smiled 
 to recover his confidence. 
 
 'He called here yesterday to see you/ 
 
 'I know he did/ she answered promptly. 
 
 'Did you see him?' 
 
 'No, I was out. But, Miss Goodwin, a friend or 
 relation of Mrs Barnes, saw him. She told me ! ' 
 
MRS BENTE 67 
 
 He tested her once more. He felt it was his duty 
 to do so. 
 
 'You sometimes wear a brooch, don't you, with a 
 beetle-back ? ' 
 
 'Do I? Why do you ask?' she inquired with pert- 
 ness t o hide her sudden anxiety. 1 1 was on the tip of 
 her tongue to be rude to him, though at the same time 
 she was glad she was not wearing that ornament now. 
 
 1 Forgive me ! ' was all he said and then went on. 
 ' I am sorry we were interrupted; but it spoilt the con- 
 fidence we were finding, and we couldn't have got on 
 so well thereafter.' He took her hand : she wondered 
 mischievously — imps were always prankish in Ellen 
 Parker' s brain — whether she might squeeze his fingers; 
 but decided she had better not. 
 
 'Try: don't give in. It's worth while making a 
 fight for it. A good woman is God's greatest blessing 
 to mankind : a woman who has lost her virtue — had 
 it stolen from her — is the most pathetic, and in her 
 loneliness is the most terribly sad/ He looked down 
 on her with pity in his eyes. ' God bless you, my dear ! ' 
 
 He turned a^id went, and shut the front door behind 
 him with a. siam which startled Mrs Barnes out of her 
 brooding. 
 
 He's a good chap/ said Ellen Parker t o herself, 
 'a good fellow : it's a rotten pity he's a parson, a 
 great pity. However — — ' 
 
 She gave her mind to some practical thoughts about 
 Gervase Bente. Slowly her business mood came upper- 
 most; and, forthwith, the charm that was her's 
 departed. 
 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 It was impossible for Gervase to communicate with 
 Ellen for some days after the internipted interview, 
 because Lent had come and there was very much now 
 to do in the church and parish; but it was obviously 
 impossible to leave things as they were. 
 
 The interview, with Ellen Parker's frankness of 
 speech, had pushed things forward and must be followed 
 up promptly. Hitherto she had been rather a nega- 
 tive object to be helped and saved. She had been 
 sought and looked after by Gervase, who had pleaded 
 with her, prayed for her, won from her plenty of 
 narrative but little confession, and no true wish to be 
 helped in his way. She had told him stories of her 
 past life as often as not false, for she had that gift of 
 invention, when it suited her to use it, which made it 
 impossible even for herself not to believe she was 
 telling the truth. Fiction and fact were inextricably 
 interwoven in everything she said; and the plainest 
 facts, even in her sincerest moments, were to some 
 degree coloured. 
 
 But, now, until Mrs Barnes, with her suspiciousness, 
 curiosity, and eavesdropping, had intervened to spoil 
 the occasion, she had gone a far step further. She had 
 begun of her own initiative t o put forth feelers, appeals, 
 
 68 
 
Mrs Sente 69 
 
 for help; and Gervase, in his passion of anxiety to 
 restore her to the company of good women, had regarded 
 the experience on the whole — there had certainly been 
 some unhelpful and discouraging passages — as the 
 most positive promise yet held out that he — and she 
 — were t o win. Already in his heart he began to rejoice 
 over that particular one sinner that repenteth. 
 
 There was, however, dawning definitely in Ellen 
 Parker's susceptibilities a new idea. She was at times 
 becoming more and really ashamed of her sordid life, 
 because Gervase Bente was a personable man. She 
 liked the flash of his eyes when he was eager, the shape 
 of his nose, the curve at the corner of his lips; his 
 cleanness, his sincerity, his strength. He stood for some- 
 thing new, for something that, with all her brags, she 
 had never yet met in her life; and the very fact that 
 he could make a mission for her, and worry himself 
 about her as he had done, follow her up, plead with 
 her, visit her, had touched that scorched cinder, her 
 woman's heart. No other man could have done this 
 thing. Her trade had taught her sometimes to loathe 
 men, always to see the animal and dishonourable; 
 without forming her views definitely, to regard the whole 
 sex as beastly — now that another man, who was not 
 obsessed with lusts, who was not brutal and greedy and 
 eaten up with vanity, had entered the path she was 
 crossing. 
 
 She still lived her life and went her way ; was 
 sometimes vicious and vulgar, and, when things went 
 very wrong, was forbidding, for, to be so, at times 
 was in her blood. She still, except in her dressed hours, 
 
y6 MRS BENTE 
 
 kept herself untidy, and her room in a condition of 
 confusion and squalor; but she had, at any rate, learnt 
 a difference, and now realised that this curate, with 
 the clean heart and considerate attentions, was to 
 her exceptional — a man as man ought to be, and not 
 as she had invariably experienced. 
 
 To say that Poppy had fallen in love with Gervase 
 is to be several leagues from the truth. She could not 
 fail in love, simply because she had lost, if ever she had 
 possessed them, the necessary illusions. His strength, 
 fitness, and the shining purity of his intentions, could 
 appeal to her, and did so; she liked the confidence and 
 dignity of his bearing, the evident cleanness of his life 
 — yes, even that — and was stimulated, warmed, by 
 the burning ardour of his ideals; though in truth they 
 were to her something more distant than the farthest 
 stars. He was a man whose manhood appealed to her 
 the more, because it was so much finer, stronger, nobler, 
 than the manliness she had hitherto known; but love 
 — even a glint of it — could hardly be the word in her 
 case. She had to learn its elementary alphabet. 
 
 Gervase had not called for several days. Not only 
 did that mean that she missed him — a discovery, this, 
 for the spoilt and inscrutable damsel — but she missed 
 the money he had been helping her with. That 
 addition to her ever uncertain income had become rather 
 necessary; not only because Mrs Barnes was badgering 
 her for some arrears of rent and the more expensive 
 luxuries that had been recently purchased to augment 
 the poor cheap things — kippers and stale haddocks, 
 potted meats, fly-blown ham, tongue, confectioneries, 
 
MRS BENTE 71 
 
 and such — she had fed upon; but for the reason that 
 most of his earlier gifts had gone to buy new and more 
 elaborate clothing, hats, silk stockings, trinkets and 
 trashery. 
 
 It was necessary to see him. She missed him, she 
 needed him; he was a welcome foil t o her spoilt, 
 unhealthy life. She thought of writing a letter; but 
 the calculating prudence of her tribe intervened. She 
 would call, as he had invited her to do; and, as 
 Mohammed would not come t o the peri, the peri must 
 fly to him. . . . But there was the Vicar. It would be 
 perhaps a little embarrassing if she encountered him 
 in the presence of Gervase and he were to recognise 
 and expose her. 
 
 She bit her lips and thought. She planned — a female 
 general, a new Hyppolyta, meditating strategy — and 
 came to a decision. 
 
 She put on her quietest gown, brought her hair down 
 over her forehead, and bunched it over her ears; 
 touched the outer corners of her eyes with pencil, making 
 them seem longer, and the whole face smaller. She 
 wore no jewellery, being very careful to keep the beetle- 
 backed brooch at home. 
 
 ' Now, I don't look quite the same. Miss Goodwin has 
 gone back to — Broadstairs/ and she laughed aloud 
 genially. 
 
 Mrs Barnes, hearing the laughter, said to herself, 
 ' Some devilment ! ' 
 
 ' If I meet Beardy, 1*11 try and alter my voice; but 
 no, I won't, he's only a man. He wouldn't notice 
 much; besides, if necessary, I could say Miss Godwin 
 
 
72 MRS BENTE 
 
 — was it Godwin or Goodwin? — was my cousin. But 
 I had better not tell a tarradiddle — as I'ra going to 
 church.' Again she laughed t o herself, settled an 
 oldish hat very staidly on her unstaid head, and 
 sallied forth to conquer the ordained. 
 
 There were lights within St Brendan's, and the drone 
 of voices. She crept within the church porch and 
 pushed slightly at the heavy Western door. She peeped 
 within the church, and after a moment closed the door. 
 
 ' Ugh ! Religion is the dreariest ! Why do the fools 
 make it so dismal?' 
 
 While she was putting into words of thought these 
 critical reflections, a man, a passer-by, stopped a 
 moment at the entrance to the porch to strike a match 
 and light his pipe. He was making 'an umbrella of 
 religion/ using it to guard his necessary flame from 
 the surly blast. Poppy made eyes at him, she could 
 not help it; but eagerly interested in his match he did 
 not notice her, and went on his way undazzled and 
 uncaught. 
 
 For a moment she wondered, was it worth while? 
 And then the unusualness of this adventure appealed 
 to her; its prospects amused her, and spurred her on. 
 At the worst it would not harm her, and she wanted to 
 see Gervase. The service droned on — as it seemed to 
 her. Patience was not one of Ellen's virtues, and 
 under the uncomfortable conditions of the draughty 
 porch on that fitly Lenten evening she was very well- 
 disposed to let Mr Bente be — that was her aspect of 
 his moral crusade — and go back to her dirt and her 
 doom. The inclination was merely mcmentary. Material 
 
MRS BENTE 
 
 73 
 
 considerations recurred. His money, which paid the 
 immediate price of her salvation, brought her genuine 
 satisfaction and comfort; and the man himself appealed 
 to her, piqued her, at once stirred her womanhood 
 and quickened the slumbering sloth of her better 
 nature. 
 
 With her, to decide was to act; or rather to decide 
 was already to have acted. She saw that Gervase 
 was alone in his place in the chancel conducting the 
 service; and suddenly felt the need to impress him 
 by attendance at church. She opened the door, went 
 in, shut the door with rather a jar, not intended, and 
 sat on the innermost seat of a row of cane-plaited chairs, 
 under a stutt ering gas jet. 
 
 Gervase Bente, in the earnestness and vision of 
 worship, did not see her; but many of the sparse con- 
 gregation scattered about turned to look at the stranger 
 and forgot the call of the service — if they had ever 
 truly hearkened t o it — in their curiosity about this 
 damsel with the painted eyes. 
 
 She sat all the while. Whether the people in the 
 course of the service rose or knelt, she remained seated, 
 staring at Bente's distant, bowed, and surpliced figure, 
 and feeling most heavily bored. She yawned, yawned 
 a second time with noise; and, t o fix her wandering 
 interest, took a hymn-book from the ledge before 
 her, and while she stared without reading at the 
 large-type print, thought the many jostling thoughts 
 of her abounding worldliness. 
 
 When the service was ended she watched the people 
 go out, and stared at them pertly, because they stared 
 
74 MRS BENTE 
 
 — blankly — at her. She waited a few minutes while a 
 sleek-headed verger in a black cassock and with a 
 countenance hardly as spiritual as might have been 
 expected from his high ecclesiastical office, fussed among 
 seats and turned out gas jets. 
 
 When at last this business nearly ended, he was 
 coming importantly to inquire why she waited there 
 — where the British Public was not expected to be, 
 except at the advertised hours — she rose, and started 
 to walk towards the chancel, in order to go to the 
 Vestry the way that Gervase had gone. 
 
 He stopped her with a large, arresting, soiled, 
 official hand. 
 
 'And 'oo do you want?' asked he, with a touch of 
 the volume of Bumble. 
 
 'Mr Bente/ she answered. 
 
 'Then you'll be kind enough,' he said in a whisper 
 that was very important, 'to go out of that door and 
 turn to the left; and then turn down by the letter-box, 
 and go down the fust to the left again, and you'll see 
 at your left 'and — provided you've got a left 'and — 
 a lamp — marked ' 
 
 ' Don't be a damfool ! ' she said shortly, and walked, 
 with nose in air up the aisle, leaving the cassocked ass 
 aghast. 
 
 She found the way easily enough, and then received 
 a shock. The three clergymen were in the Vestry, 
 busily talking, while Gervase Bente was donning his 
 decent coat of black. She was surprised at finding so 
 many, and they were more than surprised at the 
 appearance of Ellen; had she been a real live ghost, an 
 
MRS BENTE 75 
 
 apparition all shivery and gory, a slithery spook with 
 a death's head and draggled sheet of white, she could not 
 have wrought more amazement and disturbance than 
 they showed, when she came the passage-way women 
 never went, except on the miserably-festive occasions 
 when they signed a register. 
 
 With a fiash of an eye she had realised that the Vicar 
 was there, and with the intuition that is cousin-german 
 to genius, determined to lay particular siege to him. 
 The difficulty of convincing him appealed to her. It 
 cheered her. She loved a fight in a tight corner, when 
 it was impossible to run away. 
 
 Mr Richards looked at her narrowly and severely, 
 and knew her at once. Gervase seemed frankly horri- 
 fied. He was knocked of a heap. Her visit thus was 
 the last event he expected. He disliked the public 
 expression of an intimate confession. Arthur Jerome, 
 after the first effects of the bombshell had passed, 
 openly smiled, rather through nervousness than through 
 the humour of it. 
 
 Ellen looked at the Vicar; and with the weakness and 
 frankness of the poor, frail penitent, went to him with 
 offered hands. 
 
 'I am a miserable giri. I came to church. I want 
 youc help ! ' 
 
 She said it actually with sincerity. 
 
 At that moment the verger came into the vestry, 
 laid a couple of heavy keys, chained together, on the 
 table, looked with enemy eyes at Ellen, and said: — 
 
 'The West door's locked, sir, and the windows are 
 all closed/ 
 
 F 
 
7 6 MRS BENTE 
 
 'Ali right, Clarke/ the Vicar answered crisply, 
 'Good-nightP 
 
 The verger seized his hat and coat, and, without 
 waiting t o doff his cassock, hurried out by way of the 
 Vestry door. There could be no doubt as to his opinions 
 of this creature. It was like an anchoret of old — fleeing 
 from the temptations of witches. 
 
 ' Sit down, and tell us why you came here; and you 
 may also kindly explain why you lied to me that day 1 
 called — for you are Miss Parker, aren't you? ' 
 
 She looked up, really surprised. The sternness of 
 his voice had startled her. Here was a man who, 
 according to her standards of men, promised to be 
 gullible, and yet, even after a lapse of time, he had 
 recognised her immediately. 
 
 'I say, Vicar/ said Jerome, 'I think F 11 toddle/ 
 
 'No, Arthur; you may as well wait too. I think' 
 — he hesitated and frowned at the floor, — 'I think 
 you may be helpful, and that this young woman 
 would be equal to the three of us;' and so saying, 
 the Vicar smiled not unkindly; and EUen, quick to 
 discern tendencies, took heart of grace. 
 
 She sat on a chair by the fireplace, while the Vicar 
 leaned against the table. Gervase Bente, a picture of 
 gloom, stood beside him. Jerome found a place on 
 the iron register-box and played with its handle, making 
 it rattle intolerably. 
 
 'I am Miss Parker/ she said, 'And I am yery sorry 
 I was not quite truthful that day. Fve often thought 
 of it since. You won't be hard on me, will you, now 
 — now that Mr Pente is trying to help me? ' 
 
MRS BENTE 7 y 
 
 The Vicar grunted. Again she looked up at him; 
 and he and Gervase saw in her eyes what looked like 
 the gleam of tears. 
 
 * I came partly to let you know I was sorry,' she lied, 
 with the feeling of truthfulness. ' I am ashamed. Oh, 
 don't look at me like that ! I'm not a beast — I know 
 I've been a beast; but if you knew my life, its hard- 
 ships, how my father ill-treated me ' 
 
 1 What ? ' cried Bente. This was a new detail. 
 
 'How I tried to earn my living as a governess' — 
 she went on, ignoring his interjection. 
 
 'You were a governess?' the Vicar said severely. 
 
 'I was; and I was wronged, ruined, and turned out/ 
 
 'I know, I know! I've heard that story 
 before ' 
 
 She sprang to her feet and looked at him with eyes 
 of stone : if she had had more inches she might have 
 been dignified. Ali the energy of her temperament, 
 all her innate faculty for acting and for hating, all her 
 sense of revolt against injustice — when she herself — and 
 somehow not only she herself — must suffer it, rose in 
 angry protest. She was furious. 
 
 'So that' s the Christian clergymen, is it?' she said 
 bitterly. 'Thankyou! I won't trouble you any longer; 
 I'm very sorry I came. Good-bye, Mr Bente,' her tone 
 was cold and biting. ' Please let me go my own way, 
 and do not call on me again . . . The roughest man 
 — dock-labourers— in the East End would not have 
 insulted me as this — this gentleman has done.' 
 
 'Don't go, Miss Parker!' said Gervase. 'The Vicar 
 wants to help you; don't you, Vicar?' 
 
7 8 MRS BENTE 
 
 'I do/ said the puzzled incumbent of St Brendan's. 
 'I had no intention ' 
 
 ' Y es, you had ! You insulted me deliberately. 
 Because I am — have been ' she faltered. 
 
 It was Jerome who came to the rescue of the 
 situation which was growing confused. 
 
 * I propose that the young woman tells her tale and 
 that we listen to her/ 
 
 Ellen swept a glance at him. Even at that time, 
 when she was playing the part, with complete momen- 
 tary sincerity, of trampled righteousness and innocence 
 misunderstood, she was impressed by his physique. 
 She liked a strong man. She appreciated force, 
 sinews, breadth, inches; but saw at once, with certain 
 intuition, that this prize-fighter of a fellow was not 
 to be imposed upon; he would not be sufficiently 
 imaginative and sympathetic for her purposes. 
 
 ' I came here to tell my story. Do you think I like 
 this sort of thing?' she asked Jerome fiercely, with a 
 sudden turn which made him almost start, and then, 
 when she was no longer looking at him, grin amusedly. 
 
 'No/ he answered simply. 'Go ahead. Don't mind 
 me!' 
 
 ' Oh, you ! ' she answered, and flashed a glance at him; 
 it was very like impudence. 
 
 The Vicar scratched his chin of stubble, perplexed. 
 He realised that this creature was too clever and cun- 
 ning for him. He made no answer to her question; 
 and as she needed an audience, and intended to appeal 
 to the pity of as many of those clergy as were disposed 
 to listen, she put her pride in her pocket — a place 
 
MRS BENTE 79 
 
 to which, alas, it was frequently consigned — and 
 condescended to talk. 
 
 She was deeply sorry for herself. Again the com- 
 pleteness of her egoism helped her, as it had done a 
 thousand times already. There was no question of 
 her self-confidence. It would enable her to overleap 
 any obstacles because it was the kind which could 
 induce men to take all the necessary trouble for her. 
 She was, at once, a conqueror and a parasite; she had 
 the strength that commands and clings. 
 
 The clergy prepared to listen to her with particular 
 attention; seldom did their parishioners deserve such 
 attention as Poppy Parker was to receive. She was a 
 personality, had wits, and had those wits working. 
 The wonder was that she ever could have submitted to 
 the degradation she had lived through and lived on; 
 but is not that part of the mystery which causes this 
 earthly existence to be so baffling, attractive, joyous 
 and incomprehensible an interlude of eternity? 
 
 Ellen was playing the part of her life, living and 
 enjoying one of the most actual hours of her existence, 
 skilfully angling for the sympathies of these three 
 men, and confident that she was going to win and 
 control them. 
 
 She took off the simple woollen gloves she was wear- 
 ing, so that in her pleading she might use with greater 
 effect the movements of her nervous and eloquent 
 hands. She was an artist born, that was unquestion- 
 able; she had the complex temperament and the 
 inspiration, the intensity, the guile — all the guile; and 
 that — just that — was the pity of it. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 'You all know what I am/ Poppy began, speaking 
 very slowly and deliberately, showing she was aware 
 of the seriousness of the case — which pleased her 
 auditors. 'You all know what necessity has brought 
 me to? ' 
 
 She paused, lest one of them should wish to answer; 
 but no one intervened. They were earnestly inter- 
 ested; for the Vicar at all events, and possibly also 
 Arthur Jerome, realised with Gervase that she was not 
 essentially vulgar, in spite of her trade : but was a 
 person whose past had been spent with some circum- 
 stances of refinement. Her accent was good, her 
 manner at present restrained; she spoke as — it may 
 be safely said — no other of the parishioners of St 
 Brendan's was in the habit of speaking. She was just 
 then upon her very best behaviour, minding her p's 
 and q's, and forgetting her d' s and b' s. She decided, 
 once again, particularly t o besiege the Vicar. He was 
 the key of the citadel. He was the one who, to her 
 volatile intent, most mattered. Gervase was already 
 overcome and must not be lost again; Jerome was of 
 no account and did not matter, but the Vicar did matter, 
 and not only because his words might influence Bente. 
 She had lied to him, and he had found her out. It 
 
 80 
 
MftS BENTfi 8 1 
 
 would be a personal triumph to attach him to her 
 chariot-wheels. Vanity and egoism were too often 
 the wings that impelled the lady's progress. 
 
 Everything on this occasion was in her favour, except 
 the pencilled elongation of the eyes. That too evident 
 touch of artificiality spoilt the effect of her appear- 
 ance of simple poverty, but she did not realise it; and 
 the men were too decent, after they had noticed it, 
 to notice it again. 
 
 ' I have been naughty and — I have been unfortunate; 
 but never have I been content to be what I ara. I 
 have hated it — hated this dependence upon wicked, 
 selfish men; and if I can — oh ! this is so difficult ! 
 How can I go on talking of my — ways with three men 
 staring at me like this?' 
 
 The curates looked at the Vicar : he flushed and was 
 over-concerned at his responsibility. Meanwhile Poppy 
 fastened on him her glittering eyes and felt within 
 herself even then, the spirit of impertinence would out, 
 a latent desire to ridicule; but successfully she resisted 
 the tendency. 
 
 ' I have come to you freely. Are you willing t o help 
 me? I've had no use for parsons until Mr Bente came 
 to my help; the only one who's impressed me at all 
 before him was the rector who, when I was three or 
 four years old, used to give me sweets — because he 
 was making love to my mother.' 
 
 ' You don't know that ! ' said Gervase indignantly. 
 • How impossible you are ! Don't say that sort of vulgar 
 thing ! How can you know? ' 
 
 Poppy wrinkled her eyebrows. 
 
82 MUS BENTE 
 
 ' Well, I dare say ! ' she said, with a simplicity not 
 entirely guile. ' But I know Papa used to stonn about 
 the man — it is one of the clearest recollections of my 
 childhood — and I remember he called him — but never 
 mind now . . . Daddy got a sunstroke in India ! ' 
 
 'It was an unhappy beginning!' said Bente, ever 
 her champion when she was not too worldly and 
 impossible. 'Now, please, Miss Parker, be simple 
 and straightforward.' 
 
 ' Ah, if only you all knew ! ' She looked round at 
 them; her glance reached Jerome, who was watching 
 her with honest, unillusioned eyes. ' What a fool ! ' 
 was the thought that flashed through her brain . . . 
 'My father was a good sort. But the sunstroke did it. 
 His language then, especially if Mamma had been 
 naughty — poor Mamma had a temper too — was mustard. 
 That's putting it politely/ 
 
 The Vicar was of a temperament which disliked a 
 waste of words or time. He cut short her tale of old 
 history. 
 
 'We may as well let your parents rest in peace. I 
 suppose they are dead,' he said. 
 
 ' I suppose they are — of course they are/ she recovered 
 herself sharply. 'Mamma died when I was about six. 
 Papa, he was a colonel in the Indian Army, left me to 
 nurses, ayahs and that sort; and he died, and I came to 
 England, and — and here I am ! ' 
 
 'Yes, it is a sad condition for the child of a British 
 officer; but as you are confiding in us you might tell 
 us something nearer to the present. I won't ask you 
 how you became — well, what you are ! but how you 
 
MRS BENTE 83 
 
 propose to recover from it. You want to live a straight 
 life, don't you?' 
 
 'I do ! ' she said, and clasped her hands in her lap. 
 
 'And would be prepared to do whatever we recom- 
 mend? ' 
 
 She said 'Yes/ but in rather a faltering tone. It 
 
 as pretty evident to the Vicar, if not to Gervase, 
 
 at the 'Yes' had a note of uncertainty. He was, 
 owever, not the man to be troubled unnecessarily; 
 
 d, though kind as kindness to Ellen Parker, was 
 isinclined to be easily taken in. 
 
 Tm glad to hear you say so, because if you are to 
 saved — pulled out of the gutter, don't you know 
 
 it's got to be done with your own goodwill. With 
 your own determined goodwill, remember ! Drink 
 and the devil will always win unless the individual 
 himself bucks up and backs the people who are helping 
 him. D'you realise that?' 
 
 Tm not interested in drink and the devil/ said 
 Poppy airily, and she looked sympathetically to 
 Gervase. 
 
 'It is the same with your sin/ The Vicar was 
 intentionally abrupt and frank. 
 
 ' Thank you ! ' Fires of anger smouldered in her dark 
 eyes as she stared back at Mr Richards. 
 
 ' I don't wish to make it hard for you/ said he. 
 
 'And I hate preaching/ she protested. 
 
 ' Miss Parker, please ! ' Gervase appealed. Again 
 his intervention checked a process. 
 
 'Oh, all right ! I suppose I asked for it by coming 
 here ! ' She stretched out her legs, evidence in her case 
 
§4 MRS BENTE 
 
 of a sulky indifference, showing shoes far too high- 
 heeled, stockings far too fashionable, for the rest of 
 her outer attire. She realised the fact, and at once 
 drew in her feet. ' I ought to have spoken t o Mr Bente 
 alone, as I expected to find him. He is sympathetic ! ' 
 
 'So are we, Miss Parker/ protested the Vicar, who 
 was growing impatient, and whose habitually untidy 
 short black hair appeared even more thoroughly 
 ruffled. 
 
 ' Then don't say such horrid things ! ' 
 
 'But really — we ' 
 
 'Yes, you did say unnecessary beastly things; you 
 know you did, didn't he?' she asked Gervase. 
 
 'The Vicar/ Bente answered with his best 
 diplomacy, 'is trying to help you. But you won't 
 help him. Do help him — and us; do try. We are 
 here to help you/ 
 
 His eyes were lustrous with earnestness. Jerome 
 glanced at him sideways and mentally shook a doubt- 
 ing head. It seemed to him there was something 
 warmer than earnestness in those eyes. 
 
 ' Of course I want to help you ! ' cried the Vicar 
 impatiently, and he drummed on the table with his 
 fingers, 'and I think I can do it if you are willing/ 
 
 Poppy showed she was attentive. 
 
 'Would you go — for a time — into a home ' 
 
 'No/ 
 
 'Where there are good women, sympathetic, 
 gentle, devoted, who would ■ 
 
 'I say No — no thank you, Mr ' she paused; she 
 
 actually did not know the Vicar' s surname. 
 
MRS BENTE 65 
 
 'You had better, believe mc, it is the only way/ 
 
 'My dear sir/ she said, getting up from her seat and 
 speaking with a fine, careless excited directness. 'If 
 you think I' m going t o mew myself up in a goody-goody 
 shop, with tracts and hymns, and cocoa and porridge 
 for high days and holidays and that sort of thing, you 
 are very much mistaken. My God ! (it was not spoken 
 
 as a prayer) I'd rather the ' she pausedagain. With 
 
 the tail of her quick eyes she had caught a glimpse 
 of the horror-stricken expression on Gervase's face. 
 She had been going to contrast with the promised 
 prospect of religious sanctuary the easier freedom of 
 the streets; but, almost as speedily as thought she 
 ied the programme — ' I'd rather the — horrors of the 
 
 reets, the cold and wet, the hunger, the sin which 
 alone can relieve the want ' 
 
 Gervase interrupted her, with a hand upraised. The 
 Vicar had turned away from her in despair. This was 
 obviously too eloquent, even theatrical, for such an 
 occasion. There was no true spiritual crisis here. 
 
 1 It would be only for a time ! ' Bente pleaded. ' There 
 would be no heaviness of discipline to break your heart ; 
 only sanctuary in which your bruised spirits could find 
 solace; and with meditation and loving guidance you 
 could make your peace with God. You need such a 
 refuge, you must have it : you can't refuse it and go 
 back to the squalor of this wretched East-End 
 existence.' 
 
 ' I could try the West End. I had thought of Regent 
 Street/ she said simply and gravely — purposely t o 
 shock him. Now she wanted to wound, to strike. 
 
 var 
 stre 
 
86 MRS BENTE 
 
 And he was shocked — inexpressibly. So was the 
 Vicar. Both were deeply concerned by what she said; 
 but for opposite reasons : Gervase because of the 
 tragedy, the Vicar because of the unconscionable 
 levity. 
 
 ' Impossible ! You must fight and be brave. You 
 must, you must ! You need the company of good 
 women; of such as have suffered in the worid and whose 
 presence alone is uplifting and soothing/ 
 
 She made a wry face at the medicine thus offered. 
 
 ' You are a dirty little cat ! ' said the Vicar 
 bluntly. 
 
 'And you ' she began, with fire in her eyes. She 
 
 was at once transformed to furious spitfire. Oh, the 
 vials of wrath and Billingsgate, the gutter-stench 
 of words, the fruit of terrible experiences, about to be 
 belched forth on Tom Richards' devoted black head, 
 when Poppy realised Gervase Bente's distress. Again 
 with a touch of intuitive genius, the spark of her 
 artistic temperament, even perhaps with a vagueness 
 of kindness, she decided abruptly and entirely to 
 change her tactics. ' — You are the clergymen I 
 came to for help/ She spoke slowly, the words were 
 all unconsciously expressive of despair. It was an 
 extraordinarily effective answer. They all — the men 
 and she — were silent for some moments. 
 
 Her eyes filled with tears. She deceived herself once 
 again, seeing herself as a lonely, pitiful little person 
 who had gone to the Church for the succour that insti- 
 tution was established to pro vide; and then, by a 
 priest of that church was mistreated and rejected. 
 
MRS BENTE 87 
 
 She sat, crouched on her chair, and looked with appeal 
 
 10 Gervase. 
 'I beg your pardon, Miss Parker/ said the Vicar 
 rankly. 'I didn't want to wound you, but the levity 
 of your remarks and the vile suggestion you made of 
 going to more profitable haunts of vice galled me. I 
 should not have called you what I did; but did you 
 mean what you said?' 
 
 Ellen looked at him, still with the pathos of the 
 poor white rat in her expression. 
 ' No — yes — I don't know ! ' she said with sincerity 
 
 I and a helpful helplessness. 
 'Then how do you think we can assist you? Here 
 are three of us, servants of God, anxious and pledged 
 by our profession to champion the unfortunate of all 
 kinds. Tell us plainly — answer this — when you came 
 to us for help, how did you expect us to help you? ' 
 
 Poppy hated these direct questions, which challenged 
 so bluntly her sincerity. 
 
 'I thought you might give me sympathy/ she 
 answered, in a small soft voice, ' as Mr Bente has done. 
 I — I couldn't go to a prison-house with nuns and all 
 that sort of thing. I should run away at once/ 
 
 The Vicar then for the first time fully realised the 
 fascination and the call of the streets to the women 
 who had become outcast — the lights and the freedom, 
 the excitement of setting the snares, of avoiding the 
 dangers, and the triumph of capturing. In those final 
 words, whatever might be the motive behind them, 
 EUen had told the truth. 
 
 'You thought we might give you sympathy. Tell 
 
88 MRS BENTE 
 
 me what exactly do you mean by sympathy? ' another 
 direct question. 
 
 'Don't you know what sympathy means?' There 
 seemed now a touch of temper in her voice. 'If not, 
 Mr Bente ' 
 
 'Oh yes, of course I do. But how mere sympathy 
 — words, however kind, without actions and syste- 
 matised effort behind them — would help you, I cannot 
 f or the lif e of me f athom ! ' 
 
 ' Then leave it to Mr Bente. He knows ! ' 
 
 'Do you, Gervase?' There was a smile on the lips 
 of the Vicar. 
 
 ' Perhaps ! ' Bente shrugged his shoulders, and was 
 very anxious. 'I hoped we could help this wilful 
 
 woman ' He paused to emphasise the description, 
 
 at which Poppy was suddenly inclined to laugh, as was 
 Arthur Jerome; but all managed to maintain their 
 superb solemnity — ' to escape from her life of beastli- 
 ness.' Ellen's sudden inclination vanished at this 
 frank judgment so unusual to him. ' I had hoped and 
 believed it could be done by sacriflce — she should give 
 and try, and others of us must do the same/ Poppy 
 for the moment wondered what exactly he meant. 
 
 Gervase was much in earnest now. Proselytising 
 fervour had come t o him. He breathed for the measure 
 of moments something of the zeal which animated 
 those whose burning words tore from their scabbards 
 the swords of the Crusaders. He must save her soul 
 alive. In his mystic imagination he had often seen 
 himself off ering that tarnished jewel of immortality 
 renewed before the awful glory of the Supreme* I f 
 
: 
 
 MRS BENTE 89 
 
 it meant his death — in his exaltation he had gone to 
 that almost impossible extremity — he must save and 
 not abandon this woman. Not once or twice but many 
 times had these ideas, aspirations, determinations, 
 visited him; they were a part of his mental texture, 
 woven into the strands of his ardent personality; and, 
 therefore, in fact it was not difficult for him to champion 
 verbally this little creature of pathetic whims and 
 irresponsibility, whose volatile emotions and con- 
 tradictoriness of mood, were the fruit of commingled 
 wilfulness, weakness, and positive abandonment and 
 naughtiness. 
 'Why don't you treat the Vicar with the confidence 
 ou gave to me? ' he demanded of her, and then before 
 e could make the invited answer launched forth 
 his ecstacy. 
 
 We have to save this woman's soul/ he said. 'It 
 be as the box of spikenard which the Magdalen 
 roke upon the feet of Christ. We who have pledged 
 urselves to the service of the weakest and the worst 
 not abandon this child who has been sinned against 
 as well as sinning. I could not live and work with satis- 
 faction, knowing that she was selling her frail body in 
 a mockery of love, giving herself absolutely to the brutes 
 and the beasts masquerading as men, who lust and ruin. 
 In my heart I have vowed that while I live, be it ever 
 difficult, this giri shall find in me a friend; and I 
 ve confidence that through care and through service 
 and through prayers to Him who in the face of the wrath 
 of men shielded the woman taken in adultery, we shall 
 win. This is our Magdalen' — he turned to the Vicar 
 
9 o MRS BENTE 
 
 with a gesture which implored — 'we must not abandon 
 her.' 
 
 They all were moved. Ellen was weeping now, 
 shedding silent tears, such as never before had welled 
 from her parched and arid heart. They were genuine 
 tears, and she felt their emotion at the moment. She 
 sorrowed for herself and for all that ruined innocence 
 — her own — that had never been. Her aspect of 
 abandonment to misery, hurrying on the heels of 
 Gervase Bente's rhetoric, moved the Vicar. He felt 
 himself bound to reject the honourable doubts and 
 suspicions that had held him. He was sincerely 
 grieved. 
 
 'She had better go now/ he said. 
 
 Poppy rose. They saw her face; it was white and 
 wild; the pencilled eyes were in a mess. She was not 
 pretty. Without saying a word she went. 
 
 The clergy were glad to be free of her. Arthur 
 Jerome closed the door behind her with decision. All 
 three of them felt self-conscious. There were some 
 almost intolerable moments of strained silence. 
 
 'I guess we'd better go and see what Mrs Jones has 
 got for us/ said the Vicar at length, in a jocular effort 
 to drive away the effects of the emotional experience 
 they had just passed through. 
 
 Gervase could say nothing. He reached for his 
 wide-awake, and was anxious for the solace of silent 
 self-communion in his room at the Clergy House. 
 
 'That giri is a personality/ declared the Vicar, when 
 h e had found his hat. 
 
 ' She is ! ' Jerome agreed. ' She's a handful. She 
 
MRS BENTE 91 
 
 was born t o make mischief. Fve no doubt now of the 
 existence of an active spirit of evil . . . There is one 
 other thing about her of which I have no shadow of 
 doubt whatever/ 
 
 The others looked at him. 
 
 'What is that, Arthur?' 
 
 'She's made up her mind to marry Gervase. That's 
 as sure as — publiohouses. Tak e care, my lad, or the 
 impossible will have happened.' 
 
 The Vicar whistled to himself — a long-drawn whistle 
 —as Jerome opened the Vestry door for them all t o go 
 out. 
 
 Gervase was aghast as he followed. He stumbled 
 blindly into a dark, mad world. 
 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 Gervase was so absolut ely aghast at Jerome's 
 declaration, that at ten o'clock of the evening of their 
 fatal discussion, when his last parochial duty — a small 
 confirmation class for bigger lads held at the Clergy 
 House — was done, he felt compelled to walk it out. 
 
 Sleep was impossible while his mind was in such 
 turmoil. To marry Ellen Parker . . . the idea was 
 preposterous. For her to have purposed it . . . What 
 could have put such a notion into Arthur's bullet-head? 
 
 The suggestion did not frighten him as it would have 
 done a less worldly or a more worldly mortal; but it 
 turned his ideas and plans for the future topsy-turvy 
 and more than upside down. A nightmare version of 
 Ellen' s face besieged and haunted him like a witch 
 or a dragon with iniquitous eyes. 
 
 He must walk — he must walk to restore himself to 
 discipline. This excitement and fever were like a 
 midnight Brocken, mad with follies and mocking furies. 
 
 Without thought of where his feet would carry him, 
 he marched westward, fighting to recover his mental 
 equilibrium, wrestling with inner earthquakes . . . 
 Like a moving panorama in gray, the streets with 
 their passengers slid beside him . . . Looking up 
 he found Big Ben looming over him. He had no 
 
 92 
 
MRS BENTE 93 
 
 consciousness whatever of how he had got there. The 
 Thames, the lamps, tramcars, policemen, wayfarers, 
 might as well not have been. He could not rem ember 
 a single solitary incident of that five-mile London 
 march. 
 
 The great beli sang half-past eleven, and with the 
 last throb of its semi-chime Gervase realised he was 
 walked to a standstill. The excitement which had 
 impelled him to the end of the Embankment had 
 spent itself. His feet ached. He was physically and 
 mentally weary; but he had found himself. The inner 
 earthquakes were subdued. 
 
 As he went back to St Brendan's, the first part of 
 the journey by the Underground Railway, he reso- 
 lutely put from his thoughts Ellen Parker and the 
 horrible impossibilities associated with her. He read 
 the advertisements on the walls of the carriage for the 
 change and recreation of his mind, and discovered a 
 few ideas and trains of thought about linoleum, soap, 
 and jellies. 
 
 The wolves were, however, at him again the moment 
 he awoke the next morning; and he realised then that, 
 though he had slept well enough, his mind had been 
 working at the insatiable problem all the night through. 
 
 ' It cannot be ! It is not possible ! ' were his out- 
 spoken thoughts. He felt shadows of despair. 
 1 Absolutely preposterous ! ' 
 
 The long words made him yawn, and then like the 
 soldier springing to attention he braced himself to 
 discipline, sprang from bed, and knelt at his morning 
 
94 MRS BENTE 
 
 prayers. Unconsciously, the trend of his petitions was 
 for Ellen Parker, the poor unfortunate whora it was 
 his duty, perhaps his destiny, to save. He was un- 
 consciously convincing himself of her need and of his 
 opportunity and duty. 
 
 The prayers done . . . the prospect with a rush 
 suddenly appeared appalling. It was horrible, horrible ! 
 His cold bath braced him, but did not soothe his 
 tremulous, haunted nerves. He writhed as he clothed 
 himself. He caught sight of his white, strained face 
 in the looking-glass, and earnestly told his reflection 
 that it could not be. Just now, in the fresh morning 
 sanity, the suggestion seemed peculiarly preposterous. 
 Of what could Arthur have been thinking when he 
 said those foolish words? It was, really, an impossible 
 idea . . . absolut ely preposterous ! 
 
 He heard the Vicar go from his bedroom and stump 
 downstairs. He heard Jerome shout a greeting to some- 
 body and then go out, as he was the celebrant a t that 
 morning's early service. 
 
 Fred, the bootboy, knocked at Bente's door, to call 
 him down to earth's necessities, and to bring him his 
 shoes. Back again to the world and its mad and bitter 
 problems. 
 
 Breakfast at the Clergy House was nearly always a 
 silent meal; especially during Lent, when the men were 
 over-worked and had their minds and hands unusually 
 f uli of considerations and duties. There was no desire 
 or leisure for small talk. The Vicar looked up from 
 the morning paper which he was reading hurriedly, 
 smiled the busy man's greeting, and went on munching 
 
MRS BENTE 95 
 
 and reading; while Gervase glad of the silence helped 
 himself to coffee and dry toast. 
 
 During the whole of that day Ellen Parker was fore- 
 most in the thoughts of Gervase Bente. Whatever 
 his occupation might be, she was at the heart of his 
 anxiousness. He was as haunted by her as though she 
 were his moral shadow, as, indeed, she threatened to be. 
 
 Night returned and the oppression grew. He went 
 to bed an over-weary, racked man; and this time could 
 not lose himself in sleep; but spent the horrible hours 
 in alternate panic stretches of wakefulness and dream- 
 fulness through which, with divers distortions and 
 exaggerations, Poppy Parker' s swollen and weeping 
 eyes gl eamed and haunted and tortured him. 
 
 He must face the issue; he must see her. Whatever 
 the end might be he must not shrink from any and all 
 the possibilities confronting him. 1 1 might be that 
 marriage was God's way for her redemption and the 
 price that he must pay for the saving of her soul; but 
 the prospect was simply appalling to his shrinking 
 reserve and purity. 
 
 There was never a saint in the long calendar of 
 martyrdom who shrank more than did he from the 
 ordeal in promise. . . . Already, it will be seen, the 
 choice — though absolutely preposterous — was in pro- 
 cess of being accepted, and he was preparing to do 
 what, according to Arthur Jerome, Ellen expected of 
 him. 
 
 It was, in truth, the pain, the ugliness, the acute 
 horror of the venture that especially called to his 
 
 ;etic disposition. During those days of mental 
 
96 MRS BENTE 
 
 stress and nervous strain he fought against, and came 
 nearer to, the acceptance of the bitter needs of his 
 duty. 
 
 Marriage had always been an ideal he had preached 
 and praised — for others. He recognised it as a privi- 
 lege, and accepted it as a necessity for the economy 
 and the purification of the world — but not for him; 
 no, never for him. He had regarded himself as set 
 aside — as fully as were the Levites in the Old Dis- 
 pensation — to a dedicated life, in which the charms 
 of the Cottar's Saturday Night, of weans and of wife, 
 could not occur. . . . 
 
 He must see Ellen. That was the inexorable 
 necessity. There was no question of avoiding her. 
 He must talk with her and not let her feel that he 
 was deserting the purpose he had voluntarily taken 
 up. . . . The nightmare aspect of her had gone . . . 
 He had come to see her now in her real pathos — at 
 the other extreme; the crushed poor giri whose shame 
 and suffering gave her a claim on those whose privilege 
 it was to be able to help and to save . . . Here 
 was his opportunity, he saw it now as clear as Christian 
 print. 
 
 He sent a note to Ellen to prepare her for his call 
 on the following Monday afternoon — it would be 
 Easter Monday — and when the hour of his destiny had 
 come walked to Alma Terrace prepared for the worst. 
 He had not given either of his colleagues an inkling 
 of his intention; his aunt, who, more than others, 
 had hitherto shared to some extent his purposes, was 
 equally in the dark. And why not? This was his 
 
MRS BENTE 97 
 
 concern and Ellen's, nobody else's. So, as always, the 
 fool smooths the way for his folly. 
 
 She was ready for him. 
 
 Mrs Barnes admitted him with an air of enormous 
 solemnity. She might from the ceremonial gravity 
 of her marmer have been a pew opener at a funeral, 
 or a thrice woefully-wedded woman prepared to cele- 
 brate her fourth nuptials. The organised melancholy 
 of her mottled face brought Gervase's spirits still lower; 
 until reaction supervened and he roused himself to 
 play the man. He reminded himself that he must 
 not wear the mask of gloom, that he was bound t o 
 face his dimculties cheerfully; so he beamed on Mrs 
 Barnes and greeted her with more than his wonted 
 warmth. His effort was of no avail. 
 
 She shook a heavy head, causing a greasy gray ringlet 
 to become detached from the rest of the mess of hair 
 and to flop by the side of her ear like a degraded 
 pendulum. 
 
 'What's come over that dear young lady, I don't 
 know ! ' she said with uplifted hands and piercing 
 shrewish eyes. 'Moping and sighing, and sobbing, 
 and no more appetite than a spadger in a cage.' 
 
 'Is she — is she miserable?' 
 
 'Miserable, Mr Bente? She' s a very — a very — I don't 
 know what to call her — so different from her usual 
 self. You come in 'ere, sir, and I'll prepare her for 
 your visi t. Poor dear young lady !' 
 
 With the velvet steps of a funeral relative the land- 
 lady crept out of the room, and Gervase was left to 
 
 
98 MRS BENTE 
 
 his own depression. He stood gazing through the soiled 
 window at the murky street; and from the depths of 
 his soul suffered because of the prospect before him. 
 
 He heard the door open and turned t o greet Ellen. 
 She was unquestionably a thing of sorrow; his heart 
 went out to her in a great swirl of pity. He was nearer 
 to loving her then than he had ever deemed it 
 possible to be. He took her hand and led her to the 
 rusty arm-chair with the green wool antimacassar by 
 the fireplace. 
 
 There was no deceit or fraud about the young lady 
 at this hour. She was obviously genuinely, supremely 
 miserable; and the last of his suspicions went like an 
 icicle thrown in the fire. 
 
 She was dressed simply and neatly. Her face with 
 its sallowness and pallor had none of those helps from 
 the arts which had shown so plainly during the Vestry 
 interview, and had there betrayed her. She was a truly 
 pathetic object, making f uli appeal to his large reserve 
 of pity. 
 
 He took a seat opposite her. 
 
 'You are not well,' he said. 
 
 She looked up at him with the darkened eyes of 
 past weeping, shook her head for ' No' and said : ' I'm 
 very unhappy/ She gazed at him earnestly, and 
 in her emotion and seriousness was certainly not 
 attractive. Had she used any of her arts, given way 
 even for an instant to her natural instinct to hunt 
 men, he might have escaped; but the truth of her 
 sorrow and shame, or the higher instinct which kept 
 her from the mistake of her life, restrained her from 
 
 
MRS BENTE 
 
 99 
 
 practising, even unconsciously, any of the wiles of her 
 profession. 
 
 Why?' he asked, not knowing well what to say, 
 ret aware that it was his task to break silence and 
 :ome to an understanding with this very hunian 
 migma. 
 
 ' Oh, Mr Bente, you know ! ' she answered, with some 
 touch of reproach in her voice. 'You must know that 
 it is difficult for me to talk as — as I talked in the Vestry. 
 )o you not pity me?' 
 
 ' From my heart I do ! ' he replied, and leaned over 
 the earnestness of his sympathy. Her heart gave 
 bound. The old instincts were ealled to work again, 
 mt she held them in leash. 
 
 Thank you ! ' she said, with dark eyes open wide. 
 
 ' Don't wait, Mrs Barnes, thank you ! ' she ealled out 
 
 a more direct voice, and was silent for a minute; 
 
 rhile no doubt the anxious landlady slipped quietly 
 
 ick to her lair and baekwater below. There was no 
 
 isolence in Poppy's voice this time; but, as Gervase 
 
 loted to himself, a new dignity, a sign to him of 
 
 •egeneration and grace. It pleased him — fatally : it 
 
 )mforted him ; he did not feel now that the task 
 
 >efore him was so difficult, so dreadful. 
 
 'I want to help you, as you know,' he said to her, 
 
 id the tone of his words emphasised their sincerity; 
 
 but how? That's the problem!' 
 
 She shook her head silently, and a sob — it was 
 
 irtainly a true one — eseaped her. 
 
 ' Come, cheer up ! We've got a battle before us. 
 
 r e'll fight it together. Tell me your inmost thoughts. 
 
ioo MRS BENTE 
 
 As I said in the Vestry, I'll stand by you as long as 
 you let me do so/ 
 
 She reached out a hand and touched his. He did not 
 take it, but waited for her to speak. She knitted her 
 brows, and thought. 
 
 ' I f it had not been for you I — I should have drowned 
 myself. I feel sure I should. What is there to live for? 
 I'm so tired of life/ She spoke with the accents of 
 sorrow, only just this side of despair. Her eyes were 
 now fixed on the paper-screened fireplace. as though 
 she wished to keep her thoughts centred on their one 
 object. 'I know I've done wrong, wicked wrong; 
 I knew it when first I met you, and knew — found — 
 there was one good man in the world. The others 
 are — such hogs/ There was a touch of passion in those 
 ultimate words. She paused; he did not make any 
 comment. There was nothing for her t o do but 
 continue. 
 
 ' It is hard for such a one as I ' — she fetched a sigh, 
 and Gervase felt the tears at the back ot his heart 
 — 'to get up again when once we have fallen/ The 
 words seemed to come with difficulty. ' The good people 
 are all against us. I did not know how hopeless it 
 was till after I had met you, and I saw the miles 
 between us — morally/ 
 
 ' Hush ! ' he said. He disliked this implication of 
 praise, which was beyond the last thing he desired to 
 hear from her, or any one, at any time. ' Talk of your- 
 self and your own hopes, my dear giri. Forget me. I 
 am not so good; — Heavens, how well I know it!' 
 
 She had the wit, as well as the good feeling, not to 
 
MRS BENTE ;,,:', ' ib'i 
 
 protest against his modest assertion. She still had the 
 wit. 
 
 'It is this, Mr Bente. I want to live such a life as 
 I might have lived if — my start in life had been better. 
 I really didn't have a chance, Mr Bente.' 
 
 'I know,' he said. 
 
 'I was an ignorant giri, and once gone astray, I 
 could not get back again. I f you will help me now, 
 I will be good. I could not help being good, because 
 I hate — I hate this horror/ She drew back in her chair 
 and hid her face in her hands. She trembled. At this 
 display of emotion Gervase rubbed his lips in per- 
 plexity and felt completely out of place. He waited. 
 
 ' What I want, Mr Bente, is to get away from London 
 into a quiet country home where there is refinement 
 — books, flowers' — she looked, it seemed, almost 
 helplessly, about the room; he realised the contrast ! 
 — ' and love. Only to be loved ! I thought I knew 
 what love meant; but now I know I never did : not 
 true love. Oh, to discover that would be worth dying 
 for!' 
 
 Now she looked at him with fearless and enthusi- 
 astic eyes. This was a nobler woman than, even at 
 the most charitable, he had deemed. The thoughts 
 of his intentions were clothing themselves with words 
 at the back of his brain; but he kept them in check. 
 Instinctively he shrank from taking the fatal step. 
 
 'To be with good people — not too religious, not the 
 religious people who are so hard on the weak and the 
 unfortunate, not the people who make such a noise 
 singing, but the quiet, good kind, who don't worry and 
 
' ' <' riar-i • . ' ' i I . , ; /.\ JVffiS BENTE 
 
 fuss; — and I might be helpful too. Who knows, but 
 after a little while, Mr Bente, after I have proved I 
 can be worthy, I might perhaps help poor girls who 
 
 have been mistaken, to ' She ended her sentence 
 
 there. 
 
 ' Bless you ! ' he said enthusiastically. ' Those are 
 the very words I hoped you might speak.' 
 
 She smiled for the first time in that interview, and 
 for the first time for weeks he felt positively happy. 
 
 ' I think we shall win/ he said. 
 
 'Then you will help me — to gain all that? ' 
 
 He moved his chair over, and took her hand. 
 
 'My dear, my dear Ellen,' he said, and his serious- 
 ness startled her, though of course she was not 
 unprepared, or indeed the kind of woman ever to be 
 actually surprised at anything. 'I wonder if you 
 would be disposed — be inclined — willing to give me the 
 right to guard you always. I mean, my dear, not as 
 a clergyman; but — er — as a husband/ 
 
 She had cast down her eyes, and was trembling; 
 he could feel the tremors of the hand he was holding. 
 
 'I don't see why you should not be a clergyman's 
 wife/ he went on, almost fearfully. His heart was not 
 in this business, after all. 
 
 She looked up at him, and realising that he had 
 not yet done speaking, remained prudently silent. 
 
 ' You have, I am convinced, been more sinned against 
 than sinning. You were weak, ill-treated, inexperi- 
 enced, unwise, tempted ' 
 
 Poppy fidgeted. Her worse nature was getting awake 
 again. He was suggesting that she had fallen a victim 
 

 MRS BENTE 103 
 
 to temptation, whereas she was feeling at this present 
 the ill-used innocent, the wounded lamb who bravely 
 was endeavouring to escape from the maws and claws 
 of those iniquitous wolves, men. 
 
 'You hadn't a fair chance, I am sure of that, and I 
 will give it to you.' She sidled closer to him. 'As my 
 wife you will face the world anew, and together we will 
 work for the lost and the unfortunate. Tell me, will 
 you?' He left it at that. His appeal ended with 
 a broken sentence spoken in a broken voice : for 
 although his words were calm and chosen the manner 
 of his speech had been emotional enough. 
 
 Poppy was touched by the very unevenness of his 
 speech. He had found the chord of sympathy which 
 trembled throughout her. For the time being her 
 selfishness was lost. She responded to his feelings and 
 was almost as moved as he. 
 
 'You are doing a dangerous thing/ she said. She 
 had to say it. 
 
 He pressed the hand he was holding, and said 
 thoughtfully : — 
 
 'I think those words prove it is not so dangerous. 
 You are, I believe, a good woman at heart, I could not 
 desert you now/ 
 
 No conventional, ever-expected word of love. None 
 of the expressions which should be essential to a 
 proposal of marriage. She, womanlike, noticed the 
 omission, and must refer to it. 
 
 ' But you do not love me,' she said softly. 
 
 ' Love you ? ' He put down her hand and stared at 
 her, 'My dear Ellen, of course I love you/ 
 
104 MRS BENTE 
 
 'As — as a clergyman, yes/ she suggested. 
 
 She was subtly leading him into depths he had not 
 anticipated. 
 
 'If you believe I ask you to marry me only as a 
 means of saving you, you are mistaken/ he said, quite 
 wrongly, for he, too, was not unnaturally deceiving 
 himself just then. 
 
 'Is that true?' she asked, and leaning over she took 
 his hands and looked up earnestly into his eyes. 
 
 ' 1 1 is true, Ellen, I love you. I want you t o be my 
 life-companion, my helper in Christ's work. We will 
 go away to a quieter parish where there are — what is 
 it you asked for? — flowers and books; and where ideals 
 can live. Yes. I will take you from this squalor. You 
 shall go to where you ean win health again, and be what 
 you were meant to be, one of God's good women.' 
 
 There were tears in her eyes now, or they shone as 
 if there were. She knelt impulsively and, in a moving 
 silence, hid her face on the hand she was holding. 
 
 ' Come — come, my dear ! ' h e said awkwardly, and 
 raised her. She expected him to take her in his arms, 
 but he did not. He helped her to her feet and she hid 
 her face against his shoulder. Gervase was growing 
 embarrassed. He had not been prepared for scenes. 
 He had not remembered that a proposal of marriage 
 is not quite as sober and solemn and indifferent an 
 affair as, say, putting up the banns. 
 
 'You haven't even kissed me/ she reminded him, 
 and looked up with waiting lips. 
 
 He did not like that. 1 1 gave a jar. Despite his 
 words he was still an ascetic ; he had truly no wish 
 
MRS BENTE 
 
 105 
 
 to kiss her, but realised vaguely that he must make 
 some concession to the supposed conventions. He held 
 her arm, and kissed her nervously, yet placidly, first 
 upon the cheek and then upon the forehead. They 
 were such kisses as the Early Christians might have 
 exchanged, the ancient kiss of peace. 
 
 Such evidence of physical coldness at a time of 
 personal crisis, suddenly, violently turned Poppy 
 against him. New feelings and old surged in her 
 passionate breast. She felt that she despised him; 
 while he, conscious somewhat of the turmoil that 
 seized her, believed that, through his indifference, he 
 had wounded her. 
 
 ' You fool ! ' in her thought she condemned him. ' I 
 will always love you, Gervase,' after a pause, she said 
 aloud, and, dropping the hand she had been holding, 
 without more ado returned to her room at the back. 
 She was changed, thrown back, was once more a calcu- 
 lating vicious woman, where so little a while before 
 had been what seemed a passionate, exultant creature 
 of human flesh and riotous, pulsing blood. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 They were married in June. 
 
 The only persons present at the ceremony in St 
 Brendan's were the Vicar, who tied the knot, Arthur 
 Jerome, who acted as best-man, Miss Bente, the bride- 
 groom's nearest relative, and Fred, the bootboy, who 
 grinned most of the time because he had been combed, 
 dressed, and decked with the white flower of the 
 occasion. He felt the particular solemnity of the 
 service, as did they all; so he grinned. 
 
 Mrs Jones had prepared the wedding-breakfast; 
 probably the most ambitious, execrable festive-meal 
 organised by any one (their neglecting it was ascribed 
 to fullness of heart;) and the bride's health was drunk 
 in Australian claret. 
 
 Poppy was secretly annoyed that her hosts had not 
 sprung to champagne for the occasion; but she showed 
 only geniality and sweetness. Outwardly she was the 
 loving little wife, born to be the comrade of her husband; 
 and at present, during this novel, inimitable day, truly 
 believed herself so. Through the months that inter- 
 vened since his proposal, she had grown used to the 
 calmness of Gervase's wooing, and was really intending 
 to make him a proper helpmeet. 
 
 As to his aunt, Miss Bente, what she thought of 
 106 
 
MRS BENTE 107 
 
 the prospects of the quixotic marriage she kept sccret 
 to her gentle and reserved heart. Hers was the saddest 
 face of the occasion; the others were openly happy, 
 though the boisterousness displayed by Arthur Jerome 
 and the Vicar was accompanied with inner anxiety. 
 They could see no prospect of smooth sailing for the 
 ship of marriage that was launched that day; and to 
 add to their disquiet, they were losing the companion- 
 ship of Gervase — which meant much to them and to 
 the parish; so that their natural boisterousness was, 
 perhaps, rather more evident because of the feelings 
 it was meant to disguise. 
 
 The honeymoon was spent in Paris : an enjoyable 
 time to them both. Gervase had made up his mind, 
 now that he was of the Company of Benedick, to take 
 a real holiday and to ensure that Poppy (though never 
 did he use that name, it was always ' Ellen ' with him) 
 should find as much happiness as possible. She was 
 very well disposed to the same end; and so they went 
 through the first critical stage of married life with full 
 sails set before a golden breeze. There was no hitch 
 in the whole fortnight. The novelty of the experience 
 kept her good. Paris had always been to her something 
 of a vague wonder-world, rich with the promise of 
 alluring pleasures : and here she was at the El Dorado 
 of worldly dream — in the company of a curate. 
 
 She was undeniably happy, and was careful to make 
 herself undeniably charming; so that Gervase was 
 easily able to forget the serious purpose for which he 
 had married her. Being in a foreign country and with 
 ears unused to the rapid French of Paris — though she 
 
to8 MRS BENTE 
 
 had her inevitable schoolroom smattering — she tended 
 to draw close to him and to realise how much more 
 there was in him, and that alluring and attractive, 
 than she had imagined. There was nothing to cloud 
 their honeymoon or destroy his illusions. They were 
 as children rejoicing; she had put aside her worldli- 
 ness, the hawk was forgotten in the turtle-dove; and 
 Gervase could not but feel warm gratitude in his heart 
 as he realised how winning was the little woman who 
 was given to him. 
 
 His feeling for her was still rather protective than 
 anything else. She was, in those days, trusting to him, 
 depending on him; and he was man enough to feel 
 flattered through the fact of her sympathetic depen- 
 dence. 
 
 That fortnight was unquestionably the happiest 
 period of Gervase Bente's life. They lived laborious 
 days of many expeditions and delight. From their 
 hotel by the Odeon they went on pilgrimage to holi- 
 day and history places. EUen was cordially willing 
 t o be guided by her man. She did suggest a visit t o 
 the Moulin Rouge, of which she had heard a little and 
 imagined much and he had heard less and imagined 
 more; but that was the only effort she made to visit 
 the demi-monde of the dazzling city. Gervase had 
 decisively said 'No/ and she, enjoying the restful 
 experience of life in a comfortable hotel, was well 
 content. 
 
 They visited all the sights that were easily available; 
 did Longchamps on a race-day, St Cloud, Versailles 
 and the Trianons — they sailed in a trumpery gondola 
 
MRS BENTE 109 
 
 on the lake at the bottom of the Tapis Vert. For one 
 long day they went to the Forest of Fontainebleau and 
 were lured into enduring dejeuner expensively, on 
 little more than siege rations, at a pretentious hotel in 
 Barbizon. The fact that Millet and the painter 
 Rousseau had worked, and Louis Stevenson had stayed, 
 in the grasping village was no compensation to those 
 hungry, vivid mortals for the niggardly fare. Anyhow, 
 it was only for twelve hours, and they enjoyed them- 
 selves climbing among the boulders, thrown by Titans, 
 on Mont Girard; watched the ocean of trees beneath 
 em; and surrendered themselves to the spell of the 
 ighty forest, with its tonic air and enormous silence. 
 There was nowhere in Paris, known to the little- 
 ending tourist, to which these adventurers did not 
 ay their tribute. Poppy was determined and delighted 
 do everything thoroughly; and although the pictures 
 f the Luxembourg bored her, and Napoleon's tomb 
 made no particular appeal to her historic sense, and 
 even the Venus of Milo merely prompted her to a 
 favourable comparison of her own fignre with that of 
 the immortal marble; vet the novelty of those crowded 
 days kept them sweet, and the 'happy couple' returned 
 to England refreshed and f u 11 of fine purposes. There 
 was nothing to cloud the prospect as it appeared to 
 Gervase. Ellen now bore his name. She had at last 
 her opportunity and was cleansed. Marriage had made 
 her right before the world, and together they would 
 work with the angels. 
 
 On the boat crossing from Boulogne Gervase broke 
 
 Ience about the future. He painted in glowing colours 
 
iio MRS BENTE 
 
 the joint life of service tbat lay before them; and 
 Poppy, whose shifting dispositions were for the time 
 being fixed, sang chorus of agreement with her 
 husband in his intentions and ambitions. It was, in 
 truth, in her case, but the enthusiasm of the neophyte 
 who is attracted by any change, and whose present 
 circumstances are comfortably cushioned and rich 
 with the light of dawn. Her open sympathy was, 
 however, good enough for Gervase; and in his young 
 love, now truly awakened and strong, and his want of 
 knowledge of that eternal mystery, Woman, he pressed 
 his Ellen's hand and was confident of the fortune of 
 the future. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 It was a different world to which Gervase Bente and 
 his wife were translated. 
 
 Nuneholm is not a parish given over to slums, 
 squalor, and such nide, harsh, murky life as is occasioned 
 by proximity to those delectable institutions, Docks. 
 On the contrary, it is a village cursed with a 
 consciousness of extreme prosperity; it is not out of 
 the world, as in some respects St Brendan's is; but 
 much in the world — in the world associated with 
 the comfortable Flesh and the Devil who loves 
 respectability. 
 
 The people of Nuneholm think a deal of themselves, 
 and look up to or down upon one another with a con- 
 sideration or condescension as absurd as it is sincere. 
 Quite a large proportion of its aristocrats — they have 
 villas on 'The Height/ with coach-houses in which 
 they keep, or hope to keep, motor-cars — are City people, 
 stock-brokers and merchants, who can trace their 
 family back for quite one or two generations. 
 
 If there is one thing these dear people — as the Rector 
 generally calls them in his Sunday sermon — from their 
 manners and want of manners, seem to be sure about 
 — and they are uncertain about next to nothing — it 
 must be that one of Society's top notches is to be found 
 
 in 
 
ii2 MRS BENTE 
 
 on 'The Height/ Prosperity appears there to be the 
 supreme test. To be able to afford to be idle is the 
 measure to which the social rule is applied. Manners 
 matter less: it seems to be the material that matters; 
 though none of Nuneholm's aristocracy would say so, 
 even to themselves. The Height is certainly the thing. 
 
 One merit for which the good folk — meaning, of 
 course, the wealthier folk — of Nuneholm are entitled 
 t o credit is their devotion t o the Church. The Rector, 
 the Reverend Dunstan Deane. D.D., is their social 
 leader as well as their spiritual guide; a garden-party 
 without him to hand plates to the dowagers or to make 
 pretty speeches to pretty maidens in arch praise of their 
 pretty frocks might as well be a vegetable garden- 
 party. Dr Deane is essential to the social superiority 
 of the place; and not to be known by him is not to be 
 known. 
 
 The Rector is built for his job. His clean, smooth, 
 pleasant face, his silver hair cut long, his admirable 
 tailor, his cultured accent and the little golden cross 
 that dangles from his watch chain, proclaim him the 
 clerical gentleman. He is so devoted a shepherd that 
 he will never play bridge unless in civilian dress. He 
 knows what is due t o the Cloth. His professional frock- 
 coat and collar he keeps for strictly parochial duties, 
 which of course include those useful garden parties 
 that bring together the woollier sheep of the flock. 
 He has his tastes, maybe his prejudices. He will not 
 touch claret if he can get sherry, and is so broad-minded 
 that he has been known to quote in the pulpit William 
 Cobbett, under the idea that it was Edmund Burke. 
 
MRS BENTE 113 
 
 He has great faith in the Encyclopaedia Britannica, 
 Haydn's Dictionary of Dates, Burke's Peerage, the 
 Red Book, Somebody's Gems of English Literature 
 and Someone-else's 'Convenient Quotations/ 
 
 Needless to say, this essential Doctor of Divinity 
 has a wife. Mrs Dunstan Deane is nothing like so popu- 
 lar as her husband — nay, she counteracts his proved 
 worth. She is a nervous little creature, with a sharp, 
 cold temper, a penetrating and inquiring disposition, 
 and eyes of judgment. If a woman could be a whipper- 
 snapper she would be such. One gleaming glance and 
 the most fidgety Sunday-School infant, tired of wooden 
 seats and the voice of platitudes, is as still as a suspected 
 mouse. Teachers tremble before her, and the good old 
 folk she regularly visits are not so cheerful as they used 
 to be. She is at once admired and detested by the 
 ladies of the parish, who alternately backbite her 
 and gush. 'Mrs Rector* is the vinaigrette of the 
 parish. 
 
 The church in Nuneholm flourishes. The Rector 
 pluraes himself on that. It is run on business lines; 
 every sitting is taken; there is always a fat balance at 
 the bank; the ordinary offertory is f uli and excellent, 
 on extraordinary occasions it is bumper; and if, despite 
 this dower of worldly fortune and circumstance, the 
 church is never half full and the poorer folk do not 
 overcrowd the wooden seats, without hassocks, that 
 are free to them; if the Rector in his sermonising 
 ambles easily along and never refers to such unpopular 
 themes as Death and Judgment; if the Choir does 
 yawn and openly gossip except when singing — its 
 
ii4 MRS BENTE 
 
 members are paid more than a trifle a year, and there- 
 fore deem themselves privileged — what does it matter? 
 The beli rings regularly every Sunday for those who care 
 to attend; and it is not necessary to have more than 
 one curate to see to the burials and the christenings, 
 the catechising of children and the churching of women. 
 
 Gervase Bente had never been under any illusion 
 as to the slackness of religious life in the parish. During 
 the visits he had paid his aunt, who lived at Rotherway, 
 some mile and a half from the church, he had seen 
 enough to realise that spiritually it was a Sleepy Hollow. 
 This discouraging fact did not unduly depress or dis- 
 turb him : indeed it whetted that cnisading spirit and 
 deepened that enthusiasm of mysticism, which were 
 parts of his individuality. To rouse this worldly- 
 dreaming wilderness, to drive out the sloth which 
 smothered its satisfied citizens — there was his oppor- 
 tunity and his duty. 
 
 As in the train going thither he contemplated the 
 prospect before him he felt something as Hercules 
 must have felt whilst girding himself for the cleansing 
 of the Augean stables. 
 
 The desultory prospect allured him; he looked at 
 his wife — Poppy was reading with close intent a 
 yellow and red novelette — and was in half a mind 
 to make her his complete confidante, reserving from 
 her nothing. Earlier in the journey he had told her 
 generally of his hopes and she had praised them with 
 honeymoon fervour; but he wanted to confide in her 
 all his aspirations, their every jot and tittle. He 
 yearned to win from her the sympathy and 
 

 MRS BENTE 115 
 
 encouragement he knew he needed; but did not give 
 expression to the yet indefinite intention, because 
 she spoke instead. 
 
 ' Rather a good story that ! How they can think 
 of their plots I can't imagine. They're always so new. 
 I do love a good plot with excitement/ 
 
 Gervase cast a look at the favoured fiction. 
 
 'And who was "The Daughter of Mystery?"' 
 
 Poppy's face, which looked healthier and prettier 
 than Gervase had hitherto known it, seemed to become 
 charged with interest. 
 
 'You' d never guess,' she assured him. 'I wasn't 
 so far out, because I had an idea Ethna was related 
 to Dermid; but I didn't guess he was her own 
 father/ 
 
 'And he was?' 
 
 'Yes; though it wasn't until they were about to be 
 married, and at the church porch, and he had gone to 
 meet her, that April ' 
 
 ' April ! ' he was pleased to seem interested. ' It 
 was in the springtime then — when the young man's 
 fancy lightly turns ' 
 
 ' No, dear. April is a giri ' 
 
 There was a touch of impatience in her voice. 
 
 ' Oh sorry ! April said something then? ' 
 
 'Yes, she did; and if you are making fun of me 1*11 
 tell you nothing further/ 
 
 ' Oh, cruel, cruel ! ' he murmured in the teasing lover's 
 tone that had come to him naturally as he leaned across 
 and took her hand; 'but when we are at home — you 
 and I — I'll find you better books than that to read — 
 
 
n6 MRS BENTE 
 
 Meredith, Barrie, Stevenson; yon have some treats 
 in store/ 
 
 She wrinkled her nose at him : it was half playful 
 in spirit, but also decidedly defiant. She was going t o 
 read what she pleased : she had made up her mind 
 about that. 
 
 It was early yet; but the good effects of the holiday 
 were already passing, and Ellen's irritable nerves were 
 now, for the moment, suffering from the sameness of 
 incessant change. She looked at him with straight eyes. 
 She was not inclined to be treated as the good giri who 
 must read what is benetfcial; then, in something of a 
 mocking tone, she slyly quoted : — 
 
 ' Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever/ 
 
 Gervase looked at her with a curious eye, and wisely 
 let things be. He realised that he did not entirely 
 know her. 
 
 There was a pheasant in a field. He drew his wife's 
 attention to the bird of plumage. 
 
 'Wouldn't I like the feathers for a hat/ she said; 
 and Gervase, once again in holiday spirits, laughed. 
 She laughed too : the slight tension was dispelled. 
 He was very happy, and keenly interested in the new 
 life and its prospects, being prepared to find fresh 
 deeps and new lights in that dear, baffling being, his 
 little wife, whose past had been so harsh, her experiences 
 so horrible. 
 
 Meanwhile Nuneholm waited, unwitting, for the 
 coming crusade; and the stockbroker's wives, with the 
 sisters, cousins, aunts and grand-relatives of the pros- 
 perous merchants — not to mention the important 
 
MRS BENTE 117 
 
 mere males — who dwelt or gathered to gossip and play 
 bridge on The Height, were all unconscious that the new 
 curate, of whom the Rector had spoken in his lightly 
 appreciative way, was coming with the intentions of 
 St Francis and of Jeremiah in his heart. 'A 
 nice fellow,' the Rector had called him. 'Quite a 
 scholar, I should think/ had been Bente's erroneous 
 judgment of his future chief after the only interview 
 they had shared; while Ellen Bente, who, being Poppy, 
 was surely to have some part in the shaping of events, 
 was forgotten by both, ignored by all, even by the 
 sharp-eyed Mrs Dunstan Deane, who summed-up and 
 judged the characters and future usefulness of the 
 new-comers with her ordinary confident rapidity. 
 
 Miss Bente, Gervase's Aunt Grace, had found rooms 
 for them. She, who had seen and quietly studied Ellen 
 on her wedding-day, had decided, after some discussion 
 with Gervase, that it was better the young couple did 
 not share her house, 'The Willows/ She was cordially 
 willing to make her new niece as happy as circumstances 
 permitted; but the young lady's antecedents, of whom 
 she of necessity knew something, and what she had read 
 from her aspects and actions in those crucial few hours 
 after the ceremony at St Brendan's, had taught her 
 to be wary. Here was probably a reformed giri, a good 
 giri and a brave giri; but — — 
 
 Gervase was never so happy in his life as diiring that 
 
 homeward journey. Here he was, with the chosen 
 
 iompanion, travelling to his own hearth-side; and the 
 
 >romise of work, arduous, difficult, and therefore con- 
 
 genial to his peculiar temperament, was before him. 
 
n8 MRS BENTE 
 
 His aunt had met them at the station and driven 
 with them to Cantuar Villas. There had been a touch 
 of reserve about the meeting of the two women. It 
 was certainly not cordial; but that passed unnoticed 
 by Gervase, who happened to be busily concerned with 
 looking after the luggage. 
 
 Poppy was silent during the drive; while her husband 
 talked to Aunt Grace with more than his customary 
 spirit. He was in a triumphant mood; all was well with 
 his world. Gervase felt that the name of their new 
 home, Cantuar Villa — a small semi-detached house in 
 which the best rooms were furnished, polished and 
 prepared for them — was of blessed augury. The land- 
 lady housekeeper, Mrs Carpenter, a woman of girth 
 and good heart, was awaiting them with a broad smile 
 of welcome; while Carpenter, her man, a black-bearded 
 shoe-maker, remained in the background of shyness, 
 and seemed not to be noticing them while he dug in 
 the garden. 
 
 Aunt Grace did not enter, because she knew they 
 were tired from their long journey. She drove on to 
 Rotherway. 
 
 ' What a place ! ' said Ellen when she and Gervase 
 were alone. 
 
 'We'll make it very jolly/ he answered heartily. 
 ' After all it's our home : and there's no place like it, 
 you know/ 
 
 Poppy was frowning at a looking-glass, which cer- 
 tainly was not of perfect reflection and brightness; 
 but still was superior to the mirror she had used in 
 Alma Terrace. 
 
MRS BENTE 119 
 
 'Look at this; look at this; look at tiris;' she said, 
 pointing to ornaments and articles of furniture which 
 were of the character inevitable to hired apartments. 
 
 Gervase was somewhat disappointed — a little more 
 and he would have been displeased — at the critical 
 spirit she was showing. It jarred on him. 
 
 'Never mind, old giri/ he coaxed her. 'You shall 
 make it pretty and sweet — like yourself/ 
 
 He took her in his arms and kissed her : but her lips 
 made no response. She turned away from his caress, 
 not wilfully; but because she was studying with an 
 interest not free from scorn a liver-coloured vase, which 
 shouted in discords from the sideboard. 
 
 He, too, realised now that she was tired from the 
 journey. 
 
 ' Sit down in the armchair and rest while 1 go out/ 
 he said quietly. 'I must see the Rector at once, and 
 may as well go now while Mrs Whatsername's getting 
 some food ready. Put your feet on this stool, and 
 try and rest/ 
 
 'Oh, Gervase, can't we leave here? These rooms are 
 odious. I did not think ' 
 
 ' Come, come ! ' He had reached the door, but went 
 back to her and rested a hand on her shoulder. ' You' re 
 tired, old lady ! To-morrow we'll get rid of the worse 
 things; and then you'll vote this a jolly little place. 
 After a time, perhaps, we can find other rooms. Why, 
 look at the garden ! ' 
 
 She would not look at the garden. She was in a cross 
 lumour; very tired, no doubt; but certainly yielding 
 rather readily to her disposition to discontent, 
 
120 MRS BENTE 
 
 ' I think your aunt might have found something better 
 than this.' 
 
 He start ed. 
 
 ' Ellen, please stop this complaining. It's no good ! ' 
 He was tending to be angry, for he was weary too. 
 Her complaints might be tolerated; but not this pur- 
 poseless ingratitude towards his aunt. 'Anyhow try 
 and make the best of it. You're tired now; in a day 
 or t wo- ' 
 
 * Fm sick of u in a day or two." ' She shook her 
 shoulder pettishly and he removed his hand. It was 
 no use arguing. 
 
 'Well, I'm off to see the Rector/ He spoke with 
 enforced cheerfulness. 'Shan't be long, my dear. Do 
 cheer up, Ellen/ he added. 'Let's make the best of 
 things.' 
 
 Poppy sat for a few minutes after he had gone and 
 appeared an image of sulks. 
 
 1 A beastly hole ! ' she said looking about her, ' and 
 he expects me to like it. He's as selfish as the rest of 
 the men/ She rang the beli, and at once, a second 
 time, rang it furiously. It was answered soon enough 
 by Mrs Carpenter, still smiling, though the beli had 
 seemed unduly violent and insistent. 
 
 'Is there anything I can get you, ma'am?' 
 
 'Yes, a can of hot water; and — will you take that 
 freak away?' 
 
 Mrs Carpenter paled, and her lips tightened at the 
 manner in which the instruction was given; but she 
 obeyed. The offensive vase went to disfigure another 
 room; and with it went some of the respect 
 
MRS BENTE 121 
 
 wherewith Poppy, the clergyman's wife, had been 
 regarded. 
 
 'Wonder how she'd like to live in it,' Ellen raged 
 coldly, but her thoughts were now pursuing Miss Bente. 
 'A prying hypocrite, that's what she is; what did she 
 come round to the station for? No sooner were we 
 back, than she must poke her nose in. 1*11 teach the 
 precious aunt to keep her place ... I do loathe 
 sanctimonious old maids ! ' 
 
 When Mrs Carpenter brought the water Ellen shut 
 her eyes and pretended to be asleep. She was just a 
 wee bit ashamed of herself, knowing she had been 
 ungracious; and looking so small and tired in the arm- 
 chair, Mrs Carpenter's kind heart warmed to her again; 
 Poppy' s rudeness was forgiven. 
 
• t CHAPTER XII 
 
 There was improvement on the following day. Poppy 
 was in better temper, and Gervase immensely relieved 
 to find his wife taking things with the content and phil- 
 osophy he had expected of her. The exhibition of 
 querulous dissatisfaction she had made the last evening 
 had worried him beyond words; and throughout his 
 walk to the Rectory and the subsequent conversation 
 with Dr Deane he was vaguely aware of the new 
 uncertainty enthroned at home. 
 
 Poppy had been troublesome the whole of that 
 evening; though not so bad as diiring the minutes of 
 unreason when Mrs Carpenter's care and taste had 
 been so decidedly scorned. 
 
 But a new day had come, the fatigues of the long 
 journey were comforted away, and Ufe was more hope- 
 ful. Gervase hurried off to his first early morning duty 
 with an exhilaration he had never before experienced; 
 even in the days when he was a f ully-fledged deacon and 
 prepared to believe that every clergyman was assured 
 of saintship and every bishop supremely righteous and 
 supernally wise. 
 
 When he returned to an early lunch Ellen welcomed 
 him with smiles and glowing. She had not removed 
 any of the detested ornarnents or things, but was 
 
 1*3 
 
MRS BENTE 123 
 
 decking the room with a wealth of flowers gathered 
 from Joseph Carpenter's gar den. She was like a child 
 in her delight. She handled the bunches of blooms with 
 excited pleasure, and rammed them generously and 
 without discrimination or considered arrangement 
 into vases all about the room. B 
 
 ' I do love the country ! ' she cried. ' Aren't these 
 beautiful?' 
 
 ' My darling ! ' said Gervase. ' It is a joy, a wonderful 
 joy, to see you so happy. You see, the country is your 
 true place : I felt sure you' d be happy her e, and after 
 St Brendan's it's — like paradise, isn't it?' 
 
 At the name of St Brendan's, Poppy's face turned 
 grave. 
 
 1 Don't mention the place/ she adjured him earnestly. 
 'I hate it — and all that it means. It was so ugly — 
 hateful. . . 4 Don't mention it again, Gervase, will 
 you?' 
 
 He smiled gladly and put his hands on her shoulders, 
 looking happily into her eyes. 
 
 * Indeed, I won't. I want you to forget it, and all 
 that chapter of life before we met. And I can't tell 
 you how glad I am you like this little house— it is our 
 first home, remember 1 I don't see why we shouldn't 
 be awfully happy here. Eh, old lady? ' He kissed her 
 warmly on the lips. 
 
 ' No/ she said, and not answering his caress; for- 
 getting him, indeed, on the instant she looked round on 
 the burdened vases and glasses, and wondered what to 
 do with the gathered extravagance in her hands and 
 on the table. 
 
124 MRS BENTE 
 
 He saw her preoccupation, and in his present 
 satisfaction was well content. He went out into the 
 sunny garden and sat to read a book. 
 
 It was a new edition of The Confessions of St Augus- 
 tine. As he read he wondered; the revelations of this 
 volume, though he had read it frequently, seemed so 
 new. The humanity of the great Saint and Father 
 appealed to him : it seemed as though an abstraction 
 had taken on humanity; and the fact that Augustine 
 had sinned and risen triumphantly over his sinning, 
 enhanced the present effect of his autobiography. 
 Gervase closed the book and forgot the new home, every- 
 thing — but Ellen. His marriage had opened his mind. 
 It had made a man of him. It had taught him truths 
 it was necessary to know; and if he could never again 
 be all the ascetic and devote* he had been, he would be 
 a still more helpful priest because of the complete 
 humanity — so he put it — of his companionship with 
 her to whom he was mated. 
 
 He rejoiced almost openly — his heart seemed shout- 
 ing — because he had not remained bound to the old 
 celibate intentions, and this quite apart from the fact 
 that he had enabled his Ellen to escape from the life 
 of grief and horrid dependence she had known in the 
 old, sad, bad and shameful days. 
 
 His heart warmed with love as he thought of the 
 little woman indoors making their home sweet with the 
 flowers of the garden. He praised God, silently but 
 devoutly, because he had found Poppy. He would not 
 then — or at any time— have undone the folly he had 
 completed for the ransoms of princes; and so his 
 
MRS BENTE 125 
 
 thoughts reverted, in a drifting circle, to St Augustine, 
 the Father, who, before he was chastened and became 
 a great leader of the Church, had known the glamour 
 and the prices of passion. 
 
 He was aroused from his cogitation on the humanities 
 by the tinny sound of a gong, and Mrs Carpenter' s 
 welcome appearance. The rubicund lady was smiling 
 all over her face; and restored to her natural good 
 temper with the world. Ellen had been very sweetly 
 gracious this morning. She had made no reference to 
 her last evening's rudeness : but so gushed over and 
 admired everything, remarked on the beauty of the 
 garden, the convenience of the house, and the rest of 
 it — meaning at the moment every word — that the 
 heart of the simple housekeeper was entirely won, and 
 she forgot the unpleasantness that had rankled through 
 the livelong night. 
 
 ' High spirited ! ' said Mrs Carpenter to her man. 
 
 * 'igh-spirited but nice/ 
 
 Carpenter, who was not so unobservant, grunted, 
 and for the time being there it was left. 
 
 The simple luncheon seemed delightful to both the 
 Bentes; it possessed all the charm of a picnic with 
 none of the inconveniences — wasps, cold plates, and 
 things forgotten. Poppy was in the highest spirits. 
 She laughed about nothing and saw the roseate side of 
 everything. Gervase, though naturally of more sober 
 temperament, especially in these days of new hopes 
 and purposes, shared her happiness, until Ellen's unend- 
 ing effervescence made him a little nervous; and out of 
 &is natural seriousness he quietly regarded her. Was 
 
 
126 MRS BENTE 
 
 she fey? The question flashed through his mind. 
 Was this excitement natural, or did it merely portend 
 subsequent depression and consequent ill-temper? 
 He was still young in his apprehensions of woman; had 
 never known one intimately until now, if indeed he 
 knew Ellen at all — he had periodical perplexities about 
 her. He was, in any case, beginning to realise that his 
 wife was a creature of moods, and could pass from one 
 extreme to the other with an unreasonable swiftness. 
 
 She noticed that he was not responding to her gaiety 
 quite so freely as he had done, and that the amused 
 trifling with which he linked or parried her remarks 
 was rather more considered than before. 
 
 'What's the matter with you, old Sobersides?' she 
 asked of a sudden. 
 
 He laughed in answer. 
 
 1 Oh, I'm all right. I was only wondering about you/ 
 
 'Mei' 
 
 He wisely did not express in speech the vague thoughts 
 he had been thinking; he temporised, was diplomatic. 
 
 'Well, it's so good to see you happy ... I suppose 
 you won't be going far to-day? ' he added, with purpose 
 in his voice. . 
 
 : 'Why not? I thought of going into the fields and 
 finding out just where we are/ 
 
 As a matter of faet, Poppy had thought nothing of 
 the kind; but in her rapture over things present she 
 felt that some assertion of the sort was necessary. 
 
 'Well/ he answered, 'I expect it's very probable 
 Mrs Deane will call. She's almost sure to do so : in 
 fact, the Rector suggested as much : and I'm glad she'll 
 
MRS BENTE 127 
 
 be seeing you in such jolly circumstances.' He looked 
 about the room, at the flowers which were sparkling 
 and singing everywhere. 
 
 Poppy's effervescence stopped; it was as though her 
 bubbling spirits had suddenly fallen flat. 
 
 'And must I see her?' 
 
 Her pouted lips were ungracious. He looked at her 
 frankly. 
 
 Tm afraid you must, my dear; — why, of course, 
 you must. Tm not keen on these conventions myself. 
 A lot of time is wasted in calling and small-talking; 
 but we clergy have to make the concessions; it's the 
 only way of getting at the confidence of our people; 
 and you as a clergyman's wife are one of us/ 
 
 'Am I?' 
 
 Ellen, struck by the incongruity, laughed, and 
 Gervase was glad to hear her laughter, for it was good- 
 humoured, kindly, without any such hint of defiance 
 as, he knew, had sometimes accompanied her mirth. 
 
 ' You are : and as I and the Rector will be working 
 together; so, I expect, you and Mrs Deane will often 
 work together. Clergymen's wives are important people, 
 I can assure you, and are able to do an enormous amount 
 of good.' 
 
 Poppy made a wry face, and for a moment was lost 
 in thought, whilst she crumbled bread and fidgeted 
 with a salt-cellar, generously spilling its contents. 
 
 'And suppose I've gone for a walk?' she said. 'I 
 want to go for a walk/ 
 
 ' My dear, of course you can go for a walk. There is 
 no likelihood of her calling before half-past three or four/ 
 
 
128 MftS BENTE 
 
 • But I hate walking directly after luncheon ! ' 
 
 The joyful effervescence had vanished, the elements 
 of elf-like delight were dispersed : something of the old 
 sulky and obstinate Poppy was back again. 
 
 Gervase made no reply to this. He was willing to 
 trust to the common sense of his wife. She rose from 
 the table and went upstairs to their room. She mused 
 there for a time and then came down not dressed for 
 walking. 
 
 ' I really don't see why I should go out when I don't 
 want to/ she said t o herself aloud; and as nobody was 
 near her nobody else heard, which was perhaps some- 
 thing of a disappointment to her. 
 
 Gervase, with his hat on his head, was in the garden 
 looking at the flowers. 
 
 She found an old packet of cigarettes in a small 
 handbag brought from Alma Terrace; and with a screw 
 of the eyes and nose, representing the promise of mis- 
 chief, lighted one, and, puffing it, went out to him. 
 He glanced away when he saw her. He thought the 
 smoking of cigarettes was rather an unpleasant habit, 
 especially for women; and had said so to her in one of 
 their spacious conversations before they were married. 
 She had not forgotten this; and, because in the matter 
 of visitors he seemed disinelined to consider her, she 
 would enjoy this little act of rebellion against him. He 
 said nothing : she thought he had not noticed anything, 
 so she blew one puff of smoke in his direetion. It 
 provoked no response. He was not so small or stupid 
 as to resent the passing impertinence of wilfulness. 
 
 ' Have you seen the woman, dear? ' she asked. 
 
MRS BENTB 129 
 
 Do you mean Mrs Deane? I've shaken hands with 
 her, that's all/ 
 
 ' Was it very impressive? . . . What is she like? ' 
 She was at last checking her wilful impulse; the 
 icond question was better-tempered than the first. 
 Gervase realised this. He was now too much in love 
 ith his wife to examine very closely the spirit of what 
 >he said and did : but he could not help realising that 
 te and Ellen even thus early were not seeing exactly 
 re to eye. 
 
 I believe she' s all right/ he said, 'but I only had a 
 limpse of her. Full of energy, I should think. You'll 
 >n be able t o judge for yourself/ 
 ' H'm, doesn't sound very attractive ! ' She blew 
 mother puff towards him, and smiled as she watched 
 lim avoid it. Then he smiled too, as he saw it was a 
 tere small naughtiness, done to tease him. 
 
 I must go,' he said suddenly. ' I pay my first calls 
 iis afternoon. Some cottagers. Very different from 
 >t Brendan's/ 
 'Yes, horribly duli/ 
 
 He stared at her : then broke into laughter. He 
 lought she was humorous, whereas she was only 
 truthful. He took her hand, kissed it gaily, pulled 
 her ear, and went. 
 
 'Yes, horribly duli/ she repeated softly to herself. 
 ' Horribly, horribly duli ! ' then with a determined nod 
 of the head got a sunshade and a novelette, and went 
 to sit in the gar den. ' I wonder how long I shall stick 
 it/ 
 She stretched herself and lay back in the deck chair 
 
130 MRS BENTE 
 
 which Mrs Carpenter had brought out for her use, and 
 there half-dreamed, half-slept. She closed her eyes, 
 peeping now and then at the glaring sky and enjoying 
 the wind and shade. 
 
 She heard a ring. What was that? The Rector's 
 wife? 
 
 ' Damn it ! ' she said. She sprang from the chair 
 and ran to the house. 
 
 1 Mrs Carpenter, Mrs Carpenter ! ' she called through 
 the kitchen window, *if it's visitors, I'm not at home.' 
 
 Mrs Carpenter came forward. Her face was per- 
 turbed because of Poppy. 
 
 1 It is visitors, ma'am : it's Mrs Deane. You'll be 
 at home to her, won't you? ' Not to be at home to the 
 Rector's wife, the one person in Nuneholm to whom 
 even the almost all-important Reverend Doctor was 
 inferior, was to the simple mind of Mrs Carpenter like 
 flying in the face of Providence. 
 
 There was another ring. The cry of the beli was 
 peremptory. Its command decided Poppy. The feline 
 in her disposition was ruffled. Her back was up. 
 
 ' I will not ! ' she said; and walked calmly back to 
 her chair. 
 
 Mrs Carpenter was a t her wits'-end what to do. 
 She could not give Poppy's message — the absolute 
 ingenuousness of her nature forbade it; and yet she 
 could not keep the Rector's wife at the front-door 
 waiting. 
 
 The problem was solved for her by the appearance 
 in the gar den at the back of that redoubtable, inde- 
 feasible lady. She was not to be perturbed by any 
 
MRS BENTE 13* 
 
 privacy in the village of which her husband was 
 Rector, and she Lady-High-Everything-Else. 
 
 ' Did you not hear me ring, Mrs Carpenter ? ' she asked 
 in a clear, cold, angry voice. 
 
 ' Yes, 'm — oh, yes 'm/ 
 
 'Then why was the door not answered? I wish to 
 see Mrs Bente. She is here, isn't she? ' 
 
 'Yes, 'm; she's there in the garden;' and forthwith 
 the housekeeper fled. 
 
 There was no escape for Poppy, as Mrs Deane, her 
 eyes still shining with annoyance, though her lips wore 
 the pleased expression of conventional greeting, came 
 towards her. 
 
 Ellen was cowed. She rose from her chair meekly 
 to receive the triumphant guest. 
 
 'Mrs Bente,' said the Rector's lady, 'that foolish 
 woman nearly prevented my seeing you/ 
 
 ' Oh dear ! ' said Poppy, suggesting her regret. 
 
 'It was very stupid of her. I am Mrs Dunstan 
 Deane/ she went on. ' Your husband is going to work 
 with mine; and, therefore, it is necessary I should 
 have the pleasure of knowing you. Where shall we 
 sit/ she added, rather sharply for a visitor? 
 
 There was only the deck chair. Ellen had it on the 
 tip of her tongue to say pertly, 'We won't sit/ but 
 had manners or trepidation enough not to say it. 
 
 'Let us go into the house, Mrs Deane/ She led the 
 way to the sitting-room. 
 
 In spite of her earlier expressed unwillingness — due, 
 in chief, to idleness and the desire to tease Gervase 
 ! — Ellen was well enough pleased at the time to have this 
 
132 MRS BENTE 
 
 visitor. It meant the opening of a new experience, 
 of a chapter of social importance; and the prospect 
 of fluttering among the grown-up butterflies of 
 Nuneholm pleased her just at present. 
 
 When she and Mrs Deane were seated — the Rector's 
 wife with a severe, upright, unbending back on a 
 straight chair — Poppy said with the expected smile of 
 insincerity, 'You are my first visitor/ 
 
 'And I ought to be your first visitor, Mrs Bente. 
 It is only right I should be. The Rector wishes me to 
 tell you that he hopes to see you very shortly, as soon 
 as his duties permit.' Ali the while she was speaking 
 her sharp eyes were closely inspecting Poppy, who felt 
 herself flush invisibly. This searching feminine scru- 
 tiny was a new experience. It caused her, after a very 
 little while, to loathe the intruder and to suspect 
 her intentions; but no evidence of this dislike escaped 
 her. 
 
 'That's very kind/ she answered. 'A delightful 
 village this ! ' 
 
 'You think so? ' The tone meant nothing : it might 
 as well have implied that the Rector's lady did not 
 think so. 
 
 ' The scraggy bit eh ! ' thought Poppy. ' Yes/ she 
 said aloud, 'look at the flowers, aren't they lovely?' 
 Mrs Deane looked at the flowers, but her face did not 
 show a particular appreciation. 'They are all from 
 Mrs Carpenter's garden/ 
 
 'Lovely, lovely!' the words were warm; but their 
 intonation was ice. Mrs Deane had little use for flowers 
 except as altar-decorations. She was a practical 
 
MRS BENTE 1 33 
 
 woman. She had t o think of the parish. ' Of course 
 
 you come from London?' 
 'I do, and so different from this/ Poppy said 
 
 guardedly. ' But I' m not a Londoner — no ! ' 
 'No?' 
 'No, I was born in Poona. Papa was an officer in 
 
 the Indian Army — a Colonel/ 
 ' Really ! ' Mrs Deane's manner was a little warmer. 
 ' Yes, he was killed in — battle.' Poppy was going to 
 
 say the Indian Mutiny — and then the Afghan War; 
 
 but prudently refrained from anything definite. She 
 
 was not sure of her dates. 
 'I was only a little thing at the time,' she 
 
 added; 'but I remember his blue eyes and his scarlet 
 
 coat/ 
 'Charming/ murmured the visitor — 'And you met 
 
 Mr Bente in town?' 
 'Yes, we — we worked in the same parish/ 
 'What? Really? You worked in the East End 
 -in St Brendan's?' There was a gentler look in the 
 >eady eyes. Mrs Deane was frankly surprised. 
 'Not for long; my health wouldn't permit it/ 
 'I didn't understand from your husband — though, 
 
 of course, Fve hardly had time for a proper talk with 
 
 him — but I don't think the Rector understood that 
 
 you and Mr Bente had been fellow-workers/ 
 'Not fellow-workers — not exactly that/ 
 'No? — were you associated with a lay mission?' 
 'I suppose it would be that/ Poppy said, cudgelling 
 
 her brain for ideas and mentally pinching herself for 
 
 getting into an impasse. 
 
134 MRS BENTE 
 
 She plunged into the abyss. 'I — I visited fallen 
 women ! ' 
 
 'Oh, did you?' Mrs Deane loved to talk of fallen 
 women. She had a special intonation of voice for that 
 subject. 
 
 1 Yes/ In for a penny, in for a pound. The spirit of 
 adventure prompted Ellen to go on. ' Oh, Mrs Deane, 
 you've no idea of the hardships they must endure. 
 
 The poor things ! The vile men ' She had found a 
 
 theme on which she could enlarge; but, of a sudden, 
 she recognised an eager and a cruel expression in her 
 visitor's eyes. What did it portend? Ellen had no 
 idea; but in a flash she decided not to be too eloquent 
 or indignant about vile men or any one else. She 
 checked herself. 
 
 'And what did you do to help them?' asked the 
 other. 
 
 Poppy smiled sadly and looked into the face of her 
 visitor with an ingenuous gaze. 
 
 ' I talked to them, helped them with the little money 
 I could spare, gave them food. I knew what they 
 wanted — not drivel and tracts and rubbish/ The 
 implied impertinence would out. 
 
 'What?' The Rector's lady was more bewildered 
 than shocked. Ellen was conscious of the state of mind 
 of her visitor and was encouraged to take advantage 
 of it. Moreover, she felt at the moment that she had a 
 purpose in view; and, more important still. knew what 
 she was talking about. 
 
 'Believe me, Mrs Deane, the people who want to 
 help them go the wrong way to work. They want 
 
MRS BENTE 135 
 
 something better than psalms — they do ! They want 
 homes and loving attention and plenty of food; not 
 goody-goodness/ 
 
 'But ' 
 
 ' Just one minute/ EUen raised a restraining hand. 
 She was f uli of her subject. ' That's a problem the clergy 
 and the righteous had better leave alone. It wants a 
 man of the world, yes, or a woman of the world, who 
 has been in the wrong herself, t o help them/ 
 
 Mrs Deane was truly distressed. The conversation 
 had passed beyond her control, and she was not used 
 to that. She was like a lost ship in a raging sea. 
 These too-modern sentiments sounded improper to 
 her virtuous, practical ears. 
 
 'I must be going/ she declared. 
 
 'But you will have some tea, won't you?' 
 
 'Ah, no, I'm afraid I must be going.' Mrs Deane 
 had risen, with no uncertainty, and held out a hand. 
 'I'm glad to have met you/ she managed to say, for 
 conventionalities came to her rescue. 'The second 
 Thursday is my day; but I shall hope to see you again 
 before that. Good-afternoon/ 
 
 When she had gone Poppy went to the window and 
 watched the hurriedly-retreating figur e. An odd ex- 
 pression was on her face : it was not a smile, it was 
 rather like a spoilt grin : and she did not feel entirely 
 at ease. 
 
 ' I am a bloody fool to talk such a lot/ she said to 
 the flowers. 
 
 The visit had its effect. Mrs Deane had been im- 
 pressed, despite the unconventionality of Ellen's views 
 
136 MRS BENTE 
 
 on a certain subject. Before the week was out visitors 
 — even visitors from The Height — began to call. The 
 fact that Mrs Gervase Bente was the daughter of a 
 Colonel became generally known in a surprising way. 
 It almost seemed as if the little birds do go about 
 whispering social news. 
 
 ' A sweet woman ! ' was the rapid verdict. Ellen 
 was so happy and in such high spirits through this 
 rapid popularity that she tended to encourage the 
 impression. ' And she has done great work among the 
 poorest poor ! ' was the rider which opened to her the 
 doors of the more serious members of the community — 
 though they were few. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 Nothing succeeds, it seems, like social success. The 
 fact that Ellen was a clergyman's wife and a colonel's 
 daughter opened doors that would have been closed 
 and adamant against the claims of the more worthy 
 and the more pretentious. 
 
 Her sudden success made her extraordinarily happy, 
 and so reflected that happiness on all about her. 
 Gervase felt triumphant : his rash experiment had 
 succeeded amazingly. The impossible had actually 
 been accomplished, the time had come for the 
 whooping. 
 
 Soon every day brought its note or notes of 
 invitation to lunch or dinner, to an afternoon game of 
 tennis or bridge. It was the flood of the gadabout 
 season. Ellen, in the full enthusiasm of novelty, took 
 advantage of the opportunity. She worked hard, 
 endeavouring to cope with the flow of f estivities offered. 
 
 Gervase twice accompanied her to social houses, 
 then as he found that she was, at present, the person 
 of principal pursuit he was able to slacken in his social 
 attentions. He hated that sort of thing; he knew the 
 hollowness and insincerity underlying those amenities 
 and activities. To dance attendance on that rout of 
 
 137 
 
 
138 MRS BENTE 
 
 vanity was repugnant to his unworldly soul; but he 
 faced it and endured, solely for the sake of his wife, 
 who was, he believed, regaining herself, putting on 
 confidence for the battle of the future, learning her 
 latent powers for brightness and charming, in the 
 liveliness and lustre of that chapter of the madding 
 crowd. 
 
 The Rector further helped Poppy's social progress. 
 He made a point of paying her little playful attentions, 
 of exchanging with her sallies of chaff . She was piquant, 
 had personality, so he told the world; and in his open, 
 expansive manner, he took every opportunity of prais- 
 ing her to Gervase and of congratulating Benedick 
 on the capture of this particular Beatrice. 
 
 There were few at that stage who did not share the 
 Rector's enthusiasm; but amongst them was his wife. 
 Mrs Dunstan Deane, at the kindest, was in two minds 
 about the alluring and piquant damosel. She was at 
 first willing to open the social doors to her and disposed 
 to believe that she was bright and witty— her sense 
 of humour being insufhciently developed to allow her 
 to dispute the assertion— but caution suggested that 
 the progress in social favour of Mrs Bente was un- 
 expectedly rapid; and reflection caused her to wonder 
 not a little as to the exact nature of Ellen's asserted 
 work among 'fallen women/ Her way of putting it 
 had not been favourably impressive. Moreover, it 
 rather looked as if the curate's wife did not go to church 
 — in the circumstances an impossible omission — and 
 it was absolutely certain that she co-operated not at 
 
MRS BENTE 139 
 
 all in religious movements with the Rector's darkly 
 determined and over-zealous lady. These were things 
 that must be looked to ! These were things that bid 
 for caution. 
 
 Meanwhile, Ellen, indifferent to any outside opinion, 
 continued her victorious progress, enjoyed the so- 
 called good time that she was experiencing, and 
 reflected her happy future on those with whom she was 
 brought in touch. She had really not an opportunity 
 to be her true self : she had not time even to be 
 wilfully peevish. The weather, actually the weather 
 also, was kind to her during those exultant days. Her 
 outdoor life, her daily experiences, were robed and 
 adorned with sunshine. All went, and promised stiil 
 to go, for the best, in the novelty of those early 
 excitements. Poppy was enjoying herself. 
 
 There was only one person with whom she did not 
 get along well, and that was Gervase's Aunt Grace. 
 They did not happen to meet. Whenever Miss Bente 
 called at Cantuar Villas Ellen was out; and whenever 
 the hospitable aunt wrote little notes of invitation 
 and kindness it was held as a sumcient excuse for their 
 not being answered that Gervase and his wife had at 
 present too many calls on their attention. Miss Bente 
 was well aware of the sudden social fortune of her new 
 niece and was too sweet-natured to misinterpret or 
 misunderstand the neglect. She took everything, 
 even forgetfulness, as well-meant; but knowing more 
 than the others did of the true character of the 
 jnarriage, she wondered sadly how long this excitement 
 
140 MRS BENTE 
 
 and feverous happiness would last. She was not 
 without fears. She could not feel that the woman 
 whom Gervase had married had outdone the Ethiop 
 by thoroughly changing her skin; but she said 
 nothing of this. No one shared her surmises. She 
 kept them in her heart; and, waiting and wondering, 
 still hoped. 
 
 She had no true ground for hoping. Poppy instinc- 
 tively disliked her. Their natures were antipathetic. 
 It was a case of the association of opposites with the 
 fact of a felt antagonism. 
 
 Gervase was, however, not forgetful of the just claims 
 of his aunt, and in the second week of their settlement 
 in Nuneholm asked Ellen to go to Rotherway to see 
 her. 
 
 'Yes, darling/ she promised at once, delightedly, 
 effusively, it seemed. '1*11 go over this very afternoon 
 if I can.* 
 
 ' But aren't you fixed up for to-day? ' he asked before 
 she had finished the sentence. 'You're such a busy 
 little person these days/ he added proudly. 
 
 'No, I'm not fixed up to-day. 1*11 go, and take her 
 some of those roses, if Carpenter will let me have a few.* 
 
 'Good. Thank you, Ellen. That will be splendid; 
 she' 11 be delighted/ 
 
 He went away to sorne hopeful duty, much the 
 happier for Ellen's ardent willingness to please. He 
 was, because love had covered his eyes, no clearer- 
 sighted than most newly-married men. 
 
 She did not go. When the tirae came she had a good 
 
MRS BENTE 141 
 
 excuse for not going, and when afterwards he gently 
 protested, she was so pleasant and winning, so adroitly 
 argumentative, that he was almost as gratified as if 
 she had gone. 
 
 That was the nearest approach to a call at Rother- 
 way that Ellen seemed capable of making in those 
 young and bountiful times. She certainly had excuses 
 enough for delaying the attention. Every morning 
 brought its sufficient tale of invitations : every day 
 saw the gleeful fulfilment of the insistent calls of a 
 social programme. 
 
 The young person of Alma Terrace was transformed 
 indeed. Even Mrs Barnes, who had known her in 
 almost every one of her innumerable moods, would 
 hardly have retognised this bride, who, despite her 
 connection by marriage with the Church, was so full 
 of point, piquancy and the fashionable joy of life. 
 
 ' Mrs Bente, if you weren't a happy bride how danger- 
 ! ous you might be ! ' said the Rector to Ellen archly, 
 ; in one of their many pleasant passages of arras. 
 
 1 How little you know me ! ' she answered, looking 
 with mischievous frankness into his beaming eyes. 
 
 'Ha ha ! ' said he in jocular disagreement. 
 
 Her honest simplicity charmed and impressed him. 
 He did not quite forget her, even when he was 
 playfully gallivanting with some other young wife or 
 imaiden, whose devotion to the Church did not prevent 
 an innocent philandering. 
 
 'My dear Bente/ said he to his curate, 'your wife 
 might be a power. She has personality — what a 
 
142 MRS BENTE 
 
 treasure that is ! And wit. 1 1 is not so much what she 
 says; it is how she says it. So — well, so so. You know. 
 Oh, she's really delightful. Nuneholm's lucky to get 
 her : you too, my dear f ellow, you too — both of you ! ' 
 He overfiowed with fulsomeness. 
 
 Gervase was delighted to receive this testimony. 
 He now was daily deeper in love with Ellen, and 
 rejoiced to discover this tribute of appreciation from 
 such an authority. 
 
 * I'm glad you think so/ said he. 
 
 'Think so? It is so. My dear fellow, she's an 
 acquisition/ 
 
 Gervase was habitually averse from discussing persons, 
 and would be especially averse from discussing himself 
 or one so closely associated with himself as his wife. 
 The Rector was, however, his spiritual, ecclesiastical, 
 and, by virtue of his office, his social superior — so he 
 felt — and for once he broke through the barrier of his 
 reserve. 
 
 'Ali you say, Rector, is true of her, and she is the 
 pluckiest giri in the world. She has had a fight for it; 
 she has had disadvantages to encounter; but she has 
 fought them down, she has won.' 
 
 He was, indeed, in love. His eyes flashed and 
 darkened with enthusiasm. The Rector, who hated 
 anything like a display of emotion and did not at any 
 time care for tame listening, at once became a little 
 bored by his assistant's enthusiasm. He pursed his 
 lips, without showing it, and fumbled with the brira 
 of the hat he was holding in his hands. 
 
MRS BENTE 143 
 
 'Yes, my dear fellow/ he said, to shorten the 
 discussion. 
 
 Gervase did not take it so. 
 
 ' She has fought a battle and won/ he went on. ' Her 
 charm and sweetness are really remarkable, consider- 
 ing all she has gone through.' 
 
 'H'm!' 
 
 'She is the perfect companion, bright and helpful, 
 and ' 
 
 'My dear Bente/ said the Rector, grasping hisarm 
 and smiling with that crooked smile of his that many 
 had found so attractive and misleading, 'Treasure 
 her: guard her, keep her in the palace of your love. 
 Remember that a good woman is — what was it? — well, 
 worth her weight in rubies ... I adore rabies.' 
 
 Having said so he patted his curate's arm three or 
 four times and gracefully walked away. It was beauti- 
 fully done, a triumph of tact and social art. He 
 belonged to the later school of Turveydrop; he had 
 a sort of deportment — of flippantly portentous 
 deportment. 
 
 ' I hope he's not going to be a bore, ' he said to him- 
 self. 
 
 Meanwhile, Gervase was endeavouring to ease his 
 hunger for service by busily visiting the houses of the 
 poorer parishioners, and discovering what seemed a 
 world untrodden by clerical feet. Wherever he went 
 he was courteously received; but the ignorance of those 
 people on the truths of religion as the Church teaches 
 it, and their indifference to the fate of their immortal 
 
244 MRS BENTE 
 
 souls, were becoming to him a horror. They knew little 
 and they cared nothing; it was worse than St Brendan's, 
 because in the desolate East End parish sordid poverty 
 dwelt alone : and was not resident, as here, at the doors 
 of the well-to-do who made a show of social superiority, 
 were proud of the unserviceable use of wealth; and called 
 themselves Christians. Nuneholm was proving worse 
 than the Sleepy Hollow of his old imagining, judged 
 from the standpoint of his rigid and exalted mission : 
 it was a sink of worldliness, a whited sepulchre — except 
 that the colour was a garish purple, too lavishly splashed 
 with jeweh and gold. 
 
 He laid definite plans for the improvement of things. 
 This Slough of Despond should at least have some firm 
 roadway for the feet of those who sought the mountains; 
 but his intentions were as yet caught in confusion; 
 there was so much needed, and there seemed so little 
 help to be gained, for the number of rich or poor in 
 Nuneholm disposed to sacrifice self for the common 
 religious good were, so far as he could see, no more than 
 none at all. It was, however, early yet to be final 
 upon these things. Before he could build fruitful 
 plans, before he could bring those plans to fruition, he 
 must know his people, select those who would be more 
 useful, and so have a human backing to his venture. 
 Without good preparation it would be futile to approach 
 the Rector, whose very ease of personality — Gervase 
 was feeling sure — would be a hindrance. 
 
 The first thing for the reforming curate to do was to 
 meet, know, and win the confidence of the people. He, 
 
MRS BENTE i 4 5 
 
 therefore, visited eagerly, and interested himself so far 
 as he might do, in their lives, though to carry his purpose 
 into those kindly yet unsympathetic homes was a 
 challenge to his courage and a wound to his shyness. 
 He really did not like visiting the people of this cold 
 parish. St Brendan's had been different. There frank- 
 ness of counsel and action were preferred. But here 
 it was so hard for him to talk the nothings or trifles 
 and the insincerities that form the passing conversations 
 which were necessary and expected. He was too 
 sincere in his convictions merely to babble about them; 
 and yet he realised that if he were to talk about them 
 it would have to be in a manner that would not disturb 
 the hannony of the tea-cups. He was, moreover, too 
 honest to pretend an affection for casual acquaintances; 
 he could not imitate the confident humbugs whose 
 shallow hearts are on their sleeves. 
 
 In their different ways, the newly-married couple 
 settled down in Nuneholm, and found occupation for 
 their hours. But Gervase very soon grew tired-hearted, 
 though he would not confess it to himself. He was tuli 
 of crusading ardour, and had no intention of being 
 beaten. He would do what he had set out t o do. He 
 would recreate the Christian feeling of the place; he 
 would be an apostle to this Laodicea. St Brendan's had 
 given him confidence. He had done well there. He was 
 not going to lose the fight here, in this more refined and 
 cultured atmosphere. That he vowed in his heart. 
 
 And he was generally received with kindness wherever 
 he went. If manners had been the measure of their 
 
146 MRS BENTE 
 
 morals he might have hoped for much. But the manners 
 of the Elect of Nuneholm were not based on goodness 
 of heart; they were of slighter texture. And while 
 still he did not quite realise it, he found that his work 
 in that place was like gleaning for grain in a garden 
 of flowers that were mostly artificial. 
 
 Diiring this early period of depression his greatest 
 comfort came from Ellen. This was actually the en- 
 joyable fact. Her good spirits were a help to him. Not 
 once did he, after the first difficulties, see her pettish 
 or sulky — as unconsciously he had expected to find her 
 — in those early days. She was as active as a wren, 
 as agreeable as morning sunshine. 
 
 Her influence was, however, only indirectly helpful. 
 She did not worry and she kept out of the way : and 
 that was much to a man of the temperament of Gervase. 
 Only once during those days, that to her were couleur 
 de rose, did he actually need her. He had come home 
 tired, and she to dress before going to some garden 
 function. He threw himself on a couch and sighed his 
 weariness. 
 
 ' Cheer up, ' she said, and bent to kiss the top of his 
 head. 
 
 He smiled, looked up and caught her hand, playing 
 unconsciously with the wedding ring, the token of their 
 union. 
 
 'Isn't this jolly? ' he said. 
 
 'Yes, it is jolly; so look it !' She drew a way her 
 fingers in order to put on a glove. He tried to put the 
 hand to his lips but she had it away. 
 
MRS BENTE 147 
 
 'If you want something to do/ she added, 'you can 
 write a letter/ 
 
 'Yes, who to? Aunt Grace/ 
 
 'No/ She shut her lips tightly. It would have 
 been a sign ominous to him, had he been alert enough 
 to notice it. 
 
 'Well, who?' 
 
 'Why, that old vicar — What's-his-name?— of St 
 Brendan's. You can say ' 
 
 •Yes?' 
 
 'You can say that Fve turned up trumps and am 
 promising to sprout wings/ 
 
 She had reached the door when she turned to flash 
 him a final glance — was it quizzical or mischievous? 
 — and then she went. 
 
 Gervase could hear her laughing in the passage, 
 and was glad : then he wondered ! He thought he 
 might as well do as she suggested, and pulled out his 
 fountain-pen. 
 
 As Ellen was going out of the front gate, a trades- 
 man was bringing in goods to the side-entrance. He 
 saw the curate's wife and eyed her curiously. 
 
 ' Hot stuff ! ' was his comment to Mrs Carpenter, 
 when she presently answered the side-door. 
 
 'Who?' 
 
 'A certain person who's just gone out of your front- 
 gate/ 
 
 'Mrs Bente, do you mean?' 
 
 1 Ah, strange goings on for a parson's lady I ' 
 
i 4 8 MRS BENTE 
 
 The housekeeper made no answer to this, though her 
 upper lip grew longer. She knew her place and shut 
 the door without a word so soon as the tradesman's 
 business was done. The fellow felt snubbed; but he 
 knew himself none the worse for that. 
 
 'Some folks may be blind, or won't see,' he thought; 
 'but I know — and so do others. The lady can put on 
 airs and that; but — — ' 
 
 In some such way, though mutely, to himself, he 
 expressed the growing verdict of the most determined 
 and ungullible jury, who sit in judgment in the servants' 
 halls. The maid and the footman see; the cook and 
 the butler know : the tradesmen from them learn — 
 and so the wide, wide world through its ever-active 
 mouths multitudinous, and ears ever-attentive, becomes 
 aware of facts that seem hidden and secret. And 
 so from mean beginnings grows the gossip that ruins 
 lives. 
 
 Ellen Bente was, unhappily, never nice to subordinat es; 
 it was rarely in her nature to be simply pleasant, 
 and when she might appear nice was at the same time 
 nearly always obviously insincere, so that the dislike 
 and distrust she encouraged through her careless ways 
 and manners strengthened and spread. 
 
 She was already being watched and talked about 
 m Nuneholm; and, whether she knew it or not, cared 
 not one halfpenny about it. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 There was one thing Poppy would not do — work for 
 the Church and parish. Even the uncertain reputation 
 she had established in the mind of Mrs Dunstan Deane 
 as a ' social worker ' would have diminished and possibly 
 disappeared at once if the Rector had been another sort 
 of man and Nuneholm a different order of parish. The 
 place was, however, a thoroughly Sleepy Hollow, and 
 neglect was tolerated, even in a curate's wife. Worse 
 st ; ll, she would not go to Church on Sundays. This 
 omission had horrified Gervase. 
 
 'But you must, my dear/ he said. 
 
 ' But I won't, my dear/ she answered. ' Vta bothered 
 if I will ! ' — and she did not go more than once and then 
 to an evening service. He felt he must insist. 
 
 'It is so duli/ was her explanation, which pained 
 her husband immeasurably. He did his best to per- 
 suade her. He said everything that could be said, 
 pointed out the truth that being his wife she shared his 
 responsibility; appealed to her loyalty, spoke of the 
 need of religious exercise for the health of her immortal 
 soul, talked of the example to the parish. It was mere 
 waste of words; words written upon water. 
 
 'Why should I?' she had said. He had thereupon 
 explained patiently and fully. 
 
 149 
 
150 MRS BENTE 
 
 'Thcn I won't I' was all her answcr; and from that 
 rock of brass shc would not budge. 
 
 There was nothing for Gervase Bente to do but work 
 harder, as he did. His efforts in that cold concdted 
 parish were as sccd thrown by the wayside, where it 
 could not thrive. 
 
 Gervase was bccoming unhappy bccause of the 
 unpromising character of his work. He had known 
 the parish would mean hard cffort; that vcry fact had 
 appcaled to his spirits and energies. He was born a 
 religious fightcr, and he fought; but in Nuneholm it 
 was like jnnumolling an incrt monster which had no 
 hvlings, or conscinuv, or sdf-rcspcct. He beggcd the 
 Vicar to allow him t o hold more services; one every 
 evening at least, and in the mornings of Saints' da; L 
 Dr IVam* had only lookrd at him wiih his charming 
 crooked smilt* .uni shakrn his silvcr hrad, ' My drar, 
 dear Bente/ he said in a gentlc voice, 'I wish wc 
 could — I have often wished wc could — but it i s a n 
 affront to God (he pronounced it 'Gud') to hold 
 services to which no one would come/ 
 
 Gervase had, thereupon, tried on other tacks—to 
 establish a club for boys, to form a cricket team from 
 mrmb(TS of the choir, to ori;aniso a parorhial llower 
 show, and an ambulance class; he even endeavoared to 
 persuade the Vicar to invite priests from a North-country 
 community to come and hold a mission — but the rcsult 
 was invaiiably thosamo. Dr IVanomothis suggestions 
 with a cheerful spirit and diseussed the prospects 
 Mandly and eloquently; but next to nothing was 
 
 
MRS BENTE 151 
 
 done, and thcrc was no promise of better fortune in thc 
 futurc. Evcn the crickct-club did not gct on to its 
 fcet, though the first stagcs of its cstablishmcnt was 
 hopeful. 
 
 Aftcr a choir-practice, whicli they had to attend on 
 Friday nights, Gervasc put the idea before the men and 
 boys then present. The idea was accepted cagerly, 
 and Bente's heart warmod. Ways and means were 
 discussed. The whcrewithal could be found. Farmer 
 Stokes would lend his field, and perhaps would roli 
 a pitch for them. Stumps, bails and a bat would be 
 lent by old Bob Harvey, who kept the adjacent Crooked 
 Billd, and was a good Churchman, and another bat 
 could be borrowed, no doubt. Gervase himself bought 
 a cricket-ball. That was all they needed, except the 
 good-will: and that was plcntifully promised too. 
 But the promise was hardly fulfilled. 
 
 The cricketers met to play on the following Tuesday. 
 Thc fact that the Crooked Billd was near thc ground 
 provcd even more than a hindrance. The choir-men 
 were thirsty, and the choir-boys would not take the 
 game seriously. When the twilight was advancing 
 and the match could be considered done, most of the 
 players, even some of those whose duty was in the 
 ficld, had driftcd off; and the tenor and thc bass — 
 they who led the responses, and on Christmas day were 
 allowed to sing solos— were actually fighting, until the 
 irate curate in his indignant fury parted them by 
 punehing them both. He wrote the two men letters 
 the ncxt day which seorehed them. He defmed thc 
 
152 MRS BENTE 
 
 duties of the chorister in a manner that opcned their 
 minds. 
 
 Gervase was so depressed by the failure of this early 
 effort that the cricket club died at its birth. . . . He 
 tried in its place to establish a local branch of the 
 Church of England Temperance Society. 
 
 The Rector was, as always, most sympathetic to the 
 idea : but he explained that unless all the clergy of the 
 parishes thereabout could be ardent teetotallers, such 
 an effort would be possibly misunderstood and there- 
 fore better not : whereupon the defeated curate again 
 lost his temper and said hot things about Laodiceans, 
 at which the Rector drew himself up sadly and proudly 
 — Doctor Deane really had a deal of dignity — and 
 reminded him that discipline was a godly duty and 
 that curates were as yet but the subalterns of the 
 Church. 
 
 Gervase realised that he was in the wrong, apologised 
 simply and earnestly, and went home as unhappy a 
 man as walked under starlight. 
 
 'A good fellow; a well-meaning, dear fellow/ was 
 the Vicar's charitable comment; 'but tactless and 
 mistaken/ 
 
 So that neither in his work, nor at this stage in his 
 home, could Gervase Bente be sure of finding comfort, 
 for Poppy had come to be dimcult. 
 
 The keenness of her enjoyment of the social atten- 
 tions she received had begun to slacken; she was tired 
 of the sameness of the excitement she was experiencing. 
 This was not at once manifest to Gervase. He was still 
 
MRS BENTE 153 
 
 so very charmed with his wife that little signs and 
 
 portents had passed unheeded : but it was not long be- 
 
 fore he was compelled to realise the truth, which made 
 
 itself evident in petty complaints against all manner 
 
 >f people, generally the Carpenters, but sometimes 
 
 igainst persons whom he did not know. 
 
 She had become spoiled and disappointed : the result 
 
 ls vagaries and discontent. There would be spells 
 
 which nothing was right, and she had a special 
 
 Lbility for saying so pointedly. Gervase grew keenly 
 
 lhappy. The burden of her complaints was a con- 
 
 tant jar and menace. Disappointment over his work 
 
 the parish, combined with this development at home, 
 
 lbittered and at times even poisoned his life. He 
 
 lone could not avoid the tantrums of Ellen : he had 
 
 to endure them, they were a part of the domestic 
 
 >nditions : she harassed him with her growing 
 
 jmplaints and meanness. 
 
 Poor Poppy ! Her temperament would have made 
 irfection soon imperfect. Her chief discontentment 
 ls again with Cantuar Villas. This was a direct and 
 ipid result of the more showy conditions of her new 
 tcquaintances on The Height. She was for ever throw- 
 ing out hints of the need of removing — she talked 
 about Gervase living in a sphere more suited to the 
 honour of his profession; — and, hot with her novel 
 grievance, was for ever complaining to him, and 
 always unjustly, of Mrs Carpenter and her man. She 
 didn't know her place, he was always poking about the 
 garden when she wanted to be there : she was quite 
 
 
154 MRS BENTE 
 
 capable of reading privat e letters; he had dared t o 
 call her 'missie' without touching his hat. 
 
 Gervase stung with pain through this persecution and 
 peevishness reasoned with her, pleaded with her, 
 promised that things would be all right in time, went 
 so far as boldly to charge her not to be affected by the 
 snobbery and worldliness of the people on The Height, 
 about whom he had no longer any illusions. It was like 
 throwing sops of water into Etna. The fires of Ellen's 
 conceit and discontent would not be put out. Indeed 
 they flamed the more. 
 
 Increasing domestic discomfort — it was not posi- 
 tively unhappiness yet, because he still clung to his 
 lover's faith in Ellen — was now linked with the growing 
 conviction that his work in the parish was futile, and 
 that all the glowing dreams of crusade which had pre- 
 ceded his coming to Nuneholm were to prove the folly 
 of a fool. The old necessary self-confidence in his 
 powers and certain ultimate success was spoiled for 
 the time. He had become, even already — and it was 
 early yet — a disappointed man. His only resource 
 in the parish now was in an increased visiting of the 
 poor. He was convinced that in their own homes he 
 might exercise an influence and do an essential good. 
 That was his only hope, comfort, and the cause of a 
 new, though bruised, encouragement. 
 
 But there was also his aunt. He had with intention 
 troubled her not at all. Had things gone swimmingly 
 in the parish he would have seen much more of her, 
 for he was very fond of Aunt Grace; but, as it was, he 
 
a; 
 
 MRS BENTE 155 
 
 avoided 'The Willows/ He was also anxious that, 
 so far as possible, she should not suspect there were 
 rifts in the home lute. He was sensitive over his 
 wretchedness. However, on an afternoon when he was 
 free, and the ecclesiastical life of Nuneholm comprised 
 too much freedom, he decided to pay her a visit. 
 
 He found her in her garden, sewing. As he walked to 
 her seated under the trees, she looked up; and the sun- 
 light playing on her face showed it unexpectedly grave 
 and worn. 
 
 'Why, what's the matter?' he asked, shocked. 
 
 She looked at him thoughtfully : and avoided his 
 question by asking another : ' You don't look as happy 
 as I should like, Gervase. Tell me why/ 
 
 He threw himself on the grass, tossed his chequercd 
 lack and white straw hat to a distance, aiming at and 
 missing the green flame of a young fir-tree, and the 
 impulse came to him then to confide in her — about the 
 parish. It was after all right to do so. There had always 
 been between them a deep spiritual union. Until he 
 went to St Brendan's she was the oracle and the solace 
 to whom he had gone in his passing boyish troubles. 
 The strength and sweetness of her sympathy had never 
 failed him; therefore to speak to her was proved com- 
 forting. He would confide in her now. 
 
 1 Nuneholm is not the place f or me/ he said. 
 
 'But it is early yet, Gervase — only a few weeks. It 
 es some knowing; you must not give up yet/ 
 
 She leaned over and stroked his hair as she had done 
 rs before, when he had come home, smarting with 
 
156 MRS BENTE 
 
 indignation from some school injustice, or pleased as 
 Punch at having won some reward for cleverness or 
 prowess. 
 
 He seized her hand and held it : he pressed it to his 
 lips. 'You are the same old aunt/ he said, 'never 
 failing; the dearest person in the wide world.' 
 
 Her eyes grew dim as she looked down at him and 
 tried to smile. How she loved this boy, who, though 
 a man now — and a married man — was still, in the gener- 
 osity of soul and his eager confidence in the ultimate 
 triumph of rightness, an unspoiled, serious boy. 
 
 Tm not going to give up,' he assured her. ' I should 
 be a poor sort of parson if I did. I' m on the winning 
 side — I know that. But — but how is this stodgy, 
 stupid place to be galvanised, to be waked up? If 
 only an earthquake could tumble that Height down 
 from its silly pompousness. " Why in the name of glory 
 are they proud? " ' he quoted. 
 
 ' Example ! ' she said to him, softly answering his 
 question. 'Your example. That is how/ 
 
 There followed one of their old intimate talks, in 
 which he spoke frankly of his former parochial hopes 
 and the difficulties that prevented and assailed them. 
 He did not condemn the Rector, he said not one word 
 subversive to the loyalty due, or to the discipline 
 about which Doctor Deane had rebuked him; but his 
 aunt read from his words enough to be aware, and, 
 indeed, knew well already, that the greatest of 
 Gervase's disappointments was due to the Laodicean 
 and Corinthian tendencies of Dr Deane. But 
 
MRS BENTE 157 
 
 'Example* was still her word of counsel, and to that 
 she added 'Patience/ 
 
 The talk did Gervase good. It brought him relief 
 of mind and heart. Although the old crusading happy 
 confidence was not re-lighted, his ardent hopefulness 
 was quickened anew; hewas the fearless, dutiful soldier 
 again. 
 
 'And when are you coming to see Ellen?' he asked, 
 when their religious confidences were concluded. 
 
 Tm afraid not again/ she answered gently, and her 
 eyes swam suddenly with tears. 
 
 He turned to her abruptly. 
 
 'Why?' 
 
 He saw that she felt pain, the pain of heart which 
 makes the whole world, even when in sunshine, shadowed. 
 
 * Have you been? Have you seen her? ' 
 
 'I called a fortnight ago; and again last week. 
 Ellen was not at home.' 
 
 1 But — that must have been an accident ! ' 
 
 1 The second time I called she was certainly at home. 
 I saw it in Mrs Carpenter's face, and I had heard 
 Ellen's voice/ 
 
 'She — refused to see you?' 
 
 Tm sorry t o say that she did. She was officially 
 not at home. I am grieved. I wanted to love your 
 wife, my dear. I — I think I might have done so. I 
 should have tried/ 
 
 He leaned over and kissed the hands that were folded 
 on her knees. 
 
 'It is abomjnable/ he said, and felt the fire of his 
 
 
158 MRS BENTE 
 
 natural anger. ' I must speak to her. How horrid and 
 vulgar it all is ! Will you call to-morrow afternoon? 
 TU be there/ 
 
 * No, dear, I can't. I called again to-day/ 
 
 1 To-day ! Yes, and ' he paused, breathless. There 
 
 was eagerness of interrogation in his voice. 
 
 ' I saw her. She was on the point of going out, as I 
 arrived at the gate. She could not avoid me, though 
 I saw she wished to do so.' 
 
 'There must be some hideous mistake, some mis- 
 understanding. 111 see Ellen at once.' 
 
 'It would be of no use, Gervase. She dislikes me 
 profoundly. I could see that. There is a misunder- 
 standing, I dare say; but you — or any one else — won't 
 be able to remove it. Your wife even — hates me. I'm 
 afraid it's even that.' 
 
 Aunt Grace had spoken in a low, reluctant voice. 
 There was no gainsaying her seriousness or sincerity. 
 
 'But what did she do?' He was bewildered. 
 
 'She passed me by — cut me, as they call it — in the 
 most flagrant manner/ She paused. To Gervase the 
 garden with its voices seemed strangely silent. 'I'm 
 sorry to have to say this; but it was impossible for 
 things to go on without your knowing. You had to 
 know.' 
 
 'But why? — why? 1 1 is so stupid. It's impossible !' 
 
 ' Nevertheless, it is true; and what is worse, Mrs 
 Carpenter saw the whole proceeding. She was watch- 
 ing from a window. I cannot call again/ 
 
 There was silence for moments — that seemed 
 
MRS BENTE 159 
 
 minutes. This mishappening spelt catastrophe to 
 Gervase. The stupidities of the parish were as no- 
 thing t o this insult by his wife to her who had been 
 father, mother, all to him. It was impossible, deplorable, 
 detestable; beyond expression bad. 
 
 'It need not worry you unduly, Gervase/ he heard 
 his aunt saying. ' It merely means that your wife and 
 I are not friends, that's all. If some day she — changes, 
 I shall be glad to go on with her for your sake as if 
 nothing had happened; but meanwhile, remember, 
 you have your work t o do/ 
 
 1 My work ! ' The words were spoken bitterly. 
 
 'Yes. Nuneholm needs you/ she persisted. 'In 
 its hopelessness it needs you. You can always come and 
 see me when you feel dispirited, as you must do some- 
 times : and I will help you. We need not mention 
 Ellen again, and it will be unnecessary for you even 
 to speak to her about this/ 
 
 'But I must!' 
 
 1 No, please. It would do no good. I do not wish it. 
 I have decided to go to Rotherway Church, so that she 
 and I don't clash. There must be no seandal. No- 
 body need know anything has happened. We can 
 trust Mrs Carpenter not t o talk/ 
 
 While his aunt was thus quietly explaining the new 
 situation, Gervase Bente's feelings were in a whirl. 
 She had evidently thought everything out; but as for 
 Ellen — what could have been her motive for this 
 incredibly stupid, rude, eruel, even ungrateful conduet? 
 
 He said not much more, and went home soon. As 
 
 
i6o MRS BENTE 
 
 he walked he thought of the new trouble that had sud- 
 denly sprung on him; and felt that, in comparison 
 with this new life among the absurd, conceited, purse- 
 proud people of Nuneholm, with domestic disharmonies 
 threatening his very self-respect, the old life at St 
 Brendan's was actually fortunate and delightful. As 
 he went slowly homeward — his heart was too weary 
 for speedy walking — anger against Poppy began to 
 burn and deepen. Her nideness to his aunt was evil. 
 Its ungraciousness whipped his wrath. There must be 
 an explanation. He prayed — in no prayerful spirit — 
 that there could be an explanation. 
 Gervase Bente was already a much-altered man. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 When Gervase reached home it was shortly after six, 
 and he thought at first that Poppy was not there. He 
 waited for her a little while, sitting in the armchair, 
 staring and brooding. Successors to the flowers over 
 which his wife had made such a fuss, drooped and faded 
 in the vases. That little burst of emotional excitement 
 had gone the way of all such exuberance. EUen's 
 love of flowers, of the joys of the garden and the country, 
 hardly outlived the verbal expression. As Gervase 
 looked with disillusioned eyes about their sitting-room, 
 he realised how surely she was falling away from the 
 good intentions she had loudly proclaimed. Neglect 
 and untidiness were too evident, as well as want of 
 taste. There was no house-pride here. It was a new 
 discovery to Gervase, though not a new fact. Hitherto 
 the illusions of love had veiled his eyes and blunted 
 his perceptions. 
 
 He rang the beli, and Mrs Carpenter answered it. 
 She was no longer the genial smiling person who had 
 greeted the newcomers some weeks before; but a 
 serious woman with a pale, displeased and gloomy 
 countenance. 
 
 'Sorry t o trouble you, Mrs Carpenter; but have you 
 any idea when my wife will be back? ' 
 
 161 
 
162 MRS BENTE 
 
 'Mrs Bente is back/ she replied, as she fingered the 
 corner of her apron nervously : ' and begging your 
 pardon, sir; I'd like to speak to you.' 
 
 'Back is she? Upstairs?' 
 
 'Yes, sir; — and if you please, sir, I'd be glad if you'd 
 make it convenient to go/ 
 
 ' Good Lord ! ' That was the boldest expletive Ger- 
 vase had ever yet permitted himself to utter. ' But we 
 can't go, we must stay here; why should we go? ' 
 
 Tve had a talk with Carpenter, and Carpenter says 
 there's nothing else to be done, sir. Carpenter was in 
 the garden at work on the marrows and h e heard Mrs 
 Bente swearing at me — as she did, sir, badly; and he 
 says, " We've had enough of this, missus," as we have, 
 sir — and sorry I am to have to say it.' 
 
 She looked sorry. The poor woman was evidently 
 miserable enough : and so was Gervase. 
 
 'But Mrs Carpenter, this is horrid. I hoped we 
 were going to be with you all the while we are at 
 Nuneholm/ 
 
 The housekeeper sniffed: and thereby expressed her 
 sympathy — the sniff was the symbol of unshed tears. 
 
 'Very sorry, sir. You' re the pleasantest gentleman 
 and the least troublesome I've ever done for; but your 
 lady, sir — she' s terrible. Nothing's right for her now. 
 Two days ago — on Monday afternoon to be sure — she 
 threw a glove at nxe; and for nothing, sir — nothing 
 at all/ 
 
 * I must speak to her.' The world of his ideals seemed 
 tumbling about his ears. 'Until I've done that, don't 
 
MRS BENTE 163 
 
 think of our going, please — oh, it would be impossible 
 — impossible ! ' 
 
 He got up and walked to the window, tapping the 
 pane with the points of his fingers. He was perplexed 
 and lost in thought. 
 
 Mrs Carpenter was feeling too sorry for him to 
 pursue her purpose then, and she had done all that 
 could be required by giving him notice; so she 
 returned to the kitchen where Carpenter with glitt ering 
 eyes was waiting to hear ' how the gentleman took it/ 
 
 Gervase was taking it badly, very badly. As he 
 realised how Poppy was repaying the sacrifice he had 
 made for her, abusing her privileges, making others 
 unhappy, wrath and anger possessed him. He clenched 
 his fists and inwardly raged. The meanness, the in- 
 justice of her conduct, upset him. As if the miserable 
 discouragements of the parish-work were not sufficient, 
 without the hindrance put in his way by this wilful 
 and ungracious woman ! 
 
 He waited there deliberately until he was calm, 
 and then with decided steps went upstairs to the bed- 
 room. 
 
 Ellen was lying fully dressed on the bed. She was 
 smoking a cigarette, and she eyed him sourly. There 
 was yet a superb indifference in her mien, as though 
 she knew he could do nothing. He noticed that the 
 dust of her boots was on the counterpane. He looked 
 at her and then about the room, at the evidence of 
 untidiness everywhere. He controlled himself, but 
 felt himself trembling with renewed anger. 
 
 
164 MRS BENTE 
 
 'Well, and what do you want? Perhaps another 
 time you'll knock when I'm in the bedroom lying 
 down/ 
 
 She knew a storm threatened and was about to break. 
 It was unnecessary now to curb her insolence. Her tone 
 accentuated the rudeness of her words. 
 
 Gervase drew a cane armchair nearer to the bed; 
 went to the window and drew the blind a little higher, 
 regulating it — not because it needed regulation, but 
 in order to check his impatience and to curb his 
 clamorous wrath. That done he sat down. 
 
 ' Ellen, we must have a talk/ 
 
 She sat up on the bed, arranged her skirts, and threw 
 the half-smoked cigarette into the fireplace, where for 
 a while it smouldered busily, sending up a thin column 
 of smoke. 
 
 'Mrs Carpenter has given us notice to go. She says 
 we must leave these rooms/ 
 
 'And very glad I am to hear it. I loathe the place/ 
 
 ' We cannot leave. My work demands that we should 
 stay here/ 
 
 Poppy flung off the bed and sat at the side : her eyes 
 were ablaze; it almost seemed as if she had been drink- 
 ing : but that was not so — to any extent. She was 
 intoxicated rather with her own vile humours. They 
 surged within her, completely possessed her, caused 
 her to be passionate to make mischief, and to hurt this 
 rnan. At that moment she was sure she hated Gervase 
 worse than any one she had ever met. 
 
 'You always put yourself before others. You are 
 
MRS BENTE 165 
 
 the most selfish man I have known — selfish — selfish 
 — beastly selfish ! ' She raised a small fist and shook 
 it in front of his face. 
 
 The sight of her emotional, iirational anger cooled 
 him. It gave him a new confidence and strength. 
 He was aware that if he kept calm he would win this 
 dismal struggle before them. 
 
 ' Listen to me ! ' The command was so crisp and 
 certain that she hearkened against her will. ' The work 
 I have to do here is too responsible and precious for 
 it to be spoiled by wrangles between us or with other 
 people. You've got to learn your true position. 
 Play the game — do your duty as well as you can, and 
 you shall have as good a time as I can give you. But 
 refuse to play the game, and ' he paused. 
 
 'And what will you do?' she sneered. 
 
 'Compel you to play it/ 
 
 'May I ask how?' Her tone annoyed him. He felt 
 the furies arising anew; but he forced them back. 
 
 ' I don't want to remind you of things; but I must if 
 you ask me how/ 
 
 She looked at him, and struck him on the shoulder 
 with her fist. At the blow he turned pale, white as 
 death. 
 
 ' You — gentleman ! ' she said : and her voice was 
 trembling with anger. ' So you are going to throw the 
 past in my face, are you? I'd be ashamed to taunt any 
 giri with her misfortunes. Oh, you beast ! ' 
 
 He waited until the spasm of bitter anger was past, 
 and then seized her wrist, holding it so that she could 
 
1 66 MRS BENTE 
 
 not repeat the blow. She gave an hysterical scream, 
 ' Help ! hclp ! ' Again her emotionalism steeled him. 
 He waited for her to calm down; which she did soon. 
 She was impressed by his quiet, by his apparent cold- 
 ness; and for a very little occasion would have wept. 
 When he saw she was calm, and felt she would remain 
 so, he released her wrist. 
 
 'Now you will Hsten to me, Ellen; and please not 
 interrupt. We've been married six weeks — only six 
 weeks. I have no intention of speaking of your past 
 or of reminding you of anything that could pain you; 
 but I beg you to remember, Ellen, that I married you 
 to help you, and to give you a new start : to give you 
 the chance you had missed.' 
 
 He paused for a moment necessarily : he was sorry 
 for her now. His manner was again characteristically 
 gentle. 
 
 1 Go on ! ' she said bitterly. She was anxious to hurt 
 him, but dared not strike again. She could only hurt 
 through her manner, through her words. 
 
 Tm willing — anxious to say nothing more about 
 anything that happened before six weeks ago. Fm 
 willing to forget you were ever anything other than the 
 good woman 1 believe you still could be if you tried; 
 but it rests with you . . . You've got to change your 
 ways — at once. I knew you were undisciplined — 
 perhaps I ought to have got you some sort of discipline/ 
 
 'Go on; beat me ! — beat me ! you coward l' 
 
 'Don't talk nonsense, Ellen/ He raised his voice 
 in his sharp indignation. ' I care for you too much to 
 
MRS BENTE 167 
 
 hurt you; though I'm not going t o allow you t o ruin 
 my — our prospects through your whims and ill-tempers 
 and mad follies. You've got to turn over several new 
 leaves.' He remembered her treatment of Aunt Grace : 
 but recalling the injunction to silence, for the present, 
 said nothing about it. 'You've been rude to Mrs 
 Carpenter.' 
 
 ' I haven't ! ' 
 
 ' Why did she give me notice to go? ' 
 
 Poppy did not answer at once, but gazed at him 
 with gloomy, vindictive eyes. Her tips were working; 
 she breathed heavily. 
 
 1 What had you done/ he asked, ' to change that good- 
 hearted woman's warm friendship to an anxiety to 
 be rid of us? Tell me !' 
 
 ' Nothing at all ! I can't answer for her changes/ 
 
 'I'm afraid you can, Ellen. You swore at her this 
 morning.' 
 
 'I didn't. She's a liar!' 
 
 'Well, I believe what she said to me. I believe that 
 you did/ He emphasised the words, and momentarily 
 she knit her brows, making a deep mark, a black dint, 
 between her eyes. 
 
 'You swore at her. Do you realise how intolerable 
 it is for a clergyman's wife to be guilty of such 
 vulgarity?' 
 
 'The woman kept worrying me about this thing 
 and that thing with her silly questionings and cackle. ' 
 
 'Then you did swear at her? ' 
 
 'You say I did, and I don't care if I did. Go on ! 
 
168 MRS BENTE 
 
 I didn't know curates could be brave and strong enough 
 — manly enough — to bully a lonely woman. I wish one 
 of my boys was here/ She suddenly blazed out. 
 1 You'd soon see ! ' 
 
 That caused him also to flame. 
 
 'Don't mention those things/ he internipted her 
 fiercely. 'I don't want to speak of anything to do 
 with your terrible life before we were married. . . . 
 Oh, Ellen !' His voice grew suddenly gentle; he was 
 sorry from the depths of his heart for this weak and 
 wilful creature, who in some ways was so girlish, in 
 other ways so — even wickedly old, it seemed. 'Can't 
 you see — won't you see, how your happiness is inter- 
 mixed with mine? We married each other, my dear, 
 determined to try and get the greatest possible good 
 out of our union; and here we are — a few weeks 
 afterwards — in sight of shipwreck/ 
 
 1 Then let us go away from this beastly Nuneholm : 
 let us go to London. 1*11 do anything you like if we can 
 live there. I hate the country with its stupid people, 
 and duli fields, and cows and birds. In London there 
 are lights. I must have lights.' 
 
 He was struck with the idea that she might be 
 genuinely unhappy in this place, which certainly had 
 not gladdened him. But how to discover the truth 
 he could not fathom. He felt that he could not trust 
 a word she said — she was such a creature ofmoods; 
 and, anyhow, whatever plans he might make for the 
 future he would not, could not, surrender to her just 
 now. To do so, in view of her insane treatment of his 
 
MRS BENTE 169 
 
 aunt and Mrs Carpenter, would be not merely unwise 
 but base. The certainty that she would trade on any 
 weakness of his kept him resolute. 
 
 'It is impossible for us to shift about like this at a 
 moment's notice/ he said more judicially than he felt. 
 Tve my work to do — work which is of more concern 
 than even our happiness/ 
 
 'Then are we to stay here always? Oh, Gervase, 
 it's hateful!' 
 
 * Of course not ! I certainly should not spend all 
 my life in this place — but a year or two at least we 
 may have to be here. We can't help it; and so, 
 my dear — ' his voice again grew gentle; he could not 
 help it though he feared the gentleness would be mis- 
 construed as weakness, and, therefore, might spur her 
 naughty wilfulness — 'you've got to help me make it 
 as tolerable and happy as possible.' 
 
 He watched her vivid face with anxiously searching 
 eyes. It seemed as if she were more reasonable now. 
 The hardness of her aspect was relaxed : the angers 
 were gone. 
 
 'And the first rule is to be decent and pleasant to 
 other people. I believe I can persuade Mrs Carpenter 
 to overlook what has happened : and as for Aunt 
 Grace ' 
 
 'Oh, she has been sneaking and blabbing, has she?' 
 Her eycs rlashed. Her tongue had the sharpness of 
 cruelty. 
 
 ' No, she doesn't do such things/ he answered sternly, 
 'as you would know, Ellen, if you had the faintest 
 
170 MRS BENTE 
 
 perception of character. You insulted the best and 
 kindest woman in the world/ 
 
 His praise of her imagined bete-noire stirred anew 
 her evil humours. 
 
 1 1 hate her,' she said. 
 
 'No, you don't, you can't/ he replied confidently. 
 'I can't understand why you think you do; but you 
 don't. Tell me, Why do you think you do? ' He waited 
 for her answer. 
 
 'Because — because I can see in her face that she 
 does not trust me. I saw it at St Brendan's on the 
 day — oh, six weeks ago. She watched me like a cat : 
 as if she would like to do me a mischief. She was jeal- 
 ous — that's it. She couldn't bear that I could take 
 "my dear nephew" away from her/ 
 
 This acknowledgment touched him — the absurdity 
 of her passing mimicry almost amused him; he was eager 
 to be done with this hideous quarrel. 
 
 ' You are mistaken, Ellen — extraordinarily mistaken ! 
 Aunt Grace has nothing but love and helpful goodness 
 in her heart; and, if you would let her, she'd be a 
 mother to you, as she has been to me pretty well all 
 my life. She even offered to put us up in her house/ 
 
 'Then why didn't she?' 
 
 'Because we agreed — she and I — that it was better 
 for relatives to live apart when one of them is married; 
 but whenever you please to go there, "The Willows" 
 will be a home to you, and she ' 
 
 • Vm not going there ! I can't help it, Gervase, but 
 I do — I do hate your aunt. You see only the good side 
 
MRS BENTE 171 
 
 of her : but I know that she did spy on me, and would 
 have prevented my marrying you if she could/ 
 
 There was an obvious retort in his mind; but of 
 course he refrained from making it. 
 
 ' Come, come, be reasonable ! ' he begged, and, 
 venturing, he leaned over and took her hand. She 
 tried to withdraw it from his grasp, but her effort was 
 not earnest, and she did not persist. 
 
 1 1 love you, Ellen, and because I loved you I married 
 you, and intended to do my best to make you happy 
 and keep your love for myself. We've got to give and 
 take, my dear ' 
 
 * Oh, don't preach, Gervase, please ! I'm sick to death 
 of preaching/ 
 
 'To give and take. I've given you a home, such as it 
 is; haven't I? Let us try and make that home happy. 
 Remember, I've got my work to do. Help me to do it 
 by keeping friends with the people here ' 
 
 * A lot of mean snobs ! ' 
 
 * But you' ve got on splendidly with them ! ' 
 'Oh, some.' 
 
 'But you have invitations no end, jollities; why 
 you know many more of the chief people in Nuneholm 
 than I do/ 
 
 She looked at him for a moment with considering 
 eyes. 
 
 'Some of them are nice; some are beasts, snobby, 
 stupid. I can't stand the sort of wcman who sits in 
 a chair and says " Haw, yes," or " Haw, no," with half 
 a dozen stock phrases/ 
 
172 MRS BENTE 
 
 He laughed. This stimulated his sense of humour. 
 He was yearning to be rid of the tragics. 
 
 'And there are too many of that sort/ she went on; 
 'and I won't — I won't be bored. They bore me with 
 their stuck-up airs and catch phrases and their showing 
 off of their tuppeny wealth. The beastly snobs ! ' 
 
 'Well, Mrs Carpenter is no snob/ 
 
 'I can't make friends of servants/ 
 
 ' Hush, my dear ! We are all servants — servi ser- 
 vorum, the highest and the least of those who wear this 
 Cloth — and Mrs Carpenter seems a particularly nice 
 woman, and we cannot do without her.' 
 
 Ellen wriggled, and he released her hand. She rose 
 from the bed and impulsively went out of the room and 
 stood on the landing. 
 
 'Mrs Carpenter/ she called down the stairs, Tm 
 sorry I was nide to you/ She came back to the bed- 
 room, looking childishly, charmingly, defiant. Gervase 
 had risen enchanted. The rapidity of her action- both 
 astounded and delighted him. What a strange little 
 woman she was; impulsive, wilful, not so ungenerous 
 after all ! 
 
 She looked at him now with wistful, curious, 
 questioning eyes. 
 
 He went to her and took her in his arms. 
 
 'My darling/ he breathed, and kissed her passion- 
 ately. He felt her body trembling as he pressed her 
 to him. She hid her face in his shoulder. 
 
 Of course she was forgiven. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 In the following week Mrs Fryth-Willyams gave her 
 annual garden-party, and Gervase Bente and his wife 
 appeared prominently in public together for the first 
 time. 
 
 Mrs Fryth-Willyams was, and is, regarded by her- 
 self, and some others, as the presiding spirit of The 
 Height. It is under her sway that that eminent resort 
 of the local fashionable has obtained its reputation 
 for stiff-necked priority. Her annual garden-party 
 is, in consequence, a function spoken of in prospect 
 and retrospect by those privileged to attend it, as the 
 Event of the Nuneholm year. 
 
 On this occasion it was an event of double 
 importance, for it marked the coming of age of Mrs 
 Fryth-Willyams* pride and blossom, Bernard, the only 
 son of his widowed mother. 
 
 The great day dawned; and grew hot and hotter. 
 The sun was regnant in a brazen sky. The birds were 
 silent; there was no wind. The heavy heat weighing on 
 the spirits of the joy-seekers induced a solemnity 
 befitting the occasion; for in such an affair as this, 
 flippancy could only be tolerated in the very youthful 
 or exceedingly old; and in any case it would be 
 
 173 
 
i 7 4 MRS BENTE 
 
 unusual for the bigwigs and littlewigs of The Height to 
 take themselves other than ponderously. 
 
 Poppy was once again in the seventh heaven of that 
 only complete condition of happiness, anticipatory 
 delight. She had put on her best behaviour. She beamed 
 on Gervase, on Mrs Carpenter, even on the distant and 
 indifferent Joseph, as if there was no one else in the 
 world she loved so well. Under the impetus given by 
 the promise of the garden-party she went through her 
 clothing and modified and mended; overccming the 
 tcndency to untidiness, her old complaint, which to 
 critical eyes had been daily becoming more apparent. 
 She had for the time being an ambitious purpose, and 
 saw herself at this particular function a social leader, 
 a personage in that limited hierarchy, as the bride of a 
 representative of that sometimes mundane institution, 
 the Church. 
 
 She decided on a colour-scheme, which, if the 
 weather had proved other than happened, would have 
 been defective through extravagance. She was bold 
 and played with contrasts, successfully; and opposites, 
 enemies, leapt to each other, embraced and were friends. 
 Her dress was tussore, with trimmings and ribbons 
 of orange and mauve. The jewellery shown by the other 
 women, for The Height was the habitation of a pros- 
 perity inevitably displayed in sparkling stones and 
 solid gold — helped Ellen, whose apparent sinvplicity 
 proved welcome. 
 
 She was in the highest spirits, prepared to respond 
 to any mood, provided it was not sepulchral; and 
 
MRS BENTE 175 
 
 rallied her husband upon his serious face. Gervase 
 was certainly not happy. He loathed this order of 
 festival : and the unquestionable necessity of attend- 
 ing it did not diminish his dread of the ordeal. To be 
 compelled to stand about and utter small talk when 
 there was much work crying to be done, and among 
 these very people, was to his earnest mind tantamount 
 to playing a penny-whistle in the middle of the Slough 
 of Despond. But he must go to it, that was certain; 
 and to please his mercurial wife, as he paced beside 
 her up the dry slope leading to Mrs Fryth-Willyams' 
 residence, he tried to look pleased and in a playful 
 mood. He did his best; but he felt that he could not 
 gallivant. 
 
 There was a stream of people entering when they 
 reached the gates, and a procession of motor-cars 
 approaching, purred and fuffed and popped. They 
 passed through an avenue of young lime-trees and 
 sycamores, knowing their way by the strip of red carpet 
 that led to a huge marquee. 
 
 'Isn't it lovely?' Poppy whispered to him 
 delightedly — or was it delight or scorn? 
 
 'Absolutely wretched!' he quietly answered; and 
 her ripple of laughter caused a blowsy, dressy dowager 
 in front of them to turn her head and stare. When 
 the enlarged lady had recognised that the mirth- 
 maker was merely nobody she resumed her forward 
 progress, and Poppy grimaced at the nape of the solid 
 neck. 
 
 Gervase cast her a side-glance and frown of caution. 
 
176 MRS BENTE 
 
 Tm going to enjoy myself,' said she, and laughed 
 again with high spirit s. 
 
 Mrs Fryth-Willyams and her son — the heir of the 
 occasion — were standing before the entrance to the 
 marquee smiling determinedly, while a big butler with 
 a little voice did his best to distinguish and announce 
 the names of the guests. 
 
 'Mr and Mrs Bunt/ he cried. 
 
 'So glad to see you, Mrs Bunt,' said Mrs Fryth- 
 Willyams, while her conventional smile for the moment 
 widened. Having so said she gave Ellen's hand a 
 puli — it is a bad way some persons have when receiv- 
 ing — plainly implying that way was to be made for 
 the next comer, and there was to be no lingering at 
 this shrine. 
 
 That was too much for Poppy, in her present mood. 
 
 'Our name is Bente, not Bunt— Mrs Willyams/ 
 she said, and also smiled in a widened conventional 
 manner. 
 
 The impertinence — for to omit the 'Fryth/ to shear 
 from that sounding patronymic its better-half, was 
 more than a rudeness, it was a deed of sacrilege — 
 caused Mrs Fryth-Willyams to glare : but she made 
 no verbal rejoinder, as the curate and his wife passed 
 on, to lose themselves among the groups on the lawn, 
 where, while occasionally acknowledging the distant 
 greetings of acquaintances, they were stared at curi- 
 ously; until Gervase found for his wife a garden chair 
 and she sat and he stood, and knew boredom absolute. 
 He was rather surprised that so few there seemed to 
 
MRS BENTE 177 
 
 know Ellen, in spite of her social success. He could not 
 quite make it out. 
 
 It was, however, not long before the Rector and his 
 wife appeared. Doctor Deane was now in his element; 
 the perfect priest in his true parish. His stream of 
 words and clear tenor laugh could be heard almost 
 constantly, while his small wife stood near him and 
 looked about her with keen and beady eyes. She saw 
 Poppy; but did not return Gervase's prompt salute. 
 
 ' What's the row with the Gimlet ? ' Ellen asked him. 
 
 'She' s like that — a weird person. I rather think 
 it's because you don't go to church.' 
 
 ' She is a cat, ' said Poppy. 
 
 'Hush, my dear!' Gervase looked down at her; 
 'it 's her duty, yon know.' 
 
 'To poke her nose into other people's concerns? 
 What 's it to do with her? ' 
 
 ' She is the Rector 's wife/ he answered, deeming that 
 to be, as from his clerical standpoint it was, explana- 
 tion sufficient. 
 
 'Oh, shut up, Gervase, what has that to do with it? 
 I'll snub her when I get a chance.' The earlier 
 geniality was suddenly changed. 
 
 'Oh no, Ellen,' he begged and felt anxious. 
 
 'Well, why does she cut me? Won't I just !' 
 
 Fortunately the Rector then saw his curate and sailed 
 
 towards them over the turf. It was like a gleaming 
 
 ;alleon coming to port. Poppy enjoyed his pomposity 
 
 ind importance; his sparkling sallies pleased her. 
 
 >he liked being made a fuss of. He was enough of a 
 
178 MRS BENTE 
 
 frivol, in his large pulpit manner, t o be welcome; 
 especially as there was no one else in sight whom she 
 knew as well as she knew him. 
 
 * At last ! ' he said archly. ' Every Sunday I look 
 towards a certain seat — aha ! — which from time im- 
 memorial — quite three years — has been sacred to the 
 curate's wife, mother or mother-in-law, and — depres- 
 sing emptiness ! De — pressing emptiness ! ' 
 
 Gervase was sorry this topic had been chosen; but 
 there was no help for it now, and the Rector might, 
 if he could, persuade Ellen to the views she had but 
 recently rejected. He wandered off to pay his tribute 
 of homage to Mrs Dunstan Deane, who received him 
 coldly, talked indifferently for a few minutes about the 
 worn fringe of the altar-cloth, and the dninkenness of 
 Abel Thomas's elderly mother. She then went back to 
 Mrs Fryth-Willyams, to stand by the side of the hostess 
 and lend the dignity of the "Church-set" to the im- 
 portance of that happy and serious occasion. It was 
 rather like the outer association of mind and matter. 
 Mrs Deane, though small, was evidently masterly, 
 while Mrs Fryth-Willyams was large, fleshy and red, 
 her rubicundity being partly due to the heat of the 
 day, but chiefly, an unfriendly friend had declared, 
 to the exceeding blueness of her blood. 
 
 The stream of entering guests had ceased its volume : 
 it had become a driblet, and then an occasional drop. 
 It was no longer necessary for Mrs Fryth-Willyams to 
 stand by the marquee and receive. 
 
 ' Come, deah thing ! ' she said in a commanding voice. 
 
MRS BENTE 179 
 
 Bernard, the deah thing, turned like an automaton 
 and still grinning — he was of a social disposition and 
 could not forget it was his natal day — followed his mother 
 across the lawn, with Mrs Deane stalking importantly 
 at her side. They found their way here and there, 
 talking to this person, exchanging greetings with that; 
 while a local band — Mannheim's Italian Orchestra, 
 but none the less excessively British — droned an old 
 waltz. 
 
 Mrs Fryth-Willyams caught sight of Poppy leaning 
 back in the garden chair. 
 
 'Who is that — that person to whom your deah 
 husband is talking?' she asked the Rector's lady. 
 
 Ellen was conscious of being examined by nnfriendly 
 eyes. 
 
 1 The wif e of our new curate/ 
 
 'H'm, do you like her?' 
 
 'Well ' began Mrs Deane as she gazed at her 
 
 husband, who assuredly had spent time enough with 
 the young woman. 
 
 'I think she's a minx/ said the hostess shortly . . . 
 'and she called me Mrs Willyams/ 
 
 Mrs Deane realised then where the sting lay, and the 
 adequate cause of Mrs Fryth-Willyams' displeasure. 
 She cast a glance from the corners of her eyes at the 
 curate's wife, and decided that the Rector had stayed 
 long enough with Mrs Bente. 
 
 ' Dunstan dear ! ' she raised her voice to say, at the 
 same time as she acknowledged Poppy with a cold and 
 formal smile. 'Mrs Fryth-Willyams wants to talk 
 
 t 
 
180 MRS BENTE 
 
 with you ' and the Rector, ever-obedient, and ever 
 
 willing to pay tribute to that shrine, raised a gay hat 
 and retired. 
 
 'So that's the wife of your new curate, Rector/ 
 
 'Yes, dear lady. A bright little person.' 
 
 'H'm, what do you know about her?' 
 
 Mrs Fryth-Willyams found two chairs in a corner 
 shaded by one of the cedars after which her house was 
 named, and sat. The Rector took the other chair. 
 
 ' Bernard, deah thing ! ' his mother commanded, ' run 
 along to the marquee and see that people are getting 
 what they want. You can get somebody an ice or some- 
 thing — now run along, deah ! Be useful/ 
 
 Bernard dashed off to the marquee, and was over- 
 whelmed with attentions. 
 
 ' A dear f ellow ! ' cried the Rector expansively, 
 'that boy of yours, Mrs Fryth-Willyams — he's a man 
 now — promises to be a splendid specimen of the best 
 type of Englishman — hale, willing, cheery, hearty; 
 the kind to carry trenches and ladies' hearts, the sort 
 who are born to enlarge the boundaries of our 
 wonderful Empire — eh?' 
 
 'Yes, Rector, of course — but isn't she rather a 
 minx? ' 
 
 He was brought back to the subject with such a 
 directness, that he felt rather like a large pebble dropped 
 to earth. 
 
 'Not a bit of it, dear lady; at least, I think not. 
 Herhusband — Bente — isafinefellow; but a little daring, 
 a little regardless of — er — ecclesiastical proprieties. 
 
 
MRS BENTE 181 
 
 Ha ! if he were the Rector we'd soon have the church 
 in a blaze — no diplomacy, no tact ! ' 
 
 'And where does she come from? ' There was a little 
 interval of interruptions as the expansive hostess passed 
 greetings with this person and that — 'Is the young 
 wcman one of us? That's what I want to know/ 
 
 'I don't know/ said the Rector thoughtfully. 'I 
 really don't know much about her; but Bente — you 
 know Gervase Bente — his aunt lives at " The Willows," 
 out by Rotherway ' 
 
 'Oh, I know Miss Bente/ She had no hesitancy 
 in interrupting him. 'But it's the wife. Who exactly 
 is she? So you don't know for certain that she is one 
 of us?' 
 
 'Well — er — not for certain; but Bente is — so she 
 is, eh — why not?' 
 
 ' I don't quite follow that. The man may be a gentle- 
 man, and the wife anybody. And now I come to think 
 of it, that must be the young woman, who has, I gather, 
 caused some talk among our set/ 
 
 'Oh?' The Rector picked up his ears to listen. 
 
 'Mind this is private at present; and I've heard 
 nothing actual; but Mrs — but I'd better not mention 
 names; anyhow somebody who attends your church, 
 and whose opinion you value, is certain she used bad 
 language the other afternoon — a most vulgar expres- 
 sion — I don't know what, but then I shouldn't know 
 what — but, Rector, she is a clergyman's wife; and for 
 anybody to say anything of that kind about a 
 clergyman's wife proves there is something in it/ 
 
182 MRS BENTE 
 
 She looked at him with stupid, judicial eyes. 
 
 'Now isn't itso?' 
 
 The Rector was in his garden-party mood. He was 
 by this time bored by his hostess. He wanted to babble 
 and philander in his hearty old-boy manner with the 
 frocklings; and, although he appreciated this monopoly 
 of the lady of the occasion, was not disposed to 
 be cross-examined in such a baffling and fatiguing 
 manner. He shook a wise head. It was the easiest 
 way for him then, as nearly always. 'We must look 
 into it/ he said diplomatically; and then, 'Do let me 
 fetch you some claret cup, or tea, or something — I 
 am sure you must be weary after receiving so many 
 people . . . you are so good ! These hospitable 
 grounds. ' 
 
 ' Presently, thank you, I'd rather rest here for a 
 little while — if I'm not keeping you/ 
 
 Her tone was just touched with snap. He recog- 
 nised it at once. 
 
 ' Dear lady, I'm entirely at your service/ 
 
 He settled the knees of his trousers, with a critical 
 eye contemplated their seams, and breathed a sigh. 
 Then an idea born of the old Adam occurred. 
 
 ' But would you not like to talk to the young woman 
 yourself. You'd soon find out then/ 
 
 He was roused and slightly shocked by the bale- 
 ful light appearing that moment in his hostess's eyes. 
 H e thought it was due to his suggestion, that because 
 of his temerity he was being mildly blasted with the 
 breath of Mrs Fryth-Willyams' displeasure, but then 
 
MRS BENTE 183 
 
 he saw, and the sight won him relief. Bernard, the 
 joy and hope of the house — nay, might not he now 
 be called the head of the house? — was hurrying on 
 willing feet to — Ellen Bente. He was carrying a 
 strawberry ice and a glass of champagne-cup. What 
 did this mean? 
 
 ' What a naughty boy you are ! ' They, straining 
 attentively, could hear Mrs Bente's playful chiding. 
 
 * Bernard ! ' cried his mother in her softest ccmpany 
 voice. ' Bernard deah ! ' 
 
 But Bernard deah was lost for the time to any distant 
 command, maternal or otherwise. In some way Ellen 
 had caught his fancy and for her own freakish purposes 
 had bound him to her chariot wheels. She was a capable 
 young woman. 
 
 'What am I to do?' the mother said in perplexity. 
 She was obviously a stupid woman, whose intellectual 
 possibilities had lain fallow so long that she was barely 
 equal even to ordinary occasions. 
 
 'Nothing at all, dear lady; do nothing at all/ the 
 Rector counselled emphatically. The good old policy 
 once more. 
 
 'Then let us go to the refreshment tent/ she com- 
 manded, ' I must turn my back on — that ! ' 
 
 She raised herself heavily from the chair and went to 
 the marquee, the Rector following slowly, alert to give 
 her the slip and find frivolity with scmething nearer to 
 sweet-and-twenty. 
 
 Poppy watched them go with glee in her eyes, and as 
 Gervase was not in sight — he was talking hymtibooks 
 
184 MRS BENTE 
 
 with the people's warden — slipped her fingers on to 
 Bernard' s wrist and gave it a gentle pressure. 
 
 ' You are stunning ! ' he declared. 
 
 'I love the name Bernard/ she said. 'It suits you 
 — so manly ! ■ 
 
 The imps of mischief were alive within her. She 
 was reckless. In sheer mirthful malice she was tempted 
 to play with this young ass whose raamma, it was easy 
 to see, regarded her with disapproval. If Mrs Fryth- 
 Willyams must disapprove, she should have cause to 
 disapprove. Ellen suddenly hated her. 
 
 ' Pickled cabbage ! ' she said to herself , reflecting 
 contempt upon her hostess's complexion. 'And what 
 are you going to be now you are — twenty-one?' she 
 asked, and he answered at blundering, boyish length. 
 
 1 1 rejoiced Ellen to know she had Master Fryth- 
 Willyams in tow, and that not a few of the busybodies 
 present were aware of the fact, and were looking at her 
 and him with growing interest. She piqued their 
 curiosity deliberately; encouraged those who did not 
 know of her to wonder at her; who she was and why 
 young Bernard was dancing attendance on her. It was 
 good fun. Her spirits were rising again. Bernard 
 talked, but she had no ear or thought for what he was 
 saying. These busybodies were the people she was 
 amused with, she managed to keep him interested 
 in himself. Meanwhile, Mannheim's Italian Orchestra 
 made dirge of a comic opera. 
 
 After a little while Mrs Fryth-Willyams sent a servant 
 for Bernard. He must come to the marquee at once. 
 
MRS BENTE 185 
 
 He had social duties there at that very moment. The 
 message had the note of an ultimatum. 
 
 He was an obedient youth — his mother throughout 
 his life had been too dictatorial for him to be otherwise 
 — so he knew no hesitancy but went forthwith. His 
 mother almost pounced on him and took care not 
 again to lose him; but, despite the adulation he was 
 receiving, and his care of the guests, and the hundred 
 and one distractions encountered under that vast 
 awning, and the eternal clatter of crockery, laughter and 
 chatt ering, he was at no time unaware of Mrs Bente's 
 unusual personality and her small insidious flatteries. 
 
 ' Charming, charming ! ' he murmured when some- 
 body asked him to pass a cream jug and he handed 
 instead an empty tea-cup. 
 
 Poppy had sown seeds, to blossom as such seeds do, 
 at once, with gourd-like rapidity in hearts as different 
 as those of Bernard Fryth-Willyams and his mother. 
 They were of passion and of poison. She laughed to 
 herself with the delight of the promise of mischief, 
 and looked about to see whom else she might subdue. 
 
 The passion of the man-hunt was upon her : she was 
 a cat, a tigress, with talons out for pastime or prey. 
 Beware the wanton who looked for mischief and mirth ! 
 She was reckless and abandoned. Old fires were stirred; 
 the old wickedness was alive and potent. 
 
 Gervase came within her view, walking rapidly 
 towards her. 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 Gervase asked her to go with him to the marquee. 
 
 The Rector was making a speech. It was an nnusual 
 
 thing, speech-making at a Fryth-Willyams' garden- 
 
 party : but the occasion was altogether unusual this 
 
 year, and it was only right and proper that some one 
 
 — and who else but Dr Deane? — should note the fact 
 
 by proposing the health of Bernard Fryth-Willyams 
 
 and his mother, that splendid matron — as the Rector 
 
 called the lady to her excessive annoyance — who had 
 
 given so bright a boy to an admiring and, yes, even a 
 
 grateful world. 
 
 It is unnecessary here to repeat what the orator 
 
 said; for the florid phrases, the festal platitudes, the 
 
 conventional tags were not of outside interest, and 
 
 even so are available to eager historians in the files 
 
 of the Nuneholm and County Times, which organ 
 
 devoted no less than three columns — generally of sur- 
 
 names — to the local Event of the Year. The dutiful 
 
 reporter failed to record verbatim Bernard's unprepared 
 
 response. He merely recorded that ' Mr Fryth-Willyams 
 
 replied to the toast of his health, which was drunk 
 
 rapturously with cheers, in a few words of unaflected 
 
 simplicity and good feeling/ That reporter — in the 
 
 1 86 
 
MRS BENTE 187 
 
 way of the tribe — painted the lily. What Bernard 
 actually said was : — 
 
 ' Er — er — thanks — thanks very much — er ! — and 
 that's all.— Yes!' 
 
 And what did it matter if he was tongue-tied and 
 unequal to the sudden occasion. The audience 
 wrapped his hesitation in cheers, such cheers as could 
 not have been more voluminous and sincere had the 
 orator been — anybody's politician. So that within 
 the limits suggested, Bernard Fryth-Willyams proved 
 sufficient. 
 
 Ellen had not cared t o join the crowd in the great 
 tent. The little she heard of the Rector's speech and 
 the nothing she heard of Bernard' s, had been more than 
 enough. She found place on a cushioned rout-seat 
 by the side of the fat dowager, whose glance of disfavour 
 had not displeased her when they were entering the 
 grounds. 
 
 Seeing Ellen so near, the good woman fidgeted. 
 She was afraid this sallow-faced young person, who had 
 dressed so strangely and laughed so annoyingly behind 
 her back, would address her — and they had not been 
 introduced ! Lady Dawkin possessed the pride proper 
 to the newest aristocracy : her husband had been a 
 knight for exactly two years because of the services 
 he had rendered his party, as the newspapers 
 euphemistically put it. 
 
 Poppy was not unconscious of the large lady's dis- 
 satisfaction. She watched with the tail of her eye, 
 and when she realised that the other's gaze was upon 
 
 N 
 
188 MRS BENTE 
 
 her looked her full in the face, and then gently away. 
 Nobody could out-do Ellen in fetching insolence. 
 
 Her ladyship bridled : temper was up. She turned 
 red — for the moment her colour was equal to that 
 perpetual to Mrs Fryth-Willyams — she shifted, fidgeted, 
 fumed. Poppy wished to goodness somebody she knew 
 would ccme along so that she might make conversa- 
 tion, and let this stuck-up pig (she used in her thought 
 rather a coarser expression) know that in her view there 
 were others in the world as good as she. 
 
 Only Gervase came — she would rather have had 
 Bernard Fryth-Willyams — therefore, Gervase must 
 do : husbands have their uses. 
 
 ' Dearest/ she murmured, ' don't you think we might 
 go? It's become such a crowd ! ' She drawled the last 
 words in excellent imitation of the tired woman of 
 society. The bar b was lost on Lady Dawkin. Poppy 
 might as well not have spoken. The titled dame was 
 merely indifferent. 
 
 'Ali right, let 's go!' Bente answered; but again 
 Ellen changed her mind. 
 
 ' No, we may as well stay/ 
 
 Gervase cast a puzzled look at his wife, though 
 surely there was no reason for him to be puzzled. He 
 ought to have known that she was ever consistent 
 in her inconsistency : that was the one certainty 
 about her. 
 
 ' But you might introduce me to some one/ she added 
 plaintively, and then was conscious of a cold stare 
 from Lady Dawkin's eyes. 'The only persons worth 
 
 
MRS BENTE 189 
 
 talking to in this howling wilderness are the old Rector 
 and that dear boy, Bernard/ 
 
 The dear boy Bernard had by this time uttered his 
 few words of unaffected simplicity and good feeling, 
 and the crowd was streaming out of the tent back to 
 the sun-weary grounds. 
 
 Some of the fathers and husbands of the damsels, 
 dames, and dowagers present were now arriving from 
 the City. They generally wore white hats and were 
 rather effusively genial. Daughters hurried to greet 
 their sires and show the world how real was their 
 family love. Mrs Fryth-Willyams and her boy enjoyed 
 fresh tributes of obvious compliments from the in- 
 creasing stream of newcomers, but they showed no 
 signs of weariness. He continued to wear his wide, 
 broad smile; she was no paler. 
 
 Poppy was conscious that things were livelier now 
 the men were arriving. She preferred tigers to tabbies. 
 She pulled herself together, and looked with interest 
 at this man and at that, weighing their possibilities, 
 gauging their characters. 
 
 She did not care for them : she was coming to that 
 conclusion. Generally they were too "stuffy/ too 
 ordinary and conventional, too stodgily self-contented 
 for her taste. She brought a varied range of experience 
 to bear, and found the creatures duli — not as bad as 
 the women, of course, for they were 'ghastly'; but so 
 'unromantic.' That was the adjective she used. She 
 gave it a meaning of her own. The younger men and 
 youths she had no use for. They were generally content 
 
 
igo MRS BENTE 
 
 to ignore her, preferring the younger girls who were 
 plentiful and determinately inviting. She told herself 
 she liked men with experience best. 
 
 It was annoying, though, that none of them came 
 near her. She yawned, and then caught sight of Gervase 
 talking to a newcomer, a thickly-built, smartly-dressed, 
 dark-skinned man with a black moustache and eyes 
 that roved. She had seen him before, hurrying past 
 Cantuar Villas on the way to or from the railway 
 station. 
 
 While he talked he happened to glance at her, and 
 instinct awakened, compelled her to act. She flashed 
 a look of meaning and caught his eyes. He took the 
 message. 
 
 The next moment she was aware that Gervase was 
 conducting him to her. 
 
 'I want to introduce Mr Temble to you, Ellen. 
 This is my wife, Mr Temble. Mr Temble is one of our 
 sidesmen, my dear/ 
 
 1 Delighted to-meet you, Mrs Bente.' He leaned down 
 and squeezed her hand. The secret and familiar sign- 
 manual told Ellen that here was one of the right sort. 
 She smiled up at him and momentarily widened her 
 eyes. 
 
 'You can run away and play, Gervase/ she said 
 chaffingly; 'while Mr Temble gets me and perhaps 
 himself a cup of tea/ 
 
 Temble laughed at her readiness, and the curate 
 was constrained to share his mirth and wander away. 
 Lady Dawkin rose and joined a small knot of dowagers 
 

 MRS BENTE 191 
 
 whose stolid dignity lent depression to the rose- 
 entwined pergola behind them. She was welcomed with 
 a general labial relaxing intended for a smile. They 
 were an exclusive set. 
 
 Poppy screwed up her face in contempt and Temble 
 smiled at her grimaced humour. 
 
 ' I like your husband/ he said to her : ' and, by 
 Jove, he's a lucky man. Jolly glad you both came to 
 Nuneholm : it ought to liven up the place/ 
 
 'Yes, it needs livening/ 
 
 'You think so/ 
 
 ' My dear man, it's as slow and stale as an old herring/ 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 'It's as stupid and starchy as that old thing/ and 
 she turned to poke a nose at poor Lady Dawkin, who 
 was feeling very important and did not look it. 
 
 ' I say, rather severe that ! ' 
 
 'Well, get me that cup of tea and I shan't feel so 
 — humped ! as you men call it.' 
 
 Again he responded with laughter. Poppy' s 
 naturalness, which he took for naivete, sent him into 
 raptures, and still appreciating what he thought was 
 a touch of humorous originality, he fetched her the tea, 
 and its accompaniments. 
 
 ' Now tell me all about yourself ,' she said. ' It must 
 be jolly to go every day to town. Ah, dear old London ! 
 How is Aldgate Pump, and the what-ye-call-it with the 
 bow and arrow in Piccadilly Circus? Do you know, 
 I'm simply longing to smell the Strand again — why, 
 I'd be more than satisfied with a sniff of Cable Street, 
 
 
l 9 2 MRS BENTE 
 
 when the colza lamps are blazing. I hate this stuffy, 
 starchy place; and those floppy dowagers — they are 
 absolut ely the limit/ 
 
 'You' re awfully hard on us, Mrs Bente. The 
 country's better than the town any day/ 
 
 ' Of course, you say so. Oh, you men ! You can 
 slip up to London by the nine o'clock express, and there's 
 no knowing what you are up to — and that's how you 
 prefer the country. I wish I was a man/ 
 
 'Jolly glad you aren't/ he said archly, and laughed 
 in his throat. 
 
 'Why, think of the liberty you have/ she went on, 
 looking at him. 'Off you go, and it may be Epsom 
 or Brighton for aught we know. Oh, I know something 
 of the ways of men ! ' Suddenly she stopped : she 
 realised this was dangerous ground. ' I've watched them 
 from a safe distance. Yes, of course I'd like some tea, 
 didn't I say so? Isn't it hot?' 
 
 While Temble was away, obtaining their stimulant, 
 Poppy knitted her brows with thought. At that 
 moment she was despising her husband and the 
 little interests of that stupid place : and this new man 
 with his vitality and force, his obvious prosperity 
 and inherent though curbed vulgarity, allured her. 
 Temble's personality was of the sort she understood. 
 It compelled her. It represented force, acceptable force. 
 Had circumstances required it she could more easily 
 have been Temble's slave than the curate's wife. 
 
 Temble brought the tea and a glistering pile of 
 dangerous pastry. 
 
MUS fcENTfi t 9 3 
 
 * You are a dear ! ' said Ellen. ' I could live on that 
 sort of nourishment/ 
 
 Meanwhile, Temble had also been thinking, though 
 indefinitely, of what this weird, original young woman 
 had been saying. 
 
 ' So you know London pretty well/ he said. 
 
 'Pretty well/ she answered, 'though I come from 
 India/ 
 
 'Oh, do you?' 
 
 He waited, expecting her to continue, and Poppy 
 putting her thoughts in order, wondered what version 
 of the truth she should tell. She was ready to invent 
 anything, for this man tempted her to talk, unconsci- 
 ously was urging her to let herself go; but she was 
 prudent enough at present to rein and control her 
 inclinations : moreover, curiosity spurred her in regard 
 to him. 
 
 'And is there a Mrs Temble?' she asked. It seemed 
 to her that the complacency of her companion was 
 dimmed by the bold question; as if the reference to 
 his wife curbed his adventurousness. He looked sharply 
 at Ellen ; and f elt for the moment off ended, angry . 
 
 ' There is/ he said shortly : ' she's at home. She 
 wouldn't come. She — er — has bad health/ 
 
 'Oh: I' m sorry; but very glad her bad health did 
 not cause you to stay away/ 
 
 She was fooling him as he suspected; but he smiled 
 more easily. 
 
 'Thanks, Mrs Bente; but I'm afraid you' re rather 
 sarcastic, aren't you?' 
 
194 MRS BENTE 
 
 'Never/ she protested, though she felt flattered, 
 as to be judged sarcastic means to be accused of the 
 possession of some measure of wit. ' I asked after Mrs 
 Temble because I'm interested in my friends. Should 
 I be regarded as suspicious if I asked if there were any 
 — any little quivers, don't you sidespeople call it? 
 By the way, what does a sidesman do besides collect 
 our coins and wear a frock-coat on the Sabbath 
 day?' 
 
 He laughed aloud at this. Poppy had no idea she 
 could be so humorous. His heartiness and his strong 
 white teeth — evidence of strength, and she liked men 
 to be strong — attracted her. She smiled at him, and 
 he vowed in his vulgar mind that she was good sport, 
 different from what was to be expected within the 
 Fryth-Willyams gates. He was disposed to treat her 
 with raillery and with confidence, as he felt she was 
 treating him. 
 
 'There are four; the eldest is ten. I suppose you'd 
 call that a quiverfnl/ 
 
 ' Poor Mrs Temble ! ' said she. 
 
 ' Not a bit of it \ My wife would like fifty/ 
 
 She sighed; and he laughed again. 
 
 'Do you think you ought to? ' she asked with all her 
 calculated simplicity. He looked straight at her, 
 slightly frowning. His brown eyes flashed; this man 
 was very full of vitality. 
 
 'For my part/ with all her seeming innocence she 
 went on before he could make rejoinder, 'I intend to 
 be spared ! ' 
 
MRS BENTE f 9 5 
 
 He found himself emitting a little whistle, and looked 
 at her and then at the distant Gervase, who now was 
 enduring the Rector. 
 
 ' If I'd a husband like ' she went on, then paused, 
 
 gave him a significant glance, and changed the subject. 
 'I say, it is hot, isn't it? — sultry. I believe we're going 
 to have a storm.' 
 
 They looked at the sky. It was still a shield of brass, 
 metal of blue, burning, blazing with the heat of a tropic 
 sun. 
 
 Temble was so stupefied by Poppy's boldness that 
 he could say nothing : but he began to feel the spell 
 of this woman who was to him too womanly. He real- 
 ised that here was no conventional creature content 
 t o live the life which is enough for the majority of her 
 sisters; but one who was, at least, mentally wanton. 
 She was pursuing him, he felt it : the instinct common 
 to coarse natur es proclaimed the fact. She was pur- 
 suing him, and asking to be pursued. He was — with 
 all his sidesmanship — a coarse man with vulgar tastes 
 and fierce passions. His opinion of woman was devoid 
 of any ideal. She was a necessity and a burden; such 
 a chattel as the wandering patriarchs regarded her; 
 one who would meekly accept man as lord, master, 
 the head of the harem, paying for services rendered 
 with jewellery, sables, and other such means of material, 
 competitive display. 
 
 Temble suddenly found himself keen to have 'an 
 affair* with Poppy; but characteristically he was 
 cautious; he wished to be sure he was saf e, that there 
 
ig6 MRS BENTE 
 
 would not be a costly price to pay for the privilege of 
 the intrusion. 
 
 'How long have you been married to Mr Bente?' 
 he asked. 
 
 'An awfully long time,' she answered — 'more than 
 a month.' 
 
 That again was amusing; but this time Temble sup- 
 pressed the easy mirth that sprang to his Ups. The 
 new game appealed to his seriousness. It was too 
 exciting to be internipted by laughter. He was keen 
 after the quany, for the hunted was hunter too. The 
 grossness of his personality was titillated by this ardent, 
 compelling, tantalising woman, whose attractiveness 
 rested in her novelty and bizarrerie, not in her person; 
 for among the women present the curate's wife was 
 rather in the shadow. Poppy did not shine in a 
 physical competition. She had no presence or features, 
 and though she made the best of it, the colour of her 
 face was a handicap. But still, considering her defects 
 and disadvantages, Temble found her — as others had 
 done — a woman of sufficient allurement. There was 
 no mistake about that. He must be cautious. He was 
 very certain of the necessity of prudence. He did not 
 know her. Her curious frankness had fascinated him, 
 yet it also warned him. Could so outspoken a person 
 be trusted? If he was familiar with her, as he was 
 tempted to be, would she abuse that familiarity, and 
 talk of him as she had talked to him of others? 
 A prudent person was Temble, like most rakes of 
 established positions. 
 
MRS BENTE 197 
 
 He had no ffiorality whatever : he could be as un- 
 scnipulous as any scoundrel when there was something 
 to be gained which only cold, selfish unscrupulousness 
 could win : but he was not a sidesman in a fashionable 
 church for nothing. He enjoyed being one of the elect 
 at Nuneholm, a favoured friend of the courtly Rector, 
 hail-fellow with this and that inhabitant of The Height; 
 so that if be decided to run after Poppy it would not 
 be in the light of day, and only in such a manner as 
 would not imperil his reputation as a citizen and a 
 churchman. These worldly considerations flashed 
 through his brain with a speed beyond light; and then 
 he observed Ellen looking at him with a quizzical 
 expression in her eyes. 
 
 'You are a jolly little giri!' he gushed, and with 
 his knee pressed against her. 
 
 ' Am I ? ' she said quietly. ' Hands off till you know 
 me better/ she added slowly. 
 
 ' By Jove, and you've caution too ! ' he thought, 
 then added loudly, 'Well I guess we'll see something 
 more of each other during the next few months. I 
 hope so. If your husband is — what did j^ou say he 
 was?' 
 
 ' I didn't say he was anything, Mr Temble/ for now 
 she was disposed to be, or to seem, prudent; 'and I 
 think you've talked with me long enough/ 
 
 'Oh, come now ! We can be jolly good friends ' 
 
 ' I dare say ! ' she answered lazily, ' but we're only 
 new acquaintances at present. I believe it is going to 
 pour/ she added suddenly. 
 
 
i 9 8 MRS BENTE 
 
 She told the truth. A huge blob of rain flattened 
 itself on an empty chair beside them. There was an 
 instant gathering of skirts, a general tendency to gird- 
 up and run. Suddenly a voice cried ' Rain ! ' The word 
 gave the start to a stampede. Dowagers and damsels, 
 heavy fathers and light-footed youths, began to hurry 
 pell-mell to shelter, some under trees, some beneath 
 shrubs, a few into the Fryth-Willyams' house; but most 
 into the white marquee. There was no order of going : 
 all went at once. Manners were often forgotten; and 
 way not always given t o the ladies. 
 
 Then the heavens opened and a deluge fell. The 
 skies had been deceitful. Under their blaze and azure 
 beauty they had been preparing; and the rain came down 
 solidly; it swished, splashed, sighed, descended in 
 volume. A wind arose, the curtains of the marquee 
 flapped. Within the insecurity of its protection the 
 Rector found himself wedged between Lady Dawkin 
 and a can of cream; Gervase was swept off his feet 
 and realised that he was sitting on a pile of plat es with 
 the table, on doubtful trestles, quivering beneath him. 
 Everybody was anywhere. There were fears for frocks 
 and hats. Ellen who had joined the rush with Temble 
 at her heels, was pressed, pushed and shoved against 
 the damp, dark can vas outside the marquee, pent in 
 a horrid squash. She wriggled and struggled angrily. 
 She escaped from the ruck. She found herself caught 
 and pulled backward among sheltering shrubs by two 
 strong arms, and then — they were alone — knew her- 
 self kissed, kissed suddenly on the nape of the neck, 
 
MRS BENTE 199 
 
 on the cheek, on the mouth, in the midst of the tumult. 
 She flashed a glance round angrily. Who was this who 
 thus had dared? It was Temble — as she expected. 
 
 'What do you mean?' she gasped. 'You are a 
 beast ! * She was angry, furious : she loathed always 
 to be caught at a disadvantage, and struggled. He 
 laughed quietly. 
 
 ' You are a vixen, a witch ! ' he breathed in her ear. 
 ' Nobody saw ! ' Prudence as well as passion had 
 spoken. 
 
 'You've no right, ' she began, panting with the 
 
 strain of the run and the struggle. 'I hate you, you 
 hypocrite!' She found his hand against her mouth; 
 and, an old savage instinct compelling her, she bit. 
 
 1 You little, little devil ! ' he said. ' I'll make you 
 pay for that ! ' He was not hurt or angry, he was very 
 excited and rather amused; that was all; but the 
 violence of her deed caused her mood to change. She 
 turned with a wrench to look up into his face. He read 
 the meaning in her eyes at once; and felt triumphant. 
 He grasped her arm. 
 
 'Not now/ she murmured: 'let me go/ 
 
 He let her go, slipped into the rainstorm, regardless 
 of deluge, convenience or clothes; while she found 
 shelter in the crowded doorway of the great tent, where 
 she shivered with the cold of the wetting, and an ex- 
 citement which seemed almost delirious. She quaked, 
 panted, and at the same time was calculating with 
 the businesslike brains of the experienced wanton, 
 what this new adventure nr'ght mean and bring. In 
 
200 MRS BENTE 
 
 his blunter way Temble was occupied with the same 
 cause and wonder. Without question the episode was 
 passionate, primeval, tempestuous, forbidding, vulgar 
 — out of place, entirely out of place, at the Fryth- 
 Willyams' garden-party, that Event of the Nuneholm 
 year — but so also was Poppy. 
 
 When the storm had cleared she went home, with 
 Gervase, in a surprisingly good temper. 
 
 But then the mood changed. Before dinner-time 
 she was making rude remarks, which Gervase tact- 
 fully took for amusing, about her husband's stodgi- 
 ness, and the cant of the parish, and then became cold, 
 distant and silent, ending and retiring with the cutting 
 remark that he was not funny. 
 
 When she had gone upstairs he felt serious about 
 these alarums and diversities; and then, good kindly 
 man, put them down to her being over-tired. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 Things became a little complicated after that. Mrs 
 Fryth-Willyams did not forget Ellen's ill-behaviour, 
 and in many nice, subtle ways managed to imbue her 
 familiars and gossips, the fortunate few who shared 
 her atmosphere of high exclusiveness, with some of 
 her own prejudice and suspicions. 
 
 Not that she had anything to go upon. If she had 
 known even the least of the truth of Poppy's past 
 it would have made her a happy woman; for brooding 
 on this recent braving of her importance on her own 
 native heath had embittered her, and she loathed even 
 the memory of the curate's wife. To be able at once 
 to crush presumption and to do it in the name and 
 interests of virtue would have been extraordinarily 
 delicious. It would have been the Pharisee's ultimate 
 triumph. What more could have been desired? If only 
 she had known ! 
 
 But she had not known, she did not know — the gods 
 and men were not helpful : and all she could do was 
 to lecture Bernard for the exhibition he had made of 
 himself at the garden-party, with that 'impossible 
 person/ and forbid his speaking to her again. Then 
 she began the gossiping meanness. 
 
 20 1 
 
 f 
 
202 MRS BENTE 
 
 Ellen was soon aware of the change of demeanour 
 in her surroundings. People were certainly more aloof. 
 The earlier open doors were now less obviously open. 
 Some who had called and nodded and acknowledged 
 her, acknowledged her and nodded no longer : those 
 with whcm she had been friends ceased to make new 
 advances; there was a fail in the receipt of invitations; 
 and so far as she was concerned she really did not care 
 a bit whether these people knew her or not. 
 
 For now they had come to bore her. She was tired 
 of them. False though her own standards were, she 
 was keenly aware of the falseness of their standards. 
 So she came to despise and hate Nuneholm and its 
 inhabitants. It had never been a slow process with 
 her to seize on the deficiencies of others — she would 
 have seen Cromwell's warts long before she saw the 
 great Oliver — and soon was probing Gervase, torturing 
 him, because of her clear view, gladly expressed, of 
 the poses and pomposities, passing shams and little 
 cruelties, social hypocrisies and personal shortcomings, 
 of those people of that place who called themselves 
 Christians. 
 
 It would take a deal yet to open the eyes of Gervase 
 Bente to the ultimate truth about his wife. He clung 
 to his love for her still. Besides she was married to 
 him, and that meant oaths taken, and to be kept — he 
 was the most conscientious of men — of loving and 
 cherishing her, of being her champion always, of seeing 
 the best of her, of ignoring the gadfly in her, of being 
 confident that the little manifestations of oaughtiness, 
 
MRS BENTE 203 
 
 though too frequent, were but natural ebullitions of a 
 temperament that had been strained and distraught 
 in the sufferings and tumults of the past. Gradually, 
 as the days grew to weeks, and the weeks went by, 
 he was pushed into a position of finding excuses for 
 his wife : and then suddenly realised that he was judg- 
 ing her, and not unjustly. She had gradually and all 
 unconsciously become the grief and the burden of his 
 Hfe : a burden most heavy to be borne. 
 
 The discovery appalled him. He was walking 
 through Nuneholm as it came to him : and it caused 
 him such horror and dismay that he fled to solitude, 
 and found it in the church. He happened to have the 
 keys of the place in his possession, and he locked 
 himself in. He sat in a pew, and leaned forward, his 
 forehead resting on the back of his hands, and set 
 himself resolutely to think and to realise facts. 
 
 His mind went back t o the beginning of their settle- 
 ment in Nuneholm. There were the troubles between 
 Ellen and his aunt, Ellen and Mrs Carpenter, Ellen 
 and Joseph Carpenter, Ellen and everybody else, it 
 seemed, with whom she came in contact. In most cases 
 on first acquaintance there had been a rapture of 
 enthusiasm, a very glut of gush, admiration tumbled 
 over itself. Geese were swans and pebbles pearls. 
 Then soon, very soon, there followed revulsion of feeling 
 and opinion; and the swans were dirty ducklings, 
 the pearls poison. 
 
 He remembered scenes. In the silence and empti- 
 ness of the church the vulgar and shocking experiences 
 
204 MRS BENTE 
 
 revisited him with clearness and mental torture. He 
 had seen his wife in every kind of cruel mood, storming, 
 sneering, contemptuous. 
 
 ' Dear me!' he said to himself as the truth flashed to 
 him. ■ I — I always dread to go home/ 
 
 It was indeed so. He recognised it now. The 
 knowledge that at the end of the day's work was no 
 sympathetic welcome, and the possibility of tumult, 
 came as a fierce jar to him. It was the blazing vulgarity 
 of it all that especially oppressed him. To be a party to 
 a row : to be talked-at and abusively condemned for 
 the imaginary or exaggerated shghts and rudeness of 
 others : to have insults to himself and every one else 
 hurled at his head by this angry, clever, unscrupulous, 
 irresponsible being — it was horrible, an agony. 
 
 He had been gazing with blind eyes at the misty 
 ceiling, and as the consciousness of his personal misery 
 recurred he leaned his head again upon his hands, 
 shpped to his knees, and groaned. He was at that 
 instant an absolut ely wretched, lonely man. He had 
 gladly given so much : and here was the harvest and 
 the aftermath. He reached the nadir of humiliation. 
 He bit his lips : he knew the pain of tearless tears. 
 
 The momentary expression of emotion brought some 
 relief. Instantly afterwards he was a man again, and 
 the stronger because he had passed through his shame. 
 What was to be done to mend the evil? That was the 
 problem. He sat back on the wooden seat and braced 
 himself to come to a clear decision. How couldhe meet 
 EUen, so as to bring her to reason, if not to kindness : 
 
MRS BENTE 205 
 
 how could he prevent his marriage from coming to 
 shipwreck, and how cany out that sublime mission 
 which for her sake he had accepted? He had vowed 
 to save her from the old dangers and consequences. 
 The task was still before him. He must go on, and go 
 on bravely, with the bitter business, because it was his 
 duty. It was his duty. Duty ! He repeated the 
 essential word, impressing it on his tired mind. 
 
 1 1 was his duty t o bear with her patiently : not to 
 be weak with her, not to give way to her; but to meet 
 her, to insist wherever necessary, and carry his point; 
 to put his meaning briefly and compactly before her 
 — she had a brilliant faculty for catching his words 
 and distorting their intent — and yet always he must 
 be kind and never fail to show that, through all her 
 naughtiness and wickedness he was her loyal husband, 
 lover, friend, ever to be depended on; yearning to cherish 
 and guard her, and to be her proved shield and champion 
 whenever the world might be unkind. It was his duty 
 —that ! 
 
 The confusion of his thoughts was less. Much of 
 the turmoil was cleared away. He saw the need defi- 
 nitely. He would at once go home : and take up the 
 burden again, accepting the issues, and, through moral 
 strength and tactful consideration, win. He must 
 remember, he told himself, that she was a woman, 
 and therefore inherently gentle and peculiarly sympa- 
 thetic to kindness. He must remember too, though 
 never reminding her, that however wilful and even 
 dangerous she might be, she was entirely dependen t 
 
206 MRS BENTE 
 
 on him. If he failed her there would be nothing left 
 to her. She might overlook that fact : but never could 
 he. 
 
 He let himself out of the church and hurried 
 homeward. As he went he formed plans of future 
 usefulness in which his wife could help. They must 
 involve some measure of entertainment. She was not 
 made for unrelieved stern work or responsibilities. He 
 (poor simpleton !) practised modes of address, little turns 
 of speech by which an angry discussion might be avoided, 
 little compliments. He wished there were women 
 whose friendship would have helped Ellen. In this 
 connection he thought of his aunt : and realised the 
 hopelessness. It was a lonely business he was engaged 
 upon : there was no one else to help him. He alone 
 stood between his Ellen and the deluge. 
 
 He wished she could have had a holiday away from 
 Nuneholm. He knew his wife hated the place: she 
 had made that more than sufficiently clear : yet it was 
 not possible for him, and, therefore, for her, to get away 
 from it, for practically a whole year — in fact until the 
 next summer holiday came round. There was not a 
 single person whom she could visit. This, their lone- 
 liness, was a great pity, and linked with her dislike of 
 Nuneholm and his inability to discover relief from 
 worry in parochial work, it seemed fatal. There was 
 no alternative to plodding away and being tactful, 
 careful, considerate, affectionate. After all, love was 
 the cure and solace of many earthly ills. Might not 
 his love help Ellen? As he thought of her, in this 
 

 MRS BENTE 207 
 
 ideal version of her loneliness, his heart warmed with 
 pity for the little wife who had been, was, and promised 
 to be, so far out of fortune. She was like a frail 
 bird — so he built the image — who would fly towards 
 challenging danger. 
 
 He reached home, and the door was opened to him 
 by Joe Carpenter. This fact was onrinous. It was the 
 first time his housekeeper's goodman had come to 
 meet him : though in the garden, where Carpenter 
 worked much, they had often discussed the time of 
 day, the ways of the wind, the promise of the weather, 
 the health of the vegetables, the victories of the flowers, 
 and the madness of mankind. 
 
 'Sorry to trouble you/ said Carpenter: 'but there's 
 been another row : and — the Missus can't stand it/ 
 
 'This is dreadful/ said Gervase, in very deep and 
 sincere concern. There seemed no end to his worries. 
 
 - 1' m sorry for you, sir, you are a kind and pleasant 
 gentleman — though I say it to you straight : but Mrs 
 Bente ' 
 
 'Come in here/ said Gervase, opening the door of 
 his room. 'Let us have a talk. Is Mrs Bente out?' 
 
 ' She is, sir : very much out. She damned the Missus 
 and slammed the door. I'm not much of a Christian 
 myself, sir, and I've no love for the Church — 
 
 jgging your pardon for frankness — but that wasn't 
 the conduct to be expected from the wife of a 
 clergyman/ 
 
 No, no, it wasn't. Oh dear, this is terrible ! Come 
 here and let us talk/ 
 
208 MRS BENTE 
 
 He led the way and pointed to an arm-chair. 
 
 ' I think r 11 stand, sir : and I shan't keep you tong/ 
 
 'Very well, Carpenter. Now talk out straight to 
 me. Tell me the whole truth, however humiliating to 
 me it may be. Tell me all of it — all : as man to man. 
 I must have the truth, mind you, the truth. Tell me ! ' 
 
 Gervase ranged himself before the mantelpiece : 
 standing stiffly upright, nerving himself for the ordeal, 
 and Carpenter noticed the sadness, the kindness, even 
 the despair, in the young man' s face. As he said t o 
 his wife afterwards, ' I was all sorry for him. He looked 
 so much more like a man in trouble than a clergyman.' 
 
 'Now out with it, Carpenter Talk straight and 
 frankly. I want the whole truth/ 
 
 'Very well, sir, I will. Since your lady's been here 
 there's been trouble. Sometimes she was as gentle 
 as a lamb : but that weren't often. More often than 
 you are aware of there've been tantrums and worse. 
 Nothing's been right, sir, sometimes : everything's 
 been wrong, even when the Missus 'as been working 
 her heart out to please the young lady. The food 
 and the furniture, even the birds chirruping in the 
 garden 'ave been condemned as if they were our fault. 
 And it 'asn't only been her words, though that would've 
 been bad enough in any case, for your lady 'as a tongue, 
 sir, if I may say it, a tongue made of vitriol.' 
 
 Gervase knew this well enough. He had been burnt 
 many a time by the vitriolic weapon. 
 
 'She has struck me, sir — me.' 
 
 'Struck you, Carpenter?' Gervase by this time was 
 
MRS BENTE 209 
 
 quite amazed. He did not grasp the full significance. 
 As he looked at the strong, lined, tanned face of the 
 man before him, and the sinews of his hands and evi- 
 dence of strength, the idea of violence offered by that 
 bit thing to him seemed preposterous. 
 
 1 Yes, sir — but I don't complain of that. She hit me 
 with her clenched fist in the face, out there in the 
 garden/ 
 
 'But why?' 
 
 ' I've no more idea than the man in the moon. She' d 
 come down late. The breakfast was getting cold. She 
 stormed at the Missus, called her — but I won't say just 
 what she called my wife — and flew into the garden 
 in a tempest. I was working among the marrows, 
 
 sir — over there ;' he turned to point out of the 
 
 window at a particular corner, ' and paying no attention 
 to anything else, when there, Mrs Bente was looking 
 at me, in a fury. I looked up, sir, at once, when she 
 said, '■ Don't dare to stare at me like that," and punched 
 me with her fist full on the chin/ 
 
 'And you, what did you do? I am most deeply 
 sorry/ 
 
 1 Oh, I couldn't help it, I laughed : it was so stupid : 
 and then of a sudden I got angry — I'm a bit Yorkshire, 
 sir — and said "Go into the house at once," and she 
 turned and went, sir, as obedient as a school-girl.' 
 
 'I'm grieved, Mr Carpenter. I cannot tell you how 
 grieved I am/ 
 
 'Oh, that's not all, not by a long way: and what 
 Mrs Bente did to me is of no account, except that it's 
 
ato MRS BENTE 
 
 against discipline. 1 1 doesn't do for wornen to hit 
 out at men — as you would know, sir/ He paused apolo- 
 getically as though he felt that in moralising thus he 
 was intruding on the curate's province. 'But it's the 
 Missus, who's had to bear the brunt. Mrs Carpenter 
 has lost pounds, sir, pounds, since you've been here : 
 and all because ' 
 
 'Tell me exactly what you think we should do?' 
 interrupted the unhappy Gervase. 'I am so anxious 
 to undo what has been done/ 
 
 'Oh, that you can' t do, Mr Bente; what's done is 
 done till the Day of Judgment. Nobody can undo it/ 
 
 'Has she struck Mrs Carpenter?' 
 
 1 1 believe not : but I can't say for certain : the 
 Missus is not one to tell tales/ 
 
 'Then let us say she hasn't/ 
 
 Gervase was glad to find any plea for the modifi- 
 cation of the charges brought against his wife. 
 
 'Very well, sir. I don't want to take any one's 
 character away, let alone a lady's : but this I can 
 say and must; Mrs Bente has done crueller things 
 than mere striking. She has done things which a man 
 would not be clever enough or mean enough to do/ 
 
 'What do you mean?' For the moment Gervase 
 in his bewilderment was at a disadvantage. 'Speak 
 out ! - he then cried. ' Do sit down, Carpenter, and 1*11 
 sit down too. I'm tired. Oh, this is a bitter business, 
 a bitter business. To think that I should be here, 
 listening to these accusations of cruelty against my 
 wife and— know it is all true/ 
 
MftS fiENTE 21 1 
 
 For the moment Gervase had broken through the 
 restraint, under which he had held himself and the 
 agony of the man's heart forced and found expression. 
 He threw himself into the arm-chair. His face was 
 gray and drawn. He knew the uttermost weariness 
 of body, mind, and soul. Joe Carpenter, he recog- 
 nised, was no common man, although he laboured 
 with his hands and was glad of his poor daily 
 wage : and Bente felt assured that this indictment 
 of Poppy was measured, calm, and not erring on the 
 side of injustice. 
 
 'Tell me all, Carpenter, please; without any holding 
 back. I must know all : then perhaps I shall know 
 what to do/ 
 
 So Carpenter took a chair by the window, and 
 Gervase, in the manner characteristic to him, hid his 
 face in his hands in order to concentrate the energies 
 of his tired mind on what the other was saying. He 
 interrupted not at all, but listened with strained 
 attention. 
 
 It was a mean story of petty selfishness and un- 
 bridled angers, of violence and ingratitude, of smiling 
 insincerities which often would change of a sudden 
 to some vulgar outburst, or eager, clever rudeness. It 
 almost seemed as if Poppy had a special spite against 
 Mrs Carpenter, there appeared to be so much needless 
 vindictiveness in her treatment of the housekeeper. 
 Joseph, her husband, certainly was confident that it 
 was so : and although as he spoke and his indignation 
 and anger grew, his voice reflecting their inner fires, 
 
212 MRS BENTE 
 
 he gave no encouragement to Gervase to believe that 
 bias was causing him to tell worse than the truth. 
 
 When Joseph Carpenter had said his say he rose, and 
 Gervase rose too, off ering a hand which the other took. 
 
 ' I am grieved and ashamed/ he said. ' If I could do 
 anything to mend this matter I'd do it, even to losing 
 a hand, that I would/ 
 
 'I believe you would, sir;' Carpenter was glad he 
 could say with heartiness. 
 
 'And now I fully understand that we must go/ 
 
 'Yes, I'm sorry for your sake; but it would be too 
 much for the Missus/ 
 
 'It would, it would, that's quite clear; but what to 
 do, beats me. Tve not had much experience of this 
 sort of botherment/ he said with an attempt to smile 
 which could not be other than sombre. 
 
 ' Sir, you have listened to me like a gentleman : 
 may I say one thing more? ' 
 
 ' You may : of course, you may/ 
 
 Carpenter pulled at his grizzled beard while he 
 arranged his thoughts. 
 
 'There's only one way you can manage Mrs Bente/ 
 he said gruffly. 
 
 Gervase was a little startled : but he had listened 
 to Joseph for so long that a little further frankness 
 could not matter. 
 
 'Speak on/ 
 
 'She's not an or'nery woman, sir. She's one of the 
 extras/ 
 
 ' I dare say she is abnormal/ he confessed. ' Let me 
 
MRS BENTE 213 
 
 tell you, Carpenter, what you and your wife cannot 
 know, and it is some excuse, that Mrs Bente has had an 
 extraordinarily unhappy and difficult past : for years 
 she has had to fight a hard battle bravely, and has done 
 it. If you knew everything about her, as I do, if you 
 knew even half what I do, you' d probably be as sorry 
 for her as I am, and as eager to find excuses for her and 
 a power of pity. But ' 
 
 'But, sir/ the other took him up, 'things are what 
 they are; and nothing of the past can excuse her actions 
 now — and the swearing, sir, the swearing, it's that 
 which upsets the Missus. Besides, she struck me in 
 the face/ 
 
 'I know/ Gervase exclaimed with despair. 
 
 I' Yes, sir : and that's the moral, as they call it in 
 e children's story-books/ 
 'The moral, what do you mean?' 
 'The only way you can manage her is by force — 
 yourself, sir.' 
 ' Oh, force? — I ? — impossible ! ' 
 
 'Gospel truth, sir, all the same. I hate to say ill 
 of any one. I wouldn't hit a son of mine unless by 
 his badness he simply kept asking for it : but there 
 are some natur es in animals, boys and women and men, 
 who can't understand gentleness and kindness. It's 
 beyond 'em, sir. I've seen a lot of it in life. They 
 only understand hard knocks : it's the only thing that 
 appeals to them, the one thing they respect ! ' 
 
 ' If you suggest I' m to thrash Mrs Bente you've shown 
 you don't know me/ Gervase was short with him and 
 
2i4 MRS BENTE 
 
 coldly indignant. The preposterous suggestion caused 
 him for the moment to forget his troubles and sorrow. 
 'The idea's detestable/ 
 
 ' Well, sir, it's been kind of yon to let me talk to you 
 outright, and I know you' re a gentleman : but, 
 believe me, that young lady of yours needs a governing 
 hand. I don't want to tell you these plain tmths — I 
 I'd rather not : but it's the plain truth all the same. 
 Beat her, sir, and she may love you. Don't beat her, 
 let her go on as she goes on, and she'll break your heart.' 
 He moved to the door. 'That's all I've got to say, 
 and thank you for letting me say it : and if you can 
 conveniently leave these rooms on Saturday, the Missus 
 and I, though sorry to lose yourself, sir, would be much 
 obliged/ 
 
 Gervase was left alone. He went to the window and 
 looked at the garden which during these few Nuneholm 
 months had often given him its cheer and its peace. 
 
 ' Impossible ! ' he said again, and so dismissed 
 Carpenter's suggestion. 
 
 But what now? he asked himself : and at the moment 
 had no answer. 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 Gervase waited some time for Poppy t o come in; 
 it was past the u suai hour — so far as anything concern- 
 ing the movemenrs of that lady could be called usual; 
 bu t she did not return. In his excitement and grow- 
 ing indignation, the condition of suspense, already 
 irksome, grew positively intolerable. As he had done 
 before the fatal decision of marriage, so now he 
 decided— to walk it off. 
 
 He went out. There was no sign of EUen approach- 
 ing, so he turned towards The Height on his way to the 
 hills where there were greenness and breezes and a 
 healing silence. As luck would have it, Bente had not 
 gone a hundred yards up the slope whereon the 
 starched superlatives dwelt, when he met the 
 Rector and Mrs Deane. They greeted him with 
 coldness. 
 
 ' Aha ! ' said the Doctor, without any of his custom- 
 ary exhilaration, 'we've been talking about you. We 
 want to have a talk with you — at least I must. Can 
 you come to the Rectory for half an hour? ' 
 
 This was unfortunate. Gervase was so eager to be 
 with his battles on the hills that any interruption was 
 unwelcome. 
 
 215 
 
216 MRS BENTE 
 
 ' Might I come later ? ' he begged. ' I'm rather troubled 
 just at present, and want to think things out/ 
 
 He was sorry he had said so mu eh when he caught 
 the inqu iring gleam in Mrs Deane's eyes. 1 1 put him 
 on guard. 
 
 'Perhaps the Rector could help you/ she suggested. 
 
 'Yes, oh yes/ said the Doctor of Divinity, taking 
 his cue from her. 
 
 'He was going to talk to you about Mrs Bente/ 
 the lady continued. 
 
 'My wife?' said Gervase to gain time for thought. 
 It was new to him to need to be diplomatic in his own 
 concerns. He had had no cause for disingenuousness 
 before he met Ellen. 
 
 ' Yes, my dear Bente, there are one or two things that 
 want elearing up/ the Rector declared. 'We — I mean 
 I — am rather in the dark as to, well, one or two little 
 things • . . When can you make it convenient to 
 talk?' 
 
 'Why not now?' challenged his wife, who, spoilt 
 by years of unchallenged authority, could not feel 
 that she was ever out of place. 
 
 1 Excellent, my dear ! ' said the Rector. ' Come at 
 least part of the way with us, Bente. Come along/ 
 
 Gervase turned with them. He felt that what must 
 be might as well be now; but deliberately refrained 
 from speaking, as he was not disposed either to invite 
 or to offer words about Ellen. 
 
 Even then, it was Mrs Deane who began the dis- 
 cussion. 
 
MRS BENTE 217 
 
 'The trouble is this, Mr Bente: there must have 
 been some misunderstanding. Mrs Bente is — every- 
 body can see it — not what we may call a religious 
 woman; and it is most important that the wife of 
 the curate should be identified with his parish work/ 
 
 ' That is so/ Gervase agreed : ' but when the Rector 
 and I talked things over originally, he ' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' snapped the little lady interrupting. She was 
 sharply furious because it seemed to her as if he were 
 trying to ignore her right to intervene, as he might 
 well have done, but in fact was not doing. ' The Rector 
 consults me in everything ! ' 
 
 'I didn't suggest — I didn't for a moment mean p 
 
 ' I am the trusted confidante of the Doctor/ she went 
 on, being disinclined to spare him : so nettled was she. 
 
 ' My dear/ protested the Rector in his most soothing 
 accents, 'Mr Bente, I'm sure, didn't mean any re- 
 flection on you or your splendid usefulness to me and 
 the parish, did you, Bente? ' 
 
 ' Of course not ! ' A little of the old Adam was by 
 this time awake and kicking in Gervase. He was im- 
 patient with the woman. Two months of Poppy had 
 certainly marred the temper which was naturally 
 gentle and cheerful : and the last hour's experience 
 with Joseph Carpenter had already ruffled it severely. 
 
 'I meant no reflection at all upon you, but what I 
 meant to say was that when the Rector and I had our 
 original conference there was no mention of my wife. 
 As a matter of fact, she has had no experience of 
 parochial work — no experience whatever; and it is 
 
218 MRS BENTE 
 
 not to be expected that in fervour and efficiency she 
 should emulate — others/ 
 
 ' Mrs Bente has done no parochial work : not worked 
 with you?' asked Mrs Deane, and there was pounce 
 in her words; while the Rector, knowing his wife in 
 her difficult hours, eyed her with anxiety. 
 
 ' Certainly not ! ' Gervase was emphatic. 
 
 'Not worked at all? — done no social service?' Her 
 nose seemed to have become sharper; she looked like 
 a weasel scenting prey. 
 
 Gervase was puzzled by this insistence. He began 
 to fear — as was the case — that Ellen had made some 
 statement which had put the Rector's wife on a false, 
 bu t dangerous, track. 
 
 ' I do not understand you, Mrs Deane/ he said simply. 
 
 ' It is curious, very curious — as we said/ she remarked 
 pointedly to her husband. 'Do you positively tell me, 
 Mr Bente, that your wife did no work whatever in 
 the parish of St Brendan?' 
 
 * Come, come, my dear ! ' the Rector counselled. He 
 thought she was going too far, was usurping his 
 authority. She flashed him a glance which he took, 
 and thereupon subsided. 
 
 Gervase felt his anger surging up. This cross- 
 examination was such bad form, so particularly 
 unpardonable in a woman of breeding as he imagined 
 Mrs Deane to be, that his natural diffidence to assert 
 himself was forgotten. 
 
 ' I don't think I need repeat the denials I have already 
 made/ he answered with a bow. 
 
MRS BENTE 219 
 
 There was silence for a moment. Both the Rector 
 and his lady were digesting his denials, as they ap- 
 proached and reached the corner of the road that led 
 to the Church and Rectory. 
 
 'Will you please tell me precisely what it was you 
 wished to speak to me about ? ' Gervase asked his chief . 
 
 1 Just — this ! ' was the rather airy answer with the 
 wave of a graceful hand. 
 
 'About Mrs Bente?' 
 
 1 Yes, my dear fellow: but here we are ' he swung 
 
 open the Rectory gate — ' do come in ! ' 
 
 Gervase thought he would, and followed Mrs Deane. 
 As he passed the Rector, he ielt his arm taken and 
 squeezed. It was like a rapid message of sympathy 
 between boys about to be carpetted, but the grave 
 expression on the Rector's face did not relax. The 
 hidden message had no effect on Gervase, who was 
 indeed highly puzzled and a bit angered by the turn 
 things were taking. At the same time he felt that 
 in some way Ellen was threatened; and instinctively 
 prepared to protect her. 
 
 The Rector led him to the study. Mrs Deane went 
 with them. Gervase felt that was a further intrusion : 
 that her behaviour was a serious breach of professional 
 etiquette. The lady was, however, evidently aware 
 of this, for as soon as they were within the room, she 
 asked her husband if she should stay. 
 
 ' Please, my dear ! ' was the obedient answer. 
 
 She at once took her seat and was prudent enough 
 not at once to interfere. 
 
220 MRS BENTE 
 
 'My dear Bente/ said the Rector, with no loss of 
 time, ' it has occurred to us — we were indeed forced to 
 be aware of it, that your wife — charming though she 
 is, very charming — is not happily sharing our work. 
 Now tell me, why is that?' 
 
 ' She has not the religious temperament/ said Gervase 
 thonghtfully. 
 
 1 Dear me ! Very unfortunate, very ! ' 
 
 The comment stung Bente to indignation. 
 
 ' May I ask why this interest has suddenly been taken 
 in my wife's want of parochial zeal? She is not the 
 only woman in the parish who is — well, not especially 
 zealous/ 
 
 His words were edged and energetic. He was angry 
 with an anger impossible to him in the old St Brendan 
 days. He was feeling the contrast of this personal 
 interference with the inability of the Rector to rise to 
 his real opportunity . 
 
 ' Ah ! ' cried Dr Deane, raising the index finger of 
 his right hand. 'There is plenty of lethargy in the 
 parish, as, before now, you and I have lamented; but 
 the curate's wife has a position and a responsibility 
 
 not shared by the other ladies and only exceeded by ' 
 
 he indicated his wife by a graceful gesture. ' How can 
 we expect our people to go to Church and be devout, 
 when the wife of one of the clergymen is habitually 
 absent?' 
 
 Gervase was conscious of wrath rising within him. 
 He had probably always possessed a quick temper 
 — it was an aspect of his eager crusading zeal — and in 
 
MRS BENTE 221 
 
 the old days it was easily subdued; bu t the life in 
 Nuneholm had tried him. There was a nerve-storm 
 in the making. He hated stress and strife, loathed 
 instinctively anything of the nature of a misunder- 
 standing; but his anger had already been on the march 
 when he met the Dunstan Deanes. Its flame was fed 
 through this interview, for what chiefly anger ed him 
 and made the gali rise, until it threatened to choke 
 him, was the fact that these very people whose ideals 
 proved so dead, whose views were so worldly, whose 
 efforts for good were so lethargic, whose aspirations 
 were so material, whose claims to be religious were so 
 unjustified, should take upon themselves to be judges, 
 and have the words of condemnation on their lips. If 
 the Rector had been truly a good man, a man of God, 
 striving to make his parish worthy of his creed, it would 
 have been different. Gervase might then, and would, 
 because he could trust him, have confided in him 
 everything : but here was only a platitudinous 
 conventionalist, incapable of wielding any tremendous 
 trust. Gervase determined t o keep his secret. 
 
 Mrs Deane was unable longer to resist her eager- 
 ness to speak. 'The Rector ought to know exactly 
 what Mrs Bente did before she came here/ 
 
 She had said so little; she had said too much. The 
 nerve-storm burst. Gervase lost the last of his store 
 of patience. He threw away restraint, even gladly. 
 The very guard he had kept upon himself in the years 
 of his discipline made the present abandonment the 
 more blessed. Mrs Deane had gone too far. 
 
222 MRS BENTE 
 
 'I am only answerable to the Rector in this parish 
 and to no one else/ he answered and the quiet of his 
 tone did not hide or disguise his indignation. 
 
 'You are excessively rude/ she flashed, and turned 
 a furious red. 
 
 ' Tut — tut ! ' said the Doctor, who knew nothing else 
 to say. 
 
 'I am only answerable to the Rector/ Gervase 
 repeated with emphatic firmness. 
 
 She looked at her husband in appeal, perhaps in 
 threat. He fumbled and hawed. He was caught on 
 the prongs of a horrible dilemma — but not for long. 
 Married life had brought him discipline. His wife was 
 his only master : and, although he had still sufficient 
 decency to feel ashamed of his decision, he said without 
 hesitation, ' My dear Bente, my dear Bente ! Mrs Deane 
 is, as the wife of a clergyman should be, her husband' s 
 absolute helpmeet/ 
 
 The lady breathed a sigh of intense satisfaction that 
 after approaching defeat it was, nevertheless, victory. 
 
 Gervase was shocked. 
 
 ' Helpmeet, yes, surely; but this — this is a matter 
 of concern between us as clergymen : it concerns the 
 religious side of the parish/ 
 
 ' My dear Bente/ said the Rector again, as he struggled 
 to recover his blandness, 'what concerns the parish 
 must concern my helpmeet, my wife and colleague, 
 as it does me. The Bishop, I may tell you, has always 
 recognised the wonderful efficiency and co-operation 
 of Mrs Deane/ 
 
 
MRS BENTE 223 
 
 Gervase rose slowly and went to the door. He was 
 pale but perfectly calm. 
 
 ' Then I must decline to be a party to this conference; 
 and also to answer any questions you may ask about 
 my wife/ 
 
 Without having realised it earlier, he recognised 
 now that, through this decision, he escaped the pit 
 that had yawned before him. Ellen's secret was safe. 
 Mrs Deane's intrusiveness had spoilt her object. The 
 discovery brought him relief of heart. 
 
 'And still it will be the duty of the Rector to ask 
 them/ she said. 
 
 Gervase bowed and opened the door. 
 
 'Wait a moment, Bente/ cried his chief who at last 
 was roused on his own account. His tones were more 
 decisive than usual. 'You can regard Mrs Deane as 
 not present/ 
 
 ' Impossible ! ' said Gervase. 
 
 'I am the judge of what is proper. I happen to be 
 your superior officer/ The subordinate bowed again. 
 ' I can at least ask if Mrs Bente intends at any time to 
 help in the work of the parish?' 
 
 ' And I may as well answer at once that she does not ! ' 
 
 ' She does not ! ' the Rector echoed, while his wife 
 opened her lips to speak; but guided by an unusual 
 prudence forthwith re-closed them. 
 
 'I think you ought to tell me why/ he protested 
 weakly. 
 
 But Gervase was convinced to the opposite. 'Not 
 under the present circumstances/ he said. 
 
224 MRS BENTE 
 
 'Under other circumstances, you would do so, I 
 suppose? ' 
 
 Gervase thought a moment then he answered, 
 'Perhaps; but the questions yon raise are too intimate 
 for general discussion/ 
 
 At this the Rector's lady pricked up her ears. The 
 weasel was in chase again. Once more she gave her 
 husband a meaning glance; bnt he was now too wise 
 or weak t o show himself aware of it. 
 
 'Was she a religions woman, did she do religions 
 work at any time before she came with you here? ' 
 
 Again Gervase paused to consider. Was it better 
 to refuse to answer or, without committing himself 
 or Ellen, to make a general reply. He came to a 
 decision and answered simply, 'No/ 
 
 The weasel pounced. 
 
 'But she told me herself/ cried Mrs Deane, 'when 
 first we talked together, that she had laboured with 
 you for the raising of fallen women/ 
 
 She had won her effect. Gervase was plainly stag- 
 gered by this assertion. He was beaten t o momentary 
 confusion. Why had Ellen told a futile and dangerous 
 lie? The thought raced and repeated itself in his brain 
 during those catastrophic moment s. The folly and the 
 unkindness of it; the disloyalty and the impossibility ! 
 He saw then that he was forced to play a losing 
 game. He was meeting swords and armour with 
 naked hands. He would say nothir.g more. That was 
 best. 
 
 'Is that a fact, Bente?' asked the Rector. 
 
MRS BENTE 225 
 
 'I don't think it is fair that I should be asked to 
 give the lie to my wife/ was the stiff reply. 
 
 There was no getting beyond that. Mrs Deane 
 realised it before her husband did : and she had won 
 her point. The curate was hiding something : he was 
 afraid to tell the full truth about his wife. If he could 
 have denied that Ellen's claim was untrue would he 
 have hesitated for a moment to do so? What could 
 her past have been, that it needed all this mystery? 
 Anyhow, she was proved a liar and that was some- 
 thing. 
 
 Mrs Deane was filled with joy that was most unholy. 
 She had won her point. Out of his silence and 
 obstinacy Gervase had virtually condemned Ellen. 
 And — Mrs Deane gloated in thought over the assertion 
 — she had helped to raise ' fallen women ! ' Even then, 
 when she was hot on the scent, near to the quarry, 
 she had not the faintest suspicion of the real truth. 
 As with Mrs Fryth-Willyams, so with her, the fates 
 held the dark secret; and those intolerably good women 
 were deprived of the tremendous satisfaction of 
 siriking with the sword of their righteousness that 
 militant sinner. 
 
 'Perhaps Mr Bente would like to think things over/ 
 Mrs Deane suggested to her husband. 
 
 'Yes/ he agreed eagerly. 'Think things over, 
 Bente T 
 
 'I will/ said he. 
 
 'Perhaps you might care to write to me/ 
 
 Gervase gazed thoughtfully at his chief, who was 
 
226 MRS BENTE 
 
 looking pretty uncomfortable in spite of his nominal 
 victory. 
 
 ' I suppose I shall have to write to you. I will do as 
 you bid me, and think it over. I quite realise/ he 
 added as an afterthought, 'that this probably involves 
 my resignation/ 
 
 1 Oh, don't say that ! ' protested the Rector, with 
 the full-blown ardour, his characteristic, which in 
 reality meant so little. 
 
 'Perhaps Mrs Bente may see things differently, 
 and after all work with us/ So Mrs Deane offered her 
 opinion, in the words though hardly in the spirit of 
 peacefulness. 
 
 Gervase felt this was merely the unhelpful reopening 
 of the vexed question and decided not to answer. 
 Instead, he bowed formally, separately, to each in 
 turn; then opened the door and went. 
 
 ' A headstrong fellow ! ' was the Rector's verdict. 
 Mrs Deane answered nothing. She hurried to her room 
 upstairs and slammed the door. 
 
 ' Dear me ! ' said the Rector when he heard that 
 evidence of nerves and temper. ' Oh, dear me ! ' Then 
 he looked at the clock, and sighed again. 
 
 There was a wilderness of time before dinner. 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 Almost by instinct Gervase Bente turned again 
 towards The Height and the hills beyond. 
 
 The problems he had set out to wrestle with were 
 further still from settlement, and now seemed muiti- 
 plied a thousand-fold. The difficulties associated 
 with Ellen alone seemed sufficient to break a giant; 
 to find poised on the top of them this new difficulty, 
 of having to go seek another curacy and sphere of work, 
 or else submit to the intolerable intrusions of the 
 Rector's wife into most intimate affairs, was surely 
 the proverbial last straw on the proverbial strained 
 back. Yet the very impossibility of the burden had 
 the effect of cheering him. It was so bad that any 
 change must be better. There is always that comfort 
 in despair. 
 
 Not that he was in despair for a moment. He had 
 always the consolation of his religion and the faith 
 that can move mountains. This was perhaps a little 
 accentuated through his troubles. The potential 
 fanaticism that had always been a part of his nature was 
 more than a possibility now; its seeds were energising 
 within him, there was a hint and a strain of it in his 
 present attitude. The futility of the Church in that 
 
 227 
 
 
228 MRS BENTE 
 
 parish and the impossibility of wakening the Rector 
 to the real needs, had already driven Gervase nearer 
 to the extreme. Contemplating the new difficulties, 
 vicious as they were, he began to feel that ordinary 
 means were insufficient. He braced his shoulders 
 and stepped out. To the hills of consideration and 
 definition of intention. 
 
 'The very man ! How d' y e do, Mr Bente?' 
 
 It was Temble. Gervase felt at the moment of 
 interruption that he absolutely detested the masculine 
 voice and dominating personahty of this forceful 
 gentleman, who smiled so widely and had such complete 
 self-confidence. 
 
 ' Good-evening, Mr Temble/ he answered with the 
 quiet courtesy, his characteristic. 
 
 'Off for a walk?' the sidesman asked. 
 
 'Yes, I've got some serious things to think about/ 
 
 'Ah, that's nothing new for you clergymen. Going 
 to stretch your legs on the hills, I suppose?' 
 
 'Yes, so I intended/ 
 
 ' Good ! Nothing like a long walk to clear up things. 
 You look a bit peaky; you work too hard, you 
 know.' 
 
 Gervase was disposed to pass on, and Temble' s 
 remark hardly called for comment. But the sidesman 
 was not yet done with. 'A long walk/ he advised, 
 'that will clear up the cobwebs. Stretch your legs 
 — that's my medicine/ 
 
 Thereupon Mr Temble looked at his watch, and said 
 ' George ! I must be off/ jerked a familiar head in 
 
MRS BENTE 229 
 
 farewell, and went, smiling broadly as soon as his back 
 was turned. He felt a clever fellow. 
 
 The intervention of Temble, brief though it was, 
 proved an annoyance to Gervase. There seemed some- 
 thing even sinister in his manner of address. Bente 
 realised this; then brushed the idea aside. To judge 
 a man for so superficial a cause was uncharitable indeed. 
 But though the idea was brushed aside it left a stain 
 behind; and Gervase was confident, instinctively, 
 that something about Mr Temble was not merely 
 antipathic and disagreeable to him; but actually 
 dangerous. Nor during the rest of the evening was 
 he free from the unpleasant impression. 
 
 ' No more interruptions ! ' said Gervase to himself , 
 as he braced his energies anew to the ordeal of the hills. 
 
 That very moment he was aware of a red, forbidding 
 countenance, pierced with the cold eyes of determin- 
 ate non-recognition. 1 1 was Mrs Fryth-Willyams 
 emerging from the gate of The Cedars. He raised his 
 hat and was cut dead. 
 
 ' Ellen ! ' he said. 1 1 was the voice of his instinct, 
 not the voice of his thoughts; for he had been entirely 
 unaware of any friction between his wife and the 
 hostess of the garden-party. 
 
 He was not interrupted again. He was free to meet 
 his troubles, and he fought with them. It was hardly 
 an occasion of clear thinking, and the ordering of con- 
 fusion. Gervase found himself caught in such a tangle 
 of troubles that there seemed no unravelling the skein; 
 and, bound as he was by almost a frantic idealism, 
 
230 MRS BENTE 
 
 there was for him no cutting the knot in the heroic 
 manner of Alexander. He could only think and think; 
 and think ever confusedly of this circumstance or of 
 that in the inordinate pother that overwhelmed him. 
 
 He was able to come to no decision, for as soon as 
 one process seemed clearing, other considerations, some- 
 times grotesquely discordant, intervened; and the 
 possible clarification was lost in new mists and thickets. 
 
 The chief trouble was always Poppy. She was such 
 an unknown, such a wilful, quantity. How she 
 had spent her time that day, and what she was doing 
 now, he was ignorant of — though Temble might have 
 enlightened him. Her plans for the future, if they 
 existed, were no more mysterious than her present 
 intentions. Her only programme seemed to be all-of- 
 a-sudden, and based upon the fabric of a whim — what 
 would cause the greatest difficulty and unpleasantness 
 to others, with her husband always remembered as 
 the prime butt of her grown vindictiveness. 
 
 Despite the confusedness of those processes of con- 
 sideration one aspect of his problem grew more definite, 
 and that was the hopelessness of Poppy. He noticed 
 now, what a man of more worldly growth would have 
 seen as soon as the first illusions of marriage had worn 
 away : that she was bound by nature to bring her 
 husband to grief. She kept no restraint on her bad 
 inclinations, which were legion; and she had unusually 
 few good inclinations to counteract them. She was 
 in fact — he realised it now with eyes stripped — an 
 innately bad woman, rotten to the core, answering as 
 
MRS BENTE 231 
 
 readily t o the promptings of iniquity as flowers t o 
 light; yet even with his illusions about her gone and 
 her barrenness of soul as evident as darkness, he found 
 excuses for her. He still loved her, partly because of 
 her very hopelessness and moral helplessness; and 
 he still found excuse for her because of the years of 
 harshness and corruption she had endured. The fact 
 that Ellen was his wife, and that her burden had there- 
 fore become his, was claim enough on the charity and 
 chivalry of this man who was a gentleman, and 
 moreover a clergyman who practised better than he 
 preached. 
 
 Perhaps the true reason why Gervase Bente, when 
 ultimately he reached again his ill-starred home, was 
 so little 'forrarder* in his decisions, was that he had 
 come to believe the worst barrier to his and Ellen's 
 happiness and usefulness was the futility of the Church 
 in Nuneholm. He began to find a slender hope, which 
 grew as he thought of it, that had the religious life 
 there been more real and serviceable she would have 
 been better induced to work for its causes. 
 
 It was, of course, a foolish idea, the forlorn conjecture 
 of a defeated optimist; but he clung to it with the 
 blind determination of the desperate idealist. Rapidly 
 the thought outgrew its proportions. His innate 
 faculty for fanaticism associated itself with the idea, 
 which spread as the weeds of thought — as well as the 
 weeds of the garden — do. When Gervase, therefore, 
 found himself at home again, with his mental and 
 physical energies worn to threads, he brought with 
 
 
232 MRS BENTE 
 
 him, in a great garnering of vagueness, one certainty 
 — that Ellen was, ai least in part, deprived of her true 
 chance, because the Church in that district had been 
 negligent, lukewarm, and therefore sinful. He had, 
 for the time being, lost sight of her corruption in the 
 last surge of pity the new idea evoked. 
 
 She greeted him in the doorway. She beamed and 
 seized his arm. 
 
 'Darling, where have you been? You are tired, 
 aren't you?' 
 
 He was taken aback. Even now, after months of 
 experience of Poppy, he was not prepared for this 
 amazing volie face and violent advance of affection. 
 He had, anyhow, learned its value. It rather hardened 
 him and put him on guard. 
 
 'Ellen, we are in trouble again.' 
 
 ' Oh, Gervase, my dear ! ' She might have been a 
 creature all sorrow and love, to judge by her demeanour. 
 Bente was not so crude now as to take her at her own 
 valuation. He was at any rate cautious. 
 
 'Perhaps you won't be quite so sympathetic when 
 you hear all I have to say/ his lips were firm, his 
 expression grim, for him. 
 
 He hung his hat and coat on the hall-stand, and 
 foliowed her into their sitting-room. The lamp was 
 lighted and the curtains drawn. The Httle room looked 
 snug enough; and it grieved him to think that soon 
 they must go and it would be their home no longer, for 
 Gervase had a faculty for loving the places with which 
 he had grown familiar. 
 
MRS BENTE 233 
 
 Poppy disliked the tone of his last remark, not 
 because it was in the least unkind; but for the reason 
 that it was not atune to her own effusiveness. Gervase 
 saw her face harden. Her demeanour changed, it was 
 nearer to habitude. It was just as well so, for it 
 stiffened his intentions, and he could not afford now to 
 yield anything to sentimentality. 
 
 'I hope you don't intend to be insulting/ she 
 challenged. Her tone was nasty. He felt the sudden 
 agitation of anger, a flutter in nerves and throat. It 
 was a sign of change; it would have been impossible 
 to his temperament in the years before marriage; but 
 the experience, even of these last hours, had wrought 
 upon him and bruised his nature. Poppy had no ink- 
 ling of these inner fires. She saw him calm with the 
 apparent coldness that she hated. She regarded it as 
 due to want of manliness, to lack of passion. 
 
 ' r m sick of you, Gervase/ she said. 
 
 'Never mind that/ he replied. 'Whether you like 
 it or not we are in a difficulty which we've to get out 
 of together. ' 
 
 ' And F m sick of your difficulties too/ 
 
 It would be easy to retort that the difficulties were 
 of her making; but to offer that sort of answer was not 
 his wish or way. He kept his mind to the purpose. 
 
 ' We have to leave these rooms/ he told her. 
 
 'Then Fm not going to/ she airily replied. 
 
 'What?' The tone of the monosyllable expressed 
 something of his sheer amazement. He had thought 
 he could not be surprised by any act or decision of his 
 
234 MRS BENTE 
 
 wife; but this proved him wrong. Could there have 
 been a more absolute somersault? 
 
 'I am not going to; and that is plain English/ She 
 picked up a novelette as if to change the subject; but 
 was far too excited even to pretend to read. 
 
 'But you said — you always declared — that you ' 
 
 ' Oh, stop your mumbling ! I say now that Nune- 
 holm suits me, and these rooms suit me; and I am going 
 to stay here. That's all ! ' 
 
 1 You are not going to stay here/ 
 
 That was better. She flashed him a glance almost of 
 respect because of the decision of those words. 
 
 'I am not going to leave Nuneholm/ she repeated. 
 'Please understand that — I am absolutely clear about 
 
 k: 
 
 'You will go where I go/ he proclaimed. 'But I'm 
 not asking you to leave Nuneholm/ 
 
 She sounded defiance — not too defiantly. 
 
 'Oh really!' 
 
 'But why this change? — this sudden change?' 
 
 She was in her turn unprepared for the challenge. 
 It was not enough to say 'Because I choose it'; as she 
 could not but see that if he used his rights, which, for 
 aught she knew, this altered Gervase migbt do, her 
 choice was of small concern. It was as he suggested, 
 where he went she must go, unless she had the means 
 of self-support; and she did not possess those means 
 at present. 
 
 ' Why this change? Tell me ! Why don't you answer 
 me?' he persisted sharply. 
 
MRS BENTE 235 
 
 'Isn't the fact that I do not wish to go enough?' 
 
 'No/ His tone was unusually blunt. 'You have 
 been discontented here; rude and violent to Mrs 
 Carpenter, rude and violent to Joseph, rude and violent 
 to me ' 
 
 ' Oh you, you fool ! ' She turned on her chair away 
 from him, so giving point to her expression of contempt. 
 
 ' Yes, to me; and simply because I said we must stay 
 here/ 
 
 'Very well, we will stay here. I' m sick of this fuss. 
 You' d better wash your hands and change your coat 
 if you want some supper ' 
 
 This single attempt to ride away on a side issue failed 
 of its purpose. It annoyed him. In his impatience he 
 took a step towards her. At the movement she shrunk 
 back, as if she expected a blow. That act of combined 
 insult and cowardice — it was in truth far more insult 
 than cowardice — spurred his anger and set the seeds 
 of a new contempt. 1 1 was destined to alter their 
 relations entirely. It was the beginning of the end of 
 his old protective love for her. 
 
 ' You need not f ear I shall ever strike you/ he said. 
 
 'But I do f ear it/ Her retort was ever ready. She 
 had a keen and intent answer when its burden was 
 unkindly. 
 
 1 Oh, Ellen, what a beast you are ! ' 
 
 She laughed at that; not in humour or bitterness. 
 1 1 was merely an escape of emotion. 
 
 'Why don't you act decently and talk decently?' 
 he protested hotly. ' You make life so difhcult/ 
 
 Q 
 
236 MRS BENTE 
 
 She curled a lip; but he would not heed it. 
 
 'Why can't you see how closely linked our interests 
 are? I don't want to give you anything but a happy 
 life; but you won't let me. I ask you to let me do my 
 work here without worry or hindrance; but we have 
 these squabbles and quarrels and complaints. I 
 cannot do my work, can do no good at all, in this 
 atmosphere of worry and vulgarity ' 
 
 She became restless again. 
 
 1 Oh, do stop preaching, Gervase ! I f you' d t alk 
 less and do more your work would be less of a failure. 
 For you are a failure you know : yes, an absurd 
 failure.' 
 
 He looked at her with gentle eyes. This assevera- 
 tion was peculiarly hurtful. She saw it, and was 
 encouraged t o go on, sowing her seed of poison. 
 
 ' You are a perfect laughing-stock here, in Nuneholm, 
 because of your absurd seriousness.' 
 
 1 Never mind that ! ' he said. 
 
 'But I do mind. I don't want my husband to be a 
 butt. Only yesterday a — a person here said to me 
 "Why is Mr Bente so woodenly theatrical in the 
 pulpit?" That's nice, isn't it?' 
 
 'You need not worry about that/ he said again. 
 
 1 But I do I ' she insisted. 
 
 'Then don't; we have something more important to 
 think about. In fact, Ellen, it's time we decided what 
 to do. We can't stay here/ 
 
 'Oh, yes, we can, dear/ Her mood was not affec- 
 tionate, though her words might seem so. Gervase 
 
MRS BENTE 237 
 
 was in any case not to be caught again by the bait and 
 hook of her blandishment. ' I' 11 speak to Mrs Carpenter. 
 I know how to manage her/ 
 
 'The least you say to Mrs Carpenter the better/ he 
 counselled. 
 
 'Why must you be brutal at once?' she protested. 
 'As soon as I show a little kindness you are beastly. 
 You are ! ' she reiterated, and the spite of anger rose 
 like bubbling froth within her. ' You are a beastly man ! ' 
 
 'You have angered Mrs Carpenter beyond forgive- 
 ness/ he assured her. 
 
 ' Nonsense ! I' 11 soon talk the old fool round/ 
 
 Tm afraid that's beyond your powers, Ellen. You 
 have gone too far ' 
 
 ' Oh, do stop this preaching. You' 11 make me swear ! ' 
 she interrupted, and rose and went to the window. 
 ' I don't care if we do go. Don't care a damn. You can 
 manage it yourself. I'm going out/ 
 
 ' No, you are not ! ' He moved in front of the door, 
 and to emphasise the truth of her present subordina- 
 tion turned the key, locked it. 
 
 'What are you going to do now, you fool?' She 
 looked in her smallness and, as she happened to be more 
 tastefully dressed, her daintiness, very like a fairy gone 
 bad : but Gervase in those minutes of stress saw only 
 the nasty, small, spiteful woman, who had betrayed 
 his purpose in regard to her. 
 
 Tm going to settle with you l' he answered. Tve 
 had enough of this nonsense/ 
 
 'I shall scream/ she threatened, and hurried to the 
 
 
238 MRS BENTE 
 
 front window. She tried to open it; but fumbled with 
 the latch. The fastening was stiff. 
 
 ' You can scream as much as yon like : but, mean- 
 while, you'U listen to me/ 
 
 She did not scream : she struck with her fist a pane 
 of the window, with no effect but to hurt herself; and 
 then she turned at bay. She looked at him with furious 
 eyes, and swore at him. Never before had Gervase 
 Bente heard, far less endured, such a torrent of vul- 
 garity and verbal violence. Poppy let herself go : 
 the vials of her wrath were emptied on him and the 
 issue was garbage. The utter, absolute wickedness, 
 filth, immorality of her tortured, tangled personality 
 poured forth, in worse than gutter riot. 
 
 Ali the effect on Bente was that he turned white. 
 That was the only expression of his horror and pai n. 
 He let her speak until she had exhausted her passion 
 of vituperation. 
 
 'And now you'll listen to me/ he repeated. 
 
 She looked at him, whimpered, then suddenly ran 
 at him furiously, struck him with her fists, tried to 
 reach his face : and once she bit at the hand with which 
 he held her back. She writhed and struggled; and 
 panted in his arms : was a fury and a termagant, a 
 witch maddened and maddening. But he remained 
 calm, and so he mastered her. At last she was limp, 
 exhausted mentally and physically. He held her until 
 she was quiet, and then led her to the sofa where she 
 sat, hid her face against its pillow and moaned. It was 
 the whimpering of an animal. 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 ' And now you will listen to me/ said Gervase, emphati- 
 cally once more. 
 
 This time there was no answer. Poppy was subdued. 
 She made no interniption while he put plainly before 
 her the facts of their case. He found it rather a 
 difficult story without the spur of her interruptions 
 and naughtiness: but at anyrate it enabled him to 
 clear his own mind of domestic doubts; and, however 
 difficult the task proved, it seemed strangely brief 
 when shorn of argumentative trimmings. 
 
 1 We shall have to leave here at the end of this month, 
 if not this week/ he concluded, 'and if I can't find 
 somewhere else suitable to go to meanwhile, we shall 
 have to put up at The Willows. I'm sorry, but there's 
 no other course. You'll have to be decent to Aunt 
 Grace then/ he added gently. 
 
 Poppy made no response of any kind. 
 
 'Now I have finished/ he said, hoping, hoping, ever 
 hoping, there would be some sign of relenting, some 
 promise of co-operation on the part of this difficult 
 woman. 
 
 No sign : no softening. As soon as he had done she 
 rose and without casting a glance at him went to the 
 
 239 
 
240 MRS BENTE 
 
 door. She turned the handle and waited while he 
 followed and unlocked it for her. She went upstairs. 
 He heard the door of their bedroom siam. 
 
 Shortly afterwards he heard a timid knock. It was 
 Mrs Carpenter, looking concerned. Their supper, 
 which was the layman's dinner with an added sobriety 
 and simpleness, had been waiting, and was not improv- 
 ing with the flight of hours. 
 
 'I can't help it, Mrs Carpenter/ he answered. He 
 was trembling. ' I can't possibly eat anything : but 
 you might go up and tell Mrs Bente/ Mrs Carpenter 
 seemed to falter at that — ' She will be nice to you now, 
 I think,' he added wistfully. 
 
 'Oh, but, sir — the hours you've gone— — ' 
 
 'It's no good, Mrs Carpenter, thank you/ — and 
 seizing his hat he went, not to the hills now, but slowly 
 to The Willows, the house of his aunt. He went slowly, 
 because of his physical exhaustion. 
 
 Poppy did not deny herself so resolutely as he had 
 done. It is true she ate but little : she let Mrs Carpenter 
 know why — the food was cold, ill-cooked, cheap and 
 nasty. 
 
 In spite of her asseverations to Gervase she did not 
 spare the hapless landlady. But though she ate little, 
 she managed to consume a good deal of claret, express- 
 ing as she did so some wishes that were nobody's good 
 health. Then as a sudden resolution, she put on her 
 hat and cloak, and went out of the house. 
 
 She was still out when Gervase returned an hour and 
 a half later. He was dead to the world, so weary was 
 
MRS BENTE 241 
 
 he. He lay, with eyes closed, on the sofa, absolutely 
 exhausted : and ached in every limb. He was mentally 
 numb, too tired to think consistently : so that when 
 Poppy did return and look in, and go out again with 
 contempt eloquent on her silent lips, he could only 
 smile sadly to himself and feel rather pleasantly sorry 
 that he was caught in the turmoil of so ugly a business. 
 
 That night, not for the first time, he fetched a 
 carriage-rug and slept upon the sofa; while his wife 
 loudly locked their bedroom door. 
 
 When they met at the breakfast table she showed 
 they were not to be on speaking terms. She helped 
 him and herself to coffee without a word or sign of 
 recognition, and accepted bacon and a boiled egg 
 with the indifference of a philosopher. Indignation 
 did not prevent her making an excellent breakfast. 
 
 During the meal a note came from the Rector — 
 the handwriting was his, but the diction was less 
 grandiose — it was a direct and business-like document. 
 The Rev. Gervase Bente was asked to go round to the 
 Rectory as soon as possible that morning. The note 
 was marked 'Urgent/ 
 
 Gervase decided not to hurry. The strain of 
 yesterday caused him to feel jaded to-day. He would 
 take his time. There was no knowing what new earth- 
 quake had occurred to upset his uncertain firmament : 
 he must at any rate get his wits in order, and that was 
 not easy in this new condition of abounding worry and 
 weariness of mind and heart-ache. He forced himself 
 to eat an apple : and then, while Poppy lighted a 
 
242 MRS BENTE 
 
 cigarette and looked at a picture-newspaper, he went 
 into the garden : and there grew calm again. 
 
 1 This won't do ! ' he told himself, as he realised how 
 shaken his nerves had been. 'If I get worrying so 
 much I shall be ill/ he reasoned. Tve got to fight 
 this battle through; and I will not throw her over, at 
 any cost ! ' 
 
 He went in to get his hat : and after thinking for a 
 moment decided not to leave without saying a word to 
 his wife. If she was ashamed at all it would help her, 
 and perhaps make her happier . . . He longed to be 
 friends with her again. 
 
 He looked in at the breakfast-room door. She 
 glanced up to see who it was, then turned away 
 deliberately at once : blew a cloud from her cigarette 
 and with a fiick of her little finger removed the ash. 
 
 Tm just going out, Ellen. I've to go round to the 
 Rectory/ 
 
 1 You may go to the devil, for me/ she answered sweetly. 
 
 The neatness and discourtesy of her reply touched 
 an unwonted chord. He could not refrain from a little 
 laugh. It was a foolishness, but involuntary. It seemed 
 to relieve his nerves. It was probably the outlet of 
 pent-up emotion. It angered her. She had hoped to 
 hurt him, and here was he with laughter on his lips. 
 She called out a word of offence : it was vulgarity of 
 the worst; it was the bluntest and nastiest in her 
 vocabulary. He heard it and did not mind it; 
 for — he did not fully understand its ugly meaning. He 
 thought it was merely a vulgarity. 
 
MRS BENTE 243 
 
 On the way to the Rectory he passed the stream of 
 City men going to the railway-station. Some of them 
 he nodded to; and then he met Temble. Instinctively 
 he shrank from saluting this man; but courtesy com- 
 pelled, and he said, ' Good-day/ 
 
 He was glad he had done so afterwards, though at 
 the beginning he was bitterly sorry : for the immediate 
 acknowledgment was an insult. Temble looked at 
 him with his dark eyes, smiling in obvious contempt; 
 and then he went on, saying nothing. Gervase felt a 
 blow on the heart. What new evil was here? What 
 was the cause of this evident insult? Although he 
 went on his way seemingly calm, he was for slow 
 moments numbed. The unkindness had come at the 
 worst moment. The world seemed falling around 
 him. 
 
 Then sudden anger blazed in him. He would not 
 be insulted with impunity. The fact that he had 
 instinctively disliked Temble added sting to the treat- 
 ment he had suffered. He turned on his heel and 
 hurried after the sidesman, who was now a short 
 street's length away. . . . 
 
 And then he turned again, realising his own futility 
 for this ugly order of experience. What could he do or 
 gain by a row in the street? 
 
 He went without further let to the Rectory; and 
 arrived there wrought-up to a fine whirl of anger. He 
 was not in the mood for pomposities and trifling : 
 so he thought as he swung open the wooden gate of 
 the garden. 
 
244 MRS BENTE 
 
 The Rector was looking grave and did not receive 
 his visitor with the wonted effusiveness. 
 
 ' I'm worried, Bente/ he said hurriedly : ' and, look 
 here, you won't mind my wife being present also, will 
 you? She's been my secretary, so to speak, for so long 
 — that t o tell the truth I've got to need her co- 
 operation in a difficult business like this. Do you 
 see? It's not a questionof principlebut of convenience, 
 eh?' 
 
 1 I'm sorry, I can't, Rector ; I'm really very sorry ; 
 but I can't/ 
 
 'But really I do beg you, earnestly/ 
 
 Gervase was so touched by this confession of 
 dependence that, putting aside anger and all else, he 
 seriously considered for a moment, and then again 
 decided not. It was no use. Dr Deane watched him 
 with evident anxiety, and Gervase could not but realise 
 even then that here was no capable minister, but the 
 wrong man in a wrong place, a weak man, misusing the 
 greatest of responsibilities, the cure of souls; and 
 making it a windy emptiness, a clerical attitude. 
 
 'I'm really very sorry; but it is a question of 
 principle/ 
 
 ' Very well ! ' 
 
 The Rector went to the door, and said to one outside 
 ' Nina ! ' What a name for her, Gervase thought. ' I'm 
 sorry it's No ! ' 
 
 There was no reply. The silence was eloquent enough. 
 
 They took their seats, Dr Deane at his desk facing 
 the light, with Gervase in an arm-chair by the window. 
 
MRS BENTE 245 
 
 1 1 had your note/ said Gervase, ' and came as soon 
 as I could.' 
 
 'That's good of you,' answered his nominal chief 
 more cheerf ully : ' now look here, my dear Bente ' — 
 Gervase saw him quietly refer to a half-sheet of paper 
 on which prepared notes were scrawled — 'we — that 
 is, I — have been thinking over our talk of last night. 
 You were rather outspoken, you know. When I was 
 a curate, I'd as soon have thought — but never mind 
 that. Now look here, Mr Bente, I don't want to lose 
 you. We've had our little differences : but you suit 
 the tone of this place * 
 
 ' I'm afraid not ! ' 
 
 ' Oh yes, you do, I assure you. You have culture : 
 you have been to Oxford; there's nothing our people 
 like so much as a good manner : it accounts for half 
 our influence in the parish.' He glanced again at the 
 paper of notes. ' Now I don't want to lose you : and 
 because last night things rather promised a break, 
 I sent you that note this morning to ask you to come and 
 have a talk. But there must be one condition. That 
 must be clear at the outset. Mrs Bente's position in 
 the parish must be put on a satisfactory basis. We 
 don't insist on her joining in the work, if that's not her 
 way. The curate's wife, whenever there has been a 
 wife in the past, has always helped in the Sunday- 
 school, and the visiting; and had I known that Mrs 
 Bente could not help, I'm afraid I shouldn't have chosen 
 you as my colleague; but we've got to take things as 
 we find them, haven't we?' 
 
246 MRS BENTE 
 
 Gervase nodded his head in affirmation. He was 
 indisposed to speak until he had something helpful 
 to say. 
 
 'Yes, we've got to take things as we find them.' 
 The Rector refreshed his memory with more than usual 
 deliberation at this point; he placed the half-sheet 
 frankly in front of him. 'And it is clear as anything 
 that Mrs Bente — not to put it unkindly — does 
 not see eye to eye with us as to the responsibilities 
 of her position. Now we want to keep you, my dear 
 Bente : but it must be on the understanding that 
 Mrs Bente does nothing subversive to the Cloth — our 
 Cloth and sacred calling.' 
 
 'But what do you mean by this?' Gervase asked. 
 
 The Rector showed he possessed an excellent choice 
 of words : but he was not too definite. 
 
 ' The point is this,' he went on, ' and I'm sorry to have 
 to make it : but Mrs Bente has not been passive — 
 not been passive, much less friendly, by any means. 
 Some of the ladies of the parish, and our best supporters, 
 are highly offended with her. She has put them out. 
 Mrs Fryth-Willyams, for instance — one of the best of 
 Churchwomen, a Lady Bountiful to Nuneholm, if ever 
 there was one — is highly incensed with her/ 
 
 'But why — I've heard nothing of this/ 
 
 ' Ah, my dear Bente ! ' the Rector, his wife not being 
 present, did not repress the little pleasantry that had 
 taken wings in his wit. ' How little do we men know of 
 the doings of womenkind? ' 
 
 'I certainly think these ladies must be mistaken/ 
 

 MRS BENTE 247 
 
 Gervase asserted. 'I don't believe Ellen knows any 
 of them well enough for difficulties to have arisen. 
 She has had friends and invitations, a number. As 
 for Mrs Fryth-Willyams ' 
 
 'She was highly offended, my wife assures me, at 
 something — -I don't know what — that Mrs Bente said 
 at the garden-party/ 
 
 'Then Vm sorry/ Gervase could only protest. 'I 
 can say, or do, no more than that, for I know nothing 
 about it/ He remembered his recent encounter with 
 the lady of the pickled countenance and had misgivings. 
 
 ' There we are ! ' cried the Rector, who had again 
 taken a glance at his notes. 'That brings us to the 
 point. Let me express it briefly. You say you can do 
 no more. But, my dear Bente, you must do it. It is 
 essential that whatever Mrs Bente does — however 
 little she helps us — she must refrain from hurting the 
 feelings of our people in the parish. She must be 
 quiescent ; if not actually sympathetic, do you 
 see?' 
 
 Gervase waited a moment before replying. He frowned 
 at the floor in thought. 
 
 'I am afraid I cannot promise anything/ he said 
 reluctantly at last. 
 
 ' Why not? Do you not see the need? ' 
 
 'I do, I do. Indeed, I do. I see it with terrible 
 
 clearness : but ' he hesitated. 'You must allow me 
 
 time to think things over/ he said. 
 
 'But why not settle it now? Come, my dear fellow, 
 it ought to be easy/ 
 
248 MRS BENTE 
 
 Protesting at the Rector's untimely insistence 
 Gervase flamed. 
 
 Tm entitled to some consideration/ he declared. 
 'My wife and I are treated as if we had no personal 
 rights whatever/ 
 
 'No, no!' 
 
 'You have no right — no right whatever' — he em- 
 phasised as he looked Dr Deane fairly in the face — 'to 
 put these alternatives in this summary manner. My 
 wife may have been — well, incautious; but are you 
 t o judge her without a word of defence : and ara I to 
 decide our future action on the spur of the moment 
 at your dictation? I must think. I will consider the 
 facts before I say anything more/ 
 
 The Rector rose protesting. His large hands were 
 spread out helplessly. He was at a loss to know what 
 t o say, what to do : the half-sheet o f notepaper had no 
 use in this contingency. 
 
 Gervase had also risen. His thoughts and emotions 
 were whirling. He walked to the door, and with a bow 
 went out into the hall. Mrs Deane happened to be 
 there. She looked at him with pursed lips and eyes 
 at their sharpest. 
 
 ' I should like to know what is the secret of your wife's 
 past ! ' she said; and with the hurling of that poisoned 
 bomb opened the door of her husband's room and went 
 in. 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 The unsatisfactory interview at an end, Gervase went 
 straight to the church. Anyhow peace was there to 
 be found. 
 
 For the first time he brought comf ort to his conscience, 
 which had been heavy because of the established clerical 
 negligence of Nuneholm, by leaving the West-door 
 open and saying aloud Mattins as if there were a con- 
 gregation present. This became his daily practice. 
 He could not publicly announce the fact, as the Rector 
 had positively forbidden what he called 'unnecessary 
 services ' : but the principal door was open wide in 
 case any one cared or chanced to go in. Nobody did 
 go in. 
 
 It was, in spite of the lack of people, not an empty 
 church to Gervase. It became a full church to him. 
 He had the mystic's temperament, and in these days 
 of trouble the faculty for religious idealism grew within 
 him. So that he was able to fiil with gracious spirits 
 the empty benches; and when with worshipful heart 
 he offered his spoken prayers and the praise of psalms, 
 he knew and was convinced.that a chorus of immortals 
 was swelling behind him, leaping upward even unto the 
 Ultimate, 
 
 «49 
 
250 MRS BENTE 
 
 He was forced by circumstances into an hermitage 
 of solitude. Poppy and the Rector, in their several 
 ways, were the true, though unconscious, causes of 
 this new increase of mysticism, which promised to 
 become fanaticism, and even a form of intolerance. 
 The tendency was yet but imperceptible; but there it 
 was, actual, and of continuous and rapid growth. 
 Even within the week remaining, before they must 
 leave Cantuar Villa, he was an austerer person. The 
 former natural sweetness of his disposition was charged 
 with stiffening. His heart was harder against human 
 weakness. He was beginning to see evil, not as an 
 excrescence to be removed, leaving its possessor as 
 hale as if it had never been : but as a force of active, 
 positive danger : a sentient, determined, watchful 
 and cunning enemy, essentially incapable of alteration, 
 and yet to be faced and fought. He realised now, 
 rightly or wrongly, that Robert Browning's over- 
 quoted optimism was of the nature of a begged question, 
 and that AU's not right with the world. He discovered 
 there was ineradicable rot at the heart of the right- 
 ness; and that, with all the efforts made and the hope 
 and promise with which humanity is buoyed, there 
 could never be such a triumph as an earthly millennium. 
 Mankind is inherently bad as well as inherently good : 
 and to cure it of evil means the surgeon's remedy, 
 the knife for medicine. 
 
 A far distance had Gervase wandered from his earlier 
 condition of rose-coloured confidence. The many 
 combined causes that had brought the canker to his 
 
 f 
 
MRS BENTE 251 
 
 ideals had done their work completely. He had taken 
 a long step towards an extreme, a step which would 
 probably never have been taken had Poppy been 
 other than she was, and the church at Nuneholm, as 
 represented by the Rector, his worldly wife and the 
 generality of its parishioners, nearer to what should 
 have been. The very innocence of his former hopes 
 and dreams served to make Gervase the more 
 despondent now. He brooded as well as prayed, and 
 at moments mentally stormed over the wilful 
 naughtiness of a too-difficult world. 
 
 It certainly was difficult. As day followed day during 
 that last week with the Carpenters, he realised the 
 difficulties abounding. He was like a man thrown 
 naked into the midst of a pathless thicket of impene- 
 trable thorns. Wherever he turned there seemed no 
 way out. His life was f uli of discords and bitterness. 
 
 His relations with Poppy were unchanged. They 
 met only at meals and sometimes not then. Hardly 
 a word passed between them. She was insolent and 
 chilling. She came and went without any regard for 
 him : and to a man as capable of loving-kindness as 
 he, this state of affairs was intolerable. But he kept 
 in mind her need; and did not let her see how deeply 
 she was hurting him, though she was not unaware 
 of his pain and was pleased and encouraged by it. 
 
 Of Temble he saw nothing. He neither avoided 
 the sidesman nor sought him out; but remembered 
 the detail of his insult. In fact, their ways did not 
 meet until the following Sunday morning, when Mr 
 
252 MRS BENTE 
 
 Temble, with the churchwardens and his brother 
 sidesmen, brought the alms-bags to the chancel-rails 
 for Gervase to receive them. Even in those circum- 
 stances the curate could not avoid knowing a fierce 
 throb of hate — it was a horrid revelation of his powers 
 of detestation — but he kept his attention to the duty 
 of the moment, and did not sce the all-but-hidden 
 smiling contempt in the man's expression. 
 
 On the following day they left Cantuar Villas and 
 the Carpenters. Poppy, who had packed her things 
 anyhow, and left Gervase to see to his, wore an air of 
 defiant resignation. 
 
 They drove to The Willows in a station-fly, Poppy 
 hardly saying a word. She remained loftily distant. 
 Gervase was anxious that her airs of ungracious de- 
 tachment should be lost before they reached his aunt's 
 house : and twice made a tentative remark about 
 nothing in particular, hoping to break the ice. The first 
 she passed with a formal, unhelpful answer : the second 
 she ignored. The prospects could not be worse. 
 
 They were actually at the gates of The Willows before 
 he spoke t o her again. Then he made his appeal. 
 
 * Ellen ! Let us be friends. Don't let Aunt Grace 
 feel that we are anything else. She' 11 be awfully kind 
 if you let her/ 
 
 Ellen made no reply. Her lip curled slightly. 
 
 Miss Bente came to the door to meet them. There 
 was nothing but open kindness in her welcome. She 
 went at once to Poppy prepared to greet her warmly. 
 
 ' My dear, I'U try and help ycu to be happy,' she said. 
 
MRS BENTE 253 
 
 The graciousness of this speech should have softened 
 anybody with the least warmth of heart. No doubt, 
 at times, Poppy could seem warm-hearted enough, 
 so that people unacquainted with her might be capti- 
 vated, as often was so at first; but this was no such 
 charming moment, and Miss Bente was far from being 
 forgiven. She ne'er pardons who has done the wrong. 
 Poppy remembered their last meeting in Mrs Carpenter's 
 front garden, when she had given the cut direct; and 
 seemed by her present manner to suggest that this offer 
 of hospitality was rather a rudeness than anything else. 
 
 Makin g the most of her smallness of stature by hold- 
 ing her body rigid and her nose slightly more in the air 
 than usual, she answered 'Thank you; but please, 
 Miss Bente, don't imagine Fm glad to be here/ 
 
 The answer caused tears to fiood the eyes of Aunt 
 Grace, though she restrained their flow; and Gervase 
 turning angrily said sharply, ' Behave yourself , Ellen ! ' 
 
 It was an unfortunate opening to the new chapter; 
 and certainly no augury of happiness. Poppy did not 
 answer him; but said in her airy manner to Miss Bente, 
 'Where is my room?' as though the world were her 
 chambermaid. 
 
 ' Nickols/ Gervase called to the giri who was carrying 
 some trappings upstairs, 'will you please show Mrs 
 Bente her room?' 
 
 'No, Gervase, I will/ said his aunt. 
 
 'After that ' he said softly. 
 
 'It will be all right/ she rephed at once, 'will you 
 come with me, Ellen ?' 
 
 I 
 
254 MRS BENTE 
 
 Ellen followed mutely. She had certainly not scored 
 in that unnecessary first encounter; and, perhaps 
 because of it, forebore from making any belated sign 
 of graciousness. 
 
 Her room was small, but comfortable. It overlooked 
 the garden, and faced some distant hills, so that her 
 lot was sufficiently pleasant. Miss Bente had taken 
 care to ensure the comfort of this guest, for the very 
 reason that her old experiences of that difficult lady had 
 been so brutal. 
 
 Having Ellen under her roof, in the intimate associa- 
 tions of home life, was a difficult ordeal and in truth 
 repugnant to her; but for Gervase's sake she had ven- 
 tured even that. The immediate response was bitter, 
 but not unexpected. Grace Bente' s heart was still 
 wounded through the cruelty of weeks ago; and this 
 new mishap did not make things really worse; but she 
 was of a kind and loyal nature and did not disdain 
 the helpful practice of heaping coals of fire on the 
 offender's head. 
 
 When Miss Bente had seen that Poppy was properly 
 established in her room she came away, shutting the 
 door after her. No sooner outside than she remembered 
 she had not told her the time they dined. She stopped 
 to say, 'At half-past seven — that's in half an hour/ 
 when she heard the key turned in the lock of the door. 
 That was all the answer. 
 
 Gervase met her at the foot of the stairs. 
 
 ' I' m awfully sorry, Aunt Grace; it's beastly, beastly ! ' 
 
 'Never mind ; my dear, She's over-wrought/ and 
 
MRS BENTE 253 
 
 then, unable longer to control her feelings she leaned 
 against his shoulder and drifted to tears. That moved 
 him as nothirg else had done. He felt as if, through 
 bringing his wife into the home of this dear woman, he 
 had struck her in the face, and on the heart. 
 
 'Oh, can yon forgive me?' he said. 
 
 'You — you need no forgiveness. Oh, Gervase, 
 Gervase, why did you? — she will break your heart!' 
 
 'Can you forgive me?' he earnestly repeated, 'for 
 bringing her here? I ought to have known; yet it was 
 so very difficuit and I hoped and hoped. ' 
 
 She determinately recovered her self-possession and 
 went into her sitting room : he followed her. He was 
 eager at last t o speak. The griefs and disappointments 
 of those months of marriage had rushed to this climax 
 of proved futility and pain. 
 
 ' Aunt Grace ! ' he said. 
 
 'What is it, my dear?' Her voice was very gentle. 
 
 The old call of love came to him in the old way. 
 Since he had been a man he had put away his boyish 
 practice of carrying his troubles to her; since he had 
 been a clergyman he had affected a superiority — the 
 privilege of his Cloth — which he was quite incapable 
 of maintaining. At this moment of shock and anguish, 
 he was a boy again. He went to her, knelt beside her, 
 his face in her lap. She put a hand on his head and 
 smoothed his hair. 
 
 ' Poor darling, my poor boy ! ' 
 
 ' Aunt Grace ! ' he f ound his voice at last, ' whatever 
 I have got I deserve; I was a fool, a fool — I hoped and 
 
256 MRS BENTE 
 
 prayed that I might save and redeem felleri. I felt it 
 was my duty ' 
 
 'I know/ 
 
 ' I would have died for her : this is no boast or 
 lie; but the truth, the absolute truth,' he averred 
 passionately, ' — and now ' 
 
 'Be patient, Gervase. We may hope — always we 
 may hope/ Her voice broke as she realised the empty 
 comfort she was giving him. She knew he had been 
 patient, that he had done all that mortal man can do 
 for erring and wilful woman : and it was all for nothing, 
 for worse than nothing; for out of his act of chivalry 
 and virtue had come an abiding curse. 
 
 'Dear boy. You have your religion. That is the 
 source of the only true comfort for you as for all of us/ 
 
 Religion ! He raised his head and looked at her : 
 there was a fevered light and anguish in his eyes. He 
 looked like a stricken man. She read there something 
 of the truth, though not until now had she realised how 
 bitter it was. 
 
 1 My poor Gervase ! ' she said, and kissed his forehead. 
 She felt instinctively that only in such caressing words 
 and deeds could comfort reach him. . . . So religion 
 had failed him too : but that was not truly so, for 
 the mockeries of Nuneholm with its cold formalities and 
 organised evil snobbishness, its backbiting and slanders, 
 its active denial of charity, its tolerance of the deadly 
 sins provided they did not openly shock a tyrannous 
 respectability, were as far removed from true religion 
 as is north from south, fire from water, hate from love. 
 
MRS BEMTE ^ 
 
 He roused himself; he mentally shook himself; he 
 put on again the armour of manhood. 
 
 ' F11 be no weakling/ he said, and he stood up before 
 her, 'though I have been pitifully weak. I 'm no 
 moral giant/ 
 
 'And what now? ' His aunt, with the tact that was 
 no small part of her charm, brought him to realities. 
 They had t o be faced, that was a certainty; and now 
 was the best time, the kindest opportunity. He had 
 her sympathy, he could speak to her frankly, concealing 
 nothing; and that was half the battle. 
 
 ■ That is my job; that's the problem I've got to solve/ 
 he confessed : the mere realisation of the difficulty 
 before him was helpful. It nerved him; added decision 
 to his uncertainty. 
 
 'I cannot stay at Nuneholm, that is clear. I must 
 try for a curacy in London. Nuneholm stifles me. I'm 
 no use here. The Rector and I — we could never get 
 on : and his wife, she is always interfering. I must go 
 to London for Ellen's sake. After all, she is a cockney 
 in all her tastes, and after town the country seems mono- 
 tonous. If only she could have taken an interest in the 
 work here . . . but I'm hardly allowed to do that, 
 and therefore, she ... I must get a curacy at Hamp- 
 stead, or Kensington, or in the suburbs; or perhaps I 
 could get back to the East End and fix up lodgings in 
 some nice place where Ellen can see shops and lights. 
 I remember her saying it was lights she wanted to see. 
 Fancy street lamps giving comfort ! But I cannot stay 
 at Nuneholm. I did not think I could ever be so futile 
 
258 MRS BENTE 
 
 as I am proving here. The people are all so strange. 
 I've had some horrid encounters. I was cut dead last 
 week ' 
 
 'Oh! by whom?' 
 
 'Mrs Fryth-Willyams. Mrs Deane says she has a 
 grievance against Ellen; but why she should cut me 
 dead is beyond me. Then one of the sidesmen was rude 
 not lorg ago, odiously offensive * 
 
 ' And who was that ? ' 
 
 'A Mr Temble.' 
 
 'I know him. He's a bad man/ said Aunt Gr^ce 
 decisively. 
 
 'What do you mean by that?' 
 
 ' Oh, my dear, I can't define all that I feel : and my 
 opinion of Mr Temble is largely instinctive; but I'm 
 as certain as I am of anything — which is not saying 
 much — that he is a man of bad passions and not exalted 
 life. And he was very rude to you? ' 
 
 'He was/ 
 
 'In what way?' 
 
 He shook his head after a moment of thought. 
 
 'No, let me forget it. It was too small. But I 
 suppose it was somehow Ellen again/ 
 
 'How cculd it be Ellen in his case? But there — it 
 secms to be always Ellen. Dearest Gervase, let me 
 be frank with you, you'll have to separate from her. 
 I'm sure of it now. She is your enemy. She'll ruin 
 you/ 
 
 He got up and walked up and down the room, his 
 forehead clouded with perplexity. He stopped at last 
 
MRS BENTE 259 
 
 and looked with brooding eyes at the autumn fire 
 crackling in the fireplace. 
 
 ' Anything may happen ! ' he confessed. ' I know she 
 is not my friend. I am sure that she sometimes hates 
 me; but I'm bound to her in a way no other man could 
 be bound. I dedicated my life, my everything to her. 
 I did it deliberately, gladly; I made no conditions with 
 myself. I only accepted the whole heavy task gladly, 
 as my small instalment of spiritual goodness in this 
 passing opportunity of life. Even if she breaks me, 
 kills me, I' 11 keep my part of the bargain.' 
 
 Aunt Grace rose and went to him, put a hand on 
 his shoulder, and looked into his eyes. 
 
 ' If I saw the least gleam of hope for yon, and her I'd 
 say go on : but, dearest, I don't : and meanwhile, 
 giving yourself altcgcther for her you lose the chance 
 of doing good to others/ 
 
 He frowned in thought for a moment; his eyes were 
 dark with a far-away expression. 
 
 "There are heaps of people giving themselves for 
 others; but Ellen is alone. There is nobody caring for 
 her, nobody but me. Without me she may be lost 
 entirely/ 
 
 'And with you she may be lost entirely. My 
 dear, you are breaking your heart and ruining your 
 life for what will prove to be nothing — absolutely 
 nothing.' 
 
 'Still I must go on. If I gave her up, and she was 
 lost for ever, I should feel it was because I had failed 
 her in her need.' 
 
 
26o MRS BENTfi 
 
 'But she has failed you. She had obligations to you, 
 remember, as much as you had obligations to her/ 
 
 Miss Bente drew his head to her, and kissed him 
 on the cheek. 
 
 'No, she has obligations, of course — because she also 
 made the promise of the marriage service when I did 
 — but my obligation goes back to an earlier time, to 
 an almost holier time if that be possible, when she 
 came to me in her need and I swore to God with all 
 the solemnity of a Christian oath that I would do every- 
 thing I could : everything, even to death itself — in 
 order to save her/ 
 
 'And if she refused to be saved?' 
 
 ' Then still I would try and try. I would never give 
 her up. I would go on trying for seventy times seventy 
 times seven. Even if I was released from my oath I 
 could not and would not give her up; because even 
 in her worst — in her worst wilfulness — she still would 
 need me, and with the weakest and most obstinate of 
 sinners there is always hope/ 
 
 He paused and turned away. She removed her hand 
 from his shoulder and went back to her chair. 
 
 'And now I've got to find another curacy, somewhere 
 where I can work and Ellen won't b e starved of those 
 delights which are her necessity. It will be a joy to 
 get away from the Tembles and the Fryth-Willyams 
 and the others — for I'm sure they are not alone in this 
 blighted Nuneholm. I haven't been treated with open 
 rudeness by any one else; but too many people look 
 at me with judging eyes/ 
 
MRS BENTE 261 
 
 'That must be your imagination, Gervase/ 
 
 Tm afraid not. I wish it was/ 
 
 'You are too sensitive, my dear.' 
 
 ' I dare say ! Perhaps it is so : bu t somehow one can 
 tell, and I don't feel Fm mistaken. There is an 
 atmosphere of suspicion about. There are only a few 
 houses now where I feel I'm welcomed as a priest 
 whose life and words are helpful. The rest seem to 
 regard me as — oh, a bruised reed. I' m losing strength, 
 I sometimes feel I'm losing faith and losing everything, 
 in this horrible suspense and suspicion/ He spoke 
 these words with passion. 
 
 Miss Bente saw it was futile to speak further. She 
 had ample sympathy for him in his overwhelming 
 difficulties; but the need was greater and deeper than 
 even her loving sympathy could satisfy. 
 
 'You had better have a talk with Doctor Deane, 
 and tell him everything. He is your Rector, and even 
 he ' 
 
 ' My dear Aunt Grace ! ' Gervase' s t one was decidedly 
 impatient. 'The Rector is a hopeless, useless fool; 
 the mere puppet of his worldly wife. He'd give me 
 curiosity and platitudes — words and words. He is 
 — but these judgments don't help. No, aunt, there 
 is nobody to help, but you — and Christ ' 
 
 'Without mentioning me, that seems sufficient/ 
 she said. 
 
 'That ought to be/ he acknowledged, 'but now ' 
 
 'But now?' she helped him by repeating the words 
 as he had come to a pause. 
 
 
262 MttS BENTE 
 
 'I feel lost, all lost — like a weakling in a mist, in 
 a forest full of difficulties. I seem to have lost bear- 
 ings. It can't be that I have lost faith. I haven't lost 
 faith/ he said sternly as if to convince himself, 'I 
 certainly haven't lost faith; religion and the true 
 Church seem more essential and true than ever; but 
 oh, it is difficult, so dimcult.' 
 
 He looked at her; for long she remembered the 
 pain and eloquent silent pleading of his eyes, and then 
 he went hurriedly to his room. She knew why he had 
 gone; she knew that somewhere silently he would be 
 praying for the strength to support himself in the toils 
 and burdens that had grown so heavy, praying for that 
 wilful and wicked creature whose influence in his life 
 was sinister with the promise of doom. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 The next morning Poppy was good as gold; but she 
 vvent out before noon and without a word of warning 
 did not return till eleven at night. This sent Miss Bente 
 and Gervase to the deepest circle of the limbo of 
 anxiety. While waiting for her they consulted together 
 as to what should be done. There must be a basis 
 of understanding to go upon. 
 
 On the following day Miss Bente spoke to Ellen, 
 and begged her to give some notice of her intentions 
 if they involved alterations in the economy of the 
 household. 
 
 T11 try to/ promised Poppy, and that was all. 
 
 The world was frozen again between her and Gervase. 
 Neither spoke to the other now, although he was almost 
 beyond all things anxious to re-establish a state of 
 workable harmony. But until she made a move it 
 was impossible for him to do anything. His approaches 
 had invariably been unwelcome and an occasion for 
 further difnculties. His disillusionment had travelled 
 weary leagues. He looked back almost with eyes of 
 wistful wonder at the gay camaraderie of their honey- 
 moon. Often in his moments of meditation, he thought 
 
 of that roseate page in his gray-black marriage story, 
 
 263 
 
264 MRS BENTE 
 
 and marvelled at the charm of his wife then, and the 
 destructive sequel now. 
 
 It was with a heavy heart that he went about his 
 duties. He had lost confidence and grown still more 
 susceptible to the rudeness which seemed to his sus- 
 picious sensitiveness of more frequent offering. He had 
 no further positive insult to endure; but there was a 
 manifest slack in the ties which bound him to the parish. 
 
 Distant glimpses of the Rector's wife one day, and 
 of Temble the next, reminded him of the disfavour he 
 suffered at opposite poles. It was, however, not the 
 open enmity of these people he objected to — though 
 he still writhed at the recollection of Temble's inex- 
 cusable behaviour, and at times lusted to strike him; 
 it was the sustained consciousness that all these people 
 were regarding him with a veiled antagonism, that not 
 merely had he missed their confidence but had earned 
 their doubt and dislike; that was what troubled him. 
 
 Much of this was imaginary, no doubt — most of 
 the torture of a sensitive soul is wantonly self-adminis- 
 tered — but there was no gainsaying the want of 
 cordiality of those who were not, as Temble and Mrs 
 Deane were, his open enemies; and that certainly 
 was enough to bring the touch of heart-break into his 
 endeavours. There was unquestionably talk going 
 about, of which he was the butt. There could be no 
 doubt of that, though he had practically no tangible 
 evidence on which to base his certainty. 
 
 On the top of his temperamental distrust came 
 Poppy's worse behaviour. She had not kept her passive 
 
MRS BENTE 265 
 
 promise to Miss Bente t o 'try to' be considerate in 
 their domestic associations. She came and went, 
 without regard or notice to others. Where she went to 
 was perhaps no concern of theirs; but they gathered 
 from things she said that twice in that first week it 
 was to London. 
 
 Gervase thought of expostulating with her even 
 once more; but his aunt protested at the futility of 
 his doing so, and he could not but see that at present 
 it would be of no avail. With such as she, protests, 
 appeals, rebukes were merely incentives to further 
 rebellion. They could only wait, they could only hope; 
 and, waiting, could only realise the hopelessness of it 
 all. Poppy was beyond redemption. Both Gervase and 
 his aunt now saw the inevitableness of a final crash, 
 unless — the Ethiop could be induced t o change his skin. 
 
 Never for a moment did Miss Bente flinch from her 
 share in the ordeal, by her uninvited, that was rapidly 
 growing intolerable; but Gervase saw that the time for 
 a break had come. Patience was no longer of avail. 
 He must use desperate means. He must compel Ellen 
 to realise her actual helplessness, to force her to face 
 the realities. The past and the present had taught her 
 nothing. She was asking for the best of both possible 
 worlds, and deserving nothing of either. She had by 
 her deeds refused to make any compromise, any con- 
 cession, any bridge of mutual understanding. She had 
 gone her own wilful way, not caring a farthing for 
 anybody or anything else. It was time for a climax. 
 Her licence and folly must come to an end. 
 
 I 
 
266 MRS BENTE 
 
 Gervase walked again upon the hills; and, now that 
 a decision was essential, made up his mind. 
 
 The clergyman had turned. He would now put on 
 fists. Because he believed it was the lesson t o learn 
 from his Master, he had hitherto suffered the buffetings 
 and the spittings and the insults. He had not actively 
 resented the persecution, of fact and of fancy, t o 
 which he had been subjected for the same sufficient, 
 unreasonable reason : but now the end had come. 
 His manhood broke the chains and bars of the cage 
 within which the old ideals had imprisoned him. 
 Peace was no longer possible; inaction had now become 
 shame and the certain promise of further humihation. 
 
 He gave expression to the anger that had been 
 slowly accumnlating within him — a quickened force 
 of passionate fire; and, in the silence of the hills, vowed 
 he would strike back, as his Master had done when he 
 whipped the money-changers from the Temple. Here, 
 he told himself, was the same old evil raising its head 
 again — Mammon displacing the saints and the angels. 
 The Rector of Nuneholm and his associates were buy- 
 ing and selling the tinsel-ware of the world, much in 
 the same way as the ecclesiastical authorities of 
 Jerusalem had done. He would whip them now. If 
 they had served God rightly, perhaps Ellen might still 
 have been saved. 
 
 The fond fool nursed the delusion with a pitiful 
 obstinacy. 
 
 The mental strif e — it amounted to that — on the hills 
 had calmed him, and made clear his intentions. He 
 
MRS BENTE 267 
 
 returned to The Willows feeling cheerful. Decision 
 is always a tonic, however wrong or right its effect 
 may be; and Gervase felt joyously stronger because 
 he had decided what to do. He felt in truth a strong 
 man with a task before him that would be direct and 
 not difficu.lt . There was nothing vengeful in his 
 intentions, but he certainly rejoiced at the prospect 
 of telling those people the truth. 
 
 That should be his first business. Ellen's should 
 follow. 
 
 He told his aunt he had decided to make a break, 
 and that no matter what it might cost to go elsewhere, 
 he could no longer inflict himself and his wife upon 
 The Willows. 
 
 She was very heartily relieved at the promise of being 
 rid of Poppy; and realised that for him 1 00, so long 
 as he had the incubus on his shoulders, it would be 
 better to go. The earlier he faced the inevitable the 
 better. EUen would certainly continue to bring him 
 unhappiness; and it would be necessary for Gervase to 
 come to some definite basis of relationship with her. 
 Peace could only come after struggle. There must 
 be a break; that was as inevitable as to-morrow's 
 dawn; better far, then, that it should come soon, 
 come summarily, come at once, and so diminish the 
 intervening anguish and more speedily bring peace. 
 
 Gervase did not tell his aunt of his plans. She had 
 no idea of the extremity of his bitter feelings against 
 the so-called Church-people of Nuneholm. 
 
 Time drifted to Sunday. It was Gervase Bente's 
 
 I 
 
268 MRS BENTE 
 
 function that morning to officiate at the early Com- 
 munion service, it being celebrated at eight o'clock 
 on the first Sunday of every month. This duty almost 
 invariably worked him up to a condition of ecstasy. 
 It roused his spirituality, inspired his religious emotions, 
 quickened the mystical illumination that had always 
 been, and now was more than ever, a vivid part of his 
 personality. 
 
 He did not on this occasion go home to breakfast; 
 but stayed in the church, fasting until the time of the 
 morning-service, spending some time in the vestry, 
 but for a Ion g while kneeling at the fringe of the altar. 
 He felt that he needed all the spiritual strength he 
 could attain for the task before him; and he prayed and 
 prayed, with the earnestness of despair, for the in- 
 spiration and courage needed to carry him through 
 the task awaiting him. 
 
 He was almost swooning by the time the verger 
 arrived to ring the beli at the opening of the doors; 
 so he sat in an arm-chair in the vestry, read The Dream 
 of Gerontius, and rested, storing every atom of his 
 nervous energy and resources with a miserly care. 
 
 But all the time he was reading his mind was badgered 
 and oppressed by thoughts of poor Ellen and the 
 worldling hypocrites of Nuneholm. It was 'poor 
 Ellen* in this hour of quiescence, 'poor Ellen' who, 
 in a way, was the victim of these shallow, material 
 people. 
 
 When the Rector entered the clergy-room to robe 
 himself, he noticed the pallor and quiet of his curate; 
 
MRS BENTE 269 
 
 and, therefore, refrained from his usual boisterous 
 greeting. 
 
 It was not only sympathy that kept him quieti 
 though it was partly that; but also the thought that 
 Bente might be feeling ashamed of himself, for the 
 Rector was now convinced — as his wife had been and 
 had induced him to be — that Gervase was eccentric : 
 an adjective which covers a deal and is often highly 
 useful to the commonplace in authority. 
 
 Gervase roused himself when the Rector was ready, 
 and followed him silently into the choir-room to say 
 the preliminary prayer and collect before the pro- 
 cession into the church. He took his part in the service 
 almost, it seemed, phlegmatically. He appeared to be 
 heavy and listless : as though suffering reaction after 
 some great stress, as was the case. 
 
 ' He takes drugs/ said Mrs Dunstan Deane to herself . 
 
 At last the time came for the sermon, and Gervase 
 hurried eagerly to the pulpit. As his glance ranged 
 over the well-dressed, not over-crowded congregation 
 — and this Sunday morning service was the best- 
 attended of the day— his heart grew heavy. The earlier 
 exultation was now gone. He hated the necessity 
 of his bitter task. He could see Temble smirking. 
 That helped him. 
 
 He gave out his text. The congregation settled to 
 listen with that easy inattention which so often makes 
 the half-hour of sermon-time a period of grateful rest. 
 
 'The latchet of Whose shoes I am not worthy to 
 unloose.' 
 
270 MRS BENTE 
 
 Gervase Bente, though in ordinary times no extra- 
 ordinary preacher, was destined to preach in Nuneholm 
 a sermon powerful enough to establish his reputation 
 there. It will not be forgotten by those who heard it 
 — though few of them will talk about it. It struck, 
 hit, burnt, pierced : went home, angered, rankled : it 
 did all the things the ordinary sermon is not expected 
 or invited to do. 
 
 But Gervase when he returned to his place in the 
 chancel was disappointed. He thought he had failed. 
 The words had required flogging to get them out; so 
 he believed. He had lacked energy and heat; so he 
 told himself. . . . Then he remembered seeing Mrs 
 Fryth-Willyams stalk out. Something on her hat 
 had bobbed about absurdly, and he remembered that 
 once there had been even a buzz of comment, hurting 
 the still silence. He had also been aware of Temble's 
 continuous smirking. 
 
 Perhaps the most helpful, and, therefore, the best 
 account of the effort and its effect was provided by 
 Mr George Sprunt, the basso-soloist, whose spirituous 
 adventures, it may be remembered, had helped to 
 destroy the parish cricket-club, one of the earliest 
 of Gervase Bente' s social-missionary effort s. 
 
 Thus did Mr Sprunt discourse to the wife of his large 
 heart, and t o that wife' s sister, Flossie, over their mid- 
 day joint. 
 
 "The liveliest morning I've had since I've been with 
 old Platitude (so do choirmen sometimes speak of 
 their rectors !) Gravy (probably a humorous rendering 
 
MRS BENTE 271 
 
 of Gervase) went up in the pulpit, looking like a man 
 who'd sat up all night with a nagging wife — oh, I know 
 what it's like' — this in open jocular aside to his sister- 
 in-law. 
 
 'Do get on, George; you' re not funny/ said Mrs 
 Sprunt. 
 
 'Well, to cut a long story short, he gave it to them; 
 straight from the shoulder; my word ! I didn't catch 
 the text : didn't intend to listen; but Boozy (joy-name 
 of the tenor-soloist) said it was something about a 
 bootlace. But that doesn't matter a bit : — and this 
 beer's flat — which does matter. Some one's been 
 messing about with the cask. You keep an eye on 
 Eliza!' 
 
 There was an interval, while Eliza, who was Mrs 
 Sprunt's maid-of-all-work, poor tyrannised under- 
 dog ! entered, was argued with, protested feebly, and 
 in her commingled indignation and confusion did 
 hazardous things with plates. 
 
 'Well, George, about Mr Bente?' Mrs Sprunt 
 reminded him after she had still further depressed 
 Eliza. 
 
 'Yes. I knew jolly soon that what he was talking 
 was hitting the mark. I knew because all the choir 
 was listening; even the boys knew something was up. 
 I've never known the church so silent : you could have 
 heard the pin (referring to the pin of the proverb). He 
 began with old Platitude and then went on to the Gim- 
 let. Didn't mention names, of course; but they were who 
 he was booting — as plain as if they' d been placards/ 
 
2y2 MRS BENTE 
 
 ' Yes, y es; but what exactly did he say?' 
 
 'Well, TU try.' He thought a moment, collecting 
 his thought s for an extra-special intellectual effort. 
 'But it isn't easy/ 
 
 'How did he go for them?' 
 
 Thereupon George Sprunt did his best and gave an 
 account from which his two auditors understood that 
 the eloquent curate described the need of the world to 
 get back to the early ideals. He asked his hearers to 
 imagine Peter or Paul or any of the Fathers coming to 
 the parish. What would they think of the sort of faith 
 that was preached from that pulpit, and what sort of 
 faith was it that they lived in their lives? The only 
 faith worth living for was worth dying for; would they 
 die for the sort of faith their lives represented? 
 
 ' Quite right too ! ' agreed Mrs Sprunt vehemently, 
 who never went to church but prided herself on the 
 steadfastness of her religion. 
 
 ' I thought old Fright-Willyams was going to have a 
 fit. She turned positively purple as he spoke of the 
 worldliness, snobbishness and meanness of those who 
 fancied they were leaders in the life of the place. What 
 good would it be to them when they were facing death, 
 to know that they had carriage-horses, and, therefore, 
 thought themselves better than the working poor, 
 who walked. Then he talked of the Garden of Geth- 
 semane; and I saw a gleam come into the Fryth- 
 Willyams' eye. She was in the front seat; it was plain 
 as a pikestaff/ 
 
 'Why? What's Mrs Fryth-Willyams— can't bear 
 
MRS BENTE S73 
 
 the stuck-up old stupid — what had she to mind about 
 that?' 
 
 ' It wasn't so clear to me : but he talked about 
 social fripperies. I know that was the word at any 
 rate : and wondered when people went into gardens, 
 whether they thought of the Agony, or whether they 
 weren't thinking of mean questions of precedence and 
 mere worldly belongings. I suppose he was referring 
 to Mrs F.-W.'s annual summer splash; and, by George, 
 this year there was a splash. I remember the rain 
 came down like billy-o ! ' 
 
 'Did you and Anna go to it, George? I heard the 
 band two years ago/ asked Flossie. 
 
 'Lor, no. That's only for the pots, the big-bugs 
 of The Height.' 
 
 'Oh/ said Mrs Sprunt wisely. 'I expect that's it. 
 Mr Bente wasr/t invited/ 
 
 'Perhaps. It'd take some cheek to ask his Missis, 
 at any rate. Talk of mustard and cayenne ! ' 
 
 'Don't be vulgar, George/ 
 
 ' I mean the sermon, stoopid : though she — well ! 
 Fll bet my bottom-dollar Temble knows how she likes 
 to be kissed/ 
 
 'You ought to be ashamed of yourself, George, for 
 thinking such thoughts about a clergyman's wife/ 
 Mrs Sprunt rebuked her husband. 'You remember, 
 Flossie/ she continued to her sister, 'I showed her to 
 you; a little woman with a pale face, and a pointed 
 nose, and a dress that was just a little — you know — 
 saucy for a parson's wife, we thought/ 
 
274 MRS BENTE 
 
 Flossie indicated that she remembered vvell. 
 
 'Well, about the sermon, George? Was that ah?' 
 
 ' My word, no ! but we'd better let Eliza clear away 
 these plates first.' 
 
 A further interval of Eliza, while Sprunt refreshed 
 his inner energies. 
 
 ' That is better ! ' he said, when the session was resumed. 
 'Yes, the sermon. He went on about the meanness 
 of all this display, and the cowardice. They could 
 dress themselves, and indulge themselves, and put on 
 airs, and puli society faces, and all that — oh, he went 
 for them no end. The Gimlet was quaking with fury. 
 Boozy nudged me to look at her; but I was looking 
 already. She was a picture-palace all by herself. Her 
 eyes were like black holes. Old Platitude pretended 
 to be asleep. He sat back, like this/ — the speaker 
 illustrated — 'all of a heap; but he was taking in every 
 word — every blessed word of it, you may bet your 
 water-can. He's as artful as they make 'em.' 
 
 'And ?' 
 
 'Oh, yes; and then he brought in the text, and hit 
 'em hard. I tell you. If Jesus Christ came to them, 
 would they be worthy to undo His shoes — what's the 
 phrase?' 
 
 ' To unloose the latchet of His shoe. Something like 
 that/ 
 
 'That's it, Flossie. I cannot quote texts, never 
 could : it comes of having to leam collects when I 
 was a kid. My father would make us, while he sat 
 — absorbing. That reminds me/ 
 
MRS BENTE 275 
 
 1 Get on with the sermon, George.' 
 
 ■ Right-o ! Well, he said they would shrink with shame, 
 would know themselves worthless servants, the poorest 
 of the poor, m the presence of the Son of God. And then 
 he got excited. He banged the cushion, and stood up 
 straight, like the picture of a prophet. Believe me, 
 every eye in the church was upon him. He talked about 
 the Pharisees : called 'em whited sepulchres and hypo- 
 crites. Said they' d as much chance of heaven as a 
 blue-bottle fly.' 
 
 ' Oh, he didn't, George ! ' protested Mrs Sprunt. 
 
 'No, my dear, he didn't exactly put it like that; 
 that was my bit of poetry. But he basted and blasted 
 'em all right. You take my word for it. It was a treat. 
 Half the old women in the front seats were fainting, 
 and half the men were swearing or trying to look as if 
 it wasn't them. It was eloquence; eloquence, by 
 Jove, it was. I didn't think Grayy had it in him/ 
 
 'And that was all?' 
 
 'Practically all. When he'd finished, left 'em limp, 
 so to speak, he gave them one look round, as though 
 to watch the effect, and stepped down, going back to 
 his seat, as if it was just an ordinary morning-sermon, 
 and now, if you please, let us have the offertory ! Just 
 like that. And he was smiling all the time.' 
 
 ' I suppose it means he must go/ 
 
 ' You bet it does ! ' Mr Sprunt assured his lady. 
 'Old Platitude can't afford that sort of thing; but it 
 did us good while it lasted. Mrs Fright-W. won't 
 forget it in a hurry, for one. She looked as if she could 
 
 
276 MRS BENTE 
 
 have bit him, and then she got up and went. Let's 
 go into the drawing-room. I want a pipe. I shan't 
 forget that sermon in a hurry — no, not so long as I 
 live/ 
 
 Sprunt was right in his conclusion. Gervase Bente 
 had to go. 
 
 As soon as the service was over, and he, followed 
 by the Rector, was back in the clergy-room, the 
 reverend doctor said to him, with unrestrained anger 
 and indignation. 
 
 'Bente, you must be mad/ 
 
 That was all. It was sufficient. 
 
 Early in the afternoon a messenger came 'haste 
 post-haste' to The Willows, bearing a note of ultimatum, 
 formally severing Gervase's connection with the parish, 
 and forbidding him to appear in the church again. 
 
 ' Good ! • said he. ' And now that's settled — now for 
 fresh woods and pastures new — and now, aha, for 
 Ellen!' 
 
 Miss Bente who had heard the sermon, and was in 
 her heart proud of him — that he had not feared to 
 tell the truth — shook a grave head. 
 
 ' I hope it will be for the best, Gervase/ 
 
 'It's the only way/ said he. 'I was becoming a 
 vegetable, a weakling : but now I'm going to be a man, 
 and fight and govern. Ellen needs taking in hand. It 
 is time for me to be master; and I'm going to be master 
 — and, oh dear, oh dear, it's all very horrid l' 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 L'homtne propose, la femme dispose ! 
 
 It was Ellen after all who made the move. For the 
 first time since entering The Willows she went to Gervase 
 in his room : storm and fury were in her ej r es. She was 
 in an extremity of rage. 
 
 She rushed in without knocking, and found him try- 
 ing t o read a book. Before he could say a word she was 
 eloquent. 
 
 'So you've made a fine fool of yourself,' she burst 
 out. "They've told me all about it — you've got to go/ 
 
 He was naturally stirred and rather offended by her 
 onslaught : but he kept calm. 
 
 'Who are "they"? Who told you this?' 
 
 1 Never mind who : but I have friends in Nuneholm, 
 better friends than your precious aunt I can tell you : 
 and I know everything about your mad exhibition 
 this morning. That's an end of you, Mr Hypocrite ! ' 
 
 She stood looking down on him : her eyes were full 
 of fury; they seemed red with flame. 
 
 'Don't be absurd, Ellen;' he did not rise but re- 
 
 garded her quietly. ' And you know Fm no hypocrite. 
 
 What I did I did because ' he hesitated. 
 
 ' Oh, mumble away, you fool ! ' she broke in. 'I 
 277 
 
2 7 8 MRS BENTE 
 
 don't want t o know why you did or what you did. 
 What I want to know is what are you going to do? 
 That's what I've come in here for/ 
 
 He still was looking at her calmly. He seemed not 
 a bit perturbed by the bombshell of wrath she had 
 flung at him. 
 
 ' Sit down/ he commanded, and pointed to the chair 
 by the hearthrug opposite. 
 
 ' No ! ' she said : and — thereupon changed her mind 
 and sat. 
 
 ' We may as well talk now as at any time,' he went on, 
 'and I may as well explain at once that what I said 
 in the sermon this morning was said for your sake, 
 chiefly for you, remember that ! ' 
 
 ' Oh, you can cut that out, Gervase. It's too cheap. 
 I' m sick of all that salvation business. I didn't ask 
 to be saved, did I? — "saved" indeed ! — ha !' 
 
 1 Still you may as well listen and perhaps understand 
 something of the truth. Whether you know it or not, 
 you've been the butt of the vile, mean gossip of this 
 place ' 
 
 'That doesn't matter.' She imitated his former 
 indifference : but not successfully. Her eyes still 
 showed her anger. She was very human when it came 
 to the hitting-back. 
 
 'This time it does. Gossip generally doesn't matter 
 a rap : but in your case it does : because it has been 
 especially venomous and aimed at you because you are 
 — forgive me for reminding you' — that was a littJe 
 bitter— - 'a clergyman's wife/ 
 
MRS BENTE 279 
 
 Poppy curled her lips. This was rather rich : but 
 there was no humour in her expression or her 
 thoughts. 
 
 ' You've been the bane of all the church-going world- 
 lings her e/ 
 
 'The — what people? What do I hear?' There was 
 no softening in her tone; but his words were securing 
 some effect, it seemed. 
 
 1 The chief people here : yon have somehow offended 
 all of them and ' 
 
 ' Most delighted to hear it ! ' 
 
 'They were determined not to forgive you. The 
 Rector and his wife kept worrying me with remarks and 
 questions about you, because you didn't go t o church 
 or work, and all that : people have been openly rude 
 to me ' 
 
 'They were rude enough to me, too, the swines/ 
 
 ' All right ! ' he said as if to dismiss that aspect of 
 the subject : for this agreement was really not helpful, 
 and he was determined to keep to his purpose. 'So 
 as their censoriousness and inquisitiveness ' 
 
 ' Long words ! ' 
 
 ' — were so very far removed from their religious 
 professions I felt I must tell them the truth : I did it 
 this morning/ 
 
 She looked in brooding thought at the restless flames 
 for a moment or two, and he watched her face with 
 curiosity. What was the new move to be; what the 
 next mood? Then she glanced at him, as if waiting 
 ior him to go on. 
 
280 MRS BENTE 
 
 'Well?' she asked, as he did not at once continue 
 the lead. 
 
 Tve felt/ he said, 'that if these people had been 
 true Christians, genuine Church people, and not purse- 
 proud, vulgar worldlings, you might have been happier 
 here, might have helped in the parish work and done 
 something — ■ — ' 
 
 She gave a bitter little laugh. 
 
 1 That, too, you can cut out, Gervase ! But it's just 
 as well you think as you do. They are a rotten lot 
 here, and I hate 'em all. I hate the whole pig of a 
 place, and shall be glad- — ' 
 
 ' Oh, I' m glad to hear that ! You said before — but 
 never mind now/ It suddenly struck him that it would 
 be as well not to say anything unnecessary. But she 
 caught up his words. 
 
 * And what I said before is true enough. I do hate the 
 place : but I've got friends here who — are kind to me/ 
 
 'May I ask who they are? I think I ought to know/ 
 
 'That's just where you're mistaken then. They are 
 my concern, and no business of yours/ 
 
 1 Pardon me ! You may refuse to tell me; but they 
 are my concern and my business/ 
 
 'PhewP Her interjection— half whistle, half won 
 — was at once expressive of insolent defiance an< 
 unconquerable obstinacy. Gervase saw there was n< 
 thoroughfare down that lane; but felt bound to mak< 
 a further — almost a formal — protest. 
 
 'You must remember, Ellen, that you do fiil a 
 responsible position here. You are a clergyman' 
 
 
MRS BENTE 281 
 
 wife; and became one knowing what you were doing. 
 You married me with your eyes open ' 
 
 She sneered openly; it was too obvious an oppor- 
 tunity. 
 
 ' With your eyes open/ he repeated the words slowly, 
 for emphasis. 'If marriage to you is not the sacred 
 institution it is to me ' 
 
 'Oh, you bore me !' she flashed out. 'What a fool 
 you are, Gervase, and what a fool I was/ this more 
 slowly, ' to have anything to do with you ! I thought 
 when I was tying up with you, you were a man, and 
 not a prosy sham. I prefer the old life, that I do. Yes, 
 you may look like a shocked tombstone, but it's true 
 — true, every word of it. I prefer the old life — the 
 streets, the streets, the streets ! ' 
 
 That shocked him. 
 
 4 We'd better stop this talk. It's worse than useless/ 
 He got up as he said so; but she kept her seat. 
 
 'Not till I've done. Now I've something to say. 
 You told me to sit here and talk; and I'm going to/ 
 
 'Go on then/ he said, 'let's have it out. It's better 
 we should come to an understanding. Tell me straight 
 out — no keeping back — what is it?' 
 
 He stood on the hearthrug, towering, and looked 
 down at her with growing anger. He felt within him 
 a quickening impatience and smouldering embers 
 of hate. His voice was brusque. Something of the 
 spirit of his wrath passed to her, and rekindled the 
 furies that had been raging when she burst into the 
 room. 
 
282 MRS BENTE 
 
 'You've got to give me a separation allowance, 
 Gervase : and let me go/ 
 
 He pondered her words for a minute. The propo- 
 sition was intolerable. A moment's thought had been 
 enough for him to realise that. 1 1 cut against all his 
 ideals and ideas. He belonged to the school which 
 accepted no tampering — however legalised it might 
 be — with the sacrament of marriage. Divorce was to 
 him an intolerable and immoral practice, inconsistent 
 with the principles of Christianity, antagonistic to the 
 direct teaching of his Lord; and the living separately 
 of married couples was the next thing to it. It opened 
 doors to the easiest of sins. 
 
 'That I will not do/ He fired out the words as if 
 they were deliberate, solitary shots from a machine- 
 gun. She recognised their finality. 
 
 'You will have to. I will make you/ she declared. 
 
 He laughed bitterly. That showed how far he had 
 changed from the earlier Gervase Bente. 'Nothing 
 will make me. I will not consent to separate from you, 
 however much it may cost/ 
 
 They glared at each other. There could be no ques- 
 tion of their absolute separation now, so far as all but 
 the mere legality of marriage was concerned. 
 
 'You are a fool, Gervase/ she said. Her face was 
 pale with emotion : her eyes gleamed. She was con- 
 trolling an almost uncontrollable excitement. 'What 
 good is it to you to keep me, to compel me to remain ? ' 
 
 That roused him. His latent fanaticism was now alive, 
 it marched. 
 
MRS BENTE 283 
 
 'You are the fool, Ellen; wilful, self-destroying. 
 My God, I have prayed for you, and wept for you ! 
 I have offered sacrifices for you, before the altar, that 
 you might be saved ! ' 
 
 She wanted to interrupt him; but the living force 
 of his words kept her silent. 
 
 1 When I met you in that awful condition by the Docks, 
 in poverty, in shame, I felt for you pity. I saw you, 
 a woman doomed, blighted by that ill-fortune to a life 
 of sordid misery, degradation and an early death. You 
 were too good not to be saved. I don't know what, or 
 how much, to believe of what you told me of your former 
 life, whether you were an officer's daughter, a governess, 
 wronged, and all that; but this I knew and know, that 
 you had refinement, are not like any other of the women 
 who lead that horrible life ' 
 
 ' I don't want to hear any more/ she broke in. She 
 had recovered her wits, but was still rather stunned 
 by his rapid and passionate words. 
 
 'Please !' he implored, or commanded; she was 
 silent at once; listening now, even with eagerness, to 
 what he was saying. 
 
 'I recognised that you were naturally a superior woman; 
 but I suppose had lost manners through losing caste. 
 I've hear d you swear, use blasphemy . . .' He stopped 
 a moment and then resumed his seat, and leaning for- 
 ward talked, helping his utterance with a gesticulating 
 hand. There flashed simultaneously into the minds of 
 both the parallel occasion when in Alma Terrace they 
 had talked before he asked her to marry him. 
 
 T 
 
284 MRS BENTE 
 
 'I was sure you were worth making sacrifice for; 
 so I asked you to marry me. Until then the idea of 
 marriage had been — if I'd thought of it at all — dis- 
 tasteful, contrary to all my wishes. I had no intention 
 of being other than celibate/ 
 
 'Pity you changed then/ she said, not insincerely. 
 
 'I felt you were worth while — and I believe it still 
 — but I want you to realise that I was making no 
 ordinary — I won't say sacrifice, that would be priggish 
 and wrong — no ordinary plunge, when I decided to ask 
 you to be my wife. I was glad when you accepted, 
 although I was — I may acknowledge it — shy of you and 
 all that marriage meant; and then I was glad when we 
 were married. That fortnight in Paris was the happiest 
 time in my life. You were a dear companion then/ 
 
 Her eyes brightened; her lips parted. 
 
 'How have things drifted so that ' he paused to 
 
 consider his words — 'that little time ago seems so very 
 long ago?' He did not wait for her to answer. The 
 impossibility of her behaviour, her angers and 
 wilfulness, her cruelty, all occurred to him as reasons 
 cumulative and sufficient to explain the gulf that 
 stretched between them now. 'Well/ he went on, 'I 
 have told you all this that you may realise it was not 
 lightly that I joined hands with you; and that I 
 shan't lightly, I can tell you, break with you/ 
 
 'So you won't give me a separate allowance?' 
 
 'No/ 
 
 1 You prefer to keep an unwilling and a disloyal wife? ' 
 
 He did not shrink from the avowal implied. 
 
MRS BENTE 
 
 285 
 
 'You make things very difficult, Ellen/ he answered 
 sadly. 
 
 She gave a gesture of impatience. 
 
 'You must know well, Gervase, there's no chance 
 of my making you a proper wife. You oughtn't to 
 have married me; really you oughtn't ' 
 
 'But -' 
 
 1 Oh, don't start that pulpit stuff again. You wronged 
 me when you married me, and yourself/ 
 
 'I ' 
 
 She checked him with a gesture. 
 
 'You ought to have married, but another sort. Oh, 
 you weren't made for celibacy — no man is; though 
 some fools think they are. But I'm not going to waste 
 time talkin g about that. You've got to give me an 
 allowance; and let me go/ 
 
 'No, Ellen, I will not/ 
 
 • You'll have to, sooner or later/ 
 
 ' Never — never ! ' 
 
 ' You will ! she insisted. ' Don't be such a blind 
 fool. I'm not going to live with you : understand that ! 
 If you give me an allowance I may keep straight : 
 if you don't ' 
 
 It was too much. Her words, sounding to him in 
 his stress so cynical, so cruel, roused him afresh. He 
 rose abruptly, and almost boomed at her; his voice 
 was loud with wrathful indignation. 
 
 ' How dare you ! How dare you make such a bargain ! 
 Do you not realise that your immortal soul is at stake? ' 
 
 ' Immortal fiddlesticks I Don't repeat your morning's 
 
286 MRS BENTE 
 
 performance t o me. No second house to-night f if 
 you please/ She shifted as if she were thinking of 
 going : but made no actual move — her intention was 
 not yet achieved. 
 
 * Silence ! ' He glowered at her, much as in the pulpit 
 that morning he had, all unconsciously, glowered at 
 the puppets of Nuneholm. ' You are too much to me to 
 let you go like that/ The simple words came out. 
 
 'Too much to you, what do you mean?' 
 
 ' Why, Ellen, don't you see? ' He faltered for words; 
 he did not quite know how t o express the thought that 
 had been nesting in his consciousness. 'It is not only 
 your soul I've been thinking of; it's you — you !' 
 
 She looked up at him : he down a t her. Their 
 glances met. 
 
 'Me — the woman? ' she asked. 
 
 He nodded in amrmation. 'I cannot let you go/ 
 
 She turned to look at the fire and fix her thoughts 
 . . . There was no help for it . . . 
 
 The principal need of her emotional life was change. 
 The streets were calling. 
 
 ' You must let me go/ she said, ' and you'U be mean 
 — more than mean — if you do not help me/ 
 
 Her response served to harden him. 
 
 'I will never consent to a separation/ he declared, 
 ' Try, try and live with me ! I' 11 give you as much 
 happiness and liberty as I can. I don't want to restrict 
 you, or to lose you. I want you to be happy, Ellen. 
 Oh, why can' t we? We will live in London. I shall 
 have my work to do, and you can enjoy the theatres, 
 
MRS BENTE 287 
 
 the places, the shops' — how far he had gone from his 
 older rigours and aspirations — 'but be loyal. I shall 
 forget what you said as to that ' — for suddenly he had 
 remembered — ' Try to make the new home a real home. 
 We'll have a flat where you' 11 be mistress. 1 1 will give 
 you things to think about; that's what you want/ 
 
 She moved impatiently. Protests and pleadings 
 were wasted on this fool. 
 
 ' I wonder how it would be if we had a child/ he said 
 wistfully. 
 
 'Don't be an ass, Gervase/ she snapped. Td take 
 jolly good care that didn't happen/ 
 
 'What?' he was shocked. 
 
 1 Never mind ! but look at it from your own stand- 
 point — What sort of a mother should I make? I should 
 hate the brat. No, no; it's no use. Fm no good. I'm 
 impossible. Realise it, Gervase. If you ever wanted 
 or want my love ' 
 
 1 Dear Heaven ! ' 
 
 ' You can only gain it by letting me go. Let me go ! 
 Let me go ! ' she made appeal and stretched out her 
 hands to him. 'Let me go, and give me an allowance; 
 and then — then there's no knowing •' 
 
 He walked to the door and back to the table. His 
 mouth was firmly set. The fanaticism that had been 
 growing during the trying Nuneholm months was in 
 full possession of him now. 
 
 'I will not let you go/ he said. 'You are my wife. 
 I married you to keep you from that life of the damned/ 
 He rapped with the knuckles of his right hand on the 
 
288 MRS BENTE 
 
 table as he leaned towards her. 'Whatever you may 
 do, I will not give up the charge I took when we stood 
 before the altar in St Brendan's. So help rae, God ! ' 
 
 She sprang from the chair. She could gladly have 
 struck him. 
 
 1 You fool ! You fool ! You fool ! ' she repeated the 
 words with an increasing intensity of passion, as she 
 went swiftly to the door and flung it open. Then she 
 looked back to say, ' I will break you for this/ 
 
 The door slammed. She was gone. He continued 
 to stare at the panels which closed her out. 
 
 * Poor silly wretch. Poor giri ! ' he cried aloud in 
 his pity. ' I cannot — I must — I will ! ' 
 
 Then as he realised how she had braved and defied 
 him, as he remembered what she had seemed to confess 
 of disloyalty, he forgot or he found himself. The dis- 
 cipline of years slipped from him : all the culture he 
 had attained, the innate gentleness he had inherited, 
 all went from him — all. He was a passionate, furious 
 man. Jealousy and anger made him in those fleeting 
 moments no better than the creedless pagan whose 
 only gospel was lust for the blood of vengeance. For 
 a little while he lost his self-control. He was burning 
 with bitter hatred, against her, against all who had 
 made those Nuneholm months so futile, hurtful, evil. 
 But beyond all others he hated Poppy. In those brief, 
 mad moments he could have killed her. 
 
 He realised this truth : then the realisation brought 
 reason again and flooding shame. 
 
CHAPTER XXV 
 
 The grass did not grow under Gervase Bente's feet 
 during the next few days. Almost before Poppy was 
 aware of it, she was wafted away — the station fly did 
 the first of the wafting — to Notting Hill Gate, and 
 within a week found herself installed with Gervase in 
 the furnished fiat of a man who had been suddenly 
 called to India. 
 
 Gervase Bente's determination to rule with a firm 
 hand had seemingly been successful. Poppy had 
 protested and procrastinated; she had been icily 
 contemptuous and warmly gracious : she had flattered 
 Miss Bente and snubbed Miss Bente : she had within 
 the few hours of a few days been herself in every one of 
 her many moods : but it was all the same to Gervase. 
 He had made up his mind definitely, and had done what 
 he determined to do with a new inflexibility. 
 
 Poppy was beaten in this round of the game. She 
 could — and she did — try her arts and her objections : 
 but they were quietly, finally, firmly over-ruled. 
 Gervase had his way without any abatement; and at 
 last with unquestionable relief to Aunt Grace, that 
 trying young woman, her niece-in-law, was success- 
 fully wafted away. 
 
 289 
 
2qo MRS BENTE 
 
 'And what do you propose to do? Moon about and 
 feel a perfect saint, I suppose?' Poppy asked her 
 husband when she found that Go was the only word. 
 
 He laughed mirthlessly. His laughter bore the note of 
 mastership to her sensitive ears; and, as she realised her 
 present impotence, it made her for a little while furious. 
 
 'Oh no. F m going back to St Brendan's. Tom 
 Richards is glad to have me as a sort of part-time curate.' 
 
 'At next to nothing a year, I suppose?' 
 
 T m glad to go at any price/ he answered. 
 
 ' The more f ool you ! ' 
 
 As soon as Poppy was established in the flat she was 
 happy as a princess — for a time. Novelty rang its 
 changes in her willing ears, and she exulted for a few 
 weeks in theatres, picture-palaces, shops . . . Gervase 
 was privileged to have elastic hours at St Brendan's 
 — sometimes he was very late, sometimes he was early : 
 at some seasons of the year, as Lent and Advent, he 
 would be hardly at home at all : but just now he was 
 able to spend a good deal of time at Notting Hill Gate. 
 He tried to interest Poppy in books : but she would 
 have nothing to do with those he recommended, although 
 they were, as he said, of the literary salt of the earth. 
 
 The trouble was, as Gervase soon found out, that 
 his wife had no helpful companions and no occupation 
 for her hours. She would not make the right sort of 
 friends, and could not interest herself in feminine 
 acquaintances. The relaxation that most women enjoy 
 in visiting and working, in the talk of tea-time at calls 
 and at homes, was not for her. She openly derided 
 
MRS BENTE 291 
 
 the tabbies and cockatoos, as she named them. 
 Moreover, she would not take any interest in the 
 management of their home. 
 
 Gervase, with bis ever amazing optimism, had hoped 
 she would be mistress of their establishment, making 
 things meet; *but in no respect would she gratify his 
 hopes. She would not even have a maid t o super in- 
 tend. A charwoman came every morning early, to 
 clean the rooms, attend to things, and prepare the 
 breakfast. Lunch and dinner, when they were at 
 home, came from a restaurant close by. 
 
 1 1 was not the ideal arrangement. 
 
 Gervase bicycling home every afternoon or evening 
 from the exacting East End, with nerves racked and 
 powers strained by the blessed but strenuous work, 
 soon began to dread the daily new ordeal. There was 
 so little of home about his home; and in this buzzing 
 London there was a greater loneliness. He began to 
 feel such disinclination to return to his barren hearth 
 as he had known at Nuneholm : but he overcame the 
 feeling, and allowed Ellen to have no inkling of the deep 
 and increasing disappointment, approaching to despair, 
 occasioned by her silent obstinacy and hidden resolute 
 determination not to co-operate in any way with him. 
 Her policy seemed to be, Here am I against my will : 
 do with me as you can . . . 
 
 The strain of his work at St Brendan's, difficult 
 enough under favourable conditions, was increased 
 by the anxieties at home. He was necessarily an im- 
 perfect helper to Mr Richards, who, an over-worker 
 
292 MRS BENTE 
 
 himself, wanted all the time of his men and — just a 
 little more. To have as curate one whose mind was 
 obviously divided between his present pressing duties 
 andworry elsewhere, was not very serviceable to the 
 parish; but even so the Vicar was glad to have him, 
 and Arthur Jerome rejoiced even more. 
 
 But they recognised that Gervase was changed: 
 he had even — so the Vicar of St Brendan's, after a fort- 
 night, mournfully declared — deteriorated. The old 
 spirit, the fire that had been lighted as at some 
 Franciscan lamp, was diminished if not gone. It 
 shone intermittently, sometimes brightly as ever; but 
 generally the flame was pale. 
 
 ' He's broken : he's practically done for,' said the Vicar. 
 
 1 Poor old chap ! Absolutely one of the best ! 
 Sometimes he seems ' 
 
 Jerome refrained from saying what his junior 
 colleague seemed; but at times he and the Vicar had 
 fears of a breakdown in the midst of his work. There 
 were moments of sudden excitement, unrestrained, 
 then determinately subdued. 
 
 Gervase was a tired man. The strength which, so 
 little a while since, had been equal to any effort, now 
 seemed readily to flag, as if his spiritual, as well as his 
 physical, powers were becoming exhausted. 
 
 ' We might have guessed it would come t o shipwreck/ 
 said the Vicar. 'No man was less fit to play Quixote 
 in that adventure/ 
 
 'I suppose it has come to shipwreck?' 
 
 'Could it be anything else? She'd kill any man, 
 
MRS BENTE 293 
 
 wonld that particular cat. A thorough bad lot, with 
 cunning, quick wits, and the gloss of a lady. She's 
 the most dangerous sort; incurably vicious with enough 
 cleverness to have won a tolerable success in any decent 
 profession/ 
 
 'Then why — why — with all her gifts did she sink to 
 the East End, of all places?' asked Jerome. 
 
 ' Goodness knows ! That's one of the problems. 
 She's not the only person in that boat, as you and I, 
 and all who work here, know. There are heaps of glib 
 scoundrels, men of evident culture, down in the depths, 
 who, judged by their natural gifts, ought t o be at the 
 top; but they lack honour, backbone, some kind of 
 grit. They must drift and sink, and stay where they've 
 sunk. It's the plain truth, Arthur, that : the longer I 
 stay here, the more impossible such things seem/ 
 
 'Yes, and I can see a hundred reasons why slackers 
 sink and stick at the bottom; but a woman of Poppy 
 Parker' s type, who knows enough of refinement to 
 shape sufficiently well— why was she here in these 
 slums, and not in the richer parts? She' d get all the 
 vice she wanted there, without the discomfort and 
 squalor here/ 
 
 The Vicar puffed at the inevitable pipe. 
 
 'I suppose they don't dislike it. I suppose they 
 haven't imagination enough to see how rotten things 
 are. I suppose she' d as soon put up with a smelly 
 room in Alma Terrace as in a West End flat. They' re 
 like rats in a sty; and would be as content in squalor 
 as in Notting Hill Gate/ 
 
294 MRS BENTE 
 
 1 By Jove ! ' said Jerome suddenly, ' that's just where 
 she is. We shall see how she swallows Notting Hill 
 Gate . . . I'm sorry for poor Gervase. He was abso- 
 lutely one of the best/ 
 
 ' Yes ! he certainly doesn't deserve it. But it's 
 killing him — it's unnerving him — ii's hurt his character. 
 He's not as fine as he was. I can see that/ 
 
 'Do you think so?' Both the men were surnciently 
 mournful. 
 
 'I do. There's no question of it. He's all nerves, 
 as he was not in the old days. Twice I've heard him 
 lose his temper; that's a difference, a big difference 
 for him. He's tired out, languid, unsettled, as if he's 
 lost faith in the Church. No one was so certain as he 
 of the Church and himself and everything else before 
 he was married; but now — well, he's different/ 
 
 ' He ought to practise boxing/ said Jerome solemnly. 
 The Vicar, thereupon, laughed, and so their discussion 
 came to its end. 
 
 At the very time they were talking cf him, Gervase 
 was facing the first serious trouble that had come since 
 the change to Notting Hill Gate. He had returned to 
 find a restaurant porter, with a tray, waiting patiently 
 before the door of the flat. It was the ordered dinner, 
 with no one to receive it. 
 
 'Hallo! Nobody at home?' said Gervase. 
 
 Tve knocked and rung, sir/ said the man. 
 
 Tm sorry you've had to wait. 1*11 take it in. You 
 can leave the tray/ 
 
 The simple fact of switching on the lights, and 
 
MRS BENTE 295 
 
 carrying the tray in, and leaving it with the contents 
 covered on the tiny table of their dining-room brought 
 home to him facts. 
 
 In his worry and hard-working, coming in and going 
 away to his work at irregular hours, he had not time 
 in which to estimate things; but now it came to him 
 as a wretched revelation that even in the few weeks 
 they had been there the place had visibly worsened. 
 There was a condition of negligence everywhere. 
 A comb with long hairs accruing was left on the dining- 
 room mantelpiece. Dead flowers lolled in neglected 
 vases. Some picture-newspapers were littered about, 
 a stool was overturned. The fireplace was unkempt. 
 There were cigarette ends and ashes here and there. 
 An empty liqueur bottle was lying on a side table. 
 It was the home of an untidy woman. 
 
 He gave an expression of impatience and disgust : 
 and went into his wife's room. The same conditions 
 of carelessness and foretaste of squalor. Evidently 
 she had remained abed till late, for the place was upset, 
 the bed was unmade. A skirt was thrown across it, 
 half hidden under the purple, white and rose padded 
 quilt; a hat, brim upwards, had fallen on the floor. 
 The dressing-table was a confusion of brushes, bottles, 
 cosmetics, wisps of hair, and scattered hairpins. 
 
 He went to the kitchen. Similar disorder there as 
 everywhere. Knives, forks, and dirty cups were lying 
 about on the little table. 
 
 His own small room, a dressing-room with a stretcher- 
 bed, was the only place where the devastation of her 
 
296 MRS BENTE 
 
 presence had not intnided and miswrought. To his 
 fevered senses she seemed something worse than human, 
 definitely more sinister, a being imbued with a positive 
 influence for evil, a creature invested and inspired to 
 destroy. Suddenly he loathed her. 
 
 He left the dinner untouched, and spent the time in 
 tidying up. He flung the unclean comb from the 
 mantelpiece into the ash-strewn fireplace. He tossed 
 the dead flowers into a waste-paper basket. So he went 
 about the rooms, restoring some measure of order; and as 
 he worked he felt his hate for the woman growing. 
 
 At las t he was tired, He sat on a sofa t o rest. She 
 had not come. He looked at his watch. 'Twenty- 
 past nine ! ' and ejaculated impatience. The expression, 
 vague and inarticulate though it was, was very like a curse. 
 
 He heard her key in the latch; and again looked at 
 his watch. Half-past ten. 
 
 He went into the hall and met her. 
 
 'Where have you been, Ellen? Dinner has been 
 waiting hours/ 
 
 She looked flushed and not unhappy; excited, per- 
 haps a little frightened. 
 
 1 Has it ? ' she said. 
 
 ' It is cold, no doubt, by now ' He spoke sharply. 
 
 He was puzzled by her appearance. She threw off her 
 cloak and he saw she was in evening dress. Some 
 sweet-scented violets were fastened at her breast. 
 
 'Then you might have kept it hot, or eaten it. 
 Haven't you dined?' 
 
MRS BENTE 297 
 
 'No/ 
 
 'Well, Gervase, you really are ' she stopped, 
 
 seeing the hardening expression of his eyes. She bit 
 her lips and remembered; covered with her hand the 
 diamond pendant fastened round her neck. 
 
 ' Where did you get that ? ' he thundered. 
 
 'Don't make that noise/ she said quietly. 'You 
 can be heard on the stairs/ 
 
 'Where did you get that?' he repeated. 
 
 She picked up from the rail of the hall-stand the 
 rejected cloak, and looked at him defiantly. 
 
 'If you are going to make scenes, I'm going to my 
 room/ she declared. 
 
 'You must first tell me who gave you that/ 
 
 'It is mine. I've had it all along/ Her manner 
 was not convincing. She paled as she spoke. She 
 seemed genuinely frightened now. 
 
 ' Ellen, you know that is a lie/ 
 
 She made no verbal answer to that; but merely 
 looked obstinate. Her lower lip drooped as though she 
 was brooding. 
 
 'You'd better tell me/ he insisted. 'I must know/ 
 
 ' Let me pass ! ' she answered sharply. ' I'm sick of 
 this sort of thing. You are a bully, Gervase ' 
 
 'Who gave you that jewel. I demand to know/ 
 
 'Oh, go to Hell!' 
 
 She tried to push by him ; he resisted her. She struggled 
 for a moment, then went back hurriedly a step or two. 
 
 ' I shall go then ! ' she said ; and turned towards 
 the front door. 
 
 
298 MRS BENTE 
 
 Before she could reach it he had sprung forward 
 and prevented her. Doing so he brushed heavily 
 against her; she was thrown against the wali. 
 
 ' You coward ! ' she cried. 
 
 The passion that had been potent through the even- 
 ing then found vent. Once again, of a sudden, Gervase 
 lost his self-control and seizing her by the shoulder 
 caught the pendant and with a tug and a twist tore 
 it from the slender chain. She was taken by surprise; 
 but seeing he had captured the trinket she dashed at 
 him fiercely, blindly, with her hands, tore with her nails, 
 stormed and trembled; a tempest and fury. 
 
 ' Give that to me ! ' she screamed. 
 
 He threw it with all his force on the tesselated floor. 
 
 She sprang for it; so did he. She fell on her knees 
 to grasp it, but he was first and with his boot stamped 
 on it, stamped again. Then fortune guiding him, he 
 managed to kick the damaged ornament into a corner 
 under the hatstand. 
 
 Still kneeling she fell into a storm of tears. She put 
 her hands before her face, and, crouching, wept with 
 ungovernable anger and passion. 
 
 ' Get up, and go to your room ! ' he commanded. 
 
 She made no move. 
 
 'Get up!' 
 
 Still no move. 
 
 He bent down and lifted her, carried her into her 
 room; and placed her — with little gentleness and 
 ceremony — on the bed. Then taking the key, he went 
 swiftly out, and locked her in. 
 
CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 It was not long before reaction set in and Gervase 
 asked himself whether it had been necessary to be so 
 violent. 
 
 He groped under the hatstand for the offending 
 ornament, and after exaraining it curiously — it was 
 certainly too costly a gem for EUen to have accepted 
 — put it into his pocket while he considered what to 
 do. 
 
 He was still a-tremble through the fury of his feelings, 
 as he pottered about the flat, trying to read, trying to 
 eat some of the neglected dinner, looking out of the 
 window at the well of gardens and the darkened houses 
 opposite. 
 
 He wondered whether he should throw the pendant 
 into the world of roofs and yards beneath him. . . . 
 
 Poppy made no sound. Twice he went to her door 
 and stood anxiously listening. Silent as the grave. 
 To his keen perceptions, sharpened through the stress 
 he had experienced, there was something ominous in 
 that absolut e quiet. He hoped she was asleep; and 
 that the morning would bring reason and peace. 
 
 He locked away the jewel in a dressing-case, and took 
 off his coat and collar, meditating bed : but was too 
 
 299 u 
 
300 MRS BENTE 
 
 restless and excited. He would only toss and turn on 
 the narrow stretcher in the Jittle dressing-room; so 
 he put on the old cassock he had used at St Brendan's 
 and tried to compose himself with a determined effort 
 of religious thought and prayer. He knelt, endeavouring 
 to centre his attention on the purpose he was seeking; 
 but his thoughts would wander : he could not forget 
 the recent violent scene. . . . Again and again his 
 brain, like an over-wound machine, repeating one 
 series of actions, recreated the horrid passages of the 
 verbal and physical conflict. 
 
 The only good that came of that mental ordeal was 
 the consciousness that his violence was justified. It 
 was intolerable that some unknown man — it was, of 
 course, a man — should have given her that expensive 
 present. Why had it been given; for what reason had 
 she accepted it? . . . Poppy had as witness against 
 her the past and that challenging avowal of disloyalty. 
 At the remembrance he writhed again; and paced 
 from room to room, looking out occasionally at the 
 sleeping, silent world. 
 
 Besides his natural anger at Poppy's infidelity and 
 defiance, jealousy had come to him. It was no tower- 
 ing, overwhelming passion, such as Iago inspired in 
 Othello; but still it was there — a burning cancer, 
 eating into the vitals of his self-respect. He felt 
 humiliated when he realised that he could care for her 
 in this way; yet so it was — in this way he cared. 
 
 The hours of the night wore away. At three in the 
 morning he softly unlocked her door; and then threw 
 
MRS BENTE 301 
 
 himself, dressed as he was, on his stretcher-bed and 
 sank to a slumber, almost comatose. It was rather 
 swooning than sleeping : it did not refresh. 
 
 He had to be away at seven; and as Mrs Archer, the 
 charwoman, would not arrive before then he set about 
 getting himself breakfast. He made coffee : and pre- 
 pared a cup of tea for his wife. He carried it to the 
 door of her room, and knocking softly said : — 
 
 'Here's a cup of tea for you. I'm going.' 
 
 No reply came, and when he went the cup was still 
 untouched. 
 
 He kept his bicycle in a locked shed in the small 
 yard at the back of the flats. 
 
 During the half-hour of the ride to the East End 
 his thoughts were occupied with the ins-and-outs of 
 the traffic, the problems of slipperiness and tram lines, 
 the individualities of policemen, omnibus conductors 
 and elderly women who would look the wrong way; 
 but as soon as he had alighted, was surpliced, and on 
 the way to the chancel to assist Arthur Jerome who was 
 1 ofhciating/ the devils were out of their own particular 
 heaven and about him again. 
 
 In spite of the transcendency and solemnity of the 
 occasion — to him more so than to most men — his mind 
 must wander. Ellen seemed to haunt him; she ruled 
 his thoughts, roused anxicties, perplexed and perse- 
 cuted him, triumphing over the sacred mysteries. 
 
 He went through his duties mechanically, rather as 
 a super in a stale drama than as a minist ering priest. 
 Never before had he been so remiss, or, as he judged 
 
 v 2 
 
302 MRS BENTE 
 
 himself, so sinful. He mentally whipped his wits, 
 endeavouring to concentrate his attention on the duties of 
 the Sacrament; but ever, inevitably, they tumbled down 
 to the mean and wicked woman he loathed and loved. 
 
 That day he worked with a blind and dogged 
 desperation; he visited, lectured, wrote letters, took 
 services, stniggled with parochial accounts, trying hard 
 t o lose himself in the enjoyment of labour, hoping to 
 forget his persecution of worry. 1 1 was not to be. The 
 vision of Ellen in evening dress was constantly before 
 him, with the pendant dangling from her neck — He 
 started ! The thought occurred ! What a fatuous, 
 careless, absolute idiot he had been ! He had left 
 the jewel in his dressing-case — locked. Out of his 
 instinct the certainty flashed to him : she would have 
 hunted for it everywhere and searched in the locked 
 places first. 
 
 He did not get home till after nine that night; and 
 until then the fever and the torture beset him. He 
 reached the flat in the last condition of mental, moral 
 and physical weariness : his nerves were rags; never 
 before had he been so exhausted. Poppy was certainly 
 avenged for the alarums of the previous night. He had 
 been hag-ridden all the long day, with her the becoming 
 hag. 
 
 He rode homeward, put the bicycle in its stable, 
 and climbed the three flights to their flat. He was so 
 dog-weary now, he could hardly put one foot before the 
 other. Those stairs of stone seemed the highest in 
 Christendom. 
 
MRS BENTE 303 
 
 As vaguely expected, there was emptiness. Poppy 
 was not at home. 
 
 He switched on lights and went into the dining- 
 room. The first thing he saw was a framed 
 photograph of his aunt thrown on the floor, broken. 
 The poverty of Ellen's spirit in wreaking her 
 vengeance so, made him smile tiredly in a sad contempt. 
 
 He drank a glass of water, helped himself to some 
 food left on a tray — his wife had evidently lunched 
 and dined at home — but after a few spoonfuls he pushed 
 the plate from him. 
 
 It was no use. He could not fulfil his purpose of 
 staying up for her. He went to his room, with labour 
 undressed, got into bed, and at once was asleep. 
 
 He was awakened by the sound of his door being 
 opened, shut and locked. The circumstances rather 
 amused him. He was too drugged with sleep to recognise 
 its significance. Then he heard a man's voice : and 
 started up. He sat in bed, listening with all his 
 attention; conscious of the ticking of his watch, the 
 beating of his heart, in the silence of the sleep-time. 
 
 He swung out of bed, and was on his way to the door, 
 when he heard Poppy answer. ' It'll be all right now — 
 Good-night/ and the front door shut. 
 
 He turned the handle of his door; pushed and rattled 
 it. With an effort he could have forced it open : but 
 he heard his wife close the door of her room. She was 
 saf e for the night. Gervase went back to bed, to the 
 blessedness of sleep. 
 
 He felt so refreshed the next morning that his first 
 
304 MRS BENTE 
 
 impression was actually of joie de vivre : then, like the 
 falling of black mountains in an avalanche of catas- 
 trophe, the truth recurred. It recurred and tormented 
 him. Soon it obsessed him. The self-pei secution of 
 yesterday was renewed. He was back in a lower and 
 horrider circle of his own very horrible Hcll. 
 
 He tried the door. He was still locked in; so he 
 banged at the wooden partition of Poppy's room. As 
 he thumped his anger grew. . . . 
 
 'Let me out, you ' he stopped : he had almost 
 
 shouted an unutterable word. Realising that he had 
 stained himself with the evil intention, he shrank back 
 — trembled, was ashamed. . . . ' Forgive me!' he 
 breathed. It was a prayer sincere. She was making 
 him suffer : contact as well as conflict with her had 
 coarsened him. He recognised the damnatory truth, 
 and was saddened by it. But again, as he realiscd 
 the trick she had played him, he grew heated with 
 wrath; and was about to force the door when he heard 
 the charwoman letting herself into the flat. 
 
 'Mrs Archer/ he callcd. Tm locked in. Will you 
 let me out?' 
 
 And so, after pottering and some further cxplanation 
 and appeal, release came. 
 
 ' Fancy that, sir ! Well, I'm sure ! ' she exclaimed 
 with the easy comment of the inveterate gossip. ' And 
 'ow can it 'ave 'appened?' 
 
 Gervase grunted ill-temperedly for answer, and 
 marched into the bathroom. While he splashed and 
 refreshcd himself, he thought. This condition of things 
 
MRS BENTE 305 
 
 could not go on. There was evidently to be a determined 
 battle between him and his wife. She would not meet 
 his wishes in any way. Very well, he would compcl hcr. 
 His blood was up. He would make it as difficult as 
 he possibly could for her to continue her immoral ways; 
 and he would not consent to a separation. That he 
 vowed he would not do. 
 
 Immoral ways ! The words of his thoughts were 
 true; they frightened him. Ali his sacrifice for her had 
 been in vain. She refused any redemption, no matter 
 what price might have been paid for it : and evidently 
 was casting her lures again before the foolish feet of 
 strange men. 
 
 Although she was not changed, yet he was changed 
 in regard to her. Values had been shifted owing to the 
 events of those nights; and he recognised that he was 
 able now to regard her as a thing apart. The influence 
 of her personality had been actual and effective even 
 until the last few hours : but now it was gone. His 
 love for her was killed. Never more could she win 
 him to weakness. . . . 
 
 And with his love gone, the hatred, that sometimes 
 had fired him, seemed also gone. . . . But not his anger. 
 That he realised was as ever hot and insistent, when he 
 went into the sitting and dining rooms and was able to 
 appreciate what she had done. Every one of his small 
 intimate bclongings, the ornaments and knicknacks, 
 photographs and odds-and-ends, relics of school and 
 college years, of holiday times and St Brendan's, 
 was injured or destroyed. 
 
3 o6 MRS BENTE 
 
 Mrs Archer came into the room, concern on her face. 
 
 1 'Ow can it 'ave 'appened, sir. It wasn't me ; it 
 wasn't me ! ' 
 
 * I know it wasn't you, Mrs Archer. Don't you worry 
 a bit. These things must happen sometimes.' 
 
 'Yes, sir/ she agreed with a relieved face. 'But it 
 do seem a pity, don't it ? ' 
 
 She showed a disposition to dilate; but Gervase was not 
 inclined just then for gallipot philosophy, so he begged 
 her to bring in breakfast as he must be going. 
 
 While Mrs Archer was away on her mission and 
 sizzling some odorous ham, he pondered what to do 
 about Ellen. 
 
 There must be no scene while the charwoman was 
 there; and yet he disliked going to St Brendan's 
 without some effort at a common understanding or a 
 clearance of his own accumulated anger. He must 
 try at least to make it plain that he would be master 
 of his household and not allow her to bring strange 
 men even t o the outer door of their flat. 
 
 With the impulsiveness and impatience which, with 
 other defects, had grown on him during these last 
 harassing weeks, he went hurriedly at once to her door 
 and knocked. 
 
 'Ellen. May I speak t o you?' 
 
 There was no reply, so he knocked again, louder. 
 
 'Ellen, are you awake? I must go soon, and I must 
 have a talk with you first.' 
 
 Still no response; so he rapped again, and continued 
 rapping. 
 
MRS BENTE 307 
 
 * Do stop that damnable row ! ' she called at last. 
 
 'I want to have a talk with you ' 
 
 'Then you can't/ 
 
 ' But I must, it is important. Put on a dressing-gown 
 and let me in ' 
 
 'Let you in? You must think me a fool ! I'm not 
 going to be struck by you again/ 
 
 He was staggered by the accusation. 
 
 ' I did not strike you ! ' he began indignantly : and 
 then realising that Mrs Archer was within hearing- 
 distance, he muted his voice. 
 
 'Ellen ! Ellen ! We must arrive at some understand- 
 ing, and* — he added softly — ' Mrs Archer must not hear/ 
 
 There was some little pause : then he realised that 
 she was out of bed and speaking from just the other 
 side of the door. 
 
 Tve no objection to Mrs Archer hearing/ she said. 
 'Why shouldn't she? She knows already that you 
 beat me and dragged my ' 
 
 'What? You have said anything ' He was 
 
 shocked, not only at her untruthfulness, but at the 
 meanness of bringing the occasional servant into their 
 private quarrel. 
 
 ' Yes, I did. I'm anxious the truth should be known 
 about you — you coward, and cad !' 
 
 He recoiled from the flerceness of the words. The 
 hate she was able to express through them was 
 unmistakable. 
 
 'You are unspeakable, Ellen/ he could not help 
 answering. 
 
308 MRS BENTE 
 
 ' So are you, damn you ! Go away from my door ! ' 
 
 That was enough. He gave up the morning attempt 
 at conference. 
 
 He breakfasted with what appetite he might, feeling 
 all the while that Mrs Archer, whenever she was in the 
 room, was regarding him with furtive curiosity and 
 watchful suspicion. 1 1 was probably imaginary; but 
 Ellen's words had poisoned him. 
 
 He took his hat and went. When he was half-way 
 down the first flight he heard his front door open. It 
 was Poppy in a dressing-gown. 
 
 She came to the head of the stairs, leaned over the 
 banister, and called, with deliberation, aloud. 
 
 1 What you want t o talk to me about you must write; 
 and 1*11 get the advice of my friends/ 
 
 'Remember, you' re in a pubhc place,' he said. 
 
 'Oh, I' m not ashamed, though you have reason to 
 be : and' — her voice became gradually louder as she 
 continued to speak — 'If you strike me again, one of 
 my friends will thrash you — and I only wish he could 
 kill you ! And now you can go to your prayer-meetings, 
 you beastly hypocrite ! ' 
 
 The door slammed. He heard the chain put into 
 position : and then continued his way slowly down- 
 stairs. 
 
 ' She would be glad if I were dead ! he breathed the 
 words. ' She would be glad if some one would kill me/ 
 
CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 The re was no peace and comfort for him that day. 
 Rather was he the more distracted with the torture 
 of his anxieties and angers. Incessantly his trouble 
 haunted him, and though the monster was much of his 
 own making, it was no less sinister and oppressive for that. 
 Whatever his immediate duty might be the actuality of 
 Poppy enclouded him. He could not get away from 
 her. This Frankenstein, beyond the burden of his own 
 private monster, was hunted by the Blatant Beast. 
 
 The more he brooded and thought, the more con- 
 vinced he was that he must punish his wife. But how? 
 That was the difficulty. Being so entirely without 
 scruples she was not amenable to ordinary pressure. 
 Yet punish her he must. If ordinary means did not 
 apply, the extraordinary must be exercised. But 
 what? . . . When he reached home at nine o'clock 
 the solution of this problem was still beyond him. 
 
 Yet punished she must be ! 
 
 He had dined at the Clergy House, and so had 
 nothing to do but wait until his wife came home. He 
 was determined to stay up for her this night, and was 
 prepared and eager to interview any man who might 
 be her escort. 
 
 309 
 
310 MRS BENTE 
 
 As the time passed Gervase became restless : he 
 walked about the room and could not settle; so to 
 force himself to repose as well as to occupy his mind 
 he took a sheaf of sermon-paper and began to write 
 as full an account as possible of his relations and 
 experiences with Poppy. He did this to clear his 
 judgment of her, to remind himself of details and 
 developments, and ever to rid himself of natural bias, 
 by stating plainly and truthfully the facts f r om the 
 earliest beginning, when she accosted him in the street, 
 until now. He wrote carefully and with deliberation. 
 He painted her actions and his own in simple tones 
 without adjectives. He did not judge or qualify. He 
 merely stated facts. 
 
 He became extraordinarily interested. He forgot 
 that he was a party in the case, and came to see 
 himself and Poppy as creatures apart, caught and 
 dangled on strings in some marionette-show of the 
 gods. Yet it was no unemotional play of puppets : 
 but a thing of very human concern, touching the wells 
 of pity and the heights of bitterness, anger and 
 contempt. 
 
 In the earlier stages he was naturally sorry for the 
 giri who had been so badly used by fortune and by men 
 — just as he had been when told of her woes in Alma 
 Terrace. But, as he came to the later chapters, pity 
 went and he grew coldly wrathful. The innocent was 
 transformed to the serpent. The victim had become 
 the devourer. His pen ran with excited speed; and 
 in a very chant of expression he set down horrid and 
 
MRS BENTE 311 
 
 condemning details of the wilful woman who had struck 
 the hands that were hclping her. 
 
 As the last words were written, bringing the story 
 t o the passages of anger exchanged that morning, he 
 was conscious of the chimes of a distant clock. He 
 looked at his watch. 
 
 ' Goodness me ! A quarter to two ! ' He rose fron 
 his chair and stretched. He yawned — and wondered. 
 She was very late. Where could she be? 
 
 He went to the door of the flat and looked 
 out on the misty stairs, with their stony smell and 
 silence. 
 
 He shuddered : and shut the door. 
 
 He wandered to the window of the dining-room, 
 standing in the darkness and staring at the sleeping 
 world. A few stars were flickering through the haze : 
 he could hear the hoot of a taxicab, a mmble of 
 occasional traffic going to market. 
 
 Where could she be? He went back to the table, 
 glanced through the record he had written, and pierc- 
 ing it with the point of a small bronze paper-knife, 
 fastened it at the corner with some string. 
 
 He began to grow fidgety : the restlessness that had 
 been drugged by the long labour of writing returned. 
 He thought more deeply of the later pages of the 
 history he had put on record, and felt the renewal of 
 pain and bitterness. 
 
 He sat in an arm-chair : but still could not rest. 
 His mind was too active : he was keenly excited. Her 
 brazen defiance, as shown by this staying out, spurred 
 
312 MRS BENTE 
 
 anew his ready anger. It was intolerable ! She must 
 be punished for this also. His hatrcd of her, stemmcd 
 for a time by the evening's busy occupation, and some 
 show of tolerance that had earlier crept in, revived, 
 re-surged like a fury of fire in a flood through his being. 
 He saw red; he trembled with angry passion. He 
 clenched his fists and longed to smite that fool who 
 was now in the toils — was now in her arms ! 
 
 Imagination set to work and increased his mental 
 torture. Jealousy, too, was aflame. He sprang up 
 and walked on rapid, heavy feet to the front door and 
 back. Where was she now? Where was she? The 
 vixcn ! The strumpet ! 
 
 He went t o her room, and put on the light. Pah ! 
 it was oppressive with stale air and an insistent per- 
 fume — patchouli and the scent of violets confused. He 
 threw open the window; and breathed with gladness 
 gulps of vivifying oxygen. He looked again at 
 the untidiness, carelessness, and tumbled disorder . . . 
 He groaned at the tragedy of everything, hurried back 
 to the sitting-room. 
 
 Where was she now? Hot jealousy was leading 
 and misleading his imaginings. He saw her at her 
 sport and trade, driving foolish men astray, doing her 
 infinite mischief, ruining lives, ruining souls, an active, 
 destructive influence, busily evil. The sacrifice he had 
 made was not only proved in vain, it was a cause of 
 lasting danger to others . . . He had married her for 
 this! 
 
 He stood stock-still like a statue, contemplating the 
 
MRS BENTE 313 
 
 horror and the truth. His soul grew sick. He loathed 
 her : in his heart he cursed her. 
 
 How could he punish her, for she must be punished? 
 He remembered the last words she had thrown at him 
 that morning. They were the direct expression of 
 the desire for his death. 
 
 ' I wish that he would kill you ! ' 
 
 Death! 
 
 There flashed through his mind her only possible 
 punishment. 1 1 was terrible; terrible but necessary; 
 as compelling as dark Fate. She who had deceived him, 
 for whom he had bought at a big price freedom and 
 opportunity. She who, despite everything, had 
 opposed and derided him, hurt him and hated him, 
 used him and abused him, stirred up anger and bitter 
 contumely against him; she must suffer in the way 
 she herself had suggested. 
 
 He would kill her to-night, when she returned. 
 
 He felt at once lighter, freer, strangely happier; 
 and then, after a little while, was conscious of a new 
 dread; not at any pains or consequence he must suffer 
 — for nothing of that could matter now; but at the 
 bitter task before him. 
 
 He must kill. Horrible; but he would go through 
 with it unflinchingly. But how should he kill? What 
 instruments were there by which he could cause her 
 death? 
 
 He looked about him for murderous ways and means : 
 and thought of some which were promptly rejected. 
 He could hurl her from the window ; he could fling her 
 
314 MRS BENTE 
 
 down the stairs : he had his razor, there were knives . . . 
 he shuddered at those vulgar alternatives. 
 
 He raised his capable hands and looked at them. . . . 
 He would strangle her. The difficulty of the task did 
 not trouble him in those minutes of whirhng excitement 
 . . . He would be merciless. For the good of the 
 world — for the safety of other men — he would strangle 
 her. 
 
 He made himself coffce, and ate biscuits hungrily. 
 He must keep his wits alive and husband his strength. 
 He must not spoil his — handiwork. 
 
 He wrote lctters to his aunt and to the Vicar of St 
 Brendan's. These he sealed, stamped, and left on the 
 table. In them he told the truth simply and plainly; 
 and took care to let the recipients realise that his pur- 
 pose in slaying Poppy was not revenge or any such crude 
 impulse; but the determination to end her powers of 
 evil and of causing ruin to souls. 
 
 He made his plans for the accomplishment of his 
 purpose — it should be in her room. No other plans, 
 whether for escape or justification, were required. 
 What he was to do should be done gladly as an act of 
 justice; and then he would pay his price. 
 
 She did not come. He sat in the arm-chair to wait; 
 then blessedly lost consciousness; slept. 
 
 Suddenly he start ed; sat upright; his wits were 
 alert. 
 
 He hurried to her room. . . . She was not there ! 
 
 Had he been dreaming? Yes : a medley of sleep- 
 madness, an orgy of dreams, riotously incoherent. 
 
MRS BENTE 
 
 3i5 
 
 Sleep through its opportunities had given him torture, 
 reminding him. Horrible ! 
 
 He hearkened to the governing silence, went tip- 
 toe quietly to the front door; opened it, peered out. 
 Again he looked down the well of gray, unpleasing 
 stairs and shivered. 
 
 No one was there. 
 
 Back in the room he found that dawn had come. 
 This surprised him. Soon now she must be back. He 
 exulted to find his purpose was undimmed. 
 
 He went to the window, and for a long while, full 
 of thought, and yet with eyes unseeing, stared at the 
 world in that newly awaking day. The common- 
 place wore a new significance. 
 
 He heard the noise of some one approaching. There 
 were feet upon the stairs. He hurried with confidence 
 to the door. He would meet her at once; and the man 
 who was probably with her ; and be rid of the one 
 and done with the other, so soon as frank words and 
 the subsequent business would permit. . . . He would 
 be very careful not to give her opportunity to scream. 
 
 As he reached the door the brass letter-flap rattled. 
 He saw a not e on the mat. 
 
 He ignored it for the moment to see who had brought 
 it. He quietly opened the door. 
 
 The charwoman was going down the stairs. He saw 
 her rusty bonnet with its bobbing scarlet rose, a fierce 
 horticultural beast. 
 
 * Mrs Archer ! ' he was about to call, when he resisted 
 the tendency. What was the use? 
 
316 MRS BENTE 
 
 He took the note; and tore it open. 
 
 'Dear Gervase, 
 
 ' Things have grown so impossible that I have decided 
 t o put an end t o it. You were a fool t o marry me, as 
 I was to marry you. I am going out of your life, and 
 abroad. You may divorce me or not, as you please. 
 Anyhow, I won't bother you again. I can very well 
 look after myself and now I am going to live. 
 
 * By the way, you may be interested to know that my 
 father was not a colonel in any army, and his name was 
 not Parker. He was an underpaid curate with too 
 large a family. That's why I came to earn my living — 
 in my own way — and why you found me such an eager 
 Churchwoman. 
 
 ' In spite of your beastliness lately, I don't hate you. 
 I can't do more than despise you. 
 
 1 1 must go. If I stayed with you I should be sure to 
 drive you mad. So good-bye. 
 
 ' Ellen. 
 
 'PS. Even that is not my real name. What liars 
 we all are ! ' 
 
 He read with excitement : and then felt, as a 
 grateful tide sweeping through him, a wonderful 
 relief. 
 
 He confessed in his heart that the hand of God had 
 intervened. He put it so. 
 
 He stood spell-bound for a time, then re-read the 
 
MRS BENTE 317 
 
 letter. He fell to his knees. Words of blind prayer 
 came to him, and tears. 
 
 He was sorry for that woman, the dark threads of 
 whose life had for a little span been intertwined with 
 his; and was glad — glad almost to singing — because 
 the contemplated crime had been prevented. 
 
 Now he was free. 
 
 He seized his coat and hat, hurriedly looked round 
 the apartments which he vowed never to re-enter, 
 took the record and letters written, and his papers, and, 
 slamming the door, went. 
 
 He ran down the stairs like a boy escaped from 
 bondage. 
 
 He took his bicycle and rode rapidly to St Brendan's. 
 
 GLASGOW : W. COLLINS SONS AND CO. LTD. 
 
w/ 
 
Yb 
 
 33181