THE LIBRARY 
 
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 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
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 THE FIRE-SEEKER
 
 The Fire-Seeker 
 
 KATHLEEN CAFFYN (Iota) 
 
 "What's life to me? 
 Where'er I look is fire ; where'er I listen 
 Music; and where I tend bliss evermore." 
 
 Browning. 
 
 LONDON 
 
 EVELEIGH NASH 
 
 1911
 
 FK 
 
 cin-P 
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 When Lucilla Lascelles came gliding like a moon- 
 beam or a spook between the two friends, Tom Pem- 
 berton was tw^enty-five, Giles Larpent a few years 
 older. They had been at Rugby together. Tom had 
 fagged for the elder boy, and they had been friends 
 ever since. Giles had matured early. Perhaps Tom 
 had never matured at all. At any rate, it was the 
 boy in him who generally spoke, and in the begin- 
 ning had always thought. 
 
 Giles was done with woman the maturer very early 
 in the day. She had wounded him too deeply and 
 showed him too much. She had given the lie to all 
 his beliefs. And yet instead of believing in her the 
 less for his disillusion he believed the more. His 
 demand grew. It grew limitless. It flew wild, far 
 above the heads of women. So he took a vow of 
 celibacy, and afterwards goaded to folly by the 
 perennial annoyance of Lucilla, he gave way to 
 cynicism. 
 
 Nothing could disillusion Tom, neither man nor 
 woman. At school, at college, it was all the same. 
 He could walk smiling through any dung-yard and 
 think of cricket. Matrimony was his appointed end. 
 Giles knew that from the start, and if the right girl 
 came along he conceded with a wry mouth that 
 nothing could be better for Tom. It would suit him, 
 
 5
 
 6 THE FlRE-Sl'EKHR 
 
 all right, loo, after the lirst shock. He %vould keep 
 his place and give what Tom undoubtedly would 
 always want and matrimony certainly could never 
 supply. 
 
 Everv time he came back from India or the depot, 
 the first care of the young soldier was to search out 
 the girl in Tom's eyes, and to sigh with satisfaction 
 at finding her an increasingly transient quantity. 
 
 Mad he the wit to learn, Tom might have learnt 
 much in those few short years. His experiences were 
 as wide as they w-ere varied. But all he learnt was 
 to think no end of all girls and to find himself in an 
 ever-mounting state of perplexity as to which was the 
 best. 
 
 And then Lucilla came and left him no choice. 
 She sat tight, impressed herself upon him and 
 absorbed him. By some alchemy of gentle concen- 
 tration she drew Tom to her, body, soul and spirit, 
 and took possession. Such a surrender, to be sure, 
 was never known ! 
 
 Giles Larpent stood aghast before Lucilla's octopus- 
 like genius for the absorption and assimilation of 
 foreign matter. His brain burnt, his heart bled. He 
 already looked upon Tom as permanently lost to the 
 world and himself. 
 
 He stood aside and sulked while Lucilla carried her 
 booty off for his honeymoon, and eventually dumped 
 him down in the provinces — Tom, who was supposed 
 to be a barrister with ambitions ! 
 
 He had enough to live on, of course; a house, a 
 small estate and prospects. But to sit down opposite 
 Lucilla for the term of your natural life two solid 
 hours from London ! 
 
 The regrettable occurrence took place at the begin- 
 ning of a long leave, and to blot out Lucilla Giles 
 went through the Staff College with distinction, and 
 started his great work on tactics. He might as well 
 have tried drink or Monte Carlo. The impress of 
 Lucilla was indelible.
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 7 
 
 In the end he accepted her and her tenth invitation. 
 For Lucilla, hugging tight iier own view of the 
 matter, was indefatigable. 
 
 Tliough very far from being a fool, she had be- 
 come possessed by a fixed belief that the whole of 
 the secret life of Giles Larpent was in her keeping. 
 His love for Tom, his persistent bachelorhood, his 
 cynicism in regard to women were all, she was per- 
 suaded, her affair. She accepted the responsibility 
 with the womanly meekness which characterised the 
 least of her little acts. She called it her cross at her 
 prayers and in church, and hugged it. 
 
 Lucilla would have gone smiling to the stake for 
 the sake of her reputation, but a secret understanding, 
 even if it were only with her own soul, and a strong 
 man enslaved were necessities of her existence. 
 
 So in the end Giles went down to the old square 
 stone manor-house, set on a high wooded spur in the 
 Cotswolds. A little length of stream full of trout 
 flowed at the foot of the grounds, and a small neat 
 shoot nestled in the lie of the hill. Three packs of 
 hounds within easy reach provided further mild sport. 
 
 As a haven of refuge, a resting-place after a hard 
 day's work, as a fancy toy for a tired man or a sooth- 
 ing anodyne for the torn nerves of an accomplished 
 career, the place would have been hard to beat. It 
 reeked of a tranquil tailing-off into Eternity. Giles 
 could smell a churchyard in the stormiest breeze that 
 lashed the larches. 
 
 Even if half the place hadn't gone to pine and 
 heather there wasn't an honest day's work in the 
 whole acreage. "Besides, what the devil does Tom 
 know of farming?" thought Giles. 
 
 Tom, it appears, when the first glamour of the 
 honeymoon had worn off, had made some faint 
 struggles to escape — to London — to his daily work 
 chock full of good fellowship and fun, and hope, and 
 a limitless belief in the future. To his Club, and all 
 the varied moving incidents of a lusty life. He
 
 8 iiii- i'iri:-si-:i:ki:r 
 
 missed liis frioiuls more persistently than lie could 
 have believed possible. 
 
 He adored Lucilla, but he would have liked other 
 girls to compare lier with, in order to make manifest 
 her incomparableness. 
 
 Lucilla wanted Tom for herself alone. Supreme 
 sovereignty or nothing for Lucilla ! A calm, undis- 
 turbed, even sway. She had no desire either to con- 
 tend for iier kingdom, or to enlarge its borders. A 
 convolvulus by nature, with incredible persistence and 
 industry she had metamorphosed herself into a good 
 stout ivy which, although it can boast of no violent 
 force, can always warn off the encroaching tendrils 
 of other growths, and comfortably nourish itself. 
 
 As for the desire of the oak himself for the sun, — 
 so long as he can hold the ivy so that it catches every 
 ray, — that is another story and concerns only the 
 oak ! To hold the weakness which so pathetically 
 hangs upon him in the right position is surely the 
 God-given mission of all self-supporting strength. 
 Have not the sun, the dew, the rain, the centuries and 
 the grace of God all combined to fit him to his taskV 
 
 Lucilla often felt tearfully religious when she looked 
 at Tom ; she acknowledged all his virtues and turned 
 them to the best advantage. She was true to her 
 nature. She knew her weakness and trusted utterly 
 to his strength. She opened wide her beseeching 
 eyes and threw herself defenceless upon his mercy. 
 
 Lucilla was a very w^ise woman, not to be beaten 
 by the most advanced at her own tactics. When 
 Tom grew restive and suggested a flat in Town, and 
 the manor-house as an occasional distraction, she 
 totted up the number of his friends, both male and 
 female, and the number of hours he would inevitably 
 be exposed to their divers temptations. She thought 
 of her own inborn repulsion to vulgar strife, and 
 meditated upon the joys of peaceful possession. Then 
 she cried a great deal, quietly, unobtrusively, becom- 
 ingly. Lucilla was incapable of a red nose, and
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 9 
 
 finally developed such a heart as would have wrung 
 the grace of country quiet from a brute-beast. 
 
 When Giles came down Lucilla was a flourishing 
 invalid and Tom had grown content. The deed was 
 done, and there was nothing left now but to make the 
 best of it. 
 
 In spite of his boasted knowledge of the sex, the 
 young and callow Major at first tried to forget 
 Lucilla and to concentrate himself upon Tom, and 
 found Tom fenced off from him by a network of 
 tendrils as tough as the devil and as fine and tender 
 and sensitive as life. Nothing but the ruthless hand 
 of a scoundrel could have torn them apart. 
 
 He retired abashed to reconsider his plans and 
 start afresh. A score of well-considered manoeuvres 
 came to ground before Lucilla's fixed intention, and 
 at last Giles was brought gasping to his senses. The 
 road to 'I'om must from henceforth lie through Tom's 
 wife, and whosoever refused to accept the conditions 
 must renounce the goal. Thus it was that stout Giles 
 Larpent had come in the end to be the body-slave of 
 Mrs. Pemberton, and kept the manhood of her hus- 
 band still partially alive in him. Samson shorn was 
 still Samson to his friend, and one can hope at least 
 that a man may grow his hair again. 
 
 This Tom never did. There were so many set- 
 backs. Women have other organs besides hearts to 
 use at a pinch to a man's undoing. The multi- 
 tudinous affections of habit came in. An inability to 
 wound. That pleasant drop-down into the senses 
 bred of an indolent life, and fostered by the well-laid 
 plans of a woman. 
 
 Any woman with a plastic heart and conscience, 
 comfortable means and good food can ke(;p her looks, 
 but only an expert in femininity can give them peren- 
 nial value and variety. Had Lucilla not been the 
 model of womanhood she was, she would undoubtedly 
 have been its disgrace. In evil mood Giles had called 
 her a cocotte manquee.
 
 10 I 111-: i'iki:-si:i:Ki:R 
 
 Samson novrr i^ri'w his hair aj^ain, l)iil witli hunt- 
 ing and fishing and a few good friends, the trust 
 of a boy, antl love that never aged a day, he ran as 
 straight as a die, and when a few months before he 
 was broken in a hunting accident, few but Giles knew 
 this untimely catastrophe to be but a sym])ol of the 
 deeper tragedy of the man's life. 
 
 If a parasite is ineradicable, nothing remains in the 
 end for the tree but the axe. But so long as the tree 
 lives on upon its own wholesome heart, it must hold 
 fast still to its old faiths. 
 
 This, as matters now stood, was the one hope for 
 Tom. He must keep on trusting utterly in Lucilla — 
 he must hold hard to his single-hearted, blind wor- 
 ship of her — lest worse befall. 
 
 To this end Giles had demeaned himself for many 
 unutterable years before Lucilla. And now- as the 
 end drew near and the imprisoned spirit stirred in its 
 cell, and Tom's eyes w'ere changing ominously, and 
 his brain sharpening in the clearing airs, a score of 
 grisly dangers seemed to be hovering near Giles. 
 And his own cunning and resource in touching up 
 and deflecting the truth from the perplexed searcher 
 after it amazed and confounded and shamed him at 
 every turn. 
 
 "Having lived as a boy he must die as one," said 
 Giles to his conscience. "There's too much pain in 
 manhood for a man as broken as Tom. For one who 
 has kept all his illusions intact to know all disillu- 
 sion at the point of death, isn't fair play. To look at 
 Lucilla with a man's eves now — now ! It's not fair 
 play ! By God ! it's not." 
 
 The mere thought of it struck Giles silly. And 
 what he hadn't done and endured for Lucilla these 
 poisonous weeks to ward off this calamity from 
 Tom was beyond telling. 
 
 And now there were other forces at work both in the 
 seen and in the unseen. Sometimes even before he 
 had gone away Tom had nearly got out of Iiand, but
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER ii 
 
 so far not irretrievably. The drawing of the sweet 
 old faiths was still too strong and too seductive. And 
 Lucilla did her duty. 
 
 The ever-varying phases of the woman ! The 
 sickening pathos of her. The soft appealing ripple 
 of her very skirts. The unparalleled play of her 
 magical eyes. The magic of the devil, to be sure, 
 but as incontestable as the devil and as effective. 
 
 Giles could have wished the powerlessness creeping 
 up the great limbs to do quickly that which was given 
 it to do. The time for the manhood of Tom was at 
 an end. It would only hurt and maim the boy; send 
 him out into a harder battle-field than this, enervated 
 by a doubt, a doubt above all of women. The start- 
 ing-point of all defeat and of all infidelity. Giles 
 could have done all things to make a man of Tom. 
 But that forbidden, he did all he knew to keep him 
 still a boy. 
 
 And very dirty work he found it. The dirty work 
 that only a woman can provide for a man enslaved. 
 And now here was the girl, Tom's long-legged Tony, 
 bouncing in to work the devil's own mischief.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 CoLON'EL LARrENT had been obliged to go away 
 for ten days, and during his absence something had 
 happened. Tom had suffered a change — an ominous 
 change. He was seeing more than he had any- 
 business to see, and that Tony was the traitor in the 
 camp Tom's friend felt sure. 
 
 " 1 thought you were better," he said briskly. "And 
 yet you look bored. What's up — more than usual ? " 
 
 "Look bored, do I? I'll have to buck up, then. 
 It's bad enough to feel bored. But if you begin to 
 look it you'll soon be boring your friends, and I 
 haven't done that so far, I think." 
 
 " Never bored your worst enemy ! " 
 
 "Hadn't the energy even for that. It was easier 
 to sit tight and listen to him. And one could always 
 smoke. Think of the pre-emancipation-of-woman 
 days when one couldn't — the women of those times 
 must have twisted a deuced lot of self-sacrifice out 
 of us." 
 
 "While a woman is a woman, emancipated or not, 
 she'll twist her mead of self-sacrifice out of us." 
 
 "She's pretty good at the job herself." 
 
 "She likes it, and we don't. That makes all the 
 difference. What's boring you ? " 
 
 "Nothing and everything," said Tom. He lifted 
 himself up on one shaking elbow to look round the 
 room. 
 
 "My eyes are giving out, I can't read much. I've 
 done what I could to square things for both of them ; 
 not much, but it's all I have energy for. I rather 
 thought at first of putting my shoulder to the wheel
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 13 
 
 and trying to beat old Anthony at his own game. 
 But that sort of moral pot-valiancy soon fizzles out. 
 To compete with the like of Anthony you must have 
 soaked yourself in his methods young." 
 
 "I thought you had better sense. Might as well 
 hope to outlive the devil as Anthony. He's just 
 bought two new hunters, and he went to Town the 
 other day for the week-end. Infernal old rascal ! " 
 
 "Oh ! he's right enough. Why should he peg out 
 to oblige a fellow he's looked on for so many years 
 as a hopeless ass ? " 
 
 " He might have stretched a point for the sake of 
 old times." 
 
 "Perhaps he would if I'd ever done anything he 
 thought worthy of the name." He stirred wearily 
 on his long chair. The Colonel turned a half-furtive 
 glance at him. 
 
 "It's hard luck on Tony," said Tom. "There 
 wouldn't have been any difficulty about the entail. 
 He could have left the place to her all right. I 
 believe if I'd done anything — anything at all — 
 Anthony wasn't particular, — however, the thing's 
 done now." 
 
 He moved again in miserable discomfort. "This 
 room seems to be all curtains and blinds and patent 
 contrivances to help man to his last act," he said. 
 " My God ! how I hate them all ! — I wonder how it 
 would be to die in a barn with the good smell of 
 clean wheat in your nostrils." 
 
 The Colonel rose with alacrity and made short work 
 with the hangings. The room sickened him. It 
 reeked of the sensuous love of colour and florid 
 decorations set in the half-light peculiar to the type 
 of woman he knew best and hated most. He punched 
 an apoplectic cushion, tweaked the preposterous 
 embroidered ear of a book-cover, pushed heavy 
 curtains aside, upset a chair upholstered to staring 
 repletion, and threw open three cross-windows. He 
 went like a roaring blizzard through the soft room.
 
 14 Till' ITRE-SEIiKER 
 
 "And to be dying in the beastly hole," he muttered, 
 "a fellow like roni ! Worse than that to be getting 
 bored at last after all these years. To be seeing it 
 all, seeing it now — now ! My God ! but there's 
 cruelty for you ! And — and — suppose he begins to 
 see her next. Now he's started he won't be likely 
 to pull up in time. Damn this rag ! " 
 
 By a superhuman effort of self-control, instead of 
 boldly tearing it from its filigree support he tied the 
 costly silken trifle into a tight knot. 
 
 "She comes into everything," he reflected savagely. 
 "The woman has a genius for limitation and retail 
 dealings and restriction. She measures out life and 
 air and sun and everything else in creation irif short 
 lengths. It's been like living with a yard measure 
 for poor Tom— and nineteen years of it ! Powers 
 above, nineteen years ! " 
 
 He swept his mind clean of her and returned to 
 Tom. ^riiere was an open book on the little table 
 beside him that looked ominous. It wore white with 
 silver stars, and two blue markers peeped coyly from 
 its pages. 
 
 "Where's your wife?" inquired the Colonel as he 
 hitched on the glasses to his great nose. 
 
 "Lying down, poor girl, tired out. She's been 
 reading aloud to me." 
 
 "This?" He was grasping the contents oi the 
 carefully gowned volume with ferocious speed. 
 
 "Yes," said Tom indifferently. "It's probably rot. 
 It was her voice I was listening to. I noticed it 
 in the old days before I ever thought of her face, I 
 think. One does with a woman. Hard luck on a 
 woman to be damned by a voice." 
 
 " Harder luck on a man to be damned by one," 
 reflected the Colonel. 
 
 "Tom!" he said, setting down the book with a 
 bang, "you're not worrying about your infernal soul, 
 I hope to God." 
 
 Tom laughed.
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 15 
 
 "No," he said at last slowly. "I started with the 
 job. When I knew for certain and had sorted out 
 things with old Lawyer Lacon, I began. And I 
 found that all that had been squared for me without 
 any tinkering of mine." 
 
 "Good," rapped out the Colonel. "Glad you've 
 escaped one danger. That view '11 suit you better 
 than this," he said smartly tapping the book. 
 
 "Things get clear all at once in a quick thing like 
 this, "said Tom, not noticing the interruption. "One 
 sees the mistakes and their retributions sharp cut and 
 simple, and the indivisibility of the two." 
 
 The Colonel watched him anxiously. 
 
 " It's a fatal mistake for a man who has lived clean 
 and gone straight," he said at last, "to try tg begin 
 to think when he happens to be laid up and has 
 nothing better to do. When he can't run his thoughts 
 into action as he's always done, they're precious apt 
 to turn sour on his stomach." 
 
 "But it's an older habit than even you suspect, 
 this thinking," said Tom. "I have thought a bit — 
 at odd times — I did nothing else, you'll admit. There 
 was plenty of time." 
 
 " We've always time enough to make fools of our- 
 selves beating the air," said the Colonel obstinately; 
 "but that's for sound men and not for sick ones. The 
 big things are safe enough. Think of the little ones 
 now, Tom. The things that leave the scent behind 
 them that never fades. — The comings back from 
 school when your mother w'as alive. The day you 
 brought home your first brush and she met you on the 
 steps. That other day — she missed that, worse luck, 
 but perhaps she knew — when you took your first in 
 Greats. The runs we've had together. The day 
 Tony w^as born, and that night we thought she was 
 going out, and instead pulled it off with a chuckle in 
 our scared faces. Never forget it till the last day of 
 my life, that chuckle of the young devil and the start 
 she gave us." He paused to chuckle himself.
 
 i6 1111' l-lRIi-SEEKER 
 
 Tom's eyes, which had hs^'htencd, grew dim 
 again. 
 
 "There's been a k)t in hfe," he said, "but there 
 might have been a lot more. Once you see that as I 
 did, Giles — as 1 did wlien I first started tinkering, you 
 know, and as I did sometimes in the old days on the 
 hills and by the streams and in the woods when it was 
 too late to shoot or fish and I hadn't you to talk to — it 
 won't let you off. It comes back and back, and it's 
 all so clear and simple, you know, that you know you 
 could have put it in words — in words that would have 
 made other men see it as clearly and as simply as 
 yourself. It seems to me now that I see it all — the 
 whole of life — better than any other man has seen it 
 so far, and that I could have said the things I have 
 seen in such a way that men could have understood 
 them and have looked and seen also. — I might have 
 done other things, too, as well as other men have done 
 them. I could have made a name all right. One 
 knows now — and doesn't care. It seems nothing in 
 the end. But to have seen and been silent ! Seen 
 the Thing itself — the Perfect Way, to have had one's 
 heart afire with it — to have been filled to the lips with 
 it, and to have loitered in the fields — a dumb dog ! 
 Well — that part's done, but the fact remains. Things 
 look precious different now, and also," he added slowly 
 with troubled eyes — "people." 
 
 " People ! AVhat the devil are you messing about 
 with people for? Leave people to their Maker as you 
 do your soul — or — or— let the devil take them. Any- 
 way, don't go prying and interfering with people 
 now. I thought some infernal folly was afoot. I wish 
 I hadn't had to go away when I did, and then to be 
 held up for ten devastating days ! Woman's work 
 again." 
 
 "It ivas playing it pretty low down for both of us. 
 Don't go again. Let things slide till this job is 
 done. Tony's one of the people I see different." 
 
 "Oh. That's your game, is it? She's always
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 17 
 
 Tony to me who refused point-blank to peg out. 
 You're not looking at her as a woman, I hope." 
 
 "It's her destiny after all." 
 
 "If you start that at your time of life and with your 
 experience " 
 
 "I've been married nineteen years." 
 
 "That's nothing. You've followed the right track 
 for nineteen years. You've treated the sex as you've 
 done your soul. You've put it in the right light, — 
 for you, — and looked at it from the right point of 
 view and pulled through Avith flying colours. That 
 has nothing to do with thinking of women or of 
 Tony in connection with them. You'll make no hand 
 of it and bore yourself to extinction. To start think- 
 ing of woman as woman with your record. Good 
 God ! It's a criminal playing with fire. And just 
 now, too. Think of her as an angel, a necessary 
 evil, an incentive to industry and good manners or 
 to the devil, but as woman pure and simple leave 
 her, Tom, and stick to Tony and the other things. 
 Even your soul's better than women. Deuced pity 
 you got tired of bridge." 
 
 "Yes. I wish I hadn't. Why don't you practise 
 what you preach ? You've thought enough of women 
 in your time." 
 
 "I hadn't your luck. I once put a woman in the 
 right light, and she refused to stay in it. So I was 
 forced to look at her all round in every light and from 
 all points of view. It takes time, strength and courage. 
 It's too late in the day for you to begin. Let sleeping 
 dogs lie. Draughts are pretty slow — but — — " 
 
 "I've not come to draughts yet. I wish Tony 
 would come in. I'd like you to see her." 
 
 "From your infernal new point of view ? I'd rather 
 see her from the old. I hate novelties. Precious 
 little ' eternal feminine ' in the Tony we know. She's 
 not unlike what you were at her age." 
 
 "I rather wish the thing hadn't happened now witii 
 Tony just rising eighteen." 
 
 15
 
 i8 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 "h's daiiin»^d hard luck," said the Colonel very 
 (luirtly, 
 
 "W'f'ro tremendous friends now, Tony and 1. It 
 began about a week af^^o." 
 
 ''lla! When Mrs. Pemberton was ill?" 
 
 "Just about then," said Tom simply. 
 
 The Colonel dug his foot into the soft carpet, and 
 a vivid vision of the gently luscious methods by 
 which the woman had kept the girl all her life from 
 her father flung itself into his hot brain. And to 
 begrudge him 'I'ony now ! The one thing in Nature 
 that could make him forget her! 
 
 He sighed heavily and reflected in a general way 
 on his sins. The mere thought of Lucilla always 
 brought them in. "Here's Tony, by Jove! coming 
 up the avenue," he said. "She's amazing tall. Do 
 they always have such short petticoats with legs the 
 length of hers? — Some craft of Lucilla's, no doubt," 
 he told himself, "to lessen the signiflcance of Tony.*' 
 
 "I hear her on the stairs," said Tom presently. 
 
 "I doubt it. She steps as light as foam for all her 
 length," said the Colonel. 
 
 He hitched up his glasses and looked with some 
 concern at the long, lean shanks now entering the 
 room. Tom only saw the small childish face far 
 above them.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 Even in the way Tony pulled her frock anxiously 
 over her innocent knees when she sat down, the 
 Colonel detected the craft of Lucilla. He had no 
 mercy on the woman. Now that Tom's eyes were 
 beginning to open, his brain to criticise, now that 
 she no longer benumbed his senses, she was becoming 
 a terror to him. And to be cowed at his age by 
 Lucilla ! He stiffened his neck and stood up. 
 
 "You're not going," said Tony. "Don't! It's so 
 nice here with the three of us, and the windows open 
 and some light in the room, and dear me, what's 
 happened? Who's been rumpling everything up?" 
 
 She turned two keen accusing eyes as purple as 
 pansies on the Colonel. 
 
 "It's you," she said, smoothing her knees. "And 
 it's heavenly, but it can't last." She sighed, rose, 
 and began to tidy up her father. 
 
 "It's an awful pity," she said. "You look so nice, 
 a little tiny bit like me, but you wouldn't match 
 Mother in the least. You'd spoil the picture. There ! 
 That's better — or worse, but it's got to stay." 
 
 She looked longingly around the room. At the 
 punched cushion which sat helplessly awaiting "first 
 aid," the knotted curtain, and all the rest of the fine 
 disorder. 
 
 "It's a nice room," she said, "when it's turned 
 upside down. It's the sort of room I shall have 
 myself some day. You've been going back to the 
 old times when you were together in the Albany before 
 Mother came and made gentlemen of you. And I 
 
 B 3 10
 
 20 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 udikIlt if yi)U know it, or if you'll be surprised to 
 hear it, but between you you've turned her out. Now 
 that's unc^rateful of you. I'd better bring her back, 
 don't vou think? It's just tea-time." 
 
 Tom looked startled. The Colonel guihy. He 
 stood up hastily to help the girl. 
 
 "Don't," she entreated. "I'd rather have an 
 elephant." 
 
 He persisted. They were at the other end of the 
 room now, out of reach of the sick man's failing 
 ears. 
 
 "I wonder why you did it, you two," she said, 
 chuckling and clapping two decorous hands on her 
 knees as she knelt down to untie the curtain. 
 
 The Colonel, being a cautious as well as a hot- 
 headed man, paused. 
 
 He had left her a child absorbed in her own affairs, 
 and with an inordinate affection for chocolates. They 
 had always got on very well together. 
 
 "I wish you could see yourself," she whispered. 
 
 "I wish I could understand what you're after." 
 
 "Tidying up after you. You haven't answered my 
 question." 
 
 "I never answer impertinent questions." 
 
 "You always have until now." 
 
 "It depends upon the turn the impertinence takes." 
 
 "You'd better go back to Father. Why did you 
 ever leave him? It was a mistake. The house is full 
 of mistakes. Everything's all anyhow." 
 
 Her eyes were blazing at him, accusing him — 
 Him ! She seemed to have grown up in this short 
 time in a horrible manner. This confounded him 
 more than her legs had done. 
 
 He retreated to his post hastily, and the room 
 resumed its wonted aspect, except that a little more 
 light and air had cunningly crept in, and the rose- 
 coloured languor was no longer so stiflingly apparent. 
 A man could breathe with a moderate degree of 
 comfort.
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 21 
 
 "Now sit down," said Tom to Tony, "and tell us 
 what you've been up to." 
 
 "Getting longer, I think chiefly, to judge by the 
 remarks of the public," said Tony. "It's unlucky 
 I should be so tall when you both detest tall women." 
 
 "What put that into your head?" said her father. 
 "I like tall women all right." 
 
 "You didn't three months ago. You were looking 
 at Mother when you said it, and didn't notice, 
 perhaps, that I had begun to stretch. People never 
 do seem to consider my feelings. And you," she 
 pursued, turning to the Colonel, "you said one day 
 that you abhorred grenadiers. You said it looking 
 square at my legs." 
 
 "I spoke absently. It's never been the length of 
 the sex that's concerned me. If they confined their 
 energies to growing long one could very well put up 
 with them." 
 
 "Don't spoil the moment with your cheap 
 cynicism," said Tom, looking with lazy content at 
 Tony. 
 
 "What a blessing it is that Mother likes the smell 
 of smoke," said Tony, as she filled his pipe. 
 
 "It took her ten years to acquire the taste. You're 
 not old enough yet to appreciate absolute unselfish- 
 ness, Tony. It's not part of the make-up of seven- 
 teen, I'm told." 
 
 "I've also heard that, and more than once, too. 
 Mother wasn't so much older when you married 
 her." 
 
 " But your mother — — ! " He laughed as he looked 
 at the long crossed shanks, and his eyes travelled 
 slowly on into a world unknown to Tony. She 
 watched him eagerly, and presently her eyes shone 
 also with the light that filtered out from the far 
 country through his. 
 
 "Oh," she said to herself, "Oh ! " 
 
 "Mother had ripping luck," she said aloud, after 
 a long pause.
 
 2 2 TIIF FIRH-SFFKFR 
 
 "By jove, she had!" rapped out the Colonel. 
 "And what made me say that now?" he added as 
 soon as he recollected himself. 
 
 "Love and a skirt of this length and legs of that," 
 said Tony, with a frank demonstration, "don't go 
 well together, but with an inch or two on to the skirt 
 and my hair up, do you think — I do wonder if either 
 of you would ever have fallen in love with me." 
 
 She looked with uncompromisingly anxious demand 
 from one to the other. 
 
 "What in Heaven's name do you know of love?" 
 said her father. 
 
 "One picks up information. And haven't I lived 
 in the midst of it ever since I was born? Don't 
 spare me, speak the plain brutal truth. — I know it 
 already. I shouldn't have had a chance. Nothing 
 would ever have induced either of you. I'm not made 
 for your sort of love. — I'd have had the best chance 
 with you," she said, glancing benignantly at the 
 Colonel. "And to look as scared as that, and you a 
 soldier ! You needn't. Wild horses wouldn't have 
 made me take the chance. You'd have wanted to 
 lift me up to heaven by the back of the neck before my 
 time. Mother must have been very sensible for her 
 age to have chosen Father." 
 
 The Colonel's face visibly dropped. 
 
 "Ah!" said Tony maliciously. "You didn't want 
 her. I'm getting out all your secrets. I wonder if 
 father was glad or sorry, or what mother felt about 
 it. If only one could have been at the beginning of 
 it all — of everything. One has missed so much," she 
 sighed. "I wonder if one will ever make up for lost 
 time, and all that happened in it." 
 
 "You will, I feel sure," snapped the Colonel. "So 
 be content with the future. Even you can't have your 
 fingers in all the pies of the past." 
 
 "I only want just one little glance. Ah! That 
 horrible clock. It's time for Mother and mv little 
 hour's past. I'll go and have tea in the garden."
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 23 
 
 "Stay and have tea with us," said her father 
 eagerly. 
 
 "I'd be nowhere. Only just an afterthought you'd 
 come back to occasionally with a polite jerk. You 
 might just as well have been a little in love with me, 
 too. It would have made things much nicer for all 
 of us. It's a lost opportunity, and I don't suppose 
 you care in the least. Oh, well — Good-bye. You'd 
 better, all three of you — go back to the old days and 
 persuade yourselves I was never born at all." 
 
 She was laughing, but the soft upbraiding wist- 
 fulness in her eves astonished the Colonel. 
 
 "Good Lord ! " he muttered. 
 
 "Tony, come back," cried her father. He began 
 with the old lusty roar, but his voice gave out feebly 
 on the last note, and he sank back exhausted. 
 
 As Tony in a bitter prick of unendurable pain 
 slammed one door, another was gently opened by 
 Lucilla. 
 
 Tony had spoken in the young clear voice which it 
 never struck her to lower in the sick-room, and her 
 mother pausing as she always did before she entered, 
 had sorrowfully listened to the last intemperate 
 utterances of her wavward daughter. Without any 
 apparent motion of flesh at all, Lucilla always went 
 about like a moonbeam, she was at her husband's 
 side hovering above him like a benediction, shower- 
 ing gentle cares upon him, cobweb touches, yearning 
 looks. 
 
 No man in his senses could forget that he was sick 
 unto death in Lucilla's other-worldlv hands. For the 
 first time in his life Tom wished devoutly that she 
 would leave him alone. 
 
 The Colonel was possessed bv the usual stifling 
 and sulphurous embarrassment inseparable in his 
 case from the occasion. 
 
 Lucilla filled the room. 
 
 "Will dear little Tony ever be a woman?" she 
 softly murmured. "Ever learn to think of others?"
 
 24 Till-: I-IRK-Sin-KER 
 
 "Tony's all right," said Tom. His inoincnlary 
 sense of repulsion from Lucilla's caressing touch had 
 given him a shock. His mouth felt dry. He spoke 
 languidly. 
 
 "She's tired you out. Oh, Tony! Tony!" 
 
 "She hasn't tired me, not in tiie least. And she's 
 thinking a bit hard for herself just now. She can't 
 be bothering too much about other people. You do 
 all that, Loo. You think for all of us.— Ah 1 That's 
 right, give us some tea, dear." 
 
 Everything Lucilla did she did with grace and 
 distinction. It was an artistic joy to see her in her 
 lovely trailing garments touch the sugar tongs. 
 
 The way in which she poured cream into his tea 
 and insisted on his eating more scones than were 
 good for him, might have placated a tiger, and yet the 
 Colonel was longing all the time to be at her 
 peerless throat. 
 
 When she had finished her sweet service of love 
 she lay back in her chair and looked alarminglv white 
 and fragile. 
 
 "I knew she'd do it in the end," said her enemy to 
 himself. "Couldn't she spare us even now? She 
 was pink enough with infernal ill-temper when she 
 was libelling Tony. She has the devil's own guile," 
 he reflected, with a glint of admiration in the tail of 
 his eye. "You can't escape her. Never knew a 
 woman like her for getting her own way, but I'm 
 hanged if she will this time." 
 
 He ate on doggedly, but suddenly he caught Tom's 
 eyes full of a sort of half-scared compunction fixed 
 on his wife. 
 
 The Colonel clapped down cup and plate. 
 
 "Now, Mrs. Pemberton," he said cheerfully, 
 "you've done a lot mr)re for us than any man, sick 
 or well, is worth. It's full time some one looked 
 after you." 
 
 And with every drop of blood in his body in revolt 
 against his ministrations, he made fresh tea, ordered
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 25 
 
 hot scones, and compelled her to eat and drink. He 
 practically fed her himself. He might have been a 
 mother. 
 
 But, as we know, for eighteen years now — off and 
 on — had he been unthanked body-slave to Mrs. Pem- 
 berton, and never yet was mortal man so tired of a 
 job as the Colonel of his. The very sight of Lucilla 
 afflicted him with an irrational desire to mop his brow. 
 
 In her presence he felt enfeebled — done for — past 
 his best work. An unfortunate derelict only fit after 
 all to do Lucilla's chores. And w-ith his big book on 
 tactics only at the eighth chapter and the country 
 going to the dogs ! But weak repinings weren't of 
 much avail where Lucilla was concerned, and indeed 
 he could never begrudge Tom the little he had been 
 able to do for him. Least of all now when the long 
 service was so nearly over.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 Tony was the traitor in the camp. There was no 
 denying it. In his short absence she had won her 
 footing, and she and her father were growing up to- 
 gether. In Tom's good hours with the keenest relish. 
 
 The deepest toucli of romance in Tony's romping, 
 hght-hearted career had always been her father. 
 Even in the nursery she had waited breathless for 
 his careless, good-humoured, chafifing caresses, often 
 forgotten in his rough-and-tumble games with her. 
 Tony was all right in her way when he happened to 
 think of her, but he had no haunting associations 
 w'ith Tony. His dreams and his ideals w'ere all 
 centred round a widely dififerent object. Tony was 
 vaguely aware of it, and it cost her pride many a 
 twinge, her heart many a stout ache. 
 
 There was nothing morbid in the foiled passion of 
 Tony. She carried it out into the fields and the 
 woods, and paddled in the stream with it for com- 
 pany. She shared it with the beasts and birds and 
 fishes, and the grasses and the leaves, the first flowers 
 of spring and the last leaves of autumn, till at last 
 her father lived in them all. 
 
 It was less jealousy than a fine sense of fair play 
 that made Tony suffer atrociously in those bad 
 quarters of an hour, when her mother took as a matter 
 of course the whole of what by all the rules of the 
 game should have been half hers. When every time 
 the ethereal presence floated into a room where her 
 father was, it was obviously time for her to bounce 
 out of it. There was no longer any room for Tonv. 
 
 And one dav Lucilla saw it all in one illuminating 
 glance from the fine eyes of her daughter. 
 
 26
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 27 
 
 She trembled, reflected and matured her plans. In 
 three weeks Tony was packed off to school. After 
 that the girl kept guard over her own looks and 
 watched those of her mother with untiring zeal. 
 
 Up to this time she had unconditionally admired 
 her mother, had wondered awe-stricken at her yearn- 
 ing gentleness, and gone tip-toe in her suffering 
 presence. 
 
 A creature so beautiful, generally in the throes of 
 some mysterious agony, looking as though she were 
 wrapped in clouds and connected mysteriously with 
 the beating of white wings, seemed to her rather holy 
 and remote, a somewhat painful joy rather like going 
 to church on Easter Day. From her earliest years 
 church without the feathery glamour of white and 
 gold and green had been a bleak process to Tony 
 to be heroically endured ; but Easter Sunday was 
 another story. There was magic in white lilies. 
 
 In her extreme youth the Mother of Christ and 
 His Cross had got mixed up in Tony's mind with 
 her mother, and such confusions are hard to dis- 
 entangle. 
 
 The frank adoration of her father in spite of her 
 own feelings in the matter was comprehensible 
 enough, his untiring, ceaseless care of the invalid, 
 something fine and high that she would have liked 
 to share, had she been given the chance, but as usual 
 there was no room for her. So long as she believed 
 thoroughly in the sincerity of her mother's torments, 
 when Tom adored Lucilla, Tony came as near to 
 adoring Tom as a wholesome-minded child could 
 do; when he called her "Loo" she seemed to be 
 twisted up with scores of the oddest emotions which 
 although exciting shrewdlv hurt. 
 
 Then came the dreadful day when Tony, for the 
 first time in her life, saw what real pain borne with 
 real fortitude meant. The best of her father came 
 out, that day of his great need. He was a kingly boy 
 then, the crown of his manhood not very far off, and
 
 28 rill{ I'lRE-SEEKKR 
 
 every atom of Tonv ran out to meet it. It was the 
 first revelation of real life to the girl. 
 
 In spite of her incomprehensible sorrow, her wild 
 revolt from the Power tliat could so hurt a man, she 
 laughed with joy. Her heart leapt in her body. She 
 had seen an immense thing, something greater than 
 sorrow, or pain, or death, and she was alive all over. 
 The flame of life dried up her tears. She buried her 
 face in her pillows and felt a beast. She tried to cry 
 and to be one with the weeping household, but she 
 thought of his face as he had turned it to her mother 
 after the operation, done without anaesthetics, as they 
 dared use none. She thought of the laugh in his 
 tortured eyes as he had told her mother to buck up 
 and be thankful he was the size he was. She saw 
 him, speechless now, but still with a faint laugh 
 inspiring and uplifting the stricken white faces 
 shocked to stone. And not only then, but hours after 
 — when he must have known — known everything, 
 never once had he thought of himself, but always of 
 her mother and of the others and of her. That day, 
 for the first time in her life, she had not been for- 
 gotten. She had had her full triumphant share of 
 her father. 
 
 She lifted up her face, flushed with pride. 
 
 "And not to know it till now," she said, "not to 
 know how good he is and how splendid." 
 
 This was the knife that would keep turning in her 
 heart. She could cry now with the best, such a 
 passion of crying must break up even the hardness 
 of a young heart — and harden it again in seams when 
 the healing time should set in. 
 
 When Tony had bathed her face and brushed her 
 hair and was out again in the world, everything had 
 grown different. Nothing could ever be the same 
 again, but least of all her mother. 
 
 The shadow of holiness and of the Cross had floated 
 off, and something quite as haunting but somewhat 
 less awe-inspiring appeared to be on the point of
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 29 
 
 revelation. It puzzled Tony and interested and dis- 
 composed her. Fortunately, or unfortunately, it also 
 amused her. And it beset her with questions. It 
 was a matter of brain and not of heart with Tony : 
 that callow organ was fully occupied and filled to the 
 brim with her father. Her mother became in the end 
 a painful entertainment that kept despair at bay. 
 
 It was well for Tony, perhaps, whatever it might 
 have been for Lucilla, that she could laugh a little. 
 For the healing of a heart is too deep a grief for a 
 child to deal with. The slow pain which holds the 
 irrevocable, and maims and seams and bruises, hurts 
 in a way the quick stab with life-blood and hope still 
 red in it can never do. 
 
 It was about this time, too, that Tony first interested 
 herself in the odd three-handed game of her elders, 
 and her intermittent and chuckling glimpses into the 
 secret feelings of the Colonel in the delicate affair 
 gave her a little hand in it herself, so sometimes she 
 could forget what lay silent all the time behind every 
 frolic, and rather enjoy herself. 
 
 But the inevitable moments of bitter reaction still 
 saved her from utter hardness of heart. And yet they 
 did not conduce in any sort of way to the dutiful 
 behaviour of a daughter. 
 
 Her mother had unfailing ways of filling her with 
 rage and revolt, and making her feel a beast in a 
 general sort of way. 
 
 The unpleasant sensation always came on at the 
 close of one of Lucilla's long vigils when sweet, 
 smiling, courageous, but faint from exhaustion, she 
 floated from the room, with the miraculous delicate 
 freshness that never forsook it, still upon her face. 
 While her father's, drawn with pain, wistfully fol- 
 lowed it, and when he had rested and could speak 
 again, his first words were of her amazing good- 
 ness, her self-sacrifice, the ineffable gentleness in her 
 strength. Lucilla was a theme that could have 
 aroused him from death itself. And yet Tony felt
 
 30 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 with a grisly shiver that it brought death nearer than 
 ever. Death hung in the traihng skirts of Lucilla, 
 in her dehcate freshness, in her patient eyes. You 
 could never get away from death and all the womanly 
 virtues it called out with her mother in the room. 
 
 This was all inarticulate in Tonv. There were no 
 words in her young mind to fit the occasion. But 
 with her sharp young eyes, she saw the same dim 
 knowledge in the faces of the nurses, calm, shrewd 
 women, who worshipped Mrs. Pemberton, but were 
 both openly opposed to her long vigils and secretly 
 relieved at their cessation. 
 
 Tony's one frantic desire was to hustle tenderness 
 out of doors and bring in laughter. The nurses 
 looked deprecating, but she was always cordially 
 welcome to her father and the Colonel. A certain 
 touch of brutality in Tony, a restive habit of criticism 
 occasionallv confounded both the men and turned 
 their chastened thoughts by widely different routes 
 to the suffering wife, patiently resting in her 
 darkened room. 
 
 At such times Tom felt startled, Giles guilty, but not 
 for long. He had to keep his eye on the girl and not 
 on himself. "She has no mercy," he reflected, "she is 
 denied that in common with Eve and Lucilla." 
 
 "I don't think I'll marry," said Tony one day, with 
 a suddenness to make both her hearers jump. 
 
 An immensely daring speech had struck both men 
 speechless, so still laughing she had promptly 
 changed the subject. 
 
 "I don't think you will," said Tom relieved, but 
 with a chuckle not unlike one of Tony's own. "Not 
 unless you considerably mend your ways." 
 
 " What are my ways ? " 
 
 "I don't quite know, but I don't believe they're 
 the ways that lead to matrimony." 
 
 "Oh! I thought matrimony was like Earl's Court 
 and that all ways lead to it — if you want them to. 
 It would be a matter of choice with me. One must
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 31 
 
 be pretty mean, don't you think, if one wanted to be 
 married and couldn't?" 
 
 Tony's long, thin, brown hands were holding down 
 her petticoats. She spoke with proper self-respect 
 and tucked her legs out of sight. 
 
 "That's right, my girl. Never give in to any 
 limitation," said the Colonel, "but I'd advise you to 
 be sure the right man is at the end of your road before 
 you start." 
 
 "But suppose he looked different when you got up 
 to him ? " said Tony, with some apprehension. 
 
 "Turn back, then, as you would from the jaws of 
 hell." 
 
 "I like going on best." 
 
 "Go on, then, and leave the man behind you." 
 
 "But can one? Aren't things, well — sort of ad- 
 hesive, especially if they're men ? " 
 
 "There's enough acid in your make-up, Tony, to 
 dissolve any adhesive matter," said her father. 
 
 "I wish I was sure of it," sighed Tony. "If one 
 was — and need never feel a beast — one could shed 
 every encumbrance, and, oh Avell, fly ! " 
 
 "You think as highly as that of your conscience, 
 do you?" blandly inquired the Colonel. 
 
 "Women's consciences are marvellous instru- 
 ments," said Tom, "as fine as they're powerful. 
 Perhaps she's right." 
 
 "It's not always women's consciences that keep 
 them glued to the earth, I've found," said Giles 
 grimly. 
 
 "I wasn't thinking of consciences," said Tony 
 pensively. "I was thinking of having to feel horribly 
 uncomfortable when anything you think one thing 
 turns out all of a sudden to be quite another, to 
 change and grow different, and once it begins it goes 
 on till you simply don't know- where you are, or where 
 it is, or what's happening. You can't go on w^th the 
 new thing as you did with the old, and you can't go 
 on without it, so what on earth are you to do?"
 
 32 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 She had plainly forgotten matrimony, and was 
 talking entirely for her own enlightenment. 
 
 Tom stared, lie liaeln't a notion as to what she 
 was after. The Colonel knew only too well. 
 
 "Have some nougat, Tony," said Tom tiredly. 
 "There's a new box there in the drawer." 
 
 Tony, looking unappeased, declined the nougat. 
 
 "How are we to get on comfortably and quietly 
 Avith you, then, my girl, I'd like to know," said the 
 Colonel. "Think of the way you're changing. And 
 the changes of a half-grown filly are wearing, I'd 
 have you to know\ And yet if w^e bucked ! Good 
 Lord, where would we all be? You haven't got a 
 monopoly of the right to change." 
 
 "There are changes and changes," said Tony, with 
 wicked rebel eyes. "I don't mind grubs turning into 
 butterflies, but when it comes to butterflies turning 
 into " 
 
 "Well, upon my soul! There's no need for you 
 to turn back from any path, Tony. Stop at nothing. 
 Even if the man at the end of the road has resolved 
 himself into the devil, marry him out of hand. You'll 
 soon be a widow and he at peace. A critic with 
 neither experience, sense, nor mercy would speedily 
 extinguish man or devil. Meanwhile let your unfor- 
 tunate father go to sleep." 
 
 When he chose to use his power, the Colonel could 
 silence even Tony. He sighed at last with immense 
 relief. 
 
 "He's asleep, thank God, and safe for the moment 
 from you, and we can talk things over at the window- 
 there." 
 
 Something in her face, burning with wrath and 
 revolt and with bright gleams of something greater, 
 touched him. 
 
 "Go on growing and changing in your own way, 
 Tony," he said kindly, when they were safe in the 
 deep window at the other end of the room, "and leave 
 the mysteries of change, of which you know nothing, 
 alone."
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 33 
 
 "But — but, they won't let you," said Tony. "They 
 — they hit you in the eye." 
 
 "They're also extremely likely to hit other people 
 in the eye if you go chucking round your opinions 
 in regard to them in the general way you do. Sup- 
 pose you take me for your target, Tony, and spare 
 your father." 
 
 Tony's eyes turned involuntarily to look at the 
 handsome, shadowy, sleeping face. 
 
 "It — it seems impossible to leave him out of any- 
 thing now, and this is such a big thing — it's so 
 important and surprising — it changes everything for 
 him and me — and to be lying there in the middle of 
 such things and not knowing. We're great friends 
 now. He tells me things. And he's blaming him- 
 self," she said, flushing scarlet, "for — for things. 
 Things that are not his fault. He ought to know it," 
 she said passionately. " He has enough to bear with- 
 out that. He's the one to be spared now everything 
 one can spare him. It's he that wants help now." 
 She paused, frowned and tried to speak slowly and 
 pick her words. 
 
 " It's not fair somehow, that I should know better 
 about things than Father does — that I should know 
 him better than he knows himself — now. It's — it's 
 never been fair. — I could have known him — and the 
 — the — ^other things all the time, and perhaps changed 
 them." 
 
 Her voice had fallen to an awed whisper, her face 
 was white. 
 
 "Did you know he'd begun to be sorry?" she 
 asked; "to know he might have done great things, 
 that he ought to have been a — a — great man, instead 
 of only being sort of happy," she said, "down here? 
 And he ought to know it was just his own goodness 
 that prevented him," she said passionately. "He 
 oughtn't to be blaming himself now — not now," she 
 cried, "when it hurts so." 
 
 "Ah," said the Colonel, "a great sad fear in his 
 c
 
 34 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 heart. "And how much do you think a knowledge 
 as keen as your own of the * otlier things ' would hurt 
 your father now ? My old friend Tom, the truest 
 heart I have ever known — and you want him to be 
 different now— another man, to suffer in a new way — 
 now." 
 
 Her lips were trembling, her eyes swam in tears. 
 She had a heart after all. He was glad to know it, 
 but he hoped devoutly she'd keep it well in hand, or 
 else entrust it to his supervision. 
 
 "Not different. Oh, not different," she cried, 
 "himself all the time, but just understanding a little 
 — in the way he'd understand — I don't want him to 
 understand like me — how things were, and then he 
 simply couldn't be blaming himself in the way he's 
 doing now. Oh ! you don't know how horribly and 
 sickeningly sorry he is." 
 
 "Oh, don't I?" muttered Giles. 
 
 "He ought always to have been able to see things," 
 she cried, with sudden fierceness. "And then — and 
 then — he would have been what he was meant to 
 be." 
 
 "It's taken you seventeen years, my girl, to find 
 this out." 
 
 "I've always been looking at Father, I think I got 
 to see things as he saw them," she said simply. 
 "Why didn't you make him see what you've — always 
 seen," she said suddenly, with brilliant eyes, "you 
 have always," she repeated. "You saw what Father 
 was meant to be in the old rooms before " 
 
 "The unfathomable ignorance of Youth ! " 
 
 "It's not unfathomable, and you could have pre- 
 vented everything then." 
 
 "I couldn't, and neither could you." 
 
 "I could— if I'd been there." 
 
 He sat up as stiff as a ramrod. 
 
 "Do you know what's the matter with you, Tony ? " 
 he said, with grave severity. "You're jealous. 
 Common-or-garden jealous. The most ignoble.
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 35 
 
 trivial and repulsive of all the vices. A woman's 
 last resource." 
 
 "I'm not jealous, and I think you're horrible." 
 Her eyes blazed at him. "It's not that. But it's 
 so vilely unfair — the whole thing. You could, and 
 I could — we both could — you could have done it then 
 — and I could later on — if only I'd just known in 
 time." 
 
 "It's jealousy of the lowest order," he groaned. 
 
 She took no notice of him. She was rapt in a 
 dream. 
 
 " We'd have gone together, we two — nothing 'd 
 have stopped us." 
 
 "Except bashing your heads against the first stone 
 wall." 
 
 "If one of the two keeps her eyes skinned," said 
 Tony superbly. "That need never happen." 
 
 "Since plain-speaking is the order of the day," said 
 the Colonel, after a pause, "we can't do better than 
 follow it. Now look here, my girl, you're like the 
 rest of your tribe. Because you happen to have seen 
 an inch beyond your own nose, you feel sure that no 
 one ever saw so far before. I — as it happens, have 
 not been blind for upwards of eighteen years, and 
 my nose is a considerably longer one than yours. I 
 once found a man with a great heart and a simple 
 sense of duty, and I loved him. I also knew a deal 
 more about him than he ever knew himself. How- 
 ever, he, in his turn, loved a woman. He loved her 
 once and for ever, and has been true to his ideal of 
 her ever since. It demanded a great sacrifice on his 
 part — an incredible, extravagant, preposterous sacri- 
 fice to the ordinary observer. To him it was only 
 right, the one straight thing. To one with wit to 
 discern it," he said, with a studiously meek face, "it 
 has been a fine life. Perhaps he's chosen the better 
 part. Who knows?" he rapped out, forgetting his 
 meekness. "At any rate his life ought to be good 
 enough and big enough for the scatter-brained wits of 
 a child." 
 
 C 2
 
 36 riii- fire-sf.i:ki:r 
 
 *'But wlit'ii one knows Father*?" she said 
 dcsperalcly. 
 
 "Good God, girl! I've known him lor lliirty-fnc 
 years. You're only a recent acquaintance." 
 
 " Who's jealous now ? " 
 
 "joalous be hanged." 
 
 " Vou didn't hang it when " 
 
 "In such a friendship as your father's and mine we 
 don't know the word." 
 
 "Did you never once — once in all the time?" she 
 demanded eagerly, "when the rooms were shut — and 
 it was all different ? " 
 
 The Colonel forget Tony and his responsibility. 
 He looked long and remorsefully into his past. 
 
 "Yes, Tony," he said at last. "I behaved as badly 
 as you'd have done yourself. But no one but myself 
 ever knew it till now. Precious little of the kindness 
 of the Recording Angel in you, my girl ! You'll 
 trample back into life manv an old sore before you've 
 done." 
 
 "You are horrible! I don't like hurting you, 
 you're part of F'ather. You belong to us. You be- 
 long to me. We know things together. And we 
 think exactly the same. Oh ! you know w^e do. You 
 can't help it now — it's done, and men don't like hurt- 
 ing things that look delicate. But I could hurt them. 
 I could go round trampling on all the perfectly sound 
 places till they got sore." 
 
 She was panting, her fierce eyes were full of 
 burning tears. 
 
 "It's all sickening," she muttered, "and unfair and 
 hateful. Oh ! Oh ! If I only could ! " 
 
 "Now look here, Tony. Take a pull and — and 
 mind your own business. It's enough for any 
 growing girl." 
 
 "It was — till I knew. I wanted nothing else — and 
 you to talk ! Did you ever mind your own business 
 — properly, after you knew ? " 
 
 The last scale fell from Giles' eyes and he stood
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 37 
 
 blinded in the glare of the revelation. He winced 
 and shrank back. Then he said slowly, after a long 
 pause, and he spoke w'ith a bowed head — 
 
 "No, Tony, I never did. But he never knew I 
 didn't. He thinks I've done the best I knew." 
 
 "And so — and so," hissed Tony, "she's spoilt 
 your life too — all she could of it. I — I'd have done 
 better than you did — -to save you both. If only I'd 
 been there ! If only I'd been there ! " 
 
 "You may thank your stars you weren't," said the 
 Colonel, recollecting himself. "It's a scandalous 
 conversation, this ! The sooner we change it the 
 better." 
 
 "We can't change it. It's coming more alive in- 
 side one every minute. I'd have made you both so 
 happy you'd never have been afraid of anything. 
 We couldn't have done without you, of course, but 
 we'd have taken jolly good care you stuck to your 
 own business. But sometimes you'd have had to be 
 the watchman on the rock when we went frivolling. 
 And in the end you'd have got over the other girl. 
 You'd never forgot her, I think." 
 
 " May it be a long day, Tony, before you lose your 
 belief in your own omnipotence. But suppose we 
 let the past take care of the past ? What concerns 
 you and me now is the present. Suppose we drink 
 to the end of the old friendship, Tony ? you can 
 pledge me in lemonade to-night, and start a new one." 
 He glanced at the worn, sleeping face. 
 
 "He's steered his ship straight," he said, "by the 
 light of one star. And it's not for us now he's so 
 near the last haven to divert his faithful eyes from 
 what's served him well. It's certainly not for a star 
 hardly risen an inch above the horizon to be trying 
 on the game." 
 
 "You're horrible and cruel and unfair!" 
 
 "Whenever one ventures upon the bald truth one 
 always appears to be so. You'll see it clearer later 
 on. You've stumbled into a tragedy too big for
 
 j8 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 either of us, and most certainly too bip for a man as 
 sick as your father. lie's already in hands more 
 capable than those either of an old fool or a young. 
 You must leave the matter where it is, Tony, and 
 help me with wy job. That is to help your father 
 to die the boy he's lived — with his eyes still fixed 
 to the old star, the only one he's ever known. It 
 has kept him any way with clean hands and a pure 
 heart." 
 
 "And we've been — sort of growing up together, 
 Father and I," said Tony miserably. 
 
 "Better for you to keep young together, my girl, 
 just now. After all, Tony, thousands of men can 
 get on in the world, can make laws, and paint pic- 
 tures, and write books, but precious few are capable 
 of an immeasurable love and an immeasurable 
 sacrifice." 
 
 "But when it's not worth it. When it's never been 
 worth it," she said brutally. "And- — if you only just 
 knew, when we'd begun to be together in everything, 
 to have sort of — to part again. The times we've had 
 together, Father and I ! Oh, you don't know ! " 
 
 "I can guess, Tony. But this is the safest plan, 
 to put it on the lowest grounds, my girl. If you go 
 much further on the other track, your mother '11 be 
 turning you out some day before you can say ' knife.' 
 .A.nd he can't spare you now, my girl." 
 
 Tony shrank back as from some mortal blow, and 
 her little dry sob hurt the Colonel immensely.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 There was some excuse for Lucilla's rooted belief 
 in herself as one favoured of God and man. She had 
 so far moulded life to her own liking, and the little 
 things which make for the success of little projects 
 had always flocked to her aid. 
 
 Tom had undeniably been over-excited by Tony's 
 visit and needed rest, and the Colonel frankly aided 
 and abetted her mother's efforts to keep Tony out of 
 the room for the next two days. 
 
 Tony, after her first fit of impotent rage, spent the 
 miserable interval in going back into pinafores. She 
 had not grasped in its entirety the Colonel's point 
 of view, but what she did understand made her cold 
 all down her back and spurred her to action. For a 
 day and a half she went on diligently transforming 
 herself. Then suddenly she began to laugh. This 
 was fatal to consecutive progress in a backward 
 course. Malice slunk in, some native wit, and the 
 inextinguishable joyous egoism of youth. 
 
 Shut out from everything, she must still interest 
 herself in something. She daren't think of that 
 which made her cold, so almost insensibly the twisted 
 the tragedy of the play into a comedy and overdid her 
 part in it. 
 
 When she reappeared at last in the sick-room, she 
 was shy, jumpy, with a horrible tendency to giggle. 
 Her legs looked ridiculous. She had grown clumsy 
 in the use of them. Directly she caught an eye upon 
 them she projected them into the nearest covert. Her 
 fiery demand for knowledge had dwindled down to a 
 lukewarm nibble after information. 
 
 Her laugh had lost its quality. She was no longer 
 
 39
 
 40 111!' FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 a dnng-er. In this ill-timed, arrested development of 
 Tonv, the Colonel did not know whether to thank 
 God or suspect the Devil. 
 
 There were hints of subtlety in the sudden change 
 that belied its crudity. Tom's disappointment was 
 blank. 
 
 "And this is what comes of interfering with 
 nature," sighed the foiled conspirator. 
 
 "I thought I'd start a doll," said Tony, the first 
 moment she had his ear to herself. "I rooted them 
 all out of the attic, but they're such abject wrecks 
 I couldn't simply. And — a skipping-rope — one 
 can't very well here, you know. I read right through 
 a Girls' Oivn Paper. That was worse than the dolls. 
 And now Father looks worried. You look dull — oh ! 
 how dull 3'ou look. And even Mother hopes I won't 
 turn out gawky and disgrace her and spoil the place. 
 I've satisfied no one. And I feel just awful." 
 
 The Colonel carefully searched for words, a silken 
 ripple smote like rude thunder upon Tony's ears. In 
 spite of a thousand resolutions she banged the door 
 and bolted. 
 
 "Nice promise for the future," said Giles, mopping 
 a damp brow, and by sheer reflex action setting ready 
 a chair for Lucilla. She turned with anxious tender- 
 ness to Tom, whom Tony had happily bored to sleep. 
 Then, with a single inimitable glance, made Giles 
 one with her in their common sorrow. It was an 
 abominable habit she had lately acquired, and it was 
 settling down and strengthening in Lucilla; an ac- 
 cumulative process, apparently. Where it would end 
 he shuddered to think. 
 
 "Only for Tony," he thought wildly, "I'd take my 
 passage for India the day he dies." 
 
 "Giles," said Lucilla — calling him Giles was 
 another nefarious habit and meant to stay : the con- 
 founded intimacies of the woman grew and multiplied 
 — "I've been wanting to speak to you about Tony. 
 How natural it is becoming to refer to you in everv-
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 41 
 
 thing ! Can you ever understand how the child could 
 shut the door roughly to-day after the result of her 
 last visit? Tony is not unintelligent. It's not that. 
 No, it's no use ! I can't understand it at all." 
 
 She paused to alter her position in order to take 
 in Tom's profile and the whole of Giles. 
 
 "She's very difficult, poor little Tony; a bitter dis- 
 appointment, dear child — and so strangely uncouth. 
 Thank God, she's so young. One can still hope. 
 Time does sometimes work marvels. It's all been 
 so quick, Giles. Three months ago she was a docile, 
 well-meaning child." 
 
 Lucilla paused for delicate w^ords. Giles rapped 
 out those that came first. 
 
 "She's growing up, Mrs. Pemberton, that's all. 
 And trying her powers on all of us. We must all 
 take our chances with the new recruits. They're all 
 apt to give trouble, and Tony won't be behind the 
 rest." 
 
 *'I wonder if one forgets," she said dreamily, "or if 
 one must always idealise even oneself with one's 
 wonderful past. I do try to see myself clearly 
 through all the rosy glamour of it, and I can hardly 
 tell you how I suffer as I look back at my short- 
 comings — my blindness of heart that sometimes failed 
 even to see both of you — as you always were — at the 
 impatiences that disturbed you, at the illnesses that 
 made you sorry. Now I see that I might have hidden 
 more — been more silent, braver. But with perfect 
 sympathy one forgets reticence, and it is so natural 
 to turn to strength in one's weakness. It seems to 
 be the privilege of weakness and the glory of 
 strength," said Lucilla, with a tender smile. That 
 and the way in which she coupled him with her 
 unfortunate husband made Colonel Larpent nearly 
 swear aloud. 
 
 "Ah, Giles! Believe me, I have seen and suffered 
 and rejoiced. Was ever woman so blessed as I ? 
 But even at Tony's age, and with her inexperience,
 
 42 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 I don't think I could have been rough or thoughtless 
 — in such a room — in such a sorrow ! " 
 
 "You were an exception, Mrs. Pemberton," he got 
 out with a jerk. 
 
 "Indeed, Giles, I believe I was and am," she said 
 at last with her sweet, low laugh, "but in quite 
 another way from what you mean. When I see the 
 extraordinary cleverness and resource of the women of 
 my own age, their power of standing alone, their 
 personal ambitions, I begin to think I'm a poor 
 limited creature after all, with nothing to recommend 
 me but an old-fashioned heart and a faculty of trust." 
 She glanced from Tom to the Colonel. "And instead 
 of weakening with the years, I think it strengthens. 
 Oh, I know I'm rather despicable," she said, with 
 her incomparable smile, "a discredit to my sex, but 
 I believe after a life's experience that the highest 
 destiny any woman can desire is to follow a good 
 leader with perfect trust." 
 
 " Good God ! " thought the Colonel. " If that's not 
 a feeler I'd be glad to know what the devil it is." 
 
 He thought of Tom tied to her apron-strings, 
 strolling aimlessly about the meadows, and smoked 
 hard. 
 
 "The surrender of weakness to strength," she pro- 
 ceeded as though thinking aloud, "is so natural, so 
 right. One receives back all that one has given, in 
 such full measure. It's all so fair. There's no 
 slavery in it, no loss of pride. I've never once 
 regretted my state of utter dependence." 
 
 "The deuce you haven't ! " reflected Giles. "Catch 
 you letting go of a good thing." 
 
 "And Tom ! I needn't speak for Tom, dear Giles 
 — to you. What a life we've had — we three." 
 
 " My God ! but she'll leave me without a shred of 
 a character before she's done," he reflected savagely. 
 
 "You're tired out, Mrs. Pemberton," he said. "No 
 woman could stand it. Won't you rest a bit, and 
 I'll look after Tom? Lie down on the sofa there."
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 43 
 
 "I couldn't, Giles — my mind is so full of my dear 
 ones. I used to dream of a fate just like mine for 
 Tony, and now — now — Tony has started counter- 
 dreaming on her own account ! " 
 
 "Oh, well ! The old dreams must give way to the 
 new, Mrs. Pemberton. It's the way of life. You're 
 not the first." 
 
 There were tears in her sad eyes ; an appealing 
 glance. He left the tears to Providence and dealt 
 with the glance. 
 
 "And after all Tony's in the right of it. She's got 
 her day and generation to consider, and a power of 
 surplus energy to dispose of before she'll settle down. 
 And as for following the leading of any one man " 
 
 "Don't mention men, Giles. Oh, not for years! 
 My little Tony ! My baby girl ! " 
 
 " How old were you, dear lady, when Tom came ? " 
 
 "I? But, oh, the difference! I had learnt obedi- 
 ence. And — pain — dear Giles, pain teaches." 
 
 "It taught you to get your own way, at any rate," 
 mused Giles. 
 
 "Forgive me for repeating a truism, Mrs. Pember- 
 ton," said he. "You were an exception." 
 
 "Ah! You've always spoilt me, you two! And 
 perhaps if you hadn't I might have been a worse 
 woman. It puts one under a great obligation to be 
 spoilt. It's a sort of counsel of perfection in itself. 
 But let us come back to Tony. Tony's the important 
 person now ! " said Lucilla incredulously. 
 
 She looked for a glance of denial from Giles, but 
 his patience was now on the wane. He stared peace- 
 fully at his pipe. 
 
 "Yes," said he, "you're right. "Tony's the 
 problem now. The house will soon be full of her." 
 
 Lucilla looked at him with almost a gasp. She 
 went quietly to Tom, showered silent benedictions 
 upon him and came back, looking a little proud and 
 distant. 
 
 "I hope not, Giles. 1 hope it is not as bad as you
 
 44 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 fear. Bcinc: taken suddenly from school to face — 
 this, and her father's wish to have her with him have 
 brought Tony too much forward. I have seen and 
 deplored it. And you, Giles — you are not blameless. 
 You, as well as dearest Tom, allows the child to speak 
 to you as though she were a woman. Oh ! do believe 
 me it is no kindness to poor little Tony. You can 
 see it for yourself," she pleaded. "Instead of soften- 
 ing — this insufferable trial has hardened her, rough- 
 ened instead of making her tender. If anything could 
 make more bitter my sorrow, its effect on my little 
 daughter would do so." 
 
 "I'm afraid if that's how you take it, it must. The 
 dev — hem ! — Mrs. Pemberton, don't you see, the 
 trouble is that Tony must go on growing up through 
 it all. Nothing '11 stop Nature." 
 
 "I wish you wouldn't use the word, Giles. It does 
 Tony an injustice." 
 
 Giles stared — he wondered how, precisely, but in 
 his fear of multiplying words refrained from 
 questions. 
 
 "When I look back along the years," she murmured, 
 "and think of my ideal debutante and see Tony ! Oh, 
 Giles ! Let time do its work. Let me do my best. 
 Let Tonv the child mellow quietly into Tony the 
 girl." 
 
 Giles held his tongue. Lucilla looked moving. 
 And Tom's half-awake eyes were worshipping her 
 with an effort. 
 
 Giles cast out the devil by whom he was now 
 fully possessed, and for a minute or two played into 
 Lucilla's hands. Then he remembered Tony and 
 fetched up sharp. 
 
 "As I said just now," said he, "I don't like forcing- 
 beds any more than you do, Mrs. Pemberton, but 
 this is the day for them. And Tony's height — you'll 
 admit " 
 
 "No, I won't, Giles," she said, with her charming 
 laugh. "I'll admit nothing. Her height has misled
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 45 
 
 you and Tom, but never me ! Tony's my dear, 
 foolish, perverse child, who's got out of hand for the 
 moment in the stress of everything, but that will 
 arrange itself, and some day Tony will be a real 
 woman. And, Giles, you'd be sorry if she weren't! 
 You and Tom, above all men, know what a woman 
 should be." 
 
 In spite of himself, Giles looked weighed down 
 with foreboding. She glanced at him and felt that 
 she understood. 
 
 "I never did a clever thing in my life, or uttered 
 a clever sentence, but I know you both through and 
 through," she said, with gentle reassurance; "better 
 far than you know yourselves, and through you I 
 know other men. Dear Tony's little wayward ways, 
 her disorderliness, her hoydenish hardness of, I fear, 
 both heart and soul, may amuse you now — may help 
 to hide for a moment the awful, awful truth. But to 
 hide truth so as to make one forget it, is the work of a 
 child or of a kitten. To see truth and to show it 
 forth is that of a woman." 
 
 She glanced at Giles ; she hoped the high heroism 
 of her remark would touch a chord in his reflective 
 mind. Her eyes shone with a yearning light. Her 
 lips trembled. 
 
 Giles smoked on, affable but speechless. She 
 gently sighed. Some day, perhaps, she would be 
 enabled to break down the wall of reserve which cruel 
 circumstance had built up around dear Giles. 
 
 She was quite sincere in her belief and convictions 
 in regard to Giles' affair. She had deplored in secret 
 the penalty of the Personality around which tragedy 
 must perforce weave itself. She had not, as we know, 
 neglected to mention the matter in her prayers. 
 
 "Won't you trust me, Giles?" she pleaded; "to 
 hand over Tony to her own care at the right moment. 
 Ah ! don't speak. I know you will. I'm so glad, 
 Giles, that I never believed in your cynicism." 
 
 "I'm glad you never did, Mrs. Pemberton. It's
 
 46 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 always as well to take most things with a grain of salt. 
 Tom's awake. So I'll clear. . . . Call me when you 
 want me." 
 
 He thought of Lucilla with real interest as he made for 
 the garden. "She is developing," he reflected, "fast. 
 She's mapping out an undivided course for herself, 
 that's plain. I wonder for how long. Are Tony's 
 clothes to shri\el and her legs to stretch indefinitely 
 in the background? She doesn't want the girl, ap- 
 parently, even for a foil. She's right there. Never 
 saw a girl less cut out for a foil than Tony. But to 
 languish in the nursery while Lucilla spreads her 
 tendrils ! 
 
 "It gives one a loophole of escape oneself," he 
 mused, "but the tendrils have toughened with ex- 
 perience, and she's developing. There's no doubt 
 about it. I wonder what mischief she will be at next. 
 She's done enough, God knows, already. Damn the 
 woman ! You have to think of her. She'll never 
 let you off. Once Lucilla gets fixed in your mind 
 she's harder to root out than a thousand vices."
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 "I couldn't hear a word you said," said Tom, 
 "but I feel sure it was some nonsense about Tony. 
 Tony's all right, dear. She's doing very well." 
 
 She sprayed him with scent, and caressed and re- 
 caressed him. 
 
 "I can see you're over anxious about her, Lucilla," 
 he said, when at last it was over. When she had left 
 him alone. 
 
 The ugly traitorous words had again come up his 
 throat. He reddened with shame, he moved his head 
 restlessly, and tried to get things right, but they 
 seemed resolved to go wrong, and he was too tired 
 now for any violent effort. 
 
 "I believe you want to make her like yourself, 
 child." There was a tone of painful irritability in 
 his spent voice and he knew it, but that, too, had 
 got beyond his power. The humiliation of this dying 
 came bitterly home to him. 
 
 "Give it up, Loo! She'd never be more than a 
 poor imitation of you. It would never do — never suit 
 her. She's better as she's shaping. It's only poets 
 and romancers who make men want to have their 
 wives reproduced in their daughters. They don't; 
 they want to see the daughters start off on a new 
 track. It's something new they want, that won't 
 clash with the old and established, that won't set you 
 thinking and classifying and sorting," he spoke to 
 himself, with closed eyes. He was trying to clear 
 them, and to shut out the things hurtful to him — 
 hurtful, traitorous, preposterous to her whom he so 
 loved — who was all things to him, and yet they came 
 and came again. 
 
 47
 
 48 Till- FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 And that other vision, the new one that freshened 
 his fading hfe and braced him to meet death, that 
 carried him in an odd way through death and beyond 
 it, on with Tony into her throbbing hfe; — that made 
 him fearless, immortal — just passing on out of her 
 sight for a little space — but with her still — Tony was 
 his bond with earth and heaven, inalienable from 
 him, and yet it was this vision that had brought the 
 other to nought. It was life-giving— full of life, and 
 yet it had killed something that was immortal. 
 
 Was it after all the other vision that had held 
 Eternity and now brought death creeping in about 
 him, which was mortal ? 
 
 But it was Lucilla whom he loved ! Oh, God, how 
 he loved her ! He peered out at her bewildered, in 
 unendurable pain ; she looked fragile, spent, courage- 
 ous, and a wave of the old protective tenderness 
 welled up in him as he stretched out his shaking hand 
 to touch hers. 
 
 "I don't want to leave such another as you, Lucilla, 
 here alone without me to take care of her. Think of 
 vourself, child, when I married you. Tony, as she 
 is, will find a better man, I hope, than ever I've been 
 — but Tony as you, I shouldn't want to leave. I 
 couldn't be sure she'd get all she ought to have. 
 "It was a great deal, the price was high," said the 
 knave inside him. Tom shivered and went on 
 hurriedly, "You'll never want care, Loo, with Giles 
 about." ' 
 
 "Tom, don't," she pleaded. 
 
 "You're right, child. What's the use of saying 
 this to a woman whose last thought has always been 
 for herself?" 
 
 He stirred uneasily, miserably. 
 
 "Does it never strike you to get bored with this, 
 Loo ? To wish it was over ? " 
 
 "Tom!" 
 
 Never sure was such a wealth of tenderness packed 
 into one little word. It oueht to have satisfied him,
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 49 
 
 but he was sad, sad to his weary heart : so sad as 
 only the dying failure can be. 
 
 "It's a mistake to die slow, I think, especially for 
 a man who has lived out of doors a lot — on the land 
 — till the quiet of it somehow got into him — and made 
 him a bit sleepy — not inclined to bother, you know 
 — till even the things he did care for — and God knows 
 had time enough to make something of — became the 
 playthings of an idle mind. For that sort of a 
 fellow dying slowly is a nuisance. There's too much 
 time. And dying makes you sharp, too sharp — when 
 time's already past for you." 
 
 Wild, vaguely interweaving thoughts came throng- 
 ing in. Blurred memories, lost hopes. His tired 
 head ached, hateful thoughts came in, and these must 
 be ejected. The weariness of dying was unspeakable. 
 The work was hard for a confirmed idler. 
 
 Whenever Tom said anything not directly con- 
 cerned with her or with her world, Lucilla suspected 
 psychic disturbance and flew to remedies. She was 
 sincerely anxious in regard to Tom's soul. 
 
 She laid his hand on the arm of his long chair and 
 gently opened her Bible. Tom looked disappointed, 
 then faintly smiled. 
 
 "She likes it," he thought, "it comforts her — and 
 one might say too much — I wonder how far I could 
 have gone with Tony — to any distance, I think. Ah, 
 well — Tony's, better out of it. One can't say too 
 much to Tony. She might — remember and hurt 
 Lucilla. And yet to be silent — now — hurts me! and 
 I'm the hero of the piece, after all — and things keep 
 coming — that Tony should know. I wonder what 
 more there's still to come. Nothing 'd surprise me 
 now." 
 
 Lucilla, her voice sweet, toned to a reverent mono- 
 tony, was reading a chapter in Isaiah. Faithful to 
 her ideal in all things, humbly ready to follow a 
 leader, she had chosen the first lesson of the day to 
 uplift and edify Tom.
 
 50 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 He tried to keep his thoughts in check for an 
 instant, to Hsten to her and watch her. She was 
 always good to watch — when one could keep from 
 thinking. She was, moreover, the symbol of a great 
 love and of years of loyal devotion. When he refused 
 to see anything but Lucilla, he had always found 
 peace. He had never denied himself in the matter, 
 but now it was becoming difficult. Once it had 
 been the most natural thing in the world to isolate 
 Lucilla, to keep her within the shrine he had built for 
 her, now she kept always slipping into the sum of 
 his relations, bringing discord. It seemed unaccount- 
 able. In failing himself — had he — could he possibly 
 have failed Lucilla also? Was he guilty in this 
 too? 
 
 A sudden great sorrow for Lucilla seized and tore 
 him. 
 
 Tony ! — oh, she was all right — but this woman 
 for whom he had given the best in life — and who — 
 who was as impervious to the size and import of the 
 gift, and the penalty she had incurred in its accept- 
 ance now as she had been at eighteen — to be left to 
 the mercy of life ! 
 
 Lucilla read on devoutly. He lifted himself up on 
 his sharp elbow staring, with wide, scared eyes, for 
 the naked truth stood out before him. For twenty 
 years she had robbed and impoverished him, and he 
 had left her as poor as he had found her. He had let 
 her lie fallow all these long years, and one was as 
 guilty as the other. 
 
 "So much for a life's devotion," said Tom, sinking 
 back. "Oh! my God, I could have done a lot for 
 Lucilla, and I've done nothing but teach her to cling. 
 Ah, poor Lucilla ! I'd like to take her with me. We 
 might begin again together. I might make it up 
 to her. . . . 
 
 "If I'd known — if I'd known before the will was 
 made! — but I can't change it now. It wouldn't be 
 playing the game to Lucilla. No ! — I couldn't do
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 51 
 
 it — I couldn't explain. Besides, she couldn't under- 
 stand — one couldn't expect her to. 
 
 "And" — he pressed his hand to his head to still 
 the perplexed pain in it — "what is it? I'm forget- 
 ting something. Ah ! Giles — and Tony, Giles knew 
 all the time ! " 
 
 This came on him like a blow. He cowered back 
 into his pillow. "I see it all now," he said, "at last. 
 He did what he could for me — but he might have done 
 considerably better with his own life. My God ! 
 She's docked him too. 
 
 "For the love of Christ," his heart cried out when 
 it could speak, "let me keep on loving her." 
 
 "Are you listening, dearest Tom? Do I tire 
 you ? " 
 
 "I'm — I'm a hopeless fellow, Lucilla. I wasn't 
 listening for the last few minutes. Let us both rest 
 a minute or two — and then begin again, will you, 
 child, and we'll start fair?" 
 
 He compelled his whirling senses, the horror of 
 passion and pain and regret that tore him, to be still. 
 He must think it out afterwards. But to know it — 
 and now — now ! 
 
 "But it's hard on me," he said. "It's hard on 
 Lucilla ! She mustn't do any more mischief, how- 
 ever — or, at least, as little as I can help. 
 
 "Giles will do the right thing by her, but he mustn't 
 be bound. He mustn't be her trustee. He'll have to 
 look. after Tony regardless of her, and see that Tony 
 lives her own life and not that of her mother's choos- 
 ing. But Tony'll look out for herself, thank God. 
 And now I'll rest a bit and let her read," he said, and 
 smiled as a man with an unassuageable sorrow smiles, 
 and a wave of a love more divine than any he had ever 
 known flowed slowly into his heart wounded to death. 
 
 "I must go on loving her all I know," he thought, 
 settling himself to listen. 
 
 "Now, Lucilla, go ahead. I'm all attention," he 
 said. 
 D 2
 
 52 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 There was a sort of maqic in the Bible for Liicilla, 
 quite irrespective of reason. It was an irrefrap^able 
 fact to be taken obediently with faith and without 
 argument, like a patent medicine. It stood above 
 doubt, criticism or selection, like her own soul, and 
 any one part of it was every bit as efficacious as the 
 other. 
 
 After a few moments reading, Tom's sudden 
 amused, appreciative laugh, almost paralysed her. 
 
 "And in his state," she thought, pausing with deep 
 solicitude to move a pillow. 
 
 She took a keenly personal interest in Tom's soul. 
 She was convinced that she had saved him from the 
 greatest of all sins, that of agnosticism. This in 
 Lucilla's mental make-up embraced a wide and 
 sinister area, full of grisly dangers. It meant all that 
 she could not understand, and in the presence of 
 which she felt small. 
 
 Sometimes in his early untamed days Tom w^ould 
 interrupt her sweetest meditations on sacred subjects 
 with a wild torrent of irreverence; strange, passionate 
 utterances fell from his lips, shuddering peculiarities 
 of opinion, laughter before which her whole being 
 stood dumb and full of prayerful entreaty. 
 
 But that was long ago in the old twilights in the 
 woods, or at night in the peace of their own fire-side, 
 often, alas, upon their return from a beautiful service. 
 
 Or in those strange excitements which possessed 
 him in their sad short stays in Town to see the latest 
 specialist. The effect of Town upon Tom had always 
 almost violently disturbed her. She had quailed 
 before the multiplicity of the temptations that might 
 beset him, thankfully unaware, as she was, of their 
 precise nature. She had always stood delicately 
 aside from all knowledge that might soil. She had 
 refused to look into the things from which the best 
 women must instinctively shrink, just as she had shut 
 sense and ear to the almost incredible suggestions 
 of unbelief in Tom's wild and amazing outbreaks.
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 53 
 
 Deeply as she loved Tom and leant upon him in 
 his higher moments, she had, she flattered herself, in 
 those lower ones always resisted him as she would 
 have resisted the devil. Not by strife of words. Far 
 from it. She found silence better and the incredulous 
 sadness of her eyes. 
 
 How glad she was, how thankful ! that sweetness 
 and gentleness had always been her sure guides. 
 She had won by love, and by silence she had silenced. 
 She must have felt common and uncouth had she by 
 one word, one look, one gesture ever once roused or 
 offended Tom. Her soft answer had always turned 
 away wrath. She had from the beginning laid the 
 sacred seal of her presence upon spoken irreverence. 
 
 She had served him with weakness, and it had 
 served them both more faithfully than strength. In 
 her hands it had indeed conquered, and how glad she 
 was that she had learnt the way young. She could 
 only count six Sundays in their long life together in 
 which Tom had not attended divine service. Was 
 ever woman so helped by weakness ? Truly all things 
 had worked together for good to her ! 
 
 And now to be interrupted by Tom's astonishing 
 laugh. It was pitiful in its weakness, if only she 
 had had ears to hear, but she thought of the ribald 
 laughter of years ago and her whole attitude besought 
 him. 
 
 Tom forgot to look at her ! His amusement had 
 stretched out indefinitely into a beckoning web of 
 ideas all tipped with light. The slight ridiculous 
 things were looping and twining in round the great 
 grave events ; a lamp-lighter went round with his 
 torch. Tom saw too much into which Lucilla had 
 never entered to think of her. He must tread these 
 new paths alone. He must hurry to see all that he 
 could in the little time. 
 
 But the gentle persistence of a life-time cannot go 
 unrewarded. Her eyes entreated until he stirred, 
 sighed, and looked at her.
 
 54 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 "You laughed, dear Tom." 
 
 Me was bewildered for an instant. lie had travelled 
 long distances beyond the laugh, he was now in the 
 zone of tears that rings round laughter. 
 
 "Ah! so I did! It was those amazing verses. 
 What's 'sinning with a cart-rope,' Lucilla? It 
 sounds new and rather enticing. Why didn't you 
 read it to me before, years ago — when there was time 
 to go into it, and sift all one could out of it, and so 
 understand, perhaps," he said vaguely, half forget- 
 ting her, "why, for instance, it makes you feel 
 religious." 
 
 " Dearest Tom, shall I read a psalm ? " 
 
 "No, child, your voice is tired. Get me that 
 Browning there, and look out ' The Grammarian's 
 Funeral.' Put a mark in it, and open the infernal 
 book so that it won't shut in my face. Sit on it. Loo ! 
 But you're too light. You wouldn't make any im- 
 pression. Tony'd do better as a book-press. Call 
 Giles, and go and rest. Loo. I liked your reading, 
 dear, but ' sinning with a cart-rope ' floors me. I'm 
 not irreverent, child," he said w-earily, smiling at her. 
 "I believe — I believe in the creed just as you do — 
 perhaps more. It's all shut up in the creed — if one 
 could onlv understand it. Tliat ought to content you. 
 Suppose I wei;e to die a Primitive Baptist or a Budd- 
 hist, Lucilla, think of the bad taste it would leave in 
 your mouth. Remember the creed, Loo, afterwards, 
 when things go awry with you and you begin to wonder 
 if I were sound. Good-bye, child, rest all you can." 
 
 He looked thoughtfully after the beautiful swaying 
 figure. 
 
 "Ah! poor Loo!" he said; "but she'd better go. 
 
 'And what we would we know, 
 And what we mean we say.' 
 
 I hope I won't say anything to hurt her. But the 
 things come and I can't stop them now. It is con- 
 temptible in a w^ay this — compulsory job. It takes 
 a mean advantage of you."
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 The Colonel saw in an instant that what the poor 
 fellow wanted was silence. He always wanted it him- 
 self after a dose of Lucilla, and as Tom was forbidden 
 whisky it was his one hope now. 
 
 Giles freed him from all touch and trace of the 
 woman — that is, so far as he could do it without being 
 too marked. He then opened the windows and buried 
 himself obstinately in a book. 
 
 Tom laughed softly. Things were coming very 
 clear to him now, and oh, the pity of it ! 
 
 "And since it's all my own fault after all, I suppose 
 I ought to be repenting," he thought. "I oughtn't 
 to lose a minute, as a matter of fact." 
 
 He lay twisted by a thousand clamouring memories, 
 but there was no time to deal with them now. 
 
 "I must leave them to eternity," he said, "and do 
 the few little things that concern time, I suppose. 
 I've left too much to eternity. I wonder — I wonder 
 how it will all turn out." 
 
 "Giles," he said suddenly after a long rest, "chuck 
 that book. I want to talk to you — Lacon won't be 
 back till seven o'clock. He goes to London to-day, 
 but ring him up at seven sharp before the cart goes 
 round, and tell him to come on here. I must see him 
 to-night. He can sleep here and get back early. I'm 
 not going to have you for Lucilla's trustee after all. 
 Old Anthony will be one, of course, and I'll ask 
 Lacon to stand in your place." 
 
 "What the devil " 
 
 "It's all right, Giles. Don't disturb yourself. 
 Your hands will be full enough without Lucilla, you 
 bet. You're still Tony's guardian, and I want you 
 
 55
 
 56 Till" FIRE-SIiEKER 
 
 to be free to guard her." lie paused for breath. 
 "Tony's your alTair. I wonder what sort of a hand 
 you'll make of it. Rum, Giles, to thin.k of you 
 chaperoning Tony. She'll want some chaperoning ! 
 I want her to do what she wants to do herself, if she 
 wants it enough, that is — that's to be the test, and 
 I think I can trust Tony to want with a will. I want 
 her to find out things for herself, and see things and 
 feel them — and do them. I want her to do some of 
 the things I've only thought of, and to give them to 
 some one— perhaps to the world. To give what I've 
 held back. Tony's my hostage to Time, Giles. I 
 want her to fulfil herself and me. To be the inter- 
 preter of the two of us, in her own way. You'll have 
 your work cut out for you, old man. I'm asking a 
 iot of you. I'm asking more than any mother could 
 give, I think. Tony must walk free among men. 
 That is why I want you to be absolutely free of her 
 mother. 
 
 "You must get the girl what I wish her to have — 
 the right to find her own way to her own life. And 
 you must help her to the courage never to be afraid 
 of any unexplored path. Above all, she must have 
 a free hand," he said, with a vehemence that shattered 
 his failing powers. 
 
 He stopped for breath and to get back his clear 
 vision of certainty in regard to Tony. 
 
 "Oh, you'll want courage and common-sense," he 
 said at last, "and you'll have to believe in her. She 
 mustn't be afraid of anything, or you for her. Above 
 all, she must be open to all emotions — all of them, 
 great and small." 
 
 "Emotions," muttered the Colonel, dazed with this 
 vision of the future Tony. 
 
 "Yes, let them all come ! " said Tom, with a feeble 
 chuckle. "The more the merrier. Tony must live, 
 and — and the woman in her will take care of Tony. 
 
 "She can be learned or not as she likes," he went 
 on feebly ; "that's her affair : but she must be ignorant
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 57 
 
 of nothing, indifferent to nothing. Her mind must 
 be hospitable enough to admitany visitor, wide enough 
 to appreciate every effort that makes for freedom, 
 even if it fails. She'll find that hard, Tony — women 
 hate failure ; but she'll have to learn it. Oh ! she 
 must feel and experience and learn and inspire, and 
 she must consort with publicans and sinners in order 
 to learn to do it all. You must understand them and 
 stand by them before you can save them. You must 
 be a law-breaker yourself before you can enforce the 
 law. Don't be a prig, Giles — it depends on how it's 
 broken. I mean that one must be free in order to set 
 free, and one must hurt and set aside and outrage and 
 offend. You must carry your own cross and compel 
 other people to carry theirs before you can live and 
 be free. We must all stump up our blood and sweat 
 for the big job. You can't live alone — or suffer alone 
 — or go under alone. — Ah ! Where was I ? 
 
 "As to intellect — she'll want all she has of it, of 
 course, and to do the best for it, but the woman who 
 will work wonders must drive with Spirit on the box 
 seat. And then, even if she can't compete with them 
 in any department — we know so little of Tony, we two 
 old fools — she can control the Councils of men. A 
 woman is independent of crude action, if she's big 
 enough. She can sit tight while some man fights 
 and plays for her, or come down into the field if she 
 likes and fight with her own weapons, but not with 
 his. — I'd like Tony to do some fine definite thing, 
 but if she can't it doesn't matter. I don't believe" I 
 really care if she never paints a picture or writes a 
 book. They're all too little for a woman. She's 
 greater herself than anything she's ever done. Her 
 work must always disappoint. What she's got to do 
 is to — what is it? — to 'save civilisation.' I'd like 
 her some day to lift some man to his highest. It is 
 for women we do all our work, they ought to help us 
 to make it perfect. The woman always looks beyond 
 the man to her ideal of him if she is a woman, and
 
 58 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 it's the man's fault if he lets her stop short of what she 
 sees in him. 
 
 "I've never " he broke oflf suddenly. "I wonder 
 
 what the mills of God are getting ready for me in 
 the way of new pain," he said after a pause. "Loiter- 
 ing in the fields used to seem innocent enough, 
 Giles, and it was pleasant, especially when you were 
 down. But it doesn't do now. Not enough, old 
 man, when one could have done more. Life did not 
 pass me by. It threw down the glove to me, and I 
 let it lie." 
 
 "For God's sake, Tom, don't get morbid," said 
 the Colonel. "I'll do all I know for Tony." 
 
 "She'll bring you into a tight place or two, 
 Giles." 
 
 "She won't do much more than kick up her heels 
 a bit," said Giles, with a deep sinking of heart. "The 
 unfortunate child can't escape a trace of Lucilla," he 
 mused. "It's a serious charge; I hope to God I'll 
 pull it through." 
 
 There was a long silence. 
 
 When Tom spoke again his voice was weaker. 
 
 "Tony won't put back your book, Giles. She won't 
 be a skid on you. She'll be much more likely to 
 hustle you possibly out of your wits. You'll have 
 lively times, Giles, but they'll do you good. Think 
 of me out of it all ! I'd like to go on a bit with you 
 and be hustled by Tony — into what, I wonder?" 
 
 "I could have made men believe — in everything — 
 it's all worth it," he said presently, "if I'd been 
 among them down in the rough-and-tumble of the 
 common life. It's the only life for a man who has 
 something to say. I had, I think, and I've never said 
 it. It's a bad sin, Giles, w'orse than we thought. 
 Take care you don't go under with one like it upon 
 you. Put your job through, no matter who pays the 
 piper. Sparing the weak is the meanest apology to 
 life of a weak man. I've seen and not recorded. I've 
 taken and never given back. I've been where I could
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 59 
 
 have brought other men, and I've funked my job. 
 How does it go ? — ^you know, in The Buried Life — 
 
 'A man becomes aware of his life's flow, 
 And hears its winding murmurs and he sees 
 The meadows where it gUdes, the sun, the breeze.' 
 
 How does it go on ? — Ah ! — 
 
 ' And he thinks he knows 
 The hills where his life rose. 
 And the sea where it goes.' 
 
 I knew it all — often — down by the stream and alone 
 in the woods. I was well soaked in philosophy^ — had 
 the Germans at my finger-tips, as you know. 1 had 
 the arguments and the counter arguments ready and 
 all the words; and I laid no gift under the rock. 
 — I haven't left a line behind me to prove my 
 boast." 
 
 "You've left us more than any book ever written, 
 Tom. You've left us yourself — your personality." 
 
 "In what character? Thomas Tisdaile Pemberton, 
 an inimitable family man. Put it on my tombstone, 
 Giles. On the little white cross of best Carrara, and 
 the nice letters well chipped in. Put it in Greek text 
 so that no one but you can read it. It will amuse me 
 in the Shades. Perhaps I'll stroll round one evening 
 and add a commentary. — Oh ! there was something 
 more to the purpose I wanted to say. Where the 
 devil is it gone?" He paused and frowned. "Ah! 
 it's the money part of the business. Tony '11 only 
 have ;^ioo a year of her own. I am leaving every- 
 thing to Lucilla. 
 
 "It was a mistake," he said slowly, "but I can't 
 change it — the change would hurt her, and I can't 
 hurt her in these things. She's not prepared for 
 pain. I'd like to ward off all I could from her." 
 
 "Oh, shut up, Tom ! I have enough for anything 
 Tony's likely to want." 
 
 "That's all right, then. I'll sleep a bit." 
 
 "Good Lord ! " said the Colonel, watching his worn
 
 6o THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 fare. "What does he see or feel or know? There's 
 a horrible look of prophecy, as it were, about the un- 
 fortunate fellow. lie sees and feels and knows a 
 damned sight too much for so sick a man. It's not 
 fair play. And as for Tony and what he knows of 
 her, if I'm to tackle Tony, I'd better not know all 
 that's ahead of me. I prefer to take it as it comes." 
 
 He sat rigid for a moment, then he solemnly stood 
 up. 
 
 "My God!" he said, "have mercy on the man. 
 If he's failed, he's failed and will have to pay for it, 
 and he'll not funk his job this time. But I'm taking 
 over a job myself I don't understand, and it rips the 
 heart out of a man to be asked to read before he knows 
 his alphabet. For Christ's sake take him over before 
 any of us know any more of it all, or it'll take what 
 courage we've left from us." 
 
 " I say ! " said Tony, w ho had come in on tip- 
 toes, and stood transfixed, unable to advance or 
 retreat. 
 
 The Colonel would have been glad had the earth or 
 anything else swallowed him up, but his immediate 
 affair was to stand up to Tony. And he could 
 not start his amazing relation to her by any 
 evasion. 
 
 "I'm not a religious man, Tony," he said grimly, 
 "as the world counts religion; I could wish I were 
 just now, but a few^ minutes ago your father prac- 
 tically made you over to my care. It's a big order, 
 my girl, and means work, and, 'pon my soul, I had to 
 say a prayer." 
 
 Tony stared, open-mouthed, from her father to the 
 Colonel. 
 
 "It's not you as you are — girl," he hurriedly ex- 
 plained, "but the woman he wants made out of you. 
 He sees you this minute as he wants vou to be — a — 
 a creature with unbroken wings — w^ho'll help to * save 
 civilisation.' He said it, my girl, in those very words.
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 6i 
 
 I haven't even dreamt of — of that sort of person, 
 Tony, for twenty-four years. But " — he took Tony 
 by the shoulders and turned her to the Hght — "the 
 man there sees more than either of us — and he's got 
 nearer to the truth of things; and — and — if you ever 
 make what he sees — vulgar or common, or if you take 
 advantage of the liberty he wishes you to have, God 
 forgive you, girl, and God help me who has the 
 charge of you, and will have to render account of it, 
 too. Oh ! it's a big order," he sighed, "and wants 
 outside aid if anything ever did." 
 
 Tony w'as trembling, overwhelmed with excitement 
 and desire and a great dread. 
 
 By some sudden convulsion of her whole nature, 
 her heart beat with her father's and knew its wounds, 
 and knew that she could have healed them. They 
 could have gone on together, with a laugh, anywhere. 
 They could have tasted, touched, handled anything. 
 Tony felt limitless. In such companionship all things 
 w^ere possible, all things hers, and yet he must go 
 away before they knew each other. 
 
 " I wish he could tell me himself — I wish he could 
 tell me himself," she said at last, half-dazed. 
 
 "Perhaps he will," said the Colonel, very gently. 
 "He will, I think." 
 
 She was still half a child, and knew where others 
 only guess. 
 
 "No," she said slowly. "Something '11 happen, 
 and there won't be time." 
 
 Half-an-hour later he awoke and called her to 
 him, and as the Colonel went out he saw the 
 two eager faces close together, lit up with the same 
 light. 
 
 "Tony," he said, "I'm going to tell you all about 
 what I want you to do and be. But first, in case I 
 forget — you mustn't hurt your mother any more than 
 you can help. I loved her immensely— immensely. 
 In spite of everything — everything," he muttered; but
 
 62 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 Tony, leaning: breathlessly over him, heard — "It was 
 a great love." 
 
 For a few ihroljhiiii;- moments he lav thinking" of 
 it, and another liG:ht renewed his worn face. For an 
 instant he looked like a young lover. Then the light 
 vanished, and he was once again a failure under the 
 iron heel of Time. 
 
 "It may be impossible to help hurting her," he 
 said presently, "and to live; and what one's got to do 
 down here is to live — no matter who gets hurt. You 
 can't cut out pain for anybody. Tony, don't be pig- 
 headed, child, and go running your head against 
 unnecessary walls. But — but if you can't live in the 
 house, go out of it — anywhere out in the world and 
 live there. And never be afraid of a dream, Tony, no 
 matter how big it is; peg away at it till it comes down 
 on the flat earth and lives. Perhaps I shall be watch- 
 ing you — who knows? So — never be afraid of life, 
 Tony, but make a good job of it, child. And, Tony, 
 remember^ — remember above all " 
 
 And then Lucilla, like a fine sword of Damascus, 
 glided between the two. A score of times Tom 
 waited, Tony waited, their spirits sprang together, 
 but they never met alone again. The words were 
 never spoken. 
 
 Lucilla used her gift of silence to such perfection 
 as she had never used it before. There was genius 
 in her prescience of danger to her dominion. She 
 scented it afar off as a sleuth-hound might have done, 
 and held her own to the last. 
 
 At dawn of the next day Tom died, his last speech 
 silenced, and he left a rebel behind him to avenge his 
 wrongs. 
 
 He had fought for his own, too, but only feebly 
 now and with a divided mind. The tyranny of gentle- 
 ness had taken too firm a hold on him. Besides, he 
 could not hurt Lucilla now. But once he muttered 
 in his bewildered pain — happily it was only Giles who 
 heard him.
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 63 
 
 "For so light a weight, she rides heavy," he said. 
 "I never knew how heavy till now." 
 
 "I've been both fool and coward," he said again. 
 "I take all the blame — the whole of it. My God! 
 don't let her suffer much — she knew no better. But 
 don't let any one else suffer because of her."
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 Even when a woman has deeply loved her husband, 
 there is something in a woman that gives her a fearful 
 joy in being a widow. There is a fulness of complete- 
 ness in it, even though it be a fulness of completeness 
 of pain unutterable. She has thrown her toll to Fate. 
 She stands above Fate. Her widowhood is to the 
 woman a symbol of having attained by sorrow. The 
 water-mark of life's demand upon her is reached. 
 There is nothing more to fear. The real contest is 
 over, and yet there is a deeper abyss of life in front 
 into which she must plunge alone. 
 
 There is all the exultation of an immense solitary 
 adventure in being a widow indeed. In playing for 
 the first time a great lone hand, and stretching out 
 into the silence to the spirit, that cannot be very far 
 ofif for approval of the quality of the game. Her 
 horizon has illimitably widened. She finds a reserve 
 of deeper and ever-deepening needs w^hich must have 
 satisfaction. The other nature which in her instinctive 
 powers of assimilation she has been unconsciously 
 absorbing all these years has come half-conscious to 
 her aid. 
 
 As clearly, or with hooded eyes, she learns the loss 
 which is but of Time, just in the same degree does 
 she know the gain which is for Eternity. She has 
 got that of which death and the grave can never rob 
 her. And she has given as much. 
 
 Many a woman would have died of her unbearable 
 aloneness were not this so. 
 
 There are w-omen and women, however. Lucilla's 
 way of widowhood was of another order. That too 
 was touching, quite astonishingly becoming, and she 
 too found a pious joy in it. 
 
 64
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 65 
 
 There was a look of bewildered, supplicating, 
 youthful agony about her that must have gone to any 
 but a hopelessly hardened heart. 
 
 She gazed out at her darkened life with an almost 
 breathless yearning and suspense. Anxious to face 
 it beautifully, uncertain of her untried powers, she 
 was as a wise virgin, lost in the wilds, one fragile 
 hand holding the lamp too heavy for it, the other 
 stretched out for the help of a stronger. It was an 
 absorbing occupation. She forgot every ache. She 
 who had always had a dozen. She forgot to be tired; 
 she who had never been anything else. Being a 
 widow worthily swept out every other emotion. 
 
 Tom — at least what she knew of him— had been too 
 closely identified with herself not to have been very 
 dear to her. She sincerely mourned her husband. 
 She had lost an unconditional admirer, a devoted 
 lover. While Tom lived she had been sure always 
 of unstinted appreciation, unstinted sympathy. Never 
 in all her life had she had an ache or a fatigue or a 
 sorrow that Tom did not also feel. 
 
 It was a beautiful reflection, and spoke volumes for 
 the unity of the riven life. They had shared every- 
 thing — weal or woe — and she had saved him from a 
 thousand snares. 
 
 When she thought of the hardened selfishness of 
 the husbands of her acquaintance and the lonely 
 sufferings of their wives she shuddered. "It's the 
 women's fault," she said, "their pride, their criminal 
 concealment. It's their want of trust. They refuse 
 to share their burthens. Thank God I never did — - 
 I always laid my weakness upon his strength. I 
 was always the woman and he the man. Oh, thank 
 God ! thank God ! And I had my reward. Tom 
 never failed me. No man will ever fail a womanly 
 woman who trusts him and guards him — from himself. 
 His strength was always sufficient for both of us. 
 Ah ! how utterly I trusted him ! 
 
 "And — I — I never permitted him to be less than 
 
 E
 
 66 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 himself. Meow often have I changed and purified his 
 wild thoughts by silence and gentleness. I made him 
 a regular church-goer," she sobbed, "without one 
 irritating word. I think I brought him to God." 
 
 She was now sobbing almost with violence. 
 
 "It will be dilTerent with Tony," she thought sud- 
 denly, and that dried her tears. It was a scorching 
 reflection. "And alone!" she said — "alone!" 
 
 For an instant she paused to contemplate the lonely 
 bowed figure she saw so clearly in her mind's eye. 
 It tore her heartstrings. She shuddered away from it. 
 
 "But not alone," she said presently. "I have 
 Giles, thanks be to God. Together we will make a 
 woman of Tony. How glad I am that she is still a 
 child. And one can think for her, and guard her, 
 and defend her from that horrible knowledge of life 
 which seems to be the almost indecent goal of the 
 modern woman. Oh ! I'm so glad I'm old-fashioned 
 and was content to learn life through Tom. The 
 only part of it he would venture to let me see, that is. 
 Ah ! I was safe in his dear hands. And now Giles 
 and I — we'll let Tony grow quietly and unobserved 
 into W'hat I wish her to be." 
 
 At this moment Tony bounced in. She had 
 knocked twice without any effect, and the matter w-as 
 urgent. 
 
 Tony looked like a great black stork, and in her 
 excitement she pranced from one leg to the other 
 very much as storks do. 
 
 "I asked you to let it be a little longer," she cried. 
 "Just now when everybody '11 be staring at us. See ! 
 It's shorter than ever." 
 
 Tony stood with her legs wide apart and demon- 
 strated. 
 
 "Tony ! Is this the time " 
 
 "Oh, it's not, and I know I'm a beast, but. Mother 
 — I — I needn't be a ridiculous one. It makes one 
 think of oneself, a frock like this — and it's awful. 
 And just now — I was thinking," she said in a low,
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 67 
 
 half-frightened voice — "and things seemed to be hap- 
 pening — big things one wants to know, and I was 
 just going to know — oh ! I know I was ! — and then 1 
 went across the room, and suddenly in the long glass 
 there were my legs, and everything was little again 
 except the legs," she said, with a nervous, unsteady 
 laugh. 
 
 "Tony ! I didn't know that even a child could be 
 so light and vain. Please — please, dear, try not to 
 laugh in my room — not just yet, Tony; spare me for 
 just a few little days, child. You are too young 
 perhaps to understand quite what sorrow means, but 
 — he was your father, Tony ! " 
 
 Her face had dropped into her hands. She was 
 trembling, swaying — bent like a willow twig in a 
 blast. 
 
 Tony felt awful, looked, and reflected. Then a 
 storm of fiery indignation choked and shook her, and 
 a mob of violent words came clamouring up her 
 throat, when the Colonel's measured footsteps, 
 making as usual for the quiet room next door, smote 
 on their ears. A thousand recollections raced through 
 Tony's wild brain. She turned and fled. 
 
 The house was too icy with sorrow, the garden too 
 bright with flowers. Tony ran bare-headed to the 
 woods, and there among the brown pine-needles she 
 beat out her misery and her revolt. 
 
 "And to have to live with her for nineteen years — 
 to live with injustice as idiotic as that for all that 
 time," she moaned — "and to love her as he did, never 
 to give up loving her. Oh ! it wasn't fair.— And to 
 be only just beginning to like me! 
 
 " I'm not jealous," she protested, "and the Colonel's 
 a beast to say it, but it is sickeningly unfair — I don't 
 believe she cared whether he was a big man or a little 
 one — so long^so long — ■ Oh ! it's all too horrible ! " 
 
 " I won't think of things," she said, white with 
 sudden fear. She lifted herself from her lair and 
 went panting up the hill. She was ashamed of her 
 E 2
 
 68 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 horrible thoughts, and their sini^ular unlikeness to 
 her father's on the same subject. And yet she had 
 thought herself rather like him. She was sure her 
 mouth was just like his, and she had great hopes of 
 her eyes. And at least about the legs there could 
 be no doubt, and she could have understood every 
 atom of him if only there had been time. 
 
 And — as for her thoughts. They were her own — 
 and even he could not change them. 
 
 "And I mustn't be afraid of anything — even of 
 thoughts," she said. 
 
 Presently her lips trembled, her head dropped 
 lower, her knees felt weak, as she unflinchingly turned 
 over the pages of her mother's little life so pathetic- 
 ally open to her clear, cruel, young judgment. 
 
 "I can't help it," she said at last, leaning up against 
 a tree. "I must see if it's myself who's unfair, or 
 — or other people. I have to see her with my own 
 eyes and not with Father's — and — we could never 
 agree about her. — Fd like to be glad that he saw her 
 as he did," she said with a dry sob — " Fd give any- 
 thing to be. And — I think — I think Fm glad he's 
 dead." 
 
 That was worse than his death to Tony. She 
 walked on mechanically till she felt giddy and tired. — 
 Tony w'as never tired and never giddy. — She leant 
 over a wooden gate to wonder what it could be, and 
 all the live pain ran back into her dazed senses. She 
 lifted herself presently and stood looking out at an 
 empty world, despair too big for them in her purple 
 eyes. 
 
 After a long time she saw some one, and vaguely 
 resenting any presence, she opened the gate and 
 turned into the dim shadows of the trees. 
 
 "Fll have to see her different alw^ays," she said at 
 last, "it can't be helped. But Fll try not to say 
 things. — I wonder if one could possibly forget her 
 in time." 
 
 Presently she found that it was raining hard, and
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 69 
 
 suddenly she remembered her horrible new clothes. 
 She ran at full speed to the house, but the crepe- 
 trimmed frock was soaked. 
 
 Her mother, white and anxious, with two men dimly 
 visible beside her, was waiting on the verandah. 
 I3inner had been waiting half-an-hour. 
 
 "Tony! oh, Tony!" she whispered, "and to fill 
 me with anxiety to-day ! Was this your revenge, 
 child ? " 
 
 "I — I hadn't an idea of the time," said Tony, still 
 dazed — "and revenge — what do you mean?" 
 
 She glanced from her mother to her dripping skirt, 
 and her eyes flashed with fire. 
 
 "But do you even think I could revenge myself 
 in that awful sort of way? — and — and when you lived 
 with Father for all these years." 
 
 Taking no notice of the silent figures she felt rather 
 than saw, she stalked head in air across the carpet, 
 leaving rivers of water in her wake. She was instinct- 
 ively conscious of a wave of astonishment in the air 
 about her. 
 
 "But how dare any one be astonished," she said 
 haughtily, "till they know." 
 
 She looked, however, with some concern at the sop 
 of garments she was now spreading out on chairs. 
 "But to revenge myself on her with the wretched 
 rags ! " she panted, "and Father never to be able to 
 escape from a mind like that for nineteen years, and — 
 and never to see it. — He did catch a glimpse," she 
 cried with fiendish triumph — "and Fm glad." 
 
 Then shame took her and shook her. She fell 
 sobbing on her bare knees, and in this undignified 
 attitude she was caught by Foster, a young country- 
 bred, who had burst in like a whirlwind to help her 
 to dress. And with even her self-respect twisted out 
 of her, Tony limply resigned herself to Foster's 
 untaught touches, to the shapeless bodice that reeked 
 of innocence, showed too much of long bare arms 
 and not enough of a promising proud young neck,
 
 70 Till" FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 and the skirt that ended fourteen good inches from 
 the ground. 
 
 When completed, Tony was hardly a girl to appeal 
 to any one, much less her mother. Lucilla's last wish 
 was that so young and unformed a child should 
 attract attention, but she would have liked her to 
 look at least like the vague and nebulous beginnings 
 of something that she could eventually evolve into 
 even a faint likeness to herself. 
 
 Tony as she stalked in was nothing less than a slur 
 upon the creative powers of Lucilla, and with one 
 pregnant glance Tony was aware of it. She grew 
 stiff and self-conscious. Lucilla sighed as she 
 presented her with sweetest apology in her yearning 
 eyes to two men. They were both genuinely sorry for 
 Lucilla, and the Colonel, fuming in the background, 
 damned their wooden-headed folly. Lucilla, he had 
 seen for some time, had been making her innings. 
 Tony was put out of the field before she had got her 
 first run. 
 
 "I've never been able to stretch in the same house 
 with the woman any more than Tom could, and it'll 
 be the same with Tony. She's worse than a vampire, 
 he reflected ; he'll suck your blood, but she sucks the 
 life out of the very air. No wonder Tony looks as 
 ugly as sin — and Lucilla never looked better." 
 
 Tony caught sight of the Colonel fixedly regarding 
 her, with an obvious desire to be kind writ all over 
 him, and she could have killed every inhabitant of 
 the room without a ciualm.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 Tony, too young to know very much of her own 
 significance, was yet old enough to emphasise that 
 of unclothed legs and a swollen nose, and this added 
 the last touch of gloom to that stricken dinner. She 
 mechanically ate everything that was offered her. She 
 neither tasted nor selected, but consumed in a sort 
 af dull despair a very considerable amount. 
 
 After his first glance young Captain Pemberton 
 refused again to look at her face, but he found it 
 impossible to keep his eyes off her plate. He felt 
 sorrier than ever for her unfortunate mother. 
 
 Until he had seen her it was for the girl he had been 
 sorry. He was cutting her out of a lot. He hated 
 coming to the house as old Anthony's acknowledged 
 heir, standing by the dead man's grave as the 
 supplanter of his daughter, and he was warmly 
 grateful to Tom's beautiful widow for the exquisite 
 way in which she had made things easy for him. 
 Her fine tact and courage in going straight to the 
 heart of the matter, and frankly admitting Tony's 
 loss and his gain, had deeply impressed itself upon 
 him, and filled him with sname because of his own 
 luck ! For a good ten minutes he could have laid 
 all his prospects at her feet without a groan. Never 
 to the day of his death could he forget lAicilla's lovely 
 smile of renunciation, the generous guileless pain in 
 her fine eyes, her simple demand for his friendship. 
 
 She had taken him at a blow, so to speak, and was 
 equally successful with old Anthony who, up to this 
 moment, had had the poorest opinion of her. A woman 
 with a property at stake who can do nothing hut
 
 72 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 pr(.)(;luce one girl couldn't, according to Anthony, be 
 up to very much. He had scored her out very early 
 in the dav. As for Tom, he had been the disappoint- 
 ment of his life. To live content witli three acres and 
 a cow when he might have made a name for himself 
 and added lustre to the family was inconceivable 
 to Anthony. The family was the one passion of 
 Mr. Pemberton, besides horses and himself, and from 
 his very birth he had designed Tom as its proudest 
 ornament. Tom had been pre-ordained, it seemed, 
 to give Anthony something to boast of. Something 
 a bit out of the common, that every second man in 
 the county couldn't match. 
 
 Tom had promised well. In those early days it 
 looked not only as though he would go one better 
 than the rest of the herd, but practically wipe out 
 the lot of them. And Anthony had prepared the 
 county for it. He had paved the way for the fellow's 
 romping success. There wasn't a parent of sons in 
 the neighbourhood that w^asn't eaten up with envy of 
 Tom. And then to turn his back on the world and 
 settle down to domesticity and one female brat. 
 
 It was a shattering blow. Anthony never forgave 
 Tom. If only he'd had the grace to beget a boy ! 
 but to fail him even in that. Little as a man could 
 expect it from one of the family, Tom, he could but 
 fear, had a mean spirit. 
 
 As for Lucilla— a sickly fool who didn't know her 
 duty. Nothing would induce him even to see the 
 woman till he saw her in her widow's outfit and at 
 her full stature. For that Lucilla had risen to it 
 there was no longer any denying. 
 
 Giles saw it with sheer consternation. If he had 
 not so utterly despised her, he could almost have 
 feared the woman. 
 
 All the strength she had sucked out of Tom she 
 was now using to bolster up her own strength and 
 work upon the weakness of others. She had clutched 
 hold of the mantle of Tom with a vengeance, and
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 73 
 
 was developing under its covert in an astonishing 
 way. 
 
 There was genius in the ease with which she, 
 Lucilla, reproduced Tom, his opinions, his ideas. 
 She had rifled the very soul of the man and got hold 
 of his unspoken thoughts. She had robbed him of 
 his very turns of speech, even the kindly outlook of a 
 man of the world which used to shock her, she 
 now made effective for the subjugation of her two 
 guests. 
 
 She did not neglect himself. Far from it. She gave 
 him a deuced sight more attention than he wanted. 
 She heaped more of herself upon him than he could 
 bear. He bent under the dead weight of her. 
 
 And all the time she was reinforcing herself with 
 Tom to gain the other two in order to resist him in 
 regard to Tony. 
 
 The fact of his being Tony's sole guardian was a 
 blow, and Lucilla made no pretence of concealing 
 that she felt it to be one. She took it superbly and 
 exploited it for all it was worth. In her delicate deft 
 hands it became in the future a vague danger ; in the 
 present, an inimitable lien on the loyalty and co-opera- 
 tion of any decent-minded man who didn't know her. 
 
 " How dare a woman make any man feel about 
 her as I have to feel," said Giles, in the silence of 
 his soul, "if I'm to stop sane, that is, and give Tony 
 her chance." 
 
 The situation certainly presented difficulties. 
 
 To begin with, he did not want the other men to 
 misunderstand it, and by some sleight of mind of 
 Lucilla's he was already looked upon by them as 
 having always been a permanent fixture in the house. 
 The insufferable taint of "Tertium Quid " was already 
 soiling his perfect friendship with Tom, and Lucilla's 
 eyes of constant appeal accentuated the indignity to 
 Tom and to himself, while to explain the misunder- 
 standing in brutal words were as incredible as the 
 suspicion itself.
 
 74 TIIH FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 Old Anthony didn't count, but the younger man 
 was another story. The very way in which he fell 
 to the wiles of Lucilla, the quiet deference he showed 
 her, his sympathetic trustful acceptance of her pro- 
 found sorrow, even his unobtrusive unspoken 
 apology for his own presence at such a tim-e were 
 all to his credit. The man himself was to his credit ! 
 
 The Colonel was tremendously sorry for Tony 
 when he saW' the fellow's eyes upon her plate, and 
 he could have boxed her ears. For both Tom's sake 
 and Tony's he would have liked to explain things to 
 Captain Pemberton, but to explain them meant giving 
 Lucilla hopelessly away. And with her widow's 
 bonnet not three days old, what could a man do? It 
 seemed impossible for him to do anything but hold 
 his tongue and look at her and note the exploratory 
 ramifications of her tendrils, her quiet strengthening 
 of her defenceless position, and the amazing way her 
 clothes became her. 
 
 She was plainly made for a widow, so at home was 
 she in the role. She must have known the folds of 
 her garments and how they fell from her birth, so 
 beautifully did she wear them. 
 
 To give Lucilla her due, having seized upon Tom 
 and assimilated him and through Tom himself, she 
 had hitherto been content. She had gained what she 
 wanted, a little kingdom under perfect rule, and had 
 gone no farther. Xow her tendrils, full of the lusty 
 life they had sucked from the dead tree, wanted to 
 spread, and clutch and claim. No longer content 
 with the oak they wanted the forest ! 
 
 " I wonder if Tom was ever afraid of her con- 
 sciously," said Giles at last. "My God! W^hat an 
 experience for a sane man, to be afraid of Lucilla ! " 
 
 Me was striding up and down a long yew walk 
 in the garden thinking it over. 
 
 The warm scents of the evening washed by the 
 rain rose up about him. The stars shone calm and 
 true, full of a great peace.
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 75 
 
 " The danger was conquered, the crisis was past, 
 The fever called living was over at last." 
 
 Tom had his chance somewhere. Lucilla had per- 
 haps been a preparation for something. Perhaps the 
 poor fellow saw her now as her Maker saw her, and 
 could thank her for it and forget the rest. At any 
 rate the heavens were too high above her to keep 
 on thinking of Lucilla. He was with Tom again, in 
 the old days of freedom, at school, in the Albany 
 Chambers, loitering gaily in the old foreign cities, 
 and afterwards out with guns and rods, away from her. 
 
 And suddenly it seemed to Giles that he himself 
 had been a worse enemy to Tom than Lucilla. What 
 Tom had wanted all along the line had been kicks, 
 and all he had done was to understand and hold his 
 tongue, and cosset, and condone and help him to go 
 out in the end — a failure. 
 
 "I've failed the worst of the three," he said. "He 
 loved much, and to him much will be forgiven, and 
 perhaps the discipline of her will help to save him 
 in the end — perhaps she's not been wholly ineffective 
 — I'm afraid I'm the worst of the lot after all. 
 
 "I wish to God they hadn't soaked Christ and all 
 He signified with femininity," he said presently; 
 "one wants a male Christ and a male religion on a 
 night like this. 
 
 "Perhaps Tom knew something about it and never 
 told. He said he had the thing that men want, and 
 he must have known. I wish he'd told us — I wish 
 he'd told us! — I wish to God I'd kicked the fellow 
 till he did — I've kicked many a chap into action in 
 my time, but I spared Tom. Ah ! well, it's done, 
 and God forgive me for the wrong I did him. I 
 doubt if Tony will want any kicking into action. She 
 won't, 'pon my soul ! and what I've got to do will be 
 to sit tight and let her act. 
 
 "If she'd been a boy she could have had her own 
 kicks and her father's as well and welcome. I could 
 have turned a man right enough out of Tom's boy;
 
 76 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 but a girl, and Tony at that! And to see that she 
 finishes the job he funked, and that I helped him 
 to funk. Well, well, 1 deserve a good deal. 1 only 
 hope Tony won't be too much. Anyway I hope I'll 
 do all Tom wants done. It's a good deal, and if 
 Toy is to thrive Lucilla '11 have to suffer. I say ! 
 there are old Anthony and the other man ! 
 
 Anthony's manners were never much to boast of, 
 and now a thing most unusual in his selfish old 
 existence had come to pass, his feelings were engaged. 
 He had never hesitated in giving way to his feelings, 
 no matter what their quality, and the present ones 
 being, lie flattered himself, entirely to his credit, 
 they demanded an immediate outlet. 
 
 "We're talking of that amazing will of Tom's," 
 he blustered; "of course you were the poor fellow's 
 best friend, and no doubt know his specified wishes 
 in regard to the girl which his poor wife apparently 
 doesn't, but to my mind a girl's best left uncondition- 
 ally in her mother's hands, if the mother's a fit person 
 to look after her. It's a slur upon Lucilla, an infernal 
 slur. She feels it, she feels it keenly, a most 
 damnable hole to put the poor lady in. I'm surprised 
 at Tom. D'you think he was all there that second 
 time he sent for Lacon ? " 
 
 "As much all there as yourself." 
 
 "Hem!" said Anthony politely. "I'll see Lacon 
 myself. Hard luck on poor Lucilla. Deuced hard 
 luck." 
 
 "Deuced hard luck on Colonel Larpent, I think," 
 said Captain Pemberton, with a laugh. 
 
 "I didn't choose the job," said the Colonel, echoing 
 the laugh, "but not for any of the reasons you have 
 in your mind." 
 
 "Ha! What — the most unpleasant young person 
 I've struck this many a day," said Anthony, with 
 emphatic finality. " Heaven knows where she got 
 either her looks or her manners." 
 
 "They're both in abeyance, so to speak, for the
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 77 
 
 moment," said her guardian calmly. "She's a bit 
 cut up, you see." 
 
 "So's her mother," said Anthony truculently; 
 "and look at her. She'll never be a patch on her 
 mother. 
 
 "She'll be her father all over again if you give her 
 time," pursued her champion, lighting another pipe. 
 
 "Her father! Good God! As handsome a fellow 
 as ever wore shoe-leather. Gad ! but I'm surprised 
 at Tom. There was a breakdown if you like — in 
 everything. That sulky gawk — like Tom — as I knew 
 him — pah ! " 
 
 "You'll send her to school, of course," said Captain 
 Pemberton, with peacemaking zeal. 
 
 "I don't suppose she'll want to go to school." 
 
 " Want to go to school — that brat ? That's your 
 affair, I hope." 
 
 "On the contrary, it's Tony's," said Giles. "Mine's 
 to see that she gets what she wants, if she wants it 
 badly, that is." 
 
 "But, my God!" groaned Anthony. "To accept 
 such a charge and Lucilla her mother." 
 
 "And Tom her father. If a man asks you to under- 
 take a job your worst enemy couldn't accuse you of 
 hankering after, you undertake it, that's all. Tom 
 knew what he was doing when he changed his will 
 better than he knew anything he ever did or left 
 undone." 
 
 Anthony glared and puffed. Captain Pemberton 
 watched the Colonel. 
 
 "Did he believe in Tony?" he asked. 
 
 "Down to the ground." 
 
 "She looked more like sulk than sorrow at dinner," 
 he said, hesitating. 
 
 "Sorrow! Damn it all!" said Anthony. "Did 
 you hear her cheeking her mother? Then falling 
 to like a ploughboy. I had to coax the poor mother 
 to pick a bit of chicken. If a woman hasn't a heart 
 —oh well, God help her and us."
 
 7S THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 "I saw her about six o'clock standing against a 
 gate up in the wood," said Captain Pemberton, "and 
 she looked sorry enough. Is it a case of Dr. Jekyll 
 and xMr. Hyde, Colonel Larpent?" 
 
 "In Tony's own way 1 think it may be," said Giles, 
 with a sense of relief. What old Anthony thought 
 mattered as little as what he said. But the other man 
 counted. And now he had a clue he could follow if 
 he liked, and leave Lucilla out altogether. 
 
 Lucilla in her true light hovering on the edges of 
 the conversation hampered a man's very thoughts. 
 She made a fool of him, stultified, frustrated him as 
 she had been doing all her life. One could never 
 escape, it seemed, from the depredations of a thor- 
 oughly experienced parasite. If Tom had failed in 
 his own business, he had at any rate perfected Lucilla 
 in hers. A fine job for a man's energies ! 
 
 Colonel Larpent did his best to think gently of so 
 recent a widow. He made a mental picture of her in 
 her widow's cap — she insisted on wearing one — and 
 tried to fix his eyes and his feelings to it, but hope- 
 lessly in vain. It was just another weapon in her 
 armour, already crammed with weapons. She looked 
 as though all these years she had been floating steadily 
 towards the cap, so well did it go with her and her 
 purposes. 
 
 "It's very interesting, anyway, this will and your 
 experiment," said young Pemberton, who had seem- 
 ingly been considering the matter in the pause. "Did 
 my cousin sketch out any plan for Tony's further 
 education? You can't very well call her a finished 
 product as she stands." 
 
 "Only on general principles, and those of the 
 broadest." 
 
 "The lines to be determined by Tony?" 
 
 "That's about it." They both laughed. 
 
 Anthony spluttered. 
 
 "You have your work cut out for you," said Captain 
 Pemberton.
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 79 
 
 " You mean to say — you mean to say," said 
 Anthony apoplectically, "the girl's to do what she 
 damn well pleases, and you're to aid and abet her? " 
 
 "Well — more or less." 
 
 "God Almighty!" said Anthony, "and Tom to 
 come to that ! And with such a wife. It's — it's 
 rum." 
 
 "It is," said the Colonel, "but there it is." 
 
 "Well! well! well! I always heard you were a 
 first-rate officer, Larpent, but I'm hanged if I think 
 you're a fit person to make a young lady of that sulky 
 gawk." 
 
 "I don't think her father meant her to be made a 
 young lady of." 
 
 " What then ? " he hissed. "A suffragette, a damned 
 intellectual prop to hang clothes on. She's angular 
 enough, God knows," he groaned. "Her shoulders 
 look as if they were cut out for the job." 
 
 "So far as I could understand. It's only Tony 
 herself can show us — in time — what he meant her to 
 
 be — and as for her shoulders " He wanted the girl 
 
 to start fair, without prejudice, from every point of 
 view, and yet how in heaven's name could he venture 
 on prophetic assurances in regard to shoulders that 
 neither knew their own value nor what was expected 
 of them ? The only shoulders that had ever interested 
 him had killed his interest in all the others long ago, 
 and now to find himself at his age back amidst 
 embittering frivolities of this order ! 
 
 "Nature will see to her shoulders," he said at last 
 sententiously. 
 
 "Nature! "muttered Anthony. "In her mother's 
 tender care a girl does not want nature." 
 
 "Perhaps you'll take her travelling," said young 
 Pemberton with twinkling eyes. 
 
 "God knows! The matter lies in Tony's hands. 
 You don't suppose I like the job, do you. Captain 
 Pemberton," said Giles, laughing again in spite of 
 himself.
 
 So TIIH FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 "Thank the Eord," said Antliony, after a reflective 
 pause. "Her mother liolds the purse strings." 
 
 "And you'll take care she holds them tight," said 
 Captain Pemberton, with an odd laugh. "Why 
 should you bother yourself about the thing at all, 
 sir? It'll go rippingly, 1 believe." 
 
 The Colonel was brick red, but he said nothing. 
 Old Anthony glared at both the men. 
 
 "I'm surprised at Tom," he said. "God forgive 
 him for the wrong he's done that gentle lady. Sorry 
 1 didn't come in time to look after him a bit. Pah ! " 
 he said in a general sort of way and turned on his 
 heel. 
 
 The Colonel was still standing with his pipe 
 between his teeth when Captain Pemberton came 
 back, a good half-hour later. 
 
 Naturally a hasty man, the Colonel would gladiv 
 have punched old Anthony's head, in spite of age 
 and infirmity, but here again Lucilla intervened. It 
 did look like the meanest injustice — it did put Tom 
 in the wrong and make a fool of himself and a martyr 
 of Lucilla. Anthony was within his rights as a decent 
 man in taking her part unconditionally. And — no ! 
 The matter must explain itself. And Lucilla, if 
 hanging was her ultimate end, must be strung up 
 by her own rope. That was no job of his. The one 
 he had in hand wasn't much better certainly, but at 
 least it was his. 
 
 "I say. Colonel Larpent," said young Pemberton, 
 "I've been thinking over your job. It's rum, 
 certainly, but it grows on one." 
 
 "Oh, does it?" 
 
 "In theory." 
 
 "That I can well believe." 
 
 "Only for certain aspects of the case I rather wish 
 she'd been left to me." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "It would be interesting to watch a girl given her 
 head, you know, let loose on the world unbitted and
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 8i 
 
 bridleless, and with the bhnkers off, I suppose. I 
 can see it might be ripping — if you hadn't yourself 
 to think of — of course." 
 
 "That's just it." 
 
 "You're right. It's from my own side I'm looking 
 at it. If my young and unknown cousin weren't just 
 what she is — you know " 
 
 "In that case you wouldn't hanker after the charge 
 of her. You'd have too many doubts of yourself." 
 
 "You Hke her?" 
 
 "Like her ?— like Tony ? Why yes, I like her ! " 
 
 "I wish I had known her father," said Captain 
 Pemberton after a pause. 
 
 "I wish you had. Then you might understand 
 something of the matter." 
 
 "Where does Tony sleep?" he asked suddenly. 
 
 "In the room above the porch." 
 
 "She plays the 'cello?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Very badly and with a touch of genius?" 
 
 "I don't know. She might— now." 
 
 "Ah! You think the genius of a woman lies in 
 her heart ? " 
 
 "I know nothing of women." 
 
 He laughed. "And yet you take over Tony ! " 
 
 "I take over nothing. I've understood from the 
 first that where Tony leads I follow, and I've under- 
 taken to follow." 
 
 "You've undertaken a lot! The same thing that 
 made her play as she played just now was in her eyes 
 this evening up there in the wood. It's a big order, 
 yours." 
 
 "When Tom gave it he was in a position to give 
 big orders. He knew where he stood and he saw 
 clear." 
 
 "G(K)d-night, sir," said Pemberton after a long 
 pause. "It's a fine thing for a man to have had a 
 friend like you. And it must turn out a fine thing, 
 I think, for a girl to interest him." 
 
 F
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 Old Anthony had been as sorry for Tom as it was 
 in him to be sorry for any one outside himself, and 
 the very idea of the property going to a member of a 
 distant branch he had always despised was abhorrent 
 to him. He had a rooted objection to death and a 
 very reasonable suspicion of what came after it, but 
 in the first shock he had uttered a quite honest and 
 deeply-damned readiness to have sacrificed his few 
 remaining years to Tom's interest. 
 
 "And female line or not," he spluttered. "Damn 
 the woman, but I'd like the poor fellow's child to 
 have the place and cut out that infernal interloper. I 
 wish to God I'd cut off the entail. It's always too 
 late for everything in this beastly modern world, all 
 hurry and scurry." 
 
 He felt unaccountably upset, and was plagued by 
 a sharp touch of gout. Nothing seemed to have any 
 consideration for him. He had always kept good 
 health before and an easy mind, and had warded off 
 every sense of conviction of sin with marked success. 
 
 But sorrow and old age are apt to play tricks with 
 the conscience. His aggressively unpleasant be- 
 haviour to his nephew — even in the matter of horse- 
 flesh — he remembered more than one occasion on 
 which, for pure spite, he had baffled a deal for the 
 poor fellow — were now giving him what, in the 
 silence of his soul, he admitted to be "fits," and he 
 wanted to do something to relieve the inward dis- 
 comfort, and in a way to make it up to Tom. 
 
 It was a heavy burthen for an old man, so naturally 
 his first impulse was to shift it on to shoulders better 
 
 82
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 83 
 
 fitted to bear it. Thus it was that after some labour 
 of mind and soul a solution in the shape of a possible 
 deal with Tony got itself at last firmly fixed in his 
 mind. Moreover, in his trying situation it was only 
 right and fitting that he should be supported by the 
 heir. Besides, deep down in his battered old heart 
 lay the grudging desire to see Tom's supplanter and 
 his — and if he could, so to speak, turn the fellow to 
 some atoning use, he might feel a bit better. 
 
 So he promptly wired for the heir and trusted that 
 the Almighty would see to it that Tom's girl showed 
 her paces to the best advantage before her possible 
 investor. 
 
 In an hour after he got the wire, Ralph, shaking 
 with excitement, started for the old home of the Pem- 
 bertons. Since the news of Tom's accident had 
 reached him he had been doing all he knew not to 
 hanker after the man's death. 
 
 Before that, the remote chance of the succession 
 had been a vague, haunting, inspiring dream in the 
 family, never alluded to. For three generations there 
 had been a feud between the Pembertons, and neither 
 his father nor his grandfather had ever entered the 
 gates of the old house, or ever ceased to long for the 
 "magic that ran in the grass" within them, and sang 
 in the trees, and painted the flowers, and lived in 
 every bird and bush and butterfly upon the beloved 
 place. Thrust forth in bitterness and in the selfish- 
 ness of the authority that demands conformity to its 
 own standards and its own conceptions of life, the 
 first Ralph Pemberton had wandered the world over 
 in search of something he could never find — happi- 
 ness and a quiet mind. 
 
 He had done his best first to convince his father 
 not of the old man's wrong — that was his own affair — 
 but of his own right. He plumply refused to yield 
 to stark unreason, but was only too willing, if given 
 fair play and a fair hearing, to cry quits, and come 
 back to England and the old place again. 
 F 2
 
 84 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 But old Pemberton — another Anthony — died sooner 
 than yield an inch. Later, Ralph knew that he had 
 died of a broken heart. 
 
 After that England was a land of ghosts for Ralph. 
 It was too dear and too terrible a place to get through 
 the difficult days in. So he settled finally upon a 
 great estate in Virginia. It was shortly before the 
 days of the Great Trouble. And the Cause lost, Ralph 
 followed the flag to Canada. He was one of the 
 founders of the Dominion, and he died longing for 
 "home." 
 
 The Pembertons throve and prospered. Ralph's 
 grandson could very well have gone home and made 
 a brave show there. But the new home held his 
 heart and all its wild happiness, and his dead lay 
 near him in the little churchyard on the rise. They 
 were many and dear, but he had enough left to keep 
 him busy, and little time to think of himself. He 
 had married at twenty-four a young English girl. 
 She would have been a creature of joy and love any- 
 where, but out in the keen air of the wide, free land 
 life formed her to fit her surroundings. She was as 
 trim and quick, as buoyant and as free as the moun- 
 tains and the lakes and the rolling plains of her 
 wonderful land. 
 
 In spite of doing daily the solid work of an able- 
 bodied farmer's wife, she had ' time to claim her 
 woman's heritage to dream and ponder, to see and 
 understand, and she gave daily all that she gathered. 
 
 Perhaps she gave too much and gathered too 
 eagerly. At any rate, she died quite suddenly of a 
 foolish little illness just when she was wanted most. 
 
 It was then that the longing for home her stories 
 of it had fostered and built up in him became at last 
 so unbearable that one day the eldest boy Ralph 
 stammered it all out to his father. He didn't want 
 to go away, he loved the place and the people and — 
 and everything — he was thinking here of the church- 
 yard and the silent room; but her twilirlit tales about
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 85 
 
 the "others " were in his heart, and they had all gone 
 to Rugby and been soldiers, and he wanted to follow 
 where they went. 
 
 It was hard on a man to lose his wife and his eldest 
 son in the compass of a few months. It was a big 
 venture to fling a boy brought up like Ralph into the 
 mill of a Public School. But Ralph Pemberton made 
 the sacrifice and took the venture, with few words. 
 If the memory of a mother such as his could not save 
 the lad, nothing any lesser creature could do or say 
 would save him. 
 
 So Ralph went well armed. His mother lived in 
 his heart, and his father was waiting with a clear brain 
 and honest confidence for his reports. It seemed to 
 the boy that no one but a rotter could do anything 
 but his best. 
 
 The scrapes he got into were decent enough, and 
 they said he had brains for the 'Varsity, or could 
 get Woolwich if he liked. But the "others" had 
 generally chosen the cavalry, and it seemed to Ralph 
 from what she had told him about them, and from 
 what he'd seen himself since he had come home, that 
 he couldn't do better than follow them blind. 
 
 To begin life with the ideal of a good mother in 
 your heart is, to be sure, a goodly heritage, and it 
 had served Ralph well. But it made him critical and 
 fastidious. He was not the least inclined to excuse 
 girls for anything, or in any sort of way to condone 
 their offences. He demanded, like a young sultan, 
 that each should be made to the pattern his loving 
 eyes had seen. There was a look of wonder in his 
 eyes sometimes when he watched young women, and 
 they distrusted him a little. They would have liked 
 to like him unconditionally. There was much in his 
 favour, especially since he looked uncommonly like 
 being old Anthony Pemberton's heir. But the doubt 
 stuck. For so smart a soldier he took them in rather 
 a boyish way. 
 
 He took every one in rather a boyish way, even
 
 S6 THE FIRR-SEEKER 
 
 Lucilla. He felt so sorry, and so compunctious, lliat 
 — the wish beinf]: father to the thought — she did 
 remind him a Httle of his mother — it might possibly 
 be her hair. He would have given a lot to be able to 
 do something for her, besides dispossessing her 
 daughter. It was hard luck on Tony. He would 
 have been glad to oblige her too. Of Anthony's 
 designs upon her and upon himself he had not yet a 
 suspicion, but certain wandering thoughts of being 
 a sort of brother to the girl had casually dropped in, 
 and in his momentary glances at them he had liked 
 her eyes. 
 
 Tony, as she had unfolded herself, however, was 
 a thing to steer clear of. Everything went against 
 Tony's chances. He had felt, if he had not heard 
 her, cheeking her mother; at any rate, he had seen 
 her mother's face after the painful encounter, and 
 Tony's as she stalked forth. 
 
 And then he had heard her playing her 'cello in 
 the silent night and was confounded. He could 
 understand if she had had a stepmother, or been 
 ground down or anything, but, with everything she 
 could want, it must be sheer perversity. 
 
 "I wish I could have liked the girl," he said. She 
 was sufficiently like a stork and unlike a girl for one 
 only twenty-seven to patronise with an impersonal 
 mind, but once or twice he rather wished he had not 
 seen her eyes or heard the 'cello. They kept her 
 messing about in his mind — already fully occupied 
 with more important concerns. 
 
 His first day down at Pemberton had been a tre- 
 mendous shock to him, and he could not get over it. 
 His life on the ranch had been wild and free and 
 simple enough, but it was the best run-place in the 
 Dominion. He had been used to order from his 
 birth, to justice and plenty, a fine, patriarchal state, 
 and a splendid equality of comfort. The ranch 
 covered a big tract of country, and comprised every 
 industry and every trade, and needed an army of
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 87 
 
 workers to keep it going. There were wheat lands, 
 and dairy lands, and a run for horses — and gardens 
 and orchards. Every man on the land lived well and 
 warm, his children went to school, and round every 
 farthest forest hut grew every flower that could stand 
 the weather. Every man had his own land, of course, 
 and was his own master ; but Ralph Pemberton 
 seemed to carry order in his train, and his wife 
 flowers. Flowers and beauty seemed to grow up 
 about her. The rough, primitive interiors of the 
 "shacks" grew a little like her in time. 
 
 Everything that had ever satisfied Ralph's heart 
 or pleased his eyes seemed always to have a vague 
 likeness to his mother — even Lucilla ! He had been 
 brought up amongst free men, and knew nothing of 
 the hideous bondage of want. He had an instinctive 
 repulsion from it. 
 
 When he first went to London even the glimpses 
 he got of the dire ugliness of the slums filled him 
 with a queer resentment. He turned away from it 
 with a sort of helpless disgust, it was so unlike any- 
 thing he had ever known. There was nothing in it 
 with which a man could deal. It was the country's 
 job, not his. If one can never hope to right a mon- 
 strous wrong, it is far better not to meddle with it at 
 all. He understood men and could deal with them. 
 He did remarkably well in his regiment, there his 
 work was small enough to handle ; but that other 
 thing — those masses writing in fetid gloom behind 
 the houses of tiie rich appalled him. He wasn't 
 used to the thing. It was so idiotically unpractical. 
 To have let such a thing grow till it became un- 
 manageable annoyed him horribly. He wanted to 
 punch some one man's guilty head. One man begins 
 everything, good or bad ; and to have started a thing 
 like this ! And when it was once started, why the 
 devil didn't some one sort it out and lick it into shape 
 before it got too big to do anything but bite and 
 crush and trample, to make room for itself to live? 
 A man should have enough elbow-room without
 
 88 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 tramplinfif down his neighbour, or humping himself 
 in a corner like a rat. "I'm stuffed up with the 
 thing," he often said. "I wish it would leave me 
 alone." 
 
 Ralph never let go of a definite impression, and 
 the inconceivably unnecessary ugliness of the under- 
 world was a remarkably definite one, but sometimes 
 it did leave him alone. He would forget it for weeks, 
 and then, driving home some late night or early morn- 
 ing, feel it all there crowding in the background, 
 waiting, waiting, waiting, with devilish patience, for 
 its chance to spring and devour and destroy, and 
 again the angry, half-articulate question fell to mutter 
 and murmur in Ralph, "Who was the first man?" 
 
 He was light and gay and careless except where 
 girls were concerned, and he had plenty to do and 
 generally did it, so he could throw off the most un- 
 pleasant impression w-ith the greatest ease during the 
 day. His early morning reflections resulted in no 
 more than an occasional cheque to a hospital. 
 
 And once the sight of three shivering prisoners 
 tottering olT with a Salvation Army Captain, whose 
 honesty he could swear to at a glance, sent a thumping 
 subscription into the old General's hands. 
 
 Ralph had a good deal to think of, more especially 
 of his growing reputation as a polo player. His 
 question in regard to the first man who branded the 
 country with its blackest brand might never have 
 gone any further but for his first stroll with old 
 Anthony round the old Place the afternoon he went 
 dowm, and his first drive next morning before they 
 started for the funeral. 
 
 Walk and drive together made up the biggest shock 
 of his life. He had heard floating rumours of 
 Anthony and of Anthony's father before him, and of 
 the dunderheaded extravagance of the pair. They 
 seemed to have dabbled in every sport and made a 
 mess of all, then to have tried to retrieve themselves 
 by stupid speculation. There never seemed to have
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 89 
 
 been a penny of ready money to do anything with, 
 and even if there had been, they had neither the wit 
 nor the goodwill to do it. 
 
 But rumours are one thing and the fact staring you 
 in the face another. The state of the place was a 
 scandal that cried to heaven. 
 
 But it was not so much the broken-down cottages, 
 the gates hanging on their hinges, the great forge 
 wrecked and denuded, the fences lying on the ground, 
 the unproductive, wretched strips allowed for allot- 
 ments, with a feeble cabbage or two to show that the 
 beggarly soil meant well, that altered Ralph's whole 
 outlook on life. It was the sullen menace in the 
 hopeless faces of the men, the ugly dirt of the women 
 and their utter indifference to it, the ill-fed, feature- 
 less children who trod the English grass and heather 
 that had waved green and purple in the twilight 
 tales : who rotted in the cottages which had made 
 England. 
 
 This to come home to ! This the haunting vision 
 that had bred home-sickness in three generations, had 
 built homes for his people, and planted flowers in the 
 wilderness which they had won. 
 
 The very church in which they had been christened 
 and confirmed and married and buried, which had 
 made God as real as England to those of them who 
 had gone forth from England and the old home, cried 
 out against them. It was bleak, stripped, broken, 
 forsaken of God and man. There was no comfort of 
 common worship in its icy aisles. No memory of 
 God in its hollow nave. No echo of anything but of 
 "droppings of human tears" anywhere. 
 
 Old Anthony was very matter-of-fact and regretful. 
 He cursed his hard luck with ready oaths. He was 
 even sorry for the heir, hoped aloud he would marry 
 well, wondered in silence how much that woman had 
 brought Tom, and what his damned little paddock 
 of a place was worth. With something more ap- 
 proaching shame and feeling than anything he had
 
 90 TIII< FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 yet displayed, he showed the dilapidated and almost 
 empt}'' stables. 
 
 He watched the unhappy heir out of the tail of his 
 eye, threw out spasmodic and blasphemous male- 
 dictions against the snares and pitfalls of the turf, 
 and suggested the breeding of polo ponies. 
 
 Ralph had been brought up on the land, and the 
 feeling of it and for it was part and parcel of him. 
 He knew its moods and its needs, and to do injustice 
 to so faithful a friend was as criminal to him as to 
 cheat a man who happened to be at your mercy. 
 
 He looked almost with amazement at Anthony as he 
 maundered on. He couldn't discern in him one 
 glimmer of love for either the people or the land that 
 had bred them and fed them, and had made his father 
 and his grandfather what they were; that had 
 conquered their new* home for them and sent him 
 back to the old. The old man might have been an 
 alien who had bought people and land, and not one 
 who had them and was one with them by the right 
 of birth. 
 
 The oddest sense of sheer physical pain, and hurt 
 to the very ground under his feet — done by the Pem- 
 bertons — for which, since he was one of them, he, too, 
 was responsible — took hold of Ralph, and grew no 
 better the next morning when they drove all round the 
 place. In three short hours they saw leaking roofs, 
 smelt drains unfit for human beings, and, eagerly 
 as the boy sought it, he found not one happy face, 
 and every furtive glance, flung from furtive eyes, 
 worked like madness in his hot, excited blood. He 
 had the right to a better welcome after the dreams and 
 the desires of three loyal generations. 
 
 He had been used from his birth to kindness from 
 high and low% and the faces of these his people were 
 as a mortal blow not only to him, but to those others 
 who had lived on and by the thought of them and of 
 their splendid home, who had brought its traditions 
 with them, and by these old and simple traditions had
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 91 
 
 given to scores of men the chances by which alone 
 they can learn the value of a man to man and God. 
 
 Everything hit out at Ralph, and he was powerless 
 to return one blow. 
 
 The scented gardens, alive with the great marvels, 
 sweetened with the gentle memories of the past of 
 sweet women, and the men they had loved and raised 
 and pardoned, whom he had learnt to worship, w^as 
 an overgrown waste- 
 There was a toughness of hide and vitality about 
 Anthony. He might hold out yet for a round dozen 
 of years, and, with the fiery flame of zeal to right the 
 wrongs of the land and her people alight in his soul, 
 to wait twelve months — not to say twelve years — for 
 his chance at them fairly suffocated Ralph. 
 
 "If one could put the old scoundrel out of the 
 power of doing any more mischief straight off," he 
 reflected; "but civilisation's an awful bore — it's always 
 bailing you up, sticking its beastly nose between you 
 and rational action. Anyway, I've found out the first 
 slum-maker, and I've got to eat his dinner instead 
 of punching his head. — And this is what coming 
 home to your own means after all ! "
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 With all this on his mind Ralph resisted the intru- 
 sion of Tony into it, especially since her appearance 
 and behaviour had mitigated the severity of his sorrow 
 for her hard luck. Moreover, the sudden sharp set- 
 back to which his own good luck had just been sub- 
 jected, had somewhat dried up the shallow^ fountain 
 of general sympathy common to twenty-seven. 
 
 And yet the intrusions of Tony continued. Old 
 Anthony, in a burst of emotion and with much honest 
 deprecation, had introduced her in a strikinglv new 
 light immediately after the funeral. He took Ralph's 
 modest refusal of the proposed deal with unexpected 
 docility. 
 
 "It was the desire of my heart for poor Tom's 
 sake," he said huskily. "I'd have given a lot if you 
 could have seen your way to take her over with the 
 property, and so have squared things for that poor — 
 er — saint in heaven. I feel certain Tom's all right, 
 Ralph," he said in a hushed voice and looking 
 anxiously over his shoulder, "w-ith such a wife to — 
 er — intercede for him — and um — you know — point 
 him to the skies — a man must, don't you think? It's 
 a great safeguard," he said, with a swift, furtive 
 glance into all the corners, "to have some one on the 
 premises constantly praying for you. Lucilla's not 
 the w^oman to neglect a duty or to let herself get slack 
 at it. In spite of all, Tom's been a lucky fellow. I 
 could wish we were all as lucky in our last hour. An 
 invaluable woman, Lucilla," he sighed, with pious 
 energy and a swift and fearful glance into the past. 
 The ladies who had concerned themselves with him, 
 
 92
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 93 
 
 alas ! were not such as a man, in his serious moments 
 would care to entrust with his highest aims and 
 interests. "An immortal soul, I'd have you to know, 
 young man, is a responsibility the boldest mustn't 
 be above sharing with a woman — who — who er — you 
 know, knows the ropes. One likes to do the square 
 thing to one's nearest of kin," he said, with another 
 hurried glance into the gloom — "to make up for any 
 little misunderstanding. 
 
 "She's been brought up by a holy woman — that 
 gaw — that poor young thing, Ralph, and she might 
 change in time. Careful dieting and training, you 
 know — seen fillies myself you wouldn't put a fiver 
 on, surprise you in the end. Nature is merciful-- 
 more or less. You wouldn't change your mind and 
 consider her?" he wheedled with humility. 
 
 The ideal in Tony had got itself inextricably mixed 
 up with his own soul. He felt an urgent need of 
 some sop to throw to Cerberus, and Tony, at any 
 rate, was a sop of very considerable proportions. 
 
 "I'm afraid, sir, at a moment's notice, I couldn't. 
 And there's Tony to consider. Tony's to follow her 
 own inclinations blind. And I haven't seen any 
 marked symptoms of her inclinations turning in my 
 direction." 
 
 Anthony saw it was hopeless.. 
 
 "Dunderheaded gawk ! " he said. "Every thought 
 she has is turned to her dinner! I'd like to have 
 obliged poor Tom," he muttered, "but I can't press 
 the matter. You have eyes in your head, worse luck, 
 and the world's before you. And, 'pon my soul," 
 — he shuddered and thrust out his lip— "one likes to 
 think the best of the poor fellow, but to leave nothing 
 better than that behind him ! When I think of her 
 as a — a woman. Good God, man, I'd rather house 
 with a viper ! " 
 
 "Tony's all right, sir. But she doesn't come in 
 just now, that's all," said Ralph, discreetly retreat- 
 ing. And Tony, dumb and indignant and, from a
 
 94 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 grotesquely wild point of view, seemed to be stalkin<; 
 alter him. 
 
 Anthony had insisted upon staying for the nigiit. 
 His godless old lieart was seriously disturbed in 
 regard to the matter of his soul, and Lucilla, he 
 found, was a nice woman to have near a man in a 
 moment of keen discomfort. She sheltered you in 
 an uncommon kind of way, mused Anthony, and she 
 somehow shut out Tom — and even Tom was getting 
 troublesome. The world was beginning to present 
 ditificulties Anthony could never have expected of it. 
 It was hardly fair to a man of his age. Had never 
 liit a man himself when he was dow-n, he murmured, 
 and he expected the same fair treatment on the part 
 of — er — the general public. He refrained from any 
 nearer definition. 
 
 As an additional stand-by in case of need, he 
 insisted upon Ralph's also remaining, and Ralph 
 naturally occupied himself in keeping out of the way. 
 
 He was wondering now% as he walked over the 
 little place, how an able-bodied man with a reputa- 
 tion for ability could possibly content himself on it 
 for one year, not to say for twenty. It's like a cage 
 for a dicky-bird," he said, looking from the highest 
 point down on the smug ring-fenced enclosure of 
 fields and woods and gardens, and the square, squat, 
 grey stone house, built to resist the long, slow pro- 
 cesses of the quiet years, and the tag-ends of the wild 
 hill winds that sobbed themselves out against its 
 sheltered flanks. 
 
 " Nothing to do, or mend, or save in the whole 
 place," said Ralph. "Just the spot for a woman to 
 rest in. It suits Mrs. Pemberton down to the 
 ground." 
 
 He glanced again at the small, compact, perfect 
 spot. "There wasn't room for a man to stretch in 
 it. One couldn't even try experiments with that hand- 
 ful of land — to get to know the life in it and see what 
 it likes best to give you.
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 95 
 
 "If I wasn't a soldier and hardly started yet, I 
 don't think there's anything that could beat the land," 
 said Ralph, "given enough of it to do anything with ; 
 but this little lace pocket-handkerchief of a place, the 
 very sight of it is enough to put a man off soft living 
 for the rest of his days, and yet he lived and died in 
 it. And the girl got her abominably bad manners 
 off it. And yet, after all," he said, "they're the only 
 virile things about the place, except the old Colonel. I 
 wonder if there ever really was the making of a decent 
 man in the poor fellow. This lot hardly proves it, 
 and the girl — one can't easily forget her face at the 
 funeral, or make anything at all out of it." 
 
 Her face at the funeral had certainly been forbid- 
 ding enough, but hardly as forbidding as her feel- 
 ings, if the truth were known. She had seen too 
 much for one moment of youth, and she staggered 
 and felt dazed and saw crooked. 
 
 She saw the failure of her father, and practically 
 everything that was going on in her mother. There 
 was no room in her for the natural softness of grief. 
 She w'alked in a horror of disillusion. When the 
 coffin was hidden at last from her hot, devouring 
 eyes, she saw the end and frustration of a thousand 
 hopes. She stood in a vision of lost adventure, of 
 illimitable achievement brought to naught, and it was 
 her mother, weeping heart-brokenly under her veil, 
 who had killed the hopes and lost the adventures 
 and spoilt the achievements. A blurred perverse 
 perception of the tragedy ran wild in Tony's crazy 
 brain. A great fear rocked through her. She 
 shuddered in the consciousness of some vile crime, 
 secret, unconfessed, unrepented, that had been done 
 upon the dead man. It was something worse than 
 common crime, she thought, and it had robbed her 
 and every one — the whole world seemed to her to be 
 involved in the loss of something she and the world 
 would always — always want. For what had been 
 taken from them no other man could ever give back.
 
 96 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 And to know this and know just as surely that her 
 bowed beautiful mother, the centre of the mourning 
 circle, was the criminal ! 
 
 The pathos of her widow's bonnet made Tony feel 
 sick. Her sobs enraged her. Tony herself stood 
 there the champion of a great lost cause. 
 
 Reason does not enter into grief such as Tony's. 
 It never once struck her to blame the man's own 
 weakness for his failure. To see anything in him 
 but her lost hero, her shattered dream. The God 
 made clay by ruthless, invincible, delicate white 
 fingers. 
 
 This was inevitable, perhaps, but it was hard on 
 Lucilla and hard on Tony. Even the Colonel could 
 not say much for his charge's appearance that grey 
 day. He understood her only too well, but her state 
 of mind hardly lent itself to explanation. 
 
 "I say," said Ralph, w'ith a start, "there's my 
 destined bride. I don't think she's seen me, but in 
 case she has, I'd better go speak to her, I suppose." 
 
 Tony had seen him well enough. She had also 
 seen him watching her at the funeral, and hated the 
 sight of him, but she was too proud and too miserable 
 to move. Besides, he hardly counted really in the 
 gloom that had swallowed her world, so she sat on 
 with her bull terrier on her lap, hating him and 
 all things in a general sort of way. There was but 
 little trace of a woman's tender grief in Tony's 
 unmoved hostility. And yet the dog stared with 
 undisturbed devotion in her stolid face. 
 
 "Perhaps he knows," said Ralph, half compassion- 
 ately; so unconditionally unattractive did she look 
 that a man must be sorry for her in a way. 
 
 As he came closer she vaguely resented the careless 
 look of life about him. 
 
 She was only a little girl after all, except for her 
 long legs, Ralph reflected. 
 
 So he sat down beside her on the broad stone slab 
 of the fence and beg-an to make friends with the dog.
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 97 
 
 But Pat, who felt in all things with his mistress, 
 remained cold to his advances. 
 
 "Look here, young man," said Ralph, at last. "If 
 that's your game have it as you like. I'm done with 
 you." 
 
 "What makes you set him against me," he said so 
 suddenly that she jumped. "We were made to be 
 friends, that youngster and I. You should never 
 come between a man and his rights— not fair play, 
 you know." 
 
 She twisted round on her seat to look at him. 
 
 "I'd rather die than come between a man and his 
 rights," she said fiercely, with flaming cheeks. "Pat, 
 go and talk to him. He has lots of things to say to 
 you. Go at once." 
 
 Pat in his heart was rather tired of laps, and the 
 dead gloom of the last days had got on his nerves. 
 Even now it was only loyalty that made him coy. 
 He searched Tony's face and he scanned Ralph's, and 
 his tail kept time to his quickening thought. Then 
 he slipped off Tony's lap, more closely examined her 
 companion, and at last with a look of perfectly con- 
 scious apology in his kind, ugly face and a quite 
 articulate prayer for permission, he insisted on a 
 rational game. The two came back fast friends, and 
 Pat, having vindicated his manhood, returned to his 
 lap. 
 
 " He understands it all as well as we do," said Ralph 
 quietly. Again he was sorry for her troubled face. 
 "And you mustn't be too hard on him and expect 
 him to give up all his healthy habits. I'll look after 
 his amusement as long as I'm here. But afterwards 
 give him what he wants, won't you? The little chap 
 would do a lot for you. Look at him now. We 
 don't go till three o'clock to-morrow, do you know? 
 Oh ! you do. Oh ! well, it's not my fault. Please 
 believe that." 
 
 "I've never blamed you," said Tony grimly. "Any 
 one can see you're only too anxious to get off." 
 
 G
 
 98 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 "I say ! Didn't think I was as bearish as all that." 
 "But why shmild you want to stay?" she said 
 dully; "you never knew him. You know nothing, 
 you can't understand." 
 
 "I can understand at least that this is a bitter, bad 
 business for all of you. I've heard nothing all my 
 life but good of the man that's gone. And I don't 
 precisely like stepping into his shoes here." 
 For an instant Tony only looked at him. 
 "I didn't think of that," she said at last. "It must 
 be rather horrid for you. We never spoke of — the 
 old place, Father and I. We had so much to speak 
 of. And Father hadn't been there for years." 
 
 "It's awfully pretty here," he said lamely. "And 
 far better cared for than Pemberton. It's all as com- 
 pact and as neat as wax." 
 
 "I wonder how you'd like to live in it," she rapped 
 out, and again her cheeks were scarlet; "to begin now 
 and — and never move out of it till you died." 
 Ralph laughed, but he got also a little red. 
 "How long do you think you'd stand it?" she 
 demanded, watching him closely, with curious, 
 jealous eyes. 
 
 Ralph took refuge in pulling Pat's ears. 
 "Oh, tell me," she insisted. "Why should you 
 mind?" 
 
 "Oh, well, I was brought up pretty hard, and I'm 
 used to size and action by nature. I shouldn't find 
 enough to do here." 
 
 "And neither would any one else," she said curtly. 
 "It's a doll's house. It's not big enough even for 
 me. It's a mouse-hole. I don't want Pemberton, 
 you needn't think I'm jealous, but I'd like to hear 
 about it. I used to make up stories about it when I 
 
 was young — and thought " 
 
 She fetched up short and went on hurriedly. "We 
 all came from it, you know, and it's big. There must 
 be enough to do there." 
 
 "It's big enough, certainly, and there's plenty to
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 99 
 
 do there," he said, with a laugh. "I'm full to burst- 
 ing-point with the size of it, and the scope for active 
 exercise it promises me for the term of my natural 
 life. I'm weighed down with the ancestral space and 
 the sense of coming toil. If you only knew ! " 
 
 "Go on ! Go on ! " she said excitedly. "Tell me, 
 do." 
 
 The girl hardly counted in the recital that followed, 
 but it was a distinct relief to get rid of his crowding 
 thoughts. Suddenly he was startled by a quick, 
 sharp cry from Tony. To his great astonishment she 
 was white and trembling. 
 
 "Everything's falling to pieces," she said, "the 
 house, the cottages and the church and the fences. 
 Oh ! you can mend all those. But to look as if they 
 hated you and every one else. And once they used 
 to like my father." 
 
 "Perhaps that's why they hate me." 
 
 "Perhaps. But it's not fair. Oh, go on! Go 
 on!" 
 
 He did without a pause. He told her things of 
 which he had hardly dared to think. Plans only half 
 conceived at the back of his mind came forth and aired 
 themselves. Motives, regrets, disappointments and 
 hopes answered to the amazing demand in the girl's 
 eyes and dressed themselves in words. It was no 
 good to try to keep back anything. She saw the 
 words before he spoke them. She saw his very un- 
 spoken thoughts. He had to tell her things, and 
 after all, what was she in the end but a child? vShe 
 didn't count really. 
 
 "And you've got to give up everything to get the 
 place right," she said in a hushed voice. "And you 
 like being a soldier best of all — and I'm perfectly 
 certain being a soldier is the best thing you'll ever do, 
 and vou're going to give it up for the people and the 
 land?' 
 
 "There's nothing else to do, so far as I can see." 
 
 "I dare say there are plenty of things," she said
 
 loo THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 sharply. "But you won't let them stop you? You 
 won't ever let anything stop you?" she sternly 
 demandeci. 
 
 "Well, no," he said, laughing, "I don't suppose I 
 shall. 1 can't, very well," he said, laughing again. 
 
 "No, don't laugh," she said, clapping her hands 
 on her ears. "I couldn't, to save my life. It's — it's 
 too big. You won't get too comfortable and be too 
 happy and forget, and let things go? Will you?" 
 
 "I don't think it's the least likely I'll ever be too 
 comfortable. And the place, I assure you, looks like 
 anything hut blatant happiness." 
 
 "Thank goodness. Being too happy and comfort- 
 able gets most horribly in your way. It spoils every- 
 thing. And the place must be got right. It's a pity 
 you can't go on being a soldier. You do it so well. 
 But what a good thing it is you don't mind hurting 
 yourself." 
 
 "But I do immensely." 
 
 "Oh, but you'll do it all the same. And whatever 
 you do," she entreated, with great wide eyes and her 
 small round white face not an inch from his, "what- 
 ever you do, don't be afraid of hurting other people, 
 or nothing'll ever get done at all." 
 
 "Oh ! "That I'll faithfully promise you." 
 
 "There, you're laughing again," she said desper- 
 ately. "I believe you're younger in a way than me. 
 Oh ! If you only knew ! That's the hardest thing 
 of all, and it's the worst mistake. You don't do the 
 big things — the hard, pretty beastly things, because 
 you're afraid of hurting people, and then you see 
 them being happy and you get happy yourself. And 
 — everything goes by — and one day there's no more 
 time." 
 
 He was watching her now with real human interest. 
 Her eyes and her teeth were like jewels. 
 
 "Oh, how lucky you are," she said excitedly, "to 
 have it all to do, and to have — to simply have to hurt 
 yourself and every one else."
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER loi 
 
 "But do be a bit fair and admit tliat it's a modified 
 sort of luck." 
 
 "If you knew everything," she said, with subUme 
 finality, "you'd never say that again." 
 
 Ralph felt embarrassed. The secret history of the 
 family was being poured into him with a vengeance. 
 
 "And perhaps she'll realise it later on," he reflected, 
 "and be sorry and blame me ! If she does, heaven 
 help me, her temper's equal to anything." 
 
 He would have got away if he could, much as he 
 now wished to stay, but the eyes in fixed contempla- 
 tion of him gave him no choice. 
 
 Never in the whole course of his life had he sat still 
 under so inquiring and impersonal a stare. She 
 seemed to be using him as a point upon which to 
 steady her outlook upon life. 
 
 "One can't deny her so slight a service," he 
 thought, "but I could wish it was over." 
 
 She did not hurry. But when she had quite 
 finished she sighed and switched off her eyes, and he 
 felt himself discharged. He waited an instant on the 
 chance of further recognition, but she seemed to have 
 clean forgotten him. 
 
 He got tired at last of being taken no notice of, 
 with things of interest plainly going on in her 
 astonishing mind. Besides one could not sit still for 
 ever. 
 
 "It's been hard luck on every one, I think," he 
 said at last, "with you to help him, your father could 
 have done better by the place than I'll ever do, and 
 I'd have gone on soldiering all right. I wanted 
 nothing better till this came. And so long as one of 
 us put things straight for every one, it couldn't matter 
 which it was. 
 
 She flung the whole bro^idside of her eyes at him, 
 and then again apparently forgot his existence. 
 When she spoke it was seemingly to Pat. 
 
 "Even I don't know," she said slowly, "if my father 
 could have done it better than vou. I don't know
 
 I02 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 if he could liave done it at all or if he ever once 
 thoug-ht of the place and the people and the awfulness 
 of everything as you do, or could make dreams of it 
 — simply alive — as you make them. We never spoke 
 a word of it. If he'd thought and dreamt like you 
 • — I tiiink perhaps we'd never have spoken of anything 
 else." 
 
 She caught her breath sharply, and her long black 
 lashes moved up and down her white cheeks in uneasy 
 agitation. "I wish I'd known — I wish I'd known," 
 she said hurriedly, "but we'd only just begun to be 
 friends." 
 
 It was impossible to say anything. He waited. 
 
 " Is there any way in which you could do the best 
 — the very best for the place, and still be a soldier, 
 you know? " she suddenly inquired. 
 
 Ralph felt flattered for an instant, she did regard 
 him after all as human, and her eyes were magnificent, 
 but he soon discerned that she was thinking merely 
 of his career. He laughed, disillusioned. 
 
 "I might let the place to an American millionaire," 
 he said. "He wouldn't sit down a day with a broken 
 roof, or a dismantled church, or a disreputable fence 
 on the length and breadth of the place. Americans 
 like to see their wealth changing the countryside, and 
 they enjoy the blessings of the poor they haven't 
 cheated in pork or oil. Besides, they like to get into 
 countv society just to show it how- things should be 
 done.'' 
 
 "But you'd come back a stranger in the end, and 
 we've been strangers too long, don't you think? 
 And, besides, it would never be the same. It's a 
 Pemberton who ought to suffer for the sins of the 
 Pembertons, and atone for them too," she said, with 
 proud decision. 
 
 Ralph grunted. 
 
 "You know it is," she said sternly. "Could any- 
 thing else be done?" 
 
 "i could marry a millionairess," he said pensively, 
 "and combine both jobs."
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 103 
 
 "You'd better not," she said promptly. "You'd 
 get too comfortable." 
 
 "That's by no means inevitable." 
 
 "You never can tell," said Tony. "And it's so 
 splendid and big as it is, and so frightfully difficult," 
 she murmured, with enthusiasm. 
 
 "Well, it's hardly to be called a soft job," he 
 admitted. 
 
 "One would have to do it better than anything was 
 ever done before," she said breathlessly, her eyes in 
 the heavens. Again she had completely forgotten 
 him. 
 
 " Isn't it time to make for the house ? " he suggested 
 at last. 
 
 "I suppose it is," she said, rising unwillingly. "I 
 shall choke in it. It's so small. It's smaller than 
 ever. Oh ! Are you coming? " she said indifferently. 
 They soon came in sight of Anthony and Lucilla 
 pacing gently up and down the terrace. 
 
 " He's frightfully old, and he must always have been 
 simply horrible," said Tony reflectively, but without 
 ill feeling. "But I suppose you can begin doing 
 things as soon as you like." 
 
 "Rather not! Catch old Anthony letting me put 
 so much as the tip of a finger in any pie of his." 
 
 "And you must wait till he dies. "Oh! If one 
 could only kill him," said Tony, with impassioned 
 earnestness, "and let you begin."
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 Now the ice was broken, Ralph would have liked 
 rather to resume the intimacy, but at dinner Tony 
 was entirely absorbed in her own affairs and 
 Anthony. She neglected her own dinner to watch 
 his, and at his second help of iced pudding deeply 
 sighed. Ralph, nimbly following her feelings, 
 chuckled audibly. She scowled, and carefully avoided 
 him in the drawing-room. At nine o'clock her 
 mother, making a gentle excuse, led her away. The 
 swaving resignation in Lucilla's back would have 
 moved a stone. Tony, on the contrary, bristled with 
 resistance. Her last straw just now was the nightly 
 Bible-reading. 
 
 Anthony's eyes were moist. He could scarcely 
 restrain himself till the ladies were presumably safe 
 in their rooms. 
 
 "I'd like to spank her," he said. 
 
 "Oh, she's right enough," said Ralph. "She only 
 wants knowing." 
 
 "Knowing! God forbid! I'd like to ask you 
 what effect knowing her — the whole of her? — there's 
 a dozen ugly devils, if there's one, rolled up in that 
 young grenadier — would have upon any man of 
 taste? I know something of women, but sooner than 
 tackle her, 'pon my soul I'd rather face hell." 
 
 "I don't sav she's fitted to all tastes yet," said 
 Ralph serenely, but " 
 
 "Good God, are you a man at all and can't see the 
 trouble she's causing and going to cause that — that 
 angel ? There's no other word for her. If there was 
 a solitary thing about the girl to make vou fnri'ot her 
 
 lO.l
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 105 
 
 unfilial behaviour — we're weak, God help us — and a 
 
 pretty face Ah ! " he sighed, "many a man's been 
 
 befooled from his duty by one — but that. The very 
 thought of her takes the heart out of a man ! And 
 it's our duty, I take it, to stand by that poor — er — 
 bleeding heart — broken to pieces — easy to see that— 
 and yet look at her — you can't keep your eyes off 
 that sort of woman — does everything as it ought to 
 be done — too much of a lady — too — er — high-minded 
 even to offend you by a red nose. There's refinement 
 of grief for you ! And look at the girl ! She's not 
 worthy of her name. Don't know what Tom could 
 have been after. Might have done better than that. 
 For a first-rate shot Tom made a good many misses," 
 he groaned; "and to have left nothing but that behind 
 him to remind the world of them. It's not fair on 
 those who are left, 'pon my soul ! It's not fair on an 
 old man who depended on him since he was born — 
 who waited and watched — for what never came — who 
 staked his all on him — and lost it." 
 
 Anthony looked ridiculous enough with his red 
 face and his great purple nose, puffing out incoher- 
 encies, and no doubt he deserved all he got and more ; 
 but the men were sorry for him. The failure of a 
 man must be a pretty bad business to wring the 
 withers of such as Anthony. 
 
 The girl's words and looks that afternoon came back 
 with added meaning to Ralph. There was tragedy 
 deeper than death in the doll's house, and the" girl 
 knew it. 
 
 "And does her mother know nothing," he thought 
 suddenly, "but how to be a widow in the best 
 way ? " 
 
 "And," said Anthony, "the girl's the last straw." 
 
 "I say, sir," said Ralph, llie Colonel smoked on, 
 looking like a wall of silence. "I wouldn't let the 
 girl weigh on your mind. Give her time. Nature 
 is merciful, as you said yourself, Wait till her 
 shanks are covered. In a year or so "
 
 io6 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 "In a year or so," said Anthony solemnly, "I'll 
 be with my INIaker." 
 
 Anthony had not the slightest intention of changing 
 his sphere" for a good ten years to come, but emotion 
 weakened his sense of invulnerability. "Look here," 
 he cried out, almost with a shout, "I never had one 
 doubt of Tom. I always believed he could do any 
 mortal thing he wanted to — if he'd cared — till I saw 
 that — er — damned girl. She shakes your belief in all 
 things. Could it be — could it be," he said in sharp, 
 broken tones, "that we were all deceived in the 
 fellow — that Tom — Tom — that we all backed, was a 
 man of straw after all ? " 
 
 Ralph was alert to any impression ; he thought he 
 heard a queer sound, half-human, immediately behind 
 him ; he started and looked round, but there was 
 nothing to be seen but a portrait in pastels of Lucilla 
 set on an easel. "I'll be seeing ghosts next," he 
 thought. "It's an uncanny spot." 
 
 "Don't trouble yourself about Tom, JNIr. Pember- 
 ton," said the Colonel quietly. "We made no mistake 
 in backing him. He could have done anything he 
 chose to do." 
 
 "And— and only left — that behind him!" His 
 obstinate old brain refused to dislodge Tony as the 
 great ofTence. "She'll break her mother's heart," he 
 groaned. 
 
 "She'll not do that," said the Colonel grimly. 
 
 "You uphold her in everything." 
 
 "I uphold her in nothing." 
 
 "You mean to say you think her manners excus- 
 able, her education — er — completed ? " 
 
 " Far from it. But she'll have to mend her manners 
 and choose the method of her further education 
 herself." 
 
 "And her mother — Lucilla Pemberton is to stand 
 aside?" 
 
 "But why shouldn't she co-operate?" 
 
 " Why ? Good God, man ! Look at the two."
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 107 
 
 "I've done nothing else for some time past but look 
 at them," Giles admitted. There were no words in his 
 vocabulary for the situation. 
 
 Anthony glared with simple directness. 
 
 "It might save Mrs. Pemberton an untold amount 
 of wear and tear," said the Colonel, "if she'd decide 
 to let Tony follow her own leading and trust what 
 Tom saw those last days. I don't pretend to know 
 what it was except that it was nearer the truth than 
 the rest of us have got yet. At any rate, it showed 
 that if he had failed he was ready and willing to start 
 again and get through. And that, any way, Tony 
 wasn't going to fail. It was after this he changed the 
 will and made Tony over to me and told me to give 
 her her head — no matter who objects or who suffers. 
 I don't say I'm fit for the job, or like it. I have other 
 fish to fry, but I intend to do it the best way I know. 
 So suppose we stop arguing, Mr, Pemberton, and 
 instead of aiding and abetting Mrs. Pemberton in her 
 very natural efforts to be Tony's destiny instead of 
 letting Tony be her own, you throw your influence 
 into making her see they do better on different tracks." 
 
 "Mother and daughter go best together," boomed 
 Anthony, "in all things." 
 
 "It's not my arrangement, my dear sir. And you 
 must remember they've been mother and daughter for 
 over seventeen years. 
 
 "For seventeen years before the Colonel was hustled 
 into his billet of fairy godmother, don't you see, 
 sir?" said Ralph, with a laugh. "I say, sir, make 
 up your mind to take it as it comes, and persuade 
 Mrs. Pemberton to do the same. It will be tremend- 
 ously interesting to watch the experiment." 
 
 "I wish you had to carry it out yourself, my good 
 fellow," said the Colonel. 
 
 "Oh, well, so far I don't. I can leave it to you 
 without one regret. But think of the stir and activity 
 it will bring into your life. I had quite a long con- 
 versation with Tony just now. You'll not grow
 
 io8 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 mouldy, 1 promise you, or stale, or get into a rut 
 with Tony at your heels. And as for Mrs. Pem- 
 berton, she must still be uncommonly interesting to 
 herself. She is to us, at any rate, but she'd have 
 precious little time to consider herself with Tony on 
 lier hands. She'll want a good deal of absorbed 
 observation, Tony ! She's chock-full of something. 
 I wonder w^hat it is." 
 
 "So do I," said the Colonel. "I'm going to bed, 
 at any rate, and to forget it if I can ; and I advise 
 you to do the same." 
 
 Ralph was still half-laughing when he was startled 
 into gravity at the top of the stairs by Tony's stout 
 clutch on his shoulder and her voice hissing into his 
 ear — 
 
 "Come in here," she commanded. "I've got to 
 speak to you." 
 
 After one hurried glance at her face he felt that 
 he had better obey.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 "Sit down," said Tony, with dramatic severity. 
 
 He mutely obeyed. She sat down herself in time, 
 frowned, and at last began. 
 
 "It's so utterly ridiculous," said Tony, "to be 
 raging with you and — and to want to kill you, you 
 know, when after all you took my part in a way." 
 
 "Did I? I wasn't aware of it. Will you be kind 
 enough to explain ? " 
 
 Tony unaffectedly wriggled on her chair. 
 
 "Will you please smoke? " she said. "And, if you 
 don't mind, don't look at me for a minute. I have 
 a pretty horrible thing to say. When my mother 
 brought me out for the Bible-reading — we have it at 
 nine o'clock every night — the housekeeper met her to 
 say one of the servants was ill, so I got off and went 
 into the little room behind the drawing-room to get 
 a book, and that old man was talking at the top of 
 his voice, and — oh, well, I listened. I had to — and 
 once you begin, you know — oh, I listened right 
 enough. How low exactly do you think that was?" 
 she demanded, leaning towards him, in the old 
 position, her hands pressed down on her knees. H^er 
 face was startlingly white and more startlingly alive. 
 There was a white light upon it more intense than 
 flame. 
 
 "It was unusual, certainly," said Ralph. 
 
 "Ah! You do think it was low." Her eyes were 
 extraordinarily wistful and appealing. The white 
 light was playing over her bleached face. Her lips 
 entreated and trembled. 
 
 "Tell me more about it, will you ? " he said. "Then 
 
 109
 
 110 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 ril understand better, and probably everything: Ml 
 turn out as right as rain. You don't look low." 
 
 "Oh," she said, with a quick laugh and a creditable 
 mimicry of his voice, "Nature is merciful — even that 
 may have passed off in a year or so " 
 
 "Now, that's an unfair advantage to take of 
 me. 
 
 "Is it?" she said eagerly. "I'm sorry if it is. I 
 loathe unfairness. And I'll tell you everything." 
 
 "But," he suggested, "it's pretty late. Shall we 
 wait till to-morrow?" 
 
 She shrank back a little. 
 
 "I — I couldn't say it to-morrow — not in the day- 
 light. Are you sleepy ? " 
 
 "Not I. But I'm the older of the two, and you 
 know you ought to be going to bed." 
 
 "I couldn't sleep." 
 
 "No? Well, you see, midnight conferences " 
 
 "Goodness me, is it propriety you're thinking of? " 
 she inquired. "But it has nothing to do with me. I 
 don't count till^till my shanks are covered," she 
 said, with a malicious twinkle. "But — but I call 
 them that myself. Oh, well, I won't remind you ever 
 once again." 
 
 "Your mother — you know " 
 
 "My mother wishes me to be a child in all things," 
 she said, with this time, unconsciously, an excellent 
 imitation of her mother's voice. "And I was till I 
 knew the awfulness of everything. How can one 
 possibly stay a child with all this going on ? I 
 listened because I wanted to find out if you all knew. 
 That horrible old wretch's opinion of me was just an 
 accident. Oh, I heard enough ! Even he knew," she 
 said in a low voice; "even he was sorry in his horrid 
 way. And to blame me ! He knew^ it was going on 
 all the time — the time when I was too young to know ; 
 and then when I knew it was too late to tell Father the 
 truth — to make him see it — and make up for all the 
 lost time They all saw it — why didn't they tell
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER in 
 
 him?" she said passionately; "why didn't they make 
 liim see — how — how immense he was ? — and all the 
 things there were waiting for him to do — things that 
 no one else in the world could ever do ? Even the 
 Colonel, who knows better than any one else, did 
 nothing because he was afraid of hurting her. He 
 hates hurting soft things. You should see him even 
 with snails! — I don't understand," she said, "I 
 suppose he couldn't help it." 
 
 "But why," she demanded fiercely — "why didn't 
 that old wretch do anything? He doesn't mind 
 hurting things. Why didn't he say the sort of things 
 he can say so well — before, and not after, when all tlie 
 chances are gone ? " 
 
 "But I doubt even if old Anthony would have the 
 cheek to break into a man's house merely to swear at 
 him." 
 
 "Oh, if you're always thinking of feelings, and 
 what people will think of you, you'll never get on or 
 do anything. You don't know anything of the real 
 awfulness, I think. You never knew Father." 
 
 "Perhaps I didn't," he said gently. 
 
 "I didn't tell you the whole truth to-day," she said, 
 flushing. "My father was too happy and too com- 
 fortable ever to think of the old place in the way you 
 think of it. It would have hurt too much to think 
 like that. If you get afraid of hurting — oh, you 
 know ! even soft things — I believe in the end you get 
 afraid of hurting yourself. I've made up my mind 
 once and for all," she said, with spirit, "never to be 
 afraid of hurting myself or any one else — if the thing 
 one wants to do is big enough, you know, and can't 
 be got without. And, after all, people can take their 
 wounds to a doctor," she said, with a glimmer of 
 cheerfulness. 
 
 "Precisely," said Ralph. 
 
 "Oh ! you think me a fool ? " 
 
 "Oh no, I don't. But I think you'll be a danger 
 (o society if you go on like this."
 
 112 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 "People are only danc^ers to society when they do 
 nothing." 
 
 "If they do mischief they're a worse danger." 
 
 "Are they?" she mused. "At least they'll be 
 making some one uncomfortable." 
 
 " Good Lord ! What an outlook for — some one ! " 
 
 Again she wriggled. 
 
 "You can't explain things." 
 
 "On the contrary, you explain them only too well. 
 Can't you leave them where they are ? " he said, with 
 some incoherence. It was impossible to try consoling 
 a girl with such amazing eyes at that time of night. 
 
 "I can't forget, and neither could you if you knew 
 him. I wish you'd seen him and me with him, and 
 you'd know. You'd know a great deal," she said 
 darkly. "You'd know," she said, gazing reflectively 
 in his face — "you'd know, for one thing, that I'm 
 not even ugly, in spite of J\Ir. Pemberton. I couldn't 
 be, don't you see. I'm the very image of him. It's 
 vilely unfair to him to think I am. I'll just show 
 you, and every one else later, see if I don't. I can't 
 now," she said, half apologetically, propping her face 
 on her hands. "It doesn't seem to matter. And I'll 
 show you all something else, too — if I can — I must," 
 she cried breathlessly. "I'll try so hard; I'm going 
 to try to do all the things he might have done, in my 
 way — it won't be his, of course, but one of us will 
 have done her best, don't you see? and that will be 
 something. I might have done more as a man," she 
 sighed. "It's a pity, but it can't be helped." 
 
 For the first time Ralph found himself absolutely 
 attracted by her weird little face. He was struck by 
 the delicate chiselling of her nostrils, by the sudden 
 changes of her mouth. Since she was human after 
 all, it seemed to him a pity she should start life by 
 throwing her glove in its face. 
 
 "I believe you'll do all right;" he said, "and per- 
 haps you'll do it best as a girl. You'll have fewer 
 things, you know, to take your mind off your job."
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 113 
 
 "I'll have quite as much as other people," she said, 
 with dignity. "I'm not going to be cut out of any- 
 thing. Oh, can't you wait? You said yourself 
 people mightn't know me in a year or so." 
 
 "I didn't quite mean it in that way," said Mentor. 
 "Being a girl, you know, saves you from a lot of — 
 er — inconvenience." 
 
 "And puts you to a lot," she sighed, "if you're 
 ever to turn out a lady. That's where some of the 
 difficulties come in." 
 
 "I don't see that," said Ralph, with a touch of 
 primness. 
 
 "I want to be a lady in my own way," said Tony 
 firmly. 
 
 Ralph looked dubious. He felt that he ought to 
 be saying something wise, but her eyes were growing 
 on him, and he had just discerned two dimples. It 
 was not about these things, however, that he should 
 be thinking now. "After all," he sagely observed, 
 "there's only one way of being a lady, and that will 
 come of itself." 
 
 "Oh, will it?" murmured Tony. 
 
 "If you want to do a lot of things extra well," said 
 Mentor, "I suppose you'll go to Girton or some 
 place ? " 
 
 "Girton ! " she reflected. "Well, yes, I may, later 
 
 on — if I find I have to. But just now " She 
 
 paused ; her eyes shone finely. She looked as though 
 she saw visions. Ralph waited anxiously. She was 
 equal to seeing anything. — "I want to fool about 
 the world a bit, you know. To go in and out every- 
 where, to see things and know people — all sorts of 
 people, for myself; to find out how they think about 
 things, and do things, and do without them, and 
 even commit crimes. It's all so fearfully interesting. 
 And," she suddenly demanded, "what on earth good 
 would Girton be for that ? " 
 
 "What, indeed?" murmured Ralph. 
 
 "Girton must wait. After all, it's only school 
 
 H
 
 114 I^IIf^ FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 grown older," pursued Tony, too rapt to notice 
 interruptions. 
 
 "And how do you propose to carry out this aston- 
 ishing scheme of education ? " he inquired. 
 
 "It's not astonishing," snapped Tony, now wholly 
 of the earth. "At least my father was no fool, and he 
 said that fooling round Europe for two beautiful years 
 he learnt more than ever either school or college had 
 ever taught him." 
 
 "That's likely enough. How old was he?" 
 
 "Oh, twenty-four. Before things happened, and 
 they were free. He used to talk about it for hours- — 
 he and I and the Colonel. It was the rippingest life 
 I ever heard of. It was like a story. No, more like 
 a poem, you know — the sort of poem you dream about 
 and can never quite remember. One could do any- 
 thing after such a year." 
 
 "Even be a lady," said Ralph, with an irreverent 
 grin. 
 
 "Such a lady as never was seen," said Tony wrath- 
 fully. "Oh, you don't know. You never knew them 
 or saw their faces. Oh ! if they'd just only gone on 
 with it — with that beautiful life together, anything 
 might have happened. At any rate, no one in the 
 world would ever have forgotten my father. And 
 now no one — outside us — will ever think of him, 
 except to say, ' Poor Tom ! What a pity ! ' " she 
 snarled. Her face was regrettable. If ever a girl 
 stood in need of good counsel, she did; and yet what 
 on earth was a man to say to her ? 
 
 "Although I hadn't the luck to hear them or see 
 them," he said very gently, "I can very well under- 
 stand that a year or so like that could be the making 
 of a very great man ; but for a girl, you know " 
 
 "But I'm not a girl — I'm a ' tw^eeny ' for a year or 
 more. I'm just getting ready to come out and be 
 properly known, and all I want is to get ready in my 
 own way," she said modestly. 
 
 "I see," said Ralph.
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 115 
 
 "And I see, too!" she said, with a direct gaze. 
 "You're going to be horrid, and there's no end of 
 trouble before me. Considering you're rather young 
 yourself yet, and I dare say often put your foot in it, 
 I think you might have been on my side. With my 
 mother and that old wretch both dead against me, one 
 wants all the help one can get. I'd somehow counted 
 on you. — You might ! " she now demeaned herself to 
 wheedle. 
 
 "But what might I? I have a general confused 
 idea of what you're driving at, but won't you specialise 
 for a minute? And, to begin with, does the Colonel 
 know what you're after?" 
 
 "Not yet.— Oh, he'll be all right." 
 
 "He will, will he? Please go on." 
 
 She paused and frowned, and, it is to be presumed, 
 tried to clear her brain. "I — I want to find out what 
 my father was really meant to do. I must if I'm to 
 be the least like him, you know, or do the things he 
 didn't, and I can't find out here. Here, half my time 
 would go in showing people that I can't — possibly — 
 be what they want me to be." 
 
 "Oh ! " commented Ralph. 
 
 "You're horrible," she said, with intensity. "I 
 wish to goodness you were me for one half-hour." 
 
 "So do I. It might throw some light on my 
 darkness." 
 
 "It would show you," she said luridly, "the awful 
 mistake you're making in not standing by me and the 
 Colonel. You'd be very useful — a great help," she 
 said. "My mother thinks a lot of you ; she'd like you 
 to like her. So would the old wretch. He's afraid. 
 I hate looking at him — to be afraid after all these 
 years must be horrible ; and he'd like some one strong 
 to be friends with him and defend him. — I wonder 
 what it's from ? I believe it's death, — and it's such 
 a beautiful chance my being so young, and not count- 
 ing. It's an awful thing to help to rob any one 
 of her first chance," she said, a warning full of 
 H 2
 
 ii6 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 menace in her eye. "You'd better promise to be on 
 our side, or some day you'll be extremely sorry. I 
 promise you you will. I often know things — I say ! 
 I believe I hear Mother. Will you promise ? " 
 
 She seized his arm and held it like a vice. She 
 gazed a passionate suppliant, in his embarrassed face. 
 
 "Oh, well, will you promise not to do anything 
 outrageous — to stay with your mother if you can?" 
 
 "And do the most wonderful things if I'm left 
 alone." 
 
 "I have no doubt of that. But you know what I 
 asked you. Here she is. Promise ! " 
 
 "I'll stay if I can; I don't want to hurt her," she 
 said breathlesslv. "He said I wasn't to — if I could 
 help it; but if I can't, I'll have to, vou know, and 
 go." 
 
 "Will you give staying a fair trial first?" 
 
 "Yes," she said desperately. She pinched him 
 remorselessly. 
 
 "Oh, well," he said feebly, "I'll take the risk and 
 promise; and, look here! take care you don't make 
 me regret it." 
 
 She was still clutching him, still confirming him in 
 his resolution with her whole being when her mother 
 came in. 
 
 Lucilla looked lovely. A cloud of floating hair 
 and black chiffon. Her wide, shocked eyes searched 
 the surprising pair. Tony sighed and dropped her 
 captured arm. 
 
 Ralph, for the life of him, could not keep back a 
 laugh. Tony promptly turned to stone. 
 
 "Tony! " cried her mother, and indeed with some 
 reason. 
 
 "It's my fault," said Ralph. "I wanted to have 
 something explained I didn't understand, and we 
 began talking of Tom, and we forgot the time." 
 
 "Oh, don't!" said Tony. "I'm not grown-up 
 enough to sort of tell lies for. I went into the little 
 room," she said, looking at her mother, "for a book,
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 117 
 
 and I heard them talking of Father, and I shnply had 
 to find out what people thought — if any one knew — 
 or if it was only us." 
 
 "Knew what, Tony?" said her mother, with in- 
 effable gentleness. 
 
 "Knew he was only just a failure, of course," she 
 said. "There's nothing else to know, it seems — I 
 listened to find out." 
 
 "Tony!" 
 
 "Oh yes, I know! But what does it matter, with 
 people hushing up Father, and being sorry for him, 
 and thinking of him as a sort of misfortune to the 
 family because he could have done everything and 
 did nothing? I wish to goodness he'd been a 
 fool ! " 
 
 Her mother had fallen into a seat, tears streamed 
 down her cheeks; she was speechless. 
 
 "I say, Tony! Don't you see," said Ralph 
 desperately. 
 
 "Yes, but I can't think of that," she said wearily, 
 "with the other thing. To have things like that said 
 by wicked old wretches of what might have been the 
 splendidest man who ever lived." 
 
 Lucilla made an immense effort to be calm. 
 
 "Please, Ralph, don't misunderstand my poor 
 child," she pleaded. "Don't judge her by this. This 
 is not the least like Tony. She's the dearest 
 child " 
 
 "Oh, if you only wouldn't, when you know you 
 think me a beast! You can't help it; you wouldn't 
 be you if you didn't. It's very unfortunate for both 
 of us, but I think perhaps I'll get through it in time." 
 
 She spoke soberly, as though of an infectious 
 disease. "Only perhaps you won't like the way," she 
 added. "The whole thing's too awful to speak 
 about." 
 
 "It is, dearest — to-night. We'll try to go to sleep 
 and forget a little, and to-morrow, darling, you'll see 
 the cruelty of your wild words."
 
 ii8 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 "They're cruel to all of us," said Tony in a dejected 
 tone. ''But they're not wild. 1 mean them, and so 
 do other people. And I'm sorrv — I'm sorry for us 
 all." 
 
 Ralph wished that some kindly power would strike 
 the girl dumb and remoye Lucilla; but dumbness and 
 Tony were far apart, and Lucilla sat, sad and motion- 
 less," so he stumbled into halting words. 
 
 "She has so passionate a loye for her father, Mrs. 
 Pemberton," he said, "that you can't wonder she 
 exaggerated something Mr. Pemberton said just now. 
 He's pretty outspoken, you know, and he expected 
 your husband to do something tremendous. Eyery 
 one did, you know, and " 
 
 "Dear 'Ralph, don't I see ? I see only too clearly. 
 He did once, but I don't think dear Mr. Pemberton 
 could misjudge me now or resent my poor, miserable 
 health. But Tony does — my ow^n little girl does. 
 She thinks it stood between Tom and his career, and — 
 perhaps it did — perhaps it should not haye done. I 
 don't know — I can't think yet. — I could not live in the 
 noise and the stress of the world, and he could not 
 liye without me. I — I tried hard to make up to Tom 
 what I had lost for him, and we were happy and 
 blessed. Our loye was yery full and beautiful. We 
 wanted nothing else. Our life was perfect in its way. 
 And Tom — oh, if you had known him, and known 
 the great, the wonderful change that took place in 
 him. He was always good; but, Ralph, he hadn't 
 one thought of religion. He had doubts. He — -he — 
 was almost an agnostic at one time," she said, hiding 
 her working face. "I hate saying it " 
 
 There was a long silence, in which Tony looked 
 forbidding. 
 
 "And it was just loye that changed him," pursued 
 Lucilla. "He died a Christian, and now Tony — and 
 perhaps others — oh! I wish I'd died with him." 
 
 Ralph felt unstrung. He was desperately sorry for 
 her. She was obviously sincere, but so also was
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 119 
 
 Tony, so also was the Colonel, while the sincerity of 
 old Anthony was indisputable. 
 
 There were several facts from which to argue ; it was 
 hard to see where to start. 
 
 "Go to bed now," he entreated. "And — I wish to 
 God I could do anything for any of you." 
 
 "Be a friend to all of us, dear Ralph. And — and 
 help me with my little daughter." 
 
 Her hand was upon Tony's shrinking shoulders. 
 Her tragic beauty was extraordinarily impressive. 
 
 "And here's a position for a sane man!" said 
 Ralph, as he thankfully made for his bed.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 When she had time to think it out, Tony sincerely 
 regretted her rash promise to Captain Pemberton to 
 give "staying" a fair trial. In her youthful wisdom 
 it seemed that an impossible situation is best left 
 behind you when the world is before. But since she 
 could not recall her promise, she set forth sternly 
 to keep it. 
 
 She obeyed to the letter. She never answered back. 
 She did all that was required of her in the way of 
 lessons. She listened without a murmur to the Bible 
 and Lucilla's running commentary as she read. She 
 refrained from remonstrance in regard to her clothes. 
 
 She made herself look as ugly as she could, and 
 by singular ingenuity turned the deep, low tones of 
 her voice into a very bad imitation of a drum. She 
 was quite honest, in short, and behaved disgracefully. 
 
 She was too outraged and eager and diabolic just 
 then to have gone harmoniously along even a prim- 
 rose path, and the things she met upon the painful 
 one of her duty were so soul-stirring and enraging 
 that she could have kicked the smoothest smiling 
 pebble at her feet. To watch her mother keeping on 
 being beautiful without a moment's interruption, and, 
 knowing what they both knew, was driving Tony crazy. 
 
 vShe was immensely lonely. She would have given 
 anything to love her mother and for her mother's love. 
 And she never hated her. Her father had loved her 
 too much. But she hated all the things about her. 
 The soft, sweeping clouds that set off the marvellous 
 fairness of Lucilla she hated as though they were live 
 things. She hated the sad, sweet face, the gentle.
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 121 
 
 J pleading voice, the amazing patience of the poor lady. 
 Was she blind or asleep or mad not to know the thing 
 that had happened and her share in it ? She forgot 
 even to be ill now and unable to see any one three 
 days out of the six, as had been her custom for years. 
 
 The old gentle languor, the charming, appealing 
 fragility that had won her her rights, and made her 
 break her engagements and keep her husband by her 
 side with an utter disregard to the county's feelings, 
 had given way to a fine endurance. She received 
 every one. She returned every call. She often forgot 
 to lie down at all, if there was anything of sufficient 
 interest to sit up for. 
 
 It was a revolution of a life, and was bringing to 
 pass a widespread revolution of feeling not only in 
 Tony, but also in the neighbourhood. 
 
 The ill-health of Mrs. Pemberton, and its insistent 
 calls upon Tom, whom every one wanted to know and 
 like, had, in the end, rather bored the county. It was 
 impossible to count on either of them in making up a 
 dinner-party or a four at bridge, so they had dropped 
 out a little. 
 
 So long as Tom was there, undivided possession, 
 undivided power, and the secret romance of Giles 
 about the house had been all that Lucilla needed. 
 But now the life in her unattached tendrils stretched 
 out to other life, and strength will always run to 
 weakness in distress in a becoming bonnet. Lucilla 
 found dozens of kind hands ready to help her. 
 
 In his sane moments the good stout tree wall sit 
 in judgment on any parasite, but torn from her sup- 
 port, with bleeding tendrils, and still in the full flower 
 of her beauty, he will be only too glad to lend her 
 the vacant space at his disposal, at any rate until she 
 can readjust herself to her changed conditions. 
 
 Lucilla won all hearts. And in the oddest way — 
 a silent, apologetic way — people began to wonder how 
 it was they were only beginning now really to know 
 this magical woman. Tom Pemberton was as good
 
 122 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 a fellow as ever lived. But had he the wit quite to 
 understand so very superior a wife ? 
 
 Men came to the rescue of Lucilla because they 
 were men and perhaps a man had failed her, but the 
 good, sound county women, full of high courage and 
 hard and healthy with sport, saw more to pity than 
 to approve in the trailing garments of a born convol- 
 vulus. They were, however, too used to men and 
 dogs and horses, and their dependent ways, not to 
 be abundantly kind to anything it would be next to 
 desecration to put into a tailor-made and nailed boots. 
 Lucilla therefore got her fair share of coaxing and 
 cosseting. The strength she had been drawing in all 
 these years from her faithful prop was working freely 
 in her, and the art of absorption, once mastered, must, 
 of its own resistless force, grow and increase. 
 
 It was a new experiment in life for Lucilla. In 
 spite of Tony's ruthless stare it ran like delicate flame 
 in her blood. 
 
 Lucilla was sincerely sorry for Tom. His death 
 was an outrage upon her innermost being. The sense 
 of martyrdom inseparable from true femininity did 
 not relax one of its rights. She wept and mourned 
 with real tears and real moanings. But next to having 
 been Tom's wife, she enjoyed being his widow. 
 
 And now, without any personal feeling in the 
 matter at all, Tony sat and looked at her. In time 
 she had got over the bitterness of her first surprise. 
 Her violent resentments and upheavals had ebbed 
 aw-ay. Now all the mother did seemed right and 
 natural to her mother, the only thing any one with 
 the least sense could expect of her. It was all beauti- 
 fully done. Sometimes Tony found herself being lost 
 in admiration of the way of it. 
 
 The only difficulty was that she found it impossible 
 to live in the same house with that way. She was 
 really docile at last, and got headaches, and the head- 
 aches made her complexion cloudy. Nature seemed 
 anxious to complete what wilfulness had begun. Her
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 123 
 
 legs and arms grew longer, her chest dropped in. 
 To see her sitting glowering in a corner with the 
 bull-pup in her arms when the county called, was 
 fast bringing Lucilla's sense of martyrdom to a head. 
 
 The child was too young and unformed for Society 
 or anything else yet; one would not dare to desire 
 beauty for her, but a permanently plain daughter to 
 be added to her burthens already too heavy to bear ! 
 It was a reproach to the perfect motherhood of 
 Lucilla, a slur upon her powers. 
 
 "The chastening hand of God," she called it once 
 to Giles, whom conscience and letters of entreaty were 
 constantly bringing down from Town. But even these 
 might not have moved him had Tony not been an 
 intolerable weight upon his harassed mind. 
 
 He had borne many blows and disappointments 
 with fortitude. But Tony was too much for him. It 
 seemed impossible to know how to take her or 
 what to do with her. The girl was getting as ugly 
 as sin. Tony plainly enough was going it, and 
 she had a bomb of one sort or another up her 
 sleeve when she chose to produce it, of that he felt 
 sure. 
 
 Silent and dull as she was, he had more than once 
 received such a glance from Tony's eyes as surprised 
 him. Nothing dull or silent in that malicious, amused 
 glare, at any rate. And it always happened when he 
 was enduring, with what serenity he could muster, the 
 minauderies of her mother. 
 
 Lucilla alone was bad enough. Colonel Larpent 
 was an abstemious man, but since Tom's death he 
 had never gone near his widow without first fortifying 
 himself with a stiff whisky-and-apollinaris. 
 
 Her bearing towards him was discreet and fitting 
 enough in all conscience, but he knew more about her 
 tendrils, and what their clutch could do for a man, 
 than she herself did. And the kindest thing he could 
 do for the poor lady, he assured his conscience, was 
 to protect her from himself.
 
 124 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 " It's only the idea of me she wants to hang on to," 
 he argued. "The reahty would be a dangerous shock 
 to her tender sensibilities. The best I can do for 
 her is to direct the — er — damned things elsew^hcre. 
 Lucilla is the least-fitted person I ever met to come to 
 close quarters with a porcupine." 
 
 Giles did his duty like a wise man, but he found 
 it deuced unpleasant to have the girl's deriding eyes 
 on him. He stood it for the fleeting visits of ten 
 weeks. Then he revolted. 
 
 "Look here, my girl," said he, "the lawyer can't 
 come till to-morrow, and your mother wishes me 
 to be here, so I must stay, worse luck. How-ever, 
 we must make the best of a bad job — the two of 
 us " 
 
 "The three," suggested Tony. 
 
 "The two," he sternly repeated. "And what you've 
 got to do now is to come for a walk with me." 
 
 Tony wanted nothing better. 
 
 "I wish you were a boy," was his first remark, as 
 they bucketed up the hill. As he spoke the stick 
 twitched unaffectedly in his bony hand. 
 
 "Sometimes I wish it too. It would be rather 
 amusing." 
 
 "I'mi not so sure of that," said the Colonel, behead- 
 ing a dandelion stalk. 
 
 "A boy would see things and people in a nicer way. 
 Besides, he'd be at school most of the time, or 
 perhaps at Sandhurst. 
 
 "Even when he was at home I can hardly suppose 
 that any son of Tom would be such a lout as to bore 
 his best friends," said the Colonel. 
 
 "Or to let his best friends bore him," said Tonv. 
 "I don't suppose he would. He'd be too busy 
 admiring their clothes and doing all the clothes want 
 done." 
 
 "The circle of your acquaintance isn't very wide. 
 May I ask if you're alluding to me?" 
 
 "Even you give her clothes every single thing they
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 125 
 
 ask," she said gloomily. "If I were a boy I'd spare 
 you a lot. You'd often be thankful. Just now it 
 would be very convenient for all of us. I'm not sure 
 about the future. I may like being a girl best when 
 I have a chance to begin." 
 
 "Making yourself obnoxious to life, and making 
 life unbearable to every one else, isn't the way to 
 begin, my girl. You'll never bore life into giving 
 you what you want, whatever you may do with people. 
 Start by making life your friend. But you'll have 
 first to make friends with it. Can't you give it your 
 heart, girl ? Unless you give with a free hand, take 
 my word for it, you'll get nothing back. And if you 
 can't do that yet, anyway show it a Sunday face and 
 not a Friday one. Wrapping yourself up in a bull- 
 pup, and copying his manners and appearance, won't 
 make much way with life, I tell you. Do you ever 
 look at yourself in the glass, my girl ? " 
 
 "I'm sick of anything to do with glasses." 
 
 "So one would gather! Even to look at you will 
 be setting all our teeth on edge before you can say 
 knife." 
 
 Tony's lips were trembling, but her eyes flashed 
 fire. 
 
 "Every one can say things to mc! No one seems 
 to have been able to say them when they could have 
 done — immense things." 
 
 He winced and was silent. 
 
 " Immense things," he said, after a long pause, 
 "can only be done by the man or the woman who 
 intends, in spite of every one and everything, to do 
 them. We might all have done better, God forgive 
 us, but no man can drive another to a big job. It's 
 only the hewers of wood and the drawers of water 
 you can hustle." 
 
 Tony looked obstinately on the ground. 
 
 "Perhaps not. I don't know yet. It's one of the 
 things I'm going to find out for myself. But I think 
 I could hustle a man into a big job."
 
 126 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 " He mightn't thank you for your pains in the end." 
 
 "Ah ! " slu' cried out, as if he had struck her. "He 
 would. Oh ! lie would, he would," she said. "And 
 — and even if he didn't he'd have done the thing. 
 He wouldn't have failed." 
 
 "I wonder what failure is," said Giles, who had 
 turned from her eager, half-afraid face to look back at 
 the somewhat colourless idyll of Tom's life and its 
 quiet happiness. 
 
 "Happiness is a great thing," he said gently. 
 
 "But it's— it's not everything. And one wants 
 it all." 
 
 "One does ! " he said. "One does." 
 
 "Oh ! How discouraging you are ! " 
 
 "It's human nature occasionally to forget you, my 
 girl, and to think of oneself." 
 
 "But seeing we're going to hunt in couples — or at 
 any rate in one couple — we can never leave each other 
 out of anything ever again. Don't you see?" 
 
 "Well, no, 1 don't. I fail entirely to see how the 
 show is to be run on those lines. Being a guardian 
 is one thing, and a dog of my age chained to a puppy 
 quite another." 
 
 "Look here," she said. "Let's sit down here. You 
 get the best view- of the doll's house from this stump. 
 It's quite dry and you never get rheumatism," she said 
 severely. "Pat, sit still and don't interrupt. This is 
 the most important conversation of our lives, and 
 you come into all of it. — So far as I can see, and 
 I've been thinking it out for weeks, the only single 
 thing for you and me to do is to elope together," 
 she said. 
 
 "My God!" 
 
 "That's a nice way to speak when it's just as much 
 for your benefit as for mine. Do you like coming 
 down here ? Do you like seeing things — and obliging 
 the clothes?" she demanded uncompromisingly. 
 
 "That's wholly beside the question." 
 
 "Oh ! no, it's not. I've never left you out once —
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 127 
 
 in all the things I've been thinking out. Oh! As 
 if I didn't just know. I said I'd try living here. I 
 told Captain Pemberton I would. — Oh ! That doesn't 
 matter, she said airily to his astonished face. I'll tell 
 you about it some other time. And I have. I've 
 tried hard. For ten weeks I've never even spoken— 
 quickly. I've done everything I was told. I've read 
 Dante and Goethe and Pascal — till I despise the lot of 
 them. She has that effect — I was beginning — oh, 
 well, that doesn't matter now. Anyway, they're all 
 as small and silly now as I am myself. I've practised 
 till I hate my 'cello, and as for the Bible ! — I've taken 
 walks and looked at trees and flowers and cows and 
 dogs and horses. And all the trees are wood, and the 
 flowers paper, and the animals out of Noah's Ark, 
 and I'm the only live thing left. Everything one 
 wants is sort of sucked out of everything. The thing 
 behind is all gone, you know. And when one hasn't 
 an immense sea of love to fill up the empty holes it's 
 just awful. One is still alive in a way, of course. 
 You have to be to w-atch things, but one feels like a 
 sucked orange, and before you can look round the 
 same thing '11 be happening to you — see if it doesn't," 
 she said viciously. "And there's as little sea of love 
 about you as about me." 
 
 The Colonel stared rigidly at the frowning young 
 
 face. For one awful moment of despair he wished 
 
 himself a woman. Then he sat up straight, and the 
 
 I hand that rested on the stump was again taut. The 
 
 I old habit of doing justice upon young offenders was 
 
 upon him. 
 
 "I have lived long enough among hard facts," he 
 said. "I oughtn't to be surprised at anything. But 
 to hear about the most cold-blooded oration I've ever 
 yet listened to from the lips of a girl of seventeen is, 
 I confess, a bit of a startler No one wants a sea of 
 love from you. If they did, Heaven help them ! But 
 a trace of natural affection, one symptom of pity, 
 w^hy, your years should furnish even if your heart
 
 128 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 can'l ! 'Poii my soul ! Tliere's an indecency in the 
 thing." 
 
 "Oh, stop, don't! Let me speak and then go on. 
 Don't you see " 
 
 "I see nothing but your face. And your future, 
 my girl." 
 
 "You don't see either," she cried. "You — you 
 don't even see my face ! " 
 
 "Oh, don't I! " 
 
 "You don't. The thing that makes faces is taken 
 too. It's gone with the rest. I'm a wooden image — 
 just as much as the horses are hobby-horses." She 
 paused to glare. 
 
 "You'd better get out all you've got to say, Tony," 
 he said, with unmoved calm. "I have no words for 
 this sort of thing. And I doubt if an archbishop 
 would." 
 
 " He would if he knew. Unless he's a fool or so 
 full of love that there's no room for anything else. 
 And you — you have words enough. Only you think 
 they're not proper for me to hear." 
 
 "Leave me, Tony, and go on with yourself. Get it 
 over, girl." 
 
 She wriggled miserably, and he w-as glad to see that 
 her eyes were wet. "Anything I've got to say will 
 make me look horrible, but I've got to say it." 
 
 "Fire away then. The day is long." 
 
 He edged away from her. She looked dangerous. 
 
 "How dare you say I haven't any aflfection or any 
 pity?" she demanded, with startling suddenness. 
 
 He noticed that the rich, full tones were coming 
 back to her denuded, unstrung voice. Her blazing 
 hard eyes were as velvet. 
 
 "I — I could love her like anything. I have just as 
 many seas of love as other people, only they're differ- 
 ent. They want everything. And I can pity people 
 — W'hen they're fools and can't see what they've done. 
 It must be awful to be so dull. I'd like to stay and 
 help her, but I can't, don't you see? One can do
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 129 
 
 nothing. One can't move or breathe or be properly- 
 alive here. The place is shrinking in and smotliering 
 one. One must go away — far away from it all and 
 squeeze it all out of one," she said, throwing up her 
 arms, "till something that's being smothered comes 
 alive again, and then one can begin and Just show 
 people ! One can't here. There's this to be thought 
 of, and with skirts like this — and in that house. 
 Besides, she doesn't like me ugly — but she'd like a 
 good deal less — what I'm going to be," said Tony 
 sublimely. 
 
 There was a trace of tragic doubt in the Colonel's 
 
 fixed stare. It lit a sudden flame in Tony's alert eyes. 
 
 "Do you mean to say that you think me silly ? " she 
 
 asked, with immense surprise. "Dear me! Hasn't 
 
 any one any sense ? And you 
 
 "Oh ! Don't bother. You think me ugly and a 
 
 fool too. Pat, sit still," she said sharply. "Well, no 
 
 wonder you can't; neither can I." She stood up 
 
 before her critic. "Don't you see," she said, striving 
 
 1' for calm, "that I must be as handsome as anything 
 
 \{o do all I mean to do. And seeing that I'm the 
 
 I image of my father, I couldn't be anything else. 
 
 I You don't believe me? Just wait." 
 
 I She jumped upon a neighbouring stump, pulled out 
 
 i\ her long plait into a mass of waves and ripples, and 
 
 massed it on the top of her small, game head. Her 
 
 cheeks were scarlet, her eyes blazing. The strength 
 
 of her mouth had turned to sweetness. Her short, 
 
 disdainful nose looked kind. 
 
 "Now just forget my awful clothes," she said, "and 
 look at me ! Now am I boasting, now then ? " she 
 triumphantly demanded. 
 
 The Colonel deliberately cleared his glasses and 
 looked again. 
 
 "No," he said, "I'll have a beauty on my hands 
 next. God help us both." 
 
 "Oh! How you can dare!" she said, hopping 
 [down from her perch. "You can't even trust me to 
 I
 
 130 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 cl() that properly ! And how would you like to be 
 going about the world for years, perhaps, with a 
 frunip at your heels? And now, you know, we'd 
 better hurry up with this," she said, sitting down and 
 resuming Pat. 
 
 "Before you quicken the pace, which to me seems 
 quite unnecessary, will you favour me with a detail 
 or two of your jDlans ? " 
 
 "To begin wath, we'll have to go right out of 
 England," she said. "We shouldn't have a moment's 
 peace in it. Letters and telegrams, you know. It 
 would worry all three of us to death. You'd never 
 get on with your work and neither should I." 
 
 "Work?" 
 
 "Well, you're surely going to start properly on 
 your book now, and I— 1 have heaps to learn. I 
 don't even know where to begin." 
 
 "I understand." 
 
 "Oh! If you only did." 
 
 "Go on, I may in time." 
 
 "Perhaps," she sighed. "I w-ant to know a lot of 
 languages — perfectly — and countries. To know them 
 inside out, you know, and crowds of foreigners. 
 Most people only look at them and make idiotic 
 remarks about them. I want to know them," said 
 Tony. 
 
 "You propose to hobnob with all the rapscallions 
 on the Continent?" 
 
 "You can put it like that. Did you and my father 
 hobnob with all the rapscallions on the Continent 
 those two beautiful years." 
 
 "Ah, that's what you're after, a ' Wanderjahr, ' nn 
 less, and you seventeen." 
 
 "But you're over fifty." 
 
 "I don't deny it." 
 
 "And having been all through it before, you'll 
 know the way." 
 
 "That's part of the trouble." 
 
 "I don't see "
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 131 
 
 "Well, no. The phrase wasn't a happy one. The 
 language of the chaperon doesn't come by nature." 
 
 "Oh, it's so horribly important. Can't you be 
 serious ? " 
 
 "My good girl, I never knew what seriousness 
 meant till now." 
 
 "But it's only till we get things started," she said 
 consolingly. "Once they're ofi they'll run like 
 cream." 
 
 "The deuce they will." 
 
 "Oh ! Can't you see I'm doing you a tremendous 
 good turn. I'm setting you free. I'm sort of plucking 
 you out of the net of the fowler. And instead of 
 being grateful " 
 
 "You mean to tell me that honestly and straight- 
 forwardly you believe in the practicality of this night- 
 mare scheme." 
 
 "Believe in it ? " she said, amazed. "But I wouldn't 
 have spoken of it if I didn't. And I wouldn't have 
 thought about nothing else for weeks. I wonder what 
 sort of a person you think I am." 
 
 "The last person living I'd care to chaperon 
 through Europe," he said promptly. 
 
 "You used to like me tremendously," she said 
 despairingly. 
 
 "My good girl, it's because I like you tremendously 
 that I want to do the best for you." 
 
 "But it is the best ! I'll make you see it. I promise 
 you I will." 
 
 "I had been rather thinking of Girton myself " 
 
 "Every one rather thinks of Girton," she said 
 darkly, "but me. You don't know me yet," she 
 pleaded. "You can't think how nice I'm going to be. 
 Perhaps you'll forget sometimes and think I'm Father, 
 and it will be like those two heavenly years all over 
 again." 
 
 vSuddcnly her face touched him as no woman's face 
 had touched him since when for the first and last 
 time in his lonely life, he had kissed a woman. 
 I 2
 
 i;>2 Till- FIRK-SEEKER 
 
 The sweetness and the pain and the infinite purity 
 with which the kisses of gt)od women have filled the 
 world seemed to float in a little soft halo round about 
 Tony's dark young head. She was suddenly sacred 
 and sure to him, and he knew that there was no guile 
 in her. Perhaps after all she knew best, and Tfjm 
 had trusted her ! 
 
 "It sounds madder than any xMarch hare, my girl; 
 I feel as if I was back in knickerbockers paying a 
 visit to the Duchess. We'll say nothing more now. 
 We'll both think it over, and if you're still determined 
 on it, I'll come down in a week."
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 The Colonel returned to town deeply perturbed by 
 the turn affairs had taken, and apparently meant to 
 keep. After a brief survey of their last conversation 
 the one matter of supreme importance was Tony's 
 face or faces. She had shown him, so far as he could 
 recollect, a swirling procession of faces. It seemed 
 to him that it was with a whole sex he would have 
 to deal, and not with one unfledged girl. 
 
 Every rational atom in him pooh-poohed her mad 
 scheme and either his obligation or his ability to 
 carry it through : yet something behind and beyond 
 reason laughed in his face. It was one of these things 
 w^hich must happen whilst reason stands aside with 
 pursed lips to let it pass. 
 
 The more he considered the affair the more objec- 
 tions he found to it, and the better did he like it. 
 That was the awful thing. The joy of the adventurer 
 had begun to work in him and snap its fingers at 
 reason. He walked in a chaos of unreason, and 
 hadn't felt so young for years. As for the morality 
 of the business, there wasn't a glimmer of morality 
 in it. It had to remain unmoral, that was all. 
 
 No man living had a higher ideal of the Mother 
 and her royal rights than Colonel Larpent. And yet 
 Tony in her present frame of mind would undoubtedly 
 go to pieces in the companionship of her mother. 
 
 The glimpse he had got of Tony on the pine- 
 stump made the most insistent and painful demands 
 upon the wretched man. It was this amazing creature 
 for whom he had to arrange and break every moral 
 law, not for the long-legged gawk he knew clamouring 
 for things absolutely unfitted to her state. 
 
 133
 
 1,^4 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 There was a more personal view of the matter which 
 would creep in. A year or so out of the reach of 
 Lucilla would do more to free him from her yoke than 
 either the discretion of a saint or the craft of the devil 
 could ever do. Nature would step in. The tentacles 
 starving for nutriment and support could brook no 
 sustained delay. Providence would eventually lead 
 them in some other direction and perhaps fix them 
 there before his return to England. At any rate one 
 could hope. 
 
 But the objections ! They grew like gourds. He 
 would have been glad to turn to any one for advice. 
 But if advice is anything it must be rational, and 
 he was now out somewhere beyond the zone of 
 reason. 
 
 Sometimes as he paced the streets or sat respect- 
 ably in his club he found himself fully expecting to 
 run up against Alice or the Duchess or the mad hare 
 — or to find one of them planted on the next arm-chair 
 to his ow^n. And if this is the company you keep, 
 what the devil is the use of bothering your friends ? 
 The men w-ho know nothing more than that w'omen 
 are unfathomable, or the women who haven't even 
 got as far as that ! 
 
 It w-as a bright look-out for a confirmed bachelor. 
 And he knew quite enough of the world to know that 
 it would say anything. At the first scent of the mad 
 partnership some idiot would sniff some taint, and 
 perhaps take the bloom off adventure. 
 
 He knew every danger that confronted him and 
 Tony. He hadn't an argument on his side. He 
 w-as partner before the act in a social felony. And 
 yet he could not take back his faith in Tony. It 
 had slipped into some dim cache within him upon 
 which he had shut the door and turned the key long 
 years ago. Faith can never live alone : it cries for 
 its fellows and stirs and strives to get at them. And 
 in its stirrings and strivings it wakes up whole throngs 
 of other little faiths that have been tired into sleep
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 135 
 
 or bored into sleep, or have cried themselves to sleep 
 at last in their cold, dark little closet. 
 
 Now they all yawned and moved and slid through 
 the door like Peter of old, and arrayed themselves 
 like a little bodyguard around the image of Tony in 
 the Colonel's heart. 
 
 He believed her immensely. He believed all she 
 looked and only too much of what she said. He 
 believed her in her most barefaced assertions. 
 
 He would have given much to be enabled to think 
 rightly in this matter. Even if he could have felt 
 rightly he would have been thankful. 
 
 If he could have felt that he was about to make a 
 great sacrifice for Tom's sake he would have been 
 better satisfied with himself. But no such luck I 
 
 Whether he tramped the streets or sat tight in his 
 club, or even lectured at learned institutions, the 
 Colonel was a serious soldier or nothing — he was 
 haunted by Tony and rejoicing in her mad scheme 
 and his own amazing chance to be in it. At a time 
 when chances were mostly past. 
 
 He was seeing pictures in the dull air as though he 
 had been eighteen and a fool. 
 
 "Good God ! I might be in love," he said in a sane 
 moment, "or a belated poet. 'Pon my soul, I'd 
 better see a doctor. And yet — the girl knows! I'm 
 shot if she doesn't know ! But at my age and with 
 my record to outrage Lucilla and common sense and 
 good faith and the county all in one breath. To be 
 led by the nose by a chit of a child. It's preposterous, 
 and it's the only thing to be done. I'll go down 
 to-morrow and break it to Lucilla. Then we must 
 keep our heads and bolt, and, ' hit or miss,' she must 
 go on. She must follow what she knows." 
 
 He sat for a long time and thought of her as she 
 had stood above him and brought the fructifying 
 breath of kissing back into his barren life. Little as 
 either of them knew it, Tony had made him efficient 
 in her service.
 
 136 nil- i-ir1'-si-:p.ki<:r 
 
 "She won't escape," he said, "it will be hit or miss 
 with her, and she'll hit back and hurt herself. I've 
 laid mvself open to some new sensations, upon my 
 soul. And, good Lord ! To be crowing over the 
 chance of a new pain at my age ! 1 wish life would 
 lay a light hand on her. vShe's damned ignorant and 
 cocksure. But catch it ! It's a pity," he said sorrow- 
 fully, "she has a sweet mouth — or she had at t^iat 
 remarkable minute. And to start life by having to 
 run away from her mother is hard luck on a girl." 
 
 So Colonel Larpent wrote to Tony, and when 
 Lucilla got the wire announcing his imminent visit 
 she thrilled with chastened joy. She was being a 
 mother at the time, with great zeal and much quiet 
 self-sacrifice. Tony doing her utmost to keep calm 
 called for virtue of a high order. And Lucilla enjoyed 
 nothing better than being consciously good. Her 
 quiescence and excusable fatigue at the end of the 
 German hour which she suffered daily often moved 
 her to tears and a deep thankfulness for her fitness 
 to her diflicult duties. 
 
 Tony had inherited her own gift for languages. 
 The trouble did not lie there. But having read all 
 Goethe herself before her marriage, without a 
 dictionary, and understanding every word, she 
 thought that Tony could not do better than follow her 
 example. 
 
 So having finished the first part of Faust, crippled 
 beyond recognition — it had been slashed into pro- 
 priety for Lucilla's own use — they had plunged 
 without a tremor into the second part. 
 
 Tony's eager, questioning, alert mind revolted 
 instantly against the inextricable confusion which 
 faced and confounded it. She seemed to be getting 
 every moment more closely caught and held in a 
 network of words. Beautiful words ; they rang in her 
 ears. They made wild haunting music in the air 
 around her, but she could neither catch the tune nor 
 see the sense. Their very beauty hid the beauty she
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 137 
 
 panted to know. Every atom of her stretched and 
 struggled to get down into the heart of their meaning. 
 She cried and contended for the vision they hid and 
 revealed. And her mother in her beautiful voice 
 read aloud the dreary notes of her old governess, 
 adding further comments of her own. Tony some- 
 times felt as though she and the words were all bleed- 
 ing together. But generally she was only possessed 
 by the devil. She wanted to bang the table and burn 
 the book, and she looked all that she felt. 
 
 Lucilla could have lifted up her voice and wept. 
 
 The telegram came a little before the lesson Vvas 
 over, and in her quiet joy Lucilla forgot to finish it. 
 So Tony, wild-eyed and haggard, fled to a little open 
 space in the wood — her own peculiar possession — 
 and there she danced like a fury, or an outraged 
 stork. 
 
 It was a lifelong habit ; she was profoundly 
 ashamed of it, and yet it had its uses. The dance 
 was mad, but still it kept time, at first to the 
 passionate beat of her heart then to its gradual 
 slowing, and in the end to its rhythmic swing. She 
 could always dance herself back into a human 
 being. 
 
 When she stretched herself out at last on the damp 
 grass she was almost composed. 
 
 "And that's the end of Faust for me," she said 
 presently. "It's like watching some one picking flies 
 to pieces — and sometimes it's like plucking angels' 
 wings, I think. I simply can't — I'll think of the 
 other thing. 
 
 "And that's as bad," she rapped out at last with a 
 pinched young face. "It's like deserting her. And 
 yet if we stayed, perhaps we'd get used to it." 
 
 She shuddered up into a little heap. "If she could 
 see me and I could see her just once as father saw us 
 both always, one might get something right, but 
 when one can't 
 
 "Dear me, that's half-past three striking, and I've
 
 138 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 forgotten luncii, and the Colonel must have been here 
 for half-an-hour. I'd better go down and help him— 
 to be a brute properly," said Tony, with a sudden 
 giggle. "It's awful," she cried out on a little sob. 
 "I'd almost like to be dead. I wonder — oh, I 
 wonder ! "
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 Once Tony fell to wondering she forgot every- 
 thing else. She drifted away into a country where 
 everything went well, and marvels happened, and 
 people were good in spite of themselves. When, a 
 few minutes later, she plunged into the drawing-room, 
 her eyes were wide, her lips apart, she was breathing 
 excitedly. She fully expected to see visions, changes, 
 transformations. Anything at that moment seemed 
 possible to Tony. 
 
 What her mother beheld was a wild face, disgraceful 
 hair matted with pine-needles and one lace undone. 
 
 "Tony ! " she cried, and Tony shrank back to earth. 
 
 "But — but what's the matter?" she stammered. 
 
 "Dearest child! Look in the glass, and — haven't 
 you seen Colonel Larpent ? " 
 
 "Oh, dear me ! I forgot him," said Tony dazedly. 
 "I was expecting something else. Something quite 
 different." 
 
 There was some excuse for Lucilla's secret appre- 
 hensions as to the entire sanity of Tony. 
 
 Even the Colonel was startled. 
 
 "I say, Tony, what's up?" he inquired 
 
 "Why? Am 1 different from usual?" she asked, 
 frowning and puzzled. 
 
 "Follow your mother's suggestion and look in the 
 glass, my girl." 
 
 He stood up, and in his stiff, unbending, polite way 
 led Tony to a mirror. 
 
 She turned away and sat down hopelessly. 
 
 "Nothing's ever like one expects," she said, "and 
 to look like that — when " 
 
 The natural tears of a mother were in Lucilla's eyes. 
 
 139
 
 140 rilF I-IRl-:-Sl'I'KI'R 
 
 Tony saw them aiul was roslored. vSiie sat iij) and 
 looked sharply at their faces. 
 
 "It will take me half-an-hour to tidy up. Mayn't 
 I hear first ? " 
 
 The Colonel looked embarrassed, Lucilla tran;-ic. 
 
 "So far as I can understand, dearest," said Lucilla 
 at last, "I have nothing new to tell you. It is I who 
 have been startled and shocked. Oh, Tony ! " she 
 said sadly, "I don't think you could ever understand 
 my surprise or my pain, or you would never have 
 caused them. So I'll not speak of that part. You 
 want to go away from me, child — now — when a girl 
 wants her mother more than ever she wanted her 
 before — to leave me in the most important year of 
 your life. The one year I could expect to have you 
 all to myself, to care for you and guide you as no 
 one else could ever do." 
 
 She spoke beautifully and sincerely. She was 
 infinitely sorry for herself. The Colonel felt a worm. 
 Tony wriggled like one. 
 
 "Lucilla's so damnably right," reflected the 
 unhappy guardian, "and we're so damnably wrong." 
 
 Tony, facing him in her outrageous state of dis- 
 repair, left him without an argument in her favour. 
 It was a fatal moment for Tony; he turned his eyes 
 back to Lucilla, paused, and wavered. 
 
 Tony saw what he was after, deliberately leant 
 forward and forced his eyes back to her. And if ever 
 a hunted creature w^as begging for its life it was 
 Tony, and her likeness to her father turned him cold. 
 Mad or sane, they must go through with this business. 
 Tony must have her will and take her chances. Ay, 
 even if he were to feel like a cur and look like a fool 
 to the end of his days for it, so it must be. Neither 
 reason, courtesy, nor a man's reputation can stand up 
 against the holy mystery of youth in two burning eyes. 
 
 "I'm confused with pain, I think," said Lucilla 
 simply, pressing her fingers over her eyes. "I wish 
 you could make me understand. Explain the thing 
 to me, Giles."
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 141 
 
 "Explain ! I wish I could begin to explain it even 
 to myself ! If we begin to argue out the thing, Mrs. 
 Pemberton, you'll bowl me over in two minutes. I 
 have neither argument nor explanation to offer. It 
 all seems like stark, staring madness, and anything 
 but playing the game to you. And yet I believe Tony 
 to be right, and that it's the only sane thing to be 
 done, and the only fair thing to you and to Tony. 
 It's Kismet, I'm inclined to think, and as much 
 beyond your interference as beyond mine. The 
 unexpected has got into the air. Possibly madness 
 is let loose. Or else how could a well-brought-up 
 girl, with everything she can possibly want, have 
 set her heart on a ' Wanderjahr ' in the company 
 of a dry old soldier with touches of gout ? When a 
 girl wants a thing in the way Tony wants this — it's 
 my opinion she'd better have it, or she'll give neither 
 herself nor any one else any rest till she gets it. 
 You're better without her, my dear lady, she'll be 
 glad enough to get home again and knuckle down to 
 everyday existence." 
 
 "Ah ! you've settled it all between you, it seems ! " 
 She slowly lifted one trembling hand to hide the 
 twitching of her eyelids. She leant wearily back in 
 her chair. 
 
 At that moment Lucilla hated her daughter. She 
 had baffled and put her aside. There were things 
 going on in the great eyes fixed on Colonel Larpent 
 that were breaking up for ever her dominion over 
 him, that were sapping the foundations of her long 
 sway. 
 
 Lucilla could see far and deep where she herself 
 was concerned. The power upon which she had so 
 long nourished herself was slipping from her grasp. 
 
 She looked back over her long years of quiet rule, 
 and not till this minute did she know how dear and 
 close and necessary it had been. She could not live 
 without it. 
 
 If Tony's wide, wild eyes could plead for her life, 
 the whole trained, contained being of Lucilla could
 
 1^2 rill-: FIRE-SEEKKR 
 
 cnlrcat for Ikts. She looked very fine as she sat up 
 and threw out her hands to the two deserters. She 
 was natural and very moving; it was of her bread 
 and of her bk^od that they wanted to rob her. 
 
 "Tonv ! " she cried st)ftly, "you want a year abroad. 
 Oh, you child ! you child ! How little you know 
 of anything! Tony, I'll shut up the house, and I'll 
 go with you — we'll all go together. Oh, Tony ! 
 Tony ! " she cried almost wildly to the girl's appalled 
 face. " Let me take care of you. Don't leave me here 
 alone." 
 
 Giles sat like an image and believed in Tony, but 
 he would have been glad had Death but delivered 
 him from the intolerable burthen of her ! Self-sacrifice 
 indeed ! He was giving up a good deal for Tom and 
 for Tom's daughter — his sense of manhood, of race, 
 of tradition, of common decent feeling. 
 
 He liked Lucilla as he had never liked her before. 
 He pitied her immensely. He would have done any- 
 thing to still her awful cry. He could have forfeited 
 everv right of his own, every hope, every memory 
 for Lucilla. At that moment he might almost have 
 done the impossible and married her. Eternal damna- 
 tion put against such a moment was as nothing — but 
 that he was pledged to the service of Tony. 
 
 Tony was crying bitterly, noiselessly, terribly for 
 such a child. Suddenly she turned with passionate 
 reproach to the Colonel. 
 
 "If only you'd just run away with me as I asked 
 you, you'd have saved her all this," she cried. She 
 lifted herself up and stood before her mother. 
 
 "You wouldn't like it if you came with us," she 
 said. "It wouldn't be the same for any of us. We 
 must go — all by ourselves. And I know — oh, I know 
 just what beasts we look. But, Mother, I've got to 
 go — to see things for myself — and feel things and 
 get to know them and forget — no end of things, and 
 get ready to begin all over again in the most awfully 
 splendid way. When I come home it will be all 
 different. I'll do everything you want. I don't want
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 143 
 
 to be horrible even now, but it- — it happens somehow 
 ■ — and I've just got to go — we both have," she said, 
 sighing; "and after aH I couldn't go alone, you know, 
 so it's convenient. And- — I'll be so different when 
 I come back," she said, with the strange gentleness 
 of her father and her father's eyes. "Perhaps you'll 
 like me then in the way one can like being liked, you 
 know. I couldn't want to be horrid, don't you see — 
 when my father loved you so — oh! can't you see?" 
 she entreated to Lucilla's bowed head. "It's no use,'' 
 she said after a long silence. "I can't explain." 
 
 She went back to her seat, and Lucilla sat up with 
 great and gentle dignity. 
 
 "No, you can't explain, little Tony. And if you 
 could I don't think I could understand. All I know 
 is that my one only little girl and my best friend are 
 both determined to go away and leave me here alone, 
 and that I am powerless to prevent them. I am in 
 their hands and at their mercy." 
 
 "Don't say that, Mrs. Pemberton," said Giles 
 quickly. "I may look like a cad, but I'm not one. 
 If Tom had never made me Tony's guardian I'd have 
 to back her up in this. It looks as bad as it well 
 can do — never felt such a brute in my life. I hate 
 going against you. And yet if Tom stood here this 
 minute I think he'd let Tony go for your sake as 
 much as for Tony's. It's a big claim on you, Mrs. 
 Pemberton, a big demand. Perhaps she has no right 
 to make it, nor I to back her up. But even if we're 
 both wrong, your heart is big enough to forgive us. 
 And a mother's heart is big enough to give anything 
 to her child for her child's sake. 
 
 " Is it, I wonder, when it's broken ? " slie said at 
 last. "Please, Giles, leave me now. Take Tony for 
 a walk, and we'll talk it over again w'hen I've rested 
 a little." 
 
 The two slunk out like whipped hounds, and 
 Lucilla, peerless in her grief, smiled upon them as 
 they went.
 
 CII.\PT1-R XVIT 
 
 "Come," said Tony. "Oh, anywhere!" 
 
 "But your coat?" he objected. 
 
 "I'm burning hot," she said. "Oh, come." 
 
 The April winds were chilly up on those hills, but 
 she forged on hatless and coatless, making blindly 
 for the highest point. The Colonel was keenly sorry 
 for her and for himself. Lucilla had scored at every 
 point, won hands down. She had sent them forth 
 robbed of every vestige of self-respect, a pair of base 
 and traitorous deserters, while she sat, wounded to 
 the soul, making no complaint and looking inimitable. 
 
 This was all very well, but flesh and blood could 
 no longer stand Tony's pace. 
 
 "Hold hard!" he said at last. "Remember I'm 
 not seventeen." 
 
 Tony fetched up short. 
 
 "I can't remember anything but her face." 
 
 "My girl, you'd get on better in life if you could 
 form yours on it. It's the face that wins." 
 
 "I— I think I'd rather lose— honestly." 
 
 "Sit on that trunk, Tony, and pull yourself 
 together." 
 
 "It won't go into words," said Tony, after an all 
 too brief pause. 
 
 "Thank God," muttered the Colonel. 
 
 "It's too horrible," said Tony promptly. 
 
 "Then leave it." 
 
 "It can't be left." 
 
 He groaned. 
 
 "We have to go. It's the one thing we've simply 
 got to do — to save ourselves. It's — it's rather sensible 
 and courageous of us to go — and yet we both feel as if 
 
 144
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 145 
 
 we'd been just packed off to hell. And she has no 
 right — she hasn't any right," said the girl fiercely. 
 "It's turning things upside down. It's unfair." 
 
 She steadied herself to survey him. 
 
 "You'll be an immense loss to her," she said in 
 the end, with recovered calm. "She counted on you. 
 She can't get on without people to watch her doing 
 things beautifully. You've always been watching 
 her, and now she wants you more than ever to watch 
 her being sorry for Father in the nicest way that was 
 ever seen. I watch her myself — I'm fearfully sorry 
 for Mother. You mayn't think it, but I am. And 
 this will upset everything. You come into all her 
 arrangements. It will be extremely difficult to explain 
 to the public in the right way your taking my part 
 and coming with me. I don't think anything can 
 make it flattering to Mother — not even Mother her- 
 self," Tony sighed profoundly. "It will be an 
 enormous difficulty, and she'll have to do it without 
 a soul to look at her." 
 
 The Colonel stood aghast. Her cold-blooded 
 prosaic statement of the outrageous truth struck him 
 dumb. But if he began by standing dumb before 
 Tonv, where would he end ? 
 
 "The abominable egotism of youth ! You see 
 nothing but yourself. You thrust aside altogether 
 your mother's very natural feelings in the matter. 
 And you seem to forget that I'm not going for my 
 own pleasure or my own profit." 
 
 Tony grinned elfishly. 
 
 "Are you sure?" she inquired. "Suppose you 
 stayed, and had to come, and had to watch, and had 
 to admire. You couldn't get out of it. No one can. 
 Even I'd have had to forget myself in the end. One 
 can't always go on feeling a beast. And you'd for- 
 get yourself too in the end," she said solemnly, "and 
 ■ — if the worst happened, you'd never settle down. 
 You'd probably commit suicide and disgrace the 
 family. Oh! don't you see?" 
 
 K
 
 146 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 "I see, my girl, that you badly want a chaperon — 
 or a whipping — seventeen or no. Good God ! If 
 you were only a boy ! " 
 
 "It's no use to clutch your stick! We've been 
 through all that," said Tony sublimely, "you'd better 
 try to make the best of me as I am." 
 
 "If I could see one glimmer of hope in any 
 part of you as yet revealed to the naked eye," he 
 groaned. 
 
 "Oh, can't you wait! You can't expect me to be 
 beginning now to show you what I can do. I'm not 
 patient Griselda." 
 
 "Well, no." 
 
 "Do you think you'd like me any better if I was? 
 Or do you think Father'd have liked me in the way 
 he did?" 
 
 "Suppose we talk sense, Tony, unadorned British 
 common sense, for five minutes. You're about to do 
 the most disreputable thing a daughter can well do. 
 You're about to desert your mother before she's six 
 months a widow. You're going to throw over a 
 thousand things necessary to the education of a young 
 lady to get your own mad will, and you're implicating 
 me in your crime. You're taking advantage of a 
 loophole of escape. Do you suppose I'm such a cur 
 as — well, as to run away from — a — difficult situation ? 
 If you'd sat tight and gone through with it as a well- 
 brought-up girl without — well, an imagination, would 
 
 have done " He paused and faced her large 
 
 young glance. "Don't quote Adam, my girl," he 
 sighed. "I know. There's not one valid excuse for 
 either of us." 
 
 "Xo," said Tony, after a long pause, "that's just it. 
 There's not ! " 
 
 She looked down at the perfect little home, the 
 perfect little garden. Her eyes widened. Her lips 
 trembled. She shook to and fro for a minute in her 
 effort to silence the tempest of sobs which struggled 
 to break forth, and at last she succeeded.
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 147 
 
 "The more words one uses the worse it gets," she 
 said. "We^ve got to go, and that's all I know. 
 Come through the copse, and let us try to forget it 
 and get alive again. Please tell me some of the things 
 you and Father did in the little places that last year 
 abroad. It was the best year, I think. Oh, tell me," 
 she said, shivering. "We'll have to get alive again 
 before we go home." 
 
 The changes in Tony's face were getting too much 
 for her guardian. He could have tried suicide with- 
 out one regret. This being impossible he plunged 
 back into memories of her father with the zest of a 
 boy. He fished up out of the variegated past things 
 that had perhaps better have remained there. Little 
 trivial things, sad and sweet and mad, which in his 
 sane mind he would more carefully have edited. 
 
 But in the hideous complexity of the present, they 
 were simple and true and natural. They were the 
 gay, inconsequent, untrained flowers of youth, and 
 they squandered their wild fragrance upon the chill 
 evening air and blotted out Lucilla. 
 
 Tony's heavy steps began to dance. Her sad eyes 
 were stars. 
 
 "He liked everything and everybody," she said,, 
 "and he understood them all. He didn't mind 
 roughness, or commonness, or dirt. He could even 
 stand fleas and people who got drunk. He could 
 stand anything if it was alive. And so'll we. We'll 
 do everything," she panted. "We'll see it all. 
 Nothing'U put us off, not even the sins and things. 
 We'll go right on through everything and do — some- 
 thing immense with it in the end. And to be going 
 with you, who knows the way, who knows how it's 
 all done, who's done it all I Oh ! oh ! oh ! " she 
 murmured. 
 
 He stared and blinked. The girl seemed to emit 
 light and to tread the firmament. 
 
 "And there's not an ounce of moral sense in 
 her," he reflected. "She has the curiosity of a 
 K 2
 
 148 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 thousand eons — and upon my soul 1 the devil's own 
 beauty." 
 
 "Come, look sharp," he said, with sober delibera- 
 tion. "It's a bit cold for ambling." 
 
 "Cold!" she said, touching her scarlet cheeks. 
 "I'm rather warm." 
 
 "Ah! You would be!" She pensively rubbed 
 a cheek. 
 
 "Oh, what a life we'll have," she said, after a sharp 
 spurt. "I'm not going to be a scarecrow long, eitlier. 
 I've been looking at my frocks. They can all be 
 lengthened, and I can get a few new ones," she said 
 airily. "I've thought them out. I think I'm going 
 to be rather clever about clothes. It's so idiotic not 
 to get the best out of everything. I can't sit still when 
 I see dull hats in church, and a crooked seam makes 
 me want to stick my hat-pin into the stupid back 
 behind it. It's not fair to the clothes or to the other 
 people's eyes." 
 
 " You appear to take a serious view of your 
 devotions." 
 
 "People's backs are distracting," she sighed, "and 
 they're serious too." 
 
 "So ladies seem to think." 
 
 "Perhaps they're right! If you're somehow sure 
 there's something perfectly lovely and every line right 
 in every piece of cloth that was ever made, why should 
 any one turn it into a horror? You ought to make 
 the beauty come out." 
 
 "What about the prayers?" said the Colonel 
 gravely. He believed profoundly in religion for 
 women. 
 
 "I don't believe I've quite come to the prayers yet," 
 said Tony, after a pause. 
 
 "You're not a heathen, I suppose." 
 
 "No. I suppose not. I've listened to a great many 
 prayers and sermons. I've listened properly, and 
 somehow they didn't interest me. If they appealed 
 to me the way they do to the people who talk about
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 149 
 
 them, I'd make them sound different, I think. I'd 
 make people listen to them and feel them and believe 
 in them before I was done with them." 
 
 "Or knock them down if they didn't. There's a 
 Christian light in your eyes I haven't noticed before." 
 
 "If only one could ! " she murmured, with clasped 
 hands. "When you feel heavenly things inside you 
 and sort of know they're as true as true, and other 
 people can't see them^or see them all wrong — it's 
 awful not to be able to punch their heads or hammer 
 them to a jelly till they do. Oh, you'd do anything ! " 
 
 "The deuce you would ! There's a fine curate lost 
 in you, Tony." 
 
 "Curate, indeed ! But there are a lot of fine things 
 lost in me, I think. I sort of feel them wandering 
 round, and I never can catch them. Do you think I 
 ever will ? " she asked glowing, her face suddenly sad 
 and scared. 
 
 "God knows, my girl! And God forgive me for 
 the cowardly words ! You'll catch them — some of 
 them anyway, if you mean business. If you let 
 nothing come between you and the scent, but keep 
 your eyes strained and begrudge nothing, neither 
 time nor patience, nor strength, nor the sweat of your 
 body, nor the blood of your soul to the adventure. 
 But you'd better be sure the quarry is worth the chase. 
 We all see what you've seen, my girl. Only some of 
 us are too slack and some have no mount, and some 
 get off the scent, and some come croppers and turn 
 back. But there's always one in every field who 
 brings home the brush." 
 
 She walked on for a few minutes. Her small, 
 proud head was bowed. She looked unutterably 
 humble. It was the most alarming symptom the 
 Colonel had yet noticed. He felt unaccountably 
 angry. 
 
 "I'll bring home the brush," she said in a low 
 voice, "or — or 'bust.' It's the one he missed," she 
 said presently. "It's partly for him I want to get it.
 
 150 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 One of us must make things up to him, don't you 
 think, and I've the first right." 
 
 "No, I don't, my girl," he said stoutly. "No man 
 can do another fellow's job for him : and no man 
 has ever been let off his in this world, and I doubt 
 if he will be in any other. Precious little weak senti- 
 ment in the Universe, so far as I can see. But 'pon 
 my soul, I believe he'll get wind of you somehow, 
 and if you ride straight he'll follow in a way. So 
 take care you give him the right lead, Tony." 
 
 He spoke with some boldness. The opportunity to 
 get in some sound moral counsel at last lent him con- 
 fidence, but he watched Tony out of the tail of his 
 eye. 
 
 "With her confounded sharp wits she'll be pounc- 
 ing on my theology," he reflected. 
 
 But Tony was lifted high above theology. She was 
 for the moment a poet. She saw the truth through a 
 rainbow. The colour and light and radiance of life 
 made all things possible. The sign of the conqueror 
 was set in her sky. 
 
 "Come home," she said, "and we'll be angels the 
 whole time." 
 
 The Colonel looked dubious. 
 
 "You believe nothing," she murmured. "Why, 
 it's only for a few days." 
 
 "I'd forgotten," said the Colonel. "There's a prac- 
 tical side to you, Tony. Come along ! "
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 LuciLLA was calm and beautiful. She was also 
 appealing and practical. She had already wired for 
 old Anthony. The pair felt now not only guilty but 
 ridiculous. To have to stand at the bar before a God- 
 forsaken old rascal you would hesitate to entertain at 
 your club, and to know that every trite morality he 
 chose to produce, would carry the sting of truth in 
 its tail, while your locker didn't hold an argument, 
 showed the Colonel the fiendish wisdom in Tony's 
 suggestion of a commentless elopement. The 
 simplest road to your end is, after all, the most digni- 
 fied. As he went slowly to his room he looked old 
 and worn. 
 
 "Now," said Tony, swooping down on him half in 
 and half out of the bag-like garment she wore at 
 dinner, "now," she demanded, with a horrible 
 prescience of his reflections. "Didn't I tell you? 
 You'll not refuse to run away quietly and decently 
 the next time I ask you." 
 
 "The present question seems to be how best to be 
 an angel in the interval before we start," 
 
 "There need never have been any necessity for the 
 awful grind." 
 
 "Since there is, the sooner we start on it the better," 
 he said severely. 
 
 "Oh, sir!" cried Martha, red-eyed and haggard, 
 as she laid a bony prehensile paw on Tony's shoulder, 
 "may I make bold to ask if you know what you're 
 a doin' of? I have heard from mistress, sir, I 
 have nursed her in her cradle and know her 
 heart."
 
 152 Till-: I'1Ki:-si:i:ki:i; 
 
 riu- C'oIdiU'l had always suspcctctl a cat in old 
 Martha, and ho Uiu-w her temper, hut she iineoiuhlion- 
 ally adored Liu ilia. 
 
 '"Pon my soul, Martha, 1 don't. I'm standing on 
 the brink of an adventure the end of which I defy any 
 human vision to catch a glimpse of. I'm undertaking 
 the apparently impossible. I may be rushing on my 
 doom. Hut the truth is, we've got to go. It's the 
 age, Martha. There is nothing personal in the matter 
 at all. Look at it like that — put it on a philosophic 
 basis. I know you're well read. Mr. Pemberton told 
 me you once asked him to lend you Locke On the 
 Human Understanding, and then you'll judge Miss 
 Tony and me more leniently." 
 
 "Oh, sir ! Miss Ttiny and anything serious ! " 
 
 "I see. I admit everything. I know how it must 
 look to the well-regulated mind. But still 1 think it's 
 the only thing to be done, and if 1 didn't think so I 
 shouldn't have anvthing to do with it. So hope for 
 the best, Martha. i3y the time I bring Miss Tony home 
 to you, she'll dress in her own room, I feel sure." 
 
 "God grant it, sir." 
 
 "Oh, Niartha ! " cried Tony. "Can't you begin to 
 hope things for me again ? Since you've given up 
 hoping I'd be like my mother as a bad job — you've 
 only hoped I wouldn't go to hell. I wonder if you 
 really did hope it ! Never mind — wait till I come 
 home and you'll just see." 
 
 Tony looked uplifted. Plainly she saw something 
 in her future her audience failed to perceive. 
 
 "I hope I have alwavs done mv duty bv vou, Miss 
 Tony." 
 
 "Goodness knows you have, but I wish you'd liked 
 me instead. 
 
 "It's their faults young people would be wishing 
 us to like, and God forbid I should ever fear to face 
 the truth." 
 
 "You never, never will, Martha ! But wait just, 
 and I'll blot out vour truth with mine."
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 153 
 
 Martha's eyes were glued to the thin shoulders. 
 
 "In common decency, Miss, come to your room and 
 let me fasten you." 
 
 "I agree with Martha, Tony; you'll be more con- 
 vincing fully clothed, at any rate, for the present." 
 
 Lucilla did her utmost to make the path of those who 
 had sinned against her a path of roses. Their con- 
 sciences in the end were pierced with fiery darts. 
 Their reason tottered. The Colonel in sheer sympa- 
 thetic apology pottered round after Lucilla. He 
 played games with her the whole evening. He fol- 
 lowed her next morning from stable to garden ; 
 responded to every appeal, endured with what forti- 
 tude he could muster half-diffident confidences and 
 tender memories. He felt her griefs. He even per- 
 suaded himself of their depth and sincerity. 
 
 Tony knew by instinct what he was after, and Tony 
 loping along at their heels did not detract from his 
 discomfort. 
 
 Even if she shut her eyes and held her breath, Tony 
 could see the manoeuvres of her mother. They moved 
 her to unholy mirth, and they had been branded in 
 her heart. She hated them and herself. 
 
 " I w^ish I was a man till the old wretch comes, and 
 you were a woman," she said to the Colonel, in an 
 interval of rest. "It would be easier for both of us." 
 
 "How do you know these things, Tony? I hate 
 precocity." 
 
 "Do you think I want to know them? Do you 
 think I want to know anything that makes us have 
 to go away ? I could stay at home and behave like 
 a lady like other people, if I had the chance, and so 
 could you. You can't pretend to score over me in 
 anything, and that must be rather bad, and you my 
 guardian. I'm sorry for all of us — even for Martha. 
 I heard her sobbing in the sewing-room just now, and 
 I could have said — lovely things to her — somewhere 
 else — where one's forgotten. It's beautiful to watch 
 your bark," she said, with a sudden chuckle, "when
 
 154 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 you're walking before me with Mother. It's my 
 one comfort. It keeps me from wishing I was 
 dead." 
 
 "In your society, Tony, I no longer even wish to 
 die. I believe I shall be more sorry for your husband, 
 Tony, than for any man I ever met." 
 
 "Shall you? Perhaps I shall be, too. But perhaps 
 I'll be able to make it up to him in a way." 
 
 "I doubt it." 
 
 "To be judging me bv now! Oh! can't you 
 wait ? " 
 
 He sighed and buried himself in the paper. 
 
 Lucilla's wire deeply moved Anthony. He was in 
 the mood to be moved. Lucilla had indelibly im- 
 pressed herself upon him. She had reminded him of 
 things long forgotten, more especially of his latter 
 end. It was a sorry use, he reflected, to put so sweet 
 and well-preserved a woman to, but nevertheless she 
 did. The women with whom he had chosen to con- 
 sort had reminded him of the good, warm earth. 
 Lucilla pointed him to a chilly heaven, and yet he 
 thought of her. 
 
 She was as disquieting as she was fascinating. 
 Since his return from Tom's funeral he had begun to 
 be afraid of being alone. He was falling into bad 
 habits. He used to sit in the twilight and tot up 
 dates. Sometimes he even read the Bible. But he 
 was afraid of the Bible. Lucilla was better. 
 
 He told Home to pack his portmanteau and to be 
 ready to start by the first morning train. Home 
 wondered mutely at the suppressed excitement of the 
 old man. To him anything suppressed in outspoken 
 gentlemen meant gout in the stomach or fits, and he 
 had contracted the affection of habit for Anthony. 
 The little chances of the journey gave him food for 
 consolation. ]\Iore than once Anthony broke through 
 his reserve and stormed. This was wholesome, the 
 worst was that directly after the old master seemed 
 to regret the occurrence. He sat in his corner and
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 155 
 
 looked deprecating. It was uncanny, and Jacob 
 Home liked old ways. 
 
 Before he had been in the house half-an-hour, Mr. 
 Home had learnt all about the sudden summons from 
 Mrs. Moore. 
 
 "She'll be the death of my mistress," said Martha, 
 wiping her eyes. "To forsake her with him not cold 
 in his grave, and to carry off the Colonel with her. 
 An' him as we thought as sure and as safe as the 
 church tower, as would ever come flying for the ask- 
 ing. And her to be left lorn and alone now." 
 
 It was easy to see that Mrs. Moore had been always 
 in the best families. She was still personable, and 
 not even at the Court could they beat her cordials 
 or the way she creamed her tea, but Home had his 
 service to think of, and neither sudden journeys nor 
 unwonted emotions are advisable after eighty. He 
 felt his right to protest. 
 
 "I feel a bit easier in my mind, Mrs. Moore. I was 
 fearful it were a matter of life and death. Them 
 suddint summonses in a quiet household " 
 
 "An' what would you have, Mr. Home?" de- 
 manded Martha. "It's life and death to my mistress, 
 I would have you know." 
 
 "No, Mrs. Moore, ma'am," said he, wiping his 
 mouth. "Mrs. Pemberton will live. She have youth 
 and strength on her side — an' hope. Don't shake 
 your head^ ma'am. It's but the way of nater. The 
 forlornest widow do have hope hid in her breast, 
 believe me, if so be her hair is brown an' her figger 
 as the figger of a lady should be. Time will show, 
 Mrs. Moore, an' nater. But think, ma'am, of the 
 effect of conduct such as you describe on the old and 
 the infirm. It was bad enough it was to have the 
 C^olonel put in his place. It hurt our pride, ma'am. 
 The Colonel is all right, but is it the blood of the 
 Pembertons you'll find in him? No, ma'am. You 
 can see it in his cold an' calculatin' eye. The way 
 he looked at master, with a quiet smile. Drat his
 
 156 THH FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 smile, says I. It riz me, ma'am, it riz my blood. I 
 doubt if he ever rode a steeplechase or put money 
 on a boss in his sober begrudgin' life. Hadn't the 
 courage, ma'am, hadn't the sperrit. An' him to put 
 us out of it. An' the indecency, Mrs. Moore, to aid 
 and abet the proud revolt of the young. An' him to 
 mother a young lady as never lived hisself. It's 
 only them as has lived, Mrs. INIoore, as knows how 
 to guide and guard the young. What Mr. Tom could 
 have been a thinkin' of," said Mr. Home, again 
 wiping his mouth; "an' a hurried journey on a con- 
 stitution a bit spent ! It gives one the shivers, 
 Mrs. Moore." 
 
 The selfishness of the man exasperated Mrs. Moore. 
 He thought of nothing but the wicked old sinner 
 of whom she had heard a deal more than any 
 modest woman would care to remember, much less 
 repeat. 
 
 "Shivers, indeed! If that's all the matter has 
 given you, Mr. Home ! " she broke out. "It's spasms 
 of the heart it's given me, as will take shillings' worth 
 of doctor's stuff to cure. What it will cost my mistress 
 time alone can tell. It kep' me awake anyway three 
 nights running, applying drops. An' if it hadn't," 
 said Martha loyally, "I'd have thought but little of 
 her. That is a widow indeed, Mr. Home. And I'd 
 ask you to be kind enough not to mention hope where 
 she is concerned. Mrs. Pemberton have more respect 
 for herself than to be a harbouring of hope, an' not 
 much more than half of the first year gone. It's 
 plain, Mr. Home, as it's gentlemen you've always 
 served. I know 'em, Mr. Home, to my cost. It was 
 twice married I was, ere I w'as thirty. A man w^ould 
 hope, such is his nature, even while he was a cast- 
 ing of flowers on the grave of his first. We are 
 different." 
 
 She flounced off, head in air. 
 
 To be thinking of a hoary old sinner with one foot 
 in the grave, with a widow of six months' standing to
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 157 
 
 occupy the imagination, confounded Martha, and the 
 shocking bad taste of Jacob in bringing forward his 
 claims at such a moment! "One expects selfishness 
 from gentlemen's servants," she reflected, "they have 
 their excuses, but one likewise expects taste. I am 
 disappointed in Mr. Home." 
 
 Mr. Home was also busy with his reflections. 
 
 "Women will be women to the end of the chapter," 
 he concluded, "and widows, widows. An' sech 
 cordial I never sampled yet." 
 
 Meanwhile Tony sat on a high chair, the first she 
 dropped down on, and hoped to prove her powers 
 before her world. But it is difficult to be at one's 
 best with a purple old man spluttering wrath, threats 
 and sentiment, all strongly touched with reason, at 
 your devoted head. 
 
 Tony sat mute and looked forbidding. 
 
 Lucilla trembled and shrank away more from 
 Tony's face and the Colonel's attitude than from the 
 avalanche of her champion. 
 
 She felt herself beaten, and her heart came nearer 
 to breaking than ever it had done before. Lucilla 
 was not ready for the blow. Her whole nature 
 seemed to change suddenly, to enlarge and as sud- 
 denly to dwindle. She saw as she had never seen 
 before — saw the things that shake the foundations of 
 life — and in her rebound from the vision, cruelties 
 of which she had thought herself incapable crept in 
 her blood. But true to her life-long habit having 
 recoiled from her truth, it did not even occur to her 
 to strike at the wicked heads of the devils that had 
 startled her. She bided her time instead, and struck 
 at her deserters. To dare to make her appear at her 
 worst even to herself ! To dare to show her things 
 she did not wish to know and others she had not 
 even suspected. It was a crime against all peace and 
 all virtue. Lucilla could have ground her teeth and 
 howled. But in order to retain its allegiance a woman 
 must show a fair front to the world. With a heroic
 
 158 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 fiTort she regained her serenity and \vaited until her 
 adversaries should show their folly. 
 
 There was a martyr, saint and mother, lost in 
 Lucilla. Her faith in herself could indeed remove 
 mountains. Could she have conceived of any other 
 creature, human or divine, higher, dearer, or more 
 interesting than herself, she could have given that 
 Heing her allegiance, and been almost as great as 
 she desired to appear. In her momentary enlighten- 
 ment she had seen Tony's point of view, and had 
 half understood it. She had seen the wild sore heart 
 crying for some desert wherein to hide itself and be 
 healed. 
 
 The dumb inarticulate resentments of Tony, her 
 smothered cry for freedom, the dreadful sense of 
 failure which had shocked her young soul into revolt, 
 had all been partly visible to Lucilla when she had 
 seen herself. This was her opportunity. 
 
 But things as they were were too hard for Lucilla. 
 She had lived too softly in a garden of everlasting 
 flowers, and how dare they disturb her in it — oh ! how 
 dare they ? 
 
 She turned to Tony's sullen face and the Colonel's 
 stolid one, and by a superhuman effort she saw her- 
 self the woman that every woman born of woman 
 desires to be, and nothing else seemed possible to 
 her. And she was pitifully sorry for herself. Her 
 widowhood bound up an immense tragedy. 
 
 Passionate memories of Tom tore and rent her. 
 She dared not dwell upon the past. She cleared her 
 vision and bent it upon the sins of her persecutors. 
 She remembered the quiet worship of years, the silent 
 understanding, the implied pain, and she hated her 
 supplanter. She had robbed her of her staff of life. 
 Her position became every instant more intolerable. 
 She had never even conceived of life without a strong 
 supporter at hand. Her whole scheme of existence 
 was breaking down. 
 
 Lucilla was discreet to a degree. She had no abso-
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 159 
 
 lutely definite intentions in regard to Giles Larpent 
 — yet. But to see him go calmly over to Tony was 
 as bitter as death to her. She marshalled all her 
 forces to think out how best to punish Tony and still 
 be perfect. 
 
 It was a knotty point, and for the moment per- 
 plexed Lucilla. 
 
 "I may have failed in my duty to your father," 
 said Anthony sentimentally, shaking his head. "God 
 knows I loved the boy, but the man disappointed me. 
 Until I knew your mother and understood what he 
 owed her in love and self-sacrifice, I was ass enough 
 to believe that it was damn bone idleness that kept 
 him tethered down here in his cabbage patch. Now 
 I know — I understand," he pursued, with a languish- 
 ing glance at Lucilla; "no man with eyes in his 
 head or a heart in his body could choose between 
 hollow ambition and such a woman ! Tom Pember- 
 ton did his duty like a gentleman, and if he 
 hadn't " 
 
 Anthony paused, it was a difficult subject to round 
 up neatly," so he changed it back to his original point. 
 
 "But if I failed in my duty to your father, I'm 
 hanged if I didn't mean the best for you, Antoinette. 
 I wished your father's daughter to reign in the old 
 place. I was ready and willing to do my best for 
 you," he puffed. "I had my heir up from Town — 
 at considerable inconvenience to himself — and I 
 brought him over here with me to look at you, to 
 see if we couldn't, so to speak, square matters. It 
 didn't take him long to size you down. I held my 
 tongue. I did my best for the poor fellow that's 
 gone. Gad ! When I think of Tom and look at 
 you!" he said, glaring. "Young Pemberton's a 
 good fellow, he'd do a lot to oblige me. But a man's 
 a man. He has his natural feelings, and Ralph's an 
 immensely observant fellow. Not a turn or a twist 
 of you escaped him. 
 
 "He loved his mother, I'd have you to know,
 
 i6o THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 Antoinette, and he saw you cheeking yours. Nice 
 iliat for my fine plans for you ! Soner than have 
 anything to do with you, Antoinette Pemberton " — 
 Anthony flushed and paused. lie must be impres- 
 sive or nothing. The minx looked obnoxious, any- 
 thing was allowable — "he solemnly assured me, he'd 
 rather house with a viper ! " He spoke slowly and 
 with emphasis. Until this moment Tony had sat like 
 granite, scorning protest. Now she woke to life. 
 She stood up and faced the old man. Her face was 
 stony enough, but her eyes burnt him. He cowered 
 a little. Women had been his slaves, or his plav- 
 things. They had cringed before him or had thrown 
 his curses back in his teeth, but he knew nothing of 
 the wild lash of their pride. 
 
 He felt very old and frail. He was afraid. If 
 Tony had but known it ! But he had ripped some- 
 thing out of her heart and soul, and her maddened 
 brain, laid bare deep and delicate secrets and a 
 thousand strange, shy agonies. 
 
 "Dearest Tony," cried her mother. Anthony 
 mumbled. 
 
 "Did he say that?" demanded Tony. Her young 
 face was a hard thing to see. The inarticulate dim 
 semi-consciousness making for clarity, for self-expres- 
 sion, reminded the Colonel of too many things. He 
 came and stood beside her. 
 
 "I don't suppose for a moment he said a word of 
 it," he gently assured her. "Not the sort of thing a 
 fellow of his age would say. One can understand 
 your saying it yourself, Mr. Pemberton, in the heat 
 of the moment. I heard you myself say something 
 not unlike it. But as for young Pemberton ■ " 
 
 "Did he say it?" said Tony in an odd, low voice. 
 
 Lucilla's speaking face had reinforced Anthony. 
 He had never given in to a woman in his life, and this 
 one — this chit was trying to bully him — him — 
 Anthony Pemberton, and what matter whether he had 
 said it or not? He'd felt it, he could swear to that.
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER i6r 
 
 And how dared that chit bullv him — how dared 
 she ? " 
 
 His hot, confused, over-excited brain hummed and 
 buzzed. Things got mixed up and perverted. Per- 
 haps the fellow did say it after all. Anyway, if he 
 didn't, he ought to have! And it was the poor 
 mother he'd got to think of and defend, not that 
 obnoxious stork glaring at him. Her eyes were 
 horrible. They reminded him of a setter he had once 
 kicked. She died, worse luck. He did his best for 
 the poor brute afterwards, but she died — licking his 
 feet. Precious little of that sort of thing in this 
 infernal fury. And perhaps he did say it. Anyway, 
 what did it matter? He felt ill himself — he felt giddy 
 and queer. 
 
 "Did he say it?" demanded Tony. 
 
 "Damn it all, he did say it," said Anthony, "and 
 any other man would have said worse." 
 
 She sat down without a word and let them finish 
 the matter between them.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 "Dear Mr. Pemberton, say no more," cried Lucilla. 
 "I see now how selfish I have been to draw you into 
 this. But 1 fek so alone, and it's so new to me. 
 And when it comes to fighting for one's own girl ! 
 And perhaps Pve been spoilt. Pve always had a man 
 to help me. And since you deserted me," she said, 
 smiling gently at the unhappy Colonel, "I had to turn 
 to you, Mr. Pemberton, not only because of our 
 friendship, but because you are our nearest relative, 
 and when one is as desperate as I am, one has to try 
 to get help somewhere. I thought you might perhaps 
 have helped me to move Tony's heart. It was a sort 
 of forlorn hope, I think," she said sadly. "I was so 
 desperate. I thought, foolishly, I now see, you might 
 have helped me to explain to Tony the pain she is 
 causing me." She paused to draw her fingers slowly 
 across her eyes. "I feel just now as if it must be my 
 death-blow, but we can live through a great deal, I 
 have found." 
 
 "My God, Mrs. Pemberton, the thing's disgrace- 
 ful " 
 
 "But my daughter thinks differently, and my oldest 
 friend thinks with her." 
 
 Her humility set both the sinners' teeth on edge. 
 
 "Even now," cried Lucilla eagerly, forcing herself 
 to fortitude and resource, " I have something to pro- 
 pose and to ask you to help me in. To ask you 
 both," she said, her pleading eyes upon the Colonel. 
 "Tony dearest, listen ! Instead of going abroad — 
 awav from me. Oh ! How far awav it seems ! it 
 grows farther every instant — will you go to Girton ? 
 You'd do well, child, brilliantly; you'd be your own 
 mistress, you could have your friends here for the 
 
 162
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 163 
 
 holidays and see just as little of me as you liked," 
 she said, with a tragic smile. 
 
 Anthony disburthened himself of some hoarse notes 
 of sympathy and fixed his bloodshot eyes upon 
 Lucilla. 
 
 "Tony dearest, don't decide now," she entreated. 
 "Think it over. Oh! Giles, help me! Don't you 
 see how much better it would be ? " 
 
 "I do indeed, Mrs. Pemberton. I see it only too 
 plainly. And I see everything against and nothing 
 for this present plan — from a rational point of view. 
 At the same time, I don't interfere with Tony's way 
 of looking at things. It's amazing, but I believe 
 she knows." 
 
 "Good God, man," muttered Anthony thickly. "If 
 the girl is altogether given over to the devil, blind 
 with self-will and as mad as a March hare, you're in 
 your full senses. You're a man. Can you look in 
 that mother's face and not stand by her ? " 
 
 "A man must stand by his orders." 
 
 "Orders!" screamed the old man, furious at his 
 own impotence to help beauty in distress, jealous of 
 the cjuiet power of the younger man, of his obvious 
 rights and chances. Time had taken nothing from 
 him. He was unimpaired in health and vigour. All 
 the power of a man for good or for evil was still 
 his portion. 
 
 The girl, sitting dumb and aloof and ugly, was 
 becoming a loathsome challenge to his dim, harassed 
 eyes. Suddenly they were lit with an ugly spark. 
 The girl was a mad, revolting fool, but she was 
 young, and his conceptions of other men were badly 
 tainted. 
 
 "Knight-errantry is gone out," he said. "There's 
 something else besides that exploded folly working 
 in you, Larpent. We've all heard of the infatua- 
 tions- -" 
 
 Giles glanced at Tony. She had not heard or 
 heeded a word. He went close to Anthonv.
 
 i64 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 "Shut up," he said. "You're not worth powder 
 and sliot yourself, of course. But if you ever dare 
 to say anytliing at all like that again before Tony, 
 1 may have to forget your age and infirmities." 
 
 The taunt stung the old man to the quick. He 
 writhed in his impotent revolt against the contempt 
 of the other man. Certain instincts inseparable from 
 his race filled him with a weary sense of shame, of 
 irreparable loss, of unutterable failure. He looked at 
 the tall, spare man before him who had lived cleanly 
 and had made a fine thing of life, of whom men spoke 
 as thev had never spoken of him. He saw things as 
 he had never before seen them. He had been rather 
 proud of his wild high-lianded handling of life. He 
 liad had much of what every man desires. He had 
 liked life well in his way. He had got the better 
 of his enemies. He had loved and been loved. He 
 looked with an odd haunting echo of the old emotion 
 at Lucilla, and his heart shook. Something had 
 changed in him. Something had gone from him, and 
 what he had felt for her was a thing he could not 
 afford to lose. It had been like— the real thing — he 
 tried to tell himself — only better, a higher thing 
 altogether. It had concentrated fancy and brought 
 back receding joy. He looked with tragic entreaty at 
 Lucilla. It had revived old dreams and old memories. 
 It had touched with a pellucid light the common 
 experiences of a man's life. It had brought back the 
 taste of youth to his mouth, and soothed to rest a 
 curious trembling apprehension of a possible reckon- 
 ing with a possible something that had lately been 
 troubling his lonely hours. 
 
 He had known little of these things. He had gone 
 to church and paid his rates, but in private he had 
 always believed himself to be an atheist. 
 
 But the Thing had worried him, and Lucilla had 
 come between It and him. She had purified the air 
 about him. 
 
 In the irrational weak wav of an old man dimlv
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 165 
 
 afraid he had made of her a buffer. He could always 
 shp her in between him and the Terror. She could 
 entreat when he must be silent. A woman may do 
 for a man what no man could demean himself to ask 
 man or God to do for him. 
 
 His mother had been a devout, meek woman and 
 a Catholic. She was strictly forbidden by her fierce 
 husband to pervert his son. She obeyed her husband. 
 But in a gentle, furtive way she had not neglected her 
 primary duty to her Church. In the evenings when, 
 having said his sound Protestant prayers to his nurse, 
 the lights were put out and he was left alone, she 
 would creep in quietly and breathe into his little 
 sleepy mind magical stories of the power of the spot- 
 less Mother of God to understand and obtain forgive- 
 ness. Her ears were C|uick to hear, her heart to feel. 
 She could put before Father and Son things in this 
 cruel human life that no mortal would ever dare to 
 utter save to a woman. 
 
 In fumbling dizzily after his previous conception of 
 Tom's handsome widow and his feelings in regard to 
 her, Anthony looked confusedly back on the strange 
 changes she had brought into his thoughts and 
 emotions, and a queer reverence grew up in his 
 clouded mind. She gave him confidence. A foolish 
 feeling as of a little child sheltering under its mother's 
 cloak came back to him. 
 
 He remembered one day when a great storm had 
 overtaken them in the park, and he had shut his ears 
 from the crash of the thunder and his eyes from the 
 flare of the lightning, and been safe and warm in his 
 small covert under her cloak. The very look of 
 Lucilla gave him the same feeling of soft, sheltered 
 security. He was no longer afraid, she would come 
 between him and any Power. She was the very Virgin 
 Mother who had drifted into his semi-consciousness 
 those years so long ago, the being who could explain 
 things to God. 
 
 His spent brain laboured on slowly. And the girl,
 
 i()(. Till': I"IRI':-SHF.KFR 
 
 ugly as she was, was, after all, hers. I'erhaps she 
 loved her. At any rate, with threatening Powers 
 about it is as well to be on the safe side with the 
 person who's going to speak up for you. And 
 besides, as he had stood again under his mother's 
 cloak, he felt young and unsoiled. He w^ould have 
 taken it hard if any one had hurt him. Besides, 
 maybe it wasn't fair on young Ralph. And with 
 Those about, it's as well to be careful. 
 
 He turned with some trouble to Tony. He seemed 
 to be growing heavy, too heavy to turn. 
 
 "Look here, girl," he got out. His tongue was 
 heavy too. It was like a rusty key, it wouldn't turn. 
 
 " He did " He wanted to say something, but it 
 
 refused to come. He saw nothing around him but 
 eyes that looked afraid. He wished to God they'd 
 look away. They annoyed him. They took his 
 courafje awav. And he was old— old. He never knew 
 before how old he was. People should have pity on 
 the old, and not look at them like that. Everything 
 should have pity on them. They w-ere very tired and 
 weak. He was piteously sorry for himself. 
 
 He tried again to say something, but nothing 
 would come. He puffed and panted to get it out, 
 but another thing- — something he did not want to say 
 — was trying to frustrate him. He had always hated 
 being frustrated. Nothing infuriated him more. He 
 made one superhuman effort, and the words trembled 
 out through the only channel they knew. 
 
 "Damn it all, he did say it," said Anthony. 
 
 Tony shivered without looking up. She heard 
 nothing of the silence followed by a queer gurgling 
 sound, or of the sudden pull at the bell, or of the 
 hurried voices. She was sensible of nothing but 
 sickening cold until a firm hand was laid on her 
 shoulder and she found herself shoved out into the 
 hall. 
 
 " W^hat is it?" she asked dazedly. 
 
 "Mr. Pemberton is very ill. Go to your room and
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 167 
 
 rest a bit now, my girl," the Colonel said gently. 
 "You're only in the way here. I'll come to you 
 presently." 
 
 She looked at him still dazed. 
 
 "I'll look after your mother," he said. "Go at 
 once, Tony."
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 Tony was too dulled by her own inexplicable misery 
 to feel either curious or alarmed. She supposed that 
 after all old Anthony was human, and, being so old, 
 he might naturally be ill. vShe sat down by the 
 window and kept on shivering. She wondered why. 
 
 Everything was awful, of course. It was awful to 
 go away and hurt and offend every one — and be hurt 
 and offended oneself by a thousand regrets. But it 
 wasn't that which gave her this deadly, deadly pain. 
 It seemed to cut and rend her. It filled her with 
 burning shame. It seemed to take her chances away. 
 
 .Vnd it was all so ridiculous. It was a vile thing 
 to say of her. But what did it matter ? WHiat did 
 Captain Pemberton matter ? He had come and gone. 
 She would never see him again. And yet she sobbed 
 in a maze of pain. 
 
 Her wild young pride rebelled at last. Why had 
 it come to her, this incomprehensible misery ? She 
 w^as afraid of it. In an odd way it had her in its 
 power. It held and imprisoned her, and no one could 
 share it. 
 
 She shook with terror. It seemed so impossible 
 to Tony to endure in silent loneliness. It was so 
 sudden and secret and amazing a wound ! 
 
 With all her shrewd guesses at life, Tony was 
 singularly young for her years. Her mind w^as fresh 
 and free of much of the undergrowth of vaguely 
 sensuous desire bred in other girls by a too early 
 reading of novels and foolish conversation. Life to 
 Tony was a great adventure. She looked at it very 
 much as a boy much younger than herself would look.
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 169 
 
 At school, if the conversation ever turned on "silli- 
 ness," Tony's broad definition for anything with any 
 shadow of sex in it, she stalked off with an extravagant 
 and cutting indictment of those less wise than herself. 
 She meant to reign and rule and shine like all the 
 planets, that went without saying, but to be "silly" 
 was in her eyes the last offence. She was extra- 
 ordinarily unlearned and unprepared for the passion- 
 ate pains and penalties which are part of youth. And 
 to trace back her present misery to anything at all 
 like its true source was more impossible to Tony than 
 to many a girl with not half her intelligence. 
 
 After what seemed years and years of thought, all 
 she found out was that whatever it was she must bear 
 it and hold her tongue about it. Above all, hold her 
 tongue about it, that seemed clear. So she washed 
 her face and tidied her hair and waited — for what she 
 hardly knew. She knew it would come, how^ever, 
 and be unpleasant. 
 
 It was a relief to see the Colonel at last, although 
 his face was grave. 
 
 "I have bad news, my girl," he said gently. "The 
 poor old man is dead." 
 
 The horror of death was still fresh in Tony's heart. 
 She was startled out of hers(^lf. 
 
 "Dead! Oh, and here?" 
 
 "Yes. It's terribly unfortunate. It's hard on your 
 mother. She feels the shock acutely." 
 
 Tony was very white. 
 
 "To die like that ! To look as he did." 
 
 "Yes, I wish he hadn't died with a lie in his 
 mouth." 
 
 Tony shrank back in her seat. 
 
 "He didn't do that," she said. "It was the truth. 
 He was too stupid then— to invent things." 
 
 Her teeth were chattering. She could not keep her 
 hands still. She was getting dazed again. In the 
 oddest way it seemed to her as though the last word 
 were spoken in the old man's death. vShe had no
 
 I70 Tin- I'lRI'-SEEKER 
 
 Ioniser any defence, any chance of the words being 
 contradicted. And even if he didn't say it! But "he 
 simply couldn't die teUing lies ! " she concluded. 
 
 Then the urgent need for silence — silence even to 
 her best friend — came slowly back to her. The whole 
 thing must be put out of the reach of words for ever. 
 
 She flushed hotly. It was all so secret and so 
 shameful and so incomprehensible. 
 
 "Please don't let us talk — of what went before — 
 ever again," she said. "After all, it doesn't matter 
 now. It never did matter," she said, gaining cour- 
 age. "Only one likes people to believe one's going 
 to be all right in the end, you know. Do you think 
 Mother '11 be blaming me for his death." 
 
 "Tony! Are you mad?" 
 
 "Oh, I know, but I believe she will," said Tony 
 drearily. "She'll persuade herself and other people it 
 was I. It will make her more interesting to herself 
 and other people in a way. It will swell out her 
 sorrow tremendously and make it quite different from 
 everybody else's. She'll put it nicely about me. 
 She'll spare me, only just exactly enough will get 
 about." 
 
 The Colonel stared blankly, searching diligently 
 for a moral axiom to fit the occasion. 
 
 "I can't answer you, Tony," he said at last. "The 
 purest and the strongest memory I have is of my 
 mother and of the way I loved her." 
 
 "But do you think I wouldn't feel the same if I 
 could? And" — she paused to look at him — "do you 
 think she'd like it if I did? It would make her more 
 like other people, you know. " 
 
 The Colonel blushed like a boy, which may give 
 some clue to his reflections. He stood for a minute 
 and gravely considered her. 
 
 "Your mother wants you to go to her, Tony," was 
 all he said. 
 
 "And — I'll be most awfully nice," she said, with 
 trembling lips. 
 
 I
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 171 
 
 " I wonder if there are many mothers and daughters 
 Hke these in England," said the Colonel, as he went 
 down the stairs. "I hope to God there are not." 
 
 "But I doubt if Lucilla has her equal in any 
 country," he said more robustly, when he was out 
 in the air with his pipe. "I wonder," he said pre- 
 sently, " if I ought to ask young Pemberton when he 
 comes about that infernal dying remark of the old 
 man's or not. It's undoubtedly a lie. I'd like to 
 know how much she minds. I thought she felt it 
 bitterly when he said it, but just now^ — it's impossible 
 to know what Tony feels or what she doesn't feel." 
 
 Meanwhile, with tears and the most tender deli- 
 cacy and the mercy of Heaven itself, Lucilla was 
 impressing upon her daughter her tragic responsi- 
 bility in old Anthony's death. 
 
 Tony had already met Martha in the corridor, and 
 that virtuous handwoman, in few and pointed words, 
 had indicted her as a murderer. Martha had plainly 
 received her information from Lucilla, from whose 
 room she had just issued. Of her Tony made short 
 work. But to her mother's subtle lament she listened 
 without a word. 
 
 Perhaps she would never have said one, if stung to 
 activity by Tony's exasperating meekness Lucilla had 
 not floated from her sofa and passionately embraced 
 her. Tony shuddered out of her arms and stood up 
 stark and tall. 
 
 ; "No one can say things so beautifully and make 
 I them so clear as you," said Tony. "Only I wish I 
 t could just understand properly why you say them 
 , when you must know they aren't true. Mr. Pember- 
 ! ton died saying the most horrible things to me, but 
 il didn't kill him." 
 j "Tony," gasped her mother. 
 
 ' "He was horrible altogether, but I didn't kill him," 
 I said Tony obstinately. 
 
 I "Aren't you — oh ! Tony, aren't you sorry " 
 
 1 "I'm sorry it happened here," she said, shivering in
 
 172 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 spite of herself. "But sorry for him? Mow on earth 
 could one be? I'm sorry he died — with such a face 
 — I'll be sorry all my life, I think. And I loathe 
 killing things, and if I'd killed even him, I could 
 never be happ}^ again, I suppose. But sorry? It's 
 the very best thing that could happen if it had only 
 happened differently. Every day he lived he did more 
 harm. If he'd died comfortably for everybody it 
 would have been a most splendid thing." 
 
 Lucilla sat and shuddered. Suddenly her own pain 
 seemed to fill Tony. She flushed. "When he said 
 that last thing to me, nothing else mattered. — Oh, 
 Mother," she said passionately, "why didn't you 
 answer him? Couldn't you see how horrible it was? 
 That I hated asking — only one had to. It was a 
 pity," she said, regaining her calm, "you didn't ask 
 him. He mightn't have died then. He'd have been 
 too much afraid of hurting your feelings." 
 
 Lucilla sobbed. " 
 
 "And I wonder in what words you told Martha 
 about it. She called me a murderer just now. I 
 W'Onder why you do it. And you do it all so beauti- 
 fully," said Tony, after a moment's pause. "And 
 you look so beautiful even when you're crying — any 
 one in the world would do anything for you and 
 hate me. I hate myself, and I'd do anything in the 
 world for you. Mother, but live with you." Tony's 
 face was white and drawn. She spoke with a simple 
 directness. 
 
 "Go, Tony," said her Aveeping mother. 
 
 She meekly obeyed, and Lucilla quite honestly, and 
 perhaps with some justification, felt a martyr, and 
 Tony quite honestly, and with even more justification, 
 felt a beast. 
 
 The first thing of which Captain Pemberton became 
 aware upon his arrival was that Tony had outdone 
 herself in insubordination and general perversity. No 
 one brought a definite accusation against the girl 
 except perhaps Home, who didn't count, but there
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 173 
 
 was a general impression about that her conduct had 
 undoubtedly disturbed the last moments of old 
 Anthony, and was likely enough to be the death of 
 her mother. He knew enough of old Anthony to feel 
 sure that Tony had full and sufficient cause to defend 
 herself, but the girl seemed to be a handful for any 
 woman. 
 
 He was sincerely sorry for Lucilla, but sorrier still 
 for the Colonel, he thought with a chuckle. With 
 that he put Tony clean out of his head. He had 
 enough to occupy it just then without her. He could 
 not pretend to any serious sorrow for the old man. 
 But the way of his going was horrid enough. It was 
 a sort of tradition among the Pembertons to die at 
 home, and Anthony had always roundly sworn that 
 he was damned if he'd die anywhere else. 
 
 This side of the affair Ralph felt keenly, and in his 
 own path there lay more pain and disappointment 
 than falls to the lot of most heirs to a long-desired 
 and great inheritance. 
 
 If a man has to give up everything he likes best 
 to embark on a doubtful job too big for him, the 
 vagaries of a growing girl won't especially affect him, 
 and Captain Pemberton knew nothing of his own 
 share in the closing scene. 
 
 As he went to the library to write the necessary 
 
 letters, he saw Tony through an open window start 
 
 at sight of him, halt for an instant, and then stalk on. 
 
 For an instant it struck him to go after her. But he 
 
 had a lot to do, and she looked in a thundering bad 
 
 temper. To his surprise her sombre eyes pursued 
 
 I him. They annoyed him rather. She looked as if 
 
 i some one had been hitting her, "And she's young 
 
 , for that," he thought. "I rather wish I'd gone after 
 
 iher."
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 Even' the poorest specimen of the ordinary woman 
 can waive her chiims upon even a potentially eligible 
 man for her daughter's sake, but Lucilla was far from 
 being an ordinary woman. It was impossible to her 
 strangely constituted mind to put herself aside in any- 
 thing, and Ralph Pemberton came in amongst the 
 other things that were to enlarge and enrich the life 
 palpitating with novelties which now lay before her, 
 and honestly seemed to her of such importance as to 
 superimpose itself above every other interest. There- 
 fore, absorbed as young Pemberton naturally was in 
 his own affairs, Lucilla took good care that hers should 
 not escape his close and interested consideration. 
 
 She did these things charmingly, and her delight 
 in doing them grew with practice. They were becom- 
 ing a stimulating surprise to her. They brought a 
 new activity into life. And having so signally failed 
 with Tony and the Colonel only put a sharper edge 
 on her powers. 
 
 She was resolved to have Ralph on her side, no 
 matter who suffered, and she explained her reasons 
 to herself as sweetly, reasonably and convincinglv as 
 she was ready to do to others. This was one of her 
 gifts, and it tended to keep her mind in a state of 
 blissful ease. 
 
 She was much too wise to press her affairs upon 
 an absorbed man until she had given him every 
 opportunity of disburthening himself of his. She had 
 precisely the right amount of motherliness for so 
 young a face and figure and the slight hesitancy 
 befitting them as she joined him for an after-dinner 
 stroll in the moonlight. 
 
 174 

 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 175 
 
 , "We're very new friends," she said, "and yet I 
 seem already to know you enough to be sincerely 
 sorry my husband had not the great happiness of 
 knowing you well. You have a great deal to do and 
 think of, and no one very near you at hand. I 
 wonder if I could be of the very slightest use to you." 
 
 She looked very frail and lovely, there was a 
 mournful dignity in her bearing. She looked utterly 
 unfit to cope with the big, sombre, resolute girl from 
 whom one couldn't extract a word at dinner. He 
 had been missing his mother all the day. She had 
 longed as passionately as any girl to see the old 
 place ; her heart and his father's had harked back at 
 the last piteously to the old home of their own people. 
 
 He could have put up with disappointment, dis- 
 trust, hostility and with any outlook of hard and 
 thankless labour if she had been there to share it 
 with him ; but it was a lonely going home with only 
 the dead old man for company. 
 
 He was frankly open to sympathy, and Lucilla was 
 very sympathetic. The pall of gloom was lifted pre- 
 sently. Some gentler light shone out upon the 
 future. Her hair in the moonlight ivas astonishingly 
 like his mother's, and the habit of loyalty was in his 
 blood. He told her a great deal about himself. In 
 return she told him a great deal about Tony. She 
 dwelt lightly with bowed head upon Anthony's 
 closing scene, but it left a sinister impression. And 
 at the right moment precisely she threw herself upon 
 his mercy. 
 
 "It's all settled. Her father always did all things 
 well, and I do not even think of making any com- 
 plaint," she said. "I do not permit myself to think 
 that I have any right to complain. But it seems to 
 me — to a mother — to a woman- — who knows nothing 
 of philosophy and very little of the modern revolt 
 against old laws and old ideas — so terrible, so almost 
 unspeakably sad and disastrous and so injurious to 
 Tony's future, that T don't feel myself justified in 
 furthering it. I can't bear to think of Tony as she
 
 176 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 is now — ah ! you don't know my dream of Tony ! — 
 my certainty of what she might be with care and 
 training-^but as she is now to get known in half the 
 big hotels of Europe ! " 
 
 "Oh, I say ! But why need she go to big hotels? " 
 
 "Men always go to big hotels, and Giles doesn't 
 see it as I do. He can't. He looks on Tony as a 
 boy. He will never see the harm that dreadful public 
 life will do to her. He is perfect in his way. Such 
 a friend as Giles no woman ever had. But as a 
 chaperon ! " 
 
 Ralph laughed. 
 
 "I wish 1 could laugh," said Lucilla, with the 
 saddest smile. 
 
 " Is no one else going with them ? " 
 
 "The second housemaid and the bull-terrier pup," 
 said Lucilla, with mournful amusement. — "1 w'anted 
 Martha, my old maid, to go, but she declined, and 
 I am afraid Tony might also have declined her 
 services. She has chosen Foster because of her 
 friendship for the bull-pup. Foster is twenty and 
 pretty." 
 
 "By Jove!" commented the counsellor. "If I 
 were you I'd cut off supplies," he said impulsively. 
 
 That was exactlv what Lucilla wanted. 
 
 "Ah ! " she said^ "But should I do right?" 
 
 "I'd do anything to get her back before she gets 
 known in big hotels. Beastly places, you know, for 
 — er — little girls." 
 
 " I know ! I know ! " 
 
 "And, after all, if she does stay a bit, little pensions 
 full of old maids won't hurt her much," said Ralph, 
 with airy sagacity and a suppres.sed chuckle, as the 
 Colonel's side of the affair struck him. 
 
 "She generally calls him Uncle, I've noticed," he 
 added. "That's lucky, isn't it?" 
 
 "Lucky! Is anything lucky in the whole dreadful 
 plan? I know you'll understand, Ralph," she said 
 languidly, with her hand on his arm; "I think I'll
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 177 
 
 leave you now and not come down again to-night. 
 I'll leave word for my little Tony to come to my 
 room." 
 
 Ralph strolled up the hill. The domestic embroglio 
 in which he found himself had its points. It made 
 him forget his own woes. He was genuinely sorry 
 for Lucilla. And if Tony's eyes had not somehow 
 taken hold of him he could have boxed Tony's ears. 
 He had a sneaking sympathy for the Colonel, and in 
 a way he envied him. 
 
 "She'll wear him out in the end, but it's not every 
 old chap can hope for so original and exciting an 
 end. I say ! Tony herself and the Colonel and the 
 bull-pup." 
 
 Involuntarily he quickened his pace. 
 
 "So it's all settled and you're soon off," he said. 
 
 Tony was absorbed in the terrier. So he addressed 
 himself to the Colonel. 
 
 "What will you start with?" 
 
 "With the old Belgian cities." 
 
 "Oh, they won't take long," said Ralph, with 
 Philistine airiness. 
 
 "That depends on Tony. Her father and I got 
 so saturated with the delights of the dusty, dull, 
 sleepy old places that nothing but the instinct of the 
 born tramp drove us out of them. Tom Pemberton 
 and I were an outrageous pair of tramps in those old 
 days, but Tony's mettle is still to be proved. She 
 may decide to sit tight in some gilded salon and 
 study Baedeker. It may turn out to be a tour round 
 the provinces, after all." 
 
 The Colonel was growing artful in the companion- 
 ship of his charge. By this time he knew pretty well 
 the sort of thing that would best sting her to life and 
 brighten her eyes. She was again looking as ugly 
 as sin, and the more he saw of the young fellow the 
 more he liked him. Certain of the lesser instincts of 
 the chaperon, it was plain, were developing in this 
 hopeless amateur. And after a full hour of Lucilla no 
 
 M
 
 178 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 one but Tony herself could speak up for Tony and 
 negative ill impressions. 
 
 "I don't say Lucilla means it," he told himself; 
 "but she does it." 
 
 "Even if I were a born fool," said Tony, with 
 commendable serenity but fine, flashing eyes, "and 
 couldn't see and feel and find out for myself, what 
 you've told me of the places, and what you and my 
 father did there, would keep me from sitting like a 
 stuck image in a drawing-room; I'll like them and 
 feel about them and see them just as you two did. 
 You were young then, too." 
 
 "We were, and anything but wise; but we weren't 
 young ladies." 
 
 "Neither am I, thank goodness, until I'm out. 
 And, I've been thinking, Turner can look after Pat; 
 I was a little worried about him in strange hotels, 
 while we go prowling; but I'm glad she's coming, 
 after all. With Turner there, I can be ready for 
 anything night or day." 
 
 "But you'll rest sometimes?" suggested Pember- 
 ton, with a glance of sympathy at his senior. 
 
 "Oh, I dare say we'll get tired of resting in trains 
 and diligences," she sighed. 
 
 "It will be a fine rushing existence," said Ralph; 
 "I'll envy you up at the Court mending fences and 
 bunging up roofs." 
 
 Suddenly she remembered that part of the affair, 
 forgot him and herself, and was fired. 
 
 "But with such heaps to do and such things to do 
 you'd never want to go away, or feel dull, or cramped 
 or dead. It would all be so immensely exciting." 
 
 She looked out with glowing eyes as upon a vision. 
 
 "I certainly expect some excitement," he admitted. 
 "There's been some rick-burning already, and there's 
 worse afoot. Thev talk of burning the old house." 
 
 "Oh, to hate us like that!" cried Tony. "That 
 old man to have left nothing behind him but that ! 
 How glad I am he's dead."
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 179 
 
 "I say, Tony ! " said the chaperon. 
 
 "I'm frightfully glad," said Tony. "And to have 
 it in one's own hands to change it all. To give them 
 all fair treatment, to show them how things should 
 be done, to make them as proud of the old place as 
 you are yourself, because it belongs to them just as 
 much as it does to you. To make them love the red 
 old house so warm and alive, all full of stories. And 
 one man to do it all ! Oh, it's splendid ! " 
 
 She was now apparently addressing the moon. 
 
 "It is," said Ralph. "But when you haven't, 
 
 relatively speaking, a blooming cent to do it with 
 
 The place wants a big fortune to do anything with it." 
 
 "Money ! " she said, with sublime contempt. "It's 
 the man that matters ! " 
 
 "He comes in certainly, but so does his balance at 
 the bank." 
 
 "But — but to know it all depends on you ! It's all 
 so big — it — -it must do itself without money." 
 
 "That's an inspiring suggestion. I'll try to 
 remember it when I get stuck." 
 
 She glanced past him. She had forgotten he was 
 there. "To hate us like that," she said. "Surely 
 some one in the old house was once kind and fair 
 and friendly and understood what they wanted ! 
 Why should they only remember the awful 
 things?" 
 
 "They have a good many to remember, I'm afraid," 
 said Ralph. 
 
 "You'll have the most wonderful things to do," 
 she pursued, still impersonally, but with unimpaired 
 enthusiasm. "And it'll be like doing miracles with- 
 out any money." 
 
 "It will," murmured Ralph. 
 
 "It will be like making a new world. I've always 
 wanted to see even a little coral island growing up 
 out of the sea. To stand somewhere all by myself 
 and see the first little beginnings. And you — you'll 
 be doing it all yourself— Goodness ! but it's a chance ! 
 M 2
 
 i8o THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 1 think I'll ft'cl every teiice being mended and all 
 the roofs and the old church and the people chang- 
 ing, changing, changing, all coming back to us and 
 doing everything as well as one does it oneself. And 
 dien, perhaps," she said wistfully, "they'll forget the 
 bad and remember the good to us." 
 
 Tony looked as fine as her dream. 
 
 "You should have had the place and not I," said 
 Ralph impulsively. 
 
 Tony tingled and throbbed. She was walking on 
 at a breakneck pace. 
 
 She felt able to move mountains, but she hadn't 
 begun yet, she might make mistakes. The mere 
 thought took her breath away. It was too aw-ful. 
 None of them must ever again make any mistakes. 
 
 She fetched up short and faced the men. Her eyes 
 pierced Ralph uncompromisingly. 
 
 "You're ever so many years ahead of me," she 
 said. "You must know more and be able to do it 
 better. And we must never again make one mis- 
 take. No; I'm glad you have the Place. I might 
 make mistakes, you know, being so young and 
 knowing so little, and we can't afford to make any 
 more." 
 
 Her face was blossoming out like a rose under his 
 astonished eyes. There was every excuse for the 
 young man's fascinated stare. But by some mis- 
 chance of youth and sex Tony was suddenly aw'are 
 of it and of him. 
 
 She got furiously red, turned as stiff as a poker, 
 said an abrupt good-night and stalked off, a great, 
 uncouth stork. 
 
 "Do you understand anything at all about that 
 girl ? " said Ralph at last to Colonel Larpent. 
 
 "I understand that she wants to get aw'ay from 
 here, and that I'm taking her. That's about all." 
 
 "And the maid and the bull-terrier in tow, 
 and the maid to shepherd the dog while she sees 
 life."
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER i8i 
 
 "Yes, and she'll see it," said Giles, with unmoved 
 serenity. Ralph wondered whether it was due to 
 philosophy or despair, 
 
 "If she could see it without being seen it would 
 be an advantage, don't you think?" 
 
 "A distinct one. Still, Tony's moments of inspira- 
 tion aren't of daily occurrence. She'll be able to 
 stalk through a good deal." His mental eyes were 
 upon her long legs. 
 
 "But," said Ralph sagaciously, "when time puts 
 on a yard or so of stuff ? " 
 
 "I believe," said the Colonel quietly, "that even 
 then her eyes will be upon the hill-tops. I don't say 
 it's the best way for a woman to walk. She'll come 
 wicked croppers. But it's Tony's way, and her 
 father wished her to walk in it." 
 
 "I don't pretend even to guess at the domestic 
 situation here ; but for a young lady who thinks so 
 highly of other people's cluty, I'd have thought her 
 own was to stay with her mother." 
 
 "So would any reasonable outsider. The best 
 public opinion in England would be with Mrs. 
 Pemberton, and unreservedly condemn Tony and 
 me with her. At the same time I'm going to see the 
 thing through." 
 
 "After all," said Ralph, "the cause of the thing 
 has nothing to do with me." 
 
 "Nor with me. Tony and I are both out on a 
 perilous enough adventure, and I hope we'll both pull 
 through." 
 
 They walked on in silence. Colonel Larpent was 
 more than once on the point of giving young Pem- 
 berton a frank account of the closing scene of 
 Anthony. 
 
 But it was an unpleasant and difficult subject. It 
 would be almost impossible to account reasonably 
 for Tony's persistence in her questions. And, after 
 all, the thing could only have affected her at the 
 time, or she would hardly have showed such eager
 
 i82 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 iiuercst in the young fellow's career as she had just 
 been doing, he thought simply. 
 
 He had been well drilled into letting sleeping dogs 
 lie, and he concluded to do so now. 
 
 "Mrs. Pemberton was speaking just now of her 
 dislike to very young girls knocking about big 
 hotels," said Ralph suddenly, "and I agreed with 
 her. I detest the sight of them in the places. So I 
 suggested to her to cut off supplies. You don't want 
 a girl to get common in the eyes of a lot of scoundrelly 
 foreigners, you know," said Ralph youthfully, "till 
 she learns some sense. "If you don't go to big 
 hotels it's easy enough to slip through Europe 
 unobserved." 
 
 "To sHp through Europe unobserved would never 
 strike Tony, nor would it strike me to suggest it to 
 her. The whole thing is an adventure and perilous, 
 and no one in their senses would voluntarily mix up 
 a girl of seventeen with adventures or perils ; but 
 it's got to be faced, and I quite understand your 
 suggestion and Mrs. Pemberton's following it. But 
 I don't wish Tony to know anything of this matter, 
 so, please, even if you get the chance, don't mention 
 it to her." 
 
 "I say, sir, I wish now I hadn't said anything to 
 Mrs. Pemberton." 
 
 "At your age and knowing as much as you know 
 I'd have done the same myself. It doesn't matter 
 at all, but I don't wish Tony to know — that's all."
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 "I KNOW I'm a beast," said Tony, turning away 
 from her last look at her home, "and that you think 
 me one in your heart as much as other people do. 
 It's horrible to have every one despising you, and 
 I could have loved it like anything if only it hadn't 
 shut him in and made little bits of him go dead day 
 after day and month after month and year after 
 year." 
 
 "Don't think of it now, Tony." 
 
 "But one has to. It follows one. And if he got 
 into the habit of letting things go by, L might, too, 
 and so might you. And once he began he went on, 
 and we should do no better. Oh, I am a beast, 
 
 but I couldn't face it," she said, "beast or not, I 
 
 couldn't. And I'm glad you're not going to and 
 that you're going on, in a way, with the old life. 
 Being with you will be always reminding me. One 
 
 might forget " She paused and shivered. "And 
 
 no matter what you say, one of us must do what 
 he didn't." 
 
 "Oh, let us try to leave it all behind us," she said 
 in a trembling voice, her eves bright with tears, "and 
 — and think of the world before us." 
 
 Colonel Larpent often wondered in after days how 
 much and what part of it Tony left behind her and 
 how much she carried with her behind her eyes, also 
 what part precisely right feeling in regard to her 
 mother might have played in the astonishing decoction 
 of motives and emotions that had driven her forth. 
 
 In spite of his reason he felt some lasting remorse 
 in the matter of Lucilla, and would have been glad 
 
 183
 
 iS4 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 if one in ihc partnership could have provided what 
 he was forced to withhold. 
 
 During their week in London there was certainly 
 no trace of tragedy or of regret to be detected in 
 Tony. She plunged breathlessly into the tumult of 
 the town. In spite of smoke-soaked air she trode 
 the firmament. She saw and felt and heard things 
 in a crowd that he was confident must have escaped 
 every other human unit in it save only Tony. She 
 threw herself into the thronging lives and knew their 
 stories. Her shots were unerring and embarrassing. 
 The Colonel, after a feeble attempt to hedge, found 
 a plain statement of fact the better course, and ever 
 after invariably pursued it. 
 
 Tony received her varied information with the 
 simple directness wherewith it was given. To her 
 it was all part of the world she had come out to 
 see. 
 
 " How could he leave it ? " she said once when a 
 great line of unemployed, some of whom looked 
 employable, had filed past them. "He knew so much 
 that perhaps he could have changed no end of their 
 stories. How could he leave it ? Oh, how could he ? " 
 
 Tony could be silent enough when she liked. After 
 this she hardly spoke for a solid hour. 
 
 She was equally indefatigable and just as enthusi- 
 astic when the joy of the shop windows began to 
 work in her and her eyes, which so far had been 
 glued to the women's faces, strayed on to their clothes. 
 
 Even to the Colonel's unlearned vision she had 
 plainly a gift in this direction, and when the buying 
 began chose with the judgment of a veteran. But 
 she spent like seventeen. 
 
 "Fortunately it's not an every-day seizure," he 
 reflected. "She'll be liable to another attack in 
 Paris, no doubt, and then we may expect a respite." 
 
 The result was eminently satisfactory. Tony 
 towered above the crowd in simple splendour, her 
 skirts just escaping her neat boots. And the garments
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 185 
 
 of her childhood were put at the bottom of the trunks 
 for tramps in the wilds. 
 
 "I haven't told Turner not to tell the village," she 
 said, "I couldn't, you know. But I hope she won't. 
 I seem to count for more in these things, and the 
 more I count for the more horrible I'll seem to my 
 mother. And when one is away one wants to be sure 
 of the nicest thoughts one can gather up." 
 
 She gave herself a swing to see how her skirt went. 
 "One couldn't go out into the world, you see, think- 
 ing of the length of one's legs. There's too much 
 to see to be bothering about oneself." 
 
 "It's all too big," she said, pausing at the turn of 
 a street. "It's the only fault of London. One wants 
 to talk to them all and go home with them into their 
 homes and be friends. Some day, when I know how 
 to say the right things, I wonder if they'll let me. 
 If you know it's right and just what they want and 
 can't say for themselves, it would be so awful if one 
 couldn't, I — I wonder if one could write it all down 
 and let them know it that way ?" Her eyes were a 
 million miles from London. She stood poised on one 
 foot. There was a block in the traffic fortunately. 
 "It would be awful to be holding in things people 
 can't say for themselves and that you can, all your 
 life, don't you see?" 
 
 "Oh, Lord," thought the wretched man. "Is she 
 going to be a woman writer with everything else ? " 
 
 "Come, Tony, the block is over; one can't be 
 standing indefinitely at a street corner. And there's 
 still time for the Tower if you buck up." 
 
 She promptly shot ahead. vShe lived every life 
 that had ever entered the grey old walls in her two 
 short hours within them, and left fast friends with a 
 Beefeater. 
 
 "He's got a baby three days old, and they're going 
 to have fried fish for supper," she said; "and not 
 ten minutes ago I'm perfectly sure I saw Sir Walter's 
 beautiful white face standing out clear against the
 
 i86 Tlin: FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 dark wall. 1 do love mixed society. I wonder if 
 I'll grow more particular after I come out and c/3unt 
 properly." 
 
 She grew pensive in Bruges, and spoke in whispers 
 and walked amongst the shades. vShe steeped her- 
 self in churches and pictures. She hung about the 
 bridges and watched the artists paint. She made the 
 Colonel go out prowling at untoward hours, and in 
 her turn w^as watched and disapproved of by many a 
 drastic and attentive lady. She liked to loiter at 
 night under the old arches and beside the old bastions, 
 brooding. 
 
 "It's the only time one feels any right to be here," 
 she said. "In the day it's like a stranger coming 
 to stare at a beautiful dead face w-hom its own people 
 have passed by. But at night one is with the ghosts 
 who made it all, and loved it, and fought for it, and 
 put everything they had into the tiniest hidden atom 
 of a wall " ; she was tracing out a flowery pattern in 
 the gloom of a frowning battlement. "They be- 
 grudged nothing, those old Flemish warriors and 
 artists. They gave their blood and their hearts and 
 their souls to their city. They kept nothing back, 
 and they won't mind us, I think. Thev'll know we 
 understand their dear old feelings, and that nothing 
 would ever have induced us," said she, with insular 
 insolence, "to let the sand silt up and shut their city 
 out of the world ! " 
 
 "Tolerance isn't your besetting sin, Tonv. Even 
 the sand might have been too much for us." 
 
 "Fm perfectly, absolutely, sure it wouldn't. Think 
 of the old ghosts having to float round feeling the 
 cruel, silent sands creeping on and on, choking up the 
 sea that brought the great ships to their very doors, 
 and to have just to float and feel and do nothing, 
 while the burghers drank beer and got fat." 
 
 "I have a certain sympathy for the burghers, too. 
 After all, they are on the way to be ghosts as well. 
 They'll attain in time."
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 187 
 
 "They'll never get into the best ghostly society, 
 though. They'll have to crawl into the back seats. 
 Human beings must be able to get the better of sand, 
 and guzzling beer isn't the way to do it. Growing 
 fat is a horrible habit. I hope I'll get thinner and 
 thinner ! " 
 
 " You probably will if you keep such hours as 
 this." 
 
 "You two kept later." 
 
 "Well, yes; but so far as I can recollect we didn't 
 hobnob with ghosts at midnight." 
 
 " Whom did you hobnob with, then ? " she said, 
 with intelligent curiosity. "I've had my time now, 
 and I'll do anything you like. Oh, I say ! " she 
 cried, blinded by a sudden flare of light. "Here we 
 are out among the live Belgians and their degenerate 
 clothes. But I've wronged them this time," she pro- 
 ceeded, with a frank approving glance. "Those there 
 look just like other people. There's a table empty ; 
 shall we take it and have things — meringues, you 
 know " 
 
 "Tony, come on at once!" said the chaperon, 
 striding out hastily, "and don't speak a word till 
 we're round the corner." 
 
 "Goodness! What's up?" she inquired breath- 
 lessly- "And, I say, do you hear them laughing?" 
 
 "Only too well, my girl 1 I'll do all I can to give 
 you pleasure and I'll consider Mrs. Grundy's feel- 
 ings as little as possible. But this is your last night 
 among the ghosts, remember, either here or in their 
 other haunts where we're likely to meet moderns. 
 It doesn't do." 
 
 "But why?" 
 
 "Because it gives men and women who haven't 
 the right to do it the right to laugh at you and robs 
 me of my privilege of punching their heads. The 
 men's anyway." 
 
 "They were gentlemen," she said thoughtfully. 
 "I wish to goodness they'd go to bed early and leave
 
 iS8 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 us at peace with the ghosts. I'd been looking for- 
 ward to meeting all the ghtists of Europe. But — but 
 — I didn't like their laughing." 
 
 "Neither did I, Tony. And still less would your 
 father like it, my girl." 
 
 " It's a frightful pity. One could have sat all 
 night with those polite old ghosts and eaten the 
 meringues we'll never eat now." 
 
 " When those fine gentlemen were also human 
 there might have been embarrassments even with 
 them." 
 
 "I do detest silliness," said Tony viciously. "I 
 thought we'd left all that behind us." 
 
 "It's cosmopolitan, I'm afraid, and keeps cropping 
 up!" 
 
 "It makes one almost wish to be a man. I won't 
 all the same. It looks as if you might be going to 
 fail as a woman. Thank goodness the evenings are 
 long, and even the old ladies sit out round the tables 
 and drink things."
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 One of those ladies who make it their business to 
 Ivnow all that goes on had apparently been witness to 
 the late return of Tony, for the next morning she 
 discreetly approached her guardian. 
 
 "It's far from my habit either to interfere or to 
 venture to judge any one, Colonel Larpent," she said; 
 "but I happen to be the mother of four girls who have 
 all married unusually well, thank God, and it gives 
 me a sincere interest in all young people. I am 
 genuinely sorry when I see them, from want of the 
 practical knowledge of their relations, allowed to 
 prejudice their future. Do you think it wise, my dear 
 sir, to keep so very young a girl in the streets of a 
 Belgian city until past midnight? I know^ the 
 Belgians, Colonel Larpent." 
 
 " I know something of them too, and have many 
 friends among them, but at the same time I think it 
 anything but wise, Mrs. Fortescue-Drake. I believe 
 my opinions on the matter w^ould entirely match your 
 own. I venture to hope you couldn't pick a hole in 
 them. At the same time, my niece's is a peculiar 
 situation. Her father wished her to find out things 
 for herself. Even in matters of propriety to be led 
 by experience, to feel her own way. — Even in this 
 grave matter to feel her own way and to hesitate 
 before she accepts the notions of her elders. And I 
 have the fullest confidence in Tony's powers of dis- 
 cernment. She decided last night almost entirely 
 of her own accord to come home in future a little 
 earlier." 
 
 189
 
 iQO Tlir: FIRK-SEEKER 
 
 The mother of ihe four successes tried to keep cahn. 
 
 "To feel her own way! " she said, "and with no 
 word of warninq;, of counsel, of reproof? Do I under- 
 stand you aright?" She waited for information. 
 
 "1 quite understand your point of view, Mrs. 
 Fortescue-Dralve, and would be very glad to put the 
 matter in a better light and allay your natural anxiety, 
 but I can't. In a way it's a philosophical experiment, 
 and, according to the best opinion and authoritv, a 
 difficult and dangerous one. I am bound, however, 
 to carry it out. And since the material to be worked 
 on knows what it wants and the best way to get it, 
 I stand practically aside and hope for a striking 
 success in my ward." 
 
 "Or — pray excuse me. Colonel Larpent — a most 
 regrettable failure. With training and care Miss 
 Pemberton would, I think, be a fine girl." 
 
 " I am even more hopeful, Mrs. Drake, I believe 
 she will be a very beautiful woman." 
 
 "Oh, indeed. And in regard to ordinary womanly 
 goodness ? " 
 
 "In her case I believe it will be extraordinary." 
 
 " Hem ! I notice her maid devotes her time and 
 energies to the dog." 
 
 "My ward frequently relieves her, but I fear she 
 must undertake him alone to-day as we're going to 
 
 spend some time with the Merublings. And 
 
 Why, bless me ! it's already past the hour 1 " 
 
 He lifted his hat and made a victorious exit. 
 
 "The man's a gentleman," said the General's 
 widow. "I've looked him up. And she's a cousin of 
 young Pemberton 's, her father was next in succes- 
 sion to the Place. If he had outlived Mr. Anthony 
 Pemberton the girl would have had it. More's the 
 pity. If they were nobodies with artistic tastes, or 
 the sort of people who live on vegetables and have 
 nightdress-bags and new religions, the thing wouldn't 
 
 be worth noticing, but a girl one's sons may meet 
 
 The best man under thirty is easily taken in by an
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 191 
 
 appearance of originality, and any mad, indecorous 
 scheme can be made to look original. Society is more 
 shallow, 1 regret to say, than when I first entered it. 
 It is now at the mercy of any plausible conjurer." 
 
 The little spinster, half-hidden by the skirts of her 
 patron, pensively sighed. P"or four years now she had 
 followed the great lady from hotel to hotel, applauding 
 her sentiments, echoing her opinions, picking up her 
 stitches, mending laces and gloves, doing light 
 laundry-work, in short, getting through generally far 
 more than the best-paid maid would have undertaken. 
 
 "I saw them come in," said Miss Fuller, "and could 
 hardly believe my eyes. After twelve o'clock, and at 
 her age ! when you and I scarcely venture to walk 
 unaccompanied in a Belgian town quite early in the 
 afternoon. Dear Mrs. Fortescue-Drake, will you ever, 
 ever forget that dreadful walk in Spa? My hands 
 were full of parcels, and dear Job was just beginning 
 to get fat and short of breath. I was carrying him. 
 We had just bought pastry for tea, and you know 
 the care it requires not to chip the edges, it was 
 impossible to hold up a sunshade." Her eyes looked 
 wildly through her spectacles to be sure that no man 
 was near, the little scared rabbit face worked with 
 emotion, her voice sank. "Those horrible faces in 
 the windows, the insulting laughter of those men ! 
 The way they put their hands with rings on them^ — ■ 
 the shocking vulgarity of foreigners ! — to their hearts 
 — and — and kissed them. I'll never forget it." 
 
 Mrs. Fortescue-Drake bridled. 
 
 "My dear vSophia ! You exaggerate the occur- 
 rence. I doubt if they saw you at all. You'll remem- 
 ber you were at the other side, and the best hotels that 
 looked on the street were all to our right. We cer- 
 tainly attracted some attention from the jeunesse dorec 
 of Europe. Spa is cosmopolitan, you know, dear. 
 And after all, Sophia, I am not altogether insignifi- 
 cant. I have the very poorest opinion of foreign 
 morality, and as to that of Belgium — pray don't
 
 192 TIIR FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 mention it ! but I frankly confess I have experienced 
 quite as much inconvenience walking alone in London 
 somewhat beyond the hour when one can walk alone, 
 as even in Spa. One gets used to these things in 
 time. All one need do is to remember always that 
 one is a lady, and to walk calmly on, glancing neither 
 to the right nor to the left." 
 
 Mrs. Fortescue-Drake, as she disposed the chains 
 upon her Junoesque bosom, looked sublimely superior 
 to the immoral intentions of the boldest. Sophia sub- 
 sided. She felt more miserably inferior than ever to 
 her more richly gifted friend. She was so ignorant 
 and had had so few direct experiences that she could 
 not help feeling things perhaps with foolish keenness, 
 and dear Airs. Fortescue-Drake was sometimes a little 
 hasty in her conclusions. The odious men had looked 
 at her straight in the face, and it was to her they had 
 kissed their hands and done the other dreadful things. 
 And she had felt so desolate and unprotected, and was 
 so sorry that she had fastened ujd her skirt with safety- 
 pins so as to be more free to attend to Job, and her 
 face was so hot and red and shining, and she hadn't 
 even a hand to wipe it ! 
 
 "Sirs. Drake lay back luxuriously while Sophia 
 knitted, and glanced from time to time not unkindly 
 at the little shrinking figure. 
 
 "You must have had good eyes, Sophia, before you 
 took to glasses," she said drowsily, "and a neat 
 figure." 
 
 Sophia started. 
 
 "You must always have been as flat as a pancake, 
 dear, but so long as one is under twenty-five that 
 matters less. You appear to know so little of men or 
 of what they admire or — er — pass over. It seems so 
 strange to me with my, perhaps, unusually full experi- 
 ence of life." 
 
 She paused to cast a benignant eye upon her 
 stupendous past. "I detest adventures or adven- 
 turers," she proceeded, "but a life devoid of all
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 193 
 
 incident must be indeed a dull companion. One has 
 a great deal to be thankful for. Your father and 
 brother were at Oxtord, Sophia, and you were some- 
 times asked to dine at the Hall, I gather. You must 
 surely have met some men. Had you never a pro- 
 posal, dear ? — or even the usual experiences preced- 
 ing one? It seems almost incredible that a healthy 
 woman in her full senses should be able to escape — 
 everything. 
 
 Sophia quailed under this direct attack. She was so 
 used to yielding up all she had that she had lost the 
 power of retention. It did not even strike her to resent 
 the insolent demand, but she writhed under it. 
 
 Her little body and brain and heart had always been 
 at the disposal of her friends, but she had kept her 
 little secret for herself. She had huddled it away in 
 her heart. It had ached there now for twenty years, 
 and she only dared to think of it in the silent night 
 or when some favourite preacher touched deep things 
 that lay near it. And now the dominant brown eyes 
 had got on the scent and were ruthlessly following 
 it. 
 
 Sophia feebly wriggled. Her sparse imagination 
 sought after some topic that might divert the con- 
 versation. She could have told a lie had she only 
 been able to invent one. She dropped her stitches 
 and made incoherent efforts to pick them up, and 
 grew each moment more puce. 
 
 Mrs. F^ortescue-Drake uttered the tolerant laugh of 
 a satisfied nature. "My dear Sophia! Not coy, 
 surely, at your age ? Why, I could entertain you 
 with my old love-stories from now till next year. I 
 only refrain from fear of boring you. Certainly not 
 from any false modesty. We outlive all that if we 
 have learnt to live at all. You're splitting my silk, 
 Sophia, with that needle. My dear creature ! Do 
 remember you're not eighteen. There! Finish that 
 seltzer water." 
 
 By sheer force of the habit of obedience vSophia 
 
 N
 
 194 THE FIRE-SEEKKRS 
 
 swallowed the sodden remains and resumed her 
 kniiiing, 
 
 "Now," said the General's widow, "amuse me with 
 your little story, my dear." 
 
 "I've never spoken of it," said Sophia meekly. 
 "No one ever knew. There wasn't any one to know. 
 My brother married and went to Canada. He had 
 his wife and children, and it is difticult to write of 
 the things that greatly concern you. The man who 
 asked me was a clergyman," she faltered. "He asked 
 me just as my father got ill. It was a stroke, and 
 father soon got very helpless. Henry Dale — that was 
 his name — wanted me to have him cared for in a 
 Home. He would have been very comfortable, but 
 he knew me a little, or I thought he did. Henry 
 never thought so. But I didn't think I ought to leave 
 him. Henry waited for ten years. It was a long time. 
 I think he got tired at last. He married just three 
 months before my father died." 
 
 "And left you your little income! How very un- 
 fortunate. It's so important that a clergyman should 
 have some help. And you can't have been more than 
 five-and-thirty. You'd have been sure, being a clergy- 
 man's wife, to have had a considerable family. Very 
 unfortunate for both, I think; the woman he chose 
 was no doubt portionless. You'd have been an excel- 
 lent wife in a quiet way, Sophia, I'm sincerely sorry 
 for you. But after all, it's better to have something 
 tangible to look back to, not a mere blank void, and 
 I feel sure you were most useful to your father. I 
 have a genuine respect for you, Sophia, and your little 
 story only increases it. I wonder if it's very hot, or 
 if I overdid myself yesterday with those churches. 
 Most interesting, but very fatiguing. I'm unusually 
 drowsy. If I take a little nap, wake me up, dear, 
 when the letters come." 
 
 All this time Sophia had been shrinking together. 
 She would thankfully have shrunk to nothingness as 
 her dearest friend jabbed at her little soul with no
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 195 
 
 thought of malignity. Mrs. Fortescue-Drake only 
 thought of herself. 
 
 The long-drawn-out ache of the years culminated 
 in one sharp agony, Sophia wondered mutely if any 
 other pain could ever quite have matched hers. And 
 yet after all, she too had something strong and deep 
 and undying to render up as hostage to time. For a 
 fleeting instant she felt less far away than she usually 
 did to the widow, that brilliant being, a Woman of 
 the World, that depositary of all good things who had 
 always had all she ever wanted by divine right. She 
 knitted on patiently, and presently she was aware 
 that tears were dropi^ing on the pale heliotrope silk. 
 It was a colour that would stain, so, remembering 
 her duty, she dried her eyes and unravelled the 
 ruined silk. It took her a long half-hour to restore 
 the stitches and have the normal amount ready for 
 the widow's eye upon her next inspection. Since the 
 tie was Mrs. Fortescue-Drake's labour of love for the 
 most promising of her sons, she was naturally inter- 
 ested in the progress and perfection of the work. 
 
 And so the widow slept with the rhythmic com- 
 posure of an easy conscience, and the spinster 
 wondered why some chance words should have pierced 
 her old sorrow so much deeper into her heart and 
 made it feel so fresh and new. 
 
 ****•)«•■)«• 
 
 "Ah! she caught you," said Tony, when the 
 Colonel had told his tale. "I dodged her by slip- 
 ping down into the kitchen. The cook's a dear. His 
 theories are awful, of course. They're all the blood- 
 thirstiest revolutionaries down there, but he doesn't 
 even like to kill the cockroaches himself, he makes 
 the boot-boy do it. It's splendid the way I seem to 
 understand what they say. Flemish is as easy as 
 anything really. I'm awfully sorry for the little old 
 maid; she looks like a very old dove moulting. I'd 
 rather like to rescue her from the jaws of the dragf)n 
 
 N 2
 
 iw6 rill- FIRl^Sl-EKER 
 
 and carry her off. Only we shouldn't know what to 
 do with her when we got her." 
 
 "Let her rip! With the dog and the maid and 
 the 'cello " 
 
 "And you don't know all. Turner is worried to 
 death with bans amis. She calls them ' bonammys.'' 
 One looks like a cut-throat. He brought her a package 
 of gingerbread last night to her bedroom window — 
 it's on my verandah — and a bottle of beer, meaning 
 to make a night of it, I think. She shook her 
 umbrella in his face and gave him a temperance tract. 
 She's a Good Templar, you know. She declares he 
 went off crying." 
 
 The Colonel groaned in the silence of his soul. His 
 life looked like being more of a complicated affair 
 than he had even anticipated. 
 
 "Turner had better refer her lovers to me in futtire," 
 he said. "Will you tell iier so?" 
 
 "I'll tell her, but she'll not do it. She's rather in 
 awe of you, and / understand. I do like these kitchen 
 people — I'd hate to see just the outside of countries 
 and people, and come back without a friend. I 
 wonder if many people do." 
 
 "Thousands find no difficulty." 
 
 "Goodness! To pass through countries and meet 
 new people, and to make no impress'on on them and 
 bring nothing back. I'd rather bring enemies than 
 nothing ! " 
 
 "Oh ! They bring enemies enough. Have no 
 doubts about that, and they leave a nasty taste in 
 the mouth of the natives behind them. From certain 
 points of view they're far from being ineffective. 
 There's a fairly high percentage of impeccable British 
 citizens who ought to be muzzled before they're 
 permitted to leave their native shores." 
 
 "I'm glad I dodged her," Tony chuckled. "Was 
 she worse than usual ? I wonder if Turner will have 
 more provisions thrust into her bedroom window- 
 to-night. It's all delightfully exciting."
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 197 
 
 The guardian directed the attention of his ward 
 to the ornamentation of a grave old mansion, and 
 for the rest of the day kept it glued to Art and 
 Architecture. 
 
 "One can't interfere with the unwinding of her 
 sense of propriety," he mused. "One can only direct 
 it. But when it comes to the nocturnal attentions of 
 a batch of Flemish lovers to her maid, one must insist 
 upon a little time for consideration. 
 
 "If you find a position too difficult for the forces at 
 your command," he decided, "strike your tents and 
 
 go." 
 
 As a matter of fact, Tony knew more of Bruges 
 than it has ever yielded up to the light inspection of 
 ninety per cent, of those who throng its brooding 
 streets, for the Colonel had the gift of the true lover 
 for the secrets of old cities, and had revealed to her 
 most surprising delights. So while she was still 
 throbbing with the delicate jewelled glow of the 
 master's colours, and lived a wonder-life amongst his 
 incomparable virgins with their winged glory and 
 their holy grace, he began artfully to distil Ghent 
 also into her heart, till nothing would suit Tony but 
 to hurry forward with all speed upon the enchanting 
 march. 
 
 By the next day Turner was safe from her lovers, 
 and Tony from further revelations concerning their 
 ways and methods, and the Colonel could steady his 
 nerves for the next move of the enemy.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 When Ralph PcmluTton, having l^urnt his boats 
 and turned his back on the world, was travelling down 
 third-class to Pemberton Court, he felt extremely 
 depressed and far from hopeful. The allowance made 
 him from Canada, that had kept him in comfort in 
 his regiment, had, since his succession, been with- 
 drawn. There was practically nothing to redeem 
 mortgages and restore dilapidations. He had to face 
 single-handed a job of which he was wholly ignorant. 
 He had to handle men with whom he had hardly an 
 idea in common, and to do a colossal amount upon 
 nothing. And nothing but the heart of the land itself 
 could have drawn him back to it. That, and the pride 
 of a stout old race. 
 
 An American millionaire had offered him enough 
 for fourteen years' occupation of the old place to 
 enable him to do everything and keep him in comfort 
 for the rest of his natural life, and on the same day 
 an appointment, to which he could hardly have dared 
 even to aspire, had been offered him. His Colonel 
 was extremely unwilling that he should leave his 
 regiment, and influence from high quarters had been 
 brought to bear on the matter. It was a grievous 
 temptation, and perhaps Ralph would have yielded 
 to it but for the extraordinary eyes of long-legged 
 Tony, which seemed still to be glued to him, entreat- 
 ing, protesting, raging ! Through every interview 
 in connection with both affairs they seemed to pursue 
 and fix him. 
 
 "Damn her eyes!" he said, with a temper to 
 match her own. But they refused to be damned. 
 They would not let him go. And through all their 
 sombre upbraiding ran the joy of the land — of one's 
 
 198
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER igg 
 
 own land, that primal passion which lies deeper in a 
 man than any other passion, except the love of God 
 and the love of woman, and lives not far apart from 
 these in the deepest depth of all. 
 
 "If I'd done it," he said, throwing' down his third 
 magazine — by force of old habit he had spent as 
 much on railway literature as would have paid the 
 difference between first and third class, and saved 
 the servants who met him some bitter burning of 
 heart, but it takes time to prune and pumice-stone a 
 man into practicality. "If I'd behaved like a rational 
 being and given up a bad job of which I know 
 nothing for a good one of which I know every twist 
 and turn, I wonder if by any chance she'd have come 
 back at the Colonel's expense and slain me. She 
 could without turning a hair, and sit down afterwards 
 and work out the murder and her justification for it 
 on her 'cello. It would be a composition, I'm pretty 
 sure, that would bring as much enduring fame to the 
 last member of the family as hanging her." 
 
 But there was little place for idle reflection in the 
 weeks and months that followed. Ralph was learn- 
 ing to time his stride to his company, and this is a 
 hard matter for quick youth. 
 
 There was nothing to be done with the old steward 
 but to sell an outlying farm — the one purchase of 
 Anthony's lifetime, which his heir had hoped im- 
 mensely to be able to keep — and to pension him off. 
 By the mercy of heaven the old man, as wrathful and 
 resentful as he had been ineffectual, was shortly after 
 carried off by a fit, and so one fruitful source of danger 
 and disloyalty was shut off from the young owner. 
 
 "If Providence would only be equally considerate 
 in the case of old Vernev," he thought one day, on his 
 way to the Rectory. "And yet one has to think of 
 the poor dramatist and her feckless family. I needn't 
 trouble, though. I feel sure he'll be spared to be a 
 barricade of wool-bags in my path for many years to 
 come."
 
 200 riii- FiRi':-si':i<KRR 
 
 The usual scurry in the hall followed his riiiij^. 
 Some one seemed to be clearing the premises of 
 children and clearing up the mess they left behind, 
 and this, as he soon saw, only partially. A soft 
 ripple of giggles seemed to envelop the entering 
 visitor, and bright, spying eyes bored through cracks 
 and crevices. An elder girl, also only partially re- 
 adjusted — she was still wrestling with the front of 
 her blouse^ — ushered him into a drawing-room, where 
 a continual process of dusting, which was never com- 
 pleted, appeared to be going on. The family, it was 
 plain to see, was ahvays running after time and never 
 catching it, just as Mrs. Verney was always running 
 after her family, but from its large total never even 
 hoping to catch it for complete revision, except in 
 portions. 
 
 She was a lady with an absent way of commenting 
 in public upon the defects of her family in soft, 
 smothered tones, to be sure, but her words were often 
 violent. She wrote melodrama in secret for the 
 distant provinces, to help to feed her family, and 
 adjectives had become a habit with her. When not 
 engaged upon melodrama, Mrs. Verney ran the 
 lighter side of the parish, so her husband called it. 
 After twenty-eight years of it, his wife wondered how 
 anything so light could weigh upon body, soul and 
 spirit like a stationary avalanche, but that was only 
 when influenza was about and she had got stuck in 
 a curtain riser. 
 
 To begin with, she had been a fluffy little woman 
 and very pretty. And if she had had a moment in 
 which to think of herself, would very likely have been 
 pretty still. As it was, she did her best. One of 
 her daughters was nervous, artistic and irritable, and 
 partiallv adopted by a rich relative, and when the 
 fluff began to wear off a little, had fastidiously mur- 
 mured of toupets. So in order to soothe her daughter's 
 nerves and give her pleasure at her next coming 
 home, Mrs. Verney had bought a toupct cheap 
 through The Lady. It had then matched well enough
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 201 
 
 to the absorbed eyes of one immersed in affairs, but 
 in the course of years it began to show canary stripes, 
 from which Captain Pemberton found the greatest 
 difficulty in detaching his eyes, so startHng did he 
 find them. Mrs. Verney sometimes wished that she 
 could afford a new one of a more suitable colour, but 
 grey was so very expensive, and Charles did not seem 
 to mind anything she wore, and after all he was the 
 one most concerned. He was good, and he loved her, 
 and she was too busy a woman to be bored, especially 
 with a husband who had become a habit. 
 
 When she had greeted Captain Pemberton and 
 dispatched a squad of her family in search of the 
 Rector, after some light remarks on current topics, 
 she seemed suddenly to notice a tall, gawky son 
 waiting eagerly for a chance to speak. She peered 
 critically in his direction. 
 
 "Ponsonby," she murmured, "there's a curious 
 clotted look about your hair, dear, that's rather 
 repulsive." 
 
 Ponsonby, a scholar of Winchester now up at 
 Oxford for his first term, and getting used to the 
 ways of men, and at this moment feverishly anxious 
 to stand well with the young heir in hopes of getting 
 some shooting when he had learnt to shoot, glared 
 and vanished, and Mrs. Verney, with unmoved 
 serenity, continued the conversation. 
 
 "And so you were kind enough to call on poor 
 Mrs. Wood, Captain Pemberton. Did she talk of 
 her dear husband ? " 
 
 "Well, no. As a matter of fact, she talked of 
 mutton chops." 
 
 "Ah, well ! Perhaps if he'd had more of them he 
 wouldn't have died. Pea soup is as far as we can 
 go now with our fast decreasing funds, and his 
 stomach refused it." 
 
 Ralph wondered vaguely if she had made it, and 
 felt a keener sympathy for the dead man than the 
 sight of his widow had made possible. 
 
 "Ah! I see my husband coming up the laurel
 
 202 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 walk," said Mrs. \'erney. "He has so much to speak 
 to you about, Captain Pemberton." 
 
 She paused, with a look of hopeless entreat}'' at 
 the young man. It was purely altruistic to begin 
 with, embracing nothing but the parish. There was, 
 in happier circumstances, the making of an Univer- 
 salist in Mrs. X'^erney, but both glance and thought 
 gathered in before they ceased the innumerable tokens 
 of Charles's affection that filled home and heart. 
 
 "We want so much," she said simply. 
 
 "And I have so little to give," said Ralph, sud- 
 denly liking the little overburthened woman. 
 
 "She wants looking after too, and bucking up," he 
 thought. "I wonder who doesn't in the confounded 
 place." 
 
 There was a sound as of the flapping of wet wings 
 in the hall, and the Rector rolled blandly in. He was 
 a man with fine round features, a presence, and a 
 serious clerical manner. He had brought a natural 
 faculty of expounding the obvious to the level of a 
 fine art. He genuinely enjoyed producing platitudes, 
 and was amiable enough to believe that his friends 
 found as much pleasure in listening to them. 
 
 "Ah, Captain Pemberton, very glad indeed to see 
 you. Just been taking ofif my mackintosh. Never 
 go out without one in this changeable climate. The 
 longer I live the more alive do I become to their 
 immense advantages. Nothing can replace the 
 mackintosh. It gives one a confidence and security 
 that nothing else can. The inventor of the first 
 mackintosh was, I feel sure, a philanthropist. I hope 
 he made something out of his munificent invention. 
 I am credibly informed that all inventors die in 
 indigent circumstances." 
 
 "I wonder if experimentors share the same fate," 
 said Ralph. "I hope they don't, because I'm rather 
 thinking of starting as one myself. If my credit will 
 run to it." 
 
 "If it's a question of credit," said the Rector
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 203 
 
 thoughtfully, "I am sure our bank manager would 
 do all that lies in his power to oblige you. I have 
 found him one-sided indeed in his views, a failing, 
 I believe, peculiar to specialists, especially in com- 
 merce, but unfailing in sympathy and courtesy. A 
 more agreeable man I never met, can talk on all 
 subjects. I conversed with him only a week ago 
 quite for an hour on the advisability of capital 
 punishment." 
 
 "That sounds hopeful," ventured Ralph. "But 
 forgive me for asking if he had first advanced you 
 what you wanted." 
 
 "Well, no, I can't say that he had," said the Rector, 
 without animosity. "There is, as I said, always the 
 narrowness of the specialist to contend with." 
 
 "I know. I've suffered from it myself. I'm afraid 
 the pleasure of my society will never induce old 
 Macdonald to give me a standing over-draft, unless I 
 have something good up my sleeve, and I believe I 
 have. In an uneventful way, Mrs. Verney," he said, 
 laughing at the quick glint of dramatic interest in 
 her tired eyes. "And I want you both to help me 
 with my scheme." 
 
 His eyes turned from the Rector to his wife, and 
 took no trouble to turn back. It was her he must 
 galvanise into a new outlook upon life. Life was 
 too short to exploit or utilise the father of her in- 
 numerable family. He must be regarded henceforth 
 as an incident. 
 
 "I've been everywhere now, I think," said Ralph, 
 "and I've seen everything. Every leaking roof, and 
 hingeless door, and shaky gate and broken fence. 
 I know all the tenants, and all their wives and 
 children. I know them all — inside and out, I believe, 
 and the insides of my tenants seem to go very well 
 with their outsides, and to be as dilapidated as the 
 roofs and fences. They all to a man distrust all 
 my intentions towards them, so far as they are in a 
 position to think at all. They've dropped the habit
 
 204 T'ii> i-iri<-sh1":k1':r 
 
 of thinking, I fancy, and ruminate over their griev- 
 ances in a sort of sodden dream. They seem to have 
 lost the rest of their faculties too, even their hercditarv 
 pride in their milk vessels. Never tasted such butter 
 in my life as you have here. The girls who ought to 
 be scrubbing the vessels and making butter one can 
 eat, seem to be everlastingly strumming on un- 
 mentionable pianos." 
 
 Mrs. X-'erney was silling up as straight as a dart. 
 Her eyes shone. 
 
 "Satan himself brought the first piano to Pember- 
 ton, I firmly believe," she said. 
 
 "My dear Katharine! " 
 
 "Ponsonby, it's true, Pve always felt it." 
 
 "I feel sure it's he, at any rate, who tunes them," 
 said Ralph. "Human malignity couldn't run to it." 
 
 "I was once considered musical," groaned the 
 Rector's wife. 
 
 "Dearest," expostulated the bewildered Rector, 
 "your duties in the parish " 
 
 "It's not the parish, Ponsonby, it's pianos. Oh, 
 Captain Pemberton, go on ! Will you take them for 
 the rent ? " 
 
 "I hope to silence them by less strenuous means, 
 Mrs. V'erney. I dare say you've seen something in 
 the papers of the new ideas of French gardening — 
 intensive gardening, they call it in England." 
 
 "Hem, yes," said the Rector. "A process of in- 
 verted glass and minute attention to stable manure. 
 The uses of the horse are indeed manifold." 
 
 " I wish my tenants would find them out, then. The 
 chief uses they put their horses to is to jog to and 
 from the Red Lion to discuss the bad times, or to let 
 their idle young whelps of sons go hunting on them. 
 And on such screws, too ! Not a decent bred horse 
 on the place. But that's our fault, not theirs. — So 
 far as I can see, it's all our fault. However, there's 
 lots of stable manure. And that's what concerns me 
 now. It's a sordid experiment, Mrs. Verney, of the
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 205 
 
 earth earthy, you know. I've been away for some 
 weeks, sir, as you know," 
 
 "Yes. In Paris, I gathered." The Rector wished 
 well to the young man, but had been put to some 
 inconvenience in his efforts to defend him from the 
 furtive suspicions of the population as soon as it had 
 become aware of his fatal destination. 
 
 Hoad the publican, who knew the world, was 
 immensely apprehensive. "T'old man, 'e did mony 
 an ill thing," said I load, "but to go to Paris, that 
 'e never did do. A sinner 'e lived an' a sinner 'e 
 died, pore soul, but Paris ! Old Antony Pemberton 
 kep' himself to himself in that partickler. Gawd be 
 praised. A bad beginnin', genelmen. An' only 
 Gawd knaws where it will end." 
 
 They discussed it at the smithy at night and at 
 the shop at sundown and at the Red Lion at noon. 
 The women had it out with a vague, trembling, mystic 
 enjoyment over their wash-tubs. A new sense as of 
 some horrible alive sin was in the air. It spread like 
 bindweed. The very school children knew that 
 something was afoot, from which they were nefari- 
 ously excluded. Many a listening ear was glued to 
 many a keyhole these lurid times. The Rector 
 glossed it over to the best of his ability, and made 
 matters worse. 
 
 Mrs. Verney told her mothers' meetings bluntly 
 they'd better attend to their own sins and leave those 
 of other people until they were proven. 
 
 "Paris?" said Ralph. "You could hardly call it 
 Paris. It was some miles out in the middle of the 
 market gardens. I wanted to learn all I could of 
 their methods, and one of the men, with a nice clean 
 wife, put me up. I persuaded both of them to come 
 back with me. They've signed a contract to stay 
 two years, and Jules will teach me and any one I 
 can persuade to learn, all he knows. The way thoy 
 do things and get them to pay, as they certainly do. 
 Ask Covcnt Garden ! "
 
 2oG Till- FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 "To teach you, Captain Pembcrton," said tiie 
 Rector duijiously, "and a French element in our 
 village? They are, no doubt, Roman Catholics." 
 
 "But that'll be all right. There's a priest and 
 chapel at Lough. They can go over in the cart." 
 
 "I had not thought of priest and chapel. The 
 religion and the morals of the French " 
 
 "Ponsonby!" cried Mrs. Verney, suddenly alive 
 all over — a new creature. "Bother! — oh, well! A 
 new religion or another sort of immorality more or 
 lass can't matter when we know what the religion and 
 the morals of the poor things here are. Think of 
 their butter and milk alone. A religion and morality 
 that can produce such dairy stuff as that can't be 
 contaminated. I believe you feel as Pve been trying 
 not to feel for twenty-eight years, Captain Pember- 
 ton," she said, with scarlet cheeks. "And — I think 
 it's been a great mistake to keep it all in. I believe 
 what they want — what we all want — to — to rip and 
 wrench us out of our dull selves," said the dramatist 
 ferociously, "is something new. We want to be 
 wound up and set going again at something we've 
 never done, or seen, or even suspected in the stodge 
 we've got ourselves embedded in. It will be desper- 
 ately hard work," she said, looking at him with, so 
 to speak, rolls of sympathy. "And you're young. 
 Oh, you're deplorably young!" she wailed; "and 
 Pve lived here ever since I was eighteen. I was 
 married about the same year you were born," she said, 
 with tears in her eyes. "I came here before I even saw 
 the world, and you might be enjoying yourself in it 
 this minute instead of beginning the same long grind." 
 
 The Rector's eyes were fixed helplessly upon his 
 wife, hers were upon the world she had never seen. 
 
 "We all thought you were enjoying yourself in 
 Paris," she said, to her own immense astonishment, 
 rather wishing that he had been. "The blackest 
 rumours were afloat ; we're very particular here in 
 regard to sins; we're cut off from "
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 207 
 
 "Katharine!" cried the Rector to his metamor- 
 phosed wife. He had never in all his life been so 
 amazed. The lurid power of melodrama which had 
 attained such ascendancy over her, he had never more 
 than partially approved. It was lucrative indeed and 
 perhaps necessary, and no doubt a gift, but he had 
 always in his heart deplored it. It had, however, 
 not so far become articulate in daily life, but this — 
 this was incomprehensible, a matter for prayer and 
 not for words. His gaze entreated her. He could 
 do no more. 
 
 "I say, Mrs. Verney," said Ralph, "you feel just 
 as I do myself. I want to wake them up with some 
 novelty. To startle them into life. It's not a bit 
 of use to begin with the roofs and fences. They must 
 begin at something with a smack of adventure in 
 it, so as to get them interested. If one could get 
 them once puffed up with pride in doing one thing 
 well, the rest would do itself. They'd get into the 
 habit of good work. You know — the habit of making 
 a success of things. And I want the place to be in 
 a way theirs as well as mine. It's big enough for us 
 all, and hasn't been done justice to for generations. 
 There's enough and to spare to be got out of it for 
 every one, and for the shooting as well. Look at the 
 acres and acres going back to pine and heather. And 
 I'd like every man who wants it to be able to buy a 
 little bit of it in time for himself. I'm used to a free 
 country, and to friends around me as comfortable in 
 their way as I'm in mine, don't you see," he said, 
 reddening. "It must have been like that once here, 
 in the days when England was ' merry England,' 
 and I'd like to bring these times back. And this is 
 the best start I can think of with a Scotchman at the 
 bank, Mr. Verney. It costs less than most schemes, 
 and the returns are quicker, and the manure's there 
 in tons, heaven knows ! You've got two sons going 
 out to Canada later on, Mr. Verney. I've spoken to 
 the boys. I like them. I think we'd get on all right.
 
 2os nil-: i-iRi':-si-:i'Ki-R 
 
 Why .slu)ulcl Canada ^ct them? Can't >()u let them 
 start here, anyway ? They won't have to work harder 
 than they would in Canada. And we'll all be work- 
 ing; together just as they do there. If the three of 
 us make up our minds to be Jules' first pupils up there 
 on my nei^lected L;ardens, we'll get the farmers' sons 
 to join us in time. It'll be one way, after all, of being 
 a gentleman, and pay better than beagles. Now 
 don't decide, of course, till you think it over. I'm 
 not as practical yet as I intend to be. It needs prac- 
 tice, you see, but I've seen the people at Covent 
 Garden and all the hotels on the line to Town, and 
 I think we'll get enough markets, and after a bit we'll 
 start our own motors and escape the extortions of the 
 railway people. I think we'll make the thing hum." 
 
 "This novelty," said the Rector solemnly, "may 
 prove a snare. The old ways — old methods " 
 
 "Ponsonby!" cried the newly evolved termagant. 
 "Now do hold your tongue. I'm absolutely certain 
 you've got nothing pertinent to say about this. 
 You'd only be reproducing old prejudices. We're 
 so rooted in them. Captain Pemberton, down here, 
 especially if they're aristocratic, and I know it's the 
 manure that's worrying Ponsonby. I'm not blaming 
 you, Ponsonby. It's the fault of your ancestors and 
 their fastidious exclusiveness, but then you must 
 remember they had incomes. If they wanted to per- 
 petuate that sort of thing, they should have left enough 
 behind them to make it practicable. We could all 
 be fastidious with the greatest ease if we had the 
 chance. At any rate," she said, with a sharp tap 
 of a worn old heel, "don't bother now about manure 
 or ancestors, but think of the delightful newness of 
 this idea of Captain Pemberton's. I wonder if girls 
 could learn the thing. Susy does so detest teaching 
 the children, and I doubt if she teaches them a thing 
 _or I—-" 
 
 "My dearest Katharine — the parish " 
 
 "Bother! — oh, the parish," she said more mildly.
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 209 
 
 "We've got so used to dealing with the parish that 
 we can't thin!-: of anything else. And one gets so 
 
 deadly sick -" 
 
 "Katharine! " 
 
 "Oh, well, Ponsonby, one does! I'll do all the 
 necessary things, of course, and there are lots of the 
 less urgent ones that you'd do far better than ever I 
 could, dear," she said airily. "You've often done 
 them before." 
 
 Ponsonby gasped. Ralph suppressed a grin. 
 "Girls are taking to it, Mrs. Verney, I believe," he 
 said, "and doing very well in it. And I think yoir 
 could do anything you chose to undertake. Come up 
 and see what Jules has to say on the subject. You 
 can all practice your French on him." 
 
 "French! I haven't spoken a word since our 
 honeymoon. Ponsonby, I haven't! and I got on 
 splendidly in Paris. Don't you remember?" 
 "In a country parish, my dearest — ■ — " 
 "Oh, yes, I know. But one needn't spend all one's 
 time growing old, Ponsonby. The parish does 
 nothing else, and we've caught the infection. A new 
 interest in all our lives won't hurt the parish, Pon- 
 sonby. And I'll have something interesting to instil 
 into the mothers on Wednesdays." 
 Ponsonby seemed about to speak. 
 "And," she said hurriedly, "if you're convinced 
 of the necessity of the things I'll be able to make over 
 to you, you can do them so splendidly. I've done my 
 best all these years to convince myself of their real 
 necessity, and I've never succeeded yet." 
 
 Ponsonby had no words yet for the unusual. He 
 could only humbly pray that it miglit soon resolve 
 itself into the usual. He had known of cases in the 
 lives of other men, but not to understand his ow^n 
 wife was inconceivable to the honest Rector. A man 
 might as well profess his inability to imderstand the 
 tenets of the Christian religion. And that Katharine, 
 who lived to spare him, should herself suggest 
 o
 
 210 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 fobbing ofT odd jobs on him was so astounding. 
 He did not mind the extra work, he minded nothing 
 that would forward the Church's work. During 
 Katharine's numerous withdrawals from public life 
 he had cheerfully added her work to his, but that 
 Katharine should have required conviction as to its 
 necessity ! That she should be able to renounce what 
 he lived for in order to experiment in stable manure ! 
 It made his head reel. 
 
 He looked wistfully at Katharine. And if faithful 
 affection could have overcome the principle of life 
 astir W'ithin her, Ponsonby would then have pre- 
 vailed. She would have run back to him, back to 
 the well-grooved rut and never left his side again. 
 But the call to move on was strong and deep, nothing 
 but something as strong and deep and as fundamental 
 as itself could now stay its cry. Wifely affection 
 could only follow the leading of the greater force 
 and console itself by knowing that what was done was 
 done wholly for the good of all. 
 
 One in the bond must always break away from 
 outgrown limitations, and if the call come first to the 
 woman there must always be tears in the air. 
 
 The saddest tragedy of all was working itself out 
 in these simple lives. 
 
 Katharine would be a better wife and a wiser mother 
 than she had ever been before, a bigger power in 
 home and parish, but she would be a litle strange to 
 poor Ponsonby to the day of his death. 
 
 "Will you come up then at eleven o'clock, Mrs. 
 Verney, you and all of your family who care to 
 inquire into the scheme, and interview Jules and let 
 him show you his methods? He'll spare you nothing. 
 I wonder how many of you will stick it ! And will 
 you all lunch wath me afterwards on what you can 
 get? We have more silver than food, I'm afraid. 
 Come in, Mr. Verney, at one-thirty and join us at 
 luncheon. There's still some wine in the cellar ! "
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 When the Rector came back after another little 
 homily on the uses of the mackintosh — Captain 
 Pemberton had neglected to bring his — he found his 
 wife idly dreaming. 
 
 It was so strange ! Yesterday, or any other day 
 of their twenty-five years' most blessed union, he 
 would have found her either vaguely continuing her 
 dusting as she pondered a plot, or with her pen 
 moving at full speed, and all the attention he required 
 always at his command. Now her thoughts were 
 filled with something outside both him and her work. 
 She troubled his heart and his memory. For the first 
 time in his life he felt shy in the presence of Kath- 
 arine. He was a little afraid of her, a little doubtful. 
 He was — he almost smiled as the grotesque notion 
 struck into his dim mind— he could have believed that 
 he was a little jealous in regard to Katharine, the 
 staunch, kind companion, growing old along with 
 him, who, in common with himself, had lived her 
 quiet life, and must henceforth exist only in her 
 children and for the good of others. 
 
 Except in his lower instinct, in the little selfish, 
 grasping, encroaching ways of the mere man, he 
 patiently strove to amend, Ponsonby Verney, as 
 thousands like him, although he clung to his prin- 
 ciples, sat lightly enough to his own individuality. 
 It was quite too abstract a conception to be grasped 
 with the modest faculties at his disposal. It had never 
 even struck him to develop and enrich himself. The 
 mere thought of settling down seriously to try to 
 realise the ego of a worm like himself would have 
 filled him with a shuddering fear of presumptuous sin. 
 
 O 2 211
 
 212 Till-: l'IRl-:-SEEKI<R 
 
 He left this to God. He was a meek Christian who 
 had invariably acquiesced. He had acquiesced in the 
 matter of an immense family and no means.— In the 
 rift in the old church tower. — In the sordid, unen- 
 lightened Socialism growing up year by year round 
 the smithy fires at dusk, and at night under the bleared 
 lamps of the public-houses. He had acquiesced in 
 the growing drowsiness in the hearts and heads of the 
 tired women. In the growing distaste of the young 
 lads for their sad homes, and their despairing rush 
 to the cities which slay youth. Even in the fate of 
 the little children who came tired into life and went 
 tired to their unwilling tasks, and on to their weary 
 doom, he liad acciuiesced. 
 
 Xot for one moment must it be supposed that Mr. 
 Verney neglected either his duty or his flock. He was 
 a faithful shepherd, but his light was dim and he 
 walked, full of resignation and Christian love, within 
 its circle. It never even struck him to claim his 
 heritage of light without limit and use it robustly out 
 in the parish among common men. He preached to 
 them and told them Church truths, and christened 
 and married and buried them, but being humble to 
 the core and never having dared to grasp the great- 
 ness of his own being, it was impossible to him 
 to explain to the small, mean, parochial sinner the 
 majesty of his. He never lost interest in publicans 
 and sinners, he was keenly sorry for them, he would 
 have shared his last crust with them, he prayed with- 
 out ceasing for them, but he knew nothing whatsoever 
 about them, and pointed them to a God too far away. 
 As for Christ, he saw His cross, but His crown he had 
 neither seen nor imagined. The state of the parish 
 stood between that and the Rector. So he used 
 palliative measures to church and tower and people, 
 and knowing nothing of himself, knew nothing of 
 his congregation except, of course, of their misdo- 
 ings, which were naturally harrowing to a good 
 man.
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 213 
 
 Being thus constituted, he could naturally slip back 
 without protest or complaining into the backwaters of 
 middle age, and let the young and the brutal not only 
 knock at his doors, but turn him out of them neck 
 and crop if he happened to fill space they needed. 
 " We have had our chances, and perhaps, alas ! lost 
 them," was his motto, "so let us now make w-ay for 
 the young." 
 
 Upon her rare outbreaks of personal desire he 
 applied this motto to his wife also, and asked no more 
 than he was ready to give. To relinquish a birthright 
 of which you know nothing is an act of renunciation 
 fitted to the most average capacity. 
 
 The Rector had a natural affinity for autumn and 
 the withered leaf. His sermons, even in midsummer, 
 were full of them. And now spring and all her rights 
 in it was born again in the indefatigable heart of 
 Katharine. Ponsonby had not the remotest concep- 
 tion of what really was afoot, but he felt miserably 
 uncomfortable. Occurrences of this order in the lives 
 of simple mortals must always disturb the atmosphere 
 for those who are left behind. He missed something 
 vital. He felt confused and rather lost and forlorn. 
 
 Suddenly Mrs. Verney w'as aware of him, and in a 
 flash she knew. She was bitterly sorry for him and 
 for herself, and words were as impossible now as they 
 must always henceforth be between them. Oh, but 
 she was sorry ! 
 
 She wanted to do something for him. To give 
 him something. She had never been used to giving 
 caresses. There had never been any time. One can't 
 learn the way of it in an engagement full of Church 
 cares. The honeymoon, even, was never free of them, 
 and then the burthen of the babies. But she came 
 to him now and touched his shoulder with her soft 
 hand. 
 
 "I wish you'd like it, Ponsonby, and look glad," 
 she said very gently and tenderly. " It seems to me 
 such an opening for all of us. Captain Pemberton's
 
 214 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 brought a new element with him, and it's so stimu- 
 lating. It makes the air lighter, don't you think?" 
 
 He wished devoutly he could, but to him the air 
 was as heavy as lead. Me did not say so, however, 
 it would perhaps be selfish; and he liked the touch of 
 her hand. He would deal with an aspect of the affair 
 that had apparently escaped Katharine. 
 
 "I can," he said, "give no definite opinion yet as 
 to the scheme, which so far seems to be somewhat 
 fantastic, and being French, must, I take it, be 
 frivolous. But one point seems clear to me, dearest. 
 The girls are very young, and Captain Pemberton 
 is not very old, Katharine." 
 
 Katharine paused for an instant to wonder why she 
 was not dusting the room, or changing the furniture, 
 or picking out dead flowers— anything, in fact, to 
 utilise her conversation with Ponsonby, but so many 
 incidental thoughts came thronging in that it took 
 every atom of her to attend to them and keep them 
 in some sort of order, and she herself was more 
 trouble than her thoughts. She would keep on think- 
 ing of herself, and it seemed so odd. She shook her 
 head to get rid of the encroaching ridiculous reflec- 
 tions, and was suddenly confronted by her own face 
 at eighteen smiling out from under a mushroom hat. 
 
 She uttered a pensive sigh and turned to Ponsonby. 
 
 "Don't trouble your head about propriety, Pon- 
 sonby," said she. "It's an anxiety, believe me, quite 
 thrown away." 
 
 "But, dearest, I don't understand " 
 
 "Ponsonby, forget hereditary instincts and fatherly 
 affection, and consider the matter calmly and reason- 
 ably. Would you, or any one you ever met, have 
 asked one of our girls to marry you when you were 
 twenty-four ? " 
 
 Ponsonby started, paused and looked at her. 
 
 "You w-ere very lovely," he murmured at last; then, 
 with a loyal effort he recovered himself. "But, dear 
 Katharine, our girls' features "
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 215 
 
 "It's not their features," she said, with the kindest 
 look at him; "you've given them vour features, but 
 _^but— " 
 
 "Katharine! They're good ! " 
 
 "Good ! They're good all over." 
 
 "And I find them intelhgent." 
 
 "Is it at all likely, Ponsonby, that I'd have pro- 
 duced fools ? " 
 
 "But with everything " He paused, bewildered. 
 
 "With everything they'll never give me one 
 moment's anxiety," she said, deeply sighing. "Oh! 
 Ponsonby, they're dears— good, intelligent, dear; I 
 never knew how dear till this moment. But, oh ! if 
 they didn't look Parish all over ! If I'd thought more 
 of them when they were coming and less of the Parish. 
 I wonder if it would have made any difference." 
 
 Ponsonby could only stare. 
 
 "My dear, I've never heard you speak like this 
 before," he said at last. 
 
 "I've never thought like it before. I only thought 
 what dear, useful girls they were who never cost us 
 a penny in doctors' bills. Now I'd like them to be 
 girls I could throw one after the other, in case of a 
 miss, at Captain Pemberton's head, with the remotest 
 hope of any one of them making the slightest 
 impression on it." 
 
 " Katharine ! " 
 
 "Oh! Awful or not, I'd like it desperately, but 
 it's out of the question. They were cut out by Nature 
 to be sisters to some man or other, and I'm sure they 
 couldn't start on a nicer man than Captain Pemberton. 
 I wonder if I'd trained them differently — I wonder if 
 any human effort on our income could have done 
 anything." 
 
 "They're young and inexperienced," said Ponsonby 
 after a long pause. He found words difhcult. "And 
 with youth — er, things happen. Suppose one of our 
 girls should unhappily fall in love with Captain 
 Pemberton."
 
 2i6 Till-: FlRli-SKEKliR 
 
 "Every one of them is perfectly certain to fall irre- 
 trievably in love with Captain Pemberton. It will be 
 dreadful for them and for us. The house will be full 
 of secret sorrow. They're too unused to men to dis- 
 cuss them rationally. They'll all suffer in secret and 
 all be jealous of each other. The house will be a 
 hotbed of new sensations and new sins. You'll have 
 your work cut out for you, Ponsonby. Pm glad 
 Alice is out of it and has a gift denied the others. 
 Moralising on Captain Pemberton during her short 
 visits W'ill keep love away. Ah ! well, there's nothing 
 to do with a hard fact but to accept it and make 
 the best of it. At least the affair w^ll give them some 
 idea of the outer world and fix their taste. Pve been 
 a little uneasy about that dreadful James Boston. It 
 may be the gargoyle he stares at to keep himself awake 
 during the sermon, but I think it's Margaret." 
 
 "Don't you think, Katharine, that some preparation 
 — a little serious conversation in the study^ -" 
 
 "Ponsonby ! Leave that to me. I'll prepare them. 
 You can't warn people against the inevitable, but 
 they may learn to meet it sensibly, and not for a 
 moment to expect that young man to return what I 
 feel convinced he has not the slightest desire to call 
 forth. It will be a hard lesson for the poor things," 
 she said, with tears in her kind eyes, "but," she added 
 valiantly, "it may be the making of them, that and 
 the scheme. Oh! Ponsonby," she cried, "if one 
 could have hoped even for one of them. Think of 
 the thousands of new joys and new hopes and new 
 fears that would be growing up about us this very 
 minute. I'd give my very soul for the heavenly 
 delight of being a match-making mother." 
 
 "^Iy dearest," — a score of moralities ran to his lips, 
 but the tears upon her soft cheeks moved him to 
 consolation — "dearest, you are perhaps a little cheer- 
 less in your views. C)ur girls are well born. Our 
 house has made even historic marriages in its time. 
 I hope, dear Katharine, that you are not indisposed."
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 217 
 
 "Oh ! I'm well enough," said Katharine, drying her 
 eyes. "But when it comes to a doubt as to whether 
 it's Margaret or the gargoyle, and when, even with 
 the mental image of that horrible young man fresh in 
 one's mind, one would like it to be Margaret ! Oh ! 
 Ponsonby, it's pretty bad, you know." 
 
 Ponsonby stared, started, and looked at his watch. 
 "Dear me, I'll be late," he cried. "The funeral's 
 at 3.30." 
 
 "You won't if you walk fast. And, Ponsonby, 
 don't think of poor John having died with every 
 instinct unsatisfied. I can't get it out of my head. 
 Think that perhaps he's having a little dim happiness 
 at last, somewhere where people aren't as hard on 
 ineffectuality as they are here. And then you'll cheer 
 them all up. I wish you could get in something 
 about intensive gardening, effectuality generally, 
 Ponsonby." 
 
 "Don't, Katharine," he entreated. "I don't believe 
 you mean it really, dear, but you disturb me, and 
 
 with a funeral Death is a solemn matter, my 
 
 dearest, with the widow and children totally unpro- 
 vided for." 
 
 She watched him all down the drive. There were 
 tears in her eyes and a whimsical smile about her 
 mouth. 
 
 The Rector panted on towards his goal. He strove 
 with all his might to rid his mind of the world and 
 of the life which endures but for a moment, and fill it 
 with the thought of death. He was very successful. 
 Scores of reflections eminently befitting the occasion 
 came flocking to his lips. He was genuinely moved 
 with his own address, and sent his hearers home with 
 death gnawing at their hearts !
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 That afternoon Mrs. Verney and her three 
 marriageable daughters all went for a walk together. 
 It was naturally a walk with a definite duty at the 
 end of it, and several indefinite ones on the way. A 
 collection of young women were being taught cutting 
 out and putting together at a distant point — soup had 
 to be dropped at some cottages, magazines at others, 
 remarks of a moral nature up many an endless lane 
 scored with ruts. These occupations required muscle, 
 and all the virtues, but no thought. So Mrs. Verney 
 concentrated all hers upon the matter in hand. As 
 they left the third cottage she started her mission. 
 
 "Look at it," she said, turning for a last hopeless 
 inspection, "the fiendish way in which everything 
 matches. The roof, the walls, the garden, the very 
 tin dishes drooping on the walls — Minnie's mouth — 
 the creature's too slack to shut it — her flaccid hands 
 as they took the soup, her resigned remarks on the 
 weather and the times — her baby that will be ready 
 to bend its head to everything before it's six months 
 old. Oh, it's the general resignation of everybody 
 to every blast in this place that drives one distracted ! 
 I'm thankful to say that Captain Pemberton, who 
 strikes me as a young man who will do his duty, 
 has brought the spirit of revolt with him, and I 
 hope to goodness it will run through us all like a 
 flame." 
 
 "I hope," said Margaret, who was hke her father 
 in more ways than one, "that it won't end in setting 
 fire to any more ricks." 
 
 Margaret was all in the minor key, mildly colour- 
 218
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 219 
 
 less. Her finely cut features were flecked with pale 
 freckles precisely the colour of her sleek hair. 
 
 Her mother glanced at her and wondered if it was 
 not after all rather the gargoyle than Margaret that 
 had fixed the bovine stare of James Boston. She 
 sighed and checked herself, and proceeded with 
 marked cheerfulness : "Captain Pemberton has asked 
 us all — at least, all the grown-ups — to lunch to- 
 morrow." 
 
 She paused to note the effect of her announcement. 
 Margaret looked vaguely surprised. Mrs. Verney 
 was sorry to see that Phoebe blushed. 
 
 "Hurrah ! " said Susy. "We'll see a table groan- 
 ing with silver at last." 
 
 "More silver than meat, he very frankly told me." 
 
 "But at least it will be different meat from ours, 
 and that's something." 
 
 Her mother glanced at Susy and wished that she 
 hadn't been the least attractive looking of the three. 
 Even the family nose had failed her. Susy was 
 downright plain. 
 
 "The invitation to luncheon was only an after- 
 thought," she continued. "What he wants really is 
 to interest us all in a scheme which, I believe, is 
 going to turn the parish inside out." She paused 
 impressively. "The very parish we're carrying broth 
 to this minute ! " 
 
 " Good gracious ! " said Susy ; " it must be a colossal 
 scheme." 
 
 The other two looked surprised at Susy. They 
 were used to the curious unexpected ways of their 
 mother, but was Susy also going to begin ? Of 
 course, if one writes melodrama — the incomprehen- 
 sible in the household was by general consent put 
 down to melodrama, — but Susy, who couldn't even 
 write a letter ! 
 
 "Look here, girls," cried Mrs. Verney, "I'll just 
 have time to tell you all about it before we get 
 there."
 
 220 Till- I'll^K-SL'IUvER 
 
 She told it It'll ingly. Accustomed as they had 
 grown to the graphic touch of their mother, they 
 stared and wondered at her. 
 
 "It will bring a change into all your lives, a funda- 
 mental one, perhaps," she said solemnly, "at any rate 
 a serious change, and if reasonably considered a very 
 delightful one." 
 
 Phttbe blushed more deeplv than before. 
 
 "Lor! " said Susy. 
 
 "It all calls for hard work and patience and endur- 
 ance, and above all," said the w-ise mother slowly, 
 pausing to consider her flock, "it calls for any amount 
 of common sense. You'll all be brought into daily 
 — possibly hourly — contact with new conditions and 
 new companionship," she said, with an emphatic tap 
 of her umbrella. "A young man who in other cir- 
 cumstances you would have met perhaps a dozen 
 times a year and not then, so to speak, face to face 
 —you'd be just one in a crowd — if this scheme comes 
 to anything and it will, there's no doubt about that — 
 will be working and directing all day side by side with 
 you." 
 
 She paused and made another anxious survey. 
 
 Margaret looked a little more surprised. Phoebe 
 looked resentful. Susy was grinning from ear to ear. 
 
 It suddenly struck yirs. Verney that she had under- 
 valued Susy. 
 
 " I have no doubt in my own mind as to what Cap- 
 tain Pemberton's attitude will be to all of you. There 
 is a friendly straightforwardness about him I like 
 tremendously. I wish Ponsy had it, and didn't poke 
 in the painful way he does. Captain Pemberton is 
 so well set up." 
 
 "Mother ! You know it's just shyness," they cried 
 in one indignant protest. 
 
 "I know, my dears. Parish again! But one 
 would like one's eldest son to compare with the best." 
 
 "Oh, Mother! when you know that it's only the 
 inside that counts," said ^Margaret and Phoebe.
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 221 
 
 "Oh, my dears, I know, but I'd like the outside to 
 correspond. However, we're talking now of Captain 
 Pemberton. Well, as I was saying, he comes to us 
 as a friend, and the wisest thing we can all do is to 
 approach him in the same spirit." Again she 
 solemnly paused. 
 
 "It can be a most profitable companionship for all 
 of you. Simple, frank friendship is the best thing 
 that can come into any girl's life, and this will be a 
 friendship of which we can all be proud. He'll make 
 a name for himself, that young man, or I'm vastly 
 mistaken." As she looked with cheerful imperson- 
 ality at the future of Captain Pemberton, her heart 
 bled for Phoebe. " It will do the others good, per- 
 haps," she sadly mused. "Margaret needs stirring 
 up, and Susy suppressing, but Phoebe — my gentle 
 little Phoebe, so ready to love ! If only — oh, if 
 only " 
 
 Susy fetched up sharp and barred the progress of 
 the three. She surveyed the lot and burst into a 
 laugh with a fine natural roll in it. 
 
 " It must be pretty hopeless then, worse even than 
 we thought. Father suggested leaving it in Higher 
 hands, just as he'll leave us on his deathbed, in sure 
 and simple trust that we'll be provided for. I wonder 
 how it will work out — but you being the practical one 
 prepare this oration in order to prepare us for the 
 worst. Oh, well, we're warned ! No one can blame 
 you, you dearest of dears ! You've opened our eyes 
 to the fatal truth, if they weren't open already. Mine 
 were. I looked at him from every point of view for 
 ten minutes through the greenhouse window; it's 
 quite easy if you stand on the barrel, then I went up 
 and looked at myself from every point of view, and 
 I'm quite ready to dig up every fiower in his garden 
 for Captain Pemberton, if he'll give me two acres and 
 a cow to support my declining spinster years. I bow 
 to remorseless Nature and renounce all claims upon 
 his heart."
 
 222 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 "You're simply offensive, Susy," said Plui^be, with 
 a bitterness very unlike her, "If we're plain we can 
 at least be well bred." 
 
 Mrs. Verney brushed off a furtive tear. 
 
 "And look it," said Susy generously, "as you two 
 do, every inch of you. You needn't apologise. 
 Mother, I don't mind my nose in the least so long as 
 I can look forward to things happening — different 
 
 things every day. And Good gracious, just 
 
 look at Mother ! It never struck one of us before, but 
 she must have been as pretty as paint before she gave 
 up caring. Why did you, Mother — and at your age? 
 You can't have been more than twenty when you 
 began. I wonder — if that was w'hy — oh, you know," 
 she said thoughtful and frowning, "why you turned 
 us all out sort of sketchy and unfinished — the sketches 
 of an amateur, you know. You were occupied with 
 higher things, perhaps, and slurred us over." 
 
 "You're horrible," cried the girls. Their mother 
 was swallowing a tear. 
 
 "Don't be a goose, Susy," she said at last, "and, 
 dear child, I wish you weren't so crude. Will you 
 read for them to-day, Phoebe? It's ' Kim,' you know, 
 and you have the sweetest voice I have ever heard — it 
 just matches the story. I think it must make them 
 understand it a little." 
 
 "Another asset," murmured Susy. "I'm glad we 
 can bring something to the family friend besides a 
 pair of admittedly ineffective noses. Mother, with 
 your advantages, you might have produced one 
 beauty to make new sensations the rule in this family 
 instead of the exception. And now with an object 
 for a million at our very door ! " 
 
 "I wonder where you (rot th^' commonness of vour 
 nature from, Susy," said Phoebe. 
 
 "Parish," said Susy promptly. "It's made me 
 vulgar and you monotonous. Never mind ! Perhaps 
 the friendship will redeem us all. Onlv I'm af'-nid 
 none of us will know how to put the Forbidden One
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 223 
 
 to the best advantage, and that's worse than being 
 plain," she said thoughtfully, as they dusted their 
 shoes on the torn mat. 
 
 "I wonder where you got your worldliness ? " mur- 
 mured Margaret, with a glance of pity at her young 
 sister. 
 
 "You dear," said Susy, "I wish I knew. There's 
 an unexpected saint wrapped up in you, Meg ! "
 
 (IIAPTKR XXVII 
 
 Mrs. Verney was as full of suppressed excitement 
 as the youngest of her flock as they all trudged up 
 Captain Pemberton's wide neglected avenue. She 
 felt rather ashamed of herself. "But to be going 
 to play about with flowers at ten in the morning, and 
 such a morning! " she said, drinking it in, "instead 
 of wrestling with a new situation or a new want. 
 It's generally a new want," she sighed. "I'd feel 
 less ridiculous," she thought suddenly, "if I'd kept 
 my figure. Why didn't I think of it in time, I 
 wonder ? " She glanced at her quiverful of abortive 
 sketches. "Why didn't 1 think of things of infinitely 
 more importance in time?" she sternly asked herself, 
 and again she had to leave them, however important, 
 to return to herself. Everything seemed to concern 
 her as keenly as it did the youngest of her daughters. 
 The scent of the living air, the great trees and the 
 little birds that twittered in their branches; even the 
 butterflies and the delight of doing nothing with a 
 thousand things waiting to be done. 
 
 "It's all fundamentally immoral," she burst forth, 
 "going out like this. I'll never catch up with the 
 work." 
 
 "You appear to forget you're performing the most 
 important duty of a mother, chaperoning us," said 
 Susy. "That just shows us in a delicate way how 
 much we count for from the only point of view that 
 counts. Don't rub it in any more, mother. We've 
 all slept on it, and those of us who intend to make 
 fools of themselves are going to do it in secret. It 
 will be a poor little one-sided affair unfit for publica- 
 
 224
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 225 
 
 tion. Besides, we're not adventurous enough to 
 blazon out our shame. Captain Pemberton will be 
 perfectly safe in our hands." 
 
 Susy plunged into a sharp dispute about silk- 
 worms with her young brothers. 
 
 Margaret stared at her full of strong disapproval. 
 Phoebe walked proudly on. 
 
 "Susy, don't say a word to spoil the day for any 
 one," cried her mother. 
 
 Susy laughed. 
 
 "Spoil your first day out for twenty-eight years! 
 No, I won't do that. Ah ! here he comes. If he 
 knew all he had to teach us not to do he wouldn't 
 look so careless and gay up there on the steps. I 
 don't think any one's prepared him. He doesn't 
 look in the least like a conscious deterrent. I think 
 he's all right all over," she reflected, with an honest 
 stare. "It's a dangerous experiment, little Mother, 
 for people with noses. I'm out of it. I can be 
 comfortable and happy and hopeless straight off." 
 
 " Have you no common decency, Susy ? " hissed 
 Phoebe. 
 
 "Boys," murmured their mother, "look at him and 
 hold yourselves up ; just look at his chest and yours, 
 dears." 
 
 Captain Pemberton 's sensation might have been 
 posted on the village sign-post. He meant business, 
 and was resolved that his queer squad of volunteers 
 should mean it, too. 
 
 "Whoever decides to start in earnest," he said, 
 after a brief glance at their second-best linen skirts, 
 "after they've heard the worst will have to dress 
 accordingly, you know. I'll show you a picture of 
 a lady gardener when we come in. She's a bit 
 alarming at the first glance, but she'll grow on you 
 after a day or so in the mould. But this is going 
 to be a sort of formal presentation of hard facts, so 
 mufti will answer well enough. Here, M. Jules, is 
 Madame."
 
 226 Till' I'IRl'-SKEKFR 
 
 I'or a cr(n\tK'(.l sfcoiul Mrs. \'criun' blushed, hcsi- 
 lalril, llu'ii upon ail uncoutrollalilr imjDulse she l^roke 
 into I-'ronch, good lluent French, too. The not 
 inconsiderable portion of her short youth devoted 
 to modern languages came running back to her. A 
 thousand doors flew open from which light streamed 
 out. 
 
 "I haven't spoken French for — for twenty-eight 
 years," she said, turning with a quick, excited laugh 
 to Captain Pemberton, "and it's delightful." 
 
 "And what's more," said Ralph, "we're all pure 
 utilitarians herc^ — it will be of the greatest help to 
 us. What we want more than anything else is some 
 one to take down notes of all M. Jules has to tell us, 
 and to make sketches of his plans. One of you is sure 
 to be able to do that," he paused to look them over. 
 
 "He doesn't know whether we're boys or girls," 
 said Susy to her soul. " He sees workers and nothing 
 else. Alas ! poor noses ! It's more unpleasant than 
 I expected." 
 
 Mrs. Verney laid an eager hand on Phoebe's 
 shoulder. Phoebe looked agonised protest. 
 
 "I see," said Ralph, with unmoved calm. "Miss 
 Phoebe will do the sketching. The pamphlet is as 
 good as written." 
 
 Mrs. Verney 's resuscitated talent was a real satis- 
 faction to Captain Pemberton. He wanted her in his 
 scheme. Anything so obviously on the road back 
 to life as the Rector's wife was an indispensable asset 
 in a moribund community that had lost even the 
 desire for life. But he wanted to give her some 
 pleasure as well. He had no scruples whatsoever in 
 applying every unit of her family to the hard uncon- 
 ditional labour his scheme called for. He had 
 nothing now to live for but the land. And the man 
 who owns and loves it sees no hardship in its stern 
 demands, or its stern realities. 
 
 "If he can't see flower or fruit or clean grain in 
 every spade of manure no man should till the earth,"
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 227 
 
 Ralph's father had often said, as he stood like an 
 old king in his great garden. "He must love it to 
 get the best out of it, and if he stops to nose the 
 manure, Heaven help flower and fruit and grain and 
 root." 
 
 And even with the venom of the pain of his 
 snapped-off career still working in him, the meaning 
 of the great primal passion of the man for the soil 
 of which he is part was working also in Ralph. 
 
 *' As for those girls," he thought, after a cool survey 
 of the group, "it's something to get them out of that 
 stuffy drawing-room. Perhaps we'll teach them in 
 the end, Jules and I between us, how to dust it; but 
 the poor old thing's got to enjoy her life while they 
 dig. I must have the little book, and it's got to be 
 paid for, and she'll do it like a bird." He took pos- 
 session of her as they all trooped to the plot which 
 Jules had chosen w'hereupon to demonstrate his 
 theories and left the rest to the mercy of Jules. 
 
 Margaret and Phoebe had been well taught in their 
 clergy daughters' school, and understood every word 
 Jules spoke. They could even have replied in a prim 
 deliberate conscientious language hardly to be called 
 French, but quite French enough to be caught up 
 and assimilated by the quick brain of the Frenchman, 
 but for the life of them they could not even look 
 intelligent. The heart of Jules fainted within him, 
 a sense of inextinguishable regret for the quick- 
 ness of life, of comprehension, of spirit, of passion 
 peculiar to his incomparable country made this dull 
 England, where hope is dead, where joy has never 
 been born, all at once absolutely loathsome to him. 
 Careless of compact or consequence, he thought wildly 
 of flight. 
 
 Susy, who with her native modesty had given her 
 sisters first chance with the Frenchman, conveying 
 by gesture and grimace her view of the situation to 
 the grinning boys, suddenly left them, switched off 
 her elders, and engaged the whole attention of the 
 p 2
 
 228 Tin- l-lRi:-SEEKER 
 
 distracted gardener. Her French was disgraceful, 
 but what mattered that? Plain, indeed! An Eng- 
 hsh "Mees" with freckles and, no doubt, feet made 
 for the great clogs of the female gardener ; but she 
 had intelligence, fire, esprit, this one ! This young 
 flat Mees with the corsets abominable. She could 
 perceive genius. Can one expect more from such a 
 nation? "Those others?" His glare was troubled 
 with a doubt. But the young Capitain could see to 
 that. If he gave orders those meek shadows would 
 hasten to obey. For him he would instruct the little 
 one. He would impart his views. She would carry 
 them out. The earth would obey. Genius in the 
 dead land there is tione, but the miserable inhabitants 
 in time would learn to see what genius can bring to 
 pass. The country cannot make genius, but, parbleu, 
 it can make vegetables ! 
 
 By the time they had reached their goal Captain 
 Pemberton's offer had been made and accepted. 
 
 The little woman had flushed and trembled and 
 mentioned her modest earnings, and Ralph had 
 promptly offered to double them. She would become 
 an integral part of the new life. It could not go on 
 without her. Whereas the melodrama and the parish 
 v;ould creak on unmoved, though she were in her 
 grave to-morrow. She aired her French and her 
 intelligence, she saw and understood. 
 
 "The costume and the toupet parbleu! She is, 
 indeed, the mother of her daughters," thought Jules; 
 but often he half deflected his remarks and his 
 gestures from Susy to Susy's mother. As for those 
 others he decided that they must work, and ultimately 
 they did. Jules saw to that. But even if he had not 
 they had each the inward spur which drove them on. 
 The boys were plainly born of the soil, part and 
 parcel of it. And later on dreams set afloat in 
 them by Ralph, who saw their value, of the wide 
 spaces in rich lands waiting for the trained hands 
 and heads of v.hole men, not as dumping-grounds
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 229 
 
 for fools — the last refuge of the half-baked — made 
 them work for love of the work, and desire for the 
 future. 
 
 Moreover, no fellow could be inefficient in the 
 smallest thing with Captain Pemberton about. And 
 in any case you couldn't very well disgrace yourself 
 before a Frenchman, nor let girls without a muscle 
 on 'em get ahead of you. 
 
 And so the boys did well. Margaret loathed both 
 worms and manure, and her back often ached. Her 
 sensitive nose suffered unspeakable things, as it 
 meekly accommodated itself to her tasks. But it was 
 the beginning of the great sacrifice. It went to the 
 attainment of her great goal. Day by day, hour by 
 hour, her hands were being filled with the offerings 
 which should one day open to her the golden gates 
 for which she pined. For not having a cent, or the 
 education that counts, or gift of art or letters or 
 music, having nothing but the honest, great desire 
 for it to bring to the religious life, she had written 
 timidly and in secret to the mother of the sisterhood 
 she had always wanted more than all the others, and 
 asked if a thorough knowledge of intensive gardening 
 would serve. 
 
 The mother knew little of the new craze, and was 
 not at all sure that she wanted it in her trim garden ; 
 but she wanted zeal and sincerity and the love that 
 can labour two solid years from dawn to dark to 
 reach its goal. So this was Margaret's probation, 
 and she worked with all the fire and the zeal of a 
 young disciple. 
 
 At first Ralph, in sheer dearth of amusement, used 
 to try to amuse himself in fitting the pale unformed 
 creature into some romance befitting her years, and 
 always gave it up as a bad job. But that was before 
 he knew her secret, and when he did he felt pretty 
 sick with himself. 
 
 Before the week was out PluxM^e saw ncitlier the 
 worms and manure of the present, nor the flowers
 
 2,\n Till-: i-ir1':-si{|':ki<:r 
 
 aiul fruit of tlic future. She saw nothinj^^ but Captain 
 Pemberton, and worked in dumb despair for his sake. 
 She worked, however, like a steam enp^ine. Susy 
 started by working with all her might for the sake 
 of the huge and complicated joke presented to her 
 by the situation. How she ended only Susy herself 
 knew. But her gift of laughter never left her, and 
 Jules and Ralph and she were soon and for ever fast 
 friends. 
 
 Thev all dined happily on the servants' fare, and 
 the boiled beef and carrots were served on silver which 
 was as new and as alive as all the rest. 
 
 New life was astir in the air, the parish was strug- 
 gling out of its long sleep. It turned heavily towards 
 the light of dawn, and muttered and whistled and 
 groaned through its round open mouth, in its restless 
 unwillingness to rise. And the scheme was started 
 with a team of workers that hadn't its match in the 
 three kincfdoms.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 Perhaps it was the natural reaction from tlie 
 magical sadness of the dim old dead cities, with the 
 deeper sense of more recent tragedy in the brilliant 
 air of Paris, but whatever it was, Paris worked like 
 old wine in Tony. She forgot herself, stares, laughter, 
 curious questions in surprised eyes, the audible frank- 
 ness of her fellow pensionnaires. She went out to 
 Paris body, soul and spirit, and gathered in its secrets. 
 It said too much to her to leave her any words. It 
 sparkled in her blood until she tingled and ached. 
 Tony lived so many lives in the airs that haunt and 
 hallow and lift to Heaven and strike down to hell, that 
 the old days came back in such measure to her 
 guardian that he forgot the age, sex, and degree of 
 his ward, and they had quite amazing times together. 
 Had their critics of the pension — the Colonel had 
 f(jund safe anchorage in a small hotel run by an Eng- 
 lishwoman of good family — known anything at all of 
 the movements of the two, they might well have 
 shaken their well-dressed grey heads. Tony looked 
 so young and so absorbed that the instinct of the 
 chaperon never once cropped up in Giles. For he 
 knew Paris and trusted in her genius. Tony was safe 
 in the deft hands of Paris. 
 
 Ladies of an indefinite age, however, M'ho know 
 nothing about Paris and live in the safe seclusion of 
 certain of its hostelries, with an English county con- 
 nection, are naturally more particular. They take an 
 inordinate interest in those phases of the mystic city 
 from which a discreet Providence has preserved them. 
 
 231
 
 2:,2 rill-: I'IRE-seeker 
 
 They niakt- no romi^laint. On the contrary, they daily 
 thank God for having fixed them in the only state of 
 life they could possibly put up with, and yet the fetid 
 gloom they honestly believe to engulf the humanity 
 not immediately accessible to their senses has an irre- 
 sistible attraction for them. Their longing eyes dwell 
 devouringly upon the veil they certainly never desire 
 to pierce, but if only for the sake of others, they could 
 but catch one glimpse without any hint of personal 
 defilment, they would bless God ! 
 
 And so they made efforts. They pumped the 
 Colonel, who, as usual, baffled inquiry by the simple 
 truth. They got what they could out of Turner, which 
 was very little. Turner was growing in grace and 
 artfulness. Then they tried bullying Tony. And 
 Tony inveigled them into looking after the dog and 
 giving him his proper exercise, while she and her 
 unworthy coadjutor took Turner out to show her all 
 that was good for her. 
 
 And when Tony could bear no more, and turned 
 for rest to the shops, in gratitude for services rendered, 
 she shared the joy of her fineries as gaily as any 
 Parisian with the yearning ladies, and gave them 
 delicate little gifts and good honest thanks, and they 
 all parted in that soft mist of misconception which 
 makes so often for lasting friendship. The ladies 
 thought of Tony w'ith a sort of shivering apprehen- 
 sion, which was not unpleasant, and the Colonel had 
 without doubt a fine presence, and each in her secret 
 soul was convinced that it was her own well-preserved 
 freshness which had attracted the seasoned eye of this 
 indisputable man of the world. 
 
 "Nice old things," said Tony, with a last wave of 
 her handkerchief to the group. They had come in a 
 body to wish the travellers God-speed. "We ought 
 all to be grateful to them, especially you. Turner, and 
 Pat. Shake a paw at them, Pat ! So ! — One knows 
 now what to do with the old ladies who're going to 
 have deadly suspicions of you. Confide your dearest
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 233 
 
 possession to their care. In future we can all enjoy 
 ourselves without feeling that Pat's being neglected, 
 Turner." 
 
 "Thank you, miss," said Turner dubiously. "It's 
 nice to hope." 
 
 "I wonder if we'd tried it on with the General's 
 widow what would have happened." 
 
 "Pat's speedy extermination, my girl," said the 
 Colonel. 
 
 "Oh, miss," murmured Turner, with real concern, 
 "I never did! " 
 
 " Heavenly old cities somehow make you feel good," 
 sighed Tony. "One likes to leave friends behind in 
 
 them, but when one can't I feel sure we'll meet 
 
 the General's widow again, and her little slave, and 
 perhaps we can make her feel more uncomfortable 
 than ever she's made her slave feel. We'll do our 
 best, Pat. And now shut up, and let me see the 
 country." And while the light lasted she lived with 
 her head out of the window, and watched the road that 
 brings the world to Paris and Paris to the ends of 
 the earth. 
 
 She saw the peasants in the quiet land whose hearts 
 Paris had not yet divided with her glowing sword. 
 And the rhythmic lines of the poplars, and the wide, 
 slow rivers, and the white, straight roads of the serene 
 land rested like a hush upon Tony. And then the 
 sunset fell, rose and gold and green, purple and 
 jacynth, and a shimmer as of broken opals lay in 
 waves upon the wide, flat country. And the mists 
 arose in the meadows and drank in the jewelled light, 
 and sadness and hope went hand in hand into the 
 night. And with that Tony's heart, drenched in the 
 dew of their garments, ran back to the remote western 
 county where the great experiment went forward, and 
 another heart was perhaps that very moment longing 
 for the flesh-pots of Egypt. 
 
 "He must," she said. "He's seen it all and tasted 
 everything, and by this time he'll be tired and dirty
 
 2M Till*: I-1RI':-SF.RKER 
 
 aiul probably cross. One can't get accustomed to 
 worms and snails all in a minute, even if there are 
 flowers and things at the end of them — with every- 
 thing calling to you to follow it to the end of the 
 world. Once it begins to call it can never stop and 
 to be — to be tied to worms ! Oh ! If I could only 
 help ! I can't give up this — but I'd like to be in that 
 too. Being one little miserable person isn't enough. 
 If one could only divide oneself and be in it all 
 — part of it all. It's too big for one," she said, 
 with a quick little sound in her throat, "it holds too 
 much." 
 
 But for one stunning circumstance the Colonel 
 would have thought that he had escaped from the 
 enchanted city with less damage than either he ex- 
 pected or deserved. It had dropped down upon him 
 three days ago, this bolt from the blue, and until 
 Tony had made her last purchase and he had paid for 
 it he had slipped it out of sight. Now with the 
 methodical precision habitual to him in the considera- 
 tion of his private affairs, whilst Tonv surveved 
 France he drew out his pocket-book, swollen with soul- 
 stirring communications, and went carefullv through 
 them. They consisted in several letters heavily framed 
 in black from the widow of his late step-brother, a 
 man years younger than himself, who, from the very- 
 moment of his inauspicious binh, had given those 
 belonging to him nothing but trouble and the deepest 
 dissatisfaction. He was as hopeless a squanderer of 
 his life as of his inheritance, and having made hay 
 of both, he married a girl of some fortune and no 
 sense. 
 
 They lived merrily enough so long as the capital 
 lasted. She was pretty and knew how to put on 
 her clothes, and Julian, even in his decadence, was 
 the handsomest man she had ever met, and a genius, 
 so she was told. When not beginning a picture that 
 should ravish the w'orld and pick its pockets, he was 
 hovering on the brink of some colossal invention 
 which cost him hours of fitful labour of which she
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 235 
 
 knew everything, and an amount of stimulants of 
 which she knew nothing. 
 
 So they got on famously, attracting much attention 
 and presenting the world with a pair of fine twin 
 boys, till suddenly one day they stood penniless in 
 the midst of a mob of low, grasping creditors, one of 
 whom, an unreasonable brute, tore from Mrs. Julian 
 Larpent's very back the fur coat she had bought 
 only the day before, and the wanter but just begun. 
 
 Julian was a horrible disappointment, utterly with- 
 out resource. All he could do in the heartrending 
 crisis was to fall into consumption. This w'as, as she 
 knew now, just like Julian. She had been bitterly 
 deceived in Julian. He assumed all the horrible 
 accompaniments of his disease as though to the 
 manner born ; he coughed night and day, his chest 
 fell in, his back bowed. He developed into a shabby, 
 undistinguished invalid like thousands she had seen 
 at seaside places with red handkerchiefs round their 
 necks. He had been a gentleman. He might have 
 spared her this last affront. She believed herself to 
 possess an artistic temperament and to suffer agonies. 
 She shuddered away from the shameless horrors of 
 approaching death, and in course of time from a fool 
 became a viper. 
 
 The Colonel detested the woman, but her handsome, 
 intelligent boys he liked and pitied. He was their 
 godfather and had helped largely in their education, 
 and paid up the arrears of a large insurance on their 
 father's life which would enable than to continue it 
 later on. 
 
 In an endless wail from the widow and a brief note 
 from the lawyer he learnt that the insurance was hope- 
 lessly mortgaged, and there was barely enough left 
 to provide the widow with a modest competence. Not 
 a penny for the education of his godsons. Julian's 
 last words were full of fine trust in his beloved brother, 
 the best man he had ever known. He died, he said, 
 in sure and perfect hope in God and Giles. He felt 
 quite at ease about the boys, and knew that Giles
 
 2,^6 nil-: FIRH-SHIUvHR 
 
 would see they went to Rugby like the rest of them, 
 and weren't fobbed ofT with any inferior school. 
 
 With all his faults his widow admitted, in a ram- 
 bling efTusion blurred with tears, Julian had thought 
 rightly in these vital matters, to the end. 
 
 "The devil he did," muttered Giles, restoring the 
 composition to its ornate tomb. Julian's letter was 
 jerked out in spasms upon a scrap of crumpled paper. 
 
 " He was honest and sincere at last, poor chap ! " 
 said Giles, "and God knows I wish them well, but 
 how Rugby is to be accomplished this year with 
 Tony's last bills " He looked at her and laughed. 
 
 "And yet if they don't go to Rugby this next term, 
 Heaven knows when they'll get there with the school 
 so full." 
 
 "You're an embarrassment, my girl, just now, I 
 can tell you," he said, with his kind, amused glance 
 again upon her. "But— when a man's under orders 
 they must come first." 
 
 One thing Tony always refused to do, and that was 
 to lose one inch of the world unfolding itself before 
 her by shrieking through it in the night, so the heavy 
 luggage went on before and they lodged, like happy 
 tramps, where they could. So as the Colonel must 
 write by that day's post before they arrived at the 
 little town Tony had chosen for no other reason than 
 the music in its name, in his swift, noiseless way 
 he made all his arrangements. From his birth he 
 had been used to ample comfort ; a moderate luxury, 
 indeed, seemed only a reasonable part of life. He 
 had even put away money, but that had gone on the 
 boys. If Lucilla had only behaved like a human 
 
 being, of course He checked the thought, he 
 
 was hardly fool enough to expect so much as that of 
 Lucilla. "He'll have to go," he said at last, "and 
 I'll not see his like if I were to live for a centurv. 
 Queer how a man and his horse grow together. How 
 close they get. 'Pon my soul, it was as bad leaving 
 him as saying good-by.e to the other fellows, and that
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 237 
 
 was bad enough. Even with Tom gone one can leave 
 a lot behind one in a mile or so of a London highway. 
 But the horse must go. He'll fetch a lot. He was 
 always a bit too good for me. — Oh ! well, it's no use 
 grousing. If the boys go to Rugby, Bran must go 
 to the hammer. I believe he'll be sorry, poor chap. 
 He's a jolly sight more human than many people I 
 know : Lucilla, for example. He must go all the 
 same. I'll settle it all to-night. I can't do better 
 than let Plumer have him. If anything should ever 
 happen perhaps he'd let me have him at the last 
 instead of the knacker." 
 
 So he wrote bringing a sense of doom into his 
 little stud of three, and Bran knew as well as the 
 best of them, John Harper said with tears and 
 blasphemy. And finding John Harper constantly 
 standing in untiring contemplation before his lost 
 darling, would probably have been made short work 
 of by any man less kindly and less elate with his 
 purchase than old Lord Plumer. 
 
 Every one was puzzled at the deal till the widow, 
 in a flood of spiteful tears, disclosed to one of their 
 wives the extraordinary conduct of dearest Giles, 
 adopting a niece with two nephews of his own, and 
 then taking her flying over the Continent with a maid 
 and a dog just when all his attention was required 
 by her orphaned darlings. 
 
 "But he's paying for the boys at Rugby, isn't he? " 
 
 "How could he do otherwise, dear? Haven't you 
 read my copy of Julian's last letter to him? Haven't 
 I told you Julian's last words." 
 
 Mrs. Searle was a prompt woman and stayed the 
 flood in time. "I know, dear Mrs. Larpent, Colonel 
 Larpent is just the sort of man I'd like to be step- 
 sister-in-law to myself." 
 
 The Colonel left the arrangements for supper to 
 Tony and wrote his letters, then stepped out into the 
 air to smoke a little and clear his mind. 
 
 Tony had chosen to sit in the sanded kitchen
 
 2>S TIIH l-IRI'-SF.HKHR 
 
 watching ihc whilL'-capi^ccl host revolving amidst bis 
 glittering pots and pans about his groat oven. It was 
 a Slipper for the gods. Tliey had soupc vcrlc, an 
 omelette of ham, an ox-tongue stewed with raisins, 
 and cakes of lard, and the cook, in tiie most crucial 
 moments of his task, giving them genial information 
 concerning the morality of the community. Guardian 
 and ward were as merry as grigs and as hungry as 
 hunters. Turner, had she not herself been sulTering 
 from recurring spasms of suppressed giggles, would 
 have blushed for them and their surroundings, and 
 more especially for herself. She had been brought 
 up refined from her birth, with her food served to 
 her by an infinitesimal slavey in a nice stuffy parlour, 
 and to sit with the vegetable cook — thus she desig- 
 nated Monsieur Octave — the street door v^ide open, 
 and all the neighbours looking in, and he making 
 remarks all the time, w-as never for the like of Amelia 
 Turner. And yet the situation had its secret and 
 fearful joys. 
 
 When her share in the serving was at an end, 
 [Monsieur Octave was jealous of his privileges and 
 permitted but slight interference with them — by 
 Tony's express orders she too sat in her modest 
 corner and shared in the unaccustomed and fascinat- 
 ing food. 
 
 Scandalous as the whole thing was, there was the 
 hint of an exquisite joke in it, and Miss Tony talking 
 at full speed of every mortal thing it was plain to see, 
 as free with the cook as with the Colonel, was even 
 more of a perilous adventure than the strange food. 
 
 "I never dids ! " wrote themselves all over Turner's 
 inside, and unremitting and wild efforts not to 
 splutter added savour to her horrible joy. Save for 
 these trifles she ate, rejoiced and was shocked with an 
 undivided mind, and she had no regrets. 
 
 True enough, she had left a young man with a 
 good trade, approved of all her family, behind her. 
 But no one who has not tried it knows what walking
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 239 
 
 the lanes for twelve long months with one young man 
 of absolutely unimjDcachable character who will keep 
 his arm round your waist and say nothing, may come 
 to mean to a girl. 
 
 But for her very slight knowledge of French — 
 Tony insisted upon teaching her the language regu- 
 larly an hour daily — Turner might have been con- 
 siderably more shocked than she, in fact, was, and 
 given her young mistress more serious trouble than 
 she ever did. She might even have been more con- 
 scientious in her official censorship and written the 
 weekly letter of detail, demanded and paid for in 
 advance by Martha, with more gleams of intelligence. 
 She earned her twopence-halfpenny honestly enough. 
 She scrawled in the outlines of the journey with zeal 
 and precision, and left out, with equal exactitude, all 
 trace of human interest. And since the letters to Jim 
 consisted of deep solicitude for his health, information 
 concerning her own, and crosses for kisses, very little 
 was known at the Lodge of Tony's wanderings except 
 what she chose to commirnicate herself, and that she 
 took care was only what could arouse in her mother 
 no tremor of anxiety. 
 
 When the meal was over the host brought out his 
 best wine, and while Turner dozed the three disctissed 
 the joys and sorrows and follies and humours and sins 
 of the village now fast asleep. And then the old 
 man and the young girl went to bed, to pit, as they 
 all do in time, the bungling methods of eternal youth 
 against the expert, and each envying the other. 
 Somehow losing his horse had brought back Tom 
 and his lost game to the Colonel, ancl Tom brought 
 with him a flock of pains. 
 
 "Thank God she hasn't begun to feel and to regret 
 and to plague herself properly yet," the Colonel 
 thought. "Thank God," he said again, after a long 
 waking, "Tony's all right anyway." 
 
 Tony carried the gay, sordid, sorrowful little village 
 to bed with her, and could very well have slept with
 
 240 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 it had slic been ^ivcn the chance, but when maturity 
 can only wheel its little restless struggling self into 
 line with sweat and blood, what can you expect of 
 youth ? 
 
 "I wonder why everything should have an ache 
 behind it," thought Tony, after she had lain awake 
 for an hour, which was to her a century. 
 
 "Oh, dear!" she said, after another century, "I 
 wish I was Uncle, with it all done."
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 Ralph had not the sHghtest intention of letting 
 himself get discouraged. What he had begun he 
 meant in the end to put through, but sometimes the 
 end looked very far off, and he felt rather powerless 
 amidst the dull forces that step by step solidly opposed 
 him. 
 
 He knew well enough that no man can instil 
 efficiency into a generation in a year and a half or 
 give it ears to hear the rhythmic music of the earth 
 calling to the rough clean depths within it, digging 
 out souls from their setting of earth, to set them 
 afloat above it, learning the uses of the earth and 
 rejoicing in the fruits thereof. Still less could he 
 hope to lift undeveloped instincts from the racial roots 
 in which they wallowed and plant them in lighter 
 soil, but rationally or irrationally he expected to see 
 more for his hard labour. 
 
 To be sure, things were changing. There was 
 change in the air about him. Ralph had every right 
 to be satisfied with the progress of his experiment, 
 even if the result of acres of close cultivation and 
 ready markets for its produce hadn't been proof 
 enough, but he wanted to see all this prosperity mani- 
 festing itself rather more quickly in the faces and 
 bearing and conditions of his tenants. Of the men 
 and women and children who had made the intimate 
 warmth and joy in the dreams of the three generations 
 immediately behind him and were carried for over a 
 century in their faithful hearts. But the people were 
 still far from satisfactory, and he was still an outsider, 
 being judged. 
 
 Q 241
 
 242 Tin- l-IRI'-Sl":i^KFR 
 
 Vhc nianiu-rs of llu- natives were slill loulish, their 
 methods inefticienl, their scjuls asleep, their hearts 
 drowsy. The dough was as yet iini^ervious to the 
 new leaven. But it was there, steadily at work. The 
 ringing cry of the good brown earth was abroad in 
 the land, the deadened ears were readjusting them- 
 selves to hear and obey it. A new curiosity was 
 afoot. Coarse grins at the spectacle of the heir to 
 the splendid spendthrift Pembertons doing labourer's 
 work, even if he did it as free as you please, and 
 proud-like in a way neither Squire Anthony nor any 
 before him in the memory of man could come nigh, 
 had given place to a certain surprise and respect and 
 a dawning sense of fellow^ship. 
 
 If the man of most importance in the parish means 
 to be friends whh the last forgotten unit in it, and 
 puts out his strength to the job, in the end he will 
 prevail. Ralph, of course, knew this, but he hated 
 having to wait when delay was so irrational. 
 
 What he had said he had meant quite simply. He 
 wanted to live in the midst of friends. He had an 
 immense pride in his old race, and an immense shame 
 because of it. There was no idea of patronage in his 
 feeling for the people he looked upon as his. He 
 had come home to them, and he wanted tremendously 
 to be made welcome by them. It was in no sort of 
 way a one-sided affair. It must be a mutual coming 
 together, a co-operation of interest and good-will and 
 affection. They were as necessary to him and the 
 land as he and the land were to them, and why the 
 devil couldn't they see it and forget Anthony and 
 Anthony's father and come back into the pleasant 
 partnership of the old times? 
 
 The fresh, free, keen airs of Canada had, it would 
 soem, intensified the feudal fire in the blood of Ralph 
 Pemberton. 
 
 "He's just the man," said Mrs. Verney one day, 
 nftr-r a cursory perusal of a startling number of the 
 Ethical World, which by some strange chance had
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 243 
 
 come Ponsonby's way, "that those righteous persons 
 who need no repentance and write for this scandalous 
 pubHcation, would pick holes in till nothing was left 
 but their own horrid sneering remarks." She read on 
 a little, then closed the book with a bang. "The 
 village squire, a little tin god indeed, a thing with 
 feet of clay. I do detest ethics, and I'm glad he's 
 come home to us, to the land and every stick and 
 stone on it, and that he'll come home to every heart 
 on it — withered as they are— if we all live long 
 enough. That's the awful part," she sighed, "per- 
 haps he'll be too tired then to care, and perhaps I'll 
 be dead," she said, with shuddering apprehension. 
 "I do hope to goodness I won't. Oh ! if one could 
 get all he wants for him and all of them while they're 
 all young — while they're all full of wild, hot blood, 
 or ought to be, and inordinate desires and unbridled 
 passions, and unlimited hopes, and everything they 
 oughtn't to have and which that robber Age will take 
 from them." 
 
 "Katharine!" gasped Ponsonby. 
 
 "Ponsonby, I mean it! I wonder how many be- 
 longing to that bleak society work as hard as Ralph 
 with all their airs?" pursued Katharine. "And yet 
 it would slaughter every landlord in England if it 
 could. Shameless creatures," she vindictively rustled 
 the publication at which she occasionally pecked. "I 
 wish you wouldn't bring such things back with you, 
 Ponsonby, they chill the air; they taint the room. 
 Scarlet-robed choir-boys, indeed, and to call that thing 
 a church." 
 
 "My dearest Katharine, ethics is no more than 
 the highest morality." 
 
 "They why should it call itself by new names and 
 pretend it's a modern invention. Morality, indeed ! It's 
 a pretentious pose, Ponsonby, and gives you nothing 
 you hadn't before. Christianity's bad enough, good- 
 ness, knows, but heaven defend me from ethics. 
 
 "Ponsonby, dear," she wheedled, "couldn't you 
 Q 2
 
 244 THE FIRK-SEEKFR 
 
 read to old Bessy Mann to-day instead of me? I'm 
 just longing to see how that seakale and the children 
 are getting on. That Ethical World has simply made 
 me hale my duty. Don't be alarmed, dear, among 
 nice growing plants and sinful people I'll begin again 
 in the good old way. 
 
 "You'd hate ethical societies and things as much 
 as I do, Ponsonby," she said, with her gentlest smile, 
 as she trotted down the road, "if you understood as 
 much about them and their insidious tendencies. 
 They're so un-English," she said, with some irrelev- 
 ance. "I wish an ethical preacher could look in 
 presently on Bessy Mann happily sleeping and Pon- 
 sonby nodding over the fourteenth chapter of St. 
 John, and at me making poor Ponsonby do my jobs 
 and growing idle in my old age, and I wonder what 
 he'd say just ! And yet we're all better somehow since 
 Ralph came home to us. Things are getting better 
 done anyhow. If a man puts out his full strength 
 he seems to call strength out of the most unexpected 
 things and people. 1 think seeing things perfectly 
 done makes sorts of images of perfection in the air," 
 she mused, "and they reflect themselves in people, 
 and the things get done rightly in spite of them- 
 selves. 
 
 "To think of the change even at home. Jim clean- 
 ing the yard at every odd moment. Harry white- 
 washing the out-houses. Susy dusting the drawing- 
 room before we're up in a w-ay that must surprise it. 
 Like the rest of us, it had got so used to perfunctory 
 effort. And Margaret clearing the basement of black 
 beetles ! Dear child, I couldn't wish her less humane, 
 but I fear the upkeep of that lethal chamber behind 
 the barn must use up a great deal of her little earn- 
 ings. I do wish the good boiling water they're used 
 to, and that costs nothing, didn't hurt her tender 
 feelings. As for Phoebe, what doesn't she do for 
 us! 
 
 "I wish there wasn't so much pain," she murmured,
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 245 
 
 drying her wet eyes, "mixed up witii the service of 
 my daughters. Oh, children, if I could only have 
 given you all the one little thing you all lack, or 
 given it even to one of you. Talk of ineffectual 
 eft'orts, indeed ! Sometimes I envy Ponsonby, who 
 still believes in them. And he'd die sooner than not 
 muddle through the dozens I've added to his own 
 long list. If he does make ineffective efforts in- 
 effectually, at any rate he makes them unselfishly and 
 at a tremendous sacrifice and without one murmur. 
 And since the beginning of Ralph's experiment he's 
 lost two stone, and not one w^hit of belief in one of the 
 things his fathers believed in ! Perhaps Ponsonby 
 in his own little way is also an ineffectual angel. 
 Curious to associate Ponsonby with angels and poets. 
 What a beast I am — first to rob him of two stone 
 and then to deride him. But if one can't laugh — 
 well — Ponsonby Oh, never mind ! " 
 
 Mrs. Verney left herself out in the Te Deum, but 
 her vigorous addresses at mothers' meetings must 
 have favourably affected generations yet to come. At 
 any rate, they made the village talk and think, occa- 
 sionally even they made it act. The leaven was 
 working, and yet Ralph Pemberton was growing 
 unbearably tired of his bleak job. He was tired of 
 the monotony of the long, back-breaking hours, the 
 dull, uninspiring dinners in his big, shabby house; 
 of the silent Sundays amidst its hollow echoes, of 
 the contented prosperous neighbours who called from 
 time to time to see for themselves what the fellow 
 was after, and since he joined nothing, neither hunt 
 nor Conservative Club, and was never available for 
 dances, even they were fast forgetting him. 
 
 Above all, he was tired of the vague dull enmity 
 still hanging in the air. He was not the least tired 
 of his staunch comrades at the Rectory. He had 
 struck oil in the family if ever man had, and only for 
 Susy he felt sure he would have gone stark, staring 
 mad. He had a real affection for Mrs. Verney, and
 
 246 Till' I-lRi:-SI":i<KI'R 
 
 even the RectDr bending his fine back to every queer 
 new burthen she chose to lay on it, was an exhilarating 
 enough object. But there are voids which even 
 family affection cannot fill. 
 
 Ralph never regretted his sacrifice. He never 
 thought of it. Every atom of him answered more 
 and more to the whispering magic of the manifold 
 voices of the land. The secret wonder, the odd sing- 
 ing joy that was half holy he found in his increasing 
 kinship with it filled and refreshed and enriched him. 
 
 He felt himself to be both a bigger and a better 
 man — with a wider outlook upon things and people — 
 than he had ever been. He regretted nothing and 
 begrudged nothing. The love for the land runs in 
 the blood of a man. He only wanted back the other 
 good things of youth that also run in his blood. He 
 hungered and thirsted for the flesh-pots as fiercely as 
 ever Tony herself did. They belonged to him and 
 to the place. They were the birthright of both. 
 Neither he nor the place had any real part in rags 
 and barrenness. In spite of rags and barrenness it 
 was sacred to him, but he wanted to bring the light 
 again into his great shuttered rooms, to replace the 
 torn chintzes and faded brocades with whole stufifs 
 of the same exact pattern and texture. If three 
 generations have dreamt of the particular shape of a 
 basket of English lilac, w^hich so many of them had 
 called 'laylock,' on an old curtain, the spirit behind 
 it comes out in the end and puts it amongst the sacred 
 silent things of life. 
 
 The restoring and refreshing of his rambling old 
 house meant a great deal to Ralph. It meant some- 
 thing like the bringing of spring to a frozen land. 
 He wanted to fill the warm living-rooms with good 
 comrades and women he had met and hoped to meet 
 again. 
 
 He hated the sense of withdrawal that often now 
 pressed upon him ; the sense of the receding of his 
 well furnished youth with all that had filled it, the
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 247 
 
 breaking of a thousand pleasant ties. He ached with 
 perfectly natural desires. 
 
 It was Susy who told him one day that the best 
 thing he could do was to pack his portmanteau and 
 try change of air. Their heads were close together 
 over a round plot. He started violently and barged 
 into her. Then forgetting to apologise, he sat 
 humped up on the ground staring, while Susy 
 manipulated black mould. 
 
 "What on earth makes you say that now?" he 
 asked. " I have an invitation in my pocket these two 
 days that I'd give a lot to accept, and I'm doing my 
 level best to refuse." 
 
 "Wire and accept it, and start to-morrow. Oh ! 
 just look at that mould ! " She stuck a yard measure 
 into its vitals and lusciously reflected on the result. 
 "Eighteen inches at last. I knew we'd arrive in time. 
 And — I thought so! You don't care a rap! Sup- 
 pose you get on with your job," she suggested 
 sharply. "That side is yours, not mine." 
 
 " I say, shut up ! " he said, laughing and sitting up. 
 "I know I'm slacking." 
 
 "You are slacking," she said severely. "And the 
 worst is that other people know it too. You're a bad 
 influence in the place, and with three new recruits 
 to keep up to the mark it's too bad. Jim had to go 
 over that plot you did yesterday, and to work like a 
 steam engine to get it right before Jules came along. 
 And I had to root up all your lettuces and plant them 
 again. Jim adores the ground you walk on, and 
 would go over your work without a murmur till the 
 day of doom, but to other people who aren't given to 
 adoring and don't want extra jobs as a continuance, 
 it's a nuisance, you know." 
 
 "By Jove ! you can be a shrew when you like ! but 
 what a brick you are, Susy. You were dog-tired 
 yesterday long before closing hour. It was the first 
 day I ever saw you look tired, and then to have to 
 clear up my mess."
 
 24S THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 "Nothing makes me so tired as seeing people 
 slacking," she said quickly, flushing. "You can 
 afford to go visiting now, and you can trust Jim 
 and me to look after things. You'd better put us in 
 charge under Jules, don't you think? And go — go 
 soon, before you're found out, and fill yourself up 
 with everything you want and come back ready to 
 start fresh again and with live news from the world 
 to buck us up. The old has gone a bit dead, don't 
 vou think ? You're like a battery that wants refilling, 
 and since we're all fed from you, don't you see, it 
 doesn't do?" 
 
 "You're right," he said, after a pause. "I'll go." 
 Susy turned away, glued her mind to business, saw 
 that Ralph did the same, and spoke not another word 
 that afternoon. 
 
 But when their work was done, she sat down on a 
 melon frame and looked solidly reflective. 
 
 "Well," said Ralph. "What is it?" 
 
 "Don't you think it's time your apprenticeship was 
 over?" she said. "You know as much of the prac- 
 tical work now as Jules does and can teach it better. 
 At least, they like your way better. Couldn't you 
 leave the gardens and the men now to Jim and me? 
 We'll look after them all right, and you and Jules go 
 out as a sort of travelling college to teach the people 
 that want teaching on their own plots and to get in 
 a lot of other things by the way. They know now 
 that you can work better than any of them, and I 
 think you ought to show them that you can teach 
 and lead and govern too. That you can do the whole 
 of a man's work — so many people have forgotten 
 to be men, I think — they're sort of Christian dor- 
 mice — and it's quite time you lifted your nose above 
 worms. It will do us all more good now to see you 
 sort of standing up straight and leading the way, not 
 grubbing your way to it any longer. It was the 
 onlv way to begin. I'm glad you did it," she said 
 hastily. "It was the only way to bring life into this
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 249 
 
 dead place, to set it sprouting. But you've had 
 enough of it, and so have we. We want you in your 
 right place now. You've earned your right to it." 
 
 "I wonder if I have. And you — you'll be down 
 still among the worms." 
 
 "I was born to them in a way," she said cheerfully, 
 "and one can think of the flowers and things at the 
 end. Besides, I'm going to live all my life with 
 worms, and it's as well not to turn up your nose at 
 your friends." 
 
 "I hope life will bring you more than you'll get 
 here," he said, looking kindly down at the good plain 
 face, "but I don't know how we'd ever get on at all 
 if you went out on the racket after it. So the longer 
 you stay content the better for us." 
 
 "Content?" she said, kicking a clanging heel. 
 "Who's content, I wonder, but at least one can make 
 for common sense. This is my place, and I mean to 
 adorn it, and so does Jim. I'm glad we can give you 
 something for all you've given us. You can go away 
 always with a perfectly free mind." 
 
 "I can, certainly, but I hope Jim's going to adorn 
 a far wider sphere than this in time." 
 
 "Jim's going to live and die in the village and to 
 feel always as if it was the centre of the universe and 
 act accordingly, and make it act too. Before he's 
 done with the village it will firmly believe that the 
 eye of the world is upon it. Jim's no fool, he did 
 splendidly at the Blue Coat School and he's getting 
 alive all over. When he knows everything he can 
 learn about the land and the people on it, if there's 
 money enough, he's going to ask you to let him be 
 your agent, and in off times he'll farm for himself. 
 That's Jim's scheme of life, and he'll grub for twenty 
 years without a grumble if only he can pull it off." 
 
 "Jim's worth more than I can give him, perhaps 
 even in twenty years." 
 
 "You've already given him his chance to be a man. 
 And he's ready to wait."
 
 2.SO rill- I-IRli-SEHKER 
 
 "Will y<ni see Tony?" said Susy, as they all 
 trooped home that evening. 
 
 "Tonv! No. Heaven alone knows where she is 
 now or what she's doing. I won't have any time to 
 go tracking Tony." 
 
 Susy's heart thumped queerly. 
 
 " I say, look at the house in that shaft of red light," 
 said Ralph, "the rooms might be full of fires. 
 Rather nice on a winter's day to have them full of 
 fires and light and people." 
 
 "They will be some day, I think," said vSusy. 
 Then she paused and followed Ralph's eyes still on 
 the splendid Tudor front of his old house, bathed in 
 delicate flickering flame. She bit her lips rather hard 
 and got curiously white for brick-red Susy. "You'll 
 have everything in time," she said, "with things 
 going as they are. You'll have people and fires and 
 light, but it will take time, and you hate w^aiting. It 
 must be awful for a person like you to have to wait. 
 There are quicker wavs. Whv don't vou take one of 
 them?" 
 
 "What do you mean ? " 
 
 "I mean," she said, with uncompromising prompti- 
 tude, "marry money. It ought to be nicer than 
 poverty. There's no reason you shouldn't care for 
 it tremendously. Think of some one who's always 
 had everything she's ever wanted in that house, 
 making it like herself, giving it all it wants." 
 
 "I say, Susy, you put things well. That's an 
 idea ! " 
 
 "Well, then, work it out." 
 
 "I'm thankful you're going away, my dear," said 
 Mrs. Verney, hurrying up. A canary stripe, which 
 had strayed from its moorings, waved across her fore- 
 head, she looked heated. "So as to get a change of 
 diet. You know I'm doing my utmost now to try 
 to bring some common humanity into the village 
 cooking. I want to make them produce variety. 
 They're embedded lock, stock and barrel in dough.
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 251 
 
 They have no imagination. Their one idea is to put 
 everything — even spring chickens — into boiled pud- 
 ding, or a cast-iron pie. You had three puddings 
 last week, to my certain knowledge, and two pies. 
 How you retain your lightness of heart on such food 
 is beyond me, Ralph. I wish to goodness you would 
 begin to spend some of the funds at your disposal on 
 a cook with some intelligence who'd learn. Laurey's 
 wife won't budge an inch from the gross ways of her 
 forefathers." 
 
 "She brought up all of us on boiled puddings," 
 said Susy serenely, "till Jules' wife revolutionised the 
 kitchen." 
 
 "I made colossal mistakes in everything," said Mrs. 
 Verney, glancing apologetically at her good unlovely 
 offspring, "but one can change and undo no end of 
 mistakes. It's not too late for everything yet, thank 
 God," she said, turning away with a profound and 
 hopeless sigh. "It's not too late to grind some sense 
 of cookery into the poor things here. I'll do it in 
 time. But meanwhile to have Ralph, who wasn't 
 brought up on them, fobbed off with three boiled 
 puddings and two pies in the inside of one week ! " 
 
 "But we thrive on them. The servants are con- 
 tented and the bills ridiculously small." 
 
 "No smaller than an awakened intelligence and a 
 light hand on pastry and a garden full of vegetables 
 would make them," she groaned. "Look at the effect 
 of generations of such food on the minds of the 
 parish." 
 
 "She's trembling for your reason now, Ralph." 
 
 "Don't be pert, Susy. It has always been your 
 besetting sin." 
 
 "Suppose you let Ralph manage his own cook!" 
 said Susy. 
 
 Suddenly, with a blush that her daughters might 
 well have envied, Mrs. Verney fetched up sharp. 
 
 "Ralph, you don't think I'm interfering? You 
 couldn't think such a thing of mo, dear. But Mrs.
 
 252 THH FIRF-SKEKKR 
 
 Laurcy insisted on coming last night to the cook- 
 ing class, and she showed me with fiendish pride 
 her menus for the last fortnight. I was glad for the 
 sake of the women. I like them to know how little 
 you bother about yourself, my dear, but I was very 
 sorry for you. I know her pastry. She brought me 
 a specimen of it — more than once too since my 
 regeneration ! Ralph, you don't think me a miserable 
 busybody ? " 
 
 "It exactly describes you, Mrs. Verney, and oddly 
 enough it's just what I've been hankering after ever 
 since my own mother died." 
 
 She looked her gratitude. 
 
 "Enjoy every minute of the time, Ralph." 
 
 "And make the best use of every minute of it, 
 Ralph," said Susy, with emphasis. 
 
 "I believe," said Captain Pemberton, "I'll enjoy 
 coming home to my family best of all. It will be 
 rather different from the coming home we'd been wait- 
 ing for out there — for more than a hundred years."
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 OxcE implanted in a man, the vagrant joy of fool- 
 ing round the world nothing can uproot. In spite of 
 the drawbacks to his stroll — Colonel Larpent some- 
 times wondered which gave him the most trouble of 
 mind and anguish of spirit : Tony, Turner or the 
 dog — he was reprehensibly and wickedly happy. 
 "L'appetit vient en mangeant." His irresponsible 
 content grew with each old town in which they alighted 
 and made their own. 
 
 So far as companionship went no man could better 
 Tony. It w'as the dear, desultory ramble as a finish- 
 ing school for Tony of which he had his doubts. She 
 had, it is true, rounded out amazingly. She was 
 considerably more beautiful than he could wish to 
 see her until he had her saf : home again. She was 
 fast becoming a responsibility. 
 
 Big hotels could be easily enough avoided. It was 
 the light of recognition in the keen and searching 
 eyes of young men of all nations he found beyond the 
 power of human ingenuity to avoid. Small detach- 
 ments of appreciative aliens appeared as by magic in 
 every modest pension in which the party cast anchor. 
 They stared and sighed. They put their time and 
 their services at the disposal of Tony; and as a source 
 of irritation and alarm to a chaperon they were 
 unparalleled. 
 
 Tony took all they offered as eagerly and open- 
 handedly and with as cordial a trust as she accepted 
 the advances of a dean's daughter-in-law in Nurem- 
 berg who tried to make a Ritualist of her, and a 
 bishop's niece at Rothenburg who did her l)est to 
 
 253
 
 254 ^f^• I'IRK-SFFKKR 
 
 bring gospel truth home to her, and a theosophist 
 with huge eyes and an impersonal outlook on women 
 she encountered in Leipzig. He chose her out and 
 entangled her in occult lore until her healthy brain 
 recoiled from the clotted subtleties of his bewildering 
 creed. 
 
 She was completely absorbed for upwards of three 
 days in a little jewel of a town in the Black Forest 
 by an ethicist. A lady of collosal intellect and iron 
 will who insisted upon doing intensive farming upon 
 Tony's mind. The Colonel regarded her as a blessed 
 intervention and gave her every encouragement. He 
 was just then extremely anxious concerning the depre- 
 dations of an obstinately enamoured student who had 
 been getting at Tony through her 'cello. Being a 
 genius, neither time, space, nor the decencies con- 
 cerned him in the least. He was lifted high above all 
 such petty limitations, and Tony with him. 
 
 One night, upon his return from a late stroll which 
 Tony for a wonder had refused to share, the Colonel 
 found her and the swain composing a fugue on the 
 balcony of his bedroom in the full eye of the well- 
 lighted street. Turner, to be sure, giggled in the 
 background and with a sense of propriety denied his 
 betters, Pat made repeated attacks upon Herr von 
 Rutter's shins. 
 
 The wise young man had propitiated the large, 
 placid policeman, amiable, artistic and sentimental as 
 only a Southern German can be. The fellow pension- 
 naires were tolerant, the host was filled with profound 
 and fervent hope that one dav a masterpiece, dated and 
 addressed, might issue from his modest house and 
 make it famous. So Turner was packed off to bed, 
 and the two strummed unmolested till the dawn of 
 dav, while the Colonel smoked and mused. 
 
 Freiherr Arnold von Rutter represented every- 
 thing that could disturb a chaperon. A distinguished 
 figure was his, a heroic and melting smile, irreproach- 
 able manners, a colossal soul, no prospects and an
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 255 
 
 entire absence of present income. He was the worst 
 thing of the kind that had yet threatened the peace 
 of Tony. 
 
 "And wild horses won't tear her out of this for 
 another week," thought her guardian, as he leant over 
 the balcony and looked with entranced eyes down 
 upon the irregular streets. Such a town to be landed 
 in with this sort of thing! "Damn the roofs and 
 the gargoyles and that old church steeple, and that 
 fellow's head there in the moonlight, and the 'cello," 
 said the Colonel. "'Pon my soul he might belong 
 to the best of us. No one in his senses could blame 
 the girl. If he has any more musical schemes up his 
 sleeve I'm blowed if I know what to do with Tony ! " 
 
 Next aay happily found Herr von Rutter in an 
 unproductive mood, and he despaired in solitude. It 
 was then the ethicist caught Tony and inexorably 
 appropriated her. She had a way with her, it seemed, 
 this ethicist, and a firm hand. The genius resorted 
 to tears and threatened suicide, which, considering 
 his figure and appetite was ridiculous. So Tony 
 laughed, went for a walk with Miss Swainson, and 
 was presently reduced to complete passivity, and the 
 Colonel, with a light heart, prowled round after the 
 genius to see that he did himself no bodily injury. 
 
 Meanwhile, Tony listened and was silenced. 
 
 Strong men had retired in hopeless disorder before 
 Miss Swainson, glad to escape with a maimed folly 
 or so hid in their breast pockets. 
 
 Tony listened breathless to the polished periods of 
 the magnificent iconoclast. She wanted a dream- 
 world more immensely than any one else had ever 
 wanted it before, and it was all so new and exciting, 
 and everything any one had ever wanted must surely 
 arise out of such splendid destruction. Tony became 
 as wax in the hands of the inspired destroyer. 
 
 Miss Swainson took all the foolish things of the 
 world and shattered them to splinters with her unerr- 
 ing logic. Saints, angels, prophets, seers, kingdoms.
 
 256 TIIF FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 principalilios and jiowers, rt'ligion, cranks, and cults, 
 all tumbled off their little shelves and lay squirmin^^ 
 at the feet of the reformer, cryinc)^ out for reconstruc- 
 tion at the hands of the Ethical Society. 
 
 The vague efforts of striving mortals, still un- 
 ethicised, Miss Swainson drew from their modest 
 seclusion and pointed out their errors to them. The 
 failures of a tired world, sick with shame she pounced 
 upon and knocked their heads together in the full 
 light of day. Nothing escaped her, and she knew all 
 things. 
 
 She was immensely enthusiastic for humanity — 
 rapt, immersed ; and she thought every man, woman 
 and child so far evolved by a botching Creator a 
 muddied oaf. 
 
 Even her own nice body as presented to Tony by 
 the strenuous lady became a terror one would gladly 
 avoid. She resolved never to listen to another word 
 about the awful thing. 
 
 Miss Swainson stripped the magic from the whole 
 world in three stricken days. And then she set 
 to describe the world, which, with the help of the 
 Ethical Society, she was about to reveal. There was 
 a poet lost in this lady. No Utopia yet sketched out 
 could stand up before her world. A wonder-world 
 where miracles were performed and every wrong 
 righted. The story throbbed with passion and colour 
 and light; she had a dramatic gift if any woman had. 
 The effect of ethics in the cottage of the future would 
 move a stone. A crusader was a weak sentimentalist 
 compared with the citizen of the age of reason who 
 should eschew the use of firearms. War the ragged 
 remnant of a regrettable past. Religion a weak 
 concession to expediency. 
 
 She made, in short, a dead world thrill with life, 
 and if that was not a feat, what, I ask you, is? 
 Under her magical touch all values readjusted 
 themselves. 
 
 Her words were so wise and so mighty. Her aim
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 257 
 
 so good. She made no misses ! Fools and their 
 folly fell before her like nine-pins. Rationalism and 
 the ethical ideal alone endured. 
 
 "The past is dead," said ]\Iiss Swainson, in her 
 fine, sonorous alto, "and has left little behind it but 
 corpses. Rotten institutions, disembowelled churches, 
 traditions dying out, chivalry a rag doll to frighten 
 crows. The aims that have led man the infinitesimal 
 way he has gone, wandering lights in a stagnant 
 marsh. Man has trusted to a vague transcendental- 
 ism to do the work entrusted to himself. He has sold 
 his birthright for a mess of pottage. Man is his own 
 star. Man is his own regenerator. Man rationally 
 conceived and considered can do all things. The 
 past is dead ; but life still lives, and with the bricks 
 of hovels one can build palaces ! " 
 
 By this time Tony's wits and senses were gathering 
 in again about her. The old Adam crushed by 
 adverse adjectives was astir once more, and the first 
 impulse of the old Adam is, as we all know, to answer 
 back. 
 
 Besides, although to watch the destruction of 
 worlds done in the best way with clang and clash 
 and colour, and joy would interest and excite a clod — 
 to sit quaking in their ruins waiting for the ethical 
 society to start operations is less agreeable and divert- 
 ing. Moreover, things were coming back to Tony, 
 dear, lasting, indispensable things that must always 
 have been, which could never know destruction. Half 
 of them lived only vaguely in Tony's dreams, but they 
 were there alive, they would not be denied. They 
 were there in dreams and in air and sky and earth, 
 they ran in her warm blood and they were all good. 
 
 And now they all came running in. They formed 
 indecorous words in her which tumbled out in a wild 
 torrent of indecorous speech. 
 
 "But I thought when you'd done away with all 
 the old worlds, you were going to give me new 
 ones," she cried, heaps of them, dozens and scores. 
 
 R
 
 258 Till- FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 They seemed endless. And all you've done really 
 is first to strip naked and then to kill the one only 
 little world we know. You want to kill everything 
 that makes it wonderful : the hearts of the poets and 
 the prophets and the singers and the players and the 
 churches. I'm not particularly fond of going to 
 church myself, but think of the men who have built 
 them, and painted their Christs and their Virgins, 
 and built the old houses for people to live and be 
 happy in." Her eyes devoured the roofs and the 
 gables and the gargoyles and the old church. "You 
 kill all the things that make all the stories. And 
 then you gather up all you've killed and revive it 
 and change it and tidy it up and call it Ethics and a 
 new invention, and with it make a new world, a place 
 only fit for ethical societies and rational men ; we'd 
 die in it. It's like turning all the mouldering old 
 castles in the world into brick villas." 
 
 iNIany times during this crazy oration had Tony 
 waved off protest, now her arm went like a wind 
 mill. 
 
 "Please don't say another reasonable word, dear, 
 dear Miss Swainson," she entreated. "I loathe and 
 detest man rationally considered and conceived. I 
 think he's a beast, and I think you're much too nice 
 to have anything at all to sav to him, or to take the 
 heart out of everything and scrub and scour it and 
 squeeze all its blood out and then call it ethics. It's 
 like picking the pockets of the world to — to — sort of 
 improve its mind. You take everything away from 
 us somehow and you give us nothing back till you've 
 spoilt it. I believe you'd hate that perfectly awful 
 world of yours without one surprise in it, just as much 
 as I should. And I thought you were going to tell 
 me everything I wanted to know," she wailed. "And 
 now Herr von Rutter's gone off in a rage and I'll 
 probably never see him again, and I've just found the 
 right rendering of that wrong phrase." 
 
 "I have mixed with every class in almost all
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 259 
 
 nations," said Miss Swainson in tones that did her 
 infinite credit. Being still human her first impulse 
 had been to box Tony's ears. "But never before 
 have I been subjected to so much impertinence in so 
 short a time." 
 
 Tony's breast was heaving with passion, she felt 
 rather high and exalted as though she were somehow 
 protecting the holy rights of the whole world, put- 
 ting down her foot upon some hideous pretension. 
 
 Her head was now out of the window gathering 
 in strength and inspiration from the fretted Colon- 
 nade of the libelled Church. When the discomposing 
 word impertinence brought her to earth she turned 
 vague eyes upon the ethicist. 
 
 " But impertinence ? Surely I wasn't impertinent ? " 
 
 "Inconceivably so." 
 
 " Did I say things to you ? " 
 
 "You certainly did. Miss Pemberton." 
 
 "Dear me, I'm frightfully sorry," said Tony. "But 
 don't you see, when one thinks of so perfectly beauti- 
 ful a world as this being spoilt by anything that 
 sounds as awful as ethics— it may be only the sound, 
 of course, the beginning was lovely — you can't 
 understand what a disappointment it has all been." 
 
 "There are several things, I fear, I oannot for the 
 moment understand," said Miss Swainson, with fine 
 self-control. "And I, too, have suffered somewhat 
 of a disappointment." 
 
 She looked handsome and contained and had kept 
 her temper superbly. A wave of hunil)le admiration 
 swelled up in Tony. 
 
 "You're the most frightfully clever person I ever 
 met," said Tony. "And I always knew I was a 
 beast." 
 
 It was a statement Miss Swainson did not think 
 worth contradicting. She went calmly to her room. 
 And until she left the inn Tony insisted upon waiting 
 hand and foot upon the reluctant lady. 
 
 "But oh I for goodness' sake," she entreated when 
 R 2
 
 2bo THE FIRK-SEEKKR 
 
 she found the Colonel, "let us go to-morro\v by the 
 first train to the least ethical spot in Europe." 
 
 But the Colonel, being a wise man, knew very well 
 that what Tony wanted was a hair of the dog that 
 bit her. So without a moment's delay he carried his 
 party to Switzerland, the home and the stronghold of 
 ethics.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 With a mistaken notion, inherited perhaps from an 
 aunt he had once loved, that civiHsation and the 
 higher ethics are in some subtle sort related, the 
 Colonel, poor as he was, stretched a point and 
 planked down his party in an unexceptionable and 
 expensive hotel in Lucerne. 
 
 Tony was bored from the first. In order to be even 
 with her world she put on her most worldly clothes, 
 but the first surprise of their newness was over. They 
 only made her like every one else. She had expected 
 more than this of them. That heavenly day when 
 she had bought them they had been full of unsolved 
 mysteries; of stories still untold. They did afford her 
 one gleam of sparkling pleasure, indeed, and a fine 
 flash of fury when the General's widow, sitting in 
 heavy state in the gilded salon, the dog snorting on 
 Sophia's meek lap, opened her eyes at sight of her 
 and audibly murmured "Good gracious ! " 
 
 "Do forgive me. Miss Pemberton," she added. 
 "The last thing I should ever have expected was to 
 see vou as thougli vou'd just come out of a Paris 
 shop." 
 
 Mrs. F"ortescue-Drake had learnt a little wisdom in 
 a thousand hotels, and knew very well that it was tlie 
 half-wild beauty of Tony which had startled her into 
 speech. It was a beauty not meant for silken, scented, 
 warm rooms at all, or for Paris frocks, and yet it 
 was she who had been the cause of the building of 
 both. For her and for the like of her have all these 
 things been created, but she stands above them and 
 gives them their cachet. Her own but reflect her gifts. 
 
 All Tony knew was that the tone of the General's 
 
 261
 
 262 Tin< FIRF-SEEKER 
 
 widow was infuriating. The little spinster Itjokcd 
 more crushed than ever, and the dog more swollen 
 with self-importance. 
 
 Tony sat down with a slow gaze at the hard, brown, 
 gold-rimmed eyes still pricing her clothes. Mrs. 
 i""ortescue-Drake began to feel prickly. 
 
 "Sophia," she said, "pray bring me my fan." 
 
 " If I thought I looked as if I came out of a Paris 
 shop," said Tony, calm but magnificent, "I'd go in 
 rags till people forgot them and remembered vic.^^ 
 
 "Dear me ! How very — um — German." 
 
 "To look as if you were just out of a Paris shop? " 
 said Tony, opening her eyes. 
 
 "To insist upon personal recognition. Miss Pem- 
 berton. The ' I ' — the Ich, they call it, I believe, so 
 quaint — against the world. I've not listened for 
 nothing to German undergraduates. — Students, they 
 call them there, I think — the better sort who accom- 
 pany their parents to good hotels. It's the ' I,' I fear, 
 against the judgment of the world, and once a man 
 begins to exalt himself above his fellows one knows 
 what to expect." 
 
 "I only know the other sort of students who don't 
 accompany their parents to good hotels," said Tony. 
 "Thev haven't monev enough; perhaps they haven't 
 parents enough, and they never exalt themselves. 
 They never exalt anything but music and art and the 
 Fatherland." 
 
 " I' have heard of such people," Mrs. Fortescue- 
 Drake admitted. 
 
 "And I've lived with them," said Tony. 
 
 She forgot Mrs. Fortescue-Drake, and was back in 
 a little inn in the Black Forest composing a fugue. 
 Then she ran out into the green wood itself with three 
 ecstatic artists, and again stood at sunset with a 
 motley crowd upon a golden hill. 
 
 "You don't leave them behind you," she sighed at 
 last, "you carry them along wherever you go." 
 
 "Carry who. Miss Pemberton ? "
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 263 
 
 Tony remembered the company she kept and said 
 briefly — 
 
 "Your friends." 
 
 Mrs. Fortescue-Drake adjusted her glasses and 
 looked Tony over. 
 
 "In the case of young people, their friends should 
 be very carefully and wisely selected for them." 
 
 "Oh!" cried Tony. "But it's impossible. They 
 come, and you know at once. No one else can know 
 for you." 
 
 "May I ask. Miss Pemberton, how old are you?" 
 
 "Just eighteen," said Tony absently. 
 
 "And you'll come out in a year or two and be 
 presented." 
 
 "I suppose so." 
 
 "And this — this is the preparation for it?" 
 
 "Goodness gracious ! I hope not. It's a preparation 
 for a million things. I say, Miss Fuller, are you tired 
 of that dog ? Shall I take him for a walk with mine ? 
 Pat won't molest him. He'll not exist at all for Pat, 
 he's so small and helpless. I'll carry him when he 
 begins to pant." 
 
 Tony seized the snoring lump and retreated in good 
 order. 
 
 "That girl will end either in the divorce court or a 
 lunatic asylum," pronounced Mrs. Fortescue-Drake. 
 
 "I believe," said Sophia, audacious with sentiment, 
 "that she'll end amongst the angels." 
 
 "Dear me, Sophia! I wonder if you're cjuite sane 
 yourself." 
 
 Tony walked restively up and down the sunny lake- 
 front watching the few stragglers who, as usual out 
 of the season, kx^k only half alive. They had wakened 
 up, no doubt, for the winter sports before they went 
 south, and remained wide awake enough at Nice and 
 Monte Carlo, but now on the return journey they were 
 heavy with the languor of the olive groves and their 
 losses at the tables. 
 
 It was as dull outside as in. There was nothing
 
 .'64 'II II-: I-IRI'-SEKKI'R 
 
 apparently iv liiul out about any one. They all looked 
 as if they were made to be comfortable here and 
 through eternity within four well-hung w-alls. I^ven 
 the waiters didn't seem to be simple, human men at 
 all, with homes and children and wives and sorrows 
 of their own. They were machines representing 
 Europe. The very mountains looked finished and 
 complete and old and done with. They seemed to 
 have been created for the hotels and to be reproduced 
 on postcards. Pilatus himself looked cruel and en- 
 croaching. Tony felt as if he were coming coldly on, 
 white and relentless, to fall on her and crush her. 
 For an instant she thought of going back into the 
 hotel, but she wanted more than the hotel could give 
 her. She wanted big, vague, fine things. She 
 wanted to go out and find them. \\^onderful thoughts 
 flew in and out of her mind like birds she could never 
 catch. She could only see them in flashes of rainbow 
 hues flying to and fro. And whence they came, 
 thither she wanted to go. She could stand the sleek, 
 smooth front, the sleeker, smoother people no longer. 
 The trams and the shops and the neat flower-beds and 
 the flowers, curled and combed and scented, and their 
 little faces washed for them every morning at the 
 stroke of six by the corporation of Lucerne, were 
 unbearable for the present, so she caught up Dot 
 and went loitering about the town, up and down the 
 wine market, in and out the narrow streets with their 
 painted houses, making friends with old Lucerne. 
 And joy of joys, she saw a stork, sad and alone on 
 a high chimney, the last of all the hundreds of wise 
 and loving creatures to whom the little brave old town 
 had once been home. He sat immovable in deep medi- 
 tation, and looked back across the ages to the fine 
 and simple days when there were wooden chimneys 
 in the land, soft and warm and kind, where birds 
 could nest and cherish their children ; where no stone 
 buildings with no heart for the birds blocked the view, 
 and the peasants who had fed and lodged and warmed
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 265 
 
 them had not all turned hotel proprietors. Then he 
 lifted himself and flapped slowly away across the lake. 
 
 "I think I see where he's gone," said Tony, shading 
 her eyes to look. "And we'll follow him to-morrow. 
 Perhaps he knows ! Anyway, one can't find things 
 here." 
 
 She avoided the lions still mouldering inside their 
 wooden defences and struck out for the hill. And up 
 there she felt more equal to the mountains. She could 
 defy Pilatus with a light heart. 
 
 She thought of those last strange days at home, and 
 of that other bigger home of her race, with its master 
 at work upon the beloved land. It made her impatient 
 of rooms and houses and of all foolish creatures who 
 have voluntarily made themselves yoked slaves to such 
 paltry limitations, and who to-night, encased in dress- 
 clothes as in a prison, would be flocking round her, 
 talking moderately of moderate things. They hardly 
 seemed to be of the same flesh and blood as the earth- 
 grubber in the West, and he — he'd rather house with 
 a viper than with her ! 
 
 And so in despair she longed for the friends who 
 could go crazy over a picture or a phrase of music, or 
 over some wild idea let loose by the colours in a sunset. 
 
 "Oh, Pat," she cried at last, "come back to that 
 bloated place. I'll carry this thing," she said, 
 whipping up the pug. 
 
 She ate an immense dinner in anything but an 
 amiable frame of mind, and afterwards, from sheer 
 bravado, hobnobbed with most undesirable aliens. 
 Mrs. Fortescue-Drake felt confirmed in her diagnosis. 
 Sophia wept a little, and the Colonel thankfully 
 enough received his orders to move on.
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 The next day they followed the stork. They left 
 the steamer at Brunnen, hurried past the bloated, 
 threatening bullies of hotels, each in his dull be- 
 grudging heart dreading bankruptcy for himself and 
 ardently desiring it for all his neighbours. And at 
 last they got out to the woods and the rocks and the 
 emerald waters. The sun warmed the mountains, a 
 blue mist of paradise fell upon them, and for the first 
 time their hearts and their spirits stole out to greet 
 Tony. She nearly broke her neck scrambling after a 
 yellow auricula up an impossible rock. Presently on 
 the edge of the wood, looking up at her with amethyst 
 blue eyes from their nest of leaves, hearts of green 
 with red wine linings, she found her first clump of 
 hepaticas, and down from the rocks above her wafted 
 a scent as wild as wind, as exotic as Cleopatra. The 
 Colonel, quite cool and unmoved, told her that it was 
 mezereum. And when they emerged with blinking 
 eyes from the gloom of the great tunnel, she saw little 
 red-roofed Sisikon, asleep in its orchards of cherry. 
 
 "I'm certain," said Tony, without a moment's 
 hesitation, "that's where the stork went to." 
 
 The Colonel saw at a glance that she might have 
 chosen worse. He trembled for his dinner, but there 
 wasn't a sign anywhere of a grand hotel. 
 
 "Let us try the chalet" he said. "It loc»ks neat." 
 
 "Too neat," said Tonv suspiciously ; "but let us 
 try it." 
 
 She was right. It was a high and haughty estab- 
 lishment with all the vices of its betters. They had 
 central heating and electric light, and the Ambassador 
 
 266
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 267 
 
 from Roumania had spent five weeks there in the 
 summer and a German Baron who kept his own man. 
 Also the Herrschaften, who carry Riicksachs and 
 dogs, were not quite to the taste of the hostess. She 
 would recommend Herr Meyer, the German, on the 
 other side of the road. His son was then at home and 
 could cook, and they were not particular over there. 
 
 So on they went chuckling to the modest old 
 house, bowed down under its weight of great creepers, 
 wistaria with gnarled stem and roses as old as time, 
 and some wonderful golden bloom that seemed never 
 to be out of season. Herr Meyer stood in his porch 
 waiting in simple hope for the leavings of the great. 
 
 The instant Tony stepped into the long, low living- 
 room and saw a wood fire in the crazy stove, she felt 
 sure the stork had slept that night not very far off. 
 
 "It's perfect," said Tony. 
 
 "If there's anything to eat," said the Colonel. 
 
 "Wall, now, I guess the Herrschaften needn't be 
 afraid of that," said a startling American accent in 
 their ears. Madame, it seemed, had been twenty years 
 in the State of Maine. "My son has lived since his 
 youth in the kitchens of grand hotels, and he can 
 cook — my word ! I know none to beat him." 
 
 "And Frau Hartmann there," said the dry little 
 Wiirtemburger, her husband, "has said to you — she 
 says it to all the Herrschaften, that I am not par- 
 ticular, but with my good bourgeois connection if a 
 man is not particular, where, I ask you, would he be ? 
 The place over there" — he indicated another inn with 
 a quick gesture of his thumb — "that place receives 
 Slavs — day and night. Excellency, it receives them, 
 and that is to say a great deal. A man who respects 
 himself and his good connection will give no good 
 beds to Slavs. But a good dinner is another matter. 
 I have a daily guest. He sleeps there where they 
 receive such people, but he eats with us. He is a 
 man of rank in iiis own land, and a good kitchen 
 is necessary to him. He is also a man of colossal
 
 268 THF FIRI--SI'FKI=:R 
 
 intclli^^cnci'. lie will be your only society, my 
 1 lerrsehaften." 
 
 "But why can't he sleep here?" inquired Tony, 
 as she heaped on wood. 
 
 "The vSlavs are pretty swinish in their ways," said 
 the Colonel. "Hotel-keepers as a rule steer clear of 
 them." 
 
 "Dear me! Three new things in one day! A 
 clump of hepaticas, the smell of mezereum, and a 
 swinish Slav, with a colossal intelligence whom the 
 landlord has to apologise for. No wonder the stork 
 came here." 
 
 Certain stories he had heard in his travels concern- 
 ing the great Slav group gave the Colonel a good 
 deal to think of, as he made what changes he could 
 for dinner. 
 
 "Oh, well, thank heaven, they're pretty dirty and 
 they never shave," he said at last. "And Tony likes 
 cleanliness and the razor." 
 
 The spirit of content was more fully established 
 in him by the excellent soup which little Hermann 
 himself, clothed in spotless white, brought in. He 
 was a little meagre hunchback, alert in action and 
 with the flame of the genius in his pellucid eye. He 
 had already been visited and conquered by Tony. 
 
 "It's heavenly, this soup," said Tony, "but where's 
 theS.S?" 
 
 "Perhaps he funks too close an acquaintance with 
 Western civilisation, and has gone back to the East 
 and his native necks on the other side of the road." 
 
 "It's anything but Western civilisation to condemn 
 a man before he's found guilty," said Tony severely. 
 "And necks! what necks?" 
 
 "If you spend your time with the cook, my girl, 
 you can't expect to see the world. Wait and see. 
 The necks will explain themselves." 
 
 "Oh, I'll see — everything — but I don't like wait- 
 ing. And when a cook has eyes like these, one has 
 to begin with him."
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 269 
 
 "Don't apologise. The result is excellent." 
 
 "Yes," said Tony complacently. "It's pretty lucky 
 for you that I generally begin with the kitchen. I 
 wish to goodness he'd come." 
 
 "I say, shut up. I hear -" 
 
 " He has read every English book that ever was 
 written, but can't speak a word. I've found that 
 out." 
 
 The most imperturbably composed young man 
 whom even Colonel Larpent had ever met now came 
 noiselessly into the room, and with a profound bow 
 to its inhabitants betook himself to his food. He 
 was well set up, tall and broad-shouldered. He 
 looked scrupulously clean and the habit of the razor 
 was plainly native to him, and so far as Tony could 
 gather in one rapid glance, he seemed to be all right 
 about the boots. 
 
 "I say ! " she said, half under her breath. 
 
 There was the ghost of an interested smile about 
 the well-cut mouth of the young man as he helped 
 himself to salad. He didn't, however, speak a word 
 until the Colonel, in execrable German, forced the 
 weather upon his attention. 
 
 "The fellow tubs as often as I do myself, and yet 
 all the waters of Europe won't wash the East out of 
 a man," was the mental comment of the man who 
 knew the East. "One must be careful not to let him 
 see you're noticing him," mused the chaperon, and 
 engaged Tony upon a polite discussion of the scenery 
 with occasional inclusions of the modest diner. 
 
 "Well," said Tony, when they had had coffee and 
 were strolling up and down the street. "That, after 
 your description of the S.S ! I never did ! " 
 
 "Wait and see." 
 
 "Wait, with anything as interesting as that. I'll 
 find him out in a week or ' bust ' ! How long would 
 you and Father have waited " 
 
 "He looks all right, but he's different altogether 
 from anything you've met so far."
 
 270 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 "He is! There's a secret in his eyes." 
 
 "There is, the secret of the Slav. You needn't 
 concern yourself with it, my girl. It's eluded keener 
 eyes than yours. Europe hasn't found it out yet." 
 
 "Europe's too busy," said Tony easily. "There's 
 nothing else to do here. Thank goodness, he speaks 
 German and French. Think of that undiscovered 
 continent wrapped up in a language you didn't 
 understand. Oh ! " she gasped, "the necks I 
 missed ! " 
 
 Two women and a man were walking slowly to- 
 w-ards them. A shaft of red light sprayed down upon 
 the three through a mist of cherry blossoms. It threw 
 a glow over the light texture of the girl's dresses, 
 but nothing Tony could imagine could redden by 
 so much as a shade the strange, rich, changeless 
 pallor of their faces, of the long, rounded necks, of 
 the arms bare to the elbow. It was the pallor of the 
 fixed stars or of the young moon, and must gleam 
 white out of any darkness or any light. 
 
 Tony had eyes only for one girl, the other was 
 smaller, slighter, less significant. The loose straight 
 robe of the first was cut in a deep heart before and 
 behind to the root of her long neck, a Httle too full 
 and oval, and fell closely over her rounded form. 
 She walked as no Western woman can ever walk, 
 with a swimming rock of the whole of her subtle soft 
 body. She brought the trick with her long ages ago 
 from the East, and has never lost it. Her sombre 
 shineless, heavy hair, with its long white parting, fell 
 straight and smooth over her wide oval forehead, and 
 was plaited into two rosettes above her small ears. 
 There was a friendly brightening of her slow, narrow, 
 observant, slightlv oblique eyes as she passed Tony, 
 and yet her glance marked the illimitable distance 
 between them. 
 
 She was not very much older than Tony, and yet 
 what ages older she was ! She absorbed and domin- 
 ated the very air with her womanhood. She became
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 271 
 
 in a curious way mistress of the air and of the small 
 white street. And yet the impression she left as she 
 moved in it was as of a stranger in a strange land. 
 She was remote, solitary; a thing of other thoughts, 
 and other hopes and other passions from the rest of 
 the world. 
 
 "She's taken the whole street," said Tony, as soon 
 as they were out of hearing. "She's filled it up. She 
 makes you feel sort of small and ignorant. And yet 
 I'm a full head taller. She has no business in this 
 tiny place. She ought to be in the British Museum 
 among the Egyptian antiquities or covered with furs 
 out in a sledge Hying from wolves, throwing herself 
 to the wolves to save her family, or throwing her 
 family to the wolves to save herself, whichever she 
 was in the mood for. She'd do anything — big or 
 little, I think. Every one's one little story of course, 
 but she's a dozen all bound up in one volume. I 
 wonder what she's doing here." 
 
 "Having an inexpensive holiday. She's probably 
 studying medicine in Ziirich on sixpence a week." 
 
 "Let us sit here and watch them. I wonder if she'll 
 ever let me speak to her." 
 
 "She's probably a good deal preoccupied," said the 
 Colonel, with a dubious look at the advancing group. 
 "She's got the other fellow in tow now. Still the 
 thirst of the Slav for new sensations is insatiable. 
 With patience you may scrape an acquaintance." 
 
 "Oh! " unctuously murmured Tony. 
 
 "In my opinion," said the chaperon cautiously, 
 "your time will be thrown away. I doubt if you'll 
 have much in common with that young person." 
 
 "We'll have our age — we're both only just begin- 
 ning—and our differences." 
 
 Tlie Colonel glanced at the retreating back, so in- 
 tensely, nervously self-conscious, so unnaturally, 
 tragically intelligent, and thoughtfully smoked on. 
 
 Tony's eyes were glued to the same point. Her 
 intentions were plain enough. vShe meant to know
 
 272 THE fire-se1":kI':r 
 
 the vSlavs, and she was well within lu-r rights. And 
 yet there would be some difticuUy in breakinj^ a Slav 
 to a girl of eighteen, even though she did happen to 
 be Tony, while at the same time some preparation 
 was undoubtedly necessary. 
 
 "Tony," he said, just as the nioon swam up over 
 I'ri Rothstork, and the quiet stars came out and the 
 pain of all the nations seemed to mix and to flow into 
 one great bowl, and Anglo-Saxon, and Swiss, and 
 Teuton, and Latin, and Slav, and Greek, and the 
 Brown, and the Black, and the Yellow men to mourn 
 together as with one heart, under the same all-seeing 
 skv. "Tony," he said, "listen to me, my girl." The 
 little fretting cares of the chaperon dropped sheer off 
 and he spoke as man to man. "You're set on know- 
 ing that crowd, and you'll know^ it, trust you for that ! 
 They're the least desirable acquaintances you've 
 struck yet. Europe isn't prim or proud, but they're 
 shunned by Europe, and probably with reason. Still, 
 you'll make your way into the crowed, being you, and 
 it will give you no doubt what no other crowd in the 
 world could give you. It will provide you with some 
 startling surprises. You'll be a mutual surprise to 
 each other." 
 
 "Lovely! Oh, go on! " 
 
 "I'm going on, and you'd better listen with some 
 attention, my girl. If you're going to stick your 
 head into a wasps'-nest, you'd better know something 
 of the manners and customs of the inhabitants. I've 
 been in Russia and in Servia and Bulgaria. I have 
 a cousin married to a man w'ith big estates not far from 
 a university town near the Balkans. I know both 
 sides of the frontier, I think. I've seen the life of 
 the aristocracy, student life and a good deal of it too, 
 and the life of the bureaucracy and of the peasants. 
 The people are sick with tragedy. Their intelligence 
 even is a horrible form of malady. They are all sick 
 children crying in the night. They don't know what 
 is the matter with them, they neither understand, nor
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 273 
 
 can they explain their disease. They only feel some- 
 thing hurting them in the night. And they forget it 
 when the sun shines, or in the hardness of the day's 
 work. The higher classes have distractions and a 
 genius for enjoying themselves, and money, and the 
 world is wide. They can get out of their country when 
 her yoke begins to gall. The peasants are worn with 
 poverty, else they are sunk in ignorance. They eat 
 and forget, or are too hungry to think. But that class 
 you see here, the student class, has nothing but intel- 
 ligence, neither money, rank, hope nor freedom. No 
 past and no future. It's been fighting too long against 
 too big odds. It's lived too long under the shadow 
 of the gallows with a bomb up its sleeve, and too long 
 under the lash of the knout. It's a country, my girl, 
 where not long ago young officers were ordered to 
 knout naked women and to do worse than that to 
 them. They can't even learn in peace there. There 
 is no security for any part of life for any of them at 
 home, and so they now flood the universities of 
 Europe. The Slav loves novelty, and he's been so 
 long debarred from learning that his greed to learn 
 has become a devouring lust in him, and more espe- 
 cially in her, so they flock panting to all the seats of 
 learning, and being away from the gallows and the 
 police and the knout, they can feel free at length ; and 
 the freed slave, as we all know, is a dangerous person. 
 He doesn't know how to be free. He runs to licence. 
 Latterly, moreover, they have got hopeless as to home 
 politics. Authority has been too much for them. 
 They've found they can throw bombs till doomsday 
 and see nothing for their pains but the gallow's. 
 Freedom has receded farther and farther from them. 
 They've lost hope as a nation. And for some time 
 past now they've been reading a great deal of a 
 gentleman called Nietzsche, who has talked some 
 sense and a great deal of nonsense. His leading 
 doctrine is, that there being nothing greater than man, 
 what man has got to do is to make the most of 
 s
 
 274 TIIF FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 himself and to fultil cvi-ry desire — to give himself, in 
 short, all ho wants. It's a fine doctrine if only a 
 man could see farther than his own nose, could see 
 as far even as Nietzsche saw. Nietzsche has told sleek 
 civilisation some wholesome home-truths, but the 
 Slavs aren't Western enough for Nietzsche. All he 
 seems to do for them is to make natural depravity 
 look like philosophy. The man is the only thing that 
 counts, it sounds all right to the Slav, whose body 
 has been bond-slave to the gallows for so long and 
 he does give it all it wants." 
 
 "But, I say," said Tony, "man rationally conceived 
 and considered is the only thing that counts. It 
 sounds like Miss Swainson," 
 
 "Nietzsche's complete man and Miss Swainson's 
 would speedily exterminate one another, my girl. 
 But to go on with the Slav ! \\"ith hope dead in him, 
 with the national ideal of freedom sick and sore, wdth 
 no great tradition of woman within him to keep him 
 clean, with Nietzsche bucking his acutely swollen in- 
 telligence, with the emotions it is his duty to cultivate 
 and expand, and with a hideous feeling of unsteadi- 
 ness crouching at the bottom of his being, and with 
 all his attention fixed on himself, he has become the 
 most profound egoist and the most cold-blooded 
 sensualist in Europe. He is artless in his egoism and 
 his sensuality. He is artless in his manner of put- 
 ting an end to the business, if it has failed to thrive in 
 his hands or to satisfy all his desires. He goes out and 
 kills himself. And no one who knows anything of 
 him and of the life of his people can blame him for 
 what he has become. They've suffered too much, 
 these people, and they want too much — they have too 
 big a capacity for pain and for pleasure to be let 
 loose on free countries or to be wise friends for 
 Western men and women. A man so fresh from his 
 prison house will admit no bonds. He'll demand 
 limitless freedom in everything. He'll admit no fet- 
 ters and consult no public opinion. Miss Swainson's
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 275 
 
 man rationally considered and conceived would be 
 a fellow you'd kick out of your club, no doubt, 
 but he'd take care of you, Tony. That fellow at 
 dinner to-day, for instance, would get on all right in 
 any club, but I doubt if he'd take care of you, my 
 girl, if you should happen to be in his power." 
 
 "But," said Tony, getting extremely red, "I'm not 
 a Slav." 
 
 "No, but you're a girl." 
 
 "Even as that I hardly count yet." 
 
 "You count all right to a Slav, and not only as a 
 girl, but as a novelty." 
 
 "Oh, well, I'm glad I'm a novelty, at least." 
 
 "So am I. Or we'd clear out of this to-morrow." 
 
 "Shall we come home? Pat's had enough of this." 
 
 But still they loitered in the peerless night, watch- 
 ing two dark forms passing slowly to and fro. They 
 were talking now, eagerly, swiftly, passionately in 
 soft low gutturals, and the last thing Tony heard as 
 they w^ent in was a low ripple of nervous laughter 
 from the girl. 
 
 "She may look like the British Museum," said 
 Tony, with some severity, "but I feel certain there's 
 silliness about." 
 
 "If it were only silliness!" said Colonel Larpent 
 grimly. The laughter rang sad and sinister. He was 
 sorry that the girl should be so little older than Tony. 
 
 "I wish there was nothing else but silliness, too," 
 said Tony, as she paused on the landing. "One 
 wouldn't like them not to be Slavs, they sound so 
 new and interesting, but if only they weren't ! 
 Germans were new, of course — but " 
 
 The traditions of the Germans in regard to the 
 likes of you are very much like our own, Tony," 
 said the chaperon. "That makes the difference and 
 the gross impropriety of your staying on here." 
 
 "I w^onder how it would feel to be a young person 
 who'd flee from an S.S after seeing him and hearing 
 all about him," sighed Tony. 
 s 2
 
 276 TIIR FIRK-SF.EKER 
 
 "It \V(.)uld be diiricult to say," said the chaperon, 
 "but she's precisely the sort of person I should myself 
 choose to conduct personally round Europe." 
 
 "I shouldn't envy you then," said Tony. "Be- 
 sides, you'd hate it." She spoke liirhtly enouo;h, but 
 in the flare of light her eyes looked wistful and 
 troubled, the mystic trouble of a wise child. 
 
 Colonel Larpent paused on the landing. Was he 
 aiding and abetting a folly he might regret to the day 
 of his death, or simply obeying orders? Chaperon be 
 blowed, but was this creature with the wilfulness of 
 Eve herself and the will of the devil, weak and strong, 
 wise and ignorant, and with a cosmic mind, properly 
 equipped to stumble alone into the most tragic 
 crowd in Europe and the most dangerous, and, said 
 the Colonel to himself, "they'll be airing all their 
 unseemly griefs in her presence before the week is 
 out." 
 
 Tony moved and sighed and came back apparently 
 from some long journey. Her eyes, used to some 
 finer light, blinked in the coarse glare of the cheap 
 petroleum. Then blinking, dazed and bewildered, 
 her arms dropped at her sides and in the quick, over- 
 whelming way of her undeveloped passionate nature, 
 she began to cry silently. Tony was not given to 
 crying. The Colonel waited with bowed head. He 
 felt a little as though he were in the presence of 
 prayer, and knowing that Tony's reason for her tears 
 was probably a good one, he attempted no consolation. 
 With a struggle as silent as her sobs, she conquered 
 them in the end. 
 
 "Oh, what a fool I am ! " she said, with a little 
 unsteady laugh. "But I felt suddenly as if I was in 
 the midst of the most awful sorrow^, and I could do 
 nothing to help any one. And when I thought of 
 him dying in the doll's house, when he could — when 
 he could have changed their stories, perhaps — oh, 
 but I know he could!" she cried. "He could have 
 said the thing that every one wants to hear, so that
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 ■// 
 
 every one would listen to it and understand it. And 
 those people want it more than any one else I ever 
 heard of, I think. There must be some big thing — 
 something bigger than their pain, that's never been 
 said yet. I know there is," she said sharply, "and 
 that he could have said it. Oh, I must get to know 
 them. I must make them like me a little, and perhaps 
 I could tell them some tiniest little thing to change 
 their awfulness. Oh ! — oh, I wish I had my 'cello. 
 I could make it say the things I can't say myself to- 
 night, I think ! " 
 
 "Good-night, my girl, and go to sleep instead." 
 "I wonder what the imperturbable philosopher 
 would say ? " he thought, as he pondered his amaz- 
 ing responsibilities, "if he were aware of his effect on 
 her. I'd be glad of his calm, any way, during the 
 course of Tony's mission to the Slav."
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 ToN'Y was extremely young and undeveloped. She 
 violently detested fools, and even the harmless, kindly 
 people with average wits and consciences and mild 
 religions, who, far from making any demand on life, 
 are thankful enough if it let them off fairly easily, 
 came in for but a scant}' share of her tolerance. She 
 wanted to drive them on with hatpins anywhere, but 
 over hedges and ditches and precipices for choice. 
 She liked movement. Stationary people, or those who 
 huddled round fires or loitered on the shady side of 
 the street seemed to her to block the way. At this 
 period she would have taken all the good sound bread 
 and cheese and beer out of the world, and filled it 
 with nectar and ambrosia. She was in the frame for 
 any wild food. 
 
 How she managed it no one but Tony could have 
 said, but she was soon hand-in-glove with the 
 Slavonic students, and appeared likely to feed on 
 caviare for some time to come. The Colonel's only 
 consolation was that caviare as a constant diet must 
 pall in course of time. He would, however, have 
 iDeen thankful for a sounder knowledge of German. 
 He had painfully acquired enough for his own pur- 
 poses. He could grasp the meaning of the books he 
 needed for his work in his own room and with an 
 undisturbed mind, but the swift gutturals of Tony's 
 friends filled him with confusion. He surreptitiously 
 procured Hugo's German Simplified, and did a lesson 
 a day, but it Was slow work and the friendship went 
 quick. 
 
 All the girls of the group were strange and alluring 
 
 278
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 279 
 
 and unlike the rest of the world, but they were full of 
 their own affairs, which ran smoothly. It was only 
 now and then in moments of sudden storm that they 
 wanted Tony. It was Olga, the girl who had so 
 impressed her that first day, who responded most 
 freely to her advances. Olga resented the intrusion 
 of Tony. She resented everything about her, her 
 voice, her face, her eager-hearted freedom of speech, 
 her amazing ignorance, above all, her absolute care- 
 lessness as to the impression she made. With the 
 keen, delicate intuition of her race Olga shrank from 
 the simple white innocence of Tony. She saw in her 
 things she had never seen before and never wanted to 
 see. She was immensely jealous. And yet, for all 
 the mystery of bitterness growing in her heart, Tony 
 was an irresistible attraction to her, and a danger of 
 which she had not dreamed. She hated Tony in the 
 quiet night, and in the day they w^orshipped the 
 flowers together. Tony saw in her the suffering ages 
 of her sad people, and by sheer force of sympathy, 
 although she missed the door to her heart, she found 
 her way into Olga's untameable mind, and brought 
 back from her explorations the most astonishing 
 fragments of virgin ore. Cruelties, coldnesses, wild 
 hatreds, burning loves and sensualities naked and 
 unashamed. And the whole together made hay in 
 Tony, till later on when the stars came out she could 
 gather them all into some wild, half-savage harmony 
 which sobbed itself out on her 'cello and made things 
 pure and fresh and sweet again. There was a spark 
 of genius in Tony's composition, but her technique 
 was deplorable. One of the girls studying music at 
 Leipzig would tragically shut her ears to the sounds 
 produced by Tony, and yet she would have given them 
 both for her temperament. Olga found all that Tony 
 would but could not say in the incomplete phrases, 
 and hated and feared her. 
 
 The quiet diner smoked and listened under the 
 crazy verandah, and his cold smile grew warmer,
 
 jSd TIIF I<IRI<-S1<EKER 
 
 niul sonu'timt's Olga was robbed of the best hour of 
 hor day. 
 
 As for Tony, she blessed the stork that had led 
 her to Sisikon, and felt more horribly uncomfortable 
 than ever she had felt in her life. 
 
 Life was crowding in on her heart, lilling her ears, 
 enrapturing her eyes, tiironging and throbbing in 
 her. It pressed sore upon her. It seemed to choke 
 her. She wanted to give it back in order to make 
 room for the rest. But to give it back was the diffi- 
 culty — as beautifully and richly and melodiously as 
 it was given, and with the same great sob of pain. — 
 That hurt, but still it too must be given, and given 
 as nothing else had ever been given before. It was, 
 Tony seemed to know, what her father had to give 
 and never had given. 
 
 And what her 'cello could say for her was so little ! 
 It babbled like a baby. She knew in her heart that it 
 could never serve her needs. 
 
 "You won't say enough," she used to say, and 
 shake her fist at it. — It was too dear and helpless to 
 pinch or strike. 
 
 Her new friends seemed to have stirred up all that 
 was inside her. She had to say things to them, the 
 things they themselves had put into her head. And 
 her 'cello wouldn't say them for her ! 
 
 There must be some other way ! When things 
 want to say themselves in that awful way they must 
 get alive and speak. 
 
 And then the most curious thing happened. Some- 
 times Tony could catch the pictures born of the 
 sounds of her 'cello. She seemed to live amongst 
 them as amongst sentient things, only they were 
 a thousand times more full of life than living beings. 
 And sometimes she could put the live things into 
 words. She used to write them down breathlessly 
 on anything at hand. 
 
 And just when something was going to happen the 
 words would break off suddenly and a veil would fall
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 281 
 
 across the light, the veil that hid the treasure. Tony- 
 could often have howled and roared in her despair 
 and rage, but she wisely held her tongue. She 
 prayed, however, in her pagan way to her 'cello to 
 help her, to the woods and waters, to the mountains 
 and their nestling flowers. She made her fierce, blind 
 demand upon her whole visible world, and a hard, 
 cold No was the answer ! 
 
 Sometimes Tony wondered what was afoot with her, 
 if this were youth or life or madness. 
 
 She walked the Colonel off his legs, and insisted 
 upon Turner's starting the German grammar. She 
 administered it daily in large doses until, in the end, 
 Turner fell to longing for Jim. 
 
 And still at odd moments Tony wrote burning, 
 vague, formless phrases on scraps of paper, and as 
 their meanings were just stealing out after them the 
 cruel curtain fell. 
 
 Meanwhile, Olga to some extent explained 
 Petrovitsch Bebikoff to Tony, and made him more 
 urgently indispensable to her mood. Had he been 
 young or callow from any one of the usual points of 
 view, the Slav might well have misunderstood Tony 
 and felt flattered, but he had drunk deep draughts of 
 a fine mixed life, and in spite of it he was a mystic 
 at heart. He made a shrew'd enough guess at the 
 meaning of the artless friendship of the English miss, 
 and she interested and amused him. She was an 
 entirely new experience. 
 
 He had preoccupations which disturbed and ob- 
 sessed him. It was against his principles to be 
 disturbed or obsessed. She soothed him, and fixed 
 his attention upon a new type. And being himself 
 an old hand at collecting psychological types, her 
 artless attempts at the same game gave him delight. 
 
 Over a bed of hyacinths where they met by chance 
 the intimacy became more acute. She reminded him 
 of things he had thrust aside to make room for him- 
 self, the unit which, since all other things had failed
 
 282 Till' riUl'-SEEKER 
 
 him, and hope was dead, he designed should from 
 henceforth fdl his world. 
 
 The girl, more boy than girl in her careless 
 innocence, brought back the old Petrovitsch in the 
 forest above the great white house that had thrust 
 him forth. He was Petrovitsch again in the wood 
 where the lilies grew and he had worshipped them, 
 and worshipped whiter things than lilies. He believed 
 as much then as the English girl did, and knew as 
 little, and was as rampant to know more. He 
 was less ready to forget himself, however, and to 
 plunge into another element. The girl seemed to 
 be always ready for any quick swim in strange 
 waters. Even then he remembered that he had been 
 lonely and an egoist. It had never struck him to 
 share anything, even an ideal, with an outsider, while 
 this girl was ready to share her best. It was plain 
 that it was his nation she beheld in him, and that 
 her sorrow and her sympathy were crying to come 
 out. He had seen this more than once in her eyes. 
 He had heard it in the broken, botched phrases of 
 her 'cello. The 'cello lisped and babbled, but the 
 sob of the child in it haunted him. 
 
 He laughed softlv, stretched himself idly on the 
 ground and spoke for the first time since he had left 
 it behind him in the forest of his silent, awful 
 youth. 
 
 "I was well taught, of course, in most tilings," he 
 said at the end, "especially those my parents had 
 taken the most extraordinary pains to keep me ignor- 
 ant of. My tutor, under his smooth, scholarly mask, 
 was a fierv revolutionary. But I should have known 
 without anv teaching. Like all those who watch the 
 end of a period being swalloAved by eternity, I sucked 
 in the feeling and the thought and the sorrow of the 
 dying time which sings its swan-song to the ears 
 that can hear. I heard its notes, its melody sang in 
 my heart. And then all I wanted was to give up, 
 to renounce, to sacrifice and torment myself for the
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 283 
 
 sake of a bleeding country and rotting men. — You 
 also pant to throw your all to the Great Ideal, 
 gnadiges Fraulein, I can see it all in you when I 
 close my eyes — so — " said he, looking sublimely 
 Oriental. "You see the ideal as a whole — no detail 
 has as yet been revealed to you. But I — I know the 
 details — I know now what a bleeding country and 
 rotting men mean. In those days of dreaming I, too, 
 saw the ideal as a whole. I found out much from 
 my own soul. That organ can reveal colossal much 
 if only it will. — I knew the pain which the slow 
 death of hope filters into the leaves and the flowers 
 and the skies and the waters of a land of slaves, and 
 drops as slow and as sure as its own death into the 
 hearts of men. I knew even then that hope lay upon 
 her deathbed, and that no man could lengthen her 
 little span of life. But I was alive then and omni- 
 potent. In me should she be re-born ! I — I was the 
 Christ that should save my nation with my blood." 
 
 Tony sat commendably calm in face and bearing, 
 but the flowers moved on her agitated knees, and 
 Turner and Pat looked bored to extinction. She 
 sternly silenced Pat's comments, then turned to 
 Turner: "Go home," she said, with decision. "I 
 don't want any tea." 
 
 Both Pat and Turner looked volumes, but neither 
 of them dared disobey when Tony meant to be 
 obeyed. 
 
 "England used to feel so enormous," she murmured, 
 "now it's beginning to feel like a parish." 
 
 "England is big enough, gnadiges Fraulein, but 
 she has lain too long comfortable in Abraham's 
 bosom. I do not compare vour England to Lazarus 
 the beggar, but to that proud and righteous lady, 
 Sarah. It were well, T think, that she now went 
 forth for a season as Hagar into the wilderness. She 
 has too long reigned in peace, too long drank in the 
 ancient peace of the English lanes. She has suffered 
 too long from chronic religion. An acute attack of
 
 2S4 I" 111-: I'lRK-SEEKER 
 
 anything — of religion or irreligion, of morality or 
 immorality," he said, with great gentleness, "would 
 colossally benefit this dear and deplorable cradle of 
 freedom, the desire and the laughing-stock of all 
 the nations." 
 
 Tony's first fine fury had turned into two big tears 
 and a pain she had never felt before. She bent her 
 head, and the queerest little wish to say a prayer for 
 England welled up in her heart. 
 
 Without looking, the Slav knew of her tears, and 
 he loved feeling, lie went on more gently than 
 before — 
 
 "Acfi, gnadiges P>aulein, your I-lngland, she is a 
 sleek Protestant. She kneels before a Christ who has 
 grown lady-like. — That colossal fine word of the 
 English so full of humour ! That dear England 
 herself has grown a little lady-like. If she will not 
 be Hagar for a little lime, she wants, I think, in order 
 to renew her dreams and to drive her to think a little, 
 the fires of Smithfield with a vital impetus, this time, 
 to draw her to them, not a little matter of theology as 
 in the past. Failing voluntary sacrifice she wants 
 the great wild wars, hunger, fear, and even humilia- 
 tion," said Petrovitsch, with profound regret, "to give 
 her another Shakespeare, and the Man Christ to give 
 her back her ancient hardihood, no longer our Lady 
 of the Cross whom the good ladies love." 
 
 "Oh ! " gasped Tony, 
 
 Petrovitsch looked at her with sympathy, and 
 proceeded — 
 
 "But your England will arise, gnadiges Fraulein, 
 we cannot do without her. Ach ! we all en\'y your 
 England. Ach ! did she but know— did she but 
 know ! We rise and fall with your England, we 
 others. She has not sat patient for long ages 
 under the shadow of the gallows greedy to avenge 
 the blood of her children. The knout has not 
 eaten of her flesh and drunk of her blood. She 
 has not stood silent watching the death of hope.
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 285 
 
 England can still be saved. Hope is alive in her. 
 She is not the land of sick souls where hope is dead 
 as in our land. Her sons will not in the end have 
 to turn from her back to themselves, for in her there 
 is hope." 
 
 "But — but you were going to give up everything — 
 to do everything " 
 
 "Yes, gnadiges Fraulein. I did give up every- 
 thing. I did what I could. I emptied myself in a 
 limitless ocean, and the only thing cast back upon 
 the shore was myself." 
 
 He turned with rapt eyes and looked sheer in the 
 eye of the sun. Tony watched him in a transport 
 of confused excitement. 
 
 "But you meant to save your country," she cried. 
 
 "I thought then that I myself was the Christ in 
 whom should come the resurrection of hope, but hope 
 is still in her grave-clothes. And you cannot inspire 
 rotting men or heal sick souls. Now I live." 
 
 "But aren't you going to do anything else?" she 
 said. 
 
 "Anything else but live, gnadiges Fraulein? If a 
 man lives and watches the world it takes much time, 
 and you—" he turned his entranced eyes from the 
 sun to Tony — "and you — ach, mein Gott ! — it is for 
 you — to live and be beautiful." 
 
 "And do nothing else? I'd rather die!" She sat 
 and stared at him. 
 
 Some virtue had gone out of earth and air and 
 sky, but above all out of the man. Some great 
 inestimable thing had left him. 
 
 "He can't have given everything to a great cause 
 and just come back to himself. It would never 
 content him," she thought, after a rapid inspection. 
 "It's ludicrous ! " — She almost giggled in her nervous 
 agitation. And the old strange, vague sorrow for 
 some sorrow greater and vaguer than anything she 
 had ever imagined took hold of Tony. She was a 
 little frightened as she watched Petrovitsch exulting
 
 2S6 TIIF FIRR-SEEKER 
 
 in the sun. lie knew most things, but did he know 
 wiiat he was doing. Did he know what he had lost? 
 
 A wistful desire to do some Httle tiling, something 
 that was hke home for this man without home or 
 country, seized upon Tony. She was so helpless, 
 she had so little to give ! 
 
 "Come home," she said at last, very gently for 
 Tony, "and have tea with us to-day, with my uncle 
 and me. It's not really very late."
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 Thex'CEFORTH the friendship ran Hke cream. The 
 Colonel held out as long as he could, and rarely left 
 Tony unattended. His endeavours were heroic, his 
 pangs excruciating. Finally gout conquered. He 
 sat wrapped in cotton wool wrestling with Hugo 
 between his attacks, while Turner and Pat toiled in 
 the wake of their mistress. The tramps of the friends 
 on the uplands ranged far and wide. Sometimes 
 they took a whole day's provisions and disappeared 
 from human vision into the clouds. 
 
 Quite simply and sincerely Tony always begged 
 Olga to accompany them, but was met with a steady 
 cold refusal. Tony was sorry, but Olga's flowing 
 robes hardly struck her as fitted to such excursions 
 as theirs — and Olga and she would be together per- 
 haps in the evening and could discuss the events of the 
 day. The evening conversations threw light upon 
 many a dark saying of Olga's compatriot, sometimes 
 it thrust it still further into the night. The Colonel 
 was finding his German more insufficient than ever, 
 and Hugo slow and painful. Still, with close atten- 
 tion, he gathered enough of the sense of the dialogues 
 of the two friends to know that they embraced life, 
 philosophy, eternity and many kindred subjects. 
 There need not have been any reason for acute sus- 
 picion in his alert mind. And yet — and yet it was 
 there ! The man was of the East, and so Colonel 
 Larpent made it a rule to sit tight whenever he got 
 the chance and to listen, no matter what his personal 
 sufferings might be ! 
 
 One evening Petrovitsch drew himself slowly from 
 
 287
 
 288 THE I-IRI":-SEEKER 
 
 a reverie, apparently connected with sonie conversa- 
 tion of the morning, and went on with the cherries 
 he was absently devouring. 
 
 "You asked me, gniidiges Friiulein, if I did not 
 love my fellow-man. — Well, no, I can't say that I do, 
 not as you women count love. He is too stupid. Once 
 I loved him. That was when I myself hoped to save 
 him. But since 1 know that he must be left to the 
 ages, he has receded from me into the ages. I feel 
 him as I do the ages. I, so to speak, collect and sort 
 and classify him, and round up history with him." 
 
 "Oh! but how do you collect him?" inquired 
 Tony. 
 
 "As other men collect stamps and autographs and 
 little spoons I make collections of psychological 
 types; of impressions, of likenesses and differences. 
 I go into the little villages and live there and know 
 and watch the people. 1 come home and classify 
 them." 
 
 "Oh, the hateful, cold-bloodedness of it!" 
 
 "No, gnadiges Fraulcin, I have no illusions, but 
 I have still the warm blood. My God, yes ! The 
 chill of the ages has not yet fallen upon that — I feel 
 man. He gives me an interest. As I realise myself 
 I realise him. As I work for myself I work for him. 
 Some day I may to some extent help to heal his sick 
 brain. I will then be able to see more clearly into 
 the future of a sane community which has found itself, 
 and will yet snap its fingers at the nightmares which 
 have made it sick — the nightmares of fear and limit — • 
 the slave morality of the world. He, this sick man 
 grown sound, will then take all. He will know 
 neither regret nor remorse. He wall march onwards 
 into the sun. He will not be held or hemmed. He 
 will gain himself and have all. Give, give, give ! 
 Get ! get ! get ! " 
 
 "Good Lord!" said the Colonel in the silence of 
 his soul. 
 
 " But that's anarchy ! " gasped Tony. "You surely
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 289 
 
 don't believe in anarchy? Oh, I'm certain you don't 
 throw bombs." 
 
 "Unless in exceptional cases, gnadiges Fraulein, 
 bombs are a mistake," said the Slav, picking his teeth 
 in the shadow of his hand — his one bad habit. And 
 becoming aware that Tony had also witnessed this 
 fatal action, her guardian piously thanked God. 
 "That'll do more for her than tons of moral counsel," 
 he reflected as he comforted an aching shin. 
 
 " Bombs are the methods of the gross man with 
 the sick brain. But in self development, in psycho- 
 logical exploration, in the realms of emotion and feel- 
 ing and passion the intelligent must not be restricted. 
 The man must exploit his powers, he must stretch 
 and expand them to the uttermost." 
 
 "Oh!" said Tony. She was beginning to feel 
 giddy. 
 
 "In the matter of drunkenness now — I am by 
 nature a sober citizen." His gleaming eyes were 
 fixed upon some remote star. Tony felt with a slight 
 but appreciable pang that it had nothing to do with 
 her. "But," he proceeded, "I should blush had I 
 not experienced the joys of drunkenness." 
 
 He caught Tony's eye on him. 
 
 "Intelligent drunkenness, gnadiges Fraulein," he 
 said, with some severity, "intelligently engaged in. 
 A thinking man cannot become as a hog." He 
 paused, smiled ecstatically, and for a minute appeared 
 as though caught up in higher airs. 
 
 "And," he resumed, "a night of drunkenness once 
 in two months I consider sufficient for the self- 
 development of the man who hopes at least that he 
 stands a little above the average sick crowd. Ah, 
 those nights of blessed growth ! Those hours of 
 expansion, of mighty uplifting ! Moments there were 
 in which things no longer seemed what they were. 
 When we stood completed men, hand in hand, at 
 one with the Universe. — Ach Gnadiges ! The intel- 
 ligence that poured from us ! the pure ideas ! the
 
 20O llll- FIRE-SERKER 
 
 harmonies of the spheres ! Spirit, soul and body 
 one, and God all in all. The (Jod of the inteliii^int, 
 gnadiges I'riiulein. 'Phe intelligrnt drunki-n is in- 
 deed the greatest work of God ! In him the heart 
 speaks the uhimate truth. It no longer crouches in 
 the covert of convention." 
 
 "Oh, dear me!" groaned Tony. "One feels so 
 small and so ignorant, and one wants so frightfully 
 to know everything, and one's sorry at such amazing 
 things. It's all pretty awful, you know, but I'm 
 sorry — I actually am sorry that I've never been 
 drunk in my life, and never by any possibility could 
 be." 
 
 "It is a natural sorrow, gnadiges P'raulein ; you 
 have lost a great deal, you have in a manner lost 
 Heaven." 
 
 "Good Lord!" said the Colonel, bursting with , 
 British morality, but unable to put it into German. 
 
 The voung man partially grasped the situation. 
 He glanced with kindly tolerance at the striving 
 mentor. 
 
 "I do not countenance the drunkenness of 
 fools, you will perceive, mein Ilerr, nor do I con- 
 demn it." 
 
 "But," cried Tony, "wouldn't you help the poor 
 fool ? " 
 
 "Help a fool, gnadiges Fraulein, as he w^allows in 
 the gutter, his foolishness but intensified by the 
 Great Liberator of great men, his littleness but let 
 out? A rational man cannot help such people. But 
 because of the feeling in my inwards I w'ould lift 
 him up and wash him. It is the feeling in my heart , 
 and not the reason in my head that would cleanse the 
 drunken fool. Ah, my young lady, feel ! feel ! feel ! 
 in the depths as in the heights, feel and realise your- 
 self. We must feel first and define afterwards. Be- 
 hold and feel ! It is only afterwards that we know i 
 that all the little unsure things, the small and petty ; 
 things, run into their places in the great scheme.
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 291 
 
 Feel and fear nothing, neither Devil nor sin nor the 
 wail of the weak. Fear dulls the emotions." 
 
 "Look here, Tony," said the chaperon. "Come 
 away out of this. You've eaten three pears and four 
 apples." 
 
 "And I'm still hungry." 
 
 "Then it's for precious queer fare. Even I've had 
 a surfeit of this." 
 
 "He's suffered a lot and he's enjoying himself im- 
 mensely, and I am, too. Remember, dear darling, 
 I understand it all and you don't." 
 
 "The devil you do ! If you didn't " 
 
 "I might be as ready to go as you. Do be a dear 
 and wait, I'll translate it all later on," which indeed 
 she faithfully did. 
 
 "And," said Petrovitsch dreamily, "in reference to 
 our ever-to-be-remembered conversation of this morn- 
 ing : belief ! What does it matter ? It is the beauti- 
 ful unity of philosophy that counts. What matters 
 the difference of a little point of view between great 
 men? Behold Haeckel and Eucken, for instance, the 
 believer and the unbeliever, as they clasp hands. One 
 has worked for many decades to make naught of God, 
 the other to make Him Supreme. The work of 
 both is good. And even your God, the good God 
 of the ladies is no partisan, gnadiges Fraulein. God 
 forbid ! " 
 
 T 2
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 The first thing Ralph Pemberton knew when he 
 came back to his world was that it had missed him, 
 and this warmed the youth in him. It was like a 
 new lease of youth to him. He had felt the queerest 
 insecurity in the matter, a secret, inarticulate fear of 
 coming back like Rip van Winkle in a small way. 
 He had fallen a little too long and not long enough 
 into the rear, perhaps. He might find himself a lialf- 
 forgotten acquaintance in a company of friends. He 
 had lain low so far off the track that he could hardly 
 have resented the cool welcome, but his last coming 
 home was still a mean and sordid and inhuman horror 
 to Ralph. He shrank from any repetition of it. He 
 was a man to whom home and kindness, the honest 
 welcome of a friend, and all other quiet, simple things, 
 meant a great deal. 
 
 After he had taken his plunge and made his demand 
 and got for answer a fine roar of pleasure, he laughed 
 at his lady-like agitations, and began all over again 
 with the zest of a boy. 
 
 The land grew no less dear by reason of his world, 
 but rather the dearer. They were both infinitely good. 
 He wanted to bring the two together — to make each 
 yield up its best to the other. He lost no whit of his 
 gratitude to worms and manure, and to his friends 
 toiling at their dull tasks while he played, but he 
 wanted more for himself and for them. The old 
 desire to fill his house with fire and light, and the 
 world that belonged to it, of which it was part, came 
 back with trebled force. It rocked and ran in him ! 
 He wanted his shooting for himself and his friends, 
 not for outsiders who couldn't shoot. His last let 
 
 292
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 293 
 
 had been a scandal. Every hot desire common to 
 youth after a long abstinence once more amongst the 
 flesh-pots, ran hot in him, but being the good fellow 
 he was, he did not forget the friends who served him 
 so well. He thought of Susy's fearless excursions 
 into strange fields and her shrewd comments upon a 
 world new to her. He was even glad that Mrs. 
 Verney would now be in a position to do credit to 
 all of them in a new front. The absolute indispens- 
 ability of a sound, fixed income to a man in his 
 position was penetrating more deeply every day into 
 the sound stratum of common sense in the make-up 
 of Ralph. 
 
 There was a region of virgin ore beneath it of which 
 neither he nor any one else had any certain know- 
 ledge. Tony and Susy had guessed, indeed, and 
 perhaps his mother had known, but it was still prac- 
 tically undiscovered country. 
 
 The gay, careless crowd who gave him his welcome 
 were rather amused at a man who grubbed seriously 
 for an ideal. They knew nothing about the thing, but 
 their laughter brought the la3'er of common sense a 
 little nearer the surface and made it preponderate. 
 
 As common sense took the field, the memory of 
 Tony's eyes, and the wild tones of her 'cello, that 
 had given him courage in many a cheerless hour, 
 seemed to recede. He had heard a rumour or so of 
 the quiet, uncomplaining widow in her deserted home, 
 and it struck him that in spite of the spell in her eyes 
 and her 'cello the girl must be a minx at heart. 
 Moreover, the whispers studiously hushed up of some 
 vague row she seemed to have had with old Anthony, 
 which, so far as he could gather, had brought on the 
 old man's last stroke, rather disturbed him. He 
 remembered now, with an entirely new judgment of 
 the occurrence, how Tony had calmly rejoiced in the 
 happy dispatch of Anthony. He had laughed then, 
 but now it turned him cold. She was horribly young 
 for such cold-blooded brutality, it was unlike a girl.
 
 294 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 He met scores of girls now, and he liked tlioni all. 
 Having seen so few of late, he had grown less critical. 
 They were full of pleasant surprises and nice ways, 
 and they were gay and good-humoured. It seemed 
 impossible to imagine any of them deserting a mother 
 or harrying an old man to death. 
 
 He could not get this last thing out of his mind. 
 
 And neither the Colonel nor Mrs. Pemberlon had 
 said a word of it. There must be some truth in it, 
 something to conceal. It often came back to Ralph 
 with the curious contradiction between Tony's eyes 
 and her 'cello. 
 
 But common sense and Tony had precious little to 
 do with each other. Happily he could always get rid 
 of her in the w'orld which went so merrily and suited 
 him so well. And then one day he met a girl who 
 did all the usual things in the best way by nature. 
 She was nearly as young as Tony, and as pretty as 
 a flower. She had a pedigree as long as his own, 
 and she was a thundering big heiress. A man might 
 have the best of all good times with her and give 
 every one else the same. 
 
 And W'hat she liked best to speak about was Ralph. 
 Other girls often seemed to forget him and to think 
 of themselves or to generalise and mix him up with 
 the sum of their knowledge of men, but never 
 Dorothy. He came nearer to realising his own in- 
 dividuality when speaking to Dorothy Story than 
 ever he had done before. This was by no art on 
 the part of Dorothy; it was a natural gift. Nature 
 loved Dorothy well and had richly dowered her. 
 
 Dorothy, her father and mother, were all soothing 
 together, makers of pleasant paths for all their friends. 
 People in whose hands the country, the Church, the 
 best modes of thought, the most enlightened politics 
 and all the staple virtues are absolutely safe. They 
 guard them as does a good shepherd and permit no 
 roving. 
 
 Ralph found wonderful comfort in such fine, even
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 295 
 
 companionship, and contracted a real liking for easy- 
 chairs. The habit was growing on him when Mrs. 
 Story, always diligent in good works, caught cold in 
 a draughty committee-room and was ordered to Swit- 
 zerland. Ralph saw them off. Dorothy looked yearn- 
 ing, and spoke of the unalloyed delight of exchanging 
 the gloom of London for the sun of Lucerne, and 
 cherry-blossoms for streets. Ralph missed Dorothy 
 and his sense of growing comfort, and it struck him 
 that she would look well amongst cherry-blossoms. 
 And yet something held him back, something strong 
 and harsh and compelling. A primitive thing worlds 
 away from Dorothy. 
 
 There was no sense in the thing. At the same time, 
 it would have kept Captain Pemberton back from 
 Lucerne and the cherry-blossoms had not two old 
 friends, on their unwilling way to India, persuaded 
 him to go as far as Marseilles with them, and Mar- 
 seilles, after all, is not very far from Lucerne as the 
 crow flies. 
 
 At any rate he found himself at Lucerne. And one 
 day, after having had tea at the Wilhelm Tell Hotel 
 in the Axenstrasse, he and Dorothy had wandered 
 up the wooded heights, whilst Mr. and Mrs. Story 
 calmly contemplated the moving scene. It was a fine 
 setting to a fine pair, and the tea had been irre- 
 proachable. 
 
 Dorothy was bending over a bed of cowslips while 
 Ralph held her parasol, when his attention was 
 directed to two figures that appeared and disappeared 
 in the mazes of the rocky, precipitous path. They 
 were foreigners plainly. Ralph had taken German 
 for Sandhurst and recognised the language. And yet 
 some of the tones of one of the voices seemed strangely 
 familiar to him. His eyes kept turning to Dorothy. 
 She stood under a cherry-tree white with bloom, and 
 a shaft of sun that had broken through a rift in the 
 trees threw its orange light upon her. It suited her 
 pale, pure hues. In spite of it he listened and
 
 2<)r. Tin- I-lRl'-SFl-KER 
 
 watchotl. The voices now grew louder. They were 
 deep and low, but now they grew quirk, and the voice 
 he seemed to know went suddenly at a rush and swept 
 all before it. 
 
 "Listen," he said to Dorothy. "They seem to be 
 enga£xod upon alTairs of importance. Nothing frivol- 
 ous up there. Jf they were both men one could 
 understand, but a German man and women take 
 things lightly as a rule." 
 
 He stopped. His mouth opened with a spring, so 
 to speak, and remained fixed for a moment. Dorothy 
 started, stared and saw a girl, and her eyes sprang 
 back to Ralph. He looked absolutelv forbidding, 
 and her heart could beat again. 
 
 She stood aside with sweet girlish assured dignity 
 and awaited events. She looked in perfect harmony 
 with her surroundings. She had been prepared by a 
 genius in clothes for just such a w'ood upon just such 
 a day, and the light fell as though Heaven itself had 
 backed the artiste. The great fragrant bunch of cow- 
 slips in her small gloved hands was the last right 
 touch. 
 
 Tony looked unaffectedly disreputable. She had 
 been walking and scrambling for hours. She was 
 hung as heavily as Ophelia with flowers and creepers. 
 Her hair w'as down her back and her hat over one 
 eye. Her whole being excited to the highest pitch 
 had, until the previous moment, been immersed in the 
 Slav, and not even the most experienced can slip from 
 pure barbarism to pure civilisation in the turn of an 
 eyelid. Tony took the change awkwardly, her effort 
 was painfullv visible. She gasped and stuttered and 
 looked dazedlv into Ralph's reproving face. 
 
 "This," he said heroically, "is my cousin, Miss 
 Pemberton." He glanced with polite inquiry at her 
 companion, who looked ominously calm, ominously 
 handsome. What was worse, he looked clean. 
 
 Ralph had a quick eye, and naturally, being an 
 Englishman, would like to have killed the fellow for
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 297 
 
 his impudence. But he bore the introduction with a 
 calm to match the ahen's. 
 
 "Where's the Colonel?" he inquired, turning to 
 Tony. 
 
 " He's at home with gout. Fie has a dreadful 
 attack." 
 
 Tony was a disreputable object. There was no 
 denying it. The system of education was a rank 
 failure. And yet, through it all, it was impossible 
 not to notice the simple, almost primitive, strong and 
 noble modelling of her splendid young form, and now 
 she had recovered herself, the dignity of it. And the 
 spell of her eyes had not changed. He was sorry 
 for Tony and sorrier for himself. She brought unrest, 
 doubt and discomfort into the serene air. 
 
 The bearing of the foreigner was also acutely dis- 
 turbing. Fie appeared to be watching the proceedings 
 with the quiet, intelligent interest of an older man. 
 
 "And the fellow's four years younger than myself 
 if he's a day," thought Ralph restively. 
 
 "I thought you'd brought a maid with you," he 
 said abruptly to Tony. 
 
 "Oh, goodness ! I forgot her ! She and Pat must 
 be still behind the rock at the top of the hill," she 
 said, turning to Petrovitsch. "They'd never think of 
 moving until we picked them up." 
 
 The Slav looked slightlv more interested than before 
 and smiled the long, problematical, mirthless smile of 
 the East. 
 
 "I will escort the maid and the dog, gnadigcs 
 Fraulein, if you will join your friends." 
 
 "You're sure to be on our way home, couldn't we 
 drive you ? " said Dorothy in her perfect way. 
 
 "We're at Sisikon, but I'll go on at once and tell 
 my uncle, thank you very much. But won't you 
 come and have tea with us?" 
 
 "We've had tea," said Dorothy. "Oh, I wish we 
 hadn't, just think of it in that village, it looked all 
 cherry-blossoms and red roofs."
 
 298 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 Dorothy was so sorry for Captain Pembcrton. Her 
 one wish was to soften the occurrence for liim. His 
 cousin looked deph)rable. And where on earth did 
 they stay at Sisikon ? and it was an unheard-of thing 
 surely for a girl to go about with stray Russians? 
 In London— of course— but here ! — And, oh ! — her 
 eyes were again on Tony — "the worry to poor Captain 
 Pemberton, who likes people to be so perfectly 
 perfect." 
 
 Dorothy looked sickeningly angelic. Tony hated 
 her. 
 
 "My uncle and I will be very glad to see you all," 
 she said frigidly and foolishly. She detested not only 
 Dorothy herself, but everybody else. 
 
 She stalked on stiffly till she had turned the corner, 
 then she bolted. The devil lent her wings. She 
 arrived brcatiiless in an incredibly short time. 
 
 "Good Lord ! What's up? " said the Colonel. 
 
 "Captain Pemberton and a person who couldn't 
 have a hair astray if she tried — she's like Lucy in 
 the Mill on the Floss, only worse — will be here in 
 ten minutes." 
 
 He looked her up and down and w^histled. 
 
 "You're horrible." She hissed, and made for the 
 stairs. 
 
 How any one seething with such a variety of ill- 
 tempers could wash, dress and range herself in the 
 time she did was a marvel, but Tony did it. She 
 did it in a whirl of contradictory emotion. It mattered 
 not at all and it mattered altogether, if they remained 
 unconvinced to the day of their death it made no differ- 
 ence ! And yet if she could not convince them all the 
 very next instant she would never forgive herself. 
 
 Between emotions and the run home her cheeks 
 glowed, her eyes shone. When she w^as done with 
 it her hair was a crown upon her little head. He 
 w^ould have been a rash man who could have ventured, 
 as Tony then was, to call her sweet or amiable or 
 desirable, or anything that a young lady should be.
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 299 
 
 but when she came down she was a striking figure, 
 upon whom any man must pause to look, must specu- 
 late upon, resent a little, and perhaps hope for. She 
 was so young and so full of expectation, she made 
 those who saw her also expect — anything ! 
 
 She gave Dorothy Story the acutest pang of her 
 delicate, fine life and her parents a shock. 
 
 When Ralph had gone to order the carriage 
 Dorothy with wide eyes had explained to them the 
 awful apparition, and her own sympathetic under- 
 standing of Captain Pemberton's feelings. 
 
 "But, darling," said Mrs. Story in a careful aside, 
 "she's— er — her style " 
 
 Mrs. Story, when in doubt, left the other person to 
 finish her sentences. It made her extremely popular, 
 and she found it much more easy to lay down the 
 law graciously when you let some one else do it 
 for you. 
 
 "She's— she's ripping now," said Dorothy gener- 
 ously. "But, Mother, if you'd seen her! " 
 
 "I don't like those quick changes " She 
 
 paused, having given the lead. Dorothy was a good 
 girl. 
 
 "You'd better ask them to tea to-morrow. Mother," 
 was all she said. 
 
 "Do you think " Mrs. Story paused. 
 
 "We ought, Mother," said Dorothy heroically. 
 
 "It's such a nice rest after London " 
 
 "Tea doesn't take long." 
 
 " No dear— but " 
 
 Having done her duty, Dorothy tacitly refused any 
 further assistance and joined the others. 
 
 A delicious drowsiness hung in the air. The blue 
 of sky and lake lay as balm above and beneath them. 
 The snow-clad, jagged peaks of the mountains smiled 
 harmless as sucking doves in the soft airs. A mist 
 of purple hung about their dark flanks and feet. The 
 cruelty and the pain and the poverty of the ever- 
 lasting hills were hid in the rich veil. One remem-
 
 300 rill' FIRE-SKEKER 
 
 berod only their <rreatness and their ^lory, their 
 demand and their c:oal. The lappinc^ of the waters 
 was like a hymn of the evening. The bell of the 
 white church rang to prayer, and the priest in his 
 shabby cassock, with children hanging upon its 
 skirts, one small creature with a bandaged foot in his 
 arms, went leisurely to answer the call of the bell. 
 
 It was a lovely scene of peace. It made conversa- 
 tion. Fitting remarks flowed as by magic, and Tony, 
 looking as civilised as the best, listened as in a dream. 
 
 It was all so smooth and so correct, and she so 
 young and so silly and so impatient. She might have 
 been a stormy petrel in a company of pleasant fowls. 
 She was so soaked just then in primitive griefs 
 and primitive passions and in vague huge desires 
 that, like the young fool she was, she underrated 
 civilisation. 
 
 The company dispersed at last to think of Tony. 
 
 And she would have been extremely glad to know 
 that the thought of her made every man-jack of them 
 uncomfortable.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 The Colonel was very proud of Tony that after- 
 noon and a good deal alarmed. The various touches 
 that had made her a somewhat prickly surprise to 
 her other observers did not trouble him in the least, 
 but he felt uncommonly like an old hen in his flutter- 
 ing maternal yearnings in regard to Tony. The 
 chaperon seemed to be spreading in him. He 
 resented her encroachments, but sometimes, worse 
 luck, the jade was right ! 
 
 And now it seemed to him or to her that something 
 had shocked Tony into, at any rate, the fringes of 
 womanhood. And Tony as a woman, even in 
 portions, so to speak, would be a handful. She was 
 bad enough as an unfledged girl, especially when a 
 man has gout. 
 
 A horrible suspicion took hold of him. 
 
 "Could this be the work of the infernal Slav?" 
 
 Hitherto he had entered with more wit and under- 
 standing into Tony's attitude towards this gentleman. 
 When the chaperon was asleep in him he saw only 
 Tom in Tony, and he was well aware that Tom, once 
 on the scent of all the Slav had to yield up to him, 
 would not be put off for a trifle, and Tony was no 
 more hampered by sex in her mad hunt than Tom 
 himself would have been. 
 
 But something had happened. Tony was no longer 
 the girl who had left him that morning. She was 
 caught in one or other of the many bondages of 
 youth. The troubles of the young pup were upon
 
 302 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 her. lie felt restless and helpless and sorry and 
 sore. He slept badly, and looked forward with no 
 pleasure to the morning. Young Pemberton, witli 
 a queer look in his eye, had promised an early call, 
 and what the devil had he to do with it? The other 
 girl was plainly his affair. Nothing would keep 
 down the old woman in the Colonel. Let her in 
 by any door, and nothing will dislodge her. He 
 found himself resenting the other girl. "Why 
 couldn't the fellow- w^ait? I like him, and then — 
 why, then, I could get back to my work and a rational 
 life." 
 
 His musings ended in a succession of wicked 
 twinges which shut off sentiment. As he painfully 
 dressed it struck him that it might be as well not to 
 mention Ralph's visit. 
 
 "No use emphasising the young ass," he reflected. 
 
 Tony's night, since her suffermgs concerned her- 
 self, was worse even than her chaperon's. She awoke 
 with a headache, which breakfast did not banish. 
 This made her rather ashamed of herself. It proved 
 her to be a bigger fool than she had suspected. 
 
 Before breakfast was over Olga came to ask her 
 to go for a walk. She looked more nervous than 
 usual and more full of the burthen of herself. 
 
 Tony generally jumped at any chance of sharing 
 the amazing load, but to-day the world seemed too 
 small for both of them. She wanted her w-orld to 
 herself. 
 
 With a sagacity and diplomacy blatantly unlike 
 her, Tony wriggled out of the proposed companion- 
 ship and Olga retired in unruffled order. 
 
 Then Petrovitsch came to offer himself, and also 
 departed buoyed up with hope. 
 
 "It's the cunning of the female either conscious or 
 on the road to consciousness," mused Mentor. 
 "Tony's more or less a gone coon — God help her 
 and me 1 " 
 
 He tried tactics as an antidote. He might as well
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 303 
 
 have tried philosophy. He spent a profitless morn- 
 ing Hstening outside the closed doors of a hfe to 
 which no man has the key. 
 
 Meanwhile, Tony, having established Turner and 
 the German grammar on a mound of sun-soaked 
 moss, with a view to move a stone before her and 
 flowers for the picking, went on with Pat. He made 
 no difference ; and she could not do without some 
 human link in her great emptiness. 
 
 It was strange to her to feel such emptiness in a 
 world so full of sun. She walked in beauty. Her 
 feet went softly amongst flowers and silken grasses. 
 The snow peaks looked kind in their golden mist. 
 The waters sparkled like jewels in the morning light. 
 Joy sang in the keen clear air. Even the little 
 villages that dwell amongst the shadows were bathed 
 this perfect morning in sun. There was no darkness 
 anywhere, and no unrest except in Tony. She was 
 a horrible thing to be alone with. 
 
 She went higher and higher, now up through the 
 pines distilling incense, and at last out on a grassy 
 knoll sown with jagged rocks in which the little 
 perfect plants of the heights found root, and drew 
 down the colours of Heaven itself to paint their 
 petals. 
 
 It was a place of peace, and Tony lay down at last 
 on a carpet of gem-sown silk at the foot of the rocks 
 with her face to the sun to think the thing out. 
 
 Once or twice she shrank back as though from 
 some swift blow. Then she sat bolt upright with a 
 resolute mouth. 
 
 "It's just as well to speak the truth," she said, 
 tweaking Pat's ear. "The awfulness is all because 
 I care for him most frightfully, and it's the other girl 
 he cares for, and it began the very first minute I saw 
 him and it's been going on ever since, and, con- 
 sidering I thought I was a child and so did he, it's 
 curious. 
 
 "And," she said presently, "I didn't know it would
 
 304 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 feel as bad as this. I thought it ^vas all silliness, 
 but this — this changes exerytliing. The sun doesn't 
 warm you any more." She moved shivering into a 
 fuller shaft, but she was cold to her heart. 
 
 She got up and went farther into the sun, touch- 
 ing the warm rocks as she passed. They seemed 
 somehow to touch her back. 
 
 The answering touch of the rocks was the first 
 thing that morning that seemed to fill again for Tony 
 the world which had been emptied. 
 
 Inside her it was all pain and coldness. Throes 
 of hidden pain came up one after the other in strong 
 resistless waves. 
 
 She laughed nervously. It was so nt;w and 
 strange. It seemed somehow as though something 
 in herself was trying to overwhelm and choke and 
 drown her. She touched the rocks for comfort, and 
 looked in the eyes of the flowers, which winked 
 back at her. They were alive seemingly and under- 
 stood. 
 
 And all the time the pain was ripping fresh 
 channels for itself and coming up in waves, and the 
 more they hurt her the more understanding seemed 
 to come into the silent things about her, the rocks 
 and the flowers and the grasses. They seemed to be 
 all getting alive at a rush. 
 
 The sun no longer went indifferently on his way. 
 He took her and held her and pierced her through 
 with his warmth, and the soft airs paused to touch 
 her and think of her and to give her all they had to 
 offer. She belonged to them and they knew her it 
 seemed. 
 
 The sea of pain still broke and surged. It was 
 the first great pain of the world to Tony, and there 
 was no other to match it. Her rosy, round cheeks 
 were livid. One could believe that they had shrunk 
 a little, but she was no longer alone in an empty 
 world. She knew the silent things, and they knew 
 her. She had found a new world of live friends.
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 305 
 
 But oh ! if he hadn't cared for the other girl first ! 
 "If he'd waited, if only he'd waited ! " said Tony; "I 
 love him so." 
 
 "It's the most comfortable lookino- family I've ever 
 struck," she said presently. "I wish to goodness it 
 would meet an earthquake." 
 
 But she found that even honest rage stifles the life 
 in the silent things and shuts their eyes. So she tried 
 to mend her w-ays. With such pain as hers a girl 
 must have more than a dog can give her. So she 
 went up and up making other friends. 
 
 And now the strangest thing happened. It seemed 
 as if the pain w^anted to do something with itself : 
 it wanted to speak. It was so alive that somehow it 
 must make life. 
 
 Tony listened breathlessly. It had things to say, 
 this dreadful hurt, things to tell her and everybody, 
 and if she failed to hear they might never be spoken. 
 It was the most extraordinary moment of suspense 
 and tension. 
 
 Then all at once she caught the full sense of a 
 whisper. At the back of her brain she was aware of 
 paper and pencil somewhere on her person. She 
 fumbled clumsily till she found them, and then the 
 whispers wrote themselves down. Her fingers held 
 the pencil, but something else guided it. It stopped 
 at last, and something sobbed itself out in her; some- 
 thing great and swee,t and terrible. Something not 
 so very unlike a mother's agony of joy when her 
 child is born into the world. 
 
 And at last she could look at it, and read it, and 
 rejoice over it. Then she sprang up with a great 
 cry. 
 
 "It's a poem," she shouted to her thronging friends, 
 who heard and understood. 
 
 "I— I—didn't write it," she said, "and yet it's 
 
 mine more than anything before ever was. And — I'll 
 
 do it again ! I must — oh, I must ! I can never 
 
 stop now; I must go on — I think, oh, I think the 
 
 u
 
 3o6 THE FIRE-SEFKER 
 
 pain will drive me Oh ! oh ! that's the awful 
 
 part ! And I can tell people what they want to know. 
 Perhaps I can tell them what Father knew and never 
 said." 
 
 And then a tempest of sobs shook her and left her 
 battered and bruised. 
 
 Presently she read the lines again, and marvelled 
 and exulted. They were so great and fine and so 
 merciful. There was an immensity in them that 
 made her feel small. 
 
 "But they are mine!" she gasped. "In a way 
 they're frightfully my owm." 
 
 "Oh, what is it now?" she entreated, as she turned 
 to go down. "Oh! not more pain?" 
 
 And then to her blank astonishment her conduct 
 to her mother, her scorn, her repulsion, her smoulder- 
 ing unconfessed hatred arose before her in a singularly 
 unpleasant vision. 
 
 She had frequently professed herself to be a 
 beast in this regard, now she honestly felt herself 
 to be one. 
 
 "And such a thing as I am to have written 
 this ! " 
 
 A wild impulse to tear it up pelted through her 
 brain, and in quick repentance she hugged it to her 
 breast, 
 
 "Beast or not, I can't do that!" she said. "But 
 no matter what she was or what she did I'm awful. 
 And — and perhaps she didn't know! Oh, I'll go 
 home the instant she w^ants me — and I'll tell her so 
 to-day. And perhaps she'll be different," she said, 
 shivering. "Everything seems to be able to change 
 in a minute, so perhaps she might." 
 
 And then, having repented, it seemed to her sud- 
 denly as though something else must happen, some 
 other new thing. She waited, crouching in the 
 grass and her heart opened and words came running 
 to her lips. 
 
 "Thank God! oh, thank God I can do some-
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 307 
 
 thing! " she said. "I can tell things to people, the 
 things they want to know, so that they'll simply 
 have to listen." 
 
 It was Tony's first prayer, and Tony was always 
 before her time. It came in the highest form as 
 praise. 
 
 She dried her eyes, and it struck her to look at her 
 watch. The rest was a swirling rush for home. 
 
 •** 
 
 u 2
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII 
 
 "The young Captain's here," said Herman iraoic- 
 ally from the kitchen door, "and I have prepared 
 dishes for the Ilerrschaften which do not endure 
 waiting." 
 
 "Oh, Herman, wait just five minutes more!" 
 
 Before she even touched her hair Tony copied out 
 her verses. Then she yielded herself up to Turner 
 and beat Herman in the end. If a girl has just found 
 her first sorrow and hot on the heels of it a pearl of 
 great price, it must show in her face. Ralph put 
 it down to the infernal Slav, and, as is the way of 
 disapproving young Englishmen, uttered conventional 
 platitudes and looked heavy. The Colonel, who had 
 had a disturbing morning, looked the last man living 
 to appreciate sublime visions. Tony would have had 
 a lonely meal had she not turned in simple faith to 
 her dinner. Herman, she knew, could never fail her. 
 
 Towards the end of the meal Ralph unbent, and 
 Tony was too full of secret sorrow and secret joy not 
 to be eager to share his mood. And now that she 
 was no longer hungry she could not sit alone and 
 silent for ever. There was now too much to be silent 
 about. Moreover, she felt vaguely and with a brand- 
 new humility that now she could give something, and 
 she wanted to give it, and you can say a great deal 
 without being found out ! Even if the other girl 
 had taken all the best, she had something to give 
 that she felt perfectly convinced the other never had 
 and never could have. With an odd little secret 
 laugh, she felt rather like the dog at the master's 
 table who cats the crumbs, it is true, but can give 
 
 308
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 309 
 
 back the service due to good bread. She could give 
 him something ! She could give him something ! 
 The bleak little song rang in her ears. 
 
 The attitude became her. If Nature means busi- 
 ness, no art can beat her. 
 
 Ralph could not take his eyes off Tony, and felt very 
 keenly the seriousness of his position towards her. 
 
 "Speak to her yourself after lunch," the Colonel 
 had said to him. "She's of your name and kindred. 
 Let her see the thing as a man not much older than 
 herself sees it. Put your point of view reasonably 
 and she'll listen to it reasonably. She may consider 
 it and act upon it. I can't pretend to judge of Tony's 
 actions, much less to prophesy about them. What 
 I've got to do is to see that she has the chance to work 
 out her life in her own way." 
 
 "My aunt! What an education. These Slavs 
 are the lowest, the most erotic brutes in Europe. 
 They think of nothing else. Read some of their 
 books. I looked into one last night — in German, of 
 course " 
 
 "Damn German." 
 
 "Oh, there I'm with you, but, thank heaven, this 
 garbage isn't in English yet, and it's all mixed up 
 with genius, that's the awful thing." 
 
 "Plenty of genius in the Slav crowd." 
 
 "There are other things as well." 
 
 "If you go digging anywhere you'll find worms in 
 every spadeful." 
 
 "Worms are right enough," said Ralph, jealous 
 for his friends, "but when it comes to poisonous 
 exhalations from foreign soil " 
 
 "Tony's too healthy for poison to work in her," 
 said the faithful believer. 
 
 "Look here. Colonel. It's clear you don't know 
 the Slav," said Ralph intolerantly. He had been 
 getting up the Slav himself now for three days and 
 knew all about him. 
 
 " I have known men thirty and odd years longer than
 
 3IO THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 you, young man, and there's a Slav, without his 
 genius, in dilTerenl stages of solution in all of us." 
 
 "God forbid!" 
 
 "God never does forbid unpleasant necessities." 
 
 "We've got over him more or less in the civilised 
 Saxon — or — or he's got lost in the soluti(^n." 
 
 "Or hidden in it." 
 
 "Anyway, he's learnt to accommodate himself to 
 his surroundings and not to show himself stark, star- 
 ing naked to a girl of eighteen." 
 
 "Tony has faced a precious lot," said her guardian, 
 with spirit, "but I defy you to say that it has done 
 her any harm." 
 
 "Or any good." 
 
 "You must find that out from Tony." 
 
 "What's it going to end in?" 
 
 "Heaven knows, I don't." 
 
 "If you'd heard an appalling old person called 
 Fortescue-Drake on Tony last night, it might surprise 
 you." 
 
 "Nothing that lady could say of Tony would sur- 
 prise me." 
 
 "If a girl chooses to run the gauntlet of women's 
 tongues, she must expect to be splashed with venom." 
 
 "Tony being Tony none of it will stick." 
 
 Ralph laughed outright. 
 
 "No girl ever had such a friend, I believe; but I 
 wonder if you're the best friend for her, sir?" 
 
 "I don't know," said Colonel Larpent thoughtfully, 
 filling his pipe, "but her father thought I was." 
 
 "Perhaps," said Ralph, after a long pause, "per- 
 haps he was right." 
 
 "I hope to God he was," said the Colonel gently. 
 
 "But what's Tony to get out of it all," persisted 
 Ralph. 
 
 "I think we must leave that to Tony." 
 
 "A good deal's being left to Tony." 
 
 " A good deal. Just as much as Tony herself counts 
 for."
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 311 
 
 " I always heard you spoken of as a brave soldier, 
 Colonel Larpent." 
 
 "No braver than my drummer boy. I knew my 
 men, that was all, and I know Tony." 
 
 "You're hopeless! I'll tackle Tony herself." 
 
 So feeling very old and wise and slightly nervous, 
 Ralph took her for a walk after luncheon. Through 
 flowers and scenery he artfully worked up to the 
 Slav. 
 
 Tony listened with attention, and more than once 
 opened her eyes at him, and such a depth of pansy- 
 purple he had never seen. It gave him courage to 
 go on and get it over. 
 
 "You're frightfully young, really, you know, to be 
 out here alone — well, practically hobnobbing with 
 Lord knows who. The Slavs, you know, aren't like 
 us. They call a spade a spade, you know. They — 
 um — they say things, you know, without moving a 
 hair, you'd punch a man's head for saying in 
 England." 
 
 "But it's different altogether. To begin with," she 
 said, "the English are hypocritical." 
 
 "Oh ! " stammered Ralph. 
 
 " Besides, in a country where no one can do anything 
 openly you'd die if you couldn't sometimes think 
 aloud. They've got into the habit, and they tell you 
 just exactly what they're thinking about. They have 
 to if they're going to be friends with you. You 
 could never guess it, you know. It's silliness," she 
 said, flushing, "and awfulness and horrible; but it's 
 because they don't know any better yet. They've 
 been too miserable to think beautiful thoughts, they're 
 sort of huddled together in the dust, cowering away 
 from the gallows, and they've got dusty inside, I 
 think." 
 
 "But they needn't dust themselves in the presence 
 of clean people." 
 
 "But one would never find out if they didn't," said 
 the missionary to the Slavs dreamily.
 
 312 Till": l-IRE-SEEKER 
 
 "There are other modes by which they might ex- 
 plain themselves," said Ralph priggishly. "They're 
 the most intelligent people in Europe." 
 
 "Oh, that's tile s|)lendid thing about them ! " cried 
 Tony. "And they can see things in an instant and 
 can understand what one of us would take hours try- 
 ing to explain. They sort of jump to your thoughts, 
 you know, and put them right for you and make 
 you say them all out in the right way." She turned 
 her eyes throbbing with dreams to his. "Oh, you 
 don't know ! " she murmured. 
 
 "The deuce I don't," he thought. As a counsellor 
 he was dwindling to nothingness, but he was British 
 to the backbone. 
 
 "All very well," he blurted out. "But all they 
 think of or speak of either is making the most utterly 
 beastly love." 
 
 "But," said Tony, with amazed eyes, "are you 
 thinking of me? I'm not a Slav. Catch them mak- 
 ing it to me ! And that's just the thing. If you 
 could once break them of that habit, they have such 
 thoughts and such ideas and such dreams of what 
 they're going to do and be and become — that is, 
 when they haven't got caught somehow in themselves 
 and won't move on — as I don't believe you ever heard 
 in all your life." 
 
 "I don't for a moment believe I have." 
 
 "Then you have no right to judge them," said 
 Tony with dignity. "You should hear them on us. 
 They think us hypocrites and bleak conceited moral- 
 ists, without a spark of the spirit. The prose of 
 Europe they call us. The people that has never yet 
 dared to steal fire from heaven." 
 
 "Hang their impudence ! " 
 
 "But unless it was a little bit true one wouldn't 
 mind so horribly. They can make you feel more 
 awful than anv foreigners I ever met." 
 
 "I can well imagine it. I'd give them up if I 
 were you."
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 313 
 
 "But give them up when I'm hardly started with 
 them. Oh, you don't understand," 
 
 "I'm afraid I don't. But we're cousins, you see 
 — and— er — I hke your mother tremendously." 
 
 "And you think me a beast to her?" She waited 
 firmly, demanding an answer. 
 
 "Oh, well, the whole thing strikes one as rum." 
 
 "And I can't make it sound any better," she 
 said at last sorrowfully. "But I had to come. 
 Perhaps it was to get what these people have to give 
 me." 
 
 "Oh, my aunt! What the Slavs have to give 
 you ? " 
 
 To his extreme embarrassment her eyes were full 
 of tears. 
 
 "Yes," she said desperately. "What they have to 
 give me and make me do ! It's the Slavs and some- 
 thing else — that did it," she said incoherently. 
 "And now you come and want to take everything 
 away I was a beast for and did everything I oughtn't 
 to for. — Or perhaps you've come to show me that 
 I've found nothing and been given nothing and done 
 nothing." She stood silently before him, her face 
 slowly whitening. 
 
 Ralph felt helpless. He waited without a word. 
 
 "Oh, well ! You read it," she entreated, "and see. 
 Please, please read it carefully. Don't make a mis- 
 take whatever you do. But — if I've made one," she 
 said trembling, "tell me exactly." 
 
 "But read what?" said the amazed man. 
 
 "This," said Tony, producing her verses. "I wrote 
 it this morning. And — and I feel it's right, and I 
 couldn't have done it if I hadn't known these people 
 and their awfulness and all their misery and found 
 out another thing, but that doesn't matter. Oh, wait 
 till I get behind that rock before you begin. And, 
 please, oh, please read carefully ! " 
 
 She fled, and Ralph's eyes danced on the paper. 
 The demand in her young face was terrible, and she
 
 314 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 had asked him to decide her fate. It was her fate. 
 That was clear enough. 
 
 He felt as if he might perhaps in the next few 
 moments have to sign a death warrant. He was 
 curiously moved, the envelope shook in his hand. 
 
 "But this won't do the job?" he said, opening it. 
 
 He gasped at the first glance. He looked at the 
 roimd unformed hand and then at Tony. For no girl 
 had written this. It was the first great wild cry of 
 pain from a woman's heart in a young world. Ralph 
 was no critic of poetry, but he knew a poem. His 
 clean youth showed it to him — it showed him the best 
 part of himself and of the world, the link that can 
 never be broken which binds together God and man. 
 
 This was poetry and the work of the woman Tony 
 was going to be. Never in all his life had he felt so 
 immensely glad or so immensely sorry. Her words 
 seemed to be getting alive in him and to hurt. 
 
 "They hurt her too much," he said, "and she'll have 
 to tackle a lot for a girl." 
 
 He found her crouching behind the rock, hiding 
 her face. 
 
 "It's all right, Tony. It's right as rain," he said, 
 lifting her up. "You've done the trick." 
 
 vShe pushed him away from her and peered into his 
 face. 
 
 " Are you sure ? Oh ! are you sure ? " 
 
 "Rather! Couldn't be surer. I say, come out in 
 the sun and stop shivering. It's right, Tony, 
 couldn't be righter. Any fool could tell you that. 
 It's one of the things no man could make a mistake 
 about." 
 
 "And," she said, when she had stopped shivering 
 and straightened herself, "I'm sorry I've been a beast 
 to my mother, and I'm going home the instant she 
 wants me. I'll write to-day." 
 
 "Look here," he said, suddenly belying all his pre- 
 conceived notions of things right and fitting. "Your 
 mother's probably all right, and don't be sorry for
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 315 
 
 anything just now. I'd buck like anything at turning 
 out a poet if I were you. Only, Tony, these Slavs 
 are a queer lot, be careful a bit. You're a poet now, 
 don't you see, besides being a girl, and one would like 
 to guard you from all harm. And, Tony, I can't tell 
 you how glad I am that it's right down to the ground. 
 Do you know I think it's about the rightest thing I've 
 ever read. Only it's a bit old for you, you know." 
 
 "I've been amongst old things, I think. I think 
 I've been amongst the oldest things in the world 
 somehow."
 
 CHAPTER XXXVlll 
 
 It Avas almost time to start for the Storys' tea when 
 they came back. Ralph had come over in a friend's 
 car and was to drive them. Even in her state of 
 exaltation Tony felt that her hat was wrong. But 
 when everything had already happened to her, and 
 she had into the bargain broken into a new world, 
 what did hats matter. She had stood trembling on 
 the frontier so long, not quite sure of any place at all 
 in the land, or even of a friendly welcome, and sud- 
 denly Ralph's face had given her the freedom of 
 the heavenly country. She panted with pride and 
 humility. And as for hats or hair! 
 
 Here Turner burst in. "Oh, miss! I never did! 
 The hat you lost in the snow on Thursday. And your 
 hair — such a glass I never did — but anyway look ! " 
 
 A glance was sufficient. Tony returned to herself, 
 and with herself came back her sorrows. 
 
 To dwell even in heaven alone ! 
 
 He had thought of her in that thrilling moment 
 just as little as she had thought of herself. It was 
 not her he had spoken to, and looked at, or touched, 
 and lifted up. It was the poem. It put its value 
 beyond doubt. But she knew now all that the other 
 girl had got. 
 
 "And that's the best poem in the world," she said, 
 "and I've lost it. ' He'd rather house with a 
 viper ' 
 
 The melodrama in the condemnation held the young 
 enthusiast, she dwelt on the words, and almost ended 
 up with a bitter laugh, but catching sight of Turner's 
 mouth opening at her in the glass, feebly chuckled. 
 
 "Oh, Turner, don't look like that ! " she said. 
 
 "But, Miss Tony, when you look like that! An' 
 316
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 317 
 
 you going out to a party with real gentlefolk, where 
 things is done genteel, an' leaving that half-dressed 
 rubbidge behind you. A bit of a white neck, to be 
 sure — but necks the shape of them, an' open behind 
 an' before, an' them not knowing what dinner com- 
 pany means, it gives you a feel of nakedness, Miss 
 Tony. I wouldn't dress them necks, miss, not if you 
 was to offer me diamonds. An' that there language 
 it gives me the headache." 
 
 "Every girl of your class here. Turner, speaks two 
 languages," said Tony severely. 
 
 "I was brought up quiet and decent, miss, an' to 
 keep myself to myself. An' English enables you to 
 do that. It keeps you select. Miss Tony; only for 
 English. Goodness, gracious, miss, if you knew the 
 cheek of them foreigners." 
 
 "You'd be far better able to squash it with a little 
 German, Turner. So do two exercises while I'm out." 
 
 "Oh ! miss, an' the day that beautiful ! " 
 
 "I say, Turner," said Tony, getting furiously red, 
 "do you care for Jim properly? Most fearfully, you 
 know. You never told me. Does he come into every- 
 thing, and make everything beautiful, even the dull 
 days and horrid people ? " 
 
 "Lor' ! Miss Tony, the quietest young man you ever 
 came across. I never could abide a forward fellow. 
 Jim keeps his place, miss, and does as good a day's 
 work as you'd wish to see, and writes regular once 
 a week. I'm well content with Jim, Miss Tony, more 
 especially after them prcsumin' foreigners." 
 
 "Oh ! " said Tony, with a slight gasp. 
 
 "You do look that pretty one could eat you. Miss 
 Tony. An' now, miss," she added solemnly, "leave 
 off from thinking of them half-dressed slaves. I saw 
 a picture of one of 'em once in some market where 
 they sell an' buy 'cm, and I wanted to throw a sheet 
 over it. An' that young man, miss, you'd know he 
 wasn't right by the set of his tie. It don't take much 
 to show you. That quiet and civil-spoken to make
 
 3i8 TIIR FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 vou blusli, artful eiKnigh, no doubt, but all the art of 
 Europe \vt)uldn't make Christian l^nj^lish gentlefolk 
 out of 'em." 
 
 "Mr, Bebikoff would rather die than be that sort 
 of thing, Turner." 
 
 "I know 'em, Miss Tony," said the experienced 
 one; "he says that to make your eyes flash. One 
 has the sight of one's eyes, thanks be, even if one 
 hasn't their language. Forget the lot of 'em. Miss 
 Tony. I won't remember they're alive when once 
 I'm safe back in England again," said Turner. 
 
 The higher education of Turner would, to be sure, 
 seem to present some difficulties. 
 
 When Tony left him Ralph paused to collect his 
 wits, then made for the Colonel. 
 
 "She wants more care than any girl I ever came 
 across," he said, "and yet, how the devil is one to 
 look after her ? " 
 
 "That has been striking me for some time past." 
 
 Ralph sat down and began rooting up the dusty 
 gravel. "She knows what she's after; no one has 
 the right to go between it and her." 
 
 "That, too, has struck me." 
 
 Ralph sent the dust flying. 
 
 "Of all the irritating old maids ! " he reflected. 
 
 "Do you know she's a sort of a genius," he rapped 
 out. "She's just showed me some verses she wrote 
 this morning under the inspiration of the Slavs ! so 
 I gather." 
 
 "Ha! I thought something was coming to a head 
 in Tony." 
 
 "It's a thing no girl ought to be able to write. 
 It's the work of a woman who's had the devil of a 
 time of it. It's what she wanted to say that night 
 on her 'cello, and couldn't, I think. It will make you 
 sit up, I tell you." 
 
 "She's stumbled somehow into the souls of that 
 unfortunate crowd, I believe," said the Colonel. 
 
 "A nice place for a girl to land in, and alone, too !
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 319 
 
 That thing she's just written would set every drop 
 of their damned blood aflame. Good God ! What 
 will it all end in for Tony?" 
 
 "I think," said Colonel Larpent, "in a passion con- 
 siderably bigger and purer than the typed attraction 
 that sends modern lovers loitering up the aisle in 
 satin and morning coat. For one of her own race, 
 of course," he thoughtfully added. "The old simple 
 thing that comes first and lets everything else go hang." 
 
 Dozens of emotions were following each other in 
 Ralph; he didn't know which of them to start with 
 when Tony, ready for the road, saved him the trouble 
 of starting at all. 
 
 She looked gay, but her gaiety wasn't infectious in 
 the way it generally was. Neither of the men wanted to 
 be gay with her. They wanted to do something for her. 
 
 Ralph did half-a-dozen little things to protect her 
 from dust and sun, and felt a reluctant pleasure in 
 placing her slim, arched feet on the footstool. The 
 Colonel smoked grimly on the back seat and cursed 
 Lucilla, as he always did when Tony wanted more 
 than he could ^ive her. 
 
 Ralph seemed to have awakened all at once from a 
 drowsy dream, and to be gathering in all his senses. 
 There was something of the close, sustained attention 
 of a man tuning up the slack strings of a violin in 
 his mood. Everything in him seemed to have dropped 
 a note. 
 
 The sting from the snow-peaks felt good in his 
 nostrils. The rush through the keen air went well 
 with his mood. He wished suddenly that he was 
 driving away from heated rooms and soft voices into 
 the wholesome hardness of the great massed moun- 
 tains with Tony. It was she who was bringing back 
 their lost vigour to the slack strings. 
 
 It was she, in short, who was disturbing him in his 
 complacent contemplation of as peaceful and pleasant 
 and profitable a life as a man could well map out 
 for himself.
 
 320 TIIK FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 Tony was a disturber by nature. She could scatter 
 discomfort into the most comfortable circle yet created. 
 She could hurt helpless, tender things unused to the 
 hard ways of simple facts. 
 
 But Tony was beside him and he could think of 
 nothing else. She was beside him, this purveyor of 
 universal discomfort and of new life. He could not 
 get away from her or forget her. He had heard the 
 cry of her soul and seen the tears of her heart, and 
 they tormented him. He had ravished her of all her 
 secrets, and in a way she already belonged to him. 
 
 She had shaken him harshly out of a pleasant sleep. 
 She was a hard task-master, Tony ! but she was beside 
 him, warm, alive, demanding ! 
 
 And that infernal Slav to be the first to surprise 
 her into telling her secrets ! The very thought of the 
 fellow drove him at prohibitive speed for some time. 
 In a fierce impulse of protection he put his arm round 
 her to draw in the end of her flying cape. She was 
 bewildering him, maddening him, and he wanted 
 neither to be bewildered nor maddened. He wanted 
 nothing of the sense of strong pain and tragic sacri- 
 fice that was drawing him irresistibly to Tony. He 
 had grown used to comfort and common sense. 
 Things were settling down for him in precisely the 
 right way. 
 
 But still Tony was beside him ! 
 
 At the same time Dorothy was before him. 
 
 And — he was not sure. He had been drowsing now 
 for six weeks and was not precisely aware of what 
 had happened. He wanted to think straight. To 
 think as he had always acted. But nothing would 
 dislodge Tony. She came closer as Dorothy came 
 nearer. Common sense was silent. The cry and the 
 tears he had stolen stopped its mouth. 
 
 It lay solidly waiting for its turn, all the same. 
 
 And presently echoes from the pleasant, informing, 
 satisfying weeks he had spent came back to him, 
 weeks spent in cultured comfort and the atmosphere
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 321 
 
 of quiet, observant approval full of the lovely faith 
 of pure hearts. Nothing, as he knew well, is so estab- 
 lishing and uplifting to the soul of a man tired with 
 honest labour. 
 
 What weeks they had been ! The meaning of them 
 came back now with new life. They seemed to fall 
 like dew into the fever of his blood. 
 
 But Tony knew nothing of the divided mind of a 
 man and its devious windings. For her, body, soul 
 and spirit, the world and all that was therein was full 
 of one man, and knew no shadow of change or turn- 
 ing. He filled everything, and she loved him, that 
 was all. There was no room in her for anything but 
 love. No room in the world for anything but one 
 man. She was a flame of love to love him. He was 
 everything. And so she saw everything in the light 
 of her great love, and such a state as a divided mind 
 was invisible to her. 
 
 But suddenly she saw things better hid from her. 
 Things that other girls grow to with years and tears. 
 She saw the tragedy of a life alone and of a long, 
 long silence. Of everything changed in herself, and 
 the world just as it was before. It was a horrible, 
 voiceless loneliness. It divided her in a curious way 
 from her friends. It took the adventure from life. 
 And nothing would have changed ! She felt a resent- 
 ful envy of the careless world going on with her 
 outside it. 
 
 The hepaticas would be sapphires melting into 
 amethysts spring after spring. The scent of the 
 mezereum would be calling worshippers into the 
 hearts of a hundred woods. Other children would 
 hang on other priests who had given up also the full 
 joy of them for the love of God. Year after year the 
 cherry-blossoms would be as white, the almond- 
 blossoms as pink, and the bells of the churches on the 
 hill-tops would spray blessings upon the valleys as 
 the evening fell. 
 
 And spring mornings would come, and men as 
 
 X
 
 322 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 miserable and as deeply scored with incomprehensible 
 wounds as the Slav would go out in them seeking 
 peace. 
 
 Her heart throbbed now for the vague anguish that 
 had often made her want to shake him. Everything 
 would be just the same. She would have to watch it 
 all alone, that was all. 
 
 She felt old already. She saw herself with a 
 withered face and gasped. 
 
 "But I can still tell people things," she protested. 
 
 But that didn't seem enough now. The magic was 
 gone from her one reserve of power ! 
 
 And then something sprang up in her that made 
 her cower and cringe. An odd, unknown shame as 
 for some vital thing left out. It seemed to grip and 
 shake her. She wondered and searched, but the thing 
 was hid from Tony. It was too strong and strange 
 and horrible to be revealed in the light of love. 
 
 And still every woman has felt it, or suppressed it, 
 or carried it unconfessed even to herself to her grave, 
 or thrown it with the other inarticulate anguishes of 
 poor W'Omen into the illimitable heart of Christ, there 
 to be cleansed and made lovely and put to His uses 
 somewhere — somehow. It was the fierce hatred of the 
 natural bearer of life for the barren. Her recoil 
 from the horror of her gift and her birthright as the 
 renewer of life being taken from her. It was the 
 brutal contempt of the fruitful for the unfruitful. It 
 was the woman's bitter cry for her God-given right. 
 And pain had ripped this startling uprush of tragic 
 cruelty from the wild young heart of Tony. But love 
 called out in a cry as inarticulate for forgiveness. 
 
 She was afraid of this world of feeling in which she 
 found herself. She was afraid of the horror of solitude 
 in which she seemed to stand. 
 
 She wanted to rest and to be left in peace for a 
 moment. It seemed as though something violent had 
 been done to her. 
 
 It would have been impossible for any man, himself
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 323 
 
 astir with unbidden emotions and conflicting interests, 
 not to be curiously affected by such a seething-pot as 
 Tony beside him. 
 
 And Ralph was not sure of anything, of where 
 he stood, of how far he had committed himself, or if 
 honour entered into the question at all. 
 
 But even if it did he had to think of her. She was 
 beside him. 
 
 And looking back, he saw her child's eyes of 
 entreaty as she had waited for her fate. Her child's 
 acceptance of his judgment. Then he remembered 
 himself a little, and the hardness of his life. 
 
 He had had enough of it. A pleasant saunter 
 appealed strongly to something as deep down in his 
 nature as it was ineradicable. A desire almost fierce 
 in its intensity took hold of him to see the fires alight 
 again in his old home, and the lamps burning. At 
 once, without delay ! He wanted to seize the whole 
 of youth, the whole of life and pleasure ! 
 
 He resented Tony immensely. But she was beside 
 him. He felt her immensely. He had had enough 
 of worms and manure, with hostility still for his 
 pains, and a credit at his bank laughable when one 
 thought of his position. 
 
 And the years would go and youth with it. By the 
 time he had started gout he might possibly be able 
 to hunt and shoot his own game. As for polo — that 
 went with youth. 
 
 And after all, he knew very little of Tony. A girl 
 who can absorb herself in a Slav ! 
 
 Still Tony was beside him ! 
 
 And so the silent duet went on, and at last they 
 pulled up before the Schweizerhof. 
 
 X 2
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX 
 
 The instant Ralph entered the Schweizerhof the 
 air seemed to affect him. The layer of common sense 
 in him, partially porous now, and shot throuf^h with a 
 thousand radiantpointsof light, settled down and grew 
 opaque. Tony felt a little farther off. The rumours 
 of old Anthony's closing scene stirred in his memory. 
 The quiet tastes born and bred in him for hearth and 
 home and the established order, w-ith the addition of 
 Caesar's wife in an entirely English setting, fetched 
 him back with a strong hand from the deeper, more 
 perilous desire. The desire which makes heroes and 
 drives men mad. Which destroys and builds the 
 world and makes heaven and hell. A sudden flight 
 into those larger chambers of the air sometimes makes 
 a man giddy. He is glad to alight again upon known 
 soil. And the earth is jealous for her immemorial 
 rights, she makes herself feel good under a man's feet. 
 And blinded by the full light of life and scorched by 
 its fires, the shadows give a man security and cool. 
 
 But Tony was at home where he was still a stranger. 
 The eyes of her soul had been opened. She knew 
 he did not love her. But so alive was she with the 
 wonder that is love, it seemed impossible to be as big 
 and strong and alive as he and not to love. So she 
 was now perfectly sure it was Dorothy, and fell to 
 trying with all her might to face her properly. 
 
 As she w^ent up the stairs she was beset by a sudden 
 fear of betraying herself. She turned her burning 
 face from Ralph. It seems horrible to betray the 
 greatest secret of all. 
 
 And yet love was too great and high and holy to 
 
 324
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 325 
 
 be ashamed of ! Who would dare to despise her for 
 having the best thing in life, for being it and breath- 
 ing it and living it. So she resolved just to follow 
 love's leading, and not to think of herself at all. 
 Love must lead her right and think her thoughts for 
 her, and choose her words. 
 
 The forces of Nature are true and kind and faithful 
 if you have the courage to put them to the test, and 
 when youth, the egoist, can forget itself for the greatest 
 of them all, it becomes invincible. So love's hand- 
 maiden brought love in on a lordly dish and served 
 it round. 
 
 Even poor little Dorothy, who had her own opinion 
 of the big dark girl, was won over, and Dorothy's 
 parents felt drawn together in an odd way. They 
 remembered slight foolish doings, sweet and wild, 
 they had both long outgrown. They were not as 
 ready as they might have been with the fine wholesale 
 condemnation of the unknown common to the best 
 type of British parental conscience. 
 
 "You're younger than I am," said Dorothy, as the 
 girls stood together on the balcony of their palatial 
 room after tea. "You're not out yet, and the 
 other day you looked like a child, and yet I feel 
 younger." 
 
 Tony looked down at her with the sad wise eyes of 
 a mother. Dorothy was so perfect and right. No 
 wonder a man should love her. She was so glad she 
 was smaller than herself — just the right height, she 
 remembered, with a sudden pang. It chokes you to 
 be touched at every point by perfection. 
 
 Tony sighed. 
 
 "I'm years older in a way," she said. "I've been 
 living lately with the most frightfully grown-up 
 people, so that you seem a child to me." 
 
 "Oh," said Dorothy dubiously. Tony's motherly 
 eye was still upon her, and she did not feel altogether 
 at ease under its searching glance. 
 
 Tony was diligently searching out perfections and
 
 326 THE FIRI'-SIUlKER 
 
 being new to the business was somewhat slow. And 
 Dorothy ivas wonderful. Tony felt that in her place 
 she must have let her triumph and exultation leak out 
 a little. She could never have hidden such a world 
 of delight, and Dorothy was so sweet and calm. She 
 scored over her in evervthing. No wonder he loved 
 her ! 
 
 "But," said Dorothy, "I've been with grown-up 
 people too. I've had no end of a rush and no end 
 of a time this last year. I was thinking the other 
 night of all the people I've met and all the things 
 I've seen and done, and it almost took my breath 
 away." 
 
 "But they were all as comfortable as they could be," 
 said Tony. "They never wanted anything properly." 
 
 "Oh, didn't they?" Dorothy was thinking of one 
 or two W'ho had wanted her. 
 
 "But," said Tony, "they didn't want things in the 
 way — oh, well, you know, in the way wild beasts 
 want to eat you." 
 
 "Oh, goodness! " gasped Dorothy, "no ! Are you 
 thinking of these Russians, Tony — I may call you 
 Tony, mayn't I? — with the necks?" 
 
 "I'm not thinking of the Russians altogether. 
 Some of them do want things frightfully. They seem 
 able to see everything, and they want it all. The less 
 they have the more they want. It's aw'ful, don't you 
 think, to see so much and have so little ? To be dying 
 for the freedom we think nothing about. The free- 
 dom just to be a human being, and not to be afraid 
 at every turn of the gallows and the knout and 
 prowling wretches of policemen. I don't think you 
 ever really know what wanting things means until it 
 makes you sort of pant for your rights like w-olves for 
 blood.'' 
 
 "Oh, Tony, don't!" 
 
 "That's it," said Tony. "Being comfortable keeps 
 you young. And it makes you look ripping. I really 
 don't see a fault in vou, Dorothv."
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 327 
 
 "Tony, you are a dear ! At first I was rather afraid 
 
 of you — but now Are they all panting like 
 
 that?" she inquired, with unworthy curiosity. 
 
 "No. Some of them want nothing but to lie in 
 the sun and think of themselves. They've been want- 
 ing too long and getting nothing. They're tired out 
 with disappointment." 
 
 Dorothy's large hazel eyes blinked. It was all so 
 unusual and interesting. 
 
 "Sometimes I lie awake at night," said Tony, "and 
 think of the wolves on the steppes. They're so lonely 
 and so hungry and their children want food, and no 
 one will give them any, and every one hates them. 
 And after all it's not their fault they weren't made 
 nice and tame like dogs. Any more than the Slavs 
 aren't made to play tennis and hand round tea." 
 
 "I believe you like everybody, Tony." 
 
 "Oh, no, I don't. There's a woman I know I'd 
 give anything to throw to the wolves. She's fat, too. 
 They'd love her." 
 
 "Oh, Tony! You'd never do it," said Dorothy, 
 divided between hope and fear. 
 
 "I would; at least I'd get some one else to throw 
 her and I'd watch. She keeps a little white slave and 
 it would set her free. No one likes throwing bombs, 
 but some day it might happen that a man had to 
 throw one." 
 
 "I don't believe you could hurt any one," said 
 Dorothy, staring. 
 
 "Oh, yes, I could. If you can hurt yourself 
 horribly, you could hurt other people- — so long as 
 the rest hurt less if you and the other person hurt 
 more." 
 
 "That," said Dorothy astutely, "is love — in a way." 
 
 "Perhaps it is, but it's a way every one wouldn't 
 like. Perhaps it's best to be comfortable. Looking 
 at you makes one think it is. I'm glad you're just 
 like you are." 
 
 "But why?" said the astonished Dorothy.
 
 328 TIIl<: FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 "You're such a contrast to the last year, and you 
 look just right." 
 
 "But none of us could look like those necks even 
 in our lowest frocks," said Dorothy, deeply puzzled. 
 Tony couldn't enlighten her, so she went on with 
 something else. 
 
 "It's not only the Russians who want things like 
 wolves — or don't want them, like wolves, too, starved 
 to meekness. There were others. I knew a musician 
 in the Black Forest who wanted the whole world to 
 make music for him. He seemed to hear tunes in 
 the stars and the sun and the moon, and to want to 
 tear them out to make them his very own tunes. We 
 composed a fugue together. I play vilely, but being 
 with him brought things to me from somewhere. He 
 said I helped him," said Tony humbly. 
 
 "Oh, do go on ! Were there any more?" 
 
 "There was an ethicist, and no wolf ever panted 
 for blood as she did to make me believe as she be- 
 lieved. I'd rather have died. And a theosophist : 
 he panted too. His eyes sw-allowed you up. I'd like 
 to have understood what he wanted, but I don't think 
 he understood it himself. It was too enormous. 
 Worlds upon worlds, you know\ Oh, there were 
 others too, and they all wanted things in a way com- 
 fortable people never could. And once I cared for 
 some one most aw?fully. It was my father, I don't 
 mind telling you, Dorothy. He wanted things more 
 than any one else wanted them before, and he died 
 wanting them. If you once saw any one die wanting 
 
 things like that Oh, well, you know ! That's 
 
 wjiy I look older than you, I think." 
 
 She paused to contemplate the soft charms of her 
 companion. There was something of the shy worship 
 of a boy in her face. 
 
 Dorothy felt keenly flattered. 
 
 "And that's why I don't think I'll ever make people 
 very comfortable, you know. I'll be always wanting 
 them to do big, splendid, impossible things, and
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 329 
 
 these are generally horribly unpleasant. Every one'll 
 tell you that." 
 
 "Oh! And I just want them to be happy," said 
 Dorothy, with a heavenly smile, "and to have every- 
 thing they want and to use it all in the nicest way, 
 of course, and to be kind and good to every one. I'd 
 never want them to go anywhere I couldn't come 
 too." 
 
 "But do you suppose I should? Do you suppose 
 I'd want any one to do anything, or to bear anything 
 that I couldn't do or bear myself? Or that I'd 
 stay at home comfortably while they were out in the 
 storm? Why, the biggest fire wouldn't warm you if 
 other people, the people that matter, w^ere cold." 
 
 "Oh, Tony! It's like colonists' or missionaries' 
 wives. I'd— I'd hate it." 
 
 "So should I often ; but I think I'd hate being com- 
 fortable more in the end. Don't you see," she said, 
 frowning, "it's different with me. I've seen the end." 
 
 "Perhaps when you're out," said Dorothy wistfully, 
 hoping against hope, "things w'ill change. They do. 
 I've found that out." 
 
 "Perhaps they will," said Tony. "But they'll 
 never make me look as if I was made for comfort and 
 to make people comfortable in the perfectly splendid 
 way you do. You've got all the niceness out of 
 comfort, I think, and none of the horridness." 
 
 It was so new and interesting to be praised by a 
 girl that Dorothy blushed with pleasure and looked 
 exquisite, and just then Ralph came in and the con- 
 ference ended. 
 
 He had been called down to see a friend who was 
 going to England, and as he stood waiting under the 
 verandah w'hile the man gave his orders, he had heard 
 snatches of the girls' conversation. He was amused 
 and disturbed. In the high and radiant airs brought 
 in by Tony, Dorothy had shown to the full her gift 
 of sweet reasonableness. And the clear pellucid 
 light in her trustful eyes had seemed to heal the rift
 
 330 Tin*: FIRK-SERKER 
 
 in his mind. By the time tea was over he was one 
 with himself, full of a content he had not enjoyed for 
 days. He turned to Tony, the disturber of peace, and 
 suddenly the rift sprang open again. Then the man 
 he was seeing ofif had said with a laugh, "I say, Pem- 
 berton, is that your cousin who ran away from her 
 mother and practically killed old Anthony?" The 
 man being urgently called away, Ralph had no time 
 then for question or answer, but seeing the Colonel 
 smoking in the background, he plumply asked him 
 for an explanation of the thing, and without demur 
 or comment Colonel Larpent gave it. 
 
 Ralph whistled and rejoined his friend, and the rift 
 had widened. 
 
 Dorothy was a born healer of wounds, a knitter-up 
 of ravelled threads. He had half a mind to ask her 
 to come with them on the return drive, but the rift 
 seemed to be getting rather beyond the gentle touches 
 of Dorothy. It was a man's job. 
 
 Besides, Tony was his immediate business. She 
 had been iDadly hurt in that affair of i\nthony through 
 him. It was out of the question, of course, to speak 
 of the beastly occurrence, but there were other ways. 
 
 With Tony beside him the strange adult pain in 
 those verses he had forgotten in the heat of the day 
 came back in the evening cool. They disturbed his 
 peace in a new way. She had been sitting beside 
 him, now she floated a little above his head. A man 
 likes to touch a woman close, not to have to reach out 
 to her. 
 
 Ralph had all the faults of his age and of the sur- 
 roundings which had been. his for years. In his child- 
 hood he had indeed had a mother with a rich imagina- 
 tion and a rich emotional life. He had lived with 
 her in the magic of great white silences amidst 
 miracles of swiftness and change. He had seen i\ 
 world of flowers born in a night. Torrents of pent 
 waters let loose in an hour in the burning kiss of 
 the sun. A whole countryside red tongues of flame,
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 331 
 
 Plains of wheat sown, reaped and stored while one 
 watched. He had looked with her across wide 
 distances and seen the dim outlines of unknown hills 
 and the wizard play of unknown lights upon them. 
 And he had heard stories of "All of us " in the brown 
 twilight. 
 
 He had found these half-remembered things again 
 in his hard months upon the land. He had seen 
 the light and heard the voices. He had not been 
 altogether disobedient to the heavenly vision. 
 
 But in the soft pause in Capri the lights and voices 
 had grown very faint. He had hardened into a con- 
 ventionalism foreign to the early determining years of 
 his life, foreign to all that remained entirely true to it. 
 
 And to this man's necessity every atom of Dorothy 
 
 appealed. 
 
 ****** 
 
 The Slav, with his infernal, amused smile, stood 
 under the porch as they drove up, and a sudden 
 beautiful light in Tony's eyes seemed to fall upon 
 him and glorify him. 
 
 Ralph was intensely angry. He ached to kick the 
 fellow down the street — and make off with Tony into 
 the mountains. 
 
 But he would already be late for dinner. 
 
 He left Tony still love's handmaid, holding out her 
 royal dish to the one being on earth she was nearly 
 as sorry for as she was for herself. She looked some- 
 what too beautiful for earth. Ralph raged furiously, 
 all the wild drive back. 
 
 Dorothy that night hovered like a benediction about 
 him. She was as peace after pain.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 Hitherto the friendship of Tony had been the 
 most bracing influence in the hfe of the Slav. At 
 times it had, indeed, been so bracing as to have had 
 very much the effect of a needle bath upon his shiver- 
 ing frame. There were moments when Petrovitsch 
 had taken Tony with clenched teeth. But he had 
 taken her. He had not flinched. Her novel fascina- 
 tion was enormous. She had more than once startled 
 him into a brand-new outlook upon practically 
 everything. 
 
 The outlook was revolutionary and supremely dis- 
 turbing. It seemed to interfere with a man's God- 
 given rights, to entrench upon the sacred and inviol- 
 able stronghold of his "being," the divine Ego. The 
 monstrous demand, the inhuman ideals of this amaz- 
 ing English Miss were a genuine shock to a sensitive 
 system. It jarred and tingled under such rude and 
 disintegrating impact. Counsels of perfection of an 
 order so direct and violent were infinitely distressing 
 to one born in far other traditions. 
 
 No woman had ever hurt him as this sublime 
 virago, with the deep, low, warm voice made for the 
 consolation of man. She ravaged the heart, this 
 curious Miss, even as she hammered the emotions, 
 those colossal fine emotions which were, after all, 
 divine. The one thing a woman, with such a voice 
 and eyes like hers ought to understand and to spare. 
 
 But she spared nothing, this cold triumph of a 
 wholesome land of liberty. This casket of cruel 
 virginity, judging man by herself. She could turn 
 as a two-edged sword in the tender inward being of 
 a man. She provided moments unparalleled for vital 
 agony. 
 
 332
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 333 
 
 But the strongest of all Petrovitsch's innumerable 
 passions was that for novelty in women, and he had 
 found it. The opportunity was a mighty one, and 
 without preparation of tradition or birth or custom 
 or environment Petrovitsch had handled it as one to 
 the manner born— in his own way always understood. 
 
 No one but a Celt or a Slav could have kept his 
 balance upon the giddy and unaccustomed heights to 
 which Tony airily called him up, or — unfitted as he 
 was by nature and instinct — been so long worthy of 
 her absolute and limitless trust in him. 
 
 So long as Tony remained incomprehensible to the 
 intellect of Petrovitsch in the sole guardianship of his 
 intuition, she was as safe as though she had walked 
 with angels. But virginal severity melting in the 
 bleeding heart of love must bring in a factor with 
 which the intellect will inevitably deal. 
 
 The Slav's brain, clearer than ever for its little 
 rest, now began to catch glimpses of a light it knew 
 too well. He began to walk all at once on firm 
 ground. He was feeling his feet again. 
 
 When they had gone exploring in strange airs, 
 listening together to the music of the spheres, he had 
 gone with bowed head ; now he looked at her. The 
 noiseless fall of secret dividing barriers he felt going 
 on in Tony excited and thrilled him. The fire in her 
 blood fired his. Her sorrow fiercely moved all his 
 emotions. The transcendental Miss trying the 
 jewelled wings that would lift her to womanhood 
 filled Petrovitsch with a sense of wild exultation. It 
 stirred his many gifts to life. His voracious habit of 
 speculation, observation, selection and classification 
 was all agog. 
 
 The Slav had a power of mental vision that, with 
 suitable stimulus, could widen indefinitely. He now 
 beheld the whole stiff, stilted nation of shops and 
 sanitary improvements and Bibles, the forbidding 
 and virtuous prose of the earth flashing in the person 
 of the English Miss to a supreme poem. It would
 
 X^4 TIIK FIRK-SEEKER 
 
 be the death, no doubt, of that ponderous and voice- 
 less being. But what mattered it? England had 
 sung ! (Jnce again had this incomprehensible people 
 done the impossible ! 
 
 In the hard light of an intellect touched with 
 imagination Tony, for a few hours, was cosmopolitan 
 and a symbol. 
 
 If her immense desire in her own utter misery not 
 to be a beast had not made Tony adorable, all things 
 might have gone well with her and Petrovitsch. 
 Petrovitsch had his own preoccupations. Olga was 
 already jealous — fiercely jealous, and when there was 
 no cause for the embarrassing passions, they bored 
 Petrovitsch. 
 
 Olga, moreover, was human to the marrow^ of her 
 bones. She could use a knife if needs be. She had 
 once used one to some purpose on a lover who richly 
 deserved it. Petrovitsch had applauded the fine spirit 
 of Olga in the affair. 
 
 But knives and the English Miss were poles apart, 
 and that Olga should commit herself w-ithout a 
 shadow of reason w^ould have seemed to him the very 
 acme of bad taste. 
 
 He had told Olga so in the most reasonable way. 
 He valued the friendship of Olga. It was like coming 
 home to stroll up and down the white road with her 
 in the evening after a long tramp in the heights. To 
 watch her slanting eyes so dark with passion, to 
 follow the soft movements of her subtle, rounded 
 body. Olga was an indispensable part of his life, 
 altogether remote from this apotheosis in psycho- 
 logical experiment. 
 
 Olga's rages and tremors in regard to Tonv out- 
 raged him. A man wants quiet in the twilight after 
 a long walk amidst alien counsels of perfection. He 
 likes to draw round the watch fires of his tribe in 
 peace. 
 
 And Olga was difificult — peculiarly difficult. Olga 
 •was before philosophy was thought of. You could
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 335 
 
 never turn philosophy on to Olga, whatever you might 
 do with the English Miss. 
 
 Olga was of the great primeval earth. She was 
 born of her elements. She had squatted by her fires. 
 Her sombre eyes spoke of the past. Her voracious 
 intellect dominated the future. She was complete 
 woman, of the insatiable intellect, unquenchable 
 passion, limitless desire, who had torn freedom from 
 the heavens. Who denied nothing, scorned nothing, 
 and feared nothing in order to choose the best. 
 
 Olga was the great natural w'oman wdio could look 
 with unhooded eyes into the heart of the sun, into the 
 depths of her own heart and of her own youth and 
 into man's, and live out her heart and her youth to 
 the uttermost — live — like the flowers and the trees, 
 rejoicing and bringing joy. Steadfast to Nature, un- 
 moved by convention. Olga was the woman who 
 had found her wings. The great forerunner of a new 
 race. 
 
 The English Miss was a beautiful problem. The 
 flower and the wonder of the past. 
 
 There had been until now ample room for both 
 Olga and Tony in the hospitable economy of Petro- 
 vitsch. It was Tony herself who tipped the scales. 
 If a girl becomes adorable at a rush she must choose 
 her company. 
 
 And the Slav was as instantaneous as Tony. A 
 fury of life rocked through his veins. His feelings 
 were caught in the mad whirl. 
 
 Olga had cause at last for her tremors. Her 
 imagination, morbid with her slavery to sex and 
 strength and authority, whipped her heart. She 
 suffered untold things. To restrain any emotion, 
 unless when the cunning of weakness makes it advis- 
 able, never even occurs to the Slav. Petrovitsch had 
 an extremely disagreeable time of it. 
 
 The gentle sympathy of the English Miss for his 
 unspoken grief fell upon him with the refreshing 
 surprise of a flow of sweet waters from a hard rock.
 
 336 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 He bathed in it, and bc|c:an to re^i^ard OIpi's com- 
 plainings as an unwarrantable interference with the 
 smooth flow of life. 
 
 Some ineffable touch of warmth in the purity of 
 Tony made it more close and human. It became a 
 thing to share and in which to feel at home. 
 
 She, too, was alight and glowing. She, too, 
 warmed and set afire. She, who until now- had calmed 
 a man into the chill awe that is perhaps heaven. 
 
 It was as though a sunbeam were born in the heart 
 of a star. 
 
 As he set forth for a tramp with Tony and Pat and 
 Turner w-ith the rucksack of provisions of which he 
 politely relieved her, it was the most entrancing day 
 of Petrovitsch's life. 
 
 The English Miss was no longer an abstraction !
 
 CHAPTER XLI 
 
 When Ralph got back to the hotel he found chaos 
 afoot. Mr. Story had received news of a serious 
 accident to a friend and had left for England almost 
 directly Ralph had gone, and a slight chill of which 
 his wife had thought nothing had become rapidly 
 serious. She was in great pain and utterly unused 
 to face any situation alone ; the women she had 
 brought out were excellent maids, but hopeless in 
 illness. Dorothy was an angel, but an "ineffectual" 
 one. The whole family leant on Ralph as on the 
 son of the house, and as such he was forced to take 
 his position. 
 
 He did marvels in the way of active service. The 
 best doctor and nurse were at once in their places, 
 and Ralph, to the best of his ability, provided the 
 assurance of a happy issue to the malady carried off 
 seemingly in Mr. Story's hurriedly packed port- 
 manteau. 
 
 It was a family that by nature, constitution and 
 tradition invariably depended upon a man, and such 
 commentless, unconditional and perfect trust must be 
 immensely flattering to any man who is human. 
 Dorothy in her pale anxiety looked lovely. There 
 was a new power of speech in her eyes. She spoke 
 but little in words, but the way in which she hung 
 upon his strength moved him deeply. 
 
 There were many ways, it seemed, of lifting a man 
 to the best that is in him, and Dorothy's way was 
 very sweet, it was stamped, moreover, with the hall- 
 mark of the ages. One felt at home in it. 
 Y 337
 
 338 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 Dorothy was very perfect. Her eyes were dove's 
 eyes and made for love. 
 
 In a day or so their grave fears for Mrs. Story were 
 at an end, but the shock — her first — had been too 
 much for Doroth)^ She needed care and consolation. 
 And just then came a letter from Susy. It was full 
 of the stir and excitement of a new scheme. A cousin 
 of her father's, a very clever engineer, who had been 
 in Germany at the head of some great beet works, 
 had been staying with them. He was greatly inter- 
 ested in the intensive farming work and full of a plan 
 for growing beet and manufacturing beet sugar on 
 two farms that had never been productive. The soil, 
 he said, was made for beet. It would all need money, 
 of course. But with some capital it would mean a 
 certain fortune, and be a centre of work and industry 
 for the countryside. It would mean a great new 
 village full of new life and new content and new ideas, 
 said Susy. 
 
 "It would change us all, buck us all up. And then 
 we could choose— those of us who don't feel bound 
 to worms and manure — could choose beet and sugar. 
 It would sort of enlarge our sense of freedom. And 
 couldn't you give eivery one in it a sort of interest — 
 make it co-operative, you know ?— and then their 
 hearts would be in it and we should all be friends 
 together and work like anything. It would be their 
 children's as well as theirs. But it wants money ! 
 Money's a heavenly thing. Oh, Ralph, bring some 
 home with you, heaps of it, enough to do everything 
 with, and to give you time to go into Parliament. 
 That's what we all want, any of us who have the 
 sense to want anything but a black pipe and a pot of 
 beer. We'll do a lot, of course, as it is, but it's so 
 slow, so killingly slow as we're going now, and one 
 wants all the things while one's young. So be quick. 
 
 "Haven't you met any one who combines every- 
 thing, and who'll be as ready to become one of us as 
 you were? Don't shut us out, we couldn't stick it 
 
 I
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 339 
 
 now, you know, and we'll wipe the dust off her feet 
 if she likes; but she won't. You wouldn't do that 
 to us or to yourself. 
 
 "After the first shock — it must all be different, you 
 know, however nice she is — we'll be ready for her and 
 for all the changes. Only for that she'll have to be 
 very good. 
 
 "Your affectionate friend, 
 
 "Susy Verney." 
 
 Ralph thought a great deal of this letter, it brought 
 back upon him the old magic of the old land. His 
 obligation to it. His intense desire to be faithful to 
 it. The land meant more to him now as he watched 
 it from afar than ever it had done. It was more full 
 of wonder and romance. 
 
 * -J^ * * * -K- 
 
 The cool, pure, living airs had changed to a dead 
 sultriness. The growth in the world seemed to be 
 stifled and choked. Heavy languors sucked the 
 strength from man and beast. Rumours of earth- 
 quakes came up from Italy. Old men stood at the 
 street corners with shaded eyes, looking askance at 
 the weather. 
 
 Even tennis was too much for Dorothy. She was 
 rather nervy. What she wanted, it seemed, was care. 
 Her mother was now practically off his hands, so 
 Ralph turned all his attention to Dorothy. He took 
 her out on the lake after tea, and after dinner estab- 
 lished her in a deep chair on the verandah. They 
 were alone. The moon, tired and wan also with the 
 weather, looked down on them. The stars came 
 slowly out. 
 
 Dorothy flushed and paled. Here eyes were full of 
 a half eager wonder once when he caught her un- 
 awares. It touched him immensely. She was a girl 
 to bring happiness to a man and trust and an inviol- 
 able security. She was made for home — home in a 
 great house with all its fires alight. 
 
 Y 2
 
 340 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 The evening brought coolness. A great peace fell 
 about them. Peace was the atmosphere proper to 
 Dorothy and it was her gift. The gift of peace is a 
 great one, the best of all the gifts of women perhaps. 
 He had never felt this so keenly as on this airless 
 night. One must face the hardness of life, of 
 course. No man wants to sneak out of that, but the 
 woman should be the bringcr and the dispenser of 
 peace. 
 
 And after all a man has a right to the royal road 
 of his desires, and patient plodding is the portion of 
 slaves ! 
 
 It was a night to bring the sultan — the autocrat 
 latent in every man — strutting to the front. Ralph 
 felt that he must reign supreme, with no frittering, 
 frugal, belittling obstacle to his sway. 
 
 She looked lovelier as the moments crept on, and 
 more fitted to a man's needs, especially when he is 
 tired, than ever before. Ralph had been up for three 
 nights supplying confidence to the adult household, 
 which had insisted upon Dorothy's sleeping, and 
 Dorothy, having been bred in obedience, had slept, 
 but Ralph had been awake night and day. Her 
 little hand looked like the silvered wing of a white 
 moth in the moonlight, and suddenly he took it. He 
 was sane enough, it was the sanest moment of his life 
 perhaps. At the same time he never remembered to 
 the day of his death the precise words he said when 
 he asked her to marry him or the precise amount of 
 warmth he put into them. They came out in a fine, 
 even flow in the easy channel being quietly prepared 
 for them in those pleasant weeks of idleness. And 
 Dorothy's face shone as the face of an angel. That 
 was the first start Ralph got. And then it was only 
 the little ghost of a start. A girl's face could do 
 nothing less than shine in the circumstances. 
 
 "Oh, Ralph," she said at last, "we'll be frightfully 
 happy." 
 
 He felt sure thev would, and he felt as though
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 341 
 
 some great weight had been taken off his mind. But 
 he had no time then to attend to that. He must see 
 to Dorothy. Touch her to be sure everything was 
 real, but above all take care of her. That was the 
 greatest relief of all. It gave him something to do. 
 And he did it beautifully. It was a dream of loving 
 service. Dorothy was made to be served and cared 
 for. 
 
 She had eaten no dinner, so he insisted on her 
 having supper, which she did with his hand on 
 her shoulder. There were tears of love and joy in her 
 dove's eyes when she bade him good-night. But 
 night only seemed to awaken Ralph from his dream. 
 He spent an extraordinarily bad night for an engaged 
 man. 
 
 Dorothy was incomparable, he loved her greatly. 
 In every way the thing was right and desirable. He 
 would get a great deal, but he did not go empty 
 handed to Dorothy. He also brought a great deal. 
 Even with his pride it went well. He had not one 
 regret. And yet he could neither sleep nor rest. He 
 was full of some immense sadness, some sense of 
 irreparable loss. 
 
 The next afternoon, Dorothy being engaged with 
 her mother, up for the first time, he drove over to see 
 the Colonel and Tony. "She's my only relation in 
 England, you know," he said to Dorothy. 
 
 "Oh, Ralph, and I'll take her out — I can, you 
 know, then," she said, with a deep blush. "I'll give 
 her no end of a good time, I'll love it," she added, 
 with simple sincerity. Her whole heart now seemed 
 to go out to Tony, much more than it had done at 
 first somehow, Dorothy reflected, and put it down 
 to Tony's being as good as a cousin now. 
 
 The afternoon was heavier and more lurid than the 
 day before. Ralph felt all the time as if he had 
 suffered some shock, and put it down to the infernal 
 weather. Still presumably in its grip, he broke his 
 thrilling news somewhat listlessly for one so recently
 
 342 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 made linppv to the Colonel, who with commendable 
 promj-)titude congratulated him. After some snatchy 
 conversation he asked for Tony, and having got his 
 directions went off to find her with more vigour than 
 he had yet displayed. 
 
 "What the deviVs up with the fellow," thought the 
 Colonel irritably. " He's got all he wants and more 
 than he deserves, and yet he's not satisfied. And 
 what does he want with Tony ? I wish he'd leave 
 Tony alone," he said presently, with a sigh. "I can 
 break his news to Tony. The other one's his affair — 
 Lucilla's letter is enough for one day for Tony in 
 weather like this." 
 
 Lucilla's answer to her penitent daughter's appeal 
 had come that morning. Lucilla could no longer 
 stand the misery of her desertion by all those she had 
 loved. She had borne her sufferings in silence. She 
 had not complained. But for the sympathy and 
 understanding of a good man she would have died, 
 jerry Carroll had saved her. No words could tell 
 what he had done for her and would do until their 
 joint lives ended. They would be married in Sep- 
 tember and jerry was ready and willing to be a father 
 to Tony. 
 
 There were pages of it. The Colonel grinned 
 fiendishly. 
 
 "There's poetical justice in that," he reflected. 
 "She'll suffer more with Jerry Carroll, and in a way 
 she'll like less than with any one I ever met." 
 
 But Tony unhappily could not grin. She could do 
 nothing but heap reproach upon herself for deserting 
 a mother who so plainly stood in urgent need of all 
 her care. Her sense of humour was squashed in the 
 shock. She no longer beheld her impossible parent, 
 she could onlv stare her own impossibility as a 
 daughter in the face. Moreover she had been consort- 
 ing with Slavs and seeing visions. Her imagination 
 had got into the wav of taking flights too wild for its 
 strength. She could even idealise Lucilla with half a
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 343 
 
 continent between them. Lucilla, indeed, was the 
 last straw. It put the finishing touch to her other 
 miseries. 
 
 The world was now perfectly empty. She had no 
 place in it. No mother and no home, and everything 
 was at an end. There was nothing more to expect. 
 And this for Tony, who had lived in a wonderful 
 world of expectation ! 
 
 ****** 
 
 She crossed in the boat and fled half up Uri Roth- 
 stock with the letter and Pat. Turner collapsed half 
 way. 
 
 Nature had hurried Tony too young into passion 
 and pain. Eler soul was not ready for her great 
 experiences. She saw things too big and too little. 
 She attempted the impossible and ignored prosaic fact. 
 
 She tried even to cover the shame of Lucilla with 
 a veil woven from her own heart, and looked upon 
 the Colonel as a partner in a crime against nature, 
 forgetting that it was she who had incited him to 
 the act. Everything was wrong with Tony. All 
 sorts of secrets and aches were being dislodged in 
 her, and they all wanted to say something and 
 couldn't say it. They seemed to strive and contend 
 in their prison, and they were being hurt in the fight 
 to get out. 
 
 She was at her wit's end, and did not know what to 
 do, so when she could walk no longer up the heights 
 she lay down on her face at last and began to cry. 
 ****** 
 
 Its ignorance and impotence weighed upon the 
 world of men. There was no breath of air anywhere. 
 One immense silence reigned. The elements them- 
 selves were at a standstill, holding their breath. The 
 waters were black and oily. The little villages 
 seemed all to be dead. 
 
 There was no peace in the stillness. It was the 
 stillness of some fierce stalking creature crouching 
 for a spring.
 
 344 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 Some revelation of hidden hurt was at hand. Some 
 outburst of new anguish or new strength, some one 
 of the many surprises of Nature to show us how Httle 
 we know about her. 
 
 Tony cried hard and noiselessly. If one does a 
 silly thing one may as well do it properly, and crying 
 was better than thinking. 
 
 But Pat, like all self-respecting male animals, 
 detested tears. He hurled himself against her recum- 
 bent form and barked furiously. He charged and 
 recharged. He was as vehement in his protest as 
 Tony in hers. So at last she had to get up and let 
 him sit in her lap, wagging an agitated tail. 
 
 "It's not fair to you, Pat," she said; "but I had 
 to. When things liurt too much you have to be a 
 fool. It won't often happen. One couldn't spend 
 one's life crying, you know. There ! get down and 
 let me get up." 
 
 Ralph was not now more than ten steps from her. 
 He had found Turner diligently banging her German 
 grammar against a stone and had followed her 
 directions. 
 
 If Tony had remained on the ground he could have 
 slunk behind a rock and spared her, but directly she 
 stood up there was no going back. He must face — 
 whatever there was to face. 
 
 Her voice had been the voice of a woman in pain, 
 and yet when he saw her face, with cheeks still wet 
 with tears, and a trembling mouth, it was the face 
 of a child trying to be brave. 
 
 It touched him more deeply than anything had ever 
 before touched him. 
 
 He paused, started, and suddenly he stood stock 
 still, staring. For the life of him he could not move. 
 His hand tightened on his stick. The blood rocked 
 queerly through his ears. He was awake at last. 
 He stood before the most important issue of his life, 
 before that upon which evervthing else depended. 
 Before which everything else was as naught. Her
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 345 
 
 voice was still sobbing in his ears. He paused to 
 collect himself. 
 
 Ah ! this was reality. His brain was clear. His 
 intuition sure and alert. There was no mistake this 
 time ! 
 
 He was quick and aware in the whole of him. And 
 some great happening was playing itself out in body, 
 soul and spirit. It changed things. It changed the 
 world. 
 
 It was a matter of immense gravity, of immense 
 importance. A thing given and received beyond the 
 power of man to select or reject. 
 
 It was too big for a man, this thing ! It was super- 
 human, beyond cavil or contention, strong and infinite 
 beyond the puny strength of man. Something before 
 which a man must bend his head. 
 
 When he lifted it their eyes met and held each 
 other, they stood mute and breathless, each searching 
 the other for some great truth. It sprang to life at 
 the same moment in both their eyes. Tony stood 
 rigid for a second or two; then she shrank back as 
 though from a mortal blow. 
 
 " Dorothy ! " she ripped out on a quick, sobbing 
 breath. 
 
 "I asked her to marry me yesterday," he said at last ; 
 "when I asked her I thought I was an honest man." 
 
 She sat down slowly, still staring at him. 
 
 "I didn't know what it was, what it means," he 
 said. He spoke heavily, laboriously, as though look- 
 ing for words. "That it's — it's everything, till this 
 instant." 
 
 An odd feeling of helplessness before an im- 
 mensity of life of which he had not conceived seemed 
 to be sapping his strength, his reason and his will. 
 
 The spell in the air. The inevitableness of the 
 whole thing, the absolute rightness and naturalness 
 and order in the fact that he loved Tony, that he 
 had always loved her, and always would love her, 
 that the matter was not of his making, or of hers,
 
 346 Till- FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 confounded him. It stood above them and above 
 their moddlino:, and must come. This flood of pas- 
 sion that chanoed fate and the world must flow in its 
 predestined channel, and it changed his outlook on 
 Dorothy also. 
 
 "Dorothy," he repeated mechanically, without feel- 
 ing or remorse. His brain knew clearly enough that 
 he was doing a hideous wrong to Dorothy and to 
 himself and to Tony. Words, the heritage of his 
 race, came without meaning to his lips. "Traitor! 
 Cad ! Cow'ard ! " They echoed in his brain, but they 
 found no response in the deeper depths where the 
 great happening was taking place. 
 
 There he felt cleansed, uplifted, enlarged ; there he 
 was filled with the transfiguring surprise of a great 
 love. 
 
 The infinite truth in the revelation swallowed up 
 falseness. Nothing less than perfection may be dis- 
 cerned or experienced or expressed in love that is 
 supreme. Like flame conscious of itself it lights up 
 the great and consumes the little. 
 
 Such love as Ralph now felt for the first time in 
 his life w-as a holy and flawless thing. It seemed to 
 him as he stood dumb and unresponsive to all the 
 moralities of the ages that he saw the face of God in 
 his great love, and that he had never lived before. 
 As to resisting this transport of love as a man resists 
 a temptation, it would at that moment have been like 
 resisting God. 
 
 Ralph, at very considerable pains to himself, had 
 lived cleanly. And such a man at such a moment 
 must stand upon the very heights of his being. 
 
 Tony, however, had loved longer. She, too, had 
 stood in heaven, but since then she had been down 
 in hell, and being a woman the vision of self-sacrifice 
 was hers bv the right of birth. 
 
 "Dorothy ! " she said. "Oh, Ralph ! " 
 
 Some horror of pain, still distant and not of the 
 world in which they stood at all now tugged at his
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 347 
 
 strength. He looked at Tony like a person confused. 
 His thought rejected Dorothy. But the drag upon 
 him grew heavier, he sat down at last on a mound 
 opposite Tony. 
 
 "Dorothy! " she cried in curious sudden fear and 
 shrinking, 
 
 "Not yet," he said at last hoarsely. "I can't think 
 yet of that. Keep to this. It's the only thing. 
 It fills everything. I've never known anything till 
 now. One— must have time. You knew first. How 
 did you know, Tony, when I didn't? When did it 
 begin?" 
 
 "I think it began the first day," she said simply. 
 
 "But — you were a child." 
 
 "You were making me a woman all the time, and 
 his death — and knowing everything about him — it all 
 came together, you know. 
 
 "I've never known anything till now. You to 
 know first ! To know everything ! My God 1 Why 
 didn't you tell me ? " 
 
 "You see one — one couldn't." 
 
 "Other people couldn't, but you and I ! Oh, 
 Tony, we could do anything together, we could take 
 any risk. You might have let me guess." 
 
 "But — oh, Ralph, I didn't know myself properly. 
 And you went away and when you came back there 
 was Dorothy." 
 
 "Dorothy! Ah, poor Dorothy!" he said after a 
 long pause. "I didn't know what I'd done until 
 now. I had never loved anything as much as I loved 
 the land when I asked her, and I thought then I 
 loved her better." 
 
 Pat, who had been seriously disturbed at the turn 
 the conversation had taken, now became clamorous. 
 And, after all, Pat knew all Tony's secrets. It was 
 easy to say things to him. "Oh, Pat, can't you be 
 sorry for all of us?" she said, pulling his ear. 
 "Dorothy loves him, too, you know." 
 
 "Don't; not yet," said 'Ralph. "That will come.
 
 348 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 Everything %vill come. Let us keep this a little 
 longer. Let us be together for a minute in the world 
 we fill. Oh, Tony, Tony ! " 
 
 He had her in his arms. He held her close and 
 kissed her madly, her eyes, her cheeks, her mouth, 
 and Tony, trembling and yielding, seemed to give 
 her soul to him. 
 
 But they were good at heart, this luckless pair. 
 The very amazement of their passion awoke them 
 from their wild dream. Moved by one impulse they 
 sprang apart, and they both stood quivering with a 
 furv of life. 
 
 "Tony, it won't do," Ralph said at last. "It won't 
 do, you know, dear. I've been a brute." 
 
 "And so have I, and we'll never do it again." 
 
 "We'd better come home, Tony." 
 
 "Oh, Pat, don't!" she said, picking up her hat. 
 "We're coming. And you're a selfish little wretch. 
 You might be a little sorry for us." 
 
 "Will it always hurt like this, do you think?" she 
 said presently. 
 
 "Tony, I had no right to let you know." 
 
 "But you didn't. I saw," she said, w-ith a little 
 laugh that nearly turned to a sob. 
 
 "Oh, Tonv, don't, dear! " 
 
 "I'm glad it's Dorothy, I think, that it's not 
 because I haven't a penny. It would have been 
 awfuller still if that had made the difference." 
 
 "But, Tony, a day ago it would." 
 
 "But you didn't know then." 
 
 "No, I didn't know. And I don't believe any man 
 who did know this w'ould ever marry for money. 
 It's — it's everything, you know\" 
 
 "Yes; it's everything. I've been living so much 
 with grown-up things lately," she said presently, 
 her great grave eyes fixed on him. "And those 
 people — Olga, I mean, I think she's their spokesman 
 — talk of nothing but love. And it seems to me 
 that it can do the most horrible things in the world.
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 349 
 
 No horror and no meanness seems too unbelievable 
 to be done for the thing they call love. Olga tells 
 you everything, you know," she said, shuddering. 
 
 "But I'm glad I know things. Now I know the 
 things love makes people do I'll try to be different. 
 I'll try never to be low or mean to Dorothy. I'll not 
 hate her if I can possibly help it. I might like her 
 properly even after a time. Oh, Ralph, I might. 
 At any rate I'll sort of try to play the game for — for 
 the sake of love. Ralph ! do you think you'll ever 
 get quite accustomed to her ? " Hope and fear 
 trembled in her eyelids. 
 
 Ralph laughed mirthlessly. 
 
 "You said once you hoped I wouldn't sink down 
 into a comfortable life, Tony. We'll both try to 
 play the game, dear; but I don't think that sort of 
 thing makes for comfort." 
 
 "Perhaps it gets things done," she said after a 
 long silence. He took her hand to help her over a 
 brook and held it close. 
 
 "Oh, Ralph ! " she cried, kissing the hand he had 
 held. " If we could go like that through the whole 
 world we could do everything." 
 
 "Tonv, some day you'll forget, child." 
 
 "Oh, "Ralph, will you?" 
 
 They looked at each other in a long, breathless 
 silence. Then they laughed. 
 
 "It wouldn't be like this," said Ralph, "if we 
 could." 
 
 Suddenly Tony gave a little quick cry. 
 
 "I won't forget, Ralph; but I'll find out things 
 and tell them to people. They'll have to listen. I 
 thought the things were all dead, but now they've 
 got alive again, and some day they'll speak because 
 I love you so, Ralph." 
 
 Her eyes, full of mystic pain, were lifted to Ralph's 
 and he knew now where all the poetry comes from, 
 from the soul of a child, and the heart of a boy, and 
 the sorrow of a woman.
 
 .^5o THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 "Tony! " he said quickly. "You're worth a thou- 
 sand of me. I could be as mean and low and brutal 
 as any Slav. I could do anything to get you. It's 
 you we've got to depend on, dear. Never forget 
 that." 
 
 "And I — oh! I feel such a fool," she said at the 
 end of a long pause. 
 
 Just as they came in sight of Turner, fast asleep 
 over an exercise, she said — 
 
 "I'm glad it's Dorothy who has the money and 
 not me. Oh, Ralph ! it would have been awfuller 
 if you'd lost the money and me, too." 
 
 "Tony ! How many sides are there to you ? " 
 
 "Only one that matters, I think," said Tony.
 
 CHAPTER XLII 
 
 Ralph drove slowly. He wanted to wheel his 
 maddened senses into line. To get some grip on the 
 thing. To try to get at the root of the amazing 
 blindness which had settled his fate for him. 
 
 So far he had been sure enough in all his actions. 
 He had always deliberately chosen his road, and in 
 spite of obstacles, had stuck to it. 
 
 He had as deliberately and in his full senses chosen 
 Dorothy, and had meant to walk with her along as 
 pleasant a road as man could wish. 
 
 So far as he knew then he had desired nothing 
 better. 
 
 Dorothy had all of him that was then awake ; and 
 now, with no volition of his, Dorothy was dispos- 
 sessed — thrust forth into the wilderness, thrust forth 
 by Hagar ! There was no place for his rightful queen. 
 He loved her dearly as a sister, but to offer a sister's 
 love to the woman he was going to marry, once he 
 knew what the real thing was, would surely be an 
 outrage both upon Dorothy and upon himself. 
 
 He looked back keenly, eagerly into the last few 
 weeks. Any man would rather convict himself of all 
 the sins of the Decalogue than of common weakness. 
 
 But the longer Ralph looked, the more bitterly 
 conscious was he of weakness amounting almost to 
 idiocy. 
 
 He remembered Tony in her appeal to him, and the 
 depths she had touched. He thought of how he had 
 felt her as they drove together. 
 
 His heart then had taken the lead. If only he had 
 351
 
 :,52 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 obeyed it ! It had invited him into depths and wind- 
 ings which he had not yet traversed and he had turned 
 aside. 
 
 Not deHberately, he could not accuse himself of 
 that, but carelessly and inertly. He had grown used 
 of late to easy travelling. The spirit of adventure had 
 been lulled to sleep in the soft airs of luxury. The 
 curse inseparable from gold had worked corruption 
 in him. 
 
 Everything had conspired to his undoing. If 
 Dorothy had not been all that a man could want he 
 would not have asked her, but she was super-excellent 
 from every point of view. 
 
 "Everything seemed to meet in her then," he said, 
 "and I knew no better. I did not mean to be a cad; 
 but none the less I am one." 
 
 And now what's a man to do? he thought. Is he 
 to right a wrong by going on w'ith it, for that's what 
 it comes to. 
 
 Dorothy, as she now was, would not suffer. He 
 could trust Tony and himself. But Dorothy loved 
 him ; and perhaps some day love would open her eyes 
 also, and she would see as he had seen. The know- 
 ledge of good and evil would he hers also, and then 
 indeed the outlook would be poor for all of them. 
 
 The right conventional course was clear enough. 
 Marry her out of hand and make the best of their 
 joint lives. Tony was young — — 
 
 He broke ofif short. Time would do nothing for 
 Tony any more than it would do for him. That alone 
 was certain. 
 
 "I see nothing," he said, "but to keep on making 
 for the line of least resistance. There's poetical justice 
 in it, at least, and some irony. 
 
 "I'd like to play fair," he said at last. "I've done 
 it so far — all I knew, but I don't think I know this 
 game, and I'm not sure that the committee that drew 
 up its rules did. It's like madness," he thought, with 
 a short laugh, "for a pauper with a hundred costly
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 353 
 
 schemes to be racking his brains as to how best to 
 throw over ;^"" 15,000 a year. Oh, Tony ! Tony ! In 
 spite of everything I'm glad we love each other as 
 we do, dear." 
 
 Dorothy met him with a white face, her mother was 
 ill again. It was a relapse, the doctor said. Ralph 
 thanked heaven for action and did all a man could 
 do-^except one thing. 
 
 All poor little Dorothy wanted was to be kissed and 
 set living again, but although Ralph would willingly 
 have died for her, he could not for the life of him 
 kiss her. 
 
 "And this is the beginning of it! " he said. "But 
 if I kissed her now I'd be no better than Judas. It's 
 a bad business playing a game of which no man 
 knows the rules." 
 
 Dorothy was bewildered. She felt lost and lonely. 
 Something had changed everything. 
 
 "He cared for me in another way yesterday," she 
 said. 
 
 Ralph, only too well aware of her state of mind, 
 redoubled his efforts. No wretch at the gallows ever 
 worked harder that day than he. But they were 
 efforts, and she saw it. He gave her all he could, he 
 spared her all he could, and at least Dorothy slept 
 that night, which Ralph did not. 
 
 All men are selfish, so women say. And at least 
 we must allow that they are not by nature rooted and 
 grounded in the habit of self-sacrifice like women. 
 The morality of the master has been too long theirs. 
 
 And that night Ralph was even more brute than 
 man. He was remorseless and ruthless. His one 
 sentient desire was to shake off an incubus. He had 
 saddled himself with it, it is true, of his own free 
 will, but he could not reproach himself with that. He 
 had done what most men lucky enough to get the 
 chance would have done, and thanked God for the 
 rest of his life for having done it, and then fate had 
 come between.
 
 354 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 It was a horrible night, stifling, yet cold and sullen 
 and clammy. He went out on the balcony. A moan- 
 ing, weary wind moved and stirred in the writhing 
 clouds, and presently it dropped to a sigh and flakes 
 of snow began to fall. They fell uncannily, as though 
 some weight lay in their feathery hearts, or as if they 
 had been frozen before birth in the black womb of 
 night. 
 
 Perhaps Tony was also on her balcony watching 
 the burial of the first flowers of spring. 
 
 " What's a man to do? " he said again and again. 
 
 "There must be one scapegoat in this bitter busi- 
 ness, and fate has taken that job from me. 
 
 "It's a brutal arrangement, and the one thing I 
 used to be proud of was that I'd never hurt a w^oman 
 yet. There must be some way out." 
 
 "I wonder," he said presently, "if one's mother 
 know's when one's got into a pretty hopeless mess. 
 If mine does there's some hope for all of us. 
 
 "I suppose that red streak out there is the morning," 
 he said.at last. "I'll have a bath and see what I can 
 do for Airs. Story. I may as well be a useful domestic 
 animal, anyway."
 
 CHAPTER XLIII 
 
 Tony looked very fine that night. She was pale 
 and tired, but there was a light not of earth at all on 
 her small round face. She always brought some odd 
 little message down from the heights with her, but 
 to-night there was something more, an added touch. 
 There was a sense as of some big thing, of some real 
 tragedy in Tony. She laughed and spoke lightly, but 
 her face, as it always did, betrayed her. And when 
 the chaperon saw her eating for Hermann's sake and 
 not for her own, and the face of kindness she turned 
 on the attentive Slav, he was seriously alarmed. 
 
 "Tony's certainly been going it in amiability 
 lately," he reflected, "but it would take something to 
 make a mother of Tony. I've never seen that infernal 
 look on her face before. What's up now? She knew 
 that if he wasn't engaged he soon would be. That's 
 been no news to her. She's hatching some insane 
 new folly, no doubt. And — good God ! That foreign 
 fellow suspects her too. Thank heaven, she hasn't 
 caught his eyes raking her in that new way yet. He's 
 artful. He's profited by a wide experience. He'd 
 better see that tny eye is on him anyway." 
 
 The Colonel hitched up his glasses and fell to quiet 
 observation. 
 
 The Slav quick as thought pulled himself together. 
 His face became a mask. The slow look of quiet 
 amusement gradually overspread it. 
 
 He saw well enough that the English Miss was in 
 no mood for rational conversation, yet rational con- 
 versation his vigilant soul assured him was the one 
 thing that was good for her. Petrovitsch could be 
 moral with the best when he set his mind to it. 
 z 2 355
 
 356 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 In order to face her he moved his chair on the 
 poHshed boards without a creak. Tony had often 
 envied him his knack of noiselessness. He did every- 
 thing noiselessly. There was an incalculable reserve 
 of strength in his slightest action. Smooth, sliding, 
 stealthy strength that scorned effort. No one in his 
 senses could ever imagine Petrovitsch running to 
 catch a train. 
 
 Even the Slav was better for Tony just then than 
 her own reflections, so the Colonel disposed his leg 
 to the best advantage, assumed an air of suave atten- 
 tion and cocked his ear to catch all he could of the 
 hoarse jargon. It was not much, but it is incumbent 
 on a man at least to look intelligent in doubtful 
 company. 
 
 " \\"e were talking this morning of vulgarity, 
 Gnadigste," said Petrovitsch quietly. "Vulgarity, I 
 take to be the curse of civilisation. It follows the sun, 
 but it did not rise with him. Vulgarity is not of the 
 East. The world grows vulgar, I have observed, 
 as it goes W^est, and has fallen into the gross and 
 dangerous habit of protesting. It begins in Ziirich, 
 I think, this curious habit of vulgarity," he said, 
 picking his teeth like a gentleman. "In that city 
 of the drab heart, the drab soul, the drab understand- 
 ing. And there it is immature, harsh, unreserved. 
 The mongrel of any species, you will notice, barks 
 the loudest. All he has to say he says with hard and 
 futile insistence. He holds not the mystic secrets of 
 a pure, proud, ancient and individual race, which 
 bring forth silence, nor is he held by them. He raps 
 at the doors of his intellect, still so new and metallic, 
 and thinks that all he needs is behind it. He is as 
 yet conscious of no reserve of hidden treasure, of no 
 unspeakable tragedy, of no illimitable hope. He 
 has indeed picked up much, this model citizen. For 
 generations he has faithfully served the tyrant and 
 sat with him at his merry feasts. Ach, mein Gott ! 
 He has had many opportunities, and he has used
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 357 
 
 them. He has listened at the door of all nations, 
 and learnt much whereby he may prosper, but he has 
 learnt the secret of none. An eye dulled by sober 
 fact will not pierce even to the secret hid in his own 
 polyglot heart, and that of the nation belongs to the 
 nation herself and to genius, which, being universal, 
 learns all the secrets. 
 
 "In Ziirich, I should say," gently proceeded Petro- 
 vitsch, "starts the hard rule of the intellect, the bleak 
 moral reign. There God has become for the first time 
 a municipal officer in plain clothes. Those frugal 
 citizens affect not even divine ecclesiasticism. He 
 goes in broadcloth, their sober God, and speaks their 
 language, that uncouth tongue suitable to unbaptised 
 infants and the nation without a dream. They sit 
 in the cold shadow of the intellect, those sober people, 
 each man intent on his own small business. As a 
 nation he grows rich upon the world and despises it." 
 
 "But," said Tony, "they seem to be doing exactly 
 what you want. Each man thinks of nothing else but 
 himself." 
 
 "Ach, mein Gott ! The difference between my 
 man of the future and the good citizen of Ziirich, 
 Gnadigste ! My man in realising himself realises 
 all men — the universe ! He is the genius in whom 
 dwells the saint, the imp, the rebel, the devil of dark- 
 ness, the angel of light. He sees clear through the 
 eye of each — and makes a synthesis. He is both 
 maker and keeper of his own soul. The great in- 
 dividualist is the great universalist. He knows him- 
 self, honours himself, feels himself. He knows all 
 men, honours all men, feels all men. 
 
 "The Swiss sits alone. In spite of the hideous 
 sameness in the bringing up and education of all his 
 nation, he comes no nearer to it. He feels no more 
 for his fellow and understands no more about him. 
 He is a good and sober Protestant not yet grown 
 up. Behold the little gnome in his garden. The 
 blue ball on his fine glass verandah ! I speak not
 
 358 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 of the quiet places where the Christ hangs on the 
 Cross and the peasant demands of Him rain for his 
 garden. The peasant is content with his Christ and 
 with his lot. He is of the aristocracy of the earth. 
 He knows not vulgarity." 
 
 "Poor Zurich," said Tony. "It seems to me per- 
 fectly lovely, and I don't know anvthing of its 
 churches, but the church bells are heavenly." 
 
 " Mein Gott ! Yes, Gnadigste. One takes oflf 
 one's hat to them. They pray each Saturday night 
 for the burghers. But let us step over the border," 
 said Petrovitsch. "Here vulgarity comes to a head. 
 It breaks pompously over the land. One may almost 
 say that here this W^estern excrescence has become 
 sublime, impressive, in a manner an object of awe. 
 It is as though one may believe a mighty mound of 
 earth and rubble grubbed by the puny hand of man 
 to be a mountain planted by God Himself when the 
 stars sang together." 
 
 He had borrowed Tony's Bible, and was absorbing 
 it apparently in slabs. 
 
 "That Bible of yours," he murmured, "Gnadigste, 
 that is Literature ! Do the Protestants, dear lady, 
 not read this colossal work ? " 
 
 " Goodness, yes ! " 
 
 "And yet they have become vulgar ! My God, but 
 it is incredible ! We will leave Germany and pro- 
 ceed to Holland," he pursued. "Less pompous but 
 equallv vulgar," he concluded briefly. "France! 
 Ah ! France ! she knows not how to protest. Her 
 latinity saves her, and her vices. Vice and Protestant 
 vulgarity march not in company. When the Pro- 
 testant is vicious, Gnadigste, he uses an alibi. And 
 now may I be permitted to cross the water?" 
 
 "Oh, certainly," said Tony, only too glad he'd got 
 so far. 
 
 "Ah, Gnadigste, for success in freedom, in power, 
 in commerce, you must pay the price. Not you, my 
 Fraulein, you are apart and universal; not the men
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 359 
 
 of might and courage and wisdom who rule half the 
 world and command the sea. I speak of that mass 
 of islanders who fear God and honour the King, but 
 who speak not English and know not Shakespeare. 
 Who read that mighty work the Bible and do not 
 see and understand. 
 
 "The vulgarity of Switzerland sits apart, each man 
 in his own plot with his droll little gnome. The 
 vulgarity of England is massed together; it is 
 coagulated, it cannot move. Each man has been stuck 
 by prejudice, stupidity, fear, custom or want of space 
 into the great lump. His father declined to detach 
 himself from it, to find himself, so why should he ? 
 That were revolt and revolt is not respectable ! Ach ! 
 but they are pressed close together in that small land. 
 It is, so to speak, potted vulgarity of the best brand. 
 The manufactures of England are ever good ! " 
 
 "Oh ! go on ! " said Tony. She took too languid 
 an interest for more serious protest. 
 
 "Ach, Gnadigste, forgive me, but I feel — I feel ! 
 And they are not aware even of the indecency of this 
 close pack, your citizens of England. They know 
 not the need for solitude. The need to conquer and 
 possess the soul in solitude. They like the horrible 
 embrace of their kind ! It does not incommode them 
 — nor, alas ! does it make of them one soul. They are 
 not universal, mein Gott, far from it ! They have 
 not realised themselves individually or generally, and 
 never once in the course of their clotted lives have 
 they made one great whole, those millions glued 
 together. They are glued too close either for co- 
 operation or for the realisation of their unity. A mass 
 cannot know itself singly or in general. 
 
 "It is respectable, this mass," admitted Petrovitsch 
 sadly. "It drinks not, it plays not, it lives the good 
 family life. But ach, my God ! its heart is barred 
 against the entrance of the great emotions as its doors 
 against the burglar. It knows not surprise, nor cata- 
 strophe, it is impervious to cataclysmic revelation.
 
 s6o THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 The very air about it drones with the microbe of medio- 
 crity ; new ideas fall dead in it. It is true, Gnadigste ; 
 my God, but it is true ! All a glued mass can do is 
 to protest. The Englishman, he of the mass, is a 
 born Protestant. He protests against everything he 
 cannot understand. He is the hereditary enemy of 
 new ideas. He distrusts feeling. Feeling, Gnadigste ! 
 The mere thought of fervent emotion will make the 
 pious Englishman blush." 
 
 "There's not an Englishman living who'd blush 
 unless he had very good cause to blush," said Tony, 
 with decision. 
 
 "It has not to do with cause, Gnadigste. It is but 
 the point of view. The genius in emotion these men 
 will call a degenerate. The genius in mind a prig. 
 The genius in action a crank. He fears all fires 
 except those he has tamed on his own hearth and to 
 drive his own engine. He has not even pierced to 
 the secret of his own freedom this compressed 
 Islander, and is therefore still a slave." 
 
 "Well, really! " 
 
 "Ach, Gnadigste, it is true! A slave — until he 
 hears the call and detaches himself from the mass and 
 goes forth to possess first himself and then the earth 
 and to free her. But still of the mass he will sit, 
 heavy with ' rosbif ' and write letters to the papers, the 
 little halfpenny papers, as free as a savage and as 
 naked and unashamed, and entreat public opinion to 
 rid him of the alien. And, my God ! he is right. 
 The alien is a low creature, a danger to respectability, 
 a trouble to the kind police. But let him who con- 
 demns him first learn the message that sad stranger 
 has brought with him from the land of the dawn. 
 
 "We are as old as the world, Gnadigste, but we 
 have grown in oppression and we are children still, 
 cowering under the lash of a hard school-master who 
 knows not justice. We are children out of school, 
 maddened to licence by too hard a rule. We are 
 terrible children, criminals, barbarians, tyrants and
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER r.6i 
 
 o*- 
 
 slaves, but we are not vulgar, Gnadigste. We are 
 too old and too young to be vulgar. We commune still 
 with the secret in our own hearts and in the hearts of our 
 race. We stretch our minds and our souls back to the 
 sun, back across the wide distances we have travelled. 
 
 "We heard the stars sing together; ach, that 
 Bible ! — and we have not forgotten the melodies. And 
 we have still great lonelinesses in which we brood 
 and walk. We are of the steppes still in the spirit, 
 if not in the flesh. We are uncivilised and still in 
 touch with the fires and the forces of the earth. 
 Above all, we have the mystic sense which civilisation 
 chokes. We are a pest and a menace to the world, 
 but thank all the gods that were and are and are to 
 be — we have not yet arrived at the end of our gods, 
 Gnadigste ; we are perhaps but at the bleak begin- 
 ning ; we are not vulgar ! We have kept fresh our 
 emotions and we can perceive. Vulgarity is coeval 
 with the birth of the intellect." 
 
 "Go on," said Tony rigidly. 
 
 "But, Gnadigste," said Petrovitsch with depreca- 
 tion, "do not blame me. I but speak the truth that is 
 given me to speak. And there is hope for all. It 
 was after all morsels from that clotted mass who have 
 won half the world for your small island. That 
 anomaly in the universe, the land of freedom and of 
 the great Inhibition. ' Thou shalt not,' so I have 
 learnt, pasted up in every church — ■' Thou shalt not ! ' 
 to man the illimitable ! And yet she has gone forth 
 conquering, this strange nation." 
 
 Petrovitsch 's eyes were lifted to heaven. 
 
 "If the island could but pause, relax, surrender 
 herself, let herself go ! Obev every stifled cry of 
 body, soul and spirit. My God ! but England would 
 be good to see ! I'his burst of genius would renew 
 her youth." 
 
 "So far as I can see," said Tony, "you want to 
 land all England in the hands of the police." 
 
 "But, Gna(Hgst(' ! Think of the moral benefit to
 
 362 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 Enpfland. Ah ! mv God ! You would not know your 
 England." 
 
 "Indeed, I don't think we should," said Tony. 
 
 "And, Gnadigste, you would rejoice with me in that 
 day. England is jammed with inhibitions. Her feel- 
 ings would then find vent. The thought of sin is 
 now in the way. It is chronic. Her religion also is 
 chronic. As I have already said, England wants an 
 acute attack of anything — religion or irreligion, 
 morality or immorality, it matters not. But if you 
 will not permit your mass to express its feelings 
 naturally, joyously, you must hurt it, hurt it till it 
 does feel, till each man hurts not as one, God for- 
 bid ! but as himself, till he hurts in his own way, 
 which way must always hurt the deepest. 
 
 "Light fires in Smithfield, if you will," said Petro- 
 vitsch, "and roast him one by one, lest he forget even 
 then that he is man, not a lump of humanity." 
 
 Here Petrovitsch glanced out of the window and 
 to Colonel Larpent's great surprise — Tony was not 
 looking at him — for one fleeting instant he looked like 
 Satan. He took less than an instant to reassume his 
 mask of calm. The Colonel also looked keenly out 
 of the window and saw what had effected the lightning 
 change. 
 
 The Slav girl was sitting under it apparently 
 absorbed in her coffee. It was cold and threatening 
 out in the grim twilight, an uncommonly queer place 
 for a sensuous Slav to drink her coffee in ! 
 
 "She has her eye on him too," thought the 
 chaperon. "We'd better join forces." 
 
 "There doesn't seem to be much hope for us," said 
 Tony tiredly. 
 
 "On the contrary," said Petrovitsch, with a melting 
 eye. He felt her face intensely and genuinely. "All 
 the hope of the world is yours. You have the Bible 
 and Shakespeare, and the heart of a free land is 
 strong and sound, and you are not all vulgar 
 Protestant.
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 363 
 
 "Besides, no class is irretrievably fixed. Wait, 
 Gnadigste, till the mass begins to hurt. And Eng- 
 land has a great virtue, which vulgarity knows not. 
 England does not boast and strut and bluster, and she 
 can sit still and wait. She has grown old in freedom 
 and can dare to be slow and wise. We Slavs are old, 
 old as time, but we are children." 
 
 "Are there any other people as bad as we are?" 
 asked Tony listlessly. 
 
 "You," he said gallantly, "you are the salt of 
 the earth. And you are old and wise. You have 
 won your right to the world's severest criticism." 
 
 "But her heritage of vulgar Protestantism has been 
 too much for that great raw land America. It has 
 turned to madness in the hands of her precocious 
 youth ! " 
 
 "Ah, well, I'm glad we're not the only beasts ! " 
 
 "It's hard luck on that girl out there, and harder 
 on Tony," thought Colonel Larpent. "The sooner 
 he joins her the better." 
 
 He stood up and went stiffly to the window. " I 
 say, it's snowing," he said, "and — by Jove ! " he 
 wiped his glasses and looked again, "is that the 
 young Russian lady I see out there? But, my dear 
 sir, she'll catch her death of cold. Won't you per- 
 suade her to go in ? " 
 
 There was a curious twist in the smile of Petro- 
 vitsch as he stood up and took the hint.
 
 CHAPTER XLIV 
 
 Tony faithfully translated this wild oration. The 
 Colonel stared, laughed and grunted. It made him 
 extremely thoughtful, however. Petrovitsch knew 
 what he was about. He had undoubtedly uttered this 
 fervid rot, so bitterly touched with truth, in order to 
 wrench Tony's attention from her own affairs. 
 
 "A fellow with his devilish intuition has no right 
 to be let loose among civilised women," he thought 
 angrily. "It's indecent. Moreover, he could never 
 have known so much of Tony if he had not thought 
 of her a great deal." 
 
 And his success was only partial, after all. Tony 
 had given him only divided attention, and if this Slav 
 had lost his savour for the young explorer something 
 was plainly radically wrong. 
 
 Colonel Larpent would have given a great deal to 
 know what had happened that afternoon up on the 
 mountain. 
 
 "The snow is come with a vengeance," he said to 
 Hermann, "and it's the wickedest-looking snow I ever 
 saw. Those white feathers mean mischief." 
 
 Hermann, his duties done, stood musing at the 
 door, occasionally breaking out into song. 
 
 He always believed himself to be a colossal 
 musician, lost in a colossal cook. It was his tragedy, 
 and added immensely to the value of life for Hermann. 
 With such a secret a man can never bore himself. 
 
 "It is. Excellency." He persisted in appl}ing this 
 title, believing it to be deserved. 
 
 "Germany in this matter must show England the 
 way," he had told Tony. 
 
 364
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 365 
 
 He had travelled much and could tolerate the 
 customs of all countries and steal their recipes. He 
 had hobnobbed with Arabs to learn to make genuine 
 cous-cous. He had even demeaned himself to the 
 ghetto to catch the trick of a certain small fish bap- 
 tised in no other tongue than Yiddish. 
 
 "It is not good that the snow comes so late," said 
 he. "It will hurt the trees and the cattle and the 
 grain, and it will take its toll of men. It never 
 forgets. It happened so not so many years ago. 
 And when it happens the skis turn their toes to the 
 white heights, and the man obeys. It is a madness. 
 The time for sport is over. To try to bring back any 
 lost heaven is a madness, and, my Gott, we are all 
 madmen." 
 
 "You're right, Hermann, we are. The best thing 
 you and I can do is to try to sleep off this madness of 
 ours." 
 
 "If we could. Excellency, if we could! The 
 Gnadigste neglected to put lemon on her cutlet. 
 Excellency. It is the first time that she has ever 
 neglected any important matter. It is a pity." 
 
 "It's part of the madness of life, Hermann." 
 
 "Ach Gott! Such a madness to begin so young! 
 Sleep, Excellency — if you can ! " 
 
 It snowed unceasingly. Great white flakes fell 
 from a black sky, which seemed, with all its efforts, 
 helpless to disburthen itself. And presently the soft- 
 ness of snow vanished from the air, and a bitter cold 
 took its place. 
 
 The oldest inhabitants were perplexed. They had 
 nothing in their store of memories to compare with 
 this sudden downfall, so late in the year, and its 
 strange variations. The weather was more what 
 one would expect in Italy, the enchanted land that no 
 amount of civilisation will ever teach behaviour. The 
 air was full of muttering pain and primitive passion, 
 the strange terror in the earth, her hatred and her 
 resentment and her infinite love were in air and water
 
 366 THE FIRE-SEEKKR 
 
 and sky. They sat crouched on the mountains. The 
 cold increased. The snow was frozen almost as it 
 fell, and the only cheerful people were the ski-runners. 
 Most of them had left their skis behind them, but 
 they could borrow and hire. 
 
 VVhen Tony got up after a distracted night she was 
 too miserable to think. Life was too hard. Her revolt 
 against its stern decrees too violent to make for any 
 reasonable apprehension of the eternal problem. 
 Forces as eternal contended within her. She had 
 been whipped into womanhood by pain too great and 
 terrible and mature and prophetic for a girl. She 
 knew the whole of what she was about to lose. And 
 although a woman's best-trained impulse is to sacrifice 
 herself, this impulse lies deep at the root of her being, 
 and has been evolved and made efficient by infinite 
 pain. In its day also it has taken its toll of sweat 
 and blood. And behind it, deeper still, lies the great 
 primeval passion ; the love of life. Tony wanted to be 
 good. She wanted more — she wanted to play fair, to 
 be splendid to Dorothy. The chill immensity of self- 
 sacrifice called to her indeed out of the depths, but 
 life called also, and its call was the older cry, and 
 the harsher and the more piercing. 
 
 She wanted to live — live — live. Life blocked her 
 view. It belittled every other thing. And without 
 Ralph she could not live — immensely, properlv, fully, 
 the only way to live — nor without her could Ralph. 
 They must both lose the best of life that Dorothy 
 might gain — what? That was the question. And 
 it was maddening. Would what Dorothy gained 
 equal what they must lose ? Was it fair ? Oh, was 
 it fair? 
 
 And yet the demon or the genius or the angel of 
 self-sacrifice twisted and turned in all the roots of 
 Tony's being. It tried to turn out the question as a 
 traitor and to shut the door in its face, but the door 
 refused to shut. 
 
 So Tony plunged into her icy bath, dressed and
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 367 
 
 went down in search of action. She made buttered 
 toast for breakfast. But it was a disappointment Hke 
 all the rest. It had lost its secret ! 
 
 She was young and incorrigibly active. She tried 
 Hermann in the kitchen, pensive and sentimental ; 
 and old Meyer on the steps, pleasant and anecdotal ; 
 and then two young Germans came in with their skis, 
 and they had never in all their lives been disappointed. 
 So full of hope were their honest hearts that they soon 
 became centres of infection. Hope spread through the 
 house. Tony soon distanced them in expectation. 
 
 The snow rnust cease. It was already freezing. 
 To-morrow they could mount, with some trouble, 
 perhaps; but once up — the prospect was sublime! 
 The flaxen-haired boys were more enthusiasts than 
 experts, but they convinced by their invincible con- 
 fidence in themselves and all the world. 
 
 The Colonel knew less of the snow and her virginal 
 cruelty than he ought to have done. He had read 
 plenty, and in a centre of dangerous ascents might 
 have doubted, but in a village without a guide in it 
 one does not think of danger. 
 
 To see Tony alive again and eager, the tremble of 
 pain gone from her eyes, was enough for him. 
 
 She was too sensible to attempt wild jumps, and 
 she had learnt to stop her skis. 
 
 The Germans were mere boys, fitter companions for 
 her than the Slav. 
 
 He also was preparing to ascend. He was on his 
 verandah doing something to two pairs of skis, one 
 of them a woman's. Olga stood looking over his 
 shoulder, and the two seemed to be engaged in some 
 desperate low-toned contention. There was a horrible 
 quietness in the strife; the man's face never changed, 
 and he never looked at the woman. Her narrow eyes 
 devoured him, and once they darted down on the 
 Colonel, and he saw that they looked like those of a 
 wounded snake. "Nature made these for a pair," 
 reflected the Colonel, "but I'm sorry for the girl."
 
 r,68 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 The snow excited Tony curiously. Instead of cool- 
 ing her blood and slowing her pulses, it worked like 
 fire in her. It made her feverish and wild. It roused 
 the savage in her. She wanted to go out in it and 
 measure herself against its soft strength. A great 
 longing took her to be up on boundless white slopes 
 alone above the world, defying it, making use of it, 
 bending it to her service. 
 
 She wanted to overcome something, subjugate 
 something, bring something to her feet. 
 
 She seemed to have foregone all the rights that 
 matter, so those that don't had suddenly become sweet 
 to her. 
 
 The gall of pain was working bitterness in Tony. 
 She was fierce with revolt. The mother in her showed 
 her tiger's teeth. 
 
 The horror of the barren life that turns to sourness 
 the sweetness of woman, to folly her wisdom, to a 
 thousand subtle unsoundnesses her health, and to in- 
 finite cruelty her kindness, was dimly astir in the 
 over-mature, over-childish intricacies of Tony's over- 
 abundant nature. 
 
 Absolutely unconscious of sex, only eager to be 
 friends with every one she met, to know them and 
 with immense interest to find out all about them, she 
 had never once been guilty of conscious coquetry in 
 her dealings with her victims. She had simply 
 annexed them, and delighted in them, and very fre- 
 quently explained them to themselves, making start- 
 ling shots from behind the locked doors of her own 
 queer little mind. 
 
 She loved boys and men because they gave her 
 things she could not give herself, and new points of 
 view and curious sudden excitements that made her 
 breath come quick. But it never even struck her to 
 tyrannise over them or to make slaves of them. As 
 for "silliness," she despised it. 
 
 But the first trace of the cat he had ever seen in 
 Tony the Colonel saw that morning in her behaviour
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 369 
 
 to the German lads. They were both red-hot with 
 passion for her in an hour. And Tony for the first 
 time in her httle hfe was amusing herself with the 
 little, mean, pitiful earth-fires of love. Having 
 lost the fire from heaven, nothing now seemed to 
 matter. 
 
 She encouraged the boys in their foolishness, and 
 pitted them the one against the other. Everything 
 was hard and mean and stupid. Nothing mattered 
 any more. There was neither sense nor meaning in 
 a world that could hurt one so, hurt love so. Some 
 treasure was lost from the world. Some light had 
 been quenched. And in such a world it was easy to 
 be small and mean. And it was new. It amused 
 Tony. 
 
 She startled the Slav. 
 
 At first he felt inclined to rub his eyes and suspect 
 visions. P'or an instant even he began to lift again 
 from the dust the old suspicions he had struck down 
 in it, but this he could not do. He had lifted Tony 
 high up on an altar, and when he did worship, Petro- 
 vitsch worshipped sincerely. 
 
 And in the matter of this English Miss his pride 
 was up in arms. He had staked it all upon her. She 
 had become part of it. 
 
 Her admiration for him, her interest in him, above 
 all her simple trust in him, had become part of his 
 pride in himself. It had elevated him in his own 
 sight. It was rapidly changing much of his outlook 
 on life. 
 
 To-night she confounded him ! She was no longer 
 finding out all about the fresh-faced boys, so as to be 
 proper friends with them and delight herself in them. 
 She was encouraging them to find out all about her, 
 and to delight themselves in her ! She was more 
 conscious of herself than of them ! 
 
 This was a mood in which Petrovitsch had never 
 known this bewildering young Miss. It upset his 
 calculations. It hiirt him in all his being. His eyes
 
 370 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 narrowed like Olga's to reflect eyes on her, a habit 
 they had lost in her society. 
 
 Where was the divine Tragedy of yesterday, when 
 she had walked down the silent twilight street with 
 the ineffable crown of suffering on a brow that was 
 still a child's? 
 
 Tony was the first woman Petrovitsch had ever 
 idealised, and he could not understand. He had felt 
 towards her as he had never felt towards any woman. 
 
 Even when the rapture with which she had pos- 
 sessed him was nearing to love he had lifted her to 
 transcendental mystic heights. 
 
 The feeling Tony had excited in the Slav had been 
 a great happiness to him. A thing of vital import- 
 ance. A fundamental change in life and doctrine. 
 
 He bowed his head as Tony laughed and talked, 
 and even slightly befooled the boys. He bowed his 
 head. He could not understand !
 
 CHAPTER XLV 
 
 When Petrovitsch rose in his usual deliberate way 
 and made his adieux he looked as usual. But when 
 he was putting on his hat and coat the quiet, well- 
 trained muscles of his face moved oddly. A slow, 
 continuous tremor seemed to ripple from mouth to 
 cheek, the large, sensual jaw shut once or twice on 
 the white even teeth with their terrible strength. 
 
 Then after a moment's pause he lit a cigarette and 
 went out as indifferent, apparently, as ever, and made 
 — not to join Olga in her evening stroll, but up the 
 street. He walked more quickly than he generally 
 did, and before he reached the tunnel he swung round 
 and went to find Olga. Of her he made short work. 
 He had spared her the night before. He had smiled 
 slowly and significantly as he courteously advised her 
 to come in out of the snow. 
 
 That was all. But to-night, for the first time in her 
 life of soft tumult and fierce languor, Olga was afraid 
 of a man. 
 
 Olga could be as deep and strong and as silently 
 primeval as Petrovitsch when she chose. She had 
 dominated him more than once. In rare immense 
 moments he had been the slave and she the giver of 
 stripes or of freedom. But now she hid her livid face 
 from his eyes. 
 
 "Go home and learn the alphabet of your sex," he 
 commanded, and his eyes seemed to draw the life out 
 of the girl. 
 
 Olga tottered to her room, and Petrovitsch went on 
 into the night mad with passion. He had held it 
 down, curbed it, chained it too long. There was in it 
 
 A A 2 37 I
 
 372 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 the vengeance and the ruthlessness of the slave broken 
 loose. He was impotent in its eternal bonds. 
 
 Hitherto he had taken all that he had wanted with 
 joy and exultation, as a king or as a god. It was 
 there for the deliglit of the man with power to take 
 and facultv to enjoy. Remorse was the last resource 
 of the weak; pity of the fool. To walk with beauty 
 in the sun, despising weakness and acutely aware of 
 his own strength, was the life for a man. It was for 
 him to walk forward upon the eternal road, to keep 
 in the van, not to sneak back amongst the stragglers 
 of the camp. 
 
 And then the English Miss had come and he had 
 paused beside her. At first it had been an amused 
 pause — an interlude of country quiet in the fierce life 
 of the town, a sip of fragrant syrup after a wild 
 course of vodka. 
 
 Then this amazing companionship had brought him 
 considerably more. He had touched depths in the 
 unformed literal English girl that he had never sus- 
 pected to be in women. She had shown him depths 
 in himself which had fetched him up sharp, from 
 which he had shrunk back. They demanded too 
 much. They assumed too much. They made hay 
 of his creed made for Man. 
 
 Treading reverently for the first time in his life, 
 having taken the shoes from off his feet, he had also 
 discerned in her depths of warm passion that made 
 her woman and complete. 
 
 Even when her cold and immature young heart had 
 amply protected her, knowing passion he had known 
 Tony's and still attentively smiled. 
 
 Then when feeling in her first knew itself, when 
 sorrow had softened the hard little heart, she had 
 given him new kindness and new grace. She had 
 in simple unconsciousness made him partner in her 
 pain. 
 
 She was made like that. She gave herself by 
 nature. She must share all things with her friends.
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 373 
 
 And Petrovitsch knew ! 
 
 For deep in this insatiable sensualist, this man who 
 worshipped only his manhood, to whom illimitable 
 desire was divine, lay the pure poet in mystic con- 
 sciousness of God, and to this part of Petrovitsch 
 Tony had betrayed herself, had given him of her most 
 secret, sacred treasure and all her pain. And the 
 pain of this stainless girl was as the wind of heaven 
 to the Slav. 
 
 But even when his attentive eyes smiled no longer, 
 and her heart had begun to melt, she was still remote 
 from him. Their differences kept them on opposite 
 sides of the eternal fire. It lit their faces and warmed 
 their hands and made their hearts to glow and give. 
 But it kept them apart as only the fire eternal can do. 
 
 But now the creature he knew so well, and yet did 
 not dare to understand, had mixed with her kind, had 
 become homogeneous, had in a way become a little 
 common. 
 
 He was shocked as at the spectacle of angel turned 
 roisterer. He was angry and disappointed. 
 
 In the secret soul of every man lies the haunting 
 desire for some rare and individual counsel of per- 
 fection, and to let it go touches the vital centre of pain. 
 And so it will hurt and hurt again till the soul goes 
 forth at last upon her long journey. 
 
 Petrovitsch was fiercely angry with himself and with 
 Olga who had once satisfied him. Fiercely angry 
 with the girl who had filled him with the first dis- 
 content that was eternal. Above all he was angry 
 with her who had robbed him of his first ideal. His 
 pearl of great price^the greatest thing of which he 
 had conceived. With one hand she had given him 
 the best of herself and of the world. With the other 
 she had snatched it from him. 
 
 Then suddenly he fetched up short with a catch of 
 the breath, with a queer panting sob, a half-animal 
 sound that even then vaguely offended him. 
 
 The very fact, the changes, the fall, the disillusion
 
 374 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 were what alone would make it possible for him to 
 leap the fire, to stand beside her ! 
 
 The impossible had become possible ! 
 
 V'ague, mad, disjointed thoughts raced through his 
 hot brain. Incredible hopes came and went in gusts. 
 His hands shook, his knees knocked together. The 
 very foundations of his being seemed to rock. 
 
 "And I who have been through everything," he. 
 said. "I who have earned calm and been taught 
 indifference." 
 
 He was immensely disturbed. 
 
 He was afraid of himself as Olga, an hour before, 
 had been afraid of him. 
 
 The snow had ceased. The wind had dropped. It 
 was freezing hard. The deep, high dome of the sky 
 was a wonder of intense blue and shimmering silver. 
 The silence of the night, mute and all-knowing, 
 wrapped him round. 
 
 He walked on swiftly, fiercely, stealthily, in an odd 
 way. Presently he fell into an even, unhurried run 
 he had learnt on the steppes and in the wide forests 
 of his wild home. It was a curious motion learnt in 
 lonely places, come down, perhaps, from a long line 
 of ancestors who had watched the ways of wolves. 
 
 Petrovitsch ran steadily, untiringly on, through the 
 valley of Altdorf, past its small sleeping streets he 
 went on and on. 
 
 A chaos of contrasts savage and sybarite, primeval 
 man and degenerate angel, God and devil ran riot in 
 this Slav who had felt, suffered and experienced all 
 things, above all who had seen all things as the seer 
 sees them, and has foresworn hope. 
 
 Up hill and down he went, neither quickening nor 
 slackening in his strange, primeval pace. And his 
 thoughts, as wild and primeval, unchecked by one 
 inhibition of race or tradition or custom, slipped and 
 swung through his brain trained and inured to hard 
 thinking. 
 
 He had reached the second villag-e on the Klausen 
 
 i
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 375 
 
 Pass before he remembered place or time, or anything 
 but his own transcending, panting personaHty. 
 
 When he got home Olga read the time by the hght 
 of the waning moon. It was three o'clock. She cried 
 furiously until the morning. 
 
 ****** 
 
 The next day was all the young Germans had 
 declared it must be. 
 
 The Colonel was certainly aghast at Tony's last 
 night's incursion into a life which was none of hers, 
 and in no sort of way could ever concern her, but 
 nothing could persuade him that it was anything more 
 than some outbreak of the incalculable forces of youth. 
 He knew but little of girls, but he had watched those 
 strange, unexpected outbreaks more than once in boys, 
 desperate with the confused, thronging terrors which 
 beset the dawn of a new life as they grope in the 
 unutterable darkness and the destroying chill before 
 the light breaks. He knew the symptoms and the 
 dangers and the unforeseen shames and horrors of 
 temptations which beset creatures so unprepared. He 
 knew the devils of adolescence, none better, and he 
 had lent a hand to many a poor lad in thrall to them. 
 His methods in these matters had indeed been rough 
 and ready, but he had found them efficacious. 
 
 He felt in his bones that Tony had gone the wild 
 way of the boys, but he could not very well haul her 
 back, as he had done the boys, till he knew better 
 what she was after. Of his ultimate ability he had 
 no doubt. 
 
 Meantime, his astute reflections in the matter com- 
 forted and sustained him. Had he been able to picture 
 Tony as a common flirt for longer than the usual 
 spasm of youth, it would have gone very hard with 
 Colonel Larpent. 
 
 A half-made, half-intelligent, half-wild girl, more 
 promise than perfection, can, it seems, be counsel of 
 perfection to an old fool as well as to a young ! 
 
 As for Tony, she was numbed with pain and a
 
 376 niH I'IRE-SEEKER 
 
 maddening sense of failure for every one. She felt 
 mulling but pain and revolt and sheer idiotic injustice 
 of a world that was bent on forcing the three of them 
 to walk with open eyes into the pit that must engulf 
 them and shut out everything. 
 
 It was fun to set the boys glaring, to watch the 
 foolish way in which they adored. It was better than 
 thinking, and her first experience. 
 
 Everybody else had been altogether different. 
 There had been other things to think of. Enthusiasm 
 can save any situation. But with everything lost one 
 flies to folly. Men stricken to death have turned after 
 all to the jester. 
 
 The Germans were just what she wanted, and she 
 could go up high with them and get cool, and feel 
 as she had once felt and begin again. 
 
 A Dutchman who professed to know all that snow 
 could teach him had joined the party. The Colonel 
 saw it depart without a moment's anxiety as to Tony's 
 physical state. It was her moral condition that 
 troubled his mind. 
 
 Half-an-hour after they had gone the Slav followed 
 apparently on their tracks, while Olga, wrapped in a 
 cloak, watched him from the verandah. 
 
 At this Colonel Larpent thoughtfully whistled. 
 Since Olga's skis had been prepared with his own, 
 the chaperon had counted on her accompanying the 
 fellow'. 
 
 "Now this is what makes a man curse the years," 
 he said. "The long eyes of the fellow on Tony in her 
 present mood is the last thing I want. The life of the 
 chaperon is certainly beset with despicable dangers." 
 
 Old Meyer came in after luncheon to say that he 
 did not like the look of the weather. 
 
 "It's not of Nature," he said, "the whole affair. 
 The young cherry-branches snapping under their load 
 like dead wood. And winter sports in May. I don't 
 like it. That gale of seventeen years ago that took 
 her toll follows me up street and down. Ach, Excel-
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 377 
 
 lency, were we both but young ! It would not then 
 matter. Youth that is reasonable can defy Nature." 
 
 "Oh ! well, I'll have to think that out, Herr Meyer, 
 but I'd be glad enough to be with them." 
 
 "And Hermann," went on Meyer, "he can cook 
 and he can play — but as for snow, and snow out of 
 
 season !" He snapped his fingers. "I had no 
 
 fears when they started, no one had, but this queer 
 change that has come " 
 
 "You think then that there is danger, actual 
 danger," said Colonel Larpent quietly. 
 
 Herr Meyer nodded. 
 
 "The wind has risen. There is a strange light in 
 the sky which, I fear, is the sudden gust that blots 
 out differences and confuses the sight." 
 
 "We're out of the running," said Colonel Larpent, 
 with brief decision. "Ring up Captain Pemberton." 
 
 "So soon. Excellency? It is not yet time. Not 
 for three hours." 
 
 "He must know at once. He's the only one of her 
 name at hand. Are there any men in the village of 
 any use ?" 
 
 "None here, but at Brunnen there are many." 
 
 "Then let them know. We can do nothing, you 
 and I." 
 
 The two men who for the first time in their lives 
 found themselves useless in a possible crisis, looked 
 each at the other, and a queer little tragedy played 
 itself out in the lined faces that had never yet flinched 
 before any danger. 
 
 "It's hard on us," said old Meyer, "on you and 
 on me. Excellency." 
 
 "It's youth knocking at our doors, Meyer. Ring 
 him up." 
 
 Captain Pemberton was at Thun and would not be 
 back till the late afternoon. 
 
 "And the young men must start at six, Excellency, 
 if it is necessary to start at all." 
 
 "Pemberton will catch them up."
 
 378 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 "Alone — and no mountaineer?" 
 
 "I don't know. 1 should at his age. It depends." 
 
 " But he has another ? " 
 
 "L'un n'empeche pas I'autre," muttered Colonel 
 Larpent, as he hobbled to the fire. 
 
 "I might be a chaperon of the right sex," he said. 
 "Oh, well, Tom knew I had gout and that the girl 
 was herself." 
 
 The young men of Brunnen were ready and willing, 
 and all they had to do now was to wait till the time 
 for action came. 
 
 For all honour to the Swiss, he has never held back 
 yet when the call came. He leaves his bride in her 
 lonely chalet, his mother on her deathbed, his dying 
 child, to go out to face death to save a stranger, and 
 without one thought of reward.
 
 CHAPTER XLVI 
 
 Directly Tony was out in the white snow and the 
 brilliant purity of the feathery air, she forgot her folly 
 and became a boy again with the boys. She did not 
 forget that somewhere in some awful and inevitable 
 life she was also a woman, but here on the smooth 
 snow that held so well one could only go up, up, and 
 feel part of the glittering wonder. Once she flushed 
 when some quick memory of the evening before darted 
 into her mind. 
 
 "It wasn't me," she told herself angrily. "It was 
 one of the little idiots at school, and how dared she 
 come inside me and be able to live there, even for 
 one moment. Now if I ever meet her again I'll never 
 be able to tell her what I think about her — properly ! 
 That's the awful thing ! " 
 
 She turned her flaming face to the snowy heights 
 and rushed on in a way to astonish the Dutchman. 
 
 "Oh! if one could race for ever and ever!" she 
 thought. 
 
 When Nature slowed the pace for her she began to 
 show the boys how really nice she could be, and that 
 it was some one else who had been the beast. 
 
 No boy could have been more charming then than 
 Tony. And this for a girl so lately become a woman 
 was somewhat of a feat. 
 
 But the boys did not regard it as such. They were 
 grievously disappointed. It was a girl they wanted 
 and not a boy — and so they began to sulk. 
 
 However, presently they adored her in her own way 
 and not in theirs, and found it in the end a very 
 agreeable variation. They had a sneaking regard for 
 379
 
 .l8o THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 the ways of the luighsh, and took this to be one of 
 them. 
 
 Tony divided the delicacies provided for her by 
 Hermann with her three companions, and even the 
 Dutchman was touched. 
 
 "What a day it was ! If only But that must 
 
 wait. 
 
 ' I have lived and loved, but that was to-day, 
 Make ready my grave-clothes to-morrow.'" 
 
 The piteous old words ran in and out of her head, 
 but she refused to heed them. She had the boys to 
 think of, and she wanted to be good again. 
 
 It seemed to Tony that she had soiled herself a little 
 the night before, and the snow was so heavenly white ! 
 And being a woman was too big — it was better to be 
 a boy while one could. 
 
 In the middle of luncheon Petrovitsch joined them 
 and seemed genuinely surprised at the encounter. 
 He thought they were an hour ahead of him. 
 
 "I, too, have my luncheon," said Petrovitsch. 
 " May I sit with you ? " 
 
 "Yes, and have some of my luncheon," said Tony. 
 "Hermann has given me the heavenliest food and 
 enough of it for all of us." 
 
 She admitted him without an afterthought to the 
 kinship of boyhood, and Petrovitsch found himself 
 helpless in the clutch of a new surprise. Charming, 
 most magically new, but how of last night ? He was 
 too deeply a Slav to reconcile the two. He felt him- 
 self immensely near her and immensely far. 
 
 What she gave him to eat was food for gods, he sat 
 as in the presence of gods, and she more boy than 
 goddess ! 
 
 Petrovitsch adored surprises, but being bafifled w-as 
 another matter. That he hated. It excited him too. 
 It set going in him a fury of life. 
 
 Boy she might be and goddess, but she was woman 
 also. And as woman he would vet know her !
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 381 
 
 Meanwhile as boy she finished her luncheon and 
 toiled higher. 
 
 The sky had changed and none of them, boys or 
 men, could interpret the signs of the weather. 
 
 "It means a big storm of snow," said Tony, "and 
 it will fall on Sisikon and more poor branches will 
 break. But our skies are clear." 
 
 The boys were only too ready to agree. The Dutch- 
 man was thinking of his beautiful dinner and said 
 nothing. 
 
 Perhaps Petrovitsch knew. But what he wanted to 
 do he did. The push to go up was in him also. And 
 the accidents of Nature help man. 
 
 He wanted to possess a woman not to take care 
 of her. And with this madness working in a man he 
 is to himself as a god and will command and not 
 obey. 
 
 The storm might burst elsewhere than over Sisikon, 
 but higher on the mountain there was a hut. He had 
 found shelter there before this, and he knew his 
 Emerson. 
 
 "If a god wishes to fly," he quoted in reply to 
 something Tony said, "the very trees throw out 
 branches to help his flight," and his eyes glowed like 
 coals under their smooth lids as he said it. But Tony 
 was getting used to the ways of Slavonic eyes. She 
 put them down to race rather than to original sin. 
 And she — oh, well, she was English ! 
 
 Directly after luncheon the Dutchman showed signs 
 of anxiety connected, he frankly informed the com- 
 pany, with his inwards. The cold did not suit them as 
 in the days of his lusty youth. Also he did not like 
 things he could not understand, and this sky was 
 becoming somewhat incomprehensible. Still a certain 
 stolid pride kept him going. Hie objected greatly to 
 being outdone by any inferior nationality, and the 
 others laughed at his alarms. But for a happy acci- 
 dent for him he would no doubt have slogged, on to 
 the end.
 
 o 
 
 82 Till" FIRI'-SEEKER 
 
 As they were crossing a stream one of the German 
 boys shpped, and in saving himself twisted his ankle. 
 There was nothing serious in the injury, but there 
 was no mounting higher for Karl that day. 
 
 He sat on a frozen stone and looked all his emotions. 
 Tony, with great kindness and some skill, bandaged 
 his foot. She felt acute sympathy for both the boys, 
 for it was plain that Johann would have to accompany 
 his brother. It did not strike her, however, to offer 
 her guardianship also. That she felt, having more 
 sense than sentiment, would be whollv superfluous, 
 and the call to get up and away beyond the world and 
 its myriad pains tore at her heart, and the Slav and 
 the Dutchman were still available. 
 
 The Dutchman, however, jumped at his chance. 
 
 "Could he forsake injured youth! Never! This 
 was not the way of his people." 
 
 "Nor of mine," said Tony, as she picked up her 
 skis. "When they can be of any use. When they 
 can't, they go on — if they want to," she added signifi- 
 cantly. "We'll bring the skis if you will help Herr 
 Johann with his brother. And Hermann knows more 
 than any of us about sprains, besides there's a 
 German doctor at the other inn. 
 
 "I'd come if you really wanted help, you know," 
 she said to Karl, "and do get up from that stone 
 before you freeze to it, and you must start before the 
 real pain begins, you know. I got two sprained 
 ankles at hockey, so I know. It's, a frightful 
 pity." 
 
 "It's spoilt things for all of us," she said to the 
 four tragic eyes glued to her. "It won't be half so 
 nice without you." 
 
 And so with regret, sympathy and a fine under- 
 standing in her expressive eyes she turned heartlessly 
 from love in distress and swung upwards. 
 
 "Poor bovs ! " she said warmly. "I am sorry, but 
 to walk behind them with the skis wouldn't have 
 done much good."
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 383 
 
 "It would have given infinite joy, Gnadigste." 
 
 "Yes," she admitted. "One doesn't want to be 
 selfish," she added, after a pause, "but sometimes 
 it's nice to think of oneself first, sometimes oneself 
 seems more important than any one else." 
 
 "Always, Gnadigste," heartily assented Petro- 
 vitsch. "If the ego knows itself." 
 
 "Oh! It was nothing so big as an ego that 
 didn't want to go back with Herr Karl. It was 
 only me." 
 
 "The greatness of the little word ! A human being 
 with a destiny is first vital to himself. It is the 
 beginning." 
 
 "Oh, well, we do generally begin by being selfish 
 pigs," said Tony easily. 
 
 "It is a question of consciousness," pursued Petro- 
 vitsch. "Pure selfishness is primeval, unconscious 
 individualism which has not yet merged in universal- 
 ism. The selfish man has not moved on. The 
 genius is the most conscious man, and he claims all 
 for himself, never forgetting that other men as they 
 become conscious will also claim and get it. The 
 conscious man is not the selfish man. He only knows 
 where he stands and where his fellow has halted. For 
 being conscious he knows that he is part of all things 
 and they are his. He makes the potential possible. 
 That is all." 
 
 "I suppose," said Tony, "that's why he can look 
 like a selfish pig to ordinary people and feel heavenly." 
 
 "The conscious man, Gnadigste, walks humbly 
 and with great exultation the radiant path of truth. 
 He is not afraid of public opinion. He is already 
 in the outer court of Heaven. The others have not 
 yet left Hell." 
 
 "Dear me, I wonder what vour Heaven and your 
 Hell would be like? " 
 
 "Heaven is consciousness and liberty. Hell uncon- 
 sciousness and slavery," said Petrovitsch, his burning 
 eyes fixed on her.
 
 384 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 They seemed worse than usual, Tony put it down 
 to philosophy and turned to look at the weather. 
 
 "So far as I can see," she said, "we're going to 
 be caught in the snow." 
 
 He paused, looked keenly at the sky, muttered 
 something broken in Russian, and with quiet delibera- 
 tion gripped Tony's arm. 
 
 "^^'e must Hurry," he said. "We must reach the 
 hut." 
 
 "We'd better go down." 
 
 "We can't go down." 
 
 It happened in an instant. The world before and 
 behind was blotted out. The wind chopped and 
 changed. They were blinded by cross currents, big 
 swirls of snow in soft contention met and bafifled them. 
 The strength of Petrovitsch was stupendous; his eye 
 unerring. Tony yielded herself completely to his 
 guidance. Strong as she was she had to lean on his 
 strength. The winds hissed and groaned. The mad- 
 dened snow in soft, overwhelming masses launched 
 itself against them. Sometimes frozen to hail it 
 whipped their faces. 
 
 Tony no longer saw or heard. She fought on blind 
 and dumb. It never even struck her to doubt her 
 guide. She knew that even in the sun on a windless 
 day they must be careful, where they now went the 
 path wound between walls of precipitous rock, and 
 they might slip at any moment into an abyss, but 
 Petrovitsch seemed to guide her by some inward 
 vision of his own, and she had grown used to trusting 
 him. 
 
 By luck or by the light of the wild untrimmed lamp 
 within the heart of the Slav, they reached the hut 
 at last. Petrovitsch, with almost superhumaan 
 strength, got the door clear of snow, found the 
 hidden key, and they were in shelter. 
 
 Tony shivered with cold and some quick repulsion. 
 There was a sense of aloneness, of isolation in the 
 empty hut. She suddenly felt horribly alone and
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 385 
 
 helpless. Her heart cried pitifully for Ralph. It 
 cried out like the heart of a child for its mother. She 
 was suddenly afraid. She pulled herself together. 
 It was so ridiculous. In half-an-hour or so they 
 would be out again. They could easily find the skis 
 and go skimming down the fields. The snow would 
 be soft and the wind have ploughed ridges, but still 
 they would have some sort of a run down. 
 
 Petrovitsch was diligently rooting in a half under- 
 ground cupboard, and presently he stood upright with 
 a bundle of wood and a half empty tin, from which 
 he filled a lamp. 
 
 "But you're not going to make a fire," cried Tony. 
 "It's not worth while. We'll have to be putting it 
 out directly it's made." 
 
 "A fire is always agreeable," said Petrovitsch 
 discreetly, "and you shivered." 
 
 "But that wasn't from cold. It felt uncanny up 
 here, away from every one." 
 
 "The world matters so little," said Petrovitsch, 
 laying the fire. "One is always far from it." 
 
 "Is one?" asked Tony, watching him from a 
 bundle of wild hay. "The world could be ripping if 
 it liked. In any case one can't be far from it, one 
 must be in it, in the middle of it, however idiotic 
 it is. You can't keep out. I thought you hated 
 individualism." 
 
 "I do, Gnadigste," said Petrovitsch. His face was 
 unmoved and colourless, even when he was blowing 
 up the fire. "But there are times when the universe 
 consists of oneself and one other." 
 
 Tony looked at him with great surprise. 
 
 They had been alone often before, but never before 
 had he spoken like this and in this voice, and it was 
 very lonely. Loneliness seemed to hang in the air. 
 
 Tony had always been accustomed to go straight at 
 everything, and she liked Petrovitsch immensely and 
 just as immensely hated silliness. 
 
 "Why do you speak like that to me?" she asked. 
 
 BB
 
 386 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 "You generally know things. You must know I 
 shouldn't like it." 
 
 The fire was now merrily crackling. The lamp 
 was alight. The centre of the hut glowed red and 
 golden, the rest was in shadow. Petrovitsch had 
 moved back, his eyes burnt out of the shadow like 
 hot coals and seemed to devour her. 
 
 "There are moments in which the adorable English 
 frankness makes one forget, Gnadigste." 
 
 "Please don't forget again, Mr. Bebikoff. We're 
 such good friends it would be a pity to spoil things." 
 
 She stood up and went to watch the weather, and 
 escape his eyes. They had never looked at her like 
 this. They were horrible. The curious loneliness 
 seemed to weigh on her, to press her down. 
 
 "I wonder how long this will last," she said. "I 
 think it's getting lighter." 
 
 "No, Gnadigste. It gets more heavy." 
 
 "But not here at this w-indow." 
 
 He stood for an instant silent beside her, looking 
 unseeingly at the driving snow-. 
 
 "Last night you were a woman, Gnadigste," he said 
 at last, in a low voice. 
 
 Tony faced round at him with flaming cheeks. 
 
 "No," she said, "I was a cat. It didn't strike me 
 properly until now. And how dare you remind me 
 of it and in that way?" 
 
 She turned quickly and sat down again. 
 
 " Perhaps I was more horrible last night than I 
 thought," she said steadily. "Perhaps that's the 
 reason. I think I'd rather share the blame. I don't 
 like being disappointed in my friends." 
 
 In a silence that frightened her it seemed to hold 
 so much, to be so full of strength, Petrovitsch made 
 up the fire. 
 
 It was all so odd, it was all so ridiculous, that sud- 
 denly she laughed softly and resolved to make the 
 best of things. He was always so courteous, he w'ould 
 apologise presently, no doubt, and after all he was not
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 387 
 
 as she. Between the Slav and the Saxon there is a 
 deep gulf fixed. Laughter was poles apart from the 
 passionate intensity of Petrovitsch. 
 
 He started, stared and shivered. And— she may 
 have laughed, but her eyes were full of appeal, and 
 there was appeal in her voice also. And she— she was 
 unconscious of either. It was sex that had spoken. 
 
 He felt his strength and her weakness. He was a 
 savage only half redeemed. He looked to opportunity 
 as the righteous look to Providence. It brings gifts 
 to all men and the bold take them. To resist tempta- 
 tion was good for women and fools. For men it 
 meant cowardice. What is good for a man to get, 
 that he must get. 
 
 And Petrovitsch felt that of all the things he had 
 desired, this English girl was the best. She was 
 fine in all her phases, as child, boy, woman, and the 
 apology in her appeal was naive and enchanting, as 
 enchanting as her sorrow of the last few days — the 
 dreaming sorrow of a child. 
 
 And he — he would give her the sorrow of a woman ! 
 The cruelty of man to woman was rooted in the very 
 depths of the Slav. And he— he had everything to 
 give her, he thought, with wild triumph. Through 
 him she should enter into all the mysteries of life. 
 
 Petrovitsch caught his breath ; quite sincerely and 
 simply he felt like a god. An ecstasy of triumph, 
 of exaltation, took possession of him. 
 
 He grew calm and confident. He could wait. He 
 looked with quiet satisfaction at the insistent snow. 
 The chopping winds had merged into one remorseless 
 drive from the north. They were safe here for the 
 night. 
 
 He had some practicality for a dreamer. He must 
 see to supplies. But he must first restore the con- 
 fidence of his companion. 
 
 "You were charming last night, Gnadigste, do not 
 regret it." 
 
 "I shall to the day of my death. And please 
 B B 2
 
 388 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 remember it only happened once and it's never going 
 to happen again. What time is it ? I didn't bring 
 my watch." 
 
 "It's four o'clock, Gniidigste." 
 
 "And I promised to be home for tea — when ivill it 
 stop ? " 
 
 "Possibly in twenty-four hours, Gnadigste," he 
 said quietly. 
 
 Tony sprang up. 
 
 " But we'd better go now," she said. 
 
 "How will you get out, Gnadigste. The snow is 
 up to the windows. Who will move it?" 
 
 " Did— did you know ? " 
 
 " No, Gnadigste. It is unprecedented." 
 
 " Did — did you guess then, W'hen they left us ? " 
 she demanded, her great eyes piercing him. 
 
 "I guessed," he said, shrugging his shoulders. 
 
 "And I trusted you," she said, after a moment's 
 pause, "as I should have trusted an Englishman." 
 
 Petrovitsch started as though from a blow. 
 
 "That is a hard saying, Gnadigste." 
 
 Tony went to the door. The snow was half-way 
 up now. With all her strength she could not move 
 the heavy barred door a fraction of an inch. 
 
 " But — but can we do nothing ? " she said. 
 
 "We can wait, Gnadigste." 
 
 There was the same horror in his calm that there 
 had been in his silence and in the dim loneliness of 
 the hut. Impressions she had received and hardly 
 noticed in the sun, and the scent of the flowers came 
 back to warn her. Vague allusions in Olga's wild 
 stories. Odd intonations in her strange voice. Sud- 
 den narrowings of her watching eye, now for the first 
 time took their full value in Tony's mind. Her con- 
 sciousness ripe for development seemed all at once 
 to have leaped some barrier. She perceived thou- 
 sands of things she had as yet only apprehended. 
 
 She was alone in the hands of a ruthless man, and 
 she was a woman. The tragedy of sex w-as her
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 389 
 
 portion also. She steadied herself. She tried to 
 pray, but only with the dim wonder of a child. That 
 revelation was not yet hers. She had always trusted 
 herself and every one else. Human resources had so 
 far seemed illimitable. 
 
 The Slav was examining the contents of a ruck- 
 sack and furtively watching every look and movement 
 of Tony's. He knew very well that some struggle, 
 some awakening was taking place in her. And he 
 worshipped courage. The courage of Tony was to 
 Petrovitsch like the taste of blood to a tiger. 
 
 "Please don't look as if we were preparing for a 
 siege," she said, laughing. "It makes things seem 
 worse. We might turn it into a tea-party if only we'd 
 got some tea — I'll cut bread-and-butter and we'll 
 imagine the tea." 
 
 She cut it and gaily ate it. 
 
 Petrovitsch gloated over her. For well he knew 
 that now she knew also. It added appreciably to his 
 pleasure. He refused the small store of wine, but in 
 a dim corner he had brandy, and that he did not spare. 
 The opportunity of his life had come and the gods 
 do not stint themselves. 
 
 The wind howled and the snow fell, and to her 
 horror Tony saw that the lamp was flickering. And 
 — she was growing sleepy, and the terror of loneliness 
 gripped at her heart. 
 
 But the most terrible thing of all were the eyes of 
 Petrovitsch, loosed now from all bonds and fixed on 
 her. Perhaps it was the curious red and golden light, 
 but they looked bloodshot. She stood up to watch 
 the weather again, and on a window-sill she found a 
 bit of candle. 
 
 "Perhaps it will last till they come after the lamp 
 goes out," she said cheerfully, sticking it in a bottle. 
 
 "I'm afraid not," said Petrovitsch. 
 
 "I'm not so sure. My uncle will be frightened, 
 and so will Herr Meyer and Hermann. It's not as if 
 one hadn't friends."
 
 390 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 "Until tlie snow has ceased no guide in vSwitzerland 
 would budge an inch. It is a blizzard. When the 
 wind sinks and the snow ceases, they will come. They 
 will know that we are safe in the hut." 
 
 The tone in w^hich he spoke was strange — he was 
 jilainly no longer even trying to keep command over 
 himself. She caught her breath and tried to collect 
 all her forces, to throw off the numbing sense of sleep 
 and keep her brain clear. 
 
 She got up and moved about the room, making little 
 alterations. 
 
 There was a rough washing sink in one corner and 
 a great pitcher of half-frozen water. 
 
 "They must sometimes wash," she said. "Here 
 are soap and water at any rate." 
 
 The eyes of Petrovitsch followed her everywhere, 
 but he never said a word.
 
 CHAPTER XLVII 
 
 "You may be English, Gnadigste," he said at last, 
 "but you are also of all nations. Of the East as of 
 the West, else you would not see and know and 
 
 understand as you do — and — feel " he paused on 
 
 the word, with a queer roll of his tongue — "as you 
 will feel." 
 
 She turned to look at him. Another startling 
 change had come into his voice and face. They came 
 now in rapid succession, these changes, and each was 
 more ominous than its predecessor. 
 
 "Oh, when will they stop?" said Tony to herself, 
 as she waited quaking for the rest of his sentence. 
 
 "There is in you, mein Fraulein, more Celt than 
 rude Anglo-Saxon, or rapacious Norman, or black 
 Dane, or savage Northman. You are a Celt, and 
 the Celt is sister to the Slav." 
 
 "Goodness forbid," thought Tony. 
 
 "She is a mystic, this Celt, the child of feeling." 
 
 "The Celt in me," said Tony, "is so diluted, you 
 couldn't possibly recognise her. I had an Irish great- 
 grandmother, that's all. It leaves me with plenty of 
 common sense." 
 
 The fiery eyes of Petrovitsch were regarding her 
 in a way most horribly un-Anglo-Saxon. 
 
 "Once the Celt enters even into the gross blood of 
 the Saxon, Gnadigste, you can't drive her out, she is 
 then the eternal possession of the lesser race. We 
 share the secret of the earth, we Slavs and you Celts. 
 We speak her language, we are owners of her magic, 
 we know those who are ours, and we are known of 
 them." 
 
 To be claimed as kin by Petrovitsch and at that 
 391
 
 392 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 moment was an incredible affront to Tony. There 
 was a fiendish humour in it even. She could have 
 laughed in her nervous fury. But she held back 
 both words and laughter. 
 
 "It was a Celt who wrote," he said — "a Celt of 
 Wales — ' If thou see a fair woman pay thy court to 
 her, whether she will or no, for thus thou wilt render 
 thyself a better and more esteemed man than thou 
 wert before.' " 
 
 His face had now no disguises. Tony felt weak 
 with terror, but she was used to speaking-up. 
 
 "That must have been written when we were all 
 savages together. Celts don't go on like that now. 
 They're just like other people — until they get into 
 Parliament." 
 
 "They are as different as poetry and prose, 
 Gnadigste. You Celt and I Slav have the great 
 secret, and we are rebels by instinct to the rule of the 
 hard, cold intellect, to the bleak mechanism of man- 
 made laws. We are children of the flam.e and of the 
 dew; we are the poets of the earth." 
 
 "In that case we ought to keep out of Parliament," 
 said Tony feebly. 
 
 She saw him gloating over her. Petrovitsch had 
 drunk more brandy than even his seasoned brain 
 could stand, and the madness of the brute was behind 
 the brandy. Tony, fighting for courage, looked in- 
 comparable. She had come in a moment to her full 
 beauty. 
 
 He got up stealthily, deliberately, his intense ex- 
 citement only seemed to co-ordinate his forces. There 
 was always an indestructible rhythm in the splendid 
 measure of his movements. 
 
 He w^nt to Tony, looking out at the blinding snow. 
 She turned to him with a laugh which nearly ended 
 in a sob. 
 
 "You're so strong," she said. "Even now if you tried 
 you could force open the door and help me down." 
 
 The pleading in her eyes made her a child. The
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 393 
 
 courage of her smile a woman. And even then she 
 was fire from heaven for Petrovitsch. He wanted 
 her brutally. But he wanted also to bathe in her 
 purity, to meet and mix spirit with spirit, to be one 
 at last with the best of life ! He seized her, mad and 
 muttering. He kissed her hands, her cheeks, her 
 eyes, her hair. He was beyond himself. 
 
 Tony uttered no sound at all. She caught her 
 breath and beat him off. His strength was horrible. 
 Enduring degradation, irreparable calamity seemed 
 now inevitable. 
 
 And then suddenly a sense of power — greater than 
 any power of man, of strength stronger than the 
 strength of the strongest, of love that never forsakes 
 the weak, of a presence nearer than one's own heart 
 came upon Tony. A wonder of resource and coolness 
 flowed to her brain. 
 
 She was no longer afraid. She was alive as she 
 had never been alive before. She knew iier danger 
 as she had never known it yet, and yet she was now 
 full of a certain hope. 
 
 She looked round for any help, any weapon. 
 
 He strained her to him, hurting her young slender 
 body, affronting her every instinct. 
 
 Suddenly she saw the great pitcher of half-frozen 
 water. She was as lithe as a deer. In a sob of 
 passion he loosed her for an instant, and quick as 
 thought she slipped from his grasp, seized and over- 
 threw the pitcher. It flooded the flagged slanting 
 floor, it flowed spluttering into the well-sunken hearth, 
 half quenching the fire. Petrovitsch shuddered with 
 shock and fury as he splashed and slipped. 
 
 He could not get away from his sensitive nature. 
 Even in his frenzy of passion the check affected him 
 as it could affect no other man. It outraged tempera- 
 ment, race, tradition. It was inartistic and revolting 
 to his taste, humiliating to his untamed pride. It 
 took his godhead from him. It was the triumph of 
 weakness over strength.
 
 394 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 Bill it was neither check nor temperament that 
 held him back from his prey. It was something in 
 himself which in the moment of the check had 
 gripped him like a vice, something compelling, and 
 it refused to let him go. 
 
 His passion was cooled, but his hatred was aroused. 
 He would be revenged on this girl who had made him 
 ridiculous. 
 
 The conflict in his face as he turned his flashing 
 eyes on her was horrible. Tony understood and 
 trembled. 
 
 And then all the trust she had learnt amongst men 
 she turned to God. And soon she was greater than 
 herself. 
 
 She turned with curious gentleness to the infuriated 
 brute. 
 
 "I'm not afraid of you any longer," she said, "and 
 I'll never be afraid again. I'll make up the fire and 
 you must dry yourself, and there's wine and I'll make 
 it hot for you." 
 
 He was white, silent, still with fury, but the icy 
 bath had done its work for the moment. 
 
 It was a respite not a release, however, that Tony 
 knew well. A vision of the terrible hours she might 
 have to face when Petrovitsch had stopped shivering 
 arose before her as she heated the wine. A dreadful 
 nervous inclination to laugh as she remembered her 
 inspiration took hold of her, and a miserable con- 
 sciousness that the pitcher was now empty oppressed 
 her heart. 
 
 Then she saw that her hand was shaking on the 
 handle of the saucepan, and knew that any sign of 
 weakness would now be worse than madness. She 
 lifted her fearless eyes to his and again the Thing 
 gripped him. 
 
 And again the sense of protection, of love, of Pre- 
 sence fell about Tony, and being used to trusting she 
 trusted. It struck her that she had even trusted 
 Petrovitsch, and then something flashed into her like 
 a bright unerring light.
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 395 
 
 She would trust him again absolutely, but in her 
 new wisdom she decided that she would do so while 
 he was still shivering. Petrovitsch shook with a 
 thousand emotions. Great things were astir in him, 
 but small things no less so. He had been made 
 ridiculous, he — Petrovitsch ! — by the woman he most 
 desired on earth. He had been baffled. He had been 
 made ignoble in his own eyes. He had been out- 
 raged, dragged in the dust. His "ego " cried for 
 vengeance. 
 
 The horrible kindness in the manner of her defiance 
 slashed at the quick of his being. He had aspired 
 to heaven and for his pains had become the butt of 
 the gods. Even now he could not dissociate Tony 
 from his amazing heaven of the East ! and in such 
 as Petrovitsch hate is the fuel of love. 
 
 He took a step towards her. He laughed with 
 triumph. The check, after all, was but a challenge. 
 His eyes flamed ; his arms went out to her. Then 
 he stopped as by magic, and again he shivered. 
 
 And then Tony tried to gather all her wits. 
 
 Her voice was always rich and deep and full, and 
 as she fed the fire in the circle of warm light even 
 the angularities of her young body were toned and 
 rounded and enriched. 
 
 There was a magic about Tony that night, as 
 simply and fearlessly she told him her story. The 
 marvel in it and the great surprise held and fascinated 
 the Slav. He stood panting, rigid, possessed. 
 
 The Power that knows all things and is an Artist 
 in all can say mighty things through the pure heart 
 of a girl. Tony spoke as only they who trust utterly 
 and are not afraid can speak. The words formed 
 themselves as her heart revealed itself. Quite un- 
 consciously she said the things that all men 
 have once known and desire passionately to know 
 again. 
 
 Petrovitsch was out again on his wild steppes, 
 watching for the revelation that was himself. It had
 
 396 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 come once, and then he had gone out into the world 
 and forgotten it. 
 
 And now he had "found it again in the heart of a 
 child." If he w-as a brute he was also a poet. 
 
 Mechanically he sat down. His splendid head 
 sank in his hands. He shivered, but no longer with 
 shock and fury. He saw the thing that he had lost. 
 The pearl of great price that had been his as surely 
 as it was this girl's. It was their common heritage, 
 and he had sold it for messes of pottage that only 
 left a man still hungry. Tony had a sort of genius 
 for making others partake of her own dish, whether 
 it was the Dutchman with her foie gras or this Slav 
 with her white soul. She could possess nothing that 
 the other had not ! 
 
 As they sat together in the red and golden glow 
 of the fire, the convicted wretch grew white and clean. 
 He was an unsoiled lad again tracking the secret of 
 himself and the world, out in the sad twilight of the 
 rolling plains. 
 
 He listened as one listens to the voice of gods or 
 angels. 
 
 "I shall probably never marry Ralph. There's 
 Dorothy, you know," said Tony, "and he asked her 
 first — before he knew — and it's to her he must be 
 faithful. We must both be, you know. One has to 
 when one knows what love is." 
 
 He lifted himself from his half bestial crouch, and 
 looked long in her face. 
 
 "You know — yes, you know what love is," he said. 
 "My God! You know at eighteen what it takes the 
 blood and the sweat and the years of us others to find 
 out ! What is to us as the Cross of Calvary. And 
 this grand passion at eighteen ! We barter our souls 
 and hearts and intellects for it. We grow old before 
 we have found it, and sometimes w^e do not find it at 
 all. We learn it bit by bit, we find it out slowly and 
 with great anguish. But you know the whole at 
 eighteen. It is genius! My God! it is genius! It
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 397 
 
 is the poem you would write. It is the thing your 
 father began but did not finish." 
 
 "But — but I must do more," cried Tony. "This 
 only belongs to me." 
 
 "It belongs to the world," he groaned, "and, my 
 God ! it is not for me." 
 
 "But it is for you," she said. "That is why I told 
 you. Because I knew you would understand then 
 and take care of me." 
 
 He stared silently. 
 
 The night was now about them with its great cry 
 and its great demand and all its secret horrors. The 
 echo of all the dark things that have been done in it, 
 its eternal loneliness, was in Tony's heart. She 
 struggled against her helplessness with help so near, 
 but she looked tired and piteous. The snow drove 
 in soft masses against window and door, steadily, 
 insistently. The treacherous white softness of that 
 which held her captive made Tony grow cold at her 
 heart, but the words given her to speak were still 
 perfect in their simple way, and the heart of Petro- 
 vitsch was not yet closed to them. 
 
 But I can't talk all the time, thought Tony, and 
 then — and then 
 
 For an instant she beat off despair. 
 
 And with reason. Petrovitsch was now more com- 
 fortable physically, and things within him were lift- 
 ing up their voices, and would be heard. They were 
 insistent, primeval things, as inextinguishable as they 
 were unassuageable, and for years they had over- 
 grown and strangled his virgin youth. Their satis- 
 faction had become his creed, his philosophy, his life. 
 And a man is as he has made himself in the affairs of 
 life, not as God has made him. 
 
 Petrovitsch had renewed his vision, but he knew 
 himself, that self he had become and was, which when 
 his forces and his senses were alive again would slay 
 that other without a touch of remorse and sell the 
 pearl and barter the heritage !
 
 398 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 He knew himself horribly. Habit and instinct 
 were both too strong. The being he adored now he 
 would ravish in an hour. It was second nature to 
 him. 
 
 Never in all his life had he desired a woman with- 
 out possessing her, or hesitated to cast her off when 
 he was tired of her. 
 
 It was part of the strong life of a man, and remorse 
 a confession of weakness. He was moved, renewed, 
 transformed in the red-gold circle of light, but his 
 thought was soaked with the worst of himself and of 
 women. It was foul with both. And even as Tony's 
 words searched the spirit of the man his hard trained 
 intellect, directly it began to work, dissected the 
 devious ways of his flesh : it knew only too well the 
 channels into which "his thoughts and his senses must 
 inevitably flow — those dug by the usage of long years. 
 
 But still the vision called. It would not be denied. 
 He lifted his unwilling eyes to its crystal shining. 
 And love — as this girl revealed it ! It was not she 
 that spoke, no girl living could have known as she 
 knew — it was a thing to make a man pause. Petro- 
 vitsch could not get aw^ay from it. 
 
 It seemed to hold him and transmute him and make 
 him anew in spite of himself. He wanted no changes. 
 Life as he knew it, in spite of its unutterable gloom, 
 in spite of its hopelessness, had been good to him. 
 He had "liked life well." 
 
 And the fire burnt bright and Tony spoke sweetly, 
 and the vision and the reality contended and fought. 
 
 Ah ! but he loved her immensely ! immensely ! 
 He loved her with spirit, soul and body. And the 
 question now was which of the three should conquer. 
 
 He grew warmer and she more beautiful. The old 
 light came flickering back into his purified eyes, and 
 Tony's heart went out again to the Helper. 
 
 But she was so tired and the horrible craving for 
 sleep was creeping in again about her. 
 
 Petrovitsch saw it and the muffled brute in him
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 399 
 
 threw off another bond or so. Tony saw him clench 
 his hand and twitch violently. 
 
 She leaned towards him and looked with perfect 
 trust in his face, which was now wild and 
 sombre. 
 
 "You thought I didn't know anything," she said; 
 "but you see I do know. I know more than you. 1 
 sort of belong to love now. We both do, Ralph and 
 I. That's why we'll have to look after Dorothy, you 
 know, and keep her from being hurt if we can. And 
 that's why I told you because you know, too, and so 
 you'll have to take care of me, don't you see? 
 
 He sprang to his feet and stared at her. 
 
 "Do — do you know what you're asking?" he said 
 at last. 
 
 "Yes," she said steadily. "You taught me." 
 
 He uttered a strange inchoate sound — and shrank 
 back. 
 
 Perhaps Petrovitsch had seen some mystery 
 revealed to no other man, the counsel which the man 
 who sees must obey. 
 
 At any rate his face changed instantaneously and 
 he stood still for a second or two ; then he turned 
 to examine the store of wood in the corner and 
 brought over an armful to the fire. He carefully 
 made it up, and then with a great sadness he looked 
 at her. 
 
 "If I stay," he said quietly, "I must have you. It 
 is our way. We are born and bred in it. We know 
 no other. I do not say that it is wrong, but I will 
 not hurt you in the way you would be hurt. Perhaps 
 it's racial prejudice, I do not know. I know only 
 that I love you and I cannot hurt you now. We 
 have come too close together. In spite of everything 
 we are too nearly akin. You have taken all from me, 
 but you have given me what you never can take back." 
 
 "But— but— you can't go." 
 
 "I will arrive — alone. And you — you will be safe. 
 There is fire and food."
 
 400 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 "You can't live in that storm. It's worse " 
 
 "Oh, well, if I can't ! " he said, with a shrug. "I'm 
 used to risks, and you are a woman to risk all for. 
 It may not be worth it. I know not. I know nothing 
 but that I love you — I love you in your way of love, 
 in the English way. And tell your lover that if I 
 have copied his methods he had better copy mine and 
 marry you. Marry you in spite of conventions and con- 
 science, they count not in love. Neither does the other 
 girl count." He dismissed Dorothy with a gesture. 
 "It is not for man, even if he is an Englishman — and, 
 my God ! insolent !— to throw back the gift of God 
 in God's face ! Ach ! Gnadigste, how I love you ! 
 I could have killed you to-night, but I am glad that 
 I have known you; but I am glad! — And, after all, 
 it may in the end be but the little point of view that 
 matters. God knows ! Like the little point of 
 theology at your great fires." 
 
 He laughed again deep down in his chest. 
 
 His face, his laugh, the deliberate invincible 
 strength like that of a brute in despair with which he 
 forced himself against the great barrier of snow 
 robbed Tony of the last of her strength. He was 
 probably going to his death, but she crouched against 
 the pile of wood incapable of another W'Ord of protest.
 
 CHAPTER XLVIIl 
 
 It was not until the German boys and the Dutch- 
 man came back, leaving Tony alone with the Slav, 
 that the mortal anxiety of the Colonel began. He 
 cursed his impotence and his folly. And yet in his 
 obstinate and indestructible faith he told himself that 
 he had only obeyed orders. This, however, could not 
 relieve him of his responsibility and his fears. 
 
 He made superhuman efforts to send the relief party 
 off at once. But they knew that the blizzard would 
 cease at the turn of the night, and that almost without 
 doubt the party had reached the hut. 
 
 If by any mischance they had not, well, an hour 
 or so would not now matter ! They would start when 
 the time came. 
 
 The common sense of the Swiss is monumental. 
 No danger will deter him, when the need is urgent, 
 but he has a rooted objection to reckless and purpose- 
 less adventure. 
 
 Nothing would move the young men. Moreover, it 
 was not possible to offer sentimental or moral reasons 
 to men so wise and sober. 
 
 "Why, then, did the Fraulein go with the Slav?" 
 they would naturally enough have asked. They were 
 there to save life, and not reputations. 
 
 "Ach, mein Gott ! Excellency, that you and I are 
 too old," said old Meyer, "and Hermann hump- 
 backed and lame. He can but weep in the kitchen. 
 God grant he does not spoil the supper of his Excel- 
 lency. They mean no harm, these Slavs, but they are 
 not as we are. God forbid ! If the young Captain 
 were but here — and he — he knows not the mountains." 
 c c 401
 
 402 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 " He'll get to her all the same. Even if " The 
 
 chaperon discreetly coughed. "I mean he'd go, any- 
 how. She's of his name and kindred." 
 
 "It is impossible that he goes alone. My God! 
 it is. Some one must be found." 
 
 One of the young Germans had come in and was 
 quietly listening. He now joined them. He was red 
 and embarrassed, but he spoke boldly. 
 
 "I know how it is," he said. "No one will go till 
 the wind falls. But when the English Captain comes 
 I will accompany him." 
 
 "You! but I couldn't let you go, boy!" said 
 Colonel Larpent. 
 
 "I am of age," said Johann proudly. "No man can 
 prevent me." 
 
 "It's not your job. And you've got a mother, no 
 doubt, waiting for you at home." 
 
 " I have a good mother. And she taught me to 
 be brave, sir." 
 
 "By Jove, she didj^ my friend," said Colonel Lar- 
 pent heartily. "Your mother may well be proud of 
 you. But I've got to think of your mother, don't 
 you see." 
 
 "And I too, mein Herr. What she would wish me 
 to do, that I must do. The Fraulein must not be 
 alone in the dark night," he said, flushing redder 
 than ever. 
 
 "Ah ! That's it," said the Colonel, "she must not 
 be alone." 
 
 "If I had but known of the tempest," he said shyly, 
 " Herr van Adsum must have taken my brother, and 
 I would have gone with them." 
 
 "I wish to God you had known." 
 
 "And I also, sir. The Dutch gentleman would not 
 have liked to bear the weight of my injured brother. 
 We are large and heavy, as you may see, and Herr 
 van Adsum likes only to bear his own weight and 
 give much good advice. But we would have com- 
 pelled him, Karl and I."
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 403 
 
 "You certainly would," said the Colonel, laughing. 
 "Want of will isn't your besetting sin." 
 
 " For such a lady, sir, the weak must become strong." 
 
 " I wish to God you were with her instead of the 
 other, Herr Johann." 
 
 " Ach Gott ! I wish I was. I say no evil of them — 
 these others — but they are not as we are." 
 
 Ralph got back at eight o'clock, and Dorothy saw 
 his face as he heard the news and turned from the 
 telephone. 
 
 " Is it about Tony ? " she asked abruptly. 
 
 "Yes. She is in great — in terrible danger. I must 
 go to her, but I want to speak to you first." 
 
 He opened the door of a small sitting-room. "Come 
 in here, it's empty. How did you know it was Tony, 
 Dorothy ? " 
 
 "Your face told me. It's Tony you love, Ralph?" 
 
 "Yes, I love Tony," he said gently, "but I didn't 
 know when I asked you, Dorothy. I asked you 
 honestly. I thought I loved you, dear. I asked you 
 before I knew v/hat love was." 
 
 "Ah," she said faintly. 
 
 " I meant to tell you — when I could speak of it. 
 And, dear — you're safe in our hands — in Tony's and 
 mine," he said quickly to her piteous white face. "If 
 you marry me, I'll make you happy." 
 
 "But — but you love Tony. You're going to her, 
 and there's danger " 
 
 "But even if I didn't love her — I'd go to her, dear. 
 She's alone in the hands of a man who can't be 
 trusted." 
 
 "Ah ! you love her, and danger is nothing to you." 
 
 " I love her, and it's an unspeakable calamity to all 
 three of us, Dorothy. And as for danger, one always 
 gets through somehow. But whatever happens, dear, 
 will you believe that I was honest then? I thought I 
 loved you, and if you'll have me, I'll make you happy. 
 I care for you as much as a man can without loving a 
 girl, and it's a lot, dear." 
 c c 2
 
 404 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 "Ah, go," she said. "One must think afterwards. 
 Now I can only think of your danger, and that you 
 love her." 
 
 Her face haunted him through the swift, wild sleigh 
 drive. It was so helpless and so charged with pain. 
 He felt as though he had wounded a child. But in 
 the stern work before him he put Dorothy aside. 
 
 If the young German had not insisted upon going 
 with him, mad or sane, Ralph would have gone alone. 
 He hated the boy's coming. He was tragically young 
 and he had no stake in the job. But he was as reso- 
 lute as Ralph himself, and a giant in size and 
 strength, and having been already over the track was 
 an advantage, so they all said, but Ralph felt that in 
 such a storm no experience would count. It was only 
 Tony herself who would lead him to her. 
 
 The difficulties were stupendous. But the spirit of 
 the young German was as bold as his own, and love 
 and adventure make men wise. 
 
 The whole village met in the hall to call them fools. 
 And this brought laughter into the grim business for 
 the German boy. It was a gallant flaxen-haired hero 
 who went out that night to defy death for the sake 
 of a girl he hardly knew. 
 
 They fought silently through the night and the 
 storm, and the Power that helped Tony helped them 
 also, for they, too, w^ere pure of heart and their hands 
 w'ere clean. They struggled on for hours. 
 
 "We cannot now be far," said the boy in a pause 
 for breath. "This is the torrent where we left the 
 skis. And from here it was but an hour to the hut." 
 
 They were dazed, bewildered, blinded by the snow^, 
 often losing the way, but by some instinct recovering 
 it again. Yet their strength was failing, and a mortal 
 fear lest, after all, they might not reach her in time, 
 fought with the elements against Ralph. 
 
 He stood still resolutely to throw it off. Thought 
 is fatal when a man must act. He stamped the loose 
 snow from his feet and set his face to the heights
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 405 
 
 again. " Herself will take care of her," said the young 
 German suddenly and with assurance, for music had 
 taught him many a secret. 
 
 "God bless you, boy, for that ! " rapped out Ralph, 
 for there are moments which loose even the tongue of 
 an Englishman. "I believe she will. And we'll hold 
 out all right, but it's slow going." 
 
 And now it grew worse. The cross-winds on the 
 narrow path had banked the snow into a conical line, 
 flanked on each side by a precipice. For a minute it 
 seemed impossible, each side of the bank looked like 
 an ice-run to eternity. 
 
 "Look here," said Ralph. "You'd better go back. 
 This job is mine." 
 
 " I go back now ? — No, by God ! where you go I 
 follow." 
 
 Desperation brings resource in her train. How he 
 managed it Ralph never knew, but by sitting astride 
 on the half-frozen, half-soft ridge, he picked a narrow 
 path with his axe and the two got over. 
 
 They went on panting and confused, and suddenly 
 Ralph, who went first, fetched up short. 
 
 "I say!" he muttered. He stooped and cleared 
 away some soft snow. 
 
 "God in Heaven ! It's the Slav ! " 
 
 At first they thought he was dead. Then, listening 
 at his heart, Ralph caught some movement of life. 
 
 "It won't matter now," he said quietly, "we can 
 go slower." 
 
 Petrovitsch was as heavy and limp as the dead. 
 A desperate burden for spent men. They staggered 
 on, their breath coming in sobs, with the horror of 
 the marble white face and the wide, staring, blue eyes 
 between them. 
 
 What had happened, and why was the man here ? 
 His face bore the unmistakable signs of some awful 
 conflict. 
 
 The Slav had at last lost his calm ! 
 
 The moon had come out now through a rift in the
 
 4o6 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 clouds and threw shafts of silver light upon the white 
 face. 
 
 "It is not good to look upon such a man," said 
 the German boy in a low voice. "It is hell — that " 
 
 He grew heavier and heavier. Once they stopped 
 and looked at each other. 
 
 "We must," said Ralph. "We'll do it all right." 
 
 The storm, which had abated, came back with 
 trebled force and with an access of savage rage. It 
 seemed, mad with its own agony, to thirst for blood, 
 for life, for human pain, for any companionship in 
 its own immemorial sorrow. 
 
 They tottered and rocked in its inhuman attacks, 
 which yet were so full of humanity, so full of human 
 need for understanding. The white face of the Slav 
 swung to and fro. 
 
 It was an intolerable sight. The men's blood 
 curdled as they saw him. 
 
 They were almost beaten in the end. But they fell, 
 men and burthen, at last sheer against the drift of 
 snow that barred the door. 
 
 When presently he collected his strength, Ralph 
 listened breathlessly. There was neither light nor 
 sound. 
 
 With the strength of a madman he tore the snow 
 from the door and burst in. 
 
 The fire was dead, but in the grey light of the dawn 
 he saw Tony crouching against the wood pile. 
 
 Her face was livid, her hands clenched. She was 
 only half conscious. He shook her roughly in his 
 fear, and she sat up with a quick cry of terror. Then, 
 when she saw him, she stretched out her hands to him. 
 
 "It's you— it's you — it's you!" she muttered. 
 "You've come at last." 
 
 She could do nothing for a minute but cling to his 
 hands. 
 
 "I'd never have got to you at all but for Herr von 
 Anau," said Ralph. "See, he's here too." 
 
 "You too! — But," she cried out in a wild panic,
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 407 
 
 with staring eyes, "are you sure you're here?" Her 
 eyes flew full of terror round the room and fetched 
 up on the Slav. She sprang to her feet and drew 
 her fingers across her eyes. 
 
 "Are you sure — are you sure — are you sure?" she 
 cried. 
 
 "It's all right, Tony. We're here, and now we 
 must make up the fire and see to the Russian." 
 
 His quiet voice reassured her, but it was some little 
 time before full consciousness returned. 
 
 She sat down dazed and shattered, trying to collect 
 her wits. The German was making up the fire, and 
 Ralph was already doing what he could for the Slav, 
 before her shocked brain recovered and her senses 
 began to perceive and act. 
 
 Then life seemed to spring back in her with a 
 bound. She remembered and understood. She knelt 
 with Ralph beside the Slav, and again she clung to 
 him in fear and horror. 
 
 " Is it over, is it quite over ? " she cried. 
 
 "It's over, Tony. You're safe. And tell me, 
 child," he said, stern with an awful fear, "are you safe 
 really ? Did he take care of you ? " 
 
 She shuddered and clung to him. 
 
 "Yes, Ralph; I think he killed himself to take care 
 of me. I — I didn't know life was so hard to live," 
 she said, "or that it had such awful things in it." 
 
 She stopped, shuddering, and never spoke again to 
 Ralph of what had happened that night. But she 
 told Colonel Larpent all about it with simple direct- 
 ness. 
 
 "Oh 1 Look here," said Tony, with sudden energy. 
 "He mustn't die. He did it for me. Oh I Ralph, you 
 rub his arms and legs and let me come near him. 
 He'll come back for me, I think," she said, taking the 
 white face in' her hands. 
 
 Ralph's eyes glared at her. 
 
 "Oh, Ralph, can't you understand. It's been so 
 awful that one can never speak of it — but he went
 
 4oS THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 out into the snow to save me. He did what he could 
 — when he understood — and he mustn't die." 
 
 It was an unspeakable half-hour for Ralph, but he 
 relaxed in no effort. He fought death for the brute 
 as he would have fought it for his best friend, and 
 he knew what he was about. He fought it well. But 
 death seemed all too light a penalty for the crime 
 the wretch would have committed. It was torture 
 and outrage to see Tony touch him, to hear her voice 
 calling him back, and her magic working. 
 
 And every second she betrayed herself. In voice 
 and face and touch she told her secret, the unspeakable 
 things she had suffered that night. 
 
 The men shuddered in their revolt against the work 
 she had set herself. Death was too good for such a 
 scoundrel. They could have put the finishing touch 
 to his career, either of them, without a qualm, but 
 that men don't do these things. 
 
 And still Tony, white, absorbed, indomitable, com- 
 pelled him to come back. 
 
 "But I must," she said at last, to Ralph's face of 
 sombre rage. 
 
 " If a man tries to give his life for you, you must 
 do all you can to give it back to him. And oh ! 
 Ralph, you couldn't let him die with a face like that. 
 Death must be worse than life," she said, trembling 
 and quivering, "till a man has changed his face." 
 
 "Don't speak of the brute. His face is of his own 
 making." 
 
 "But he might change it. If he had a little more 
 time. Oh, Ralph ! In spite of everything I think 
 he'd like to be good." 
 
 "What's hell for, then?" said Ralph furiously. 
 
 "I don't know," said Tony, obstinate in her turn. 
 "It's not for him yet, at least if I can help it. He's 
 simply got to come back. 
 
 "And one is English, at any rate, you seem to 
 forget that," she added with flashing eyes, "and one 
 can't be outdone by a Slav."
 
 CHAPTER XLIX 
 
 And in the end his friend and his enemy brought 
 the Slav back. It was a desperate struggle. Death 
 nearly had him. He begrudged his prey. 
 
 For an hour after his return he did his utmost to 
 drive Ralph and the German mad by his fixed stare 
 at Tony. The wretch was nearly delirious and hardly 
 responsible. He was beyond the power of hostile 
 glances, at any rate, but he ground the horror of the 
 night deeper into Tony's heart and soul, and brought 
 back all her loneliness now with the ice of death 
 upon it. 
 
 She had forgotten as she touched Ralph and clung 
 to him as one touches and clings to one's own. But 
 now she stood in the midst of limitless love and bound- 
 less passion, and she belonged to no one. She knew 
 all and she had nothing. Never before had she so 
 acutely realised the utterness of her desolation. 
 
 "And I'm so young to have finished everything," 
 she thought, as she went about doing things for all 
 of them. It seemed to her that she could never sit 
 still and idle again : one can't alone. 
 
 ^ * * * * * 
 
 The Slav still needed the closest care and watching, 
 and once, as Ralph and Tony were leaning over him, 
 he looked with apparent consciousness from one to the 
 other and said loud enough for both to hear — 
 
 " ' Les grandes passions sont rares comme les 
 chefs d'oeuvres.' It is Balzac, and he knows." He 
 repeated the words over and over again, there was no 
 mistaking them, then lapsed again into absolute 
 incoherence. 
 
 409
 
 410 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 "He's right," said Ralpli quietly. 
 
 "Perhaps he's the devil tempting us," said Tony, 
 trembhng. 
 
 The instant Petrovitsch regained full consciousness 
 he kept his eyes to himself. 
 
 After one hopeless effort to rise and help himself he 
 lay silent and immovable, submitting with gnashing 
 teeth to the services of the men. They handled him 
 gently enough. He was in too bad a state to handle 
 in any other way, but their contained, stern faces 
 pierced his strange, wild, receptive heart. A horrible 
 remoteness from his kind oppressed and enfeebled 
 him. He craved for one glance of forgiveness from 
 the eyes of Tony, but, humbled to the dust, he dared 
 not entreat for it. 
 
 The remorse he had scorned stood now with knotted 
 lash above poor Petrovitsch. 
 
 The wind had sunk, the snow had ceased, and the 
 sun was out again on the white world still aching from 
 her wounds. And before the party from the hut were 
 ready to start the rescue-party had arrived, full of 
 complacence at having so accurately calculated the 
 time. They chaffed the Englishman and the German 
 with rough good-humour, and attributed the luckless 
 adventure of the Slav to racial lunacy. 
 
 But they relieved his unwilling saviours of the 
 burthen of him. 
 
 When they were down near the valley and the 
 rescued angel was no longer a two-man's job, Johann 
 went sadly forward with the good new'S. 
 
 "Tony," said Ralph, "Dorothy knows." 
 
 "Ah ! I felt she did. She knew by your face, Ralph 
 — oh, poor Dorothy. And, Ralph — I can't think yet. 
 I'm only glad to be with you, but — I do want to 
 be good. After last night " She stopped, shiver- 
 ing. "I — I couldn't hurt love — don't you see. It's 
 too big. It can overcome everything. And — now — 
 I sort of belong to it — and I must do right to it. I 
 have to, Ralph."
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 411 
 
 "I want to do right, too, Tony. No one could love 
 you and have your love without wanting to do right. 
 But what is right?" he said slowly. "That's the 
 question." 
 
 "It is," said Tony, after a long pause. "But it's 
 a question of letting some one weaker than yourself 
 be hurt, too. Oh ! If only we knew ! " 
 
 "Perhaps something '11 show us," he said simply. 
 
 Tony's face was drawn and white. The night's 
 doings had written themselves indelibly upon Ralph's, 
 and yet the simple youth of the two was what first 
 struck the Colonel as he held Tony's hand hard and 
 looked for confirmation of the good news from Ralph. 
 
 "The Storys are here," he said presently. "You'd 
 better go to them, my girl." 
 
 Ralph waited an instant. 
 
 "We both want to do right, sir," he said. "Of 
 course you know." 
 
 "It's not a question for the advice of an old man," 
 said the Colonel very gently. "I think youth must 
 settle it among themselves. And I think youth will 
 settle it rightly. If Tony's taught me nothing else, 
 she's taught me to believe in youth. God made it, 
 and He takes care of it." 
 
 Ralph caught her up before she reached the house. 
 Her hands were held tight in old Meyer's and Her- 
 mann's, and both were sobbing. 
 
 Then the two went in together. 
 
 The old people were cold and distant. So long as 
 Tony was in danger, Mrs. Story's soft heart had bled 
 for her, and her husband's heart (he had unexpectedly 
 returned) bled also. He shared all things and all 
 emotions with his wife. But now that the danger was 
 over the natural heart of a mother had its say in the 
 matter. 
 
 Dorothy, too, had supped that night with sorrow. 
 The iron had entered into her young heart also. The 
 piteous young face looked so awful and as though it 
 knew so little, that a wild wish to do something great
 
 412 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 and heroic, to give anything', to give up everything, 
 to change that accusing, challenging face seized hold 
 of Tony. She tried to speak. She put out her hands 
 tremblingly. And all at once she burst into a passion 
 of crving, noiseless, terrible, the strength and the grief 
 and the passion of a woman flowed over in the tears 
 of this child. 
 
 "Come away, wife," said Mr. Story huskily, "and 
 leave the girls together. And — no doubt you'll be 
 wanted," he said grimly, turning to Ralph. "It's the 
 affair of you young people, you'd better settle it 
 between you. Dangerous game playing with fire, 
 young man." 
 
 "Look here, Addy," he said, as they lingered in the 
 porch. "It's hard luck on Dorothy, but she'll play 
 the game. She's your girl — my dear. And it's better 
 before than after if it's to come." 
 
 "It's that disgrace to her sex, her mother letting her 
 loose with an old soldier," said Mrs. Story with con- 
 viction. "Never in all my experience have I heard of 
 such an education for a girl." 
 
 "It's turned out a fine one, my dear. And I liked 
 the tears — show heart. " 
 
 "Bother her heart. Dorothy has a heart too." 
 
 "She has, God help her," he sighed, "but I doubt 
 if an unwilling bridegroom would satisfy it." 
 
 "And such a match for him! He's a gibbering 
 idiot, Frank." 
 
 "He is, my dear. Dorothy would have made him 
 a power in the land." 
 
 "It's mean-spirited," she said, wiping her eyes. 
 
 "Well, yes, he's chosen obscurity instead of a name 
 for a pair of fine eyes." 
 
 "You're horribly a man yet, Frank," she said, with 
 startling vehemence. "You might have got over that 
 by this time. Fine eyes at your age — and with 
 Dorothy " 
 
 "One never gets over original sin, my dear. And 
 after all, Addy, there are as good fish in the sea as
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 413 
 
 ever were caught. He's thrown over a good thing. 
 I can't say that I think Dorothy has. Except for the 
 fellow himself, whom I like, she'll do better, I have 
 no doubt. Anyway, we'll have to accept what they 
 settle. So we'd better wait in a room with a stove 
 in it." 
 
 Tony sobbed on uncontrollably, and the other two 
 stood by helpless. Such tears as Tony's must have 
 their way, and somehow they knew it. 
 
 And it was, after all, like Tony herself saying things 
 that no girl can speak out. Ralph loved Tony, and 
 so he understood all that the tears said, and Dorothy 
 loved Ralph, and understood also. So poor Tony, by 
 the time she had dried her eyes, was an open secret 
 to them both. 
 
 "There's nothing to tell you, you know everything," 
 she said. "I wish I hadn't been so silly. I hardly 
 ever cry, really. But I wanted to tell you that we 
 wanted to do right most frightfully, and then — I 
 began. And — and — Ralph does belong to you, you 
 know." 
 
 "Yes," said Dorothy drearily, "but he wants to 
 belong to you." 
 
 "That won't come between us, Dorothy, if you'll 
 still have me," said Ralph, making a creditable effort 
 at fluency. 
 
 "But I'd feel it — I — I — don't want to give you up 
 — I — I can't pretend to like it, but — but 1 don't want 
 to divide you with Tony." 
 
 "You won't feel it, I promise you that." 
 
 "I know — you'd do your best, but 1 should know. 
 I've had so much love all my life. 1 couldn't do with 
 a little." She shivered and sat down. She was so 
 slight and fine, so dainty and so immaculately turned 
 out, she looked utterly unfit for pain. 
 
 The foundation of boy deep down in Tony sprang 
 to the surface. 
 
 "Oh, 1 say!" she gasped. "One can't do this. 
 One can't hurt people weaker than oneself. Oh !
 
 414 THE FIRE-SEEKER 
 
 Dorothy. Ralph does care for you — and he'll take 
 care of you — and — and so will I. I'll keep out of the 
 way, you know. I promise you faithfully. 1 can bear 
 pain a thousand times better than you. I know more 
 about it, you see. I've had a lot and you've had 
 none. And — I couldn't be happy if you were hurting 
 horribly." 
 
 "Oh yes, you could," said Dorothy bitterly, "if you 
 had Ralph." 
 
 "Then we'd be unhappy together," said Tony 
 eagerly. "In every way you'd be better for Ralph. 
 I haven't a penny — not even a prospect of one 
 now." 
 
 "Ralph only wants you. I can give up, too. I also 
 want to do right," said Dorothy proudly. 
 
 "I'll feel awful all my life unless you take him," 
 cried Tony. " I never felt till this instant what an 
 awful pauper I was. I think you'll have to do it for 
 Ralph's own sake." 
 
 In spite of himself and of the occasion, Ralph 
 laughed. 
 
 "Oh ! How can you ! " gasped both the girls, one 
 at last in one common bond. 
 
 "Any man would," said Ralph, feeling both beast 
 and fool. 
 
 The eyes of both the girls quelled him. 
 
 "I wanted to do everything for Ralph," said 
 Dorothy, "but he thinks you'll do it better." There 
 were tears in her hazel eyes. "And so good-bye, 
 Ralph." 
 
 "I never hurt a woman before," said Ralph, "and 
 I hope to God I never will again. And it's impos- 
 sible to attempt either excuse or explanation. No one 
 could understand but Tony and me. The more I say, 
 the worse it makes things. But, Dorothy — oh, my 
 God ! — I'm sorry to have done this to you." 
 
 "You didn't mean to hurt me, Ralph." 
 
 "That doesn't make the hurt any the less, or my 
 folly in causing it."
 
 THE FIRE-SEEKER 415 
 
 "Some day, perhaps, you won't hate me for Ralph's 
 sake," faltered Tony humbly. 
 
 Dorothy said nothing. 
 
 "It's awful, being hated," entreated Tony. 
 
 "Your clothes are dripping, Tony, do change 
 them," she said. "Oh! Good-bye, Ralph." 
 
 She went out with a little choked sob. 
 
 "And if this is being happy lovers," groaned Tony 
 at last, " I never did ! " 
 
 "I deserve it, anyway." 
 
 "We deserve it together, of course, but it's awful. 
 And I've spoilt your plans and your chances. And 
 Susy '11 hate me too for stopping the beet-growing 
 and bringing a pauper to the old house." 
 
 "And bringing love, and love will give us, and 
 the land, and every one on it, all we want." 
 
 "Oh, Ralph," she said at last, with shining eyes. 
 "I know it will, but just at first — I do wish poetry 
 paid. And, Ralph, we'll never in all our lives hurt 
 any one again. If we want to — one does often fright- 
 fully, you know — we'll think of Dorothy. But oh, 
 Ralph, you are a fool I " 
 
 "I am, thank God, but I wish I hadn't been a 
 brute too." 
 
 "Choosing the beggar girl instead of the Princess 
 broke the spell that held you," said Tony softly. 
 "You're a man now." 
 
 " I am with you beside me ! " 
 
 "And a man and a woman," said Tony, "can move 
 the world — and it wouldn't be nearly such a heavenly 
 adventure if we had money to do the things with ! " 
 
 THE END
 
 Richard Clav & Sons, Limited, 
 
 brunswick street, stamford street, s.e., 
 
 and bungav, suffolk.
 
 
 
 
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 A :: LIST :: OF 
 
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 January 
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 Nash's Two 'Shilling Novels 
 
 VOLUMES TO BK PUBLISHED 
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 I 91 2 
 
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 By Robert Barr 
 
 Stranleigh's MilHons 
 
 " He is a good fellow, and, like Mr. Burr, invariably enter- 
 taining." — The Daily Graphic. 
 " Very amusing, very delightful." — The Globe.
 
 Nash^s Two-Shilling Novels 
 
 VOLUMES ALREADY ISSUED 
 By William Le Queux 
 
 Hushed Up! 
 
 " One long gasp from beginning to end. " — TJic Daily Express. 
 
 '' As entrancing a two-shillingsworth as the most exacting could 
 desire. " — The Neivcastle Daily Chronicle. 
 
 "Mr. Le Queux is an encyclopcedia of crime . . ' Hushed Up I 
 is a masterly example of his method." — The Sunday Times. 
 
 The House of Whispers 
 
 ■' Mystery — tantalising and baffling." — The Yorkshire Post. 
 
 " An excellent talc." — The Daily Telegraph. 
 
 " Full of arresting situations and making a strung appeal at 
 every stage to the instinct of curiosity." — The Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 Treasure of Israel 
 
 " An admirably ivorked piece of sensationalism . . . ought to 
 please a host of readers." — The Sunday Times. 
 
 The author is at his raciest ; each chapter discloses some new 
 phase of the mystery^ each page supplies a new thrill of excite- 
 ment." — The Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 By Gaston Leroux 
 
 The Perfume ofi/ie Lady in Black 
 
 The chief character . . . is a l)orn detective . . . it cannot be 
 denied that the account of his achievements, 'which 'would make a 
 Sherlock Holmes jealous, is followed to the end with the keenest 
 interest, even in these days of languor." — The Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 " It will bring joy to the heart of a large public which likes to be 
 puzzled." — The Newcastle Daily Chronicle.
 
 Nash's Two-Shilling Novels 
 
 \'OI.UMKS ALREADY ISSUED 
 By Mary Roberts Rinehart 
 
 The Window at the White Gat 
 
 T/ic plot is skilful and the incidenls exciting. It is soiitethiiig 
 more than a mere detective story ; there is character in it, and a 
 pleasant love story, and a quite refreshing sense of humour." 
 ■ — The Outlook. 
 
 By Anna Katherine Green 
 
 The House 
 of the Whispering Pines 
 
 The author has aritten nothing so good suuc her famous 
 ' Leavenworth Case.' The story grips one from the first scene . . 
 The book is crammed with incident . . . there is not a dull page 
 from first to last." — The Outlook. 
 
 By E. W. Hornung 
 
 Raffles 
 
 " Hats off to Raffles." — The Daily Telegraph. 
 By Max Marcin 
 
 The Wife He Never Saw 
 
 " A vigorous and briskly moving yarn — the best thing of the 
 kind we have encountered for some co)isidcrahlc time." — 
 The Birmingham Daily Post.
 
 Nash^s Two-Shilling Novels 
 
 VOLUMES ALREADY ISSUED 
 By Carlton Dawe 
 
 The Black Spider 
 
 " Described as a sensational story of a female ' Raffles ' this 
 tale . . . in every reiay lives up to its description." — The Birming- 
 ham Daily Post. 
 Full of thrills from beginning to end." — The Western Mail. 
 
 By John Ironside 
 
 The Red Symbol 
 
 Vii^onr and s^^'ing characterise the book, which has no dull 
 pages, and ivhich keeps its alluring secret until near the end." 
 — The Glasgow Herald. 
 
 By May Sinclair 
 
 The Divine Fire 
 
 " Judged by almost every standard to tvhich a comedy like this 
 should he referred, I find her book the most remarkable that I have 
 read for many years." — Mr. Owen Seaman in "Punch." 
 
 By Madame Albanesi 
 
 Envious Eliza 
 
 " Eliza is charming." — The Standard. 
 
 The authoress has the gift of informing her characters xvith 
 life and charm . . . The book cannot fail to consolidate the 
 position which the authoress has won by her earlier works." — The 
 Daily News.
 
 Nash's Two-Shilling Novels 
 
 VOLUMES ALREADY ISSUED 
 By F. G. Philips 
 
 Jack and Three Jills 
 
 " An arresting and clever piece of observation." — The Bystander: 
 
 " An entertaining story of legal life . . . Jack is frank, manly, 
 and generally attractive." — The Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 A Lucky Young Woman 
 
 " Shoic's us tJie author at his best " — The Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 By F. G. Philips & Percy Fendall 
 
 A Honeymoon — and After 
 
 " 4 really clever novel of modern society life." — The Dundee 
 Advertiser. 
 
 " Owes much of its sustained interest to its ruthless pictures oj 
 life in frivolous West-end circles." — The Daily Chronicle. 
 
 By Rene Bazin 
 
 The Nun 
 
 ' A book whicJi no one who reads it "will ever forget." — TJie 
 Westminster Gazette. 
 
 " It is difficult to speak in measured terms of this exquisite story 
 . . . a cons7immate artist, his work eats into the heart, and lives 
 in the memory as do but feic books from modern authors." — The 
 Daily Telegraph.
 
 
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