The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 By 
 
 Humfrey Jordan 
 
 G. P. Putnam's Sons 
 New York and London 
 
 dbe fmtcfccrbochcr 
 1912
 
 ComucRT, 19 ii 
 
 Y 
 HUMFREY JORDAN 
 
 Ytnkftcrbocltar pra, Hew fiort
 
 So 
 
 A. R. J. 
 
 THAT IT MAY HELP 
 
 TO KEEP GREEN THE MEMORY OF PLEASANT WEEKS 
 
 OF WANDERING IN BURGUNDIAN VALLEYS 
 
 THIS TALE IS DEDICATED 
 
 BY HIS BROTHER 
 
 THE AUTHOR 
 
 2136394
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. A FOOL AND SOME OF His FOLLY . i 
 
 II. OF A LAWYER'S MANY OCCUPATIONS . 16 
 
 III. A MAIDEN AND THE FOOL . . 34 
 
 IV. THE SETTLEMENT OF A QUESTION, AND 
 
 THE AMENITIES OF THE DINNER TABLE 50 
 
 V. OF AN ACT OF FRIENDSHIP . . 70 
 
 VI. SHOWING DIFFERENT SIDES TO THE SAME 
 
 QUESTION ..... 94 
 
 VII. THE POINT OF VIEW OF A PARENT . 116 
 
 VIII. THE RECREATIONS OF AN ARTIST IN 
 
 PARIS 133 
 
 IX. THE EXIT OF A BISHOP AND THE AD- 
 VENT OF AN ARTIST . . 159 
 
 X. WHICH SHOWS SOME ASPECTS OF A 
 WANDERING LIFE, TOGETHER WITH 
 OTHER MATTERS .,-_ -~. . . 175 
 
 XI. AN ODD COMPANY ASSEMBLES . . 199 
 XII. A QUIET LIFE IN BURGUNDY . .218
 
 vi Contents 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XIII. SOME DIFFICULTIES AND MUCH UNREST 242 
 
 XIV. OF MOONLIGHT AND OF SLEEPING HOPES 264 
 
 XV. OF DEATH AND OF SUSPENSE . . 282 
 
 XVI. ACTION 304 
 
 XVII. THE PASSING OF A GALLANT GENTLEMAN 323 
 
 XVIII. THE PARTING OF MANY WAYS . . 333 
 
 XIX. THE ATTITUDE OF AN OLD ARTIST . 344 
 
 XX. MORE UNREST, BUT OF A DIFFERENT 
 
 KIND . . 359 
 
 XXI. A WOMAN DECIDES .... 369
 
 The Joyous Wayfarer
 
 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 A FOOL AND SOME OF HIS FOLLY 
 
 I FIRST met Kenneth Louis St. Cyprien Massingdale 
 "a name," its owner will tell you, "that bespeaks 
 the most unseemly irresponsibility on the part of the 
 godparents" at Cambridge, where he was a year my 
 junior. He was then, as he is now, very far removed 
 from the conventional type; he did not pose at all; was 
 moved to much mirth at the talk and manners of the 
 body of self -proclaimed aesthetes, at the time fairly numer- 
 ous; and said little or nothing about painting, neither 
 announcing nor suggesting that he could paint or had 
 ever wished to do so. He was very popular indeed, I 
 can scarcely imagine him otherwise but he was not the 
 man with whom the average undergraduate could .arrive 
 at any real intimacy. Outside of rowing, which is the 
 only athletic performance I have ever seen him take 
 part in, he had little in common with most of us. His 
 ways had not been ours, and most men, I am inclined 
 to think, saw that his interest in the affairs of the place 
 was carefully assumed, which discovery is likely to 
 arouse suspicion in any community. I do not fancy that, 
 z I
 
 2 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 except to myself and to a man named Denton, who died 
 in Egypt two years after we went down, he ever, during 
 this time, communicated his real thoughts to any one. 
 To the most of his Cambridge acquaintance he is pro- 
 bably remembered as a brilliant talker, who was seldom 
 if ever serious, who, but only very rarely, would explode 
 with unexplained outbursts of praise or denunciation. 
 
 I need scarcely describe his appearance; it is well 
 known. When he came up to Cambridge he was very 
 little different from what he is to-day. He was perhaps 
 half an inch shorter, though now he is scarcely over the 
 middle height; his face was just as thin as it is to-day; 
 he was very neatly made on fine lines; his hair light 
 brown and very wiry, the years have done little to it 
 except to add some grey; his eyes just the same as now, 
 wide-set, deep-sunk, blue, with many changing expres- 
 sions to be read in them, the most expressive feature of a 
 face that has always failed to hide its moods. 
 
 His manner is, without a doubt, much altered, and 
 that along lines that are not frequently traversed in the 
 journey to middle age; he has taken the opposite direc- 
 tion to that of most of us. His whole behaviour is, even 
 now, much less restrained than it was at Cambridge; 
 he is not less responsible, for since he has never been 
 anything but irresponsible, that could not be, but his 
 speech is less guarded, his whole attitude more free and 
 natural. I do not think that this repression which marked 
 his undergraduate years was due to self-consciousness, 
 I believe it to have been engendered of the place. The 
 three years which he spent at the university were, I am 
 convinced, although he has spoken little to me on the 
 subject, far from being loved by him; he extracted from 
 them, as he has extracted from all the phases of his life, 
 much interest and no mean amount of pleasure, but the
 
 A Fool and His Folly 3 
 
 existence was not one that appealed to him, the bonds, 
 official, social, and scholastic, galled him very much 
 indeed. 
 
 His childhood had been more lonely than is common : 
 Captain Massingdale, his father, had spent most of his 
 son's boyhood at sea; Mrs. Massingdale had died in 
 giving him birth; he was the only child. Most of his 
 holidays had been passed under the care of relations of 
 whom he was not fond. He left school very young, 
 when he was just sixteen, and went to live with his 
 mother's family in France ; after a year of French domes- 
 tic life he went to Paris, his father having a fixed determina- 
 tion that the boy should be taught independence as soon 
 as might be; there for a matter of two years he lived the 
 life of a Sorbonne student, nominally studying the humani- 
 ties, in reality working with a great enthusiasm at 
 painting. In the middle of his nineteenth year Captain 
 Massingdale came to visit him ; he was entertained by his 
 son with every circumstance of care. I have it from both 
 of them that the first fortnight of the visit was exceed- 
 ingly pleasantly spent. Captain Massingdale found Ken- 
 neth already very well informed on many subjects, a 
 surprisingly agreeable companion for his years, and very 
 well capable of looking after himself; being a man of 
 much discretion and no Puritan, he did not inquire too 
 strictly into his son's habits, but was content to inform 
 himself, without ostentatious questioning, that the boy 
 came to no real harm. So the pair of them set about 
 taking a fair toll of the spring's enjoyment in the good 
 city on the Seine. 
 
 I know of few men more open to finding enjoyment 
 in things which are strange to them than Captain 
 Massingdale; I know of no other man more capable of 
 leading any one to the pleasant passage of most delight-
 
 4 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 ful hours than Kenneth Louis St. Cyprien; therefore, 
 on no other evidence, I would assume that holiday to 
 have been well spent. Both of them knew Paris, which 
 is essential if it is to be properly enjoyed; both of them 
 spoke French with much facility, Captain Massingdale 
 because he had married a French wife, and had been 
 much in France and French-speaking countries, Kenneth 
 because he has French blood, and good blood, in his 
 veins, and also because he has the gift of tongues. So, 
 in their quest of pleasure "a diurnal scattering of 
 much gold," Massingdale once named it they attended 
 one night a soirSe given by Jean Sebastien Loissel to his 
 pupils, of whom, unofficially, Massingdale was one. 
 The evening began with promise; there were many dis- 
 tinguished persons present; the whole company was set 
 upon enjoyment; Monsieur Loissel, a model of gentle 
 courtesy, saw to it that his guests found something to 
 their taste, cards, music, what they would. About 
 midnight Yvonne Carrel came from the Ope"ra Comique 
 and sang "Man caeur s'ouvre & ta voix" and Massing- 
 dale, much to the amusement of his father, forced his 
 way through the crowd and spoke to her, letting formal 
 introductions go by the board. What he said I do not 
 know, but Captain Massingdale informs me that she 
 sat with the boy for an hour on a sofa in a corner, and 
 that afterwards she spoke of him as an "enfant dont on 
 parlera plus tard." Of the lady Massingdale himself 
 says little, except that she could have brought laughter 
 or tears from the rocks of a desert, had she sung to them. 
 She was, then, not less fair to look at, I understand, was 
 Yvonne, than she is now, and she made smaller use of 
 paint and powder. 
 
 In the small hours of the morning, when his duties 
 as host gave him for the moment some quiet, Loissel
 
 A Fool and His Folly 5 
 
 fell into confidential talk with Captain Massingdale. 
 The good man has affirmed that his intentions were of 
 the best, that what he said was meant to help a pupil 
 of whom he had hopes. He began, it seems, with a little 
 flattery. I can picture him as he talked, standing in his 
 favourite attitude, his legs wide apart, his head some- 
 what on one side as if he surveyed an easel, plucking 
 at his beard then not quite white with his left hand, 
 tapping, every now and again, his listener on the waist- 
 coat with his right. Having inquired about the length 
 of his guest's stay in Paris, and having got rid of other 
 polite preliminaries of the same nature, he turned the 
 talk to painting; he would have Captain Massingdale's 
 advice. Could Monsieur le Capitaine inform him what 
 was the dominant shade of colour when the fog was 
 heavy in La Manche for his part the true shade had 
 always escaped him? Loissel asking for instruction in the 
 painting of the sea ! It may seem that the flattery would 
 be at once detected, but Captain Massingdale has since 
 informed me that, though he realised the complete impos- 
 sibility of his teaching the master anything that he did 
 not already know about the changing face of waters, he 
 was none the less flattered on that account. After the 
 conversation had settled somewhat on the subject of 
 painting, Loissel made his point. 
 
 "Tell me, monsieur," he asked, "when will your son 
 let alone these other subjects which cut into his time, 
 and set to work seriously? Oh, believe me, monsieur, I 
 am not of those who can tolerate a man who is ignorant 
 of every subject but his own. I would have him well 
 informed. But, le petit Louis, he will instruct himself. 
 Not a doubt, monsieur. And, now, he is not altogether 
 ignorant. But the life's work, it is never too early to 
 commence that. It is not long, monsieur, our life, and
 
 6 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 for the painter there is very much to learn. Surely he 
 should begin, seriously, at once?" 
 
 Captain Massingdale knew that his son had a fondness 
 for what, in the family, was termed drawing; proofs of 
 this inclination to the arts had, during ten years and more, 
 reached him in all quarters of the globe, and many of 
 those childish drawings are still preserved. He knew, 
 moreover, that the boy was in many ways different to 
 his contemporaries in England; that here was a painter 
 in the making, had, however, never occurred to him. 
 Like many laymen, Captain Massingdale had always 
 imagined that talent in the artist must strike the public 
 from the outset, that in his first sketch, his first poem, 
 or his first story, the beginner, who should afterwards 
 succeed, would make plain the stuff of which he was 
 made; whereas, I have noticed for myself, and have taken 
 pride at my perspicacity therein, and I have also been 
 assured by the initiated, that the gold is most commonly 
 more than half concealed beneath the dross of want of 
 training, and that in the first stages the public is more 
 than likely to miss the good and praise the bad. Such 
 easy mastery of technicalities as leads to the immature 
 production of pretentious work is, they tell me, the 
 worst danger in the path of the apprentice. 
 
 Captain Massingdale having a considerable fondness 
 for the arts, and, also, priding himself somewhat on 
 his taste in such matters, not seeing, as he thought, a 
 chance of his son becoming a great painter, was duly 
 astonished at the talk of his becoming a painter at all. 
 Being, however, capable of facing an unexpected situa- 
 tion without obvious hesitation, he endeavoured to gain 
 some further information from Loissel, without letting 
 him know that he now heard of the project for the first 
 time. So he questioned the old man about his son's
 
 A Fool and His Folly 7 
 
 chances of success. Loissel, whose reputation for gener- 
 osity and for kindness to the struggling artist is surely not 
 unearned how many men owe all they have to his timely 
 help and praise, is his secret, which we shall never know 
 has learned the lesson of the frequent fall of hopes; 
 he has seen many tall ships, which left the stocks amid 
 congratulations, and afterwards set sail with every 
 circumstance of promise, flags flying, all taut and trim, 
 founder before ever they came to port; and having seen 
 these things, he will speak little of the future. There- 
 fore, Captain Massingdale got small assurance out of 
 him except that there was promise, that, beyond a 
 doubt, one had the right to found hopes. 
 
 "Monsieur," he concluded, when he was forced to 
 end the conversation and bid good-bye to guests who 
 left, "it is impossible to say; you must see that, you who 
 follow the sea. Yet you would not hesitate to risk your 
 life and to give it, monsieur in the hope that you 
 might serve your Queen; would you deny that your son 
 should risk his life, for failure is surely the loss of all 
 that makes life good, in the service that he has chosen?" 
 
 And with that he moved away. 
 
 Which was the end of the pleasant holiday in Paris. 
 For when Captain Massingdale has once come to a 
 decision he takes a deal of shifting; and he had decided 
 that no son of his should risk his life on such a slender 
 chance. Next morning, I understand, there was much 
 facing of the situation. Captain Massingdale would 
 have no talk of the profession of painting, and argued 
 that he had been treated unfairly in hearing of it, in the 
 first instance, from a stranger; Kenneth answered with 
 the plea that he waited to see what he could do before 
 speaking, and that he had paid a decent attention to 
 the humanities. Then followed a long, and, I am inclined
 
 8 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 to think, rather bitter dispute. Captain Massingdale 
 offered his son the choice of any other profession, and, 
 the selection going by default, chose the Bar; Kenneth 
 meeting the decision with a fine array of arguments. 
 After his usual method, Massingdale left the chief point 
 in his case untouched, assuming that his father already 
 realised that the first aim of his existence was to become 
 a painter; he assailed with much vehemence every 
 imaginable weakness of every other calling, made out, 
 apparently, that life was a sort of desert where dwelt 
 all mortals except those happy few who adorned can- 
 vases in the one oasis, yet said never a word of the artist- 
 fever which consumed him. Consequently, Captain 
 Massingdale not unnaturally assumed that the glamour 
 of the life called to him, and that the life's work was 
 little heeded. 
 
 At the end of two or three days, when neither of 
 them could say a word that they had not already said 
 about the matter, a settlement was come to of necessity 
 on Massingdale's part. He was left in Paris for six weeks 
 until the irony of the thing seems to have appealed 
 to his sense of humour after an examination for which 
 he was entered at the Sorbonne; that finished he was to 
 return to England, and, the following October, to go up 
 to Cambridge and read for the Bar. 
 
 When his father had left Paris, he returned to his 
 room on the fifth floor of a small hotel in the Rue de 
 Monsieur le Prince; previously the father and son had 
 been together at the Continental. There for ten days 
 he nursed his trouble in solitude, shunning old Loissel 
 and the studio, and working, spasmodically, at the ex- 
 amination subjects to give himself occupation and a change 
 of thought; finally he could stand the thing no longer, 
 and rushed off to find sympathy and advice. He found
 
 A Fool and His Folly 9 
 
 Loissel alone, smoking and reading, for the old man had 
 a peculiar fancy for remaining, sometimes two hours or 
 more, after the pupils had gone; on the days when he 
 came to the studio he seemed loth to leave it. Loissel 
 has never spoken to me of the interview; Massingdale, 
 not more than once or twice, and then vaguely. He 
 tells me that he was very hysterical, but that Loissel let 
 him rave until he was tired; that they then both sat 
 silent, he somewhat embarrassed after the recent display ; 
 finally, in his quiet, kindly voice the old man gave his 
 advice. It was simple. 
 
 " Obey your father, " he advised. " Go to this English 
 university, and take your degree there. Become a 
 barrister we will call that worldly wisdom, my child 
 attempt to make your living as they wish. If then, when 
 you are no longer a boy, you cannot desert the mistress, 
 come back and I will help you. If you come back, you 
 may make an artist, if not then you have escaped 
 being a failure. You should thank these tears, they will 
 help you." 
 
 And since Loissel would not go back on his decision, 
 Massingdale, thinking himself deserted by all men, left 
 the studio and wandered the streets, miserable, for some 
 hours. Then, hunger overcoming his restlessness, he 
 went and dined at his favourite restaurant, a little place 
 of, it seems to me, no particular merit, where since then 
 he has often taken me; got maudlin over his wine; and 
 was finally put to bed, very drunk, by kindly disposed 
 friends. He was then nineteen. 
 
 Under the circumstances it is not very surprising that 
 he failed to discover the best of that which Cambridge 
 has to offer; to appreciate the place one must go there 
 straight from school; to wander, although it be only a 
 very little way, and then to come back, is to miss the
 
 io The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 chance of much. It is a point which we seldom discuss, 
 he and I, for I love the old town, and hate to hear it 
 badly spoken of; he does not. He was, as I have said, 
 popular; though never intimate with the other men, it 
 was with the fellows that he had a quarrel that could not 
 be hid. I knew, as every man in the college knew, that 
 for some reason which did not seem apparent, he had 
 a peculiar dislike to these harmless, and, sometimes, 
 hard-working gentry. He never fell foul of them, his 
 relations with them were invariably polite, yet, as far as 
 I can recollect, he had not a good word to say to them 
 as a body, though he admitted that their number included 
 certain passable individuals. He said very little, at that 
 time, directly on the subject, but he made no attempt 
 to disguise his feelings, and it was not until the end of 
 the Lent Term of his last year that I really gathered 
 some idea of the state of his feelings. 
 
 The cause of the outburst which gave me some under- 
 standing of Massingdale's state of mind was his cousin, 
 the Rev. Arthur Sidney Magram-Coke, fit cause for any 
 outburst, however violent. This gentleman, who was 
 dean of the college at the time, had a very beautiful 
 appearance, of which he was disgustingly proud; he 
 might have sat, supposing the artist had not been too 
 critical of detail, for the portrait of an effeminate medie- 
 val saint. His hands and feet were small; his figure was 
 slim, and he dressed very carefully; his hair was grev, 
 and waved with the utmost care; his expression was 
 pious and bland, and bore traces of a permanent sorrow, 
 nobly borne induced, I suppose, by the manifold sins 
 of the world ; he had a vile trick of turning up his eyes 
 another manifestation of his saintly character; affected a 
 stoop, sacerdotal I fancy he would call it; and should 
 have grown a moustache to hide here I shall be given
 
 A Fool and His Folly n 
 
 the He by many women an abominably senstsal month. 
 A truly estimable character, with, winch seems extra* 
 ordinary, great prospects in his prof ession. 
 
 One Sunday night after haH Massm?dale cane into 
 my rooms. He had been to chapel, since he was going 
 to town the next day and did not wish to be gated. He 
 had been walking the streets for the last hour or so, 
 and had not dined. Previously I had never seen him so 
 excited; for he burst into his subject without a word of 
 preface, and paced up and down the room Jrirfcjng any- 
 thing that got in his way. 
 
 "You were n't in chapel," he began, stuttering with 
 excitement ; " you did n't hear my beautiful cousin give 
 forth some of his most cherished beliefs. ' What a privi- 
 lege it must be to know him, and how proud yon must be 
 of his relationship ! ' Do you. know, Dick, a good woman 
 told me that the other day. I said that I could not daim 
 to know him, and that I tried not to think of the relation- 
 ship. She probably thought me an impertinent and 
 stupid boy. Good God! how does the man impra* on 
 them? Why, in the name of decency, do they allow him 
 to open his mouth in pubEc? A community that had any 
 glimmerings of good sense would sign him up, and lock 
 him in an asylum as a dangerous !* An - " 
 
 "What," I asked, shouting to make myself heard, "is 
 his latest iniquity?" 
 
 Massingdale stopped in the middle of the room, and 
 stared at me: I believe that he had certainly forgotten 
 
 my presence, 
 
 " Of course, you were n't there, " he answered, begin- 
 ning to walk again, but speaking very quietly. "I will 
 tell you what he said. I can remember the words, and 
 the air which accompanied their deCwBi'j. He was 
 vomiting I don't know what foolishness ; I was thinking
 
 12 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 of other things, when he paused. That attracted my 
 attention. Then he uttered this remarkable sentiment: 
 'I am convinced that a child, no matter how tender its 
 years, is capable of committing a mortal sin; although 
 its action may be unconscious it may still transgress the 
 laws of God, and, but for the sacrifice of Christ, would 
 be damned through all eternity.' He said that, Dick, he 
 said it clearly and distinctly ; and I am sure that for some 
 inconceivable reason he wished us to think that he 
 believed it. Whether he does believe it or not is all one ; 
 that he says it is the crime. They punish people for 
 theft and murder, but surely theft and murder are small 
 things compared with the preaching of such a thing as 
 that. Supposing he lives some time, and during his 
 evil lifetime gives tongue to such doctrines, it is quite 
 possible that he will meet with two or three half-witted 
 people who will believe the things he says. Don't you 
 think, that to make a mother believe such things as that 
 is worse than murder? Don't you think, that to make 
 any one believe that senseless little babies are on the 
 same moral level as the most refined and callous criminals, 
 as the Rev. Arthur Sidney Magram-Coke, is an action 
 for which any punishment is too small?" 
 
 I did not answer him; he would not have heard my 
 reply, for he sat on the table, staring at the fire, and 
 was concerned with nothing but his own thoughts. I 
 was quite well occupied with watching him. It occurred 
 to me as extraordinary that any man should get so 
 excited about the opinions expressed in a sermon; I 
 had not come into any close relationship, at that time, 
 with people whose feelings ran as strongly as his did, 
 who, moreover, did not attempt to hide them. 
 
 He sat on the table with his legs swinging, and his 
 eyes were extraordinarily bright and animated; it must
 
 A Fool and His Folly 13 
 
 have been some minutes before he spoke again, when, 
 it seemed to me, he had run off on to a new subject. 
 
 "There is something wrong with the whole lot of 
 them," he announced suddenly. "Their view is so 
 narrow that they never see anything at all in proper 
 perspective; not even their own work, for they each 
 think that the most important thing on earth. They 
 are flattered and pampered, and each man has his little 
 title and his own particular position in the pretty cere- 
 monies, and all they ever want to do is to take the place 
 of the man above them, or to gain more attention in the 
 miserable world in which they move." 
 
 "Are ' they ' the fellows and dignitaries of this ancient 
 institution?" I asked. "Because, if so, aren't you 
 making the case a bit steep? They are a very decent 
 crowd on the whole." 
 
 This remark of mine seemed to arouse him instead of 
 bringing him to quieter views. He sprang up with a 
 positive shout, and put the thing far more strongly than 
 before. 
 
 "They are not. Thunder of heaven, man, they are 
 awful. They will discuss anything on earth from the 
 academic standpoint. They will discuss war, and art, 
 and morality, as if they were in a lecture room. They 
 assume the most impossible airs of being broad-minded 
 men of the world, and they talk as if men's lives were 
 ordered on some plan which was never forsaken, as if 
 under the storm of passion all their pet ideas did n't 
 get whirled away. If a man speaks in an educated 
 fashion, what they call educated, gives some sort of 
 logical reason for the things he does, assumes that 
 everything he has never seen or heard of is unworthy 
 of attention, and acts with a strict regard to academic 
 etiquette, they call him an_able man and a credit to
 
 14 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 the university; if, being sane, some poor devil, whom 
 they know, departs from their traditions, grabs at living 
 with both hands, not with one soft and clammy paw, 
 and with the blood stirring in him blunders on as he 
 best can, they look upon him as a scandal and a failure. 
 They will probably praise Coke's infernal sermon, saying 
 that he argued his point in scholarly fashion. Even if 
 they are professed agnostics, and do not admit the 
 proofs which he used, even if they are decent, kindly 
 sort of men in their home life, they will say that he 
 justified himself by the Book of Hezekiah, or something, 
 and that it was admirably worked out. They won't 
 even notice the damned immorality of the muck he 
 talked." 
 
 "You don't seem to like them," I suggested, for he 
 appeared to have finished. "You '11 have a bit of a job 
 reforming them." 
 
 "We are not taking it on," he announced, with one 
 of the sudden changes of manner which belonged to him. 
 "We are leaving them all alone in about three months. 
 Now turn out what food you have got; I 'm fearful 
 hungry." 
 
 While we dined off bottled beer and potted meat and 
 marmalade, he entertained me with the account of an 
 evening he had spent at an inn in the fens. " I was very 
 generous, " he insisted, "with beer. I spent all my money 
 filling the natives up a hopeless task in order that 
 they should be in a condition to hear me sing. I then 
 asked the fattest man in the room if he could sing ' Excel- 
 sior ' ; he said he could. I bargained for the ' lifeless yet 
 beautiful he lay' part; he said we had to sing it together; 
 so we began. The company was transported with joy, 
 though, such is the ingratitude of these human barrels, 
 the fat man said I came in too soon each turn and spoilt
 
 A Fool and His Folly 15 
 
 his chances. How could I know, Dick, never having 
 sung 'Excelsior' before? It's a devilish tricky thing, 
 although it 's so funny." 
 
 He talked in his usual inconsequent and voluble 
 manner for the rest of the evening, yet I am certain that 
 Magram-Coke's sermon was constantly annoying him, 
 and I fancy that, if any one were to mention the subject 
 to him now, there would be another outburst. 
 
 When, the following June, he went down for good, 
 he insisted upon celebrating the occasion by a dinner 
 at which Denton and I were the only guests. He said 
 little on the topic, inevitable on such an occasion, of 
 the past three years, but when the port was put on the 
 table, proposed an appropriate toast: "The ending of 
 a stage. " He was a lover of phrases. I think, however, 
 that he viewed the ending of this stage with very differ- 
 ent feelings to either Denton or myself. 
 
 Here, then, at the outset, is a man richly equipped 
 with qualities that cause other men to read him wrongly, 
 or, often, not to read him at all, qualities that have very 
 commonly earned him the title of fool. A charming 
 fool, a lovable fool, a good fool, a weird sort of ass, an 
 unprincipled idiot, according to the style and sex of 
 those who named him, but, until the public was given 
 to understand that La Femme is a masterpiece, a picture 
 with not many peers, he was most frequently termed 
 fool ; now he is called genius. But they have not altered 
 their opinion, the people who talk of him but do not know 
 him, they have only followed a fashion in the matter of a 
 title, and, in fairness, one can scarcely blame them; the 
 man who lives his life in a different world to his neigh- 
 bours, must not put in a claim to be called their com- 
 patriot, and fool and genius are often applied with much 
 the same significance when they refer to character.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 OF A LAWYER'S MANY OCCUPATIONS 
 
 FOR a couple of months after we went down I saw 
 nothing of Massingdale; he spent most of the 
 summer wandering about France. I had one letter, 
 written, it seemed to me, in excellent spirits, from Cluny, 
 but I have never ascertained where he was during the 
 most part of the holiday. Just before coming back to 
 London he paid a flying visit to Malta to see his father, 
 and arrived home a day or two before the Courts opened 
 after the vacation. We had, very luckily, managed to 
 get chambers in the Temple, two sets of attics on the 
 top floor of the same staircase in Brick Court; the quarters 
 might have been more convenient, but as far as the 
 situation is concerned I maintain that we could scarcely 
 have done better. The fashionable man about town may 
 view the locality as altogether outside consideration, 
 but for men who are not fashionable and, happily, never 
 will be, the place has many things to recommend it. 
 Work can be done there amid pleasanter, and most 
 certainly quieter, surroundings than are to be found in 
 any other place in London of equal handiness. Personally, 
 I have no fancy for a journey either by train or any other 
 conveyance before I get to my work in the morning; the 
 farthest that I wish to go, if the thing can possibly be so 
 arranged, is down a staircase and across a court. 
 
 So Massingdale and I settled down to our apprentice- 
 
 16
 
 A Lawyer's Occupations 17 
 
 ship at the Bar with all the fitting hopes that attend 
 persons in that condition. I speak for myself in this: 
 my hopes, I will maintain, were probably identical with 
 those of any other man who has taken up the Bar as 
 a profession; as far as Massingdale was concerned, I 
 can only say that he had the appearance of being inter- 
 ested in the business, which means very little since he 
 could, and did, simulate interest in anything on which 
 he was engaged. He did his work in chambers, and 
 later he awaited fortune and the goodwill of the solicit- 
 ors with the outward signs of enthusiasm in his profession ; 
 he gained, I am inclined to think, some knowledge of 
 the workings of the law ; but that he ever really considered 
 the business as a serious occupation I am not, in the light 
 of after happenings, ready to allow. However, of Massing- 
 dale as barrister-at-law no one would wish to hear; 
 certainly I am not disposed to supply information on the 
 subject. 
 
 His life during the time that he was my neighbour 
 in Brick Court was, apart from his professional occupa- 
 tions, altogether different from that of the rest of us. 
 As a first point, his rooms were furnished unlike any 
 others with which I am acquainted in the Temple; this 
 may, possibly, seem a small matter; to me it appears 
 as very important. When a man takes over an empty 
 apartment and furnishes it, being the possessor of suffi- 
 cient money to obey the chief commands of his taste in 
 the matter of its equipment, he exhibits in the result a 
 very reliable guide to his character. Massingdale's 
 sitting-room he used only one was certainly very 
 representative of its tenant's personality. It was a 
 decent-sized room and panelled; the panelling had been 
 painted cream colour as the place was dark, and at this 
 choice on the part of a former occupant Massingdale was
 
 1 8 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 wont to rave; I had great difficulty in persuading him 
 not to have it scraped. Round three sides of the room, 
 except where the door and the fireplace cut into it, there 
 was fixed to the wall a broad and very comfortable sofa 
 a divan, Massingdale called it, and begged others, in 
 the name of accuracy, to do the same. Above this divan 
 there were shelves, containing a curious collection of 
 volumes, some of them being of value, others, so far as I 
 could ever make out, of no conceivable use or interest, 
 which, since it was one of the principles of the owner 
 never to sell a book, and since his purchases were many 
 and varied, is not surprising. The particular virtue of 
 this arrangement of shelves and sofa was pointed out 
 to every one who frequented the apartment at all con- 
 stantly. "You don't have to bring the book you want 
 to a chair, or a chair to the shelf," Massingdale would 
 explain, "which is a great thing; besides the fact that it 
 does away with chairs, which in most rooms are an 
 abominable nuisance. ' ' The floor was waxed and polished 
 and had some very handsome rugs spread on it; there 
 was placed, at right angles to the window so that any 
 one wishing to write at it had to sit on the divan at the 
 side of the fireplace, a heavy oak table of the Jacobean 
 period; later, owing to the serious complaint of friends, 
 two huge grandfather arm-chairs were introduced, and a 
 small grand piano also appeared. With that you have 
 the main furnishings of the room; into this strange apart- 
 ment no other piece of any considerable size was admitted. 
 Above the book-shelves there stood or hung many odds 
 and ends that he had picked up, or that his father had 
 sent to him; and a single picture hung over the chimney- 
 piece a sketch by Loissel of wet sands at ebb-tide, with 
 the sea beyond wind-swept and foam-flecked. On 
 ordinary occasions the room was lighted by electric
 
 A Lawyer's Occupations 19 
 
 lamps, well shaded; on festive occasions, which was often, 
 by candles in silver sticks. 
 
 So much, therefore, for the house. It may be that 
 this lengthy description of it will be considered out of 
 place; I, who knew it well, think differently : it is a setting 
 which should not be ignored when the tenant is remem- 
 bered. 
 
 Almost immediately on his return from Malta I 
 noticed a change in Massingdale's manner; he seemed 
 much less cramped than before, and far less careful 
 about following the traditions of the neighbourhood, 
 which I am prepared to grant were not so rigid as those 
 of Cambridge. He wandered much in the out-of-the- 
 way parts of London, and would often appear in my 
 rooms some time after midnight for the ostensible 
 reason of smoking a last pipe before bed; on such occa- 
 sions he frequently prolonged the sitting for an hour or 
 more, discussing some chance encounter that he had 
 experienced in his walk, or talking eagerly of any other 
 matter that was uppermost in his mind at the moment. 
 Although I sometimes went to bed, and left him smok- 
 ing in front of my fire, I cannot say that I resented the 
 way in which he made my rooms the last house of call 
 in his evening's entertainment, or that I did not look 
 forward to these hours of his excited, exaggerated talk. 
 I always had the refuge of bed, but I did not often avail 
 myself of it. 
 
 One night about Christmas-time he disturbed me 
 shortly after midnight, just as I was about to turn in. 
 He came in suddenly without knocking, after his usual 
 habit, not quietly, for I never knew him to enter a room 
 without noise; he stood with the door open, and his 
 hand on the door-knob. 
 
 " God rest you, Richard Crutchley, " says he solemnly.
 
 20 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 I told him to shut the door. 
 
 "I have hopes," he went on, doing what I asked, 
 "that the high gods will vouchsafe us a real Christmas. 
 Look here. " He held up his overcoat, which was covered 
 with snow, then threw it on to a chair. " That is one of 
 the advantages of those abominable things," he an- 
 nounced, referring to the chair; "they get in the way, but 
 you can put things on them. Dick, I met a philosopher 
 this evening. Oh! but a tattered philosopher." 
 
 "From what I can judge, you seem to be making a 
 habit of it," I answered, pouring him out some whisky. 
 "Say when." 
 
 "Enough!" he told me, and launched into his tale. 
 "A transcendental philosopher, mon vieux. A rogue 
 who, in one simple phrase, epitomised the great problems 
 of life. I met him on the Embankment; he made the 
 usual request in a beautiful Scots voice. It was so 
 beautiftil that I gave him sixpence. ' I suppose,' says I, 
 4 that you will spend that on whisky.' 'Ay, mon, but 
 you 're mistaken,' says he. ' Not a' the saxpence. I '11 
 just be spending tuppence on bread. Whusky is nigh 
 wasted on an empty stomach.' del, what wisdom! 
 I have found a creed by which to guide my erring life. 
 No more shall I be tempted to spend all my sixpence on 
 whisky, tuppence shall go first to fill my belly. Deny 
 yourself something of the things you want that the 
 remainder may be the better enjoyed. Be a Spartan 
 this minute that you may be a better Sybarite the 
 next. O excellent Scotsman! O wise knave! Dick, 
 I asked him up to my rooms, but he was suspicious 
 and would not come. Do you think he suspected me, 
 his humble follower, of the impertinence of offering him 
 a sermon?" 
 
 "He probably suspected you of being drunk," I
 
 A Lawyer's Occupations 21 
 
 answered. "But you didn't seriously propose bringing 
 him up here?" 
 
 "Not here," he assured me, stretching himself out in 
 an arm-chair. "I respected your peculiar prejudice. 
 But why not to my own rooms? He would have amused 
 me ; he had the cut of a man who would have given me a 
 good half-hour. But he refused to come; yet I promised 
 him both bread and whisky. " 
 
 "Good Lord," I murmured, "there seems no limit 
 to your madness." 
 
 At that he sat up like a man who has a pin sticking 
 into him. 
 
 "Madness!" he shouted, waving his glass of whisky 
 so that I thought he would empty the contents into the 
 fire. "Go to bed, you lump of convention; lay yourself 
 down and fill the night with placid snores; pillow your 
 head on a treatise on the law of torts; and refrain from 
 speaking to your betters. Madness! Thousand devils, 
 he calls me mad because I exhibit some slight courtesy to 
 an old, drunken, Scots philosopher, clad like a mechanic, 
 who has given me the best advice that I have had for 
 years. Creature of no perception, my spirit is at rest 
 to-night. I will spend tuppence of my life upon the law, 
 that presently I may the better enjoy the whisky of my 
 desire. Crude worldling, go to bed. " 
 
 We did not pursue the subject further, although I did 
 not go to bed, for he suddenly turned to some other 
 matter and discussed it with enthusiasm. However 
 extravagant it may seem, I honestly believe that the 
 chance words of the out-of-work mechanic had given 
 him some comfort ; yet I am equally certain that he had 
 not intended to express himself so clearly. It was the 
 first time that I had ever heard him, even indirectly, 
 refer to the chance of his going back to painting. Whether
 
 22 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 these words of his caused me to attach significance to 
 things that might otherwise have escaped my attention, 
 I do not know, but I certainly noticed that he began to be 
 careless of leaving artist material knocking about his 
 room, and that he no longer concealed the fact that he 
 knew something of the business of the painter. Some- 
 times I would disturb him making rough charcoal 
 sketches of street scenes which had stuck in his memory ; 
 and on these occasions he would no longer throw the work 
 down, and begin a conversation on some other topic, 
 but would, as often as not, ask my opinion of the drawing, 
 and then, before I could express my views, condemn the 
 thing himself . "The mark of the beast is plain, Dick," 
 he once told me. "I 'm a damned amateur perhaps 
 I always shall be. " 
 
 Yet he did what he could to make something of his 
 profession, and used to their full extent whatever chances 
 came his way. When he got his first brief, the usual 
 unimportant thing, he worked it up as if it had been of 
 the utmost seriousness, and got himself into such a 
 state of nervousness over the business that I was afraid 
 that he would make a fool of himself. His manner in 
 court, however, was perfectly self-possessed, and he 
 won a doubtful case rather neatly. That night he insisted 
 that I should dine with him at the Savoy, where he spent 
 three times what the brief was marked, and talked an 
 incredible amount of nonsense into the bargain. "It is 
 a pity," he informed me as we left the table, "that no 
 Lord Chancellor has, so far as I know, ever been an artist. 
 I hate setting fashions. " Yet, before we got back to the 
 Temple he bet me five pounds that he would never 
 succeed in earning a hundred a year at the Bar. I did 
 not take him. 
 
 Soon after our first New Year's Day in Brick Court,
 
 A Lawyer's Occupations 23 
 
 he began the habit of entertaining an extraordinary 
 assortment of odd characters on Saturday evenings. 
 The circumstance brought him some local fame, and 
 many men went to his rooms on these occasions to see 
 the latest curiosity that he had collected. Any one, 
 provided that he was polite to the rest of the company 
 and did not give himself airs, was admitted; yet had 
 Massingdale imagined that many of his guests viewed 
 the others as a manner of show, there would have been 
 the very devil to pay, and the rupture of several acquaint- 
 anceships. But he regarded it as so very natural a 
 thing for a man to entertain any one, of any condition, 
 who happened to appeal to him as an amusing companion, 
 that he could not imagine that others would take a 
 different view. Therefore, he offered his hospitality 
 to a quaint mixture of classes and conditions, and played 
 the host to a heterogeneous collection of guests without 
 noticing the peculiar quality of the gathering. 
 
 When, or how, he managed to scrape acquaintance 
 with many of the persons who came to his rooms, I do 
 not know; it has, however, always seemed to me that 
 the fact of his getting them together, and of setting 
 them at their ease, is no small tribute to his character. 
 Personally, I might follow in his footsteps all my days, 
 and at the end signally fail to instil an appearance of 
 comfort into myself, or my guests; I shall not, however, 
 make the attempt. 
 
 Some of his disreputable companions I could not 
 stand; some I admired; others bored me. I imagine 
 that to all of them I appeared what I was, self-conscious 
 and unnatural. There was, for instance, Ponterac, the 
 maitre d'armes, five foot six of rolling r's and bombast, 
 a Gascon of the stage. I could not stand the man, and 
 had much difficulty in maintaining any hold on polite-
 
 24 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 ness when he talked with me; his fantastic accounts of his 
 father's wealth and position left me cold, and his inane 
 manner, accompanied by much twirling of the moustache, 
 of explaining his own importance, made me angry. Yet 
 when I explained this to Massingdale he would only 
 laugh at me. "If," he informed me, "you knew how to 
 hold a foil, you would think better of friend Ponterac. 
 He fences like a god, Dick. Much can be forgiven to 
 genius; and with a sword he is a master. Besides, he is 
 really a very good fellow." I am prepared to admit his 
 swordsmanship; when he fences I admire him; my 
 complaint is that any one should ever want to know him 
 outside the Salle d'Armes. When he finished his visit 
 to London and went back to Paris, I felt that my good 
 name with Massingdale was in less danger. 
 
 But there were others with whom I was on different 
 terms, whose acquaintance I was very glad to have: 
 Mrs. George Brown, widow, who appeared very infre- 
 quently, and who taught singing under the style of 
 Madame Bombadier, she looked on life with so much 
 amusement, despite the deadly nature of her occupation, 
 that a conversation with her put one in the best of tempers ; 
 Josef Armande Letiche, ancien professeur de lycee, now 
 giving lessons in French and Latin at clients' houses, a 
 fierce Royalist with an excellent taste in literature, and 
 one of the mildest old gentlemen who ever earned a 
 pittance; James Hopkins, commercial traveller, who, 
 once he got over the desire to do business with chance 
 acquaintances, was an amusing specimen of his tribe, 
 and was admitted to Massingdale's rooms because he had 
 once knocked down a carter who was ill-treating his 
 horse. He must have been singularly bored with the 
 nature of the entertainment, yet he came regularly. 
 There were struggling artists and musicians, who came
 
 A Lawyer's Occupations 25 
 
 and went and brought their friends, whose business was 
 often of the most sordid kind, though their hopes might 
 have been high, who designed small advertisements and 
 played in the lesser orchestras. Last, yet in his own 
 estimation first, there was Hendick, a gentleman and a 
 well-informed man, who was in the most violent stage 
 of newly adopted socialistic proselytism. Hendick had 
 a fine voice, and could sing good songs well; at times, 
 moreover, he could be induced to forget his ideas of 
 social reform; but a chance word would recall him to 
 what, I imagine, he thought his duty, and the room would 
 be filled with clamour, for his opponents, led by Massing- 
 dale, never shirked the battle. In the immediate vicinity 
 of Massingdale's rooms, Hendick was not popular; his 
 voice was very loud and harsh, except in singing, and 
 carried after the fashion of a steam siren, so that in 
 the small hours of morning our neighbours were often 
 able to satisfy themselves as to his exact opinions. I 
 have frequently done so from my own bed, with no 
 satisfaction. 
 
 These peculiar gatherings once established, Massing- 
 dale seemed to find extraordinary pleasure in them, 
 and every Saturday night, when he was in London, 
 some of the mixed company might be found drinking 
 and smoking and engaging in every possible variety 
 of talk, in his rooms; as a concession to the "absurd 
 habits" of the other residents in the inn, the host dis- 
 couraged musical performances after one in the morning. 
 On the whole, I would prefer to have sacrificed many 
 things, besides an occasional hour of sleep, rather than to 
 have missed many of those gatherings; although I am 
 altogether incapable of organising, or of desiring to 
 organise such meetings on my own account, they pleased 
 me when I was a guest. More, they showed me Massing-
 
 26 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 dale in a new light, which, I fancied, was worth the seeing. 
 As he performed his duties, providing his guests with 
 what they wanted in the matter of refreshment and, 
 which is a very different thing, of talk, he showed as 
 another person from the man I knew at Cambridge, or 
 from the man who worked at the law; it was impossible 
 to suppose that he would continue the absurd business 
 much longer, and I grew interested to discover when 
 the change would come, when he would go back to old 
 Loissel and an easel. 
 
 Yet the months passed and no upheaval in his life 
 occurred; he became more wrapped up in the strange 
 society which he frequented, but he said nothing of 
 giving up his profession of barrister. As I was very 
 busy myself, doing all I could to make good the chances 
 that had come my way, I did not see very much of him 
 at this time, and accompanied him not more than once 
 or twice into the queer places where he spent his evenings. 
 His constitution must have been of iron, for he often 
 returned at one or two in the morning, after spending 
 many hours in Soho or some similar locality, and then 
 sat down to work that had to be ready in a few hours; 
 yet he rose early, and was usually smoking an after- 
 breakfast pipe at eight-thirty. I told him that his habits 
 were a disgrace, and that he would have to reform, where- 
 at he laughed at me, and asked what was wrong with his 
 health; but I fancy he was not sorry when the Long 
 Vacation came round again. As soon as the Courts 
 closed he was off to France, where he spent the whole 
 vacation, "painting," he wrote to me, "with some 
 approach to seriousness. " I spent a fortnight with him 
 at Avignon, and together we tramped much of the 
 surrounding country. Whether it was the sun of the 
 Midi, or whether it was the influence of the foregoing
 
 A Lawyer's Occupations 27 
 
 weeks upon him, I have no means of telling, but on this 
 occasion he told me definitely that he would give up 
 the Bar and try his fortune at the business that he loved, 
 yet that when that would be he did not know. 
 
 "I spent a week with the governor at Toulon," he 
 told me one day, as we took a midday siesta in the garden 
 of a country inn. "The old man is dead against the 
 business; refuses all supplies, if I give up the Bar. A 
 most obdurate parent, Dick." 
 
 Since I did not reply to this, we sat silent, staring 
 at the valley in front of us, and at the white, winding 
 riband of the road. He suddenly returned to the subject 
 again, but without his usual accompaniment of laughter, 
 so that his tone disturbed me from a well-fed reverie, 
 and fixed my attention on the man beside me. He sat 
 with his arms on the wooden table, his pipe unlighted 
 at his side, and there was something in his voice, and in 
 his eyes which saw nothing of the scene before them, 
 that brought me the sudden consciousness that here was 
 no spoilt favourite of fortune, baulked of one of his 
 pleasures, but a man distressed on a subject that went 
 deeper than I could see. 
 
 "It is simple cowardice," said he, speaking, it seemed, 
 half to himself. "I haven't the courage to face it. 
 I 've always had money, and I Ve never known want. 
 I am not so ignorant of what the life means as to imagine 
 that I can enter into the precious heritage at once ; there 
 would be years of poverty, where doubt of the end would 
 make the burden heavier, before I could hope for calm 
 water; there is the certainty that I should be a poor 
 man all my life. It could never be a sort of golden 
 vagabondage; there would be no coming back to the 
 glass and silver, when the coloured table-cloth and the 
 horn-handled knives seemed mean and ugly. Yet to be
 
 28 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 true to the faith one holds, to go the way of the instincts, 
 to tread the road, however rough it be, that shows itself 
 in dreams! Would n't any sane man do that? Wouldn't 
 anything that had the effrontery to hold up its head 
 among 'decent beings make the choice at once? Dick, 
 I 'm a damned coward. " 
 
 To such words there is no reply; a man feeling as 
 Massingdale did must act alone, and, failing to act, 
 suffer what I think he suffered. Others, as far as I see 
 things, cannot serve him. So I murmured what I could, 
 and he, being the last person to afflict others with his 
 own troubles, resumed his normal manner, and on the 
 tramp back to Avignon never left his hold of laughing 
 talk. 
 
 But the thing stuck in my mind, and when he came 
 back to Brick Court in the autumn, I had to check 
 myself for fear of greeting him with a request for his 
 decision. However, I forwent the temptation to inter- 
 fere in matters which did not concern me, and we re- 
 sumed the same existence that we had commenced a 
 year before. I confess that I was somewhat irritated 
 by the want of movement in the affair, and was, for a 
 time, inclined to style Massingdale's wish to become 
 a painter as a passing fancy, a thing that had no firm 
 root. I, seeing half his trouble, fancied that I saw the 
 whole, and was ready to agree with his own definition 
 of the thing as cowardly ; since, I have somewhat altered 
 my opinion, and have come to the conclusion that the 
 step he hesitated so long in making was one which no 
 man, viewing the thing as seriously as he did, could take 
 without proper consideration. To his artist-mind the 
 chance that he should one day falter in the business, 
 having embarked upon the enterprise, was a risk that he 
 dared not undergo. Had he set out upon the road he
 
 A Lawyer's Occupations 29 
 
 saw in dreams, and then turned back because the way 
 was too difficult, I imagine, knowing him as I do, that 
 he would have lost the worth from life. He waited so 
 long because he wished to make certain that there should 
 be no breakdown farther on. 
 
 One important addition was made to the Saturday 
 evening company that autumn: Yvonne Carrel joined 
 the band. I had seen that she was advertised to sing 
 at one of the music halls, and I had read something of a 
 quarrel that she had had with the directors of the Opera 
 in Paris, but I did not expect to meet her in Brick Court. 
 Massingdale had occasionally spoken about her, but I 
 had no idea that the acquaintance which he had begun 
 in Loissel's studio had ripened into such intimate 
 friendship. I met her first in his rooms one Saturday 
 night in early November; I had looked in about midnight 
 and found the usual crowd assembled, Hendick being in 
 particularly aggressive mood. The place was so thick 
 with smoke that, coming from out-of-doors, I could 
 hardly see; I sat down on the divan near the door, and, 
 following the etiquette which ruled strictly, prepared 
 to converse with my neighbour, whoever it might be. 
 It was Yvonne Carrel, and Massingdale was sprawling 
 on the other side of her. 
 
 "I did n't think we should see you to-night," said he; 
 "I heard you were dining in polite society. Make your- 
 self agreeable to Yvonne, while I go and get drinks. " 
 
 I believe the name of Yvonne is not the most uncom- 
 mon in France, so that the introduction left something 
 to be desired, but I had seen Mademoiselle Carrel's 
 photograph, and so was able to recognise her. Although 
 she was thirty, perhaps older, she looked much younger ; 
 was not in any way made up, and conveyed, at the first 
 glance, that impression of childhood which, through
 
 30 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 everything, she has maintained. She was very dark 
 and slight and beautiful after a wild gipsy fashion, yet 
 her face was too empty of everything but mere beauty of 
 form to impress her attractions on the mind. When she 
 spoke, more especially when she sang, she seemed another 
 woman. 
 
 "You are Monsieur Crutchley?" she asked, begin- 
 ning the conversation, as soon as Massingdale left us. 
 "Ah, yes. Louis has told me much of you. You will 
 some day do much at the profession of avocat. " 
 
 I murmured something appropriate, but she did not 
 seem to require me to answer, for she asked a question 
 without listening to what I said. 
 
 "Have you ever heard me sing?" she inquired, with 
 a peculiar directness. 
 
 "Unfortunately, I have not," I answered. 
 
 "Then," she said with a smile, "I will sing to you, 
 when the ardour of Monsieur Hendick, is it not? 
 is less strong. People should hear me sing before they 
 meet me, then they would like me better. I cannot 
 talk." 
 
 So, as Massingdale came up with the drinks, she 
 informed him that she was going to sing, and he, without 
 a word, planted them on the floor, and went over to 
 Hendick. 
 
 "Silence, madman!" he cried, seizing the socialist 
 prophet by the shoulder. "Mademoiselle Carrel is 
 going to sing, and you, unworthy tub-thumper, must 
 play for her. " 
 
 Upon which she sang to us; Hendick, who would 
 assault the cherished traditions of mankind without 
 a tremor, sweating with nervousness as he played. I 
 do not know, and I care less, what the song she sang was 
 called ; it was some French ballad of which Massingdale
 
 A Lawyer's Occupations 31 
 
 had the music. A small thing of no particular merit, 
 yet she gave it to us as I imagine the composer dreamed 
 that it might be rendered, as, I am very certain, I shall 
 not hear it sung again. Her voice was not large, consider- 
 ing her place in her profession, it had no amazing compass, 
 yet it could express any emotion which she had ever felt, 
 and she was not without emotions. I realised that what 
 she had said was true; when people had heard her sing it 
 would take much to make them think little of her. 
 Hendick spoke no more of socialism that evening. 
 
 After that I saw a certain amount of Mademoiselle 
 Carrel. She came occasionally, but not regularly, 
 to the Saturday evenings, and fairly frequently to 
 Massingdale's rooms at other times, to lunch or tea; 
 also, on more than one occasion, I ran across her having 
 supper with Massingdale at one of the quieter restaurants. 
 Considering the amount of gossip of which she was the 
 centre during her autumn season in London, I was 
 interested to know Massingdale's opinion of her, and 
 one day tackled him on the subject. 
 
 "I gather," I suggested, as we sat alone in my rooms 
 one evening, "that you could correct certain of the 
 accounts, and supply others. " 
 
 "I have known her intimately for years," he told 
 me quietly, " and even in face of the cross-examination of 
 a rising lawyer I shall maintain the habit of those years. " 
 
 I took the hint, and we discussed her no more. He 
 had an admirable reserve in such matters, and, as he 
 stated, he had known her some years, yet, until she 
 came to London, had done no more than make an 
 occasional and casual allusion to their acquaintance- 
 ship. 
 
 About this time Massingdale exhibited a painting in 
 an autumn exhibition in Paris, a picture of a rock-strewn
 
 32 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 path near the Bas Breau in the forest of Fontainebleau, 
 and it entered into the critics' heads to say complimentary 
 things of it, things perfectly justified, yet liable to do 
 him much harm. He knew that the picture had some 
 merit, and he was, not unnaturally, glad that its good 
 points were recognised; at the same time he was some- 
 what taken with the impossible idea of combining the 
 two professions of painting and of law. I urged that 
 the Bar would go by the board; that solicitors did not 
 want artists to represent their clients; that he would 
 inevitably fail in both endeavours. Loissel, writing 
 from Paris, put the matter more strongly ; he had heard 
 nothing of the possible compromise, but being a shrewd 
 old fellow, and knowing the difficulties that faced Massing- 
 dale, he anticipated the evil. Massingdale showed me the 
 letter; its meaning could not be mistaken. Loissel called 
 him insense, fou, un drole de petit idiot; he denounced 
 his picture in the exhibition as the work of an amateur 
 who had not yet learned how to paint; he foretold 
 ignominious failure, a pitiful prostitution of talent, if 
 Massingdale did more work without finishing his ap- 
 prenticeship ; and at the end of the letter he undid all the 
 good of the beginning. " Come to me, come back to me," 
 he wrote, "and I will make you a painter. A little, a 
 very little, and you will pass the Rubicon; a little hard 
 work, and then I can teach you no more. " 
 
 Perhaps one cannot blame the poor devil for reading 
 the thing wrongly; he was ready to clutch at any straw 
 that passed him. He knew himself and his own affairs 
 as well as an outsider, and only wished to avoid a total 
 shipwreck. If a man is going to fly in the face of prudent 
 advice, gamble his life upon a slender chance, and em- 
 brace poverty where he has hitherto been the companion 
 of moderate wealth, he cannot be blamed because he
 
 A Lawyer's Occupations 33 
 
 seeks, however foolishly, to find some safer way before 
 he takes his plunge. 
 
 In any case, Loissel's letter did what the writer 
 intended it should not, and helped Massingdale to play 
 with his compromise more fondly. 
 
 "If I am so near the Rubicon," he told me, when he 
 had shown me the letter, "I can pass it by myself. I 
 can work each summer in Paris. It only means moving 
 more slowly. Thunder of heaven, man, I have no wish 
 to turn out pictures by the dozens; I wish to learn to 
 paint so that before I die I can set down on canvas 
 some of the things I see and feel. " 
 
 "And the Bar?" I asked him. "Do you think it 's 
 going to make your fortune while you spend your spare 
 time at something else? Or is it to be used only as 
 security for your allowance?" 
 
 I had expected an outburst of anger, and for a moment 
 I made sure that I was going to get it; but after a short 
 silence, during which he seemed to struggle with his 
 feelings, Massingdale began to laugh with what appeared 
 to be genuine amusement. 
 
 "The devil 's in the wise old counsellor, " he announced, 
 "the devil, or the spirit of wisdom, or both. Yet it 's 
 truth that you speak, you brutal castigator of youth's 
 blindness. I seem to be becoming knave as well as fool. 
 Oh ! it 's a sorry world for a poor young gentleman. I '11 
 have to go all over the thing again. " 
 
 And with that he left me. 
 
 We did not speak of the business again for some days ; 
 and I am of the opinion that he would have made up his 
 mind and said good-bye to the law before Christmas, 
 had not a woman come into the affair, thrown him, poor 
 hot-headed fool, clean off his balance, and sent him 
 wandering down an even rougher path. 
 
 3
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 A MAIDEN AND THE FOOL 
 
 ONE Saturday night in December I came back to my 
 rooms after dinner and found a note from my 
 cousin, Tom Onnington, saying that he had been round 
 that afternoon, but had not been able to wait, and sug- 
 gesting that I should come round to lunch next morning 
 at the Berkeley, where he was stopping with his people; 
 he also suggested that he might look in again that 
 evening, but that I was not to stop in on that account. 
 I had not seen the man for a couple of years; when he 
 had been in England I had missed him, and I was very 
 glad to hear that he was home. Except on his first 
 voyage as a midshipman, he had not served in home 
 waters, and so we had seen very little of each other, 
 although he generally made a point of looking me up 
 when he was on leave. I liked the man very much, 
 and was delighted to hear that he was in town; I also 
 looked forward to the next day's lunch, my uncle, 
 Vice-Admiral Onnington, and his wife being excellent 
 company. The house near Cambridge had been shut 
 for six months, as the family had been abroad all the 
 summer, and I had missed going down to them for 
 week-ends; Elsingham Hall is a very pleasant place 
 to stop at. There was also Joan to be considered, a 
 maiden whom I had last seen with her hair down, and 
 
 34
 
 A Maiden and the Fool 35 
 
 who had just finished a year on the Continent; she had 
 been an excellent little person before the metamor- 
 phosis, and I was much interested to find out how much 
 it would alter her. On the whole count I promised 
 myself a pleasant Sunday. 
 
 As I had not been in Massingdale's rooms on a Saturday 
 evening for a matter of some weeks, I went across to 
 him that night, leaving a note for Tom, telling him where 
 I might be found, in case he should call. The place was 
 already thick with smoke when I arrived, and the smell 
 of many strange drinks was heavy, for Massingdale did 
 what he could to satisfy the tastes of his guests, and kept 
 all manner of odd fluids for their benefit; yet the talk 
 was comparatively quiet as the company had not yet 
 warmed to their work, and as Hendick was fortunately 
 engaged in the discussion of art, not of politics, with 
 old Monsieur Letiche and a second-rate, black-and-white 
 artist, whose name I did not know. Mr. James Hopkins, 
 the traveller in drapery, had just made his appearance; 
 he was, somewhat, I fancy, to Massingdale's embarrass- 
 ment, a most faithful attendant. He was, according to 
 his own account, opening his mind and enlarging his 
 horizon, a business which sometimes entailed an hour 
 or two of sleep. On this occasion he had not eaten 
 since midday, and was, when I came in, engaged on a 
 search for plates and knives, while his host fried eggs for 
 his meal; I narrowly missed sitting on a loaf of bread 
 and a pot of jam, which he had already got out on the 
 divan near the fire. When the eggs were ready, and 
 Hopkins settled to his food, Massingdale joined with 
 full enthusiasm in the discussion that was afoot. 
 
 "The only justification of art," announced Hendick, 
 planting himself before the fire, a glass of beer in one 
 hand and a long clay pipe in the other, "is that it should
 
 36 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 have a definite ethical purpose; if it teaches nothing, 
 it becomes useless. " 
 
 "Sacred Goddess of Beauty!" shouted Massingdale, 
 waving the frying-pan which he was engaged in scraping; 
 "the thing's a blasphemy. The artist is not a moral 
 preacher, he is solely concerned with turning out work 
 that conforms to his standard of beauty." 
 
 "The art for art's sake business," retorted Hendick, 
 scenting battle. "I thought that idea was definitely 
 exploded. The good of humanity ' ' 
 
 "Surely," interrupted Letiche, in his polite, rather 
 weary voice, "the good of humanity is served, Monsieur 
 Hendick, if the standard of beauty is faithfully in view?" 
 
 "No, certainly not," asserted Hendick, enjoying 
 himself hugely. "What right has any one to maintain 
 that the ideal of some emotional individual must be of 
 service to mankind?" 
 
 "Yet," argued Massingdale, beginning to pace the 
 room, as he would when roused, the frying-pan still 
 firmly grasped, "it is, despite your fool theories, through 
 individual effort that we move on. One man is stronger, 
 more enthusiastic, less muddled, perhaps more cruel, 
 than his neighbours; he succeeds, and after his success 
 the herd come rushing to copy his acts. In art, in all 
 things, this holds good; there is no fixed standard; the 
 artist must follow where his fancy takes him. " 
 
 Before Hendick could get out his reply, the black- 
 and-white artist had taken up the tale. 
 
 "You 're right, Massingdale," he proclaimed eagerly. 
 "It is absurd to expect a man, no matter what branch 
 of art he works at, to be a sort of confounded mirror of 
 the morals of the moment. He is only concerned with 
 expressing his own ideas. " 
 
 "If he tried to teach some obvious lesson, he would
 
 A Maiden and the Fool 37 
 
 likely make a beautiful thing ugly to half the world," 
 I hazarded, sitting forward on the divan as the discussion 
 promised some interest. 
 
 Hopkins, who was usually silent on these occasions, 
 seemed to be suddenly inspired; he crammed half an 
 egg into his mouth, followed it with a large piece of 
 bread, and began speaking in a muffled voice. 
 
 "I don't rightly follow," said he, "all that you gentle- 
 men 'ave been saying. I ain't no artist myself, could n't 
 draw nor yet play the piano for old boots, but what I 
 do maintain, an' always 'ave done, is that this art should 
 be something that a feller can git 'old of. What 's 'e for 
 if it ain't to amuse the public? If 'e don't write music 
 with a tune that a man can remember, an' if 'e don't 
 paint pictures that 'ave some interest in 'em, a story or 
 something, 'e ain't no artist. That 's my view. " 
 
 Hopkins, at least, had the satisfaction of attracting 
 attention by the expression of his views; there was a 
 perfect shout of derision at the nature of his ideal. 
 Hendick, bellowing above the others, maintained that 
 there was a truth at the bottom of it ; Monsieur Letiche 
 groaned at the heresy; and Massingdale paced the room 
 furiously, waiting a chance to make himself heard. 
 
 In the middle of all the noise, which must have been 
 alarming: to any stranger, the door opened and a man 
 and a girl appeared, halting in evident surprise at the 
 sight the room offered them. I decided that Tom and 
 Joan, who were the visitors, could scarcely have hit 
 upon a more characteristic scene in which to make 
 Massingdale's acquaintance, but I did not know why 
 the girl should have put in an appearance. And I went 
 across and greeted them, being extremely thankful that 
 it was not the habit of the company to pay attention 
 to new arrivals.
 
 38 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 "Good Lord, man," said Tom, shaking me by the 
 hand, "what on earth is this?" Then turning to Joan: 
 "It seems we've struck a secret meeting or something. 
 The man on the hearth-rug is an anarchist for a certainty; 
 he 's got good lungs, however. It 's no place for you, my 
 child." 
 
 " Dick, " exclaimed Joan, ignoring her brother's advice, 
 "you must be leading an awful life. But may I come 
 in? It looks awfully amusing. " 
 
 " Certainly not, " answered Tom; and in a lower voice : 
 "Here is the pedestrian with the frying-pan coming to 
 speak to us." 
 
 Massingdale, who at first had taken as little notice of 
 the newcomers as the others had done, seeing me in con- 
 versation by the door, came up. At sight of my two 
 cousins' fashionable apparel he seemed somewhat aston- 
 ished, but, without the least show of embarrassment, put 
 down the frying-pan, and asked me to introduce him. 
 
 "I am afraid you must be rather astonished at our 
 volubility," said he, shaking hands with Joan, "but 
 there is a point under discussion which interests us. 
 The atmosphere is bad, I grant you, but we can open 
 the windows; and if you would care to come in you 
 might be rather amused. " 
 
 "I should love to, Mr. Massingdale," answered Joan, 
 taking no notice of the signs which Tom and I made 
 to induce her to refuse. "I hope we shall not interrupt 
 the discussion." 
 
 And without more parley she moved into the room, 
 Massingdale at her side. Tom and I followed, shutting 
 the door behind us. 
 
 " Is it all right?" he whispered to me, seeming amused. 
 "They won't get blind drunk before we can get out? 
 The place looks like a confounded drinking shop. "
 
 A Maiden and the Fool 39 
 
 I assured him that every one would be on his best 
 behaviour, and we joined the group by the fire. 
 
 The entrance of a pair of strangers in full evening 
 dress had the effect of settling the discussion on the 
 justification of art with some abruptness, but the com- 
 pany, with the exception of Hopkins, showed no signs 
 of discomfort. He, poor man, was mightily upset; he 
 swept together the remnants of his meal, and with a 
 beer bottle protruding from one pocket, and his hands 
 full with a couple of plates, a loaf, and the jam-pot, he 
 retired to the opposite side of the room, where he stealth- 
 ily concluded his repast when he imagined that Joan was 
 not looking at him. I was sorry for him, but I like to 
 think that he satisfied his hunger all the same. 
 
 Joan seemed taken with the idea of making a good 
 impression; she was gracious to Hendick, and friendly 
 with Monsieur Letiche, and she smiled at the "black- 
 and-white" man, who with a "first violin," then out of 
 employment, hovered in the background. Poor Hop- 
 kins gave her no chance of including him in her greeting. 
 Tom, since he found himself there, took the thing as he 
 found it, and got the violinist to help him to find a 
 drink. I rather fancy that I was more ill at ease than 
 any of the others; I had a perfectly reasonless fear that 
 some one would do something, or more probably say it, 
 which would make things difficult. I made the mistake 
 of thinking that I knew the company. Yet I had not 
 realised that their sense of fitting conversation was as 
 good, or better, than mine, that there was not a man 
 present, Hopkins being silent, who had any reason to be 
 embarrassed, or to keep a guard upon his tongue. 
 
 Massingdale himself was certainly the figure that 
 would attract the most of a stranger's attention; there 
 was something in the man that made people take notice
 
 40 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 of him in the middle of a crowd. His clothes might have 
 aroused attention, but they would not have held it; 
 being at his ease, he wore a flowing dressing-gown of 
 flowery pattern, he had on a soft collar, and a tie fastened 
 in a bow, and his slippers might have been cut from the 
 parlour carpet of a workman's villa. Yet the man him- 
 self made one think little of his apparel; in whatever 
 garments he chose to appear he created the same im- 
 pression; he had a manner of being completely absorbed 
 in the business of the moment and of seeming mighty 
 interested at any turn of events. Had a duke and his 
 duchess suddenly arrived to pay him a visit, he would, 
 I am convinced, have expressed his pleasure at seeing 
 them, and would have treated their inclusion in the 
 gathering as an event which called for no possible com- 
 ment; moreover, he would have been much annoyed 
 if the other guests had interrupted their enjoyment on 
 account of the new arrivals. 
 
 So, when Tom and Joan had settled themselves, he 
 began to work up the talk again to some show of anima- 
 tion, and such a thing, I believe, he could always do 
 when he wished it set everybody at their ease. Seeing 
 Tom somewhat interested in the personality of Hendick, 
 he involved the couple in a fiery discussion on increasing 
 armaments; launched Monsieur Letiche, the violinist, 
 and the "black-and-white" man on the resumed dis- 
 cussion of the purpose of the artist; failed to make 
 Hopkins do anything but listen; and finally came and 
 sat with Joan and me upon the divan by the fire. 
 
 Since he did not dance, and only went to the enter- 
 tainments of polite society when he could not avoid it 
 without offence, and since he was a very loquacious 
 person, Massingdale had not any tricks of small talk, 
 and carried on any conversation in which he was engaged
 
 A Maiden and the Fool 41 
 
 with far more eagerness than is usual. To any one not 
 afraid of original talk he brought much diversion; I 
 imagined, and I was not wrong, that he would succeed 
 in amusing Joan. 
 
 "Don't you think, Miss Onnington," he asked, as 
 he sat down, "that this is a very excellent arrangement 
 for a room?" 
 
 "It is rather original," she answered; "but you have 
 cleared the chairs out, have n't you?" 
 
 At that he broke out in the best Massingdale manner. 
 
 "This to me!" he cried, with an air of bitterness. 
 "Chairs! What need have I of chairs? Things that 
 always stand out and get in a man's way when he wants 
 to walk about. You laugh. You have probably been 
 born and bred among chairs, and know no better. If 
 they stand round the walls, which is the only place for 
 them, my arrangement is far better; if they are placed 
 without cause or reason about the room, a man must 
 be for always thinking of them or he damages his shins 
 in a moment of deeper thought." 
 
 "But don't you ever want to sit in front of the fire, 
 Mr. Massingdale?" Joan asked him. 
 
 "I do," said he, solemnly; "but sitting in front of 
 the fire in an arm-chair involves having a table, a small 
 table, at your side, to hold a light and books; and a 
 small table is worse than a chair; a man is become a 
 slave to his furniture when he has such things. I sacri- 
 fice a little comfort to gain a greater freedom. " 
 
 "Oh," answered Joan; she was clearly delighted with 
 Massingdale's drivel. "But I see you have two arm- 
 chairs, though I can't see any little tables." 
 
 "Those," he informed her, assuming the air of a man 
 who is unjustly suspected, "are the evidences of true 
 hospitality. I was faced with a choice: to encumber
 
 42 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 my promenade with heavy pieces of furniture, or to 
 forego the chance of entertaining my friends. You have 
 my decision before you. " 
 
 As my assistance in the conversation did not seem 
 required, I sat back on the divan and employed myself 
 in reckoning up the recent changes in Miss Joan Onning- 
 ton. She was, I decided, very much improved in appear- 
 ance, and had a style of good looks which promised to 
 weather the years well. She was slight, and had an 
 excellent figure; she carried her head as if she were proud 
 of it; and she knew how to move. Her manners were 
 more assured than when I had last seen her, yet she 
 appeared to have lost nothing of her naturalness; she 
 disguised, even if she attempted, any obvious effort to 
 hold fast a man's attention. Her hair was certainly 
 without reproach, of a dark brown colour with many 
 rich, warm tints in it, and very fine, hair that an artist 
 would wish to paint; since she had done it up, it showed 
 to a greater advantage, setting a broader crown upon her 
 face. Her eyes were of the colour of her hair, long-lashed 
 and wide; her features were fine cut and well modelled; 
 her mouth was small, and her lips very red. She had an 
 air of freshness and of health about her, and her skin 
 was very smooth and fair. I imagine that when she 
 looked in her glass, which, I suppose, she did as often as 
 most women, she was well content; if she were not, she 
 set herself a standard very much above the average of 
 good-looking women. As she sat beside Massingdale in 
 that rather dim and very smoky atmosphere, I was 
 inclined to foretell that she would come to real beauty, 
 a thing much spoken of, yet so rare that one does not 
 meet it more than once or twice in a decade; she had, 
 before she was nineteen, the makings of it, but the real 
 quality was not yet there. She had, already, the signs of
 
 A Maiden and the Fool 43 
 
 character; her face was neither weak nor wanting in 
 expression, but she flew the flag of life's apprenticeship, 
 and the marks of deeper feelings, of high passions, of 
 a warm and kindly sympathy, without which no real 
 beauty can ever be, were not yet come. She was a 
 child with little knowledge and less experience; but the 
 years ahead would bring a plenitude of both, and I had 
 a fancy that she would use what came to hand to some 
 advantage. 
 
 My estimation of her character was, for the time, 
 checked by her asking me a question. 
 
 "Mr. Massingdale is a barrister, isn't he, Dick?" 
 
 "A barrister? Yes, certainly," I answered, somewhat 
 startled at the inquiry. "Why do you ask? " 
 
 "Because he keeps on talking about 'these lawyer 
 men ' as if he were an outsider studying a strange people ; 
 and if I asked him myself he would probably evade the 
 question. " 
 
 "This," said Massingdale, "is the reward of lucid 
 conversation. I am suspected of evading the truth, a 
 truth so patent that it cannot be hid. Surely, Miss 
 Onnington, you can perceive the stamp of the counsel 
 on me?" 
 
 "I don't know many barristers," pleaded Joan; "but 
 you are not very much like Dick, are you? " 
 
 "I am not," he affirmed. "I am very unlike him; 
 and therein lies a compliment for one of us. But a 
 barrister I am, and one, moreover, who has pleaded at 
 the Bar, sometimes with inconspicuous success; that 
 is my titular occupation, but I am many other things 
 besides, chief amongst them, I think, being a fool. " 
 
 Before Joan could reply to this, Tom came up and 
 interrupted us. 
 
 "Young woman, " he asked her, "are you aware of the
 
 44 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 time? It will probably strike midnight before I have 
 finished this sentence. " 
 
 Joan sprang up with a gasp. 
 
 "Not really, Tom!" she cried, but a neighbouring 
 clock began to prove the statement true. "What will 
 mother say? We promised to be back in an hour, at 
 the most." 
 
 "The police are probably aware of the fact by now," 
 Tom declared; "and the governor is very likely shinning 
 round London. We '11 get in by a back way, go up to 
 our rooms with stealth, and announce that we have been 
 in bed for hours. " 
 
 As Massingdale and I saw them down the stairs, 
 which take some knowing, Joan asked him to tea the 
 next day. 
 
 "You will have to assure my mother that it was your 
 fault that we stayed so long," she declared. 
 
 "I will swear that I stood with my back to the door 
 and threatened you with a frying-pan," he promised 
 her. 
 
 When we were half-way up the stairs on our way back, 
 he halted, and addressed me with reproach. 
 
 " I take it as unneighbourly of you, Gossip Crutchley, " 
 he announced, "that you are so secretive in the matter 
 of your relations. I wonder how the sailor hit it off 
 with Citizen Hendick." 
 
 Personally, I was tempted to suggest that the couple 
 probably had an equal contempt for each other, but 
 I did not go back to enquire of Hendick. Judging by 
 the fact that I was twice disturbed in my sleep by bursts 
 of applause coming from Massingdale's rooms, and that 
 I heard the company depart, not quietly, some time after 
 three o'clock, I gathered that the evening had been 
 pleasantly passed.
 
 A Maiden and the Fool 45 
 
 The following afternoon Massingdale established him- 
 self in the good graces of my aunt and uncle. Captain 
 Massingdale and the latter had served together on more 
 than one commission, and were, it appeared, on the best 
 of terms. In fact, the Admiral proclaimed that he had a 
 score against me because I had not brought young 
 Massingdale to see him before ; which, I maintained, was 
 most unjust, since I had not had the opportunity of 
 doing so for the past year. Meanwhile Massingdale 
 kept faithfully and exactly to his promise. 
 
 "Brandishing a frying-pan," I heard him explain 
 to Mrs. Onnington, "I was an object that would strike 
 terror into the heart of any maiden; and your son, al- 
 though displaying desperate bravery, was unable to 
 drive me from a superior strategic position. When 
 exhausted by his heroic efforts, he was forced to capitu- 
 late and grant my terms." 
 
 "You don't say what was happening to Dick during 
 this terrible encounter, Mr. Massingdale?" asked my 
 aunt. 
 
 "He had started," replied Massingdale promptly, 
 "by imploring me in the sacred name of hospitality 
 to desist from my brutal attack, but I knocked him 
 senseless with one swift blow of my murderous imple- 
 ment. And that 's a fact, ladies and gentlemen. " 
 
 "I can see, my boy," my uncle interposed, patting 
 Massingdale on the shoulder, "that we mustn't let 
 Joan visit such dangerous places in future. You will 
 have to come and see us. But you 're very like your 
 father. A bit more talkative, however!" 
 
 "Don't!" laughed Massingdale. "You take away 
 one of my cherished beliefs, Admiral Onnington. I 
 had always blamed it to heredity. " 
 
 "It is really very odd," my uncle continued. "I*
 
 46 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 have heard a lot about you from your father, but I had 
 not the faintest notion that you knew Dick. Let me 
 see, you ran wild in Paris for a bit, did n't you, and 
 wanted to become an artist?" 
 
 Massingdale looked across at me with an expression 
 of much amusement; he wished, I fancy, to call my 
 attention to the suggestion that his ambitions as a 
 painter were things of the past. 
 
 "The indiscretion of my parent," said he, in reply 
 to Admiral Onnington, "has stopped at that, I hope. 
 It is true that I have thought a good deal about painting." 
 
 "Is that why you talk about the 'lawyer men' as 
 if you were not one of them?" asked Joan, eagerly. 
 
 But he was saved the difficulty of a reply by Tom 
 presenting him with a piece of the hotel notepaper. 
 
 ' ' Show us your paces , Massingdale, ' ' he asked. ' ' Draw 
 me a caricature of your socialist pal. I dare n't meet 
 the man again for fear of hitting him, but I want to 
 remember his face." 
 
 I would have given fairly long odds on Massingdale 
 politely refusing; I had never previously seen him 
 attempt to exhibit his talent, or even to refer to it, before 
 strangers. But he did not seem to hesitate; he only 
 refused the notepaper. 
 
 "I don't like your material," said he, producing a 
 small sketching book from his breast-pocket. And he 
 got to work. 
 
 As he drew, there came a complete change on the 
 man. I do not know whether the others noticed it; 
 I fancy Joan did, for her eyes did not leave him, but 
 to me it was very apparent. He was absolutely absorbed 
 in his occupation, so that some one might have had a 
 fit alongside of him and he would not have noticed it; 
 he gave an impression of capability, as of a man engaged
 
 A Maiden and the Fool 47 
 
 with something that he understood; he held his pencil 
 as if he were sure of its obedience. I do not remember 
 to have been so impressed by the working Massingdale 
 before, and I had a sudden fancy to tell him to pack up 
 and go off to Paris by the night express. He worked 
 with great quickness, and at the end of four or five 
 minutes sat back and looked at what he had done. 
 
 "There," said he, throwing the book to Tom, "that 
 is the best that I can do. " 
 
 Tom stared at the drawing for a moment with an 
 air of considerable surprise. 
 
 "This is not a caricature," he cried, still holding the 
 thing in front of him, "this is a portrait. My lord, man, 
 that is the fellow himself. I would n't have asked you 
 if I had thought you were a professional at the thing." 
 
 So the portrait was handed round, and we duly 
 admired it, and said what occurred to us to say, except 
 Joan. Beyond a doubt the thing, which now hangs 
 in the library at Elsingham Hall, is good; it is Hendick 
 as he then was, Hendick in an aggressive mood arguing 
 on politics. It is a rough sketch in outline, an affair of 
 a few lines, but you can almost hear the subject shouting 
 his preposterous theories of state control; the head is 
 thrust forward, the eyes are fierce, as Hendick's are in 
 argument, a lock of hair is displaced across the forehead, 
 and the tie is awry. The man who could so animate a 
 drawing, making it the counterfeit of the live being, 
 has no business to be a pleader at the Bar; his business 
 is with brushes and an easel. 
 
 Beyond stating that the thing was a mass of technical 
 crudities, Massingdale said nothing about his work. 
 Having done the drawing, he seemed to me to repent 
 of it, and to be endeavouring to hide a mood of some 
 bitterness. He had acted on a moment's inspiration,
 
 48 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 and it had brought to his mind questions which he 
 had for the time forgotten. 
 
 While Tom and I were explaining to my uncle and 
 aunt the merits of the portrait, I heard Massingdale 
 ask Joan for her opinion. 
 
 "You have not," said he, in his ordinary manner, 
 "expressed an opinion of the greatness of my genius." 
 
 "I think, Mr. Massingdale," she answered, and she 
 seemed mighty serious about the matter, "that you 
 are very foolish, and that you are wasting your time." 
 
 "And I," he replied, "am absolutely certain of it." 
 And changed the conversation. After which he took 
 his departure with all the speed that politeness allowed. 
 
 "Mr. Massingdale seems very funny about his draw- 
 ing," said my aunt, when he had gone. "He seemed 
 quite upset at something." 
 
 "I fancy he takes it rather seriously," I answered. 
 
 "He would be a fool, if he did n't," Tom assured us. 
 
 "He probably knows a great deal better than you or 
 I," suggested the Admiral, "the difference between what 
 talent he has got and what is required of a professional 
 artist." Whereat we let the subject drop. 
 
 I looked in at Massingdale's rooms that night after 
 dinner, but he was not in. The following morning I 
 had to catch an early train in order to get down to 
 Portsmouth for a case on circuit; as I hurried down 
 the staircase at about half -past eight, I met Massingdale 
 coming up, showing complete evidence of not having 
 been to bed. 
 
 "Been on the tiles, I see," I called to him, without 
 stopping. 
 
 "Tiles be damned!" he shouted, cheerfully. "I never 
 got up so far; I couldn't get away from the prosaic 
 pavement."
 
 A Maiden and the Fool 49 
 
 It was abominably cold, and as I sat in a badly 
 heated railway carriage I speculated on the advantages 
 of possessing a temperament such as Massingdale's ; 
 its chief value seemed to be that it obviated, on occasions, 
 the horrible process of getting up in the cold and dark. 
 The alternative of walking about all night did not, 
 however, attract me, and I turned to my papers wondering 
 what on earth had gone wrong with the man the after- 
 noon before.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE SETTLEMENT OF A QUESTION, AND THE AMENITIES 
 OF THE DINNER TABLE 
 
 MASSINGDALE spent that" Christmas at Elsingham 
 Hall; his father was still on the Mediterranean 
 station, and their house in Dorsetshire was shut up, so 
 that he accepted my aunt's invitation very gladly. 
 "Having been faced with the choice of a dinner in some 
 London restaurant, which promises little," he explained 
 to me, when the letter came, " or of accepting the decorous 
 hospitality of my reverend cousin Coke, which promises 
 a very great deal, I should have denied myself the 
 greater promise. " 
 
 He and I arrived at Elsingham on Christmas Eve 
 with the weather looking like snow, and as we drove 
 from the station he promised to go to church next day, 
 a thing I had never known him to do of his own will before, 
 and to put a sovereign in the plate, "if the gods send 
 that the country is white to-morrow." The gods did 
 send snow; and as we sat in church listening to the vicar's 
 appropriate treatment of the occasion, Massingdale, 
 who had been ill at ease during most of the service, 
 informed me that after lunch he intended to build a 
 snow-man, "the devil of a fine chap, with a real top-hat 
 on his head," and thereafter sat smiling to himself until 
 the good parson had finished. The snow-man, as con- 
 structed by the party under Massingdale's direction, 
 
 50
 
 Settlement of a Question 51 
 
 was a most imposing figure, and remained crowned 
 with his fashionable hat until we had taken our departure. 
 
 The country of this part of Cambridgeshire has a 
 pleasant quality of its own; it is as different from the 
 valley of the Cam as it is from the fens themselves, 
 which form its other boundary; it is a place of rolling 
 hills, not high or of any bold outline, but often topped 
 with clumps of trees, and giving much character to the 
 view. The district , considering its nearness to Cambridge , 
 is deep in the country, having neither good roads nor a 
 convenient railway to serve it; the villagers, lacking the 
 opportunity, do not spend Saturday in the town, and 
 preserve some character of their own; the grass-grown 
 Roman road sets a boundary to the locality, bringing 
 a comfortable assurance of tradition to those who are its 
 neighbours. I make no plea for the place, I would claim 
 for it neither great beauty nor compelling interest, but 
 I would uphold its charm. There is, that I know of, 
 no other spot that so nicely conveys the impression of 
 upland country with so little cause; a man standing upon 
 some summit of these little hills, being no more than two 
 hundred feet above the sea, could fancy himself abroad 
 upon a moorland. Whether it is the wide sky which 
 helps in the delusion, or whether the many copses, some 
 of beech and some of fir, exaggerate the bareness where 
 once a forest stood, I have never yet decided; but I know 
 very well that a man can walk here gratefully, in summer 
 when the land is baked with the sun's heat, in wind and 
 rain, in snow and frost, or, which is best, when the mists 
 rise and the autumn sunset is wrapped in gathering dark, 
 and can feel that good sense of open freshness that rightly 
 comes from hilltops, or from the cliffs beside the sea. 
 
 This fondness for the corner of Cambridgeshire where 
 Elsingham is situated Massingdale shared with me, and
 
 52 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 since, during the Christmas week that we spent with the 
 Onningtons, it did little else but snow, he spent much 
 of the time in walking, a business of which he was- extra- 
 ordinary fond. He would start out after breakfast, for 
 the guests were always free to do what they wished, 
 and often not return until dark; and on one occasion he 
 took Joan with him. The morning was heavy and threat- 
 ening, and the snow began to fall steadily about one 
 o'clock, but the couple did not return until an hour or 
 more after it was dark, by which time Mrs. Onnington 
 had worked herself into a fine condition of agitation. 
 When they did make their appearance they came in a 
 farm cart, and Joan looked, although she stoutly denied 
 it, extremely tired. While she was upstairs changing, 
 Massingdale gave us some account of the day, standing 
 in front of the hall fire and consuming toasted buns. 
 
 "I am a fool," he told us, "a slow-witted, blind idiot. 
 I walked your daughter off her legs, Mrs. Onnington, 
 though my life is not worth a moment 's purchase if she 
 knew that I had said it. We were about six miles the 
 other side of Balsham, and the going pretty heavy in 
 this snow, when I realised that she was tired; then it 
 took some time to find a farm and a cart to bring us 
 back." 
 
 "I don't think you are capable of looking after a 
 woman, or yourself for that matter," said Mrs. Onning- 
 ton severely. 
 
 "I am very far from being capable," he apologised, 
 and his absurd manner, I believe, extinguished half of 
 her just maternal wrath. "I will do penance. I '11 go 
 up to bed and have no dinner." And he went up and 
 changed his sodden clothes. 
 
 That same night Joan showed me some of the fruits 
 of the walk. She and I were sitting in the billiard room
 
 Settlement of a Question 53 
 
 after dinner, and the talk ran upon art and artists. I, 
 wishing to see how the land lay, cited Massingdale as 
 an able dilettante, and she was up in arms at the word. 
 
 "I thought you had more perception, Dick," said she, 
 with an air of much superiority. "I imagined that, 
 since you have seen a good deal of him, you would have 
 understood that Mr. Massingdale is a real artist, and 
 that he is only making a living out of this law work." 
 
 I did not pursue the subject, and I did not point out 
 that most certainly the law did not provide him with 
 a living, but I was mightily amused; I imagined that 
 there had been some fine Massingdale oratory as they 
 ploughed together through the snow. 
 
 Two days afterwards, when we left, even my aunt 
 showed that she bore Massingdale no grudge for keep- 
 ing her daughter out in a snowstorm, and he was made 
 to promise that he would repeat the visit; which thing 
 he did very cheerfully. 
 
 For the next two months matters followed a not very 
 original course. I lay claim to no extraordinary per- 
 ception, but little observation was required to make 
 sure of the state of affairs between Massingdale and 
 Joan. That the man, with customary impetuosity, 
 rushed on his fate was very apparent ; that there was an 
 equal eagerness on the other side, I am not in a position 
 to state, although I fancy that there was. In any case, 
 the inevitable result was viewed with satisfaction by 
 everybody concerned. Captain Massingdale had come 
 home on leave, had passed a week at Elsingham, and had 
 probably discussed the matter with my uncle; he cer- 
 tainly welcomed the turn of events as putting an effectual 
 stop to any talk of the career of an artist. Everything 
 pointed to the one result ; there seemed no chance of any 
 hitch; and, had I thought of it, I imagine that I could
 
 54 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 have obtained pretty long odds from Tom, Captain 
 Massingdale, or my uncle, on the engagement being 
 declared before May Day. Yet I saw more of Massing- 
 dale himself than they did, and there were times when I 
 made tolerably sure that he would fly the whole business 
 and get him off to Paris and Loissel's studio by the 
 next train. 
 
 The state of the lover is proverbially agitated and 
 conducive to the exhibition of varying moods, wherefore 
 I was inclined to style Massingdale a model for all 
 men in this condition, since he was one moment in a 
 state of absolute content, and the next displayed such 
 restlessness that he became an impossible companion; 
 but I take it that there was more than the one cause 
 working to disturb him, and that the claims of two 
 imperious mistresses gave him small peace. He was 
 no fool, and he did not shut his eyes to the truth, involv- 
 ing himself in a proposal of marriage because a girl had 
 seized his fancy; yet he was a man whose passions ran 
 high and strong, and no one could call him other than 
 impetuous. There was a choice which faced him, and 
 which he endeavoured to settle in the way that he thought 
 best, asking advice from nobody, relying, as he always 
 did, on his own judgment. If he married Joan he would 
 remain at the Bar, and chance its favour, settling himself 
 for life among the numbers of the "damned amateurs" 
 as far as painting was concerned; if he did not ask her 
 to marry him he was, I imagine, pretty sure of her 
 answer he would likely go on as he had done, dreaming 
 of his artist's life, hesitating some long while before he 
 made the plunge; that, I fancy, was the way he saw 
 the business, and the balance seemed down upon the 
 marriage side. That he should compromise, avoid the 
 issue, either by taking a prolonged holiday, or simply
 
 Settlement of a Question 55 
 
 by lack of action, was, I am certain, a thing that never 
 occurred to him; he was, in nearly all things, a man of 
 quick decision. How much the success of his picture 
 in the autumn exhibition weighed with him, helping him 
 to a decision, I do not know. He was so different to the 
 ordinary man, so much more the victim of strong emotion, 
 and he cared so little for the obvious questions in the 
 case, that what he really thought about the matter is 
 much of a speculation. 
 
 That he had much difficulty in his choice was alto- 
 gether apparent. During the early part of that year 
 his habits became more curious than they had been 
 before ; he walked the City of London nightly, and came, 
 as near as was possible with a man of his temperament, 
 to avoiding other people's society. I had, moreover, 
 constantly before me the strange spectacle of a Massing- 
 dale who was often silent, and whose gaiety was forced 
 and unnatural, who seemed chiefly engaged in keeping 
 me from the discussion of topics that I had no intention 
 of broaching. The company that still gathered weekly 
 in his rooms, though the day had been changed from 
 Saturday to Friday to allow him to get away for the 
 week-end, noticed a change in their host, and, knowing 
 nothing of its cause, set it down to ill-health, which 
 conclusion his appearance certainly justified; he was, 
 in consequence, the recipient of much original advice, 
 and a bottle of quack medicine, a remedy that had 
 secured the printed support of Mr. James Hopkins. 
 Matters, indeed, became so difficult, he showing every 
 sign of doing something foolish if he did not settle them 
 before long, that I was on the point of interfering in 
 affairs which did not concern me, and of urging the ne- 
 cessity of settling the business, whether he cared for my 
 meddling or not, when he took a definite step himself.
 
 56 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 He had been down to Elsingham for a short week- 
 end, and came into my rooms late on Sunday night. 
 
 "Dick," said he, without any preamble, yet looking 
 at me with some expectancy, "I have burnt my boats. 
 I have made my choice. Joan has promised to marry 
 me." 
 
 "My dear man," I cried, shaking his hand, "I wish 
 both of you the best of luck. " 
 
 "Anything more?" he asked, with the same air of 
 expectancy. 
 
 "Long life to enjoy it in," I told him, somewhat 
 puzzled by his attitude. "Riches, prosperity, fame. 
 I meant luck to include the lot. What more do you 
 want?" 
 
 1 "Thank God!" he replied in a tone of relief. " Dick, 
 I name you the model of true friendship, a prince among 
 friends. I will have your head copied in marble, and 
 place it, laurel-crowned, among the chiefest of my 
 household gods; your name shall be honoured by my 
 descendants; and my eldest son shall be called Richard. 
 Loyal and devoted companion, I hold you blessed 
 beyond all other males!" 
 
 "Which means?" 
 
 "That you said nothing, but that you wished me 
 happiness," he answered quietly, staring at the fire. 
 "If you live to be a hundred you will never do a kinder 
 act than that. I misjudged you, and I apologise; I 
 thought you like the others. Even my father, whom 
 I have just told, had to improve the occasion. He is 
 doubly glad to hear of the event, Dick; because he is 
 sure that I shall be happy with her, and because marriage 
 will put an end to the foolish talk about becoming a 
 painter. Why cannot people think a little before they 
 speak? Don't they see that words can do harm? When
 
 Settlement of a Question 57 
 
 a man is as near to perfect happiness as he is ever likely 
 to get, they have no business to cloud the brightness of 
 his hour. They must realise that there are shadows, 
 however high the sun is. Yet is there need to point 
 them out? No one can come to the Elysian fields with- 
 out some suffering, which should be held as payment 
 to silence the detractors in the moment of arrival." 
 
 He stopped speaking, and the room was very silent 
 for some minutes; then he got up to go. At the door 
 he turned, and thanked me again. 
 
 "I am not in the least concerned," he informed me, 
 using the same quiet tone, "whether you think that I 
 have been, or am, the greater fool. I can only thank 
 you that you did not mention the subject of folly." 
 And he went out. 
 
 After he had gone I made up my fire and settled 
 comfortably in my arm-chair with a pipe ; I had matter 
 for thought before me, and I sat late over it. The 
 attitude has been, I am inclined to fancy, typical of 
 my whole life; I have often held a watching brief in 
 the interest of my friends, but I have seldom engaged 
 an issue on my own account. I fancy that I have seen 
 as much as most men of my years, yet chiefly from 
 the standpoint of the observer who, although he may 
 occasionally take a part in the playing, is not personally 
 concerned at the result. The attitude has its disad- 
 vantages, but it certainly makes for no lack of interest 
 in the play. 
 
 As I sat thinking over the probable chances of Massing- 
 dale's future, it seemed to me that there was the promise 
 of much trouble ahead. The more I saw of the man, 
 and I saw as much as I could, the more I became con- 
 vinced that he must sooner or later turn to painting; 
 there is a type of man, and he is usually called artist,
 
 58 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 whose chief concern is to express, on paper, on canvas, 
 or on a music score, those ideas about the life around 
 him which appeal to him as beautiful, and of this type 
 was Massingdale. To reproduce the expression of some 
 face that had moved him, to set down the beauty of some 
 landscape as he saw it, was of more importance to him 
 than to attain the woolsack or the cabinet; in view of 
 which, his continued appearance at the Bar was so much 
 folly. When such desires have taken possession of any 
 man or woman, they will out; they may be stifled for a 
 time, but they cannot be subjected; and they have a 
 habit, when unduly repressed, of breaking out when the 
 chance of their satisfaction is gone by, when the only 
 fruit of their indulgence can be regret. Therefore, 
 I saw Massingdale newly embarked on an enterprise, 
 the conclusion of which could scarcely be untroubled. 
 I was convinced, and after-events confirmed the convic- 
 tion, that he loved Joan as it is the happiness of few 
 women to be loved; he was an idealist, and he had 
 framed his dreams about her. But a man cannot live 
 on his love for a woman ; there must enter other interests 
 to his life, if his living is to be in any way advantageous 
 to himself or others; he must play his part in the world 
 on a larger stage than his own hearth. When the lover 
 himself is well aware of this, and when, unhappily for 
 them both, the stage that he would play upon is one 
 that, under the circumstances, he may not mount, 
 there is no outcome of the thing but trouble, and the 
 shipwreck of one or other fond desire. 
 
 I viewed the problem from every aspect that I could 
 arrive at, and from every new sight of it I came back 
 to the old position; I was not able to imagine that, 
 whatever might be his delusions at the moment, and 
 I was very free with my blame to him for having those
 
 Settlement of a Question 59 
 
 delusions, he could stifle a passion that was at least as 
 strong, if not stronger than love. I blamed him for 
 expecting too much, and I blamed him for not seeing the 
 obvious, and very rightly, since, if we are to settle the 
 affairs of others any better than our own, we must leave 
 out all matter that makes for confusion. I forgot that, 
 at times, a man is so blinded by his eagerness that he 
 cannot see at all. Finally, having found him culpable 
 on every charge, I remembered that he had thanked me 
 for not talking of folly, and was grateful to the chance 
 that had caused him to do so, and went to bed, seeing 
 the pity of the thing, yet not quite so ready with my 
 condemnation. 
 
 It was shortly after Easter, which came late that 
 year, that Joan and Massingdale settled matters be- 
 tween them, and for some weeks they enjoyed themselves 
 after the manner of people in their condition ; they must 
 have grown somewhat tired of being informed that they 
 were ridiculously young to think of marriage, but they 
 doubtless accepted such remarks as inevitable, and 
 gave no attention to them; in any case, they seemed to 
 find little fault with life. Joan, in particular, provided 
 me with a deal of amusement; she was so very patently 
 delighted at the turn of events, and would sometimes, 
 being entirely unconscious of her lack of originality, 
 grow confidential with me on the subject of the pitiful 
 condition of the bachelor. She was in love with Mass- 
 ingdale, but she was a long cry from understanding him. 
 It is very easy to suggest the attitude of the parties 
 concerned, after the events in which they moved have 
 taken place, in spite of which thing I still maintain 
 that I saw the weak point of Joan's position before 
 circumstances had discovered it. She treated the man 
 whom she proposed to marry as a brilliant and fascinat-
 
 60 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 ing toy, clearly designed for her delight; she was proud 
 of him, and she was fond of him, but she did not under- 
 stand, I fancy, that the qualities which so attracted her 
 were not mere tricks of speech and manner, but the 
 expression of the nature of the man. She imagined, I 
 believe, that Massingdale, in face of his obvious peculiari- 
 ties, would act in all important things in the same way 
 as the other men she knew; and when he did not, she 
 was much upset. Being very young, and without any 
 experience, she had made sure that the things which 
 she called right and fitting he would so name also; when 
 she found that he did something that at the first appear- 
 ance seemed to her altogether wrong, she made no 
 allowance for a different standpoint, and acted, without 
 hesitation, in the heat of her surprise. 
 
 Towards the end of May, Massingdale disturbed me 
 one morning while I breakfasted, coming into my room 
 with a note in his hand, and seating himself at the open 
 window. 
 
 "For a man who has legal ambitions you breakfast 
 at an ungodly hour," said he. "All judges, I am in- 
 formed, sit down to their morning meal at eight o'clock 
 precisely. Think of the future, and weep. ' ' 
 
 "I am providing against possible contingencies," I 
 assured him. 
 
 At that he bowed, deeply contrite. 
 
 "Wretched being that I am," he cried, "I have 
 wronged a man whose wisdom exceeds mine as the 
 owl's that of the louse. I had always imagined that you 
 breakfasted at ten on account of natural sloth. But I 
 came to ask you a favour. " 
 
 "About that letter you are waving about?" 
 
 "Yes, mountain of perspicacity," he replied, "it is. 
 Will you gird yourself with your best boiled shirt this
 
 Settlement of a Question 61 
 
 evening, and betake you, in my company, to Berkeley 
 Square, the residence of Henry Wrant, knight, there to 
 dine?" 
 
 "Why is my presence desired?" I asked. "I do 
 not know Sir Henry Wrant." 
 
 "To fill up the table, presumably. Lady Wrant has 
 written asking me to come, and to bring another man, 
 frankly confessing that two have failed her. The food 
 is good, gourmet; the wine is excellent, bibber; the 
 company is often entertaining, butterfly. Will you 
 come?" 
 
 "Right! What time?" 
 
 " Eight, " said he. " You promise that? " 
 
 "I have done so," I told him. "Why ask?" 
 
 "Because," he replied solemnly, "I want your pledge. 
 Call me evil names, Dick; I am no true friend. The 
 newly aproned bishop is to be there!" 
 
 "What bishop?" 
 
 "My holy cousin, the Right Reverend Magram- 
 Coke!" 
 
 "Well, I 'm damned! The man is a bishop?" 
 
 " His gaiters, which he won't be wearing, are disgust- 
 ingly new," answered Massingdale, in the manner of 
 a man much afflicted. "He is a bishop of one week's 
 standing, and a miserable suffragan at that. I hope the 
 man above him, a real bishop I imagine, comes it pretty 
 heavy in the superior officer line of business. Can you 
 forgive me this betrayal?" 
 
 "Possibly, in time," I answered, "and if the dinner 
 is good." 
 
 "I must go," he announced, getting up. "Know, my 
 friend, that la petite Yvonne is again in town. I must 
 go and tell her of my engagement." 
 
 "I should, " I laughed ; "she will be pleased to hear it. "
 
 62 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 "At times, Richard," said he, as he went out, "you 
 remind me of a fool." 
 
 Dinner at the Wrants', I had been given to understand 
 by those who had dined there, was a pleasant function 
 as well as a good meal. The host was a man who could 
 set the talk going on lines of interest, keeping his con- 
 siderable knowledge of the East to flavour his conversa- 
 tion rather than to instruct his guests ; and the men and 
 women who sat at his table did not usually lack charac- 
 ter. In spite of the presence of Magram-Coke and 
 why the man should ever have been asked to the Wrants' 
 house I could not conceive I looked forward to an 
 evening's entertainment, although scarcely one of the 
 quality of that which we obtained. 
 
 When we arrived at Berkeley Square we found Coke 
 already installed, and filling the drawing-room with his 
 suave, consciously gentle talk. As I spoke with my 
 host and hostess, I heard the episcopal greeting to 
 Massingdale, and could form some idea of the feelings 
 of the recipient. 
 
 "Ah, Kenneth, I have a pleasant duty to perform," 
 Coke remarked archly. "I have not seen you since 
 your engagement. Allow me to congratulate you, and 
 to express my heartfelt wishes for your true happiness. 
 You are about to undertake a very solemn responsi- 
 bility, but I am sure that, with God's help, you will 
 perform your duty." 
 
 "I hope so," answered Massingdale, smiling. 
 
 "I have," went on the bishop in his best manner, 
 "a very sincere regard for your welfare. I was, until 
 this happy event, somewhat anxious about your future." 
 Here his attitude expressed a broad-minded condona- 
 tion of past faults, and his voice became increasingly 
 bland. "There was talk of all manner of foolishness,
 
 Settlement of a Question 63 
 
 Kenneth, on which we need not lay stress. Marriage, 
 I am confident, will drive all those youthful fancies 
 about art, fancies that we have all experienced at one 
 time, out of your head. You have a very pretty picture 
 of your own to think about?" And the right reverend 
 gentleman indulged in decorous laughter at his own 
 jest. 
 
 "I think," said Lady Wrant to me, "that I had 
 better go and rescue poor Mr. Massingdale. " 
 
 "If you don't want that clerical suavity sorely tried 
 by some extravagant remark, I think, my dear, that 
 you had better do so, " answered Sir Henry. 
 
 From which remarks it was not hard to deduce that 
 Magram-Coke dined that night as the guest of polite- 
 ness rather than esteem, which, I take it, was a common 
 position of his. 
 
 There were ten of us at dinner, the other man being 
 an Egyptian civilian home on leavs, and a very decent 
 fellow, who seemed highly amused at the course of 
 events. The first part of the meal passed in very ordinary 
 fashion; Massingdale, in whose expression I read signs 
 of battle, was at the other end of the table to the bishop, 
 and was, therefore, spared further conversation with him. 
 When we were alone with our wine, the trouble began 
 almost immediately, and it was certainly of Coke's 
 seeking. He pushed his chair back, crossed his legs, and 
 gave us his opinions with the air of a man bestowing 
 something of value. 
 
 "I was in Paris recently," he began, for the benefit of 
 the four of us, "and I visited the Salon. Half a glass 
 no more, Sir Henry. I confirmed the opinion, which 
 I have always held, that art runs sadly away from her 
 true course. " 
 
 "Surely that is rather a sweeping statement?"
 
 64 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 answered our host, with an amused glance at Massing- 
 dale, who had sat forward with his arms on the table, 
 and his whole figure expressing disgust. 
 
 "I am afraid," pursued Magram-Coke, "that it is, 
 unhappily, only too true. I wish it were not. " 
 
 "What should you define as the true course of art?" 
 Massingdale demanded abruptly. 
 
 " The function of art is to help us to a truer and nobler 
 life, " the bishop announced. 
 
 "Do you deny that it sometimes succeeds in that?" 
 I inquired. 
 
 "Sometimes! There you have the evil," was his 
 answer. "Sometimes it fulfils its high mission, often 
 it does incalculable harm. Until it is purged of its 
 fondness for arousing the base passions of man, it must 
 be more of a danger to us than a help. " 
 
 "What, in the name of sanity, do you mean?" asked 
 Massingdale; I could see that the man was becoming 
 worked up to a high pitch of excitement. 
 
 "It is, surely, only too obvious," continued Magram- 
 Coke, intent on making an impression, "that even those 
 men, whose place is the most honoured in the world 
 of artists, have often given birth to work that is an 
 offence to any one of pure mind, and that they have 
 thereby done more harm than can be corrected by the 
 influence of their better creative moments. " 
 
 "Would you mind explaining what you wish to say, 
 by naming examples?" Massingdale asked, speaking 
 very quietly. 
 
 Now, I hold that Sir Henry was in part responsible 
 for what happened afterwards, because at this moment 
 a servant entered with coffee and cigars, and it would 
 have been no difficult matter to set the talk going on 
 some other topic after the slight interruption; he did
 
 Settlement of a Question 65 
 
 not, however, attempt any such diversion, although 
 he must have realised, knowing something of Massing- 
 dale, that a very heated outburst threatened. If he 
 did anything it was to encourage the discussion; and 
 he confessed afterwards that he would not have inter- 
 fered for a hundred pounds. 
 
 "Certainly," continued Magram-Coke, having helped 
 himself to coffee, "I will give you instances, Kenneth; 
 that is, if Sir Henry does not mind our continuing this 
 discussion. " 
 
 "By all means, please go on," said our host. And 
 the bishop pursued the matter farther with increasing 
 contentment. 
 
 "I saw in the Salon a very large number of what, 
 I believe, are termed ' studies of the nude.' " 
 
 "I can believe it," gasped Massingdale. "But you 
 don't base your assertions on that?" 
 
 "It reminded me, as I have said, of this unhappy 
 tendency in art," Magram-Coke replied. 
 
 "Do you think that a picture of a man's body, or 
 a woman's, naked, often does incalculable harm?"_ Mass- 
 ingdale inquired, in a strained voice. 
 
 "Really, Kenneth," the bishop continued, and his 
 face expressed a sorrowful pain at the mere discussion 
 of such matters, "I fail to see what good such pictures 
 can accomplish." 
 
 "Do you see nothing beautiful in the naked body 
 of a man or woman?" 
 
 "That is a subject which I do not care to discuss," 
 Magram-Coke replied. 
 
 "It is a subject which you yourself started," retorted 
 Massingdale, making no attempt to disguise his anger. 
 
 I confess that I was beginning to feel uncomfortable; 
 I did not know my host, and I was not sure how he would
 
 66 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 take the outburst which was threatening. But Sir 
 Henry Wrant sat watching Massingdale with much 
 interest, and contented himself with urging on the 
 discussion. 
 
 "Won't you explain to us," said he, addressing 
 Magram-Coke, "the reason that you object to the 
 painting, and, I presume, the sculpture, of the nude?" 
 
 " Certainly, Sir Henry, certainly, "the bishop answered. 
 "I am afraid that Kenneth may still preserve some 
 of the fancies that he once professed, and that he 
 will disagree with me, but I must not shirk my duty on 
 that account." 
 
 "God help us!" muttered Massingdale; but the bishop 
 was too occupied with the sound of his own voice to 
 pay attention to the interruption. 
 
 "I hold," he continued piously, "that these studies, 
 no matter what may have been the intention of their 
 creator, are liable to do very serious harm. It has 
 been wisely ordained that man should cover his naked- 
 ness with garments, and I cannot see that anything 
 but evil can come from the portrayal, in public galleries, 
 of the undraped bodies of men and women. This form 
 of picture is, to my mind, to be classed with certain 
 songs, and certain books, which suggest indecency 
 under a thin cloak of artistic disguise. " 
 
 Here Massingdale put a sudden end to the discussion ; 
 he had for some time past been fidgeting on his seat like a 
 man in pain, now he burst forth in anger. Leaning for- 
 ward with an abrupt movement, he upset his coffee cup, 
 but did not seem to notice what he had done. His 
 eyes shone with passion, and his right hand, which was 
 stretched out on the table, shook; yet his voice was low 
 when he first began to speak. 
 
 "And I hold," he cried, "that a man who thinks
 
 Settlement of a Question 67 
 
 the things that you have just said, is not a fit person 
 to mix with ordinary men and women. If you really 
 see anything indecent in the simple picture of a naked 
 woman, I advise you to be very careful or your filthy 
 mind will bring you to a criminal dock on some dis- 
 graceful charge. Meanwhile, whether you have just 
 been giving us your true thoughts, or whether, as I 
 imagine, you have mouthed a stupid lie to suit your 
 damned hypocritical pose, I would ask you to spare 
 ordinary men your peculiarly obscene talk. " 
 
 For a moment I thought that Coke would be startled 
 from his habitual pose of saintly humilitude; I imagined 
 that there trembled on his lips some natural phrase of 
 angry retort, but he was well schooled in his hypocrisy, 
 and he managed to maintain his part; yet, if his eyes 
 were any guide, the man had come very near to con- 
 quering the attitude. 
 
 "Kenneth, my dear boy," he reproved, his voice 
 more unctuous than usual, and his manner that of 
 great suffering, "you cannot think what you are saying. 
 To-morrow, I am sure, you will be ready to ask the 
 pardon that I shall be only too glad to give." 
 
 Massingdale had shrugged his shoulders, and had sat 
 back as Coke began speaking, and when the latest 
 example of true forbearance had been delivered, he 
 took no notice of the speaker; instead, he replaced the 
 coffee cup which he had upset, apologising to his host 
 for his clumsiness. 
 
 "It is of no consequence at all," Sir Henry informed 
 him, his manner giving no hint of his appreciation of 
 the late interchange of opinions. "But we have been 
 sitting talking a long while, suppose we join the women- 
 folk in the drawing-room." 
 
 After Magram-Coke had taken his departure, which
 
 68 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 he did at an early hour, the matter of Massingdale's 
 outburst was discussed. The Egyptian civilian was 
 outspoken in his pleasure, the "incredible bishop per- 
 son" had not pleased him; Sir Henry Wrant explained, 
 in answer to Massingdale's apologies, that he did not 
 in the least object to the business. 
 
 " It was inevitable from the start, " he insisted, smiling. 
 "I could have stopped it, if I had wished. But I am 
 afraid the truth that you told him, Massingdale, will 
 have no effect on our right reverend acquaintance; he 
 is far beyond being improved. " 
 
 "I never thought about him," Massingdale answered. 
 "I spoke because his idiotic drivel forced me to it. His 
 canonisation or his damnation is a matter which does not 
 interest me." 
 
 "Yet you have made a nasty enemy," suggested 
 Lady Wrant. "He won't forget what you said to him, 
 and he will do you all the harm he can. But sit down 
 and talk to me about something more amusing. " 
 
 Massingdale shook his head and laughed. 
 
 "I can't," he explained. "My dear cousin has en- 
 sured that I shall think about him all the evening. I 
 will call on you, Lady Wrant, the day after to-morrow, 
 and then I will talk at your bidding. To-night I must 
 go; what is more, I must take the unhappy Richard 
 Crutchley with me. We will walk the streets together, 
 and he will listen patiently to much foolish talk, until 
 the vision of the Magram-Coke creature is driven from 
 our heads." 
 
 Which thing we did, subject to a slight modification 
 of the programme; for when we had been aimlessly 
 tramping about for half an hour or more, I struck, and 
 we spent the rest of the evening drinking lager beer 
 in a German beer-hall. Owing to the fortunate circum-
 
 Settlement of a Question 69 
 
 stance that Massingdale sat next to a citizen of Leipzig, 
 who waxed exceedingly communicative on the subject of 
 English feeding, I escaped further discussion of the 
 new suffragan bishop.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 OF AN ACT OF FRIENDSHIP 
 
 ONE afternoon about a week later I was walking 
 down the Borough High Street, in which neigh- 
 bourhood I had had business. I do not share Massing- 
 dale's fondness for wandering in unsavoury quarters, 
 and I found little to interest me, or to cause me to saun- 
 ter. The afternoon was, however, very hot, and I was 
 thirsty, so that I looked out for a decent place in which 
 to drink. I passed a cheap eating-house, where the 
 chief dish for the day was announced on a slate that 
 hung on the door-post; a warm smell of stale food and 
 sawdust was about the place, and the interior, seen 
 through the open door, looked ugly and uninteresting; 
 but I saw that the room was not too full, and it occurred 
 to me that I had never been in such surroundings before, 
 and that I might get tea there as well as anywhere else 
 in the district. So I went in. As I walked to an empty 
 table, intent on trying to appear not altogether out of 
 place, some one touched me on the arm. I turned 
 quickly, and saw Massingdale smiling at me in amuse- 
 ment. 
 
 "'Streuth,' Dick," said he, "I did not expect to 
 find you in such places. Don't stare, Mr. Crutchley; 
 it is rude. This is Master William Egger, my guest at 
 a composite, and I hope full, meal. Won't you join us?" 
 
 70
 
 An Act of Friendship 71 
 
 I sat down next to Massingdale and, in defiance of 
 his reproof, eyed his guest in .some astonishment. I 
 had become accustomed to peculiar conduct on his part, 
 but the promiscuous finding of stray slum children was a 
 proceeding that I had never anticipated; yet I had the 
 entertaining spectacle before me of Massingdale, appar- 
 ently well content, supplying an embryo criminal of 
 forbidding aspect with a strange assortment of food. 
 Master William Egger was exceedingly small; could not 
 have been more than thirteen or fourteen years of age; 
 had close-cropped red hair, a white face, very dirty, and 
 no external evidence of any attractive or desirable 
 qualities. He did not look a pleasant child, I must 
 suppose, under favourable circumstances, but in the 
 midst of enthusiastic and noisy feeding he put an animal 
 greed to his former disadvantages, which added nothing 
 to his beauty. 
 
 He sat opposite to Massingdale, leaning forward to 
 the table, and, when he could spare a moment from his 
 absorbing occupation, eyed his host furtively and with 
 some enquiry. I imagine that he was much confused, 
 since Massingdale 's manner was scarcely that of the 
 ordinary philanthropist. Whatever may have been his 
 curiosity it did not interfere with his appetite. I ordered 
 some tea, which was peculiarly nasty, and sat watching 
 the urchin. When he had finished off his meal with a 
 couple of meat pies, he sat back with a grunt. 
 
 "Won't you have something more?" asked Massing- 
 dale. 
 
 "Bloomin' well full, I am, guv'ner," answered the 
 child hoarsely, in a voice as ugly as his appearance. 
 "I cawn't do no more, s'elp me, thenking yer." 
 
 "Then take a couple of the pies for future occasions," 
 suggested Massingdale, pushing the plate towards him.
 
 72 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 William Egger did not reply, but pocketed four of 
 the pies in, really, very smart fashion. Massingdale 
 winked at me, but did not otherwise draw attention to 
 the number concealed. 
 
 "I do not think," said he, addressing the boy, 
 "that you need hang about any longer, young man. I 
 hope you have enjoyed the afternoon as much as I 
 have." 
 
 "Gam," replied William Egger briefly, sliding from 
 his chair; he hesitated a moment, as if wondering what 
 he should do; looked at the other tables aggressively, 
 where, I noticed, we were creating much interest; and 
 then added in his hoarse, Cockney voice: "Fair knocked 
 some on 'em, we did. So long, guv'ner. " 
 
 After which statement, and without condescending 
 to notice my presence, he went out into the street. 
 
 "Suppose we get to some fresher air than this," 
 said Massingdale, paying the bill. "That is, if you have 
 finished your tea. " 
 
 "I have not," I answered, "and I'm not going to 
 finish it. Come on." 
 
 When we were outside, walking towards London 
 Bridge, I endeavoured to satisfy my curiosity, which 
 was great. 
 
 "Why the devil have you taken to entertaining infant 
 criminals in their own haunts?" I inquired. 
 
 "Why, O Richard," he answered, twirling his stick 
 to the great danger of the other pedestrians, "have you 
 taken to drinking a dish of tea in a squalid eating- 
 house? Yours is the more surprising action. " 
 
 "I was passing," I assured him, "and I thought that 
 I would try to see what attracts you in such places. 
 I did not discover anything." 
 
 "A good defence," he allowed, lunging at a lamp-
 
 An Act of Friendship 73 
 
 post. "I entertained my friend William, who will 
 certainly develop into a very decent criminal, because 
 he is an astute critic of human nature. " 
 
 "Explain, you lunatic," I implored. 
 
 "You interrupt my explanation," he protested, 
 stopping to look at the river as we got on to the bridge. 
 "After lunch I went out to take the air on the Embank- 
 ment, and to watch the gulls being fed with fish. As 
 I approached a group of the great people engaged in 
 this amusing occupation, I saw my friend William seated 
 on a bench; I had not, then, the pleasure of William's 
 acquaintance. He was, as I came up, about to transfer 
 a silk handkerchief from the bench to his own pocket. 
 William is, as yet, only an apprentice in thieving; he 
 caught my eye, as the expression goes, and became 
 embarrassed. 
 
 " 'I see,' says I, 'that you have found a handkerchief. 
 Do you know who dropped it?' 
 
 "'I was jist agoin' to give it to 'im, guv'ner,' replied 
 William, in his agreeable tones. 
 
 "'Who is him?' says I. 
 
 "'Why 'im,' answers William, pointing; 'that there 
 bloomin' snuffler in the gaiters.' 
 
 "The 'bloomin' snuffler,' O mon Richard, was our 
 sainted cousin, that most holy divine the Lord Bishop 
 of Tooting Bee, or wherever it is. When William had 
 returned the handkerchief, which he did with evident 
 reluctance, he and I went off together; a child who 
 could so accurately describe our dear relative was, you 
 will surely agree, worthy of some attention. Who am 
 I that I should not hail genius when I meet it? A 
 'bloomin' snuffler'! A God-given phrase which shall 
 comfort me on many sad occasions. " 
 
 Here Massingdale ceased his explanation and walked
 
 74 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 beside me in silence, his eyes laughing and his whole 
 carriage expressing his delight. 
 
 "That does not explain how you got to the Borough 
 High Street, " I told him, after a pause. 
 
 "Oh," said he, smiling, "that was William's choice; 
 I could scarcely do less than consult my guest. After 
 a visit to the Whispering Gallery of St. Paul's, where 
 William whispered very hoarsely, we took a cab to the 
 eating-house, which is William's favourite resort when 
 he is in funds. As he very properly put it, his presence 
 there with, apparently, unlimited gold at his disposition 
 would make 'the other coves wot I know so bloomin' 
 wild.' He seemed pleased with the result, when he 
 left us." 
 
 "It is possible to conceive better moral guides for 
 the young man than yourself," I suggested. "Did you 
 tell Master William Egger the cause of your hospitality? " 
 
 "I did," replied Massingdale; "but he seemed to 
 think me a fool for not having heard the phrase before. 
 William is an enlightened, though scarcely a polite, 
 child." 
 
 Massingdale was silent as we passed St. Paul's 
 Station, coming from Upper Thames Street, but when 
 we got on to the Embankment he suddenly dashed into 
 another subject. 
 
 "Exit William," he announced solemnly. "William 
 was an episode, and he is passed; in mortal fashion he 
 has vanished into the unknown. We will talk of other 
 things. Have you observed, my friend, that, at the 
 inexorable bidding of Time, we move towards the Long 
 Vacation?" 
 
 "Curiously enough, I have," I answered. 
 
 "You are observant," he assured me, with much 
 gravity. "The occasion has its significance. After
 
 An Act of Friendship 75 
 
 the Long Vacation I shall no longer inhabit Brick 
 Court; I shall have become a model, for the benefit of 
 all my friends, of domestic respectability; I shall be 
 married. I decline to hang on much longer in this 
 futile fashion; I shall bring eloquence, prayers, and 
 tears to my assistance; I shall assail the parties most 
 concerned with a ceaseless clamour; and I shall gain 
 my way. To be engaged and to continue in that state 
 contentedly, is, to a man of spirit, intolerable; no one, 
 whose mind is not that of a fish, can endure for long 
 a condition so amorphous. Therefore I will get married 
 speedily, my Richard, and I will make my bow to 
 many of my old delights. For we pay for the joys of 
 to-morrow by the loss of those of to-day which remark 
 has, possibly, been made by others. Kind sir, I hear 
 the chime of distant bells. " 
 
 And being, as he always was, perfectly oblivious to 
 what others might think of his behaviour, he stoppd in 
 the middle of the pavement, and requested me to listen 
 to their pleasant melody. 
 
 "I sincerely hope," said I, "that marriage may give 
 you some little appearance of sense. But for heaven's 
 sake come on; there is a knave behind you with fish 
 for sale, and he obviously thinks you want to buy some." 
 
 Massingdale turned round without replying, and 
 purchased six penny bags of fish; two of which, to my 
 considerable disgust, he handed to me. 
 
 "Have you ever played this game?" he asked, throw- 
 ing small pieces of fish over the river, where they were 
 caught by the gulls before they reached the water. 
 
 "No," I replied shortly, "and I '11 be damned if I 
 begin now." 
 
 "Richard," he answered, apparently very much 
 amused, "a top-hat and a tail-coat will be the ruin of
 
 76 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 you. Observe. Although I wear the same form of 
 clothing, I throw fish with skill and accuracy. " 
 
 Seeing, however, that I would not be persuaded to 
 join him in fish throwing, he presented the remaining 
 bags to some children, and we continued our walk. 
 
 "Since," he remarked, continuing the conversation, as 
 if it had not been interrupted, "my days as a bachelor 
 are numbered, we will make use of them. Will you 
 dine with me to-night in Soho, and afterwards find such 
 amusement as may offer itself to us?" 
 
 "I will," I agreed, not sorry to get the chance, as I 
 had been very busy for some time past. "By the way, 
 you were telling me the other day that Yvonne Carrel 
 was in town. Have you seen anything of her? " 
 
 At the mention of her name Massingdale let all his 
 laughing mood slip from him, and took on a manner 
 that had a deal of sadness in it. He hesitated a minute 
 or two before answering, as if he were not certain 
 of what he should say, a thing very unusual with 
 him. 
 
 "I have," he answered at last. "I have seen her 
 twice. There is the shadow of tragedy hanging about 
 her, Dick, a miserable, sordid tragedy of failure, from 
 which I cannot see any escape. " 
 
 "What on earth is wrong?" I questioned in surprise, 
 for from what I had seen of her I judged that nothing 
 of the depth of tragedy would ever touch her. The 
 woman I imagined her to be, laughed much, often mixed 
 tears and laughter, touched the world lightly, asking 
 nothing serious from it; she would be kind to others 
 because it was her nature, she would obey her simple 
 instincts, and be called, by the short-sighted, a bad 
 woman on that account; but that she should ever 
 journey to the wild land of tragedy, leaving the smooth
 
 An Act of Friendship 77 
 
 valleys of carelessness, was a chance that I had not 
 foreseen. 
 
 Massingdale stopped walking, and leaned his elbow on 
 the stone balustrade guarding the river; I did the same 
 thing, seeing that he wished to talk. 
 
 "I think," he answered, speaking slowly, "that you 
 have seen enough of her to know that her voice is very 
 much to her, that however shallow and foolish she may 
 seem in other things, in music, in her art, she touches 
 something deep-rooted and secure." 
 
 I nodded ; and he continued in the same voice. 
 
 "Well, unless something happens, she will lose it all; 
 for if she loses her power of singing she will lose all 
 hold she ever had on the beautiful in life. When she 
 has lost that, she will realise what it was, and the life 
 that will be left to her will not be good. She maintains 
 that she is badly treated, that the opera people in 
 Paris have behaved disgracefully, that even the managers 
 in England are beginning to conspire against her. It is, 
 of course, untrue. You have seen, perhaps, that she is 
 sometimes, lately more often, indisposed and cannot 
 sing?" 
 
 "Yes," I answered, beginning to see the thing as 
 serious. 
 
 "You know that sort of indisposition, Dick," Massing- 
 dale continued. " You know what it means. The thing 
 has been going on for some time, and, in a singer, the 
 end will come quickly. When I saw her a week ago, 
 and when I saw her yesterday, in the afternoon, before 
 she had to sing, she was not sober. No human voice 
 can stand it." 
 
 I kept silence, trying to find something, not alto- 
 gether banal, that I might say. Meanwhile Massingdale 
 stared out over the river, seeing nothing, I fancy, of the
 
 78 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 Thames. Quite suddenly he stood up straight, and 
 began speaking very fast, his words tumbling from him 
 as they do when he is excited, his hands making many 
 expressive gestures; yet he did not raise his voice. 
 
 "Any man who knows her as I know her," he cried, 
 "would be a blackguard to let the thing happen without 
 some attempt to stop it. Yet what can I do? She 
 knows me as a sort of child to whom she has taught 
 the most of that which he knows of women or knew 
 until a little while ago. She knows that I do not see 
 as she does, that many of my ideas she cannot under- 
 stand, therefore she laughs at me when I presume to 
 give advice. Yet she wanders on to her ruin, and a 
 schoolboy could see the danger which she ignores. 
 Some years ago in Paris, just before I came to Cambridge, 
 she did much for me, and in her foolish, laughing way 
 taught me things that it is good to know; since then she 
 has encouraged me when she thought I needed it; has 
 borne with me when I have been at war with all things ; 
 has often shown me where I was a fool. Beneath the 
 actress, who plays a fool part for the smiles of men, there 
 is a woman, no wiser, no better than the rest of us, but 
 surely just as good. Sooner or later there will be a 
 public scene, a breakdown that cannot be hushed up, 
 and even her name will fail to secure her more engage- 
 ments. Then? She has no money; she spends all that 
 she earns. No one will pay much attention to Yvonne 
 Carrel when her voice no longer lures the listener to a 
 golden land. And, through the future, through the 
 years that may still be for her, she will never forget 
 what she has been, she will not lose sight of the thing 
 which she has lost. To kill her before the end comes, to 
 make her die while her voice still holds its magic, would 
 be a kindness."
 
 An Act of Friendship 79 
 
 I had rarely seen him so much in earnest, so captured 
 by sadness and perplexity ; he had much of the same ap- 
 pearance that he had shown, at times, before his engage- 
 ment to Joan, with something more of sorrow added. 
 
 "Are you sure that you don't make the case more 
 gloomy than it is?" I asked, having not much hope that 
 he did. " Surely it can be stopped before it makes for 
 ruin." 
 
 " Many things might happen," he answered me, " that 
 amongst them; but how it is to come about the high 
 gods have not informed me. Am I to go to Yvonne and 
 tell her that she is drinking disaster, and that she 
 must reform her ways? If you were my age, if you were 
 in my place that is to say, would you do it? And, if 
 you did it, would you achieve any result?" 
 
 "But," I argued, evading the question, "she surely 
 has older friends who could do something?" 
 
 "Older friends!" cried Massingdale, with a sudden 
 show of bitterness. "She has such friends as a woman 
 who leads her life can make men who, some of them 
 grey-haired, take her as she is, and who, if she ceases 
 to amuse them, will leave her for some one else. Loissel 
 would help her, if she would let him, but she will not. 
 She finishes her engagement on Saturday, and will 
 probably return to Paris." He finished his sentence 
 abruptly, and stood staring in front of him, his hands 
 clasped on the balustrade; when he spoke again, his 
 tone indicated that the subject was closed. "If," said 
 he, "we could only see one clear patch of road ahead, 
 we might make something more out of this journey of 
 our lives. Shall we come on ? " 
 
 I knew Massingdale sufficiently well not to attempt 
 to reopen the discussion, so I walked by his side in silence 
 until we got to Westminster Bridge. When we arrived
 
 8o The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 there, he suggested that we should go on to Chelsea, and 
 so fill up the time until dinner, to which thing I agreed. 
 We had scarcely got past the Houses of Parliament before 
 he began talking at random, but with his usual vivacity, 
 on any subject that came into his head, and for the rest 
 of the evening he kept up an almost ceaseless flow of 
 talk. Such, I had discovered long before, was his habit 
 when something had upset him; he would endeavour, 
 generally, I will admit, with much success, to cover his 
 thoughts, or to stop them, by great volubility. By 
 the time that we had finished dinner, he was to all 
 appearance in his ordinary temper of impressionable 
 carelessness, and when we had spent an hour or more in a 
 music-hall, and had found the entertainment dull, it 
 would have been a hard matter to persuade a stranger 
 that Massingdale was other than an amused and sym- 
 pathetic spectator of the antics of his fellows, one who 
 had performed little on his own account. 
 
 Somewhere around midnight we found ourselves in 
 Piccadilly Circus, making for one of the substitutes 
 for the Continental cafe which London has to offer, 
 the particular place to which we walked having an 
 entrance in Regent Street, and being nearby to an ex- 
 pensive and highly respectable restaurant. As we 
 came up to the door of our cafe, we had to stand aside 
 to let a fashionably dressed woman pass out. I am 
 extremely unobservant in such matters, and often 
 fail to recognise my acquaintances, so that until Massing- 
 dale took off his hat I did not notice that the woman 
 who stood by us was Yvonne Carrel. She was standing 
 facing Massingdale, and smiling, and it was perfectly 
 obvious that she had no great control of herself; she 
 provided an undeniable confirmation of Massingdale's 
 talk of the afternoon.
 
 An Act of Friendship 81 
 
 "Ah! le petit Louis!" she cried, raising her voice 
 more than is usual in a public thoroughfare. " Viens, 
 mon cheri. You come to supper with me?" 
 
 I saw that one or two of the people passing turned 
 to look at us, and I noticed that a party leaving the 
 adjoining restaurant had noticed the greeting, and paid 
 us some attention as they waited for their carriage. I 
 began to be exceedingly uncomfortable. 
 
 Massingdale spoke to her in his easy, laughing fashion, 
 but I fancied him somewhat anxious about her behaviour. 
 
 "Certainly, if you wish me, Yvonne, " said he. "Shall 
 I call a cab?" And he signalled to a passing hansom. 
 
 What miserable fancy entered into her muddled brain, 
 I do not know, but Mademoiselle Carrel seized the occa- 
 sion to make an unwonted claim upon his affection. 
 
 "It is good," she went on, in the same high voice, so 
 that there were now two or three loiterers, besides the 
 party at the door of the restaurant, staring at us. 
 "You do not altogether forget your old friends." 
 Then suddenly, though in a lower voice: "Kiss me, 
 Louis." 
 
 Massingdale was curiously white, but he did not seem 
 to hesitate, he allowed no chance of the scene becoming 
 more noticeable than it already was. He stooped and 
 kissed her on the cheek, leading her to the cab that 
 waited. He then gave her address to the cabman, and, 
 getting in beside her, was driven off. 
 
 I turned away up Regent Street, the amusement of 
 the witnesses of this episode causing me to think grate- 
 fully of physical violence. To them the affair was a not 
 uncommon occurrence, and, doubtless, they could not be 
 expected to see any unusual feature, yet I was persuaded 
 that, had any of the spectators found themselves in 
 Massingdale's place, they would have hesitated, as I 
 
 6
 
 82 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 should have, to do what he had done, they would have 
 allowed Mademoiselle Carrel to make a greater exhibi- 
 tion of herself rather than put themselves in a foolish 
 position. 
 
 As I passed the restaurant, hoping that no one had 
 recognised the players in this comedy, I discovered 
 that Magram-Coke was of the party who waited for 
 their carriage. He had assumed an expression of pious 
 indignation in which there was a nice admixture of 
 sadness, and his eyes met mine as I passed. I did not, 
 however, think the occasion was one on which recogni- 
 tion would be advisable, and he made no attempt to 
 greet me, so I hurried on. 
 
 Massingdale would return to the Temple, I imagined, 
 after getting Mademoiselle Carrel to her rooms; there- 
 fore, when I had allowed sufficient time for Magram- 
 Coke to drive off with his companions, I went back to 
 the cafe, and, after half an hour or so, to Brick Court. 
 
 Shortly before two o'clock Massingdale came in; he 
 looked tired and upset, but he avoided any discussion 
 of the evening's happenings, beyond a single reference 
 to the matter. 
 
 "Some attractive example of chivalry had met her at 
 the theatre," he stated, helping himself to whisky, "and 
 had been drinking with her; doubtless, this pleasant 
 gentleman wished to spare her, and himself, the hurt 
 of scandal, and so avoided seeing her home. " 
 
 "Magram-Coke witnessed the episode," I announced, 
 watching Massingdale. 
 
 "The devil he did," he replied showing no particular 
 interest; and he sat down on my sofa. "I hope the 
 righteous person benefited by what he saw, which is 
 unlikely. May I be permitted to suggest that my host, 
 should he be so disposed, retires to bed? I will smoke a
 
 An Act of Friendship 83 
 
 pipe and meditate, whilst reclining on the sofa, upon 
 the complexity of human affairs." 
 
 Having said this, Massingdale had delivered an 
 ultimatum. I had the choice of going to bed, and the 
 hour was not unreasonable for such a proceeding, or of 
 sitting in talk with him until I fell asleep in my chair, 
 when all subjects under heaven might be discussed 
 except the affairs of Mademoiselle Yvonne Carrel. 
 Being remarkably tired, I chose the former alternative, 
 and left him in a meditative condition upon his back. 
 
 I was very busy the following morning, and, when 
 I got back to my rooms after lunch, found that Massing- 
 dale had gone down to Elsingham for the week-end, 
 which, it being Saturday, was his usual custom. On 
 Sunday evening I had to dine with some relatives in 
 Kensington, and for the space of two hours and a half 
 was compelled to assume an air of entertainment amongst 
 people with whom I neither had, nor wished to have, any 
 common interests; when I had listened for as short a 
 time as decency permitted to the talk in the drawing- 
 room, which was mainly concerned with dances and the 
 latest musical comedy, I made my escape, and got back 
 to the Temple. There I found Massingdale pacing up 
 and down my sitting-room. 
 
 In the light of a single candle for of his own wish 
 he would always pass the evening in partial darkness 
 his appearance startled me; his hair was in its wildest 
 condition, he seemed incapable of remaining still, and 
 his face showed signs of some strong emotion. I imagine 
 that I betrayed some indication of my astonishment at 
 his appearance, for he greeted me as I entered with a 
 very feeble imitation of his ordinary manner; it was 
 quite plain that he wished to steer the conversation by 
 himself.
 
 84 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 "The reveller returns, " said he, stopping in the middle 
 of the room. 
 
 "And the lover leaves his mistress," I returned, and 
 was surprised to see him start. "What makes you 
 turn up to-night? I did not expect you until to-morrow 
 evening." 
 
 He started pacing the room again, but did not reply 
 at once. It was clear beyond a doubt that something 
 had gone badly wrong, and I waited impatiently to hear 
 what it was. 
 
 " I thought it advisable to return at once, " he answered 
 after a pause, making use of a precise, expressionless 
 tone that was new to me. "I leave for Paris to-morrow 
 afternoon by the two-twenty." 
 
 "What the devil are you going to Paris for?" I asked, 
 putting down my coat and hat, and standing in front 
 of the hearth. 
 
 Massingdale turned at the window, and faced me; 
 and his voice was very distinct as he answered. 
 
 "To paint." 
 
 "To paint?" I gasped; but he took no notice of me, 
 and began his restless walking again. 
 
 "Yes," he continued, speaking fast, but letting his 
 words come from him in jerks, as if he dared not emphasise 
 them. "I am going back to Loissel like a damned prodi- 
 gal who has failed in other things. I have failed in other 
 things. I have played my stake and lost it. I thought 
 that I knew what the risks were, I thought that I saw 
 my way. I was mistaken. Fate laughs at fools, Dick, 
 especially when they are self-satisfied fools. I made the 
 great mistake of thinking that others, who knew me, 
 would have realised the way that I see things. They do 
 not. You said that the lover leaves his mistress. He 
 does not. He is sent away. "
 
 An Act of Friendship 85 
 
 "You don't mean that " I began; but he inter- 
 rupted me. 
 
 "I do," he stated. "I mean that I am no longer 
 engaged to Joan Onnington. She tells me that she has 
 been mistaken, and I agree with her, though not in the 
 way she means. Poor child, she thinks me a polished 
 blackguard, a laughing scoundrel who deceives her with 
 a smile. I tried to alter her view, to make her see the 
 truth I failed." He paused, and then attempted 
 his usual manner with no success. "So, Richard, I '11 
 take me off to Paris, and to painting. Fortune and fame 
 shall come to me; my pictures shall rejoice a world 
 unborn; and many other things that I can't think of 
 for the moment." 
 
 Under the circumstances, I decided that it was better 
 to keep him to his new manner; it was easier to meet. 
 
 "Feel inclined to give me any details?" I asked 
 abruptly, occupying myself with the filling of a pipe. 
 
 "If you want them," he agreed, going back to his 
 former tone, but sitting down on the seat by the open 
 window. "The trouble came through Magram-Coke: it 
 was a product of his pure mind. Don't grunt, Dick; he 
 is a very interesting person in his way, which, thank 
 God, is not ours. He counts the unhappiness of others 
 a thing of no moment, a small matter to be induced 
 instantly, if it helps to advertise his pose; to secure an 
 effectual setting for his chosen attitude of righteous- 
 ness, he will forget many things, or will not heed them ; 
 a man of single purpose. He called at Elsingham 
 Hall yesterday afternoon; he came with a friend of the 
 Onningtons'. He eyed me sadly, as if my existence 
 pained him. After tea he expressed a desire to see 
 the grounds, and asked whether Joan and I would show 
 them to him. We began to do so. When we had got
 
 86 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 down to the river, he stopped and sat down on the seat 
 in the bay of the yew hedge, saying that he wanted to 
 talk. It did not occur to me that I should form the 
 subject of that talk. You know the man's manner. 
 You know the gentle, humble voice, that grows sad at 
 the thought of sin. Helped by his gaiters and his pro- 
 fession, he can impose on a young girl, can make her 
 think him a good man. 'Kenneth/ said he, 'I want to 
 know whether you have told Miss Onnington of what 
 happened on Friday night?' 
 
 "'Friday night?' I asked. I had been thinking of 
 other things, Dick, and did not, for a moment, remember 
 what had happened. 
 
 "'I see that you have not,' he went on, and the man 
 assumed something of a judicial manner. 'As that is 
 so and it is as I thought it would be I conceive it 
 my duty, both as an honourable man and an humble 
 worker against evil, to tell her that she has something 
 very painful to learn.' 
 
 "'Will you, please, tell me what you are talking 
 about?' Joan asked him, and her face was flushed with 
 indignation. ' I ' ' ' 
 
 Here Massingdale was silent, sitting without a move- 
 ment, staring out at the Court. When he spoke again 
 there was no difference in the quiet, expressionless tone 
 of his voice. 
 
 "I am not used to such scenes," he went on; "and 
 I am not a very self-controlled person. I showed that 
 I was getting angry, and I made a movement to silence 
 Magram-Coke. Joan, I suppose, thought that I wished 
 to hide something; she turned suddenly very white, and 
 said nothing more. Coke had the air of a man performing 
 a painful duty, but I think that he enjoyed it. He spoke 
 to Joan. 'Miss Onnington,' he stated, 'since Kenneth
 
 An Act of Friendship 87 
 
 will not, I am forced to inform you that I saw him, last 
 Friday evening, embrace a woman of obviously low 
 character, and that he did this thing about midnight in 
 the middle of Regent Street; that he then returned with 
 her to her lodging. I thought it better to inform you, 
 rather than Admiral Onnington, of this disgraceful 
 occurrence, because it is you I will not dwell on his 
 own sin whom he has chiefly wronged.' Then I lost 
 control of myself; I do not remember what I said, but 
 I was very near to assaulting the animal. When I had 
 finished, Joan asked him to go, and, contrary to his 
 usual custom, he went without saying anything more. 
 As he disappeared round the corner of the yew hedge, 
 I turned to Joan; she stood very straight, with her 
 hands clenched at her sides; she did not look at me." 
 
 Massingdale again fell silent; and before going on 
 with his tale got up from the window-seat to resume 
 his walk up and down the room. 
 
 "It is not necessary to repeat what we said," he 
 continued presently; "the result is all that you will 
 want to know. She asked me and I have a fancy, 
 Dick, that she had condemned me before I began to 
 reply to what Magram-Coke had referred. I told her; 
 I explained that I had been afraid that there might 
 have been a worse scene, and that Yvonne's condition 
 would have been mentioned in the papers. She asked 
 me, without any comment, how long I had known Yvonne. 
 I explained that she was an old friend of mine. Then, 
 quite suddenly, Joan turned on me with a manner of 
 suppressed passion, demanding that I should tell her 
 what I meant by an 'old friend.' She stood quite close 
 to me, looking me in the eyes, and she repeated her 
 question with more insistence. I knew that was the 
 end; I knew that she could not understand that things
 
 88 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 had changed, that I would not sink to what she thought. 
 I informed her, in the best way that I could, of what our 
 relations had been. " He took a turn of the room without 
 speaking, and then continued, his voice strained and low. 
 "She is very young; she did not mean what she said; she 
 was blinded by the suggestion that Coke had given. 
 Surely she knows me I have not the air of a man of 
 that sort. The past is past. She would know that there 
 are few men who can bring up a clean record yet, 
 because of the past, to condemn the present without 
 hesitation, I Forgive me, Dick, I am forgetting 
 you. She told me to go that is all. " 
 
 He sat down again by the window, wearily, resting his 
 elbow on the sill and staring into the night. I left the 
 hearth-rug, and took a turn up and down the room before 
 replying; yet when I spoke I had little enough to say. 
 
 "You are quite certain that you don't exaggerate 
 things?" I asked with diffidence. "You are not mis- 
 taking a passing storm for something more serious?" 
 
 He answered me without turning his head. 
 
 "Absolutely certain." 
 
 Since he said nothing more, I tried to argue the 
 matter, more for my own satisfaction than for the help 
 that it might give him. 
 
 "But, confound it all," I cried, "Joan is not an 
 absolute fool. She must be willing to listen to reason; 
 she can't turn you off as if the matter were of small 
 importance. It 's damned ridiculous." 
 
 Massingdale got up from his seat and came over to 
 where I stood; putting his hands on my shoulders, he 
 pushed me into an arm-chair. Something seemed to 
 have given him more command upon himself than he 
 had had throughout the evening. 
 
 "Peace, you old fool," he ordered, making something
 
 An Act of Friendship 89 
 
 more of a success of his usual manner. "It is not an 
 affair of reason. You cannot alter the decision of the 
 gods I wish you could. If a man cannot make himself 
 understood, he should not complain that others mistake 
 his actions. When Joan asked me for an explanation 
 of my friendship with Yvonne, I should have given her 
 something that would have helped her to my seeing; 
 instead, beyond certain statements, I was mightily 
 occupied with assuring her that I could not have done 
 anything but the thing I did. Sometimes, doubtless, it is 
 advisable to adopt another's outlook. However, the 
 thing is finished." 
 
 " Did you talk to Admiral Onnington?" I asked. 
 
 "I told him that Joan had altered her mind, as she 
 considered that I had not acted honourably; that I 
 would, therefore, go away. That was the right thing 
 to do, was n't it?" 
 
 I told him that I imagined so; and he sat on the edge 
 of the table, filling a pipe. His face, in the light of the 
 match, showed haggard and tired, but he seemed to 
 have himself under good control. 
 
 We both smoked in silence for some time, and I was 
 not able to discover from his expression anything of 
 the thoughts which held him. For my own part, I 
 indulged in the futile business of condemning the hap- 
 penings of the past, endeavouring, without success, to 
 discover how they might be robbed of their result. 
 
 Massingdale broke the silence with a remark that 
 I had not in the least expected. 
 
 "I have," he announced, "about one hundred and 
 eighty pounds in the bank, the balance of the coming 
 half-year's allowance, and some odd cash about me. 
 I shall not return that to my father; however he may 
 take this business, I do not imagine that he would
 
 90 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 wish to take back what he has already given. I shall 
 want it badly enough. " 
 
 " You are not serious about going to Paris? " I askea, 
 prepared for argument. "You have a very decent 
 chance at the Bar, why throw it up?" 
 
 For the first time that evening he showed some of 
 his old energy and excitement. 
 
 "Thunder of heaven!" he shouted, beating the table 
 with his fist, "what have I to do with the Bar? Was 
 it ever anything but cowardice that induced me to 
 wear a wig and gown? Fate has surely told me with 
 sufficient clearness where my destiny may be." 
 
 I did not attempt to dissuade him; I should have 
 gained nothing by it, except the conviction that I had 
 indulged in useless interference. Instead, I began to 
 discuss the practical details of his leaving the Temple; 
 and, although I had much to say on my side, I failed 
 to move him from his intention of going the next day. 
 When we had decided on the arrangements required 
 for storing his furniture, selling some of it, and other 
 matters of a like nature, he made mention of what 
 I have always regarded as a piece of the purest 
 
 felly. 
 
 "I shall go and see Yvonne later on this morning," 
 said he, sitting back from the table at which he had been 
 writing, "and I shall try to persuade her to come to 
 Paris with me. I think she will agree to it. " 
 
 "Good Lord, man," I cried in astonishment, "you 
 can't be such a fool!" 
 
 "Why a fool?" he asked, taking no notice of my 
 tone. "If she should come with me, I shall be able to 
 get Loissel on her tracks, and the old man may work 
 some magic." 
 
 "You are not a child, Massingdale, " I urged; "you
 
 An Act of Friendship 91 
 
 must see that, if you go off with her to-morrow, few 
 people will believe she is not still your mistress. " 
 
 "Not more than one or two, certainly," he allowed, 
 quite unmoved. 
 
 "And there will be strong evidence to force people 
 into the belief that you have behaved like a scoundrel 
 to Joan." 
 
 "Since she believes that now, without the evidence, 
 I do not concern myself with what others may think 
 later," he answered, with something of finality in his 
 tone. 
 
 But I was not willing to let him embark on this absurd 
 folly without further protest, so I attacked him again. 
 
 " No man can afford to throw away his reputation for a 
 whim," I insisted. "It is not a little matter to be held 
 a blackguard by decent men. When it comes to acting 
 in this fashion for no real purpose, it is nothing else 
 than idiotic folly. " 
 
 He tilted his chair back, and looked at me in very 
 kindly fashion, yet there was no sign about him that 
 my words had had any effect. 
 
 " Mon Richard," said he, and there was much deter- 
 mination in his voice, "we waste our breath. Yet I owe 
 you some explanation. Take it, and be content. Do not 
 imagine me the type of fool who will indulge in quixotic 
 action because he thinks the pose becoming. If I 
 thought that there was the slightest, the very smallest, 
 chance that Joan would alter her view, I should not do 
 this, I should be afraid of the consequence ; but I have 
 heard her speak to me, and I do not think that she will 
 see the other side. When she is grown up, when she 
 sees things more as they really are, she will have for- 
 gotten the charm that I once had for her. Therefore, I 
 have nothing to fear on her account. On the other hand,,
 
 92 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 Yvonne is so far gone that something must be done 
 immediately, if anything is to come of it; and she will 
 do nothing of her own will. Having, I believe, some 
 influence with her, I can get her back to Paris; there I 
 put the matter into other hands. About my reputation 
 you are somewhat misinformed; it is gone, or will be 
 shortly, without this. All my acquaintances will accept 
 the scandal with avidity; the thing will be so pleasing 
 to them that, whether I go off with my supposed mistress 
 or not, they will not refuse belief in it. My departure 
 with Yvonne may turn from me a few waverers, they 
 do not count; you and my other friends, Loissel and, I 
 fancy, Tom Onnington, will not be affected. Therefore 
 a prudence that hesitated, in such a case, at an action 
 which might turn out of some use, would surely be 
 misplaced." 
 
 "I suppose," I told him, when he had finished speak- 
 ing, "that you will go off with Yvonne Carrel, but you 
 have not convinced me that you are not a fool for doing 
 so." 
 
 He gave a curious laugh, and walked to the window. 
 
 "Ah!" he called, looking out, "this is a nice return 
 for much forbearance. I have robbed you of your 
 night's sleep, Dick. Here is the dawn." 
 
 I went and stood beside him at the window, and 
 looked out into the Court. A pale light had come after 
 the darkness, and the old buildings looked grey, and 
 cold, and cheerless, although the summer night was 
 warm; I shivered in sympathy with the hour, and real- 
 ised that I was very tired. Massingdale stood beside 
 me without movement, his face showing a weariness 
 that matched the lingering shadow out of doors. 
 
 "Wherein lies the sadness of this hour before the 
 sunrise?" he murmured, forgetting, I fancy, that I stood
 
 An Act of Friendship 93 
 
 by him. "It is not the half-light, for the evening misses 
 it. A man should have his dreams before the sun 
 comes, to help him in the day, he should not be awake; 
 at sunset he has had some hours of action to give him 
 courage for his thoughts, and that means much." 
 
 I moved, and he turned with a start. 
 
 "Go to bed, Dick," said he. "I '11 sit here a bit, and 
 you shall provide me with breakfast." 
 
 So I turned in, and slept, leaving him at the window. 
 
 The following afternoon I saw him depart, in company 
 with Yvonne Carrel, by the two-twenty train for Paris; 
 and he seemed particularly careful that I should not 
 speak to her alone. Except for his appearance, which 
 suggested illness or debauchery, he offered a very praise- 
 worthy imitation of his ordinary self, and poured forth 
 a steady stream of talk until the train steamed out of 
 the station. 
 
 As I left Charing Cross and walked back along the 
 Strand, I began to realise the difference that his absence 
 would make to me; and before I reached the Temple I 
 was cursing Magram-Coke and Joan with an impartial 
 vigour.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 SHOWING DIFFERENT SIDES TO THE SAME QUESTION 
 
 THAT same evening Admiral Onnington paid me a 
 visit, as I sat smoking after dinner; he seemed 
 moved from his usual hearty cheeriness ; affected a seri- 
 ous manner that became him very ill; and plunged into 
 the affairs of Joan and Massingdale at once. 
 
 "What's this last thing I hear?" he asked, letting 
 himself drop into an arm-chair with a sigh, for he was a 
 man of heavy build. "Just pass the brandy to me, my 
 boy; you have n't learned how to mix a drink yet. But 
 what is this about Kenneth Massingdale going off to 
 Paris with this singing woman? I heard it from Wrant 
 this afternoon at the club, and he is a man I trust. Is 
 it true?" 
 
 "Massingdale went by the same train, and in the 
 same carriage as Mademoiselle Carrel, if that is what 
 you mean," I answered, making the best that I could 
 of it. 
 
 "It is, thank you," replied my uncle, with decision. 
 "It is a good bit more than I want." He puffed at 
 his cigar in silence, frowning fiercely; then went on 
 speaking with a deal more of confidence. "I '11 be shot, 
 if I can make it out," he announced. "I thought that, 
 after knocking about the world for sixty years, I had 
 learned to judge something of a man's character; enough, 
 
 94
 
 Different Sides to a Question 95 
 
 at any rate, to go by. I would have sworn that young 
 Massingdale was as honourable a man as his father, and 
 here he turns out an absolute blackguard, and plays the 
 devil with my daughter's feelings. What have you to 
 say to it yourself, Dick?" 
 
 "I think," I suggested, "that you seem too ready 
 to condemn the man unheard. Why jump to the con- 
 clusion that he must be guilty? " 
 
 "That 's not fair, my boy, that 's not fair, " the Admiral 
 answered impatiently. "I have done nothing of the 
 sort; I have done the opposite. Last night when he 
 knocked the breath out of me by saying that Joan had 
 done with him, I neither condemned him nor thought 
 of doing so. I only let him rush off in that fashion 
 because I thought that, being a queer, excitable fellow, 
 it would do him good to be alone. I listened to what 
 Joan had to say which was damned little and could 
 not make head or tail of it, except that he had behaved 
 disgracefully with some singing woman. I distrusted 
 the whole business, because that insufferable hypocrite 
 of a parson had been in it, and I said as little as I could. 
 This morning I went into Cambridge and interviewed 
 this precious bishop. I had the whole story from him, 
 chapter and verse, with a lot of pious nonsense thrown 
 in as well; and he swore to the whole lot of it. I told 
 him, pretty plainly, what I thought of him for not coming 
 to me first ; and then I came up to town to try and find 
 young Massingdale himself. I thought the disgraceful 
 business must have some explanation; I have never yet 
 condemned any man without full evidence of his guilt, 
 and I hope I never shall. However, I came here and 
 found no one in, and so went down to the club. There 
 Wrant told me, and he did it very nicely too, what he 
 had seen at Charing Cross. I am not a fool, my boy,
 
 96 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 and I can put facts together, when they are thrust under 
 my nose. There can be no doubt that young Massing- 
 dale has behaved like an infernal scoundrel. " 
 
 "There can be, and there is," I urged, "very con- 
 siderable doubt. The whole thing is a mistake. Massing- 
 dale has done nothing that is dishonourable. The tale 
 that Magram-Coke concocted about the affair in Regent 
 Street the other night is sheer misrepresentation; 
 Massingdale did what he did in order to prevent a scene. " 
 
 "I know all about that," Admiral Onnington inter- 
 rupted. "Your aunt has told me all that; it was, it 
 seems, the excuse which the fellow offered to Joan. 
 But, frankly, Dick, do you expect me to believe that 
 an ordinary man is in the habit of kissing a well-known 
 actress in a public thoroughfare, unless he is on pretty 
 intimate terms with her?" 
 
 I saw the case going against Massingdale, as I had 
 expected that it would, so I put my defence with all 
 the heat I could muster. 
 
 "Massingdale is not an ordinary man," I retorted, 
 with some anger. "And I am not aware that he has 
 attempted to hide what his relations have been in the 
 past with Mademoiselle Carrel. I fail to see why the 
 devil, because he acts decently towards the woman, 
 and helps her out of a hole, you should assume that she 
 is still his mistress. Would you call it the conduct of an 
 honourable man to disown her acquaintance because she 
 happened to be intoxicated?" 
 
 Admiral Onnington got up from the arm-chair, and 
 gripped hold of my left arm above the elbow; he had 
 abandoned his attempt to appear magisterial, and 
 seemed to feel relief at the change. 
 
 "Look here, Dick, my boy," said he, pinching my 
 arm tightly, " I 'm not going to quarrel with you because
 
 Different Sides to a Question 97 
 
 you stick to a friend. Defend young Massingdale as 
 warmly as you will; it will please me to hear you. But 
 I must recognise the truth about this matter. Joan is 
 my daughter, and I do not feel inclined to think kindly 
 of a man who has played the very deuce with her affec- 
 tions. Besides, drop your prejudice, and tell me whether 
 you can regard these two occurrences, the business in 
 the street and the going off to Paris, as anything but 
 conclusive proof." 
 
 To state, baldly, that Massingdale had taken Made- 
 moiselle Carrel with him to Paris in order to affect 
 her reform, seemed to me useless ; offered as an explana- 
 tion to any one who did not know him well, it had the 
 appearance of a most ineffectual lie. Therefore, I tried 
 to turn the matter aside, which was a mistake. 
 
 "Mademoiselle Carrel's engagement in London was 
 finished," I replied, as confidently as I could. "She 
 would have been going back to Paris in any case. I 
 cannot see that you can make anything out of that 
 coincidence." 
 
 "Steady, Dick," Admiral Onnington warned me, 
 giving my arm another nip; "you are beginning to talk 
 like a lawyer. Don't hide the facts, my boy. Can you 
 give me your word I don't ask you this because I 
 want to hear you give a friend away, but because I 
 must have the truth. Remember I am Joan's father 
 can you give me your word that it was nothing more 
 than a coincidence that these two went away together 
 this afternoon?" 
 
 I had the mighty poor satisfaction of knowing that 
 I had predicted the harm that the departure referred 
 to would bring about, which satisfaction I would have 
 thrown in, in company with a good many things besides, 
 to have had the question withdrawn.
 
 98 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 "No," I answered, "I cannot; but" 
 
 He stopped me, before I could finish the sentence; 
 and his manner was so kindly that I could not take 
 offence at his words. 
 
 "That is all I want," said he sadly. "That settles 
 the matter. I decline to argue any more. I should 
 only make you quarrel, Dick, and I won't have that. 
 You take your view; I must, in duty, act on mine. 
 I wish young Massingdale every success in life ; I suppose 
 that he will follow his taste, and go in for painting. I 
 know that an outsider cannot reckon up all the tempta- 
 tions that go to a man's undoing; and I believe there 
 is a lot of good in the boy; but I think that it will be 
 better that he and I do not meet again. There are some 
 things that a father should not forgive." 
 
 "You make an incredible mistake," I pleaded; but 
 he stopped me again. 
 
 "Don't," he asked, picking up his hat. "Let us 
 call the subject ended, there 's a good fellow. We '11 
 agree to be silent about it. Come down to Elsingham 
 next week-end; we are a bit gloomy, and we want 
 visitors. Besides, I want to talk to you about a yachting 
 cruise next month." 
 
 Upon that he left me. He was, I have reason to 
 suppose, a very good sailor, but he was a poor hand 
 at hiding his feelings; and it was no difficult matter to 
 see that the thing which, perhaps, struck him hardest 
 in the whole business was the loss of the regard which 
 he had had for Massingdale, a feeling that had been 
 very strong in him. For it was characteristic of Massing- 
 dale to inspire very warm feelings, either of like or dislike, 
 in 'those with whom he came in contact; and, however 
 he might be judged, the memory of him was not easily 
 forgotten.
 
 Different Sides to a Question 99 
 
 At the end of the week I went down to Elsingham, 
 and it would be an abominable misrepresentation to 
 say that I enjoyed the visit. The manner adopted by 
 the Onnington family was so carefully assumed, their 
 strict avoiding of any discussion of recent events was 
 so apparent, that the house seemed peopled by conscien- 
 tious actors, somewhat fearful lest they should forget 
 their parts. Joan showed the clearest signs that her 
 attitude was difficult to support, and I was in continual 
 fear that she would abandon the pose and invite me to 
 an exchange of confidence. I recognised that where 
 there was so little to be said, this refusal to introduce 
 the subject of Massingdale or his behaviour was certainly 
 wise, but I found the prevailing cheerfulness full of 
 embarrassment, and a most effective barrier against 
 careless conversation. I was mightily relieved to find 
 that the vicar and a friend stopping with him had been 
 asked in to dinner on the night of my arrival, for we 
 played bridge until after the women had gone to bed, 
 and so escaped the chance of any review of the situation. 
 The following afternoon, it being Sunday, Joan suggested 
 that I should go out for a walk with her, and having 
 no possible excuse to offer, I was forced to consent, 
 although I did not fancy the prospect. 
 
 We made for the Roman Road, which passes within 
 a half-mile of the Hall, a broad, green cart-track, little 
 used, running straight across the landscape, avoiding 
 in the present day the neighbourhood of any village; 
 a place much overgrown, and very lonely, serving, it 
 would seem, no useful purpose of a road, but resting 
 quietly in a slow decay. Here, even on Sunday after- 
 noons, in summer, when complacent and unheeding 
 couples cover the countryside, you will scarcely encounter 
 a single pair in the course of an hour's walk. But it is a
 
 ioo The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 dangerous path to follow if you are minded to shut out 
 the past, for the air is filled with memories, and the call 
 of forgotten days may well serve a double purpose, 
 leading a man from the long-closed chapters of history 
 to the more troubled memory of his own yesterday. 
 
 Therefore, I was in no doubt that Joan and I would 
 touch on what had happened, but was inclined to 
 question whether we should have any profit of our talk. 
 After we had walked a mile or more along the road, 
 outwardly engaged in a discussion of the yachting 
 cruise of which I was to be a member, Joan made the 
 suggestion that we should sit down and rest, for the 
 day was clear and hot, and there was no wind stirring. 
 We sat in the shade of a hedge, facing across the road, 
 cornfields rising to a copse-crowned hill; and I filled a 
 pipe in silence, waiting for Joan to open the talk. 
 
 "Don't you think," she began, not looking at me, 
 but keeping her eyes on a small pile of grass to which 
 she added handfuls, "that it is rather foolish avoiding 
 things in this way? I want you to answer me a question, 
 Dick." 
 
 "Ask it," I replied, leaning back against the bank 
 behind me, "and I will do my best, when I hear what 
 it is." 
 
 "Did you " she began, and then hesitated. "Oh, 
 I don't know that it will do any good to speak about 
 it at all. " 
 
 "It will probably do no harm," I suggested. 
 
 Since the discussion seemed inevitable, I was inclined 
 to urge it on and be done with it; and I fancy that Joan 
 looked at the matter in the same way. She ceased to 
 tear up grass, but she did not look at me, and her voice, 
 when she spoke, was little above a whisper. 
 
 "How long have you known," she asked, "that
 
 Different Sides to a Question 101 
 
 Kenneth was very intimate," she seemed to stumble 
 at the phrase, "with this Mademoiselle Carrel?" 
 
 "Some years at least," I answered. "She is one of 
 his oldest friends. It is a great pity that you did not 
 meet her." 
 
 She flushed, and replied to me with a sudden coldness. 
 
 "I am thankful that he spared me that." 
 
 "I fail to see why," I told her. 
 
 "Because I am not accustomed to meet that sort 
 of woman," she retorted with a blaze of anger, turning 
 to me with a fine display of indignation; "because I 
 like to think that even he had more respect for me 
 than that." 
 
 "You make a great mistake," I replied, sitting up. 
 "If you had met Mademoiselle Carrel, if you had seen 
 Massingdale with her, you would not have jumped to the 
 absurd conclusions that you have adopted. " 
 
 Although she was a girl not yet come to more than 
 the borderland of womanhood, she already had much of 
 a woman's way with her; and she turned from the point 
 at issue with a perfect calmness. 
 
 "I prefer not to discuss that," said she, with an air of 
 reproof. "I only wished to know how long the thing 
 had been going on. " 
 
 Doubtless, I should have realised the futility of further 
 discussion, but when a man has had as little to do with 
 women as I had at that time, he is often led on to argu- 
 ment when he should, more profitably, keep silence. 
 Being, therefore, inexperienced in such encounters, I 
 set about Massingdale's defence. 
 
 "If that is all you wish to know," I protested, "the 
 subject is done with; but I had hoped that you would 
 be willing to hear some other opinion than your own." 
 
 She seemed to have made away with her indignation,
 
 102 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 and she turned to me with an expression so near to tears 
 that I regarded my coming attack upon her want of 
 insight with something less of favour. 
 
 "You can't imagine, Dick," she answered, in a low 
 voice, "that I am unwilling to hear of anything that 
 might make a difference?" 
 
 I assured her that I did not imagine that she was 
 unwilling; and I began to see that, perhaps, she saw 
 the case as black as I saw it mistaken and unfortunate: 
 but I called up a vision of Massingdale pacing my room 
 in the candle-light, and I attempted my explanation. 
 
 "When you promised to marry Massingdale, " I began, 
 shifting my position so that I could watch her face, 
 "you must have understood that he was a man who 
 would do unusual things." 
 
 She raised her eyes, which for the most part she kept 
 lowered, and stared at me in surprise. 
 
 "Of course I did," she murmured. 
 
 "You surely knew," I continued, "that there must 
 have been actions in his life, before he met you, which 
 you would not like, which he, under the circumstances, 
 would not dwell upon with any pleasure. " 
 
 She nodded her head in silence, without looking up, 
 and she played nervously with the grass beside her. 
 
 "Yet you must have seen," I urged, "that he was a 
 man of honour. You, of all people, Joan, must have 
 learned that there were certain things, this thing of 
 which you believe him guilty amongst them, that under 
 no circumstances at all would he ever do. In spite of 
 this, simply because appearances are against him, you 
 condemn him ; because Magram-Coke comes to you with 
 a tale, you will not hear another word about the matter. " 
 
 "That is not true, Dick," cried Joan in a choking 
 voice. " I did listen to him. "
 
 Different Sides to a Question 103 
 
 "And did he hide," I asked, "what his relations with 
 Mademoiselle Carrel had been in the past? Did he lie 
 to you, Joan? Did he attempt any explanation but 
 the true one? " 
 
 There was no answer to my questions. Joan sat 
 with her head bent, and she had stopped playing with 
 the grass. Therefore, I went on with my plea. 
 
 "Think what sort of a man you have to deal with," 
 I insisted. " Remember him as he is, not as the ordinary 
 interpretation of his actions would make him. Surely 
 you can see him only as a loyal friend, a man who would 
 not desert an old acquaintance because in befriending 
 her he might be hurt himself? Surely you, of all people, 
 have sufficient trust in him to believe that he did what 
 he did because he would not let Mademoiselle Carrel 
 ruin herself, when he might help her? " 
 
 I stopped. Joan was silent a moment, then she raised 
 her head and looked at me ; and her face was very white, 
 though she spoke quietly, and with a certain finality. 
 
 "No, Dick," she answered me, "I can't believe what 
 you ask me. I can't believe that, if he was only true 
 and loyal as you say, he would have waited until the 
 bishop forced him before he spoke about it. He ought 
 to have told me first, then I should have believed him. " 
 She paused, and when she continued it almost seemed 
 as if she nursed a grievance. "I am not a child," she 
 stated; "I should have understood. You talk as if 
 you knew him better than I do; yet I know what he 
 is. He is never really serious. He plays with every- 
 thing. Anything that comes along amuses him. He 
 plays with his painting. " 
 
 "Massingdale plays with his art?" I cried, interrupt- 
 ing her. 
 
 "Yes," she replied, with a manner of experienced
 
 104 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 conviction that might, under other circumstances, have 
 amused me. "He does nothing more than play with 
 it; he would not make it his profession. But it is the 
 same in all things, Dick, he is not really serious about 
 them. He works himself into an excited condition over 
 all sorts of things, but he does not really care. He he 
 only lives for the moment. I thought he really cared 
 about O Dick, go away, please. " 
 
 Here her judgment on Massingdale's character ceased 
 with some suddenness; she covered her face with 
 her hands, and began to sob in an uneasy, choking 
 fashion. 
 
 I got up and walked off some little distance down 
 the road. When I pulled up, and leaned on a gate to 
 review the situation, I found that I had left my pipe on 
 the bank and that I had not got another in my pocket, 
 so that my embarrassment went without the solace of 
 tobacco. A rabbit, seated just within the shelter of a 
 crop of oats, about twenty yards from the gate, stared 
 at me in a foolish, frightened fashion, evidently undecided 
 whether it should bolt or hold its ground; the animal 
 kept my attention to the exclusion of other thoughts, 
 until, glancing at the hedge in front of it in genuine 
 panic, it hopped out of sight. Looking up the road, I 
 saw that Joan had left the bank, and that she came 
 towards me with her sunshade hiding the most of her 
 face. As she came near the gate, on which I leaned, 
 she held out my pipe. 
 
 "You 're a very careless person, Dick," she told me, 
 in a voice that was quite steady and composed. "You 
 left this priceless possession lying on the bank, which 
 means that you must have been quite ten minutes 
 without smoking." 
 
 "I might have had another in my pocket," I argued,
 
 Different Sides to a Question 105 
 
 uncommon glad that we had passed the occasion for 
 a further show of feelings. 
 
 "But you have not got another," she announced, as 
 if my objection to her false reasoning had been beside 
 the point ; and she handed me the pipe. 
 
 On our way back to tea we maintained- a steady 
 conversation on subjects of no importance, being, I 
 fancy, both very anxious to prove that we did not intend 
 to reopen the more serious discussion. I admired the 
 way in which she played her part, and, in spite of the 
 evidence -of tears which her face still bore, talked with a 
 manner of cheerfulness excellently assumed. As we 
 left the road and struck across the fields towards the 
 Hall, my distaste for Fate's behaviour increased with 
 every sentence that Joan spoke; to have separated a 
 couple who had as many excellent good points as had 
 she and Massingdale, seemed to me a jest with singularly 
 little point. 
 
 We approached the front of the house by a stile 
 and a footpath across the park, and Joan entertained 
 me with a description of certain workings of the village 
 mind on the subject of current politics; but as I opened 
 the iron gate that leads into the gardens, she stopped, 
 and put her hand upon my arm. 
 
 "You must not think, Dick," she pleaded, her voice 
 low and firm, and her eyes on mine, "that I do not try 
 to see the truth about this this thing. But I don't 
 think that it will really do any good talking about it 
 at any rate, just yet." 
 
 Two things seemed very plain to me as she stood 
 touching my arm: the one, that a man who had fallen 
 into love of this girl would find some difficulty in finding 
 any cure for his condition, and I thought of Massing- 
 dale in Paris and the misery of so much misunderstanding;
 
 io6 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 the other, and this second thing seemed even plainer 
 than the first, that this business had set her life a quicker 
 pace, and was bringing Joan to womanhood with a 
 disquieting suddenness. She was already a long journey 
 from the child that she had been a week before. 
 
 "I think," I answered her, and I tried to give to 
 my voice all the expression that I could, "that you 
 are right. Talking will do no good. Being trained as a 
 lawyer, I could not resist the temptation to argue the 
 case, although I was half convinced that I should only 
 do more harm. Time may right things, Joan. Mean- 
 while, the whole infernal business had better be left 
 alone. " 
 
 She smiled, sadly enough, at me when I spoke of 
 time righting things, and turned away; and we walked 
 up to the house in silence. Yet at tea, when she had to 
 entertain some visitors, the most careful attention that 
 I could give to her discovered no flaw in her self-possess- 
 ion, and only the faintest traces of the recent presence 
 of tears. 
 
 However, before I left next morning, I was soundly 
 rated by my aunt for having added to Joan's un- 
 happiness, and the strict justice of the censure caused 
 me no little amusement for having made her cry. 
 Knowing my aunt to be an excellent woman, though 
 not at all amenable to argument, and still less to con- 
 tradiction, I suffered her charge in silence, and promised 
 that I would not repeat the offence in the future, which 
 promise, when I spoke it, was no less than the sober 
 truth. 
 
 I found life at the Temple without Massingdale very 
 much less amusing than I had imagined that it could 
 be, and I looked forward to the rising of the Courts, 
 and the chance of getting away from town, with con-
 
 Different Sides to a Question 107 
 
 siderable impatience. I also looked for a letter from him, 
 being anxious to hear where he had settled, and what he 
 did; but when the communication came it left, as I 
 think I had expected, a vast deal unsaid, and although 
 it gave me a good deal of information of one sort and 
 another, it made no statement at all upon the recent 
 happenings. I quote it here in full; it is very typical 
 of the writer, and may well serve in shaping the picture 
 of the man. It ran : 
 
 10 RUE ANTOINETTE (sixth floor), 
 
 20 ARRONDT., 
 PARIS, Thursday. 
 
 "Mosx BELOVED RICHARD, To you dwelling in 
 exile and outer darkness, greeting ! How any man, unless 
 he be possessed of the soul of a rabbit, can dwell for any 
 long period of time away from this divine city passes 
 my understanding. Why the place is not grossly over- 
 crowded, the inhabitants being packed together like 
 chickens in a coop, since all the world of sane men should 
 hurry hither as the flowers turn to the sun, is of the 
 deeper mysteries. Seriously, my prosaic and sober- 
 minded friend, there is something in the very smell of 
 Paris which acts upon me as some rare and precious 
 wine; I step from the train, fill my lungs and ears with 
 that which is about me, and open my eyes upon the 
 future and much hope. 
 
 "You knew, in long past ages, a struggling, ineffectual, 
 and very foolish barrister. He is dead. We will not mourn 
 him, but wish his ashes a quiet, unremembered sleep. He 
 meant well (O unutterable condemnation !) and achieved 
 a thousand follies. We will call him to mind, but only 
 very rarely, with a kindly, indulgent sigh. You shall 
 meet but not just yet the writer, who is the offspring
 
 io8 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 of this same dead failure. An artist, my son mais un 
 vrai type, je vous assure a man wholly set upon one 
 business, and mightily enamoured of success. You shall 
 visit him where he dwells in Montmartre (an outlying 
 portion of Olympus); and you shall admire his studio, 
 and the cupboard of a bedroom which opens from it. 
 If you stay with him, as haply you will, you will sleep 
 upon a divan (kindly note the word, sir !) impregnated 
 with the smell of paints and stale tobacco. And to do all 
 of this you will have to climb six flights of ill-lighted and 
 not too cleanly stairs. Climb stairs! What in the devil's 
 name is come to me that I dwell on such a trifle? A man, 
 I take it, must climb if he wish to reach the stars, and 'I, 
 mein werther, sit above it all; I am alone with the stars.' 
 No, I am in better case than even the esteemed Professor 
 Teuf elsdrockh ; I am above the stars! Surely the gods 
 are kind to me, man Richard, for from my windows I 
 command a dual prospect : a gap left between the build- 
 ings to Parisward lets me look out over the city; and 
 when the dark is come and the night clear, I have the 
 earthly stars of Paris underneath me, a hundred thousand 
 changing points of light set in a velvet cushion of more 
 than mortal richness, and above, overhead, mon ami, a 
 thousand worlds look down, smiling, yet somewhat 
 pitifully I fancy, in their cold pride and aloofness, watch- 
 ing in their high state the world and men's poor play. 
 Can you wonder, poor dweller in a wild barbaric country, 
 that I Jean from my window, blowing tobacco to these 
 stars, and hold that, beyond any question, my destiny 
 has brought me to a pleasant resting-place. Here, 
 somehow, sometime, I shall learn to ply my trade, and 
 gain a sight (surely not less than that !) of the fair land 
 to which I wish to go. 
 
 "That dead fool of a barrister, Dick (God forgive me
 
 Different Sides to a Question 109 
 
 for so speaking of the man to whom I owe my being; 
 but he was a fool !) , used to think that a man could com- 
 bine two trades, one of them being painting; he used to 
 assure himself that the painting would not suffer, and 
 that it did not matter if the law went by the board; he 
 actually turned out some pictures with a certain degree 
 of satisfaction in the result. I and for this I owe him my 
 best thanks profit by his mistakes, and realise that not 
 yet, nor for many months to come, shall I be in a position 
 to fill a canvas with other decoration than the studies 
 of the student. Another year (six months perhaps had 
 been enough) of such fooling and my hand had been 
 spoiled for life, and the polite tricks of a genteel accom- 
 plishment had killed, for ever, the seeds of any real work. 
 Suppose that that last thing had come about, that I 
 had let the time go by when the painter in me might be 
 trained, I do not think that anything anything, my 
 friend would have repaid me for the loss. ' Dear Lord ! ' 
 says you, sitting at your ease all surrounded by fat tomes 
 anent the law of England, 'the young man thinks that 
 he is in a fair way to become a famous painter. What 
 humorous conceit!' 'All youth that is ambitious,' 
 I reply to you from my dwelling among the stars, 
 ' nourishes a wise conceit. Yet I call you to order on the 
 one word "famous"; for it I would have you substitute 
 some other expression which shall convey a greater 
 idea of merit and less of notoriety.' After which reply 
 I leave you to your laughter undisturbed. Mon tr&s 
 cher ami, I am embarking on this business with a full 
 cargo of high hopes, and, as any sane man would, the 
 vision of success, not failure, before me. 
 
 "The journey from London was scarcely an unmixed 
 delight. It was most infernal hot ; the carriages were like 
 ovens, and the train was very crowded. Yvonne, failing
 
 no The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 to justify her character, was much out of temper with 
 the world, and, why I do not know, with the poor scribe 
 as well. She attempted, and again the reason for her 
 action escapes me, to smuggle many matches, which she 
 could scarcely need, through the customs in her hand-bag. 
 The attempt was discovered, and cost us, despite the 
 utmost eloquence, one hundred francs. I O wondrous 
 woman's nature! was blamed for this; and we dined 
 aboard the train in a manner scarcely amicable. But, 
 before we got to Paris, the air had cleared again, and 
 behold me in an even greater embarrassment than before. 
 As we smoked and drank our coffee (our railway coffee) , 
 she leaned across the table to me, her petulance a thing 
 of the past, and her manner more serious than her wont. 
 'When, man petit Louis,' says she, 'do you get married?' 
 You can conceive my joy, the subject being one that I 
 delight to linger over. I told her that I did not contem- 
 plate marriage, and that I journeyed to Paris to settle 
 down as a student of painting; that there had come a 
 considerable change into my way of living. She was 
 silent some length of time, but renewed the attack with a 
 question even less to my liking than the first. 'Am I,' 
 she asked me, 'in any way responsible for this sudden 
 change of all your plans?' In the name of good sense, 
 my wise Richard, what was I to say? If I had lied to her 
 she would, later, have learned the truth ; yet to name the 
 bald facts was a thing beyond me. I, unsuccessfully, 
 grabbing at the flying coat-tails of composure, informed 
 her that through a misunderstanding, on account of a 
 mistake, due to a misrepresentation, she was the cause. 
 The figure I cut was of the very sorriest ; yet she did not 
 seem to pay me any attention. 'You were a fool, mon 
 cher,' said she; 'I am not worth it. Yet you asked me 
 to come to Paris with you, which would confirm the
 
 Different Sides to a Question in 
 
 misunderstanding!' It was, I assure you, the merest 
 chance that I did not bolt from the dining-car, fearing 
 that she would read a construction on my actions which 
 I was not able to face with her. But she let the matter 
 go at that; looked at me in a fashion that I could not 
 interpret; and suggested that we should go back to our 
 compartment. And for the rest of the journey never 
 another word about the business, but something of a 
 return to the old manner that I knew when I first met 
 her. Even at the door of her flat, where we drove from 
 the station, even as I said good-night to her, there was 
 no indication, which might have been given in a hundred 
 ways, that she knew anything of the change in my affairs. 
 Yet I have been fool enough to think that I knew some- 
 thing about them these women ! 
 
 "When I had left Yvonne, I made my way to the new 
 flat which Loissel has taken in the Boulevard Haussmann. 
 There I had the good fortune to find the old man alone, 
 a snuff-stained velvet jacket (when I am white-haired, 
 Dick, I shall always wear one), and a huge cherry wood 
 pipe proclaiming him at his ease. He gave a cry of 
 astonishment at my entrance, but I was first in the field 
 in the matter of speech. ' I have come back, monsieur, ' 
 I told him. ' I have come back to learn to paint. ' ' Ah ! ' 
 said he, and nothing more. But he came and took me 
 by the shoulders, and moved me into the light of a hang- 
 ing lamp, looking down very searchingly at me, for he is a 
 man of great height. ' Ah ! ' said he again, when he had 
 finished his scrutiny, ' you travel by the via dolorosa, mon 
 enfant. It is a road which leads us, not infrequently, to 
 much achievement. But you will stop the night with me 
 believe me, we shall sit late to-night and you will 
 tell me all there is to tell, slowly, in your own way. 
 But you know me, is it not, mon petit, and that I shall
 
 ii2 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 ask no questions that you do not wish to answer. ' So 
 I sat the night with him, Dick, and, as he had said I 
 would, I told him all there was to tell. He asked no 
 questions ; he scarcely spoke until the tale was done, but 
 you shall meet him some day he is a man to whom one 
 tells much, perhaps all. Once, when I spoke of recent 
 events, he made some sort of answer, yet it was no more 
 than 'pauvres enfants,' and seemed the whispered voic- 
 ing of his thoughts. Again, when I told him and why 
 I was moved to such unburdening I do not know of 
 the confusion that I have been in this year and more, he 
 interrupted me a second time muttering, 'So the way 
 has been a long time difficult, ' and then signing me to go 
 on. After I had finished we sat a long while silent, and 
 then at last he answered me ; and as he did so he leaned 
 forward in his chair and tapped me on the chest, after 
 the habit that he has. ' So much for the past,' says he. 
 ' It is to the future that we must turn. Of these affairs 
 of which you tell me I can say nothing. Perhaps I 
 concern myself very little with the opinion of the world 
 you were in some things foolish, yet surely these others 
 were blind. There should be faith in such matters 
 oh, but a faith that is stronger than appearances. In 
 life it is at least permitted to hope, and we will do that in 
 silence until the way ahead is clearer. And now we will 
 speak very seriously of the future which, mon enfant, 
 will not be easy, but which is full of promise.' So, 
 Richard, we talked of the making of a painter. 
 
 " It was Loissel, an old man who has better things to do 
 than run about with restless students, who found me 
 this studio, this super-astral home; it was Loissel who 
 secured for me many bargains in my furnishing, who 
 insisted upon accompanying me to prevent my wasting 
 money; it is Loissel who is killing the amateur in me,
 
 Different Sides to a Question 113 
 
 and encouraging the growing artist; it is Loissel, a man 
 besieged by countless requests, the greatest teacher and 
 the greatest painter in all Paris, who stamped the ground 
 in fury, calling me an impertinent boy, a well-meaning 
 but grossly foolish baby, when I asked to be allowed 
 to pay his fees. 'Ah,' cried he in great anger, 'to the 
 devil with your money, petit enfant insense! I want 
 your work, not your sous.' Yet he is patient and un- 
 tiring with me, and sometimes, which thing causes much 
 jealousy in the quarter, will come in to help me in my 
 studio. I should be the worst sort of hound, Dick, if 
 I did not forthwith acknowledge such help, both in my 
 work and in my life, as I can never even hope to realise. 
 If, either as a man or as a painter, I ever come to any 
 decent standing, old Loissel will have done far more 
 than I to put me there. 
 
 "You must understand, Richard, that here occurs 
 an interruption. I have been out to get my dinner, 
 and I have found on my return a letter from my father, 
 in answer to one that I wrote at dawn in your rooms, 
 and dealing very much with one that Admiral Onning- 
 ton has written to him. Poor man! It seems that this 
 damn-fool business has hit him hard. I wonder why 
 for so his letter suggests he thinks that the thing is 
 any the less serious for me. I, it appears, am to become 
 a mere acquaintance, who will be treated, should he 
 meet me, with common courtesy, yet I gather that he 
 will not seek to meet me. It could not have been a 
 pleasant letter to write; it was not pleasant to receive. 
 I am his son, Dick, damn it, I am his son. I cannot see 
 that he is right in thus holding me a blackguard, with no 
 further attempt to establish my guilt or innocence. And 
 if I were a blackguard, yet, being my father, he might 
 come and inform me of the fact in person. To be cast 
 
 8
 
 H4 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 off like an unclean rag is, I fancy, greater punishment 
 than the fancied crime demands. It is a lonely business 
 losing the whole of them at once. 
 
 " But this is no sort of topic for the polite letter- writer. 
 I '11 go and take the air of Paris, leaving my stars un- 
 watched to-night. Heaven and yourself, Dick, forgive 
 me for writing a letter of such immoral length. Tell me 
 in your reply, which may be of equal length, anything 
 that there is to tell. We will suppose you, my dear sir, 
 to be a man of intelligence, and to understand that I 
 still take interest in those things which pleased me 
 yesterday. But what in the name of truth is there to 
 say? What you will, Dick, but for the love of friendship, 
 something. 
 
 " Don't come here until the autumn. I want to settle 
 down alone. 
 
 "Yours eternally, mon Richard, but at the 
 moment very confusedly, 
 
 "KENNETH MASSINGDALE." 
 
 This letter should serve to give a very good picture 
 of Massingdale as he then was; and even at the present 
 time he is little changed. He would supply you with 
 much information that was of interest, and he would so 
 put things that you might deduce his state of mind, at 
 the moment of writing, with some approach to accuracy, 
 but I have only very rarely known him to write, or for 
 that matter to speak, of his more intimate feelings. He 
 was the last man to attempt to hide his real attitude, but 
 he showed no fondness for announcing loudly what that 
 attitude might be. 
 
 I was glad to receive his letter, but it did not make 
 me see the business in any better light, although I was 
 forced to acknowledge that in painting he worked at
 
 Different Sides to a Question 115 
 
 the one business which was likely to lead him anywhere. 
 The information about his father's temper caused me a 
 good deal of anger; and I was ready to swear that Massing- 
 dale,in his usual hot-headed fashion, had seen the parental 
 wrath as more serious than it really was. I knew Captain 
 Massingdale to be a man who would look at an affair of 
 this sort with no kind of leniency, but I did not fancy 
 that he would be ready to consign his son to the devil 
 in quite such summary fashion. As for the rest of the 
 letter, in spite of the high hopes and the promise of his 
 work, I did not fancy that the prospect of the stars from 
 the sixth floor of a Montmartre dwelling would induce 
 the philosophic calm that, hitherto, Massingdale had 
 always failed to capture.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE POINT OF VIEW OF A PARENT 
 
 JUST before I left London to join the Onningtons and 
 their yacht at Marseilles, I met Hendick. I had 
 not seen him for some time, not since a week or more 
 before Massingdale's departure for Paris, and I foresaw 
 that we should discuss that departure. The time of our 
 meeting being something after eleven in the evening, and 
 the place Leicester Square, Hendick took me off to a beer- 
 hall in Rupert Street, openly confessing that he intended 
 to gossip. I knew very little of him, beyond the fact that 
 he was a well-educated man with very aggressive opinions, 
 and I was a good deal astonished to find him a far more 
 clear-sighted and sympathetic friend than I had ever 
 imagined. 
 
 "So," said he, when we were settled at a table in the 
 corner of an underground cafS, " Massingdale has settled 
 down in Montmartre. I had a letter from him the other 
 day, saying that he had fled from the Temple. " 
 
 "You know why he fled," I suggested, since the thing 
 was public knowledge. 
 
 "Certainly," answered Hendick. "He did -quite 
 the best thing possible. I '11 bet you don't think so, 
 however." 
 
 "I don't," I assured him. "Why you should call 
 doing a bolt of that sort, and thereby playing into the 
 
 116
 
 A Parent's Point of View 117 
 
 hands of the people who call him guilty, the best possible 
 thing, I cannot conceive." 
 
 "My dear man," replied Hendick, obviously glad of 
 the chance of airing his views, "what else could he have 
 done? We need not enumerate the facts, we both know 
 'em, but here you have him faced with the accusation 
 of playing a damned low game on the girl he was going 
 to marry. She, apparently, believes the accusation. 
 Massingdale, I suppose, still wants to marry her. Had 
 he been an absolute fool, he might have thrown himself 
 on her pity, admitted many indiscretions, pleaded that 
 the vital implication was unjust, and implored her 
 pardon. She might it is only a possibility and not 
 very probable still she might have overlooked the in- 
 cident, married him, and let the pair of them in for 
 another spoiled marriage. Do you suppose, man, that 
 any couple, tied together for life, can make a decent 
 journey of it when the wife believes, as she would have 
 done, that her husband was unfaithful at the start? I 
 don't. Their life would have been hopeless from the 
 start, even supposing the woman was a sort of gilded 
 saint instead of an inexperienced girl. " 
 
 " Go on, " said I, for he paused. 
 
 "If," he continued, putting his pipe on the table, and 
 speaking very earnestly, "she had refused to pardon 
 him, as I fancy she would, where would he have been? 
 In the devil of a hole, my friend. By his own confession 
 a sort of weak-minded idiot. Instead of that he sticks 
 to his guns; denies the imputation, or so I imagine; is 
 not believed; and so goes off. Any fool could have seen 
 that if he had not fallen in love with Miss Onnington 
 at a critical moment, he would have settled down to 
 painting before this. He simply acted as a sensible man 
 would: saw that things were wrong beyond the point
 
 n8 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 of setting them right, and so did the sanest and most 
 honest thing open to him. He did not whine about his 
 wrongs, which are big enough; he did not waste time and 
 dignity in explanations, which would not have been 
 believed ; he simply made the best use of what was before 
 him. But, being Massingdale, he made up his mind at 
 once, where a smaller man would have hesitated." 
 
 "I '11 grant you," I allowed, for Hendick had sat back 
 in his chair in the manner of a man who has conclusively 
 proved his point, "that, on the whole, he did best in 
 going to Paris and throwing up the law. I agree with 
 you it must have come sooner or later. If it had come 
 after his marriage there would have been the devil to 
 pay; but that is another matter. The point is, that he 
 made an unnecessary fool of himself, in going off with 
 Yvonne Carrel. The world could not forego dwelling 
 on that episode, coming after the other. " 
 
 "The world is a collection of damn fools," announced 
 Hendick, much as I had expected that he would. " What 
 does it matter what the fools may say? Sooner or later 
 those who really care for him, of whom, possibly, Miss 
 Onnington may be one, will realise that what he has done 
 has proved his honesty. Why, the very fact that he 
 went off with the woman who caused all the fuss helps 
 to prove his case. No one can go on indefinitely believing 
 Massingdale to be a cynical and careless blackguard; 
 whatever he may be, and I know he is no saint, he is so 
 very patently not that. Well, his conduct only admits 
 of one other interpretation, it shows him impulsive and 
 unconventional. Eventually they will all come round to 
 that view, that is the people who have sufficient intelli- 
 gence to know him ; but meanwhile they are all going to be 
 honourably and virtuously scandalised, and are going to 
 avoid any communication with so choice a scoundrel."
 
 A Parent's Point of View 119 
 
 I had not expected him to show such warmth of 
 championship; I had looked for a tirade against con- 
 ventionality, and a rather obvious sermon on Massing- 
 dale's luck at being quit of the chains which had bound 
 him; but for once Hendick had forgotten to indict 
 Society, and was solely concerned with a personal matter. 
 I liked him better in this mood than in any other that he 
 had showed me. 
 
 "Of course," he resumed, after an interval in which 
 we had both ordered more beer, "the business is not 
 pleasant for Massingdale. It would have a bad effect 
 on any one, to be cast off by his people in that fashion ; 
 but it gives him a chance that he might otherwise have 
 missed. I think he will take it, Crutchley. I fancy he 
 will do something bigger than any of us expect. But 
 he will have an unholy time before he does it; he 
 has more pride than the whole crowd of his virtuous 
 detractors, and he will not take this casting-off lightly. " 
 
 "It won't spoil him," I protested; "he is far too good 
 a sort to drop into cynicism or bitterness. He will feel 
 it, I know, but he will show precious little of his feelings. " 
 
 "I wasn't thinking of that," answered Hendick; "I 
 was thinking of the future, when the patrons of virtue 
 find out their mistake, when they see that his whole 
 conduct has been consistent, and not in the way they 
 think. Then the fun begins. If they meet him openly, 
 and own that they have made considerable and foolish 
 mistakes, he will reply to them with a laugh and open 
 arms; if they run on the stupid-misguided-youth tack, 
 and suggest that they are magnanimous in overlooking 
 so much folly, they '11 have to whistle till the crack of 
 doom before they get him. Damn! It 's chucking-out 
 time. We shall have to go. " 
 
 We walked, since our ways lay for some distance
 
 120 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 together, slowly and in silence. As we turned into 
 Henrietta Street towards the market, Hendick started 
 the subject again, with a laughing apology, which I did 
 not expect, for his garrulity. 
 
 " It is the one point where I resemble Massingdale, " he 
 declared, "I love the sound of my own voice." He 
 paused, exhibiting unwonted signs of nervousness, then 
 plunged into his subject with an obvious effort. "I am 
 afraid," he apologised, "that since I don't know you 
 very well, you may think this rather an impertinence, 
 especially as I am sure to bungle it the thing's not 
 in my line. But do you think that your cousin, Miss 
 Onnington, is really fond of Massingdale, that the 
 feeling which she called love is the real thing, is, in fact, 
 at all likely to last?" 
 
 I stared at him; his question annoyed me as well as 
 causing me surprise. It is not the sort of thing I usually 
 discuss with slight acquaintances. But something in the 
 man's attitude, which drove away any idea that he was 
 merely gossiping, led me to answer him, as far as I could 
 answer the question. 
 
 " I did not think so until the other day, in fact I was 
 certain of the contrary; now, however, I have turned 
 round, and believe that the feeling, as you call it, is 
 the real thing. Very possibly I may be wrong; Miss 
 Onnington is very young." 
 
 I imagine that he gathered from my tone that I did 
 not much fancy the topic, for he again apologised for 
 introducing it. 
 
 "I hope you are right," he replied, coming to a halt 
 as we emerged into Kingsway. "I didn't ask out of 
 idle curiosity. I wanted to find out if there was any 
 chance of her realising her mistake. He wants some 
 one to look after him; he is the sort of man who has
 
 A Parent's Point of View 121 
 
 a genius for helping other people at his own expense, 
 if he has n't some sort of anchor in life. And a wife, they 
 tell me, is an anchor that pretty often holds. " 
 
 "I fancy," I laughed, for he seemed to be clearing 
 obstacles in the most careless fashion, "that Massing- 
 dale is not likely to find himself riding at the particular 
 anchor in question." 
 
 "He may yet, " Hendick maintained, "if what you say 
 is true. Sooner or later, as I said before, they will 
 realise the folly of dubbing Massingdale blackguard 
 any longer; and at the first mouthful of humble pie 
 he '11 stop them eating any more. But they '11 have to 
 take the first mouthful. " 
 
 "He himself might change," I suggested, certainly 
 not because I thought it probable, but to hear what 
 he would say. 
 
 " It 's damned unlikely, " said Hendick. " Good-night. 
 I hope I see you again." 
 
 And he walked off towards Bloomsbury, where he had 
 his dwelling. 
 
 As I made my way home, I realised that I had been 
 in talk with him for something over an hour, and that 
 no hint of any desire for social reform had escaped him; 
 and I marvelled at the circumstance, and the power 
 which Massingdale seemed to possess of occupying the 
 thoughts of his friends to the exclusion of their own 
 most cherished hobby-horses. 
 
 Three days later I joined La Cygale at Marseilles, 
 and cruised the Mediterranean in her for two very 
 pleasant months. She was a hundred-ton schooner, 
 and her lines, for all that she had petrol auxiliary engines, 
 were such as to delight the heart of the most exacting ; 
 add to this that she behaved herself very admirably in 
 both light and heavy weather, and you will perceive
 
 122 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 that we had at hand the foundations of a very pleasant 
 holiday. For my part, I should be stating something 
 very much less than the truth, were I to deny that I 
 enjoyed myself immensely during the months that I was 
 of her company; and, if I may judge by appearances, 
 which in this case I am inclined to do, I will wager that 
 the others enjoyed the cruise in no way less than I did. 
 My aunt and uncle, Joan and myself, lived aboard La 
 Cygale until the beginning of September, but for no more 
 than an occasional night or two were we without other 
 company aboard ; and although I had not previously met 
 many of the guests whom the Onningtons entertained, 
 they all, with one or two exceptions, proved themselves 
 excellent good company, both for cruising and for a day's 
 excursion ashore. The Mediterranean had been, hitherto, 
 unknown to me, and during those weeks that we sailed it, 
 I came precious near to complete forgetfulness of less 
 pleasant affairs in the pleasure of the moment. 
 
 I am not prepared to say that Joan took the same 
 pleasure from the cruise that I did, but I am certainly 
 prepared to maintain that she enjoyed herself. There 
 were days on which she inclined to silence, and sought 
 the company of books rather than people; there were 
 times at which she showed restlessness and seemed sad ; 
 throughout the cruise, and after it, she could be seen 
 changed from the girl of some months before; but she 
 did not make a luxury of grief, if she felt it, and it would 
 be a gross libel to say that she, in any way at all, failed 
 to contribute her share to the gaiety of the ship's com- 
 pany. She did not, I fancy, dwell more than she could 
 help upon the past, and she made no deliberate allusion 
 to it, yet it was plain, though not obtrusive, that she 
 remembered it, and that she was scarcely likely to forget 
 it for some time to come.
 
 A Parent's Point of View 123 
 
 Once, for three days, we were forced into somewhat 
 closer company with the events of the early summer; 
 and I am inclined to include the lot of us in the same 
 congratulation that we got through that period with 
 so little outward discomfort. Captain Massingdale 
 came aboard at Malta, about the middle of August, 
 and spent three days' leave cruising with us. He had 
 not seen us since the breaking off of the engagement, 
 and the way for everybody was fairly lined with pit- 
 falls; I think that, broadly speaking, we escaped the 
 lot of them. Perhaps his manner was a shade more 
 kindly to Joan than the occasion demanded, but 
 confound it all I should have made ten times a worse 
 hash of it, had I been in his place; and, in any case, he 
 never bordered on the sentimental. 
 
 After my aunt and Joan had turned in on the first 
 night that he was aboard us we had no other guests 
 at the time he broached the subject of Kenneth's 
 behaviour; and that was the only occasion during the 
 whole cruise that I remember it to have been discussed 
 directly. We sat on deck, the night being hot, and the 
 wind light and almost astern of us, yet sufficient to keep 
 her steady on the starboard tack. I was feeling lazy 
 and content, and very far away from the sifting of serious 
 matters, much more inclined, as far as I remember, to 
 smoke and dream into the night. We all three sat silent 
 after the women had left us, engaged for some little time 
 with our own thoughts; then Captain Massingdale sat 
 forward on his deck-chair with an air of purpose, and put 
 an end to our meditation. 
 
 "We will discuss this business of Kenneth," he said 
 quietly; "that is, if you don't mind, Onnington. I have 
 not had the chance of talking it over before, and, God 
 knows, I want to."
 
 124 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 "I'll leave you to it," I suggested, thinking that 
 they would not want me; but they insisted that I should 
 remain. 
 
 "Why, Dick," replied Captain Massingdale, "you 
 are his greatest friend, and we shall want you for the 
 defence; you must stand as the prisoner's friend, if 
 there is anything to be said for him. " 
 
 So we went through the whole affair again, and 
 finished much where we had started, gathering no more 
 understanding by our talk, and precious little satisfac- 
 tion. The only thing which I got from the conversation 
 was a certain amount of information about the relations of 
 Massingdale and his father, and that, when I had it, did 
 nothing to throw any light on the general misunder- 
 standing. I tried advancing the arguments which Hen- 
 dick had used in the matter, but, although I got a hearing 
 for them, they were not accepted, and I am inclined to 
 doubt whether I did any good by putting them forward. 
 
 "I did not fancy," Captain Massingdale declared at 
 last, when we had, all three of us, failed to find any- 
 thing to say about the business that we had not said 
 before, "that we should arrive at any new conclusion. 
 In fact, Onnington, I ought to apologise for forcing the 
 conversation, which is a very unpleasant one for you; 
 but I could not manage to let slip the chance of talking 
 the matter out. And if a man has something to talk 
 about, he had better get going as soon as he can. " 
 
 "Far and away the best thing to do," replied my 
 uncle. "I 'm glad you did it, and infernally sorry we 
 could n't get to some other conclusion. Of course, 
 Dick, here, thinks we are narrow-minded and conven- 
 tional. I am rather glad he does. And look here, 
 Massingdale, I '11 be shot if I can get rid of my liking 
 for that boy of yours, but, under the circumstances
 
 A Parent's Point of View 125 
 
 he 's a different build to you and me, and I hope he will 
 do something with his life." 
 
 My uncle, whenever he attempted to express a feeling 
 which moved him, made use of a manner that was 
 exceedingly gruff, and he finished his sentence in this 
 case in much the same voice that he employed when 
 dismissing a servant or sending a beggar about his 
 business. He and Captain Massingdale had, however, 
 served together for many odd years, and knew each 
 other's moods with some thoroughness; so that there 
 was no danger that they would fail to understand each 
 other. 
 
 " I hope to God he will, " his father answered, speaking 
 quietly, and getting up from his chair to throw a cigar 
 end overboard, so that I could not see his face. "It 
 is more important, however, that he may have done 
 a very serious harm to some other life. " 
 
 He did not continue the discussion, but stood looking 
 out to sea with his head thrown back, in a fashion that 
 Kenneth had inherited from him. Although he was 
 taller and of a heavier build than his son, he was very 
 clearly of the same breed, and showed, as he stood with 
 his back to us in the half-darkness, a resemblance that 
 I had not noticed before. It was in their movements 
 and their speech that the pair showed the great difference 
 that there was between them. 
 
 After some minutes of silence Admiral Onnington 
 stood up and yawned. 
 
 "I 'm going to turn in," he announced, making a 
 move for the companion way. "Don't let me hurry 
 you fellows, but I feel sleepy. Tell one of the watch 
 to put those chairs away when you go. 'Night, Massing- 
 dale. Look after him, and see that he has all he wants, 
 Dick. Good-night."
 
 126 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 And, with a last look at the weather, he went below. 
 
 Captain Massingdale, who had turned round to say 
 good-night, came and sat down beside me, and filled 
 a pipe. 
 
 "In any hurry to turn in? " he asked. 
 
 "None at all," I answered, settling more comfortably 
 in my chair. "It seems an abominable misuse of time 
 to sleep on a night like this at sea. " 
 
 "I 'm the other way about," he laughed; "but then 
 I should be, naturally. A fine night ashore, in the 
 country, will keep me out of bed until all hours. At 
 the moment I am wondering how any man can enjoy 
 being a passenger on board ship. I can't stand it." 
 
 "Do you distrust the skipper?" I asked, having 
 heard other sailors complain of the same thing yet fail 
 to give an explanation. 
 
 "Lord, no," he replied at once. "He is probably as 
 good a man as I am. Besides, I had the feeling before 
 I ever held a command. It 's being altogether out of 
 it, and having nothing to do, I fancy. " 
 
 Conversation between us stopped at that, and I 
 suddenly became conscious that he had something of 
 more importance to say to me, that he was beating 
 about for a suitable opening. I imagined that Kenneth 
 would form the subject of our talk, and was about to 
 refer to him when I was forestalled. 
 
 "I am inclined to envy you," Captain Massingdale 
 stated, and although his tone was little different from 
 when he had last spoken, I thought that his expression, 
 as far as I could read it in the darkness, had become 
 sad and somewhat bitter. 
 
 "Why?" I asked, not seeing his meaning. 
 
 "Because you are a friend and I am a father," he 
 continued in the same voice. ' ' And because, between the
 
 A Parent's Point of View 127 
 
 two, there is a greater difference than you imagine. I 
 am no philosopher, and I cannot express what I want to 
 say, but a friend is in an easier position; he is more 
 detached, his affection is, in some ways, a purer thing 
 than a father's. A father is bound by all sorts of obliga- 
 tions; his son is, so to speak, the continued expression 
 of himself, and when he condemns his son's behaviour 
 he is, very largely, defending his own honour. Then, 
 again, there is his family, the name which they both bear; 
 if that suffers, it is bound to put the father against the 
 action that hurt it. It is a much harder business for a 
 father to look unbiassed at an affair of this sort, than for 
 a friend. You must make allowances for that, Dick." 
 
 "I know," I replied, in some confusion. "Of course I 
 realise that this thing hits you much harder than it 
 does me. I sincerely apologise, if I have seemed aggres- 
 sive in defending Kenneth. But I am so certain of your 
 mistake ; and if, as you say yourself, a father is necessarily 
 biassed " 
 
 But he interrupted me with a laugh that had mighty 
 little mirth in it, yet was kindly for all that. 
 
 "Why, man," said he, "there you go again. It 's no 
 good, Dick, really. However you may put it, I have 
 formed my opinion. This woman had been Kenneth's 
 mistress, and, under what temptation I do not know or 
 care, while he was engaged to Joan Onnington, she was 
 in the same position again; of that I am convinced. 
 But that is not what I wanted to talk to you about. I 
 want to speak to you of the relations between the two 
 of us, Kenneth and me, I mean. The boy is young, 
 and I hoped he was going to do something. He has 
 got brains. When I heard about this business, and 
 its sequel of his throwing over his profession, I lost 
 my head a bit; I wrote a very bitter letter. I am not,
 
 128 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 perhaps, the level-headed, conventional officer that you 
 think me; Kenneth is not the only Massingdale who 
 is inclined to get excited. What I said in that letter 
 I do not quite remember; nothing, I am convinced, 
 more than I felt, and feel. But I expressed it, I fancy, 
 with too much bitterness. The point of the whole 
 thing was that, in future, our attitude towards each 
 other would be changed ; he had dishonoured our name, 
 he had gone against all my wishes into the bargain; 
 I could not, and would not if I could, disinherit him, 
 but in the future he must do without my help, and 
 I am afraid I added without my company. His reply 
 to that letter was quite short very polished and polite. 
 He regretted, he wrote, that my hopes had met with 
 such a check; children are proverbially unsatisfactory 
 creatures. At the same time, he informed me, he could 
 find no fault with my decision; that I should continue 
 to appear on cordial terms with a son whom I believed 
 to be a dishonourable scoundrel, would be little short of 
 foolish; that he should continue to be on cordial terms 
 with me while I believed such a thing of him, would be 
 equally absurd. Therefore my decision was completely 
 satisfactory to both of us. He finished by expressing 
 the wish that we should both attain some distinction in 
 our careers; assured me that he would always look 
 out for his father's name with eagerness in any list of 
 honours; and concluded by informing me that a letter 
 addressed 'chez M. Loissel' would always find him, 
 although he hoped that the necessity for sending a 
 letter might not arise for many years to come. " 
 
 I had not any idea of what I should reply to this 
 confidence; the matter seemed too serious to allow of 
 any conventional expression of pity, and I had not the 
 wit to think of some phrase that would express my
 
 A Parent's Point of View 129 
 
 feelings. The quarrel was gone to such lengths that 
 there seemed no immediate way of settling it. Mean- 
 while Captain Massingdale puffed at his pipe in silence, 
 blowing out great clouds of smoke in quick succession, 
 until the bowl began to crackle and must have been 
 as hot as a furnace. In a minute or so he began speak- 
 ing again, quietly, and as much to himself, I fancy, as 
 to me. 
 
 "We 've made a hash of it between us, " he murmured; 
 "and I can't see any way out of it. Of course I should 
 have got a few days' leave, and visited him in Paris; 
 we might have come to some understanding then. The 
 thing is largely my fault, I know that; you couldn't 
 expect the boy to do anything but meet my mood more 
 than half-way, after that infernal letter got to him. 
 The trouble is that my mood is very much changed. 
 I cannot exactly face the idea of going on without seeing 
 him ; you know what an extraordinary companion he was, 
 Dick. But what is there to do ? " 
 
 He paused, obviously expecting me to answer some- 
 thing, which thing I had very little fancy for doing. 
 
 "If you saw him now," I suggested lamely, "could n't 
 you patch the business up somehow?" 
 
 "Somehow?" he repeated. "How, is the point. If 
 I were to go to him, what do you think would be the 
 first thing that he would ask me? Let me have the truth, 
 Dick, I don't want any optimism out of place." For 
 I had hesitated at his question. 
 
 "I imagine he would want to know whether you still 
 thought him a blackguard, " I answered. 
 
 "Yes. He would. I still think him one. What then?" 
 
 "You would n't get much forrarder. " 
 
 "We should be worse off than before," he announced, 
 his voice very bitter. "He would be exceedingly polite;
 
 130 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 he would laugh and joke in the pleasantest manner 
 possible; and would gently convey the understanding 
 that I was a companion in whose society he found little 
 entertainment. If I pressed him, and asked for the 
 establishment of our old relations, and a forgetting of 
 the past, he would laugh and refuse me. ' What ! Friend- 
 ship with a dishonourable blackguard? Surely you 
 forget your position as a gentleman.' He would give 
 me some such phrase as that, and I should lose my temper. 
 No. It 's impossible. Can he earn his living by this 
 painting?" 
 
 "Yes. I think so. Only it will take some time. No 
 matter how good the man is, and Kenneth is much 
 above the ruck, he must learn his trade. " 
 
 I was purely thankful that we had got to firmer 
 ground, and gave him my answer with eagerness; but 
 he checked me, seeming a different man, with most of 
 the sympathy gone out of him. 
 
 "I 'm glad to hear that," he replied, a hint of offence 
 in his tone. "Since he has made a choice of the thing, 
 I hope he will do well at it. " 
 
 His manner did not encourage a discussion of the 
 point, and he gave another indication of the finish of 
 the talk by pocketing his pipe, and making ready to 
 turn in. It seemed to me that these Massingdales 
 cultivated a trick of politely wishing each other pro- 
 sperity, whenever they happened to quarrel ; I remembered 
 the last phrases of Kenneth's letter, but for a variety 
 of reasons refrained from quoting them. However, 
 Captain Massingdale's show of temper did not last long, 
 although it was sufficient to prove that any reconcilia- 
 tion between him and his son would, at present, be 
 unlikely. He stood up, and addressed me with a laugh 
 of apology.
 
 A Parent's Point of View 131 
 
 "The older generation is not coming out well to- 
 night, Dick," he assured me. "You 're probably right 
 in thinking me a strange- tempered fool; but I can't 
 get over the fact that, in addition to the other things, 
 this affair has turned Kenneth into a painter. We 
 need not discuss it, but you know I have always been 
 against that. However, he manages his own affairs 
 without me now. " 
 
 He took a turn along the deck up to the foremast 
 and back; came and slipped his arm through mine, 
 for I had got up from my chair as he walked off; and 
 led me just forward of the main-shrouds, where we stood 
 and looked out over the sea. 
 
 The wind was very light, no more than sufficient to 
 keep the sails drawing; yet La Cygale seemed content 
 with the weather, and made on her way steadily, rising 
 and falling gently to the swell, as if she rocked herself 
 to sleep. The water gurgled softly at her bows, and 
 the wake she left behind her showed smooth and far- 
 stretching on the quiet, untroubled sea. The night was 
 very clear and the stars shone pale overhead, faded 
 and tired at the coming of the day. A greyness covered 
 the whole expanse of sea about us, light and shade were 
 deadened to one dull colour, and eastwards, beneath a 
 thin bank of cloud, the broken line of the horizon began 
 to show sharp-cut against the sky; the air struck chill, 
 and even the summer night could not hide the sadness 
 of the dawn on waters. 
 
 I shivered, and buttoned up my coat. Captain 
 Massingdale turned his head at the movement. 
 
 "Getting chilly," he remarked. "We had better go 
 below, unless you want to wait for the sunrise, and I 
 don't suppose you do." 
 
 I shook my head ; but he did not move.
 
 132 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 "Look here, Dick," he continued, looking out to sea. 
 "I want you to promise me something. It 's the out- 
 come of all this talk I 've had with you this evening. 
 Will you promise me I want you to give me your word, 
 remember that, if Kenneth gets on his beam-ends, if 
 things go wrong with him, and you find out that he 
 can't manage to keep his head above water, you '11 let 
 me know. I can 't let the fellow starve. " 
 
 "Yes," I answered readily enough, although I had 
 such faith in Massingdale's ability that I did not imagine 
 that I should be called upon to carry out my promise. 
 "If it comes to that, and if I hear of it, I '11 let you 
 know. I '11 better the bargain, if you like, I '11 write 
 you now and again of what he is doing. " 
 
 "Will you?" he asked, and his face in the gathering 
 light showed extraordinarily eager. "Thanks. We'll 
 call that settled. I trust to you. And now I '11 give 
 you a chance of sleep. " 
 
 So we turned in, and forgot about giving orders for 
 the chairs to be put away; and, whether Captain Massing- 
 dale was in the same case or not, I do not know, I slept 
 like a log almost from the moment that I lay down in 
 my bunk.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE RECREATIONS OF AN ARTIST IN PARIS 
 
 TOWARDS the end of September we left La Cygale 
 at Toulon, and came straight through to Paris. 
 The Onningtons were going back to England after one 
 night's rest, but I had arranged to spend a week with 
 Massingdale. Thinking that a meeting between the 
 two was a thing to be carefully avoided, I had not 
 said anything of my plans except that I stopped in 
 Paris; that they probably guessed with whom I should 
 stay was their affair, not mine. I had also given Massing- 
 dale no more information about my arrival than that I 
 should come and look him up when I arrived, which 
 would foe, I wrote to him, one or other of two days 
 named. 
 
 We arrived about six o'clock at the Gare de Lyon, 
 and I put up for the night at the same hotel as the 
 Onningtons, imagining that we should spend a quiet 
 evening after eighteen hours of railway travelling. 
 My aunt, as I had suspected, declined to move from 
 the hotel after dinner, but Joan announced her intention 
 of going out alone, if we refused to go with her. I had 
 not the least objection to a walk, an evening in the 
 lounge of a fashionable hotel being a penance I would 
 do much to avoid, and I imagined that if we kept to 
 the boulevards and the Opera quarter we ran no risk 
 
 133
 
 134 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 of coming across Massingdale, so she and I left the 
 others to the prospect of an early bed. 
 
 For some unknown reason Joan took it into her head 
 that she would like to visit one of the Montmartre cafes. 
 "Not the places where the foreign tourists go," she 
 informed me, "but interesting places where we shall 
 see bohemians and apaches, and that sort of people." 
 I am no bohemian, but a respectable lawyer, yet I 
 resented the way she classed these harmless persons 
 with apaches; and I was very much set against a visit 
 to Montmartre. In the first place, respectably dressed 
 young women, of polite upbringing are out of place 
 there, and in the second, it increased, in an altogether 
 unnecessary fashion, the odds on an encounter I much 
 wished to avoid. Therefore, I hardened my heart against 
 Joan's entreaties; listened stolidly to her plea that the 
 last time she had stopped in Paris was in the capacity of 
 a schoolgirl; and declined with much firmness to be 
 lured into any distant district of the town. I believe 
 that I then established a reputation in her mind, which 
 my subsequent behaviour has not entirely abolished, 
 for extreme conventionality and an almost fanatical 
 distaste for any other haunts than those sanctioned 
 by polite society; yet I was aware that Massingdale 
 dwelt in Montmartre, and might very well be found in a 
 cafe, such as she described, if we could happen on such 
 a place, while she did not know for certain that he was 
 still in Paris, and had no idea of his address. Besides, 
 the acquisition of such a reputation, although it be 
 something of a libel on my character, has done me no 
 harm that I can discover. 
 
 As a concession to Joan's desire to leave the 
 boulevards and to visit some less popular thoroughfare, 
 we strolled round by the Bibliotheque Nationale and the
 
 An Artist in Paris 135 
 
 General Post Office down to Les Halles, and then back 
 to the lights, and the noise, and the flaring sky signs 
 again. We had been late over dinner, and we had not 
 hurried on our walk, but had idled along, trying to 
 picture the streets as they used to be whenever we came 
 upon a block of older houses, discovering as we went 
 along the vast proportions of our ignorance of Paris 
 history ; so that when we turned from the Rue Richelieu 
 to the corner of the Boulevard des Italians the earlier 
 theatres were already empty, and the cafes were com- 
 mencing the business of the night. We made for the 
 Cafe Riche, which is less tourist-infected than many of 
 its neighbours, which, besides, is very far removed from 
 being a spot much patronised by the impecunious 
 brethren of Montmartre, and, finding the terrace full, 
 had to go inside, where we got a table by the windows. 
 Joan was obviously pleased with her surroundings, and 
 declared that she had almost forgiven me for my refusal 
 to take her to some less ordinary place of entertainment. 
 We sat for some time watching the crowd pass before the 
 cafe, occasionally exchanging a remark when a figure, 
 whose originality called for comment, came into view, 
 but for the most part silent. The great merit of the 
 boulevards, as I see it, lies in the circumstance that you 
 may sit at your ease and watch all classes and conditions 
 of mankind troop by before you, in the manner of a 
 picture show. The pageant, when seen from behind the 
 protection of a little table, becomes unreal, the sordid 
 quality of much of it escapes the observer, and the whole 
 procession takes on the habit of an entertainment to be 
 regarded, in seriousness or in jest, as the fancy moves one. 
 Clerks and shop-girls, the half-world and the great world, 
 the respectably clad and minded man of affairs with his 
 wife, in all things similarly equipped, upon his arm,
 
 136 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 the thief and the person of unquestioned rectitude, 
 Frenchmen and foreigners of all races and colours, all 
 hurrying along with, for the most part, the restraint of 
 their work gone from them. You may hear them 
 laughing, quarrelling, whining, bullying, as the mood 
 has them, yet whether they be going to seek food and 
 drink, or be taking the air in the process of digestion, 
 whether they be out furtively, with an eye for the un- 
 welcome policemen, to get the wherewithal to satisfy, 
 later and in a less pretentious place, the demands of 
 their very obvious hunger, or whether they show them- 
 selves to the night well clad, well nourished, and seek- 
 ing nothing but amusement, they observe the laughing 
 manners of the boulevard, and are intent to see that the 
 night shall bring some minor profit to themselves. To 
 a throng playing their hands with such light-hearted 
 enthusiasm it would be an unseemly liberty to introduce 
 a serious analysis; whatever their businesses, and they 
 cover a wide field from the foolish to the vicious and the 
 criminal, while they walk the boulevards they absolve 
 themselves from serious consideration, abandon both 
 their tragedy and their claim upon the admiration of 
 their neighbours, and shelter themselves under the 
 cloak of laughter, of light, and of noise. 
 
 Joan and I were, I have said, well content to watch 
 the crowd, and to let it furnish us with the matter for 
 an occasional remark. We had become, I remember, 
 interested in the repeated passage of a couple more 
 lively than the rest : a youth, a student I imagined him, 
 with a girl upon his arm, both extravagantly dressed in 
 exaggeration of the moment's fashion, and both joyfully 
 exhibiting the fact that they had dined ; the man inclined 
 to song, the girl delighting in his prowess. They had 
 already passed the cafe three or four times, and on each
 
 An Artist in Paris 137 
 
 appearance seemed to challenge the interference of the 
 police with more insistence. Joan had therefore laid 
 me a bet, a rash thing to do for they might well have 
 sought some other promenade without compulsion, that 
 they would be sent about their business if they appeared 
 again; and I, knowing something of the Parisian police, 
 had taken her. I was engaged in keeping a lookout up the 
 boulevard, in which direction they had disappeared, when 
 I heard Joan give an exclamation, quickly stifled. I 
 turned, and seeing her with her colour somewhat 
 mounted, and her expression carefully set against the ex- 
 hibition of any feeling, followed the line of her gaze with 
 considerable misgiving. Just come into the sphere of the 
 cafe lights I saw Massingdale, and with him Yvonne 
 Carrel. His face seemed thinner than it used to be, and 
 I could have sworn the man had aged since last I saw 
 him, but the light made any comparison worthless, and 
 he was laughing and talking with all his usual anima- 
 tion. He was walking quickly, however, and I had 
 little time in which to look at him; Yvonne Carrel's 
 appearance I did not notice. When they had dis- 
 appeared, I looked at Joan and found her eyes on me. 
 
 "That was Mademoiselle Carrel with Mr. Massingdale, 
 wasn't it, Dick?" she asked, without any sign of 
 embarrassment. 
 
 "It was," I answered, cursing Fate very heartily for 
 the circumstance. 
 
 "I think she is rather good-looking," Joan replied, 
 casually ; and turned to the window again. 
 
 We sat for some minutes as we had been before, and 
 then Joan began putting on her gloves. 
 
 "I believe that couple have been run in somewhere 
 else," she declared. "I think you ought to call the 
 bet off, or pay me the money. "
 
 138 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 "I certainly won't pay you," I assured her. " Do you 
 want to go?" 
 
 On the way back to the hotel Joan was very talkative, 
 and I could not find any fault with her manner, except 
 that she was more voluble than her wont. From which 
 thing I was forced to the deduction that she had recently 
 learned much about the control of her feelings ; for I was 
 not willing to admit that the sight of Massingdale had 
 left her unmoved the exclamation that she had checked 
 spoke against that or that his being in the company of 
 Yvonne Carrel had given her any pleasure. The affair 
 was very little to my fancy, especially as my efforts to 
 avoid the encounter had brought the thing about, and 
 I was inclined to take it as a personal grievance that 
 artists, more especially unknown artists, should so far 
 forget themselves as to haunt the boulevards at night. 
 It is, when one comes to think of it, a most improper 
 proceeding. 
 
 (However, what were her feelings about this chance 
 meeting Joan did not offer to inform me, and as I was 
 not at all inclined to question her on the subject, she 
 left Paris the following day with no more said about 
 the matter. 
 
 When I had seen the Onningtons off, I walked up to 
 the Rue Antoinette, climbed the six flights of stairs, 
 which were certainly very dark and unclean, and dis- 
 covered Massingdale in his studio, a great bare place, 
 uncommon cold, I should imagine, in winter, littered 
 with the odds and ends of the artist and the bachelor. 
 The owner was engaged in copying the plaster cast of 
 a very muscular leg, when I made my appearance, and 
 he hailed me with a shout. 
 
 "Welcome, old thing," he cried, shaking me by the 
 hand. "I imagine you arrived last night you look
 
 An Artist in Paris 139 
 
 too fresh to have come off the train this morning 
 you should have let me know. You 11 stop here. I '11 
 curse you with bell, book, and candle, if you put up 
 at any gilded hostelry. " 
 
 "Have you a room? " I asked him. 
 
 He replied as he often does, when an ordinary, practical 
 question is put to him. 
 
 "A room!" he shouted. "This, this is the present 
 generation, born in splendour, nourished in luxury, 
 demanding silk hangings to their beds and the finest 
 damask sheets. Take shame to yourself for a witless 
 fellow, Dick. Should I ask a guest to share the shelter 
 of my roof and not offer him a bed? There is your room, 
 sceptic, the smallest you ever slept in, yet free from 
 vermin I can say no more. " 
 
 He pointed, with a magnificent gesture of reproof, to 
 a door opposite the stove; and I, going into the room 
 behind it, found the place no larger than he had said. 
 It was, I should judge, not more than six feet by nine, 
 and was mainly occupied by the bed; yet it seemed 
 clean. 
 
 "And where will you sleep?" I enquired, after my 
 inspection, for it was obviously Massingdale's room. 
 
 "There," he answered, pointing to a divan which ran 
 round three sides of the room. " There is accommodation 
 for at least six stout persons, and I am thin and daily 
 growing more attenuated. You shall have clean sheets. 
 We can offer you, sir, the fullest luxuries of the pampered 
 rich." 
 
 So I accepted his hospitality, since I saw that he 
 really wished to have me with him ; but for eight nights 
 out of the ten I chose the studio, and slept on the divan, 
 the weather being warm and the bedroom, under such 
 conditions, sufficient to choke a man.
 
 140 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 At first I was too pleased at being in Massingdale's 
 company again to reckon up the changes that the last 
 two months had made in him; for the first few hours 
 that I was with him I forgot the whole wretched business 
 of the past, and concerned myself only with his descrip- 
 tions of his present life, and the picture of his acquaint- 
 ances which he conjured up for me. I am almost 
 prepared to say that I laughed more that first day that I 
 spent in the Rue Antoinette than in any similar period 
 of my life, before or since; and I should be paying a 
 devilish poor compliment to his powers of conversation 
 if I suggested that, during that time, I thought of any- 
 thing but the subjects he discussed. However, before I 
 went back to England, I had discovered a considerable 
 change in the man, although his manner was not, in the 
 slightest, altered. He had come, I think, to face life 
 with a greater purpose, and was entirely serious in his 
 art. It surprised me to find him become a regular 
 worker, and, except on the Sunday, to hear him refuse 
 to desert his painting while the best of the daylight 
 lasted. In many things I thought him more tolerant, 
 and on some, chiefly matters of ethics, inclined to refuse 
 an opinion. It would be misleading to say that he had 
 grown up, I do not think that even at the present time 
 he can be said to have left childhood behind him, but 
 he had come to realise that the most of the men about 
 him had done with that happy state, and he had ceased 
 to be angry with them on that account. But above all 
 the other changes, there was one salient point that took 
 my notice: he seemed to have come into some heritance 
 of power, and to have acquired the means of impressing 
 on those who met him the fact that he was engaged on 
 work that he did well. I do not know what this quality 
 is; I imagine it nameless; but it is observable in all men
 
 An Artist in Paris 141 
 
 who gain success, and in many to whom success, in the 
 world's sense, shall never come, and it has nothing to do 
 with position or recognition, for it is to be noticed in 
 strangers whose name and calling are facts unknown. In 
 London, Massingdale had attracted notice in almost any 
 gathering as a man of promise: apart from his personal 
 charm he had conveyed the impression that he would 
 some day do things; now I cannot get nearer to the 
 explanation than this he gave the suggestion that he 
 was doing them, and that, when completed, they would 
 have some worth. 
 
 When we had finished dejeuner, which meal we took 
 at a small and undistinguished place where Massingdale 
 seemed well known, we went for a walk in the Bois, and, 
 later, fetched my luggage from the hotel. Upon our 
 return to the studio, we found the stairs blocked by 
 four perspiring men and a piano; at the moment of our 
 arrival the instrument reposed in the middle of the last 
 flight, and the men sat below it on the stairs, smoking 
 cigarettes. The presence of Massingdale seemed to 
 relieve them. 
 
 " Tiens," cried one of them, a little fat fellow with a 
 black beard, who gasped and panted in his speech. 
 "You have arrived; and not too soon, my friend. I 
 expire. Another five minutes and the world had lost 
 Auguste Vanne." He snapped his fingers to express 
 the suddenness of Auguste's ending; then, seeing me, 
 got up from the step where he sat , and bowed. ' ' M 'sieur , ' ' 
 he murmured, and the other three followed his lead. 
 
 "This," said Massingdale, presenting me, "is my 
 friend, Monsieur Crutchley." Whereat we all bowed 
 again. "But," he added, addressing the little man 
 who called himself Vanne, "what, in the name of reason, 
 are you doing with your piano? "
 
 142 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 "We take it to your studio," Vanne informed him, 
 and he had now passed from gasping to a sort of whistling 
 wheeze, which was, I learned, his ordinary voice. "You 
 give a reception to-night, don't you?" 
 
 "Certainly," answered Massingdale; "and you lend 
 me your piano. Thanks." 
 
 "I take pity on your forgetfulness, " corrected Vanne, 
 waving his hand in a large circle. "Five o'clock comes. 
 I go up to your studio; you are not there. There is 
 no piano. I take counsel with myself: a reception 
 without a piano is a thing unthinkable. 'He has for- 
 gotten,' I say; 'he forgets all things. I will make sure.' 
 I go to the concierge. 'Has Monsieur Massingdale 
 spoken of the arrival of a piano?' I ask. 'No,' answers 
 the animal who keeps the door. 'But, Monsieur Vanne, 
 you owe me the rent of a month.' I fly. I seek out 
 these good friends; and behold the piano is already half 
 way to your door. To work, mes chers. " 
 
 The stairs were narrow, the piano very heavy, and 
 the labour unskilled; so that the removal, when we had 
 accomplished it, left us, all six, breathed and hot, while 
 Auguste Vanne appeared upon the point of death. He 
 sat upon the divan, leaning forward, and gasped and 
 gurgled, panted and blew, until I grew uneasy; yet 
 whenever he showed any signs of getting back his breath, 
 he would start laughing, his small eyes changing from 
 distress to merriment, and his laughter would set him 
 coughing, and his coughing robbed him again of all 
 his breath. The paroxysm, which had seemed bound 
 to end in his death, passed after a while, and he was 
 able to laugh without danger, which seemed his chief 
 desire. 
 
 " Mon Dieu, mon Dieu," he chuckled, "I grow fatter 
 every day. Listen, my friends. I met Richelin to-day
 
 An Artist in Paris 143 
 
 the chef-d 'orchestre of the opera, Monsieur Crutchley 
 he seized me by the arm. He eyed me with amaze- 
 ment. ' Ca va, gros tonneau,' he cried. ' Tu vas crever 
 bientot. Pas de doute.' He was very agreeable." 
 
 I was less struck by the humour of Monsieur Richelin 
 than Vanne himself appeared to be ; but I much admired 
 the fashion in which the little man faced a physical 
 infirmity that put him to great discomfort, and I noticed 
 a peculiar charm about his chuckling, wheezy voice. 
 
 When we were recovered from our exertions with 
 the piano, the other three departed, and Massingdale 
 and Vanne and I set about clearing the studio, and 
 making it ready for the evening. Massingdale had 
 already told me that he was entertaining the full circle 
 of his acquaintance that night, and that the affair was 
 a sort of inauguration ceremony of his establishment 
 as an inhabitant of the quarter. 
 
 "I hoped that you would be here for it, Dick," 
 he had said. "You used to take a sort of serious 
 interest in these shows. Besides, Loissel has promised 
 to come, and I want you to meet him as soon as 
 possible." 
 
 Personally, I was very glad of the chance of being 
 present, and I joined in the preparations with consider- 
 able amusement. The studio was a large, bare room, 
 the walls washed terra cotta, and much discoloured 
 and knocked about. The divan ran along three of 
 the walls, on one of which was the door from the stairs, 
 the bedroom opening out of the end wall at right angles 
 to it; opposite the entrance from the stairs there were 
 two windows looking over Paris; and on the same side 
 as the stairs, to the left of the door, as you faced it, the 
 great north window, running up to the roof. The place 
 seemed to me bare and ugly, but it had a rough and
 
 144 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 essential comfort about it, and was certainly airy and 
 light. 
 
 We cleared the easels and canvases into the corner 
 by the stove ; put the two tables, which the room boasted, 
 in front of them; stowed the odd things lying about 
 on the shelf which ran round the walls about six feet 
 from the ground; and so had the place prepared for 
 whatever the guests might take it into their heads to 
 do. When we had set out the food and drink, which 
 had arrived while we worked, Massingdale announced 
 his intention of dining without more delay; and we 
 accordingly went out. 
 
 We went to a different place to that in which we had 
 lunched. 
 
 " It is a good rule to remember, " Massingdale informed 
 me, "that where you are satisfied with the lunch, you 
 will probably be disappointed in the dinner. " 
 
 And Vanne, who came with us, agreed to this wisdom. 
 
 "We will go," he announced, "to the Chasseur 
 d'Afrique. It is an occasion for expenditure. Potage 
 a la bonne femme, salmi de gibier (made of rabbit), cheese, 
 dessert, and a bottle of good wine that, mes enfants, 
 should give us satisfaction." 
 
 Although we faithfully carried out the programme, 
 except that we drank three bottles of wine in place of 
 one, I failed to understand why the Chasseur d'Afrique 
 was more suitable to dine at than our restaurant of the 
 morning ; it seemed to me very much the same. 
 
 During the meal Auguste Vanne gave me some in- 
 formation about himself. The little man interested me, 
 and I listened to him gladly. 
 
 "I am from Picardy," he told me. "You know the 
 country, monsieur? No. No more do I; I left it when 
 I was ten years old. I am of Paris, all that is most
 
 An Artist in Paris 145 
 
 Parisian. I am a musician, monsieur, a pianist. But 
 look at my hands." He stretched them out, and they 
 were very small and fat, with stumpy fingers not too 
 clean. "It is a tragedy. I have the soul of an artist, 
 yet, if you will believe me, I have difficulty in stretching 
 the octave." 
 
 His expression changed to one of such sorrow, that 
 I feared that he would weep; but Massingdale inter- 
 rupted to avert his woe. 
 
 "Yet, mon gros," said he, "you let the soul come, 
 somehow, through those fat fingers to the notes. " 
 
 The little man gave him a glance of thanks, and 
 resumed his ordinary smiling demeanour. 
 
 "del," he cried, and waved his hand to a girl who 
 passed our table, "I forget myself. Life is not the 
 place to weep in ; laughter and the sound of music should 
 fill our days. And, understand, messieurs, I am more 
 fortunate than most men. I compose little waltzes 
 that are light and pretty, but far, ah ! so far, from being 
 real music ; I play accompaniments at cheap concerts for 
 inferior singers, that is true and unfortunate; but I 
 begin to be known : men speakwell of my playing. Richelin 
 calls me a barrel, and says that I shall soon burst. It is 
 good ; some day, perhaps, I shall play, at a concert of my 
 own, one of the divine sonatas of the great Beethoven. 
 And beyond that, I shall never reach old age and poverty; 
 I shall die suddenly; perhaps at a concert, after the last 
 notes of the great master have died away one spasm 
 of pain, pouf! zut! Auguste Vanne will be dead; the 
 heart of the barrel will have burst!" 
 
 "But to-night," said Massingdale, smiling at Vanne's 
 excited and glistening countenance, "you will play to 
 us, and you will not die. I should be very angry with 
 you, mon cher, if you died in my studio. "
 
 146 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 "I will play Beethoven," the fat man promised, and 
 suddenly fell to smiling with an air of mystery. "But 
 I have a surprise for you," he continued proudly. "I 
 bring a friend who will also play to you. " 
 
 "Good," answered Massingdale. "Yet I much 
 doubt if he will give us more pleasure than yourself. 
 Who is he?" 
 
 Auguste Vanne began to chuckle; he seemed to have 
 discovered another joke. 
 
 " Mon Dieu!" he puffed, "not better than myself . 
 Oh, ma foi, no. A little boy, a little good-for-nothing, 
 who shall one day stand where Paganini stood. Not 
 better than myself! Oh, no! It is my cousin whom 
 I bring, the little Marellac!" 
 
 "Good Lord!" murmured Massingdale in English, 
 the name, which I had never heard, seeming to mean 
 so much to him. 
 
 "One promise," pleaded Vanne, as we settled the 
 bill, which the others would not let me pay myself. 
 "You give him no praise. You say nothing of his 
 playing. He must not lose his head, and think that, 
 already, he has learned enough about the violin." 
 
 On the way back to the studio I heard who "the 
 little Marellac" was; he had taken the first prize at the 
 Conservatoire, and was being looked after by a rich 
 patron. Vanne's geese were often swans, I learned from 
 Massingdale, but it would seem that his young cousin 
 was really a fine player, and that, as he was not to play 
 in any concert for another two years, there was much 
 hope that he would develop to his full powers. 
 
 Very soon after we had lighted up the studio Massing- 
 dale 's guests began to arrive; and shortly after nine the 
 place was crowded. There was a fair sprinkling of 
 Englishmen, which pleased me, as my French would not
 
 An Artist in Paris 147 
 
 stand the strain of excited colloquial talk. Yvonne 
 Carrel arrived early, but I had only a few minutes' 
 conversation with her, and she said nothing, naturally, 
 of what had happened when she was last in London. 
 Marellac was among the last comers, and seemed a 
 shy, nervous boy of sixteen, very far removed from 
 having a swollen head. Auguste Vanne brought him 
 up to me and the boy seemed very ill-at-ease, and would 
 only talk in the most formal fashion; he was relieved, I 
 fancy, when he found some one else with whom to talk. 
 
 I could not see any one who might be Loissel; and, 
 about half an hour after the last arrival had put in an 
 appearance, I was seated on the divan, for the moment 
 alone, trying to discover him in the crowd, when the man 
 next to me, whom I had not particularly noticed, started 
 talking. He was an Englishman of middle age, grey- 
 haired, clean-shaven, inclining to stoutness, with a 
 blotched countenance and a watery blue eye in which, 
 when it was not glazed, there showed much humour. 
 He spoke in a peculiar jerky fashion, and his voice was 
 slightly hoarse, yet obviously that of a gentleman, and 
 of a man of education as well. 
 
 "You are Mr. Crutchley, I take it," he began. 
 "Pleased to meet you. Heard Massingdale speak of 
 you. At Cambridge together, then in chambers, eh? 
 Damn fool thing of Massingdale's attempting the law. 
 The man 's no lawyer. " 
 
 While he rattled on I had a look at him, and was 
 astonished that I had not noticed him before; he was a 
 most extraordinary figure. His clothes fitted him very 
 badly, but had the appearance of having come from a 
 decent tailor: he wore shepherd's plaid trousers and 
 a frock-coat, with an enormous black cravat in the 
 manner of a stage Frenchman ; he carried a gold-rimmed
 
 148 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 eye-glass in his right eye, and never seemed to remove it 
 or to drop it. 
 
 "You are wondering who the devil I am," he con- 
 tinued, giving me no chance of answering him. "I '11 
 tell you. My name is Athanasius Roderick Blinkson. 
 You may laugh, if you wish to, Mr. Crutchley; I am 
 used to it. My father was a fool, like his son, that 
 is why he allowed me to be called Athanasius when 
 fate had saddled me with Blinkson. I was once a Fellow 
 of Balliol; I think the other fellows rejoiced when I 
 resigned anyhow I did. Only sensible thing I ever did. 
 I live in Paris. Teach English, Greek, and Latin to 
 poor students; have done for twenty-five years. Just 
 keeps me going. For the rest I am entirely disreputable, 
 and a confirmed drunkard but you can see, hear, and 
 smell that. Quite superfluous information. I have no 
 shame. Now you know something about me. Talk 
 if you feel inclined; if not, please don't be polite. I 
 never take offence, and am aware that I am a most 
 undesirable person I shall be worse before the finish 
 of the evening." 
 
 The style of this introduction was certainly original, 
 but it had its uses, although, at the offset, it induced 
 embarrassment; moreover, as far as I could judge at 
 the moment, Mr. Blinkson had given me an entirely 
 accurate description of himself. He was clearly a drunk- 
 ard, and probably very undesirable. Although the 
 whole aspect and demeanour of the man set me against 
 him, there was something, whether it was the kindly 
 humour that showed itself, now and again, in his blood- 
 shot eyes, or whether it was a certain shattered remnant 
 of dignity that still clung to him, I do not know, but 
 there was something about him which compelled courtesy 
 though it could not induce any liking.
 
 An Artist in Paris 149 
 
 "I have every intention of talking," I replied, as 
 easily as I could. "I am even inclined, if you '11 submit 
 to it, to put you through a cross-examination. I want 
 to know who all these people are. " 
 
 "Good," says he, sucking at an old and very foul 
 pipe. " I '11 be your guide. " 
 
 He faithfully fulfilled his word; but it was without 
 the aid of any questions from me. For during the next 
 ten minutes he unburdened himself, spasmodically, of a 
 vast amount of promiscuous information about the 
 company assembled, odds and ends of gossip and 
 biography, given in his peculiar style, mixed up with 
 very little praise, but without a trace of malice. I saw 
 no means of stopping him, although I was hopelessly 
 lost before he was half-way through ; finally he came to 
 a finish of his own accord. 
 
 "See the big man old fellow with a magnificent 
 head, just come in?" he asked at last. "That is Loissel. 
 The only genius present, except Massingdale himself 
 I mean that and, perhaps, this boy Marellac. Finest 
 man I ever met. Go and talk to him. I want a drink 
 after all this speaking. " 
 
 I followed his advice, and made my way to where 
 Massingdale and two other men stood talking to Loissel. 
 The room was full of smoke, and the noise of talk was 
 such that a man must shout to make himself heard; 
 there were faces of all types and of several different races 
 to be seen; yet the old painter stood above them all, in 
 stature for he was a man of over six feet and in power. 
 He was cast in a generous mould, very strong, I should 
 imagine, in his prime, with limbs so well proportioned 
 that he might have posed as a sculptor's model. He had 
 a mass of shaggy white hair; his beard was cut round 
 his chin in a fashion that called to mind the sea; his face
 
 150 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 was tanned and weather-beaten; and his hands were 
 thin, very finely shaped, and kept with the extreme 
 of care. In the whole cast of his face, which was large- 
 featured and strong, but more especially in the eyes, 
 there was a suggestion of calm and power, the equal to 
 which I have never yet discovered. It is hard to judge 
 a man when you know him to be a person of great 
 achievement, the mind being set upon the finding of his 
 greatness, but I am very willing to wager that, had I 
 met Jean Se*bastien Loissel for the first time not knowing 
 who he was or what he did, I should have fallen under the 
 same spell that held me that night in Massingdale's 
 studio. I did not then question whether he was a great 
 man, I was fully occupied with the desire to make his 
 acquaintance, which desire became strong only when I 
 had seen him. 
 
 I joined the group, and Massingdale introduced 
 me. 
 
 "I hoped that I should meet you to-night, Monsieur 
 Crutchley," said Loissel in his deep, quiet voice, and 
 speaking English. "I have the ill-fortune to be leaving 
 Paris to-morrow, and I shall be away a week. I shall 
 talk very much to-night, monsieur. We will sit in a 
 corner, and you shall fight with sleep while 'le pere 
 Loissel' confides in you. I want you to tell me many 
 things things that you must not hear, petit Louis." 
 
 Here he struck Massingdale in the chest; laughed a 
 great, rolling laugh; slipped his arm through mine; and 
 led me off round the studio, stopping to talk to every 
 group in the room. 
 
 We installed ourselves, Loissel and I, after he had 
 made the tour of the studio, in the corner between the 
 bedroom door and the two windows which looked on 
 Paris. Having crammed a great cherrywood pipe
 
 An Artist in Paris 151 
 
 from the contents of a paper packet of the cheapest 
 caporal, he forgot to light it in the eagerness of his 
 speech. 
 
 "Now," said he, "we will talk in French. I cannot 
 express myself in your language; I am forced to say 
 what I can, not what I wish. This foolish friend of 
 ours, Monsieur Crutchley, he has made many false 
 steps, is it not? No. You must not protest, my friend. 
 I do not think him guilty of any dishonour I know 
 him; but of foolishness that is another matter! But 
 the affair is finished, done with, for the moment. I 
 cannot understand you English; I cease to make the 
 effort after many failures. Man Dieu, but you are droll! 
 You say not you, monsieur, but the others this 
 young man had a mistress, therefore he is bad. He 
 speaks to this horrible woman, he is seen with her again, 
 therefore he has gone back to his old ways. The thing 
 is settled; you ask no questions; your mind is made up. 
 Yet the English come to Paris and amuse themselves; 
 they amuse themselves in London; they do what all 
 men do. They are not different from us; and I think 
 that they have ceased to make a profession of the virtue 
 which they have not got. But to act with openness, 
 to make no secret of their life oh, no, they will not do 
 that. This young man, this little Louis, he made no 
 secret of it ; he had a mistress, and he treated her as he 
 would treat a friend. It is plain, monsieur, is it not, 
 that he is a very vicious boy, without shame and without 
 proper feeling. No man with wise instincts, no gentleman, 
 monsieur, would take any interest in a woman so debased, 
 when he had done with her; if he did ah, we are not 
 children to be deceived by protests it would mean that 
 he had gone back to her again. The thing is clear. So 
 say these others, monsieur; and they are wrong. It
 
 152 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 cannot be avoided, their mistake; it is made. There is 
 no going back, you agree with me?" 
 
 He leaned towards me, gripping the lapel of my coat, 
 eyeing me very earnestly, and tapping my waistcoat 
 with the mouthpiece of his pipe. 
 
 "You mean," I replied, "that there is no good in 
 Massingdale attempting to make Miss Onnington 
 change her opinion? " 
 
 "So," he answered, giving me a shake in his eager- 
 ness. " So, monsieur. And you agree?" 
 
 "Yes," I hesitated somewhat at my answer. "I 
 don't think that it would do any good at present." 
 
 "It would do harm," he announced; and although 
 throughout the conversation he had kept his voice low, 
 so that we should not be overheard, it rang with an 
 assurance that compelled me to agreement. "It is the 
 grande passion with him, my friend ; I know, I read him 
 like a book. He will not forget. So much the worse. 
 He would perhaps find more happiness in a heartless 
 seriousness. And this girl, monsieur, this English girl 
 whom I do not know! Perhaps she is good, beautiful, 
 also faithful, and perhaps some day she will be wise, 
 will get sympathy and a little understanding. Then 
 she will come to him, my friend, if she ever cared for 
 him. A woman has many resources, even now in this 
 dull age of money. If she does not come, if she never 
 grows wise, if she never cared for him and she is very 
 young, I think, a child, and perhaps does not know her 
 mind then, man Dieu, the affair arranges itself well; 
 he is better without her. Love is much, my friend I, 
 who had a wife to love me, tell you so yet it is not 
 all. The life's work comes before it. Only for those 
 without ambition is this great comfort and happiness 
 the all, the end. But he has something else. What
 
 An Artist in Paris 153 
 
 should a man count happiness, the soft pleasures of the 
 fireside, when he puts it against a great work that he 
 alone can do? Nothing, monsieur; if there were less, 
 then less." 
 
 He let go of my coat, and placed his hand on my 
 shoulder. His voice was little more than a whisper, 
 and shook with the sincerity of his pleading. 
 
 "Monsieur Crutchley," he implored, "he is your 
 friend. You will work with me and help him. We 
 will make a great artist of him. He shall do work that 
 is good, work that has inspiration. I am old, I approach 
 the end not yet, I hope, but before many years; I 
 have passed through my hands many students, yet not 
 one like this one. I am too fond of the art that I have 
 worked at to lose this chance. There must be no waste 
 of his time; he must not forget to paint, in hoping that 
 this girl will come to him. You will see to this; you will 
 not write to him of her; you will let the matter quite 
 alone; perhaps it will arrange itself, perhaps not; but 
 you will not interfere?" 
 
 His words were more of command than question, yet 
 I felt no resentment at them. I hesitated, however, to 
 grant his request, why, I do not know, for his manner 
 had already convinced me. 
 
 "You think, then," I asked, "that he will do these 
 things? You think that he will become a great painter? 
 It is not merely a case of aptitude that may not develop? " 
 
 " Monsieur, " he answered on a sudden note of dignity, 
 and sitting back from me, "I am Loissel. I do not 
 exaggerate on a matter of a student's ability. " 
 
 "I beg your pardon," I apologised, and for the life of 
 me I could not avoid the feeling that I was gravely at 
 fault. "If that is so, I will do as you wish. " 
 
 "Ah," he cried, smiling, and his pipe again tapped my
 
 154 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 chest, "you are a true friend, monsieur. I thank you 
 from my heart. The affair is arranged le pre Loissel 
 shall worry you no more. There will be music presently, 
 good music, and we shall have no other thoughts, you 
 and I, to spoil the pleasure of it. " 
 
 I am no musician, a musical score is a thing of no 
 meaning for me; on the other hand, I am not a lump 
 of wood, and I am of opinion that music is the most 
 compelling of all the arts, perhaps the only one that 
 can force a man from the mood in which it finds him, 
 carrying him, whether he will it or not, into a kingdom 
 where his own thoughts do not rule. Therefore, I 
 prepared to listen to what we should be given, with 
 much pleasant anticipation. 
 
 Auguste Vanne sat down to the piano very soon after 
 Loissel and I had finished our discussion, and as he 
 began sounding idle chords the talk stopped in the room. 
 How the company managed to seat itself is something 
 of a mystery, but in a minute the room was quiet and 
 clear, with a fringe of listening men and women on the 
 divan and the floor. Massingdale had been thrust into 
 the one arm-chair in his possession, placed in front 
 of the stove and a little out into the room, so that he 
 faced the rest of us in the manner of a potentate with 
 his court about him. 
 
 "Bien! " cried little Vanne. " We commence. " 
 
 He struck a crashing chord, looked over his shoulder 
 to Yvonne Carrel, as if giving a signal, and began to 
 play the music of the entrance of Carmen. 
 
 I had only heard Yvonne sing on one occasion, and 
 then no more than a ballad song; I had no idea of her 
 power, or that the woman as I knew her could so hide 
 herself in the player. 
 
 The spirit of Carmen seemed entered into her; she
 
 An Artist in Paris 155 
 
 danced and laughed, and the notes came from her with 
 no apparent effort or consciousness; she sang, I could 
 have sworn it, because the mood took her to sing, and 
 because singing properly expressed the nature of her 
 thoughts. And Massingdale was her Don Jose". She 
 wooed him, laughing; she mocked him, and her eyes 
 were wide and soft; she caressed him, and there was 
 only coquetry in her caress; she threatened him, and 
 there was a wealth of Southern passion in her clear, 
 beautiful voice. At first Massingdale seemed astonished, 
 for a moment, I fancy, not too pleased; then, like the 
 rest of us, the spell of her amazing performance held 
 him, and he sat still in his chair with his eyes fixed on 
 her. "Prends garde, prends garde a toil" she sang, her 
 arms wide, her body bent towards him, her dark eye 
 bold and threatening; then, almost before her last note 
 had died away, she was in the middle of the room, laugh- 
 ing and bowing, asking us whether her voice had not 
 improved. 
 
 The applause was without stint, the compliments 
 given to her sounded to me sincere; but she paid little 
 attention to them and came almost at once to where 
 we sat, taking a place beside Loissel. 
 
 "Et le pere?" she asked. "What does he say?" 
 
 He answered her gravely, with his large, gentle smile. 
 
 "You will yet sing at the Opera perhaps, ma belle." 
 
 But the sound of Marellac tuning his fiddle brought 
 
 another silence on the room, and with it a sort of rustling 
 
 stir of expectation. The artistic circles of Paris were 
 
 talking much, it appeared, about this boy; and Auguste 
 
 Vanne, his cousin, sat at the piano puffing in his pride. 
 
 Of the boy's playing I will attempt no criticism ; it might 
 
 have been a mass of faults, I am no judge of technique. 
 
 Yet to me it went beyond pleasure; it forced me to wish
 
 156 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 that I was alone that others might not see my emotion; 
 for the music which he gave us, the name or composer of 
 which I do not know, was sad and slow, played for the 
 most part on the low strings, and the violin sobbed in 
 deep, uneasy pain. There was a silence when he had 
 finished, and he received no more than murmured thanks ; 
 but that the conversation did not grow loud again for a 
 full five minutes was an appreciation that, I imagine, 
 he could understand. 
 
 An interval in which many healths were drunk, and 
 during which the noise became greater and the talk 
 more excited than it had been before, occurred after 
 Marellac had played. I discovered Blinkson in a corner 
 solemnly consuming brandy, and explaining, or en- 
 deavouring to explain, the stylistic value of Horace's 
 Odes to an uncomprehending and tolerant maiden, who 
 earned a hard living as a model, and had likely never 
 heard the name of a single Latin author. He was far 
 gone in liquor, and had some difficulty in standing 
 upright. 
 
 Presently Auguste Vanne sat down to the piano again, 
 and as before the noise ceased and the room became 
 clear and attentive. I went back to my former place 
 next to Loissel, who had not moved, and watched the 
 little man at the piano with much interest. He had 
 promised that he would play Beethoven, and he kept 
 his word, giving us the Adagio from the Senate Pathe- 
 tigue. I have seldom seen a man so change himself as 
 Vanne did when he touched a piano; he lost all his 
 absurdity; he seemed to disguise even his fatness; he 
 became dignified, and a man of purpose. Fame as a 
 pianist was a thing that he could never have, yet he 
 played well and with great sympathy and feeling. As 
 the sad melody, that air haunting and soft, grew from
 
 An Artist in Paris 157 
 
 his touch, and lost itself, and came again to die away in 
 quiet, you could see him answer to the call of the music, 
 his eyes growing dreamy, then purposeful, and back 
 again to sadness. When he had finished, he sat silent 
 without any movement, staring at some vision that he 
 had created for himself; and I imagined that here was 
 a life to which there was no ending but in disappoint- 
 ment, since the man was wholly concerned with the 
 making of the music which he loved, yet was faced with 
 the knowledge that he could never make it as he knew 
 it should be made. A common state, yet thereby not 
 the less bitter, I imagine, for those who suffer in it. 
 
 Without getting up, Vanne called to Yvonne Carrel 
 and to Marellac, and, when they had come to him, 
 spoke to them in low tones. Then, without any warn- 
 ing of what they would perform, he and Marellac 
 began playing the Ave Maria of Gounod, the violin 
 giving the air. The thing struck me as incongruous, out 
 of place, a beautiful thing in a wrong setting; but I soon 
 forgot to criticise, or to think of other things than the 
 wonderful notes of pleading; and as Yvonne began to 
 sing, with Marellac playing the obligato, I abandoned 
 myself to such music as had not come my way before. 
 Together they played on our emotions as Marellac 
 upon the strings which he endowed with such perfect 
 utterance; and when the woman's voice was silent and 
 the violin spoke no more, there was quiet in the studio. 
 We who had listened to them sat still, each, I think, 
 hoping to put off the moment when talk should begin 
 again, every man absorbed in his own vision: Loissel 
 with his great head sunk forward on his chest; Blinkson 
 with the tears rolling down his cheeks, a pitiable object 
 of half-awakened drunkenness. 
 
 But Auguste Vanne did not leave us iong; he was not
 
 158 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 in the mind, I fancy, to let the effects of the music wear 
 themselves away. Before a word had been spoken he 
 jumped up from the music stool, an absurd, fat little 
 man again, and hailed the company in his thick, chuck- 
 ling voice. 
 
 "It is finished, my friends," he cried. "We play no 
 more to-night." 
 
 Thereupon the company behaved as before, the talk 
 began afresh, and the drinks went round again; but, 
 and the circumstance impressed me, I heard no com- 
 ment, no mention even of the music that had just been 
 played. 
 
 Loissel left soon after this, and with him went Yvonne 
 Carrel and the boy Marellac. Before he went he told 
 me that he would probably be in London after Christmas, 
 and would call on me; so, in bidding him good-night, I 
 gave him my address. After this departure the character 
 of the entertainment became more ordinary, the noise 
 not less. Auguste Vanne shut and locked the piano, 
 declining firmly to allow another note to be played ; and 
 his wish met with little objection. Somewhere, as far 
 as I remember, in the neighbourhood of four-thirty of 
 the morning, what there were left of us adjourned to a 
 neighbouring cafe, where we drank beer, in my case with 
 infinite relish; then, each using what strength the night 
 had left to him, we got us home to bed.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE EXIT OF A BISHOP AND THE ADVENT OF AN ARTIST 
 
 WHEN I got back to London after my visit to 
 Massingdale in Paris, I, at least, had the satis- 
 faction of knowing him to be settled in a profession that 
 promised to hold his attention and his endeavours; 
 beyond that I was not tempted to make any prophecy 
 on his account. Before I left the Rue Antoinette I 
 tackled him on the subject of finance and the business 
 prospect of his career, and encountered, as I had antici- 
 pated, a good-tempered toleration of what he probably 
 thought was a peculiar whim of mine, a perfectly careless 
 optimism about his future income, and beyond that no 
 sign of common-sense. He had in hand, it appeared, 
 something under one hundred pounds, and with that 
 imposing capital was quite content to face the world; 
 that the prospect of his being able to earn any more 
 money before that was exhausted appeared extremely 
 doubtful, did not seem to trouble him. I failed, signally 
 and completely, to make the man realise that in a few 
 months he might find himself without a penny ; I aroused 
 in him no more than surprise that any one should look 
 so far ahead. As a concession, I fancy, to what he termed 
 my "indecently practical mind," he explained at some 
 length his idea of economy, and asked my approval of it ; 
 in so far as I could gather anything from what he told
 
 160 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 me, I came to the conclusion that his economical prin- 
 ciples consisted in living with extreme care and at very 
 small expense for five days in every week, but, upon the 
 remaining two, spending very much more money than 
 seven days of quite decent comfort would have cost him. 
 I did not admire his system, and I told him so; whereat 
 he called me an old fool, and suggested that we should go 
 and get a really good dinner to remove the taste of so 
 much dry talk. 
 
 " Maitre Richard," said he, as we neared the finish 
 of the dinner in question, which I had not had the 
 strength of mind to refuse to take in company with 
 him, "you have been talking in a mighty solemn fashion. 
 What 's the point, my friend? If I am to starve 
 devil take the thing the gods have ordered it, and I 
 shall starve; but I am their true and faithful servant, 
 I trust these stern Olympians with a faith you cannot 
 equal, I rest in their arms content. Besides we will 
 imitate, good sir, your own abundant common-sense 
 very few people with my education and ability I 
 would have you lay stress, sir, on the ability actually 
 die of starvation ; I cannot imagine that I am to be singled 
 out as one of the exceptions. And, if I do not die, with- 
 out doubt I shall live the reasoning is perfect and 
 if I live, I shall paint, and if I paint, I shall be happy, 
 which is the chief end in life, and to hell with the 
 moralists that deny it. Friend of my abandoned youth, 
 counsellor and sage, honoured and esteemed companion, I 
 drink your excellent good health in this pleasant wine, 
 which God be thanked has not passed through the 
 chemical factory on its way to this table. And, my 
 Richard, no more of business!" 
 
 I did not attempt to open the discussion again; and I 
 left Paris a few days afterwards, knowing, I fancy, as
 
 A Bishop and an Artist 161 
 
 much about the chances of his future as Massingdale 
 did himself, which is to say that I knew practically 
 nothing at all. 
 
 My practice at the Bar was beginning to fill my time, 
 and during the autumn I became very busy, so that I 
 had little time to think of Massingdale or his affairs. 
 In addition to this, he was a bad correspondent, would 
 maintain silence during many months, and then send 
 a budget that told very little about himself; so that 
 until after Christmas, I had only the scantiest news of 
 him. However, he wrote that he flourished and that he 
 led a calm untroubled life, and I had no evidence to 
 prove that he garbled the truth. 
 
 I imagined that with Massingdale in Paris I should 
 be altogether quit of the Right Reverend Arthur Sidney 
 Magram-Coke; I was, happily, no relation of his, and 
 I saw no possible reason why I should do more than 
 encounter him on chance occasions; yet, why I could 
 not for some time discover, he began to thrust himself 
 into my existence with suave determination. Shortly 
 after I had settled down for the autumn, I was annoyed 
 by receiving a letter from him; it was disgustingly 
 polite. He wrote that he imagined that I should be in 
 London for the winter, and that he hoped to see some- 
 thing of me, since it was his great desire to keep in touch 
 with old college friends; and he urged me to come and 
 lunch with him, or, if lunch was not convenient for a 
 busy man, such as he assumed I had become, to dine, 
 naming my own day. To offend, without cause or 
 without tangible cause, prominent men, however ob- 
 jectionable, is not the best way to success in life, so 
 that, since I had my own living to earn, I refrained 
 from replying to the man with a curt refusal, accom- 
 panied by the suggestion that he should not misuse
 
 1 62 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 the word friend; instead I pleaded a press of work 
 and named a Saturday for dinner, as the only date in 
 the near future on which I could accept his invitation, 
 having an idea that all parsons were always busy on that 
 particular night preparing for the Sunday. He replied 
 immediately that he counted on me for the evening 
 I had named, and that he anticipated a long chat about 
 old days. I kept the engagement, and was very singularly 
 bored. He was then a bachelor and he had asked, possibly 
 commanded, I do not know the etiquette, a couple of 
 ordinary clergymen to meet me; one of these two men 
 toadied his spiritual overlord in the most shameless 
 manner, apparently rejoicing in the snubs which he 
 received; the other, an excellent sort of fellow, I fancied 
 him, with a layman's wit, did not in the least abase him- 
 self before my lord, the Bishop, and was, I imagine, 
 without the hospitality of the episcopal table for the 
 future. Both these gentlemen were dismissed in un- 
 mistakable fashion soon after dinner was over, and I, 
 despite my best efforts at escape, had something over 
 an hour of his lordship's edifying monologue. He harped 
 on the Massingdale business; deplored the fact that his 
 duty had compelled him to act in it; and let me have a 
 full quarter of an hour of unctuous drivel about young 
 lives ruined, stray sheep, and hopes of future repentance, 
 until he drove me out of the house in a mood of violent 
 anger against a man whose food I had eaten. 
 
 After that Magram-Coke became a perfect nightmare 
 to me; I could not escape from the man's smooth, 
 saintly face; I imagine that I saw him, on an average, 
 once a fortnight. He procured me a brief, which did 
 me a lot of good, besides bringing me in the fee at which 
 it was marked ; I did not realise at the time that I owed 
 it to him, I fancied that it was brought to me in a perfectly
 
 A Bishop and an Artist 163 
 
 ordinary fashion, but I discovered afterwards that he 
 had given the solicitors a hint he was interested in the 
 case on which they acted. Had I known all about it 
 I think that I should have refused the thing, good as it 
 was, in order to be quit of any appearance of being 
 indebted to him. He never pestered me with any of his 
 professional charities or good works, and he always 
 treated me with a rather obvious deference, which, 
 coming from a man so much my senior and in such a 
 far more prominent position, caused me a good deal of 
 speculation. One afternoon in the following January 
 he came to me in my chambers, with a request that I 
 should get him, and a young niece of his, a seat at 
 the Central Criminal Courts, in order to hear a case 
 tried. I was exceedingly rude to the man, being both 
 busy and altogether sick of him. I began by asking 
 him whether he preferred a murder trial, or whether 
 he had not mistaken the court and really wished to 
 hear an amusing divorce suit; then without giving him 
 the time to answer, I told him that I did not like 
 helping to make the administration of justice a pub- 
 lic spectacle, that I was sorry but I could not help 
 him. Although I am quite aware that my attitude 
 must have appeared both bombastic and ridiculous, 
 besides being gratuitously rude to a man much older 
 than myself, he showed no sign of offence; apologised 
 for having encountered one of my principles; and 
 assured me that I had opened his eyes to the true aspect 
 of something that he had hitherto condoned. I felt, 
 and I am quite willing to suppose that I looked, a fool; 
 I learned later that he attended a trial for murder and, 
 I give a junior counsel's gossip, appeared highly inter- 
 ested in the whole proceeding. I also discovered, some 
 five days afterwards, the reason of his goodwill on my
 
 164 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 account: he imagined that I was on terms of intimacy 
 with a member of the Cabinet, who had been a close 
 friend of my father. I had, it is true , dined with the 
 gentleman in question perhaps once a year since my 
 father's death; beyond that I could not be said to know 
 him, and had about as much influence with him as with 
 the Grand Mogul. Yet, I understand, Cabinets make 
 Suffragan Bishops into Prelates of greater dignity, and 
 without doubt the poor man was not willing to miss 
 a single chance; therefore, I avoided him with greater 
 care than before; I gave my clerk orders to say that I 
 was out, if he should happen to call at my chambers; 
 and I did not enlighten him as to my relations with the 
 politician. It was just as well, in my opinion, that he 
 should waste his time on a wild goose chase; I have no 
 liking for gratuitous interference, and it stuck in my 
 mind that he was responsible for the fact that I no longer 
 had Massingdale as my neighbour in Brick Court. 
 
 Early in February I had a letter from Loissel announc- 
 ing his arrival in London in the course of the next week. 
 I had taken a great fancy to the old man, and I wrote 
 urging him to be my guest ; I also wrote to Massingdale 
 asking him to try to induce the old artist to come to me. 
 Our joint efforts were successful, and Loissel promised 
 to make my rooms his headquarters for a week. He was 
 fully occupied, and I did not see very much of him except 
 in the early morning and late at night, but I made the 
 most of such occasions, and was delighted to discover 
 in him a man who styled one of the morning an early 
 hour at which to go to bed. He had travelled a great 
 deal, had sailed, I fancy, every navigable sea, and he 
 spoke many languages; in addition, he was an excellent 
 talker, and looked out upon the world with a kindly, 
 laughing toleration. Therefore, I hold the hours that he
 
 A Bishop and an Artist . 165 
 
 and I spent together in my rooms, comfortably settled 
 before the fire, with London growing quiet about us, 
 occasions which I am not likely to forget. 
 
 Although he said very little about Massingdale, and 
 I did not press the subject, I gathered that he was 
 anxious to meet Joan Onnington; so I got my aunt to 
 send him an invitation for the week-end, which he 
 accepted. From the moment of his entry into Elsing- 
 ham Hall he established himself as a friend of the 
 Onnington family; and during dinner on Saturday 
 evening, and afterwards into the small hours, my uncle 
 held him in talk about the sea, of which Loissel always 
 spoke as of a thing he loved beyond praise. "My 
 countrymen do not understand it," he told us, "they 
 have mistaken what it is. When I read Hugo, I am 
 inclined to weep at his mistakes. Les Travailleurs de 
 la Mer but it is all wrong! With him, with Hugo, 
 it is the cruelty of the sea, its remorselessness that fills 
 his mind. And with the others the same thing; all, 
 yes, all of them, speak chiefly of this cruelty, this great 
 force without pity. But the sea is not cruel, only un- 
 relenting, calm, and very strong. It is that strength, 
 so quiet, so resistless, which even in its anger is never 
 impotent with rage, that should attract the mind. Man 
 Dieu, it is not cruel, the sea, only stern, and no lover 
 of any weakness." 
 
 He had spent many years as a young man shipping 
 as purser or as steward, voyaging in cargo tramps of 
 all classes and of all nations, in order that he might 
 come to some real understanding of the thing he loved 
 so much, yet not wishing, he informed us, to spoil his 
 hands with the work of an able seaman. What hard- 
 ships and what poverty he had undergone I do not 
 know; he seldom spoke about himself, but that he
 
 1 66 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 had seen plenty of both there could be no kind of 
 doubt. 
 
 He was of peasant origin, a fact which he neither 
 hid nor advertised; and from a small farm to a first 
 place among French artists, from obscurity to fame, 
 from the peasant's blouse to a coat glittering with orders, 
 is a long road, and for much of the way rough going. 
 
 As Admiral Onnington and I stood in the hall that 
 night, lighting our candles, I obtained some idea of 
 the impression that Loissel had made. 
 
 "Confound it," said my uncle, "if I had not taken 
 such a fancy to your great artist friend, I should be 
 furious with the fellow. He has knocked all the conceit 
 out of me, and I thought I was fairly secure at my time 
 of life. I 've sailed the sea for a good many years, 
 and damme I believe I 've had my eyes shut the 
 whole time. " 
 
 With that he went off to bed, apparently very well 
 pleased in spite of the loss of his self-conceit. 
 
 The next day Joan, Loissel, and I set out in the morn- 
 ing for a long walk, to have a look at the country in 
 the daylight. The day was clear and bright, with a 
 touch of frost in the air, but the sun so warm that we 
 seemed already arrived at spring. Loissel had never 
 seen our eastern counties, had heard them much decried 
 as flat, misty, and without charm, and had expected 
 little better ; so that as we tramped on our way, touching 
 the real fenlands, and working back again into the 
 undulating country of south-east Cambridgeshire, he 
 condemned his informants as purblind fools. Beyond 
 that, he made few comments on the scene, spoke very 
 little of his art, and was as far from boring us with any 
 polite rhapsodies as any man could be. Occasionally, 
 as he swung along with the free stride of a man half his
 
 A Bishop and an Artist 167 
 
 years, his hat in one hand, and his pipe, as likely as not, 
 waving to his remarks in the other, he would pull up and 
 look about him. "They are good," he would tell us, 
 " your fens. They are wide wide. There is space here ; 
 one is not crowded." Then we would go on tramping 
 again, discussing many subjects with much freedom. 
 He hailed every child that he met; and at the inn where 
 we lunched he collected a swarm of them about him, 
 and his broken English neither made them laugh nor 
 stopped their tongues. Upon Joan, I am certain, he 
 made a very deep impression, and that he, on his part, 
 had formed no small liking for the girl seemed equally 
 apparent, so that the three of us found ourselves very 
 well content, and our talk flowed without restraint. 
 
 About four o'clock we got to Balsham, and took the 
 Hildersham road until we came to the Roman way; 
 there we turned off to the right, where the track leads 
 sharply to the top of a knoll. Loissel halted as we 
 got to the summit. 
 
 "You treat my age with small respect, mademoiselle, " 
 he laughed. "You take me up these local mountains 
 as if I had your youth. You forget that I am old, and 
 very fat." 
 
 "I certainly had forgotten that," said Joan, with the 
 appearance of much contrition. "I am so sorry; but I 
 can hardly remember it even now. " 
 
 "You only flatter me in this way," he told her, 
 "because you think that I am so old that I shall no 
 longer attempt to give you back your compliments. 
 Beware, mademoiselle; I shall begin to pester you with 
 attentions. I am not blind; and I shall argue that 
 you have led me on. " 
 
 Joan promised that she would deal gently with him 
 and we stood a moment silent, looking at the view
 
 168 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 before us. The sun had gone down behind the hills 
 ahead, leaving them outlined against the glowing red, 
 the trees upon the crest black and delicate like fine 
 and ragged lace. The sky was without a cloud, and 
 wide above us; the night had turned cold, and a wind, 
 that left the mists in the hollows undisturbed, blew 
 quietly. The whole countryside was still, heavy and 
 sleeping, resting gladly, it would seem, after its short 
 day of talk about the summer, without any stir of birds 
 or insects, moved to no bustle of retiring as the sun 
 went down. 
 
 When we had watched this scene some moments, 
 we moved on down the track, picking our way as the 
 light began to fade. Joan was the first to speak, after 
 we had walked a quarter of a mile or more, and her 
 thoughts still wandered, I fancy, round the sight that 
 we had left. 
 
 "I think," she announced, "that it is quite right that 
 men who can make beautiful things, sights, or sounds, 
 or ideas, live again for others, should be admired and 
 respected. Artists of any kind are wonderful people." 
 
 Loissel looked at her in enquiry, and seemed to hesitate 
 at his reply. Then : 
 
 "Surely you jest, mademoiselle?" he asked. 
 
 "I am quite serious," Joan assured him. "Don't 
 you agree with me?" 
 
 The old man shrugged his shoulders, spreading out 
 his hands, and his words came with unexpected vehe- 
 mence. 
 
 " Mon Dieu, no! Honour the works if they are worth 
 it, guard them with care, read them often, delight in 
 the sound of them. But the men that is a different 
 affair. Why should you admire and respect them?" 
 
 "Because men who do great things ought to be
 
 A Bishop and an Artist 169 
 
 admired and honoured. They deserve thanks, and 
 respect is the best expression of the ordinary man's 
 thanks." 
 
 Joan's voice sounded astonished, and, I thought, 
 touching on indignation. 
 
 " They get paid for their work like other men," Loissel 
 answered, with a scorn that I had not heard him use 
 before. "Believe me, mademoiselle, the world is very 
 much inclined to praise the artist beyond his merit, 
 to call him a fine fellow when it knows that he is not. 
 We have already far too much conceit. Instead of a 
 just criticism of our work, we find a great deal of in- 
 difference, politely concealed, for the art, and foolish 
 petting and spoiling for the man. We grow worse and 
 worse." 
 
 "Why do you say this?" cried Joan, and there was 
 no longer any doubt of her indignation. 
 
 "I only say the truth," Loissel assured her. "Your 
 artist, what is he? A man who has some work to do in 
 life. If he does his work well, that is good; but he is 
 not different from other men who also perform with 
 success in the business of their lives. What does he do, 
 your artist? He is not content with his work to do it 
 quietly, he proclaims to the world that he has a tempera- 
 ment, and the world gapes at him and says that a 
 temperament is surely a very fine thing, and the man who 
 has it a wonderful fellow. Perhaps he believes in his 
 temperament I think he does but the world should 
 not help him to make a god of it. He comes to despise 
 these others these men without this wonderful quality ; 
 he will imagine that they are different to himself and 
 much inferior. When he does something that they do not 
 like he styles them fools, and he goes on doing the thing 
 because he is certain that these others must be wrong.
 
 170 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 Oh, this temperament of the artist, it is a wonderful 
 thing, a fine excuse for all manner of foolishness and 
 wrong!" 
 
 "I don't believe a word of it, " Joan interposed, staring 
 ahead of her with angry eyes. "Why should you blame 
 them because they are different to other men? You 
 would scorn them if they were conventional. " 
 
 The painter took no notice of her anger; his voice 
 was quiet and thoughtful, and he seemed to be con- 
 vinced of his point. 
 
 " I do not blame them," he continued, "I pity them. 
 I pity myself, mademoiselle. I ask that the world, you 
 others who admire our work, should treat us as you 
 would if we did other things. To go against the con- 
 ventions of society, when your place is among men, 
 is no virtue in itself. When an ordinary man offends 
 these laws of society, he is punished by loss of standing 
 among his neighbours; when an artist does the same 
 thing he does not suffer. It is his temperament, you 
 say he cannot help it, he is different from other men, 
 and he gains credit for his unconventionally, because 
 it is expected from him. Then, mademoiselle, one fine 
 day your artist does something that is not expected from 
 him, something, perhaps, that may seem to you to go 
 too far, and at once you forget that he has a tempera- 
 ment, and you blame him for what he has done. But 
 the poor man has only followed his usual course, he has 
 acted on his own advice, as he has done before, and he 
 cannot understand why you blame him. His fault 
 is probably not grave to him it is, very likely, a little 
 thing but he has found the one convention that he 
 must not override, and he is punished. " 
 
 Loissel was silent, but Joan did not answer him. She 
 gave no sign of her feelings, and it was too dark to see
 
 A Bishop and an Artist 171 
 
 her face. Seeing that she did not answer, the old man 
 continued in his steady, kindly voice : 
 
 "It is not just, mademoiselle, it is not wise, the way 
 you treat us. There should be less mention of this 
 temperament, or, if it must be mentioned, then more 
 understanding. A butcher has a temperament, though 
 possibly of a less interesting nature than that of the 
 artist, but I have never yet heard it suggested that a 
 butcher should be encouraged to walk among his fellows 
 with pounds of good beef hanging about his neck. 
 Why, then, do you encourage us, artists, to exhibit 
 our wares? Why do you allow us to bring our moods 
 with us when we come amongst you? You urge us 
 on to dance before you, possibly because we are puppets 
 that amuse you, but when our dance becomes natural, 
 when we no longer pose before you but show our real 
 .selves in the excitement of the moment then how do 
 you say it? we have overstayed our welcome, you are 
 no longer pleased with us. That is why so often we 
 make fools of ourselves, why, very frequently, the artist 
 appears in the light of a conceited mountebank. It 
 would be better, I am sure of it, mademoiselle, better 
 for you, and much, much better for us, if you would 
 treat us just like other men. Forget these moods which 
 we show, do not remember that we have this tempera- 
 ment, and treat us as those others whose work in the 
 world is not less valuable than ours. The artist has many 
 temptations. He lives so much in a world that is not 
 real that often, without any encouragement, he is tempted 
 to forget that the things about him are more alive than 
 those which he creates; yet when, through his own 
 foolishness and through that of the men about him, he 
 is shut out from the real things to dwell in his own 
 world, then, very often, he suffers much unhappiness.
 
 172 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 I would ask you, mademoiselle, for the sake of myself 
 and these other foolish men, my fellows, to think more 
 of the work, less of the man. It is a good work which 
 we do for me it is the only work but to do it well is 
 no more wonderful, no more to be admired than the 
 doing well of any other thing that demands skill and 
 thought and loving care." 
 
 I had listened to him with interest, and when he had 
 finished I walked in silence, thinking of what he had 
 said and seeing many meanings in it. Joan said nothing, 
 but walked beside him in the dark, keeping her own 
 counsel. As we turned into the park, he spoke again, 
 in a voice that was full of laughter and apology. 
 
 "I am an old fool," he told us. "I begin to lecture; 
 I am surely come to old age. You must forgive me, 
 my friends ; I forget myself when I speak of this subject. 
 And now we are certainly late for tea, your nice English, 
 tea with the hot cakes. I am desolate. " 
 
 His great rolling laugh sounded gently, but Joan 
 seemed to take him at his word, and was urgent with 
 protests. 
 
 "No, no!" she cried, and I could imagine her very 
 serious, "you must not think we were not interested. 
 I should have answered you; it was very rude. But 
 you showed me so many new things that I had no 
 reply ready. Please don't imagine that I was not 
 interested." 
 
 Loissel chuckled to himself. 
 
 "You do not know me, mademoiselle," he assured 
 her. "I am a very conceited old man. I did not 
 think you were offended." 
 
 We were, as Loissel had foreseen, late for tea, but 
 we got the hot cakes before they had grown cold. 
 
 The following afternoon, as we journeyed back to
 
 A Bishop and an Artist 173 
 
 London, I asked a question that had been puzzling 
 me. 
 
 "I thought," I suggested, "that you were anxious 
 to leave matters alone. Surely your talk yesterday 
 afternoon about temperament and its reception was 
 intended to refer to such cases as Massingdale?" 
 
 The old man sat back in his corner, smiling at me 
 in content. 
 
 "So you can add up little figures and make the total 
 right," he answered. "But yes, my friend, I had that 
 intention. I gave a suggestion. Hein! But she will 
 not know my meaning; she will be puzzled, your little 
 cousin. And when a woman is puzzled, she tries to find 
 the answer to the puzzle. She will think of our friend 
 Louis ; she is not sure whether I think him wrong or not, 
 but she will think of him. That is what I want. " 
 
 "But is this leaving the matter alone?" I asked, 
 not seeing his object. 
 
 " I like your cousin," he replied, ignoring my question. 
 "I think that she would make a good wife, when she 
 is grown up. Eh, bien! I could not resist the chance 
 of making her think a little more of this boy who loves 
 her. Perhaps, I do not know, she might come to under- 
 stand him; if she remains persuaded that she has ever 
 done so, that becomes impossible. But, no word of 
 anything to him; for him the thing is past, hopeless. 
 We are agreed?" 
 
 "Yes, " I assented. " But is it fair to bring the matter 
 up again; ought not she, also, to be left alone?" 
 
 "Oh! as for that," he told me, "I have no scruple. 
 He is worth a little suffering, that boy. " 
 
 He broke the silence again, a little later, saying his 
 last word on the matter. 
 
 "Si la jeunesse savait!" he sighed. "If in this love
 
 i?4 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 of youth there was a little understanding, a small idea 
 of what life means, would it be better?" 
 
 The question being one which I could not answer, 
 we talked of other things. 
 
 Loissel went back to Paris two days afterwards, 
 and I was for some time without any news from that 
 pleasant city. At Easter I had intended going over 
 for a week, but circumstances preventing me, I saw 
 nothing more of Massingdale for some time to come.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 WHICH SHOWS SOME ASPECTS OF A WANDERING LIFE, 
 TOGETHER WITH OTHER MATTERS 
 
 SOMETIME in June of that year I induced Massing- 
 dale to break a silence that had lasted more than 
 a couple of months ; but when his letter came it brought 
 me no good news. He wrote from the Hotel Dieu, in a 
 perfectly cheerful vein, which meant, in his case, nothing, ' 
 and in a handwriting more illegible than usual. 
 
 "You behold," he informed me, "or you might do so 
 if you stood in this somewhat cheerless barrack, an 
 interesting invalid, a convalescent about to quit the 
 couch of sickness, the victim, sir, of one of those deplor- 
 able motor accidents that are daily becoming more 
 frequent. One fine day, about three weeks ago, the fat 
 Auguste and I should be imagined taking the air upon 
 the Place du Parvis -Notre- Dame, engaged in the en- 
 grossing occupation of determining the aspect of the 
 old Parvis. We walked, entirely lost to our surround- 
 ings, about the middle of the square, and we reconstructed 
 the old buildings with many expressive gestures of the 
 arms. As you are aware, no man can suitably conduct 
 such a business without becoming erratic in his progress, 
 without forgetting, if there be a soul within him, that 
 vehicles exist. For us, at the moment, the whole
 
 176 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 development of vehicular traffic, the long centuries of 
 evolution, had been in vain. There was a hoot we had 
 been walking and had stopped short with some sudden- 
 ness a shout, the noise of levers and other mechanical 
 devices being violently applied. 'Sauve toi,' cries 
 Auguste, making an attempt to catch me by the arm; 
 and I was caught amidships by an elegant and expensive 
 automobile. Here, mon cher, the lights go down, the 
 incidental music becomes mournful, and the faces of 
 the crowd are seen to whiten. Behold! the poor gentle- 
 man is upon the ground, obviously no longer at his ease, 
 and his faithful companion heartbroken and filled with 
 rage. A car is a bad thing to hit, tough and insensible; 
 I had the worst of the encounter, a broken leg, some ribs 
 stove in, and many bruises, but nothing either interest- 
 ing or serious. Auguste! Auguste was superb. I 
 remember that he spoke with scant politeness to the 
 driver. ' Sacre cochon ! ' he screamed, his face transported 
 to the higher realms of woe, ' esptce d 'animal! You have 
 killed him, you have killed my friend. He dies. ' With 
 that he went down on his knees beside me, the tears 
 streaming down his face, and began to loosen my collar, 
 talking incoherently the while. I will not disguise the 
 horrid truth from you. I felt damn bad; but the sight 
 of Auguste had moved a corpse to laughter, so I laughed, 
 and it hurt my ribs like hell. Up gets our little fat man ; 
 the rdle is changed, action and resignation hold the 
 boards; he is a broken man, but capable. 'Messieurs,' 
 says he to the crowd about us, and very solemnly he 
 removes his hat, 'we will take him, my poor friend, 
 across to the hospital that he may die in comfort on a 
 bed.' Since then I have been a fixture in the H6tel 
 Dieu, but hope to leave the place in a few days. 
 
 "I am inclined to think that the authorities of the
 
 Aspects of a Wandering Life 177 
 
 hospital are divided between mirth and resentment at 
 the behaviour of the good Auguste. When he had been 
 informed that the case would not come up to his expecta- 
 tions, that death had no part in it, and that a few weeks 
 would see me about again, he flew, I am informed, to the 
 opposite extreme of emotion; congratulated every one 
 about him ; praised the skill of the resident surgeon in no 
 measured fashion; referred incoherently to the Cross 
 of the Legion of Honour, for whom it is not known ; was 
 told that he could not see me until later; and departed 
 in a great state of excitement. Within a couple of hours 
 he had Loissel and Yvonne Carrel at my bedside, and I 
 should judge from their manner that they had expected 
 to see the battered remnants of a man, living but robbed 
 of all future hope of activity or even movement. 
 Loissel would have had me brought to his flat, but I was 
 against it and so was the surgeon fellow; Yvonne said 
 little, but I am embowered amid the flowers that she 
 has sent me; and Auguste sat patting my hand, a very 
 picture of foolishness, and announced his intention of 
 bringing Marellac to play to me, a thing he has not been 
 allowed to do. 
 
 "For the last three weeks I have daily held a levee: 
 Auguste is always here; not seldom Loissel or Yvonne; 
 and from time to time others whipped up by the inde- 
 fatigable fat man. Blinkson comes regularly twice a 
 week, and is always sober when he comes; each time he 
 brings me a book, chosen in a fashion beyond praise, 
 so that I think that when I am about again I shall allow 
 him to guide me in my reading. He is a fine wreck of a 
 man, Dick, come upon the rocks and going fast to pieces; 
 you do not like him, but you would if you saw more of 
 him. 
 
 "I laugh at all these good people, a sick man is a
 
 i7 8 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 selfish, careless animal, and I am afraid that, some- 
 times, I show that their solicitude amuses me. Yet 
 it is that or tears, my friend; for if I don't laugh 
 at the way they stick by me, I shall most certainly 
 disgrace myself by maudlin sentiment. They do not 
 grow on the hedges, the fat man, Loissel, Yvonne, and 
 the rest. 
 
 " I did not write before because I knew that you would 
 go one better than the rest of them, and that I should 
 probably receive a call from you as well. If the thing 
 had been a really serious matter, I would have asked 
 you to be in at the finish. I, moreover, extracted a 
 solemn and universal promise that you should not be 
 told of anything. 
 
 "When I come out, I go to Loissel for a few days. I 
 have let the studio an economy after your own heart. 
 Then Loissel arranged this I go to some villa near 
 Como, to paint a fresco for the owner. Fame, fortune, 
 riches ! ! 
 
 "Having so many famous and influential friends, I 
 am allowed many privileges here. I already hobble 
 about. If you were fool enough to come here to visit 
 me, I should be very rude and altogether unsociable. 
 Write instead a better proceeding for all parties. " 
 
 I was fool enough to go and see him, and I was some- 
 what annoyed that he had not sent for me before. I 
 went over to Paris for a week-end, informing him of my 
 intention by wire, and asking him to let me know, by 
 the same means of communication, addressing his answer 
 to Boulogne to meet the boat, whether he was still in 
 hospital. His reply was, possibly, a source of amusement 
 to some jaded telegraph clerk possessing a knowledge of 
 English. It ran :
 
 Aspects of a Wandering Life 179 
 
 "Inimitable idiot. Wasteful and extravagant fool. 
 217 bis Boulevard Haussmann. You put up there." 
 
 A clear waste of six words which he could no more 
 help than I could avoid going to visit him. 
 
 He had all the appearance of convalescence, and was 
 the temporary possessor of a pair of crutches, which he 
 used with no skill at all, yet he proclaimed himself 
 perfectly well, announced that he thought of nothing 
 at all but the next occasion on which he could eat, 
 and was in excellent spirits. I discovered that he had 
 had a very narrow escape, and had, in reality, been 
 rather badly knocked about; but that the accident was 
 unquestionably his own fault; Auguste Vanne gave 
 me an account of it which did not lack fire, which, 
 moreover, was a miracle of effective gesture. 
 
 I could not stop with Loissel more than a couple of 
 days, although he tried to keep me longer, and during 
 that time I came to the conclusion that, whatever 
 Massingdale had lost in leaving England, he had cer- 
 tainly gained some friends in Paris to whom the name 
 was not misapplied. We had no serious talk, he and I, 
 but I learned that he was full of hopes, partly justified, 
 and that his worldly goods amounted to little more than 
 twenty pounds, his artist materials, and a wardrobe 
 that was neither well equipped nor fashionable. After 
 I had left him, standing upon his crutches at the door 
 of Loissel's flat and enlarging upon my folly in coming 
 to see him, which thing he had forgotten, so he told me, 
 until that moment, I saw no more of him for something 
 over a year. 
 
 He went, as he had intended, to the villa near Como; 
 was there some two months or more, living in the 
 neighbouring village; and adorned the villa to the 
 satisfaction, I believe, of both the owner and himself.
 
 i8o The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 Then, until Christmas, he was in Rome, doing, as far 
 as I could gather from his letters, the work of a student, 
 and it has always been a mystery to me how he managed 
 to live during those months; that he was often hungry 
 I afterwards had proof. Finally, a few days before 
 Christmas, he was back again in Paris, in a much smaller 
 studio, in the Rue Cortot, with no fair view of Paris 
 from his windows. In this studio, where I have reason 
 to believe he dwelt in great poverty, he remained until 
 the late spring, but as I never saw the place, something 
 always occurring to prevent my paying him a visit, 
 I cannot give any description of it. 
 
 I cannot imagine that this is the place to quote his 
 letters at any length, they were often of a description 
 that seems to me better kept to the sole knowledge of 
 the man to whom they were written, and by that I mean 
 that they were full of casual gossip about himself and 
 his surroundings, which I am determined to guard as 
 intimate talk between friends; yet this, at least, I will 
 say of them, they always, with one single exception, 
 maintained the same note of cheerfulness, and they dealt 
 very much with his hopes of artistic achievement. 
 
 At the villa near Como I gathered that he was with- 
 out friends and somewhat lonely, although much pleased 
 at the fulfilment of his first commission. Soon after 
 his arrival in Rome I had amusing news from him, some 
 of which I shall quote. 
 
 "My excellent friend," he wrote, in the course of a 
 long letter, "I stand upon the summit of achievement, no 
 more is left for me to do in life; I have fought a duel! 
 I still ache with laughter that I had thought inextin- 
 guishable. Here is the absurd tale. I was seated the 
 other night in a small drinking-shop which I frequent,
 
 Aspects of a Wandering Life 181 
 
 enjoying the company of several worthy persons of a 
 like persuasion to myself, one of whom was a tall, 
 sallow-faced, cadaverous Belgian of an absurdly pompous 
 turn of mind. We discussed international politics a 
 not less loathsome subject than the affairs of any par- 
 ticular nation. The discussion grew warm and loud, 
 and the Belgian Renier is his name louder and warmer 
 than the rest of us. ' It is well known, ' cried he, at last, 
 'that the English have no political faith or honour, 
 that they will face about if they can gain two sous' 
 worth of advantage.' Possibly, Dick, I do not know, 
 we have earned some such reputation among the ignor- 
 ant; with the justification of this indictment I do not 
 concern myself a damn, I will not have people say it. 
 'Monsieur,' I answered, 'you lie, moreover, you lie 
 like an ignorant fool. ' He sprang from his chair at that. 
 'You intend to insult me?' he stuttered. 'Not a doubt 
 of it,' said I. 'I do.' Thereupon he grows quite polite, 
 says that I shall hear from him, and goes out of the cafS. 
 We fought next day, mon cher, and the affair was comic 
 opera from start to finish. We hired the swords, 
 borrowed 'em from a pawnshop, and they were infernal 
 heavy, an extra weight of cavalry sabre, I should imagine. 
 Every one was prodigious solemn over the encounter, 
 the formalities caused me eternal delight; there was 
 only one thing clear from the start, we must on no account 
 do any serious harm to one another. In the second bout 
 I was scratched upon the wrist, honour was satisfied, 
 and we shook hands. You may laugh, but I '11 be shot 
 if you laugh as much as I did. God help us all, it 's 
 a funny world, and duelling as I know it better than a 
 roaring farce ! I don't expect for a moment that you will 
 believe me, yet the thing is true, you have my oath to it, 
 from the time that I got up that morning until I was on
 
 1 82 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 the ground, when the farce of the whole thing was 
 established, I felt in a blue funk. The kind gods grant 
 I did not show it I think that I did not! The heroic 
 mould was, doubtless, not at hand when I was fashioned." 
 
 Some years after the event, I met one of the men 
 who had performed the duties of second for Massingdale 
 on the occasion of his first, and, I believe, his only duel. 
 The description of the encounter which I, then, was 
 given certainly supported Massingdale's tale, that the 
 affair was comic opera; the narrator, moreover, showed 
 that the gods had been kind, and that the true state 
 of mind of one of the combatants went undiscovered. 
 He assured me that he had come near to being nervous, 
 since Massingdale's amusement appeared such that 
 there seemed some chance that he would get hurt out 
 of sheer carelessness. 
 
 But Massingdale's life was not, I have reason to 
 suppose, altogether a matter for laughter, and there 
 were many occasions during those months when a man 
 situated as he was had been excused in seeing nothing 
 but blackness about him; it is, indeed, a strong testi- 
 mony to his courage that there is only one letter, out 
 of many that he then wrote to me, written in other than 
 good spirits and in hope. To face poverty and want, 
 when for twenty-five years such things have not been 
 experienced, is a test before which cheerfulness is apt 
 to be defeated. I learned afterwards something, I 
 do not think that I shall ever learn all, of what he under- 
 went during that autumn in Rome. I gathered from 
 chance conversations some idea of the straits to which 
 he was put, of the difficulty that he often had in finding 
 money to buy food and to hire a lodging, and I am much 
 inclined to wonder that among his letters, which I have
 
 Aspects of a Wandering Life 183 
 
 by me now, there is only the one in which he seems to 
 have lost hope, in which there sounds a note of bitterness 
 or of despair. I know that any man who sets out to 
 make his living as an artist must be prepared for many 
 failures, for years of unremunerative and unnoticed 
 work, but that he should continue to hold to his ideals, 
 and that he should meet, with little outcry, whatever 
 evil fortune chance may bring him, seems to me, although 
 little more than his obvious duty, still a circumstance 
 on which those who wish him well may look with satis- 
 faction. 
 
 I shall, therefore, give in this connection some portion 
 of the letter to which I have already referred; and by 
 quoting it I shall hope to point the contrast between 
 that and his ordinary correspondence. Perhaps, if I 
 look at the matter justly, I have another reason: this 
 letter shows, or so I think, something of the strength 
 of the friendship which existed between us, and I am 
 sufficiently proud of that friendship to be unwilling to 
 let slip this chance of exposing it. 
 
 I received the letter at the beginning of October, and 
 it had the address of a paste restante in Rome. 
 
 "Can you manage to send me," it began, "as soon as 
 possible, a money order for eight pounds? God knows 
 when you will get it back as soon as I can earn it, which 
 may be not at all. I know that you would rather have 
 me forego any lame explanation; that, if necessary, you 
 would give the money and be offended at any hesitation 
 on my part to ask for it; but I must explain, and it is 
 only right that you should know to what sort of a fool 
 you send it. 
 
 " During the last six weeks or so I '11 make the tale 
 as short as I can I have altogether failed to earn a
 
 1 84 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 single sou. For a time after I arrived here I was employed 
 in a studio to give what help I could to aspiring beginners ; 
 by this I earned enough to feed me, and was also allowed 
 the use of the room for my own work. I quarrelled with 
 my employer, largely on account of my own foolishness, 
 and he fired me out. Since then I have been living on my 
 capital, which was not large, which is now exhausted. 
 Four days ago I was sitting to a meal in the place which 
 I frequent, the place where Renier challenged me, when 
 my father came in, recognised me, and sat down at my 
 table. Why, when the world is wide, when Rome in 
 any case is full of drinking-shops, the fates should send 
 him to this particular one, I do not know; possibly it 
 has some reputation as the haunt of poor artists. How- 
 ever, being in Rome, the last place in which I had thought 
 to meet him, he came, on a miserable, cold, rainy evening, 
 and encountered his illustrious son. 
 
 " My father is, I think, one of the best bred men that I 
 have ever met; his manner never loses its ease; and on 
 that particular evening: he was a model for those who 
 aim at unembarrassed conversation. I did not show my- 
 self worthy of such parentage; I seem to have dropped 
 into a damnable habit of seriousness, and to have for- 
 gotten the trick of laughter. Besides, I was not in a 
 strong position ; as I see the matter, I could not possibly 
 make any advance, nor meet any that he might begin. 
 He thinks me one thing, I know myself, at least, not 
 that; he was much against my becoming a painter, and I, 
 not knowing my own mind, at one time gave him some 
 hopes that I had forgotten that career. I sat in front of 
 him ragged, unshaven my razors are in pawn 
 obviously far from prosperous, so that any attempted 
 good-fellowship on my part had seemed damnably like a 
 case of begging. I had the fear of God in me of that.
 
 Aspects of a Wandering Life 185 
 
 So we sat talking, not of ourselves but of other things; 
 and all the time I could notice his eyes on me, studying, 
 with an expression I did not try to read, his most suc- 
 cessful, independent offspring. After a while he excused 
 himself for a moment, and left the caf6, coming back after 
 a short while for another ten minutes of dull talk; 
 finally, as he got up to go, he handed me a sealed envelope 
 without address. 'This came to me for you,' says he, 
 and his tone was so natural that I did not suspect him, 
 'or rather the enclosure did. I was going to ask Dick 
 Crutchley to forward it ; I have not your address. ' And 
 with that he gave me good-night and went out. 
 
 "The envelope contained two hundred-franc notes. 
 I spent them, or much of them, in the next twenty-four 
 hours. The temptation of money to the very poor is 
 greater than I thought, or I am weaker. Then, when 
 through high living I had regained a conscience, I saw 
 the fine honourable quality of the proceeding: to style 
 my father blind and disloyal, as I do in my own mind, 
 to fancy him wanting in trust and friendship and myself 
 the pattern of virtue, who must break with him because 
 he does not believe in me, but to accept and spend his 
 money because I was hungry and cold ! The thing needs 
 no comment. I went to the only man I know here who 
 could lend me the sum; borrowed it, and returned the 
 sum to my father, with a letter thanking him, but 
 stating that he was mistaken and that I had no need of 
 it. That was the only thing that it occurred to me to do 
 I am not proud of it, now that it is done. Please send 
 the money, if you can, I must repay the other man at 
 once. It seems that I am engaged in an endeavour to 
 find out whose debtor I may become with least dis- 
 comfort to myself. 
 
 "Whether or not I shall ever reap the harvest of my
 
 1 86 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 dreams, I do not know. I have not lost hope, but at the 
 moment I cut so poor a figure that I have little conceit 
 left in me, and it seems a long, rough stretch to any turn- 
 ing. I cannot paint pictures that the small dealers 
 want ; I am not yet able to paint those that I dream of 
 painting. If I stand still where I am now, I am damned 
 and lost, a failure in all things. I am too good a work- 
 man to paint the cheap things that the suburban bour- 
 geois wants ; I am yet a whole world away from being a 
 great artist. There are times when things seem so very 
 wrong that I despair. So far, I have never once succeeded 
 in getting my thoughts on to the canvas; what right, in 
 God's name, have I to hope that I shall ever come to 
 better things?" 
 
 The letter ended with a statement that he would 
 leave Rome as soon as he could manage it, and that 
 he would get back to Paris. 
 
 Much of the scorn which he felt for himself was, I 
 think, justified; he had acted in many things like a 
 fool, and had no right to sympathy in the attitude he 
 chose to adopt towards Captain Massingdale; but the 
 giving of the two hundred francs was a false move, and 
 the cause of a difficulty to the recipient that he could 
 very well have done without. 
 
 In answer to the reply that I wrote him, I had a short 
 note, written in much more cheerful fashion, yet, or so 
 I fancied it, somewhat forced in its gaiety. 
 
 "Would you, " he wrote to me, "enchain me in a very 
 mesh of debt? Croesus, you are unduly kind to me, but 
 I will only be a beggar in so far as it suits my honourable 
 and punctilious soul to demand alms. I return the fare 
 to Paris ; and will cause a bust of Richard Crutchley to
 
 Aspects of a Wandering Life 187 
 
 be carved, that I may daily worship it in humble grati- 
 tude. I am rich again; I am in excellent spirits ('Poor 
 thing of moods ! ' says you) ; I am a burning mass of shame 
 for all my past follies, but more especially for the maud- 
 lin letter which I sent you. I am in no confusion about 
 my moral worth: I have no delusions about my being 
 anything but foolish; but once again I am a hopeful 
 fool. Paris shines ahead of me, a star, a hope, the 
 haven whose pier-head lights shine out to me across 
 the waters. I have a commission to conduct a statue 
 of Diana blessed goddess ! to some rich man's dwelling 
 near Marseilles. When I have seen it safely installed, I 
 shall be half-way on my road, and with money in my 
 pocket! I shall walk to Paris; I shall be many weeks 
 upon the road; and I shall gather inspiration as the 
 children blackberries in autumn;- finally, looking down 
 the river at sunset, footsore and content, I shall stand 
 on the Pont Neuf, breathe a prayer of thankfulness, 
 and cast my young life on the altar steps of art. En 
 cette foije veux vivre et mourir. 
 
 "Don't expect to hear from me till Christmas, and 
 then from Paris." 
 
 Of the two months during which he tramped the 
 roads of Eastern France, making his way along the 
 Rhone, through Burgundy, past the vineyards where 
 names that are like household words for familiarity 
 distinguish pleasant, quiet villages, and at last by the 
 valley of the Seine to Paris, Massingdale has told me 
 very little ; yet I am inclined to fancy it a period of the 
 utmost importance in his career, a time that helped 
 him to a much clearer sight of the way ahead. 
 
 I had three communications from him : two postcards 
 with bits of Burgundian country sketched upon them,
 
 1 88 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 and, towards the end of November, two hundred-franc 
 notes, enclosed with one line of writing on a half-sheet 
 of notepaper. How he arrived at saving this amount 
 of money I have not been able to discover; when I 
 ask him he shouts, and accuses me of thinking that he 
 stole it. Otherwise I have no details of his journey, 
 and nothing to go upon beyond his assurance that he 
 enjoyed himself prodigiously. 
 
 I had a few days in Paris at the beginning of December, 
 and was present at Yvonne Carrel's first appearance 
 at the Opera, when she took the part of Delilah, and 
 sang with much the same genius that she had shown 
 to us in the studio of the Rue Antoinette. She had 
 shortened the life of her voice, I was told, but she would, 
 for some few years more, have power to hold an audience 
 obedient to her mood ; Massingdale in the first case, and 
 Loissel after, with his kindly guarding of her, had held 
 her off from ruin in a fashion which she did not forget. 
 After the performance I had supper at the Cafe Anglais 
 with Yvonne, Loissel, and the fat Auguste; we had a 
 private room, and the party was a merry one. For the 
 most part of the time we were content to discuss Yvonne's 
 singing, and to pay her compliments, but just before we 
 broke up the gathering, Loissel, whose guests we were, 
 gave us a toast. 
 
 "To the return of our Ulysses," he cried, "and to the 
 strength that he has gained in wandering!" 
 
 We drank the toast in silence; and then, almost 
 before we had swallowed the wine, Yvonne was upon 
 her feet, her glass recharged, her eyes shining with 
 more of passion and intensity than was their wont, 
 except in singing. 
 
 "You must drink again, my friends," she told us, 
 waiting for our glasses to be filled. "You must drink
 
 Aspects of a Wandering Life 189 
 
 my toast without reserve. Messieurs ! May the dreams 
 that we have dreamt of him, our Ulysses, all come true!" 
 
 When she had emptied her glass, she threw it on 
 the table; looked at the fragments with a smile; asked 
 us whether that was not the proper thing to do; and 
 immediately announced that she was tired, and would 
 go off to bed. 
 
 Later, as Loissel and I walked home down the Rue 
 Auber, for I stopped with the old man, he touched 
 on Yvonne's toast. 
 
 "It is strange," he murmured, staring ahead with 
 eyes which did not see the street about him, "this 
 muddle in which we live. Always, always, my friend, 
 there are complications. You will laugh at me, perhaps, 
 but I have a fancy the little Yvonne's mistake, the 
 journey which she started and only ended at the last 
 moment left to her, was due to this same cause, the 
 cause of her toast to-night." He paused, and walked 
 some yards in silence, then resumed his talk on the same 
 note of speculation. "She is weak, very weak, and 
 the danger is in her blood; she gave way to it when 
 life became difficult. She wants him, she has wanted 
 him since he was a little boy in Paris how much, we 
 do not know, you and I. He knows it; she told him, 
 and he has ceased to be to her what he had been before. 
 Then she gave way. Now she hopes again. Hope is 
 seldom reasonable. It is impossible, we know that, you 
 and I ; he does not care. I do not think he ever would 
 have cared, in other circumstances. She is kind and has 
 a hundred good qualities; she could be faithful, but she 
 could never be the mate for him. So, my friend, I say 
 that the world is full of complications and of sadness: 
 for it is not a little thing the wasting of the love of any 
 woman, even though she be such that her purer sisters
 
 190 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 shrink away from her. Purity man Dieu! I think I 
 would exchange it for kindness. " 
 
 "You think, then, " I asked, and his words had brought 
 me to a greater sympathy than I had thought to have 
 in such a case, "that this is serious with her, that it 
 will last?" 
 
 He stopped and faced me, his hand gripping the lapel 
 of my overcoat, his voice harder than I had expected. 
 
 "It is one of those cases," he told me, "which certain 
 persons associate with justice, calling it retribution. You 
 and I, being perhaps less stupid, might call it tragedy 
 or comedy, the comedy that the gods have played for 
 their amusement, when the long Olympian peace is 
 irksome to them. " 
 
 We did not continue the discussion of the matter, 
 there seemed to us both, I fancy, little more to be said ; 
 but I remembered Loissel's final pronouncement, and 
 when the matter came to my mind during the next few 
 months, I wondered what the end would be, and what 
 finish the weary Olympians would order to be written to 
 this play. A happy ending was clearly not to be, or so 
 I most devoutly believed, although I have no liking for 
 any tragedy. 
 
 During Christmas time, however, I had other things 
 to think about. As usual, I passed that season at 
 Elsingham Hall, and that year Tom Onnington was 
 home, and had with him a brother officer, a man named 
 Gatton, who was quite plainly making a good bid for 
 Joan's affections. He was an amusing fellow, physically 
 very perfect, and not less intelligent than the rest of us; 
 comfortably rich, interested in his profession, and a 
 simple and honourable gentleman; such a man, I should 
 imagine, as might be considered a very excellent pro- 
 spective husband. In his case it was reasonable to
 
 Aspects of a Wandering Life 191 
 
 proclaim that you knew him when he had been in your 
 company for a week. I should be prepared to wager 
 that Joan liked him, as I am certain most people did: I 
 am equally convinced that her feelings were not deeply 
 stirred on his account. But, being an exceedingly good- 
 looking girl, she was not against being pleasant to him, 
 and very probably she gave him more than a passing 
 thought as a possible husband, submitting, without any 
 sign of resentment or acceptance, to the delicate driving 
 of my aunt, who thought that here was the final solution 
 of the Massingdale affair. For his part, Gatton seemed 
 to find the situation to his liking; but was, I took it, not 
 the sort of man to add much zest to the gods' comedy, 
 if the game went against him in the end. 
 
 Tom Onnington did not fancy the way in which 
 matters stood, and gave me his opinions one misty 
 afternoon, as he and I rode back from a day's hunting. 
 
 " I don't like the way Joan is letting Gatton make love 
 to her," he told me, breaking a silence with some 
 suddenness. 
 
 "Lord, man," said I, laughing, "don't play the heavy 
 brother. She 's doing no more than a girl with her looks 
 is compelled to do, to keep herself in good conceit." 
 
 "I don't see it," he answered, and the man was 
 plainly in earnest. "If she had the slightest idea of 
 marrying him, I 'd back her up with the best of them 
 Gatton 's an excellent sort ; but she can't have forgotten 
 that poor devil Massingdale he is not the sort of man 
 any girl forgets." 
 
 "What do you mean?" I asked, pulling up to light 
 a pipe; for I can always make a better show with a 
 ticklish conversation when I have the help of tobacco. 
 
 " Massingdale is more your friend than mine, " said he, 
 "you ought to know; but it has always struck me that
 
 192 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 he is a cut above our humble selves. Personality or 
 something. I imagine a girl feels that as we do. Also, 
 I '11 be damned if Joan did not really care for him." 
 
 "You seem to forget the circumstances of the quarrel. " 
 
 "I do not," he cut me short. "I remember it as one 
 of the most silly, fool businesses I ever heard of. It 's 
 quite impossible that Massingdale did what they suggest. 
 Why, good Lord! ten minutes in the man's company, 
 and you could take your dying oath on that. Joan 
 must be blind, or stupidly proud, or offended, or some 
 equally inane thing or other. Anyhow, it 's devilish 
 hard on Massingdale, and about the worst day's business 
 she ever did." 
 
 "Well," said I, "supposing that is so, what's the 
 remedy?" 
 
 "There is n't one," he answered. "I never suggested 
 there was. I 'm only on the cursing tack to relieve my 
 feelings. How does he take it ? " 
 
 "Massingdale? I 've never spoken to him about it. 
 Pretty hardly, I should judge, though you know he is 
 not the man to shout out because it hurts him. " 
 
 "Yes, I know that," Tom replied. "Damn it all, 
 Dick, it 's a fool world. Let 's liven up the pace a bit. 
 I'm cold." 
 
 At odd times in the course of the next week I had a 
 good deal of talk with Tom about Massingdale, and 
 although we came to no conclusion about his affairs, 
 I was uncommon pleased to discover that one of my 
 relations, in any case, would back the opinions he had 
 formed against the force of suspicious circumstances. 
 
 A few days after Tom and I had reopened the matter, 
 Gatton brought up the subject of Massingdale at the 
 dinner table, and that in perfect innocence of the fact 
 that we had ever heard of such a man. The cloth had
 
 Aspects of a Wandering Life 193 
 
 just been removed, and the wine and fruit put on the 
 table for my uncle would never have the wine set 
 while the linen still covered the board when Gatton 
 indulged in reminiscence. 
 
 "The other day," said he, addressing himself to Joan 
 across the table, but he had found a pause in the con- 
 versation and we all listened to him, "as I was coming 
 home overland, I tumbled on a most amusing artist 
 fellow; shouldn't have guessed his trade if he had not 
 told me. He was driving cows when I met him. It 's 
 a rather funny yarn, if you care to hear it. " 
 
 Having discovered that we did want to hear it, he 
 settled to his work with relish, being a man who liked 
 telling a story, which is a common weakness, who also 
 could tell one without spoiling it, which is rare. 
 
 "I broke my journey at Macon," he told us, "and 
 went, for a couple of days, to Cluny. When I 'm not 
 in a hurry, I like messing about these old places, though 
 I know nothing about them; still I had read something 
 of the history of Cluny and wanted to see the remains 
 of the monastery place. It 's not bad country round 
 about, and the second afternoon I went for a walk. I 
 did n't know my way at all ; just wandered on through 
 a forest and over some hills. I was looking out for some 
 one to tell me the way back when a man turned up 
 driving four cows; one of the most incongruous-looking 
 birds I ever set eyes on dressed like a peasant, except 
 for his coat, which was of rough tweed and English 
 for a certainty, but a gentleman without a doubt by 
 the cut and the carriage of him. He started the conversa- 
 tion before I had a chance to open my mouth, shouting 
 out to me in English almost as soon as he came in sight. 
 4 Good-day, ' he yelled, and I liked the sound of him at the 
 first go-off. ' You might stand aside, or you '11 head my 
 13
 
 194 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 cows down that bridle road. I 'm no sort of hand at the 
 driving game.' I got out of the way as he asked, and 
 waited for him to come abreast of me; if it had not been 
 for a mongrel pointer that he had with him, I '11 bet 
 that even in that short distance the cows would have 
 gone off all over the countryside. When he came up to 
 me I asked him how he knew that I was English ; there- 
 upon he roared aloud with laughter. 'Your clothes, 
 your walk, your face, your build, your pipe! Heaven 
 be kind to the man ! ' he shouted ; ' does he think that he 
 looks like a native of any other country?' 
 
 "I liked this cowherd fellow, he seemed a jovial 
 kind of knave although he was as thin as a lath and had 
 the eyes of a fanatic, so I fell in alongside of him and 
 went the way that he did. He told me of a vast number 
 of things that a man should be careful to avoid in 
 driving cows, and I howled with delight at his account 
 of his morning's misadventures; then, quite suddenly, 
 in the middle of a sentence, he asked for a fill of baccy. 
 I gave him one. 'Sir,' said he, with an absurd bow, 
 stopping short in the middle of the road and letting the 
 cows wander off where they would, 'for this I hold 
 myself your debtor for all time. Fate will separate us 
 probably in a few minutes but not the grave itself shall 
 dim for me the memory of your charity. For many 
 weeks nothing but the vilest caporal has been through 
 my pipe. That is France's greatest shame, that she has 
 no decent tobacco. Damnation ! ' With no other warning 
 he fled from me down the road, like a man with a swarm 
 of bees astern of him. There ahead of us was a fat man in 
 a trap, walking his horse past the cows and flicking at 
 them with his whip as he went by; the mongrel dog 
 evidently was n't taking any of this, and went for the 
 trap with a snarl; thereupon the fat beast inside cut
 
 Aspects of a Wandering Life 195 
 
 at him, and caught the poor brute in the eye, sending 
 him away yelling. By that time the cowherd chap had 
 got up to the horse's head ; he held on to it and addressed 
 the man in the cart in a voice that must have carried 
 most of the way to Cluny. He started off by calling 
 t' other man a fat swine, and then became so fluent 
 that my French would n't stand it; but I saw there 
 was going to be war, so I hurried up to see the fun. It 
 was a glorious scrap. The fat man, to do him justice, 
 seemed quite willing, perhaps he was backing his weight. 
 The fighting lacked style and finish, but they went at it 
 in proper fashion; the cowherd was all over the fat man, 
 who made sort of windmill rushes and used everything 
 he had got, feet, hands, head everything, and the fight 
 was finished, I should think, in under three minutes. 
 The heavy-weight got a punch in the eye that was all 
 he wanted, and he sat down in the road and cursed. 
 I handed him the reins of his horse, who seemed a quiet 
 sort of beast probably dragging the sportsman with the 
 damaged eye had sobered him and the flushed victor 
 enlisted my aid in rounding up the cows again. 
 
 "We drove them I was a long sight better hand at 
 the game than he was ; he seemed the most extraordinarily 
 erratic person I ever met to a farm about a mile away. 
 I looked upon the whole business as a lunatic perform- 
 ance that I would not have missed for a fiver, but the 
 cowherd fellow Massingdale, that was his name, I 
 thought I should remember it seemed mighty serious 
 about it; he talked with amazing excitement about the 
 fat fellow's cruelty to the dog, until we delivered up the 
 kine to their owner. Massingdale was just about to be 
 paid for his herding the man grew more and more of a 
 mystery to me as things went on when the defeated 
 champion drove into the yard. 'Streuth ! there was some
 
 196 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 talk then. I could n't follow all of it, but the three of 
 them went at it at once; and I 'd have taken odds on 
 there being another battle in fact I was standing by to 
 give my own side some assistance when they settled 
 the thing without blows. The former was an excellent 
 man of business: he suggested not giving: Massingdale 
 his money by way of punishment for his violence; he 
 stopped some of the fat man's protest by hinting that 
 the dog was seriously damaged and that there might be 
 compensation to pay on that count; and in the end he 
 got his way. 
 
 "Massingdale offered to see me on to the road for 
 Cluny, and we set out together; as far as I could make out, 
 his business in that part of the world seemed ended 
 with the safe return of the cows. I bubbled with curiosity 
 worse than any spinster; I started pumping him; and he 
 put me to eternal shame by offering me a version of his 
 life's history. ' Charitable dispenser of deifying tobacco, 
 amused spectator of my pugilistic efforts, you shall hear 
 how you walk with a great man unawares,' said he; 
 and I should have started an apology for my beastly in- 
 quisitiveness, if it had not been perfectly obvious that 
 he did not care a tinker's curse whether I happened to 
 be inquisitive or not. He told me that he was a painter 
 'of quite uncommon merit,' but that unfortunately 
 the public and the critics were, so far, unaware of his 
 existence; that he walked from Marseilles to Paris in order 
 to gain inspiration by the road; and that his periodic 
 employment as a farm labourer was an experiment to 
 prove that an unskilled man could always earn his 
 living in the country. He fired this weird yarn at me 
 with an air of perfect frankness, and I kept my mouth 
 shut at the end of it, because I was fairly up a tree, and 
 had nothing to say. I tried to get him to come to
 
 Aspects of a Wandering Life 197 
 
 Cluny and dine with me, but he would not, and left me 
 when we came in sight of the place. 
 
 "Hope I have not bored you with the tale, but this 
 man Massingdale made an awful impression on me; 
 he was, in some ways, what I should call the type of 
 a genius. Gave you an idea that he could do things 
 if he tried to, and made you cotton to him and listen 
 to what he had to say for himself, you did n't quite 
 know why. Gad, I never saw such eyes ! " 
 
 Gatton stopped talking and stared at his plate, play- 
 ing with an almond; then he looked up, found us all, 
 I fancy, trying to hit upon some happy comment, and 
 realised that there was something in the air. 
 
 "I say," he began rather nervously, "have I stuck my 
 hoof into it somehow? O Lord! Don't say that you 
 know this man Massingdale!" 
 
 He seemed to find the idea an excellent jest, and 
 laughed heartily. 
 
 "We used to know him very well," Joan answered, 
 without any sign of embarrassment; "but he has not 
 been in England for nearly two years. What you say 
 of him is very characteristic; he does those original 
 sorts of things." 
 
 "Does he paint well?" enquired Gatton; he was 
 evidently interested in Massingdale. 
 
 "He used to be a barrister," my uncle joined in 
 quietly. "I have not seen any of his work since he 
 left England." 
 
 "I hope he gets on," Gatton persisted. "I wish him 
 a popular reception at the Salon or somewhere of that 
 sort ; because it struck me afterwards that he was pretty 
 well at the end of his tether. I believe the money that 
 that farmer fellow would n't pay him was fairly badly 
 needed, and that he was too proud to dine at my expense.
 
 198 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 I supppose a man does get like that when he can't pos- 
 sibly return the hospitality; it 's rotten silly, because 
 your friend Massingdale probably slept under a haystack, 
 and was beastly hungry when he might have been well 
 fed, besides depriving me of a most amusing evening." 
 
 We did not go on with the subject, though Gatton 
 was evidently loth to let it drop ; he probably wondered 
 why we were so little interested in a man whom we 
 professed to know. Yet, had he known the true state 
 of affairs, he would have wished himself, I take it, not 
 quite so ready with a story; for he had given Joan a 
 picture which, it may be supposed, she dwelt upon. 
 To one who had once had a liking for him, the vision 
 of Massingdale, out at elbows and cheerful, doing 
 quixotic and excitable actions on the public roads of 
 France, exercising his peculiar influence, although in 
 literal fact a tramp, sleeping hungry under the autumn 
 stars, was something that would stick in the mind, keep- 
 ing green disquieting memories, wakening sleeping hopes.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 AN ODD COMPANY ASSEMBLES 
 
 MASSINGDALE had arrived in Paris a few days 
 before Christmas; had, I believe, been received 
 as a returning prodigal by his friends; and had settled 
 down to paint pictures, and, if possible, to sell them. 
 Loissel had persuaded him to accept a position in his 
 studio; the work allowed him plenty of time to do his 
 own painting, and the salary enabled him to live, other- 
 wise he had most certainly failed to find sufficient money 
 either to carry on his trade or to support existence. Yet 
 if the job offered him had been an absolute sinecure, 
 he would have snorted at it, proclaiming it charity, 
 would have refused to touch it, and would, likely, have 
 foregone many chances of success in consequence. As 
 it was, Loissel gained his own way, and Massingdale had 
 enough money to feed himself and to buy materials, 
 and the time to do the serious work that he had not 
 yet attempted. 
 
 During the next few months, he turned his walk 
 across France to some profit, and finished, from the 
 sketches that he had made on the road, the first two 
 pictures that show the real development of his power; 
 in both, A Valley of Auvergne, and La Pluie d' 
 Automne, there is something more than fine work- 
 manship and a wonderful skill in colouring there is 
 
 199
 
 200 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 a strength, and a suggestion of wide places and the 
 clean air, which is not easily come upon. Both pictures 
 brought to their creator some attention, both were 
 exhibited in the Salon, and both sold for small sums 
 something under fifty pounds for the two of them, 
 if I remember right. The advocates of the latest fashion 
 of the moment denounced the work as being superficial, 
 technically well executed but insincere. Massingdale, 
 these astute gentlemen urged, with great delight in their 
 meaningless jargon, had been content to reproduce a 
 scene that had some claim on beauty; he did not, as a 
 true artist should, express the idea which the scene had 
 conveyed to him, obliterating in his expression all details 
 that were not essential to his meaning. The wiser critics 
 held out many hopes for his future, but complained that 
 his pictures were indefinite, since they conjured to the 
 mind a hundred different aspects of the painted scenes, 
 since in them there were many suggestions, but no clear 
 explanation of the artist's vision. 
 
 Although the world of picture-lovers had not risen 
 with open arms held out to him, his first exhibits had 
 led men to speak of him, and even the more pessimistic 
 of the Parisian judges were inclined to grant that a man 
 of more than common merit had made his first bow to 
 the public. Massingdale himself seemed to care very 
 little what they said of him, announcing that a kindly 
 fate had blinded them to the worst faults in his two 
 pictures, and, for the rest, that they might say what 
 things they would. 
 
 "There is a deal of truth," he wrote to me, "in what 
 the critics, some of them, have said about my painting, 
 but may I rot in the depths of hell if I understand what 
 they mean by not making clear the artist's vision. Have
 
 An Odd Company Assembles 201 
 
 I, have you, has any one of all the human tribe, a clear 
 vision of autumn rain? At one moment it is one thing, 
 at the next, when a squall strikes you on the other cheek 
 and the wind finds out the weakness of your clothing, the 
 whole thing is changed, the scene before you not at all 
 the same. It is as we are, saints yesterday and devils 
 to-morrow, and the reason of the change not compre- 
 hended. A clear vision, forsooth! Let them take their 
 clear visions to a seminary, they are fit meat for peda- 
 gogues or fools. For me, I have never yet seen clearly, 
 being human, and, still being human, I do not think I 
 ever shall." 
 
 So the spring and the summer passed, and I saw 
 nothing of Massingdale, and only heard from him 
 occasionally, of how he slowly grew to be a painter. 
 The Onningtons left England directly after the season 
 was finished to wander about the Continent until the 
 autumn; they had, much to my uncle's disgust, rented 
 a house in town during May and June, and Joan had 
 passed what, I suppose, may be called a successful 
 season. She was uncommon popular with men, not 
 disliked by her own kind, and had developed some- 
 thing of a real beauty; yet, so far as I was concerned, 
 she had lost far more than she had gained, and in occupy- 
 ing herself solely with the ordinary affairs of a girl in 
 her position, without, as far as I could judge, any 
 particular interest, she showed signs of losing all the 
 individual character that nature had given to her. When 
 we met, which I contrived should be less frequently 
 than hitherto, she talked, for the most part, of the 
 common topics of the moment, and she showed some 
 signs of exhibiting a trick of being bored with her sur- 
 roundings, which had not been her habit a year before.
 
 202 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 I did not like the change, and I came near to congratu- 
 lating Massingdale on a merciful escape. Admiral 
 Onnington, also was not blind to the alteration of her 
 manner, giving me his views upon it one evening, when, 
 to escape some function or other, he had taken refuge 
 with me in Brick Court. 
 
 "There is something wrong with Joan, Dick," he told 
 me, sitting at his ease in a new arm-chair that I had 
 purchased. "Too much of this stupid gadding about. 
 What any one wants to miss the best month of the 
 summer rushing about this town for, I can't imagine. 
 However, your aunt would have it, my boy, and a wise 
 man knows when to give way to his wife. What do you 
 think of the girl yourself?" 
 
 "I don't quite know," I answered. "She seems 
 getting bored with the show, and yet she hardly talks 
 of anything else, as she used to do. " 
 
 "I 'm hoping," he suggested, chuckling, "that she '11 
 get such a sickener of the business that I shan't be 
 dragged up here next June. Still, I can't quite make 
 her out; she doesn't seem to care, nowadays, about 
 a man who can say something interesting. I can only 
 hope that she will wait a bit, give herself time to change 
 again, before she picks a husband. There was a time, 
 Dick, when I would have told a man to go to the devil 
 if he had suggested that my daughter would turn out 
 good-looking and nothing else; now, sometimes, I 'm 
 rather afraid that that may come to be the case. I don't 
 like it ; I always hoped that she might make a good wife 
 for a man who wanted something more than a pretty 
 face." 
 
 He sighed, and sat silent, staring in front of him; 
 then, as if he had detected himself gossiping, he changed 
 the subject.
 
 An Odd Company Assembles 203 
 
 On the whole I was not sorry when the Onningtons 
 left town, and I was distinctly relieved that they 
 had not suggested my being with them on their 
 holiday. 
 
 Having no particular plans for the spending of my 
 Long Vacation, and being of those men who do not 
 like to wander about alone, I had written to Massing- 
 dale suggesting that he should leave Paris for a few 
 weeks and should look after me somewhere in the country; 
 in due course, which in this instance was a matter of 
 several weeks, he sent me an answer, and I learned that 
 he had already fled the town, and was settled in some 
 obscure Burgundian village, in the department of Sa6ne- 
 et-Loire. Beyond the facts that he wished to sketch 
 the peasantry, and that he held many pleasant memories 
 of this district perhaps his fight with the fat man, 
 which Gatton had witnessed, was high amongst them 
 I can suggest no reason why he should have chosen this 
 spot rather than one of a hundred others, neither can I 
 show any cause at all why he should have settled as the 
 tenant of a house ; however, there are very few of Massing- 
 dale's actions which may be seen as carefully thought out 
 and duly weighed, and therein, since he has come to no 
 very great harm, and is, I fancy, not less well thought of 
 than his neighbours, lies evidence for the defence of 
 irresponsibility, and for an attack upon the useless 
 habit of setting about the discovery of other people's 
 motives. 
 
 His overdue answer to my letter was headed by a 
 curious announcement, which the rest of the epistle 
 did not fully explain; the address was given, in the 
 usual place, as La Fontaine des Bois, St. Gengoux, 
 Sa6ne-et-Loire, and below it was inscribed the following 
 information :
 
 204 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 "AU GRAND ESPOIR 
 
 (AUBERGE ORIGINALE) 
 CUISINE SOIGNEE. BAINS (TUBS). GRAND CONTORT. 
 
 PRIX MODERES. 
 Proprietaire: LOUIS MASSINGDALE." 
 
 * 
 
 After this promising advertisement, there was the 
 written assurance that, should I decide to visit the 
 hostelry, the landlord would make it his business to 
 ensure my comfort, and that he would be pleased to 
 offer me the ridiculously low terms of four francs a day, 
 inclusive. 
 
 Then and, having read so far, I was still in ignorance 
 of the meaning of the communication Massingdale 
 condescended to some explanation, which, however, 
 left me scarcely wiser than before. He informed me 
 that he had become an innkeeper; that after a long life 
 of misspent effort, he had found the one occupation be- 
 coming to a man of parts; that it was his only wish, all 
 other earthly vanities being purged from his nature, that 
 he might die in harness, an apron about his waist, a 
 dish in one hand, a bottle of wine in the other, and 
 that above his grave, in place of any tombstone, an 
 inn sign should creak in the wind. Moving slowly, and 
 at the cost of much inferior note-paper and a most 
 prodigious outpouring of words, he came at length to 
 facts, touched on them lightly, and was away again to 
 many lines of nonsense. As far as I could make anything 
 of what he wrote to me, I gathered that he had gone to 
 Cluny, or near it, to paint ; that he had there met a man 
 who the gentleman might be he did not say and that
 
 An Odd Company Assembles 205 
 
 this good person had a house to let in the hamlet of La 
 Fontaine des Bois; that the name of the hamlet was beau- 
 tiful beyond expression ; that the situation was God-given ; 
 that the house was fit to live in and very picturesque; 
 that the whole circumstance was certainly an almost in- 
 credible example of Olympian kindness; that, in short, 
 Kenneth Louis St. Cyprien Massingdale was now the 
 tenant of a cottage property in Burgundy. Having 
 signed the agreement which document I afterwards 
 studied, and it was a thing to compel tears of pity in the 
 hearts of the tenant's friends it seemed that Massing- 
 dale began to think of what he should next do. The house 
 was furnished, and the tenancy was for no more than 
 five months, otherwise one of the parties to the trans- 
 action had shortly found himself in a debtor's prison ; but 
 even in view of this mitigation of his folly, there was 
 no chance that he could support existence as a solvent 
 householder. Therefore, and even he saw the necessity 
 for some action, he set about augmenting his income 
 in the best way that was open to him; he wrote to Paris, 
 to such of his friends as were there, suggesting that they 
 should stop with him, paying their way; and, it being 
 the season when any man who may gets him out of the 
 town, he managed to collect a house-party. Such, I 
 imagined, was the cause of his announcement that he had 
 become an innkeeper; a statement not more exaggerated 
 than many that he was in the habit of making. 
 
 He furnished me with a list of the guests, promising 
 that, should I hesitate to come to his house, he would 
 provide me with a sheaf of the most enthusiastic testi- 
 monials. 
 
 "Auguste Vanne is here," he wrote, "a creature as 
 happy as the summer air, though heavier. He is engaged
 
 206 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 upon the composition of a sonata which is to dower him 
 with immortality. In his company came the boy 
 Marella*c, who wanders the hills all day and only returns 
 to my roof at night, when he makes for us the divine 
 music that the gods have sent him with the sun. Athana- 
 sius Roderick Blinkson, M.A., serves as my head 
 gardener, also as wine-taster. In both things he is 
 highly successful, and beyond, in a role more difficult, 
 he earns our gratitude as the kindly critic of our many 
 follies. Loissel will be here shortly, so that you perceive, 
 honoured sir, that the house is above reproach. Yester- 
 day, towards sundown, Hendick you remember the 
 reformer comes swinging down the road, a pack upon 
 his back. He stops. Being a person of impossible 
 vanity, he has sent for his luggage we had imagined 
 that he had it with him, but have been informed of our 
 mistake and, upon its arrival, will be expected to take 
 his dinner in the garments ordered by society. We are, 
 therefore, fashionable. When you arrive the board will 
 be as representative as a public lecture at the Sorbonne. 
 We shall point to you, proclaiming, ' There sits a man of 
 common-sense!' We have no women with us; mais 
 nous sommes bien sages , mon cher. Yvonne had added 
 to our gaiety, but the thing was impossible; no good would 
 have come of it. I speak neither in a conventional 
 fashion nor as the champion of bourgeois morals. We 
 are, however, better without women here. Therefore, 
 come! A few old clothes thrown into a bag, a book or 
 two, the next train to Paris caught with no time to spare, 
 a telegram announcing the hour of your arrival at Cluny 
 (remember the station), and the thing is done. You shall 
 live as you have not dreamed of living ; you shall become 
 a person of amazing health and appetite, and nightly 
 you shall go blessedly weary to your bed; you shall
 
 An Odd Company Assembles 207 
 
 spend long hours in the company of pleasant companions, 
 and with them you shall discuss the world and its affairs. 
 You will not refuse? As you love me, Richard, you will 
 come and see my inn, you will fill your chair that has 
 been too long vacant? Heavens, man! you cannot 
 possibly conceive my satisfaction. I am a householder 
 the circumstance pleases me like a draught of wine on a 
 hot day. I look from my windows upon a garden from 
 which I can exclude the world, if the mood takes me. 
 The garden is not large, nor beautiful as our English 
 gardens are, yet, nom d'un nom, it is mine! And the 
 place where lies this corner which I control! You shall 
 see it it cannot be described. The mountains of the 
 Charollais, the Foret de Goulene; hills, rolling and bold, 
 and trees not woods of them, but forests; streams, 
 noisy and self -occupied ; vines, and oxen at the plough 
 white oxen, soft-eyed and slow. Here in this quiet 
 valley we live apart from noise, and dust, and business; 
 railways are far from us, and the hills shut them out; 
 no main road passes us, and the world's news is not 
 brought to our door. Upon a little hill, an islet in a 
 wooded sea, there stands an unpretentious chateau a 
 hunting lodge, no more, yet this holds us to the past and 
 keeps us pledged to old tradition; for the lord who rules 
 here is of ancient stock, and neither revolutions nor 
 new creeds, enfranchisements nor popular instruction, 
 have robbed him altogether of his father's sway, neither 
 emperors nor republics have killed the memory of his 
 feudal power. Surely this is only fitting, for the valley 
 of to-day shows no great change from that of yesterday ; 
 the seasons come and go, and nature changes her dress 
 like a maiden proud of her beauty. Every morning 
 you may waken to a new scene, some slight altered 
 expression of the old friend who veiled himself last night ;
 
 208 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 every day, whether in sun or rain, calm or wind, trium- 
 phant music played by swaying trees or the deep silence 
 of small noises, you shall gather new inspiration and 
 new hope; every day you shall grow more thankful that, 
 for a little time at least, you are done with towns and 
 their confusion, that you breathe quietly under the wide 
 sky. But you shall come and make your memories 
 for yourself. You shall see how we work and enjoy 
 ourselves, and, with us, you shall forget the barriers, 
 and dream your dreams are realised, the work you want 
 to do is done." 
 
 The thing suited me very well. I had sufficient trust 
 in Massingdale's good taste to be assured that this 
 valley of his was worth the seeing. I liked the sound 
 of the promised entertainment, and I looked forward to 
 watching Massingdale direct a household with a deal of 
 amusement. At worst, I decided, I might be of some 
 use in extricating him from proceedings in bankruptcy, 
 so I left London two days after receiving his letter, and 
 wired him to meet me at Cluny the following day. 
 
 I stopped a night in Paris; took a morning express to 
 Macon; there changed to the local line; and arrived at 
 Cluny about five of the afternoon, having spent the best 
 part of a hot July day in amazingly stuffy railway 
 carriages. Masssingdale was on the platform to meet 
 me, very thin and sunburnt, and clothed, I should 
 imagine, solely in the interests of comfort. He wore 
 grey flannel trousers that had seen much service, a shirt 
 with a turned-down, unstarched collar open at the neck, 
 an alpaca coat of local manufacture, canvas shoes with 
 rope soles, and an immense hat of straw, such as peasants 
 and other wise men wear when the sun is hot. He 
 hailed me as I stepped from the carriage, and very
 
 An Odd Company Assembles 209 
 
 shortly the station rang with his talk. So far as I could 
 make out, he was on terms of intimacy with the whole 
 staff of officials, and held it a point of honour to engage 
 them all in conversation, for as we sorted out my luggage 
 he asked me a hundred questions about myself, inter- 
 spersed between talk with the porters. In spite of his 
 incredible volubility, we were clear of the station and 
 my luggage with us, before the other passengers had 
 finished the collection of their packages. 
 
 Outside was a rough farm cart drawn by a bony and 
 veteran horse of placid temperament, an animal with- 
 out the peculiar distinction of D'Artagnan's steed, a 
 mere beast of burden whose youth and, perhaps, whose 
 beauty had passed him by. Auguste Vanne in much the 
 same attire as Massingdale, except that he wore no coat, 
 sat in the cart, his face glistening with the heat, his 
 figure no less round than when I had last seen him. At 
 sight of us he clambered, with much puffing, from his 
 seat, greeted me with warmth, announced that the heat 
 was terrible, and fell upon the boxes with surprising 
 agility. While we helped him to pile them in the cart, 
 I was informed of the merits of the horse. 
 
 "For the honour of England," Massingdale assured 
 me, " I was forced to have a horse, where an ox had served 
 me just as well." 
 
 "His name," said Vanne, mopping his face with a 
 handkerchief of violent colours, "is Bucephalus. He is 
 a creature of noble spirit, monsieur, and probably much 
 older than thirty years. " 
 
 "He is not fast," continued Massingdale, getting 
 into the cart; "his amble is well known in all the neigh- 
 bourhood, no means have yet been discovered by which 
 the pace of it may be increased. Constitutionally he is 
 of a lean habit, although his appetite is good, and his
 
 210 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 kind master generous in the matter of food. Come up, 
 Bucephalus. I hope, Dick," he went on, as we started, 
 "that you have not become particular about appear- 
 ances. We are not much to look at, but, sir, our worth is 
 positively amazing; also the cart is safe, although 
 strangers are apt to expect its sudden disintegration." 
 
 The station is outside the town, and we turned off 
 to the right, heading for some wooded hills, the cart 
 rattling and squeaking so that I was glad to have Massing- 
 dale's assurance that the thing would hold together. We 
 had not gone more than half a mile when Vanne let out 
 a shout, bringing his hand down with a slap upon his 
 thigh, and startling Bucephalus into something approach- 
 ing a trot. 
 
 " Man Dieu," he cried, "mais c'est epatantt We have 
 forgotten the marketing." 
 
 "Auguste," answered Massingdale, as he turned the 
 cart round towards the town again, "permit me to con- 
 gratulate you; you have a wonderful head for business." 
 
 As we drove back, I saw something of the town, a 
 red-roofed, huddled mass, grey and ancient, the ruins 
 of its former grandeur standing out above the modern 
 buildings, still circled by the abbey walls. It lies in a 
 pleasant vale, the town of Cluny, with the hills dropping 
 gently to it, hiding the bolder heights beyond ; there is 
 an air of peace about it as of a man who rests at even 
 after a day that has not wanted in events; the signs 
 of our own time do not war with those of yesterday, the 
 modern buildings, finding themselves in a minority, as- 
 sume an unpretentious air, leaving to their ancestors, 
 to the medieval dwelling and to the house whose walls 
 were raised before the Normans came to England, the 
 rule in style and fashion; over all, showing, as it were, 
 the manner of the place to all who see it from afar, there
 
 An Odd Company Assembles 211 
 
 stands the ruin of the abbey church, a fragment, the 
 last mutilated limb, yet in itself a thing so vast that 
 it proclaims the whole the greatest church of Northern 
 Europe, to which only the popes themselves could show 
 the master. The streets are narrow and ill-paved, 
 twisting and turning so that, if the town were not so 
 small, and the great church a thing from which to take 
 one's bearings, a man might be in difficulties to find his 
 way; carved stones, snatched from their true positions 
 when the monks were driven from their quarters, are built 
 into the walls of shops and houses, and have grown old 
 and reconciled in their new homes ; in many of the streets, 
 and for the most part set to some strangely altered pur- 
 pose, there still stand monkish buildings little damaged, 
 a barn or a guest-house, a gateway or the former 
 dwelling of some high official, rich in perquisites. Even 
 if a man do no more than pass through the town, and 
 in so doing he would show himself very ill-advised, he 
 will carry from it many memories of other days, and, 
 surely, above them all the conviction that here Time 
 rests awhile, forgetting his hurry and the long journey 
 that he has to make, regretful that he must, one day, 
 turn back these old buildings to the earth from which 
 they came. 
 
 We left the upper part of the town unvisited, making 
 our way to a small market, held in a broadening of the 
 street rather than a square, near to a structure, more 
 venerable than its neighbours, which I afterwards dis- 
 covered to be the local hospital. Vanne sat in the cart 
 more, I imagine, because he wished to sit still than 
 because Bucephalus had need of an attendant and 
 Massingdale and I set about our marketing. The per- 
 formance amused me like a play, and Massingdale 
 very serious about the saving of two sous was a thing
 
 212 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 I had not dreamed that I should ever see; yet he played 
 his part very carefully, was obviously pleased as a child 
 at a new game, and succeeded, I should like to think, 
 in paying not very much more than their value for the 
 goods he bought. After many smaller purchases he 
 finished the proceeding by buying a goose. 
 
 "To-morrow," he explained to me, "being Sunday, 
 Loissel having arrived two days ago and you to-day, 
 we keep high revelry. My cook," here he grinned at 
 me in infantile delight at the possession of a servant, 
 "informs me that she can prepare a goose better than 
 the other housewives of the neighbourhood, and that I 
 am to be careful in the choice of it. Watch me, Dick, 
 you shall see me very careful. " 
 
 Thereupon he led me to a stall, where presided a buxom 
 woman of middle age, fresh and of a pleasant appearance. 
 He greeted her by the title of Madame Marcelin, and 
 remarked upon the weather; she replied that it was 
 very hot, and introduced the subject of his purchase. 
 
 "Ah, Monsieur Massingdale, " she continued, horribly 
 mispronouncing his name, "but you are late. Anne 
 Bourget informed me this morning, as we drove to mar- 
 ket, that you would buy a goose. It is unfortunate, all 
 the world buys geese to-day, Monsieur Massingdale. I 
 had six this morning oh ! but you have never seen their 
 equal they are all gone but one. That I kept for you. " 
 
 "I thank you, madame, " said Massingdale, "but I 
 am a man of affairs, I could not get here before. Show 
 me your goose. " 
 
 The bird was produced, and, to my eternal delight, 
 Massingdale poked and pinched it with the air of a 
 man who knows what he is doing. 
 
 "And how much do you want for your goose?" he 
 asked.
 
 An Odd Company Assembles 213 
 
 "Monsieur," replied Madame Marcelin upon a very 
 serious note, "you must understand that there is a 
 demand for this bird; there is Monsieur Chaumonix 
 of the 'Vache Noire,' who asks me to name my price 
 for it; there is Monsieur le Cure" of Chateau, who says 
 that he must have it; there is Madame Boulin, who 
 implores me, with tears, to sell it to her. Of a certainty 
 it has a value, but, monsieur, I have kept it for you. 
 ' Monsieur Massingdale, ' I have said to myself all day, 
 ' shall not be disappointed. ' ' 
 
 After this warning she named her price; I have no 
 knowledge of the value of geese but should judge that 
 it was beyond the bird's worth. In any case, Massing- 
 dale protested, which was no more than the due of the 
 part he played. 
 
 "Grand Dieu!" he cried, spreading his hands wide, "do 
 you think that I am a millionaire, madame, to pay you 
 fancy prices for your geese? Besides, the bird is thin." 
 
 "Not less so, ma foi," replied Madame Marcelin, 
 enjoying herself, "than Monsieur Vanne, who has not 
 that appearance. But, have I not told you, monsieur, 
 I could have sold this goose for more than double the 
 money." 
 
 Here Massingdale changed his tactics; he made away 
 with all appearance of indignation, smiled upon the 
 woman, and dropped his voice to a confidential tone. 
 
 "Know, madame," said he, "that I find no fault with 
 an attempt to drive a good bargain. Business, I under- 
 stand it! But I am an artist, and an artist is a poor 
 man, he cannot afford to buy expensive geese. Also, 
 madame, I have at my house Jean Se"bastien Loissel, 
 he will eat of this goose. Ah! You have heard of him? 
 Is it not an honour that the greatest painter in France 
 should eat the birds which you have reared?"
 
 214 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 Madame Marcelin professed herself much impressed. 
 
 "For the artist, monsieur," she agreed, "it is another 
 matter. You shall have your way; also you shall tell 
 me how Monsieur Loissel enjoyed my goose. Believe 
 me, but I shall cry my eyes out, if Jeanne Dubois, who 
 cooks for you, does not do justice to the care which I 
 have taken in bringing up this bird. " 
 
 The bargain was, therefore, struck; Massingdale 
 paying fifty centimes less than the original price, and 
 departing with his purchase grasped firmly by the neck. 
 
 "Dick," said he, swinging the goose, which was not 
 plucked, "you must acknowledge that I have learned 
 the manner of a professional housewife?" 
 
 "I '11 acknowledge nothing of the sort," I answered. 
 "I know nothing of the price of geese myself, but I '11 
 lay you a fiver to a sixpence that you paid a good deal 
 more than it is worth for that one. " 
 
 "The gods dowered you with a horribly critical 
 nature," he informed me. "I '11 take you. However, 
 the price is not the point. They think you a fool in 
 these parts unless you haggle with them; why, I cannot 
 understand, but they do. Therefore I haggle with them ; 
 it took me some time to acquire the habit, but I have 
 it now, and am respected as a man of business. " 
 
 "Good Lord!" said I, and conjured up a vision of 
 this keen man of affairs always paying twenty per cent, 
 more than he should. 
 
 When we got back to the cart, Auguste Vanne was 
 reclining against my boxes sleeping placidly, and Buce- 
 phalus was wrapped in a slumber not less deep. We 
 roused them both, and set out on the way home. As 
 we left the town Vanne inquired the price of the goose, 
 fingering the bird with the air of a critic as he asked the 
 question.
 
 An Odd Company Assembles 215 
 
 "Dieu nous garde!" he cried, when Massingdale had 
 told him, "but it is robbery; it is abominable. I should 
 have gone with you; old Jeanne will never forgive me, 
 when she hears I let you go alone. We must go back. 
 Mon Dieu, I will talk to la m&re Marcelin ! " 
 
 Here, however, Massingdale's boasted business habit 
 deserted him. He swore by all the gods that he would 
 not turn back again; that he did not care what the bird 
 was worth, or what he had paid for it; that Vanne 
 should walk the whole way, if he mentioned the bargain 
 again. So we kept on, and the fat man muttered to 
 himself of the iniquity of the transaction until he fell 
 asleep again. 
 
 The sun was getting low, and a light breeze gave a 
 welcome chance of coolness. The road began to climb 
 the hill very shortly after leaving the town, and soon 
 entered the woods, winding its way up a steeper slope, 
 twisting about the head of a small gorge. Little more 
 than a mile, as far as I could judge, from the entrance 
 to the forest, we left the high road and turned into a 
 rough and deeply rutted track; here Bucephalus came 
 to a stand, waited for us to get down from the cart, and 
 then resumed his amble, as if well acquainted with the 
 business. We three walked behind, letting the horse go 
 on at his own pace, and at the top of every rise the 
 beast stopped, waiting for us lest we should care to 
 mount again for the short level stretches. The country 
 here grew wilder, the quiet vale of Cluny was altogether 
 left behind; we had passed from woods to forest, and 
 to a loneliness that spoke of mountain places. The 
 scene changed very constantly, and we came upon a 
 greater beauty with each turn of the path. At one time 
 we walked along a way hedged by thick woods of birch, 
 then stepped from it into a wide space of pines, sweet-
 
 216 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 smelling and stately, with the sunlight slanting between 
 their stems, staining the brown floor with gold; here 
 we would climb a stiff hill that breathed us as we walked, 
 from which we had no longer view than the trees ahead, 
 there our way lay along a ridge and the country showed 
 rolling about us, rich and many-tinted in the evening 
 glow. 
 
 For the most part we walked silent, our thoughts 
 holding us to better advantage than any speech, the 
 chatter of the birds, already preparing for the night, 
 giving us full accompaniment. Once as we came to 
 the top of a steep rise, whence eastwards there lay 
 bare a great distance of rugged land, Massingdale 
 pulled up. 
 
 "There," said he, pointing, "Mont Blanc is clear 
 to-night. " 
 
 Far off, a point of silver on the far horizon, I saw the 
 mountain glimmer, and was astonished as a man will 
 be when he sees for the first time a thing of which he 
 has often heard men speak. 
 
 Then, the track descending, we got into the cart 
 again, and Bucephalus took us with many jolts and 
 rollings towards our destination. We crossed a large 
 clearing, where the tree stumps had scarcely yet grown 
 weather- toned; rounded the corner of a smaller slope; 
 and came upon a tiny hamlet in a valley, lying at the 
 foot of a conical fir-clad hill, on which there showed a 
 house of fair proportion. A sandy lane led down to 
 the hamlet, a place of, perhaps, half a dozen cottages, 
 and without a church, as far as I could see; the wheels 
 of the cart sank so deep into the soil that we were forced 
 to walk again. The evening was very still, the valley 
 in the shadow of the hills across which we had come, 
 and an air of calm abroad that led me to suppose the
 
 An Odd Company Assembles 217 
 
 spot estranged from any struggle that induced the rush 
 and noise of human differences. 
 
 We passed a brace of huts they were scarcely more 
 then at a turn of the way came upon a larger building, 
 white-washed and red-tiled, four-square to the winds, 
 low and with broad eaves, a terraced garden creeping 
 up the hill behind. 
 
 "My house!" said Massingdale, his eyes asking my 
 approval. 
 
 "Good enough," I answered; and he laughed, I think 
 with satisfaction. 
 
 Loissel was seated at the door, and he hailed us as 
 we approached, waving his pipe to me in greeting. 
 
 "You are late," he called. "Jeanne announces that 
 you are the most thoughtless of men, man petit Louis; 
 and that we are no more than fools to refuse to eat 
 without you." 
 
 As I got from the cart and shook hands with the old 
 man, I had it in my mind that I had done well to come 
 to La Fontaine des Bois, but that, as far as I could see, 
 I should spend a pleasant holiday without other excite- 
 ment than the stir of many hot discussions.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 A QUIET LIFE IN BURGUNDY 
 
 I WENT to bed very early that night of my arrival, the 
 freshness of the mountain air after the heat of a 
 railway carriage making me so full of sleep that I could 
 hardly answer the questions that were addressed to me. 
 I carry little memory of that first evening, except that 
 the talk was loud and noisy at dinner, and the food 
 better than I had anticipated, that we sat out in the 
 road before the door after the meal was finished, and 
 that I fell asleep where I sat. As a sort of background 
 to much that is confused, a setting to the dim picture 
 of Athanasius Blinkson fast losing his grip on sober- 
 ness, of Hendick back to his old talk of reform, I have 
 the impression of the stillness of the summer night, the 
 stars very clear above us, and the darkness soft and 
 warm around. 
 
 Next morning, at an abominably early hour, I was 
 aroused by a scraping and clinking above the ceiling, 
 which it took me some time to explain; in fact, I lay 
 listening to it for many minutes before I determined 
 that there was some one moving about upon the roof, 
 and then I was much puzzled to know who, in this 
 curious household, held the tiles a good place for a 
 promenade. However, the man above saved me further 
 curiosity by slipping from his perch; there was a clatter 
 
 218
 
 A Quiet Life in Burgundy 219 
 
 and a rush, a cascade of tools and boards shot past my 
 window, Massingdale coming after them, but saving 
 himself from a fall by clutching at the rainwater gutter 
 from which he hung facing into my room. 
 
 "Damnation!" said he, grinning at me. "That was a 
 near thing. I 've made the hell of a mess up there, 
 Dick. Give me a hand while I get into your window. 
 Steady. Hold tight." 
 
 "Are you hurt?" I asked, as, with some difficulty, for 
 the eaves were broad, I helped him in. 
 
 "No," he answered with the utmost cheerfulness; 
 "but my breeches are. That rent will spoil the hang of 
 them, my son, even when Jeanne has mended it. Also 
 the roof is badly hurt ; I took quite a lot of tiles with me. 
 And the gooseberry bushes would have suffered heavily, 
 if I had landed on them. " 
 
 " What were you doing? " I inquired. 
 
 " Doing? Mending the roof. Moreover, ribald scoffer, 
 I was doing it damned well, until I slipped. I '11 rope 
 myself on to the chimney to finish the job. " 
 
 He spoke as if the circumstance was the most ordinary 
 affair, the occupation one very usual in a host. 
 
 "Do you," said I, much amused, "make a point of 
 repairing your own house? " 
 
 "This," he informed me, "is not the sort of place 
 where you send up the street for a bricklayer; if there 
 is anything to be done, you do it yourself. " 
 
 "Why not write to the landlord? " 
 
 "You 're very ignorant," he replied. "A lawyer, my 
 Richard, should know that tenants keep their houses 
 in repair, at any rate in these parts. " 
 
 "Lord help us!" I groaned. "You '11 have to show 
 me your agreement; I '11 stake my reputation that you 
 have been properly let in. Where is the bath you
 
 220 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 advertised? I suppose I had better get up, or you 
 will be disturbing me by falling off the roof again." 
 
 Protesting that he would yet convince me of his 
 capability as a man of business, he led me downstairs 
 and to an outhouse, where, judging by the mess, two 
 or three of the company at least had already bathed. 
 
 The house was without much of comfort in the matter 
 of furniture, and was in bad repair, but the rooms were 
 large and airy, being kept, moreover, very scrupulously 
 clean by the long-suffering Jeanne. The previous tenant 
 had been a farmer of some position, but upon his death 
 his heirs had sold the place as it stood, and the landlord 
 had been glad to find some one who would keep the house 
 and garden in order while he searched for another tenant. 
 The main door of the building opened into a large room 
 from which the stairs to the upper floor ascended ; behind 
 this was the dining-room with a door giving upon the 
 garden ; to the right of the hall was the kitchen, occupying 
 one end of the house, and to the left, a room of similar 
 size, was the studio where Massingdale painted when the 
 mood took him to work indoors. Officially, I believe, 
 the room was considered the host's private apartment, 
 but any one who wished to do any work which did not 
 suffer interruption was admitted to it. On the ground 
 floor there was, in all the rooms, a paving of red bricks, 
 and the walls were washed with colour and unadorned 
 by any pictures; although there was much suggestion 
 of bareness about the house, and little that could be 
 called snug, it served its purpose as a place to sleep in, 
 and as a shelter in bad weather. 
 
 I breakfasted that day before eight o'clock, a thing 
 very unusual with me, and found, when I got into the 
 dining-room, most of the company already through 
 with their meal. Marellac alone had not made an ap-
 
 A Quiet Life in Burgundy 221 
 
 pearance; he, it seemed, lay late in his bed, and when 
 he quitted it made for the hills without delay, where 
 he would wander until evening, or, if the weather was 
 wet, he would keep away from the others, practising 
 for hours at a time on his fiddle. The next meal, I 
 discovered, was served at eleven o'clock, and it was the 
 practice of the house to suggest no common gathering 
 until that hour arrived, for three members of the party, 
 at least, were not here for pleasure only: Massingdale, 
 Vanne, and Loissel were hard at work; the two former 
 in the business of their professions, and the latter at 
 that volume of reminiscences which has since given 
 many of us much delight. Blinkson also, to my astonish- 
 ment, I found to be a person of regular occupation; he 
 laboured each morning in the garden with more enthus- 
 iasm than I imagined alcohol had left in him. Hendick, 
 being the one person besides myself without employment, 
 for I should hesitate to say that the dreaming, which 
 filled Marellac's head as he wandered the countryside, 
 should be styled idleness, since it has surely given to the 
 world a greater result than our most strenuous endeavours 
 I went with him for a stroll about the woods; and we 
 climbed the hill for a nearer sight of the chUteau, and 
 lay upon our backs and smoked, and talked of many 
 things but not, out of the kindness of his heart, of demo- 
 cracy and its creed of socialism. 
 
 After the midday meal we enjoyed an hour of idleness, 
 for the weather was still very hot, and the practice of 
 consuming much food at noon is one that militates 
 against immediate activity. Massingdale, after a few 
 minutes of idleness, left us lying about in the shade of 
 the trees where the garden joins the wood; the mood 
 held him to work, and he was of no use to us. So we 
 watched him depart, shouldering his painter's materials,
 
 222 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 to the spot from which he made a picture. Blinkson, 
 finding that I had no other plans, suggested that I 
 should go with him into the Fore"t de Goulene, where 
 he would show me some of the beauties of the neighbour- 
 hood; so, none of the others offering to come with us, 
 we set out alone. 
 
 Blinkson had, if possible, less appearance of respect- 
 ability than he arrived at in Paris: he was unshaven; 
 his clothes were stained, his waistcoat bearing traces of 
 many meals long since digested ; and the checks he wore 
 had probably been fashionable in his undergraduate 
 days. With his hat tilted to one side, his eyeglass 
 firmly placed, and his shuffling gait that aimed at a 
 certain jauntiness, he might well have stood as a horrid 
 example, useful in the reform of erring youth; yet, 
 although he was an entirely disreputable old man, as a 
 polite society settles disrepute, I found myself inclined 
 to take a fancy to him, and to wish, which I suppose is 
 evidence of the same feeling, that each evening did not 
 see him a maudlin, drunken wreck. 
 
 He walked as a man who loves the business walks, 
 not to get to a destination as soon as may be, but to 
 enjoy himself on the road; and for a man of his years 
 and habits he showed an amazing activity, covering the 
 ground with greater ease than I, with youth on my side, 
 could equal. His knowledge of country lore was wide, 
 his acquaintance with forestry certainly not gained in 
 England. I fell to speculating on the man's past history, 
 and to wondering what fault, or mischance, had brought 
 him to the pass in which he was. He talked of many 
 things ; showed a trick of laughing at life, which I admired ; 
 and seemed disposed to turn obstinately from any solemn 
 view or manner. When we came to any turn of the path, 
 for we avoided the roads, which gave us a sight of pleasant
 
 A Quiet Life in Burgundy 223 
 
 land about us, or when we walked through some majestic 
 forest aisle, he would fall silent in a fashion for which I 
 could have thanked him, and we enjoyed the picture 
 before us without any words. 
 
 After a couple of hours or so of rough walking, as 
 we ascended a steep hillside, rock-strewn and bare, he 
 pointed to the crest. 
 
 "A pipe and a rest there," he announced. "There 's 
 a fine view, over the vineyards of the Sadne valley." 
 
 He had not exaggerated the fact, for from the spot 
 where we lay down upon the turf, finding what shade 
 we could in the shelter of a hardy thorn, we commanded 
 a fine stretch of country. From our little mountains the 
 hills sloped quickly to the river, and to the broad green 
 plain beyond : the distant range, lying towards the Alps, 
 being lost in a blue haze. 
 
 "You think," said Blinkson, breaking the silence as 
 we lay and smoked, "that all this is very beautiful; 
 still having your ideals about you, you imagine it the 
 incarnation of peace and simplicity. " 
 
 I nodded. 
 
 "I," he went on, his manner more serious than it had 
 been, "having journeyed a little farther along a rougher 
 road, stumbling let 's put it that way more often as 
 I go, have learned to know that it is beautiful, yet not 
 more peaceful, though the noise is less, than any of the 
 crowded haunts of men. Man," he cried, sitting up, 
 "they fight, and struggle, and scratch here, as they do 
 in Paris; they scream about their rights and they talk 
 of justice, and when the chance comes they rob their 
 neighbours and their masters, mouthing the name of 
 liberty. The place is a hotbed of discontent; not because 
 they are worse off than you or I, or the rest of the world, 
 but because the fashion has come about for workmen
 
 224 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 to be discontented. To hear them talk you would think 
 that all the suffering and hardship in the world was 
 borne by the men who work with their hands. Fools!" 
 
 "What is their complaint?" I asked, turning on my 
 back, and staring at the sky; "and who, particularly, 
 are they?" 
 
 "The men engaged in the wine industry. Their 
 complaint the usual one; they want more money 
 and less work; a desire which is not peculiar to them." 
 
 " Is there any special disturbance, or is the thing merely 
 general unrest?" 
 
 "At present," he informed me, "it is only universal 
 grumbling and discontent. The capitalist is attacked 
 on general principles; there are agitators busy among 
 the men, urging them on to a demonstration. Yet, as 
 peasants go, they are well off, work is not hard to get, 
 and wages high; however, after two or three good years 
 there came last season a bad crop, their pay dropped, 
 I believe, a little. If this harvest fails, and there has 
 been too little rain, their demonstration will take place. " 
 
 "Nothing serious, I suppose?" I asked; "a lot of noise 
 and little result, like most of the strikes?" 
 
 "Depends upon the authorities," said Blinkson, 
 getting back to his habitual jerky way of talk. " They '11 
 play the damn fool probably, and have the deuce to pay 
 for their pains. Tough crowd in these parts, they rather 
 like a row; I believe they have always been jealous of 
 those villages that rioted in the Midi, two or three years 
 ago. Remember the business ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes," I replied, sitting up, "but that was serious. 
 They burnt a chateau or two, and there was blood- 
 shed." 
 
 Blinkson laughed at my seriousness; he waved his 
 hand towards the hills about us.
 
 A Quiet Life in Burgundy 225 
 
 "Quiet valleys run with blood! Horrible scenes in 
 Burgundy! The journalists may have their chance yet. 
 I hope they won't, however; it would disturb our happy 
 home." 
 
 "But," I insisted, "do you really think there is any 
 likelihood of a riot?" 
 
 "Very little," he answered. "Probably be a lot of 
 talk, some window smashing and that sort of thing, 
 and, at the end, quiet, with rather worse feeling on both 
 sides. It 's an unimportant scene in the comedy, nothing 
 more." 
 
 He lay back again on the grass, silent, and we sat some 
 minutes without speaking; then he suggested that we 
 had better be moving, as the afternoon was getting on. 
 
 As we walked homewards, I was occupied in thinking 
 of what he had told me, and in wondering whether this 
 fight of capital and labour was anything new, as some 
 men would have us believe, or whether it was not the 
 old feud of the strong and the weak decked out in new 
 garments; so that when Blinkson broke a long silence, 
 he startled me from a reverie. 
 
 "To-night, Crutchley," said he, his watery eyes 
 twinkling with amusement, "when you see me in my 
 cups again, you will remember the distaste I have been 
 at pains to remove for the moment. No. Don't inter- 
 rupt. I like to embarrass people I choose one way of 
 making a fool of myself, you and the others have a 
 different method that is the whole of it. I don't want 
 you to admire me I 'm not asking for miracles I want 
 you to realise that I know what I am, that I spend my 
 life in the best way that occurs to me, that I am a drunk- 
 ard because it gives me pleasure, does little harm to 
 other people, and because I have failed to succeed in 
 any other business." 
 is
 
 226 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 I remained silent. Why the man offered me this 
 explanation, I could not guess; I certainly had no wish 
 for it; but his manner was such, his humorous, dis- 
 concerting frankness so easily carried, as if the con- 
 fession were of the most usual nature, that I could 
 scarcely fail to meet him in the same spirit. 
 
 " Well? " he asked, seeing that I did not answer. 
 
 "I cannot imagine," I answered, since he was deter- 
 mined that I should speak, "why you admit me to 
 your confidence like this; and I am not able to give you 
 any satisfactory answer. I suppose my distaste for 
 drunkenness is a matter of instinct. " 
 
 "To begin with," he replied, sucking at his foul pipe, 
 which wheezed and gurgled, "I have not admitted you 
 to my confidence: that I am a habitual drunkard is 
 a perfectly obvious fact. Then, I take it, your objec- 
 tion is based on aesthetic grounds?" 
 
 "Perhaps," said I. 
 
 "Good," he continued, his amusement, apparently, 
 increasing. "You don't like me in my professional 
 capacity, that 's clear. I '11 state the case. Probably, if 
 I saw you in wig and gown hectoring some unfortunate 
 witness, I should dislike you as much as you dislike 
 me when I am drunk. See the point ? ' ' 
 
 I roared with laughter. The sodden old ruffian could 
 certainly shorten the road with inconsequent conver- 
 sation; and the picture of him in his cups as a man 
 seriously engaged in the business of his life took my 
 fancy mightily. 
 
 "I don't," I answered him; "I see no point at all. 
 I believe you to be a man with a fine gift for talking 
 nonsense." 
 
 "You make a mistake," he assured me; and although 
 there was no appreciable change in the manner of his
 
 A Quiet Life in Burgundy 227 
 
 speech, I suddenly became aware that he was a man 
 with a knowledge of the world far wider than I possessed, 
 and that my former attitude to him had been one of 
 patronage. "I have an end in view. We '11 put it, my 
 dear sir, that my profession is the simple one that I 
 have named, in which I claim to be something of a 
 success; we '11 also put it that, when sober, I have some 
 charm of manner I succeeded in proving that to you 
 this afternoon and we '11 assume, quite impersonally, 
 that my two different selves, call them the professional 
 gentleman and the layman, so confuse the judgment 
 of kind-hearted people that sometimes they are mis- 
 guided into attempting certain reforms. When I meet 
 a man with whom I fancy that my non-professional 
 character may hold the larger place, I warn him. Reform 
 is the one thing I cannot stand. You take me 
 now?" 
 
 "Yes," I replied, devoutly hoping that my attitude 
 during the afternoon had not been that of the superior 
 person, for I already had a liking for the man. "I hope 
 you don't think that I should have had the impertinence 
 to interfere ' ' 
 
 But he stopped me. 
 
 "Never any knowing," he laughed, in his husky 
 voice. "My profession is not much thought of, and 
 many a good man has attempted the impossible, and 
 ended our acquaintance. Are you aware that Massing- 
 dale is doing a really good picture? We '11 turn off 
 down here and disturb him at his work. " 
 
 So we let the subject drop, and did not reopen it 
 again. It has often been a matter in my thoughts that 
 Blinkson should have read my case so quickly, and 
 forestalled any foolish blunder; it has also been a con- 
 siderable relief to me that he did so. I never discovered
 
 228 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 anything of his history, the little he had told me on the 
 first meeting of our acquaintance being largely imagina- 
 tive, yet I judge that he had suffered from much well- 
 meant interference in a business which he knew to be 
 beyond the chance of change, and I am glad that he 
 forced matters in my case, showed me the manner of 
 man he was behind the drunkard, and that, even though 
 friendship and pity grew in me, I must not interfere. 
 Although he had shown no hesitation, I imagine that 
 it was not an easy thing to do. There is another point, 
 besides, of which I like to think, I take pleasure in 
 fancying that by this explanation he admitted me to 
 his friendship; in spite of his great weakness, he was 
 one of the most honourable and kindest men whom I 
 have ever met. 
 
 We found Massingdale finishing his day's work; with 
 him was Marellac, seated on the ground, his knees 
 drawn up to his chin, his hands clasped about his shins. 
 On the way back to the house I tried to get some con- 
 versation from him, and only partially succeeded; his 
 shyness was a thing of strength, and he had consider- 
 able difficulty in expressing his ideas. 
 
 " Have you noticed Monsieur Massingdale's face when 
 he paints?" the boy asked me, after many ineffectual 
 efforts on my part to arouse his interest. 
 
 "I have n't noticed anything unusual," said I. "Tell 
 me what you mean?" 
 
 "His eyes," muttered Marellac, as confused as if he 
 broke a confidence. "I made sure of it to-day. When 
 he paints they lose their sadness. " 
 
 "Sadness!" I cried, astonished. "You surely do 
 not accuse Massingdale of being sad? " 
 
 "Mon Dieti, no," the boy replied eagerly. "He is 
 not sad; he laughs; he enjoys his life; but, unless he
 
 A Quiet Life in Burgundy 229 
 
 is at work, his eyes are, very often, unhappy, even when 
 he makes one laugh, monsieur. " 
 
 I could get no other explanation from him, and 
 having failed to notice the thing myself, I imagined him 
 full of fancies, and was inclined to style him fool. 
 
 That night, however, he showed himself at least a 
 brilliant fool, playing to us, as we sat in the road after 
 dinner, such music as the valley had surely never heard, 
 music that brought the peasants from their cottages, 
 holding them and us in silence and in wonder. Then, 
 when Marellac had gone to bed, as he did after he had 
 finished playing, our emotions being aroused to some 
 excitement, we began a violent discussion upon the 
 unknown subject of liberty, and shortly the quiet air 
 rang with heated talk, and the peasants, comfortably in 
 their beds with the sound of music in their ears, were 
 probably disturbed by more discordant noises. But for 
 the intervention of Loissel and Blinkson, who introduced 
 laughter when passion held the floor, we had likely 
 finished the night with blows. 
 
 In a fashion very much the same the weeks went by, 
 the household which Massingdale controlled living very 
 quietly, except in the matter of talk, which was always 
 clamorous. I soon dropped into the way of the place, 
 and with books, of which there was a good supply, found 
 plenty of amusement. We were certainly without the 
 manners of the fashionable world; there was, besides, 
 little stamp of learning about our conversation, and the 
 appearance of an academic discussion was a thing 
 unknown with us; but I will maintain that we exhibited 
 a decent standard of intelligence and were richly en- 
 dowed with enthusiasm ; even at such times as the con- 
 versation was of a nature to alarm and disgust those 
 who have no liking for plain speech, there was a pleasant
 
 230 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 spice of wit in it; there was, moreover, the great virtue 
 of honesty, and I never heard a single member of the 
 company confuse himself with polite conventions, or, 
 in a manner that seems fashionable, attempt to parade 
 certain of the passions in the guise of heroic acts. 
 Hendick and I stood something apart from the others, 
 although we faced no barrier to the fullest intimacy; 
 but we lived a different life, played for other stakes, 
 when we were away from the village and back at our 
 work in the world again. The others, for I would count 
 Blinkson among them, were of another make; their 
 work led them to give importance to things which we 
 passed by, to shun as both uninteresting and of no 
 account matters that engaged the most of our attention. 
 Hendick, I remember, put the point with his customary 
 vigour one evening as we sat at dinner. "You artists," 
 said he, thrusting his head forward, which was his battle 
 sign, "are vile bad citizens. Because your work is of 
 importance to the world, that is no reason why you 
 should shirk your responsibilities under the plea that 
 politics and business are only fit for other men, that for 
 you your own art is enough. The man who cannot 
 manage his own affairs business affairs, I mean and 
 who is not willing to do what he can to make the govern- 
 ment of his country better, should be regarded in law as 
 a child. " To which Massingdale replied with the ardour 
 that the proposition demanded. "By the beard of the 
 prophet, man," he shouted, "do you suppose that we 
 mind what the law may think of us? Tell me, tell me, 
 in the name of reason, why should a man, not liking 
 them, mix himself up with the stupid amusements of 
 other people? Would you have me play football or 
 cricket because certain young men of my own age are 
 fond of them? You would not. Then why ask me to
 
 A Quiet Life in Burgundy 231 
 
 study business habits, if I prefer to be robbed instead? 
 Why insist that I should shout about good government, 
 when you know that we shall all go to our graves being 
 badly governed, as our ancestors were, and as our 
 children will be?" 
 
 I hold no brief for the artist, I do not wish to defend 
 him, he can do that well enough for himself, but I 
 confess to a fondness for the creature, and am ready 
 to acknowledge many pleasant hours in his company. 
 The weeks that I spent at La Fontaine des Bois brought 
 me to a better understanding of him, and beneath the 
 vanity, beneath the fine contempt for other men's 
 opinions, I came to discover both good sense and pro- 
 portion ; apart from his easy manner, that comes to him 
 as a perquisite, he has another quality, he sees his own 
 position as the outside world do not, he knows himself 
 engaged in a very hazardous undertaking which daily 
 renders him less fit for any other way of life. Since he 
 always has great difficulty, and more than commonly 
 finds it impossible to persuade the outsider of the 
 peculiar nature of his work, and of its unsettling habit, 
 he arrives at thinking himself misunderstood, and, 
 being human, rejoices in the fact, running riot, very 
 often, on the strength of it. 
 
 We enjoyed a good deal of popularity in the neigh- 
 bourhood; the "Sign of the Grand Espoir," as Massing- 
 dale called the house, was much visited by local farmers 
 and by the people of the district. They were always 
 offered a generous hospitality; not infrequently one or 
 more of them would sleep the night beneath our roof; 
 and, for Massingdale had not made known to them 
 the fact that he styled himself an innkeeper, we should 
 probably have been ejected forcibly, while our host 
 fought with his creditors in the neighbouring court at
 
 232 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 Cluny, had not these good people given as much, or 
 more, than they took. I do not think that, after the 
 first purchase, Massingdale ever bought wine, and we 
 were supplied with poultry and other provender in the 
 most generous fashion. We had the run of the country- 
 side, and might shoot and fish whatever was in season. 
 Therefore, and I think he may justly be given credit for 
 it, Massingdale managed to run the establishment on the 
 small sum that he charged us, and, moreover, to supply 
 us, and a good many of our neighbours besides, with 
 excellent fare. How he did it, I do not know; Jeanne, 
 I fancy, was the master spirit. She cooked, and she 
 commanded, and she was one of the rudest old women 
 that I have ever met. But, having undertaken the 
 management of the house had she got the chance she 
 would have become, I must suppose, the chief house- 
 keeper in hell, and would, moreover, have subjugated 
 the devil to her ruling within twenty-four hours of her 
 arrival she did her work with considerable ability; 
 induced in us all a mighty respect; and even forced 
 Loissel to attempt some amendment of the untidy 
 habits of a lifetime. She would bully us all like a parcel 
 of schoolboys, if we did not follow the rules which she had 
 framed ; and I have seldom seen a master with less author- 
 ity over his servant than had Massingdale. Late rising 
 Jeanne could not at all put up with. She would bustle 
 into the bedroom of any unfortunate member of the 
 household who kept his bed after the hour which she 
 had named the latest for rising there being no locks 
 upon the doors, we were defenceless; would cover him 
 with reproaches ; and would assume an aspect so menac- 
 ing that, I firmly believe, she would have dragged 
 her victim from his couch, had he showed signs of 
 refusing to obey her. I was often in trouble in this respect,
 
 A Quiet Life in Burgundy 233 
 
 and she bred in me a habit of early rising, which it took 
 months to eradicate; but Marellac was the person who 
 suffered most in this matter : to hear Jeanne abusing him 
 was of matutinal recurrence. She had, I think, a special 
 fondness for the boy, but she was of the sturdy breed 
 that chastens those it loves. One morning as I went 
 upstairs for a pipe, which I had failed to bring to the 
 breakfast table with me, Marellac cannoned violently 
 against me on the stairway. " Mon Dieul" he cried, 
 considerably agitated, "she will beat me, that old 
 woman." And with that he fled, scantily attired, into 
 the garden. I am of the opinion that I did him a 
 considerable service by getting in Jeanne's way, for 
 she was in hot pursuit, crying out that it was past nine; 
 and had I not held her up, I can conceive of Marellac 
 occupying a position that he had rightly done with 
 some years before. Even to such lengths as that will 
 the just wrath of an exacting housewife lead her. 
 
 Yet, although Jeanne led us a rare life of it, although 
 she bullied us because we would not keep our clothes in 
 order, and cried out on us when we entered the house 
 with muddy boots, she had many and noble virtues. She 
 worked without intermission; and it was her wise boast 
 that she could rule any man but a dyspeptic, since she 
 knew how to cook. Should one of us, as often happened, 
 make his appearance late at night, demanding food, he 
 would have it hot and appetising, together with several 
 apposite remarks upon irregular habits; should a dozen 
 men, in place of seven, appear for dinner without pre- 
 vious warning, they waited for their meal, but when it 
 came had no reason to complain of it ; and did one of her 
 thoughtless charges suffer an ache in his little finger, she 
 would find him a remedy for it, which always included a 
 special and a pleasant diet. Indeed, should I chance to
 
 234 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 fall ill, I would rather have Jeanne, with all her scolding 
 and with all her want of skill, about me, than many 
 another highly certified nurse. The good, rough- 
 tongued, kind-hearted Jeanne, if she still lives, I take 
 it she serves others as she served us, for little pay and 
 with scant rest, working faithfully because she prefers to 
 manage men rather than to live at ease upon her savings. 
 She had a master soul, and, but for the accident of sex, 
 had been a famous general ! 
 
 The drought continued; throughout August I do not 
 think we had a drop of rain, and the vines suffered so 
 that the vintage promised poorly. The days were for 
 the most part cloudless, and the nights so hot that we 
 longed to be cold again; it was, indeed, such weather as 
 we have grown to forget, weather that a man upon a 
 lounging holiday could do nought but praise. Early in 
 September, however, there came a change; for the first 
 day for many weeks the sky was covered with cloud, the 
 glass jumped with alarming suddenness, and there was 
 promise of a storm. All day, I remember, we had hung 
 about the house, seeking a draught of cool air, even 
 Jeanne being affected to something approaching idle- 
 ness. Massingdale alone showed some energy, going to 
 the neighbouring village about the sale of ducks. Some- 
 thing after five in the afternoon the storm broke in a 
 deluge of rain; at the end of ten minutes the sandy 
 road before our door was running water, and every pipe 
 and gutter about the house was gurgling and spouting. 
 We sat in the hall, observing the downpour through the 
 open door, sniffing the good smell of rain- washed earth; 
 and as we sat, Massingdale came striding into view, his 
 clothes clinging damp about him, and in his company 
 marched two of the most bedraggled beings that I have 
 ever seen : a girl and a boy, the former scarcely, I should
 
 A Quiet Life in Burgundy 235 
 
 say, fifteen, and the latter not more than a year her 
 senior. They carried packs upon their backs, and the 
 boy a pair of stilts across his shoulder, while another 
 pair, belonging to the girl, was under Massingdale's 
 arm; both the children had a sodden and woebegone 
 appearance, plodding heavily through the slush with 
 their heads down. 
 
 Massingdale conducted them to the door, ushered 
 them into shelter, and surveyed us smiling, while the 
 three of them dripped puddles on the bricks. 
 
 "Allow me," says he, "to introduce Mademoiselle 
 Charlotte Roneval and Monsieur Henri Roneval, her 
 brother, whom I found overtaken by the storm. " 
 
 At that the girl began to sob, and the boy seemed not 
 far from it. They were an engaging pair, fresh and clean- 
 looking for all their draggled state, and Mademoiselle 
 Charlotte had probably passed for a beauty in her 
 village; but the costume adopted by the itinerant stilt- 
 dancer is not designed to weather storms, and the 
 multitudinous petticoats and much-embroidered under- 
 clothing of her tribe made a poor show in the wet. This 
 fault in her appearance she seemed to feel, and she stood 
 weeping, with her short skirts clinging about her thighs, 
 and the water pouring in rivulets down her scarlet stock- 
 ings ; while her brother, assuming the best front that he 
 could manage, at best a poor one, remained close along- 
 side, his own beribboned garb no whit the better, patting 
 her upon the shoulder. 
 
 To this scene entered Jeanne, capable and resolute, 
 and was immediately in command of the situation. 
 
 "What does she cry for?" she demanded. " Cre 
 nom, but clothes can be washed. Vile ! Undress yourself, 
 my girl. You will catch cold. " 
 
 And, but for the intervention of Loissel, she had had
 
 236 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 the bewildered maiden mother-naked in the middle of the 
 hall. As it was she bore her off to the kitchen, ordering 
 Massingdale, as she went, to get himself and the boy 
 into dry clothes without any further talk. 
 
 That evening, while the rain still hissed and beat 
 outside, we sat down to dinner a merry company: the 
 two children at first somewhat shy, but quickly reassured 
 and presently talkative. They were, it appeared, from 
 the far-distant Landes, and within their recollection had 
 each summer toured the country, dancing on their stilts ; 
 they were due to meet their parents that evening at 
 Cluny, but, they assured us, would not be expected on 
 account of the storm; also, they pointed out with some 
 insistence, they travelled much on their own account, being 
 now quite grown up. They had an amazing acquaint- 
 ance with the high-roads of France, and presented a 
 curious mixture of worldly wisdom and childishness; 
 their education seemed a thing of patches, for they had 
 escaped the attentions of any schoolmaster; they were 
 very proud of their calling, informed us particularly of the 
 difficulty of the training, and were careful to name them- 
 selves artistes. When the boy, Henri, had discovered, 
 by a whispered question, that Loissel was really the 
 great painter, his excitement became a thing to watch, 
 and for the remainder of the evening his eyes scarcely 
 left the old man's face. 
 
 I hold it a circumstance worth noting that Blinkson 
 hardly touched his drink while the children were present. 
 
 After dinner we gathered in the hall, Loissel making 
 the suggestion that we should be shown some of the 
 more difficult steps in stilt-dancing, and that this 
 with a gleam of amusement in his eyes Marellac 
 should attempt the part of fiddler. Here, however, we 
 encountered a check, not as might be supposed on account
 
 A Quiet Life in Burgundy 237 
 
 of the high-souled musician refusing such degradation, 
 but by reason of an unexpected modesty. Mademoiselle 
 Charlotte would not dance before us: she was much 
 embarrassed but firm; her mother, she announced, had 
 forbidden her to perform without her proper costume, 
 and had warned her against an entertainment where 
 her own sex was not present. To urge her had appeared 
 an indelicacy; such nice sentiments in a strolling player 
 should surely be respected. We, therefore, made an 
 attempt to introduce Jeanne as chaperon, but she, good 
 woman, was busy with a washtub, and would do nothing 
 but leave the kitchen door wide open. Massingdale, 
 seeing that the performance was likely to be by the boy 
 alone, attacked the situation with many blandishments. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," said he, a model of polite entreaty, 
 "I have no wish to press you; you are, perhaps, tired 
 and wish to rest. We therefore shall say no more. But 
 should you presently feel inclined to entertain us, you 
 will earn the thanks of brother artists. I understand 
 that you have certain principles, very wise in themselves, 
 but here, perhaps, a little mistaken. Monsieur votre 
 frere, whom I perceive to be a man of the world, will 
 explain to you that you deceive yourself. With us, 
 mademoiselle, especially in the presence of Monsieur 
 Loissel, you are as free from any suggestion of annoyance 
 as when you dance with madame, your mother. " 
 
 The boy, Henri, at this assumed an air of very proper 
 importance; murmured something of his sister being 
 still a foolish child, and took her aside for whispered 
 talk. I overheard mention of "le grand Loissel" and of 
 "Messieurs tout d fait distingues," and then the modesty 
 was overcome, and Mademoiselle Charlotte went in 
 search of her stilts. 
 
 Did Marellac, she inquired, as she prepared herself,
 
 238 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 know such and such airs? He did; all France knew 
 them, and had known them for several generations. 
 Good! Then would he be so good as to play them, and 
 to take the time fast as he neared the finish? 
 
 So the dance began, in the light of glittering candles, 
 with swish of rain above the tapping of the stilts, with 
 now and then a crash of thunder drowning the music, 
 and in an atmosphere cloudy with tobacco smoke. 
 Massingdale had produced a sketch-block and worked 
 with quickness, and in eager fashion; Marellac sat 
 perched upon the stove, hugging his fiddle; and the rest 
 of us were fringed around the walls. The children 
 danced with a deal of skill and grace, calling to each 
 other in patois at any changing of the step, or when 
 their backs were turned. But the music ! I would draw 
 a veil upon the playing. The fiddler, having caught the 
 spirit of the air, made of it what he would. Witchery 
 and madness he gave us, a wild, unordered, bacchanalian 
 dance without a thought for the marking of the time, or 
 ever a care for the dancers ; a wonderful riot of joyful 
 sound, he played for us, and showed himself a vile 
 accompanist. At first there was surprise on the faces 
 of the two children, then distress, and finally they came 
 to a standstill, the girl going up to the fiddler. 
 
 "Monsieur," she cried, a reproach in her voice, "it 
 is necessary to mark the time; one cannot dance to your 
 playing. Although," she added, remembering her 
 politeness, "you play very well. " 
 
 Marellac was full of apologies, which I believe to 
 have been genuine, for he knew the duties of the accom- 
 panist. Having been carefully instructed for the future, 
 he began again, and the dance went without interrup- 
 tion. I shall not forget his effort; it was reminiscent of 
 a music lesson, one could almost hear the "one and, two
 
 A Quiet Life in Burgundy 239 
 
 and" of the patient governess, so well was the time 
 marked. His face, too, was a sight not easily forgot, 
 a picture of distress, with the eyes fixed on the dancers 
 in apprehension. At the finish there was much applause, 
 and the call for a repetition, which was duly given. 
 Thereupon Mademoiselle Charlotte stalked to the 
 fiddler, and gravely congratulated him. 
 
 "It was very good, monsieur," said she. "I reproach 
 myself. You play excellently, when you remember the 
 time. Do you play much?" 
 
 "I am learning," answered Marellac, much confused. 
 
 "Bon, " she answered, with polite encouragement. " I 
 think that you will learn quickly, monsieur, if you 
 always think of marking the time." 
 
 They danced again, and after that again, being proud 
 of their skill and able to see that we liked their per- 
 formance; then, amid a deal of laughter, Hendick and 
 I were persuaded to tempt fortune with the stilts upon 
 our legs, and, even with the aid of long poles, we did 
 little but fall about and bruise ourselves. Finally, 
 Jeanne appeared upon the scene, announcing that the 
 girl should go to bed, and getting her own way. Henri 
 Roneval, not daring to face the company alone, also 
 departed to the kitchen, where he was to sleep, and we 
 were left alone, and fell to admiring the sketches that 
 Massingdale had made. These, studies of certain of the 
 girl's attitudes, seemed to me extraordinarily good, but 
 upon Loissel they had a far greater effect; setting him 
 laughing and smiling, naming their creator a "bon 
 garQon'' and "vraiment un petit peintre." 
 
 The following morning, as I looked from my window 
 upon the earth cleaned by the night's storm, fresh and 
 pleasant-smelling in the sun, I discovered Massingdale 
 busy with his sketch-block, and I could hear his voice
 
 240 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 raised in entreaty as he endeavoured to quiet the rest- 
 lessness of the little dancer, who showed herself a very 
 untrained model. When, later, I joined him in the garden, 
 I found that he had made good use of the early hours, 
 and that Mademoiselle Charlotte was already roughly 
 sketched in many different poses. One of these studies 
 he gave to the girl, telling her that she should sell it to 
 add to her dowry, which instruction she has apparently 
 carried out, for the drawing appeared upon the market the 
 other day, when it fetched a good price; yet, although 
 she thanked him with the strictest politeness, I do not 
 think that she thought much of his skill, not, it is likely, 
 considering that where Loissel was one should give a 
 thought to lesser men. 
 
 After breakfast Massingdale and I took the two 
 children to Cluny in the cart, and as we followed the 
 by-road through the woods, the evidences of the storm 
 were very plain about us : bracken and fern were beaten 
 flat by the deluge, and little streams still gurgled where 
 there had been no water a few hours before. 
 
 We encountered Monsieur and Madame Roneval, 
 with a third and younger child, giving a morning per- 
 formance in the streets of Cluny, and it was obvious 
 that the woman was relieved at our appearance. Upon 
 hearing madame play the fiddle, I realised how the 
 daughter had learned to judge playing, and I was 
 compelled to acknowledge that Marellac must have 
 sounded a poor substitute, when considered as an 
 accessory to the dancing. We parted from these excellent 
 people on the best of terms, and had some difficulty in 
 excusing ourselves, without offence, from being their 
 guests at the midday meal. 
 
 From the talk which we heard in the town, it seemed 
 clear that the storm had done heavy damage, and that
 
 A Quiet Life in Burgundy 241 
 
 there was now little chance that the wine crop of the 
 district would come to anything at all; in fact, from 
 the gossip that was going round, it was to be learned 
 that many of the vineyards were altogether wrecked, 
 so that from them there would be no harvest worth 
 the gathering. 
 
 Massingdale was inclined, upon the way back, to 
 a serious view of the situation; announced that the 
 distress which would follow came at an evil moment, 
 and predicted much disturbance. All talk of such 
 matters was, however, stopped for the time between 
 us by the sight of a large motor-car, a thing rarely seen 
 in our hamlet, drawn up before our door; and when we 
 discovered Yvonne Carrel seated in the hall, a model 
 of fashion in a very rural setting, we had other things 
 of which to think. 
 
 She greeted us in her laughing, somewhat lazy manner, 
 announcing that, since she was stopping for the night 
 at Chalons, she had determined to surprise us in our 
 inaccessible retreat; but I thought her, despite her easy 
 talk, playing a part which she could not quite sustain, 
 and I imagined in her bearing some excitement or emotion 
 that she did not altogether hide. Indeed, I hold this 
 unexpected visit the beginning of many disturbances, 
 the first event to mark the ending of the quiet life that 
 we had led. 
 
 16
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 SOME DIFFICULTIES AND MUCH UNREST 
 
 AT dejeuner there was even more of laughter and of 
 noise than was common at our meals ; Massingdale, 
 it would seem, had taken a hatred for a moment's 
 silence, and Yvonne being seized with the same mood, 
 the pair often talked together, so that to catch what 
 they were saying became a matter of some difficulty. 
 We were reproached for shutting ourselves from the 
 world, and, with Massingdale very voluble in the van, 
 we defended ourselves and brought a counter-attack 
 of worldly vanity. The discussion, together with the 
 interchange of the news of the past few weeks, carried 
 us an hour beyond our rising from the table, then, 
 when there came a lull in our talk, Yvonne rose, look- 
 ing around the garden where we sat. 
 
 "Bon Dieu," said she, "it is not badly chosen, this 
 spot where you live; I would see something more of it. 
 Come, Louis, and your Monsieur Crutchley, show me 
 a little of these woods and hills. Remember," she 
 added, laughing, "I am no yokel. You must not make 
 me climb about and spoil my dress. " 
 
 The storm had passed, and we were back to the hot 
 sun and cloudless sky again, yet there was a freshness 
 in the air, so that the afternoon was pleasant for walk- 
 ing. We sauntered, following Yvonne's commands, 
 
 242
 
 Some Difficulties 243 
 
 along the bridle road to Cluny, turning presently on 
 to a footpath which led us through scented pinewoods, 
 and which gave us, here and there, a sight of our valley 
 beneath, and of the chateau on its little hill. We walked, 
 chatting of many things, yet of nothing with any serious- 
 ness, until we left the wood and found ourselves upon a 
 little plateau of the hills, a hollow strewn with rocks and 
 gorse, with here and there a stunted fir, a place no more 
 than a few yards wide. Here Yvonne sat down, upon a 
 rock where the sunlight lay in golden patches, showing 
 the lichen in a hundred tints. 
 
 "Now, mes amis," she announced, her voice become 
 a stranger to all laughter, "I have many things to ask 
 you. Louis, you are become a stranger. How does 
 the world treat you?" 
 
 "Well," answered Massingdale, seating himself 
 beside her. "Even very well. I am doing better work, 
 Yvonne, than I have ever done before. " 
 
 "Ah! your work!" cried she, impatient. "I knew 
 that would be well. You were born for it, mon cher. 
 It is you I want to hear about. Are you well and happy ? ' ' 
 
 I thought the question strange, but I had no time to 
 dwell on it, for there were stranger yet to come. 
 
 "Well!" replied Massingdale, laughing. "You can 
 see that for yourself. Happy! Not less so than most 
 mortals. What more, mademoiselle?" 
 
 But she did not reply to his laughter, and her next 
 question came oddly serious. 
 
 "Are you prosperous ? Do you make money ? ' ' 
 
 ' ' Sainte Vierge , no ! " Massingdale told her. ' ' Scarcely 
 a sou of it; but I am not unhappy on that account. 
 Mademoiselle Yvonne Carrel, I have the poor man's 
 fine scorn of wealth. " 
 
 "Imbecile!" said she, and there was a sudden note
 
 244 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 of tenderness in her voice that I had not wished to hear. 
 "Monsieur Crutchley," she added, turning to me, 
 "don't you think he would be better with more money? 
 If he could travel, he would be the better artist. " 
 
 "Undoubtedly," I answered, not understanding to 
 what point she led, "a little more wealth might help 
 him, and still leave him at a decent distance from a 
 plutocrat." 
 
 To which she did not answer, but sat staring straight 
 before her with eyes that saw some other scene, twisting 
 her hands in nervousness upon her lap, her face grown 
 strained and longing. So we fell silent, and I watched 
 Massingdale's expression change to anxiousness as he 
 observed the woman beside him. 
 
 "Louis," she asked presently, not looking at the man 
 to whom she spoke, "why have you changed so much?" 
 
 Massingdale asked for no explanation, as I had 
 thought he would ; he seemed to understand the question, 
 and to answer it with what honesty he could. 
 
 " Time has a way of changing us, " he told her. 
 
 "When," she continued, not appearing to listen to 
 him, "you left England, you were different. I was 
 often with you then. Now you avoid me. Why?" 
 
 I saw Massingdale move upon his seat, as a man 
 who prepares himself to face a thing he fears; and, 
 very heartily, I wished myself somewhere else. 
 
 "Things are altogether different now," he answered, 
 and in his quiet seriousness I scarcely recognised the 
 man of extravagant talk, who was my host. "You 
 and I, Yvonne, are working now at more important 
 things; we are no longer idle people living the same 
 life. It is not true to say that I avoid you ; it is something 
 that we cannot help, that our paths run no longer side 
 by side. "
 
 Some Difficulties 245 
 
 "They might run together again," came Yvonne's 
 answer, very soft. 
 
 "They must not," he insisted. "It could do no 
 good." 
 
 Then, it seemed, the restraint that she had set upon 
 herself was overridden, her composure was driven away, 
 and she turned to Massingdale, clutching his arm, 
 hurrying her words in her entreaty. 
 
 "Understand me, Louis," she cried, "I do not ask 
 you to forget the past. I am a woman, I can see what 
 you think to hide. But it is past, Louis, it is past. 
 Go back farther, go beyond it, to what we were before. 
 No, no you must hear me, Louis, you must. " For he 
 had shaken his head at her, his face suddenly stern. 
 "Is it a great thing that I ask? For me it is. I know 
 what you are; I know what I seem to you; that should 
 make it easier, Louis. Let us go back. We are both 
 alone now, why should we not? I ask nothing more than 
 before. You would be free, Louis, you could leave me 
 when you would. I do not ask your love, only that you 
 shall come to me, Louis, my dear Louis. I am rich. 
 You could travel. I would work for you. I " 
 
 "Yvonne, for God's sake," cried Massingdale, his 
 voice harsh, "stop!" 
 
 But she clung to him more closely, sobbing with a 
 passion that his words could not affect. 
 
 "Forgive me," she implored, raising her face to him, 
 " I did not think. You shall not touch my money. The 
 world shall not know what I am to you. Sometimes, 
 just sometimes, Louis, we will go away and be together. 
 For you it is not much, just a few moments in all your 
 life, dear; for me oh, come to me, Louis, come to me!" 
 
 But I did not hear what he answered, for I had edged 
 away from them, fearful that I should draw their atten-
 
 246 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 tion by some sudden noise, and so remind them of the 
 man whom they had both forgotten. When I had got to 
 the shelter of the trees, I ran, only concerned that I 
 might get away from them, get out of earshot of Yvonne's 
 abandonment and misery. I pulled up when I had 
 gone some distance, and sat down to smoke a pipe, but 
 I do not remember to have tasted the tobacco, and 
 I could not get from my head a sense of shame that I 
 had heard as much as chance, had forced upon me. I 
 was aware of the common tragedy of the whole business, 
 yet I could not persuade myself that, outside of the 
 miracle that he should come to care for her, there was 
 any chance of happiness; and against the best worldly 
 attitude that I could summon, I held to the conviction 
 that, in this case, Yvonne would not be able to forget. 
 I am no moralist; I did not see the wrong in the affair 
 if such there be but only the pity of it, and the 
 wry smile of fate. Perhaps others, holding different 
 views to mine, may urge that the trouble had its origin 
 in what they call a sin; I believe the judgment is not 
 uncommon. That, on any score at all, it should be 
 held a satisfactory pronouncement on the matter, is a 
 thing I cannot understand. When, from whatever 
 standpoint we choose to judge our own and other people's 
 actions, we see a constant stream of foolish deeds and 
 perverted endeavour about us, it would seem but a 
 miserly encouragement to any further effort to pass on, 
 when some one else is called upon to pay his score, smug 
 and righteous, with no more than complacent comment 
 on his extravagance. With morality, a thing which 
 few men see in the same fashion, the law and nature 
 should be allowed to share the burden of correction, and 
 the lookers-on reduced to silence, or to a decent com- 
 panionable sympathy, if they feel called upon to speak.
 
 Some Difficulties 247 
 
 When any man has made bad wreckage of his life, I 
 cannot perceive any single advantage in solemnly 
 informing him that he mistook his course. 
 
 In a very short time, it seemed to me, although it 
 must have been half an hour or more after I had crept 
 away, I heard Massingdale shouting to know where I 
 had got myself hidden; so, with very great reluctance, 
 I made my way back to the clearing. There I found 
 Yvonne still seated where she had been before, but 
 Massingdale upon his feet looking about the place for 
 me. They both had now an ordinary composure, but 
 their faces showed a look of weariness, as if the hurts 
 which they had suffered gave them no relief, although 
 they rested. 
 
 "I hope I have not kept you," I shouted, when I 
 came within earshot, "but I thought that I saw a badger, 
 and I tried to follow it up. " 
 
 The excuse was a poor one; yet to have waited on 
 their speech had surely been worse, since they were 
 only anxious, I imagine, to have some cloak, no matter 
 what its thinness, to hide their ill. 
 
 "Did you find it?" asked Yvonne, seizing the chance 
 of talk. 
 
 I told her that I had found nothing, and I avoided 
 looking at her, for I had seen in her dark eyes a pain 
 that it hurt me to look upon. 
 
 Some sort of conversation we maintained on the way 
 back, each of us very set on escaping for a moment from 
 wondering what the others thought; then, as we came 
 back to the bridle road, Yvonne made an end of pretence. 
 
 "Do you know," she asked me, "Monsieur Bocamier, 
 the Paris broker?" 
 
 "I have heard of him," said I, surprised. "He is 
 enormously rich, is n't he?"
 
 248 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 "Yes," she answered, laughing curiously. "A mil- 
 lionaire, monsieur. He has asked me to marry him. I 
 shall accept his offer." 
 
 I saw from his face that Massingdale already knew 
 of this decision, and I stammered out some formal 
 phrases of congratulation in the best fashion that I 
 could. 
 
 "Thank you, monsieur," said Yvonne, when I had 
 finished, lamely enough. "I hope that we shall live 
 together comfortably. You shall see me in a new rdle, 
 that of the obedient wife. Of course you understand," 
 she added, with a sudden bitterness, "that I make an 
 excellent provision for the time when my voice shall 
 have failed. A good bargain, monsieur. " 
 
 "I think I understand," I told her, letting her see 
 that I took her real meaning. 
 
 "Then," said she, laying her hand for a moment on 
 my arm, her eyes on my face, "you must forget, mon 
 ami. This afternoon is past and done with for all three 
 of us. I shall not, however, tell the others of my new 
 happiness just yet. We will keep that for a little to 
 ourselves." 
 
 When we got back to the house, Yvonne was laugh- 
 ing, and Massingdale and I playing up to her example 
 with something less than her success. 
 
 She left us very soon afterwards, declaring that our 
 woods had kept her much longer than she had meant 
 they should; and as the motor went ploughing up the 
 lane towards the neighbouring village of La Verz6e 
 and a high-road, she turned and waved to us. 
 
 Later we had a letter announcing her coming marriage, 
 and there was much comment upon it, even Loissel 
 laughing at the way that she had sold herself. If all 
 the women who do what she did come to the bargain
 
 Some Difficulties 249 
 
 with a heart as heavy, I hold the thing an evil on the 
 score of human happiness alone. 
 
 During dinner that evening Massingdale's behaviour 
 was curiously fitful : he would rouse himself from moods 
 of silence to an extreme of gaiety, and would give utter- 
 ance to a stream of nonsense that seemed to shame a 
 word of sense, then he would slip back to thought again, 
 and sit, perhaps ten minutes, without speaking. I hold 
 it some testimony to the good sense of the company 
 that no one rallied him upon a condition that was so 
 obvious. After we had left the table, as we sat about 
 the front door of the house smoking, scarcely leaving 
 me time to swallow Jeanne's excellent coffee, he asked 
 for my company on a walk. I went with him, although 
 I had far sooner have sat where I was, and we took the 
 direction of the high-road. 
 
 He walked in silence, very rapidly, and seemingly 
 unconcerned by his surroundings; I have seldom been 
 in company with a man so clearly disinclined for talk. 
 When we had covered some miles along the valley, 
 through which Blinkson had taken me on the first day 
 of my visit, I struck at further wandering. 
 
 "Are we going on all night? " I asked. 
 
 He seemed to throw off his abstraction at my question; 
 suggested that we should turn back, which was what 
 I wanted; and talked about the stilt-dancers in his 
 ordinary fashion. But the mood soon passed, and before 
 many minutes we were silent again. As we passed 
 through La Verzde, where, although the hour was early, 
 there was only a single cottage showing any light, I 
 made a last attempt at conversation. 
 
 "What the deuce is wrong with you to-night?" I 
 inquired. "The grave could give you points in liveli- 
 ness. "
 
 250 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 "Sorry," he answered. "I dragged you out, Dick, 
 because I wanted some one with me. I 'm out to escape 
 talk to-night. Look at the full moon beyond those hills; 
 look at the shadows about you; be thankful that you 
 do not walk in company with thoughts that spoil the 
 scene for you." 
 
 "Look here," said I, determined to rouse him, "there 
 is no sense in this. What is done is done with; you 
 can't make it better by playing the part of a mute." 
 
 He stopped in the middle of the road, and I saw his 
 face haggard and tired in the soft light. 
 
 "Do me a favour," he replied. "Go back and ex- 
 plain that I may not be home until late. You may not 
 understand, but you are a man who has a trick of letting 
 other men manage their own affairs. If I fight shy of 
 this business, if I try to forget the part that I have 
 played in it, I show myself a most damnable coward. 
 I don't play a hero's part, but I want to discover what 
 my real part is." 
 
 So I left him there was little else to do and he 
 turned off the road into the deep shadow of the trees, 
 and disappeared. 
 
 Loissel and I sat talking late; midnight had passed 
 an hour or more and we were still in the hall, with the 
 door wide open to the night, smoking, and busy with 
 discussion. 
 
 "I have my eyes," announced the old man, as I 
 helped myself to a last drink before turning in; "I saw 
 that there was trouble to-day. I do not ask questions, 
 mon ami; I do not want to know more than I have seen; 
 but there is a good side to this business. " 
 
 "Show it me," I asked, wanting at the moment 
 nothing more. 
 
 "It goes to make a painter," chuckled Loissel, and I
 
 Some Difficulties 251 
 
 was surprised to find him so callous. "Believe me," he 
 continued, "there is so much suffering in this world, so 
 much goes wrong, that when out of unhappiness there 
 arises some good, a man of common-sense congratulates 
 himself. " 
 
 After that he developed his point at some length; 
 he showed me that Massingdale had changed, from a 
 painter of ability to a man who might do great things, 
 because he had found the rough side of the world; and 
 he welcomed this last happening, which he was careful 
 not to name, as helping to the same result. He spoke 
 with such enthusiasm, he was so obviously persuaded 
 of his point, that I fell in with his view, and was for 
 seeing the best side of the business, when the subject 
 of our discussion made his appearance. He was hot 
 and tired, and had gained, at least, a physical fatigue. 
 
 "Still up?" said he, as he came into the hall. "I Ve 
 made a discovery. Adventure is about us ; the chance 
 of stirring deeds to our hands. I stumbled on an open- 
 air meeting of discontented labourers, and the devil is 
 in their silly heads. Shut the place up, you two; I 'm 
 like an owl in the daytime for sleepiness. " 
 
 He left us at that, without more talk; but I would 
 stake a good sum that he did not sleep before we did. 
 If he did I have no skill at all to read a man's face, when 
 what it has to show is written as plain as a book. 
 
 We induced Massingdale to give us an account of 
 the meeting, as we sat at breakfast some hours later. 
 
 "There were," he assured us, "about a couple of 
 hundred of the fools, all of them sweating with excite- 
 ment, and half of them men I have never seen before, 
 representatives from the villages for miles around. 
 They acted the thing in proper style, pleased as children 
 with themselves and their conspiracy in a wood at
 
 252 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 midnight. Ritaud, the innkeeper at Mailly, a knave 
 who holds the excellent doctrine that an independent 
 working man must always be impertinent, was the 
 leader of the crowd; an undersized animal with an 
 unhealthy countenance and the manner of an epileptic, 
 who hailed the rest of them as 'my brothers of the 
 country,' was the chief speaker. He spoke in a hoarse 
 whisper, which every now and again dropped into a 
 croak, and in the space of about ten minutes he gave 
 them all the proper phrases about the wicked capitalist, 
 the right of the poor man to his work and his pay, and 
 the march to freedom. As a peroration he rounded 
 on the Vicomte de M6nillart, pointed a trembling hand 
 in the direction of the chateau here, and promised that, 
 if the master dared to show his face in the district, he 
 should learn that his workmen were no longer slaves. 
 I was sick with the swine who listened to him, for they 
 shouted against De Me"nillart with the best will in the 
 world; yet I '11 swear there is not a better landlord in 
 this part of France. The neighbourhood is going out 
 on strike, I gather, within the next few days. For 
 what reason they probably don't know themselves but 
 the thing seems arranged. If the Vicomte comes for 
 his usual visit here, and Jeanne tells me that the chateau 
 is being opened, it 's odds on this peaceful valley becom- 
 ing a sort of concert room for drunken shouting. Shall 
 we insure our windows, my friends? Shall we institute 
 a counter-demonstration? As employers of labour, as 
 capitalists, as rich and idle aristocrats, we will maintain 
 our rights ! A has les o uvriers ! What says our socialist ? ' ' 
 "Grand Dieu," cried Auguste Vanne, climbing on to 
 the table to the considerable danger of the household 
 crockery, and waving his hands in the best manner of 
 the tub-thumper, "we have our rights! Courage, my
 
 Some Difficulties 253 
 
 friends, the hour approaches. We demand the right to 
 be appreciated! An end to this intolerable obscurity! 
 Death or fame, my brothers!" 
 
 We beat upon the table in sign of our agreement 
 with these excellent sentiments; and the fat little man 
 bowed to us with the utmost grace, and then implored 
 some one to help him down. Hendick alone remained 
 serious, and, when we were quiet again, gave us his 
 views of the matter. 
 
 "You all know," said he, "my opinions about labour 
 and its treatment; I have not changed them. In this 
 case, however, I am not in sympathy with the strikers. 
 I believe, as Massingdale has said, that the Vicomte de 
 Menillart is a good and just landlord and master, that 
 is, so far as a man can be just under the present con- 
 ditions. As I see it, the peasantry are well treated 
 and well paid; the failure of the vine crop is alone 
 responsible for the present trouble. In spite of what 
 you may think, a socialist is not necessarily a fool, and 
 I am not inclined to blame the employer for what 
 is nature's doing. I should certainly side with the 
 masters, if trouble should begin at present in this 
 district." 
 
 "A convert! A convert!" shouted Vanne, beginning 
 to cheer loudly; but he was restrained by Massingdale 
 rising in the pompous manner of a president at a board 
 meeting. 
 
 "Messieurs," began our host, very solemn, "we have 
 to welcome in our midst one who has long been estranged 
 from us. An erring lamb, gentlemen, has returned to 
 the fold. I need not tell you what a deep sense of thank- 
 fulness fills me " 
 
 Here, however, we were prevented from hearing the 
 finish of his speech by the bustling appearance of Jeanne,
 
 254 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 who inquired whether we wished to sit at table all the 
 morning, and who forthwith drove us out of doors. 
 That we should waste our own time, the excellent 
 woman informed us, making a noise like silly schoolboys, 
 was no concern of hers; but that we should cause her to 
 get behindhand with her work, was a thing she would 
 not stand. 
 
 I do not think that the rest of us took the prospect 
 of the strike seriously, but Hendick was in solemn 
 earnest about the affair, and would, had we given him 
 the chance, have discoursed at some length on the evil 
 of taking action on insufficient justification. He started 
 off for Mailly to discover for himself the true state of 
 affairs. Vanne went with him. "For," said the fat 
 man, "the repentant sinner wants constant guidance. 
 We must have no apostasy in this community. " 
 
 Massingdale retired to the studio as soon as Hendick 
 and Vanne had departed; he announced that he was 
 going to put in a day's work on a picture of Charlotte 
 Roneval, but I fancy that he also wished to be alone. 
 Blinkson was already at work in the garden, digging 
 potatoes with the assistance of Marellac ; so that Loissel 
 and I were the only idle members of the company. 
 After pottering about for half the morning, we strolled 
 out towards the chateau to make enquiries about the 
 arrival of De Menillart, who was a close friend of Loissel's, 
 and whom I had met more than once in the old man's 
 flat in Paris. We encountered our gentleman as he was 
 leaving the gates of his park, and he greeted us with 
 the information that we had saved him a walk, since he 
 was on his way to visit us. He had arrived, we learned, 
 the previous evening; he was going into Cluny that 
 afternoon to meet some visitors who were coming on 
 a visit for a few days; and he wanted the pair of us
 
 Some Difficulties 255 
 
 and Massingdale to dine with him that evening. We 
 accepted, and said that we would let him know about 
 Massingdale, which he declared to be unnecessary, 
 immediately thereafter beginning to talk about the 
 discontent among his tenantry. 
 
 As we talked he led the way towards the house, and 
 for half an hour or more we wandered in the grounds, 
 which were neither very beautiful, nor yet well kept 
 according to our English standard, while he expressed 
 himself rather gravely on the situation. I had not 
 been within the walls of the park before, and had had 
 no chance to form any opinion of the house, except 
 that it was low and white, with green shutters and a 
 red-tiled roof, and that a turreted wing at one end 
 of the building seemed older than the rest. Upon a 
 closer inspection, although on that occasion I did not 
 go inside, the place seemed little more than a shooting 
 lodge, exhibited nothing of greater interest than a certain 
 picturesque and solid comfort, and suggested little wealth, 
 or a great distaste for show, upon the part of its owner. 
 Indeed, from what I had always heard, I imagined the 
 Vicomte de Menillart to be far from a rich man, and 
 I understood that, apart from his full share of expenses 
 as a generous landlord, he spent very little on his 
 Burgundian estate, keeping most of his money for the 
 improvement of the lands from which he took his name, 
 where, moreover, he spent very much of his time. 
 
 But I had not many thoughts to spare for the house, 
 since the master held us with talk that did not want in 
 interest. Although he was largely an absentee landlord, 
 he knew the district which he owned, and he was no 
 stranger to the people, so that the serious view which 
 he took of the disturbance convinced me that the affair 
 was no mere laughing matter.
 
 256 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 As he accompanied us back to the gates, his face 
 bore signs of worry and anxiety; he walked with his 
 head bent, a small, thin man, very carefully dressed, his 
 moustache and imperial already touched with grey, con- 
 scientiousness and honesty plainly stamped on his whole 
 person. 
 
 "When I discovered how things were," he explained, 
 as we were about to leave him, "I had an idea of send- 
 ing my wife and the boy away again, and of putting off 
 my guests. However, I have not done so. " 
 
 " Surely you exaggerate the case, my friend, " answered 
 Loissel. "There will be no unpleasantness at your 
 house." 
 
 "I hope not," said the Vicomte, smiling somewhat 
 uncertainly. "In any case, it is too late now to alter 
 things. Till to-night, messieurs. " 
 
 On our way back, I inquired how long De M&iillart 
 had been a father, for I had always understood that 
 he was childless. 
 
 "Two months," Loissel informed me; "and seven years 
 of marriage before the event. Between ourselves, mon 
 cher, that is why he is become so fanciful; he imagines 
 all sorts of dangers and unpleasantness for the mother 
 and the baby. Yet it is worth growing fanciful, if one 
 has a son to weigh down the balance on the other side. " 
 
 I did not continue the subject, and I think that 
 Loissel showed me this glimpse of the great sorrow of 
 his life before he was aware that he had spoken; for 
 he was not the man to inform others of his own private 
 griefs, and, after a moment of silence, he spoke of some- 
 thing else. 
 
 After dejeuner Massingdale went back to work, 
 having agreed to dine with De Me"nillart; Marellac dis- 
 appeared somewhere by himself; and Loissel, Blinkson,
 
 Some Difficulties 257 
 
 and I, after a decent interval, sauntered over to La 
 Verzee, all three of us more taken than we cared to own 
 with the idea that the promised strike might come 
 to something. The afternoon was hot, and the inn of 
 Luin fuller than was usual at the hour; we learned, for 
 we ventured no farther than the shade of its garden, 
 that there was, if nothing else, a great deal of silly talk 
 going about the district, and that Dupont, the Vicomte's 
 agent, a stranger in the neighbourhood, stood a very 
 good chance of being mishandled. 
 
 We got back home between four and five, and being 
 full of the news that we had heard, invaded the studio 
 without ceremony. The room presented its customary 
 appearance of disorder; there was a litter of odds and 
 ends strewn about the place, and the smell of paint 
 was strong. Massingdale sat in a low arm-chair, his 
 elbows on his knees, his chin on his hands; before him 
 was a finished picture, at which he stared. There 
 should be little occasion to describe the painting; it 
 hangs now in the Luxembourg, and is duly admired 
 by many visitors. La Femme is to my nimd the great- 
 est of its author's achievements. But, when I saw 
 it for the first time, resting upon an easel in a bare 
 Burgundian farmhouse, I felt no conscious apprecia- 
 tion of the genius that had created it, for the woman's 
 head that appeared against the dark background was 
 the head of Joan Onnington, beautiful and idealised. 
 It is no girl's portrait, this picture, but the presentation 
 of a woman, wide-eyed and sympathetic, tolerant and 
 touched with knowledge, passionate and capable to 
 suffer; a woman very womanly, with the stamp of 
 motherhood set upon her face, very steadfast, and 
 promising that here is one who will keep faith, bear 
 disappointment without complaint, ask for no perfec- 
 17
 
 258 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 tion, and cherish whom she loves. As I looked at the 
 canvas I became, in some measure, aware of what 
 Massingdale had suffered, and of how through the last 
 two years he must have lived with an image in his 
 heart of whose existence we had never known. All 
 that he had shown in his painting, it struck me on the 
 moment, was possible, and might some day be true; 
 and it came to me on a sudden rush of pity that, from the 
 first, he had seen this, making his loss thereby far more 
 than we had ever dreamed. 
 
 But he did not leave us to admire his skill, or to pity 
 his misfortune, without comment. At the noise of our 
 entry he turned, and sprang from his chair more moved 
 than I had ever seen him. He seemed like a man sur- 
 prised with some secret that he carefully guarded, 
 ashamed to be discovered, and angry at his shame. 
 Standing in front of the canvas, he eyed us with undis- 
 guised resentment, and I could see that the man trembled 
 with the violence of a rage I could not understand. 
 
 Loissel, paying no attention to his attitude, crossed 
 the room quickly; thrust Massingdale aside from in 
 front of the canvas, flung himself into the empty chair, 
 and became engrossed in study of the picture. The 
 action seemed to do away with the little restraint that 
 Massingdale could still command; he turned upon 
 us with a cry of passion, stuttering to get his words out. 
 
 "Damn you," he roared, "why do you come in here? 
 Did n't I tell you that I wished to be alone? What 
 have you come to see? Get out. For God's sake, 
 Dick, don't look at me as if I were to be pitied. I don't 
 want your damned pity, or your company. Get out 
 the lot of you." 
 
 We did not move. I, certainly, and I think Blinkson 
 was in the same case, was too surprised to stir a finger;
 
 Some Difficulties 259 
 
 Loissel did not seem to hear. As we did not go Massing- 
 dale's tone changed; he started pacing the room, and 
 spoke with smooth sarcasm, in a fashion not more like 
 his ordinary manner than his previous violence. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," says he; "I was most unreason- 
 able. No man, of course, has any right to demand 
 solitude in his own house. Please make yourselves 
 thoroughly acquainted with my private affairs. Crutch- 
 ley, go up and take a closer look at my work; follow 
 Loissel's example. You will be able to tell me whether 
 you think it a good portrait; also you should be able to 
 offer me some instructive remarks on what you suppose 
 is my condition of wounded sentiment. Stand behind 
 the chair, you '11 get a better light. Blinkson, I must 
 really apologise: so far I have kept you in ignorance of 
 certain private matters. It is unpardonable. This 
 painting, in which you all show such a flattering interest, 
 is the portrait of a girl whom I once hoped to marry. 
 Is there anything else that I can do to help you towards 
 a better understanding of my life? " 
 
 I remained speechless, looking a big enough fool I 
 am quite prepared to think, abominably embarrassed; 
 Loissel had turned from the picture, and sat fingering 
 his beard with an odd distress; Blinkson, the sodden, 
 disreputable old drunkard, the man whose behaviour 
 was a thing condemned by all persons of nice up- 
 bringing, put a finish to the scene, without embarrass- 
 ment and without hesitation, showing himself on the 
 instant a middle-aged gentleman of very kindly tact. 
 
 He stepped across to Massingdale and took him by 
 the arm, his manner the nicest example of good-tempered 
 insistence. 
 
 "Steady," said he. "Don't let this business become 
 hysterical. Besides, if it 's all the same to you, I 'd far
 
 260 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 rather know nothing about your domestic affairs. 
 There are so many little matters in my own life, you 
 know, I have plenty to think about. I thought you 
 were at work on the dancing girl ; I suppose you finished 
 when the light began to get poor. " 
 
 The sound of Blinkson's husky, easy talk had its 
 effect on Massingdale; he had come to a more ordinary 
 temper before the other had finished. He grew red 
 like a child, stammered something, turned away across 
 the room, and then faced us with the determined look 
 of a man who forces himself to a hated duty. 
 
 "You men startled me," he began; "I made a dam- 
 nable fool " 
 
 "Can't you leave the rest for granted?" interrupted 
 Blinkson. "If you were to go and hunt up a dress- 
 suit it will take some doing for your appearance 
 among the nobility this evening, I think we might all 
 be the better for it. " 
 
 " My God, " Massingdale agreed, " I think we might. " 
 And left us, without more explanation. 
 
 When the door had closed behind him, Blinkson 
 made the only comment that passed between us touching 
 the scene. 
 
 "Poor devil!" said he, and walked over to the easel. 
 
 We gathered about the picture which had caused, 
 apparently, this singular outburst, and admired it for 
 some moments in silence. The longer I looked at it, 
 the more I became impressed with its power; it was 
 not simply a beautiful face, finely painted, that looked 
 at me, it was a living head, a thing of many moods and 
 of changing expressions; no single moment in a life, 
 seized and portrayed, but the presentment of a human 
 woman, frail and wonderful a woman resting in an 
 arm-chair, clothed in black, to point the contrast with
 
 Some Difficulties 261 
 
 her skin, seeing visions in the night, the room dark 
 about her, and the light soft on her face ; a living creature, 
 dowered with high passions, and with laughter lurking 
 in her eyes. I could scarcely take my eyes from the thing, 
 and I forgot to wonder at the painter's skill, seeing, for 
 the moment, only the woman that he had drawn. 
 
 Blinkson was the first to break the silence, and he 
 spoke more jerkily than usual. 
 
 " Not bad, that, " he remarked. 
 
 "Not bad!" exclaimed Loissel, standing before the 
 canvas in an odd excitement. " Mon Dieu, but you 
 are right. It is womanhood. It is an inspiration, a 
 masterpiece, the work of genius no less. There is 
 not another living painter who could have done it; 
 there are not many of the dead who have done better. 
 It will become immortal, I tell you," he shouted, point- 
 ing to the painting with a trembling hand. "And I 
 have taught him I, Jean Se"bastien Loissel, shall be 
 called his master. Ah, my friends, I could weep, I 
 could laugh. Even if he never paint another picture 
 which God forbid he has earned a place among 
 great artists; he has done far more than even I, who 
 believed in him, had ever dared to hope. They said 
 he had technique without a soul; they said he could 
 not see clearly with the single purpose of the artist; 
 let them see this! Ah, messieurs les critiques, what 
 will you say now! Let him be rich or poor, this boy, 
 laughing or sad, it does not matter: he has shown him- 
 self above the little things of life. Good or bad, an 
 honest man or a thief, I do not care! He is an artist, 
 an artist of the greatest. " 
 
 At this point Massingdale returned, carrying with 
 him a bundle of clothes, and seemingly himself again. 
 At sight of him Loissel charged across the room, seized
 
 262 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 him in his arms, embraced him warmly, weeping without 
 restraint and muttering incoherent praise. 
 
 Of the four of us I was, certainly, the most embarrassed ; 
 I am ill at ease in face of such demonstrations, although 
 I find them not wanting in interest, and I am always 
 horribly self-conscious. Massingdale was not in the 
 least concerned; he suffered Loissel's embrace without 
 resistance, waited for the enthusiasm to moderate, then, 
 thanking us for what we said of him, in such a manner that 
 we could have no doubt either of his sincerity or his 
 satisfaction, put away the canvas with a deal of care. 
 
 "There is something in the air to-night," he laughed, 
 "that makes for excitement. First I make a priceless 
 fool of myself quite how lamentable an ass I was, I 
 hope you will never tell me then you follow, very 
 poor seconds at the best, trying to turn my head. If 
 I give myself time to think at all, I shall alternate 
 between horrible humility (dangerous to me on account 
 of its unusualness) and more abominable conceit, finish- 
 ing, probably, as a jibbering lunatic. Have pity on me, 
 gracious gentlemen. The devil 's in it, and I can't find 
 the few clothes that I have. How, in the name of art 
 and Saville Row, can I appear in that?" 
 
 He held up the crumpled and threadbare remains of 
 an ancient dress-coat, shook his head sadly, and called 
 loud for Jeanne. 
 
 With the aid of that inestimable woman and a hot 
 iron, by dint of ransacking the whole wardrobe of the 
 household, he at last stepped forth before the admiring 
 eyes of the entire company, completely clad, neither well 
 nor in any one particular fashion, but in such manner 
 that his intention to appear in the prescribed attire was 
 to be recognised at the first glance. 
 
 As we walked to the chateau in the soft darkness of
 
 Some Difficulties 263 
 
 a warm September night, Massingdale showed himself 
 both nervous and in high spirits. Since Yvonne's visit 
 he had seemed estranged from his usual manner; but 
 the outburst of the afternoon appeared to have done 
 him good, and, beyond a certain nervousness, betrayed 
 in his excited volubility, he was himself again. 
 
 We were admitted to the house by an old manservant, 
 who showed us into a deserted salon, and departed to 
 give notice of our arrival to our host. The room, like 
 all the house so far as I could judge, was furnished 
 in good taste, mainly with ancient furniture; it had, 
 besides, three long windows giving upon the garden, at 
 the moment wide open to the night. 
 
 "I cast no reflection," murmured Massingdale, as we 
 waited, "upon the generosity of my friends, but my 
 appearance is vilely suggestive of the slop-shop. The 
 flunkey noticed it, and in his heart despises me. " 
 
 Thereupon, turning to a glass, he made some adjust- 
 ments in his attire; stopped, his hands still hidden in 
 the neighbourhood of his shoulder-blades, faced the 
 windows with a gasp, and stood gaping as if he saw a 
 ghost. 
 
 I twisted round to follow the line of his gaze, and 
 there, arm-in-arm, staring at us in astonishment, just 
 entered from the garden, stood Tom Onnington and 
 Joan.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 OF MOONLIGHT AND OF SLEEPING HOPES 
 
 WE kept silence, facing each other, for not more than 
 a couple of seconds at most, yet Massingdale 
 has since told me that he began to wonder if any one of us 
 would ever speak again, and that, for his part, all hope 
 of making a sane and appropriate remark was gone 
 from him. Tom Onnington, in any case, was not 
 similarly affected, for he came across the room to 
 Massingdale with a welcome that showed no trace of 
 any embarrassment. 
 
 "This is what we call a joyful surprise, " he announced, 
 taking the hand that was held out to him. "It is 
 literally and absolutely years since I last saw you. 
 What are you doing here, with Dick too 'Evening to 
 you, Dick and how are things going along?" 
 
 "I'm living in a neighbouring cottage," answered 
 Massingdale, speaking like a man dazed, and looking 
 across the room to where Joan talked with Loissel. 
 "Dick is staying with me; so are Loissel and some 
 other men." 
 
 "Painting like the deuce, I suppose?" Tom enquired. 
 "Doing down the critics in proper fashion? I heard 
 you spoken of in Paris as no end of a duke. I '11 come 
 round to-morrow and see the latest masterpiece. I 'm 
 here for a few days with Joan, and then we move on to 
 
 264
 
 Moonlight and Sleeping Hopes 265 
 
 Paris to pick up the old people. Come and introduce 
 me to Loissel. " 
 
 To a man of his high passions, more especially to 
 one who found it so difficult to disguise his feelings, 
 the situation was not easy; yet Massingdale faced it. 
 without public shame. As he shook hands with Joan, 
 murmuring something inaudible in reply to her con- 
 ventional greeting, he was very clearly distressed, and, 
 I imagine, it added little to his comfort to know that in 
 spite of our conversation we all watched him. 
 
 "I have been hearing," said Joan, speaking with the 
 utmost self-possession, and smiling at him as at a 
 stranger, "that you are painting some remarkable 
 pictures; but Monsieur Loissel tells me that you are 
 jealous of showing them until they are exhibited. That 's 
 very selfish of you." 
 
 "I assure you," answered Massingdale, and his voice 
 was under full command, "that any picture I intend 
 to exhibit may be duly viewed and criticised. The 
 studies that I have painted for my own amusement 
 might jeopardise a slender reputation, if they were 
 shown to lay eyes. " 
 
 " I shall be quite interested to see those that you are 
 willing to show," Joan replied, the patronage in her 
 tone little more than an insult, her failure to find any 
 interest in the subject very carefully conveyed. 
 
 I saw Massingdale wince, and as Joan turned to talk 
 to me he wandered off with Tom towards the windows. 
 I began to lose my temper; it struck me that my charm- 
 ing cousin was wanting in generosity. That, although 
 she had been at some pains to snub a man who, she could 
 guess, was scarcely happy, she had also been pleased 
 to treat him to an exhibition of the best graces of the 
 coquette, clearly, by every act and movement, flaunting
 
 266 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 her beauty before him. I could not recognise her in this 
 new attitude, and I paid small attention to her remarks, 
 being engaged on the attempt to discover her object. 
 Fortunately, the Vicomte and his wife, very full of 
 apologies for their absence, brought the finish to a 
 situation that was difficult for all of us. After some 
 very usual comments on the fact that the company 
 was already acquainted, and when two nieces of our 
 hostess, who were the only other guests, had made 
 their appearance, we went in to dinner. 
 
 At table Massingdale sat next to one of the nieces, 
 a plump, pale, languid, and altogether colourless person, 
 and, upon the other side, Joan; for a moment or two 
 he let the conversation pass him, then, having emptied 
 his glass at a gulp, somewhat, I fancy, to the astonish- 
 ment of the butler, he started on a stream of talk. His 
 eyes were as bright as those of a man in fever, his face 
 more pale than usual, yet after the first glass I noticed 
 that he hardly touched his wine; there was about his 
 whole person a suggestion of fire and movement, such, 
 I imagine, as would have led a stranger to notice him 
 before any other member of the company. His hair 
 somewhat wild, for he constantly disturbed it as was 
 his custom when excited, his clothes ill-fitting and much 
 worn, he yet moved and spoke with a distinction that 
 we others could not equal; Loissel, alone, showed some- 
 thing of the same caste, but age had marked him and 
 dimmed somewhat the sparkle of his life. 
 
 Joan was beautifully dressed; had certainly developed 
 nearer to her promised beauty; and, but for the extra- 
 ordinary affectation of her manner when she spoke to 
 Massingdale, showed the makings of a woman of wit 
 and intelligence. I watched the pair of them with a 
 deal of interest, and was, I am afraid, a mighty poor
 
 Moonlight and Sleeping Hopes 267 
 
 partner for the second niece; however, Torn relieved 
 me of something of my duties, and for much of the 
 meal conversation was general. 
 
 I remember that, shortly before our hostess gave the 
 signal for the ladies to retire, the talk touched upon 
 gambling, succeeding a discussion upon Parisian and 
 London life, in which Massingdale had refused to talk 
 a word of sense, and during the course of which he had 
 set the table in a roar. 
 
 "It is," maintained, our hostess, "a very significant 
 fact that the whole of French society is becoming daily 
 more fond of gambling. " 
 
 "The clearest sign," announced Massingdale, "that 
 the period of temporary obscurity is past, that France 
 moves to her proper place again. " 
 
 "But, monsieur," pleaded the plump niece, very 
 serious, " you cannot mean that you think such a thing 
 a sign of greatness? " 
 
 " Most certainly," he assured her. 
 
 "On what grounds do you hold that view?" asked 
 the Vicomte. 
 
 "Because," Massingdale informed us, his peculiar 
 boy's laugh ringing out before he spoke, " your gambler 
 worships the kinder gods; because he is a creature of 
 hope, holding that to-morrow will be bright although 
 to-day is dark; because he does not count his costs; 
 because he has the spirit to do the thing he wishes 
 without hesitation; because a risk is like wine to him; 
 because, if gambling, sterner gambling than that of the 
 race-course or the gaming table, were not somewhere 
 deep-rooted in all our lives, we should be little better 
 than worms and creeping, slimy things. " 
 
 "You talk the most amazing nonsense," laughed 
 Loissel. "What of the suffering that is brought to
 
 268 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 others by your friends the gamblers? The homes that 
 want? The honest tradesmen if such there be 
 who are not paid?" 
 
 Massingdale spread his hands out, and his voice 
 was suddenly become serious as he replied. 
 
 "What of the chances that are missed by those who 
 dare not gamble? What of the dulness the one great 
 enemy to man that is suffered, because we are fright- 
 ened at a risk? Can you name a great man of the world 
 who did not gamble with his life, or with success? 
 What of the follies of the silly playing in which there 
 is nothing to win or lose but money? It may lead to 
 the breeding of a .race of gamblers, to the coming of a 
 generation who, hoping to advance, are not afraid to 
 move alone, even when there is nothing but a slender 
 path of chance before them, and loss and bitterness for 
 any wanderer from it." 
 
 "You yourself gamble?" asked Joan. 
 
 "I sometimes risk a stake," he answered, playing 
 with the stem of his wine glass. 
 
 "Oh, how disappointing!" cried Joan. "I expected 
 to hear that you were a seasoned player. I imagined 
 from your talk that you, at least, would set a good 
 example. " 
 
 Massingdale leaned back in his chair, looking straight 
 at the girl beside him, and his voice was certainly not 
 serious, although his eyes were steady on his neighbour's 
 face. 
 
 "Your reproof is merited, Miss Onnington," he 
 allowed, "but you must admit that I am young, and 
 that it is difficult to fulfil all one's ideals. However, 
 I improve. Hitherto I have been too much inclined to 
 cease playing when my losses have been heavy. Now 
 I think that I have learned to double my stake when
 
 Moonlight and Sleeping Hopes 269 
 
 the play is against me. I hope to show myself a more 
 persistent player in the future. " 
 
 Joan did not reply, and I fancy that her colour 
 deepened, for Massingdale was now no longer ill at 
 ease or in any embarrassment, but our hostess rose and 
 put an end to the talk. 
 
 "I will not listen to any more nonsense," said she. 
 "I hope, Monsieur Massingdale, that some day you 
 will become a serious person." 
 
 "Bon Dieu,madame, " cried Massingdale, "why should 
 you wish anything so horrible? " 
 
 But Madame de Me"nillart refused to be drawn into 
 any further discussion, and, laughing at the "absurd 
 painter," as she called him, withdrew with the three 
 girls. 
 
 When the servants had left the room and we sat with 
 our coffee and liqueurs before us, the Vicomte dropped 
 something of the polite conventional manner that he 
 had affected during the evening, showing us the anxious 
 man beneath. 
 
 "The situation has developed rather alarmingly," he 
 stated. " I tried to reason with some of my tenants this 
 afternoon, but they would not hear me. I hardly recog- 
 nised them for the men that I know. Also which, I 
 think, is far more serious Dupont, my agent, has been 
 very roughly handled. He is a man of hot temper and 
 does not want in courage, and I am afraid that, perfectly 
 naturally after this, he will only get into worse dis- 
 agreement with the men. " 
 
 "What are the workmen's demands?" asked Tom. 
 
 "Broadly, that I shall employ the labour and pay 
 the wages of a good harvest during a bad one," De 
 Menillart replied. "Much of the harvest labour is 
 casual. I have neither discharged nor impoverished
 
 270 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 any regular hand, but I cannot afford to pay men good 
 wages when there is no work for them to do, and no 
 wine for me to buy their pay. I know that the failure 
 of the crop has caused much suffering. Half the poorer 
 families depend upon their harvest earnings for their 
 comfort in the winter, but I am not responsible for it. 
 I am quite willing to help them as much as I can, but 
 I cannot meet their demands." 
 
 "Of course not," Tom agreed. "Stick to your guns, 
 by all means. What will the result be? " 
 
 "Ah!" said the Vicomte and sat silent, staring before 
 him in evident trouble. 
 
 Loissel, who sat next to our host, replied to the 
 question. He was obviously determined to take a 
 lighter view of things. 
 
 "A little unpleasantness," said he, "a great deal of 
 noise, much drunkenness, some horseplay, perhaps a 
 procession with songs at the gates of the park, that is 
 all." 
 
 De Me'nillart smiled uncertainly, then turned to 
 Massingdale, who had kept silence. 
 
 "You, my friend," he enquired, "have lived among 
 them for some months. They speak of you as a friend. 
 What do you think?" 
 
 ' ' In what way was Dupont knocked about ? ' ' Massing- 
 dale asked. 
 
 "He was stoned." 
 
 "Was he hurt?" 
 
 "Yes ; a nasty cut on his head. " 
 
 "Is there much drinking going on?" Massingdale 
 continued. 
 
 "Much more than I should like to see," replied the 
 Vicomte gravely. 
 
 "Then," said Massingdale, and for some reason we
 
 Moonlight and Sleeping Hopes 271 
 
 trusted, against our wishes, to his opinion, "I should 
 look out for trouble. There is too much disturbance 
 now in the wine trade in France, some of it the fault 
 of the Government, some due to the big manufacturers. 
 You cannot expect to escape it. " 
 
 "What do you advise, then?" asked De Menillart. 
 " Do you think" he hesitated somewhat at a conclusion 
 "that you could say something to the leaders? Really, 
 Massingdale, they seem to look on you as the only 
 friend they have." 
 
 Massingdale laughed. I was astonished at the change 
 that had come over the man. All his fantastic manner 
 had dropped from him; he no longer gesticulated when 
 he spoke, and somehow he had brought the lot of us 
 to listening to his words in silence and respect. 
 
 "No," he answered; "I can talk many forms of 
 nonsense, but not the sort that would suit a half -drunken 
 labourer out on strike. I am sorry, Vicomte, but it 
 can't be done. You will not give way to them, that I 
 know. There is not, however, any reason why things 
 should be very serious. A little rioting; some stacks, 
 possibly a barn or two, burnt ; a good deal of wine stolen, 
 and, as Loissel says, that is all. " 
 
 " Do you think, " our host continued, and he was now 
 very serious indeed, "that it would be advisable to send 
 my guests and my wife and son away?" 
 
 "I am sure that it would do more harm than good," 
 Massingdale told him. "Your tenants watch all that 
 you do, and they would call such an action an insult 
 to them. Drunkenness is all you have to fear. See 
 that they don't get hold of much to drink. Knock in 
 the barrels in all the cellars that you own here, and very 
 little will happen. " 
 
 "Yes, my friend, yes," murmured De Menillart.
 
 272 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 "You are right there, but it is not easy to do. They 
 will not like it." 
 
 Talk dropped between us for a moment. We were, 
 I fancy, all busy with imagining the chances of the 
 next few days. Then the Vicomte rose. 
 
 "You are a poor comforter at best," he laughed, 
 addressing Massingdale. "But we must not forget 
 our duty in the salon, and we must not talk of our 
 fears when we get there." 
 
 After we had spent half an hour or more in polite 
 conversation, carried on to the accompaniment of the 
 indifferent playing of the plump niece, who sat at the 
 piano, I must suppose, because she disliked conversation 
 and not on account of any love of music, we wandered 
 out to the terrace in front of the windows. Seeing that 
 the others were engaged in talk, Tom and I made our 
 escape with the intention of securing a quiet smoke in 
 the gardens. The moon was full, and already high in the 
 heavens, the scene about us more beautiful than in 
 the day, and the night still and fine, with no cloud in the 
 sky. Turning down a path which was hidden from the 
 terrace by a shrubbery, we came to a summer-house 
 built upon a little platform on the hillside, and com- 
 manding from its balcony a fine prospect of the valley 
 beneath. In the thin light the country seemed to sleep 
 softly and in great enjoyment of its rest; a light mist 
 lay in the hollows, calm and untroubled, like a great lake 
 of water lapping the feet of the hills; and all about us 
 there was no sound to disturb the quiet of the night. 
 On every side, the highlands shut us in, dark and silent, 
 with the deep, rich shadows hanging heavily upon the 
 slopes; and full on our little gallery the moon shone, 
 lighting the place for us with gentler light than that of 
 day.
 
 Moonlight and Sleeping Hopes 273 
 
 The summer-house screened us from the path behind, 
 and we leaned upon the hand rail, staring in silence at 
 the sloping hillside underneath our feet. After a few 
 moments Tom stirred uneasily, threw his cigarette 
 away, watching its fall with close attention, and then 
 began speaking quietly, as if the night affected him. 
 
 "Tell me, Dick," he asked, "is Massingdale's dress 
 an affectation or is he really an impecunious devotee 
 of the arts, without the money to buy himself a decent 
 suit?" 
 
 "He is pretty well on the rocks as far as money is 
 concerned, " I answered, in the same low tone. 
 
 "I '11 be damned if I can understand it," Tom argued. 
 "The man is more than a mere bug at his job, he is a 
 fine artist. I saw some of his work the other day, and 
 every one was talking about it. " 
 
 " It 's a slow business, " I informed him, " and Massing- 
 dale does n't seem in the least concerned about making 
 money. It 's quite impossible to talk business with 
 him. However, although he won't say anything about 
 it, I fancy he came so near to starving about a year 
 ago that he is anxious not to get into the same pass 
 again." 
 
 "The devil he did," answered Tom. "I never heard 
 of that. Confound it, here is some one coming ! " 
 
 There was a noise of footsteps on the path at the 
 other side of the summer-house, so we stepped into the 
 darkness of the shelter to see who came to disturb us. 
 The place was clearly never used, it was thick with 
 dust, the door stood, wedged, half-open, and after the 
 moonlight the inside was as black as the pit; through 
 the windows, of which much of the glass was broken, 
 and through the door, we had a good view of the open 
 space behind the building, a little gravelled circle with 
 
 18
 
 274 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 a tiny basin, empty of water, in the middle, a place shut 
 in with trees, with an air of neglect about it, as if no 
 gardener came there. Just entering the open space, not 
 four yards from our shelter, and with the moonlight 
 strong on their faces, walked Joan and Massingdale. 
 
 "Curse!" whispered Tom in my ear. "Don't move, 
 Dick. They won't stop here, and I '11 be shot if I want 
 to meet them together. " 
 
 I was of his opinion, and, like a couple of fools, 
 we gave no sign of our presence, being for our pains 
 forced into eavesdropping in a fashion which I do not 
 care to think about. For, after the first few seconds 
 that we had wasted, to discover ourselves became 
 impossible. 
 
 Joan stopped while Tom was whispering; she had 
 glanced at the summer-house, and had come to a stand 
 the other side of the basin, her left foot resting on the 
 edge. She was without a shawl or any wrap, the moon- 
 light gleamed on her shoulders and arms, and showed 
 her a woman very beautiful in face and figure, of which 
 fact, I take it, she was conscious at the moment, for she 
 looked at the man beside her as if she were sure of her 
 power. 
 
 "Well, Mr. Massingdale," she said, playing with a 
 gold chain that hung about her neck, "I am very curious 
 to know what you have to say to me. " 
 
 The man stood about two feet away from her, some- 
 what stiff and strained in his pose, his face pale, his 
 eyes steady upon the girl in front of him. 
 
 "You are," he said, giving no direct reply to her 
 question, and speaking with a curious distinctness, 
 somewhat slow, yet scarcely above his breath, "more 
 of a woman than when I left you. You are much nearer 
 to the beauty that will come to you. But you are bored.
 
 Moonlight and Sleeping Hopes 275 
 
 Why do you let yourself grow bored in this good world, 
 Joan?" 
 
 The girl ceased playing with her chain, moved her 
 foot from the rim of the basin, and met her companion's 
 glance with steadiness. 
 
 "I don't think that this conversation amuses me, 
 Mr. Massingdale, " she replied, laying a slight emphasis 
 upon the title. "Will you take me back to the house, 
 please?" 
 
 Massingdale did not stir, and as he answered there 
 was no change in his voice or his expression. 
 
 "I cannot prevent you from returning," said he, "I 
 can only ask that you will not. You have nothing to 
 fear from me except the inevitable contamination of 
 my presence. If it pleases you, I will not make use 
 of your name. Why have you tried to become like 
 many of the girls of your own age and station, when 
 in doing so you find so little profit? " 
 
 "Mr. Massingdale," cried Joan, her colour high, her 
 head thrown back, "you forget that you have ceased 
 to be anything but a stranger to me. I wish to return 
 to the house. " 
 
 "Yet you will wait until I have finished what I have 
 to say," Massingdale answered calmly, and Joan did 
 not move. " You say that I am become a stranger to 
 you. You make a mistake. When, on a certain spring 
 day, you made me certain promises promises that you 
 had a perfect right to break you killed the strangeness 
 between us. It is dead, long dead; not you, not con- 
 vention, not distance, not absence, neither suffering nor 
 wrong can give it life again. Therefore, you will hear 
 me." 
 
 " Please finish what you have to say as quickly as you 
 can, I am getting cold," Joan asked, and although her
 
 276 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 voice was calm and polite, she no longer looked at the 
 man to whom she spoke. 
 
 He, for his part, stood silent a moment, his eyes alone 
 showing the strength of his passion, then following an 
 odd gesture of his arms, he spoke again, his words hurried, 
 his voice low and sometimes trembling. 
 
 "I do not seek to reopen the past," he pleaded; "I 
 do not ask to know what you still think of me; but 
 I must speak. You and I have stepped beyond the 
 borders of convention. For a little time, once, we were 
 more than polite, civilised people together, we were man 
 and woman making each other's real acquaintance in 
 the hope that our journey together might last till death. 
 I know what you would say: it is not true. It is not 
 done with, although it may be past and finished, that 
 time when we learned to know each other. You cannot 
 kill the past: that which you have done must live, to 
 affect your life and mine until the end. Love may be 
 gone for you I do not want to talk of that but you 
 must not forget that it once lived. Although I may be 
 the blackguard that you have named me, I was once 
 your lover; you once talked to me of the real things 
 that move us; you once showed me the woman that 
 lives in you. Do you think that I forget that? Do 
 you think that, no matter what the change in me, you 
 should bring between us the barrier of strangeness, 
 should deny me the few words that you would give to 
 an old friend?" 
 
 He stopped; waited for some answer; and then, since 
 she said nothing, continued speaking. 
 
 " I met you to-night, " he went on, "not knowing, until 
 I saw you, that you were in France. I watched you. 
 You knew that I should do so ; you were sure of it. You 
 played for me a silly comedy; the mood took you, and
 
 Moonlight and Sleeping Hopes 277 
 
 you had your way. You showed me the beauty of your 
 eyes I knew before that they were beautiful; you 
 showed me that you had the power to appeal to a man's 
 senses, to make him mad and longing I have never 
 doubted that you could do that, if you wished it; you 
 showed me that you could play the part of the coquette 
 there you were strange to me, but there is no woman on 
 God's earth who cannot play the part with a success 
 according to her beauty. Why you did this I do not 
 know. Were you afraid that I had forgotten that you 
 are beautiful? I should have remembered that when I 
 first saw you again. " 
 
 He paused a second time ; but still Joan had no words 
 for him. She held her hands clenched at her sides, 
 and there was something of fear in her eyes. 
 
 "You played a silly comedy, " he repeated, seeing that 
 she did not answer. "I am no such fool that I cannot 
 see beneath your playing. You are tired, bored, you 
 have lost all real interest in the things about you. I 
 want to know why. I am an artist, and I do not like 
 to see beautiful things spoiled. I am not less steadfast 
 than other men, and I do not forget. I see you wasted, 
 dimmed, your true self hid, and I must know what it is 
 that hurts you. I will know it. " The man now moved 
 for the first time since he had begun speaking; he stepped 
 close to the girl, his eyes shone as in fever, and his 
 voice was broken. "Oh, I know your answer to me," 
 he told her; "I know that I behave as no ordinary gentle- 
 man should. I am no ordinary gentleman. You cannot 
 check me by calling my manner not polite, not that of 
 your class, not that of mine. You sent me away, once, 
 and doubtless you thought that I should not trouble 
 you again. I did not mean to do so; but I met you, and 
 you were pleased to play with me, and by your play-
 
 278 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 ing you made me talk. What is wrong with you? Why 
 do you pretend to be a fool? Can you swear to me, re- 
 membering those weeks we were together, that you are 
 content, that you have forgotten all the hopes you once 
 professed, that you are happy in forgetting them?" 
 
 Massingdale ceased speaking, and the sweat stood 
 on the man's forehead, and his breathing was laboured. 
 Joan moved a pace away from him, drawing herself to 
 her full height, her colour gone, but her voice clear and 
 cold. 
 
 "I think," said she, "that to an ordinary understand- 
 ing you might seem to reopen the past. Perhaps I do 
 not properly gather your meaning, but it appears that 
 you invite me to reconsider a decision that I arrived 
 at when I last saw you. I have no need to reconsider it. 
 It seems that you are in no mood to take a hint. You 
 say that you have imagined many peculiar things about 
 my manner to you this evening. I will speak very 
 plainly so that you can make no further mistake." 
 Here, with careful deliberation, she took stock of him 
 as he stood in front of her; and when she continued she 
 laughed, not in amusement. "Before," she told him, 
 "I asked you to leave me, because I preferred not to 
 share your somewhat divided attention; now, I ask 
 you to avoid annoying me with either your ideas or 
 your wishes about myself, because, although sincerely 
 fond of the art which you profess, I do not consider that 
 I must therefore submit to the impertinence of an out- 
 at-elbows painter, who happens to proclaim an interest 
 in me. " 
 
 I imagine that she had intended to hurt Massingdale, 
 in which case her success was great, for he collapsed at 
 her words as a man who has no more fight left in him. 
 His hands, which had been half held out to her, dropped
 
 Moonlight and Sleeping Hopes 279 
 
 to his sides; the passion and the fire went out of his 
 eyes; and for a moment he bent his head so that she 
 could not clearly see his face. So for a moment they 
 stood, not moving, in the moonlight, and there was no 
 sound to bring disturbance to their thoughts. 
 
 Then Massingdale drew himself up, motioning to 
 Joan to precede him down the path. 
 
 "Explanations, I think," said he, his voice quiet and 
 without expression, "are not needed. I must remember, 
 Miss Onnington, my position. Will you come back to 
 the house? I hope you are not cold. I am really very 
 thoughtless." 
 
 She passed him without an answer, and he followed her 
 up the path and beyond our sight. 
 
 When the sound of their footsteps had ceased, Tom 
 and I came out of the summer-house, and, without any 
 word spoken, turned down a path to the right, so that 
 we might appear upon the terrace from another direc- 
 tion. As we made the circle of the upper part of the 
 gardens, I expressed something of my feelings. 
 
 "I feel a most infernal cad," said I, staring at the 
 path in front of me. 
 
 Tom grunted, and we were nearing the terrace before 
 he spoke. 
 
 "I wish to God I could break somebody's head, or 
 my own," he announced. "I 'm ashamed to face either 
 of them after this." 
 
 Which was very much my own view of the case. 
 
 When we got back to the drawing-room we found 
 the nieces had disappeared; Joan was talking to Loissel, 
 and Massingdale laughing with his host and hostess. 
 
 Tom and I burst into apologies, to cover our em- 
 barrassment rather than to oblige politeness, alleging 
 that the fineness of the night had tempted us to stroll.
 
 280 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 "Don't tell them, madame, " implored Massingdale, 
 to all appearances a creature divorced from care 
 again, "that they were missed. They only seek to be 
 flattered." 
 
 "We missed them no less than we did yourself, mon 
 ami, " retorted the Vicomte, smiling. 
 
 "Then," replied Massingdale, "their absence was 
 very deeply felt. " 
 
 But Loissel had interrupted us with a suggestion of 
 departure, and we prepared to go. De Mdnillart said 
 that he would walk to the gates with us, and Joan, who 
 had been talking eagerly with Loissel, announced a 
 similar intention; Tom, therefore, suggested that he 
 had better come as well; and we all left the house 
 together. We strolled to the entrance to the park in 
 pairs, Massingdale walking with our host, and I with 
 Tom; arrived there, we stood a few moments talking, 
 enjoying the beauty of the hour. 
 
 "One of you had better come up in the morning," 
 suggested the Vicomte, as he shook hands, "to exchange 
 opinions on the situation. I expect Dupont about 
 midday, and he will probably have something to say." 
 
 "Sir, " cried Massingdale, in his most fantastic manner, 
 "you shall not be deserted. A body of self-sacrificing 
 artists, humble men of lofty ambitions, shall gather 
 round you, to sell their lives, if need be, most dearly 
 in your cause. Sleep comfortably on that thought, 
 Vicomte. Hallo! what's that?" 
 
 He pointed down the road, and there, about thirty 
 yards away, a man's figure, just emerged from a belt of 
 shadow, lurched and swayed. As it rolled uncertainly 
 towards us, I recognised Blinkson, even less in com- 
 mand of himself than was his habit in the evening. He 
 halted a few paces in front of us, solemnly removed
 
 Moonlight and Sleeping Hopes 281 
 
 his hat, bowed, and nearly collapsed upon his face in 
 the endeavour. 
 
 "Madame et messieurs," said he, enunciating his 
 words with care, "je vous souhaite le bonsoir." Then 
 seeming to recognise Massingdale, he hailed him by 
 name, and broke into English. "I 'm keeping watch," 
 he announced. "Guarding 'gainst secret attacks of 
 canaille. Don't see the Vicomte. 'Evening, m'sieur le 
 Vicomte, if you 're here. I 'm guarding house and home, 
 m'sieur le Vicomte. No trouble, 'assure you. " 
 
 De Menillart stared in astonishment; Joan showed 
 disgust; we were all, I think, annoyed; but Massing- 
 dale did not let the scene lengthen. He had the old 
 drunkard by the arm, almost before the man had finished 
 speaking; and his laughing voice, indulgent and cheer- 
 ful, followed the other's without a pause. 
 
 "Good man," said he. "Excellent thing to do. 
 Keeping an eye open, eh? But, Blinkson, we can't do 
 any more good here. I think we might have a look 
 at the La Verzee road, however. Care to come along?" 
 
 "I won't be hurried," declared Blinkson, preparing to 
 resist. ' ' No hurry. ' ' 
 
 " None at all, " agreed Massingdale, letting go his arm. 
 "Crawl, if you like. Only I think we ought to be moving 
 soon. " 
 
 So, after some murmured words which did not come 
 to us, the pair staggered off together, Massingdale 
 guiding the drunk man's erratic steps. 
 
 "Is that," asked Joan, as Loissel and I hurried our 
 good-nights, "one of Mr. Massingdale's friends?" 
 
 "It is, "said I. 
 
 But she did not push the topic, and we left her a very 
 picture of disdain.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 OF DEATH AND OF SUSPENSE 
 
 THE following morning we hung about the house or 
 the hamlet, doing nothing. Blinkson, never at his 
 best in the early hours, was silent, and looked even more 
 sickly than his wont. After breakfast he found Massing- 
 dale and myself together in the garden, and he made us an 
 apology for his exhibition of the previous evening. The 
 sodden old fellow was very penitent, and, I believe, more 
 distressed than he cared to show; it is a circumstance 
 which I take no pleasure in recalling, that I must have 
 appeared to him both surly and inclined to parade the 
 superiority of virtue. 
 
 " I am not, " said he, coming up to us where we smoked 
 our pipes upon a bench in the sunshine, "in the habit 
 of exhibiting my accomplishments before ladies. When 
 I do so, as I am afraid I did last night, it forces me to 
 contrast myself with other people. I don't like doing 
 that. Was I very bad? " 
 
 "You were," said I, and was sorry on the instant 
 that I had said so. For Blinkson winced as if he had 
 been struck, and his shaking hands fumbled with his 
 watch-chain, and his glass dropped from his eye. He 
 turned half away from us, and his whole attitude was 
 that of a man aware of an irremediable shame. 
 
 "I wonder," he inquired presently, and in his voice, 
 282
 
 Of Death and of Suspense 283 
 
 from which much of the huskiness and all of his usual 
 wheezy laughter had gone, there seemed to sound the 
 echo of former days, of the man of parts and position 
 whom drink had not debased. "I wonder how you 
 men manage to put up with me. If the tables were 
 turned I don't think I could stand it. " 
 
 Massingdale took his pipe from his mouth, and tapped 
 out the ashes on his boot, watching the operation with 
 care. 
 
 "If," he answered quietly, "either I, or Dick here, 
 or any of the others had never done anything foolish 
 or wrong before a woman, we might be in a position to 
 call you names ; even so I hope we should n't. As things 
 are, let 's drop the subject. I, personally, manage 
 to support your presence without any wound to my 
 finer senses; what is more, I should be damned sorry 
 to lose your friendship. " 
 
 Blinkson turned his back upon us hurriedly, and 
 walked away down the path, his loose, shambling figure 
 seeming shrunken and old. We joined him shortly 
 afterwards and began talking of the strike; during 
 which discussion I can only hope that I showed a more 
 kindly generosity. 
 
 All that morning and during much of the afternoon 
 we hung about the place talking of nothing but the 
 temper of the peasants, and the chances of there being 
 a disturbance. The thing filled our attention ; we thought 
 of nothing outside of our quiet valleys; yet we had no 
 further knowledge of what the malcontents planned, 
 and for some reason or other we made no attempt to 
 remedy our ignorance. Hendick and Vanne took the 
 gravest view of the affair; their excursion to Mailly 
 had impressed them with its seriousness, and the former 
 was loud in his denunciation of an agitation which he
 
 284 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 styled unjustifiable. About midday Loissel went up to 
 the chateau for news and returned without any. Dupont, 
 it seemed, had not arrived, but had sent a messenger 
 stating that he was delayed and hinting at more alarming 
 news to follow. We sat long over our meal discussing 
 the nature of these alarms, and were in consequence 
 duly brought to book by Jeanne. 
 
 "You are all the same," announced that worthy 
 woman, breaking in on us as we smoked around the 
 table. "There is no difference in you men. Bon Dieu, 
 they say that women talk! You not only neglect your 
 own work about which I do not care but you prevent 
 me from doing mine another business altogether." 
 
 And she drove us out of doors without ceremony. 
 
 We found, during the afternoon, that the men of the 
 hamlet were all away, although their womenfolk assured 
 us that they were not working in the fields. Even to 
 our small settlement, so far as we could gather, the 
 unrest had spread. 
 
 The summer of that year was the warmest and the 
 driest in my recollection, and it seemed that there was 
 no chance of the fine weather breaking, so that the 
 September evenings were as hot as those of an ordinary 
 July. We sat late that afternoon about the door, as was 
 our custom, and the dusk fell about us soft and quiet, 
 pointing a fine contrast to our most warlike talk. I 
 made the comparison aloud to the others, and we were 
 speaking of it when Dupont came riding from the 
 chiteau. 
 
 He was a big, fleshy man, with a long moustache, and 
 a loud voice; in talk he was somewhat domineering, 
 and his manner was rough; yet he was spoken of as 
 an excellent man of business, and not unjust, though 
 stern. Beneath his hat he wore a bandage round his
 
 Of Death and of Suspense 285 
 
 head, dressing the wound he had received the day 
 before. 
 
 He bade us good-evening, falling at once into talk 
 about the strike. It was already so dark that I could 
 scarcely see his face, but I made it out fatigued and 
 anxious, yet showing no sign of fear. 
 
 "Things go badly, my friends," said he, leaning from 
 his horse. "There is bad trouble about. Monsieur le 
 Vicomte wants as many of you as care to go at the 
 chateau. These fools may attack it. Yes, I speak the 
 truth. At Mailly, at Aze", in all the villages through 
 which I passed, they were drunk as owls. The talk was 
 bad, moreover, bad, my friends. I give you my word 
 for it, I have had a time. Stones thrown at me; a gun 
 fired off, to frighten my old horse, I suppose. It would 
 take more than that to frighten him. Well, I must go 
 on. Don't forget to go up to the chateau. I go to give 
 word to the military they may be wanted. Au revoir, 
 messieurs," 
 
 He raised his hand to his hat, set his horse moving, 
 and turned down in the direction of the hill track to 
 Cluny. Not twenty seconds after he left us, when he 
 was still no more than a few feet away, the report of a 
 gun set us all jumping ; and the big man, without a word or 
 cry, fell from his horse. The animal, true to his master's 
 boast, did not bolt, but after rearing for a moment, 
 stood watching, it seemed to me, the fallen figure. 
 
 We all ran to where Dupont lay, only concerned with 
 the wounded man and forgetting his assailant. We 
 loosened his collar, lifted him with what tenderness we 
 could, and carried him to the house. Our care, how- 
 ever, was not needed; he was dead before we got him 
 into shelter; indeed, I cannot swear that he still lived 
 when we ran up to him.
 
 286 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 Of the ensuing confusion I carry no detailed record 
 in my mind. This sudden and undreamed appearance 
 of so great a thing as death found us unprepared, too 
 much excited when we faced it, without any knowledge 
 of what we should do. Before, we had thought of the 
 whole business as little more than an experience which 
 promised much interest, possibly some annoyance, but 
 which did not touch on tragedy; now, with a dead man, 
 who had been strong and well and active only a few 
 minutes back, lying still amongst us, no light view was 
 possible, we were thrown, with sudden violence, from all 
 the paths we knew, and set to wander in an unknown 
 country more bleak and stern than we had seen before. 
 If we hesitated about the way that we should go, if we 
 wasted time, it was not, I think, through cowardice, 
 although a great distaste for the whole business had 
 come to us, it was because, being strangers to any work 
 of this kind, we struggled with a confusion of passions 
 the call of which we feared to act upon. The quiet night 
 was now no longer quiet for us. Death and violence 
 filled our minds with unaccustomed thoughts. Yet I hold 
 it no shame to us that we came slowly to the new posi- 
 tion, that, being ordinary men reared in secure protec- 
 tion from the sights and sounds of war, we did not at 
 first realise that the old manner of our life was, for the 
 moment, superseded, giving place to simpler, quicker 
 action. 
 
 We had placed poor Dupont's body on the floor of 
 the hall; some one, I think it was Vanne, had set a 
 rolled-up coat beneath the head; Jeanne had appeared 
 with candles, by whose dim light the scene was lit. 
 Massingdale was on his knees beside the dead man, 
 listening for some faint stirring of the heart; and upon 
 the shirt, a garment of striking pattern as I remember
 
 Of Death and of Suspense 287 
 
 it, for Dupont had loved show in his dress, there grew 
 a larger stain. We waited for Massingdale to finish 
 his examination; it seemed, somehow, the thing that 
 should be done, but I do not think we doubted the 
 result of it. After his passage, Death leaves a stamp 
 upon the human face which may not easily be overlooked. 
 
 In a very short time Massingdale looked up at us, 
 and his expression, I take it, was much the reflection 
 of our own: something dazed, carrying the mark of 
 awe, yet with some wilder feeling slowly being born. 
 
 "I don't think there is any doubt," said he, rising 
 to his feet. "Dupont is dead. We can't do anything. 
 He was shot through the heart, I believe. Will some 
 one make certain?" 
 
 I took Massingdale's place beside the body, and after 
 I had searched for any sign of life, Blinkson followed 
 me in the same business. It was quite apparent that we 
 looked for something we should never find, but at 
 the moment a horror held us lest the man should still 
 be living, should still be on the nearer side, and should 
 find us idle, giving him no helping hand. 
 
 When we had made certain that a life had ended here 
 beside us, we spoke of the murder quietly, in the hushed 
 tones that seemed the dead man's due. That the mur- 
 derer had got away seemed certain; that we should do 
 something to discover him was the thing of which we 
 talked. While we discussed the means of finding the 
 man and bringing him to his punishment, Jeanne left 
 us, to return in a short while, with the request that we 
 should help her. 
 
 "Messieurs," said she, her rough voice quieter than 
 its wont, her simple peasant's face calm and serious, 
 "it is not well that Monsieur Dupont should lie here 
 on the floor. Will you carry him to a bed? It is ready.
 
 288 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 I will see that he lies as a man should when he is dead. " 
 
 We did as she asked, glad that the body should be 
 away from our sight; and I think that through this 
 intimate association with dead humanity, for on account 
 of the narrowness of the stairs and the great bulk of 
 the thing we carried our task was not easy, we came 
 to a clearer seeing in the matters that were yet to do. 
 We were forced, in my case with strong physical repul- 
 sion, into handling, sometimes roughly, that which had 
 hitherto been set apart from our experiences; we had 
 the horror of this murder somewhat differently exposed; 
 and in losing the feeling of strangeness that had before 
 enveloped us, we awoke more active passions, of anger 
 and of vengeance. 
 
 When we were again in the hall, leaving Jeanne to 
 perform the offices in which she took a solemn satisfac- 
 tion, we talked with a greater freedom, although, for 
 some time at least, to no practical effect. 
 
 "How far is this business going?" asked Hendick, 
 leaning against a table, and making an obvious effort 
 to subdue his usual tone of argument; "that is what we 
 have to decide before we do anything more. The man 
 who killed Dupont was not drunk; on the other hand, he 
 may have acted from personal spite we must not forget 
 that." 
 
 "What caused him to do it does not much matter," 
 I argued; "the effect on the other men will be the same. 
 Most of them are probably drunk by now; when this 
 gets known they will know themselves in for serious 
 trouble, and will probably get more violent than before. 
 We ought to go up to the chateau. " 
 
 "Dupont was shot with a rifle," said Loissel. "One 
 could hear that. The thing must have been carefully 
 planned. "
 
 Of Death and of Suspense 289 
 
 Vanne, in his shirt-sleeves, for he had not put on his 
 coat again, interposed his word; his usual high colour 
 was gone, and he wheezed and panted in his emotion. 
 
 "We must do something," he cried. "We cannot let 
 him lie up there, while we stand here and talk. We 
 should communicate with the military. We must go 
 and help the Vicomte. " 
 
 "The military!" asked Blinkson. "What can they 
 do? Besides, it would take too long. There will be 
 a drunken crowd of fools in front of the chateau before 
 the authorities know of this. Go up to the house, by all 
 means; they have a car there; they can move quicker 
 than we can." 
 
 "There are women at the chateau," interrupted 
 Marellac in his soft voice, "and these men will be drunk 
 mad with drink." 
 
 "Come on," said I, and made towards the open door. 
 
 But Massingdale, who had taken no part in the dis- 
 cussion, who had, instead, paced the hall in silence, 
 stood in my way. The man was transformed ; he seemed 
 on fire with some excitement; the dreams were chased 
 from his eyes by a blazing anger. Yet, when he spoke, 
 his voice was calm and quiet, and after the first few words 
 he dealt with practical things. 
 
 "Stop," said he. "Wait. We are not playing now. 
 We have something to do. We must kill the man who 
 killed Dupont. My God," he went on, "we will show 
 them that we can fight; we will show them that they 
 cannot shoot men in the dark, and expect the law only 
 to deal with them. I am glad this has come. Yes, glad. 
 We will do things to-night. We are done, for the time, 
 with quietness, with talk. We begin to act." He 
 paused, but only for the fraction of a second, and then 
 spoke again more quickly, as if there were no question 
 19
 
 290 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 but that we should agree with him. "Whether they 
 know of Dupont's death or not," he argued, "they 
 will visit the chateau to-night. We '11 meet them. You, 
 Dick, and Loissel, go up to the house; explain things 
 to De Me"nillart, and have the car got ready. Telephone 
 through to Cluny. Hendick, you must stop here with 
 Marellac. They might come by one of the paths over 
 the hills up this way. Send up to the chateau if you 
 hear them coming. Bring Jeanne up, and leave the 
 place, if they are very wild. Auguste, you must take 
 the by-road to Bassy. It 's clear to-night, if you go 
 just beyond the little pinewood you can see a mile 
 ahead to the top of the hill. Directly you see anything 
 run to the chateau. Blinkson, there is a place about a 
 quarter of a mile down the road to La Verzee, just clear 
 of the park wall, where you can get a good sight ahead. 
 I '11 take the bridle road that leads through the Foret 
 de Goulene to Blanot. If Ritaud is leading them, they 
 may come by that. We must find how they are coming, 
 so that we can get the women away in the car without 
 meeting them. We 've a shotgun and two revolvers. 
 Hendick ought to have the gun; I don't want anything. 
 We had better be moving. " 
 
 We did not dispute his arrangement; it was as good 
 as any that we should have settled after much useless 
 talk. Instead, Hendick went to look for the weapons, 
 and Marellac disturbed Jeanne in her last services to 
 the dead man, to tell her what we did. As we prepared 
 to go, Blinkson broke into a laugh, and although it 
 sounded oddly in that house which had suddenly become 
 the shelter of so grim a burden, I think that it marked 
 the change in our attitude now that action was to hand. 
 
 "This is an extraordinary business," said he. "I feel 
 a better man for it."
 
 Of Death and of Suspense 291 
 
 He had certainly arrived at a more dignified appear- 
 ance than was common with him, and I was surprised 
 at the purpose in his face; yet I think that I realised 
 something of his meaning, and that, to some extent, I 
 felt as he did. 
 
 Then Jeanne appeared with food, thick sandwiches 
 of bread and meat, and made Blinkson and Vanne and 
 Massingdale take them, urging that no man was ever 
 the better for going hungry to his work. And Loissel, 
 his kindly old face serious and sad, took up the last 
 word, repeating it as we left the house. 
 
 "Our work!" said he; "I ask myself what that may 
 be." 
 
 "There is an honest man now dead," cried Massing- 
 dale, his voice suddenly tremulous with passion. " Killed, 
 shot without a chance of fight, because he did his master's 
 business faithfully. If my work may be to end the life 
 of the man who killed him, I ask nothing better." 
 
 And it did not occur to me that here was a curious 
 sentiment in a man who had been all his life very peace- 
 ful; or that, in a country highly civilised and duly 
 ruled by law, we started upon work that, a few days 
 before, had seemed impossible, going to it with little 
 wonder and small attention to its unusual side. A 
 dead man lay behind us, and in the manner of his 
 dying he had strangely altered all our thoughts. 
 
 Our ways did not lie long together, for we had scarcely 
 begun the ascent of the road to the chateau, and were 
 not more than a few hundred yards from our house, 
 when Blinkson and Vanne took a turning to the right; 
 Massingdale kept with us for another hundred yards, 
 and then, with a wave of his hand, he followed a path 
 upon the other side of the way, disappearing quickly 
 into dense shadow cast by the high banks. Loissel and
 
 292 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 I kept on our way in silence until we got to the lodge 
 gates; there we were challenged by a groom who stood 
 upon the other side with the barrier locked between us, 
 who carried a gun, who had with him a large dog of 
 uncertain breed. 
 
 The man admitted us without delay, informed us that 
 we should find his master at the house, and was, very 
 clearly, anxious for any news. We did not, however, 
 stop to satisfy his curiosity, but, with the simple state- 
 ment that things went badly, hurried on to the lighted 
 building at the end of the avenue. There we en- 
 countered another servant, also armed, doing sentry- 
 go in front of the house, and we saw the Vicomte's car 
 standing in front of the main door. On this occasion 
 we did not have to wait for the appearance of the master 
 of the house, but were shown immediately to the drawing- 
 room, where we found De Me*nillart, and with him 
 Tom and Joan. 
 
 The Vicomte was pacing the room as we entered, 
 while his guests sat near the open windows; all three 
 of them were plainly disturbed, and the host made no 
 attempt of any kind to hide his anxiety. 
 
 "Ah," he cried, turning as we entered, "you have 
 come, my friends. I thank you. And the others? 
 They come presently, perhaps? You have heard 
 Dupont's news? You have seen him? He thinks that 
 these men will attack the house to-night. I" here he 
 seemed to pause "I am anxious that my wife and 
 child, my guests also, should escape any danger. The 
 car leaves in a few minutes. Dupont should by now 
 be near Cluny. He went to warn the military; and 
 they should send us help at once. " 
 
 Loissel's voice was very quiet, as he interrupted the 
 other's talk.
 
 Of Death and of Suspense 293 
 
 "No, Monsieur le Vicomte," said he; "Dupont did 
 not go to warn the military. " 
 
 "Eh?" questioned De Me'nillart sharply. "Why 
 not?" 
 
 "Because he was shot as he left our house, " stated 
 Loissel, his tone hardening to anger. "He died as he 
 fell from his horse. " 
 
 The Vicomte recoiled a step like a man who takes a 
 heavy blow; he stared at us in horror. Joan gave a 
 low cry, and her colour fled, leaving her white, with 
 frightened eyes upon us. Tom rose from his chair, 
 crossing to where his sister sat, and putting his hand 
 on her shoulder; he showed little sign of being affected 
 by the news, but I noticed that his mouth had suddenly 
 hardened. 
 
 "Dead!" murmured De Me'nillart, as if he did not 
 fully realise our meaning. "Dupont dead!" And 
 then, a moment later: "But this is awful. This is 
 war." 
 
 "Where are the others?" Joan asked, and her eyes 
 were on mine in deep anxiety as she put the question. 
 
 "They are safe," I answered, and heard her sigh. 
 " No attempt was made to harm any one but Dupont. 
 They are watching all the roads to the chateau. " 
 
 But De Me'nillart seemed to wish for no other news; 
 he straightened himself and it was clear that he had 
 come to some decision. 
 
 "We must not waste time," he cried; "the car must 
 start at once. It is built to hold two, with an extra 
 seat behind. It cannot possibly hold more than four. 
 Miss Onnington has assured me that she will not go 
 on the first journey, therefore my wife and child, with 
 my two nieces and a man to drive them, must leave at 
 once. If necessary, I will have a carriage or horse got
 
 294 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 ready at once for Miss Onnington and for Monsieur le 
 Lieutenant." 
 
 "What you propose is quite impossible, Monsieur le 
 Vicomte, " old Loissel announced with slow deliberation. 
 De Menillart turned on him like a man at bay. 
 
 "Impossible to send my wife and child into safety!" 
 he demanded. "In God's name, why?" 
 
 The old painter ran his hand through his beard, as 
 if the occasion called for no excitement; standing 
 squarely in front of the Vicomte, he looked down, 
 smiling, on the smaller man. 
 
 "There is no reason why you should not seek the 
 safety of your wife and child, my friend," he answered, 
 in his slow manner. "There is, however, good reason 
 why you should not send them off, unprotected, when 
 you do not know by what road these gentlemen are 
 coming to visit you. The car must not meet these 
 creatures on their way. " 
 
 Thereupon, we explained the situation as we under- 
 stood it, and pointed out that as all the roads were 
 watched we ought to have good warning of the approach 
 of the rioters, which would enable us to send the women 
 off in the car along some way where they would not be 
 stopped. 
 
 " You might ring them up at Cluny, " I suggested to the 
 Vicomte; "you are on the telephone here, are n't you?" 
 
 Tom laughed; he had taken an eager part in the 
 discussion. 
 
 "We have tried already," he interposed. "They Ve 
 dished us there, Dick. Cut the wires or something. 
 We can't get an answer. " 
 
 "The devil!" said I. The business seemed to grow 
 more serious as we saw more of it; I heartily wished 
 that the women were safely away.
 
 Of Death and of Suspense 295 
 
 "There is nothing to do but wait," announced De 
 Me*nillart, starting to walk the room again. "The car 
 is ready ; when we hear news it can go. My wife is with 
 the boy; I won't worry her yet. I blame myself, Miss 
 Onnington, for having allowed you to come here. I 
 feared trouble, and should have put you off. " 
 
 "Then you are very foolish," answered Joan, making 
 a show of taking the matter lightly. "Tom and Mr. 
 Crutchley will look after me. Don't worry about 
 bringing me here. " 
 
 "Glad you let us come, sir," said Tom cheerfully. 
 "Besides, we shan't come to any harm. You have four 
 men watching the park walls; they Ve got guns. It 
 is my opinion that any show of fight will send these 
 fellows off with their tails between their legs. If you 
 don't mind my interfering, I should sugggest that you 
 send one of the house servants on a horse to Cluny. 
 Just as well to let the authorities hear from you." 
 
 "Certainly," agreed De Menillart; "I'll see to it." 
 And he rang the bell, giving the necessary order to the 
 old man-servant who appeared. 
 
 Tom was clearly determined that we should fall into 
 no gloomy mood, for he kept the conversation going 
 without pause, laughing at the whole business, telling 
 Joan that she would be able to talk of it afterwards 
 until all her friends were sickened of the subject, and 
 praising the Vicomte for the originality of his entertain- 
 ing. Although our talk lacked wit, and was often kept 
 alive with difficulty, it was better than silence, and 
 helped to pass the time. We did not wander from the 
 chances of the night, such an excursion would have 
 been impossible under the circumstances, but we assured 
 each other that the affair would turn out as the usual 
 strike demonstration, and that we should get to bed
 
 296 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 quietly rather later than usual; we did not mention 
 the dead man lying in the hamlet. In spite of our 
 careful conversation there would occur pauses in which 
 we all seemed to listen; and had the smallest noise 
 come to us from outside, I think that any one of us 
 would have heard it, even though he were speaking 
 at the time. 
 
 The night was fine, with a light wind blowing from 
 the north-west, the moonlight brilliant on the gardens, 
 and the countryside as still as on all the other nights 
 that I had lived in it. 
 
 Tom strolled to the windows, and looked out. 
 
 "I rather think," said he, "that we've struck the 
 best billet. I should n't fancy hanging about a dark 
 wood alone. Beastly creepy performance. Massingdale 
 is in the woods, is n't he, Dick?" 
 
 "Yes," I answered. "He chose the job. I 'm glad 
 it did n't fall to me. " 
 
 Joan got up and snuffed a smoking candle; she seemed 
 restless, but her colour was high again, and she showed 
 no sign of fright. It struck me that she tried to avoid 
 asking a question, yet could not keep herself from it. 
 
 "But there is no danger?" she inquired. "Mr. 
 Massingdale and his friends don't run any risk? " 
 
 "I don't know," replied Tom shortly. "Anyhow, 
 it 's a lonely game. Plenty of time to fancy things. 
 Hallo!" 
 
 We were still and listening at his words, straining to 
 catch the smallest sound. Faintly, far away, yet clear 
 beyond mistake, came the sound of many voices, a 
 confused noise, tiny and distant, as of shouting and 
 singing. It seemed to come from straight ahead, from 
 the direction of Bassy, and it was an uncomfortable 
 thing to hear on the still summer night.
 
 Of Death and of Suspense 297 
 
 Tom stood very straight, his head slightly inclined 
 towards the open air, and as his back was turned to 
 us we could not see his face. The room, I remember, 
 was abominably silent, except for that far-off shouting, 
 which to my imagination appeared to grow louder with 
 an impossible rapidity; there seemed no living thing 
 about us. At the end of a few seconds Tom turned 
 round and left his place by the window; he smiled at 
 us, apparently well content, and I will swear that he 
 enjoyed himself. 
 
 "Well," said he, "things are beginning to move. 
 We '11 have a go at showing these musicians something. 
 Vicomte, may I take command now, as you suggested?" 
 
 De Menillart nodded; his whole attention seemed 
 taken up with listening to the noise outside. 
 
 "Then," continued Tom, standing in the middle of 
 the room, and speaking with a certain emphasis, "you 
 won't mind if I remind you that we are not playing. 
 What I tell you to do must be done. " 
 
 He waited at that, but no one spoke. 
 
 " Good," he went on. " That' s understood. Vicomte, 
 will you go and bring your wife, your son, and your 
 nieces into the hall? See that they are quite ready to 
 start in the motor. " 
 
 Our host got up without a word, and left the room; 
 it had been arranged between Tom and him that when 
 the necessity came the guest, having some acquaintance 
 with commanding, should take control of the situation. 
 
 "Monsieur Loissel," ordered Tom, when De Menillart 
 was gone, "please go to the gun room you '11 find the 
 butler in the hall to take you there and see that all 
 the firearms that may be of any use are brought in 
 here. By the way, did you people miss your dinner?" 
 
 Loissel told him "yes."
 
 298 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 "Then," suggested Tom, "you had better tell one 
 of the servants to bring some food in here at once. 
 Make them bring enough. We 've plenty of time to 
 eat before the fun begins, and our dinner was a bit 
 short, so that we '11 join you." 
 
 I had not seen Tom in this capacity before, and the 
 easy way the manner sat on him made me thankful 
 that he was with us. He had the habit of command 
 that assumes a ready obedience, and we dropped at 
 once into carrying out his orders, where we had probably 
 stopped to think about their wisdom had they come 
 from one of ourselves. 
 
 "We '11 shut these windows," he told me, as Loissel 
 departed on his errand. "No need to have the whole 
 place open. Leave the middle one, and fasten the 
 shutters outside. Keep inside, Joan, don't show your- 
 self. Our friends are getting nearer, and there may 
 be other lots about besides this one. " 
 
 As we were fastening the shutters of the second 
 window, Tom spoke to me in a whisper. 
 
 "We appear to be in a deuce of a hole, old man," 
 said he. "These blighters don't seem to stick at murder. 
 Keep your eye on Joan when I 'm doing something else; 
 she is so confoundedly excitable. " 
 
 I was assuring him that I would do so, when there 
 came a shout from the hillside in front of us, some- 
 where, I judged, about the limit of the park. Clearly 
 on the quiet air there came the call to halt from one 
 of our own men, and then another voice calling, whose 
 words I did not catch. 
 
 "What 's this?" I heard Tom murmur. "They 're 
 not near yet. " 
 
 And then Joan appeared from the room behind, 
 and stood between us. Tom turned on her angrily.
 
 Of Death and of Suspense 299 
 
 "Go back!" he cried. "I told you to keep out of 
 sight." 
 
 "Let me stop, Tom," she urged; and in the clear 
 moonlight, which streamed upon this side of the house, 
 I could see her large eyes scared and bright, yet she 
 did not tremble and her voice was steady. 
 
 "This is not the game, Joan," replied Tom sternly. 
 "Back you go. See that that food is ready. " 
 
 The girl turned without further protest, disappearing 
 into the lighted room; and we remained straining our 
 ears for other sounds, just beside the open window. 
 
 The noise of shouting was now much nearer; a tune 
 roughly bellowed, and, often breaking off short in a 
 roar, was plainly distinguishable; and away to our 
 left a like noise, only fainter, was to be heard. I nodded 
 towards it, and Tom replied in the same fashion; but 
 our attention was chiefly fixed upon the gardens ahead, 
 from which there came no more disturbance. Presently, 
 however, the quiet of our immediate surroundings was 
 broken, and ahead of us, where the hill dropped steeply 
 at the farther side of a sloping lawn, we made out that 
 some one was running towards the house, and, by the 
 sound, that he seemed in a prodigious hurry. His appear- 
 ance from the belt of trees that bounded the lawn was 
 preceded by a puffing and panting that I knew well; 
 it brought me the vision of a humorous, bearded face 
 stuck without any visible neck on to a corpulent body, 
 and of little eyes that twinkled even in the thick of 
 physical distress. 
 
 "It 's Vanne," I told Tom; "and by the time he gets 
 here he '11 be half dead." 
 
 Almost as I spoke he emerged from the trees, pounding 
 desperately across the lawn, his breathing enough to 
 frighten any one. We hailed him, and he dropped into a
 
 300 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 walk, waving a hand feebly in sign that he had heard. A 
 few seconds afterwards he stood beside us on the terrace, 
 and it was plain that he had taken Massingdale's instruc- 
 tions almost literally, and had run most of the way from 
 his post. The sweat streamed from him like water; 
 his face was purple, the veins and arteries standing out 
 like cords about his head and neck; and he laboured 
 at his breathing, with bulging half -closed eyes, so that I 
 imagined him at the point of death. He was past speech, 
 and could do no more than stand before us, fighting with 
 his exhaustion. 
 
 Tom said nothing, but, slipping his arm beneath the 
 man's shoulders, half carried him into the house; there 
 he lowered him into an arm-chair, and called on Joan 
 to bring a drink. She did not need the call, and had 
 handed Vanne a glass almost as he subsided in the 
 chair; from which thing I deduce that she had not 
 obeyed orders, but had watched us from the window, 
 and so had guessed what would be needed. Vanne 
 took the glass although he did not drink, and he sum- 
 moned a smile to thank the girl who helped him. There- 
 fore, seeing that he would recover, which at his first 
 appearance I had doubted, I left him, and made for the 
 table where the food was set. Loissel and De Me"nillart 
 had come back, and the old man was eating while our 
 host stood beside him silent ; through the door, which was 
 open, I saw the nieces, seated close together with fright- 
 ened faces, and the Vicomtesse, rocking her baby to 
 sleep. Then Vanne began gasping out his news, and I 
 gave my attention to him again. 
 
 "You hear them," he spluttered between attacks of 
 coughing. "Sixty or seventy. All drunk. They bring 
 with them a cart. Barrels in it. Oil I think. " 
 
 "Good enough for us," interrupted Tom, standing in
 
 Of Death and of Suspense 301 
 
 front of him. "You take a rest and get your breath 
 again. You 're clearly the sort of man we want, only 
 you mustn't kill yourself. You must have sprinted!" 
 
 Vanne, somewhat recovered, laughed and coughed, 
 pulled himself out of his chair, and went over to the 
 table, where he was given some food and wine by Joan, 
 who made him sit down again. 
 
 "Well-plucked little man, that," whispered Tom, 
 turning to me. " Does n't bring any good news, though. 
 If they are bringing oil they mean business. We must 
 get the women off, and chance it." He raised his 
 voice and addressed the Vicomte. "I think you had 
 better get your wife and the others into the car; we 
 shan't do any good by waiting. Steady a bit: here 's 
 another of the outposts!" 
 
 For Blinkson had come from the hall while Tom 
 spoke, and, scarcely less than Vanne, he showed the 
 signs of his hurry. He looked about him quietly, getting 
 his breath, and he held himself straight with the loose- 
 ness of his ordinary carriage disappeared; his eyes had 
 lost their dulness, and the sodden appearance of the man 
 was changed. 
 
 "What news? " asked Tom. 
 
 ' ' Bad, ' ' panted Blinkson. ' ' Nearly a hundred of them, 
 I should think. Mad drunk. Enough firing with them 
 to burn the whole place in twenty minutes. They are 
 coming across country; should be here in less than 
 half an hour. " 
 
 "Thanks," answered Tom. "Help yourself to some- 
 thing. You '11 want it before this is finished. " 
 
 He stood in thought a moment, his face set and hard. 
 I looked at Joan to see how she took this news, and 
 I saw her busying herself with helping food, seeming 
 very self-possessed, although her pallor showed her not
 
 302 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 blind to the danger. The noise outside was now much 
 greater, and sounded even in the midst of our talk. 
 I am not ashamed to say that I felt my heart setting 
 my pulses a quicker stroke. 
 
 Then Tom issued his orders, speaking very distinctly 
 without raising his voice. 
 
 "Get the car filled, " he commanded. " It must make 
 the best of a bad job, and go by the bridle road to Cluny. 
 Is the going very bad?" 
 
 "Yes," said I. "You '11 want a horse to help it up 
 the first bit out of the hamlet. " 
 
 "Very well," he answered. "Please see to that too, 
 Vicomte. The horse had better start immediately; the 
 car should follow in five minutes. " 
 
 De Menillart went out of the room, shutting the door 
 after him; and I make no doubt that he said good-bye 
 to his wife and child as a man in the pass that he was 
 might. Presently he returned, before the given time, 
 I think, and the noise of the departing car came to us 
 clearly through the open door. The strain of the situa- 
 tion was beginning to tell, and our conversation had, 
 for the most part, died, or lived only in fitful bursts. 
 The ominous noise outside, growing louder each moment, 
 the different voices distinguishing themselves from the 
 general sound, held all our attention; and the picture 
 of hoarse, ill-clad, sweating, drink-maddened crowds 
 was, I fancy, in all our minds. I walked to the window, 
 and was called back by Tom; I tried to laugh with 
 Joan, and found that I, not less than she, could not 
 manage it ; and finally I sat down beside her, wondering 
 why Tom did not give us something else to do, why he 
 stood in the middle of the room listening, apparently 
 content in idleness. Then, not five minutes after the 
 car had started, a shot sounded loud in the night, the
 
 Of Death and of Suspense 303 
 
 second that had startled us that evening; and after it, 
 following close upon the report, a scream of agony, the 
 cry, it seemed, of a human creature in mortal pain. 
 
 That settled us. The sound had come from the other 
 side of the house; we fled in a body from the room, 
 Joan in our midst, running out of the main door of the 
 house, and listening for some other noise. Tom alone 
 remained behind, and I heard him roaring at us to come 
 back. 
 
 We waited in strained silence, the servants mingling 
 with us, and we heard no other sounds than those to 
 which we had listened for some time, and the distant 
 beating of the car. So, something reassured, we returned 
 to the drawing-room, there to face Tom's wrath. He 
 stood where we had left him, and he showed no other 
 emotion than a flaming anger. 
 
 "My God!" he cried, as we trooped back, "it seems 
 I deal with a crowd of idiots. Must you go rushing 
 about like children, because a hare screams when it is 
 wounded? Dick Joan I hoped you had more sense. 
 Bring in those servants out there. I '11 show the lot of 
 you I mean to be obeyed. "
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 ACTION 
 
 WHEN the servants had come, sheepishly enough, 
 four women and three men, into the room, Tom 
 addressed us all, speaking deliberately and seeming to 
 choose his words. 
 
 "You make me waste time," he began. "We '11 have 
 no more of this rushing about. Monsieur le Vicomte 
 has asked me to command here; I intend to do so. 
 Our chances of coming out of this business without loss 
 rest very largely with you. We are all in considerable 
 danger; you can increase that danger or diminish it as 
 you please. If you do not obey me the matter rests 
 with you, I have no authority over you I do not waste 
 my breath in issuing orders. Which is it to be: prompt 
 obedience in everything, or your own management?" 
 
 He waited, eyeing the lot of us steadily. 
 
 "We obey you absolutely, Monsieur le Lieutenant," 
 answered the Vicomte formally; and we made a murmur 
 of assent. 
 
 "Very well," assented Tom. "Remember what you 
 say. You," he went on, turning to the servants, "know 
 what to do. You have already been instructed. The 
 women had better sit in the dining-room, and not the 
 hall. Keep your wits about you; to a single whistle 
 you give no attention, even if it is repeated; at two in 
 
 304
 
 Action 305 
 
 close succession you come as quickly as you can into 
 the hall. You can go; and unless you hear the two 
 whistles you do not move from your posts. " 
 
 The seven men and women left the room; from their 
 faces, and the women were badly scared, I think that 
 they felt, not less than we did, that somehow they had 
 committed a shameful action in rushing to the door. 
 Tom made an excellent commander. 
 
 When they were gone, he walked to the sofa, where 
 the arms were set out; took a revolver, of which there 
 were three, for himself; handed another to De Me'nillart; 
 and gave me an old rifle that had once been used for 
 big game. Then he asked Loissel whether he could 
 shoot, and the old man answered that he could not 
 use a revolver to any effect, but might manage a shot- 
 gun; this he was given. The third revolver was not 
 used, since Blinkson and Vanne were already armed, 
 and beside it there remained another shotgun. As 
 we were helping ourselves to cartridges, a shrill whistle 
 sounded from the park ahead. I know that we started, 
 but we waited for Tom to move, and he made no sign; 
 then, very shortly after, there came another whistle, 
 more to the left, and still Tom was silent; finally, more 
 clearly it seemed to me than either of the others, a last 
 note was blown from the direction where the scream 
 had sounded, where Massingdale had watched in the 
 woods. At that Tom's expression changed; he passed 
 his hand up to his mouth, and I read in his eyes the 
 anxiety that he had hidden from us so well. 
 
 " Three of them, " he murmured. "We 're pretty well 
 surrounded." 
 
 Then he moved to the window, closing and bolting 
 one side of the outer shutters. 
 
 "Those whistles," he told us, as he finished, "were
 
 306 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 from our men in the park, telling us that they had 
 sighted the strikers. You can hear that they are getting 
 close. " The noise, indeed, was now so great that we had 
 to raise our voices when we talked; a dull, confused 
 shouting, that broke out occasionally in shrieks and 
 cries. "Our men," continued Tom, "will close in on 
 the other side of the house, to keep the avenue open. 
 The third whistle suggests a party we had not expect- 
 ed. Massingdale was out there, I think. He has not 
 reported." 
 
 It seemed that he made the statement simply, imply- 
 ing nothing, announcing an obvious fact; yet the shot 
 and the scream were in our minds, and a new terror 
 held us. I tried to persuade myself that a hare had 
 cried, that absence did not mean disaster, but the whole 
 business seemed differently cast now that this possi- 
 bility was ahead of us. Joan had given a sort of sob 
 when Tom made his statement; she thought no more 
 about appearances or past pretensions, but ran to where 
 her brother stood, seizing him by the arm, her face 
 raised to his imploringly. 
 
 "We must do something," she pleaded. "We can't 
 leave him. Oh, Tom, you won't leave him ! " 
 
 He put his disengaged hand on her shoulder, looking 
 down at her in sympathy ; and his voice was very gentle 
 as he told her that it was not in his power to do anything, 
 that in all probability Massingdale was perfectly safe. 
 She, therefore, seeing that he spoke the truth, did not 
 urge him any more, but went over to the fireplace, 
 leaning her hands upon the chimney-piece so that we 
 should not see her face. And in the moment which 
 followed, while no one spoke in the room, the roar 
 outside seemed to have lessened, as if the strikers strug- 
 gled up the hillside, and so had other uses for their breath.
 
 Action 307 
 
 "We should have five minutes more, I think," 
 announced Tom. "Vanne, get into the next room, 
 the library; you can command the south side of the 
 house from there. You '11 find the shutters closed and 
 the windows open. Don't take a light. Fire if any 
 one tries to get near the wall. Loissel, take the dining- 
 room ; we '11 want as many as we can spare on this side. 
 Keep a lookout towards the other end of the terrace. 
 Mind the lights are down. Hang about for a bit, Blink- 
 son; when the show begins, go wherever you think 
 help is wanted. Remember, all of you, two whistles in 
 quick succession must bring you to the hall. Report at 
 once, here, if the place gets alight anywhere. Off you 
 go." 
 
 At his direction, those of us who were left in the 
 drawing-room moved the heavier furniture towards the 
 open window, so as to make a barricade in case we 
 were rushed; Joan meanwhile, put' out most of the 
 candles, leaving the place in a half-darkness. While 
 we worked, lifting the heavy pieces without a thought 
 to the exertion, our attention towards the eardens, 
 waiting for a sudden burst of shouting and the trampling 
 of men's feet, the noise of a horse, desperately driven, 
 sounded above the strikers' voices; the beast was pulled 
 up before the front door, which we heard opened, and 
 a moment afterwards Massingdale burst into the room. 
 He seemed to look round for some one, and finding 
 Joan, frowned, as if little pleased. He had no hat, 
 his clothes were torn and stained, and a great scratch, 
 on which the blood had dried, ran across his face; his 
 hair was standing about his head like a broom, and his 
 eyes were wild with excitement; but he spoke quite 
 calmly, and helped himself to the spare revolver and 
 some cartridges without hesitation.
 
 308 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 "Just in time," he gasped; "I didn't want to miss 
 the beginning. The soldiers ought to be here in half 
 an hour or so. I '11 explain later. Ritaud is leading 
 the lot who came past me. " 
 
 He dropped into silence like the rest of us; and I 
 saw that his eyes had turned again to Joan, and that 
 she, after the first glance as he entered, had not looked 
 at him. But I had other things to think about than 
 unrequited affection, and I paid no heed to her expression. 
 
 A sudden roar, as if every man among the strikers 
 exercised his lungs to their fullest extent, burst out 
 from round the corner of the house; it was taken up 
 straight in front of us, and again by the party to the 
 left. The lawn upon the farther side of the terrace 
 grew on the instant covered with figures, shrieking and 
 shouting, dancing and waving their arms; a sight, 
 showed by the soft light of the moon and backed by 
 the dark shadow of the trees, that I am not likely to 
 forget. The din was awful; all restraint and all reason 
 seemed gone from the men, yet no one of them advanced 
 to the terrace, or came nearer than thirty or forty yards 
 from the house. Within the drawing-room there was 
 no sound. We waited, I, at least, gripping my gun with 
 an odd sense of satisfaction; and we watched for some 
 sign from Tom. He leaned against the closed shutter, 
 staring into the gardens, and a yard behind him stood 
 Massingdale, very still and upright, with the Vicomte by 
 his side. 
 
 At the end of a few seconds, which I counted minutes, 
 Tom turned and whispered to the men behind him ; then 
 at their answer, I imagine, beckoned to me. 
 
 "Kneel down," he told me; "don't show yourself. 
 Sight between the slats of the shutter; and fire, if I 
 sign to you. Hit the spokesman, if there is one. "
 
 Action 309 
 
 Upon that he led the way out on to the terrace, the 
 Vicomte and Massingdale following him. I felt Blink- 
 son and Joan draw up behind me as the three men walked 
 into the garden; and I had to make the girl move as 
 her skirt brushed against my trigger arm. After that 
 my attention did not wander from the events that 
 passed outside. 
 
 De Menillart stood between the other two, against 
 the balustrade just to the right of the main steps leading 
 from the terrace; and at sight of him the crowd in the 
 gardens screamed in their fury, yelling to those who 
 were round to the left that he had appeared. He waited 
 a moment, his heels together in a stiff military attitude, 
 his head carried high, then he held up his right hand, 
 and a comparative silence fell on the mob. 
 
 " My men, " he shouted, his clear, high, well-bred voice 
 losing nothing of its usual dignity, "this is not the way 
 to act. I assure you, on my honour, that by these 
 methods you will gain nothing from me, and only 
 punishment from the State, who, represented by the 
 soldiers, will soon be here. If, on the other hand, you 
 go back to your villages, I will do my best to see that 
 you do not suffer for this. All of you," he cried very 
 distinctly, "except the man who killed my agent, 
 Dupont. He shall be punished. " 
 
 A jeer, a burst of jeering rather, greeted him as he 
 finished speaking; hoarse voices yelled foul oaths into 
 the night, and others fouler obscenities; the mob swayed, 
 and screamed, and danced again, but they did not ad- 
 vance. Then Ritaud, the innkeeper of Mailly and the 
 chief malcontent of the district, stepped out from among 
 them, and an instant silence followed his appearance, 
 a silence more frightening than any noise. The fellow 
 carried a dead hare by the heels; he stood insolently
 
 310 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 staring up at the three figures on the terrace, his right 
 hand resting on his hip, and his eyes were mad and 
 wild with drink and passion. He was a squat fellow 
 with pig's eyes, a bullet head, and a coarse, vicious 
 mouth; the sort of man, I reckoned him, who lives on 
 talk and other people's work. 
 
 "Bonsoir, patron," he screamed, and the crowd 
 behind him yelled with laughter. "You would give 
 terms to us, patron," he went on, tutoying the Vicomte. 
 "It is well. But we don't want your terms, bourgeois; 
 we will dictate our own. You were very haughty yester- 
 day; now you shall watch while we amuse you. Then 
 eh bien! then we '11 see. Eh, my comrades ? ' ' 
 
 He was evidently held an orator among his friends, 
 for they roared with delight at his words, and it was 
 some moments before he could make himself heard 
 again. Finally he secured silence; seeming, when he 
 began afresh, inspired to greater efforts. 
 
 "You see this hare, " he shouted, holding it up. " It is 
 your hare, patron. We are going to make a little fire 
 to cook your game before your eyes. Oh yes, Monsieur 
 le Vicomte, you '11 be warm enough in your fine house. 
 You '11 find that the poor working-man, by whose work 
 you live, can sometimes defend himself. One word 
 more, patron. You have an English guest your dam 
 has gone with her brat, I suppose I saw the girl this 
 morning in your garden. I '11 come and fetch her before 
 the hare is cooked. She will make a fine dessert. I '11 
 show her that a poor man can kiss and " 
 
 He never finished the sentence. I saw Massingdale's 
 right arm go up; and, together with the report of his 
 revolver it seemed, Ritaud dropped where he stood, 
 writhed a moment on the ground, and then lay still. 
 
 Following the shot there was a moment's pause, as if
 
 Action 311 
 
 the sudden action had taken the strikers by surprise, 
 had given them a certain timidity; but the lull did not 
 last long, a few seconds perhaps, and then we were done 
 with any waiting. Ritaud raised himself on his elbow, 
 spoke to the men about him, though his words did not 
 reach us, and was lifted in their arms and carried out 
 of sight among them. Immediately another leader 
 appeared in his place, the agitator from Paris, I dis- 
 covered afterwards, who gesticulated and screamed 
 before the crowd, waving his arms towards the house, 
 very obviously urging the attack. The strikers, I will 
 say so much for them, needed little invitation; with a 
 roar that spread round the corner of the house to the 
 left, they advanced with a rush, scrambling and swear- 
 ing, jostling each other in their eagerness. I did not 
 look for Tom's signal, but fired straight at the man who 
 led the rush, and to my shame, I missed him; at the 
 same time I heard the three revolvers on the terrace 
 going, and all round the house, it seemed to me, the 
 firing had commenced. It was not on our side alone, the 
 strikers had arms with them which they used wildly, and, 
 in that first attack, to no effect. One shot hit the shutter 
 about three feet above my head; I heard Joan exclaim; 
 turned to see if she was hit, and saw her wiping the blood 
 from a splinter scratch upon her forehead. At the same 
 time Blinkson seized her by the shoulders, forcing her 
 without ceremony to the back of the room. Then, as I 
 looked back to the garden again, I was almost upset by 
 the entrance of the Vicomte, Massingdale, and Tom, who 
 slammed the shutter behind them as they slipped into 
 the house. I peered between the slats; saw a great 
 bearded fellow at the top of the steps; fired at him, and 
 sent him flying, like a dummy, the way that he had 
 come. Tom was beside me, the Vicomte and Massing-
 
 312 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 dale at the window to the left, and Blinkson on the 
 right; the mob was now swarming on to the terrace, 
 and we snapped at them as quickly as we could, hoping 
 for as much effect as possible. We must have damaged 
 them more than they liked by luck rather than good 
 shooting, for it was impossible to get a decent sight 
 of them through the shutters because they stopped the 
 rush and retired behind the shelter of the terrace wall, 
 where we could not touch them. Owing to the slant 
 of the slats we could not see far into the gardens, but 
 could hear them moving about and shouting to each 
 other. 
 
 "This won't do," said Tom. "We can't get at the 
 devils here, or see what they are up to either. Blinkson, 
 take a run round and see how things are going on in the 
 other rooms. Vicomte, you and Dick had better get 
 up- stairs. Wait a bit, I '11 have a look damn!" 
 
 I had been attending to the loading of my rifle, an 
 abominable instrument that jammed whenever I tried 
 to work it quickly, but jumped back to squinting 
 through the shutter at his exclamation. I was not 
 comforted by what I saw. A barrel was being hoisted 
 on to the balustrade, a barrel with a flaming rag in 
 the bunghole; and the men who placed it in position 
 were out of sight and reach. Tom had opened the 
 shutter so that through the crack we could see more 
 plainly what was happening; but there was no sign 
 of any striker, they had crouched beneath the terrace 
 wall, or had taken shelter among the trees. While the 
 barrel rested for a moment on the coping, Massingdale 
 kicked the shutter wide, and made an attempt to rush 
 out towards the burning oil; but Tom caught him by 
 the neck and threw him back into the room. 
 
 "You fool!" he cried, and two shots hit the frame-
 
 Action 313 
 
 work of the window as if to point the remark. "They 
 know enough to cover that damned tub. " 
 
 As he was speaking, the oil burst into flame; the 
 men behind gave the barrel a heave; it fell from the 
 parapet, rolled across the terrace, and brought up 
 against the wall of the house, burning furiously. Almost 
 immediately the shutters, behind which the Vicomte 
 stood, caught and crackled. 
 
 "I pee your point," said Massingdale, with a laugh 
 that was no affectation, and still seated on the floor 
 where Tom had thrown him. "We're all to die in 
 company. I call that sociable. " 
 
 Then Blinkson ran into the room. 
 
 "Outbuildings well alight," he announced. "Wind 
 setting towards the house. Got your own fire, too, 
 I see." 
 
 Tom turned to the Vicomte, who had stepped away 
 from the burning window, and on whose face there 
 was a bitterness which we could not share. 
 
 "We can't save the place, sir," he stated. "We shall 
 have to run for it. " 
 
 De Menillart nodded, looking round the room sadly. 
 I think that, at the moment, he had forgotten the danger 
 in which we carried all our lives, and that he remembered 
 only his household gods that were being sacrificed ; on 
 which count I hold him a man of courage and of feeling. 
 
 So Tom, having obtained his consent to abandoning 
 the place, blew two shrill calls on the whistle that he 
 carried, and ordered us into the hall; not too soon, for 
 the fire had already spread to the other windows and 
 was hot on our backs as we left. While the household 
 was assembling, no one seeming very anxious to linger 
 at his post, Tom spoke to me a moment with strange 
 earnestness.
 
 314 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 "Stick by Joan, Dick," he said; "and remember 
 it seems an extraordinary thing to say in a civilised 
 country like this it is far better that she should be 
 dead than in the hands of these drunken swine to-night. " 
 
 "I won't forget," I promised him. "I '11 see that she 
 does n't come to that. " 
 
 We shook hands on the bargain, and he turned to 
 give orders for the retreat. 
 
 We were to make for Massingdale's house in the 
 hamlet, which could be far more easily defended than 
 the chateau; and we were to go there in a close body, 
 the women in the middle, trusting to the ditches at 
 each side of the avenue to keep away the main rush 
 of the strikers until we had got a decent start. Our 
 one chance seemed to rest on the quickness with which 
 we made our escape, on the possibility of slipping out 
 of the house before we were noticed. There had come 
 no firing from the direction of the drive, and there 
 seemed a fair chance that the four of our men, who 
 had watched the park walls, would be waiting for us 
 there; in any case, we were in no position to choose a 
 course of action, but had to make what we could of 
 the only one that was left to us. So we formed up at 
 once; Loissel, Vanne, and the three men who had been 
 in the house being the van of our squad; the women 
 servants and Joan, with myself as a sort of personal 
 attendant, in the middle; the Vicomte, Blinkson, Massing- 
 dale, and Tom bringing up the rear. 
 
 The hall door was flung open, and we rushed out, 
 having instructions to run for the shelter of the drive 
 as hard as we could. Fortune was with us, and we got 
 to that shelter, such as it was, without mishap. The 
 strikers were so pleased at having set the house alight 
 at the first attempt that they had forgotten us for the
 
 Action 315 
 
 moment, as Tom had reckoned that they might, and 
 they danced and shrieked about the blaze like evil 
 children. Half a dozen or so of them were on this side 
 of the house, armed with no more aggressive weapons 
 than a couple of barrels of oil, and they showed no 
 sign of fight, but ran off round the corner of the building, 
 yelling loud that we escaped. Three of our men were 
 waiting for us at the head of the drive, the fourth, we 
 learned afterwards, had been knocked on the head 
 as he made his way from the wall. So, with some hope 
 of making good our escape, we started on the retreat 
 down the avenue. 
 
 We ran. Reckoning time everything, we made what 
 pace we could, which, since there were women with us, 
 was not as fast as we had hoped. In the shadow of the 
 trees, with here and there a shaft of moonlight falling 
 like a silver band across our path, in the warm night 
 air, and with the good scent of woods about us, we 
 stumbled and hurried, a new and warmer light growing 
 behind us, casting fantastic shadows on the way ahead. 
 For perhaps fifty yards we advanced without hindrance, 
 and then a burst of shouting told us that the pursuit 
 had started. I did not look round, but I could hear the 
 noise of a considerable number of men running in our 
 direction. I was too much concerned with keeping the 
 maid-servants from any breakdown, which was a thing 
 I feared more than the attack behind us. They were 
 feeling the strain of the unaccustomed pace, and they 
 panted and gasped, clutching at each other as they ran. 
 Then one of them, looking over her shoulder in terror, 
 missed her footing and fell sprawling on the path. We 
 got her on her feet, Joan and I, as soon as we could 
 manage it, but the incident had checked us during some 
 few seconds, and the advance-guard, not hearing the
 
 3i 6 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 noise of the fall, had got some yards away. I looked 
 behind and saw that Tom's party had faced about and 
 stopped, so that they might meet the attack with more 
 effect; thinking, therefore, that we could give them no 
 help, I urged the women to start running again, to catch 
 up those in front. Here, however, I met an unexpected 
 resistance. Joan absolutely refused to move: she would 
 not, she declared, leave the others behind. I had no time 
 to argue; the servants were already moving on they 
 at least were only intent on safety and I did not wish 
 the party divided; that Joan was moved by some idea 
 of facing the danger I did not ask or care. It is one thing 
 to refuse to save one's own skin, it is another to be 
 entrusted with a woman's safety. I seized her round 
 the waist, and attempted to carry her off. For all her 
 slightness she was amazing strong; in that my first and 
 only struggle with a woman I found that I had a harder 
 job of it than I had thought. As I staggered along, 
 imploring her to do as I ordered, I was suddenly aware 
 of three of the strikers emerging from the ditch on the 
 left side of the avenue. I let go of Joan on the instant, 
 at the same time shouting to the others for help. Then, 
 as the men rushed at us, I got in front of her and at- 
 tempted to use my gun, with which I had been mightily 
 hampered in my struggle with Joan, as a club. I was a 
 shade too slow. The foremost of the men was on me 
 with a stick; his blow I partly guarded, but it sent me 
 flying sideways, and I came heavily to ground. Before I 
 could get up, the brute had made a rush at Joan, whose 
 expression, as she stared in horror at him, I do not like 
 to remember. Then, as I scrambled to my knees, 
 Blinkson dashed into the fray; he hurled an empty 
 revolver straight at the head of the man who advanced 
 at Joan, and the fellow went down like an ox. With a
 
 Action 317 
 
 cry of fury, the old man, his eyeglass hanging broken 
 from its cord, sprang barehanded at the second man, 
 who came to take his fallen fellow's place. I was on my 
 feet now, just behind Blinkson, and I saw what was 
 coming but could not stop it. The second man, a huge 
 ruffian with a red beard, fired an ancient pistol point 
 blank at his opponent, who staggered back into my arms 
 bringing me again to ground. He fell across my legs, 
 and for a moment I lay there unable to get up ; in that 
 moment the man with the red beard had seized Joan 
 in his arms, his face was close to hers, his eyes alight 
 with his foul, drink-fired passion. As I attempted to 
 struggle up to him, the third man came along, jealous of 
 his comrade's capture. I caught him by the leg, and 
 pulled him over. Then, for the whole affair was a matter 
 of seconds, Massingdale followed Blinkson in answer to 
 my call. His face was like a dead man's in colour, 
 and if ever a man has shown the lust for blood plain 
 written in his expression, he did at that moment. He 
 got the man, who held Joan, by his throat, gripping 
 him from behind and forcing him backwards; then, 
 as the fellow loosed his hold of the girl and tried to 
 fight his assailant, Massingdale, using only one hand 
 on his throat, snatched a revolver from his pocket, 
 and with it brained the man he held. As the body 
 slipped to the ground, I heard him curse the dead thing 
 that he had killed ; and after that he turned to Joan. 
 
 Then Tom and the Vicomte, with the men who had 
 joined them at the head of the drive, came up, and we 
 started down the avenue again. About thirty of the 
 strikers stood in a body in front of the house, uncertain 
 what they should do; we made the most of their hesi- 
 tancy, and forced the pace of our retreat as much as 
 possible. Loissel, Vanne, and the others in advance
 
 3i 8 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 had discovered that there was something wrong, and 
 waited for us, so that we moved in one body; now, 
 however, we no longer ran, but walked together, keep- 
 ing a sharp lookout about us. 
 
 The peasants behind us, who were each moment 
 being reinforced, did not take long to decide upon a 
 course of action, and half of them were already crawling 
 along the ditches before we had covered another fifteen 
 yards. The chateau was now well alight; the crackle 
 and roar of the burning, the shouting of the strikers, 
 and, immediately about us, the quiet rustling of the 
 trees, combining to a strange effect. The black mass 
 of the building, its windows showing forth a fiercer 
 light than they had known before, faced us when we 
 looked back, and before it there ran and danced the 
 figures of the strikers, silhouetted with something of 
 a touch of fantasy against the glare. The memory of 
 that scene is unfaded with me. I can see it now much 
 as I saw it then; I can feel the night air blow cool and 
 sweet about me; I can smell the smell of burning; and, 
 though at times I find them indistinct and blurred, I 
 can recall the set, anxious faces of my companions, and 
 recollect how we moved in silence, having neither thought 
 nor time for words. 
 
 Before we had moved far, before the first peasant 
 in the ditch had crawled ten feet, Massingdale halted 
 and swung round. Tom called out to him to know 
 what he did, and for answer he pointed back along the 
 avenue to where two bodies lay together, moving towards 
 them as he did so. Then I remembered that Blinkson 
 lay where he had fallen, that I had not thought to look 
 whether he was little or much injured, living or dead; 
 and I grew hot through shame of such forgetfulness. 
 
 Massingdale ran to where the old man lay, a huddled
 
 Action 319 
 
 heap that did not move, and as he ran he paid no atten- 
 tion to the strikers ahead of him. Joan was beside me, 
 and I caught a sight of her face, drawn and very white, 
 with strained eyes staring before her; she had put a 
 hand upon my arm, and her fingers gripped into my 
 skin through the coat-sleeve. The peasants made no 
 move until Massingdale stooped to pick up the wounded 
 man; then, with a howl of anger or triumph, they sent 
 a volley of stones at him, and the men on the drive broke 
 into a run. He stood up straight, all his movements 
 seeming very deliberate; produced his revolver, and 
 fired the five chambers into the mob; following on this, 
 he stooped again, the fierceness of his attack having 
 given him a momentary respite, seized Blinkson in his 
 arms, and came staggering towards us. A second volley 
 of stones fell round him, many of them hitting their 
 mark, but he struggled on. As he got back to us, as we 
 made way for him so that he could carry his burden into 
 some sort of shelter, I saw that his head was bleeding 
 from a gaping cut, and that he had the dazed look of a 
 man not fully conscious. The situation was, however, 
 not such as to permit much observation, and the moment 
 he had passed us we formed in a line across the road, 
 firing at the crowd in front. The fusillade of stones was 
 getting uncomfortably warm: De Menillart had been 
 hit on the wrist, and had dropped his revolver with an 
 oath ; one of our men was down ; and Vanne had doubled 
 up, gasping, from a blow in the wind. I had fired my 
 last cartridge, and stood useless, yet not caring to desert 
 the others and seek shelter, guarding my head as well 
 as I could, imagining that here was the finish for us, 
 and picturing the shape that it would take, when the 
 noise of galloping horses sounded behind us, and a sharp 
 voice called out a word of command.
 
 32O The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 "Make way," it shouted again. "Make way, mes- 
 sieurs. We '11 settle them now. " 
 
 Even as the man behind called out to us, the mob 
 in front halted, and the stones fell about us no more; 
 the next second the strikers were flying in all direc- 
 tions, we were scrambling in the ditches, and a company 
 of cavalry, led by an officer who saluted us as he passed 
 us, cantered by. I have often made the usual English 
 criticism about the appearance of the French conscript, 
 I still see no reason to deny that he is abominably 
 badly uniformed, but I there and then determined, 
 and I have not changed my views, that he can be an 
 uncommon useful fellow at a pinch. As on that Septem- 
 ber night we, lying in a ditch, watched him ride past 
 in goodly numbers, we all of us named him in our hearts, 
 or so I fancy, the most satisfying picture of military 
 power that our eyes had ever looked upon. 
 
 After the troop had passed, while from all about the 
 burning house the shouting suddenly ceased, being 
 exchanged for an occasional shriek and the noise of 
 horses galloping and of men running, we remained in 
 the ditch, without any speech, so far as I remember. I 
 became conscious of a great bodily fatigue, and of a 
 desire to sit still, doing nothing, thinking of nothing, 
 more strong than I had hitherto experienced; I leaned 
 against the bank, listening in somewhat detached 
 fashion to the sounds about me, and giving little or no 
 attention to my companions. As I rested, aware vaguely 
 that the others did as I did, a sergeant and four privates 
 came riding back to us. 
 
 "Monsieur le Vicomte de Menillart?" he inquired, 
 addressing the silent company in the ditch. 
 
 "Yes, sergeant," answered the Vicomte, stepping on 
 to the road.
 
 Action 321 
 
 " Captain Monet presents his compliments to Monsieur 
 le Vicomte," continued the sergeant, saluting stiffly, 
 "and he suggests that Monsieur le Vicomte and his 
 party should go down to the village. The chateau 
 cannot be saved, and it is, doubtless, monsieur's wish 
 to be under shelter again as soon as possible. As for 
 the strikers, Captain Monet says that he will very soon 
 settle with them." 
 
 The suggestion seemed a good one, and we followed 
 it at once. Wearily, with little talk, we got on our way 
 again, accompanied by the five soldiers, and we walked 
 down the hill towards the hamlet, even De Me'nillart 
 expressing no wish to see the last of the destruction of 
 his home. Blinkson we carried as tenderly as possible; 
 he was conscious, but seemed in a bad way, although 
 he assured us that he did not suffer. When we were 
 clear of the avenue and out in the moonlight again, we 
 could see something of the alteration that the night 
 had made in our appearance, how we were all grimed 
 with dirt, and dishevelled, with white, tired faces, and 
 eyes that showed plainly the strain which we had stood. 
 Tom alone appeared to some advantage, seeming little 
 affected, and cheering us all with an occasional word; 
 Massingdale stumbled along, his head down, a hand- 
 kerchief bound to his wound. He has since told me 
 that he remembers very little of what happened after 
 he had taken Blinkson in his arms, until he was back 
 again in his own house and had drunk some brandy. 
 Joan, looking very slight and shaken, although she 
 made no complaint and refused to be helped along, 
 walked between Tom and De Me'nillart, her eyes turn- 
 ing very often to Massingdale, who went just in front. 
 
 So, very far from a gay company, and carrying in 
 our midst one who bore testimony to the serious nature
 
 322 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 of the evening's happenings, we arrived at our house, 
 and were met by Hendick, Marellac, and Jeanne, even 
 our good housekeeper showing some change in her usual 
 placid manner.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 THE PASSING OF A GALLANT GENTLEMAN 
 
 THE house seemed very quiet as we entered it; the 
 hall had been set in order, and was no longer 
 littered with our belongings as it was wont to be; the 
 whole place had the trim appearance of a house to which 
 the inmates return after a lengthy absence, and in which 
 they recognise a precision of arrangement that is un- 
 familiar, no chairs pulled out of place, no books and 
 pipes lying about untidily. Having nothing else that 
 she might do, Jeanne had busied herself in removing all 
 traces of habitation from the hall, leaving the room bare 
 and formal, which, had she had her way, it had always 
 been. The appearance of the house, I say, struck me 
 with its contrast to that which we had just been seeing, 
 but the clock upon the wall, which ticked solemnly 
 in protest against all hurry and excitement, brought me 
 a greater astonishment, for it marked some minutes 
 short of eleven; all our fighting, all our waiting and 
 watching, which had seemed like many nights in one, 
 had filled no more than a few hours of the evening. 
 We had played with high passions; we had been in 
 company with death; we had broken the common 
 conduct of our lives, and had seen the world in different 
 colours ; and it was not yet the hour for bed. 
 
 Whatever had been her anxiety and her excitement, 
 
 323
 
 324 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 Jeanne was very soon her ordinary self ; no one directing 
 her, she sorted out the servants from their masters, 
 had them into the kitchen, and was back again with 
 wine and brandy; then, having set the refreshment 
 on a table, she came to where Joan sat. 
 
 "Mademoiselle will drink this," she suggested, of- 
 fering some compound of wine and hot water which 
 she had prepared. "Afterwards there will be much 
 to do. Monsieur Massingdale and poor Monsieur 
 Blinkson need attention." 
 
 Joan took the glass and drank from it, thanking Jeanne; 
 although she looked more inclined to break down than 
 to work again, the call to attend on the sick roused all 
 the woman in her, and she followed Jeanne from the 
 room with some appearance of eagerness. 
 
 Meanwhile Tom, Hendick, and I went up-stairs to 
 fetch a mattress on which to put Blinkson, who was 
 half collapsed and in no condition to be moved farther 
 than was necessary. As we collected bedclothes, 
 Hendick explained how he had passed the evening in 
 great suspense, not liking to leave the house, yet loath- 
 ing the inaction; how he had gone with the car some 
 way towards Cluny, helping to get it up the hill ; and how, 
 finally, judging by the noise and the burning chateau 
 that things were going very badly with us, he and 
 Marellac had started out to join us, and had been over- 
 taken by the soldiers. 
 
 We brought the bedding down-stairs, and made 
 Blinkson as comfortable as possible upon a couple 
 of tables drawn together. He had been shot in the 
 abdomen, and was apparently wounded so badly that, 
 had there been skilful aid to hand, it had done him no 
 good. He was quite conscious, though very weak, and 
 he talked and laughed with us, refusing to listen to any
 
 Passing of a Gallant Gentleman 325 
 
 words of pity, although he knew even better than we 
 did that he was a dying man. Joan, who had not been 
 used to such sights and services, helped us to secure his 
 ease secured for him, would be a truer statement, all 
 the ease that he could look for arranging his pillows, 
 smoothing the clothes about his neck, in such fashion as 
 a woman does by instinct, and a man by practice, not 
 so well, after long acquaintance with the sick. Then, 
 when she could do no more, she turned to Massingdale, 
 who sat on a chair near the fireplace, where he had 
 been, silent and dazed, since we entered the house. 
 
 "I want to dress your head for you," she told him, 
 putting down the basin and the rough bandages that 
 Jeanne had prepared. 
 
 Massingdale looked up stupidly, making an attempt 
 to rise from his chair. 
 
 "I 'm quite fit, Miss Onnington," he explained. 
 " Don't bother about me. " 
 
 Joan pressed her hand on his shoulder, so that he 
 should not move, smiling at him as a woman will when 
 she tends a sick man or a child. 
 
 "I want to see this cut," said she. "You mustn't 
 move. I shall hurt you, because I 'm very clumsy." 
 
 Yet her hands were light and tender, and her touch, 
 by the look of it, scarcely to be felt, as she bathed his 
 matted hair. 
 
 "It 's very good of you to take so much trouble," 
 answered Massingdale, trying to rouse himself. "That 
 stone knocked me half silly. I can't talk much. " 
 
 "I don't want you to talk," Joan replied very softly, 
 and it seemed to me that her lips trembled. "I want 
 to bathe your head for you." 
 
 Massingdale did not answer. His head rested against 
 the back of the chair and his eyes stared dully, and with
 
 326 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 no expression in them, at the ceiling. Joan bent over 
 her work so that I could not see her face. When she 
 had finished, she mixed a glass of brandy and water 
 and brought it to Massingdale to drink, smoothing the 
 bandage that she had tied about his head as he took 
 the glass. Then she left him and came back to Blinkson. 
 
 I sat beside him. Although for the most part he lay 
 silent with closed eyes, he seemed anxious that some one 
 should be near him. Joan put a hand on his forehead, 
 and he looked up at her and smiled. 
 
 "Better? "she asked. 
 
 " I 've got beyond the better stage of life, " he answered, 
 his voice very weak. "I am in that condition when a 
 medical man would permit me anything for which I had 
 a fancy. I 'm not afraid, Miss Onnington, to look this 
 particular truth in the face. " 
 
 "Oh," cried Joan, as if the thing frightened her, 
 " you must not talk like that ! You will get well again. " 
 
 "I shall be rid of this particular ill and many others 
 pretty soon, I fancy," he answered, with some return 
 to his old manner. Then he felt for Joan's hand and 
 held it. "Let us change the subject," he continued. 
 "I should like to think, Miss Onnington, that the real 
 impression that you got of me, gained in our first meet- 
 ing, has been somewhat obscured by to-night's events. 
 I should not like you to think of me as I really am." 
 
 Joan knelt beside him, and her voice was low and 
 broken as she spoke. 
 
 "You must not say things like that," she entreated. 
 "You must not think them. I see you as you really 
 are a very brave man who gave his life to save me 
 from annoyance. I have forgotten all about the other 
 man. Do you imagine that I shall think of him when 
 I remember that you you "
 
 Passing of a Gallant Gentleman 327 
 
 "Died is the word you want," replied Blinkson; "only 
 you should not weave romance around me because you 
 think I died for you. I am no more than a very un- 
 desirable old man who is rather glad that the finish 
 is in sight." He paused, and his eyes stared into some 
 far distance wherein he seemed to see things that were 
 pleasant, then he came back to earth again, and he 
 smiled as he looked at Joan. "Think of me," he asked, 
 "as kindly as you can. Don't try to forget the faults. 
 If you cannot manage to take the bad with the good, 
 you have a lot of loneliness before you. I believe that 
 you will escape that that you will be able to love and 
 understand. The one is certain to fail without the 
 other." 
 
 He closed his eyes again, letting go Joan's hand, 
 seeming suddenly sunk in forgetfulness. Quite plainly, 
 although his mind worked clearly, he was slipping the 
 moorings that held him to life and all other affairs kept 
 little hold on his attention in view of the unknown 
 voyage ahead. Since he seemed comfortable and did 
 not move, Joan left him and joined Tom and De Me*nil- 
 lart, who talked with Hendick and Loissel. 
 
 Very shortly afterwards the car arrived back from 
 Cluny, having come by the road through Donzy and 
 Az6, and with it came another motor and Captain 
 Monet. The soldiers, less than half of whom, it appeared, 
 we had met, had dispersed the strikers after making 
 many arrests, had failed to save anything of the chateau, 
 and were taking steps to ensure, so far as they were 
 able, that the district should witness no more violence. 
 The excellent captain was in high good-humour, although 
 careful to maintain an appropriate gravity of demeanour. 
 He paid us all many compliments; congratulated Tom 
 upon his management of the affair; and allowed us to
 
 328 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 perceive that we were fortunate in having been rescued 
 by an officer named Monet. After explaining that 
 he would spend the night on duty, and that those who 
 remained behind need not anticipate further incon- 
 venience, he urged that the two cars should be filled at 
 once, as Madame de Me"nillart awaited their return with 
 a very natural anxiety. Accordingly it was arranged 
 that the women servants should ride in the Vicomte's 
 car, and that the other and larger motor should take 
 Tom, Joan, and De M6nillart himself. There was no 
 possible reason why they should not start immediately. 
 All that they might wish to do at La Fontaine des Bois 
 could be done the next day, and so without more delay 
 they prepared to start. Tom made an attempt to induce 
 Massingdale to go with them, but it was unsuccessful, as 
 I had imagined that it would be. Therefore, when 
 everything was ready for them to leave, they came to 
 where Blinkson lay and said good-bye to him. De 
 Me*nillart and Tom shook hands with the dying man in 
 silence, and I think that he understood the thoughts 
 which they could not express, for his eyes lighted as 
 if he were well content. To Joan he spoke, holding 
 her hand between his own. 
 
 "Good-bye," said he, all the huskiness gone from 
 his speech. " Don't waste your pity on me, Miss Onning- 
 ton," for she was more moved than I had often seen 
 her. "There is no pity in my death. I had to die some- 
 time, you know. Just as well now. Rather a good 
 finish better than I expected. Good-night. " 
 
 She waited a moment, looking at him very sadly. 
 For the last time she smoothed the sheet about his 
 neck, then turned quickly and hurried out of the house. 
 
 Massingdale and I went to the door to see the car 
 depart, and I noticed that Joan did not look in our
 
 Passing of a Gallant Gentleman 329 
 
 direction until the motor began to move, and that when 
 she turned to us she looked at Massingdale with some- 
 thing of fear in her expression. He leaned against the 
 wall, haggard and weary, like a man who wakes from 
 troubled sleep to find new difficulties and sorrows about 
 him, and he stared after the car until it disappeared 
 into the night. 
 
 After some discussion, in which all our arguments 
 against his watching failed to move Massingdale from 
 his intention, we left him and Hendick to sit with 
 Blinkson, and the rest of us went to bed, Loissel and I 
 lying upon mattresses in the dinine-room. I slept 
 heavily until three o'clock, when it had been arranged 
 I should take Hendick's place. Upon going into the 
 hall I found Blinkson dozing, death's stamp already on 
 his face, and Massingdale seated at his side with papers 
 spread before him on a table. 
 
 "You might witness this," he said, handing me a 
 pen. " Blinkson has made a will. " 
 
 I took up the paper, and glanced through it. The 
 name that was upon it I did not know, but Massingdale 
 explained the change before I could mention it. 
 
 "He took the name of Athanasius Roderick Blinkson 
 because, as he told us a little time ago, it was a suitable 
 title for a fool. He explains the alias farther on. I 
 think that you, Hendick, and I are the only men who 
 know what his real name is. We keep it to ourselves." 
 
 I saw that the document was sufficiently in order to 
 stand, that it was chiefly in favour of Massingdale 
 himself, and that, besides the bequest of a ring to the 
 dying man's sister in England, it provided for the giving 
 of some memento, to be chosen by Massingdale, to 
 "each of my companions on the night of my death, 
 if they care to accept the same." He had been, it
 
 33 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 seemed clear, a very lonely man, for besides ourselves, 
 chance acquaintances of his last years, his sister was 
 the only person of whom he made any mention. I 
 witnessed the will, and put it down, turning to the man 
 whose last wishes it expressed. He lay very still, breath- 
 ing heavily, his face showing little sign of pain, and in 
 its mortal pallor more dignified than I had seen it. 
 
 I took my place beside Massingdale, and together 
 we watched for the end, not thinking it necessary to 
 summon the others to be with us. For a long time 
 he remained still, sleeping; then he roused himself and 
 complained of the cold. We put more blankets over 
 him, for which he thanked us. Once he wandered in his 
 talk, calling out some woman's name; but he soon came 
 to consciousness again, and lay with his eyes open. 
 Again he spoke of the cold, and as we made efforts to 
 warm him, lighting the fire although the night was hot, 
 he talked quite coherently. 
 
 "I feel like a gentleman again," he informed us. 
 " Drink and a certain fastidiousness go badly together. " 
 Then, after a pause: "I Ve had no worse a time than 
 many men." Finally, very softly, as if to himself: 
 " What next, I wonder? " 
 
 After that he dozed again, sometimes opening his 
 eyes to look at us, and, if he met our glances, smiling. 
 About ten minutes before five, when for some time he 
 had been still, he seemed to stretch himself, a long 
 breath came from him, and so he died. 
 
 We remained many minutes silent; Loissel, who 
 had come into the room very quietly some little time 
 before the end, standing at the dead man's feet, his 
 great, shaggy head hung forward, his tall form upright. 
 Then Massingdale stood up, passed a hand across his 
 eyes, and walked to the door.
 
 Passing of a Gallant Gentleman 331 
 
 " My God, " said he, " I 'm tired. " 
 
 Thereupon he opened the door, stepped out into the 
 road, and lifted his head to feel the cool wind blow 
 on it. The dawn had already broken, the birds were 
 chattering, there was a light grey cloud over the sky, 
 and the morning air was fresh and sweet. Loissel 
 covered the face of the dead, arranged the papers 
 which were lying untidily on the table, and joined 
 Massingdale outside. I followed him. 
 
 As we stood together, listening to the small, quiet 
 sounds about, thinking of the cheery kind companion 
 whose death we had just watched, there came to disturb 
 us the sound of a trotting horse. A few minutes after- 
 wards a gig came round the bend of the road, and one 
 of the doctors from Cluny, Rolin, a round, red-faced, 
 comfortable little man, several times previously our 
 guest, never until this moment our medical attendant, 
 drove up to the door. 
 
 "Impossible to get here before," he cried, saluting us. 
 "Been in trouble, I hear. Silly lot of fools in these 
 parts. Where 's my patient?" 
 
 He was out of the trap, and across the threshold 
 before he had finished; then, as he saw the candle-lit 
 room with that which it contained, he made a clucking 
 sound with his tongue, and hurried forward to the body. 
 We waited outside while he conducted his examination 
 and in a few minutes he joined us. 
 
 "Hopeless from the start," he stated. "If I had 
 arrived before, I could have done no good. Not much 
 suffering in such a death, hemorrhage is kind in that 
 way. I will come later and conduct the usual post- 
 mortem. The authorities will require it." He rubbed 
 his hands together, looked at the sky, then tapped 
 Massingdale on the arm. "I '11 stitch up that head
 
 33 2 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 of yours," he announced. "I hear you have cracked it. 
 Good thing for modern art the stone was n't a bit 
 heavier. Now, rouse that good woman of yours, and 
 we '11 get to work. " 
 
 We found Jeanne about to begin the new day's 
 business and a very few minutes afterwards she had 
 what Rolin required laid out in the studio. The little 
 doctor worked quickly, saying little until he had fin- 
 ished; but when the bandages had been fixed to his 
 satisfaction, he faced the three of us with an air of 
 command. 
 
 "Now," said he, "I have to deal with moderately 
 sensible men. Birth comes and death comes I have 
 seen them both to-night, with a short half -hour drive 
 dividing them and each of them is surprising in its 
 way; but after the one and until the other comes a 
 man has his duty by his own body. I have seldom," 
 he surveyed us fiercely, "seen three sorrier-looking 
 scarecrows. You have got to change that, my friends. 
 Go off and get some sleep I '11 stop a bit and help 
 your woman but, if you pitch me any nonsense about 
 being unable to rest, I '11 have done with the lot of you 
 for three hysterical fools." 
 
 We offered no opposition to his commands ; we turned 
 in, and slept, all three of us I think, dreamlessly and 
 without turning on our beds. Nature has her soft 
 moods, and of sleep, the kindliest gift that she has, 
 she is not always miserly.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 THE PARTING OF MANY WAYS 
 
 OVER the events of the next few days I will not linger. 
 When I recall the weeks that I lived with Massing- 
 dale in his house at La Fontaine des Bois, I dwell long in 
 thought among the quiet days that went before the 
 strike, and over the fighting itself I do. not hurry, even 
 at Blinkson's death I often pause, but of the final days 
 of our stay I do not care to think; that retrospect has 
 too much of gloom about it, and in reviewing it I find 
 neither pleasure nor profit. The ceremonies subsequent 
 to death are to most men, I suppose, purely distasteful ; 
 the hired workmen about the house, whose melancholy 
 profession it is to arrange burial, the unnatural air of 
 repression, and the numerous occasions on which the 
 deceased person is made the subject of unwilling con- 
 versation, bring to the healthy mind revolt and anger. 
 If there is any sorrow in the hearts of those who await 
 the burial of their dead fellow, it becomes an intolerable 
 burden that they should be compelled to discuss the 
 cause of their grief with strangers and officials; and, 
 giving small heed to their necessity, they are inclined 
 to cry out that these long formalities are no better than 
 needless cruelty to the living. With such things, with 
 inquests and inquiries, with the coming and going of 
 many unknown persons, all seeking information and 
 
 333
 
 334 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 asking that the same sad tale might be retold, we were 
 constantly engaged; two dead men, both come to their 
 end by violent means, lay beneath our roof, and we 
 were set about by a swarm of officials who gave us little 
 peace. 
 
 Two days after his death the widow Dupont came, 
 with relations and friends and much attendant pomp, 
 to take the body of her husband to the village where 
 he had lived; I can only hope that we behaved on that 
 occasion in a fit and proper manner, for beneath the 
 pride of notoriety, which the circumstances seemed to 
 have conferred upon her, I believe that Madame Dupont 
 nursed a real sorrow. The following morning we took 
 Blinkson to his grave. He lies in a corner of the little 
 churchyard at La Verzee, and no tombstone marks his 
 resting-place. We who had known something, but very 
 little, of his life, and the others, Tom, Joan, De Menillart, 
 and certain of the servants, who had known only the 
 gallant manner of his death, stood by his graveside; 
 and, since he had so expressed his wish in the will that 
 he had made, no ritual of religion was used when we 
 made him our farewell. So we left him to lie among 
 the quiet Burgundian hills, to rest after a losing battle. 
 What his story was I do not know; why a life that had 
 opened with so much promise had failed in its achieve- 
 ment, I have made no effort to find out; but this I do 
 know, of this at least I am convinced, he did no harm 
 to any but himself, and if laughter when the heart is 
 sad, if kindness that does not waver, that is not a thing 
 of moods, be reckoned, as they must be, among man's 
 virtues, he was a better man than others of more seemly 
 living. He had learned to be alone, a bitter lesson; he 
 listened with laughing sympathy to the tale of our woes 
 and sorrows, he encouraged our hopes and our ambitions,
 
 The Parting of Many Ways 335 
 
 yet he never sought to share the burden of his own load 
 with others, rather choosing to go his way in solitude. 
 Let this, then, be his epitaph : He gave, and he did not 
 take. The wrong, and the shame, and the waste of his 
 life were very great, yet they are easily forgotten by 
 those who knew him, because of the laughter and the 
 happiness that at all times followed him. He went 
 to his death deprived of all his heritage, exiled, yet with- 
 out whining at his fate; that we shall think of him as 
 of an honoured friend, remembering with shame those 
 times at which we slighted him, will be, I fancy, the 
 treatment that he would have asked. May he rest 
 in forgetfulness. 
 
 Joan and Tom left Cluny for Paris the same day that 
 Blinkson was buried; the Vicomte remained a couple 
 of days later, very much occupied with his affairs, 
 estimating damage, which was great. Then he too 
 left, and we were alone again; but the spell of the place 
 was broken, leaving us, also, anxious to be gone. When 
 the last of the inquiries was finished, we took our depar- 
 ture with little delay: Hendick went first, straight 
 to England; Loissel and I followed, making for Paris, 
 the former taking with him the picture now entitled 
 La Femme; finally, but a full fortnight later, Massing- 
 dale, Vanne, and Marellac made their farewells to the 
 farmhouse which had been the scene of so many different 
 happenings. 
 
 The strike hardly survived its victims. The authori- 
 ties acted with an unaccustomed firmness, and after one 
 or two minor disturbances the agitation ceased. Ritaud, 
 who had been badly wounded in the leg by Massing- 
 dale's shot, was proved guilty of murdering Dupont, 
 and duly, and very expeditiously, if the report be correct, 
 guillotined. I heard of his punishment with some
 
 336 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 satisfaction. The whole affair was advertised for a 
 short while in the papers, was made the subject of a 
 certain amount of talk, and was very soon forgotten. 
 
 The last act which we played in the farmhouse 
 was very much as many of the earlier ones, save that 
 it lacked one player. We had explained our departure 
 to Jeanne, who showed no surprise; we had the house 
 somewhat dismantled and many of our things packed, 
 for Hendick went early the next day, and Loissel and 
 I followed the same evening; and we sat, after dinner, 
 in the studio, for we had taken a distaste for the hall. 
 The conversation turned, as it was bound to do, upon 
 the disbanding of the company; we had grown to such 
 intimacy together that the occasion of this parting 
 could not be passed by in silence. 
 
 "I wonder," said Hendick, leaning back in his chair 
 and staring at the ceiling, "whether we shall all sleep 
 together again under the same roof. I imagine that it 's 
 rather unlikely. Even Massingdale may become a 
 busy man in course of time. " 
 
 "The odds are against it, against the sleeping together, 
 I mean," I allowed. "We ought to meet, though. 
 Gather in Paris once a year. Eat a commemorative 
 dinner together." 
 
 "How the man makes a god of his belly!" laughed 
 Massingdale. "Although gastronomic shame on me ! 
 because, rather, it is gastronomic, the idea is a good one. I 
 will spend my brilliant and lonely youth seeking new 
 cooks. Each year you shall gather at some unknown re- 
 staurant, there to criticise the genius of some obscure 
 prince of chefs. Men will watch our yearly meeting with 
 anxious hearts and mouths that water in anticipation; 
 when we shall have set the seal of our patronage upon an 
 eating-house, however small, the world will flock there,
 
 The Parting of Many Ways 337 
 
 confident of its excellence. Already, in fancy, the laurels 
 are about my brow; I hear men speak of me with awe. 
 'Excellent man,' they say, 'he could not paint, but he 
 had the nicest taste in cooking.' It is enough, mon 
 Richard." 
 
 Loissel chuckled; it always pleased him when Mas- 
 singdale talked nonsense. 
 
 "My part shall be to house you, my friends," said he. 
 "Any of you, all of you, who care to come to me shall 
 be provided with beds, other devices for comfortable 
 living, and any quantity of the good caporal tobacco, 
 which you hate." 
 
 "I," cried Vanne, twirling his moustaches, "will search 
 all Paris for musicians, that, after we have eaten, they 
 may make divine music for us. " 
 
 "And I," began Marellac, "shall criticise- 
 But Massingdale interrupted him. 
 
 "You," he announced, "will fast, my son. You will 
 do nothing else but make us the divinest music of them 
 all; the other players, poor devils, will mouth, and gnaw 
 their nails, their beautiful long nails, when you have 
 played." 
 
 Marellac grinned, well pleased; and I turned to 
 Hendick. 
 
 "You and I, " I suggested, "having nothing else to do, 
 will overeat ourselves. " 
 
 To which he cheerfully agreed. 
 
 In such manner we arranged for many dinners that 
 have never yet been served. 
 
 Then Massingdale, who since the strike had seemed 
 ill and depressed, extravagant in his talk when he spoke, 
 but more silent than usual, called for more foolishness. 
 His face, beneath the turban of bandages, showed thin 
 and white, but his eyes were alight with laughter, and
 
 33 8 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 his excitement ran high, as it often did without apparent 
 cause or reason. 
 
 " Mon plre," he cried, addressing Loissel, "lift up 
 the veil of the future for us; show us the hidden years. 
 Speak of our destinies; forecast both triumph and defeat, 
 joy and sorrow. We part to-morrow; give us a stirrup- 
 cup upon our journey, and see that it is not bitter. 
 Silence, loved companions, the old man speaks." 
 
 Loissel waved his pipe, assumed an air of prodigious 
 solemnity, and dropped his voice to its deepest tone. 
 He greatly enjoyed a farce. 
 
 "I see," he announced, "a grave and learned gentle- 
 man, clothed in beautiful scarlet and ermine, wearing a 
 full-bottomed wig a judge of law and of men, famed 
 for his dignity. His name is Crutchley. " 
 
 We applauded this wonderful foresight. 
 
 "I see," he continued, "two men walking on the 
 boulevards, passing the Theatre of the Vaudeville; one 
 is a professor, greatly esteemed, world-famed for his 
 impassioned teaching on the subject of sociology; the 
 other is an impresario with a long black beard, not a 
 slight man, who talks eagerly and with much gesticula- 
 tion. They speak of the coming visit to Paris of a 
 violinist who holds tears and laughter at his command. 
 They discuss arrangements for protecting this great 
 musician from the too ardent adoration of his audience. 
 Is that good?" 
 
 We said that it was. 
 
 "Lastly," he went on, smiling beneath his beard, "I 
 see a man of middle height, dignified, well clothed and 
 fed; he has the appearance of a person of great distinc- 
 tion. He walks in the galleries of the Louvre, on Monday 
 when the public may not enter, and if he encounter 
 any official he receives a very careful salute. His air
 
 The Parting of Many Ways 339 
 
 of criticism is very strong; he looks at the great works 
 about him, seeing all their faults. Finally, he halts 
 in front of a sea-scape, a poor thing in such a company ; 
 his face is full of pity that would hide contempt. Be- 
 neath the picture there is the usual plate; besides the 
 title it bears the name Jean S6bastien Loissel, with two 
 dates following: 1840-19 " 
 
 Massingdale sprang from his chair, shouting. 
 
 "Stop!" he roared. "Don't say it. Don't say it." 
 
 Loissel leading us, we rocked with laughter. I had not 
 before discovered Massingdale to be superstitious, and 
 the circumstance pleased me immensely. He, however, 
 insisted that we were the fools, not he; in his curious 
 nature, guided more than most men by its emotions, 
 certain prejudices, suspicions, fears, ruled very strongly. 
 That any one should name the date of his own death 
 was, it appeared, a thing he could not hear in silence. 
 
 "I '11 have nothing of your future," he told Loissel, 
 when our laughter had subsided. " I despise it. Dignity, 
 you say! Learning! Distinction, prosperity, position! 
 Away with the lot of them. What have we to do with 
 such things. I, sir, decline to walk in the Louvre, de- 
 spising my masters and the great dead. Moreover, 
 although they advance white-waistcoated stomachs 
 before the eyes of all men, I will not even drink with 
 your abominable old men. Let them get to their clubs 
 or their favourite cafes, among their pompous and 
 absurd companions. The judge mon Dieu! I can 
 picture him, making bad jokes upon the bench, and boring 
 his unhappy associates in private life. And a pedagogue 
 with an impresario! If this is to happen, then let the 
 heavens fall about me; roll up, O sea, engulf me in your 
 cool depths, I have no further use for life. By Bacchus, 
 by the laughing nymphs, by all that is foolish and
 
 34 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 pleasant, I could extract a more amusing future from a 
 gipsy at a fair !" 
 
 Loissel leaned back in his chair, so that it creaked 
 beneath his weight; drew at his pipe until it gurgled 
 comfortably ; and solemnly shook his head at our excited 
 host. 
 
 " So, young man, " said he, " you do not wish to become 
 respectable and famous; you despise an honoured old 
 age; and you would not have your friends men of sub- 
 stance and standing. " 
 
 "Let all the great gods be my witness," cried 
 Massingdale, "I would not! If fame is to come, we 
 will welcome it; if prosperity, we '11 not refuse it; but 
 in youth, in maturity, and in our declining years, may 
 we avoid respectability, encourage folly, and be the 
 constant companions of all that is irresponsible. I like 
 one thing only one thing about your absurd prophecy." 
 
 "I am saved, then," sighed Loissel, "from absolute 
 disgrace. What is the one good point that I have 
 made?" 
 
 "Marellac," answered Massingdale. "To him you 
 gave a human r61e exactly the one that he will play. 
 Picture him well on in years, long-haired, in very good 
 conceit. He '11 stand, after his concerts, in the privacy 
 of his own lodging; he will wear a smile of tender re- 
 membrance; and he will seriously affirm that 'these 
 women are the devil, although, poor little dears, they 
 have every excuse. ' Marellac, my infant prodigy, they 
 will adore you; weep on you; sigh for you; pester you; 
 comfort you; hate each other for you; you will destroy 
 the happiness of quiet homes; distract maidens and 
 matrons of all ages; make innumerable male enemies; 
 and and, you sad-eyed dreamer, you austere child, 
 you will enjoy it all. "
 
 The Parting of Many Ways 341 
 
 The boy moved uneasily, coloured, and then made 
 answer, his tone that of protest. 
 
 "I do not understand you," he told Massingdale. "I 
 believe that you were serious just now when you said 
 that you did not want respectability, although you 
 laughed as you spoke. Why, almost in the same breath, 
 do you make a joke of the things which you hate? I 
 have often heard you rage against the man who tries to 
 attract women, to make them love him, to amuse him- 
 self with their pain. Why do you say these things? 
 You do not mean them." 
 
 Vanne smacked his hands upon his thighs, rolling his 
 eyes at the ceiling. 
 
 "But," he cried, "it is incredible! The little imbecile 
 asks, very seriously, why Massingdale talks nonsense. 
 Why does the moon reflect the sun? Why does a mirror 
 give back the image of what is before it? Because they 
 must, small fool. So must the excellent Massingdale 
 give forth the thought that is at the moment in his 
 mind. " 
 
 This was so good a summary of the case that we 
 heartily applauded it, procuring thereby a graceful bow 
 from Vanne. Massingdale, however, had changed his 
 mood; he showed suddenly very serious. Standing 
 with his back to the empty fireplace, gesticulating 
 freely, seeming very convinced of his point, he spoke. 
 
 "Why not?" he asked. "Why not practise what I 
 told you in jest? We talk of honour, morality, right, 
 yet we do not know what they mean. Why not follow 
 where our passions lead? they are not always passing; 
 win where we can, lose, if we must; love a hundred 
 women or one, as the mood takes us; be in practice 
 what we often are in thought animals. If love is 
 more than all the world beside, then we are cowards
 
 34 2 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 to allow it to escape so lightly, to let convention, money, 
 a thousand little things, stand in its path; if it is not, 
 if it is a passing appetite like hunger and thirst, a thing 
 easily satisfied, then we are fools, for we are at the pains 
 to mate together, burdening ourselves with solemn vows. 
 If we accept a compromise, as we mostly do, making 
 our marriages things of convenience and sober sense, 
 act up to it. Why talk of faithfulness, when comfort 
 and satisfaction are the only aims?" 
 
 He stretched out his hands, demanding the reply 
 which he did not get. Instead, Loissel turned to 
 Marellac. 
 
 "Get out your riddle," he suggested. "Our friend is 
 wild to-night; charm him to earth and sober sense 
 again." 
 
 Massingdale making no attempt to force a continua- 
 tion of the talk, the boy played to us. It was the last 
 time for many years that I heard him, except on the 
 concert platform, and he made the music that he always 
 does make, wonderful, magic, sad or joyful, as he wishes. 
 He gave us many things, all of them simple country 
 airs, old songs, of distant lands and times. Finally, 
 when he had us waiting on his mood, he played the 
 Flowers of the Forest. He showed us the open Scottish 
 hills, grey and wild; he sounded the far-off, distant 
 wail of pipes; and he made us realise that men had 
 died, that hearts were broken, that bitter sorrow reigned 
 alone. 
 
 Some minutes after he had ceased, Massingdale got 
 up. 
 
 "What devil of melancholy is in you to-night?" 
 said he. "Your infernal genius and your dirges have 
 raised the past about us. We shall sleep with memories 
 of dead men and hopes as our companions. The gods
 
 The Parting of Many Ways 343 
 
 send that, when you get older, you will not have so 
 great an affection for inducing sadness." 
 
 Very shortly afterwards, still, I think, with the spell 
 of Marellac's music on us, we went to bed.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THE ATTITUDE OF AN OLD ARTIST 
 
 I HAD already been too long away from home, and I 
 only stayed four days in Paris, as Loissel's guest in 
 the Boulevard Haussmann. During that time I repeated 
 the same things about our recent adventures, anybody 
 who called being certain to open the subject, until I 
 had developed something of the manner of the pro- 
 fessional guide, and finally took to escaping if strangers 
 made their appearance. The newspapers, I noticed, 
 referred to Massingdale as a young artist of genius, 
 when, before he had provided them with copy, they 
 had only noticed his existence, but had overlooked the 
 genius, in criticising the shows where he exhibited; 
 now, however, he had become a painter "whose forth- 
 coming work would be awaited with a lively and con- 
 fident anticipation." I take it the advertisement did 
 him no harm. 
 
 On the second evening of my stay in Paris, Loissel 
 invited the Onningtons to dinner; they were going 
 back to England the next day, Tom being anxious to 
 get a little time at home before his leave was finished. 
 It was much of a relief to be with people who knew the 
 facts about the strike, and to refer to the matter, if 
 we wished to do so, without lengthy explanations. 
 
 While we were still at table Tom put a certain aspect 
 344
 
 Attitude of an Old Artist 345 
 
 of the affair more plainly than I had thought of it 
 before. 
 
 "If you come to think of it," said he, "we owe a 
 good bit to Massingdale; but for him we should have 
 been fairly in the cart." 
 
 "How is that?" asked Admiral Onnington. "You 
 haven't said anything about it until now, my boy." 
 
 Tom laughed. 
 
 "No," he agreed; "I forgot about it. I believe that 
 the others did, too. Still, the soldiers came a few minutes 
 after we most needed them; about ten minutes, I should 
 say, before it would have been too late. Massingdale 
 I never asked him much about it, and he would n't 
 volunteer anything guessed that we would have 
 somebody watching the park walls, and so, rinding that 
 the crowd coming in his direction were taking a short 
 cut, he started off for some farm or other to find a horse. 
 He did find one, and took it. Then he rode into Donzy 
 I think that 's the name got on the telephone, and 
 rang up the military. He seems to have made a pretty 
 hot appeal, for they turned out some cavalry at once. 
 After that he came as hard as he could back to the chateau. 
 Supposing that the man we sent had been the only person 
 to warn the authorities he got to Cluny after the soldiers 
 had started a good many of us would now be keeping 
 company with poor old Blinkson. " 
 
 "If that is the case," said I, "it looks uncommonly 
 like our owing our safety, possibly our lives, to Massing- 
 dale." 
 
 "Something of that sort, " Tom answered. " He came 
 out rather well that night. I expected him to be far 
 more excited, and not half as practical. " 
 
 "Why?" asked Joan, playing with her bread. 
 
 " He is n't exactly a slow-blooded man, " Tom informed
 
 346 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 her; "judging by his ordinary behaviour, I imagined 
 that he would be pretty nearly wild. " 
 
 "But," added Admiral Onnington, "it is very often 
 your excitable man, the fellow who can work himself 
 into a rage over ideas, who turns cool in a crisis." 
 
 "I won't say that he was cool," replied Tom. "Did 
 you catch sight of his face when he downed that red- 
 headed beast who had got hold of you, Joan? He was n't 
 cool then; I never saw bloodshed so clear in a man's 
 eyes before." 
 
 Joan shuddered; she was in no danger, I imagine, 
 of forgetting the incident. 
 
 "Yes," she answered. "It was awful. I don't want 
 to think of it. " 
 
 "Really, Tom," admonished my aunt, "you should 
 not dwell on these things. It 's terrible to think that 
 you were actually killing people. " 
 
 "It would have been far more terrible for us if it 
 had been the other way about," he answered cheerfully. 
 
 Here, however, Loissel interposed and led the con- 
 versation to other topics; he was anxious, it appeared, 
 to avoid further discussion of Massingdale's character. 
 
 We sat, after leaving the dinner table, in the room 
 which Loissel used as a studio, for the flat was at the 
 top of the building where roof-lighting could be obtained. 
 That the apartment is furnished with a nice regard 
 for effect, is no matter for surprise; that it is exceedingly 
 comfortable, well stocked with deep chairs, old cabinets 
 of gracious form, books, and pictures, beside the store 
 of artist's implements, is what those who know the owner 
 would expect; that the place is a sort of museum, con- 
 taining innumerable relics of the seas, is a fact with 
 which only the chief intimates of the old painter are 
 acquainted. It is a maxim of his that any one who acts
 
 Attitude of an Old Artist 347 
 
 the showman of his own possessions stretches friendship 
 beyond its natural limits. He would as soon bring forth 
 one of his treasures, before he had been asked to do so, 
 as he would refuse to help a struggling artist; that he 
 should do the one or the other seems to me inconceivable. 
 If, however, he entertains guests who explore his collec- 
 tion from other motives than misplaced politeness, I 
 know of no man who can better explain the histories, all 
 of them uncommon, of the strange mementoes of his 
 wandering. A fat volume might be filled with their 
 stories, and it would be a book of many delights. Bits 
 of spars, blocks, old figure-heads; minted gold that has 
 rested long beneath the sea; carved panels from tall 
 ships that foundered centuries ago; pistols, swords, 
 yellow charts, and faded log-books; the relics of sea- 
 faring men from all parts of the world; the familiar 
 objects of many sailors dead and gone: all these are to 
 be found locked in his cabinets, stored in his cases, 
 hanging upon his walls. And of all of them he will tell 
 you the same thing: they came to him through no dealer's 
 hands, they have seen no shop interior, but rested, until 
 he found them, on far-off beaches, floated in deep waters, 
 or were treasured, uncomprehendingly, by natives on 
 whose shores the sea had laid them. From wreck and 
 storm they come, and were scattered far and wide, on 
 coral reefs, on rugged northern foreshores, until a 
 wandering painter picked them up, to lay them by 
 against the time when his voyaging should have ceased, 
 so that when he sat at home, in comfort, he might still 
 have by him some record of the restless, hungry waters 
 that he loved. 
 
 Joan, while we men sat still in decent content started 
 wandering round the room, picking things up and asking 
 Loissel for their history; presently my uncle joined her;
 
 34 8 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 then Tom; finally, we were all at it together. Our host, 
 not displeased, I fancy, would give us here and there a 
 piece of information: how he had found one thing in 
 the China Seas, another in the Mediterranean, another 
 in the Pacific Isles. About one object only did he speak 
 at any length; even then, it would appear, he was 
 fearful of boring us. Joan had taken from a cabinet, 
 unlocked to satisfy our curiosity, a worn and faded 
 volume, the log-book of the Jane Peters of Bristol. 
 
 "That," said Loissel, seeing her handle it, "interests 
 me greatly. I found it, half-buried in sand, on one of 
 the smallest islands of the Seychelle group, forty no, 
 forty-two years ago. How long it had lain there I can 
 only guess. The Jane Peters sailed from Bristol the 
 4th May, 1751, bound for India. You may read there 
 the record of the voyage, which was prosperous, until 
 she had left Madagascar some days; then you have it 
 recorded that she found bad weather; then no more. 
 More than a century afterwards I find her log. Francis 
 Peters was her master, and Jane, it is probable, his 
 wife or daughter. How long she waited for his return, if 
 she did wait, hoping that no news might be good news, 
 I cannot learn; yet so many years afterwards I find out 
 more of her Francis than she ever came to know; how he 
 sailed on, and was lost, and where *the sea received him. 
 Oh, but I have many dreams that I can dream when I 
 sit before my fire with these wild sea-gifts about me." 
 
 We studied the old book with care ; eyed the cramped 
 and faded writing with something touching awe; and 
 had, also, our dreams of the Jane Peters as she dropped 
 down the Avon on the tide, left the channel behind her, 
 and sailed out to her distant doom. Even when he 
 filled in that last entry, I will warrant, Francis Peters 
 hoped to sight the Clifton gorge again.
 
 Attitude of an Old Artist 349 
 
 After that we left the relics of the seas alone, fearful 
 lest we should happen upon something of smaller interest 
 and so spoil a fine impression. I turned the talk to the 
 subject of Loissel's memoirs, pages of which I had seen; 
 and the author assured us that, if they were ever finished 
 and appeared in print, such tales as that of the Jane 
 Peters would not be lacking in them. Then, when we 
 had drifted on to other topics once again, Loissel got 
 up from his chair, faced us from the hearth-rug, and 
 spoke of a matter that had been some time, I fancy, 
 in his mind. 
 
 "There is," said he, "a little point of business that 
 I would speak about. I break a confidence, though not 
 my word, in mentioning it." We stared at him, but he 
 continued very calmly. "I am, however, convinced that 
 I do right. There is a picture that I would show you; 
 a picture, a very great picture, by my pupil, Louis 
 Massingdale. " 
 
 So I understood what he was about to show us, and 
 wondered, while he got out the canvas, what his object 
 might be. He placed the painting on an easel; arranged 
 the lights about it so that it might be seen as well as 
 possible, then took his stand in front of the fire again. 
 "You will find it, " said he, "worth looking at. " 
 
 I, with the others who had not seen it, studied the 
 picture for some seconds, finding new beauties in it; 
 then I turned to watch Joan, who would not, I imagined, 
 fail to show some interest. Her colour was high, her 
 embarrassment great, her interest and attention fixed. 
 There is not, I suppose, a woman, nor has there ever 
 been, who could feel anger when a painter, even though 
 he be a cast-off lover, shows her more beautiful than 
 she, in fact, appears; when, however, this same painter 
 leaves his subject's features as he finds them, exaggerat-
 
 35 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 ing nothing, glossing nothing, and founds the subtle 
 changes in the painted face upon expression, showing 
 how fuller beauty might be gained, then the living 
 woman, discovering many points that her mirror daily 
 misses, adds regret to her satisfaction, and, perhaps, 
 resentment, carefully hidden lest she should confess her 
 weaknesses, to her regret. That Joan was both in- 
 terested and embarrassed, I have already stated; what 
 her feelings were beside she was most careful to hide 
 from us. 
 
 Admiral Onnington spoke the first comment ; he had 
 scrutinised the painting with an extreme of care, going 
 close to the canvas, then standing back again. 
 
 "I am absolutely astonished," said he, making use of 
 an unwonted precision. "I had not the smallest idea 
 that Massingdale could, or ever would, do anything of 
 that sort." 
 
 Tom put the matter with a greater force. 
 
 "Lord," he announced, "this knocks spots off his 
 other work! It ought to bring in most of the adverse 
 critics. What we call flattering as a portrait, is n't it?" 
 
 Loissel did not wait for other opinions, and he made 
 no reply to the two that had been offered; he looked 
 at us all as if he sought our attention rather than our 
 admiration. 
 
 "I was asked," he explained, "to house this picture. 
 Massingdale's wish was that I should not show it to 
 any one. But you see it now, my friends; thereby I 
 have disobeyed his wish and brought you some em- 
 barrassment." He paused, shrugged his shoulders, and 
 spread wide his hands. "I have a reason, " he continued. 
 "I am aware of what is past; I know that you think of 
 him as a man who has committed a dishonourable, an 
 unpardonable act ; yet I show you this painting, guess-
 
 Attitude of an Old Artist 351 
 
 ing, perhaps, something of your feelings, and I ask you 
 to urge, very strongly, that it should be exhibited in 
 public." 
 
 He turned to Admiral Onnington, and seemed to 
 wait for his reply. 
 
 "I am afraid," answered my uncle, somewhat stiffly, 
 "that I do not see the necessity for that. I cannot 
 understand why you should expect us to urge the 
 matter." 
 
 "I ask you," returned Loissel, "because, unless you 
 do express your willingness to see this picture exhibited, 
 I am much afraid that it will not, for some years, in 
 any case, be shown to the public. " 
 
 "But, Monsieur Loissel," argued my aunt, "that 
 question should surely be settled by Mr. Massingdale 
 himself. You must see that any exhibition of this 
 picture would cause my daughter a great deal of un- 
 pleasantness ; all the unfortunate talk that went about 
 before would start again. I cannot think that this 
 picture ought to have been painted, and I am sure that 
 Mr. Massingdale would keep it from public view, as 
 you suggest, for some years, if he were asked to do so." 
 
 "I am convinced that he would," Loissel assured her. 
 
 " Then, " replied my aunt, as if the matter were already 
 settled, "you agree with me. Will you tell him that we 
 do not wish it exhibited?" 
 
 Loissel straightened himself; he was a very command- 
 ing old man. 
 
 "I will not," he answered sternly. "If you wish a 
 great picture suppressed, madame, you must not ask 
 me to help you. But," he added, his voice become 
 more gentle, "you will, please, listen to me before you 
 decide. I know very well that this painting may cause 
 some unpleasantness to Miss Onnington. Fools will
 
 35 2 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 use their memories, and there will be talk. That is the 
 one side; I will show you the other. It is not an easy 
 thing to gain one's living by any art; the way is, of 
 necessity, so hard that there is no cause to make it 
 harder, even though you do not like the artist. If the 
 matter stopped there, I do not think that, on account 
 of a little inconvenience, you should interfere with a 
 poor man who is struggling hard; but the matter does 
 not stop there, it goes beyond, very far beyond. You 
 say that this picture should not have been painted." 
 
 "Certainly," interrupted my aunt. "I think that 
 Mr. Massingdale should have asked my daughter's 
 permission before he painted her portrait. " 
 
 "Ah, man Dieu!" cried Loissel, raising his hands 
 towards the ceiling, his great head bristling with excite- 
 ment. "You do not understand. You realise nothing, 
 nothing at all, madame, of what an artist feels. It is 
 not a portrait of your daughter this! It is a great 
 picture of a woman. He paints it, that boy does, with- 
 out a model, without even a lay figure to help him 
 with the clothing. It is in him, the picture that he 
 would make; it burns in him, fills his mind, guides his 
 hand. He thinks of nothing but this great idea of his; 
 he works at it, having no other idea than that he must 
 create the thing he feels. He is inspired. He should 
 have asked permission! Seigneur! do you think that 
 the man who could do that that, madame alone, 
 seeing only his own vision, would stop to ask, would 
 cease his work unless blindness or death compelled 
 him? I tell you that a great artist did that; and he was 
 inspired inspired. " 
 
 I had never seen the old man so moved; his voice 
 shook, his hands sawed the air, his English became 
 broken and almost difficult to understand. Yet he
 
 Attitude of an Old Artist 353 
 
 returned to the attack with no more than the slightest 
 pause for breath. 
 
 "You do not understand," he repeated. "The rules 
 that you make do not apply to this. It is different 
 quite different. All life is not just gentlemen and 
 ladies acting together in a polite comedy. He, this 
 boy that I have trained, is more than one of these well- 
 mannered players. He does great things; he is full of 
 passion perhaps of foolishness. It would be quite 
 wrong, you tell me, I think, for a gentleman to show 
 a picture in which your daughter's face was used, if 
 she did not wish it. Yes, madame, quite wrong for a 
 gentleman, but quite right for a great artist. It is of 
 the great artist that I speak I, Jean Loissel, who have 
 never done such work as this. He works, the artist, 
 for his art; he must make the beautiful things that he 
 can. That is his faith and his honour, to which he 
 must be true. Do you think that I betrayed a con- 
 fidence, do you think that I abuse my position as your 
 host, without cause? I tell you, no. If you refuse to 
 urge him to show his picture, Mr. Massingdale will not 
 allow it to be seen; if you were to say to him what you 
 have said to me, I am afraid that, perhaps, he would 
 try to destroy it. I am very sorry for you in your 
 private difficulties; I am also sad for him, because I 
 love him like a son; but this is no private matter. He 
 is young; it is impossible that he forgets the way you 
 think of him. He is very likely to do foolish things. 
 Will you, because of this quarrel, to stop a little talk, 
 allow him to hide something that the world should see? 
 Is it right that we, and the men who shall come after 
 us, should lose this picture?" 
 
 My aunt did not reply; Tom moved uneasily in his 
 chair; my uncle and Joan gave no sign of their feelings. 
 23
 
 354 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 I dared not speak, for I believed that Loissel spoke the 
 truth, that Massingdale would destroy his painting, if 
 he thought that Joan had seen it and disliked it, and 
 believing that, I had no choice between silence and an 
 unseemly outburst of oaths. That Massingdale's first 
 chance of gaining fame should be lost, that the picture 
 should be spoiled or hidden, through his own idiotic 
 sense of what was fitting, or on account of the Onningtons' 
 obstinacy, was more than I could stand. 
 
 Then Joan broke the silence, which grew unbearable. 
 
 "Please tell Mr. Massingdale, when you next see 
 him," she said to Loissel, "that I admire his work more 
 than I can say, and that I hope that he will exhibit it 
 in the Salon next spring. Make him understand that 
 I mean what I say. " 
 
 Loissel crossed the room to where she sat, seizing 
 her hand and patting it. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," he murmured, his deep voice very 
 soft, "you, then, understand. I thank you. Bon Dieu, 
 but I thank you. " 
 
 Tom made no attempt to hide his satisfaction. He 
 had always considered his family's attitude towards 
 Massingdale as absurd; and on no other grounds than 
 that he knew something of the man, he had refused 
 to believe him guilty of the actions of which he was 
 accused. 
 
 "Good work, Joan!" he cried. "Of course he has got 
 to show the thing, and make his name by it. I had an 
 awful moment thinking that you would object. My 
 eloquence was just about screwed up to concert pitch; 
 I was on the point of giving tongue, when you saved 
 the company that entertainment. You 're not a bad 
 child, Joan; I begin to see your merits. " 
 
 "Don't be ridiculous, Tom," my aunt interrupted;
 
 Attitude of an Old Artist 355 
 
 she did not share our relief. "The matter, of course, 
 is settled. If Joan wishes the picture exhibited, I have 
 no more to say. I am surprised, I confess. " 
 
 "I can't understand why, mother," Joan informed 
 her. "You surely must agree with Monsieur Loissel; 
 we should have done Mr. Massingdale a great wrong 
 in objecting. We have absolutely no right to interfere 
 with his work or his career. " 
 
 My uncle made an effort to turn the conversation; he 
 would have stood by his womenkind whatever attitude 
 they had taken, but he was not displeased, I fancy, at 
 the turn of events. 
 
 " Well, well," said he, putting his hand on his daughter's 
 shoulder, "since you have made up your mind, my 
 dear, let 's pass the matter over. I 'm very glad that 
 you have been able to do what you have done. We '11 
 hope that Monsieur Loissel is right, and that the picture 
 proves a great success for its creator. " 
 
 "As for that, " laughed Loissel, now all content again, 
 "there is no doubt. " 
 
 So the fate of La Femme being settled, we talked 
 of other things; and our host was at great pains to 
 conciliate Mrs. Onnington, who held out distinct, yet 
 unobtrusive, signals of offence. 
 
 When his other guests had gone, Loissel filled and 
 lit his cherrywood pipe, settled himself in his arm-chair, 
 and smoked some minutes without speaking. 
 
 "If," said he at last, "your little cousin had not 
 agreed with me, I should have been forced into telling 
 a great many very difficult lies. We would have taken 
 no risks with that, my friend. " He pointed to the easel. 
 "And now," he continued, "we will talk of youth and 
 folly, and also of the very pleasant times that we have 
 had together."
 
 35 6 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 Which, with other matters, kept us from our beds 
 until Paris slumbered heavily about us, making the 
 most of her short rest. 
 
 When I got back to London I found many things 
 to keep me busy, to twist my thoughts, during most 
 of the hours of the day, into less diverting shapes than 
 they had adopted for two months or more. The law 
 is full of interest; its practice does not lack incident; 
 but the lawyer, although he is continually in contact 
 with uncommon types of his fellowmen, lacks some- 
 thing of gaiety in his professional life, and is, or should 
 be, a stranger to the irresponsible. I was nourishing 
 a small and very tender reputation; I was looking 
 forward to the time when the income that I earned 
 would pay the chief part of my expenses, and I found 
 the occupation sufficiently engrossing. 
 
 Once only, in the course of six weeks or so, I got 
 down to Elsingham. On that occasion I found Joan 
 had got rid of the bored manner that had grown on her 
 some months before, and was herself again, taking 
 interest in most things, more ready with sympathy and 
 understanding than formerly, and somewhat inclined 
 to hold conventionality a supreme folly. She talked 
 a good bit about women having something to do in 
 life, yet she gave no hint of an intention to embark 
 on any career open to them. I got the impression that 
 she was trying to come to some decision; on what point 
 I could gather no idea. Gatton was my fellow guest 
 for the week-end, and his chances of persuading Joan 
 to marry him seemed to have disappeared. I was 
 sorry for him, as he had been met a fair half-way along 
 the road when I had last watched his advances; and 
 I would lay a wager that he had, on this occasion, come 
 to Elsingham to put the finish on the matter. I travelled
 
 Attitude of an Old Artist 357 
 
 back to town with him, and he was a gloomy companion. 
 During the course of the journey he volunteered two 
 statements, both diagnostic of his condition: he informed 
 me that his luck had been dead out for some time past; 
 and later, without any nearer reference to my conversa- 
 tion than before, that "sooner or later the damned 
 thing is bound to turn." I expressed a desire to hear 
 of its doing so, and we reached Liverpool Street in more 
 hopeful mood. 
 
 Shortly after this I received a letter from Loissel, the 
 purport of which was that I should use every induce- 
 ment that I had at my command to persuade Massing- 
 dale to pay a visit to England. "He talks," wrote the 
 old artist, "of all sorts of things. He suffers from the 
 reaction that was inevitable after our adventures. His 
 picture of the stilt-dancer is finished, and he has, for 
 the moment, no work to do." From the rest of the 
 letter I gathered that Massingdale was talking of leaving 
 Europe and voyaging to the East, which excursion he 
 could not afford; that there had been a fearful scene 
 when Loissel explained that the Onningtons had seen 
 La Femme, which was what I had expected; and that 
 even Paris, his much-beloved city, could not charm 
 away the unrest in his excitable heart. A return to 
 England, which he had not seen for two years and a half, 
 could do him no harm and might do him some good: 
 so the old man argued, and so I thought. He could not 
 for ever be an exile, and a visit to London and his own 
 kind would cause him to go back to Paris, where for 
 many reasons he intended to live, in a more settled mood. 
 He could raise money on Blinkson's legacy, and for a 
 short time live the life of other men of his breed, and age, 
 and station. 
 
 Therefore, I wrote to him producing all the argu-
 
 35 8 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 ments that I could discover; begging him to be my 
 companion in Brick Court once again and urging him 
 to stay with me at least a month. I got his answer, 
 which was characteristic of Massingdale in his less 
 wordy mood, by return of post. It ran : 
 
 "HONOURED ADVOCATE, Whomsoever you may hap- 
 pen to defend is safe from the law's punishment! 
 Prosecute a man and you have damned him, even in his 
 innocence! I '11 come. Are you mad? I think you must 
 be when you talk of four weeks in London. Before 
 half that time is passed, I more fortunate than Alexan- 
 der, an ancient great man shall have discovered new 
 worlds to conquer, and shall be already in the tented 
 field; i.e., a new studio that I have my eye upon. God 
 be with you, Richard ; I '11 let you know when I purpose 
 to arrive. 
 
 "K. L. M."
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 MORE UNREST, BUT OF A DIFFERENT KIND 
 
 MASSINGDALE arrived, why I have not been able 
 to discover, on a Sunday morning, having 
 travelled by Havre and Southampton for no other reason, 
 I believe, than that it happens to be the slowest method 
 of journeying from Paris to London. Friendship should 
 be above politeness; therefore I did not meet him at 
 Waterloo, but contented myself with preparing breakfast 
 for him in my chambers. He put in an appearance a 
 few minutes after ten, and he wore the air of a man 
 who suffers the world's folly with resignation. 
 
 "Greeting, Richard," he announced, as he stood in 
 the doorway. "In that you live in this country, I 
 pity you; in that you are cheerful in it, I admire you; 
 in that all its multitudinous horrors have never lured 
 you to public protest, a thing perfectly useless but 
 occasionally satisfying, I find a circumstance that fills 
 me with awe and wonder. Sir, I slept so sound upon 
 the boat this night that I allowed no time for breakfast ; 
 being upon English soil in the grey of the Sabbath 
 morning, I was not permitted to eat such would seem 
 the hospitality of the natives; therefore, I hunger. 
 Eggs? They shall be buttered, Richard ! Bacon? You 
 have that? Fried no room for doubt there! Marma- 
 lade? And tea as you honour me, no hint of your 
 
 359
 
 360 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 vile coffee! Ten minutes ago I was engaged with the 
 framing of excuses, I was preparing to announce my 
 instant intention of returning whence I came ; now, since 
 you in your great wisdom have set before me my country's 
 chiefest glory, I am content to stop a little while per- 
 haps, even, to brave another Sabbath. Breakfasts and 
 beer you break an egg with the skill of a master 
 have held many wavering Britons steady in their 
 patriotic faith." 
 
 "Why did you arrive on the Sabbath? " I asked. 
 
 He waved the butter dish, which he carried towards 
 the fire, in the air, expressing his inability to answer me. 
 
 "There," he replied, "you touch on the inexplicable. 
 How .can any man account for his actions yet I have 
 heard many try. Perhaps," he added gravely, "some 
 hidden vein of asceticism would give you your explana- 
 tion; perhaps I wished, for my soul's good a worthy 
 cause to suffer inconvenience. " 
 
 Throughout the meal and for the rest of that day 
 he talked an endless stream of nonsense, occasionally 
 touching on some subject that he treated with respect, 
 but immediately shying from it as if he was afraid of 
 seriousness. I realised that Loissel had written the 
 truth when he stated that Massingdale suffered in the 
 reaction after much excitement, yet I knew the man 
 sufficiently well to let his mood run without any attempt 
 to check it, to wait until, of his own accord, he spoke 
 of the future and its promise. The scar on his head 
 showed plainly beneath the hair of his left temple; he 
 had the appearance of a man much worried, and he was 
 very thin; but his laughter was not forced, and for the 
 moment, at least, he had shut his eyes to the things he 
 did not wish to see, dwelling in a condition of mental 
 inactivity.
 
 More Unrest 361 
 
 For several days he kept to the same business; talk- 
 ing extravagantly; wandering London in search of 
 amusement while I was at work; and, in the evenings, 
 keeping me company in whatever I proposed by way 
 of entertainment. About a week after his arrival, on 
 a Monday night, if I remember rightly, his temper 
 altered, and he showed me much of the unrest and 
 trouble of his life. 
 
 We had dined at the Cock, and had gone back to 
 spend a quiet evening in my rooms, for the night was 
 foggy and wet, offering little inducement to drag a 
 man from his arm-chair and his fire. My neighbour, 
 and Massingdale's successor in the rooms across the 
 staircase, came in soon after we had settled down; he 
 stopped an hour or so, and, being a man who loved 
 argument, deliberately trailed his coat in the hope that 
 we would step upon it. In other moods Massingdale 
 would have seized the opportunity with eagerness, and 
 the small hours would have seen us, dry-throated and 
 voluble, very far from the point where we had started; 
 but on this occasion he refused the challenge, scarcely 
 spoke at all, and convinced the visitor, who met 
 him for the first time, that he was either naturally 
 taciturn or unnaturally, in view of the hour, inclined 
 to sleep. 
 
 When we were alone again, he stirred the fire into a 
 blaze, filled and lit a cool pipe, and lay back in his 
 chair, staring in silence at the dancing flames. 
 
 "If," said I, after some few minutes, "you want to 
 dream, I '11 read through some papers. I 've got quite 
 a busy week before me." 
 
 "Dream!" he echoed, sitting up. "I have no use for 
 dreams to-night, Dick. We '11 talk. I was at the docks 
 to-day."
 
 362 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 "Well? What of it?" I asked, judging from his 
 manner that he was heading towards some wild decision. 
 
 "This," cried he, sitting forward and playing with 
 the poker: "I am going away, out of all this, to see 
 something of other lands. I '11 get a sight of the sun; 
 I '11 fill myself with colour rich, brilliant, bright colour ; 
 I '11 learn something of the things I have often dreamed 
 about." 
 
 "0 Lord!" I interrupted; but he paid no attention 
 to me, his thoughts being fixed upon the plans of which 
 he spoke. 
 
 "I fell in talk with the skipper of a barque," he con- 
 tinued. "She is named the Laughing Girl; is now 
 getting in her cargo, and is due to sail for New Zealand 
 to-morrow week. I went to the owners and spoke them 
 fair; they are willing to give me a passage aboard of 
 her for almost nothing a pound a week, all in. The 
 junior partner in the firm is a man whom I knew slightly 
 at Cambridge, and he settled the thing for me. I sign 
 on as an extra purser the usual game and, of course, 
 have nothing to do but use my eyes, and enjoy myself. " 
 
 "You have n't signed on yet?" I gasped. 
 
 "No," he answered; "there is no need to do that 
 until the day before we sail. Think of it, Dick ! Many 
 weeks at sea real sea, not water seen afar off from the 
 decks of a steam hotel a sailing ship, and, at the end, 
 the Pacific Isles. That 's where I make for, the Pacific 
 Isles! To the sun and the flowers, the eternal booming 
 of the surf upon the reef, the finest climate, the happiest 
 people on this earth." 
 
 "You don't seriously mean this?" I asked. 
 
 Massingdale turned his head towards me, holding 
 the poker raised. I could read nothing but astonish- 
 ment on his face.
 
 More Unrest 363 
 
 "Why should n't I mean it?" he questioned. 
 
 " Because the whole idea is absurd, " I retorted, getting 
 up from my chair and standing in front of the fire. 
 "You have not got the money to go rushing off round 
 the world. You 've plenty of work to do, and a name 
 to make as well, and if you start obeying every whim 
 that takes you, you '11 finish in an asylum or the work- 
 house." 
 
 I was playing for an outburst of words, for a heated 
 contradiction, a flood of passion, and then, as I hoped, 
 a reaction and some acceptance of my points. I was 
 disappointed. Massingdale showed no excitement. He 
 put down the poker quietly, leaned back in his chair, 
 and looked up at me steadily. 
 
 "You 're going a bit astray, Dick," he remarked. "I 
 have got the money. Blinkson left it to me something 
 over a hundred and twenty pounds a year. I 'm a sort 
 of Croesus, my friend, compared with the beggar that 
 I have been. As for my work, that shall not suffer. 
 Loissel did what I propose doing, and I am content 
 to follow him. Lastly, you speak of this as a whim. 
 Why? You know something of me do you think the 
 decision is, therefore, so extraordinary? You ought to 
 have guessed that I should not remain many months 
 hanging about when I had the chance to wander. Have 
 you anything more against the scheme?" 
 
 I did not reply for a moment, searching without 
 success for some argument that might persuade him. 
 In my own mind I held the plan a piece of folly, yet 
 I could find no means of making him see as I did. 
 
 "Of course," I told him at last, "I expect you to do 
 strange things. That is part of your life's business. 
 Also, I don't want to interfere in your affairs. But . 
 we need not dwell on the point we are friends, and I
 
 364 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 should like to get at your reasons, if you care to give 
 them. Why this sudden decision?" 
 
 He stood up, and in the light of the hanging electric 
 lamp I saw his face weary and sad. He paced the room 
 restlessly, as he always did when things disturbed him, 
 and he spoke without pausing in his march. 
 
 "You ask me a question that I cannot answer," said 
 he. "I 'm out of tune with this way of living. That, I 
 believe, is all there is to say. I must live my life as 
 I see it the old cry that is nearly always true. I have 
 something to do. Except now and again, when things 
 look very black, I believe that I shall be able to do it. 
 You need not tell me that I have started well. I know 
 that better than you do much better. The start is 
 important, but the road is rough all the way along. 
 You are playing a gambling hand yourself, and you 
 know that a little carelessness, no matter when it comes, 
 may ruin the work of years and spoil the future. It is 
 that that I fear. Painters are not made with technique 
 alone. Skill is not much good, if the man behind it is a 
 fool. I 'm not bored, Dick. I find almost everything 
 about me full of interest as I always-have, but I can't 
 see straight. The world has got twisted. Lately I have 
 been faced with a choice of evils: to see the ugly side 
 and show it, which means damnation, or to pretend to 
 see the sunshine when it comes to me filtered through 
 the mists, which will end in artificiality and hopeless 
 failure. Therefore, I 'm off. I '11 get jogged up, stirred 
 out of this fool's mood, and back to the proper thing 
 again. " 
 
 Again we fell silent, and then I put him a direct 
 question. 
 
 "This fool's mood, as you call it," I asked him, "is it 
 connected in any way with Joan Onnington? "
 
 More Unrest 365 
 
 He jerked his head back, looking me very squarely 
 in the face. 
 
 " It is, " he answered. 
 
 I thought that I had found the way of persuading 
 him against the voyage, and urged my point. 
 
 "Won't time right the business anyhow? Surely this 
 mood is only the natural result of seeing her again." 
 
 Massingdale came up to the fire and leaned on the back 
 of the arm-chair in which he had been sitting. 
 
 "Should you call me a misanthrope?" he inquired 
 abruptly. 
 
 "Hardly," I replied, astonished at the question. 
 
 "Should you think me without affection, and careless 
 about other men's opinions of me? " 
 
 "Certainly not the first; very slightly, perhaps really 
 not at all, the second." 
 
 "Then," said he, "your remedy cannot be applied. 
 I have quarrelled with my father, and while I am in a 
 position to run across him any day, I cannot forget the 
 circumstances that make us avoid each other. I am 
 considered a sort of amusing scoundrel by most of the 
 men I used to know. I have met them again some of 
 them in the last few days, and it is very clear what 
 they think. That goes against the healing effect of time. 
 I '11 be damned if any man can stand being treated 
 as a kind of criminal, and maintain both his good con- 
 ceit and a decent regard for the acquaintances he happens 
 to meet. I wish to keep both. " 
 
 He hesitated, staring before him, seeming uncertain 
 whether he would add something more to his explana- 
 tion, then, having made up his mind, spoke again, but 
 more quickly and in a lower voice. 
 
 "That is not all, Dick," he continued. "There is 
 another reason why I should go beside that. For the
 
 366 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 last two years I have been persuading myself that time 
 would right things most of us cling to that belief; 
 now I am convinced that it will not. I forgot all the 
 practical details. I just dreamed that, given the chance, 
 I could set the business straight again. I got the chance 
 I made things worse. " 
 
 "Are you sure of that?" I interrupted, not with any 
 idea that he was mistaken, simply because it seemed 
 to me the thing to say. 
 
 "Quite certain," he answered, and started pacing the 
 room again. "I have got on the other side of the ditch, 
 and as I won't or can't cross it again, there is little 
 sense in thinking of the fields behind that I once played 
 in. I hope for all sorts of delightful country ahead, 
 but just at the moment the old things that I miss about 
 me bulk rather large. " 
 
 I did not offer any comment; I was thinking of the 
 moonlit garden at La Fontaine des Bois and of Massing- 
 dale trying to use his chance, as he called it, and of his 
 failure. The hanging lamp was well shaded so that my 
 face was in shadow as I stood before the fire, for which 
 thing I was thankful, since I felt, and very probably 
 looked, uncomfortable. Suddenly, after he had taken 
 several turns in his pacing to and fro, Massingdale 
 burst out into speech again, passionately, with many 
 excited gestures. 
 
 " I 'm sick at the whole fool business, " he cried; "more 
 than half the thing is sham. We are afraid, the whole 
 lot of us, afraid to appear what we really are. Some 
 people call it civilisation. My God! if they are right, 
 then to be civilised is the worst and final evil. It is 
 cowardice, fear nothing more. We call in theories, 
 nice modern theories of which we are so proud, to hide 
 the truth from us. Violence is wrong, we say; strength
 
 More Unrest 367 
 
 is an abuse; passion a thing to hide. Suffering, and 
 evil, and cruelty must be forgotten when we plan the 
 future. Your politician secures votes by talk of pretty, 
 humane schemes which he knows in his heart are doomed 
 to failure; your socialist and democrat calls out that 
 nature may be superseded if the people will only govern 
 themselves, because he is a fool and would rather deafen 
 himself with the noise of his own folly than take one 
 glance at the truth, which is plain and strong and cruel. 
 We artists are no better. We explain our art, we tell 
 the world how it is really beautiful and for their good, 
 because we are afraid to stand by ourselves, do the thing 
 that appeals to us, and take the reward or the failure as 
 it comes. When we paint a picture or when we write a 
 book, we are intent to show that it is done in the interest 
 of humanity, that it embodies some noble lesson of truth 
 and beauty; we dare not cry: 'There is our work, to us 
 it is good, accept it on its merits. ' If we did so, we should 
 proclaim ourselves individualists mark the word 
 careless of our neighbour's good, just what we really are. 
 We are afraid to call ourselves such names, so we wallow 
 in stupid, meaningless talk. On all men's lips there are 
 phrases about the good of humanity; everywhere societies 
 are formed to prevent cabbages from suffering injustice, 
 little boys from being brutalised by whipping, or gentle 
 murderers from being killed; we must carefully, in all that 
 we write and all that we say, avoid the mention of cruelty 
 and the triumph of the strong; we pity the dark ages 
 when men fought and robbed each other, when chivalry 
 existed, when fewer men covered their actions by the 
 pretence that they worked for others ; we profess a virtu- 
 ous honour for the blackguard who thinks only of himself ; 
 and beneath all the noise and outcry, behind the fine 
 text-bedaubed front that we show to the world, we
 
 368 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 struggle and fight, perform our little tricks and knaveries, 
 kick the weak and cringe to the strong, as our fathers did 
 before us. We are horribly afraid of pain ; ashamed of any 
 simple honest sentiment; inclined to make a virtue of 
 drifting along in a herd, because we have not the courage 
 to stand alone; beyond that nothing, not one single 
 good point that the men who made us had not got." 
 
 His long oration finished, he dropped into an arm- 
 chair and gazed with fiery, indignant eyes at the glowing 
 coals. 
 
 "It 's a full indictment," I laughed, seeing him silent 
 again, "and, doubtless, there is a good deal of truth 
 in it, but " 
 
 "But," he interrupted, his passion subsided, "it 's the 
 complaint of a fool. I know that, man Richard. It 's 
 the way I feel at present; therefore, I 'm much better 
 away. When I come back, I shall be able to laugh 
 at it, which is its proper treatment. Meanwhile, I '11 
 take myself where the talk is of a different sort. What 
 about a walk? It is abominably stuffy in here. " 
 
 He threw open the window, and let in much raw, 
 yellow fog; shouted that here was the night to wander 
 London; refused all my enticements to draw him back 
 into discussion; was firmly denied my company; and 
 so departed to find the beauties of London, which the 
 weather very effectually obscured, and the delights of 
 nocturnal rambling, which on such a night, I should 
 imagine, were hard to come upon.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 A WOMAN DECIDES 
 
 THE following morning I received a note from Joan, 
 asking me to meet her that afternoon. She was, 
 her letter told me, stopping in town with the Wrants, and 
 would give me the great joy of taking her out to tea, 
 as she wished to talk with me. She appointed a meet- 
 ing-place, the vicinity of some confounded draper's 
 shop, and, contrary to her usual custom, for she was 
 in the habit of assuming that her wishes would be met, 
 she detailed the methods, several alternatives, by which 
 I was to communicate with her and arrange some other 
 time, if the one that she had named did not suit me. 
 Remembering certain signs that she had exhibited 
 when I was last at Elsingham, a horrid fear seized me, 
 as I read her letter, that I should drink my tea that 
 afternoon to the accompaniment of a dissertation on 
 women's work, followed by an announcement, disguised 
 as a request for advice, that the girl was about to become 
 a hospital nurse, a poultry farmer, or the proprietress of a 
 shop something, in any case, that involved a large 
 amount of labour in which she took no interest. I 
 sighed at the prospect, hoped that I had misjudged the 
 case, and resolved to do my cousinly duty of supplying 
 my company and such entertainment as was required of 
 me. That settled, I divided my attention between 
 
 24 369
 
 370 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 the breakfast in front of me and hinting at obstacles in 
 the way of Massingdale's proposed travels. He, ignoring 
 my efforts for his welfare, began to narrate his experi- 
 ences in the fog, and, such is the power of the man's 
 tongue, he caused me to forget the remarks I had pre- 
 pared for him while shaving, and, moreover, to sit talking 
 far longer than I had intended. 
 
 At four forty-five that afternoon I arrived at the meet- 
 ing-place which had been named; about thirty seconds 
 afterwards Joan put in an appearance, a very charming 
 figure of a girl, seemingly in the best of spirits. Whether 
 it is poultry farming or nursing, thought I, the thing 
 seems to have got hold of her fancy. But at any time, 
 more particularly when met in the street, it is hard 
 to read a woman's intentions in her face; and I 
 had to content myself with observing her obvious 
 excitement. 
 
 "Dick," said she, "I 'm going to be awfully nice to 
 you ; but I 've made a mess of the start. " 
 
 " That 's sad, " I allowed. " How? " 
 
 "It is one of your cherished convictions that no 
 woman is ever punctual. I should have been five 
 minutes late, then you would have been content, but 
 not bored with waiting. " 
 
 "If you stop here talking," I replied, "simply to 
 show that abominable extravagance in furs enables 
 you to keep warm, I shall get bored just the same. 
 Where do you want to go?" 
 
 "Anywhere," she answered; "anywhere with cosy 
 corners where we can sit and talk. " 
 
 "I am to be honoured with your confidence, my 
 cousin?" 
 
 "Lots of it, Dick," she laughed. "I have decided 
 to do all sorts of funny_things. "
 
 A Woman Decides 371 
 
 I groaned, believing that my worst fears would come 
 true, and hailed a cab. We drove to one of the many 
 tea-shops where the price that he pays for his refresh- 
 ment is the only remarkable point that the visitor is 
 likely to notice, and we chose a quiet table in a corner, 
 as far as possible from the inevitable orchestra. And 
 there, for some minutes, we amused ourselves with 
 casual talk, making no use of confidence. Joan asked 
 me how the briefs were coming in, and I made a suitable 
 reply; we discussed the latest fashions in women's dress 
 exhibited around, on my part with small appreciation; 
 we criticised the music, and agreed that its absence 
 would cause us no regret ; we marked time very carefully, 
 awaiting the occasion of more important talk. Having 
 the time to watch her closely, I discovered that there 
 was much nervousness mixed with Joan's excitement, 
 that she wore an air of purpose, which she was at little 
 pains to hide; and that these, together with the other 
 feelings which moved her, which she did not show to me, 
 combined to produce in her face something of the effect 
 that Massingdale had prophesied in his painting. Very 
 clearly she had something of importance to say to me, 
 and covered with small talk her efforts to find its best 
 expression. Therefore, I consumed my tea and kept 
 the conversation alive, knowing that she, or, for that 
 matter, any other human animal, had better come to 
 the announcement that holds their attention by the road 
 that they have chosen, without blundering assistance 
 from others who do not understand their real purpose. 
 
 She did not keep me waiting for any long time, and 
 when she began to give me her confidence, she did not 
 start farther away from her point than most of us do 
 on similar occasions. 
 
 "I suppose," she suggested, breaking away from our
 
 37 2 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 criticism of the orchestra, "that you had a very good 
 time in France last summer. " 
 
 " I did, " I agreed ; " an excellent time. " 
 
 "It makes an enormous difference what sort of people 
 you are with," she continued. "To live in a farmhouse 
 like that with ordinary people, who must have some- 
 thing definite to do in order to keep themselves amused, 
 would be simply impossible for more than a week or 
 two." 
 
 "Of course, we were a most original and distinguished 
 crowd," I laughed; but she had fallen silent, and kept 
 her eyes turned towards her plate, where she was seriously 
 engaged in cutting a pink and unwholesome looking 
 cake into small cubes. 
 
 I determined that the prelude was finished, and I 
 watched for the next movement with interest. 
 
 "Dick," she announced very quietly, without looking 
 up, " I want to get married. " 
 
 "I believe," I suggested, noticing the heightened 
 colour of her cheeks, "that the wish is a fairly common 
 one, and that, in the case of a maiden with your charms, 
 it is very easily fulfilled. Do I know the man? " 
 
 "What man?" she asked, very industrious with the 
 cake. 
 
 " The man you wish to marry. Who else?" 
 
 She gave me no direct answer to that, but ceasing 
 to play with the cake, and putting her elbows on the 
 table, she looked across at me steadily. 
 
 "Mr. Massingdale is staying with you, isn't he?" 
 she asked. " The Wrants told me that he was. " 
 
 I judged the conversation to have become sufficiently 
 interesting to demand my full attention, so I also leaned 
 across the table, in order that we might talk without 
 being overheard.
 
 A Woman Decides 373 
 
 "He has been here for the last week," I answered; 
 adding, without any effort to hide my astonishment: 
 "Is this purely irrelevant, or has it anything to do with 
 what you were saying before?" 
 
 "Everything," Joan told me; and I admired the way 
 she kept her eyes on mine, although her embarrassment 
 was great. " It is the answer to your question. " 
 
 "You mean this?" I gasped. 
 
 "Is it a thing I should be likely to say, if I did 
 not?" 
 
 "No. I beg your pardon. I suppose you know, 
 Joan, how glad I am to hear this, and all that. But, 
 what why have you well, what is going to happen?" 
 
 I found the sentence somewhat hard to finish. I 
 wanted to ask why on earth she had told me this; and 
 how she proposed to explain to Massingdale the change 
 in her attitude; and why the change had come about; 
 but these are questions that may scarcely in decency 
 be put, or that, being asked, are not likely to be answered. 
 However, Joan did not stop at a half confidence, and, 
 having started, gave me the whole tale. One hand 
 supporting her head, screening much of her face from 
 the room, the other playing with the much-battered 
 pink cake, her eyes sometimes meeting mine, yet more 
 often lowered, her voice low and steady, she explained 
 her purpose to me. 
 
 "I want you to help me," she informed me, hurrying 
 her words; "that is the reason I have told you of this. 
 I know it is the sort of thing that ought to be kept to 
 oneself, but you never talk of other people's affairs, 
 and I must have your help, Dick. " 
 
 "Don't flatter me, young woman," I interrupted. 
 "Tell me what I can do." 
 
 "Take me to your rooms now. I want to get some-
 
 374 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 thing over, while I Ve still got the courage. I want to 
 meet him at once." 
 
 If I did not whistle, I came very near it; and Joan 
 certainly saw that her request caused me a good deal 
 of surprise, for she hurried her explanation as if it were 
 a relief to be able to speak of the matter. 
 
 "I have been blind, absolutely blind," she pleaded, 
 "since I heard about that miserable business. Until a 
 few weeks ago, I have thought only about myself. I 
 was angry. I thought that he should have ceased to 
 take any kind of interest in any woman besides myself. 
 I said a lot of things I did not mean, and when he would 
 not defend himself, I thought that he did not much 
 care. I did not believe that he had done anything that 
 was dishonourable, but I imagined that I was only a 
 little thing in his life." She was silent a moment, 
 arranging the crumbs on her plate; then she went on 
 with her tale again, her voice scarcely more than a 
 whisper. "His going off to Paris made it worse, 
 although he had always told me that he would do it, if 
 he could ever get the money. The thought that he was 
 probably happy, doing the work that he loves, made 
 me glad that I had done what I had. I believed that 
 his painting was more to him than 'I was. Now I know 
 that that is true and I don't mind. Then I did. I 
 expected his life to be just one thing without ambition 
 or character, a horrible, stupid life that would have 
 died a few months after we were married. For quite a 
 long time I used to tell myself that he was careless of 
 everything, shallow, amusing, caring only for the 
 moment. I think that, sometimes, I believed it. I 
 was n't happy, and I tried to find things to amuse me. 
 It was hardly a success. " 
 
 She paused again, and seemed so absorbed in her
 
 A Woman Decides 375 
 
 thoughts that she forgot to play with the cake. I sat 
 still, very interested to know what she was going to 
 tell me, waiting for her to continue the story. 
 
 "Dick," she added presently, "I Ve learned all sorts 
 of things lately, things that most people know as they 
 grow older that is, they must know them if they are 
 going to be happy. I have discovered what I want; 
 that is always important, is n't it? I have discovered 
 that what I thought was carelessness is something 
 different: sympathy, interest in all things, love of living, 
 I don't know what to call it, but it is something that I 
 want. It is the sort of thing that makes people live 
 together far more happily than anything else. I suppose 
 that you, and Monsieur Loissel, and the others have 
 known all along what he was, and how different he is to 
 other people, how much greater. Don 't laugh at that, 
 Dick; you know you think he is. Well, I learned that 
 too a little time ago. I 'm not going to tell you how 
 I found it out. Perhaps you can guess. But, when I 
 saw that he was following out his ideals where many 
 men would have been afraid of the poverty, I began 
 to think that I had made a bad mistake; and, when I 
 discovered that he could laugh and work, and make 
 every one who met him amused, although his life was 
 very difficult, I was quite sure that I did not mind what 
 he had done, or would do. I only thought how much 
 I wanted him. He tried to talk to me at La Fontaine 
 des Bois, the night before the riot; I would n't let him." 
 
 It was now my turn to occupy myself with the contents 
 of my plate. Women have observant eyes, and when I 
 am peculiarly ashamed of anything I find it hard to 
 hide my feelings. Therefore, I took no risks, and did 
 not look up for a moment or two. 
 
 "He asked me why I had altered, " Joan continued, in
 
 376 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 the same low voice. "He seemed to know better than I 
 did that I was not seeing things properly. I was begin- 
 ning to know what a fool I had been, and it made me 
 angry to think that he guessed the truth. I said some- 
 thing that I knew would hurt him very much. It did. 
 He showed me that, but nothing more. Dick, " she went 
 on, and I saw that she had raised her eyes from her 
 plate, and was making an effort to cover her nervousness 
 with a smile, "I am going to do a most unmaidenly 
 thing. I 'm going with you now, to tell him that I have 
 made a mistake. Is n't it a shocking thing to do, 
 Dick?" 
 
 "My Lord!" said I, staring at her. 
 
 "You see," she exclaimed, "I happen to know that 
 I can trust you both. Whatever happens in any case 
 you won't give my horrid conduct away. Then, in 
 the second place, I would much rather do this, honestly, 
 than just meet him again and do my best to get him 
 back ; that way would be much easier, but I think it 's 
 rather cowardly. Last of all, he is the sort of man who 
 will understand, and and he won't pretend anything. 
 I 'm quite sure he won't pretend anything. " 
 
 For the first time she showed me the full strength 
 of her feelings, sitting silent, suddenly grown white, 
 with a look of strain about her, as if she held herself 
 calm with an effort. How much anxious thought, how 
 much unhappiness, had gone to the making of this 
 attitude of hers, I can never know, but that the position 
 was not easily taken is very obvious. 
 
 She expected some comment from me. I gave her 
 the best that I could command. 
 
 " I can't form any opinion about this," I informed her. 
 "These things are not in my line. Because it happens 
 to be direct, avoids compromise, and cannot well be
 
 A Woman Decides 377 
 
 misunderstood, I should judge it about the best thing to 
 be done. You and Massingdale are not strangers; but 
 I really don't know. There is one thing I must say 
 like asking 'No spades, partner?' it is better to say it, 
 although it may be unnecessary. You can't go back, 
 if you do this, Joan. It won't be all nice, high romance; 
 there will be poverty to face. You must expect to have 
 him as he is. There is not the slightest chance now 
 that he will become a respectable member of society, 
 or that, for some years in any case, he will be anything 
 but a poor man. If you are willing to put up with all 
 that, to try to help him, not to endeavour to make him 
 earn a position and a reputation at the cost of good 
 work, I will take you round to Brick Court now; if, how- 
 ever, you care more for your own comfort, and ease 
 because the other way will be pretty difficult I '11 do 
 every single thing that I can to prevent you two meet- 
 ing. I have spoken, mademoiselle. " 
 
 "I think I rather like you when you speak," Joan 
 answered, smoothing and arranging her gloves on the 
 table. "But you assume rather too much. You talk 
 as if things were settled I wish they were. " 
 
 "I quite realise," said I, "that you are bound to say 
 that, it 's part of the game; but since I notice that you 
 have eyes, which, I believe, you use for something else 
 than ornament, I decline to think that you are at all 
 uncertain on the point. Let 's get out of this, however; 
 we can talk outside. " 
 
 When we were in the street, I started to stroll along, 
 quite determined that I would take no initiative in the 
 proceedings. Joan, however, seemed impatient ; she asked 
 me to call a cab. I did so, and we started for the Temple 
 in silence. Her desire for conversation seemed to have 
 passed; her nervousness had very much increased.
 
 378 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 "Rather an anti-climax," said I, as we drove along 
 the Strand, "if we find the quarry out." 
 
 To which encouraging suggestion I got no answer. 
 
 As we climbed the stairs to my chambers, I made a 
 final effort to break the silence, basing it on a genuine 
 desire for information. 
 
 "Although my r61e is unimportant," I announced, "I 
 should like to know what it is.- What do I do? " 
 
 "You just come in and wait," Joan told me, adding: 
 " It 's going to be awful, Dick. " 
 
 I laughed; the affair came within the dominion of 
 higher comedy, and I am eager to extract what diver- 
 sion I can from life. 
 
 At the door of my sitting-room Joan drew back so 
 that I entered first; she, most certainly, was missing 
 the humour of the situation. Massingdale was smoking 
 in front of the fire, a large atlas resting on his knees. 
 The room was in deep shadow except for the bright 
 patch underneath the shaded lamp, which did not spread 
 much beyond the arm-chair and its occupant; a litter 
 of tea-things stood on the table and the hearth-rug, and 
 the air was misty with tobacco smoke. The place was 
 warm and comfortable, and the man before the fire 
 evidently very much at his ease. He looked up as I 
 entered, turning quickly again to make a grab at the 
 atlas, which was slipping from his knees. 
 
 "You back, Dick?" he said. "Somebody has been 
 round to see you, a clerk of some sort. He worried me, 
 so I told him that you were defending the Archbishop 
 of Canterbury in a libel action against the Great Mogul, 
 and that you would dine at Lambeth afterwards. This 
 atlas of yours is no good. I can't find my route I 'm 
 sorry you did n't say you had got a visitor with you." 
 
 He had risen at the sound of Joan's entrance, had
 
 A Woman Decides 379 
 
 come half across the room, distinguishing nothing, I 
 imagine, but furs and a hat, and had recognised her as 
 she moved nearer to him. He stood quite still staring, 
 as if he doubted that he had seen right. Joan held out 
 her hand to him. 
 
 "You did n't expect to see me, did you?" she asked, 
 hiding with considerable skill whatever emotion she 
 felt. "I heard that you were in London, and I made 
 Dick bring me. You 're quite fit again, I hope? I can 
 seethe scar." 
 
 Massingdale pulled himself together with an obvious 
 effort. 
 
 "The terrible wound is healed," he assured her. 
 "Won't you come by the fire, your hand feels very 
 cold? I always make a mess, if I 'm alone, but it 's 
 the only comfortable way of having tea. " 
 
 He began collecting the things that were on the floor, 
 and Joan sat down in the arm-chair that he had left. It 
 struck me that he took more time than was necessary 
 over the operation, and that of the three persons in the 
 room he, although he knew nothing of the meaning of 
 the visit, was probably the most ill at ease. When he 
 had finished, he leaned against the mantelpiece, watch- 
 ing Joan quietly, the signs of wilder passion in his 
 eyes; I, being the spectator, sat upon the settle by the 
 fire, only asking that I might not be dragged into 
 events; and Joan, having loosened the furs about 
 her neck, began to draw off her gloves with a certain 
 deliberate care. 
 
 "You were looking at an atlas when we came in," 
 said she to Massingdale, "and you said something 
 about your route. Are you going back to Paris again 
 so soon?" 
 
 "Not to Paris," Massingdale answered, "to the Anti-
 
 380 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 podes, to the Pacific Isles, to the other end of the world. 
 Dick thinks I 'm a fool, I think that I am wise. So do 
 great men differ. Europe is dull, or so I find it; youth 
 is mine, that can't be denied; and the jolly world is 
 wide. Don't you agree that I am wise, Miss Onnington, 
 to go sailing off to seek my fortune, in a real sailing ship, 
 with all sorts of things about to happen to me? Dick 
 and suchlike croakers are soulless animals to sneer at 
 such a chance." 
 
 He spoke in his best laughing manner, his head back, 
 his eyes sparkling; he told you plainly that there was 
 purpose behind his laughter, that this was his way of 
 treating such things as held his fancy ; and his enthusiasm 
 and cheery toleration of any opposition covered him like 
 a cloak. If he had known Joan's purpose in visiting him, 
 he could not have played a better throw to win her 
 admiration ; for he showed us how he was determined to 
 take all he could get of the joy of living, and, whatever of 
 sadness or of difficulty he might happen upon, to keep his 
 attention fixed on the sunshine rather than on the shadow. 
 
 Joan sat back in her chair, looking up at Massingdale. 
 
 "You have decided to go? " she asked. 
 
 " I sail in a few days, " he answered. 
 
 "And you ask for my opinion?" 
 
 "I should like it. " 
 
 She seemed to hesitate a second, and then, in a voice 
 very low and distinct, keeping her eyes on his, she gave 
 her answer. 
 
 "I want you to stop here. I don't want you to go 
 away." 
 
 Massingdale stepped forward, and stood over her 
 where she sat. Among the many moods that I had 
 read upon his face, I had found no such excitement 
 as he now showed.
 
 A Woman Decides 381 
 
 "What do you mean?" he demanded roughly. "Tell 
 me what you mean. " 
 
 41 Must I tell you with Dick here?" Joan replied, hold- 
 ing up her hands to him. "I have been an awful little 
 fool, Kenneth." 
 
 Massingdale gripped her hands in his, leaning forward 
 and staring into her face. 
 
 "My God!" he cried; and then checking any further 
 exhibition of his feelings, turned to me. "Dick," he 
 shouted, "go and look after that fool clerk of yours; 
 go and whistle on the stairs; go and take a whisky and 
 soda with the devil, if you want to; but as you love me, 
 get out of this. " 
 
 I retired; and if my exit, as I take to be the case, 
 suited them as well as it suited me, we were partners in 
 mutual satisfaction, which was, I assume, the only 
 emotion that we shared amongst us at the moment. 
 
 Of the subsequent explanations, congratulations, 
 warnings, surprise, satisfaction, and displeasure, I do 
 not propose to write; they left Massingdale as they 
 found him, except for the outpouring of a great number 
 of words and not a few of his favourite gestures. With 
 him and his fortunes, until he reached a certain point in 
 his career, I have been concerned, and I see no reason 
 for a lengthy and inessential divergence from my chief 
 topic. That he was duly and legally wedded to Joan 
 Onnington in the parish church of Elsingham, towards 
 the end of the following April, is the fact that con- 
 cerns him and his history most nearly ; yet there happened 
 other events before that ceremony took place, which show 
 him as he was with varying degrees of clearness. 
 
 The Onningtons and others affected had to be informed 
 of the turn of events. I have reason to believe that they
 
 382 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 accepted the inevitable with a good grace; I avoided 
 all occasions of explanation, as far as I was able, although, 
 being held an accessory to the business, I was some- 
 times compelled to be present. My aunt, finding that 
 resistance was no more than wasted energy, smiled upon 
 Massingdale, and made a successful attempt to forget 
 that he had not married her daughter three years before ; 
 my uncle, after protesting that no man could possibly 
 marry, being a pauper, did his best to alter that condi- 
 tion, and thereby encountered much opposition. Captain 
 Massingdale, coming home on leave as soon as he could 
 upon hearing the news, had an interview with his son, 
 of which I know nothing. Afterwards they appeared 
 very much as they had been some years before, and 
 seemed both of them anxious to persuade the world 
 that things were well between them ; yet I fancy the 
 hurt that they had both suffered went deeper than they, 
 wisely, mean to show us, and that though the wound 
 is healed the scar will always be between them. They 
 are held by most of their acquaintances as models of 
 parental and filial good-comradeship, and justly so; 
 for their friendship has withstood a shock that would 
 have wrecked a weaker union, and remains still strong, 
 in spite of damage that cannot be entirely hidden. One 
 incident, which occurred soon after their reconciliation, 
 shows something of the difficult way that these two 
 walked: Captain Massingdale wished to recommence 
 making his son an allowance, but this Kenneth would 
 not have. I was present at the discussion, and I joined 
 with the father and common-sense in an attempt to 
 force the income on the son. Massingdale, however, 
 had his own ideas on the subject; insisted that he would 
 be independent, since he had chosen his own career; 
 and would, I believe, have finally refused the money
 
 A Woman Decides 383 
 
 had not his father pointed out that the whole property 
 was entailed, and must form part of his inheritance, if he 
 survived. At that he agreed to accept the smallest 
 income that would keep him and Joan from absolute 
 penury, should the painting fail to earn him bread. 
 It was quite plain, or so I imagined it, that Massingdale 
 would not be able to accept any favours from his father, 
 no matter how ordinary their nature, until he had proved 
 his ability to live by his art ; and this circumstance, for 
 Captain Massingdale realised the cause of it and how 
 it was not only foolish pride on his son's part, stood for 
 many years in the way of their complete comfort. 
 
 One person alone, of all his friends, found no single 
 point that might bring her happiness in the whole 
 business of Massingdale's marriage; Yvonne Carrel, 
 I imagine, saw in the affair the death of impossible 
 hopes. She said and she wrote nothing, so far as I 
 have ever heard, beyond a formal letter of congratula- 
 tion; but even in the midst of her success and her riches, 
 for she had married the man who had bought her, she 
 mourned the ending of her dreams. She had arranged 
 her life, in so far as she had any hand in its arrangement, 
 wrongly or with insufficient care, which you will; and 
 one day she was hurt, doing that which she had done 
 often before. Because she had so often done this thing 
 in safety, with no harm, perhaps, except the one she 
 could not realise, she was far removed from any cure, 
 and had to pay the price that was asked of her. Con- 
 vention is often irksome; nature has, and must have, 
 different rules for men and women; and when the 
 reckoning is handed in we often find it an ill job to 
 
 settle. 
 
 Finally, Joan and Massingdale settled down in Paris, 
 holding it the best place for him to finish his apprentice-
 
 384 The Joyous Wayfarer 
 
 ship. While they were travelling after the marriage, 
 La Femme was shown at the Salon, and attracted [a 
 large amount of attention and of talk. They live in 
 a small flat to which belongs a large studio, in the region 
 of Montmartre. Joan is somewhat famed as a hostess, 
 and is content, at which I confess to some astonishment, 
 to do more than play at poverty; for Massingdale's 
 genius has not yet lifted him from the rank of a poor man. 
 Vanne, a very constant visitor, is inclined to offer 
 testimony to the excellence of their household. 
 
 " Mon Dieu," he will wheeze, when I get him alone, 
 "it is altogether as it should be: the wife a woman of wit, 
 and beautiful, the husband a great artist. They under- 
 stand each other, too, which is not so common. He was 
 born under some lucky star, our good Massingdale. 
 So much the better for him, and, since madame keeps 
 open house, for us. " 
 
 And the little man will sigh, thinking, no doubt, of 
 his unpublished sonatas, and the fame and comfort 
 that will never, I am afraid, come his way. > 
 
 So, in Paris, at Barbizon, sometimes in England, 
 often travelling, Joan and Massingdale make the journey 
 together ; and I am ready to call fool the man who denies 
 that they were well advised to take the risks and dangers, 
 in view of the greater happiness. The one an artist, 
 a creature excellently fitted to find the rough places which 
 lie beside the smooth in his life's voyage, the other a 
 woman, showing much that a woman ought to show, and 
 therefore equipped in proper fashion to experience 
 sorrow as well as joy, they are not likely to make their 
 destined haven without the experience of storm and 
 tempest; but, since I may claim to know something of 
 them both, I hold it probable that they will sail together 
 more surely than they did alone, and, however foul the
 
 A Woman Decides 385 
 
 weather they encounter, that they will come through 
 to sunny waters, little battered, and able to use the 
 knowledge that the danger brought to them. 
 
 Some day, I suppose, they will settle in England, 
 but, until they do, I shall look for many pleasant days 
 in Paris, with Massingdale before the studio fire, and 
 Joan, more restful in her attitude, laughing at the 
 extravagance of her lord's conversation. And two 
 things I shall look for above others : sympathy for many 
 different men and their ideas; and this beyond a 
 doubt no lack of talk. 
 
 THE END 
 
 25
 
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