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BROTHERS ALL 
 
BROTHERS ALL 
 
 MORE STORIES OF DUTCH 
 PEASANT LIFE 
 
 BY 
 
 MAARTEN MAARTENS 
 
 AUTHOR OF "DOROTHEA," ETC. 
 
 
 W 55 • 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 1909 
 
BROTHERS ALL 
 
 ISRAELS ! 
 
 A BIT OF BIOGRAPHY 
 
 "TF I were rich — a thing I never shall be — I 
 I should chuck up the whole thing to- 
 morrow." The speaker was a man in middle 
 life — Dante's five-and-thirty — pale-faced and 
 nervous, the sort of man who lives by ploughing 
 and harrowing his own brains. He was a fairly 
 successful journalist and writer. At this moment 
 he lay back, tired, in an easy-chair at his club. 
 
 The other man, also in an easy-chair, also 
 tired, also a journalist, looked up lazily, watching 
 the blue smoke of his cigar. 
 
 "Have you ever reflected," he asked, "what 
 you would do instead ?" 
 
 "A score of times." 
 
 "Do you know, I never have. It has never 
 occurred to me that I could, by any possibility, 
 become rich. In fact, I know I can't." 
 
 " Nor can I. It is quite as impossible for me. 
 That constitutes the chief charm of thinking it 
 out." 
 
 " I don't quite understand, but I suppose you 
 have more imagination than I have." 
 
 393820 
 
2 ISRAELS ! 
 
 " I have plenty of imagination of a kind. But 
 I have to be the hero of my own imaginings. I 
 don't run to a novel or a play." 
 
 "You could live a drama, but you couldn't 
 get one acted by other people." The voice in- 
 dicated banter. " In other words, you are a 
 strictly subjective genius." 
 
 The middle-aged man — he was a good deal 
 the younger of the two — didn't like banter. " I 
 am not a genius at all," he answered shortly. 
 " Would you pass me a light ? " 
 
 " H'm ; I'm not so sure," said the elder man, 
 complying. " Well, tell me, Kortum, if you came 
 into a fortune to-morrow, what would you do? 
 Chuck up all the writing. Get away from the 
 treadmill. Naturally — and then ? " 
 
 " I should live absolutely and entirely for 
 myself henceforth." 
 
 " In these altruistic days that sounds frankly 
 refreshing. You mean you would spend all 
 your money in having an unmitigated good 
 time?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Like the once famous Jubilee Plunger ? " 
 
 " No, not a bit like that. My enjoyments, as 
 you can realize, Hackner, if you choose, would 
 be largely intellectual. Not only so. They 
 would also be sensuous." 
 
 ".Invite me, please." 
 
 "You wilfully misunderstand. My chief 
 delight would be to escape at once, and for ever, 
 from this grey town, from this chill country, 
 
ISRAELS ! 3 
 
 from the whole bleak, ugly North. I should 
 never again, during this brief life, leave sunshine 
 and orange-groves, blue seas and Oriental colour. 
 That, I admit, is merely sensuous— up to a point. 
 For there is more artistic enjoyment in a month 
 of Spain or Italy than in a cycle of— Cathay." 
 
 "You know the South?" 
 
 "Know it? No. I have glimpsed at it— 
 twice, in a tourist's trip— seen its possibilities, 
 like a hungry boy at a pastry-cook's window. 
 Seen just enough to keep a craving at my heart 
 for ever. Oh, what's the use of talking ? I say, 
 isn't this a beastly glum hole, this murky, native 
 city of ours ? Wouldn't you be precious glad to 
 escape from it ? " 
 
 "Well, I don't know," replied the elder man, 
 musingly watching his rings of smoke. " It 
 is a beastly place, but I suppose I've got past 
 wanting to leave it." 
 
 "Not I. Every year makes it worse — and 
 the horrible grind. However, this sort of talk 
 isn't much good. I'm out of sorts to-night. 
 Something's happened to upset me. A fellow 
 had much better simply play the game." 
 
 The grey-haired man looked kindly at the 
 black-haired one. "At your age," he said, 
 " there's always a chance of something turning 
 up." 
 
 " Oh, no. And it's a poor sort of chap who 
 hopes for that ! Besides, I once had an only 
 chance — a sort of a chance — and lost it. That's 
 as much as would fall to the lot of any man." He 
 
4 ISRAELS ! 
 
 shook himself together. " Please don't think, 
 Hackner, that I'm the sort of fool who goes 
 through life grumbling, and playing in a lottery, 
 or helping old bodies over crossings in hopes of 
 a legacy. You know me better than that." 
 
 "I know you better than that, dear boy. It 
 was I that set you building your castles in the 
 air. I assure you I built plenty in my day, 
 if not on the impossible chance of a fortune ; but 
 my castles, like many an older one, are — 
 ruins. I am sorry something has occurred to 
 put you out." 
 
 "Oh, it's nothing; only I suppose it was that 
 set me talking about money. You know the 
 rich paper-manufacturer, Ostlar ? " 
 
 " By sight. I hear he is very ill." 
 
 " He is dying. I met his doctor this morning. 
 He can't live through the night, the doctor said." 
 
 "Well, I suppose he is one of the richest 
 men in the City. His mills and his money will 
 go to some distant relatives, Heaven knows 
 where." 
 
 " Or perhaps to a charity ? " said Kortum. 
 
 " Possibly. One never heard of his having 
 any relations. And it is quite in accordance 
 with the present craze for vast philanthropic 
 bequests." 
 
 " I hate," said Kortum, " this parade of charity 
 nowadays. What a sickening thing is all our 
 philanthropic notoriety, in the papers after death, 
 and on the platforms before ! I am burning to 
 write a series of articles on it, showing the 
 
ISRAELS ! 5 
 
 people up. Any villain nowadays can earn 
 universal respect by large public donations ; any 
 fool can make himself interesting by talking 
 about the poor. And the meanest of all are 
 those that wait to disgorge some of their ill- 
 gotten gains till they're dead." 
 
 "Tis easiest for those that have nothing to 
 disgorge, or to leave behind them, to any one." 
 
 Kortum remembered that his companion was 
 a married man with a family. He edged away 
 from what might become delicate ground. 
 
 "The public like articles abusing the rich," 
 he said. " That's the strangest thing about our 
 time ; they like them, because they think they're 
 deserved. Never, I suppose, not even in Juvenal's 
 day, has money been so entirely the one thing 
 desired and desirable. In the Rome of the 
 Decline, in the Byzantine corruption, there were 
 always a great many superstitions, and a good 
 many class distinctions, left ; we have absolutely 
 nothing but the greed, and the recognition, of 
 gold. Yet, at the same time, even in my day, 
 since I was a boy, there has come up an uncom- 
 fortable feeling that the new religion is a base 
 religion, that great wealth is a thing to be 
 ashamed of—the very wealthy themselves are 
 ashamed of it, and try to apologise, as it were, by 
 making some sort of philanthropic stir. I mean 
 the intellects among them ; of course, there are 
 plenty of hereditary fools that just fool along." 
 
 " Yes, I suppose that is true," said the other 
 thoughtfully, a little comforted about his own 
 
6 ISRAELS ! 
 
 poverty, as Kortum, perhaps, had intended he 
 should be. 
 
 " Now, if I were rich," continued Kortum, " I 
 should resist all that modern affectation. It 
 wouldn't touch me. I should use my money, as 
 intended, rationally, for myself." 
 
 " That's why you don't get it." 
 
 "That, if correct — which it isn't (look around 
 you!) — would only prove what a blind idiot is 
 Fortune. Spending money is a far better way 
 of diffusing it than giving it — far more beneficial 
 to the community. All this talk about charity, 
 luxury, the simpler life, is rutfMsJi, economically 
 and socially unsound." 
 
 " Old Ostlar made all his money for himself, 
 and kept it to himself, and now he is leaving it 
 behind him," moralized the older man, the poorer 
 man, the man with children. 
 
 " What we need," said Kortum, not heeding 
 him, " is to get away from all this maudlin con- 
 trolling of each other's actions. The whole world 
 just now is conscience to its neighbour. We 
 want to get back to ' Every man for himself, and 
 the State to see fair play.' " 
 
 " Well, that's a generous attitude, at any rate, 
 in a man as — unwealthy as yourself. The social 
 conscience of most of us have-nots is just wanting 
 to get at the haves." 
 
 Kortum laughed. " I treat of these things 
 theoretically," he said. "As a matter of fact, I 
 am really quite happy as I am. The work's 
 interesting enough, though one abuses it, and 
 
ISRAELS ! 7 
 
 I've always a spare coin for a cigar or a drink, to 
 a friend. Yes, I'm happy enough. I should be 
 awfully bored, say, with a large business, or as 
 a thieving lawyer, or in a dozen other positions 
 that one sees men happy in. A thousand a year 
 and Italy; that's my ideal. Old Ostlar set me 
 thinking about rich and poor." 
 
 "But why should the thought of him put 
 you out ? " 
 
 Kortum reflected a moment. "Why shouldn't 
 I tell you? It's really of little importance. You 
 were saying he had no known relatives. But 
 you've heard, I suppose, of his friend ? " 
 
 "No. Who was he?" 
 
 " Dear me, I thought everybody knew about 
 that business. How we exaggerate our own 
 importance ! Well, it's long ago. For the first 
 quarter of a century of their lives, Ostlar and my 
 father, living side by side in the same village, 
 and then, working together in the same foreign 
 surroundings, were inseparable comrades. At 
 the age of fifteen they ran away from home to 
 the same ship. They slept together in the same 
 berth a-top of each other ; they used to lie under 
 alternate nights. As a grown man, Ostlar fell 
 violently in love with a young woman ; he 
 worked long for her, got engaged to her; then 
 my father stole her away from him. I'm afraid 
 my father — didn't behave very well. But my 
 mother was worth it. She told Ostlar she 
 couldn't love any one but my father. He never 
 spoke to either of them again, nor took any 
 
8 ISRAELS ! 
 
 farther notice of them. They tried several times 
 to make up, but he never answered." 
 
 " Probably he couldn't trust himself. It was 
 better so," said Hackner, with a sympathetic 
 whiff of his pipe. 
 
 " I dare say. But you know, he grew into a 
 dreadful old curmudgeon ; his temper was awful. 
 All his workpeople hated him, I believe. When 
 I was born, they — my parents — asked him to 
 let bygones be bygones, and come and stand 
 godfather. That was the only time he ever took 
 any notice or made any reply." 
 
 "What did he do?"askedthe otherwith interest. 
 
 "Sent them the will, torn across, which he 
 had made before his engagement, in his early 
 days, by which he left the little he then possessed 
 to my mother — or to my father, if she died with- 
 out heirs." 
 
 Hackner, the worn man with the kindly eyes, 
 looked straight in front of him, and, as the silence 
 deepened, he remarked : " It was hardly judicious, 
 perhaps, however well meant — that asking him 
 to be your godfather." 
 
 " I suppose not. But, you see, I seem to have 
 missed somehow being, either by my mother or 
 my father, old Ostlar's ultimate heir." 
 
 " In rather a topsy-turvy manner — don't you 
 think?" 
 
 Kortum broke into a peal of merriment. 
 " Well, yes. I didn't mean to be literal. Talking 
 of money, do you know the Chief told me the 
 other day he was going to raise my salary ? " 
 
ISRAELS ! 9 
 
 "He ought to have done it long ago. They 
 have been underpaying you for years." 
 
 " Do you think so ? I'm so glad you think so ! 
 If it has to be one or the other— and I suppose 
 it mostly has— I for one would much rather be 
 under- than over-paid. At least " — and again he 
 laughed — " I would much rather have my friends, 
 my colleagues, take that view." And then they 
 talked on of "the Shop/' as they called it— the 
 office of the great morning and evening daily, 
 with the incessant worry through most hours of 
 the twenty-four. They talked on, as men do 
 who have great part of their life in common; 
 dozens of petty interests cropping up along the 
 road, as they talked on. 
 
 " Please, sir, you're wanted at the telephone," 
 said a noiseless waiter at Kortum's elbow. 
 
 "Nine o'clock!" cried Hackner, at the same 
 time, rising. " Dear me, I must hurry home." - 
 
 Kortum had taken up a review. "It's only 
 my landlady," he said, " wanting to know whether 
 she must still keep my dinner. I had told her I 
 should dine at home to-night. Just speak to her 
 as you go down, will you ? — that's a good fellow ! 
 — and tell her I shan't dine at all." 
 
 "For a man who is going to live in luxury 
 some day, you are wonderfully abstemious at 
 present," said Hackner. 
 
 " I should go to my dinner fast enough if it 
 were a particularly good one." He settled him- 
 self in his deep leather chair. " It is the thought 
 that one will never be able to command a very 
 
10 ISRAELS ! 
 
 much better meal which is so depressing; it 
 keeps one from enjoying this." 
 
 " Fie, Kortum ! And just now you were 
 saying you were contented " 
 
 Kortum looked up from his " Quarterly " with 
 the shine in his dark eyes that every one who 
 knew him liked. "Are you always consistent?" 
 he said. " Besides, if I may say so, I shouldn't 
 care about ordering the banquet unless I could 
 get somebody to share it." He had not read 
 many pages of an article on Labour Colonies in 
 Roumania when Hackner once more stood be- 
 tween him and the light. 
 
 "It's not your landlady who wants you," he 
 said, " but Rosberg, the lawyer." 
 
 "Well, what does he want? I don't know 
 him. I suppose I must go." Kortum rose. 
 
 " He asked whether you could come round to 
 see him. I said you would, unless I telephoned 
 afresh." 
 
 " I don't know where he lives. Somewhere 
 on the Heerengracht ? " 
 
 "Yes. He gave the number — eighty-seven. 
 Well, good night. I must get home to my wife." 
 
 " Good night. I suppose it is some tiresome 
 charity business. But they won't get me on to 
 any more of their committees. I had enough of 
 the last." 
 
 Meditating on the follies and iniquities of 
 charity bazaars, concerts, and balls, Hans Kortum 
 started for the Heerengracht. It was a bitterly 
 cold winter evening. The east wind whistled 
 
ISRAELS ! 11 
 
 along the blackness of the gloomy streets. 
 People hurried past, wrapped close, as if eager 
 to get away from the weather. At a corner a 
 child held out its hand. " Get away ! " said Hans ; 
 " it's very wrong to beg." The child ran beside 
 him whining. "Get away!" he said; "it's very 
 wrong to give to beggars." The child ran beside 
 him whining. He gave it a silver piece. He 
 turned on to the Heerengracht, which is a sombre, 
 a stately, a cold canal. He passed one of the 
 biggest mansions upon it, and looked up at the 
 dead stone front. " Old Ostlar's house," he said 
 to himself. " I must be getting near the lawyer's 
 number." He looked under the next street lan- 
 tern. Ninety-nine. He retraced his steps. 
 Eighty-seven was Old Ostlar's. 
 
 He rang ; the bell sounded away into the 
 hollow stillness with a foolishly persistent clang. 
 The whole front of the house was dark. After a 
 wait there approached a feeble shuffling, bolts 
 were drawn back, and by the light of a flickering 
 candle, an old woman appeared in a great empty 
 marble hall. 
 
 "This— this is not Mr. Rosberg's?" said 
 Kortum, lamely. " Could you direct me where 
 he lives ? " 
 
 " It's all right, sir," replied the old crone in a 
 shrill voice. " Are you Mr. Kortum? Come in. 
 He is waiting to speak to you." And she flung 
 open a heavy oak door and stood aside. 
 
 Hans Kortum entered a lofty dining-room, 
 the walls of which were covered with Italian 
 
12 ISRAELS ! 
 
 landscape, over oaken wainscotting, in the Dutch 
 manner of the eighteenth century. Unlike the 
 hall, this handsome room was well lighted by 
 Japanese bronze oil-lamps, and on one half of 
 the broad table silver and glass had been laid out 
 for a meal. A decanter of wine stood there, and 
 the lawyer had helped himself to its contents. 
 
 " Yes," said Rosberg, a little old notary, with 
 a brisk, impertinent manner, " I had to speak to 
 you at once, and it was best we should meet here. 
 Old Ostlar is dead. Did you know him?" 
 
 " No," replied Kortum. 
 
 " So much the simpler. Well, he has left you 
 all his money." 
 
 " Good Heavens ! " 
 
 " You may well say so. So should I, if Provi- 
 dence had acted so well by me; but it hasn't. 
 He has made you not only his sole heir, but his 
 executor. I have the will here " — he leant with 
 his hand on a long blue document. "There 
 are one or two things you must do to-night, 
 and do here. That's why I asked you to come 
 round." 
 
 " Can I read the will ? " asked Hans. 
 
 " By all means. Shall I read it to you?" 
 
 " I think, if you don't mind, I should like to 
 read it by myself." 
 
 " By all means," replied the lawyer, offended. 
 " Well, yes ; he says a thing or two— but I dare 
 say you will understand. Would you like to do 
 everything else by yourself, too ? " 
 
 " Is there anything very special ? " 
 
ISRAELS ! 13 
 
 " Well, perhaps not to-night. There will be 
 formalities to-morrow. But he wishes you to 
 stay in the house to-night." The lawyer 
 replenished his glass. " It is perhaps hardly 
 a festive occasion. Still, you must allow me 
 to drink to your good fortune, Mr. " 
 
 " Oh, not to-night ! Not here ! " cried Hans. 
 
 The lawyer emptied his glass in silence. 
 Then he said : u It's a very fair claret," wished 
 Kortum a curt "Good night," and took his 
 leave. 
 
 Hans sat down in the nearest chair — a fine old 
 bit of flowered Utrecht velvet— and stared around 
 like a man demented. In the deadly silence he 
 gazed at the splendid room, and then at the bit of 
 blue paper which, the lawyer had said, gave all 
 this to him. All this ? A great deal more. He 
 was one of the richest men in the town. 
 
 Then he thought of the dead man lying 
 upstairs, with whom he had never exchanged 
 a word in his life, whom he only knew by sight. 
 He supposed he must go and see him now, for 
 the last time — near, for the first — a curious thrill 
 of unwillingness ran through him. The lawyer 
 had said there were things he must do at once. 
 He drew the document towards him. 
 
 It was simply worded. It said that Hans 
 Kortum's mother had been the hope and the joy 
 and the ruin of Ostlar's life. He could not for- 
 give her and he could not leave off loving her. 
 He told this to her son. And after her death, 
 her husband being dead also — only a few years 
 
14 ISRAELS ! 
 
 ago — the old man had made this will, leaving all 
 he possessed to her only child. 
 
 He asked Hans to come, immediately upon 
 the news of his death, into the house no Kortum 
 had ever entered, and not to leave it till after the 
 funeral. " I have lived alone ; I shall die alone," 
 he wrote. He was evidently anxious that his 
 heir should protect the remains and see that they 
 were treated decently. Moreover, he asked him 
 to burn, unread, within twelve hours, a parcel of 
 letters, and to place on the dead breast, before it 
 was cold, a portrait and a lock of hair. 
 
 Kortum rang at once. The old woman con- 
 ducted him to the death-chamber. It was a 
 sombre room, with green hangings. He stood 
 looking at the cold, yellow face. In an escritoire 
 he found the things as described ; he recognised 
 the girl-portrait of his mother. At the moment 
 when he took the keys from the dead man's table, 
 he felt that the change in his own life came true. 
 By the light of his solitary candle he crept down- 
 stairs again. He remembered now that old Ostlar 
 had taken over this whole house, with all the 
 furniture, in a bankruptcy which he himself had 
 brought about. He had lived in it with the old 
 charwoman-housekeeper and a slavey. 
 
 In the dining-room he found the old woman 
 placing several dishes, cold, all of them — an aspic, 
 a French pate, a fruit jelly — a luxurious, if some- 
 what peculiar repast. "He said I was to get 
 them from the pastry-cook's for you," remarked 
 the old woman. " He told me to spend twenty 
 
ISRAELS ! 15 
 
 florins on them. He must have been wandering 
 in his mind. But I done it. He never spent five 
 on a meal for himself in his life." 
 
 Something rose up in Hans Kortum's throat 
 and choked him for a moment. It was all the 
 mourning old Ostlar had. 
 
 Hans ate some of the good things, and that 
 cleared his mind wonderfully. He leant back in 
 his chair and surveyed the situation. 
 
 Well, he was rich now, suddenly rich beyond 
 his wildest dreams. A little too rich, he was 
 afraid, but he mustn't mind that. He could do 
 all he had ever wanted to do. And he had written 
 his last unwilling article ! Oh, joy ! he had written 
 his last unwilling article ! 
 
 Within a fortnight he would leave for Italy ; 
 would leave all his old, murky world behind him ; 
 would leave, and begin a new life. At last he 
 would enjoy to the full his long pent-up love for 
 all that is beautiful. Here, in this northern city, 
 everything was ugly. Oh, yes, of course, there 
 were a few beautiful pictures in the Museum, and 
 you could occasionally hear very beautiful music. 
 But that does not make life beautiful. The city 
 itself was monstrous, the streets, the shops, the 
 clothes, the factories — everything he could think 
 of— the faces, the climate (winter and summer), 
 the ideals, the conversations, the money-making, 
 the vulgar newspapers. Especially the news- 
 papers. All life was a persistent nightmare of 
 ugliness and vulgarity. In a fortnight he would 
 be away from it all. 
 
16 ISRAELS ! 
 
 His eyes rested on the temples and nymphs of 
 the painted landscape around him. The walls of 
 the room were a blaze of sunlight and a maze 
 of revelry. In this way the old seventeenth- 
 century Dutchmen endeavoured to escape from 
 the grey platitude of their daily lives. Soon 
 he would be amidst the real thing. Dear me, 
 these Italian landscapes were very well done ; 
 so well, they really might be Moucherons. He 
 took up a lamp to examine them. What a sen- 
 suous delight of colour and movement! What 
 happiness ! What a joy of living, unknown in 
 these latitudes! He wondered — were they 
 Moucherons ? Admirably done. 
 
 And suddenly a desire seized him to discover 
 what other treasures the house possessed that 
 had now become his. What was behind those 
 two finely carved folding-doors ? He flung them 
 open, and stood, lamp in hand, on the threshold 
 of a white and gold Louis XV. saloon. The 
 furniture and hangings were dark blue and silver 
 silk. Against the walls hung a number of pictures 
 in gilt frames. Modern art, as he saw at a glance. 
 He advanced towards the nearest. An Israels ! 
 The great living Dutch painter of pathos in 
 humble life. A poor woman by an empty cradle 
 in the grey sorrow of the lonely room. 
 
 He went on quickly to the next. A fisher- 
 woman by her open door, looking out to the 
 stormy sea. An Israels. A very fine one. Full 
 of subdued anguish and stress in sea and sky. 
 The next. Two old peasants in the dull, drab 
 
ISRAELS ! 17 
 
 cottage at their all too scanty meal. Under this 
 a title : " Their Daily Crust." He stood looking 
 at it a long time; as he turned away, his eyes 
 were soft. He remembered now having heard 
 that the man on whom Ostlar had foreclosed had 
 been a great art connoisseur, and had wasted his 
 money buying pictures. Why, every one of these 
 paintings must now be worth many thousands of 
 pounds ! 
 
 Another large picture arrested him as he 
 turned. A splendid thing. A sick child in the 
 cupboard-bedstead at the side ; in the middle, 
 father and mother by the table, his pockets inside 
 out, a few coppers on the board. And near to 
 this another sadly simple, impressive scene. A 
 young man, neat* and poor, in front of a closed 
 door, in the dark drizzle, turning away, look- 
 ing straight at you with despair in his eyes. 
 Under this also a title, though unnecessary : " No 
 Work." The whole room seemed to be hung with 
 Israels; the pinched poverty stared out too 
 terribly against the mass of heavy gilding and 
 brocade. 
 
 He went back to the dining-room and sat for 
 a long time thoughtful, his head between his 
 hands. He must spend the whole night in this 
 house, by the dead man's will. He had no wish 
 to go to bed; he knew he would not sleep. 
 When he lifted his face, his eyes were still full 
 of the pictures in the dark room behind him. He 
 did not see the Italian landscapes. " It is a 
 beautiful emotion ! " he said, and laughed at 
 
18 ISRAELS ! 
 
 himself. And he went back to the pictures again 
 and spent another hour with them. 
 
 At midnight a knock came to the dining-room 
 door, startling him. A man entered, evidently 
 an artisan of the most superior class. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir," said the man. u I 
 understand you are the new master. I arranged 
 with the housekeeper to watch here while she 
 lay down." 
 
 " Oh, yes, quite right. But how do you mean 
 — master? Are you" — Kortum looked dubious 
 — " a servant of ? " 
 
 The man smiled. " I've been foreman at the 
 paper-mills for thirty years," he said. 
 
 " Oh, of course ! The paper-mills ! " exclaimed 
 Kortum. 
 
 "Begging your pardon, sir, this is a very 
 important event for all of us, sir. There's eight 
 hundred hands at the paper-mills." 
 
 " Eight hundred hands ! " exclaimed Kortum. 
 
 " And, if I might be so bold as to say it, sir " 
 — he paused ; then, with an effort : " It's a very 
 anxious moment for us." Kortum did not answer. 
 " You'll forgive me, sir, if I can't keep silence. 
 The — mills will be kept on?" 
 
 "Doubtless. Of course. I shall sell them." 
 
 " God help us, if that be true ! " 
 
 "What do you mean? You'll probably get 
 as good a master as you've lost." 
 
 The old foreman shook his head. "May I 
 speak, sir, to-night, while there's time?" 
 
 "Speak, if you like," answered Kortum. "Sit 
 
ISRAELS ! 19 
 
 down!" With a respectful movement the old 
 man declined this invitation. 
 
 "You can't sell the mills, sir, and that's the 
 truth. You can only close them. My old master 
 was not an easy man to get on with — he was 
 soured, somehow ; but he had his soft side, sharp 
 man of business as he was, and he was terribly 
 just. I could get on with him, though I say it 
 myself, and he'd often talk over matters with me, 
 having been with him all his life, that even the 
 gentlemen in the office didn't quite know the 
 rights of. Well, sir, he'd made a power of money 
 out of the mills, but in the last years they didn't 
 even pay their expenses. * It's my own fault, 
 Brest,' he would say to me ; 'I can't put in the 
 new improvements. I'm too old. We must rub 
 on like this now ; it isn't for long.' He knew he 
 was breaking up." 
 
 "Well, the new man will put in the new 
 improvements." 
 
 u No, he won't, sir. There's too much to do. 
 It wouldn't be worth any man's while to buy the 
 mills." 
 
 " Then we must close them. I am going to 
 live in Italy." 
 
 "There's eight hundred hands, sir. And 
 master, he said to me : ' The new master must 
 work the business up. There's plenty of ready 
 money to keep it going and put it right' He 
 didn't say who the new master would be, sir, but 
 ' He's a young man,' he says, 'and energetic, and 
 he's chosen an occupation that you have to be 
 
20 ISRAELS ! 
 
 quick in and sharp. And I see his name down 
 in charity committees, so, you see, he cares about 
 the people. He'll probably have all the new- 
 fangled notions about libraries and pensions, 
 Brest ; so he'll be a better master than I. I hope 
 and believe he will,' says master, with such a 
 break in his voice that I stood up to him. \ Why, 
 you've kept the mills going at a loss, for the 
 people, all these years,' says I. ' And what busi- 
 ness is that of yours? ' says master — he was like 
 that. ' Ain't I one of the richest men in this 
 city? Didn't I make all my money out of my 
 mills ? ' says he. There, sir, now I've told you 
 all. God forgive me if I was wrong." 
 
 " Did your master tell you to tell me?" 
 demanded Kortum, shading his face. 
 
 "No, sir— but he didn't tell me not to tell 
 you." 
 
 " There is no need of the mills. Why, the 
 pictures in the next room alone must be worth 
 far more money than I shall ever want." 
 
 "The pictures of the poor people, sir?" 
 
 " But I couldn't manage mills." 
 
 "There's very good men in the office, sir. 
 Old master, he had a wonderful gift of selecting 
 men, so I thought we must be all right in his 
 selecting you as his heir. He only turned away 
 one manager once. ' He's a genius,' says he to 
 me; ' they're the only sort you can't use in a 
 business. Beg your pardon, are you a genius, 
 sir?" 
 
 " No. There isn't a word of all this in the 
 
ISRAELS ! 21 
 
 will. He expressly says what he wishes me 
 to do." 
 
 "About the mills, sir?" 
 
 "No, about other matters. Eight hundred 
 hands at the mills?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " It is a splendid vocation." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir?" 
 
 " Look here, you had better leave me alone 
 now. I am going to Italy for a couple of months 
 with a friend. After that, I suppose I shall 
 come back here." 
 
 He motioned the man away. Then he went 
 back to the white and gold saloon, and closed the 
 door upon himself and the pictures, passing 
 slowly from one to the other, and harking back. 
 
THE DEATH-WAY 
 
 THE one old man sat by the bed, and the 
 other lay in it. Neither spoke a word. 
 
 Ten minutes passed, and more. They re- 
 mained thus together, almost immovable. The 
 one old man sat by the bed, his head sunk 
 forward, his underlip protruding : both hands 
 were folded upon his stick. The other lay 
 staring, as it seemed, at nothing, his crumpled 
 shirt unloosened about his scraggy neck. Around 
 his hollow face the ragged hairs streamed wide. 
 
 " You're in a bad way," said, at last, the old 
 man in the chair. 
 
 He in the bed stared steadily on. " You've 
 said that before," he answered; "'twas the last 
 thing that you said." 
 
 " Well— it's true." 
 
 " I'd like a bit of news," retorted the invalid, 
 14 1 can find out about the way I'm in, for myself." 
 
 "You might be civiller, Jan," objected his 
 visitor, " to a man that's come near on two mile, 
 to see ye." 
 
 " It ain't more'n one and a half," said the sick 
 man, " nor as much." 
 
 " And his best milker off her feed." 
 
 The invalid wriggled himself round in a 
 
THE DEATH- WAY 23 
 
 series of jerks. " Off her feed ? " he cried. 
 ''Which is it? Liza?" 
 
 The other shook his long head up and down. 
 " Liza/' he said. " Something's gone wrong in 
 her innards. She can't tell what." 
 
 " Have ye had the vet. ? " 
 
 " Pooh, the vet. ! If a cow could speak, she'd 
 soon let a vet. know what a fool he is. The old 
 woman can't tell. It was her as I meant." 
 
 "Cows is cows," replied the invalid and lay 
 back a long time, thinking. Presently he re- 
 marked : " I had a cow went like that, seventeen 
 years ago, come next Midsummer. Nobody 
 knew what ailed her. She went about bellowing 
 all day." 
 
 " Liza doesn't bellow," interposed the visitor. 
 The other took no notice of the. interruption. 
 
 " She'd stand in a ditch for hours, and low, 
 with her feet in the water. To hear her like 
 that, loud and long, it was like the psalm-singing 
 in church." 
 
 "Did she get over it?" asked the visitor, 
 anxious for Liza. 
 
 "She died. And when we opened her, we 
 found the old woman's church-book that had 
 been missing. So that explained it." He sank 
 back with the effort of all this conversation, and, 
 in fact, "the old woman" had already come 
 forward to the bed. 
 
 " It's time you were going, neighbour," she 
 began. "The doctor says as he mayn't talk 
 above more than a minute or two." Her husband 
 
24 THE DEATH-WAY 
 
 broke into an angry gurgle. " And not get into 
 one of his rages/' added the old woman hastily, 
 "or the doctor says as he'll burst something, 
 and that'll be the end of him." 
 
 " D the doctor," said the invalid amiably. 
 
 The visitor had risen solemnly and shuffled to 
 the door. "There's more chance of the doctor 
 doing that to you than you to the doctor," he 
 remarked, with an ugly chuckle. " By the by, I 
 forgot to tell you, the young Baron has altered 
 the direction of the Death- Way." 
 
 Both husband and wife gave utterance to a 
 cry of astonished dismay. 
 
 " He's making a new garden and a play-game 
 place close to the Castle," continued the visitor, 
 "and so he's blocked up the Death- Way, and 
 carried it round straight to the highway. Round 
 to the right, you know, by the clump of larches " 
 — both listeners nodded — "yes, that's what he's 
 been and done." 
 
 " To think of it ! " said the old woman, with 
 uplifted hands. Moved the Death-Way ! Lord ! 
 Lord ! To think what the rich may do ! " 
 
 The sick man struck the coverlet. "D 
 
 it, he can't ! " cried the sick man. " There's not 
 a power in the land could move the Death-Way : 
 the Queen couldn't do it ! I've heard my old 
 father say a hundred times, that the Death-Way 
 was here long afore there was any such thing as 
 a King." 
 
 " 'Tis as old as Death, belike," suggested the 
 visitor, standing by the door. 
 
THE DEATH-WAY 25 
 
 The woman nodded, fl He can't do it," re- 
 peated the sick man, nodding also. " I'm eighty- 
 three, come next Christmas, and my father was 
 eighty-seven, when he went, in harvest-time, 
 and neither of us has known of a man, woman, 
 or child that died in this hamlet but was carried 
 along the Death- Way to Overbeek churchyard. 
 Lord ! How was we to be buried, if he moves 
 the Death- Way ? Answer me that ?" He half- 
 lifted himself in the bed. 
 
 "We shall have to go round," replied the 
 more laconic visitor. The old woman seemed 
 suddenly to have reverted to the peril from 
 which the great tidings had diverted her. "Ye'll 
 be taken along quick enough, if ye go on like 
 this!" she cried, turning to the bed. "Doesn't 
 the doctor tell ye every time he comes that ye'll 
 kill yourself by moving about ? " 
 
 "He'll have to go round," said the visitor, 
 who had passed through the door. 
 
 The words infuriated the invalid. "Never," 
 he shouted, regardless of his wife. " Here, Jan ! 
 Piet ! where are the boys ? " 
 
 " Gone to the pigs," replied the wife. " They'll 
 be back in a minute or two. There was a butcher 
 from Wyk " 
 
 " What, and they never told me ? How much 
 did he offer? Do they think I'm dead already? 
 No, not by ten years yet. I've a better constitu- 
 tion than my father. Look here, how much did 
 you say ? " 
 
 " Why, he was only a-come to have a look at 
 
26 THE DEATH-WAY 
 
 them. You'll hear all about it. Lie still, father, 
 do, and don't talk ! " 
 
 " How can I not talk about the Death- Way ? 
 And as for not moving! — I wonder how much 
 he'll offer. Pork is dear just now. He ought to 
 offer twenty-two cents!" He looked round at 
 her with eager, wistful eyes. " D'ye think he'll 
 offer twenty-two cents ? " 
 
 "No," she said, walking across to the fire, 
 and removing the kettle. " Pigs is down." 
 
 The old man gave a faint howl. " Like my 
 luck I " he said. " I've never sold yet, that some 
 other man didn't, sooner or later, sell dearer. It 
 might be twenty-one and a half now, don't you — 
 oh! oh! oh!" He sat up in bed, bent double 
 with internal suffering, his face grew livid. 
 
 The wife ran up to him. " Deary! Deary 
 me! Is it one of your spasms?" she cried. 
 
 His pains prevented his answering : they in- 
 creased upon him : she hurried to and fro in the 
 chamber. * It's all your fault," she said several 
 times, " a-twisting yourself in the bed ! " — he was 
 in too great pain to reply. He lay forward, 
 alternately moaning and shrieking. So the 
 doctor found him, a few minutes later. The 
 doctor frowned. 
 
 "What's he been doing, Vrouw Putters?" 
 demanded the doctor. " Jan Putters, who's to 
 blame for this ? " 
 
 " He is," replied the wife. " He's been fussing 
 and fuming about the Death-Way, as if he 
 was a-going to be taken along it to-morrer!" 
 
THE DEATH-WAY 27 
 
 Then, suddenly, she began to cry. " He don't 
 even abuse me, doctor," she sobbed. " He can't 
 get to do it. Lord, what a bad way he must 
 be in ! " 
 
 " He is in a bad way," assented the doctor, 
 who had been removing the patient's bandages. 
 " His— Heavens, man, hadn't I told you to lie 
 still for your life ? Are you mad that you want 
 to kill yourself, Jan Putters ? " 
 
 " No, nor to be killed by a doctor," retorted 
 the sick man, between his moanings. 
 
 " Well, I shall have to have a try at that, all 
 the same," replied the doctor roughly. " I must 
 take immediate measures, or you haven't a day 
 to live." 
 
 The wife shrieked pitiful protests: the old 
 man turned his head angrily in her direction. 
 
 " Have ye never heard doctors' talk before ? " 
 he gasped. " I've a better constitution than my 
 
 — father " Through the half-open door his 
 
 two stalwart sons came in, with awkward vigour 
 and a smell of the damp outside. " Boys," he 
 stammered, "neighbour Lops has been here. 
 Liza's gone like me. There's something wrong 
 in her innards." Then he fell back, gurgling: 
 the sweat stood on his brow. 
 
 "You must help me," said the doctor to the 
 sons, " and be quick ! " They were clumsy : they 
 did their best. No deftness of doctor or assistants 
 could have saved the sick man agonies of suffer- 
 ing. When at last the operation was completed, 
 he lay like one more dead than alive. 
 
28 THE DEATH-WAY 
 
 "And what do you think now, doctor?" 
 questioned the anxious wife, by the door. 
 
 " He may pull through," replied the man of 
 science. His tone was very serious : he put up 
 his little case. 
 
 " If he doesn't move ? " 
 
 " If he doesn't move, of course. He has 
 brought this last crisis upon himself." 
 
 The patient faintly opened one eye. " I hear 
 you," he whispered audibly. " My constitu- 
 tion " he could get no farther. From sheer 
 
 fatigue he lay silent through two long hours, 
 while the twilight gradually glimmered into 
 gloom. 
 
 Then he moved his head and called — in a 
 murmur — for his eldest, Jan. 
 
 u Lift me up ! " he said, as his son bent over 
 him. 
 
 " Lord, father, didn't you hear the doctor 
 say !" 
 
 " Lift me up ! " The son had never, during 
 fifty years of his life, disobeyed that voice : he 
 could not begin now. 
 
 " D'ye believe in doctors ? " continued the 
 father with a sneer. " As well believe in vets. 
 I don't need a doctor to tell me how I feel. I've 
 got something to say. Turn the old 'ooman out." 
 
 As if she heard them, the wife glanced across 
 from some mess she was concocting for the 
 invalid. " Ye must die, if ye want to," she said. 
 
 " Tell her the chicks are running loose ! " 
 whispered the old man. 
 
THE DEATH-WAY 29 
 
 " Mother, you go out ! " said the son. He faced 
 her with a heavy air of command. She looked 
 him silently in the eyes and did as he bade her. 
 
 The old man chuckled feebly. " You're a chip 
 of the old block/' he said. " Look here, Jan, 
 doctor or no doctor, want or want not, my time's 
 come." The son would have objected, but old 
 Jan stopped him. " D'ye think I thought I was 
 going to live for ever ? " he asked. 
 
 "Your constitution " began the son. 
 
 " Something's gone in my innards : I've a-felt 
 it going. The farm's very small and poor, but I 
 done my best. I've nothing left to say to you or 
 Piet. You'll find a little money in the Bank. 
 Now, you must take me up and carry me into 
 the State Chamber. I mean to die where my 
 father and my grandfather died." 
 
 " I can't, father : it's murder." 
 
 " Ye can't murder a dying man, ye fool ! Stay ; 
 call Piet, so they can say it was both of you! " 
 
 Piet came and, between them, the brothers 
 carried their light yet clumsy burden, shuffling, 
 across the little passage. Half-way, stood the old 
 woman, lamenting. The old man took no notice, 
 breathing short, in loud gaspings of pain. 
 
 They stumbled into the " State Chamber" — 
 the Best Room, close and stuffy with unused 
 furniture and excluded sunlight, as such rooms 
 are apt to become. It was dark and sombre- 
 looking. The great black and brown cabinet 
 shone dully in the half-light beneath its weight 
 of delf. In the wall was an oaken cupboard-bed, 
 
30 THE DEATH-WAY 
 
 with panelled doors and green damask curtains : 
 into this the brothers sank their burden as best 
 they could. 
 
 For a long time Jan Putters lay there tortured. 
 The sons stood, lumpish, beside the bed. The 
 mother had come in, trembling. 
 
 At last he opened his eyes. " Draw the blinds 
 up ! " he whispered. " I want to see the old place 
 once more." 
 
 There was not much light left, even when 
 they had let in all they could. From where he 
 lay, he could just see the front of the "new" 
 barn, now ten years old. 
 
 " 'Tis a good building," he said, aloud. " I 
 should like to see a couple of the cows again, just 
 for once. I've been ill a long time, a week. I've 
 missed the cows. I should like to see a cow 
 again before I go where there ain't any. I don't 
 seem to mind so much any longer which I see." 
 
 All this he had spat out, with great labour, in 
 faint jerks. The two brothers looked at each 
 other: the younger stole from the room and, 
 presently, in the falling night, a massive grey 
 shape appeared beyond the nearer window. It 
 stood there impassive at first : then, disconcerted, 
 it broke into a melancholy roar. 
 
 "He's chosen 'White Bess,'" said the elder 
 son, "so you could see her better." 
 
 "Take her away. She don't want to stay 
 there," replied the dying man. 
 
 Then he lifted his scraggy grey head again 
 and hissed, amid suppressed catches of pain : 
 
THE DEATH-WAY 31 
 
 "Call Piet! Call him quick! Call!" The 
 weeping woman ran out. 
 
 " D her crying," said the old man, " but I 
 
 can't do it to her face, as it's for me. It's the 
 first time, Jan, that I cannot damn your mother 
 for doing what I don't want her to." 
 
 In spite of his eagerness he lay unable to 
 speak to them for more than a quarter of an hour, 
 after the mother had returned with Piet. It was 
 fully dark now outside : a candle stood ghastly, 
 behind the bed. 
 
 When at last he again found strength and 
 breath, it was to say : 
 
 " Boys, come here ! " 
 
 They bent over him, catching at his words. 
 
 "I'm a-lying here a-dying," he whispered 
 solemnly, "in the same place and same bed as 
 my father did, and his father afore him. I ought 
 to have had at least five years more, but there's 
 something gone wrong in my innards and here 
 am I a-dying in the State Chamber as I ought to 
 be. It might have hurt less, but that can't be 
 helped. Some pigs squeal a great deal more'n 
 others. I'm glad I'm a-dying in the State 
 Chamber, boys." His eyes wandered round the 
 splendours of the apartment, in the flare of the 
 shaky candle. "Your turn now," he said. 
 
 The two sons, both grizzly haired, bowed 
 their heads towards him. They watched him, as 
 he lay there, far into the night. The mother 
 busied herself about such poor nursing as lay 
 within her scope. Once or twice he cursed her 
 
32 THE DEATH-WAY 
 
 feebly, not unkindly, for doing something awk- 
 wardly, or for doing it at all. His sufferings 
 were continuous. 
 
 Shortly before the end, he beckoned his two 
 sons down close to his lips. " Swear that you'll 
 take me along the old Death- Way," he murmured. 
 " Swear." 
 
 They hesitated, looked at each other, stam- 
 mered that the Baron was making changes, that 
 the road now went round by the clump of 
 
 " Swear ! " he reiterated. " I can't die till I 
 know that I'm going as my father went. It's the 
 road that we've always took. The Baron can't 
 change it. I — the Death-Way — the — I — swear 
 — swear ! " 
 
 " We swear," said the sons. 
 
 " So help me — how does it go ? " 
 
 " God," said the sons. 
 
 An hour later he muttered something about 
 the price of pigs, and at three o'clock, in the first 
 chill change of the darkness, he said distinctly : 
 " My constitution," and died. 
 
 The doctor came just before breakfast. "I 
 told you so," said the doctor. They spoke little, 
 being Dutch peasants ; but the widow, looking 
 askance from her coffee-pot, asked mildly if any 
 one had been in any way to blame. 
 
 " Everybody except myself," replied the doctor 
 promptly. " Imagine his being moved to another 
 room after what I'd said — and done — last night ! 
 You've killed him, and he's killed himself." 
 
 " We never didn't do what he told us to do," 
 
THE DEATH-WAY 33 
 
 expostulated the widow. "We couldn't have 
 begun the day afore he died." And she com- 
 menced crying. 
 
 "Well, well," said the doctor, "what you've 
 got to do now is to make arrangements about 
 the funeral." He found them not easy to manage, 
 from sheer inertness. They had never, any of 
 them, during the last half-century, initiated any- 
 thing — taken any step that had not been pointed 
 out to them ; the sons had remained unmarried 
 because he had never told them to propose to 
 any particular girl. It was impossible for them 
 to realise, as they stood by the dead man, that 
 they must now give orders, and begin by giving 
 them about him. 
 
 The doctor helped them, and the parson, and 
 the notary. In all proposals that were made to 
 them they reasonably acquiesced. They went 
 about their farm duties as if nothing had hap- 
 pened. The daily round of duties engrossed 
 their interest : it was diversified rather pleasantly 
 than otherwise by the mild excitement of exhibit- 
 ing the corpse to every neighbour that called. 
 
 On the day of the funeral relations and 
 acquaintances assembled in considerable num- 
 bers. For, next to a wedding, a funeral is the 
 most gratifying public occurrence in the dulness 
 of a peasant's daily existence. Compared to a 
 funeral a christening is quite third-rate. There 
 is no thrill connected with a christening. 
 
 The two rooms were full of mourners, a 
 prominent place being occupied by the "weepers," 
 
34 THE DEATH-WAY 
 
 amazing old hags in black cloaks and black head- 
 cloths, relations, expressly invited to weep. The 
 widow sat beside her sons, at the top of the 
 " State Chamber," perfunctorily pretending to 
 listen to the minister, and frowning with annoy- 
 ance whenever one of the weepers stopped 
 weeping to take breath. The sons said "Yes" 
 and " No " to everybody, occasionally wrong. 
 They both fetched a sigh of relief when the head- 
 mute appeared in the doorway, announcing 
 thereby that the procession must get ready to 
 start. In old peasant fashion the coffin was 
 placed upon the dead man's waggon, a black pall 
 spread neatly over the waggon's gaily painted 
 sides. The "weepers," swathed in black, were 
 hoisted on top of it. The male mourners came 
 behind in rusty beaver hats, twice the height of 
 our modern ones, with enormous crape streamers 
 that hung limp in the still air. 
 
 Slowly the little company went wending up 
 across the sand-heath. The heavy road lay white 
 before them, enclosed in far masses of purple 
 bloom. Above, shone the sun with few clouds 
 around him. The landscape was desolate : only 
 once or twice a rabbit stopped, inquisitive, and 
 fled. 
 
 In the loose sand the horses strained and 
 stumbled. The mourners straggled, two and 
 two, with a peasant's unsteady gait. The two 
 sons came, behind the waggon, close, their coun- 
 tenances set. 
 
 From the open heath the road crept into 
 
THE DEATH-WAY 35 
 
 brushwood ; then it wound into fir-plantations 
 and so into the beech-woods of a park. The 
 hush of tall stems and full foliage fell upon 
 it. In silence and shadows the little company 
 plodded on. 
 
 Suddenly, the white path came to a stop, 
 almost with a jerk as it were, cut off, dead, by a 
 dry ditch, a small embankment, a sharp curve 
 into loose brown soil. On the top of the low 
 earth-wall, thrown up from the newly dug trench, 
 a white board fronted the advancing peasants : 
 " No Thoroughfare. Trespassers will be prose- 
 cuted." The head-mute, some few steps in 
 advance, came to a halt, in a twinkling of doubt ; 
 then he swerved to the right, where the freshly 
 hewn trunks lay scattered on both sides of the 
 still uncompleted track. 
 
 " Stop ! " cried Jan, the elder son, in a voice 
 that rang up to the green canopy above. 
 
 11 Straight ahead ! " he continued, pointing 
 through the board. "The Death-Way ! " He 
 had left his place behind the waggon, coming 
 forward, his brother following close. The cart 
 stopped : all the little band stood immovable in 
 their places, not understanding, as yet. 
 
 "But the road has been altered by the 
 Baron," expostulated the undertaker. "It now 
 runs " 
 
 "The Death- Way lies yonder!'' said Jan. 
 He ran to the horses' heads and hoarsely sum- 
 moned the old women to get down, which they 
 did, tumbling over each other with surprising 
 
36 THE DEATH-WAY 
 
 agility. Then, calling to his single farm-servant, 
 who was driving, to sit tight, and to Piet, and 
 a couple of cousins, to steady the coffin, he 
 deliberately dragged the struggling animals down 
 into the deep furrow, for it was little more, and 
 up again, with a great creaking and hoisting of 
 the wheels and their load, over the low earth- 
 work to the other side. By main force he did it. 
 Then he shook himself, taking breath, and quietly 
 patted the horse nearest him. " So ho ! " he said. 
 Piet, having given a tug at the pall, to straighten 
 it, came and stood beside his brother. 
 
 All the others stared curiously and shuffled. 
 Some hung back, glancing at each other, un- 
 certain. 
 
 "Those of you as want to turn back may 
 turn," called Jan. " I'm a-going to take my father 
 to his grave by the way that his father went." 
 
 " Yes, by G ! " said Piet. 
 
 Then, ashamed before each other, they all 
 came over the ditch, some jumping, some tumb- 
 ling, as a flight of ravens might swoop down 
 upon a field. For some hundred yards ahead of 
 them the old Way still lay untouched : they 
 moved along it, wondering, till it opened on to 
 a large square of hard gravel, which, although 
 they did not know this, was a new tennis-court, 
 not yet enclosed. Two young girls, who had 
 been playing — white figures — fled as the funeral 
 company broke from among the brushwood 
 upon their startled view. The two brothers ad- 
 vanced : they had taken the place of the terrified 
 
THE DEATH-WAY 37 
 
 undertaker. Their heavy peasant faces were 
 carved in stone : they kicked aside a couple of 
 balls, without seeing them, till they stood before 
 the tennis-net, nonplussed, for a moment only : 
 then Jan, now unable to act otherwise, stooped 
 and with a steady descent of his long, sharp 
 knife, sawed the net asunder. It fell away on 
 both sides : the waggon and its load scrunched 
 on. Behind it sank its two big ruts, across the 
 ruined court. 
 
 So they went straight ahead, and down the 
 central alley of the newly planned rose-garden. 
 And at the end of this they met the Baron's 
 sunbonneted babies in their donkey-cart, and the 
 young Baron himself on horseback beside his 
 children. 
 
 He rode up to them at once, as they came 
 steadily towards him : the small creatures in the 
 low carriage held back, staring, alarmed at the 
 collection of black scarecrows, the great black- 
 clothed waggon, with the dreadful creatures a-top. 
 The prosperous donkey cropped up his ears. 
 
 "And what is the meaning of this?" im- 
 periously demanded the Baron. He looked very 
 handsome and important, in his leggings, on his 
 showy bay mare. 
 
 Jan Putters and Piet Putters stood opposite 
 him. They drew their tall hats over their 
 eyebrows. " We are burying our father," they 
 said together. " By the old Death- Way," added 
 Jan. 
 
 " But you knew I had altered the road ! You 
 
38 THE DEATH-WAY 
 
 saw the notice. By George, you've come right 
 across the tennis-court ! I'll have you prosecuted ! 
 I " 
 
 " Mynheer the Baron has no right to alter it," 
 said Jan, while all the others gathered round. 
 " The Death-Way belongs to us all : it is older 
 than any Kings or Barons." 
 
 " No, Mynheer the Baron has no right," chimed 
 in Piet, coming to his brother's assistance. The 
 others — the most courageous of them — muttered 
 approval. 
 
 " Right ? No right ? I have an absolute 
 right ! " exclaimed the astonished Baron. " There 
 was no right of way of any kind, if you go talking 
 of rights ! " His irritated steed sprang aside. 
 The babies screamed : the Baroness came round 
 to them out of a shrubbery. 
 
 Another mother had also joined her children : 
 the old woman had clambered down from her 
 perch on the coffin and stood trembling, by the 
 Baron, between her sons. 
 
 " You've ruined my new plantation ! " shouted 
 the Baron, endeavouring to steady his horse. 
 " I'll summon you ! You shall pay for the damage, 
 every halfpenny ! " 
 
 " The damage ? " replied Jan, and cast a scorn- 
 ful glance upon the tract behind him. " For that 
 we will pay, if necessary, poor as we are. We 
 can pay for it"— he turned to his mother— "with 
 the things that are in the State Chamber — and, 
 if Mynheer the Baron has a right to stop up the 
 Death-Way, the Law must decide, but it is not 
 
THE DEATH-WAY 39 
 
 so ; only there is another law for the rich and 
 another for the poor." 
 
 " Right ! You shall hear of my right ! " cried 
 the Baron. He drew up his careering steed 
 straight across the path of the little band. 
 
 " So be it, Mynheer the Baron ! " said Jan. 
 " But yonder, behind you, is the end of the 
 Death-Way. Let us carry our dead to the 
 churchyard." 
 
 The Baron's horse stood where it stood, with 
 arched neck and waving tail. 
 
 The old woman, the widow, had stolen away 
 to the Baroness with eager entreaty. " Let me 
 bury my dead in peace ! " she pleaded. " Oh, if 
 it were he you were carrying away, and you I ! 
 I have loved him and obeyed him faithfully for 
 nigh on sixty years. It was his last command, 
 high-born lady, I must obey it." 
 
 "What can I do? It was very wrong," 
 answered the young Baroness, with tears in her 
 eyes. 
 
 Then, still that appeal in her face under the 
 grim, nunlike veiling, the old woman took the 
 great lady timidly by the hand, as the children 
 nestled closer, and, faltering at first, but with 
 increase of purpose, led her and the children up 
 to the Lord of the Manor, on his horse, across 
 the path. As his wife and his little ones came 
 close to him, he fell back : the woman passed, and 
 the little procession, the coffin with the silent, 
 draped figures upon it, the straggling mourners, 
 the curious mutes, closed in and passed too. 
 
TUBERCULIN 
 
 THE cow was slowly wandering across the 
 sunlit field. She flicked her tail to and fro 
 as she munched the faded grass. Up here among 
 the hills the food was not what a first-rate cow 
 would order ; this one remembered very different 
 pastures not more than six weeks ago. But cows 
 cannot state their wants, like human beings, and 
 even when known, those wants, as sometimes 
 with human beings, are scarcely attended to. 
 The grass was the best that the neighbourhood 
 provided. The cow appeared to chew it con- 
 tentedly, but that may have been a human 
 mistake. At any rate, she chewed it again. She 
 was certainly unaware of the notice she was 
 attracting. She chewed. And she stalked on, 
 flicking her tail. There was grass, of a kind, to 
 chew, and that for a ruminative cow, in a world 
 of flies, is always something. It is said that they 
 ruminate. 
 
 "Is she or is she not?" said one of the 
 watchers. Two gentlemen stood by the stile at 
 the bottom of the field, intently contemplating 
 the cow. One of the gentlemen was a young 
 man in spectacles; the other, somewhat older, 
 wore the habit of a country squire. 
 
TUBERCULIN 41 
 
 Can't you see? " demanded the Squire." 
 ' Most certainly not," replied the doctor. 
 
 The cow lifted her head and munched. 
 
 "Well, she's consumptive, at any rate," 
 laughed the Squire. The doctor did not laugh. 
 He thought the remark showed a levity bordering 
 on intemperance. The Squire looked a little 
 bit ashamed, and composed his face to meet the 
 seriousness of the subject. 
 
 "The fact remains to be faced," said the 
 doctor, "that your dear little daughter refuses 
 to drink her milk boiled, as she ought to do." 
 
 " Yes, bother ! " said the Squire. 
 
 But the doctor corrected him. "It is 
 functional," said the doctor, "a nervous con- 
 traction of the trachea. The poor child is quite 
 powerless. In former days many a valuable life 
 has been sacrificed from physical incapacity to 
 swallow a pill." 
 
 " Dear me ! " said the Squire. 
 
 "Our sweet little Anna, then, is physically 
 incapacitated from swallowing boiled milk, yet 
 her constitution imperatively demands a quart 
 of that nourishment per diem." 
 
 " Dear, dear ! " said the Squire. He would 
 have liked to use some stronger word, but he 
 only flicked his boot. 
 
 "Under the circumstances," continued the 
 doctor, "the natural solution presents itself. 
 Sterilise ! " 
 
 "The cow?" asked the Squire. 
 
 "No, the milk." 
 
42 TUBERCULIN 
 
 "Why, that's been tried," exclaimed the Squire 
 impatiently. "The child can't endure it." 
 
 " Quite so. Physically incapacitated again." 
 
 " That's no good," said the Squire. 
 
 " Another means, of course, remains." 
 
 " Which ? " demanded the Squire. 
 
 " Pasteurise." 
 
 " Why, that's been tried ! " shouted the Squire. 
 
 " Quite so. Physically incapacitated again." 
 
 For a moment the Squire looked at the doctor, 
 as if some idea of mental incapacity were floating 
 through his kindly, bucolic brain; but soon he 
 reasserted, with a lurch, his respect for the 
 science of which he knew nothing. 
 
 "Then," he said a little ruefully, "the child 
 must just drink her milk as Nature sends it her." 
 
 The doctor — whose name was Tott — lifted 
 up hands of scientific horror. "Nature!" he 
 repeated, " my dear sir ! A poor, blind purveyor 
 of microbes! Would you expose your dear 
 little daughter — your only treasure — to the tender 
 mercies of Nature ? " 
 
 " My wife won't hear of it," said the Squire. 
 
 "She is quite right," answered the doctor 
 severely. 
 
 " But, good Lord ! if the child must have milk, 
 and can't drink it sterilised, Pasteurised, boiled, 
 or raw, then how in the name of goodness " 
 
 The doctor held up his appeasing palm. " The 
 resources of science," he said, " are infinite. Have 
 you never heard of Koch's tuberculin ? " 
 
 " The stuff that doesn't cure consumption ? I 
 
TUBERCULIN 43 
 
 should rather think I have. We were at Wies- 
 baden that winter when the whole hocus-pocus 
 got known. The fearful winter of '90 it was, and 
 all the poor invalids started off for Berlin, and 
 died on the way ! " 
 
 The doctor half turned aside, with a hand still 
 uplifted that now had become deprecatory. 
 
 * Oh, well, well ! " he said. 
 
 "And those that didn't die couldn't procure 
 any when they got there." 
 
 "I don't remember about that," said the doctor. 
 
 " And if they did procure it, it didn't do them 
 any good." 
 
 " But it has an effect on cows," said Doctor 
 Tott. 
 
 The cow looked round at them and slowly 
 winked. 
 
 " It may not cure anybody or anything," said 
 Doctor Tott, " but it gives a cow the fever." 
 
 "Well, that's something to be thankful for," 
 said the puzzled Squire. 
 
 " It is indeed, for by its means we can ascertain 
 whether a cow has tuberculosis or not." 
 
 "And cure it, when it has?" said the Squire. 
 
 " Oh, no," said the doctor. 
 
 "H'm," said the Squire. "Well, what you 
 mean, I suppose, is that if we can make sure the 
 cow is perfectly healthy, then the child can safely 
 drink her milk raw." 
 
 " Exactly," said the doctor. 
 
 " But typhoid ? " ventured the Squire. 
 
 " There is no danger of that up here. There 
 
44 TUBERCULIN 
 
 is no risk of anything but tuberculosis, and 
 Koch's tuberculin can settle that." 
 
 "Then give her — the cow, I mean — a pill 
 to-day." 
 
 The doctor drew himself up, huffy all over, at 
 last. The poor Squire stared at him. 
 
 "I am not a veterinary surgeon," said Tott 
 with dignity, "and it isn't — given in pills." 
 
 " I'm sure I beg your pardon," said the Squire. 
 
 " I will communicate with the proper person," 
 continued Tott, " and the proper person will make 
 the necessary investigation in the proper way." 
 
 "Quite so," said the crestfallen Squire. " Which 
 vet. would you recommend ? Keene ? I have 
 frequently employed Keene. Good chap. Has 
 picked up a lot of desultory information about 
 horses." 
 
 "I have nothing against Keene, but I should 
 advise a younger man," replied Tott. "One of 
 the men from the College. Veterinary teaching 
 has wonderfully improved during the last ten 
 years. It is now fairly scientific. Say Larkin. 
 I should recommend Larkin, from Lyme. An 
 intelligent investigator is Larkin." 
 
 " What ! The young man with half the 
 alphabet behind his name ? All right," said the 
 Squire. " And you think this cow will do ? " 
 
 " I am no judge of cows," replied Dr. Tott. 
 He looked impatiently at his watch. The Squire's 
 wife, full of her own complaints and complainings, 
 and of those of her spoilt little only girl, was the 
 doctor's best permanent investment ; but there 
 
TUBERCULIN 45 
 
 are limits, and the jolly, easily puzzled Squire, 
 who never even needed a powder, was not a 
 sympathetic subject anyway — at least, not to Dr. 
 Tott. 
 
 Old Keene, the horse-doctor, got on well 
 enough with the Squire, and had even given him 
 a couple of hygienic hints for himself, which 
 proved by their success how much the constitu- 
 tions of all animals have in common. Dr. Larkin, 
 looking up, recognised this fact. Dr. Tott, 
 looking down, denied it. Denied it, in spite of 
 vivisectionism. " A cow is a cow, and a man is 
 a man," said Dr. Tott triumphantly. "Not 
 Doctor Larkin, I think." 
 
 Mr. Larkin then stood looking at the cow 
 with the Squire, as Dr. Tott had done. The cow 
 yawned. Dr. Tott was not there, and Mr. Larkin 
 breathed freely. He was a smart-looking, bright- 
 faced young man, with a little, yellow moustache 
 and well-fitting clothes. He had to look horsey, 
 so he wore gaiters, and scientific, so he wore 
 spectacles, to his own lasting regret and his 
 young wife's, but he had to, because of Dr. Tott. 
 He had brought the tuberculin and the syringe, 
 and so, under the interested eyes of the Squire 
 and the contemptuous eyes of William, the cow's 
 intimate attendant, he inoculated that quadruped 
 — more contemptuous than William and less 
 interested than her master — with an injection 
 under the right breast. 
 
 " Now," he said, " we shall have to see if her 
 temperature rises. Forty-eight hours sometimes 
 
46 TUBERCULIN 
 
 elapse before that takes place. During the next 
 three days I shall, therefore, come over from 
 Lyme four times a day to take her temperature." 
 
 u Whew ! " said the Squire. He was wonder- 
 ing, not from a pecuniary, but from the comically 
 puzzled point of view, what his little daughter's 
 scientific cup of milk was going to cost. 
 
 " Four times a day ! " he repeated. " All the 
 way from Lyme ! That seems a lot of trouble." 
 
 " Science," responded the vet. almost in the 
 same accents as the doctor, " doesn't ask about 
 trouble. It demands accuracy. Science is accu- 
 rate, or it is not." 
 
 " Yes, oh, yes ! " said the Squire. 
 
 " And, therefore, in the intervals between my 
 visits some trustworthy person must apply the 
 thermometer. I presume you are — ahem ! — to be 
 trusted, my man?" 
 
 "No, sir," replied William, alarmed, putting 
 both hands behind him. 
 
 " What the devil do you mean ? " asked the 
 Squire. 
 
 " I'm not to be trusted with that thing, sir," 
 exclaimed William in a frightened voice. " I 
 don't understand about it— no, I don't, sir. And 
 if I popped it in, and it didn't come out again, 
 sir, and Miss Anna was to find the glass in her 
 milk — and they do say as that silver stuff inside 
 is poison, sir— and I couldn't be trusted to do it 
 — and I never was good at figures — and please, 
 sir, I don't understand no more about it than 
 the cow." 
 
TUBERCULIN 47 
 
 " Hold your tongue, stupid ! " said his master. 
 " The doctor'll show you how." 
 
 "It'll be difficult," said the vet. with a superior 
 smile, "but I'll do my best." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " said the Squire, frowning good- 
 humouredly. "You've been to school, William, 
 and learnt all these things, as all you people do 
 nowadays. Why, Mr. Larkin, all the Board- 
 school children in the cities, that never saw a 
 cow in their lives, learn the technical names of 
 its three stomachs, and what the three stomachs 
 are for." 
 
 " Four stomachs," said Mr. Larkin, and his 
 superior smile grew transcendental, "the rumen, 
 the reticulum " 
 
 " Yes, yes," said the Squire again quite hastily. 
 " I belong to an older generation than William, 
 and I must say I don't see the use of those Latin 
 names — not even for me, and certainly not for the 
 future factory hands. Now be attentive, William. 
 
 Good day, Mr. ," and, whistling to his dogs, 
 
 the Squire walked off. 
 
 " You may call her stomachs what you like," 
 said William to the vet. ; " it don't make any 
 difference to her." 
 
 Mr. Larkin looked at the quiet young farm- 
 hand, with the healthy, simple face, and won- 
 dered that in a world of sagacious animals human 
 beings should be so dense. 
 
 " This," he said, " is a thermometer. You're 
 holding it wrong side up." 
 
 " Lor — I beg your pardon ! " cried William. 
 
48 TUBERCULIN 
 
 " Oh, it doesn't matter. If you let it drop, 
 it'll break ! " 
 
 " Lor— will it ? " cried William. 
 
 "Look here — let me have it again, please. 
 These are figures ! " 
 
 "Are they? I never was great at figures," 
 said William, shaking his yellow head. "At 
 school, master always said : ' William, you can't 
 even take care of number one.' " 
 
 "The Squire said you were to try and under- 
 stand," cried Larkin. 
 
 "So he did," answered William contritely. 
 " I do hope it won't hurt my cow." 
 
 "What's her name? Here, Molly! Polly! 
 Bright Eyes ! " The vet. started after the retreat- 
 ing quadruped, who had evidently come to the 
 conclusion that the whole proceedings, including 
 the prick, were derogatory to her dignity, and 
 who now marched off, her nose well up in air. 
 
 "Her name is Sweet William," replied the 
 cow's faithful caretaker, with conscious pride, as 
 he prepared to follow his charge. " Miss Anna 
 christened her so herself. She said it was her 
 favourite flower." 
 
 Not long after, when the vet. had departed, 
 and William sat pensively contemplating the 
 little glass tube, six-year-old Miss Anna wandered 
 into the field, with her faithful attendant, Caro- 
 lina, in her train. Miss Anna's mother had often 
 suggested that there were pretty flowers to pick 
 in more eligible quarters ; but Miss Anna, whose 
 early taste for botany must on no account be 
 
TUBERCULIN 49 
 
 crossed, stoutly maintained that no such butter- 
 cups were to be found anywhere as in the field 
 where the cow was, whither Carolina therefore 
 carefully conveyed her about the time that 
 William came peeping over the stile. 
 
 " What bosh it all is ! " said Carolina, as 
 William explained about the cow. 
 
 Her swain grinned from ear to ear. " Isn't it 
 'xtrordinary," he said, " for a man like master, 
 that's had school learning, to be so superstitious 
 as that ? He really believes it, too," said William, 
 shaking the yellow head — * believes the vet. can 
 see if the creature is ill or not by putting this 
 little— my! I nearly dropped it! — tube in its 
 mouth." 
 
 " Sweet William ! " said Carolina, in accents of 
 rapt admiration. She didn't mean the cow. In 
 fact, she had advised the selection of an appro- 
 priate appellation for the quadruped, so that she 
 might innocently discourse to Miss Anna of the 
 biped all day. " Do you know what missus said 
 to me this morning, William ? " continued Caro- 
 lina. "It's you, she says, that puts the child's 
 back up against the sterilised milks. Master'd 
 never have thought of that. And it's true, ma'am, 
 
 I says, and I can't help it. I don't say anything, 
 but Miss Anna sees as I couldn't drink them 
 myself. And I couldn't. Pah, the smell ! But 
 boiled milk, says missus. Pah, the skins ! " 
 
 " I wonder," remarked William reflectively, 
 
 II what'll they do with the poor beast if the vet. 
 says she has got his tubers ! D ! "—his fresh 
 
50 TUBERCULIN 
 
 face grew suddenly dark red — "That fellow 
 shan't dispoge of her, if he does say so. I can 
 see through his little trick. Taking her off 
 master's hands for a song, and dispoging of her 
 to the butchers at Lyme. Oh, no, Mr. Spout ! " 
 He added viciously : " She's the best of the lot. 
 She shan't go to the butchers, in any case." 
 
 The good-natured Squire, who always, espe- 
 cially after a vehement " No," did what his 
 dependents advised him to do, was at this 
 moment thumping with the handle of his riding- 
 whip, in a frenzy of excitement, at the doctor's 
 dispensary door. At every thump his mare 
 squirmed aside, to the terror of the small boy 
 who held her. " Whoa ! Whoa, my girl ! " The 
 doctor came out. 
 
 " Good heavens, Tott ! " cried the Squire, 
 perspiring. " My wife has just told me that 
 she's eliminated— no — what the dickens is the 
 word I want ? — elicitated from Carolina that 
 she's let Anna drink twice — on two several 
 occasions — of the cow's milk — Sweet William's 
 milk — it's the cow's name. Anna gave it her — 
 raw ! Raw, Tott ! " 
 
 " It is frequently not fatal," said the doctor. 
 
 "I don't mean that. What's done can't be 
 helped. But if we were to find out now — now, 
 Tott — that Sweet William's got— what do you 
 call it ? — tuberoses— we shouldn't know another 
 happy moment — not one of us ! I must shoot the 
 beast before Larkin comes back— shoot her!" 
 
 The Squire stamped around; the mare 
 
TUBERCULIN 51 
 
 described vast semicircles on the doctor's gravel ; 
 the little boy bumped about like a ball. 
 
 " There's no cause," began the doctor, and his 
 voice — and the smile of his spectacles — were 
 balmy, "for anxiety. Even if the cow should 
 show symptoms of tu-ber-cu-lo-sis, there would 
 be no cause. At present, science is quite uncertain 
 whether tu-ber-cu-lo-sis can be communicated 
 from an animal to man." 
 
 * Huh— h— h ? " said the Squire. 
 
 " There is an influential opinion that it cannot." 
 
 The mare gave a bound ; the little boy flew. 
 
 " There is another that it can." 
 
 " Whoa ! " cried the little boy. 
 
 " Both may be right." 
 
 "Huh— h— h— h— h?" said the Squire. 
 
 11 Or neither," said Dr. Tott, closing the door 
 as politely as he could, in a farewell bow to his 
 interlocutor. Tott was very busy at the moment. 
 When the impatient visitor flew at the door, the 
 doctor had been half-way through with a roaring 
 ploughboy's rocking tooth. In a country prac- 
 titioner's experience that sort of thing lasts long. 
 And when he is interrupted, it lasts longer. 
 
 The Squire rode home musingly. But he 
 wasn't any clearer by the time he alighted in his 
 own stableyard. He isn't any clearer to-day. 
 Nor is the faculty. 
 
 All the same, he heard with satisfaction from 
 William that the thermometer hadn't stirred. 
 
 "Leastways, I didn't see it do it," added 
 William, cautiously. 
 
52 TUBERCULIN 
 
 Presently the vet. came bicycling in and 
 careered with the rest of the party after the 
 retreating Sweet William, thermometer in hand. 
 
 " However," repeated the vet, "we can say 
 nothing with certainty for the next forty-eight 
 hours. Of course, no one must touch her milk, 
 cooked or otherwise. " Throw it away ! " 
 
 "Of course, sir," said William, with a mild 
 wink in his mild eye. Thereupon he threw it 
 away on the various farm-servants and gardeners. 
 
 But two days later, as the Squire and his wife 
 were entertaining a large circle of guests who 
 had dropped in to tea, the footman appeared 
 with a very portentous face and announced that 
 a gentleman was anxious to see his master. 
 
 "Gentleman? Who? Oh, not now," said 
 the Squire. 
 
 "Yes, I think my dear little Anna is better, 
 but the poor child wants strengthening. If only 
 we could get her to drink boiled milk " 
 
 "Why don't you try sterilised? My sister- 
 in-law's little girl — oh, no ; now I remember, it 
 was my cousin George's dead wife's grand- 
 father " 
 
 " He says it's very important, sir," ventured 
 the footman. 
 
 With a half-impatient shrug the Squire went 
 into the entrance-hall. 
 
 " Oh, it's you!" he said, for Mr. Larkin stood 
 there. 
 
 No wonder his auspicious mien had impressed 
 even the footman. 
 
TUBERCULIN 53 
 
 " I am truly delighted to be able to inform 
 you, sir," he cried in triumphant tones, " that the 
 — the cow presents absolutely no symptoms of 
 tubercular infection. She may be declared 
 sound!" He relished this statement so much 
 that he repeated it. " Declared sound." 
 
 The Squire, who had been far more worried 
 than he dared admit to himself about the past 
 drinkings, if not about the future, ran back and 
 threw open the drawing-room door. " Adelaide," 
 he cried, "the cow is sound ! " 
 
 " Oh, I am so thankful ! So grateful ! Yes, 
 as I was saying, the Pasteurised milk loses all 
 its best qualities (so the papers have been telling 
 us), and boiling " 
 
 "/boil," said the clergyman's wife. 
 
 " But now, you see, the cow is sound. And 
 the vet " 
 
 " This is Mr.— Dr. Larkin— ahem ! " said the 
 Squire. The doctor stood bowing in the door- 
 way. All looked at him with much interest; 
 they were quite a numerous party, and all, of 
 course, gone on hygiene — the attempt to keep 
 their rather useless bodies a little longer than 
 otherwise undead. 
 
 " We are so grateful to you, Dr. Larkin ! " 
 cried the unbalanced Adelaide. " I feel that you 
 have saved my daughter's life ! " There was a 
 thrill. The vet. blushed, had a cup of tea, agreed 
 that the weather was hot for the time of year, 
 and departed. In the hall he said to the Squire 
 (while they were hunting for his hat, which he 
 
54 TUBERCULIN 
 
 had left in the drawing-room): "It would be 
 advisable to renew this investigation every three 
 months." 
 
 " No, no ; for the present we shall specially 
 reserve this one cow." 
 
 " That's what I mean — examine this cow. She 
 is perfectly healthy now, but of course she may 
 become infected to-morrow." 
 
 "She may?" The Squire stood aghast. 
 " Why, then, if you wanted to make sure, you 
 ought to examine her milk every day, and not 
 drink the milk on the day of the examination." 
 
 " Well — yes," said the vet. 
 
 " And that seems to you reasonable ? " asked 
 the Squire discreetly. 
 
 "Perfectly reasonable. But we can be con- 
 tented with approximative certainty." 
 
 " My wife won't be." 
 
 "The risk of infection is small up here." 
 Somebody had brought his hat. He stopped on 
 the steps. " Of course, the person who milks 
 her must be perfectly healthy— that goes without 
 saying. Else " 
 
 "Else what?" 
 
 "I could not be responsible for the con- 
 sequences." 
 
 " Is it certain that the infection passes from a 
 man to a beast " 
 
 " Koch says not, but Klausen says yes." 
 
 " Hang Klausen ! William's healthy enough. 
 Oh — Good Heavens! — he had a very bad cold 
 last winter." 
 
TUBERCULIN 55 
 
 " Did he cough ? " 
 
 "Yes, he coughed a lot. His old mother 
 fancied he was going off in a decline." 
 
 "You had better send for Dr. Tott at once," 
 said Larkin, getting on to his bicycle. 
 
 The Squire ran after him down the drive. 
 " Couldn't you — inoculate — William ? " he gasped. 
 
 The vet. hung on his bicycle. "No good 
 with human beings," he cried. 
 
 "But William is such a great calf!" almost 
 sobbed the Squire. 
 
 The vet. felt that in matters scientific such 
 levity approached nearly to drivel. 
 
 The Squire went back to his wife and abused 
 science, but she pointed out to him how easy it 
 is to condemn what you don't understand. One 
 lady was busy praising a new condensed milk 
 for infants. "But the nourishment is insuffi- 
 cient, I understand," she said, " after their fourth 
 year." 
 
 " I always boil mine," said the clergyman's 
 wife. 
 
 On this evening, of all evenings, little Anna 
 elected to be fretful and to demand the raw milk 
 which had been surreptitiously supplied to her, 
 before all this rumpus began, by her repre- 
 hensible maid. " I daren't now ! " cried the dis- 
 tracted Carolina. Next morning a messenger 
 was sent post-haste for Dr. Tott, who affectedly 
 grumbled, sotto voce, up to the library door and 
 entered with a perfunctory smile. The Squire 
 and his wife were there together, solicitude 
 
56 TUBERCULIN 
 
 written in every wrinkle of their brows. "Oh, 
 doctor ! " cried the lady. At that cry of faith and 
 need Tott relented. He beamed on the pair. 
 
 "Little Anna won't touch her boiled milk!" 
 sobbed the mother. 
 
 " But I hear that Sweet William is all right ! " 
 cried Dr. Tott. 
 
 U It isn't Sweet William now : it's William," 
 interposed the Squire hastily. "You must find 
 out at once, please, that William hasn't got 
 what's-his-names, or he'll be giving them to the 
 cow." 
 
 " Hasn't got what's-his " 
 
 " Yes. Auscultate him, doctor — that's the 
 
 word, isn't it ? Let's go and find him at once " 
 
 The Squire ran for his cap. 
 
 " I can auscultate him as much as you like," 
 said the doctor coldly, " but that won't enable me 
 to certify him free from tuberculosis." 
 
 The Squire stopped in the doorway. His 
 face went quite red. "Then what, in the name 
 of all that's reasonable, will?" 
 
 "Nothing will. Science hasn't got as far as 
 that yet. We shall in time. Meanwhile, Koch's 
 tuberculin " 
 
 "Enables you to say that a cow's milk is 
 harmless on the day when you mayn't drink it ! " 
 burst out the Squire. 
 
 The doctor took no notice. " I advise you to 
 choose a man who hasn't had a chest attack. 
 William was certainly bad last winter. He 
 seems all right now." 
 
TUBERCULIN 57 
 
 44 Of course he's all right. What am I to say 
 to him ? " 
 
 "Oh, Horace, best make sure," put in little 
 Anna's mamma. 
 
 44 You can say that he's not " — a happy thought 
 struck the doctor — "not clean enough ! " 
 
 44 Oh, I say, I can't do that ! A smarter farm- 
 hand never stepped." 
 
 The Squire walked out at the window; the 
 doctor, at the lady's appeal, followed after him. 
 44 I can't be such a brute as that," said the Squire, 
 with rueful countenance, striding away towards 
 the paddock. He waited for the doctor to catch 
 him up. 
 
 14 If we get a man who's never coughed, we 
 shall be all right ? " he asked. 
 
 44 As far as human certainty goes, yes," said 
 the doctor. 
 
 44 1 thought scientific certainty was certain," 
 replied the Squire crossly. 4I Well, I've thought 
 out what I can do about William, and I dare say 
 I'll find my man. There William goes — hi, 
 William ! how's the cow?" 
 
 44 Doing beautiful, sir. She's given a pailful 
 of cream this morning." 
 
 44 You're hyperbolical, William; but that's 
 neither here nor there. I wanted to tell you 
 that I've been planning for some time to give 
 you the under-keeper's place and the cottage, 
 now that old John's dead." 
 
 44 It's very good of you, sir, very good indeed." 
 14 Well, what more ? " The Squire always, 
 
58 TUBERCULIN 
 
 in his good temper, investigated his servants' 
 feelings too far. 
 
 " I was only thinking, sir, I should be a bit 
 lonely at first. My mother couldn't leave the 
 others, and I shouldn't think, of course, of taking 
 away Carolina from Miss Anna." 
 
 "No, you mustn't do that," said the crestfallen 
 Squire. The doctor had hung back; he now came 
 hurrying up — they were close to the paddock. 
 
 "Why!" he spluttered. "Why! Why! 
 There's another cow in there with— how's that ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir; you see, sir, she was lonesome 
 after all the fuss there's been about her," said 
 William, smiling. "She was lowing so, I put 
 another in with her last night, when it was all 
 over, to keep her company." 
 
 "To keep her company!" shouted the doctor. 
 "To infect her." He turned to the Squire. 
 "You can begin the whole thing over again," 
 he said. 
 
 " Oh, d n ! " said the Squire. He said the 
 
 whole three syllables out loud, and he wasn't 
 sorry afterwards, in William's presence. 
 
 Without exchanging another word, the two 
 gentlemen retraced their steps. The doctor 
 thought the Squire was a very ill-tempered man. 
 Really almost his best quality was his invalid 
 wife. That lady stood waving a paper from the 
 terrace before the house. 
 
 " A letter from Mary," she cried. " She was 
 talking to me yesterday of a wonderful condensed 
 milk in jars. It appears that it does wonders." 
 
TUBERCULIN 59 
 
 "Deleterious/' said the doctor. He was a 
 kind-hearted creature, but he would gladly have 
 devised mediaeval punishments for these amateur 
 proposers of remedies. With a leap he reasserted 
 his medical position. 
 
 " If you really abandon the idea of raw milk/' 
 he said, " and you know that I never advocated 
 it, then there is a new German method of de- 
 bacteriolising, which leaves the taste." 
 
 "And the strength?" queried the Squire. 
 
 The doctor glanced at his patient's yellow 
 face. 
 
 " And the strength," he said. 
 
 " Then why didn't you tell us before ? " 
 
 " Because dear little Anna insisted on having 
 her milk raw. And, besides, this is quite a new 
 thing ; I only read of it last week." 
 
 " Heaven be thanked ! " said the Squire. 
 
 " If only the child's nurse is reasonable about 
 it," remarked Dr. Tott. 
 
 " We must see about that," said the Squire. 
 
 " Far be it from me to interfere in any way," 
 persisted the tormented Tott, " but has it not 
 occurred to you, madam, that the nurse's authority 
 over our little Anna is almost too — too pre- 
 ponderating? The dear child sees with the 
 maid's ears — eyes, I mean — and tastes, so to 
 speak, with her tongue. Is there no danger that 
 a mother's sweet guiding influence may be— I 
 would not say, undermined?" 
 
 Anna's delicate mother sat up with astonish- 
 ing rapidity. 
 
60 TUBERCULIN 
 
 "You are quite right, doctor," she said. 
 " The same thought has occurred to me. Carolina 
 had better go. What a man of discrimination 
 you are ! " 
 
 The Squire, ere the last sentence had been 
 spoken, was already out of the room hunting up 
 Carolina. He called her away from little Anna's 
 box of bricks. 
 
 " Carolina, you like to drink your milk raw," 
 he said. 
 
 She eyed him out of the corners of her eyes. 
 She had heard of Sweet William's good health. 
 
 " Oh, the little / takes, sir ! " she said ; " but 
 it's Miss Anna " 
 
 " Yes, yes, I know. Now, look here ! There's 
 a new milk coming. If Miss Anna likes that — 
 you understand me — I'll give William old John's 
 cottage and his place. If she likes it; you 
 understand ? " 
 
 "I understand, sir," said Carolina, her eyes 
 on the floor. 
 
 "And, if she likes it awfully, there may be 
 some bits of sticks — odds and ends that we don't 
 want — to help furnish that cottage, Carolina." 
 
 " Oh, sir ! " said Carolina. 
 
 But the Squire had taken himself off. Best 
 leave his words to sink in. 
 
 "Poof!" he said, and again sought the 
 fresh air. 
 
 "How about Sweet William, sir?" said 
 Sweet William's namesake, softly, at his elbow. 
 
 " Take her away ! " cried the Squire. " I 
 
TUBERCULIN 61 
 
 never want to hear her name again ! Carry her 
 off! Make whatever you can of her ! Dispose 
 of her, William!" 
 
 " My beauty/' said William, with his lips to 
 the cow's ear, " I'll dispoge of you. Your milk 
 won't give me the tubers, nor Carolina, nor the 
 kids that'll turn up in the cottage some day." 
 
PRAYER 
 
 THE preacher's voice sank drowsily upon the 
 drowsing heads below. In the little white- 
 washed chapel, with its closed windows and 
 closed doors and enclosed multitude of smells, 
 the atmosphere was one of physical and mental 
 suffocation. Outside, the August sun shone 
 bright, and green branches lay fresh against the 
 dusty windows. The minister's chickens grubbed 
 and clucked against the walls. 
 
 In the minister's pew, where all eyes could 
 behold them and criticise, sat his children, beside 
 their mother, in a row. There were seven of 
 them : the smallest, Peterkin, aged three, tight 
 against her, the others, in a yellow-headed ladder, 
 leading up to the stepbrother, the big boy, Jan 
 Somers, aged eleven. 
 
 For the minister's wife had been a widow 
 with one child when she had married him, a 
 woman of some means and some culture, alto- 
 gether above the status, social and mental, of the 
 minister. 
 
 She had loved her first husband, Captain 
 Somers, but she had deeply regretted, too late, 
 his want of religion. She herself had been 
 suddenly converted at an open-air meeting and 
 
PRAYER 63 
 
 she was sorrowfully vexed with her husband for 
 not sharing her experiences. When he died by 
 a fall from his horse in the plenitude of his 
 health she was stricken down to the dust. 
 Rotteval; the Methodist minister, administered 
 much consolation, and in the course of doing so 
 married her. With the curious inconsistency 
 of her co-religionists she accepted her first 
 husband's incontrovertible damnation as an in- 
 evitable fact and tranquilly left him to the mercy 
 of God, while proclaiming, as a tenet of her creed, 
 that God's mercies were confined to the living. 
 
 Within five years she bore Rotteval six 
 children, and the means which had amply sufficed 
 for herself and her little Jan appeared inadequate 
 to keep filled with any comfort half-a-dozen 
 gaping mouths and a Methodist chapel. The 
 new husband proved exacting. His standard 
 was himself. 
 
 The boy Jan, occasionally drawn forth to his 
 father's people from the increasing discomfort of 
 his own home, returned thither, disconcerted, 
 out of joint. His grandfather, his uncles, all 
 heartily abused the hypocrite Rotteval, while 
 conscientiously hushing each other with nods in 
 the direction of the child. Before Jan Somers 
 was ten he had grasped the situation as it 
 presented itself to his dead father's relatives; 
 he placed the Somerses much higher and the 
 Rottevals much lower than was consistent with 
 an unknown reality, and himself with his mother 
 hung wretchedly between. 
 
64 PRAYER 
 
 Instead of reproaching his mother he clung 
 to her, as so-placed children will, with all his 
 heart and soul. And he loved all his little step- 
 brothers and sister devotedly, reserving his 
 indignant contempt for the man who had given 
 him them. 
 
 "The unending damnation of the damned," 
 droned the minister, without a tinge of feeling in 
 his voice. Jan knew the familiar rise and fall of 
 the words which left his heart untouched. At 
 grandfather's they told you that death was death; 
 there was nothing beyond. You dropped like a 
 fly, or went out like a lucifer match. You knew 
 nothing of these things. Death was profoundly 
 uninteresting. He followed with impatient eyes 
 a buzzing bluebottle against the whitewash, 
 longing to catch it and hold it tickling in his fist 
 and let it go. 
 
 The minister's was a Dutch sermon : he droned 
 for nearly an hour and a half. There are no clocks 
 in such chapels, for a very good reason, but no 
 clock could have induced him to be shorter. 
 
 Half-way he said " Damned " with an extra 
 emphasis of pause and contemplation. His eyes 
 wandered round the little assembly ; everybody 
 woke up, and two collections took place to the 
 tinkle of little bells at the end of black bags, 
 while a psalm tune meandered through the 
 building at the rate of three words to ten seconds. 
 Jan had measured the pace one day, by the aid 
 of the silver watch his grandfather had given 
 him, and been whipped on the Monday morning 
 
PRAYER 65 
 
 for looking at the time during church. Yet what 
 did he care about the time ? He knew they were 
 half-way when he had put his two cents into the 
 double collection : and the hour would elapse 
 before he could escape into the open. Nor 
 indeed was there any real escape, on the Sunday, 
 from the two services and Sunday school and 
 the talk in between. 
 
 It is not true, as some people have stated, 
 that Rotteval intentionally ill-treated his stepson. 
 Still less can it be maintained that the man was 
 a hypocrite. His religion was, of its kind, 
 sincere. It was of his own making and he 
 proportionately believed in it. Its principal 
 conviction, unconsciously suffusing every action 
 or conclusion, was that human nature had by 
 sin become so hopelessly corrupt that Simon 
 Rotteval, being human, was infallible. Moreover, 
 every man, woman or child was hopelessly 
 damned, unless elect, and must therefore be 
 saved. Personally, he, Simon Rotteval, was 
 elect, and his wife, and his half-dozen children. 
 The future state of the naughty, hardening step- 
 son could not be so certain. It followed that, 
 while all young hearts should be whipped into 
 goodness, the stepson, in his own interest, being 
 oftenest naughty, must, for love of the child 
 himself, be most frequently, regretfully chastised. 
 
 Therefore there was much correction in the 
 house of Rotteval, and the mother, when her 
 fond instincts objected, was always effectually 
 silenced by texts from the Book of Proverbs. 
 
66 PRAYER 
 
 She surrendered unconditionally to the Book of 
 Proverbs. She could stand up against Rotteval 
 when his ideas clashed too much with her gentler 
 upbringing, but not against Rotteval backed by 
 Holy Writ. 
 
 So little Jan was solemnly spanked, caned and 
 flogged, with the progress of his ages, into good- 
 ness not only, but into active piety. Never 
 slapped or cuffed, for that, in the executant, might 
 be dictated by, or at any rate ascribed to, temper, 
 while a solemn ceremonial, preferably postponed 
 till the day after, with much deploring of evil 
 and depreciation of boy nature, and glorification 
 of the Rod, could never be otherwise explained 
 than by that passionate love of amelioration which 
 enables a heavy-hearted (and handed) preceptor 
 to endure the sufferings he bestows upon another. 
 "I could not feel it more, were he one of my own," 
 said the stepfather to the mother. She believed 
 him. 
 
 To say that Jan's heart was thus forcibly 
 inclined not only to obedience, but to active piety, 
 is no exaggeration. For Rotteval was of those 
 who believe that the terrors of religion alone 
 appeal to the natural man. He beat t the Bible 
 into his children, filling them with minatory 
 and condemnatory passages which he painfully 
 underlined. 
 
 On the Sunday morning in August, to the 
 drowsy congregation, his discourse was of prayer. 
 He repeated the usual commonplaces about that 
 greatest of living mysteries, the meeting of the 
 
PRAYER 67 
 
 human will with the divine, and, being compelled 
 to preach for an hour and a half, he repeated 
 them over and over again. Jan was not listening. 
 He was not an imaginative boy, healthy, happy- 
 go-lucky, full of play, but he had felt long ago, 
 in his sound little heart, that his stepfather was 
 mistaken on the whole about God, and that in 
 no case would it be possible for him, Jan Somers, 
 to love both. 
 
 " I am sure God is a gentleman," the little boy 
 had once said to one of his uncles, " and ' papa ' 
 is not." 
 
 The uncle had laughed, a foolish habit in 
 intercourse with children. 
 
 "There isn't any God," he had answered, 
 "but, of course, if there were, you would be right." 
 
 Jan Somers did not believe his uncle — any 
 more than he believed Mr. Rotteval. For, doubt- 
 ing of his own clear-spoken conscience, he had 
 applied to his mother, and she, drawing him to 
 her bosom, had murmured eagerly of our Father 
 which is in Heaven. 
 
 " Don't tell papa," she had said as she loosened 
 her hold, "for he wouldn't understand." 
 
 The tears which had gathered in Jan's eyes 
 dried to salt. 
 
 "Ask whatsoever you will," said the preacher 
 for the twentieth time, "and if your will be in 
 unison with the Lord's, He will grant your 
 request." 
 
 Little Jan had heard only the text, and the 
 text, ringing like a refrain throughout the sermon 
 
68 PRAYER 
 
 — he would have to say it, without a hitch, before 
 dinner— had easily got itself stuck in his head : — 
 
 "And all things, whatsoever ye shall ask in 
 prayer, believing, ye shall receive." 
 
 He was not yet twelve. After his twelfth 
 birthday he would have to repeat as much as he 
 could remember of the sermon. He used to think 
 sometimes with vague terror of the Sundays 
 when he would be more than twelve. Meanwhile, 
 on this particular Sabbath morning he comforted 
 himself with the very utterances of Scripture, 
 not heeding a syllable of his stepfather's jargon 
 all around them. The promise opened up to 
 him a source of power, hitherto unsuspected, of 
 boundless possibilities. A little boy was omni- 
 potent. Whatever he asked the Almighty to 
 do the Almighty was bound, by His own pledge, 
 to perform it. 
 
 " If I ask God to make me win Everard Over- 
 veld's blood-alley, He must do it," he thought. 
 For, like all children nurtured upon dogma, he 
 was ever ready to be misled by a new aspect of 
 a text. He nodded stealthily to little Peterkin, 
 at the other end, close to mother. " If I get the 
 blood-alley, I'll ask Him to make Peterkin strong," 
 he reflected. For Peterkin was a delicate creature. 
 But Peterkin tried hard to stare straight ahead. 
 Jan, whom all the stepchildren adored, was 
 constantly getting scolded for misbehaviour in 
 church. 
 
 At last the long service was over ; the children 
 walked home. Jan had been looking forward to 
 
PRAYER 69 
 
 the fresh air and the sunshine. Once out in them, 
 he felt disappointed. The air was still stifling ; 
 the light made him giddy in a way it had never 
 done before. The fields swam before his eyes, 
 and a hot something pricked and throbbed in 
 his throat. 
 
 When all were already gathered around the 
 table the father came hurrying in. He was a 
 tall, fat man with the regulation rusty clothes 
 and oily skin and solemn manner. He cast a 
 comprehensive glance over the dinner, in the act 
 of sitting down, with a sigh. Then his eyelids 
 sank slowly and his important voice orated a 
 grace. 
 
 " I was detained," he began, with his spoon in 
 the soup, "by the Widow Koppers, who was 
 again sorely troubled about her soul." 
 
 "I wish she wouldn't be troubled at meal- 
 times," objected Mevrouw Rottenval. 
 
 The minister reproachfully shook his head. 
 "It was the sermon," he said. "The blessed 
 result of my unworthy discourse " He sud- 
 denly checked himself, spoon in mid-air. " By- 
 the-by, Jan, you have not yet repeated your 
 text ! " 
 
 Jan, who was swallowing slow mouthfuls 
 with a difficulty he had never experienced before, 
 cleared his throat, and prepared himself for utter- 
 ance. To his horror he realised that the carefully 
 noted verse would not come at command. It was 
 gone from him altogether. There was only a 
 singing in his head. 
 
70 PRAYER 
 
 All the children waited. A drop of soup fell, 
 with a splash, from the stepfather's spoon. 
 
 " I — I don't remember," said Jan. " It was 
 about prayer." 
 
 The minister carefully deposited the spoon 
 in his plate. " Don't remember ! " he echoed. 
 
 "Oh, Jan, you must remember/' pleaded the 
 mother; "it was such a little text." 
 
 " It was prayer — about prayer," stammered 
 Jan." 
 
 " Ask whatsoever " prompted his mother, 
 
 but the minister intervened with unctuous hand. 
 
 " My dear," he declaimed, " you must pardon 
 me. The boy has nearly attained to those years 
 of discretion which, amongst the Chosen People, 
 were considered to admit of initiation into the 
 mysteries of the Law, yet he can sit under the 
 ministration of his father for two blessed hours 
 and not condescend to pick up a single crumb 
 from the Table ! " Then he turned to his step- 
 son. "Go upstairs to your bedroom," he said. 
 " If you thus despise spiritual food, it is not meet 
 that you should enjoy carnal ! Go upstairs to 
 your room, Jan, and copy out the text you 
 have forgotten, or rather not learned, twenty 
 times. . . . Matthew twenty-one, twenty-two ! " 
 he called after the small retreating figure. 
 
 " It is very wrong of him," said the mother, in 
 answer to her husband's half-questioning, half- 
 reproachful glance. " I cannot understand why 
 the dear child shows such frequent indifference 
 to religion. I sometimes fear it is my fault, 
 
PRAYER 71 
 
 Simon, because, you see, he was born of parents 
 who did not know the Lord." 
 
 "He certainly had not the inestimable advant- 
 age of these babes," assented Simon. " His 
 father was a man of sin. Ours is a great respon- 
 sibility, Matilda ; we must never ignore it — lest 
 the child grow up like his father ! " 
 
 Matilda sighed, a very mingled sigh, full of 
 sinful, sweet memories and present-day solem- 
 nities, a sigh of contentment withal. 
 
 Meanwhile the boy, settling to his task, gave 
 a similar little sob, but his sounded like one of 
 relief. He seemed glad to have got away from 
 the noise and the sunlight downstairs. The bed- 
 room was comparatively cool. For the first time 
 in his life he felt ill, and he did not understand 
 the feeling. 
 
 "Believing ye shall receive," he wrote, his 
 inked fingers clinging tight around the pen. His 
 head drooped down low upon his hand. " Ask 
 whatsoever ye will " 
 
 He looked up, to the blue sky beyond the 
 window, the Northern Summer sky, placid and 
 benign. The words were slowly eating them- 
 selves into his heart. The morning's thoughts 
 in chapel came back to him. And he nodded 
 to high heaven with full understanding of 
 his strength. Then again he dropped his face 
 toward the paper. "And all things what- 
 soever " It seemed to him as if, suddenly, 
 
 he held Aladdin's Lamp. 
 
 His castles in the air were upset by the 
 
72 PRAYER 
 
 entrance of his stepfather. Simon Rotteval took 
 up the partially filled sheet and carefully ex- 
 amined it. 
 
 "You have written very untidily," he said, 
 " but I will excuse you the rest, because it is the 
 Sabbath, and, besides, we must soon get ready 
 for Sunday school. Say your text, Jan." 
 
 The boy said it, fluently enough this time. 
 
 "And now, Jan, we will kneel down together, 
 and, using this great privilege accorded us, will 
 pray that you may grow up a God-fearing man, 
 not an unbeliever, like your relations." 
 
 In a flash the boy felt that the final word, 
 intentionally vague, was aimed straight at his 
 dead father. 
 
 " I won't," he said. 
 
 The minister swelled out in all his long 
 rotundity, egg-shaped. 
 
 " Child ! " he exclaimed. 
 
 Little Jan faced him, dizzy and determined. 
 
 " Kneel down here ! " cried the minister, pro- 
 jecting a shiny forefinger, " and pray at once to 
 be good." 
 
 The boy did not stir. 
 
 Simon Rotteval stood waiting for a long, 
 solemn moment : then he proceeded majestically 
 toward the door which communicated with his 
 own chamber, and Jan's heart sank into his 
 boots. But it came up again with a thump 
 against his teeth and set them hard. 
 
 The minister returned with a well-known 
 cane. He paused by the door. 
 
PRAYER 73 
 
 "In consideration of its being the Sabbath 
 day I will give you another chance," he said. 
 
 But Jan, with the thought of his dead father 
 coming uppermost, remained silent, so he was 
 first exhorted, then stripped and severely beaten, 
 to the glory of God. 
 
 The children downstairs listened awestruck, 
 looking at their mother. " Jan is naughty," said 
 the mother. She felt very sad about her little 
 son. 
 
 " You will remain here," cried the incensed 
 pastor, as he flung the boy from him, " until you 
 consent to ask forgiveness of your Creator ! You 
 are not fit to partake of our Sunday-school devo- 
 tions ! To think that any child of mine should 
 deliberately refuse to pray!" Then he hurried 
 out of the room, as if not trusting himself to 
 remain, and locked the door behind him. 
 
 The boy lay for a long time as he had fallen, 
 shaken by sobs. When at last he arose, grown 
 calmer, there was that look on his face of set 
 hatred which only ill-treatment can call up. He 
 went to the window and stood gazing out. The 
 summer afternoon was very still. 
 
 Suddenly he said aloud : "If I ever pray again, 
 it will be that papa may die ! " And presently he 
 added : " I swear it." 
 
 Then again he was silent, thinking long, 
 thinking what it would mean to him, to his 
 mother, to all of them, this deliverance from the 
 torment of oppression, as it appeared to him, the 
 free return to grandpa, the uncles, the easy-going, 
 
74 PRAYER 
 
 educated Somers family. His mother's feelings, 
 entirely moulded by her religious sympathy with 
 her husband, he could not, for lack of such sym- 
 pathy, understand. According to his father's 
 people she had made a monstrous mistake. And 
 he loved her in spite of it, longing for her release 
 from the degradation it had brought upon her. 
 
 The slow hours dragged on, as he stood or 
 lay, thinking in a circle of angry triumphant 
 thought. Whether he stood by the window or 
 hung across the bed, the white paper on the 
 table seemed to call to him. "All things what- 
 soever — all things " And he felt that he held 
 
 his step-father's life in the hollow of his little 
 hand. 
 
 His head rolled on the pillow; the words 
 went whirling round and round. As the shadows 
 began to lengthen, the dull stabbing and swelling 
 in his throat which had troubled him all day 
 increased rapidly till he could hardly endure 
 them. He sat up and gasped ; the room seemed 
 to heave toward him. 
 
 The door opened softly, and his mother 
 came in. 
 
 " Jan, I hope you are no longer naughty," she 
 said. 
 
 He did not answer, as much because of the 
 physical effort it would have cost him as for 
 want of a right word to say. 
 
 "You grieve your papa very much," his 
 mother continued, and came and stood by the 
 bed. 
 
PRAYER 75 
 
 As she did so, he turned his hot face toward 
 her, and she started. "Are you ill?" she said. 
 
 "I— I don't know," he gasped, and at the 
 sound of his voice she swayed back. 
 
 " Does your throat hurt ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Come to the window. Let me look at it ! " 
 
 He staggered off the bed. " It— it isn't very 
 sore," he said. 
 
 "Are you sore anywhere else?" she asked, 
 laying down, with trembling hand, the spoon she 
 had pressed upon his tongue. 
 
 He looked at her, and she crimsoned. "I 
 mean, do you feel pains in your limbs?" 
 
 "Yes, in my legs, mother. I did all the 
 morning." 
 
 " Oh, Jan, why didn't you tell me ? A few 
 hours may make all the difference." 
 
 "What would it have mattered? I should 
 have had to go to church all the same." He 
 tumbled back to his bed. 
 
 "Get into it at once," she urged, and fled 
 from his unconscious reproach. She knew, 
 without the hastily summoned doctor's telling, 
 that the child had caught diphtheria. 
 
 All the others must be hurried out of the 
 house, divided among willing members of the 
 little congregation. A placard, according to 
 the foolish law of the country, must be affixed to 
 the front door, warning all men not to enter, 
 although the inmates continued at liberty to go 
 wherever they listed. Ninety-nine exasperating 
 
76 PRAYER 
 
 medical measures had to be taken against infec- 
 tion, all utterly fallacious because of the imprac- 
 ticability of a hundredth. In the silence and 
 bustle of nursing, the constantly renewed re- 
 quirements of dangerous illness, the mother and 
 the stepfather wore themselves out. The house 
 was hushed around the struggle, yet alive with 
 the terror of an impending catastrophe. After a 
 day or two an operation became necessary. The 
 doctor shook his head. 
 
 When he came back in the evening he shook 
 it again. He was with the parents in the room 
 adjoining the sick-room. 
 
 " If the boy is in danger, he must know it," 
 said Rotteval. The mother looked across at the 
 rugged old doctor, all her agony of hope in her 
 face. 
 
 "Of course he is in danger," replied the 
 doctor. "If you tell him, you will probably kill 
 him at once." 
 
 " I am responsible," said Simon, " for my 
 stepson's soul." 
 
 The doctor shrugged his shoulders. " And for 
 his body, I presume," said the doctor, walking out. 
 
 " Don't, Simon ! " said the wife softly. " Let 
 me." They were both pale with anxiety and 
 night-watching. The fat man's clothes flapped 
 
 about him. "The child's soul " persisted 
 
 Simon. 
 
 "I will be its keeper. Simon, I have never 
 wanted my own way : I have let you act for the 
 best with the boy " 
 
PRAYER 77 
 
 " Do not reproach me with that now ! " cried 
 the stepfather. " If you had desired differ- 
 ently " 
 
 "Did not I say it was for the best? I re- 
 proach no one, not even myself. We have done 
 our duty by the child according to our lights. 
 God knows the rest. Grant me now this one 
 
 thing: let me " Her voice faltered. She 
 
 faced him. " Do you think it is an enviable thing 
 to tell a child he is going to die ? " 
 
 " Come, come, it is not as bad as that ! " 
 objected Simon, advancing to place a limp hand 
 upon her shoulder ; but she shook him off and 
 burst into an agony of tears. 
 
 " It will be to-morrow," she sobbed. 
 
 And, indeed, she had too well understood 
 the doctor's reticence. Through the night she 
 watched the unequal battle; in the early grey 
 morning she said to herself : " It is nearly over." 
 
 She knelt by the bedside. Perfect silence lay 
 all about her, in the house, and around it. Her 
 husband was asleep in the adjoining room. Not 
 a leaf stirred, not a living creature outside. Only 
 the short, quick gasps of the boy kept on, and 
 on, and on, stabbing her to the heart, every one. 
 It was three o'clock, the majestic dawn of a 
 cloudless summer day. 
 
 " Jan ! " she whispered, close to the dying 
 child's ear, "you are very ill, dear. You must 
 pray to God ; you must pray." 
 
 He faintly shook his head. To her unspeak- 
 able horror, in distinct refusal, he shook his 
 
78 PRAYER 
 
 head. It was to her, in the honesty of her reli- 
 gious fervour, as if all the grief and anxiety she 
 had undergone were as nothing compared to 
 this moment of agony. She clasped her hands 
 till the nails entered the flesh without her 
 observing it. Was it possible that the misun- 
 derstanding between the child and his stepfather 
 had brought her boy's heart to this ? 
 
 In a tumult of intercession she bent over him, 
 regardless of the danger, and, amid the cries of 
 her soul to God — 
 
 "Jan!" she said, "Jan! You are ill. God 
 only knows how ill you are. You must pray to 
 Him ! You must pray ! " 
 
 The boy forced himself to a supreme effort. 
 " I mayn't" he hissed. 
 
 For that had been, throughout all the fever 
 and the torment, amid the hideous confusions of 
 his fancy, that had been the continuous oppres- 
 sion, worse even at times than the iron tightening 
 at his throat. " O God, I mayn't. You know I 
 mayn't ! " He had repeated it over and over 
 again, in restless tossings and whisperings, 
 during the long day, the longer night. He was 
 bound by his childish oath to pray first for his 
 stepfather's death before he could put up any 
 other petition. 
 
 " Whatsoever ye shall ask ! " It seemed 
 written in the air all around him : the flowers on 
 the wall-paper wreathed the words in unending 
 chains. He could ask his life of God ; the pain 
 would stop; he would get up and run about 
 
PRAYER 79 
 
 again. But his mother would be a widow, his 
 little stepbrothers orphans. 
 
 "O God, have mercy upon me. You see I 
 mayn't. I can't, God ; You know I mayn't. Oh, 
 help me, though I mayn't pray. My throat 
 hurts so ! " 
 
 Of the Deity of his stepfather's preaching he 
 understood little, yet he knew Him to be terrible, 
 righteous, an avenger. He knew every word of 
 the Bible to be literally true : it must be accepted 
 exactly as it stood. 
 
 " I mayn't," he gasped, turning to his mother 
 his desperate, appealing eyes. 
 
 She lost all control of herself, sinking down 
 by the bed. " You may ! " she shrieked. " You 
 may ! You may ! It's a lie of the devil's. O 
 God, pity him ! Pity me ! Tell him it's a lie ! 
 Have mercy on him. Help him to pray ! " 
 
 But he knew that she couldn't understand. 
 He was unable to explain to her. He could only 
 lie gasping away his life. 
 
 " Oh, pray to Him ! " she sobbed, " pray ! 
 pray ! Shake your head, dear, to show you 
 understand ! " 
 
 He lay staring at her, not moving, anxious to 
 spare her the pain of a refusal, pretending not 
 to hear. 
 
 Then, suddenly, there came to him a great 
 understanding that he was doing right, and that 
 God, far beyond all men, knows right from 
 wrong. God, as he had once cried out, in the 
 clumsy muddle of the religious contortions 
 
80 PRAYER 
 
 around him, was a gentleman, and he met Him, 
 in his death-agony, as a gentleman should. 
 
 " I have done right," he said, deep down in 
 his young soul. " Have mercy on me, God ! " — 
 and in the swift calm of that overspreading 
 consciousness he died. 
 
 Simon Rotteval, stealing in many minutes 
 later, found the mother, lost in prayer, by the 
 bed. 
 
 "You must not pray for him any longer now," 
 he said ; " that would be wrong." * 
 
 She opened her eyes and gazed at her 
 husband. 
 
 " I know," she answered ; " I am praying for 
 myself. And for you." 
 
 " You consider me to blame ? " 
 
 " No, Simon ; of course our religion is right. 
 But I can only say, God, have mercy ! God, 
 have mercy ! " 
 
 "The Lord knoweth His own," said Simon 
 Rotteval. 
 
THE LIBRARY 
 
 IT was the young Countess who started the 
 village library — that village library. She 
 had been staying, with her mother, at the great 
 English philanthropist's great place in Scotland, 
 and that gentleman's — I beg his pardon, that 
 nobleman's — daughters had shown her their 
 library, and all the Jocks and Jeans, in a motley 
 medley, on a Thursday evening, by the electric 
 light (from the castle) in the village "tea" room, 
 having out Scott and the Schonberg-Cotta family, 
 and the whole of the " Pansy " series from the 
 hands of the Lady Grizel and the Lady Meg. It 
 had been quite an effective scene, and it had 
 impressed itself deeply on the young Countess's 
 well-intentioned mind. The bonnie braw faces 
 (I am not sure that " braw " is right, but I believe 
 so), the soft, sweet-smelling summer evening 
 outside, the heat and blaze indoors, and the 
 eager hands outstretched, as their turn came, 
 for instruction, and the young ladies in their 
 white frocks and jewels, helpful, interested, 
 giving advice. And a great, big lubber of a 
 farm-hand, who had said, in his clownish manner 
 (so " taking "), when they offered him u Waver- 
 ley " : " Na, nae " (or is it "nae, na ? "), that Scott— 
 
 G 
 
82 THE LIBRARY 
 
 it was the "ither " one he had meant, the brown 
 volume "yon," the " History of the Westminster 
 Conference " ; he had heard there was a powerful 
 lot of instruction in that. His auld grandmither, 
 he said, had told him Walter Scott was "warldly " : 
 there was a micht of love-making and profane 
 swearing in Sir Walter. The Lady Grizel said 
 that was true, up to a point. She offered him 
 the second volume of the Schonberg-Cotta 
 family, the first happening to be out at the time. 
 
 The young Countess came home to Holland, 
 thoughtful and rather happy. She was so tired 
 of her one act of kindness to others, which was 
 scratching her parrot's head. Once upon a time 
 she had undertaken — at the great philanthropist's 
 instigation — helping " Silly," the idiot boy, to 
 live his life. But he had left off living it 
 altogether, just as she was beginning to make 
 headway. She had spoken of it, sadly, with the 
 
 good English earl (Lord D ), and he had 
 
 agreed with her that such dispensations — the 
 having to dispense with " Silly" — were very 
 painful. Lady Meg had given her some charm- 
 ing ideas for muslin morning gowns, and the 
 address of the best manicure woman in London : 
 she went back rather happy and very thoughtful. 
 She had thoroughly enjoyed her stay. 
 
 Her own home doesn't stand among hills and 
 heather ; its surroundings are stunted pines 
 and great wastes of dune-land, away towards 
 the sand-girt sea. It is rather a desolate region. 
 There are not muslin frocks enough in the 
 
THE LIBRARY 83 
 
 neighbourhood. But you can be very useful. 
 And in the winter you get away to the Hague. 
 
 You can be very useful. That was her 
 haunting sorrow, and had been for years— she 
 was now twenty-seven — the feeling that you 
 ought to be, and could be. She came back 
 home, from all that usefulness and splendour in 
 Inverness-shire, thinking it out gently to herself 
 in the train : the latest novel they had given her 
 to read on the journey — one of Mrs. Humphry 
 Ward's — slipped from her pensive fingers to the 
 floor. The bump woke her mother, much tried 
 by the emotional night-crossing and clumsily 
 dozing. 
 
 " What's that ? " cried the old Countess. " My 
 dear, how you startled me ! " The Countess 
 Hilda realised that her usefulness was again not 
 all that it might have been. 
 
 She found her father, as usual, full of com- 
 plaints about the poor people. He said they 
 were so shockingly ignorant. But he had always 
 said that. Except when he said they knew too 
 much. 
 
 " But how can they be ignorant and know too 
 much?" Hilda had once timidly questioned, many 
 years ago. 
 
 He stared at her, with his fine, hard, old 
 countenance, the bent nose, the parchment 
 cheeks, the grey frill. 
 
 u My dear," he said, u if you were not abso- 
 lutely unacquainted with everything concerning 
 the peasantry, you could not possibly inquire." 
 
84 THE LIBRARY 
 
 That was all the reply she got. One must 
 admit that it was damping. 
 
 "They don't know the right things," her 
 British friend had explained to her. "You are 
 ruined in your country by Board schools, secular 
 education, absurd development of what nobody 
 needs— in one word, the Tyranny of the Teacher. 
 You are fifty years ahead of us in this craze, and 
 you are suffering from all the mental diseases 
 that we shall get to in time, if we don't look out. 
 You follow me ? " 
 
 "I wish I could," replied Hilda, who mis- 
 understood this English phrase. 
 
 He was very patient, and wise and good— he 
 did well, and meant even better — he told her all 
 about it over again. 
 
 " But most of my father's labourers can't even 
 write," she said. 
 
 " They can read, however." 
 
 "Oh, yes; they can all read." 
 
 " That's bad enough. I mean to say : what an 
 opportunity for evil! Have you any idea, my 
 dear young lady, what they read ? " 
 
 "No. I don't think they read anything. The 
 local paper, perhaps. But only the children that 
 fall into boiling water." 
 
 "The children — that — I don't think I 
 quite " 
 
 "The local accidents-column. What we call 
 the ! Sundries.' Even my maid, who is of course 
 quite of the highest class, always tells me of 
 the babies that have fallen into boiling water. 
 
THE LIBRARY 85 
 
 Nothing else seems really to interest her. And 
 so many fall." 
 
 "Immediate measures should be taken to 
 stop it," said the philanthropist, energetically. 
 " A village creche " 
 
 "Yes," said Hilda sadly, "my mother arranged 
 with an old woman once to take the smallest 
 infants. But, when everything was ready, all 
 the little cots and — and other household utensils, 
 the mothers refused to send their children. It 
 appears they didn't trust the old woman. They 
 had an idea she might get the children mixed." 
 
 "They need a great deal of patience," said the 
 philanthropist, with a sigh. 
 
 "It is true she was very blind," admitted 
 Hilda, in a small voice. 
 
 "The difficulty might easily have been obvi- 
 ated," he pleaded, "by a simple device. In our 
 great cities, where the danger is much more 
 real, the thousands of infants in every crtche, 
 have a number stamped on their cot, on their 
 mother " 
 
 Hilda cried out. 
 
 "Given to their mother, of course I mean," 
 he said, with just a tinge of impatience on his 
 angelic countenance ; " on their night-gowns, their 
 bibs and their bottles." He stopped to draw 
 breath. " On every article they use, I believe," 
 he added. " But the babies would probably not 
 interest you. My unmarried daughters object 
 to babies. They are all the better with the 
 boys." 
 
86 THE LIBRARY 
 
 Hilda thought of " Silly," and a tear gathered 
 in her eye. 
 
 " I'm afraid of boys ; they're so rough," she 
 pleaded. 
 
 "You did very well with that poor idiot the 
 one time you spoke to him ." 
 
 " It was only once, and he was an idiot," said 
 Hilda. 
 
 " Well, my girls told me you were so much 
 interested in their library. I feel sure Meg 
 would be delighted to help you in any way she 
 could." 
 
 " But they don't want to read, with us," she 
 repeated piteously. 
 
 "They must be made to want, then," he 
 answered sternly. "Your country people are 
 evidently a very different sort from our Scottish 
 peasantry, who all read Shakespeare, Carlyle, 
 Emerson and Burns." 
 
 "Oh, indeed, indeed, they must be very 
 different ! " she said earnestly. " Now, my maid, 
 when we were on the Riviera, she never could 
 go to church, you know, and we felt she must 
 have some religious instruction, and I took to 
 reading her Mr. Spurgeon's sermons on Sundays. 
 Do you know Mr. Spurgeon's sermons?" 
 
 He smiled. " Yes. They are very beautiful : 
 don't you think so?" 
 
 "Yes, I think they are very beautiful," she 
 answered shyly, " and also a little long. Elizabeth 
 found them very long. Although I skipped. 
 Do you think it was wicked to skip?" 
 
THE LIBRARY 87 
 
 " Not if you did it for her sake. It would 
 have been, had you done it for your own." 
 
 " Oh ! " she said gratefully, and hesitatingly, 
 "but Elizabeth used to yawn dreadfully, and 
 once she fell fast asleep, so I fear I didn't skip 
 enough. Then I thought it would be better to 
 read her the Bible only. I couldn't be wrong 
 about that, and, if she fell asleep, it must be her 
 fault : don't you think that was right ? " 
 
 " Very right," he answered. 
 
 " So I read her the story of Esther — in parts. 
 That always seems to me such a beautiful story, 
 and Elizabeth listened with great interest ; she 
 really did." 
 
 " Aha ! " 
 
 " Yes, but, some days afterwards, I asked her 
 whether she didn't think Mordecai was a splendid 
 character, and she said : Yes he was ; but the 
 character she liked best was the nice young clerk 
 from the shop." 
 
 The noble earl waited, sympathetically. 
 
 "I found she had hopelessly mixed up the 
 Bible narrative with some goody-goody modern 
 story she was reading at the time." 
 
 "You should not say goody-goody stories, 
 my dear. They are the foundation of our library, 
 as they will be of yours." 
 
 So, in her odd mixture of satiric aspiration, 
 the young Countess returned, resolved to work 
 the library. She told her old-fashioned parent 
 a great deal about Clochtghlorchler, and he said 
 he was heartily glad he hadn't been there. But 
 
88 THE LIBRARY 
 
 he was a curmudgeon, and, like so many fathers, 
 he might have made her life ten times pleasanter 
 without any discomfort to himself. 
 
 " Pshaw ! " he said. " The less they read, the 
 better for them!" 
 
 " But that is because they don't read the right 
 kind of things," replied Hilda. 
 
 He stared at her. And then he made a sound 
 as if he were gargling. That was his way of 
 saying Clochtghlorchler. You can't do it different, 
 unless to the manner born. Then you say : 
 Clooter. 
 
 She would have despaired of beginning her 
 library at all, but a week or two after her return 
 there arrived a big parcel, addressed to her from 
 Scotland. She clapped her hands. 
 
 " Oh, the tartan they promised me ! " she cried. 
 " How delightful ! " 
 
 But it was not the tartan this time : a pile of 
 books rolled on to the carpet — publications they 
 proved of the London " Society for the Rational 
 Development of a Refined Imagination among 
 the Respectable Poor." The Society's stamp 
 was upon every copy, so that there might be no 
 mistake about whom they were intended for. 
 
 " Father forgot to ask you," wrote Lady Meg 
 (this rather peculiar appellation, by-the-by, was 
 a "link with our humble kinswomen of the same 
 clan "), u but he is sending these books, because 
 he feels sure they will come in useful. You 
 Dutch people are such wonderful linguists that, 
 
THE LIBRARY 89 
 
 no doubt, many of the better class villagers have 
 a smattering of English. Father says he was 
 surprised at the way all the tram-conductors 
 spoke our language at Amsterdam. I suppose 
 your people are bilateral like our own High- 
 landers, and of course, with our great empire, 
 English does tend to become the universal 
 language, doesn't it ? What a responsibility ! 
 
 " Your affectionate 
 
 " Meg 
 
 " I'm afraid the tartan won't be ready for 
 another three weeks. Do write and tell me 
 all about your library. We are so immensely 
 interested. When are you coming to Scotland 
 again ? " 
 
 So the library was started. It had a nucleus. 
 When the old Count saw the nucleus in a little 
 pile on the drawing-room floor, he said " Pshaw ! " 
 And he went off to his room without another 
 word than that aggravating one, and returned 
 presently holding a big volume under his arm. 
 This he solemnly deposited on top of the nucleus. 
 It turned out to be a book of Japanese poetry 
 that somebody had forgotten in the library, 
 somehow, many years ago. 
 
 "This is my contribution," said the old Count 
 gravely. 
 
 Hilda laughed, then her face grew very 
 solemn. 
 
 "Never mind," advised the comfortable 
 Countess. 
 
90 THE LIBRARY 
 
 But the old lady did a little more than that. 
 She answered an advertisement in the news- 
 papers, and bought up a cheap remnant of 
 standard authors — six dozen odd volumes, many 
 appropriate — and she placed these in a splendid 
 row before Hilda, when the girl came down to 
 breakfast on the day after they had arrived. 
 
 "So the library is started, willy-nilly," said 
 Hilda, kissing her mother. 
 
 "Your responsibility altogether, my dear," 
 growled the Count. 
 
 " It will do Hilda a lot of good," said Hilda's 
 mother. The Countess was the image of placid 
 contentment. She enjoyed unbroken health, her 
 position, and a good dinner. She thought you 
 should be very kind to the poor. 
 
 The good work now being fairly under way, 
 Hilda, with much nervousness and misgiving, 
 asked for books, hunted up books, spent her 
 limited pocket-money on books. As a matter of 
 fact, she was originally the rich member of the 
 family, an old aunt having left her a large sum, 
 but this legacy had early become her misfortune, 
 for her father, to secure the reversion to his son, 
 had practically condemned her to a life of single 
 blessedness. Meanwhile he allowed her a pittance 
 out of the revenues. The scandalous law of the 
 country which designedly destroys all hereditary 
 possessions must be adduced to condone the old 
 Count's action, though it cannot altogether excuse 
 it. It had caused Hilda to reflect frequently, when 
 out of spirits, that everybody would be the better 
 
THE LIBRARY 91 
 
 for her death. At present she worked hard writing 
 out numbers and sticking them inside the books 
 and on the backs. It was decided that the library 
 should be installed on shelves in a corner of the 
 " Church-room," the House being more than a 
 mile distant from the biggest and most central of 
 the many scattered heaps of fishing-huts. But 
 there was a great to-do before we got so far. 
 Innovations usually go awry in Dutch villages, 
 where everything proposed by the gentry is 
 always systematically negatived on that account. 
 The Lord of the Manor had no power over the 
 " Church-room," though he — i.e. Hilda — had 
 largely paid to build it. The churchwardens 
 were all conservative to the core, as far as their 
 own rights and wrong-doings were concerned, 
 and radical to a man in their attitude towards 
 the Count. Their leader, Churchwarden Spottle, 
 convened a meeting. It was decided that the 
 use of the room should be accorded the young 
 Countess, on condition that no books should be 
 introduced into the library which were " immoral, 
 improper, indecent, or unorthodox." 
 
 "Ay, ay," said the half-dozen black-coated 
 idiots, with their long pipes, round the deal table. 
 
 " We must now decide who is to decide," 
 began Churchwarden Klotz, " which books are 
 im " and he said it all again. 
 
 " Ay, ay," said the others. It was agreed that 
 the worthy president should examine the cata- 
 logue. He gravely consented to do this. A little 
 difficulty presented itself later on, when it was 
 
92 THE LIBRARY 
 
 discovered that he could barely spell. Church- 
 warden Klotz, Spottle's life-long parochial rival, 
 laughed aloud at this. " Ho ! ho ! " 
 
 "What are you shouting at?" demanded 
 Spottle, his lean jaws gone grey. 
 
 "Nothing. Oh, nothing. Only what was 
 that you read out just now from the Countess's 
 draft of Rules ? " 
 
 "The Prescription, on pain " 
 
 "Ha! ha! It isn't 'prescription.' It's ! sub- 
 scription,' man! The subscription, on pain 
 of " 
 
 Churchwarden Spottle snatched the paper 
 back. 
 
 " Let me alone, Klotz," he said. " I'm Presi- 
 dent I She doesn't write : she just scratches like 
 a hen on a muck-heap. Exposure " 
 
 "Expulsion!" cried the exultant Klotz. 
 "Brethren, I fear that our worthy Brother 
 Spottle will hardly be able to form an accurate 
 estimate " 
 
 " Do you think you can do it ? " interrupted 
 the infuriated Spottle. 
 
 Little, meagre Brother Klotz dropped his 
 eyelids. 
 
 " It is not for me to say," he murmured. " If 
 the brethren consider me worthy, I shall certainly 
 spare no pains." 
 
 After a long tussle his party carried the 
 day. An elaborate epistle, full of mistakes, was 
 despatched to the Lord of the Manor. The 
 Brethren would be delighted to accede to his 
 
THE LIBRARY 93 
 
 Nobleness's request, but their grave Responsi- 
 bility, etc., the Souls of the community, etc. — a 
 few words more reverend still and "immoral, 
 im etc., etc." 
 
 " Thunder and lightning ! " cried the purple 
 old Count. " Do the outrageous fools think that 
 my daughter " 
 
 The mild, much harassed Minister offered to 
 mediate. He was quite sure he would be able 
 to explain " 
 
 " Explanation be — blessed ! " said the Count. 
 Without consulting Hilda, who happened to be 
 away for a day or two, he packed up all the 
 books of the London Society for the R.D.R.I.R.P. 
 in the case which had brought them, and sent 
 them off to Churchwarden Klotz. He told Hilda 
 nothing on her return, but quietly awaited further 
 developments. After a week the books came 
 back, with a missive to say that Brother Klotz 
 had advised the other Brethren that the books 
 intended for the library did not contain anything 
 
 which could be considered im , etc. Klotz, 
 
 resolved that the library should succeed, now 
 Spottle had taken a dislike to it, had kept his 
 conscience immaculate by not opening the case 
 at all. Hilda had not missed the English books; 
 which she had of course at once consigned to a 
 garret : her father did not tell her of the incident, 
 and pocketed, with a little more bad language, the 
 intentional affront, for he had suddenly made up 
 his mind to encourage the library. His wife had 
 convinced him, as usual. Anything to render 
 
94 THE LIBRARY 
 
 Hilda happy at home, to keep her from adventur- 
 ing marriage, in spite of his restrictions and her 
 twenty-seven years. 
 
 11 1 think everything is ready now," said Hilda. 
 "The annual subscription is twopence. I can 
 open next Thursday." 
 
 11 Why Thursday ? " asked the Count. 
 
 " It was Thursday," replied Hilda, " at " 
 
 and she gargled. 
 
 " Well, I hope you'll have some of 'em come," 
 said her father. Hilda looked much alarmed. 
 
 " Oh, some of them are bound to come," her 
 mother reassured her. " Those that live round 
 the Church." 
 
 "I hope some more will, mother. There 
 were lots of them came to Lady Meg." 
 
 "Let us be hopeful," replied the Countess. 
 "After all, why shouldn't they come? You've 
 got books in that library I shouldn't mind read- 
 ing myself." 
 
 This really sounded hopeful, for the Countess 
 rarely read anything. She was one of those 
 people who, doing little, always pathetically 
 complain that they yearn to have more time for 
 books. 
 
 Had Hilda known, she could have been at 
 rest. Churchwarden Klotz — he cannot be called 
 " Elder," for he had nothing to do with the 
 spiritual needs of the congregation : he belonged 
 to the board which looks after the church 
 property — Churchwarden Klotz was zealously 
 working on her behalf. He had stirred up his 
 
THE LIBRARY 95 
 
 various connections to depute their young people 
 and their apprentices : they could hardly be 
 expected to go themselves. And the Count — 
 seized at the last moment by a dread of failure — 
 sent his bailiff round to some of the villagers 
 who, according to the pleasant peasant expres- 
 sion, were " utterly under him," requesting their 
 presence at the opening, whatever they might do 
 after that. 
 
 Spottle, of course, said the library was the 
 Abomination of Wickedness. He could do so, 
 having voted against his rival's report. But he 
 had said so many things were that (the A. of W.) 
 — peep-shows, and motor-cars, and the present 
 minister and the preceding one — you really 
 couldn't attach the same significance to his 
 utterance as when he had first made it regard- 
 ing the Roman Catholic Church. After all, 
 Spottle was not as omniscient as he thought 
 himself. He was the only person, for instance, 
 in the whole neighbourhood unaware that his 
 son was sweet — unfathomably sweet — on Rina 
 Klotz. 
 
 Churchwarden Klotz closed both eyes. And 
 also, occasionally, alone with his meditations, he 
 closed one. For it was delightful to realise you 
 were fooling old Spottle, and Spottle was a much 
 richer man than Klotz. But, eyes closed or not, 
 he kept a tight hand upon his daughter. " Where 
 are you slinking to ? " he would call after her. 
 " I don't believe you know. Sit down ! " 
 
 The eventful day — or, rather, the eventful 
 
96 THE LIBRARY 
 
 night — arrived. " You see, most of our people 
 work during the daytime," Lady Meg had ex- 
 plained. The Countess Hilda admitted that, 
 except for fisher-folk and bakers, the same rule 
 held true in Holland. After nightfall, then, was 
 the best time to get the people together. The 
 long winter evenings were approaching, when 
 even the most indifferent might find occasion to 
 read. 
 
 When the young Countess drove down from 
 the House, she saw from afar off, in the dusk, a 
 little crowd about the " Church-room " door. Her 
 parents had been called away, rather unex- 
 pectedly, by a semi-official invitation. She felt 
 painfully nervous : to keep her in countenance, 
 she brought along a schoolboy cousin, who 
 happened to be staying in the house, a young 
 Hopeful who could probably not be equalled for 
 love of mischief by the whole of Lady Grizel's 
 Band of Hope. 
 
 " Why don't you go in, good people ? " 
 
 " Full inside," said a surly voice. These 
 villagers, from an innate humility, or self-know- 
 ledge, dislike being called " good." 
 
 Hilda's heart leaped, and sank. Indeed, the 
 whole place — not a very large one — was crowded 
 with curious faces, mostly beardless. She had 
 prepared a little speech, about the pleasures of 
 getting away from one's monotone existence and 
 the advantages of contact with good and great 
 minds. After the first flutter she rose to the 
 occasion and spoke her few sentences admirably, 
 
THE LIBRARY 97 
 
 with a simple, shy appeal to them that conquered 
 the whole lot— kindly enough and far from 
 unintelligent in their awkward peasant way. 
 They were not moved to enthusiasm, for nothing 
 could have done that — not the last trump, and 
 themselves booked for heaven ! — they had never 
 applauded in their lives, but they grunted, and 
 some of the women nodded to each other, and 
 Ludovic — the imp schoolboy— said : " Hear, 
 hear!" 
 
 Then the books were exposed on their shelves, 
 and the front rows of possible " Subscribers " 
 stood staring stolidly at them. The room was 
 very close : no electric light here, but a kerosene 
 lamp which had been kept low till it smelt 
 horribly, and had then been turned up and left 
 smoking. The Freule Hilda got the lamp right. 
 The stolid front rows stared. There was a little 
 visible annoyance about the annual subscription 
 of twopence, though carefully explained. Every- 
 body suddenly felt that he was paying for his 
 education, paying a high price too. And if you 
 P av > y° u ar e master of the situation. The Freule 
 turned into a purveyor, like the tape-and-buttons 
 man. A good many of the front row slunk back, 
 indignant. Twopence, indeed ! Because she 
 wanted to lend you books. Think what you can 
 buy for twopence ! Ten cigars. Or a power of 
 baccy. 
 
 But, at this stage, Klotz came definitely to 
 the Freule's help and saved the whole situation. 
 He stepped forward, little but inflated. 
 
98 THE LIBRARY 
 
 " You may put me down for a full subscrip- 
 tion," he said, in a carrying voice, " and my wife 
 for ano " 
 
 " I haven't no time to read," from the wife in 
 a shrill falsetto — " what with the washing " 
 
 "And my wife" (much louder) "for another, 
 and my daughter Rina, that's qualifying for a 
 schoolmistress, for a third ! " 
 
 He stepped back and eyed everybody, includ- 
 ing the young Countess, triumphantly. It had 
 involved reckless expenditure, but he had beaten 
 Spottle. After this, the village tradespeople, or 
 tenants who were "utterly under," could not 
 hold back. The young Countess put down 
 names and addresses, and mixed up people she 
 ought to have known by sight, hot, blushing and 
 happy. 
 
 "And now," she said, smiling on the stiffening 
 subscribers, "what book would you all like to 
 have ? You see, you can each have a book, but 
 of course you can't all have the same." 
 
 This was a little pleasantry : not a feature 
 relaxed. Young Ludovic stood by the shelves, a 
 table, covered with a long green cloth, beside 
 him. All the volumes had been covered in nice 
 thick brown paper, to keep them clean : excepting 
 in size they looked exactly alike. Young Ludovic 
 had been very busy with them, sorting and re- 
 arranging and putting them down, under the 
 green table, and lifting them up again, while his 
 cousin was delivering her little address. He had 
 got them all right now. He suggested that he 
 
THE LIBRARY 99 
 
 should read out names, and the one who wanted 
 the particular book should call out M Me ! " This 
 was approved of. The young Countess, at her 
 farther end of the table, to write down the 
 names of the recipient and his book. 
 
 " Dickens. Dahvid Koperfielt ! " called Ludo- 
 vic — the translation, of course. 
 
 Nobody said "Me! " so he dumped the book 
 down in the hands of the nearest subscriber— 
 an abnormally fat old farm-wife. 
 
 Hilda had had some doubts about " David 
 Copperfield," but Lady Meg had him, and " Oliver 
 Twist," and even "Nickleby;" still, she was rather 
 glad that he hadn't fallen to Klotz. 
 " < The Needs of my Baby ! ' " 
 Dead silence. Dump, to a yellow and red 
 plough-boy. A faint " Ludovic ! " from Hilda. 
 
 11 All right ! Go ahead ! ' Commentary of the 
 Colossians' ?" 
 
 No response. Dump, to a fisher-lad of twelve. 
 Then Hilda intervened. 
 
 " Oh, get away ! Get away ! " he cried ex- 
 citedly. " Stick to your writing ! I'll select 'em 
 better ! All right ! " 
 
 The remaining books were more reasonably 
 apportioned, and the meeting broke up. Hilda, 
 delighted with her success, gave a full description 
 of the proceedings to her parents. Ludovic 
 helped in the description. He laughed a great 
 deal. Next morning, at an early hour, he left for 
 his own home. 
 
 A few hours after his departure the news, 
 
100 THE LIBRARY 
 
 which had already spread all over the neighbour- 
 hood, reached the Manor House. The young 
 gentleman, whilst reading out Dutch titles, had 
 
 promiscuously distributed Lord D 's English 
 
 present, having assiduously dragged it down 
 from the garret, done it up in brown paper, and 
 secreted it under the green tablecloth. 
 
 Every tuppenny subscriber sat in his farm- 
 house or fishing-hut with an English book — and 
 many of them were a couple of miles away. 
 
 In the afternoon Churchwarden Klotz and 
 Mrs. Klotz called to see the Count. It was 
 the Count they wished to see— please. The 
 Count. 
 
 "Yes, yes : I know," cried the Count, entering 
 the room, rather flurried. " An unfortunate mis- 
 take, Klotz. We'll put it right next Thursday. 
 Give everybody two books." 
 
 "It's not that!" replied Klotz, with much 
 scorn, whilst his wife stood beside him and 
 snorted. 
 
 "Then what the devil " 
 
 " We've come to ask what this means ! " burst 
 out Klotz, and he held a book, open at the title- 
 page, under the venerable nose of the Count. 
 
 That gentleman fumbled hastily for his glasses. 
 "'John Halifax, Gentleman!' I tell you, next 
 Thursday you can have " 
 
 "My daughter can read English," said both 
 husband and wife in unison, "and I want to 
 know what she has done to merit this here 
 insult, please!" 
 
THE LIBRARY ..... 101 
 
 Klotz's dirty finger pointed — Mrs. Klotz's 
 tried to point — to the imprint on the page : 
 " Society for the Rational Development of a 
 Refined Imagination among the Respectable 
 Poor." 
 
 * The Respectable Poor ! " said Churchwarden 
 Klotz. 
 
 Mrs. Klotz said, * The Respectable Poor ! " 
 
 " Oh, good Lord, my wife must help me out 
 of this ! " cried the Count. 
 
 He tried to bolt, but the Churchwarden barred 
 the way. 
 
 " I wash my hands of the whole library ! " said 
 the little man, and flung down the books on a 
 table and went out. His big wife stalked after 
 him. 
 
 11 1 hear Klotz has thrown up the Countess's 
 book-shop!" said Churchwarden Spottle to his son 
 Herman. " Well, then, you can go next Thursday 
 and pay your twopence for a book. You needn't 
 read it — and mind your sisters don't ; but Klotz 
 shan't say he can make and break things in this 
 village ! " Spottle struck his fist on the table. 
 u Get two books ! " he said. 
 
 " It's a long distance," said the diplomatic son. 
 And, indeed, it was nearly two miles, Klotz's 
 cottage standing about half-way on the same 
 lonely road across the dunes. 
 
 " They say Klotz has demanded back his six- 
 pence," continued old Spottle, ignoring Herman's 
 complaint. " Get four books ! You can say it's 
 for the farm-servants, but mind you don't let 
 
102 THE LIBRARY 
 
 them have them. A-keeping them from their 
 work." 
 
 Rina's arguments, however, so far softened 
 her father, that she, at least, was allowed to con- 
 tinue her subscription. Her face was the first 
 Herman saw when he entered the schoolroom, 
 but he forgot to mention this fact to his father on 
 his return. 
 
 Hilda arrived, accompanied by her mother, 
 and everything passed off well. 
 
 The Thursday after that it rained cats and 
 dogs. It also snowed, and sleeted, and occasion- 
 ally hailed and thundered a bit, but whatever 
 else it did, it never left off raining. It was bit- 
 terly cold, but, even while it froze, it rained. 
 "It" is the heaven of Holland, which can do all 
 these things at once and never tire. 
 
 "It's no use, my dear child: you can't go," 
 said the Countess, comfortable and comforting, 
 under the lamplight, by the fire. " Your father 
 had to take the carriage. Never mind : there 
 won't be anybody there in such weather as this." 
 
 " Oh, but I must go ! " said Hilda. 
 
 " Nonsense ! Why, it's little under a mile ! 
 Just listen to the wind ! And pitch dark ! " 
 
 "I can take Elizabeth, and the stable-boy. 
 You don't really mind, do you, mother? You 
 see, it's my duty." 
 
 The Countess shrugged her shoulders. 
 " Duties have changed wonderfully since I was 
 young," she said. So Hilda, escorted by the 
 openly grumbling Eliza and the tacitly grumbling 
 
THE LIBRARY 103 
 
 stable-boy, paddled and struggled in mackintosh 
 and goloshes, all the cold, windy way to her 
 library. 
 
 But she was rewarded. In the church-room 
 stood a solitary figure, Rina Klotz. " Ah ! " said 
 Hilda, " the influence of education ! " She blushed 
 to think : if she had stayed away ! Why, the girl 
 had a great deal farther to walk than she, all 
 alone, too, along that lonely road! How true 
 had been the estimate of her English friends, at 
 which father and mother, and even she, had 
 smiled a little incredulously. What a thirst for 
 instruction, unappeased, dwelt in these simple 
 minds ! Oh, how wrong, how wrong of the 
 cultured classes to have ignored that craving 
 through all these years ! 
 
 "You like reading, I feel sure," said Hilda 
 pleasantly. 
 
 " Oh, 1 love it more than anything ! " replied 
 the girl. 
 
 At that moment Herman Spottle came loung- 
 ing in. A good-looking, unintellectual, rich 
 farmer's son. Of the relation between him and 
 Rina the Freule knew nothing : low peasants 
 were beneath Elizabeth's notice ; the stable-boy 
 grinned. 
 
 Hilda's heart glowed. The representatives 
 of the two rival factions. Henceforth the com- 
 plete success of the undertaking was assured. 
 Nobody else came. The weather was very bad. 
 
 " You like reading, too, I feel sure ?" she said, 
 beaming on Herman. 
 
104 THE LIBRARY 
 
 " Oh, yes, of course," replied the young man. 
 
 " I hope you enjoyed your book ? " she turned 
 to Rina. 
 
 " Yes, indeed I did. The hero is a beautiful 
 character." 
 
 " And now you must choose a new one." 
 
 The girl hesitated. " Oh, please," she said, 
 " while I make up my mind, let Mynheer Spottle 
 choose first." 
 
 Herman Spottle looked at the tempting book- 
 shelves, to which the young Countess bowed an 
 invitation. He looked at the volume in Rina's 
 hands. A wild longing seized upon him to touch 
 the pages she had touched, to read the words her 
 eyes had lingered over, to find out what sort of 
 hero she thought a beautiful character. 
 
 " I think I'll just have hers," he said. 
 
 The book was transferred to his hands. He 
 clutched it fondly. 
 
 " And now, you, Miss Klotz?" said Hilda. 
 
 Rina gazed at her lover. Only one reply was 
 possible. She gave it. 
 
 " I think I'll just have his," she said. 
 
 With a faint look of surprise the young 
 Countess acceded to this request also. That 
 closed the proceedings. She trudged back to 
 the Manor House, a little wondering but very 
 contented withal. Her unwilling companions 
 continuously, if inaudibly, cursed the library. 
 
 But the two lovers, struggling on together, 
 their forbidden walk, up and down the long and 
 lonely path — these blessed the library. The 
 
THE LIBRARY 105 
 
 wind howled and the rain smote among the sand- 
 dunes. Herman's arm closed round Rina's waist 
 and steadied her. The two books rested in his 
 breast-pocket, as they had done on their outward 
 road. 
 
 All this happened last winter. It is said that 
 Herman and Rina are to be married early in the 
 spring, in spite of old Spottle's grumbling. The 
 library continues to develop as favourably as 
 the soil in which it has been planted will allow. 
 A new book was added the other day, entitled 
 "The Greater Glory." It was bought with a 
 scratch lot, second-hand, under the impression 
 that it is a religious work. The Countess Hilda 
 believes it means heaven. But although its 
 discovery by the Board of Churchwardens would 
 probably jeopardise the existence of the library, 
 there is little risk of its ever being moved from 
 the place where it reposes, between the afore- 
 mentioned Commentary on the Colossians and 
 the History of the Council of Dordt. 
 
THE NOD 
 
 THE whole orchard was a glory of apple- 
 blossom. A flush of pink and white, in 
 great clouds of softness, between the blue sky 
 and the green grass. 
 
 Two lovers, young and pleasant to look upon, 
 moved slowly among the trees. The golden 
 sunlight played all about them, through the 
 branches and under their feet. A number of 
 finches were at work in the coppice that 
 bordered the apple-field. Their twitterings and 
 flitterings seemed everywhere. One only had 
 struck work— to sing. The world, in its million 
 conscious throbbings, was full of the music of 
 nesting and pairing and making love. The buds 
 burst open to see. 
 
 " It's no use. It can't be," said the young 
 man, despondingly. He was a tall young man, 
 well grown, but pale and thin, with the serious 
 countenance of a student who takes to heart 
 the studies he has chosen for his own. 
 
 " Oh, Bart ! " she said, for that was his name 
 — Bartholomew. 
 
 " Your father won't let us marry, unless he 
 can keep you here in this village. And how can 
 
THE NOD 107 
 
 I stay in the village, unless they elect me as 
 minister ? And they'll never elect me as minister 
 unless Elder Preek approves of my sermon. 
 And how can I ever hope to preach a sermon of 
 which Elder Preek will approve ? " 
 
 He turned on her in melancholy triumph. 
 He had never put the case so succinctly 
 before. 
 
 "Yes, yes, I know," she replied sadly. 
 " But — oh, Bart !— at least you might try." 
 
 "I have been trying — turning it over in my 
 mind — for weeks and months, ever since the 
 parish here fell vacant. Trying! Dear Heaven, 
 how I have tried ! All these days I have been 
 working at to-morrow's sermon. All this morn- 
 ing I have been polishing it, twisting it, and 
 picking out the faults. What's the good? It 
 doesn't read a bit like Elder Preek ! " 
 
 " Perhaps," she said faintly, " they won't 
 mind so very much what he thinks." 
 
 "You know better, Katrine. The whole lot 
 of them lie in the hollow of the Elder's horny 
 palm. The religious life of five thousand souls 
 is entirely dependent on the crabbed theology, 
 the metaphysical freaks, of a tyrannous old 
 pump-maker. The Apostle Paul himself wouldn't 
 stand a chance against Elder Preek." 
 
 "Do you know," she said meditatively, 
 " that's what I've been thinking." 
 
 "Of course he wouldn't. Try Preek with 
 some properly amended text, and I'll wager he'll 
 tell you it isn't true." 
 
108 THE NOD 
 
 " I don't mean that exactly. I mean—Bart, 
 I could never tell you what I mean." 
 
 " Why not?" 
 
 " Because it's so horribly wicked," she almost 
 whispered : " I can't get it out of my head at 
 nights, but it's horribly wicked, Bart." 
 
 "Can you think of wicked things, Katrine?" 
 
 " If you only knew ! " she answered. " It's 
 a way that might succeed, Bart— a horribly 
 wicked way." 
 
 He laughed, and an apple-blossom fluttered 
 to his feet. 
 
 "Supposing you took an old sermon," she 
 whispered, her head against his shoulder, "a 
 very, very old sermon, one of those by the 
 seventeenth-century divines who preach that 
 the chief delight of the saints will be watching 
 the torments of the damned, and supposing 
 you made your discourse out of that for to- 
 morrow ? " Her tones were not absolutely 
 serious, in spite of herself— a medley of hope 
 and despair. 
 
 " It would spoil in the making," he answered. 
 " Katrine, if you don't look out, Elder Preek 
 will be enjoying your torments some day." 
 Then he caught her to his breast and kissed 
 her vehemently, miserably, again and again. 
 She disengaged herself, but, instead of smiling, 
 began to cry. A moment afterwards she wiped 
 her eyes. 
 
 " It's too bad," she said, looking away. " All 
 our happiness — the whole future — ruined by one 
 
THE NOD 109 
 
 dreadful old man ! " And she walked off quickly 
 to the farmhouse, to hide her face in her motherly 
 mother's lap. 
 
 Bart Visser also went back to his mother, the 
 schoolmaster's widow, in her humbler cottage 
 against the firs. The shadows were sloping 
 downwards ; the day was sinking to rest. 
 During their five-o'clock dinner he remained 
 silent, absorbed in reflections on ecclesiasticism 
 as contrasted with theology, and religion as 
 estranged from both. His mother, a proud 
 smile of approval on her countenance, left him 
 to what she believed was prayerful consideration 
 of his coming discourse. For her, as she sat 
 munching her cabbage and sausages, this world 
 had but little left to pray over. True, she had 
 prayed much, and worked more, through the 
 slow past years. In poverty and hard battle 
 and desperate longing she had dragged her only 
 child to the foot of the pulpit he was now pre- 
 paring to mount. And now Providence, that 
 had often seemed inimical, had blessed her 
 beyond her wildest aspirations. For there are 
 many pulpits in Holland, and but few within the 
 circle of her rustic experience. Who could have 
 dared to foretell that the young candidate's first 
 trial sermon would be preached in the church 
 that had seen him worship as a child ? Not for 
 a moment did she doubt that the manifest hand 
 of God, which had removed the former pastor, 
 would safely pilot the candidate into the vacant 
 manse. She would see him settled as pastor of 
 
110 THE NOD 
 
 her own village, the happy husband of a not 
 impecunious and altogether delightful wife. 
 Every time she realised this certain and imme- 
 diate future, her eyes filled with joyful tears. 
 In a few days, she felt, she could sing her 
 " Nunc dimittis," with a reserve, as will occur, 
 for a not too early hearing. 
 
 After dinner he came down to the lamp, with 
 his manuscript in his hand. She established 
 herself in her arm-chair and took up her needle- 
 work, trembling with glorious anticipation. 
 Then he read, uninterruptedly, for little less 
 than an hour. Occasionally his voice shook, 
 but he eagerly steadied it. Half-way, she laid 
 down her needlework in a tremble on her lap, 
 and sat gazing at him. All her soul was in 
 her face. 
 
 " Amen," he read, and remained silent, staring 
 straight in front of him, away from her. She 
 neither moved nor spoke. The whole room was 
 full of a solemn stillness. And the look in the 
 mother's eyes was adoration — of him. 
 
 The clock struck loudly, eight slow strokes, 
 rousing him. 
 
 " I shall never be minister here," he said. 
 
 "What?" she screamed. Her needlework 
 fell to the floor. " You frightened me," she said ; 
 " but you were always like that, Bart — no 
 courage ! " 
 
 " It wants more courage to preach that sermon 
 than to leave it unpreached," he replied, nettled. 
 " But I couldn't do better, if I tried." 
 
THE NOD 111 
 
 "Nonsense!" said the mother. "It's beau- 
 tiful." 
 
 " Beautiful or not, mother, it won't ' fetch ' 
 Elder Preek. And you know as well as I, that 
 the others '11 look at him all the time. If he 
 doesn't nod — and he won't nod — Heavens, I might 
 speak with the tongues of men and of angels, 
 what's the use, as long as I haven't got Elder 
 Preek?" 
 
 She sat listening, long after he had ceased, 
 bitterly, to speak. Then she gasped : 
 
 " Are you — sure ? " 
 
 " Yes ; and so are you." 
 
 " I don't mean about their going by him," she 
 continued in a curious voice. "That I know. 
 But about his not approving. Why?" 
 
 " Because I can't get into his religious twist, 
 mother. It is all a religious twist. Didn't you 
 see I hadn't got it, as I read ? " 
 
 "No. I was only thinking of the beautiful, 
 beautiful things you said." 
 
 " It's not the phraseology only. I've tried to 
 use that as far as I honestly could," he continued, 
 speaking more to himself than to her. " I've 
 never said . . . but the subject's too holy to 
 dwell upon." He shook himself irritably. 
 "There lies my sermon!"— he pointed — "Jacta 
 est alea I " 
 
 "What, dear?" Her voice quivered. 
 
 "The place is lost. I can't help myself." 
 
 "Godwill." 
 
 " No use asking Him. He can't." 
 
112 THE NOD 
 
 Her lips framed two words, left unspoken. 
 " I will," they said to herself. 
 
 Aloud she exclaimed, almost imperiously : 
 "Read me parts again. Read them slowly. 
 Parts you feel sure he will disapprove of." 
 
 " I have expunged those already," he said, 
 with what would have been a twinkle had it not 
 died into a frown. " Twice as many remain." 
 
 " Read ! " she commanded, and he obeyed. It 
 was a terrible reading, this second one, of frag- 
 ments that rose out of the smoothness and cut 
 them in the heart, sentences intended to be gentle 
 and pious, that caught false reflections from the 
 irony of his accent and features until they towered 
 threatening above them, ready to fall and crush 
 truth beneath their imaginary weight. Half-way 
 she stopped him. 
 
 "True," she said: "it is not Neighbour 
 Preek's religion. It is the religion of Jesus 
 Christ." 
 
 He did not answer, for he could not. And so 
 they sat in silence till there came a knocking at 
 the door. Katrine stood before them. Her breast 
 heaved, her cheeks were aflame. 
 
 He started up. " What is it ? " 
 
 She dropped into a chair. "I was coming 
 here," she said, "and Jan Jansen joined me. I 
 think he had been watching for me. And he 
 asked me — he ! — to give you up and be his 
 wife." 
 
 "Jan Jansen!" cried the widow, turning 
 whiter than a sheet. 
 
THE NOD 113 
 
 " Preek's nephew ! " exclaimed the candidate. 
 
 " He's past forty, and a ne'er-do-weel, and he 
 drinks ! " cried the indignant damsel. 
 
 "Thirty-eight," gasped the widow. They 
 both stared at her. 
 
 " Don't make him older or worse than he is," 
 said the widow, recovering herself and speaking 
 with asperity. 
 
 " He's old enough and bad enough," said 
 the son. 
 
 " And like enough to be a dangerous rival to 
 you, my boy," remarked his mother. 
 
 Katrine laughed, in scorn. " An enemy per- 
 haps — not a rival," she said. " I'd die an old 
 maid before I'd marry that boozing, bloated 
 brute." 
 
 The widow shrank away as if in pain. " Yes, 
 yes," she murmured. "True. You mustn't die 
 an old maid, Katrine." And then the two lovers 
 talked sadly of their prospects, while the mother 
 stitched with downcast eyes. 
 
 Half an hour later he took his sweetheart 
 home along the sleeping meadows, that breathe 
 in sleep. The night was soft about them— he 
 loved her as they went. 
 
 By the plank across the ditch she halted. 
 " Father might see you ! she said, and, kissing 
 him, went on alone. 
 
 She heard voices at the open door. Elder 
 Preek was saying " Good-bye " to her father. 
 
 "Ah, here she is!" said the Elder. "Well, 
 you can tell her what I came for." 
 
114 THE NOD 
 
 " Tell her yourself," replied her father's fluent 
 growl. He was a violent, bucolic, unreasonable 
 man. Very different from thin Elder Preek, with 
 his clear-cut nose and parchmenty death's-head, 
 and pale cod-fish eyes. 
 
 " Well, my dear, I have come to your father 
 to ask your hand for my nephew," announced 
 the Elder. 
 
 " He shall have her," said the farmer. 
 
 "The young man is devotedly attached to 
 you," continued Elder Preek. " Also he is not 
 without earthly possessions." 
 
 " Fifteen thousand guilders," put in the farmer, 
 with a cluck of his tongue. 
 
 " He drinks," said Katrine. 
 
 " Fie, for shame ! " exclaimed the Elder. 
 
 u She shall take him," persisted her father. 
 
 "Where is your maiden modesty?" expostu- 
 lated the Elder. 
 
 " I won't marry him," said Katrine. 
 
 " You shall marry no one else ! " bellowed 
 her father." 
 
 She was silent. In the dusk her whole 
 attitude betokened rebelliousness. 
 
 " I want to marry Bart," she said. 
 
 Elder Preek gave a snarl, like a dog. 
 
 "All right!" laughed her father, spitefully. 
 " I swear you shall marry Jan Jansen, or, if you 
 don't marry him, well, then— Bart ! " He repeated 
 the words with a truculent snigger. Already he 
 saw her mistress of the fifteen thousand guilders. 
 
 " Bart ! Oh, of course," said the Elder. " Oh, 
 
THE NOD 115 
 
 yes, of course. Bart ! Of course ! " His tones 
 were full of menace. He left the two standing 
 in the dark by their doorstep, and walked away 
 briskly out of sight. His homeward path led 
 through a coppice and a short stretch of pine 
 wood. It was very dark between the pines. 
 He checked his pace, stumbling occasionally as 
 he went. 
 
 A single star had pierced the blackness, 
 shining clear through the tops of the trees. 
 
 "Lead us not into temptation!" said the 
 Elder. He said it over and over again as he 
 went along. He stopped to say it, with re- 
 newed energy. Then he knelt down in the 
 dark, on the moss by the path-side, and prayed. 
 He prayed for guidance, that, in his high office, 
 he might remain impartial, as an elder should. 
 He had run away from his human predilections 
 by the farmhouse door. His prayer was honest 
 enough in its way, Heaven, that listened to it, 
 knows ! He rose, greatly content with it, con- 
 vinced of his moral victory, resolved to do his 
 duty. The clerical question — solemn thought ! — 
 should remain entirely independent of the matri- 
 monial one. The care of souls is not a thing to 
 tamper with. And besides, there were always 
 the fifteen thousand guilders to fall back upon. 
 Whether Bart got the parish or not, Jan Jansen 
 was a rich man compared with him. 
 
 The old man reached home with a counten- 
 ance once more serene, or at any rate expression- 
 less. His wife and children were accustomed to 
 
116 THE NOD 
 
 see it so. The unmarried daughter got him his 
 Saturday evening " pap " ; the wife laid out his 
 Sunday things, the black suit, the spotless linen. 
 He cleaned and arranged his big spectacles as 
 usual, and read the evening chapter out of Ezra, 
 the maid-servant yawning as usual, especially 
 on Saturdays, half dead with the scrubbings and 
 sloppings, the earthly tribulation and manifold 
 mess. 
 
 He was undressing with slow precision, and 
 descanting to his humbly acquiescent wife on 
 the sacred probabilities of the morrow, when a 
 handful of gravel was thrown at the illuminated 
 window-pane. " The young man may be very 
 worthy, I do not doubt," he was saying, " but, 
 personally, I am afraid of these young slips of 
 theology. The Overstad Professors rely on their 
 own talents and not on the Word. What, I ask, 
 is theology without the Word? Well, we shall 
 see what we shall see. But it isn't learning that 
 makes men preachers. It is power. And what 
 is power but acceptance of the Word? They 
 say the Bible was written in Greek, the poor 
 foolish ones ! The Bible was written in our 
 hearts." 
 
 His wife, who had heard all this daily for 
 years, nodded approval, yawning nearly as dis- 
 tinctly as the maid had done. She started at 
 the crash of the gravel, almost welcoming the 
 diversion all the same. 
 
 It was a good thing the Elder had not reached 
 his weekly tepid tub, or the whole course of 
 
THE NOD 117 
 
 events would have been altered. Now he 
 solemnly opened the window and solemnly de- 
 manded what was wrong. 
 
 " Come down ! I must speak to you," replied 
 a woman's voice. 
 
 " Bart's mother!" ejaculated the Elder, draw- 
 ing back his head. 
 
 " Don't go — she will only bother you/' ex- 
 postulated the wife. 
 
 " I must," replied Preek, already readjusting 
 his clothing. 
 
 She called out something after him about the 
 water getting cold ; but his even soul, suddenly 
 fluttered, was not in a mood to think of tubs. 
 
 " What do you come here for at this time of 
 night ? " he cried, hurriedly letting the widow in 
 and closing the door. His voice trembled, with 
 forebodings of harm. 
 
 " Well," she replied, " you can't say I trouble 
 you often. We haven't spoken to each other for 
 — how long is it? — nigh on forty years." 
 
 " All the more reason for me to ask you why 
 you come to me now, at ten o'clock at night, and 
 fling gravel at the window." 
 
 " I didn't want to disturb your children or 
 the neighbours," she made answer. Her voice 
 also, in its gasps, betrayed emotion. She caught 
 at the shawl about her throat and tore it away. 
 " Sit down," he suggested. 
 "No," she said, quickly, like a blow. And, 
 fighting for breath as she stood against the wall, 
 she continued : u My son's future is in your 
 
118 THE NOD 
 
 hands to-morrow. I have come about that. You 
 know it. You must get him the parish." 
 
 "That will not depend upon any favouritism 
 of mine," he answered. " The Lord " 
 
 She waved the phrase aside. " Forty years 
 ago you also used such words as those," she 
 said. 
 
 " I confess it," he answered humbly. " But 
 forty years ago I did not mean them ; now I do." 
 
 " I also mean what I say," she retorted grimly. 
 "Conversation is best on those terms. Would 
 that ours had always been such! And I say 
 that you, who can do it, must do this thing for 
 my son, Bart. Must! — do you hear?" 
 
 "Must me no musts!" he cried, turning 
 fiercely — yet weakly, as a cat, not a dog, turns 
 at bay. 
 
 In her face was the dog's resolve. "We 
 understand each other," she said. " For nigh on 
 forty years I have not darkened your door. The 
 last time I stood here, on this very spot, a girl 
 of eighteen, I had come to plead for my child. 
 You sent me away." 
 
 " I looked after the child," he said sullenly. 
 
 " Now I am here again. Never should I have 
 darkened this door, Jan Preek, but for the mad- 
 ness of a mother's love ! Nor shall I slink away 
 now, as I did then, to hide myself and my child 
 from your sight. To-morrow I shall sit opposite 
 you in the church. I shall watch you all the 
 time. You shall nod that cursed nod of yours 
 that the angels laugh at— or weep; you shall 
 
THE NOD 119 
 
 sit nodding like a — like a Chinese doll, you 
 scoundrel ! " 
 
 He put up his hand. " Do not call me that ! * 
 he cried pleadingly. 
 
 She stopped, aghast, all her eloquence checked. 
 " I— not— to call you that ? " 
 
 " I wasn't converted then, Mary. Not that I 
 should dare to call myself converted now. But 
 I was a young man. It's as the twenty-fifth 
 Psalm says : ' Remember not the transgressions 
 of my youth '" 
 
 "And 1 don't remember them," she inter- 
 rupted violently. "I've kept out of your way, 
 as you've kept out of mine. But now, by the 
 Heaven that hears me, you shall do this thing 
 for my son ! " 
 
 " Isn't the other your son as well ? " he cried. 
 " You forget that the one son's hope is the other 
 son's despair !" 
 
 "I forget nothing. Could I but forget Jan 
 Jansen ! The other day he came up behind me 
 in a narrow path. ' Get out of my way ! ' he 
 says, drunk — and went stumbling by. ' That's 
 my son,' says I : ' thank God no one knows it 
 but I — and you!'" She pointed her finger on 
 the old man's breast. Then she broke out : 
 * He's not my son, not he, not my son. Bart's 
 my son, that's the light of my eyes ! Bart's my 
 son, that's as unlike the other as my husband 
 was unlike you ! " 
 
 " At any rate, you've little cause to complain. 
 He doesn't shame you as he shames me, my 
 
120 THE NOD 
 
 precious so-called nephew. And all my own 
 children so respectable ! Oh, dear ! But look 
 here, Mary " — his tone grew bright and business- 
 like — "this marriage with Katrine '11 be the 
 saving of him. He's mad to have her, and he'll 
 promise anything. He's going to take the pledge 
 To save a sinner— eh ? And that your own son ? " 
 
 He peered into her face. She gazed steadily 
 back. 
 
 " Not as good as Bart, I grant you," he went 
 on. " But there's more joy in heaven — you re- 
 member? He'll settle down and grow serious, 
 as many a man has done ! " 
 
 " As you have done," she answered. 
 
 "My sins are as scarlet. I trust that some 
 day they may become whiter than snow." 
 
 " If they don't, it won't be for want of plaster- 
 ing," she replied, misjudging him to the end, in 
 her bitter sense of injury. " Well, you must know 
 what you do. I'm going back. If you don't nod 
 
 approval of the sermon to-morrow " she 
 
 paused. He looked at her anxiously. 
 
 "If you don't — I get up at the end of the 
 service and tell the story of Jan Jansen to the 
 whole congregation." 
 
 He still gazed at her. It was no use trying 
 to weaken the meaning in those steadfast eyes of 
 hers. 
 
 " My wife ! " he gasped. 
 
 " Look to her. That is your affair, not mine. 
 I have never troubled her, nor you. I have no 
 desire to trouble her now. And you " — she 
 
THE NOD 121 
 
 clenched her fist— "you would ruin my child's 
 happiness!" 
 
 "But you don't understand," he protested, 
 desperately. " It isn't a question of wanting or 
 not wanting. My conscience " 
 
 "Go, talk about that with Jan Jansen," she 
 answered, and left him. 
 
 He continued after her, following to the door : 
 " The things of the house of the Lord, entrusted 
 to my keeping " 
 
 But she only turned in the dark and the night- 
 wind : " What I have sworn I have sworn," she 
 said. 
 
 Like a man dazed he groped his way upstairs, 
 to be scolded by his wife because the water had 
 gone cold. For the first time since their marriage 
 he got into his bed this Saturday night unwashed. 
 What was the use of cleansing? He could not 
 wash his soul. 
 
 Not that the weight of ancient sin lay heavy 
 upon it. There was little room in his religion 
 for regrets at the inevitable perversity of the old 
 Adam. Sin, in fact, was its corner-stone. Nothing 
 could be more gratifying than conviction of sin, 
 especially as the wrong-doing was always past 
 and over before the conviction came. You were 
 convinced of your own dead sins or of your 
 neighbour's active ones. But the sudden results 
 of your transgression alive and screaming around 
 you — these were a very different matter. 
 
 He tossed in his bed till he could endure the 
 strain no longer. His was not the sort of piety 
 
122 THE NOD 
 
 that can pray lying down or in unspoken words. 
 He got out on to the floor, in the chill darkness, 
 and, kneeling by the bedside, poured forth con- 
 tinuous pleadings for a way of escape. What he 
 asked, but did not hope for, was simply that the 
 young man's sermon might prove a truly orthodox 
 one, a source of blessing unto many, a legitimate 
 recommendation to all. What appeal could be 
 more righteous ? If it were not granted, then he, 
 the Elder, would fall as a martyr to the holiest 
 of human responsibilities— he shuddered as he 
 thought of the depth of the fall. His home life, 
 as a husband and father, his public position, his 
 name as a shepherd of other people's souls ! He 
 groaned aloud, praying on and on. His wife 
 awoke and asked if anything was the matter. He 
 answered that he was wrestling with the Devil. 
 She turned on her side and slept. To himself, 
 however, he felt that he was wrestling with God. 
 
 Yet the struggle was clearer than when, a 
 couple of hours ago, he had wanted to act on Jan 
 Jansen's behalf. Now he was being tempted, in 
 the saving of himself, to lie against the Almighty. 
 All this he saw distinctly, black and white in the 
 routine of his theological reasoning. He shrank 
 down quivering against the counterpane, and 
 prayed. 
 
 In the morning his daughter found him absent- 
 minded. She was not surprised, considering the 
 importance of the approaching function. She saw 
 his lips move repeatedly, and awe fell upon her. 
 
 The first face that he beheld in the full village 
 
THE NOD 123 
 
 church was the widow's. When the organ pealed 
 forth the loud words of the opening psalm, in an 
 outburst of voices, he had issued from the vestry 
 with the other office-bearers, preceding the 
 minister, as the custom is. He had walked to 
 his place in the chancel, beside the rest, and, 
 turning from a brief inspection of the inside of 
 his hat (an inevitable form), his eyes had looked 
 straight into the widow's. Those were the first 
 eyes he saw during the whole preliminary service, 
 and the only ones. They remained with him, 
 steadily, deep down in his soul. His children 
 were in church, of course, and his wife ; he had 
 made some feeble attempt to keep her away, 
 but she had stared at him in uncomprehending 
 astonishment. 
 
 He settled himself in his corner for the 
 sermon; and to God, Who beheld him, there 
 must have been an agony of petition in the sharp- 
 set face. It was a last desperate appeal, for him- 
 self, for the congregation — a hope against hope. 
 The nervous young candidate gave out his text : 
 "That your love may abound!" His voice 
 quivered with the weight of the words. Elder 
 Preek's thin lips seemed to sink away. The 
 subject foreboded evil — he had never seen much 
 good come of youthful talk about " love." " The 
 Word " wasn't love. 
 
 The widow's eyes were upon him. Many of 
 the congregation frequently looked his way. His 
 colleagues watched for his well-known signs of 
 approval. Solemnly he sat there, as judge. 
 
124 THE NOD 
 
 Solemnly, in the listening silence, the dis- 
 course flowed on. The young minister, gaining 
 confidence, spoke straight from the heart to the 
 heart. But that comes as an insult to a religious 
 development which requires speech from the 
 head to the head. Nevertheless, many there, 
 especially among the women, were touched by 
 his simple sincerity. It became evident that the 
 current of feeling was favourable to the preacher; 
 his audience were with him; he realised it, as 
 every speaker in such a case must do. From his 
 pulpit he could not catch sight of Elder Preek. It 
 was his turn to hope against hope. 
 
 Elder Preek had given up hoping. He sat 
 desperately, his head thrown back, with the eyes 
 of the congregation upon him, fronting ruin. 
 
 One little motion of the head! One little 
 motion ! Just a feeble sign that he approved of 
 this sentimental twaddle about love and charity 
 and goodness, and all would be well. He was 
 saved ; his home-happiness, his high position 
 intact. After all, the things the boy was saying 
 were true enough, up to a point. There was no 
 harm in them. No harm ? In this false presenta- 
 tion of Jehovah? Better the lies of atheism than 
 this half-truth of love. 
 
 "Amen!" said the preacher. The Elder 
 started, and a strange sound escaped from his 
 parched throat. The last word had rung his 
 knell. There is still an immense difference 
 between the chance you have resolved not to use 
 and no chance at all. 
 
THE NOD 125 
 
 Of the closing prayer and the singing he heard 
 nothing. Nor did he hear the benediction; but 
 he heard, as the congregation was rising, the 
 widow's voice cry: "Stop!" She spoke very 
 rapidly, and loudly, less like a speech than a cry. 
 
 " This man ! 1 she exclaimed, pointing. She 
 stood up in her seat, challenging him. The 
 whole congregation, curious, expectant — all the 
 familiar faces — grouped untidily in the crowded 
 aisle and side-seats, the whole mass of noisy 
 humanity, suddenly hushed. 
 
 " This man, whom you have chosen as your 
 spiritual adviser, whom you follow as sheep, do 
 you know what he is ? A father of illegitimate 
 children, a hypocrite, and a rogue ! " 
 
 Protests arose at this violation of the sacred 
 edifice andiceremony ; but " Hush ! Hush ! " cried 
 other voices, anxious to know more. 
 
 "Jan Jansen, whom he calls his nephew, is 
 his son!" screamed the widow. "And why 
 doesn't he approve of my son's sermon? Because 
 of religion and morality? Because he wants 
 Katrine Dykmans to marry Jan Jansen, and, if 
 Bart gets the church, she'll marry him ! " 
 
 One of the other elders had lifted his hand to 
 command silence. The sexton had drawn near 
 to remove the cause of this disturbance, but a 
 couple of men that were by her pushed him 
 back. 
 
 The candidate stood, white, in his pulpit. All 
 his agony found utterance in one cry : " Mother, 
 don't!" 
 
126 THE NOD 
 
 " Peace ! " said the old man, who had lifted his 
 hand. " Go thy ways ! " 
 
 But now the wife of Preek intervened. She 
 was in the front, red and shaking with indignation. 
 
 "No, indeed, — no, by Heaven!" she said : 
 " every soul that has heard the woman speak 
 shall hear her words proved a lie." 
 
 The widow turned to her with contemptuous 
 pity. " Poor creature, I am sorry for you" she 
 said. 
 
 " It is a lie ! Say that it is a lie, Preek ! " 
 The wretched wife waited for a moment in 
 silence. 
 
 Preek gazed back at the sea of faces. His 
 lips did not move. 
 
 She flung back to the widow. " What ghost 
 of a proof have you that Jansen is his son ? " 
 
 " He is mine," replied the widow. " His and 
 mine." 
 
 A thrill ran through the building. Bart fell 
 forward on the cushion, his head sinking to 
 prayer. 
 
 u I was a girl of eighteen," continued the 
 widow, "in service at Overstad. We were 
 secretly engaged. Ten years later I married the 
 schoolmaster here." 
 
 In the long, dead silence, " It is true," said 
 Preek. 
 
 To his astonishment he saw by their expres- 
 sions that they were not inclined to be hard on 
 him for the sins of his youth. He followed up 
 his advantage. 
 
THE NOD 127 
 
 " I couldn't marry her," he said quickly ; " but 
 I took care of the child." 
 
 "Yes," cried the widow; "he bought the 
 child a lot in the lottery, and it turned up a 
 prize ! " 
 
 Then suddenly he realised that, by this be- 
 trayal, his cause was lost. No religious man 
 among them had ever played in the lottery, and 
 such as had done so had never gained a prize. 
 A loud murmur of disapproval ran straight down 
 the aisle. 
 
 His brethren in the sacred office drew away 
 from him. He was left standing alone. He lifted 
 his poor trembling hands to Heaven. 
 
 "The zeal of Thine house," he said, in a voice 
 little louder than a whisper, " hath eaten me up ! " 
 
 Farmer Dykmans stood in front of the church- 
 wardens' pew, shaking a gigantic fist. 
 
 "And ye fancied," he bellowed, "that I'd 
 bestow my daughter on a drunken blackguard as 
 hasn't even got a name of his own ? " 
 
 The minister still lay forward, sunk low, with 
 his head on the cushion. In the face of the 
 whole congregation Katrine ran up the pulpit 
 stairs, and bending over him, put her arm about 
 his neck. 
 
A ARGYMENT 
 
 " "NT O," said Baas Slimmer, standing, his legs 
 IN apart, among the cackling hens and 
 chickies of his farm-yard. " No ! No ! No ! " He 
 said each " No " louder, till the last was quite a 
 shout. Nobody minded much : the whole place 
 was full of live stock, but everybody was think- 
 ing of himself— of his or her immediate oppor- 
 tunities for eating more than was good for them. 
 It was feeding-time, as could be perceived by the 
 distant grunts and shrieks and lowings from the 
 out-houses on opposite sides of the great open 
 square. The farmer himself had thrown an in- 
 dignant handful of corn among his couple of 
 hundred barn-door fowls, and the lot of them 
 were fighting and squeaking and treading the 
 babies underfoot. The infants emerged, with a 
 pee-ep, and hastily swallowed their share. 
 
 " No ! " shouted the Baas. 
 
 The buxom farm-wife came out at the open 
 door — one of those Dutch back-doors that break 
 in half, so you can lean over the middle and chat. 
 She cared, up to a reasonable point of disturbed 
 placidity. For with the happy insouciance of the 
 so-called dumb creatures, who are not dumb at 
 all, only deaf, mercifully deaf, to the cruel things 
 
A ARGYMENT 129 
 
 we say — with the cheerful ignorance about com- 
 ing evils which is God's chief boon to his beasts 
 in a world of suffering, with this foolishly blessed 
 indifference to possibilities, the thousand little 
 souls (of a sort) that filled the farm and its fields 
 remained callous to the moods of the man who 
 was lord of the life of each one of them. We men 
 can do a lot of harm, and we willingly do it, but 
 it is only to one another that we can cause pro- 
 spective pain. And that, really, under the cir- 
 cumstances, is something the brutes, if they knew, 
 might be thankful for. The farm-wife, when her 
 master barked very loud, had to come and see what 
 was the matter. Though she knew, from long 
 experience, that a-many barks went to one bite. 
 
 " Dear ! dear ! " she said, standing with a big 
 scarlet platter against her hip. " And what are 
 you shouting at now, Slimmer? The wind? It'll 
 blow, all the same." 
 
 " Why, that's out of the Bible, too ! " replied 
 Slimmer. 
 
 "Dear me, so it is," said the farm-wife, pleased. 
 
 " Don't you go quoting the Bible at me like 
 Stott," continued Slimmer grumpily. "Tisn't 
 fair." He looked round on the hens scuffling all 
 about his feet. "A body can't say nothing to 
 answer to the Bible," he said. " The Bible isn't 
 argument." ("Argyment," he called it.) "The 
 Bible isn't argyment. No more that that is ! " He 
 pointed to the squabbling fowls. u There's no 
 sense in that, and the Bible's above sense, but 
 neither of 'em's argyment." 
 
130 A ARGYMENT 
 
 Vrouw Slimmer had long ago abandoned all 
 attempts at unravelling her husband's tangled 
 syllogisms. She never even puckered her brows 
 now over them ; she simply said, " What were 
 you shouting at ? " 
 
 " I wasn't shouting. I was argufying the 
 matter out to myself. Is it Yes or No ? I was 
 asking myself quite gently. And I reasoned out 
 that it was No." 
 
 The farm-wife shrugged her shoulders. " All 
 that fuss," she said scornfully, "about killing 
 a pig." 
 
 "A pig!" bellowed the farmer. "As if I 
 should argufy about a pig ! " 
 
 "You'd argufy about anything, Slimmer. I 
 thought it was that mangy black porker that the 
 butcher from Overstad was wanting to buy." 
 
 " You were wrong, then," remarked Slimmer, 
 pulling out his pipe, " as you always are. You 
 just jump at things. Like all women. Poor un- 
 reasonable things. They jabber and jabber : 
 they haven't time to argufy." 
 
 " Poor things ! " said the Vrouw, sarcastic. 
 
 "Now a man like me," continued the Baas, 
 " he always knows when he's wrong. For why ? 
 He reasons it all out, and he sees at once where 
 he went off his count. It's like counting apples. 
 You can't say there's twenty-four if I've counted 
 twenty-three." He faced her triumphantly : " You 
 can't say there's twenty-four " 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes," she interrupted, turning back 
 to her kitchen. " I can reason, too," she called 
 
A ARGYMENT 131 
 
 hastily. "There's something smelling that means 
 a burn ! " she called, and disappeared. 
 
 But she was back again, soon enough, leaning 
 over her green-painted door. " Now, what's this 
 fresh fuss about?" she asked, in a wheedling 
 tone. 
 
 " Fuss ? " he answered sardonically, pulling 
 at his pipe. " There's no fresh fuss, no more 
 than there was this morning. Trust a woman 
 to come fussing about a fuss." 
 
 " Well, a woman didn't begin it this morning," 
 expostulated Vrouw Slimmer. 
 
 "And what's Stottbut an old woman?" came 
 the adroit reply. " I don't call him a man. He's 
 an old woman, he is." 
 
 "And what were you shouting 'No!' about?" 
 wheedled the farm-wife. "About 'Koos'? We'll 
 soon see if the boy's as good as Stott thinks. 
 And I hope he may be. You weren't bothering 
 your head about that ?" 
 
 Her husband eyed her, under his drooping 
 lids. A tall, lean man, with a canny face, all 
 wrinkles. " What an intelligent head ! " thought 
 the summer visitors, as they watched him gazing 
 up at the preacher in church. The minister held 
 a different opinion. 
 
 " Curious ! " said Slimmer slowly. " That 
 curious ! A woman'd pull down a stone wall to 
 see if there wasn't a toad inside ! " 
 
 " And quite right, too," replied his better half, 
 "if the poor things live in 'em a thousand years, 
 as I've heard, without bite nor " 
 
132 A ARGYMENT 
 
 " There never was a woman since Eve " 
 
 " Oh, be quiet about Eve. That's all most of 
 you men read your Bibles for— to say snappy 
 things to us about Eve ! " 
 
 " Woman, you're profane," replied the Baas ; 
 "as profane as the hens." And they both laughed, 
 he noiselessly, she aloud. For, at this morning's 
 "visiting," the solemn annual event when the 
 minister calls with an elder and exhorts the whole 
 household, collected in the kitchen, had not a fat 
 white hen, in the midst of the proceedings, 
 scratched her way into the minister's wide- 
 awake hat, in a corner on the floor, and there 
 laid a much be-cackled eggl And had it not 
 proved quite impossible afterwards to make 
 Mieken and Piet and the rest of the dull, rubicund 
 farm-servants realise that there was only an 
 episode which everybody ought to forget? Nay — 
 far worse — this is what actually occurred : 
 
 The hen ran about and cackled, and the pale- 
 faced minister, unsmiling, talked on. His elder, 
 Jacob Stott, the pork-butcher, sat frowning and 
 wrathful. The Baas and his wife looked un- 
 comfortable, feeling somehow personally re- 
 sponsible for their fowl; the young people 
 giggled all round. 
 
 "And, as 1 was remarking," declaimed the 
 minister, " how, if you do not come to church " 
 — raising his voice in the din—" can you expect 
 to be benefited by the sermon ? " 
 
 " Koos, put that hen out ! " shouted Slimmer. 
 The young hand jumped up with alacrity and 
 
A ARGYMENT 133 
 
 made a grab in the direction of the flutter and 
 noise. All he caught was empty space and a 
 bump. He righted himself with another swift 
 sweep at the screeching biped ; but the hen had 
 dashed against the farm-wife's petticoats, and up 
 on the great open "Book," and away over Stott's 
 apoplectic head, and everybody had risen now 
 and was talking and laughing at once. Only the 
 butcher sat gurgling indignant protests. He said 
 it was done on purpose, from opposition to the 
 true "Confession" and hatred of "the Word," just 
 the thing that a rationalist like Slimmer— but 
 nobody heard him, for they were all far too 
 busy catching the hen. 
 
 All except the farmer's ten-year-old grandson 
 Tony. Tony had no time for the bird : he was 
 too busy with the egg. He had taken up the 
 egg very quietly, and, with tender solicitude, he 
 had deposited it gently in the middle of the 
 cushions of the minister's arm-chair. "It would 
 have been a pity," he said softly to himself, "if 
 anybody had stepped on that egg." But, once 
 having taken these precautions, it must be 
 admitted that no one joined more vigorously in 
 the search than Master Tony. In fact, it was he 
 who ultimately bundled the flurried heap of 
 feathers out at the door. Then everybody sat 
 down again. The minister sat down last. 
 
 He first stood smoothing the ruffled pages of 
 the family Bible. He did it with a slow and 
 loving touch. He was giving the people time to 
 collect themselves. And, as a matter of fact, 
 
134 A ARGYMENT 
 
 they were eager to do so. They were by no 
 means naturally inclined to irreverence — far from 
 it. He had taken the best means of calming 
 them, as he stood there, sweetly pensive, his 
 gentle fingers lingering about the sacred page. 
 
 Then the minister sat down on the egg. He 
 let himself down slowly. There wasn't an ear 
 in the kitchen but heard the crunch. 
 
 He was a young man, athletic outside his 
 clerical habit. It was wonderful how quickly he 
 was up again and had whisked round to inspect 
 the seat of the disturbance. As his other side 
 flashed into view for the whole of the semicircle, 
 not a mouth, except Stott's, but sent forth a roar. 
 The minister whisked around once more : he had 
 drawn forth a long white handkerchief; he stood 
 rubbing himself, a lank black figure. 
 
 "Can I help your reverence?" asked the 
 farm-wife, as grave as the circumstances would 
 allow. Graver. 
 
 " I thank you, Vrouw," replied the minister. 
 He was young : he was momentarily ridiculous : 
 he felt his high office, and a great deal of sticki- 
 ness, and cruel insult from somebody unknown. 
 
 But at that stage, in the general atmosphere 
 of hysterical merriment and disapproval, some- 
 body set up a howl. That somebody proved to 
 be Koos, the charity-child, the new "boy," 
 twelve years old, who had come in last Monday, 
 on sufferance, and done something wrong ever 
 since he came. Everybody looked at him at 
 once, and he howled the louder. The Baas had 
 
A ARGYMENT 135 
 
 turned upon him his customary threatening 
 frown. 
 
 "Twasn't me, Baas!" he howled. "Twasn't 
 me!" 
 
 "Then who was it?" demanded his master. 
 
 " Ay, who was it ? " repeated the minister. 
 
 "Did anybody say it was you?" asked the 
 farmer's wife. Tony peeped forth behind his 
 grandmother's skirts. 
 
 "The Baas glared at me so!" squeaked the 
 miserable urchin. 
 
 "Glare? Do I glare?" cried the furious 
 Slimmer. 
 
 "You had better confess," said the minister, 
 still mopping. (But you can't mop it off: it's no 
 good.) 
 
 " You put it down, without thinking, as you 
 ran after the hen," prompted the Vrouw good- 
 naturedly. 
 
 "Without thinking, of course," echoed Slim- 
 mer. "Haven't I pointed out to you a dozen 
 times a day " 
 
 "Confess," repeated the minister, for that 
 was his religious solution of every difficulty — 
 " Confess and be absolved " — as the lawyer's is, 
 " Confess and be condemned." 
 
 "I-I— didn't " 
 
 " Koos I " There was a painful silence. 
 Everybody waited. 
 
 "Well, p'raps I did," gasped Koos. He 
 wanted, in the first place, all those eyes off him. 
 There was a general movement of relief. 
 
136 A ARGYMENT 
 
 "Why did you tell lies before?" questioned 
 his master. 
 
 "I — I didn't remember. If I did it, it must 
 have been as missus says, when I was running 
 after the — I must have caught it up to save it, 
 
 and put it down without thinking " He 
 
 hurried on, along his only plausible line of 
 defence. 
 
 " You come straight away with me," said Baas 
 Slimmer darkly. " Ever since I took ye you've 
 been getting into mischief. And now to go play- 
 ing such a trick on his reverence ! And to tell 
 lies over it ! You're a wicked boy, you are. I'll 
 teach you to tell lies. You're a liar!" He 
 walked to the door ; the boy howled louder than 
 ever. 
 
 "He isn't," interposed a burly voice. "He 
 isn't." Butcher Stott stood out, red. " I won't 
 stand by and hear one of our church children 
 called names," said Butcher Stott. "He's as 
 good a boy as ever had a good up-bringing. As 
 good as all the other parish-boys." 
 
 The minister smiled apologetically, as a man 
 whose duty it is to recognise a fallacy when he 
 sees one. 
 
 " Four and twenty years," continued Butcher 
 Stott, "have I been a member of the board, 
 Slimmer. You don't trouble about that sort of 
 work for others, you don't. And never a boy 
 but has turned out well, in all that time, thanks to 
 our up-bringing. Every mother's son of 'em has 
 done well," he repeated emphatically, "except 
 
A ARGYMENT 137 
 
 them as did better, and died." His voice dropped ; 
 there must have been a soft spot somewhere in 
 the big, apoplectic pork-butcher. He walked 
 across and deliberately placed his fat hand on 
 the shock head of the sobbing boy. 
 
 "No, he didn't do it! He didn't do it," squeaked 
 Tony in a frightened treble. 
 
 " Hush, child ; you shut your silly mouth ! " 
 admonished his grandmother, and pushed him 
 back behind her ample gown. 
 
 " Don't advance more than you can prove, 
 Brother Stott," suggested the minister gently; 
 but that was fuel to the fire with the elder, well 
 known to be as stubborn as he was soft. 
 
 M I can prove every word of it," said Stott 
 doggedly. " And that's more than Slimmer can 
 do. There was Kupkens, that rides his blue gig 
 this day ; there was Pottel, that wags his tongue 
 in the — I beg your reverence's pardon! But 
 there ! it's casting pearls before swine — not in- 
 cluding your reverence, of course." He shook 
 himself and stepped back. "That boy's a good 
 boy," he persisted. " Like all the rest. It's the 
 edification" — he meant education — "does it." 
 
 "A boy can be edified and go wrong all the 
 same!" cried Slimmer. "To say a boy can't go 
 wrong 'cause he's been taught different isn't 
 argyment." 
 
 " Isn't argyment ? Isn't argyment ? " stuttered 
 Stott. 
 
 " No, brother, no ; it isn't argument," said the 
 minister. He was still rubbing. Occasionally 
 
138 A ARGYMENT 
 
 he stopped, but then, in sheer stickiness, began 
 again. 
 
 "Isn't argyment?" cried Stott, purple in the 
 face, falling back and staring at the lot of them. 
 " And, pray, what does the Scripture mean, your 
 reverence, when it says, Bring up a child in the 
 way he should go, and when he is old— when he 
 
 is old " He floundered. Nobody helped him 
 
 out. 
 
 "That boy isn't old," objected the argumen- 
 tative Slimmer. 
 
 "You say it, Koos." Stott pushed the child 
 forward. 
 
 " He will not depart from it," said the charity- 
 child. 
 
 "The devil can quote Scripture to his 
 purpose," remarked the Baas sententiously. 
 And the servants all hee-hawed with delight at 
 their master's 'cuteness. Oh, he was 'cute, was 
 old Slimmer. Better not " argy " with him ! 
 
 "But he can't change it," retorted Stott 
 triumphantly. He had his triumph, if it was one, 
 all to himself. Slimmer's servants understood 
 only Slimmer's successes. And the minister 
 disapproved, as unprofessional, of theological 
 discussions, in his presence, by members of his 
 flock. 
 
 "These children," continued the pork-butcher, 
 elder, and poor guardian, unabashed, " have been 
 brought up in the path. They was never whipped, 
 but they was told it was the path, and so they 
 couldn't depart from it. See this boy say his 
 
A ARGYMENT 139 
 
 text pat ! He's a good boy or the Bible's wrong, 
 minister. You can't get away from that ! " 
 
 " H'm ! H'm ! " said the minister. 
 
 "Now, which is it to be, your reverence?" 
 
 Slimmer came to his pastor's rescue. " The 
 Bible isn't argyment," he said. 
 
 " You're a infidel," responded the elder. " It's 
 rank blasphemy to hear you talk, and his 
 reverence standing by ! Now, the children that's 
 brought up in your house" — he pointed a fat 
 finger at Tony, who had ventured forward, open- 
 mouthed, and now hastily retreated — " if they was 
 to go losing their bearings, it wouldn't be " 
 
 " You leave that child alone ! " burst out the 
 grandfather, suddenly infuriate. "That child's 
 been brought up by a angel in heaven!" His 
 voice faltered. "If that child isn't as good as 
 gold, then your Bible is wrong,' he said. 
 
 "Hush! Hush!" interposed the minister. 
 There was no use, surely, in continuing the 
 visitation. He lifted his hand for the benedic- 
 tion and passed majestically out. A titter ran 
 behind him. 
 
 " I'd better take this boy along with me, as he 
 doesn't suit," said the elder, pausing near the 
 doorway. The boy's heart gave a leap, 
 
 "And who's to pay me for the damage he's 
 done?" demanded Slimmer. He pointed to the 
 chair. " My mother's chair," he said solemnly. 
 " She stitched every stitch of it herself." 
 
 " The pretty dove with the olive-branch," said 
 the sorrowing Vrouw. 
 
140 A ARGYMENT 
 
 "They'll think it's the flood, begun over 
 again," replied the heartless elder. He reflected : 
 the place was a good one ; the couple worthy, in 
 spite of the husband's fierce manner at times. 
 "I'll leave him with you," he said measuredly, 
 "if you'll promise not to ill-treat him. I'll leave 
 him with you a whole month, to work off the 
 damage, and that's handsome, for if he done it, 
 he done it by accident and no harm intended. 
 And at the end of that month you'll tell me he's 
 a good boy, and then "—he threw out his chest — 
 " then we'll know who was right." He waved his 
 hand to the Vrouw. " I can trust you" he said. 
 "Slimmer is cranky, and his religion isn't 
 orthydox. But you'll do the right thing by me 
 and the boy, and the blessed Bible, and you 
 won't say he's a bad boy when he isn't." 
 
 "Well, brother?" queried the minister, turn- 
 ing back to the door. 
 
 "Coming, your reverence. Is it a bargain, 
 Vrouw?" 
 
 The boy was a strong boy and a willing. 
 " I'll keep him a month," said Slimmer, nodding. 
 " And if he's a good boy all the time — well, that's 
 argyment." He walked out after the minister, 
 showing him respectfully across the yard. 
 
 " It was his imp ; I saw it myself," whispered 
 Mieken to Piet. 
 
 "Hold your tongue. 'Tis as much as your 
 place is worth," answered Piet. " See how the 
 master burst out when they talked about his 
 daughter ! " 
 
A ARGYMENT 141 
 
 For, indeed, all that was happiest in Hendrik 
 Slimmer had been put away, a few months ago, 
 in his darling daughter's grave. All her life she 
 had done what he wanted her to do, excepting in 
 the grave case of her marriage, and then he had 
 argued himself into accepting her point of view. 
 It had taken him three months, but he had done 
 it. It was natural, after all, that a girl should 
 love a smart young soldier; it was reasonable 
 that the soldier should carry her off to the Indies ; 
 it wasn't illogical that he, being a brave man, 
 should fall there in battle, dying a hero's death. 
 The widow need not have followed him within 
 a year, consigning her only boy to her parents. 
 Still, even that was like the dear, fond, beautiful 
 creature. She could do no wrong, and whatever 
 she stood responsible for, including Tony, must 
 be reasoned out right. Thus it was that, a couple 
 of hours after the minister had left, Baas Slimmer 
 stamped about the courtyard, meeting Stott's base 
 insinuation of possible error in the immaculate 
 grandchild with an ever-increasingly vehement 
 "No!" 
 
 "Imagine!" he said to Vrouw Slimmer. 
 "Comparing Hendrika's child with a ne'er-do- 
 well parish waif!" 
 
 " But he was strong," objected the wife, frown- 
 ing heavily, "with his Bible argyment." 
 
 " Stuff and nonsense ! " cried the exasperated 
 farmer. " I tell you the Bible isn't argyment. 
 The Bible's religion. ' The apple doesn't fall far 
 from the tree.' Thafs common-sense. I've been 
 
142 A ARGYMENT 
 
 thinking it over ever since the minister went. 
 That's proverbs, and proverbs is the aggravated 
 wisdom of the centuries, as I read the other day, 
 and it's very true." 
 
 " Is it Bible proverbs ? " asked the good wife 
 anxiously. 
 
 "No, it's not. It's just human reasoning. 
 The apple doesn't fall far from the tree." 
 
 " But the other must be true if it's in the 
 Bible," said the Vrouw. 
 
 He exploded at female perversity, and strode 
 up and down, kicking his feet right and left, so 
 that the fowls scurried away all around him. 
 
 " Then the boy didn't lie about not having done 
 it ! " he cried. " And he didn't confess afterwards 
 that he had ! And he didn't put the egg into the 
 minister's chair, making us a scandal and a dis- 
 grace, with our visitation, all over the village ! 
 Oh, you old women, Stott and you ! " 
 
 " We shall soon see what he's made of," she 
 said, troubled. 
 
 He came back to her. " We shall indeed," he 
 said, dropping his voice. " Off he goes in half 
 an hour, or I'm much mistaken. I've given him 
 a big bag of apples to count. * There, count 'em,' 
 I says ; ' I don't know how many there are.' But 
 I do know. There's two hundred and thirteen. 
 There'll not be more than two hundred and 
 twelve, I guess, in that sack, when he brings it 
 round to me." 
 
 " Oh, is that fair ? " she exclaimed. 
 
 "Fair ? It's what they call a Jew-dicial inquiry. 
 
A ARGYMENT 143 
 
 Proof positive of Elder Stott's up-bringing — yah ! 
 Do you think I'm going to be beaten in a argy- 
 ment by Elder Stott ? D'ye think "—he came and 
 stood in front of her — " there's a soul in the village 
 don't know I can argy better than Elder Stott ? 
 Where'd I be ? Tell me that," he cried— " if I 
 was beaten in a argyment by Elder Stott ! " 
 
 " You can't beat the Bible," she said stolidly. 
 
 "A pork-butcher," he answered, "yah !" 
 
 " And they do bring up the children good as 
 gold," she added. 
 
 " I do believe you want the boy to prove an 
 angel," he said. 
 
 " Yes, I do. Poor little orphan chap ! " 
 
 At this moment the youth in question appeared 
 in the door of an out-house and advanced, 
 stumbling under the weight of his bulgy sack. 
 
 " Come along ! " cried the farmer. "Come here, 
 Koos ! Put it down, boy. Put it down. Now, 
 how many apples are there in that sack ? " 
 
 The boy thrust his burden from him, and 
 waited a moment, gasping for breath. 
 
 " Now, then, speak up ! " cried the farmer 
 triumphantly. " And let me tell you beforehand 
 that I know ! " 
 
 " If you know, why must I tell you ? " said 
 Koos. 
 
 " None of your lip to me ! " cried Slimmer. 
 " You answer me immediately ! Now ? " 
 
 " There's two hundred and thirteen. I counted 
 'em three times," said Koos. 
 
 " Aha ! " exclaimed the Vrouw. 
 
144 A ARGYMENT 
 
 Her husband turned on her. " Hold your 
 tongue, you fool ! " 
 
 The boy looked surprised. " Tony helped me 
 to count," he said. 
 
 " Aha ! " — it was the farmer's turn, a great deal 
 louder than his wife. His little plan of proof 
 had failed, but no wonder. Frustrated by the 
 presence of that innocent child. "Very well," 
 he said with dignity. " Very well. Go away 
 now, and do something else." 
 
 "And what am I to do, please, master?" 
 
 "Ask Piet," said the Baas, collecting his 
 thoughts. 
 
 " Go and clean yourself for dinner," said the 
 farm-wife. 
 
 The boy slouched away. 
 
 " Please, Baas, I want a word with you," spoke 
 Mieken. She was scarlet in the face, but, then, 
 she was always that. Her manner, however, 
 betokened unusual agitation. 
 
 " Be quick, then ! I don't want to be 
 bothered." 
 
 " Piet says it's as much as my place is worth, 
 but I can't help it. 1 can't stand by and see the 
 innocent respected " (suspected, she meant). 
 
 "You mind your own business, Mieken !" 
 
 " Why, isn't this a Jew-dicial inquiry ? " cried 
 the Vrouw. Her curiosity was eager for a cue. 
 
 " It was Tony put the Qgg down ; I saw him 
 do it," gasped the maid. 
 
 There was a moment's silence. Then the 
 Baas said, " I don't believe it." 
 
A ARGYMENT 145 
 
 " I can prove it ! " cried Mieken. 
 
 "If it's proved, I must believe it," said 
 Slimmer. 
 
 " For Piet saw him, too," said the maid. 
 " And so did Koos, for the matter of that." 
 
 " Well, after all, it was only a bit of mischief 
 in the child," began the Vrouw. " He didn't mean 
 no serious harm. And a egg's a very tempting 
 thing, for a bit of mischief, for any child, and so 
 it is ! " 
 
 " Go, Mieken ! " said the farmer, with averted 
 face. " Go, tidy yourself for your dinner." 
 
 " And you come too, Baas," said the wife. 
 
 " No, no, I don't want any dinner." 
 
 " What nonsense, man ! " 
 
 " I can't see Tony ! " 
 
 Immediately her manner changed. "Why, 
 husband ! " She came close beside him. 
 
 " It's not his playing a trick, though I couldn't 
 have done that at his age. But it's his letting 
 us think it was the other boy." 
 
 " Why, he's only a child. He was afraid." 
 
 " His mother's son couldn't tell a lie, and his 
 father's son wouldn't be afraid. The apple doesn't 
 fall " 
 
 " Oh, you argufy and argufy ! " cried the 
 Vrouw. "You should stick to your Bible, 
 Slimmer ! " 
 
 "What? "he exclaimed, exasperated. "You 
 take Stott's side ? That's the worst of all. Stott 
 is right, then, and I am wrong?" 
 
 "The boy's a good boy, sure enough; he 
 
146 A ARGYMENT 
 
 wouldn't tell of Tony. I'll remember that." She 
 nodded meaningly. 
 
 "And Stott is right when he argufies that 
 Hendrika's child " 
 
 She laughed aloud. " No, he's wrong ; don't 
 you see that, stupid? For that child has been 
 trained by a angel, as you said. All the same, 
 he ain't a saint." 
 
 " But I'm just as wrong as he," cried Slimmer, 
 " for the apple " 
 
 She put up both hands to her ears. " Oh, you 
 argufy and argufy till you're crazed," she said. 
 
 Something plucked at her gown. 
 
 " Please, grandmother ! Please, grandfather ! " 
 said a feeble voice. Master Tony stepped in 
 front of the couple. His manner was determined, 
 though his colour was faint. " Please, grand- 
 father, I put the egg there," said Tony, and closed 
 his eyes, awaiting his fate. 
 
 " Oh, Tony, how could you be so careless ! ** 
 cried the condoning Vrouw. 
 
 " No, I did it on purpose," said Tony. 
 
 " But what for ? " demanded his grandfather. 
 
 " For fun." 
 
 " I don't understand," said Slimmer. 
 
 " I do," said the helpful Vrouw. 
 
 " But, then, why do you come and tell us 
 now ? " persisted the grandfather. " Did Mieken 
 advise you to?" 
 
 " Mieken ? No, I came of myself," replied the 
 young man proudly. " I remembered what 
 mother always used to say." 
 
A ARGYMENT 147 
 
 " What did she say ? " asked the Vrouw, in a 
 whisper. 
 
 " Be good if you can, 'and, if you can't, be 
 honest," came the prompt reply. 
 
 Radiant, the old woman drew the old man 
 aside. "You'll believe in the Bible next time," 
 she said. 
 
 He turned quickly to his grandson. " Why 
 didn't you be honest at once ? " he said. 
 
 " I did try to speak, but grandmother wouldn't 
 let me. So I thought I'd wait till the minister 
 was gone." A pause. 
 
 " I stayed with Koos, so you couldn't hurt 
 him," continued the child eagerly, "and I helped 
 him with the apples, and I told him I was coming 
 to tell you. And so I did." 
 
 Baas Slimmer gazed sternly at his little grand- 
 son. "You'll have to go and 'pologize to his 
 reverence, young man," he said. "And take a 
 note from me to ask his reverence to punish you 
 as he thinks best." 
 
 " Yes, granfer," said Tony, with a gulp. 
 
 " I should think, in all probability, he'll give 
 you a good beating." 
 
 Tony was unable to express his feelings. 
 
 " Aren't you afraid to go ? " 
 
 No answer. 
 
 " Say : aren't you afraid ? " 
 
 "Yes, granfer. But mother said " A 
 
 dead stop. 
 
 The old Vrouw bent over him. " Well, 
 Tony ? " 
 
148 A ARGYMENT 
 
 M Mother said " — a sob — " that father always 
 said, 'twasn't no shame being afraid, but" — another 
 sob — " not doing things because you was." 
 " And you think so, too, Tony ? " 
 " I'm going to be like father was." 
 Old Slimmer caught his grandson's arm in a 
 grip that made the young hero squeal. "Now," 
 he turned to his wife with fierce joy, "was I 
 
 right or was I wrong ? An apple " 
 
 " Oh, you argufy " smiled the farm-wife. 
 
 " I don't argufy," replied her husband im- 
 pressively. " I never argufy. I goes by proof." 
 
THE CONTRACT 
 
 HE was a man of business. So he was a 
 cheat. The world he lived in highly 
 honoured him. In America, to become President 
 of a Trust or of a Republic, it is necessary to 
 teach, or at least to have taught, in a Sunday 
 school. Thomas van Crook, not living in the 
 American Koopstad, could peacefully sleep away 
 his well-earned Sunday afternoons. He dis- 
 approved of Sunday schools. He said that they 
 delegated to strangers the holiest duties of the 
 parent. 
 
 He was a churchwarden. That may not have 
 been necessary, but in his particular gin-trade it 
 was desirable. For his peculiar business was 
 the purchase on a large scale of the cereals, etc., 
 required in the production of inferior spirits and 
 cheap coloured liqueurs. It was an international 
 business. Potatoes and beetroot in vast quan- 
 tities from Germany ; maize from America ; 
 glycerine for the sticky drinks ; saccharine for 
 the sweet ones; chemical essences with some 
 fancy taste of fruit, from factories all over the 
 world. These things he passed on to the dis- 
 tillers, who founded seventeen successful eye- 
 openers and nightcaps upon the potato alone. 
 
150 THE CONTRACT 
 
 His summers the merchant spent in a rural 
 neighbourhood, not more than fifty miles from 
 his office. He had a cottage there covered with 
 crimson rambler and honeysuckle. It was always 
 freshly painted and in excellent repair, like all 
 things dependent on him, himself included. He 
 liked the peaceful Saturday to Monday amidst 
 his prosperous family ; he approved of the drowsy 
 village church, in whose prominent pew a clean- 
 shaven, red-necked city potentate, with stiff white 
 collar and benignant eye, cut a figure deserving 
 notice by God and inferior men. 
 
 Always :he listened to the sermon, and fre- 
 quently he enjoyed it. He would drop away for 
 ten minutes unavoidably while calculating gains 
 and losses on the Corn Exchange, but he easily 
 and willingly returned to the familiar estimate of 
 sin and faith. Sunday after Sunday the minister 
 reckoned out that illogical equation and balanced 
 x with x. The corn-buying churchwarden nodded 
 acceptance; there were no fluctuations in par- 
 sonry as in his own terribly speculative trade. 
 
 In his religion, which was all theology, he 
 was perfectly sincere. There was nothing of the 
 hypocrite about this man. Unless you fully 
 understand this, his little bit of story can have 
 no interest for you. Read some simpler tale of 
 a facile Uriah Heep. 
 
 He had grown up in a parody of Calvinism, 
 sucking it in with his mother's milk and uncon- 
 sciously seeing it lived all day around him. Made 
 sure of his own election one morning by some 
 
THE CONTRACT 151 
 
 wonderful chance — one against ten thousand — he 
 had settled down into the easy conviction that 
 man is very evil and God is very good. Hence- 
 forth all the rest was plain sailing. He read 
 constantly the word of the Bible, not its con- 
 tents ; he prayed daily, against no individual sin. 
 How could he have reproached himself with 
 errors, of whose existence he was quite unaware ! 
 Had any one suggested to him that religion and 
 life were not inextricably intermingled, he would 
 have burst out in indignant disclaimers. " Faith 
 without works," he would have repeated, "is 
 dead." 
 
 He was a loving husband and father, the 
 happy head of a united household, the careful 
 tender of a sheltered home. His wife and children 
 adored him. His servants and the clerks in his 
 office respected and liked him. 
 
 There were no secrets in his life or ugly 
 corners. In his intercourse with other men he 
 was upright and very generous. Beggars spoke 
 well of him. His trade was all untruth, over- 
 reaching and cheatery, and that, of course, was 
 very right. 
 
 He sat in his private office this beautiful 
 August afternoon and cast wistful glances at the 
 solemnly ticking clock. It was a Saturday. He 
 hoped to get away by the 2.45, and spend a 
 couple of hours playing with the children before 
 dinner. The children had called after him that 
 morning to remember their half-holiday. 
 
 There were four of them waiting for him at 
 
152 THE CONTRACT 
 
 home. He could see their expectant faces at the 
 garden gate — now, as he looked out into the dull 
 droning of the city — he could hear their voices 
 calling out to him to come and play golf-croquet. 
 He had grown too portly for tennis; from his 
 youth up he had detested all games and preferred 
 the multiplication table. He had been one of 
 those boys who incessantly sell and bargain at 
 school. He delighted in playing croquet with 
 his children. 
 
 There were four of them, three girls, and 
 the youngest — longed-for, cherished, almost wor- 
 shipped — was the boy Tommy : Tommykin, 
 Thomas van Crook, Junior, the hope of the 
 family and the firm. 
 
 The clerk entered and announced Mr. Loder. 
 A faint smile of scornful satisfaction flickered up 
 in the corners of Thomas van Crook's coarse, 
 rubicund face. 
 
 "Show him in," he said pompously, "and 
 send " — with another glance at the clock — " for a 
 cab." Then he called the clerk back. " Is your 
 mother better ? " he asked. 
 
 " Not much, sir. She continues very weak." 
 
 "You must get her some more of that tonic 
 wine. I forget the price. Bring me the bill." 
 
 " Thank you, sir. Thank you." 
 
 " Mind you bring it receipted." 
 
 Mr. Loder was shown in. A tall, spare man, 
 with an intellectual cast of features and seedy 
 clothes ; not a man like Thomas, not a man with 
 whom life had gone, or was ever likely to go, 
 
THE CONTRACT 153 
 
 smoothly. Eyes that bore in them uncertainty 
 as regarded God and himself especially and the 
 projects of his fellow-men. 
 
 " A beautiful day/' said Van Crook, motion- 
 ing towards a chair. The other acquiesced, sitting 
 down. " I hope it will continue fine." Thomas 
 spoke with importance, as if his wishes on the 
 subject should be taken into consideration. " I 
 like the Sabbath Day to be beautiful, bright and 
 sunshiny. That is as it should be. The — Sabbath 
 — Day. To business men like you and me, 
 Loder, worried with our daily business worries, 
 an — inestimable — boon." 
 
 "Yes," replied the other, "yes." And he 
 twirled his hat between his fingers. 
 
 " I am going down to my little place in the 
 country presently. Oh, quite a simple, humble 
 little place — a mere cottage. But we are happy 
 there, my wife and I, with the children. Do you 
 get away into the country from Saturday to 
 Monday, Loder?" 
 
 " Ah, yes, children ! " exclaimed the visitor, 
 and a sudden light flashed despairingly across his 
 eyes, as if he had caught, with his hand, at a 
 fading ray of sunshine. "You have children, 
 Van Crook ? " 
 
 "Three girls and a boy. You see, I am in 
 rather a hurry. My train goes at 2.45. I have 
 sent for a cab." 
 
 " A moment — a moment," said the other, dazed. 
 
 " But business, of course, goes before every- 
 thing else. Is it another contract for " 
 
154 THE CONTRACT 
 
 "No, by God !" said Loder. 
 
 Horror-struck, Thomas van Crook lifted a 
 deprecating hand. 
 
 "You mean that one ought not to swear," 
 said Loder. "You are right. One ought not 
 to swear." 
 
 The clerk entered, behind the speaker's back, 
 and said the cab was waiting. Thomas van Crook 
 took out his watch, but, to make quite sure : 
 
 "Still, I suppose it is a matter of business 
 you have come to speak to me about?" he said, 
 a trifle testily. 
 
 " It is." 
 
 Van Crook leaned back in his chair and folded 
 his fat arms across his stiff white waistcoat. 
 And again that gleaming, scornful satisfaction 
 appeared about the corners of his face. 
 
 The wretched visitor, who had sunk away 
 into his own lap, as it were, made a great effort, 
 bracing himself, bending forward. 
 
 " That contract of ours," he gasped. " About 
 the maize ! It holds good ? " 
 
 There was but the faintest note of interroga- 
 tion about his voice, but Thomas van Crook's 
 eyes became round with astonishment. 
 
 " Of course it holds good ! " he said. 
 
 "Of course it holds good," repeated Loder. 
 He sat staring in front of him, and his lips 
 moved as if he were repeating the words, like 
 an echo, internally. 
 
 Van Crook struck his finger-tips impatiently 
 on the desk by his side. 
 
THE CONTRACT 155 
 
 " Fifty thousand ! " burst out Loder, suddenly. 
 
 " Fifty thousand," repeated, in level tones, 
 Thomas van Crook. 
 
 " At five and three-eighths." 
 
 "At five and three-eighths," acquiesced the 
 other. 
 
 "The price is up to seven and a quarter." 
 
 Loder's voice shook; he dropped his hat on 
 the floor. 
 
 "So I see." Van Crook rose from his chair. 
 " I fear I must be going." 
 
 " Stop a moment — stop ! " cried the other, 
 starting up. " That means a loss to me of ninety- 
 three thousand seven hundred and fifty. Stop ! 
 Doesn't that work out right? Ninety-three 
 thousand seven hundred and fifty ? " 
 
 "I suppose so. Yes, yes. I suppose so," 
 Van Crook replied, hastily. 
 
 He tried to escape from the hand on his 
 sleeve, as he made for the door. But a lean 
 finger and thumb held on tight to a pinch of 
 black cloth. 
 
 " Listen to me. Listen for a moment," per- 
 sisted Loder. " Ninety-three thousand seven 
 hundred and fifty. Just imagine what it means 
 to me. Realise what it means. Ruin ! " 
 
 Van Crook turned straight round, with the 
 suddenness of a fierce resolve. 
 
 " Are you out of your wits ? " he said. " What 
 have you come here for ? Are you a business 
 man or a fool ?" 
 
 " Both," replied Loder. 
 
156 THE CONTRACT 
 
 " Then I am sorry for you. Good-day." 
 
 But the unwelcome visitor stood across the 
 doorway. 
 
 "You bind me down to this contract?" he 
 persisted. "You expect delivery on Monday 
 next?" 
 
 " The man is mad," answered Crook. 
 
 " Of course. I expected you to do so. I have 
 not come to ask you to rescind our agreement. 
 I am not mad. All I ask is for a day's delay. 
 Twenty-four hours ; that is all. Tuesday, Van 
 Crook ; not the day after to-morrow." 
 
 There was entreaty in his voice, too much 
 entreaty. The strain of his searching eyes grew 
 intense. 
 
 The sharp business man opposite noted this 
 yearning anxiety. A vague importance he could 
 not yet fathom filled the atmosphere of the room. 
 Thomas van Crook walked away to the window. 
 His commercial instincts were afield : he had 
 forgotten about cabs and trains. 
 
 " Tuesday. Why Tuesday ? " He turned, 
 and said aloud : " You wish to wait till Tuesday. 
 Why?" 
 
 " I cannot tell you." 
 
 " And I cannot comply with your request." 
 
 "My God!" 
 
 " Really, Mr. Loder, my clerks will hear you. 
 You should abandon this bad habit of swearing." 
 
 " I tell you, the delay can do you no harm. 
 To me it is a matter of life and death." 
 
 "That you ask for delay in this mysterious 
 
THE CONTRACT 157 
 
 manner is proof sufficient that the advantage 
 would be on your side. Ours is a speculative 
 trade, Loder, as you know. You ask me to 
 behave like an idiot. You would be the first to 
 laugh at me if I were so crazy as to say yes." 
 
 "Have you sold?" answered Loder, abruptly. 
 "For Monday?" 
 
 " What ? " replied Crook, to gain time. 
 
 " I ask you, have you sold ? I don't believe 
 you have, for I feel sure you are holding on. If 
 you have already sold at present prices, I ask 
 nothing more. I am lost." 
 
 There was a moment's silence. 
 
 " But it isn't likely ! " continued the desperate 
 man passionately. "Our contract is only two 
 days old, and the enormous rise came yesterday 
 and continued this morning. It isn't likely that 
 you should have sold for delivery on Monday ! " 
 
 " All this is folly ! " exclaimed Thomas. 
 
 " If you haven't — and I don't believe you have 
 — you can save me without loss to yourself." 
 Loder came forward, pressing upon his adver- 
 sary. " Swear to me by the blessed Madonna that 
 you have sold, and must deliver on Monday ! 
 Swear, and I will go ! " 
 
 The blessed Madonna was to Thomas not an 
 object of indifference, but of positive disapproval. 
 He was rather shocked to find himself locked up 
 thus in controversy with a Romanist. 
 
 " Swear, and I will go ! " 
 
 " I never swear," replied Thomas. " You 
 have no right, sir, to put these insolent — yes, 
 
158 THE CONTRACT 
 
 insolent — questions ! My business concerns me 
 alone, sir ! " 
 
 " You have not sold ; I know it. At least, not 
 for Monday. Then you will let me deliver on 
 Tuesday." 
 
 " I will not." The words fell like a pistol shot. 
 
 " I tell you, if I am obliged to buy on Monday 
 at seven and a quarter, I am hopelessly ruined. 
 The transaction has been an enormous, a 
 desperate speculation ; I admit that. It has 
 failed. I have been carried off my feet by this 
 corner ; the whole market has been mad, as you 
 know, for a week. I can deliver on Tuesday." 
 
 " Why ? Why ? " stammered the other, faint 
 with curiosity. 
 
 "You have children. I have not come here 
 on my own account. At least, not mainly. I 
 have a wife, a daughter who has been an invalid 
 for years. You are turning them out into the 
 streets, flinging my sick child from her couch into 
 the gutter. I plead for her. I — I plead for her." 
 
 He could say no more, stopping suddenly. 
 
 "Why on Tuesday?" reiterated Crook. It 
 was indeed a mad week in the annals of the 
 market, unforgettable, often quoted and dis- 
 cussed to this day. The whole world had gone 
 wild over a corner in Chicago ; fabulous quantities, 
 purely speculative, were sold every hour, not at 
 long dates as usual, but for immediate, entirely 
 imaginary, delivery, every man being eager to 
 have fresh quantities, however theoretic, to re- 
 sell. A fortune came and went with an hour's 
 
THE CONTRACT 159 
 
 delay. Ten times the possible produce of the year 
 rose and fell in mid-air. If Crook sold to-day he 
 made nearly five thousand pounds, but he had 
 not the slightest intention of selling, convinced 
 that quotations on Monday would indicate a 
 further considerable rise. 
 
 " Sell to-day for delivery on Tuesday. That 
 saves me and insures you." 
 
 "You know very well I can't in the present 
 insane state of affairs. No man will give me 
 more than twenty-four hours." 
 
 "Sell on Monday, then — on Monday! " 
 
 The look of suspicion deepened in the other's 
 eye. 
 
 "Tell me what you know, or think you know. 
 Say what you mean. At once. Or bring me 
 your receipt on Monday morning." 
 
 Then Loder grew suddenly desperate. 
 
 " There ! " he said, and flung down a paper he 
 had held hidden until now. Van Crook pounced 
 upon it. It was a telegram in cipher. 
 
 " Well ? " cried Van Crook baffled, infuriated. 
 
 " Ah, yes — true." Loder wiped his forehead. 
 
 "That is a telegram from ." His voice 
 
 dropped, for he mentioned one of the greatest 
 names over yonder. Van Crook's face assumed 
 an expression of awe. Then of doubt. " What ? 
 To you?" 
 
 " He bids me do a stroke of business for him, 
 because I am so unnoticeable and unimportant," 
 said Loder bitterly. " Incidentally he proves to 
 me the certainty of a great fall on Tuesday." 
 
160 THE CONTRACT 
 
 "And you show them to me? You have 
 strange ideas of honour." 
 
 " Don't speak to me of honour — you ! " 
 
 "And why not, pray ? " Van Crook lifted his 
 pink chin high over his tall white collar. 
 
 " Oh, leave me alone/' replied the pale man, 
 wearily. u I must save the roof over my wife 
 and child. If I buy on Monday to meet your 
 claim, I am hopelessly lost." 
 
 " Then why don't you sell twice the amount 
 on Monday and make a fortune ? " 
 
 "I can't, as you know very well, since men 
 have begun demanding receipts. I haven't got 
 anything to sell." 
 
 Van Crook gave a long, low whistle. Was it 
 possible that this man posed as a speculator and 
 tied himself down to bona-fide receipts ? 
 
 "I have receipts," he said drily. "Surely 
 folks make laws, and wise men elude them." 
 
 "The more reason then to have — mercy on 
 me. Sell what you can on Monday, but let me 
 off. I am asking you for an enormous boon ; I 
 know it. But it doesn't mean loss to you. 
 Only less gain." 
 
 " Less gain is loss to a merchant." 
 
 " Well, then, for mercy's sake ! For God's ! " 
 
 But Van Crook had been making rapid com- 
 putations. The long-expected crash, the final 
 reckoning was coming. In a day or two actual 
 delivery — genuine receipts, that is to say— would 
 be required. Loder's fifty thousand — an im- 
 mense amount— would be a most important 
 
THE CONTRACT 161 
 
 factor. He believed in the poor fellow's sincerity, 
 but, after all, the telegram was in cipher ; specula- 
 tion remained speculation, even the great man 
 over the sea might be mistaken — there are many 
 slips between the cup and the lip. He had 
 resolved to close that very night with a friend's 
 offer. The friend lived at a summer place not a 
 mile from his own cottage. He would drive over 
 after dinner. 
 
 " I have sold," he said calmly. 
 
 " You lie ! " screamed Loder. 
 
 Thomas van Crook had rung the bell. 
 
 "You have not the slightest idea what you 
 are saying," he said, pompously. * I must now 
 be going. Sit down and rest a bit. My clerk 
 can get you a glass of water. Good-day." 
 
 He walked out of the inner room and closed 
 the door behind him. 
 
 " The gentleman in there has asked for some 
 water," he remarked to the clerk. Then, in 
 passing through the office, he paused and spoke 
 with gentle reproof: "It is the 16th to-day, not 
 the 15th," he said. "I have complained to you 
 before on the subject." 
 
 So speaking, he tore a leaflet off the clerk's 
 calendar. It was a religious one with texts for 
 every day in the year. A yearly Christmas 
 present from Mrs. Van Crook to the office. 
 
 "'The blessing of the Lord maketh rich,'" 
 said Thomas, " ' and He addeth no sorrow there- 
 unto.' Ah, true, very true." 
 
 " Please, sir, it struck me as so beautiful, I 
 
 M 
 
162 THE CONTRACT 
 
 kept it on an extra day," said the youth, who 
 earned four hundred dollars per annum. 
 
 Thomas looked at him keenly, and the young 
 man quailed. 
 
 " Never tell untruths," said Thomas severely. 
 Then he went out to the cab, but of course he 
 had missed his train. There was one half an 
 hour later. He sighed. " But it was kind to 
 listen to the poor, stupid wretch," he thought, 
 and felt he had done, as usual, right. 
 
 Unconsciously he had retained the little leaflet 
 in his hand, and, in driving along the familiar 
 streets, he unrolled it, with mechanical move- 
 ment, and smoothed it out. As he gazed down 
 upon the thick black letters, he reflected how 
 true they came in his own existence. His life 
 had been singularly prosperous ; all things ran 
 smoothly with his comely, kindly wife, and 
 healthy children, his well-ordered household and 
 comfortable home. There had been one shadow 
 during several years, an unfulfilled desire ; they 
 had prayed about it, and the answer had come ; 
 a son had been born to them. He threw out his 
 chest and gazed upon the people walking on the 
 pavement. Somebody, an unknown nobody, 
 saluted with a humble sinking of hat and head. 
 Thomas waved a benignant hand. 
 
 In the train he found an habitual acquaintance, 
 a man in another line of business than himself, 
 but a member of the same charitable committee. 
 There then was an agreeable community of con- 
 versation not too personal. The two began 
 
THE CONTRACT 168 
 
 speaking oi a painful case which had applied for 
 relief. Another man whom Thomas knew got in 
 at an intermediate station, to his sub-acid annoy- 
 ance ; for this man was a Revivalist, one of those 
 people who have been converted and ask if you 
 have been saved. And this form of religion was 
 peculiarly objectionable to Thomas. 
 
 "A man shouldn't attempt business unless he 
 has business instincts," said the fellow committee 
 member. 
 
 " I entirely agree with you," replied Thomas, 
 his thoughts dwelling on Loder ; " otherwise, of 
 course, he fails, and then he comes down on the 
 community." 
 
 " Now, this man," said his companion, " was 
 a fool." 
 
 " All men are who fail," replied Thomas. 
 
 The Revivalist turned down his newspaper. 
 
 11 Surely — surely not," he said. 
 
 "Not only fools, but evil-doers," persisted 
 Thomas pugnaciously. " Ill-success is the result 
 of wrong-doing." 
 
 " You would not find that easy to prove," said 
 the pious man softly. 
 
 For all answer, Thomas pushed a fat finger 
 into a capacious waistcoat pocket, pulled out a 
 crumpled piece of paper, and held it under the 
 other's nose. He was delighted at this op- 
 portunity of flooring the preacher. 
 
 " Behold your proof! " 
 
 His antagonist calmly adjusted a pair of gold 
 spectacles, and read the sacred words. Then he 
 
164 THE CONTRACT 
 
 looked at the florid personage opposite to him 
 with an expression of very real pity in his grave, 
 grey eyes. 
 
 " And you really think that the riches of the 
 Lord are pounds, shillings and pence?" he said. 
 u Poor man ! " Then he resumed his newspaper, 
 hiding behind it. 
 
 Thomas Van Crook got out at his station, 
 feeling ruffled and perplexed. He walked at a 
 quick pace, in the beautiful summer sunshine, 
 along a road bordered by flower gardens, under 
 the shadow of the beeches. He was vexed at 
 being later than usual. Tommy would have 
 expected him half an hour ago, and Tommy 
 did not like being put out. The discussion in 
 the train had been objectionable; what absurd 
 ideas came to these people who broke away 
 from "The Word" and went in for emotional 
 religion ! And the preceding scene in the office 
 had been worse. The man Loder had made 
 him quite uncomfortable with that outrageous 
 appeal about "an invalid daughter" and "the 
 gutter." Under such circumstances business 
 became impossible. That must be patent to 
 every human being with a head on his shoulders. 
 Fancy allowing all your contracts to turn on 
 personal considerations, selling cheap to a poor 
 man and dear to a richer. Idiotic ! There is no 
 doubt it would be. He would drive over to his 
 colleague's that evening, and sell out at seven 
 and a quarter. 
 
 The first thing that struck him when he 
 
THE CONTRACT 165 
 
 opened his own gate was that no little feet 
 ran pattering out to greet him. And the next 
 thing was that his wife came into the verandah 
 hurriedly with tear-stains on her face. 
 
 She drew him into the sitting-room. " What 
 is it ? " A new alarm was upon him, the contact 
 with an unknown emotion suddenly at the 
 throat. 
 
 "Never mind, dear; it will be all right. 
 Only " — her voice broke — " Tommy has had some 
 sort of seizure. He is in convulsions. The 
 doctor is with him. I daresay it won't be so 
 very bad." 
 
 The father "sprang away from her with a cry. 
 In one rush he reached the bedside. A doctor 
 was busy applying useless remedies. The child 
 lay gasping and twitching, oppressed beyond 
 endurance, blue in the face, a terrible sight. 
 
 " Good God ! " said the father who deemed 
 the words an oath. Then he turned on the 
 doctor, and angrily bade him give relief. 
 
 "I am doing what I can," said the man of 
 medicine briefly. 
 
 "But it isn't enough." 
 
 " It is not. Nature must help herself." 
 
 " Nature ? Nature ? Will she do it ? " 
 
 " There is no saying. You must not cry out 
 like this. Although the child is not visibly aware 
 of your presence, your agitation is communicat- 
 ing itself to him. I must beg of you to leave 
 this room." The grumpy old doctor did not like 
 Van Crook, who had quarrelled with him about 
 
166 THE CONTRACT 
 
 a bill for parish relief. Van Crook was a hard- 
 working churchwarden, and did his best for the 
 parish and the poor. 
 
 " But I can do something. Something more 
 can be done. Just look how the child struggles." 
 
 " I am doing what little there is to be done. 
 You can do nothing. Well, yes— you are a 
 religious man, are you not? You can pray." 
 
 "Is there danger?" The man's voice rose 
 sick with apprehension. 
 
 " Pray all you can," replied the doctor. 
 
 Van Crook fell more than walked into the 
 adjoining room. Behind the closed door he 
 could hear the gurgling and groaning of the 
 child. " My boy, Thomas," he said, " my boy, 
 Thomas," over and over again. At first he could 
 say or think nothing else. As he stood at the 
 window wildly looking out, he drove his hands 
 into his trousers pockets, and there he struck 
 against the crumpled bit of paper he had angrily 
 thrust out of sight when the pious man returned 
 it to him. 
 
 He knew well enough what the little lump 
 was his knuckles pressed against. The letters 
 arose in front of him and wrote themselves large 
 in the sky. 
 
 " The blessing of the Lord maketh rich, and 
 He addeth no sorrow thereunto." 
 
 The Methodist's remark had conveyed no 
 meaning whatever to him. Nor did he now 
 attach any significance to it. But in his practical 
 mind it was evident that, if sorrow — a new 
 
THE CONTRACT 167 
 
 experience — came upon him, something must 
 have gone wrong with the blessing of the Lord. 
 And the consciousness of the Lord's blessing, 
 His daily approval, was as necessary to him as 
 sunshine to wheat. 
 
 He had not believed much in the sick daughter 
 and the gutter, but now, in the light of his own 
 child's illness, the fact stood out painfully glaring. 
 His own child ill, in danger ; none of the children 
 had ever been ill before. 
 
 He wanted to pray, but he found that he 
 couldn't. The words stuck in his throat. He 
 was one of those men who can only pray by 
 speaking their petitions out loud. Something 
 had become between him and his prayers. 
 
 His wife was in the next room with the doctor 
 and the child. He could hear her. He crept to 
 the door, but the doctor thrust him back. " There 
 is no change," said the doctor. 
 " Not a little better ? " 
 " No." 
 
 He stood alone in the middle of the silent 
 room. And suddenly a great conception was 
 borne in upon his mind — the possibility of a 
 magnificent compromise, a transaction with the 
 Almighty offering, at any rate, a chance of success. 
 It was a vast speculation, and that tempted him. 
 Nay, as he reflected upon it, he realised that he 
 could make it not a chance, but a certainty. From 
 so noble, so generous an action — unheard of in 
 the annals of commercialism — the Lord could 
 not withhold His blessing, that blessing which 
 
168 THE CONTRACT 
 
 maketh rich, and behold, He addeth no sorrow 
 thereunto. 
 
 A life for a life. Loder's invalid daughter 
 against his dying boy. 
 
 u I will do it," he said aloud. " Do Thou give 
 me my child. It is a contract. To understand 
 the message. I accept it. Loder's daughter 
 shall live. Let my son live too." 
 
 He tottered downstairs to the telephone 
 which communicated with the local telegraph 
 office. And he sent the telegram to Loder. 
 " Consider contract annulled." 
 
 He slipped upstairs again easy in mind. 
 His heart was aglow with the munificence of the 
 action he had just committed. And he was 
 certain of his reward. There should be no 
 sorrow mixed up with his wisely-earned bless- 
 ings. His share of the divine contract he had 
 righteously fulfilled. 
 
 At the top of the stairs the doctor met him. 
 " The child is dead," said the doctor. 
 
MISTER BROTHER JONAS 
 
 I 
 
 IN the favoured borough of Overstad, well 
 known to the student of history, among the 
 fat meadows, a dozen miles beyond Utrecht, 
 there dwell many that are very good, and more 
 that are believed so. Not by themselves— that 
 were a commonplace — but by others of like 
 thinking with themselves. There are also many 
 whose ways are evil, but these belong to the 
 other religious sects. 
 
 It is by no means so easy as the careless 
 tourist might imagine to become a person of 
 importance in Overstad. Certain lengths — so to 
 put it — are required of the candidate for social 
 consideration : length of purse, length of pedi- 
 gree (only local species are known of the family 
 tree) and also length of face. The first two 
 qualifications must occur in conjunction : the 
 last has been known to suffice in itself. A man 
 has achieved greatness in Overstad by never 
 being seen to smile. All three requirements 
 found moderate recognition in the impressive 
 personality of Miss Alida Blom. 
 
 It cannot be denied, that Mejuffrouw Alida 
 
170 MISTER BROTHER JONAS 
 
 Blom belonged on the father's side to the Utrecht 
 family of the Bloms who were cordially hated, 
 as such, by their Overstad namesakes of slightly 
 humbler origin. But her father had married (to 
 the rage of his relations) an Overstad Blom 
 "with a penny in the bank," as he always 
 phrased it, and from the day of his marriage and 
 removal to Overstad his countenance had assumed 
 such an air of unfathomable solemnity, that the 
 townspeople would have respected the daughter 
 for that memory alone. In daily life the worthy 
 man had been a manufacturer of cheap cigars : 
 he had left his only child a fortune amounting to 
 exactly thirteen hundred pounds a year. 
 
 Mejuffrouw Alida lived as an uncompromising 
 spinster into stately middle age. She said that 
 marriage was a reproach. St. Paul had intended 
 it to be so, and such it was. From time to time 
 some enterprising suitor made advances : to her 
 honour be it admitted that she always averted 
 his discomfiture, if she could do so. It afforded 
 her no satisfaction, she averred, to see the poor 
 male creatures shrivel up and slink away. 
 
 She inhabited a dull, white house — as white 
 as it was dull—with green shutters, on a dead, 
 grass-eaten square, which bore grimly the name 
 of the Old Churchyard. In front of Number 
 Nineteen the bit of pavement was kept properly 
 weeded. Everything was kept in proper con- 
 dition at Number Nineteen. Even the man who 
 came and did odd jobs (not "odd:" there was 
 never any variety) was a white-haired old 
 
MISTER BROTHER JONAS 171 
 
 widower, who had promised not to marry 
 again. 
 
 Once only there had been an actual flutter in 
 this rectilinear household — it happened when the 
 old man had fallen ill and sent a chubby, curly, 
 young nephew to fill his place. Miss Alida, re- 
 tiring from her first interview with the newcomer, 
 had remarked to Elizabeth, the cook, that the lad 
 was of a pleasing exterior — a remark, frequently 
 revived, amid head-shakings, by the two maids, 
 who had both spent more than twenty-five years 
 in the house. In the second interview Miss 
 Alida had dismissed the youth from her premises 
 with contumely, for making love, over the palings, 
 to the nurse-girl next door. 
 
 Thirteen hundred a year is a fortune in Miss 
 Alida's small Overstad circle. In itself it would 
 entitle its owner to respect : it becomes a source 
 of persistent adulation, when much of it is found 
 to be available for charity. Miss Alida's own 
 requirements were simple and solid : she was 
 eager to share her bread and butter with the 
 poor. 
 
 "A most praiseworthy attitude of mind," said 
 the minister of the Free Reformed Church, to 
 which Miss Alida belonged. For, alas, she was 
 a dissenter, even from the dissenters. The 
 arrangement was her father's — he having always 
 shaken his head whenever anybody expressed a 
 religious opinion of any kind. 
 
 " But who, pray, is Miss Alida Blom ? " ques- 
 tioned the minister's brother, a missionary, 
 
172 MISTER BROTHER JONAS 
 
 recently returned from the West Indies, and 
 appointed to the management of a mission- 
 school at home. 
 
 "The most estimable member of my com- 
 munity/' replied the minister, " and the wealthi- 
 est. How beautiful," he added, " to find the two 
 thus combined!" The minister was lanky, 
 cadaverous, attired in an ever-dusty black coat. 
 He had eleven children : his locks, his speech 
 and his skin were oleaginous : his nails were 
 blacker than his coat. He was a false shepherd : 
 of that uncommon species you could not have 
 found an unpleasanter specimen in all the country 
 round. 
 
 Unless it might have been his brother, freshly 
 imported, a dark presence, discoloured by tropi- 
 cal suns, with a look from which dogs shrank 
 away. 
 
 "Unmarried, I think I understand?" con- 
 tinued the missionary. " Mejuffrouw " may 
 apply to spinster, widow or wife. 
 
 "Unmarried, I am thankful to say," replied 
 Matthew, the minister. " For the married women 
 centre their affections on their households, the 
 unmarried " 
 
 "On their minister," sneered Timothy, the 
 missionary, himself a bachelor. 
 
 The elder brother smiled. " For shame ! On 
 their church. Miss Alida is worth several thou- 
 sand florins a year to me in my care for the 
 needs of my — poor." 
 
 " Lucky man— poor, I mean," said Timothy. 
 
MISTER BROTHER JONAS 173 
 
 "Some few droppings fall on me. I do not 
 deny that. When Susan had the measles last 
 September, and Timothy, your godson, 
 caught " 
 
 " I remember," replied the missionary hastily. 
 " How old is your Miss Alida?" 
 
 u Miss Alida completed her forty-seventh year 
 on the thirteenth of November last. But her 
 health is excellent, and she is also remarkably 
 well — ahem ! — preserved." 
 
 "A fine woman?" The questioner's voice 
 betrayed interest. The older man cast a long, 
 leering glance at him. 
 
 "No. Veracity compels me to confess that 
 she is unusually plain." 
 
 "Well, one can't have everything," said 
 Timothy. 
 
 He took a few puffs at his long Gouda pipe 
 before he added : " By your own account she is 
 generous, kind-hearted." 
 
 "When not in her tantrums," replied the 
 wary Matthew. " Her generosity is largely a 
 matter of whim." 
 
 Timothy's eyes wandered round his brother's 
 shabby box of a study. The stamping and howl- 
 ing of children could be heard in a continual 
 storm round the poor little house. " I should 
 like," said Timothy, " to meet this Miss Alida." 
 
 "I fear that would be difficult to manage," 
 retorted Matthew. In the momentary silence 
 that followed a declaration of war passed between 
 the brothers. 
 
174 MISTER BROTHER JONAS 
 
 "Do you think so? I shall call on her and 
 ask for a subscription." 
 
 "She don't care for missions. She don't 
 believe in 'em. I have frequently laboured in 
 vain to procure a donation for you, Timothy." 
 
 " You mean/' said Timothy, smiling his most 
 unpleasant smile, "that you look upon Miss 
 Alida as your especial preserve?" 
 
 "The expression is disgusting. But, if you 
 choose to put it so, well, yes." 
 
 " My dear Matthew, there is always a certain 
 charm in poaching." 
 
 "A man's enemies," said the minister, folding 
 his hands, "shall be those of his own house." 
 Probably he would have added even more pun- 
 gent quotations, for the red spots were coming 
 out upon his bilious complexion, but all further 
 discussion was prevented by loud knockings and 
 parleyings at the door. In another moment Miss 
 Alida, greatly flurried, stood screaming at the 
 obsequious pastor. 
 
 " Minister, come with me at once ! " cried Miss 
 Alida. " Who's this ? Never mind. Come along 
 with me at once ! " She caught him by the arm 
 and propelled him along the passage. Hatless, 
 in his filthy dressing-gown and slippers, vainly 
 expostulating, he found himself seated in a cab, 
 driving furiously along the most frequented 
 street of Overstad — worst of all, opposite sat his 
 brother, serene, in glossy black. 
 
 "Present me, my dear Matthew," said 
 Timothy. 
 
MISTER BROTHER JONAS 175 
 
 " It seems to me it was / Miss Alida asked to 
 accompany her," came the savage reply. 
 
 Timothy took off his shiny tall hat and gently 
 stroked it. " Should the services of a clergyman 
 be suddenly called for, I felt that my cos- 
 tume " He sank his emotionless eyes down 
 
 the flabby dilapidation beside him, in tattered 
 purple hangings, torn slippers, worse socks. 
 
 11 Are you a parson also ? Oh, ay, Timothy, 
 I suppose? So much the better," said Miss 
 Alida. Already the cab dashed round a corner 
 of the Churchyard. Miss Alida hurried the two 
 clerics through her own front-door and straight 
 down into her kitchen. 
 
 '■ Such doings in a Christian woman's house ? " 
 gasped Miss Alida. 
 
 In the middle of the kitchen, by the table, sat 
 the cook. On the table lay, prominently placed, 
 the cook's arm, and that arm had been, recently, 
 badly burnt. Over the injured member leant a 
 gaunt figure in a white mob cap, which figure 
 and cap belonged to an itinerant saleswoman, 
 from whom Miss Alida occasionally bought 
 fruit. 
 
 " Oh, oh, oh ! " groaned the cook. 
 
 The old woman, with a countenance of pre- 
 ternatural solemnity, entirely oblivious of any 
 change in her surroundings, continued her move- 
 ments and mutterings. 
 
 "Hocus pocus! Sanctus Maria! — ter-ter- 
 ter! ' she murmured, and flung three great 
 sweeps of the cross high in air, above the cook 
 
176 MISTER BROTHER JONAS 
 
 and the table and, almost, over Miss Alida. The 
 latter leaped back. 
 
 " Spirit evil — spirit devil — spirit holy " 
 
 declaimed the old woman. 
 
 "Peace!" shrieked Miss Alida. "Stop her, 
 parson ! Cook, if you don't take that arm away, 
 I give you notice on the spot. Yes, though you 
 have been twenty years in my family, and I 
 never thought " 
 
 " Twenty-five come next February : the pain's 
 going down," said the cook. 
 
 "Really, really, this is very reprehensible," 
 began Matthew, who was hunting for one of his 
 slippers that had come off in the hurried descent. 
 
 " Prehensible ? " cried Alida. " Of the devil ! 
 This woman, I now understand too late, is a 
 Papist, a horrible, iniquitous Papist, of whom / 
 have bought gooseberries ! Heaven forgive me 
 for buying gooseberries of a Papist. And such 
 bad ones too ! I might have guessed. By their 
 fruit ye shall know them, as the blessed Bible 
 says." 
 
 "My gooseberries- " began the old woman, 
 
 turning hastily, — but she checked herself and 
 reverted to her exorcisms. 
 
 " Out of my house you go this minute ! " 
 shouted the indignant spinster, hoarse with pas- 
 sion, " and never dare to enter it again ! " 
 
 " Out of my house you go this minute ! " re- 
 peated Matthew, trying to look under the 
 dresser, " and never dare to enter it again ! " 
 
 The old woman had taken up a basin of water 
 
MISTER BROTHER JONAS 177 
 
 and began plashing the contents over the 
 wounded limb. The patient screamed. 
 
 a Hocus pocus — Ter est sanctus " 
 
 Timothy stepped quietly forward, gripped 
 the old woman by the shoulders and hoisted 
 her, with merciless persistence, to the door. 
 
 "Out you go, swindler!" cried Miss Alida. 
 " Out, you witch ! " 
 
 On the threshold, however, the old woman 
 wrenched herself round and, before disappearing : 
 
 " In the name of the Holy Virgin thou blas- 
 phemest," she said, solemnly cranking one 
 crooked finger forwards, "the black death shall 
 eat thy vitals! Tris! Anathema. Ter. Ter. 
 Ter." Rather suddenly she disappeared around 
 the corner, by an extra-forcible jerk of Timothy's. 
 
 "Oh, oh, oh! The pain was ever so much 
 better!" wailed the cook. "She kills and she 
 cures as she pleases. She says so herself, and 
 it's true. ' I cures and I kills, whom I wills,' she 
 says." 
 
 " Elizabeth, you are a heathen," replied Miss 
 Alida, rather pale. " Worse than a heathen. I 
 will send you down some of my linseed lini- 
 ment, by Suzan. It is excellent for burns." 
 
 "Not as good as Vrouw Dupper," boldly 
 answered the cook. 
 '"Folly!" 
 
 "You wait till you're burnt," said the cook. 
 
 " Dear, dear, how she did curse missus ! It 
 gave me quite a turn," added Suzan. 
 
 " Peace ! " said Alida, her nose high in air. 
 
 N 
 
178 MISTER BROTHER JONAS 
 
 II 
 
 Next morning, at an early hour, Miss Alida's 
 grey-headed servitor again summoned the minister 
 to his mistress's side. 
 
 " She's that bad ! " said the old factotum, at the 
 street-door. 
 
 " How bad ! " cried the minister's dishevelled 
 wife from the top of the staircase. 
 
 " As bad as can be," replied Peter. 
 
 A thrill of expectancy ran through the little 
 house. 
 
 " Dear, dear me ! " exclaimed Matthew, running 
 about in a not unusual flutter. " Supposing that 
 something were to happen ! I hope not, Sophia ! " 
 
 " I hope not,"echoed the weary Sophia, turning 
 to look for her latest baby but one. 
 
 "The dealings of Providence are inscrutable," 
 declared Matthew, from habit. " And I'm not at 
 all sure we're in her will," he added, as he hurried 
 downstairs. 
 
 Nevertheless he was very much annoyed to 
 find, on arriving, Timothy already tranquilly 
 installed in Miss Alida's red-velvet parlour. 
 
 " Did she send for you too ? " asked Timothy, 
 with his thin smile. "The doctor is with the 
 dear patient." 
 
 " You are sitting in Miss Alida's own chair," 
 retorted the minister snappishly. " Nobody ever 
 sits in it but she." 
 
 " Indeed ? Well, at any rate, she can't sit in 
 it now," answered Timothy. 
 
MISTER BROTHER JONAS 179 
 
 An angry silence ensued. " Perhaps," added 
 Timothy sweetly, " she may never sit in it again." 
 
 Matthew bounded. "Good gracious, I hope 
 she won't die ! " he cried. " I couldn't afford to 
 lose her. The children " 
 
 " You idiot, do you mean to say you have had 
 her all this time, and haven't even got into her 
 will?" 
 
 Matthew scowled at his brother. " You try," 
 he said. 
 
 " You have tried then ? " 
 
 " Lord ! Timothy, if I'm an idiot, what are 
 you?" 
 
 " Not an idiot, as you shall see. Here comes 
 the doctor." 
 
 A young man, with a healthy, jolly face, redo- 
 lent of health, walked, grinning, into the room. 
 
 " Well ? " demanded both brothers, starting up. 
 
 The doctor looked from one anxious inquirer 
 to the other. He read their faces like an open 
 book, and his own grew immoderately long. 
 
 " Very bad," he croaked. 
 
 " You don't mean to say she's dying ?" squealed 
 Timothy. 
 
 The young man steadied the corners of his 
 mouth. 
 
 " In cases like hers," he said, " all prophecy is 
 vain. She may live for twenty years longer. She 
 may die to-night." 
 
 "What, pray, is her disease?" queried 
 Timothy's grave voice. 
 
 The doctor looked this strange speaker more 
 
180 MISTER BROTHER JONAS 
 
 carefully in the eyes. " That" he answered 
 slowly, " a physician cannot say. Now, mind 
 you cheer her up, or you'll kill her at once." 
 He lifted his hat off a chair and departed. 
 To his wife he confided a different account. 
 " Her disease was a surfeit of gooseberries," he 
 said. " Over-eating won't hurt her : she's hard as 
 nails. I couldn't resist the pleasure of giving 
 that old blood-sucker a fright." 
 
 Alarmed, indeed, — greatly disconcerted — the 
 parson sat by Miss Alida's bedside. The 
 missionary also was established there, apparently 
 cool. The latter's gaze seemed unconsciously 
 fascinated by the scarlet bow on the invalid's 
 peaked cap. 
 
 " The curse is coming true ! " said Alida in 
 sepulchral tones. " The hand of death is heavy 
 upon me. It is my punishment for having dealings 
 with the woman that was drunk " 
 
 " I didn't notice that," murmured Matthew 
 reassuringly. 
 
 "With the blood of the saints," continued 
 Alida, frowning. "It griped where she said it 
 would. And I'm going to die." 
 
 " No, no," sobbed Matthew. 
 
 " So I've sent for you two holy men to consult 
 about my will." 
 
 " Yes," exclaimed both brothers, sitting up with 
 alacrity. " It isn't made already?" added Matthew. 
 
 She eyed him sharply. " No. Why should 
 it be?" 
 
 "I'm sure I don't know. Oh yes: in the 
 
MISTER BROTHER JONAS 181 
 
 hour of death we are in life, you know. I mean, 
 in the hour of " 
 
 " Never mind what you mean," interrupted the 
 spinster nervously. " I haven't got any relations 
 I care about. If I make a good will, I daresay 
 I shall get better. Yes, that is quite my idea. 
 Now, whom should I leave all my money to ? " 
 
 " A difficult question ! " said Matthew, rolling 
 up his eyes. 
 
 "Or, rather, I should say 'what?' for of 
 course I shall leave it to a charity." 
 
 "An admirable destination!" said Timothy, 
 rolling up his, which were much more expressive 
 than his brother's. 
 
 Miss Alida gave a sudden howl. " Cure me 
 one of you," she said, " the piousest, cure me!" 
 
 Both gentlemen in black — the glossy and the 
 rusty — stared, out of countenance. 
 
 " You don't mean to tell me," cried Miss Alida, 
 with vehemence, " that a poor Papist creature — 
 and she a twopenny halfpenny beggar who sells 
 fruit — can let the devil loose inside a good 
 Christian gentlewoman and two parsons in orders 
 can't work him out again ? Exercise me, or 
 whatever you call it, exercise me at once ! " 
 
 " 'Tis the gooseberries," said Matthew. " Calm 
 yourself, dear sister! When these have exhausted 
 their violence " 
 
 Miss Alida's face grew purple. " You accuse 
 me," she cried, " of over-eating ! Me, the most 
 temperate of women! Now, if / were a 
 parson " 
 
182 MISTER BROTHER JONAS 
 
 " I will cure you ! " said Timothy. He had 
 risen. He laid a solemn hand on Miss Alida's cap. 
 He winked at Matthew, and Matthew looked so 
 furious, that the younger brother burst into a 
 guffaw. 
 
 "What's that?" exclaimed Alida, dodging 
 under the hand. 
 
 "My troublesome bronchitis," coughed 
 Timothy. "Chronic. Caught in the vineyard." 
 
 "Intemperance?" 
 
 "No, no. Fie, dear sister. Silence. I will cure 
 you. This evening, at sunset, you will be well." 
 
 " How do you know ? " 
 
 "I know. Thou knowest. He knows." 
 Timothy pointed majestically to Matthew. 
 
 "We know. You know. They know," re- 
 joined the latter scornfully. 
 
 " I'll make my will to-morrow," exclaimed 
 Alida, " but I can't bequeath my property to 
 missions, because I don't believe in them." 
 
 " Many of the societies are indeed not trust- 
 worthy," admitted Timothy. "The best plan 
 would be to leave it to an absolutely reliable 
 missionary to distribute as he may think expe- 
 dient." Matthew actually howled. 
 
 " Rubbish," replied Alida. " I've never seen 
 a single black man turned white." 
 
 Timothy bit an angry lip. "You have seen 
 little, then," he said with spirit, "of the good 
 work." 
 
 "Show me a converted nigger! Show me 
 one ! " cried Alida. 
 
MISTER BROTHER JONAS 183 
 
 "I haven't got one in my pocket," retorted 
 Timothy. 
 
 " But, perhaps, you have in a cupboard at 
 home?" suggested Matthew, enjoying his 
 brother's discomfiture. 
 
 "Yes, by George!" cried Timothy, his big 
 eyes ablaze. 
 
 " What a very improper expression ! " said 
 Miss Alida. "Then, bring him me to-morrow 
 and, if I am well again, I'll make a will and leave 
 him all my money. Yes, you shall have my 
 money for your missions. Else, I'll give it, for 
 soup-kitchens, to Matthew." 
 
 " I'll bring you one to-night," cried Timothy 
 desperately. 
 
 " La, there's no such thing ! " said Miss Alida, 
 closing her eyes. u Nor never could be," she 
 added. " Soup-kitchens is sense. As for Surinam, 
 it's rubbish. I don't believe there's no such place 
 as Surinam." 
 
 Ill 
 
 u Oh, leave me in peace, you canting humbug ! " 
 exclaimed the younger brother to his exasperating 
 companion, in the street. He shook off the other's 
 sneers and reproaches, and turned a corner, by 
 himself. 
 
 " Get a Christian nigger by to-morrow, or the 
 money's mine ! " — the minister's jeering voice 
 called after him. 
 
 " I will," muttered Timothy between his teeth. 
 
184 MISTER BROTHER JONAS 
 
 He had promised readily, sure of some possible 
 device. He would dress up and blacken one of 
 his pupils at the Mission-House. But, seen 
 closer, the plan appeared too risky. He was 
 bound to get found out. Even if the young man 
 kept silence (an unreasonable assumption), he 
 would not be able to act, or look, the part. 
 
 Timothy's courage gave way to despondency. 
 Success seemed impossible. He wandered 
 gloomily along the principal thoroughfares of 
 Overstad. Suddenly a gaudy poster, on a hoard- 
 ing, caught his eye. It was the advertisement, 
 not new, of a well-known Amsterdam Music Hall. 
 
 The missionary jumped. A copper-coloured 
 " Jubilee " grinned at him from the yellow back- 
 ground. The good man — the black-coated, not 
 the black-skinned — rushed, skipped, ran to the 
 telegraph office. 
 
 Four hours later the Reverend Timothy 
 welcomed Mr. Jonas Washington Bangs at the 
 Overstad Railway Station. 
 
 " Sir," said Mr. Bangs, " I have come. But I 
 must be back, sir, at ten to-night, to sing at the 
 ' Variety.' " 
 
 " We can manage that," replied the Reverend 
 Timothy. " To tell you the truth, I want you to 
 come here to-morrow morning." 
 
 " Impossible ! " exclaimed the coloured gentle- 
 man, who spoke unadulterated American. " To- 
 morrow, sir, I start for Paris. A better 
 engagement, sir. Splendiferous." 
 
 "Then come with me immediately," cried 
 
MISTER BROTHER JONAS 185 
 
 Timothy. He instructed Mr. Jonas, as they 
 went along, in the role which was required of 
 him and found his grinning pupil as apt as he 
 could desire. There was a little momentary 
 difficulty about terms, Mr. Jonas demanding two 
 pounds instead of one. " I always negotiate in 
 pounds," said Mr. Jonas. Ultimately the differ- 
 ence was split, on condition of Mr. Jonas ex- 
 changing his flaring red cravat for a black bow, 
 and removing a huge coloured-glass breast-pin 
 and studs. On this subject the negro gentleman 
 expressed strong personal feeling : the little 
 tie he especially described as " outrageous," and 
 indeed the effect was not satisfactory, for his 
 waistcoat remained a double-breasted, brass- 
 buttoned chess-board and his pantaloons shim- 
 mered like a polished pewter pot. 
 
 But Timothy lent him a pair of black-kid 
 gloves, and led him to the Old Churchyard. 
 
 " I must see Miss Alida at once — at once," he 
 said to Suzan. 
 
 Miss Alida sent back to say she was far too 
 ill. The nigger grinned. 
 
 "Tell her," persisted Timothy importantly, 
 " I am here with — Surinam ! " 
 
 Suzan, who looked thoroughly scared, retired 
 precipitately. 
 
 " La, how interesting ! And I said there was 
 no such place ! " cried Miss Alida, and ran out at 
 once into the hall. 
 
 She made the two gentlemen welcome, usher- 
 ing them in, with many salaams. But she fought 
 
186 MISTER BROTHER JONAS 
 
 a little shy of the nigger, who visibly impressed 
 her, and of whose conversation she could not 
 understand a word. 
 
 "Sit down," she said, "I beg of you." And 
 she had in some very good Madeira, of which 
 both visitors freely partook. 
 
 "So this," she said, "is really a native 
 Christian?" 
 
 " It is indeed," replied Timothy, sighing con- 
 tentedly. He folded his arms and gazed with 
 benevolence at the native Christian, in the little 
 black tie, sipping Madeira 
 
 Miss Alida said " La ! " Then she requested 
 the Reverend Timothy to inquire of the convert 
 if there were many such as he. 
 
 "Forty thousand," came the ready information. 
 
 "Now is that really true?" queried the 
 sceptical spinster. 
 
 "He under-estimates the number," replied 
 Timothy. 
 
 Miss Alida said "La!" Then she inquired 
 the negro gentleman's name. 
 
 "Jonas. Brother Jonas." 
 
 " That, of course, was the Christian name they 
 had given him. But what was his original heathen 
 appellation ? " Miss Alida evinced great interest. 
 
 "Borrioboola Gha," said Timothy. Miss 
 Alida ventured to remark that she found this 
 much finer than "Jonas." 
 
 " He was a great chief in his own country," 
 said Timothy. These words he translated to 
 Jonas — " Great chief— eh ? " 
 
MISTER BROTHER JONAS 187 
 
 " Great chief/' assented Mr. Washington 
 Bangs. 
 
 "A very important conversion. Far-reaching 
 political consequences. A whole tract of country, 
 twice the size of Holland, opened up to the 
 missionaries," exclained Timothy. 
 
 "I'm ashamed of my unbelief," said Miss Alida. 
 " Will the Prince have some more Madeira? 
 Madeira, Prince?" 
 
 " Madeira, very good," said the Prince. 
 
 " You mustn't call him that. He isn't a Prince," 
 interposed Timothy, who was growing fearsome 
 of his own success. " Brother Jonas ! Brother 
 Jonas, eh?" The nigger showed all his teeth. 
 "What beauties!" thought Miss Alida, who 
 had never, outside picture-books, seen a Non- 
 European before. 
 
 " He is very handsome, I think," remarked 
 Miss Alida, and Timothy realised, with scorn, 
 that his specimen was, physically, a fine one. 
 
 " It's his mind that is beautiful," said Timothy. 
 "All clean and white now and pure. What 
 matter if his skin be black ? " 
 
 " It is a rich copper-colour," retorted Miss 
 Alida, " like my pudding-shapes, — at least when 
 Elizabeth cleans them properly. And I much 
 prefer it to a mealy-complexion." 
 
 " Like Matthew's," said the mean missionary. 
 
 " Or yours," came the answer, quick as a shot. 
 "Yours is painted, but his is natural." 
 
 " Brute," thought the missionary. However, 
 he only said : " Well, now, you've seen there are 
 
188 MISTER BROTHER JONAS 
 
 native converts I hope you're convinced? We 
 must be going. I'll come back to-morrow 
 morning." 
 
 " Do," replied Miss Alida. " I'm sorry you're 
 in such a hurry. Back to your work, I suppose? 
 How beautiful ! But you can leave this dark 
 gentleman here a bit. I should like to show him 
 to Elizabeth and Suzan. I've never seen such an 
 interesting creature before, in all my life." 
 
 Timothy objected, a little too eagerly, for Miss 
 Alida, like most affluent old ladies, insisted on 
 getting her own way as soon as she found it 
 crossed. In the end she simply ordered the 
 missionary out of her presence, and resumed her 
 seat, face to face with the interesting stranger. 
 
 "I shall keep him to dinner," she said. "Eaty ! 
 Eaty ! " and she motioned with her fingers to her 
 mouth. 
 
 " Eaty— good," replied Jonas, mindful of the 
 Madeira. 
 
 " I shall return to-morrow morning. Remem- 
 ber your promise," said Timothy, lingering, 
 discomfited, in the doorway. 
 
 "I keep my promises," answered Alida sharply. 
 " You can come back this evening and take him 
 away." 
 
 When she found herself alone with this un- 
 intelligible foreigner, Miss Alida's excitement 
 and delight knew no bounds. In her dull, daily 
 existence so marvellous an event upset all her 
 ideas of regularity. She felt somebody else, 
 happier and lighter. She was yearning to prove 
 
MISTER BROTHER JONAS 189 
 
 her intimacy with the converted prince to all the 
 fusty old fogies of Overstad. 
 
 Meanwhile, she treated her two maids to a 
 sight of him. Both exhibited the same symptoms 
 of delighted alarm as their mistress. The old 
 man said crossly, he believed he was painted 
 brown. 
 
 Miss Alida left the door ajar, with an eye to 
 "the conventions." She found it rather weary 
 work, after a time, sitting opposite her prince, 
 nodding and smiling. But she liked to see him 
 grin back, with a gleam of his ivory teeth. Also 
 she liked to see him enjoy his dinner, which he 
 certainly did. 
 
 " Goody — goody — eaty — eaty," he repeated, 
 shovelling down his food. 
 
 "They should teach them how to eat," thought 
 Miss Alida, and she wondered, with exquisite 
 thrills of uncertainty, whether her guest, in his 
 wicked days, had eaten his foes. 
 
 Dinner was over, and both hostess and guest 
 were feeling friendly with all things and especially 
 to each other, when Suzan communicated to her 
 mistress the old man's shameful suggestion of 
 "paint." Miss Alida grew purple with anger. 
 She stretched out her hand timidly, and drew it 
 back again. The nigger watched her. 
 
 " Mister— Brother— Jonas," said Alida. He 
 nodded. She repeated it once or twice, softly, 
 and, gaining courage, she made a dash at the 
 convert's brown hand and vigorously rubbed its 
 back. "Itdoesn't come off!" she cried indignantly. 
 
190 MISTER BROTHER JONAS 
 
 " Go, Suzan, and tell him to hold his slanderous 
 tongue ! " 
 
 " Goody — goody/' said Mr. Washington Bangs, 
 without moving his hand. 
 
 Miss Alida blushed very red, and went and sat 
 farther off. Then the nigger did something to 
 make himself agreeable. Miss Alida, who had 
 never heard Jubilee songs — or any music outside 
 her hideous chapel-singing — listened in a tumult 
 of ecstasy beyond words : 
 
 " Some say that John the Baptist 
 Was nothing but a Jew, 
 But the Holy Bible tells us 
 He was a preacher too." 
 
 "Oh, Mister— Brother Jonas!" gasped the 
 spinster, "Oh, Mister— Brother Jonas!" The 
 man had a good tenor voice and he sang with 
 exaggeration of feeling— all the nervous passion 
 of his excitable race. Miss Alida's simple soul 
 was moved to its deepest depths. 
 
 " Why did they sell my Dinah ? 
 Upon my wedding-day." 
 
 Miss Alida could not, of course, understand 
 the words, but she drank in the liquid roll of the 
 music, the accents, the eyes of the singer. She 
 was flooded with deliciousness : she melted in 
 tender tears. 
 
 " Oh lub'ly maid, I lub' you so ! 
 I lub' you ! Oh ! " 
 
 The singer stopped singing and looked at his 
 watch. 
 
MISTER BROTHER JONAS 191 
 
 "Oh, Mister Brother Jonas!" sobbed Miss 
 Alida. 
 
 When Timothy was ushered into the room 
 ten minutes later he found Miss Alida Blom and 
 the Christian convert sitting side by side on the 
 sofa. The Christian convert had on his scarlet 
 tie, and all his jewellery blazed all over him. 
 
 "This is how I keep my promise," said Miss 
 Alida coyly, and she put her arm round 
 Washington's neck. 
 
 Timothy started back : then he burst out : 
 "That man's an American nigger, the son of a 
 slave." 
 
 "A Christian convert," said Alida. 
 
 " Christian fiddlesticks ! He's a singer in a 
 music-hall ! " 
 
 " Borrioboola Gha," said Alida, softly stroking 
 the brown hand in her own. 
 
 "And his name is Bangs! " 
 
 " Mine is Blom — for the present," answered 
 Alida, rising. " You— -you are an impostor ! " she 
 cried, " Leave this house ! If what you say were 
 true — which it's not — you'd certainly have lost 
 your wager ! Show me another convert — a 
 better — if you can ! " 
 
 " I can't," whispered Timothy, creeping to the 
 door, crest-fallen. Alida turned to the gentleman 
 on the sofa. " Dear Mister Brother Jonas ! " she 
 cried, " If only I could understand what you say ! " 
 
 "Sing, sing — thirsty," said the convert, 
 " Madeira very good." 
 
ALL MY STORY 
 
 IT happened many years ago. But it is all my 
 story. I know that many years must have 
 elapsed, because I was a young man at the time. 
 And now I'm middle-aged. When one's life is 
 just the same, day after day, year after year, one 
 loses count of time. Still, my blood flowed faster 
 in those days : I don't think I should do it now. 
 And I'm bald. And — and Sarah's hair's got a 
 deal of grey in it. 
 
 When I came to this town from the country, 
 my lot was an uninteresting one : it has always 
 been that. I was an orphan : I had been brought 
 up in a small asylum, as a youth I had been set 
 to do the writing connected with the place. For 
 from childhood I have written a beautiful hand, 
 equal, tidy, like copper-plate. And I can do 
 sums. I have never been good at anything else. 
 I was twenty-one, when the old lady died 
 whose beneficence had supported our institution. 
 She was the only protectress or sort of parent 
 I had ever had— too far above me to be anything 
 like a real mother, but animated by the best 
 intentions. "My dears," she would say, very 
 grand in her silks and furs, " always remember 
 that I love you as if you were my own children, 
 
ALL MY STORY 193 
 
 and not common children at all." When she 
 died, they closed the institution, and I was turned 
 adrift. No, it is hardly fair to say that. Her 
 nephew, who inherited all her property, got me 
 my present situation in this town — dear me, that 
 was thirty-four years ago— as clerk to old Abrams, 
 the money-lender. Old Abrams is dead : I am 
 with his son. 
 
 So I came up to the town, a young fellow of 
 twenty-two, that had never been away from a 
 country orphanage. Needless to say, I was 
 terribly forlorn and miserable. Ah, how lonely I 
 was ! What fools young people are to care about 
 being lonely ! And old people too! If you come 
 to reason it out — but no, it's no use reasoning. 
 I have not got accustomed to being lonely 
 yet. 
 
 Still, I shall never forget that first evening 
 in my new town lodging. Tis the same lodging 
 to-day : I have nothing to say against the room : 
 it is airy, and from the window you can see the 
 tops of trees. They belong to the cemetery. 
 But Widow Both, my landlady — she has been 
 dead these last ten years — was taciturn and, 
 when she spoke, cantankerous. Nobody can 
 deny that : her daughter has a touch of her 
 temper, but, then, the daughter suffers from 
 asthma, and is deformed. They were not the 
 sort of people, certainly, to cheer a lonesome 
 lad, nor did they make any attempt to do so. 
 I do not think that I shed actual tears that first 
 night. I hope not. But, undoubtedly, I was 
 
194 ALL MY STORY 
 
 very miserable, more miserable, on the whole, 
 than I have ever been since. 
 
 I got up from a restless bed next morning 
 and, with a beating heart, I went to my new 
 situation. Dear me, I waited in the little ante- 
 room for a few minutes till my master came in. 
 How many people have I seen wait there since, 
 whose hearts must have beat worse than mine ! 
 I must say hard things of Isaac Abrams, though 
 he be dead, and, in fact, why should I spare him ? 
 He was a usurious landlord and money-lender, 
 a scoundrel that lived by exploiting human 
 wickedness and folly and innocence. "There's 
 no fool like a good fool," that was a favourite 
 axiom of his. On the very first day I saw what 
 a blackguard he was, and I loathed the whole 
 business. Yet there was nothing really criminal 
 in it, nothing even absolutely wrong, if you come 
 to analyse each separate transaction. If fools 
 want money why should wiser men not lend it 
 them ? / was a fool to object to a reasonable 
 and lucrative form of business. Lucrative to 
 others. I earned forty pounds a year : I now 
 earn seventy-five. Soon I even got to enjoy, the 
 while I loathed, the work. The old man's cunning 
 and cleverness were a constant delight to me. 
 The son has neither, but now I help the son. 
 
 That first day, however, I felt doubly melan- 
 choly : I was heartily glad when the hour of 
 deliverance struck, and I could leave the dingy 
 desk, the dingy office, the dingy papers, and get 
 out into the open air. Not the "fresh" air, as 
 
ALL MY STORY 195 
 
 we country people understand it. Though I don't 
 miss that now, I have taken an occasional holiday 
 in the country : I am not sorry, on the whole, to 
 get back to my work. 
 
 I had purposely got a room at some slight 
 distance from the office. The walk of about half- 
 a-mile used always to take me ten minutes. Of 
 late it has got to be eleven, I could not say why. 
 For a man isn't old — surely— at fifty-six ! 
 
 The walk isn't much to boast of— through the 
 mean back streets of a second-rate town. You 
 can easily picture it to yourself: the tall houses 
 on either side— they get lower later on, but many 
 of them are tenements— k with flower-pots and 
 dirty rags in the windows, the narrow roadway 
 between, with costers' carts, and organs, and 
 dancing children, the dull strip of sky above, a 
 watery grey, or a sultry blue. That first after- 
 noon — I went back at five — the streets seemed 
 more sordidly ugly than I ever have thought 
 them since. Perhaps because the July day was 
 so hot and glorious. Perhaps because no one 
 knew me of all this jostling crowd. In our 
 village, the night before last, with all the sweet 
 smells and shadows upon the shining earth, it 
 had been "Good evening, Mr. Spannet!" from 
 mouth to mouth, from door to door. God ! in 
 this cheerless life of mine— oh, but that is wrong : 
 I have had my share of blessings — there never 
 has been a gloomier night than that brilliant 
 July Thursday along the very streets I have 
 walked this afternoon. 
 
196 ALL MY STORY 
 
 I walked, then, that bright evening on my 
 own sad thoughts intent. I fear that I hung 
 my head. But I had to lift it at the corners to 
 make sure of my unaccustomed road. And it 
 was at the corner of— no, I dare not mention the 
 name of the street even now — it was there the 
 great thing happened which began the whole 
 wonderful story — pooh, how absurd it sounds — 
 the old man looked up from his cobbling, and 
 gazed at me for one instant and nodded ; that 
 was all. 
 
 He was sitting in front of his poor little 
 house, on a straw-bottomed chair : he was cob- 
 bling. A little way off some children were 
 playing battledore and shuttle-cock. He was 
 an old man with a worn, kind-tempered face. 
 He nodded " good evening " ; that was all. 
 
 I nodded back and passed on. But I fancy 
 my step was a great deal lighter : I know that 
 my heart was. I had found, somehow, a friend. 
 The world, after all, is not so lonely a place as 
 it seems. 
 
 I thought of the old cobbler frequently in the 
 evening : I slept better that night. The office 
 and its master of course engrossed my interest, 
 but every now and then would come the vague 
 recollection of something pleasant, and when I 
 reflected what it might be, it was the cobbler. 
 
 Next morning I looked forward with some 
 anxiety to meeting him again. Would he be at the 
 street-corner? I wondered. As I approached 
 the spot, I could hardly restrain my curiosity. 
 
ALL MY STORY 197 
 
 I hurried on till I could get a sight of it— he 
 was sitting there ; in another moment I was 
 beside him, expectant — doubtless last night's 
 coincidence would not again repeat itself, he 
 had taken me, doubtless, for some other — I 
 laughed at myself for my foolishness, he looked 
 up and nodded me a solemn " good morning." I 
 nodded back and passed on. Not till then did 
 I realise how much I should have missed my 
 new friend's recognition! How ridiculous it 
 seems, how important ! in my ridiculously un- 
 important life. I am sure I worked more cheer- 
 fully that second day, although Abrams now 
 showed himself in his full temper, an abusive 
 evil-thinking old man. 
 
 And the cobbler's morning and evening salute 
 —oh, laugh if you like !— became the constant 
 pleasure of my life. Yes, of course I had other 
 pleasures, not many. I suppose I am a dull 
 man, and might have done other things or done 
 things different. I suppose I might have looked 
 out for another situation than the one which had 
 been found for me. Such an idea never entered 
 into my head: I should have thought it black 
 ingratitude to my honoured benefactor. Some 
 men take life as they're told to. On the whole 
 I did very well, earning my bread and butter, 
 eating it quietly in my room. I had a nervous 
 horror of dismissal, want of employment, poverty, 
 pauperism. The cobbler and I, we always nodded 
 to each other, solemnly, without exchanging a 
 word. All summer he would sit outside, he 
 
198 ALL MY STORY 
 
 went indoors on the first of October and took 
 his place behind a cracked widow-pane. I have 
 never known it otherwise than cracked. 
 
 So my life went on for seventeen years, a 
 long time, if you come to think of it, but not 
 unless you do. A long time in which nothing 
 happens, though it may pass very slowly, is very 
 quickly past. My daily work was monotonously 
 regular, but then so was my weekly pay. Both 
 slowly increased, as the business flourished. I 
 cannot say I was satisfied with my lot, nor yet 
 was I dissatisfied. The best thing, I always 
 fancy, is to take life exactly as it comes, 
 not weighing pros or cons. I was interested, 
 during those young days, in Abrams' daughter 
 Sarah, but that is neither here nor there. To-day 
 she has seven children, a frowsy grey fringe, and 
 no waist. 
 
 The cobbler slipped on through life, unper- 
 ceived, from about sixty years of age to very near 
 eighty. Morning and evening, we never missed 
 our salute. Sometimes he would smile, but very 
 rarely. I used to wait for his smile : it did not 
 come more than once a month. I had got to call 
 him " Amos " in my own mind, for no reason, but 
 that I thought the name would suit him, and I 
 invented endless stories about his possible career, 
 as I walked along the streets. In reality I knew 
 nothing. There were plenty of people about the 
 house he lived in : I could not trace any con- 
 nection between him and them. During those 
 earlier years he was not as prominent in my life 
 
ALL MY STORY 199 
 
 as I have made him afterwards. I had my own 
 interests at the office and at home. I had made 
 a few friends. He was just — in the daily walk 
 to my business — the old man at the corner who 
 nodded " Good-day." 
 
 Yet, when he was absent from his place one 
 summer morning, my heart stood still. Somehow 
 I had never realised the possibility of this : of 
 course he must be ill. Before I knew what I was 
 doing, I had turned into the house, had pushed 
 open the door which leads to the room where the 
 cracked window is, and stood looking in. 
 
 The old man sat by the table, his face resting 
 on his hands — a paper lay before him. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " I said aloud. " Can 
 I help?" It seemed incredible that, after these 
 seventeen years, I should actually be speaking 
 to "Amos." 
 
 He looked up with a start. " Ah, good morn- 
 ing ! " he said. " Is it you ? Thank you. No." 
 There was such misery in his face and voice 
 that I could not pass on. 
 
 "What is it?" I said. "Tell me. We are 
 almost old friends." 
 
 He smiled in spite of himself. "You cannot 
 help me," he answered bitterly. "Nobody can: 
 it's too late. What do such fools as we with such 
 sharks as money-lenders ? " 
 
 I pricked up my ears. " I — I know a good deal 
 about money-lending," I said. " I — I have friends 
 in the business. Is that paper a bond ? If any- 
 one can do anything for you, I can." 
 
200 ALL MY STORY 
 
 "'Tis a bad business; you should have no 
 friends in it," he said : but he held out the paper, 
 and the first thing I saw was that it was in my 
 own hand-writing. 
 
 It was a bond from a certain James Ranklin, 
 one of Abrams' rascally transactions. Rascally ? 
 Well, really, it all depends. The man, a green- 
 grocer, had got a loan of two hundred and fifty 
 pounds, on condition that if he did not return the 
 money, with ten per cent, interest, on or before 
 the twenty-second of July, his whole business 
 should become the property of the money-lender. 
 I put down the paper. The twenty-second was 
 that very day. 
 
 " Tis my daughter's husband," said the cobbler. 
 " The silly things only ventured to tell me this 
 morning. They'd been putting it off from day to 
 day. There's the seven of them, father, mother 
 and five children, turned out on to the streets 
 to-night." 
 
 I hesitated, not knowing what to suggest. 
 
 " And the thing not even inevitable ! " he con- 
 tinued. " I could have got them the two hundred 
 and fifty pounds, — I could just about have got 
 them that — but not in half a day ! " 
 
 " You could ! " I stammered. 
 
 " Ay, I could : I've got about that in the world, 
 but I'd need twenty-four hours to get at it." 
 
 " The deed leaves you till six to-night." 
 
 " 'Tis no use. The cowardly simpletons. And 
 the business worth eight hundred pounds if 'tis 
 worth a penny ! " 
 
ALL MY STORY 201 
 
 u Your name isn't Amos ? " I said abruptly. 
 
 He glanced up, annoyed. " My name's Thomas 
 Ruff," he answered. " What of that ? " 
 
 " I'm glad to know," I responded, " Mr. Ruff, 
 — 'tis your daughter, you say ? " 
 
 " Ay, my only daughter, as good a girl as ever 
 stepped. And James is good enough, though 
 a trifle timid. And the children, — dear sweet 
 children" — he broke off with something like a 
 smothered oath. " That such blackguards should 
 be allowed to exist," he said. * Would that I had 
 the killing of the man who drew up that deed ! " 
 He pointed to my paper on the table. 
 
 " Mr. Ruff, did I understand you to say you 
 could have that money to-night?" 
 
 " To-morrow morning, at the earliest." 
 
 " But to-morrow, you are sure, you could have 
 the whole amount ? " 
 
 " Certain sure." 
 
 " Thomas Ruff, will you let me look at that 
 paper again ? " 
 
 He handed it across ; I took it leisurely, looked 
 over it, and tore it in two. 
 
 " What on earth are you doing ? " he exclaimed. 
 
 "You are mistaken," I calmly answered, 
 The date is the twenty-third. You have till 
 to-morrow night." 
 
 "What folly is this? Here, give me those 
 scraps ! Are you mad ? " 
 
 "Get your money," I replied, burying the 
 fragments in my trousers' pocket. "You have 
 time till to-morrow. It will not be called for till 
 
202 ALL MY STORY 
 
 to-morrow at six. Then, mind that your son-in- 
 law has it. The money and ten per cent, interest. 
 The less any of you talk about it the better. 
 Don't say a word, but promise the money. Good- 
 day." 
 
 I left the house and, hurrying to the office, 
 got the same bond re-written, with the altered 
 date, and replaced amongst the others before my 
 master came in. Of course I tore up the original 
 deed, as I had torn up Amos's duplicate. 
 
 Presently, while Abrams was arranging his 
 business for the day : 
 
 " There's a loan falls due this afternoon," he 
 said. " A good speculation, I fancy ; I don't think 
 the fellow can pay," and he rubbed his hands 
 softly. 
 
 "Which is it?" I asked, going across to the 
 cupboard, where these things were kept. 
 
 " Name of Ranklin," replied old Isaac. " James 
 Ranklin, greengrocer." 
 
 I got out my new copy and looked over it. 
 u To-morrow," I said coolly, going back to my 
 desk. 
 
 " Hey, what ? " exclaimed Isaac. 
 
 " The bill isn't due till to-morrow," I answered, 
 writing away. 
 
 Old Isaac produced his little black pocket-book. 
 " I've got it down the twenty-second," he said. 
 
 "You've made a mistake," I answered, dipping 
 my pen into the ink. " It's down the twenty-third 
 in the bond." 
 
 He went across and had a look, pishing and 
 
ALL MY STORY 203 
 
 pshawing a little, for he didn't like making 
 mistakes. 
 
 " After all, it doesn't matter a bit," he said ; 
 "only, 'tis awkward: you'll have to go for the 
 money. I have to travel to-morrow to that sale." 
 
 " Yes, I remember," I said. " It doesn't matter, 
 I can go." 
 
 " I don't like you to. It's not the sort of work 
 for you. You bungle it. You're too soft-hearted. 
 You're only good at desk-work." 
 
 " I know you think so, sir, but I'll do my best." 
 
 That evening the cobbler was missing from 
 his doorstep, and next morning, in my nervous- 
 ness, I went a roundabout. 
 
 My employer was absent all day as I knew he 
 would be : at six I got my hat, and went across 
 to the street where Ranklin lived. 
 
 As soon as the man came into the shop I 
 recognised him and he me. 
 
 " Walk inside," he said. 
 
 In the back-parlour were Thomas, his comely 
 daughter, and a couple of fair-haired children. 
 
 " Sit down," said Ranklin. But I preferred to 
 stand. 
 
 " Well? "said Thomas. 
 
 " Have you got the money? " I asked. 
 
 "Yes, it's here." 
 
 * Then pay it to me." 
 
 " To you ! " exclaimed both men together. 
 
 "Yes, to me. Please ask no questions. Here 
 is the receipt." 
 
 They paid the money across the table in 
 
204 ALL MY STORY 
 
 silence. I found the sum was correct, pocketed 
 it, and gave them old Isaac's receipt, with my 
 name to it. 
 
 " You will do me a kindness," I said, " by never 
 alluding to this matter again. That is in your 
 interest as much as in mine." 1 held out my 
 hand. The younger man took it : old Amos did 
 not. 
 
 " It was the twenty-second," said old Amos 
 suddenly. 
 
 I did not answer but turned to go. In the 
 doorway, however, I paused. 
 
 "Absolute silence!" I said, as impressively 
 as I could. "Mind, absolute silence is impera- 
 tive, as much on your behalf as on my own." 
 
 Then I went away, and that same night, late, 
 on his return, I brought Isaac Abrams the money. 
 He was terribly put out, and abused me, but the 
 sale — selling up a farmer — had been much to his 
 advantage, and next day he apologised to me for 
 reproaches which he himself declared to have 
 been utterly irrational. I barely responded. 
 
 On passing the cobbler's, with some consider- 
 able tremor, I found his usual place unoccupied, 
 nor did he appear at the window. This time 
 I did not enter to seek him. He never sat out 
 again : he never occupied his winter-corner. 
 Once only, unexpectedly, I met him in the street. 
 He looked the other way. 
 
 Soon afterwards he went to live with his 
 children. I suppose he is not dead. His room 
 is occupied by a rag and bone woman, who drinks. 
 
ALL MY STORY 205 
 
 Nobody says good-day to me along my daily 
 road. 
 
 Well, that deed I have just narrated has been 
 the one great event of my fifty-six years of life. 
 In fact it seems about the only thing I have ever 
 done, the only actual act. All the rest has just 
 been letting happen. Most people, I suppose, 
 would call the deed a crime. The law would, of 
 course, and the judges, and the lawyers. When a 
 man has been in the midst of such work as mine 
 for more than thirty years, he laughs to think what 
 lawyers and judges call a crime, and what they 
 don't. But some people, the good people, would 
 say it was a sin ? I suppose it was. Perhaps I 
 am all wrong— I don't know : I'm not a clever 
 man, and my life has been so tiresome — I suppose 
 it was a sin, but though it was, I cannot help 
 thanking God I had the courage to commit it. 
 
THE RING 
 
 RELIGION takes many forms. Ever since 
 little naked man lifted timid eyes to the 
 great, far heavens above him and, glancing down 
 again, saw his little naked neighbour, as wistful, 
 as apprehensive as himself. 
 
 Dutch religion is conversely introspective. It 
 realises subjective corruption by objective 
 corruptness. Personal non-perfectibility is the 
 logical inference from the perpetual discovery of 
 your neighbour's faults. 
 
 "Old Piety" sat on the seat outside his trim 
 red and white home. The sky was pale-blue 
 with a single bright star in it : the fields were a 
 deeper green. Over the old man's head, in the 
 great fresh chestnut, a thrush was talking about 
 the weather, calling approval to a friend in the 
 beeches beyond of the lovely spring evening 
 and expressing hope that this sort of thing was 
 going to last. " So favourable to nest-building," 
 said the thrush ; and it chortled with expectancy. 
 Old Piety drew his slow pipe from his lips. 
 
 "Just listen to the birds!" said his wife at 
 her window, " praising their Maker ! " 
 
 Old Piety smiled a grim smile. He praised his 
 
THE RING 207 
 
 Maker, honestly, in prosperity and in tribulation, 
 but he knew the birds make that noise because 
 they have to, like a brook. 
 
 "I wish men could agree, like birds," con- 
 tinued the wife, with hesitation, always doubtful 
 to say something unreasonable, after forty years 
 of marriage with a man whose every remark was 
 sage. 
 
 " Birds don't agree," replied Old Piety. 
 
 The buxom wife sighed, a pleasant-faced 
 woman with a curiously mild voice for such a 
 pair of arms. A woman with no will of her own 
 but to follow and obey her husband, telling him 
 everything and asking his advice. " Well, they 
 easily might," she ventured, ''they haven't got 
 religion to quarrel about." She gazed up into the 
 green mass of foliage. " It must be quite easy 
 to serve God," she said, *t if you haven't got to 
 worry about religion ! " 
 
 " Woman, you blaspheme ! " replied Hannes, 
 alias " Old Piety." He spoke with authority, the 
 prosperous, the position-full personage of the 
 place, well-considered, well-intentioned, fairly 
 well-off, a good man, that would have been 
 richer, had all had their due, kindly, if stern, a 
 man who always unhesitatingly knew what was 
 right and unhesitatingly did it. A man who, by 
 the grave of his last orphan grandchild, had 
 said : " Blessed be the Name of the Lord ! " and 
 had meant it. "Was heaven so empty?" said 
 the weeping wife. 
 
 The house was empty : life was empty : 
 
208 THE RING 
 
 nothing was left. The single son had grown to 
 man's estate — how long ago it seems ! — the joy of 
 his exacting parents' hearts, walking straight, 
 with quick and careful step : he had married a 
 girl as simply virtuous as himself, as welcome 
 a presence by the old folks' hearth : all that was 
 over now, for ever. The son had been struck 
 down, by typhoid, in the bloom of his honest 
 manhood : some months later the widow had 
 closed a pair of tearless eyes, too weary to open 
 again. The children she left behind her, a boy 
 and a girl, had played, like lambent sunshine, 
 through the grandparents' chill, grey lives. 
 They had beamed, with an ever-increasing 
 warmth and radiance, just a little disconcerting, 
 when you are very Presbyterian, and a brightness 
 falls, with too much dance and yet more laughter, 
 over your solemn path. The grandparents' 
 attitude was often protestful. The children, 
 happy and harmless withal, grew up in an 
 inevitable atmosphere of: "don't" and "'tis 
 wrong." Most things you wanted to do were 
 wrong in Old Piety's religion. He did not want 
 to do them. 
 
 Suddenly, Luke, breaking loose, had "gone 
 for a sailor." — "Queer choice!" mused Old 
 Piety, not understanding at all. The school- 
 master came one day and found for the old man, 
 on a faded map, the place where the sailor lad 
 lay buried — among the black niggers we send 
 the missionaries to — out in China. Grandfather 
 lifted his dim eyes to blithe, blond Everdine. 
 
THE RING 209 
 
 ' Girls can't go a-travelling," he said with satis- 
 faction, " we shall keep you with us." But two 
 years later Everdine sailed away on a voyage 
 from which there is no returning. To a land 
 that the schoolmaster wots little of. The chart's 
 in the Bible. Grandmother, through the long, 
 dull Sunday evenings, prayerfully looked for it 
 there. 
 
 Nephews and nieces, and the children of 
 these, were left to the childless couple, but what 
 is another man's offspring to him whose life now 
 ends with himself? True, the good old name 
 would not die out in the village — far from it ! — 
 but that, to the well-informed— £0. everybody — 
 was only as a sugar-coating to an extra-bitter 
 pill. For Hannes Pypers — Old Piety— had 
 quarrelled with his brother Will thirty years 
 ago over the testament of a maiden aunt, and the 
 quarrel had left the brothers dead to each other, 
 except in silently burning wrath through all the 
 slow, side by side summers and winters, alive, 
 each in his own work of underground antagonism 
 and rivalry, fighting everywhere, after an in- 
 juriously severed partnership, for greater 
 material prosperity, parish precedence, church 
 place. It was no longer Pypers brothers that 
 built, and bossed, everything in Rondebak. 
 " Which Pypers ? " either scornful brother now 
 retorted on the inquiring stranger. The years 
 slid on : children and grandchildren passed, im- 
 passive, daily, in the narrow streets. William 
 died : that made no difference. Nay, it did : he 
 
210 THE RING 
 
 had been a church-elder, thereby keeping Hannes 
 out of a greatly coveted office. With fierce con- 
 tentment the younger brother took possession 
 of the vacant seat in the front state-pew. He 
 wore correct crape-band mourning : " We're not 
 of the common sort/' he said. His wife never 
 asked him to notice the dead brother's widow or 
 family, financially far better-off, through the un- 
 holy inheritance. The wife thought as "my 
 man" bid her: there was peace in the house. 
 "/ got my little fortin honest," was Hannes's 
 only allusion to his wealthier relatives. It came 
 up frequently. His integrity was manifest. And 
 he had a way of nodding up at the minister 
 during the hour-long discourse which had gained 
 him the honorary appellation : "Old Piety." 
 
 He honestly deserved it : his religion was of 
 the genuine historic sort he had inherited from a 
 long line of fathers. It was not of the kind that 
 forgives sin or a sinner, not of the kind that 
 allows itself latitude in anything or ever draws 
 a napkin over a stain. But it meant itself. 
 "Whited sepulchres are worst," it said, and 
 made windows to all sides of the human charnel- 
 house. But no man has ever seen his own 
 skeleton. Old Piety's self-investigation was 
 academic. He humbly confessed to his Maker 
 the failings he did not know himself to possess. 
 
 Still, he loved what the Dutch Presbyterian 
 calls his " kerk." And he respected, with strong 
 animadversion, his minister. These " Dominies " 
 — in Dutch parlance— were young and foolish — 
 
THE RING 211 
 
 the elder shook his head— and they babbled of 
 mysteries that even he could not fathom, but the 
 poor learned, ignorant lads were still, for the 
 time being, " the Dominie." His voice sank, 
 reverent. The unexpressed desire of his life 
 had been to see a son of his, grandson of his 
 " Dominie," — the Dominie — Dominie of Ronde- 
 bak. His lips grew thin around his pipe : his 
 face grew hard. 
 
 And now a Pypers was Dominie of Rondebak, 
 one of them other Pyperses, nephew James's 
 pale-haired boy. "Wim was his name?" Old 
 Piety had not voted against him : the poor child's 
 sermon had not been worse than that of other 
 lads. What a sermon might Everdine's brother 
 not have preached, had he taken to his books, 
 instead of sailing away to sea ! Ah, what a head ! 
 But a head's nothing without grace. Old Piety 
 sighed. Pray Heaven young Wim at least get 
 grace ! 
 
 The village had followed Wim Pypers' elec- 
 tion with quite unusual interest : it had been a 
 family event. What would Old Piety do ? For 
 everything depended on him. Lord paramount 
 and leader supreme of the " Church Council," of 
 the whole religious sentiment of Rondebak. A 
 thrill ran through the community, when Old 
 Piety gave a mild, colourless vote for Wim. 
 
 During nearly a year young Wim Pypers 
 worked on in the difficult, irrational round of 
 parson-apprenticeship, the immature boy-care of 
 a parish. He did his very best. His grand-uncle 
 
212 THE RING 
 
 never opposed him. Only smiled pityingly some- 
 times, and, in the inmost seclusion of home, said : 
 " Ah, well!" 
 
 The lord of the manor, remembering all the 
 upsets with all the former men, probationers and 
 others, declared he would never again have any 
 other but a rival Pypers for parson, as long as 
 Old Piety lived. 
 
 But this chill repose was rudely broken in upon 
 towards Easter, when the great annual celebra- 
 tion of the Communion drew nigh. Old Piety had 
 first spoken to the minister " under four eyes," 
 as he said, stopping him by the green village- 
 duckpond, one morning, amongst much cackling, 
 unable to enter the manse, now that " one of them 
 other Pyperses " dwelt there. The minister had 
 simply answered : " No." 
 
 " No ? Two can play at no ! " said Old Piety. 
 
 Therefore, unwilling but constrained, the old 
 man had spoken again, at the meeting of the 
 Church Council. The elders and deacons had 
 turned up foolish faces of amaze. " Ah ? Ah ? " — 
 yes, Old Piety was right again, of course. Quite 
 true. Nobody to equal Old Piety in appraising 
 the fitness of matters religious ! " Ah ! " When 
 the old man sat down, there was a weighty 
 silence. " Therefore I must ask of you : ' Will 
 you? ' " had been his concluding words. 
 
 The minister was very young, white-faced. 
 His eyes were exceedingly troubled : his voice 
 was intentionally firm. " I will not," he said. 
 He felt that he was going against all the brethren. 
 
THE RING 213 
 
 They screwed up their cloudy faces in a deepening 
 gloom of disaproval. 
 
 " So be it," said Old Piety, portentously, and, 
 refusing to chatter over the event amongst the 
 interested brethren, walked, with sententious 
 steps, down the watchful road, home. 
 
 Immediately the rival Pyperses closed round 
 their pet bantling, their phoenix, the boy-parson 
 of Rondebak. First they whispered, soon they 
 clamoured, of envy, malice, and uncharitableness 
 under the easy cloak of religiosity. " Not wear 
 a ring, indeed ? Not wear a ring ? Ha ! " 
 
 The tall, angular elder stood, on the final 
 Saturday, in the white-washed vestry-room, with 
 his gaping audience of hard-handed brethren 
 around him. Opposite them sat the young 
 minister, alone, his two white hands, with the 
 ring, on his black knee. The fresh morning sun- 
 light played through the green shutters. The 
 more seriously inclined of the villagers waited 
 about or looked across from their work at the 
 dead vestry wall. There was life behind it, inside. 
 The religious life of Rondebak. 
 
 " Hand me the Word, Brother Bulk ! " com- 
 manded Old Piety. His voice was terrible, in 
 its cold impressiveness. He unclasped the faded, 
 stuffy volume, and at once the live words leapt 
 from its page. " ' Not with broidered hair,' " he 
 read, pointing a slow finger at the minister's 
 
 yellow crop, "'or gold, or pearls '" He 
 
 stopped, and looked over the rim of his spec- 
 tacles — they all looked — at the ring ! 
 
214 THE RING 
 
 " Or gold," repeated Old Piety, " or pearls." 
 He nodded. Every man in the little conclave 
 nodded. Except the minister, gazing down stead- 
 fastly at the bunch of four pearls on the cheap 
 little ring. 
 
 " A popish emblem ! " For the Dutch Calvinist 
 sees crosses all over Christianity. He can't help 
 remembering that the cross was set up as an 
 emblem, when the wholesale destruction and 
 slaughter began. If his religion seem unbeauti- 
 ful, remember that it was the beautiful religion 
 which built up for him, under the shadow of 
 every parish church, the unbeautiful — yet, God ! 
 how beautiful ! — rack, scaffold, and stake. 
 
 " Paul is speaking to women," ventured, 
 timidly, Brother Wilkey, the butcher, whose wife 
 is a Pypers of the other side. 
 
 The sole Pypers " of the one side" turned on 
 him: 
 
 "He never dreamt he'd need to say it to the 
 1 men' !" cried Old Piety. He waited a moment 
 for his words to sink. " Or d'ye mean to tell me," 
 he continued with ineffable scorn, " that he tells 
 the women not to wear jewels, so the men may 
 put them on ?" 
 
 All murmured approval. Not one of them 
 wore "jewels." Even the butcher hastily con- 
 ceded to his neighbour, that " Paul " would have 
 objected to the minister's ring. 
 
 The minister looked up at his terrible grand- 
 uncle. " When the prodigal came back," he said, 
 " his father bade them bring him a gold ring " 
 
THE RING 215 
 
 " I wasn't aware you was a prodigal," replied 
 Old Piety. He had him there : they separated 
 on that. Poor lamb, better not try to tackle Old 
 Piety ! 
 
 Every one in the parish now fully understood. 
 That the minister must appear in the pulpit the 
 following morning without that ring on his finger, 
 or Old Piety would refuse to take the Sacrament 
 from his hand. And if Old Piety walked from the 
 Communion table, not an elder would remain. 
 
 " I can't help it," said the old man, thinking 
 the matter out, between the slow whiffs of his 
 pipe, beside his open door. The spring evening, 
 of rest from the week's long labour, lay, peace- 
 fully silvern, on all the calm pasture and calmer 
 sky. Old Piety sat listening, in repose, to the 
 foolish clamour of the thrushes. In the village 
 also there was plenty of chatter and empty ex- 
 pectancy that night. '■ 'Tis the will of the Lord," 
 said, reverently, old Hannes Pypers. 
 
 The good-wife at the window sighed. " I 
 wish it were not so," she said. 
 
 " You began it ! " he burst out, so vehemently, 
 she read his inner vexation in his tone. 
 
 " Not intentionally, father." 
 
 He always shrank, when she called him 
 " father," the bereaved of all children ! " What's 
 intentional ? " he questioned, irritably. " We say 
 and we do things, and they work out wrong. It 
 was you told me of the neighbour's children 
 coming home from Bible-class and saying as the 
 minister had played all the time with his ring." 
 
216 THE RING 
 
 " That may be only a chemical habit," said the 
 wife. She meant "mechanical." 
 
 " Chemical or not, there wouldn't be any habit, 
 if there wasn't any ring. It's just vanity and 
 foolishness. Do you wear a ring ? Or I ? " 
 
 She pointed to his horny finger — the "gold 
 finger " they call it. 
 
 " That's different," he said very hastily. " Paul 
 couldn't mean a betrothal ring. Mary ! " 
 
 He took his old wife's hand and held it. " Not 
 a betrothal ring!" he said. "A betrothal ring 
 isn't — a ring." 
 
 " You're sure it's not the minister's betrothal 
 ring ? " said the mild wife, dubiously. 
 
 " As sure as you are. Sure and certain. With 
 all of us waiting for him to marry ! And not to 
 remain alone, like a popish priest. As isn't good 
 in a Christian parish. We should know soon 
 enough, if he was to get engaged." 
 
 She said no more. Old Piety knew best. She 
 sighed, at thought of to-morrow's deserted Com- 
 munion table. It is so easy to start a religious 
 wrangle and so almost impossible to stop it. 
 
 Yet the minister, it seems, was going to make 
 a last attempt. He came slowly up the path, in 
 the tranquil sunset. The birds shouted to wel- 
 come him. Old Piety, smoking serenely, with 
 mixed feelings, watched him draw near. 
 
 " Evening, Dominie ! " 
 
 " Evening — both ! " Young Pypers got out of 
 that primal embarrassment better than he had 
 hoped. 
 
THE RING 217 
 
 " Well ? " said the grand-uncle. There had 
 been a considerable wait before he said it. The 
 minister had declined to sit down. 
 
 " You will come to the Communion to- 
 morrow ? " blurted out the parson. " I have come 
 here on purpose to ask you. In the name of 
 peace — in this village—come ! " 
 
 "I am wanting to come," replied Old Piety, 
 " but, young man, I daren't receive the cup from 
 a hand that disobeys the Word." 
 
 " I can't take off my ring," persisted the young 
 minister eagerly, " won't you believe me ? I 
 can't. I have promised solemnly. It would be 
 wicked. I mustn't break my word ! " 
 
 " I can't mind about your word. It's the Word 
 for me, Dominie." 
 
 " But the early Christians wore rings. James 
 expressly speaks of a man coming into their 
 assemblies with a gold ring on " 
 
 " Yes," retorted the elder quickly, " and he 
 tells them not to give him a foremost place." 
 
 Again the minister felt squashed. But a Dutch 
 minister must get accustomed to that feeling. 
 He said mildly : " I want you to take my word for 
 it, that it's my duty to go on wearing that ring." 
 
 At last the good wife looked up from her 
 knitting : 
 
 " Why not say it's your engagement ring ? " 
 She spoke the words as a woman's soft heart 
 speaks them. 
 
 " Because it isn't ! " cried her husband, brush- 
 ing her aside, his sharp eyes on the young man's 
 
218 THE RING 
 
 face. " Leave us, wife ! " he said, and motioned 
 her to close the window. "This is a matter 
 between man and man." 
 
 As soon as they were alone, he continued : 
 " Young man, let us understand each other. 
 You are not betrothed." 
 
 The minister hesitated. " No," he said softly. 
 
 >? I knew that. Such things " — his eyes sank 
 to the ring — " are not kept secret without good 
 reason. We all, here in Rondebak, would be 
 glad to see you marry." 
 
 The minister made no reply. 
 
 "That ring, then, to which you cling so 
 unreasonably, is a memory of youthful folly. 
 Hush!" — but the minister had not stirred— "let 
 an old man speak plainly! I, too, have been 
 young, long ago. At your age I knew the time 
 had come to leave off. And I had not the care 
 of souls." 
 
 Still the minister was silent : his silence 
 irritated the elder. 
 
 " The time has come to forget student flirta- 
 tions, boy." — The elder's voice grew suddenly 
 hard : his pipe sent up swift blue curls. " Get 
 a wife. Are these thoughts to go filling a 
 preacher's mind, while he catechises the school- 
 children ?— twisting his ring all the time ? What 
 do you think of, minister" — he faced round — oh, 
 the stern old face ! — " while you preach and 
 finger your ring ? " 
 
 The young clergyman dropped his face on 
 his hands. 
 
THE RING 219 
 
 " You see that I knew," said Old Piety. 
 
 The minister lifted his face. " How much do 
 you know ? " he gasped. 
 
 " Tut ! tut ! — enough. Be sure your sin will 
 find you out." 
 
 " You know nothing," said the minister. 
 
 " I know this, that you cannot remain minister 
 of Rondebak with yon memory of dead folly on 
 your finger. Choose ! " 
 
 "Choose?" repeated the minister, white. 
 
 "Yes, I see clear. Oh, I see very clear. It 
 is not a little matter. It is the weightiest that 
 has ever come to me, since I became an elder. 
 Your dead and buried— no, not buried — flirtations 
 to rise up between your people and you ! " 
 
 " You hate me, because I am one of the other 
 Pyperses." 
 
 " The Lord forgive you, boy ! I am only 
 doing my duty by the flock that appointed me 
 to watch over them and you." There was a 
 sincerity in the old man's voice which suddenly 
 touched his antagonist. 
 
 " Uncle — I want you to have faith in me. 
 It's all right." 
 
 Old Piety shook his head. " Things may be 
 right enough in another young man," he said, 
 measuring his words, "that are wrong in a 
 minister. Tell me, is there a name inside that 
 ring?'" 
 
 " There is," said Wim Pypers in a whisper. 
 
 The old man rose. " Dominie," he said, " I 
 don't pry into your secrets. A woman's at the 
 
220 THE RING 
 
 bottom of most men's ruin. But you're not 
 the right minister for Rondebak." 
 
 The nephew had risen too. He stood gazing 
 at old Pypers with hollow eyes. Then a rush 
 of fire filled them. " You believe that I— that 
 she — that she's a married woman or engaged to 
 another or — or Heaven knows what you believe! " 
 he cried. He drew off his ring and held it out. 
 " You shall have my secret," he said. 
 
 With automatic curiosity the old man took 
 the little gold hoop and peered into its inner 
 circle. "Everdine," he spelled under the long, 
 still shadows. The name is an uncommon one. 
 He looked up, vaguely conscious of near discom- 
 fort. " What of that ? " he said. He put back 
 the ring. " I want to hear nothing more." 
 
 " But you shall here more — much — all 1 " cried 
 the minister. "You have bidden me choose — 
 choose — between my life-task, my dear work, my 
 mother, my honour, my, my everything and your 
 — piety ! I choose. I choose ! " He checked him- 
 self. " Nay, give me back the ring and leave me 
 in peace," he said. 
 
 "Who was this Everdine?" the old man 
 made answer. The minister, gazing straight at 
 his hatchet-face, saw no sign of relenting. 
 
 " She was your Everdine," said the minister 
 desperately. " Your grandchild. She loved me, 
 and I loved her, and we knew it was a useless, 
 hopeless love. We kept it to ourselves, in a few 
 hurried, secret snatches. " ' Grandfather would 
 never forgive me,' was what she always said." 
 
THE RING 221 
 
 " Grandfather would never — my Everdine ! " 
 Stammering, staggering, the old man sank upon 
 the seat. He stared dimly at young Wim Pypers. 
 " Everdine — kept this secret ? — died with it ? — 
 loved?" 
 
 " It was the one brightness of her life," said 
 the minister tenderly and brutally. " After her 
 brother went to sea. But she knew it was 
 hopeless. ' His heart is full of hate ! ' she always 
 said. It would kill her to speak of her love to 
 you. It killed her not to." 
 
 "Loved," repeated the old man on the seat, 
 staring in front of him, stunned. " Loved and 
 never told us. Loved . . . you ! " That was a 
 new thought. " And bought you, and gave you 
 — the ring." It dropped from his fingers, the poor 
 little jewel. The minister snatched it up, stood 
 rubbing it gently on his sleeve. 
 
 "She gave it me," he said, "when she kne — 
 knew " — his voice gave way : he struggled on. 
 " She had got away to buy it at the fair. She 
 put it on and she made me promise to wear it, 
 
 always, even if — if " He broke down 
 
 miserably. After some time he added : " It was 
 like her to think of that, in her unselfishness. 
 We were a pair of children. And she was the 
 better child of the two." 
 
 " You will marry in time," said the old man. 
 "And never told us. Us that had brought her 
 up from her babyhood." The pipe slipped from 
 his hand. 
 
 " She was afraid of you — oh, so afraid ! And 
 
222 THE RING 
 
 she said it was quite useless. She knew how 
 you hated us all." 
 
 The old man broke out at him. " I hated 
 no one. You have robbed me of my money. 
 And my child ! " 
 
 The young minister shook his head sadly. 
 " She was afraid/' he said, " she was always 
 afraid of you. ' It would kill me to tell grand- 
 father : he would never forgive me for loving one 
 of the other Pyperses.' That was what she 
 always said. And then death came and ended 
 it all." 
 
 Old Piety sat staring at the solemn landscape. 
 The evening deepened. The birds were silent. 
 He made no answer, no answer at all. 
 
 "You will let me keep the ring," said the 
 minister, almost pleadingly. He replaced it on 
 his finger. No answer but a groan. " We will 
 tell them I have explained it all to you. Nobody 
 shall know. We need not say anything about 
 your having mis — been mistaken." 
 
 Old Piety shivered down into a corner of the 
 seat. " I — / was mistaken," he said, " / was 
 mistaken." He said it, he who had never been 
 mistaken in his life. 
 
 11 Uncle," began the young minister faintly, 
 "she loved you. Only, she didn't understand 
 about your love for her. And, perhaps, now, 
 if you and I try to understand each other " 
 
 The old man interrupted him : " Love under- 
 stands," said Old Piety. u I was mistaken. Had 
 I loved her, would she ever — would you — boy ! 
 
THE RING 223 
 
 — Dominie! — though I — though I— how does it 
 go, boy ? — and have not love ! — go preach that in 
 Rondebak ! Preach it with a ring on your finger 
 or without ! She never dared to tell us ! Preach 
 it to-morrow ! I'll tell them I'll need to have it 
 preached a many a time to me ! " 
 
THE STORY OF THE GREAT 
 HAIL-GAMBLE 
 
 B 
 
 UT, uncle- 
 
 The fat old priest stopped his comfort- 
 able roll. He wiped his red face in the blazing 
 July sun, and he held up a protesting hand — fat 
 — with a damp handkerchief. 
 
 " No, Steven/' he said, " I cannot help you. 
 I will not deny that I am possessed of some 
 small earthly means, but I am not at liberty, if 
 I would, to dispose of these in your favour." 
 
 The young nephew looked at the old uncle 
 — at the latter's round paunch and rubicund 
 countenance. 
 
 " You are probably thinking," said the uncle, 
 resuming his walk, " of the legacy left me by that 
 venerable spinster " 
 
 " Well, I was," interrupted the nephew. 
 
 " She left it me on the distinct understanding 
 that I was to devote its revenues during my life, 
 and afterwards, to the good of the Church." 
 
 " O—o— oh ! " said Steven. 
 
 There were all sorts of sentiments in that 
 " oh." He was in love ; he was desperate ; he 
 had never been afraid of his uncle. He had seen 
 
STORY OF THE GREAT HAIL-GAMBLE 225 
 
 him influenced by his second bottle of Burgundy 
 too frequently for that. 
 
 "You must leave me to decide, if you please," 
 said the old man sharply ; " what is for the good 
 of the Church and what is not. In this village 
 the conservation of my health is more for the 
 good of the Church than anything I could devise. 
 Therefore I have built a good house for myself, 
 and — and — I admit it—stocked a good cellar." 
 
 "And engaged — I am glad to say — a good 
 cook." 
 
 "You are insolent beyond belief. But, how- 
 ever insolent you may be, it is not necessary for 
 the welfare of the Church that I bestow on you 
 the money Farmer Stoppel now demands, at the 
 last moment, before he will let you marry his 
 daughter." 
 
 " I only meant," said Steven more humbly, 
 "that there was nothing about 'the good of the 
 Church ' in the will." 
 
 " Did you, perhaps, hear the estimable lady's 
 dying injunctions ? I trow not. I am ashamed 
 of you, Steven, my own brother's son. This 
 greed of the world's goods will work your ruin." 
 
 " I want to marry Maaiken ; I love her," said 
 Steven. 
 
 "The desire, in itself, is not blameworthy, 
 and her father has enough for you both." 
 
 " But it is only natural, uncle, that he should 
 want me to pay part of the tavern he is getting 
 for us. The price is a good deal more than he 
 had expected." 
 Q 
 
226 STORY OF THE GREAT HAIL-GAMBLE 
 
 Again the uncle held up the hot hand and the 
 damp handkerchief. 
 
 " Peace! And so / am to pay the two 
 thousand guilders he asks! No, my son. He 
 should have thought of it sooner. To-morrow 
 morning we sign the contract, and I give you 
 my blessing and the two pewter pots." 
 
 " He says he won't sign." 
 
 The priest smiled. " He will." 
 
 " The pots are my own by my grandfather's 
 will." 
 
 "He was a wonderfully perspicacious old 
 man. It looks as if he had foreseen that you 
 would one day keep a tavern." 
 
 The good father stood by his little garden 
 gate. Along the trim path were some bright 
 old-fashioned flowers for ornament, and behind 
 them far more numerous vegetables for use. 
 The evening sky was beautiful with the lessen- 
 ing heat of the cloudless day. All about, on the 
 gentle slopes, spread the wide glory of the barley 
 harvest. 
 
 Baas Stoppel came by, the rich farmer, with 
 his stupid cow-face and his rows of metal buttons. 
 He came by intentionally. So he stopped. 
 
 " Good evening, Stoppel," said Father Bullebak 
 pleasantly. 
 
 The other grumbled a " good evening," but he 
 touched the sort of black nightcap he wore. 
 
 " An important ceremony to-morrow morning, 
 Stoppel. We shall take care to be with you in 
 good time." 
 
STORY OF THE GREAT HAIL-GAMBLE 227 
 
 "I hope you've considered about that two 
 thousand, father. It isn't fair that it should all 
 come from me." 
 
 " Tut, tut, my son ! Your goods are your 
 own, and mine are our mother's. Such little 
 possessions as I have." 
 
 " 'Tisn't fair," repeated the peasant, chewing 
 his pipe. 
 
 The father looked at the other's face. " You 
 have my last word," he said sharply; and he 
 turned away, and walked majestically down his 
 path, evincing great, but not unusual, interest 
 in his salads. 
 
 The farmer was left in sullen contemplation 
 of his prospective son-in-law. That hapless 
 youth forced a sickly smile. 
 
 «E) a n priests!" burst out Stoppel 
 
 suddenly. "The holy Virgin forgive me! If 
 
 'twasn't they can d us, Lord, how we'd d 
 
 them!" 
 
 Having given utterance to which vigorous 
 sentiment, he too turned on his heel. The young 
 man, left standing alone, heaved a sigh. 
 
 In the house the father found an old acquaint- 
 ance waiting for him — Brother Ambrosius (in 
 the world Janus Dorstig), the Prior or clerical 
 director of the big ecclesiastical brewery away 
 over the German frontier. 
 
 H Aha I " he said ; " the barley brings you, 
 I suppose?" 
 
 " Of course it does. I hope the price isn't 
 high this year?" 
 
228 STORY OF THE GREAT HAIL-GAMBLE 
 
 "Let's sit down and talk it over," said 
 Bullebak. 
 
 He sank into his armchair, and called for a 
 bottle — not of beer. 
 
 " You haven't talked about the price yet ? " he 
 said, sipping his glass. 
 
 " No," replied the other, who was also round 
 and rubicund, but smaller, sipping his. 
 
 " It's a fine year. Weather perfect still, and 
 the fields ripe." 
 
 " I saw them coming along. First rate." 
 
 "All you passed were Farmer Stoppel's. He 
 grows all the barley in these parts." 
 
 " I must get at him. It's my first season as 
 director. I'm especially anxious to make a good 
 bargain. You must help me, Bullebak." 
 
 "Why must I help you?" 
 
 The two looked at each other. " On behalf 
 of the Church " began Brother Ambrosius. 
 
 "Twenty per cent, on your profits," said 
 Bullebak, and refilled the other's glass. 
 
 " Twenty per cent, on my ? " 
 
 " Yes. We can all see you are green in these 
 sort of transactions, brother. The reverend 
 
 fathers might have selected there ! — there ! 
 
 Twenty per cent, on whatever he drops off his 
 original price. For— for the Church, as you say 
 — in this village. For my poor." 
 
 " Ah, well — your poor ! " 
 
 "There are many of us," said the father, 
 looking round his comfortable room. Thought- 
 fully he replenished his glass. 
 
STORY OF THE GREAT HAIL-GAMBLE 229 
 
 "It is all a gamble, as you know," he said. 
 " It depends on the weather till the last. If a 
 bad thunderstorm were to burst over the place 
 within forty-eight hours of now — holy Virgin ! " 
 — he threw up his hands — " whatever price you 
 paid would be too much." 
 
 "I should get it all in immediately after 
 purchasing." 
 
 "Of course. The whole village reckons on 
 that. 'Tis a gamble." 
 
 The clerical brewer sat musing. " If only one 
 could be sure, 1 he said. 
 
 "Yes, indeed ! But one can't. The next best 
 thing is for the peasants to think one can be sure." 
 He grinned quietly over all his fat, double- 
 chinned face. 
 
 H But, stupid as they are, one can hardly 
 manage that." 
 
 The village priest patted his much-besmeared 
 waistcoat. He lifted his long black coat over his 
 knickerbocker knees. " I have managed it," he 
 said, pompously. 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " My dear brother, that is my secret." 
 
 " Tell me." 
 
 "Will you send me a cask of your next 
 brew?" 
 
 " It is not mine to give away. But I'll arrange 
 about it, if you help me with this Stoppel." 
 
 " Well, I will tell you, for we should have no 
 secrets from each other and all from outsiders. 
 Besides, I have already told our dear bishop. 
 
230 STORY OF THE GREAT HAIL-GAMBLE 
 
 Foolishly, perhaps, warmed by his excellent 
 claret ; but it all turned out well, for he was so 
 pleased with my influence over the people that 
 he got me this." He fingered a small cross at his 
 bosom, which the other man watched with greedy 
 eyes. Ui Influence,' said Monseigneur — 'in- 
 fluence, in season and out of season.' * Especially 
 in the barley season,' said I. You see, we are very 
 peculiarly situated here. Somehow, in our dip 
 behind the hills, we seem to attract the thunder- 
 storms. And with us, more than in any other 
 part I ever saw, the thunderstorms seem to bring 
 hail. It isn't the rain that matters, as you know, 
 it's the hail. During these few days of ripe 
 harvest our peasants live, when the weather has 
 reached this white heat, in hourly dread of a hail- 
 storm, such as we had five years ago. We have 
 not yet forgotten that. It nearly ruined us." 
 
 "I remember hearing about it," said the 
 brother. " Why don't they insure ? " 
 
 " They say they think it's wrong — distrusting 
 the blessed saints; but, in reality, they grudge 
 the money. They prefer to run the risk. And 
 they come to me all day long at this time to 
 inquire what I think of the weather." 
 
 " But you can't influence the weather." 
 
 Father Bullebak smiled. " Your faith is not 
 great, brother," he said. " Fortunately theirs is 
 greater. If I tell them "Tis about to rain, for 
 your sins,' they howl out some sort of repent- 
 ance. This is my time for getting in my — my 
 small contributions." 
 
STORY OF THE GREAT HAIL-GAMBLE 231 
 
 " But you must constantly be wrong." 
 
 Again the fat father smiled. " Not as often as 
 you think." He got up and moved across to a 
 dark corner of his room. "This," he said, with 
 a certain solemnity, " is my oracle ! " And he 
 showed, up against a bookcase, a barometer. 
 " The best to be procured for money," he said ; 
 " as accurate as they make them. As soon as I 
 saw how the— the wind lay in this parish, I had 
 it out from Paris. Barometers of any kind are 
 unknown among the peasantry : if they heard of 
 them they would only call them ' superstitions,' 
 a word they are fond of for any scientific thing 
 they don't understand. Some of the older ones 
 still call the telegraph a ' supersition.' So you 
 see, I always know what the weather is going to 
 be some twelve to twenty hours before them." 
 
 "But they have their own signs," said the 
 brother, open-mouthed. 
 
 "No. Only mountaineers and sea-folk have 
 those. The ordinary peasant is absolutely igno- 
 rant or invariably wrong about weather-forecasts." 
 
 " You amaze me," said Brother Ambrosius. 
 
 "Never be amazed, brother. It is a bad 
 habit for a priest. True, I am older than you : I 
 have long ago given it up." He struck a match 
 in the falling shadows, and examined his instru- 
 ment. "As high as it can go," he said. "Set 
 fair." There was a pause. " Now, if I frighten 
 Stoppel with a threat of a thunderstorm in this 
 heat, you — you will be able to brew cheaper 
 beer, brother." 
 
232 STORY OF THE GREAT HAIL-GAMBLE 
 
 "The price will be the same," said Ambrosius, 
 with a grin. 
 
 " So much the better for the Church; brother. 
 Twenty per cent, is very little. We ought to go 
 halves." 
 
 " Impossible. The bishop would never allow 
 it!" 
 
 " Well ; well ! " The father heaved a big sigh. 
 " A quarter of what he lets fall, if I frighten him 
 very thoroughly." 
 
 " I should like to see it done," said Ambrosius. 
 
 "You doubt my power?" His eyes flashed. 
 " Dear brother, you have little experience, I pre- 
 sume, of our peasants ? " 
 
 " I am a town-bred man," said Ambrosius. 
 
 A letter was sent off to Stoppel instanter, 
 asking him whether he could receive the Brother 
 Brewer-master that night, to treat of a large 
 purchase of barley for the monastery of Simpel- 
 velden. "To-morrow at eleven," said Father 
 Bullebak, "we draw up the marriage settlement, 
 at his house, between my good-for-nothing 
 nephew and Stoppel's pretty daughter. The 
 man is very contrary. He wants me— ridiculous ! 
 — to give a marriage portion to my dead brother's 
 son. 
 
 "Absurd indeed," replied Ambrosius. "I 
 am sorry you should have a good-for-nothing 
 nephew." 
 
 " He must be good for nothing, for he refuses 
 to confess to me." The brother looked at the 
 father. " Shall we finish the bottle ? " suggested 
 
STORY OF THE GREAT HAIL-GAMBLE 233 
 
 the good old priest. They finished it. It was 
 past nine before a reply came from Stoppel that 
 he had gone to bed, but would be at the parson- 
 age house in the morning. 
 
 When he arrived, in the full glow of the 
 cloudless sunshine, he heard from the pleasant 
 cook that their reverences were at mass. " H'm, 
 h'm ! I half thought I might be too early," mur- 
 mured Stoppel. " There's no objection, I sup- 
 pose, to my waiting in his reverence's room ? " 
 
 "Oh, come in, by all means, Boer," said 
 the cook. "And pray, how is the charming 
 bride?" 
 
 The bride, it appears, was well. 
 
 u But what heat ! " said Stoppel, as he entered 
 the cool study. "I only hope it won't turn 
 thundery." 
 
 " I hope not indeed," said the comely cook. 
 
 Left to himself, Boer Stoppel first recovered 
 from his walk. Then he made a tour of inspec- 
 tion round the room, and was greatly interested 
 in some of its contents. Soon after he had sat 
 down again, with no expression at all on his 
 stolid face, the two clerical gentlemen entered. 
 
 " Oh, sorry to have kept you waiting," began 
 Bullebak, " but the Church " 
 
 "I knew I was a bit early. I expected to 
 wait here a bit," said the farmer. 
 
 " Brother Ambrosius here, the Brother 
 Brewer-master of the good brothers of Simpel- 
 velden, would like to buy as much of his barley 
 as he can from a good Catholic like you." 
 
234 STORY OF THE GREAT HAIL-GAMBLE 
 
 The farmer did obeisance to Brother Am- 
 brosius. "Yes, I'm a good Catholic," he said. 
 
 " I am glad to hear it," replied the brother. 
 " Is the barley good ? " 
 
 " Your reverence had better come and 
 see it." 
 
 " Not so fast ! " Ambrosius sat down, and an 
 endless negotiation commenced, with all the ins 
 and outs and ups and downs of peasant intrigue 
 in matters of business. " Yes, it is worth at 
 least four thousand," Stoppel repeated, when at 
 last they had got so far that he could make such 
 a statement without protest. Each of them had 
 consumed two glasses of corn-brandy before 
 they reached this point. There was a distinct 
 satisfaction in having attained a fresh stage, and 
 therefore Stoppel said his sentence again. 
 
 "Possibly. But there is always the risk, 
 with such weather as this, of a violent thunder- 
 storm before the day is out." 
 
 " You must harvest at once," replied Stoppel. 
 
 " I should certainly do so. But a hailstorm, 
 such as you often have here, is the affair of half 
 an hour." 
 
 " Five minutes," said Bullebak, thinking what 
 a fool dear Brother Ambrosius was. Stoppel 
 scowled at his parish priest covertly. The latter, 
 who had been standing by the bookcase, came 
 hastily forward. 
 
 "Five minutes!" he repeated, in some per- 
 turbation. "Whereby I mean, dear brother, 
 could you spare me five minutes in the next 
 
STORY OF THE GREAT HAIL-GAMBLE 2S5 
 
 room? Only five minutes. My good Stoppel, 
 excuse us ! The — the affairs of the Church, you 
 know " 
 
 The two black figures disappeared through 
 the doorway. Stoppel poured himself out a 
 third glass of corn-brandy. There was no ex- 
 pression at all on his face. 
 
 " My good Ambrosius ! " hissed the father, 
 " the barometer is down into the lowest depths. 
 I have never seen it so bad. Such a sudden fall 
 can mean nothing but a violent storm before the 
 day is out ! It's terrific. And the thunder is 
 absolutely certain to bring hail ! " 
 
 " Thank you for telling me, father. Then I 
 won't buy." 
 
 " Nonsense. Hail isn't nearly so bad for 
 you, once you've bought, for your beer, as it is 
 for him, if wanting to sell. Offer him four 
 thousand if the weather remains fine, and three 
 thousand if it rains before to-morrow night." 
 
 "But I don't like " pleaded Brother 
 
 Ambrosius. 
 
 " I tell you it's a gamble. He'll like that. 
 They all like a gamble. And you'll get your 
 barley cheap." He almost pushed the Brother- 
 Brewer into the other room. "Now settle your 
 business together ! " he said. 
 
 " The risk is too great," declared Ambrosius 
 to Stoppel. "I daren't take it: the sum is too 
 large. Let us say four thousand if the weather 
 remains fine, but three thousand if we have a 
 thunderstorm before to-morrow night." 
 
236 STORY OF THE GREAT HAIL-GAMBLE 
 
 The farmer looked out at the clear, hot sky. 
 " A hailstorm," he said. 
 
 Brother Ambrosius and Father Bullebak 
 exchanged a wink. " So be it, a hailstorm," said 
 the brother. 
 
 After a great deal more talk, the affair seemed 
 nearly settled, when the farmer cried : " Hold ! 
 'Tis not fair that all the risk should be on my 
 side, and all the chance of profit on yours ! " 
 
 " I thought you were a good Catholic," said 
 Ambrosius. 
 
 "So I am, but if the weather remains fair 
 till you've done, I must have five thousand. 
 That's an honest bargain. The other's lop- 
 sided." 
 
 Again the two ecclesiastics looked at each 
 other. There was some more discussion, and 
 another glass of brandy was consumed. — " Oh, 
 do it, by all means," decided Bullebak, and he 
 laughed confidently. Thus the matter was finally 
 arranged, and Stoppel put a few words upon 
 paper, so that there might be no misunder- 
 standings, he said. 
 
 Thereupon Beldebel was introduced — the 
 sexton, gravedigger, communal crier, barber, and 
 servant to the priest. He was ordered to fetch, 
 at once, his big bell, and to hurry to the market- 
 place and through all the country-side, summon- 
 ing the whole population to come and reap the 
 barley fields. The school was given a holiday, 
 that the children might bind the sheaves. And 
 all for the good of Mother Church and the beer 
 
STORY OF THE GREAT HAIL-GAMBLE 237 
 
 of the pious fathers of Simpelvelden. "You'll 
 get it in before nightfall/' said Bullebak. 
 
 " Impossible ! " cried Ambrosius. 
 
 The priest smiled his smile. "You don't 
 know what I promise them/' he answered. 
 
 When all this had been settled, and the 
 labourers had been started in the outlying 
 parishes (where a couple of men were sent on 
 bicycles), the time had come for the signature of 
 the marriage contract. In these parts that for- 
 mality is not in itself an occasion for festivities : 
 it is the signal that the bridal celebrations (which 
 last, more or less, a fortnight) may begin. The 
 notary and a couple of clerks were waiting at 
 Stoppel's farmhouse, when the three speculators 
 arrived. That he came there, instead of the 
 parties calling on him, was a sure proof of the 
 social importance and actual wealth of the bride's 
 father. That neither the priest nor the father 
 had alluded in any way, during their walk, to 
 the matter regarding which they were at variance, 
 may be taken as characteristic of the peasant 
 class, to which both of them belonged. 
 
 The women, the substantial, grave-looking 
 mother, and the pretty girl — had donned their 
 best clothes. The men were as usual. The 
 notary had put on his seriously smiling face; 
 but then, that was one of his usual three 
 faces. 
 
 The whole party ranged themselves in a half- 
 circle : the bride with her parents beside her, 
 the bridegroom flanked by his uncle, and Brother 
 
c >88 STORY OF THE GREAT HAIL-GAMBLE 
 
 Ambrosius as a superfluous but highly honoured 
 guest. The notary, whose name was Kladdeboel, 
 sat down to a green table-cloth and a couple of 
 blue documents, and hemmed and hawed. Then 
 he asked for ink, which was given him ; though 
 Vrouw Stoppel disapproved of ink anywhere, on 
 principle, as representative, in her mind, only of 
 blots, or of something that somebody ought 
 never to have signed. 
 
 The notary then proceeded to read the settle- 
 ment. He was old and blind, and had been 
 incapacitated for years ; but Bullebak had main- 
 tained him in his position, in spite of the occa- 
 sional timid protests of the Burgomaster, because 
 Kladdeboel made such estimable suggestions to 
 the old people who talked to him about their 
 wills. "A very worthy and deserving public 
 officer, Monseigneur," said Bullebak at head- 
 quarters, " a supporter to be grateful for in these 
 days of indifference and irreligion." So the 
 notary stumbled through his official documents, 
 and his clerk helped him on, with a push to the 
 right or the left, as he lurched, like a drunken 
 man, among his names and his dates and the 
 cumbersome legal phrases. 
 
 "The aforesaid Maaiken Stoppel, Bride of 
 Heaven " he read. 
 
 " Steven, Steven," said the clerk. 
 
 " Bride of Steven." The notary's nose sank 
 among his rustling papers. 
 
 The correction had caused him to lose the 
 place. The clerk got up and found it for him. 
 
STORY OF THE GREAT HAIL-GAMBLE 239 
 
 Not recognising it, he scolded his patient servitor 
 for trying to make him skip an important bit. 
 " Which would have made the whole act invalid," 
 he said testily. " How can you be so careless, 
 Drabbelkoek ! I must go back." 
 
 " Always so conscientious," said the priest in 
 a loud voice. 
 
 "The aforesaid Madam Stoppel " read 
 
 the fumbling notary. 
 
 For a moment the clerk, after his rebuff, did 
 not dare to suggest an alteration. 
 
 The notary, having dropped and recovered 
 his eyeglasses, recommenced: "The aforesaid 
 Madam Stoppel, bride of Steven " 
 
 " Excuse me — no ! " said the Vrouw. 
 
 "Eh? — ah?" queried Kladdeboel, peering 
 over his papers. 
 
 "I've been a bride once," said the Vrouw, 
 with great decision, " and I don't want to be one 
 ever again." 
 
 " Glad you're so anxious to keep me," put in 
 the sardonic farmer. 
 
 " I didn't say that," replied the Vrouw. 
 
 The clerk and the priest, meanwhile, had 
 picked up the notary, who started off again with 
 " Hermann Stoppel will marry his wife." 
 
 " With Mary his wife," gently suggested the 
 patient Drabbelkoek. 
 
 They got to the end somehow. The notary 
 laid down his papers, took up the pen and 
 dropped a blot. 
 
 "Ah!" squeaked Vrouw Stoppel, as it fell. 
 
240 STORY OF THE GREAT HAIL-GAMBLE 
 
 "Oh, no matter, no matter," she added hastily. 
 " It's on the papers." 
 
 The notary stared indignantly at her. Then 
 he turned, still more indignantly, on his clerk. 
 " Why, there's ink in it ! " he cried. 
 
 The clerk apologised for the pen. And yet 
 such is the habit of pens, when emerging from 
 an inkstand. 
 
 The notary looked hastily for blotting-paper, 
 and smeared his sleeve all across the document 
 in doing so. " You never put anything where I 
 can find it," he said. " It's really a mercy, with 
 such a clerk as you, that my eyesight remains so 
 good. Dear, dear me ! " He surveyed the havoc 
 he had made. 
 
 Steven, who had come nearer, burst out laugh- 
 ing. "Oh, I say," he cried, "you've wiped out 
 the 2 ! It reads twenty thousand guilders — look 
 here, Stoppel — instead of twenty-two ! " 
 
 The old notary, turning to snatch at the docu- 
 ment, upset the entire inkstand. The vrouw 
 rushed, screaming — the green cloth being lost 
 anyway — to the rescue of her carpet; and in 
 the general scrimmage and cackle that ensued 
 Kladdeboel was heard protesting that it was all 
 Steven's or else Drabbelkoek's fault. 
 
 When order was at last restored, Boer Stoppel 
 was discovered placid in his arm-chair, not having 
 made a movement or spoken a word. Now, in 
 the lull of expectancy, he opened his lips. " It's 
 quite right," he said, — " quite right. I meant him 
 to strike out the 2." 
 
STORY OF THE GREAT HAIL-GAMBLE 241 
 
 " You never told me a word about it," exclaimed 
 the much ruffled notary. 
 
 " Well, then, it was Providence," replied the 
 shameless Stoppel. " Lord, yes, it must have 
 been Providence. Take out that 2, it says, and 
 put in the lad's uncle. Put him in for two 
 thousand, it says." 
 
 " So it was Providence upset the inkstand ! " 
 cried Steven. 
 
 " It certainly wasn't me ! " explained the notary. 
 
 " Providence couldn't do such a wicked thing," 
 exclaimed the farm-wife, her eyes on the green 
 table-cloth. 
 
 The good priest had risen. He swept his arm 
 over the whole lot of them. " Peace ! " he said. 
 Then he turned to the head of the house. 
 " Stoppel," he said sternly, " this is unseemly 
 fooling. We have no time to lose. We are 
 anxious to get back to the barley-fields." 
 
 " Yes, your reverence," answered Stoppel, " so 
 am I. ft It's important that we should hurry on the 
 work, though the sky seems set fair. But there's 
 no knowing. And they won't get ready to-day." 
 
 " Then let's sign and have done with it." 
 
 Stoppel dropped his heavy eyebrows over his 
 half-frightened eyes. 
 
 " I won't sign," he said doggedly, " unless you 
 put in that two thousand. Only two— and I'm 
 giving twenty. Providence itself says it isn't 
 fair." 
 
 " How dare you, a sinner, mention Provi- 
 dence ! " 
 
242 STORY OF THE GREAT HAIL-GAMBLE 
 
 " I won't sign," shouted Stoppel. 
 " Is this your last word ? " 
 Stoppel almost whispered : "Yes." 
 His daughter began to cry. The priest stood 
 forth splendid. 
 
 * Unhappy man ! " he thundered. " Your love 
 of lucre will be your bane ! For a paltry two 
 thousand you resist the command of your Church. 
 You jeopardise your soul for a trifle — for gold 
 that is dross. What prevents me? — but I will 
 give you one more chance." 
 
 * Oh, do, father ! " wailed the woman. 
 "Tisn't fair," muttered Stoppel. "No, I 
 
 won't." 
 
 " Then your ruin be upon your own head ! 
 You thought to gain a thousand florins from this 
 reverend brother ! Even the Church was not safe 
 from your extortions ! You shall not gain them, 
 neither from him nor from me ! On the contrary, 
 you shall lose two ! The Church herself shall 
 show you her irresistible power ! Oh, Saint — oh, 
 
 Saint " He stopped : his face grew purple — 
 
 he bent anxiously over Brother Ambrosius. 
 " Dear me ! I must be losing my senses," he 
 whispered. " Which saint is it we pray to for 
 hail?" 
 
 "I don't know," the other whispered back, 
 frightened. "Say ' Saint Anthony of Padua.' 
 He's the one that gives us most things we 
 want." 
 
 " No, no — that won't do." He drew himself 
 up to his full height, and, thrusting back the 
 
STORY OF THE GREAT HAIL-GAMBLE 243 
 
 Brother Brewer, " No, reverend brother ! " he 
 cried aloud, " I beseech you, stop your pleading ! 
 Ask no pity for this hardened sinner ! Oh, blessed 
 Saint Aquarius, show this reprobate the error of 
 his ways ! Teach him, oh, blessed Saint Aquarius, 
 that no man, not even the richest farmer in the 
 village, can make war upon the Church! Let 
 storm and thunder arise from the west" — he 
 stretched a terrible finger to the cloudless window 
 — " and confound him ! Oh, blessed Saint 
 Aquarius, give hail ! " 
 
 At the last word a shudder ran through his 
 audience. The women were crying bitterly ; all 
 the men— even Stoppel — turned pale. 
 
 " I've always done my duty by the Church," 
 stammered Stoppel. "Tisn't fair. . . ." 
 
 "Won't you repent?" pleaded fat, good- 
 natured little Brother Ambrosius. 
 
 "If he does, it will cost you two thousand 
 guilders," said Bullebak, standing tall and terrible, 
 his great arms crossed on his round chest. " You 
 see, Stoppel, how magnanimous the Church is. 
 She pleads with you at a cost to herself of nearly 
 seven hundred guilders a word ! " 
 
 " Oh, Stoppel, repent ! " sobbed his spouse. 
 
 The farmer gazed at all the people present, 
 from one to the other, and back again. 
 
 " Oh, Stoppel, repent ! " screamed Vrouw 
 Stoppel. 
 
 That decided him. He looked at the notary; 
 he looked at the man who would soon be his 
 son-in-law. No, he was not going to knuckle 
 
244 STORY OF THE GREAT HAIL-GAMBLE 
 
 under to his clamorous wife before them all, and 
 thus make himself permanently ridiculous. 
 
 " I'll take my chance/' he said. " If I gain my 
 two thousand by to-morrow night, you shall have 
 them, Steven Bullebak ! We'll put off signing 
 the contract till then ! " 
 
 The priests swept to the door. "Oh, Saint 
 Aquarius ! " bellowed Bullebak in the doorway, 
 "hail down — hail down — hailstones on the land 
 before to-morrow night ! Before to-morrow 
 
 night, hail down — hail " His voice died away 
 
 in the distance. 
 
 The rest stood ill at ease. "We'll sign the 
 contract at this time the day after to-morrow, 
 Notary," said the farmer. " If the weather's fine, 
 Steven shall have the two thousand. They'll 
 have come out of the pocket of the Church." 
 
 " And if the storm comes ? " questioned Steven 
 anxiously. 
 
 " Then you shall have them too. I can't fight 
 against the blessed saints." 
 
 The notary took his hat and shook his head. 
 " I never knew you were an infidel, Stoppel," he 
 said. 
 
 "I'm not an infidel. But 'tisn't fair. The 
 Holy Virgin herself 'd say it wasn't fair. And 
 I'm not such a fool as his reverence thinks. 
 There's one or two things I know that his 
 reverence thinks I don't." 
 
 All that day the men and women and children 
 worked in the great fields, but not with the 
 
STORY OF THE GREAT HAIL-GAMBLE 245 
 
 frantic vehemence of former years. There was 
 not such haste, it appeared, to be ready. The 
 two clerical gentlemen walked about encouraging 
 them, but with gentleness. The heat was very 
 great. The sky was a cloudless blue. 
 
 Next morning the work was resumed, but 
 with even greater deliberation. The sky was an 
 unbroken blue. The heat was intense. The 
 clerical gentlemen walked among the people, 
 telling them how hot it was, and advising them 
 not to over-fatigue themselves. Father Bullebak 
 frequently consulted the deep silence of the west. 
 Brother Ambrosius asked him occasionally what 
 he thought of the weather, and the third time his 
 reply was quite rude. They partook of their 
 midday meal in strained monosyllabic inter- 
 course. Before and after it Father Bullebak 
 studied the barometer — down in the lowest 
 depths. He shook his head. His nap was a 
 failure. Soon he was out again among the 
 reapers, telling them not to over-exert themselves. 
 
 It was all in vain. As the sun sank, on the 
 second evening, in untarnished glory, the last 
 lingering sheaves were bound up. Then Farmer 
 Stoppel, whose pride had kept him from coming 
 to hurry the harvesters, sallied forth and stood 
 gazing at the stubble, on the fields. 
 
 In the study of the parsonage the two 
 ecclesiastics were together. There was no bottle 
 of wine between them. Each thought his own 
 thoughts. To his, Brother Ambrosius gave 
 utterance. 
 
246 STORY OF THE GREAT HAIL-GAMBLE 
 
 "It's your fault," he said; "yes, Father, I 
 must say it. 'Tis your fault. You prayed to the 
 wrong saint, and I told you at the time. There 
 isn't any such saint as Aquarius. Why, what 
 could be the use of praying to Aquarius ? I 
 believe he was a heathen god." He went on 
 about this until Bullebak snatched him up : 
 
 "Oh, hang you," cried the good old priest, 
 "with your praying to Aquarius! 'Tisn't that. 
 'Tis my barometer gone wrong, or mad, or some- 
 thing — my Paris barometer, that I could trust as 
 I could trust my own soul." He rose, fiercely, 
 and stalked across to the instrument. Looking 
 at it — " I could dash it to the ground," he said. 
 
 " I always thought there was something evil 
 in trusting to these so-called scientific inventions," 
 said the brother, shaking his head, " and now I 
 know it. After all, we have no authority that 
 
 barometers " He jumped, for an oath had 
 
 burst from the lips of Bullebak. 
 
 The father had loosened the barometer from 
 the bookcase to examine the back part of it ; and 
 there, in the receptable for the mercury, was a 
 neat little crack, through which evidently a large 
 amount of the liquid had been allowed to escape. 
 
 " The thing's broken ! " he screamed. Then : 
 "It's been tampered with!" Then: "Oh, the 
 infidel ! the atheist ! the blasphemer ! " 
 
 "Who? What?" asked the simpler Am- 
 brosius. 
 
 " Here he did it ! " shouted Bullebak, " whilst 
 we were at mass. He wouldn't have us go to 
 
STORY OF THE GREAT HAIL-GAMBLE 247 
 
 him ! He came here ! He came too early on 
 purpose. Oh, the Pharisee ! The Sadducee and 
 publican ! I'll get him excommunicated for this ! " 
 " Pooh ! we gambled and we've lost," said 
 Brother Ambrosius. 
 
 Next morning Farmer Stoppel signed a clean 
 contract, without a grin, and accorded Steven 
 the extra two thousand guilders. Father Bullebak 
 was not present. 
 
 " Well, he must give me the two pewter pots, 
 at any rate," said Steven, with rather a rueful 
 countenance. 
 
 " He'll give you more than that, or I'll let out 
 on him ! " replied the farmer, and for the first 
 time his features relaxed into a grin. Pressed 
 further to explain his cryptic meaning, he reso- 
 lutely refused. " The blessed saints forfend," he 
 said devoutly, and took off his black nightcap, 
 " that I should say or do anything that might 
 injure the Church ! " 
 
TEETOTAL 
 
 THE wind howled outside in gusts. The rain 
 flung a fretful drizzle against the window- 
 panes. The outlook was raw and shivery. 
 Rebecca drew the red rep curtains enclosing the 
 golden glow of the lamp. 
 
 Klaas Brunting— old Baas Klaas— sat watch- 
 ing his sister's movements; sat solid, pipe in 
 mouth, skull-cap on head, filling, with the folds 
 of his ample dressing-gown, his accustomed arm- 
 chair by the fire. It was Saturday evening. 
 The cat purred. The winter roses bloomed, a 
 persistent crimson, on Klaas's carpet slippers. 
 He stretched out his feet to the warmth, and the 
 cat opened a mildly apprehensive eye. But her 
 master could get what he wanted without dis- 
 turbing her. He would have disturbed her else, 
 remorselessly, or any one on earth, or under the 
 earth, for the matter of that. 
 
 Rebecca stooped and stroked the cat, speak- 
 ing softly. Old Klaas watched, with a gleam 
 under his eyelids that might have been a smile 
 or a sneer. 
 
 " Pussy, pussy," murmured Rebecca. 
 
 Nobody took the slightest notice. 
 
TEETOTAL 249 
 
 "Tis a miserable evening," continued the 
 spinster. 
 
 The cat pursed up her cheeks, purring louder. 
 
 " Sam's late," persisted the cat's mistress — if, 
 at least, she was a mistress of anything in that 
 house. 
 
 "Seven minutes," said the house's master. 
 He drew his pipe from his projecting under-lip 
 and pointed it at nothing. " I never," he added, 
 after a solemn pause of deliberate reflection, 
 "was seven minutes late in my life." And he 
 put back the pipe with a snap. 
 
 "You were always so exact. I never knew 
 anybody quite so exact as you," spoke Rebecca 
 wistfully. She busied herself with the tea-things, 
 and presently she sighed. 
 
 " Yes," said old Klaas. 
 
 It was true. All his life long he had been 
 exact and exacting. He had worked himself up 
 from very humble beginnings, in the little town, 
 to a position of moderate importance. The 
 cheesemonger's shop he had started in as an 
 ill-treated errand-boy had long been his own. 
 "Everybody is liable to make mistakes," he 
 frequently declared, whereby he meant that he 
 had never made one ; and he was very indignant, 
 or scornful, if any one else did. Angry when 
 he — Klaas Brunting — lost by the other's error, 
 scornful when he gained. As for his sister — 
 poor, thriftless thing! — he thanked Heaven he 
 had always been enabled to provide for her. 
 That, in fact, was the chiefest of his innumerable 
 
250 TEETOTAL 
 
 merits. Some people objected to the epithet 
 "thriftless" when applied to the neatest and 
 carefullest housekeeper in Valburg. But Klaas 
 Brunting had known his sister to give a penny 
 to a drunken tramp. He himself had been for 
 many years a deacon, and sat where the deacons 
 sit in church. 
 
 "Sam isn't often as late as this," resumed 
 Rebecca, casting a glance at the loud-ticking 
 Frisian clock. 
 
 "Likely he's waiting for the rain to stop," 
 replied her brother. And he added, with a fierce 
 chuckle: "As if any fool couldn't see it'll rain 
 all night." 
 
 " Sam's no fool," protested Rebecca. She put 
 down her brother's second cup beside him with 
 what was almost a jerk. Klaas's swollen cheeks 
 indicated an internal smile. He knew, and 
 ignored, this one weak point. 
 
 " No, Sam's a man of good, practical common- 
 sense. His judgment never runs away with 
 him," he persisted, for he was jealous of his 
 sister's affection, or rather, let us say, devotion, 
 refusing to share it with any one but the cat. 
 
 " His heart does," said Rebecca, and she went 
 to the window and, drawing aside a curtain, 
 peered out into the rain. 
 
 Klaas sniffed. " I suppose you know what 
 that means," he mumbled. " But if Sam had had 
 a business of his own, instead of being a poor 
 clerk on fixed pay, he'd never have been out of 
 the bankruptcy court." 
 
TEETOTAL 251 
 
 " We can't all make money," retorted Rebecca, 
 behind the curtain. Her heart fluttered ; she 
 steadied her voice, expecting his reply. 
 
 "No, some of us can spend the money of 
 other people's making." Hard-headed reckoner 
 though he was, it would never have occurred to 
 him, nor to her, that her house-wifery meant 
 money-making for him. 
 
 But Rebecca's attention had fled to the other 
 side of the glass. She screamed a little scream 
 of surprise. " Why, he's walking up and down 
 across the street ! " she cried. " Why, he's walk- 
 ing up and down in the rain ! Sam ! " 
 
 " Pooh ! He's cracked ! " said Klaas Brunting 
 indignantly. " And twenty minutes late." 
 
 "Sam! Sam!" cried Rebecca, rapping the 
 window-pane. 
 
 " Don't break the window ! " exclaimed Klaas. 
 
 "Sam! Remember your bad chest!" shrieked 
 Rebecca. The man on the other side of the road 
 heard the ticking ; he crossed with a little run, 
 that bespoke a sudden resolve, and was ushered 
 into the warm sitting-room by the expostulating 
 old maid. 
 
 Samuel Roskam was the single and life-long, 
 intimate friend of the Bruntings. He was of 
 their age — between fifty and sixty— of their circle^ 
 from infancy, and their social status, almost of 
 their family, being some sort of cousin, certainly 
 not very much removed in anything — Rebecca 
 could have told the exact degree of relationship. 
 There had never been, for more than one day, 
 
252 TEETOTAL 
 
 twenty miles between them. But a greater 
 distance had developed, in so far that Klaas 
 Brunting had grown richer, slowly, by his own 
 efforts, and Sam poorer, suddenly, through a 
 brother's fault. Up to thirty — half-way through 
 their closely-connected existence — it was Sam, 
 with his small patrimony, who had been the 
 envied rich relation; then one day — the whole 
 thing compressed into twenty-four hours — Sam's 
 brother had absconded, and written to say there 
 was nothing left of Sam's money, and shot him- 
 self in a city hotel. Sam Roskam went on with 
 his work — as a clerk — in the little local town hall. 
 " It's a good thing Lucy wouldn't have me," was 
 all he said ; for, seven years before, he had taken 
 his courage in both his hands and proposed to a 
 pretty pink-and-white creature, whose golden 
 fringe had blinded him, and had found himself 
 laughingly rejected for his pains. When informed 
 of the financial crash, " It's all Sam's fault," had 
 said Klaas, without further elucidation. "He'll 
 never be able now to support a wife." This 
 seemed to be Sam's own opinion; at least, he 
 had never made another effort to obtain one. 
 
 "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, with 
 your bronchitis ! " chid Rebecca, as she fussed 
 about the tall, spare man, removing his grey 
 shawl and his damp shiny overcoat. " What on 
 earth do you mean, promenading about in the 
 wet?" 
 
 " Ruining your clothes," added Klaas. 
 
 The cat, annoyed by the smell of moisture, 
 
TEETOTAL 253 
 
 rumpled her nose and retreated behind the 
 stove. 
 
 " I — I — never mind," answered Sam. He sat 
 down awkwardly, hitched up his clogged trousers 
 awkwardly, and stared round awkwardly. 
 
 H The rum'll soon put you right," declared 
 Klaas, knocking the ashes out of his Gouda pipe. 
 
 Sam started, sniffed, and, recovering himself, 
 stared harder than ever at the other side of the 
 round table. 
 
 " I — I think I should like some tea," he said 
 faintly. 
 
 Rebecca dropped something, whatever she 
 held in her hand — nothing breakable. 
 
 "Tea?" she cried. "You? Tea, of all things! 
 Why, for twenty years you haven't touched tea 
 after dark I " 
 
 "Wouldn't sleep a wink if you did," laughed 
 old Klaas sardonically. "Tea! A deleterious 
 infusion of— what's the Latin name? Com- 
 paratively innocuous in the morning, if made 
 with ventilated — what d'ye call it — water! Pah !" 
 He was suddenly enjoying himself hugely. 
 " Don't give him any tea, Rebecca ! " 
 
 "There's none left," said the spinster, in 
 mingled tones of regret and relief. 
 
 "Some new fad?" continued Brunting. 
 " Come, Sam, it's quite a time since we had the 
 last one. Which was the last one ? Shredded 
 something for breakfast? Or Farm-Homes for 
 City Orphans? I forget!" It was true that 
 Sam Roskam, in the humdrum trudge of his 
 
254 TEETOTAL 
 
 office-life, allowed himself the relaxation of what 
 Brunting called "enthuses." His own health and 
 the welfare of his neighbours interested him in a 
 manner especially provoking to Klaas, who cared 
 for neither. " Your body's all right, if you don't 
 think of it," maintained Klaas, with the happy 
 inversion of the healthy, and " The less you do 
 for a pauper, the sooner he'll tire of being one," 
 with the cheerful sophistry of the self-made. 
 
 Samuel Roskam, conscious of no claim to the 
 self-confidence he lacked, seldom contradicted his 
 prosperous and truculent crony. Night after 
 night they sat thus together, chance intimates, 
 like so many life-friends, with nothing in common 
 but the accident of not living elsewhere. Probably 
 — like so many life-friends again—they would 
 have discovered that they disliked each other 
 had they reasoned it out. Meanwhile, old Klaas 
 Brunting sneered, and Sam Roskam never flared 
 up in reply except when some matter of principle, 
 as he deemed it, made protest a duty. Then his 
 grey cheek would flush, and his pale eyes grow 
 paler, sure of Rebecca's encouragement, feeble 
 but firm. 
 
 "By-the-by, how are the Farm-Homes pro- 
 gressing?" suggested Rebecca. 
 
 He plunged into the Farm-Homes : the last 
 report was more than favourable. The town- 
 bred children took most kindly to the cheeses — 
 " Eating 'em ?" interposed Brunting with a growl. 
 The cheesemonger would hear nothing of street- 
 arabs and farm-produce. " As well expect them 
 
TEETOTAL 255 
 
 to lay eggs because they're foul" he said. " / 
 shan't buy their dirty messes. D'ye mean that 
 you really give your money for this sort of tom- 
 foolery, Sam ? " 
 
 " I send them my very modest subscription," 
 answered Roskam, looking straight at Rebecca. 
 But immediately afterwards his glance again 
 travelled nervously round the apartment, in 
 and out of the corners. His manner was very 
 peculiar to-night ; she wondered what was 
 wrong. 
 
 "The sort of man that potters about under 
 the rain, instead of coming in," replied Klaas. He 
 stretched out his hand for the tobacco-canister. 
 " Get the punch, Rebecca ! Do ! " 
 
 Sam Roskam gave a jump on his chair— on 
 the edge he was occupying. They both saw it. 
 You couldn't but see. 
 
 Klaas shouted with laughter. " Lord, man ! " 
 he cried. " Why didn't you say you were in such 
 a hurry before?" Again he shouted : " Ha! ha! 
 Instead of jabbering about tea !" 
 
 " I — I — I " said Sam, and halted. Rebecca 
 
 had risen and was fetching things from cupboards, 
 with mutterings about damps and bronchitis and 
 tempting Providence and good stiff 
 
 " I should like to say " began Sam. He 
 
 twitched up his eyebrows — he looked as if some- 
 body were extracting all his teeth. The golden 
 spirit gurgled down pleasantly into the tumbler 
 from the long-necked black bottle. Rebecca 
 stopped pouring in amazement. The brother 
 
256 TEETOTAL 
 
 and sister both stared. The kettle sang, hot, on 
 the stove. 
 
 " I would rather have no punch, thank 
 you, Rebecca," said the miserable Sam. He 
 breathed a great gasp, as if the last tooth were 
 out. 
 
 But he was mistaken — it was the first. 
 
 Klaas Brunting, his pipe in his left hand, 
 brought down his clenched right on the table, 
 making tumblers and glasses to ring. 
 
 "Tea, and no tea!" he cried. " Punch, and 
 no punch ! I will and I won't, and I don't know 
 what I want, or I do ! There's no bearing with 
 your cranks and your fancies, your whims and 
 your oddities, Sam Roskam ! Take the good 
 drinks that Providence sends you, and go to the 
 devil, and have done ! " 
 
 "Just so. I don't want to go to the devil," 
 answered Sam. The other only snorted. 
 
 " Has the doctor said that spirits were bad 
 for your cough, Sam?" asked Rebecca in the 
 gentlest of tones. 
 
 " No ; he's found it in one of his rubbishy 
 health books," declared her brother. " One of the 
 blessed pamphlets he goes to for a new diet every 
 month of the year." Now this was a gross ex- 
 aggeration ; but old Klaas hated all the books of 
 the kind Sam had ever studied, for every one 
 of them discouraged cheese. 
 
 " Diet be blowed !" added Klaas, and fiercely 
 bade his sister push across his glass. She made 
 a mild movement towards Sam ; he waved the 
 
TEETOTAL 257 
 
 steaming tumbler aside. " It— it's not a question 
 of health," murmured Sam. 
 
 " Then, what is it, pray ? I suppose we must 
 know," thundered old Brunting. " I suppose 
 you're not quite out of your mind — your thoughts 
 still have some sort of meaning? So I suppose 
 we must know!" He shook himself together, 
 like some irritable animal, in his big brown 
 cloak. " I suppose you've discovered now you 
 can only sleep upon tea ! " he said. 
 
 Under the reiterated insult of all these sup- 
 positions, Sam's self-respect wrigged right-side 
 up. "It's a matter of conscience," he spoke. 
 "A — a matter of principle. I've come to the 
 conclusion that it's wrong to take punch." 
 
 The silence was oppressive. The cat came 
 from behind the stove and humped her back in 
 front of it. 
 
 " Do you mean?" ventured Rebecca at length. 
 But that fired old Klaas. With his pipe he thrust 
 back his sister into silence. 
 
 " Let him speak ! " he exclaimed. " Don't ask 
 him what he means ! He hasn't an idea. But let 
 him speak. He don't mean anything, but it's 
 pleasant to hear him. Well, Sam, so it's— what 
 did you say ? — wrong to drink punch ? " He set 
 himself to listen, ostentatiously. His eyes 
 twinkled. He was really getting a lot of enjoy- 
 ment out of this, quite unconscious as yet of a 
 deeper meaning in Sam's latest fad. 
 
 " I've been thinking about it a great deal these 
 days," began Roskam, looking at nobody, but 
 
268 TEETOTAL 
 
 speaking gravely to Rebecca, " and reading also. 
 And I'm more and more convinced they're right. 
 Yes, our great source of misery and wickedness 
 is drink. The canker that eats out the heart 
 of this nation is gin — Rebecca." He turned 
 suddenly to the spinster, who nodded. 
 
 Old Klaas had pushed back his black skull- 
 cap. His beady eyes were fixed on the speaker. 
 Now he lay back in his chair. " Temperance 
 
 talk, by G ! " he said in a low voice. All the 
 
 lighter sneer had gone out of it. There was 
 only scorn. 
 
 And all at once Sam looked full at him. 
 " Yes, temperance talk," said Sam. " Thank 
 Heaven." 
 
 " Thank what ? " asked the quondam deacon. 
 " I thank Heaven there are men in this country 
 who dare to talk temperance talk," said Sam. 
 
 "To drunkards, by all means," retorted 
 Brunting. " Were you speaking to Rebecca or 
 tome?" 
 
 "The duty of example " reasoned the 
 
 convert ; but Klaas would not allow him to 
 proceed. With both hands uplifted, "Spare 
 us ! " he cried. Then he emptied — an unusual 
 thing for him— his glass at one gulp. " Might I 
 trouble you," he questioned politely, "to pass 
 this tumbler to Rebecca ? Or is that a sin which, 
 since yesterday, you cannot commit ? " 
 
 Sam thrust the glass across and began 
 speaking eagerly. 
 
 " You can't understand," he said. " I mustn't 
 
TEETOTAL 259 
 
 expect you to understand. Only, don't you see, 
 once a man realises — I've been having it borne 
 in upon me for weeks — I wanted to speak before, 
 only I'was afraid that you'd laugh at me." "Oh, 
 by no means," put in Klaas. " I didn't want 
 you to laugh at me, Rebecca. That's why I 
 stopped outside to-night. But, don't you see, 
 when a man once realises how all the wicked- 
 ness " 
 
 " We've had that before," remarked Klaas. 
 
 "Of this whole nation," continued Sam, 
 raising his voice, M is largely attributable to 
 drink — to drink, Rebecca — you can't deny it." 
 
 " No, oh no," said the spinster hastily. 
 
 " When we realise that, why then — why 
 then " 
 
 " We don't drink. We drink nothing at all," 
 said Klaas. He wagged his big bullock-head 
 emphatically. But he prodded the tobacco into 
 his pipe, with deep prods of an angry thumb. 
 
 " We loathe the very look of the liquor," said 
 Sam. He struck his hand against the black 
 bottle with miscalculated energy; he had to 
 topple it straight before it fell. Rebecca, with 
 an apprehensive glance at her brother, set the 
 wicked thing away. 
 
 " So," began old Klaas, and the word showed 
 there was a great deal coming "you're going to 
 give up drinking punch ? " He sat well back in 
 his arm-chair and squared his knees. 
 " Yes," said Sam uncomfortably. 
 " Where did you get drunk ? " 
 
260 TEETOTAL 
 
 " What d'ye mean, Klaas ? Oh, Klaas ! " cried 
 Rebecca. 
 
 " You know well enough what I mean. You 
 needn't keep it up before me and Rebecca. Of 
 course you've been and got drunk somewhere, 
 like as might happen to any man, though I 
 should never have thought it of you. Was it at 
 that funeral, last Tuesday, the other clerk's ? 
 Well, better men than you have got drunk at a 
 funeral, but they didn't whine about wickedness 
 afterwards." 
 
 "I never took a drop too much in all my 
 life," replied Sam. His tone was too absolutely 
 sincere to admit of further doubt. 
 
 " Then I'm floored. I'd thought of the only 
 possible explanation, and — if it's not the right 
 one, then I'm done." Klaas Brunting jammed 
 the pipe between his lips and drew three spiteful 
 puffs. The cat edged away from him. 
 
 " It's the example, I tell you. Henceforth I 
 intend, for my part, to set an example " 
 
 "To whom? To Rebecca?" burst out the 
 other. 
 
 " No— no " 
 
 u To me ? " His voice rose to that shout like 
 a shot. He waved Roskam down, and the 
 torrent of his pent-up eloquence rolled forth. 
 " / understand ! You needn't explain any more. 
 For the Lord's sake stop explaining. You're 
 a pattern to other people that don't go in for 
 your fancies and philanthropies, and always have 
 been. You're virtuous, you are ; and you know, 
 
TEETOTAL 261 
 
 better'n any one, what's good for your body, and 
 their souls ! It's well enough as long as you 
 keep to your own atomy, and I've stood any 
 amount, for years, of what suits your inside and 
 what don't ! / don't mind, as I've told Rebecca 
 over and over again ; as long as I can have my 
 meals regular, let him talk ! " 
 
 * I never interfered with your meals," objected 
 Sam. "Though you always overeat yourself, 
 and you'll die of it some day ! " 
 
 Rebecca clasped her hands, in terror and joy 
 at such daring. 
 
 " I should like to see you interfere with me 
 in anything," screamed old Klaas. "You think 
 you've got a fine chance now, but you're mis- 
 taken ! You intend to come here night after 
 night, and sit watching me drinking my rum, as 
 I've done all my life" — suddenly he dropped his 
 voice — " respectably, decently drinking my rum," 
 he said impressively, "and you sitting there as 
 an example? No !" 
 
 " No-o-o," he repeated, slowly sinking his 
 gaze to the scarlet blooms on his feet. The cat 
 turned her back upon them all. In the dull 
 silence Brunting lifted his heavy eyebrows. 
 " Fill his glass, and have done ! " he commanded. 
 Rebecca mechanically half rose, her eyes on 
 Sam's face, and shrank down again. 
 
 " See here, Sam Roskam " — old Klaas spoke 
 with leisurely distinctness — " either you'll drink 
 your share of toddy, like a man, or — or you'll not 
 stop to see me drink mine." 
 
262 TEETOTAL 
 
 Sam Roskam's face went white, not whiter 
 than Rebecca's. " I can't/' he said. 
 
 " We've sat here together, every night, for 
 more than thirty years. I've stood all your fads, 
 as I said before ; they didn't hurt me. But you'll 
 not sit there preaching at me, with your empty 
 glass, for my wickedness, night after night, I tell 
 you. So you'll let Rebecca fill your glass, or 
 else you'll go." 
 
 " I can't," said Sam. The cat, facing them all 
 again, sat licking her paw, with an assumption of 
 indifference. 
 
 Sam drew a vast breath. " I've signed the 
 pledge," he said. 
 
 " Signed the " Old Klaas stuck ; his pipe 
 
 dropped to the floor in a smash, and the cat flew 
 away from it. Klaas lay back in his chair, as if 
 some one had knocked the wind out of him. "A 
 d teetotal fool ! " he gasped. 
 
 " So, you see, I can't help myself now. The 
 matter's settled," said Sam, almost cheerfully. 
 
 Old Klaas had picked up his pipe and now 
 carefully examined the broken bowl. Probably 
 the wreck angered him more than he knew. 
 Possibly the wreck decided the whole thing. 
 
 " Yes, the matter's settled," he echoed. Then 
 he pointed to the door with the broken stump 
 and, looking full at Sam : " Good night ! " he said. 
 
 Sam rose to his feet. u You turn me out ? " 
 he breathed. " After all these years ? " Rebecca 
 had risen also. She came round to her brother ; 
 he motioned her back with the stump. 
 
TEETOTAL 263 
 
 " You can come back whenever you choose ! " 
 he said ; his fat face had grown purple, despite 
 his soft tones ; the apoplectic veins were stand- 
 ing out in it. 
 
 "Come back? How can I come back?" ex- 
 claimed Sam, at the door. The quiet gesture, 
 remorseless, was irresistibly pushing him forth. 
 
 " You can break the pledge," said Klaas. The 
 other passed out, dragging his draggled coat after 
 him. " The idiotic pledge," said Klaas, in his back. 
 
 The brother and sister heard the front-door 
 bang. " He'll never come back," said Rebecca. 
 
 " The more fool he," replied Klaas. 
 
 Rebecca stood on the farther side of the table. 
 " He was right, and you were wrong," she said. 
 
 He started, not believing his ears. " Are you 
 mad ? " he demanded. " You never said anything 
 like that to me in your life." 
 
 "Nor never wanted to. Though " she 
 
 gathered courage, " I may have thought it. I've 
 always done as you wish, Klaas, but — but " 
 
 " Do you mean to say," he cried, half scared, 
 "that he's to come here and reproach me with 
 drunkenness, as if I was our cousin, Wim Loper ? 
 I — I ! " He stood up and stamped with his foot, 
 " I — I— Klaas Brunting — as if I was that drunkard, 
 Wim Loper ! " 
 
 " Nobody mentioned Wim Loper, Klaas. Be- 
 sides, he's been steady now for nine months. 
 He's reformed." 
 
 " Let him take the pledge. I'll be bound Sam 
 was thinking of Loper all the time. Wim's our 
 
264 TEETOTAL 
 
 cousin, on our side, and I daresay he thinks drink- 
 ing runs in the blood ! If he'd stayed here an 
 hour longer, he'd have told me to sign the 
 pledge. I saw it in his eyes all the time, watch- 
 ing my glass ! I tell you I saw it," he cried 
 furiously. " The canting humbug ! Eat too 
 much, do I ? He'd have added, ' and drink too 
 much,' had he dared ! " 
 
 " Nobody could say that, Klaas, with your two 
 glasses a night, and three on birthdays. But so 
 full-blooded a man as you'd be all the better 
 without rum, all the same." 
 
 " Are you taking his part against me ? " cried 
 Klaas. 
 
 " No," she said shortly. 
 
 She walked to a cupboard in the wall from 
 which she extracted her bonnet and shawl. He 
 watched her. She put them on. 
 
 " Where are you going at this time of night ? " 
 he demanded. 
 
 " To see after Sam," she answered. 
 
 "D'ye think to bring him back?" he cried. 
 There was a glad leap of triumph in the 
 cry. 
 
 " No," she said again. " He wouldn't come- 
 not unless " 
 
 "You stop where you .are," he said, dis- 
 appointed. 
 
 " Why, Klaas, he's never been alone like this 
 before. I'll just go and see what he's doing. I 
 won't be long." 
 
 " You just stop where you are." 
 
TEETOTAL 265 
 
 She hesitated, steadying her trembling limbs 
 against a chair. 
 
 " Want to run after him, do you ? When he's 
 never asked you all these years ? " 
 
 She made as if she would have answered him 
 rapidly, but checked herself. The cat, defrauded 
 as never before of a customary saucer, plucked, 
 mewing, at her skirt. She did not notice it. 
 Then, steadily, she turned to the door. 
 
 That action maddened him. The words were 
 out before he had fathomed their portent. 
 
 " If you go after him you needn't come back ! " 
 
 The next moment he was alone in the room, 
 with the cat rubbing against his legs for milk. 
 Rebecca had heard and, having heard, she had 
 gone. 
 
 In the ruin of his whole life which had come 
 thus suddenly, he realised so much at once, clearly, 
 once for all. They were gone for ever ; he had 
 made their return impossible ; he could not let 
 them come back without incurring their per- 
 manent contempt and his own. It had been his 
 unswerving maxim to approve himself. At what- 
 ever cost he must stick to that. 
 
 He sat burrowing into this one idea, until he 
 was deep down in it, in the dark. He kicked 
 aside the cat, henceforth his only companion, and 
 went across the room to fetch the long, black 
 bottle, exceeding his most festive allowance. 
 Presently he deliberately stumbled to the door 
 and locked it, and put on the chain. Not too 
 soon, for almost immediately afterwards he heard 
 
266 TEETOTAL 
 
 a hand at the lock, with the spare latch-key 
 Rebecca always carried in her pocket. He sat 
 in his arm-chair listening to the fumbling. How 
 long it lasted ! At length there was a timid ring. 
 Then a long wait. He sat breathing heavily. 
 The cat crept to the door and mewed. So loud, 
 she must have heard. " Hist ! " he said. He felt 
 the presence outside the outer door. He waited 
 for a second ring. It didn't come, and unable to 
 bear the tension any longer, he blew out the lamp. 
 Then he knew there was nothing more to be done 
 but to stumble away from the living silence in 
 front of him, red and giddy, and resolute, to the 
 darkness upstairs. 
 
 # # # * '# 
 
 From that night Klaas Brunting, who had 
 always known himself to be a very good man, 
 became, as he quite realised, in duty bound, a 
 bad one. He could not act otherwise. " A man's 
 word's a man's word," he said. 
 
 His neighbours, who had always disliked him 
 for his truculence, but grudgingly admitted his 
 chief virtue, success, were delighted to find honest 
 cause for abuse. All told how he had turned his 
 good sister out of doors because she had tried to 
 keep him from drinking. It thus became known 
 that the former deacon was a man of intemperate 
 habits, and people who had always deemed him 
 as respectable as he was disagreeable, eagerly 
 pointed out to each other that he was not. 
 
 His sister, as the whole town was aware, had 
 vainly asked him to take her back — more fool she. 
 
TEETOTAL 267 
 
 Then she had sent him her latch-key, and, two 
 days later, had stepped, gladly welcomed, into a 
 vacant situation as matron of a local home. The 
 committee, though trembling at any risk of failure, 
 hesitated for a moment over the stipulated nightly 
 visits of Sam Roskam to the housekeeper's room. 
 The male members said : " Oh, bother ! " But 
 the minister's wife said : " No." 
 
 " You must admit that it is— ahem — unusual ! " 
 said the minister's wife, who was not unusual in 
 any way. 
 
 Rebecca, with some of her brother's obstinacy, 
 declined to argue the point. 
 
 " If only you were near relations ! " sighed the 
 lady. 
 
 "We are relations," replied Rebecca, "but 
 not near enough." 
 
 " Or — or engaged ! " 
 
 Rebecca flushed. "We are not engaged," 
 she said. The minister's wife sighed again with 
 an air of reproach. As a fixed rule she disliked 
 people's not being engaged when she wished 
 them to be. And with a full sense of her re- 
 ponsibility she wrote to Sam Roskam, whom 
 she didn't know, on the subject. Sam Roskam 
 showed Rebecca the letter. 
 
 "She is right," said Rebecca quietly. "In 
 a home like that the matron's example is very 
 important. It would be different if we were 
 engaged." 
 
 Sam Roskam lifted his mild eyes and looked 
 at her. Her eyes also were mild as they looked 
 
268 TEETOTAL 
 
 at him. They sat in his poor little attic, with 
 the fading light about them, their faded faces, 
 their fading lives. 
 
 "Yes, she is right," said Sam meditatively. 
 " It would be better if we were engaged." Her 
 heart gave a flutter at his change of word. 
 
 "Why shouldn't we?" said Sam softly. "I 
 mean," he added quickly, " pretend to be engaged, 
 of course. I know it could only be pretence." 
 
 She sighed heavily. " Yes ; it could only be 
 pretence." Yet the thing was most exceedingly 
 sweet to her, sweet, and utterly new and long, 
 long waited for, if hopeless withal. In his situa- 
 tion as clerk at the town-hall he earned some 
 thirty-five pounds, not enough to keep his own 
 body and soul satisfactorily together : there was 
 no chance of his ever earning more. Between 
 them, in the nightly intercourse of the endless 
 years, had lain the oppressive silence of a 
 something left unsaid. And now, suddenly, the 
 thought had found utterance, a thought whose 
 existence she had ever hoped, and feared, and 
 doubted, throughout all her brother's taunts and 
 her old-maid fancies. Over the autumn heart 
 of the spinster broke a gentle and clouded sun- 
 light. The desire of her lover was hers, an 
 eternal possession. 
 
 " It would make things much easier," said 
 Sam. 
 
 She did not answer, for she could not speak. 
 
 They sat together in the quiet attic. Pre- 
 sently she pushed down the green shade of the 
 
TEETOTAL 269 
 
 oil-lamp. It was late when she rose to go. She 
 held out her hand. " Good-bye, Sam. I will 
 tell them/' she said. 
 
 Old Klaas smiled most evilly when he heard 
 the news. She wrote it to him simply, lest he 
 should hear it from strangers. He had hired a 
 woman, who looked after his wants, more or 
 less, and spent twice as much as the " thriftless " 
 Rebecca. "Ask her, when '11 the wedding be?" 
 he said to this woman, tilting the long-necked 
 black bottle again— now-a-days he lost count. 
 " When I'm dead, I suppose," he added with an 
 oath. He would not write to his sister, whom 
 he considered responsible, somehow, for all the 
 new misery in his house and heart, but he sent 
 her a verbal message, through the minister's 
 wife, that she never need count on a penny from 
 him. " Alive or dead," he added. The minister's 
 wife was rather glad of this, as she was anxious 
 to keep her most excellent matron. " Tell him 
 I will come back without," said Rebecca. 
 
 Klaas Brunting, from his place in church, his 
 place of honour, could see the blue spot on Sam 
 Roskam's shabby coat, and, one morning, with 
 rage in his heart, he espied the same symbol 
 upon Rebecca's breast. That Sunday night, for 
 the first time in his life, he sullenly drank himself 
 dead drunk. He gave his housekeeper money 
 next morning not to speak of it to any one. His 
 supreme dread now became lest the outside world 
 should discover that its libels had come true. 
 The woman encouraged a habit in which she 
 
270 TEETOTAL 
 
 saw an easy source of profit to herself. He 
 would sit gloomily over his glass, with conjested 
 brows, muttering that Sam and Rebecca were 
 "murderers," over and over again. Once the 
 woman, as dull-witted as she was sharply curious, 
 asked him what he meant. With one of his now 
 habitual oaths he snarled to her to hold her 
 tongue. 
 
 It was many months after that, however, that 
 the woman, having waited breakfast for him 
 thirteen minutes — for him whose whole life had 
 been a clockwork — grumbled her way upstairs, 
 to find that the hands had stopped for good. 
 She took two-thirds of the loose change out of 
 his pockets ; then she went and told Rebecca, 
 telling all the neighbours on the way. Rebecca 
 shed truly sorrowful tears, from natural affection, 
 and also because the doctor said that her brother 
 had drunk himself to death. " He was always 
 apoplectic," said Sam. "He would have died, 
 any way." And, as Rebecca, unreasonably went 
 on crying : " We all do," said Sam. 
 
 The man who had been a deacon was buried 
 respectfully, as such. All the more did the 
 contents of his will come as a horrible and 
 shocking surprise. His cheesemonger's shop 
 and all his other little property were left to 
 Rebecca and Sam conjointly, but there was a 
 condition attached. The condition was that the 
 pair of them should get drunk together within 
 a week of the testator's death. That was all. If 
 they failed to carry out this condition, the whole 
 
TEETOTAL 271 
 
 property passed, irremediably, to Wim Loper, 
 the reformed cousin, long since hopelessly 
 relapsed. 
 
 "Oh, sir!" sobbed Rebecca to the lawyer. 
 " Oh, sir ! " weeping far more bitterly than during 
 the funeral. " Don't let anybody know of this ! 
 Don't let anybody know, I beseech you! Oh, 
 how unhappy my poor brother must have 
 been ! " 
 
 Sam gazed at her, as she stood there, with 
 her silver-streaked hair, in her decent mourning, 
 her handkerchief raised to her pale face. A great 
 bitterness came over him against the villain who 
 was thus playing, dead, with their innocent lives. 
 "God! he's unhappier now!" said Sam. 
 
 Even the notary, who believed in nothing but 
 stamped paper, shuddered at the words, and, 
 perhaps, still more at their tone. It was some 
 time before Rebecca could speak at all. At last 
 she steadied her features, and, struggling hard 
 to steady her voice as well, she turned to the 
 man of law. 
 
 " Would you leave us alone for a few moments, 
 if you please, sir?" she said. "Me and my — 
 this gentleman, to talk it over?" The notary 
 was about to make some suggestion, when a 
 clerk, thrusting a fussy head into the sanctum, 
 called his master hastily away to the telephone. 
 Rebecca and Sam stood opposite each other in 
 the solemn, little, musty room. 
 
 " I won't say anything," said Sam. 
 
 " No, don't," answered Rebecca. 
 
272 TEETOTAL 
 
 " The scoundrel ! " said Sam. 
 
 Her eyes filled with reproof and with anger. 
 So much of both that he shrank bank. 
 
 " I mean the lawyer," he explained hastily. 
 And then, unwilling to pretend to deceive her, 
 even where she was nowise deceived : " Being 
 in a lawyer's room, seeing it's the first time," he 
 added apologetically, "I suppose it makes me 
 call names." 
 
 "It was very bad of him," she admitted 
 quickly. "Oh, very cruel and bad. But" — her 
 lip trembled — "but — it doesn't matter so very 
 much, really, Sam, does it? We — we won't 
 leave off being engaged ? " She spoke wistfully 
 — then, as his answer delayed, with sudden 
 vehemence: "Oh, I feel it's selfish. I've often 
 thought of late I'm very selfish, Sam. So that 
 I may earn my living pleasantly, for I love the 
 work, though I do wish they'd give me an extra 
 girl in the laundry for the summer months, so 
 that I may earn my living, I tie you down to this 
 life-long farce." She broke down completely, 
 miserably at the word ; then she fiercely repeated 
 it: "This endless, hopeless farce." Presently, 
 calm again, she plodded heroically on. " I keep 
 you," she said in tremulous tones, "from the 
 choice of a younger woman, Sam." 
 
 "Oh, yes!" he exclaimed; "I'm such a gay 
 young spark ! " 
 
 She set herself to see no beauty in the sensi- 
 tive face before her. She tried to look at him 
 objectively — in vain. It seemed to her as if no 
 
TEETOTAL 273 
 
 woman's heart could encounter with indifference 
 the gaze of those love-loving eyes. "A man 
 doesn't age like a woman," she said. "There's 
 nobody as old as an old maid." 
 
 "It's I that am to blame," said Sam. "Not 
 brains enough to support a wife ! " 
 
 " How strange are the rules of these charit- 
 able institutions!" she answered. "A matron 
 may have a lover come to see her, but she 
 mayn't have a husband come to stay." 
 
 " We knew that. We knew we never could 
 marry." 
 
 A flush spread over her thin, old cheek. She 
 would not have admitted to herself that another 
 thought had ever occurred to her. And yet 
 
 He saw the flush, faint as it was. " D it," 
 
 he said, with a frightful fierceness that staggered 
 her. " Let's get drunk and have done with it ! " 
 
 "Oh, Sam— hush!" 
 
 "When a man's stopped in his path by a 
 lunatic, he — he must parley with the lunatic," 
 Roskam continued furiously. "When a man's 
 threatened by a murderer, he must protect him- 
 self first, right or wrong ! Is this murderer to 
 kill all that's left of our lives, to crush our last 
 chance of happiness? Is this lunatic " 
 
 She thrust out both arms to ward off the 
 attack. His anger turned on her. " Very well," 
 he said calmly. " After all, you are right. It is 
 far more natural and desirable and right that yon 
 drunken wretch, who is not really a relation at 
 all, should spend the money in drinking himself 
 
274 TEETOTAL 
 
 to death. Yes, that is sensible, and religious 
 and just. I am glad you are religious, Rebecca." 
 She pointed to the little blue badge on his 
 breast. 
 
 " Plenty of men have broken that," he said. 
 
 Unable to speak, she pointed to her own. 
 "And women, too," he answered her. " Doing 
 wrong to do wrong, while we should do wrong 
 to do right." 
 
 She smiled through her rising tears. "You 
 are a bad advocate," she said. "You would 
 really have me drink myself drunk, Sam ?" 
 
 "Great God!" he cried, "don't you see our 
 last chance is at stake?" He rose to his whole 
 ungainly height. He struck his feet on the floor. 
 " This man Loper ! " he said. " This man ! This 
 drunken scoundrel ! Oh, Rebecca, it's such a 
 snug little business ! " he said. 
 
 " It is," she replied, and burst into a torrent 
 of tears. 
 
 " The poultry " he continued. 
 
 " Oh, don't ! " she exclaimed, sobbing. 
 
 "The cheeses " 
 
 " I can't bear it ! " she cried, her face in her 
 hands. 
 
 " Wim Loper will let the whole thing go to 
 ruin in a few weeks ! The poor chickens " 
 
 She swung round on him. " Get thee behind 
 me, Satan ! " she said. 
 
 He sprang back, but recovering himself: 
 "And all because you can't understand that a 
 madman must be treated as mad." 
 
TEETOTAL 275 
 
 She sank her eyes to the ground. She stood 
 still for some moments, trembling slightly. He 
 could see her lips move. Then she lifted her 
 glance and looked full at him. 
 
 "Sam," she said softly, "you really would 
 have me do this thing ?" 
 
 " No," he answered, and went near to her, he, 
 who had never touched aught but her hand, and 
 put his arm round her neck and kissed her 
 forehead. 
 
 The door-handle turned, and the notary came 
 bustling in. 
 
 " Such a nuisance, the telephone ! " he ex- 
 plained. " Always rings at the most awkward 
 moment. I was just about to remark that the 
 dead man's heirs " 
 
 "Wim Loper is the dead man's heir, sir, not 
 we," put in Sam Roskam. 
 
 The lawyer stopped and looked at them, from 
 one to the other. He laughed— a most unseemly 
 thing. 
 
 "You don't want to — ahem! — get drunk!" 
 he said. 
 
 " We may go— may we not ? " suggested 
 Rebecca, with simple dignity. She drew her 
 shawl around her. 
 
 "My good madam, you surely don't think 
 that the law — law and order! — would compel a 
 respectable female like you to — to — commit 
 herself " He paused. 
 
 " Compel ? No," said Rebecca. " But " 
 
 " Quite so. I was just about to remark, when 
 
276 TEETOTAL 
 
 called away, that such a condition, being immoral, 
 is, of course, null and void. Immoral conditions 
 count as if they were not written. But, when I 
 come to think of it, of course it is very natural 
 you should not know that. Most people think 
 the law is based on immoral conditions. They 
 wrong the law ! " 
 
 And he laughed again, quite cheerfully, at 
 thought of the ups and downs of legality, and also 
 at thought of this highly respectable spinster 
 drunk. 
 
 " I congratulate you," he said, " on your 
 escape. Blue ribbon, too ! Ha! ha!" 
 
 "You mean that the money will be ours!" 
 questioned Sam. 
 
 " Undoubtedly. It certainly is funny to think 
 of the testator's feelings, had he known. When 
 he came to me I could have told him, of course ; 
 but I solemnly wrote this down." He tapped 
 the document. " It was quite a good joke. I 
 could hardly keep from laughing. You owe me 
 a — ahem ! — a very great deal, you two. But for 
 my silence he'd have taken his money elsewhere." 
 He was glad to have helped these two honest 
 souls, and he intended to make them pay heavily 
 for it. 
 
 " But I understand nothing," said Rebecca. 
 " I cannot take my brother's money unless I 
 fulfil the conditions of his will." The notary 
 could not get her beyond that. He was surprised 
 to find what a stupid woman she was. 
 
 " I know it was very wicked and foolish," said 
 
TEETOTAL 277 
 
 Rebecca sadly ; " but he says Wim Loper is to 
 have the money unless I do what he wants me 
 to do, does he not?" 
 
 " Yes, but the law " Sam Roskam stopped 
 
 the functionary. " We quite see the law would 
 let us have the money, sir," he said ; " but we 
 also see that Klaas would not." Rebecca, in 
 her anguish, cast him a grateful glance, which 
 rewarded him a thousandfold. He continued, in 
 a frenzy of sacrifice, tearing his new-born dream 
 of happiness to shreds — 
 
 " And whose money was it, Klaas's or the 
 law's ? " He threw himself back in a beautiful 
 attitude of innocent inquiry. 
 
 " My good people, what a foolish way of 
 putting it ! " The lawyer gazed from one to the 
 other. 
 
 " Was the money the law's or was it Klaas's ? " 
 persisted Sam. Rebecca nodded. 
 
 " The law's, if you choose to put it so," replied 
 the notary boldly. "All property is a civil 
 convention. The state sanction alone makes it 
 a reality. As you see by this legal restriction 
 of testamentation. The law, of its own supreme 
 authority, decides how much of the testator's 
 wish it will put aside, how much it will retain." 
 
 But this was above both auditors' heads. 
 Quite stupidly they replied, looking at each 
 other, ignoring him : " Klaas says that the 
 money's to be Loper's." "He says it quite 
 plainly," added Rebecca. She sighed, and turned 
 to go. 
 
278 TEETOTAL 
 
 The lawyer struck his finger-tips on the 
 writing-table, annoyed, and nowise admirative, 
 for a lawyer sees, not right or wrong, but law. 
 " You have a week to— excuse me — to come to 
 your senses," he said. 
 
 Outside the door Rebecca gave Roskam her 
 hand. " Let me go alone now, please," she said. 
 " Come Saturday evening ! " And each of them 
 went a different way, carrying, in a heavy-laden 
 heart, sad and sweet thoughts of the other. 
 
 Rebecca took posession of her dead brother's 
 house. She must keep it for the next heir, 
 drunken Wim Loper, who lived thirty miles off, 
 in the city, having made this little country town 
 too hot for himself. The lawyer might wait, if 
 he chose. The chickens should not suffer mean- 
 while. The one thing she dreaded was that 
 strangers should hear of this scandal her brother 
 had brought on himself and on her. 
 
 As a matter of fact, the whole town knew 
 all about it, every detail and some more, that 
 afternoon. And nine-tenths of the population 
 praised her and Sam openly for their splendid 
 behaviour, and seven-eighths thought both of 
 them fools. 
 
 Rebecca stopped indoors, and kept almost 
 out of sight for the next day or two. A stream 
 of inquirers and inquisitives poured into the 
 little shop. The shop-boy drove a roaring 
 trade — for Wim Loper. Rebecca wrote down 
 every penny plainly, and hunted up a lost 
 farthing until she was green in the face. The 
 
TEETOTAL 279 
 
 shop-boy hungered for the coming of Wim 
 Loper. Rebecca, who had obtained brief leave 
 from her asylum, undoubtedly longed also for 
 the end. She wanted to be back in her own 
 work, now permanently her life-occupation. 
 She wrote to the notary again, and urged him to 
 take the necessary steps. The minister's wife 
 said that all things were wisely ordered. If 
 Brunting had not had the idea of that wicked 
 will, the asylum would have lost its admirable 
 matron. " We miss you ; we really miss you," 
 she said. The town talked incessantly. People 
 who had seen Loper in the city reported that 
 the happy heir in spe was having a gorgeous 
 time. Not unmixed with acutest anxiety lest 
 Rebecca — or, Sam, at any rate — should repent 
 of so foolish a decision before the time was out. 
 It was a solution the notary had suggested, that 
 Rebecca, if her scruples really proved invincible, 
 should " repudiate " the inheritance, while Sam, 
 getting drunk or not, as he chose, could thus 
 succeed to the whole little property and marry 
 her. Wim Loper, already an inebriate wreck, 
 was torn to the ground by this horrible incerti- 
 tude. "They'll give in at the last moment," he 
 said. He resolved not to be sober one hour 
 until after the fateful limit was passed. 
 
 The limit was Sunday. On Saturday, two 
 days after the interview with the notary, Sam 
 Roskam crept to the dead man's house, to his 
 customary seat in the parlour, at the usual 
 evening hour. The empty arm-chair stood 
 
280 TEETOTAL 
 
 against the wall. The cat sat before the stove, 
 licking her paw persistently. On the table stood 
 the spinster's tea, and a glass of milk for Sam. 
 
 " Puss ! " said Sam, stooping to scratch the 
 cat's head, " Puss ! " 
 
 The cat neither welcomed those that had 
 returned, nor sought for those that were de- 
 parted. She had rubbed herself against the legs 
 of Rebecca's chair, if that be supposed to mean 
 anything. She now licked sedately on. Her 
 pink tongue was very warm and alive in the 
 sombre silence. 
 
 " Drink your milk, Sam," said Rebecca at 
 last. He sipped it, giving some, in a saucer, to 
 the cat. 
 
 " To-morrow it's over," said Rebecca, with a 
 deep-drawn sigh. " I expect Wim Loper to- 
 morrow." 
 
 She furbished her favourite little brass kettle 
 gently with her soft pocket-handkerchief. She 
 had given it to her brother, for the evening tea- 
 drinking, many years ago. It was the thing she 
 had regretted most, beside the cat, when he 
 drove her forth. She had re-found it, much 
 battered by the housekeeper, and she had spent 
 her evenings in the silent room, thinking and 
 trying to work out the dents, as she talked, for 
 talk's sake, to the irresponsive cat. 
 
 Now she sat in the old place again, with Sam 
 opposite her, as in the old days, for the last time. 
 When banished from the beloved pots and pans 
 of her life-long solicitude, she had still known 
 
TEETOTAL 281 
 
 them to be in their accustomed surroundings, 
 performing their various duties for Klaas. 
 
 " Poor Klaas/' she said. 
 
 "That brute Loper will sell everything/' 
 replied Sam. 
 
 He was a good man, but he was not equal to 
 pitying Klaas. 
 
 Rebeeca's mouth twitched. She closed her 
 eyes, not to see the polished mahogany cup- 
 board, the gilt vases on the mantelpiece. 
 
 " Klaas has foreseen all that. He wished it 
 so," she murmured. 
 
 "Not he," answered Sam. "He was abso- 
 lutely certain we'd get drunk ; never doubted it. 
 He couldn't have imagined any one letting money 
 go like that. And he simply put in Loper's name 
 because he thought that'd Ggg us on. The idea 
 of Loper having your things ! And, besides, I 
 dare say there was a touch of sympathy between 
 him and Loper, towards the end, because " 
 
 " Don't," said Rebecca. 
 
 "He didn't know what a good woman you 
 were, Rebecca. He never could have had an idea 
 of that, had he tried ! " 
 
 " Don't," said Rebecca. 
 
 He sat gazing at her. Presently he poured 
 out fresh milk for the cat. 
 
 It was as they sat thus, with the weight of 
 their grim destiny heavy upon them, that a loud 
 clang of the shop-bell recalled them to to-day. 
 Ten o'clock had struck. No customer could come 
 at that hour. 
 
282 TEETOTAL 
 
 Sam Roskam went to the door and came back 
 with the notary. Rebecca put up a thin hand, 
 when she saw the lawyer, to ward him off. 
 
 "Don't tempt me any more!" she cried. 
 u Leave me ! Leave me in peace ! I — I have 
 suffered enough. Oh, leave me, for God's sake ! " 
 
 But the notary answered : " Are you not a 
 near relation of Loper's ? Tell me quick ! " 
 
 " Not a near relation, but a relation certainly. 
 I " 
 
 " Wim Loper is dead ! " cried the lawyer. His 
 voice trembled, in spite of his contempt for the 
 tremble in a voice. " The news is all over the 
 town ; the carrier brought it an hour ago. He 
 lurched off his staircase this morning and broke 
 his skull." 
 
 " But what difference does that make ? " ex- 
 claimed Sam. " Rebecca's a relation, but she's 
 not his heir!" 
 
 " You're a good lawyer, my friend/' replied 
 the notary, smiling. " Better than poor Miss 
 Brunting here. Sit down calmly and I'll explain." 
 He himself took a chair, overturning the cat. 
 
 " Two months ago Wim Loper came to me and 
 made a will. Who induced him to do that I 
 cannot say. He said drink had been his curse 
 all his life, and he shed bitter tears over it, and 
 finally he declared that in his death at least he 
 would prove an example to others— he little 
 guessed how truly — and he bade me leave what- 
 ever he possessed to those of his relations who 
 were teetotallers, excluding every one else." 
 
TEETOTAL 283 
 
 Rebecca did not speak, but Sam said : "There 
 may be many. The number has increased greatly 
 of years ! " 
 
 The lawyer answered: "I should say it is 
 hardly likely. There will be any number who now 
 say they are teetotallers, but, remember, they must 
 have signed the pledge before this day, Satur- 
 day, the eleventh. Mejuffrouw Brunting, you 
 probably know all these relations, more or less ? " 
 
 " Yes, I think I know all, or know about them," 
 replied Rebecca dully. 
 
 " Do you think any of them are possibly blue- 
 ribbonites?" 
 
 Rebecca answered slowly : " I know they are 
 not, for — I have looked up every one of their 
 names in the lists." 
 
 The notary laughed loudly. " You might have 
 spared yourself the trouble ! " he cried. " I never, 
 in all my life, met with a blue-ribbonite, except 
 parsons and young ladies — and, I beg your pardon, 
 you!" He waved his hand to both. " That's why 
 I put in ' blue-ribbonite.' Purposely put in ' blue- 
 ribbonite,' and not total abstainer, or any of that 
 vague rubbish. Always be definite in law- 
 business. And when I heard of Loper's death 
 I couldn't sit still. I had to run across here and 
 tell you. You are Wim Loper's heir, Mejuffrouw 
 Brunting, and no other, and I heartily congratu- 
 late you ! " He grasped her hand, and also Sam 
 Roskam's. " There's a Providence for drunkards 
 and for fools," he said. " Not much difficulty in 
 seeing which is yours ! " 
 
284 TEETOTAL 
 
 Then he went away, laughing ; and the shop- 
 bell tinkled after him. 
 
 Sam Roskam took the hand which the lawyer 
 had dropped. He gazed down, almost reproach- 
 fully, at the bit of blue in his button-hole. 
 
 "To think the blue-ribbon should bring 
 money ! " he said. " It's a fine cause, all the 
 same ! " 
 
 " I suppose that farthing I couldn't account for 
 doesn't matter now," replied Rebecca. " At least, 
 not so much," she corrected herself after a pause. 
 
PLAY 
 
 HA! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!" 
 Bandelbos rolled about in the garden, 
 and roared himself blue in the face. He sank 
 down on the bench, exhausted. There was only 
 one bench : it was not a big garden. " Ha ! Ha ! 
 Ha ! " he gasped. 
 
 His timid little wife collected her sewing- 
 things, which he had scattered as he bumped 
 down beside her. She had to stoop to pick up 
 her work-basket, and she felt with a thin hand 
 for a reel which had rolled under the seat, far 
 out of reach. She was " bronchial." She sat 
 up, flushed, and coughed. 
 
 " What is it ? " she asked. " Tell me the joke, 
 Hieronymus!" For she always asked him to 
 tell her the joke, and she never saw it. That 
 was one of the chief trials of her life. 
 
 The fat builder — a picture of coarse prosperity 
 — pushed his bowler hat from his broad brow, 
 and mopped his face. He mopped it with a 
 coloured pocket-handkerchief. He had a yellow 
 nankin waistcoat and a lot of seals. And he had 
 bristly brown side-whiskers and a very blue 
 chin. 
 
286 PLAY 
 
 "Jerry!" said Hieronymus. "Hi! Hi! Hi! 
 Jerry's been telling me he's a man ! " 
 
 Jerry's mother gave a little gasp. She sewed 
 a few nervous stitches. Then she said, with her 
 eyes on her work, " So he is." 
 
 " Pooh I " said Bandelbos. He had governed 
 his wife during more than twenty years by that 
 "pooh!" He had instituted it at once — in the 
 honeymoon, nay, possibly during their court- 
 ship—and, perceiving its immediate efficacy, had 
 stuck to it ever since. The thing, when you 
 come to look at it, is painfully simple. Pooh ! 
 
 When she ventured to speak again, it was to 
 put the very natural question : " And what did 
 you say in reply ? " 
 
 " I said, l Go and play ! ! " he made answer. 
 And he shouted again, his fat sides shaking. 
 There was no affectation about it; his laughter 
 came bubbling up from some hidden source of fun. 
 
 " Do you call twenty-three a child ? " she 
 asked at last, almost testily. 
 
 " Twenty-two, if you please. You never can 
 be accurate, Nella. Jerry won't be twenty-three 
 till the sixteenth of next month. You see, I know 
 even better than you." 
 
 " Oh, I know," she answered. " Well, is 
 twenty-two a child ? " 
 
 "Not as years go, perhaps. Though it isn't 
 much of manhood, anyway. But there's a great 
 deal between a child and a full-grown man. 
 Jerry!" Again he exploded. "Fancy Jerry 
 telling me he was a man ! " 
 
PLAY 287 
 
 " What made him say it ? " She had got to it 
 at last, for that was what she really wanted to 
 know. 
 
 "Jerry," he went on, not heeding her question, 
 ''who has never done anything all his life but 
 fiddle and play the fool." 
 
 "He fiddles beautifully," expostulated the 
 mother. 
 
 " I don't deny it. But, fancy a man fiddling ! 
 I said to him : ' Go and play ! ' " From a top- 
 window of the square-built house came sounds 
 of long-drawn squeaking. " And you see," said 
 the father, " he's followed my advice." 
 
 " He always was an obedient son," said Jerry's 
 mother. 
 
 " I'm not denying it. Though this time I 
 should say, while not purtending to know much 
 of musicals, it's tantrums. Yes, I should say 
 distinctly it was tantrums!" The violin gave 
 a howl. " You can't deny I've always been a 
 indulgent father to Jerry ! " 
 
 " I don't deny nothing," replied Juffrouw 
 Bandelbos. And that is always such a difficult 
 attitude to encounter in a woman, even with a 
 " Pooh ! " 
 
 "Nor a indulgent husband to you," continued 
 the affluent head of the family, warming pleasantly 
 to his subject. " I've slaved and slaved, earning 
 your bread, in the sweat of my brow, ay, and 
 your butter, ay, and your cake, Juffrouw ! You've 
 never wanted for cake ! " 
 
 "I'm not denying of nothing, Hieronymus." 
 
288 PLAY 
 
 "Nor I for sweat," continued Hieronymus 
 agreeably. " I've worked the skin off my bones, 
 while Jerry has just fiddled and fooled." 
 
 " Oh, not the skin, Hieronymus ! " She cast 
 a glance at her husband's fat hands. 
 
 " Well, I can't help it, if you're so thin. It is 
 not for want of food," he answered, aggrieved. 
 "And I can't help it if Jerry ain't a man. It's not 
 for want of money spent on his schooling. 
 Schooling ! Much good his schooling did him ! 
 I bet you he don't know the difference between 
 lead and zinc ! " 
 
 She sighed. A deep sigh. 
 
 " Nor do you," said her husband. 
 
 "Yes I do, Hieronymus." 
 
 " Well, what is the difference ? " 
 
 She paused before her careful reply. " Why, 
 lead is just lead, of course," she said, sewing, 
 " and zinc is zinc." 
 
 "And a fiddle's a fiddle," said Hieronymus. 
 " And a fool is just simply a fool." 
 
 "The boy's a good boy," persisted the little 
 woman. 
 
 " For a boy, yes. That's right : let's talk of 
 boys, I'm not dispraising my boy. He's a good 
 lad, in his way, which isn't mine, and I can't think 
 where he got his fiddle-faddling from." 
 
 "When you was barely twenty, Hiero- 
 nymus " 
 
 He caught the words off her lips. " When I 
 was barely twenty I was took into my uncle's 
 business. And I worked sixteen hours of the 
 
PLAY 289 
 
 twenty-four. / didn't play. It was bricks and 
 mortar for me all day, Nella, and very little 
 straw! Well, I've made my modest pile." He 
 rattled something in his trousers pocket; it 
 wasn't loose cash ; it was something even better, 
 keys. He rose to his legs. "And Jerry can 
 fiddle," he said. "Lord knows I would rather 
 have had him an honest builder, making money, 
 like me." He walked away, but by the swing — 
 Jerry's swing— he halted and turned to her, 
 laughing : "Jerry a man ! " he said. " Fancy his 
 saying that to me!" 
 
 She gathered her work up to her bosom and 
 came hurriedly after him. " But what made him 
 say it ? " she cried. 
 
 He looked at her. " You can't guess ? He 
 hasn't told you nothing?" And, as she shook 
 her head : " Then he ought to. He ought to go 
 to his mother, the baby ! Why, he swings on 
 this swing for hours, till it makes me sick to look 
 at him. A 'man' on a swing, swinging, for a 
 hard-working, honest builder to see ! " 
 
 II 
 
 She limped back — she had a slight limp, more 
 a stumble than a lameness — she limped back 
 with her work-basket, and the over-hanging bit 
 of her husband's clothing, along the narrow path 
 between the apple-trees to the house. It was all 
 neat and prosperous and well kept. The square 
 building looked fresh from a toy-shop. And 
 
290 PLAY 
 
 everything about it was spick and span. She 
 and her husband saw after that : he had nothing 
 to complain of in his housekeeper. Nor she in 
 the man who earned her " cake." They jogged 
 on very comfortably, and Jerry, their only child, 
 delighted his mother, and amused his father, 
 by chiefly playing the fiddle. 
 
 The mother now stumped up the stairs in the 
 direction of the screeching. It was a call to her, 
 impulsive, imperious, withal appealing ! 
 
 As she opened the door the music rushed out 
 at her, louder and faster ; it hurried on, while she 
 stood waiting ; it fell over itself, as it were, in its 
 haste to get at her, and away from the performer, 
 excited, self-conscious, conscious of her pre- 
 sence. It stopped with a yell. 
 
 Jerry put down his violin very gently and 
 faced his mother. Undoubtedly he was boyish- 
 looking for his age, very fair and curly, pink and 
 white, with clear blue eyes and a rather dreamy 
 look. He said nothing. 
 
 "Jerry, you haven't been quarrelling with 
 father?" 
 
 " No," he answered. " Have I ever quarrelled 
 with father ? I wish father would quarrel with 
 me. He only pats me on the back and laughs." 
 
 " Father isn't quarrelsome," said mother. 
 
 " I'm not a child," said Jerry. She sat down 
 beside him on his black horsehair sofa. "Tell 
 me what it was all about ! " 
 
 "Of course you know I'm in love with Hettie 
 Klop?" 
 
PLAY 291 
 
 " How should I know ? You never said a 
 word about it." 
 
 "Oh, mother knows." He looked down, 
 striking his fiddle-stick against the tip of his 
 boot. Then he looked up, full into her tired 
 eyes. She laughed. 
 
 "You knew I was in love," he said. "Why, 
 my violin would have told you that." 
 
 "Yes, I knew," she answered, with a glad 
 light on her face, and a sad catch in her voice. 
 
 " And with whom else could it have been but 
 with Hettie?" 
 
 "With a dozen other girls that would have 
 pleased your father better. Why, the village is 
 full of pretty girls." 
 
 "I never saw another except Hettie," he 
 answered. " Who are the other pretty girls ? " 
 
 " It's no use mentioning them just now," she 
 said sorrowfully. " Poor drunken Klop the 
 tailor's daughter is hardly a fit sweetheart for 
 Bandelbos's son ! " 
 
 " I'm not going to marry the tailor," he replied. 
 
 " Marry ! How you hurry on, child ! Child, 
 you take my breath away ! " 
 
 The reiteration annoyed him : " I'm not a 
 child ! " Then he threw his arms round her 
 neck : " Oh, mother, I love her so ! " 
 
 That melted her completely, if indeed there 
 was still anything left to melt. " You should 
 have her," she said, crying a little, " if I could 
 help you. But you can't expect father to take 
 that view." 
 
292 PLAY 
 
 " I tried to reason with father, but he only 
 ran away, laughing. He laughed all the way 
 downstairs, crying ' Child!' I could hear him 
 laughing in the garden. Father's brought me 
 up all wrong, mother; you know he has. He 
 ought to have made me learn a trade." 
 
 " Ah, that's what children always say in the 
 end when they've had their own way," replied 
 his mother, sadly. " You didn't want to learn a 
 trade, Jerry; you wanted to play about. 'Oh, 
 let him go and play,' said father, 'he'll always 
 have enough to eat.' " 
 
 Jerry kicked the leg of the table. 
 
 " Your father earns a lot of money, building 
 of his houses, Jerry." 
 
 " Such houses ! Heaven forgive him ! " 
 thought the son. But aloud he said : " I can't 
 help that." Nor could he. As a matter of fact, 
 he fiddled well, and his father built badly. 
 There are still plenty of good artists in little 
 Holland, but the building, as any one can see 
 who walks the streets, has all gone absolutely 
 mad and bad. Designedly and dishonestly bad 
 and mad. 
 
 "And what trade could you have learned?" 
 continued his mother. "Your father'd have 
 been only too glad if you'd gone into the work- 
 shop with him." 
 
 " True," said Jerry. u I can only fiddle, and 
 that not well enough to be of any good." 
 
 " You fiddle beautiful : you know you do," 
 replied his mother. What could she do but kiss 
 
PLAY 293 
 
 him? He looked so handsome and so discon- 
 solate. He was a dear, dear boy. In the dulness 
 of her monotone existence he shone like an 
 unclouded star. 
 
 " Come, mother ! " — he shook himself together. 
 '/I'll play you something pretty." He took up 
 his violin and he played her Raff's well-known 
 Cavatina. It is so simple and sympathetic — 
 long before the little piece was finished it had 
 drawn fresh tears from her eyes. But the tears, 
 if analysed, would perhaps have proved rather 
 selfish tears. No mother can feel altogether 
 happy to see the new light, however radiant, 
 spreading all over the heart of her child. 
 
 Ill 
 
 But father appears at dinner, and he takes a 
 practical view of things, being a successful busi- 
 ness man : he shows an immediate interest in the 
 food, and a more desultory, but no less persistent, 
 one in his son's future. When he remarks, plea- 
 santly, that the sheep's feet is hard and the 
 sheep's head (with a nod at his son's) soft, even 
 a good-tempered lad may surely find father 
 rather trying. Jerry had the sweetest of natures. 
 He scowled, in silence, at his plate. 
 
 " Now, Jerry," said father, rising, and wiping 
 his thick lips with the back of his hand, " I must 
 be off to my work again. You go and play ! " 
 
 "Well, I work hard enough at my riddle," 
 said Jerry. " I assure you four hours a day is 
 
294 PLAY 
 
 no joke." Once upon a time he had insisted on 
 speaking of his "violin" only to his parents, but 
 he had given that up as an affectation, like the 
 honest, simple lad he was. 
 
 "Yes," said Hieronymus grimly, "so the 
 gentleman that I'm building for, Mr. Zondervan, 
 works at heraldry. Heraldry he calls it. It's 
 names of people that are dead and done for, and 
 when they were born and when they died. You 
 have to be dead— or born : that's all. You 
 needn't be anything else. I can see him scrib- 
 bling, through the glass door, for hours, and I'm 
 building a room to put all the names of the 
 people in. He comes out, all white and fagged, 
 to look at the building. 'Bandelbos,' he says, 
 ' I've worked till I'm beat.' He calls that ' work.' " 
 
 " So does Jerry— fiddle till he's beat," said the 
 mother. 
 
 "More fool he when he can go and play. 
 Haven't I worked all my life so that Jerry might 
 play as long as he chooses? I wonder how 
 many fathers'd do as much? If you want to 
 work, Jerry, come into the business. Time 
 enough then to talk of your being a man." 
 
 " I couldn't build the right sort of houses," 
 said Jerry, humble up to a point. 
 
 " I'd see to that. You'd have to serve a long 
 apprenticeship. You'd have to learn a lot, child ; 
 you wouldn't like that." He grew meditative. 
 " There, there," he said in a changed voice, " it's 
 no use talking. You'll never be a man of busi- 
 ness, boy ; thank Heaven. I've always worked. 
 
PLAY 295 
 
 There'll always be enough to eat. Go and 
 play!" He walked out at the one door, and 
 Jerry, unable to bear his mother's tender gaze, 
 walked out at the other. 
 
 Jerry, as is the habit of his love-smitten kind, 
 went straight to the cause of his sorrow. And, 
 as he sat with her in the honeysuckle arbour, 
 under the dead and yet fragrant honeysuckle, 
 he told her how good and comforting his mother 
 was, and how good and vexatious his father. 
 
 " But I'm not a child — I'm a man," said Jerry. 
 
 " Yes, indeed," assented Hettie. And her gaze 
 rested on him admiringly. 
 
 "I'll prove to him somehow that I can do 
 more than play. I'll show him I can work." 
 
 " Dear Jerry, I wish you would," said sweet, 
 pretty Hettie. " And father thinks so too." 
 
 " What, does your father talk too ? And what 
 does he say?" Jerry had made sure, under 
 every circumstance, of the impecunious tailor's 
 eager consent. 
 
 " Father says" — Hettie fingered her apron. 
 She looked the sort of picture — warm, alive — 
 that any man goes mad over. " Father says that 
 he won't have us marry till — oh, Jerry ! — you've 
 a means of earning a livelihood." 
 
 "Isn't my father a livelihood?" asked Jerry, 
 at himself, as it were, in his bitterness of heart. 
 
 Hettie shook her golden head; it shone in 
 the sunshine. "No; father says a man must 
 have a serious aim in life. Life is work, not 
 play, says father." 
 
296 PLAY 
 
 " Does he, indeed ? Now, my father says, for 
 some people, like me, life's all play, not work." 
 He ground his teeth at thought of the tipsy tailor 
 making difficulties about him, the son of Hiero- 
 nymus Bandelbos! Even the pauper tailor! 
 His father was right! Play the fiddle! Play 
 the fool ! 
 
 He went home early, in dudgeon, vexed at 
 himself. He could not bring himself to speak 
 of the subject which had brought him, the 
 subject which that morning had still seemed 
 so full of interest, the theatrical performance 
 of the amateur club to which both he and 
 Hettie belonged. In fact, he was the soul of 
 the whole undertaking, the manager, director, 
 and star of the Village Players. But now, sud- 
 denly, the business seemed hateful to him. He 
 could not endure to mention the word Play! 
 Players ! Play it so. You play the heroine. I 
 play— Play ! Play ! 
 
 He slunk back, frowning. He found his 
 father, after supper, in a far more serious mind. 
 "Sit ye down, Jerry," said Bandelbos, in his 
 arm-chair and dressing-gown, over his pipe, 
 "and listen to me. There must be no nonsense, 
 so I'll speak very plain. I'll support ye and 
 willing, as I've done till now, so long as you're 
 a boy. But there must be no talk of love-making 
 and marrying. Boys don't marry. Men marry. 
 And men work." 
 
 " I don't know how. You never taught me ! " 
 cried Jerry. 
 
PLAY 297 
 
 "I'll teach you, when you want to learn. 
 You come to me, and I'll teach you." The 
 builder paused and took a few thoughtful puffs 
 at his pipe. Then: "And if you do want to be 
 a fine gentleman, and never attempt a stroke of 
 work, I'm not gainsaying you. There, had ever 
 lad a more indulgent parent? But then you'll 
 bide my time to marry, young man, and you'll 
 not choose a penniless wife." He rose to his 
 slippered feet. " Hettie Klop ! " he cried, " Hettie 
 Klop to spend my money! What a fool old 
 Klop must think me! No, not such a fool, 
 old Klop!" 
 
 " He won't have me," said Jerry. 
 
 "Ha, ha, ha!" 
 
 "Not unless I work at a trade." 
 
 Hieronymus stopped laughing. 
 
 " Well, it looks as if you'd better begin," he 
 said, and took up his evening paper. He peeped 
 over the top of it. " Don't be a fool," he said, 
 "you just go on playing. Baby! And marry 
 among your equals six years hence ! " 
 
 IV 
 
 That disposed of the subject for the present. 
 Neither Jerry nor his parents reverted to it. 
 The exigencies of the young man's official position 
 compelled him, willy nilly, to devote a great part 
 of his " spare " time (the time not reserved for 
 musical "study." A snort from Hieronymus) — 
 to devote a great part of this time to preparations 
 
298 PLAY 
 
 for the coming performance. It was the most 
 important event of the village winter, the open- 
 ing, so to speak, of the season. The rustic actors 
 were keenly alive to their distinctive responsi- 
 bilities—still more so to their individual require- 
 ments. No professional company could have 
 wanted more, or worse, or so persistently. During 
 the next few weeks Jerry tore about like one dis- 
 tracted. It was " Jerry " this and " Jerry" that, 
 at all hours, and on every trifling subject. He 
 just found time, in the midst of his unalterable 
 music lesson, to confide to his friend and teacher 
 from Overstad the story of his love and his 
 despair. " If only I were good for something," 
 he lamented, " I'd soon show father how sick I 
 am of ' play.' But I'll stick to Hettie, whatever 
 happens ! And I'll work for her, somehow, some 
 day." 
 
 Hieronymus, when he heard of the play-acting, 
 had uttered a sound between a grunt and a 
 guffaw. "You may play at love-making with 
 her as much as you like, boy. But not the real 
 thing — mind ! or you'll have to work ! " For, in 
 the play — a comedy from the German — Jerry, a 
 dashing cavalry lieutenant, Ulrich von Sabelblitz, 
 wooed and finally won Hettie, the young "Com- 
 tesse " Adelgunde ; he wooed her through four 
 long acts, and only won her, amid general 
 approval, at the end of the fifth. The "curtain," 
 in fact, was a benediction from everybody who 
 had not died in the piece. Jerry didn't think he 
 would have much difficulty with the love-scenes, 
 
PLAY 299 
 
 except in so far as they came too naturally. 
 " Don't you make them too natural, child," said 
 his mother. She said it several times. She 
 looked very anxious. " Never you fear, mother," 
 he answered at last, savagely. " I'll take precious 
 good care not to compromise Hettie. Don't I 
 know I can't marry her in any case?" Much 
 worried, about footlights and scenery and half 
 a hundred other things, he went over to Overstad, 
 on the very morning before the performance, for 
 the precious lesson from the maestro, which he 
 could not and would not miss. He came back 
 with a face transfigured, and leapt and sang about 
 the house. " Why, what possesses the child ? " 
 said his mother, as they sat down to a hasty meal 
 before the entertainment. " All this excitement 
 about to-night ? " 
 
 " All this pleasure from a bit of play-acting ! " 
 said Hieronymus. " What a player you are ! " 
 
 "No, no. I don't understand. What is it, 
 Jerry ? " said the mother, suppressing her nervous 
 cough. 
 
 " Father," began Jerry abruptly, " you'd have 
 let me marry Hettie if I could have supported 
 her myself?" 
 
 " No," said Hieronymus. " It's the other 
 father, as I understood, would have let you 
 marry then." And he laughed. 
 
 " But you've nothing against the girl ? " 
 
 " She's not a fit match for you, Jerry. Don't 
 you compromise yourself." 
 
 " Don't you compromise the girl, Jerry," said 
 
300 PLAY 
 
 his mother. Later on she followed her son into 
 the passage. " Be careful to-night, Jerry ! A 
 girl's reputation is a very delicate thing. Don't 
 you do her an injury, as you never could put 
 right again. She's a good girl. Don't you act 
 too natural. She never could hold up her head 
 again in the village if you was to — how did father 
 say? — countermand her. Remember, it's only 
 play." 
 
 He laughed gaily, and he kissed her. " No, 
 mother, I promise you, I shan't countermand 
 her. Thanks, mother dear, for your advice." He 
 turned in, closing the front door, "And thank 
 father, too ! " The door banged. She sighed 
 wearily. " I'm sure he might do very much 
 worse," she said. Then she went to put on her 
 best gown. 
 
 As the curtain rose, and Jerry stepped forward, 
 his parents' words seemed to ring suddenly in his 
 ears. He put the thought back with a gesture 
 of annoyance. He could see them sitting, promi- 
 nent among greater and inferior notabilities, in a 
 front row, with a sea of faces behind. He turned 
 away, resplendent in light blue cloth and yellow 
 braid, to a clatter and a clang of sabre and spurs. 
 " I wonder," he began, "who that beautiful girl is 
 whom I saw as I came up the castle steps ?" His 
 voice sounded as if it were somebody else's. But 
 he soon got over that. It soon sounded very 
 much like his own. 
 
PLAY 301 
 
 And through four long acts he made love 
 ceaselessly. He was very much applauded all 
 along. " He does it wonderfully well," said the 
 burgomaster to Bandelbos, who grinned, not too 
 sweetly. " And so naturally/' added the burgo- 
 master's lady to the builder's wife. The latter had 
 a fit of coughing that really quite disturbed the 
 performance. At the end of each act, when all the 
 players came before the curtain together, Jerry 
 and Hetty stood, a central group, hand in hand. 
 
 " I suppose it's good play-acting," said Bandel- 
 bos to his Worship. " I don't understand about 
 play-acting. I understand about work. I only 
 know that the play's one thing and real life's 
 another. And in real life the play never comes 
 true." 
 
 The burgomaster bent his head. "A very 
 judicious remark," said the burgomaster. 
 
 But towards the end of the fifth act comes the 
 crisis. Amid increasing excitement and in an 
 atmosphere grown well-nigh stifling, the audience 
 expects the gallant lieutenant to come to the 
 point. He has long shown them and Adelgunde 
 the state of his feelings. He must now offer her 
 his hand and his home, as well as his heart. In 
 a breathless silence Ulrich approached the dear 
 girl on the sofa. 
 
 " Hettie, will you be my wife ?" he said. 
 
 A titter ran through the serried ranks in the 
 background, hastily suppressed. A thrill of 
 general emotion conquered it, as Jerry quickly 
 corrected himself. 
 
302 PLAY 
 
 " Adelgunde, will you be my wife ? I adore 
 you ! " He caught her in his arms, as she con- 
 sented ; he kissed her; he kissed her passionately, 
 while he clasped her; he kissed her again and 
 again. 
 
 A torrent of applause poured down from pit 
 and gallery, but it died away in the discomfort of 
 the front seats. Adelgunde lay on Ulrich's breast, 
 because he manifestly held her there. These 
 kisses were not mere stage kisses. 
 
 " Look here ! " cried a rough voice from the 
 gangway. H This acting's too natural for me ! " 
 
 The front seats turned round. Klop, the 
 tailor, was making his way to the front. 
 
 Ulrich half released Adelgunde. " Why, you 
 fool ! " he cried, "Aren't Hettie and I going to be 
 married in a month or two ? Don't disturb the 
 play! Order, boys! Keep him back. Ah, 
 Count?" He turned to the entering actor. 
 "Your fair daughter has just made me the 
 happiest of men ! " 
 
 " Keep back, Klop ; you're drunk ! " said a 
 member of the committee. The curtain fell amid 
 immense, immeasurable enthusiasm. Half a 
 minute later two furious fathers and a frightened 
 mother were facing the bold lieutenant, who once 
 more held his bride in his arms. 
 
 " Play, is it ? " cried the lieutenant ; "well, the 
 play's become life, real life. Yes, she's hopelessly 
 compromised, as you say, Klop, unless I counter- 
 mand her, father, but I won't countermand her, 
 mother ; never you fear ! Play ? I'm going to 
 
PLAY 303 
 
 play for her, father, and work for her. The play's 
 become work. I'm to play in the Overstad 
 orchestra, as permanent second violin, and sup- 
 port us both ! My play's worth more, after all, 
 than you ever thought, father ! I shall play now 
 till the end of my days ! " 
 
 " You young blackguard ! " " You dear child ! " 
 exclaimed the father and mother. " And what do 
 you expect me to do?" spluttered Bandelbos. 
 " He'll help you, oh, he'll help you, Jerry," 
 coughed Jerry's mother. Said Bandelbos, 
 "Pooh!" 
 
THE PROMISE 
 
 THE day was blazing hot. Father and son 
 were at work in the open. 
 
 Far and wide stretched the yellow cornfield, 
 glittering, a golden ocean, with; broad shafts 
 across it of silvery sheen. Beyond lay the home- 
 stead, half shrouded in lindens, and behind that 
 the green landscape was dotted with cows. 
 
 Upon all things, underneath the cloudless 
 sunshine, slept a semblance of repose, excepting 
 upon the two men who were harvesting their 
 wheat. The rhythmic swish of their reaping 
 made music about them : the fallen masses lay 
 heavy before their feet. In silence they worked 
 on, and on. Only the younger man, occasionally, 
 would stop and, raising himself, wipe, with his 
 bare brown arm, the sweat from his knitted fore- 
 head. At such moments the father, steadily 
 swinging his sickle, would draw down the 
 corners of his mouth in a sardonic imitation of 
 a smile. 
 
 On one of these occasions the son, having 
 cast a slow look behind him,"opened his long- 
 sealed lips. " Mother's started," he said, as he 
 turned again to his work. 
 
 " Thinking of dinner!" replied the old man 
 
THE PROMISE 305 
 
 with a sneer. " Twenty minutes' more work, 
 Koos, afore dinner-time comes." 
 
 The son's red skin grew a shade darker. 
 "'Tis a hot walk for mother in the sun/' he 
 said. 
 
 " Mother don't mind work," replied the father. 
 There was a world of implication in his accent, 
 and again an unsympathetic silence deepened 
 between the pair, till from the misty distance, 
 beyond the river, twelve faint strokes came 
 trembling softly across the heavy haze. At the 
 same moment a little bent figure appeared on the 
 edge of the field, plodding towards them : the old 
 mother stumbled along, with a bundle and a can, 
 the midday meal. 
 
 " Like the steeple-clock," said the father, and 
 a momentary mildness came over his features 
 which they had not worn before. He stood 
 gazing at his wife, the arm that held the sickle 
 hanging loose in well-earned content. The old 
 woman smiled : a ripple, like a grin, seemed to 
 multiply the countless furrows of her parchmenty 
 little face. She set down her burdens and began 
 to untie the spotted handkerchief around the 
 bundle. Father and son watched keenly with 
 the interest inseparable from food. 
 
 " Beans again ! " cried the father in accents of 
 immense satisfaction, as he hastily removed the 
 lid off a pewter pot. 
 
 Once more the old woman grinned. " It was 
 father's turn," she said. 
 
 " Father's turn comes twice to my once," 
 x 
 
306 THE PROMISE 
 
 retorted Koos, with the air of a man who accepts 
 the inevitable and doesn't mind it overmuch. 
 
 They sat down to their meal, out in the heat 
 with the prostrate corn all around them. Few 
 words were exchanged between them : they 
 belonged to that peasant class which thinks 
 little and has nothing to say. But any observer 
 would very soon have fathomed the relation 
 existing between the three : the closely sym- 
 pathetic union of the father and mother, their 
 slightly disdainful not unaffectionate semi- 
 approval of the son. 
 
 " Has Koos done his share of work ? " de- 
 manded the mother, pausing, with uplifted spoon, 
 in the action of refilling her son's plate. Her 
 tone was one of banter: she winked across at 
 her lord. 
 
 " He's done as much as he could," replied the 
 father: the son's countenance banished all ex- 
 pression, with an effort. But he showed un- 
 diminished alacrity in clearing his replenished 
 plate. 
 
 " Koos ought to have been a rich farmer's 
 son," said the father sententiously filling his pipe 
 at the completion of a meal. "Yes. A rich 
 farmer's son. That's what Koos ought to have 
 been." Neither listener answered. This re- 
 mark, first made nearly a dozen years ago and 
 repeated since then at ever lessening intervals, 
 was always received with a silence which, in the 
 mother's case at any rate, rested on assent. Nor 
 would the son's have been an eager disclaimer. 
 
THE PROMISE 307 
 
 He well remembered when his father had first 
 uttered this opinion, and it had struck him, at 
 once, as based on an interesting hypothesis. He 
 was sixteen at the time : he had found a hen's 
 egg in an out-of-the-way spot where it had 
 evidently lain for several days and had given it 
 to the child at the turnpike. "You ought to 
 have been a rich farmer's son," his father had de- 
 clared, when Koos too honestly told him. The 
 words stuck. Once only, in all these years, the 
 son had retorted. " It wouldn't have been a sin," 
 he said. The father pondered long over these 
 words without fathoming their meaning. 
 
 But Koos Korver was not a rich farmer's son : 
 on the contrary, his parents were of the kind 
 that barely keeps its head above water, and is 
 almost ruined by the death of a cow. Poor 
 peasant famers they were, of the humblest : hard- 
 working, morning and night, in a manner not 
 conceivable by a dweller in towns, but happy in 
 the pride of — as yet — undisputed possession, 
 owners, as grandfather had been, of the tumble- 
 down, painfully repaired homestead and its dozen 
 poor mortgaged acres, Korver of the Kolk. There 
 were hundreds of Korvers in the neighbourhood. 
 But Korver of the Kolk was a proprietor, rich or 
 poor. 
 
 Poor he was, and proud of it, with ever- 
 increasing pride, as his poor, hard-working life 
 developed into his one great life-possession. Of 
 evenings, in his chair by the fireside, dead-beat, 
 he would sit gazing steadily at the palms of his 
 
308 THE PROMISE 
 
 knotty and callous hands. They had become his 
 conscious charter of nobility. The son, tired too 
 and aware that he also had done his best, yawned 
 wearily, face to face with a virtue he might 
 perhaps approve but could never enjoy. 
 
 At the midday-rest, so indispensable to those 
 who begin work about three in the morning, the 
 father and son lay some distance apart, deep- 
 sunk in soft depths of sweet restfulness, the 
 father with his pipe, the son, on his stomach, his 
 straw-coloured head buried in his arms. The 
 mother trudged back to her indoor-work, a long 
 way from this hired field of the morning's harvest- 
 ing, along the white-hot road. 
 
 The father was the first to start up and 
 resume his sickle. 
 
 " To work ! " he cried across, at his son, who 
 had already risen. 
 
 " Of course," muttered, under his breath, the 
 son. 
 
 And the reaping went on steadily, with short, 
 sharp strokes of the shiny sickles, and the corn 
 fell, swiftly prostrate, in wide and harmonious 
 curves. 
 
 At four of the clock, with the great heat still 
 all around them, the reapers held their hands 
 and gazed, with contented eyes, on the devasta- 
 tion behind them. For the first time, since their 
 meal, the father broke the silence. 
 
 "It's time you were going for the waggon," 
 he said. " I promised your mother to take in that 
 hay from the lower field to-night." Without any 
 
THE PROMISE 309 
 
 answer beyond a nod of assent Koos went to 
 pick up his coat. He started along the field, 
 out of sight in the nearest ditch, and the father, 
 looking neither to right nor left, resumed work. 
 When the waggon drew near, half an hour later, 
 he joined it, and together the two men went down 
 to the lower field and began loading up the hay. 
 
 In an imaginative moment, a couple of weeks 
 later, Koos regretted that he had said so little 
 to his father on that long last day in the fields. 
 But he immediately recognised the futility of 
 the thought. What could he have said worth 
 saying? How many days had they not lived 
 through thus in silence together, day after day, 
 at work in the fields, with nothing to say, until 
 the last ? 
 
 When the waggon was sufficiently loaded, 
 they started homewards. The long day's labour 
 was done. The calm shadows stretched solemn 
 in the serene radiance of the lowering sun. The 
 white road lay restful. On both sides hung the 
 hush of the deserted fields. 
 
 Suddenly — Koos never quite knew how it 
 happened, and yet what was there to know? — 
 suddenly a blood-red motor-car was upon them, 
 shrieking, rattling, in a cloud of nervous noise 
 and dust— it was past : the waggon, was over- 
 turned, in a ditch, top-heavy : the horses lay 
 kicking-out madly— Koos stood in the middle of 
 the road. 
 
 The muffled figures on the back seat of the 
 motor pointed laughing to their conspicuous 
 
310 THE PROMISE 
 
 number, as well they might, for of course it was 
 a false one. 
 
 The farmer's son ran to the horses. N Father ! " 
 he called. " Father, help ! " He got no answer ; 
 hurrying to the other side of the overturned 
 waggon, he saw his father lying under the wheel. 
 
 The next ten minutes of frenzied endeavour 
 exceeded anything that Koos Korver could 
 realise in the slow thought of his after-life. To 
 hasten for human assistance upon that lonely 
 road would have been worse than futile : already 
 the only active presence within call, the red 
 motor, was fast curling out of sight. He flung 
 himself, single-handed, upon the horses, the 
 waggon, straining as he had never strained 
 before, with prayers and imprecations : he was 
 not over-strong : he was not, as has been said, 
 over-active : in this crisis his energies seemed 
 multiplied tenfold. At last, breathless, with 
 heaving chest and starting eye-balls, he stood 
 beside the trembling brutes, abusing them, im- 
 ploring them not to take fright again. He then 
 succeeded, after cutting the trace which was not 
 broken, in extracting the poor injured body from 
 under the wheel. He had to tie the horses to 
 a tree, before he could venture to place his father 
 against a bank and commence his few awkward 
 attempts at succour. 
 
 Korver of the Kolk lay groaning in semi- 
 conscious agony. Twice he opened his eyes : 
 twice he endeavoured in vain to speak. The 
 son, seeing, with a peasant's constant perception 
 
THE PROMISE 311 
 
 how animals die, that the end was approaching, 
 wondered wildly whether he could do anything to 
 avert, or at any rate, alleviate it. He thought not. 
 When that look came about a dumb creature's 
 eye-balls, there was nothing to be done. 
 
 In the majestic silence of the expectant 
 summer-evening, clear as unclouded crystal, the 
 approaching darkness seemed to hold back, for 
 a long moment, the folds of its irrevocably sink- 
 ing pall. The horses, still quivering, lifted their 
 heads and neighed. A great trembling seized 
 upon the dying man that shook him from head 
 to foot. 
 
 " Promise," he gasped with a mighty effort. 
 The son, kneeling in the roadway, bent his head 
 to his father's lips. There was a long interval 
 before the words came at last, with a rush of 
 blood at the end that stifled them. 
 
 "Promise always to keep your mother at 
 the Kolk!" 
 
 Jan Korver spoke no more, but his eyes 
 continued to gaze into his son's, praying, appeal- 
 ing, entreating, as only dying eyes can pray. 
 
 " I promise," said the son. A few minutes 
 later he closed the eyes and rose to his feet. 
 He lifted the dead body on to one of the horses 
 — not the one that had shied — and, in the act of 
 jumping on to its companion, hesitated, and came 
 down heavily again on the ground. 
 
 " No," he said aloud. And, leading both 
 animals, and steadying, with one hand, the burden 
 beside him, he walked, through the serene 
 
312 THE PROMISE 
 
 solitude of the night-time, towards the distant 
 glimmer of the homestead. Once he turned to 
 look at the dim shape of the waggon, a ruin 
 under tumbled hay, by the roadside. As he 
 went along, some big bird broke away out of 
 the corn, close by, and startled him. He was 
 too unstrung to recognise its breed. 
 
 As he passed through the farm-gate, the 
 watch-dog, astonished, bounded out to meet him. 
 Barking, the dog sprang up to her young master, 
 sprang up to the terrible bundle, a supine mass, 
 pendant over the horse's flanks. With a fierce 
 oath Koos broke out at her. And, suddenly, as 
 if realising something, the dog fled back, howling, 
 to the house. 
 
 The old mother had appeared in the half-dark 
 of the doorway. At sight of the strange convoy, 
 big with catastrophe, she broke into an articulate 
 cry. 
 
 "There has been an accident," said Koos. 
 "Father is " 
 
 " Dead ! " cried the widow, and at the sound 
 of that cry the dog shrieked in unison. 
 
 Half an hour later she lifted her face off her 
 hands. She was sitting by the side of the deep 
 cupboard-bed in which the body lay. Koos 
 stood opposite her. 
 
 14 What will become of us now ? " she said. 
 
 He replied : " I shall have to work for two." 
 
 She smiled a pitiful little smile, so full of 
 doubt it cut deep into his heart and caused him 
 to set his teeth. 
 
A 
 
 THE PROMISE 313 
 
 Then he told her, in the simplest words, of 
 his promise to his father. 
 
 She broke into renewed weeping. " Always 
 thinking of me!" she sobbed. But to the son 
 she said nothing, and he felt that to her hand, so 
 suddenly bereft of its staff, the proffered support 
 was no more than a broken reed. 
 
 Yet he undertook his task bravely and bravely 
 carried it through. He engaged, as a cheap farm- 
 hand, the boy from the turnpike to whom, many 
 years ago, he had given the egg. And he worked, 
 hardest of any for miles around. The mother 
 also, with the years of her loneliness multiplying 
 upon her, worked, bent nearly double, still 
 working, in her eyes a look of worn-out hunger 
 unappeased. 
 
 " Why don't you go and amuse yourself like 
 the other men ? " she asked of him, almost testily. 
 
 He answered : " There's the interest on the 
 mortgage to pay." 
 
 u But you might leave off now, of a winter 
 evening, at eight o'clock ! You're getting on for 
 thirty: you've never enjoyed yourself. You 
 don't seem to me to have had any youth ? " 
 
 He was sitting netting by the fireside. He 
 looked up at her in astonishment. She had 
 never spoken anything of the kind before. And, 
 even now, her face and her voice were chiefly 
 indicative of discontent. 
 
 "Father didn't like that sort of thing," he 
 answered. " Father used to say he'd never done 
 it himself." 
 
314 THE PROMISE 
 
 " Father was a very different character from 
 you," she answered. " Father loved work, the 
 more of it, the better. But it's hard on you. 
 You'd enjoy a little gaiety, you know you would." 
 She spoke with vehemence, a long pent-up 
 energy of anger against herself, and this boy's 
 nature, and their lot. 
 
 " There's the theatrical society on at the 
 village to-night," she continued, spitting out her 
 words as if to the last she would have held 
 them back. " Why don't you go to it ? All the 
 others do ! " 
 
 " The theatrical society ! I ! " he said. He 
 said nothing else, but the words seemed to 
 inflame her. 
 
 "Yes, you!" she replied, "you — you — you." 
 She took up her knitting, and flashed the needles 
 to and fro. " You'll find a clean shirt on your 
 bed," she said presently. Then she knitted 
 faster and faster : he had laid down his work on 
 his knees. The silence between them became 
 unendurable : he rose heavily, and slouched 
 upstairs, and washed and shaved. 
 
 When he came down again, she enveloped 
 him in a swift glance of approval, pretending 
 not to have looked up. He went out, without 
 exchanging another word. She knitted on, and, 
 in the midst of her knitting, heaved one sigh. 
 Presently she crept to bed, in the great cup- 
 board-bed, for the first time, ever since she could 
 remember, alone. 
 
 Koos Korver walked along the road to the 
 
THE PROMISE 315 
 
 village with the steadfast step of a man who is 
 resolving not to turn back. It was a festival 
 night, the annual performance of the Amateur 
 Actors' Club. The hired hand, Dirk, who was a 
 performer — he brought in a letter — had talked 
 about the important event all through the mid- 
 day meal. Koos had barely listened, but he now 
 understood the effect this talk had had upon his 
 mother. 
 
 " I don't think you're a member," said the man 
 at the door. 
 
 Koos blushed scarlet in the lamp-glare of the 
 entry. 
 
 " I suppose I can become one," he said. 
 
 "You'll have to be balloted. Is there any 
 member can introduce you meanwhile ? " 
 
 " My hired hand, Dirk Pott," replied Korver, 
 blushing more furiously still. The ticket taker, — a 
 stripling of eighteen, monitor at the parish school 
 — smiled superciliously, and the candidate for 
 diversion found himself seated hot and uncom- 
 fortable, in a front rank, behind footlights, in the 
 darkened hall. He had never seen a stage or 
 stage-illumination : the play was progressing : 
 the glare about the actors, in contrast to the 
 semi-obscurity of the audience, disconcerted him. 
 
 As he sat wondering what the whole thing 
 meant and what the performers were saying, so 
 clearly in the silence, the double doors at the 
 back of the stage-apartment opened with a swing. 
 A young girl came on, attired in white muslin 
 and pink ribbons, such raiment as Koos had 
 
316 THE PROMISE 
 
 never before seen except in the squire's unap- 
 proachable pew. The whole audience clapped 
 on this radiant creature's appearance. Koos 
 Korver, though not knowing why one should 
 do so, clapped too. 
 
 Immediately she opened her lips to speak, a 
 monologue laying bare her heart's affections. 
 " I love him," she said deliciously, looking at 
 the audience, looking, Koos thought, at him. 
 And all through the five acts of the performance 
 she was sweet and coy and coquette, and most 
 fascinating, lovable and lovely. To Koos, who 
 knew nothing of plays, she was the character 
 she represented, distinction being impossible to 
 him between the actress and a part. He did 
 not feel any desire to punch the head of the 
 villain who insulted her, because of course he 
 was aware they were only pretending, but neither 
 could he realise that Suze Dolling, the inn-keeper's 
 daughter, to whom he had never spoken, could 
 be a separate personality from Adelaide Mon- 
 tresor, the wronged and virtuous and irresistible 
 heroine of the piece. 
 
 He went home, dazed, and dreamed of her, 
 the white muslin apparition that said "I love 
 him," and smiled bewitchingly, and turned from 
 riches and pomp and position, in ^magnificent 
 refusal and scorn. 
 
 It was love at first sight, the overwhelming 
 passion of a man no longer childish, whose mind 
 hitherto has not been occupied by such things. 
 The stage-vision remained with him in the 
 
THE PROMISE 317 
 
 daylight. He called his farm-hand into the barn 
 and shamefacedly questioned him about the 
 membership of the Theatre Club. Was it neces- 
 sary to be a good actor? He could never be 
 that, but he might, for instance, carry in a letter. 
 People heard of his plans with amazement : his 
 mother shook her head. 
 
 During all that was left of that winter he 
 frequented the meetings of the Club, and even 
 took his awkward part in some of their rehearsals. 
 He saw Suze Dolling in her theatre dresses, and 
 also in her own plain clothes, but she always 
 remained to him the heroine of the introductory 
 night. He was head over ears in love with her : 
 he ventured to court her openly, and it soon 
 became manifest that she was not adverse to his 
 suit. The other young men in the Club, after 
 having chaffed, began to congratulate him, for 
 few inhabitants of the village were better off than 
 Dolling, the inn-keeper. 
 
 So one evening, when the winter was well- 
 nigh over, a few days before the last meeting of 
 the season, Koos Korver, having burnished and 
 brushed himself to the extreme of human endur- 
 ance, appeared in his rusty best clothes before 
 the prosperous father of Suze. That middle-aged 
 and unpoetic personage most amiably offered him 
 a dram. 
 
 No proposal could have been more opportune. 
 Under the invigorating influence of the brandy, 
 the scarlet-faced suitor presented his suit in a not 
 too unreasonable manner. With a few manly 
 
318 THE PROMISE 
 
 words, from the heart, he told how sweet Suze 
 was, to him, and how sweet he, on her. 
 
 "Quite so," said the inn-keeper, twiddling his 
 thumbs, in his comfortable arm-chair by the 
 stove. 
 
 "Of course I know I'm not worthy of her," 
 suggested Koos. 
 
 u Quite so," replied Dolling. " I suppose it is 
 a question of worth — marriage is. How much 
 are you worth, by-the-by ? " 
 
 The young farmer's heart sank into his boots. 
 " Very little indeed," he answered. " There's only 
 the farm, and it's mortgaged. I've hard work, 
 day and night, to make both ends meet." 
 
 " Dear, dear," said the inn-keeper, "and Suze'll 
 have five thousand florins of her mother's on the 
 day of her marriage and a good deal more than 
 that when they've put me underground." 
 
 "I know I'm poor," acknowledged Koos. 
 " Father always used to say I ought to have been 
 a rich man's son. I wish I had been, so as to be 
 more deserving of Suze." 
 
 Dolling sat for some moments smoking 
 thoughtfully. Koos felt as if the world stood still. 
 
 At last the father spoke. "I'm not one of 
 those," he said slowly, removing his pipe, "as 
 insist there must be money on both sides. You're 
 Korver of the Kolk, and we all know you for a 
 hard-working, respectable man that ought to make 
 a girl a good husband. I don't mind your speak- 
 ing to my daughter." 
 
 Koos felt as if the world suddenly went 
 
THE PROMISE 319 
 
 round, with a rush that carried him off his legs. 
 He was breaking out into confused expressions 
 of gratitude, when the inn-keeper stopped him 
 with a wave of his pipe. 
 
 " But I've one condition," continued the inn- 
 keeper. " It's what the lawyers call a * sinecure 
 non.' Which means that you can't get out of it 
 anyway. It's either do or don't." 
 
 "What is the 'do'?" demanded the young 
 farmer stoutly. 
 
 " Your mother's lived with you all your life, 
 Korver. Now I can't send my daughter, as 
 mistress, into a house where her mother-in-law 
 lives that was mistress before her." 
 
 "But how can that be helped?" questioned 
 Koos naively. 
 
 " You must find another home for your mother, 
 before Suze goes to the Kolk." 
 
 He spoke with great decision, but Koos, in his 
 eagerness, smiled, knowing how easy it would be 
 to explain the impossibility of any such arrange- 
 ment, and he hastily told of his promise to his 
 dying father, all the dramatic incidents of the 
 case. The other listened, seriously smoking. 
 
 " You see, I am bound," concluded Koos, u by 
 the most sacred of promises." He smiled again, 
 heart and conscience well satisfied. 
 
 At last Dolling deliberately took his pipe from 
 between his lips. 
 
 " I can't help that," he said. " You must see 
 about that. But my daughter don't go to a home 
 that wouldn't be hers, but her mother-in-law's." 
 
320 THE PROMISE 
 
 " But don't you see " began Koos. 
 
 " I see what I sees. I sees that I'm willing to 
 give my daughter, with her five thousand florins 
 down and all her expectations, to a respectable 
 chap as can hardly keep a roof over his head. I 
 sees that few fathers 'd do as much as that. But 
 what I sticks to I sticks to. And what I have 
 said I have said." 
 
 No argument or entreaty could move him. 
 Nor was Koos the sort of man to argue or entreat 
 overmuch. Very soon he gave over in proud 
 despair. He rose to take leave. 
 
 " I've treated you generously," said the inn- 
 keeper. "You, treat me likewise. Don't you 
 speak to Suze till you've fulfilled my condition. 
 Then you can come and fetch her, but not a word 
 before." 
 
 " Very well," replied Koos Korver, and went 
 home. 
 
 He sat opposite his mother as before, and the 
 hired hand sat between them. He worked, as 
 before, harder than any one in the parish, except- 
 ing the widow. The weeks passed : there were 
 no more meetings of the Theatrical Society : the 
 days were dull. 
 
 He would sit in moody silence, of evenings, 
 for hours. She, opposite him, opened her mouth 
 to speak a dozen times : the words stuck in her 
 throat. Half his secret was their common 
 property. She fancied he dared not ask the 
 hand of a girl so much richer than himself, and 
 she admired him for it. Personally, she disliked 
 
THE PROMISE 321 
 
 the idea of a wealthy wife, unlike most peasants, 
 having grown thus proud, in her long self- 
 sacrifice, of her poverty, her husband's hard 
 work. " Marry a girl that'll scour and scrub," she 
 said,*" not a pink-faced, play-acting miss." How 
 much of this was attributable to jealousy, it 
 would be hard to say. But once, after a long 
 period of ponderation, vanquished by his sullenly 
 silent ferocious perfunctoriness, she laid her 
 hand on his shoulder, and, looking him in the 
 eyes, she said : " Dare ! " 
 
 He turned on his seat, steadying with both 
 hands the turnips he was sorting in his lap. " I 
 daren't," he replied. She went away without 
 another word. She felt that she had done her 
 duty, even more. 
 
 One evening, when he had been to the town 
 to sell his pigs, and had failed to get a decent 
 price for them, she met him at the gate with the 
 tidings that one of their two cows had pre- 
 maturely calved that morning, and that both 
 cow and calf were dead. 
 
 He listened to her, very calmly, and passed 
 into the kitchen, ahead of her. He sat down, 
 heavily : she noticed that he clenched his fists. 
 
 " So that means ruin," he said. " Utter, irre- 
 trievable ruin." 
 
 "Not quite," she protested with trembling 
 lips. " Perhaps not quite ? " 
 
 "Yes, quite," he answered. "It means the 
 foreclosure of the mortgage, for we can't pay the 
 interest. It means giving up the Kolk." 
 
 Y 
 
322 THE PROMISE 
 
 She shrieked aloud. Unemotional as she was, 
 he had only once before heard such a sound from 
 her lips, when he brought home his father dead. 
 
 " I couldn't survive that ! I couldn't live in 
 any other place. It would kill me," she cried. 
 
 He turned his eyes on her, along, penetrating 
 look. 
 
 " I know it would," he said. 
 
 And then suddenly, quite unexpectedly to him- 
 self, he told her all about Suze, and his chances 
 of marriage, and the inn-keeper's " sinecure non," 
 — all. For nothing mattered now, as it seemed to 
 him, and his hold on his own destiny was gone. 
 
 He poured the whole thing out into her face 
 that, after the first terror, had set itself stolid. 
 However he might try to objectivise his voice, 
 the pent-up animus of the last three months got 
 into it and thrilled it. The new spring, with its 
 budding and bursting, was in every note that 
 referred to his love. Once or twice she shrank, as 
 if he stung her : then again she composed herself, 
 both hands pushed down, hard, upon her knees. 
 
 When, at last, he stopped for breath, he hoped 
 she would say something. But she only sat 
 staring at him, her two hands upon her knees. 
 In desperation he hurried on, to escape from the 
 unendurable silence. 
 
 " So you see, we have no choice," he repeated 
 eagerly. " I should never have broken my word 
 to my father. But now, it is impossible to keep 
 it. Fate has made it impossible. You must leave 
 the Kolk anyhow." 
 
THE PROMISE 323 
 
 " Yes, anyhow," she said, finding voice. 
 
 "The notary will certainly sell us up. He 
 told me so last time I went to him. So you see, 
 we have no choice." 
 
 " We have no choice," she repeated. 
 
 Then she got up and knocked against the 
 table, causing the tea-things to rattle. 
 
 " I am going to bed," she said. " I don't feel 
 very well." She stood still, near the doorway, 
 trying to steady herself by a chair. " You ought 
 to have been a rich man's son," she said. 
 
 It was the first time the words had been 
 spoken in that house since old Jan's death. They 
 struck the son straight, like an insult. And he 
 answered vehemently, in all the bitterness of his 
 life-long ill-fate, cursing the day that had brought 
 him forth and the years full of profitless strain. 
 
 "Don't abuse me," she said, putting up her 
 hands, as if to ward off his words, "I wasn't 
 reproaching you." 
 
 And she went to her bed and lay listening, 
 dressed, till she deemed him upstairs and asleep. 
 Near midnight she lighted a candle and climbed 
 into his garret. He frightened her, as she pushed 
 aside the door. For he was sitting up in bed, 
 his eyes wide. 
 
 " I — I came to see if you were sleeping," she 
 stammered. Her manner, her whole appearance 
 alarmed him. He jumped to his feet and piloted 
 her downstairs again like a little child, and put her 
 into bed and tucked her in, and kissed her on the 
 forehead. 
 
324 THE PROMISE 
 
 But, when he left her, she said to herself: " It 
 wants only a couple of hours to daybreak," and 
 she stole from the house, in the pitchy dark, to 
 the broad ditch that ripples and stagnates behind 
 the pig-styes. There she bent down and slid her 
 hand into the water. " How cold it is ! " she said 
 aloud. 
 
 She went back to the house, creeping stealthily, 
 and in the pantry she lighted the paraffin-stove 
 and made herself some coffee. She drank it hot, 
 so hot that it would have scalded her but for the 
 care with which she blew on it. Then, having 
 extinguished the lamp — she turned back a few 
 steps to make quite sure it was out — she hastened 
 down to the ditch again, and several times she 
 said " Jan ! " to herself, on her way, out aloud, 
 " Jan ! Jan ! " till, reaching the water-side, she let 
 herself slip down into undistinguishable depths. 
 
 Koos Korver of the Kolk has an admirable 
 wife and four blooming children. No shadow has 
 ever fallen upon his married felicity : he is pros- 
 perous, and the best men declare he deserves his 
 prosperity. But his look is morose : a curse lies 
 on his innocent heart. 
 
 PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES . 
 


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